No! he did not account her a child. Certain of her looks, certain of

her words, of late, had filled him with apprehension. At times it had

struck him that she was putting too great a restraint upon herself, and

he remembered that he had been alarmed to observe this. He had tried,

all these days, to drive away the heavy thoughts that oppressed him;

but what was the hidden mystery of that soul? The question had long

tormented him, although he implicitly trusted that soul. And now it was

all to be cleared up. It was a dreadful thought. And “that woman”

again! Why did he always feel as though “that woman” were fated to

appear at each critical moment of his life, and tear the thread of his

destiny like a bit of rotten string? That he always _had_ felt this he

was ready to swear, although he was half delirious at the moment. If he

had tried to forget her, all this time, it was simply because he was

afraid of her. Did he love the woman or hate her? This question he did

not once ask himself today; his heart was quite pure. He knew whom he

loved. He was not so much afraid of this meeting, nor of its

strangeness, nor of any reasons there might be for it, unknown to

himself; he was afraid of the woman herself, Nastasia Philipovna. He

remembered, some days afterwards, how during all those fevered hours he

had seen but _her_ eyes, _her_ look, had heard _her_ voice, strange

words of hers; he remembered that this was so, although he could not

recollect the details of his thoughts.

He could remember that Vera brought him some dinner, and that he took

it; but whether he slept after dinner, or no, he could not recollect.

He only knew that he began to distinguish things clearly from the

moment when Aglaya suddenly appeared, and he jumped up from the sofa

and went to meet her. It was just a quarter past seven then.

Aglaya was quite alone, and dressed, apparently hastily, in a light

mantle. Her face was pale, as it had been in the morning, and her eyes

were ablaze with bright but subdued fire. He had never seen that

expression in her eyes before.

She gazed attentively at him.

“You are quite ready, I observe,” she said, with absolute composure,

“dressed, and your hat in your hand. I see somebody has thought fit to

warn you, and I know who. Hippolyte?”

“Yes, he told me,” said the prince, feeling only half alive.

“Come then. You know, I suppose, that you must escort me there? You are

well enough to go out, aren’t you?”

“I am well enough; but is it really possible?—”

He broke off abruptly, and could not add another word. This was his one

attempt to stop the mad child, and, after he had made it, he followed

her as though he had no will of his own. Confused as his thoughts were,

he was, nevertheless, capable of realizing the fact that if he did not

go with her, she would go alone, and so he must go with her at all

hazards. He guessed the strength of her determination; it was beyond

him to check it.

They walked silently, and said scarcely a word all the way. He only

noticed that she seemed to know the road very well; and once, when he

thought it better to go by a certain lane, and remarked to her that it

would be quieter and less public, she only said, “it’s all the same,”

and went on.

When they were almost arrived at Daria Alexeyevna’s house (it was a

large wooden structure of ancient date), a gorgeously-dressed lady and

a young girl came out of it. Both these ladies took their seats in a

carriage, which was waiting at the door, talking and laughing loudly

the while, and drove away without appearing to notice the approaching

couple.

No sooner had the carriage driven off than the door opened once more;

and Rogojin, who had apparently been awaiting them, let them in and

closed it after them.

“There is not another soul in the house now excepting our four selves,”

he said aloud, looking at the prince in a strange way.

Nastasia Philipovna was waiting for them in the first room they went

into. She was dressed very simply, in black.

She rose at their entrance, but did not smile or give her hand, even to

the prince. Her anxious eyes were fixed upon Aglaya. Both sat down, at

a little distance from one another—Aglaya on the sofa, in the corner of

the room, Nastasia by the window. The prince and Rogojin remained

standing, and were not invited to sit.

Muishkin glanced at Rogojin in perplexity, but the latter only smiled

disagreeably, and said nothing. The silence continued for some few

moments.

An ominous expression passed over Nastasia Philipovna’s face, of a

sudden. It became obstinate-looking, hard, and full of hatred; but she

did not take her eyes off her visitors for a moment.

Aglaya was clearly confused, but not frightened. On entering she had

merely glanced momentarily at her rival, and then had sat still, with

her eyes on the ground, apparently in thought. Once or twice she

glanced casually round the room. A shade of disgust was visible in her

expression; she looked as though she were afraid of contamination in

this place.

She mechanically arranged her dress, and fidgeted uncomfortably,

eventually changing her seat to the other end of the sofa. Probably she

was unconscious of her own movements; but this very unconsciousness

added to the offensiveness of their suggested meaning.

At length she looked straight into Nastasia’s eyes, and instantly read

all there was to read in her rival’s expression. Woman understood

woman! Aglaya shuddered.

“You know of course why I requested this meeting?” she said at last,

quietly, and pausing twice in the delivery of this very short sentence.

“No—I know nothing about it,” said Nastasia, drily and abruptly.

Aglaya blushed. Perhaps it struck her as very strange and impossible

that she should really be sitting here and waiting for “that woman’s”

reply to her question.

At the first sound of Nastasia’s voice a shudder ran through her frame.

Of course “that woman” observed and took in all this.

“You know quite well, but you are pretending to be ignorant,” said

Aglaya, very low, with her eyes on the ground.

“Why should I?” asked Nastasia Philipovna, smiling slightly.

“You want to take advantage of my position, now that I am in your

house,” continued Aglaya, awkwardly.

“For that position _you_ are to blame and not I,” said Nastasia,

flaring up suddenly. “_I_ did not invite _you_, but you me; and to this

moment I am quite ignorant as to why I am thus honoured.”

Aglaya raised her head haughtily.

“Restrain your tongue!” she said. “I did not come here to fight you

with your own weapons.

“Oh! then you did come ‘to fight,’ I may conclude? Dear me!—and I

thought you were cleverer—”

They looked at one another with undisguised malice. One of these women

had written to the other, so lately, such letters as we have seen; and

it all was dispersed at their first meeting. Yet it appeared that not

one of the four persons in the room considered this in any degree

strange.

The prince who, up to yesterday, would not have believed that he could

even dream of such an impossible scene as this, stood and listened and

looked on, and felt as though he had long foreseen it all. The most

fantastic dream seemed suddenly to have been metamorphosed into the

most vivid reality.

One of these women so despised the other, and so longed to express her

contempt for her (perhaps she had only come for that very purpose, as

Rogojin said next day), that howsoever fantastical was the other woman,

howsoever afflicted her spirit and disturbed her understanding, no

preconceived idea of hers could possibly stand up against that deadly

feminine contempt of her rival. The prince felt sure that Nastasia

would say nothing about the letters herself; but he could judge by her

flashing eyes and the expression of her face what the thought of those

letters must be costing her at this moment. He would have given half

his life to prevent Aglaya from speaking of them. But Aglaya suddenly

braced herself up, and seemed to master herself fully, all in an

instant.

“You have not quite understood,” she said. “I did not come to quarrel

with you, though I do not like you. I came to speak to you as... as one

human being to another. I came with my mind made up as to what I had to

say to you, and I shall not change my intention, although you may

misunderstand me. So much the worse for you, not for myself! I wished

to reply to all you have written to me and to reply personally, because

I think that is the more convenient way. Listen to my reply to all your

letters. I began to be sorry for Prince Lef Nicolaievitch on the very

day I made his acquaintance, and when I heard—afterwards—of all that

took place at your house in the evening, I was sorry for him because he

was such a simple-minded man, and because he, in the simplicity of his

soul, believed that he could be happy with a woman of your character.

What I feared actually took place; you could not love him, you tortured

him, and threw him over. You could not love him because you are too

proud—no, not proud, that is an error; because you are too vain—no, not

quite that either; too self-loving; you are self-loving to madness.

Your letters to me are a proof of it. You could not love so simple a

soul as his, and perhaps in your heart you despised him and laughed at

him. All you could love was your shame and the perpetual thought that

you were disgraced and insulted. If you were less shameful, or had no

cause at all for shame, you would be still more unhappy than you are

now.”

Aglaya brought out these thronging words with great satisfaction. They

came from her lips hurriedly and impetuously, and had been prepared and

thought out long ago, even before she had ever dreamed of the present

meeting. She watched with eagerness the effect of her speech as shown

in Nastasia’s face, which was distorted with agitation.

“You remember,” she continued, “he wrote me a letter at that time; he

says you know all about that letter and that you even read it. I

understand all by means of this letter, and understand it correctly. He

has since confirmed it all to me—what I now say to you, word for word.

After receiving his letter I waited; I guessed that you would soon come

back here, because you could never do without Petersburg; you are still

too young and lovely for the provinces. However, this is not my own

idea,” she added, blushing dreadfully; and from this moment the colour

never left her cheeks to the end of her speech. “When I next saw the

prince I began to feel terribly pained and hurt on his account. Do not

laugh; if you laugh you are unworthy of understanding what I say.”

“Surely you see that I am not laughing,” said Nastasia, sadly and

sternly.

“However, it’s all the same to me; laugh or not, just as you please.

When I asked him about you, he told me that he had long since ceased to

love you, that the very recollection of you was a torture to him, but

that he was sorry for you; and that when he thought of you his heart

was pierced. I ought to tell you that I never in my life met a man

anything like him for noble simplicity of mind and for boundless

trustfulness. I guessed that anyone who liked could deceive him, and

that he would immediately forgive anyone who did deceive him; and it

was for this that I grew to love him—”

Aglaya paused for a moment, as though suddenly brought up in

astonishment that she could have said these words, but at the same time

a great pride shone in her eyes, like a defiant assertion that it would

not matter to her if “this woman” laughed in her face for the admission

just made.

“I have told you all now, and of course you understand what I wish of

you.”

“Perhaps I do; but tell me yourself,” said Nastasia Philipovna,

quietly.

Aglaya flushed up angrily.

“I wished to find out from you,” she said, firmly, “by what right you

dare to meddle with his feelings for me? By what right you dared send

me those letters? By what right do you continually remind both me and

him that you love him, after you yourself threw him over and ran away

from him in so insulting and shameful a way?”

“I never told either him or you that I loved him!” replied Nastasia

Philipovna, with an effort. “And—and I did run away from him—you are

right there,” she added, scarcely audibly.

“Never told either him or me?” cried Aglaya. “How about your letters?

Who asked you to try to persuade me to marry him? Was not that a

declaration from you? Why do you force yourself upon us in this way? I

confess I thought at first that you were anxious to arouse an aversion

for him in my heart by your meddling, in order that I might give him

up; and it was only afterwards that I guessed the truth. You imagined

that you were doing an heroic action! How could you spare any love for

him, when you love your own vanity to such an extent? Why could you not

simply go away from here, instead of writing me those absurd letters?

Why do you not _now_ marry that generous man who loves you, and has

done you the honour of offering you his hand? It is plain enough why;

if you marry Rogojin you lose your grievance; you will have nothing

more to complain of. You will be receiving too much honour. Evgenie

Pavlovitch was saying the other day that you had read too many poems

and are too well educated for—your position; and that you live in

idleness. Add to this your vanity, and, there you have reason enough—”

“And do you not live in idleness?”

Things had come to this unexpected point too quickly. Unexpected

because Nastasia Philipovna, on her way to Pavlofsk, had thought and

considered a good deal, and had expected something different, though

perhaps not altogether good, from this interview; but Aglaya had been

carried away by her own outburst, just as a rolling stone gathers

impetus as it careers downhill, and could not restrain herself in the

satisfaction of revenge.

It was strange, Nastasia Philipovna felt, to see Aglaya like this. She

gazed at her, and could hardly believe her eyes and ears for a moment

or two.

Whether she were a woman who had read too many poems, as Evgenie

Pavlovitch supposed, or whether she were mad, as the prince had assured

Aglaya, at all events, this was a woman who, in spite of her

occasionally cynical and audacious manner, was far more refined and

trustful and sensitive than appeared. There was a certain amount of

romantic dreaminess and caprice in her, but with the fantastic was

mingled much that was strong and deep.

The prince realized this, and great suffering expressed itself in his

face.

Aglaya observed it, and trembled with anger.

“How dare you speak so to me?” she said, with a haughtiness which was

quite indescribable, replying to Nastasia’s last remark.

“You must have misunderstood what I said,” said Nastasia, in some

surprise.

“If you wished to preserve your good name, why did you not give up

your—your ‘guardian,’ Totski, without all that theatrical posturing?”

said Aglaya, suddenly a propos of nothing.

“What do you know of my position, that you dare to judge me?” cried

Nastasia, quivering with rage, and growing terribly white.

“I know this much, that you did not go out to honest work, but went

away with a rich man, Rogojin, in order to pose as a fallen angel. I

don’t wonder that Totski was nearly driven to suicide by such a fallen

angel.”

“Silence!” cried Nastasia Philipovna. “You are about as fit to

understand me as the housemaid here, who bore witness against her lover

in court the other day. She would understand me better than you do.”

“Probably an honest girl living by her own toil. Why do you speak of a

housemaid so contemptuously?”

“I do not despise toil; I despise you when you speak of toil.”

“If you had cared to be an honest woman, you would have gone out as a

laundress.”

Both had risen, and were gazing at one another with pallid faces.

“Aglaya, don’t! This is unfair,” cried the prince, deeply distressed.

Rogojin was not smiling now; he sat and listened with folded arms, and

lips tight compressed.

“There, look at her,” cried Nastasia, trembling with passion. “Look at

this young lady! And I imagined her an angel! Did you come to me

without your governess, Aglaya Ivanovna? Oh, fie, now shall I just tell

you why you came here today? Shall I tell you without any

embellishments? You came because you were afraid of me!”

“Afraid of _you?_” asked Aglaya, beside herself with naive amazement

that the other should dare talk to her like this.

“Yes, me, of course! Of course you were afraid of me, or you would not

have decided to come. You cannot despise one you fear. And to think

that I have actually esteemed you up to this very moment! Do you know

why you are afraid of me, and what is your object now? You wished to

satisfy yourself with your own eyes as to which he loves best, myself

or you, because you are fearfully jealous.”

“He has told me already that he hates you,” murmured Aglaya, scarcely

audibly.

“Perhaps, perhaps! I am not worthy of him, I know. But I think you are

lying, all the same. He cannot hate me, and he cannot have said so. I

am ready to forgive you, in consideration of your position; but I

confess I thought better of you. I thought you were wiser, and more

beautiful, too; I did, indeed! Well, take your treasure! See, he is

gazing at you, he can’t recollect himself. Take him, but on one

condition; go away at once, this instant!”

She fell back into a chair, and burst into tears. But suddenly some new

expression blazed in her eyes. She stared fixedly at Aglaya, and rose

from her seat.

“Or would you like me to bid him, _bid him_, do you hear, _command

him_, now, at once, to throw you up, and remain mine for ever? Shall I?

He will stay, and he will marry me too, and you shall trot home all

alone. Shall I?—shall I say the word?” she screamed like a madwoman,

scarcely believing herself that she could really pronounce such wild

words.

Aglaya had made for the door in terror, but she stopped at the

threshold, and listened. “Shall I turn Rogojin off? Ha! ha! you thought

I would marry him for your benefit, did you? Why, I’ll call out _now_,

if you like, in your presence, ‘Rogojin, get out!’ and say to the

prince, ‘Do you remember what you promised me?’ Heavens! what a fool I

have been to humiliate myself before them! Why, prince, you yourself

gave me your word that you would marry me whatever happened, and would

never abandon me. You said you loved me and would forgive me all,

and—and resp—yes, you even said that! I only ran away from you in order

to set you free, and now I don’t care to let you go again. Why does she

treat me so—so shamefully? I am not a loose woman—ask Rogojin there!

He’ll tell you. Will you go again now that she has insulted me, before

your eyes, too; turn away from me and lead her away, arm-in-arm? May

you be accursed too, for you were the only one I trusted among them

all! Go away, Rogojin, I don’t want you,” she continued, blind with

fury, and forcing the words out with dry lips and distorted features,

evidently not believing a single word of her own tirade, but, at the

same time, doing her utmost to prolong the moment of self-deception.

The outburst was so terribly violent that the prince thought it would

have killed her.

“There he is!” she shrieked again, pointing to the prince and

addressing Aglaya. “There he is! and if he does not approach me at once

and take _me_ and throw you over, then have him for your own—I give him

up to you! I don’t want him!”

Both she and Aglaya stood and waited as though in expectation, and both

looked at the prince like madwomen.

But he, perhaps, did not understand the full force of this challenge;

in fact, it is certain he did not. All he could see was the poor

despairing face which, as he had said to Aglaya, “had pierced his heart

for ever.”

He could bear it no longer, and with a look of entreaty, mingled with

reproach, he addressed Aglaya, pointing to Nastasia the while:

“How can you?” he murmured; “she is so unhappy.”

But he had no time to say another word before Aglaya’s terrible look

bereft him of speech. In that look was embodied so dreadful a suffering

and so deadly a hatred, that he gave a cry and flew to her; but it was

too late.

She could not hold out long enough even to witness his movement in her

direction. She had hidden her face in her hands, cried once “Oh, my

God!” and rushed out of the room. Rogojin followed her to undo the

bolts of the door and let her out into the street.

The prince made a rush after her, but he was caught and held back. The

distorted, livid face of Nastasia gazed at him reproachfully, and her

blue lips whispered:

“What? Would you go to her—to her?”

She fell senseless into his arms.

He raised her, carried her into the room, placed her in an arm-chair,

and stood over her, stupefied. On the table stood a tumbler of water.

Rogojin, who now returned, took this and sprinkled a little in her

face. She opened her eyes, but for a moment she understood nothing.

Suddenly she looked around, shuddered, gave a loud cry, and threw

herself in the prince’s arms.

“Mine, mine!” she cried. “Has the proud young lady gone? Ha, ha, ha!”

she laughed hysterically. “And I had given him up to her! Why—why did

I? Mad—mad! Get away, Rogojin! Ha, ha, ha!”

Rogojin stared intently at them; then he took his hat, and without a

word, left the room.

A few moments later, the prince was seated by Nastasia on the sofa,

gazing into her eyes and stroking her face and hair, as he would a

little child’s. He laughed when she laughed, and was ready to cry when

she cried. He did not speak, but listened to her excited, disconnected

chatter, hardly understanding a word of it the while. No sooner did he

detect the slightest appearance of complaining, or weeping, or

reproaching, than he would smile at her kindly, and begin stroking her

hair and her cheeks, soothing and consoling her once more, as if she

were a child.

IX.

A fortnight had passed since the events recorded in the last chapter,

and the position of the actors in our story had become so changed that

it is almost impossible for us to continue the tale without some few

explanations. Yet we feel that we ought to limit ourselves to the

simple record of facts, without much attempt at explanation, for a very

patent reason: because we ourselves have the greatest possible

difficulty in accounting for the facts to be recorded. Such a statement

on our part may appear strange to the reader. How is anyone to tell a

story which he cannot understand himself? In order to keep clear of a

false position, we had perhaps better give an example of what we mean;

and probably the intelligent reader will soon understand the

difficulty. More especially are we inclined to take this course since

the example will constitute a distinct march forward of our story, and

will not hinder the progress of the events remaining to be recorded.

During the next fortnight—that is, through the early part of July—the

history of our hero was circulated in the form of strange, diverting,

most unlikely-sounding stories, which passed from mouth to mouth,

through the streets and villas adjoining those inhabited by Lebedeff,

Ptitsin, Nastasia Philipovna and the Epanchins; in fact, pretty well

through the whole town and its environs. All society—both the

inhabitants of the place and those who came down of an evening for the

music—had got hold of one and the same story, in a thousand varieties

of detail—as to how a certain young prince had raised a terrible

scandal in a most respectable household, had thrown over a daughter of

the family, to whom he was engaged, and had been captured by a woman of

shady reputation whom he was determined to marry at once—breaking off

all old ties for the satisfaction of his insane idea; and, in spite of

the public indignation roused by his action, the marriage was to take

place in Pavlofsk openly and publicly, and the prince had announced his

intention of going through with it with head erect and looking the

whole world in the face. The story was so artfully adorned with

scandalous details, and persons of so great eminence and importance

were apparently mixed up in it, while, at the same time, the evidence

was so circumstantial, that it was no wonder the matter gave food for

plenty of curiosity and gossip.

According to the reports of the most talented gossip-mongers—those who,

in every class of society, are always in haste to explain every event

to their neighbours—the young gentleman concerned was of good family—a

prince—fairly rich—weak of intellect, but a democrat and a dabbler in

the Nihilism of the period, as exposed by Mr. Turgenieff. He could

hardly talk Russian, but had fallen in love with one of the Miss

Epanchins, and his suit met with so much encouragement that he had been

received in the house as the recognized bridegroom-to-be of the young

lady. But like the Frenchman of whom the story is told that he studied

for holy orders, took all the oaths, was ordained priest, and next

morning wrote to his bishop informing him that, as he did not believe

in God and considered it wrong to deceive the people and live upon

their pockets, he begged to surrender the orders conferred upon him the

day before, and to inform his lordship that he was sending this letter

to the public press,—like this Frenchman, the prince played a false

game. It was rumoured that he had purposely waited for the solemn

occasion of a large evening party at the house of his future bride, at

which he was introduced to several eminent persons, in order publicly

to make known his ideas and opinions, and thereby insult the

“big-wigs,” and to throw over his bride as offensively as possible; and

that, resisting the servants who were told off to turn him out of the

house, he had seized and thrown down a magnificent china vase. As a

characteristic addition to the above, it was currently reported that

the young prince really loved the lady to whom he was engaged, and had

thrown her over out of purely Nihilistic motives, with the intention of

giving himself the satisfaction of marrying a fallen woman in the face

of all the world, thereby publishing his opinion that there is no

distinction between virtuous and disreputable women, but that all women

are alike, free; and a “fallen” woman, indeed, somewhat superior to a

virtuous one.

It was declared that he believed in no classes or anything else,

excepting “the woman question.”

All this looked likely enough, and was accepted as fact by most of the

inhabitants of the place, especially as it was borne out, more or less,

by daily occurrences.

Of course much was said that could not be determined absolutely. For

instance, it was reported that the poor girl had so loved her future

husband that she had followed him to the house of the other woman, the

day after she had been thrown over; others said that he had insisted on

her coming, himself, in order to shame and insult her by his taunts and

Nihilistic confessions when she reached the house. However all these

things might be, the public interest in the matter grew daily,

especially as it became clear that the scandalous wedding was

undoubtedly to take place.

So that if our readers were to ask an explanation, not of the wild

reports about the prince’s Nihilistic opinions, but simply as to how

such a marriage could possibly satisfy his real aspirations, or as to

the spiritual condition of our hero at this time, we confess that we

should have great difficulty in giving the required information.

All we know is, that the marriage really was arranged, and that the

prince had commissioned Lebedeff and Keller to look after all the

necessary business connected with it; that he had requested them to

spare no expense; that Nastasia herself was hurrying on the wedding;

that Keller was to be the prince’s best man, at his own earnest

request; and that Burdovsky was to give Nastasia away, to his great

delight. The wedding was to take place before the middle of July.

But, besides the above, we are cognizant of certain other undoubted

facts, which puzzle us a good deal because they seem flatly to

contradict the foregoing.

We suspect, for instance, that having commissioned Lebedeff and the

others, as above, the prince immediately forgot all about masters of

ceremonies and even the ceremony itself; and we feel quite certain that

in making these arrangements he did so in order that he might

absolutely escape all thought of the wedding, and even forget its

approach if he could, by detailing all business concerning it to

others.

What did he think of all this time, then? What did he wish for? There

is no doubt that he was a perfectly free agent all through, and that as

far as Nastasia was concerned, there was no force of any kind brought

to bear on him. Nastasia wished for a speedy marriage, true!—but the

prince agreed at once to her proposals; he agreed, in fact, so casually

that anyone might suppose he was but acceding to the most simple and

ordinary suggestion.

There are many strange circumstances such as this before us; but in our

opinion they do but deepen the mystery, and do not in the smallest

degree help us to understand the case.

However, let us take one more example. Thus, we know for a fact that

during the whole of this fortnight the prince spent all his days and

evenings with Nastasia; he walked with her, drove with her; he began to

be restless whenever he passed an hour without seeing her—in fact, to

all appearances, he sincerely loved her. He would listen to her for

hours at a time with a quiet smile on his face, scarcely saying a word

himself. And yet we know, equally certainly, that during this period he

several times set off, suddenly, to the Epanchins’, not concealing the

fact from Nastasia Philipovna, and driving the latter to absolute

despair. We know also that he was not received at the Epanchins’ so

long as they remained at Pavlofsk, and that he was not allowed an

interview with Aglaya;—but next day he would set off once more on the

same errand, apparently quite oblivious of the fact of yesterday’s

visit having been a failure,—and, of course, meeting with another

refusal. We know, too, that exactly an hour after Aglaya had fled from

Nastasia Philipovna’s house on that fateful evening, the prince was at

the Epanchins’,—and that his appearance there had been the cause of the

greatest consternation and dismay; for Aglaya had not been home, and

the family only discovered then, for the first time, that the two of

them had been to Nastasia’s house together.

It was said that Elizabetha Prokofievna and her daughters had there and

then denounced the prince in the strongest terms, and had refused any

further acquaintance and friendship with him; their rage and

denunciations being redoubled when Varia Ardalionovna suddenly arrived

and stated that Aglaya had been at her house in a terrible state of

mind for the last hour, and that she refused to come home.

This last item of news, which disturbed Lizabetha Prokofievna more than

anything else, was perfectly true. On leaving Nastasia’s, Aglaya had

felt that she would rather die than face her people, and had therefore

gone straight to Nina Alexandrovna’s. On receiving the news, Lizabetha

and her daughters and the general all rushed off to Aglaya, followed by

Prince Lef Nicolaievitch—undeterred by his recent dismissal; but

through Varia he was refused a sight of Aglaya here also. The end of

the episode was that when Aglaya saw her mother and sisters crying over

her and not uttering a word of reproach, she had flung herself into

their arms and gone straight home with them.

It was said that Gania managed to make a fool of himself even on this

occasion; for, finding himself alone with Aglaya for a minute or two

when Varia had gone to the Epanchins’, he had thought it a fitting

opportunity to make a declaration of his love, and on hearing this

Aglaya, in spite of her state of mind at the time, had suddenly burst

out laughing, and had put a strange question to him. She asked him

whether he would consent to hold his finger to a lighted candle in

proof of his devotion! Gania—it was said—looked so comically bewildered

that Aglaya had almost laughed herself into hysterics, and had rushed

out of the room and upstairs,—where her parents had found her.

Hippolyte told the prince this last story, sending for him on purpose.

When Muishkin heard about the candle and Gania’s finger he had laughed

so that he had quite astonished Hippolyte,—and then shuddered and burst

into tears. The prince’s condition during those days was strange and

perturbed. Hippolyte plainly declared that he thought he was out of his

mind;—this, however, was hardly to be relied upon.

Offering all these facts to our readers and refusing to explain them,

we do not for a moment desire to justify our hero’s conduct. On the

contrary, we are quite prepared to feel our share of the indignation

which his behaviour aroused in the hearts of his friends. Even Vera

Lebedeff was angry with him for a while; so was Colia; so was Keller,

until he was selected for best man; so was Lebedeff himself,—who began

to intrigue against him out of pure irritation;—but of this anon. In

fact we are in full accord with certain forcible words spoken to the

prince by Evgenie Pavlovitch, quite unceremoniously, during the course

of a friendly conversation, six or seven days after the events at

Nastasia Philipovna’s house.

We may remark here that not only the Epanchins themselves, but all who

had anything to do with them, thought it right to break with the prince

in consequence of his conduct. Prince S. even went so far as to turn

away and cut him dead in the street. But Evgenie Pavlovitch was not

afraid to compromise himself by paying the prince a visit, and did so,

in spite of the fact that he had recommenced to visit at the

Epanchins’, where he was received with redoubled hospitality and

kindness after the temporary estrangement.

Evgenie called upon the prince the day after that on which the

Epanchins left Pavlofsk. He knew of all the current rumours,—in fact,

he had probably contributed to them himself. The prince was delighted

to see him, and immediately began to speak of the Epanchins;—which

simple and straightforward opening quite took Evgenie’s fancy, so that

he melted at once, and plunged _in medias res_ without ceremony.

The prince did not know, up to this, that the Epanchins had left the

place. He grew very pale on hearing the news; but a moment later he

nodded his head, and said thoughtfully:

“I knew it was bound to be so.” Then he added quickly:

“Where have they gone to?”

Evgenie meanwhile observed him attentively, and the rapidity of the

questions, their simplicity, the prince’s candour, and at the same

time, his evident perplexity and mental agitation, surprised him

considerably. However, he told Muishkin all he could, kindly and in

detail. The prince hardly knew anything, for this was the first

informant from the household whom he had met since the estrangement.

Evgenie reported that Aglaya had been really ill, and that for two

nights she had not slept at all, owing to high fever; that now she was

better and out of serious danger, but still in a nervous, hysterical

state.

“It’s a good thing that there is peace in the house, at all events,” he

continued. “They never utter a hint about the past, not only in

Aglaya’s presence, but even among themselves. The old people are

talking of a trip abroad in the autumn, immediately after Adelaida’s

wedding; Aglaya received the news in silence.”

Evgenie himself was very likely going abroad also; so were Prince S.

and his wife, if affairs allowed of it; the general was to stay at

home. They were all at their estate of Colmina now, about twenty miles

or so from St. Petersburg. Princess Bielokonski had not returned to

Moscow yet, and was apparently staying on for reasons of her own.

Lizabetha Prokofievna had insisted that it was quite impossible to

remain in Pavlofsk after what had happened. Evgenie had told her of all

the rumours current in town about the affair; so that there could be no

talk of their going to their house on the Yelagin as yet.

“And in point of fact, prince,” added Evgenie Pavlovitch, “you must

allow that they could hardly have stayed here, considering that they

knew of all that went on at your place, and in the face of your daily

visits to their house, visits which you insisted upon making in spite

of their refusal to see you.”

“Yes—yes, quite so; you are quite right. I wished to see Aglaya

Ivanovna, you know!” said the prince, nodding his head.

“Oh, my dear fellow,” cried Evgenie, warmly, with real sorrow in his

voice, “how could you permit all that to come about as it has? Of

course, of course, I know it was all so unexpected. I admit that you,

only naturally, lost your head, and—and could not stop the foolish

girl; that was not in your power. I quite see so much; but you really

should have understood how seriously she cared for you. She could not

bear to share you with another; and you could bring yourself to throw

away and shatter such a treasure! Oh, prince, prince!”

“Yes, yes, you are quite right again,” said the poor prince, in anguish

of mind. “I was wrong, I know. But it was only Aglaya who looked on

Nastasia Philipovna so; no one else did, you know.”

“But that’s just the worst of it all, don’t you see, that there was

absolutely nothing serious about the matter in reality!” cried Evgenie,

beside himself: “Excuse me, prince, but I have thought over all this; I

have thought a great deal over it; I know all that had happened before;

I know all that took place six months since; and I know there was

_nothing_ serious about the matter, it was but fancy, smoke, fantasy,

distorted by agitation, and only the alarmed jealousy of an absolutely

inexperienced girl could possibly have mistaken it for serious

reality.”

Here Evgenie Pavlovitch quite let himself go, and gave the reins to his

indignation.

Clearly and reasonably, and with great psychological insight, he drew a

picture of the prince’s past relations with Nastasia Philipovna.

Evgenie Pavlovitch always had a ready tongue, but on this occasion his

eloquence, surprised himself. “From the very beginning,” he said, “you

began with a lie; what began with a lie was bound to end with a lie;

such is the law of nature. I do not agree, in fact I am angry, when I

hear you called an idiot; you are far too intelligent to deserve such

an epithet; but you are so far _strange_ as to be unlike others; that

you must allow, yourself. Now, I have come to the conclusion that the

basis of all that has happened, has been first of all your innate

inexperience (remark the expression ‘innate,’ prince). Then follows

your unheard-of simplicity of heart; then comes your absolute want of

sense of proportion (to this want you have several times confessed);

and lastly, a mass, an accumulation, of intellectual convictions which

you, in your unexampled honesty of soul, accept unquestionably as also

innate and natural and true. Admit, prince, that in your relations with

Nastasia Philipovna there has existed, from the very first, something

democratic, and the fascination, so to speak, of the ‘woman question’?

I know all about that scandalous scene at Nastasia Philipovna’s house

when Rogojin brought the money, six months ago. I’ll show you yourself

as in a looking-glass, if you like. I know exactly all that went on, in

every detail, and why things have turned out as they have. You

thirsted, while in Switzerland, for your home-country, for Russia; you

read, doubtless, many books about Russia, excellent books, I dare say,

but hurtful to _you_; and you arrived here; as it were, on fire with

the longing to be of service. Then, on the very day of your arrival,

they tell you a sad story of an ill-used woman; they tell _you_, a

knight, pure and without reproach, this tale of a poor woman! The same

day you actually _see_ her; you are attracted by her beauty, her

fantastic, almost demoniacal, beauty—(I admit her beauty, of course).

“Add to all this your nervous nature, your epilepsy, and your sudden

arrival in a strange town—the day of meetings and of exciting scenes,

the day of unexpected acquaintanceships, the day of sudden actions, the

day of meeting with the three lovely Epanchin girls, and among them

Aglaya—add your fatigue, your excitement; add Nastasia’ s evening

party, and the tone of that party, and—what were you to expect of

yourself at such a moment as that?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” said the prince, once more, nodding his head, and

blushing slightly. “Yes, it was so, or nearly so—I know it. And

besides, you see, I had not slept the night before, in the train, or

the night before that, either, and I was very tired.”

“Of course, of course, quite so; that’s what I am driving at!”

continued Evgenie, excitedly. “It is as clear as possible, and most

comprehensible, that you, in your enthusiasm, should plunge headlong

into the first chance that came of publicly airing your great idea that

you, a prince, and a pure-living man, did not consider a woman

disgraced if the sin were not her own, but that of a disgusting social

libertine! Oh, heavens! it’s comprehensible enough, my dear prince, but

that is not the question, unfortunately! The question is, was there any

reality and truth in your feelings? Was it nature, or nothing but

intellectual enthusiasm? What do you think yourself? We are told, of

course, that a far worse woman was _forgiven_, but we don’t find that

she was told that she had done well, or that she was worthy of honour

and respect! Did not your common-sense show you what was the real state

of the case, a few months later? The question is now, not whether she

is an innocent woman (I do not insist one way or the other—I do not

wish to); but can her whole career justify such intolerable pride, such

insolent, rapacious egotism as she has shown? Forgive me, I am too

violent, perhaps, but—”

“Yes—I dare say it is all as you say; I dare say you are quite right,”

muttered the prince once more. “She is very sensitive and easily put

out, of course; but still, she...”

“She is worthy of sympathy? Is that what you wished to say, my good

fellow? But then, for the mere sake of vindicating her worthiness of

sympathy, you should not have insulted and offended a noble and

generous girl in her presence! This is a terrible exaggeration of

sympathy! How can you love a girl, and yet so humiliate her as to throw

her over for the sake of another woman, before the very eyes of that

other woman, when you have already made her a formal proposal of

marriage? And you _did_ propose to her, you know; you did so before her

parents and sisters. Can you be an honest man, prince, if you act so? I

ask you! And did you not deceive that beautiful girl when you assured

her of your love?”

“Yes, you are quite right. Oh! I feel that I am very guilty!” said

Muishkin, in deepest distress.

“But as if that is enough!” cried Evgenie, indignantly. “As if it is

enough simply to say: ‘I know I am very guilty!’ You are to blame, and

yet you persevere in evil-doing. Where was your heart, I should like to

know, your _christian heart_, all that time? Did she look as though she

were suffering less, at that moment? You saw her face—was she suffering

less than the other woman? How could you see her suffering and allow it

to continue? How could you?”

“But I did not allow it,” murmured the wretched prince.

“How—what do you mean you didn’t allow?”

“Upon my word, I didn’t! To this moment I don’t know how it all

happened. I—I ran after Aglaya Ivanovna, but Nastasia Philipovna fell

down in a faint; and since that day they won’t let me see Aglaya—that’s

all I know.”

“It’s all the same; you ought to have run after Aglaya though the other

was fainting.”

“Yes, yes, I ought—but I couldn’t! She would have died—she would have

killed herself. You don’t know her; and I should have told Aglaya

everything afterwards—but I see, Evgenie Pavlovitch, you don’t know

all. Tell me now, why am I not allowed to see Aglaya? I should have

cleared it all up, you know. Neither of them kept to the real point,

you see. I could never explain what I mean to you, but I think I could

to Aglaya. Oh! my God, my God! You spoke just now of Aglaya’s face at

the moment when she ran away. Oh, my God! I remember it! Come along,

come along—quick!” He pulled at Evgenie’s coat-sleeve nervously and

excitedly, and rose from his chair.

“Where to?”

“Come to Aglaya—quick, quick!”

“But I told you she is not at Pavlofsk. And what would be the use if

she were?”

“Oh, she’ll understand, she’ll understand!” cried the prince, clasping

his hands. “She would understand that all this is not the point—not a

bit the real point—it is quite foreign to the real question.”

“How can it be foreign? You _are_ going to be married, are you not?

Very well, then you are persisting in your course. _Are_ you going to

marry her or not?”

“Yes, I shall marry her—yes.”

“Then why is it ‘not the point’?”

“Oh, no, it is not the point, not a bit. It makes no difference, my

marrying her—it means nothing.”

“How ‘means nothing’? You are talking nonsense, my friend. You are

marrying the woman you love in order to secure her happiness, and

Aglaya sees and knows it. How can you say that it’s ‘not the point’?”

“Her happiness? Oh, no! I am only marrying her—well, because she wished

it. It means nothing—it’s all the same. She would certainly have died.

I see now that that marriage with Rogojin was an insane idea. I

understand all now that I did not understand before; and, do you know,

when those two stood opposite to one another, I could not bear Nastasia

Philipovna’s face! You must know, Evgenie Pavlovitch, I have never told

anyone before—not even Aglaya—that I cannot bear Nastasia Philipovna’s

face.” (He lowered his voice mysteriously as he said this.) “You

described that evening at Nastasia Philipovna’s (six months since) very

accurately just now; but there is one thing which you did not mention,

and of which you took no account, because you do not know. I mean her

_face_—I looked at her face, you see. Even in the morning when I saw

her portrait, I felt that I could not _bear_ to look at it. Now,

there’s Vera Lebedeff, for instance, her eyes are quite different, you

know. I’m _afraid_ of her face!” he added, with real alarm.

“You are _afraid_ of it?”

“Yes—she’s mad!” he whispered, growing pale.

“Do you know this for certain?” asked Evgenie, with the greatest

curiosity.

“Yes, for certain—quite for certain, now! I have discovered it

_absolutely_ for certain, these last few days.”

“What are you doing, then?” cried Evgenie, in horror. “You must be

marrying her solely out of _fear_, then! I can’t make head or tail of

it, prince. Perhaps you don’t even love her?”

“Oh, no; I love her with all my soul. Why, she is a child! She’s a

child now—a real child. Oh! you know nothing about it at all, I see.”

“And are you assured, at the same time, that you love Aglaya too?”

“Yes—yes—oh; yes!”

“How so? Do you want to make out that you love them _both?_”

“Yes—yes—both! I do!”

“Excuse me, prince, but think what you are saying! Recollect yourself!”

“Without Aglaya—I—I _must_ see Aglaya!—I shall die in my sleep very

soon—I thought I was dying in my sleep last night. Oh! if Aglaya only

knew all—I mean really, _really_ all! Because she must know

_all_—that’s the first condition towards understanding. Why cannot we

ever know all about another, especially when that other has been

guilty? But I don’t know what I’m talking about—I’m so confused. You

pained me so dreadfully. Surely—surely Aglaya has not the same

expression now as she had at the moment when she ran away? Oh, yes! I

am guilty and I know it—I know it! Probably I am in fault all round—I

don’t quite know how—but I am in fault, no doubt. There is something

else, but I cannot explain it to you, Evgenie Pavlovitch. I have no

words; but Aglaya will understand. I have always believed Aglaya will

understand—I am assured she will.”

“No, prince, she will not. Aglaya loved like a woman, like a human

being, not like an abstract spirit. Do you know what, my poor prince?

The most probable explanation of the matter is that you never loved

either the one or the other in reality.”

“I don’t know—perhaps you are right in much that you have said, Evgenie

Pavlovitch. You are very wise, Evgenie Pavlovitch—oh! how my head is

beginning to ache again! Come to her, quick—for God’s sake, come!”

“But I tell you she is not in Pavlofsk! She’s in Colmina.”

“Oh, come to Colmina, then! Come—let us go at once!”

“No—no, impossible!” said Evgenie, rising.

“Look here—I’ll write a letter—take a letter for me!”

“No—no, prince; you must forgive me, but I can’t undertake any such

commissions! I really can’t.”

And so they parted.

Evgenie Pavlovitch left the house with strange convictions. He, too,

felt that the prince must be out of his mind.

“And what did he mean by that _face_—a face which he so fears, and yet

so loves? And meanwhile he really may die, as he says, without seeing

Aglaya, and she will never know how devotedly he loves her! Ha, ha, ha!

How does the fellow manage to love two of them? Two different kinds of

love, I suppose! This is very interesting—poor idiot! What on earth

will become of him now?”

X.

The prince did not die before his wedding—either by day or night, as he

had foretold that he might. Very probably he passed disturbed nights,

and was afflicted with bad dreams; but, during the daytime, among his

fellow-men, he seemed as kind as ever, and even contented; only a

little thoughtful when alone.

The wedding was hurried on. The day was fixed for exactly a week after

Evgenie’s visit to the prince. In the face of such haste as this, even

the prince’s best friends (if he had had any) would have felt the

hopelessness of any attempt to save “the poor madman.” Rumour said that

in the visit of Evgenie Pavlovitch was to be discerned the influence of

Lizabetha Prokofievna and her husband... But if those good souls, in

the boundless kindness of their hearts, were desirous of saving the

eccentric young fellow from ruin, they were unable to take any stronger

measures to attain that end. Neither their position, nor their private

inclination, perhaps (and only naturally), would allow them to use any

more pronounced means.

We have observed before that even some of the prince’s nearest

neighbours had begun to oppose him. Vera Lebedeff’s passive

disagreement was limited to the shedding of a few solitary tears; to

more frequent sitting alone at home, and to a diminished frequency in

her visits to the prince’s apartments.

Colia was occupied with his father at this time. The old man died

during a second stroke, which took place just eight days after the

first. The prince showed great sympathy in the grief of the family, and

during the first days of their mourning he was at the house a great

deal with Nina Alexandrovna. He went to the funeral, and it was

observable that the public assembled in church greeted his arrival and

departure with whisperings, and watched him closely.

The same thing happened in the park and in the street, wherever he

went. He was pointed out when he drove by, and he often overheard the

name of Nastasia Philipovna coupled with his own as he passed. People

looked out for her at the funeral, too, but she was not there; and

another conspicuous absentee was the captain’s widow, whom Lebedeff had

prevented from coming.

The funeral service produced a great effect on the prince. He whispered

to Lebedeff that this was the first time he had ever heard a Russian

funeral service since he was a little boy. Observing that he was

looking about him uneasily, Lebedeff asked him whom he was seeking.

“Nothing. I only thought I—”

“Is it Rogojin?”

“Why—is he here?”

“Yes, he’s in church.”

“I thought I caught sight of his eyes!” muttered the prince, in

confusion. “But what of it!—Why is he here? Was he asked?”

“Oh, dear, no! Why, they don’t even know him! Anyone can come in, you

know. Why do you look so amazed? I often meet him; I’ve seen him at

least four times, here at Pavlofsk, within the last week.”

“I haven’t seen him once—since that day!” the prince murmured.

As Nastasia Philipovna had not said a word about having met Rogojin

since “that day,” the prince concluded that the latter had his own

reasons for wishing to keep out of sight. All the day of the funeral

our hero was in a deeply thoughtful state, while Nastasia Philipovna

was particularly merry, both in the daytime and in the evening.

Colia had made it up with the prince before his father’s death, and it

was he who urged him to make use of Keller and Burdovsky, promising to

answer himself for the former’s behaviour. Nina Alexandrovna and

Lebedeff tried to persuade him to have the wedding in St. Petersburg,

instead of in the public fashion contemplated, down here at Pavlofsk in

the height of the season. But the prince only said that Nastasia

Philipovna desired to have it so, though he saw well enough what

prompted their arguments.

The next day Keller came to visit the prince. He was in a high state of

delight with the post of honour assigned to him at the wedding.

Before entering he stopped on the threshold, raised his hand as if

making a solemn vow, and cried:

“I won’t drink!”

Then he went up to the prince, seized both his hands, shook them

warmly, and declared that he had at first felt hostile towards the

project of this marriage, and had openly said so in the billiard-rooms,

but that the reason simply was that, with the impatience of a friend,

he had hoped to see the prince marry at least a Princess de Rohan or de

Chabot; but that now he saw that the prince’s way of thinking was ten

times more noble than that of “all the rest put together.” For he

desired neither pomp nor wealth nor honour, but only the truth! The

sympathies of exalted personages were well known, and the prince was

too highly placed by his education, and so on, not to be in some sense

an exalted personage!

“But all the common herd judge differently; in the town, at the

meetings, in the villas, at the band, in the inns and the

billiard-rooms, the coming event has only to be mentioned and there are

shouts and cries from everybody. I have even heard talk of getting up a

‘charivari’ under the windows on the wedding-night. So if ‘you have

need of the pistol’ of an honest man, prince, I am ready to fire half a

dozen shots even before you rise from your nuptial couch!”

Keller also advised, in anticipation of the crowd making a rush after

the ceremony, that a fire-hose should be placed at the entrance to the

house; but Lebedeff was opposed to this measure, which he said might

result in the place being pulled down.

“I assure you, prince, that Lebedeff is intriguing against you. He

wants to put you under control. Imagine that! To take ‘from you the use

of your free-will and your money’—that is to say, the two things that

distinguish us from the animals! I have heard it said positively. It is

the sober truth.”

The prince recollected that somebody had told him something of the kind

before, and he had, of course, scoffed at it. He only laughed now, and

forgot the hint at once.

Lebedeff really had been busy for some little while; but, as usual, his

plans had become too complex to succeed, through sheer excess of

ardour. When he came to the prince—the very day before the wedding—to

confess (for he always confessed to the persons against whom he

intrigued, especially when the plan failed), he informed our hero that

he himself was a born Talleyrand, but for some unknown reason had

become simple Lebedeff. He then proceeded to explain his whole game to

the prince, interesting the latter exceedingly.

According to Lebedeff’s account, he had first tried what he could do

with General Epanchin. The latter informed him that he wished well to

the unfortunate young man, and would gladly do what he could to “save

him,” but that he did not think it would be seemly for him to interfere

in this matter. Lizabetha Prokofievna would neither hear nor see him.

Prince S. and Evgenie Pavlovitch only shrugged their shoulders, and

implied that it was no business of theirs. However, Lebedeff had not

lost heart, and went off to a clever lawyer,—a worthy and respectable

man, whom he knew well. This old gentleman informed him that the thing

was perfectly feasible if he could get hold of competent witnesses as

to Muishkin’s mental incapacity. Then, with the assistance of a few

influential persons, he would soon see the matter arranged.

Lebedeff immediately procured the services of an old doctor, and

carried the latter away to Pavlofsk to see the prince, by way of

viewing the ground, as it were, and to give him (Lebedeff) counsel as

to whether the thing was to be done or not. The visit was not to be

official, but merely friendly.

Muishkin remembered the doctor’s visit quite well. He remembered that

Lebedeff had said that he looked ill, and had better see a doctor; and

although the prince scouted the idea, Lebedeff had turned up almost

immediately with his old friend, explaining that they had just met at

the bedside of Hippolyte, who was very ill, and that the doctor had

something to tell the prince about the sick man.

The prince had, of course, at once received him, and had plunged into a

conversation about Hippolyte. He had given the doctor an account of

Hippolyte’s attempted suicide; and had proceeded thereafter to talk of

his own malady,—of Switzerland, of Schneider, and so on; and so deeply

was the old man interested by the prince’s conversation and his

description of Schneider’s system, that he sat on for two hours.

Muishkin gave him excellent cigars to smoke, and Lebedeff, for his

part, regaled him with liqueurs, brought in by Vera, to whom the

doctor—a married man and the father of a family—addressed such

compliments that she was filled with indignation. They parted friends,

and, after leaving the prince, the doctor said to Lebedeff: “If all

such people were put under restraint, there would be no one left for

keepers.” Lebedeff then, in tragic tones, told of the approaching

marriage, whereupon the other nodded his head and replied that, after

all, marriages like that were not so rare; that he had heard that the

lady was very fascinating and of extraordinary beauty, which was enough

to explain the infatuation of a wealthy man; that, further, thanks to

the liberality of Totski and of Rogojin, she possessed—so he had

heard—not only money, but pearls, diamonds, shawls, and furniture, and

consequently she could not be considered a bad match. In brief, it

seemed to the doctor that the prince’s choice, far from being a sign of

foolishness, denoted, on the contrary, a shrewd, calculating, and

practical mind. Lebedeff had been much struck by this point of view,

and he terminated his confession by assuring the prince that he was

ready, if need be, to shed his very life’s blood for him.

Hippolyte, too, was a source of some distraction to the prince at this

time; he would send for him at any and every hour of the day. They

lived,—Hippolyte and his mother and the children,—in a small house not

far off, and the little ones were happy, if only because they were able

to escape from the invalid into the garden. The prince had enough to do

in keeping the peace between the irritable Hippolyte and his mother,

and eventually the former became so malicious and sarcastic on the

subject of the approaching wedding, that Muishkin took offence at last,

and refused to continue his visits.

A couple of days later, however, Hippolyte’s mother came with tears in

her eyes, and begged the prince to come back, “or _he_ would eat her up

bodily.” She added that Hippolyte had a great secret to disclose. Of

course the prince went. There was no secret, however, unless we reckon

certain pantings and agitated glances around (probably all put on) as

the invalid begged his visitor to “beware of Rogojin.”

“He is the sort of man,” he continued, “who won’t give up his object,

you know; he is not like you and me, prince—he belongs to quite a

different order of beings. If he sets his heart on a thing he won’t be

afraid of anything—” and so on.

Hippolyte was very ill, and looked as though he could not long survive.

He was tearful at first, but grew more and more sarcastic and malicious

as the interview proceeded.

The prince questioned him in detail as to his hints about Rogojin. He

was anxious to seize upon some facts which might confirm Hippolyte’s

vague warnings; but there were none; only Hippolyte’s own private

impressions and feelings.

However, the invalid—to his immense satisfaction—ended by seriously

alarming the prince.

At first Muishkin had not cared to make any reply to his sundry

questions, and only smiled in response to Hippolyte’s advice to “run

for his life—abroad, if necessary. There are Russian priests

everywhere, and one can get married all over the world.”

But it was Hippolyte’s last idea which upset him.

“What I am really alarmed about, though,” he said, “is Aglaya Ivanovna.

Rogojin knows how you love her. Love for love. You took Nastasia

Philipovna from him. He will murder Aglaya Ivanovna; for though she is

not yours, of course, now, still such an act would pain you,—wouldn’t

it?”

He had attained his end. The prince left the house beside himself with

terror.

These warnings about Rogojin were expressed on the day before the

wedding. That evening the prince saw Nastasia Philipovna for the last

time before they were to meet at the altar; but Nastasia was not in a

position to give him any comfort or consolation. On the contrary, she

only added to his mental perturbation as the evening went on. Up to

this time she had invariably done her best to cheer him—she was afraid

of his looking melancholy; she would try singing to him, and telling

him every sort of funny story or reminiscence that she could recall.

The prince nearly always pretended to be amused, whether he were so

actually or no; but often enough he laughed sincerely, delighted by the

brilliancy of her wit when she was carried away by her narrative, as

she very often was. Nastasia would be wild with joy to see the

impression she had made, and to hear his laugh of real amusement; and

she would remain the whole evening in a state of pride and happiness.

But this evening her melancholy and thoughtfulness grew with every

hour.

The prince had told Evgenie Pavlovitch with perfect sincerity that he

loved Nastasia Philipovna with all his soul. In his love for her there

was the sort of tenderness one feels for a sick, unhappy child which

cannot be left alone. He never spoke of his feelings for Nastasia to

anyone, not even to herself. When they were together they never

discussed their “feelings,” and there was nothing in their cheerful,

animated conversation which an outsider could not have heard. Daria

Alexeyevna, with whom Nastasia was staying, told afterwards how she had

been filled with joy and delight only to look at them, all this time.

Thanks to the manner in which he regarded Nastasia’s mental and moral

condition, the prince was to some extent freed from other perplexities.

She was now quite different from the woman he had known three months

before. He was not astonished, for instance, to see her now so

impatient to marry him—she who formerly had wept with rage and hurled

curses and reproaches at him if he mentioned marriage! “It shows that

she no longer fears, as she did then, that she would make me unhappy by

marrying me,” he thought. And he felt sure that so sudden a change

could not be a natural one. This rapid growth of self-confidence could

not be due only to her hatred for Aglaya. To suppose that would be to

suspect the depth of her feelings. Nor could it arise from dread of the

fate that awaited her if she married Rogojin. These causes, indeed, as

well as others, might have played a part in it, but the true reason,

Muishkin decided, was the one he had long suspected—that the poor sick

soul had come to the end of its forces. Yet this was an explanation

that did not procure him any peace of mind. At times he seemed to be

making violent efforts to think of nothing, and one would have said

that he looked on his marriage as an unimportant formality, and on his

future happiness as a thing not worth considering. As to conversations

such as the one held with Evgenie Pavlovitch, he avoided them as far as

possible, feeling that there were certain objections to which he could

make no answer.

The prince had observed that Nastasia knew well enough what Aglaya was

to him. He never spoke of it, but he had seen her face when she had

caught him starting off for the Epanchins’ house on several occasions.

When the Epanchins left Pavlofsk, she had beamed with radiance and

happiness. Unsuspicious and unobservant as he was, he had feared at

that time that Nastasia might have some scheme in her mind for a scene

or scandal which would drive Aglaya out of Pavlofsk. She had encouraged

the rumours and excitement among the inhabitants of the place as to her

marriage with the prince, in order to annoy her rival; and, finding it

difficult to meet the Epanchins anywhere, she had, on one occasion,

taken him for a drive past their house. He did not observe what was

happening until they were almost passing the windows, when it was too

late to do anything. He said nothing, but for two days afterwards he

was ill.

Nastasia did not try that particular experiment again. A few days

before that fixed for the wedding, she grew grave and thoughtful. She

always ended by getting the better of her melancholy, and becoming

merry and cheerful again, but not quite so unaffectedly happy as she

had been some days earlier.

The prince redoubled his attentive study of her symptoms. It was a most

curious circumstance, in his opinion, that she never spoke of Rogojin.

But once, about five days before the wedding, when the prince was at

home, a messenger arrived begging him to come at once, as Nastasia

Philipovna was very ill.

He had found her in a condition approaching to absolute madness. She

screamed, and trembled, and cried out that Rogojin was hiding out there

in the garden—that she had seen him herself—and that he would murder

her in the night—that he would cut her throat. She was terribly

agitated all day. But it so happened that the prince called at

Hippolyte’s house later on, and heard from his mother that she had been

in town all day, and had there received a visit from Rogojin, who had

made inquiries about Pavlofsk. On inquiry, it turned out that Rogojin

visited the old lady in town at almost the same moment when Nastasia

declared that she had seen him in the garden; so that the whole thing

turned out to be an illusion on her part. Nastasia immediately went

across to Hippolyte’s to inquire more accurately, and returned

immensely relieved and comforted.

On the day before the wedding, the prince left Nastasia in a state of

great animation. Her wedding-dress and all sorts of finery had just

arrived from town. Muishkin had not imagined that she would be so

excited over it, but he praised everything, and his praise rendered her

doubly happy.

But Nastasia could not hide the cause of her intense interest in her

wedding splendour. She had heard of the indignation in the town, and

knew that some of the populace was getting up a sort of charivari with

music, that verses had been composed for the occasion, and that the

rest of Pavlofsk society more or less encouraged these preparations.

So, since attempts were being made to humiliate her, she wanted to hold

her head even higher than usual, and to overwhelm them all with the

beauty and taste of her toilette. “Let them shout and whistle, if they

dare!” Her eyes flashed at the thought. But, underneath this, she had

another motive, of which she did not speak. She thought that possibly

Aglaya, or at any rate someone sent by her, would be present incognito

at the ceremony, or in the crowd, and she wished to be prepared for

this eventuality.

The prince left her at eleven, full of these thoughts, and went home.

But it was not twelve o’clock when a messenger came to say that

Nastasia was very bad, and he must come at once.

On hurrying back he found his bride locked up in her own room and could

hear her hysterical cries and sobs. It was some time before she could

be made to hear that the prince had come, and then she opened the door

only just sufficiently to let him in, and immediately locked it behind

him. She then fell on her knees at his feet. (So at least Dana

Alexeyevna reported.)

“What am I doing? What am I doing to you?” she sobbed convulsively,

embracing his knees.

The prince was a whole hour soothing and comforting her, and left her,

at length, pacified and composed. He sent another messenger during the

night to inquire after her, and two more next morning. The last brought

back a message that Nastasia was surrounded by a whole army of

dressmakers and maids, and was as happy and as busy as such a beauty

should be on her wedding morning, and that there was not a vestige of

yesterday’s agitation remaining. The message concluded with the news

that at the moment of the bearer’s departure there was a great

confabulation in progress as to which diamonds were to be worn, and

how.

This message entirely calmed the prince’s mind.

The following report of the proceedings on the wedding day may be

depended upon, as coming from eye-witnesses.

The wedding was fixed for eight o’clock in the evening. Nastasia

Philipovna was ready at seven. From six o’clock groups of people began

to gather at Nastasia’s house, at the prince’s, and at the church door,

but more especially at the former place. The church began to fill at

seven.

Colia and Vera Lebedeff were very anxious on the prince’s account, but

they were so busy over the arrangements for receiving the guests after

the wedding, that they had not much time for the indulgence of personal

feelings.

There were to be very few guests besides the best men and so on; only

Dana Alexeyevna, the Ptitsins, Gania, and the doctor. When the prince

asked Lebedeff why he had invited the doctor, who was almost a

stranger, Lebedeff replied:

“Why, he wears an ‘order,’ and it looks so well!”

This idea amused the prince.

Keller and Burdovsky looked wonderfully correct in their dress-coats

and white kid gloves, although Keller caused the bridegroom some alarm

by his undisguisedly hostile glances at the gathering crowd of

sight-seers outside.

At about half-past seven the prince started for the church in his

carriage.

We may remark here that he seemed anxious not to omit a single one of

the recognized customs and traditions observed at weddings. He wished

all to be done as openly as possible, and “in due order.”

Arrived at the church, Muishkin, under Keller’s guidance, passed

through the crowd of spectators, amid continuous whispering and excited

exclamations. The prince stayed near the altar, while Keller made off

once more to fetch the bride.

On reaching the gate of Daria Alexeyevna’s house, Keller found a far

denser crowd than he had encountered at the prince’s. The remarks and

exclamations of the spectators here were of so irritating a nature that

Keller was very near making them a speech on the impropriety of their

conduct, but was luckily caught by Burdovsky, in the act of turning to

address them, and hurried indoors.

Nastasia Philipovna was ready. She rose from her seat, looked into the

glass and remarked, as Keller told the tale afterwards, that she was

“as pale as a corpse.” She then bent her head reverently, before the

ikon in the corner, and left the room.

A torrent of voices greeted her appearance at the front door. The crowd

whistled, clapped its hands, and laughed and shouted; but in a moment

or two isolated voices were distinguishable.

“What a beauty!” cried one.

“Well, she isn’t the first in the world, nor the last,” said another.

“Marriage covers everything,” observed a third.

“I defy you to find another beauty like that,” said a fourth.

“She’s a real princess! I’d sell my soul for such a princess as that!”

Nastasia came out of the house looking as white as any handkerchief;

but her large dark eyes shone upon the vulgar crowd like blazing coals.

The spectators’ cries were redoubled, and became more exultant and

triumphant every moment. The door of the carriage was open, and Keller

had given his hand to the bride to help her in, when suddenly with a

loud cry she rushed from him, straight into the surging crowd. Her

friends about her were stupefied with amazement; the crowd parted as

she rushed through it, and suddenly, at a distance of five or six yards

from the carriage, appeared Rogojin. It was his look that had caught

her eyes.

Nastasia rushed to him like a madwoman, and seized both his hands.

“Save me!” she cried. “Take me away, anywhere you like, quick!”

Rogojin seized her in his arms and almost carried her to the carriage.

Then, in a flash, he tore a hundred-rouble note out of his pocket and

held it to the coachman.

“To the station, quick! If you catch the train you shall have another.

Quick!”

He leaped into the carriage after Nastasia and banged the door. The

coachman did not hesitate a moment; he whipped up the horses, and they

were off.

“One more second and I should have stopped him,” said Keller,

afterwards. In fact, he and Burdovsky jumped into another carriage and

set off in pursuit; but it struck them as they drove along that it was

not much use trying to bring Nastasia back by force.

“Besides,” said Burdovsky, “the prince would not like it, would he?” So

they gave up the pursuit.

Rogojin and Nastasia Philipovna reached the station just in time for

the train. As he jumped out of the carriage and was almost on the point

of entering the train, Rogojin accosted a young girl standing on the

platform and wearing an old-fashioned, but respectable-looking, black

cloak and a silk handkerchief over her head.

“Take fifty roubles for your cloak?” he shouted, holding the money out

to the girl. Before the astonished young woman could collect her

scattered senses, he pushed the money into her hand, seized the mantle,

and threw it and the handkerchief over Nastasia’s head and shoulders.

The latter’s wedding-array would have attracted too much attention, and

it was not until some time later that the girl understood why her old

cloak and kerchief had been bought at such a price.

The news of what had happened reached the church with extraordinary

rapidity. When Keller arrived, a host of people whom he did not know

thronged around to ask him questions. There was much excited talking,

and shaking of heads, even some laughter; but no one left the church,

all being anxious to observe how the now celebrated bridegroom would

take the news. He grew very pale upon hearing it, but took it quite

quietly.

“I was afraid,” he muttered, scarcely audibly, “but I hardly thought it

would come to this.” Then after a short silence, he added: “However, in

her state, it is quite consistent with the natural order of things.”

Even Keller admitted afterwards that this was “extraordinarily

philosophical” on the prince’s part. He left the church quite calm, to

all appearances, as many witnesses were found to declare afterwards. He

seemed anxious to reach home and be left alone as quickly as possible;

but this was not to be. He was accompanied by nearly all the invited

guests, and besides this, the house was almost besieged by excited

bands of people, who insisted upon being allowed to enter the verandah.

The prince heard Keller and Lebedeff remonstrating and quarrelling with

these unknown individuals, and soon went out himself. He approached the

disturbers of his peace, requested courteously to be told what was

desired; then politely putting Lebedeff and Keller aside, he addressed

an old gentleman who was standing on the verandah steps at the head of

the band of would-be guests, and courteously requested him to honour

him with a visit. The old fellow was quite taken aback by this, but

entered, followed by a few more, who tried to appear at their ease. The

rest remained outside, and presently the whole crowd was censuring

those who had accepted the invitation. The prince offered seats to his

strange visitors, tea was served, and a general conversation sprang up.

Everything was done most decorously, to the considerable surprise of

the intruders. A few tentative attempts were made to turn the

conversation to the events of the day, and a few indiscreet questions

were asked; but Muishkin replied to everybody with such simplicity and

good-humour, and at the same time with so much dignity, and showed such

confidence in the good breeding of his guests, that the indiscreet

talkers were quickly silenced. By degrees the conversation became

almost serious. One gentleman suddenly exclaimed, with great vehemence:

“Whatever happens, I shall not sell my property; I shall wait.

Enterprise is better than money, and there, sir, you have my whole

system of economy, if you wish!” He addressed the prince, who warmly

commended his sentiments, though Lebedeff whispered in his ear that

this gentleman, who talked so much of his “property,” had never had

either house or home.

Nearly an hour passed thus, and when tea was over the visitors seemed

to think that it was time to go. As they went out, the doctor and the

old gentleman bade Muishkin a warm farewell, and all the rest took

their leave with hearty protestations of good-will, dropping remarks to

the effect that “it was no use worrying,” and that “perhaps all would

turn out for the best,” and so on. Some of the younger intruders would

have asked for champagne, but they were checked by the older ones. When

all had departed, Keller leaned over to Lebedeff, and said:

“With you and me there would have been a scene. We should have shouted

and fought, and called in the police. But he has simply made some new

friends—and such friends, too! I know them!”

Lebedeff, who was slightly intoxicated, answered with a sigh:

“Things are hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto babes.

I have applied those words to him before, but now I add that God has

preserved the babe himself from the abyss, He and all His saints.”

At last, about half-past ten, the prince was left alone. His head

ached. Colia was the last to go, after having helped him to change his

wedding clothes. They parted on affectionate terms, and, without

speaking of what had happened, Colia promised to come very early the

next day. He said later that the prince had given no hint of his

intentions when they said good-bye, but had hidden them even from him.

Soon there was hardly anyone left in the house. Burdovsky had gone to

see Hippolyte; Keller and Lebedeff had wandered off together somewhere.

Only Vera Lebedeff remained hurriedly rearranging the furniture in the

rooms. As she left the verandah, she glanced at the prince. He was

seated at the table, with both elbows upon it, and his head resting on

his hands. She approached him, and touched his shoulder gently. The

prince started and looked at her in perplexity; he seemed to be

collecting his senses for a minute or so, before he could remember

where he was. As recollection dawned upon him, he became violently

agitated. All he did, however, was to ask Vera very earnestly to knock

at his door and awake him in time for the first train to Petersburg

next morning. Vera promised, and the prince entreated her not to tell

anyone of his intention. She promised this, too; and at last, when she

had half-closed the door, he called her back a third time, took her

hands in his, kissed them, then kissed her forehead, and in a rather

peculiar manner said to her, “Until tomorrow!”

Such was Vera’s story afterwards.

She went away in great anxiety about him, but when she saw him in the

morning, he seemed to be quite himself again, greeted her with a smile,

and told her that he would very likely be back by the evening. It

appears that he did not consider it necessary to inform anyone

excepting Vera of his departure for town.

XI.

An hour later he was in St. Petersburg, and by ten o’clock he had rung

the bell at Rogojin’s.

He had gone to the front door, and was kept waiting a long while before

anyone came. At last the door of old Mrs. Rogojin’s flat was opened,

and an aged servant appeared.

“Parfen Semionovitch is not at home,” she announced from the doorway.

“Whom do you want?”

“Parfen Semionovitch.”

“He is not in.”

The old woman examined the prince from head to foot with great

curiosity.

“At all events tell me whether he slept at home last night, and whether

he came alone?”

The old woman continued to stare at him, but said nothing.

“Was not Nastasia Philipovna here with him, yesterday evening?”

“And, pray, who are you yourself?”

“Prince Lef Nicolaievitch Muishkin; he knows me well.”

“He is not at home.”

The woman lowered her eyes.

“And Nastasia Philipovna?”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Stop a minute! When will he come back?”

“I don’t know that either.”

The door was shut with these words, and the old woman disappeared. The

prince decided to come back within an hour. Passing out of the house,

he met the porter.

“Is Parfen Semionovitch at home?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why did they tell me he was not at home, then?”

“Where did they tell you so,—at his door?”

“No, at his mother’s flat; I rang at Parfen Semionovitch’s door and

nobody came.”

“Well, he may have gone out. I can’t tell. Sometimes he takes the keys

with him, and leaves the rooms empty for two or three days.”

“Do you know for certain that he was at home last night?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Was Nastasia Philipovna with him?”

“I don’t know; she doesn’t come often. I think I should have known if

she had come.”

The prince went out deep in thought, and walked up and down the

pavement for some time. The windows of all the rooms occupied by

Rogojin were closed, those of his mother’s apartments were open. It was

a hot, bright day. The prince crossed the road in order to have a good

look at the windows again; not only were Rogojin’s closed, but the

white blinds were all down as well.

He stood there for a minute and then, suddenly and strangely enough, it

seemed to him that a little corner of one of the blinds was lifted, and

Rogojin’s face appeared for an instant and then vanished. He waited

another minute, and decided to go and ring the bell once more; however,

he thought better of it again and put it off for an hour.

The chief object in his mind at this moment was to get as quickly as he

could to Nastasia Philipovna’s lodging. He remembered that, not long

since, when she had left Pavlofsk at his request, he had begged her to

put up in town at the house of a respectable widow, who had

well-furnished rooms to let, near the Ismailofsky barracks. Probably

Nastasia had kept the rooms when she came down to Pavlofsk this last

time; and most likely she would have spent the night in them, Rogojin

having taken her straight there from the station.

The prince took a droshky. It struck him as he drove on that he ought

to have begun by coming here, since it was most improbable that Rogojin

should have taken Nastasia to his own house last night. He remembered

that the porter said she very rarely came at all, so that it was still

less likely that she would have gone there so late at night.

Vainly trying to comfort himself with these reflections, the prince

reached the Ismailofsky barracks more dead than alive.

To his consternation the good people at the lodgings had not only heard

nothing of Nastasia, but all came out to look at him as if he were a

marvel of some sort. The whole family, of all ages, surrounded him, and

he was begged to enter. He guessed at once that they knew perfectly

well who he was, and that yesterday ought to have been his wedding-day;

and further that they were dying to ask about the wedding, and

especially about why he should be here now, inquiring for the woman who

in all reasonable human probability might have been expected to be with

him in Pavlofsk.

He satisfied their curiosity, in as few words as possible, with regard

to the wedding, but their exclamations and sighs were so numerous and

sincere that he was obliged to tell the whole story—in a short form, of

course. The advice of all these agitated ladies was that the prince

should go at once and knock at Rogojin’s until he was let in: and when

let in insist upon a substantial explanation of everything. If Rogojin

was really not at home, the prince was advised to go to a certain

house, the address of which was given, where lived a German lady, a

friend of Nastasia Philipovna’s. It was possible that she might have

spent the night there in her anxiety to conceal herself.

The prince rose from his seat in a condition of mental collapse. The

good ladies reported afterwards that “his pallor was terrible to see,

and his legs seemed to give way underneath him.” With difficulty he was

made to understand that his new friends would be glad of his address,

in order to act with him if possible. After a moment’s thought he gave

the address of the small hotel, on the stairs of which he had had a fit

some five weeks since. He then set off once more for Rogojin’s.

This time they neither opened the door at Rogojin’s flat nor at the one

opposite. The prince found the porter with difficulty, but when found,

the man would hardly look at him or answer his questions, pretending to

be busy. Eventually, however, he was persuaded to reply so far as to

state that Rogojin had left the house early in the morning and gone to

Pavlofsk, and that he would not return today at all.

“I shall wait; he may come back this evening.”

“He may not be home for a week.”

“Then, at all events, he _did_ sleep here, did he?”

“Well—he did sleep here, yes.”

All this was suspicious and unsatisfactory. Very likely the porter had

received new instructions during the interval of the prince’s absence;

his manner was so different now. He had been obliging—now he was as

obstinate and silent as a mule. However, the prince decided to call

again in a couple of hours, and after that to watch the house, in case

of need. His hope was that he might yet find Nastasia at the address

which he had just received. To that address he now set off at full

speed.

But alas! at the German lady’s house they did not even appear to

understand what he wanted. After a while, by means of certain hints, he

was able to gather that Nastasia must have had a quarrel with her

friend two or three weeks ago, since which date the latter had neither

heard nor seen anything of her. He was given to understand that the

subject of Nastasia’s present whereabouts was not of the slightest

interest to her; and that Nastasia might marry all the princes in the

world for all she cared! So Muishkin took his leave hurriedly. It

struck him now that she might have gone away to Moscow just as she had

done the last time, and that Rogojin had perhaps gone after her, or

even _with_ her. If only he could find some trace!

However, he must take his room at the hotel; and he started off in that

direction. Having engaged his room, he was asked by the waiter whether

he would take dinner; replying mechanically in the affirmative, he sat

down and waited; but it was not long before it struck him that dining

would delay him. Enraged at this idea, he started up, crossed the dark

passage (which filled him with horrible impressions and gloomy

forebodings), and set out once more for Rogojin’s. Rogojin had not

returned, and no one came to the door. He rang at the old lady’s door

opposite, and was informed that Parfen Semionovitch would not return

for three days. The curiosity with which the old servant stared at him

again impressed the prince disagreeably. He could not find the porter

this time at all.

As before, he crossed the street and watched the windows from the other

side, walking up and down in anguish of soul for half an hour or so in

the stifling heat. Nothing stirred; the blinds were motionless; indeed,

the prince began to think that the apparition of Rogojin’s face could

have been nothing but fancy. Soothed by this thought, he drove off once

more to his friends at the Ismailofsky barracks. He was expected there.

The mother had already been to three or four places to look for

Nastasia, but had not found a trace of any kind.

The prince said nothing, but entered the room, sat down silently, and

stared at them, one after the other, with the air of a man who cannot

understand what is being said to him. It was strange—one moment he

seemed to be so observant, the next so absent; his behaviour struck all

the family as most remarkable. At length he rose from his seat, and

begged to be shown Nastasia’s rooms. The ladies reported afterwards how

he had examined everything in the apartments. He observed an open book

on the table, Madam Bovary, and requested the leave of the lady of the

house to take it with him. He had turned down the leaf at the open

page, and pocketed it before they could explain that it was a library

book. He had then seated himself by the open window, and seeing a

card-table, he asked who played cards.

He was informed that Nastasia used to play with Rogojin every evening,

either at “preference” or “little fool,” or “whist”; that this had been

their practice since her last return from Pavlofsk; that she had taken

to this amusement because she did not like to see Rogojin sitting

silent and dull for whole evenings at a time; that the day after

Nastasia had made a remark to this effect, Rogojin had whipped a pack

of cards out of his pocket. Nastasia had laughed, but soon they began

playing. The prince asked where were the cards, but was told that

Rogojin used to bring a new pack every day, and always carried it away

in his pocket.

The good ladies recommended the prince to try knocking at Rogojin’s

once more—not at once, but in the evening. Meanwhile, the mother would

go to Pavlofsk to inquire at Dana Alexeyevna’s whether anything had

been heard of Nastasia there. The prince was to come back at ten

o’clock and meet her, to hear her news and arrange plans for the

morrow.

In spite of the kindly-meant consolations of his new friends, the

prince walked to his hotel in inexpressible anguish of spirit, through

the hot, dusty streets, aimlessly staring at the faces of those who

passed him. Arrived at his destination, he determined to rest awhile in

his room before he started for Rogojin’s once more. He sat down, rested

his elbows on the table and his head on his hands, and fell to

thinking.

Heaven knows how long and upon what subjects he thought. He thought of

many things—of Vera Lebedeff, and of her father; of Hippolyte; of

Rogojin himself, first at the funeral, then as he had met him in the

park, then, suddenly, as they had met in this very passage, outside,

when Rogojin had watched in the darkness and awaited him with uplifted

knife. The prince remembered his enemy’s eyes as they had glared at him

in the darkness. He shuddered, as a sudden idea struck him.

This idea was, that if Rogojin were in Petersburg, though he might hide

for a time, yet he was quite sure to come to him—the prince—before

long, with either good or evil intentions, but probably with the same

intention as on that other occasion. At all events, if Rogojin were to

come at all he would be sure to seek the prince here—he had no other

town address—perhaps in this same corridor; he might well seek him here

if he needed him. And perhaps he did need him. This idea seemed quite

natural to the prince, though he could not have explained why he should

so suddenly have become necessary to Rogojin. Rogojin would not come if

all were well with him, that was part of the thought; he would come if

all were not well; and certainly, undoubtedly, all would not be well

with him. The prince could not bear this new idea; he took his hat and

rushed out towards the street. It was almost dark in the passage.

“What if he were to come out of that corner as I go by and—and stop

me?” thought the prince, as he approached the familiar spot. But no one

came out.

He passed under the gateway and into the street. The crowds of people

walking about—as is always the case at sunset in Petersburg, during the

summer—surprised him, but he walked on in the direction of Rogojin’s

house.

About fifty yards from the hotel, at the first cross-road, as he passed

through the crowd of foot-passengers sauntering along, someone touched

his shoulder, and said in a whisper into his ear:

“Lef Nicolaievitch, my friend, come along with me.” It was Rogojin.

The prince immediately began to tell him, eagerly and joyfully, how he

had but the moment before expected to see him in the dark passage of

the hotel.

“I was there,” said Rogojin, unexpectedly. “Come along.” The prince was

surprised at this answer; but his astonishment increased a couple of

minutes afterwards, when he began to consider it. Having thought it

over, he glanced at Rogojin in alarm. The latter was striding along a

yard or so ahead, looking straight in front of him, and mechanically

making way for anyone he met.

“Why did you not ask for me at my room if you were in the hotel?” asked

the prince, suddenly.

Rogojin stopped and looked at him; then reflected, and replied as

though he had not heard the question:

“Look here, Lef Nicolaievitch, you go straight on to the house; I shall

walk on the other side. See that we keep together.”

So saying, Rogojin crossed the road.

Arrived on the opposite pavement, he looked back to see whether the

prince were moving, waved his hand in the direction of the Gorohovaya,

and strode on, looking across every moment to see whether Muishkin

understood his instructions. The prince supposed that Rogojin desired

to look out for someone whom he was afraid to miss; but if so, why had

he not told _him_ whom to look out for? So the two proceeded for half a

mile or so. Suddenly the prince began to tremble from some unknown

cause. He could not bear it, and signalled to Rogojin across the road.

The latter came at once.

“Is Nastasia Philipovna at your house?”

“Yes.”

“And was it you looked out of the window under the blind this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did—”

But the prince could not finish his question; he did not know what to

say. Besides this, his heart was beating so that he found it difficult

to speak at all. Rogojin was silent also and looked at him as before,

with an expression of deep thoughtfulness.

“Well, I’m going,” he said, at last, preparing to recross the road.

“You go along here as before; we will keep to different sides of the

road; it’s better so, you’ll see.”

When they reached the Gorohovaya, and came near the house, the prince’s

legs were trembling so that he could hardly walk. It was about ten

o’clock. The old lady’s windows were open, as before; Rogojin’s were

all shut, and in the darkness the white blinds showed whiter than ever.

Rogojin and the prince each approached the house on his respective side

of the road; Rogojin, who was on the near side, beckoned the prince

across. He went over to the doorway.

“Even the porter does not know that I have come home now. I told him,

and told them at my mother’s too, that I was off to Pavlofsk,” said

Rogojin, with a cunning and almost satisfied smile. “We’ll go in

quietly and nobody will hear us.”

He had the key in his hand. Mounting the staircase he turned and

signalled to the prince to go more softly; he opened the door very

quietly, let the prince in, followed him, locked the door behind him,

and put the key in his pocket.

“Come along,” he whispered.

He had spoken in a whisper all the way. In spite of his apparent

outward composure, he was evidently in a state of great mental

agitation. Arrived in a large salon, next to the study, he went to the

window and cautiously beckoned the prince up to him.

“When you rang the bell this morning I thought it must be you. I went

to the door on tip-toe and heard you talking to the servant opposite. I

had told her before that if anyone came and rang—especially you, and I

gave her your name—she was not to tell about me. Then I thought, what

if he goes and stands opposite and looks up, or waits about to watch

the house? So I came to this very window, looked out, and there you

were staring straight at me. That’s how it came about.”

“Where is Nastasia Philipovna?” asked the prince, breathlessly.

“She’s here,” replied Rogojin, slowly, after a slight pause.

“Where?”

Rogojin raised his eyes and gazed intently at the prince.

“Come,” he said.

He continued to speak in a whisper, very deliberately as before, and

looked strangely thoughtful and dreamy. Even while he told the story of

how he had peeped through the blind, he gave the impression of wishing

to say something else. They entered the study. In this room some

changes had taken place since the prince last saw it. It was now

divided into two equal parts by a heavy green silk curtain stretched

across it, separating the alcove beyond, where stood Rogojin’s bed,

from the rest of the room.

The heavy curtain was drawn now, and it was very dark. The bright

Petersburg summer nights were already beginning to close in, and but

for the full moon, it would have been difficult to distinguish anything

in Rogojin’s dismal room, with the drawn blinds. They could just see

one anothers faces, however, though not in detail. Rogojin’s face was

white, as usual. His glittering eyes watched the prince with an intent

stare.

“Had you not better light a candle?” said Muishkin.

“No, I needn’t,” replied Rogojin, and taking the other by the hand he

drew him down to a chair. He himself took a chair opposite and drew it

up so close that he almost pressed against the prince’s knees. At their

side was a little round table.

“Sit down,” said Rogojin; “let’s rest a bit.” There was silence for a

moment.

“I knew you would be at that hotel,” he continued, just as men

sometimes commence a serious conversation by discussing any outside

subject before leading up to the main point. “As I entered the passage

it struck me that perhaps you were sitting and waiting for me, just as

I was waiting for you. Have you been to the old lady at Ismailofsky

barracks?”

“Yes,” said the prince, squeezing the word out with difficulty owing to

the dreadful beating of his heart.

“I thought you would. ‘They’ll talk about it,’ I thought; so I

determined to go and fetch you to spend the night here—‘We will be

together,’ I thought, ‘for this one night—’”

“Rogojin, _where_ is Nastasia Philipovna?” said the prince, suddenly

rising from his seat. He was quaking in all his limbs, and his words

came in a scarcely audible whisper. Rogojin rose also.

“There,” he whispered, nodding his head towards the curtain.

“Asleep?” whispered the prince.

Rogojin looked intently at him again, as before.

“Let’s go in—but you mustn’t—well—let’s go in.”

He lifted the curtain, paused—and turned to the prince. “Go in,” he

said, motioning him to pass behind the curtain. Muishkin went in.

“It’s so dark,” he said.

“You can see quite enough,” muttered Rogojin.

“I can just see there’s a bed—”

“Go nearer,” suggested Rogojin, softly.

The prince took a step forward—then another—and paused. He stood and

stared for a minute or two.

Neither of the men spoke a word while at the bedside. The prince’s

heart beat so loud that its knocking seemed to be distinctly audible in

the deathly silence.

But now his eyes had become so far accustomed to the darkness that he

could distinguish the whole of the bed. Someone was asleep upon it—in

an absolutely motionless sleep. Not the slightest movement was

perceptible, not the faintest breathing could be heard. The sleeper was

covered with a white sheet; the outline of the limbs was hardly

distinguishable. He could only just make out that a human being lay

outstretched there.

All around, on the bed, on a chair beside it, on the floor, were

scattered the different portions of a magnificent white silk dress,

bits of lace, ribbons and flowers. On a small table at the bedside

glittered a mass of diamonds, torn off and thrown down anyhow. From

under a heap of lace at the end of the bed peeped a small white foot,

which looked as though it had been chiselled out of marble; it was

terribly still.

The prince gazed and gazed, and felt that the more he gazed the more

death-like became the silence. Suddenly a fly awoke somewhere, buzzed

across the room, and settled on the pillow. The prince shuddered.

“Let’s go,” said Rogojin, touching his shoulder. They left the alcove

and sat down in the two chairs they had occupied before, opposite to

one another. The prince trembled more and more violently, and never

took his questioning eyes off Rogojin’s face.

“I see you are shuddering, Lef Nicolaievitch,” said the latter, at

length, “almost as you did once in Moscow, before your fit; don’t you

remember? I don’t know what I shall do with you—”

The prince bent forward to listen, putting all the strain he could

muster upon his understanding in order to take in what Rogojin said,

and continuing to gaze at the latter’s face.

“Was it you?” he muttered, at last, motioning with his head towards the

curtain.

“Yes, it was I,” whispered Rogojin, looking down.

Neither spoke for five minutes.

“Because, you know,” Rogojin recommenced, as though continuing a former

sentence, “if you were ill now, or had a fit, or screamed, or anything,

they might hear it in the yard, or even in the street, and guess that

someone was passing the night in the house. They would all come and

knock and want to come in, because they know I am not at home. I didn’t

light a candle for the same reason. When I am not here—for two or three

days at a time, now and then—no one comes in to tidy the house or

anything; those are my orders. So that I want them to not know we are

spending the night here—”

“Wait,” interrupted the prince. “I asked both the porter and the woman

whether Nastasia Philipovna had spent last night in the house; so they

knew—”

“I know you asked. I told them that she had called in for ten minutes,

and then gone straight back to Pavlofsk. No one knows she slept here.

Last night we came in just as carefully as you and I did today. I

thought as I came along with her that she would not like to creep in so

secretly, but I was quite wrong. She whispered, and walked on tip-toe;

she carried her skirt over her arm, so that it shouldn’t rustle, and

she held up her finger at me on the stairs, so that I shouldn’t make a

noise—it was you she was afraid of. She was mad with terror in the

train, and she begged me to bring her to this house. I thought of

taking her to her rooms at the Ismailofsky barracks first; but she

wouldn’t hear of it. She said, ‘No—not there; he’ll find me out at once

there. Take me to your own house, where you can hide me, and tomorrow

we’ll set off for Moscow.’ Thence she would go to Orel, she said. When

she went to bed, she was still talking about going to Orel.”

“Wait! What do you intend to do now, Parfen?”

“Well, I’m afraid of you. You shudder and tremble so. We’ll pass the

night here together. There are no other beds besides that one; but I’ve

thought how we’ll manage. I’ll take the cushions off all the sofas, and

lay them down on the floor, up against the curtain here—for you and

me—so that we shall be together. For if they come in and look about

now, you know, they’ll find her, and carry her away, and they’ll be

asking me questions, and I shall say I did it, and then they’ll take me

away, too, don’t you see? So let her lie close to us—close to you and

me.”

“Yes, yes,” agreed the prince, warmly.

“So we will not say anything about it, or let them take her away?”

“Not for anything!” cried the other; “no, no, no!”

“So I had decided, my friend; not to give her up to anyone,” continued

Rogojin. “We’ll be very quiet. I have only been out of the house one

hour all day, all the rest of the time I have been with her. I dare say

the air is very bad here. It is so hot. Do you find it bad?”

“I don’t know—perhaps—by morning it will be.”

“I’ve covered her with oilcloth—best American oilcloth, and put the

sheet over that, and four jars of disinfectant, on account of the

smell—as they did at Moscow—you remember? And she’s lying so still; you

shall see, in the morning, when it’s light. What! can’t you get up?”

asked Rogojin, seeing the other was trembling so that he could not rise

from his seat.

“My legs won’t move,” said the prince; “it’s fear, I know. When my fear

is over, I’ll get up—”

“Wait a bit—I’ll make the bed, and you can lie down. I’ll lie down,

too, and we’ll listen and watch, for I don’t know yet what I shall

do... I tell you beforehand, so that you may be ready in case I—”

Muttering these disconnected words, Rogojin began to make up the beds.

It was clear that he had devised these beds long before; last night he

slept on the sofa. But there was no room for two on the sofa, and he

seemed anxious that he and the prince should be close to one another;

therefore, he now dragged cushions of all sizes and shapes from the

sofas, and made a sort of bed of them close by the curtain. He then

approached the prince, and gently helped him to rise, and led him

towards the bed. But the prince could now walk by himself, so that his

fear must have passed; for all that, however, he continued to shudder.

“It’s hot weather, you see,” continued Rogojin, as he lay down on the

cushions beside Muishkin, “and, naturally, there will be a smell. I

daren’t open the window. My mother has some beautiful flowers in pots;

they have a delicious scent; I thought of fetching them in, but that

old servant will find out, she’s very inquisitive.”

“Yes, she is inquisitive,” assented the prince.

“I thought of buying flowers, and putting them all round her; but I was

afraid it would make us sad to see her with flowers round her.”

“Look here,” said the prince; he was bewildered, and his brain

wandered. He seemed to be continually groping for the questions he

wished to ask, and then losing them. “Listen—tell me—how did you—with a

knife?—That same one?”

“Yes, that same one.”

“Wait a minute, I want to ask you something else, Parfen; all sorts of

things; but tell me first, did you intend to kill her before my

wedding, at the church door, with your knife?”

“I don’t know whether I did or not,” said Rogojin, drily, seeming to be

a little astonished at the question, and not quite taking it in.

“Did you never take your knife to Pavlofsk with you?”

“No. As to the knife,” he added, “this is all I can tell you about it.”

He was silent for a moment, and then said, “I took it out of the locked

drawer this morning about three, for it was in the early morning all

this—happened. It has been inside the book ever since—and—and—this is

what is such a marvel to me, the knife only went in a couple of inches

at most, just under her left breast, and there wasn’t more than half a

tablespoonful of blood altogether, not more.”

“Yes—yes—yes—” The prince jumped up in extraordinary agitation. “I

know, I know, I’ve read of that sort of thing—it’s internal

haemorrhage, you know. Sometimes there isn’t a drop—if the blow goes

straight to the heart—”

“Wait—listen!” cried Rogojin, suddenly, starting up. “Somebody’s

walking about, do you hear? In the hall.” Both sat up to listen.

“I hear,” said the prince in a whisper, his eyes fixed on Rogojin.

“Footsteps?”

“Yes.”

“Shall we shut the door, and lock it, or not?”

“Yes, lock it.”

They locked the door, and both lay down again. There was a long

silence.

“Yes, by-the-by,” whispered the prince, hurriedly and excitedly as

before, as though he had just seized hold of an idea and was afraid of

losing it again. “I—I wanted those cards! They say you played cards

with her?”

“Yes, I played with her,” said Rogojin, after a short silence.

“Where are the cards?”

“Here they are,” said Rogojin, after a still longer pause.

He pulled out a pack of cards, wrapped in a bit of paper, from his

pocket, and handed them to the prince. The latter took them, with a

sort of perplexity. A new, sad, helpless feeling weighed on his heart;

he had suddenly realized that not only at this moment, but for a long

while, he had not been saying what he wanted to say, had not been

acting as he wanted to act; and that these cards which he held in his

hand, and which he had been so delighted to have at first, were now of

no use—no use... He rose, and wrung his hands. Rogojin lay motionless,

and seemed neither to hear nor see his movements; but his eyes blazed

in the darkness, and were fixed in a wild stare.

The prince sat down on a chair, and watched him in alarm. Half an hour

went by.

Suddenly Rogojin burst into a loud abrupt laugh, as though he had quite

forgotten that they must speak in whispers.

“That officer, eh!—that young officer—don’t you remember that fellow at

the band? Eh? Ha, ha, ha! Didn’t she whip him smartly, eh?”

The prince jumped up from his seat in renewed terror. When Rogojin

quieted down (which he did at once) the prince bent over him, sat down

beside him, and with painfully beating heart and still more painful

breath, watched his face intently. Rogojin never turned his head, and

seemed to have forgotten all about him. The prince watched and waited.

Time went on—it began to grow light.

Rogojin began to wander—muttering disconnectedly; then he took to

shouting and laughing. The prince stretched out a trembling hand and

gently stroked his hair and his cheeks—he could do nothing more. His

legs trembled again and he seemed to have lost the use of them. A new

sensation came over him, filling his heart and soul with infinite

anguish.

Meanwhile the daylight grew full and strong; and at last the prince lay

down, as though overcome by despair, and laid his face against the

white, motionless face of Rogojin. His tears flowed on to Rogojin’s

cheek, though he was perhaps not aware of them himself.

At all events when, after many hours, the door was opened and people

thronged in, they found the murderer unconscious and in a raging fever.

The prince was sitting by him, motionless, and each time that the sick

man gave a laugh, or a shout, he hastened to pass his own trembling

hand over his companion’s hair and cheeks, as though trying to soothe

and quiet him. But alas! he understood nothing of what was said to him,

and recognized none of those who surrounded him.

If Schneider himself had arrived then and seen his former pupil and

patient, remembering the prince’s condition during the first year in

Switzerland, he would have flung up his hands, despairingly, and cried,

as he did then:

“An idiot!”

XII.

When the widow hurried away to Pavlofsk, she went straight to Daria

Alexeyevna’s house, and telling all she knew, threw her into a state of

great alarm. Both ladies decided to communicate at once with Lebedeff,

who, as the friend and landlord of the prince, was also much agitated.

Vera Lebedeff told all she knew, and by Lebedeff’s advice it was

decided that all three should go to Petersburg as quickly as possible,

in order to avert “what might so easily happen.”

This is how it came about that at eleven o’clock next morning Rogojin’s

flat was opened by the police in the presence of Lebedeff, the two

ladies, and Rogojin’s own brother, who lived in the wing.

The evidence of the porter went further than anything else towards the

success of Lebedeff in gaining the assistance of the police. He

declared that he had seen Rogojin return to the house last night,

accompanied by a friend, and that both had gone upstairs very secretly

and cautiously. After this there was no hesitation about breaking open

the door, since it could not be got open in any other way.

Rogojin suffered from brain fever for two months. When he recovered

from the attack he was at once brought up on trial for murder.

He gave full, satisfactory, and direct evidence on every point; and the

prince’s name was, thanks to this, not brought into the proceedings.

Rogojin was very quiet during the progress of the trial. He did not

contradict his clever and eloquent counsel, who argued that the brain

fever, or inflammation of the brain, was the cause of the crime;

clearly proving that this malady had existed long before the murder was

perpetrated, and had been brought on by the sufferings of the accused.

But Rogojin added no words of his own in confirmation of this view, and

as before, he recounted with marvellous exactness the details of his

crime. He was convicted, but with extenuating circumstances, and

condemned to hard labour in Siberia for fifteen years. He heard his

sentence grimly, silently, and thoughtfully. His colossal fortune, with

the exception of the comparatively small portion wasted in the first

wanton period of his inheritance, went to his brother, to the great

satisfaction of the latter.

The old lady, Rogojin’s mother, is still alive, and remembers her

favourite son Parfen sometimes, but not clearly. God spared her the

knowledge of this dreadful calamity which had overtaken her house.

Lebedeff, Keller, Gania, Ptitsin, and many other friends of ours

continue to live as before. There is scarcely any change in them, so

that there is no need to tell of their subsequent doings.

Hippolyte died in great agitation, and rather sooner than he expected,

about a fortnight after Nastasia Philipovna’s death. Colia was much

affected by these events, and drew nearer to his mother in heart and

sympathy. Nina Alexandrovna is anxious, because he is “thoughtful

beyond his years,” but he will, we think, make a useful and active man.

The prince’s further fate was more or less decided by Colia, who

selected, out of all the persons he had met during the last six or

seven months, Evgenie Pavlovitch, as friend and confidant. To him he

made over all that he knew as to the events above recorded, and as to

the present condition of the prince. He was not far wrong in his

choice. Evgenie Pavlovitch took the deepest interest in the fate of the

unfortunate “idiot,” and, thanks to his influence, the prince found

himself once more with Dr. Schneider, in Switzerland.

Evgenie Pavlovitch, who went abroad at this time, intending to live a

long while on the continent, being, as he often said, quite superfluous

in Russia, visits his sick friend at Schneider’s every few months.

But Dr. Schneider frowns ever more and more and shakes his head; he

hints that the brain is fatally injured; he does not as yet declare

that his patient is incurable, but he allows himself to express the

gravest fears.

Evgenie takes this much to heart, and he has a heart, as is proved by

the fact that he receives and even answers letters from Colia. But

besides this, another trait in his character has become apparent, and

as it is a good trait we will make haste to reveal it. After each visit

to Schneider’s establishment, Evgenie Pavlovitch writes another letter,

besides that to Colia, giving the most minute particulars concerning

the invalid’s condition. In these letters is to be detected, and in

each one more than the last, a growing feeling of friendship and

sympathy.

The individual who corresponds thus with Evgenie Pavlovitch, and who

engages so much of his attention and respect, is Vera Lebedeff. We have

never been able to discover clearly how such relations sprang up. Of

course the root of them was in the events which we have already

recorded, and which so filled Vera with grief on the prince’s account

that she fell seriously ill. But exactly how the acquaintance and

friendship came about, we cannot say.

We have spoken of these letters chiefly because in them is often to be

found some news of the Epanchin family, and of Aglaya in particular.

Evgenie Pavlovitch wrote of her from Paris, that after a short and

sudden attachment to a certain Polish count, an exile, she had suddenly

married him, quite against the wishes of her parents, though they had

eventually given their consent through fear of a terrible scandal.

Then, after a six months’ silence, Evgenie Pavlovitch informed his

correspondent, in a long letter, full of detail, that while paying his

last visit to Dr. Schneider’s establishment, he had there come across

the whole Epanchin family (excepting the general, who had remained in

St. Petersburg) and Prince S. The meeting was a strange one. They all

received Evgenie Pavlovitch with effusive delight; Adelaida and

Alexandra were deeply grateful to him for his “angelic kindness to the

unhappy prince.”

Lizabetha Prokofievna, when she saw poor Muishkin, in his enfeebled and

humiliated condition, had wept bitterly. Apparently all was forgiven

him.

Prince S. had made a few just and sensible remarks. It seemed to

Evgenie Pavlovitch that there was not yet perfect harmony between

Adelaida and her fiance, but he thought that in time the impulsive

young girl would let herself be guided by his reason and experience.

Besides, the recent events that had befallen her family had given

Adelaida much to think about, especially the sad experiences of her

younger sister. Within six months, everything that the family had

dreaded from the marriage with the Polish count had come to pass. He

turned out to be neither count nor exile—at least, in the political

sense of the word—but had had to leave his native land owing to some

rather dubious affair of the past. It was his noble patriotism, of

which he made a great display, that had rendered him so interesting in

Aglaya’s eyes. She was so fascinated that, even before marrying him,

she joined a committee that had been organized abroad to work for the

restoration of Poland; and further, she visited the confessional of a

celebrated Jesuit priest, who made an absolute fanatic of her. The

supposed fortune of the count had dwindled to a mere nothing, although

he had given almost irrefutable evidence of its existence to Lizabetha

Prokofievna and Prince S.

Besides this, before they had been married half a year, the count and

his friend the priest managed to bring about a quarrel between Aglaya

and her family, so that it was now several months since they had seen

her. In a word, there was a great deal to say; but Mrs. Epanchin, and

her daughters, and even Prince S., were still so much distressed by

Aglaya’s latest infatuations and adventures, that they did not care to

talk of them, though they must have known that Evgenie knew much of the

story already.

Poor Lizabetha Prokofievna was most anxious to get home, and, according

to Evgenie’s account, she criticized everything foreign with much

hostility.

“They can’t bake bread anywhere, decently; and they all freeze in their

houses, during winter, like a lot of mice in a cellar. At all events,

I’ve had a good Russian cry over this poor fellow,” she added, pointing

to the prince, who had not recognized her in the slightest degree. “So

enough of this nonsense; it’s time we faced the truth. All this

continental life, all this Europe of yours, and all the trash about

‘going abroad’ is simply foolery, and it is mere foolery on our part to

come. Remember what I say, my friend; you’ll live to agree with me

yourself.”

So spoke the good lady, almost angrily, as she took leave of Evgenie

Pavlovitch.