The Idiot

There was a moment, at the end of this long and tormenting way from the Petersburg side, when an irrepressible desire suddenly took hold of the prince—to go right then to Rogozhin's, to wait for him, to embrace him with shame, with tears, to tell him everything and be done with it all at once. But he was already standing by his hotel . . . How he had disliked this hotel earlier—the corridors, the whole building, his room—disliked them at first sight; several times that day he had remembered with a sort of special revulsion that he would have to go back there . . . "How is it that, like an ailing woman, I believe in every foreboding today!" he thought with irritable mockery, stopping at the gate. A new, unbearable surge of shame, almost despair, riveted him to the spot, at the very entrance to the gateway. He stopped for a moment. This sometimes happens with people: unbearable, unexpected memories, especially in connection with shame, ordinarily stop one on the spot for a moment. "Yes, I'm a man without heart and a coward!" he repeated gloomily, and impulsively started walking, but . . . stopped again . . .

In this gateway, which was dark to begin with, it was at that moment very dark: the storm cloud came over, swallowing up the evening light, and just as the prince was nearing the house, the cloud suddenly opened and poured down rain. And at the moment when he set off impulsively, after a momentary pause, he was right at the opening of the gateway, right at the entrance to it from the street. And suddenly, in the depths of the gateway, in the semidarkness, just by the door to the stairs, he saw a man. This man seemed to be waiting for something, but flashed quickly and vanished. The prince could not make the man out clearly and, of

course, could not tell for certain who he was. Besides, so many people might pass through there. It was a hotel, and there was a constant walking and running up and down the corridors. But he suddenly felt the fullest and most irrefutable conviction that he had recognized the man and that the man was most certainly Rogozhin. A moment later the prince rushed after him into the stairway. His heart stood still. "Now everything will be resolved!" he said to himself with great conviction.

The stairs which the prince ran up from under the gateway led to the corridors of the first and second floors, on which the hotel rooms were located. This stairway, as in all houses built long ago, was of stone, dark, narrow, and winding around a thick stone pillar. On the first landing, this pillar turned out to have a depression in it, like a niche, no more than one pace wide and a half-pace deep. There was, however, room enough for a man. Having run up to the landing, the prince, despite the darkness, made out at once that a man was for some reason hiding there, in that niche. The prince suddenly wanted to walk past and not look to the right. He had already gone one step, but could not help himself and turned.

Today's two eyes, the same ones, suddenly met his gaze. The man hiding in the niche also had time to take one step out of it. For a second the two stood face to face, almost touching. Suddenly the prince seized him by the shoulders and turned back to the stairs, closer to the light: he wanted to see the face more clearly.

Rogozhin's eyes flashed and a furious smile distorted his face. His right hand rose, and something gleamed in it; the prince did not even think of stopping him. He remembered only that he seemed to have cried out:

"Parfyon, I don't believe it! . . ."

Then suddenly it was as if something opened up before him: an extraordinary inner light illumined his soul. This moment lasted perhaps half a second; but he nevertheless remembered clearly and consciously the beginning, the very first sound of his terrible scream, which burst from his breast of itself and which no force would have enabled him to stop. Then his consciousness instantly went out, and there was total darkness.

He had had a fit of epilepsy, which had left him very long ago. It is known that these fits, falling fits properly speaking, come instantaneously. In these moments the face, especially the eyes, suddenly become extremely distorted. Convulsions and spasms seize the whole body and all the features of the face. A dreadful,

unimaginable scream, unlike anything, bursts from the breast; everything human suddenly disappears, as it were, in this scream, and it is quite impossible, or at least very difficult, for the observer to imagine and allow that this is the man himself screaming. It may even seem as if someone else were screaming from inside the man. At least many people have explained their impression that way, and there are many whom the sight of a man in a falling fit fills with a decided and unbearable terror, which even has something mystical in it. It must be supposed that this impression of unexpected terror, in conjunction with all the other dreadful impressions of that moment, suddenly made Rogozhin freeze on the spot and thereby saved the prince from the inevitable blow of the knife that was already coming down on him. Then, before he had time to realize that this was a fit, and seeing the prince recoil from him and suddenly fall backwards, right down the stairs, striking the back of his head hard against the stone step, Rogozhin rushed headlong down the stairs, skirted the fallen man, and, nearly beside himself, ran out of the hotel.

With convulsions, thrashing, and spasms, the sick man's body went down the steps, no more than fifteen in number, to the foot of the stairway. Very soon, in no more than five minutes, the fallen man was noticed, and a crowd gathered. A whole pool of blood by his head caused perplexity: had the man hurt himself, or "had there been foul play?" Soon, however, some of them recognized it as the falling sickness; one of the hotel servants identified the prince as a new guest. The commotion was finally resolved quite happily, owing to a happy circumstance.

Kolya Ivolgin, who had promised to be at the Scales by four o'clock and had gone to Pavlovsk instead, had declined to "dine" with Mrs. Epanchin, owing to a certain unexpected consideration, and had returned to Petersburg and hastened to the Scales, where he arrived at around seven o'clock in the evening. Learning from the message left for him that the prince was in town, he rushed to him at the address given in the message. Informed at the hotel that the prince had gone out, he went downstairs to the buffet room and began to wait, drinking tea and listening to the barrel organ. Happening to hear that someone had had a fit, he ran to the place, following a correct premonition, and recognized the prince. All necessary measures were taken at once. The prince was transported to his room; though he came to his senses, it took him a rather long time to fully recover consciousness. The doctor called

in to examine his injured head gave him a lotion and announced that the bruises were not dangerous in the least. When, an hour later, the prince began to understand his surroundings well enough, Kolya brought him in a carriage from the hotel to Lebedev's. Lebedev received the sick man with extraordinary warmth and many bows. For his sake he also hastened the move to the dacha: three days later they were all in Pavlovsk.

VI

Lebedev's dacha was not large, but it was comfortable and even beautiful. The part meant to be rented out had been specially decorated. On the terrace,²⁶ a rather spacious one, between the street entrance and the rooms inside, stood several bitter orange, lemon, and jasmine trees in big green wooden tubs, which amounted, by Lebedev's reckoning, to a most enchanting look. He had acquired some of these trees along with the dacha, and he was so charmed by the effect they produced on the terrace that he decided, when the chance came, to complete the set by purchasing more of the same trees in tubs at an auction. When all the trees were finally transported to the dacha and put in place, Lebedev several times that day ran down the steps of the terrace to the street and admired his domain from there, each time mentally increasing the sum he proposed to ask from his future tenant. Weakened, anguished, and physically shattered, the prince liked the dacha very much. Incidentally, on the day of the move to Pavlovsk, that is, on the third day after his fit, the prince already had the outward look of an almost healthy man, though he felt that he had still not recovered inwardly. He was glad of everyone he saw around him during those three days, glad of Kolya, who hardly ever left his side, glad of Lebedev's whole family (minus the nephew, who had disappeared somewhere), glad of Lebedev himself; he was even pleased to receive General Ivolgin, who had visited him still in the city. On the day of the move, which took place in the evening, quite a few guests gathered around him on the terrace: first came Ganya, whom the prince barely recognized— he had changed so much and grown so thin in all that time. Then Varya and Ptitsyn appeared, who also had a dacha in Pavlovsk. As for General Ivolgin, he was at Lebedev's almost uninterruptedly, and had probably even moved along with him. Lebedev tried to

keep him away from the prince and near himself; he treated him in a comradely way; evidently they had long been acquainted. The prince noticed that during those three days they sometimes got into long conversations with each other, often shouted and argued, it seemed, even about learned subjects, which evidently gave Lebedev pleasure. One might even have thought that he needed the general. Yet with regard to the prince, he took the same precautions with his own family as with the general, once they had moved to the dacha: he allowed no one to go near the prince, under the pretext of not disturbing him, stamped his feet, ran in pursuit of his daughters, not excepting Vera and the baby, at the first suspicion that they had gone out to the terrace where the prince was, despite all the prince's requests not to chase anyone away.

"First, there won't be any respectfulness if I spoil them like that; and second, it's even improper for them . . ." he finally explained, to the prince's direct question.

"But why?" the prince exhorted him. "You really torment me by all this watching and guarding. I'm bored being alone, I've told you several times, and you weary me still more with all this ceaseless arm-waving and tiptoeing about."

The prince was hinting at the fact that Lebedev, though he chased everyone in the house away from him, under the guise of preserving the peace necessary for the sick man, kept going into the prince's room himself almost every moment during all those three days, and each time would first open the door, put his head in, look around the room as if making sure that he was there, that he had not escaped, and only then, on tiptoe, with slow and stealthy steps, would approach his armchair, so that on occasion he unintentionally frightened his tenant. He ceaselessly inquired whether he needed anything, and when the prince finally began asking to be left alone, Lebedev would turn obediently and silently, make his way on tiptoe back to the door, waving his arms all the while, as if to let him know that it was just so, that he would not say a word, and that here he was going out, and he would not come back, and yet, in ten minutes or at the most a quarter of an hour, he would come back. Kolya, who had free access to the prince, thereby provoked the deepest distress and even wounded indignation in Lebedev. Kolya noticed that Lebedev spent as much as half an hour by the door, eavesdropping on what he and the prince were talking about, of which he naturally informed the prince.

"It's as if you've appropriated me, the way you keep me under

lock and key," the prince protested. "At least at the dacha, I want it to be otherwise, and rest assured that I will receive whomever I like and go wherever I like."

"Without the slightest doubt," Lebedev waved his arms.

The prince looked him up and down intently.

"And tell me, Lukyan Timofeevich, that little cupboard of yours, which you had hanging over the head of your bed, did you bring it here?"

"No, I didn't."

"Can you have left it there?"

"It was impossible to take it without tearing it from the wall. . . It's firmly, firmly attached."

"Perhaps there's one like it here?"

"Even better, even better, that's why I bought this dacha."

"Ahh. And who was it you wouldn't let see me? An hour ago?"

"That . . . that was the general, sir. I actually did prevent him, and he's not fitting for you. I deeply respect the man, Prince; he . . . he's a great man, sir; you don't believe me? Well, you'll see, but all the same ... it would be better, illustrious Prince, if you didn't receive him."

"But why so, may I ask? And why are you standing on tiptoe now, Lebedev, and always approaching me as if you're about to whisper some secret in my ear?"

"I'm mean, mean, I feel it," Lebedev answered unexpectedly, beating his breast with feeling. "But won't the general be too hospitable for you, sir?"

"Be too hospitable?"

"Hospitable, sir. First of all, he's already planning to live in my house; that's all right, sir, but he's enthusiastic, wants straight off to be like family. We've tried several times to figure out our relation, it turns out we're in-laws. You also turn out to be his nephew twice removed on his wife's side, he explained it to me yesterday. If you're his nephew, it means, illustrious Prince, that you and I are related. Never mind that, sir, it's a small weakness, but then he assured me that every day of his life, from when he became a lieutenant through the eleventh of June last year, he had never had less than two hundred persons sitting at his table. It finally went so far that they never got up, so that they had dinner, and supper, and tea fifteen hours a day for thirty years, without the slightest break, with barely time to change the tablecloth. One gets up and leaves, another comes, and on feast days and imperial birthdays the

number of guests rose to three hundred. And on the millennium of Russia,²⁷ he counted seven hundred people. It's awful, sir; such stories—it's a very bad sign, sir; to receive such hospitable people is even frightening, and I thought: won't such a man be too hospitable for you and me?"

"But you seem to be on very good terms with him."

"In a brotherly way, and I take it as a joke; let us be in-laws: the more's the honor for me. Even through two hundred persons and the millennium of Russia, I can discern a very remarkable man in him. I'm speaking sincerely, sir. You mentioned secrets just now, Prince—that is, that I supposedly approach you as though I want to tell you a secret—and, as if on purpose, there is a secret: a certain person has sent a message that she wishes very much to have a secret meeting with you."

"Why secret? On no account. I'll visit her myself, maybe today."

"On no account, no, on no account," Lebedev waved, "and she's not afraid of what you think. Incidentally: the monster comes regularly every day to inquire after your health, do you know that?"

"You call him monster a bit too often, it makes me very suspicious."

"You cannot have any suspicions, not any," Lebedev hastened to defer. "I only wanted to explain that the certain person is not afraid of him, but of something quite different, quite different."

"But of what? Tell me quickly," the prince pressed him impatiently, looking at Lebedev's mysterious grimacing.

"That's the secret."

And Lebedev grinned.

"Whose secret?"

"Yours. You yourself forbade me, illustrious Prince, to speak in your presence . . ." Lebedev murmured and, delighted to have brought his listener's curiosity to the point of morbid impatience, he suddenly concluded: "She's afraid of Aglaya Ivanovna."

The prince winced and was silent for a moment.

"By God, Lebedev, I'll leave your dacha," he said suddenly. "Where are Gavrila Ardalionovich and the Ptitsyns? With you? You've lured them to you as well."

"They're coming, sir, they're coming. And even the general is coming after them. I'll open all the doors and call all my daughters, everybody, now, right now," Lebedev whispered fearfully, waving his arms and dashing from one door to the other.

At that moment Kolya appeared on the terrace, coming in from

the street, and announced that visitors, Lizaveta Prokofyevna and her three daughters, were following him.

"Am I or am I not to admit the Ptitsyns and Gavrila Ardalionovich? Am I or am I not to admit the general?" Lebedev jumped, struck by the news.

"But why not? All of them, anyone who likes! I assure you, Lebedev, that you've misunderstood something about my relations from the very beginning; you're in some sort of ceaseless error. I don't have the slightest reason to sneak or hide from anyone," the prince laughed.

Looking at him, Lebedev felt it his duty to laugh, too. Despite his extreme agitation, Lebedev evidently was also extremely pleased.

The news reported by Kolya was correct; he had arrived only a few steps ahead of the Epanchins in order to announce them, and thus visitors suddenly appeared on both sides, the Epanchins from the terrace, and the Ptitsyns, Ganya, and General Ivolgin from inside.

The Epanchins had learned of the prince's illness and of his being in Pavlovsk only just then, from Kolya, until when Mrs. Epanchin had been in painful perplexity. Two days ago the general had conveyed the prince's visiting card to his family; this card had awakened an absolute certainty in Lizaveta Prokofyevna that the prince himself would immediately follow the card to Pavlovsk in order to see them. In vain had the girls assured her that a man who had not written for half a year might not be in such a hurry, and that he might have much to do in Petersburg without them— who knew about his affairs? These observations decidedly angered Mrs. Epanchin, and she was ready to bet that the prince would come the very next day at least, though "that will already be much too late." The next day she waited the whole morning; waited till dinner, till evening, and, when it was quite dark, Lizaveta Prokofyevna became angry at everything and quarreled with everyone, naturally without mentioning the prince as the motive of the quarrel. Nor was any word of him mentioned for the whole third day. When Aglaya inadvertently let slip over dinner that maman was angry because the prince had not come, to which the general observed at once that "he was not to blame for that"—Lizaveta Prokofyevna got up and wrathfully left the table. Finally, towards evening, Kolya appeared with all the news and descriptions of all the prince's adventures he knew about. As a result, Lizaveta

Prokofyevna was triumphant, but Kolya caught it badly anyway: "He usually spends whole days flitting about here and there's no getting rid of him, but now he might at least have let us know, if it didn't occur to him to come by." Kolya was about to get angry at the phrase "no getting rid of him," but he put it off to another time, and if the phrase itself had not been so offensive, he might have forgiven it altogether: so pleased he was by Lizaveta Prokofyevna's worry and anxiety at the news of the prince's illness. She insisted for some time on the need to send a messenger at once to Petersburg, to get hold of some eminent medical celebrity and rush him here on the first train. But the daughters talked her out of it; they did not want to lag behind their mama, however, when she instantly made ready to go and visit the sick man.

"He's on his deathbed," Lizaveta Prokofyevna said, bustling about, "and we are not going to stand on any ceremony! Is he a friend of our house or not?"

"Still, you should look before you leap," Aglaya observed.

"Don't go, then, it will even be better: Evgeny Pavlych will come and there will be no one to receive him."

After these words Aglaya naturally set out at once after them all, as she had intended to do in any event. Prince Shch., who was sitting with Adelaida, at her request immediately agreed to accompany the ladies. Still earlier, at the beginning of his acquaintance with the Epanchins, he had been extremely interested when he heard about the prince from them. It turned out that he was acquainted with him, that they had become acquainted not long ago and had lived together for a couple of weeks in the same little town. That was about three months ago. Prince Shch. had even told them a good deal about the prince and generally spoke of him with great sympathy, so that now it was with genuine pleasure that he went to visit his old acquaintance. General Ivan Fyodorovich was not at home at the time. Evgeny Pavlovich also had not arrived yet.

Lebedev's dacha was no more than three hundred paces from the Epanchins'. Lizaveta Prokofyevna's first unpleasant impression at the prince's was to find him surrounded by a whole company of guests, not to mention that she decidedly hated two or three persons in that company; the second was her surprise at the sight of the completely healthy-looking, smartly dressed, and laughing young man coming to meet them, instead of a dying man on his deathbed, as she had expected to find him. She even stopped in

perplexity, to the extreme delight of Kolya, who, of course, could have explained perfectly well, before she set off from her dacha, that precisely no one was dying, nor was there any deathbed, but who had not done so, slyly anticipating Mrs. Epanchin's future comic wrath when, as he reckoned, she was bound to get angry at finding the prince, her sincere friend, in good health. Kolya was even so indelicate as to utter his surmise aloud, to definitively annoy Lizaveta Prokofyevna, whom he needled constantly and sometimes very maliciously, despite the friendship that bound them.

"Wait, my gentle sir, don't be in such a hurry, don't spoil your triumph!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna replied, settling into the armchair that the prince offered her.

Lebedev, Ptitsyn, and General Ivolgin rushed to offer chairs to the girls. The general offered Aglaya a chair. Lebedev also offered a chair to Prince Shch., even the curve of his back managing to show an extraordinary deference. Varya and the girls exchanged greetings, as usual, with rapture and whispering.

"It's true, Prince, that I thought to find you all but bedridden, so greatly did I exaggerate in my worry, and—I wouldn't lie for anything—I felt terribly vexed just now at your happy face, but, by God, it was only for a moment, till I had time to reflect. When I reflect, I always act and speak more intelligently; you do, too, I suppose. But to speak truly, I might be less glad of my own son's recovery, if I had one, than I am of yours; and if you don't believe me about that, the shame is yours, not mine. And this malicious brat allows himself even worse jokes with me. He seems to be your protégé; so I'm warning you that one fine day, believe me, I shall renounce the further satisfaction of enjoying the honor of his acquaintance."

"What fault is it of mine?" Kolya shouted. "However much I insisted that the prince was almost well now, you'd have refused to believe it, because it was far more interesting to imagine him on his deathbed."

"Will you be staying with us long?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned to the prince.

"The whole summer, and perhaps longer."

"And you're alone? Not married?"

"No, not married," the prince smiled at the naivety of the barb sent his way.

"You've no reason to smile; it does happen. I was referring to

the dacha. Why didn't you come to stay with us? We have a whole wing empty; however, as you wish. Do you rent it from him? This one?" she added in a half-whisper, nodding towards Lebedev. "Why is he grimacing all the time?"

Just then Vera came outside to the terrace, with the baby in her arms as usual. Lebedev, who had been cringing by the chairs, decidedly unable to figure out what to do with himself but terribly reluctant to leave, suddenly fell upon Vera, waved his arms at her to chase her from the terrace, and, forgetting himself, even stamped his feet at her.

"Is he crazy?" Mrs. Epanchin suddenly added.

"No, he ..."

"Drunk, maybe? It's not pretty company you keep," she snapped, taking in the remaining guests at a glance. "What a sweet girl, though! Who is she?"

"That's Vera Lukyanovna, the daughter of this Lebedev."

"Ah! . . . Very sweet. I want to make her acquaintance."

But Lebedev, who had heard Lizaveta Prokofyevna's praises, was already dragging his daughter closer in order to introduce her.

"Orphans, orphans!" he dissolved, approaching. "And this baby in her arms is an orphan, her sister, my daughter Lyubov, born in most lawful wedlock of the newly departed Elena, my wife, who died six weeks ago in childbed, as it pleased the Lord . . . yes, sir ... in place of a mother, though she's only a sister and no more than a sister ... no more, no more . . ."

"And you, my dear, are no more than a fool, forgive me. Well, enough, I suppose you realize that yourself," Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly snapped in extreme indignation.

"The veritable truth!" Lebedev bowed most respectfully and deeply.

"Listen, Mr. Lebedev, is it true what they say of you, that you interpret the Apocalypse?" asked Aglaya.

"The veritable truth . . . fifteen years now."

"I've heard of you. They wrote about you in the newspapers, I believe?"

"No, that was about another interpreter, another one, ma'am, but that one died, and I remained instead of him," said Lebedev, beside himself with joy.

"Do me a favor, explain it to me one of these days, since we're neighbors. I understand nothing in the Apocalypse."

"I can't help warning you, Aglaya Ivanovna, that it's all mere

charlatanism on his part, believe me," General Ivolgin, who had been waiting as if on pins and needles and wished with all his might to somehow start a conversation, suddenly put in quickly. He sat down beside Aglaya Ivanovna. "Of course, dacha life has its rights," he went on, "and its pleasures, and the method of such an extraordinary used to carry you in my arms, Aglaya Ivanovna."intrus* for interpreting the Apocalypse is an undertaking like any other, and even a remarkably intelligent undertaking, but I ... It seems you are looking at me in astonishment? General Ivolgin, I have the honor of introducing myself I

"Delighted. I know Varvara Ardalionovna and Nina Alexandrovna," Aglaya murmured, trying as hard as she could to keep from bursting out laughing.

Lizaveta Prokofyevna flared up. Something that had long been accumulating in her soul suddenly demanded to be let out. She could not stand General Ivolgin, with whom she had once been acquainted, but very long ago.

"You're lying, my dear, as usual, you never carried her in your arms," she snapped at him indignantly.

"You've forgotten, maman, he really did, in Tver," Aglaya suddenly confirmed. "We lived in Tver then. I was six years old, I remember. He made me a bow and arrow, and taught me how to shoot, and I killed a pigeon. Remember, you and I killed a pigeon together?"

"And he brought me a cardboard helmet and a wooden sword then, and I remember it!" Adelaida cried out.

"I remember it, too," Alexandra confirmed. "You all quarreled then over the wounded pigeon and were made to stand in the corner; Adelaida stood like this in the helmet and with the sword."

The general, in announcing to Aglaya that he had carried her in his arms, had said it just so, only in order to start a conversation, and solely because he almost always started a conversation with young people in that way, if he found it necessary to make their acquaintance. But this time it so happened, as if by design, that he had told the truth and, as if by design, had forgotten that truth himself. So that now, when Aglaya suddenly confirmed that the two of them had shot a pigeon together, his memory suddenly lit up, and he remembered it all himself, to the last detail, as an old person often remembers something from the distant past. It is hard

*Intruder, outsider, or impostor.

to say what in this memory could have had such a strong effect on the poor and, as usual, slightly tipsy general; but he was suddenly extraordinarily moved.

"I remember, I remember it all!" he cried. "I was a staff-captain then. You were such a tiny, pretty little girl. Nina Alexandrovna . . . Ganya ... I was received ... in your house. Ivan Fyodorovich . . ."

"And see what you've come to now!" Mrs. Epanchin picked up. "Which means that all the same you haven't drunk up your noble feelings, since it affects you so! But you've worn out your wife. Instead of looking after your children, you've been sitting in debtors' prison. Leave us, my dear, go somewhere, stand in a corner behind a door and have a good cry, remembering your former innocence, and perhaps God will forgive you. Go, go, I'm telling you seriously. There's nothing better for mending your ways than recalling the past in repentance."

But there was no need to repeat that she was speaking seriously: the general, like all constantly tippling people, was very sentimental, and, like all tippling people who have sunk too low, he could not easily bear memories from the happy past. He got up and humbly walked to the door, so that Lizaveta Prokofyevna felt sorry for him at once.

"Ardalion Alexandrych, my dear!" she called out behind him. "Wait a minute! We're all sinners; when you're feeling less remorse of conscience, come and see me, we'll sit and talk about old times. I myself may well be fifty times more of a sinner than you are; well, good-bye now, go, there's no point in your . . ." She was suddenly afraid that he might come back.

"Don't follow him for now," the prince stopped Kolya, who had made as if to run after his father. "Or else he'll get vexed after a moment, and the whole moment will be spoiled."

"That's true, let him be; go in half an hour," Lizaveta Prokofyevna decided.

"That's what it means to tell the truth for once in your life— it moved him to tears!" Lebedev ventured to paste in.

"Well, and you must be a fine one, too, my dear, if what I've heard is true," Lizaveta Prokofyevna pulled him up short at once.

The mutual position of all the guests gathered at the prince's gradually defined itself. The prince, naturally, was able to appreciate and did appreciate the full extent of the concern shown for him by Mrs. Epanchin and her daughters and, of course, told them frankly that he himself, before their visit, had intended to call on them

today without fail, despite his illness and the late hour. Lizaveta Prokofyevna, glancing at his guests, replied that this wish could be realized even now. Ptitsyn, a courteous and extremely accommodating young man, very soon got up and withdrew to Lebedev's wing, hoping very much to take Lebedev himself along with him. The latter promised to follow him soon; meanwhile Varya fell to talking with the girls and stayed. She and Ganya were very glad of the general's departure; Ganya himself also soon followed Ptitsyn out. During the few minutes he had spent on the terrace with the Epanchins, he had behaved modestly, with dignity, and had not been taken aback in the least by the determined glances of Lizaveta Prokofyevna, who had twice looked him up and down. Actually, those who had known him before might have thought him quite changed. That pleased Aglaya very much.

"Was it Gavrila Ardalionovich who just left?" she suddenly asked, as she sometimes liked to do, loudly, sharply, interrupting other people's conversation with her question, and not addressing anyone personally.

"Yes, it was," replied the prince.

"I barely recognized him. He's quite changed and . . . greatly for the better."

"I'm very glad for him," said the prince.

"He was very ill," Varya added with joyful sympathy.

"How is he changed for the better?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna asked in irascible perplexity and all but frightened. "Where do you get that? There's nothing better. What precisely seems better to you?"

"There's nothing better than 'the poor knight'!" proclaimed Kolya, who had been standing all the while by Lizaveta Prokofyevna's chair.

"I think the same myself," Prince Shch. said and laughed.

"I'm of exactly the same opinion," Adelaida proclaimed solemnly.

"What 'poor knight'?" Mrs. Epanchin asked, looking around in perplexity and vexation at all the speakers, but, seeing that Aglaya had blushed, she added testily: "Some sort of nonsense! What is this 'poor knight'?"

"As if it's the first time this brat, your favorite, has twisted other people's words!" Aglaya replied with haughty indignation.

In each of Aglaya's wrathful outbursts (and she was often wrathful), almost each time, despite all her ostensible seriousness and implacability, there showed so much that was still childish, impatiently schoolgirlish and poorly concealed, that it was sometimes

quite impossible to look at her without laughing, to the great vexation of Aglaya, incidentally, who could not understand why they laughed and "how could they, how dared they laugh." Now, too, the sisters laughed, as did Prince Shch., and even Prince Lev Nikolaevich himself smiled, and for some reason also blushed. Kolya laughed loudly and triumphantly. Aglaya turned seriously angry and became twice as pretty. Her embarrassment, and her vexation with herself for this embarrassment, were extremely becoming to her.

"As if he hasn't twisted enough words of yours," she added.

"I base myself on your own exclamation!" Kolya cried. "A month ago you were looking through Don Quixote and exclaimed those words, that there is nothing better than the 'poor knight.' I don't know who you were talking about then—Don Quixote, Evgeny Pavlych, or some other person—but only that you were speaking about someone, and the conversation went on for a long time . . ."

"I see, dear boy, that you allow yourself too much with your guesses," Lizaveta Prokofyevna stopped him with vexation.

"Am I the only one?" Kolya would not keep still. "Everybody was talking then, and they still do; just now Prince Shch. and Adelaida Ivanovna, and everybody said they were for the 'poor knight,' which means that this 'poor knight' exists and is completely real, and in my opinion, if it weren't for Adelaida Ivanovna, we'd all have known long ago who the 'poor knight' is."

"What did I do wrong?" Adelaida laughed.

"You didn't want to draw his portrait—that's what! Aglaya Ivanovna asked you then to draw a portrait of the 'poor knight' and even told you the whole subject for a painting she had thought up, don't you remember the subject? You didn't want to . . ."

"How could I paint it, and whom? The subject says about this 'poor knight':

From his face the visor He ne'er raised for anyone.

What sort of face could it be, then? What should I paint—a visor? An anonymity?"

"I don't understand anything, what's this about a visor?" Mrs. Epanchin was growing vexed and beginning to have a very good idea of who was meant by the name (probably agreed upon long ago) of the "poor knight." But she exploded particularly when Prince Lev Nikolaevich also became embarrassed and finally as

abashed as a ten-year-old boy. "Will there be no end to this foolishness? Are you going to explain this 'poor knight' to me or not? Is there some terrible secret in it that I can't even go near?"

But they all just went on laughing.

"Quite simply, there's a strange Russian poem," Prince Shch. finally mixed in, obviously wishing to hush things up quickly and change the subject, "about a 'poor knight,' a fragment with no beginning or end.²⁸ Once, about a month ago, we were all laughing together after dinner and, as usual, suggesting a subject for Adelaida Ivanovna's future painting. You know that our common family task has long consisted in finding subjects for Adelaida Ivanovna's paintings. It was then that we hit upon the 'poor knight,' I don't remember who first . . ."

"Aglaya Ivanovna!" cried Kolya.

"That may be, I agree, only I don't remember," Prince Shch. went on. "Some laughed at this subject, others declared that nothing could be loftier, but in order to portray the 'poor knight' there had in any case to be a face. We began going through the faces of all our acquaintances, but none was suitable, and the matter ended there; that's all; I don't understand why Nikolai Ardalionovich suddenly thought of bringing it all up again. What was funny once, and appropriate, is quite uninteresting now."

"Because there's some new sort of foolishness implied in it, sarcastic and offensive," Lizaveta Prokofyevna snapped.

"There isn't any foolishness, only the deepest respect," Aglaya suddenly declared quite unexpectedly in a grave and serious voice, having managed to recover completely and overcome her former embarrassment. Moreover, by certain tokens it could be supposed, looking at her, that she herself was now glad that the joke had gone further and further, and that this turnabout had occurred in her precisely at the moment when the prince's embarrassment, which was increasing more and more and reaching an extreme degree, had become all too noticeable.

"First they laugh dementedly, and then suddenly the deepest respect appears! Raving people! Why respect? Tell me right now, why does this deepest respect of yours appear so suddenly out of the blue?"

"The deepest respect because," Aglaya went on as seriously and gravely, in answer to her mother's almost spiteful question, "because this poem directly portrays a man capable of having an ideal and, second, once he has the ideal, of believing in it and, believing in

it, of blindly devoting his whole life to it. That doesn't always happen in our time. In the poem it's not said specifically what made up the ideal of the 'poor knight,' but it's clear that it was some bright image, 'an image of pure beauty,'²⁹ and instead of a scarf the enamored knight even wore a rosary around his neck. True, there's also some sort of dark, unexpressed motto, the letters A.N.., that he traced on his shield . . ."

"A.N.D.," Kolya corrected.³⁰

"But I say A.N.., and that's how I want to say it," Aglaya interrupted with vexation. "Be that as it may, it's clear that it made no difference to this 'poor knight' who his lady was or what she might do. It was enough for him that he had chosen her and believed in her 'pure beauty,' and only then did he bow down to her forever; and the merit of it is that she might have turned out later to be a thief, but still he had to believe in her and wield the sword for her pure beauty. It seems the poet wanted to combine in one extraordinary image the whole immense conception of the medieval chivalrous platonic love of some pure and lofty knight; naturally, it's all an ideal. But in the 'poor knight' that feeling reached the ultimate degree—asceticism. It must be admitted that to be capable of such feeling means a lot and that such feelings leave a deep and, on the one hand, a very praiseworthy mark, not to mention Don Quixote. The 'poor knight' is that same Don Quixote, only a serious and not a comic one. At first I didn't understand and laughed, but now I love the 'poor knight' and, above all, respect his deeds."

So Aglaya concluded, and, looking at her, it was hard to tell whether she was speaking seriously or laughing.

"Well, he's some sort of fool, he and his deeds!" Mrs. Epanchin decided. "And you, dear girl, blathered out a whole lecture; in my opinion, it's even quite unsuitable on your part. Inadmissible, in any case. What is this poem? Recite it, you surely know it! I absolutely want to know this poem. All my life I never could stand poetry, as if I had a presentiment. For God's sake, Prince, be patient, it's clear that you and I must be patient together," she turned to Prince Lev Nikolaevich. She was very vexed.

Prince Lev Nikolaevich wanted to say something but, in his continuing embarrassment, was unable to get a word out. Only Aglaya, who had allowed herself so much in her "lecture," was not abashed in the least, she even seemed glad. She stood up at once, still as serious and grave as before, looking as though she had

prepared for it earlier and was only waiting to be asked, stepped into the middle of the terrace, and stood facing the prince, who went on sitting in his armchair. They all looked at her with a certain surprise, and nearly all of them—Prince Shch., her sisters, her mother—looked with an unpleasant feeling at this new prank she had prepared, which in any case had gone a bit too far. But it was evident that Aglaya precisely liked all this affectation with which she began the ceremony of reciting the poem. Lizaveta Prokofyevna nearly chased her back to her seat, but just at the moment when Aglaya began to declaim the well-known ballad, two new guests, talking loudly, came from the street onto the terrace. They were General Ivan Fyodorovich Epanchin and after him a young man. There was a slight stir.

VII

The young man who accompanied the general was about twenty-eight years old, tall, trim, with a handsome and intelligent face, and a bright gaze in his big, dark eyes, filled with wit and mockery. Aglaya did not even turn to look at him and went on reciting the poem, as she affectedly went on looking at the prince alone and addressing him alone. It was clear to the prince that she was doing all this with some special calculation. But the new guests at least improved his awkward position somewhat. Seeing them, he rose slightly, courteously nodded his head to the general from afar, gave a sign not to interrupt the recital, and himself managed to retreat behind the armchair, where, resting his left elbow on the back, he went on listening to the ballad, now, so to speak, in a more comfortable and less "ridiculous" position than sitting in the chair. Lizaveta Prokofyevna, for her part, waved twice with an imperious gesture to the entering men to make them stop. The prince, incidentally, was greatly interested in his new guest who accompanied the general; he guessed clearly that he was Evgeny Pavlovich Radomsky, of whom he had heard so much and had thought more than once. He was thrown off only by his civilian dress; he had heard that Evgeny Pavlovich was a military man. A mocking smile wandered over the lips of the new guest all through the recital of the poem, as if he, too, had already heard something about the "poor knight." .....

"Maybe it was he who came up with it," the prince thought to himself.

But it was quite different with Aglaya. All the initial affectation and pomposity with which she had stepped out to recite, she covered over with such seriousness and such penetration into the spirit and meaning of the poetic work, she uttered each word of the poem with such meaning, enunciated them with such lofty simplicity, that by the end of the recital she had not only attracted general attention but, by conveying the lofty spirit of the ballad, had as if partially justified the overly affected gravity with which she had so solemnly come out to the middle of the terrace. Now this gravity could be seen only as a boundless and perhaps even naïve respect for that which she had taken it upon herself to convey. Her eyes shone, and a slight, barely perceptible tremor of inspiration and rapture passed twice over her beautiful face. She recited:

Once there lived a poor knight, A silent, simple man,

Pale and grim his visage,

Bold and straight his heart.

He had a single vision

Beyond the grasp of mind,

It left a deep impression Engraved upon his heart.

From then on, soul afire, No woman would he see, Nor speak a word to any Until his dying day.

About his neck a rosary Instead of a scarf he bound, And from his face the visor He ne'er raised for anyone.

Filled with pure love ever, True to his sweet dream, A. M. D. in his own blood He traced upon his shield.

In Palestinian deserts, As over the steep cliffs,

Paladins rushed to battle Shouting their ladies' names,

Lumen coeli, sancta Rosa! He cried out, wild with zeal, And at his threat like thunder Many a Muslim fell.

Back in his distant castle, He lived a strict recluse, Ever silent, melancholy, Like one gone mad he died.

Recalling this whole moment afterwards, the prince, in extreme confusion, suffered for a long time over one question he was unable to resolve: how was it possible to unite such true, beautiful feeling with such obvious, spiteful mockery? That it was mockery he did not doubt; he clearly understood that and had reasons for it: during the recital Aglaya had allowed herself to change the letters A.M.D. to N.F.B. That it was not a mistake or a mishearing on his part he could not doubt (it was proved afterwards). In any case, Aglaya's escapade—certainly a joke, though much too sharp and light-minded—was intentional. Everyone had already been talking about (and "laughing at") the "poor knight" a month ago. And yet, for all the prince could remember, it came out that Aglaya had pronounced those letters not only without any air of joking or any sort of smile, or even any emphasis on the letters meant to reveal their hidden meaning, but, on the contrary, with such unfaltering seriousness, such innocent and naïve simplicity, that one might have thought those letters were in the ballad and it was printed that way in the book. It was as if something painful and unpleasant stung the prince. Of course, Lizaveta Prokofyevna did not understand or notice either the change of letters or the hint. General Ivan Fyodorovich understood only that poetry was being declaimed. Of the other listeners, many did understand and were surprised both at the boldness of the escapade and at its intention, but they kept silent and tried not to let anything show. But Evgeny Pavlovich (the prince was even ready to bet on it) not only understood but even tried to show that he understood: he smiled much too mockingly.

"What a delight!" Mrs. Epanchin exclaimed in genuine rapture, as soon as the recitation was over. "Whose poem is it?"

"Pushkin's, maman, don't disgrace us, it's shameful!" exclaimed Adelaida.

"I'll turn into a still worse fool here with you!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna retorted bitterly. "Disgraceful! The moment we get home, give me this poem of Pushkin's at once!"

"But I don't think we have any Pushkin."

"A couple of tattered volumes," Adelaida put in, "they've been lying about since time immemorial."

"Send someone at once to buy a copy in town, Fyodor or Alexei, on the first train—better Alexei. Aglaya, come here! Kiss me, you recite beautifully, but—if it was sincere," she added, almost in a whisper, "then I feel sorry for you; if you read it to mock him, I don't approve of your feelings, so in any case it would have been better for you not to recite it at all. Understand? Go, little miss, I'll talk more with you, but we've overstayed here."

Meanwhile the prince was greeting General Ivan Fyodorovich, and the general was introducing him to Evgeny Pavlovich Radomsky.

"I picked him up on the way, he'd just gotten off the train; he learned that I was coming here and that all of ours were here . . ."

"I learned that you, too, were here," Evgeny Pavlovich interrupted, "and since I've intended for a long time and without fail to seek not only your acquaintance but also your friendship, I did not want to lose any time. You're unwell? I've just learned . . ."

"I'm quite well and very glad to know you, I've heard a lot about you and have even spoken of you with Prince Shch.," replied Lev Nikolaevich, holding out his hand.

Mutual courtesies were exchanged, the two men shook hands and looked intently into each other's eyes. An instant later the conversation became general. The prince noticed (he now noticed everything quickly and greedily, perhaps even what was not there at all) that Evgeny Pavlovich's civilian dress produced a general and extraordinarily strong impression, so much so that all other impressions were forgotten for a time and wiped away. One might have thought that this change of costume meant something particularly important. Adelaida and Alexandra questioned Evgeny Pavlovich in perplexity. Prince Shch., his relation, did so even with great uneasiness; the general spoke almost with agitation. Aglaya alone curiously but quite calmly glanced at Evgeny Pavlovich for a moment, as if wishing merely to compare whether military or civilian dress was more becoming to him, but a moment later she

turned away and no longer looked at him. Lizaveta Prokofyevna also did not wish to ask anything, though she, too, was somewhat uneasy. To the prince it seemed that Evgeny Pavlovich might not be in her good graces.

"Surprising! Amazing!" Ivan Fyodorovich kept saying in answer to all the questions. "I refused to believe it when I met him today in Petersburg. And why so suddenly, that's the puzzle. He himself shouted first thing that there's no need to go breaking chairs."³¹

From the ensuing conversation it turned out that Evgeny Pavlovich had already announced his resignation a long time ago; but he had spoken so unseriously each time that it had been impossible to believe him. Besides, he even spoke about serious things with such a jocular air that it was quite impossible to make him out, especially if he himself did not want to be made out.

"It's only a short-term resignation, for a few months, a year at the most," Radomsky laughed.

"But there's no need, at least insofar as I'm acquainted with your affairs," the general went on hotly.

"And what about visiting my estates? You advised me to yourself; and besides, I want to go abroad . . ."

However, they soon changed the subject; but all the same, the much too peculiar and still-continuing uneasiness, in the observant prince's opinion, went beyond the limits, and there must have been something peculiar in it.

"So the 'poor knight' is on the scene again?" Evgeny Pavlovich asked, going up to Aglaya.

To the prince's amazement, she gave him a perplexed and questioning look, as if wishing to let him know that there could be no talk of the "poor knight" between them and that she did not even understand the question.

"But it's too late, it's too late to send to town for Pushkin now, too late!" Kolya argued with Lizaveta Prokofyevna, spending his last strength. "I've told you three thousand times, it's too late."

"Yes, actually, it's too late to send to town now," Evgeny Pavlovich turned up here as well, hastening away from Aglaya. "I think the shops are closed in Petersburg, it's past eight," he confirmed, taking out his watch.

"We've gone so long without thinking of it, we can wait till tomorrow," Adelaida put in.

"And it's also improper," Kolya added, "for high-society people

to be too interested in literature. Ask Evgeny Pavlovich. Yellow charabancs with red wheels are much more proper."

"You're talking out of a book again, Kolya," observed Adelaida.

"But he never talks otherwise than out of books," Evgeny Pavlovich picked up. "He expresses himself with whole sentences from critical reviews. I've long had the pleasure of knowing Nikolai Ardalionovich's conversation, but this time he's not talking out of a book. Nikolai Ardalionovich is clearly hinting at my yellow charabanc with red wheels. Only I've already traded it, you're too late."

The prince listened to what Radomsky was saying ... It seemed to him that he bore himself handsomely, modestly, cheerfully, and he especially liked the way he talked with such perfect equality and friendliness to Kolya, who kept provoking him.

"What's that?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned to Vera, Lebedev's daughter, who stood before her holding several books of a large format, beautifully bound and nearly new.

"Pushkin," said Vera. "Our Pushkin. Papa told me to offer it to you."

"How so? How is it possible?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna was surprised.

"Not as a gift, not as a gift! I wouldn't dare!" Lebedev popped out from behind his daughter's shoulder. "For what it cost, ma'am. It's our family Pushkin, Annenkov's edition,³² which is even impossible to find now—for what it cost, ma'am. I offer it to you with reverence, wishing to sell it and thereby satisfy the noble impatience of Your Excellency's most noble literary feelings."

"Ah, you're selling it, then I thank you. No fear of you not getting your own back. Only please do stop clowning, my dear. I've heard about you, they say you're very well read, we must have a talk some day; will you bring them home for me yourself?"

"With reverence and . . . deference!" Lebedev, extraordinarily pleased, went on clowning, snatching the books from his daughter.

"Well, just don't lose them on me, bring them without deference if you like, but only on one condition," she added, looking him over intently. "I'll let you come as far as the threshold, but I have no intention of receiving you today. Your daughter Vera you may send right now, though, I like her very much."

"Why don't you tell him about those men?" Vera asked her father impatiently. "They'll come in by themselves if you don't: they're already making noise. Lev Nikolaevich," she turned to the

prince, who had already picked up his hat, "some people came to see you quite a while ago now, four men, they're waiting in our part and they're angry, but papa won't let them see you."

"What sort of visitors?" asked the prince.

"On business, they say, only they're the kind that, if you don't let them in now, they'll stop you on your way. Better to let them in now, Lev Nikolaevich, and get them off your neck. Gavrila Ardalionovich and Ptitsyn are trying to talk sense into them, but they won't listen."

"Pavlishchev's son! Pavlishchev's son! Not worth it, not worth it!" Lebedev waved his arms. "It's not worth listening to them, sir; and it's not proper for you, illustrious Prince, to trouble yourself for them. That's right, sir. They're not worth it . . ."

"Pavlishchev's son! My God!" cried the prince in extreme embarrassment. "I know . . . but I ... I entrusted that affair to Gavrila Ardalionovich. Gavrila Ardalionovich just told me . . ."

But Gavrila Ardalionovich had already come out to the terrace; Ptitsyn followed him. In the nearest room noise could be heard, and the loud voice of General Ivolgin, as if he were trying to outshout several other voices. Kolya ran at once to where the noise was.

"That's very interesting," Evgeny Pavlovich observed aloud.

"So he knows about it!" thought the prince.

"What Pavlishchev's son? And . . . how can there be any Pavlishchev's son?" General Ivan Fyodorovich asked in perplexity, looking around curiously at all the faces and noticing with astonishment that this new story was unknown to him alone.

Indeed, the excitement and expectation were universal. The prince was deeply astonished that an affair so completely personal to himself could manage to interest everyone there so strongly.

"It would be very good if you ended this affair at once and yourself," said Aglaya, going up to the prince with some sort of special seriousness, "and let us all be your witnesses. They want to besmirch you, Prince, you must triumphantly vindicate yourself, and I'm terribly glad for you beforehand."

"I also want this vile claim to be ended finally," Mrs. Epanchin cried. "Give it to them good, Prince, don't spare them! I've had my ears stuffed with this affair, and there's a lot of bad blood in me on account of you. Besides, it will be curious to have a look. Call them out, and we'll sit here. Aglaya's idea was a good one. Have you heard anything about this, Prince?" she turned to Prince Shch.

"Of course I have, in your own house. But I'd especially like to have a look at these young men," Prince Shch. replied.

"These are those nihilists,³³ aren't they?"

"No, ma'am, they're not really nihilists," Lebedev, who was also all but trembling with excitement, stepped forward. "They're different, ma'am, they're special, my nephew says they've gone further than the nihilists. You mustn't think to embarrass them with your witnessing, Your Excellency; they won't be embarrassed. Nihilists are still sometimes knowledgeable people, even learned ones, but these have gone further, ma'am, because first of all they're practical. This is essentially a sort of consequence of nihilism, though not in a direct way, but by hearsay and indirectly, and they don't announce themselves in some sort of little newspaper article, but directly in practice, ma'am; it's no longer a matter, for instance, of the meaninglessness of some Pushkin or other, or, for instance, the necessity of dividing Russia up into parts; no, ma'am, it's now considered a man's right, if he wants something very much, not to stop at any obstacle, even if he has to do in eight persons to that end. But all the same, Prince, I wouldn't advise you . . ."

But the prince was already going to open the door for his visitors.

"You slander them, Lebedev," he said, smiling. "Your nephew has upset you very much. Don't believe him, Lizaveta Prokofyevna. I assure you that the Gorskys and Danilovs³⁴ are merely accidents, and these men are merely . . . mistaken . . . Only I wouldn't like it to be here, in front of everybody. Excuse me, Lizaveta Prokofyevna, they'll come in, I'll show them to you and then take them away. Come in, gentlemen!"

He was sooner troubled by another thought that tormented him. He wondered whether this whole affair now had not been arranged earlier, precisely for that time and hour, precisely with these witnesses, perhaps in anticipation of his disgrace and not his triumph. But he was much too saddened by his "monstrous and wicked suspiciousness." He would die, he thought, if anyone should learn that he had such thoughts in his mind, and at the moment when his new visitors came in, he was sincerely prepared to consider himself, among all those around him, the lowest of the low in the moral sense.

Five people came in, four of them new visitors and the fifth General Ivolgin, coming behind them, all flushed, in agitation and a most violent fit of eloquence. "That one's certainly on my side!" the prince thought with a smile. Kolya slipped in with everyone

else: he was talking heatedly with Ippolit, who was one of the visitors. Ippolit listened and grinned.

The prince seated his visitors. They were all such young, even such underage people, that one could marvel both at the occasion and at the whole ceremony that proceeded from it. Ivan Fyodorovich Epanchin, for instance, who neither knew nor understood anything in this "new affair," even waxed indignant seeing such youth, and probably would have protested in some way, had he not been stopped by what for him was the strange ardor of his spouse for the prince's private interests. He stayed, however, partly out of curiosity, partly out of the goodness of his heart, even hoping to be of help and in any case to be on hand with his authority; but the entering General Ivolgin's bow to him from afar made him indignant again; he frowned and resolved to remain stubbornly silent.

Of the four young visitors, however, one was about thirty years old, the retired "lieutenant from Rogozhin's band, a boxer, who himself used to give fifteen roubles to petitioners." It could be guessed that he had accompanied the others out of bravado, in the capacity of a good friend and, if need be, for support. Among the rest, the first place and the first role was filled by the one to whom the name of "Pavlishchev's son" was attributed, though he introduced himself as Antip Burdovsky. This was a young man, poorly and shabbily dressed, in a frock coat with sleeves so greasy they gleamed like a mirror, in a greasy waistcoat buttoned to the top, in a shirt that had disappeared somewhere, in an impossibly greasy black silk scarf twisted into a plait, his hands unwashed, his face all covered with blackheads, fair-haired, and, if one may put it so, with an innocently impudent gaze. He was of medium height, thin, about twenty-two years old. Not the least irony, not the least reflection showed in his face; on the contrary, there was a full, dull intoxication with his own rights and, at the same time, something that amounted to a strange and permanent need to be and feel constantly offended. He spoke with agitation, hurriedly and falteringly, as if not quite enunciating the words, as if he had a speech defect or was a foreigner, though he was, incidentally, of totally Russian origin.

He was accompanied, first, by Lebedev's nephew, already known to the reader, and, second, by Ippolit. Ippolit was a very young man, about seventeen, or perhaps eighteen, with an intelligent but constantly irritated expression on his face, on which illness had left

its terrible marks. He was thin as a skeleton, pale yellow, his eyes glittered, and two red spots burned on his cheeks. He coughed incessantly; his every word, almost every breath, was accompanied by wheezing. A rather advanced stage of consumption was evident. It seemed that he had no more than two or three weeks left to live. He was very tired, and sank into a chair before anyone else. The rest made some show of ceremony on entering and were all but abashed, though they looked grave and were obviously afraid of somehow losing their dignity, which was strangely out of harmony with their reputation as negators of all useless social trivialities, prejudices, and almost everything in the world except their own interests.

"Antip Burdovsky," proclaimed "Pavlishchev's son," hurriedly and falteringly.

"Vladimir Doktorenko," Lebedev's nephew introduced himself clearly, distinctly, and as if even boasting that he was Doktorenko.

"Keller," the retired lieutenant muttered.

"Ippolit Terentyev," the last one shrieked in an unexpectedly shrill voice. They all finally sat down in a row on chairs opposite the prince; having introduced themselves, they all immediately frowned and, to encourage themselves, shifted their hats from one hand to the other; they all got ready to speak, and they all nevertheless remained silent, waiting for something with a defiant air, in which could be read: "No, brother, you're not going to hoodwink me!" One could feel that as soon as any one of them began by simply uttering a single first word, they would all immediately start talking at the same time, rivaling and interrupting each other.

VIII

Gentlemen, I wasn't expecting any of you," began the prince. "I myself was sick till today, and as for your business" (he turned to Antip Burdovsky), "I entrusted Gavrila Ardalionovich Ivolgin with it a month ago, of which I then informed you. However, I am not avoiding a personal discussion, only, you must agree, at such an hour ... I suggest that you come with me to another room, if it won't take long . . . My friends are here now, and believe me . . ."

"Friends ... as many as you like, but nevertheless, allow us," Lebedev's nephew suddenly interrupted in a rather admonitory

tone, though all the same without raising his voice very much, "allow us to declare to you that you might treat us more respectfully and not make us wait for two hours in your lackeys' quarters."

"And, of course . . . and I . . . and that's prince-like! And that . . . you, it means you're a general! And I'm not your lackey! And I, I . . ." Antip Burdovsky suddenly began muttering in extraordinary excitement, with trembling lips, with an offended trembling in his voice, with spit spraying from his mouth, as if he had all burst or exploded, but then hurrying so much that after a dozen words it was no longer possible to understand him.

"That was prince-like!" Ippolit cried out in a shrill, cracked voice.

"It if happened to me," the boxer growled, "that is, if it had a direct relation to me, as a noble person, then if I was in Burdovsky's place, I'd . . . I . . ."

"By God, gentlemen, I learned only a moment ago that you were here," the prince repeated.

"We're not afraid of your friends, Prince, whoever they may be, because we're within our rights," Lebedev's nephew declared again.

"What right did you have, however, if I may ask," Ippolit shrieked again, now becoming extremely excited, "to present Burdovsky's affair for the judgment of your friends? Maybe we don't want the judgment of your friends. It's only too clear what the judgment of your friends may mean! . . ."

"But, Mr. Burdovsky, if you finally do not wish to speak here," the prince, extremely astonished at such a beginning, finally managed to put in, "then I say to you, let us go to another room, and, I repeat, I heard about you all only this minute . . ."

"But you have no right, you have no right, you have no right! . . . your friends . . . There! . . ." Burdovsky began babbling again, looking around wildly and warily, and growing the more excited the greater his mistrust and shyness. "You have no right!" And, having uttered that, he stopped abruptly, as if breaking off, and, wordlessly goggling his nearsighted, extremely protuberant eyes with their thick red veins, he stared questioningly at the prince, leaning forward with his whole body. This time the prince was so astonished that he himself fell silent and also looked at him, goggling his eyes and saying not a word.

"Lev Nikolaevich!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly called out, "read this now, this very moment, it is directly concerned with your affair."

She hastily handed him a weekly newspaper of the humoristic sort and pointed her finger at an article. While the visitors were still coming in, Lebedev had jumped over to the side of Lizaveta Prokofyevna, whose favor he was currying, and, without saying a word, had taken the newspaper from his side pocket and put it right under her eyes, pointing to a marked-off column. What Lizaveta Prokofyevna had managed to read had astounded and excited her terribly.

"Wouldn't it be better, however, not to read it aloud?" the prince babbled, very embarrassed. "I'll read it by myself. . . later . . ."

"Then you'd better read it, read it right now, aloud! aloud!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned to Kolya, snatching the newspaper, which the prince had barely managed to touch, out of his hands. "Read it aloud so that everybody can hear."

Lizaveta Prokofyevna was a hotheaded and passionate lady, so that suddenly and at once, without thinking long, she would sometimes raise all anchors and set out for the open sea without checking the weather. Ivan Fyodorovich stirred anxiously. But meanwhile everyone involuntarily paused at first and waited in perplexity. Kolya unfolded the newspaper and began reading aloud from the place that Lebedev, who had jumped over to him, pointed out:

"Proletarians and Scions, an Episode from Daily and Everyday Robberies! Progress! Reform! Justice!

"Strange things happen in our so-called Holy Russia, in our age of reforms and corporate initiative, an age of nationality and hundreds of millions exported abroad every year, an age of the encouragement of industry and the paralysis of working hands! etc., etc., it cannot all be enumerated, gentlemen, and so straight to business. A strange incident occurred with one of the scions of our former landowning gentry (de profundis!),³⁵ the sort of scion, incidentally, whose grandfathers already lost everything definitively at roulette, whose fathers were forced to serve as junkers and lieutenants and usually died under investigation for some innocent error to do with state funds, and whose children, like the hero of our account, either grow up idiots or even get caught in criminal dealings, for which, however, the jury acquits them with a view to their admonition and correction; or, finally, they end by pulling off one of those anecdotes which astonish the public and disgrace our already sufficiently disgraced time. About six months ago our scion,

shod foreign-style in gaiters and shivering in his unlined little overcoat, returned during the winter to Russia from Switzerland, where he was being treated for idiocy (sic!). It must be admitted that he was fortunately lucky, so that, to say nothing of his interesting illness, for which he was being treated in Switzerland (can one really be treated for idiocy, who could imagine it?!!), he might prove in himself the truthfulness of the Russian saying: a certain category of people is lucky! Consider for yourselves: left a nursing infant after the death of his father, said to have been a lieutenant who died under investigation for the unexpected disappearance of all the company funds during a card game, or perhaps for administering an overdose of birching to a subordinate (remember the old days, gentlemen!), our baron was taken out of charity to be brought up by a certain very rich Russian landowner. This Russian landowner—let's call him P.—in the former golden age the owner of four thousand bonded souls (bonded souls! do you understand this expression, gentlemen? I don't. I must consult a dictionary: 'The memory is fresh, but it's hard to believe'³⁶), was apparently one of those Russian lie-a-beds and parasites who spend their idle lives abroad, at spas in the summer, and in the Parisian Château des Fleurs in the winter, where they left boundless sums in their time. One may state positively that at least a third of the quittent from all former bonded estates went to the owner of the Parisian Château des Fleurs (there was a lucky man!). Be that as it may, the carefree P. raised the orphaned young gentleman in a princely way, hired tutors for him, and governesses (pretty ones, no doubt), whom, incidentally, he brought from Paris himself. But this last scion of a noble family was an idiot. The Château des Fleurs governesses were no help, and till the age of twenty our boy never learned to speak any language, not excluding Russian. This last fact, incidentally, is forgivable. In the end, the fantasy came into P.'s Russian serf-owning head that the idiot could be taught reason in Switzerland—a logical fantasy, incidentally: as a parasite and proprietor, he would naturally imagine that even reason could be bought in the market for money, all the more so in Switzerland. Five years passed under treatment in Switzerland with some well-known professor, and the money spent was in the thousands: the idiot, naturally, did not become intelligent, but they say in any case he began to resemble a human being—only just, no doubt. Suddenly P. up and dies. There's no will, naturally; his affairs are, as usual, in disorder; there's a heap of greedy heirs, who don't care

a straw about the last scion of any family being treated for family idiocy in Switzerland out of charity. The scion, though an idiot, tried all the same to cheat his professor, and they say he went on being treated gratis for two years, concealing the death of his benefactor from him. But the professor was quite a charlatan himself; at last, fearing the insolvency and, worse still, the appetite of his twenty-five-year-old parasite, he shod him in his old gaiters, gave him a bedraggled overcoat, and charitably sent him, third-class, nach Russland*—off his hands and out of Switzerland. It would seem luck had turned its back on our hero. Not a whit, sir: fortune, who starves whole provinces to death, showers all her gifts at once on the little aristocrat, like Krylov's 'Stormcloud'³⁷ that passed over the parched field and drenched the ocean. At almost the same moment as his arrival in Petersburg from Switzerland, a relation of his mother (who, naturally, was of merchant stock), a childless old bachelor, a merchant, bearded and an Old Believer, dies, leaving an inheritance of several million, indisputable, round, in ready cash—and (oh, if only it were you and me, dear reader!) it all goes to our scion, it all goes to our baron, who was treated for idiocy in Switzerland! Well, now they started playing a different tune. Around our baron in gaiters, who was chasing after a certain kept woman and beauty, a whole crowd of friends and intimates gathered, some relations even turned up, and most of all whole crowds of noble maidens, hungering and thirsting after lawful wedlock, and what could be better: an aristocrat, a millionaire, and an idiot—all qualities at once, you wouldn't find such a husband with a lamp in broad daylight, not even made to order! . . ."

"This . . . this I do not understand!" cried Ivan Fyodorovich in the highest degree of indignation.

"Stop it, Kolya!" the prince cried in a pleading voice. Exclamations came from all sides.

"Read it! Read it despite all!" snapped Lizaveta Prokofyevna, obviously making an extreme effort to control herself. "Prince! if the reading is stopped, we shall quarrel."

There was nothing to be done. Kolya, all worked up, red-faced, in agitation, went on reading in an agitated voice:

"But while our fresh-baked millionaire was soaring, so to speak, in the empyrean, a completely extraneous circumstance occurred. One fine morning a visitor comes to him with a calm and stern face,

*To Russia.

with courteous but dignified and just speech, dressed modestly and nobly, with an obvious progressive tinge to his thinking, and explains in a few words the reason for his visit: he is a well-known lawyer; a certain young man has entrusted him with a case; he has come on his behalf. This young man was no more nor less than the son of the late P., though he bore a different name. The lascivious P., having seduced in his youth a poor, honest girl, a household serf but with European education (in part this was, naturally, a matter of baronial rights under the former serfdom), and having noticed the unavoidable but immediate consequences of his liaison, hastened to give her in marriage to a certain man, something of a dealer and even a functionary, of noble character, who had long been in love with this girl. At first he assisted the newlyweds; but soon the husband's noble character denied him the acceptance of this assistance. Time passed and P. gradually forgot the girl and the son he had had by her, and then, as we know, he died without leaving any instructions. Meanwhile his son, born in lawful wedlock, but raised under a different name and fully adopted by the noble character of his mother's husband, who had nevertheless died in the course of time, was left with no support but himself and with an ailing, suffering, crippled mother in one of our remote provinces; he himself earned money in the capital by daily noble labor, giving lessons to merchants' children, thus supporting himself through high school and then as an auditor at useful lectures, having a further purpose in mind. But how much can one earn from a Russian merchant for ten-kopeck lessons, and that with an ailing, crippled mother besides, whose death, finally, in her remote province, hardly made things any easier for him? Now a question: how should our scion have reasoned in all fairness? You think, of course, dear reader, that he spoke thus to himself: 'All my life I have enjoyed all sorts of gifts from P.; tens of thousands were spent on my upbringing, on governesses, and on my treatment for idiocy in Switzerland; and here I am now with millions, while the noble character of P.'s son, in no way guilty in the trespass of his frivolous and forgetful father, is perishing giving lessons. Everything that went to me should rightfully have gone to him. Those enormous sums spent on me were essentially not mine. It was merely a blind error of fortune; they were owing to P.'s son. He should have gotten them, not I—creature of a fantastic whim of the frivolous and forgetful P. If I were fully noble, delicate, and just, I ought to give his son half of my inheritance; but since I am first of all a calculating man and understand only too well that

it is not a legal matter, I will not give him half of my millions. But all the same it would be much too base and shameless (and ill calculated as well, the scion forgot that) on my part, if I did not now return to his son those tens of thousands that P. spent on my idiocy. Here it's not only a matter of conscience and justice! For what would have happened to me if P. had not taken charge of my upbringing, but had concerned himself with his son instead of me?'

"But no, gentlemen! Our scions do not reason that way. No matter how the lawyer presented the young man, saying that he had undertaken to solicit for him solely out of friendship and almost against his will, almost by force, no matter how he pictured for him the duties of honor, nobility, justice, and even simple calculation, the Swiss ward remained inflexible, and what then? All that would be nothing, but here is what was indeed unforgivable and inexcusable by any interesting illness: this millionaire, barely out of his professor's gaiters, could not even grasp that it was not charity or assistance that the young man's noble character, killing himself with lessons, asked of him, but his right and his due, though not juridically so, and he was not even asking, but his friends were merely soliciting for him. With a majestic air, intoxicated by the opportunity offered him to crush people with impunity by his millions, our scion takes out a fifty-rouble note and sends it to the noble young man in the guise of insolent charity. You do not believe it, gentlemen? You are indignant, you are insulted, a cry of resentment bursts from you; and yet he did do it! Naturally, the money was returned to him at once, was, so to speak, thrown in his face. What are we left with to resolve this case! The case is not a juridical one, all that is left is publicity! We convey this anecdote to the public, vouching for its veracity. They say one of our best-known humorists produced a delightful epigram on this occasion, worthy of a place not only in provincial but also in metropolitan articles on our morals:

"Little Lyova five years long In Schneider's overcoat did play, And the usual dance and song Filled his every day.

Comes home in gaiters, foreign-fashion, A million on his plate does find, So now he prays to God in Russian

And robs all student-kind."³⁸;

When Kolya finished, he quickly handed the newspaper to the prince and, without saying a word, rushed to a corner, huddled tightly into it, and covered his face with his hands. He was unbearably ashamed, and his child's impressionability, which had not yet had time to become accustomed to filth, was upset even beyond measure. It seemed to him that something extraordinary had happened, which had destroyed everything all at once, and that he himself had almost been the cause of it by the mere fact of this reading aloud.

But it seemed they all felt something similar.

The girls felt very awkward and ashamed. Lizaveta Prokofyevna held back her extreme wrath and also, perhaps, bitterly regretted having interfered in the affair; she was now silent. What occurred with the prince was what often happens with very shy people on such occasions: he was so abashed by what others had done, he felt so ashamed for his visitors, that he was afraid at first even to look at them. Ptitsyn, Varya, Ganya, even Lebedev—they all seemed to have a somewhat embarrassed look. The strangest thing was that Ippolit and "Pavlishchev's son" were also as if amazed at something; Lebedev's nephew was also visibly displeased. Only the boxer sat perfectly calm, twirling his moustaches, with an air of importance and his eyes slightly lowered, not from embarrassment, but, on the contrary, it seemed, as if out of noble modesty and all-too-obvious triumph. Everything indicated that he liked the article very much.

"This is the devil knows what," Ivan Fyodorovich grumbled in a half-whisper, "as if fifty lackeys got together to write it and wrote it."

"But al-low me to ask, my dear sir, how can you insult people with such suggestions?" Ippolit declared and trembled all over.

"That, that, that ... for a noble man . . . you yourself must agree, General, if he's a noble man, that is insulting!" grumbled the boxer, also suddenly rousing himself, twirling his moustache and twitching his shoulders and body.

"First of all, I am not 'my dear sir' to you, and second, I have no intention of giving you any explanation," Ivan Fyodorovich, terribly worked up, answered sharply, rose from his place and, without saying a word, went to the door of the terrace and stood on the top step, his back to the public, in the greatest indignation at Lizaveta Prokofyevna, who even now did not think of budging from her place.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, let me speak, finally, gentlemen," the prince exclaimed in anguish and agitation. "And do me a favor, let's talk so that we can understand each other. I don't mind the article, gentlemen, let it be; only the thing is, gentlemen, that it's all untrue, what's written in the article: I say that because you know it yourselves; it's even shameful. So that I'm decidedly amazed if it was any one of you who wrote it."

"I knew nothing about this article till this very moment," Ippolit declared. "I don't approve of this article."

"I did know the article had been written, but ... I also would have advised against publishing it, because it's too early," Lebedev's nephew added.

"I knew, but I have the right . . . I . . ." muttered "Pavlishchev's son."

"What! You made it all up by yourself?" asked the prince, looking at Burdovsky with curiosity. "It's not possible!"

"It is possible, however, not to acknowledge your right to ask such questions," Lebedev's nephew stepped in.

"I was only surprised that Mr. Burdovsky had managed to . . . but ... I mean to say that, since you've already made this affair public, why were you so offended earlier when I began speaking with my friends about this same affair?"

"Finally!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna muttered in indignation.

"And you've even forgotten, if you please, Prince," Lebedev, unable to contain himself, suddenly slipped between the chairs, almost in a fever, "you've forgotten, if you please, sir, that it's only out of your own good will and the incomparable goodness of your heart that you have received them and are listening to them, and that they have no right to make their demands, especially since you've already entrusted Gavrila Ardalionovich with this affair, and that, too, you did in your exceeding goodness, and that now, illustrious Prince, being amongst your chosen friends, you cannot sacrifice such company for these gentlemen and could show all these gentlemen, so to speak, off the premises this very moment, sir, so that I, in the quality of landlord, even with extreme pleasure . . ."

"Quite right!" General Ivolgin suddenly thundered from the depths of the room.

"Enough, Lebedev, enough, enough . . ." the prince began, but a whole burst of indignation drowned out his words.

"No, excuse us, Prince, excuse us, but now it is not enough!"

Lebedev's nephew nearly outshouted them all. "Now this affair must be stated clearly and firmly, because it's obviously misunderstood. Juridical pettifoggery got mixed into it, and on the basis of this pettifoggery we are threatened with being chucked off the premises! But is it possible, Prince, that you consider us fools to such a degree that we ourselves do not understand to what degree our affair is not a juridical one, and that if we consider it juridically, we cannot demand even a single rouble from you according to the law? But we precisely do understand that, if there is no juridical right here, there is on the other hand a human, natural one; the right of common sense and the voice of conscience, and even if our right is not written in any rotten human code, still, a noble and honest man, that is to say, a man of common sense, must remain a noble and honest man even on points that are not written down in codes. That is why we came in here, not fearing that we would be thrown off the premises (as you just threatened) for the mere reason that we do not ask but demand, and as for the impropriety of a visit at this late hour (though we did not come at a late hour, it was you who made us wait in the lackeys' quarters), that is why, I say, we came, not fearing anything, because we supposed you were precisely a man of common sense, that is, of honor and conscience. Yes, it's true, we did not come humbly, not like your spongers and fawners, but with our heads high, like free people, and by no means asking, but freely and proudly demanding (do you hear, not asking, but demanding, mark that!). Directly and with dignity, we put before you a question: do you acknowledge yourself as in the right or in the wrong in the Burdovsky affair? Do you acknowledge that Pavlishchev was your benefactor and perhaps even saved you from death? If you do (which is obvious), then do you intend, or do you find it right in all conscience, having obtained millions in your turn, to reward Pavlishchev's needy son, even though he bears the name of Burdovsky? Yes or no? If yes, that is, in other words, if there is in you that which you, in your language, call honor and conscience, and which we designate more precisely with the name of common sense, satisfy us and that will be the end of it. Satisfy us without any requests or gratitudes on our part, do not expect them from us, because you are not doing it for us, but for the sake of justice. But if you do not want to satisfy us, that is, if your reply is no, we will leave at once, and the affair ceases; but we tell you to your face, in front of all your witnesses, that you are a man of coarse

mind and low development; that you dare not and henceforth have no right to call yourself a man of honor and conscience, that you want to buy that right too cheaply. I have finished. I have stated the question. Chase us off the premises now, if you dare. You can do it, you have the power. But remember that all the same we demand, and do not ask. Demand, and do not ask!"

Lebedev's nephew, who had become very excited, stopped.

"Demand, demand, demand, and do not ask! . . ." Burdovsky babbled and turned red as a lobster.

After Lebedev's nephew's words there followed a certain general stir and a murmur even arose, though the whole company had clearly avoided mixing into the affair, with the sole exception of Lebedev, who was as if in a fever. (Strange thing: Lebedev, who was obviously on the prince's side, now seemed to feel a certain satisfaction of family pride after his nephew's speech; at least he looked around at all the public with a certain special air of satisfaction.)

"In my opinion," the prince began rather quietly, "in my opinion, Mr. Doktorenko, half of all you have just said is completely right, and I even agree that it is the greater half, and I would be in complete agreement with you, if you hadn't left something out in your words. Precisely what you left out, I'm not able and am not in a position to say exactly, but something is certainly missing that keeps your words from being wholly fair. But better let us turn to business, gentlemen. Tell me, why did you publish this article? Every word of it is slander; therefore, in my opinion, you have done something base."

"Excuse me! ..."

"My dear sir! ..."

"That . . . that . . . that ..." came at once from the agitated visitors' side.

"Concerning the article," Ippolit picked up shrilly, "concerning this article, I've already told you that I and the others disapprove of it! It was he who wrote it" (he pointed to the boxer, who was sitting next to him), "wrote it indecently, I agree, wrote it illiterately and in the style in which retired officers like him write. He is stupid and, on top of that, a speculator, I agree, I tell him that right to his face every day, but all the same he was half in his rights: publicity is everyone's lawful right, and therefore also Burdovsky's. Let him answer for his own absurdities. As for the fact that I protested earlier on behalf of all concerning the presence

of your friends, I consider it necessary, my dear sirs, to explain to you that I protested solely in order to claim our right, but that, in fact, we even welcome witnesses, and earlier, before we came in here, the four of us agreed on that. Whoever your witnesses may be, even if they're your friends, but since they cannot disagree with Burdovsky's right (because it's obvious, mathematical), it's even better if these witnesses are your friends; the truth will be manifested still more obviously."

"That's true, we agreed on that," Lebedev's nephew confirmed.

"Then why was there such noise and shouting earlier from the very first word, if you wanted it that way!" the prince was astonished.

"And concerning the article, Prince," the boxer put in, terribly anxious to stick in something of his own and feeling pleasantly lively (one might suspect that the presence of the ladies had a visible and strong effect on him), "concerning the article, I confess that I am indeed the author, though my ailing friend, whom I am accustomed to forgive because of his weakness, has just criticized it. But I did write it and published it in my good friend's magazine, as correspondence. Only the verses are actually not mine, and actually came from the pen of a famous humorist. The only one I read it to was Burdovsky, and not all of it at that, and I at once got his agreement to publish it, though you must agree that I could have published it even without his agreement. Publicity is a universal right, noble and beneficial. I hope that you yourself, Prince, are progressive enough not to deny that ..."

"I won't deny anything, but you must agree that in your article ..."

"Sharp, you want to say? But it's a question, so to speak, of the benefit of society, you must agree, and, finally, was it possible to miss such a provocative occasion? So much the worse for the guilty ones, but the benefit of society comes before all else. As for certain imprecisions, hyperboles, so to speak, you must also agree that the initiative is important before all else, the goal and intention before all else; what's important is the beneficent example, and after that we can analyze particular cases, and, finally, it's a question of style, a question, so to speak, of a humoristic task, and, finally—everybody writes like that, you must agree! Ha, ha!"

"But you're on a completely false track! I assure you, gentlemen," the prince cried, "you published your article on the assumption that I would never agree to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky, and so you

wanted to frighten me for that and be revenged somehow. But how do you know: maybe I've decided to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky. I tell you directly now, in front of everyone, that I will satisfy ..."

"Here at last is an intelligent and noble word from an intelligent and most noble man!" the boxer proclaimed.

"Lord!" escaped from Lizaveta Prokofyevna.

"This is unbearable!" muttered the general.

"Allow me, gentlemen, allow me, I will explain the matter," the prince entreated. "About five weeks ago, Mr. Burdovsky, your agent and solicitor, Chebarov, came to see me in Z-------. You describe him very flatteringly in your article, Mr. Keller," the prince, laughing suddenly, turned to the boxer, "but I didn't like him at all. I only understood from the first that this Chebarov was the chief thing and that it may have been he who prompted you to start all this, Mr. Burdovsky, taking advantage of your simplicity, if I may speak frankly."

"You have no right. . . I . . . not simple . . . that. . ." Burdovsky babbled in agitation.

"You have no right to make such assumptions," Lebedev's nephew intervened didactically.

"That is highly insulting!" shrieked Ippolit. "It's an insulting, false, and inappropriate assumption!"

"Sorry, gentlemen, sorry," the prince hastily apologized, "please forgive me; it's because I thought it would be better for us to be completely sincere with each other; but let it be as you will. I told Chebarov that, as I was not in Petersburg, I would immediately entrust a friend of mine with the conduct of this affair, and you, Mr. Burdovsky, will be informed of that. I'll tell you directly, gentlemen, that this seemed to me a most crooked affair, precisely because of Chebarov . . . Ah, don't be offended, gentlemen! For God's sake, don't be offended!" the prince cried fearfully, again seeing expressions of offended confusion in Burdovsky, of agitation and protest in his friends. "It cannot concern you personally if I say that I considered this a crooked affair! I didn't know any of you personally then, and didn't know your last names; I judged only by Chebarov. I'm speaking in general, because . . . if you only knew how terribly people have deceived me since I got my inheritance!"

"You're terribly naive, Prince," Lebedev's nephew observed mockingly.

"And with all that—a prince and a millionaire! With your maybe

indeed kind and somewhat simple heart, you are, of course, still unable to avoid the general law," Ippolit proclaimed.

"That may be, that very well may be, gentlemen," the prince hurried, "though I don't understand what general law you're talking about; but I'll continue, only don't get offended for nothing; I swear I haven't the slightest wish to offend you. And what in fact is this, gentlemen: it's impossible to say a single sincere word, or you get offended at once! But, first of all, I was terribly struck that 'Pavlishchev's son' existed, and existed in such terrible conditions as Chebarov explained to me. Pavlishchev was my benefactor and my father's friend. (Ah, what made you write such an untruth about my father in your article, Mr. Keller? There was no embezzlement of company funds, nor any offending of subordinates—I'm positively sure of that, and how could you raise your hand to write such slander?) And what you wrote about Pavlishchev is absolutely unbearable: you call that noblest of men lascivious and frivolous, so boldly, so positively, as if you were indeed telling the truth, and yet he was the most chaste man in the world! He was even a remarkable scholar; he corresponded with many respected men of science and contributed a great deal of money to science. As for his heart, his good deeds, oh, of course, you have correctly written that I was almost an idiot at that time and could understand nothing (though I did speak Russian and could understand it), but I can well appreciate all that I now remember . . ."

"Excuse me," shrieked Ippolit, "but isn't this a bit too sentimental? We're not children. You wanted to get straight to business, it's past nine, remember that."

"If you please, if you please, gentlemen," the prince agreed at once. "After my initial distrust, I decided that I might be mistaken and that Pavlishchev might actually have a son. But I was terribly struck that this son should so easily, that is, I mean to say, so publicly reveal the secret of his birth and, above all, disgrace his mother. Because Chebarov had already frightened me with publicity then . . ."

"How stupid!" Lebedev's nephew cried.

"You have no right . . . you have no right!" cried Burdovsky.

"A son isn't answerable for his father's depraved conduct, and the mother is not to blame," Ippolit shrieked vehemently.

"The sooner, it seems, she should be spared . . ." the prince said timidly.

"You're not only naive, Prince, but maybe even more far gone," Lebedev's nephew grinned spitefully.

"And what right did you have! . . ." Ippolit shrieked in a most unnatural voice.

"None, none at all!" the prince hastily interrupted. "You're right about that, I admit, but it was involuntary, and I said to myself at once just then that my personal feelings shouldn't have any influence on the affair, because if I acknowledge it as my duty to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky's demands in the name of my feelings for Pavlishchev, then I must satisfy them in any case, that is, regardless of whether or not I respect Mr. Burdovsky. I began to speak of it, gentlemen, only because it did seem unnatural to me that a son should reveal his mother's secret so publicly ... In short, that was mainly why I was convinced that Chebarov must be a blackguard and must have prompted Mr. Burdovsky, by deceit, to such crookedness."

"But this is insupportable!" came from the visitors' side, some of whom even jumped up from their seats.

"Gentlemen! That is why I decided that the unfortunate Mr. Burdovsky must be a simple, defenseless man, a man easily swayed by crooks, and thus I had all the more reason to help him as 'Pavlishchev's son'—first, by opposing Mr. Chebarov, second, by my devotion and friendship, in order to guide him, and, third, by arranging to pay him ten thousand roubles, which, as I calculate, is all that Pavlishchev could have spent on me in cash . . ."

"What! Only ten thousand!" cried Ippolit.

"Well, Prince, you're not very strong in arithmetic, or else you're very strong, though you pretend to be a simpleton!" Lebedev's nephew cried out.

"I don't agree to ten thousand," said Burdovsky.

"Antip! Agree!" the boxer, leaning over the back of Ippolit's chair, said in a quick and distinct whisper. "Agree, and then later we'll see!"

"Listen he-e-ere, Mr. Myshkin," shrieked Ippolit, "understand that we're not fools, not vulgar fools, as your guests all probably think we are, and these ladies, who are smirking at us with such indignation, and especially this high-society gentleman" (he pointed to Evgeny Pavlovich), "whom I naturally do not have the honor of knowing, but of whom I seem to have heard a thing or two ..."

"Excuse me, excuse me, gentlemen, but again you haven't understood me!" the prince addressed them in agitation. "First of all,

Mr. Keller, in your article you give an extremely inexact notion of my fortune: I didn't get any millions; I have only an eighth or a tenth part of what you suppose. Second, no one ever spent any tens of thousands on me in Switzerland: Schneider was paid six hundred roubles a year, and that only for the first three years; and Pavlishchev never went to Paris for pretty governesses—that again is slander. I think far less than ten thousand was spent on me in all, but I decided on ten thousand and, you must agree, in repaying a debt, I simply couldn't offer Mr. Burdovsky more, even if I was terribly fond of him, I couldn't do it simply from a feeling of delicacy, precisely because I was paying him back a debt and not sending him charity. I don't see how you can fail to understand that, gentlemen! But I wanted to make up for it all later by my friendship, my active participation in the fate of the unfortunate Mr. Burdovsky, who had obviously been deceived, because without deceit he himself could not have agreed to such baseness as, for instance, today's public statement about his mother in Mr. Keller's article . . . But why, finally, are you again getting so beside yourselves, gentlemen! We finally won't understand each other at all! Because it turned out my way! I'm now convinced by my own eyes that my guess was correct," the excited prince went on persuading, trying to calm the agitation and not noticing that he was only increasing it.

"How? Convinced of what?" they accosted him almost ferociously.

"But, good heavens, first of all, I myself have had time to take a very good look at Mr. Burdovsky, and I can now see for myself how he is . . . He's an innocent man, but whom everybody is deceiving! A defenseless man . . . and therefore I must spare him. And, second, Gavrila Ardalionovich, whom I entrusted with this affair and from whom I had not heard any news for a long time, because I was on the road and then sick for three days in Petersburg, now suddenly, just an hour ago, at our first meeting, informs me that he has gotten to the bottom of Chebarov's intentions, that he has proofs, and that Chebarov is precisely what I supposed him to be. I know, gentlemen, that many people consider me an idiot, and Chebarov, going by my reputation for giving money away easily, thought it would be very easy to deceive me, counting precisely on my feelings for Pavlishchev. But the main thing is—no, hear me out, gentlemen, hear me out!—the main thing is that now it suddenly turns out that Mr. Burdovsky isn't Pavlishchev's son at

all! Gavrila Ardalionovich just told me so, and he assures me that he has obtained positive proofs. Well, how does that strike you? It's impossible to believe it, after all that's gone on already! Positive proofs—you hear! I still don't believe it, I don't believe it myself, I assure you; I'm still doubtful, because Gavrila Ardalionovich hasn't had time yet to tell me all the details, but that Chebarov is a blackguard there is not longer any doubt! He has duped the unfortunate Mr. Burdovsky and all of you, gentlemen, who came nobly to support your friend (for he obviously needs support, I do understand that!), he has duped you all, and involved you in a crooked affair, because it's all essentially knavery and crookedness!"

"What's crooked about it! . . . How is he not 'Pavlishchev's son'? .. . How is it possible!. .." exclamations rang out. Burdovsky's whole company was in inexpressible confusion.

"But naturally it's crooked! You see, if Mr. Burdovsky now turns out not to be 'Pavlishchev's son,' then in that case Mr. Burdovsky's demand turns out to be downright crooked (that is, of course, if he knew the truth!), but the thing is that he was deceived, that's why I insist that he be vindicated; that's why I say that he deserves to be pitied in his simplicity, and cannot be left without support; otherwise he, too, will come out as a crook in this affair. And I myself am convinced that he doesn't understand a thing! I, too, was in such a condition before I left for Switzerland; I, too, babbled incoherent words—you want to express yourself and can't ... I understand it; I can sympathize very much, because I'm almost like that myself, I'm permitted to speak! And, finally, I still— despite the fact that 'Pavlishchev's son' is no more and it all turns out to be a mystification—I still haven't changed my decision and am ready to hand over the ten thousand in memory of Pavlishchev. I wanted to use this ten thousand to start a school in memory of Pavlishchev even before Mr. Burdovsky appeared, but now it won't make any difference whether it's a school or Mr. Burdovsky, because if Mr. Burdovsky is not 'Pavlishchev's son,' he's almost like 'Pavlishchev's son,' because he has been so wickedly deceived: he sincerely considered himself the son of Pavlishchev! Now listen to Gavrila Ardalionovich, gentlemen, let's be done with it—don't be angry, don't worry, sit down! Gavrila Ardalionovich will explain it all now, and, I confess, I'm extremely anxious to learn all the details myself. He says he even went to Pskov to see your mother, Mr. Burdovsky, who didn't die at all, as you were forced to write in the article ... Sit down, gentlemen, sit down!"

The prince sat down and managed to get the Burdovsky company, who had all jumped up from their places, to sit down again. For the last ten or twenty minutes he had been speaking vehemently, loudly, in an impatient patter, carried away, trying to talk above them all, to outshout them, and, of course, later he would bitterly regret some of the phrases and surmises that had escaped him. If he had not been so excited and all but beside himself, he would never have permitted himself to speak some of his guesses and needless sincerities aloud so baldly and hastily. But as soon as he sat down, one burning regret painfully pierced his heart. Besides the fact that he had "insulted" Burdovsky by so publicly supposing him to have the same illness for which he himself had been treated in Switzerland—besides that, the offer of the ten thousand instead of the school had, in his opinion, been made crudely and carelessly, as if it were charity, and precisely in that it had been spoken aloud in front of other people. "I should have waited and offered it tomorrow when we were alone," the prince thought at once, "and now it's unlikely that I can put it right! Yes, I'm an idiot, a real idiot!" he decided to himself in a fit of shame and extreme distress.

Meanwhile Gavrila Ardalionovich, who till then had kept himself apart and remained stubbornly silent, came forward at the prince's invitation, stood beside him, and began calmly and clearly to give an account of the affair entrusted to him by the prince. All talk instantly stopped. Everyone listened with extreme curiosity, especially Burdovsky's whole company.

IX

You will not, of course, deny," Gavrila Ardalionovich began, directly addressing Burdovsky, who was listening to him as hard as he could, his astonished eyes popping out, and was obviously in great confusion, "you will not, and will not wish, of course, to deny seriously that you were born exactly two years after your esteemed mother entered into lawful wedlock with the collegiate secretary Mr. Burdovsky, your father. The date of your birth is only too easy to prove factually, so that the distortion of this fact in Mr. Keller's article, so offensive to you and to your mother, can be explained only by the playful personal fantasy of Mr. Keller, who hoped thereby to strengthen the obviousness of your right and thereby contribute to your interests. Mr. Keller says

that he read the article to you prior to publication, though not all of it ... no doubt he stopped before reading you this part . . ."

"I didn't, actually," the boxer interrupted, "but I was informed of all the facts by competent persons, and I . . ."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Keller," Gavrila Ardalionovich stopped him, "allow me to speak. I assure you, we will get to your article in its turn, and then you can offer your explanation, but now let us proceed in order. Quite by chance, with the help of my sister, Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsyn, I obtained from her close friend, Vera Alexeevna Zubkov, a landowner and a widow, a letter from the late Nikolai Andreevich Pavlishchev, written to her from abroad twenty-four years ago. Having approached Vera Alexeevna, I was directed by her to retired Colonel Timofei Fyodorovich Vyazovkin, a distant relation, and, in his time, a great friend of Mr. Pavlishchev. From him I managed to obtain two more of Nikolai Andreevich's letters, also written from abroad. These three letters, the dates and facts mentioned in them, prove mathematically, with no possibility of refutation or even doubt, that Nikolai Andreevich went abroad (where he spent the next three years) exactly a year and a half before you were born, Mr. Burdovsky. Your mother, as you know, never left Russia ... I will not read these letters at the present time. It is late now; I am, in any case, only stating the fact. But if you wish to make an appointment with me, Mr. Burdovsky, say, for tomorrow morning, and bring your own witnesses (as many as you like) and experts in the identification of handwriting, I have no doubt that you will not fail to be convinced of the obvious truth of the fact of which I have informed you. And if so, then, naturally, this whole affair collapses and ceases of itself."

Again a general stir and profound agitation ensued. Burdovsky himself suddenly got up from his chair.

"If so, then I was deceived, deceived, not by Chebarov, but long, long ago. I don't want any experts, I don't want any appointments, I believe you, I renounce ... no need for the ten thousand . . . good-bye . . ."

He took his peaked cap and pushed a chair aside in order to leave.

"If you can, Mr. Burdovsky," Gavrila Ardalionovich said softly and sweetly, "please stay for another five minutes or so. Several more extremely important facts have been discovered in this affair, quite curious ones, especially for you in any case. In my opinion, you ought without fail to become acquainted with them, and for

you yourself, perhaps, it will be more pleasant if the affair is completely cleared up . . ."

Burdovsky sat down silently, bowing his head a little, as if in deep thought. After him, Lebedev's nephew, who had also gotten up to go with him, sat down again; though he had not lost his head or his pluck, he was obviously greatly puzzled. Ippolit was downcast, sad, and seemed very surprised. Just then, however, he began to cough so hard that he even got bloodstains on his handkerchief. The boxer was all but frightened.

"Eh, Antip!" he cried bitterly. "Didn't I tell you then . . . two days ago . . . that maybe in fact you're not Pavlishchev's son?"

Suppressed laughter was heard, two or three laughed louder than the others.

"The fact of which you have just informed us, Mr. Keller," Gavrila Ardalionovich picked up, "is a very precious one. Nevertheless I have the full right, on the basis of very precise data, to maintain that Mr. Burdovsky, though he was, of course, only too well aware of the date of his birth, was completely unaware of the circumstances of Pavlishchev's residence abroad, where Mr. Pavlishchev spent the greater part of his life, never returning to Russia for more than short periods. Besides that, the very fact of his departure at that time is so unremarkable in itself that even those who knew Pavlishchev intimately would hardly remember it after more than twenty years, to say nothing of Mr. Burdovsky, who was not even born yet. Of course, to obtain information now turned out to be not impossible; but I must confess that the information I received came to me quite by chance, and might very well not have come; so that for Mr. Burdovsky, and even for Chebarov, this information would indeed have been almost impossible to obtain, even if they had taken it into their heads to obtain it. But they might not have taken it into their heads . . ."

"If you please, Mr. Ivolgin," Ippolit suddenly interrupted him irritably, "why all this galimatias (forgive me)? The affair has been explained, we agree to believe the main fact, why drag out this painful and offensive rigmarole any longer? Maybe you want to boast about the deftness of your research, to show us and the prince what a good investigator and sleuth you are? Or do you mean to try to excuse and vindicate Burdovsky by the fact that he got mixed up in this affair out of ignorance? But that is impudent, my dear sir! Burdovsky has no need of your vindications and excuses, let that be known to you! He's offended, it's painful for him as it is,

he's in an awkward position, you ought to have guessed, to have understood that. . ."

"Enough, Mr. Terentyev, enough," Gavrila Ardalionovich managed to interrupt him. "Calm down, don't get irritated; you seem to be very ill? I sympathize with you. In that case, if you wish, I'm done, that is, I am forced to convey only briefly those facts which, in my conviction, it would not be superfluous to know in all their fullness," he added, noticing a general movement that looked like impatience. "I merely wish to tell you, with evidence, for the information of all those interested in the affair, that your mother, Mr. Burdovsky, enjoyed the affection and care of Pavlishchev solely because she was the sister of a house-serf girl with whom Mr. Pavlishchev had been in love in his early youth, so much so that he would certainly have married her if she had not died unexpectedly. I have proofs that this family fact, absolutely precise and true, is very little known, even quite forgotten. Furthermore, I could explain how your mother, as a ten-year-old child, was taken by Mr. Pavlishchev to be brought up like a relation, that a significant dowry was set aside for her, and that all these cares generated extremely alarmed rumors among Pavlishchev's numerous relations: they even thought he might marry his ward, but in the end she married by inclination (and I can prove that in the most precise fashion) a land surveyor, Mr. Burdovsky, when she was nineteen. Here I have gathered several very precise facts proving that your father, Mr. Burdovsky, a totally impractical man, having received fifteen thousand as your mother's dowry, abandoned his job, got into commercial ventures, was cheated, lost his capital, could not bear his grief, began to drink, which caused his illness, and finally died prematurely, in the eighth year of his marriage to your mother. Then, according to your mother's own testimony, she was left destitute and would have perished altogether without the constant and magnanimous assistance of Pavlishchev, who gave her up to six hundred roubles a year as support. Then there are countless testimonies that he was extremely fond of you as a child. According to these testimonies, and again with your mother's confirmation, it appears that he loved you mainly because as a child you had a speech defect and the look of a cripple, a pathetic, miserable child (and Pavlishchev, as I have deduced from precise evidence, had all his life a certain tender inclination towards everything oppressed and wronged by nature, especially in children—a fact, in my conviction, of extreme importance for our affair). Finally, I can boast of the

most precise findings about the main fact of how this great attachment to you on the part of Pavlishchev (through whose efforts you entered high school and studied under special supervision) in the end gradually produced among Pavlishchev's relations and household the notion that you were his son and that your father was merely a deceived husband. But the main thing is that this notion hardened into a precise and general conviction only in the last years of Pavlishchev's life, when everyone had fears about the will and all the original facts were forgotten and inquiries were impossible. Undoubtedly this notion reached you, Mr. Burdovsky, and took complete possession of you. Your mother, whose acquaintance I had the honor of making personally, knew all about these rumors, but does not know to this day (I, too, concealed it from her) that you, her son, were also under the spell of this rumor. I found your much-esteemed mother in Pskov, Mr. Burdovsky, beset by illnesses and in the most extreme poverty, which she fell into after Pavlishchev's death. She told me with tears of gratitude that she was alive in the world only through you and your support; she expects much from you in the future and fervently believes in your future success . . ."

"This is finally unbearable!" Lebedev's nephew suddenly declared loudly and impatiently. "Why this whole novel?"

"Disgustingly indecent!" Ippolit stirred violently. But Burdovsky noticed nothing and did not even budge.

"Why? How so?" Gavrila Ardalionovich said in sly astonishment, venomously preparing to set forth his conclusion. "First, Mr. Burdovsky can now be fully certain that Mr. Pavlishchev loved him out of magnanimity and not as a son. It was necessary that Mr. Burdovsky learn at least this one fact, since he confirmed and approved of Mr. Keller after the reading of the article. I say this, Mr. Burdovsky, because I consider you a noble man. Second, it turns out that there was no thievery or crookedness here even on Chebarov's part; this is an important point even for me, because just now the prince, being overexcited, mentioned that I was supposedly of the same opinion about the thievery and crookedness in this unfortunate affair. Here, on the contrary, there was full conviction on all sides, and though Chebarov may be a great crook, in this affair he comes out as no more than a pettifogger, a scrivener, a speculator. He hoped to make big money as a lawyer, and his calculation was not only subtle and masterful, but also most certain: he based it on the ease with which the prince gives money away

and on his gratefully respectful feeling for the late Pavlishchev; he based it, finally (which is most important), on certain chivalrous views the prince holds concerning the duties of honor and conscience. As far as Mr. Burdovsky himself is concerned, it may even be said that, owing to certain convictions of his, he was so set up by Chebarov and the company around him that he started the affair almost not out of self-interest at all, but almost in the service of truth, progress, and mankind. Now that these facts have been made known, it must be clear to everyone that Mr. Burdovsky is a pure man, despite all appearances, and now the prince can, the sooner and all the more willingly than before, offer him both his friendly assistance and the active help which he mentioned earlier, speaking about schools and Pavlishchev."

"Stop, Gavrila Ardalionovich, stop!" the prince cried in genuine alarm, but it was too late.

"I've said, I've already said three times," Burdovsky cried irritably, "that I don't want any money! I won't accept . . . what for ... I don't want . . . away!"

And he nearly rushed off the terrace. But Lebedev's nephew seized him by the arm and whispered something to him. The man quickly came back and, taking a large unsealed envelope from his pocket, threw it down on a little table near the prince.

"Here's the money! . . . You shouldn't have dared . . . you shouldn't have! . . . Money! . . ."

"The two hundred and fifty roubles that you dared to send him as charity through Chebarov," Doktorenko explained.

"The article said fifty!" cried Kolya.

"I'm to blame!" said the prince, going up to Burdovsky. "I'm very much to blame before you, Burdovsky, but, believe me, I didn't send it as charity. I'm to blame now ... I was to blame earlier." (The prince was very upset, he looked tired and weak, and his words were incoherent.) "I said that about crookedness . . . but it wasn't about you, I was mistaken. I said that you . . . are like me— a sick man. But you're not like me, you . . . give lessons, you support your mother. I said you had disgraced your mother, but you love her; she says so herself ... I didn't know . . . Gavrila Ardalionovich didn't finish telling me . . . I'm to blame. I dared to offer you ten thousand, but I'm to blame, I ought to have done it differently, and now ... it's impossible, because you despise me . . ."

"This is a madhouse!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna cried out.

"Of course, a house full of madmen!" Aglaya lost patience and

spoke sharply, but her words were drowned in the general noise; everyone was talking loudly, everyone was arguing, some disputing, some laughing. Ivan Fyodorovich Epanchin was in the utmost degree of indignation, and, with an air of offended dignity, was waiting for Lizaveta Prokofyevna. Lebedev's nephew put in a last little word:

"Yes, Prince, you must be given credit, you're so good at exploiting your . . . hm, sickness (to put it decently); you managed to offer your friendship and money in such a clever form that it is now quite impossible for a noble man to accept them. It's either all too innocent, or all too clever . . . you, however, know which."

"If you please, gentlemen," cried Gavrila Ardalionovich, who had meanwhile opened the envelope with the money, "there are not two hundred and fifty roubles here, but only a hundred. I say it, Prince, so that there will be no misunderstandings."

"Let it be, let it be," the prince waved his arms at Gavrila Ardalionovich.

"No, don't 'let it be'!" Lebedev's nephew immediately latched on to it. "Your 'let it be' is insulting to us, Prince. We're not hiding, we declare openly: yes, there's only a hundred roubles here, and not the whole two hundred and fifty, but isn't it all the same . . ."

"N-no, it's not all the same," Gavrila Ardalionovich managed to put in, with a look of naïve perplexity.

"Don't interrupt me, we're not such fools as you think, mister lawyer," Lebedev's nephew exclaimed with spiteful vexation. "Of course, a hundred roubles aren't two hundred and fifty, and it's not all the same, but what's important is the principle; it's the initiative that's important and the fact of the missing hundred and fifty roubles is merely a detail. What's important is that Burdovsky does not accept charity from you, Your Highness, that he throws it in your face, and in this sense a hundred is the same as two hundred and fifty. Burdovsky did not accept the ten thousand, you saw that; he wouldn't have brought the hundred roubles if he were dishonest! Those hundred and fifty roubles were Chebarov's expenses for traveling to see the prince. Sooner laugh at our clumsiness and our inexperience in handling the affair; you've already done all you could to make us look ridiculous; but do not dare to say we're dishonest. All of us together will pay the prince back these hundred and fifty roubles, my dear sir; we will pay it back even if it's rouble by rouble, and we will pay it back with interest. Burdovsky is poor, Burdovsky has no millions, and Chebarov presented the bill after

his trip. We hoped to win . . . Who would have acted differently in his place?"

"What do you mean who?" exclaimed Prince Shch.

"I'll go out of my mind here!" cried Lizaveta Prokofyevna.

"This reminds me," laughed Evgeny Pavlovich, who had long been standing and watching, "of a famous defense made recently by a lawyer, who, presenting poverty as an excuse for his client, who had murdered six people at one go in order to rob them, suddenly concluded along these lines: 'It is natural,' he says, 'that my client, out of poverty, should have taken it into his head to commit this murder of six people, and who in his place would not have taken it into his head?' Something along those lines, only very amusing."

"Enough!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly announced, almost trembling with wrath. "It's time to break off this galimatias! . . ."

She was in the most terrible agitation; she threw her head back menacingly and, with haughty, burning, and impatient defiance, passed her flashing gaze over the whole company, scarcely distinguishing at that moment her friends from her enemies. This was the point of a long-suppressed but finally unleashed wrath, when the main impulse is immediate battle, the immediate need to fall upon someone as soon as possible. Those who knew Lizaveta Prokofyevna sensed at once that something peculiar was happening with her. Ivan Fyodorovich said the next day to Prince Shch. that "it happens with her, but even with her it rarely happens to such a degree as yesterday, perhaps once in three years, but never more often! never more often!" he added in clarification.

"Enough, Ivan Fyodorovich! Let me be!" exclaimed Lizaveta Prokofyevna. "Why do you offer me your arm now? You weren't able to take me away earlier; you're a husband, you're the head of the family; you should have led me out by the ear, fool that I am, if I didn't obey you and leave. You should have done it at least for your daughters' sake! But now we'll find our way without you, this is shame enough for a whole year . . . Wait, I still want to thank the prince! . . . Thank you, Prince, for the treat! Here I sat, listening to our young people . . . How base, how base! It's chaos, outrage, you don't even dream of such things! Are there many like them? . . . Silence, Aglaya! Silence, Alexandra! It's none of your business! . . . Don't fuss around me, Evgeny Pavlych, I'm tired of you! ... So you, my dearest, are asking their forgiveness," she picked up again, turning to the prince. "'I'm sorry,' you say, 'that

I dared to offer you capital' . . . and what are you laughing at, you little fanfaron!" she suddenly fell upon Lebedev's nephew. "'We refuse the capital,' he says, 'we demand, and do not ask!' As if he doesn't know that tomorrow this idiot will again drag himself to them offering his friendship and capital! Will you go? Will you go or not?"

"I will," said the prince in a quiet and humble voice.

"You've heard it! And that is what you were counting on," she turned to Doktorenko again. "The money's as good as in your pocket, that's why you're playing the fanfaron, blowing smoke in our eyes . . . No, my dear, find yourself some other fools, I can see through you ... I see your whole game!"

"Lizaveta Prokofyevna!" exclaimed the prince.

"Let's go home, Lizaveta Prokofyevna, it's high time, and we'll take the prince with us," Prince Shch., smiling, said as calmly as he could.

The girls stood to one side, almost frightened, and the general was frightened in earnest; the whole company was astonished. Some, those who stood a little further away, smiled slyly and exchanged whispers; Lebedev's face displayed the utmost degree of rapture.

"You can find outrage and chaos everywhere, ma'am," Lebedev's nephew said, though significantly puzzled.

"But not like that! Not like yours just now, dear boys, not like that!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna picked up gleefully, as if in hysterics. "Oh, do let me be," she shouted at those who were persuading her, "no, since even you yourself, Evgeny Pavlych, told us just now that even the defense lawyer himself said in court that there was nothing more natural than doing in six people out of poverty, then the last times have really come. I've never yet heard of such a thing. Now it's all clear to me! Wouldn't this tongue-tied one here put a knife in somebody?" (She pointed to Burdovsky, who was looking at her in extreme perplexity.) "I bet he would! Your money, your ten thousand, perhaps he won't take, perhaps in good conscience he won't, but he'll come in the night and put a knife in you, and take it from the strongbox. Take it in good conscience! He doesn't find it dishonest! It's 'a noble impulse of despair,' it's 'negation,' or devil knows what it is . . . Pah! Everything's inside out, everybody's topsy-turvy. A girl grows up at home, suddenly in the middle of the street she jumps into a droshky: 'Mummy dear, the other day I got married to somebody-or-other Karlych or Ivanych, good-

bye!'³⁹ Is that a good way to behave, in your opinion? Is it natural, is it worthy of respect? The woman question? This boy here" (she pointed to Kolya), "even he insisted the other day that that is what the 'woman question' means. The mother may be a fool, but still you must treat her humanly! . . . And you, walking in earlier with your heads thrown back? 'Out of the way: we're coming. Give us all the rights, and don't you dare make a peep before us. Show us all respect, even such as doesn't exist, and we'll treat you worse than the lowest lackey!' They seek truth, they insist on their rights, yet they themselves slander him up and down like heathens in their article. 'We demand, and do not ask, and you'll get no gratitude from us, because you do it for the satisfaction of your own conscience!' Nice morality! But if there'll be no gratitude from you, then the prince can also say in answer to you that he feels no gratitude towards Pavlishchev, because Pavlishchev did good for the satisfaction of his own conscience. And this gratitude towards Pavlishchev was the only thing you were counting on: he didn't borrow money from you, he doesn't owe you anything, what were you counting on if not gratitude? How, then, can you renounce it yourselves? Madmen! You acknowledge that society is savage and inhuman because it disgraces a seduced girl. But if you acknowledge that society is inhuman, it means you acknowledge that this girl has been hurt by this society. But if she's been hurt, why, then, do you yourselves bring her out in front of that same society in your newspapers and demand that it not hurt her? Mad! Vainglorious! They don't believe in God, they don't believe in Christ! You're so eaten up by vanity and pride that you'll end by eating each other, that I foretell to you. Isn't this havoc, isn't it chaos, isn't it an outrage? And after that this disgraceful creature goes asking their forgiveness! Are there many like you? What are you grinning at: that I've disgraced myself with you? Well, so I'm disgraced, there's no help for it now! . . . And take that grin off your face, you stinker!" (she suddenly fell on Ippolit). "He can barely breathe, yet he corrupts others. You've corrupted this boy for me" (she pointed to Kolya again). "He raves about you only, you teach him atheism, you don't believe in God, but you could do with a good whipping, my dear sir! Ah, I spit on you all! ... So you'll go to them, Prince Lev Nikolaevich, you'll go to them tomorrow?" she asked the prince again, almost breathless.

"I will."

"Then I don't want to know you!" She quickly turned to leave,

but suddenly turned back again. "And you'll go to this atheist?" she pointed to Ippolit. "Why are you grinning at me!" she exclaimed somehow unnaturally and suddenly rushed at Ippolit, unable to bear his sarcastic grin.

"Lizaveta Prokofyevna! Lizaveta Prokofyevna! Lizaveta Prokofyevna!" came from all sides at once.

"Maman, it's shameful!" Aglaya cried loudly.

"Don't worry, Aglaya Ivanovna," Ippolit replied calmly. Lizaveta Prokofyevna, who had run up to him, seized him and for some unknown reason held him tightly by the arm; she stood before him, her furious gaze as if riveted to him. "Don't worry, your maman will realize that one cannot fall upon a dying man . . . I'm prepared to explain why I laughed ... I'd be very glad to be permitted ..."

Here he suddenly began coughing terribly and for a whole minute could not calm the cough.

"He's dying, and he goes on orating!" exclaimed Lizaveta Prokofyevna, letting go of his arm and watching almost with horror as he wiped the blood from his lips. "What are you talking for! You should simply go to bed ..."

"So it will be," Ippolit replied quietly, hoarsely, and almost in a whisper. "As soon as I go home tonight, I'll lie down at once . . .

in two weeks I'll be dead, I know that . . . Last week -------n⁴⁰ told me himself. . . So, with your permission, I would like to say a couple of words to you in farewell."

"Are you out of your mind, or what? Nonsense! You must be treated, this is no time for talking! Go, go, lie down! . . ." Lizaveta Prokofyevna cried in fright.

"If I lie down, then I won't get up till I die," Ippolit smiled. "Yesterday I wanted to lie down like that and not get up till I die, but I decided to postpone it for two days, while I can still use my legs ... in order to come here with them today . . . only I'm very tired ..."

"Sit down, sit down, don't stand there! Here's a chair for you," Lizaveta Prokofyevna roused herself and moved a chair for him.

"Thank you," Ippolit continued quietly, "and you sit down opposite me, and we'll talk . . . we'll certainly talk, Lizaveta Prokofyevna, I insist on it now . . ." He smiled at her again. "Think of it, today I'm outside and with people for the last time, and in two weeks I'll probably be under the ground. So this will be a sort of farewell both to people and to nature. Though I'm not very

sentimental, you can imagine how glad I am that it all happened here in Pavlovsk: at least you can look at a tree in leaf."

"What's this talk now," Lizaveta Prokofyevna was becoming more and more frightened, "you're all feverish. You were just shrieking and squealing, and now you're out of breath, suffocating!"

"I'll rest presently. Why do you want to deny me my last wish? . . . You know . . . I've long been dreaming of somehow getting to know you, Lizaveta Prokofyevna; I've heard a lot about you . . . from Kolya; he's almost the only one who hasn't abandoned me . . . You're an original woman, an eccentric woman, now I've seen it myself. . . you know, I even loved you a little."

"Lord, and I was really about to hit him."

"It was Aglaya Ivanovna who held you back. I'm not mistaken? This is your daughter Aglaya Ivanovna? She's so pretty that I guessed it was her at first sight earlier, though I'd never seen her before. Grant me at least to look at a beautiful girl for the last time in my life," Ippolit smiled a sort of awkward, crooked smile. "The prince is here, and your husband, and the whole company. Why would you deny me my last wish?"

"A chair!" cried Lizaveta Prokofyevna, but she seized one herself and sat down facing Ippolit. "Kolya," she ordered, "go with him at once, take him home, and tomorrow I myself will be sure to . . ."

"If you'll permit me, I'd like to ask the prince for a cup of tea . . . I'm very tired. You know, Lizaveta Prokofyevna, it seems you wanted to take the prince home with you for tea; stay here instead, we can spend some time together, and the prince will surely give us all tea. Excuse me for giving orders like that. . . But I know you, you're kind, so is the prince . . . we're all so kind it's comical . . ."

The prince got into a flutter, Lebedev rushed headlong out of the room, and Vera ran after him.

"That's true, too," Mrs. Epanchin decided abruptly. "Talk, then, only more softly, and don't get carried away. You've made me all pitiful. . . Prince! You're not worthy of my having tea with you, but so be it, I'm staying, though I ask nobody's forgiveness! Nobody's! Nonsense! . . . Forgive me, though, if I scolded you, Prince— though only if you want to. Though I'm not keeping anybody," she suddenly turned to her husband and daughters with a look of extraordinary wrath, as if it were they who were terribly guilty before her for something, "I can find my way home by myself. . ."

But they did not let her finish. They all came and eagerly gathered around her. The prince at once began begging everyone

to stay for tea and apologized for not having thought of it till then. Even the general was so amiable as to mutter something reassuring and amiably ask Lizaveta Prokofyevna whether it was not, after all, too cool for her on the terrace. He even all but asked Ippolit how long he had been studying at the university, but he did not ask. Evgeny Pavlovich and Prince Shch. suddenly became extremely amiable and merry; the faces of Adelaida and Alexandra, through their continuing astonishment, even expressed pleasure; in short, everyone was obviously glad that Lizaveta Prokofyevna's crisis was over. Only Aglaya was sullen and silently sat down a little way off. The rest of the company also stayed; no one wanted to leave, not even General Ivolgin, to whom Lebedev, however, whispered something in passing, probably something not entirely pleasant, because the general at once effaced himself somewhere in a corner. The prince also went and invited Burdovsky and his company, not leaving anyone out. They muttered with a strained air that they would wait for Ippolit, and withdrew at once to the furthest corner of the terrace, where they all sat down side by side again. Lebedev had probably had tea prepared for himself long ago, because it appeared at once. The clock struck eleven.

X

Ippolit moistened his lips with the cup of tea Vera Lebedev served him, set the cup down on the table, and suddenly, as if abashed, looked around almost in embarrassment.

"Look, Lizaveta Prokofyevna, these cups," he was hurrying somehow strangely, "these china cups, and fine china by the look of it, Lebedev always keeps locked up in a glass case; he never serves them . . . the usual thing, they came with his wife's dowry . . . the usual thing with them . . . and now he's served them, in your honor, naturally, he's so glad . . ."

He wanted to add something more, but found no words.

"He got embarrassed, just as I expected," Evgeny Pavlovich suddenly whispered in the prince's ear. "That's dangerous, eh? The surest sign that now, out of spite, he'll pull off something so eccentric that even Lizaveta Prokofyevna may not be able to sit it out."

The prince looked at him questioningly.

"You're not afraid of eccentricity?" Evgeny Pavlovich added. "I'm not either, I even wish for it; in fact, all I want is that our dear

Lizaveta Prokofyevna be punished, and that without fail, today, right now; I don't want to leave without that. You seem to be feverish?"

"Later, don't interfere. Yes, I'm unwell," the prince replied distractedly and even impatiently. He had heard his name, Ippolit was speaking about him.

"You don't believe it?" Ippolit laughed hysterically. "That's as it should be, but the prince will believe it from the first and won't be the least surprised."

"Do you hear, Prince?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned to him. "Do you hear?"

There was laughter all around. Lebedev fussily thrust himself forward and squirmed right in front of Lizaveta Prokofyevna.

"He says that this clown here, your landlord . . . corrected the article for that gentleman, the one that was just read about you."

The prince looked at Lebedev in surprise.

"Why are you silent?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna even stamped her foot.

"Well," the prince murmured, continuing to scrutinize Lebedev, "I can already see that he did."

"Is it true?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna quickly turned to Lebedev.

"The real truth, Your Excellency!" Lebedev replied firmly and unshakeably, placing his hand on his heart.

"It's as if he's boasting!" she all but jumped in her chair.

"I'm mean, mean!" Lebedev murmured, beginning to beat his breast and bowing his head lower and lower.

"What do I care if you're mean! He thinks he can say 'I'm mean' and wriggle out of it. Aren't you ashamed, Prince, to keep company with such wretched little people, I say it again? I'll never forgive you!

"The prince will forgive me!" Lebedev said with conviction and affection.

"Solely out of nobility," Keller, suddenly jumping over to them, began loudly and resoundingly, addressing Lizaveta Prokofyevna directly, "solely out of nobility, ma'am, and so as not to give away a compromised friend, did I conceal the fact of the correcting earlier, though he suggested chucking us down the stairs, as you heard yourself. So as to reestablish the truth, I confess that I actually did turn to him, for six roubles, though not at all for the style, but, essentially, as a competent person, to find out the facts, which for the most part were unknown to me. About his gaiters,

about his appetite at the Swiss professor's, about the fifty roubles instead of two hundred and fifty, in short, that whole grouping, all belongs to him, for six roubles, but the style wasn't corrected."

"I must observe," Lebedev interrupted him with feverish impatience and in a sort of creeping voice, while the laughter spread more and more, "that I corrected only the first half of the article, but since we disagreed in the middle and quarreled over an idea, I left the second half of the article uncorrected, sir, so all that's illiterate there (and it is illiterate!) can't be ascribed to me, sir . . ."

"See what he's fussing about!" cried Lizaveta Prokofyevna.

"If I may ask," Evgeny Pavlovich turned to Keller, "when was the article corrected?"

"Yesterday morning," Keller reported, "we had a meeting, promising on our word of honor to keep the secret on both sides."

"That was when he was crawling before you and assuring you of his devotion! Ah, wretched little people! I don't need your Pushkin, and your daughter needn't come to see me!"

Lizaveta Prokofyevna was about to get up, but suddenly turned irritably to the laughing Ippolit:

"What is it, my dear, have you decided to make me a laughingstock here?"

"God save us," Ippolit smiled crookedly, "but I'm struck most of all by your extreme eccentricity, Lizaveta Prokofyevna; I confess, I deliberately slipped that in about Lebedev, I knew how it would affect you, affect you alone, because the prince really will forgive him and probably already has . . . maybe has even already found an excuse in his mind—is it so, Prince, am I right?"

He was breathless, his strange excitement was growing with every word.

"Well? . . ." Lizaveta Prokofyevna said wrathfully, surprised at his tone. "Well?"

"About you I've already heard a lot, in that same vein . . . with great gladness . . . have learned to have the highest respect for you," Ippolit went on.

He was saying one thing, but as if he wanted to say something quite different with the same words. He spoke with a shade of mockery and at the same time was disproportionately agitated, looked around suspiciously, was evidently confused and at a loss for every word, all of which, together with his consumptive look and strange, glittering, and as if frenzied gaze, involuntarily continued to draw people's attention to him.

"I'd be quite surprised, however, not knowing society (I admit it), that you not only remained in the company of our people tonight, which is quite unsuitable for you, but that you also kept these . . . girls here to listen to a scandalous affair, though they've already read it all in novels. However, I may not know . . . because I get confused, but, in any case, who except you would have stayed ... at the request of a boy (yes, a boy, again I admit it) to spend an evening with him and take . . . part in everything and ... so as ... to be ashamed the next day ... (I agree, however, that I'm not putting it right), I praise all that highly and deeply respect it, though by the mere look of his excellency your husband one can see how unpleasant it all is for him . . . heh, hee!" he tittered, quite confused, and suddenly went into such a fit of coughing that for some two minutes he was unable to go on.

"He even choked!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna said coldly and sharply, studying him with stern curiosity. "Well, dear boy, enough of you. It's time to go!"

"And allow me, my dear sir, for my part, to point out to you," Ivan Fyodorovich, having lost all patience, suddenly said vexedly, "that my wife is here visiting Prince Lev Nikolaevich, our mutual friend and neighbor, and that in any case it is not for you, young man, to judge Lizaveta Prokofyevna's actions, nor to refer aloud and in my teeth to what is written on my face. No, sir. And if my wife stayed here," he went on, growing more and more vexed with every word, "it was sooner out of amazement, sir, and an understandable contemporary curiosity to see some strange young people. And I myself stayed, as I stop sometimes in the street when I see something that can be looked upon as ... as ... as .. ."

"As a rarity," prompted Evgeny Pavlovich.

"Excellent and right," rejoiced his excellency, who had become a bit muddled in his comparison, "precisely as a rarity. But in any case, for me what is most amazing and even chagrining, if it may be put that way grammatically, is that you, young man, were not even able to understand that Lizaveta Prokofyevna stayed with you now because you are ill—if you are indeed dying—out of compassion, so to speak, on account of your pathetic words, sir, and that no sort of mud can cling to her name, qualities, and importance . . . Lizaveta Prokofyevna!" the flushed general concluded, "if you want to go, let us take leave of our good prince . . ."

"Thank you for the lesson, General," Ippolit interrupted gravely and unexpectedly, looking at him pensively.

"Let's go, maman, how long must this continue!" Aglaya said impatiently and wrathfully, getting up from her chair.

"Two more minutes, my dear Ivan Fyodorovich, if you permit," Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned to her husband with dignity, "it seems to me that he's all feverish and simply raving; I'm convinced by his eyes; he cannot be left like this. Lev Nikolaevich! May he spend the night here, so that they won't have to drag him to Petersburg tonight? Cher prince, are you bored?" she suddenly turned to Prince Shch. for some reason. "Come here, Alexandra, your hair needs putting right, my dear."

She put right her hair, which did not need putting right, and kissed her; that was all she had called her for.

"I considered you capable of development . . ." Ippolit spoke again, coming out of his pensiveness. "Yes! this is what I wanted to say." He was glad, as if he had suddenly remembered: "Burdovsky here sincerely wants to protect his mother, isn't that so? And it turns out that he disgraces her. The prince here wants to help Burdovsky, offers him, with purity of heart, his tender friendship and his capital, and is maybe the only one among you all who does not feel loathing for him, and here they stand facing each other like real enemies . . . Ha, ha, ha! You all hate Burdovsky, because in your opinion his attitude towards his mother is not beautiful and graceful—right? right? right? And you're all terribly fond of the beauty and gracefulness of forms, you stand on that alone, isn't it so? (I've long suspected it was on that alone!) Well, know, then, that maybe not one of you has loved his mother as Burdovsky has! You, Prince, I know, sent money to Burdovsky's mother on the quiet, through Ganechka, and I'll bet—hee, hee, hee!" (he giggled hysterically), "I'll bet that Burdovsky himself will now accuse you of indelicacy of form and disrespect for his mother, by God, he will, ha, ha, ha!"

Here he again lost his breath and began to cough.

"Well, is that all? Is that all now, have you said it all? Well, go to bed now, you have a fever," Lizaveta Prokofyevna interrupted impatiently, not taking her worried eyes off him. "Ah, Lord! He's still talking!"

"It seems you're laughing? Why must you keep laughing at me? I've noticed that you keep laughing at me," he suddenly turned anxiously and irritably to Evgeny Pavlovich; the latter was indeed laughing.

"I merely want to ask you, Mr. . . . Ippolit . . . sorry, I've forgotten your last name."

"Mr. Terentyev," said the prince.

"Yes, Terentyev, thank you, Prince, it was mentioned earlier, but it slipped my mind ... I wanted to ask you, Mr. Terentyev, is it true what I've heard, that you are of the opinion that you need only talk to the people through the window for a quarter of an hour, and they will at once agree with you in everything and follow you at once?"

"I may very well have said it . . ." Ippolit replied, as if trying to recall something. "Certainly I said it!" he suddenly added, becoming animated again and looking firmly at Evgeny Pavlovich. "And what of it?"

"Precisely nothing; merely for my own information, to add it all up."

Evgeny Pavlovich fell silent, but Ippolit went on looking at him in impatient expectation.

"Well, are you finished, or what?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned to Evgeny Pavlovich. "Finish quickly, dear boy, it's time he went to bed. Or don't you know how?" (She was terribly vexed.)

"I wouldn't mind adding," Evgeny Pavlovich went on with a smile, "that everything I've heard from your comrades, Mr. Terentyev, and everything you've just explained, and with such unquestionable talent, boils down, in my opinion, to the theory of the triumph of rights, before all, and beyond all, and even to the exclusion of all else, and perhaps even before analyzing what makes up these rights. Perhaps I'm mistaken?"

"Of course you're mistaken, and I don't even understand you . . . go on."

There was also a murmur in the corner. Lebedev's nephew muttered something in a half-whisper.

"There's not much more," Evgeny Pavlovich went on. "I merely wanted to observe that from this case it's possible to jump over directly to the right of force, that is, to the right of the singular fist and personal wanting, as, incidentally, has happened very often in this world. Proudhon stopped at the right of force.⁴¹ In the American war, many of the most progressive liberals declared themselves on the side of the plantation owners, in this sense, that Negroes are Negroes, inferior to the white race, and consequently the right of force belongs to the whites ..."

"Well?"

"So you don't deny the right of force?"

"Go on."

"You're consistent, then. I only wanted to observe that from the right of force to the right of tigers and crocodiles and even to Danilov and Gorsky is not a long step."

"I don't know; go on."

Ippolit was barely listening to Evgeny Pavlovich, and even if he said "well" and "go on" to him, it seemed to be more from an old, adopted habit of conversation, and not out of attention and curiosity.

"There's nothing more . . . that's all."

"Incidentally, I'm not angry with you," Ippolit suddenly concluded quite unexpectedly and, hardly with full consciousness, held out his hand, even with a smile. Evgeny Pavlovich was surprised at first, but touched the hand held out to him with a most serious air, as though receiving forgiveness.

"I cannot help adding," he said in the same ambiguously respectful tone, "my gratitude to you for the attention with which you have allowed me to speak, because it has been my oft-repeated observation that our liberal has never yet been able to allow anyone to have his own convictions and not reply at once to his opponent with abuse or even worse ..."

"That is perfectly right," General Ivan Fyodorovich observed and, putting his hands behind his back, with a most bored air retreated to the door of the terrace, where he proceeded to yawn with vexation.

"Well, enough for you, dear boy," Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly announced to Evgeny Pavlovich, "I'm tired of you . . ."

"It's time," Ippolit suddenly stood up with a preoccupied and all but frightened look, gazing around in perplexity, "I've kept you; I wanted to tell you ... I thought that everyone ... for the last time ... it was a fantasy . . ."

One could see that he would become animated in bursts, suddenly coming out of what was almost real delirium for a few moments, and with full consciousness would suddenly remember and speak, mostly in fragments, perhaps thought up and memorized much earlier, in the long, boring hours of illness, in bed, alone, sleepless.

"So, farewell!" he suddenly said sharply. "Do you think it's easy for me to say farewell to you? Ha, ha!" he smiled vexedly at his own awkward question and suddenly, as if angry that he kept failing to say what he wanted, declared loudly and irritably: "Your Excellency! I have the honor of inviting you to my funeral, if you

will vouchsafe me such an honor, and ... all of you, ladies and gentlemen, along with the general! . . ."

He laughed again; but this was now the laughter of a madman. Lizaveta Prokofyevna fearfully moved towards him and grasped his arm. He gazed at her intently, with the same laughter, though it no longer went on but seemed to have stopped and frozen on his face.

"Do you know that I came here in order to see trees? Those . . ." (he pointed to the trees in the park), "that's not funny, eh? There's nothing funny in it, is there?" he asked Lizaveta Prokofyevna seriously, and suddenly fell to thinking; then, after a moment, he raised his head and began curiously searching through the crowd with his eyes. He was looking for Evgeny Pavlovich, who was standing very near, to the right, in the same spot as before, but he had already forgotten and searched all around. "Ah, you haven't left!" he finally found him. "You laughed at me earlier, that I wanted to talk through the window for a quarter of an hour . . . But do you know that I'm not eighteen years old: I've spent so long lying on that pillow, and spent so long looking out of that window, and thought so much . . . about everybody . . . that ... A dead man has no age, you know. I thought of that last week, when I woke up in the night . . . But do you know what you're most afraid of? You're most afraid of our sincerity, though you despise us! I thought of that at the same time, at night, on my pillow . . . Do you think I meant to laugh at you earlier, Lizaveta Prokofyevna? No, I wasn't laughing at you, I only meant to praise you . . . Kolya told me that the prince called you a child . . . that's good . . . So, what was I . . . there was something else I wanted . . ."

He covered his face with his hands and fell to thinking.

"It was this: as you were taking your leave earlier, I suddenly thought: here are these people, and they'll never be there anymore, never! And no trees either—there'll just be the brick wall, red brick, of Meyer's house . . . across from my window . . . well, go and tell them about all that . . . try telling them; here's a beautiful girl . . . but you're dead, introduce yourself as a dead man, tell her 'a dead man can say everything' . . . and that Princess Marya Alexeevna won't scold you,⁴² ha, ha! . . . You're not laughing?" he looked around mistrustfully. "And you know, a lot of thoughts occurred to me on that pillow . . . you know, I became convinced that nature is very much given to mockery . . . You said earlier that I was an atheist, but you know, this nature . . . Why are you laughing again? You're terribly cruel!" he suddenly said with rueful

indignation, looking them all over. "I haven't corrupted Kolya," he ended in a completely different tone, serious and assured, as if also suddenly remembering.

"Nobody, nobody here is laughing at you, calm down!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna was almost suffering. "Tomorrow a new doctor will come; the other one was wrong; and sit down, you can hardly stand on your feet! You're delirious . . . Ah, what's to be done with him now!" she bustled about, sitting him in an armchair. A small tear glistened on her cheek.

Ippolit stopped almost dumbstruck, raised his hand, reached out timidly, and touched that little tear. He smiled a sort of childlike smile.

"I . . . you . . ." he began joyfully, "you don't know how I ... he always spoke of you with such rapture, him, Kolya ... I love his rapture. I haven't corrupted him! I have only him to leave ... I wanted to have them all, all of them—but there was no one, no one ... I wanted to be an activist, I had the right . . . Oh, there was so much I wanted! Now I don't want anything, I don't want to want anything, I gave myself my word on it, that I would no longer want anything; let them, let them seek the truth without me! Yes, nature is given to mockery! Why does she," he suddenly continued ardently, "why does she create the best beings only so as to mock them afterwards? Didn't she make it so that the single being on earth who has been acknowledged as perfect⁴³ . . . didn't she make it so that, having shown him to people, she destined him to say things that have caused so much blood to be shed, that if it had been shed all at once, people would probably have drowned in it! Oh, it's good that I'm dying! I, too, might utter some terrible lie, nature would arrange it that way! ... I haven't corrupted anybody ... I wanted to live for the happiness of all people, for the discovery and proclaiming of the truth! ... I looked through my window at Meyer's wall and thought I could talk for only a quarter of an hour and everybody, everybody would be convinced, and for once in my life I got together . . . with you, if not with the people! And what came of it? Nothing! It turned out that you despise me! Therefore I'm not needed, therefore I'm a fool, therefore it's time to go! Without managing to leave any memory! Not a sound, not a trace, not a single deed, not spreading any conviction! . . . Don't laugh at the stupid man! Forget! Forget everything . . . please forget, don't be so cruel! Do you know, if this consumption hadn't turned up, I'd have killed myself. . ."

It seemed he wanted to say more, but he did not finish, dropped into his chair, covered his face with his hands, and wept like a little child.

"Well, what would you have me do with him now?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna exclaimed, jumped over to him, seized his head, and pressed it tightly to her bosom. He was sobbing convulsively. "There, there, there! Don't cry! There, there, enough, you're a good boy, God will forgive you in your ignorance; there, enough, be brave . . . And besides, you'll be ashamed . . ."

"At home," Ippolit said, trying to raise his head, "at home I have a brother and sisters, children, little, poor, innocent . . . She will corrupt them! You—you're a saint, you're ... a child yourself— save them! Tear them away from that . . . she . . . shame . . . Oh, help them, help them, God will reward you for it a hundredfold, for God's sake, for Christ's sake! . . ."

"Speak finally, Ivan Fyodorovich, what's to be done now!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna cried irritably. "Kindly break your majestic silence! If you don't decide anything, be it known to you that I myself will stay and spend the night here; you've tyrannized me enough under your autocracy!"

Lizaveta Prokofyevna asked with enthusiasm and wrath, and expected an immediate answer. But in such cases, those present, even if there are many of them, most often respond with silence, with passive curiosity, unwilling to take anything on themselves, and express their thoughts long afterwards. Among those present this time there were some who were prepared to sit even till morning without saying a word, for instance, Varvara Ardalionovna, who sat a little apart all evening, silent and listening all the while with extreme curiosity, and who may have had her own reasons for doing so.

"My opinion, dear," the general spoke out, "is that what's needed here is, so to speak, sooner a sick-nurse than our agitation, and probably a reliable, sober person for the night. In any case, we must ask the prince and . . . immediately give him rest. And tomorrow we can concern ourselves again."

"It's now twelve o'clock, and we're leaving. Does he come with us or stay with you?" Doktorenko addressed the prince irritably and angrily.

"If you want, you may also stay with him," said the prince, "there will be room enough."

"Your Excellency," Mr. Keller unexpectedly and rapturously

jumped over to the general, "if there's need of a satisfactory person for the night, I'm prepared to make the sacrifice for a friend . . . he's such a soul! I've long considered him a great man, Your Excellency! I, of course, have neglected my education, but when he criticizes, it's pearls, pearls pouring out, Your Excellency! . . ."

The general turned away in despair.

"I'll be very glad if he stays, of course, it's hard for him to go," the prince said in reply to Lizaveta Prokofyevna's irritable questions.

"Are you asleep, or what? If you don't want to, dear boy, I'll have him transported to my place! Lord, he can barely stand up himself! Are you sick, or what?"

Earlier, not finding the prince on his deathbed, Lizaveta Prokofyevna had indeed greatly exaggerated the satisfactoriness of his state of health, judging it by appearances, but the recent illness, the painful memories that accompanied it, the fatigue of the eventful evening, the incident with "Pavlishchev's son," the present incident with Ippolit—all this irritated the prince's morbid impressionability indeed almost to a feverish state. But, besides that, in his eyes there was now some other worry, even fear; he looked at Ippolit warily, as if expecting something more from him.

Suddenly Ippolit stood up, terribly pale and with a look of dreadful, despairing shame on his distorted face. It was expressed mainly in the glance that he shot hatefully and timorously at the gathering, and in the lost, crooked, and creeping grin on his twitching lips. He lowered his eyes at once and trudged, swaying and still smiling in the same way, towards Burdovsky and Doktorenko, who stood by the terrace door: he was leaving with them.

"Well, that's what I was afraid of!" exclaimed the prince. "It had to be so!"

Ippolit quickly turned to him with the most furious spite, and every little line of his face seemed to quiver and speak.

"Ah, you were afraid of that! 'It had to be so,' in your opinion? Know, then, that if I hate anyone here," he screamed, wheezing, shrieking, spraying from his mouth, "and I hate all of you, all of you!—but you, you Jesuitical, treacly little soul, idiot, millionaire-benefactor, I hate you more than anyone or anything in the world! I understood you and hated you long ago, when I'd only heard about you, I hated you with all the hatred of my soul ... It was you who set it all up! It was you who drove me into a fit! You've driven a dying man to shame, you, you, you are to blame for my

mean faintheartedness! I'd kill you, if I stayed alive! I don't need your benefactions, I won't accept anything from anybody, do you hear, from anybody! I was delirious, and don't you dare to triumph! ... I curse you all now and forever!"

By then he was completely out of breath.

"Ashamed of his tears!" Lebedev whispered to Lizaveta Prokofyevna. " 'It had to be so!' That's the prince for you! Read right through him ..."

But Lizaveta Prokofyevna did not deign to look at him. She stood proud, erect, her head thrown back, and scrutinized "these wretched little people" with scornful curiosity. When Ippolit finished, the general heaved his shoulders; she looked him up and down wrathfully, as if demanding an account of his movement, and at once turned to the prince.

"Thank you, Prince, eccentric friend of our house, for the pleasant evening you have provided for us all. Your heart must surely be glad of your success in hitching us to your foolery . . . Enough, dear friend of our house, thank you for at least allowing us finally to have a look at you! . . ."

She indignantly began straightening her mantilla, waiting until "they" left. At that moment a hired droshky, which Doktorenko had sent Lebedev's son, a high-school student, to fetch a quarter of an hour ago, drove up for "them." Right after his wife, the general put in his own little word:

"Indeed, Prince, I never expected . . . after everything, after all our friendly connections . . . and, finally, Lizaveta Prokofyevna . . ."

"But how, how can this be!" exclaimed Adelaida, and she quickly went up to the prince and gave him her hand.

The prince, looking like a lost man, smiled at her. Suddenly a hot, quick whisper seemed to scald his ear.

"If you don't drop these loathsome people at once, I'll hate you alone all my life, all my life!" whispered Aglaya; she was as if in a frenzy, but she turned away before the prince had time to look at her. However, there was nothing and no one for him to drop: they had meanwhile managed to put the sick Ippolit into the cab, and it drove off.

"Well, is this going to go on long, Ivan Fyodorovich? What do you think? How long am I to suffer from these wicked boys?"

"I, my dear . . . naturally, I'm prepared . . . and the prince . . ."

Ivan Fyodorovich nevertheless held out his hand to the prince, but had no time for a handshake and rushed after Lizaveta

Prokofyevna, who was noisily and wrathfully going down the steps from the terrace. Adelaida, her fiancé, and Alexandra took leave of the prince sincerely and affectionately. Evgeny Pavlovich was also among them, and he alone was merry.

"It turned out as I thought! Only it's too bad that you, too, suffered, poor man," he whispered with the sweetest smile.

Aglaya left without saying good-bye.

But the adventures of that evening were not over yet. Lizaveta Prokofyevna was to endure one more quite unexpected meeting.

Before she had time to go down the steps to the road (which skirted the park), a splendid equipage, a carriage drawn by two white horses, raced past the prince's dacha. Two magnificent ladies were sitting in the carriage. But before it had gone ten paces past, the carriage stopped abruptly; one of the ladies quickly turned, as if she had suddenly seen some needed acquaintance.

"Evgeny Pavlych! Is that you, dear?" a ringing, beautiful voice suddenly cried, which made the prince, and perhaps someone else, give a start. "Well, I'm so glad I've finally found you! I sent a messenger to you in town—two messengers! I've been looking for you all day!"

Evgeny Pavlovich stood on the steps as if thunderstruck. Lizaveta Prokofyevna also stopped in her tracks, but not in horror or petrified like Evgeny Pavlovich: she looked at the brazen woman with the same pride and cold contempt as at the "wretched little people" five minutes earlier, and at once shifted her intent gaze to Evgeny Pavlovich.

"News!" the ringing voice went on. "Don't worry about Kupfer's promissory notes; Rogozhin bought them up at thirty, I persuaded him. You can be at peace for at least another three months. And we'll probably come to terms with Biskup and all that riffraff in a friendly way! Well, so there, it means everything's all right! Cheer up. See you tomorrow!"

The carriage started off and soon vanished.

"She's crazy!" Evgeny Pavlovich cried at last, turning red with indignation and looking around in perplexity. "I have no idea what she's talking about! What promissory notes? Who is she?"

Lizaveta Prokofyevna went on looking at him for another two seconds; finally, she turned quickly and sharply to go to her own dacha, and the rest followed her. Exactly a minute later Evgeny Pavlovich went back to the prince's terrace in extreme agitation.

"Prince, you truly don't know what this means?"

"I don't know anything," replied the prince, who was under extreme and morbid strain himself.

"No?"

"No."

"I don't either," Evgeny Pavlovich suddenly laughed. "By God, I've had nothing to do with these promissory notes, believe my word of honor! . . . What's the matter, are you feeling faint?"

"Oh, no, no, I assure you . . ."

XI

Only three days later were the Epanchins fully propitiated. Though the prince blamed himself for many things, as usual, and sincerely expected to be punished, all the same he had at first a full inner conviction that Lizaveta Prokofyevna could not seriously be angry with him, but was more angry with herself. Thus it was that such a long period of enmity brought him by the third day to the gloomiest impasse. Other circumstances also brought him there, but one among them was predominant. For all three days it had been growing progressively in the prince's suspiciousness (and lately the prince had been blaming himself for the two extremes: his uncommonly "senseless and importunate" gullibility and at the same time his "dark and mean" suspiciousness). In short, by the end of the third day the adventure with the eccentric lady who had talked to Evgeny Pavlovich from her carriage had taken on terrifying and mysterious proportions in his mind. The essence of the mystery, apart from the other aspects of the matter, consisted for the prince in one grievous question: was it precisely he who was to blame for this new "monstrosity," or only . . . But he never finished who else. As for the letters N.F.B., that was, in his view, nothing but an innocent prank, even a most childish prank, so that it was shameful to reflect on it at all and in one respect even almost dishonest.

However, on the very first day after the outrageous "evening," of the disorder of which he had been so chiefly the "cause," the prince had the pleasure, in the morning, of receiving Prince Shch. and Adelaida: "they came, chiefly, to inquire after his health," came together, during a stroll. Adelaida had just noticed a tree in the park, a wonderful old tree, branchy, with long, crooked boughs, all in young green, with a hole and a split in it; she had decided that

she had, she simply had to paint it! So that she talked of almost nothing else for the entire half hour of her visit. Prince Shch. was amiable and nice, as usual, asked the prince about former times, recalled the circumstances of their first acquaintance, so that almost nothing was said about the day before. Finally Adelaida could not stand it and, smiling, confessed that they had come incognito; with that, however, the confessions ended, though this incognito made one think that the parents, that is, mainly Lizaveta Prokofyevna, were somehow especially ill-disposed. But Adelaida and Prince Shch. did not utter a single word either about her, or about Aglaya, or even about Ivan Fyodorovich during their visit. They left for a walk again, but did not invite the prince to join them. Of an invitation to call on them there was not so much as a hint; in that regard Adelaida even let slip a very characteristic little phrase: speaking of one of her watercolors, she suddenly wanted very much to show it to him. "How shall we do it the sooner? Wait! I'll either send it to you today with Kolya, if he comes, or bring it over myself tomorrow, when the prince and I go for a walk again," she finally concluded her perplexity, happy to have succeeded in resolving the problem so adroitly and conveniently for everyone.

Finally, on the point of taking his leave, Prince Shch. seemed suddenly to remember:

"Ah, yes," he asked, "might you at least know, dear Lev Nikolaevich, who that person was who shouted to Evgeny Pavlych from her carriage yesterday?"

"It was Nastasya Filippovna," said the prince, "haven't you learned yet that it was she? But I don't know who was with her."

"I know, I've heard!" Prince Shch. picked up. "But what did the shout mean? I confess, it's such a riddle ... for me and others."

Prince Shch. spoke with extraordinary and obvious amazement.

"She spoke about some promissory notes of Evgeny Pavlych's," the prince replied very simply, "which came to Rogozhin from some moneylender, at her request, and for which Rogozhin will allow Evgeny Pavlych to wait."

"I heard, I heard, my dear Prince, but that simply cannot be! Evgeny Pavlych could not have any promissory notes here. With his fortune . . . True, there were occasions before, owing to his flightiness, and I even used to help him out . . . But with his fortune, to give promissory notes to a moneylender and then worry about them is impossible. And he can't be on such friendly and

familiar terms with Nastasya Filippovna—that's the chief puzzle. He swears he doesn't understand anything, and I fully believe him. But the thing is, dear Prince, that I wanted to ask you: do you know anything? That is, has any rumor reached you by some miracle?"

"No, I don't know anything, and I assure you that I took no part in it."

"Ah, Prince, what's become of you! I simply wouldn't know you today. How could I suppose that you took part in such an affair? . . . Well, you're upset today."

He embraced and kissed him.

"That is, took part in what 'such' an affair? I don't see any 'such' an affair."

"Undoubtedly this person wished somehow to hinder Evgeny Pavlych in something, endowing him, in the eyes of witnesses, with qualities he does not and could not have," Prince Shch. replied rather drily.

Prince Lev Nikolaevich was embarrassed, but nevertheless went on looking intently and inquiringly at the prince: but the latter fell silent.

"And not simply promissory notes? Not literally as it happened yesterday?" the prince finally murmured in some impatience.

"But I'm telling you, judge for yourself, what can there be in common between Evgeny Pavlych and . . . her, and with Rogozhin on top of it? I repeat to you, his fortune is enormous, that I know perfectly well; there's another fortune expected from his uncle. Nastasya Filippovna simply ..."

Prince Shch. suddenly fell silent, evidently because he did not want to go on telling the prince about Nastasya Filippovna.

"It means, in any case, that he's acquainted with her?" Prince Lev Nikolaevich suddenly asked, after a moment's silence.

"It seems so—a flighty fellow! However, if so, it was very long ago, still before, that is, two or three years ago. He used to know Totsky, too. But now there could be nothing of the sort, and they could never be on familiar terms! You know yourself that she hasn't been here; she hasn't been anywhere here. Many people don't know that she's appeared again. I noticed her carriage only three days ago, no more."

"A magnificent carriage!" said Adelaida.

"Yes, the carriage is magnificent."

They both went away, however, in the most friendly, the

most, one might say, brotherly disposition towards Prince Lev Nikolaevich.

But for our hero this visit contained in itself something even capital. We may assume that he himself had suspected a great deal since the previous night (and perhaps even earlier), but till their visit he had not dared to think his apprehensions fully borne out. Now, though, it was becoming clear: Prince Shch. had, of course, interpreted the event wrongly, but still he had wandered around the truth, he had understood that this was an intrigue. ("Incidentally, he may understand it quite correctly in himself," thought the prince, "only he doesn't want to say it and therefore deliberately interprets it wrongly.") The clearest thing of all was that people were now visiting him (namely, Prince Shch.) in hopes of some explanation; and if so, then they thought he was a direct participant in the intrigue. Besides that, if it was all indeed so important, then it meant that she had some terrible goal, but what was this goal? Terrible! "And how can she be stopped? It's absolutely impossible to stop her if she's sure of her goal!" That the prince already knew from experience. "A madwoman. A madwoman."

But there were far, far too many other insoluble circumstances that had come together that morning, all at the same time, and all demanding immediate resolution, so that the prince felt very sad. He was slightly distracted by Vera Lebedev, who came with Lyubochka and, laughing, spent a long time telling him something. She was followed by her sister, the one who kept opening her mouth wide, then by the high-school boy, Lebedev's son, who assured him that the "star Wormwood" in the Apocalypse, which fell to earth on the fountains of water,⁴⁴ was, in his father's interpretation, the railway network spread across Europe. The prince did not believe that Lebedev interpreted it that way, and they decided to check it with him at the first opportunity. From Vera Lebedev the prince learned that Keller had migrated over to them the day before and, by all tokens, would not be leaving for a long time, because he had found the company of and made friends with General Ivolgin; however, he declared that he was staying with them solely in order to complete his education. The prince was beginning to like Lebedev's children more and more every day. Kolya was away the whole day: he left for Petersburg very early. (Lebedev also left at daybreak on some little business of his own.) But the prince was waiting impatiently for a visit from Gavrila Ardalionovich, who was bound to call on him that same day.

He arrived past six in the evening, just after dinner. With the first glance at him, it occurred to the prince that this gentleman at least must unmistakably know all the innermost secrets—and how could he not, having such helpers as Varvara Ardalionovna and her husband? But the prince's relations with Ganya were somehow special. The prince, for instance, had entrusted him with the handling of the Burdovsky affair and had asked him especially to do it; but, despite this trust and some things that had gone before, there always remained between them certain points on which it was as if they had mutually decided to say nothing. It sometimes seemed to the prince that Ganya, for his part, might be wishing for the fullest and friendliest sincerity; now, for instance, as soon as he came in, it immediately seemed to the prince that Ganya was convinced in the highest degree that the time had come to break the ice between them on all points. (Gavrila Ardalionovich was in a hurry, however; his sister was waiting for him at Lebedev's; the two were hastening about some business.)

But if Ganya was indeed expecting a whole series of impatient questions, inadvertent communications, friendly outpourings, then, of course, he was very much mistaken. For all the twenty minutes of his visit, the prince was even very pensive, almost absentminded. The expected questions or, better to say, the one main question that Ganya expected, could not be asked. Then Ganya, too, decided to speak with great restraint. He spent all twenty minutes talking without pause, laughing, indulging in the most light, charming, and rapid babble, but never touching on the main thing.

Ganya told him, incidentally, that Nastasya Filippovna had been there in Pavlovsk for only four days and was already attracting general attention. She was living somewhere, in some Matrosskaya Street, in a gawky little house, with Darya Alexeevna, but her carriage was just about the best in Pavlovsk. Around her a whole crowd of old and young suitors had already gathered; her carriage was sometimes accompanied by men on horseback. Nastasya Filippovna, as before, was very discriminating, admitting only choice people to her company. But all the same a whole troop had formed around her, to stand for her in case of need. One previously engaged man from among the summer people had already quarreled with his fiancée over her; one little old general had almost cursed his son. She often took with her on her rides a lovely girl, just turned sixteen, a distant relation of Darya Alexeevna's; the girl was a good

singer—so that in the evenings their little house attracted attention. Nastasya Filippovna, however, behaved extremely properly, dressed not magnificently but with extraordinary taste, and all the ladies envied "her taste, her beauty, and her carriage."

"Yesterday's eccentric incident," Ganya allowed, "was, of course, premeditated and, of course, should not count. To find any sort of fault with her, one would have to hunt for it on purpose or else use slander, which, however, would not be slow in coming," Ganya concluded, expecting that here the prince would not fail to ask: "Why did he call yesterday's incident a premeditated incident? And why would it not be slow in coming?" But the prince did not ask.

About Evgeny Pavlovich, Ganya again expatiated on his own, without being specially asked, which was very strange, because he inserted him into the conversation with no real pretext. In Gavrila Ardalionovich's view, Evgeny Pavlovich had not known Nastasya Filippovna, and now also knew her only a little, and that because he had been introduced to her some four days ago during a promenade, and it was unlikely that he had been to her house even once along with the others. As for the promissory notes, that was also possible (Ganya even knew it for certain); Evgeny Pavlovich's fortune was big, of course, but "certain affairs to do with the estate were indeed in a certain disorder." On this curious matter Ganya suddenly broke off. About Nastasya Filippovna's escapade yesterday he did not say a single word, beyond what he had said earlier in passing. Varvara Ardalionovna finally came to fetch Ganya, stayed for a moment, announced (also unasked) that Evgeny Pavlovich would be in Petersburg today and maybe tomorrow, that her husband (Ivan Petrovich Ptitsyn) was also in Petersburg, and almost on Evgeny Pavlovich's business as well, because something had actually happened there. As she was leaving, she added that Lizaveta Prokofyevna was in an infernal mood today, but the strangest thing was that Aglaya had quarreled with the whole family, not only with her father and mother but even with both sisters, and "that it was not nice at all." Having imparted as if in passing this last bit of news (extremely meaningful for the prince), the brother and sister left. Ganechka also did not mention a word about the affair of "Pavlishchev's son," perhaps out of false modesty, perhaps "sparing the prince's feelings," but all the same the prince thanked him again for having diligently concluded the affair.

The prince was very glad to be left alone at last; he went down

from the terrace, crossed the road, and entered the park; he wanted to think over and decide about a certain step. Yet this "step" was not one of those that can be thought over, but one of those that precisely cannot be thought over, but simply resolved upon: he suddenly wanted terribly to leave all this here and go back where he came from, to some far-off, forsaken place, to go at once and even without saying good-bye to anyone. He had the feeling that if he remained here just a few more days, he would certainly be drawn into this world irretrievably, and this world would henceforth be his lot. But he did not even reason for ten minutes and decided at once that to flee was "impossible," that it would be almost pusillanimous, that such tasks stood before him that he now did not even have any right not to resolve them, or at least not to give all his strength to their resolution. In such thoughts he returned home after barely a quarter of an hour's walk. He was utterly unhappy at that moment.

Lebedev was still not at home, so that towards nightfall Keller managed to barge in on the prince, not drunk, but full of outpourings and confessions. He declared straight out that he had come to tell the prince his whole life's story and that he had stayed in Pavlovsk just for that. There was not the slightest possibility of turning him out: he would not have gone for anything. Keller was prepared to talk very long and very incoherently, but suddenly at almost the first word he jumped ahead to the conclusion and declared that he had lost "any ghost of morality" ("solely out of disbelief in the Almighty"), so much so that he even stole. "If you can imagine that!"

"Listen, Keller, in your place I'd rather not confess it without some special need," the prince began, "and anyhow, maybe you're slandering yourself on purpose?"

"To you, solely to you alone, and solely so as to help my own development! Not to anybody else; I'll die and carry my secret off under the shroud! But, Prince, if you only knew, if you only knew how difficult it is to get money in our age! Where is a man to get it, allow me to ask after that? One answer: bring gold and diamonds, and we'll give you money for them—that is, precisely what I haven't got, can you imagine that? I finally got angry and just stood there. 'And for emeralds?' I say. 'For emeralds, too,' he says. 'Well, that's splendid,' I say, put on my hat, and walk out; devil take you, scoundrels! By God!"

"But did you really have emeralds?"

"What kind of emeralds could I have! Oh, Prince, your view of life is still so bright and innocent, and even, one might say, pastoral!"

The prince finally began to feel not so much sorry as a bit ashamed. The thought even flashed in him: "Wouldn't it be possible to make something of this man under someone's good influence?" His own influence, for certain reasons, he considered quite unsuitable—not out of self-belittlement, but owing to a certain special view of things. They gradually warmed to the conversation, so much so that they did not want to part. Keller confessed with extraordinary readiness to having done such things that it was impossible to imagine how one could tell about them. Starting out each time, he would positively insist that he was repentant and inwardly "filled with tears," and yet he would tell of his action as if he were proud of it, and at the same time occasionally in such a funny way that he and the prince would end up laughing like crazy.

"Above all, there is some childlike trustfulness and extraordinary honesty in you," the prince said at last. "You know, that by itself already redeems you greatly."

"I'm noble, noble, chivalrously noble!" Keller agreed with feeling. "But you know, Prince, it's all only in dreams and, so to speak, for bravado, and in reality nothing ever comes of it! Why is that? I can't understand it."

"Don't despair. Now it can be said affirmatively that you have told me all your inmost truths; at least it seems to me that it's now impossible to add anything more to what you've already said, isn't it?"

"Impossible?!" Keller exclaimed somehow ruefully. "Oh, Prince, you still have such a, so to speak, Swiss understanding of man."

"Could you possibly add to it?" the prince uttered in timid astonishment. "So what did you expect from me, Keller, tell me please, and why did you come with your confession?"

"From you? What did I expect? First, your simple-heartedness alone is pleasant to look at; it's pleasant to sit and talk with you; I know that I at least have a virtuous man before me, and second . . . second . . ."

He faltered.

"Perhaps you wanted to borrow some money?" the prince prompted him very seriously and simply, even as if somewhat timidly.

Keller jumped; he glanced quickly, with the same surprise, straight into the prince's eyes and banged his fist hard on the table.

"Well, see how you throw a man into a final flummox! For pity's sake, Prince: first such simple-heartedness, such innocence as even the golden age never heard of, then suddenly at the same time you pierce a man through like an arrow with this deepest psychology of observation. But excuse me, Prince, this calls for an explanation, because I . . . I'm simply confounded! Naturally, in the final end my aim was to borrow money, but you asked me about money as if you don't find anything reprehensible in it, as if that's how it should be?"

"Yes . . . from you that's how it should be."

"And you're not indignant?"

"But ... at what?"

"Listen, Prince, I stayed here last night, first, out of particular respect for the French archbishop Bourdaloue⁴⁵ (we kept the corks popping at Lebedev's till three in the morning), but second, and chiefly (I'll cross myself with all crosses that I'm telling the real truth!), I stayed because I wanted, so to speak, by imparting to you my full, heartfelt confession, to contribute thereby to my own development; with that thought I fell asleep past three, bathed in tears. Now, if you'll believe the noblest of persons: at the very moment that I was falling asleep, sincerely filled with internal and, so to speak, external tears (because in the end I did weep, I remember that!), an infernal thought came to me: 'And finally, after the confession, why don't I borrow some money from him?' Thus I prepared my confession, so to speak, as a sort of 'finesherbes with tears,' to soften my path with these tears, so that you'd get mellow and count me out a hundred and fifty roubles. Isn't that mean, in your opinion?"

"It's probably also not true, and the one simply coincided with the other. The two thoughts coincided, it happens very often. With me, constantly. I don't think it's nice, however, and, you know, Keller, I reproach myself most of all for it. It's as if you had told me about myself just now. I've even happened to think sometimes," the prince went on very seriously, being genuinely and deeply interested, "that all people are like that, so that I even began to approve of myself, because it's very hard to resist these double thoughts; I've experienced it. God knows how they come and get conceived. But here you've called it outright meanness! Now I'll begin to fear these thoughts again. In any case, I'm not your judge. But all the same, in my opinion, that can't be called outright meanness, don't you think? You used cunning in order to wheedle

money out of me by means of tears, but you swear yourself that your confession had another, noble purpose, not only money. As for the money, you need it to go carousing, right? After such a confession, that is, naturally, pusillanimous. But how, also, is one to give up carousing in a single moment? It's impossible. What then is to be done? Best of all is to leave it to your own conscience, don't you think?"

The prince looked at Keller with extreme curiosity. The question of double thoughts had evidently occupied him for a long time.

"Well, why they call you an idiot after that, I don't understand!" exclaimed Keller.

The prince blushed slightly.

"The preacher Bourdaloue wouldn't have spared a man, but you spared a man and reasoned about me in a human way! To punish myself and show that I'm touched, I don't want a hundred and fifty roubles, give me just twenty-five roubles, and enough! That's all I need for at least two weeks. I won't come for money before two weeks from now. I wanted to give Agashka a treat, but she doesn't deserve it. Oh, dear Prince, God bless you!"

Lebedev came in at last, having only just returned, and, noticing the twenty-five-rouble note in Keller's hand, he winced. But Keller, finding himself in possession of the money, hurried off and effaced himself immediately. Lebedev at once began talking him down.

"You're unfair, he was actually sincerely repentant," the prince observed at last.

"What good is his repentance! Exactly like me yesterday: 'mean, mean,' but it's all just words, sir!"

"So with you it was just words? And I thought . . ."

"Well, to you, to you alone I'll tell the truth, because you can see through a man: words, deeds, lies, truth—they're all there together in me and completely sincere. The truth and deeds in me are made up of sincere repentance, believe it or not, I'll swear to it, but the words and lies are made up of an infernal (and ever-present) notion, of somehow snaring a man here, too, of somehow profiting even from tears of repentance! By God, it's so! I wouldn't have told any other man—he'd laugh or spit; but you, Prince, you reason in a human way."

"There, now, that's exactly what he just said to me," cried the prince, "and it's as if you're both boasting! You even surprise me, only he's more sincere than you are, with you it's turned into a decided profession. Well, enough, don't wince, Lebedev, and don't

put your hands to your heart. Haven't you got something to tell me? You never come for nothing . . ."

Lebedev began grimacing and squirming.

"I've been waiting for you all day so as to ask you a single question; at least once in your life tell me the truth straight off: did you participate to any extent in that carriage yesterday or not?"

Lebedev again began grimacing, tittering, rubbing his hands, and finally went into a sneezing fit, but still could not bring himself to say anything.

"I see you did."

"But indirectly, only indirectly! It's the real truth I'm telling! I participated only by sending a timely message to a certain person, that such-and-such a company had gathered at my place and that certain persons were present."

"I know you sent your son there, he told me himself earlier, but what sort of intrigue is this!" the prince exclaimed in impatience.

"It's not my intrigue, not mine," Lebedev waved his hands, "others, others are in it, and it's sooner, so to speak, a fantasy than an intrigue."

"What is it about, explain to me, for Christ's sake? Don't you see that it concerns me directly? Evgeny Pavlych was blackened here."

"Prince! Illustrious Prince!" Lebedev squirmed again. "You don't let me speak the whole truth; I've already tried to tell you the truth; more than once; you wouldn't let me go on . . ."

The prince paused and pondered.

"Well, all right, speak the truth," he said heavily, obviously after a great struggle.

"Aglaya Ivanovna . . ." Lebedev began at once.

"Shut up, shut up!" the prince shouted furiously, turning all red with indignation and perhaps with shame. "It can't be, it's all nonsense! You thought it all up yourself, or some madmen like you. I never want to hear any more of it from you!"

Late at night, past ten o'clock, Kolya arrived with a whole bagful of news. His news was of a double sort: from Petersburg and from Pavlovsk. He quickly told the main Petersburg news (mostly about Ippolit and yesterday's story), in order to return to it later, and hastened on to the Pavlovsk news. Three hours ago he came back from Petersburg and, without stopping at the prince's, went straight to the Epanchins'. "Terrible goings-on there!" Naturally, the carriage was in the foreground, but something else had certainly

happened there, something unknown to him and the prince. "I naturally didn't spy and didn't want to ask questions; however, they received me well, better than I expected, but not a word about you, Prince!" The chiefest and most interesting thing was that Aglaya had quarreled with her family over Ganya. What the details of the matter were, he did not know, only it was over Ganya (imagine that!), and they had quarreled terribly, so it was something important. The general arrived late, arrived scowling, arrived with Evgeny Pavlovich, who was received excellently, and Evgeny Pavlovich himself was surprisingly merry and nice. The most capital news was that Lizaveta Prokofyevna, without any noise, sent for Varvara Ardalionovna, who was sitting with the girls, and threw her out of the house once and for all, in the most courteous way, incidentally—"I heard it from Varya herself." But when Varya left Lizaveta Prokofyevna and said good-bye to the girls, they did not even know that she had been denied the house once and for all and that she was saying good-bye to them for the last time.

"But Varvara Ardalionovna was here at seven o'clock," said the astonished prince.

"And she was thrown out before eight or at eight. I'm very sorry for Varya, sorry for Ganya ... no doubt it's their eternal intrigues, they can't do without them. And I've never been able to find out what they're planning, and don't want to know. But I assure you, my dear, my kind Prince, that Ganya has a heart. He's a lost man in many respects, of course, but in many respects there are qualities in him that are worth seeking out, and I'll never forgive myself for not understanding him before ... I don't know if I should go on now, after the story with Varya. True, I took a completely independent and separate stand from the very beginning, but all the same I must think it over."

"You needn't feel too sorry for your brother," the prince observed to him. "If things have come to that, it means that Gavrila Ardalionovich is dangerous in Lizaveta Prokofyevna's eyes, and that means that certain of his hopes are being affirmed."

"How, what hopes?" Kolya cried out in amazement. "You don't think Aglaya ... it can't be!"

The prince said nothing.

"You're a terrible skeptic, Prince," Kolya added after a couple of minutes. "I've noticed that since a certain time you've become an extreme skeptic; you're beginning not to believe anything and to

suppose everything . . . have I used the word 'skeptic' correctly in this case?"

"I think so, though, anyhow, I don't know for certain myself."

"But I myself am renouncing the word 'skeptic,' and have found a new explanation," Kolya suddenly cried. "You're not a skeptic, you're jealous! You're infernally jealous of Ganya over a certain proud girl!"

Having said this, Kolya jumped up and burst into such laughter as he may never have laughed before. Seeing the prince turn all red, Kolya laughed even harder: he was terribly pleased with the thought that the prince was jealous over Aglaya, but he fell silent at once when he noticed that the prince was sincerely upset. After that they spent another hour or hour and a half in serious and preoccupied conversation.

The next day the prince spent the whole morning in Petersburg on a certain urgent matter. Returning to Pavlovsk past four in the afternoon, he met Ivan Fyodorovich at the railway station. The latter quickly seized him by the arm, looked around as if in fright, and drew the prince with him to the first-class car, so that they could ride together. He was burning with the desire to discuss something important.