The Idiot

Shouting and noise again came from overhead; several people were going down the stairs.

"Don't allow it now for anything!" Varya cried, frightened and all aflutter. "There mustn't be even the shadow of a scandal! Go and apologize!"

But the father of the family was already in the street. Kolya lugged his bag after him. Nina Alexandrovna stood on the porch and wept; she was about to run after him, but Ptitsyn held her back.

"You'll only egg him on more that way," he said to her. "He has nowhere to go, they'll bring him back in half an hour, I've already discussed it with Kolya; let him play the fool a little."

"What are you showing off for, where are you going!" Ganya shouted out the window. "You've got nowhere to go!"

"Come back, papa!" cried Varya. "The neighbors can hear."

The general stopped, turned around, stretched out his arm, and exclaimed:

"My curse upon this house!"

"And inevitably in a theatrical tone!" Ganya muttered, noisily shutting the window.

The neighbors were indeed listening. Varya rushed from the room.

When Varya was gone, Ganya took the note from the table, kissed it, clucked his tongue, and performed an entrechat.

III

At any other time the commotion with the general would have come to nothing. Before, too, there had been occasions of unexpected whimsicality of the same sort with him, though rather seldom, because generally speaking he was a very mild man and of almost kindly inclinations. A hundred times, perhaps, he had taken up the struggle with the disorder that had come over him in recent years. He would suddenly remember that he was the "father of the family," make peace with his wife, weep sincerely. He respected Nina Alexandrovna to the point of adoration for having silently forgiven him so much and loved him even in his clownishness and humiliation. But his magnanimous struggle with disorder usually did not last long; the general was also all too "impulsive" a man, though in his own way; he usually could not bear a repentant and idle life in his family and ended by rebelling;

he would fall into a fit of passion, perhaps reproaching himself for it at the same moment, but unable to control himself: he would quarrel, begin talking floridly and grandiloquently, demand a disproportionate and impossible respect for himself, and in the end disappear from the house, sometimes even for a long time. For the last two years, he had known about the affairs of his family only in general or by hearsay; he had stopped going into more detail, feeling not the slightest call for it.

But this time something unusual manifested itself in the "commotion with the general": everyone seemed to know about something and everyone seemed afraid to speak about something. The general had "formally" appeared in the family, that is, to Nina Alexandrovna, only three days ago, but somehow not humbly and not with repentance, as had always happened in his previous "appearances," but on the contrary—with extraordinary irritability. He was garrulous, agitated, talked heatedly with everyone he met, as if falling upon the person, but it was all about such diverse and unexpected subjects that it was in no way possible to get at what, in essence, he was now so worried about. At moments he was merry, but more often brooding, though he himself did not know about what; he would suddenly begin talking about something— the Epanchins, or the prince and Lebedev—and would suddenly break off and stop talking altogether, and respond to further questions only with a dull smile, though without even noticing that he had been asked something and had merely smiled. He had spent the last night moaning and groaning, and had worn out Nina Alexandrovna, who for some reason kept heating poultices for him all night; towards morning he had suddenly fallen asleep, slept for four hours, and woke up in a most violent and disorderly fit of hypochondria, which had ended in a quarrel with Ippolit and the "curse upon this house." It had also been noticed that during those three days he was constantly having the most violent fits of ambition, and consequently of extraordinary touchiness. But Kolya insisted, reassuring his mother, that it was all the longing for a drink, and perhaps also for Lebedev, with whom the general had become extraordinarily friendly in recent days. But three days ago he had suddenly quarreled with Lebedev and parted from him in a terrible rage; there had even been some sort of scene with the prince. Kolya had asked the prince for an explanation, and had finally begun to suspect that he, too, had something that he was apparently unwilling to tell him. If, as Ganya quite plausibly

supposed, there had been some special conversation between Ippolit and Nina Alexandrovna, then it was odd that this wicked gentleman, whom Ganya so directly called a gossip, had denied himself the pleasure of enlightening Kolya in the same way. It may well be that he was not such a wicked "little brat," as Ganya had described him, talking with his sister, but was wicked in some other way; and he had hardly informed Nina Alexandrovna of some observation of his solely in order to "break her heart." Let us not forget that the reasons for human actions are usually incalculably more complex and diverse than we tend to explain them later, and are seldom clearly manifest. Sometimes it is best for the narrator to limit himself to a simple account of events. So we shall do in our further clarification of the present catastrophe with the general; for, in spite of all our efforts, we find ourselves in the decided necessity of giving a bit more attention and space to this secondary character of our story than we had hitherto intended.

The events followed one another in this order:

When Lebedev, after his journey to Petersburg in search of Ferdyshchenko, returned that same day, together with the general, he did not tell the prince anything in particular. If at that time the prince had not been so distracted and taken up with other impressions important for him, he might soon have noticed that for the following two days Lebedev not only did not offer him any explanations but even, on the contrary, seemed to avoid meeting him. Paying attention to that at last, the prince wondered why, during those two days, when he had chanced to meet Lebedev, he remembered him not otherwise than in the most radiant spirits, and almost always together with the general. The two friends never parted for a moment now. Occasionally the prince heard loud and rapid conversation, guffawing, merry argument, coming to him from upstairs; once even, very late in the evening, suddenly and unexpectedly, the sounds of a military-bacchic song reached him, and he immediately recognized the general's hoarse bass. But the resounding song did not come off and suddenly died out. Then, for about an hour more, a very animated and, by all tokens, drunken conversation went on. One could guess that the merrymaking friends upstairs kept embracing, and one of them finally wept. Then suddenly a violent quarrel ensued, which also died out quickly and soon. All this while Kolya was in a somehow especially preoccupied mood. The prince was most often away from home and sometimes came back very late; he was always told that Kolya had

been looking for him and asking after him all day long. But when they met, Kolya could not say anything special, except that he was decidedly "displeased" with the general and his present behavior: "They drag themselves around, drink in the local tavern, embrace each other, quarrel in the streets, egg each other on, and simply cannot part." When the prince observed to him that earlier as well it had been the same almost every day, Kolya decidedly did not know what to answer to that and how to explain precisely what caused his present anxiety.

The morning after the bacchic song and quarrel, when the prince was leaving the house at around eleven o'clock, the general suddenly appeared before him, extremely agitated by something, almost shaken.

"I have long been seeking the honor and occasion of meeting you, my much-esteemed Lev Nikolaevich, long, very long," he murmured, pressing the prince's hand extremely hard, almost painfully, "very, very long."

The prince invited him to sit down.

"No, I won't sit down, and moreover I'm keeping you, I will— some other time. It seems I may take this opportunity to congratulate you on . . . the fulfillment . . . of your heart's desires."

"What heart's desires?"

The prince was embarrassed. Like a great many people in his position, he thought that decidedly no one saw anything, guessed anything, understood anything.

"Don't worry, don't worry! I won't upset your most delicate feelings. I have experienced and know myself how it is when a stranger's . . . nose, so to speak . . . according to the saying . . . goes poking where it hasn't been invited. I experience it every morning. I have come on a different matter, Prince, an important one. A very important matter, Prince."

The prince once again invited him to sit down and sat down himself.

"Perhaps for one second . . . I've come for advice. I, of course, live without any practical goals, but, having respect for myself and . . . for efficiency, which is so lacking in the Russian man, generally speaking ... I wish to put myself, my wife, and my children in a position ... in short, Prince, I am looking for advice."

The prince warmly praised his intention.

"Well, that's all nonsense," the general quickly interrupted, "moreover, I'm not talking about that, I'm talking about something

different, and important. And I shall venture to explain it precisely to you, Lev Nikolaevich, as a man the sincerity of whose reception and the nobility of whose feelings I trust as . . . as . . . You're not surprised at my words, Prince?"

The prince was following his visitor with great attention and curiosity, if not with any particular surprise. The old man was slightly pale, his lips occasionally twitched a little, his hands seemed unable to find a place to rest. He had been sitting for only a few minutes, and had twice managed to get up suddenly from his chair for some reason and suddenly to sit down again, obviously not paying the least attention to his maneuvers. Some books were lying on the table; he took one, went on talking, opened it and peeked at a page, closed it again at once and put it on the table, snatched another book, which he did not open now, but spent the rest of the time holding in his right hand, constantly brandishing it in the air.

"Enough!" he cried suddenly. "I see I've greatly inconvenienced you.

"Why, not in the least, good heavens, you're quite welcome. On the contrary, I've been listening and wish I could guess . . ."

"Prince! I wish to put myself in a respectable position ... I wish to respect myself and . . . my rights."

"A man with such wishes is deserving of every respect for that alone."

The prince uttered this copybook phrase in the firm conviction that it would have an excellent effect. He somehow instinctively guessed that such a hollow but agreeable phrase, if spoken aptly, might suddenly subdue and pacify the soul of such a man, and especially in such a position as the general's. In any case, such a visitor had to be sent away with his heart eased, and in that lay his task.

The phrase flattered, touched, and greatly pleased: the general suddenly waxed sentimental, instantly changed tone, and lapsed into rapturously lengthy explanations. But no matter how the prince strained, no matter how he listened, he literally could not understand a thing. The general spoke for some ten minutes, heatedly, quickly, as if he had no time to articulate his crowding thoughts; in the end tears even glistened in his eyes, but all the same it was only phrases with no beginning or end, unexpected words and unexpected thoughts, which broke through quickly and unexpectedly and leaped one over the other.

"Enough! You've understood me, and I am at peace," he suddenly concluded, getting up. "A heart such as yours cannot fail to understand a sufferer. Prince, you are as noble as an ideal! What are others compared with you? But you are young, and I give you my blessing. In the final end I have come to ask you to appoint me an hour for a serious conversation, and in this lies my chiefest hope. I seek only friendship and heart, Prince; I never could control the demands of my heart."

"But why not now? I'm prepared to hear out . . ."

"No, Prince, no!" the general interrupted hotly. "Not now! Now is a dream! It is too, too important, too important! This hour of conversation will be the hour of my ultimate destiny. It will be my hour, and I would not wish us to be interrupted at such a sacred moment by the first comer, the first impudent fellow, and not seldom such an impudent fellow," he suddenly bent over the prince with a strange, mysterious, and almost frightened whisper, "such an impudent fellow as is not worth the heel ... of your foot, my beloved Prince! Oh, I don't say of my foot! Make special note that I did not mention my foot; I respect myself enough to be able to say it without beating around the bush; but you alone are able to understand that, by rejecting my own heel in this case, I am showing, perhaps, an extraordinary pride of dignity. Besides you, no one else will understand, and he at the head of all the others. He doesn't understand anything, Prince; he's totally, totally unable to understand! One must have heart in order to understand!"

In the end the prince was almost frightened and arranged to meet the general the next day at the same hour. The man went away cheerful, extremely comforted, and almost calm. In the evening, past six o'clock, the prince sent to ask Lebedev to come to him for a moment.

Lebedev appeared with extreme haste, "considering it an honor," as he began to say at once on coming in; there seemed to be no shadow of that three-day-long hiding and obvious avoidance of meeting the prince. He sat down on the edge of a chair, with grimaces, with smiles, with laughing and peering little eyes, with a rubbing of hands, and with an air of the most naïve expectation of hearing some sort of capital information, long awaited and guessed by all. The prince winced again; it was becoming clear to him that everyone had suddenly begun to expect something from him, that everyone looked at him as if wishing to congratulate him for some-

thing, dropping hints, smiling, and winking. Keller had already stopped by three times for a moment, and also with an obvious wish to congratulate him: he began each time rapturously and vaguely, never finished anything, and quickly effaced himself. (For the last few days he had been drinking especially heavily somewhere and had made a row in some billiard parlor.) Even Kolya, despite his sadness, also once or twice began talking vaguely about something with the prince.

The prince asked Lebedev directly and somewhat irritably what he thought of the general's present state and why he was in such anxiety. In a few words he recounted that day's scene for him.

"Everybody has his anxieties, Prince, and . . . especially in our strange and anxious age, sir; so it is, sir," Lebedev answered with a certain dryness and fell silent, looking hurt, like a man whose expectations have been badly disappointed.

"What philosophy!" smiled the prince.

"Philosophy's needed, sir, very much needed in our age, for practical application, sir, but it's held in disdain, sir, that's what. For my part, my much-esteemed Prince, though I used to be honored by your trustfulness towards me in a certain point, which is known to you, sir, but only to a certain degree, and by no means further than the circumstances that essentially concern that same point ... I realize it and am not complaining in the least."

"Lebedev, you seem to be angry about something?"

"Not at all, not in the least, my much-esteemed and most radiant Prince, not in the least!" Lebedev cried out ecstatically, putting his hand to his heart. "But, on the contrary, I precisely and immediately comprehended that, neither in worldly position, nor in development of mind and heart, nor in accumulated wealth, nor in my previous behavior, nor yet in learning am I in any way deserving of your honored and lofty trust, which far exceeds my hopes; and that if I may serve you, it is as a slave or a hired servant, not otherwise ... I am not angry, but sad, sir."

"Lukyan Timofeich, for pity's sake!"

"Not otherwise! And so it is now, so it is in the present case! Meeting you and following you with my heart and thought, I said to myself: I'm unworthy of friendly communications, but in my quality as landlord I may, perhaps, receive orders in due time, by the expected date, so to speak, or at least notification in view of certain forthcoming and expected changes ..."

As he uttered this, Lebedev simply riveted his sharp little eyes

on the prince, who was staring at him in amazement; he was still hoping to satisfy his curiosity.

"I understand decidedly nothing," the prince cried all but wrathfully, "and . . . you are a terrible intriguer!" He suddenly burst into the most genuine laughter.

Lebedev instantly laughed, too, and his brightened eyes showed at once that his hopes had now become clearer and even twice greater.

"And do you know what I shall tell you, Lukyan Timofeich? Only don't be angry with me, but I'm surprised at your naivety, and not only yours! You expect something from me with such naivety, precisely now, at this moment, that I'm even abashed and ashamed before you, because I have nothing to satisfy you with; but I swear to you that there is decidedly nothing, if you can imagine that!"

The prince laughed again.

Lebedev assumed a dignified air. It is true that he was sometimes even too naive and importunate in his curiosity; but at the same time he was a rather cunning and devious man, and on certain occasions even too insidiously taciturn; by constantly rebuffing him, the prince had almost prepared in him an enemy for himself. But the prince rebuffed him not because he despised him, but because the theme of his curiosity was a delicate one. Only a few days ago the prince had looked upon some of his dreams as upon a crime, but Lukyan Timofeich had taken the prince's retorts as personal revulsion and suspicion towards himself, had gone away with a wounded heart, and was jealous not only of Kolya and Keller, but even of his own daughter, Vera Lukyanovna. Even at that very moment, he could have informed the prince of a certain piece of news interesting for him in the highest degree, and may have sincerely wished to, but he fell gloomily silent and did not inform him.

"In what, essentially, can I be of service to you, my much-esteemed Prince, since all the same you have now . . . summoned me?" he said finally, after some silence.

"It was, essentially, about the general," the prince, who had lapsed into a moment's thought, roused himself, "and . . . concerning that theft of yours, which you informed me about . . ."

"Concerning what, sir?"

"Well, so now it's as if you don't understand me! Oh, God, Lukyan Timofeich, what are all these roles of yours! The money,

the money, the four hundred roubles you lost then, in your wallet, and came here to tell me about, that morning, before going to Petersburg—do you understand finally?"

"Ah, it's about those four hundred roubles!" Lebedev drew out, as if he had only just realized. "Thank you, Prince, for your genuine concern; it is only too flattering for me, but... I found the money, sir, a long time ago."

"Found it! Ah, thank God!"

"A most noble exclamation on your part, for four hundred roubles are a matter of no small importance for a poor man who lives by hard work, with a numerous family of orphans . . ."

"But I didn't mean that! Of course, I'm also glad you found it," the prince quickly corrected his slip, "but. . . how did you find it?"

"Extremely simply, sir. I found it under the chair on which the frock coat was hanging, which obviously means that the wallet slipped out of the pocket onto the floor."

"Under the chair? That can't be, you told me you searched in every corner; how could you have missed it in the most important place?"

"It's a fact that I looked, sir! I remember very, very well that I looked there, sir! I went down on all fours, felt the place with my hands, moved the chair aside, not believing my own eyes: I saw there was nothing there, an empty and smooth space, like the palm of my hand, sir, and I went on feeling all the same. Such faintheartedness always repeats itself with a man when he wants very much to find something ... in the case of a considerable and sad loss, sir: one sees that there's nothing there, an empty space, and yet one looks fifteen times over."

"Yes, granted; only how can it be, though? ... I still don't understand," the prince muttered confusedly. "You say it wasn't there before, that you searched in that spot, and suddenly it turned up there?"

"And suddenly it turned up there, sir!"

The prince gave Lebedev a strange look.

"And the general?" he asked suddenly.

"What about the general, sir?" Lebedev again did not understand.

"Ah, my God! I'm asking you, what did the general say when you found the wallet under the chair? Didn't you look for it together before?"

"Together before, sir. But this time, I confess, sir, I said nothing and preferred not to tell him I found the wallet all by myself."

"Wh . . . why so? Is the money all there?"

"I opened the wallet; the money was all there, even to the last rouble, sir."

"You might at least have come and told me," the prince observed pensively.

"I was afraid to disturb you personally, Prince, considering your personal and, perhaps, extraordinary, so to speak, impressions; besides, I myself made it look as if I hadn't found anything. I opened the wallet, examined it, then closed it and put it back under the chair."

"What on earth for?"

"Just so, sir; out of further curiosity, sir," Lebedev suddenly tittered, rubbing his hands.

"So it's lying there now, for the third day?"

"Oh, no, sir; it lay there only one day. You see, I partly wanted the general to find it, too, sir. Because if I finally found it, why shouldn't the general also find an object sticking out from under the chair and, so to speak, striking the eye? I took that chair several times and moved it, so that the wallet wound up in full view, but the general never noticed it at all, and so it went on for the whole day. He's obviously very absentminded now, and hard to make out; he talks, tells stories, laughs, guffaws, then suddenly gets terribly angry with me, I don't know why, sir. As we were finally going out of the room, I purposely left the door open; he hesitated, was about to say something, probably afraid for the wallet with so much money in it, then suddenly became terribly angry and said nothing, sir; before we'd gone two steps down the street, he abandoned me and went the other way. We came together only that evening in the tavern."

"But did you finally take the wallet from under the chair?"

"No, sir; that same night it disappeared from under the chair, sir."

"So where is it now?"

"Here, sir," Lebedev suddenly laughed, rising from the chair to his full height and looking pleasantly at the prince. "It suddenly turned up here, in the skirt of my own frock coat. Here, kindly look for yourself, feel it, sir."

Indeed, it was as if a whole pouch had been formed in the left skirt of the frock coat, right in front, in full view, and by feeling it one could tell at once that it was a leather wallet, which had fallen there through a torn pocket.

"I took it out and looked, it's all there, sir. I put it back and since yesterday morning I've been walking around like that, carrying it in my skirt, it even hits against my legs."

"And you don't notice it?"

"And I don't notice it, heh, heh! And imagine, my much-esteemed Prince—though the subject is unworthy of such special attention from you—my pockets are always in good condition, and now suddenly, in one night, such a hole! I started examining it curiously—as if somebody had cut it with a penknife; it's almost incredible, sir!"

"And . . . the general?"

"He was angry all day yesterday and today; he's terribly displeased, sir; first he's joyful and bacchic even to the point of flattery, then he's sentimental to the point of tears, then he suddenly gets so angry that I even turn coward, by God; I'm not a military man after all, sir. Yesterday we're sitting in the tavern, and, as if by accident, my skirt is exposed to view, a big bump; he looks askance, gets angry. He hasn't looked me straight in the eye for a long time, sir, except when he's very drunk or waxes sentimental; but yesterday a couple of times he gave me such a look that a chill ran down my spine. Anyhow, I intend to find the wallet tomorrow, but before tomorrow I'll spend another little evening having fun with him."

"But why do you torment him so?" cried the prince.

"I'm not tormenting him, Prince, I'm not," Lebedev picked up hotly, "I love him sincerely, sir, and ... I respect him; and now, believe it or not, sir, he's become even dearer to me; I've come to appreciate him still more, sir!"

Lebedev said it all so seriously and sincerely that the prince even became indignant.

"You love him, yet you torment him so! For pity's sake, by the fact alone that he put what you lost in full view like that, under the table and then in your frock coat, by that alone he shows you directly that he doesn't want to dodge with you, but is simpleheartedly asking your forgiveness. Do you hear: he's asking your forgiveness! That means he's relying on the delicacy of your feelings; which means he trusts in your friendship for him. And you drive such a ... a most honest man to such humiliation!"

"A most honest man, Prince, most honest!" Lebedev picked up, his eyes flashing. "And precisely you alone, most noble Prince, are able to speak such a just word! For that I am devoted to you even to the point of adoration, sir, though I am rotten with various

vices! It's decided! I shall find the wallet right now, at once, not tomorrow; here, I take it out before your eyes, sir; here it is; and all the money's in it; here, take it, most noble Prince, take it and keep it till tomorrow. Tomorrow or the day after I'll take it, sir; and you know, Prince, it obviously lay somewhere in my garden, under a stone, the first night it was lost, sir; what do you think?"

"Watch out, don't tell him right to his face that you found the wallet. Let him simply see that there's nothing in the skirt anymore, and he'll understand."

"Is that so, sir? Wouldn't it be better to tell him I found it, sir, and pretend that till now I never guessed?"

"N-no," the prince reflected, "n-no, it's too late now; it's more dangerous; really, you'd better not say it! And be gentle with him, but. . . don't let it show too much, and . . . and . . . you know . . ."

"I know, Prince, I know—that is, I know that I probably won't do it; for here one must have a heart like yours. And besides, he's irritable and moody himself, he's started treating me sometimes much too haughtily now; first he whimpers and wants to embrace me, then he suddenly begins to humiliate me and scornfully jeer at me; well, then I'll deliberately stick my skirt out, heh, heh! Good-bye, Prince, for I am obviously keeping you and interfering, so to speak, in your most interesting feelings . . ."

"But, for God's sake, keep it a secret!"

"With quiet steps, sir, with quiet steps!"

But though the matter was ended, the prince was left almost more preoccupied than before. He waited impatiently for tomorrow's meeting with the general.

IV

The appointed hour was twelve, but the prince was quite unexpectedly late. Returning home, he found the general there waiting for him. He noticed at first glance that he was displeased, perhaps precisely at being forced to wait. Apologizing, the prince hastened to sit down, but somehow with a strange timidity, as if his visitor were made of porcelain and he was in constant fear of breaking him. He had never felt timid with the general before, and it had not occurred to him to feel timid. The prince soon discerned that this was now a completely different man than the day before: instead of perturbation and absentmindedness, he showed a sort

of extraordinary restraint; one might have concluded that this was a man who was ultimately resolved on something. His composure, however, was more ostensible than real. But in any case the visitor was nobly casual, though with restrained dignity; at first he even treated the prince as if with an air of some condescension—precisely the way certain proud but unjustly offended people are sometimes nobly casual. He spoke gently, though not without a certain ruefulness in his speech.

"Your book, which I borrowed from you the other day," he nodded significantly at the book he had brought with him, which lay on the table. "Many thanks."

"Ah, yes; you read that article, General? How did you like it? Curious, isn't it?" The prince was glad of the possibility of quickly beginning a somewhat extraneous conversation.

"Curious, perhaps, but crude and, of course, absurd. And maybe a lie at every step."

The general spoke with aplomb and even drew the words out slightly.

"Ah, it's such a simple-hearted story; the story of an old soldier, an eyewitness to the French occupation of Moscow; there are charming things in it. Besides, any memoirs by eyewitnesses are precious, whoever the eyewitness may be. Isn't it true?"

"In the editor's place, I wouldn't have published it; as for memoirs by eyewitnesses in general, people sooner believe a crude liar, but an amusing one, than a man of dignity and merit. I know certain memoirs about the year twelve⁷ that... I've taken a decision, Prince, I am leaving this house—the house of Mr. Lebedev."

The general gave the prince a meaningful look.

"You have your own quarters in Pavlovsk, at ... at your daughter's ..." said the prince, not knowing what to say. He remembered that the general had come for advice about a matter of extreme importance on which his destiny depended.

"At my wife's; in other words, my home and that of my daughter."

"Forgive me, I . . ."

"I am leaving Lebedev's house, my dear Prince, because I have broken with that man; I broke with him yesterday evening, with regret that it was not sooner. I demand respect, Prince, and I wish to receive it even from those persons to whom I have, so to speak, given my heart. I often give my heart to people, Prince, and I am almost always deceived. That man was unworthy of my gift."

"There is much disorder in him," the prince observed with restraint, "and certain traits . . . but amidst all that one notices a heart, and a cunning, but sometimes also amusing, mind."

The refinement of the expressions and the deferential tone obviously flattered the general, though he still sometimes glanced around with unexpected mistrust. But the prince's tone was so natural and sincere that it was impossible to doubt it.

"That there are also good qualities in him," the general picked up, "I was the first to proclaim, on the point of granting that individual my friendship. I do not need his home and his hospitality, because I have a family of my own. I do not justify my vices; I am intemperate; I drank with him, and now perhaps I lament it. But it was not for the drinking alone (forgive me, Prince, the crude candor of an irritated man), not for the drinking alone that I became connected with him. I was precisely charmed by his qualities, as you say. But all things have their limits, even qualities; and if he is suddenly bold enough to assure me to my face that in the year twelve, while still a child, he lost his left leg and buried it in the Vagankovsky Cemetery in Moscow, that goes over the line, that reveals disrespect, that shows insolence . . ."

"Maybe it was only a joke for the sake of a merry laugh."

"I understand, sir. An innocent lie for the sake of a merry laugh, even a crude one, is not offensive to the human heart. A man may lie, if you wish, out of friendship alone, to give pleasure to his interlocutor; but if disrespect shows through it, if that disrespect is precisely meant to indicate that the connection is burdensome, then the only thing that remains for a noble man is to turn away and break off the connection, showing the offender his true place."

The general even became red as he spoke.

"But Lebedev couldn't have been in Moscow in the year twelve; he's too young for that; it's ridiculous."

"First, there's that; but let us suppose he could already have been born then; but how can he assure me to my face that the French chasseur aimed his cannon at him and shot his leg off, just for fun; that he picked the leg up and brought it home, and then buried it in the Vagankovsky Cemetery, saying that he put a tombstone over it with an inscription on one side: 'Here lies the leg of Collegiate Secretary Lebedev,' and on the other: 'Rest, dear dust, till the gladsome morning,'⁸ and, finally, that every year he has a panikhida⁹ served for it (which is a sacrilege), and that he goes to Moscow every year for that. As proof, he invites me to Moscow, in order

to show me the grave and even that very French cannon, which was taken captive, in the Kremlin; he insists it's the eleventh from the gate, a French falconet of an old design."

"And what's more he has both legs intact, in plain sight!" laughed the prince. "I assure you, it's an innocent joke; don't be angry."

"But allow me some understanding, too, sir; concerning legs in plain sight—that, let us suppose, is not entirely implausible; he assures me that it is Chernosvitov's leg . . ."¹⁰

"Ah, yes, they say one can dance with Chernosvitov's leg."

"I'm perfectly aware of that, sir; when Chernosvitov invented his leg, he came first thing to show it to me. But Chernosvitov's leg was invented incomparably later . . . And besides, he insists that even his late wife, during the whole course of their married life, never knew that he, her husband, had a wooden leg. 'If you,' he said, when I pointed all these absurdities out to him, 'if you could be Napoleon's chamber-page in the year twelve, then you can also allow me to bury my leg in the Vagankovsky Cemetery."

"And were you really . . ." the prince began and became embarrassed.

The general gave the prince a decidedly haughty and all but mocking look.

"Finish what you were saying, Prince," he drew out especially smoothly, "finish what you were saying. I'm indulgent, you may say everything: admit that you find the very thought ridiculous of seeing before you a man in his present humiliation and . . . uselessness, and hearing at the same time that this man was a personal witness ... of great events. Is there anything that he has managed to . . . gossip to you about?"

"No, I haven't heard anything from Lebedev—if it's Lebedev you're speaking of . . ."

"Hm, I thought the opposite. As a matter of fact, our conversation yesterday began on the occasion of this . . . strange article in the Archive.¹¹ I pointed out its absurdity, and since I myself was a personal witness . . . you're smiling, Prince, you're looking into my face?"

"N-no, I . . ."

"I look young for my age," the general drew the words out, "but I'm slightly older than I actually seem to be. In the year twelve I was ten or eleven. I don't know my own age very well myself. My papers lower it; and I have had the weakness of lowering my age in the course of my life."

"I assure you, General, that I do not find it at all strange that you were in Moscow in the year twelve and ... of course, you have things to tell ... as have all who were there. One of our autobiographers¹² begins his book precisely by telling how, in the year twelve, he, a nursing infant, was given bread by the French soldiers in Moscow."

"You see," the general approved condescendingly, "my case is, of course, out of the ordinary, but neither is there anything extraordinary in it. Quite often the truth seems impossible. A chamber-page! It's a strange thing to hear, of course. But the adventures of a ten-year-old child may be explained precisely by his age. It wouldn't have happened to a fifteen-year-old, and that is absolutely so, because if I had been fifteen years old, I wouldn't have run away from our wooden house in Old Basmannaya Street on the day Napoleon entered Moscow, away from my mother, who was too late in leaving Moscow¹³ and trembling with fear. If I had been fifteen, I would have turned coward, but, being ten, I feared nothing and pushed my way through the crowd up to the very porch of the palace, just as Napoleon was dismounting from his horse."

"Unquestionably, you have made an excellent observation, that precisely at ten one might not be afraid . . ." the prince yessed him shyly, pained by the thought that he was about to blush.

"Unquestionably, and it all happened so simply and naturally, as things can only happen in reality; if a novelist were to turn to it, he would heap up all sorts of incredible tales."

"Oh, that's quite so!" cried the prince. "I was struck by that same thought, and quite recently. I know about an actual murder over a watch, it's in all the newspapers now. If a writer had invented it, the critics and connoisseurs of popular life would have shouted at once that it was incredible; but reading it in the newspapers as a fact, you feel that it is precisely from such facts that you learn about Russian reality. That is a wonderful observation, General!" the prince concluded warmly, terribly glad that he could evade the color appearing on his face.

"Isn't it true? Isn't it true?" cried the general, his eyes even flashing with pleasure. "A boy, a child, who has no understanding of danger, makes his way through the crowd, to see the splendor, the uniforms, the suite, and, finally, the great man, about whom he has heard so much shouting. Because at that time everyone, for several years in a row, had been shouting about him alone. The

world was filled with his name; I had, so to speak, sucked it in with my mother's milk. Napoleon, passing within two steps of me, happened to catch my glance; I was dressed like a young gentleman, in very good clothes. I was the only one dressed like that in the crowd, you'll agree . . ."

"Unquestionably, that must have struck him and proved to him that not everybody had left, that some of the nobility had stayed with their children."

"Precisely, precisely! He wanted to attract the boyars!¹⁴ When he cast his eagle's gaze on me, my eyes must have flashed in response to him. 'Voilà un garçon bien éveillé! Qui est ton père?'* I answered at once, almost breathless with excitement: 'A general who died on the battlefields of his fatherland.' 'Le fils d'un boyard et d'un brave par-dessus le marché! J'aime les boyards. M'aimes-tu, petit?'+ To this quick question I replied as quickly: 'The Russian heart can discern a great man even in the enemy of his fatherland!' That is, as a matter of fact, I don't remember whether I literally expressed myself that way ... I was a child . . . but that must have been the sense of it! Napoleon was struck, he pondered and said to his suite: 'I like this boy's pride! But if all Russians think as this child does, then . . .' He didn't finish and went into the palace. I at once mingled with his suite and ran after him. In the suite they already stepped back for me and looked on me as a favorite. But all that merely flashed by ... I remember only that, on going into the first hall, the emperor suddenly stopped before the portrait of the empress Catherine, looked at it thoughtfully for a long time, and finally said: 'That was a great woman!'—and walked on. Two days later everybody already knew me in the palace and in the Kremlin and called me 'le petit boyard.' I went home only to sleep. At home they nearly lost their minds. Two days after that Napoleon's chamber-page, the Baron de Bazancourt,¹⁵ died from the hardships of the campaign. Napoleon remembered about me; I was taken, brought there without any explanations, the uniform of the deceased, a boy of about twelve, was tried on me, and when they brought me before the emperor in the uniform, and he nodded his head at me, they announced to me that I had been granted a favor and made his majesty's chamber-page. I was glad. I actually felt a

* There's a sprightly lad! Who is your father?

+ The son of a boyar and of a brave man to boot! I like the boyars. Do you like me, little boy?

warm sympathy for him, and had for a long time . . . well, and besides, you'll agree, there was the splendid uniform, which means a lot for a child ... I went about in a dark green tailcoat, with long and narrow tails, gold buttons, red piping on the gold-embroidered sleeves, a high, stiff, open collar, embroidered with gold, and embroidered coattails; white, close-fitting chamois breeches, a white silk waistcoat, silk stockings, and buckled shoes . . . or, during the emperor's promenades on horseback, if I was in his suite, high top-boots. Though the situation was not brilliant, and there was already a presentiment of great calamities, etiquette was observed as far as possible, and the more punctually the stronger the presentiment of those calamities."

"Yes, of course . . ." murmured the prince, looking almost lost, "your memoirs would be . . . extremely interesting."

The general, of course, was repeating what he had told Lebedev the day before, and therefore repeating it very smoothly; but here again he mistrustfully glanced sidelong at the prince.

"My memoirs," he spoke with redoubled pride, "to write my memoirs? That doesn't tempt me, Prince! If you wish, my memoirs have already been written, but . . . but they are lying in my desk. Let them, when earth has closed my eyes, let them appear then and, undoubtedly, be translated into other languages, not for their literary merit, no, but for the importance of the tremendous facts of which I was an evident witness, though a child; but all the more so: as a child I penetrated into the very intimate, so to speak, bedroom of 'the great man'! At night I heard the groaning of this 'giant in misfortune,' he could not be ashamed of groaning and weeping before a child, though I already understood that the cause of his suffering was the silence of the emperor Alexander."

"Yes, he did write letters . . . with offers of peace . . ." the prince agreed timidly.

"As a matter of fact, we do not know precisely with what offers he wrote, but he wrote every day, every hour, letter after letter! He was terribly worried. Once, during the night, when we were alone, I rushed to him in tears (oh, yes, I loved him!): 'Ask forgiveness, ask forgiveness of the emperor Alexander!' I cried to him. That is, I ought to have said: 'Make peace with the emperor Alexander, but, being a child, I naively spoke my whole mind. 'Oh, my little one!' he answered—he was pacing up and down the room—'oh, my little one!' It was as if he didn't understand then that I was ten years old, and he even liked talking with me. 'Oh, my little one, I

am ready to kiss the feet of the emperor Alexander, but as for the Prussian king, as for the Austrian emperor, oh, they have my eternal hatred, and . . . finally . . . you don't understand anything about politics!' It was as if he suddenly remembered whom he was talking with, and he fell silent, but his eyes shot fire for a long time. Well, if I were to describe all these facts—and I was witness to greater facts—if I were to publish them now, and all these critics, all these literary vanities, all these jealousies, parties, and . . . no, sir, I humbly thank you!"

"Concerning parties, your observation is, of course, correct, and I agree with you," the prince replied quietly, after a short silence. "Quite recently I also read a book by Charras¹⁶ about the Waterloo campaign. The book is obviously a serious one, and the specialists maintain that it is written extremely knowledgeably. But a joy in Napoleon's humiliation shows through on every page, and if it were possible to dispute even any little sign of talent in Napoleon's other campaigns, it seems Charras would be extremely glad of it; and that is not a good thing in such a serious work, because it's a party spirit. Were you kept very busy then by your service to the . . . emperor?"

The general was in raptures. The prince's observation, by its seriousness and simple-heartedness, dispelled the last remnants of his mistrust.

"Charras! Oh, I was indignant myself! I wrote to him at the time, but ... as a matter of fact, I don't remember now . . . You ask whether my service kept me busy? Oh, no! They called me a chamber-page, but even then I did not regard it as serious. What's more, Napoleon very soon lost all hope of drawing any Russians to him, and, of course, would have forgotten about me as well, having drawn me to him for political reasons, had it not been . . . had it not been for his personal love for me, I say it boldly now. My heart also drew me to him. My service was not a required thing; I had to come to the palace occasionally and . . . accompany the emperor during his promenades on horseback, and that's all. I was a decent horseman. He used to go out for a ride before dinner; in his suite usually there was Davout, myself, the mameluke Rustan. . ."

"Constant,"¹⁷ the prince suddenly came out with for some reason.

"N-no, Constant wasn't there then; he had gone then with a letter ... to the empress Josephine;¹⁸ but instead of him there were

two orderlies, several Polish uhlans . . . well, that was all the suite, except for the generals, naturally, and some marshals, whom Napoleon took along to examine the terrain, the disposition of the army, to discuss . . . Most often it was Davout who accompanied him, I remember it as if it were yesterday: an enormous, corpulent, cool-headed man in spectacles, with a strange gaze. The emperor most often discussed things with him. He valued his thoughts. I remember them holding a special council for several days; Davout used to come in the morning and in the evening, and often they even argued; in the end, it seemed that Napoleon began to agree. The two of them were in the study, I was the third, almost unnoticed by them. Suddenly Napoleon's gaze happens to fall on me, a strange thought flashes in his eyes. 'Child!' he suddenly says to me, 'what do you think: if I embrace Orthodoxy and free your slaves, will the Russians follow me or not?' 'Never!' I cried in indignation. Napoleon was struck. 'In this child's eyes flashing with patriotism,' he said, 'I have read the opinion of the whole Russian people. Enough, Davout! It's all fantasies! Tell me your other plan.' "

"Yes, but that plan was a strong thought as well!" said the prince, obviously interested. "So you ascribe that project to Davout?"

"At least they discussed it together. Of course it was a Napoleonic thought, an eagle's thought, but the other project was also a thought... It was that same famous 'conseil du lion,'* as Napoleon himself called this advice of Davout's. It consisted of locking themselves in the Kremlin with the entire army, building a lot of barracks, entrenching themselves behind fortifications, positioning the cannon, killing as many horses as possible and pickling the meat; of procuring or pillaging as much bread as possible and weathering the winter; and of breaking through the Russians in the spring. This plan strongly appealed to Napoleon. We went around the walls of the Kremlin every day, and he pointed out where to demolish, where to build, where there would be a lunette, where a ravelin, where a row of blockhouses—the eye, the speed, the stroke! Everything was finally decided; Davout kept pestering him to make the final decision. Again they were alone, and I was the third. Again Napoleon paced the room, his arms crossed. I couldn't tear my eyes from his face; my heart was pounding. 'I'm off,' said Davout. 'Where to?' asked Napoleon. 'To pickle horses,' said Davout. Napoleon gave a start; destiny was being decided. 'Little one,' he

*Lion's advice.

said to me suddenly, 'what do you think of our intentions?' To be sure, he asked me just so, as a man of the greatest mind occasionally resorts to heads or tails in the last moment. Instead of Napoleon, I turn to Davout and say, as if inspired: 'You'd better go back where you came from, General!' The plan was destroyed. Davout shrugged and whispered on his way out: 'Bah! Il devient superstitieux!'* And the next day the retreat was announced."

"All that is extremely interesting," the prince said terribly quietly, "if that's how it all was . . . that is, I mean to say . . ." he hastened to correct himself.

"Oh, Prince!" cried the general, so intoxicated by his story that he might not have been able to stop now even before the greatest imprudence, "you say: 'It all was!' But there was more, I assure you, there was much more! These are merely facts, small, political facts. But I repeat to you, I was witness to the nightly tears and groans of this great man, and no one saw it except me! Towards the end, true, he no longer wept, there were no tears, only an occasional groan; but his face seemed more and more veiled in gloom. As if eternity were already overshadowing him with its dark wing. Sometimes, at night, we spent whole hours together alone, silent—the mameluke Rustan would be snoring in the next room; the man was a very sound sleeper. 'But he is faithful to me and my dynasty,' Napoleon used to say of him. Once I felt terribly grieved, and he suddenly noticed tears in my eyes; he looked at me with tenderness: 'You pity me!' he cried. 'You, little one, and perhaps yet another child pities me, my son, le roi de Rome;+¹⁹ the rest all hate me, all of them, and my brothers will be the first to sell me in my misfortune!' I burst into sobs and rushed to him; here he, too, could not restrain himself; we embraced each other and our tears mingled. 'Write, write a letter to the empress Josephine!' I said through my sobs. Napoleon gave a start, reflected, and said to me: 'You have reminded me of the third heart that loves me; thank you, my friend!' He sat down at once and wrote that letter to Josephine which was sent off with Constant the next morning."

"You did a beautiful thing," said the prince. "Amidst his wicked thoughts you prompted him to a kind feeling."

"Precisely, Prince, and how beautifully you explain it, in conformity with your own heart!" the general cried rapturously, and,

* Bah! He's becoming superstitious!

+ The king of Rome.

strangely enough, real tears glistened in his eyes. "Yes, Prince, that was a great spectacle! And, you know, I nearly followed him to Paris and, of course, would have shared with him 'the torrid prison isle,'²⁰ but, alas! our fates were separated! We parted ways: he went to the torrid isle, where once at least, in a moment of terrible sorrow, he may have remembered the tears of the poor boy who embraced and forgave him in Moscow; while I was sent to the cadet corps, where I found nothing but drill, the coarseness of my comrades, and . . . Alas! Everything went to wrack and ruin! 'I do not want to part you from your mother and will not take you with me!' he said to me on the day of the retreat, 'but I would like to do something for you.' He was about to mount his horse. 'Write something in my sister's album as a souvenir,' I said timidly, because he was very upset and gloomy. He went back, asked for a pen, took the album. 'How old is your sister?' he asked me, pen in hand. 'Three,' I replied. 'Petite fille alors.'* And he scribbled in the album:

'Ne mentez jamais!

Napoléon, votre ami sincère.'+

"Such advice and at such a moment, you must agree, Prince!"

"Yes, it is portentous."

"That page, in a gilded frame, under glass, hung in my sister's drawing room all her life, in the most conspicuous place, right up to her death—she died in childbirth. Where it is now, I don't know . . . but . . . ah, my God! It's already two o'clock! I've kept you so long, Prince! It's unforgivable!"

The general got up from his chair.

"Oh, on the contrary!" the prince mumbled. "You've diverted me and . . . finally . . . it's so interesting; I'm so grateful to you!"

"Prince!" said the general, again pressing his hand painfully and looking at him intently, with flashing eyes, as if suddenly recollecting himself and stunned by some unexpected thought, "Prince! You are so kind, so simple-hearted, that I sometimes even feel sorry for you. I look upon you with tenderness; oh, God bless you! May your life begin and blossom ... in love. Mine is over! Oh, forgive me, forgive me!"

He left quickly, covering his face with his hands. The prince could not doubt the sincerity of his emotion. He also realized that

* A little girl, then.

+ Never tell a lie. Napoleon, your sincere friend.

the old man had left intoxicated by his success; but all the same he had a presentiment that he was one of that category of liars who, though they lie to the point of sensuality and even self-forgetfulness, at the highest point of their intoxication suspect to themselves all the same that people do not and even cannot believe them. In his present state, the old man might recollect himself, become ashamed beyond measure, suspect the prince of an excessive compassion for him, feel insulted. "Didn't I do worse by driving him to such inspiration?" the prince worried and suddenly could not help himself and laughed terribly, for about ten minutes. He was about to reproach himself for this laughter; but he understood at once that there was nothing to reproach himself for, because he felt a boundless pity for the general.

His presentiment came true. That evening he received a strange note, brief but resolute. The general informed him that he was also parting with him forever, that he respected him and was grateful to him, but that even from him he would not accept "tokens of compassion humiliating to the dignity of a man already unfortunate without that." When the prince heard that the old man had locked himself up at Nina Alexandrovna's, he almost stopped worrying about him. But we have already seen that the general had also caused some sort of trouble at Lizaveta Prokofyevna's. We cannot go into detail here, but will note briefly that the essence of their meeting consisted in the general's frightening Lizaveta Prokofyevna and driving her to indignation with his bitter allusions to Ganya. He had been led out in disgrace. That was why he had spent such a night and such a morning, had become definitively cracked and had rushed out to the street almost in a state of insanity.

Kolya did not fully understand the matter yet and even hoped to win out by severity.

"Well, where are we going to drag ourselves now, General?" he said. "You don't want to go to the prince, you've quarreled with Lebedev, you have no money, and I never have any: so here we are in the street without a shirt to our name."

"It's better than having a shirt and no name," the general murmured. "This pun of mine . . . was received with raptures . . . a company of officers ... in the year forty-four . . . Eighteen . . . hundred . . . and forty-four, yes! ... I don't remember . . . Oh, don't remind me, don't remind me! 'Where is my youth, where is my freshness!' So exclaimed . . . Who exclaimed that, Kolya?"

"It's from Gogol, in Dead Souls,²¹ papa," Kolya replied and gave his father a frightened sidelong glance.

"Dead souls! Oh, yes, dead! When you bury me, write on my tombstone: 'Here lies a dead soul!'

Disgrace pursues me!

Who said that, Kolya?"

"I don't know, papa."

"There was no Eropegov! No Eroshka Eropegov! . . ." he cried out in a frenzy, stopping in the street, "and that is my son, my own son! Eropegov, who for eleven months was like a brother to me, for whom I'd have gone to a duel . . . Prince Vygoretsky, our captain, says to him over a bottle: 'You, Grisha, where did you get your Anna,²² tell me that?' 'On the battlefields of my fatherland, that's where!' 'Bravo, Grisha!' I shout. Well, that led to a duel, and then he married . . . Marya Petrovna Su . . . Sutugin and was killed on the battlefield . . . The bullet ricocheted off the cross on my chest and hit him right in the forehead. 'I'll never forget!' he cried and fell on the spot. I ... I served honestly, Kolya; I served nobly, but disgrace—'disgrace pursues me'! You and Nina will come to my little grave . . . 'Poor Nina!' I used to call her that, Kolya, long ago, in the beginning, and she so loved . . . Nina, Nina! What have I done to your life! What can you love me for, patient soul! Your mother is an angelic soul, do you hear, Kolya, an angelic soul!"

"I know that, papa. Papa, dearest, let's go home to mama! She ran after us! Well, why are you standing there? As if you don't understand . . . What are you crying for?"

Kolya himself was crying and kissing his father's hands.

"You're kissing my hands, mine!"

"Yes, yours, yours. What's so surprising? Well, what are you doing howling in the middle of the street—and he calls himself a general, a military man! Well, come on!"

"God bless you, my dear boy, for showing respect to a disgraceful—yes! to a disgraceful old fellow, your father . . . may you also have such a son . . . le roi de Rome . . . Oh, 'a curse, a curse upon this house!' "

"But what is really going on here!" Kolya suddenly seethed. "What's the matter? Why don't you want to go back home now? What are you losing your mind for?"

"I'll explain, I'll explain it to you . . . I'll tell you everything;

don't shout, they'll hear you . . . le roi de Rome . . . Oh, I'm sick, I'm sad!

Nanny, where's your grave!²³

Who exclaimed that, Kolya?"

"I don't know, I don't know who exclaimed it! Let's go home right now, right now! I'll give Ganka a beating, if I have to . . . where are you going now?"

But the general was pulling him towards the porch of a nearby house.

"Where are you going? That's not our porch!"

The general sat down on the porch and kept pulling Kolya towards him by the hand.

"Bend down, bend down!" he murmured. "I'll tell you everything . . . disgrace . . . bend down . . . your ear, I'll tell it in your ear . . ."

"What's the matter!" Kolya was terribly frightened, but offered his ear anyway.

"Le roi de Rome . . ." the general whispered, also as if he were trembling all over.

"What? . . . What have you got to do with le roi de Rome?. . . Why?"

"I . . . I . . ." the general whispered again, clutching "his boy's" shoulder tighter and tighter, "I . . . want . . . I'll tell you . . . everything, Marya, Marya . . . Petrovna Su-su-su . . ."

Kolya tore himself free, seized the general by the shoulders, and looked at him like a crazy man. The old man turned purple, his lips became blue, small spasms kept passing over his face. Suddenly he bent over and quietly began to collapse onto Kolya's arm.

"A stroke!" the boy cried out for the whole street to hear, realizing at last what was wrong.

V

To tell the truth, Varvara Ardalionovna, in her conversation with her brother, had slightly exaggerated the accuracy of her information about the prince's proposal to Aglaya Epanchin. Perhaps, as a perspicacious woman, she had divined what was to happen in the near future; perhaps, being upset that her dream (which, in truth, she did not believe in herself) had been scattered like smoke, she, as a human being, could not deny herself the

pleasure of pouring more venom into her brother's heart by exaggerating the calamity, though, incidentally, she loved him sincerely and compassionately. In any case, she had not been able to get such accurate information from her friends, the Epanchin girls; there had been only hints, words unspoken, omissions, enigmas. And perhaps Aglaya's sisters had also let certain things slip on purpose, in order to find something out from Varvara Ardalionovna; and it might have been, finally, that they were unable to deny themselves the feminine pleasure of teasing a friend slightly, even a childhood one: it could not have been that in so long a time they had not glimpsed at least a small edge of her intentions.

On the other hand, the prince, too, though he was perfectly right in assuring Lebedev that there was nothing he could tell him and that precisely nothing special had happened to him, was also, perhaps, mistaken. In fact, something very strange seemed to have occurred with everyone: nothing had happened, and at the same time it was as if a great deal had happened. It was this last that Varvara Ardalionovna had divined with her sure feminine instinct.

How it happened, however, that everyone at the Epanchins' suddenly came up at once with one and the same notion that something major was occurring with Aglaya and that her fate was being decided—is very difficult to present in an orderly way. But this notion had no sooner flashed in everyone at once, than they all immediately insisted at once that they had perceived the whole thing long ago, and it had all been clearly foreseen; that it had all been clear since the "poor knight," and even before, only then they had not wanted to believe in such an absurdity. So the sisters insisted; and, of course, Lizaveta Prokofyevna had foreseen and known everything before everyone else, and she had long had "an aching heart," but—long or not—the notion of the prince now suddenly went too much against the grain, essentially because it disconcerted her. A question presented itself here that had to be resolved immediately; yet not only was it impossible to resolve it, but poor Lizaveta Prokofyevna could not even pose the question to herself with full clarity, try as she might. It was a difficult matter: "Was the prince good or not? Was the whole thing good or not? If it was not good (which was unquestionable), what precisely was not good about it? And if it was good (which was also possible), then, again, what was good about it?" The father of the family himself, Ivan Fyodorovich, was naturally the first to be surprised, but then suddenly confessed that "by God, he, too, had fancied

something of the sort all along; every now and then he suddenly seemed to fancy it!" He fell silent at once under the terrible gaze of his spouse, but he fell silent in the morning, while in the evening, alone with his spouse and forced to speak again, he suddenly and, as it were, with particular pertness, expressed several unexpected thoughts: "Though, essentially, what's wrong? . . ." (Silence.) "Of course, this is all very strange, provided it's true, and he doesn't dispute it, but. . ." (Again silence.) "And on the other hand, if you look at things directly, the prince is a wonderful fellow, by God, and . . . and, and—well, finally, the name, our family name, all this will have the look, so to speak, of an upholding of the family name, which has been lowered in the eyes of society, because, looked at from this point of view, that is, because ... of course, society; society is society; but still the prince is not without a fortune, even if it's only so much. He also has . . . and . . . and . . . and . . ." (A prolonged silence and a decided misfire.) Having listened to her spouse, Lizaveta Prokofyevna went completely overboard.

In her opinion, everything that had happened was "unpardonable and even criminal nonsense, a fantastic picture, stupid and absurd!" First of all there was the fact that "this wretched princeling is a sick idiot, second of all he's a fool, who neither knows society nor has any place in society: to whom can he be shown, where can he be tucked in? He's some sort of unpardonable democrat, without even the least rank, and . . . and . . . what will old Belokonsky say? And is this, is this the sort of husband we imagined and intended for Aglaya?" The last argument was, naturally, the most important. The mother's heart trembled at the thought, bled and wept, though at the same time something stirred in that heart which suddenly said to her: "And what makes the prince not the sort you want?" Well, it was these objections against her own heart that were most troublesome for Lizaveta Prokofyevna.

Aglaya's sisters for some reason liked the notion of the prince; it did not even seem very strange to them; in short, they might even suddenly turn out to be completely on his side. But they both decided to keep silent. It had been noted once and for all in the family that the more stubborn and persistent Lizaveta Prokofyevna's objections and retorts became, on some general and disputed family point, the more it could serve them all as a sign that she might be about to agree on that point. Alexandra Ivanovna, however, could never be completely silent. Having long since acknowledged her as her advisor, the mother constantly summoned

her now and asked for her opinions, and above all her memories— that is: "How had it all happened? Why had no one seen it? Why had there been no talk then? What had this nasty 'poor knight' signified then? Why was it that she, Lizaveta Prokofyevna, was the only one doomed to worry about everyone, to notice and foresee everything, while all the rest were merely—woolgathering?" etc., etc. Alexandra Ivanovna was cautious at first and only observed that she thought her father's idea was quite correct, that in the eyes of society the choice of Prince Myshkin as a husband for one of the Epanchin girls might appear very satisfactory. She gradually became excited and added that the prince was by no means a "little fool" and never had been, and as for his significance—God alone knew what the significance of a respectable man would consist of in our Russia a few years hence: success in the service, as used to be necessary, or something else? To all this the mother immediately rapped out that Alexandra was "a freethinker and that it was all their cursed woman question." Half an hour later she went to the city, and from there to Kamenny Island, in order to catch Princess Belokonsky, who, as if on purpose, happened to be in Petersburg just then, though she would be leaving soon. The princess was Aglaya's godmother.

"Old" Belokonsky listened to all the feverish and desperate confessions of Lizaveta Prokofyevna and was not touched in the least by the tears of the disconcerted mother of the family, but even looked at her mockingly. She was a terrible despot; in friendship, even an old friendship, she could not bear equality, and she decidedly looked upon Lizaveta Prokofyevna as her protégée, just as thirty-five years ago, and she simply could not be reconciled with the sharpness and independence of her character. She noticed, among other things, that "it seemed they had all rushed too far ahead there, as was their habit, and made a mountain out of a molehill; that listen as she might, she was not convinced that anything serious had actually happened; that it might be better to wait until something did; that the prince was, in her opinion, a respectable young man, though sick, strange, and much too insignificant. The worst thing was that he openly kept a woman." Lizaveta Prokofyevna realized very well that Belokonsky was a bit cross about the unsuccess of Evgeny Pavlovich, whom she had recommended. She returned home to Pavlovsk still more irritated than when she had left, and everyone immediately got it from her, above all because they had "lost their minds," because decidedly

nobody else did things the way they did them; and "what's the hurry? What has happened? However much I look at it, I can in no way conclude that anything has actually happened! Wait until something does! No matter what Ivan Fyodorovich may have fancied, are we going to make a mountain out of a molehill?" etc., etc. The result, therefore, was that they needed to calm down, watch cool-headedly, and wait. But, alas, the calm did not hold out for even ten minutes. The first blow to cool-headedness came from the news of what had happened while the mother absented herself to Kamenny Island. (Lizaveta Prokofyevna's trip took place the morning after the prince had come calling past midnight instead of before ten.) The sisters answered their mother's impatient questioning in great detail, and said, first of all, that "precisely nothing, it seemed, had happened while she was away," that the prince came, that Aglaya took a long time, half an hour, before coming out to him, and when she did come out, suggested at once that she and the prince play chess; that the prince did not know the first thing about chess, and Aglaya beat him at once; she became very merry and shamed the prince terribly for his lack of skill, and laughed at him terribly, so that the prince was a pity to see. Then she suggested that they play cards, a game of "fools." But here it turned out quite the opposite: the prince proved to be as good at "fools" as ... as a professor; he played masterfully; Aglaya cheated, put cards back, stole his own tricks before his very eyes, and all the same he left her each time as the "fool"; five times in a row. Aglaya flew into a rage, even quite forgot herself; she said so many impudent and sarcastic things to the prince that he even stopped laughing, and he turned quite pale when she told him, finally, that "she would not set foot in this room while he was sitting there, and that it was even shameless on his part to call on them, and in the night at that, past midnight, after all that had happened." She then slammed the door and left. The prince went out as if from a funeral, despite all their attempts to comfort him. Suddenly, fifteen minutes after the prince left, Aglaya came running down to the terrace from upstairs, and in such a hurry that she did not even wipe her eyes, which were wet with tears. She came running down because Kolya arrived and brought a hedgehog. They all started looking at the hedgehog; to their questions, Kolya explained that the hedgehog was not his, and that he was now walking with his comrade, another schoolboy, Kostya Lebedev, who had stayed outside and was embarrassed to come in because he was carrying

an axe; that they had bought both the hedgehog and the axe from a peasant they had met. The peasant was selling the hedgehog and took fifty kopecks for it, and then they persuaded him to sell the axe as well, because it was an opportunity, and also a very good axe. Here Aglaya suddenly began pestering Kolya terribly to sell her the hedgehog at once, turned inside out, even called Kolya "dear." Kolya would not agree for a long time, but finally gave in and called Kostya Lebedev, who indeed came in carrying the axe and feeling very embarrassed. But here it suddenly turned out that the hedgehog did not belong to them at all, but to a third boy, Petrov, who had given them money to buy Schlosser's History²⁴ from some fourth boy, who, being in need of money, was selling it at a bargain price; that they set out to buy Schlosser's History, but could not help themselves and bought the hedgehog, and therefore both the hedgehog and the axe belonged to that third boy, to whom they were now taking them in place of Schlosser's History. But Aglaya pestered them so much that they finally decided to sell her the hedgehog. As soon as Aglaya got the hedgehog, she put it into a wicker basket with Kolya's help, covered it with a napkin, and started asking Kolya to go at once and, without stopping anywhere, take the hedgehog to the prince on her behalf, with the request that he accept it as "a token of her profoundest respect." Kolya gladly agreed and promised to deliver it, but immediately began to pester her: "What was the meaning of the hedgehog and of such a present?" Aglaya replied that that was none of his business. He replied that he was sure it contained some allegory. Aglaya became angry and snapped at him that he was a little brat and nothing more. Kolya at once retorted that if it were not for his respect for the woman in her, and for his own convictions on top of it, he would immediately prove to her that he knew how to respond to such insults. It ended, however, with Kolya delightedly going all the same to deliver the hedgehog, and Kostya Lebedev running after him; Aglaya could not help herself and, seeing Kolya swinging the basket too hard, shouted behind him from the terrace: "Please, Kolya dearest, don't drop it!"—as if she had not just quarreled with him; Kolya stopped and, also as if he had not just been quarreling, shouted with great readiness: "No, I won't drop it, Aglaya Ivanovna. Be completely assured!" and ran on at breakneck speed. After that Aglaya laughed terribly and ran to her room extremely pleased, and then was very cheerful all day.

This news completely dumbfounded Lizaveta Prokofyevna. One

might wonder, why so? But such, evidently, was the mood she had come to. Her anxiety was aroused to the utmost degree, and above all—the hedgehog; what was the meaning of the hedgehog? Was it prearranged? Did it imply something? Was it some sort of sign? A telegram? What's more, poor Ivan Fyodorovich, who happened to be present at the interrogation, spoiled things completely with his answer. In his opinion, there was no telegram, and the hedgehog was "just a simple hedgehog—and perhaps also meant friendship, the forgetting of offenses, and reconciliation; in short, it was all a prank, but in any case innocent and pardonable."

Let us note parenthetically that he had guessed perfectly right. The prince, having returned home from seeing Aglaya, mocked and driven out by her, had been sitting for half an hour in the darkest despair, when Kolya suddenly arrived with the hedgehog. At once the sky cleared. It was as if the prince rose from the dead; he questioned Kolya, hanging on his every word, repeated his questions ten times, laughed like a child, and kept pressing the hands of the two laughing and bright-eyed boys. So it turned out that Aglaya had forgiven him, and the prince could go to see her again that very evening, and for him that was not only the main thing, but even everything.

"What children we still are, Kolya! and . . . and . . . how good it is that we're children!" he finally exclaimed in ecstasy.

"She's quite simply in love with you, Prince, that's all!" Kolya replied imposingly and with authority.

The prince blushed, but this time he said nothing, and Kolya only guffawed and clapped his hands; a minute later the prince, too, burst out laughing, and then right until evening he kept looking at his watch every five minutes, to see how much time had passed and how much remained till evening.

But her mood got the upper hand: Lizaveta Prokofyevna was finally unable to help herself and succumbed to a hysterical moment. Despite all the objections of her husband and daughters, she immediately sent for Aglaya, in order to put the ultimate question to her and get from her the most clear and ultimate answer. "So as to be done with it all at once, and get it off my shoulders, and never think of it again!" "Otherwise," she announced, "I won't survive till evening!" And only then did they all realize what a muddle things had been brought to. Apart from feigned astonishment, indignation, laughter, and mockery of the prince and all her questioners, they got nothing from Aglaya. Lizaveta Prokofyevna

took to her bed and came out only for tea, by which time the prince was expected. She awaited the prince with trepidation, and when he arrived she nearly had hysterics.

And the prince himself came in timidly, all but gropingly, with a strange smile, peeking into all their eyes and as if asking them all a question, because Aglaya again was not in the room, which alarmed him at once. That evening there were no outsiders, only members of the family. Prince Shch. was still in Petersburg on business connected with Evgeny Pavlovich's uncle. "If only he could happen by and say something," Lizaveta Prokofyevna pined for him. Ivan Fyodorovich sat with an extremely preoccupied air; the sisters were serious and, as if on purpose, silent. Lizaveta Prokofyevna did not know how to begin the conversation. In the end she suddenly produced an energetic denunciation of the railways and looked at the prince in decided defiance.

Alas! Aglaya did not come out, and the prince was perishing. Nearly babbling and at a loss, he expressed the opinion that it would be of great utility to repair the railways, but Adelaida suddenly laughed, and the prince was again annihilated. At that very moment Aglaya came in calmly and gravely, gave the prince a ceremonious bow, and solemnly took the most conspicuous place at the round table. She looked questioningly at the prince. Everyone realized that the resolution of all misunderstandings was at hand.

"Did you receive my hedgehog?" she asked firmly and almost crossly.

"I did," the prince replied, blushing and with a sinking heart.

"Then explain immediately what you think about it. It is necessary for my mother's peace and that of the whole family."

"Listen, Aglaya . . ." the general suddenly began to worry.

"This, this is beyond all limits!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly became frightened of something.

"There aren't any limits here, maman" the daughter replied sternly and at once. "Today I sent the prince a hedgehog, and I wish to know his opinion. What is it, Prince?"

"You mean my opinion, Aglaya Ivanovna?"

"Of the hedgehog."

"That is ... I think, Aglaya Ivanovna, that you want to know how I took . . . the hedgehog ... or, better to say, how I looked at . . . this sending ... of the hedgehog, that is ... in which case, I suppose that... in a word . . ."

He ran out of breath and fell silent.

"Well, you haven't said much," Aglaya paused for five seconds. "Very well, I agree to drop the hedgehog; but I'm very glad that I can finally put an end to all the accumulated misunderstandings. Allow me, finally, to learn from you yourself and personally: are you proposing to me or not?"

"Oh, Lord!" escaped Lizaveta Prokofyevna.

The prince gave a start and drew back; Ivan Fyodorovich was dumbstruck; the sisters frowned.

"Don't lie, Prince, tell the truth. On account of you, I'm hounded by strange interrogations; are there any grounds for those interrogations? Well?"

"I haven't proposed to you, Aglaya Ivanovna," said the prince, suddenly becoming animated, "but . . . you know yourself how much I love you and believe in you . . . even now ..."

"My question was: are you asking for my hand or not?"

"I am," the prince replied, his heart sinking.

A general and strong commotion followed.

"This is all not right, my dear friend," Ivan Fyodorovich said in great agitation, "this . . . this is almost impossible, if it's so, Glasha . . . Forgive me, Prince, forgive me, my dear! . . . Lizaveta Prokofyevna!" he turned to his wife for help. "We must . . . look into it . . ."

"I refuse, I refuse!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna waved her hands.

"Allow me to speak as well, maman; I also mean something in such a matter: the great moment of my destiny is being decided" (that is precisely how Aglaya put it), "and I myself want to know, and besides, I'm glad it's in front of everybody . . . Allow me to ask you, Prince, if you do 'nurture such intentions,' precisely how do you propose to ensure my happiness?"

"I don't really know how to answer you, Aglaya Ivanovna; there . . . what is there to say? And ... is there any need?"

"You seem to be embarrassed and breathless; rest a little and gather fresh strength; drink a glass of water; anyhow, tea will be served presently."

"I love you, Aglaya Ivanovna, I love you very much; I love only you and . . . don't joke, please, I love you very much."

"But, nevertheless, this is an important matter; we're not children, we must look positively . . . Take the trouble now to tell us, what does your fortune amount to?"

"Now, now, now, Aglaya. What are you doing! This is wrong, wrong ..." Ivan Fyodorovich muttered fearfully.

"A disgrace!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna whispered loudly.

"She's lost her mind!" Alexandra also whispered loudly.

"My fortune . . . meaning money?" the prince was surprised.

"Precisely."

"I ... I now have one hundred and thirty-five thousand," the prince murmured, turning red.

"That's all?" Aglaya was loudly and frankly surprised, not blushing in the least. "Anyhow, never mind; particularly if one is economical . . . Do you intend to enter the service?"

"I wanted to pass an examination to be a private tutor ..."

"Very appropriate; of course, it will increase our means. Do you plan to be a kammerjunker?"

"A kammerjunker? I've never imagined it, but. . ."

But here the two sisters, unable to help themselves, burst out laughing. Adelaida had long noticed in Aglaya's twitching features the signs of rapidly approaching and irrepressible laughter, which she had so far been holding back with all her might. Aglaya looked menacingly at the laughing sisters, but could not stand it a second longer and dissolved into the maddest, almost hysterical laughter; in the end she jumped up and ran out of the room.

"I just knew it was only for fun and nothing more!" cried Adelaida. "Right from the beginning, from the hedgehog."

"No, this I will not allow, I will not allow it!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly boiled over with anger and quickly rushed out in Aglaya's wake. The two sisters at once ran after her. The prince and the father of the family were left in the room.

"This, this . . . could you have imagined anything like it, Lev Nikolaich?" the general cried out sharply, evidently not understanding himself what he wanted to say. "No, speaking seriously, seriously?"

"I see that Aglaya Ivanovna was making fun of me," the prince replied sadly.

"Wait, brother; I'll go, but you wait. . . because . . . you at least explain to me, Lev Nikolaich, you at least: how did all this happen and what does it all mean, so to speak, as a whole? You'll agree, brother, I am her father, I am after all her father, which is why I don't understand a thing; so you at least explain it."

"I love Aglaya Ivanovna; she knows that and . . . has known it, I think, for a long time."

The general heaved his shoulders.

"Strange, strange . . . and you love her very much?"

"Yes, very much."

"Strange, strange, I find it all. That is, it's such a surprise and a blow that . . . You see, my dear, I'm not referring to your fortune (though I did expect that you had a bit more), but ... for me, my daughter's happiness . . . finally ... are you able, so to speak, to make that . . . happiness? And . . . and . . . what is it, a joke or the truth on her side? Not on yours, that is, but on her side?"

From behind the door came the voice of Alexandra Ivanovna: they were calling the father.

"Wait, brother, wait! Wait and think it over, and I'll be . . ." he said in haste and almost fearfully rushed off to Alexandra's call.

He found his wife and daughter in each other's arms and flooding each other with their tears. These were tears of happiness, tenderness, and reconciliation. Aglaya kissed her mother's hands, cheeks, lips; the two clung warmly to each other.

"Well, there, look at her, Ivan Fyodorych, she's quite herself now!" said Lizaveta Prokofyevna.

Aglaya turned her happy and tear-bathed little face from her mother's bosom, looked at her father, laughed loudly, jumped over to him, embraced him tightly, and kissed him several times. Then she rushed to her mother again and buried her face completely in her bosom, so that no one could see her, and at once began weeping again. Lizaveta Prokofyevna covered her with the end of her shawl.

"Well, what is it, what is it you're doing to us, cruel girl that you are after that!" she said, but joyfully now, as if she suddenly could breathe more freely.

"Cruel! yes, cruel!" Aglaya suddenly picked up. "Rotten! Spoiled! Tell papa that. Ah, but he's here. Papa, are you here? Listen!" she laughed through her tears.

"My dearest, my idol!" the general, all beaming with happiness, kissed her hand. (Aglaya did not withdraw it.) "So it means that you love this . . . young man? ..."

"No, no, no! I can't bear . . . your young man, I can't bear him!" Aglaya suddenly boiled over and raised her head. "And if you dare once more, papa . . . I'm saying it to you seriously; do you hear: I'm saying it seriously!"

And she indeed said it seriously: she even turned all red and her eyes shone. Her father broke off and became frightened, but Lizaveta Prokofyevna made a sign to him behind Aglaya's back, and he understood that it meant: "Don't ask questions."

"If that is how you want it, my angel, it's as you will, he's waiting

there alone; shouldn't we delicately hint to him that he should leave?"

The general in turn winked at Lizaveta Prokofyevna.

"No, no, that's quite superfluous, especially if it's 'delicate.' Go out to him; I'll come out afterwards, right away. I want to ask forgiveness of this . . . young man, because I've hurt him."

"Very much so," Ivan Fyodorovich confirmed seriously.

"Well, so ... it will be better if you all stay here and I go alone first, and you follow me right away, that same second; that will be better."

She had already reached the door, but suddenly she came back.

"I'll burst out laughing! I'll die of laughter!" she announced ruefully.

But that same second she turned and ran to the prince.

"Well, what is it? What do you think?" Ivan Fyodorovich said hastily.

"I'm afraid even to say," Lizaveta Prokofyevna replied, also hastily, "but I think it's clear."

"I, too, think it's clear. Clear as day. She loves him."

"Not just loves him, she's in love with him!" Alexandra Ivanovna echoed. "Only I wonder what for?"

"God bless her, if such is her fate!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna piously crossed herself.

"It means it's fate," the general confirmed, "there's no escaping fate!"

And they all went to the drawing room, but there another surprise awaited them.

Aglaya not only did not burst out laughing, as she feared, when she walked up to the prince, but she said to him even almost timidly:

"Forgive a foolish, bad, spoiled girl" (she took his hand), "and be assured that we all have boundless respect for you. And if I dared to make a mockery of your beautiful . . . kind simple-heartedness, then forgive me as you would a child for a prank; forgive me that I insisted on an absurdity which, of course, cannot have the least consequences . . ."

Aglaya uttered these last words with special emphasis.

Father, mother, and sisters all arrived in the drawing room in time to see and hear everything, and they were all struck by the "absurdity which, of course, cannot have the least consequences,"

and still more by the serious air with which Aglaya spoke of this absurdity. They all exchanged questioning glances; but the prince, it seemed, did not understand these words and was in the highest degree of happiness.

"Why do you speak like that," he murmured, "why do you . . . ask . . . forgiveness . . ."

He was even going to say that he was unworthy of having anyone ask his forgiveness. Who knows, perhaps he did notice the meaning of the words about the "absurdity which cannot have the least consequences," but, as a strange man, he may even have been glad of those words. Unquestionably, for him the height of bliss was the fact alone that he could again visit Aglaya without hindrance, that he would be allowed to talk with her, sit with her, walk with her, and, who knows, perhaps that alone would have contented him for the rest of his life! (It was this contentment, it seems, that Lizaveta Prokofyevna was secretly afraid of; she had divined it; she secretly feared many things that she did not even know how to express.)

It is hard to describe how animated and encouraged the prince became that evening. He was so merry that one became merry just looking at him—so Aglaya's sisters put it afterwards. He talked a great deal, and that had not happened to him since the very morning, six months earlier, when he had first made the acquaintance of the Epanchins; on his return to Petersburg, he had been noticeably and intentionally silent, and very recently, in front of everyone, had let slip to Prince Shch. that he had to restrain himself and keep silent, because he had no right to humiliate a thought by stating it. He was almost the only one who spoke all that evening, telling many stories; he answered questions clearly, gladly, and in detail. However, nothing resembling polite conversation showed in his words. The thoughts were all quite serious, sometimes even quite abstruse. The prince even stated some of his own views, his own private observations, so that it would all even have been ridiculous, if it had not been so "well stated," as all the listeners agreed afterwards. Though the general loved serious topics of conversation, both he and Lizaveta Prokofyevna personally found that there was too much learning, so that by the end of the evening they even began to feel sad. However, in the end the prince went so far as to tell several very funny anecdotes, at which he was the first to laugh, so that the others laughed more at his joyful laughter than at the anecdotes themselves. As for Aglaya,

she hardly even spoke all evening; instead, she listened to Lev Nikolaevich, without tearing herself away, and even did not so much listen to him as look at him.

"She just looks at him, can't take her eyes away; hangs on his every little word; snatches at it, snatches at it!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna said later to her husband. "But tell her she loves him, and God save us all!"

"No help for it—it's fate!" the general shrugged his shoulders and for a long time went on repeating this little phrase that had caught his fancy. We shall add that, as a practical man, he also found much in the present state of all these things that displeased him greatly—above all the indefiniteness of the situation; but for the time being he also decided to keep silent and look . . . into Lizaveta Prokofyevna's eyes.

The family's joyful mood did not last long. The very next day Aglaya again quarreled with the prince, and so it went on incessantly, during all the days that followed. She would spend hours at a time making fun of the prince and all but turning him into a buffoon. True, they sometimes spent an hour or two sitting in the garden, in the gazebo, but it was noticed that at those times the prince almost always read the newspapers or some book to Aglaya.

"You know," Aglaya once said to him, interrupting the newspaper, "I've noticed that you are terribly uneducated; you don't know anything properly, if somebody asks you: neither precisely who, nor in what year, nor in what article. You're quite pathetic."

"I told you that I have little learning," the prince replied.

"What do you amount to after that? How can I respect you after that? Keep reading; or, no, stop reading, there's no need to."

And again that same evening there was a glimpse of something very mysterious on her part. Prince Shch. returned. Aglaya was very nice to him, asked many questions about Evgeny Pavlovich. (Prince Lev Nikolaevich had not arrived yet.) Suddenly Prince Shch. somehow permitted himself to allude to "the near and new change in the family," in response to a few words that Lizaveta Prokofyevna let drop about possibly having to postpone Adelaida's wedding again, so as to have both weddings take place together. It was impossible even to imagine how Aglaya flared up at "all these stupid suppositions"; and, among other things, the words escaped her that "she still had no intention of replacing anyone's mistresses."

These words struck everyone, but the parents most of all.

Lizaveta Prokofyevna, in a secret consultation with her husband, insisted on having a decisive talk with the prince concerning Nastasya Filippovna.

Ivan Fyodorovich swore that it was all only an "outburst," which came from Aglaya's "modesty"; that if Prince Shch. had not begun speaking about the wedding, there would have been no such outburst, because Aglaya herself knew, knew for certain, that it was all the slander of unkind people and that Nastasya Filippovna was going to marry Rogozhin; that the prince counted for nothing at all here, not only in any liaison; and even never had counted, if the whole truth were to be told.

But all the same the prince was not embarrassed by anything and went on being blissful. Oh, of course, he, too, sometimes noticed something dark and impatient, as it were, in Aglaya's eyes; but he believed more in something else, and the darkness vanished of itself. Once having believed, he could no longer be shaken by anything. Perhaps he was all too calm; so, at least, it seemed to Ippolit, who once chanced to meet him in the park.

"Well, wasn't it the truth I told you then, that you were in love?" he began, going up to the prince himself and stopping him. The latter gave him his hand and congratulated him on "looking well." The sick boy did seem cheerful, as is often the case with consumptives.

His purpose in going up to the prince was to say something sarcastic about his happy look, but he got thrown off at once and started talking about himself. He began to complain, complained much and long and rather incoherently.

"You wouldn't believe," he concluded, "the degree to which they are all irritable, petty, egoistic, vainglorious, ordinary; would you believe, they took me in only on the condition that I should die as soon as possible, and now everybody's furious that I don't die and, on the contrary, feel better. A comedy! I'll bet you don't believe me!"

The prince did not want to object.

"I sometimes even think of moving back to your place," Ippolit added casually. "So you, however, do not consider them capable of receiving a person with the notion that he should die without fail and as soon as possible?"

"I thought they invited you with something else in mind."

"Aha! No, you're not at all as simple as they recommend you to be! Now's not the time, or I'd reveal to you a thing or two about that Ganechka and his hopes. You're being undermined, Prince,

pitilessly undermined, and . . . it's even a pity you're so calm. But alas—you couldn't be otherwise!"

"What a thing to be pitied for!" laughed the prince. "So in your opinion I'd be happier if I worried more?"

"It's better to be unhappy, but to know, than to be happy and live ... as a fool. It seems you don't believe in the least that you have a rival and ... on that side?"

"Your words about rivalry are slightly cynical, Ippolit; I'm sorry I don't have the right to answer you. As for Gavrila Ardalionovich, you must agree that he can't remain calm after all he has lost, if you know his affairs at least in part. It seems to me that it's better to look at it from that point of view. He still has time to change; he has a long life ahead of him, and life is rich . . . but anyhow . . . anyhow," the prince was suddenly at a loss, "as for the undermining ... I don't even understand what you're talking about; it's better if we drop this conversation, Ippolit."

"We'll drop it for a time; besides, it's impossible to do without the noble pose on your part. Yes, Prince, you'll have to touch it with your own finger in order to stop believing again, ha, ha!²⁵ And, what do you think, do you despise me very much now?"

"What for? For having suffered and for suffering more than we?"

"No, but for being unworthy of my suffering."

"If someone can suffer more, it means he's worthy of suffering more. Aglaya Ivanovna wanted to see you, when she read your 'Confession,' but . . ."

"She's putting it off. . . it's impossible for her, I understand, I understand . . ." Ippolit interrupted, as if trying to divert the conversation quickly. "By the way, they say you read all that galimatias to her out loud; it was truly written and . . . done in delirium. And I don't understand the extent to which one must be—I won't say cruel (that would be humiliating to me), but childishly vain and vengeful, to reproach me with that 'Confession' and use it against me as a weapon! Don't worry, I'm not saying that with regard to you . . ."

"But I'm sorry that you reject that notebook, Ippolit; it's sincere, and you know that even its ridiculous sides, and it has many" (Ippolit winced deeply), "are redeemed by suffering, because to admit them was also suffering and . . . perhaps took great courage. The thought that moved you certainly had a noble basis, however it may seem. The further it goes, the more clearly I see it, I swear

to you. I'm not judging you, I'm saying it in order to speak my whole mind, and I'm sorry I was silent then . . ."

Ippolit flushed. The thought occurred to him that the prince was pretending and trying to catch him; but, peering into his face, he could not help believing in his sincerity; his face brightened.

"And here I have to die all the same!" he said, and nearly added: "such a man as I!" "And imagine how your Ganechka plagues me; he thought up, in the guise of an objection, that of those who listened to my notebook, three or four might die before me! I like that! He thinks it's a consolation, ha, ha! First of all, they haven't died yet; and even if those people all died off, what sort of consolation would it be, you'll agree! He judges by himself; however, he goes further still, he now simply abuses me, saying that a respectable man dies silently in such cases, and that the whole thing was only egoism on my part! I like that! No, but what egoism on his part! What a refinement or, better to say, at the same time what an ox-like crudeness of their egoism, which all the same they are in no way able to notice in themselves! . . . Have you read, Prince, about a certain death, of a certain Stepan Glebov, in the eighteenth century? I read it by chance yesterday ..."

"What Stepan Glebov?"

"He was impaled under Peter."²⁶

"Ah, my God, I do know! He spent fifteen hours on the stake, in the freezing cold, in his fur coat, and died with extreme magnanimity; of course, I read that . . . but what of it?"

"God grants such deaths to some people, but not to us! Maybe you think I'm incapable of dying the way Glebov did?"

"Oh, not at all," the prince was embarrassed, "I only wanted to say that you ... I mean, that it's not that you wouldn't be like Glebov, but . . . that you . . . that then you'd sooner be like . . ."

"I can guess: Osterman²⁷ and not Glebov—is that what you want to say?"

"What Osterman?" the prince was surprised.

"Osterman, the diplomat Osterman, from Peter's time," murmured Ippolit, suddenly thrown off a little. A certain perplexity followed.

"Oh, n-n-no! That's not what I wanted to say," the prince drew out after some silence. "It seems to me you could . . . never be an Osterman . . ."

Ippolit frowned. "However, the reason I maintain that," the prince suddenly

picked up, obviously wishing to correct himself, "is because people back then (I swear to you, it has always struck me) were not at all the same sort of people as we are now, not the same breed as now, in our time,²⁸ really, like a different species ... At that time people were somehow of one idea, while now they're more nervous, more developed, sensitive, somehow of two or three ideas at once . . . today's man is broader—and, I swear, that's what keeps him from being such a monolithic man as in those times ... I ... I said it solely with that in mind, and not..."

"I understand; to make up for the naivety with which you disagreed with me, you are now foisting your consolations on me, ha, ha! You're a perfect child, Prince! However, I notice that you keep treating me like ... a porcelain cup . . . Never mind, never mind, I'm not angry. In any case, we've had a very funny conversation; you're a perfect child sometimes, Prince. Know, however, that I might like to be something better than Osterman; it wouldn't be worthwhile to rise from the dead in order to be an Osterman . . . However, I see I must die as soon as possible, otherwise I, too . . . Leave me. Good-bye! Well, all right, tell me yourself, well, how, in your opinion: how will it be best for me to die? So that it will go as well as . . . more virtuously, that is? Well, speak!"

"Pass us by and forgive us our happiness!" the prince said in a low voice.

"Ha, ha, ha! Just as I thought! I certainly expected something of that sort! You, though . . . you, though . .. Well, well! Eloquent people! Good-bye, good-bye!"

VI

Varvara Ardalionovna had also informed her brother quite correctly about the evening gathering at the Epanchins' dacha, where Belokonsky was expected; guests were expected precisely that evening; but, again, the way she had put it was slightly stronger than it should have been. True, the affair had been organized too hastily and even with a certain quite unnecessary excitement, and that precisely because in this family "everything was done as no one else did it." Everything was explained by the impatience of Lizaveta Prokofyevna, "who did not wish to have any more doubts" and by the ardent throbbings of both parental hearts over the happiness of their beloved daughter. Besides,

Belokonsky was in fact leaving soon; and since her protection indeed meant much in society and since it was hoped that she would look favorably on the prince, the parents reckoned that "society" would receive Aglaya's fiancé straight from the hands of the all-powerful "old woman," and so, if there was something strange in it, under such protection it would appear much less strange. The whole thing was that the parents were simply unable to decide for themselves: "Was there anything strange in this whole affair, and if so, precisely how much? Or was there nothing strange at all?" The friendly and candid opinion of people of authority and competence would precisely be useful at the present moment, when, thanks to Aglaya, nothing had been ultimately resolved yet. In any case, the prince had sooner or later to be introduced into society, of which he had not the slightest idea. In short, the intention was to "show" him. The evening, however, was planned without ceremony; only "friends of the house" were expected, a very small number of them. Besides Princess Belokonsky, a certain lady was expected, the wife of a very important gentleman and a dignitary. Among the young men they counted perhaps only on Evgeny Pavlovich; he was to arrive escorting Belokonsky.

Of the fact that Belokonsky would be there, the prince had heard possibly some three days before the evening; of the party he learned only the day before. Naturally, he noticed the busy look of the members of the family, and even grasped, from certain allusive and preoccupied remarks made to him, that they feared for the impression he might make. But somehow all the Epanchins to a person formed the idea that he, in his simplicity, would never be able to guess that they were so worried for him. Which was why, looking at him, they all felt an inner anguish. However, he in fact ascribed almost no significance to the forthcoming event; he was concerned with something else entirely: with every hour Aglaya was becoming more capricious and gloomy—this was killing him. When he learned that Evgeny Pavlovich was also expected, he was very glad and said he had long been wanting to see him. For some reason no one liked these words; Aglaya left the room in vexation, and only late in the evening, sometime past eleven, when the prince was leaving, did she seize the chance to tell him a few words alone, as she was seeing him off.

"I wish you wouldn't come to see us all day tomorrow, but come in the evening, when these . . . guests have gathered. You know there will be guests?"

She spoke impatiently and with increased sternness; this was the first time she had spoken of this "evening." For her, too, the thought of guests was almost unbearable; everyone noticed it. She might have wanted very much to quarrel with her parents over it, but pride and modesty kept her from speaking. The prince understood at once that she, too, feared for him (and did not want to admit it), and he suddenly felt afraid himself.

"Yes, I've been invited," he replied.

She was obviously embarrassed to go on.

"Is it possible to speak with you about anything serious? At least once in your life?" she suddenly became extremely angry, not knowing why herself and not able to restrain herself.

"It's possible, and I'm listening to you; I'm very glad," the prince murmured.

Aglaya paused again for about a minute and began with obvious repugnance:

"I didn't want to argue about it with them; in certain cases they can't be brought to reason. The rules that maman sometimes goes by have always been repugnant to me. I'm not speaking of father, there's nothing to be expected from him. Maman is, of course, a noble woman; dare to suggest something mean to her and you'll see . . . Well, but before this . . . trash—she stands in awe! I'm not speaking of this Belokonsky alone: a trashy little hag, and with a trashy character, but she's intelligent and knows how to hold them all in her hand—that, at least, is a good thing about her. Oh, meanness! And it's ridiculous: we've always been people of the middle circle, as middle as can be; why climb into that high-society circle? And my sisters, too: this Prince Shch. has got them all confused. Why are you glad that Evgeny Pavlych will come?"

"Listen, Aglaya," said the prince, "it seems to me you're very afraid for me, that I'll flunk it tomorrow ... in that company?"

"For you? Afraid?" Aglaya flared up. "Why should I be afraid for you, even if you . . . even if you disgrace yourself completely? What is it to me? And how can you use such words? What does 'flunk' mean? It's a trite, trashy word."

"It's a . . . school word."

"Ah, yes, a school word! A trashy word! You intend, apparently, to speak in such words tomorrow. Go home and pick more words like that from your lexicon: what an effect you'll make! Too bad you seem to know how to make a proper entrance; where did you

learn that? Will you be able to take a cup of tea and drink it decently, while everybody's looking at you on purpose?"

"I think I'll be able to."

"That's too bad; otherwise I'd have had a good laugh. At least break the Chinese vase in the drawing room! It's expensive: please break it; it was a gift, mama will lose her mind and cry in front of everybody—it's so precious to her. Make some gesture, the way you always do, hit it and break it. Sit next to it on purpose."

"On the contrary, I'll try to sit as far away as possible: thank you for warning me."

"So you're afraid beforehand that you'll make grand gestures. I bet you'll start discussing some 'topic,' something serious, learned, lofty? That will be . . . proper!"

"I think it would be stupid ... if it's inappropriate."

"Listen once and for all," Aglaya finally could not stand it, "if you start talking about something like capital punishment or the economic situation in Russia, or that 'beauty will save the world'. . . I'll certainly be glad and laugh very much, but . . . I'm warning you ahead of time: don't let me set eyes on you afterwards! Do you hear? I'm speaking seriously! This time I'm speaking seriously!"

She actually uttered her threat seriously, so that something extraordinary could even be heard in her words and glimpsed in her eyes, something that the prince had never noticed before and that certainly bore no resemblance to a joke.

"Well, you've made it so that now I'll be sure to 'start talking' and even . . . maybe . . . break the vase as well. I wasn't afraid of anything before, but now I'm afraid of everything. I'm sure to flunk."

"Then keep quiet. Sit there and keep quiet."

"It won't be possible; I'm sure to start talking from fear and to break the vase from fear. Maybe I'll trip on the smooth floor, or something else like that will happen, because it's happened before; I'll dream about it all night; why did you speak of it!"

Aglaya gave him a dark look.

"You know what: I'd better not come at all tomorrow! I'll report myself sick and be done with it!" he decided at last.

Aglaya stamped her foot and even turned pale with wrath.

"Lord! Have you ever seen the like! He won't come when it's purposely for him and . . . oh, God! What a pleasure to deal with such a . . . senseless man as you!"

"Well, I'll come, I'll come!" the prince hastily interrupted. "And

I give you my word of honor that I'll sit all evening without saying a word. That's what I'll do."

"Splendid. You just said you'd 'report yourself sick.' Where indeed do you get these expressions? What makes you speak with me in such words? Are you teasing me or something?"

"I'm sorry; that's also a school phrase; I'll stop. I realize very well that you're . . . afraid for me . . . (no, don't be angry!), and I'm terribly glad of it. You won't believe how afraid I am now and— how glad I am of your words. But all this fear, I swear to you, it's all pettiness and nonsense. By God, Aglaya! And the joy will remain. I like it terribly that you're such a child, such a good and kind child! Ah, how beautiful you can be, Aglaya!"

Aglaya would of course have become angry, and was just about to, but suddenly some completely unexpected feeling seized her whole soul in an instant.

"And you won't reproach me for these rude words . . . sometime . . . afterwards?" she suddenly asked.

"How can you, how can you! And why have you blushed again? And again you have this dark look! You sometimes have this dark look, Aglaya, which you never had before. I know why . . ."

"Be quiet, be quiet!"

"No, it's better to say it. I've long wanted to say it; I already have, but ... it wasn't enough, because you didn't believe me. Between us a certain being still stands . . ."

"Quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet!" Aglaya suddenly interrupted, seizing him firmly by the hand and looking at him in all but horror. At that moment someone called her; as if glad of it, she left him and ran off.

The prince was in a fever all night. Strangely, for several nights in a row he had been in a fever. This time, in half-delirium, the thought came to him: what if he should have a fit tomorrow in front of everybody? Had he not had fits in a waking state? The thought petrified him; all night he imagined himself in some odd and unheard-of company, among some strange people. The main thing was that he "started talking"; he knew that he should not be talking, yet he talked all the time, trying to convince them of something. Evgeny Pavlovich and Ippolit were also among the guests and seemed to be on extremely friendly terms.

He woke up past eight o'clock with a headache, with disordered thoughts, with strange impressions. For some reason he wanted terribly to see Rogozhin, to see him and talk a great deal with

him—about what he did not know himself; then he became fully resolved to go for some reason to see Ippolit. There was something vague in his heart, so much so that the adventures that befell him that morning made an impression on him which, while extremely strong, was still somehow incomplete. One of those adventures was a visit from Lebedev.

Lebedev appeared quite early, just after nine, and almost completely drunk. Though the prince had not been observant of late, it had somehow struck his eye that, ever since General Ivolgin moved out of his house three days ago, Lebedev had begun to behave very badly. He had suddenly become somehow very dirty and greasy, his necktie was all askew, and the collar of his frock coat was torn. At home he even raged, and it could be heard across the little yard; Vera had come once in tears and told him something about it. Having appeared now, he began speaking very strangely, beating his breast and confessing something.

"I got ... I got my requital for my treason and my meanness ... I got a slap in the face!" he finally concluded tragically.

"A slap in the face? From whom? . . . And at such an early hour?"

"Early?" Lebedev smiled sarcastically. "Time means nothing here . . . even for a physical requital . . . but I got a moral ... a moral slap, not a physical one!"

He suddenly sat down unceremoniously and began telling the story. It was very incoherent; the prince frowned and wanted to leave, but suddenly a few words struck him. He was struck dumb with astonishment . . . Mr. Lebedev had strange things to tell.

To begin with, the matter apparently had to do with some letter; the name of Aglaya Ivanovna was spoken. Then suddenly Lebedev started bitterly accusing the prince himself; it was clear that he had been offended by the prince. First, he said, the prince had honored him with his trust in dealing with a certain "personage" (Nastasya Filippovna); but then had broken with him completely and driven him away in disgrace, and even to such an offensive degree that last time he was supposed to have rudely dismissed his "innocent question about imminent changes in the house." With drunken tears Lebedev confessed that "after that he could no longer endure, the less so as he knew a great deal ... a very great deal . . . both from Rogozhin and from Nastasya Filippovna, and from Nastasya Filippovna's friend, and from Varvara Ardalionovna . . . herself, sir . . . and from . . . and even from Aglaya Ivanovna

herself, if you can imagine, sir, through Vera, sir, through my beloved daughter Vera, my only-begotten²⁹ . . . yes, sir . . . though not my only-begotten, for I have three. And who informed Lizaveta Prokofyevna by letters, and that in the deepest secret, sir, heh, heh! Who reported to her on all the relations and ... on the movements of the personage Nastasya Filippovna, heh, heh, heh! Who, who is this anonymous person, may I ask?"

"Can it be you?" cried the prince.

"Precisely," the drunkard replied with dignity, "and it was today at half-past eight, only half an hour, no, already three-quarters of an hour ago, that I notified the noblest of mothers that I had an adventure to tell her of... an important one. I sent her a note, by a maid, at the back door, sir. She received it."

"You've just seen Lizaveta Prokofyevna?" the prince asked, scarcely believing his ears.

"I just saw her and got a slap in the face ... a moral one. She gave me back my letter, even flung it at me, unopened . . . and threw me out on my ear . . . though only morally, not physically . . . though almost physically even, just short of it!"

"What letter did she fling at you unopened?"

"Didn't I . . . heh, heh, heh! So I haven't told you yet! And I thought I had . . . There's this little letter I received, to be passed on, sir ..."

"From whom? To whom?"

But certain of Lebedev's "explanations" were extremely difficult to make out and even partially understand. The prince nevertheless realized, as far as he could, that the letter had been given to Vera Lebedev early in the morning, through a maid, to be delivered to the address . . . "the same as before . . . the same as before, to a certain personage and from the same person, sir . . . (for one of them I designate by the name of 'person,' sir, and the other only as 'personage,' for humiliation and for distinction; for there is a great difference between the innocent and highly noble daughter of a general and a . . . kept woman, sir), and so, the letter was from a 'person,' sir, beginning with the letter A . . ."

"How can it be? To Nastasya Filippovna? Nonsense!" cried the prince.

"It was, it was, sir, and if not to her, then to Rogozhin, sir, it's all the same, to Rogozhin, sir . . . and once there was even one to be passed on to Mr. Terentyev, sir, from the person with the letter A," Lebedev winked and smiled.

Since he often jumped from one thing to another and forgot what he had begun to say, the prince kept still so as to let him speak everything out. But all the same it was extremely unclear whether the letters had gone through him or through Vera. If he himself insisted that "to Rogozhin was all the same as to Nastasya Filippovna," it meant that most likely they had not gone through him, if there were any letters at all. And how it happened that the letter now ended up with him, remained decidedly unexplained; most likely of all would be to suppose that he had somehow stolen it from Vera . . . carried it off on the sly and taken it with some sort of intention to Lizaveta Prokofyevna. So the prince finally figured it out and understood it.

"You've lost your mind!" he cried, extremely disconcerted.

"Not entirely, my much-esteemed Prince," Lebedev answered, not without anger. "True, I was going to give it to you, into your own hands, so as to be of service . . . but I chose rather to be of service there and tell the most noble mother about everything . . . just as I had informed her once before in an anonymous letter; and when I wrote a note today, asking beforehand to be received at twenty past eight, I also signed it: 'your secret correspondent'; I was admitted at once, immediately, even with great haste, by the back door ... to see the most noble mother."

"Well?"

"And you know the rest, sir. She nearly gave me a beating, sir; that is, very nearly, sir, so that one might consider that she all but gave me a beating, sir. And she flung the letter at me. True, she wanted to keep it—I could see that, I noticed it—but she changed her mind and flung it at me: 'If you, such as you are, were entrusted with delivering it, then go and deliver it. ..' She even got offended. If she didn't feel ashamed to say it in front of me, it means she got offended. A hot-tempered lady!"

"And where is the letter now?"

"Still here with me, sir."

And he handed the prince the note from Aglaya to Gavrila Ardalionovich, which the latter triumphantly showed to his sister that same morning, two hours later.

"This letter cannot remain with you."

"For you, for you! I brought it for you, sir," Lebedev picked up hotly. "Now I'm yours again, entirely, from head to heart, your servant, sir, after a fleeting betrayal, sir! Punish my heart, spare my beard, as Thomas Morus³⁰ said ... in England and in Great

Britain, sir. Mea culpa, mea culpa*³¹ so says the Roman papa . . . that is, he's the pope of Rome, but I call him the 'Roman papa.'"

"This letter must be sent at once," the prince bustled, "I'll deliver it."

"But wouldn't it be better, wouldn't it be better, my most well-mannered Prince, wouldn't it be better, sir . . . sort of, sir!"

Lebedev made a strange, ingratiating grimace; he suddenly fidgeted terribly in his chair, as if he had suddenly been pricked by a needle, and, winking slyly, gestured and indicated something with his hands.

"What do you mean?" the prince asked menacingly.

"Open it beforehand, sir!" he whispered ingratiatingly and as if confidentially.

The prince jumped up in such fury that Lebedev was about to run away, but having reached the door, he stopped, waiting to see if he would be pardoned.

"Eh, Lebedev! Is it possible, is it possible to reach such mean disorder as you have?" the prince cried ruefully. Lebedev's features brightened.

"I'm mean, mean!" he approached at once, with tears, beating his breast.

"That's loathsome!"

"Precisely loathsome, sir. That's the word, sir!"

"And what is this way you have ... of acting so strangely? You're . . . simply a spy! Why did you write an anonymous letter and trouble . . . that most noble and kind woman? Why, finally, does Aglaya Ivanovna have no right to correspond with whomever she likes? Why did you go there today, to make a complaint? What did you hope to gain? What moved you to turn informer?"

"Only pleasant curiosity and ... an obligingly noble soul, yes, sir!" Lebedev murmured. "But now I'm all yours, all yours again! You can hang me!"

"Did you go to Lizaveta Prokofyevna's the way you are now?" the prince inquired with repugnance.

"No, sir . . . fresher . . . and even more decent, sir; it was after my humiliation that I achieved . . . this look, sir."

"Very well, leave me."

However, this request had to be repeated several times before the visitor finally decided to leave. Having already opened the door,

*It is my fault, it is my fault.

he came back again, tiptoed to the middle of the room, and again began to make signs with his hands, showing how to open a letter; he did not dare to put this advice into words; then he went out, smiling quietly and sweetly.

All this was extremely painful to hear. One chief and extraordinary fact stood out amidst it all: that Aglaya was in great anxiety, in great indecision, in great torment for some reason ("from jealousy," the prince whispered to himself). It was also clear, of course, that unkind people were confusing her, and it was all the more strange that she trusted them so much. Of course, some special plans were ripening in that inexperienced but hot and proud little head, ruinous plans, perhaps . . . and like nothing else. The prince was extremely alarmed and in his confusion did not know what to decide. He absolutely had to prevent something, he could feel it. Once again he looked at the address on the sealed letter: oh, there was no doubt or anxiety for him here, because he trusted her; something else troubled him in this letter: he did not trust Gavrila Ardalionovich. And, nevertheless, he decided to give him the letter himself, personally, and had already left the house in order to do so, but on his way he changed his mind. As if on purpose, almost at Ptitsyn's house, the prince ran into Kolya and charged him with putting the letter into his brother's hands, as if directly from Aglaya Ivanovna herself. Kolya asked no questions and delivered it, so that Ganya never even imagined the letter had gone through so many stations. On returning home, the prince asked to see Vera Lukyanovna, told her as much as was necessary, and calmed her down, because she had been searching for the letter and weeping all the while. She was horrified when she learned that her father had taken the letter. (The prince later learned from her that she had secretly served Rogozhin and Aglaya Ivanovna more than once; it had never occurred to her that it might be something harmful to the prince . . .)

And the prince finally became so upset that when, two hours later, a messenger came running to him from Kolya with news of his father's illness, he could scarely understand at first what it was all about. But this same incident restored him, because it distracted him greatly. He stayed at Nina Alexandrovna's (where, of course, the sick man had been transported) almost till evening. He was of almost no use, but there are people whom, for some reason, it is pleasant to see around one at certain difficult moments. Kolya was terribly struck, wept hysterically, but nevertheless ran errands

all the time: ran to fetch a doctor and found three, ran to the pharmacy, to the barber.³² The general was revived, but he did not come to his senses; as the doctors put it, "in any case the patient is in danger." Varya and Nina Alexandrovna never left the sick man's side; Ganya was confused and shaken, but did not want to go upstairs and was even afraid to see the sick man; he wrung his hands and in an incoherent conversation with the prince managed to say, "just look, such a misfortune, and, as if on purpose, at such a time!" The prince thought he understood precisely what time he was talking about. The prince found that Ippolit was no longer in Ptitsyn's house. Towards evening Lebedev, who had slept uninterruptedly since their morning "talk," came running. He was almost sober now and wept real tears over the sick man, as if over his own brother. He loudly blamed himself, though without explaining what for, and pestered Nina Alexandrovna, assuring her every moment that "he, he himself was the cause, and no one but he . . . solely out of pleasant curiosity . . . and that the 'deceased' " (as he stubbornly called the still-living general for some reason) "was even a man of great genius!" He insisted especially seriously on his genius, as if some extraordinary benefit could be derived from it at that moment. Nina Alexandrovna, seeing his genuine tears, finally said to him, without any reproach and even almost with tenderness: "Well, God be with you, don't weep now, God will forgive you!" Lebedev was so struck by these words and their tone that he would not leave Nina Alexandrovna's side all evening (and in all the following days, till the general's death, he stayed in their house almost from morning till night). Twice in the course of the day a messenger came to Nina Alexandrovna from Lizaveta Prokofyevna to ask after the sick man's health. When, at nine o'clock that evening, the prince appeared in the Epanchins' drawing room, which was already filled with guests, Lizaveta Prokofyevna at once began questioning him about the sick man, with sympathy and in detail, and responded gravely to Belokonsky's question: "Who is this sick man and who is Nina Alexandrovna?" The prince liked that very much. He himself, in talking with Lizaveta Prokofyevna, spoke "beautifully," as Aglaya's sisters explained afterwards: "modestly, softly, without unnecessary words, without gestures, with dignity; he entered beautifully, was excellently dressed," and not only did not "trip on the smooth floor," but obviously even made a pleasant impression on everyone.

For his part, having sat down and looked around, he noticed at once that this whole gathering bore no resemblance to the specters Aglaya had frightened him with yesterday, or to the nightmares he had had during the night. For the first time in his life he saw a small corner of what is known by the terrible name of "society." For a long time now, owing to certain special intentions, considerations, and yearnings of his own, he had desired to penetrate this magic circle of people and was therefore greatly interested in his first impression. This first impression of his was even delightful. It appeared to him somehow at once and suddenly that all these people had, as it were, been born to be together; that there was no "evening" at the Epanchins' that evening and no invited guests, that these were all "our people," and it was as if he himself had long been their devoted and like-minded friend, who had now returned to them after a recent separation. The charm of elegant manners, the simplicity and seeming candor were almost magical. It would never have occurred to him that all this simple-heartedness and nobility, sharp wit and lofty dignity might only be a splendid artistic contrivance. The majority of the guests, despite their imposing appearance, were even rather empty people, who, incidentally, in their self-satisfaction did not know themselves that much of what was good in them was only a contrivance, for which, moreover, they were not to blame, for they had acquired it unconsciously and by inheritance. This the prince did not even want to suspect, under the spell of his lovely first impression. He saw, for instance, that this old man, this important dignitary, who by his age might have been his grandfather, even interrupted his own conversation in order to listen to such a young and inexperienced man as he, and not only listened to him but clearly valued his opinion, was so gentle with him, so sincerely good-natured, and yet they were strangers and were seeing each other for the first time. Perhaps in his ardent susceptibility the prince was most affected by the refinement of this politeness. Perhaps he had been all too disposed beforehand and even won over to a happy impression.

And yet all these people—though they were, of course, "friends of the house" and of each other—were, nevertheless, far from being such friends either of the house or of each other as the prince took them to be when he was introduced to them and made their acquaintance. There were people there who would never for anything have acknowledged the Epanchins as ever so

slightly equal to themselves. There were people there who even absolutely detested each other; old Belokonsky had "despised" the wife of the "little old dignitary" all her life, and she in turn was far from liking Lizaveta Prokofyevna. This "dignitary," her husband, who for some reason had been the patron of the Epanchins from their very youth, and presided here as well, was such a tremendous person in Ivan Fyodorovich's eyes that he could feel nothing but awe and fear in his presence, and would even have genuinely despised himself if for one minute he had considered himself equal to him, or him not an Olympian Jupiter. There were people who had not seen each other for several years and felt nothing for each other but indifference, if not repugnance, but who met now as if they had seen each other only the day before in the most friendly and agreeable company. However, the gathering was not numerous. Besides Belokonsky and the "little old dignitary," who was indeed an important person, besides his wife, there was, first, a very important army general, a baron or a count, with a German name—an extremely taciturn man, with a reputation for an astonishing knowledge of government affairs and even almost with a reputation for learning—one of those Olympian administrators who know everything, "except perhaps Russia itself," a man who once every five years makes an utterance "remarkable for its profundity," but such as, anyhow, unfailingly becomes proverbial and is known even in the most exalted circles; one of those superior officials who usually, after extremely (even strangely) prolonged service, die in high rank, at excellent posts, and with great fortunes, though without any great deeds and even with a certain aversion to deeds. This general was Ivan Fyodorovich's immediate superior in the service, whom he, from the fervor of his grateful heart and even from a sort of self-love, also considered his benefactor, while he by no means considered himself Ivan Fyodorovich's benefactor, treated him with perfect equanimity, though he liked to take advantage of his manifold services, and would at once have replaced him with some other official, if certain considerations, even of a not very lofty sort, demanded it. There was also an important elderly gentleman, supposedly even a relation of Lizaveta Prokofyevna's, though that was decidedly incorrect; a man of good rank and title, a rich and well-born man, of sturdy build and very good health, a big talker, and even with the reputation of a malcontent (though, incidentally, in the most permissible sense of the word), even of an acrimonious

man (but in him this, too, was agreeable), with the manners of English aristocrats and with English tastes (with regard to bloody roast beef, horse harness, lackeys, etc.). He was great friends with the "dignitary," amused him, and, besides that, Lizaveta Prokofyevna for some reason nurtured the strange thought that this elderly gentleman (a somewhat light-minded man and something of a fancier of the female sex) might suddenly up and decide to make Alexandra's happiness by proposing.

After this highest and most solid stratum of the gathering came the stratum of the younger guests, though also shining with quite gracious qualities. To this stratum, besides Prince Shch. and Evgeny Pavlovich, there also belonged the well-known, charming Prince N., a former seducer and winner of women's hearts all over Europe, now a man of about forty-five, still of handsome appearance, a wonderful storyteller, a man of fortune, though somewhat disordered, who, out of habit, lived mostly abroad. There were, finally, people who seemed even to make up a third special stratum, and who did not in themselves belong to the "coveted circle" of society, but who, like the Epanchins, could sometimes be met for some reason in this "coveted" circle. Owing to a sort of tact which they made into a rule, the Epanchins liked, on the rare occasions when they held social gatherings, to mix high society with people of a lower stratum, with chosen representatives of "people of the middle sort." The Epanchins were even praised for that, and it was said that they understood their place and were people of tact, and the Epanchins were proud of such an opinion about themselves. One representative of this middle sort of people that evening was a colonel of the engineers, a serious man, a rather close friend of Prince Shch., who had introduced him to the Epanchins, a man, however, who was taciturn in society and who wore on the large index finger of his right hand a large and conspicuous signet ring, most likely an award of some kind. There was, finally, even a writer-poet, of German origin, but a Russian poet, and, moreover, a perfectly respectable man, so that he could be introduced without apprehension into good society. He was of fortunate appearance, though slightly repulsive for some reason, about thirty-eight, impeccably dressed, belonged to a German family that was bourgeois in the highest degree, but also respectable in the highest degree; he knew how to make use of various occasions, to win his way to the patronage of highly placed people, and to remain in their good

graces. Once he translated from the German some important work by some important German poet, was able to write a verse dedication for his translation, was able to boast of his friendship with a certain famous but dead Russian poet (there is a whole stratum of writers who are extremely fond of appointing themselves in print as friends of great but dead writers), and had been introduced to the Epanchins very recently by the wife of the "little old dignitary." This lady passed for being a patroness of writers and scholars, and had actually obtained pensions for one or two writers, through highly placed persons for whom she had importance. And she did have her own sort of importance. She was a lady of about forty-five (and therefore quite a young wife for such an old man as her husband), a former beauty, who even now, from a mania peculiar to many forty-five-year-old women, liked to dress all too magnificently; she did not have much of a mind, and her knowledge of literature was rather dubious. But patronizing writers was the same sort of mania with her as dressing magnificently. Many writings and translations had been dedicated to her; two or three writers, with her permission, had published their letters to her on extremely important subjects . . . And it was this entire company that the prince took at face value, for pure, unalloyed gold. However, that evening all these people, as if on purpose, were in the happiest spirits and very pleased with themselves. Every last one of them knew that they were doing the Epanchins a great honor by visiting them. But, alas, the prince had no suspicion of such subtleties. He did not suspect, for instance, that the Epanchins, having in mind such an important step as the deciding of their daughter's fate, would not have dared not to show him, Prince Lev Nikolaevich, to the little old dignitary, the acknowledged benefactor of their family. And the little old dignitary, who, for his part, would have borne quite calmly the news of even the most terrible misfortune of the Epanchins, would certainly have been offended if the Epanchins got their daughter engaged without asking his advice and, so to speak, permission. Prince N., that charming, that unquestionably witty and so loftily pure-hearted man, was convinced in the highest degree that he was something like a sun, risen that night over the Epanchins' drawing room. He considered them infinitely beneath him, and it was precisely this simple-hearted and noble thought that produced in him his wonderfully charming casualness and friendliness towards these same Epanchins. He knew very well that he absolutely had to tell some

story that evening to charm the company, and he was preparing for it even with a certain inspiration. Prince Lev Nikolaevich, listening to this story later, realized that he had never heard anything like such brilliant humor and such wonderful gaiety and naivety, which was almost touching on the lips of such a Don Juan as Prince N. And yet, if he had only known how old and worn out this same story was, how everyone knew it by heart and was sick and tired of it in all drawing rooms, and only at the innocent Epanchins' did it appear again as news, as the sudden, sincere, and brilliant recollection of a brilliant and excellent man! Finally, even the little German poeticule, though he behaved himself with extraordinary courtesy and modesty, almost considered that he, too, was doing this house an honor by visiting it. But the prince did not notice the reverse side, did not notice any lining. This disaster Aglaya had not foreseen. She herself was remarkably beautiful that evening. All three girls were dressed up, though not too magnificently, and even had their hair done in some special way. Aglaya sat with Evgeny Pavlovich, talking and joking with him in an extraordinarily friendly way. Evgeny Pavlovich behaved himself somewhat more solidly, as it were, than at other times, also, perhaps, out of respect for the dignitaries. However, he had long been known in society; he was a familiar man there, though a young man. That evening he came to the Epanchins' with crape on his hat, and Belokonsky praised him for this crape: another society nephew, under the circumstances, might not have worn crape after such an uncle. Lizaveta Prokofyevna was also pleased by it, but generally she seemed somehow too preoccupied. The prince noticed that Aglaya looked at him attentively a couple of times and, it seemed, remained pleased with him. Little by little he was becoming terribly happy. His former "fantastic" thoughts and apprehensions (after his conversation with Lebedev) now seemed to him, in sudden but frequent recollections, such an unrealizable, impossible, and even ridiculous dream! (Even without that, his first, though unconscious, desire and longing all that day had been somehow to make it so as not to believe in that dream!) He spoke little and then only to answer questions, and finally became quite silent, sat and listened, but was clearly drowning in delight. Little by little something like inspiration prepared itself in him, ready to blaze up when the chance came . . . He began speaking by chance, also in answer to a question, and apparently without any special intention . . .

VII

While he gazed delightedly at Aglaya, who was talking gaily with Prince N. and Evgeny Pavlovich, the elderly gentleman Anglophile, who was entertaining the "dignitary" in another corner, animatedly telling him about something, suddenly spoke the name of Nikolai Andreevich Pavlishchev. The prince quickly turned in their direction and began to listen.

The matter had to do with present-day regulations and some sort of irregularities in the landowners' estates in -------province.

There must also have been something funny in the Anglophile's stories, because the little old man finally began to laugh at the acrimonious verve of the storyteller. Speaking smoothly, drawing out his words somehow peevishly, with a tender emphasis on the vowels, the man told why he had been forced, precisely owing to today's regulations, to sell a magnificent estate of his in ------- province, and even, not being in great need of money, at half price, and at the same time to keep a ruined estate, money-losing and in litigation, and even to spend more on it. "I fled from them to avoid further litigation over Pavlishchev's land. Another one or two inheritances like that and I'm a ruined man. Though I had about ten thousand acres of excellent land coming to me there!"

"You see . . . Ivan Petrovich is a relation of the late Nikolai Andreevich Pavlishchev . . . you were looking for relations, I believe," Ivan Fyodorovich, who suddenly turned up beside the prince and noticed his extreme attention to the conversation, said to him in a half-whisper. Till then he had been entertaining his superior, the general, but he had long since noticed the exceptional solitude of Lev Nikolaevich and had begun to worry; he wanted to draw him into the conversation to some degree, and thus to show and recommend him for a second time to the "higher persons."

"Lev Nikolaich was Nikolai Andreich Pavlishchev's ward after his parents' death," he put in, having caught Ivan Petrovich's eye.

"De-light-ed," the man remarked, "and I even remember you. Earlier, when Ivan Fyodorych introduced us, I recognized you at once, even your face. You've really changed little externally, though I saw you as a child of about ten or eleven. Something in your features reminded me . . ."

"You saw me as a child?" the prince asked with a sort of extraordinary surprise.

"Oh, a very long time ago," Ivan Petrovich went on, "in Zlatoverkhovo, where you then lived with my cousins. I used to visit Zlatoverkhovo rather often—you don't remember me? Ve-ry possible that you don't. . . You had . . . some sort of illness then, so that I once even wondered about you . . ."

"I don't remember a thing!" the prince confirmed heatedly.

A few more words of explanation, extremely calm on Ivan Petrovich's part and surprisingly excited on the prince's, and it turned out that the two ladies, the old spinsters, relations of the late Pavlishchev, who lived on his estate in Zlatoverkhovo and who were entrusted with the prince's upbringing, were in turn Ivan Petrovich's cousins. Ivan Petrovich, like everyone else, could give almost no explanation of the reasons why Pavlishchev had been so taken up with the little prince, his ward. "I forgot to ask about it then," but all the same it turned out that he had an excellent memory, because he even remembered how strict the elder cousin, Marfa Nikitishna, had been with her little charge, "so that I even quarreled with her once over the system of education, because it was all birching and birching—for a sick child . . . you must agree ... it's . . ."—and, on the contrary, how affectionate the younger cousin, Natalya Nikitishna, had been with the poor boy . . . "The two of them," he explained further, "now live in ------- province (only I don't know if they're still alive), where Pavlishchev left them a quite, quite decent little estate. Marfa Nikitishna, I believe, wanted to enter a convent; though I won't insist on that; maybe I heard it about somebody else . . . yes, I heard it about a doctor's widow the other day . . ."

The prince listened to this with eyes shining with rapture and tenderness. He declared in his turn, with extraordinary ardor, that he would never forgive himself for not finding an opportunity, during those six months of traveling in the provinces, to locate and visit his former guardians. "He had wanted to go every day and kept being distracted by circumstances . . . but now he promised himself . . . without fail . . . even to------province ... So you know Natalia Nikitishna? What a beautiful, what a saintly soul! But Marfa Nikitishna, too . . . forgive me, but I believe you're mistaken about Marfa Nikitishna! She was strict, but ... it was impossible not to lose patience . . . with such an idiot as I was then (hee, hee!). For I was quite an idiot then, you wouldn't believe it

(ha, ha!). However . . . however, you saw me then and . . . How is it I don't remember you, pray tell? So you . . . ah, my God, so you're really Nikolai Andreich Pavlishchev's relation?"

"I as-sure you," Ivan Petrovich smiled, looking the prince over.

"Oh, I didn't say that because I . . . doubted . . . and, finally, how could one doubt it (heh, heh!) ... at least a little? That is, even a little!! (Heh, heh!) But what I mean is that the late Nikolai Andreich Pavlishchev was such an excellent man! A most magnanimous man, really, I assure you!"

It was not that the prince was breathless, but he was, so to speak, "choking from the goodness of his heart," as Adelaida put it the next morning in a conversation with her fiancé, Prince Shch.

"Ah, my God!" laughed Ivan Petrovich, "why can't I be the relation of a mag-na-nimous man?"

"Ah, my God!" cried the prince, embarrassed, hurrying, and becoming more and more enthusiastic. "I've . . . I've said something stupid again, but ... it had to be so, because I. ..I. ..I... though again that's not what I mean! And what am I now, pray tell, in view of such interests . . . of such enormous interests! And in comparison with such a magnanimous man—because, by God, he was a most magnanimous man, isn't it true? Isn't it true?"

The prince was even trembling all over. Why he suddenly became so agitated, why he became so emotionally ecstatic, for absolutely no reason, and, it seemed, out of all proportion with the subject of the conversation—it would be hard to tell. He was simply in that sort of mood and even all but felt at that moment the warmest and sincerest gratitude to someone for something— perhaps even to Ivan Petrovich, if not to all the guests in general. He became much too "happified." Ivan Petrovich finally began to look at him more attentively; the "dignitary," too, studied him very attentively. Belokonsky turned a wrathful gaze on the prince and pressed her lips. Prince N., Evgeny Pavlovich, Prince Shch., the girls—everybody broke off their conversation and listened. Aglaya seemed alarmed, and Lizaveta Prokofyevna was simply scared. They were strange, the daughters and their mama: they themselves thought it would be better for the prince to spend the evening in silence; but as soon as they saw him in a corner, completely alone and perfectly content with his lot, they at once became worried. Alexandra had been about to go over to him and lead him carefully across the whole room to join their company, that is, the company of Prince N., around Belokonsky.

But now that the prince had begun to speak, they became still more worried.

"He was a most excellent man, you're right about that," Ivan Petrovich said imposingly and now without a smile, "yes, yes . . . he was a wonderful man! Wonderful and worthy," he added after a pause. "Worthy, one might even say, of all respect," he added still more imposingly after a third pause, "and . . . and it's even very agreeable that you, for your part, show . . ."

"Was it with this Pavlishchev that some story happened ... a strange story . . . with the abbot . . . the abbot ... I forget which abbot, only everybody was talking about it then," the "dignitary" said, as if recollecting.

"With the abbot Gouraud, a Jesuit," Ivan Petrovich reminded him. "Yes, sir, that's our most excellent and worthy people for you! Because after all he was a man of good family, with a fortune, a gentleman-in-waiting, and if he . . . had continued in the service . . . And then suddenly he abandons his service and all in order to embrace Catholicism and become a Jesuit, and that almost openly, with a sort of ecstasy. Really, he died just in time . . . yes, everybody said so then . . ."

The prince was beside himself.

"Pavlishchev . . . Pavlishchev embraced Catholicism? That can't be!" he cried in horror.

"Well, 'that can't be,' " Ivan Petrovich maundered imposingly, "is saying too much, and you will agree yourself, my dear Prince . . . However, you value the deceased man so . . . indeed, the man was very kind, to which I ascribe, for the main part, the success of that trickster Gouraud. But just ask me, ask me, how much hustle and bustle I had afterwards over this affair . . . and precisely with that same Gouraud! Imagine," he suddenly turned to the little old man, "they even wanted to present claims for the inheritance, and I had to resort to the most energetic measures then ... to bring them to reason . . . because they're masters at it! As-ton-ishing! But, thank God, it happened in Moscow, I went straight to the count, and we . . . brought them to reason . . ."

"You wouldn't believe how you've upset and shocked me!" the prince cried again.

"I'm sorry; but, as a matter of fact, all this, essentially speaking, was trifles and would have ended in trifles, as always; I'm sure of it. Last summer," he again turned to the little old man, "they say Countess K. also joined some Catholic convent abroad; our people

somehow can't resist, once they give in to those . . . finaglers . . . especially abroad."

"It all comes, I think, from our . . . fatigue," the little old man mumbled with authority, "well, and the manner they have of preaching . . . elegant, their own . . . and they know how to frighten. In the year thirty-two they frightened me in Vienna, I can assure you; only I didn't give in, I fled from them, ha, ha!"

"I heard, my dear man, that you abandoned your post and fled from Vienna to Paris that time with the beautiful Countess Levitsky, and not from a Jesuit," Belokonsky suddenly put in.

"Well, but it was from a Jesuit, all the same it comes out that it was from a Jesuit!" the little old man picked up, laughing at the pleasant memory. "You seem to be very religious, something rarely to be met with nowadays in a young man," he benignly addressed Prince Lev Nikolaevich, who listened open-mouthed and was still shocked; the little old man obviously wanted to get to know the prince more closely; for some reason he had begun to interest him very much.

"Pavlishchev was a bright mind and a Christian, a true Christian," the prince suddenly said, "how could he submit to ... an unchristian faith? . . . Catholicism is the same as an unchristian faith!" he added suddenly, his eyes flashing and staring straight ahead, his gaze somehow taking in everyone at once.

"Well, that's too much," the little old man murmured and looked at Ivan Fyodorovich with astonishment.

"How is it that Catholicism is an unchristian religion?" Ivan Petrovich turned on his chair. "What is it, then?"

"An unchristian faith, first of all!" the prince began speaking again, in extreme agitation and much too sharply. "That's first, and second, Roman Catholicism is even worse than atheism itself, that's my opinion! Yes, that's my opinion! Atheism only preaches a zero, but Catholicism goes further: it preaches a distorted Christ, a Christ it has slandered and blasphemed, a counter Christ! It preaches the Antichrist, I swear to you, I assure you! That is my personal and longstanding conviction, and it has tormented me . . . Roman Catholicism believes that without universal state power the Church on earth cannot stand, and it shouts: Non possumus!*³³ In my opinion, Roman Catholicism is not even a faith, but decidedly the continuation of the Western Roman empire, and everything in

*We cannot!

it is subject to that idea, beginning with faith. The pope seized land, an earthly throne, and took up the sword; since then everything has gone on that way, only to the sword they added lies, trickery, deceit, fanaticism, superstition, villainy; they played upon the most holy, truthful, simple-hearted, ardent feelings of the people; they traded everything, everything, for money, for base earthly power. Isn't that the teaching of the Antichrist?! How could atheism not come out of them? Atheism came out of them, out of Roman Catholicism itself! Atheism began, before all else, with them themselves: could they believe in themselves? It grew stronger through repugnance against them; it is a product of their lies and spiritual impotence! Atheism! In Russia so far only exceptional classes of society do not believe, those who have lost their roots, as Evgeny Pavlovich put it so splendidly the other day; while there, in Europe, awful masses of the people themselves are beginning not to believe—formerly from darkness and deceit, but now from fanaticism, from hatred of the Church and of Christianity!"

The prince paused to catch his breath. He was speaking terribly quickly. He was pale and breathless. Everyone exchanged glances; but at last the little old man laughed openly. Prince N. took out his lorgnette and studied the prince, not taking his eyes away. The German poeticule crept out of the corner and moved closer to the table, smiling a sinister smile.

"You greatly ex-ag-ge-rate," Ivan Petrovich drew out with some boredom and even as if embarrassed at something. "In their Church there are also representatives who are worthy of all respect and vir-tu-ous men . . ."

"I never spoke of individual representatives of the Church. I was speaking of Roman Catholicism in its essence, I was speaking of Rome. The Church cannot disappear entirely. I never said that!"

"Agreed, but this is all well known and even—unnecessary and . . . belongs to theology . . ."

"Oh, no, no! Not only to theology, I assure you! It concerns us much more closely than you think. That is our whole mistake, that we're still unable to see that this is not only an exclusively theological matter! For socialism is also a product of Catholicism and the Catholic essence! It, too, like its brother atheism, came from despair, opposing Catholicism in a moral sense, in order to replace the lost moral force of religion with itself, in order to quench the spiritual thirst of thirsting mankind and save it not through Christ, but also through violence! It is also freedom through violence, it is

also unity through blood and the sword! 'Do not dare to believe in God, do not dare to have property, do not dare to have personality, fraternité ou la mort* two million heads!'³⁴ You shall know them by their deeds,³³ it is said! And don't think that it's all so innocent and unthreatening for us; oh, we must respond, and swiftly, swiftly! Our Christ, whom we have preserved and they have never known, must shine forth as a response to the West! Not by being slavishly caught on the Jesuits' hook, but by bringing them our Russian civilization, we must now confront them, and let it not be said among us that their preaching is elegant, as someone just said ..."

"But excuse me, excuse me," Ivan Petrovich became terribly worried, looking around and even beginning to get frightened, "your thoughts are all, of course, praiseworthy and full of patriotism, but it's all exaggerated in the highest degree and . . . it's even better if we drop it . . ."

"No, it's not exaggerated, but rather understated; precisely understated, because I'm not able to express it, but. . ."

"Ex-cuse me!"

The prince fell silent. He was sitting upright on his chair and looking at Ivan Petrovich with fixed, burning eyes.

"It seems to me that you've been too greatly shocked by the incident with your benefactor," the little old man observed gently and without losing his equanimity. "You're inflamed . . . perhaps from solitude. If you live more with people, and I hope society will welcome you as a remarkable young man, your animation will, of course, subside, and you will see that it's all much simpler . . . and besides, such rare cases . . . come, in my view, partly from our satiety, and partly from . . . boredom . . ."

"Precisely, precisely so," the prince cried, "a splendid thought! Precisely 'from our boredom,' not from satiety, but, on the contrary, from thirst . . . not from satiety, there you're mistaken! Not only from thirst, but even from inflammation, from feverish thirst! And . . . and don't think it's all on such a small scale that one can simply laugh; forgive me, but one must be able to foresee! The Russian people, as soon as they reach the shore, as soon as they believe it's the shore, are so glad of it that they immediately go to the ultimate pillars.³⁶ Why is that? You marvel at Pavlishchev, you ascribe everything to his madness or to his kindness, but that's not so! And not only we but the whole of Europe marvels, on such occasions, at

*Brotherhood or death.

our Russian passion: if one of us embraces Catholicism, then he's bound to become a Jesuit, and of the most underground sort at that;³⁷ if he becomes an atheist, he is bound to start demanding the eradication of belief in God by force, which means by the sword! Why is that, why is there such frenzy all at once? You really don't know? Because he has found his fatherland, which he had missed here, and he rejoices; he has found the shore, the land, and he rushes to kiss it! It's not only from vainglory, not only from nasty, vainglorious feelings that Russian atheists and Russian Jesuits proceed, but from spiritual pain, spiritual thirst, from the longing for a lofty cause, a firm shore, a native land, in which we've ceased to believe because we've never known it! It's so easy for a Russian man to become an atheist, easier than for anyone else in the whole world! And our people don't simply become atheists, but they must believe in atheism, as in a new faith, without ever noticing that they are believing in a zero. Such is our thirst! 'Whoever has no ground under his feet also has no God.' That is not my phrase. It is the phrase of a merchant, an Old Believer,³⁸ I met on my travels. True, he didn't put it that way, he said: 'Whoever has renounced his native land, has also renounced his God.' Only think that some of our most educated people got themselves into flagellantism³⁹ . . . And in that case, incidentally, what makes flagellantism worse than nihilism, Jesuitism, atheism? It may even be a little more profound! But that is how far their anguish went! . . . Open to the thirsting and inflamed companions of Columbus the shores of the New World, open to the Russian man the Russian World, let him find the gold, the treasure, hidden from him in the ground! Show him the future renewal of all mankind and its resurrection, perhaps by Russian thought alone, by the Russian God and Christ, and you'll see what a mighty and righteous, wise and meek giant will rise up before the astonished world, astonished and frightened, because they expect nothing from us but the sword, the sword and violence, because, judging by themselves, they cannot imagine us without barbarism. And that is so to this day, and the more so the further it goes! And . . ."

But here an incident suddenly occurred, and the orator's speech was interrupted in the most unexpected way.

This whole feverish tirade, this whole flow of passionate and agitated words and ecstatic thoughts, as if thronging in some sort of turmoil and leaping over each other, all this foreboded something dangerous, something peculiar in the mood of the young man, who

had boiled up so suddenly for no apparent reason. Of those present in the drawing room, all who knew the prince marveled fearfully (and some also with shame) at his outburst, which so disagreed with his usual and even timid restraint, with the rare and particular tact he showed on certain occasions and his instinctive sense of higher propriety. They could not understand where it came from: the news about Pavlishchev could not have been the cause of it. In the ladies' corner they looked at him as at one gone mad, and Belokonsky later confessed that "another moment and she would have run for her life." The "little old men" were nearly at a loss from their initial amazement; the general-superior gazed, displeased and stern, from his chair. The engineer-colonel sat perfectly motionless. The little German even turned pale, but was still smiling his false smile, glancing at the others to see how they would react. However, all this and "the whole scandal" could have been resolved in the most ordinary and natural way, perhaps, even a minute later; Ivan Fyodorovich was extremely surprised but, having collected his thoughts sooner than the others, had already tried several times to stop the prince; failing in that, he was now making his way towards him with firm and resolute purposes. Another moment and, if it had really been necessary, he might have decided to take the prince out amicably, under the pretext of his illness, which might actually have been true and of which Ivan Fyodorovich was very much convinced in himself. . . But things turned out otherwise.

From the very beginning, as soon as the prince entered the drawing room, he sat down as far as possible from the Chinese vase, with which Aglaya had frightened him so. Can one possibly believe that, after Aglaya's words the day before, some sort of indelible conviction settled in him, some sort of astonishing and impossible premonition that the next day he would unfailingly break that vase, however far away he kept from it, however much he avoided the disaster? But it was so. In the course of the evening other strong but bright impressions began to flow into his soul; we have already spoken of that. He forgot his premonition. When he heard about Pavlishchev, and Ivan Fyodorovich brought him and introduced him again to Ivan Petrovich, he moved closer to the table and ended up right in the armchair next to the enormous, beautiful Chinese vase, which stood on a pedestal almost at his elbow, slightly behind him.

With his last words he suddenly got up from his place, carelessly waved his arm, somehow moved his shoulder—and ... a general

cry rang out! The vase rocked, as if undecided at first whether it might not fall on the head of one of the little old men, but suddenly it leaned in the opposite direction, towards the little German, who barely managed to jump aside in terror, and toppled onto the floor. Noise, shouts, precious pieces scattered over the rug, fear, amazement—oh, it is difficult and almost unnecessary to depict how it was for the prince! But we cannot omit mention of one strange sensation that struck him precisely at that very moment and suddenly made itself distinct in the crowd of all the other vague and strange sensations: it was not the shame, not the scandal, not the fear, not the unexpectedness that struck him most of all, but the fulfilled prophecy! Precisely what was so thrilling in this thought he would have been unable to explain to himself; he felt only that he was struck to the heart, and he stood in a fear that was almost mystical. Another moment and everything before him seemed to expand, instead of horror there was light, joy, rapture; his breath was taken away, and . . . but the moment passed. Thank God, it was not that! He caught his breath and looked around.

For a long time he seemed not to understand the turmoil seething around him, that is, he understood it perfectly well and saw everything, but stood as if he were a special person, not taking part in anything, like the invisible man in a fairy tale, who has gotten into a room and is observing people who are strangers but who interest him. He saw the broken pieces being removed, heard rapid talk, saw Aglaya, pale and looking at him strangely, very strangely: there was no hatred in her eyes at all, nor any wrath; she looked at him with frightened but such sympathetic eyes, and at the others with such flashing eyes ... his heart suddenly ached sweetly. Finally he saw with strange amazement that everyone was sitting down and even laughing, as if nothing had happened! Another moment and the laughter grew louder; they laughed looking at him, at his stunned speechlessness, but they laughed amicably, merrily; many addressed him and spoke so gently, above all Lizaveta Prokofyevna: she was laughing and saying something very, very kind. Suddenly he felt Ivan Fyodorovich giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder; Ivan Petrovich was also laughing; but still better, still more attractive and sympathetic was the little old man; he took the prince by the hand and, pressing it lightly, patting it lightly with the palm of his other hand, was persuading him to recollect himself, as if he were a frightened little boy, which the prince liked terribly much, and finally sat him down next to him.

The prince peered into his face with delight and for some reason was still unable to speak; he was breathless; he liked the old man's face so much.

"What?" he finally murmured. "So you really forgive me? And . . . you, too, Lizaveta Prokofyevna?"

The laughter increased; tears welled up in the prince's eyes; he could not believe it and was enchanted.

"Of course, it was a beautiful vase. I remember it being here for all of fifteen years, yes . . . fifteen . . ." Ivan Petrovich began.

"Well, it's no disaster! A man, too, comes to an end, and this was just a clay pot!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna said loudly. "You're not so frightened, are you, Lev Nikolaich?" she added even with fear. "Enough, dear boy, enough; you really frighten me."

"And you forgive me for everything?For everything besides the vase?" the prince suddenly began to get up from his place, but the little old man at once pulled him down again by the hand. He did not want to let him go.

"C'est très curieux, et c est très sérieux!"* he whispered across the table to Ivan Petrovich, though quite loudly; the prince may have heard it.

"So I didn't offend any of you? You wouldn't believe how happy that thought makes me; but so it should be! How could I have offended anyone here? I'd offend you again by thinking so."

"Calm yourself, my friend, that is an exaggeration. And you generally have no reason to thank us so much; it's a beautiful feeling, but it's exaggerated."

"I'm not thanking you, I simply . . . admire you, I'm happy looking at you; perhaps I'm speaking foolishly, but I—I need to speak, I need to explain . . . even if only out of respect for myself."

Everything in him was impulsive, vague, and feverish; it may well be that the words he spoke were often not the ones he wanted to say. By his gaze he seemed to be asking: may I speak to you? His gaze fell on Belokonsky.

"Never mind, dear boy, go on, go on, only don't get out of breath," she observed. "You started breathlessly earlier and see what it led to; but don't be afraid to speak: these gentlemen have seen queerer than you, they won't be surprised, and God knows you're not all that clever, you simply broke a vase and frightened us."

Smiling, the prince listened to her.

*It's very curious, and very serious!

"Wasn't it you," he suddenly turned to the little old man, "wasn't it you who saved the student Podkumov and the clerk Shvabrin from being exiled three months ago?"

The little old man even blushed slightly and murmured that he ought to calm down.

"Wasn't it you I heard about," he turned to Ivan Petrovich at once,

"who gave free timber to your burned-out peasants in -------province, though they were already emancipated and had caused you trouble?"

"Well, that's an ex-ag-ger-ation," murmured Ivan Petrovich, though assuming a look of pleased dignity; but this time he was perfectly right that it was "an exaggeration": it was merely a false rumor that had reached the prince.

"And you, Princess," he suddenly turned to Belokonsky with a bright smile, "didn't you receive me six months ago in Moscow like your own son, following a letter from Lizaveta Prokofyevna, and give me, as if I were indeed your own son, some advice which I will never forget? Do you remember?"

"Why get so worked up?" Belokonsky responded vexedly. "You're a kind man, but a ridiculous one: someone gives you two cents, and you thank them as if they'd saved your life. You think it's praiseworthy, but it's disgusting."

She was getting quite angry, but suddenly burst out laughing, and this time it was kindly laughter. Lizaveta Prokofyevna's face also lit up; Ivan Fyodorovich brightened, too.

"I told you that Lev Nikolaich is a man ... a man ... in short, if only he didn't become breathless, as the princess observed . . ." the general murmured in joyful rapture, repeating Belokonsky's words, which had struck him.

Aglaya alone was somehow sad; but her face still burned, perhaps with indignation.

"He really is very nice," the little old man again murmured to Ivan Petrovich.

"I came here with pain in my heart," the prince went on, with a somehow ever-increasing perturbation, speaking faster and faster, more strangely and animatedly, "I ... I was afraid of you, afraid of myself as well. Most of all of myself. Returning here to Petersburg, I promised myself to be sure and see our foremost people, the elders, the ancient stock, to whom I myself belong, among whom I am one of the first by birth. For I am now sitting with princes like myself, am I not? I wanted to know you, that was necessary; very, very necessary! I've always heard so much more

bad than good about you, about the pettiness and exclusiveness of your interests, about your backwardness, your shallow education, your ridiculous habits—oh, so much has been written and said about you! It was with curiosity that I came here today, with perturbation: I had to see for myself and become personally convinced: is it actually so that this whole upper stratum of the Russian people is good for nothing, has outlived its time, has exhausted its ancient life, and is only capable of dying out, but in a petty, envious struggle with people ... of the future, hindering them, not noticing that it is dying itself? Before, too, I never fully believed this opinion, because we've never had any higher estate, except perhaps at court, according to the uniform, or ... by chance, and now it has quite vanished, isn't it so, isn't it so?"

"Well, no, that's not so at all," Ivan Petrovich laughed sarcastically.

"Well, he's yammering away again!" Belokonsky could not help saying.

"Laissez-le dire,* he's even trembling all over," the little old man warned again in a half whisper.

The prince was decidedly beside himself.

"And what then? I saw gracious, simple-hearted, intelligent people; I saw an old man who was gentle and heard out a boy like me; I see people capable of understanding and forgiveness, people who are Russian and kind, people almost as kind and cordial as I met there, almost no worse. You can judge how joyfully surprised I was! Oh, allow me to speak this out! I had heard a lot and believed very much myself that in society everything is a manner, everything is a decrepit form, while the essence is exhausted; but I can see for myself now that among us that cannot be; anywhere else, but not among us. Can it be that you are all now Jesuits and swindlers? I heard Prince N. tell a story tonight: wasn't it all artless, inspired humor, wasn't it genuinely good-natured? Can such words come from the lips of a . . . dead man, with a dried-up heart and talent? Could dead people have treated me the way you have treated me? Is this not material . . . for the future, for hopes? Can such people fail to understand and lag behind?"

"Once more I beg you, calm yourself, my dear, we'll come back to it all another time, and it will be my pleasure . . ." the "dignitary" smiled.

*Let him speak.

Ivan Petrovich grunted and shifted in his chair; Ivan Fyodorovich stirred; the general-superior was talking with the dignitary's wife, no longer paying the slightest attention to the prince; but the dignitary's wife kept listening and glancing at him.

"No, you know, it's better that I talk!" the prince went on with a new feverish impulse, addressing the little old man somehow especially trustfully and even confidentially. "Yesterday Aglaya Ivanovna forbade me to talk, and even mentioned the topics I shouldn't talk about; she knows I'm ridiculous at them. I'm going on twenty-seven, but I know I'm like a child. I don't have the right to express my thoughts, I said so long ago; I only spoke candidly in Moscow, with Rogozhin . . . He and I read Pushkin together, we read all of him; he knew nothing, not even Pushkin's name . . . I'm always afraid of compromising the thought and the main idea by my ridiculous look. I lack the gesture. My gesture is always the opposite, and that provokes laughter and humiliates the idea. I have no sense of measure either, and that's the main thing; that's even the most main thing ... I know it's better for me to sit and be silent. When I persist in being silent, I even seem very reasonable, and what's more I can think things over. But now it's better that I speak. I started speaking because you looked at me so wonderfully; you have a wonderful face! Yesterday I gave Aglaya Ivanovna my word that I'd keep silent all evening."

"Vraiment?"* smiled the little old man.

"But I have moments when I think that I'm wrong to think that way: sincerity is worth a gesture, isn't it so? Isn't it so?"

"Sometimes."

"I want to explain everything, everything, everything! Oh, yes! Do you think I'm a Utopian? An ideologist? Oh, no, by God, my thoughts are all so simple . . . You don't believe it? You smile? You know, I'm sometimes mean, because I lose my faith; today I was walking here and thinking: 'Well, how shall I start speaking to them? What word should I begin with, so that they understand at least something?' I was so afraid, but I was more afraid for you, terribly, terribly afraid! And yet how could I be afraid, wasn't it shameful to be afraid? What of it, if for one advanced person there are such myriads of backward and unkind ones? This is precisely my joy, that I'm now convinced that it's not so at all, and that there is living material! Nor is there any embarrassment in the fact that

*Really?

we're ridiculous, isn't that true? For it's actually so, we are ridiculous, light-minded, with bad habits, we're bored, we don't know how to look, how to understand, we're all like that, all, you, and I, and they! Now, you're not offended when I tell you to your face that you're ridiculous? And if so, aren't you material? You know, in my opinion it's sometimes even good to be ridiculous, if not better: we can the sooner forgive each other, the sooner humble ourselves; we can't understand everything at once, we can't start right out with perfection! To achieve perfection, one must first begin by not understanding many things! And if we understand too quickly, we may not understand well. This I tell you, you, who have already been able to understand . . . and not understand ... so much. I'm not afraid for you now; surely you're not angry that such a boy is saying such things to you? You're laughing, Ivan Petrovich. You thought I was afraid for them, that I was their advocate, a democrat, a speaker for equality?" he laughed hysterically (he laughed every other minute in short, ecstatic bursts). "I'm afraid for you, for all of you, for all of us together. For I myself am a prince of ancient stock, and I am sitting with princes. It is to save us all that I speak, to keep our estate from vanishing for nothing, in the darkness, having realized nothing, squabbling over everything and losing everything. Why vanish and yield our place to others, when we can remain the vanguard and the elders? Let us be the vanguard, then we shall be the elders. Let us become servants, in order to be elders."⁴⁰

He kept trying to get up from his chair, but the little old man kept holding him back, looking at him, however, with growing uneasiness.

"Listen! I know that talking is wrong: it's better simply to set an example, better simply to begin ... I have already begun . . . and—and is it really possible to be unhappy? Oh, what are my grief and my trouble, if I am able to be happy? You know, I don't understand how it's possible to pass by a tree and not be happy to see it. To talk with a man and not be happy that you love him! Oh, I only don't know how to say it . . . but there are so many things at every step that are so beautiful, that even the most confused person finds beautiful. Look at a child, look at God's sunrise, look at the grass growing, look into the eyes that are looking at you and love you . . ."

He had long been standing, speaking. The little old man now looked at him fearfully. Lizaveta Prokofyevna cried: "Oh, my God!"

realizing before anyone else, and clasped her hands. Aglaya quickly rushed to him, had time to receive him into her arms, and with horror, her face distorted by pain, heard the wild shout of the "spirit that convulsed and dashed down"⁴¹ the unfortunate man. The sick man lay on the carpet. Someone managed quickly to put a pillow under his head.

No one had expected this. A quarter of an hour later Prince N., Evgeny Pavlovich, and the little old man tried to revive the party, but in another half an hour everybody had gone. There were many words of sympathy uttered, many laments, a few opinions. Ivan Petrovich, among other things, declared that "the young man is a Slav-o-phile,⁴² or something of the sort, but anyhow it's not dangerous." The little old man did not come out with anything. True, afterwards, for the next couple of days, everyone was a bit cross; Ivan Petrovich was even offended, but not greatly. The general-superior was somewhat cold to Ivan Fyodorovich for a while. The "patron" of the family, the dignitary, for his part, also mumbled some admonition to the father of the family, and said flatteringly that he was very, very interested in Aglaya's fate. He was in fact a rather kind man; but among the reasons for his curiosity about the prince, in the course of the evening, had also been the old story between the prince and Nastasya Filippovna; he had heard something about this story and was even very interested; he would even have liked to ask about it.

Belokonsky, on leaving the party, said to Lizaveta Prokofyevna:

"Well, he's both good and bad; and if you want to know my opinion, he's more bad. You can see for yourself what sort of man— a sick man!"

Lizaveta Prokofyevna decided definitively to herself that the fiancé was "impossible," and promised herself during the night that "as long as she lived, the prince was not going to be Aglaya's husband." With that she got up in the morning. But that same day, between noon and one, at lunch, she fell into surprising contradiction with herself.

To one question, though an extremely cautious one, from her sisters, Aglaya suddenly answered coldly but haughtily, as if cutting them off:

"I've never given him any sort of promise, and never in my life considered him my fiancé. He's as much a stranger to me as anyone else."

Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly flared up.

"That I did not expect of you," she said bitterly. "As a fiancé he's impossible, I know, and thank God it all worked out this way; but I did not expect such words from you! I thought there would be something else from you. I'd throw out all those people from yesterday and keep him, that's what kind of man he is! . . ."

Here she suddenly stopped, frightened herself at what she had said. But if she had known how unjust she was being at that moment towards her daughter? Everything was already decided in Aglaya's head; she was also waiting for her hour, which was to decide everything, and every hint, every careless touch made a deep wound in her heart.

VIII

For the prince, too, that morning began under the influence of painful forebodings; they might have been explained by his sickly condition, but he was too indefinitely sad, and that was the most tormenting thing for him. True, the facts stood before him, vivid, painful, and biting, but his sadness went beyond anything he recalled and realized; he understood that he could not calm down by himself. The expectation gradually took root in him that something special and definitive was going to happen to him that same day. His fit of the evening before had been a mild one; besides hypochondria, some heaviness in the head and pain in his limbs, he did not feel upset in any other way. His head worked quite distinctly, though his soul was sick. He got up rather late and at once clearly recalled the previous evening; though not quite distinctly, he recalled all the same that about half an hour after the fit he had been brought home. He learned that a messenger had already come from the Epanchins to inquire after his health. Another came at half-past eleven; this pleased him. Vera Lebedev was one of the first who came to visit him and look after him. The moment she saw him, she suddenly burst into tears, but the prince at once calmed her down, and she laughed. He was somehow suddenly struck by the strong compassion this girl felt for him; he seized her hand and kissed it. Vera blushed.

"Ah, don't, don't!" she exclaimed in fear, quickly pulling her hand away.

She soon left in some strange embarrassment. Among other things, she had time to tell him that that morning, at daybreak, her

father had gone running to "the deceased," as he called the general, to find out whether or not he had died in the night, and had heard it said that he would probably die soon. Towards noon Lebedev himself came home and called on the prince, but, essentially, "just for a moment, to inquire after his precious health," and so on, and, besides that, to pay a visit to the "little cupboard." He did nothing but "oh" and "ah," and the prince quickly dismissed him, but all the same the man tried to ask questions about yesterday's fit, though it was obvious that he already knew about it in detail. Kolya stopped to see him, also for a moment; this one was indeed in a hurry and in great and dark anxiety. He began by asking the prince, directly and insistently, to explain everything that had been concealed from him, adding that he had already learned almost everything yesterday. He was strongly and deeply shaken.

With all the possible sympathy that he was capable of, the prince recounted the whole affair, restoring the facts with full exactitude, and he struck the poor boy as if with a thunderbolt. He could not utter a word, and wept silently. The prince sensed that this was one of those impressions that remain forever and mark a permanent break in a young man's life. He hastened to tell him his own view of the affair, adding that in his opinion the old man's death had been caused, mainly, by the horror that remained in his heart after his misdeed, and that not everyone was capable of that. Kolya's eyes flashed as he heard the prince out.

"Worthless Ganka, and Varya, and Ptitsyn! I'm not going to quarrel with them, but our paths are different from this moment on! Ah, Prince, since yesterday I've felt so much that's new; it's a lesson for me! I also consider my mother as directly on my hands now; though she's provided for at Varya's, it's all not right . . ."

He jumped up, remembering that he was expected, hurriedly asked about the state of the prince's health and, having heard the answer, suddenly added hastily:

"Is there anything else? I heard yesterday . . . (though I have no right), but if you ever need a faithful servant in anything, he's here before you. It seems neither of us is entirely happy, isn't it so? But . . . I'm not asking, I'm not asking . . ."

He left, and the prince began to ponder still more deeply: everyone was prophesying unhappiness, everyone had already drawn conclusions, everyone looked as if they knew something, and something that he did not know; Lebedev asks questions, Kolya hints outright, and Vera weeps. At last he waved his hand in vexation:

"Cursed, morbid insecurity," he thought. His face brightened when, past one o'clock, he saw the Epanchins coming to call on him "for a moment." They indeed dropped in for a moment. Lizaveta Prokofyevna, getting up from lunch, announced that they were all going for a walk right then and together. The information was given in the form of an order, abruptly, drily, without explanations. They all went out—that is, mama, the girls, and Prince Shch. Lizaveta Prokofyevna went straight in the opposite direction from the one they took every day. They all understood what it meant, and they all kept silent, fearing to annoy the mother, while she, as if to shelter herself from reproaches and objections, walked ahead of them all without looking back. Finally Adelaida observed that there was no need to run like that during a stroll and that there was no keeping up with mother.

"I tell you what," Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly turned around, "we're now passing his house. Whatever Aglaya may think and whatever may happen afterwards, he's not a stranger to us, and now on top of it he's unhappy and sick; I at least will stop and see him. Whoever wants to come with me can come, whoever doesn't can walk past; the way is clear."

They all went in, of course. The prince, as was proper, hastened once again to apologize for yesterday's vase and . . . the scandal.

"Well, never mind that," replied Lizaveta Prokofyevna, "we're not sorry for the vase, we're sorry for you. So you yourself now realize that there was a scandal: that's what 'the morning after . . .' means, but never mind that either, because everyone can see now that you're not answerable for anything. Well, good-bye, anyhow; if you're strong enough, go for a walk and then sleep again—that's my advice. And if you think of it, come and see us as formerly; rest assured, once and for all, that whatever happens, whatever may come, you'll still remain a friend of our house: of mine at least. I can at least answer for myself . . ."

They all responded to the challenge and confirmed the mother's feelings. They left, but this simple-hearted haste to say something affectionate and encouraging concealed much that was cruel, of which Lizaveta Prokofyevna was unaware. In the invitation to come "as formerly" and in the words "of mine at least" again something ominous sounded. The prince began to remember Aglaya; true, she had smiled wonderfully at him as she came in and as she left, but she had not said a word, even when they had all expressed their assurances of friendship, though she had looked

at him intently a couple of times. Her face had been paler than usual, as if she had slept badly that night. The prince decided that he would certainly go to them that evening "as formerly," and he glanced feverishly at his watch. Vera came in exactly three minutes after the Epanchins left.

"Lev Nikolaevich, Aglaya Ivanovna has just given me a little word for you in secret." The prince simply trembled. "A note?"

"No, verbally; she barely had time. She asks you very much not to leave your house all day today, not for a single moment, till seven o'clock in the evening, or even till nine, I didn't quite hear." "But . . . what for? What does it mean?"

"I don't know anything about that; only she asked me to tell you firmly."

"She said 'firmly'?"

"No, sir, she didn't say it straight out: she barely had time to turn around and tell me, once I ran up to her myself. But firmly or not, I could see by her face that it was an order. She looked at me with such eyes that my heart stopped . . ."

A few more questions and the prince, though he learned nothing further, instead became still more anxious. Left alone, he lay on the sofa and again began to think. "Maybe someone will be there till nine o'clock, and she's afraid for me again, that I might act up again in front of the guests," he thought up finally and again began waiting impatiently for evening and looking at his watch. But the answer to the riddle came long before evening and also in the form of a new visit, an answer in the form of a new, tormenting riddle: exactly half an hour after the Epanchins left, Ippolit came in, so tired and worn out that, on coming in, and without saying a word, he literally collapsed into an armchair, as if unconscious, and instantly broke into an unbearable fit of coughing. In the end he coughed up blood. His eyes glittered and red spots glowed on his cheeks. The prince murmured something to him, but he did not answer and for a long time, without answering, only waved his hand, so as not to be bothered meanwhile. Finally he recovered.

"I'm leaving!" he finally forced himself to say in a hoarse voice.

"If you like, I'll see you off," said the prince, getting up from his place, and he stopped short, remembering the recent ban on leaving the house.

Ippolit laughed.

"I'm not leaving you," he went on with an incessant choking and gurgling. "On the contrary, I've found it necessary to come to you, and on business . . . otherwise I wouldn't bother you. I'm leaving there, and this time, it seems, seriously. Kaput! I'm not asking for commiseration, believe me ... I already lay down today, at ten o'clock, so as not to get up at all till that time comes, but I changed my mind and got up once more to come to you . . . which means I had to."

"It's a pity to look at you; you'd have done better to send for me than to trouble yourself."

"Well, enough of that. So you've pitied me, and that's enough for social civility . . . Ah, I forgot: how is your own health?"

"I'm well. Yesterday I was . . . not very . . ."

"I heard, I heard. The Chinese vase got it; a pity I wasn't there! I've come on business. First, today I had the pleasure of seeing Gavrila Ardalionovich meeting with Aglaya Ivanovna by the green bench. I marveled at how stupid a man can look. I observed as much to Aglaya Ivanovna herself, after Gavrila Ardalionovich left ... It seems you're surprised at nothing, Prince," he added, looking mistrustfully at the prince's calm face. "To be surprised at nothing, they say, is a sign of great intelligence; in my opinion, it might serve equally as a sign of great stupidity . . . However, I'm not alluding to you, forgive me . . . I'm very unlucky with my expressions today."

"I knew yesterday that Gavrila Ardalionovich . . ." the prince broke off, clearly embarrassed, though Ippolit was vexed that he was not surprised.

"You knew! That's news! But anyhow, kindly don't tell me about it . . . And mightn't you have been a witness to today's meeting?"

"You saw I wasn't, since you were there yourself."

"Well, maybe you were sitting behind a bush somewhere. However, I'm glad in any case, for you, naturally, because I was already thinking that Gavrila Ardalionovich was the favorite!"

"I ask you not to speak of it with me in such expressions, Ippolit!"

"The more so as you already know everything."

"You're mistaken. I know almost nothing, and Aglaya Ivanovna surely knows that I know nothing. Even of this meeting I knew exactly nothing . . . You say there was a meeting? Well, all right, let's drop it . . ."

"But how is it, first you know, then you don't know? You say 'all right, let's drop it'? No, don't be so trustful! Especially if you don't

know anything. You're trustful because you don't know. And do you know what these two persons, this nice little brother and sister, are calculating? Maybe you do suspect that? . . . All right, all right, I'll drop it . . ." he added, noticing the prince's impatient gesture. "But I've come on my own business and about that I want to . . . explain myself. Devil take it, it's simply impossible to die without explanations; I do an awful lot of explaining. Do you want to listen?"

"Speak, I'm listening."

"But anyhow, I've changed my mind again: I'll begin with Ganechka all the same. If you can imagine it, I, too, had an appointment at the green bench today. However, I don't want to lie: I insisted on the meeting myself, I invited myself and promised to reveal a secret. I don't know, maybe I came too early (it seems I actually did come early), but as soon as I took my place beside Aglaya Ivanovna, lo and behold, Gavrila Ardalionovich and Varvara Ardalionovna showed up, arm in arm, as if out for a stroll. It seems they were both very struck when they saw me; it wasn't what they were expecting, they even became embarrassed. Aglaya Ivanovna blushed and, believe it or not, was even a bit at a loss, either because I was there, or simply seeing Gavrila Ardalionovich, because he's so good-looking, but she just blushed all over and ended the business in a second, very amusingly: she stood up, responded to Gavrila Ardalionovich's bow and to the ingratiating smile of Varvara Ardalionovna, and suddenly snapped: 'I've invited you only in order to express my personal pleasure at your sincere and friendly feelings, and if I ever have need of them, believe me . . .' Here she made her bows, and the two of them left—feeling like fools, or else triumphant, I don't know; Ganechka, of course, felt like a fool; he didn't understand anything and turned red as a lobster (he sometimes has an extraordinary expression!), but Varvara Ardalionovna, I think, realized that they had to clear out quickly, and that this was more than enough from Aglaya Ivanovna, and she dragged her brother away. She's smarter than he is and, I'm sure, feels triumphant now. As for me, I came to talk with Aglaya Ivanovna, in order to arrange her meeting with Nastasya Filippovna."

"With Nastasya Filippovna!" cried the prince.

"Aha! It seems you're losing your cool-headedness and beginning to be surprised? I'm very glad you want to resemble a human being. For that I'm going to amuse you. This is what it means to be of

service to young and high-minded ladies: today I got a slap in the face from her!"

"A m-moral one?" the prince asked somehow involuntarily.

"Yes, not a physical one. I don't think anybody's going to raise his hand now against someone like me; even a woman wouldn't hit me now; even Ganechka wouldn't! Though there was a moment yesterday when I thought he was going to leap at me . . . I'll bet I know what you're thinking now. You're thinking: 'Granted he shouldn't be beaten, but he could be smothered with a pillow or a wet rag in his sleep—he even ought to be . . .' It's written all over your face that you're thinking that at this very second."

"I never thought that!" the prince said with repugnance.

"I don't know, last night I dreamed that I was smothered with a wet rag ... by a certain man . . . well, I'll tell you who: imagine— Rogozhin! What do you think, is it possible to smother a man with a wet rag?"

"I don't know."

"I've heard it is. All right, let's drop it. So, what makes me a gossip? What made her call me a gossip today? And, please note, once she had already heard everything to the last little word and had even asked questions . . . But women are like that! It was for her that I got into relations with Rogozhin, an interesting man; it was in her interest that I arranged a personal meeting for her with Nastasya Filippovna. Was it because I wounded her vanity by hinting that she was glad of Nastasya Filippovna's 'leavings'? But it was in her own interest that I explained it to her all the time, I don't deny it, I wrote two letters in that line, and today a third about our meeting . . . This is what I started with, that it was humiliating on her side ... And besides, that phrase about 'leavings' isn't mine, in fact, but somebody else's; at least everybody was saying it at Ganechka's; and she herself repeated it. Well, so what makes me a gossip for her? I see, I see: you find it terribly funny now to look at me, and I'll bet you're trying to fit those stupid verses to me: