“He’s got a stroke!” cried Colia, loudly, realizing what was the matter at
last.
V.
In point of fact, Varia had rather exaggerated the certainty of her news as
to the prince’s betrothal to Aglaya. Very likely, with the perspicacity of her
sex, she gave out as an accomplished fact what she felt was pretty sure to
become a fact in a few days. Perhaps she could not resist the satisfaction of
pouring one last drop of bitterness into her brother Gania’s cup, in spite of
her love for him. At all events, she had been unable to obtain any definite
news from the Epanchin girls—the most she could get out of them being
hints and surmises, and so on. Perhaps Aglaya’s sisters had merely been
pumping Varia for news while pretending to impart information; or perhaps,
again, they had been unable to resist the feminine gratification of teasing a
friend—for, after all this time, they could scarcely have helped divining the
aim of her frequent visits.
On the other hand, the prince, although he had told Lebedeff,—as we
know, that nothing had happened, and that he had nothing to impart,—the
prince may have been in error. Something strange seemed to have
happened, without anything definite having actually happened. Varia had
guessed that with her true feminine instinct.
How or why it came about that everyone at the Epanchins’ became
imbued with one conviction—that something very important had happened
to Aglaya, and that her fate was in process of settlement—it would be very
difficult to explain. But no sooner had this idea taken root, than all at once
declared that they had seen and observed it long ago; that they had
remarked it at the time of the “poor knight” joke, and even before, though
they had been unwilling to believe in such nonsense.
So said the sisters. Of course, Lizabetha Prokofievna had foreseen it long
before the rest; her “heart had been sore” for a long while, she declared, and
it was now so sore that she appeared to be quite overwhelmed, and the very
thought of the prince became distasteful to her.
There was a question to be decided—most important, but most difficult;
so much so, that Mrs. Epanchin did not even see how to put it into words.
Would the prince do or not? Was all this good or bad? If good (which might
be the case, of course), why good? If bad (which was hardly doubtful),
wherein, especially, bad? Even the general, the paterfamilias, though
astonished at first, suddenly declared that, “upon his honour, he really
believed he had fancied something of the kind, after all. At first, it seemed a
new idea, and then, somehow, it looked as familiar as possible.” His wife
frowned him down there. This was in the morning; but in the evening, alone
with his wife, he had given tongue again.
“Well, really, you know”—(silence)—“of course, you know all this is
very strange, if true, which I cannot deny; but”—(silence).—“But, on the
other hand, if one looks things in the face, you know—upon my honour, the
prince is a rare good fellow—and—and—and—well, his name, you know
—your family name—all this looks well, and perpetuates the name and title
and all that—which at this moment is not standing so high as it might—
from one point of view—don’t you know? The world, the world is the
world, of course—and people will talk—and—and—the prince has
property, you know—if it is not very large—and then he—he—”
(Continued silence, and collapse of the general.)
Hearing these words from her husband, Lizabetha Prokofievna was
driven beside herself.
According to her opinion, the whole thing had been one huge, fantastical,
absurd, unpardonable mistake. “First of all, this prince is an idiot, and,
secondly, he is a fool—knows nothing of the world, and has no place in it.
Whom can he be shown to? Where can you take him to? What will old
Bielokonski say? We never thought of such a husband as that for our
Aglaya!”
Of course, the last argument was the chief one. The maternal heart
trembled with indignation to think of such an absurdity, although in that
heart there rose another voice, which said: “And why is not the prince such
a husband as you would have desired for Aglaya?” It was this voice which
annoyed Lizabetha Prokofievna more than anything else.
For some reason or other, the sisters liked the idea of the prince. They did
not even consider it very strange; in a word, they might be expected at any
moment to range themselves strongly on his side. But both of them decided
to say nothing either way. It had always been noticed in the family that the
stronger Mrs. Epanchin’s opposition was to any project, the nearer she was,
in reality, to giving in.
Alexandra, however, found it difficult to keep absolute silence on the
subject. Long since holding, as she did, the post of “confidential adviser to
mamma,” she was now perpetually called in council, and asked her opinion,
and especially her assistance, in order to recollect “how on earth all this
happened?” Why did no one see it? Why did no one say anything about it?
What did all that wretched “poor knight” joke mean? Why was she,
Lizabetha Prokofievna, driven to think, and foresee, and worry for
everybody, while they all sucked their thumbs, and counted the crows in the
garden, and did nothing? At first, Alexandra had been very careful, and had
merely replied that perhaps her father’s remark was not so far out: that, in
the eyes of the world, probably the choice of the prince as a husband for
one of the Epanchin girls would be considered a very wise one. Warming
up, however, she added that the prince was by no means a fool, and never
had been; and that as to “place in the world,” no one knew what the position
of a respectable person in Russia would imply in a few years—whether it
would depend on successes in the government service, on the old system, or
what.
To all this her mother replied that Alexandra was a freethinker, and that
all this was due to that “cursed woman’s rights question.”
Half an hour after this conversation, she went off to town, and thence to
the Kammenny Ostrof, [“Stone Island,” a suburb and park of St. Petersburg]
to see Princess Bielokonski, who had just arrived from Moscow on a short
visit. The princess was Aglaya’s godmother.
“Old Bielokonski” listened to all the fevered and despairing lamentations
of Lizabetha Prokofievna without the least emotion; the tears of this
sorrowful mother did not evoke answering sighs—in fact, she laughed at
her. She was a dreadful old despot, this princess; she could not allow
equality in anything, not even in friendship of the oldest standing, and she
insisted on treating Mrs. Epanchin as her protégée, as she had been thirty-
five years ago. She could never put up with the independence and energy of
Lizabetha’s character. She observed that, as usual, the whole family had
gone much too far ahead, and had converted a fly into an elephant; that, so
far as she had heard their story, she was persuaded that nothing of any
seriousness had occurred; that it would surely be better to wait until
something did happen; that the prince, in her opinion, was a very decent
young fellow, though perhaps a little eccentric, through illness, and not
quite as weighty in the world as one could wish. The worst feature was, she
said, Nastasia Philipovna.
Lizabetha Prokofievna well understood that the old lady was angry at the
failure of Evgenie Pavlovitch—her own recommendation. She returned
home to Pavlofsk in a worse humour than when she left, and of course
everybody in the house suffered. She pitched into everyone, because, she
declared, they had ‘gone mad.’ Why were things always mismanaged in her
house? Why had everybody been in such a frantic hurry in this matter? So
far as she could see, nothing whatever had happened. Surely they had better
wait and see what was to happen, instead of making mountains out of
molehills.
And so the conclusion of the matter was that it would be far better to take
it quietly, and wait coolly to see what would turn up. But, alas! peace did
not reign for more than ten minutes. The first blow dealt to its power was in
certain news communicated to Lizabetha Prokofievna as to events which
had happened during her trip to see the princess. (This trip had taken place
the day after that on which the prince had turned up at the Epanchins at
nearly one o’clock at night, thinking it was nine.)
The sisters replied candidly and fully enough to their mother’s impatient
questions on her return. They said, in the first place, that nothing particular
had happened since her departure; that the prince had been, and that Aglaya
had kept him waiting a long while before she appeared—half an hour, at
least; that she had then come in, and immediately asked the prince to have a
game of chess; that the prince did not know the game, and Aglaya had
beaten him easily; that she had been in a wonderfully merry mood, and had
laughed at the prince, and chaffed him so unmercifully that one was quite
sorry to see his wretched expression.
She had then asked him to play cards—the game called “little fools.” At
this game the tables were turned completely, for the prince had shown
himself a master at it. Aglaya had cheated and changed cards, and stolen
others, in the most bare-faced way, but, in spite of everything the prince had
beaten her hopelessly five times running, and she had been left “little fool”
each time.
Aglaya then lost her temper, and began to say such awful things to the
prince that he laughed no more, but grew dreadfully pale, especially when
she said that she should not remain in the house with him, and that he ought
to be ashamed of coming to their house at all, especially at night, “after all
that had happened.”
So saying, she had left the room, banging the door after her, and the
prince went off, looking as though he were on his way to a funeral, in spite
of all their attempts at consolation.
Suddenly, a quarter of an hour after the prince’s departure, Aglaya had
rushed out of her room in such a hurry that she had not even wiped her
eyes, which were full of tears. She came back because Colia had brought a
hedgehog. Everybody came in to see the hedgehog. In answer to their
questions Colia explained that the hedgehog was not his, and that he had
left another boy, Kostia Lebedeff, waiting for him outside. Kostia was too
shy to come in, because he was carrying a hatchet; they had bought the
hedgehog and the hatchet from a peasant whom they had met on the road.
He had offered to sell them the hedgehog, and they had paid fifty copecks
for it; and the hatchet had so taken their fancy that they had made up their
minds to buy it of their own accord. On hearing this, Aglaya urged Colia to
sell her the hedgehog; she even called him “dear Colia,” in trying to coax
him. He refused for a long time, but at last he could hold out no more, and
went to fetch Kostia Lebedeff. The latter appeared, carrying his hatchet, and
covered with confusion. Then it came out that the hedgehog was not theirs,
but the property of a schoolmate, one Petroff, who had given them some
money to buy Schlosser’s History for him, from another schoolfellow who
at that moment was driven to raising money by the sale of his books. Colia
and Kostia were about to make this purchase for their friend when chance
brought the hedgehog to their notice, and they had succumbed to the
temptation of buying it. They were now taking Petroff the hedgehog and
hatchet which they had bought with his money, instead of Schlosser’s
History. But Aglaya so entreated them that at last they consented to sell her
the hedgehog. As soon as she had got possession of it, she put it in a wicker
basket with Colia’s help, and covered it with a napkin. Then she said to
Colia: “Go and take this hedgehog to the prince from me, and ask him to
accept it as a token of my profound respect.” Colia joyfully promised to do
the errand, but he demanded explanations. “What does the hedgehog mean?
What is the meaning of such a present?” Aglaya replied that it was none of
his business. “I am sure that there is some allegory about it,” Colia
persisted. Aglaya grew angry, and called him “a silly boy.” “If I did not
respect all women in your person,” replied Colia, “and if my own principles
would permit it, I would soon prove to you, that I know how to answer such
an insult!” But, in the end, Colia went off with the hedgehog in great
delight, followed by Kostia Lebedeff. Aglaya’s annoyance was soon over,
and seeing that Colia was swinging the hedgehog’s basket violently to and
fro, she called out to him from the verandah, as if they had never quarrelled:
“Colia, dear, please take care not to drop him!” Colia appeared to have no
grudge against her, either, for he stopped, and answered most cordially:
“No, I will not drop him! Don’t be afraid, Aglaya Ivanovna!” After which
he went on his way. Aglaya burst out laughing and ran up to her room,
highly delighted. Her good spirits lasted the whole day.
All this filled poor Lizabetha’s mind with chaotic confusion. What on
earth did it all mean? The most disturbing feature was the hedgehog. What
was the symbolic signification of a hedgehog? What did they understand by
it? What underlay it? Was it a cryptic message?
Poor General Epanchin “put his foot in it” by answering the above
questions in his own way. He said there was no cryptic message at all. As
for the hedgehog, it was just a hedgehog, which meant nothing—unless,
indeed, it was a pledge of friendship,—the sign of forgetting of offences
and so on. At all events, it was a joke, and, of course, a most pardonable and
innocent one.
We may as well remark that the general had guessed perfectly accurately.
The prince, returning home from the interview with Aglaya, had sat
gloomy and depressed for half an hour. He was almost in despair when
Colia arrived with the hedgehog.
Then the sky cleared in a moment. The prince seemed to arise from the
dead; he asked Colia all about it, made him repeat the story over and over
again, and laughed and shook hands with the boys in his delight.
It seemed clear to the prince that Aglaya forgave him, and that he might
go there again this very evening; and in his eyes that was not only the main
thing, but everything in the world.
“What children we are still, Colia!” he cried at last, enthusiastically,
—“and how delightful it is that we can be children still!”
“Simply—my dear prince,—simply she is in love with you,—that’s the
whole of the secret!” replied Colia, with authority.
The prince blushed, but this time he said nothing. Colia burst out
laughing and clapped his hands. A minute later the prince laughed too, and
from this moment until the evening he looked at his watch every other
minute to see how much time he had to wait before evening came.
But the situation was becoming rapidly critical.
Mrs. Epanchin could bear her suspense no longer, and in spite of the
opposition of husband and daughters, she sent for Aglaya, determined to get
a straightforward answer out of her, once for all.
“Otherwise,” she observed hysterically, “I shall die before evening.”
It was only now that everyone realized to what a ridiculous dead-lock the
whole matter had been brought. Excepting feigned surprise, indignation,
laughter, and jeering—both at the prince and at everyone who asked her
questions,—nothing could be got out of Aglaya.
Lizabetha Prokofievna went to bed and only rose again in time for tea,
when the prince might be expected.
She awaited him in trembling agitation; and when he at last arrived she
nearly went off into hysterics.
Muishkin himself came in very timidly. He seemed to feel his way, and
looked in each person’s eyes in a questioning way,—for Aglaya was absent,
which fact alarmed him at once.
This evening there were no strangers present—no one but the immediate
members of the family. Prince S. was still in town, occupied with the affairs
of Evgenie Pavlovitch’s uncle.
“I wish at least he would come and say something!” complained poor
Lizabetha Prokofievna.
The general sat still with a most preoccupied air. The sisters were looking
very serious and did not speak a word, and Lizabetha Prokofievna did not
know how to commence the conversation.
At length she plunged into an energetic and hostile criticism of railways,
and glared at the prince defiantly.
Alas Aglaya still did not come—and the prince was quite lost. He had the
greatest difficulty in expressing his opinion that railways were most useful
institutions,—and in the middle of his speech Adelaida laughed, which
threw him into a still worse state of confusion.
At this moment in marched Aglaya, as calm and collected as could be.
She gave the prince a ceremonious bow and solemnly took up a prominent
position near the big round table. She looked at the prince questioningly.
All present realized that the moment for the settlement of perplexities had
arrived.
“Did you get my hedgehog?” she inquired, firmly and almost angrily.
“Yes, I got it,” said the prince, blushing.
“Tell us now, at once, what you made of the present? I must have you
answer this question for mother’s sake; she needs pacifying, and so do all
the rest of the family!”
“Look here, Aglaya—” began the general.
“This—this is going beyond all limits!” said Lizabetha Prokofievna,
suddenly alarmed.
“It is not in the least beyond all limits, mamma!” said her daughter,
firmly. “I sent the prince a hedgehog this morning, and I wish to hear his
opinion of it. Go on, prince.”
“What—what sort of opinion, Aglaya Ivanovna?”
“About the hedgehog.”
“That is—I suppose you wish to know how I received the hedgehog,
Aglaya Ivanovna,—or, I should say, how I regarded your sending him to
me? In that case, I may tell you—in a word—that I—in fact—”
He paused, breathless.
“Come—you haven’t told us much!” said Aglaya, after waiting some five
seconds. “Very well, I am ready to drop the hedgehog, if you like; but I am
anxious to be able to clear up this accumulation of misunderstandings.
Allow me to ask you, prince,—I wish to hear from you, personally—are
you making me an offer, or not?”
“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Lizabetha Prokofievna. The prince
started. The general stiffened in his chair; the sisters frowned.
“Don’t deceive me now, prince—tell the truth. All these people persecute
me with astounding questions—about you. Is there any ground for all these
questions, or not? Come!”
“I have not asked you to marry me yet, Aglaya Ivanovna,” said the
prince, becoming suddenly animated; “but you know yourself how much I
love you and trust you.”
“No—I asked you this—answer this! Do you intend to ask for my hand,
or not?”
“Yes—I do ask for it!” said the prince, more dead than alive now.
There was a general stir in the room.
“No—no—my dear girl,” began the general. “You cannot proceed like
this, Aglaya, if that’s how the matter stands. It’s impossible. Prince, forgive
it, my dear fellow, but—Lizabetha Prokofievna!”—he appealed to his
spouse for help—“you must really—”
“Not I—not I! I retire from all responsibility,” said Lizabetha
Prokofievna, with a wave of the hand.
“Allow me to speak, please, mamma,” said Aglaya. “I think I ought to
have something to say in the matter. An important moment of my destiny is
about to be decided”—(this is how Aglaya expressed herself)—“and I wish
to find out how the matter stands, for my own sake, though I am glad you
are all here. Allow me to ask you, prince, since you cherish those intentions,
how you consider that you will provide for my happiness?”
“I—I don’t quite know how to answer your question, Aglaya Ivanovna.
What is there to say to such a question? And—and must I answer?”
“I think you are rather overwhelmed and out of breath. Have a little rest,
and try to recover yourself. Take a glass of water, or—but they’ll give you
some tea directly.”
“I love you, Aglaya Ivanovna,—I love you very much. I love only you—
and—please don’t jest about it, for I do love you very much.”
“Well, this matter is important. We are not children—we must look into it
thoroughly. Now then, kindly tell me—what does your fortune consist of?”
“No—Aglaya—come, enough of this, you mustn’t behave like this,” said
her father, in dismay.
“It’s disgraceful,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna in a loud whisper.
“She’s mad—quite!” said Alexandra.
“Fortune—money—do you mean?” asked the prince in some surprise.
“Just so.”
“I have now—let’s see—I have a hundred and thirty-five thousand
roubles,” said the prince, blushing violently.
“Is that all, really?” said Aglaya, candidly, without the slightest show of
confusion. “However, it’s not so bad, especially if managed with economy.
Do you intend to serve?”
“I—I intended to try for a certificate as private tutor.”
“Very good. That would increase our income nicely. Have you any
intention of being a Kammer-junker?”
“A Kammer-junker? I had not thought of it, but—”
But here the two sisters could restrain themselves no longer, and both of
them burst into irrepressible laughter.
Adelaida had long since detected in Aglaya’s features the gathering signs
of an approaching storm of laughter, which she restrained with amazing
self-control.
Aglaya looked menacingly at her laughing sisters, but could not contain
herself any longer, and the next minute she too had burst into an
irrepressible, and almost hysterical, fit of mirth. At length she jumped up,
and ran out of the room.
“I knew it was all a joke!” cried Adelaida. “I felt it ever since—since the
hedgehog.”
“No, no! I cannot allow this,—this is a little too much,” cried Lizabetha
Prokofievna, exploding with rage, and she rose from her seat and followed
Aglaya out of the room as quickly as she could.
The two sisters hurriedly went after her.
The prince and the general were the only two persons left in the room.
“It’s—it’s really—now could you have imagined anything like it, Lef
Nicolaievitch?” cried the general. He was evidently so much agitated that
he hardly knew what he wished to say. “Seriously now, seriously I mean—”
“I only see that Aglaya Ivanovna is laughing at me,” said the poor prince,
sadly.
“Wait a bit, my boy, I’ll just go—you stay here, you know. But do just
explain, if you can, Lef Nicolaievitch, how in the world has all this come
about? And what does it all mean? You must understand, my dear fellow; I
am a father, you see, and I ought to be allowed to understand the matter—
do explain, I beg you!”
“I love Aglaya Ivanovna—she knows it,—and I think she must have long
known it.”
The general shrugged his shoulders.
“Strange—it’s strange,” he said, “and you love her very much?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Well—it’s all most strange to me. That is—my dear fellow, it is such a
surprise—such a blow—that… You see, it is not your financial position
(though I should not object if you were a bit richer)—I am thinking of my
daughter’s happiness, of course, and the thing is—are you able to give her
the happiness she deserves? And then—is all this a joke on her part, or is
she in earnest? I don’t mean on your side, but on hers.”
At this moment Alexandra’s voice was heard outside the door, calling out
“Papa!”
“Wait for me here, my boy—will you? Just wait and think it all over, and
I’ll come back directly,” he said hurriedly, and made off with what looked
like the rapidity of alarm in response to Alexandra’s call.
He found the mother and daughter locked in one another’s arms,
mingling their tears.
These were the tears of joy and peace and reconciliation. Aglaya was
kissing her mother’s lips and cheeks and hands; they were hugging each
other in the most ardent way.
“There, look at her now—Ivan Fedorovitch! Here she is—all of her! This
is our real Aglaya at last!” said Lizabetha Prokofievna.
Aglaya raised her happy, tearful face from her mother’s breast, glanced at
her father, and burst out laughing. She sprang at him and hugged him too,
and kissed him over and over again. She then rushed back to her mother and
hid her face in the maternal bosom, and there indulged in more tears. Her
mother covered her with a corner of her shawl.
“Oh, you cruel little girl! How will you treat us all next, I wonder?” she
said, but she spoke with a ring of joy in her voice, and as though she
breathed at last without the oppression which she had felt so long.
“Cruel?” sobbed Aglaya. “Yes, I am cruel, and worthless, and spoiled—
tell father so,—oh, here he is—I forgot Father, listen!” She laughed through
her tears.
“My darling, my little idol,” cried the general, kissing and fondling her
hands (Aglaya did not draw them away); “so you love this young man, do
you?”
“No, no, no, can’t bear him, I can’t bear your young man!” cried Aglaya,
raising her head. “And if you dare say that once more, papa—I’m serious,
you know, I’m,—do you hear me—I’m serious!”
She certainly did seem to be serious enough. She had flushed up all over
and her eyes were blazing.
The general felt troubled and remained silent, while Lizabetha
Prokofievna telegraphed to him from behind Aglaya to ask no questions.
“If that’s the case, darling—then, of course, you shall do exactly as you
like. He is waiting alone downstairs. Hadn’t I better hint to him gently that
he can go?” The general telegraphed to Lizabetha Prokofievna in his turn.
“No, no, you needn’t do anything of the sort; you mustn’t hint gently at
all. I’ll go down myself directly. I wish to apologize to this young man,
because I hurt his feelings.”
“Yes, seriously,” said the general, gravely.
“Well, you’d better stay here, all of you, for a little, and I’ll go down to
him alone to begin with. I’ll just go in and then you can follow me almost at
once. That’s the best way.”
She had almost reached the door when she turned round again.
“I shall laugh—I know I shall; I shall die of laughing,” she said,
lugubriously.
However, she turned and ran down to the prince as fast as her feet could
carry her.
“Well, what does it all mean? What do you make of it?” asked the general
of his spouse, hurriedly.
“I hardly dare say,” said Lizabetha, as hurriedly, “but I think it’s as plain
as anything can be.”
“I think so too, as clear as day; she loves him.”
“Loves him? She is head over ears in love, that’s what she is,” put in
Alexandra.
“Well, God bless her, God bless her, if such is her destiny,” said
Lizabetha, crossing herself devoutly.
“H’m destiny it is,” said the general, “and there’s no getting out of
destiny.”
With these words they all moved off towards the drawing-room, where
another surprise awaited them. Aglaya had not only not laughed, as she had
feared, but had gone to the prince rather timidly, and said to him:
“Forgive a silly, horrid, spoilt girl”—(she took his hand here)—“and be
quite assured that we all of us esteem you beyond all words. And if I dared
to turn your beautiful, admirable simplicity to ridicule, forgive me as you
would a little child its mischief. Forgive me all my absurdity of just now,
which, of course, meant nothing, and could not have the slightest
consequence.” She spoke these words with great emphasis.
Her father, mother, and sisters came into the room and were much struck
with the last words, which they just caught as they entered—“absurdity
which of course meant nothing”—and still more so with the emphasis with
which Aglaya had spoken.
They exchanged glances questioningly, but the prince did not seem to
have understood the meaning of Aglaya’s words; he was in the highest
heaven of delight.
“Why do you speak so?” he murmured. “Why do you ask my
forgiveness?”
He wished to add that he was unworthy of being asked for forgiveness by
her, but paused. Perhaps he did understand Aglaya’s sentence about
“absurdity which meant nothing,” and like the strange fellow that he was,
rejoiced in the words.
Undoubtedly the fact that he might now come and see Aglaya as much as
he pleased again was quite enough to make him perfectly happy; that he
might come and speak to her, and see her, and sit by her, and walk with her
—who knows, but that all this was quite enough to satisfy him for the
whole of his life, and that he would desire no more to the end of time?
(Lizabetha Prokofievna felt that this might be the case, and she didn’t
like it; though very probably she could not have put the idea into words.)
It would be difficult to describe the animation and high spirits which
distinguished the prince for the rest of the evening.
He was so happy that “it made one feel happy to look at him,” as
Aglaya’s sisters expressed it afterwards. He talked, and told stories just as
he had done once before, and never since, namely on the very first morning
of his acquaintance with the Epanchins, six months ago. Since his return to
Petersburg from Moscow, he had been remarkably silent, and had told
Prince S. on one occasion, before everyone, that he did not think himself
justified in degrading any thought by his unworthy words.
But this evening he did nearly all the talking himself, and told stories by
the dozen, while he answered all questions put to him clearly, gladly, and
with any amount of detail.
There was nothing, however, of love-making in his talk. His ideas were
all of the most serious kind; some were even mystical and profound.
He aired his own views on various matters, some of his most private
opinions and observations, many of which would have seemed rather funny,
so his hearers agreed afterwards, had they not been so well expressed.
The general liked serious subjects of conversation; but both he and
Lizabetha Prokofievna felt that they were having a little too much of a good
thing tonight, and as the evening advanced, they both grew more or less
melancholy; but towards night, the prince fell to telling funny stories, and
was always the first to burst out laughing himself, which he invariably did
so joyously and simply that the rest laughed just as much at him as at his
stories.
As for Aglaya, she hardly said a word all the evening; but she listened
with all her ears to Lef Nicolaievitch’s talk, and scarcely took her eyes off
him.
“She looked at him, and stared and stared, and hung on every word he
said,” said Lizabetha afterwards, to her husband, “and yet, tell her that she
loves him, and she is furious!”
“What’s to be done? It’s fate,” said the general, shrugging his shoulders,
and, for a long while after, he continued to repeat: “It’s fate, it’s fate!”
We may add that to a business man like General Epanchin the present
position of affairs was most unsatisfactory. He hated the uncertainty in
which they had been, perforce, left. However, he decided to say no more
about it, and merely to look on, and take his time and tune from Lizabetha
Prokofievna.
The happy state in which the family had spent the evening, as just
recorded, was not of very long duration. Next day Aglaya quarrelled with
the prince again, and so she continued to behave for the next few days. For
whole hours at a time she ridiculed and chaffed the wretched man, and
made him almost a laughing-stock.
It is true that they used to sit in the little summer-house together for an
hour or two at a time, very often, but it was observed that on these
occasions the prince would read the paper, or some book, aloud to Aglaya.
“Do you know,” Aglaya said to him once, interrupting the reading, “I’ve
remarked that you are dreadfully badly educated. You never know anything
thoroughly, if one asks you; neither anyone’s name, nor dates, nor about
treaties and so on. It’s a great pity, you know!”
“I told you I had not had much of an education,” replied the prince.
“How am I to respect you, if that’s the case? Read on now. No—don’t!
Stop reading!”
And once more, that same evening, Aglaya mystified them all. Prince S.
had returned, and Aglaya was particularly amiable to him, and asked a great
deal after Evgenie Pavlovitch. (Muishkin had not come in as yet.)
Suddenly Prince S. hinted something about “a new and approaching
change in the family.” He was led to this remark by a communication
inadvertently made to him by Lizabetha Prokofievna, that Adelaida’s
marriage must be postponed a little longer, in order that the two weddings
might come off together.
It is impossible to describe Aglaya’s irritation. She flared up, and said
some indignant words about “all these silly insinuations.” She added that
“she had no intentions as yet of replacing anybody’s mistress.”
These words painfully impressed the whole party; but especially her
parents. Lizabetha Prokofievna summoned a secret council of two, and
insisted upon the general’s demanding from the prince a full explanation of
his relations with Nastasia Philipovna. The general argued that it was only a
whim of Aglaya’s; and that, had not Prince S. unfortunately made that
remark, which had confused the child and made her blush, she never would
have said what she did; and that he was sure Aglaya knew well that
anything she might have heard of the prince and Nastasia Philipovna was
merely the fabrication of malicious tongues, and that the woman was going
to marry Rogojin. He insisted that the prince had nothing whatever to do
with Nastasia Philipovna, so far as any liaison was concerned; and, if the
truth were to be told about it, he added, never had had.
Meanwhile nothing put the prince out, and he continued to be in the
seventh heaven of bliss. Of course he could not fail to observe some
impatience and ill-temper in Aglaya now and then; but he believed in
something else, and nothing could now shake his conviction. Besides,
Aglaya’s frowns never lasted long; they disappeared of themselves.
Perhaps he was too easy in his mind. So thought Hippolyte, at all events,
who met him in the park one day.
“Didn’t I tell you the truth now, when I said you were in love?” he said,
coming up to Muishkin of his own accord, and stopping him.
The prince gave him his hand and congratulated him upon “looking so
well.”
Hippolyte himself seemed to be hopeful about his state of health, as is
often the case with consumptives.
He had approached the prince with the intention of talking sarcastically
about his happy expression of face, but very soon forgot his intention and
began to talk about himself. He began complaining about everything,
disconnectedly and endlessly, as was his wont.
“You wouldn’t believe,” he concluded, “how irritating they all are there.
They are such wretchedly small, vain, egotistical, commonplace people!
Would you believe it, they invited me there under the express condition that
I should die quickly, and they are all as wild as possible with me for not
having died yet, and for being, on the contrary, a good deal better! Isn’t it a
comedy? I don’t mind betting that you don’t believe me!”
The prince said nothing.
“I sometimes think of coming over to you again,” said Hippolyte,
carelessly. “So you don’t think them capable of inviting a man on the
condition that he is to look sharp and die?”
“I certainly thought they invited you with quite other views.”
“Ho, ho! you are not nearly so simple as they try to make you out! This is
not the time for it, or I would tell you a thing or two about that beauty,
Gania, and his hopes. You are being undermined, pitilessly undermined, and
—and it is really melancholy to see you so calm about it. But alas! it’s your
nature—you can’t help it!”
“My word! what a thing to be melancholy about! Why, do you think I
should be any happier if I were to feel disturbed about the excavations you
tell me of?”
“It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a
fool’s paradise! I suppose you don’t believe that you have a rival in that
quarter?”
“Your insinuations as to rivalry are rather cynical, Hippolyte. I’m sorry to
say I have no right to answer you! As for Gania, I put it to you, can any
man have a happy mind after passing through what he has had to suffer? I
think that is the best way to look at it. He will change yet, he has lots of
time before him, and life is rich; besides—besides…” the prince hesitated.
“As to being undermined, I don’t know what in the world you are driving
at, Hippolyte. I think we had better drop the subject!”
“Very well, we’ll drop it for a while. You can’t look at anything but in
your exalted, generous way. You must put out your finger and touch a thing
before you’ll believe it, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I suppose you despise me
dreadfully, prince, eh? What do you think?”
“Why? Because you have suffered more than we have?”
“No; because I am unworthy of my sufferings, if you like!”
“Whoever can suffer is worthy to suffer, I should think. Aglaya Ivanovna
wished to see you, after she had read your confession, but—”
“She postponed the pleasure—I see—I quite understand!” said
Hippolyte, hurriedly, as though he wished to banish the subject. “I hear—
they tell me—that you read her all that nonsense aloud? Stupid bosh it was
—written in delirium. And I can’t understand how anyone can be so—I
won’t say cruel, because the word would be humiliating to myself, but we’ll
say childishly vain and revengeful, as to reproach me with this confession,
and use it as a weapon against me. Don’t be afraid, I’m not referring to
yourself.”
“Oh, but I’m sorry you repudiate the confession, Hippolyte—it is sincere;
and, do you know, even the absurd parts of it—and these are many” (here
Hippolyte frowned savagely) “are, as it were, redeemed by suffering—for it
must have cost you something to admit what you there say—great torture,
perhaps, for all I know. Your motive must have been a very noble one all
through. Whatever may have appeared to the contrary, I give you my word,
I see this more plainly every day. I do not judge you; I merely say this to
have it off my mind, and I am only sorry that I did not say it all then—”
Hippolyte flushed hotly. He had thought at first that the prince was
“humbugging” him; but on looking at his face he saw that he was absolutely
serious, and had no thought of any deception. Hippolyte beamed with
gratification.
“And yet I must die,” he said, and almost added: “a man like me!
“And imagine how that Gania annoys me! He has developed the idea—or
pretends to believe—that in all probability three or four others who heard
my confession will die before I do. There’s an idea for you—and all this by
way of consoling me! Ha! ha! ha! In the first place they haven’t died yet;
and in the second, if they did die—all of them—what would be the
satisfaction to me in that? He judges me by himself. But he goes further, he
actually pitches into me because, as he declares, ‘any decent fellow’ would
die quietly, and that ‘all this’ is mere egotism on my part. He doesn’t see
what refinement of egotism it is on his own part—and at the same time,
what ox-like coarseness! Have you ever read of the death of one Stepan
Gleboff, in the eighteenth century? I read of it yesterday by chance.”
“Who was he?”
“He was impaled on a stake in the time of Peter.”
“I know, I know! He lay there fifteen hours in the hard frost, and died
with the most extraordinary fortitude—I know—what of him?”
“Only that God gives that sort of dying to some, and not to others.
Perhaps you think, though, that I could not die like Gleboff?”
“Not at all!” said the prince, blushing. “I was only going to say that you
—not that you could not be like Gleboff—but that you would have been
more like—”
“I guess what you mean—I should be an Osterman, not a Gleboff—eh?
Is that what you meant?”
“What Osterman?” asked the prince in some surprise.
“Why, Osterman—the diplomatist. Peter’s Osterman,” muttered
Hippolyte, confused. There was a moment’s pause of mutual confusion.
“Oh, no, no!” said the prince at last, “that was not what I was going to
say—oh no! I don’t think you would ever have been like Osterman.”
