Hippolyte frowned gloomily.
“I’ll tell you why I draw the conclusion,” explained the prince, evidently
desirous of clearing up the matter a little. “Because, though I often think
over the men of those times, I cannot for the life of me imagine them to be
like ourselves. It really appears to me that they were of another race
altogether than ourselves of today. At that time people seemed to stick so to
one idea; now, they are more nervous, more sensitive, more enlightened—
people of two or three ideas at once—as it were. The man of today is a
broader man, so to speak—and I declare I believe that is what prevents him
from being so self-contained and independent a being as his brother of
those earlier days. Of course my remark was only made under this
impression, and not in the least—”
“I quite understand. You are trying to comfort me for the naiveness with
which you disagreed with me—eh? Ha! ha! ha! You are a regular child,
prince! However, I cannot help seeing that you always treat me like—like a
fragile china cup. Never mind, never mind, I’m not a bit angry! At all
events we have had a very funny talk. Do you know, all things considered, I
should like to be something better than Osterman! I wouldn’t take the
trouble to rise from the dead to be an Osterman. However, I see I must
make arrangements to die soon, or I myself—. Well—leave me now! Au
revoir. Look here—before you go, just give me your opinion: how do you
think I ought to die, now? I mean—the best, the most virtuous way? Tell
me!”
“You should pass us by and forgive us our happiness,” said the prince in
a low voice.
“Ha! ha! ha! I thought so. I thought I should hear something like that.
Well, you are—you really are—oh dear me! Eloquence, eloquence! Good-
bye!”
VI.
As to the evening party at the Epanchins’ at which Princess Bielokonski
was to be present, Varia had reported with accuracy; though she had
perhaps expressed herself too strongly.
The thing was decided in a hurry and with a certain amount of quite
unnecessary excitement, doubtless because “nothing could be done in this
house like anywhere else.”
The impatience of Lizabetha Prokofievna “to get things settled”
explained a good deal, as well as the anxiety of both parents for the
happiness of their beloved daughter. Besides, Princess Bielokonski was
going away soon, and they hoped that she would take an interest in the
prince. They were anxious that he should enter society under the auspices of
this lady, whose patronage was the best of recommendations for any young
man.
Even if there seems something strange about the match, the general and
his wife said to each other, the “world” will accept Aglaya’s fiance without
any question if he is under the patronage of the princess. In any case, the
prince would have to be “shown” sooner or later; that is, introduced into
society, of which he had, so far, not the least idea. Moreover, it was only a
question of a small gathering of a few intimate friends. Besides Princess
Bielokonski, only one other lady was expected, the wife of a high dignitary.
Evgenie Pavlovitch, who was to escort the princess, was the only young
man.
Muishkin was told of the princess’s visit three days beforehand, but
nothing was said to him about the party until the night before it was to take
place.
He could not help observing the excited and agitated condition of all
members of the family, and from certain hints dropped in conversation he
gathered that they were all anxious as to the impression he should make
upon the princess. But the Epanchins, one and all, believed that Muishkin,
in his simplicity of mind, was quite incapable of realizing that they could be
feeling any anxiety on his account, and for this reason they all looked at
him with dread and uneasiness.
In point of fact, he did attach marvellously little importance to the
approaching event. He was occupied with altogether different thoughts.
Aglaya was growing hourly more capricious and gloomy, and this
distressed him. When they told him that Evgenie Pavlovitch was expected,
he evinced great delight, and said that he had long wished to see him—and
somehow these words did not please anyone.
Aglaya left the room in a fit of irritation, and it was not until late in the
evening, past eleven, when the prince was taking his departure, that she said
a word or two to him, privately, as she accompanied him as far as the front
door.
“I should like you,” she said, “not to come here tomorrow until evening,
when the guests are all assembled. You know there are to be guests, don’t
you?”
She spoke impatiently and with severity; this was the first allusion she
had made to the party of tomorrow.
She hated the idea of it, everyone saw that; and she would probably have
liked to quarrel about it with her parents, but pride and modesty prevented
her from broaching the subject.
The prince jumped to the conclusion that Aglaya, too, was nervous about
him, and the impression he would make, and that she did not like to admit
her anxiety; and this thought alarmed him.
“Yes, I am invited,” he replied.
She was evidently in difficulties as to how best to go on. “May I speak of
something serious to you, for once in my life?” she asked, angrily. She was
irritated at she knew not what, and could not restrain her wrath.
“Of course you may; I am very glad to listen,” replied Muishkin.
Aglaya was silent a moment and then began again with evident dislike of
her subject:
“I do not wish to quarrel with them about this; in some things they won’t
be reasonable. I always did feel a loathing for the laws which seem to guide
mamma’s conduct at times. I don’t speak of father, for he cannot be
expected to be anything but what he is. Mother is a noble-minded woman, I
know; you try to suggest anything mean to her, and you’ll see! But she is
such a slave to these miserable creatures! I don’t mean old Bielokonski
alone. She is a contemptible old thing, but she is able to twist people round
her little finger, and I admire that in her, at all events! How mean it all is,
and how foolish! We were always middle-class, thoroughly middle-class,
people. Why should we attempt to climb into the giddy heights of the
fashionable world? My sisters are all for it. It’s Prince S. they have to thank
for poisoning their minds. Why are you so glad that Evgenie Pavlovitch is
coming?”
“Listen to me, Aglaya,” said the prince, “I do believe you are nervous lest
I shall make a fool of myself tomorrow at your party?”
“Nervous about you?” Aglaya blushed. “Why should I be nervous about
you? What would it matter to me if you were to make ever such a fool of
yourself? How can you say such a thing? What do you mean by ‘making a
fool of yourself’? What a vulgar expression! I suppose you intend to talk in
that sort of way tomorrow evening? Look up a few more such expressions
in your dictionary; do, you’ll make a grand effect! I’m sorry that you seem
to be able to come into a room as gracefully as you do; where did you learn
the art? Do you think you can drink a cup of tea decently, when you know
everybody is looking at you, on purpose to see how you do it?”
“Yes, I think I can.”
“Can you? I’m sorry for it then, for I should have had a good laugh at
you otherwise. Do break something at least, in the drawing-room! Upset the
Chinese vase, won’t you? It’s a valuable one; do break it. Mamma values it,
and she’ll go out of her mind—it was a present. She’ll cry before everyone,
you’ll see! Wave your hand about, you know, as you always do, and just
smash it. Sit down near it on purpose.”
“On the contrary, I shall sit as far from it as I can. Thanks for the hint.”
“Ha, ha! Then you are afraid you will wave your arms about! I wouldn’t
mind betting that you’ll talk about some lofty subject, something serious
and learned. How delightful, how tactful that will be!”
“I should think it would be very foolish indeed, unless it happened to
come in appropriately.”
“Look here, once for all,” cried Aglaya, boiling over, “if I hear you
talking about capital punishment, or the economical condition of Russia, or
about Beauty redeeming the world, or anything of that sort, I’ll—well, of
course I shall laugh and seem very pleased, but I warn you beforehand,
don’t look me in the face again! I’m serious now, mind, this time I am
really serious.” She certainly did say this very seriously, so much so, that
she looked quite different from what she usually was, and the prince could
not help noticing the fact. She did not seem to be joking in the slightest
degree.
“Well, you’ve put me into such a fright that I shall certainly make a fool
of myself, and very likely break something too. I wasn’t a bit alarmed
before, but now I’m as nervous as can be.”
“Then don’t speak at all. Sit still and don’t talk.”
“Oh, I can’t do that, you know! I shall say something foolish out of pure
‘funk,’ and break something for the same excellent reason; I know I shall.
Perhaps I shall slip and fall on the slippery floor; I’ve done that before now,
you know. I shall dream of it all night now. Why did you say anything about
it?”
Aglaya looked blackly at him.
“Do you know what, I had better not come at all tomorrow! I’ll plead
sick-list and stay away,” said the prince, with decision.
Aglaya stamped her foot, and grew quite pale with anger.
“Oh, my goodness! Just listen to that! ‘Better not come,’ when the party
is on purpose for him! Good Lord! What a delightful thing it is to have to
do with such a—such a stupid as you are!”
“Well, I’ll come, I’ll come,” interrupted the prince, hastily, “and I’ll give
you my word of honour that I will sit the whole evening and not say a
word.”
“I believe that’s the best thing you can do. You said you’d ‘plead sick-
list’ just now; where in the world do you get hold of such expressions? Why
do you talk to me like this? Are you trying to irritate me, or what?”
“Forgive me, it’s a schoolboy expression. I won’t do it again. I know
quite well, I see it, that you are anxious on my account (now, don’t be
angry), and it makes me very happy to see it. You wouldn’t believe how
frightened I am of misbehaving somehow, and how glad I am of your
instructions. But all this panic is simply nonsense, you know, Aglaya! I give
you my word it is; I am so pleased that you are such a child, such a dear
good child. How charming you can be if you like, Aglaya.”
Aglaya wanted to be angry, of course, but suddenly some quite
unexpected feeling seized upon her heart, all in a moment.
“And you won’t reproach me for all these rude words of mine—some day
—afterwards?” she asked, of a sudden.
“What an idea! Of course not. And what are you blushing for again? And
there comes that frown once more! You’ve taken to looking too gloomy
sometimes, Aglaya, much more than you used to. I know why it is.”
“Be quiet, do be quiet!”
“No, no, I had much better speak out. I have long wished to say it, and
have said it, but that’s not enough, for you didn’t believe me. Between us
two there stands a being who—”
“Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, be quiet!” Aglaya struck in, suddenly,
seizing his hand in hers, and gazing at him almost in terror.
At this moment she was called by someone. She broke loose from him
with an air of relief and ran away.
The prince was in a fever all night. It was strange, but he had suffered
from fever for several nights in succession. On this particular night, while
in semi-delirium, he had an idea: what if on the morrow he were to have a
fit before everybody? The thought seemed to freeze his blood within him.
All night he fancied himself in some extraordinary society of strange
persons. The worst of it was that he was talking nonsense; he knew that he
ought not to speak at all, and yet he talked the whole time; he seemed to be
trying to persuade them all to something. Evgenie and Hippolyte were
among the guests, and appeared to be great friends.
He awoke towards nine o’clock with a headache, full of confused ideas
and strange impressions. For some reason or other he felt most anxious to
see Rogojin, to see and talk to him, but what he wished to say he could not
tell. Next, he determined to go and see Hippolyte. His mind was in a
confused state, so much so that the incidents of the morning seemed to be
imperfectly realized, though acutely felt.
One of these incidents was a visit from Lebedeff. Lebedeff came rather
early—before ten—but he was tipsy already. Though the prince was not in
an observant condition, yet he could not avoid seeing that for at least three
days—ever since General Ivolgin had left the house Lebedeff had been
behaving very badly. He looked untidy and dirty at all times of the day, and
it was said that he had begun to rage about in his own house, and that his
temper was very bad. As soon as he arrived this morning, he began to hold
forth, beating his breast and apparently blaming himself for something.
“I’ve—I’ve had a reward for my meanness—I’ve had a slap in the face,”
he concluded, tragically.
“A slap in the face? From whom? And so early in the morning?”
“Early?” said Lebedeff, sarcastically. “Time counts for nothing, even in
physical chastisement; but my slap in the face was not physical, it was
moral.”
He suddenly took a seat, very unceremoniously, and began his story. It
was very disconnected; the prince frowned, and wished he could get away;
but suddenly a few words struck him. He sat stiff with wonder—Lebedeff
said some extraordinary things.
In the first place he began about some letter; the name of Aglaya
Ivanovna came in. Then suddenly he broke off and began to accuse the
prince of something; he was apparently offended with him. At first he
declared that the prince had trusted him with his confidences as to “a certain
person” (Nastasia Philipovna), but that of late his friendship had been thrust
back into his bosom, and his innocent question as to “approaching family
changes” had been curtly put aside, which Lebedeff declared, with tipsy
tears, he could not bear; especially as he knew so much already both from
Rogojin and Nastasia Philipovna and her friend, and from Varvara
Ardalionovna, and even from Aglaya Ivanovna, through his daughter Vera.
“And who told Lizabetha Prokofievna something in secret, by letter? Who
told her all about the movements of a certain person called Nastasia
Philipovna? Who was the anonymous person, eh? Tell me!”
“Surely not you?” cried the prince.
“Just so,” said Lebedeff, with dignity; “and only this very morning I have
sent up a letter to the noble lady, stating that I have a matter of great
importance to communicate. She received the letter; I know she got it; and
she received me, too.”
“Have you just seen Lizabetha Prokofievna?” asked the prince, scarcely
believing his ears.
“Yes, I saw her, and got the said slap in the face as mentioned. She
chucked the letter back to me unopened, and kicked me out of the house,
morally, not physically, although not far off it.”
“What letter do you mean she returned unopened?”
“What! didn’t I tell you? Ha, ha, ha! I thought I had. Why, I received a
letter, you know, to be handed over—”
“From whom? To whom?”
But it was difficult, if not impossible, to extract anything from Lebedeff.
All the prince could gather was, that the letter had been received very early,
and had a request written on the outside that it might be sent on to the
address given.
“Just as before, sir, just as before! To a certain person, and from a certain
hand. The individual’s name who wrote the letter is to be represented by the
letter A.—”
“What? Impossible! To Nastasia Philipovna? Nonsense!” cried the
prince.
“It was, I assure you, and if not to her then to Rogojin, which is the same
thing. Mr. Hippolyte has had letters, too, and all from the individual whose
name begins with an A.,” smirked Lebedeff, with a hideous grin.
As he kept jumping from subject to subject, and forgetting what he had
begun to talk about, the prince said nothing, but waited, to give him time.
It was all very vague. Who had taken the letters, if letters there were?
Probably Vera—and how could Lebedeff have got them? In all probability,
he had managed to steal the present letter from Vera, and had himself gone
over to Lizabetha Prokofievna with some idea in his head. So the prince
concluded at last.
“You are mad!” he cried, indignantly.
“Not quite, esteemed prince,” replied Lebedeff, with some acerbity. “I
confess I thought of doing you the service of handing the letter over to
yourself, but I decided that it would pay me better to deliver it up to the
noble lady aforesaid, as I had informed her of everything hitherto by
anonymous letters; so when I sent her up a note from myself, with the letter,
you know, in order to fix a meeting for eight o’clock this morning, I signed
it ‘your secret correspondent.’ They let me in at once—very quickly—by
the back door, and the noble lady received me.”
“Well? Go on.”
“Oh, well, when I saw her she almost punched my head, as I say; in fact
so nearly that one might almost say she did punch my head. She threw the
letter in my face; she seemed to reflect first, as if she would have liked to
keep it, but thought better of it and threw it in my face instead. ‘If anybody
can have been such a fool as to trust a man like you to deliver the letter,’
says she, ‘take it and deliver it!’ Hey! she was grandly indignant. A fierce,
fiery lady that, sir!”
“Where’s the letter now?”
“Oh, I’ve still got it, here!”
And he handed the prince the very letter from Aglaya to Gania, which the
latter showed with so much triumph to his sister at a later hour.
“This letter cannot be allowed to remain in your hands.”
“It’s for you—for you! I’ve brought it you on purpose!” cried Lebedeff,
excitedly. “Why, I’m yours again now, heart and hand, your slave; there was
but a momentary pause in the flow of my love and esteem for you. Mea
culpa, mea culpa! as the Pope of Rome says.”
“This letter should be sent on at once,” said the prince, disturbed. “I’ll
hand it over myself.”
“Wouldn’t it be better, esteemed prince, wouldn’t it be better—to—don’t
you know—”
Lebedeff made a strange and very expressive grimace; he twisted about
in his chair, and did something, apparently symbolical, with his hands.
“What do you mean?” said the prince.
“Why, open it, for the time being, don’t you know?” he said, most
confidentially and mysteriously.
The prince jumped up so furiously that Lebedeff ran towards the door;
having gained which strategic position, however, he stopped and looked
back to see if he might hope for pardon.
“Oh, Lebedeff, Lebedeff! Can a man really sink to such depths of
meanness?” said the prince, sadly.
Lebedeff’s face brightened.
“Oh, I’m a mean wretch—a mean wretch!” he said, approaching the
prince once more, and beating his breast, with tears in his eyes.
“It’s abominable dishonesty, you know!”
“Dishonesty—it is, it is! That’s the very word!”
“What in the world induces you to act so? You are nothing but a spy.
Why did you write anonymously to worry so noble and generous a lady?
Why should not Aglaya Ivanovna write a note to whomever she pleases?
What did you mean to complain of today? What did you expect to get by it?
What made you go at all?”
“Pure amiable curiosity,—I assure you—desire to do a service. That’s all.
Now I’m entirely yours again, your slave; hang me if you like!”
“Did you go before Lizabetha Prokofievna in your present condition?”
inquired the prince.
“No—oh no, fresher—more the correct card. I only became this like after
the humiliation I suffered there.”
“Well—that’ll do; now leave me.”
This injunction had to be repeated several times before the man could be
persuaded to move. Even then he turned back at the door, came as far as the
middle of the room, and there went through his mysterious motions
designed to convey the suggestion that the prince should open the letter. He
did not dare put his suggestion into words again.
After this performance, he smiled sweetly and left the room on tiptoe.
All this had been very painful to listen to. One fact stood out certain and
clear, and that was that poor Aglaya must be in a state of great distress and
indecision and mental torment (“from jealousy,” the prince whispered to
himself). Undoubtedly in this inexperienced, but hot and proud little head,
there were all sorts of plans forming, wild and impossible plans, maybe;
and the idea of this so frightened the prince that he could not make up his
mind what to do. Something must be done, that was clear.
He looked at the address on the letter once more. Oh, he was not in the
least degree alarmed about Aglaya writing such a letter; he could trust her.
What he did not like about it was that he could not trust Gania.
However, he made up his mind that he would himself take the note and
deliver it. Indeed, he went so far as to leave the house and walk up the road,
but changed his mind when he had nearly reached Ptitsin’s door. However,
he there luckily met Colia, and commissioned him to deliver the letter to his
brother as if direct from Aglaya. Colia asked no questions but simply
delivered it, and Gania consequently had no suspicion that it had passed
through so many hands.
Arrived home again, the prince sent for Vera Lebedeff and told her as
much as was necessary, in order to relieve her mind, for she had been in a
dreadful state of anxiety since she had missed the letter. She heard with
horror that her father had taken it. Muishkin learned from her that she had
on several occasions performed secret missions both for Aglaya and for
Rogojin, without, however, having had the slightest idea that in so doing
she might injure the prince in any way.
The latter, with one thing and another, was now so disturbed and
confused, that when, a couple of hours or so later, a message came from
Colia that the general was ill, he could hardly take the news in.
However, when he did master the fact, it acted upon him as a tonic by
completely distracting his attention. He went at once to Nina
Alexandrovna’s, whither the general had been carried, and stayed there until
the evening. He could do no good, but there are people whom to have near
one is a blessing at such times. Colia was in an almost hysterical state; he
cried continuously, but was running about all day, all the same; fetching
doctors, of whom he collected three; going to the chemist’s, and so on.
The general was brought round to some extent, but the doctors declared
that he could not be said to be out of danger. Varia and Nina Alexandrovna
never left the sick man’s bedside; Gania was excited and distressed, but
would not go upstairs, and seemed afraid to look at the patient. He wrung
his hands when the prince spoke to him, and said that “such a misfortune at
such a moment” was terrible.
The prince thought he knew what Gania meant by “such a moment.”
Hippolyte was not in the house. Lebedeff turned up late in the afternoon;
he had been asleep ever since his interview with the prince in the morning.
He was quite sober now, and cried with real sincerity over the sick general
—mourning for him as though he were his own brother. He blamed himself
aloud, but did not explain why. He repeated over and over again to Nina
Alexandrovna that he alone was to blame—no one else—but that he had
acted out of “pure amiable curiosity,” and that “the deceased,” as he insisted
upon calling the still living general, had been the greatest of geniuses.
He laid much stress on the genius of the sufferer, as if this idea must be
one of immense solace in the present crisis.
Nina Alexandrovna—seeing his sincerity of feeling—said at last, and
without the faintest suspicion of reproach in her voice: “Come, come—
don’t cry! God will forgive you!”
Lebedeff was so impressed by these words, and the tone in which they
were spoken, that he could not leave Nina Alexandrovna all the evening—
in fact, for several days. Till the general’s death, indeed, he spent almost all
his time at his side.
Twice during the day a messenger came to Nina Alexandrovna from the
Epanchins to inquire after the invalid.
When—late in the evening—the prince made his appearance in Lizabetha
Prokofievna’s drawing-room, he found it full of guests. Mrs. Epanchin
questioned him very fully about the general as soon as he appeared; and
when old Princess Bielokonski wished to know “who this general was, and
who was Nina Alexandrovna,” she proceeded to explain in a manner which
pleased the prince very much.
He himself, when relating the circumstances of the general’s illness to
Lizabetha Prokofievna, “spoke beautifully,” as Aglaya’s sisters declared
afterwards—“modestly, quietly, without gestures or too many words, and
with great dignity.” He had entered the room with propriety and grace, and
he was perfectly dressed; he not only did not “fall down on the slippery
floor,” as he had expressed it, but evidently made a very favourable
impression upon the assembled guests.
As for his own impression on entering the room and taking his seat, he
instantly remarked that the company was not in the least such as Aglaya’s
words had led him to fear, and as he had dreamed of—in nightmare form—
all night.
This was the first time in his life that he had seen a little corner of what
was generally known by the terrible name of “society.” He had long
thirsted, for reasons of his own, to penetrate the mysteries of the magic
circle, and, therefore, this assemblage was of the greatest possible interest
to him.
His first impression was one of fascination. Somehow or other he felt that
all these people must have been born on purpose to be together! It seemed
to him that the Epanchins were not having a party at all; that these people
must have been here always, and that he himself was one of them—returned
among them after a long absence, but one of them, naturally and
indisputably.
It never struck him that all this refined simplicity and nobility and wit
and personal dignity might possibly be no more than an exquisite artistic
polish. The majority of the guests—who were somewhat empty-headed,
after all, in spite of their aristocratic bearing—never guessed, in their self-
satisfied composure, that much of their superiority was mere veneer, which
indeed they had adopted unconsciously and by inheritance.
The prince would never so much as suspect such a thing in the delight of
his first impression.
He saw, for instance, that one important dignitary, old enough to be his
grandfather, broke off his own conversation in order to listen to him—a
young and inexperienced man; and not only listened, but seemed to attach
value to his opinion, and was kind and amiable, and yet they were strangers
and had never seen each other before. Perhaps what most appealed to the
prince’s impressionability was the refinement of the old man’s courtesy
towards him. Perhaps the soil of his susceptible nature was really
predisposed to receive a pleasant impression.
Meanwhile all these people—though friends of the family and of each
other to a certain extent—were very far from being such intimate friends of
the family and of each other as the prince concluded. There were some
present who never would think of considering the Epanchins their equals.
There were even some who hated one another cordially. For instance, old
Princess Bielokonski had all her life despised the wife of the “dignitary,”
while the latter was very far from loving Lizabetha Prokofievna. The
dignitary himself had been General Epanchin’s protector from his youth up;
and the general considered him so majestic a personage that he would have
felt a hearty contempt for himself if he had even for one moment allowed
himself to pose as the great man’s equal, or to think of him—in his fear and
reverence—as anything less than an Olympic God! There were others
present who had not met for years, and who had no feeling whatever for
each other, unless it were dislike; and yet they met tonight as though they
had seen each other but yesterday in some friendly and intimate assembly
of kindred spirits.
It was not a large party, however. Besides Princess Bielokonski and the
old dignitary (who was really a great man) and his wife, there was an old
military general—a count or baron with a German name, a man reputed to
possess great knowledge and administrative ability. He was one of those
Olympian administrators who know everything except Russia, pronounce a
word of extraordinary wisdom, admired by all, about once in five years,
and, after being an eternity in the service, generally die full of honour and
riches, though they have never done anything great, and have even been
hostile to all greatness. This general was Ivan Fedorovitch’s immediate
superior in the service; and it pleased the latter to look upon him also as a
patron. On the other hand, the great man did not at all consider himself
Epanchin’s patron. He was always very cool to him, while taking advantage
of his ready services, and would instantly have put another in his place if
there had been the slightest reason for the change.
Another guest was an elderly, important-looking gentleman, a distant
relative of Lizabetha Prokofievna’s. This gentleman was rich, held a good
position, was a great talker, and had the reputation of being “one of the
dissatisfied,” though not belonging to the dangerous sections of that class.
He had the manners, to some extent, of the English aristocracy, and some of
their tastes (especially in the matter of under-done roast beef, harness, men-
servants, etc.). He was a great friend of the dignitary’s, and Lizabetha
Prokofievna, for some reason or other, had got hold of the idea that this
worthy intended at no distant date to offer the advantages of his hand and
heart to Alexandra.
Besides the elevated and more solid individuals enumerated, there were
present a few younger though not less elegant guests. Besides Prince S. and
Evgenie Pavlovitch, we must name the eminent and fascinating Prince N.—
once the vanquisher of female hearts all over Europe. This gentleman was
no longer in the first bloom of youth—he was forty-five, but still very
handsome. He was well off, and lived, as a rule, abroad, and was noted as a
good teller of stories. Then came a few guests belonging to a lower stratum
of society—people who, like the Epanchins themselves, moved only
occasionally in this exalted sphere. The Epanchins liked to draft among
their more elevated guests a few picked representatives of this lower
stratum, and Lizabetha Prokofievna received much praise for this practice,
which proved, her friends said, that she was a woman of tact. The
Epanchins prided themselves upon the good opinion people held of them.
One of the representatives of the middle-class present today was a
colonel of engineers, a very serious man and a great friend of Prince S.,
who had introduced him to the Epanchins. He was extremely silent in
society, and displayed on the forefinger of his right hand a large ring,
probably bestowed upon him for services of some sort. There was also a
poet, German by name, but a Russian poet; very presentable, and even
handsome—the sort of man one could bring into society with impunity.
This gentleman belonged to a German family of decidedly bourgeois origin,
but he had a knack of acquiring the patronage of “big-wigs,” and of
retaining their favour. He had translated some great German poem into
Russian verse, and claimed to have been a friend of a famous Russian poet,
since dead. (It is strange how great a multitude of literary people there are
who have had the advantages of friendship with some great man of their
own profession who is, unfortunately, dead.) The dignitary’s wife had
introduced this worthy to the Epanchins. This lady posed as the patroness of
literary people, and she certainly had succeeded in obtaining pensions for a
few of them, thanks to her influence with those in authority on such matters.
She was a lady of weight in her own way. Her age was about forty-five, so
that she was a very young wife for such an elderly husband as the dignitary.
She had been a beauty in her day and still loved, as many ladies of forty-
five do love, to dress a little too smartly. Her intellect was nothing to boast
of, and her literary knowledge very doubtful. Literary patronage was,
however, with her as much a mania as was the love of gorgeous clothes.
Many books and translations were dedicated to her by her proteges, and a
few of these talented individuals had published some of their own letters to
her, upon very weighty subjects.
This, then, was the society that the prince accepted at once as true coin,
as pure gold without alloy.
It so happened, however, that on this particular evening all these good
people were in excellent humour and highly pleased with themselves. Every
one of them felt that they were doing the Epanchins the greatest possible
honour by their presence. But alas! the prince never suspected any such
subtleties! For instance, he had no suspicion of the fact that the Epanchins,
having in their mind so important a step as the marriage of their daughter,
would never think of presuming to take it without having previously
“shown off” the proposed husband to the dignitary—the recognized patron
of the family. The latter, too, though he would probably have received news
of a great disaster to the Epanchin family with perfect composure, would
nevertheless have considered it a personal offence if they had dared to
marry their daughter without his advice, or we might almost say, his leave.
The amiable and undoubtedly witty Prince N. could not but feel that he
was as a sun, risen for one night only to shine upon the Epanchin drawing-
room. He accounted them immeasurably his inferiors, and it was this
feeling which caused his special amiability and delightful ease and grace
towards them. He knew very well that he must tell some story this evening
for the edification of the company, and led up to it with the inspiration of
anticipatory triumph.
The prince, when he heard the story afterwards, felt that he had never yet
come across so wonderful a humorist, or such remarkable brilliancy as was
shown by this man; and yet if he had only known it, this story was the
oldest, stalest, and most worn-out yarn, and every drawing-room in town
was sick to death of it. It was only in the innocent Epanchin household that
it passed for a new and brilliant tale—as a sudden and striking reminiscence
of a splendid and talented man.
Even the German poet, though as amiable as possible, felt that he was
doing the house the greatest of honours by his presence in it.
But the prince only looked at the bright side; he did not turn the coat and
see the shabby lining.
Aglaya had not foreseen that particular calamity. She herself looked
wonderfully beautiful this evening. All three sisters were dressed very
tastefully, and their hair was done with special care.
Aglaya sat next to Evgenie Pavlovitch, and laughed and talked to him
with an unusual display of friendliness. Evgenie himself behaved rather
more sedately than usual, probably out of respect to the dignitary. Evgenie
had been known in society for a long while. He had appeared at the
Epanchins’ today with crape on his hat, and Princess Bielokonski had
commended this action on his part. Not every society man would have worn
crape for “such an uncle.” Lizabetha Prokofievna had liked it also, but was
too preoccupied to take much notice. The prince remarked that Aglaya
looked attentively at him two or three times, and seemed to be satisfied with
his behaviour.
Little by little he became very happy indeed. All his late anxieties and
apprehensions (after his conversation with Lebedeff) now appeared like so
many bad dreams—impossible, and even laughable.
He did not speak much, only answering such questions as were put to
him, and gradually settled down into unbroken silence, listening to what
