went on, and steeped in perfect satisfaction and contentment.
Little by little a sort of inspiration, however, began to stir within him,
ready to spring into life at the right moment. When he did begin to speak, it
was accidentally, in response to a question, and apparently without any
special object.
VII.
While he feasted his eyes upon Aglaya, as she talked merrily with
Evgenie and Prince N., suddenly the old anglomaniac, who was talking to
the dignitary in another corner of the room, apparently telling him a story
about something or other—suddenly this gentleman pronounced the name
of “Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff” aloud. The prince quickly turned
towards him, and listened.
The conversation had been on the subject of land, and the present
disorders, and there must have been something amusing said, for the old
man had begun to laugh at his companion’s heated expressions.
The latter was describing in eloquent words how, in consequence of
recent legislation, he was obliged to sell a beautiful estate in the N.
province, not because he wanted ready money—in fact, he was obliged to
sell it at half its value. “To avoid another lawsuit about the Pavlicheff estate,
I ran away,” he said. “With a few more inheritances of that kind I should
soon be ruined!”
At this point General Epanchin, noticing how interested Muishkin had
become in the conversation, said to him, in a low tone:
“That gentleman—Ivan Petrovitch—is a relation of your late friend, Mr.
Pavlicheff. You wanted to find some of his relations, did you not?”
The general, who had been talking to his chief up to this moment, had
observed the prince’s solitude and silence, and was anxious to draw him
into the conversation, and so introduce him again to the notice of some of
the important personages.
“Lef Nicolaievitch was a ward of Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff, after
the death of his own parents,” he remarked, meeting Ivan Petrovitch’s eye.
“Very happy to meet him, I’m sure,” remarked the latter. “I remember
Lef Nicolaievitch well. When General Epanchin introduced us just now, I
recognized you at once, prince. You are very little changed, though I saw
you last as a child of some ten or eleven years old. There was something in
your features, I suppose, that—”
“You saw me as a child!” exclaimed the prince, with surprise.
“Oh! yes, long ago,” continued Ivan Petrovitch, “while you were living
with my cousin at Zlatoverhoff. You don’t remember me? No, I dare say
you don’t; you had some malady at the time, I remember. It was so serious
that I was surprised—”
“No; I remember nothing!” said the prince. A few more words of
explanation followed, words which were spoken without the smallest
excitement by his companion, but which evoked the greatest agitation in the
prince; and it was discovered that two old ladies to whose care the prince
had been left by Pavlicheff, and who lived at Zlatoverhoff, were also
relations of Ivan Petrovitch.
The latter had no idea and could give no information as to why Pavlicheff
had taken so great an interest in the little prince, his ward.
“In point of fact I don’t think I thought much about it,” said the old
fellow. He seemed to have a wonderfully good memory, however, for he
told the prince all about the two old ladies, Pavlicheff’s cousins, who had
taken care of him, and whom, he declared, he had taken to task for being
too severe with the prince as a small sickly boy—the elder sister, at least;
the younger had been kind, he recollected. They both now lived in another
province, on a small estate left to them by Pavlicheff. The prince listened to
all this with eyes sparkling with emotion and delight.
He declared with unusual warmth that he would never forgive himself for
having travelled about in the central provinces during these last six months
without having hunted up his two old friends.
He declared, further, that he had intended to go every day, but had always
been prevented by circumstances; but that now he would promise himself
the pleasure—however far it was, he would find them out. And so Ivan
Petrovitch really knew Natalia Nikitishna!—what a saintly nature was hers!
—and Martha Nikitishna! Ivan Petrovitch must excuse him, but really he
was not quite fair on dear old Martha. She was severe, perhaps; but then
what else could she be with such a little idiot as he was then? (Ha, ha.) He
really was an idiot then, Ivan Petrovitch must know, though he might not
believe it. (Ha, ha.) So he had really seen him there! Good heavens! And
was he really and truly and actually a cousin of Pavlicheff’s?
“I assure you of it,” laughed Ivan Petrovitch, gazing amusedly at the
prince.
“Oh! I didn’t say it because I doubt the fact, you know. (Ha, ha.) How
could I doubt such a thing? (Ha, ha, ha.) I made the remark because—
because Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff was such a splendid man, don’t you
see! Such a high-souled man, he really was, I assure you.”
The prince did not exactly pant for breath, but he “seemed almost to
choke out of pure simplicity and goodness of heart,” as Adelaida expressed
it, on talking the party over with her fiance, the Prince S., next morning.
“But, my goodness me,” laughed Ivan Petrovitch, “why can’t I be cousin
to even a splendid man?”
“Oh, dear!” cried the prince, confused, trying to hurry his words out, and
growing more and more eager every moment: “I’ve gone and said another
stupid thing. I don’t know what to say. I—I didn’t mean that, you know—I
—I—he really was such a splendid man, wasn’t he?”
The prince trembled all over. Why was he so agitated? Why had he flown
into such transports of delight without any apparent reason? He had far
outshot the measure of joy and emotion consistent with the occasion. Why
this was it would be difficult to say.
He seemed to feel warmly and deeply grateful to someone for something
or other—perhaps to Ivan Petrovitch; but likely enough to all the guests,
individually, and collectively. He was much too happy.
Ivan Petrovitch began to stare at him with some surprise; the dignitary,
too, looked at him with considerable attention; Princess Bielokonski glared
at him angrily, and compressed her lips. Prince N., Evgenie, Prince S., and
the girls, all broke off their own conversations and listened. Aglaya seemed
a little startled; as for Lizabetha Prokofievna, her heart sank within her.
This was odd of Lizabetha Prokofievna and her daughters. They had
themselves decided that it would be better if the prince did not talk all the
evening. Yet seeing him sitting silent and alone, but perfectly happy, they
had been on the point of exerting themselves to draw him into one of the
groups of talkers around the room. Now that he was in the midst of a talk
they became more than ever anxious and perturbed.
“That he was a splendid man is perfectly true; you are quite right,”
repeated Ivan Petrovitch, but seriously this time. “He was a fine and a
worthy fellow—worthy, one may say, of the highest respect,” he added,
more and more seriously at each pause; “and it is agreeable to see, on your
part, such—”
“Wasn’t it this same Pavlicheff about whom there was a strange story in
connection with some abbot? I don’t remember who the abbot was, but I
remember at one time everybody was talking about it,” remarked the old
dignitary.
“Yes—Abbot Gurot, a Jesuit,” said Ivan Petrovitch. “Yes, that’s the sort
of thing our best men are apt to do. A man of rank, too, and rich—a man
who, if he had continued to serve, might have done anything; and then to
throw up the service and everything else in order to go over to Roman
Catholicism and turn Jesuit—openly, too—almost triumphantly. By Jove! it
was positively a mercy that he died when he did—it was indeed—everyone
said so at the time.”
The prince was beside himself.
“Pavlicheff?—Pavlicheff turned Roman Catholic? Impossible!” he cried,
in horror.
“H’m! impossible is rather a strong word,” said Ivan Petrovitch. “You
must allow, my dear prince… However, of course you value the memory of
the deceased so very highly; and he certainly was the kindest of men; to
which fact, by the way, I ascribe, more than to anything else, the success of
the abbot in influencing his religious convictions. But you may ask me, if
you please, how much trouble and worry I, personally, had over that
business, and especially with this same Gurot! Would you believe it,” he
continued, addressing the dignitary, “they actually tried to put in a claim
under the deceased’s will, and I had to resort to the very strongest measures
in order to bring them to their senses? I assure you they knew their cue, did
these gentlemen—wonderful! Thank goodness all this was in Moscow, and
I got the Court, you know, to help me, and we soon brought them to their
senses.”
“You wouldn’t believe how you have pained and astonished me,” cried
the prince.
“Very sorry; but in point of fact, you know, it was all nonsense and would
have ended in smoke, as usual—I’m sure of that. Last year,”—he turned to
the old man again,—“Countess K. joined some Roman Convent abroad.
Our people never seem to be able to offer any resistance so soon as they get
into the hands of these—intriguers—especially abroad.”
“That is all thanks to our lassitude, I think,” replied the old man, with
authority. “And then their way of preaching; they have a skilful manner of
doing it! And they know how to startle one, too. I got quite a fright myself
in ’32, in Vienna, I assure you; but I didn’t cave in to them, I ran away
instead, ha, ha!”
“Come, come, I’ve always heard that you ran away with the beautiful
Countess Levitsky that time—throwing up everything in order to do it—and
not from the Jesuits at all,” said Princess Bielokonski, suddenly.
“Well, yes—but we call it from the Jesuits, you know; it comes to the
same thing,” laughed the old fellow, delighted with the pleasant
recollection.
“You seem to be very religious,” he continued, kindly, addressing the
prince, “which is a thing one meets so seldom nowadays among young
people.”
The prince was listening open-mouthed, and still in a condition of excited
agitation. The old man was evidently interested in him, and anxious to study
him more closely.
“Pavlicheff was a man of bright intellect and a good Christian, a sincere
Christian,” said the prince, suddenly. “How could he possibly embrace a
faith which is unchristian? Roman Catholicism is, so to speak, simply the
same thing as unchristianity,” he added with flashing eyes, which seemed to
take in everybody in the room.
“Come, that’s a little too strong, isn’t it?” murmured the old man,
glancing at General Epanchin in surprise.
“How do you make out that the Roman Catholic religion is unchristian?
What is it, then?” asked Ivan Petrovitch, turning to the prince.
“It is not a Christian religion, in the first place,” said the latter, in extreme
agitation, quite out of proportion to the necessity of the moment. “And in
the second place, Roman Catholicism is, in my opinion, worse than
Atheism itself. Yes—that is my opinion. Atheism only preaches a negation,
but Romanism goes further; it preaches a disfigured, distorted Christ—it
preaches Anti-Christ—I assure you, I swear it! This is my own personal
conviction, and it has long distressed me. The Roman Catholic believes that
the Church on earth cannot stand without universal temporal Power. He
cries ‘non possumus!’ In my opinion the Roman Catholic religion is not a
faith at all, but simply a continuation of the Roman Empire, and everything
is subordinated to this idea—beginning with faith. The Pope has seized
territories and an earthly throne, and has held them with the sword. And so
the thing has gone on, only that to the sword they have added lying,
intrigue, deceit, fanaticism, superstition, swindling;—they have played fast
and loose with the most sacred and sincere feelings of men;—they have
exchanged everything—everything for money, for base earthly power! And
is this not the teaching of Anti-Christ? How could the upshot of all this be
other than Atheism? Atheism is the child of Roman Catholicism—it
proceeded from these Romans themselves, though perhaps they would not
believe it. It grew and fattened on hatred of its parents; it is the progeny of
their lies and spiritual feebleness. Atheism! In our country it is only among
the upper classes that you find unbelievers; men who have lost the root or
spirit of their faith; but abroad whole masses of the people are beginning to
profess unbelief—at first because of the darkness and lies by which they
were surrounded; but now out of fanaticism, out of loathing for the Church
and Christianity!”
The prince paused to get breath. He had spoken with extraordinary
rapidity, and was very pale.
All present interchanged glances, but at last the old dignitary burst out
laughing frankly. Prince N. took out his eye-glass to have a good look at the
speaker. The German poet came out of his corner and crept nearer to the
table, with a spiteful smile.
“You exaggerate the matter very much,” said Ivan Petrovitch, with rather
a bored air. “There are, in the foreign Churches, many representatives of
their faith who are worthy of respect and esteem.”
“Oh, but I did not speak of individual representatives. I was merely
talking about Roman Catholicism, and its essence—of Rome itself. A
Church can never entirely disappear; I never hinted at that!”
“Agreed that all this may be true; but we need not discuss a subject
which belongs to the domain of theology.”
“Oh, no; oh, no! Not to theology alone, I assure you! Why, Socialism is
the progeny of Romanism and of the Romanistic spirit. It and its brother
Atheism proceed from Despair in opposition to Catholicism. It seeks to
replace in itself the moral power of religion, in order to appease the spiritual
thirst of parched humanity and save it; not by Christ, but by force. ‘Don’t
dare to believe in God, don’t dare to possess any individuality, any
property! Fraternité ou la Mort; two million heads. ‘By their works ye shall
know them’—we are told. And we must not suppose that all this is harmless
and without danger to ourselves. Oh, no; we must resist, and quickly,
quickly! We must let our Christ shine forth upon the Western nations, our
Christ whom we have preserved intact, and whom they have never known.
Not as slaves, allowing ourselves to be caught by the hooks of the Jesuits,
but carrying our Russian civilization to them, we must stand before them,
not letting it be said among us that their preaching is ‘skilful,’ as someone
expressed it just now.”
“But excuse me, excuse me;” cried Ivan Petrovitch considerably
disturbed, and looking around uneasily. “Your ideas are, of course, most
praiseworthy, and in the highest degree patriotic; but you exaggerate the
matter terribly. It would be better if we dropped the subject.”
“No, sir, I do not exaggerate, I understate the matter, if anything,
undoubtedly understate it; simply because I cannot express myself as I
should like, but—”
“Allow me!”
The prince was silent. He sat straight up in his chair and gazed fervently
at Ivan Petrovitch.
“It seems to me that you have been too painfully impressed by the news
of what happened to your good benefactor,” said the old dignitary, kindly,
and with the utmost calmness of demeanour. “You are excitable, perhaps as
the result of your solitary life. If you would make up your mind to live more
among your fellows in society, I trust, I am sure, that the world would be
glad to welcome you, as a remarkable young man; and you would soon find
yourself able to look at things more calmly. You would see that all these
things are much simpler than you think; and, besides, these rare cases come
about, in my opinion, from ennui and from satiety.”
“Exactly, exactly! That is a true thought!” cried the prince. “From ennui,
from our ennui but not from satiety! Oh, no, you are wrong there! Say from
thirst if you like; the thirst of fever! And please do not suppose that this is
so small a matter that we may have a laugh at it and dismiss it; we must be
able to foresee our disasters and arm against them. We Russians no sooner
arrive at the brink of the water, and realize that we are really at the brink,
than we are so delighted with the outlook that in we plunge and swim to the
farthest point we can see. Why is this? You say you are surprised at
Pavlicheff’s action; you ascribe it to madness, to kindness of heart, and
what not, but it is not so.
“Our Russian intensity not only astonishes ourselves; all Europe wonders
at our conduct in such cases! For, if one of us goes over to Roman
Catholicism, he is sure to become a Jesuit at once, and a rabid one into the
bargain. If one of us becomes an Atheist, he must needs begin to insist on
the prohibition of faith in God by force, that is, by the sword. Why is this?
Why does he then exceed all bounds at once? Because he has found land at
last, the fatherland that he sought in vain before; and, because his soul is
rejoiced to find it, he throws himself upon it and kisses it! Oh, it is not from
vanity alone, it is not from feelings of vanity that Russians become Atheists
and Jesuits! But from spiritual thirst, from anguish of longing for higher
things, for dry firm land, for foothold on a fatherland which they never
believed in because they never knew it. It is easier for a Russian to become
an Atheist, than for any other nationality in the world. And not only does a
Russian ‘become an Atheist,’ but he actually believes in Atheism, just as
though he had found a new faith, not perceiving that he has pinned his faith
to a negation. Such is our anguish of thirst! ‘Whoso has no country has no
God.’ That is not my own expression; it is the expression of a merchant, one
of the Old Believers, whom I once met while travelling. He did not say
exactly these words. I think his expression was:
“‘Whoso forsakes his country forsakes his God.’
“But let these thirsty Russian souls find, like Columbus’ discoverers, a
new world; let them find the Russian world, let them search and discover all
the gold and treasure that lies hid in the bosom of their own land! Show
them the restitution of lost humanity, in the future, by Russian thought
alone, and by means of the God and of the Christ of our Russian faith, and
you will see how mighty and just and wise and good a giant will rise up
before the eyes of the astonished and frightened world; astonished because
they expect nothing but the sword from us, because they think they will get
nothing out of us but barbarism. This has been the case up to now, and the
longer matters go on as they are now proceeding, the more clear will be the
truth of what I say; and I—”
But at this moment something happened which put a most unexpected
end to the orator’s speech. All this heated tirade, this outflow of passionate
words and ecstatic ideas which seemed to hustle and tumble over each other
as they fell from his lips, bore evidence of some unusually disturbed mental
condition in the young fellow who had “boiled over” in such a remarkable
manner, without any apparent reason.
Of those who were present, such as knew the prince listened to his
outburst in a state of alarm, some with a feeling of mortification. It was so
unlike his usual timid self-constraint; so inconsistent with his usual taste
and tact, and with his instinctive feeling for the higher proprieties. They
could not understand the origin of the outburst; it could not be simply the
news of Pavlicheff’s perversion. By the ladies the prince was regarded as
little better than a lunatic, and Princess Bielokonski admitted afterwards
that “in another minute she would have bolted.”
The two old gentlemen looked quite alarmed. The old general
(Epanchin’s chief) sat and glared at the prince in severe displeasure. The
colonel sat immovable. Even the German poet grew a little pale, though he
wore his usual artificial smile as he looked around to see what the others
would do.
In point of fact it is quite possible that the matter would have ended in a
very commonplace and natural way in a few minutes. The undoubtedly
astonished, but now more collected, General Epanchin had several times
endeavoured to interrupt the prince, and not having succeeded he was now
preparing to take firmer and more vigorous measures to attain his end. In
another minute or two he would probably have made up his mind to lead
the prince quietly out of the room, on the plea of his being ill (and it was
more than likely that the general was right in his belief that the prince was
actually ill), but it so happened that destiny had something different in store.
At the beginning of the evening, when the prince first came into the
room, he had sat down as far as possible from the Chinese vase which
Aglaya had spoken of the day before.
Will it be believed that, after Aglaya’s alarming words, an ineradicable
conviction had taken possession of his mind that, however he might try to
avoid this vase next day, he must certainly break it? But so it was.
During the evening other impressions began to awaken in his mind, as we
have seen, and he forgot his presentiment. But when Pavlicheff was
mentioned and the general introduced him to Ivan Petrovitch, he had
changed his place, and went over nearer to the table; when, it so happened,
he took the chair nearest to the beautiful vase, which stood on a pedestal
behind him, just about on a level with his elbow.
As he spoke his last words he had risen suddenly from his seat with a
wave of his arm, and there was a general cry of horror.
The huge vase swayed backwards and forwards; it seemed to be
uncertain whether or no to topple over on to the head of one of the old men,
but eventually determined to go the other way, and came crashing over
towards the German poet, who darted out of the way in terror.
The crash, the cry, the sight of the fragments of valuable china covering
the carpet, the alarm of the company—what all this meant to the poor
prince it would be difficult to convey to the mind of the reader, or for him to
imagine.
But one very curious fact was that all the shame and vexation and
mortification which he felt over the accident were less powerful than the
deep impression of the almost supernatural truth of his premonition. He
stood still in alarm—in almost superstitious alarm, for a moment; then all
mists seemed to clear away from his eyes; he was conscious of nothing but
light and joy and ecstasy; his breath came and went; but the moment
passed. Thank God it was not that! He drew a long breath and looked
around.
For some minutes he did not seem to comprehend the excitement around
him; that is, he comprehended it and saw everything, but he stood aside, as
it were, like someone invisible in a fairy tale, as though he had nothing to
do with what was going on, though it pleased him to take an interest in it.
He saw them gather up the broken bits of china; he heard the loud talking
of the guests and observed how pale Aglaya looked, and how very strangely
she was gazing at him. There was no hatred in her expression, and no anger
whatever. It was full of alarm for him, and sympathy and affection, while
she looked around at the others with flashing, angry eyes. His heart filled
with a sweet pain as he gazed at her.
At length he observed, to his amazement, that all had taken their seats
again, and were laughing and talking as though nothing had happened.
Another minute and the laughter grew louder—they were laughing at him,
at his dumb stupor—laughing kindly and merrily. Several of them spoke to
him, and spoke so kindly and cordially, especially Lizabetha Prokofievna—
she was saying the kindest possible things to him.
Suddenly he became aware that General Epanchin was tapping him on
the shoulder; Ivan Petrovitch was laughing too, but still more kind and
sympathizing was the old dignitary. He took the prince by the hand and
pressed it warmly; then he patted it, and quietly urged him to recollect
himself—speaking to him exactly as he would have spoken to a little
frightened child, which pleased the prince wonderfully; and next seated him
beside himself.
The prince gazed into his face with pleasure, but still seemed to have no
power to speak. His breath failed him. The old man’s face pleased him
greatly.
“Do you really forgive me?” he said at last. “And—and Lizabetha
Prokofievna too?” The laugh increased, tears came into the prince’s eyes, he
could not believe in all this kindness—he was enchanted.
“The vase certainly was a very beautiful one. I remember it here for
fifteen years—yes, quite that!” remarked Ivan Petrovitch.
“Oh, what a dreadful calamity! A wretched vase smashed, and a man half
dead with remorse about it,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna, loudly. “What
made you so dreadfully startled, Lef Nicolaievitch?” she added, a little
timidly. “Come, my dear boy! cheer up. You really alarm me, taking the
accident so to heart.”
“Do you forgive me all—all, besides the vase, I mean?” said the prince,
rising from his seat once more, but the old gentleman caught his hand and
drew him down again—he seemed unwilling to let him go.
“C’est très-curieux et c’est très-sérieux,” he whispered across the table to
Ivan Petrovitch, rather loudly. Probably the prince heard him.
“So that I have not offended any of you? You will not believe how happy
I am to be able to think so. It is as it should be. As if I could offend anyone
here! I should offend you again by even suggesting such a thing.”
“Calm yourself, my dear fellow. You are exaggerating again; you really
have no occasion to be so grateful to us. It is a feeling which does you great
credit, but an exaggeration, for all that.”
“I am not exactly thanking you, I am only feeling a growing admiration
for you—it makes me happy to look at you. I dare say I am speaking very
foolishly, but I must speak—I must explain, if it be out of nothing better
than self-respect.”
All he said and did was abrupt, confused, feverish—very likely the words
he spoke, as often as not, were not those he wished to say. He seemed to
inquire whether he might speak. His eyes lighted on Princess Bielokonski.
“All right, my friend, talk away, talk away!” she remarked. “Only don’t
lose your breath; you were in such a hurry when you began, and look what
you’ve come to now! Don’t be afraid of speaking—all these ladies and
gentlemen have seen far stranger people than yourself; you don’t astonish
them. You are nothing out-of-the-way remarkable, you know. You’ve done
nothing but break a vase, and give us all a fright.”
The prince listened, smiling.
“Wasn’t it you,” he said, suddenly turning to the old gentleman, “who
saved the student Porkunoff and a clerk called Shoabrin from being sent to
Siberia, two or three months since?”
The old dignitary blushed a little, and murmured that the prince had
better not excite himself further.
“And I have heard of you,” continued the prince, addressing Ivan
Petrovitch, “that when some of your villagers were burned out you gave
them wood to build up their houses again, though they were no longer your
serfs and had behaved badly towards you.”
“Oh, come, come! You are exaggerating,” said Ivan Petrovitch, beaming
with satisfaction, all the same. He was right, however, in this instance, for
the report had reached the prince’s ears in an incorrect form.
“And you, princess,” he went on, addressing Princess Bielokonski, “was
it not you who received me in Moscow, six months since, as kindly as
though I had been your own son, in response to a letter from Lizabetha
Prokofievna; and gave me one piece of advice, again as to your own son,
which I shall never forget? Do you remember?”
“What are you making such a fuss about?” said the old lady, with
annoyance. “You are a good fellow, but very silly. One gives you a
halfpenny, and you are as grateful as though one had saved your life. You
think this is praiseworthy on your part, but it is not—it is not, indeed.”
She seemed to be very angry, but suddenly burst out laughing, quite
good-humouredly.
Lizabetha Prokofievna’s face brightened up, too; so did that of General
Epanchin.
“I told you Lef Nicolaievitch was a man—a man—if only he would not
be in such a hurry, as the princess remarked,” said the latter, with delight.
Aglaya alone seemed sad and depressed; her face was flushed, perhaps
with indignation.
“He really is very charming,” whispered the old dignitary to Ivan
Petrovitch.
“I came into this room with anguish in my heart,” continued the prince,
with ever-growing agitation, speaking quicker and quicker, and with
increasing strangeness. “I—I was afraid of you all, and afraid of myself. I
was most afraid of myself. When I returned to Petersburg, I promised
myself to make a point of seeing our greatest men, and members of our
oldest families—the old families like my own. I am now among princes like
myself, am I not? I wished to know you, and it was necessary, very, very
necessary. I had always heard so much that was evil said of you all—more
evil than good; as to how small and petty were your interests, how absurd
your habits, how shallow your education, and so on. There is so much
written and said about you! I came here today with anxious curiosity; I
wished to see for myself and form my own convictions as to whether it
were true that the whole of this upper stratum of Russian society is
worthless, has outlived its time, has existed too long, and is only fit to die—
and yet is dying with petty, spiteful warring against that which is destined to
supersede it and take its place—hindering the Coming Men, and knowing
not that itself is in a dying condition. I did not fully believe in this view
even before, for there never was such a class among us—excepting perhaps
at court, by accident—or by uniform; but now there is not even that, is
there? It has vanished, has it not?”
“No, not a bit of it,” said Ivan Petrovitch, with a sarcastic laugh.
“Good Lord, he’s off again!” said Princess Bielokonski, impatiently.
“Laissez-le dire! He is trembling all over,” said the old man, in a warning
whisper.
The prince certainly was beside himself.
“Well? What have I seen?” he continued. “I have seen men of graceful
simplicity of intellect; I have seen an old man who is not above speaking
kindly and even listening to a boy like myself; I see before me persons who
can understand, who can forgive—kind, good Russian hearts—hearts
almost as kind and cordial as I met abroad. Imagine how delighted I must
have been, and how surprised! Oh, let me express this feeling! I have so
often heard, and I have even believed, that in society there was nothing but
empty forms, and that reality had vanished; but I now see for myself that
this can never be the case here, among us—it may be the order elsewhere,
but not in Russia. Surely you are not all Jesuits and deceivers! I heard
Prince N.‘s story just now. Was it not simple-minded, spontaneous humour?
Could such words come from the lips of a man who is dead?—a man whose
heart and talents are dried up? Could dead men and women have treated me
so kindly as you have all been treating me to-day? Is there not material for
the future in all this—for hope? Can such people fail to understand? Can
such men fall away from reality?”
“Once more let us beg you to be calm, my dear boy. We’ll talk of all this
another time—I shall do so with the greatest pleasure, for one,” said the old
dignitary, with a smile.
Ivan Petrovitch grunted and twisted round in his chair. General Epanchin
moved nervously. The latter’s chief had started a conversation with the wife
of the dignitary, and took no notice whatever of the prince, but the old lady
very often glanced at him, and listened to what he was saying.
“No, I had better speak,” continued the prince, with a new outburst of
feverish emotion, and turning towards the old man with an air of
confidential trustfulness. “Yesterday, Aglaya Ivanovna forbade me to talk,
and even specified the particular subjects I must not touch upon—she
knows well enough that I am odd when I get upon these matters. I am
nearly twenty-seven years old, and yet I know I am little better than a child.
I have no right to express my ideas, and said so long ago. Only in Moscow,
with Rogojin, did I ever speak absolutely freely! He and I read Pushkin
together—all his works. Rogojin knew nothing of Pushkin, had not even
heard his name. I am always afraid of spoiling a great Thought or Idea by
my absurd manner. I have no eloquence, I know. I always make the wrong
gestures—inappropriate gestures—and therefore I degrade the Thought, and
raise a laugh instead of doing my subject justice. I have no sense of
proportion either, and that is the chief thing. I know it would be much better
if I were always to sit still and say nothing. When I do so, I appear to be
quite a sensible sort of a person, and what’s more, I think about things. But
now I must speak; it is better that I should. I began to speak because you
looked so kindly at me; you have such a beautiful face. I promised Aglaya
Ivanovna yesterday that I would not speak all the evening.”
“Really?” said the old man, smiling.
“But, at times, I can’t help thinking that I am wrong in feeling so about it,
you know. Sincerity is more important than elocution, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes.”
“I want to explain all to you—everything—everything! I know you think
me Utopian, don’t you—an idealist? Oh, no! I’m not, indeed—my ideas are
all so simple. You don’t believe me? You are smiling. Do you know, I am
sometimes very wicked—for I lose my faith? This evening as I came here, I
thought to myself, ‘What shall I talk about? How am I to begin, so that they
may be able to understand partially, at all events?’ How afraid I was—
dreadfully afraid! And yet, how could I be afraid—was it not shameful of
me? Was I afraid of finding a bottomless abyss of empty selfishness? Ah!
that’s why I am so happy at this moment, because I find there is no
bottomless abyss at all—but good, healthy material, full of life.
“It is not such a very dreadful circumstance that we are odd people, is it?
For we really are odd, you know—careless, reckless, easily wearied of
anything. We don’t look thoroughly into matters—don’t care to understand
things. We are all like this—you and I, and all of them! Why, here are you,
now—you are not a bit angry with me for calling you ‘odd,’ are you? And,
if so, surely there is good material in you? Do you know, I sometimes think
it is a good thing to be odd. We can forgive one another more easily, and be
more humble. No one can begin by being perfect—there is much one
cannot understand in life at first. In order to attain to perfection, one must
begin by failing to understand much. And if we take in knowledge too
quickly, we very likely are not taking it in at all. I say all this to you—you
who by this time understand so much—and doubtless have failed to
understand so much, also. I am not afraid of you any longer. You are not
angry that a mere boy should say such words to you, are you? Of course
not! You know how to forget and to forgive. You are laughing, Ivan
Petrovitch? You think I am a champion of other classes of people—that I
am their advocate, a democrat, and an orator of Equality?” The prince
laughed hysterically; he had several times burst into these little, short
nervous laughs. “Oh, no—it is for you, for myself, and for all of us
together, that I am alarmed. I am a prince of an old family myself, and I am
sitting among my peers; and I am talking like this in the hope of saving us
all; in the hope that our class will not disappear altogether—into the
darkness—unguessing its danger—blaming everything around it, and losing
ground every day. Why should we disappear and give place to others, when
we may still, if we choose, remain in the front rank and lead the battle? Let
us be servants, that we may become lords in due season!”
He tried to get upon his feet again, but the old man still restrained him,
gazing at him with increasing perturbation as he went on.
“Listen—I know it is best not to speak! It is best simply to give a good
example—simply to begin the work. I have done this—I have begun, and—
and—oh! can anyone be unhappy, really? Oh! what does grief matter—
what does misfortune matter, if one knows how to be happy? Do you know,
I cannot understand how anyone can pass by a green tree, and not feel
happy only to look at it! How anyone can talk to a man and not feel happy
in loving him! Oh, it is my own fault that I cannot express myself well
enough! But there are lovely things at every step I take—things which even
the most miserable man must recognize as beautiful. Look at a little child—
look at God’s day dawn—look at the grass growing—look at the eyes that
love you, as they gaze back into your eyes!”
He had risen, and was speaking standing up. The old gentleman was
looking at him now in unconcealed alarm. Lizabetha Prokofievna wrung her
hands. “Oh, my God!” she cried. She had guessed the state of the case
before anyone else.
Aglaya rushed quickly up to him, and was just in time to receive him in
her arms, and to hear with dread and horror that awful, wild cry as he fell
writhing to the ground.
There he lay on the carpet, and someone quickly placed a cushion under
his head.
No one had expected this.
In a quarter of an hour or so Prince N. and Evgenie Pavlovitch and the
old dignitary were hard at work endeavouring to restore the harmony of the
evening, but it was of no avail, and very soon after the guests separated and
went their ways.
A great deal of sympathy was expressed; a considerable amount of advice
was volunteered; Ivan Petrovitch expressed his opinion that the young man
was “a Slavophile, or something of that sort”; but that it was not a
dangerous development. The old dignitary said nothing.
True enough, most of the guests, next day and the day after, were not in
very good humour. Ivan Petrovitch was a little offended, but not seriously
so. General Epanchin’s chief was rather cool towards him for some while
after the occurrence. The old dignitary, as patron of the family, took the
opportunity of murmuring some kind of admonition to the general, and
added, in flattering terms, that he was most interested in Aglaya’s future. He
was a man who really did possess a kind heart, although his interest in the
prince, in the earlier part of the evening, was due, among other reasons, to
the latter’s connection with Nastasia Philipovna, according to popular
report. He had heard a good deal of this story here and there, and was
greatly interested in it, so much so that he longed to ask further questions
about it.
Princess Bielokonski, as she drove away on this eventful evening, took
occasion to say to Lizabetha Prokofievna:
“Well—he’s a good match—and a bad one; and if you want my opinion,
more bad than good. You can see for yourself the man is an invalid.”
Lizabetha therefore decided that the prince was impossible as a husband
for Aglaya; and during the ensuing night she made a vow that never while
she lived should he marry Aglaya. With this resolve firmly impressed upon
her mind, she awoke next day; but during the morning, after her early
lunch, she fell into a condition of remarkable inconsistency.
