appearance of complaining, or weeping, or reproaching, than he would
smile at her kindly, and begin stroking her hair and her cheeks, soothing and
consoling her once more, as if she were a child.
IX.
A fortnight had passed since the events recorded in the last chapter, and
the position of the actors in our story had become so changed that it is
almost impossible for us to continue the tale without some few
explanations. Yet we feel that we ought to limit ourselves to the simple
record of facts, without much attempt at explanation, for a very patent
reason: because we ourselves have the greatest possible difficulty in
accounting for the facts to be recorded. Such a statement on our part may
appear strange to the reader. How is anyone to tell a story which he cannot
understand himself? In order to keep clear of a false position, we had
perhaps better give an example of what we mean; and probably the
intelligent reader will soon understand the difficulty. More especially are
we inclined to take this course since the example will constitute a distinct
march forward of our story, and will not hinder the progress of the events
remaining to be recorded.
During the next fortnight—that is, through the early part of July—the
history of our hero was circulated in the form of strange, diverting, most
unlikely-sounding stories, which passed from mouth to mouth, through the
streets and villas adjoining those inhabited by Lebedeff, Ptitsin, Nastasia
Philipovna and the Epanchins; in fact, pretty well through the whole town
and its environs. All society—both the inhabitants of the place and those
who came down of an evening for the music—had got hold of one and the
same story, in a thousand varieties of detail—as to how a certain young
prince had raised a terrible scandal in a most respectable household, had
thrown over a daughter of the family, to whom he was engaged, and had
been captured by a woman of shady reputation whom he was determined to
marry at once—breaking off all old ties for the satisfaction of his insane
idea; and, in spite of the public indignation roused by his action, the
marriage was to take place in Pavlofsk openly and publicly, and the prince
had announced his intention of going through with it with head erect and
looking the whole world in the face. The story was so artfully adorned with
scandalous details, and persons of so great eminence and importance were
apparently mixed up in it, while, at the same time, the evidence was so
circumstantial, that it was no wonder the matter gave food for plenty of
curiosity and gossip.
According to the reports of the most talented gossip-mongers—those
who, in every class of society, are always in haste to explain every event to
their neighbours—the young gentleman concerned was of good family—a
prince—fairly rich—weak of intellect, but a democrat and a dabbler in the
Nihilism of the period, as exposed by Mr. Turgenieff. He could hardly talk
Russian, but had fallen in love with one of the Miss Epanchins, and his suit
met with so much encouragement that he had been received in the house as
the recognized bridegroom-to-be of the young lady. But like the Frenchman
of whom the story is told that he studied for holy orders, took all the oaths,
was ordained priest, and next morning wrote to his bishop informing him
that, as he did not believe in God and considered it wrong to deceive the
people and live upon their pockets, he begged to surrender the orders
conferred upon him the day before, and to inform his lordship that he was
sending this letter to the public press,—like this Frenchman, the prince
played a false game. It was rumoured that he had purposely waited for the
solemn occasion of a large evening party at the house of his future bride, at
which he was introduced to several eminent persons, in order publicly to
make known his ideas and opinions, and thereby insult the “big-wigs,” and
to throw over his bride as offensively as possible; and that, resisting the
servants who were told off to turn him out of the house, he had seized and
thrown down a magnificent china vase. As a characteristic addition to the
above, it was currently reported that the young prince really loved the lady
to whom he was engaged, and had thrown her over out of purely Nihilistic
motives, with the intention of giving himself the satisfaction of marrying a
fallen woman in the face of all the world, thereby publishing his opinion
that there is no distinction between virtuous and disreputable women, but
that all women are alike, free; and a “fallen” woman, indeed, somewhat
superior to a virtuous one.
It was declared that he believed in no classes or anything else, excepting
“the woman question.”
All this looked likely enough, and was accepted as fact by most of the
inhabitants of the place, especially as it was borne out, more or less, by
daily occurrences.
Of course much was said that could not be determined absolutely. For
instance, it was reported that the poor girl had so loved her future husband
that she had followed him to the house of the other woman, the day after
she had been thrown over; others said that he had insisted on her coming,
himself, in order to shame and insult her by his taunts and Nihilistic
confessions when she reached the house. However all these things might be,
the public interest in the matter grew daily, especially as it became clear that
the scandalous wedding was undoubtedly to take place.
So that if our readers were to ask an explanation, not of the wild reports
about the prince’s Nihilistic opinions, but simply as to how such a marriage
could possibly satisfy his real aspirations, or as to the spiritual condition of
our hero at this time, we confess that we should have great difficulty in
giving the required information.
All we know is, that the marriage really was arranged, and that the prince
had commissioned Lebedeff and Keller to look after all the necessary
business connected with it; that he had requested them to spare no expense;
that Nastasia herself was hurrying on the wedding; that Keller was to be the
prince’s best man, at his own earnest request; and that Burdovsky was to
give Nastasia away, to his great delight. The wedding was to take place
before the middle of July.
But, besides the above, we are cognizant of certain other undoubted facts,
which puzzle us a good deal because they seem flatly to contradict the
foregoing.
We suspect, for instance, that having commissioned Lebedeff and the
others, as above, the prince immediately forgot all about masters of
ceremonies and even the ceremony itself; and we feel quite certain that in
making these arrangements he did so in order that he might absolutely
escape all thought of the wedding, and even forget its approach if he could,
by detailing all business concerning it to others.
What did he think of all this time, then? What did he wish for? There is
no doubt that he was a perfectly free agent all through, and that as far as
Nastasia was concerned, there was no force of any kind brought to bear on
him. Nastasia wished for a speedy marriage, true!—but the prince agreed at
once to her proposals; he agreed, in fact, so casually that anyone might
suppose he was but acceding to the most simple and ordinary suggestion.
There are many strange circumstances such as this before us; but in our
opinion they do but deepen the mystery, and do not in the smallest degree
help us to understand the case.
However, let us take one more example. Thus, we know for a fact that
during the whole of this fortnight the prince spent all his days and evenings
with Nastasia; he walked with her, drove with her; he began to be restless
whenever he passed an hour without seeing her—in fact, to all appearances,
he sincerely loved her. He would listen to her for hours at a time with a
quiet smile on his face, scarcely saying a word himself. And yet we know,
equally certainly, that during this period he several times set off, suddenly,
to the Epanchins’, not concealing the fact from Nastasia Philipovna, and
driving the latter to absolute despair. We know also that he was not received
at the Epanchins’ so long as they remained at Pavlofsk, and that he was not
allowed an interview with Aglaya;—but next day he would set off once
more on the same errand, apparently quite oblivious of the fact of
yesterday’s visit having been a failure,—and, of course, meeting with
another refusal. We know, too, that exactly an hour after Aglaya had fled
from Nastasia Philipovna’s house on that fateful evening, the prince was at
the Epanchins’,—and that his appearance there had been the cause of the
greatest consternation and dismay; for Aglaya had not been home, and the
family only discovered then, for the first time, that the two of them had
been to Nastasia’s house together.
It was said that Elizabetha Prokofievna and her daughters had there and
then denounced the prince in the strongest terms, and had refused any
further acquaintance and friendship with him; their rage and denunciations
being redoubled when Varia Ardalionovna suddenly arrived and stated that
Aglaya had been at her house in a terrible state of mind for the last hour,
and that she refused to come home.
This last item of news, which disturbed Lizabetha Prokofievna more than
anything else, was perfectly true. On leaving Nastasia’s, Aglaya had felt
that she would rather die than face her people, and had therefore gone
straight to Nina Alexandrovna’s. On receiving the news, Lizabetha and her
daughters and the general all rushed off to Aglaya, followed by Prince Lef
Nicolaievitch—undeterred by his recent dismissal; but through Varia he was
refused a sight of Aglaya here also. The end of the episode was that when
Aglaya saw her mother and sisters crying over her and not uttering a word
of reproach, she had flung herself into their arms and gone straight home
with them.
It was said that Gania managed to make a fool of himself even on this
occasion; for, finding himself alone with Aglaya for a minute or two when
Varia had gone to the Epanchins’, he had thought it a fitting opportunity to
make a declaration of his love, and on hearing this Aglaya, in spite of her
state of mind at the time, had suddenly burst out laughing, and had put a
strange question to him. She asked him whether he would consent to hold
his finger to a lighted candle in proof of his devotion! Gania—it was said—
looked so comically bewildered that Aglaya had almost laughed herself into
hysterics, and had rushed out of the room and upstairs,—where her parents
had found her.
Hippolyte told the prince this last story, sending for him on purpose.
When Muishkin heard about the candle and Gania’s finger he had laughed
so that he had quite astonished Hippolyte,—and then shuddered and burst
into tears. The prince’s condition during those days was strange and
perturbed. Hippolyte plainly declared that he thought he was out of his
mind;—this, however, was hardly to be relied upon.
Offering all these facts to our readers and refusing to explain them, we do
not for a moment desire to justify our hero’s conduct. On the contrary, we
are quite prepared to feel our share of the indignation which his behaviour
aroused in the hearts of his friends. Even Vera Lebedeff was angry with him
for a while; so was Colia; so was Keller, until he was selected for best man;
so was Lebedeff himself,—who began to intrigue against him out of pure
irritation;—but of this anon. In fact we are in full accord with certain
forcible words spoken to the prince by Evgenie Pavlovitch, quite
unceremoniously, during the course of a friendly conversation, six or seven
days after the events at Nastasia Philipovna’s house.
We may remark here that not only the Epanchins themselves, but all who
had anything to do with them, thought it right to break with the prince in
consequence of his conduct. Prince S. even went so far as to turn away and
cut him dead in the street. But Evgenie Pavlovitch was not afraid to
compromise himself by paying the prince a visit, and did so, in spite of the
fact that he had recommenced to visit at the Epanchins’, where he was
received with redoubled hospitality and kindness after the temporary
estrangement.
Evgenie called upon the prince the day after that on which the Epanchins
left Pavlofsk. He knew of all the current rumours,—in fact, he had probably
contributed to them himself. The prince was delighted to see him, and
immediately began to speak of the Epanchins;—which simple and
straightforward opening quite took Evgenie’s fancy, so that he melted at
once, and plunged in medias res without ceremony.
The prince did not know, up to this, that the Epanchins had left the place.
He grew very pale on hearing the news; but a moment later he nodded his
head, and said thoughtfully:
“I knew it was bound to be so.” Then he added quickly:
“Where have they gone to?”
Evgenie meanwhile observed him attentively, and the rapidity of the
questions, their simplicity, the prince’s candour, and at the same time, his
evident perplexity and mental agitation, surprised him considerably.
However, he told Muishkin all he could, kindly and in detail. The prince
hardly knew anything, for this was the first informant from the household
whom he had met since the estrangement.
Evgenie reported that Aglaya had been really ill, and that for two nights
she had not slept at all, owing to high fever; that now she was better and out
of serious danger, but still in a nervous, hysterical state.
“It’s a good thing that there is peace in the house, at all events,” he
continued. “They never utter a hint about the past, not only in Aglaya’s
presence, but even among themselves. The old people are talking of a trip
abroad in the autumn, immediately after Adelaida’s wedding; Aglaya
received the news in silence.”
Evgenie himself was very likely going abroad also; so were Prince S. and
his wife, if affairs allowed of it; the general was to stay at home. They were
all at their estate of Colmina now, about twenty miles or so from St.
Petersburg. Princess Bielokonski had not returned to Moscow yet, and was
apparently staying on for reasons of her own. Lizabetha Prokofievna had
insisted that it was quite impossible to remain in Pavlofsk after what had
happened. Evgenie had told her of all the rumours current in town about the
affair; so that there could be no talk of their going to their house on the
Yelagin as yet.
“And in point of fact, prince,” added Evgenie Pavlovitch, “you must
allow that they could hardly have stayed here, considering that they knew of
all that went on at your place, and in the face of your daily visits to their
house, visits which you insisted upon making in spite of their refusal to see
you.”
“Yes—yes, quite so; you are quite right. I wished to see Aglaya Ivanovna,
you know!” said the prince, nodding his head.
“Oh, my dear fellow,” cried Evgenie, warmly, with real sorrow in his
voice, “how could you permit all that to come about as it has? Of course, of
course, I know it was all so unexpected. I admit that you, only naturally,
lost your head, and—and could not stop the foolish girl; that was not in
your power. I quite see so much; but you really should have understood
how seriously she cared for you. She could not bear to share you with
another; and you could bring yourself to throw away and shatter such a
treasure! Oh, prince, prince!”
“Yes, yes, you are quite right again,” said the poor prince, in anguish of
mind. “I was wrong, I know. But it was only Aglaya who looked on
Nastasia Philipovna so; no one else did, you know.”
“But that’s just the worst of it all, don’t you see, that there was absolutely
nothing serious about the matter in reality!” cried Evgenie, beside himself:
“Excuse me, prince, but I have thought over all this; I have thought a great
deal over it; I know all that had happened before; I know all that took place
six months since; and I know there was nothing serious about the matter, it
was but fancy, smoke, fantasy, distorted by agitation, and only the alarmed
jealousy of an absolutely inexperienced girl could possibly have mistaken it
for serious reality.”
Here Evgenie Pavlovitch quite let himself go, and gave the reins to his
indignation.
Clearly and reasonably, and with great psychological insight, he drew a
picture of the prince’s past relations with Nastasia Philipovna. Evgenie
Pavlovitch always had a ready tongue, but on this occasion his eloquence,
surprised himself. “From the very beginning,” he said, “you began with a
lie; what began with a lie was bound to end with a lie; such is the law of
nature. I do not agree, in fact I am angry, when I hear you called an idiot;
you are far too intelligent to deserve such an epithet; but you are so far
strange as to be unlike others; that you must allow, yourself. Now, I have
come to the conclusion that the basis of all that has happened, has been first
of all your innate inexperience (remark the expression ‘innate,’ prince).
Then follows your unheard-of simplicity of heart; then comes your absolute
want of sense of proportion (to this want you have several times confessed);
and lastly, a mass, an accumulation, of intellectual convictions which you,
in your unexampled honesty of soul, accept unquestionably as also innate
and natural and true. Admit, prince, that in your relations with Nastasia
Philipovna there has existed, from the very first, something democratic, and
the fascination, so to speak, of the ‘woman question’? I know all about that
scandalous scene at Nastasia Philipovna’s house when Rogojin brought the
money, six months ago. I’ll show you yourself as in a looking-glass, if you
like. I know exactly all that went on, in every detail, and why things have
turned out as they have. You thirsted, while in Switzerland, for your home-
country, for Russia; you read, doubtless, many books about Russia,
excellent books, I dare say, but hurtful to you; and you arrived here; as it
were, on fire with the longing to be of service. Then, on the very day of
your arrival, they tell you a sad story of an ill-used woman; they tell you, a
knight, pure and without reproach, this tale of a poor woman! The same day
you actually see her; you are attracted by her beauty, her fantastic, almost
demoniacal, beauty—(I admit her beauty, of course).
“Add to all this your nervous nature, your epilepsy, and your sudden
arrival in a strange town—the day of meetings and of exciting scenes, the
day of unexpected acquaintanceships, the day of sudden actions, the day of
meeting with the three lovely Epanchin girls, and among them Aglaya—add
your fatigue, your excitement; add Nastasia’ s evening party, and the tone of
that party, and—what were you to expect of yourself at such a moment as
that?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” said the prince, once more, nodding his head, and
blushing slightly. “Yes, it was so, or nearly so—I know it. And besides, you
see, I had not slept the night before, in the train, or the night before that,
either, and I was very tired.”
“Of course, of course, quite so; that’s what I am driving at!” continued
Evgenie, excitedly. “It is as clear as possible, and most comprehensible, that
you, in your enthusiasm, should plunge headlong into the first chance that
came of publicly airing your great idea that you, a prince, and a pure-living
man, did not consider a woman disgraced if the sin were not her own, but
that of a disgusting social libertine! Oh, heavens! it’s comprehensible
enough, my dear prince, but that is not the question, unfortunately! The
question is, was there any reality and truth in your feelings? Was it nature,
or nothing but intellectual enthusiasm? What do you think yourself? We are
told, of course, that a far worse woman was forgiven, but we don’t find that
she was told that she had done well, or that she was worthy of honour and
respect! Did not your common-sense show you what was the real state of
the case, a few months later? The question is now, not whether she is an
innocent woman (I do not insist one way or the other—I do not wish to);
but can her whole career justify such intolerable pride, such insolent,
rapacious egotism as she has shown? Forgive me, I am too violent, perhaps,
but—”
“Yes—I dare say it is all as you say; I dare say you are quite right,”
muttered the prince once more. “She is very sensitive and easily put out, of
course; but still, she…”
“She is worthy of sympathy? Is that what you wished to say, my good
fellow? But then, for the mere sake of vindicating her worthiness of
sympathy, you should not have insulted and offended a noble and generous
girl in her presence! This is a terrible exaggeration of sympathy! How can
you love a girl, and yet so humiliate her as to throw her over for the sake of
another woman, before the very eyes of that other woman, when you have
already made her a formal proposal of marriage? And you did propose to
her, you know; you did so before her parents and sisters. Can you be an
honest man, prince, if you act so? I ask you! And did you not deceive that
beautiful girl when you assured her of your love?”
“Yes, you are quite right. Oh! I feel that I am very guilty!” said Muishkin,
in deepest distress.
“But as if that is enough!” cried Evgenie, indignantly. “As if it is enough
simply to say: ‘I know I am very guilty!’ You are to blame, and yet you
persevere in evil-doing. Where was your heart, I should like to know, your
christian heart, all that time? Did she look as though she were suffering
less, at that moment? You saw her face—was she suffering less than the
other woman? How could you see her suffering and allow it to continue?
How could you?”
“But I did not allow it,” murmured the wretched prince.
“How—what do you mean you didn’t allow?”
“Upon my word, I didn’t! To this moment I don’t know how it all
happened. I—I ran after Aglaya Ivanovna, but Nastasia Philipovna fell
down in a faint; and since that day they won’t let me see Aglaya—that’s all
I know.”
“It’s all the same; you ought to have run after Aglaya though the other
was fainting.”
“Yes, yes, I ought—but I couldn’t! She would have died—she would
have killed herself. You don’t know her; and I should have told Aglaya
everything afterwards—but I see, Evgenie Pavlovitch, you don’t know all.
Tell me now, why am I not allowed to see Aglaya? I should have cleared it
all up, you know. Neither of them kept to the real point, you see. I could
never explain what I mean to you, but I think I could to Aglaya. Oh! my
God, my God! You spoke just now of Aglaya’s face at the moment when
she ran away. Oh, my God! I remember it! Come along, come along—
quick!” He pulled at Evgenie’s coat-sleeve nervously and excitedly, and
rose from his chair.
“Where to?”
“Come to Aglaya—quick, quick!”
“But I told you she is not at Pavlofsk. And what would be the use if she
were?”
“Oh, she’ll understand, she’ll understand!” cried the prince, clasping his
hands. “She would understand that all this is not the point—not a bit the
real point—it is quite foreign to the real question.”
“How can it be foreign? You are going to be married, are you not? Very
well, then you are persisting in your course. Are you going to marry her or
not?”
“Yes, I shall marry her—yes.”
“Then why is it ‘not the point’?”
“Oh, no, it is not the point, not a bit. It makes no difference, my marrying
her—it means nothing.”
“How ‘means nothing’? You are talking nonsense, my friend. You are
marrying the woman you love in order to secure her happiness, and Aglaya
sees and knows it. How can you say that it’s ‘not the point’?”
“Her happiness? Oh, no! I am only marrying her—well, because she
wished it. It means nothing—it’s all the same. She would certainly have
died. I see now that that marriage with Rogojin was an insane idea. I
understand all now that I did not understand before; and, do you know,
when those two stood opposite to one another, I could not bear Nastasia
Philipovna’s face! You must know, Evgenie Pavlovitch, I have never told
anyone before—not even Aglaya—that I cannot bear Nastasia Philipovna’s
face.” (He lowered his voice mysteriously as he said this.) “You described
that evening at Nastasia Philipovna’s (six months since) very accurately just
now; but there is one thing which you did not mention, and of which you
took no account, because you do not know. I mean her face—I looked at her
face, you see. Even in the morning when I saw her portrait, I felt that I
could not bear to look at it. Now, there’s Vera Lebedeff, for instance, her
eyes are quite different, you know. I’m afraid of her face!” he added, with
real alarm.
“You are afraid of it?”
“Yes—she’s mad!” he whispered, growing pale.
“Do you know this for certain?” asked Evgenie, with the greatest
curiosity.
“Yes, for certain—quite for certain, now! I have discovered it absolutely
for certain, these last few days.”
“What are you doing, then?” cried Evgenie, in horror. “You must be
marrying her solely out of fear, then! I can’t make head or tail of it, prince.
Perhaps you don’t even love her?”
“Oh, no; I love her with all my soul. Why, she is a child! She’s a child
now—a real child. Oh! you know nothing about it at all, I see.”
“And are you assured, at the same time, that you love Aglaya too?”
“Yes—yes—oh; yes!”
“How so? Do you want to make out that you love them both?”
“Yes—yes—both! I do!”
“Excuse me, prince, but think what you are saying! Recollect yourself!”
“Without Aglaya—I—I must see Aglaya!—I shall die in my sleep very
soon—I thought I was dying in my sleep last night. Oh! if Aglaya only
knew all—I mean really, really all! Because she must know all—that’s the
