first condition towards understanding. Why cannot we ever know all about
another, especially when that other has been guilty? But I don’t know what
I’m talking about—I’m so confused. You pained me so dreadfully. Surely—
surely Aglaya has not the same expression now as she had at the moment
when she ran away? Oh, yes! I am guilty and I know it—I know it!
Probably I am in fault all round—I don’t quite know how—but I am in
fault, no doubt. There is something else, but I cannot explain it to you,
Evgenie Pavlovitch. I have no words; but Aglaya will understand. I have
always believed Aglaya will understand—I am assured she will.”
“No, prince, she will not. Aglaya loved like a woman, like a human
being, not like an abstract spirit. Do you know what, my poor prince? The
most probable explanation of the matter is that you never loved either the
one or the other in reality.”
“I don’t know—perhaps you are right in much that you have said,
Evgenie Pavlovitch. You are very wise, Evgenie Pavlovitch—oh! how my
head is beginning to ache again! Come to her, quick—for God’s sake,
come!”
“But I tell you she is not in Pavlofsk! She’s in Colmina.”
“Oh, come to Colmina, then! Come—let us go at once!”
“No—no, impossible!” said Evgenie, rising.
“Look here—I’ll write a letter—take a letter for me!”
“No—no, prince; you must forgive me, but I can’t undertake any such
commissions! I really can’t.”
And so they parted.
Evgenie Pavlovitch left the house with strange convictions. He, too, felt
that the prince must be out of his mind.
“And what did he mean by that face—a face which he so fears, and yet
so loves? And meanwhile he really may die, as he says, without seeing
Aglaya, and she will never know how devotedly he loves her! Ha, ha, ha!
How does the fellow manage to love two of them? Two different kinds of
love, I suppose! This is very interesting—poor idiot! What on earth will
become of him now?”
X.
The prince did not die before his wedding—either by day or night, as he
had foretold that he might. Very probably he passed disturbed nights, and
was afflicted with bad dreams; but, during the daytime, among his fellow-
men, he seemed as kind as ever, and even contented; only a little thoughtful
when alone.
The wedding was hurried on. The day was fixed for exactly a week after
Evgenie’s visit to the prince. In the face of such haste as this, even the
prince’s best friends (if he had had any) would have felt the hopelessness of
any attempt to save “the poor madman.” Rumour said that in the visit of
Evgenie Pavlovitch was to be discerned the influence of Lizabetha
Prokofievna and her husband… But if those good souls, in the boundless
kindness of their hearts, were desirous of saving the eccentric young fellow
from ruin, they were unable to take any stronger measures to attain that end.
Neither their position, nor their private inclination, perhaps (and only
naturally), would allow them to use any more pronounced means.
We have observed before that even some of the prince’s nearest
neighbours had begun to oppose him. Vera Lebedeff’s passive disagreement
was limited to the shedding of a few solitary tears; to more frequent sitting
alone at home, and to a diminished frequency in her visits to the prince’s
apartments.
Colia was occupied with his father at this time. The old man died during
a second stroke, which took place just eight days after the first. The prince
showed great sympathy in the grief of the family, and during the first days
of their mourning he was at the house a great deal with Nina Alexandrovna.
He went to the funeral, and it was observable that the public assembled in
church greeted his arrival and departure with whisperings, and watched him
closely.
The same thing happened in the park and in the street, wherever he went.
He was pointed out when he drove by, and he often overheard the name of
Nastasia Philipovna coupled with his own as he passed. People looked out
for her at the funeral, too, but she was not there; and another conspicuous
absentee was the captain’s widow, whom Lebedeff had prevented from
coming.
The funeral service produced a great effect on the prince. He whispered
to Lebedeff that this was the first time he had ever heard a Russian funeral
service since he was a little boy. Observing that he was looking about him
uneasily, Lebedeff asked him whom he was seeking.
“Nothing. I only thought I—”
“Is it Rogojin?”
“Why—is he here?”
“Yes, he’s in church.”
“I thought I caught sight of his eyes!” muttered the prince, in confusion.
“But what of it!—Why is he here? Was he asked?”
“Oh, dear, no! Why, they don’t even know him! Anyone can come in,
you know. Why do you look so amazed? I often meet him; I’ve seen him at
least four times, here at Pavlofsk, within the last week.”
“I haven’t seen him once—since that day!” the prince murmured.
As Nastasia Philipovna had not said a word about having met Rogojin
since “that day,” the prince concluded that the latter had his own reasons for
wishing to keep out of sight. All the day of the funeral our hero was in a
deeply thoughtful state, while Nastasia Philipovna was particularly merry,
both in the daytime and in the evening.
Colia had made it up with the prince before his father’s death, and it was
he who urged him to make use of Keller and Burdovsky, promising to
answer himself for the former’s behaviour. Nina Alexandrovna and
Lebedeff tried to persuade him to have the wedding in St. Petersburg,
instead of in the public fashion contemplated, down here at Pavlofsk in the
height of the season. But the prince only said that Nastasia Philipovna
desired to have it so, though he saw well enough what prompted their
arguments.
The next day Keller came to visit the prince. He was in a high state of
delight with the post of honour assigned to him at the wedding.
Before entering he stopped on the threshold, raised his hand as if making
a solemn vow, and cried:
“I won’t drink!”
Then he went up to the prince, seized both his hands, shook them
warmly, and declared that he had at first felt hostile towards the project of
this marriage, and had openly said so in the billiard-rooms, but that the
reason simply was that, with the impatience of a friend, he had hoped to see
the prince marry at least a Princess de Rohan or de Chabot; but that now he
saw that the prince’s way of thinking was ten times more noble than that of
“all the rest put together.” For he desired neither pomp nor wealth nor
honour, but only the truth! The sympathies of exalted personages were well
known, and the prince was too highly placed by his education, and so on,
not to be in some sense an exalted personage!
“But all the common herd judge differently; in the town, at the meetings,
in the villas, at the band, in the inns and the billiard-rooms, the coming
event has only to be mentioned and there are shouts and cries from
everybody. I have even heard talk of getting up a ‘charivari’ under the
windows on the wedding-night. So if ‘you have need of the pistol’ of an
honest man, prince, I am ready to fire half a dozen shots even before you
rise from your nuptial couch!”
Keller also advised, in anticipation of the crowd making a rush after the
ceremony, that a fire-hose should be placed at the entrance to the house; but
Lebedeff was opposed to this measure, which he said might result in the
place being pulled down.
“I assure you, prince, that Lebedeff is intriguing against you. He wants to
put you under control. Imagine that! To take ‘from you the use of your free-
will and your money’—that is to say, the two things that distinguish us from
the animals! I have heard it said positively. It is the sober truth.”
The prince recollected that somebody had told him something of the kind
before, and he had, of course, scoffed at it. He only laughed now, and forgot
the hint at once.
Lebedeff really had been busy for some little while; but, as usual, his
plans had become too complex to succeed, through sheer excess of ardour.
When he came to the prince—the very day before the wedding—to confess
(for he always confessed to the persons against whom he intrigued,
especially when the plan failed), he informed our hero that he himself was a
born Talleyrand, but for some unknown reason had become simple
Lebedeff. He then proceeded to explain his whole game to the prince,
interesting the latter exceedingly.
According to Lebedeff’s account, he had first tried what he could do with
General Epanchin. The latter informed him that he wished well to the
unfortunate young man, and would gladly do what he could to “save him,”
but that he did not think it would be seemly for him to interfere in this
matter. Lizabetha Prokofievna would neither hear nor see him. Prince S.
and Evgenie Pavlovitch only shrugged their shoulders, and implied that it
was no business of theirs. However, Lebedeff had not lost heart, and went
off to a clever lawyer,—a worthy and respectable man, whom he knew well.
This old gentleman informed him that the thing was perfectly feasible if he
could get hold of competent witnesses as to Muishkin’s mental incapacity.
Then, with the assistance of a few influential persons, he would soon see
the matter arranged.
Lebedeff immediately procured the services of an old doctor, and carried
the latter away to Pavlofsk to see the prince, by way of viewing the ground,
as it were, and to give him (Lebedeff) counsel as to whether the thing was
to be done or not. The visit was not to be official, but merely friendly.
Muishkin remembered the doctor’s visit quite well. He remembered that
Lebedeff had said that he looked ill, and had better see a doctor; and
although the prince scouted the idea, Lebedeff had turned up almost
immediately with his old friend, explaining that they had just met at the
bedside of Hippolyte, who was very ill, and that the doctor had something
to tell the prince about the sick man.
The prince had, of course, at once received him, and had plunged into a
conversation about Hippolyte. He had given the doctor an account of
Hippolyte’s attempted suicide; and had proceeded thereafter to talk of his
own malady,—of Switzerland, of Schneider, and so on; and so deeply was
the old man interested by the prince’s conversation and his description of
Schneider’s system, that he sat on for two hours.
Muishkin gave him excellent cigars to smoke, and Lebedeff, for his part,
regaled him with liqueurs, brought in by Vera, to whom the doctor—a
married man and the father of a family—addressed such compliments that
she was filled with indignation. They parted friends, and, after leaving the
prince, the doctor said to Lebedeff: “If all such people were put under
restraint, there would be no one left for keepers.” Lebedeff then, in tragic
tones, told of the approaching marriage, whereupon the other nodded his
head and replied that, after all, marriages like that were not so rare; that he
had heard that the lady was very fascinating and of extraordinary beauty,
which was enough to explain the infatuation of a wealthy man; that, further,
thanks to the liberality of Totski and of Rogojin, she possessed—so he had
heard—not only money, but pearls, diamonds, shawls, and furniture, and
consequently she could not be considered a bad match. In brief, it seemed to
the doctor that the prince’s choice, far from being a sign of foolishness,
denoted, on the contrary, a shrewd, calculating, and practical mind.
Lebedeff had been much struck by this point of view, and he terminated his
confession by assuring the prince that he was ready, if need be, to shed his
very life’s blood for him.
Hippolyte, too, was a source of some distraction to the prince at this time;
he would send for him at any and every hour of the day. They lived,—
Hippolyte and his mother and the children,—in a small house not far off,
and the little ones were happy, if only because they were able to escape
from the invalid into the garden. The prince had enough to do in keeping
the peace between the irritable Hippolyte and his mother, and eventually the
former became so malicious and sarcastic on the subject of the approaching
wedding, that Muishkin took offence at last, and refused to continue his
visits.
A couple of days later, however, Hippolyte’s mother came with tears in
her eyes, and begged the prince to come back, “or he would eat her up
bodily.” She added that Hippolyte had a great secret to disclose. Of course
the prince went. There was no secret, however, unless we reckon certain
pantings and agitated glances around (probably all put on) as the invalid
begged his visitor to “beware of Rogojin.”
“He is the sort of man,” he continued, “who won’t give up his object, you
know; he is not like you and me, prince—he belongs to quite a different
order of beings. If he sets his heart on a thing he won’t be afraid of anything
—” and so on.
Hippolyte was very ill, and looked as though he could not long survive.
He was tearful at first, but grew more and more sarcastic and malicious as
the interview proceeded.
The prince questioned him in detail as to his hints about Rogojin. He was
anxious to seize upon some facts which might confirm Hippolyte’s vague
warnings; but there were none; only Hippolyte’s own private impressions
and feelings.
However, the invalid—to his immense satisfaction—ended by seriously
alarming the prince.
At first Muishkin had not cared to make any reply to his sundry
questions, and only smiled in response to Hippolyte’s advice to “run for his
life—abroad, if necessary. There are Russian priests everywhere, and one
can get married all over the world.”
But it was Hippolyte’s last idea which upset him.
“What I am really alarmed about, though,” he said, “is Aglaya Ivanovna.
Rogojin knows how you love her. Love for love. You took Nastasia
Philipovna from him. He will murder Aglaya Ivanovna; for though she is
not yours, of course, now, still such an act would pain you,—wouldn’t it?”
He had attained his end. The prince left the house beside himself with
terror.
These warnings about Rogojin were expressed on the day before the
wedding. That evening the prince saw Nastasia Philipovna for the last time
before they were to meet at the altar; but Nastasia was not in a position to
give him any comfort or consolation. On the contrary, she only added to his
mental perturbation as the evening went on. Up to this time she had
invariably done her best to cheer him—she was afraid of his looking
melancholy; she would try singing to him, and telling him every sort of
funny story or reminiscence that she could recall. The prince nearly always
pretended to be amused, whether he were so actually or no; but often
enough he laughed sincerely, delighted by the brilliancy of her wit when she
was carried away by her narrative, as she very often was. Nastasia would be
wild with joy to see the impression she had made, and to hear his laugh of
real amusement; and she would remain the whole evening in a state of pride
and happiness. But this evening her melancholy and thoughtfulness grew
with every hour.
The prince had told Evgenie Pavlovitch with perfect sincerity that he
loved Nastasia Philipovna with all his soul. In his love for her there was the
sort of tenderness one feels for a sick, unhappy child which cannot be left
alone. He never spoke of his feelings for Nastasia to anyone, not even to
herself. When they were together they never discussed their “feelings,” and
there was nothing in their cheerful, animated conversation which an
outsider could not have heard. Daria Alexeyevna, with whom Nastasia was
staying, told afterwards how she had been filled with joy and delight only to
look at them, all this time.
Thanks to the manner in which he regarded Nastasia’s mental and moral
condition, the prince was to some extent freed from other perplexities. She
was now quite different from the woman he had known three months
before. He was not astonished, for instance, to see her now so impatient to
marry him—she who formerly had wept with rage and hurled curses and
reproaches at him if he mentioned marriage! “It shows that she no longer
fears, as she did then, that she would make me unhappy by marrying me,”
he thought. And he felt sure that so sudden a change could not be a natural
one. This rapid growth of self-confidence could not be due only to her
hatred for Aglaya. To suppose that would be to suspect the depth of her
feelings. Nor could it arise from dread of the fate that awaited her if she
married Rogojin. These causes, indeed, as well as others, might have played
a part in it, but the true reason, Muishkin decided, was the one he had long
suspected—that the poor sick soul had come to the end of its forces. Yet this
was an explanation that did not procure him any peace of mind. At times he
seemed to be making violent efforts to think of nothing, and one would
have said that he looked on his marriage as an unimportant formality, and
on his future happiness as a thing not worth considering. As to
conversations such as the one held with Evgenie Pavlovitch, he avoided
them as far as possible, feeling that there were certain objections to which
he could make no answer.
The prince had observed that Nastasia knew well enough what Aglaya
was to him. He never spoke of it, but he had seen her face when she had
caught him starting off for the Epanchins’ house on several occasions.
When the Epanchins left Pavlofsk, she had beamed with radiance and
happiness. Unsuspicious and unobservant as he was, he had feared at that
time that Nastasia might have some scheme in her mind for a scene or
scandal which would drive Aglaya out of Pavlofsk. She had encouraged the
rumours and excitement among the inhabitants of the place as to her
marriage with the prince, in order to annoy her rival; and, finding it difficult
to meet the Epanchins anywhere, she had, on one occasion, taken him for a
drive past their house. He did not observe what was happening until they
were almost passing the windows, when it was too late to do anything. He
said nothing, but for two days afterwards he was ill.
Nastasia did not try that particular experiment again. A few days before
that fixed for the wedding, she grew grave and thoughtful. She always
ended by getting the better of her melancholy, and becoming merry and
cheerful again, but not quite so unaffectedly happy as she had been some
days earlier.
The prince redoubled his attentive study of her symptoms. It was a most
curious circumstance, in his opinion, that she never spoke of Rogojin. But
once, about five days before the wedding, when the prince was at home, a
messenger arrived begging him to come at once, as Nastasia Philipovna was
very ill.
He had found her in a condition approaching to absolute madness. She
screamed, and trembled, and cried out that Rogojin was hiding out there in
the garden—that she had seen him herself—and that he would murder her
in the night—that he would cut her throat. She was terribly agitated all day.
But it so happened that the prince called at Hippolyte’s house later on, and
heard from his mother that she had been in town all day, and had there
received a visit from Rogojin, who had made inquiries about Pavlofsk. On
inquiry, it turned out that Rogojin visited the old lady in town at almost the
same moment when Nastasia declared that she had seen him in the garden;
so that the whole thing turned out to be an illusion on her part. Nastasia
immediately went across to Hippolyte’s to inquire more accurately, and
returned immensely relieved and comforted.
On the day before the wedding, the prince left Nastasia in a state of great
animation. Her wedding-dress and all sorts of finery had just arrived from
town. Muishkin had not imagined that she would be so excited over it, but
he praised everything, and his praise rendered her doubly happy.
But Nastasia could not hide the cause of her intense interest in her
wedding splendour. She had heard of the indignation in the town, and knew
that some of the populace was getting up a sort of charivari with music, that
verses had been composed for the occasion, and that the rest of Pavlofsk
society more or less encouraged these preparations. So, since attempts were
being made to humiliate her, she wanted to hold her head even higher than
usual, and to overwhelm them all with the beauty and taste of her toilette.
“Let them shout and whistle, if they dare!” Her eyes flashed at the thought.
But, underneath this, she had another motive, of which she did not speak.
She thought that possibly Aglaya, or at any rate someone sent by her, would
be present incognito at the ceremony, or in the crowd, and she wished to be
prepared for this eventuality.
The prince left her at eleven, full of these thoughts, and went home. But
it was not twelve o’clock when a messenger came to say that Nastasia was
very bad, and he must come at once.
On hurrying back he found his bride locked up in her own room and
could hear her hysterical cries and sobs. It was some time before she could
be made to hear that the prince had come, and then she opened the door
only just sufficiently to let him in, and immediately locked it behind him.
She then fell on her knees at his feet. (So at least Dana Alexeyevna
reported.)
“What am I doing? What am I doing to you?” she sobbed convulsively,
embracing his knees.
The prince was a whole hour soothing and comforting her, and left her, at
length, pacified and composed. He sent another messenger during the night
to inquire after her, and two more next morning. The last brought back a
message that Nastasia was surrounded by a whole army of dressmakers and
maids, and was as happy and as busy as such a beauty should be on her
wedding morning, and that there was not a vestige of yesterday’s agitation
remaining. The message concluded with the news that at the moment of the
bearer’s departure there was a great confabulation in progress as to which
diamonds were to be worn, and how.
This message entirely calmed the prince’s mind.
The following report of the proceedings on the wedding day may be
depended upon, as coming from eye-witnesses.
The wedding was fixed for eight o’clock in the evening. Nastasia
Philipovna was ready at seven. From six o’clock groups of people began to
gather at Nastasia’s house, at the prince’s, and at the church door, but more
especially at the former place. The church began to fill at seven.
Colia and Vera Lebedeff were very anxious on the prince’s account, but
they were so busy over the arrangements for receiving the guests after the
wedding, that they had not much time for the indulgence of personal
feelings.
There were to be very few guests besides the best men and so on; only
Dana Alexeyevna, the Ptitsins, Gania, and the doctor. When the prince
asked Lebedeff why he had invited the doctor, who was almost a stranger,
Lebedeff replied:
“Why, he wears an ‘order,’ and it looks so well!”
This idea amused the prince.
Keller and Burdovsky looked wonderfully correct in their dress-coats and
white kid gloves, although Keller caused the bridegroom some alarm by his
undisguisedly hostile glances at the gathering crowd of sight-seers outside.
At about half-past seven the prince started for the church in his carriage.
We may remark here that he seemed anxious not to omit a single one of
the recognized customs and traditions observed at weddings. He wished all
to be done as openly as possible, and “in due order.”
Arrived at the church, Muishkin, under Keller’s guidance, passed through
the crowd of spectators, amid continuous whispering and excited
exclamations. The prince stayed near the altar, while Keller made off once
more to fetch the bride.
On reaching the gate of Daria Alexeyevna’s house, Keller found a far
denser crowd than he had encountered at the prince’s. The remarks and
exclamations of the spectators here were of so irritating a nature that Keller
was very near making them a speech on the impropriety of their conduct,
but was luckily caught by Burdovsky, in the act of turning to address them,
and hurried indoors.
Nastasia Philipovna was ready. She rose from her seat, looked into the
glass and remarked, as Keller told the tale afterwards, that she was “as pale
as a corpse.” She then bent her head reverently, before the ikon in the
corner, and left the room.
A torrent of voices greeted her appearance at the front door. The crowd
whistled, clapped its hands, and laughed and shouted; but in a moment or
two isolated voices were distinguishable.
“What a beauty!” cried one.
“Well, she isn’t the first in the world, nor the last,” said another.
“Marriage covers everything,” observed a third.
“I defy you to find another beauty like that,” said a fourth.
“She’s a real princess! I’d sell my soul for such a princess as that!”
Nastasia came out of the house looking as white as any handkerchief; but
her large dark eyes shone upon the vulgar crowd like blazing coals. The
spectators’ cries were redoubled, and became more exultant and triumphant
every moment. The door of the carriage was open, and Keller had given his
hand to the bride to help her in, when suddenly with a loud cry she rushed
from him, straight into the surging crowd. Her friends about her were
stupefied with amazement; the crowd parted as she rushed through it, and
suddenly, at a distance of five or six yards from the carriage, appeared
Rogojin. It was his look that had caught her eyes.
Nastasia rushed to him like a madwoman, and seized both his hands.
“Save me!” she cried. “Take me away, anywhere you like, quick!”
Rogojin seized her in his arms and almost carried her to the carriage.
Then, in a flash, he tore a hundred-rouble note out of his pocket and held it
to the coachman.
“To the station, quick! If you catch the train you shall have another.
Quick!”
He leaped into the carriage after Nastasia and banged the door. The
coachman did not hesitate a moment; he whipped up the horses, and they
were off.
“One more second and I should have stopped him,” said Keller,
afterwards. In fact, he and Burdovsky jumped into another carriage and set
off in pursuit; but it struck them as they drove along that it was not much
use trying to bring Nastasia back by force.
“Besides,” said Burdovsky, “the prince would not like it, would he?” So
they gave up the pursuit.
Rogojin and Nastasia Philipovna reached the station just in time for the
train. As he jumped out of the carriage and was almost on the point of
entering the train, Rogojin accosted a young girl standing on the platform
and wearing an old-fashioned, but respectable-looking, black cloak and a
silk handkerchief over her head.
“Take fifty roubles for your cloak?” he shouted, holding the money out to
the girl. Before the astonished young woman could collect her scattered
senses, he pushed the money into her hand, seized the mantle, and threw it
and the handkerchief over Nastasia’s head and shoulders. The latter’s
wedding-array would have attracted too much attention, and it was not until
some time later that the girl understood why her old cloak and kerchief had
been bought at such a price.
The news of what had happened reached the church with extraordinary
rapidity. When Keller arrived, a host of people whom he did not know
thronged around to ask him questions. There was much excited talking, and
shaking of heads, even some laughter; but no one left the church, all being
anxious to observe how the now celebrated bridegroom would take the
news. He grew very pale upon hearing it, but took it quite quietly.
“I was afraid,” he muttered, scarcely audibly, “but I hardly thought it
would come to this.” Then after a short silence, he added: “However, in her
state, it is quite consistent with the natural order of things.”
Even Keller admitted afterwards that this was “extraordinarily
philosophical” on the prince’s part. He left the church quite calm, to all
appearances, as many witnesses were found to declare afterwards. He
seemed anxious to reach home and be left alone as quickly as possible; but
this was not to be. He was accompanied by nearly all the invited guests, and
besides this, the house was almost besieged by excited bands of people,
who insisted upon being allowed to enter the verandah. The prince heard
Keller and Lebedeff remonstrating and quarrelling with these unknown
individuals, and soon went out himself. He approached the disturbers of his
peace, requested courteously to be told what was desired; then politely
putting Lebedeff and Keller aside, he addressed an old gentleman who was
standing on the verandah steps at the head of the band of would-be guests,
and courteously requested him to honour him with a visit. The old fellow
was quite taken aback by this, but entered, followed by a few more, who
tried to appear at their ease. The rest remained outside, and presently the
whole crowd was censuring those who had accepted the invitation. The
prince offered seats to his strange visitors, tea was served, and a general
conversation sprang up. Everything was done most decorously, to the
considerable surprise of the intruders. A few tentative attempts were made
to turn the conversation to the events of the day, and a few indiscreet
questions were asked; but Muishkin replied to everybody with such
simplicity and good-humour, and at the same time with so much dignity,
and showed such confidence in the good breeding of his guests, that the
indiscreet talkers were quickly silenced. By degrees the conversation
became almost serious. One gentleman suddenly exclaimed, with great
vehemence: “Whatever happens, I shall not sell my property; I shall wait.
Enterprise is better than money, and there, sir, you have my whole system
of economy, if you wish!” He addressed the prince, who warmly
commended his sentiments, though Lebedeff whispered in his ear that this
gentleman, who talked so much of his “property,” had never had either
house or home.
Nearly an hour passed thus, and when tea was over the visitors seemed to
think that it was time to go. As they went out, the doctor and the old
gentleman bade Muishkin a warm farewell, and all the rest took their leave
with hearty protestations of good-will, dropping remarks to the effect that
“it was no use worrying,” and that “perhaps all would turn out for the best,”
and so on. Some of the younger intruders would have asked for champagne,
but they were checked by the older ones. When all had departed, Keller
leaned over to Lebedeff, and said:
“With you and me there would have been a scene. We should have
shouted and fought, and called in the police. But he has simply made some
new friends—and such friends, too! I know them!”
Lebedeff, who was slightly intoxicated, answered with a sigh:
“Things are hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto babes. I
have applied those words to him before, but now I add that God has
preserved the babe himself from the abyss, He and all His saints.”
At last, about half-past ten, the prince was left alone. His head ached.
Colia was the last to go, after having helped him to change his wedding
clothes. They parted on affectionate terms, and, without speaking of what
had happened, Colia promised to come very early the next day. He said later
that the prince had given no hint of his intentions when they said good-bye,
but had hidden them even from him. Soon there was hardly anyone left in
the house. Burdovsky had gone to see Hippolyte; Keller and Lebedeff had
wandered off together somewhere.
Only Vera Lebedeff remained hurriedly rearranging the furniture in the
rooms. As she left the verandah, she glanced at the prince. He was seated at
the table, with both elbows upon it, and his head resting on his hands. She
approached him, and touched his shoulder gently. The prince started and
looked at her in perplexity; he seemed to be collecting his senses for a
minute or so, before he could remember where he was. As recollection
dawned upon him, he became violently agitated. All he did, however, was
to ask Vera very earnestly to knock at his door and awake him in time for
the first train to Petersburg next morning. Vera promised, and the prince
entreated her not to tell anyone of his intention. She promised this, too; and
at last, when she had half-closed the door, he called her back a third time,
took her hands in his, kissed them, then kissed her forehead, and in a rather
peculiar manner said to her, “Until tomorrow!”
