you told us about the diamond earrings; but I liked you before that as well,
though you have such a dark-clouded sort of face. Thanks very much for the
offer of clothes and a fur coat; I certainly shall require both clothes and coat
very soon. As for money, I have hardly a copeck about me at this moment.”
“You shall have lots of money; by the evening I shall have plenty; so
come along!”
“That’s true enough, he’ll have lots before evening!” put in Lebedeff.
“But, look here, are you a great hand with the ladies? Let’s know that
first?” asked Rogojin.
“Oh no, oh no!” said the prince; “I couldn’t, you know—my illness—I
hardly ever saw a soul.”
“H’m! well—here, you fellow—you can come along with me now if you
like!” cried Rogojin to Lebedeff, and so they all left the carriage.
Lebedeff had his desire. He went off with the noisy group of Rogojin’s
friends towards the Voznesensky, while the prince’s route lay towards the
Litaynaya. It was damp and wet. The prince asked his way of passers-by,
and finding that he was a couple of miles or so from his destination, he
determined to take a droshky.
II.
General Epanchin lived in his own house near the Litaynaya. Besides this
large residence—five-sixths of which was let in flats and lodgings—the
general was owner of another enormous house in the Sadovaya bringing in
even more rent than the first. Besides these houses he had a delightful little
estate just out of town, and some sort of factory in another part of the city.
General Epanchin, as everyone knew, had a good deal to do with certain
government monopolies; he was also a voice, and an important one, in
many rich public companies of various descriptions; in fact, he enjoyed the
reputation of being a well-to-do man of busy habits, many ties, and affluent
means. He had made himself indispensable in several quarters, amongst
others in his department of the government; and yet it was a known fact that
Fedor Ivanovitch Epanchin was a man of no education whatever, and had
absolutely risen from the ranks.
This last fact could, of course, reflect nothing but credit upon the general;
and yet, though unquestionably a sagacious man, he had his own little
weaknesses—very excusable ones,—one of which was a dislike to any
allusion to the above circumstance. He was undoubtedly clever. For
instance, he made a point of never asserting himself when he would gain
more by keeping in the background; and in consequence many exalted
personages valued him principally for his humility and simplicity, and
because “he knew his place.” And yet if these good people could only have
had a peep into the mind of this excellent fellow who “knew his place” so
well! The fact is that, in spite of his knowledge of the world and his really
remarkable abilities, he always liked to appear to be carrying out other
people’s ideas rather than his own. And also, his luck seldom failed him,
even at cards, for which he had a passion that he did not attempt to conceal.
He played for high stakes, and moved, altogether, in very varied society.
As to age, General Epanchin was in the very prime of life; that is, about
fifty-five years of age,—the flowering time of existence, when real
enjoyment of life begins. His healthy appearance, good colour, sound,
though discoloured teeth, sturdy figure, preoccupied air during business
hours, and jolly good humour during his game at cards in the evening, all
bore witness to his success in life, and combined to make existence a bed of
roses to his excellency. The general was lord of a flourishing family,
consisting of his wife and three grown-up daughters. He had married young,
while still a lieutenant, his wife being a girl of about his own age, who
possessed neither beauty nor education, and who brought him no more than
fifty souls of landed property, which little estate served, however, as a nest-
egg for far more important accumulations. The general never regretted his
early marriage, or regarded it as a foolish youthful escapade; and he so
respected and feared his wife that he was very near loving her. Mrs.
Epanchin came of the princely stock of Muishkin, which if not a brilliant,
was, at all events, a decidedly ancient family; and she was extremely proud
of her descent.
With a few exceptions, the worthy couple had lived through their long
union very happily. While still young the wife had been able to make
important friends among the aristocracy, partly by virtue of her family
descent, and partly by her own exertions; while, in after life, thanks to their
wealth and to the position of her husband in the service, she took her place
among the higher circles as by right.
During these last few years all three of the general’s daughters—
Alexandra, Adelaida, and Aglaya—had grown up and matured. Of course
they were only Epanchins, but their mother’s family was noble; they might
expect considerable fortunes; their father had hopes of attaining to very
high rank indeed in his country’s service—all of which was satisfactory. All
three of the girls were decidedly pretty, even the eldest, Alexandra, who was
just twenty-five years old. The middle daughter was now twenty-three,
while the youngest, Aglaya, was twenty. This youngest girl was absolutely a
beauty, and had begun of late to attract considerable attention in society. But
this was not all, for every one of the three was clever, well educated, and
accomplished.
It was a matter of general knowledge that the three girls were very fond
of one another, and supported each other in every way; it was even said that
the two elder ones had made certain sacrifices for the sake of the idol of the
household, Aglaya. In society they not only disliked asserting themselves,
but were actually retiring. Certainly no one could blame them for being too
arrogant or haughty, and yet everybody was well aware that they were
proud and quite understood their own value. The eldest was musical, while
the second was a clever artist, which fact she had concealed until lately. In a
word, the world spoke well of the girls; but they were not without their
enemies, and occasionally people talked with horror of the number of books
they had read.
They were in no hurry to marry. They liked good society, but were not
too keen about it. All this was the more remarkable, because everyone was
well aware of the hopes and aims of their parents.
It was about eleven o’clock in the forenoon when the prince rang the bell
at General Epanchin’s door. The general lived on the first floor or flat of the
house, as modest a lodging as his position permitted. A liveried servant
opened the door, and the prince was obliged to enter into long explanations
with this gentleman, who, from the first glance, looked at him and his
bundle with grave suspicion. At last, however, on the repeated positive
assurance that he really was Prince Muishkin, and must absolutely see the
general on business, the bewildered domestic showed him into a little ante-
chamber leading to a waiting-room that adjoined the general’s study, there
handing him over to another servant, whose duty it was to be in this ante-
chamber all the morning, and announce visitors to the general. This second
individual wore a dress coat, and was some forty years of age; he was the
general’s special study servant, and well aware of his own importance.
“Wait in the next room, please; and leave your bundle here,” said the
door-keeper, as he sat down comfortably in his own easy-chair in the ante-
chamber. He looked at the prince in severe surprise as the latter settled
himself in another chair alongside, with his bundle on his knees.
“If you don’t mind, I would rather sit here with you,” said the prince; “I
should prefer it to sitting in there.”
“Oh, but you can’t stay here. You are a visitor—a guest, so to speak. Is it
the general himself you wish to see?”
The man evidently could not take in the idea of such a shabby-looking
visitor, and had decided to ask once more.
“Yes—I have business—” began the prince.
“I do not ask you what your business may be, all I have to do is to
announce you; and unless the secretary comes in here I cannot do that.”
The man’s suspicions seemed to increase more and more. The prince was
too unlike the usual run of daily visitors; and although the general certainly
did receive, on business, all sorts and conditions of men, yet in spite of this
fact the servant felt great doubts on the subject of this particular visitor. The
presence of the secretary as an intermediary was, he judged, essential in this
case.
“Surely you—are from abroad?” he inquired at last, in a confused sort of
way. He had begun his sentence intending to say, “Surely you are not Prince
Muishkin, are you?”
“Yes, straight from the train! Did not you intend to say, ‘Surely you are
not Prince Muishkin?’ just now, but refrained out of politeness?”
“H’m!” grunted the astonished servant.
“I assure you I am not deceiving you; you shall not have to answer for
me. As to my being dressed like this, and carrying a bundle, there’s nothing
surprising in that—the fact is, my circumstances are not particularly rosy at
this moment.”
“H’m!—no, I’m not afraid of that, you see; I have to announce you,
that’s all. The secretary will be out directly—that is, unless you—yes, that’s
the rub—unless you—come, you must allow me to ask you—you’ve not
come to beg, have you?”
“Oh dear no, you can be perfectly easy on that score. I have quite another
matter on hand.”
“You must excuse my asking, you know. Your appearance led me to think
—but just wait for the secretary; the general is busy now, but the secretary
is sure to come out.”
“Oh—well, look here, if I have some time to wait, would you mind
telling me, is there any place about where I could have a smoke? I have my
pipe and tobacco with me.”
“Smoke?” said the man, in shocked but disdainful surprise, blinking his
eyes at the prince as though he could not believe his senses. “No, sir, you
cannot smoke here, and I wonder you are not ashamed of the very
suggestion. Ha, ha! a cool idea that, I declare!”
“Oh, I didn’t mean in this room! I know I can’t smoke here, of course. I’d
adjourn to some other room, wherever you like to show me to. You see, I’m
used to smoking a good deal, and now I haven’t had a puff for three hours;
however, just as you like.”
“Now how on earth am I to announce a man like that?” muttered the
servant. “In the first place, you’ve no right in here at all; you ought to be in
the waiting-room, because you’re a sort of visitor—a guest, in fact—and I
shall catch it for this. Look here, do you intend to take up you abode with
us?” he added, glancing once more at the prince’s bundle, which evidently
gave him no peace.
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think I should stay even if they were to
invite me. I’ve simply come to make their acquaintance, and nothing more.”
“Make their acquaintance?” asked the man, in amazement, and with
redoubled suspicion. “Then why did you say you had business with the
general?”
“Oh well, very little business. There is one little matter—some advice I
am going to ask him for; but my principal object is simply to introduce
myself, because I am Prince Muishkin, and Madame Epanchin is the last of
her branch of the house, and besides herself and me there are no other
Muishkins left.”
“What—you’re a relation then, are you?” asked the servant, so
bewildered that he began to feel quite alarmed.
“Well, hardly so. If you stretch a point, we are relations, of course, but so
distant that one cannot really take cognizance of it. I once wrote to your
mistress from abroad, but she did not reply. However, I have thought it right
to make acquaintance with her on my arrival. I am telling you all this in
order to ease your mind, for I see you are still far from comfortable on my
account. All you have to do is to announce me as Prince Muishkin, and the
object of my visit will be plain enough. If I am received—very good; if not,
well, very good again. But they are sure to receive me, I should think;
Madame Epanchin will naturally be curious to see the only remaining
representative of her family. She values her Muishkin descent very highly,
if I am rightly informed.”
The prince’s conversation was artless and confiding to a degree, and the
servant could not help feeling that as from visitor to common serving-man
this state of things was highly improper. His conclusion was that one of two
things must be the explanation—either that this was a begging impostor, or
that the prince, if prince he were, was simply a fool, without the slightest
ambition; for a sensible prince with any ambition would certainly not wait
about in ante-rooms with servants, and talk of his own private affairs like
this. In either case, how was he to announce this singular visitor?
“I really think I must request you to step into the next room!” he said,
with all the insistence he could muster.
“Why? If I had been sitting there now, I should not have had the
opportunity of making these personal explanations. I see you are still
uneasy about me and keep eyeing my cloak and bundle. Don’t you think
you might go in yourself now, without waiting for the secretary to come
out?”
“No, no! I can’t announce a visitor like yourself without the secretary.
Besides the general said he was not to be disturbed—he is with the Colonel
C—. Gavrila Ardalionovitch goes in without announcing.”
“Who may that be? a clerk?”
“What? Gavrila Ardalionovitch? Oh no; he belongs to one of the
companies. Look here, at all events put your bundle down, here.”
“Yes, I will if I may; and—can I take off my cloak”
“Of course; you can’t go in there with it on, anyhow.”
The prince rose and took off his mantle, revealing a neat enough morning
costume—a little worn, but well made. He wore a steel watch chain and
from this chain there hung a silver Geneva watch. Fool the prince might be,
still, the general’s servant felt that it was not correct for him to continue to
converse thus with a visitor, in spite of the fact that the prince pleased him
somehow.
“And what time of day does the lady receive?” the latter asked, reseating
himself in his old place.
“Oh, that’s not in my province! I believe she receives at any time; it
depends upon the visitors. The dressmaker goes in at eleven. Gavrila
Ardalionovitch is allowed much earlier than other people, too; he is even
admitted to early lunch now and then.”
“It is much warmer in the rooms here than it is abroad at this season,”
observed the prince; “but it is much warmer there out of doors. As for the
houses—a Russian can’t live in them in the winter until he gets accustomed
to them.”
“Don’t they heat them at all?”
“Well, they do heat them a little; but the houses and stoves are so
different to ours.”
“H’m! were you long away?”
“Four years! and I was in the same place nearly all the time,—in one
village.”
“You must have forgotten Russia, hadn’t you?”
“Yes, indeed I had—a good deal; and, would you believe it, I often
wonder at myself for not having forgotten how to speak Russian? Even
now, as I talk to you, I keep saying to myself ‘how well I am speaking it.’
Perhaps that is partly why I am so talkative this morning. I assure you, ever
since yesterday evening I have had the strongest desire to go on and on
talking Russian.”
“H’m! yes; did you live in Petersburg in former years?”
This good flunkey, in spite of his conscientious scruples, really could not
resist continuing such a very genteel and agreeable conversation.
“In Petersburg? Oh no! hardly at all, and now they say so much is
changed in the place that even those who did know it well are obliged to
relearn what they knew. They talk a good deal about the new law courts,
and changes there, don’t they?”
“H’m! yes, that’s true enough. Well now, how is the law over there, do
they administer it more justly than here?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that! I’ve heard much that is good about our
legal administration, too. There is no capital punishment here for one
thing.”
“Is there over there?”
“Yes—I saw an execution in France—at Lyons. Schneider took me over
with him to see it.”
“What, did they hang the fellow?”
“No, they cut off people’s heads in France.”
“What did the fellow do?—yell?”
“Oh no—it’s the work of an instant. They put a man inside a frame and a
sort of broad knife falls by machinery—they call the thing a guillotine—it
falls with fearful force and weight—the head springs off so quickly that you
can’t wink your eye in between. But all the preparations are so dreadful.
When they announce the sentence, you know, and prepare the criminal and
tie his hands, and cart him off to the scaffold—that’s the fearful part of the
business. The people all crowd round—even women—though they don’t at
all approve of women looking on.”
“No, it’s not a thing for women.”
“Of course not—of course not!—bah! The criminal was a fine intelligent
fearless man; Le Gros was his name; and I may tell you—believe it or not,
as you like—that when that man stepped upon the scaffold he cried, he did
indeed,—he was as white as a bit of paper. Isn’t it a dreadful idea that he
should have cried—cried! Whoever heard of a grown man crying from fear
—not a child, but a man who never had cried before—a grown man of
forty-five years. Imagine what must have been going on in that man’s mind
at such a moment; what dreadful convulsions his whole spirit must have
endured; it is an outrage on the soul that’s what it is. Because it is said ‘thou
shalt not kill,’ is he to be killed because he murdered some one else? No, it
is not right, it’s an impossible theory. I assure you, I saw the sight a month
ago and it’s dancing before my eyes to this moment. I dream of it, often.”
The prince had grown animated as he spoke, and a tinge of colour
suffused his pale face, though his way of talking was as quiet as ever. The
servant followed his words with sympathetic interest. Clearly he was not at
all anxious to bring the conversation to an end. Who knows? Perhaps he too
was a man of imagination and with some capacity for thought.
“Well, at all events it is a good thing that there’s no pain when the poor
fellow’s head flies off,” he remarked.
“Do you know, though,” cried the prince warmly, “you made that remark
now, and everyone says the same thing, and the machine is designed with
the purpose of avoiding pain, this guillotine I mean; but a thought came into
my head then: what if it be a bad plan after all? You may laugh at my idea,
perhaps—but I could not help its occurring to me all the same. Now with
the rack and tortures and so on—you suffer terrible pain of course; but then
your torture is bodily pain only (although no doubt you have plenty of that)
until you die. But here I should imagine the most terrible part of the whole
punishment is, not the bodily pain at all—but the certain knowledge that in
an hour,—then in ten minutes, then in half a minute, then now—this very
instant—your soul must quit your body and that you will no longer be a
man—and that this is certain, certain! That’s the point—the certainty of it.
Just that instant when you place your head on the block and hear the iron
grate over your head—then—that quarter of a second is the most awful of
all.
“This is not my own fantastical opinion—many people have thought the
same; but I feel it so deeply that I’ll tell you what I think. I believe that to
execute a man for murder is to punish him immeasurably more dreadfully
than is equivalent to his crime. A murder by sentence is far more dreadful
than a murder committed by a criminal. The man who is attacked by
robbers at night, in a dark wood, or anywhere, undoubtedly hopes and
hopes that he may yet escape until the very moment of his death. There are
plenty of instances of a man running away, or imploring for mercy—at all
events hoping on in some degree—even after his throat was cut. But in the
case of an execution, that last hope—having which it is so immeasurably
less dreadful to die,—is taken away from the wretch and certainty
substituted in its place! There is his sentence, and with it that terrible
certainty that he cannot possibly escape death—which, I consider, must be
the most dreadful anguish in the world. You may place a soldier before a
cannon’s mouth in battle, and fire upon him—and he will still hope. But
read to that same soldier his death-sentence, and he will either go mad or
burst into tears. Who dares to say that any man can suffer this without going
mad? No, no! it is an abuse, a shame, it is unnecessary—why should such a
thing exist? Doubtless there may be men who have been sentenced, who
have suffered this mental anguish for a while and then have been reprieved;
perhaps such men may have been able to relate their feelings afterwards.
Our Lord Christ spoke of this anguish and dread. No! no! no! No man
should be treated so, no man, no man!”
The servant, though of course he could not have expressed all this as the
prince did, still clearly entered into it and was greatly conciliated, as was
evident from the increased amiability of his expression. “If you are really
very anxious for a smoke,” he remarked, “I think it might possibly be
managed, if you are very quick about it. You see they might come out and
inquire for you, and you wouldn’t be on the spot. You see that door there?
Go in there and you’ll find a little room on the right; you can smoke there,
only open the window, because I ought not to allow it really, and—.” But
there was no time, after all.
A young fellow entered the ante-room at this moment, with a bundle of
papers in his hand. The footman hastened to help him take off his overcoat.
The new arrival glanced at the prince out of the corners of his eyes.
“This gentleman declares, Gavrila Ardalionovitch,” began the man,
confidentially and almost familiarly, “that he is Prince Muishkin and a
relative of Madame Epanchin’s. He has just arrived from abroad, with
nothing but a bundle by way of luggage—.”
The prince did not hear the rest, because at this point the servant
continued his communication in a whisper.
Gavrila Ardalionovitch listened attentively, and gazed at the prince with
great curiosity. At last he motioned the man aside and stepped hurriedly
towards the prince.
“Are you Prince Muishkin?” he asked, with the greatest courtesy and
amiability.
He was a remarkably handsome young fellow of some twenty-eight
summers, fair and of middle height; he wore a small beard, and his face was
