The prince tried to say something, but he was too confused, and could not
get his words out. Aglaya, who had taken such liberties in her little speech,
was the only person present, perhaps, who was not in the least embarrassed.
She seemed, in fact, quite pleased.
She now rose solemnly from her seat, walked to the centre of the terrace,
and stood in front of the prince’s chair. All looked on with some surprise,
and Prince S. and her sisters with feelings of decided alarm, to see what
new frolic she was up to; it had gone quite far enough already, they thought.
But Aglaya evidently thoroughly enjoyed the affectation and ceremony with
which she was introducing her recitation of the poem.
Mrs. Epanchin was just wondering whether she would not forbid the
performance after all, when, at the very moment that Aglaya commenced
her declamation, two new guests, both talking loudly, entered from the
street. The new arrivals were General Epanchin and a young man.
Their entrance caused some slight commotion.
VII.
The young fellow accompanying the general was about twenty-eight, tall,
and well built, with a handsome and clever face, and bright black eyes, full
of fun and intelligence.
Aglaya did not so much as glance at the new arrivals, but went on with
her recitation, gazing at the prince the while in an affected manner, and at
him alone. It was clear to him that she was doing all this with some special
object.
But the new guests at least somewhat eased his strained and
uncomfortable position. Seeing them approaching, he rose from his chair,
and nodding amicably to the general, signed to him not to interrupt the
recitation. He then got behind his chair, and stood there with his left hand
resting on the back of it. Thanks to this change of position, he was able to
listen to the ballad with far less embarrassment than before. Mrs. Epanchin
had also twice motioned to the new arrivals to be quiet, and stay where they
were.
The prince was much interested in the young man who had just entered.
He easily concluded that this was Evgenie Pavlovitch Radomski, of whom
he had already heard mention several times. He was puzzled, however, by
the young man’s plain clothes, for he had always heard of Evgenie
Pavlovitch as a military man. An ironical smile played on Evgenie’s lips all
the while the recitation was proceeding, which showed that he, too, was
probably in the secret of the ‘poor knight’ joke. But it had become quite a
different matter with Aglaya. All the affectation of manner which she had
displayed at the beginning disappeared as the ballad proceeded. She spoke
the lines in so serious and exalted a manner, and with so much taste, that
she even seemed to justify the exaggerated solemnity with which she had
stepped forward. It was impossible to discern in her now anything but a
deep feeling for the spirit of the poem which she had undertaken to
interpret.
Her eyes were aglow with inspiration, and a slight tremor of rapture
passed over her lovely features once or twice. She continued to recite:
“Once there came a vision glorious,
Mystic, dreadful, wondrous fair;
Burned itself into his spirit,
And abode for ever there!
“Never more—from that sweet moment—
Gazéd he on womankind;
He was dumb to love and wooing
And to all their graces blind.
“Full of love for that sweet vision,
Brave and pure he took the field;
With his blood he stained the letters
N. P. B. upon his shield.
“‘Lumen caeli, sancta Rosa!’
Shouting on the foe he fell,
And like thunder rang his war-cry
O’er the cowering infidel.
“Then within his distant castle,
Home returned, he dreamed his days—
Silent, sad,—and when death took him
He was mad, the legend says.”
When recalling all this afterwards the prince could not for the life of him
understand how to reconcile the beautiful, sincere, pure nature of the girl
with the irony of this jest. That it was a jest there was no doubt whatever; he
knew that well enough, and had good reason, too, for his conviction; for
during her recitation of the ballad Aglaya had deliberately changed the
letters A. N. B. into N. P. B. He was quite sure she had not done this by
accident, and that his ears had not deceived him. At all events her
performance—which was a joke, of course, if rather a crude one,—was
premeditated. They had evidently talked (and laughed) over the ‘poor
knight’ for more than a month.
Yet Aglaya had brought out these letters N. P. B. not only without the
slightest appearance of irony, or even any particular accentuation, but with
so even and unbroken an appearance of seriousness that assuredly anyone
might have supposed that these initials were the original ones written in the
ballad. The thing made an uncomfortable impression upon the prince. Of
course Mrs. Epanchin saw nothing either in the change of initials or in the
insinuation embodied therein. General Epanchin only knew that there was a
recitation of verses going on, and took no further interest in the matter. Of
the rest of the audience, many had understood the allusion and wondered
both at the daring of the lady and at the motive underlying it, but tried to
show no sign of their feelings. But Evgenie Pavlovitch (as the prince was
ready to wager) both comprehended and tried his best to show that he
comprehended; his smile was too mocking to leave any doubt on that point.
“How beautiful that is!” cried Mrs. Epanchin, with sincere admiration.
“Whose is it?”
“Pushkin’s, mama, of course! Don’t disgrace us all by showing your
ignorance,” said Adelaida.
“As soon as we reach home give it to me to read.”
“I don’t think we have a copy of Pushkin in the house.”
“There are a couple of torn volumes somewhere; they have been lying
about from time immemorial,” added Alexandra.
“Send Feodor or Alexey up by the very first train to buy a copy, then.—
Aglaya, come here—kiss me, dear, you recited beautifully! but,” she added
in a whisper, “if you were sincere I am sorry for you. If it was a joke, I do
not approve of the feelings which prompted you to do it, and in any case
you would have done far better not to recite it at all. Do you understand?—
Now come along, young woman; we’ve sat here too long. I’ll speak to you
about this another time.”
Meanwhile the prince took the opportunity of greeting General Epanchin,
and the general introduced Evgenie Pavlovitch to him.
“I caught him up on the way to your house,” explained the general. “He
had heard that we were all here.”
“Yes, and I heard that you were here, too,” added Evgenie Pavlovitch;
“and since I had long promised myself the pleasure of seeking not only your
acquaintance but your friendship, I did not wish to waste time, but came
straight on. I am sorry to hear that you are unwell.”
“Oh, but I’m quite well now, thank you, and very glad to make your
acquaintance. Prince S. has often spoken to me about you,” said Muishkin,
and for an instant the two men looked intently into one another’s eyes.
The prince remarked that Evgenie Pavlovitch’s plain clothes had
evidently made a great impression upon the company present, so much so
that all other interests seemed to be effaced before this surprising fact.
His change of dress was evidently a matter of some importance. Adelaida
and Alexandra poured out a stream of questions; Prince S., a relative of the
young man, appeared annoyed; and Ivan Fedorovitch quite excited. Aglaya
alone was not interested. She merely looked closely at Evgenie for a
minute, curious perhaps as to whether civil or military clothes became him
best, then turned away and paid no more attention to him or his costume.
Lizabetha Prokofievna asked no questions, but it was clear that she was
uneasy, and the prince fancied that Evgenie was not in her good graces.
“He has astonished me,” said Ivan Fedorovitch. “I nearly fell down with
surprise. I could hardly believe my eyes when I met him in Petersburg just
now. Why this haste? That’s what I want to know. He has always said
himself that there is no need to break windows.”
Evgenie Pavlovitch remarked here that he had spoken of his intention of
leaving the service long ago. He had, however, always made more or less of
a joke about it, so no one had taken him seriously. For that matter he joked
about everything, and his friends never knew what to believe, especially if
he did not wish them to understand him.
“I have only retired for a time,” said he, laughing. “For a few months; at
most for a year.”
“But there is no necessity for you to retire at all,” complained the general,
“as far as I know.”
“I want to go and look after my country estates. You advised me to do
that yourself,” was the reply. “And then I wish to go abroad.”
After a few more expostulations, the conversation drifted into other
channels, but the prince, who had been an attentive listener, thought all this
excitement about so small a matter very curious. “There must be more in it
than appears,” he said to himself.
“I see the ‘poor knight’ has come on the scene again,” said Evgenie
Pavlovitch, stepping to Aglaya’s side.
To the amazement of the prince, who overheard the remark, Aglaya
looked haughtily and inquiringly at the questioner, as though she would
give him to know, once for all, that there could be no talk between them
about the ‘poor knight,’ and that she did not understand his question.
“But not now! It is too late to send to town for a Pushkin now. It is much
too late, I say!” Colia was exclaiming in a loud voice. “I have told you so at
least a hundred times.”
“Yes, it is really much too late to send to town now,” said Evgenie
Pavlovitch, who had escaped from Aglaya as rapidly as possible. “I am sure
the shops are shut in Petersburg; it is past eight o’clock,” he added, looking
at his watch.
“We have done without him so far,” interrupted Adelaida in her turn.
“Surely we can wait until to-morrow.”
“Besides,” said Colia, “it is quite unusual, almost improper, for people in
our position to take any interest in literature. Ask Evgenie Pavlovitch if I
am not right. It is much more fashionable to drive a waggonette with red
wheels.”
“You got that from some magazine, Colia,” remarked Adelaida.
“He gets most of his conversation in that way,” laughed Evgenie
Pavlovitch. “He borrows whole phrases from the reviews. I have long had
the pleasure of knowing both Nicholai Ardalionovitch and his
conversational methods, but this time he was not repeating something he
had read; he was alluding, no doubt, to my yellow waggonette, which has,
or had, red wheels. But I have exchanged it, so you are rather behind the
times, Colia.”
The prince had been listening attentively to Radomski’s words, and
thought his manner very pleasant. When Colia chaffed him about his
waggonette he had replied with perfect equality and in a friendly fashion.
This pleased Muishkin.
At this moment Vera came up to Lizabetha Prokofievna, carrying several
large and beautifully bound books, apparently quite new.
“What is it?” demanded the lady.
“This is Pushkin,” replied the girl. “Papa told me to offer it to you.”
“What? Impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Epanchin.
“Not as a present, not as a present! I should not have taken the liberty,”
said Lebedeff, appearing suddenly from behind his daughter. “It is our own
Pushkin, our family copy, Annenkoff’s edition; it could not be bought now.
I beg to suggest, with great respect, that your excellency should buy it, and
thus quench the noble literary thirst which is consuming you at this
moment,” he concluded grandiloquently.
“Oh! if you will sell it, very good—and thank you. You shall not be a
loser! But for goodness’ sake, don’t twist about like that, sir! I have heard of
you; they tell me you are a very learned person. We must have a talk one of
these days. You will bring me the books yourself?”
“With the greatest respect… and… and veneration,” replied Lebedeff,
making extraordinary grimaces.
“Well, bring them, with or without respect, provided always you do not
drop them on the way; but on the condition,” went on the lady, looking full
at him, “that you do not cross my threshold. I do not intend to receive you
today. You may send your daughter Vera at once, if you like. I am much
pleased with her.”
“Why don’t you tell him about them?” said Vera impatiently to her father.
“They will come in, whether you announce them or not, and they are
beginning to make a row. Lef Nicolaievitch,”—she addressed herself to the
prince—“four men are here asking for you. They have waited some time,
and are beginning to make a fuss, and papa will not bring them in.”
“Who are these people?” said the prince.
“They say that they have come on business, and they are the kind of men,
who, if you do not see them here, will follow you about the street. It would
be better to receive them, and then you will get rid of them. Gavrila
Ardalionovitch and Ptitsin are both there, trying to make them hear reason.”
“Pavlicheff’s son! It is not worth while!” cried Lebedeff. “There is no
necessity to see them, and it would be most unpleasant for your excellency.
They do not deserve…”
“What? Pavlicheff’s son!” cried the prince, much perturbed. “I know… I
know—but I entrusted this matter to Gavrila Ardalionovitch. He told me…”
At that moment Gania, accompanied by Ptitsin, came out to the terrace.
From an adjoining room came a noise of angry voices, and General Ivolgin,
in loud tones, seemed to be trying to shout them down. Colia rushed off at
once to investigate the cause of the uproar.
“This is most interesting!” observed Evgenie Pavlovitch.
“I expect he knows all about it!” thought the prince.
“What, the son of Pavlicheff? And who may this son of Pavlicheff be?”
asked General Epanchin with surprise; and looking curiously around him,
he discovered that he alone had no clue to the mystery. Expectation and
suspense were on every face, with the exception of that of the prince, who
stood gravely wondering how an affair so entirely personal could have
awakened such lively and widespread interest in so short a time.
Aglaya went up to him with a peculiarly serious look.
“It will be well,” she said, “if you put an end to this affair yourself at
once: but you must allow us to be your witnesses. They want to throw mud
at you, prince, and you must be triumphantly vindicated. I give you joy
beforehand!”
“And I also wish for justice to be done, once for all,” cried Madame
Epanchin, “about this impudent claim. Deal with them promptly, prince,
and don’t spare them! I am sick of hearing about the affair, and many a
quarrel I have had in your cause. But I confess I am anxious to see what
happens, so do make them come out here, and we will remain. You have
heard people talking about it, no doubt?” she added, turning to Prince S.
“Of course,” said he. “I have heard it spoken about at your house, and I
am anxious to see these young men!”
“They are Nihilists, are they not?”
“No, they are not Nihilists,” explained Lebedeff, who seemed much
excited. “This is another lot—a special group. According to my nephew
they are more advanced even than the Nihilists. You are quite wrong,
excellency, if you think that your presence will intimidate them; nothing
intimidates them. Educated men, learned men even, are to be found among
Nihilists; these go further, in that they are men of action. The movement is,
properly speaking, a derivative from Nihilism—though they are only
known indirectly, and by hearsay, for they never advertise their doings in
the papers. They go straight to the point. For them, it is not a question of
showing that Pushkin is stupid, or that Russia must be torn in pieces. No;
but if they have a great desire for anything, they believe they have a right to
get it even at the cost of the lives, say, of eight persons. They are checked
by no obstacles. In fact, prince, I should not advise you…”
But Muishkin had risen, and was on his way to open the door for his
visitors.
“You are slandering them, Lebedeff,” said he, smiling.
“You are always thinking about your nephew’s conduct. Don’t believe
him, Lizabetha Prokofievna. I can assure you Gorsky and Daniloff are
exceptions—and that these are only… mistaken. However, I do not care
about receiving them here, in public. Excuse me, Lizabetha Prokofievna.
They are coming, and you can see them, and then I will take them away.
Please come in, gentlemen!”
Another thought tormented him: He wondered was this an arranged
business—arranged to happen when he had guests in his house, and in
anticipation of his humiliation rather than of his triumph? But he
reproached himself bitterly for such a thought, and felt as if he should die of
shame if it were discovered. When his new visitors appeared, he was quite
ready to believe himself infinitely less to be respected than any of them.
Four persons entered, led by General Ivolgin, in a state of great
excitement, and talking eloquently.
“He is for me, undoubtedly!” thought the prince, with a smile. Colia also
had joined the party, and was talking with animation to Hippolyte, who
listened with a jeering smile on his lips.
The prince begged the visitors to sit down. They were all so young that it
made the proceedings seem even more extraordinary. Ivan Fedorovitch,
who really understood nothing of what was going on, felt indignant at the
sight of these youths, and would have interfered in some way had it not
been for the extreme interest shown by his wife in the affair. He therefore
remained, partly through curiosity, partly through good-nature, hoping that
his presence might be of some use. But the bow with which General Ivolgin
greeted him irritated him anew; he frowned, and decided to be absolutely
silent.
As to the rest, one was a man of thirty, the retired officer, now a boxer,
who had been with Rogojin, and in his happier days had given fifteen
roubles at a time to beggars. Evidently he had joined the others as a
comrade to give them moral, and if necessary material, support. The man
who had been spoken of as “Pavlicheff’s son,” although he gave the name
of Antip Burdovsky, was about twenty-two years of age, fair, thin and rather
tall. He was remarkable for the poverty, not to say uncleanliness, of his
personal appearance: the sleeves of his overcoat were greasy; his dirty
waistcoat, buttoned up to his neck, showed not a trace of linen; a filthy
black silk scarf, twisted till it resembled a cord, was round his neck, and his
hands were unwashed. He looked round with an air of insolent effrontery.
His face, covered with pimples, was neither thoughtful nor even
contemptuous; it wore an expression of complacent satisfaction in
demanding his rights and in being an aggrieved party. His voice trembled,
and he spoke so fast, and with such stammerings, that he might have been
taken for a foreigner, though the purest Russian blood ran in his veins.
Lebedeff’s nephew, whom the reader has seen already, accompanied him,
and also the youth named Hippolyte Terentieff. The latter was only
seventeen or eighteen. He had an intelligent face, though it was usually
irritated and fretful in expression. His skeleton-like figure, his ghastly
complexion, the brightness of his eyes, and the red spots of colour on his
cheeks, betrayed the victim of consumption to the most casual glance. He
coughed persistently, and panted for breath; it looked as though he had but a
few weeks more to live. He was nearly dead with fatigue, and fell, rather
than sat, into a chair. The rest bowed as they came in; and being more or
less abashed, put on an air of extreme self-assurance. In short, their attitude
was not that which one would have expected in men who professed to
despise all trivialities, all foolish mundane conventions, and indeed
everything, except their own personal interests.
“Antip Burdovsky,” stuttered the son of Pavlicheff.
“Vladimir Doktorenko,” said Lebedeff’s nephew briskly, and with a
certain pride, as if he boasted of his name.
“Keller,” murmured the retired officer.
“Hippolyte Terentieff,” cried the last-named, in a shrill voice.
