“The woman’s mad!” cried Evgenie, at last, crimson with anger, and
looking confusedly around. “I don’t know what she’s talking about! What
IOU’s? Who is she?” Mrs. Epanchin continued to watch his face for a
couple of seconds; then she marched briskly and haughtily away towards
her own house, the rest following her.
A minute afterwards, Evgenie Pavlovitch reappeared on the terrace, in
great agitation.
“Prince,” he said, “tell me the truth; do you know what all this means?”
“I know nothing whatever about it!” replied the latter, who was, himself,
in a state of nervous excitement.
“No?”
“No!”
“Well, nor do I!” said Evgenie Pavlovitch, laughing suddenly. “I haven’t
the slightest knowledge of any such IOU’s as she mentioned, I swear I
haven’t—What’s the matter, are you fainting?”
“Oh, no—no—I’m all right, I assure you!”
XI.
The anger of the Epanchin family was unappeased for three days. As
usual the prince reproached himself, and had expected punishment, but he
was inwardly convinced that Lizabetha Prokofievna could not be seriously
angry with him, and that she probably was more angry with herself. He was
painfully surprised, therefore, when three days passed with no word from
her. Other things also troubled and perplexed him, and one of these grew
more important in his eyes as the days went by. He had begun to blame
himself for two opposite tendencies—on the one hand to extreme, almost
“senseless,” confidence in his fellows, on the other to a “vile, gloomy
suspiciousness.”
By the end of the third day the incident of the eccentric lady and Evgenie
Pavlovitch had attained enormous and mysterious proportions in his mind.
He sorrowfully asked himself whether he had been the cause of this new
“monstrosity,” or was it… but he refrained from saying who else might be in
fault. As for the letters N.P.B., he looked on that as a harmless joke, a mere
childish piece of mischief—so childish that he felt it would be shameful,
almost dishonourable, to attach any importance to it.
The day after these scandalous events, however, the prince had the
honour of receiving a visit from Adelaida and her fiance, Prince S. They
came, ostensibly, to inquire after his health. They had wandered out for a
walk, and called in “by accident,” and talked for almost the whole of the
time they were with him about a certain most lovely tree in the park, which
Adelaida had set her heart upon for a picture. This, and a little amiable
conversation on Prince S.’s part, occupied the time, and not a word was said
about last evening’s episodes. At length Adelaida burst out laughing,
apologized, and explained that they had come incognito; from which, and
from the circumstance that they said nothing about the prince’s either
walking back with them or coming to see them later on, the latter inferred
that he was in Mrs. Epanchin’s black books. Adelaida mentioned a
watercolour that she would much like to show him, and explained that she
would either send it by Colia, or bring it herself the next day—which to the
prince seemed very suggestive.
At length, however, just as the visitors were on the point of departing,
Prince S. seemed suddenly to recollect himself. “Oh yes, by-the-by,” he
said, “do you happen to know, my dear Lef Nicolaievitch, who that lady
was who called out to Evgenie Pavlovitch last night, from the carriage?”
“It was Nastasia Philipovna,” said the prince; “didn’t you know that? I
cannot tell you who her companion was.”
“But what on earth did she mean? I assure you it is a real riddle to me—
to me, and to others, too!” Prince S. seemed to be under the influence of
sincere astonishment.
“She spoke of some bills of Evgenie Pavlovitch’s,” said the prince,
simply, “which Rogojin had bought up from someone; and implied that
Rogojin would not press him.”
“Oh, I heard that much, my dear fellow! But the thing is so impossibly
absurd! A man of property like Evgenie to give IOU’s to a money-lender,
and to be worried about them! It is ridiculous. Besides, he cannot possibly
be on such intimate terms with Nastasia Philipovna as she gave us to
understand; that’s the principal part of the mystery! He has given me his
word that he knows nothing whatever about the matter, and of course I
believe him. Well, the question is, my dear prince, do you know anything
about it? Has any sort of suspicion of the meaning of it come across you?”
“No, I know nothing whatever about it. I assure you I had nothing at all
to do with it.”
“Oh, prince, how strange you have become! I assure you, I hardly know
you for your old self. How can you suppose that I ever suggested you could
have had a finger in such a business? But you are not quite yourself today, I
can see.” He embraced the prince, and kissed him.
“What do you mean, though,” asked Muishkin, “‘by such a business’? I
don’t see any particular ‘business’ about it at all!”
“Oh, undoubtedly, this person wished somehow, and for some reason, to
do Evgenie Pavlovitch a bad turn, by attributing to him—before witnesses
—qualities which he neither has nor can have,” replied Prince S. drily
enough.
Muiskhin looked disturbed, but continued to gaze intently and
questioningly into Prince S.’s face. The latter, however, remained silent.
“Then it was not simply a matter of bills?” Muishkin said at last, with
some impatience. “It was not as she said?”
“But I ask you, my dear sir, how can there be anything in common
between Evgenie Pavlovitch, and—her, and again Rogojin? I tell you he is a
man of immense wealth—as I know for a fact; and he has further
expectations from his uncle. Simply Nastasia Philipovna—”
Prince S. paused, as though unwilling to continue talking about Nastasia
Philipovna.
“Then at all events he knows her!” remarked the prince, after a moment’s
silence.
“Oh, that may be. He may have known her some time ago—two or three
years, at least. He used to know Totski. But it is impossible that there
should be any intimacy between them. She has not even been in the place—
many people don’t even know that she has returned from Moscow! I have
only observed her carriage about for the last three days or so.”
“It’s a lovely carriage,” said Adelaida.
“Yes, it was a beautiful turn-out, certainly!”
The visitors left the house, however, on no less friendly terms than
before. But the visit was of the greatest importance to the prince, from his
own point of view. Admitting that he had his suspicions, from the moment
of the occurrence of last night, perhaps even before, that Nastasia had some
mysterious end in view, yet this visit confirmed his suspicions and justified
his fears. It was all clear to him; Prince S. was wrong, perhaps, in his view
of the matter, but he was somewhere near the truth, and was right in so far
as that he understood there to be an intrigue of some sort going on. Perhaps
Prince S. saw it all more clearly than he had allowed his hearers to
understand. At all events, nothing could be plainer than that he and
Adelaida had come for the express purpose of obtaining explanations, and
that they suspected him of being concerned in the affair. And if all this were
so, then she must have some terrible object in view! What was it? There
was no stopping her, as Muishkin knew from experience, in the
performance of anything she had set her mind on! “Oh, she is mad, mad!”
thought the poor prince.
But there were many other puzzling occurrences that day, which required
immediate explanation, and the prince felt very sad. A visit from Vera
Lebedeff distracted him a little. She brought the infant Lubotchka with her
as usual, and talked cheerfully for some time. Then came her younger sister,
and later the brother, who attended a school close by. He informed
Muishkin that his father had lately found a new interpretation of the star
called “wormwood,” which fell upon the water-springs, as described in the
Apocalypse. He had decided that it meant the network of railroads spread
over the face of Europe at the present time. The prince refused to believe
that Lebedeff could have given such an interpretation, and they decided to
ask him about it at the earliest opportunity. Vera related how Keller had
taken up his abode with them on the previous evening. She thought he
would remain for some time, as he was greatly pleased with the society of
General Ivolgin and of the whole family. But he declared that he had only
come to them in order to complete his education! The prince always
enjoyed the company of Lebedeff’s children, and today it was especially
welcome, for Colia did not appear all day. Early that morning he had started
for Petersburg. Lebedeff also was away on business. But Gavrila
Ardalionovitch had promised to visit Muishkin, who eagerly awaited his
coming.
About seven in the evening, soon after dinner, he arrived. At the first
glance it struck the prince that he, at any rate, must know all the details of
last night’s affair. Indeed, it would have been impossible for him to remain
in ignorance considering the intimate relationship between him, Varvara
Ardalionovna, and Ptitsin. But although he and the prince were intimate, in
a sense, and although the latter had placed the Burdovsky affair in his hands
—and this was not the only mark of confidence he had received—it seemed
curious how many matters there were that were tacitly avoided in their
conversations. Muishkin thought that Gania at times appeared to desire
more cordiality and frankness. It was apparent now, when he entered, that
he was convinced that the moment for breaking the ice between them had
come at last.
But all the same Gania was in haste, for his sister was waiting at
Lebedeff’s to consult him on an urgent matter of business. If he had
anticipated impatient questions, or impulsive confidences, he was soon
undeceived. The prince was thoughtful, reserved, even a little absent-
minded, and asked none of the questions—one in particular—that Gania
had expected. So he imitated the prince’s demeanour, and talked fast and
brilliantly upon all subjects but the one on which their thoughts were
engaged. Among other things Gania told his host that Nastasia Philipovna
had been only four days in Pavlofsk, and that everyone was talking about
her already. She was staying with Daria Alexeyevna, in an ugly little house
in Mattrossky Street, but drove about in the smartest carriage in the place. A
crowd of followers had pursued her from the first, young and old. Some
escorted her on horse-back when she took the air in her carriage.
She was as capricious as ever in the choice of her acquaintances, and
admitted few into her narrow circle. Yet she already had a numerous
following and many champions on whom she could depend in time of need.
One gentleman on his holiday had broken off his engagement on her
account, and an old general had quarrelled with his only son for the same
reason.
She was accompanied sometimes in her carriage by a girl of sixteen, a
distant relative of her hostess. This young lady sang very well; in fact, her
music had given a kind of notoriety to their little house. Nastasia, however,
was behaving with great discretion on the whole. She dressed quietly,
though with such taste as to drive all the ladies in Pavlofsk mad with envy,
of that, as well as of her beauty and her carriage and horses.
“As for yesterday’s episode,” continued Gania, “of course it was pre-
arranged.” Here he paused, as though expecting to be asked how he knew
that. But the prince did not inquire. Concerning Evgenie Pavlovitch, Gania
stated, without being asked, that he believed the former had not known
Nastasia Philipovna in past years, but that he had probably been introduced
to her by somebody in the park during these four days. As to the question of
the IOU’s she had spoken of, there might easily be something in that; for
though Evgenie was undoubtedly a man of wealth, yet certain of his affairs
were equally undoubtedly in disorder. Arrived at this interesting point,
Gania suddenly broke off, and said no more about Nastasia’s prank of the
previous evening.
At last Varvara Ardalionovna came in search of her brother, and remained
for a few minutes. Without Muishkin’s asking her, she informed him that
Evgenie Pavlovitch was spending the day in Petersburg, and perhaps would
remain there over tomorrow; and that her husband had also gone to town,
probably in connection with Evgenie Pavlovitch’s affairs.
“Lizabetha Prokofievna is in a really fiendish temper today,” she added,
as she went out, “but the most curious thing is that Aglaya has quarrelled
with her whole family; not only with her father and mother, but with her
sisters also. It is not a good sign.” She said all this quite casually, though it
was extremely important in the eyes of the prince, and went off with her
brother. Regarding the episode of “Pavlicheff’s son,” Gania had been
absolutely silent, partly from a kind of false modesty, partly, perhaps, to
“spare the prince’s feelings.” The latter, however, thanked him again for the
trouble he had taken in the affair.
Muishkin was glad enough to be left alone. He went out of the garden,
crossed the road, and entered the park. He wished to reflect, and to make up
his mind as to a certain “step.” This step was one of those things, however,
which are not thought out, as a rule, but decided for or against hastily, and
without much reflection. The fact is, he felt a longing to leave all this and
go away—go anywhere, if only it were far enough, and at once, without
bidding farewell to anyone. He felt a presentiment that if he remained but a
few days more in this place, and among these people, he would be fixed
there irrevocably and permanently. However, in a very few minutes he
decided that to run away was impossible; that it would be cowardly; that
great problems lay before him, and that he had no right to leave them
unsolved, or at least to refuse to give all his energy and strength to the
attempt to solve them. Having come to this determination, he turned and
went home, his walk having lasted less than a quarter of an hour. At that
moment he was thoroughly unhappy.
Lebedeff had not returned, so towards evening Keller managed to
penetrate into the prince’s apartments. He was not drunk, but in a
confidential and talkative mood. He announced that he had come to tell the
story of his life to Muishkin, and had only remained at Pavlofsk for that
purpose. There was no means of turning him out; nothing short of an
earthquake would have removed him.
In the manner of one with long hours before him, he began his history;
but after a few incoherent words he jumped to the conclusion, which was
that “having ceased to believe in God Almighty, he had lost every vestige of
morality, and had gone so far as to commit a theft.” “Could you imagine
such a thing?” said he.
“Listen to me, Keller,” returned the prince. “If I were in your place, I
should not acknowledge that unless it were absolutely necessary for some
reason. But perhaps you are making yourself out to be worse than you are,
purposely?”
“I should tell it to no one but yourself, prince, and I only name it now as
a help to my soul’s evolution. When I die, that secret will die with me! But,
excellency, if you knew, if you only had the least idea, how difficult it is to
get money nowadays! Where to find it is the question. Ask for a loan, the
answer is always the same: ‘Give us gold, jewels, or diamonds, and it will
be quite easy.’ Exactly what one has not got! Can you picture that to
yourself? I got angry at last, and said, ‘I suppose you would accept
emeralds?’ ‘Certainly, we accept emeralds with pleasure. Yes!’ ‘Well, that’s
all right,’ said I. ‘Go to the devil, you den of thieves!’ And with that I seized
my hat, and walked out.”
“Had you any emeralds?” asked the prince.
“What? I have emeralds? Oh, prince! with what simplicity, with what
almost pastoral simplicity, you look upon life!”
Could not something be made of this man under good influences? asked
the prince of himself, for he began to feel a kind of pity for his visitor. He
thought little of the value of his own personal influence, not from a sense of
humility, but from his peculiar way of looking at things in general.
Imperceptibly the conversation grew more animated and more interesting,
so that neither of the two felt anxious to bring it to a close. Keller
confessed, with apparent sincerity, to having been guilty of many acts of
such a nature that it astonished the prince that he could mention them, even
to him. At every fresh avowal he professed the deepest repentance, and
described himself as being “bathed in tears”; but this did not prevent him
from putting on a boastful air at times, and some of his stories were so
absurdly comical that both he and the prince laughed like madmen.
“One point in your favour is that you seem to have a child-like mind, and
extreme truthfulness,” said the prince at last. “Do you know that that atones
for much?”
“I am assuredly noble-minded, and chivalrous to a degree!” said Keller,
much softened. “But, do you know, this nobility of mind exists in a dream,
if one may put it so? It never appears in practice or deed. Now, why is that?
I can never understand.”
“Do not despair. I think we may say without fear of deceiving ourselves,
that you have now given a fairly exact account of your life. I, at least, think
it would be impossible to add much to what you have just told me.”
“Impossible?” cried Keller, almost pityingly. “Oh prince, how little you
really seem to understand human nature!”
“Is there really much more to be added?” asked the prince, with mild
surprise. “Well, what is it you really want of me? Speak out; tell me why
you came to make your confession to me?”
“What did I want? Well, to begin with, it is good to meet a man like you.
It is a pleasure to talk over my faults with you. I know you for one of the
best of men… and then… then…”
He hesitated, and appeared so much embarrassed that the prince helped
him out.
“Then you wanted me to lend you money?”
The words were spoken in a grave tone, and even somewhat shyly.
Keller started, gave an astonished look at the speaker, and thumped the
table with his fist.
“Well, prince, that’s enough to knock me down! It astounds me! Here you
are, as simple and innocent as a knight of the golden age, and yet… yet…
you read a man’s soul like a psychologist! Now, do explain it to me, prince,
because I… I really do not understand!… Of course, my aim was to borrow
money all along, and you… you asked the question as if there was nothing
blameable in it—as if you thought it quite natural.”
“Yes… from you it is quite natural.”
“And you are not offended?”
“Why should I be offended?”
“Well, just listen, prince. I remained here last evening, partly because I
have a great admiration for the French archbishop Bourdaloue. I enjoyed a
discussion over him till three o’clock in the morning, with Lebedeff; and
then… then—I swear by all I hold sacred that I am telling you the truth—
then I wished to develop my soul in this frank and heartfelt confession to
you. This was my thought as I was sobbing myself to sleep at dawn. Just as
I was losing consciousness, tears in my soul, tears on my face (I remember
how I lay there sobbing), an idea from hell struck me. ‘Why not, after
confessing, borrow money from him?’ You see, this confession was a kind
of masterstroke; I intended to use it as a means to your good grace and
favour—and then—then I meant to walk off with a hundred and fifty
roubles. Now, do you not call that base?”
“It is hardly an exact statement of the case,” said the prince in reply.
“You have confused your motives and ideas, as I need scarcely say too
often happens to myself. I can assure you, Keller, I reproach myself bitterly
for it sometimes. When you were talking just now I seemed to be listening
to something about myself. At times I have imagined that all men were the
same,” he continued earnestly, for he appeared to be much interested in the
conversation, “and that consoled me in a certain degree, for a double motive
is a thing most difficult to fight against. I have tried, and I know. God
knows whence they arise, these ideas that you speak of as base. I fear these
double motives more than ever just now, but I am not your judge, and in my
opinion it is going too far to give the name of baseness to it—what do you
think? You were going to employ your tears as a ruse in order to borrow
money, but you also say—in fact, you have sworn to the fact—that
independently of this your confession was made with an honourable motive.
As for the money, you want it for drink, do you not? After your confession,
that is weakness, of course; but, after all, how can anyone give up a bad
habit at a moment’s notice? It is impossible. What can we do? It is best, I
think, to leave the matter to your own conscience. How does it seem to
you?” As he concluded the prince looked curiously at Keller; evidently this
problem of double motives had often been considered by him before.
“Well, how anybody can call you an idiot after that, is more than I can
understand!” cried the boxer.
The prince reddened slightly.
“Bourdaloue, the archbishop, would not have spared a man like me,”
Keller continued, “but you, you have judged me with humanity. To show
how grateful I am, and as a punishment, I will not accept a hundred and
fifty roubles. Give me twenty-five—that will be enough; it is all I really
need, for a fortnight at least. I will not ask you for more for a fortnight. I
should like to have given Agatha a present, but she does not really deserve
it. Oh, my dear prince, God bless you!”
At this moment Lebedeff appeared, having just arrived from Petersburg.
He frowned when he saw the twenty-five rouble note in Keller’s hand, but
the latter, having got the money, went away at once. Lebedeff began to
abuse him.
“You are unjust; I found him sincerely repentant,” observed the prince,
after listening for a time.
“What is the good of repentance like that? It is the same exactly as mine
yesterday, when I said, ‘I am base, I am base,’—words, and nothing more!”
“Then they were only words on your part? I thought, on the contrary…”
“Well, I don’t mind telling you the truth—you only! Because you see
through a man somehow. Words and actions, truth and falsehood, are all
jumbled up together in me, and yet I am perfectly sincere. I feel the deepest
repentance, believe it or not, as you choose; but words and lies come out in
the infernal craving to get the better of other people. It is always there—the
notion of cheating people, and of using my repentant tears to my own
advantage! I assure you this is the truth, prince! I would not tell any other
man for the world! He would laugh and jeer at me—but you, you judge a
man humanely.”
“Why, Keller said the same thing to me nearly word for word a few
minutes ago!” cried Muishkin. “And you both seem inclined to boast about
it! You astonish me, but I think he is more sincere than you, for you make a
regular trade of it. Oh, don’t put on that pathetic expression, and don’t put
your hand on your heart! Have you anything to say to me? You have not
come for nothing…”
Lebedeff grinned and wriggled.
“I have been waiting all day for you, because I want to ask you a
question; and, for once in your life, please tell me the truth at once. Had you
anything to do with that affair of the carriage yesterday?”
Lebedeff began to grin again, rubbed his hands, sneezed, but spoke not a
word in reply.
“I see you had something to do with it.”
“Indirectly, quite indirectly! I am speaking the truth—I am indeed! I
merely told a certain person that I had people in my house, and that such
and such personages might be found among them.”
“I am aware that you sent your son to that house—he told me so himself
just now, but what is this intrigue?” said the prince, impatiently.
“It is not my intrigue!” cried Lebedeff, waving his hand.
“It was engineered by other people, and is, properly speaking, rather a
fantasy than an intrigue!”
“But what is it all about? Tell me, for Heaven’s sake! Cannot you
understand how nearly it touches me? Why are they blackening Evgenie
Pavlovitch’s reputation?”
Lebedeff grimaced and wriggled again.
“Prince!” said he. “Excellency! You won’t let me tell you the whole truth;
I have tried to explain; more than once I have begun, but you have not
allowed me to go on…”
The prince gave no answer, and sat deep in thought. Evidently he was
struggling to decide.
“Very well! Tell me the truth,” he said, dejectedly.
“Aglaya Ivanovna…” began Lebedeff, promptly.
“Be silent! At once!” interrupted the prince, red with indignation, and
perhaps with shame, too. “It is impossible and absurd! All that has been
invented by you, or fools like you! Let me never hear you say a word again
on that subject!”
Late in the evening Colia came in with a whole budget of Petersburg and
Pavlofsk news. He did not dwell much on the Petersburg part of it, which
consisted chiefly of intelligence about his friend Hippolyte, but passed
quickly to the Pavlofsk tidings. He had gone straight to the Epanchins’ from
the station.
“There’s the deuce and all going on there!” he said. “First of all about the
row last night, and I think there must be something new as well, though I
didn’t like to ask. Not a word about you, prince, the whole time! The most
interesting fact was that Aglaya had been quarrelling with her people about
Gania. Colia did not know any details, except that it had been a terrible
quarrel! Also Evgenie Pavlovitch had called, and met with an excellent
reception all round. And another curious thing: Mrs. Epanchin was so angry
that she called Varia to her—Varia was talking to the girls—and turned her
out of the house ‘once for all’ she said. I heard it from Varia herself—Mrs.
Epanchin was quite polite, but firm; and when Varia said good-bye to the
girls, she told them nothing about it, and they didn’t know they were saying
goodbye for the last time. I’m sorry for Varia, and for Gania too; he isn’t
half a bad fellow, in spite of his faults, and I shall never forgive myself for
not liking him before! I don’t know whether I ought to continue to go to the
Epanchins’ now,” concluded Colia—“I like to be quite independent of
others, and of other people’s quarrels if I can; but I must think over it.”
“I don’t think you need break your heart over Gania,” said the prince;
“for if what you say is true, he must be considered dangerous in the
Epanchin household, and if so, certain hopes of his must have been
encouraged.”
“What? What hopes?” cried Colia; “you surely don’t mean Aglaya?—oh,
no!—”
“You’re a dreadful sceptic, prince,” he continued, after a moment’s
silence. “I have observed of late that you have grown sceptical about
everything. You don’t seem to believe in people as you did, and are always
attributing motives and so on—am I using the word ‘sceptic’ in its proper
sense?”
“I believe so; but I’m not sure.”
“Well, I’ll change it, right or wrong; I’ll say that you are not sceptical,
but jealous. There! you are deadly jealous of Gania, over a certain proud
damsel! Come!” Colia jumped up, with these words, and burst out laughing.
He laughed as he had perhaps never laughed before, and still more when he
saw the prince flushing up to his temples. He was delighted that the prince
should be jealous about Aglaya. However, he stopped immediately on
seeing that the other was really hurt, and the conversation continued, very
earnestly, for an hour or more.
Next day the prince had to go to town, on business. Returning in the
afternoon, he happened upon General Epanchin at the station. The latter
seized his hand, glancing around nervously, as if he were afraid of being
caught in wrong-doing, and dragged him into a first-class compartment. He
was burning to speak about something of importance.
“In the first place, my dear prince, don’t be angry with me. I would have
come to see you yesterday, but I didn’t know how Lizabetha Prokofievna
would take it. My dear fellow, my house is simply a hell just now, a sort of
sphinx has taken up its abode there. We live in an atmosphere of riddles; I
can’t make head or tail of anything. As for you, I feel sure you are the least
to blame of any of us, though you certainly have been the cause of a good
deal of trouble. You see, it’s all very pleasant to be a philanthropist; but it
can be carried too far. Of course I admire kind-heartedness, and I esteem
my wife, but—”
The general wandered on in this disconnected way for a long time; it was
clear that he was much disturbed by some circumstance which he could
make nothing of.
“It is plain to me, that you are not in it at all,” he continued, at last, a little
less vaguely, “but perhaps you had better not come to our house for a little
while. I ask you in the friendliest manner, mind; just till the wind changes
again. As for Evgenie Pavlovitch,” he continued with some excitement, “the
whole thing is a calumny, a dirty calumny. It is simply a plot, an intrigue, to
upset our plans and to stir up a quarrel. You see, prince, I’ll tell you
privately, Evgenie and ourselves have not said a word yet, we have no
formal understanding, we are in no way bound on either side, but the word
may be said very soon, don’t you see, very soon, and all this is most
injurious, and is meant to be so. Why? I’m sure I can’t tell you. She’s an
extraordinary woman, you see, an eccentric woman; I tell you I am so
frightened of that woman that I can’t sleep. What a carriage that was, and
where did it come from, eh? I declare, I was base enough to suspect
Evgenie at first; but it seems certain that that cannot be the case, and if so,
