most intelligent. Yet his smile, in spite of its sweetness, was a little thin, if I
may so call it, and showed his teeth too evenly; his gaze though decidedly
good-humoured and ingenuous, was a trifle too inquisitive and intent to be
altogether agreeable.
“Probably when he is alone he looks quite different, and hardly smiles at
all!” thought the prince.
He explained about himself in a few words, very much the same as he
had told the footman and Rogojin beforehand.
Gavrila Ardalionovitch meanwhile seemed to be trying to recall
something.
“Was it not you, then, who sent a letter a year or less ago—from
Switzerland, I think it was—to Elizabetha Prokofievna (Mrs. Epanchin)?”
“It was.”
“Oh, then, of course they will remember who you are. You wish to see
the general? I’ll tell him at once—he will be free in a minute; but you—you
had better wait in the ante-chamber,—hadn’t you? Why is he here?” he
added, severely, to the man.
“I tell you, sir, he wished it himself!”
At this moment the study door opened, and a military man, with a
portfolio under his arm, came out talking loudly, and after bidding good-bye
to someone inside, took his departure.
“You there, Gania?” cried a voice from the study, “come in here, will
you?”
Gavrila Ardalionovitch nodded to the prince and entered the room hastily.
A couple of minutes later the door opened again and the affable voice of
Gania cried:
“Come in please, prince!”
III.
General Ivan Fedorovitch Epanchin was standing in the middle of the
room, and gazed with great curiosity at the prince as he entered. He even
advanced a couple of steps to meet him.
The prince came forward and introduced himself.
“Quite so,” replied the general, “and what can I do for you?”
“Oh, I have no special business; my principal object was to make your
acquaintance. I should not like to disturb you. I do not know your times and
arrangements here, you see, but I have only just arrived. I came straight
from the station. I am come direct from Switzerland.”
The general very nearly smiled, but thought better of it and kept his smile
back. Then he reflected, blinked his eyes, stared at his guest once more
from head to foot; then abruptly motioned him to a chair, sat down himself,
and waited with some impatience for the prince to speak.
Gania stood at his table in the far corner of the room, turning over papers.
“I have not much time for making acquaintances, as a rule,” said the
general, “but as, of course, you have your object in coming, I—”
“I felt sure you would think I had some object in view when I resolved to
pay you this visit,” the prince interrupted; “but I give you my word, beyond
the pleasure of making your acquaintance I had no personal object
whatever.”
“The pleasure is, of course, mutual; but life is not all pleasure, as you are
aware. There is such a thing as business, and I really do not see what
possible reason there can be, or what we have in common to—”
“Oh, there is no reason, of course, and I suppose there is nothing in
common between us, or very little; for if I am Prince Muishkin, and your
wife happens to be a member of my house, that can hardly be called a
‘reason.’ I quite understand that. And yet that was my whole motive for
coming. You see I have not been in Russia for four years, and knew very
little about anything when I left. I had been very ill for a long time, and I
feel now the need of a few good friends. In fact, I have a certain question
upon which I much need advice, and do not know whom to go to for it. I
thought of your family when I was passing through Berlin. ‘They are almost
relations,’ I said to myself, ‘so I’ll begin with them; perhaps we may get on
with each other, I with them and they with me, if they are kind people;’ and
I have heard that you are very kind people!”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, I’m sure,” replied the general, considerably
taken aback. “May I ask where you have taken up your quarters?”
“Nowhere, as yet.”
“What, straight from the station to my house? And how about your
luggage?”
“I only had a small bundle, containing linen, with me, nothing more. I
can carry it in my hand, easily. There will be plenty of time to take a room
in some hotel by the evening.”
“Oh, then you do intend to take a room?”
“Of course.”
“To judge from your words, you came straight to my house with the
intention of staying there.”
“That could only have been on your invitation. I confess, however, that I
should not have stayed here even if you had invited me, not for any
particular reason, but because it is—well, contrary to my practice and
nature, somehow.”
“Oh, indeed! Then it is perhaps as well that I neither did invite you, nor
do invite you now. Excuse me, prince, but we had better make this matter
clear, once for all. We have just agreed that with regard to our relationship
there is not much to be said, though, of course, it would have been very
delightful to us to feel that such relationship did actually exist; therefore,
perhaps—”
“Therefore, perhaps I had better get up and go away?” said the prince,
laughing merrily as he rose from his place; just as merrily as though the
circumstances were by no means strained or difficult. “And I give you my
word, general, that though I know nothing whatever of manners and
customs of society, and how people live and all that, yet I felt quite sure that
this visit of mine would end exactly as it has ended now. Oh, well, I
suppose it’s all right; especially as my letter was not answered. Well, good-
bye, and forgive me for having disturbed you!”
The prince’s expression was so good-natured at this moment, and so
entirely free from even a suspicion of unpleasant feeling was the smile with
which he looked at the general as he spoke, that the latter suddenly paused,
and appeared to gaze at his guest from quite a new point of view, all in an
instant.
“Do you know, prince,” he said, in quite a different tone, “I do not know
you at all, yet, and after all, Elizabetha Prokofievna would very likely be
pleased to have a peep at a man of her own name. Wait a little, if you don’t
mind, and if you have time to spare?”
“Oh, I assure you I’ve lots of time, my time is entirely my own!” And the
prince immediately replaced his soft, round hat on the table. “I confess, I
thought Elizabetha Prokofievna would very likely remember that I had
written her a letter. Just now your servant—outside there—was dreadfully
suspicious that I had come to beg of you. I noticed that! Probably he has
very strict instructions on that score; but I assure you I did not come to beg.
I came to make some friends. But I am rather bothered at having disturbed
you; that’s all I care about.—”
“Look here, prince,” said the general, with a cordial smile, “if you really
are the sort of man you appear to be, it may be a source of great pleasure to
us to make your better acquaintance; but, you see, I am a very busy man,
and have to be perpetually sitting here and signing papers, or off to see his
excellency, or to my department, or somewhere; so that though I should be
glad to see more of people, nice people—you see, I—however, I am sure
you are so well brought up that you will see at once, and—but how old are
you, prince?”
“Twenty-six.”
“No? I thought you very much younger.”
“Yes, they say I have a ‘young’ face. As to disturbing you I shall soon
learn to avoid doing that, for I hate disturbing people. Besides, you and I are
so differently constituted, I should think, that there must be very little in
common between us. Not that I will ever believe there is nothing in
common between any two people, as some declare is the case. I am sure
people make a great mistake in sorting each other into groups, by
appearances; but I am boring you, I see, you—”
“Just two words: have you any means at all? Or perhaps you may be
intending to undertake some sort of employment? Excuse my questioning
you, but—”
“Oh, my dear sir, I esteem and understand your kindness in putting the
question. No; at present I have no means whatever, and no employment
either, but I hope to find some. I was living on other people abroad.
Schneider, the professor who treated me and taught me, too, in Switzerland,
gave me just enough money for my journey, so that now I have but a few
copecks left. There certainly is one question upon which I am anxious to
have advice, but—”
“Tell me, how do you intend to live now, and what are your plans?”
interrupted the general.
“I wish to work, somehow or other.”
“Oh yes, but then, you see, you are a philosopher. Have you any talents,
or ability in any direction—that is, any that would bring in money and
bread? Excuse me again—”
“Oh, don’t apologize. No, I don’t think I have either talents or special
abilities of any kind; on the contrary. I have always been an invalid and
unable to learn much. As for bread, I should think—”
The general interrupted once more with questions; while the prince again
replied with the narrative we have heard before. It appeared that the general
had known Pavlicheff; but why the latter had taken an interest in the prince,
that young gentleman could not explain; probably by virtue of the old
friendship with his father, he thought.
The prince had been left an orphan when quite a little child, and
Pavlicheff had entrusted him to an old lady, a relative of his own, living in
the country, the child needing the fresh air and exercise of country life. He
was educated, first by a governess, and afterwards by a tutor, but could not
remember much about this time of his life. His fits were so frequent then,
that they made almost an idiot of him (the prince used the expression
“idiot” himself). Pavlicheff had met Professor Schneider in Berlin, and the
latter had persuaded him to send the boy to Switzerland, to Schneider’s
establishment there, for the cure of his epilepsy, and, five years before this
time, the prince was sent off. But Pavlicheff had died two or three years
since, and Schneider had himself supported the young fellow, from that day
to this, at his own expense. Although he had not quite cured him, he had
greatly improved his condition; and now, at last, at the prince’s own desire,
and because of a certain matter which came to the ears of the latter,
Schneider had despatched the young man to Russia.
The general was much astonished.
“Then you have no one, absolutely no one in Russia?” he asked.
“No one, at present; but I hope to make friends; and then I have a letter
from—”
“At all events,” put in the general, not listening to the news about the
letter, “at all events, you must have learned something, and your malady
would not prevent your undertaking some easy work, in one of the
departments, for instance?”
“Oh dear no, oh no! As for a situation, I should much like to find one for
I am anxious to discover what I really am fit for. I have learned a good deal
in the last four years, and, besides, I read a great many Russian books.”
“Russian books, indeed? Then, of course, you can read and write quite
correctly?”
“Oh dear, yes!”
“Capital! And your handwriting?”
“Ah, there I am really talented! I may say I am a real caligraphist. Let me
write you something, just to show you,” said the prince, with some
excitement.
“With pleasure! In fact, it is very necessary. I like your readiness, prince;
in fact, I must say—I—I—like you very well, altogether,” said the general.
“What delightful writing materials you have here, such a lot of pencils
and things, and what beautiful paper! It’s a charming room altogether. I
know that picture, it’s a Swiss view. I’m sure the artist painted it from
nature, and that I have seen the very place—”
“Quite likely, though I bought it here. Gania, give the prince some paper.
Here are pens and paper; now then, take this table. What’s this?” the general
continued to Gania, who had that moment taken a large photograph out of
his portfolio, and shown it to his senior. “Halloa! Nastasia Philipovna! Did
she send it you herself? Herself?” he inquired, with much curiosity and
great animation.
“She gave it me just now, when I called in to congratulate her. I asked her
for it long ago. I don’t know whether she meant it for a hint that I had come
empty-handed, without a present for her birthday, or what,” added Gania,
with an unpleasant smile.
“Oh, nonsense, nonsense,” said the general, with decision. “What
extraordinary ideas you have, Gania! As if she would hint; that’s not her
way at all. Besides, what could you give her, without having thousands at
your disposal? You might have given her your portrait, however. Has she
ever asked you for it?”
“No, not yet. Very likely she never will. I suppose you haven’t forgotten
about tonight, have you, Ivan Fedorovitch? You were one of those specially
invited, you know.”
“Oh no, I remember all right, and I shall go, of course. I should think so!
She’s twenty-five years old today! And, you know, Gania, you must be
ready for great things; she has promised both myself and Afanasy
Ivanovitch that she will give a decided answer tonight, yes or no. So be
prepared!”
Gania suddenly became so ill at ease that his face grew paler than ever.
“Are you sure she said that?” he asked, and his voice seemed to quiver as
he spoke.
“Yes, she promised. We both worried her so that she gave in; but she
wished us to tell you nothing about it until the day.”
The general watched Gania’s confusion intently, and clearly did not like
it.
“Remember, Ivan Fedorovitch,” said Gania, in great agitation, “that I was
to be free too, until her decision; and that even then I was to have my ‘yes
or no’ free.”
“Why, don’t you, aren’t you—” began the general, in alarm.
“Oh, don’t misunderstand—”
“But, my dear fellow, what are you doing, what do you mean?”
“Oh, I’m not rejecting her. I may have expressed myself badly, but I
didn’t mean that.”
“Reject her! I should think not!” said the general with annoyance, and
apparently not in the least anxious to conceal it. “Why, my dear fellow, it’s
not a question of your rejecting her, it is whether you are prepared to
receive her consent joyfully, and with proper satisfaction. How are things
going on at home?”
“At home? Oh, I can do as I like there, of course; only my father will
make a fool of himself, as usual. He is rapidly becoming a general nuisance.
I don’t ever talk to him now, but I hold him in check, safe enough. I swear if
it had not been for my mother, I should have shown him the way out, long
ago. My mother is always crying, of course, and my sister sulks. I had to
tell them at last that I intended to be master of my own destiny, and that I
expect to be obeyed at home. At least, I gave my sister to understand as
much, and my mother was present.”
“Well, I must say, I cannot understand it!” said the general, shrugging his
shoulders and dropping his hands. “You remember your mother, Nina
Alexandrovna, that day she came and sat here and groaned—and when I
asked her what was the matter, she says, ‘Oh, it’s such a dishonour to us!’
dishonour! Stuff and nonsense! I should like to know who can reproach
Nastasia Philipovna, or who can say a word of any kind against her. Did she
mean because Nastasia had been living with Totski? What nonsense it is!
You would not let her come near your daughters, says Nina Alexandrovna.
What next, I wonder? I don’t see how she can fail to—to understand—”
“Her own position?” prompted Gania. “She does understand. Don’t be
annoyed with her. I have warned her not to meddle in other people’s affairs.
However, although there’s comparative peace at home at present, the storm
will break if anything is finally settled tonight.”
The prince heard the whole of the foregoing conversation, as he sat at the
table, writing. He finished at last, and brought the result of his labour to the
general’s desk.
“So this is Nastasia Philipovna,” he said, looking attentively and
curiously at the portrait. “How wonderfully beautiful!” he immediately
added, with warmth. The picture was certainly that of an unusually lovely
woman. She was photographed in a black silk dress of simple design, her
hair was evidently dark and plainly arranged, her eyes were deep and
thoughtful, the expression of her face passionate, but proud. She was rather
thin, perhaps, and a little pale. Both Gania and the general gazed at the
prince in amazement.
“How do you know it’s Nastasia Philipovna?” asked the general; “you
surely don’t know her already, do you?”
“Yes, I do! I have only been one day in Russia, but I have heard of the
great beauty!” And the prince proceeded to narrate his meeting with
Rogojin in the train and the whole of the latter’s story.
“There’s news!” said the general in some excitement, after listening to
the story with engrossed attention.
“Oh, of course it’s nothing but humbug!” cried Gania, a little disturbed,
however. “It’s all humbug; the young merchant was pleased to indulge in a
little innocent recreation! I have heard something of Rogojin!”
“Yes, so have I!” replied the general. “Nastasia Philipovna told us all
about the earrings that very day. But now it is quite a different matter. You
see the fellow really has a million of roubles, and he is passionately in love.
The whole story smells of passion, and we all know what this class of
gentry is capable of when infatuated. I am much afraid of some
disagreeable scandal, I am indeed!”
“You are afraid of the million, I suppose,” said Gania, grinning and
showing his teeth.
“And you are not, I presume, eh?”
“How did he strike you, prince?” asked Gania, suddenly. “Did he seem to
be a serious sort of a man, or just a common rowdy fellow? What was your
own opinion about the matter?”
While Gania put this question, a new idea suddenly flashed into his brain,
and blazed out, impatiently, in his eyes. The general, who was really
agitated and disturbed, looked at the prince too, but did not seem to expect
much from his reply.
“I really don’t quite know how to tell you,” replied the prince, “but it
certainly did seem to me that the man was full of passion, and not, perhaps,
quite healthy passion. He seemed to be still far from well. Very likely he
will be in bed again in a day or two, especially if he lives fast.”
“No! do you think so?” said the general, catching at the idea.
“Yes, I do think so!”
“Yes, but the sort of scandal I referred to may happen at any moment. It
may be this very evening,” remarked Gania to the general, with a smile.
“Of course; quite so. In that case it all depends upon what is going on in
her brain at this moment.”
“You know the kind of person she is at times.”
“How? What kind of person is she?” cried the general, arrived at the
limits of his patience. “Look here, Gania, don’t you go annoying her
tonight. What you are to do is to be as agreeable towards her as ever you
can. Well, what are you smiling at? You must understand, Gania, that I have
no interest whatever in speaking like this. Whichever way the question is
settled, it will be to my advantage. Nothing will move Totski from his
resolution, so I run no risk. If there is anything I desire, you must know that
it is your benefit only. Can’t you trust me? You are a sensible fellow, and I
have been counting on you; for, in this matter, that, that—”
“Yes, that’s the chief thing,” said Gania, helping the general out of his
difficulties again, and curling his lips in an envenomed smile, which he did
not attempt to conceal. He gazed with his fevered eyes straight into those of
the general, as though he were anxious that the latter might read his
thoughts.
The general grew purple with anger.
“Yes, of course it is the chief thing!” he cried, looking sharply at Gania.
“What a very curious man you are, Gania! You actually seem to be glad to
hear of this millionaire fellow’s arrival—just as though you wished for an
excuse to get out of the whole thing. This is an affair in which you ought to
act honestly with both sides, and give due warning, to avoid compromising
others. But, even now, there is still time. Do you understand me? I wish to
know whether you desire this arrangement or whether you do not? If not,
say so,—and—and welcome! No one is trying to force you into the snare,
Gavrila Ardalionovitch, if you see a snare in the matter, at least.”
“I do desire it,” murmured Gania, softly but firmly, lowering his eyes;
and he relapsed into gloomy silence.
The general was satisfied. He had excited himself, and was evidently
now regretting that he had gone so far. He turned to the prince, and
suddenly the disagreeable thought of the latter’s presence struck him, and
the certainty that he must have heard every word of the conversation. But
he felt at ease in another moment; it only needed one glance at the prince to
see that in that quarter there was nothing to fear.
“Oh!” cried the general, catching sight of the prince’s specimen of
caligraphy, which the latter had now handed him for inspection. “Why, this
is simply beautiful; look at that, Gania, there’s real talent there!”
On a sheet of thick writing-paper the prince had written in medieval
characters the legend:
“The gentle Abbot Pafnute signed this.”
“There,” explained the prince, with great delight and animation, “there,
that’s the abbot’s real signature—from a manuscript of the fourteenth
century. All these old abbots and bishops used to write most beautifully,
with such taste and so much care and diligence. Have you no copy of
Pogodin, general? If you had one I could show you another type. Stop a bit
—here you have the large round writing common in France during the
eighteenth century. Some of the letters are shaped quite differently from
those now in use. It was the writing current then, and employed by public
writers generally. I copied this from one of them, and you can see how good
it is. Look at the well-rounded a and d. I have tried to translate the French
character into the Russian letters—a difficult thing to do, but I think I have
succeeded fairly. Here is a fine sentence, written in a good, original hand
—‘Zeal triumphs over all.’ That is the script of the Russian War Office.
That is how official documents addressed to important personages should
be written. The letters are round, the type black, and the style somewhat
remarkable. A stylist would not allow these ornaments, or attempts at
flourishes—just look at these unfinished tails!—but it has distinction and
really depicts the soul of the writer. He would like to give play to his
imagination, and follow the inspiration of his genius, but a soldier is only at
ease in the guard-room, and the pen stops half-way, a slave to discipline.
How delightful! The first time I met an example of this handwriting, I was
positively astonished, and where do you think I chanced to find it? In
Switzerland, of all places! Now that is an ordinary English hand. It can
hardly be improved, it is so refined and exquisite—almost perfection. This
is an example of another kind, a mixture of styles. The copy was given me
by a French commercial traveller. It is founded on the English, but the
downstrokes are a little blacker, and more marked. Notice that the oval has
some slight modification—it is more rounded. This writing allows for
flourishes; now a flourish is a dangerous thing! Its use requires such taste,
but, if successful, what a distinction it gives to the whole! It results in an
incomparable type—one to fall in love with!”
“Dear me! How you have gone into all the refinements and details of the
question! Why, my dear fellow, you are not a caligraphist, you are an artist!
Eh, Gania?”
“Wonderful!” said Gania. “And he knows it too,” he added, with a
sarcastic smile.
“You may smile,—but there’s a career in this,” said the general. “You
don’t know what a great personage I shall show this to, prince. Why, you
can command a situation at thirty-five roubles per month to start with.
However, it’s half-past twelve,” he concluded, looking at his watch; “so to
business, prince, for I must be setting to work and shall not see you again
today. Sit down a minute. I have told you that I cannot receive you myself
very often, but I should like to be of some assistance to you, some small
assistance, of a kind that would give you satisfaction. I shall find you a
place in one of the State departments, an easy place—but you will require
to be accurate. Now, as to your plans—in the house, or rather in the family
of Gania here—my young friend, whom I hope you will know better—his
mother and sister have prepared two or three rooms for lodgers, and let
them to highly recommended young fellows, with board and attendance. I
am sure Nina Alexandrovna will take you in on my recommendation. There
you will be comfortable and well taken care of; for I do not think, prince,
that you are the sort of man to be left to the mercy of Fate in a town like
Petersburg. Nina Alexandrovna, Gania’s mother, and Varvara
Alexandrovna, are ladies for whom I have the highest possible esteem and
respect. Nina Alexandrovna is the wife of General Ardalion Alexandrovitch,
my old brother in arms, with whom, I regret to say, on account of certain
circumstances, I am no longer acquainted. I give you all this information,
prince, in order to make it clear to you that I am personally recommending
you to this family, and that in so doing, I am more or less taking upon
myself to answer for you. The terms are most reasonable, and I trust that
your salary will very shortly prove amply sufficient for your expenditure.
Of course pocket-money is a necessity, if only a little; do not be angry,
prince, if I strongly recommend you to avoid carrying money in your
pocket. But as your purse is quite empty at the present moment, you must
allow me to press these twenty-five roubles upon your acceptance, as
something to begin with. Of course we will settle this little matter another
time, and if you are the upright, honest man you look, I anticipate very little
trouble between us on that score. Taking so much interest in you as you
may perceive I do, I am not without my object, and you shall know it in
good time. You see, I am perfectly candid with you. I hope, Gania, you have
nothing to say against the prince’s taking up his abode in your house?”
“Oh, on the contrary! my mother will be very glad,” said Gania,
courteously and kindly.
“I think only one of your rooms is engaged as yet, is it not? That fellow
Ferd-Ferd—”
“Ferdishenko.”
“Yes—I don’t like that Ferdishenko. I can’t understand why Nastasia
Philipovna encourages him so. Is he really her cousin, as he says?”
“Oh dear no, it’s all a joke. No more cousin than I am.”
“Well, what do you think of the arrangement, prince?”
“Thank you, general; you have behaved very kindly to me; all the more
so since I did not ask you to help me. I don’t say that out of pride. I
certainly did not know where to lay my head tonight. Rogojin asked me to
come to his house, of course, but—”
“Rogojin? No, no, my good fellow. I should strongly recommend you,
paternally,—or, if you prefer it, as a friend,—to forget all about Rogojin,
and, in fact, to stick to the family into which you are about to enter.”
“Thank you,” began the prince; “and since you are so very kind there is
just one matter which I—”
“You must really excuse me,” interrupted the general, “but I positively
haven’t another moment now. I shall just tell Elizabetha Prokofievna about
you, and if she wishes to receive you at once—as I shall advise her—I
strongly recommend you to ingratiate yourself with her at the first
opportunity, for my wife may be of the greatest service to you in many
ways. If she cannot receive you now, you must be content to wait till
another time. Meanwhile you, Gania, just look over these accounts, will
you? We mustn’t forget to finish off that matter—”
The general left the room, and the prince never succeeded in broaching
the business which he had on hand, though he had endeavoured to do so
four times.
Gania lit a cigarette and offered one to the prince. The latter accepted the
offer, but did not talk, being unwilling to disturb Gania’s work. He
commenced to examine the study and its contents. But Gania hardly so
much as glanced at the papers lying before him; he was absent and
thoughtful, and his smile and general appearance struck the prince still
more disagreeably now that the two were left alone together.
Suddenly Gania approached our hero who was at the moment standing
over Nastasia Philipovna’s portrait, gazing at it.
“Do you admire that sort of woman, prince?” he asked, looking intently
at him. He seemed to have some special object in the question.
