“I cannot boast of any such knowledge, of course, but I wished to know
your name.”
He bowed and retired without waiting for an answer.
Five seconds after the disappearance of the last actor in this scene, the
police arrived. The whole episode had not lasted more than a couple of
minutes. Some of the spectators had risen from their places, and departed
altogether; some merely exchanged their seats for others a little further off;
some were delighted with the occurrence, and talked and laughed over it for
a long time.
In a word, the incident closed as such incidents do, and the band began to
play again. The prince walked away after the Epanchin party. Had he
thought of looking round to the left after he had been pushed so
unceremoniously into the chair, he would have observed Aglaya standing
some twenty yards away. She had stayed to watch the scandalous scene in
spite of her mother’s and sisters’ anxious cries to her to come away.
Prince S. ran up to her and persuaded her, at last, to come home with
them.
Lizabetha Prokofievna saw that she returned in such a state of agitation
that it was doubtful whether she had even heard their calls. But only a
couple of minutes later, when they had reached the park, Aglaya suddenly
remarked, in her usual calm, indifferent voice:
“I wanted to see how the farce would end.”
III.
The occurrence at the Vauxhall had filled both mother and daughters with
something like horror. In their excitement Lizabetha Prokofievna and the
girls were nearly running all the way home.
In her opinion there was so much disclosed and laid bare by the episode,
that, in spite of the chaotic condition of her mind, she was able to feel more
or less decided on certain points which, up to now, had been in a cloudy
condition.
However, one and all of the party realized that something important had
happened, and that, perhaps fortunately enough, something which had
hitherto been enveloped in the obscurity of guess-work had now begun to
come forth a little from the mists. In spite of Prince S.‘s assurances and
explanations, Evgenie Pavlovitch’s real character and position were at last
coming to light. He was publicly convicted of intimacy with “that creature.”
So thought Lizabetha Prokofievna and her two elder daughters.
But the real upshot of the business was that the number of riddles to be
solved was augmented. The two girls, though rather irritated at their
mother’s exaggerated alarm and haste to depart from the scene, had been
unwilling to worry her at first with questions.
Besides, they could not help thinking that their sister Aglaya probably
knew more about the whole matter than both they and their mother put
together.
Prince S. looked as black as night, and was silent and moody. Mrs.
Epanchin did not say a word to him all the way home, and he did not seem
to observe the fact. Adelaida tried to pump him a little by asking, “who was
the uncle they were talking about, and what was it that had happened in
Petersburg?” But he had merely muttered something disconnected about
“making inquiries,” and that “of course it was all nonsense.” “Oh, of
course,” replied Adelaida, and asked no more questions. Aglaya, too, was
very quiet; and the only remark she made on the way home was that they
were “walking much too fast to be pleasant.”
Once she turned and observed the prince hurrying after them. Noticing
his anxiety to catch them up, she smiled ironically, and then looked back no
more. At length, just as they neared the house, General Epanchin came out
and met them; he had only just arrived from town.
His first word was to inquire after Evgenie Pavlovitch. But Lizabetha
stalked past him, and neither looked at him nor answered his question.
He immediately judged from the faces of his daughters and Prince S. that
there was a thunderstorm brewing, and he himself already bore evidences of
unusual perturbation of mind.
He immediately button-holed Prince S., and standing at the front door,
engaged in a whispered conversation with him. By the troubled aspect of
both of them, when they entered the house, and approached Mrs. Epanchin,
it was evident that they had been discussing very disturbing news.
Little by little the family gathered together upstairs in Lizabetha
Prokofievna’s apartments, and Prince Muishkin found himself alone on the
verandah when he arrived. He settled himself in a corner and sat waiting,
though he knew not what he expected. It never struck him that he had better
go away, with all this disturbance in the house. He seemed to have forgotten
all the world, and to be ready to sit on where he was for years on end. From
upstairs he caught sounds of excited conversation every now and then.
He could not say how long he sat there. It grew late and became quite
dark.
Suddenly Aglaya entered the verandah. She seemed to be quite calm,
though a little pale.
Observing the prince, whom she evidently did not expect to see there,
alone in the corner, she smiled, and approached him:
“What are you doing there?” she asked.
The prince muttered something, blushed, and jumped up; but Aglaya
immediately sat down beside him; so he reseated himself.
She looked suddenly, but attentively into his face, then at the window, as
though thinking of something else, and then again at him.
“Perhaps she wants to laugh at me,” thought the prince, “but no; for if
she did she certainly would do so.”
“Would you like some tea? I’ll order some,” she said, after a minute or
two of silence.
“N-no thanks, I don’t know—”
“Don’t know! How can you not know? By-the-by, look here—if someone
were to challenge you to a duel, what should you do? I wished to ask you
this—some time ago—”
“Why? Nobody would ever challenge me to a duel!”
“But if they were to, would you be dreadfully frightened?”
“I dare say I should be—much alarmed!”
“Seriously? Then are you a coward?”
“N-no!—I don’t think so. A coward is a man who is afraid and runs
away; the man who is frightened but does not run away, is not quite a
coward,” said the prince with a smile, after a moment’s thought.
“And you wouldn’t run away?”
“No—I don’t think I should run away,” replied the prince, laughing
outright at last at Aglaya’s questions.
“Though I am a woman, I should certainly not run away for anything,”
said Aglaya, in a slightly pained voice. “However, I see you are laughing at
me and twisting your face up as usual in order to make yourself look more
interesting. Now tell me, they generally shoot at twenty paces, don’t they?
At ten, sometimes? I suppose if at ten they must be either wounded or
killed, mustn’t they?”
“I don’t think they often kill each other at duels.”
“They killed Pushkin that way.”
“That may have been an accident.”
“Not a bit of it; it was a duel to the death, and he was killed.”
“The bullet struck so low down that probably his antagonist would never
have aimed at that part of him—people never do; he would have aimed at
his chest or head; so that probably the bullet hit him accidentally. I have
been told this by competent authorities.”
“Well, a soldier once told me that they were always ordered to aim at the
middle of the body. So you see they don’t aim at the chest or head; they aim
lower on purpose. I asked some officer about this afterwards, and he said it
was perfectly true.”
“That is probably when they fire from a long distance.”
“Can you shoot at all?”
“No, I have never shot in my life.”
“Can’t you even load a pistol?”
“No! That is, I understand how it’s done, of course, but I have never done
it.”
“Then, you don’t know how, for it is a matter that needs practice. Now
listen and learn; in the first place buy good powder, not damp (they say it
mustn’t be at all damp, but very dry), some fine kind it is—you must ask for
pistol powder, not the stuff they load cannons with. They say one makes the
bullets oneself, somehow or other. Have you got a pistol?”
“No—and I don’t want one,” said the prince, laughing.
“Oh, what nonsense! You must buy one. French or English are the best,
they say. Then take a little powder, about a thimbleful, or perhaps two, and
pour it into the barrel. Better put plenty. Then push in a bit of felt (it must be
felt, for some reason or other); you can easily get a bit off some old
mattress, or off a door; it’s used to keep the cold out. Well, when you have
pushed the felt down, put the bullet in; do you hear now? The bullet last and
the powder first, not the other way, or the pistol won’t shoot. What are you
laughing at? I wish you to buy a pistol and practise every day, and you must
learn to hit a mark for certain; will you?”
The prince only laughed. Aglaya stamped her foot with annoyance.
Her serious air, however, during this conversation had surprised him
considerably. He had a feeling that he ought to be asking her something,
that there was something he wanted to find out far more important than how
to load a pistol; but his thoughts had all scattered, and he was only aware
that she was sitting by him, and talking to him, and that he was looking at
her; as to what she happened to be saying to him, that did not matter in the
least.
The general now appeared on the verandah, coming from upstairs. He
was on his way out, with an expression of determination on his face, and of
preoccupation and worry also.
“Ah! Lef Nicolaievitch, it’s you, is it? Where are you off to now?” he
asked, oblivious of the fact that the prince had not showed the least sign of
moving. “Come along with me; I want to say a word or two to you.”
“Au revoir, then!” said Aglaya, holding out her hand to the prince.
It was quite dark now, and Muishkin could not see her face clearly, but a
minute or two later, when he and the general had left the villa, he suddenly
flushed up, and squeezed his right hand tightly.
It appeared that he and the general were going in the same direction. In
spite of the lateness of the hour, the general was hurrying away to talk to
someone upon some important subject. Meanwhile he talked incessantly but
disconnectedly to the prince, and continually brought in the name of
Lizabetha Prokofievna.
If the prince had been in a condition to pay more attention to what the
general was saying, he would have discovered that the latter was desirous of
drawing some information out of him, or indeed of asking him some
question outright; but that he could not make up his mind to come to the
point.
Muishkin was so absent, that from the very first he could not attend to a
word the other was saying; and when the general suddenly stopped before
him with some excited question, he was obliged to confess, ignominiously,
that he did not know in the least what he had been talking about.
The general shrugged his shoulders.
“How strange everyone, yourself included, has become of late,” said he.
“I was telling you that I cannot in the least understand Lizabetha
Prokofievna’s ideas and agitations. She is in hysterics up there, and moans
and says that we have been ‘shamed and disgraced.’ How? Why? When? By
whom? I confess that I am very much to blame myself; I do not conceal the
fact; but the conduct, the outrageous behaviour of this woman, must really
be kept within limits, by the police if necessary, and I am just on my way
now to talk the question over and make some arrangements. It can all be
managed quietly and gently, even kindly, and without the slightest fuss or
scandal. I foresee that the future is pregnant with events, and that there is
much that needs explanation. There is intrigue in the wind; but if on one
side nothing is known, on the other side nothing will be explained. If I have
heard nothing about it, nor have you, nor he, nor she—who has heard about
it, I should like to know? How can all this be explained except by the fact
that half of it is mirage or moonshine, or some hallucination of that sort?”
“She is insane,” muttered the prince, suddenly recollecting all that had
passed, with a spasm of pain at his heart.
“I too had that idea, and I slept in peace. But now I see that their opinion
is more correct. I do not believe in the theory of madness! The woman has
no common sense; but she is not only not insane, she is artful to a degree.
Her outburst of this evening about Evgenie’s uncle proves that conclusively.
It was villainous, simply jesuitical, and it was all for some special purpose.”
“What about Evgenie’s uncle?”
“My goodness, Lef Nicolaievitch, why, you can’t have heard a single
word I said! Look at me, I’m still trembling all over with the dreadful
shock! It is that that kept me in town so late. Evgenie Pavlovitch’s uncle—”
“Well?” cried the prince.
“Shot himself this morning, at seven o’clock. A respected, eminent old
man of seventy; and exactly point for point as she described it; a sum of
money, a considerable sum of government money, missing!”
“Why, how could she—”
“What, know of it? Ha, ha, ha! Why, there was a whole crowd round her
the moment she appeared on the scenes here. You know what sort of people
surround her nowadays, and solicit the honour of her ‘acquaintance.’ Of
course she might easily have heard the news from someone coming from
town. All Petersburg, if not all Pavlofsk, knows it by now. Look at the
slyness of her observation about Evgenie’s uniform! I mean, her remark that
he had retired just in time! There’s a venomous hint for you, if you like! No,
no! there’s no insanity there! Of course I refuse to believe that Evgenie
Pavlovitch could have known beforehand of the catastrophe; that is, that at
such and such a day at seven o’clock, and all that; but he might well have
had a presentiment of the truth. And I—all of us—Prince S. and everybody,
believed that he was to inherit a large fortune from this uncle. It’s dreadful,
horrible! Mind, I don’t suspect Evgenie of anything, be quite clear on that
point; but the thing is a little suspicious, nevertheless. Prince S. can’t get
over it. Altogether it is a very extraordinary combination of circumstances.”
“What suspicion attaches to Evgenie Pavlovitch?”
“Oh, none at all! He has behaved very well indeed. I didn’t mean to drop
any sort of hint. His own fortune is intact, I believe. Lizabetha Prokofievna,
of course, refuses to listen to anything. That’s the worst of it all, these
family catastrophes or quarrels, or whatever you like to call them. You
know, prince, you are a friend of the family, so I don’t mind telling you; it
now appears that Evgenie Pavlovitch proposed to Aglaya a month ago, and
was refused.”
“Impossible!” cried the prince.
“Why? Do you know anything about it? Look here,” continued the
general, more agitated than ever, and trembling with excitement, “maybe I
have been letting the cat out of the bag too freely with you, if so, it is
because you are—that sort of man, you know! Perhaps you have some
special information?”
“I know nothing about Evgenie Pavlovitch!” said the prince.
“Nor do I! They always try to bury me underground when there’s
anything going on; they don’t seem to reflect that it is unpleasant to a man
to be treated so! I won’t stand it! We have just had a terrible scene!—mind,
I speak to you as I would to my own son! Aglaya laughs at her mother. Her
sisters guessed about Evgenie having proposed and been rejected, and told
Lizabetha.
“I tell you, my dear fellow, Aglaya is such an extraordinary, such a self-
willed, fantastical little creature, you wouldn’t believe it! Every high
quality, every brilliant trait of heart and mind, are to be found in her, and,
with it all, so much caprice and mockery, such wild fancies—indeed, a little
devil! She has just been laughing at her mother to her very face, and at her
sisters, and at Prince S., and everybody—and of course she always laughs at
me! You know I love the child—I love her even when she laughs at me, and
I believe the wild little creature has a special fondness for me for that very
reason. She is fonder of me than any of the others. I dare swear she has had
a good laugh at you before now! You were having a quiet talk just now, I
observed, after all the thunder and lightning upstairs. She was sitting with
you just as though there had been no row at all.”
The prince blushed painfully in the darkness, and closed his right hand
tightly, but he said nothing.
“My dear good Prince Lef Nicolaievitch,” began the general again,
suddenly, “both I and Lizabetha Prokofievna—(who has begun to respect
you once more, and me through you, goodness knows why!)—we both love
you very sincerely, and esteem you, in spite of any appearances to the
contrary. But you’ll admit what a riddle it must have been for us when that
calm, cold, little spitfire, Aglaya—(for she stood up to her mother and
answered her questions with inexpressible contempt, and mine still more so,
because, like a fool, I thought it my duty to assert myself as head of the
family)—when Aglaya stood up of a sudden and informed us that ‘that
madwoman’ (strangely enough, she used exactly the same expression as
you did) ‘has taken it into her head to marry me to Prince Lef Nicolaievitch,
and therefore is doing her best to choke Evgenie Pavlovitch off, and rid the
house of him.’ That’s what she said. She would not give the slightest
explanation; she burst out laughing, banged the door, and went away. We all
stood there with our mouths open. Well, I was told afterwards of your little
passage with Aglaya this afternoon, and—and—dear prince—you are a
good, sensible fellow, don’t be angry if I speak out—she is laughing at you,
my boy! She is enjoying herself like a child, at your expense, and therefore,
since she is a child, don’t be angry with her, and don’t think anything of it. I
assure you, she is simply making a fool of you, just as she does with one
and all of us out of pure lack of something better to do. Well—good-bye!
You know our feelings, don’t you—our sincere feelings for yourself? They
are unalterable, you know, dear boy, under all circumstances, but—Well,
here we part; I must go down to the right. Rarely have I sat so
uncomfortably in my saddle, as they say, as I now sit. And people talk of
the charms of a country holiday!”
Left to himself at the cross-roads, the prince glanced around him, quickly
crossed the road towards the lighted window of a neighbouring house, and
unfolded a tiny scrap of paper which he had held clasped in his right hand
during the whole of his conversation with the general.
He read the note in the uncertain rays that fell from the window. It was as
follows:
“Tomorrow morning, I shall be at the green bench in the park at seven,
and shall wait there for you. I have made up my mind to speak to you about
a most important matter which closely concerns yourself.
“P.S.—I trust that you will not show this note to anyone. Though I am
ashamed of giving you such instructions, I feel that I must do so,
considering what you are. I therefore write the words, and blush for your
simple character.
“P.P.S.—It is the same green bench that I showed you before. There!
aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I felt that it was necessary to repeat even
that information.”
The note was written and folded anyhow, evidently in a great hurry, and
probably just before Aglaya had come down to the verandah.
In inexpressible agitation, amounting almost to fear, the prince slipped
quickly away from the window, away from the light, like a frightened thief,
but as he did so he collided violently with some gentleman who seemed to
spring from the earth at his feet.
“I was watching for you, prince,” said the individual.
“Is that you, Keller?” said the prince, in surprise.
“Yes, I’ve been looking for you. I waited for you at the Epanchins’ house,
but of course I could not come in. I dogged you from behind as you walked
along with the general. Well, prince, here is Keller, absolutely at your
service—command him!—ready to sacrifice himself—even to die in case of
need.”
“But—why?”
“Oh, why?—Of course you’ll be challenged! That was young Lieutenant
Moloftsoff. I know him, or rather of him; he won’t pass an insult. He will
take no notice of Rogojin and myself, and, therefore, you are the only one
left to account for. You’ll have to pay the piper, prince. He has been asking
about you, and undoubtedly his friend will call on you tomorrow—perhaps
he is at your house already. If you would do me the honour to have me for a
second, prince, I should be happy. That’s why I have been looking for you
now.”
“Duel! You’ve come to talk about a duel, too!” The prince burst out
laughing, to the great astonishment of Keller. He laughed unrestrainedly,
and Keller, who had been on pins and needles, and in a fever of excitement
to offer himself as “second,” was very near being offended.
“You caught him by the arms, you know, prince. No man of proper pride
can stand that sort of treatment in public.”
“Yes, and he gave me a fearful dig in the chest,” cried the prince, still
laughing. “What are we to fight about? I shall beg his pardon, that’s all. But
if we must fight—we’ll fight! Let him have a shot at me, by all means; I
should rather like it. Ha, ha, ha! I know how to load a pistol now; do you
know how to load a pistol, Keller? First, you have to buy the powder, you
know; it mustn’t be wet, and it mustn’t be that coarse stuff that they load
cannons with—it must be pistol powder. Then you pour the powder in, and
get hold of a bit of felt from some door, and then shove the bullet in. But
don’t shove the bullet in before the powder, because the thing wouldn’t go
off—do you hear, Keller, the thing wouldn’t go off! Ha, ha, ha! Isn’t that a
grand reason, Keller, my friend, eh? Do you know, my dear fellow, I really
must kiss you, and embrace you, this very moment. Ha, ha! How was it you
so suddenly popped up in front of me as you did? Come to my house as
soon as you can, and we’ll have some champagne. We’ll all get drunk! Do
you know I have a dozen of champagne in Lebedeff’s cellar? Lebedeff sold
them to me the day after I arrived. I took the lot. We’ll invite everybody!
Are you going to do any sleeping tonight?”
“As much as usual, prince—why?”
“Pleasant dreams then—ha, ha!”
The prince crossed the road, and disappeared into the park, leaving the
astonished Keller in a state of ludicrous wonder. He had never before seen
the prince in such a strange condition of mind, and could not have imagined
the possibility of it.
“Fever, probably,” he said to himself, “for the man is all nerves, and this
business has been a little too much for him. He is not afraid, that’s clear;
that sort never funks! H’m! champagne! That was an interesting item of
news, at all events!—Twelve bottles! Dear me, that’s a very respectable
little stock indeed! I bet anything Lebedeff lent somebody money on
deposit of this dozen of champagne. Hum! he’s a nice fellow, is this prince!
I like this sort of man. Well, I needn’t be wasting time here, and if it’s a case
of champagne, why—there’s no time like the present!”
That the prince was almost in a fever was no more than the truth. He
wandered about the park for a long while, and at last came to himself in a
lonely avenue. He was vaguely conscious that he had already paced this
particular walk—from that large, dark tree to the bench at the other end—
about a hundred yards altogether—at least thirty times backwards and
forwards.
As to recollecting what he had been thinking of all that time, he could
not. He caught himself, however, indulging in one thought which made him
roar with laughter, though there was nothing really to laugh at in it; but he
felt that he must laugh, and go on laughing.
It struck him that the idea of the duel might not have occurred to Keller
alone, but that his lesson in the art of pistol-loading might have been not
altogether accidental! “Pooh! nonsense!” he said to himself, struck by
another thought, of a sudden. “Why, she was immensely surprised to find
me there on the verandah, and laughed and talked about tea! And yet she
had this little note in her hand, therefore she must have known that I was
sitting there. So why was she surprised? Ha, ha, ha!”
He pulled the note out and kissed it; then paused and reflected. “How
strange it all is! how strange!” he muttered, melancholy enough now. In
moments of great joy, he invariably felt a sensation of melancholy come
over him—he could not tell why.
He looked intently around him, and wondered why he had come here; he
was very tired, so he approached the bench and sat down on it. Around him
was profound silence; the music in the Vauxhall was over. The park seemed
quite empty, though it was not, in reality, later than half-past eleven. It was
a quiet, warm, clear night—a real Petersburg night of early June; but in the
dense avenue, where he was sitting, it was almost pitch dark.
If anyone had come up at this moment and told him that he was in love,
passionately in love, he would have rejected the idea with astonishment,
and, perhaps, with irritation. And if anyone had added that Aglaya’s note
was a love-letter, and that it contained an appointment to a lover’s
rendezvous, he would have blushed with shame for the speaker, and,
probably, have challenged him to a duel.
All this would have been perfectly sincere on his part. He had never for a
moment entertained the idea of the possibility of this girl loving him, or
even of such a thing as himself falling in love with her. The possibility of
being loved himself, “a man like me,” as he put it, he ranked among
ridiculous suppositions. It appeared to him that it was simply a joke on
Aglaya’s part, if there really were anything in it at all; but that seemed to
him quite natural. His preoccupation was caused by something different.
As to the few words which the general had let slip about Aglaya laughing
at everybody, and at himself most of all—he entirely believed them. He did
not feel the slightest sensation of offence; on the contrary, he was quite
certain that it was as it should be.
His whole thoughts were now as to next morning early; he would see her;
he would sit by her on that little green bench, and listen to how pistols were
loaded, and look at her. He wanted nothing more.
The question as to what she might have to say of special interest to
himself occurred to him once or twice. He did not doubt, for a moment, that
she really had some such subject of conversation in store, but so very little
interested in the matter was he that it did not strike him to wonder what it
could be. The crunch of gravel on the path suddenly caused him to raise his
head.
A man, whose face it was difficult to see in the gloom, approached the
bench, and sat down beside him. The prince peered into his face, and
recognized the livid features of Rogojin.
“I knew you’d be wandering about somewhere here. I didn’t have to look
for you very long,” muttered the latter between his teeth.
It was the first time they had met since the encounter on the staircase at
the hotel.
Painfully surprised as he was at this sudden apparition of Rogojin, the
prince, for some little while, was unable to collect his thoughts. Rogojin,
evidently, saw and understood the impression he had made; and though he
seemed more or less confused at first, yet he began talking with what
looked like assumed ease and freedom. However, the prince soon changed
his mind on this score, and thought that there was not only no affectation of
indifference, but that Rogojin was not even particularly agitated. If there
were a little apparent awkwardness, it was only in his words and gestures.
The man could not change his heart.
“How did you—find me here?” asked the prince for the sake of saying
something.
“Keller told me (I found him at your place) that you were in the park. ‘Of
course he is!’ I thought.”
“Why so?” asked the prince uneasily.
Rogojin smiled, but did not explain.
“I received your letter, Lef Nicolaievitch—what’s the good of all that?—
It’s no use, you know. I’ve come to you from her,—she bade me tell you
that she must see you, she has something to say to you. She told me to find
you today.”
“I’ll come tomorrow. Now I’m going home—are you coming to my
house?”
“Why should I? I’ve given you the message.—Goodbye!”
“Won’t you come?” asked the prince in a gentle voice.
“What an extraordinary man you are! I wonder at you!” Rogojin laughed
sarcastically.
“Why do you hate me so?” asked the prince, sadly. “You know yourself
that all you suspected is quite unfounded. I felt you were still angry with
me, though. Do you know why? Because you tried to kill me—that’s why
you can’t shake off your wrath against me. I tell you that I only remember
the Parfen Rogojin with whom I exchanged crosses, and vowed
brotherhood. I wrote you this in yesterday’s letter, in order that you might
forget all that madness on your part, and that you might not feel called to
talk about it when we met. Why do you avoid me? Why do you hold your
hand back from me? I tell you again, I consider all that has passed a
delirium, an insane dream. I can understand all you did, and all you felt that
day, as if it were myself. What you were then imagining was not the case,
and could never be the case. Why, then, should there be anger between us?”
“You don’t know what anger is!” laughed Rogojin, in reply to the
prince’s heated words.
He had moved a pace or two away, and was hiding his hands behind him.
“No, it is impossible for me to come to your house again,” he added
slowly.
“Why? Do you hate me so much as all that?”
“I don’t love you, Lef Nicolaievitch, and, therefore, what would be the
use of my coming to see you? You are just like a child—you want a
plaything, and it must be taken out and given you—and then you don’t
know how to work it. You are simply repeating all you said in your letter,
and what’s the use? Of course I believe every word you say, and I know
perfectly well that you neither did or ever can deceive me in any way, and
yet, I don’t love you. You write that you’ve forgotten everything, and only
remember your brother Parfen, with whom you exchanged crosses, and that
you don’t remember anything about the Rogojin who aimed a knife at your
throat. What do you know about my feelings, eh?” (Rogojin laughed
disagreeably.) “Here you are holding out your brotherly forgiveness to me
for a thing that I have perhaps never repented of in the slightest degree. I
did not think of it again all that evening; all my thoughts were centred on
something else—”
“Not think of it again? Of course you didn’t!” cried the prince. “And I
dare swear that you came straight away down here to Pavlofsk to listen to
the music and dog her about in the crowd, and stare at her, just as you did
today. There’s nothing surprising in that! If you hadn’t been in that
condition of mind that you could think of nothing but one subject, you
would, probably, never have raised your knife against me. I had a
presentiment of what you would do, that day, ever since I saw you first in
the morning. Do you know yourself what you looked like? I knew you
would try to murder me even at the very moment when we exchanged
crosses. What did you take me to your mother for? Did you think to stay
your hand by doing so? Perhaps you did not put your thoughts into words,
but you and I were thinking the same thing, or feeling the same thing
looming over us, at the same moment. What should you think of me now if
you had not raised your knife to me—the knife which God averted from my
throat? I would have been guilty of suspecting you all the same—and you
would have intended the murder all the same; therefore we should have
been mutually guilty in any case. Come, don’t frown; you needn’t laugh at
me, either. You say you haven’t ‘repented.’ Repented! You probably
couldn’t, if you were to try; you dislike me too much for that. Why, if I
were an angel of light, and as innocent before you as a babe, you would still
loathe me if you believed that she loved me, instead of loving yourself.
That’s jealousy—that is the real jealousy.
“But do you know what I have been thinking out during this last week,
Parfen? I’ll tell you. What if she loves you now better than anyone? And
what if she torments you because she loves you, and in proportion to her
love for you, so she torments you the more? She won’t tell you this, of
course; you must have eyes to see. Why do you suppose she consents to
marry you? She must have a reason, and that reason she will tell you some
day. Some women desire the kind of love you give her, and she is probably
one of these. Your love and your wild nature impress her. Do you know that
a woman is capable of driving a man crazy almost, with her cruelties and
mockeries, and feels not one single pang of regret, because she looks at him
and says to herself, ‘There! I’ll torment this man nearly into his grave, and
then, oh! how I’ll compensate him for it all with my love!’”
Rogojin listened to the end, and then burst out laughing:
“Why, prince, I declare you must have had a taste of this sort of thing
yourself—haven’t you? I have heard tell of something of the kind, you
know; is it true?”
“What? What can you have heard?” said the prince, stammering.
Rogojin continued to laugh loudly. He had listened to the prince’s speech
with curiosity and some satisfaction. The speaker’s impulsive warmth had
surprised and even comforted him.
“Why, I’ve not only heard of it; I see it for myself,” he said. “When have
you ever spoken like that before? It wasn’t like yourself, prince. Why, if I
hadn’t heard this report about you, I should never have come all this way
into the park—at midnight, too!”
“I don’t understand you in the least, Parfen.”
“Oh, she told me all about it long ago, and tonight I saw for myself. I saw
you at the music, you know, and whom you were sitting with. She swore to
me yesterday, and again today, that you are madly in love with Aglaya
Ivanovna. But that’s all the same to me, prince, and it’s not my affair at all;
for if you have ceased to love her, she has not ceased to love you. You
know, of course, that she wants to marry you to that girl? She’s sworn to it!
Ha, ha! She says to me, ‘Until then I won’t marry you. When they go to
church, we’ll go too—and not before.’ What on earth does she mean by it? I
don’t know, and I never did. Either she loves you without limits or—yet, if
she loves you, why does she wish to marry you to another girl? She says, ‘I
want to see him happy,’ which is to say—she loves you.”
“I wrote, and I say to you once more, that she is not in her right mind,”
said the prince, who had listened with anguish to what Rogojin said.
“Goodness knows—you may be wrong there! At all events, she named
the day this evening, as we left the gardens. ‘In three weeks,’ says she, ‘and
perhaps sooner, we shall be married.’ She swore to it, took off her cross and
kissed it. So it all depends upon you now, prince, You see! Ha, ha!”
“That’s all madness. What you say about me, Parfen, never can and never
will be. Tomorrow, I shall come and see you—”
“How can she be mad,” Rogojin interrupted, “when she is sane enough
for other people and only mad for you? How can she write letters to her, if
she’s mad? If she were insane they would observe it in her letters.”
“What letters?” said the prince, alarmed.
“She writes to her—and the girl reads the letters. Haven’t you heard?—
You are sure to hear; she’s sure to show you the letters herself.”
“I won’t believe this!” cried the prince.
“Why, prince, you’ve only gone a few steps along this road, I perceive.
You are evidently a mere beginner. Wait a bit! Before long, you’ll have your
own detectives, you’ll watch day and night, and you’ll know every little
thing that goes on there—that is, if—”
“Drop that subject, Rogojin, and never mention it again. And listen: as I
have sat here, and talked, and listened, it has suddenly struck me that
tomorrow is my birthday. It must be about twelve o’clock, now; come home
with me—do, and we’ll see the day in! We’ll have some wine, and you shall
wish me—I don’t know what—but you, especially you, must wish me a
good wish, and I shall wish you full happiness in return. Otherwise, hand
