PART III
I.
The Epanchin family, or at least the more serious members of it, were
sometimes grieved because they seemed so unlike the rest of the world.
They were not quite certain, but had at times a strong suspicion that things
did not happen to them as they did to other people. Others led a quiet,
uneventful life, while they were subject to continual upheavals. Others kept
on the rails without difficulty; they ran off at the slightest obstacle. Other
houses were governed by a timid routine; theirs was somehow different.
Perhaps Lizabetha Prokofievna was alone in making these fretful
observations; the girls, though not wanting in intelligence, were still young;
the general was intelligent, too, but narrow, and in any difficulty he was
content to say, “H’m!” and leave the matter to his wife. Consequently, on
her fell the responsibility. It was not that they distinguished themselves as a
family by any particular originality, or that their excursions off the track led
to any breach of the proprieties. Oh no.
There was nothing premeditated, there was not even any conscious
purpose in it all, and yet, in spite of everything, the family, although highly
respected, was not quite what every highly respected family ought to be.
For a long time now Lizabetha Prokofievna had had it in her mind that all
the trouble was owing to her “unfortunate character,” and this added to her
distress. She blamed her own stupid unconventional “eccentricity.” Always
restless, always on the go, she constantly seemed to lose her way, and to get
into trouble over the simplest and more ordinary affairs of life.
We said at the beginning of our story, that the Epanchins were liked and
esteemed by their neighbours. In spite of his humble origin, Ivan
Fedorovitch himself was received everywhere with respect. He deserved
this, partly on account of his wealth and position, partly because, though
limited, he was really a very good fellow. But a certain limitation of mind
seems to be an indispensable asset, if not to all public personages, at least to
all serious financiers. Added to this, his manner was modest and
unassuming; he knew when to be silent, yet never allowed himself to be
trampled upon. Also—and this was more important than all—he had the
advantage of being under exalted patronage.
As to Lizabetha Prokofievna, she, as the reader knows, belonged to an
aristocratic family. True, Russians think more of influential friends than of
birth, but she had both. She was esteemed and even loved by people of
consequence in society, whose example in receiving her was therefore
followed by others. It seems hardly necessary to remark that her family
worries and anxieties had little or no foundation, or that her imagination
increased them to an absurd degree; but if you have a wart on your forehead
or nose, you imagine that all the world is looking at it, and that people
would make fun of you because of it, even if you had discovered America!
Doubtless Lizabetha Prokofievna was considered “eccentric” in society, but
she was none the less esteemed: the pity was that she was ceasing to believe
in that esteem. When she thought of her daughters, she said to herself
sorrowfully that she was a hindrance rather than a help to their future, that
her character and temper were absurd, ridiculous, insupportable. Naturally,
she put the blame on her surroundings, and from morning to night was
quarrelling with her husband and children, whom she really loved to the
point of self-sacrifice, even, one might say, of passion.
She was, above all distressed by the idea that her daughters might grow
up “eccentric,” like herself; she believed that no other society girls were
like them. “They are growing into Nihilists!” she repeated over and over
again. For years she had tormented herself with this idea, and with the
question: “Why don’t they get married?”
“It is to annoy their mother; that is their one aim in life; it can be nothing
else. The fact is it is all of a piece with these modern ideas, that wretched
woman’s question! Six months ago Aglaya took a fancy to cut off her
magnificent hair. Why, even I, when I was young, had nothing like it! The
scissors were in her hand, and I had to go down on my knees and implore
her… She did it, I know, from sheer mischief, to spite her mother, for she is
a naughty, capricious girl, a real spoiled child spiteful and mischievous to a
degree! And then Alexandra wanted to shave her head, not from caprice or
mischief, but, like a little fool, simply because Aglaya persuaded her she
would sleep better without her hair, and not suffer from headache! And how
many suitors have they not had during the last five years! Excellent offers,
too! What more do they want? Why don’t they get married? For no other
reason than to vex their mother—none—none!”
But Lizabetha Prokofievna felt somewhat consoled when she could say
that one of her girls, Adelaida, was settled at last. “It will be one off our
hands!” she declared aloud, though in private she expressed herself with
greater tenderness. The engagement was both happy and suitable, and was
therefore approved in society. Prince S. was a distinguished man, he had
money, and his future wife was devoted to him; what more could be
desired? Lizabetha Prokofievna had felt less anxious about this daughter,
however, although she considered her artistic tastes suspicious. But to make
up for them she was, as her mother expressed it, “merry,” and had plenty of
“common-sense.” It was Aglaya’s future which disturbed her most. With
regard to her eldest daughter, Alexandra, the mother never quite knew
whether there was cause for anxiety or not. Sometimes she felt as if there
was nothing to be expected from her. She was twenty-five now, and must be
fated to be an old maid, and “with such beauty, too!” The mother spent
whole nights in weeping and lamenting, while all the time the cause of her
grief slumbered peacefully. “What is the matter with her? Is she a Nihilist,
or simply a fool?”
But Lizabetha Prokofievna knew perfectly well how unnecessary was the
last question. She set a high value on Alexandra Ivanovna’s judgment, and
often consulted her in difficulties; but that she was a ‘wet hen’ she never for
a moment doubted. “She is so calm; nothing rouses her—though wet hens
are not always calm! Oh! I can’t understand it!” Her eldest daughter
inspired Lizabetha with a kind of puzzled compassion. She did not feel this
in Aglaya’s case, though the latter was her idol. It may be said that these
outbursts and epithets, such as “wet hen” (in which the maternal solicitude
usually showed itself), only made Alexandra laugh. Sometimes the most
trivial thing annoyed Mrs. Epanchin, and drove her into a frenzy. For
instance, Alexandra Ivanovna liked to sleep late, and was always dreaming,
though her dreams had the peculiarity of being as innocent and naive as
those of a child of seven; and the very innocence of her dreams annoyed her
mother. Once she dreamt of nine hens, and this was the cause of quite a
serious quarrel—no one knew why. Another time she had—it was most
unusual—a dream with a spark of originality in it. She dreamt of a monk in
a dark room, into which she was too frightened to go. Adelaida and Aglaya
rushed off with shrieks of laughter to relate this to their mother, but she was
quite angry, and said her daughters were all fools.
“H’m! she is as stupid as a fool! A veritable ‘wet hen’! Nothing excites
her; and yet she is not happy; some days it makes one miserable only to
look at her! Why is she unhappy, I wonder?” At times Lizabetha
Prokofievna put this question to her husband, and as usual she spoke in the
threatening tone of one who demands an immediate answer. Ivan
Fedorovitch would frown, shrug his shoulders, and at last give his opinion:
“She needs a husband!”
“God forbid that he should share your ideas, Ivan Fedorovitch!” his wife
flashed back. “Or that he should be as gross and churlish as you!”
The general promptly made his escape, and Lizabetha Prokofievna after a
while grew calm again. That evening, of course, she would be unusually
attentive, gentle, and respectful to her “gross and churlish” husband, her
“dear, kind Ivan Fedorovitch,” for she had never left off loving him. She
was even still “in love” with him. He knew it well, and for his part held her
in the greatest esteem.
But the mother’s great and continual anxiety was Aglaya. “She is exactly
like me—my image in everything,” said Mrs. Epanchin to herself. “A
tyrant! A real little demon! A Nihilist! Eccentric, senseless and
mischievous! Good Lord, how unhappy she will be!”
But as we said before, the fact of Adelaida’s approaching marriage was
balm to the mother. For a whole month she forgot her fears and worries.
Adelaida’s fate was settled; and with her name that of Aglaya’s was
linked, in society gossip. People whispered that Aglaya, too, was “as good
as engaged;” and Aglaya always looked so sweet and behaved so well
(during this period), that the mother’s heart was full of joy. Of course,
Evgenie Pavlovitch must be thoroughly studied first, before the final step
should be taken; but, really, how lovely dear Aglaya had become—she
actually grew more beautiful every day! And then—Yes, and then—this
abominable prince showed his face again, and everything went topsy-turvy
at once, and everyone seemed as mad as March hares.
What had really happened?
If it had been any other family than the Epanchins’, nothing particular
would have happened. But, thanks to Mrs. Epanchin’s invariable fussiness
and anxiety, there could not be the slightest hitch in the simplest matters of
everyday life, but she immediately foresaw the most dreadful and alarming
consequences, and suffered accordingly.
What then must have been her condition, when, among all the imaginary
anxieties and calamities which so constantly beset her, she now saw
looming ahead a serious cause for annoyance—something really likely to
arouse doubts and suspicions!
“How dared they, how dared they write that hateful anonymous letter
informing me that Aglaya is in communication with Nastasia Philipovna?”
she thought, as she dragged the prince along towards her own house, and
again when she sat him down at the round table where the family was
already assembled. “How dared they so much as think of such a thing? I
should die with shame if I thought there was a particle of truth in it, or if I
were to show the letter to Aglaya herself! Who dares play these jokes upon
us, the Epanchins? Why didn’t we go to the Yelagin instead of coming down
here? I told you we had better go to the Yelagin this summer, Ivan
Fedorovitch. It’s all your fault. I dare say it was that Varia who sent the
letter. It’s all Ivan Fedorovitch. That woman is doing it all for him, I know
she is, to show she can make a fool of him now just as she did when he used
to give her pearls.
“But after all is said, we are mixed up in it. Your daughters are mixed up
in it, Ivan Fedorovitch; young ladies in society, young ladies at an age to be
married; they were present, they heard everything there was to hear. They
were mixed up with that other scene, too, with those dreadful youths. You
must be pleased to remember they heard it all. I cannot forgive that
wretched prince. I never shall forgive him! And why, if you please, has
Aglaya had an attack of nerves for these last three days? Why has she all
but quarrelled with her sisters, even with Alexandra—whom she respects so
much that she always kisses her hands as though she were her mother?
What are all these riddles of hers that we have to guess? What has Gavrila
Ardalionovitch to do with it? Why did she take upon herself to champion
him this morning, and burst into tears over it? Why is there an allusion to
that cursed ‘poor knight’ in the anonymous letter? And why did I rush off to
him just now like a lunatic, and drag him back here? I do believe I’ve gone
mad at last. What on earth have I done now? To talk to a young man about
my daughter’s secrets—and secrets having to do with himself, too! Thank
goodness, he’s an idiot, and a friend of the house! Surely Aglaya hasn’t
fallen in love with such a gaby! What an idea! Pfu! we ought all to be put
under glass cases—myself first of all—and be shown off as curiosities, at
ten copecks a peep!”
“I shall never forgive you for all this, Ivan Fedorovitch—never! Look at
her now. Why doesn’t she make fun of him? She said she would, and she
doesn’t. Look there! She stares at him with all her eyes, and doesn’t move;
and yet she told him not to come. He looks pale enough; and that
abominable chatterbox, Evgenie Pavlovitch, monopolizes the whole of the
conversation. Nobody else can get a word in. I could soon find out all about
everything if I could only change the subject.”
The prince certainly was very pale. He sat at the table and seemed to be
feeling, by turns, sensations of alarm and rapture.
Oh, how frightened he was of looking to one side—one particular corner
—whence he knew very well that a pair of dark eyes were watching him
intently, and how happy he was to think that he was once more among
them, and occasionally hearing that well-known voice, although she had
written and forbidden him to come again!
“What on earth will she say to me, I wonder?” he thought to himself.
He had not said a word yet; he sat silent and listened to Evgenie
Pavlovitch’s eloquence. The latter had never appeared so happy and excited
as on this evening. The prince listened to him, but for a long time did not
take in a word he said.
Excepting Ivan Fedorovitch, who had not as yet returned from town, the
whole family was present. Prince S. was there; and they all intended to go
out to hear the band very soon.
Colia arrived presently and joined the circle. “So he is received as usual,
after all,” thought the prince.
The Epanchins’ country-house was a charming building, built after the
model of a Swiss chalet, and covered with creepers. It was surrounded on
all sides by a flower garden, and the family sat, as a rule, on the open
verandah as at the prince’s house.
The subject under discussion did not appear to be very popular with the
assembly, and some would have been delighted to change it; but Evgenie
would not stop holding forth, and the prince’s arrival seemed to spur him on
to still further oratorical efforts.
Lizabetha Prokofievna frowned, but had not as yet grasped the subject,
which seemed to have arisen out of a heated argument. Aglaya sat apart,
almost in the corner, listening in stubborn silence.
“Excuse me,” continued Evgenie Pavlovitch hotly, “I don’t say a word
against liberalism. Liberalism is not a sin, it is a necessary part of a great
whole, which whole would collapse and fall to pieces without it. Liberalism
has just as much right to exist as has the most moral conservatism; but I am
attacking Russian liberalism; and I attack it for the simple reason that a
Russian liberal is not a Russian liberal, he is a non-Russian liberal. Show
me a real Russian liberal, and I’ll kiss him before you all, with pleasure.”
“If he cared to kiss you, that is,” said Alexandra, whose cheeks were red
with irritation and excitement.
“Look at that, now,” thought the mother to herself, “she does nothing but
sleep and eat for a year at a time, and then suddenly flies out in the most
incomprehensible way!”
The prince observed that Alexandra appeared to be angry with Evgenie,
because he spoke on a serious subject in a frivolous manner, pretending to
be in earnest, but with an under-current of irony.
“I was saying just now, before you came in, prince, that there has been
nothing national up to now, about our liberalism, and nothing the liberals
do, or have done, is in the least degree national. They are drawn from two
classes only, the old landowning class, and clerical families—”
“How, nothing that they have done is Russian?” asked Prince S.
“It may be Russian, but it is not national. Our liberals are not Russian,
nor are our conservatives, and you may be sure that the nation does not
recognize anything that has been done by the landed gentry, or by the
seminarists, or what is to be done either.”
“Come, that’s good! How can you maintain such a paradox? If you are
serious, that is. I cannot allow such a statement about the landed proprietors
to pass unchallenged. Why, you are a landed proprietor yourself!” cried
Prince S. hotly.
“I suppose you’ll say there is nothing national about our literature
either?” said Alexandra.
“Well, I am not a great authority on literary questions, but I certainly do
hold that Russian literature is not Russian, except perhaps Lomonosoff,
Pouschkin and Gogol.”
“In the first place, that is a considerable admission, and in the second
place, one of the above was a peasant, and the other two were both landed
proprietors!”
“Quite so, but don’t be in such a hurry! For since it has been the part of
these three men, and only these three, to say something absolutely their
own, not borrowed, so by this very fact these three men become really
national. If any Russian shall have done or said anything really and
absolutely original, he is to be called national from that moment, though he
may not be able to talk the Russian language; still he is a national Russian. I
consider that an axiom. But we were not speaking of literature; we began by
discussing the socialists. Very well then, I insist that there does not exist one
single Russian socialist. There does not, and there has never existed such a
one, because all socialists are derived from the two classes—the landed
proprietors, and the seminarists. All our eminent socialists are merely old
liberals of the class of landed proprietors, men who were liberals in the days
of serfdom. Why do you laugh? Give me their books, give me their studies,
their memoirs, and though I am not a literary critic, yet I will prove as clear
as day that every chapter and every word of their writings has been the
work of a former landed proprietor of the old school. You’ll find that all
their raptures, all their generous transports are proprietary, all their woes
and their tears, proprietary; all proprietary or seminarist! You are laughing
again, and you, prince, are smiling too. Don’t you agree with me?”
It was true enough that everybody was laughing, the prince among them.
“I cannot tell you on the instant whether I agree with you or not,” said the
latter, suddenly stopping his laughter, and starting like a schoolboy caught
at mischief. “But, I assure you, I am listening to you with extreme
gratification.”
So saying, he almost panted with agitation, and a cold sweat stood upon
his forehead. These were his first words since he had entered the house; he
tried to lift his eyes, and look around, but dared not; Evgenie Pavlovitch
noticed his confusion, and smiled.
“I’ll just tell you one fact, ladies and gentlemen,” continued the latter,
with apparent seriousness and even exaltation of manner, but with a
suggestion of “chaff” behind every word, as though he were laughing in his
sleeve at his own nonsense—“a fact, the discovery of which, I believe, I
may claim to have made by myself alone. At all events, no other has ever
said or written a word about it; and in this fact is expressed the whole
essence of Russian liberalism of the sort which I am now considering.
“In the first place, what is liberalism, speaking generally, but an attack
(whether mistaken or reasonable, is quite another question) upon the
existing order of things? Is this so? Yes. Very well. Then my ‘fact’ consists
in this, that Russian liberalism is not an attack upon the existing order of
things, but an attack upon the very essence of things themselves—indeed,
on the things themselves; not an attack on the Russian order of things, but
on Russia itself. My Russian liberal goes so far as to reject Russia; that is,
he hates and strikes his own mother. Every misfortune and mishap of the
mother-country fills him with mirth, and even with ecstasy. He hates the
national customs, Russian history, and everything. If he has a justification,
it is that he does not know what he is doing, and believes that his hatred of
Russia is the grandest and most profitable kind of liberalism. (You will
often find a liberal who is applauded and esteemed by his fellows, but who
is in reality the dreariest, blindest, dullest of conservatives, and is not aware
of the fact.) This hatred for Russia has been mistaken by some of our
‘Russian liberals’ for sincere love of their country, and they boast that they
see better than their neighbours what real love of one’s country should
consist in. But of late they have grown, more candid and are ashamed of the
expression ‘love of country,’ and have annihilated the very spirit of the
words as something injurious and petty and undignified. This is the truth,
and I hold by it; but at the same time it is a phenomenon which has not been
repeated at any other time or place; and therefore, though I hold to it as a
fact, yet I recognize that it is an accidental phenomenon, and may likely
enough pass away. There can be no such thing anywhere else as a liberal
who really hates his country; and how is this fact to be explained among
us? By my original statement that a Russian liberal is not a Russian liberal
—that’s the only explanation that I can see.”
“I take all that you have said as a joke,” said Prince S. seriously.
“I have not seen all kinds of liberals, and cannot, therefore, set myself up
as a judge,” said Alexandra, “but I have heard all you have said with
indignation. You have taken some accidental case and twisted it into a
universal law, which is unjust.”
“Accidental case!” said Evgenie Pavlovitch. “Do you consider it an
accidental case, prince?”
“I must also admit,” said the prince, “that I have not seen much, or been
very far into the question; but I cannot help thinking that you are more or
less right, and that Russian liberalism—that phase of it which you are
considering, at least—really is sometimes inclined to hate Russia itself, and
not only its existing order of things in general. Of course this is only
partially the truth; you cannot lay down the law for all…”
The prince blushed and broke off, without finishing what he meant to say.
In spite of his shyness and agitation, he could not help being greatly
interested in the conversation. A special characteristic of his was the naive
candour with which he always listened to arguments which interested him,
and with which he answered any questions put to him on the subject at
issue. In the very expression of his face this naivete was unmistakably
evident, this disbelief in the insincerity of others, and unsuspecting
disregard of irony or humour in their words.
But though Evgenie Pavlovitch had put his questions to the prince with
no other purpose but to enjoy the joke of his simple-minded seriousness, yet
now, at his answer, he was surprised into some seriousness himself, and
looked gravely at Muishkin as though he had not expected that sort of
answer at all.
“Why, how strange!” he ejaculated. “You didn’t answer me seriously,
surely, did you?”
“Did not you ask me the question seriously” inquired the prince, in
amazement.
Everybody laughed.
“Oh, trust him for that!” said Adelaida. “Evgenie Pavlovitch turns
everything and everybody he can lay hold of to ridicule. You should hear
the things he says sometimes, apparently in perfect seriousness.”
“In my opinion the conversation has been a painful one throughout, and
we ought never to have begun it,” said Alexandra. “We were all going for a
walk—”
“Come along then,” said Evgenie; “it’s a glorious evening. But, to prove
that this time I was speaking absolutely seriously, and especially to prove
this to the prince (for you, prince, have interested me exceedingly, and I
swear to you that I am not quite such an ass as I like to appear sometimes,
although I am rather an ass, I admit), and—well, ladies and gentlemen, will
you allow me to put just one more question to the prince, out of pure
curiosity? It shall be the last. This question came into my mind a couple of
hours since (you see, prince, I do think seriously at times), and I made my
own decision upon it; now I wish to hear what the prince will say to it.”
“We have just used the expression ‘accidental case.’ This is a significant
phrase; we often hear it. Well, not long since everyone was talking and
reading about that terrible murder of six people on the part of a—young
fellow, and of the extraordinary speech of the counsel for the defence, who
observed that in the poverty-stricken condition of the criminal it must have
come naturally into his head to kill these six people. I do not quote his
words, but that is the sense of them, or something very like it. Now, in my
opinion, the barrister who put forward this extraordinary plea was probably
absolutely convinced that he was stating the most liberal, the most humane,
the most enlightened view of the case that could possibly be brought
forward in these days. Now, was this distortion, this capacity for a perverted
way of viewing things, a special or accidental case, or is such a general
rule?”
Everyone laughed at this.
“A special case—accidental, of course!” cried Alexandra and Adelaida.
“Let me remind you once more, Evgenie,” said Prince S., “that your joke
is getting a little threadbare.”
“What do you think about it, prince?” asked Evgenie, taking no notice of
the last remark, and observing Muishkin’s serious eyes fixed upon his face.
“What do you think—was it a special or a usual case—the rule, or an
exception? I confess I put the question especially for you.”
“No, I don’t think it was a special case,” said the prince, quietly, but
firmly.
“My dear fellow!” cried Prince S., with some annoyance, “don’t you see
that he is chaffing you? He is simply laughing at you, and wants to make
game of you.”
“I thought Evgenie Pavlovitch was talking seriously,” said the prince,
blushing and dropping his eyes.
“My dear prince,” continued Prince S. “remember what you and I were
saying two or three months ago. We spoke of the fact that in our newly
opened Law Courts one could already lay one’s finger upon so many
talented and remarkable young barristers. How pleased you were with the
state of things as we found it, and how glad I was to observe your delight!
We both said it was a matter to be proud of; but this clumsy defence that
Evgenie mentions, this strange argument can, of course, only be an
accidental case—one in a thousand!”
The prince reflected a little, but very soon he replied, with absolute
conviction in his tone, though he still spoke somewhat shyly and timidly:
“I only wished to say that this ‘distortion,’ as Evgenie Pavlovitch
expressed it, is met with very often, and is far more the general rule than the
exception, unfortunately for Russia. So much so, that if this distortion were
not the general rule, perhaps these dreadful crimes would be less frequent.”
“Dreadful crimes? But I can assure you that crimes just as dreadful, and
probably more horrible, have occurred before our times, and at all times,
and not only here in Russia, but everywhere else as well. And in my opinion
it is not at all likely that such murders will cease to occur for a very long
time to come. The only difference is that in former times there was less
publicity, while now everyone talks and writes freely about such things—
which fact gives the impression that such crimes have only now sprung into
existence. That is where your mistake lies—an extremely natural mistake, I
assure you, my dear fellow!” said Prince S.
“I know that there were just as many, and just as terrible, crimes before
our times. Not long since I visited a convict prison and made acquaintance
with some of the criminals. There were some even more dreadful criminals
than this one we have been speaking of—men who have murdered a dozen
of their fellow-creatures, and feel no remorse whatever. But what I
especially noticed was this, that the very most hopeless and remorseless
murderer—however hardened a criminal he may be—still knows that he is
a criminal; that is, he is conscious that he has acted wickedly, though he
may feel no remorse whatever. And they were all like this. Those of whom
Evgenie Pavlovitch has spoken, do not admit that they are criminals at all;
they think they had a right to do what they did, and that they were even
doing a good deed, perhaps. I consider there is the greatest difference
between the two cases. And recollect—it was a youth, at the particular age
which is most helplessly susceptible to the distortion of ideas!”
Prince S. was now no longer smiling; he gazed at the prince in
bewilderment.
Alexandra, who had seemed to wish to put in her word when the prince
began, now sat silent, as though some sudden thought had caused her to
change her mind about speaking.
Evgenie Pavlovitch gazed at him in real surprise, and this time his
expression of face had no mockery in it whatever.
“What are you looking so surprised about, my friend?” asked Mrs.
Epanchin, suddenly. “Did you suppose he was stupider than yourself, and
was incapable of forming his own opinions, or what?”
“No! Oh no! Not at all!” said Evgenie. “But—how is it, prince, that you
—(excuse the question, will you?)—if you are capable of observing and
seeing things as you evidently do, how is it that you saw nothing distorted
or perverted in that claim upon your property, which you acknowledged a
day or two since; and which was full of arguments founded upon the most
distorted views of right and wrong?”
“I’ll tell you what, my friend,” cried Mrs. Epanchin, of a sudden, “here
are we all sitting here and imagining we are very clever, and perhaps
laughing at the prince, some of us, and meanwhile he has received a letter
this very day in which that same claimant renounces his claim, and begs the
prince’s pardon. There! we don’t often get that sort of letter; and yet we are
not ashamed to walk with our noses in the air before him.”
“And Hippolyte has come down here to stay,” said Colia, suddenly.
“What! has he arrived?” said the prince, starting up.
“Yes, I brought him down from town just after you had left the house.”
“There now! It’s just like him,” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, boiling over
once more, and entirely oblivious of the fact that she had just taken the
prince’s part. “I dare swear that you went up to town yesterday on purpose
to get the little wretch to do you the great honour of coming to stay at your
house. You did go up to town, you know you did—you said so yourself!
Now then, did you, or did you not, go down on your knees and beg him to
come, confess!”
“No, he didn’t, for I saw it all myself,” said Colia. “On the contrary,
Hippolyte kissed his hand twice and thanked him; and all the prince said
was that he thought Hippolyte might feel better here in the country!”
“Don’t, Colia,—what is the use of saying all that?” cried the prince,
rising and taking his hat.
“Where are you going to now?” cried Mrs. Epanchin.
“Never mind about him now, prince,” said Colia. “He is all right and
taking a nap after the journey. He is very happy to be here; but I think
perhaps it would be better if you let him alone for today,—he is very
sensitive now that he is so ill—and he might be embarrassed if you show
him too much attention at first. He is decidedly better today, and says he has
not felt so well for the last six months, and has coughed much less, too.”
The prince observed that Aglaya came out of her corner and approached
the table at this point.
He did not dare look at her, but he was conscious, to the very tips of his
fingers, that she was gazing at him, perhaps angrily; and that she had
probably flushed up with a look of fiery indignation in her black eyes.
“It seems to me, Mr. Colia, that you were very foolish to bring your
young friend down—if he is the same consumptive boy who wept so
profusely, and invited us all to his own funeral,” remarked Evgenie
Pavlovitch. “He talked so eloquently about the blank wall outside his
bedroom window, that I’m sure he will never support life here without it.”
“I think so too,” said Mrs. Epanchin; “he will quarrel with you, and be
off,” and she drew her workbox towards her with an air of dignity, quite
oblivious of the fact that the family was about to start for a walk in the park.
“Yes, I remember he boasted about the blank wall in an extraordinary
way,” continued Evgenie, “and I feel that without that blank wall he will
never be able to die eloquently; and he does so long to die eloquently!”
“Oh, you must forgive him the blank wall,” said the prince, quietly. “He
has come down to see a few trees now, poor fellow.”
“Oh, I forgive him with all my heart; you may tell him so if you like,”
laughed Evgenie.
