The Idiot

CHAPTER VIII. SHE was laughing, but she was indignant.

CHAPTER VIII

SHE was laughing, but she was indignant.

“Asleep! You were asleep!” she cried with disdainful wonder.

“Tt’s you!” muttered Myshkin, hardly awake, and recognising her with surprise. “Oh, yes! We were going to meet. .... I’ve been asleep here.”

“So I see.”

“Did no one wake me but you? Has no one been here but you? I thought there was . . . another woman here.”

“Another woman’s been here?”

At last he was wide awake.

“Tt was only a dream,” he said pensively. “Strange at such a moment to have such a dream. .. . Sit down!”

He took her hand and made her sit down on the seat; he sat beside her and sank into thought. Aglaia did not begin the conversation, but scrutinised her companion intently. He gazed at her too, though sometimes his eyes looked as though he did not see her. She began to flush.

“Oh, yes,” said Myshkin, starting, “Ippolit shot himself.”

“When? In your rooms?” she asked, but without great surprise. “He was alive only yesterday evening, wasn’t he? How could you sleep after such a thing?” she cried, with sudden animation.

“But he’s not dead, you know. The pistol did not go off.”

Aglaia insisted on Myshkin’s at once giving her a minute account of what had happened the previous evening. She continually urged him on in his story, though she kept interrupting him with questions, almost always irrelevant. She listened with great interest to what Yevgeny Pavlovitch had said, and several times asked him to repeat it.

“Well, that’s enough! We must make haste,” she ended, after hearing everything. “We’ve only an hour to be here, till eight o'clock. For at eight I must be at home, so that they mayn’t know I’ve been sitting here, and ’ve come out with an object. I have a great deal to tell you. Only you’ve quite put me out now. About Ippolit, I think that his pistol was bound not to go off. It’s just like him. But you’re sure that he really meant to shoot himself, and that there was no deception about it?”

“There was no deception.”

“That’s more likely, indeed. So he wrote that you were to bring me his confession? Why didn’t you bring it?”

“Why, he’s not dead. I'll ask him for it.”

“Be sure to bring it. And there is no need to ask him. He’ll certainly be delighted, for perhaps it was with that object he shot at himself, that I might read his confession afterwards. Please don’t laugh at me, I beg you, Lyov Nikolayevitch, because it may very well be so.”

“Tm not laughing, for ’'m convinced myself that that may very likely be partly the reason.”

“You're convinced! Do you really think so, too?”

Aglaia was extremely surprised.

She asked rapid questions, talked quickly, but sometimes seemed confused, and often did not finish her sentences. At times she seemed in haste to warn him of something. Altogether she was in extraordinary agitation, and, though she looked very bold and almost defiant, she was perhaps a little scared too. She was wearing a very plain every-day dress, which suited her extremely well. She was sitting on the edge of the seat, and she often started and blushed. Myshkin’s confirmation of her idea, that Ippolit had shot himself that she might read his confession afterwards, surprised her very much.

“Of course,” Myshkin explained, “he wanted us all to praise him, as well as you... .”

“Praise him?”

“That is... how shall I tell you... it is very difficult to explain. Only he certainly wanted every one to come round him and tell him that they loved him very much and respected him; he longed for them all to beg him to remain alive. It may very well be that he had you in his mind more than anyone, because he mentioned you at such a moment. . . though, perhaps, he didn’t know himself that he had you in mind.”

“That I don’t understand at all; that he had it in his mind and didn’t know he had it in his mind. I think I do understand, though. Do you know that thirty times I dreamed of poisoning myself, when I was only thirteen, and writing it all in a letter to my parents. And I, too, thought how I would lie in my coffin, and they would all weep over me, and blame themselves for having been too cruel to me... . Why are you smiling again?” she added quickly, frowning. “What do you think about when you dream by yourself? Perhaps you fancy yourself a field-marshal, and dream you’ve conquered Napoleon?”

“Well, honour bright, I do dream of that, especially when I’m dropping asleep,” said Myshkin, laughing. “Only it’s always the Austrians I conquer, not Napoleon.”

“[m in no mood for joking with you, Lyov Nikolayevitch. PII see Ippolit myself. I beg you to tell him so. I think it’s very horrid on your part, for it’s very brutal to look on and Judge a man’s soul, as you judge Ippolit. You have no tenderness, nothing but truth, and so you judge unjustly.”

Myshkin pondered.

“I think you’re unfair to me,” he said. “Why, I see no harm in his thinking in that way, because all people are inclined to think like that. Besides, perhaps he didn’t think like that at all, but only wanted it... . He longed for the last time to come near to men, to win their respect and love. Those are very good feelings, you know. Only it somehow all went wrong. It’s his illness, and something else, perhaps! Besides, everything always goes right with some people, while with others nothing ever comes off... .”

“You mean that for yourself, I suppose?” observed Aglaia.

“Yes, I do,” answered Myshkin, not conscious of any sarcasm in the question.

“But I wouldn’t have fallen asleep in your place, anyway. It shows that wherever you pitch you fall asleep on the spot. It’s not at all nice of you.”

“But I haven’t slept all night; I walked and walked afterwards. I’ve been where the music was.”

“What music?”

“Where the band was playing, yesterday. Then I came here, sat down, thought and thought, and fell asleep.”

“Oh, so that’s how it was! That makes it a little better. But why did you go to the bandstand?”

“I don’t know. I happened to.”

“Very well, very well, afterwards; you keep interrupting me. And what does it matter to me if you did go to the bandstand? What woman was It you were dreaming about?”

“Tt was ... you’ve seen her.”

“I understand. I quite understand. You think a lot... . How did you dream of her? What was she doing? Though I don’t care to know,” she snapped out, with an air of vexation. “Don’t interrupt Wiese lc° She waited a little, as though to pluck up her courage or to overcome her vexation.

“Tl tell you what I asked you to come for; I want to make a proposition that you should be my friend. Why are you staring at me all of a sudden?” she asked, almost wrathfully.

Myshkin certainly was watching her very intently at that moment, observing that she had begun to flush hotly again. In such cases, the more she blushed, the more angry she seemed with herself, and it was unmistakably apparent in her flashing eyes. Usually she transferred her anger to the person she was talking to, whether he were to blame or not, and would begin quarrelling with him. Being aware of her own awkwardness and desperate shyness and very conscious of it, she was, as a rule, not very ready to enter into conversation, and was more silent than her sisters, sometimes too silent, indeed. When, particularly in such delicate cases, she was positively obliged to speak, she would begin the conversation with marked haughtiness and with a sort of defiance. She always felt beforehand when she was beginning or about to begin to blush.

“Perhaps you don’t care to accept my proposition?” She looked haughtily at Myshkin.

“Oh, yes, I should like to. Only it was quite unnecessary. .. . That is, I shouldn’t have thought you need make such a proposition,” said Myshkin in confusion.

“What did you think then? What do you suppose I asked you to come here for? What’s in your mind? But perhaps you look on me as a little fool, as they all do at home?”

“I didn’t know that they look on you as a fool. I... I don’t look on you so.”

“You don’t look on me so? Very clever on your part. Particularly cleverly expressed.”

“I think you may be quite clever at times,” Myshkin went on. “You said something very clever just now. You were speaking of my uncertainty about Ippolit. “There’s nothing but truth in it, and so it’s unjust.’ I shall remember that and think it over.”

Aglaia suddenly crimsoned with pleasure. All such transitions of feeling were artlessly apparent in her, and followed one another with extraordinary rapidity. Myshkin, too, was delighted, and positively laughed with pleasure, watching her.

“Listen,” she began again. “I’ve been waiting for a long time to tell you all about it. ’'ve been wanting to, ever since you wrote me that letter, and even before then. ... You heard half of it yesterday. I consider you the most honest and truthful of men, more honest and truthful than anyone; and if they do say that your mind . . . that is, that you’re sometimes afflicted in your mind, it’s unjust. I made up my mind about that, and disputed with others, because, though you really are mentally afflicted (you won’t be angry at that, of course; I’m speaking from a higher point of view), yet the mind that matters is better in you than in any of them. It’s something, in fact, they have never dreamed of. For there are two sorts of mind: one that matters, and one that doesn’t matter. Is that soP That is so, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps it is,” Myshkin articulated faintly. His heart was trembling and throbbing violently.

“I was sure you would understand,” she went on impressively. “Prince S. and Yevgeny Pavlovitch don’t understand about those two sorts of mind, nor Alexandra either, but, only fancy, maman understood.”

“You’re very like Lizaveta Prokofyevna.”

“How so? Really?” Aglaia asked, surprised.

“Yes, really.”

“Thank you,” she said, after a moment’s thought. “I am very glad I’m like maman. You have a great respect for her, then?” she added, quite unconscious of the naiveté of the question.

“Very great. And I’m glad you saw it so directly.”

“And I’m glad, because I’ve noticed that people sometimes . . . laugh at her. But let me tell you what matters most. ’ve been thinking a long time, and at last ’ve picked you out. I don’t want them to laugh at me at home. I don’t want them to look on me as a little fool. I don’t want them to tease me... . I realized it all at once, and refused Yevgeny Pavlovitch pointblank, because I don’t want to be continually being married! I want... I want... Well, I want to run ’ ” away from home, and I’ve chosen you to help me.

“Run away from home!” cried Myshkin.

“Yes, yes, yes! Run away from home,” she cried, at once flaring up with extraordinary anger. “I can’t bear, I can’t bear their continually making me blush there. I don’t want to blush before them, or before Prince S. or before Yevgeny Pavlovitch, or before anyone, and so I’ve chosen you. To you I want to tell everything, everything, even the most important thing, when I want to, and you must hide nothing from me on your side. I want, with one person at least, to speak freely of everything, as I can to myself. They suddenly began saying that I was waiting for you, and that I loved you. That began before you came here, though I didn’t show them the letter. And now they’re all talking about it. I want to be bold, and not to be afraid of anything. I don’t want to go to their balls. I want to be of use. I’ve been wanting to get away for a long time. For twenty years I’ve been bottled up at home, and they keep trying to marry me. I’ve been thinking of running away since I was fourteen, though I was a silly. Now I’ve worked it all out, and was waiting for you to ask you all about foreign countries. I have never seen a Gothic cathedral. I want to go to Rome. I want to visit all the learned societies. I want to study in Paris. I was preparing myself and studying all last year, and I’ve read a great many books. I have read all the forbidden books. Alexandra and Adelaida read any books—they’re allowed to. But I am not allowed to read all of them; they supervise me. I don’t want to quarrel with my sisters, but I told my father and mother long ago that I want to make a complete change in my social position. I propose to take lip teaching, and I’ve been reckoning on you because you said you were fond of children. Couldn’t we go in for education together, not at once perhaps, but in the future? We should be doing good together. I don’t want to be a general’s daughter. Tell me, are you a very learned person?”

“Oh, not at all.”

“That’s a pity, for I thought . . . how was it I thought so? You'll be my guide all the same because I have chosen you.”

“That’s absurd, Aglaia Ivanovna.”

“I want to run away from home—I want to,” she cried, and again her eyes flashed. “If you won’t consent, I shall marry Gavril Ardalionovitch. I don’t want to be looked upon as a horrid girl at home, and be accused of goodness knows what.”

“Are you mad!” cried Myshkin, almost leaping up from his seat. “What are you accused of? Who accuses you?”

“Every one at home. Mother, my sisters, father, Prince S., even your horrid Kolya. If they don’t say so straight out, they think so. I told them all so to their faces, mother and father too. Maman was ill for a whole day afterwards. And next day Alexandra and papa told me that I didn’t understand what nonsense I was talking and what words I was speaking. And I told them straight out that I understood everything; all sorts of words; that I’m not a little girl; that I read two novels of Paul de Kock two years ago, so as to find out everything.

Maman almost fainted when she heard me.”

A strange idea suddenly occurred to Myshkin. He looked intently at Aglaia and smiled.

He could scarcely believe that the haughty girl who had once so proudly and disdainfully read him Gavril Ardalionovitch’s letter was actually sitting before him. He could not conceive that the disdainful, stern beauty could turn out to be such a baby, a baby, who perhaps did not even now understand some words.

“Have you always lived at home, Aglaia Ivanovna?” he asked. “I mean, did you never go to school or study at an institute?”

“T’ve never been anywhere. I’ve always sat at home, as though I were corked up in a bottle, and I’m to be married straight out of the bottle. Why are you laughing again? I notice that you, too, seem to be laughing at me, and taking their part,” she added, frowning menacingly. “Don’t make me angry, I don’t know what’s the matter with me as it is. ’m certain you came here fully persuaded that I am in love with you, and was making a tryst with you,” she snapped out irritably.

“I certainly was afraid of that yesterday,” Myshkin blurted out with simplicity. (He was very much confused.) “But I am convinced to-day that you...”

“What?” cried Aglaia, and her lower lip began trembling. “You were afraid that I... You dared to imagine that I... Good heavens! You suspected perhaps that I invited you here to ensnare you, so that we might be found here afterwards, and that you might be forced to marry me.”

“Aglaia Ivanovna! Aren’t you ashamed? How could such a nasty idea arise In your pure, innocent heart? ?’'d swear that you don’t believe one word of it... and you don’t know what you’re saying!”

Aglaia sat, looking doggedly at the ground, as though frightened herself at what she had said.

“Tm not ashamed at all,” she muttered. “How do you know that my heart is so innocent? How dared you send me a love-letter, that time?”

“A love-letter? My letter—a love-letter! That letter was most respectful; that letter was the outpouring of my heart at the bitterest moment of my life! I thought of you then as of some light... I...”

“Oh, very well, very well,” she interrupted suddenly, in a quite different, completely penitent and almost frightened tone. She turned to him, though still trying to avoid looking at him, and seemed on the point of touching his shoulder, to beg him more persuasively not to be angry with her.

“Tt’s all right,” she added, terribly shamefaced. “I feel I used a very stupid expression. I said that Just . . . to test you. Take it as though it were unsaid. If I offended you, forgive me. Don’t look straight at me, please. Turn away. You said that was a very nasty idea. I said it on purpose to vex you. Sometimes I’m afraid of what I’m going to say myself, then all at once I say it. You said just now that you wrote that letter at the most painful moment of your life. I know what moment it was,” she said softly, looking at the ground again.

“Oh, if you could know everything!”

“I do know everything!” she cried, with renewed excitement.

“You'd been living for a whole month in the same flat with that horrid woman with whom you ran away. . .

She did not turn red this time, but turned pale as she uttered the words, and she stood up as though she did not know what she was doing, but recollecting herself, sat down again; for a long time her lip was still quivering. The silence lasted a minute. Myshkin was greatly taken aback by the suddenness of her outburst, and did not know how to account for it.

“I don’t love you at all,” she said suddenly, as though rapping out the phrase.

Myshkin made no answer; again they were silent for a minute.

“I love Gavril Ardalionovitch . . .” she said, speaking hurriedly, but scarcely audibly, bending her head still lower.

“That’s not true,” answered Myshkin, also almost whispering.

“Then I’m lying? That’s true. I gave him my word the day before yesterday, on this very seat.

Myshkin was frightened, and pondered a minute.

“That’s not true,” he repeated, with decision. “You’ve invented all that.”

“You’re wonderfully polite. Let me tell you he’s reformed. He loves me more than his life. He burnt his hand before my eyes to show me that he loved me more than his life.”

“Burnt his hand?”

“Yes, his hand. You may believe it or not—I don’t care.”

Myshkin was silent again. There was no trace of jesting in Aglaia’s words. She was angry.

“Why, did he bring a candle with him, if he did it here? I don’t see how else he could... .”

“Yes... he did. What is there unlikely about it?”

“A whole one, in a candlestick?”

“Oh, well ...no... half a candle ...a candle-end . . . a whole one. It doesn’t matter. Let me alone! He brought matches, too, if you like. He lighted the candle, and he left his finger in it for half an hour. Is there anything impossible in that?”

“I saw him yesterday. His fingers were all right.”

Aglaia suddenly went off into a peal of laughter, like a child.

“Do you know why I told you that fib, just now?” She suddenly turned to Myshkin with childlike confidence, and the laugh still quivering on her lips. “Because, when you are lying, if you skilfully put in something not quite ordinary, something eccentric, something, you know, that never has happened, or very rarely, it makes the he sound much more probable. I’ve noticed that. It didn’t answer with me because I didn’t do it properly . . .”

Suddenly she frowned again, as though recollecting herself.

“When,” she turned to Myshkin, looking seriously and even mournfully at him, “when I read you about the ‘poor knight,’ though I did mean to applaud you for one thing, yet I wanted also to put you to shame for your behaviour, and to show you I knew all about 1G”

“You are very unjust to me... to that unhappy woman of whom you spoke so horribly just now, Aglaia.”

“Tt’s because I know all about it, all about it. That’s why I spoke like that! I know that six months ago you offered her your hand in the presence of every one. Don’t interrupt me. You see, I speak without comment. After that she ran away with Rogozhin; then you lived with her in some country place or in the town, and she went away from you to some one else (Aglaia blushed painfully); then she went back again to Rogozhin who loves her like . . . like a madman. Then you, a very clever person, too .. . galloped after her here, as soon as you. heard she had gone back to Petersburg. Yesterday evening you rushed to defend her, and just now you were dreaming about her. .. . You see, I know all about it; it was for her sake, for her sake you came here, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, for her sake,” Myshkin answered softly, looking down mournfully and dreamily, not suspecting with what burning eyes Aglaia glared at him.

“For her sake, to find out... . I don’t believe in her being happy with Rogozhin though. . . . In short, I don’t know what I could do for her here, or how I could help her, but I came.”

He started and looked at Aglaia; she was listening to him with a look of hatred.

“If you came, not knowing why, then you love her very much,” she brought out at last.

“No,” answered Myshkin, “no, I don’t love her. Oh, if you only knew with what horror I recall the time I spent with her!”

A shudder ran down him, as he uttered the words.

“Tell me all,” said Aglaia.

“There is nothing in it you might not hear about. Why I wanted to tell you all about it, and only you, I don’t know. Perhaps because I really did love you very much. That unhappy woman is firmly convinced that she is the most fallen, the most vicious creature in the whole world. Oh, don’t cry shame on her, don’t throw stones at her! She has tortured herself too much from the consciousness of her undeserved shame! And, my God, she’s not to blame! Oh, she’s crying out every minute in her frenzy that she doesn’t admit going wrong, that she was the victim of others, the victim of a depraved and wicked man. But whatever she may say to you, believe me, she’s the first to disbelieve it, and to believe with her whole conscience that she is . . . to blame. When I tried to dispel that gloomy delusion, it threw her into such misery that my heart will always ache when I remember that awful time. It’s as though my heart had been stabbed once for all. She ran away from me. Do you know what for? Simply to show me that she was a degraded creature. But the most awful thing is that perhaps she didn’t even know herself that she only wanted to prove that to me, but ran away because she had an irresistible inner craving to do something shameful, so as to say to herself at once, “There, you’ve done something shameful again, so you're a degraded creature!’ Oh, perhaps you won’t understand this, Aglaia. Do you know that in that continual consciousness of shame there is perhaps a sort of awful, unnatural enjoyment for her, a sort of revenge on some one. Sometimes I did bring her to seeing light round her once more, as it were. But she would grow restive again at once, and even came to accusing me bitterly of setting myself up above her (though I had no thought of such a thing) and told me in so many words at last, when I offered her marriage, that she didn’t want condescending sympathy or help from anyone, nor to be elevated to anyone’s level. You saw her yesterday. Do you think she’s happy with that set, that they are fitting company for her? You don’t know how well educated she is, and what she can understand! She really surprised me sometimes.”

“Did you ever then preach her such . . . sermons?”

“Oh, no,” Myshkin went on dreamily, not observing the tone and the question. “I hardly ever spoke. I often wanted to speak, but I really didn’t know sometimes what to say. You know, in some cases it is better not to speak at all. Oh, I loved her; oh, I loved her very much, but afterwards .. . afterwards . . .. afterwards she guessed it all.”

“What did she guess?”

“That I only pitied her, but that I... don’t love her any more.”

“How do you know? Perhaps she really fell in love with that. . . landowner she went away with?”

“No, I know all about it. She was only laughing at him.”

“And did she never laugh at you?”

“N-no. She used to laugh in anger. Oh, then she would reproach me horribly, in a fury—and she was wretched herself! But . . . afterwards ... Oh, don’t remind me, don’t remind me of that!”

He hid his face in his hands.

“And do you know that she writes letters to me almost every day?”

“Then it is true!” cried Myshkin, in dismay. “I heard so, but I wouldn’t believe it.”

“From whom did you hear it?” Aglaia asked, scared.

“Rogozhin said so yesterday, but not quite definitely.”

“Yesterday? Yesterday morning? What time yesterday? Before the band played, or after?”

“Afterwards. In the evening, past eleven.”

“Oh, if it was Rogozhin. . .. But do you know what she writes to me in these letters?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised at anything. She’s insane.”

“Here are the letters.” Aglaia pulled three letters in three envelopes out of her pocket and threw them down before Myshkin. “For the last week, she’s been beseeching, imploring, coaxing me to marry you. She . . . Oh, well, she’s clever, though she’s insane. And you’re right in saying she’s much cleverer than I am... . She writes that she’s in love with me, that she tries every day to get a chance of seeing me even in the distance. She writes that you love me, that she knows it, that she noticed it long ago, that you used to talk to her about me then. She wants to see you happy. She’s certain that only I can make you happy. .. . She writes so wildly . . . so strangely. . . I haven’t shown her letters to anyone. I’ve been waiting for you. Do you know what this means? Can you guess?”

“It’s madness, a proof of her insanity,” Myshkin brought out, and his lips began to tremble.

“You're not crying now, are you?”

“No, Aglaia. No. ’'m not crying.” Myshkin looked at her.

“What am I to do about it? What do you advise me? I can’t go on getting these letters!”

“Oh, leave her alone, I entreat you!” cried Myshkin. “What can you do in this darkness? I'll do all I can to prevent her writing to you again.”

“Then you're a man of no heart!” cried Aglaia. “Surely you must see that she’s not in love with me, but that she loves you, only you. How can you have noticed everything in her and not have seen that? Do you know what it is, what these letters mean? It’s jealousy. It’s more than jealousy! She . .. do you suppose she’d really marry Rogozhin as she writes here in her letters? She’d kill herself the day after our wedding!”

Myshkin started; his heart stood still. But he gazed in amazement at Aglaia. It was strange to him to realize that the child was so fully a woman.

“God knows, Aglaia, that to bring peace back to her and make her happy, I would give up my life. But .. . I can’t love her now, and she knows it!”

“Then sacrifice yourself, it’s just in your line! You’re such a charitable person! And don’t call me Aglaia. . . You called me simply Aglaia just now. You ought to raise her up, you are bound to. You ought to go away with her again so as to give peace and calm to her heart. Why, you love her, you know!”

“I can’t sacrifice myself like that, though I did want to at one time ... and perhaps I want to still. But I know /or certain that with me she’ll be lost, and so I leave her. I was to have seen her to-day at seven o’clock; but perhaps I won’t go now. In her pride she will never forgive me for my love—and we shall both come to ruin. That’s abnormal, but everything here is abnormal. You say she loves me, but is this love? Can there be such love after what I have gone through? No, it’s something else, not love!”

“How pale you’ve grown!” Aglaia cried, in sudden dismay.

“Tt’s nothing. ve not had much sleep. I’m exhausted. .. We really did talk about you then, Aglaia. . .”

“So that’s true? You actually could talk to her about me and... and how could you care for me when you had only seen me once?”

“I don’t know how. In my darkness then I dreamed. . . . I had an illusion perhaps of a new dawn. I don’t know how I thought of you at first. It was the truth I wrote you then, that I didn’t know. All that was only a dream, from the horror then... . Afterwards I began to work. I shouldn’t have come here for three years. .. .”

“Then you’ve come for her sake?”

And there was a quiver in Aglaia’s voice.

“Yes, for her sake.”

Two minutes of gloomy silence on both sides followed. Aglaia got up from the seat.

“You may say,” she began in an unsteady voice, “you may believe that that... your woman... is insane, but I have nothing to do with her insane fancies... . I beg you, Lyov Nikolayevitch, to take these three letters and fling them back to her from me! And if,” Aglaia cried suddenly, “and if she dares write me a single line again, tell her I shall complain to my father, and have her put into a House of Correction. .. .”

Myshkin jumped up, and gazed in alarm at Aglaia’s sudden fury; a mist seemed to fall before his eyes.

“You can’t feel like that... . It's not true!” he muttered.

“It’s the truth! It’s the truth!” screamed Aglaia, almost beside herself.

“What’s the truth? What truth?” they heard a frightened voice saying near them.

Lizaveta Prokofyevna stood before them.

“It’s the truth that ’'m going to marry Gavril Ardalionovitch! That I love Gavril Ardalionovitch, and that ’'m going to run away from home with him to-morrow!” cried Aglaia, flying out at her. “Do you hear? Is your curiosity satisfied? Is that enough for you?”

And she ran home.

“No, my friend, don’t you go away,” said Lizaveta Prokofyevna, detaining him, “you'll be so good as to give me an explanation. What have I done to be so worried? I’ve been awake all night as it is.”

Myshkin followed her.

CHAPTER IX

ON reaching home Lizaveta Prokofyevna stopped in the first room; she could get no further and sank on the couch, perfectly limp, forgetting even to ask Myshkin to sit down. It was a rather large room, with a round table in the middle of it, with an open fireplace, with quantities of flowers on an efagére in the window, and with another glass door leading into the garden in the opposite wall. Adelaida and Alexandra came in at once, and looked inquiringly and with perplexity at their mother and Myshkin.

At their summer villa the girls usually got up about nine o’clock; but for the last three days Aglaia had been getting up earlier and going for a walk in the garden, not at seven o’clock, but at eight or even later. Lizaveta Prokofyevna, who really had been kept awake all night by her various worries, got up about eight o’clock on purpose to meet Aglaia in the garden, reckoning on her being up already; but she did not find her either in the garden or in her bedroom. At last she grew thoroughly alarmed and waked her daughters. From the servants she learnt that Aglaia Ivanovna had gone out into the park at seven o'clock. The girls laughed at their whimsical sister’s new whim, and observed to their mother that Aglaia might very likely be angry, if she went to look for her in the park, and that she was probably with a book sitting on the green seat of which she had been talking the day before yesterday, and about which she had almost quarrelled with Prince S. because he saw nothing particularly picturesque about it. Coming upon the couple, and hearing her daughter’s strange words, Lizaveta Prokofyevna was greatly alarmed for many reasons, but when she brought Myshkin home with her, she felt uneasy at having spoken openly about it. “After all, why should Aglaia not meet the prince in the park and talk to him, even if the interview had been arranged between them beforehand?”

“Don’t imagine, my good friend,” she braced herself to say, “that I brought you here to cross-examine you. After what happened yesterday I might well not have been anxious to see you for some time.

She could not go on for a moment.

“But you would very much like to know how I came to meet Aglaia Ivanovna this morning?” Myshkin completed her sentence with perfect serenity.

“Well, I did want to!” Lizaveta Prokofyevna flared up at once. “I am not afraid of speaking plainly. For ’'m not insulting anyone, and I don’t want to offend anyone. .. .”

“To be sure, you naturally want to know, without any offence; you are her mother. I met Aglaia Ivanovna this morning at the green seat, at seven o’clock, as she invited me to do so yesterday. She let me know by a note yesterday evening that she wanted to meet me to talk of an important matter. We met and had been talking for a whole hour of matters that only concerned Aglaia Ivanovna. That’s all.”

“Of course it’s all, my good sir, and without a shadow of doubt,” Madame Epanchin assented with dignity.

“Capital, prince,” said Aglaia, suddenly entering the room, “I thank you with all my heart for not believing that I would condescend to le about it. Is that enough, maman, or do you intend to cross-examine him further?”

“You know that I have never yet had to blush for anything before you, though you would perhaps be glad if I had,” Lizaveta Prokofyevna replied impressively. “Good-bye, prince. Forgive me for having troubled you. And I hope you will remain convinced of my unchanged respect for you.”

Myshkin at once bowed to right and to left, and silently withdrew. Alexandra and Adelaida laughed and whispered together. Their mother looked sternly at them.

“Maman,” laughed Adelaida, “it was only that the prince made such magnificent bows; sometimes he’s so clumsy, but he was suddenly just like .. . ike Yevgeny Pavlovitch.”

“Delicacy and dignity are taught by the heart and not by the dancing-master,” Lizaveta Prokofyevna summed up sententiously. And she went up to her room without even looking at Aglaia.

When Myshkin got home about nine o’clock he found Vera Lukyanovna and the servant on the verandah. They were sweeping up and clearing away after the disorder of the previous evening.

“Thank goodness, we’ve had time to finish before you came!” said Vera Joyfully.

“Good-morning; I feel a little giddy, I didn’t sleep well. I should like a nap.”

“Here, in the verandah, as you did yesterday? Good. [ll tell them all not to wake you. Father’s gone off somewhere.”

The maid went away. Vera was about to follow her, but she turned and went anxiously up to Myshkin.

“Prince, don’t be hard on that .. . poor fellow; don’t send him away to-day.”

“I won’t on any account. It’s as he chooses.”

“He won’t do anything now, and. .. don’t be severe with him.”

“Certainly not, why should I>”

“And don’t laugh at him, that’s the chief thing.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think of it.”

“T’m silly to speak of it to a man like you,” said Vera, flushing. “Though you’re tired,” she laughed, half turning to go away, “your eyes are so nice at this moment .. . they look happy.”

“Do they, really?” Myshkin asked eagerly, and he laughed, delighted.

But Vera, who was as simple-hearted and blunt as a boy, was suddenly overcome with confusion, she turned redder and redder, and, still laughing, she went hurriedly away.

“What a... jolly girl,” thought Myshkin, and immediately forgot her. He went to the corner of the verandah where there stood a sofa with a little table beside it; he sat down, hid his face in his hands and sat so for some ten minutes. All at once, with haste and agitation, he took three letters out of his coat-pocket.

But again the door opened and Kolya came out. Myshkin was, as it were, relieved that he had to replace the letters in his pocket and put off the evil moment.

“Well, what an adventure!” said Kolya, sitting down on the sofa and going straight for the subject, as boys like him always do. “What do you think of Ippolit now? Have you no respect for him?”

“Why not... but, Kolya, ’m tired. . . . Besides, it’s too sad to begin about that again. . .. How is he, though?”

“He’s asleep and won’t wake for another two hours. I understand; you haven’t slept at home. You’ve been in the park . . . it was the excitement, of course .. . and no wonder!”

“How do you know that I have been walking in the park and haven’t been asleep?”

“Vera said so just now. She tried to persuade me not to come, but I couldn’t resist coming for a minute. I’ve been watching for the last two hours by his bedside; now Kostya Lebedyev is taking his turn. Burdovsky has gone. Then lie down, prince, good-night. . . or rather day! Only, do you know, I’m amazed!”

“Of course ... all this... .”

“No, prince, no. ’m amazed at his ‘Confession.’ Especially the part in which he spoke of Providence and the future life. There’s a gigantic thought in it!”

Myshkin looked affectionately at Kolya who had no doubt come in to talk at once about the “gigantic thought.”

“But it was not only the thought; it was the whole setting of it! If it had been written by Voltaire, Rousseau, Proudhon, I shouldn’t have been so much struck. But for a man who knows for certain that he has only ten minutes to talk like that—isn’t that pride? Why, it’s the loftiest assertion of personal dignity, it’s regular defiance... . Yes, it’s titanic strength of will! And after that to declare he left the cap out on purpose—it’s base, incredible! But you know, he deceived us yesterday; he was sly. I didn’t pack his bag with him, and I never saw the pistol. He packed everything up himself, so he took me quite off my guard. Vera says that you’re going to let him stay here; I swear there'll be no danger, especially as we shall never leave him.”

“And which of you have been with him in the night?”

“Kostya Lebedyev, Burdovsky, and I. Keller was there a little while, but he went off to Lebedyev’s part to sleep, because there wasn’t room for us all to lie down. Ferdyshtchenko, too, slept in Lebedyev’s part of the house. He went off at seven. The general sleeps always at Lebedyev’s—he’s gone too... . Lebedyev will come out to you presently. He’s been looking for you, I don’t know why; he asked for you twice. Shall I let him in or not, as you want to sleep? I’m going to have a sleep, too. Oh, by the way, I should like to tell you one thing. I was surprised at the general this morning. I came out for a minute and suddenly met the general, and still so drunk that he didn’t know me: he stood before me like a post; he fairly flew at me when he came to himself. ‘How’s the invalid?’ said he, ‘I came to ask after the invalid... .’ I reported this and that. ‘Well, that’s all right,’ he said, ‘but what I really came out for, what I got up for was to warn you. I have reasons for supposing that one can’t say everything before Mr. Ferdyshtchenko and . . . one must be on one’s guard.’ Do you understand, prince?”

“Really? But... it doesn’t matter to us.”

“Of course it doesn’t. We’re not masons! So I felt surprised at the general’s getting up on purpose in the night to wake me to tell me so.”

“Ferdyshtchenko has gone, you say?”

“At seven o’clock. He came in to see me on the way. I was sitting up with Ippolit. He said he was going to spend the day with Vilkin—there’s a drunken fellow here called Vilkin. Well, I’m off! And here’s Lukyan Timofeyitch. ... The prince is sleepy, Lukyan Timofeyitch, right about face!”

“Only for a moment, much honoured prince, on a matter of great consequence to me,” Lebedyev, coming in, pronounced in a forced undertone of great significance, and he bowed with dignity.

He had only just come in, and still held his hat in his hand. His face looked preoccupied and wore a peculiar, unusual expression of personal dignity. Myshkin asked him to sit down.

“You’ve inquired for me twice already? You are still anxious, perhaps, on account of what happened yesterday?”

“You mean on account of that boy, prince? Oh, no; yesterday my ideas were in confusion .. . but to-day I don’t intend contrecarrying your propositions in anything whatever.”

“Contre—? What did you say?”

“I said ‘contrecarrying,’ a French word, like many other words that have entered into the composition of the Russian language, but I don’t defend it.”

“What’s the matter with you this morning, Lebedyev? You’re so dignified and formal, and you speak with such solemnity and as if you were spelling it out,” said Myshkin, laughing.

“Nikolay Ardalionovitch!” Lebedyev addressed Kolya in a voice almost of emotion—“having to acquaint the prince with a matter affecting myself alone... .”

“Of course, of course, it’s not my business! Good-bye, prince!” Kolya retired at once.

“I like the child for his tact,” pronounced Lebedyev, looking after him, “a quick boy, but inquisitive. I’ve encountered a severe calamity, respected prince, last night or this morning at daybreak; I hesitate to determine the precise hour.”

“What is it?”

“I have lost four hundred roubles from my coat-pocket, much honoured prince. We were keeping the day!” added Lebedyev with a sour smile.

“You've lost four hundred roubles? That’s a pity.”

“Particularly for a poor man honourably maintaining his family by his own labour.”

“Of course, of course. How did it happen?”

“The fruits of drinking. I have come to you as my Providence, much honoured prince. I received a sum of four hundred roubles in silver from a debtor yesterday, at five o’clock in the afternoon, and I came back here by train. I had my pocketbook in my pocket. When I changed my uniform for my indoor-coat, I put the money in the coat-pocket, intending that very evening to meet a call with it... . I was expecting an agent.”

“By the way, Lukyan Timofeyitch, is it true you put an advertisement in the papers that you would lend money on gold or silver articles?”

“Through an agent; my own name does not appear, nor my address. The sum at my disposal is paltry, and in view of the increase of my family you will admit that a fair rate of interest... .”

“Quite so, quite so. I only asked for information; forgive my interrupting.”

“The agent did not turn up. Meantime the wretched boy was brought here. I was already in an over-elevated condition, after dinner; the visitors came, we drank ... tea, and... and I grew merry to my ruin. When Keller came in late and announced your féte day and the order for champagne, since I have a heart, dear and much-honoured prince (which you have probably remarked already, seeing that I have deserved you should), since I have a heart, I will not say feeling, but grateful—and I am proud of it—I thought, well, to do greater respect to the coming festivity and, in expectation of congratulating you, by going to change my old house-coat, and putting on the uniform I had taken off on my return—which indeed I did, as you, prince, probably observed, seeing me the whole evening in my uniform. Changing my attire, I forgot the pocket-book in the coat-pocket... so true it is that when God will chastise a man, He first of all deprives him of his reason; and only this morning, at half-past seven, on waking up, I jumped up like a madman, and snatched first thing at my coat—the pocket was empty! The pocket-book had vanished!”

“Ach, that is unpleasant!”

“Unpleasant indeed; and with true tact you have at once found the right word for it,” Lebedyev added, not without slyness.

“Well, but...” Myshkin said uneasily, pondering. “It’s serious, you know.”

“Serious indeed. Again, prince, you have found the word to describe... .”

“Ach, don’t go on, Lukyan Timofeyitch. What is there to find. Words are not what matter. Do you think you could have dropped it out of your pocket when you were drunk?”

“I might have. Anything may happen when one is drunk, as you so sincerely express it, much honoured prince. But I beg you to consider if I had dropped the article out of my pocket when I changed my coat, the dropped article would have been on the floor. Where is that article?”

“Did you put it away perhaps in a drawer, in a table?”

“I’ve looked through everything, I’ve rummaged everywhere, though I hadn’t hidden it anywhere and hadn’t opened any drawer, as I distinctly remember.”

“Have you looked in your cupboard?”

“The first thing I did was to look in the cupboard, and I’ve looked there several times already. . . . And how could I have put it in the cupboard, truly honoured prince?”

“I must own, Lebedyev, this distresses me. Then some one must have found it on the floor?”

“Or picked it out of my pocket! Two alternatives.”

“This distresses me very much, for who. . . . That’s the question!”

“Not a doubt of it. That is the great question; you find the very word, the very notion, with wonderful exactitude, and you define the position, most illustrious prince.”

“Ach, Lukyan Timofeyitch, give over scoffing, this... .”

“Scoffing!” cried Lebedyev, clasping his hands.

“Well, well, that’s all night. ’'m not angry. It’s quite another matter.... im afraid for people. Whom do you suspect?”

“A most difficult and complicated question! The servant I can’t ”

suspect; she was sitting in the kitchen. Nor my own children either. . . .

“I should think not!”

“One of the visitors then.”

“But is that possible?”

“Utterly, and in the highest degree impossible, but so it must be. I’m prepared to admit, however, I’m convinced, indeed, that it is a case of theft; it could not have been committed in the evening when we were all together, but in the might or even in the morning by some one who passed the night here.”

“Ach, my God!”

“Burdovsky and Nikolay Ardalionovitch I naturally exclude; and they didn’t even come into my room.”

“I should think so! Even if they had come! Who spent the night there?”

“Counting me, there were four of us in two adjoining rooms: the general, Keller, Mr. Ferdyshtchenko, and I. So it must have been one of us four!”

“Of the three, then. But which>?”

“I counted myself for correctness and accuracy; but you will admit, prince, that I could hardly have robbed myself, though such cases do happen... .”

“Ach, Lebedyev, how wearisome this is!” cried Myshkin. “Come to the point. Why do you drag it out?”

“So that leaves three, and first, Mr. Keller, an unsteady, drunken fellow, and in certain respects liberal, that is, as regards the pocket, but in other respects rather with chivalrous than liberal tendencies. He slept here in the sick man’s room, and only in the night came in here on the pretext of the bare floor being hard to sleep on.”

“You suspect him?”

“I did suspect him. When at eight o’clock I jumped up like a madman and struck myself on the forehead with my hands, I at once waked the general, who was sleeping the sleep of innocence. Taking into consideration the strange disappearance of Ferdyshtchenko, which of itself had aroused our suspicions, we both resolved to search Keller, who was lying sleeping like a top. We searched him thoroughly: he hadn’t a farthing in his pockets, and we couldn't find one pocket without a hole in it. He’d a blue check cotton handkerchief in a disgusting condition; then a love-letter from a housemaid, threatening him and asking for money, and some bits of the article you heard. The general decided that he was innocent. To complete our investigation we waked the man himself by poking him violently. He could hardly understand what was the matter. He opened his mouth with a drunken air; the expression of his face was absurd and innocent, foolish even—it was not he!”

“Well, I am glad!” Myshkin sighed joyfully. “I was so afraid for him!”

“You were afraid? Then you had some grounds for it?” Lebedyev screwed up his eyes.

“Oh, no, I meant nothing,” faltered Myshkin. “I was very stupid to say I was afraid for him. Do me the favour, Lebedyev, not to repeat it to anyone... .”

“Prince, prince! Your words are in my heart... at the bottom of my heart! It is a tomb! .. .” said Lebedyev ecstatically, pressing his hat to his heart.

“Good, good. . . . Then it must have been Ferdyshtchenko?

That is, I mean you suspect Ferdyshtchenko>?”

“Who else?” Lebedyev articulated softly, looking intently at Myshkin.

“To be sure. ... Who else is there . . . but I mean again, what evidence is there?”

“There is evidence. First his disappearance at seven o’clock, or before seven in the morning.”

“IT know; Kolya told me that he went in to him, and said that he was going to spend the day with... . I forget with whom . . . some friend of his.”

“Wilkin. So Nikolay Ardalionovitch has told you already?”

“He told me nothing about the theft.”

“He doesn’t know, for I’ve kept it secret for the time being. And so he went to Vilkin’s. It would seem there’s nothing strange in a drunken man’s going to see another drunken fellow like himself, even before daybreak, and without any reason. But here we have a clue: as he went he left the address. . . . Now, prince, follow up the question: why did he leave an address? Why did he purposely go out of his way to Nikolay Ardalionovitch to tell him, ‘’m going to spend the day at Vilkin’s.’ Who would care to know that he was going away and to Vilkin’s? Why announce it? No, here we have the cunning, the cunning of a thief! It’s as much as to say, ‘I purposely don’t cover up my traces, so how can I be a thief? Would a thief leave word where he was going?’ It’s an excess of anxiety to avert suspicion, and to efface, so to say, his footprints in the sand... . Do you understand me, honoured prince?”

“I understand, I quite understand, but you know that’s not enough.”

“A second clue. The track turns out to be a false one, and the address given was not exact. An hour later, that is, at eight o’clock, I was knocking at Vilkin’s; he lives here in Fifth Street, and I know him too. There was no sign of Ferdyshtchenko, though I did get out of the servant who was stone deaf that some one really had knocked one hour before, and been pretty vigorous, too, so that he broke the bell. But the servant wouldn’t open the door, not wishing to wake Mr. Vilkin, and perhaps not anxious to get up herself. It does happen so.”

“And is that all your evidence? It’s not much.”

“Prince, but who is there to suspect? Judge for yourself,” Lebedyev concluded, persuasively, and there was a gleam of something sly in his grin.

“You ought to search your rooms once more and look in every drawer,” Myshkin pronounced anxiously, after some pondering.

“I have searched them,” Lebedyev sighed, still more insinuatingly.

“H’m!... And what did you want to change that coat for?” cried Myshkin, thumping the table in vexation.

“That’s a question from an old-fashioned comedy. But, most kind prince, you take my misfortune too much to heart. I don’t deserve it. I mean I alone don’t deserve it; but you are worried about the criminal... . About that good-for-nothing Mr. Ferdyshtchenko?”

“Well, yes. You certainly have worried me,” Myshkin cut him short absently and with dissatisfaction. “So what do you intend to do ...if you are so convinced it is Ferdyshtchenko?”

“Prince, honoured prince, who else could it be?” said Lebedyev, wriggling with growing persuasiveness. “You see, the lack of any other on whom to fix, and, so to say, the complete impossibility of suspecting anybody but Mr. Ferdyshtchenko, is, so to say, another piece of evidence, the third against Mr. I Ferdyshtchenko. For, I ask again, who else could it be? You wouldn’t have me suspect Mr. Burdovsky, I suppose? He-he-he!”

“What nonsense!”

“Nor the general? He-he-he!”

“What folly!” Myshkin said, almost angrily, turning impatiently in his seat.

“Folly, and no mistake! He-he-he! And he amused me, too. I mean the general did! I went with him just now, while the track was fresh, to Vilkin’s .. . and you must note that the general was even more struck than I was when, first thing after finding out my loss, I waked him up. His face changed. He turned red and pale, and at last flew into violent and righteous indignation beyond anything I should have suspected of him. He is a most honourable man! He tells lies continually, from weakness, but he’s a man of the loftiest sentiments. A man, too, of no guile, who inspires the fullest confidence by his artlessness. I have told you already, honoured prince, that ’ve more than a weakness, I’ve an affection for him. He suddenly stopped In the middle of the street, unbuttoned his coat, uncovered his chest. ‘Search me!’ he said. “You searched Keller. Why don’t you search me? That’s only Justice!’ said he. And his arms and legs were trembling; he was quite pale; he looked so threatening. I laughed and said, ‘Listen, general, if anyone else had said such a thing about you, I’'d have taken my head off with my own hands; I’d have put it on a big dish, and would have carried it myself to every one who doubted you: do you see this head? I would say. Ill answer for him with this head, and not only so, but I’'d go through fire for him. That’s what I'd do,’ said I. Then he threw his arms round me, there in the street, burst into tears, trembling, and squeezed me so tight that it made me cough. ‘You’re the only friend left me in my misfortunes,’ said he. He’s a man of feeling! Then, of course, he told me an anecdote on the spot, of how he had once been suspected of stealing five hundred thousand roubles in his youth, but that next day he had thrown himself into a house on fire, and had dragged out of the flames the count who had suspected him, and Nina Alexandrovna, who was a girl at the time. The count embraced him, and so his marriage followed with Nina Alexandrovna. And next day, in the ruins of the house, they found a box with the lost money in it. It was an iron box of English make, with a secret lock, and it had somehow got under the floor so that no one noticed it, and it was only found after the fire. A complete lie. But when he spoke of Nina Alexandrovna he positively blubbered. A most honourable lady, Nina Alexandrovna, though she is angry with me.”

“You don’t know her, do you?”

“Scarcely at all, but I should be heartily glad to, if only to justify myself to her. Nina Alexandrovna has a grievance against me, pretending that I lead her spouse astray into drunkenness. But far from leading him astray, I restrain him. I perhaps entice him away from more pernicious society. Besides, he’s my friend and, I confess it to you, I won’t desert him now. In fact, it’s like this: where he goes there I go. For you can only manage him through his sensibility. He’s quite given up visiting his captain’s widow now, though he secretly longs for her, and even sometimes moans for her, especially in the morning when he puts on his boots. I don’t know why it’s at that time. He’s no money, that’s the trouble, and there’s no going to see her without. Hasn’t he asked you for money, honoured prince?”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“He’s ashamed to. He did mean to. He owned to me, in fact, that he meant to trouble you, but he’s bashful, seemng you obliged him not long ago, and besides he thinks you wouldn’t give it him. He told me this as his friend.”

“But you don’t give him money?”

“Prince! Honoured prince! For that man I'd give not money, alone, but, so to say, my life... . But no, I don’t want to exaggerate, not my life, but if it were a case of fever, an abscess, or even a cough, I'd be ready to bear it for him, I really would. For I look upon him as a great, though fallen man! Yes, indeed, not only money.”

“Then, you do give him money?”

“N-no; money I have not given him, and he knows himself that I won't give it him. But that’s solely with a view to his elevation and reformation. Now he is insisting on coming to Petersburg with me. You see, I’m going to Petersburg to find Mr. Ferdyshtchenko while the tracks are fresh. For I know for a fact that he is there by now. My general is all eagerness, but I suspect that he’ll give me the slip in Petersburg to visit his widow. I’m letting him go on purpose, I must own, as we’ve agreed to go in different directions, as soon as we arrive, so as to catch Mr. Ferdyshtchenko more easily. So I shall let him go, and then fall on him all of a sudden, like snow on the head, at the widow’s—just to put him to shame, as a family man, and as a man, indeed, speaking generally.”

“Only don’t make a disturbance, Lebedyev. For goodness’ sake, don’t make a disturbance,” Myshkin said in an undertone with great uneasiness.

“Oh, no, simply to put him to shame and see what sort of a face he makes, for one can judge a great deal from the face, honoured prince, especially with a man like that! Ah, prince! Great as my own trouble is now, I cannot help thinking of him and the reformation of his morals. I have a great favour to ask of you, prince, and I must confess it was expressly for that I have come to you. You are familiar with their home, you have even lived with them; so, if you would decide to assist me, honoured prince, entirely for the sake of the general and his happiness. . . .”

Lebedyev positively clasped his hands, as though in supplication.

“Assist you? Assist you how? Believe me, I am extremely anxious to understand you, Lebedyev.”

“Tt was entirely with that conviction I have come to you! We could act through Nina Alexandrovna, constantly watching over, and, so to speak, tracking his excellency in the bosom of his family. I don’t know them, unluckily . .. moreover, Nikolay Ardalionovitch adores you, so to speak, with every fibre of his youthful heart, he could help, perhaps. .. .”

“No, to bring Nina Alexandrovna into this business . .. Heaven forbid! Nor Kolya either. . . . But perhaps I still fail to understand you, Lebedyev.”

“Why, there’s nothing to understand!” Lebedyev sprang up from his chair. “Sympathy, sympathy, and tenderness—that’s all the treatment our invalid requires. You, prince, will allow me to think of him as an invalid?”

“Yes, it shows your delicacy and intelligence.”

“For the sake of clearness, I will explain to you by an example taken from my practice. You see the kind of man he is: his only weakness now is for that widow, who won’t let him come without money, and at whose house I mean to discover him to-day, for his own good; but supposing it were not only the captain’s widow, supposing he had committed an actual crime, or anyway a most dishonourable action (though of course he’s incapable of it), even then, I tell you, you could do anything with him simply by generous tenderness, so to speak, for he is the most sensitive of men! Believe me, he wouldn’t hold out for five days; he would speak out of himself; he would weep and confess, especially if one went to work cleverly, and in an honourable style, by means of his family’s vigilant watch, and yours, over his comings and goings. . . . Oh, most noble-hearted prince!” Lebedyev leapt up in a sort of exaltation. “Of course I’m not asserting that he. . .. I am ready to shed my last drop of blood, so to speak, for him at this moment, though his incontnence and drunkenness and the captain’s widow, and all that, taken together, may lead him on to anything.”

“In such a cause I am always ready to assist,” said Myshkin, getting up. “Only, I confess, Lebedyev, I am dreadfully uneasy; tell me, do you still... . In one word you say yourself that you suspect Mr. Ferdyshtchenko.”

“Why, who else? Who else, true-hearted prince?” Again Lebedyev clasped his hands ingratiatingly, with a sugary smile.

Myshkin frowned and got up from his place.

“Look here, Lukyan Timofeyitch, a mistake here would be a dreadful thing. This Ferdyshtchenko. . . . I should not like to speak il of him... . This Ferdyshtchenko . . . well, who knows, perhaps it is he! . .. I mean to say that perhaps he really is more capable of it than ... anyone else.”

Lebedyev opened his eyes and pricked up his ears.

“You see,” said Myshkin, stumbling and frowning more and more, as he walked up and down the verandah, trying not to look at Lebedyev—‘I was given to understand. . . . I was told about Mr. Ferdyshtchenko that he was a man before whom one must be careful not to say anything . . . too much—you understand? I say this to show that perhaps he really is more capable of it than anyone else ... so as not to make a mistake, that’s the great thing—do you understand?”

“Who told you that about Mr. Ferdyshtchenko?” Lebedyev caught him up instantly.

“Oh, it was whispered to me. I don’t believe it myself, though. ... ?’m awfully vexed to be obliged to tell you. . . . I assure you I don’t believe it myself... it’s some nonsense. . . . Foo! how stupid I’ve been!”

“You see, prince,” Lebedyev was positively quivering all over, “this is important. This is extremely important now. I don’t mean as to Mr. Ferdyshtchenko, but as to the way this information reached you”—saying this Lebedyev ran backwards and forwards after Myshkin, trying to keep step with him—“I’ve something to tell you now, prince: just now, when I was going with the general to Vilkin’s, after he told me about the fire, he was boiling over, of course, with anger, and suddenly began dropping the same hint to me about Mr. Ferdyshtchenko, but so strangely and incoherently that I couldn’t help asking him some questions, and in the end I was fully convinced that all the whole thing was solely an inspiration of his excellency’s, solely arising, so to speak, from his generous heart. For he lies entirely because he can’t restrain his sentimentality. Now, kindly consider this: if he told a lie, and I’m sure he did, how could you have heard of it? It was the inspiration of the moment, you understand, prince—so who could have told you? That’s important, that... . That’s very important, and... so to say... .”

“Kolya told me it just now, and he was told it this morning by his father whom he met at six o’clock—between six and seven—in the passage, when he came out for something.”

And Myshkin told the story in detail.

“Ah, well, that’s what’s called a clue.” Lebedyev laughed noiselessly, rubbing his hands. “Just as I thought! That means that his excellency waked from his sleep of innocence at six o’clock, expressly to go and wake his darling son and warn him of the great danger of associating with Mr. Ferdyshtchenko. What a dangerous man Mr. Ferdyshtchenko must be! And what parental solicitude on the part of his excellency!”

“Listen, Lebedyev,” Myshkin was utterly confused, “listen, keep quiet about it! Don’t make an uproar I beg you, Lebedyev, I entreat you. In that case I swear I'll help you, but on condition that nobody, nobody knows!”

“Rest assured, most noble-hearted, most sincere and generous prince,” cried Lebedyev in perfect exaltation—‘rest assured that all this will be buried in my loyal heart. ?'d give every drop of my blood. .. . Illustrious prince, ’m a poor creature in soul and spirit, but ask any poor creature, any scoundrel even, which he’d rather have to do with, a scoundrel like himself, or a noble-hearted man like you, most true-hearted prince, he’ll answer that he prefers the noble-hearted man, and that’s the triumph of virtue! Good-bye honoured prince! Treading softly . . . treading softly, and... hand in hand.”

CHAPTER X

MYSHKIN understood at last why he turned cold every time he touched those three letters, and why he had put off reading them until the evening. When, in the morning, he had sunk into a heavy sleep on the lounge in the verandah without having brought himself to open those three envelopes, he had another painful dream, and again the same “sinful woman” came to him. Again she looked at him with tears sparkling on her long eyelashes, again beckoned him to follow her, and again he waked up, as he had done before, with anguish recalling her face. He wanted to go to Aerat once, but could not. At last, almost in despair he opened the letters and began reading them.

These letters too were like a dream. Sometimes one dreams strange, impossible and incredible dreams; on awakening you remember them and are amazed at a strange fact. You remember first of all that your reason did not desert you throughout the dream; you remember even that you acted very cunningly and logically through all that long, long time, while you were surrounded by murderers who deceived you, hid their intentions, behaved amicably to you while they had a weapon in readiness, and were only waiting for some signal; you remember how cleverly you deceived them at last, hiding from them; then you guessed that they’d seen through your deception and were only pretending not to know where you were hidden; but you were sly then and deceived them again; all this you remember clearly. But how was it that you could at the same time reconcile your reason to the obvious absurdities and impossibilities with which your dream was overflowing? One of your murderers turned into a woman before your eyes, and the woman into a little, sly, loathsome dwarf—and you accepted it all at once as an accomplished fact, almost without the slightest surprise, at the very time when, on another side, your reason was at its highest tension and showed extraordinary power, cunning, sagacity, and logic? And why, too, on waking up and fully returning to reality, do you feel almost every time, and sometimes with extraordinary intensity, that you have left something unexplained behind with the dream? You laugh at the absurdities of your dream, and at the same time you feel that interwoven with those absurdities some thought lies hidden, and a thought that is real, something belonging to your actual life, something that exists and has always existed in your heart. It’s as though something new, prophetic, that you were awaiting, has been told you in your dream. Your impression is vivid, it may be joyful or agonising, but what it is, and what was said to you you cannot understand or recall.

It was almost like this, after reading these letters. But even before he had unfolded them, Myshkin felt that the very fact of the existence and the possibility of them was like a nightmare. How could she have brought herself to write to fer, he asked himself as he wandered about alone that evening (at times not knowing where he was going). How could she write of that, how could such a mad fantasy have arisen in her mind? But that fantasy had by now taken shape, and the most amazing thing of all for him was that, as he read those letters, he himself almost believed in the possibility and the Justification of that fantasy. Yet, of course, it was a dream, a nightmare, a madness; but there was something in it tormentingly real, and agonisingly true, which justified the dream and the nightmare and the madness. For several hours together he seemed to be haunted by what he had read, every minute recalling fragments of it; brooding over them, pondering them. Sometimes he was even inclined to tell himself that he had foreseen all this and known it beforehand. It even seemed to him as though he had read it all before, some time very long ago, and that everything that he had grieved over since, everything that had been a pain or a dread to him had all lain hidden in those letters he had read long ago.

“When you open this letter’—so the first epistle began—“you will look first of all at the signature. The signature will tell you all, and explain all, so there’s no need to make any defence or explanation. If I were in any way on a level with you, you might be offended at such impertinence. But, who am I, and who are you? We are two such opposite extremes, and I am so infinitely below you that I cannot insult you, even if I wanted to.”

In another place she wrote:

“Don’t consider my words the sick ecstasy of a sick mind, but you are for me perfection! I have seen you, I see you every day. I don’t judge you; I have not come by reason to believe that you are perfection; I simply have faith in it. But one wrong I do you: I love you. Perfection should not be loved; one can only look on perfection as perfection. Is that not soP Yet I am in love with you. Though love makes equal, yet don’t be uneasy; I have not put myself on an equality with you even in my most secret thought. I have written, ‘don’t be uneasy.’ Can you possibly be uneasy? I would kiss your footprints if I could. Oh, I don’t put myself on a level with you. .. . Look at my signature, you need only look at my signature!”

“I notice, however,” she wrote in another letter, “that I join your name with his, and I have never once asked myself whether you love him. He loved you, though he had seen you only once. He thought of you as of ‘light.’ Those are his own words, I heard them from him. But without words I knew that you were ‘light’ for him. I’ve lived a whole month beside him, and understood then that you love him too. To me you and he are one.”

“What does this mean?” she wrote again. “Yesterday I passed by you and you seemed to blush. It can’t be so. It was my fancy. If you were brought to the filthiest den and shown vice in its nakedness, you should not blush; you are too lofty to resent an insult. You can hate every one base and low, not for your own sake, but for the sake of others, those whom they wrong. You no one can wrong. Do you know I think you even ought to love me? You are for me the same as for him—a ray of light. An angel cannot hate, cannot help loving. Can one love every one, all men, all one’s neighbours? I have often asked myself that question. Of course not. It’s unnatural indeed. In abstract love for humanity one almost always loves no one but oneself. But that’s impossible for us and you are different. How could you not love anyone, when you cannot compare yourself with anyone, and when you are above every insult, every personal resentment. You alone can love without egoism, you alone can love, not for yourself, but for the sake of him whom you love. Oh, how bitter it would be for me to find out that you feel shame or anger on account of me. That would be your ruin. You would sink to my level at once.

“Yesterday, after meeting you I went home and invented a picture. Artists always paint Christ as he appears in the Gospel stories. I would paint Him differently. I would imagine Him alone, His disciples must have sometimes left Him alone. I would leave only a little child beside Him. The child would be playing beside Him, perhaps be telling Him something in his childish words. Christ has been listening, but now He is thoughtful, His hand still resting unconsciously on the child’s fair little head. He is looking into the distance at the horizon; thought, great as the whole world, dwells in His eyes. His face is sorrowful. The child leans silent with his elbow on Christ’s knees, his cheek on his little hand and his head turned upwards, and looks intently at Him, pondering as little children sometimes ponder. The sun is setting. . . . That is my picture. You are innocent, and in your innocence lies all your perfection. Oh, only remember that! What have you to do with my passion for you? You are now altogether mine, I shall be all my life beside you I shall soon die.”

Finally, in the very last letter stood the words:

“For God’s sake, think nothing of me, and don’t think that I am abasing myself by writing to you like this, or that I belong to the class of people who enjoy abasing themselves, even if from pride. No, I have my consolation; but it is difficult for me to explain it to you. It would be difficult for me to explain it clearly even to myself, although it torments me that I cannot. But I know that I cannot abase myself, even from an access of pride; and of self-abasement from purity of heart I am incapable. And so I do not abase myself at all.

“Why do I so want to bring you together—for your sake, or for my own? For my own sake, of course; for myself, of course, it would solve all my difficulties, I have told myself so long ago. I have heard that your sister Adelaida said of my portrait then that with such beauty one might turn the world upside down. But I have renounced the world. Does it amuse you to hear that from me, meeting me decked in lace and diamonds, in the company of drunkards and profligates? Don’t mind that, I have almost ceased to exist and I know it. God knows what in my stead lives within me. I read that every day in two terrible eyes which are always gazing at me, even when they are not before me. Those eyes are si/ent now (they are always silent), but I know their secret. His house is gloomy, and there is a secret in it. ’m sure that he has, hidden in his box, a razor, wrapped in silk like that murderer in Moscow; he too lived in the same house with his mother, and kept a razor wrapped in silk to cut a throat with. All the time I was in their house, I kept fancying that somewhere under the floor there might be a corpse hidden there by his father perhaps, wrapped in American leather, like the corpse in the Moscow case, and surrounded in the same way with jars of Zhdanov’s fluid. I could show you the corner. He is always silent: but I know he loves me so much that he can’t help hating me. Your marriage and ours are to take place together: we have fixed that. I have no secrets from him. I should kill him from terror. . .. But he will kill me first. He laughed just now and said I was raving: he knows I am writing to you.”

And there was much, much more of the same kind of raving in those letters. One of them, the second, written in a small hand, covered two large sheets of note-paper.

At last Myshkin came out of the darkness of the park, where he had been wandering a long time, as he had the previous night. The clear limpid night seemed to him lighter than ever.

“Can it still be so early?” he thought. (He had forgotten to take his watch.) He fancied he heard music somewhere in the distance. “Tt must be at the station,” he thought, “they’ve certainly not gone there to-day.” As he made the reflection, he saw that he was standing close to the Epanchins’ villa. He knew quite well that he was bound to find himself there at last, and with a beating heart he went up to the steps of the verandah. No one met him. The verandah was empty. He waited, and opened the door into the room. “They never shut that door,” the thought flickered through his mind, but the room was empty too. It was almost dark in it.

He stood still in the middle of the room in perplexity. Suddenly the door opened and Alexandra came in, with a candle in her hand. On seeing Myshkin she was surprised and stopped short before him inquiringly. Obviously she was simply crossing the room from one door to the other, with no idea of finding anyone there.

“How do you come here?” she asked at last.

ml ey ACAIe TY fn

“Maman is not quite well, nor Aglaia either. Adelaida is going to bed, I’m going too. We’ve been at home by ourselves all the evening. Papa and the prince are in Petersburg.”

iT. @2 a” ”

I’ve come ... ?ve come to you... now....

“Do you know what the time is?”

“N-no.”

“Half-past twelve. We always go to bed by one.”

“Why, I thought it was half-past nine.”

“Tt doesn’t matter!” she laughed. “And why didn’t you come in before? We may have been expecting you.”

“T... thought...” he faltered, moving away.

“Good-bye. To-morrow I shall make them all laugh.”

He went homewards by the road that encircled the park. His heart was beating, his thoughts were in a maze, and everything round him became like a dream. And suddenly, just as yesterday he had twice waked up at the same dream, the same apparition rose again before him. The same woman came out of the park and stood before him, as though she had been waiting for him there. He started, and stood still. She snatched his hand and pressed it tight. “No, this Was not an apparition!”

And at last she stood before him, face to face for the first time since their parting. She was saying something to him, but he looked at her in silence; his heart was too full, and ached with anguish. Oh, never could he forget that meeting with her and he always remembered it with the same anguish. She sank on her knees before him on the spot, in the street, like one demented. He stepped back in horror, and she tried to catch his hand to kiss it, and just as in his dream that night, the tears glistened on her long eyelashes.

“Stand up! Stand up!” he said in a frightened whisper, raising her. “Stand up, at once!”

“Are you happy? Happy?” she asked. “Only say one word to me, are you happy now? To-day, this minute? Have you been with her? What did she say?”

She did not get up. She did not hear him. She questioned him hurriedly, and was in haste to speak, as though she were being pursued.

“Tm going to-morrow as you told me. I won't... . It’s the last time I shall see you. The last time! Now it’s absolutely the last time!”

“Calm yourself, stand up!” he said in despair.

She looked greedily at him, clutching at his hands.

“Good-bye,” she said at last, she got up and went quickly away from him, almost running. Myshkin saw that Rogozhin had suddenly appeared beside her, that he had taken her arm, and was leading her away.

“Wait a minute, prince,’ minutes.”

Five minutes later he did, in fact, return. Myshkin was waiting for him at the same place.

“T’ve put her in the carriage,” he said. “It’s been waiting there at the corner since ten o’clock. She knew you’d be at the young lady’s all the evening. I told her exactly what you wrote to me to-day. She won't write to the young lady again, she’s promised; and she’ll go away from here to-morrow as you wish. She wanted to see you for the last time, though you refused her. We’ve been waiting for you here, on that seat there, to catch you as you came back.”

“Did she take you with her of her own accord?”

“Why not?” grinned Rogozhin. “I saw what I knew before.

You've read the letters I suppose?”

“Have you really read them?” asked Myshkin, struck by that idea.

“Rather! She showed me each one of them herself. About the razor, too, do you remember, ha-ha!”

“She’s mad!” cried Myshkin, wringing his hands.

“Who knows about that? Perhaps not,” Rogozhin said softly, as though to himself. Myshkin did not answer.

“Well, good-bye,” said Rogozhin. “Tm going away tomorrow too: don’t remember evil against me! And I say, brother,” he added, turning quickly, “why didn’t you answer her question: are you happy or not?”

“No, no, no!” cried Myshkin, with unspeakable sadness.

“I should think not, indeed,” laughed Rogozhin maliciously, and he went away without looking back.

J

cried Rogozhin, “Ill be back in five

PART IV

CHAPTER I

ABOUT a week had passed since the meeting of the two persons of our story on the green seat. One bright morning about half-past ten Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsyn was returning from visiting some friends, plunged in mournful reflection.

There are people whom it is difficult to describe completely in their typical and characteristic aspect. These are the people who are usually called “ordinary,” “the majority,” and who do actually make up the vast majority of mankind. Authors for the most part attempt in their tales and novels to select and represent vividly and artistically types rarely met with im actual; life in their entirety, though they are nevertheless almost more real than real life itself. Podkolyosin* as a type is perhaps exaggerated, but not at all unreal. What numbers of clever people after being introduced by Gogol to Podkolyosin at once discovered that tens and hundreds of their friends and acquaintances were extraordinarily like him. They knew before reading Gogol that their friends were like Podkolyosin, only they did not know what name to give them. In real life, extremely few bride grooms jump out of window just before their wedding, for, apart from other considerations, it’s not a convenient mode of escape. Yet how many men, even intelligent and virtuous persons, on the eve of their wedding day have been ready to acknowledge at the bottom of their hearts that they were Podkolyosins. Not all husbands exclaim at every turn “Tu l’a voulu, Georges Dandin!” But how many millions and billions of times that cry from the heart has been uttered by husbands all the world over after the honeymoon, or—who knows?—even perhaps the day after the wedding!

Without entering into deeper considerations, we will simply point out that in actual life typical characteristics are apt to be watered down, and that Georges Dandins and Podkolyosins exist and are moving before our eyes every day, only in a less concentrated form. With the reservation that Georges Dandin in full perfection, as Moliere has portrayed him, may also be met with in real life, though not frequently, we will conclude our reflections, which are beginning to be suggestive of newspaper criticism.

Yet the question remains! What is an author to do with ordinary people, absolutely “ordinary,” and how can he put them before his readers so as to make them at all interesting? It is impossible to leave them out of fiction altogether, for commonplace people are at every moment the chief and essential links in the chain of human affairs; if we leave them out, we lose all semblance of truth. To fill a novel completely with types or, more simply, to make it interesting with strange and incredible characters, would be to make it unreal and even uninteresting. To our thinking a writer ought to seek out interesting and instructive features even among commonplace people. When, for instance, the very nature of some commonplace persons lies just in their perpetual and invariable commonplaceness, or better still, when, in spite of the most strenuous efforts to escape from the daily round of commonplaceness and routine, they end by being left invariably for ever chained to the same routine, such people acquire a typical character of their own—the character of a commonplaceness desirous above all things of being independent and original without the faintest possibility of becoming so.

To this class of “commonplace” or “ordinary” people belong certain persons of my tale, who have hitherto, I must confess, been insufficiently explained to the reader. Such were Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsyn, her husband, Mr. Ptitsyn, and her brother, Gavril Ardalionovitch.

There is, indeed, nothing more annoying than to be, for instance, wealthy, of good family, nice-looking, fairly intelligent, and even good-natured, and yet to have no talents, no special faculty, no peculiarity even, not one idea of one’s own, to be precisely “like other people.” To have a fortune, but not the wealth of Rothschild; to be of an honourable family, but one which has never distinguished itself in any way; to have a pleasing appearance expressive of nothing in particular; to have a decent education, but to have no idea what use to make of it; to have intelligence, but mo ideas of one’s own; to have a good heart, but without any greatness of soul; and so on and so on. There is an extraordinary multitude of such people in the world, far more than appears. They may, like all other people, be divided into two classes: some of limited intelligence; others much cleverer. The first are happier. Nothing is easier for “ordinary” people of limited intelligence than to imagine themselves exceptional and original and to revel in that delusion without the slightest misgiving. Some of our young ladies have only to crop their hair, put on blue spectacles, and dub themselves Nihilists, to persuade themselves at once that they have immediately gained “convictions” of their own. Some men have only to feel the faintest stirring of some kindly and humanitarian emotion to persuade themselves at once that no one feels as they do, that they stand in the foremost rank of culture. Some have only to meet with some idea by hearsay, or to read some stray page, to believe at once that it is their own opinion and has sprung spontaneously from their own brain. The impudence of simplicity, if one may so express it, is amazing in such cases. It is almost incredible, but yet often to be met with. This impudence of simplicity, this unhesitating confidence of the stupid man in himself and his talents, is superbly depicted by Gogol in the wonderful character of Lieutenant Pirogov. Pirogov has no doubt that he is a genius, superior indeed to any genius. He is so positive of this that he never questions it; and, indeed, he questions nothing. The great writer is forced in the end to chastise him for the satisfaction of the outraged moral feeling of the reader; but, seeing that the great man simply shook himself after the castigation and fortified himself by consuming a pie, he flung up his hands in amazement and left his readers to make the best of it. I always regretted that Gogol took his great Pirogov from so humble a rank; for he was so self-satisfied that nothing could be easier for him than to imagine himself, as his epaulettes grew thicker and more twisted with years and promotion, an extraordinary military genius; or rather, not imagine it, but simply take it for granted. Since he had been made a general, he must have been a military genius! And how many such have made terrible blunders afterwards on the field of battle! And how many Pirogovs there have been among our writers, savants and propagandists! I say “have been,” but of course we have them still.

Gavril Ardalionovitch Ivolgin belonged to the second category. He belonged to the class of the “much cleverer” people, though he was infected from head to foot with the desire for originality. But that class, as we observed above, is far less happy than the first; for the clever “commonplace” man, even if he occasionally or even always fancies himself a man of genius and originality, yet preserves the worm of doubt gnawing in his heart, which in some cases drives the c/ever man to utter despair. Even if he submits, he is completely poisoned by his vanity’s being driven inwards. But we have taken an extreme example. In the vast majority of these clever people, things do not end so tragically. Their liver is apt to be affected in their declining years, that’s all. But before giving in and humbling themselves, such men sometimes play the fool for years, all from the desire of originality. There are strange instances of it, indeed; an honest man is sometimes, for the sake of being original, ready to do something base. It sometimes happens that one of these luckless men is not only honest but good, is the guardian angel of his family, maintains by his labour outsiders as well as his own kindred, and yet can never be at rest all his life! The thought that he has so well fulfilled his duties is no comfort or consolation to him; on the contrary, it irritates him. “This is what ve wasted all my life on,” he says; “this is what has fettered me, hand and foot; this is what has hindered me from doing something great! Had it not been for this, I should certainly have discovered—gunpowder or America, I don’t know precisely what, but I would certainly have discovered it!” What is most characteristic of these gentlemen is that they can never find out for certain what it is that they are destined to discover and what they are within an ace of discovering. But their sufferings, their longings for what was to be discovered, would have sufficed for a Columbus or a Galileo.

Gavril Ardalionovitch had taken the first step on that road, but he was only at its beginning; he had many years of playing the fool before him. A profound and continual consciousness of his own lack of talent, and at the same time the overwhelming desire to prove to himself that he was a man of great independence, had rankled in his heart almost from his boyhood up. He was a young man of violent and envious cravings, who seemed to have been positively born with his nerves overwrought. The violence of his desires he took for strength. His passionate craving to distinguish himself sometimes led him to the brink of most ill-considered actions, but our hero was always at the last moment too sensible to take the final plunge. That drove him to despair. He could perhaps have made up his mind to anything extremely base to attain what he dreamed of. But as fate would have it, he always turned out to be too honest for any great meanness. (Small meannesses he was, however, prepared for.) He looked with loathing and hatred on the downfall and poverty of his family. He treated even his mother haughtily and contemptuously, though he knew perfectly well that his mother’s reputation and character were the pivot on which his future rested.

When he entered General Epanchin’s house he said to himself at once, “Since I must be mean, let me be so thoroughly, if only I win my game”—and was scarcely ever thoroughly mean. And why should he imagine that he would certainly need to be mean? Of Aglaia he was simply frightened at the time, but he kept on with her on the off-chance, though he never seriously believed that she would stoop to him. Afterwards, at the time of his affair with Nastasya Filippovna, he suddenly imagined that money would be the means of attaining everyting. “If I must be mean, well then I will,” he repeated to himself every day with satisfaction, but with a certain dismay. “If one must be mean, let us be first-rate at it,” he urged himself continually. “Commonplace people are afraid to be, but I am not.”

Losing Aglaia and crushed by circumstances, he completely lost heart, and actually brought Myshkin the money flung him by a mad woman to whom it had been given by a madman. A thousand times afterwards he regretted having returned that money, though he was continually priding himself upon it. He did actually shed tears for three days while Myshkin was in Petersburg; but in those three days he grew to hate the prince because the latter looked at him too compassionately, though “not every one would have had_ the strength “for such a deed as returning that money. But the frank confession to himself that his misery was due to nothing but the continual mortification of his vanity distressed him horribly.

Only long afterwards he saw and realised what a different ending an affair with such a strange and innocent creature as Aglaia might have had. He was consumed by regrets; he threw up his post and sank into despondency and dejection. He lived with his father and mother in Ptitsyn’s house and at the latter’s expense, and openly despised Ptitsyn, although he followed his advice and had the sense almost always to ask it. Gavril Ardalionovitch was angry, for instance, with Ptitsyn for not aiming at becoming a Rothschild. “If you go in for usury, do it thoroughly—squeeze people, com money out of them, show will-power, be a king among the Jews.”

Ptitsyn was unassuming and quiet; he did nothing but smile. But once he thought it necessary to have a serious explanation with Ganya, and he carried out the task with a certain degree of dignity. He had proved to Ganya that he was doing nothing dishonest and that he had no right to call him a grasping Jew; that it was not his fault that money was so valuable; that he was acting honestly and justly, and that in reality he was only an intermediary in these affairs, and that finally, thanks to his accuracy in business, he was already favourably known to first-rate people and his business was increasing. “I shall never be a Rothschild, and I don’t want to be,” he said, smiling; “but I shall have a house in Liteyny, perhaps two even, and there I shall stop.” “And who knows, perhaps even three,” he thought to himself, but he never uttered this aloud, he concealed that day-dream.

Nature loves such people and is kind to them; she will reward Ptitsyn not with three but with four houses, and just because he has realised from childhood that he will never become a Rothschild. But beyond four houses nature will not go, and Ptitsyn’s success will end there.

Gavril Ardalionovitch’s sister was quite a different person. She too was possessed with strong desires, but they were rather persistent than impulsive. She had plenty of common-sense in emergencies, and was not devoid of it indeed in everyday life. It is true that she also was one of the ordinary people who dream of being original; yet she very soon found out that she had no particular originality, and did not take it too much to heart, perhaps—who knows?—from pride of a sort. She took her first practical step with great decision in marrying Ptitsyn. But in getting married she did not say to herself, “If I must be mean, I will be mean so long as I gain my end,” as her brother Ganya would certainly have said to himself, and may possibly have said aloud to her, when he gave his approval as elder brother to the match. Quite the contrary, in fact: Varvara Ardalionovna married after having convinced herself that her future husband was a pleasant, unassuming, almost educated man, who could never be induced to do anything very dishonourable. As for minor acts of meanness, Varvara Ardalionovna did not worry about such trifles; and, in fact, one can find such trifles everywhere. It’s no good looking for an ideal being! She knew, besides, that by marrying she would provide a refuge for her mother, her father and her brothers. Seeing her brother in trouble, she wanted to help him in spite of all their previous misunderstandings.

Ptitsyn sometimes urged Ganya, in a friendly way, of course, to take another post. “You despise generals and being a general,” he would say to him sometimes in joke; “but mind, ‘they’ will all finish by being generals; if you live long enough you will see.” “But what makes them think that I despise generals and being a general?” Ganya thought ironically to himself.

For her brother’s sake Varvara Ardalionovna made up her mind to enlarge her circle of acquaintance. She managed to get a footing at the Epanchins’. The memories of childhood stood her in good stead there, for she and Ganya had played with the Epanchins as children. We may observe here that if Varvara Ardalionovna had visited the Epanchins in pursuit of some fantastic dream, by that very fact she would have excluded herself from that class of people with whom she mentally ranked, herself. But she was not pursuing a dream; she was working on a fairly firm basis: she was reckoning on the peculiarities of the Epanchin family. She was never tired of studying Aglaia’s character. The task she set before herself was to bring those two, Aglaia and her brother, together again. Possibly she actually did attain this object to some extent; possibly she made blunders, building perhaps too much on her brother and expecting from him what he could not under any circumstances have given. In any case she behaved with considerable art at the Epanchins’: for weeks together she made no allusion to her brother; she was always extremely truthful and sincere; she behaved simply but with dignity. As for the depths of her conscience, she was not afraid to look into them, and she did not reproach herself for anything in the least. It was that that gave her power. There was only one thing she noticed in herself, that she too was spiteful; that she too had a great deal of amour propre, and one might almost say of mortified vanity. She noticed it particularly at certain moments, especially almost every time she was walking home from the Epanchins’.

And just now she was on her way back from them, and, as we have said already, she was dejected and preoccupied. A shade of bitter mockery was apparent in her dejection. At Pavlovsk Ptitsyn occupied a roomy but not very attractive-looking house in a dusty street, which would within a short period become his own property; so that he was already negotiating for the sale of it. As she was going up the steps, Varvara Ardalionovna heard an extraordinary noise from upstairs and caught the voices of her father and brother shouting at one another. Going to the drawing-room and seeing Ganya running to and fro, white with fury and almost tearing his hair, she frowned and, with a weary air, sank on the sofa without taking off her hat. Knowing that if she let a minute pass without asking her brother why he was in such a state, he would certainly be angry with her, Varya hastened to observe, in the form of a question:

“The usual story?” :

“The usual story indeed!” cried Ganya. “The usual story! No! The devil only knows what is happening here, it’s not the same as usual. The old man is getting perfectly frantic. . . . Mother’s in floods of tears. Upon my word, Varya, I’ll turn him out, say what you like, or... or I'll go away myself,” he added, probably recollecting that it was not possible to turn anyone out of another person’s house.

“You must make allowances,” murmured Varya.

“What allowances? For whom?” cried Ganya, firing up. “For his filthy habits? No, you may say what you like, that’s impossible. Impossible, impossible, impossible! And what a way to behave: he is in fault, and it makes him all the more stuck up. “The gate is not good enough for him, we must pull the wall down!’ Why are you sitting there like that? You don’t look yourself.”

“I look as I always do,” Varya answered with displeasure. Ganya looked at her more carefully.

“Have you been there?” he asked suddenly.

“Yes.”

“Stay, shouting again! What a disgrace, and at such a time too!”

“What sort of time? It’s no such special time.”

Ganya looked more intently than ever at his sister.

“Have you found out something more?” he asked.

“Nothing unexpected, anyway. I found out that it’s all a fact. My husband was nearer the truth than either of us; it’s turned out just as he predicted from the beginning. Where is he?”

“Not at home? What’s turned out?”

“The prince is formally betrothed to her. The thing is settled. The elder girls told me. Aglaia consents; they have even left off keeping it dark. (There’s always been so much mystery till now.) Adelaida’s wedding will be put off again so that the two weddings may be on one day. Such a romantic notion! Quite poetical! You’d better be writing a poem for the occasion than running about the room to no purpose. Princess Byelokonsky will be there this evening; she’s come in the nick of time; there are to be visitors. He is to be presented to the Princess Byelokonsky, though she knows him already. I believe the engagement will be publicly announced. They are only afraid he may let something drop or break something when he walks into the drawing-room, or else flop down himself; it’s quite in his line.”

Ganya listened very attentively, but to his sister’s surprise this news, which ought to have overwhelmed him, seemed to have by no means an overwhelming effect on him.

“Well, that was clear,” he said after a moment’s thought. “So it’s the end,” he added, with a strange smile, glancing slyly into his sister’s face and still walking up and down the room, but much more quietly.

“It’s a good thing you take it like a philosopher. I am glad, really,” said Varya.

“Yes, it’s a load off one’s mind; off yours, anyway.”

“I think I’ve served you sincerely without criticising or annoying you. I didn’t ask you what sort of happiness you expected with Aglaia.”

“Why, was I expecting... happiness from Aglaia?”

“Oh, please don’t discuss it philosophically! Of course you were. It’s all over and there’s nothing more for us to do. We’ve been fools. I must own I could never take the thing quite seriously. It was simply on the off-chance that I took it up. I was reckoning on her ridiculous character, and my chief object was to please you. It was ten to one it would come to nothing. I don’t know to this day what you have been hoping for.”

“Now your husband and you will be trying to make me get a job; you'll give me lectures on perseverance and strength of will, and not despising small profits, and all the rest of it. I know it by heart,” laughed Ganya.

“He has something new in his mind,” Varya thought to herself.

“How are they taking it? Are they pleased, the father and mother?” Ganya asked suddenly.

“N-no, I think not. However, you can judge for yourself. Ivan Fyodorovitch is pleased. The mother is uneasy; she’s always viewed him with dislike as a suitor, we know that.”

“I don’t mean that. He is an impossible suitor, unthinkable, that’s evident. I was talking about their attitude now. What’s their line now? Has she given her formal consent?”

“She hasn’t so far said no, that’s all; but that’s all one could expect from her. You know how insanely shy and bashful she still is. When she was a child she would creep into a cupboard and sit there for two or three hours, simply to escape seeing visitors. Though she has grown such a maypole, she is just the same now. You know, I believe there really is something in it, even on her side. They say she is laughing at the prince from morning till night, so as to hide her feelings; but she must manage to say something on the sly to him every day, for he looks as though he were in heaven, he is beaming. He is fearfully funny, they say. I heard it from them. I fancied too that they laughed at me to my face, the elder girls.”

Ganya at last began to frown; perhaps Varya went on enlarging on the subject on purpose to get at his real view. But they heard a shout again upstairs.

“Tl turn him out!” Ganya fairly roared, as though glad to vent his annoyance.

“And then he will go disgracing us everywhere, as he did yesterday.”

“Yesterday? What do you mean? Why, did he . . .”Ganya seemed dreadfully alarmed all of a sudden.

“Oh dear, didn’t you know?” Varya pulled herself up.

“What! Surely it isn’t true that he has been there?” cried Ganya, flushing crimson with shame and anger. “Good heavens! why you’ve come from there! Have you heard something about it? Has the old man been there? Has he, or not?”

And Ganya rushed to the door. Varya flew at him and clutched him with both hands.

“What are you about? Where are you going?” she said. “If you let him out now, he will do more harm than ever; he will go to every one

”

“What did he do there? What did he say?”

“Well, they couldn’t tell me themselves, they hadn’t understood it; he only frightened them all. He went to see Ivan Fyodorovitch; he was out. He asked to see Lizaveta Prokofyevna. First he asked her about a post—wanted to get a job; and then he began complaining of us, of me, of my husband, of you especially. ... He talked a lot of stuff.”

“You couldn’t find out what?” Ganya was quivering hysterically. “How could I? He scarcely knew what he was saying himself;

and perhaps they did not tell me everything.”

Ganya clutched at his head and ran to the window. Varya sat down at the other window.

“Aglaia is an absurd creature,” she observed suddenly. “She stopped me and said ‘Please give your parents my special respects. I shall certainly have an opportunity of seeing your father one of these days.’ And she said that so seriously; it was awfully queer. .. .”

“Not in derision? Not in derision?”

“That’s just it, it wasn’t. That is what was so queer.”

“Does she know about the old man, or not, what do you think?”

“There’s no doubt in my mind that they don’t know in the family. But you’ve given me an idea: Aglaia perhaps does know. She is the only one who does know perhaps, for her sisters were surprised too when she sent her greeting to father so seriously. And why to him particularly? If she does know, the prince must have told her.”

“Tt’s not difficult to guess who told her! A thief! It’s the last straw. A thief in our family, ‘the head of the house’!”

“That’s nonsense!” cried Varya, losing patience. “A drunken prank, that’s all. And who made up the story? Lebedyev, the prince ... they are a nice lot themselves; they are wise people! Don’t believe a word of it.”

“The old man is a thief and a drunkard,” Ganya went on bitterly, “I am a beggar, my sister’s husband is a moneylender—an alluring prospect for Aglaia! A lovely state of things and no mistake!”

“That sister’s husband who is a moneylender is . . .”

“Keeping me, you mean? Don’t mince matters, please.”

“Why are you so cross?” said Varya, restraining herself. “You are a regular schoolboy, you don’t understand anything. You think all this might injure you in Aglaia’s eyes? You don’t know her. She’d refuse the most eligible suitor and run off delighted with some student to starve in a garret—that’s her dream! You’ve never been able to understand how interesting you would have become in her eyes, if you had been able to bear our surroundings with pride and fortitude. The prince has hooked her, in the first place, because he wasn’t fishing for her; and secondly, because he is looked upon by every one as an idiot. The very fact that she is upsetting her family about him is a joy to her. Ah, you don’t understand!”

“Well, we shall see whether I understand or not,” Ganya muttered enigmatically. “Stl, I shouldn’t like her to know about the old man. I thought Myshkin would have been able to hold his tongue. He made Lebedyev keep quiet; he didn’t want to speak out to me when I insisted on knowing.”

“So you see that, apart from him, it has leaked out. And what does it matter to you now? What are you hoping for? And even if you had any hope left, it would only make her look on you as a martyr.”

“Well, even she would be a coward about a scandal, in spite of all her romantic notions. It’s all up to a certain point, and every one draws the line somewhere. You are all alike.”

“Aglaia would be a coward?” Varya fired up, looking contemptuously at her brother. “You’ve got a mean little soul! You are all a worthless lot. She may be absurd and eccentric, but she is a thousand times more generous than any of us.”

“Well, never mind, never mind, don’t be cross,” Ganya murmured again complacently.

“I am sorry for mother, that’s all,” Varya went on. “I am so afraid this scandal about father may reach her ears. Ach! I am afraid it will!”

“No doubt it has reached her,” observed Ganya.

Varya had risen to go upstairs to Nina Alexandrovna, but, stopping short, she looked attentively at her brother.

“Who could have told her?”

“Tppolit, most likely. It would have been the greatest satisfaction to him to report the matter to mother, as soon as he moved here, I expect.”

“But how does he know? Tell me that, pray. The prince and Lebedyev made up their minds to tell nobody; Kolya knows nothing.”

“Tppolit? He found it out for himself. You can’t imagine what a sly beast he is; what a gossip he is; how quick he is at sniffing out anything bad, any sort of scandal. You may not believe it, but I am sure he has succeeded in getting a hold on Aglaia; and if he hasn’t, he will. Rogozhin has got to know him too. How is it the prince does not notice it? And how eager he is to score off me now! He looks upon me as his personal enemy, I’ve seen that a long time—why and with what object, since he is dying, I can’t make out. But I'll get the better of him. You will see that I’ll score off him, not he off me!”

“What made you, then, entice him here, if you hate him so? And ts he worth scoring off?”

“You advised me to entice him here.”

“I thought he would be of use. But do you know that he has fallen in love with Aglaia himself now, and has been writing to her? They asked me about him. ... He may even have written to Lizaveta Prokofyevna.”

“He is not dangerous in that way,” said Ganya, with a spiteful laugh, “but most likely you are mistaken. It’s very possible he is in love, for he is a boy. But... he wouldn’t write anonymous letters to the old lady. He is such a spiteful, insignificant, self-satisfied mediocrity! ... I am convinced, I know, that he represented me to her as a scheming adventurer; that’s what he began with. I must own that, like a fool, I talked to him freely at first. I thought that, simply to revenge himself on the prince, he’d work in my interests. He is such a sly beast! Ah, I have seen through him now completely! And he heard about that theft from his mother, the captain’s widow. If the old man did bring himself to it, it was for that woman’s sake. He suddenly told me, apropos of nothing, that the general had promised his mother four hundred roubles; and he told me that without the least ceremony, absolutely apropos of nothing. Then I understood it all. And he peered right in my face with a sort of glee. He’s told mother too, most likely, for the mere pleasure of breaking her heart. And why on earth doesn’t he die, pray? He promised to die in three weeks, and here he is getting fatter! He is coughing less; he said himself last night that he hadn’t brought up blood for two days.”

“Turn him out.”

“I don’t hate him, I despise him!” Ganya pronounced proudly. “Well, yes, I do hate him then, I do,” he shouted suddenly with extraordinary fury, “and I'll tell him so to his face, even if he les dying on his bed! If you’d read his confession—good Lord, the naiveté of its insolence! He is a regular Lieutenant Pirogov, a Nozdryov’ turned tragic, and, above all, he is a puppy! Oh, how I should have enjoyed thrashing him, simply to surprise him! Now he wants to pay every one out because he failed to . . . But what’s that? A noise again? What can it be, really? I won’t put up with it, Ptitsyn!” he cried to his brother-in-law who came into the room. “What’s the meaning of this? What are we coming to? This is... this is...”

But the noise was quickly coming nearer, the door was suddenly flung open, and old Ivolgin, wrathful, crimson in the face, and beside himself with agitation, attacked Ptitsyn too. The old man was followed by Nina Alexandrovna, Kolya and last of all Ippolit.

CHAPTER II

IT was five days since Ippolit had moved to Ptitsyn’s house. This had happened naturally, without any break between him and Myshkin. Far from quarrelling, they appeared to part as friends. Gavril Ardalionovitch, who had been so antagonistic to Ippolit on that evening, came of himself, three days afterwards, however, to see him, probably moved to do so by some sudden idea. Rogozhin too, for some reason, took to visiting the invalid. It seemed to Myshkin at first that it would be better for the “poor boy” himself if he were to move out of his (Myshkin’s) house. But at the time of his removal Ippolit observed that he was going to stay with Ptitsyn, “who was so kind as to give him a corner,” and, as though purposely, he never once put it that he was going to stay with Ganya, though it was Ganya who had insisted on his being received into the house. Ganya noticed it at the time, and it rankled in his heart.

He was right when he told his sister that the invalid was better. Ippolit was somewhat better than before, and the improvement was evident at the first glance. He came into the room after every one else, with a sarcastic and malignant smile on his face. Nina Alexandrovna came in, very much frightened. She was thinner and had greatly changed during the last six months; since she had moved to her daughter’s house on the latter’s marriage, she had almost given up outwardly taking any part in her children’s affairs. Kolya was worried and seemed puzzled; there was a great deal he did not understand in the “general’s madness,” as he expressed it, being, of course, unaware of the reasons of this last upset in the house. But it was clear to him that his father was quarrelling everywhere and all day long, and had suddenly so changed that he was not like the same man. It made him uneasy, too, to see that the old man had, for the last three days, entirely given up drinking. He knew that his father had fallen out and even quarrelled with Lebedyev and Myshkin. Kolya had just returned home with a pint bottle of vodka, paid for out of his own pocket.

“Really, mother,” he had assured Nina Alexandrovna upstairs, “really it’s better to let him drink. It’s three days since he touched a drop, he must be feeling wretched. It’s really better; I used to take it him to the prison.”

The general flung the door wide open, and stood in the doorway, seeming to quiver with indignation.

“Sir!” he shouted in a voice of thunder to Ptitsyn. “If you have really decided to sacrifice to a milksop and an atheist a venerable old man, your father, that is, at least, the father of your wife, who has served his sovereign, I will never set my foot within your doors from this hour. Choose, sir, choose at once; it’s either me or that... screw! Yes, a screw! I said it without thinking, but he is a screw, for he probes into my soul with a screw, and with no sort of respect... . With a screw!”

“Don’t you mean a cork-screw?” Ippolit put in.

“No, not a cork-screw! For I stand before you, a general, not a bottle. I have decorations, the rewards of distinction . . . and you have less than nothing. It’s either he or I. Make up your mind, sir, at once, at once!” he shouted frantically again to Ptitsyn.

At that moment Kolya set a chair for him and he sank on to it exhausted.

“You really had better... have a nap,” muttered Ptitsyn, overwhelmed.

“Fancy him threatening!” Ganya said to his sister in an undertone.

“Have a nap!” shouted the general. “I am not drunk, sir, and you insult me. I see,” he went on, getting up, “that everything is against me here, everything and everybody. Enough! I am going... . But you may be sure, sir, you may be sure. . .”

He was not allowed to finish. They made him sit down again; and began begging him to be calm. Ganya, in a fury, retired into a corner. Nina Alexandrovna was trembling and weeping.

“But what have I done to him? What’s he complaining of?”

cried Ippolit, grinning.

“As though you had done nothing!” Nina Alexandrovna observed suddenly. “It’s particularly shameful of you . .. and inhuman to torment an old man... and in your place, too.”

“To begin with, what is my place, madam? I respect you very much, you personally, but...”

“He’s a screw!” bawled the general. “He probes into my soul and heart. He wants me to believe in atheism. Let me tell you, young whipper-snapper, that before you were born I was loaded with honours. And you’re only an envious man, torn in two with coughing and dying of spite and infidelity. And why has Gavril brought you here? They’re all against me, even to my own son.”

“Oh, leave off, you’ve got up a tragedy!” cried Ganya. “If you didn’t put us to shame all over the town, it would be better.”

“What, I put you to shame, milksop, you? I can only do you credit, I can’t dishonour you!”

He began shouting, and they could not restrain him, but Gavril Ardalionovitch could not control himself either.

“You talk about honour!” he shouted angrily.

“What do you say?” thundered the general, turning pale and taking a step towards him.

“That I need only open my mouth to...” Ganya roared suddenly, and broke off.

They stood facing one another, both excessively agitated, especially Ganya.

“Ganya, what are you about!” cried Nina Alexandrovna, rushing to restrain her son.

“How senseless it is of you all,” Varya snapped out in indignation. “Be quiet, mother,” she said, taking hold of her.

“Only for mother’s sake, I spare him,” Ganya brought out tragically.

“Speak!” roared the general in a perfect frenzy. “Speak, on pain of your father’s curse! Speak! .. .”

“As though I were frightened of your curse! And whose fault is it that you’ve been like a madman for the last eight days? Eight days, you see I keep a reckoning. Mind you don’t drive me too far. I’ll tell everything. ... Why did you go stumping off to the Epanchins’ yesterday? And you call yourself an old man, grey haired, the father of a family! He’s a pretty one!”

“Shut up, Ganya!” shouted Kolya. “Shut up, you fool!”

“But how have I, how have I insulted him?” I[ppolit persisted, but still in the same Jeering voice. “Why did he call me a screw, you heard him? He came pestering me; he was here just now, talking of some Captain Eropyegov. I don’t desire your company at all, general, I’ve always avoided it, as you know yourself. I have nothing to do with Captain Eropyegov, you will admit. I didn’t come here for the sake of Captain Eropyegov. I simply expressed my opinion that this Captain Eropyegov may possibly never have existed. He raised the devil.”

“He certainly never has existed,” Ganya rapped out.

But the general stood looking stupefied, and gazed blankly about him. His son’s words had impressed him by their extraordinary openness. For the first instant he could not even find words. And at last, only when Ippolit burst out laughing in response to Ganya and cried out: “There, did you hear, your own son, too, says there was no such person as Captain Eropyegov,” the old man muttered, completely disconcerted:

“Kapiton Eropyegov, not Captain... Kapiton . . . the retired Lieutenant-Colonel Eropyegov . .. Kapiton.”

“And there was never a Kapiton, either,” cried Ganya, thoroughly exasperated.

“Why... wasn’t there?” muttered the general, and a flush overspread his whole face.

“Oh, leave off!” Ptitsyn and Varya tried to repress them.

“Hold your tongue, Ganya!” Kolya shouted again.

But this intercession seemed to bring the general to himself.

“How can you say there wasn’t? Why didn’t he exist?” he flew out menacingly at his son.

“Oh, because there wasn’t. There wasn’t and that’s all, and there couldn’t be! So there. Leave me alone, I tell you.”

“And this is my son... my own son, whom I... . Oh, Heavens! ... No such person as Eropyegov, Eroshka Eropyegov!”

“There you are, now he’s Eroshka, before he was Kapitoshka!” put in Ippolit.

“Kapitoshka, sir, Kapitoshka, not Eroshka. Kapiton, Kapiton Alexeyevitch, I mean, Kapiton. . . . Lieutenant-Colonel on half-pay. . . he was married to Marya... to Marya... Petrovna. Su...su...a friend and comrade ... Sutugov . . . from the time of the cadets! For his sake I shed . . . I screened . . . killed. No such person as Kapitoshka Eropyegov! No such person!” the general shouted wildly, yet it might be assumed that what he was shouting about was not what really mattered. Another time he would, of course, have put up with something far more insulting than the assertion of Kapiton Eropyegov’s absolute non-existence. He would have shouted, made a fuss, been moved to frenzy, but yet, in the end, he would have gone upstairs to bed. But now, such is the fantastic strangeness of the human heart, it happened that a slight, such as the doubt about Eropyegov, was the last drop in his cup. The old man turned crimson, raised his arms and shouted:

“Enough! My curse! ... Out of this house! Nikolay, bring me my bag... I am going... away!”

He went out in haste and extreme wrath. Nina Alexandrovna, Kolya and Ptitsyn rushed after him.

“Well, what have you done now!” Varya said to her brother.

“He'll be off there again most likely. The disgrace of it!”

“He shouldn’t steal,” cried Ganya, almost spluttering with anger. Suddenly his eyes met Ippolit’s. Ganya positively shook. “As for you, sir,” he shouted, “you ought to remember, anyway, that you’re in another person’s house and . . . enjoying his hospitality, and not to irritate an old man who has obviously gone out of his mind.”

Ippolit too felt a qualm, but he instantly controlled himself.

“I don’t quite agree with you that your papa has gone out of his mind,” he answered calmly, “on the contrary, it seems to me that he has had more sense of late, really; don’t you think so? He has become so cautious, suspicious. He pries into everything, weighs every word. He began talking to me about that Kapitoshka with an object, you know. Only fancy, he wanted to lead me on to...”

“Ate, what the devil do I care what he wanted to lead you on to? I beg you not to try your shifty dodges on me, sir,” shrieked Ganya.

“If you, too, know the real cause why the old man is in such a state (and you’ve been spying here these five days to such a degree that you certainly do know) you ought not to have irritated . . . the unhappy man, and worried my mother by exaggerating the matter; for it’s all nonsense, simply a drunken freak, nothing more, not proved either, and I don’t think it’s worth a thought . . . but you must sting and spy because you... you are...”

“A screw!” laughed Ippolit.

“Because you are an abject creature, because you worried people for half an hour, thinking to frighten them by shooting yourself with an unloaded pistol, making such a shameful exhibition of yourself, you walking mass of jaundiced spite, who can’t even commit suicide without making a mess of it! I have given you hospitality, you've grown fat, you’ve left off coughing, I and you repay it...”

“Allow me, two words only; I am in Varvara Ardalionovna’s house, not yours, and I imagine indeed that you yourself are enjoying the hospitality of Mr. Ptitsyn. Four days ago I begged my mother to find lodgings for me in Pavlovsk and to move here herself, because I certainly feel better here, though I have not grown fat at all and am still coughing. Mother let me know yesterday evening that the lodging was ready, and I hasten to inform you on my side, that thanking your mother and sister for their kindness, I will move there to-day, as I decided to do last night. Excuse me, I interrupted you, I believe you wanted to say a great deal more.”

“Oh, if that’s so,” said Ganya quivering.

“Tf that’s so, allow me to sit down,” added Ippolit, seating himself with perfect composure in the chair where the general had been sitting. “After all I am ill, you know; well, now I’m ready to listen to you, especially as this is our last conversation, perhaps indeed our last meeting.”

Ganya suddenly felt ashamed.

“You may be sure I won’t demean myself by settling accounts by

with you,” said he, “and if you...’

“You need not be so lofty,” interrupted Ippolit, “on the very first day of my coming here, I vowed I would not deny myself the satisfaction of paying off all scores with you, and in the most thoroughgoing way, when we came to part. I intend to do this now, but after you, of course.”

“I beg you to leave the room.”

“You'd better speak. You'll only regret not having had it out, you know.”

“Leave off, Ippolit, it’s all so horribly undignified; do me the favour to be quiet,” said Varya.

“Only to oblige a lady,” laughed Ippolit, getting up. “Certainly, Varvara Ardalionovna, for you I am ready to cut it short, but only that, for some explanation between me and your brother is absolutely essential, and nothing would induce me to go away leaving a misunderstanding.”

“In plain words you’re a scandalmonger,” screamed Ganya, “and so you won’t go away without a scandal.”

“There, you see,” Ippolit observed coolly, “you’re at it again, already. You certainly will regret not speaking out. Once more I make way for you. I await your words.”

Gavril Ardalionovitch looked at him contemptuously, without speaking.

“You won’t speak. You mean to keep up your part—please yourself. On my side I will be as brief as possible. Two or three times to-day I have been reproached with accepting your hospitality. That’s unfair. By inviting me to stay with you, you tried to entrap me yourself, you reckoned I should want to pay out the prince. You heard, besides, that Aglaia Ivanovna had shown sympathy for me and read my confession. Supposing for some reason that I was ready to devote myself altogether to your interests, you hoped that you might get help from me. I won’t explain more in detail! I do not demand assurances or confessions from you either; enough that I leave you to your conscience, and that now we thoroughly understand each other.”

“Goodness knows what you make out of the most ordinary thing!” cried Varya.

“I told you: he’s a scandal-monger and a nasty schoolboy,” said Ganya.

“Allow me, Varvara Ardalionovna, [ll go on. The prince, of course, I can neither like nor respect; but he is certainly a kind man, though . . . rather ridiculous. But I’ve certainly no reason to hate him; I didn’t let on when your brother tried to set me against the prince; I was looking forward to having a laugh at him afterwards. I knew that your brother would make a blunder and give himself away to me shockingly. And so it has turned out .. . I am ready to spare him now, simply out of respect for you, Varvara Ardalionovna. But since I have made it clear that it is not so easy to catch me, I'll explain why I was so anxious to make your brother look a fool. You must know that I’ve done it because I hate him, I confess it openly. When I die (for I am dying even if I have grown fatter as you say), when I die, I feel I shall go to paradise with my heart incomparably more at ease, if I succeed in making a fool of one at least of the class of people who have persecuted me all my life, whom I have hated all my life, and of which your excellent brother is a conspicuous example. I hate you, Gavril Ardalionovitch, sizmp/y because—this will perhaps seem marvellous to you—simply because you are the type, the incarnation, the acme of the most insolent and self-satisfied, the most vulgar and loathsome commonplaceness. Yours is the commonplaceness of pomposity, of self-satisfaction and Olympian serenity. You are the most ordinary of the ordinary! Not the smallest idea of your own will ever take shape in your heart or your mind. But you are infinitely envious; you are firmly persuaded that you are a great genius; but yet doubt does visit you sometimes at black moments, and you grow spiteful and envious. Oh, there are still black spots on your horizon; they will pass when you become quite stupid, and that’s not far off; but a long and chequered path lies before you; I can’t call it a cheerful one and I’m glad of it. In the first place I predict that you won’t gain a certain lady .. .”

“Oh, this is unbearable!” cried Varya. “Will you leave off, you horrid, spiteful creature?”

Ganya turned white, quivered and kept silent. Ippolit stopped, looked intently and with relish at him, turned his eyes to Varya, bowed and went out, without adding another word.

Gavril Ardalionovitch might with justice have complained of his lot and of his ill-success. For some time Varya did not venture to speak to him, she did not even glance at him as he paced to and fro before her with long strides; at last he walked away to the window and stood with his back to her. Varya thought of the Russian proverb about “a knife that cuts both ways.” A noise began again overhead.

“Are you going?” Ganya asked suddenly, hearing her get up from her seat. “Wait a bit. Look at this.”

He went up and threw on the chair before her a piece of paper folded into the shape of a tiny note.

“Good heavens!” cried Varya, clasping her hands.

There were just seven lines in the note:

“Gavril Ardalionovitch! As I am convinced of your friendly feeling for me I venture to ask your advice in a matter of great importance to me. I should like to meet you to-morrow morning at seven o’clock at the green seat. It’s not far from our villa. Varvara Ardalionovna who must accompany you knows the place well. A.E.”

“Good heavens, what will she do next?” Varvara Ardalionovna flung up her hands.

Little as Ganya was inclined to be boastful at that moment, he could not help showing his triumph, especially after Ippolit’s humiliating predictions. A self-satisfied smile lit up his face, and Varya, too, beamed all over with delight.

“And that on the very day when her betrothal is to be announced! Well, there’s no knowing what she’ll do next!’

“What do you think? What does she mean to speak about to-morrow?” asked Ganya.

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that she wants to see you for the first tme after six months. Listen to me, Ganya, whatever’s happened, whatever turn it takes, I tell you its “zmportant/ It’s tremendously important! Don’t swagger, don’t make another blunder, and don’t be faint-hearted either, mind that. She must have guessed why I’ve been trudging off there for the last six months? And fancy, she didn’t say a word to me to-day, she made no sign. I’ve been to them on the sly, you know. The old woman did not know I was there, or maybe she’d have sent me packing. I risked it for your sake, to find out at all costs... .”

Again there was shouting and uproar overhead. Several persons were coming downstairs.

“This mustn’t be allowed now on any account!” cried Varya, flurried and alarmed. “Not a shadow of a scandal! Go, ask his forgiveness!”

But the head of the family was already in the street. Kolya was dragging his bag after him. Nina Alexandrovna was standing on the steps, crying; she would have run after him, but Ptitsyn held her back.

“You only make him worse like that,” he said to her. “He has nowhere to go. He’ll be brought back again in half an hour. I’ve spoken to Kolya already; let him play the fool.”

“Why these heroics? Where can you go?” Ganya shouted from the window. “You’ve nowhere to go!”

“Come back, father!” cried Varya, “the neighbours will hear.”

The general stopped, turned round, stretched out his hand, and exclaimed:

“My curse on this house!”

“He must take that theatrical tone!” muttered Ganya, closing the window with a slam.

The neighbours certainly were listening. Varya ran out of the room.

When Varya had gone out, Ganya took the note from the table, kissed it, gave a click of satisfaction and pirouetted round.

CHAPTER III

THE scene with the general would never have come to anything in other circumstances. He had had sudden outbursts of temper of the same kind before, though not often: for, generally speaking, he was a very good-tempered man, and of a rather kindly disposition. A hundred times perhaps he had struggled against the bad habits that had gained the mastery of him of late years. He used suddenly to remember that he was the head of a family, would make it up with his wife, and shed genuine tears. He respected and almost worshipped Nina Alexandrovna, for having forgiven him so much in silence, and for loving him, even though he had become a grotesque and degraded figure. But his noble-hearted efforts to overcome his failings did not usually last long. The general was besides of a too “impulsive” character, though in his own peculiar fashion. He could not stand for long his empty mode of life as a penitent in his family and ended by revolting. He flew into a paroxysm of excitement, for which, perhaps he was inwardly reproaching himself at the very moment, though he could not restrain himself: he quarrelled, began talking eloquently and rhetorically, insisting upon being treated with the most exaggerated and impossible respect and finally would disappear from the house, sometimes remaining absent for a long time. For the last two years he had only a vague idea from hearsay of the circumstances of the family. He had given up going further into matters, feeling not the slightest impulse to do so.

But this time there was something exceptional in the “general’s outbreak.” Every one seemed to be aware of something, and every one seemed afraid to speak of it. The general had “formally” presented himself to his family, that is to Nina Alexandrovna, only three days before, but not humble and penitent as on all previous “reappearances,” but on the contrary—with marked irritability. He was loquacious, restless, talked heatedly to all, and, as it were, hurled himself upon every one he met, but always speaking of such irrelevant and unexpected subjects that it was impossible to get to the bottom of what was worrying him. At moments he was cheerful, but for the most part he was thoughtful, though he did not know himself what he was thinking about. He would suddenly begin to talk of something—of the Epanchins, of Myshkin, of Lebedyev—and then he would suddenly break off and cease speaking, and only responded to further questions with a vacant smile, without being conscious himself that he was being questioned or that he was smiling. He had spent the previous night moaning and groaning and had exhausted Nina Alexandrovna, who had been up all night, preparing fomentations. Towards morning he had suddenly fallen asleep; he slept for four hours and waked up with a most violent and irrational attack of hypochondria, which ended in a quarrel with Ippolit and “a curse on this house.” They noticed, too, that for those three days he had been liable to violent attacks of self-esteem, which made him morbidly ready to take offence. Kolya assured his mother and insisted that this was all due to a craving for drink, and perhaps for Lebedyev, with whom the general had become extraordinarily friendly of late. But, three days before, he had suddenly quarrelled with Lebedyev, and had parted from him im a terrible fury. There had even been some sort of a scene with Myshkin. Kolya begged Myshkin for an explanation, and began at last to suspect that he too knew something he did not want to tell him. If, as Ganya, with every possibility of correctness, supposed, some special conversation had taken place between Ippolit and Nina Alexandrovna, it seemed strange that this spiteful youth, whom Ganya called so openly a “scandalmonger,” had not found satisfaction in initiating Kolya into the secret in the same way. It was very possible that he was not such a malicious and nasty “puppy” as Ganya had described him in speaking to his sister, but was malicious in a different way. And he could hardly have informed Nina Alexandrovna of what he had observed simply in order “to break her heart.” Don’t let us forget that the causes of human actions are usually immeasurably more complex and varied than our subsequent explanations of them. And these can rarely be distinctly defined. The best course for the story-taller at times is to confine himself to a simple narrative of events. And this is the line we will adopt in the rest of our account of the present catastrophe with the general; for, do what we may, it is absolutely inevitable we should bestow rather more space and attention than we had originally proposed on this person of secondary importance in our story. These events had succeeded one another in the following order. When Lebedyev on the same day returned with the general from his visit to Petersburg to look for Ferdyshtchenko, he told Myshkin nothing particular. If Myshkin had not been at the time too busy and preoccupied with other impressions of great importance to him, he might soon have noticed that during the two following days Lebedyev, far from giving him any kind of explanation, seemed, for some reason, to be trying to avoid meeting him. When Myshkin did at last turn his attention to the subject, he was surprised that he could not remember during those three days having met Lebedyev in any but the most blissful state of mind, and almost always in company with the general. They were never apart for a moment. Myshkin sometimes heard the sound of loud and rapid talk and merry laughing dispute from overhead. Once, very late at night, the strains of a martial and Bacchanalian song had suddenly and unexpectedly burst upon his ears, and he recognised at once the husky bass of the general. But the song ceased suddenly before the end. Then for about another hour an extremely animated, and from all signs, drunken conversation followed. It might be conjectured that the friends were embracing one another, and one of them finally began to weep. Then followed a violent quarrel, which also ceased suddenly soon after. All this time Kolya seemed peculiarly preoccupied. Myshkin was generally not at home, and returned sometimes very late. He was always told that Kolya had been looking for him all day, and asking for him. But when they met, Kolya had nothing special to tell him except that he was “dissatisfied” with the general and his goings on at present: “They wander about together, get drunk in a tavern close by, embrace one another and quarrel in the street. They make each other worse, and can’t be parted.” When Myshkin observed that it had been just the same every day before, Kolya was quite unable to find an answer, and could not explain the cause of his present uneasiness.

The morning after the Bacchic song and quarrel, Myshkin was leaving the house about eleven o’clock when he was suddenly confronted by the general, who seemed greatly excited, almost overwhelmed, by something.

“T’ve long been seeking the honour of meeting you, honoured Lyov Nikolayevitch, very long,” he muttered, squeezing Myshkin’s hand very tightly, almost hurting him. “A very, very long time.”

Myshkin begged him to sit down.

“No, I won't sit down. Besides, I’m keeping you. Ill come another time. I believe I may take the opportunity of congratulating you on... the fulfilment of your heart’s desire.”

“What heart’s desire?”

Myshkin was disconcerted. Like many people in his position he fancied that nobody saw, guessed, or understood anything about him.

“Never mind, never mind! I would not wound your most delicate feelings. I have known them, and I know what it is when another man... pokes his nose ... as the saying is . . . where it isn’t wanted. I feel that every morning. I have come about another matter, an important one. A very important matter, prince.”

Myshkin once more begged him to be seated and sat down himself.

“Perhaps for one second. .. . I have come to ask advice. I have, of course, no practical aim in life, but as I respect myself and... business habits in which the Russian as a rule, is so conspicuously deficient... . I wish to place myself and my wife and my children in a position . . . in fact, prince, I want your advice.”

Myshkin warmly applauded his intention.

“Well, that’s all nonsense,” the general interrupted suddenly, “that’s not what I want to say, but something else, something important. I simply want to explain to you, Lyov Nikolayevitch, as a man in the sincerity of whose heart and the nobility of whose feelings I have complete confidence, as... as... You are not surprised at my words, prince?”

Myshkin observed his visitor, if not with surprise, at least with extreme attention and curiosity.

The old man was rather pale, his lips quivered slightly at times, his hands seemed unable to find a resting-place. He only remained a few minutes in his seat, and had twice already got up from his chair for some reason, and sat down again, obviously not paying the slightest attention to what he was doing. There were books lying on the table: he took up one, and still talking, glanced at the opened page, shut it again at once, and laid it back on the table, snatched up another book which he did not open, and held it all the rest of the time in his right hand, waving it continually in the air.

“Enough!” he shouted suddenly. “I see that I have been disturbing you shockingly.”

“Oh, not in the least, please go on. Quite the contrary. I’m listening and trying to guess .. .”

“Prince! I am anxious to gain for myself a position of respect... . I am anxious to respect myself and... my rights.”

“A man animated by such a desire is deserving of respect, if only on that ground.”

The prince brought out his copybook phrase in the firm conviction that it would have an excellent effect. He guessed instinctively that some such hollow but agreeable phrase uttered at the right moment might immediately have an irresistible and soothing influence on the mind of such a man, especially in such a position as the general. In any case it was necessary to send such a visitor away with a lighter heart, and that was the problem.

The phrase flattered and touched and greatly pleased General Ivolgin: he suddenly melted, instantly changed his tone, and went off into a long, enthusiastic explanation. But, however intently Myshkin listened, he could make literally nothing of it. The general talked for ten minutes, heatedly, rapidly, as though he could not get out his crowding thoughts quickly enough. Tears positively shone in his eyes towards the end, yet it was nothing but sentences without beginning or end, unexpected words and unexpected ideas, bursting out rapidly and unexpectedly and stumbling over one another.

“Enough! You have understood me, and I am satisfied,” he concluded, suddenly getting up. “A heart such as yours cannot fail to understand a suffering man. Prince, you are ideally generous. What are other men beside you? But you are young and I bless you. The long and short of it is I came to ask you to appoint an hour for an important conversation with me, and on that I rest my chief hope. I seek for nothing but friendship and sympathy, prince. I have never been able to master the yearnings of my heart.”

“But why not at once? I am ready to listen... .

“No, prince, no!” the general interrupted hotly. “Not now! Now is a vain dream! It is too, too important! Too important! The hour of that conversation will be an hour of irrevocable destiny. That will be my hour, and I should not wish it to be possible for us to be in- ”

404.

terrupted at such a sacred moment by any chance corner, any impudent fellow, and there are plenty of such impudent fellows.” He bent down suddenly to Myshkin, with a strange, mysterious, and almost frightened whisper. “Such impudent fellows, not worthy the heel . . . of your shoe, adored prince. Oh! I don’t say of my shoe. Note particularly that I don’t refer to my own shoe, for I have too much self-respect to say that straight out... but you alone are able to understand that in waiving my heel in such a case I show perhaps the utmost pride of worth. Except you, no one will understand it, he least of all. He understands nothing, prince; he is utterly, utterly incapable of understanding. One must have a heart to understand!”

At last Myshkin was almost alarmed and he made an appointment with General Ivolgin for the same hour next day.

The latter went out with a confident air, greatly comforted, and almost reassured. In the evening between six and seven Myshkin sent to ask Lebedyev to come to him for a minute.

Lebedyev made his appearance with great alacrity, “esteemed it an honour,” as he began at once on entering. There was not the shadow of a hint that he’d been as it were in hiding for the last three days, and was obviously trying to avoid meeting Myshkin. He sat down on the edge of the chair, with smiles and grimaces, with laughing and watchful little eyes, rubbing his hands and assuming an air of the most naive expectation of hearing something, of receiving some communication of the first importance, long expected and guessed by every one. Myshkin winced again. It became clear to him that every one had suddenly begun to expect something of him, that every one looked at him, as though wanting to congratulate him with hints, smiles, and winks. Keller had run in two or three times for a minute already, also with an evident desire to congratulate him; each time he began vaguely and enthusiastically but did not finish, and quickly disappeared again. (He had been drinking particularly heavily of late, and making a sensation in some billiard-room.) Even Kolya, in spite of his sadness, had also attempted once or twice to begin upon some subject with Myshkin.

Myshkin asked Lebedyev directly and somewhat irritably what he thought of General Ivolgin’s state of mind, and why the latter seemed so uneasy. In a few words he told him of the scene that morning.

“Every one has his own reasons for uneasiness, prince ... and... eSpecially in our strange and uneasy age, you know,” Lebedyev answered with a certain dryness, and relapsed into offended silence, with the air of a man deeply deceived in his expectations.

“What philosophy!” said Myshkin smiling.

“Philosophy would be useful, very useful in our age in its practical application, but it’s despised, that’s how it is. For my part, honoured prince, though I have respected your confidence to me on a certain point you know of, yet only to a certain degree, and no further than circumstances relating to that point especially, . . . that I understand, and I don’t in the least complain.”

“Lebedyev, you seem to be angry about something?”

“Not at all, not in the least, honoured and resplendent prince . . . not in the least!” Lebedyev cried passionately, laying his hand upon his heart. “On the contrary, I realised at once, that, neither by my position in the world, nor by the qualities of my mind or my heart, nor the amount of my fortune, nor my former behaviour, nor my knowledge—in no way do I deserve the confidence with which you honour me, so far above my hopes, and that if I can serve you it is as a slave and hireling. Nothing else. I am not angry, but I’m sad.”

“Come, come, Lukyan Timofeyitch!”

“Nothing else! So it is in the present case. Meeting you, fixing my heart and thought upon you, I said to myself: ‘I am unworthy of your confidence as a friend, but as the landlord of your house perhaps I may receive at the fitting time, before the anticipated event, so to speak, a warning, or at least an intimation in view of certain changes expected in the future... .’”

As he uttered this, Lebedyev positively fastened his sharp little eyes on Myshkin, who was looking at him in astonishment. He was still in hopes of satisfying his curiosity.

“I don’t understand a word!” cried Myshkin, almost with anger, “and ... you’re an awful intriguer!” he suddenly broke into a most genuine laugh. Instantly Lebedyev laughed too, and his beaming face showed clearly that his hopes were confirmed, and even redoubled.

“And do you know what I have to tell you, Lukyan Timofeyitch? Don’t be angry with me, but I wonder at your simplicity, and not only yours! You are expecting something of me with such simplicity now, at this very moment, that I feel positively ashamed and conscience-stricken at having nothing to satisfy you with; but I swear that I really have nothing. Can you fancy that?”

Myshkin laughed again. :

Lebedyev put on a dignified air. It was true that he was sometimes too naive and intrusive in his curiosity, but at the same time he was a rather cunning and wily man, and in some cases even too artfully silent. Myshkin had almost made an enemy of him by continually putting him off. But Myshkin put him off, not because he despised him, but because the subject of his curiosity was a delicate one. Myshkin had only a few days before looked on some of his own dreams as a crime, while Lukyan Timofeyitch took Myshkin’s rebuffs simply as a proof of personal aversion and mistrust, withdrew, cut to the heart and jealous not only of Kolya and of Keller, but even of his own daughter, Vera. Even at that very moment, he could, perhaps, have told Myshkin a piece of news of the greatest interest to him, and perhaps sincerely desired to do so, but he remained gloomily silent and did not tell him.

“In what way can I be of use to you, honoured prince, since anyway you... called me just now,” he said at last after a brief silence.

“Why, I asked you about the general,” Myshkin, who had been musing for a moment, too, answered hurriedly, “and. . . in regard to that theft you told me about.”

“In regard to what?”

“Why, as though you don’t understand me now! Oh, dear, Lukyan Timofeyitch, you’re always acting a part! The money the money, the four hundred roubles you lost that day in your pocket-book, and about which you came to tell me in the morning, as you were setting off for Petersburg. Do you understand at last?”

“Ah, you’re talking about that four hundred roubles!” drawled Lebedyev, as though he had only just guessed. “I thank you, prince, for your sincere sympathy; it is too flattering to me, but . . . I’ve found it some time since.”

“Found it! Ah, thank God!”

“That exclamation is most generous on your part, for four hundred roubles is no small matter for a poor man who lives by his hard work, with a large family of motherless children. . . .”

“But I didn’t mean that! Of course, I am glad you found the money,” Myshkin corrected himself quickly, “but how did you find it?”

“Very simply. I found it under the chair on which my coat had been hung, so that the pocket-book must have slipped out of the pocket on to the floor!”

“Under a chair? It’s impossible! Why, you told me yourself you had hunted in every corner. How was it you came to overlook the most obvious place?”

“I should think I did look! I remember only too well how I looked! I crawled on all fours, felt the place with my hands, moving back the chairs because I couldn’t trust my own eyes: I saw there was nothing there for the place was as smooth and empty as my hands, and yet I went on fumbling. You always see that weakness in anyone who Is very anxious to find anything, when anything serious and important has been lost. A man sees there’s nothing there, the place is empty, and yet he peeps into it a dozen times.”

“Yes, I daresay; only, how was it seen? .. . I still don’t understand,” muttered Myshkin, disconcerted. “You told me before it wasn’t there, and you had looked in that place, and then it suddenly turned up!”

“And then it suddenly turned up.”

Myshkin looked strangely at Lebedyev.

“And the general?” he asked suddenly.

“What about the general? .. .” Lebedyev seemed at a loss again.

“Oh, dear! I ask you what did the general say when you found the pocket-book under the chair? You looked for it together, you know.”

“We did look together before. But that time, I confess, I held my tongue, and preferred not to tell him that the pocketbook had been found by me and alone.”

“But... why? And the money? Was it all there?”

“I opened the pocket-book. The money was untouched, every rouble of it.”

“You might have come to tell me,” Myshkin observed thoughtfully.

“I was afraid to disturb you, prince, in your personal, and, so to say, absorbing interests, and besides, I made as though I had found nothing. I opened the pocket-book and looked at it, then I shut it and put it back under the chair.”

“But what for?”

“Oh, n-nothing, from curiosity,” chuckled Lebedyev, rubbing his hands.

“Then it has been lying there since the day before yesterday?”

“Oh, no; it only lay there for a day and a night. You see, it was partly that I wanted the general to find it. For since I had found it, why should not the general notice the object, which lay conspicuous under the chair, so to speak, catching the eye. I lifted that chair several times and put it so that the pocketbook was completely in view, but the general simply didn’t notice it, and so it went on for twenty-four hours. He seems to be extraordinarily unobservant now, and there’s no making him out. He talks, tells stories, laughs, chuckles, and then flies into a violent temper with me. I don’t know why. At last, as we were going out of the room, I left the door open on purpose; he hesitated, would have said something, most likely he was uneasy about the pocket-book with such a sum of money in it, but suddenly flew into an awful rage and said nothing. Before we had gone two steps in the street, he left me and walked away in the other direction. We only met in the evening in the tavern.”

“But in the end you did take the pocket-book from under the chair?”

“No, it vanished from under the chair that same night.”

“Then where is it now?”

“Oh, here,” cried Lebedyev, laughing suddenly, drawing himself up to his full height and looking amiably at Myshkin. “It suddenly turned up, here, in the lappet of my coat. Here; won’t you look, feel.”

The left lappet of the coat had indeed been formed into something like a bag in front, in the most conspicuous place, and it was clear at once to the touch that there was a leather pocket-book there that had fallen down from a torn pocket.

“I took it out and looked. The money’s all there. I dropped it in again, and so I’ve been walking about since yesterday morning. I carry it in my coat and it knocks against my legs.”

“And you take no notice of it?”

“And I take no notice of it. He-he! And would you believe it, honoured prince, though the subject is not worthy of so much notice on your part, my pockets were always perfectly good, and then a hole like that, all of a sudden, in one night! I began to look at it more curiously; it’s as though some one had cut it with a pen-knife. Isn’t it almost incredible?”

“And... the general?”

“He’s been angry all day; both yesterday and to-day; fearfully ill-humoured. At one time he’d be beaming and hilarious till he began to pay me compliments, then he’d be sentimental to tears, then suddenly angry; so much so, that I’d be frightened really, for ?m not a military man, after all. We were sitting yesterday in the tavern, and the lappet of my coat stood out as though by chance, in the most prominent way; a perfect mountain. He looked at it on the sly, and was angry. He hasn’t looked me straight in the face for a long time, unless he’s very drunk or sentimental; but yesterday he gave me a look that made a shudder run down my spine. To-morrow, though, I mean to find the pocket-book, but I shall have an evening’s fun with him before then.”

“Why are you tormenting him so?” cried Myshkin.

“T’m not tormenting him, prince, I’m not tormenting him,” Lebedyev replied with warmth. “I sincerely love and . . . respect him; and now, whether you believe it or not, he’s dearer to me than ever. I have come to appreciate him even more.”

Lebedyev said all this so earnestly and sincerely that Myshkin was positively indignant.

You love him and you torment him like this! Why, by the very act of putting the lost pocket-book where it could be seen under the chair and in your coat, by that alone he shows you that he doesn’t want to deceive you, but with open-hearted simplicity asks your forgiveness. Do you hear? He’s asking your forgiveness! So he relies on the delicacy of your feelings, so he believes in your friendship for him. And yet you reduce to such humiliation a man like that... a most honest man!”

“Most honest, prince, most honest!” Lebedyev assented, with sparkling eyes. “And you, most noble prince, are the only person capable of uttering that true word about him! For that, I am devoted to you and ready to worship you, though I am rotten to the core with vices of all sorts! That’s settled it! I will find the pocket-book now, at once, not to-morrow. Look, I take it out before your eyes; here it is. Here’s the money, untouched, here. Take it, most noble prince, take care of it till to-morrow. To-morrow or next day [Il have it. And, do you know, prince, it’s evident that it must have been lying somewhere in my garden, hidden under some stone, the first night it was lost. What do you think?”

“Mind you don’t tell him directly to his face that you’ve found the pocket-book. Let him simply see that there’s nothing in the lappet of your coat, and he’ll understand.”

“You think so? Wouldn’t it be better to tell him I have found it, and to pretend I had not guessed about it till now?”

“N-no,” Myshkin pondered, “n-no; it’s too late for that now. That’s more risky. You'd really better not speak of it! Be kind to him, but... don’t show too much, and... and... you know... .”

“I know, prince, I know. That is I know that I shan’t do it properly, perhaps. For one needs to have a heart like yours to do it. Besides he’s irritable and prone to it himself, he has begun to treat me too superciliously sometimes of late. One minute he is whimpering and embracing me, and then he’ll suddenly begin to snub me, and sneer at me contemptuously, and then I just show him the lappet on purpose. He-he! Goodbye, prince; for it’s clear ’m keeping you and interrupting you in your most interesting feelings, so to say... .”

“But for goodness’ sake, the same secrecy as before!”

“Treading softly, treading softly!”

But, though the matter was settled, Myshkin remained almost more puzzled than before. He awaited with impatience his interview with the general next day.

CHAPTER IV

THE hour fixed was twelve, but Myshkin was, quite unexpectedly, late. On his return home he found the general waiting for him. He saw at the first glance that the old man was displeased, and very likely, just because he had been kept waiting. Apologising, Myshkin made haste to sit down, but he felt strangely timid, as though his guest were made of porcelain and he were afraid of breaking him. He had never felt timid with the general before; it had never entered his head to feel so. Myshkin soon perceived that he was a perfectly different man from what he had been yesterday. Instead of agitation and incoherence, there was an unmistakable, a visible and marked reserve; it could be seen that this was a man who had taken an irrevocable decision. But his composure was more apparent than real. In any case the visitor displayed a gentlemanly ease of manner, though with reserved dignity. He even treated Myshkin at first with an air of condescension, as proud people who have been gratuitously insulted sometimes do behave with gentlemanly ease. He spoke affably, though with a certain aggrieved intonation.

“Your book, which I borrowed from you the other day,” he said, nodding significantly at a book he had brought which was lying on the table. “I thank you.”

“Oh, yes. Have you read that article, general? How did you like it? It’s interesting, isn’t it?” Myshkin was delighted at the chance of beginning to talk on an irrelevant subject.

“Interesting, perhaps, but crude, and of course absurd. Probably a lie in every sentence.”

The general spoke with aplomb, and even drawled his words a little.

“Ah, it’s such an unpretentious story; the story of an old soldier who was an eye-witness of the arrival of the French in Moscow; some things in it are charming. Besides, every account given by an eye-witness is precious, isn’t it, whoever he may be?”

“Had I been the editor, I would not have printed it; as for the descriptions of eye-witnesses in general, people are more ready to believe crude liars, who are amusing, than a man of worth who has seen service. I know some descriptions of the year 1812 which... I’ve come to a determination, prince, I am leaving this house . . . the house of Mr. Lebedyev.”

The general looked significantly at Myshkin.

“You have your own rooms at Pavlovsk at... at your your daughter’s . . .”said Myshkin, not knowing what to say.

He remembered that the general had come to ask his advice about a most important matter, on which his fate depended.

“At my wife’s; in other words, at home, in my daughter’s house.”

“IT beg your pardon. I...”

“I am leaving Lebedyev’s house, because, dear prince, because I have broken with that man. I broke with him yesterday evening and regret I did not do so before. I insist on respect, prince, and I wish to receive it even from those, upon whom I bestow, so to speak, my heart. Prince, I often bestow my heart, and I am almost always deceived. That man is not worthy of what I gave him.”

“There’s a great deal in him that’s extravagant,” Myshkin observed discreetly, “and some traits .. . but in the midst of it all one can perceive a good heart, and a sly, and sometimes amusing intelligence.”

The nicety of the expressions and the respectfulness of the tone flattered the general, though he still looked at Myshkin sometimes with sudden mistrustfulness. But Myshkin’s tone was so natural and sincere that he could not suspect it.

“That he has good qualities,” the general assented, “I was the first to declare, when I almost bestowed my friendship on that individual. I have no need of his house and his hospitality, having a family of my own. I do not justify my failings. I am weak; I have drunk with him, and now perhaps I am weeping for it. But it was not for the sake of the drink alone (excuse, prince, the coarseness of candour in an irritated man), it was not for the sake of the drink alone I became friendly with him. What allured me was just, as you say, his qualities. But all only to a certain point, even his qualities; and if he suddenly has the impudence to declare to one’s face, that in 1812, when he was a little child he lost his left leg, and buried it in the Vagankovsky cemetery in Moscow, he is going beyond the limit, showing disrespect and being impertinent. . . .”

“Perhaps it was only a joke to raise a laugh.”

“IT understand. An innocent lie, however crude, to raise a laugh, does not wound a human heart. One man will tell a lie, if you like, simply from friendship, to please the man he is talking to; but if there’s a suspicion of disrespect, if he means to show just by such disrespect that he is weary of the friendship, there’s nothing left for a man of honour but to turn away and break off all connection, putting the offender in his proper place.”

The general positively flushed as he spoke.

“Why, Lebedyev could not have been in Moscow in 1812. He’s not old enough. It’s absurd.”

“That’s the first thing; but even supposing he could have been born then, how can he declare to one’s face that the French chasseur aimed a cannon at him and shot off his leg, just for fun; that he picked the leg up and carried it home, and afterwards buried it in the Vagankovsky cemetery; and he says that he put a monument over it with an inscription on one side: ‘Here lies the leg of the collegiate secretary, Lebedyev,’ and on the other: ‘Rest, beloved ashes, till the dawn of a happy resurrection,’ and that he had a service read over it every year (which is nothing short of blasphemy), and that he goes to Moscow every year for the occasion. To prove it he imvites me to go to Moscow to show me the tomb, and even the very cannon taken from the French, now in the Kremlin. He declares it’s the eleventh from the gate, a French falconet of an old-fashioned pattern.”

“And _ besides, he has both his legs, uninjured, apparently,” laughed Myshkin. “I assure you it was harmless jest. Don’t be angry.”

“But allow me to have my own opinion; as for his appearing to have two legs, that’s not altogether improbable; he declares that he got his leg from Tchernosvitov. . . .”

“Oh, yes, they say that people can dance with legs from that maker.”

“Tm perfectly aware of that; when Tchernosvitov invented his leg, the first thing he did was to run and show it to me. But his legs were invented much later... . What’s more, he asserts that his late wife never knew, all the years they were married, that he, her husband, had a wooden leg. When I observed to him how foolish it all was, he said to me: ‘if you were a page of Napoleon’s in 1812, you might let me bury my leg in Vagankovsky.’”

“But did you really .. .” Myshkin began, and broke off embarrassed.

The general too seemed a shade embarrassed, but at the same instant he looked at Myshkin with distinct condescension, and even irony.

“Go on, prince, go on,” he drawled with peculiar suavity. “I can make allowances, speak out; confess that you are amused at the very thought of seeing before you a man in his present degradation and. . . uselessness, and to hear that that man was an eye-witness of . . . great events. Hasn’t he gossiped to you already?”

“No, I’ve heard nothing from Lebedyevy, if it’s Lebedyev you are talking about... .”

“Hm! ... I had supposed the contrary. The particular conversation took place between us yesterday apropos of that strange article in the Archives. I remarked on its absurdity, and since I had myself been an eye-witness ... you are smiling, prince, you are looking at my face?”

“N-no I ”

“I am youngish looking,” the general drawled the words—“but I am somewhat older in years than I appear. In 1812 I was in my tenth or eleventh year. I don’t quite know my own age exactly. In my service list my age is less; it has been my weakness all my life to make myself out younger than I am.

“I assure you, general, that I don’t think it strange that you should have been in Moscow in 1812, and... of course you could describe . . . like every one else who was there. One of our writers begins his autobiography by saying that, when he was a, baby in arms, in Moscow, in 1812, he was fed with bread by the French soldiers.”

“There, you see,” the general condescendingly approved, “what happened to me was of course out of the ordinary, but there is nothing incredible in it. Truth very often seems impossible. Page! It sounds strange, of course. But the adventure of a ten-year-old boy may perhaps be explained Just by his age. It wouldn’t have happened to a boy of fifteen, that’s certain; for at fifteen, I should not, on the day of Napoleon’s entry into Moscow, have run out of the wooden house in Old Bassmann Street, where I was living with my mother, who had not left the town in time and was terror-stricken. At fifteen I too should have been afraid, but at ten I feared nothing, and I forced my way through the crowd to the very steps of the palace just when Napoleon was dismounting from his horse.”

“Certainly, that’s a very true remark, that at ten years old one might not be afraid . . .” Myshkin assented, abashed and distressed by feeling that he was just going to blush.

“Most certainly, and it all happened as simply and naturally as possible, in reality; set a novelist to work on the subject, he would weave in all sorts of incredible and improbable details.”

“Oh, that’s true!” cried Myshkin. “I was struck by the same idea, quite lately. I know a genuine case of murder for the sake of stealing a watch—it’s appearing in the newspapers now. If some author had invented it, critics and those who know the life of the people would have cried out at once that it was improbable; but reading it in the newspapers as a fact, you feel that in such facts you are studying the reality of Russian life. That’s an excellent observation of yours, general,” Myshkin concluded warmly, greatly relieved at finding a refuge from his blushes.

“Isn’t it? Isn’t it?” cried the general, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. “A boy, a child who knows nothing of fear, makes his way through the crowd to see the fine show, the uniforms, the suite, and the great man about whom he has heard such a lot. For at that time people had talked of nothing else for years. The world was full of that name. I drank it in with my milk, so to speak. Napoleon was two paces away when he chanced to catch my eye. I looked like a little nobleman, they dressed me well. There was no one like me in the crowd you may believe. . . .”

“No doubt it must have struck him and have shown him that every one had not left Moscow, and that there were still some of the nobility there with their children.”

“Just so! Just so! He wanted to win over the boyars! When he bent his eagle glance upon me, my eye must have flashed in response. ‘Voila un garcon bien éveillé! Qui est ton pére.?’ 1 answered him at once, almost breathless with excitement: ‘A general who died in the field for his country.’ ‘Le fils d’un boyard et dun brave pardessus le marche! Jaime les boyards. Maimes tu, petit?’ Yo this rapid question I answered as rapidly: ‘A Russian heart can discern a great man even in the enemy of his country!’ That is, I don’t remember whether I literally used those words. ... I was a child... but that was certainly the drift of them! Napoleon was struck, he thought a moment and said to his suite: ‘I like the pride of that child! But if all Russians think like that child, then. .. .” He said no more, but walked into the palace. I at once mingled with the suite and ran after him. They made way for me, and already looked upon me as a favourite. But all that was only for a moment... . I only remember that when the Emperor went into the first room he stopped before the portrait of the Empress Catherine, looked at it a long time thoughtfully, and at last pronounced: “That was a great woman!’ and passed by. Within two days every one knew me in the palace and the Kremlin and called me: Ze petit boyard.’ I only went home to sleep. At home they were almost frantic about it. Two days later, one of Napoleon’s pages, Baron de Basencour, died, exhausted by the campaign. Napoleon remembered me; they took me, brought me to him without explanation; they tried on me the uniform of the dead page—a boy of twelve, and when they had brought me, wearing the uniform to the Emperor and he had nodded to me, they announced to me that I had been found worthy of favour and appointed a page-in-waiting to his Majesty. I was glad; I had, in fact, long felt warmly attracted by him . . . and besides, as you know very well, a brillant uniform means a great deal to a child... . I wore a dark green dress-coat, with long narrow tails, gold buttons, red edgings worked with gold on the sleeves, and with a high, erect, open-collar, worked in gold, and embroidery on the tails; tight white chamois leather breeches, a white silk waistcoat, silk stockings, and buckled shoes... and when the Emperor rode out, if I was one of the suite, I wore high top-boots. Although the situation was anything but promising, and there was a feeling of terrible catastrophe in the air, etiquette was kept up as far as possible, and in fact, the greater the foreboding of catastrophe, the more rigorous was the court punctil- 10.”

“Yes, of course .. .” muttered Myshkin with an almost hopeless air. “Your memoirs would be . . . extremely interesting.”

The general, of course, had been repeating the story he had already told Lebedyev the day before, and so he repeated it fluently; but at this pot he stole a mistrustful glance at Myshkin again.

“My memoirs,” he brought out with redoubled dignity—“write my memoirs? That is not a temptation to me, prince! If you will have it, my memoirs are already written, but . . . they are lying in my desk. When my eyes are closed for ever in the grave, then they may be published, and no doubt they will be translated into foreign languages, not for the sake of their literary value, no, but from the importance of the tremendous events of which I have been the eye-witness, though as a child; the more for that indeed. As a child I had the entry into the private bedroom, so to speak, of the “Great Man.’ I heard at night the groans of that “Titan in agony,’ he could not feel ashamed to groan and weep before a child, though I understood even then, that the cause of his distress was the silence of the Emperor Alexander.”

“To be sure, he wrote letters . . . with overtures of peace . . .” Myshkin assented timidly.

“We don’t know precisely with what overtures he wrote, but he wrote every day, every hour, letter after letter! He was fearfully agitated! One night, when we were alone, I flew to him weeping. (Oh, I loved him!) ‘Beg, beg forgiveness of the Emperor Alexander!’ I cried to him. Of course, I ought to have used the expression: ‘make peace with the Emperor Alexander,’ but, like a child, I naively expressed all I felt. ‘Oh, my child!’ he replied—he paced up and down the room. ‘Oh, my child” He did not seem to notice at that time that I was only ten, and liked to talk to me. ‘Oh, my child, I am ready to kiss the feet of the Emperor Alexander, but then the King of Prussia, and then the Austrian Emperor. Oh, for them my hatred is everlasting and... at last... of course you know nothing of politics.” He seemed suddenly to remember to whom he was speaking, and ceased; but there were gleams of fire in his eyes long after. Well, say I describe all these facts—and I was the eye-witness of the greatest events—say I publish my memoirs now, and all the critics, the literary vanities, all the envy, the cliques . . . no, your humble servant!”

“As for cliques, no doubt your observation is a true one, and I agree with you,” Myshkin observed quietly after a moment’s silence.

ALS

“I read not long ago a book by Charasse, about the Waterloo campaign. It is evidently a genuine book, and experts say that it is written with great knowledge. But on every page one detects glee at the humiliation of Napoleon; and if it had been possible to dispute Napoleon’s genius in every other campaign, Charasse would be extremely glad to do it. And that’s not right in such a serious work, because it’s the spirit of partisanship. Had you much to do in waiting on the Emperor?”

The general was delighted. The earnestness and simplicity of Myshkin’s question dissipated the last traces of his mistrustfulness.

“Charasse! Oh, I was indignant myself. I wrote to him myself, at the time, but . . . I don’t remember now... . You ask if I had much to do in Napoleon’s service? Oh, no! I was called a page-in-waiting, but even at the time I did not take it seriously. Besides, Napoleon soon lost all hope of winning over the Russians, and no doubt he would have forgotten me, whom he had adopted from policy, if he had not... if he had not taken a personal fancy to me; I say that boldly now. My heart was drawn to him. My duties were not exacting; I had sometimes to be present in the palace and to . . . attend the Emperor when he rode out, that was all. I rode a horse fairly well. He used to drive out before dinner. Davoust, I, and a mameluke, Roustan, were generally in his suite... .”

“Constant.” The name was pronounced almost involuntarily by Myshkin.

“N-no, Constant was not there then. He had gone with a letter . . . to the Empress Josephine. His place was taken by two orderlies and some Polish uhlans ... and that made up the whole suite, except for the generals and marshals whom Napoleon took with him to explore the neighbourhood, and consult about the position of the troops. The one who was oftenest in attendance was Davoust, as I remember now; a huge, stout, cold-blooded man, in spectacles, with a strange look in his eyes. He was consulted more often than anyone by the Emperor, who appreciated his judgment. I remember they were in consultation for several days; Davoust used to go in to him morning and evening. Often they even argued; at last Napoleon seemed to be brought to agree. They were alone in the Emperor’s study; I was present, scarcely observed by them. Suddenly Napoleon’s eye chanced to fall upon me, a strange thought gleamed in his eye. ‘Child,’ said he to me, ‘what do you think? if I adopt the Orthodox faith, and set free your slaves, will the Russians come over to me or not?’ ‘Never!’ I cried indignantly. Napoleon was impressed. ‘In the patriotism shining in that child’s eyes,’ said he, ‘I read the verdict of the whole Russian people. Enough, Davoust! That’s all a fantasy! Explain your other plan.”

“But there was a great idea in that plan too,” said Myshkin, evidently growing interested. “So you would ascribe that project to Davoust?”

“At any rate, they consulted together. No doubt, the idea was Napoleon’s, the idea of an eagle. But there was an idea too in the other plan... . That was the famous ‘consei/ du lion’ as Napoleon himself called that advice of Davoust’s. That advice was to shut himself up in the Kremlin with all the troops, to build barracks, to dig out earthworks, to place cannons, to kill as many horses as possible and salt the flesh, to procure by purchase or pillage as much corn as possible, and to spend the winter there till spring; and in the spring to fight their way through the Russians. This plan fascinated Napoleon. We used to ride round the Kremlin walls every day; he used to show where to demolish, where to construct lunettes, ravelins, or a row of block-houses—he had a quick eye, swift Judgment, a sure aim. Everything was settled at last. Davoust insisted on a final decision. Once more they were alone except for me. Again Napoleon paced the room with folded arms. I could not take my eyes off his face, my heart throbbed. ‘I am going,’ said Davoust. ‘Where?’ asked Napoleon. “To salt horseflesh,’ said Davoust. Napoleon shuddered, it was the turning-point. ‘Child,’ said he to me, suddenly, ‘what do you think of our intention?’ No doubt he asked me as sometimes a man of the greatest intelligence will at the last moment toss up to decide. I turned to Davoust instead of to Napoleon and spoke as though by inspiration: “You’d better cut and run home, general!’ The plan was abandoned. Davoust shrugged his shoulders, and went out, muttering in a whisper: ‘Bah! i/ devient superstiteux!’ And the next day the retreat was ordered.”

“All that is extremely interesting,” Myshkin murmured in a very low voice, “if it really was so... . I mean to say...” he hastened to correct himself.

“Oh, prince,” cried the general, so carried away by his own story that perhaps he could not stop short even of the most flagrant indiscretion, “you say, ‘if it really was so’! But there was more, I assure you, far more! These are only paltry political facts. But I repeat I was the witness of the tears and groans of that great man at night; and that no one saw but I! Towards the end, indeed, he ceased to weep, there were no more tears, he only moaned at times; but his face was more and more overcast, as it were, with darkness. As though eternity had already cast its dark wings about it. Sometimes at night we spent whole hours alone together, in silence—the mameluke Roustan would be snoring in the next room, the fellow slept fearfully soundly. ‘But he is devoted to me and to the dynasty,’ Napoleon used to say about him. Once I was dreadfully grieved; and suddenly he noticed tears in my eyes. He looked at me tenderly. “You feel for me!’ he cried, ‘you, a child, and perhaps another boy will feel for me—my son, le roi de Rome; all the rest, all, all hate me, and my brothers would be the first to betray me in misfortune!’ I began to sob and flew to him. Then he broke down, he threw his arms round me, and our tears flowed together. ‘Do, do write a letter to the Empress Josephine!’ I sobbed to him. Napoleon started, pondered, and said to me: ‘You remind me of the one other heart that loves me; I thank you, my dear!’ He sat down on the spot, and wrote the letter to the Empress Josephine, which was taken by Constant next day.”

“You did splendidly,” said Myshkin. “In the midst of his evil thoughts you led him to good feelings.”

“Just so, prince, and how well you put it! How like your own good heart!” cried the general rapturously, and, strange to say, genuine tears stood in his eyes. “Yes, prince, yes, that was a magnificent spectacle. And do you know I very nearly went back with him to Paris, and should no doubt have shared with him his ‘sultry prison isle,’ but alas!—fate severed us! We were parted, he to the sultry prison isle, where, who knows, he may have recalled in hours of tragic tribulation the tears of the poor boy who embraced him and forgave him Moscow. I was sent to the cadets’ corps, where I found nothing but strict discipline, the roughness of comrades, and. . . alas! all turned to dust and ashes! ‘I don’t want to part you from your mother, and take you with me,’ he said to me on the day of theretreat, ‘but I should like to do something for you.’ He had already mounted his horse. ‘Write something as a souvenir for me in my sister’s album,” said I, timidly, for he was very troubled and gloomy. He turned, asked for a pen, took the album. ‘How old is your sister?’ he asked me. “Three years old,’ I answered. ‘Une petite fille alors! And he wrote in the album:

‘Ne mentez jamais’ ‘Napoléon, votre ami sincere.”

Such advice and in such a moment, prince, you can imagine!”

“Yes, that was remarkable.”

“That page was framed in gold under glass and always used to hang on the wall in my sister’s drawing-room, in the most conspicuous place, it hung there till her death; she died in childbirth; where it is now—I don’t know... but... Ach, Heaven! It’s two o’clock already! How I have kept you, prince! It’s unpardonable!”

The general got up from his chair.

“Oh, on the contrary,” mumbled Myshkin. “You have so entertained me, and... in fact, it’s so interesting; I am so grateful to you!”

“Prince!” said the general again, squeezing his hand till it hurt, gazing at him with sparkling eyes, as though suddenly thunderstruck at some thought he had recollected. “Prince! you are so kind, so good-hearted, that ’m sometimes positively sorry for you. I am touched when I look at you. Oh, God bless you! May a new life begin for you, blossoming . . . with love. Mine is over! Oh, forgive me. Good-bye!”

He went out quickly, covering his face with his hands. Myshkin could not doubt the genuineness of his emotion. He realized too that the old man had gone away enraptured at his success; yet he had a misgiving that he was one of that class of liars with whom lying has become a blinding passion, though at the very acme of their intoxication they secretly suspect that they are not believed, and that they cannot be believed. In his present position the old man might be overwhelmed with shame when he returned to the reality of things. He might suspect Myshkin of too great a compassion for him and feel insulted. “Haven’t I made it worse by leading him on to I such flights?” Myshkin wondered uneasily, and suddenly he could not restrain himself, and laughed violently for ten minutes. He was nearly beginning to reproach himself for his laughter. but at once realized that he had nothing to reproach himself with, since he had an infinite pity for the general.

His misgiving proved true. In the evening he received a strange letter, brief but resolute. The general informed him that he was parting from him, too, for ever, that he respected him, and was grateful to him, but that even from him he could not accept “proofs of compassion which were derogatory to the dignity of a man who was unhappy enough without that.” When Myshkin heard that the old man had taken refuge with Nina Alexandrovna, he felt almost at ease about him. But we have seen already that the general had caused some sort of trouble at Lizaveta Prokofyevna’s too. Here we cannot go into the details, but we will mention briefly that the upshot of the interview was that the general scared Lizaveta Prokofyevna, and by his bitter insinuations against Ganya had roused her to-indignation. He was led out in disgrace. That was why he had spent such a night and such a morning, was completely unhinged and had run out into the street almost in a state of frenzy.

Kolya had not yet fully grasped the position, and even hoped to bring him round by severity.

“Well, where are we off to now, do you suppose, general?” he said. “You don’t want to go to the prince’s. You’ve quarrelled with Lebedyev, you’ve no money, and I never have any. We are in a nice mess in the street!”

“Tt’s better to be of a mess than in a mess!’ I made that... pun to the admiration of the officers’ mess . . . in forty-four. . . . In eighteen... forty-four, yes! .. . I don’t remember .. . oh, don’t remind me, don’t remind me! “Where is my youth, where is my freshness!’ as exclaimed ... who exclaimed it, Kolya?”

“Gogol, father, in ‘Dead Souls,’” answered Kolya, and he stole a timid glance at his father.

“Tyead Souls’! Oh, yes, dead! When you bury me, write on the tombstone: ‘Here lies a dead soul!’ ‘Disgrace pursues me!’ Who said that, Kolya>”

“IT don’t know, father.”

“There was no such person as Eropyegov? Eroshka. Eropyegov ... he cried frantically, stopping short in the street. “And that was said by my son, my own son! Eropyegov, who for eleven months took the place to me of a brother, for whom I fought a duel... . Prince Vygoryetsky, our captain said to him over a bottle: ‘Grisha, where did you get your Anna ribbon, tell me that?’ “On the battlefield of my country, that’s where I got it!’ I shouted: ‘Bravo, Grisha!’ And that led to a duel, and afterwards he was married to Marya Petrovna Su... Sutugin, and was killed in the field. . . . A bullet glanced off the cross on my breast and hit him straight in the brow. ‘T shall never forget!’ he cried, and fell on the spot. I... ’ve served with honour, Kolya; I’ve served nobly, but disgrace—‘disgrace pursues me!’ You and Nina will come to my grave. ‘Poor Nina!’ I used to call her so in old days, Kolya, long ago in our early days, and how she loved. . .. Nina, Nina! What have I made of your life! For what can you love me, long-suffering soul! Your mother has the soul of an angel, Kolya, do you hear, of an angel!”

“I know that, father. Father, darling, let’s go back home to mother! She was running after us! Come, why are you standing still? As though you don’t understand ... Why are you crying?”

Kolya shed tears himself, and kissed his father’s hands.

“You're kissing my hands, mine!”

“Yes, yours, yours. What is there to wonder at? Come, why are you crying in the middle of the street? And you call yourself a general, an army man; come, let’s go!”

“May God bless you, dear boy, for having been respectful to a wretched, disgraceful old man. Yes, to a wretched, disgraceful old man, your father. ... May you, too, have such a boy .. . le roi de Rome. O, ‘a curse a curse on this house!”

“But why on earth are you going on like this?” cried Kolya, boiling over suddenly, “what has happened? Why won’t you go home now? Why have you gone out of your mind?”

“ll explain, I’ll explain to you. . .. Il tell you every thing; don’t shout, people will hear .. . le roi de Rome... . Oh, I’m sick, I’m sad. ‘Nurse, where is thy tomb?’ Who was it cried that, Kolya?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know who cried it! Let’s go home, at once, at once! I'll give Ganya a hiding if necessary . . . but where are you off to again?”

But the general drew him to the steps of a house close by.

“Where are you going? That’s a stranger’s house!”

The general sat down on the step, still holding Kolya’s hand, and drawing him to him.

“Bend down, bend down!” he muttered. “I'll tell you everything ... disgrace ... bend down... your ear, your ear; I'll tell you in your ear...”

“But what is it?” cried Kolya, terribly alarmed, yet stooping down to listen.

“Le rot de Rome. . .”whispered the general. He, too, seemed trembling all over.

“What? Why do you keep harping on le roi de Rome? .. .

What?”

“T...Ii...” whispered the general again, clinging more and more tightly to “his boy’s” shoulder. “I... want... Tl tell... you everything, Marya... Marya... Petrovna Su-su-su .. .”

Kolya tore himself away, seized the general by the shoulders, and looked at him frantically. The old man flushed crimson, his lips turned blue, faint spasms ran over his face. Suddenly he lurched forward and began slowly sinking into Kolya’s arms.

“A stroke!” the boy shouted aloud in the street, seeing at last what was the matter.

CHAPTER V

IN reality Varvara Ardalionovna had in her conversation with her brother somewhat exaggerated the certainty of her news concerning Myshkin’s engagement to Aglaia Epanchin.

Perhaps, like a sharp-sighted woman, she had divined what was bound to come to pass in the immediate future; perhaps, disappointed at her dream (in which, however, she had never really believed) passing off in smoke, she was too human to be able to deny herself the gratification of instilling added bitterness into her brother’s heart, by exaggerating the calamity, even though she loved him sincerely and felt sorry for him. In any case, she could not have received such exact information from her friends, the Epanchins; there were only hints, half-uttered words, meaning silences, and surmises. Though, perhaps, Aglaia’s sisters gossiped a little with design, so that they might themselves find out something from Varvara Ardalionovna. It may have been that they, too, could not forego the feminine pleasure of teasing a friend a little, though they had known her from childhood; they could not in so long a time have failed to get at least a glimpse of what she was aiming at.

On the other hand, Myshkin, too, though he was perfectly right in assuring Lebedyev that he had nothing to tell him, and that nothing special had happened to him, may have been mistaken. Something very strange certainly was happening to all of them; nothing had happened, and yet, at the same time, a great deal had happened. Varvara Ardalionovna, with her unfailing feminine instinct, had guessed this last fact.

It is very difficult, however, to explain in proper orderly fashion how it came to pass that every one in the Epanchins’ house was struck at once by the same idea, that something vital had happened to Aglaia, and that her fate was being decided. But as soon as this idea had flashed upon all of them, at once all insisted that they had felt misgivings about it and foreseen it long ago; that it had been clear since the episode of the “poor knight,” and even before, only, at that time, they were unwilling to believe in anything so absurd. So the sisters declared; Lizaveta Prokofyevna, of course, had foreseen and known everything long before anyone, and her “heart had ached about it” long ago; but, whether she had known it long ago or not, the thought of the prince suddenly became very distasteful to her, because it threw her so completely out of her reckoning. Here was a question which required an immediate answer; but not only was it impossible to answer it, but poor Lizaveta Prokofyevna, however much she struggled, could not even see the question quite clearly. It was a difficult matter. “Was the prince a good match, or not? Was it all a good thing, or not? If it were not a good thing (and undoubtedly it was not) in what way was it not good? And if, perhaps, it were good (and that was also possible) in what way was it good, again?” The head of the family himself, Ivan Fyodorovitch, was of course first of all surprised, but immediately afterwards made the confession that, “By Jove, he’d had an inkling of it all this time, now and again, he seemed to fancy something of the sort.” He relapsed into silence at the threatening glances of his wife; he was silent in the morning, but, in the evening, alone with, his wife and compelled to speak, suddenly and, as it were, with unwonted boldness he gave vent to some unexpected opinions. “I say, after all, what did it amount to?” (Silence.) “All this was very strange of course if it were true, and he didn’t dispute it, but. . . .” (Silence again.) “And, on the other hand, if one looked at the thing without prejudice, the prince was a most charming fellow, upon my word, and... and, and—well, the name, our family name, all that would have the air, so to say, of keeping up the family name which had fallen low in the eyes of the world, that was, looking at it from that point of view, because they knew what the world was; the world was the world, but still the prince was not without fortune if it was only a middling one; he had .. . and, and, and” (prolonged silence, and a complete collapse). When Lizaveta Prokofyevna heard her husband’s words, her anger was beyond all bounds.

In her opinion all that had happened was “unpardonable and criminal folly, a sort of fantastic vision, stupid and absurd!” In the first place, “this little prince was a sickly idiot, and in the second place—a fool; he knew nothing of the world and had no place in it. To whom could one present him, where was one to put him? He was an impossible sort of democrat; he hadn’t even got a post... and... and what would Princess Byelokonsky say? And was this, was this the sort of husband they had imagined and planned for Aglaia?” The last argument, of course, was the chief one. At this reflection the mother’s heart shuddered, bleeding and weeping, though, at the same time, something quivered within it, whispering to her, “In what way is the prince not what is wanted?” And that protest of her own heart was what gave Lizaveta Prokofyevna more trouble than anything.

Aglaia’s sisters were for some reason pleased at the thought of Myshkin. It didn’t even strike them as very strange; in short, they might at any moment have gone over to his side completely. But they both made up their minds to keep quiet. It had been noticed as an invariable rule in the family that the more obstinate and emphatic Lizaveta Prokofyevna’s opposition and objections were on any matter of dispute, the surer sign it was for all of them that she was already almost on the point of agreeing about it. But Alexandra did not find it possible to be perfectly silent. Her mother, who had chosen her long ago as her adviser, was calling for her every minute now, and asking for her opinions and still more for her recollections; that is, “How it had all come to pass? How was it nobody saw it? Why did no one say anything? What was the meaning of that horrid “poor knight”? Why was she alone, Lizaveta Prokofyevna, doomed to worry about everything, to notice and foresee everything, while the others did nothing but “count the crows,” and so on, and so on. Alexandra was on her guard at first, and confined herself to remarking that she thought her father’s idea rather true, that in the eyes of the world the choice of Prince Myshkin as the husband of one of the Epanchins might seem very satisfactory. Gradually getting warmer, she even added that the prince was by no means “a fool,” and never had been; and as for his consequence—there was no knowing what a decent man’s consequence would depend upon in a few years’ time among us in Russia; whether on the successes in the service that were once essential, or on something else. To all this her mamma promptly retorted that Alexandra was “a Nihilist, and this was all their hateful ‘woman-question.’” Half an hour later she set off for town and from there to Kamenny Island to find Princess Byelokonsky, who happened, fortunately, to be in Petersburg at the time, though she was soon going away. Princess Byelokonsky was Aglaia’s godmother.

The “old princess” listened to Lizaveta Prokofyevna’s feverish and desperate outpourings, and was not in the least moved by the tears of the harassed mother; she even looked at her sarcastically. The old lady was a terrible despot; she would not allow even her oldest friends to be on an equal footing with her, and she looked on Lizaveta Prokofyevna simply as her protégée, as she had been thirty-five years before, and she never could reconcile herself to the abruptness and independence of her character. She observed among other things that “they were, as usual, in much too great a hurry, and were making a mountain out of a molehill; that so far as she heard, she was not convinced that anything serious had really happened; and wouldn’t it be better to wait until there was something to go upon? That the prince, in her opinion, was a nice young man, though sickly, eccentric, and of little consequence. The worst point about him was that he was openly keeping a mistress.” Madame Epanchin was well aware that the princess was rather cross at the failure of Yevgeny Pavlovitch whom she had introduced to them. She went home to Pavlovsk in a state of greater irritation than when she had set out, and she fell foul of every one at once, chiefly, on the ground that “they'd all gone crazy,” and that things were not done like that by anyone whatever except by them. “Why were they in such a hurry? What has happened? So far as I can judge I cannot see that anything has happened! Wait till there’s something to go upon! Ivan Fyodorovitch is always fancying things and making mountains out of molehills.”

The upshot of it was that they must keep calm, wait and look on coolly. But alas! the calm did not last ten minutes. The first blow to her composure was the news of what had happened during her absence at Kamenny Island. (Madame Epanchin’s visit had taken place on the day after Myshkin had paid a visit after midnight instead of at nine o’clock.) In reply to their mother’s impatient questions, the sisters answered in detail to begin with that “nothing special had happened during her absence,” that the prince had come, that for a long time, quite half an hour, Aglaia had not come down to see him, that afterwards she came down and at once asked Myshkin to play chess; that the prince did not know how to play and Aglaia had beaten him at once; that she was very lively and had scolded the prince, who was horribly ashamed of his ignorance; she had laughed at him dreadfully, so that they were sorry to look at him. Then she suggested a game of cards, “fools.” But that had turned out quite the other way. The prince played fools in masterly fashion, like a professor; Aglaia had even cheated and changed cards, and had stolen tricks from under his very nose, and yet he had made a “fool” of her five times running. Aglaia got fearfully angry, quite forgot herself, in fact; she said such biting and horrid things to the prince that at last he left off laughing, and turned quite pale when she told him at last that “she wouldn’t set foot in the room as long as he were there, and that it was positively disgraceful of him to come to them, especially at night, past twelve o’clock, after all that had happened.” ’Vhen she slammed the door and went out. The prince walked out as though from a funeral, in spite of all their efforts to console him. All of a sudden, a quarter of an hour after the prince had gone, Aglaia had run downstairs to the verandah in such haste that she had not dried her eyes, and they were still wet with tears. She ran down because Kolya had come, bringing a hedgehog. They had all begun looking at the hedgehog. Kolya explained that the hedgehog was not his; that he was out for a walk with a schoolfellow, Kostya Lebedyev, who had stayed in the street and was too shy to come in, because he was carrying a hatchet; that they had just bought the hedgehog and the hatchet from a peasant they had met. The peasant had sold them the hedgehog for fifty kopecks, and they had persuaded him to sell the hatchet, too, because “he might just as well,” and it was a very good hatchet. All of a sudden Aglaia had begun worrying Kolya to sell her the hedgehog; she got very excited about it, and even called Kolya “darling.” For a long time Kolya would not consent, but at last he gave way and summoned Kostya Lebedyev, who did in fact come in carrying a hatchet and very much abashed. But then it had suddenly appeared that the hedgehog was not theirs at all, but belonged to another, a third boy, called Petrov, who had given the two of them money to buy Schlosser’s “History” for him from a fourth boy, which, the latter, being in want of money, was selling cheap; that they had been going to buy Schlosser’s “History,” but they hadn’t been able to resist buying the hedgehog, so that it followed that the hedgehog and the hatchet belonged to the third boy, to whom they were carrying them instead of Schlosser’s “History.” But Aglaia had so insisted that at last they made up their minds and sold her the hedgehog. As soon as Aglaia had bought the hedgehog, she had, with Kolya’s help, placed it in a wicker basket, and covered it with a table-napkin, then she began asking Kolya to take it straight to the prince from her, begging him to accept it as a sign of her “profound respect.” Kolya agreed, delighted, and promised to do it without fail, but began immediately pestering her to know “what was meant by the hedgehog and by making him such a present?”

Aglaia had answered that it was not his business. He answered that he was convinced there was some allegory in it. Aglaia had been angry, and flew out at him, saying that he was nothing but a “silly boy.” Kolya at once retorted that if it were not that he respected her sex and, what was more, his own convictions, he would have shown her on the spot that he knew how to answer such insults. It had ended, however, in Kolya’s carrying off the hedgehog in delight, and Kostya Lebedyev had run after him. Aglaia, seeing that Kolya was swinging the basket too much could not resist calling to him from the verandah: “Please, don’t drop it, Kolya darling!” as though she had not been quarrelling with him just before. Kolya had stopped, and he, too, as though he had not been quarrelling, had shouted with the utmost readiness: “I won’t drop him, Aglaia Ivanovna, don’t you be uneasy!” and had run on again at full speed. After that Aglaia had laughed tremendously and had gone up to her own room exceedingly pleased, and had been in high spirits the rest of the day.

Lizaveta Prokofyevna was completely confounded by this account. One might ask why? But she was evidently in a morbid state of mind. Her apprehension was aroused to an extreme point, above all, by the hedgehog. What did the hedgehog mean? What compact underlay it? What was understood by it? What did it stand for? What was its cryptic message? Moreover, the luckless Ivan Fyodorovitch, who happened to be present during the inquisition, spoilt the whole business by his reply. In his opinion there was no cryptic message in it, and the hedgehog “was simply a hedgehog and nothing more—at most it meant a friendly desire to forget the past and make it up; in a word it was all mischief, but harmless and excusable.”

We may note in parenthesis that he had guessed right. Myshkin returned home after being dismissed and ridiculed by Aglaia, and sat for half an hour in the blackest despair, when Kolya suddenly appeared with the hedgehog. The sky cleared at once. Myshkin seemed to rise again from the dead; he questioned Kolya, hung on every word he said, repeated his questions ten times over, laughed like a child, and continually shook hands with the two laughing boys who gazed at him so frankly. The upshot of it was that Aglaia forgave him, and that he could go and see her again that evening, and that was for him not only the chief thing but everything.

“What children we still are, Kolya! and... and... how nice it is that we are such children,” he cried at last, joyfully.

“The simple fact is she’s in love with you, prince, that’s all about it!” Kolya answered authoritatively and impressively.

Myshkin flushed, but this time he said nothing, and Kolya simply laughed and clapped his hands. A minute later Myshkin laughed too, and he was looking at his watch every five minutes to see how time was going and how long it was till evening.

But Madame Epanchin’s mood got the upper hand of her, and at last she could not help giving way to hysterical excitement. In spite of the protests of her husband and daughters, she immediately sent for Aglaia in order to put the fatal question to her, and to extort from her a perfectly clear and final answer: “To make an end of it once for all, to be rid of it, and not to refer to it again!” “I can’t exist till evening without knowing!” And only then they all realized to what an absurd pass they had brought things. They could get nothing out of Aglaia except feigned amazement, indignation, laughter and Jeers at the prince and at all who questioned her. Lizaveta Prokofyevna lay on her bed and did not come down till evening tea, when Myshkin was expected. She awaited his coming with a tremor, and almost went into hysterics when he appeared.

And Myshkin, for his part, came in timidly, as it were feeling his way, looking into every one’s eyes, and seeming to question them all because Aglaia was not in the room again, which made him uneasy at once. There were no other guests present that evening; the family was alone. Prince S. was still in Petersburg, busy over the affairs of Yevgeny Pavlovitch’s uncle. “If only he could have been here and said something, anyway,” said Lizaveta Prokofyevna to herself, deploring his absence. Ivan Fyodorovitch sat with a very puzzled air; the sisters were serious, and, as though intentionally, silent. Lizaveta Prokofyevna did not know how to begin the conversation. At last she vigorously abused the railway, and looked with resolute challenge at Myshkin.

Alas! Aglaia did not come down, and Myshkin was lost. Losing his head and hardly able to articulate, he began to express the opinion that to improve the line would be exceedingly useful, but Adelaida suddenly laughed, and he was crushed again. At that very instant Aglaia came in. Calmly and with dignity she made Myshkin a ceremonious bow, and solemnly seated herself in the most conspicuous place at the round table. She looked inquiringly at Myshkin. Every one realized that the moment had come when all doubts would be removed.

" Did you get my hedgehog?” Aglaia asked firmly and almost anerily.

“I did,” answered Myshkin, with a sinking heart, and he flushed red.

“Explain at once what you think about it. That’s essential for the peace of mind of mamma and all the family.”

“Come, come, Aglaia...” began the general, suddenly uneasy.

“This is beyond everything!” said Lizaveta Prokofyevna, for some reason suddenly alarmed.

“It’s not beyond anything, maman,” her daughter answered sternly at once. “I sent the prince a hedgehog to-day, and I want to know his opinion. Well, prince?”

“What sort of opinion, Aglaia Ivanovna?”

“Of the hedgehog.”

“That is, I suppose, Aglaia Ivanovna, you want to know how I took... the hedgehog... or, rather, how I regarded the . . . sending . . of the hedgehog, that is . . . I imagine in such a case, that is, in TACT ay

He gasped and was silent.

“Well, you’ve not said much,” said Aglaia, after waiting five seconds. “Very well, I agree to drop the hedgehog; but I am very glad that I can put an end to all this accumulation of misunderstanding. Let me know from you personally: are you making me an offer or not?”

“Good heavens!” broke from Lizaveta Prokofyevna. Myshkin started and drew back; Ivan Fyodorovitch was petrified; the sisters frowned.

“Don’t lie, prince, tell the truth. I am persecuted with strange questionings on your account. Is there any foundation for these questionings? ... Well?”

“I have not made you an offer, Aglaia Ivanovna,” said Myshkin, suddenly reviving. “But you know how I love you and believe in you . even now... .”

“What I am inquiring is—do you ask for my hand, or not?”

“I do,” Myshkin answered with a sinking heart.

A general stir of agitation followed.

“All this is not the thing, my dear fellow,” said Ivan Fyodorovitch, violently agitated. “This . . . this is almost impossible, if it’s like this, Aglaia. . . . Forgive it, prince, forgive it, my dear fellow! ... Lizaveta Prokofyevna!” he turned to his wife for assistance, “you must... go into it!”

“I refuse, I refuse!” cried Lizaveta Prokofyevna, waving her hands.

“Allow me to speak, maman: I count for something in this business; the extreme moment of my fate is being decided” (this was the expression Aglaia used) “and I want to find out for myself, and ’'m glad besides that it’s before every one. . . . Allow me to ask you, prince, if you ‘cherish such intentions,’ how do you propose to secure my happiness?”

“I really don’t know, Aglaia Ivanovna, how to answer you, in this question. ... What is there to answer? And besides . . . is it necessary?”

“You seem to be embarrassed and out of breath; take a rest and pull yourself together; drink a glass of water, though they'll soon give you some tea.”

“IT love you, Aglaia Ivanovna. I love you very much, I love no one but you and . . . don’t jest, I implore you. . . . I love you very much.”

“This is an important matter, though, we are not children; we must look at it practically. . .. Have the goodness now to explain what your fortune is?”

“Come, come, Aglaia! What are you doing! This is not the thing, not the thing,” Ivan Fyodorovitch muttered in dismay.

“Disgraceful!” said Lizaveta Prokofyevna in a loud whisper.

“She’s out of her mind!” Alexandra whispered as loudly.

“My fortune ... that is, money?” said Myshkin, surprised. “Just so.”

“I have... . I have now one hundred and thirty-five thousand,”

Myshkin muttered, reddening.

“Ts that all>” said Aglaia aloud, in open wonder, without the faintest blush. “It doesn’t matter though, especially with economy. Do you intend to enter the service?”

“I was thinking of preparing for an examination to become a private tutor... .”

“Very appropriate; no doubt that will increase our income. Are you proposing to be a kammer-junker?”

“A kammer-junker? I never imagined such a thing, but... .”

But at this point the two sisters could not contain themselves and burst into laughter. Adelaida had long noticed in the twitching features of Aglaia’s face symptoms of imminent and irrepressible laughter, which she was, for the time, controlling with all her might. Aglaia looked menacingly at her laughing sisters, but a second later she, too, broke down, and went off into a frantic, almost hysterical, fit of laughter. At last she leapt up and ran out of the room.

“I knew it was all a joke and nothing more!” cried Adelaida, “from the very beginning, from the hedgehog.”

“No, this I will not allow; I will not,” cried Lizaveta Prokofyevna, suddenly boiling over with anger, and she hastened out after Aglaia. The sisters ran out immediately after her. Myshkin was left alone in the room with the head of the family.

“This is... could you have imagined anything like it, Lyov Nikolayevitch?” General Epanchin cried abruptly, hardly knowing what he wanted to say. “Yes, seriously, speak?”

“I see that Aglaia Ivanovna was laughing at me,” said Myshkin sadly.

“Wait a bit, my boy. Ill go and you wait a bit, because . . . you at least, you at least, Lyov Nikolayevitch, explain to me how all this happened, and what does it all mean, looked at as a whole, so to say? You must admit, my boy—I’m her father; anyway I’m her father and so I don’t understand anything about it; you at least let me know.”

“I love Aglaia Ivanovna; she knows that .. . and I think she has known it a long time.”

The general shrugged his shoulders.

“Strange, strange! ... And are you very fond of her?”

“Very.”

“This all seems so strange to me. That is, such a surprise and blow that... . You see, my dear boy, it’s not the fortune (though I did expect you had rather more), but... my daughter’s happiness . . . in fact... are you in a position to secure ... her happiness? And... and... what does it mean: is it a Joke or real on her side? Not on your side, but on hers, I mean?”

Alexandra’s voice was heard at the door, calling her father.

“Wait a bit, my boy, wait a bit! Wait a bit and think it over. T’Il be back directly,” he said hurriedly, and almost in alarm he rushed out In response to the call.

He found his wife and daughter in each other’s arms, mingling their tears. They were tears of bliss, tenderness, and reconciliation. Aglaia was kissing her mother’s hands, cheeks and lips; they were hugging each other closely.

“Here, look at her, Ivan Fyodorovitch! There you have the whole of her,” said Lizaveta Prokofyevna.

Aglaia lifted her happy, tear-stained little face from her mother’s bosom, and looked at her father; she laughed aloud, jumped up to him, embraced him warmly, and kissed him several times. Then she flung herself on her mother again and hid her face completely in her bosom so that no one could see it, and began crying again at once. Lizaveta Prokofyevna covered her with the end of her shawl.

“What are you doing with us, you cruel girl—that’s what I want to know,” she said, but joyfully, as though she could breathe more easily now.

“Cruel! Yes, cruel!” Aglaia assented suddenly. “Spoilt! Good-fornothing! Tell papa that. Oh, yes, he’s here! Papa, you’re here? Do you hear?” she laughed through her tears.

“My dear, my idol!” The general kissed her hand, beaming all over with happiness. (Aglaia did not take her hand away.) “So you love this young man then?”

“No-no-no! I can’t bear . . . your young man, I can’t endure him!” cried Aglaia, boiling over suddenly and raising her head. “And if you ever dare again. .. . | mean it, papa, I mean it; do you hear? I mean it.”

And she certainly did mean it; she flushed all over and her eyes gleamed. Her father was nonplussed and alarmed. But Lizaveta Prokofyevna made a signal to him behind her daughter, and he took it to mean: “Don’t ask questions.”

“Tf it is so, my angel, it’s as you like, it’s for you to decide, he’s waiting there alone. Shouldn’t we give him a delicate hint to go away?”

Ivan Fyodorovitch, in his turn, winked at his wife.

“No, no, that’s not necessary; especially a ‘delicate’ one. You go to him yourself; I’ll come in afterwards, directly. I want to beg that... young man’s pardon, because I hurt his feelings.”

“Yes, you did dreadfully,” Ivan Fyodorovitch assented seriously.

“Well, then... you all had better stay here, and P’ll go in first alone, you shall come directly after; come the very second after, that’s better.”

She had already reached the door but suddenly turned back.

“I shall laugh! I shall die of laughing!” she declared sorrowfully.

But at the same second she turned and ran in to Myshkin.

“Come, what’s the meaning of it? What do you think?” Ivan Fyodorovitch began quickly.

“I am afraid to say,” Lizaveta Prokofyevna answered as quickly. “But to my mind it’s clear.”

“To mine, too. As clear as day. She loves him.”

“Not only loves; she’s in love with him,” put in Alexandra. “But what a man, when you think of it!”

“God bless her if such is her fate!” said Lizaveta Prokofyevna, crossing herself devoutly.

“It must be her fate,” the general agreed, “and there’s no escaping fate.”

And they all went into the dining-room where a surprise awaited them again.

Aglaia, far from laughing as she had feared on going up to Myshkin, said to him almost shyly:

“Forgive a stupid, nasty, spoilt girl” (she took his hand), “and believe me we all respect you immensely. And if I dared to turn into ridicule your splendid . . . kind simplicity, forgive me as you'd forgive a child for being naughty. Forgive me for persisting in an absurdity, which could not, of course, have the slightest consequence.”

The last words Aglaia uttered with particular emphasis.

The father, mother, and sisters were all in the drawing-room in time to see and hear all this, and all were struck by the words, “absurdity which cannot have the slightest consequence?” And _ still more so by the earnestness with which Aglaia spoke of that absurdity. They all looked at one another questioningly. But Myshkin did not seem to understand those words and was at the very summit of happiness.

“Why do you talk like that?” he muttered. “Why do you. . . ask ... forgiveness?”

He would have said that he wasn’t worthy of her asking his forgiveness. Who knows, perhaps he did notice the meaning of the words, “absurdity which cannot have the slightest consequence,” but, being such a strange man, perhaps, he was relieved at those words. There is no doubt that the mere fact that he could come and see Aglaia again without hindrance, that he was allowed to talk to her, sit with her, walk with her was the utmost bliss to him; and who knows, perhaps he would have been satisfied with that for the rest of his life. (It was just this contentment that Lizaveta Prokofyevna secretly dreaded; she understood him; she dreaded many things in secret, which she could not have put into words herself.)

It’s difficult to describe how completely Myshkin regained his spirits and courage that evening. He was so light-hearted that they grew light-hearted watching him—as Aglaia’s sisters expressed it afterwards. He was talkative, and that had not happened to him again since the morning, six months ago, when he had first made the acquaintance of the Epanchins. On his return to Petersburg he was noticeably and intentionally silent, and had quite lately said to Prince S., in the presence of all, that he must restrain himself and be silent, that he might not degrade an idea by his expressing it. He was almost the only one who talked that evening, he described many things. He answered questions clearly, mimutely, and with pleasure. But there was not a glimpse of a word approaching love-making in his conversation. He expressed earnest, sometimes profound ideas. Myshkin even expounded some of his own views, his own private observations, so that it would have been funny, if it had not been so well expressed; as all who heard him that evening agreed later on. Though General Epanchin liked serious subjects of conversation, yet both he and Lizaveta Prokofyevna secretly thought it was too intellectual, so that they felt actually sad at the end of the evening. But Myshkin went so far at last as to tell some very amusing stories, which he was the first to laugh at, so that the others laughed more at his joyful laugh than at the story itself. As for Aglaia, she hardly spoke all the evening; but she listened all the while to Lyov Nikolayevitch, and gazed at him even more than she listened.

“She looks at him and can’t take her eyes off him; she hangs on every word he utters, she catches everything,” Lizaveta Prokofyevna said afterwards to her husband. “But tell her that she loves him and you'll have the walls about your ears.”

“There’s no help for it, it’s fate!” said the general, shrugging his shoulders.

And long afterwards he kept repeating the phrase which pleased him. We will add that, as a business man, he too disliked a great deal in the present position, above all its indefiniteness. But he, too, resolved for the time to keep quiet and to take his cue . . . from Lizaveta Prokofyevna.

The happy frame of mind of the family did not last long. Next day Aglaia quarrelled with Myshkin again, and things went on like that for several days. For hours together she would jeer at Myshkin and make him almost a laughing-stock. It is true they would sometimes sit, for an hour or two together in the arbour in the garden, but it was observed that, at such times, Myshkin almost always read aloud the newspaper or some book to Aglaia.

“Do you know,” Aglaia said one day, interrupting his reading of the newspaper, “I have noticed that you are dreadfully uneducated. You don’t know anything thoroughly, if one asks you who some one is, Or In what year anything happened, or the name of a treaty. You're much to be pitied.”

“I told you that I have not much learning,” answered Myshkin.

“What have you if you haven’t that? How can I respect you after that? Read on; or rather, don’t. Leave off reading.”

And again, that evening, there was something that mystified them all in her behaviour. Prince S. came back; Aglaia was very cordial to him, she made many inquiries about Yevgeny Pavlovitch. (Myshkin had not yet come in.) Suddenly Prince S. permitted himself an allusion to “another approaching event in the family,” to a few words which had escaped Lizaveta Prokofyevna, suggesting that they might have to put off Adelaida’s wedding again in order that the two weddings might take place together. Aglaia flared up in a way no one could have expected at “these stupid suppositions,” and among other things the phrase broke from her that she had “no intention at present of taking the place of anybody’s mistress.”

These words struck everybody, and above all her parents. In a secret confabulation with her husband, Lizaveta Prokofyevna insisted that he must go into the question of Nastasya Filippovna with Myshkin, once for all.

Ivan Fyodorovitch swore that all this was only “a whim,” and put it down to Aglaia’s “delicacy”; that if Prince S. had not referred to the marriage there would not have been this outburst, because Aglaia knew herself, knew on good authority, that it was all a slander of ill-natured people, and that Nastasya Filippovna was going to marry Rogozhin, that the prince had nothing to do with it, let alone a Haison with her; and never had had, if one’s to speak the whole truth.

Yet Myshkin went on being blissful and untroubled by anything. Oh, of course, he too noticed sometimes something gloomy and impatient in Aglaia’s expression; but he had more faith in something different, and the gloom vanished of itself. Once having faith in anything, he could not waver afterwards. Perhaps he was too much at ease in his mind; so it seemed at least to Ippolit who chanced to meet him in the park.

“Well, didn’t I tell you at the time that you were in love?” he began, going up to Myshkin and stopping him.

Myshkin shook hands with him and congratulated him on his “looking so much better.” The invalid seemed hopeful himself, as consumptives are so apt to be.

He had come up to Myshkin to say something sarcastic about his happy expression, but he soon drifted off the subject and began to talk about himself. He began complaining, and his complaints were many and long-winded, and rather incoherent.

“You wouldn't believe,” he concluded, “how utritable they all are there; how petty, how egoistic, vain, and commonplace. Would you believe it, they only took me on condition of my dying as quickly as possible, and now they’re all in a fury that I am not dying, but, on the contrary, better. It’s a farce! I bet you don’t believe me.”

Myshkin had no inclination to reply.

“I sometimes think of moving back to you again,” [ppolit added carelessly, “So you don’t think they’re capable of taking a man in on condition of his dying as quickly as possible?”

“I thought they invited you with other views.”

“Aha! You are by no means so simple as you are reputed to be! Now is not the time, or I’d tell you something about that wretched Ganya and his hopes. They’re undermining your position, prince; they’re doing it mercilessly and . . . it’s quite pitiful to see you so serene. But, alas! you can’t help it!”

“That’s a funny thing to pity me for!” laughed Myshkin; “do you think I should be happier if I were less serene?”

“Better be unhappy and know the truth, than be happy and live . . . like a fool. You don’t seem to believe that you have a rival—and in that quarter?”

“What you say about a rival is rather cynical, Ippolit; I am sorry I have not the right to answer you. As for Gavril Ardalionovitch, judge for yourself whether he can be happy in his mind after all he has lost; that is, if you know anything at all about his affairs? It seems to me better to look at it from that point of view. There’s time for him to change; he has a life before him, and life is rich... though... though. . . .” Myshkin broke off uncertainly. “As for undermining I don’t know what you are talking about; let’s drop this conversation, Ippolit.”

“We'll drop it for the time; besides you must always go in for being gentlemanly, of course. Yes, prince, you’d have to touch it with your finger in order to disbelieve it again. Ha, ha! And do you despise me very much now, what do you think?”

“What for? Because you have suffered and are still suffering more than we?”

“No, but because I am unworthy of my suffering.”

“If anyone is able to suffer more, he must be more worthy of suffering. When Aglaia Ivanovna read your confession, she wanted to see you, but... .”

“She’s putting it off... she can’t. I understand, I understand . . .” Ippolit interrupted, as though anxious to break off the conversation as quickly as possible. “By the way, they tell me that you read all that rigmarole aloud to her yourself; it was literally in delirum that I wrote it and... did it. And I I don’t understand how anyone can be so—I won't say cruel! (it would be humiliating for me), but so childishly vain and revengeful, as to reproach me with that confession and to use it against me as a weapon. Don’t be uneasy, I’m not talking about you.”

“But I am sorry that you repudiate that manuscript, Ippolit; it is sincere, and you know that even the most absurd points in it, and there are many of them” (Ippolit scowled), “are redeemed by suffering, because to confess them is suffering and .. . perhaps great manliness. The idea that animated you must have had a noble foundation, however it may seem. I see that more clearly as time goes on, I swear I do. I don’t judge you. I speak to say what I think, and ’m sorry that I didn’t speak at the time.”

Ippolit flushed hotly. The thought flashed through his mind that Myshkin was pretending, and taking him in. But, looking into his face he could not help being convinced of his sincerity. His face brightened.

“Yet I must die all the same!” he said, almost adding, “a man like me!” “And only fancy how your Ganya plagues me; the objection he has trumped up is that three or four who heard my confession will very likely die before I do. What do you say to that! He supposes that’s a comfort to me, ha! ha! In the first place they haven’t died yet. And even if these people did die, you’ll admit that’s no comfort to me. He judges by himself; but he goes further. He simply abuses me now; he says a decent man would die in silence, and that it’s all egoism on my part! What do you say to that! Yes, what about egoism on his part; what refinement, and yet at the same time what ox-like coarseness of egoism, though they can’t see it in themselves! Have you ever read, prince, of the death of Stepan Glyebov in the eighteenth century? I happened to read about it yesterdays...”

“What Stepan Glyebov?”

“He was impaled in the time of Peter.”

“Oh dear, yes, I know. He was fifteen hours on the stake, in the frost, in a fur coat, and died with extraordinary grandeur. Yes, I read it... what of it?”

“God grants such deaths to men, but not to us! You think, perhaps, I’m not capable of dying like Glyebov?”

“Oh, not at all!” Myshkin said, confused. “I only meant to say that you... that is, not that you would not be like Glyebov, but... that you... that you would be more likely then to be. . . .”

“I guess, like Osterman? And not Glyebov—that’s what you meant to say?”

“What Osterman?” said Myshkin, surprised.

“Osterman, the diplomat Osterman, Peter’s Osterman,” muttered Ippolit, suddenly disconcerted.

A certain perplexity followed.

“Oh, n-n-no! I didn’t mean to say that,” Myshkin said emphatically, after a brief silence. “You would never, I think . . . have been an Osterman.”

Ippolit frowned.

“The reason I maintain that, though,” Myshkin resumed suddenly, obviously anxious to set things night, “is because the men of those days (I swear I’ve always been struck by it) were absolutely not the same people that we are now; It was not the same race as now, in our age, really, it seems we are a different species. . . . In those days they were men of one idea, but now we are more nervous, more developed, more sensitive; men capable of two or three ideas at once. .. . Modern men are broader-minded—and I swear that this prevents their being so all-of-a-piece as they were in those days. I... I simply said it with that idea, and not...”

“I understand; you’re doing your level best to console me now for the simplicity with which you disagreed with me, ha, ha! You’re a perfect child, prince. I notice though that you all handle me like a china cup. ... I’m not angry, it’s all right, never mind! Anyway, we've had an awfully funny conversation; you’re sometimes a perfect child, prince. Let me tell you, though, that I should like perhaps to be something better than Osterman. It would not be worth while to rise from the dead for the sake of Osterman. ... I see I ought to die as soon as possible though, or I, myself, shall... . Leave me. Good-bye! Well now, come, tell me what do you think would be the best way for me to die? .... To make a virtuous ending of it as far as may be, that is? Come, tell me!”

“Pass by us, and forgive us our happiness,” said Myshkin in a low voice.

“Ha, ha, ha! Just as I thought! I knew it was sure to be something like that! Though you are... you are... . Well, well! You are eloquent people! Good-bye! Good-bye!”

CHAPTER VI

WHAT Varvara Ardalionovna had told her brother about the evening party at the Epanchins’ at which Princess Byelokonsky was expected was also quite correct; the guests were expected that evening. But in this case too she had expressed herself rather too strongly. It had, indeed, all been arranged with too much hurry, and even with some quite unnecessary excitement, just because in that family “they never could do things like other people.” It was all due to the impatience of Lizaveta Prokofyevna, who was “anxious not to be kept longer in suspense,” and to the feverish tremors of both parental hearts concerning the happiness of their favourite daughter. Moreover, Princess Byelokonsky really was going away soon, and as her patronage certainly did carry weight in society, and as they hoped she would be well disposed to Myshkin, the parents reckoned that “the world” would accept Aglaia’s betrothed straight from the hands of the omnipotent “old princess,” and that therefore if there were anything strange about it, it would seem much less strange under such patronage. The real fact was that the parents were quite unable to settle the question themselves whether there was anything strange in the matter, and if so how much. Or whether there were nothing strange about it at all. The candid and friendly opinion of influential and competent persons would be of use just at the present moment when, thanks to Aglaia, nothing had been finally settled. In any case, sooner or later the prince would have to be introduced into society, of which he had so far not the faintest idea. In short, they were intending to “show” him. The party arranged was, however, a simple one. Only “friends of the family” were expected, and not many of them. One other lady besides Princess Byelokonsky was coming, the wife of a very important dignitary. Yevgeny Pavlovitch was almost the only young man expected, and he was to escort Princess Byelokonsky.

Myshkin heard that Princess Byelokonsky was coming three days beforehand; of the party he learned only the previous day. He noticed, of course, the busy air of the members of the family, and even from certain insinuating and anxious attempts to broach the subject to him, he perceived that they dreaded the impression he might make. But somehow the Epanchins, all without exception, were possessed by the idea that he was too simple to be capable of guessing that they were uneasy in this way on his account; and so, looking at him, every one was inwardly troubled. He did in fact, however, attach scarcely any consequence to the approaching event. He was occupied with something quite different. Aglaia was becoming every hour more gloomy and capricious—that was crushing him. When he knew that they were expecting Yevgeny Pavlovitch, he was greatly delighted, and said that he had long been wishing to see him. For some reason no one liked these words. Aglaia went out of the room in vexation, and only late at night, about twelve o’clock, when Myshkin was going away, she seized an opportunity of a few words alone with him, as she saw him out.

“I should like you not to come and see us all day to-morrow, but to come in the evening when these .. . visitors are here. You know that there are to be visitors?”

She spoke impatiently and with intense severity. It was the first time she had spoken to him of this “party.” To her, too, the idea of these visitors was almost insufferable; every one noticed it. She may have felt greatly tempted to quarrel with her parents about it, but pride and modesty kept her from speaking. Myshkin saw at once that she also was afraid on his account (and did not want to admit that she was afraid), and he too felt suddenly frightened.

“Yes, I’ve been invited,” he answered.

She evidently found it difficult to go on.

“Can one speak to you about anything serious? Just for once?” She grew suddenly fearfully angry, not knowing why, and not able to control herself.

“You can, and I am listening. I’m very glad,” muttered Myshkin.

Aglaia paused again for a minute, and began with evident repugnance:

“I didn’t want to dispute with them about it, for you can’t make them see reason about some things. Some of maman’s principles have always been revolting to me. I say nothing about papa; it’s no use expecting anything from him. Maman is a noble woman, of course; If you dared to propose anything mean to her, you’d see. Yet she bows down before these . . . contemptible creatures. I don’t mean the old princess. She’s a contemptible old woman, contemptible in character, but clever and knows how to turn them all round her finger—one can say that for her, anyway. Oh, the meanness of it! And it’s ludicrous. We’ve always been people of the middle-class, as middle-class as could possibly be. Why force ourselves into this aristocratic circle? And my sisters are on the same tack. Prince S. has upset them all. Why are you pleased that Yevgeny Pavlovitch will be here?”

“Listen, Aglaia,” said Myshkin. “It seems to me that you are very much afraid that I shall be floored to-morrow . . . in this company.”

“Me afraid? On your account?” Aglaia flushed all over. “Why should I be afraid on your account, even if you... even if you do disgrace yourself utterly. What is it to me? And how can you use such words? What do you mean by being ‘floored’? It’s a contemptible word, vulgar!”

“Tt’s .. . a schoolboy word.”

“Quite so, a schoolboy word! Contemptible! You seem to intend to use words like that all the evening to-morrow. You can look up more of them at home in your dictionary; you’ll make a sensation! It’s a pity that you know how to come into the room properly.

Where did you learn it? Do you know how to take a cup of tea and drink it properly, when every one’s looking at you on purpose?”

“I believe I do.”

“[’m sorry you do. It would have made me laugh if you didn’t. Mind you break the Chinese vase in the drawingroom, anyway. It was an expensive one. Please do break it; it was a present. Mother would be beside herself and would cry before every one. She’s so fond of it! Gesticulate as you always do, knock it over and break it. Sit near it on purpose.”

“On the contrary, I'll sit as far from it as I can. Thank you for warning me.”

“Then you are afraid you will wave your arms about. I'll bet anything you'll begin talking on some serious, learned, lofty subject. That will be . . . tactful.”

“I think that would be stupid . . . if it’s not appropriate.”

“Listen, once for all,” said Aglaia, losing all patience. “If you talk about anything like capital punishment, or the economic position of Russia, or of how ‘beauty will save the world’ . . . of course I should be delighted and laugh at it... but I warn you, never show yourself before me again! Do you hear? I’m in earnest! This time I’m in earnest!”

She really was in earnest in her threat. Something exceptional could be heard in her words and seen in her eyes, which Myshkin had never noticed before, and which was not like a joke.

“Now, after what you’ve said I’m sure to talk too much... even ... perhaps break the vase. I wasn’t in the least afraid before, and now I’m afraid of everything. I shall certainly be floored.”

“Then hold your tongue. Sit quiet and hold your tongue.”

“I shan’t be able to. I’m sure I shall be so alarmed that I shall begin talking and shall break the vase. Perhaps I shall fall down on the slippery floor, or something of that sort, for that has happened to me before. I shall dream about it all night. Why did you talk to me about it!”

Aglaia looked gloomily at him.

“I tell you what: ’'d better not come at all to-morrow! I’ll report myself ill, and that will be the end of it,” he concluded at last.

Aglaia stamped and turned positively white with anger.

“Good God! Did anyone ever see anything like it? He’s not coming, when it has all been arranged on purpose for him and... my goodness! It’s a treat to have to do with a senseless person like you.”

“Tl come! I'll come!” Myshkin broke in hastily. “And I give you my word of honour that [ll sit the whole evening without opening my mouth. [ll manage it.”

“You'll do well. You said just now you’d ‘report yourself ill.’ Where do you pick up such expressions? What possesses you to talk to me in such language? Are you trying to tease me?”

“TI beg your pardon; that’s a schoolboy expression too. I won’t use it. I quite understand that you are ... anxious . . . on my account (yes, don’t be angry), and I’m awfully glad of it. You don’t know how frightened I am now—and how glad I am of your words. But I assure you, all this panic is petty and nonsensical. It really is, Aglaia. But the joy remains. I’m awfully glad that you’re such a child, such a kind good child! Oh, how splendid you can be, Aglaia!”

Aglaia, of course, was on the point of flying into a rage, but suddenly a rush of quite unexpected feeling took possession of her soul in one instant.

“And you won't reproach me for my coarse words Just now... some day... afterwards?” she asked suddenly.

“How can you? How can you? Why are you flaring up again? And now you're looking gloomy again. You’ve taken to looking too gloomy sometimes now, Aglaia, as you never used to look. I know why that is...”

“Hush! Hush!”

“No, it’s better to speak. ’ve been wanting to say it a long time. I’ve said it already, but that’s not enough, for you didn’t believe me. There’s one person who stands between us . . .”

“Hush, hush, hush, hush!” Aglaia interrupted suddenly, gripping his hand tightly and looking at him almost in terror.

At that moment her name was called. With an air of relief she left him at once and ran away.

Myshkin was in a fever all night. Strange to say, he had been feverish for several nights running. That night, when he was half delirious, the thought occurred to him: what if he should have a fit to-morrow before every one? He had had fits in public. He turned cold at the thought. All night he imagined himself in a mysterious and incredible company among strange people. ‘The worst of it was that he “kept talking.” He knew he ought not to talk, but he went on talking all the time; he was trying to persuade them of something. Yevgeny Pavlovitch and Ippolit were of the party, and seemed extremely friendly.

He waked up at nine o’clock with a headache, with confusion n his mind and strange impressions. He felt an intense and unaccountable desire to see Rogozhin, to see him and to say a great deal to him—what about he could not himself have said then he fully made up his mind to go and see Ippolit. There was some confused sensation in his heart, so much so that, although he felt acutely what happened to him that morning, he could not fully realise it. One thing that happened to him was a visit from Lebedyev.

Lebedyev made his appearance rather early, soon after nine, and was almost completely drunk. Although Myshkin had not been observant of late yet he could not help seeing that ever since General Ivolgin had left them—that is, for the last three days, Lebedyev had been behaving very badly. He seemed to have suddenly become extremely greasy and dirty, his cravat was on one side, and the collar of his coat was torn. In his lodge he kept up a continual storm, which was audible across the little courtyard. Vera had come in on one occasion in tears to tell him about it.

On presenting himself that morning, he talked very strangely, beating himself on the breast and blaming himself for something.

“I have received . . . I have received the chastisement for my baseness and treachery—a slap in the face,” he concluded tragically at last.

“A slap in the face! From whom? And so early?”

“So early?” and Lebedyev smiled sarcastically. “Time has nothing to do with it. . . even for physical chastisement . . . but I’ve received a moral, not a physical, castigation.”

He suddenly sat down without ceremony and began to tell his story. It was a very incoherent one. Myshkin frowned, and wanted to get away, but all at once some words caught his attention. He was struck dumb with amazement. Mr. Lebedyev was telling of strange things.

He had apparently begun about some letter. Aglaia Ivanovna’s name was mentioned. Then Lebedyev began all at once bitterly reproaching Myshkin himself; it could be gathered that he was offended with the prince. At first, he said, the prince had honoured him with his confidence in transactions with a certain “person” (with Nastasya Filippovna), but had afterwards broken with him completely and had dismissed him with ignominy, and had even been so offensive as to repel with rudeness “an innocent question about the approaching changes in the house.” With drunken tears, Lebedyev protested that “after that, he could endure no more, especially as he knew a great deal . . . a very great deal . . . from Rogozhin, from Nastasya Filippovna, and from her friend, and from Varvara Ardalionovna... herself... and from... and from even Aglaia Ivanovna; would you believe it, through Vera, through my beloved, my only daughter ... yes .. . though indeed she’s not my only one, for I’ve three. And who was it informed Lizaveta Prokofyevna by letters, in dead secret, of course? He-he! Who has been writing to her about all the shiftings and changings of the ‘personage,’ Nastasya Filippovna? He-he-he! Who, who is the anonymous writer, allow me to ask?”

“Can it be you?” cried Myshkin.

“Just so,” the drunkard replied with dignity, “and this very morning at half-past eight, only half an hour—no, three-quarters of an hour ago—I informed the noble-hearted mother that I had an incident . . . of importance to communicate to her. I informed her by letter through a maid at the back door. She received it.”

“You've just seen Lizaveta Prokofyevna!” cried Myshkin, unable to believe his ears.

“I saw her just now and received a blow . . . a moral one. She gave me back the letter; in fact she flung it in my face unopened .. . and even kicked me out... only morally speaking, not physically .. . though it was almost physical too, not far off it!”

“What letter was it she flung at you unopened?”

“Why ... he-he-he! Haven’t I told you? I thought I’d said that already. .. . It was a letter I had received on purpose to give to... .”

“From whom? For whom?”

It was difficult to make head or tail of some explanations “of Lebedyev’s, or to understand anything from them. But as far as he could make out, Myshkin gathered that the letter had been brought in the early morning to Vera Lebedyev by the servant girl, to be delivered to the person to whom it was addressed . . . “just as before . . . just as before to a certain personage, and from the same person. (For I designate one of them a ‘person’ and the other only a ‘personage,’ as derogatory and distinguishing; for there is a great distinction between an innocent and high-born young lady of a general’s family and... a lady of the other sort.) And so the letter was from that ‘person’ beginning with the letter ‘A’... .”

“How can that be? To Nastasya Filippovna? Nonsense!” cried Myshkin.

“Tt was, it was. Or if not to her, to Rogozhin; it’s all the same, to Rogozhin . . . and there was even one to Mr. Terentyev, to be handed on from the person beginning with ‘A,’” said Lebedyev, smiling and winking.

As he was continually mixing one up thing with another and forgetting what he had begun to speak about, Myshkin held his peace to let him speak out. Yet it still remained far from clear whether the correspondence had been carried on through him or through Vera. Since he himself declared that “it was just the same whether the letters were for Rogozhin or for Nastasya Filippovna,” it seemed more likely that the letters had not passed through his hands, if there actually had been letters. How this letter had come into his hands remained absolutely inexplicable. The most probable explanation was that he had somehow snatched them from Vera... stolen them on the sly and carried them for some object to Lizaveta Prokofyevna. That was what Myshkin gathered and understood at last.

“You're out of your mind!” he cried in extreme agitation.

“Not quite, honoured prince,” Lebedyev replied, not without malice. “It’s true, I meant to hand it to you, to put it into your own hands; to do you a service . . . but I reflected that it was better to be of use in that quarter by revealing everything to the noble-hearted mother ... as I had communicated with her before by letter anonymously; and when I wrote to her Just now a preliminary note asking her to see me at twenty minutes past eight I signed myself again ‘your secret correspondent.’ I was admitted promptly with the utmost haste by the back door... to the presence of the illustrious AAI

lady.”

“Well?”

“And there, as you know already, she nearly beat me; very nearly, so that one might almost say she practically did beat me. And she threw the letter in my face. It’s true she wanted to keep it—I saw it, I noticed it; but she thought better of it and flung it in my face: ‘Since a fellow like you has been entrusted with it, give it!’ . . . She was positively offended. Since she wasn’t ashamed to say so before me, she must have been offended. She’s a hot-tempered lady!”

“Where is the letter now?”

“Why, I’ve got it still. Here it is.”

And he handed Myshkin Aglaia’s note to Gavril Ardalionovitch, which the latter two hours later showed to his sister with such triumph.

“That letter can’t remain with you.”

“It’s for you, for you. It’s to you I am bringing it,” Lebedyev hastened to declare with warmth. “Now I’m yours again, entirely yours, from head to heart, your servant after my momentary treachery. ‘Punish the heart, spare the beard,’ as Thomas More said .. . in England and in Great Britain. ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa,’ as the Romish Pope says—that is, I mean the Pope of Rome, though I call him the Romish Pope.”

“This letter must be sent off at once,’ “T’ll give it.”

“But wouldn’t it be better, wouldn’t it be better, most highly bred prince. . . to do this?”

Lebedyev made a strange, expressive grimace. He fidgeted violently in his place, as though he had been suddenly pricked by a needle, and, winking slyly, made a significant gesture with his hands.

“What do you mean?” Myshkin asked severely.

“Wouldn't it be better to open it?” he whispered ingratiatingly and, as it were, confidentially.

Myshkin leapt up with such passion that Lebedyev took to his heels, but he stopped short at the door to see whether he could hope for pardon.

“Ech! Lebedyey, is it possible to sink to such abject degradation as this?” cried Myshkin bitterly.

Lebedyev’s face brightened.

“Tm abject, abject!” he approached at once, with tears beating himself on the breast.

“You know this is abominable!”

“Abominable it is! That’s the word for it!”

“What a horrid habit it is to behave . . . in this queer way! You . . . are simply a spy! Why do you write anonymously and worry such a noble and kind-hearted woman? And why has not Aglaia Ivanovna a right to write to whom she pleases? Did you go to complain of it to-day? Did you hope to receive a reward? What induced you to tell J

said Myshkin anxiously.

tales?”

“Simply agreeable curiosity and the desire of a generous heart to be of use! Now I am yours again, all yours! You may hang me!”

“Did you go to Lizaveta Prokofyevna in the condition you're in now?” Myshkin inquired with disgust.

“No, I was fresher, more decent. It was only after my humiliation that I got . . . into this state.”

“Well, that’s enough. Leave me.”

But he had to repeat this request several times before he could induce his visitor to go. Even after he had opened the door, he came back on tip-toe into the middle of the room and gesticulated with his hands to show how to open the letter. He did not venture to put his advice into words. Then he went out with a suave and amiable smile.

All this had been extremely painful to hear. What was most evident was one striking fact: that Aglaia was in great trouble, great uncertainty, In great distress about something, (“From jealousy,” Myshkin whispered to himself.) It was evident also that she was being worried by ill-intentioned people, and what was very strange was that she trusted them in this way. No doubt that inexperienced but hot and proud little head was hatching some special schemes, perhaps ruinous, and utterly wild. Myshkin was greatly alarmed, and in his perturbation did not know what to decide upon. There was no doubt he must do something, he felt that. He looked once more at the address on the sealed letter. Oh. he had no doubt and no uneasness on that side, for he trusted her. What made him uneasy about that letter was something different. He did not trust Gavril Ardalionovitch. And yet he was on the point of deciding to restore him the letter himself, and he even left the house with that object, but he changed his mind on the way. Almost at Ptitsyn’s door, by good fortune he met Kolya, and charged him to put the letter into his brother’s hands, as though it had come straight from Aglaia Ivanovna. Kolya asked no questions and delivered it, so that Ganya had no suspicion that the letter had halted so many times upon its journey. Returning home, Myshkin asked Vera Lebedyev to come to him, told her what was necessary, and set her mind at rest, for she had been all this time hunting for the letter, and was in tears. She was horrified when she learned that her father had carried off the letter. (Myshkin found out from her afterwards that she had more than once helped Rogozhin and Aglaia Ivanovna in secret, and it had never occurred to her that she could be injuring Myshkin in doing so.)

And Myshkin was at last so upset that when, two hours later, a messenger from Kolya ran in with the news of his father’s illness, for the first minute the prince could not grasp what was the matter. But this event restored him by completely distracting his attention. He stayed at Nina Alexandrovna’s (where the invalid, of course, had been carried) right up to the evening. He was scarcely of any use, but there are people whom one is, for some reason, glad to have about one in times of grief. Kolya was terribly distressed, he cried hysterically, but was continually being sent on errands: he ran for a doctor and hunted up three; ran to the chemist’s and to the barber’s. They succeeded in resuscitating the general, but he did not regain his senses. The doctors opined that the patient was in any case in danger. Varya and Nina Alexandrovna never left the sick man’s side. Ganya was disconcerted and overcome, but would not go upstairs, and seemed afraid to see the invalid; he wrung his hands, and in incoherent and disconnected talk with Myshkin he let drop the phrase, “What a calamity, and to come at such a moment!”

Myshkin fancied he understood what he meant by “such a moment.” Myshkin did not find Ippolit at Ptitsyn’s. Lebedyev, who after the morning’s “explanation” had slept all day without waking, ran in towards evening. Now he was almost sober and shed genuine tears over the sick man, as though he had been his own brother. He blamed himself aloud without explaining why, and would not leave Nina Alexandrovna, assuring her every moment that “he, he was the cause of it; he and no one else .. . simply from agreeable curiosity,” and that the “departed” (so he persisted in calling the still living general) was positively “a man of genius!” He insisted with great seriousness on his genius, as though it might be of extraordinary service at that moment. Seeing his genuine tears, Nina Alexandrovna said to him at last with a note of reproach, and almost with cordiality, “Well, God bless you! Don’t cry. Come, God will forgive you!” Lebedyev was so much impressed by these words and the tone of them that he was unwilling to leave her side all the evening (and all the following days, from early morning till the hour of the general’s death, he spent in their house). Twice during the day a messenger came from Lizaveta Prokofyevna to inquire after the invalid.

When at nine o’clock in the evening Myshkin made his appearance in the Epanchins’ drawing-room, which was already full of guests, Lizaveta Prokofyevna at once began questioning him sympathetically and minutely about the patient, and replied with dignity to Princess Byelokonsky’s inquiry, “What patient, and who is Nina Alexandrovna?” Myshkin was much pleased at this. Explaining the position to Madame Epanchin, he spoke “splendidly,” as Aglaia’s sisters said afterwards, “modestly, quietly, with dignity and without gestures or too many words.” He walked in admirably, was perfectly dressed, and far from falling down on the slippery floor, as they had all been afraid the day before, evidently made a favourable impression on every one.

Sitting down and looking round, he for his part noticed at once that the company were not in the least like the bogies with which Aglaia had tried to frighten him, nor the nightmare figures of his last night’s dreams. For the first time in his life he saw a tiny corner of AAA

what is called by the dreadful name “society.” For some time past certain projects, considerations and inclinations had made him eager to penetrate into that enchanted circle, and so he was deeply interested by his first impression of it. This first impression was fascinating. It somehow seemed to him at once as though these people were, so to speak, born to be together; as though it were not a “party” and no guests had been invited that evening to the Epanchins’; that these were all “their own people,” and that he himself had long been their devoted friend and shared their thoughts, and was now returning to them after a bref separation. The charm of elegant manners, of simplicity, and of apparent frankness was almost magical. It could never have entered his head that all this simple frankness and nobility, wit, and refined personal dignity was perhaps only an exquisite artistic veneer. The majority of the guests, in spite of their prepossessing exterior, were rather empty-headed people, who were themselves unaware, however, that much of their superiority was mere veneer, for which they were not responsible indeed, as they had adopted it unconsciously and by inheritance. Myshkin, carried away by the charm of his first impression, had no inclination to suspect this. He saw, for instance, that this important and aged dignitary, who might have been his grandfather, ceased speaking in order to listen to an inexperienced young man like himself; and not only listened to him, but evidently valued his opinion, was so cordial, so genuinely kind to him, and yet they were strangers, meeting for the first time. Perhaps the refinement of this courtesy was what produced the most effect on Myshkin’s eager sensitiveness. He was perhaps prejudiced and predisposed to favourable impression.

And yet all these people—though of course they were “friends of the family” and one another—were by no means such great friends either of the family or of one another as Myshkin took them to be, as soon as he met them and was introduced to them. There were persons of the party who would never on any account have recognised the Epanchins as their equals. There were persons who absolutely detested one another: old Princess Byelokonsky had always “despised” the wife of the “old dignitary”; while the latter for her part had anything but friendly feelings for Lizaveta Prokofyevna. This “dignitary,” her husband, who for some reason had been a patron of the Epanchins from their youth up, and was the leading figure present, was a personage of such vast consequence in the eyes of Ivan Fyodorovitch that the latter was incapable of any sensation except reverence and awe in his presence, and he would have had a genuine contempt for himself if he could for one moment have put himself on an equal footing with him, and have thought of him as less than the Olympian Jove. There were people who had not met one another for some years, and felt nothing but indifference if not dislike for one another; yet they greeted each other now as though they had only met yesterday in the most friendly and intimate com- 4A5

pany. Yet the party was not a large one. Besides Princess Byelokonsky and the “old dignitary’—who really was a person of consequence—and his wife, there was in the first place a very solid military general, a count, or baron with a German name—a man of extraordinary taciturnity, with a reputation for a marvellous acquaintance with affairs of government, and almost with a reputation for learning—one of those Olympian administrators who know “everything,” except perhaps Russia itself; a man who once in five years made some “extraordinarily profound” remark, which inevitably became a proverb and penetrated even to the loftiest circles; one of those governing officials who usually, after an extremely, even strangely protracted term of service, die possessed of large fortunes and high honours in leading positions, though they have never performed any great exploits, and in fact have always a certain aversion for exploits. This general was next above Ivan Fyodorovitch in the service, and the latter in the zeal of his grateful heart and through a peculiar form of vanity regarded him too as his patron. Yet the general by no means considered himself Ivan Fyodorovitch’s patron. He treated him with absolute coolness, and, though he gladly availed himself of his numerous services, he would have replaced him by another offcial at once, if any consideration, even the most trivial, had called for such exchange. There was too an elderly and important gentleman who was supposed to be a relation of Lizaveta Prokofyevna’s, though this was quite untrue—a man of high rank and position, of birth and fortune. He was stout, and enjoyed excellent health; he was a great talker, and had the reputation of a discontented man (though only in the most legitimate sense of the word), even a splenetic man (though even this was agreeable in him), with the tricks of the English aristocracy and with English tastes (as regards roast beef, harness, footmen and so on). He was a great friend of the “dignitary,” and amused him. Moreover, Lizaveta Prokofyevna for some reason cherished the strange idea that this elderly gentleman (a somewhat frivolous person with a distinct weakness for the female sex) might suddenly take it into his head to make Alexandra happy with the offer of his hand. Below this top and most solid layer of the assembly came the younger guests, though these too were conspicuous for extremely elegant qualities. To this group belonged Prince S. and Yevgeny Pavlovitch, and, moreover, the well-known and fascinating Prince N., who had seduced and fascinated female hearts all over Europe, a man of five-and-forty though still of handsome appearance, and a wonderful story-teller; a man whose large fortune was to some extent dissipated and who usually lived abroad. There were people too who made up, indeed, a third special stratum, not belonging themselves to the “inner circle” of society, though, like the Epanchins, they could sometimes be met in that circle. Through a certain sense of fitness which always guided them, the Epanchins liked on the rare occasions of their giving parties to mix the highest society with persons of a rather lower grade, with select representatives of the “middling kind” of people. The Epanchins were praised indeed for doing so, and it was said of them that they understood their position and were people of tact, and they were proud of being thought so. One of the representatives of this “middling sort” was that evening a colonel of engineers, a serious man, a very intimate friend of Prince S., by whom he had been introduced to the Epanchins. He was silent in society, however, and wore on the big forefinger of his right hand a large and conspicuous ring, probably presented to him. There was present too a poet of German origin, but a Russian poet, and perfectly presentable, moreover, so that he could be introduced into good society without apprehension. He was of handsome, though for some reason repulsive, appearance. He was eight-and-thirty, and was irreproachably dressed. He belonged to an intensely bourgeois but intensely respectable German family. He was successful in taking advantage of every opportunity, gaining the patronage of persons in high places and retaining their favour. He had at one time made a verse translation of some important work of some important German poet, was adroit in dedicating his translations, and adroit in boasting of his friendship with a celebrated but deceased Russian poet (there’s a perfect crowd of writers who love to record in print their friendship with great and deceased writers), and he had been quite recently brought to the Epanchins by the wife of the “old dignitary.” This lady was celebrated for her patronage of literary and learned men, and had even actually procured one or two writers a pension through powerful personages with whom she had influence. She really had influence of a sort. She was a lady of five-and-forty (and therefore a very young wife for so aged a man as her husband), who had been a beauty and still, like many ladies of forty-five, had a mania for dressing far too gorgeously. She was of small intelligence, and her knowledge of literature was very dubious. But the patronage of literary men was as much a mania with her as was gorgeous array. Many books and translations had been dedicated to her. Two or three writers had, with her permission, printed letters they had written to her on subjects of the greatest importance. . . . And all this society Myshkin took for true coin, for pure gold without alloy. All these people were too, as though of set purpose, in the happiest frame of mind that evening, and very well pleased with themselves. They all without exception knew that they were doing the Epanchins a great honour by their visit. But, alas! Myshkin had no suspicion of such subtleties. He did not suspect, for instance, that, while the Epanchins were contemplating so important a step as the decision of their daughter’s future, they would not have dared to omit exhibiting him, Prince Lyov Nikolayevitch, to the old dignitary who was the acknowledged patron of the family. Though the old dignitary for his part would have borne with perfect equanimity the news of the most awful calamity having befallen the Epanchins, he would certainly have been offended if the Epanchins had betrothed their daughter without, his advice and, so to speak, without his leave. Prince N., that charming, unquestionably witty and open-hearted man, was firmly persuaded that he was something like a sun that had risen that night to shine upon the Epanchins’ drawing-room. He regarded them as infinitely beneath him, and it was just this open-hearted and generous notion which prompted his wonderfully charming ease and friendliness with the Epanchins. He knew very well that he would have to tell some story to delight the company, and led up to it with positive inspiration. When Myshkin heard the story afterwards, he felt that he had never heard anything like such brilliant humour and such marvellous gaiety and naivete almost touching, on the lips of such a Don Juan as Prince N. If he had only known how old and hackneyed that story was, how it was known by heart, worn threadbare, stale, and a weariness in every drawing-room, and only at the innocent Epanchins’ passed for a novelty, for an impromptu, genuine and brilliant reminiscence of a splendid and brilliant man! Even the little German poet, although he behaved with great modesty and politeness, was ready to believe that he was conferring an honour on the family by his presence. But Myshkin saw nothing of the other side, noticed no undercurrent. This was a mischance that Aglaia had not foreseen. She was looking particularly handsome that evening. The three young ladies were dressed for the evening, but not over smartly, and wore their hair in a particular style. Aglaia was sitting with Yevgeny Pavlovitch, and was talking to him and making jokes with exceptional friendliness. Yevgeny Pavlovitch was behaving more sedately than usual, also perhaps from respect to the dignitaries. He was already well known in society, however; he was quite at home there, though he was so young. He arrived at the Epanchins’ that evening with crape on his hat, and Princess Byelokonsky remarked with approbation on it. Some fashionable young men would not under such circumstances have put on mourning for such an uncle. Lizaveta Prokofyevna too was pleased at it, though she seemed on the whole preoccupied. Myshkin noticed that Aglaia looked at him intently once or twice, and he fancied she was satisfied with him. By degrees he began to feel very happy. His recent “fantastical” ideas and apprehensions after his conversation with Lebedyev seemed to him now, when he suddenly, at frequent intervals, recalled them, an inconceivable, incredible, even ridiculous dream! (His chief, though unconscious, impulse and desire had been all day to do something to make him disbelieve that dream!) He spoke little and only in answer to questions, and finally was silent altogether; he sat still and listened, but was evidently enjoying himself extremely. By degrees something like an inspiration was beginning to work within him too, ready to break out at the first opportunity. . . . He began talking, indeed, by chance in answer to questions, and apparently quite without any special design.

CHAPTER VII

WHILE he was enjoying himself, watching Aglaia as she talked to Prince N. and Yevgeny Pavlovitch, suddenly the elderly anglomaniac, who was entertaining the “dignitary” in another corner and with animation telling him some story, uttered the name of Nikolay Andreyevitch Pavlishtchev. Myshkin turned quickly in their direction and began to listen.

They were discussing public affairs and some disturbances on estates in the province. There must have been something amusing about the anglomaniac’s account for the old man began laughing at last at the little sallies of the speaker.

He was telling smoothly, and, as it were, peevishly drawling his words, with soft emphasis on the vowel sounds, how he had been obliged as a direct result of recent legislation to sell a splendid estate of his in the province and for half its value, too, though he was in no need of money, and at the same time to keep an estate that had gone to ruin, was encumbered, and a subject of litigation, and had even to spend money to do so. “To avoid another lawsuit about the Pavlishtchev estate, I ran away from them. Another inheritance or two of that kind and I shall be ruined. I should have come in for nine thousand acres of excellent land, however.”

“Why, of course ... Ivan Petrovitch is a relation of the late Nikolay Andreyevitch . .. you made a search for relations, I believe,” General Epanchin, who happened to be near and noticed Myshkin’s marked attention to the conversation, said to him in an undertone.

He had till then been entertaining the general who was the head of his department, but he had for some time been noticing Myshkin’s conspicuous isolation, and was becoming uneasy. He wanted to bring him to a certain extent into the conversation and in that way show him off and introduce him a second time to the “great personages.”

“Lyov Nikolayevitch was left on the death of his parents a ward of Nikolay Andreyevitch Pavlishtchev,” he put in, meeting Ivan Petrovitch’s eye.

“De-lighted to hear it,” observed the latter. “And I remember it well, indeed. When Ivan Fyodorovitch introduced us just now, I knew you at once, and from your face, too. You’ve changed very little, indeed, though you were only ten or eleven when I saw you. There is something one remembers about your features . .”

“Did you see me when I was a child?” Myshkin asked, with great surprise. :

“Yes, very long ago,” Ivan Petrovitch went on. “At Zlatoverhovo, where you used to live at my cousin’s. In old days I used to go pretty often to Zlatoverhovo. Don’t you remember me? You might very likely not remember. .. . You were then... you had some sort of illness then, so much so that I was very much struck on one occasion.”

“I don’t remember at all,” Myshkin asserted with warmth.

A few more words of explanation, perfectly calm on the part of Ivan Petrovitch, and betraying great agitation on the part of Myshkin, followed, and it appeared that the two elderly maiden ladies, kinswomen of Pavlishtchev, who had lived on his estate, Zlatoverhovo, and by whom Myshkin had been brought up, were also cousins of Ivan Petrovitch’s. The latter was as unable as every one else to explain what induced Pavlishtchev to take so much trouble over his protégé, the little prince. “It hadn’t, in fact, occurred to me to be curious about that,” but yet, it appeared that he had an excellent memory, for he remembered how severe his elder cousin, Marfa Nikitishna had been with her little pupil, “so that on one occasion I stood up for you and attacked her system of education. For the rod, and nothing but the rod with an invalid child... you’ll admit. . .” and how tender the younger sister, Natalya Nikitishna, was to the poor child... . “They are both,” he went on, “in X Province now (though I’m not sure whether they’re both living) where Pavlishtchev left them an extremely nice little property. I believe Marfa Nikitishna wanted to go into a convent, but I won’t be sure, I may be thinking of some one else... . Yes, I heard that the other day, about a doctor’s wife.”

Myshkin listened to this with eyes shining with delight and emotion. With great warmth he declared that he should never forgive himself for not having seized an opportunity to seek out and visit the ladies who had brought him up, though he had been for six months in the central provinces. He had been meaning to set off every day, but had been continually occupied with other matters... . But that now he was determined . . . he would certainly . . . even though it were to X Province. . . . “So you know Natalya Nikitishna? What a fine, what a saintly nature! But, Marfa Nikitishna, too . . . forgive me ... but I think you are mistaken about Marfa Nikitishna! She was severe, but . . . how could she help losing patience . . . with such an idiot as I was then. Ha-ha! You know I was a complete idiot. Ha-ha! Though ... you saw me then, and. . . how is it that I don’t remember you, tell me please? So you ... my God! are you really a relation of Nikolay Andreyevitch Pavlishtchev?”

“I as-sure you I am,” said Ivan Petrovitch, with a smile, scrutinising Myshkin.

“Oh, I didn’t say that because I... . doubted it . . . and, in fact, how could I doubt it... Ha-ha! ... in the least? But I only mean that Nikolay Andreyevitch Pavlishtchev was such a splendid man! A most noble-hearted man, I assure you!”

Myshkin was not exactly breathless but “choking with goodheartedness,” as Adelaida expressed it next day to her betrothed, Prince S.

“Mercy on us!” laughed Ivan Petrovitch. “Why shouldn’t I be a relation of a noble-hearted man, even?”

“Oh, my goodness!” cried Myshkin, overcome with confusion and growing more and more hurried and eager. “I. . . I’ve said something stupid again, but .. . that’s bound to happen because I... ......1... but that’s out of place again! And of what consequence am I, pray, beside such interests, such vast interests? And by comparison with such a noble-hearted man! For you know, he really was a noble man, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he?”

Myshkin was positively trembling all over. Why he was suddenly so agitated, why he was in such a state of ecstasy and emotion quite irrelevant and as it seemed out of all proportion with the subject of conversation, it was difficult to decide. He was in such a state of mind and he almost seemed to feel the warmest and liveliest gratitude to some one for something, perhaps to Ivan Petrovitch himself, if not to the whole company. He was “bubbling over” with happiness. Ivan Petrovitch began at last staring at him more fixedly, the “dignitary” too began looking at him with great intentness. Princess Byelokonsky looked wrathfully at Myshkin and tightened her lips. Prince N., Yevgeny Pavlovitch, Prince S., the young ladies, all broke off their conversation and listened. Aglaia seemed frightened, Lizaveta Prokofyevna’s heart failed her. They, too, the mother and daughters, had behaved strangely: they had foreseen and decided that it would be better for Myshkin to sit still and be silent the whole evening. But as soon as they saw him sitting in complete solitude, perfectly satisfied with his position, they were at once dreadfully upset. Alexandra had been on the point of going to him across the room and tactfully joining the company, that is Prince N.’s group, near Princess Byelokonsky. And now that Myshkin had begun talking of his own accord they were even more perturbed.

“You are right in saying that he was a most excellent man,” Ivan Petrovitch pronounced impressively, with no smile now. “Yes, yes, he was an excellent man! Excellent, and worthy,” he added, after a pause. “Worthy one may say, of all respect,” he added more impressively, after a third pause. “And . . . and it is very agreeable to see on your part...”

“Wasn’t it that Pavlishtchev that there was a queer story about .. . with the abbé ... the abbé . . . I’ve forgotten which abbé .: . only everybody was talking about it at one time,” the “dignitary” brought out as though recollecting something.

“With the Abbé Goureau, a Jesuit,” Ivan Petrovitch recalled. “Yes, there you have our most excellent and worthy people. Because he was after all a man of family and fortune, a kammer-herr, if he had . . . chosen to remain in the service. ... And then he suddenly threw up the service to go over to the Roman Church and be- ASL

come a Jesuit, and almost openly, with a sort of enthusiasm. It’s true, he died in the nick of time .. . everybody said so... .” Myshkin was beside himself.

“Pavlishtchev . . . Pavlishtchev, went over to the Roman Church? Impossible!” he cried in horror.

“Tmpossible,’ indeed!” Ivan Petrovitch drawled solidly. That’s saying a good deal, and you must admit, dear prince . . . However you have such a high opinion of the deceased. . . . He certainly was a most good-natured man, and to that I chiefly attribute the success of that rascal Goureau. But ask me what a fuss and bother I had afterwards over that affair... especially with that very Goureau. Only fancy,” he turned suddenly to the old man, “they even tried to put in a claim under the will, and I was forced to have recourse to the most, that is, to vigorous measures . . . to bring them to their senses .. . for they’re first-rate at that kind of thing. Won-der-ful people! But, thank goodness! it all happened in Moscow. I went straight to the court, and we soon .. . brought them to their senses.” oe ’ if a . ” .

You wouldn’t believe how you grieve and astonish me,” cried Myshkin.

“I am sorry. But as a matter of fact, all this was after all a trifling business and would have ended in smoke as such things always do: I’m convinced of it. Last summer,” he went on, turning to the old man, “Countess K., I am told, went into some Catholic convent abroad. Russians never can hold out if once they come under the influence of those ... rogues . . . especially abroad.”

“Tt all comes from our . . . weariness,” the old dignitary mumbled authoritatively. “And their manner of proselytising is . . . skilful and peculiar to them. . . . They know how to scare people. They gave me a good scare, too, I assure you, in Vienna in 1832. But I wouldn’t surrender, I ran away from them. Ha-ha! I really did run away from them.. .”

“I heard, my dear sir, that you ran away from Vienna to Paris with the beauty, Countess Levitzky, and that was why you flung up your post, not to escape from the Jesuits,” Princess Byelokonsky put in suddenly.

“Well, you see, it was from a Jesuit; it turns out after all that it was from a Jesuit,” the old dignitary retorted, laughing at the agreeable recollection. “You seem to be very religious, which one doesn’t often meet with nowadays in a young man,” he added, turning genially to Prince Lyov Nikolayevitch, who was listening open-mouthed and still amazed.

The old man evidently wanted to study Myshkin more closely. He had for some reason become an object of interest to him.

“Pavlishtchev was a clear-headed man and a Christian, a genuine Christian,” Myshkin brought out suddenly. “How could he have accepted a faith . . . that’s unchristian? Catholicism is as good as an unchristian religion!” he added, suddenly, looking about him with flashing eyes as though scanning the whole company.

“Come, that’s too much!” muttered the old man, and he looked with surprise at General Epanchin.

“How do you mean Catholicism is an unchristian religion,” said Ivan Petrovitch, turning round in his chair. “What is it then?”

“An unchristian religion in the first place!” Myshkin began, in extreme agitation and with excessive abruptness. “And in The second place Roman Catholicism is even worse than atheism itself, in my opinion! Yes, that’s my opinion! Atheism only preaches a negation, but Catholicism goes further: it preaches a distorted Christ, a Christ calumniated and defamed by themselves, the opposite of Christ! It preaches the Antichrist, I declare it does, I assure you it does! This is the conviction I have long held, and it has distressed me, myself... . Roman Catholicism cannot hold its position without universal political supremacy, and cnies: ‘Von possumus!’ To my thinking Roman Catholicism is not even a religion, but simply the continuation of the Western Roman Empire, and everything in It is subordinated to that idea, faith to begin with. The Pope seized the earth, an earthly throne, and grasped the sword; everything has gone on in the same way since, only they have added to the sword lying, fraud, deceit, fanaticism, superstition, villainy. They have trifled with the most holy, truthful, sincere, fervent feelings of the people; they have bartered it all, all for money, for base earthly power. And isn’t that the teaching of Antichrist? How could atheism fail to come from them? Atheism has sprung from Roman Catholicism itself. It originated with them themselves. Can they have believed themselves? It has been strengthened by revulsion from them; it is begotten by their lying and their spiritual impotence! Atheism! Among us it is only the exceptional classes who don’t believe, those who, as Yevgeny Pavlovitch splendidly expressed it the other day, have — lost their roots. But over there, in Europe, a terrible mass of the people themselves are beginning to lose their faith—at first from darkness and lying, and now from fanaticism and hatred of the church and Christianity.”

Myshkin paused to take breath. He had been talking fearfully fast. He was pale and breathless. They all glanced at one another, and at last the old dignitary simply burst out laughing. Prince N. drew out his lorgnette, and took a prolonged stare at Myshkin. The German poet crept out of his corner, and moved nearer to the table, with a spiteful smile on his face.

“You are exaggerating very much,” Ivan Petrovitch drawled with an air of being bored, and even rather ashamed of something. “There are representatives of that Church who are virtuous and worthy of all respect... .”

“I have said nothing about individual representatives of the Church. I was speaking of Roman Catholicism in its essence. I am speaking of Rome. Can a Church disappear altogether? I never said that!”

“I agree. But all that’s well known and—irrelevant, indeed, and . . . it’s a theological question . . .”

“Oh, no, no! It’s not only a theological question, I assure you it’s not! It concerns us much more closely than you think. That’s our whole mistake, that we can’t see that this is not exclusively a theological question! Why, socialism too springs from Catholicism and the Catholic idea! Like its brother atheism, it comes from despair in opposition to Catholicism on the moral side, to replace the lost moral power of religion, to quench the spiritual thirst of parched humanity, and to save them not by Christ but also by violence. That, too, is freedom through violence, that, too, is union through sword and blood. ‘Don’t dare to believe in God, don’t dare to have property and individuality, fraternité ou Ja mort, two millions of heads!’ By their works ye shall know them—as it is said. And don’t imagine that all this is so harmless and without danger for us. Oh, we need to make resistance at once, at once! Our Christ whom we have kept and they have never known must shine forth and vanquish the West. Not letting ourselves be slavishly caught by the wiles of the Jesuits, but carrying our Russian civilisation to them, we ought to stand before them and not let it be said among us, as it was just now, that their preaching is skilful.”

“But allow me, allow me!” said Ivan Petrovitch, growing dreadfully uneasy, looking about him, and positively beginning to be terrified. “All your ideas, of course, are very praiseworthy and full of patriotism, but all this is exaggerated in the extreme, and .. . in fact, we had better drop the subject... .”

“No, it’s not exaggerated; it’s even understated, positively understated, because I am not capable of expressing .. .”

“Al-low me!”

Myshkin ceased speaking, and sitting upright in his chair gazed with a fixed and fervent look at Ivan Petrovitch.

“I fancy you have been too much affected by what happened to your benefactor,” the old dignitary indulgently observed, with unruffled composure. “You have grown over-ardent . . . perhaps from solitude. If you were to live more among people and to see more of the world, I expect you would be welcomed as a remarkable young man; then, of course, you would grow less excitable and you would see that it is all much simpler . . . and besides such exceptional cases are due in my opinion partly to our being b/asé, partly to our being . . . bored.”

“Just so, Just so!” cried Myshkin. “A splendid idea! It’s just from dullness, from our dullness. Not from being b/asé. On the contrary, from unsatisfied yearning .. . not from being b/asé. There you’re mistaken. Not simply from unsatisfied yearnings, but from feverishness, from burning thirst. And... and don’t think that it’s to such a slight extent that one can afford to laugh at it. Excuse me, one needs ASA

to look ahead in these things. As soon as Russians feel the ground under their feet and are confident that they have reached firm ground, they are so delighted at reaching it that they rush at once to the furthest limit. Why is that? You are surprised at Pavlishtchev, and you put it down to madness on his part, or to simplicity. But it’s not that! And Russian intensity in such cases is a surprise not to us only but to all Europe. If one of us turns Catholic, he is bound to become a Jesuit, and one of the most underground. If he becomes an atheist, he’s sure to clamour for the extirpation of belief in God by force, that is, by the sword. Why is this, why such frenzy? You must surely know! Because he has found the fatherland which he has missed here. He has reached the shore, he has found the land and he rushes to kiss it. Russian atheists and Russian Jesuits are the outcome not only of vanity, not only of a bad, vain feeling, but also of spiritual agony, spiritual thirst, a craving for something higher, for a firm footing, for a fatherland in which they have ceased to believe, because they have never even known it! It’s easier for a Russian to become an atheist than for anyone else in the world. And Russians do not merely become atheists, but they invariably be/reve in atheism, as though it were a new religion without noticing that they are putting faith in a negation. So great is our craving! ‘He who has no roots beneath him has no god.’ That’s not my own saying. It was said by a merchant and Old Believer, whom I met when I was travelling. It’s true he did not use those words. He said: ‘the man who has renounced his fatherland has renounced his god.’ Only think that among us, even highly educated people join the sect of Flagellants. Though why is that worse than nihilism, Jesuitism, or atheism? It may even be rather more profound! But that’s what their agony has brought them to. Reveal to the yearning and feverish companions of Columbus the ‘New World,’ reveal to the Russian the ‘world’ of Russia, let him find the gold, the treasure hidden from him in the earth! Show him the whole of humanity, rising again, and renewed by Russian thought alone, perhaps by the Russian God and Christ, and you will see into what a mighty and truthful, what a wise and gentle giant he will grow, before the eyes of the astounded world, astounded and dismayed, because it expects of us nothing but the sword, nothing but the sword and violence, because, judging us by themselves, the other peoples cannot picture us free from barbarism. That has always been so hitherto and goes on getting more so! And...”

But at this point an incident took place, and the speaker’s eloquence was cut short in the most unexpected manner.

This wild tirade, this rush of strange and agitated words and confused, enthusiastic ideas, which seemed tripping each other up and tumbling over one another in confusion, all seemed suggestive of something ominous in the mental condition of the young man who had broken out so suddenly, apropos of nothing. Those present who knew Myshkin wondered apprehensively (and some of them with shame) at this outbreak, which was so out of keeping with his habitual diffidence and restraint, with his rare and peculiar tact in some cases, and his instinctive feeling for real propriety. They could not understand what it was due to. What had been told him about Pavlishtchev could not have been the cause of it. The ladies gazed at him from their corner, as though he had taken leave of his senses, and Princess Byelokonsky confessed afterwards that in another minute she would have taken to her heels. The old gentlemen were almost disconcerted in their first amazement; the chief of the department looked sternly and with displeasure at him from his place. The colonel of engineers sat in absolute immobility. The German positively turned pale, but still smiled his artificial smile, looking at the rest of the company to see how thay were taking it. But all this and the whole “scandal” might have ended in the most ordinary and natural way in another minute. General Epanchin, who was extremely astonished, though he grasped the situation sooner than the rest, had made several attempts to stop Myshkin already. But failing in his efforts, he was making his way towards him, with a firm and resolute design. In another minute, he would perhaps, had it been necessary, have taken the extreme step of leading Myshkin out of the room in a friendly way on the pretext of his being ill, which would, perhaps, have been the truth, and which the general fully believed himself. . .. But the scene had a very different conclusion.

At the beginning, when Myshkin at first entered the drawing-room, he had seated himself as far as possible from the china vase about which Aglaia had so scared him. It seems almost beyond belief, but after Aglaia’s words the day before a haunting conviction, a prodigious and incredible presentment obsessed him that he would be sure to break the vase next day, however carefully he kept away from it and tried to avoid the disaster. But so it was. In the course of the evening other and brighter impressions had flowed into his soul: we have spoken of that already. He forgot his presentiment. When he had heard Pavlishtchev’s name mentioned, and General Epanchin had brought him forward and introduced him again to Ivan Petrovitch, he moved nearer to the table and sat down in the very armchair nearest to the huge and handsome china vase, which stood on a pedestal almost at his elbow and a little behind him.

At his last words he suddenly rose from his seat, and incautiously waved his arm, somehow twitching his shoulder and .. . there was a general scream of horror! The vase tottered at first, as though hesitating whether to fall upon the head of some old gentleman, but suddenly inclining in the opposite direction, towards the German poet, who skipped aside in alarm, it crashed to the ground. A crash, a scream, and the priceless fragments were scattered about the carpet, dismay and astonishment—what was Myshkin’s condition would be hard, and is perhaps unnecessary, to describe! But we must not omit to mention one odd sensation, which struck him at that very minute, and stood out clearly above the mass of other confused and strange sensations. It was not the shame, not the scandal, not the fright, nor the suddenness of it that impressed him most, but his foreknowledge of it! He could not explain what was so arresting about that thought, he only felt that it had gripped him to the heart, and he stood still in a terror that was almost superstitious! Another instant and everything seemed opening out before him; instead of horror there was light, joy, and ecstasy; his breath began to fail him, and... but the moment had passed. Thank God, it was not that! He drew a breath and looked about him.

He seemed for a long time unable to understand the fuss that was going on around him, or rather, he understood it perfectly and saw everything, but stood, as it were apart, as though he had no share in it, and, like some one invisible in a fairy-tale, had crept into the room and was watching people, with whom he had no concern though they interested him. He saw them picking up the pieces, heard rapid conversations, saw Aglaia, pale, looking strangely at him, very strangely; there was no trace of hatred, no trace of anger in her eyes, she was looking at him with a frightened expression, but there was so much affection in it and her eyes flashed so at the rest of the company... his heart ached with a sweet pain. At last he saw to his amazement that they had all sat down again and were positively laughing, as though nothing had happened! In another minute the laughter grew louder: they laughed, looking at him, at his dumb stupefaction; but their laughter was friendly and gay. Many of them addressed him, speaking so cordially, Lizaveta Prokofyevna most of all: she spoke laughingly and said something very, very kind. Suddenly he felt General Epanchin slap him amicably on the shoulder. Ivan Petrovitch, too, was laughing, but the old “dignitary” was the most charming and sympathetic of all: he took Myshkin’s hand and with a faint squeeze of it, and a light pat with the other hand, urged him to pull himself together, as though he were talking to a little frightened boy (Myshkin was highly delighted at this), and made him sit down beside him. Myshkin looked with pleasure into his face, and was somehow still unable to speak, his breath failed him; he liked the old man’s face so much.

“What,” he muttered at last, “you really forgive me? You, too, Lizaveta Prokofyevna?”

The laughter was louder than ever. Tears came into Myshkin’s eyes—he could hardly believe in it; he was enchanted.

“It was a fine vase, to be sure. I can remember it here for the last fifteen years, yes... fifteen...” Ivan Petrovitch was was beginning.

“A terrible disaster, indeed! Even a man must come to an end, and all this to-do about a clay pot!” said Lizaveta Prokofyevna, in a loud voice. “Surely you’re not so upset over it, Lyov Nikolayevitch?” she added, with a positive note of apprehension. “Never mind, my dear boy, never mind! Youll frighten me, really.”

“And you forgive me for everything? For everything, besides the vase?”

Myshkin would have got up from his seat, but the old man drew him again by the arm.

He would not let him go.

“Crest tres curieux et cest tres serieux!” he whispered across the table to Ivan Petrovitch, speaking, however, rather loudly.

Myshkin may have heard it.

“So I’ve not offended anyone? You can’t think how happy I am at the notion, but that was bound to be so! Could I possibly offend anyone here? I should be offending you again, if I could think such a thing.”

“Calm yourself, my dear boy, this is all exaggerated. And there’s nothing for you to be so grateful about. That’s an excellent feeling, but exaggerated.”

“[’m not thanking you, I am only .. . admiring you, I’m happy looking at you. Perhaps I’m talking nonsense, but I must speak, I must explain . . . if only from self-respect. . . .”

All he said and did was spasmodic, confused, feverish. It is quite likely that the words he uttered were often not those he intended to use. His eyes seemed to ask whether he might speak. His glance fell upon Princess Byelokonsky.

“Tt’s all right, my dear boy, go on, go on, only don’t be in such haste,” she observed. “You began in such a breathless hurry just now, and you see what came of it; but don’t be afraid to talk. These ladies and gentlemen have often seen queerer folk than you. They won't be surprised at you. And you are not so very remarkable, et- ther. You’ve done nothing but break a vase and given us all a fright.”

Myshkin listened to her, smiling.

“Why it was you,” he began, addressing the old “dignitary,” “it was you who saved a student called Podkumov and a clerk called Shvabrin from exile three months ago.”

The old man positively flushed a little, and muttered that he must calm himself.

“And, I think it’s you, I’ve heard,” he turned at once to Ivan Petrovitch, “who gave your peasants timber to rebuild their huts when they were burnt out, though they were free and had given you a lot of trouble?”

“Oh, that’s ex-ag-gera-ted,” muttered Ivan Petrovitch, though with an air of dignified pleasure.

But this time it was true that Myshkin’s words were “exaggerated”; it was only an incorrect rumour that had reached him.

“And did not you,” he went on, addressing Princess Byelokonsky, “receive me six months ago in Moscow, as though I had been your own son, when Lizaveta Prokofyevna wrote to you. And, exactly as though I had been your own son, you gave me one piece of advice which I shall never forget. Do you remember?”

“Why are you in such a taking?” said Princess Byelokonsky, with vexation. “You’re a good-natured fellow but absurd. If some one gives you a halfpenny you thank him as though he had saved your life. You think it praiseworthy, but it’s disgusting.”

She was on the verge of being angry, but suddenly burst out laughing, and this time her laughter was good-humoured. Lizaveta Prokofyevna’s face brightened too; General Epanchin beamed.

“I said that Lyov Nikolayevitch was a man...a man... if only he wouldn’t be in such a hurry as the princess observed. . . .” General Epanchin murmured in rapture, repeating Princess Byelokonsky’s words, which had struck him.

Only Aglaia seemed mournful, but there was a flush perhaps of indignation in her face.

“He really is very charming,” the old man muttered again to Ivan Petrovitch.

“I came here with anguish in my heart,” Myshkin went on, with increasing emotion, speaking more and more quickly, more and more queerly and eagerly. “I... .[ was afraid of you, afraid of myself too. Of myself most of all. When I came back here to Petersburg, I determined that I would see the best people, the people of old family, of ancient lineage, to which I belong myself, among whom I am in the front rank by birth. Now, I’m sitting with princes like myself, am I not? I wanted to get to know you, and it was necessary, very, very necessary! .. . P’ve always heard too much that was bad about you, more than what was good; of your pettiness, the exclusiveness of your interests, your stagnation, your shallow education, and your ridiculous habits. Oh, so much ts said and written about you! I came here to-day with curiosity, with excitement. I wanted to see for myself and make up my own mind whether this upper-crust of Russian society is really good for nothing and has out-lived its time, is drained of its ancient life and only fit to die, but still persists in a petty, endless strife with the men... of the future, getting in their way and not conscious that it is dying itself. I did not quite believe in this view before, because there never has been an upper class amongst us, except, perhaps, the courtiers, by uniform or . . . by accident, and now it has quite disappeared. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not right at all,” said Ivan Petrovitch, smiling ironically.

“There, he’s off again!” said Princess Byelokonsky, losing patience.

“Laissez le dire, he’s trembling all over,” the old man warned them in an undertone.

Myshkin had completely lost control of himself.

“And what do I find? I find people elegant, simple-hearted, and clever. I meet an old man who is ready to listen to a boy like me and be kind to him. I find people ready to understand and to forgive, Russian, and kind-hearted, almost as kind and warm-hearted as I met there, and almost their equals. You can judge what a delightful surprise it is! Oh, do let me put it into words! I had heard so often and fully believed myself that society was nothing but manners, and antiquated forms, and that all reality was extinct. But I see now for myself that that cannot be so among us; that may be anywhere else but not in Russia. Can you all be Jesuits and frauds? I heard Prince N. tell a story just now. Wasn’t that simple-hearted, spontaneous humour; wasn’t it genuine frankness? Can such sayings come from the lips of a man . . . who is dead; whose heart and talent have run dry? Could the dead have treated me as you have treated me? Isn’t it material . . . for the future, for hope? Can such people lag behind and fail to understand?”

“I beg you again; calm yourself, my dear boy. We'll talk about all this another time. I shall be delighted. . . .” smiled the old “dignitary.”

Ivan Petrovitch cleared his throat and turned round in his chair; General Epanchin made a movement; the chief of the department began talking to the old “dignitary’s” wife, paying not the slightest attention to Myshkin; but the “dignitary’s” wife frequently listened and glanced at him.

“No, it’s better for me to speak, you know,” Myshkin began again, with another feverish outburst, addressing the old man with peculiar trustfulness, and as it were, confidentially. “Yesterday, Aglaia Ivanovna told me not to talk, and even told me what subjects not to talk about; she knows I’m absurd on those subjects. ’'m twenty-seven, but I know that I’m like a child. I have no night to express an opinion, I’ve said that long ago. It’s only with Rogozhin in Moscow that I’ve talked openly. We read Pushkin together, the whole of him. He knew nothing of him, not even the name of Pushkin... . I’m always afraid that my absurd manner may discredit the thought or the /eading idea. I have no elocution. My gestures are always inappropriate, and that makes people laugh, and degrades my ideas. I’ve no sense of proportion either, and that’s the great thing; that’s the chief thing in fact. . . . I know it’s better for me to sit still and keep quiet. When I persist in keeping quiet, I seem very sensible, and what’s more I think things over. But now it’s better for me to talk. ’'m talking because you look at me so nicely; you have such a nice face! I promised Aglaia Ivanovna yesterday that I'd be silent all the evening!”

“Vraiment!” smiled the old dignitary.

“But sometimes I think that I am not right in thinking that. Sincerity is more important than elocution, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

“Sometimes.”

“I want to explain everything, everything, everything! Oh, yes! You think I’m Utopian? A theorist? My ideas are really all so simple. ... Don’t you believe it? You smile? You know I’m contemptible sometimes, for I lose my faith. As I came here Just now, I wondered: ‘How shall I talk to them? With what words shall I begin, so that they may understand a little?’ How frightened I was, but I was more frightened for you. It was awful, awful! And yet, how could I be afraid? Wasn’t it shameful to be afraid? What does it matter that for one advanced man there is such a mass of retrograde and evil ones? That’s what ’'m so happy about; that ’'m convinced now that there is no such mass, and that it’s all living material! There’s no reason to be troubled because we’re absurd, is there? You know it really is true that we’re absurd, that we’re shallow, have bad habits, that we’re bored, that we don’t know how to look at things, that we can’t understand; we’re all like that, all of us, you, and I, and they! And you are not offended at my telling you to your faces that you’re absurd? Are you? And if that’s so, aren’t you good material? Do you know, to my thinking it’s a good thing sometimes to be absurd; it’s better in fact, it makes it easier to forgive one another, it’s easier to be humble. One can’t understand everything at once, we can’t begin with perfection all at once! In order to reach perfection one must begin by being ignorant of a great deal. And if we understand things too quickly, perhaps we shan’t understand them thoroughly. I say that to you who have been able to understand so much already and... have failed to understand so much. I am afraid for you now. You are not angry at a boy like me for saying such things to you? Of course you’re not! Oh, you know how to forget and to forgive those who have offended you and those who have not offended you, for it’s always more difficult to forgive those who have not offended one, and Just because they've not injured one, and that therefore one’s complaint of them is groundless. That’s what I expected of the best people, that’s what I was in a hurry to tell you as I came here, and did not know how to tell you... . You are laughing, Ivan Petrovitch? You think that I was afraid for them, that I’m their champion, a democrat, an advocate of equality?” he laughed hysterically (he had been continually breaking into short laughs of delight). “I’m afraid for you, for all of you, for all of us together. I am a prince myself, of ancient family, and I am sitting with princes. I speak to save us all, that our class may not vanish in vain; in darkness, without realising anything, abusing everything, and losing everything. Why disappear and make way for others when we might remain in advance and be the leaders? If we are advanced we shall be the leaders. Let us be servants in order to be leaders.”

He began to try to get up from his chair, but the old man still held him, though he looked at him with growing uneasiness.

“Listen! I know it’s not right to talk. Better set an example, better to begin... . I have already begun . . . and—and—can one really be unhappy? Oh, what does my grief, what does my sorrow matter if I can be happy? Do you know I don’t know how one can walk by a tree and not be happy at the sight of it? How can one talk to a man and not be happy in loving him! Oh, it’s only that ’'m not able to express it... .. And what beautiful things there are at every step, that even the most hopeless man must feel to be beautiful! Look at a child! Look at God’s sunrise! Look at the grass, how it grows! Look at the eyes that gaze at you and love you! .. .”

He had for some time been standing as he talked. The old man looked at him in alarm. Lizaveta Prokofyevna cried out, “Ah, my God!” and threw up her hands in dismay, the first to realise what was wrong.

Aglaia quickly ran up to him. She was in time to catch him in her arms, and with horror, with a face distorted with pain, she heard the wild scream of the “spirit tearing and casting down the unhappy man.”

The sick man lay on the carpet. Some one hastened to put a pillow under his head.

No one had expected this. A quarter of an hour later, Prince N., Yevgeny Pavlovitch, and the old dignitary were trying to restore the liveliness of the company, but within half an hour the party had broken up. Many words of sympathy and regret were uttered, a few comments were made. Ivan Petrovitch remarked that “the young man was a Slavophil or something of the sort, but that there was nothing very dangerous about that, however.” The old dignitary expressed no opinion. It’s true that later on, next day and the day after, every one who had been present seemed rather cross. Ivan Petrovitch was positively offended, but not seriously so. The chief of the department was for some time rather cold to General Epanchin. The old dignitary, who was their “patron,” mumbled something by way of admonition to the father of the family, though, in flattering terms he expressed the deepest interest in Aglaia’s future. He really was a rather good-hearted man; but one reason of the interest he had taken in Myshkin that evening was the part that the prince had played in the scandal connected with Nastasya Filippovna. He had heard something of the story and had been much interested by it, and would have liked indeed to ask questions about it.

Princess Byelokonsky said to Lizaveta Prokofyevna as she took leave that evening:

“Well, there’s good and bad in him. And if you care to know my opinion, there’s more bad than good. You can see for yourselves what he is, a sick man!”

Madame Epanchin made up her mind, once for all, that as a bridegroom he was “impossible,” and that night she vowed to herself that “as long as she was living, he should not be the husband of Aglaia.” She got up in the same mind next morning. But in the course of the morning, by lunch-time at one o’clock, she was drawn into contradicting herself in an extraordinary way.

In reply to her sisters’ carefully guarded question, Aglaia replied coldly, but haughtily, as it were, rapping it out:

“T’ve never given him a promise of any sort, ve never in my life looked on him or thought of him as my betrothed. He is no more to me than anyone else.”

Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly flared up.

“That I should never have expected of you,” she said with chagrin. “As a suitor he’s out of the question, I know, and thank God that we’re agreed about it. But I didn’t expect such words from you. I looked for something very different from you. I’d be ready to turn away all those people who were here last night and to keep him. That’s what I think of him!.. .”

At that point she stopped short, frightened at her words. But if only she had known how unjust she was to her daughter at that moment! Everything was settled in Aglaia’s mind. She too was waiting for the hour that was to decide everything, and every hint, every incautious touch dealt a deep wound to her heart.

CHAPTER VIII

FOR Myshkin, too, that morning began under the influence of painful forebodings; they might be explained by his invalid state, but his sadness was quite indefinite, and that was what made it most distressing to him. It is true that painful, mortifying facts stood vividly before him, but his sadness went beyond everything he remembered, and the reflections that followed that memory. He realised that he could not regain his serenity alone. By degrees the conviction took root in him that something special, something decisive, would happen to him that very day. His fit of the previous evening had been a slight one. Besides depression and a certain weariness in his head and pain in his limbs, he had nothing the matter with him. His brain worked fairly accurately, though his soul was ill at ease. He got up rather late, and at once clearly recalled the previous evening. He remembered, too, though not quite distinctly, how he had been taken home half an hour after the fit. He learnt that a messenger had already been from the Epanchins to ask after his health. At half-past eleven another called to inquire and this pleased him. Vera Lebedyev was among the first to visit him and wait upon him. She burst out crying for the first minute when she saw him, but when Myshkin at once reassured her she began laughing. He was suddenly struck by the girl’s deep sympathy for him. He took her hand and kissed it. Vera flushed crimson.

“Ach, what are you doing!” she cried, drawing her hand away in dismay. She went away quickly in strange confusion. She had time though to tell him, among other things, that her father had run off very early to see the “departed,” as he persisted in calling the general, to find out whether he had died in the night, and it was reported, so she was told, that he was at the point of death. At twelve o’clock Lebedyev himself came home, and went in to Myshkin, not merely “for a minute to inquire after his precious health,” and so on, but also to look into the cupboard. He did nothing but sigh and groan and Myshkin soon dismissed him; yet he made an attempt to question the prince about his fit the previous evening, though it was evident he knew full details about it already. After him Kolya ran in also for a minute. He really was in a hurry, and was in great and painful agitation. He began by directly and insistently begging Myshkin for an explanation of all that they had been concealing from him, asserting that he had learnt almost everything the day before. He was deeply and violently distressed.

With all possible sympathy Myshkin told him the whole story, relating the facts with absolute exactness, and it fell like a thunderbolt on the poor boy. He could not utter a word and wept in silence. Myshkin felt that this was one of those impressions which remain for ever and make a turning-point in a young life. He hastened to give him his view of the case, adding that in his opinion the old man’s death might principally be due to the horror inspired by his own action, and that not every one was capable of such a feeling. Kolya’s eyes flashed as he listened to Myshkin.

“They’re a worthless lot—Ganya and Varya and Ptitsyn! ’'m not going to quarrel with them, but our paths le apart from this moment. Ah, prince, I’ve had so many new feelings since yesterday! It’s a lesson for me! I consider that my mother, too, is entirely my responsibility now; though she’s provided for at Varya’s, that’s not the thing...”

He jumped up, remembering that he was expected at home, hurriedly asked after Myshkin’s health, and listening to the answer, added in haste:

“TIsn’t there something else? I heard yesterday (though I’ve no right) . . . but if you ever want a devoted servant for any purpose, here he is before you. It seems as though we’re both of us not quite happy, isn’t that soP But... I don’t ask anything, I don’t ask .. .”

He went away, and Myshkin sank into still deeper brooding. Every one was predicting misfortune, every one had already drawn conclusions, every one looked at him, as though they knew something and something he did not know. “Lebedyev asks questions, Kolya directly hints at it, and Vera weeps.” At last he dismissed the subject in vexation. “It’s all my accursed sickly over-sensitiveness,” he thought. His face brightened when, after one o’clock he saw the Epanchins, who came to visit him “for a moment.” They really did come only for a moment. When Lizaveta Prokofyevna got up from lunch, she announced that they were all going for a walk at once, and all together. The announcement was made in the form of a command, dry, abrupt and unexplained. They all went out, that is the mother, the girls, and Prince S. Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned in a direction exactly opposite to that which they took every day. Every one understood what it meant, but every one refrained from speak- 464.

ing for fear of irritating Madame Epanchin, and, as though to escape from reproaches or objections, she walked in front without looking back at them. At last Adelaida observed that there was no need to race along like that and that there was no catching mamma up.

“Now then,” said Lizaveta Prokofyevna, turning suddenly, “we're Just passing his door. Whatever Aglaia may think, and whatever may happen afterwards, he is not a stranger, and what’s more, now he’s in trouble and ill. I shall go to see him anyhow. If any care to come too, they can, if not you can go on. The way is open.”

They all went in, of course. Myshkin very properly hastened to beg forgiveness once more for the vase and. . . the scene.

“Oh, that’s no matter,” answered Lizaveta Prokofyevna. “I don’t mind about the vase, I mind about you. So now you're aware yourself that there was a scene last night, that’s how it is ‘the morning after.’ But it’s all of no consequence, for every one sees now that one mustn’t be hard on you. Goodbye for the present though. If you feel strong enough, go for a little walk and then have a nap—that’s my advice. And if you feel disposed, come in as usual. Be sure, once for all, that whatever happens, whatever may come you'll always be our friend, mine anyway. I can answer for myself...”

All accepted this challenge, and confirmed their mother’s sentiments. They went out, but in this simple-hearted haste to say something kind and encouraging there lay hid a great deal that was cruel, of which Lizaveta Prokofyevna had no suspicion. In the words “as usual” and “mine at least’—there was again an ominous note. Myshkin began to think of Aglaia. It is true that she had given him a wonderful smile on going in and again on taking leave, but she had not uttered a word, even when the others had all made their protestations of friendship, though she had looked intently at him once or twice. Her face was paler than usual, as though she had slept badly that night, Myshkin made up his mind that he would certainly go to them that evening “as usual” and he looked feverishly at his watch. Vera came in Just three minutes after the Epanchins had gone.

“Aglaia Ivanovna gave me a message for you Just now, in secret, Lyov Nikolayevitch,” she said.

Myshkin positively trembled.

“A note?”

“No, a message. She had hardly time for that, even. She begs you earnestly not to be away from home for one minute all to-day, up till seven o’clock this evening, or till nine o’clock, I couldn’t quite hear.”

“But why so? What does it mean?”

“I know nothing about it. Only she was very earnest that I should give you the message.”

“Did she say ‘very earnest’ ?”

“No, she didn’t say that. She just managed to turn round and speak, as I luckily ran up to her myself. But I could see from her face whether she was in earnest over it. She looked at me so that she made my heart stop beating. . . .”

After asking a few more questions Myshkin was more agitated than ever, though he succeeded in learning nothing more. When he was left alone, he lay down on the sofa and fell to musing again.

“Perhaps they have a visitor there till nine o’clock and she’s afraid I may do something silly before visitors again,” he thought at last, and began again impatiently waiting for evening and looking at his watch. But the mystery was solved long before the evening, and the solution also was brought by a visitor, and took the form of a new and agonising mystery.

Just half an hour after the Epanchins’ visit, Ippolit came in to him, so tired and exhausted that, entering without uttering a word, he literally fell, almost unconscious, into an easy chair, and instantly broke into an insufferable cough. He coughed till the blood came. His eyes glittered and there were hectic flushes on his cheeks. Myshkin murmured something to him, but Ippolit Made no reply, and for a long time could only motion to Myshkin to let him alone. At last he came to himself.

“Tm going!” he pronounced, with an effort at last, and with husky voice. :

“Tl go with you if you like,” said Myshkin, getting up from his seat and suddenly stopping short, as he recalled that he had been forbidden to leave the house.

Ippolit laughed.

“[’m not going away from you,” he went on, continually gasping and coughing, “on the contrary, I found it necessary to come to you and about something important... but for which I would not have disturbed you. I’m going over yonder, and this time I believe I really am going. It’s all up! I haven’t come for sympathy, believe me... I lay down at ten o’clock to-day meaning not to get up again till the time came. But you see I changed my mind and got up once more to come to you... so you see I had to.”

“Tt grieves me to look at you. You’d better have sent for me instead of troubling to come here.”

“Well, that’s enough. You’ve expressed your regret and enough to satisfy the requirements of politeness. . . . But I forgot: how are you yourself?”

“Tm all right. Yesterday I was... not quite...”

“IT know, I know, the Chinese vase had the worst of it. I’m sorry I wasn’t there! ’'ve come about something. In the first place, I’ve had the pleasure to-day of seeing Gavril Ardalionovitch at a tryst with Aglaia Ivanovna on the green seat. I was astonished to see how stupid a man can look. I remarked upon it to Aglaia Ivanovna, when Gavril Ardalionovitch had gone. .. . You seem not to be surprised at anything, prince,” he added, looking mistrustfully at Myshkin’s calm face. “To be surprised at nothing, they say, is a sign of great intelligence. ‘To my mind, it might quite as well be a sign of great stupidity. .. But I don’t mean that for you, excuse me .. . I am very unfortunate in my expressions to-day.”

“I knew yesterday that Gavril Ardalionovitch . . .”

Myshkin broke off, obviously confused, though Ippolit was annoyed at his not being surprised.

“You knew it! That’s southing new! But don’t tell me about it... . You weren’t a witness of the interview today, I suppose?”

“You saw that I was not there, since you were there yourself.”

“Oh, you may have been sitting behind a bush somewhere. But I’m glad, for your sake, of course, for I was beginning to think that Gavril Ardalionovitch—was the favourite.”

“I beg you not to speak of this to me, Ippolit, and in such terms.”

“Especially since you know all about it already.”

“You are mistaken, I know hardly anything about it, and Aglaia Ivanovna knows for a fact that I know nothing about it. I knew nothing about their meeting, really. You say there’s been a meeting between them? Very well then, let us leave the subject... .”

“But how’s this? One minute you know, the next you don’t. You say, ‘very well and let us leave it.’ But look here, don’t be so trustful! Especially if you don’t know anything about it. You are trustful because you don’t know anything about it. And do you know what those two, the brother and sister, are scheming for? Perhaps you suspect that? Very well, very well, I'll drop it,” he added, noticing an impatient gesture from Myshkin. “Well, ?ve come about my own affairs and I want to... explain about it. Damn it all, one can’t die without explanations. It’s awful how much I explain. Do you care to hear?”

“Speak, I’m listening.”

“But I’m changing my opinion again, though, TIll begin with Ganya, all the same. Would you believe it that I had an appointment at the green seat to-day, too? I don’t want to tell a lie, though. I insisted on an interview myself, I begged for it, I promised to reveal a secret. I don’t know whether I came too early (I believe I really was early), but I had no sooner sat down beside Aglaia Ivanovna, when I saw Gavril Ardalionovitch and Varvara Ardalionovna coming along, arm in arm, as though they were out for a walk. They both seemed much amazed at meeting me. It was so unexpected that they were quite taken aback. Aglaia Ivanovna flushed crimson, and you may not believe it, but she was rather disconcerted, whether because I was there or simply at the sight of Gavril Ardalionovitch— you know what a beauty he is—anyway she turned crimson, and ended it all in a second, very absurdly. She got up, answered Gavril Ardalionovitch’s bow, and Varvara Ardalionovna’s ingratiating smile, and suddenly rapped out: ‘I’ve only come to express in person my pleasure at your sincere and friendly feelings, and if I am in need of them, believe me .. .’ Then she turned away and the two went off—I don’t know whether like fools or in triumph—Ganya, of course, a fool. He couldn’t make out a word, and turned as red as a lobster (he has an extraordinary expression of face sometimes). But Varvara Ardalionovna seemed to understand that they must make their escape as quickly as possible, and that this was quite enough from Aglaia Ivanovna, and she drew her brother away. She’s cleverer than he is and I’ve no doubt she’s triumphant now. I came to Aglaia Ivanovna to make arrangements about a meeting with Nastasya Filippovna.”

“With Nastasya Filippovna,” cried Myshkin.

“Aha! You seem to be losing your indifference and beginning to be surprised. I’m glad that you’re ready to be like a human being at last. PIl comfort you for that. This is what comes of serving a young lady of lofty soul. I got a slap in the face from her to-day.”

“Morally speaking?” Myshkin could not help asking.

“Yes, not physically. I don’t think anyone would raise a hand against a creature like me, even a woman would not strike me now. Even Ganya wouldn’t strike me! Though I did think he was going to fly at me at one time yesterday. .. . I’ll bet you anything I know what you’re thinking about now. You’re thinking, “he mustn’t be beaten of course, but he might be smothered with a pillow or a wet cloth in his sleep—in fact one ought to... . It’s written on your face that you’re thinking that at this very second.”

“T’ve never thought of such a thing,” Myshkin answered with disgust.

“I don’t know, I dreamt last night that I was smothered with a wet cloth by ...a man.... I’ll tell you who it was—Rogozhin! What do you think? could a man be smothered with a wet cloth?”

“I don’t know.”

“T’ve heard that it can be done. Very well, we'll drop it. Come, why am I a slanderer? Why did she accuse me of being a slanderer to-day? And take note, it was after she’d heard every word I had to say, and questioned me, too... . But that’s just like a woman! For her sake I’ve got into communication with Rogozhin, an interesting person. In her interests I have arranged a personal interview with Nastasya Filippovna for her. Was it because I wounded her vanity by hinting that she enjoyed Nastasya Filippovna’s ‘leavings’? Yes, I did try to impress that upon her all the time in her interest, I don’t deny it. I wrote her two letters in that strain, and to-day for the third time, at our interview . . . I began by telling her that it was humiliating for her. . . . Though the word ‘leavings’ wasn’t mine, but some one else’s. At Ganya’s, anyway, everybody was saying it, and indeed she repeated it herself. So how can she call me a slanderer? I see, I see, It’s very amusing for you to look at me now, and I bet you’re applying those stupid verses to me:

‘And on the gloom of my declining hour Perchance the farewell smile of love may shine

Ha-ha-ha!” He went off into an hysterical laugh. “Mark,” he gasped through a fit of coughing, “what a fellow Ganya is, he talks about ‘leavings’ and what does he want to take advantage of himself now!”

For a long while Myshkin was silent. He was horror-struck.

“You spoke of an interview with Nastasya Filippovna,” he murmured at last.

“Hey, are you really unaware that Aglaia Ivanovna is going to meet Nastasya Filippovna to-day? And that for that purpose Nastasya Filippovna has been brought, through Rogozhin, from Petersburg, at an invitation of Aglaia Ivanovna and by my efforts, and is now staying with Rogozhin, where she stayed before, very near you, in the house of that woman ... Darya Alexeyevna . . . a very dubious lady, a friend of hers, and to that very doubtful house Aglaia Ivanovna is going to-day to have a friendly conversation with Nastasya Filippovna, and to decide various problems. They want to work at arithmetic. Didn’t you know it? Honour bright?”

“That’s incredible!”

“Well, that’s all right if it’s incredible. But how could you know? Though this is such a place, if a fly buzzes every one knows of it. But I’ve warned, you, and you may be grateful to me. Well, till we meet again—in the next world probably. But another thing: though I have been a cad to you, because . . . why should I be a loser? kindly tell me that? For your advantage, eh? I’ve dedicated my “Confession’ to her (you didn’t know that?). And how she received it too, ha-ha! But anyway I’ve not behaved like a cad to her, I’ve not done her any harm; but she’s put me to shame and snubbed me... . though I’ve done you no harm either. If I did refer to ‘leavings’ and things of that sort, still I am telling you the day and the hour and the address of their meeting, and I’ve let you into the whole game .. . from resentment of course, not from generosity. Good-bye, I’m as talkative as a stammerer or a consumptive. Mind you take steps at once, If you deserve to be called a man. The interview is to take place this evening, that’s the truth.”

Ippolit went towards the door, but Myshkin called after him and he stopped in the doorway.

“So then, according to you, Aglaia Ivanovna is going herself to-day to Nastasya Filippovna?” asked Myshkin.

Patches of red came out on his forehead and cheeks.

“I don’t know for a fact, but that’s probably so,” answered Ippolit, looking round. “Yes, it must be so. Nastasya Filippovna couldn’t go to her? And it wouldn’t be at Ganya’s, where there’s a man almost dead. What do you think of the general?”

“Tt can’t be there, if only for that reason,” Myshkin put in. “How could she get away even if she wanted to? You don’t know... the habits of the household. She couldn’t get away from home alone to see Nastasya Filippovna. It’s nonsense!”

“Look here, prince, nobody Jumps out of window, but when the house is on fire the grandest gentleman or lady is ready to jump out of window. When it’s a case of necessity, there’s no help for it, and our young lady will even go to see Nastasya Filippovna. And don’t they let them go anywhere, your young ladies?”

“No, I didn’t mean that...”

“Well, if not, she’s only to go down the steps, and go straight there, and she needn’t ever go home again. There are cases when one may sometimes burn one’s ships and not go home again. Life does not consist only of lunches and dinners and Prince S.’s. I fancy you take Aglaia Ivanovna for a young lady or a boarding-school miss. Wait till seven or eight o’clock. If I were in your place, I’d send some one to be on the watch there to catch the very minute when she comes down the steps. Send Kolya. He’ll be delighted to play the spy, believe me, for your sake, I mean. . . for everything’s relative. ... Ha-ha!”

Ippolit went out. Myshkin had no reason for asking anyone to spy for him, even if he had been capable of doing so. Aglaia’s command that he should stay at home was now almost explained. Perhaps she meant to come and fetch him, or perhaps it was that she did not want him to turn up there and so had told him to stay at home. That might be so, too. His head was in a whirl; the whole room was turning round. He lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes.

In either case it was final, conclusive. Myshkin did not think of Aglaia as a young lady, or a boarding-school miss. He felt now that he had been uneasy for a long time, and that it was Just something of this kind he had been dreading. But what did she want to see her for? A shiver ran over Myshkin’s whole body. He was in a fever again.

No, he didn’t look on her as a child! He had been horrified by some of her views, some of her sayings of late. He sometimes fancied that she had seemed too reserved, too controlled, and he remembered that this had alarmed him. He had been trying during those days not to think about it, he had dismissed oppressive ideas; but what lay hidden in that soul? The thought had worried him for a long time, though he had faith in that soul. And now all this must be settled and revealed that day. An awful thought! And again—“that woman!” Why did it always seem to him that that woman was bound to appear at the last moment, and tear asunder his fate like a rotten thread? That it had always seemed so he was ready to swear now, though he was almost delirious. If he had tried to forget “her” of late, it was simply because he was afraid of her. Did he love that woman or hate her? He had not put that question to himself once that day. His heart was clear on one point: he knew whom he loved. . . .

He was not so much afraid of the meeting of the two, not of the strangeness, not of the unknown cause of that meeting, not of what it might lead to, whatever it might be—he was afraid of Nastasya Filippovna. He remembered a few days later that all through those feverish hours her eyes, her glance, were before him, her words were in his ears—strange words, though little remained of them in his memory, when those feverish hours of misery were over. He scarcely remembered that Vera had brought him his dinner, that he ate it, and did not know whether he slept after dinner or not. All he knew was that he only began to see things clearly that evening, when Aglaia came towards him on the verandah, and he jumped up from the sofa and went to meet her. It was a quarter past seven. Aglaia was entirely alone, dressed simply, as it seemed hastily, in a light burnous. Her face was pale as it had been that morning, and her eyes glittered with a dry, hard light. He had never seen such an expression in her eyes. She looked at him attentively.

“You are quite ready,” she observed quietly, and with apparent composure. “You are dressed and have your hat in your hand. So you've been warned, and I know by whom—Ippolit?”

“Yes, he told me. . .”muttered Myshkin, more dead than alive.

“Come along. You know that you must escort me there. You are strong enough to go out, I suppose?”

“Tm strong enough, but. . . is this possible?”

He broke off instantly and could say no more. This was his one attempt to restrain the mad girl, and after it he followed her like a slave. Confused as his ideas were, he realised that she would certainly go there even without him, and that therefore he was bound to go with her in any case. He divined how strong her determination was. It was beyond him to check this wild impulse. They walked in silence the whole way, scarcely uttering a word. He only noticed that she knew the way well, and when he wanted to go a rather longer way because the road was more deserted, and suggested this to her, she seemed to listen with strained attention and answered abruptly:

“Tt’s all the same!”

When they had almost reached Darya Alexeyevna’s abode (a big, old, wooden house) there came down the steps a gorgeously dressed lady with a young girl. They both got into an elegant carriage which stood waiting at the steps, talking and laughing loudly. They did not once glance at the approaching couple and seemed not to notice them. As soon as the carriage had driven off, the door instantly opened a second time, and Rogozhin, who had been waiting there, admitted Myshkin and Aglaia and closed the door behind them.

“There’s no one in the whole house now, except us four,” he observed aloud, and looked strangely at Myshkin.

In the first room they went into, Nastasya Filippovna was waiting. She too was dressed very simply and all in black. She stood up to greet them, but did not smile or even give Myshkin her hand.

Her intent and uneasy eyes were fastened on Aglaia. The two ladies sat at a little distance from one another—Aglaia on a sofa in a corner of the room, Nastasya Filippovna at the window. Myshkin and Rogozhin did not sit down, and she did not invite them to do so. Myshkin looked with perplexity and, as it were, with pain at Rogozhin, but the latter still wore the same smile. The silence lasted some moments.

At length an ominous look passed over Nastasya Filippovna’s face. Her gaze grew obstinate, hard, and full of hatred, and it was riveted all the time upon her visitors. Aglaia was evidently confused, but not intimidated. As she walked in, she scarcely looked at her rival, and, for the time, sat with downcast eyes, as though musing. Once or twice she looked, as it were, casually round the room. There was an unmistakable shade of disgust on her face, as though she were afraid of contamination here. She mechanically arranged her dress, and even once restlessly changed her seat, moving to the other end of the sofa. She was hardly perhaps conscious of her actions; but their unconsciousness made them even more insulting. At last she looked resolutely straight into Nastasya Filippovna’s face and read at once all that was revealed in the ominous gleam in her rival’s eyes. Woman understood woman. Aglaia shuddered.

“You know, of course, why I asked you to come,” she brought out at last, but in a very low voice, and pausing once or twice even in this brief sentence.

“No, I know nothing about it,” Nastasya Filippovna answered, drily and abruptly.

Aglaia flushed. Perhaps it struck her suddenly as strange and incredible that she should be sitting here with that woman in “that woman’s” house, and hanging upon her answer. At the first sound of Nastasya Filippovna’s voice a sort of shiver ran over her. All this, of course, “that woman” saw quite clearly.

“You understand everything ... but you pretend not to understand on purpose,” said Aglaia, almost in a whisper, looking sullenly at the floor.

“Why should I” Nastasya Filippovna smiled.

“You want to take advantage of my position, of my being in your house,” Aglaia brought out, awkwardly and absurdly.

“You're responsible for your position, not I,” said Nastasya Filippovna, suddenly flaring up. “You're not here at my invitation, but I at yours, and I don’t know to this hour with what object.”

Aglaia raised her head haughtily.

“Restrain your tongue. That is your weapon and I’ve not come to fight you with it.”

“Ah! You have come to fight me then! Would you believe it, I thought that you were ... cleverer.. .”

They looked at one another, no longer concealing their spite.

One of them was the woman who had lately written those letters to the other. And now tt all fell to pieces at their first meeting. And yet not one of the four persons in the room seemed at that moment to think it strange. Myshkin, who would not the day before have believed in the possibility of it even in a dream, now stood, gazed and listened as though he had foreseen this long ago. The most fantastic dream seemed to have changed suddenly into the most vivid and sharply defined reality. One of these women, at that moment, so despised the other, and so keenly desired to express this feeling to her (possibly she had come simply to do so, as Rogozhin said next day) that, unaccountable as the other was with her disordered intellect and sick soul, it seemed that no idea she had adopted beforehand could have been maintained against the malignant, purely feminine contempt of her rival. Myshkin felt sure that Nastasya Filippovna would not mention the letters of her own accord. He could guess from her flashing eyes what those letters must be costing her now; and he would have given half his life that Aglaia should not speak of them.

But Aglaia seemed suddenly to pull herself together, and instantly mastered herself.

“You misunderstand me,” she said. “I have not come here to fight you, though I don’t like you. I... I came... to speak to you as one human being to another. When I sent for you, I had already made up my mind what to speak to you about, and I won’t depart from that decision now, though you should not understand me at all. That will be the worse for you and not for me. I wanted to answer what you have written to me, and to answer you in person, because I thought it more convenient. Hear my answer to all your letters. I felt sorry for Prince Lyov Nikolayevitch from that day when I first made his acquaintance, and heard afterwards what happened at your party. I felt sorry for him, because he is such a simple-hearted man and in his simplicity believed that he might be happy .. . with a woman... of such a character. What I was afraid of for him came to pass. You were incapable of loving him, you tortured him and abandoned him. You could not love him, because you were too proud... no, not proud, that’s a mistake, but too vain . . . that’s not it, either, it’s your self-love which amounts almost to madness, of which your letters to me are a proof. You couldn’t love a simple-hearted man like him, and very likely you secretly despised him and laughed at him. You can love nothing but your shame and the continual thought that you’ve been brought to shame and humiliated. If your shame were less or you were free from it altogether, you’d be more unhappy . . .”(Aglaia enjoyed pronouncing these too rapidly uttered but long prepared and pondered words—words she had brooded over before she had dreamed of the present interview; with malignant eyes she watched their effect on Nastasya Filippovna’s face, distorted with agitation). “You remember,” she went on, “he J

wrote me a letter then. He says that you know about that letter and have read it, in fact. From that letter I understood it all and understood it correctly. He confirmed that himself lately, that is, everything I’m telling you, word for word, indeed. After the letter I waited. I guessed that you were sure to come here, because you can’t exist without Petersburg; you are still too young and too good-looking for the provinces. Though, indeed, those are not my words either,” she added, blushing hotly, and from that moment the colour did not leave her face, till she finished speaking. “When I saw the prince again, I felt dreadfully hurt and wounded on his account. Don’t laugh. If you laugh, you’re not worthy to understand that.”

“You see that I’m not laughing,” Nastasya Filippovna pronounced sternly and mournfully.

“Tt’s nothing to me, though, laugh as much as you like. When I began to question him, he told me that he had ceased to love you long ago, that even the memory of you was a torture to him, but that he was sorry for you... and that when he thought of you, it always pierced his heart. I have to tell you, too, that I have never in my life met a man like him for noble simplicity, and boundless trustfulness. I understood from the way he talked that anyone who chose could deceive him, and that he would forgive anyone afterwards who had deceived him, and that was why I grew to love him .. .”

Aglaia paused for a moment as though amazed, as though hardly able to believe her own ears that she could have uttered such words. But at the same time an infinite pride shone in her eyes. She seemed by now to be beyond caring, even if “that woman” did laugh at once at the avowal that had broken from her.

“T’ve told you all, and now, no doubt, you understand what I want of you?”

“Perhaps I do understand, but tell me yourself,” Nastasya Filippovna answered softly.

There was a glow of anger in Aglaia’s face.

“I want to learn from you,” she pronounced firmly and distinctly, “what right you have to meddle in his feelings for me? By what right you have dared to send me letters? What right you have to be continually declaring to him and to me that you love him, after abandoning him of your own accord and running away from him in such an insulting and degrading way.”

“I have never declared either to him or to you that I love him,” Nastasya Filippovna articulated with an effort, “and... you are right that I did run away from him,” she added, hardly audibly.

“Never declared it ‘to him or to me’!” cried Aglaia. “How about your letters? Who asked you to begin matchmaking and persuading me to marry him? Wasn’t that a declaration? Why do you force yourself upon us? I thought at first that you wanted to rouse in me an aversion for him by interfering with us, and so make me give him up. It was only afterwards that I guessed what it meant. You simply 474,

imagined that you were doing something wonderful and heroic with all these pretences. Why, are you capable of loving him if you love your vanity so dearly? Why didn’t you simply go away from here instead of writing me absurd letters? Why don’t you even now marry the generous man who loves you so much that he honours you with the offer of his hand? It’s quite clear why—if you marry Rogozhin, what grievance will you have to complain of? You'll have had too much honour done you. Yevgeny Pavlovitch said that you’d read too much poetry and have had ‘too much education for your . . . position’; that you’re a blue stocking and live in idleness. Add to that your vanity and one gets the full explanation of you.”

“And don’t you live in idleness?”

Too hurriedly, too crudely, the contest had reached such an unexpected point, unexpected indeed, for when Nastasya Filippovna set off for Pavlovsk, she still had dreams of something different, though no doubt her forebodings were rather of ill than good. Aglaia was absolutely carried away by the impulse of the moment, as though she were falling down a precipice and could not resist the dreadful joy of vengeance. It was positively strange for Nastasya Filippovna to see Aglaia like this. She looked at her and seemed as though she could not believe her eyes, and was completely at a loss for the first moment. Whether she were a woman who had read too much poetry as Yevgeny Pavlovitch had said, or simply mad, as Myshkin was convinced, in any case this woman—though she sometimes behaved with such cynicism and impudence—was really far more modest, soft, and trustful than might have been believed. It’s true that she was full of romantic notions, of self-centred dreaminess and capricious fantasy, but yet there was much that was strong and deep in her... Myshkin understood that. There was an expression of suffering in his face. Aglaia noticed this and trembled with hatred.

“How dare you address me like that?” she said, with indescribable haughtiness, in reply to Nastasya Filippovna’s question.

“You must have heard me wrong,” said Nastasya Filippovna in surprise. “How have I addressed you?

“If you wanted to be a respectable woman, why didn’t you give up your seducer, Totsky, simply . . . without theatrical scenes?” Aglaia said suddenly, apropos of nothing.

“What do you know of my position that you dare to judge me?” said Nastasya Filippovna, trembling, and turning terribly white.

“I know that you didn’t go to work, but off with a rich man, Rogozhin, to go on posing as a fallen angel. I don’t wonder that Totsky tried to shoot himself to escape from such a fallen angel!”

“Don’t!” said Nastasya Filippovna with repulsion, and as though in anguish, “you understand me about as well as... Darya Alexeyevna’s housemaid, who was tried in court the other day with her betrothed. She’d have understood better than you . . .”

“Very likely, a respectable girl who works for her living. Why do you speak with such contempt of a housemaid?”

“I don’t feel contempt for work, but for you when you speak of work.”

“If you’d wanted to be respectable, you’d have become a washerwoman.”

They both got up and gazed with pale faces at each other.

“Aglaia, leave off! It's unjust,” cried Myshkin, like one distraught.

Rogozhin was not smiling now, but was listening with compressed lips and folded arms.

“There, look at her,” said Nastasya Filippovna, trembling with anger, “look at this young lady! And I took her for an angel! Have you come to me without a governess, Aglaia Ivanovna? . . . And if you like .. . if you like [ll tell you at once, directly and plainly, why you came to see me. You were afraid, that’s why you came.”

“Afraid of your” asked Aglaia, beside herself with naive and insulting amazement that this woman dared to speak to her like this.

“Me, of course! You were afraid of me since you decided to come and see me. You don’t despise anyone you're afraid of. And to think that P’ve respected you up to this very moment! But do you know why you are afraid of me and what is your chief object now? You wanted to find out for yourself whether he loves you more than me, or not, for you’re fearfully jealous . . .”

“He has told me that he hates you .. .” Aglaia faltered.

“Perhaps; perhaps I am not worthy of him, only... only I think you're lying! He cannot hate me and he could not have said so. But I am ready to forgive you... seeing the position you’re in... though I did think better of you. I thought that you were cleverer and better looking even, I did indeed! .. . Well, take your treasure . . . here he is, he’s looking at you, he is quite dazed. Take him, but on condition that you leave this house at once! This very minute! . . .”

She dropped into an easy chair and burst into tears. But suddenly there was a light of some new feeling in her face. She looked intently and fixedly at Aglaia, and rose from her seat.

“But if you like [’ll tell him .. . I’ll order him, do you hear? I’ve only to tell him, and he’ll throw you up at once and stay with me for ever, and marry me, and you'll have to run home alone. Shall I? Shall I?” she cried, like a mad creature, scarcely able to believe that she could be saying such things.

Aglaia ran in terror to the door, but stopped at the door and listened.

“Shall I send Rogozhin away? You thought that I was going to marry Rogozhin to please you? Here in your presence I shall cry to Rogozhin ‘Go away!’ and say to the prince, “do you remember what you promised?’ Heavens! Why have I humiliated myself so before them? Didn’t you tell me yourself, prince, that you would follow me whatever happened to me, and would never abandon me, that you love me and forgive me everything and—re ... resp... .. Yes, you said that too! And it was only to set you free that I ran away from you then, but now I don’t want to! Why has she treated me like a loose woman? Ask Rogozhin whether I’m a loose woman, he'll tell you! Now when she has covered me with shame and before your eyes too, will you turn away from me also, and walk away arm in arm with her? Well, curse you then, for you were the only one I trusted. Go away, Rogozhin, you're not wanted!” she went on, hardly knowing what she was doing, bringing the words out with an effort, with a distorted face and parched lips, evidently not believing a syllable of her tirade, and at the same time wishing to prolong the position if only for a second and to deceive herself. The outbreak was so violent that it might almost have killed her, so at least it seemed to Myshkin.

“Here he is! Look at him!” she cried to Aglaia, pointing to Myshkin. “If he doesn’t come to me at once, if he does not take me, and doesn’t give you up, take him for yourself, I give him up, I don’t want him.”

Both she and Aglaia stood, as it were, in suspense, and both gazed like mad creatures at Myshkin. But he, perhaps, did not understand all the force of this challenge; in fact, it’s certain that he didn’t. He only saw before him the frenzied, despairing face, which, as he had once said to Aglaia, had “stabbed his heart for ever.” He could bear no more and he turned, appealing and reproachful to Aglaia, pointing to Nastasya Filippovna.

“How can you! You see what an... unhappy creature she is!”

But he could utter nothing more, petrified by the awful look in Aglaia’s eyes. That look betrayed such suffering and at the same time such boundless hatred that, with a gesture of despair, he cried out and ran to her, but it was already too late. She could not endure even the instant of his hesitation. She hid her face in her hands, cried, “Oh, my God!” and ran out of the room, Rogozhin followed to unbolt the street-door for her.

Myshkin ran too, but he felt himself clutched by two arms in the doorway. The desperate, contorted face of Nastasya Filippovna was gazing fixedly at him, and her blue lips moved, asking:

“You follow her? Her?”

She dropped senseless in his arms. He lifted her up, carried her into the room, laid her in a low chair, and stood over her in blank suspense. There was a glass of water on a little table. Rogozhin, coming back, took it up and sprinkled it in her face. She opened her eyes, and for a minute remembered nothing, but suddenly looked round her, started, cried out and threw herself in Myshkin’s arms.

“Mine, mine!” she cried. “Has the proud young lady gone? Ha-ha-ha!” she cried in hysterics. “Ha-ha-ha! I gave him up to that young lady. And why? What for? I was mad! Mad! .. . Get away, Rogozhin. Ha-ha-ha!”

Rogozhin looked at them intently, and did not utter a word, but took his hat and went away. Ten minutes later Myshkin was sitting by Nastasya Filippovna, with his eyes fastened upon her, stroking her head and cheeks with both hands, as though she were a little child. He sighed in response to her laughter and was ready to cry at her tears. He said nothing, but listened intently to her broken, excited, incoherent babble. He scarcely took it in, but smiled gently to her, and as soon as he fancied she was beginning to grieve again, or to weep, to reproach him or complain, he began at once stroking her head again, and tenderly passing his hands over her cheeks, soothing and comforting her like a child.

CHAPTER IX

A FORTNIGHT had passed since the events narrated in the last chapter, and the positions of the persons concerned were so completely changed that it is extremely difficult for us to continue our story without certain explanations. And yet we must, as far as possible, confine ourselves to the bare statement of facts and for a very simple reason: because we find it difficult in many instances to explain what occurred. Such a preliminary statement on our part must seem very strange and obscure to the reader, who may ask how we can describe that of which we have no clear idea, no personal opinion. To avoid putting ourselves in a still more false position, we had better try to give an instance—and perhaps the kindly disposed reader will understand—of our difficulty. And we do this the more readily as this instance will not make a break in our narrative, but will be the direct continuation of it.

A fortnight later, that is at the beginning of July, and in the course of that fortnight, the history of our hero, and particularly the last incident in that history, were transformed into a strange, very diverting, almost incredible, and at the same time conspicuously actual scandal which gradually spread through all the streets adjoining Lebedyev’s, Ptitsyn’s, Darya Alexeyevna’s and the Epanchins’ villas, in short almost all over the town and even the districts adjoining it. Almost all the society of the place, the inhabitants, the summer visitors and the people who came to hear the band were all talking of the same story told in a thousand variations—how a prince, after causing a scandal in a well-known and honourable family and jilting a young girl of that family, to whom he was already betrothed, had been captivated by a well-known cocotte; had broken with all his own friends and, regardless of everything, regardless of threats, regardless of the general indignation of the public, was in a few days’ time intending, with head erect, looking every one straight in the face, to be openly and publicly married here in Pavlovsk to a woman with a disgraceful past. The story became so richly adorned with scandalous details, so many well-known and distinguished persons were introduced into it, and so many fantastic and enigmatical shades of significance were given to it, while on the other hand, it was presented with such incontestable and concrete facts that the general curiosity and gossip were, of course very pardonable. The most subtle, artful, and at the same [time] probable interpretation must be put to the credit of a few serious gossips belonging to that class of sensible people who are always, in every rank of society, in haste to explain every event to their neighbours, and who find indeed their vocation and often their consolation in doing so. According to their version, the young man was of good family, a prince, and almost wealthy, a fool but a democrat, who had gone crazy over the contemporary nihilism revealed by Mr. Turgenev. Though scarcely able to speak Russian, he had fallen in love with the daughter of General Epanchin, and had succeeded in being accepted as her betrothed by the family. But like the Frenchman im a story that had just appeared in print, who had allowed himself to be consecrated as a priest, had purposely begged to be consecrated, had performed all the rites, all the bowings and kissings and vows, and so on, in order to inform his bishop publicly next day, that, not believing in God, he considered it dishonourable to deceive the people and be kept by them for nothing, and so had renounced the priesthood he had assumed the day before, and sent his letter to be printed in all the Liberal papers—like this French atheist, the prince had played a false part. It was said that he had purposely waited for the formal evening party given by the parents of his betrothed at which he was presented to very many distinguished personages, in order to declare his way of thinking aloud before every one, that he had been rude to venerable old dignitaries, had renounced his betrothed publicly and insultingly; and in struggling with the servants who led him out had broken a magnificent china vase. It was stated as characteristic of the tendencies of the day that the senseless man really was in love with his betrothed, the general’s daughter, and had renounced her simply on account of nihilism, and for the sake of the scandal it would lead to, so that he might have the gratification of marrying a “lost” woman in sight of all the world and thereby proving his conviction that there were neither “lost” nor “virtuous” women, but that all women were alike, free; that he did not believe in the old conventional division, but had faith only in the “woman question”; that in fact a “lost” woman was in his eyes somewhat superior to one who was not lost. This explanation sounded extremely probable, and was accepted by the majority of the summer visitors, the more readily as it seemed to be supported by daily events. It’s true that a great number of facts still remained unexplained. It was said that the poor girl so adored her betrothed—according to some people her “seducer”—that on the day after he threw her over, she had run to find him where he was sitting with his mistress. Others maintained on the contrary that she had been purposely lured by him to his mistress’s simply for the sake of nihilism, that is, for the sake of shaming and insulting her. However that may have been, the interest in the story grew greater every day, especially as there remained not the slightest doubt that the scandalous marriage really would take place.

And now, if we should be asked for an explanation—not of the nihilistic significance of the incident, oh, no!—but simply how far the proposed marriage satisfied Myshkin’s real desires, what those desires actually were at that moment, how the spiritual condition of our hero was to be defined at that instant, and so on, and so on, we should, we admit, find it very difficult to answer. We can only say one thing, that the marriage really was arranged, and that Myshkin himself had authorised Lebedyev, Keller, and a friend of Lebedyev’s, presented to Myshkin by the latter at this juncture, to undertake all necessary arrangements, religious and secular; that they were bidden not to spare money; that Nastasya Filippovna was insisting on the wedding and in haste for it. That Keller, at his own ardent request, had been chosen for the prince’s best man, while Burdovsky, who accepted the appointment with enthusiasm, had been chosen to perform the same office for Nastasya Filippovna, and that the wedding day had been fixed for the beginning of July. But besides these well-authenticated circumstances, some other facts are known to us which throw us completely out of our reckoning, because they are in direct contradiction of the preceding. We have a strong suspicion, for instance, that, after authorising Lebedyev and the others to make all the arrangements, Myshkin almost forgot the very same day that he had a master of the ceremonies, and a wedding and “best men” at hand; and that his haste in handing over arrangements to others was simply to avoid thinking about it himself, and even, perhaps, to make haste to forget about it. Of what was he thinking himself in that case, what did he want to remember, and for what was he struggling? There is no doubt, moreover, that no sort of coercion, on Nastasya Filippovna’s part, for instance, was applied to him; that Nastasya Filippovna certainly did desire a speedy wedding, and that it was she, and not Myshkin, who had thought of the wedding. But Myshkin had agreed of his own free will, somewhat casually indeed, and as though he had been asked for some quite ordinary thing. Such strange facts are before us in abundance, but far from making things clearer to our thinking, they positively obscure every explanation, however we take them. But we will bring forward another instance.

Thus, we know for a fact that during that fortnight Myshkin spent whole days and evenings with Nastasya Filippovna; that she took him with her for walks and to hear the band; that he drove out in her carriage with her every day; that he began to be uneasy about her if an hour passed without his seeing her (so that by every sign he loved her sincerely); that whatever she talked to him about, he listened with a mild and gentle smile for hours together, saying scarcely anything himself. But we know too that in the course of those days he had several, in fact many, times called at the Epanchins’ without concealing the fact from Nastasya Filippovna, though it had driven her almost to despair. We know that, as long as the Epanchins remained at Pavlovsk, they did not receive him, and consistently refused to allow him to see Aglaia Ivanovna; that he would go away without saying a word and next day go to them again as though he had completely forgotten their refusal the day before, and, of course, be refused again. We know too, that an hour after Aglaia Ivanovna had run away from Nastasya Filippovna, perhaps even less than an hour after, Myshkin was already at the Epanchins’, confident, of course, of finding Aglaia there, and that his arrival had thrown the household into extreme amazement and alarm, because Aglaia had not yet returned home. And it was only from him the Epanchins had first learned that she had been with him to Nastasya Filippovna’s. It was said that Lizaveta Prokofyevna, her daughters and even Prince S. treated Myshkin on that occasion in a very harsh and hostile way; and that they had there and then in the strongest terms renounced all friendship and acquaintance with him, the more emphatically that Varvara Ardalionovna had suddenly made her appearance and announced to Lizaveta Prokofyevna that Aglaia had been in her house for the last hour in a fearful state of mind, and seemed unwilling to return home. This last piece of news affected Lizaveta Prokofyevna more than anything, and it turned out to be quite true. On coming away from Nastasya Filippovna’s, Aglaia would certainly sooner have died than have faced her family, and so she flew to Nina Alexandrovna’s. Varvara Ardalionovna for her part felt it essential promptly to inform Lizaveta Prokofyevna of everything. And the mother and daughters rushed off at once to Nina Alexandrovna’s, followed by the head of the family, Ivan Fyodorovitch, who had just returned home. Myshkin trudged along after them, in spite of their dismissal of him and their harsh words. But Varvara Ardalionovna took care that there, too, he was not allowed to see Aglaia. The end of it was that, when Aglaia saw her mother and sisters shedding tears over her and not uttering a word of blame, she threw herself into their arms and at once returned home with them. It was said, though the story was not well authenticated, that Gavril Ardalionovitch was particularly unlucky on this occasion, too; that seizing the opportunity while Varvara Ardalionovna was running to Lizaveta Prokofyevna, and he was left alone with Aglaia, he had thought fit to begin talking of his passion; that, listening to him, Aglaia had, in spite of her tears and dejection, suddenly burst out laughing and had all at once put a strange question to him: would he, to prove his love, burn his finger in the candle? Gavril Ardahionovitch was, so the story went, petrified by the question; he was so completely taken aback, and his face betrayed such extreme amazement, that Aglaia had laughed at him as though she were in hysterics, and to get away from him ran upstairs to Nina Alexandrovna where she was found by her parents. This story was repeated to Myshkin next day by Ippolit who, being too ill to get up, sent for the prince on purpose to tell it to him. How [ppolit got hold of the story we don’t know, but when Myshkin heard about the candle and the finger, he laughed so much that Ippolit was surprised. Then he suddenly began to tremble and burst into tears. . . . Altogether, he was during those days in a state of great uneasiness, and extraordinary perturbation, vague but tormenting. Ippolit bluntly declared that he thought he was out of his mind, but it was impossible to affirm this with certainty.

In presenting all these facts and declining to attempt to explain them, we have no desire to justify our hero in the eyes of the reader. What is more we are quite prepared to share the indignation he excited even in his friends. Even Vera Lebedyev was indignant with him for a time; even Kolya was indignant; even Keller was indignant, till he was chosen as best man, to say nothing of Lebedyev himself, who even began intriguing against Myshkin, also from an indignation which was quite genuine. But of that we will speak later. Altogether, we are in complete sympathy with some forcible and psychologically deep words of Yevgeny Pavlovitch’s, spoken plainly and unceremoniously by the latter in friendly conversation with Myshkin six or seven days after the incident at Nastasya Filippovna’s. We must observe, by the way, that not only the Epanchins, but every one directly or indirectly connected with them had thought proper to break off all relations with Myshkin. Prince S. for instance turned aside when he met Myshkin and did not respond to his greeting. But Yevgeny Pavlovitch was not afraid of compromising himself by visiting the prince, though he had begun visiting the Epanchins every day again, and was received by them with an unmistakable increase of cordiality. He came to see Myshkin the very day after the Epanchins had left Pavlovsk. He knew already of all the rumours that were circulating, and had, perhaps indeed, assisted to circulate them himself. Myshkin was delighted to see him and at once began speaking of the Epanchins. Such a simple and direct opening completely loosened Yevgeny Pavlovitch’s tongue too, so that he went straight to the point without beating about the bush.

Myshkin did not know that the Epanchins had left. He was struck by the news, he turned pale; but a minute later he shook his head, confused and meditative, and acknowledged that “so it was bound to be”; then he asked quickly, “where had they gone?”

Meanwhile Yevgeny Pavlovitch watched him carefully, and he marvelled not a little at all this—the rapidity of his questions, their simplicity, his perturbation, restlessness and excitement, and at the same time a sort of strange openness. He told Myshkin about everything, however, courteously and in detail. There was a great deal the latter had not heard, and this was the first person to visit him from the Epanchins’ circle. He confirmed the rumour that Aglaia really had been ill. She had lain for three days and nights in a fever without sleeping. Now she was better and out of all danger, but in a nervous and hysterical state. “It was a good thing,” he said, “that now there was perfect harmony in the house. They tried to make no allusion to the past, not only before Aglaia, but also among themselves. The parents had already made up their minds to a trip abroad in the autumn, immediately after Adelaida’s wedding. Aglaia had received in silence the preliminary hints at this plan. He, Yevgeny Pavlovitch, might very possibly be going abroad too. Even Prince S. might possibly go with Adelaida for a couple of months if business permitted. The general himself would remain. They had all moved now to Kolmino, their estate fifteen miles out of Petersburg, where they had a spacious manor-house. Princess Byelokonsky had not yet returned to Moscow, and he believed she was staying on at Pavlovsk on purpose. Lizaveta Prokofyevna had insisted emphatically that they could not stay on in Pavlovsk, after what had happened. He, Yevgeny Pavlovitch, had reported to her every day the rumours that were circulating in the town. It did not seem possible for them to move to the villa at Yelagin.”

“And indeed,” added Yevgeny Pavlovitch, “you'll admit yourself they could hardly have faced it out... . Especially knowing what’s going on here in your house every hour, prince, and your daily calls there in spite of their refusing to see you... .”

“Yes, yes, yes, you're right. I wanted to see Aglaia Ivanovna,” said Myshkin, shaking his head again.

“Ah, dear prince,” cried Yevgeny Pavlovitch, with warmhearted regret. “How then could you allow... all that’s happened? Of course, of course, it was all so unexpected. I understand that you must have been at your wits’ end and you could not have restrained the mad girl; that was not in your power. But you ought to have understood how intense and how much in earnest the girl was... in her feeling for you. She did not care to share you with another woman and you... you could desert and shatter a treasure like that!”

“Yes, yes, you're right. I am to blame,” Myshkin began again in terrible distress. “And do you know she alone, Aglaia alone, looked at Nastasya Filippovna like that... . No one else ever looked at her like that.”

“Yes, that’s just what makes it all so dreadful that there was nothing serious in it,” cried Yevgeny Pavlovitch, completely carried away. “Forgive me, prince, but I... . ’ve been thinking about it, prince. I have thought a lot about it; I know all that happened before, I know all that happened six months ago, all—and there was nothing serious in it! It was only your head, not your heart, that was involved, an illusion, a fantasy, a mirage, and only the scared Jealousy of an utterly ”

inexperienced girl would have taken it for anything serious! . . .

At this point, without mincing matters, Yevgeny Pavlovitch gave full vent to his indignation. Clearly and reasonably, and, we repeat, with great psychological insight, he drew a vivid picture of Myshkin’s past relations with Nastasya Filippovna. He had at all times a gift for language, and at this moment he rose to positive eloquence. “From the very first,” he declared, “it began with falsity. What begins in a lie must end in a lie; that’s a law of nature. I don’t agree, and, in fact, I’m indignant when somebody calls you—well—an idiot. You’re too clever to be called that. But you’re so strange that you’re not like other people—you must admit that yourself. ’ve made up my mind that what’s at the bottom of all that’s happened is your innate inexperience (mark that word, ‘innate’, prince), and your extraordinary simple-heartedness, and then the phenomenal lack of all feeling for proportion in you (which you have several times recognised yourself), and finally the huge mass of intellectual convictions, which you, with your extraordinary honesty, have hitherto taken for real, innate, intuitive convictions! You must admit yourself, prince, that from the very beginning, In your relations with Nastasya Filippovna, there was an element of conventional democratic feeling (I use the expression for brevity), the fascination, so to say, of the ‘woman question’ (to express it still more briefly). I know all the details of the strange, scandalous scene that took place at Nastasya Filippovna’s, when Rogozhin brought his money. If you like, I will analyse you to yourself on my fingers, I will show you to yourself as in a looking-glass, I know so exactly how it all was, and why it all turned out as it did. As a youth in Switzerland you yearned for your native country, and longed for Russia as for an unknown land of promise. You had read a great many books about Russia, excellent books perhaps, but pernicious for you. You arrived in the first glow of eagerness to be of service, so to say; you rushed, you flew headlong to be of service. And on the very day of your arrival, a sad and heartrending story of an injured woman is told you, you a virginal knight—and about a woman! The very same day you saw that woman, you were bewitched by her beauty, her fantastic, demoniacal beauty (I admit she’s a beauty, of course). Add to that your nerves, your epilepsy, add to that our Petersburg thaw which shatters the nerves, add all that day, in an unknown and to you almost fantastic town, a day of scenes and meetings, a day of unexpected acquaintances, a day of the most surprising reality, of meeting the three Epanchin beauties, and Aglaia among them; then your fatigue and the turmoil in your head, and then the drawing-room of Nastasya Filippovna, and the tone of that drawing-room, and . . . what could you expect of yourself at such a moment, what do you think?”

“Yes, yes; yes, yes,” Myshkin shook his head, beginning to flush crimson. “Yes, that’s almost exactly how it was. And do you know Vd scarcely slept at all in the train the night before, and all the night 484.

before that, and was fearfully exhausted.”

“Yes, of course, that’s just what I am driving at,” Yevgeny Pavlovitch went on warmly, “the fact’s clear that you, intoxicated with enthusiasm, so to speak, clutched at the opportunity of publicly proclaiming the generous idea, that you, a prince by birth and a man of pure life, did not regard a woman as dishonoured who had been put to shame, not through her own fault, but through the fault of a disgusting aristocratic profligate. Good heavens, of course one can understand it. But that’s not the point, dear prince, the point is whether there was reality, whether there was genuineness in your emotions, whether there was natural feeling or only intellectual enthusiasm. What do you think; in the temple the woman was forgiven—just such a woman, but she wasn’t told that she’d done well, that she was deserving of all respect and honour, was she? Didn’t common sense tell you within three months the true state of the case? But, even granting that she’s innocent now—I won’t insist on that for I don’t want to—but could all her adventures justify such intolerable, diabolical pride, such insolent, such rapacious egoism? Forgive me, prince, I let myself be carried away, but...”

“Yes, all that may be so. Maybe you are right. . . Myshkin muttered again, “she certainly is very much writated, and you're right, no doubt, but .. .”

“Deserving of compassion? That’s what you mean to say, my kind-hearted friend? But how could you, out of compassion, for the sake of her pleasure, put to shame another, a pure and lofty girl, humiliate her in those haughty, those hated eyes? What will compassion lead you to next? It’s an exaggeration that passes belief! How can you, loving a girl, humiliate her like this before her rival, jult her for the sake of another woman, in the very presence of that other, after you had yourself made her an honourable offer . . . and you did make her an offer, didn’t you? You said so before her parents and her sisters! Do you call yourself an honourable man after that, allow me to ask you, prince? And... and didn’t you deceive that adorable girl when you told her that you loved her?”

“Yes, yes, you're right. Ach, I feel that I am to blame!” Myshkin replied, in unutterable distress.

“But is that enough?” cried Yevgeny Pavlovitch, indignantly. “Is it sufficient to cry out: “Ach, I’m to blame?’ You are to blame, but yet you persist! And where was your heart then, your ‘Christian’ heart? Why, you saw her face at that moment: well, was she suffering less than the other, that other woman who has come between you? How could you have seen it and allowed it? How could you?”

“But ... I didn’t allow it,” muttered the unhappy prince.

“You didn’t allow it?”

“I really didn’t allow anything. I don’t understand to this hour how it all came to pass. I... I was running after Aglaia Ivanovna at the time, but Nastasya Filippovna fell down fainting. And since then A85

they haven’t let me see Aglaia Ivanovna.”

“Never mind! You ought to have run after Aglaia even if the other woman was fainting!”

“Yes ... yes, I ought to have. . . . She would have died, you know. She would have killed herself, you don’t know her, and .. . it made no difference, I should have told Aglaia Ivanovna everything afterwards, and... you see, Yevgeny Pavlovitch, I see that you don’t know everything. Tell me, why won’t they let me see Aglaia Ivanovna? I would have explained everything to her. You see, they both talked of the wrong thing, utterly wrong; that’s why it all happened... . I can’t explain it to you at all; but perhaps I could explain it to Aglaia... . Oh, dear; oh, dear! You speak of her face at that moment when she ran away... . Oh, dear, I remember it! . . . Let us go, let us go!” He Jumped hastily up from his seat and pulled Yevgeny Pavlovitch by the hand.

“Where are you going?”

“Let’s go to Aglaia Ivanovna; let’s go at once! .. .”

“But she’s not in Pavlovsk now, I told you so. And why go to her?”

“She will understand, she will understand!” Myshkin muttered, clasping his hands imploringly. “She would understand that it’s all not that, but something quite different!”

“How do you mean, something quite different? Only, you’re! going to marry her, anyhow. So you persist in it... . Are you going to be married or not?”

“Well, ves... I am; yes, I am!”

“Then how is it ‘not that’?”

“No, it’s not that, not that. It makes no difference that I’m going to marry her. That’s nothing, nothing.”

“How do you mean it makes no difference and it’s nothing? Why, it’s not a trifling matter, is it? You’re marrying a woman you love to make her happy, and Aglaia Ivanovna sees that and knows it. How can you say it makes no difference?”

“Happy? Oh, no! I’m only just marrying her; she wants me to. And what is there in my marrying her? I... . oh, well, all that’s no matter! Only she would certainly have died. I see now that her marrying Rogozhin was madness.

I understand now all that I didn’t understand before, and, you see, when they stood there, facing one another, I couldn’t bear Nastasya Filippovna’s face... . You don’t know, Yevgeny Pavlovitch’— he dropped his voice mysteriously—“I’ve never said this to anyone, not even to Aglaia, but I can’t bear Nastasya Filippovna’s face... . It was true what you said just now about that evening at Nastasya Filippovna’s; but there is one thing you left out because you don’t know it. I looked at fer face! That morning, in her portrait, I couldn’t bear the sight of it... . Vera, now, Lebedyev’s daughter, has quite different eyes. I... I’m afraid of her face!” he added with extraordinary terror.

“You're afraid of it?”

“Yes; she’s—mad!” he whispered, turning pale.

“You're sure of that?” asked Yevgeny Pavlovitch, with extreme interest.

“Yes, sure. Now I’m sure. Now, during these last days, I’ve become quite sure!”

“But what are you doing, prince?” Yevgeny Pavlovitch cried with horror. “So you’re marrying her from a sort of fear? There’s no understanding it! Without even loving her, perhaps?”

“Oh, no. I love her with my whole heart! Why, she’s . . . a child! Now she’s a child, quite a child! Oh, you know nothing about it!”

“And at the same time you have declared your love to Aglaia Ivanovna?”

“Oh, yes, yes!”

“How so? Then you want to love both of them?”

“Oh, yes, yes!”

“Upon my word, prince, think what you’re saying!”

“Without Aglaia ’m... I absolutely must see her! I... . I shall soon die in my sleep, I thought I should have died last night in my sleep. Oh, if Aglaia only knew, if she only knew everything . . . absolutely everything I mean. For in this case one needs to know everything, that’s what matters most. Why is it we never can know everything about another person, when one ought to, when that other one’s to blame! .. . But I don’t know what I’m saying. ’m muddled. You've shocked me very much . . . and does her face look now as it did when she ran away? Oh, yes, I am to blame! Most likely it’s all my fault. I don’t know quite how, but I am to blame. . . . There’s something in all this I can’t explain to you, Yevgeny Pavlovitch. I can’t find the words, but . . . Aglaia Ivanovna will understand! Oh, I’ve always believed that she would understand.”

“No, prince, she won’t understand. Aglaia Ivanovna loved you like a woman, like a human being, not like an abstract spirit. Do you know what, my poor prince, the most likely thing is that you’ve never loved either of them!”

“I don’t know, perhaps so... perhaps. You're right in a great deal, Yevgeny Pavlovitch. You are very clever, Yevgeny Pavlovitch. Oh, my head is beginning to ache again. For God’s sake, let’s go to her! For God’s sake!”

“But I tell you she’s not in Pavlovsk, she’s in Kolmino.”

“Let’s go to Kolmino. Let’s go at once!”

“That’s impossible!” Yevgeny Pavlovitch said emphatically, getting up.

“Listen. ll write to her. You take a letter!”

“No, prince, no! Spare me such a commission. I can’t!”

They parted. Yevgeny Pavlovitch went away with odd impressions, and in his judgment too the upshot of it was that Myshkin was not in his right mind. And what was the meaning of that face he feared so much, and yet loved! And yet perhaps he really would die without seeing Aglaia, so that Aglaia never would know how much he loved her! “Ha-ha! And how can one love two at once? With two different sorts of love? That’s interesting . . . poor idiot! What will become of him now?”

CHAPTER X

BUT Myshkin did not die before his wedding, either awake or “in his sleep,” as he had predicted to Yevgeny Pavlovitch. Perhaps he did not sleep well and had bad dreams; but by day, with people, he was kind and seemed contented. At times he seemed lost in brooding, but that was only when he was alone. The wedding was being hurried on; it was fixed for about a week after Yevgeny Pavlovitch’s visit. With such haste his best friends, if he had any, could hardly have “saved the poor crazy fellow.” There were rumours that General Epanchin and his wife, Lizaveta Prokofyevna, were partly responsible for Yevgeny Pavlovitch’s visit. But if, in the immense kindness of their hearts, they may both have wished to save the poor lunatic from ruin, they could hardly go beyond this feeble effort; neither their position nor, perhaps, their inclination was compatible (naturally enough) with a more pronounced action. We have mentioned already that many even of those immediately surrounding Myshkin had turned against him. Vera Lebedyev, however, confined herself to shedding a few tears in solitude, staying more in the lodge, and looking in upon Myshkin less than before. Kolya at this time was occupied with his father’s funeral. The old general had died of a second stroke eight days after the first. Myshkin showed the warmest sympathy with the grief of the family, and for the first few days spent several hours daily with Nina Alexandrovna. He went to the funeral and to the service in the church. Many people noticed that Myshkin’s arrival and departure were accompanied by whispers among the crowd in the church. It was the same thing in the streets and in the gardens. Wherever he walked or drove out, he was greeted by a hum of talk, his name was mentioned, he was pointed out; and Nastasya Filippovna’s name, too, was audible. People looked out for her at the funeral, but she was not present. Another person conspicuously absent was the captain’s widow, whom Lebedyev succeeded in preventing from coming. The burial service had a strong and painful effect on Myshkin. He whispered to Lebedyev in answer to some question that it was the first time he had been present at an Orthodox funeral, though he had a faint memory of a similar service at a village church in his childhood.

“Yes, it seems as though it’s not the same man in the coffin as we elected president lately—do you remember, prince?” Lebedyev whispered to Myshkin. “Whom are you looking for?”

“Oh, nothing. I fancied. . .”

“Not Rogozhin?”

“Why, is he here?”

“Yes, in the church.”

“I fancied I saw his eyes,” Myshkin muttered in confusion.

“But why? What’s he here for? Was he invited?”

“They never thought of him. Why, they, don’t know him at all. There are all kinds of people in the crowd here. But why are you so astonished? I often meet him now. Why, four times in this last week I’ve met him in Pavlovsk.”

“T’ve never seen him once since . . . that time,” muttered Myshkin.

As Nastasya Filippovna too had not once told him that she had met Rogozhin “since that time,” Myshkin concluded now _ that Rogozhin was for some reason keeping out of sight on purpose. All that day he was lost in thought, while Nastasya Filippovna was exceptionally lively during the day and evening.

Kolya, who had made it up with Myshkin before his father’s death, suggested that he should ask Keller and Burdovsky to be his best men (as the matter was urgent and near at hand). He guaranteed that Keller would behave properly and perhaps be of use, while there was no need to speak of Burdovsky, as he was a quiet and retiring person. Nina Alexandrovna and Lebedyev observed to Myshkin that if the marriage were a settled thing, there was no need for it to be at Pavlovsk, in the height of the summer season, so publicly. They urged that it would be better to have the wedding at Petersburg and even in the house. Myshkin saw only too clearly the drift of their apprehensions. He replied briefly and simply that it was Nastasya Filippovna’s particular wish.

Next day Keller called on Myshkin, having been informed that he was to be a “best man.” Before going in he stood still in the doorway, and as soon as he saw Myshkin, he raised his right hand, with the forefinger apart from the rest, and cried, as though taking a vow:

“I won't drink.”

Then he went up to Myshkin, warmly pressed and shook both his hands, and announced that certainly, when he first heard of the wedding, he felt hostile and had proclaimed the fact at billiards, and for no other reason than that he had anticipated for the prince and had daily hoped, with the impatience of a friend, to see by his side at the altar some one like the Princess de Rohan, or at least de Chabot. But now he saw for himself that Myshkin looked at things at least twelve times as nobly as all of them “put together”! For he did not care for pomp or wealth, nor even for public esteem, but cared only for the truth! The sympathies of exalted persons were too well known, and the prince was too lofty by his education not to be an exalted person, speaking generally!

“But the common herd and rabble judge differently; in the town, in the houses, in the assemblies, in the villas, at the bandstand, in the taverns and the billiard-rooms, they were talking and shouting of nothing but the coming event. I have heard that they were even talking of getting up ‘rough music’ under the windows—and that, so to say, on the wedding night! If you should need, prince, the pistol of an honest man, I am ready to exchange half a dozen shots like a gentleman before you rise the morning after your nuptials.” He advised too, in anticipation of a great rush of thirsty souls on coming out of the church, to have the fire-hose ready in the courtyard. But Lebedyev opposed this. He said they would pull the house to pieces if they had the hose.

“That Lebedyev is intriguing against you, prince, he is really. They want to put you under control. Can you believe it? with everything, your freedom and your money—that is, the two objects which distinguish every one of us from a quadruped! I’ve heard it, I’ve heard it on good authority! It’s the holy truth!”

Myshkin seemed to remember having heard something of the sort himself, but of course he had paid no attention to it. Now, too, he merely laughed and forgot it again at once. Lebedyev certainly had been very busy for some time past. This man’s schemes sprang up by inspiration, and in the excess of his ardour became too complex, developing into ramifications far removed from his original starting-point. This was why he generally failed in his undertakings. When, almost on the wedding-day, he came to Myshkin to express his penitence (it was his invariable habit to express his penitence to those against whom he had been intriguing, especially when he had not succeeded), he announced to him that he was born a Talleyrand and didn’t know how it was he had become a mere Lebedyev. Then he disclosed his whole game, which greatly interested Myshkin. According to his story, he had begun by looking for the protection of some persons of consequence on whose support he might reckon in case of need, and he had gone to General Ivan Fyodorovitch. General Epanchin was perplexed, was full of goodwill towards the “young man,” but declared that, “however much he might wish to save him, it was not seemly for him to act in the matter.” Lizaveta Prokofyevna would not see him or listen to him. Yevgeny Pavlovitch and Prince S. simply waved him away. But he, Lebedyev, did not lose heart, and took the advice of a shrewd lawyer, a worthy old man and a great friend of his, almost his patron. He had given his opinion that it was only possible if they had competent witnesses as to his mental derangement and unmistakable insanity, and still more persons of consequence to back them. Even then Lebedyev was not discouraged, and had, on one occasion, even brought a doctor—also a worthy old man, with an Anna ribbon—who was staying at Pavlovsk, to see the prince, simply, so to say, to see how the land lay, to make the prince’s acquaintance, and, not officially but in a friendly way, to let him know what he thought of him.

Myshkin remembered the doctor’s visit. He remembered that Lebedyev had pestered him the evening before about his not being well, and when Myshkin positively declined medical aid, Lebedyev suddenly made his appearance with a doctor, pretending that they had both just come from Ippolit Terentyev, who was much worse, and that the doctor had something to tell Myshkin about the invalid. Myshkin praised Lebedyey, and received the doctor very cordially. They began talking at once of Ippolit. The doctor asked him to give a minute account of the scene of the attempted suicide, and the prince quite delighted him by his description and explanation of the incident. They talked of the climate of Petersburg, of Myshkin’s affliction, of Switzerland, and of Doctor Schneider. The discussion of Schneider’s system, and Myshkin’s stories about him so interested the doctor that he stayed two hours with him smoking Myshkin’s excellent cigars, while Lebedyev produced a delicious liqueur, which was brought in by Vera. Then the doctor, who was a married man and paterfamilias, overflowed with such compliments to Vera that he excited her intense indignation. They parted friends. On leaving Myshkin the doctor said to Lebedyev, if every one like that were to be put under control, who would be left to control them? In reply to Lebedyev’s tragic description of the imminent event, the doctor shook his head slyly and cunningly, and observed at last that, even apart from the fact that “there’s nobody a man may not marry,” the fascinating lady, besides being of incomparable beauty, which alone might well attract a wealthy man, was also—so he, at least, had heard—possessed of a fortune that had come to her from Totsky and Rogozhin, pearls and diamonds, shawls and furniture; and therefore the dear prince’s choice, far from being a proof of peculiar, so to say, glaring foolishness, was rather a testimony to the shrewdness of his worldly wisdom and prudence, and therefore tended to the very opposite conclusion, completely in the prince’s favour, in fact... .”

This idea struck Lebedyev too, and he did not go beyond it. “And now,” he added to Myshkin, “you will see nothing from me but devotion and readiness to shed my blood for you, and I’ve come to tell you so.”

Ippolit too had distracted Myshkin’s mind during those days; he sent for him only too often. The family was living in a little house not far off. The little ones, Ippolit’s brother and sister, were glad to be at Pavlovsk, if only because they could escape from the invalid into the garden. The poor captain’s widow was left at his mercy and was completely his victim. Myshkin was obliged to intervene and make peace between them every day, and the imvalid still called him his “nurse,” though at the same time he seemed to feel bound to despise him for playing the part of peacemaker. He was in high dudgeon against Kolya because the latter had scarcely visited him of late, having stayed at first beside his dying father and afterwards with his widowed mother. At last he made Myshkin’s approaching marriage to Nastasya Filippovna the butt of his gibes, and ended by offending the prince and making him really angry at last. Myshkin gave up visiting him. Two days later the captain’s widow trotted round in the morning and begged Myshkin, with tears, to come to them or “that fellow would be the death of her.” She added that the invalid wanted to tell him a great secret. Myshkin went.

Ippolit wanted to make it up, wept, and after his tears, of course, felt more spiteful than ever, but was afraid to show his spite. He was very ill, and there was every sign that the end was close at hand. He had no secret to tell him, except some earnest requests—breathless, so to say, with emotion (possibly shammed)—“to beware of Rogozhin.” “He is a man who will never give up his object. He’s not like you and me, prince; if he wants a thing, nothing will shake him,” &c. &c.

Myshkin began questioning him more in detail, tried to get at facts of some sort. But there were no facts except Ippolit’s personal sentiments and impressions. To his intense gratification, Ippolit did, however, at last succeed in scaring Myshkin thoroughly. At first he was unwilling to respond to some of Ippolit’s questions, and only smiled at his advice “to go abroad; there were Russian priests everywhere, and he could be married there.” But Ippolit ended at last with the suggestion: “It’s for Aglaia Ivanovna I am afraid, you know; Rogozhin knows how you love her. It’s a case of love for love. You have robbed him of Nastasya Filippovna, he will kill Aglaia Ivanovna; though she’s not yours now, still you'd feel it, wouldn’t you?”

He attained his object. Myshkin left him almost beside himself.

These warnings about Rogozhin came the day before the wedding. Myshkin saw Nastasya Filippovna that evening for the last time before the wedding. But she was not in a state to reassure him. On the contrary, she had of late made him more and more uneasy. Till then, that is a few days before, when she saw him she made every effort to cheer him up, and was dreadfully afraid of his looking sad. She even tried singing to him; most frequently she would tell him everything amusing she could think of. Myshkin almost always pretended to laugh heartily. Sometimes he did really laugh at the brilliant wit and genuine feeling with which she sometimes told stories, when she was carried away by her subject, as she often was. Seeing Myshkin’s mirth, seeing the impression made on him, she was delighted, and began to feel proud of herself. But now her melancholy and brooding grew more marked every hour. His conviction of Nastasya Filippovna’s condition did not waver; but for that conviction all her behaviour now would have seemed to him enigmatic and unaccountable. But he genuinely believed that her recovery was possible. He had been quite truthful in telling Yevgeny Pavlovitch that he loved her truly and sincerely, and in his love for her there was an element of the tenderness for some sick, unhappy child who could not be left to shift for itself. He did not explain to anyone his feeling for her, and, in fact, disliked speaking of it, when he found it impossible to avoid the subject. When they were together, they never discussed their “feelings,” as though they had taken a vow not to do so. Anyone might have taken part in their everyday gay and lively conversation. Darya Alexeyevna used to say afterwards that she had done nothing all this tme, but wonder and rejoice, as she looked at them.

But his view of Nastasya Filippovna’s spiritual and mental condition to some extent saved him from many perplexities. Now she was completely different from the woman he had known three months before. He no longer wondered, for instance, why she had run away from marrying him then with tears, with curses and reproaches, yet now she was herself insisting on the marriage. So she was no longer afraid that marriage with her would be misery for him, thought Myshkin. Such a rapid growth of self-confidence could not be natural in her, in his opinion. But, again, this self-confidence could not be due simply to her hatred for Aglaia. Nastasya Filippovna was capable of feeling too deeply for that. It could not come from dread of her fate with Rogozhin. All these causes as well as others might indeed enter into it. But what was clearest to his mind was what he had suspected long ago—that is, that the poor sick soul had broken down. Though all this saved him in one way from perplexity, it could not give him any peace or rest all that time. At times he tried, as It were, not to think of anything. He seemed really to look on his marriage as some insignificant formality, he held his own future so cheap. As for protests, conversations like the one with Yevgeny Pavlovitch, he was utterly unable to answer them, and felt himself absolutely incompetent, and so avoided all talk of the kind.

He noticed, however, that Nastasya Filippovna knew and understood quite well what Aglaia meant for him. She did not speak, but he saw her “face,” when she found him sometimes preparing to go to the Epanchins. When the Epanchins left Pavlovsk, she was positively radiant. Unobservant and unsuspicious as he was, he had begun to be worried by the thought that Nastasya Filippovna might make up her mind to some public scandal to get Aglaia out of Pavlovsk. The talk and commotion about the wedding in all the villas was no doubt partly kept up by Nastasya Filippovna in order to irritate her rival. As it was difficult to meet the Epanchins, Nastasya Filippovna arranged to drive right in front of their windows with the prince in her carriage beside her. This was a horrible surprise for Myshkin. He realised it, as he usually did, when it was too late to set things right, when the carriage was actually passing the windows. He said nothing, but he was ill for two days afterwards. She did not repeat the experiment. During the last few days before the wedding she had frequent fits of brooding. She always ended by overcoming her melancholy, and became cheerful again, but more gently, not so noisily, not so happily cheerful as she had been of late. Myshkin redoubled his attention. It struck him as curious that she never spoke of Rogozhin. Only once, five days before the wedding, a message was suddenly brought him from Darya Alexeyevna to come at once, as Nastasya Filippovna was in a terrible state. He found her in a condition approaching complete madness. She kept screaming, shuddering, and crying out that Rogozhin was hidden in the garden, in their house, that she had seen him just now, that he would kill her in the night, that he would cut her throat! She could not be calmed all day. But that evening when Myshkin looked in on Ippolit for a moment, the captain’s widow, who had only just returned from the town where she had been on some little affair of her own, told him that Rogozhin had been to her lodging that day at Petersburg and had questioned her about Pavlovsk. In answer to her inquiry she said that Rogozhin had called on her at the very time when he was supposed to have been seen in the garden by Nastasya Filippovna. It was explained as pure imagination. Nastasya Filippovna went to the captain’s widow herself to question her more minutely, and was greatly relieved.

On the day before the wedding Myshkin left Nastasya Filippovna In a state of great excitement. Her wedding finery arrived from the dressmaker’s in Petersburg—her wedding dress, the bridal veil, and so on. Myshkin had not expected that she would be so much excited over her dress. He praised everything, and his praises made her happier than ever. But she let slip what was in her mind. She had heard that there was indignation in the town; that the madcaps of the place were getting up some sort of charivari with music, and possibly verses composed for the occasion; and that this was more or less with the approval of the rest of Pavlovsk society. And so she wanted to hold up her head higher than ever before them, to outshine them all with the taste and richness of her attire. “Let them shout, let them whistle if they dare!” Her eyes flashed at the very thought of it. She had another secret thought, but she did not utter that aloud. She hoped that Aglaia, or at any rate some one sent by her, would also be in the crowd incognito, in the church, would look and see, and she secretly prepared herself for it. She parted from Myshkin at eleven o’clock in the evening, absorbed in these ideas, but before it had struck midnight a messenger came running to Myshkin from Darya Alexeyevna begging him to “come at once, she’s very bad.”

Myshkin found his bride shut up in her bedroom, weeping, in despair, in hysterics. For a long time she would hear nothing that was said to her through the closed door. At last she opened it, letting no one in but Myshkin, shut the door, and fell on her knees before him. (So at least Darya Alexeyevna, who managed to get a peep, reported afterwards.)

“What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing to you?” she cried, embracing his feet convulsively.

Myshkin spent a whole hour with her; we do not know what they talked about. Darya Alexeyevna said that they parted peaceably and happily an hour later. Myshkin sent once more that night to inquire, but Nastasya Filippovna had dropped asleep.

In the morning before she waked, two more messengers were sent by Myshkin to Darya Alexeyevna, and it was a third messenger who was charged to report that “there was a perfect swarm of dressmakers and hairdressers from Petersburg round Nastasya Filippovna now; that there was no trace of yesterday’s upset; that she was busy, as such a beauty might well be, over dressing before her wedding; and that now, that very minute, there was an important consultation which of her diamonds to put on and how to put them on.”

Myshkin was completely reassured.

The account of what followed at the wedding was given me by people who saw it all, and I think it is correct.

The wedding was fixed for eight o’clock in the evening; Nastasya Filippovna was quite ready by seven. From six o’clock onwards a gaping crowd began gathering round Lebedyev’s villa, and a still larger one round Darya Alexeyevna’s. The church began filling up by seven o’clock. Vera Lebedyev and Kolya were in great alarm on Myshkin’s account. But they had a great deal to do in the house. They were arranging for a reception and refreshments in the prince’s rooms, though they hardly expected much of a gathering after the wedding. Besides the necessary persons who had to be present at the wedding, Lebedyev, the Ptitsyns, Ganya, the doctor with the Anna on his breast, and Darya Alexeyevna had been invited. When Myshkin asked Lebedyev why he had invited the doctor, “a man he hardly knew,” the latter replied complacently:

“An order on his breast, a man who is respected, for the style of the thing.”

And Myshkin laughed. Keller and Burdovsky, in evening suits, with gloves, looked quite correct, only Keller still troubled Myshkin and his supporters by a certain undisguised inclination for combat and cast very hostile looks at the sightseers who were gathering round the house. At last, at half-past seven, Myshkin set off for the church in a coach. We may observe, by the way, that he particularly wished not to omit any of the usual ceremonies. Everything was done openly, publicly, and “in due order.” Making his way somehow or other through the crowd in the church, escorted by Keller, who cast menacing looks to right and left of him, and followed by a continual fire of whispers and exclamations, Myshkin disappeared for a time into the altar end of the church,* and Keller went off to fetch the bride from Darya Alexeyevna’s, where he found at the entrance a crowd two or three times as large and fully three times as free and easy as at the prince’s. As he mounted the steps, he heard exclamations that were beyond endurance, and had already turned round to address an appropriate harangue to the crowd when he was luckily stopped by Burdovsky and by Darya Alexeyevna, who ran out at the door. They seized him and drew him indoors by force. Keller was irritated and hurried. Nastasya Filippovna got up, looked once more into the looking-glass, observed with a wry smile, as Keller reported afterwards, that she was “as pale as death,” bowed devoutly to the ikon, and went out on to the steps.

A hum of voices greeted her appearance. For the first moment, it is true, there were sounds of laughter, applause, even perhaps hisses, but within a moment another note was heard.

“What a beauty!” they exclaimed in the crowd.

“She’s not the first and she won't be the last.”

“She'll cover it all up with the wedding ring.”

“You won't find a beauty like that again in a hurry. Hurrah!” cried those standing nearest.

“A princess! For a princess like that I’d sell my soul,” cried a clerk. “‘One night at the price of a life!’” he quoted.

Nastasya Filippovna certainly was as white as a handkerchief when she came out, but her great black eyes glowed upon the crowd like burning coals. The crowd could not stand against them. Indignation was transformed into cries of enthusiasm. The door of the carriage was already open, Keller had already offered the bride his arm, when suddenly she uttered a cry and rushed straight into the crowd. All who were accompanying her were petrified with amazement. The crowd parted to make way for her, and five or six paces from the steps Rogozhin suddenly appeared. Nastasya Filippovna had caught his eyes in the crowd. She rushed at him like a mad creature and seized him by both arms.

“Save me! Take me away! Where you will, at once!”

Rogozhin seized her in his arms and almost carried her to the carriage. Then in a flash he pulled out a hundred-rouble note and gave it to the driver.

“To the railway station, and if you catch the train, there’s another hundred for you.”

And he leapt into the carriage after Nastasya Filippovna and closed the door. The coachman did not hesitate for one moment and whipped up his horses. Keller pleaded afterwards that he was taken by surprise: “Another second and I should have come to, and I wouldn’t have let them go!” he explained, describing the adventure. He and Burdovsky would have taken another carriage that stood by and have rushed off in pursuit, but reflected as he was starting that “it was in any case too late, and one couldn’t bring her back by force!”

“And the prince won’t wish it!” decided Burdovsky, greatly agitated.

Rogozhin and Nastasya Filippovna galloped to the station in time. After they had got out of the carriage, and when Rogozhin was on the point of stepping into the train he had time to stop a girl who was wearing an old but decent dark mantle and a silk kerchief on her head.

“Would you like fifty roubles for your mantle?” he cried, suddenly holding out the money to the girl. While she was still lost in amazement and trying to take it in, he had already thrust the fifty-rouble note into her hand, pulled off the mantle and kerchief, and flung them on the shoulders and head of Nastasya Filippovna. Her gorgeous array was too conspicuous, would have attracted attention on the journey, and it was only afterwards that the girl understood why her old and worthless mantle had been bought at so much profit to herself.

A rumour of what had happened reached the church with astounding rapidity. When Keller hurried to the prince, numbers of people whom he did not know rushed up to question him. There was loud talking, shaking of heads, and even laughter. No one left the church. Every one waited to see how the bridegroom would take the news. He turned pale, but received the news quietly, saying hardly anything.

“I was afraid, but yet I didn’t think this would happen. . . .” And then, after a brief silence, he added: “However . . . in her condition . . .

this is in the natural order of things.” This comment even Keller spoke of afterwards as “unexampled philosophy.” Myshkin came out of the church apparently calm and confident, so at least many people noticed and said afterwards. He seemed very anxious to get home and to be alone, but he was not allowed. He was followed into his room by several of the guests who had been invited—Ptitsyn, Gavril Ardalionovitch, and the doctor, who, like the others, seemed indisposed to go home. Moreover, the whole house was literally besieged by an idle crowd. From the verandah Myshkin could hear Keller and Lebedyev in angry dispute with some persons who were complete strangers, though they seemed to be of good position, and were bent on entering the verandah at any cost. Myshkin went out to the disputants, inquired what was the matter, and politely waving aside Lebedyev and Keller, he courteously addressed a stout, grey-headed gentleman who was standing on the steps at the head of a group of others, and invited him to honour him with a visit. The gentleman was somewhat disconcerted, but came in all the same, and after him came a second and a third. Out of the whole crowd seven or eight came in, trying to be as much at their ease as possible in doing so. But it turned out that no more were eager to join them, and they soon began censuring those intruders, who sat down, while a conversation sprang up and tea was offered. All this was done very modestly and decorously, to the considerable surprise of the new arrivals. There were, of course, some attempts to enliven the conversation and turn it to the theme lying uppermost in their minds. A few indiscreet questions were asked, a few risky remarks made. Myshkin answered every one so simply and cordially, yet with so much dignity, with such confidence in the good breeding of his guests, that indiscreet questions died away of themselves. Little by little the conversation became almost serious. One gentleman, catching at a word, suddenly swore with intense indignation that he would not sell his property, whatever happened; that on the contrary he would hang on and on and that “enterprise was better than money.”

“There, my dear sir, you have my system of economy, and I don’t mind your knowing it.” As he was addressing Myshkin, the latter warmly commended his intention, though Lebedyev whispered in his ear that this gentleman had neither house nor home, and never had had a property of any kind. Almost an hour passed, tea was finished, and after tea the visitors began to be ashamed to stay longer. The doctor and the grey-headed gentleman took a warm farewell of Myshkin, and they all said good-bye with noisy heartiness. Good wishes were expressed, and the opinion that “it was no use grieving, and that maybe it was all for the best,” and so on. Attempts were made, indeed, to ask for champagne, but the older guests checked the younger ones. When all were gone, Keller bent over to Lebedyev and informed him, “You and I would have made a row, had a fight, disgraced ourselves, have dragged in the police; but he’s made a lot of new friends—and what friends! I know them!” Lebedyev, who was a little “elevated,” sighed, and articulated, ““Thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes.’ I said so about him before, but now Ill add that God has saved the babe himself from the bottomless pit, He and His saints!” At last, about half-past ten, Myshkin was left alone. His head was aching. Kolya had helped him change his wedding clothes for his everyday suit, and was the last to leave. They parted very warmly. Kolya did not speak about what had happened, but promised to come early next day. He bore witness afterwards that Myshkin had given him no hint at their last parting, and so concealed his intentions even from him. Soon there was scarcely anyone left in the house. Burdovsky went off to Ippolit’s. Keller and Lebedyev went away too. Only Vera Lebedyev remained for some time in Myshkin’s rooms, hurriedly restoring them to their usual order. As she went out, she glanced at Myshkin. He was sitting with both elbows on the table and his head hidden in his hands. She went softly up to him and touched him on the shoulder. Myshkin looked at her in surprise, and for a minute seemed trying to remember. But recollecting and recognising everything, he suddenly became extremely agitated, though all he did was to beg Vera very earnestly to knock at his door early next morning, at seven o’clock, in time to catch the first train. Vera promised. Myshkin begged her eagerly not to speak of this to anyone. She promised that too, and at last when she opened the door to go Myshkin stopped her for the third time, and took her hands, kissed them, then kissed her on her forehead, and with rather a “peculiar” air, said, “Till to-morrow!” So at least Vera described it afterwards. She went away in great anxiety about him. She felt rather more cheerful in the morning, when at seven o’clock she knocked at his door as agreed and informed him that the train for Petersburg would leave in a quarter of an hour. It seemed to her that he answered her quite in good spirits, and even with a smile. He had hardly undressed that night, though he had slept. He thought he might be back that day. It appeared therefore that he had thought it possible and necessary to tell no one but her at that moment that he Was going to town.

CHAPTER XI

AN hour later he was already in Petersburg and soon after nine he was ringing at Rogozhin’s door. He went in at the visitors’ entrance and for a long time there was no answer. At last the door of the flat occupied by Rogozhin’s mother was opened and a trim-looking old servant appeared.

“Parfyon Semyonovitch is not at home,” she announced from the door. “Whom do you want?”

“Parfyon Semyonovitch!’

“He is not at home.”

The old servant looked at Myshkin with wild curiosity.

“Tell me, anyway, did he sleep at home last night? And . . . did he come back alone yesterday?”

The old woman went on looking at him but made no reply.

“Wasn't Nastasya Filippovna with him here . . . last night?”

“But allow me to ask who may you be pleased to be?”

“Prince Lyov Nikolayevitch Myshkin, we are very intimate friends.”

“He is not at home.”

The woman dropped her eyes.

“And Nastasya Filippovna?”

“I know nothing about that.”

“Stay, stay! When is he coming back?”

“We know nothing of that either.”

The door was closed.

Myshkin determined to come back in an hour’s time. Glancing into the yard he saw the porter.

“Ts Parfyon Semyonovitch at home?”

“Yes.”

“How is it I was told just now that he was not at home?”

“Did his servant tell you that?”

“No, the servant at his mother’s. I rang at Parfyon Semyonovitch’s, but there was no answer.”

“Perhaps he’s gone out,” the porter commented. “You see, he doesn’t say. And sometimes he takes the key away with him; the rooms are locked up for three days at a time.”

“Do you know for a fact that he was at home yesterday?”

“Yes, he was. Sometimes he goes in at the front door and one doesn’t see him.”

“And was Nastasya Filippovna with him yesterday?”

“That I can’t say. She doesn’t often come; I think we should know if she had been.”

Myshkin went out and for some time walked up and down the pavement lost in thought. The windows of the rooms occupied by Rogozhin were all closed; the windows of the part inhabited by his mother were almost all open. It was a hot, bright day. Myshkin crossed to the pavement on the other side of the street and stopped to look once more at the windows. They were not only closed, but almost everywhere hung with white curtains.

He stood still a moment, and strange to say it suddenly seemed to him that the corner of one curtain was lifted and he caught a glimpse of Rogozhin’s face, a momentary glimpse and it vanished. He waited a little longer and resolved to go back and ring again, but on second thoughts he put it off for one hour. “And who knows perhaps it was only my fancy... .”

What decided him was that he was in haste to get to the Izmailovsky Polk, to the lodging Nastasya Filippovna had lately occupied. He knew that when, at his request, she had left Pavlovsk three weeks before, she had settled in the house of a friend of hers, the widow of a teacher, an estimable lady with a family, who let well-furnished rooms, and in fact almost made her living by doing so. It was highly probable that, when Nastasya Filippovna moved for the second time to Pavlovsk, she had kept her lodging; it was very likely in any case that she had spent the night at those lodgings where Rogozhin, of course, would have brought her that evening. Myshkin took a cab. On the way it struck him that he ought to have begun by doing this, because it was unlikely she should have gone at night straight to Rogozhin’s. He remembered the porter’s words that Nastasya Filippovna did not often come. If she did not at any time come often, what would have induced her to stay at Rogozhin’s now? Comforting himself with these reflections, Myshkin reached the lodgings at last more dead than alive.

To his great amazement at the widow’s they had heard nothing of Nastasya Filippovna either that day or the day before, but they all ran out to stare at him, as at a wonder. The lady’s numerous family— all girls of every age between seven and fifteen—ran out after their mother and surrounded Myshkin, gaping. They were followed by a lean, yellow-faced aunt, and last of all the grandmother, a very aged lady in spectacles. The lady of the house earnestly begged him to go in and sit down, which Myshkin did. He saw at once that they knew quite well who he was and that his wedding was to have taken place the day before, and that they were dying to ask about the wedding and about the marvellous fact that he was inquiring of them for the woman, who should have been at that moment with him at Pavlovsk, but had too much delicacy to ask. In brief outlines he satisfied their curiosity about the wedding. Cries and exclamations of wonder and dismay followed, so that he was obliged to tell almost the whole story, in outline only, of course. Finally, the council of the sage and agitated ladies determined that the first thing certainly was to knock at Rogozhin’s till he got an answer and to find out positively from him about everything. If he were not at home (and that he must ascertain for certain), or if he were unwilling to say, the prince should go to a German lady living with her mother at Semyonovsky Polk, who was a friend of Nastasya Filippovna’s; possibly Nastasya Filippovna, in her excitement and desire to conceal herself, might have passed the night with them.

Myshkin got up completely crushed; they said afterwards that he had turned fearfully pale; indeed, his legs were almost giving way under him. At last, through the terrible shrill patter of their voices, he made out that they were arranging to act with him and were asking for his address in town. He had no address, it appeared; they advised him to put up at some hotel. Myshkin thought a moment and gave the address of the hotel he had stayed at before, the one where he had had a fit five weeks before. Then he set off again to Rogozhin’s. This time he failed to get an answer, not only from Rogozhin’s, but even from his mother’s flat. Myshkin went in search of the porter and with some difficulty found him in the yard; the porter was busy and hardly answered him, hardly looked at him in fact. Yet he asserted positively that Parfyon Semyonovitch had gone out very early in the morning, had gone to Pavlovsk, and would not be home that day.

“I will wait; perhaps he will be back in the evening?”

“But he mayn’t be back for a week. There’s no telling.”

“So he had anyway been at home that night?”

“That he had, to be sure.”

All this was suspicious, and there was something queer about it. It was quite possible that the porter might have received fresh instructions in the interval: he had been quite talkative the first time, but now he simply turned his back on him. But Myshkin made up his mind to come back once more, two hours later, and even to keep watch on the house if necessary; but now there was still hope in the German lady and he drove off to Semyonovsky Polk.

But at the German lady’s they did not even understand what he wanted. From some words they let slip, he was able to guess that the German beauty had quarrelled with Nastasya Filippovna about a fortnight before, so that she had heard nothing of her of late and exerted herself to the utmost now to make him understand that she did not care to hear anything “if she had married all the princes in the world.” Myshkin made haste to get away. It occurred to him among other conjectures that she might have gone to Moscow as she had done before, and Rogozhin of course had gone after her or perhaps with her. “If I could only find any traces!” He remembered, however, that he must stop at a hotel and he hurried to Liteyny; there he was at once given a room. The waiter asked him if he would not have something to eat; he answered absent-mindedly that he would. Then, realising, was furious with himself at wasting half an hour over lunch; and only later on grasped the fact that he was not obliged to remain to eat the lunch that was served to him. A strange sensation gained possession of him in that dingy and stuffy corridor, a sensation that strove painfully to become a thought; but he still could not guess what that new struggling thought was. He went out of the hotel at last, hardly knowing what he was doing; his head was in a whirl. But where was he to go? He rushed off to Rogozhin’s again.

Rogozhin had not come back; there was no answer to his ring; he rang at old Madame Rogozhin’s; the door was opened and he was told that Parfyon Semyonovitch was not at home and might be away for three days. Myshkin was disconcerted at being looked at as before with such wild curiosity. This time he could not find the porter at all. He crossed over to the opposite pavement as before, gazed up at the windows and . walked up and down in the stifling heat for half an hour, possibly more. This time nothing was stirring; the windows did not open, the white curtains were motionless. He made up his mind that he certainly had been mistaken before, that it was his fancy; that the windows in fact were so opaque and dirty that it would have been difficult to see, even if anyone had peeped out. Relieved by this reflection he set off to the widow lady’s at Izmailovsky Polk.

There they were already expecting him. The lady herself had already been to three or four places and had even been to Rogozhin’s; nothing was to be seen or heard there. Myshkin listened in silence, went into the room, sat down on the sofa and gazed at them all, as though he did not understand what they were talking about. Strange to say, he was at one moment keenly observant, at the rest absent-minded to an incredible degree. All the family declared afterwards that he was an extraordinarily strange person that day, so that “perhaps even then the end was clear.” At last he got up and asked them to show him the rooms which had been Nastasya Filippovna’s. ‘They were two large, light, lofty rooms, very nicely furnished and let at a high rent. All the ladies described afterwards how Myshkin had scrutinised every object in the room, had seen on the table a French book from the library, “Madame Bovary,” lying open, turned down the corner of the page at which the book was open, asked permission to take it with him, and not heeding the objection that it was a library book, put it in his pocket. He sat down at the open window and seeing a card-table marked with chalk, he asked who played. They told him that Nastasya Filippovna used to play every evening with Rogozhin at Fools, Preference, Millers, Whist, Your own ‘Trumps—all sorts of games, and that they had only taken to playing cards lately, after she came back from Pavlovsk, because Nastasya Filippovna was always complaining that she was bored, that Rogozhin would sit silent all the evening and did not know how to say a word, and she would often cry; and suddenly the next evening Rogozhin had taken a pack of cards out of his pocket; then Nastasya Filippovna had laughed, and they began playing. Myshkin asked where were the cards they used to play with? But the cards were not forthcoming; Rogozhin used to bring a new pack every day in his pocket and took it away again with him.

The ladies advised him to go once more to Rogozhin’s and to knock loudly once more, and to go not at once but in the evening, “perhaps something will turn up.” The widow herself offered meanwhile to go to Pavlovsk, to Darya Alexeyevna’s, to find out whether anything was known of her there. They asked Myshkin to come again in any case at ten o’clock that evening, that they might agree on the plans for next day.

In spite of all their attempts to comfort and reassure him, Myshkin’s soul was overwhelmed with absolute despair. In unutterable dejection he walked to his hotel. The dusty, stifling atmosphere of Petersburg weighed on him like a press; he was jostled by morose or drunken people, stared aimlessly at the faces, and perhaps walked much farther than he need have done; it was almost evening when he went into his room. He decided to rest a little and then to go to Rogozhin’s again, as he had been advised. He sat down on the sofa, leaned his elbows on the table and sank into thought.

God knows how long and of what he thought. There were many things he dreaded and he felt painfully, agonisingly, that he was in terrible dread. Vera Lebedyev came into his mind; then the thought struck him that Lebedyev perhaps knew something about it, or, if he did not, might find out more quickly and easily than he could. Then he remembered Ippolit, and that Rogozhin used to visit Ippolit. Then he thought of Rogozhin, as he was lately at the funeral, then in the park, then suddenly as he was here in the corridor, when he hid and waited for him with a knife. He recalled his eyes now, his eyes as they looked at him there in the darkness. He shuddered: that thought which had been striving for expression suddenly came into his head.

He thought that if Rogozhin were in Petersburg, even though he were hiding for a time, he would certainly end by coming to him, Myshkin, with good or with evil intention, as he had done then. Anyway, if Rogozhin did want to see him, there would be nowhere else for him to come but here, to this corridor. He did not know his address, so he might very well suppose that Myshkin would go to the same hotel as before; anyway, he would try looking for him here if he had great need of him. And who knows, perhaps he had great need of him?

So he mused and the idea seemed to him for some reason quite possible. He could not have explained if he had probed his own thought why he should be suddenly so necessary to Rogozhin, and why it was so impossible that they should not meet. But the thought Was an oppressive one: “If he is all right, he will not come,” Myshkin went on thinking; “he is more likely to come if he is unhappy; and he is certain to be unhappy.”

Of course, with that conviction he ought to have remained at home in his room, waiting for Rogozhin; but he seemed unable to remain with this new idea; he snatched up his hat and went out hurriedly. It was almost dark in the corridor by now. “What if he suddenly comes out of that corner and stops me at the stairs?” flashed through his mind, as he reached the same spot. But no one came out. He passed out at the gate, went out into the street, wondered at the dense crowd of people who had flocked into the streets at sunset (as they always do in Petersburg in summer-time) and turned in the direction of Gorohovy. Fifty paces from the hotel, at the first crossing some one in the crowd suddenly touched his elbow, and in an undertone said in his ear:

“Lyov Nikolayevitch, follow me, brother, I want you.”

It was Rogozhin.

Strange to say, Myshkin began telling him joyfully, gabbling at a great rate and hardly articulating the words, how he had just expected to see him at the hotel in the corridor.

“ve been there,” Rogozhin unexpectedly answered. “Come along.”

Myshkin was surprised at his answer, but did not wonder till two minutes later at least, when he realised it. When he reflected on the answer, he was alarmed and began to look intently at Rogozhin, who was walking almost half a step in front of him, looking straight before him, not glancing at anyone they passed, making way for other people with mechanical care.

“Why didn’t you ask for me at my room . . . if you have been at the hotel?” asked Myshkin suddenly.

Rogozhin stopped, looked at him, thought a little, and as though he did not take in the question, said:

“I say, Lyov Nikolayevitch, you go straight along, here to the house, you know? But I’ll walk on the other side. And mind that we keep together... .”

Saying this, he crossed the road to the opposite pavement, stood still to see whether Myshkin were walking on and seeing that he was standing still, gazing at him open-eyed, motioned him towards Gorohovy and walked on turning every moment to look at Myshkin and sign him to follow. He was evidently reassured by Myshkin’s understanding him and following him on the other side of the pavement. It occurred to Myshkin that Rogozhin wanted to keep a look out, and not let some one pass him on the way, and that therefore he had crossed to the other side, “Only why didn’t he say whom he has to look out for?”

So they walked for five hundred paces, and all at once, for some reason, Myshkin began trembling. Rogozhin still kept looking back at him, though not so often. Myshkin could not stand it and beckoned to him. Rogozhin at once crossed the road to him.

“Is Nastasya Filippovna in your house?”

“Yes.”

“And was it you looked at me behind the curtain this morning?”

“Yes.”

“How, was it youP...

But Myshkin did not know what more to ask or how to finish his question. Moreover, his heart was throbbing so violently that he could scarcely speak. Rogozhin, too, was silent, and he still gazed at him as before, that is, as it were, dreamily.

“Well, I am going,” he said suddenly, preparing to cross the road again, “and you go by yourself. Let us go separately in the street... that’s better for us... on different sides. . . . You will see.”

When at last they turned on opposite sides of the road into Gorohovy and began to approach Rogozhin’s house, Myshkin’s legs began to give way under him again, so that it was almost difficult for him to walk. It was about ten o’clock in the evening. The windows in the old lady’s part of the house were still open as before; in Rogozhin’s they were all closed, and in the twilight the white curtains over them seemed still more conspicuous. Myshkin approached the house from the other side of the pavement. Rogozhin from his side of the pavement went straight up the steps and beckoned to him. Myshkin crossed over and joined him.

“The porter doesn’t know that ’ve come home now. I said this morning that I was going to Pavlovsk, and I left word at my mother’s, too,” he whispered, with a sly and almost pleased smile. “We'll go in and no one will hear.”

The key was already in his hand. As he went up the staircase, he turned round and shook his finger at Myshkin to warn him to go up quietly; quietly he opened the door of his rooms, let Myshkin in, followed him in cautiously, closed the door behind him, and put the key in his pocket.

“Come along,” he articulated in a whisper.

He had not spoken above a whisper since they were in Liteyny. In spite of all his outward composure, he was inwardly in a state of intense agitation. When they went into the drawing-room, on their way to the study, he went to the window and mysteriously beckoned ”

to Myshkin.

“When you began ringing here this morning, I guessed at once that it was you. I went on tip-toe to the door and heard you talking to Pafnutyevna. And I gave her orders as soon as it was daylight that if you or anyone from you or anyone whatever began knocking at my door, she wasn’t to say I was here on any account, especially if you yourself came for me, and I gave her your name. And afterwards when you went out, the thought struck me, ‘What if he stands and keeps a look-out and watches in the street.’ I went up to this very window, drew aside the curtain, and there you were, standing looking straight at me. . . . That’s how it happened.”

“Where is . . . Nastasya Filippovna?” Myshkin articulated breathlessly.

“She is . . . here,” Rogozhin brought out slowly, after a moment’s delay.

“Where?”

Rogozhin raised his eyes and looked intently at Myshkin.

“Come along... .”

He still talked in a whisper and not hurriedly, but deliberately, and still with the same strange dreaminess. Even when he told him about the curtain, he seemed to mean something quite different by his words, in spite of the spontaneousness with which he spoke.

They went into the study. There was some change in the room since Myshkin had been in it last. A heavy green silk curtain that could be drawn at either end hung right across the room, dividing the alcove where Rogozhin’s bed stood from the rest of the apartment. The heavy curtain was closely drawn at both ends. It was very dark in the room. The white nights of the Petersburg summer were beginning to get darker and, had it not been for the full moon, it would have been difficult to make out anything in Rogozhin’s dark rooms with the windows curtained. It is true they could still see each other’s faces, though very indistinctly. Rogozhin’s face was pale as usual; his glittering eyes watched Myshkin intently with a fixed stare.

“You'd better light a candle,” said Myshkin.

“No, no need,” answered Rogozhin, and taking Myshkin’s hand he made him sit down on a chair; he sat opposite, moving his chair up so that he almost touched Myshkin with his knees. Between them, a little to one side, stood a small round table.

“Sit down, let’s stay here a bit,” he said, as though persuading Myshkin to stay. “I seemed to know that you would be staying at that hotel again,” he began, as people sometimes approach an important subject by beginning about quite irrelevant trifles. “As soon as I got into the corridor I thought, what if he is sitting waiting for me, just as I am for him at this very moment? Have you been to the teacher’s widow?”

“Yes,” Myshkin was hardly able to articulate from the violent throbbing of his heart.

“I thought of that, too. There’ll be talk, I thought . . . and then I thought again: I'll bring him here for the night, so that we may spend this night together.”

“Rogozhin! Where is Nastasya Filippovna?” Myshkin whispered suddenly, and he stood up trembling in every limb. Rogozhin got up, too.

“There,” he whispered, nodding towards the curtain.

“Asleep?” whispered Myshkin.

Again Rogozhin looked at him, intently as before.

“Well, come along then! ... Only you... well, come along!”

He lifted the curtain, stood still, and turned to Myshkin again.

“Come in,” he nodded, motioning him to go within the curtain. Myshkin went in.

“It’s dark here,” he said.

“One can see,” muttered Rogozhin.

“I can scarcely see .. . there’s a bed.”

“Go nearer,” Rogozhin suggested softly.

Myshkin took a step nearer, then a second, and stood still. He stood still and looked for a minute or two. Neither of them uttered a word all the while they stood by the bedside. Myshkin’s heart beat so violently that it seemed as though it were audible in the death-like stillness of the room. But his eyes were by now accustomed to the darkness, so that he could make out the whole bed. Some one lay asleep on it, in a perfectly motionless sleep; not the faintest stir, not the faintest breath could be heard. The sleeper was covered over from head to foot with a white sheet and the limbs were vaguely defined; all that could be seen was that a human figure lay there, stretched at full length. All around in disorder at the foot of the bed, on chairs beside it, and even on the floor, clothes had been flung in disorder; a rich white silk dress, flowers, and ribbons. On a little table at the head of the bed there was the glitter of diamonds that had been taken off and thrown down. At the end of the bed there was a crumpled heap of lace and on the white lace the toes of a bare foot peeped out from under the sheet; it seemed as though it had been carved out of marble and it was horridly still. Myshkin looked and felt that as he looked, the room became more and more still and death-like. Suddenly there was the buzz of a fly which flew over the bed and settled on the pillow. Myshkin started.

“Let’s go.” Rogozhin touched his arm. They went out, and sat down on the same chairs, facing one another again. Myshkin trembled more and more violently, and never took his questioning eyes off Rogozhin’s face.

“I notice you are trembling, Lyov Nikolayevitch,” Rogozhin said at last, “almost as much as you did when you had your illness. Do you remember, in Moscow? Or as you had once before a fit? I can’t think what I should do with you now... .”

Myshkin listened, straining every effort to understand, and still his eyes questioned him.

“Was it... you?” he brought out at last, nodding towards the curtain.

“Tt was I,” Rogozhin whispered, and he looked down.

They were silent for five minutes.

“For if,” Rogozhin began, continuing suddenly as though his speech had not been interrupted, “you are ill, have your fit and scream, some one may hear from the street or the yard, and guess that there are people in the flat. They'll begin knocking and come in ... for they all think I am not at home. I haven’t lighted a candle for fear they should guess from the street or the yard. For when I am away, I take the key and no one ever comes in to tidy the place for three or four days in my absence. That’s my habit. So I took care they shouldn’t find out we are here... .”

“Stay,” said Myshkin. “I asked the porter and the old woman this morning whether Nastasya Filippovna hadn’t stayed the night here. So they must know already.”

“I know that you asked them. I told Pafnutyevna that Nastasya Filippovna came here yesterday and went away to Pavlovsk and that she was only here ten minutes. And they don’t know she stayed the night here—no one knows it. I came in with her yesterday quite secretly, as we did just now. I’d been thinking on the way that she wouldn’t care to come in secretly, but not a bit of it! She whispered, she walked on tiptoe, she drew her skirts round her, and held them in her hand that they might not rustle. She shook her finger at me on the stairs—it was you she was afraid of. She was mad with terror in the train, and it was her own wish to stay the night here. I thought of taking her to her lodgings at the widow’s—but not a bit of it! “He'll find me there as soon as it’s daylight,’ she said, ‘but you will hide me and early to-morrow morning we'll set off for Moscow,’ and then she wanted to go somewhere to Orel. And as she went to bed she kept saying we’d go to Orel... .”

“Stay; what are you going to do now, Parfyon. What do you want to do?”

“I wonder about you, you keep trembling. We'll stay the night here together. There is no bed but that one, and I thought we might take the pillows off the two sofas and make up a bed here for you and me beside the curtain, so that we can be together. For if they come in and begin looking round or searching, they'll see her at once and take her away. They'll begin questioning me, I shall say it was me, and they'll take me away at once. So let her lie here now beside us, beside you and me. .. .”

“Yes, yes!” Myshkin agreed warmly.

“So we won't confess and let them take her away.”

“Not on any account!” Myshkin decided. “Certainly not.”

“That’s what I decided, lad, not to give her up on any account to any one! We'll keep quiet all night. I only went out for an hour this morning, except for that ’ve been with her all the time. And then I went to find you in the evening. Another thing I am afraid of is that it’s so hot and there may be a smell. Do you notice a smell?”

“Perhaps I do, I don’t know. There certainly will be by the morning.”

“IT covered her with American leather, good American leather, and put the sheet over it, and I put four jars of Zhdanov’s disinfectant there uncorked, they are standing there now.”

“Just as they did that time .. . at Moscow?”

“On account of the smell, brother. And you see how she is lying. ... You must look in the morning when it’s light. What’s the matter, can’t you stand up?” Rogozhin asked with apprehensive wonder, seeing that Myshkin was trembling so much that he could not get up.

“My legs won’t move,” muttered Myshkin, “it’s from terror, I know. ... When the fear is over I shall get up.”

“Stay, I’ll make up our bed and you'd better lie down . . . and Tl he down too .. . and we'll listen, for I don’t know yet, lad, for I don’t understand it all yet, I warn you of that beforehand, so that you may know all about it beforehand. . . .”

Muttering these unintelligible words, Rogozhin began making up the beds. It was evident that he had thought of these beds, possibly even that morning. The previous night he had lain on the sofa. But there was not room for two on the sofa, and he was set on their sleeping side by side, that was why, with much effort, he now dragged, right across the room, the various cushions off the two sofas and laid them by the curtain. He made the bed after a fashion; he went up to Myshkin, tenderly and eagerly took him by the arm, raised him and led him to the bed, but Myshkin found he could walk by himself, so his terror was passing off, and yet he still was trembling.

“Because,” Rogozhin began making Myshkin lie down on the left on the best cushions, while without undressing he stretched himself out on the right, clasping his hands behind his head, “because it’s hot, brother, and you know there may be a smell... I am afraid to open the windows; my mother has got jars of flowers, heaps of flowers and they have such a delicious smell; I thought of bringing them in, but Pafnutyevna would have been suspicious, she is inquisitive.”

“She is inquisitive,” Myshkin assented.

“Shall we buy nosegays and put flowers all round her? But I think, friend, it will make us sad to see her with flowers round her!”

“Listen!” said Myshkin uncertainly, as though he were looking for what he meant to ask and at once forgetting it again, “listen, tell me what did you do it with? A knife? The same one?”

“The same one.”

“There’s something else; I want to ask you something else, Parfyon ... | want to ask you a great many questions, all about it... but you had better tell me first, to begin with, so that I may know; did you mean to kill her before my wedding, at the church door... with a knife?”

“I don’t know whether I meant to or not,” Rogozhin answered drily, seeming somewhat surprised at the question and not understanding it.

“Did you ever take the knife with you to Pavlovsk?”

“No, never. All I can tell you about the knife is this, Lyov Nikolayevitch,” he added after a pause, “I took it out of a locked drawer this morning, for it all happened this morning, about four o’clock. It had been lying in a book all the time. ... And... and... another thing seems strange: the knife went in three or four inches . . . just under the left breast . . . and there wasn’t more than half a tablespoon of blood that flowed on to her chemise, there was no more... .

“That, that, that,” Myshkin sat up suddenly in great agitation, “that I know, I’ve read about it, that’s called internal bleeding. . . . Sometimes there’s not one drop. That’s when the stab goes straight to the heart.”

“Stay, do you hear?” Rogozhin interrupted quickly, all of a sudden, sitting up in terror on the cushions. “Do you hear?”

“No!” answered Myshkin, as quickly and fearfully looking at Rogozhin.

“Steps! Do you hear? In the drawing-room. . . .” They both began listening.

“I hear,” said Myshkin decidedly.

“Footsteps?”

“Footsteps.”

“Shall we shut the door or not?”

sero) 210 [eit ear

They shut the door and both lay down again.

They were silent for a long time.

“Ah, yes,” Myshkin began suddenly in the same excited and hurried whisper, as though he had caught his thought and were dreadfully afraid of losing it again; he sat up on the bed. “It’s... I wanted .. . those cards! cards. . . . They said you played cards with her?”

“Yes I did,” said Rogozhin, after a brief silence.

“Where are... the cards?”

“They are here,” Rogozhin brought out after a longer silence, iy «(210 ea

He brought a pack of cards wrapped up in paper out of his pocket and held them out to Myshkin. He took it, but with a sort of wonder. A new feeling of hopeless sadness weighed on his heart; he realised suddenly that at that moment and a long time past he had been saying not what he was wanting to say and had been doing the wrong thing, and that the cards he was holding in his hands and was so pleased to see were no help, no help now. He stood up and clasped his hand. Rogozhin lay without movement and seemed not to hear and see his action; but his eyes glittered in the darkness and were wide open and staring fixedly. Myshkin sat down on a chair and began looking at him with terror. Half an hour passed; suddenly Rogozhin cried out aloud and began laughing, as though he had forgotten they must speak in a whisper:

“That officer, that officer . . . do you remember how she switched that officer at the band-stand, ha-ha-ha! And there was a cadet...a cadet...a cadet, too, who rushed up...”

Myshkin jumped up from the chair in new terror. When Rogozhin was quiet (and he suddenly ceased), Myshkin bent softly over him, sat beside him and with his heart beating violently and his breath coming in gasps, he began looking at him. Rogozhin did not turn his head towards him and seemed indeed to have forgotten him. Myshkin looked and waited; time was passing, it began to get light. From time to time Rogozhin began suddenly and incoherently muttering in a loud harsh voice, he began shouting and laughing. Then Myshkin stretched out his trembling hand to him and softly touched his head, his hair, stroking them and stroking his cheeks . . . he could do nothing else! He began trembling again, and again his legs seemed suddenly to fail him. Quite a new sensation gnawed at his heart with infinite anguish. Meanwhile it had become quite light; at last he lay down on the pillow as though utterly helpless and despairing and put his face close to the pale and motionless face of Rogozhin; tears flowed from his eyes on to Rogozhin’s cheeks, but perhaps he did not notice then his own tears and was quite unaware of them.

Anyway, when after many hours the doors were opened and people came in, they found the murderer completely unconscious and raving. Myshkin was sitting beside him motionless on the floor, and every time the delirious man broke into screaming or babble, he hastened to pass his trembling hand softly over his hair and cheeks, as though caressing and soothing him. But by now he could understand no questions he was asked and did not recognise the people surrounding him; and if Schneider himself had come from Switzerland to look at his former pupil and patient, remembering the condition in which Myshkin had sometimes been during the first year of his stay in Switzerland, he would have flung up his hands in despair and would have said as he did then, “An idiot!”

CHAPTER XII. CONCLUSION

CHAPTER XII

CONCLUSION

THE schoolmaster’s widow, hurrying off to Pavlovsk, had gone dil

straight to see Darya Alexeyevna, who was agitated by the events of the previous day, and telling her all that she knew threw her into a regular panic. The two ladies decided at once to get into communication with Lebedyev, who as a householder and a friend of his lodger, was also in agitation. Vera Lebedyev told them all that she knew. By Lebedyev’s advice they decided to set off to Petersburg all three together, in order as quickly as possible to prevent what might very easily come to pass. So it came about that at about eleven o’clock next morning Rogozhin’s flat was broken open in the presence of the police, of Lebedyev, of the ladies, and of Rogozhin’s brother, Semyon Semyonovitch, who lived in the lodge. Matters were greatly facilitated by the evidence of the porter, that he had seen Parfyon Semyonovitch the previous evening going in at the front door with a visitor and seemingly in secret.

For two months Rogozhin was prostrate with inflammation of the brain, and he was tried as soon as he recovered. He gave straightforward, exact, and fully satisfactory evidence on every point, in consequence of which from the very first Myshkin’s name was not brought into the case. Rogozhin was taciturn during his trial. He did not contradict his adroit and eloquent counsel, who proved clearly and logically that the crime committed was a consequence of the brain fever which had set in long before its perpetration, as a result of the troubles of the accused. But he added nothing of his own to confirm that contention, and as before, clearly and precisely maintained and recollected the minutest circumstances connected with the crime. In view of extenuating circumstances he was sentenced to only fifteen years penal servitude in Siberia, and heard his sentence grimly, silently, and “dreamily.” All his vast fortune, except the comparatively small part that he had squandered in the first few months of debauchery, passed to his brother, Semyon Semyonovitch, to the great satisfaction of the latter. Rogozhin’s old mother is still living, and seems from time to time to remember her favourite son, Parfyon, though only vaguely. God has saved her, mind and her heart from the knowledge of the blow that has fallen on her melancholy house.

Lebedyev, Keller, Ganya, Ptitsyn, and many of the other persons of our story go on living as before and have changed but little. There is scarcely anything to be said about them. Ippolit died in a state of terrible excitement somewhat sooner than he had expected, a fortnight after the death of Nastasya Filippovna. Kolya was greatly affected by what had happened; he attached himself more closely than ever to his mother. Nina Alexandrovna is uneasy at his being too thoughtful for his years; he may become an active and useful man. Among other things, the arrangement of Myshkin’s future was partly due to his efforts; he had long before noticed Yevgeny Pavlovitch Radomsky as different from the other persons he had made friends with of late; he was the first to go and tell him all he knew about the case and Myshkin’s present condition. He was not mistaken in his estimate of him. Yevgeny Pavlovitch took the warmest interest in the luckless “idiot’s” fate and by his care and efforts Myshkin was taken back to Dr. Schneider’s in Switzerland. As Yevgeny Pavlovitch has gone abroad and intends to spend a long time in Europe, openly declaring that he is a superfluous man in Russia, he visits his sick friend at Schneider’s pretty often, at least once every few months. But Schneider frowns and shakes his head more ominously every time; he hints at a permanent derangement of the intellect; he does not yet say positively that recovery is out of the question, but he allows himself phrases suggestive of most melancholy possibilities. Yevgeny Pavlovitch takes this very much to heart; he has a heart, which is evident from the fact that Kolya writes to him, and that he even sometimes answers him. Another curious fact is known about him, and as it shows a kindly trait in his character, we hasten to mention it. After every visit to Dr. Schneider, Yevgeny Pavlovitch, besides writing to Kolya, sends a letter to another person in Petersburg giving the most sympathetic and minute account of Myshkin’s state of health. Together with the most respectful expression of devotion those letters sometimes (and more and more frequently) contain a frank statement of views, ideas, and feelings—in fact something approaching a feeling of warm friendship is revealed by them. The person who is in correspondence with him (though the letters are not very frequent) and who has won so much attention and respect from him is Vera Lebedyev. We have never been able to ascertain how such relations arose between them. No doubt they began at the time of Myshkin’s breakdown, when Vera Lebedyev was so distressed that she fell positively ill. But exactly what incident brought about his acquaintance and friendship we do not know.

We have alluded to these letters chiefly because they contained news of the Epanchins, and especially of Aglaia. Of her Yevgeny Pavlovitch wrote in a rather disconnected letter from Paris that after a brief and extraordinary attachment to an exile, a Polish count, she had suddenly married him against the wishes of her parents, who had only given their consent at last because there were possibilities of a terrible scandal. Then after almost six months’ silence Yevgeny Pavlovitch gave his correspondent a lengthy and detailed account of how, on his last visit to Dr. Schneider’s, he had met there Prince S. and all the Epanchin family (except, of course, Ivan Fyodorovitch who was kept in Petersburg by business). It was a strange meeting; they had all met Yevgeny Pavlovitch with extraordinary delight; Adelaida and Alexandra were unaccountably grateful to him “for his angelic kindness to the unhappy prince.” Lizaveta Prokofyevna wept bitterly at the sight of Myshkin in his afflicted and humiliated condition. Obviously everything had been forgiven him. Prince S. had made a few Just and true observations. It seemed to Yevgeny Pavlovitch that Adelaida and he were not yet in perfect harmony, but that inevitably in the future Adelaida would spontaneously and ungrudgingly allow her impetuous temper to be guided by Prince S.’s good sense and experience. Moreover, the painful experiences the family had been through, especially Aglaia’s recent adventure with the exile, had made a profound impression upon her. Everything that the family had dreaded in giving Aglaia to the Polish count had within six months come to pass, together with fresh surprises of which they had never dreamed. It turned out that the count was not even a count, and if he were really an exile, it was owing to some dark and dubious incident in the past. He had fascinated Aglaia by the extraordinary nobility of his soul, which was torn with patriotic anguish, and fascinated her to such a degree that even before she married him she became a member of a committee for the restoration of Poland and had, moreover, visited the confessional of a celebrated Catholic priest, who gained a complete ascendancy over her mind. The vast estates of the Polish count, of which he had given Lizaveta Prokofyevna and Prince S. almost incontestable evidence, turned out to be a myth. What was more, within six months of the wedding the count and his friend the celebrated confessor had succeeded in setting Aglaia completely against her family, so that for some months they had not even seen her... . There was, in fact, a great deal to say, but Lizaveta Prokofyevna, her daughters, and even Prince S. had been so much distressed by all this “terrible business,” that they were reluctant even to allude to some points in conversation with Yevgeny Pavlovitch, though they were aware that he already knew the story of Aglaia’s latest infatuation. Poor Lizaveta Prokofyevna was longing to be back in Russia, and according to Yevgeny Pavlovitch’s account she was bitter and unfair in her criticism of everything in Europe.

“They can’t make decent bread anywhere; in winter they are frozen like mice in a cellar,”she said; “here, at any rate, I’ve had a good Russian cry over this poor fellow,” she added pointing to Myshkin, who did not even recognise her. “We’ve had enough of following our whims; it’s time to be reasonable. And all this, all this life abroad, and this Europe of yours is all a fantasy, and all of us abroad are only a fantasy . . . remember my words, you'll see it for yourself!” she concluded almost wrathfully, as she parted from Yevgeny Pavlovitch.