 Part 2, Chapter 5 of The Idiot. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Translated by Eva M. Martin. Part 2, Chapter 5. It was late now, nearly half-past two, and the Prince did not find General Yepanchin at home. He left a card, and determined to look up Kolia, who had a room at a small hotel near. Kolia was not in, but he was informed that he might be back shortly, and had left word that if he were not in by half-past three, it was to be understood that he had gone to Pavlovsk to General Yepanchin's, and would dine there. The Prince decided to wait till half-past three, and ordered some dinner. At half-past three there was no sign of Kolia. The Prince waited until four o'clock, and then strolled off mechanically, wherever his feet should carry him. In early summer there are often magnificent days in St. Petersburg, bright, hot, and still. This happened to be such a day. For some time the Prince wandered about without aim or object. He did not know the town well. He stopped to look about him on bridges at street corners. He entered a confectioner's shop to rest once. He was in a state of nervous excitement and perturbation. He noticed nothing and no one, and he felt a craving for solitude, to be alone with his thoughts and his emotions, and to give himself up to them passively. He loathed the idea of trying to answer the questions that would rise up in his heart and mind. I am not to blame for all this, he thought to himself half-unconsciously. Towards six o'clock he found himself at the station of the Tsarskosilsky Railway. He was tired of solitude now, a new rush of feeling took hold of him, and a flood of light chased away the gloom for a moment from his soul. He took a ticket to Pavlovsk and determined to get there as fast as he could, but something stopped him, a reality and not a fantasy as he was inclined to think it. He was about to take his place in a carriage when he suddenly threw away his ticket and came out again disturbed and thoughtful. A few moments later, in the street, he recalled something that had bothered him all the afternoon. He caught himself engaged in a strange occupation, which he now recollected he had taken up at odd moments for the last few hours. It was looking about all around him for something he did not know what. He had forgotten it for a while, half an hour or so, and now suddenly the uneasy search had recommenced. But he had hardly become conscious of this curious phenomenon when another recollection suddenly swam through his brain, interesting him for the moment exceedingly. He remembered that the last time he had been engaged in looking around him for the unknown something, he was standing before a cutler's shop, in the window of which were exposed certain goods for sale. He was extremely anxious now to discover whether this shop and these goods really existed, or whether the whole thing had been a hallucination. He felt in a very curious condition today, a condition similar to that which had preceded his fits in bygone years. He remembered that at such times he had been particularly absent-minded, and could not discriminate between objects and persons unless he concentrated special attention upon them. He remembered seeing something in the window marked at sixty-copex. Or if the shop existed, and if this object were really in the window, it would prove that he had been able to concentrate his attention on this article, at a moment when, as a general rule, his absence of mind would have been too great to admit of any such concentration. In fact, very shortly after he had left the railway station in such a state of agitation. So he walked back looking about him for the shop, and his heart beat with intolerable impatience. Ah, here was the very shop, and there was the article marked sixty-copex. Of course it's sixty-copex, he thought, and certainly worth no more. This idea amused him, and he laughed. But it was a hysterical laugh. He was feeling terribly oppressed. He remembered clearly that just here, standing before this window, he had suddenly turned round. Just as earlier in the day he had turned and found the dreadful eyes of Rogojin fixed upon him. Convinced therefore that in this respect at all events he had been under no delusion, he left the shop and went on. This must be thought out. It was clear that there had been no hallucination at the station then, either. Something had actually happened to him on both occasions. There was no doubt of it. But again a loathing for all mental exertion overmastered him. He would not think it out now, he would put it off and think of something else. He remembered that during his epileptic fits, or rather immediately preceding them, he had always experienced a moment or two when his whole heart and mind and body seemed to wake up to vigor and light. And he became filled with joy and hope, and all his anxieties seemed to be swept away forever. These moments were but presentiments, as it were, of the one final second. It was never more than a second in which the fit came upon him. That second, of course, was inexpressible. When his attack was over, and the prince reflected on his symptoms he used to say to himself, these moments, shortest they are, when I feel such extreme consciousness of myself, and consequently more of life than at other times, are due only to the disease, to the sudden rupture of normal conditions. For they are not really a higher kind of life, but a lower. This reasoning, however, seemed to end in a paradox, and lead to the further consideration. What matter though it be only disease, an abnormal tension of the brain, if when I recall and analyse the moment it seems to have been one of harmony and beauty in the highest degree. An instant of deepest sensation, overflowing with unbounded joy and rapture, ecstatic devotion and completest life. Vague though this sounds, it was perfectly comprehensible to Mushkin, though he knew that it was but a feeble expression of his sensations. That there was indeed beauty and harmony in those abnormal moments, that they really contained the highest synthesis of life, he could not doubt, nor even admit the possibility of doubt. He felt that they were not analogous to the fantastic and unreal dreams due to intoxication by hashish, opium or wine. Of that he could judge when the attack was over. These instances were characterised to define it in a word by an intense quickening of the sense of personality. Since in the last conscious moment preceding the attack he could say to himself with full understanding of his words, I would give my whole life for this one instant, then doubtless to him it really was worth a lifetime. For the rest he thought the dialectical part of the argument of little worth. He saw only too clearly that the result of these ecstatic moments was stupefaction, total darkness, idiocy. No argument was possible on that point. His conclusion, his estimate of the moment, doubtless contained some error, yet the reality of the sensation troubled him. What's more unanswerable than a fact, and this fact had occurred. The prince had confessed unreservedly to himself that the feeling of intense beatitude in that crowded moment made the moment worth a lifetime. I feel then, he said one day to Rogozhin in Moscow, I feel then as if I had understood those amazing words, there shall be no more time. And he added with a smile, no doubt the epileptic Mohammed refers to that same moment when he says that he visited all the dwellings of Allah in less time than was needed to empty his picture of water. Yes, he had often met Rogozhin in Moscow, and many were the subjects they discussed. He told me I had been a brother to him, thought the prince. He said so to-day for the first time. He was sitting in the summer garden on a seat under a tree, and his mind dwelt on the matter. It was about seven o'clock, and the place was empty. The stifling atmosphere foretold a storm, and the prince felt a certain charm in the contemplative mood which possessed him. He found pleasure too in gazing at the exterior objects around him. All the time he was trying to forget some thing, to escape from some idea that haunted him. But melancholy thoughts came back, though he would so willingly have escaped from them. He remembered suddenly how he had been talking to the waiter while he dined about a recently committed murder which the whole town was discussing, and as he thought of it something strange came over him. He was seized all at once by a violent desire, almost a temptation, against which he strove in vain. He jumped up, and walked off as fast as he could towards the Petersburg side. He had asked someone a little while before to show him which was the Petersburg side on the banks of the Nieva. He had not gone there, however, and he knew very well that it was of no use to go now, for he would certainly not find Lebedev's relation at home. He had the address, but she must certainly have gone to Pavlovsk, or Kolia would have let him know. If he were to go now, it would merely be out of curiosity. But a sudden new idea had come into his head. However it was something to move on, and know where he was going. A minute later he was still moving on, but without knowing anything. He could no longer think out his new idea. He tried to take an interest in all he saw, in the sky, in the Nieva. He spoke to some children he met. He felt his epileptic condition becoming more and more developed. The evening was very close, thunder was heard some way off. The prince was haunted all that day by the face of Lebedev's nephew whom he had seen for the first time that morning, just as one is haunted at times by some persistent musical refrain. By a curious association of ideas, the young man always appeared as the murderer of whom Lebedev had spoken when introducing him to Mushkin. Yes, he had read something about the murder and that quite recently. Once he came to Russia he had heard many stories of this kind and was interested in them. His conversation with the waiter an hour ago chanced to be on the subject of this murder of the Zemarines, and the latter had agreed with him about it. He thought of the waiter again, and decided that he was no fool but a steady, intelligent man. Though said he to himself, God knows what he may really be. In a country with which one is unfamiliar it is difficult to understand the people one meets. He was beginning to have a passion at faith in the Russian soul, however, and what discoveries he had made in the last six months, what unexpected discoveries. And every soul is a mystery, and depths of mystery lie in the soul of a Russian. He had been intimate with Rogolshin, for example, and a brotherly friendship had sprung up between them. Yet did he really know him? What chaos and ugliness fills the world at times! What a self-satisfied rascal is that nephew of Lebedev's! And what am I thinking? continued the prince to himself. Can he really have committed that crime? Did he kill those six persons? I seem to be confusing things. How strange it all is! My head goes round. And Lebedev's daughter, how sympathetic and charming her face was as she held the child in her arms. What an innocent look and childlike laugh she had! It is curious that I had forgotten her until now. I expect Lebedev adores her, and I really believe, when I think of it, that as sure as two and two make four, he is fond of that nephew too. Well, why should he judge them so hastily? Did he really say what they were after one short visit? Even Lebedev seemed an enigma today. Did he expect to find him so? He had never seen him like that before, Lebedev and the Contest du Barry. Good heavens! If Rogozhin should really kill someone, it would not at any rate be such a senseless, chaotic affair. A knife made to a special pattern, and six people killed in a kind of delirium. But Rogozhin also had a knife made to a special pattern. Can it be that Rogozhin wishes to murder anyone? The prince began to tremble violently. It is a crime on my part to imagine anything so base, with such cynical frankness. His face reddened with shame at the thought, and then there came across him as in a flash the memory of the incidents at the Pavlovsk station, and at the other station in the morning, and the question asked him by Rogozhin about the eyes, and Rogozhin's cross that he was even now wearing, and the benediction of Rogozhin's mother, and his embrace on the darkened staircase, that last supreme renunciation, and now to find himself full of this new idea, staring into shop windows and looking round for things. How base he was. Despair overmastered his soul. He would not go on. He would go back to his hotel. He even turned and went the other way. But a moment after, he changed his mind again, and went on in the old direction. Why, here he was on the Petersburg side already, quite close to the house. Where was his idea? He was marching along without it now. Yes, his malady was coming back. It was clear enough. All this gloom and heaviness, all these ideas, were nothing more nor less than a fit coming on. Perhaps he would have a fit this very day. But just now all the gloom and darkness had fled. His heart felt full of joy and hope. There was no such thing as doubt. And yes, he hadn't seen her for so long. He really must see her. He wished he could meet Rogozhin. He would take his hand, and they would go to her together. His heart was pure. He was no rival of Parfions. Tomorrow he would go and tell him that he had seen her. Why, he had only come for the sole purpose of seeing her, all the way from Moscow. Perhaps she might be here still, who knows. She might not have gone away to Pavlovsk yet. Yes, all this must be put straight and above-board. There must be no more passionate renouncements, such as Rogozhin's. It must all be clear as day. What Rogozhin's soul bear the light? He said he did not love her with sympathy and pity. True, he added that your pity is greater than my love. But he was not quite fair on himself there. Kin! Rogozhin reading a book wasn't that sympathy beginning. He did not show that he comprehended his relations with her, and his story of waiting day and night for her forgiveness, that didn't look quite like passion alone. And as to her face, could it inspire nothing but passion? Could her face inspire passion at all now? Oh, it inspired suffering, grief, overwhelming grief of the soul! A poignant agonising memory swept over the Prince's heart. Yes, agonising. He remembered how he had suffered that first day when he thought he observed in her the symptoms of madness. He had almost fallen into despair. How could he have lost his hold upon her when she ran away from him to Rogozhin? He ought to have run after her himself rather than wait for news as he had done. Can Rogozhin have failed to observe up to now that she is mad? Rogozhin attributes her strangeness to other causes, to passion. What insane jealousy! What was it he had hinted at in that suggestion of his? The Prince suddenly blushed and shuddered to his very heart. But why recall all this? There was insanity on both sides. For him, the Prince, to love this woman with passion, was unthinkable. It would be cruel and inhuman. Yes, Rogozhin is not fair to himself. He has a large heart. He has aptitude for sympathy. When he learns the truth, and finds what a pitiable being is this injured, broken, half-insane creature, he will forgive her all the torment she has caused him. He will become her slave, her brother, her friend. Compassion will teach even Rogozhin. It will show him how to reason. Compassion is the chief law of human existence. Oh, how guilty he felt towards Rogozhin! And for a few warm, hasty words spoken in Moscow, Parfion had called him brother. While he—but no, this was delirium. It would come all right. That gloomy Parfion had implied that his faith was waning. He must suffer dreadfully. He said he liked to look at that picture. It was not that he liked it, but he felt the need of looking at it. Rogozhin was not merely a passionate soul. He was a fighter. He was fighting for the restoration of his dying faith. He must have something to hold on to and believe, and someone to believe in. What a strange picture that of Holbein is! Why, this is the street, and here's the house, number sixteen. The prince rang the bell, and asked for Nastasia Philipovna. The lady of the house came out, and stated that Nastasia had gone to stay with Daria Alexeevna at Pavlovsk, and might be there some days. Madame Felizov was a little woman of forty, with a cunning face and crafty, piercing eyes. When, with an air of mystery, she asked her visitor's name, he refused at first to answer. But in a moment he changed his mind, and left strict instructions that it should be given to Nastasia Philipovna. The urgency of his request seemed to impress Madame Felizov, and she put on a knowing expression, as if to say, You need not be afraid, I quite understand. The prince's name evidently was a great surprise to her. He stood and looked absently at her for a moment, and turned, and took the road back to his hotel. But he went away not as he came. A great change had suddenly come over him. He went blindly forward. His knees shook under him. He was tormented by ideas. His lips were blue and trembled with a feeble, meaningless smile. His demon was upon him once more. What had happened to him? Why was his brow clammy with drops of moisture, his knees shaking beneath him, and his soul oppressed with a cold gloom? Was it because he had just seen those dreadful eyes again? Why he had left the summer-guard non-purpose to see them? That had been his idea. He had wished to assure himself that he would see them once more at that house. Then why was he so overwhelmed now, having seen them as he expected? Just as though he had not expected to see them, yes they were the very same eyes, and no doubt about it. The same that he had seen in the crowd that morning at the station. The same that he had surprised in Rogojin's room some hours later when the latter had replied to his inquiry with a sneering laugh. Well, whose eyes were they? Then for the third time they had appeared just as he was getting into the train on his way to see Aglaya. He had had a strong impulse to rush up to Rogojin and repeat his words of the morning. Whose eyes are they? Instead he had fled from the station and knew nothing more, until he found himself gazing into the window of a cutler's shop, and wondering if a knife with a staghorn handle would cost more than sixty co-pecs. And as the prince sat dreaming in the summer garden under a lime-tree, a wicked demon had come and whispered in his ear, Rogojin has been spying upon you and watching you all the morning in a frenzy of desperation. When he finds you have not gone to Pavlovsk, a terrible discovery for him he will surely go at once to that house in Petersburg's side, and watch for you there, although only this morning you gave your word of honour not to see her, and swore that you had not come to Petersburg for that purpose. And thereupon the prince had hastened off to that house, and what was there in the fact that he had met Rogojin there? He had only seen a wretched, suffering creature, whose state of mind was gloomy and miserable, but most comprehensible. In the morning Rogojin had seemed to be trying to keep out of the way, but at the station this afternoon he had stood out. He had concealed himself indeed less than the prince himself. At the house now he had stood fifty yards off on the other side of the road, with folded hands, watching, plainly in view, and apparently desirous of being seen. He had stood there like an accuser, like a judge, not like a—what? And why had not the prince approached him and spoken to him, instead of turning away and pretending he had seen nothing, although their eyes met? Yes, their eyes had met, and they had looked at each other. Why, he had himself wished to take Rogojin by the hand, and go in together. He had himself determined to go to him on the morrow, and to tell him that he had seen her. He had repudiated the demon as he walked to the house, and his heart had been full of joy. Was there something in the whole aspect of the man to-day sufficient to justify the prince's terror and the awful suspicions of his demon, something seen but indescribable which filled him with dreadful presentiments? Yes, he was convinced of it. Convinced of what? Oh, how mean and hideous of him to feel this conviction, this presentiment, how he blamed himself for it. Speak, if you dare, and tell me what is the presentiment? He repeated to himself over and over again. Put it into words, speak out clearly and distinctly. Oh, miserable coward that I am! The prince flushed with shame for his own baseness. How shall I ever look this man in the face again? My God, what a day! And what a nightmare, what a nightmare! There was a moment during this long, wretched walk back from the Petersburg side when the prince felt an irresistible desire to go straight to Rogorjin's, wait for him, embrace him with tears of shame and contrition, and tell him of his distrust, and finish with it once for all. But here he was back at his hotel. How often, during the day he had thought of this hotel with lozing, its corridor, its rooms, its stairs, how he had dreaded coming back to it for some reason, what a regular old woman I am today, he had said to himself each time with annoyance. I believe in every foolish presentiment that comes into my head. He stopped for a moment at the door, a great flush of shame came over him. I am a coward, a wretched coward, he said, and moved forward again. But once more he paused. Among all the incidents of the day one recurred to his mind to the exclusion of the rest. Although now that his self-control was regained, and he was no longer under the influence of a nightmare, he was able to think of it calmly. It concerned the knife on Rogorjin's table. Why should not Rogorjin have as many knives on his table as he chooses, thought the prince wondering at his suspicions, as he had done when he found himself looking into the cutler's window. What could it have to do with me, he said to himself again, and stopped as if rooted to the ground by a kind of paralysis of limb, such as attacks people under the stress of some humiliating recollection. The doorway was dark and gloomy at any time, but just at this moment it was rendered doubly so by the fact that the thunderstorm had just broken, and the rain was coming down in torrents. And in the semi-darkness the prince distinguished a man standing close to the stairs, apparently waiting. There was nothing particularly significant in the fact that a man was standing back in the doorway, waiting to come out or go upstairs, but the prince felt an irresistible conviction that he knew this man, and that it was Rogorjin. The man moved on up the stairs. A moment later the prince passed up them too. His heart froze within him. In a minute or two I shall know all, he thought. The staircase led to the first and second corridors of the hotel, along which lay the guest's bedrooms. As is often the case in Petersburg houses it was narrow and very dark, and turned around a massive stone column. On the first landing, which was as small as the necessary turn of the stairs allowed, there was a niche in the column, about half a yard wide, and in this niche the prince felt convinced that a man stood concealed. He thought he could distinguish a figure standing there. He would pass by quickly and not look. He took a step forward, but could bear the uncertainty no longer and turned his head. The eyes, the same two eyes met his. The man concealed in the niche had also taken a step forward. For one second they stood face to face. Suddenly the prince caught the man by the shoulder and twisted him round towards the light, so that he might see his face more clearly. Rogorgin's eyes flashed, and a smile of insanity distorted his countenance. His right hand was raised, and something glittered in it. The prince did not think of trying to stop it. All he could remember afterwards was that he seemed to have called out. Parfion, I won't believe it! First moment something appeared to burst open before him. A wonderful inner light illuminated his soul. This lasted perhaps half a second, yet he distinctly remembered hearing the beginning of the wail, the strange dreadful wail, which burst from his lips of its own accord, and which no effort of will on his part could suppress. Next moment he was absolutely unconscious. Black darkness blotted out everything. He had fallen in an epileptic fit. As is well known, these fits occur instantaneously. The face, especially the eyes, become terribly disfigured. Parfion sees the limbs, a terrible cry breaks from the sufferer, a wail from which everything human seems to be blotted out, so that it is impossible to believe that the man who has just fallen is the same who emitted the dreadful cry. It seems more as though some other being inside the stricken one had cried. Many people have borne witness to this impression, and many cannot behold an epileptic fit without a feeling of mysterious terror and dread. Such a feeling we must suppose overtook Rogojin at this moment and saved the prince's life. Not knowing that it was a fit and seeing his victim disappear head foremost into the darkness, bearing his head strike the stone steps below with a crash, Rogojin rushed downstairs, skirting the body, and flung himself headlong out of the hotel like a raving madman. The prince's body slipped convulsively down the steps till it rested at the bottom. Very soon in five minutes or so he was discovered, and a crowd collected around him. A pool of blood on the steps near his head gave rise to grave fears. Was it a case of accident, or had there been a crime? It was, however, soon recognized as a case of epilepsy, and identification and proper measures for restoration followed one another, owing to a fortunate circumstance. Olya Ivolgin had come back to his hotel about seven o'clock, owing to a sudden impulse which made him refuse to dine at the Japanchines, and finding a note from the prince awaiting him had sped away to the latter's address. Arrived there he ordered a cup of tea and sat sipping it in the coffee-room. While there he heard excited whispers of someone just found at the bottom of the stairs in a fit, upon which he had hurried to the spot with a presentiment of evil, and at once recognized the prince. The sufferer was immediately taken to his room, and though he partially regained consciousness, he lay long in a semi-dazed condition. The doctor stated that there was no danger to be apprehended from the wound on the head, and as soon as the prince could understand what was going on around him, Collier hired a carriage and took him away to Lebedev's. There he was received with much cordiality, and the departure to the country was hastened on his account. Three days later they were all at Pavlovsk. End of Part 2 Chapter 5 Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmeyer Surrey. Part 2 Chapter 6 of The Idiot. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Translated by Eva M. Martin. Part 2 Chapter 6 Lebedev's country house was not large, but it was pretty and convenient, especially the part which was led to the prince. A row of orange and lemon trees and jasmine planted in green tubs stood on the fairly wide terrace. According to Lebedev, these trees gave the house a most delightful aspect. Some were there when he bought it, and he was so charmed with the effect that he promptly added to their number. When the tubs containing these plants arrived at the villa and were set in their places, Lebedev kept running into the street to enjoy the view of the house, and every time he did so the rent to be demanded from the future tenant went up with a bound. This country villa pleased the prince very much in his state of physical and mental exhaustion. On the day that they had left for Pavlovsk, that is the day after his attack, he appeared almost well, though in reality he felt very far from it. The faces of those around him for the last three days had made a pleasant impression. He was pleased to see not only Kolia, who had become his inseparable companion, but Lebedev himself and all the family, except the nephew who had left the house. He was also glad to receive a visit from General Evolgin before leaving St. Petersburg. It was getting late when the party arrived at Pavlovsk, but several people called to see the prince and assembled in the veranda. Gania was the first to arrive. He had grown so pale and thin that the prince could hardly recognize him. Then came Varya and Ptitsin, who were rusticating in the neighbourhood. As to General Evolgin, he scarcely budged from Lebedev's house and seemed to have moved to Pavlovsk with him. Lebedev did his best to keep Ardalion Alexandrovich by him, and to prevent him from invading the prince's quarters. He chatted with him confidentially, so that they might have been taken for old friends. During those three days the prince had noticed that they frequently held long conversations. He often heard their voices raised in argument on deep and learned subjects, which evidently pleased Lebedev. He seemed as if he could not do without the general. But it was not only Ardalion Alexandrovich whom Lebedev kept out of the prince's way. Since they had come to the villa, he treated his own family the same. Upon the pretext that his tenant needed quiet, he kept him almost in isolation. And Mishkin protested in vain against this excess of zeal. Lebedev stamped his feet at his daughters and drove them away if they attempted to join the prince on the terrace. Not even Vera was accepted. They will lose all respect if they are allowed to be so free and easy. Besides it is not proper for them, he declared at last in answer to a direct question from the prince. Why on earth not?" asked the latter. Really, you know, you are making yourself a nuisance by keeping guard over me like this. I get bored all by myself. I have told you so over and over again, and you get on my nerves more than ever by waving your hands and creeping in and out in the mysterious way you do. It was a fact that Lebedev, though he was so anxious to keep everyone else from disturbing the patient, was continually in and out of the prince's room himself. He invariably began by opening the door a crack and peering in to see if the prince was there, or if he had escaped. Then he would creep softly up to the arm chair, sometimes making Mishkin jump by his sudden appearance. He always asked if the patient wanted anything, and when the latter replied that he only wanted to be left in peace, he would turn away obediently and make for the door on tiptoe with deprecatory gestures to imply that he had only just looked in, that he would not speak a word, and would go away and not intrude again. Which did not prevent him from reappearing in ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. Collier had free access to the prince, but which Lebedev was quite disgusted and indignant. He would listen at the door for half an hour at a time while the two were talking. Collier found this out, and naturally told the prince of his discovery. Do you think, yourself, my master, that you try to keep me under lock and key like this? said the prince to Lebedev. In the country at least I intend to be free, and you may make up your mind that I mean to see whom I like, and go where I please. Why, of course! replied the clerk, gesticulating with his hands. The prince looked him sternly up and down. Well, Lukyan Timofeevich, have you brought the little cupboard that you had at the head of your bed with you here? No, I left it where it was. Impossible! It cannot be moved. You would have to pull the wall down. It is so firmly fixed. Perhaps you have one like it here. I have one that is even better, much better. That is really why I bought this house. Ah! What visitor did you turn away from my door about an hour ago? The general. I would not let him in. There is no need for him to visit you, prince. I have the deepest esteem for him. He is a great man. You don't believe it? Well, you will see, and yet, most excellent prince, you had much better not receive him. May I ask why? And also, why you walk about on tiptoe, and always seem as if you were going to whisper a secret in my ear whenever you come near me. I am vile. Vile! I know it!" cried Lebedev, beating his breast with a contrite air. But will not the general be too hospitable for you? Too hospitable? Yes. First, he proposes to come and live in my house, well and good. But he sticks at nothing. He immediately makes himself one of the family. We have talked over our respective relations several times, and discovered that we are connected by marriage. It seems also that you were a sort of nephew on his mother's side. He was explaining it to me again only yesterday. If your is nephew, it follows that I must also be a relation of yours most excellent prince. Never mind about that, it is only affordable. But just now he assured me that all his life, from the day he was made an ensign to the eleventh of last June, he has entertained at least two hundred guests at his table every day. Unfortunately he went so far as to say that they never rose from the table. They dined, sucked and had tea for fifteen hours at a stretch. This went on for thirty years without a break. There was barely time to change the tablecloth. Directly one person left, another took his place. On feast days he entertained as many as three hundred guests, and they numbered seven hundred on the thousandth anniversary of the foundation of the Russian Empire. It amounts to a passion with him. It makes one uneasy to hear of it. It is terrible to have to entertain people who do things on such a scale. That is why I wonder whether such a man is not too hospitable for you and me. But you seem to be on the best of terms with him. Quite fraternal, I look upon it as a joke. Let us be brothers-in-law, it is all the same to me, rather an honour than not. But in spite of the two hundred guests and the thousandth anniversary of the Russian Empire I can see that he is a very remarkable man. I am quite sincere. You said just now that I always looked as if I was going to tell you a secret. You are right. I have a secret to tell you. A certain person has just let me know that she is very anxious for a secret interview with you. Why should it be secret? Not at all. I will call on her myself to-morrow. No! Oh, no!" cried Lebedev, waving his arms. If she is afraid it is not for the reason you think. By the way, do you know that the monster comes every day to inquire after your health? You call him a monster so often that it makes me suspicious. You must have no suspicions, none-whatever," said Lebedev quickly. I only want you to know that the person in question is not afraid of him, but of something quite, quite different. What on earth is she afraid of, then? Tell me plainly, without any more beating about the bush," said the prince, exasperated by the other's mysterious grimaces. Ah, that is the secret," said Lebedev with a smile. Who's secret? Yours. You forbade me yourself to mention it before you, most excellent prince," murmured Lebedev. Then satisfied that he had worked up Mushkin's curiosity to the highest pitch, he added abruptly. She is afraid of Aglaya Ivanovna. The prince frowned for a moment in silence, and then said suddenly, Really, Lebedev, I must leave your house. Where are Gavrila Ardalyonovich and the Ptitsins? Are they here? Have you chased them away, too? They are coming, they are coming, and the general as well. I will open all the doors. I will call all my daughters, all of them, this very minute," said Lebedev in a low voice, thoroughly frightened, and waving his hands as he ran from door to door. At that moment Collier appeared on the terrace. He announced that Lisavieta Prokofievna and her three daughters were close behind him. Moved by this news, Lebedev hurried up to the prince. Shall I call the Ptitsins and Gavrila Ardalyonovich? Shall I let the general in? he asked. Why not? Let in any one who wants to see me. I assure you, Lebedev, you have misunderstood my position from the very first. You have been wrong all along. I have not the slightest reason to hide myself from any one," replied the prince gaily. Seeing him laugh, Lebedev thought fit to laugh also, and though much agitated his satisfaction was quite visible. Collier was right. The Yepanchin ladies were only a few steps behind him. As they approached the terrace, other visitors appeared from Lebedev's side of the house, the Ptitsins, Gania and Ardalyon Alexandrovich. The Yepanchin said only just heard of the prince's illness, and of his presence in Pavlovsk from Collier, and up to this time had been in a state of considerable bewilderment about him. The general brought the prince's card down from town, and Mrs. Yepanchin had felt convinced that he himself would follow his card at once. She was much excited. In vain the girls assured her that a man who had not written for six months would not be in such a dreadful hurry, and that probably he had enough to do in town without needing to bustle down to Pavlovsk to see them. Their mother was quite angry at the very idea of such a thing, and announced her absolute conviction that he would turn up the next day at latest. So next day the prince was expected all the morning, and at dinner, tea and supper. And when he did not appear in the evening, Mrs. Yepanchin quarrelled with everyone in the house, finding plenty of pretexts, without so much as mentioning the prince's name. On the third day there was no talk of him at all, until Aglaya remarked at dinner, Mama is cross because the prince hasn't turned up, to which the general replied that it was not his fault. Mrs. Yepanchin misunderstood the observation, and rising from her place she left the room in majestic wrath. In the evening, however, Collia came with the story of the prince's adventures, so far as he knew them. Mrs. Yepanchin was triumphant, although Collia had to listen to a long lecture. He idles about here the whole day long, one can't get rid of him. And then, when he is wanted, he does not come. He might have sent a line if he did not wish to inconvenience himself. At the words, one can't get rid of him, Collia was very angry, and nearly flew into a rage, but he resolved to be quiet for the time, and show his resentment later. If the words had been less offensive, he might have forgiven them, so pleased was he to see Lisaveta Prokovievna, worried and anxious about the prince's illness. She would have insisted on sending to Petersburg at once, for a certain great medical celebrity, but her daughters dissuaded her, though they were not willing to stay behind when she at once prepared to go and visit the invalid. Aglaya, however, suggested that it was a little unceremonious to go en masse to see him. Very well, then, stay at home, said Mrs. Yepanchin, and a good thing, too, for Yevgenia Pavelovitch is coming down, and there will be no one at home to receive him. Of course, after this, Aglaya went with the rest. In fact, she had never had the slightest intention of doing otherwise. Prince S., who was in the house, was requested to escort the ladies. He had been much interested when he first heard of the prince from the Yepanchins. It appeared that they had known one another before, and had spent some time together in a little provincial town three months ago. Prince S. had greatly taken to him, and was delighted with the opportunity of meeting him again. The general had not come down from town as yet, nor had Yevgenia Pavelovitch arrived. It was not more than two or three hundred yards from the Yepanchin's house to Lebedev's. The first disagreeable impression experienced by Mrs. Yepanchin was to find the prince surrounded by a whole assembly of other guests, not to mention the fact that some of those present were particularly detestable in her eyes. The next annoying circumstance was when an apparently strong and healthy young fellow, well dressed and smiling, came forward to meet her on the terrace, instead of the half-dying unfortunate whom she had expected to see. She was astonished and vexed, and her disappointment pleased Collier immensely. Of course he could have un-deceived her before she started, but the mischievous boy had been careful not to do that, for seeing the probably laughable disgust that she would experience when she found her dear friend the prince in good health. Collier was indelicate enough to voice the delight he felt at his success in managing to annoy Lisa Vieta Prokofievna, with whom, in spite of their really amicable relations, he was constantly sparring. Just wait a while, my boy," said she,--"don't be too certain of your triumph." And she sat down heavily in the armchair pushed forward by the prince. Lebedyev, Petitsyn and General Evolgin hastened to find chairs for the young ladies. Varya greeted them joyfully, and they exchanged confidences in ecstatic whispers. I must admit, prince, I was a little put out to see you up and about like this. I expected to find you in bed, but I give you my word I was only annoyed for an instant before I collected my thoughts properly. I am always wiser on second thoughts, and I dare say you are the same. I assure you I am as glad to see you well as though you were my own son. Yes, and more, and if you don't believe me, the more shame to you, and it's not my fault. But that spiteful boy delights in playing all sorts of tricks. You are his patron, it seems. Well, I warn you that one fine morning I shall deprive myself of the pleasure of his further acquaintance." What have I done wrong now?" cried Collier. What was the good of telling you that the prince was nearly well again? You would not have believed me. It was so much more interesting to picture him on his deathbed. How long do you remain here, prince?" asked Madame Yepanchin. All the summer, and perhaps longer. You are alone, aren't you? Not married. No, I'm not married," replied the prince, smiling at the ingenuousness of this little feeler. Oh, you needn't laugh! These things do happen, you know. Now then, why didn't you come to us? We have a wing quite empty. But just as you like, of course. Do you lease it from him? This fellow, I mean, she added nodding towards Lebedev. And why does he always wriggle so? At that moment, Vera, carrying the baby in her arms, as usual, came out of the house onto the terrace. Lebedev kept fidgeting among the chairs, and did not seem to know what to do with himself, though he had no intention of going away. He no sooner caught sight of his daughter than he rushed in her direction, waving his arms to keep her away. He even forgot himself so far as to stamp his foot. Is he mad? asked Madame Yepanchin suddenly. No, he—perhaps he is drunk. Your company is rather peculiar, she added with a glance at the other guests. But what a pretty girl! Who is she? That is Lebedev's daughter, Vera Lukyanovna. Indeed, she looks very sweet. I should like to make her acquaintance. The words were hardly out of her mouth when Lebedev dragged Vera forward in order to present her. Orphans! Poor orphans! He began in a pathetic voice. The child she carries is an orphan too. She is Vera's sister, my daughter Lyubov. The day this babe was born, six weeks ago my wife died, by the will of God Almighty. Yes! Vera takes her mother's place, though she is but her sister. Nothing more! Nothing more! And you! You are nothing more than a fool, if you'll excuse me. Well, you know that yourself, I expect," said the lady indignantly. Lebedev bowed low. It is the truth, he replied, with extreme respect. Oh, Mr. Lebedev, I am told you lecture on the Apocalypse. Is it true?" asked Aglaya. Yes, that is so, for the last fifteen years. I have heard of you, and I think read of you in the newspapers. No, that was another commentator whom the papers named. He is dead, however, and I have taken his place," said the other, much delighted. We are neighbours, so will you be so kindest to come over one day and explain the Apocalypse to me?" said Aglaya. I do not understand it in the least. Allow me to warn you, interposed General Evolgin, that he is the greatest charlatan on the earth. He had taken the chair next to the girl, and was impatient to begin talking. No doubt there are pleasures and amusements peculiar to the country, he continued, and to listen to a pretended student holding forth on the book of the Revelations, maybe as good as any other. It may even be original, but you seem to be looking at me with some surprise. May I introduce myself, General Evolgin? I carried you in my arms as a baby. Delighted, I'm sure," said Aglaya. I am acquainted with Varvara Ardalyanovna and Nina Alexandrovna. She was trying hard to restrain herself from laughing. Mrs. Yepanchin flushed up. Some accumulation of spleen in her suddenly needed an outlet. She could not bear this General Evolgin, whom she had once known, long ago, in society. You are deviating from the truth, sir, as usual," she remarked, boiling over with indignation. You never carried her in your life. You have forgotten, mother," said Aglaya, suddenly. He really did carry me about. In Tver, you know, I was six years old, I remember. He made me a bow and arrow, and I shot a pigeon. Don't you remember shooting a pigeon, you and I, one day? Yes, and he made me a cardboard helmet and a little wooden sword. I remember," said Adelaida. Yes, I remember, too," said Alexandra. You quarreled about the wounded pigeon, and Adelaida was put in the corner, and stood there with her helmet and sword and all. The poor General had merely made the remark about having carried Aglaya in his arms, because he always did so begin a conversation with young people. But it happened that this time he had really hit upon the truth, though he had himself entirely forgotten the fact. But when Adelaida and Aglaya recalled the episode of the pigeon, his mind became filled with memories, and it is impossible to describe how this poor old man, usually half-drunk, was moved by the recollection. I remember, I remember it all," he cried. I was captain, then. You were such a lovely little thing. Adelaida Alexandrovna, Gania, listen! I was received, then, by General Yepanchin. Yes, and look what you have come to now," interrupted Mrs. Yepanchin. However, I see you have not quite drunk your better feelings away. But you have broken your wife's heart, sir, and instead of looking after your children, you have spent your time in public houses and debtor's prisons. Go away, my friend, stand in some corner and weep, and bemoan your fallen dignity, and perhaps God will forgive you yet. Go, go, I'm serious. There's nothing so favourable for repentance as to think of the past with feelings of remorse. There was no need to repeat that she was serious. The general, like all drunkards, was extremely emotional and easily touched by recollections of his better days. He rose and walked quietly to the door, so meekly that Mrs. Yepanchin was instantly sorry for him. Ardoljon Alexandrovich," she cried after him,--"wait a moment, we are all sinners. When you feel that your conscience reproaches you a little less, come over to me and we'll have a talk about the past. I dare say I am thrifty times more of a sinner than you are. And now go, go, go, good-bye. You had better not stay here." She added in alarm as he turned as though to come back. Don't go after him just now, Collier, or he'll be vexed, and the benefit of this moment will be lost," said the prince, as the boy was hurrying out of the room.--"Quite true. Much better to go in half an hour or so," said Mrs. Yepanchin. "'That's what comes of telling the truth for once in one's life,' said Lebergev. It reduced him to tears. Come, come! The less you say about it, the better. To judge from all I have heard about you," replied Mrs. Yepanchin. The prince took the first opportunity of informing the Yepanchin ladies that he had intended to pay them a visit that day, if they had not themselves come this afternoon, and Lisa Vieta Prokofievna replied that she hoped he would still do so. By this time some of the visitors had disappeared. Ptitsin had tactfully retreated to Lebergev's wing, and Gania soon followed him. The latter had behaved modestly, but with dignity on this occasion of his first meeting with the Yepanchins since the rupture. Twice Mrs. Yepanchin had deliberately examined him from head to foot, but he had stood fire without flinching. He was certainly much changed, as anyone could see who had not met him for some time, and this fact seemed to afford Aglaya a good deal of satisfaction. That was Gavrila Ardalyonovitch who just went out, wasn't it? She asked suddenly, interrupting somebody else's conversation to make the remark. Yes, it was, said the prince. I hardly knew him. He is much changed, and for the better. I am very glad, said the prince. He has been very ill, I did varia. How has he changed for the better? asked Mrs. Yepanchin. I don't see any change for the better. What's better in him? Where did you get that idea from? What's better? There's nothing better than the poor night, said Collier, who was standing near the last speaker's chair. I quite agree with you there, said Princess, laughing. So do I, said Adelaida solemnly. What poor night! asked Mrs. Yepanchin, looking round at the face of each of the speakers in turn. Seeing however that Aglaya was blushing, she added angrily. What nonsense you are all talking! What do you mean by poor night? It's not the first time this urchin, your favourite, has shown his impudence by twisting other people's words, said Aglaya haughtily. Every time that Aglaya showed temper, and this was very often, there was so much childish pouting, such school-girlishness as it were in her apparent wrath, that it was impossible to avoid smiling at her. To her own allutterable indignation. On these occasions she would say, How can they? How dare they laugh at me? This time everyone laughed at her. Her sisters, Prince S, Prince Mushkin, though he himself had flushed for some reason, and Collier. Aglaya was dreadfully indignant, and looked twice as pretty in her wrath. She's always twisting round what one says. She cried. I am only repeating your own exclamation, said Collier. A month ago you were turning over the pages of your Don Quixote, and suddenly called out, There is nothing better than the poor night. I don't know whom you were referring to, of course, whether to Don Quixote or Yevgeny Pavlovich or someone else, but you certainly said these words, and afterwards there was a long conversation. You're inclined to go a little too far, my good boy, with your guesses," said Mrs. Yepanchin, with some show of annoyance. But it's not I alone," cried Collier. They all talked about it, and they do still. Why, just now Prince S and Adelaida Ivanovna declared that they upheld the poor night. So evidently there does exist a poor night, and if it were not for Adelaida Ivanovna, we should have known long ago who the poor night was. Why, how am I to blame?" asked Adelaida, smiling. You wouldn't draw his portrait for us, that's why you are to blame. Aglaya Ivanovna asked you to draw his portrait, and gave you the whole subject of the picture. She invented it herself, and you wouldn't. What was I to draw? According to the lines she quoted, from his face he never lifted that eternal mask of steel. What sort of a face was I to draw? I couldn't draw a mask. I don't know what she was driving at. What mask do you mean?" asked Mrs. Yepanchin irritably. She began to see pretty clearly though what it meant, and whom they referred to by the generally accepted title of poor night. But what specially annoyed her was that the Prince was looking so uncomfortable and blushing like a ten-year-old child. Well, have you finished your silly joke? She added, and am I to be told what this poor night means? Or is it a solemn secret which cannot be approached lightly? But they all laughed on. It's simply that there is a Russian poem, began Prince S, evidently anxious to change the conversation. A strange thing, without beginning or end, and all about a poor night. A month or so ago we were all talking and laughing, and looking up a subject for one of Adelaide's pictures. You know it is the principal business of this family to find subjects for Adelaide's pictures. Well we happened upon this poor night. I don't remember who thought of it first. Oh Aglaya Ivanovna did, said Collier. Very likely I don't recollect, continued Prince S. Some of us laughed at the subject, some liked it, but she declared that in order to make a picture of the gentleman she must first see his face. We then began to think over all our friend's faces to see if any of them would do, and none suited us. So the matter stood, that's all. I don't know why Nikolai Ardalyonovich has brought up the joke now. What was appropriate and funny then has quite lost all interest by this time. Probably there's some new silliness about it, said Mrs. Yapanchin sarcastically. There is no silliness about it at all, only the profoundest respect, said Aglaya very seriously. She had quite recovered her temper. In fact from certain signs it was fair to conclude that she was delighted to see this joke going so far, and a careful observer might have remarked that her satisfaction dated from the moment when the fact of the prince's confusion became apparent to all. Profoundest respect, what nonsense! First insane giggling, and then all of a sudden a display of profoundest respect. Why respect? Tell me at once, why have you suddenly developed this profound respect? Hey! Because, replied Aglaya gravely, in the poem the knight is described as a man capable of living up to an ideal all his life. That sort of thing is not to be found every day among the men of our times. In the poem it is not stated exactly what the ideal was, but it was evidently some vision, some revelation of pure beauty, and the knight wore round his neck instead of a scarf a rosary. A device, A-N-B, the meaning of which is not explained, was inscribed on his shield. No, A-N-D, corrected Kalya. I say A-N-B, and so it shall be, cried Aglaya irritably. Anyway, the poor knight did not care what his lady was, or what she did. He had chosen his ideal, and he was bound to serve her, and break lances for her, and acknowledge her as the ideal of pure beauty, whatever she might say or do afterwards. If she had taken to stealing, he would have championed her just the same. I think the poet desired to embody in this one picture the whole spirit of medieval chivalry, and the platonic love of a pure and high-sold knight. Of course it's all an ideal, and in the poor knight that spirit reached the utmost limit of asceticism. He is a donkey hote, only serious and not comical. I used not to understand him, and laughed at him, but now I love the poor knight, and respect his actions. So ended Aglaya, and to look at her it was difficult indeed to judge whether she was joking or in earnest. Puh! He was a fool, and his actions were the actions of a fool, said Mrs. Yepanchin. And as for you, young woman, you ought to know better. At all events you are not to talk like that again. What poem is it? Recite it. I want to hear this poem. I have hated poetry all my life. Prince, you must excuse this nonsense. We neither of us like this sort of thing. Be patient. They certainly were put out, both of them. The prince tried to say something, but he was too confused, and could not get his words out. Aglaya, who had taken such liberties in her little speech, was the only person present, perhaps, who was not in the least embarrassed. She seemed, in fact, quite pleased. She now rose solemnly from her seat, walked to the centre of the terrace, and stood in front of the prince's chair. All looked on with some surprise, and Princess, and her sisters, with feelings of decided alarm, to see what new frolic she was up to. She had gone quite far enough already, they thought. But Aglaya evidently thoroughly enjoyed the affectation and ceremony with which she was introducing her recitation of the poem. Mrs. Yeppanchin was just wondering whether she would not forbid the performance, after all, when, at the very moment that Aglaya commenced her declamation, two new guests, both talking loudly, entered from the street. The new arrivals were General Yeppanchin and a young man. Their entrance caused some slight commotion. End of Part 2, Chapter 6. Part 2, Chapter 7. The young fellow accompanying the general was about twenty-eight, tall and well-built, with a handsome and clever face, and bright black eyes, full of fun and intelligence. Aglaya did not so much as glance at the new arrivals, but went on with her recitation, gazing at the prince the while in an affected manner, and at him alone. It was clear to him that she was doing all this with some special object. But the new guests at least somewhat eased his strained and uncomfortable position. Seeing them approaching, he rose from his chair, and nodding amicably to the general, signed to him not to interrupt the recitation. He then got behind his chair, and stood there with his left hand resting on the back of it. Thanks to this change of position, he was able to listen to the ballad with far less embarrassment than before. Mrs Yeppanchin had also twice motioned to the new arrivals to be quiet and stay where they were. The prince was much interested in the young man who had just entered. He easily concluded that this was Yevgeny Pavlovich Radonsky, of whom he had already heard mention several times. He was puzzled, however, by the young man's plain clothes, for he had always heard of Yevgeny Pavlovich as a military man. An ironical smile played on Yevgeny's lips all the while the recitation was proceeding, which showed that he too was probably in the secret of the poor night joke. But it had become quite a different matter with Aglaya. All the affectation of manner which she had displayed at the beginning disappeared as the ballad proceeded. She spoke the lines in so serious and exalted a manner, and with so much taste, that she even seemed to justify the exaggerated solemnity with which she had stepped forward. It was impossible to discern in her now anything but a deep feeling for the spirit of the poem which she had undertaken to interpret. Her eyes were aglow with inspiration, and a slight tremor of rapture passed over her lovely features once or twice. She continued to recite, Once there came a vision glorious, mystic, dreadful, wondrous, fair, burned itself into his spirit, and abode for ever there. Nevermore from that sweet moment gazed he on womankind. He was dumb to love and wooing, and to all their graces blind. All of love for that sweet vision, brave and pure, he took the field. With his blood he stained the letters N.P.B. upon his shield. Lumen chaeli, sanctarosa, shouting on the foe he fell, and like thunder rang his war-cry, or the cowering infidel. Then within his distant castle, home returned, he dreamed his days, silent, sad. And when death took him, he was mad, the legend says. When recalling all this afterwards, the prince could not for the life of him understand how to reconcile the beautiful, sincere, pure nature of the girl with the irony of this jest. That it was a jest there was no doubt whatever. He knew that well enough, and had good reason, too, for his conviction. For during her recitation of the ballad, Aglaya had deliberately changed the letters A-N-B into N-P-B. He was quite sure she had not done this by accident, and that his ears had not deceived him. At all events her performance, which was a joke, of course, if rather a crude one, was premeditated. They had evidently talked and laughed over the poor night for more than a month. It Aglaya had brought out these letters N-P-B, not only without the slightest appearance of irony, or even any particular accentuation, but with so even and unbroken an appearance of seriousness, that assuredly any one might have supposed that these initials were the original ones written in the ballad. The thing made an uncomfortable impression upon the prince. Of course Mrs. Yepanchin saw nothing either in the change of initials, or in the insinuation embodied therein. General Yepanchin only knew that there was a recitation of verses going on, and took no further interest in the matter. Of the rest of the audience many had understood the illusion, and wondered both at the daring of the lady, and at the motive underlying it, but tried to show no sign of their feelings. But Yevgeny Pavlovich, as the prince was ready to wager, both comprehended and tried his best to show that he comprehended. His smile was too mocking to leave any doubt on that point. How beautiful that is! cried Mrs. Yepanchin, with sincere admiration. Who's is it? Pushkin's mama, of course. Don't disgrace us all by showing your ignorance, said Adelaida. As soon as we reach home give it to me to read. I don't think we have a copy of Pushkin in the house. There are a couple of torn volumes somewhere they have been lying about from time immemorial, added Alexandra. Send Fyodor or Alexei up by the very first train to buy a copy, then. Aglaya, come here. Kiss me, dear. You recited beautifully. But she added in a whisper, if you were sincere I am sorry for you. If it was a joke I do not approve of the feelings which prompted you to do it, and in any case you would have done far better not to recite it at all. Do you understand? Now come along, young woman, we've sat here too long. I'll speak to you about this another time. Meanwhile the prince took the opportunity of greeting General Yepanchin, and the general introduced Yevgeny Pavlovich to him. I caught him up on the way to your house, explained the general. He had heard that we were all here. Yes, and I heard that you were here too, added Yevgeny Pavlovich, and since I had long promised myself the pleasure of seeking not only your acquaintance, but your friendship, I did not wish to waste time, but came straight on. I am sorry to hear that you are unwell. Oh, but I am quite well now, thank you, and very glad to make your acquaintance. Prince S has often spoken to me about you, said Mwishkin, and for an instant the two men looked intently into one another's eyes. The prince remarked that Yevgeny Pavlovich's plain clothes had evidently made a great impression upon the company present, so much so that all other interests seemed to be effaced before this surprising fact. His change of dress was evidently a matter of some importance. Adelaida and Alexandra poured out a stream of questions. Prince S, a relative of the young man, appeared annoyed. And Ivan Fyodorovich quite excited. Aglaya alone was not interested. She merely looked closely at Yevgeny for a minute, curious perhaps as to whether civil or military clothes became him best, then turned away and paid no more attention to him or his costume. Vizavjeta Prokofievna asked no questions, but it was clear that she was uneasy. And the prince fancied that Yevgeny was not in her good graces. "'He has astonished me,' said Ivan Fyodorovich. I nearly fell down with surprise. I could hardly believe my eyes when I met him in Petersburg just now. Why, this haste! That's what I want to know.' He has always said himself that there is no need to break windows. Yevgeny Pavlovich remarked here that he had spoken of his intention of leaving the service long ago. He had, however, always made more or less of a joke about it, so no one had taken him seriously. For that matter he joked about everything, and his friends never knew what to believe, especially if he did not wish them to understand him. "'I have only retired for a time,' said he, laughing, for a few months, at most for a year. But there is no necessity for you to retire at all,' complained the general, as far as I know. "'I want to go and look after my country's states. You advised me to do that yourself,' was the reply, and then I wished to go abroad. After a few more expostulations the conversation drifted into other channels, but the prince, who had been an attentive listener, thought all this excitement about so small a matter very curious. "'There must be more in it than appears,' he said to himself. "'I see the poor knight has come on the scene again,' said Yevgeny Pavlovich, stepping to Aglaya's side. To the amazement of the prince, who overheard the remark, Aglaya looked haughtily and inquiringly at the questioner, as though she would give him to know once for all that there could be no talk between them about the poor knight, and that she did not understand his question. "'But not now. It is too late to send to town for a pushkin now. It is much too late,' I say. Kalya was exclaiming in a loud voice. "'I have told you so at least a hundred times.' "'Yes, it is really much too late to send to town now,' said Yevgeny Pavlovich, who had escaped from Aglaya as rapidly as possible. "'I am sure the shops are shut in Petersburg. It is past eight o'clock,' he added, looking at his watch. "'We have done without him so far,' interrupted Adelaida in her turn. "'Surely we can wait until tomorrow.' "'Besides,' said Kalya, it is quite unusual, almost improper for people in our position to take any interest in literature. "'Ask Yevgeny Pavlovich if I am not right. It is much more fashionable to drive a wagonet with red wheels.' "'You got that from some magazine, Kalya,' remarked Adelaida. "'He gets most of his conversation in that way,' laughed Yevgeny Pavlovich. He borrows whole phrases from the reviews. I have long had the pleasure of knowing both Nikolai Ardalyonovich and his conversational methods, but this time he was not repeating something he had read. He was alluding, no doubt, to my yellow wagonet, which has, or had, red wheels. But I have exchanged it, so you are rather behind the time, Kalya.' The prince had been listening attentively to Radomsky's words, and thought his manner very pleasant. When Kalya chuffed him about his wagonet, he had replied with perfect equality, and in a friendly fashion. This pleased Mushkin. At this moment Vera came up to Lisaveta Prokofievna, carrying several large and beautifully bound books, apparently quite new. "'What is it?' demanded the lady. "'This is Pushkin,' replied the girl. "'Papa told me to offer it to you.' "'What? Impossible!' exclaimed Mrs. Yepanchin. "'Not as a present. Not as a present. I should not have taken the liberty,' said Lebedyev, appearing suddenly from behind his daughter. It is our own Pushkin, our family copy, Anenkov's edition. It could not be bought now. I beg to suggest, with great respect, that your Excellency should buy it, and thus quench the noble literary thirst which is consuming you at this moment.' He concluded grandiliquently, "'Oh, if you will sell it, very good, and thank you. You shall not be a loser. But for goodness' sake, don't twist about like that, sir. I have heard of you. They tell me you are a very learned person. We must have a talk one of these days. You will bring me the books yourself.' "'With the greatest respect and veneration,' replied Lebedyev, making extraordinary grimaces, "'will bring them with or without respect, provided always you do not drop them on the way. But on the condition,' went on the lady, looking full at him, "'that you do not cross my threshold, I do not intend to receive you to-day. You may send your daughter Vera at once, if you like. I am much pleased with her.' "'Why don't you tell him about them?' said Vera impatiently to her father. "'They will come in, whether you announce them or not, and they are beginning to make a row.' "'Leofnikolayevich,' she addressed herself to the prince, "'four men are here asking for you. They have waited some time, and are beginning to make a fuss, and Papa will not bring them in.' "'Who are these people?' said the prince. "'They say they have come on business, and they are the kind of men who, if you do not see them here, will follow you about the street. It would be better to receive them, and then you will get rid of them. Gavrila Ardalyonovich and Ptitsin are both there trying to make them here reason.' "'Pavlychev-son! It is not worthwhile,' cried Lebedev. "'There is no necessity to see them, and it would be most unpleasant for your excellency. They do not deserve.' "'What?' "'Pavlychev-son!' cried the prince, much perturbed. "'I know, I know. But I entrusted this matter to Gavrila Ardalyonovich. He told me,' at that moment Gania, accompanied by Ptitsin, came out to the terrace. From an adjoining room came a noise of angry voices, and General Evolgin in loud tones seemed to be trying to shout them down. Kolya rushed off at once to investigate the cause of the uproar. "'This is most interesting,' observed Yevgeny Pavlovich. "'I expect he knows all about it,' thought the prince. "'What, the son of Pavlychev? And whom may this son of Pavlychev be?' asked General Yepanchin with surprise, and looking curiously around him, he discovered that he alone had no clue to the mystery. Expectation and suspense were on every face, with the exception of that of the prince, who stood gravely wondering how an affair so entirely personal could have awakened such lively and widespread interest in so short a time. Aglaya went up to him with a peculiarly serious look. "'It will be well,' she said, "'if you put an end to this affair yourself at once. But you must allow us to be your witnesses. They want to throw mud at you, Prince, and you must be triumphantly vindicated. I give you joy beforehand.' "'And I also wish for justice to be done once for all,' cried Madame Yepanchin, "'about this impudent claim. Deal with them promptly, Prince, and don't spare them. I am sick of hearing about the affair, and many a quarrel I have had in your cause. But I confess I am anxious to see what happens, so do make them come out here, and we will remain.' "'You have heard people talking about it, no doubt,' she added, turning to Prince S. "'Of course,' said he, "'I have heard it spoken about at your house, and I am anxious to see these young men.' "'They are nihilists, are they not?' "'No, they are not nihilists,' explained Lebedev, who seemed much excited. This is another lot, a special group. According to my nephew, they are more advanced even than the nihilists.' "'You are quite wrong, Excellency, if you think that your presence will intimidate them. Nothing intimidates them. Educated men, learned men even, are to be found among nihilists. These go further, in that they are men of action. The movement is, properly speaking, a derivative from nihilism, though they are only known indirectly and by hearsay, for they never advertise their doings in the papers. They go straight to the point. For them it is not a question of showing that Pushkin is stupid, or that Russia must be torn in pieces. No, but if they have a great desire for anything, they believe they have a right to get it, even at the cost of the lives, say, of eight persons. They are checked by no obstacles. In fact, Prince, I should not advise you.' But Pushkin had risen, and was on his way to open the door for his visitors. "'You are slandering them, Lebedev,' said he, smiling. "'You are always thinking about your nephew's conduct. Don't believe him, Lisabeta Prokofievna. I can assure you Gorski and Danila for exceptions, and that these are only mistaken. However, I do not care about receiving them here, in public. Excuse me, Lisabeta Prokofievna. They are coming, and you can see them, and then I will take them away. Please come in, gentlemen.' Another thought tormented him. He wondered was this an arranged business, arranged to happen when he had guests in his house, and in anticipation of his humiliation, rather than of his triumph. But he reproached himself bitterly for such a thought, and felt as if he should die of shame, if it were discovered. When his new visitors appeared, he was quite ready to believe himself infinitely less to be respected than any of them. Four persons entered, led by General Evolgin, in a state of great excitement and talking eloquently. "'He is for me, undoubtedly,' thought the prince with a smile. Collier had also joined the party, and was talking with animation to Ipolit, who listened with a jeering smile on his lips. The prince begged the visitors to sit down. They were all so young that it made the proceedings seem even more extraordinary. Ivan Fyodorovich, who really understood nothing of what was going on, felt indignant at the sight of these youths, and would have interfered in some way had it not been for the extreme interest shown by his wife in the affair. He therefore remained, partly through curiosity, partly through good nature, hoping that his presence might be of some use. But the bow with which General Evolgin greeted him irritated him anew. He frowned and decided to be absolutely silent. As to the rest, one was a man of thirty, the retired officer, now a boxer, who had been with Rogozhin, and in his happier days had given fifteen rubles at a time to beggars. Evidently he had joined the others as a comrade to give them moral and, if necessary, material support. The man who had been spoken of as Pavlychev's son, although he gave the name of Antip Pordovsky, was about twenty-two years of age, fair, thin, and rather tall. He was remarkable for the poverty, not to say uncleanliness, of his personal appearance. The sleeves of his overcoat were greasy. His dirty waistcoat, buttoned up to his neck, showed not a trace of linen. A filthy black silk scarf, twisted till it resembled a cord, was round his neck, and his hands were unwashed. He looked round with an air of insolent effrontery. His face, covered with pimples, was neither thoughtful nor even contemptuous. It wore an expression of complacent satisfaction in demanding his rights, and in being an aggrieved party. His voice trembled, and he spoke so fast, and with such stammerings, that he might have been taken for a foreigner, though the purest Russian blood ran in his veins. Lebedyev's nephew, whom the reader has seen already, accompanied him, and also the youth named Ipolit Terentyev. The latter was only seventeen or eighteen. He had an intelligent face, though it was usually irritated and fretful in expression. His skeleton-like figure, his ghastly complexion, the brightness of his eyes, and the red spots of colour on his cheek, betrayed the victim of consumption to the most casual glance. He coughed persistently, and panted for breath. It looked as though he had but a few weeks more to live. He was nearly dead with fatigue, and fell rather than sat into a chair. The rest bowed as they came in, and, being more or less abashed, put on an air of extreme self-assurance. In short, their attitude was not that which one would have expected in men who professed to despise all trivialities, all foolish mundane conventions, and indeed everything, except their own personal interests. Antipordovsky stuttered the son of Pavlychev. Vladimir Dr. Enko, said Lebergev's nephew briskly, and with a certain pride, as if he boasted of his name, Keller, murmured the retired officer. Ipolit Terentyev cried to the last named in a shrill voice. They sat now in a row facing the prince, and frowned, and played with their caps. All appeared ready to speak, and yet all were silent. The defiant expression on their faces seemed to say, No, sir, you don't take us in. It could be felt that the first words spoken by any one present would bring a torrent of speech from the whole deputation.