| He gazed at Totski and the general with no apparent confusion, and with very little curiosity. But when he observed that the prince was seated beside Nastasia Philipovna, he could not take his eyes off him for a long while, and was clearly amazed. He could not account for the princeâs presence there. It was not in the least surprising that Rogojin should be, at this time, in a more or less delirious condition; for not to speak of the excitements of the day, he had spent the night before in the train, and had not slept more than a wink for forty-eight hours. |
âYes, I think I can.â
| âThe urchin, I tell you!â |
| âYou will reach that with nothing to help you but credit? Without recourse to any moral principle, having for your foundation only individual selfishness, and the satisfaction of material desires? Universal peace, and the happiness of mankind as a whole, being the result! Is it really so that I may understand you, sir?â |
âWhat, Hippolyte? He found it out himself, of course. Why, you have no idea what a cunning little animal he is; dirty little gossip! He has the most extraordinary nose for smelling out other peopleâs secrets, or anything approaching to scandal. Believe it or not, but Iâm pretty sure he has got round Aglaya. If he hasnât, he soon will. Rogojin is intimate with him, too. How the prince doesnât notice it, I canât understand. The little wretch considers me his enemy now and does his best to catch me tripping. What on earth does it matter to him, when heâs dying? However, youâll see; I shall catch _him_ tripping yet, and not he me.â
| âQuite 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.â |
âNo, certainly not, no more than yourself, though at first I thought I was.â
âThis is intolerable,â growled the general.âWhat do you mean? What are you convinced of?â they demanded angrily.
âI took a droshky and drove over to the Vassili Ostroff at once. For some years I had been at enmity with this young Bachmatoff, at school. We considered him an aristocrat; at all events I called him one. He used to dress smartly, and always drove to school in a private trap. He was a good companion, and was always merry and jolly, sometimes even witty, though he was not very intellectual, in spite of the fact that he was always top of the class; I myself was never top in anything! All his companions were very fond of him, excepting myself. He had several times during those years come up to me and tried to make friends; but I had always turned sulkily away and refused to have anything to do with him. I had not seen him for a whole year now; he was at the university. When, at nine oâclock, or so, this evening, I arrived and was shown up to him with great ceremony, he first received me with astonishment, and not too affably, but he soon cheered up, and suddenly gazed intently at me and burst out laughing.| Mrs. Epanchin had a fair appetite herself, and generally took her share of the capital mid-day lunch which was always served for the girls, and which was nearly as good as a dinner. The young ladies used to have a cup of coffee each before this meal, at ten oâclock, while still in bed. This was a favourite and unalterable arrangement with them. At half-past twelve, the table was laid in the small dining-room, and occasionally the general himself appeared at the family gathering, if he had time. |
âWell, Iâm going,â he said, at last, preparing to recross the road. âYou go along here as before; we will keep to different sides of the road; itâs better so, youâll see.â
âNot a bit of it; it was a duel to the death, and he was killed.â âAnd you preached her sermons there, did you?â She was evidently in difficulties as to how best to go on. âMay I speak of something serious to you, for once in my life?â she asked, angrily. She was irritated at she knew not what, and could not restrain her wrath. âSchneider said that I did the children great harm by my pernicious âsystemâ; what nonsense that was! And what did he mean by my system? He said afterwards that he believed I was a child myself--just before I came away. âYou have the form and face of an adultâ he said, âbut as regards soul, and character, and perhaps even intelligence, you are a child in the completest sense of the word, and always will be, if you live to be sixty.â I laughed very much, for of course that is nonsense. But it is a fact that I do not care to be among grown-up people and much prefer the society of children. However kind people may be to me, I never feel quite at home with them, and am always glad to get back to my little companions. Now my companions have always been children, not because I was a child myself once, but because young things attract me. On one of the first days of my stay in Switzerland, I was strolling about alone and miserable, when I came upon the children rushing noisily out of school, with their slates and bags, and books, their games, their laughter and shouts--and my soul went out to them. I stopped and laughed happily as I watched their little feet moving so quickly. Girls and boys, laughing and crying; for as they went home many of them found time to fight and make peace, to weep and play. I forgot my troubles in looking at them. And then, all those three years, I tried to understand why men should be for ever tormenting themselves. I lived the life of a child there, and thought I should never leave the little village; indeed, I was far from thinking that I should ever return to Russia. But at last I recognized the fact that Schneider could not keep me any longer. And then something so important happened, that Schneider himself urged me to depart. I am going to see now if can get good advice about it. Perhaps my lot in life will be changed; but that is not the principal thing. The principal thing is the entire change that has already come over me. I left many things behind me--too many. They have gone. On the journey I said to myself, âI am going into the world of men. I donât know much, perhaps, but a new life has begun for me.â I made up my mind to be honest, and steadfast in accomplishing my task. Perhaps I shall meet with troubles and many disappointments, but I have made up my mind to be polite and sincere to everyone; more cannot be asked of me. People may consider me a child if they like. I am often called an idiot, and at one time I certainly was so ill that I was nearly as bad as an idiot; but I am not an idiot now. How can I possibly be so when I know myself that I am considered one?âMy lady! my sovereign!â lamented Lebedeff, falling on his knees before Nastasia Philipovna, and stretching out his hands towards the fire; âitâs a hundred thousand roubles, it is indeed, I packed it up myself, I saw the money! My queen, let me get into the fire after it--say the word--Iâll put my whole grey head into the fire for it! I have a poor lame wife and thirteen children. My father died of starvation last week. Nastasia Philipovna, Nastasia Philipovna!â The wretched little man wept, and groaned, and crawled towards the fire.
âDo you really forgive me?â he said at last. âAnd--and Lizabetha Prokofievna too?â The laugh increased, tears came into the princeâs eyes, he could not believe in all this kindness--he was enchanted.
| âBut perhaps we shall not be poor; we may be very rich, Nastasia Philipovna,â continued the prince, in the same timid, quivering tones. âI donât know for certain, and Iâm sorry to say I havenât had an opportunity of finding out all day; but I received a letter from Moscow, while I was in Switzerland, from a Mr. Salaskin, and he acquaints me with the fact that I am entitled to a very large inheritance. This letter--â |
| She became so excited and agitated during all these explanations and confessions that General Epanchin was highly gratified, and considered the matter satisfactorily arranged once for all. But the once bitten Totski was twice shy, and looked for hidden snakes among the flowers. However, the special point to which the two friends particularly trusted to bring about their object (namely, Ganiaâs attractiveness for Nastasia Philipovna), stood out more and more prominently; the pourparlers had commenced, and gradually even Totski began to believe in the possibility of success. |
âEnough,â cried Lizabetha Prokofievna abruptly, trembling with anger, âwe have had enough of this balderdash!â
| âHa, ha, ha!â she cried, âthis is an unexpected climax, after all. I didnât expect this. What are you all standing up for, gentlemen? Sit down; congratulate me and the prince! Ferdishenko, just step out and order some more champagne, will you? Katia, Pasha,â she added suddenly, seeing the servants at the door, âcome here! Iâm going to be married, did you hear? To the prince. He has a million and a half of roubles; he is Prince Muishkin, and has asked me to marry him. Here, prince, come and sit by me; and here comes the wine. Now then, ladies and gentlemen, where are your congratulations?â |
But the general only stood stupefied and gazed around in a dazed way. Ganiaâs speech had impressed him, with its terrible candour. For the first moment or two he could find no words to answer him, and it was only when Hippolyte burst out laughing, and said:
âI see you are ashamed of me, Evgenie Pavlovitch; you are blushing for me; thatâs a sign of a good heart. Donât be afraid; I shall go away directly.â
| âCome, that is enough! That is all now; you have no more to say? Now go to bed; you are burning with fever,â said Lizabetha Prokofievna impatiently. Her anxious eyes had never left the invalid. âGood heavens, he is going to begin again!â |
| Muishkin remembered the doctorâs visit quite well. He remembered that Lebedeff had said that he looked ill, and had better see a doctor; and although the prince scouted the idea, Lebedeff had turned up almost immediately with his old friend, explaining that they had just met at the bedside of Hippolyte, who was very ill, and that the doctor had something to tell the prince about the sick man. |
âWell perhaps youâre right,â said Hippolyte, musing. âThey might say--yet, devil take them! what does it matter?--prince, what can it matter what people will say of us _then_, eh? I believe Iâm half asleep. Iâve had such a dreadful dream--Iâve only just remembered it. Prince, I donât wish you such dreams as that, though sure enough, perhaps, I _donât_ love you. Why wish a man evil, though you do not love him, eh? Give me your hand--let me press it sincerely. There--youâve given me your hand--you must feel that I _do_ press it sincerely, donât you? I donât think I shall drink any more. What time is it? Never mind, I know the time. The time has come, at all events. What! they are laying supper over there, are they? Then this table is free? Capital, gentlemen! I--hem! these gentlemen are not listening. Prince, I will just read over an article I have here. Supper is more interesting, of course, but--â
| âWe havenât met for some time. Meanwhile I have heard things about you which I should not have believed to be possible.â |
âHow so?â asked Adelaida, with curiosity.
| âI must say itâs very nice of you to laugh. I see you really are a kind-hearted fellow,â said Mrs. Epanchin. |
| Even the German poet, though as amiable as possible, felt that he was doing the house the greatest of honours by his presence in it. |
âI didnât know they called you a fool. I certainly donât think you one.â
| Gania glanced inquiringly at the speaker. |
âAnd yet you flush up as red as a rosebud! Come--itâs all right. Iâm not going to laugh at you. Do you know she is a very virtuous woman? Believe it or not, as you like. You think she and Totski--not a bit of it, not a bit of it! Not for ever so long! _Au revoir!_â
âI take all that you have said as a joke,â said Prince S. seriously.
âHeâs got a stroke!â cried Colia, loudly, realizing what was the matter at last.The Epanchin family had at last made up their minds to spend the summer abroad, all except the general, who could not waste time in âtravelling for enjoyment,â of course. This arrangement was brought about by the persistence of the girls, who insisted that they were never allowed to go abroad because their parents were too anxious to marry them off. Perhaps their parents had at last come to the conclusion that husbands might be found abroad, and that a summerâs travel might bear fruit. The marriage between Alexandra and Totski had been broken off. Since the princeâs departure from St. Petersburg no more had been said about it; the subject had been dropped without ceremony, much to the joy of Mrs. General, who, announced that she was âready to cross herself with both handsâ in gratitude for the escape. The general, however, regretted Totski for a long while. âSuch a fortune!â he sighed, âand such a good, easy-going fellow!â
âMy goodness, Lef Nicolaievitch, why, you canât have heard a single word I said! Look at me, Iâm still trembling all over with the dreadful shock! It is that that kept me in town so late. Evgenie Pavlovitchâs uncle--â
âYou do not care if he does?â added Evgenie Pavlovitch. âNeither do I; in fact, I should be glad, merely as a proper punishment for our dear Lizabetha Prokofievna. I am very anxious that she should get it, without delay, and I shall stay till she does. You seem feverish.â
The prince gave a short narrative of what we have heard before, leaving out the greater part. The two ladies listened intently.| Or if that were impossible he would like to be alone at home, on the terrace--without either Lebedeff or his children, or anyone else about him, and to lie there and think--a day and night and another day again! He thought of the mountains--and especially of a certain spot which he used to frequent, whence he would look down upon the distant valleys and fields, and see the waterfall, far off, like a little silver thread, and the old ruined castle in the distance. Oh! how he longed to be there now--alone with his thoughts--to think of one thing all his life--one thing! A thousand years would not be too much time! And let everyone here forget him--forget him utterly! How much better it would have been if they had never known him--if all this could but prove to be a dream. Perhaps it was a dream! |
âIs there over there?â
âWhat? Impossible!â exclaimed Mrs. Epanchin.| âIf two months since I had been called upon to leave my room and the view of Meyerâs wall opposite, I verily believe I should have been sorry. But now I have no such feeling, and yet I am leaving this room and Meyerâs brick wall _for ever_. So that my conclusion, that it is not worth while indulging in grief, or any other emotion, for a fortnight, has proved stronger than my very nature, and has taken over the direction of my feelings. But is it so? Is it the case that my nature is conquered entirely? If I were to be put on the rack now, I should certainly cry out. I should not say that it is not worth while to yell and feel pain because I have but a fortnight to live. |
We said at the beginning of our story, that the Epanchins were liked and esteemed by their neighbours. In spite of his humble origin, Ivan Fedorovitch himself was received everywhere with respect. He deserved this, partly on account of his wealth and position, partly because, though limited, he was really a very good fellow. But a certain limitation of mind seems to be an indispensable asset, if not to all public personages, at least to all serious financiers. Added to this, his manner was modest and unassuming; he knew when to be silent, yet never allowed himself to be trampled upon. Also--and this was more important than all--he had the advantage of being under exalted patronage.