The Idiot

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Translated by Eva Martin

Contents

 PART I
 PART II
 PART III
 PART IV

PART I

I.

Towards the end of November, during a thaw, at nine o’clock one
morning, a train on the Warsaw and Petersburg railway was approaching
the latter city at full speed. The morning was so damp and misty that
it was only with great difficulty that the day succeeded in breaking;
and it was impossible to distinguish anything more than a few yards
away from the carriage windows.

Some of the passengers by this particular train were returning from
abroad; but the third-class carriages were the best filled, chiefly
with insignificant persons of various occupations and degrees, picked
up at the different stations nearer town. All of them seemed weary, and
most of them had sleepy eyes and a shivering expression, while their
complexions generally appeared to have taken on the colour of the fog
outside.

When day dawned, two passengers in one of the third-class carriages
found themselves opposite each other. Both were young fellows, both
were rather poorly dressed, both had remarkable faces, and both were
evidently anxious to start a conversation. If they had but known why,
at this particular moment, they were both remarkable persons, they
would undoubtedly have wondered at the strange chance which had set
them down opposite to one another in a third-class carriage of the
Warsaw Railway Company.

One of them was a young fellow of about twenty-seven, not tall, with
black curling hair, and small, grey, fiery eyes. His nose was broad and
flat, and he had high cheek bones; his thin lips were constantly
compressed into an impudent, ironical—it might almost be called a
malicious—smile; but his forehead was high and well formed, and atoned
for a good deal of the ugliness of the lower part of his face. A
special feature of this physiognomy was its death-like pallor, which
gave to the whole man an indescribably emaciated appearance in spite of
his hard look, and at the same time a sort of passionate and suffering
expression which did not harmonize with his impudent, sarcastic smile
and keen, self-satisfied bearing. He wore a large fur—or rather
astrachan—overcoat, which had kept him warm all night, while his
neighbour had been obliged to bear the full severity of a Russian
November night entirely unprepared. His wide sleeveless mantle with a
large cape to it—the sort of cloak one sees upon travellers during the
winter months in Switzerland or North Italy—was by no means adapted to
the long cold journey through Russia, from Eydkuhnen to St. Petersburg.

The wearer of this cloak was a young fellow, also of about twenty-six
or twenty-seven years of age, slightly above the middle height, very
fair, with a thin, pointed and very light coloured beard; his eyes were
large and blue, and had an intent look about them, yet that heavy
expression which some people affirm to be a peculiarity as well as
evidence, of an epileptic subject. His face was decidedly a pleasant
one for all that; refined, but quite colourless, except for the
circumstance that at this moment it was blue with cold. He held a
bundle made up of an old faded silk handkerchief that apparently
contained all his travelling wardrobe, and wore thick shoes and
gaiters, his whole appearance being very un-Russian.

His black-haired neighbour inspected these peculiarities, having
nothing better to do, and at length remarked, with that rude enjoyment
of the discomforts of others which the common classes so often show:

“Cold?”

“Very,” said his neighbour, readily, “and this is a thaw, too. Fancy if
it had been a hard frost! I never thought it would be so cold in the
old country. I’ve grown quite out of the way of it.”

“What, been abroad, I suppose?”

“Yes, straight from Switzerland.”

“Wheugh! my goodness!” The black-haired young fellow whistled, and then
laughed.

The conversation proceeded. The readiness of the fair-haired young man
in the cloak to answer all his opposite neighbour’s questions was
surprising. He seemed to have no suspicion of any impertinence or
inappropriateness in the fact of such questions being put to him.
Replying to them, he made known to the inquirer that he certainly had
been long absent from Russia, more than four years; that he had been
sent abroad for his health; that he had suffered from some strange
nervous malady—a kind of epilepsy, with convulsive spasms. His
interlocutor burst out laughing several times at his answers; and more
than ever, when to the question, “whether he had been cured?” the
patient replied:

“No, they did not cure me.”

“Hey! that’s it! You stumped up your money for nothing, and we believe
in those fellows, here!” remarked the black-haired individual,
sarcastically.

“Gospel truth, sir, Gospel truth!” exclaimed another passenger, a
shabbily dressed man of about forty, who looked like a clerk, and
possessed a red nose and a very blotchy face. “Gospel truth! All they
do is to get hold of our good Russian money free, gratis, and for
nothing.”

“Oh, but you’re quite wrong in my particular instance,” said the Swiss
patient, quietly. “Of course I can’t argue the matter, because I know
only my own case; but my doctor gave me money—and he had very little—to
pay my journey back, besides having kept me at his own expense, while
there, for nearly two years.”

“Why? Was there no one else to pay for you?” asked the black-haired
one.

“No—Mr. Pavlicheff, who had been supporting me there, died a couple of
years ago. I wrote to Mrs. General Epanchin at the time (she is a
distant relative of mine), but she did not answer my letter. And so
eventually I came back.”

“And where have you come to?”

“That is—where am I going to stay? I—I really don’t quite know yet, I—”

Both the listeners laughed again.

“I suppose your whole set-up is in that bundle, then?” asked the first.

“I bet anything it is!” exclaimed the red-nosed passenger, with extreme
satisfaction, “and that he has precious little in the luggage
van!—though of course poverty is no crime—we must remember that!”

It appeared that it was indeed as they had surmised. The young fellow
hastened to admit the fact with wonderful readiness.

“Your bundle has some importance, however,” continued the clerk, when
they had laughed their fill (it was observable that the subject of
their mirth joined in the laughter when he saw them laughing); “for
though I dare say it is not stuffed full of friedrichs d’or and louis
d’or—judge from your costume and gaiters—still—if you can add to your
possessions such a valuable property as a relation like Mrs. General
Epanchin, then your bundle becomes a significant object at once. That
is, of course, if you really are a relative of Mrs. Epanchin’s, and
have not made a little error through—well, absence of mind, which is
very common to human beings; or, say—through a too luxuriant fancy?”

“Oh, you are right again,” said the fair-haired traveller, “for I
really am _almost_ wrong when I say she and I are related. She is
hardly a relation at all; so little, in fact, that I was not in the
least surprised to have no answer to my letter. I expected as much.”

“H’m! you spent your postage for nothing, then. H’m! you are candid,
however—and that is commendable. H’m! Mrs. Epanchin—oh yes! a most
eminent person. I know her. As for Mr. Pavlicheff, who supported you in
Switzerland, I know him too—at least, if it was Nicolai Andreevitch of
that name? A fine fellow he was—and had a property of four thousand
souls in his day.”

“Yes, Nicolai Andreevitch—that was his name,” and the young fellow
looked earnestly and with curiosity at the all-knowing gentleman with
the red nose.

This sort of character is met with pretty frequently in a certain
class. They are people who know everyone—that is, they know where a man
is employed, what his salary is, whom he knows, whom he married, what
money his wife had, who are his cousins, and second cousins, etc., etc.
These men generally have about a hundred pounds a year to live on, and
they spend their whole time and talents in the amassing of this style
of knowledge, which they reduce—or raise—to the standard of a science.

During the latter part of the conversation the black-haired young man
had become very impatient. He stared out of the window, and fidgeted,
and evidently longed for the end of the journey. He was very absent; he
would appear to listen—and heard nothing; and he would laugh of a
sudden, evidently with no idea of what he was laughing about.

“Excuse me,” said the red-nosed man to the young fellow with the
bundle, rather suddenly; “whom have I the honour to be talking to?”

“Prince Lef Nicolaievitch Muishkin,” replied the latter, with perfect
readiness.

“Prince Muishkin? Lef Nicolaievitch? H’m! I don’t know, I’m sure! I may
say I have never heard of such a person,” said the clerk, thoughtfully.
“At least, the name, I admit, is historical. Karamsin must mention the
family name, of course, in his history—but as an individual—one never
hears of any Prince Muishkin nowadays.”

“Of course not,” replied the prince; “there are none, except myself. I
believe I am the last and only one. As to my forefathers, they have
always been a poor lot; my own father was a sublieutenant in the army.
I don’t know how Mrs. Epanchin comes into the Muishkin family, but she
is descended from the Princess Muishkin, and she, too, is the last of
her line.”

“And did you learn science and all that, with your professor over
there?” asked the black-haired passenger.

“Oh yes—I did learn a little, but—”

“I’ve never learned anything whatever,” said the other.

“Oh, but I learned very little, you know!” added the prince, as though
excusing himself. “They could not teach me very much on account of my
illness.”

“Do you know the Rogojins?” asked his questioner, abruptly.

“No, I don’t—not at all! I hardly know anyone in Russia. Why, is that
your name?”

“Yes, I am Rogojin, Parfen Rogojin.”

“Parfen Rogojin? dear me—then don’t you belong to those very Rogojins,
perhaps—” began the clerk, with a very perceptible increase of civility
in his tone.

“Yes—those very ones,” interrupted Rogojin, impatiently, and with scant
courtesy. I may remark that he had not once taken any notice of the
blotchy-faced passenger, and had hitherto addressed all his remarks
direct to the prince.

“Dear me—is it possible?” observed the clerk, while his face assumed an
expression of great deference and servility—if not of absolute alarm:
“what, a son of that very Semen Rogojin—hereditary honourable
citizen—who died a month or so ago and left two million and a half of
roubles?”

“And how do _you_ know that he left two million and a half of roubles?”
asked Rogojin, disdainfully, and not deigning so much as to look at the
other. “However, it’s true enough that my father died a month ago, and
that here am I returning from Pskoff, a month after, with hardly a boot
to my foot. They’ve treated me like a dog! I’ve been ill of fever at
Pskoff the whole time, and not a line, nor farthing of money, have I
received from my mother or my confounded brother!”

“And now you’ll have a million roubles, at least—goodness gracious me!”
exclaimed the clerk, rubbing his hands.

“Five weeks since, I was just like yourself,” continued Rogojin,
addressing the prince, “with nothing but a bundle and the clothes I
wore. I ran away from my father and came to Pskoff to my aunt’s house,
where I caved in at once with fever, and he went and died while I was
away. All honour to my respected father’s memory—but he uncommonly
nearly killed me, all the same. Give you my word, prince, if I hadn’t
cut and run then, when I did, he’d have murdered me like a dog.”

“I suppose you angered him somehow?” asked the prince, looking at the
millionaire with considerable curiosity. But though there may have been
something remarkable in the fact that this man was heir to millions of
roubles there was something about him which surprised and interested
the prince more than that. Rogojin, too, seemed to have taken up the
conversation with unusual alacrity it appeared that he was still in a
considerable state of excitement, if not absolutely feverish, and was
in real need of someone to talk to for the mere sake of talking, as
safety-valve to his agitation.

As for his red-nosed neighbour, the latter—since the information as to
the identity of Rogojin—hung over him, seemed to be living on the honey
of his words and in the breath of his nostrils, catching at every
syllable as though it were a pearl of great price.

“Oh, yes; I angered him—I certainly did anger him,” replied Rogojin.
“But what puts me out so is my brother. Of course my mother couldn’t do
anything—she’s too old—and whatever brother Senka says is law for her!
But why couldn’t he let me know? He sent a telegram, they say. What’s
the good of a telegram? It frightened my aunt so that she sent it back
to the office unopened, and there it’s been ever since! It’s only
thanks to Konief that I heard at all; he wrote me all about it. He says
my brother cut off the gold tassels from my father’s coffin, at night
‘because they’re worth a lot of money!’ says he. Why, I can get him
sent off to Siberia for that alone, if I like; it’s sacrilege. Here,
you—scarecrow!” he added, addressing the clerk at his side, “is it
sacrilege or not, by law?”

“Sacrilege, certainly—certainly sacrilege,” said the latter.

“And it’s Siberia for sacrilege, isn’t it?”

“Undoubtedly so; Siberia, of course!”

“They will think that I’m still ill,” continued Rogojin to the prince,
“but I sloped off quietly, seedy as I was, took the train and came
away. Aha, brother Senka, you’ll have to open your gates and let me in,
my boy! I know he told tales about me to my father—I know that well
enough but I certainly did rile my father about Nastasia Philipovna
that’s very sure, and that was my own doing.”

“Nastasia Philipovna?” said the clerk, as though trying to think out
something.

“Come, you know nothing about _her_,” said Rogojin, impatiently.

“And supposing I do know something?” observed the other, triumphantly.

“Bosh! there are plenty of Nastasia Philipovnas. And what an
impertinent beast you are!” he added angrily. “I thought some creature
like you would hang on to me as soon as I got hold of my money.”

“Oh, but I do know, as it happens,” said the clerk in an aggravating
manner. “Lebedeff knows all about her. You are pleased to reproach me,
your excellency, but what if I prove that I am right after all?
Nastasia Philipovna’s family name is Barashkoff—I know, you see—and she
is a very well known lady, indeed, and comes of a good family, too. She
is connected with one Totski, Afanasy Ivanovitch, a man of considerable
property, a director of companies, and so on, and a great friend of
General Epanchin, who is interested in the same matters as he is.”

“My eyes!” said Rogojin, really surprised at last. “The devil take the
fellow, how does he know that?”

“Why, he knows everything—Lebedeff knows everything! I was a month or
two with Lihachof after his father died, your excellency, and while he
was knocking about—he’s in the debtor’s prison now—I was with him, and
he couldn’t do a thing without Lebedeff; and I got to know Nastasia
Philipovna and several people at that time.”

“Nastasia Philipovna? Why, you don’t mean to say that she and
Lihachof—” cried Rogojin, turning quite pale.

“No, no, no, no, no! Nothing of the sort, I assure you!” said Lebedeff,
hastily. “Oh dear no, not for the world! Totski’s the only man with any
chance there. Oh, no! He takes her to his box at the opera at the
French theatre of an evening, and the officers and people all look at
her and say, ‘By Jove, there’s the famous Nastasia Philipovna!’ but no
one ever gets any further than that, for there is nothing more to say.”

“Yes, it’s quite true,” said Rogojin, frowning gloomily; “so Zaleshoff
told me. I was walking about the Nefsky one fine day, prince, in my
father’s old coat, when she suddenly came out of a shop and stepped
into her carriage. I swear I was all of a blaze at once. Then I met
Zaleshoff—looking like a hair-dresser’s assistant, got up as fine as I
don’t know who, while I looked like a tinker. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,
my boy,’ said he; ‘she’s not for such as you; she’s a princess, she is,
and her name is Nastasia Philipovna Barashkoff, and she lives with
Totski, who wishes to get rid of her because he’s growing rather
old—fifty-five or so—and wants to marry a certain beauty, the loveliest
woman in all Petersburg.’ And then he told me that I could see Nastasia
Philipovna at the opera-house that evening, if I liked, and described
which was her box. Well, I’d like to see my father allowing any of us
to go to the theatre; he’d sooner have killed us, any day. However, I
went for an hour or so and saw Nastasia Philipovna, and I never slept a
wink all night after. Next morning my father happened to give me two
government loan bonds to sell, worth nearly five thousand roubles each.
‘Sell them,’ said he, ‘and then take seven thousand five hundred
roubles to the office, give them to the cashier, and bring me back the
rest of the ten thousand, without looking in anywhere on the way; look
sharp, I shall be waiting for you.’ Well, I sold the bonds, but I
didn’t take the seven thousand roubles to the office; I went straight
to the English shop and chose a pair of earrings, with a diamond the
size of a nut in each. They cost four hundred roubles more than I had,
so I gave my name, and they trusted me. With the earrings I went at
once to Zaleshoff’s. ‘Come on!’ I said, ‘come on to Nastasia
Philipovna’s,’ and off we went without more ado. I tell you I hadn’t a
notion of what was about me or before me or below my feet all the way;
I saw nothing whatever. We went straight into her drawing-room, and
then she came out to us.

“I didn’t say right out who I was, but Zaleshoff said: ‘From Parfen
Rogojin, in memory of his first meeting with you yesterday; be so kind
as to accept these!’

“She opened the parcel, looked at the earrings, and laughed.

“‘Thank your friend Mr. Rogojin for his kind attention,’ says she, and
bowed and went off. Why didn’t I die there on the spot? The worst of it
all was, though, that the beast Zaleshoff got all the credit of it! I
was short and abominably dressed, and stood and stared in her face and
never said a word, because I was shy, like an ass! And there was he all
in the fashion, pomaded and dressed out, with a smart tie on, bowing
and scraping; and I bet anything she took him for me all the while!

“‘Look here now,’ I said, when we came out, ‘none of your interference
here after this—do you understand?’ He laughed: ‘And how are you going
to settle up with your father?’ says he. I thought I might as well jump
into the Neva at once without going home first; but it struck me that I
wouldn’t, after all, and I went home feeling like one of the damned.”

“My goodness!” shivered the clerk. “And his father,” he added, for the
prince’s instruction, “and his father would have given a man a ticket
to the other world for ten roubles any day—not to speak of ten
thousand!”

The prince observed Rogojin with great curiosity; he seemed paler than
ever at this moment.

“What do you know about it?” cried the latter. “Well, my father learned
the whole story at once, and Zaleshoff blabbed it all over the town
besides. So he took me upstairs and locked me up, and swore at me for
an hour. ‘This is only a foretaste,’ says he; ‘wait a bit till night
comes, and I’ll come back and talk to you again.’

“Well, what do you think? The old fellow went straight off to Nastasia
Philipovna, touched the floor with his forehead, and began blubbering
and beseeching her on his knees to give him back the diamonds. So after
awhile she brought the box and flew out at him. ‘There,’ she says,
‘take your earrings, you wretched old miser; although they are ten
times dearer than their value to me now that I know what it must have
cost Parfen to get them! Give Parfen my compliments,’ she says, ‘and
thank him very much!’ Well, I meanwhile had borrowed twenty-five
roubles from a friend, and off I went to Pskoff to my aunt’s. The old
woman there lectured me so that I left the house and went on a drinking
tour round the public-houses of the place. I was in a high fever when I
got to Pskoff, and by nightfall I was lying delirious in the streets
somewhere or other!”

“Oho! we’ll make Nastasia Philipovna sing another song now!” giggled
Lebedeff, rubbing his hands with glee. “Hey, my boy, we’ll get her some
proper earrings now! We’ll get her such earrings that—”

“Look here,” cried Rogojin, seizing him fiercely by the arm, “look
here, if you so much as name Nastasia Philipovna again, I’ll tan your
hide as sure as you sit there!”

“Aha! do—by all means! if you tan my hide you won’t turn me away from
your society. You’ll bind me to you, with your lash, for ever. Ha, ha!
here we are at the station, though.”

Sure enough, the train was just steaming in as he spoke.

Though Rogojin had declared that he left Pskoff secretly, a large
collection of friends had assembled to greet him, and did so with
profuse waving of hats and shouting.

“Why, there’s Zaleshoff here, too!” he muttered, gazing at the scene
with a sort of triumphant but unpleasant smile. Then he suddenly turned
to the prince: “Prince, I don’t know why I have taken a fancy to you;
perhaps because I met you just when I did. But no, it can’t be that,
for I met this fellow” (nodding at Lebedeff) “too, and I have not taken
a fancy to him by any means. Come to see me, prince; we’ll take off
those gaiters of yours and dress you up in a smart fur coat, the best
we can buy. You shall have a dress coat, best quality, white waistcoat,
anything you like, and your pocket shall be full of money. Come, and
you shall go with me to Nastasia Philipovna’s. Now then will you come
or no?”

“Accept, accept, Prince Lef Nicolaievitch” said Lebedef solemnly;
“don’t let it slip! Accept, quick!”

Prince Muishkin rose and stretched out his hand courteously, while he
replied with some cordiality:

“I will come with the greatest pleasure, and thank you very much for
taking a fancy to me. I dare say I may even come today if I have time,
for I tell you frankly that I like you very much too. I liked you
especially when you told us about the diamond earrings; but I liked you
before that as well, though you have such a dark-clouded sort of face.
Thanks very much for the offer of clothes and a fur coat; I certainly
shall require both clothes and coat very soon. As for money, I have
hardly a copeck about me at this moment.”

“You shall have lots of money; by the evening I shall have plenty; so
come along!”

“That’s true enough, he’ll have lots before evening!” put in Lebedeff.

“But, look here, are you a great hand with the ladies? Let’s know that
first?” asked Rogojin.

“Oh no, oh no!” said the prince; “I couldn’t, you know—my illness—I
hardly ever saw a soul.”

“H’m! well—here, you fellow—you can come along with me now if you
like!” cried Rogojin to Lebedeff, and so they all left the carriage.

Lebedeff had his desire. He went off with the noisy group of Rogojin’s
friends towards the Voznesensky, while the prince’s route lay towards
the Litaynaya. It was damp and wet. The prince asked his way of
passers-by, and finding that he was a couple of miles or so from his
destination, he determined to take a droshky.

II.

General Epanchin lived in his own house near the Litaynaya. Besides
this large residence—five-sixths of which was let in flats and
lodgings—the general was owner of another enormous house in the
Sadovaya bringing in even more rent than the first. Besides these
houses he had a delightful little estate just out of town, and some
sort of factory in another part of the city. General Epanchin, as
everyone knew, had a good deal to do with certain government
monopolies; he was also a voice, and an important one, in many rich
public companies of various descriptions; in fact, he enjoyed the
reputation of being a well-to-do man of busy habits, many ties, and
affluent means. He had made himself indispensable in several quarters,
amongst others in his department of the government; and yet it was a
known fact that Fedor Ivanovitch Epanchin was a man of no education
whatever, and had absolutely risen from the ranks.

This last fact could, of course, reflect nothing but credit upon the
general; and yet, though unquestionably a sagacious man, he had his own
little weaknesses—very excusable ones,—one of which was a dislike to
any allusion to the above circumstance. He was undoubtedly clever. For
instance, he made a point of never asserting himself when he would gain
more by keeping in the background; and in consequence many exalted
personages valued him principally for his humility and simplicity, and
because “he knew his place.” And yet if these good people could only
have had a peep into the mind of this excellent fellow who “knew his
place” so well! The fact is that, in spite of his knowledge of the
world and his really remarkable abilities, he always liked to appear to
be carrying out other people’s ideas rather than his own. And also, his
luck seldom failed him, even at cards, for which he had a passion that
he did not attempt to conceal. He played for high stakes, and moved,
altogether, in very varied society.

As to age, General Epanchin was in the very prime of life; that is,
about fifty-five years of age,—the flowering time of existence, when
real enjoyment of life begins. His healthy appearance, good colour,
sound, though discoloured teeth, sturdy figure, preoccupied air during
business hours, and jolly good humour during his game at cards in the
evening, all bore witness to his success in life, and combined to make
existence a bed of roses to his excellency. The general was lord of a
flourishing family, consisting of his wife and three grown-up
daughters. He had married young, while still a lieutenant, his wife
being a girl of about his own age, who possessed neither beauty nor
education, and who brought him no more than fifty souls of landed
property, which little estate served, however, as a nest-egg for far
more important accumulations. The general never regretted his early
marriage, or regarded it as a foolish youthful escapade; and he so
respected and feared his wife that he was very near loving her. Mrs.
Epanchin came of the princely stock of Muishkin, which if not a
brilliant, was, at all events, a decidedly ancient family; and she was
extremely proud of her descent.

With a few exceptions, the worthy couple had lived through their long
union very happily. While still young the wife had been able to make
important friends among the aristocracy, partly by virtue of her family
descent, and partly by her own exertions; while, in after life, thanks
to their wealth and to the position of her husband in the service, she
took her place among the higher circles as by right.

During these last few years all three of the general’s
daughters—Alexandra, Adelaida, and Aglaya—had grown up and matured. Of
course they were only Epanchins, but their mother’s family was noble;
they might expect considerable fortunes; their father had hopes of
attaining to very high rank indeed in his country’s service—all of
which was satisfactory. All three of the girls were decidedly pretty,
even the eldest, Alexandra, who was just twenty-five years old. The
middle daughter was now twenty-three, while the youngest, Aglaya, was
twenty. This youngest girl was absolutely a beauty, and had begun of
late to attract considerable attention in society. But this was not
all, for every one of the three was clever, well educated, and
accomplished.

It was a matter of general knowledge that the three girls were very
fond of one another, and supported each other in every way; it was even
said that the two elder ones had made certain sacrifices for the sake
of the idol of the household, Aglaya. In society they not only disliked
asserting themselves, but were actually retiring. Certainly no one
could blame them for being too arrogant or haughty, and yet everybody
was well aware that they were proud and quite understood their own
value. The eldest was musical, while the second was a clever artist,
which fact she had concealed until lately. In a word, the world spoke
well of the girls; but they were not without their enemies, and
occasionally people talked with horror of the number of books they had
read.

They were in no hurry to marry. They liked good society, but were not
too keen about it. All this was the more remarkable, because everyone
was well aware of the hopes and aims of their parents.

It was about eleven o’clock in the forenoon when the prince rang the
bell at General Epanchin’s door. The general lived on the first floor
or flat of the house, as modest a lodging as his position permitted. A
liveried servant opened the door, and the prince was obliged to enter
into long explanations with this gentleman, who, from the first glance,
looked at him and his bundle with grave suspicion. At last, however, on
the repeated positive assurance that he really was Prince Muishkin, and
must absolutely see the general on business, the bewildered domestic
showed him into a little ante-chamber leading to a waiting-room that
adjoined the general’s study, there handing him over to another
servant, whose duty it was to be in this ante-chamber all the morning,
and announce visitors to the general. This second individual wore a
dress coat, and was some forty years of age; he was the general’s
special study servant, and well aware of his own importance.

“Wait in the next room, please; and leave your bundle here,” said the
door-keeper, as he sat down comfortably in his own easy-chair in the
ante-chamber. He looked at the prince in severe surprise as the latter
settled himself in another chair alongside, with his bundle on his
knees.

“If you don’t mind, I would rather sit here with you,” said the prince;
“I should prefer it to sitting in there.”

“Oh, but you can’t stay here. You are a visitor—a guest, so to speak.
Is it the general himself you wish to see?”

The man evidently could not take in the idea of such a shabby-looking
visitor, and had decided to ask once more.

“Yes—I have business—” began the prince.

“I do not ask you what your business may be, all I have to do is to
announce you; and unless the secretary comes in here I cannot do that.”

The man’s suspicions seemed to increase more and more. The prince was
too unlike the usual run of daily visitors; and although the general
certainly did receive, on business, all sorts and conditions of men,
yet in spite of this fact the servant felt great doubts on the subject
of this particular visitor. The presence of the secretary as an
intermediary was, he judged, essential in this case.

“Surely you—are from abroad?” he inquired at last, in a confused sort
of way. He had begun his sentence intending to say, “Surely you are not
Prince Muishkin, are you?”

“Yes, straight from the train! Did not you intend to say, ‘Surely you
are not Prince Muishkin?’ just now, but refrained out of politeness?”

“H’m!” grunted the astonished servant.

“I assure you I am not deceiving you; you shall not have to answer for
me. As to my being dressed like this, and carrying a bundle, there’s
nothing surprising in that—the fact is, my circumstances are not
particularly rosy at this moment.”

“H’m!—no, I’m not afraid of that, you see; I have to announce you,
that’s all. The secretary will be out directly—that is, unless you—yes,
that’s the rub—unless you—come, you must allow me to ask you—you’ve not
come to beg, have you?”

“Oh dear no, you can be perfectly easy on that score. I have quite
another matter on hand.”

“You must excuse my asking, you know. Your appearance led me to
think—but just wait for the secretary; the general is busy now, but the
secretary is sure to come out.”

“Oh—well, look here, if I have some time to wait, would you mind
telling me, is there any place about where I could have a smoke? I have
my pipe and tobacco with me.”

“_Smoke?_” said the man, in shocked but disdainful surprise, blinking
his eyes at the prince as though he could not believe his senses. “No,
sir, you cannot smoke here, and I wonder you are not ashamed of the
very suggestion. Ha, ha! a cool idea that, I declare!”

“Oh, I didn’t mean in this room! I know I can’t smoke here, of course.
I’d adjourn to some other room, wherever you like to show me to. You
see, I’m used to smoking a good deal, and now I haven’t had a puff for
three hours; however, just as you like.”

“Now how on earth am I to announce a man like that?” muttered the
servant. “In the first place, you’ve no right in here at all; you ought
to be in the waiting-room, because you’re a sort of visitor—a guest, in
fact—and I shall catch it for this. Look here, do you intend to take up
you abode with us?” he added, glancing once more at the prince’s
bundle, which evidently gave him no peace.

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think I should stay even if they were to
invite me. I’ve simply come to make their acquaintance, and nothing
more.”

“Make their acquaintance?” asked the man, in amazement, and with
redoubled suspicion. “Then why did you say you had business with the
general?”

“Oh well, very little business. There is one little matter—some advice
I am going to ask him for; but my principal object is simply to
introduce myself, because I am Prince Muishkin, and Madame Epanchin is
the last of her branch of the house, and besides herself and me there
are no other Muishkins left.”

“What—you’re a relation then, are you?” asked the servant, so
bewildered that he began to feel quite alarmed.

“Well, hardly so. If you stretch a point, we are relations, of course,
but so distant that one cannot really take cognizance of it. I once
wrote to your mistress from abroad, but she did not reply. However, I
have thought it right to make acquaintance with her on my arrival. I am
telling you all this in order to ease your mind, for I see you are
still far from comfortable on my account. All you have to do is to
announce me as Prince Muishkin, and the object of my visit will be
plain enough. If I am received—very good; if not, well, very good
again. But they are sure to receive me, I should think; Madame Epanchin
will naturally be curious to see the only remaining representative of
her family. She values her Muishkin descent very highly, if I am
rightly informed.”

The prince’s conversation was artless and confiding to a degree, and
the servant could not help feeling that as from visitor to common
serving-man this state of things was highly improper. His conclusion
was that one of two things must be the explanation—either that this was
a begging impostor, or that the prince, if prince he were, was simply a
fool, without the slightest ambition; for a sensible prince with any
ambition would certainly not wait about in ante-rooms with servants,
and talk of his own private affairs like this. In either case, how was
he to announce this singular visitor?

“I really think I must request you to step into the next room!” he
said, with all the insistence he could muster.

“Why? If I had been sitting there now, I should not have had the
opportunity of making these personal explanations. I see you are still
uneasy about me and keep eyeing my cloak and bundle. Don’t you think
you might go in yourself now, without waiting for the secretary to come
out?”

“No, no! I can’t announce a visitor like yourself without the
secretary. Besides the general said he was not to be disturbed—he is
with the Colonel C—. Gavrila Ardalionovitch goes in without
announcing.”

“Who may that be? a clerk?”

“What? Gavrila Ardalionovitch? Oh no; he belongs to one of the
companies. Look here, at all events put your bundle down, here.”

“Yes, I will if I may; and—can I take off my cloak”

“Of course; you can’t go in _there_ with it on, anyhow.”

The prince rose and took off his mantle, revealing a neat enough
morning costume—a little worn, but well made. He wore a steel watch
chain and from this chain there hung a silver Geneva watch. Fool the
prince might be, still, the general’s servant felt that it was not
correct for him to continue to converse thus with a visitor, in spite
of the fact that the prince pleased him somehow.

“And what time of day does the lady receive?” the latter asked,
reseating himself in his old place.

“Oh, that’s not in _my_ province! I believe she receives at any time;
it depends upon the visitors. The dressmaker goes in at eleven. Gavrila
Ardalionovitch is allowed much earlier than other people, too; he is
even admitted to early lunch now and then.”

“It is much warmer in the rooms here than it is abroad at this season,”
observed the prince; “but it is much warmer there out of doors. As for
the houses—a Russian can’t live in them in the winter until he gets
accustomed to them.”

“Don’t they heat them at all?”

“Well, they do heat them a little; but the houses and stoves are so
different to ours.”

“H’m! were you long away?”

“Four years! and I was in the same place nearly all the time,—in one
village.”

“You must have forgotten Russia, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, indeed I had—a good deal; and, would you believe it, I often
wonder at myself for not having forgotten how to speak Russian? Even
now, as I talk to you, I keep saying to myself ‘how well I am speaking
it.’ Perhaps that is partly why I am so talkative this morning. I
assure you, ever since yesterday evening I have had the strongest
desire to go on and on talking Russian.”

“H’m! yes; did you live in Petersburg in former years?”

This good flunkey, in spite of his conscientious scruples, really could
not resist continuing such a very genteel and agreeable conversation.

“In Petersburg? Oh no! hardly at all, and now they say so much is
changed in the place that even those who did know it well are obliged
to relearn what they knew. They talk a good deal about the new law
courts, and changes there, don’t they?”

“H’m! yes, that’s true enough. Well now, how is the law over there, do
they administer it more justly than here?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that! I’ve heard much that is good about our
legal administration, too. There is no capital punishment here for one
thing.”

“Is there over there?”

“Yes—I saw an execution in France—at Lyons. Schneider took me over with
him to see it.”

“What, did they hang the fellow?”

“No, they cut off people’s heads in France.”

“What did the fellow do?—yell?”

“Oh no—it’s the work of an instant. They put a man inside a frame and a
sort of broad knife falls by machinery—they call the thing a
guillotine—it falls with fearful force and weight—the head springs off
so quickly that you can’t wink your eye in between. But all the
preparations are so dreadful. When they announce the sentence, you
know, and prepare the criminal and tie his hands, and cart him off to
the scaffold—that’s the fearful part of the business. The people all
crowd round—even women—though they don’t at all approve of women
looking on.”

“No, it’s not a thing for women.”

“Of course not—of course not!—bah! The criminal was a fine intelligent
fearless man; Le Gros was his name; and I may tell you—believe it or
not, as you like—that when that man stepped upon the scaffold he
_cried_, he did indeed,—he was as white as a bit of paper. Isn’t it a
dreadful idea that he should have cried—cried! Whoever heard of a grown
man crying from fear—not a child, but a man who never had cried
before—a grown man of forty-five years. Imagine what must have been
going on in that man’s mind at such a moment; what dreadful convulsions
his whole spirit must have endured; it is an outrage on the soul that’s
what it is. Because it is said ‘thou shalt not kill,’ is he to be
killed because he murdered some one else? No, it is not right, it’s an
impossible theory. I assure you, I saw the sight a month ago and it’s
dancing before my eyes to this moment. I dream of it, often.”

The prince had grown animated as he spoke, and a tinge of colour
suffused his pale face, though his way of talking was as quiet as ever.
The servant followed his words with sympathetic interest. Clearly he
was not at all anxious to bring the conversation to an end. Who knows?
Perhaps he too was a man of imagination and with some capacity for
thought.

“Well, at all events it is a good thing that there’s no pain when the
poor fellow’s head flies off,” he remarked.

“Do you know, though,” cried the prince warmly, “you made that remark
now, and everyone says the same thing, and the machine is designed with
the purpose of avoiding pain, this guillotine I mean; but a thought
came into my head then: what if it be a bad plan after all? You may
laugh at my idea, perhaps—but I could not help its occurring to me all
the same. Now with the rack and tortures and so on—you suffer terrible
pain of course; but then your torture is bodily pain only (although no
doubt you have plenty of that) until you die. But _here_ I should
imagine the most terrible part of the whole punishment is, not the
bodily pain at all—but the certain knowledge that in an hour,—then in
ten minutes, then in half a minute, then now—this very _instant_—your
soul must quit your body and that you will no longer be a man—and that
this is certain, _certain!_ That’s the point—the certainty of it. Just
that instant when you place your head on the block and hear the iron
grate over your head—then—that quarter of a second is the most awful of
all.

“This is not my own fantastical opinion—many people have thought the
same; but I feel it so deeply that I’ll tell you what I think. I
believe that to execute a man for murder is to punish him immeasurably
more dreadfully than is equivalent to his crime. A murder by sentence
is far more dreadful than a murder committed by a criminal. The man who
is attacked by robbers at night, in a dark wood, or anywhere,
undoubtedly hopes and hopes that he may yet escape until the very
moment of his death. There are plenty of instances of a man running
away, or imploring for mercy—at all events hoping on in some
degree—even after his throat was cut. But in the case of an execution,
that last hope—having which it is so immeasurably less dreadful to
die,—is taken away from the wretch and _certainty_ substituted in its
place! There is his sentence, and with it that terrible certainty that
he cannot possibly escape death—which, I consider, must be the most
dreadful anguish in the world. You may place a soldier before a
cannon’s mouth in battle, and fire upon him—and he will still hope. But
read to that same soldier his death-sentence, and he will either go mad
or burst into tears. Who dares to say that any man can suffer this
without going mad? No, no! it is an abuse, a shame, it is
unnecessary—why should such a thing exist? Doubtless there may be men
who have been sentenced, who have suffered this mental anguish for a
while and then have been reprieved; perhaps such men may have been able
to relate their feelings afterwards. Our Lord Christ spoke of this
anguish and dread. No! no! no! No man should be treated so, no man, no
man!”

The servant, though of course he could not have expressed all this as
the prince did, still clearly entered into it and was greatly
conciliated, as was evident from the increased amiability of his
expression. “If you are really very anxious for a smoke,” he remarked,
“I think it might possibly be managed, if you are very quick about it.
You see they might come out and inquire for you, and you wouldn’t be on
the spot. You see that door there? Go in there and you’ll find a little
room on the right; you can smoke there, only open the window, because I
ought not to allow it really, and—.” But there was no time, after all.

A young fellow entered the ante-room at this moment, with a bundle of
papers in his hand. The footman hastened to help him take off his
overcoat. The new arrival glanced at the prince out of the corners of
his eyes.

“This gentleman declares, Gavrila Ardalionovitch,” began the man,
confidentially and almost familiarly, “that he is Prince Muishkin and a
relative of Madame Epanchin’s. He has just arrived from abroad, with
nothing but a bundle by way of luggage—.”

The prince did not hear the rest, because at this point the servant
continued his communication in a whisper.

Gavrila Ardalionovitch listened attentively, and gazed at the prince
with great curiosity. At last he motioned the man aside and stepped
hurriedly towards the prince.

“Are you Prince Muishkin?” he asked, with the greatest courtesy and
amiability.

He was a remarkably handsome young fellow of some twenty-eight summers,
fair and of middle height; he wore a small beard, and his face was most
intelligent. Yet his smile, in spite of its sweetness, was a little
thin, if I may so call it, and showed his teeth too evenly; his gaze
though decidedly good-humoured and ingenuous, was a trifle too
inquisitive and intent to be altogether agreeable.

“Probably when he is alone he looks quite different, and hardly smiles
at all!” thought the prince.

He explained about himself in a few words, very much the same as he had
told the footman and Rogojin beforehand.

Gavrila Ardalionovitch meanwhile seemed to be trying to recall
something.

“Was it not you, then, who sent a letter a year or less ago—from
Switzerland, I think it was—to Elizabetha Prokofievna (Mrs. Epanchin)?”

“It was.”

“Oh, then, of course they will remember who you are. You wish to see
the general? I’ll tell him at once—he will be free in a minute; but
you—you had better wait in the ante-chamber,—hadn’t you? Why is he
here?” he added, severely, to the man.

“I tell you, sir, he wished it himself!”

At this moment the study door opened, and a military man, with a
portfolio under his arm, came out talking loudly, and after bidding
good-bye to someone inside, took his departure.

“You there, Gania?” cried a voice from the study, “come in here, will
you?”

Gavrila Ardalionovitch nodded to the prince and entered the room
hastily.

A couple of minutes later the door opened again and the affable voice
of Gania cried:

“Come in please, prince!”

III.

General Ivan Fedorovitch Epanchin was standing in the middle of the
room, and gazed with great curiosity at the prince as he entered. He
even advanced a couple of steps to meet him.

The prince came forward and introduced himself.

“Quite so,” replied the general, “and what can I do for you?”

“Oh, I have no special business; my principal object was to make your
acquaintance. I should not like to disturb you. I do not know your
times and arrangements here, you see, but I have only just arrived. I
came straight from the station. I am come direct from Switzerland.”

The general very nearly smiled, but thought better of it and kept his
smile back. Then he reflected, blinked his eyes, stared at his guest
once more from head to foot; then abruptly motioned him to a chair, sat
down himself, and waited with some impatience for the prince to speak.

Gania stood at his table in the far corner of the room, turning over
papers.

“I have not much time for making acquaintances, as a rule,” said the
general, “but as, of course, you have your object in coming, I—”

“I felt sure you would think I had some object in view when I resolved
to pay you this visit,” the prince interrupted; “but I give you my
word, beyond the pleasure of making your acquaintance I had no personal
object whatever.”

“The pleasure is, of course, mutual; but life is not all pleasure, as
you are aware. There is such a thing as business, and I really do not
see what possible reason there can be, or what we have in common to—”

“Oh, there is no reason, of course, and I suppose there is nothing in
common between us, or very little; for if I am Prince Muishkin, and
your wife happens to be a member of my house, that can hardly be called
a ‘reason.’ I quite understand that. And yet that was my whole motive
for coming. You see I have not been in Russia for four years, and knew
very little about anything when I left. I had been very ill for a long
time, and I feel now the need of a few good friends. In fact, I have a
certain question upon which I much need advice, and do not know whom to
go to for it. I thought of your family when I was passing through
Berlin. ‘They are almost relations,’ I said to myself, ‘so I’ll begin
with them; perhaps we may get on with each other, I with them and they
with me, if they are kind people;’ and I have heard that you are very
kind people!”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, I’m sure,” replied the general, considerably
taken aback. “May I ask where you have taken up your quarters?”

“Nowhere, as yet.”

“What, straight from the station to my house? And how about your
luggage?”

“I only had a small bundle, containing linen, with me, nothing more. I
can carry it in my hand, easily. There will be plenty of time to take a
room in some hotel by the evening.”

“Oh, then you _do_ intend to take a room?”

“Of course.”

“To judge from your words, you came straight to my house with the
intention of staying there.”

“That could only have been on your invitation. I confess, however, that
I should not have stayed here even if you had invited me, not for any
particular reason, but because it is—well, contrary to my practice and
nature, somehow.”

“Oh, indeed! Then it is perhaps as well that I neither _did_ invite
you, nor _do_ invite you now. Excuse me, prince, but we had better make
this matter clear, once for all. We have just agreed that with regard
to our relationship there is not much to be said, though, of course, it
would have been very delightful to us to feel that such relationship
did actually exist; therefore, perhaps—”

“Therefore, perhaps I had better get up and go away?” said the prince,
laughing merrily as he rose from his place; just as merrily as though
the circumstances were by no means strained or difficult. “And I give
you my word, general, that though I know nothing whatever of manners
and customs of society, and how people live and all that, yet I felt
quite sure that this visit of mine would end exactly as it has ended
now. Oh, well, I suppose it’s all right; especially as my letter was
not answered. Well, good-bye, and forgive me for having disturbed you!”

The prince’s expression was so good-natured at this moment, and so
entirely free from even a suspicion of unpleasant feeling was the smile
with which he looked at the general as he spoke, that the latter
suddenly paused, and appeared to gaze at his guest from quite a new
point of view, all in an instant.

“Do you know, prince,” he said, in quite a different tone, “I do not
know you at all, yet, and after all, Elizabetha Prokofievna would very
likely be pleased to have a peep at a man of her own name. Wait a
little, if you don’t mind, and if you have time to spare?”

“Oh, I assure you I’ve lots of time, my time is entirely my own!” And
the prince immediately replaced his soft, round hat on the table. “I
confess, I thought Elizabetha Prokofievna would very likely remember
that I had written her a letter. Just now your servant—outside
there—was dreadfully suspicious that I had come to beg of you. I
noticed that! Probably he has very strict instructions on that score;
but I assure you I did not come to beg. I came to make some friends.
But I am rather bothered at having disturbed you; that’s all I care
about.—”

“Look here, prince,” said the general, with a cordial smile, “if you
really are the sort of man you appear to be, it may be a source of
great pleasure to us to make your better acquaintance; but, you see, I
am a very busy man, and have to be perpetually sitting here and signing
papers, or off to see his excellency, or to my department, or
somewhere; so that though I should be glad to see more of people, nice
people—you see, I—however, I am sure you are so well brought up that
you will see at once, and—but how old are you, prince?”

“Twenty-six.”

“No? I thought you very much younger.”

“Yes, they say I have a ‘young’ face. As to disturbing you I shall soon
learn to avoid doing that, for I hate disturbing people. Besides, you
and I are so differently constituted, I should think, that there must
be very little in common between us. Not that I will ever believe there
is _nothing_ in common between any two people, as some declare is the
case. I am sure people make a great mistake in sorting each other into
groups, by appearances; but I am boring you, I see, you—”

“Just two words: have you any means at all? Or perhaps you may be
intending to undertake some sort of employment? Excuse my questioning
you, but—”

“Oh, my dear sir, I esteem and understand your kindness in putting the
question. No; at present I have no means whatever, and no employment
either, but I hope to find some. I was living on other people abroad.
Schneider, the professor who treated me and taught me, too, in
Switzerland, gave me just enough money for my journey, so that now I
have but a few copecks left. There certainly is one question upon which
I am anxious to have advice, but—”

“Tell me, how do you intend to live now, and what are your plans?”
interrupted the general.

“I wish to work, somehow or other.”

“Oh yes, but then, you see, you are a philosopher. Have you any
talents, or ability in any direction—that is, any that would bring in
money and bread? Excuse me again—”

“Oh, don’t apologize. No, I don’t think I have either talents or
special abilities of any kind; on the contrary. I have always been an
invalid and unable to learn much. As for bread, I should think—”

The general interrupted once more with questions; while the prince
again replied with the narrative we have heard before. It appeared that
the general had known Pavlicheff; but why the latter had taken an
interest in the prince, that young gentleman could not explain;
probably by virtue of the old friendship with his father, he thought.

The prince had been left an orphan when quite a little child, and
Pavlicheff had entrusted him to an old lady, a relative of his own,
living in the country, the child needing the fresh air and exercise of
country life. He was educated, first by a governess, and afterwards by
a tutor, but could not remember much about this time of his life. His
fits were so frequent then, that they made almost an idiot of him (the
prince used the expression “idiot” himself). Pavlicheff had met
Professor Schneider in Berlin, and the latter had persuaded him to send
the boy to Switzerland, to Schneider’s establishment there, for the
cure of his epilepsy, and, five years before this time, the prince was
sent off. But Pavlicheff had died two or three years since, and
Schneider had himself supported the young fellow, from that day to
this, at his own expense. Although he had not quite cured him, he had
greatly improved his condition; and now, at last, at the prince’s own
desire, and because of a certain matter which came to the ears of the
latter, Schneider had despatched the young man to Russia.

The general was much astonished.

“Then you have no one, absolutely _no_ one in Russia?” he asked.

“No one, at present; but I hope to make friends; and then I have a
letter from—”

“At all events,” put in the general, not listening to the news about
the letter, “at all events, you must have learned _something_, and your
malady would not prevent your undertaking some easy work, in one of the
departments, for instance?”

“Oh dear no, oh no! As for a situation, I should much like to find one
for I am anxious to discover what I really am fit for. I have learned a
good deal in the last four years, and, besides, I read a great many
Russian books.”

“Russian books, indeed? Then, of course, you can read and write quite
correctly?”

“Oh dear, yes!”

“Capital! And your handwriting?”

“Ah, there I am _really_ talented! I may say I am a real caligraphist.
Let me write you something, just to show you,” said the prince, with
some excitement.

“With pleasure! In fact, it is very necessary. I like your readiness,
prince; in fact, I must say—I—I—like you very well, altogether,” said
the general.

“What delightful writing materials you have here, such a lot of pencils
and things, and what beautiful paper! It’s a charming room altogether.
I know that picture, it’s a Swiss view. I’m sure the artist painted it
from nature, and that I have seen the very place—”

“Quite likely, though I bought it here. Gania, give the prince some
paper. Here are pens and paper; now then, take this table. What’s
this?” the general continued to Gania, who had that moment taken a
large photograph out of his portfolio, and shown it to his senior.
“Halloa! Nastasia Philipovna! Did she send it you herself? Herself?” he
inquired, with much curiosity and great animation.

“She gave it me just now, when I called in to congratulate her. I asked
her for it long ago. I don’t know whether she meant it for a hint that
I had come empty-handed, without a present for her birthday, or what,”
added Gania, with an unpleasant smile.

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense,” said the general, with decision. “What
extraordinary ideas you have, Gania! As if she would hint; that’s not
her way at all. Besides, what could _you_ give her, without having
thousands at your disposal? You might have given her your portrait,
however. Has she ever asked you for it?”

“No, not yet. Very likely she never will. I suppose you haven’t
forgotten about tonight, have you, Ivan Fedorovitch? You were one of
those specially invited, you know.”

“Oh no, I remember all right, and I shall go, of course. I should think
so! She’s twenty-five years old today! And, you know, Gania, you must
be ready for great things; she has promised both myself and Afanasy
Ivanovitch that she will give a decided answer tonight, yes or no. So
be prepared!”

Gania suddenly became so ill at ease that his face grew paler than
ever.

“Are you sure she said that?” he asked, and his voice seemed to quiver
as he spoke.

“Yes, she promised. We both worried her so that she gave in; but she
wished us to tell you nothing about it until the day.”

The general watched Gania’s confusion intently, and clearly did not
like it.

“Remember, Ivan Fedorovitch,” said Gania, in great agitation, “that I
was to be free too, until her decision; and that even then I was to
have my ‘yes or no’ free.”

“Why, don’t you, aren’t you—” began the general, in alarm.

“Oh, don’t misunderstand—”

“But, my dear fellow, what are you doing, what do you mean?”

“Oh, I’m not rejecting her. I may have expressed myself badly, but I
didn’t mean that.”

“Reject her! I should think not!” said the general with annoyance, and
apparently not in the least anxious to conceal it. “Why, my dear
fellow, it’s not a question of your rejecting her, it is whether you
are prepared to receive her consent joyfully, and with proper
satisfaction. How are things going on at home?”

“At home? Oh, I can do as I like there, of course; only my father will
make a fool of himself, as usual. He is rapidly becoming a general
nuisance. I don’t ever talk to him now, but I hold him in check, safe
enough. I swear if it had not been for my mother, I should have shown
him the way out, long ago. My mother is always crying, of course, and
my sister sulks. I had to tell them at last that I intended to be
master of my own destiny, and that I expect to be obeyed at home. At
least, I gave my sister to understand as much, and my mother was
present.”

“Well, I must say, I cannot understand it!” said the general, shrugging
his shoulders and dropping his hands. “You remember your mother, Nina
Alexandrovna, that day she came and sat here and groaned—and when I
asked her what was the matter, she says, ‘Oh, it’s such a _dishonour_
to us!’ dishonour! Stuff and nonsense! I should like to know who can
reproach Nastasia Philipovna, or who can say a word of any kind against
her. Did she mean because Nastasia had been living with Totski? What
nonsense it is! You would not let her come near your daughters, says
Nina Alexandrovna. What next, I wonder? I don’t see how she can fail
to—to understand—”

“Her own position?” prompted Gania. “She does understand. Don’t be
annoyed with her. I have warned her not to meddle in other people’s
affairs. However, although there’s comparative peace at home at
present, the storm will break if anything is finally settled tonight.”

The prince heard the whole of the foregoing conversation, as he sat at
the table, writing. He finished at last, and brought the result of his
labour to the general’s desk.

“So this is Nastasia Philipovna,” he said, looking attentively and
curiously at the portrait. “How wonderfully beautiful!” he immediately
added, with warmth. The picture was certainly that of an unusually
lovely woman. She was photographed in a black silk dress of simple
design, her hair was evidently dark and plainly arranged, her eyes were
deep and thoughtful, the expression of her face passionate, but proud.
She was rather thin, perhaps, and a little pale. Both Gania and the
general gazed at the prince in amazement.

“How do you know it’s Nastasia Philipovna?” asked the general; “you
surely don’t know her already, do you?”

“Yes, I do! I have only been one day in Russia, but I have heard of the
great beauty!” And the prince proceeded to narrate his meeting with
Rogojin in the train and the whole of the latter’s story.

“There’s news!” said the general in some excitement, after listening to
the story with engrossed attention.

“Oh, of course it’s nothing but humbug!” cried Gania, a little
disturbed, however. “It’s all humbug; the young merchant was pleased to
indulge in a little innocent recreation! I have heard something of
Rogojin!”

“Yes, so have I!” replied the general. “Nastasia Philipovna told us all
about the earrings that very day. But now it is quite a different
matter. You see the fellow really has a million of roubles, and he is
passionately in love. The whole story smells of passion, and we all
know what this class of gentry is capable of when infatuated. I am much
afraid of some disagreeable scandal, I am indeed!”

“You are afraid of the million, I suppose,” said Gania, grinning and
showing his teeth.

“And you are _not_, I presume, eh?”

“How did he strike you, prince?” asked Gania, suddenly. “Did he seem to
be a serious sort of a man, or just a common rowdy fellow? What was
your own opinion about the matter?”

While Gania put this question, a new idea suddenly flashed into his
brain, and blazed out, impatiently, in his eyes. The general, who was
really agitated and disturbed, looked at the prince too, but did not
seem to expect much from his reply.

“I really don’t quite know how to tell you,” replied the prince, “but
it certainly did seem to me that the man was full of passion, and not,
perhaps, quite healthy passion. He seemed to be still far from well.
Very likely he will be in bed again in a day or two, especially if he
lives fast.”

“No! do you think so?” said the general, catching at the idea.

“Yes, I do think so!”

“Yes, but the sort of scandal I referred to may happen at any moment.
It may be this very evening,” remarked Gania to the general, with a
smile.

“Of course; quite so. In that case it all depends upon what is going on
in her brain at this moment.”

“You know the kind of person she is at times.”

“How? What kind of person is she?” cried the general, arrived at the
limits of his patience. “Look here, Gania, don’t you go annoying her
tonight. What you are to do is to be as agreeable towards her as ever
you can. Well, what are you smiling at? You must understand, Gania,
that I have no interest whatever in speaking like this. Whichever way
the question is settled, it will be to my advantage. Nothing will move
Totski from his resolution, so I run no risk. If there is anything I
desire, you must know that it is your benefit only. Can’t you trust me?
You are a sensible fellow, and I have been counting on you; for, in
this matter, that, that—”

“Yes, that’s the chief thing,” said Gania, helping the general out of
his difficulties again, and curling his lips in an envenomed smile,
which he did not attempt to conceal. He gazed with his fevered eyes
straight into those of the general, as though he were anxious that the
latter might read his thoughts.

The general grew purple with anger.

“Yes, of course it is the chief thing!” he cried, looking sharply at
Gania. “What a very curious man you are, Gania! You actually seem to be
_glad_ to hear of this millionaire fellow’s arrival—just as though you
wished for an excuse to get out of the whole thing. This is an affair
in which you ought to act honestly with both sides, and give due
warning, to avoid compromising others. But, even now, there is still
time. Do you understand me? I wish to know whether you desire this
arrangement or whether you do not? If not, say so,—and—and welcome! No
one is trying to force you into the snare, Gavrila Ardalionovitch, if
you see a snare in the matter, at least.”

“I do desire it,” murmured Gania, softly but firmly, lowering his eyes;
and he relapsed into gloomy silence.

The general was satisfied. He had excited himself, and was evidently
now regretting that he had gone so far. He turned to the prince, and
suddenly the disagreeable thought of the latter’s presence struck him,
and the certainty that he must have heard every word of the
conversation. But he felt at ease in another moment; it only needed one
glance at the prince to see that in that quarter there was nothing to
fear.

“Oh!” cried the general, catching sight of the prince’s specimen of
caligraphy, which the latter had now handed him for inspection. “Why,
this is simply beautiful; look at that, Gania, there’s real talent
there!”

On a sheet of thick writing-paper the prince had written in medieval
characters the legend:

“The gentle Abbot Pafnute signed this.”

“There,” explained the prince, with great delight and animation,
“there, that’s the abbot’s real signature—from a manuscript of the
fourteenth century. All these old abbots and bishops used to write most
beautifully, with such taste and so much care and diligence. Have you
no copy of Pogodin, general? If you had one I could show you another
type. Stop a bit—here you have the large round writing common in France
during the eighteenth century. Some of the letters are shaped quite
differently from those now in use. It was the writing current then, and
employed by public writers generally. I copied this from one of them,
and you can see how good it is. Look at the well-rounded a and d. I
have tried to translate the French character into the Russian letters—a
difficult thing to do, but I think I have succeeded fairly. Here is a
fine sentence, written in a good, original hand—‘Zeal triumphs over
all.’ That is the script of the Russian War Office. That is how
official documents addressed to important personages should be written.
The letters are round, the type black, and the style somewhat
remarkable. A stylist would not allow these ornaments, or attempts at
flourishes—just look at these unfinished tails!—but it has distinction
and really depicts the soul of the writer. He would like to give play
to his imagination, and follow the inspiration of his genius, but a
soldier is only at ease in the guard-room, and the pen stops half-way,
a slave to discipline. How delightful! The first time I met an example
of this handwriting, I was positively astonished, and where do you
think I chanced to find it? In Switzerland, of all places! Now that is
an ordinary English hand. It can hardly be improved, it is so refined
and exquisite—almost perfection. This is an example of another kind, a
mixture of styles. The copy was given me by a French commercial
traveller. It is founded on the English, but the downstrokes are a
little blacker, and more marked. Notice that the oval has some slight
modification—it is more rounded. This writing allows for flourishes;
now a flourish is a dangerous thing! Its use requires such taste, but,
if successful, what a distinction it gives to the whole! It results in
an incomparable type—one to fall in love with!”

“Dear me! How you have gone into all the refinements and details of the
question! Why, my dear fellow, you are not a caligraphist, you are an
artist! Eh, Gania?”

“Wonderful!” said Gania. “And he knows it too,” he added, with a
sarcastic smile.

“You may smile,—but there’s a career in this,” said the general. “You
don’t know what a great personage I shall show this to, prince. Why,
you can command a situation at thirty-five roubles per month to start
with. However, it’s half-past twelve,” he concluded, looking at his
watch; “so to business, prince, for I must be setting to work and shall
not see you again today. Sit down a minute. I have told you that I
cannot receive you myself very often, but I should like to be of some
assistance to you, some small assistance, of a kind that would give you
satisfaction. I shall find you a place in one of the State departments,
an easy place—but you will require to be accurate. Now, as to your
plans—in the house, or rather in the family of Gania here—my young
friend, whom I hope you will know better—his mother and sister have
prepared two or three rooms for lodgers, and let them to highly
recommended young fellows, with board and attendance. I am sure Nina
Alexandrovna will take you in on my recommendation. There you will be
comfortable and well taken care of; for I do not think, prince, that
you are the sort of man to be left to the mercy of Fate in a town like
Petersburg. Nina Alexandrovna, Gania’s mother, and Varvara
Alexandrovna, are ladies for whom I have the highest possible esteem
and respect. Nina Alexandrovna is the wife of General Ardalion
Alexandrovitch, my old brother in arms, with whom, I regret to say, on
account of certain circumstances, I am no longer acquainted. I give you
all this information, prince, in order to make it clear to you that I
am personally recommending you to this family, and that in so doing, I
am more or less taking upon myself to answer for you. The terms are
most reasonable, and I trust that your salary will very shortly prove
amply sufficient for your expenditure. Of course pocket-money is a
necessity, if only a little; do not be angry, prince, if I strongly
recommend you to avoid carrying money in your pocket. But as your purse
is quite empty at the present moment, you must allow me to press these
twenty-five roubles upon your acceptance, as something to begin with.
Of course we will settle this little matter another time, and if you
are the upright, honest man you look, I anticipate very little trouble
between us on that score. Taking so much interest in you as you may
perceive I do, I am not without my object, and you shall know it in
good time. You see, I am perfectly candid with you. I hope, Gania, you
have nothing to say against the prince’s taking up his abode in your
house?”

“Oh, on the contrary! my mother will be very glad,” said Gania,
courteously and kindly.

“I think only one of your rooms is engaged as yet, is it not? That
fellow Ferd-Ferd—”

“Ferdishenko.”

“Yes—I don’t like that Ferdishenko. I can’t understand why Nastasia
Philipovna encourages him so. Is he really her cousin, as he says?”

“Oh dear no, it’s all a joke. No more cousin than I am.”

“Well, what do you think of the arrangement, prince?”

“Thank you, general; you have behaved very kindly to me; all the more
so since I did not ask you to help me. I don’t say that out of pride. I
certainly did not know where to lay my head tonight. Rogojin asked me
to come to his house, of course, but—”

“Rogojin? No, no, my good fellow. I should strongly recommend you,
paternally,—or, if you prefer it, as a friend,—to forget all about
Rogojin, and, in fact, to stick to the family into which you are about
to enter.”

“Thank you,” began the prince; “and since you are so very kind there is
just one matter which I—”

“You must really excuse me,” interrupted the general, “but I positively
haven’t another moment now. I shall just tell Elizabetha Prokofievna
about you, and if she wishes to receive you at once—as I shall advise
her—I strongly recommend you to ingratiate yourself with her at the
first opportunity, for my wife may be of the greatest service to you in
many ways. If she cannot receive you now, you must be content to wait
till another time. Meanwhile you, Gania, just look over these accounts,
will you? We mustn’t forget to finish off that matter—”

The general left the room, and the prince never succeeded in broaching
the business which he had on hand, though he had endeavoured to do so
four times.

Gania lit a cigarette and offered one to the prince. The latter
accepted the offer, but did not talk, being unwilling to disturb
Gania’s work. He commenced to examine the study and its contents. But
Gania hardly so much as glanced at the papers lying before him; he was
absent and thoughtful, and his smile and general appearance struck the
prince still more disagreeably now that the two were left alone
together.

Suddenly Gania approached our hero who was at the moment standing over
Nastasia Philipovna’s portrait, gazing at it.

“Do you admire that sort of woman, prince?” he asked, looking intently
at him. He seemed to have some special object in the question.

“It’s a wonderful face,” said the prince, “and I feel sure that her
destiny is not by any means an ordinary, uneventful one. Her face is
smiling enough, but she must have suffered terribly—hasn’t she? Her
eyes show it—those two bones there, the little points under her eyes,
just where the cheek begins. It’s a proud face too, terribly proud! And
I—I can’t say whether she is good and kind, or not. Oh, if she be but
good! That would make all well!”

“And would you marry a woman like that, now?” continued Gania, never
taking his excited eyes off the prince’s face.

“I cannot marry at all,” said the latter. “I am an invalid.”

“Would Rogojin marry her, do you think?”

“Why not? Certainly he would, I should think. He would marry her
tomorrow!—marry her tomorrow and murder her in a week!”

Hardly had the prince uttered the last word when Gania gave such a
fearful shudder that the prince almost cried out.

“What’s the matter?” said he, seizing Gania’s hand.

“Your highness! His excellency begs your presence in her excellency’s
apartments!” announced the footman, appearing at the door.

The prince immediately followed the man out of the room.

IV.

All three of the Miss Epanchins were fine, healthy girls, well-grown,
with good shoulders and busts, and strong—almost masculine—hands; and,
of course, with all the above attributes, they enjoyed capital
appetites, of which they were not in the least ashamed.

Elizabetha Prokofievna sometimes informed the girls that they were a
little too candid in this matter, but in spite of their outward
deference to their mother these three young women, in solemn conclave,
had long agreed to modify the unquestioning obedience which they had
been in the habit of according to her; and Mrs. General Epanchin had
judged it better to say nothing about it, though, of course, she was
well aware of the fact.

It is true that her nature sometimes rebelled against these dictates of
reason, and that she grew yearly more capricious and impatient; but
having a respectful and well-disciplined husband under her thumb at all
times, she found it possible, as a rule, to empty any little
accumulations of spleen upon his head, and therefore the harmony of the
family was kept duly balanced, and things went as smoothly as family
matters can.

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 o’clock, 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.

Besides tea and coffee, cheese, honey, butter, pan-cakes of various
kinds (the lady of the house loved these best), cutlets, and so on,
there was generally strong beef soup, and other substantial delicacies.

On the particular morning on which our story has opened, the family had
assembled in the dining-room, and were waiting the general’s
appearance, the latter having promised to come this day. If he had been
one moment late, he would have been sent for at once; but he turned up
punctually.

As he came forward to wish his wife good-morning and kiss her hands, as
his custom was, he observed something in her look which boded ill. He
thought he knew the reason, and had expected it, but still, he was not
altogether comfortable. His daughters advanced to kiss him, too, and
though they did not look exactly angry, there was something strange in
their expression as well.

The general was, owing to certain circumstances, a little inclined to
be too suspicious at home, and needlessly nervous; but, as an
experienced father and husband, he judged it better to take measures at
once to protect himself from any dangers there might be in the air.

However, I hope I shall not interfere with the proper sequence of my
narrative too much, if I diverge for a moment at this point, in order
to explain the mutual relations between General Epanchin’s family and
others acting a part in this history, at the time when we take up the
thread of their destiny. I have already stated that the general, though
he was a man of lowly origin, and of poor education, was, for all that,
an experienced and talented husband and father. Among other things, he
considered it undesirable to hurry his daughters to the matrimonial
altar and to worry them too much with assurances of his paternal wishes
for their happiness, as is the custom among parents of many grown-up
daughters. He even succeeded in ranging his wife on his side on this
question, though he found the feat very difficult to accomplish,
because unnatural; but the general’s arguments were conclusive, and
founded upon obvious facts. The general considered that the girls’
taste and good sense should be allowed to develop and mature
deliberately, and that the parents’ duty should merely be to keep
watch, in order that no strange or undesirable choice be made; but that
the selection once effected, both father and mother were bound from
that moment to enter heart and soul into the cause, and to see that the
matter progressed without hindrance until the altar should be happily
reached.

Besides this, it was clear that the Epanchins’ position gained each
year, with geometrical accuracy, both as to financial solidity and
social weight; and, therefore, the longer the girls waited, the better
was their chance of making a brilliant match.

But again, amidst the incontrovertible facts just recorded, one more,
equally significant, rose up to confront the family; and this was, that
the eldest daughter, Alexandra, had imperceptibly arrived at her
twenty-fifth birthday. Almost at the same moment, Afanasy Ivanovitch
Totski, a man of immense wealth, high connections, and good standing,
announced his intention of marrying. Afanasy Ivanovitch was a gentleman
of fifty-five years of age, artistically gifted, and of most refined
tastes. He wished to marry well, and, moreover, he was a keen admirer
and judge of beauty.

Now, since Totski had, of late, been upon terms of great cordiality
with Epanchin, which excellent relations were intensified by the fact
that they were, so to speak, partners in several financial enterprises,
it so happened that the former now put in a friendly request to the
general for counsel with regard to the important step he meditated.
Might he suggest, for instance, such a thing as a marriage between
himself and one of the general’s daughters?

Evidently the quiet, pleasant current of the family life of the
Epanchins was about to undergo a change.

The undoubted beauty of the family, _par excellence_, was the youngest,
Aglaya, as aforesaid. But Totski himself, though an egotist of the
extremest type, realized that he had no chance there; Aglaya was
clearly not for such as he.

Perhaps the sisterly love and friendship of the three girls had more or
less exaggerated Aglaya’s chances of happiness. In their opinion, the
latter’s destiny was not merely to be very happy; she was to live in a
heaven on earth. Aglaya’s husband was to be a compendium of all the
virtues, and of all success, not to speak of fabulous wealth. The two
elder sisters had agreed that all was to be sacrificed by them, if need
be, for Aglaya’s sake; her dowry was to be colossal and unprecedented.

The general and his wife were aware of this agreement, and, therefore,
when Totski suggested himself for one of the sisters, the parents made
no doubt that one of the two elder girls would probably accept the
offer, since Totski would certainly make no difficulty as to dowry. The
general valued the proposal very highly. He knew life, and realized
what such an offer was worth.

The answer of the sisters to the communication was, if not conclusive,
at least consoling and hopeful. It made known that the eldest,
Alexandra, would very likely be disposed to listen to a proposal.

Alexandra was a good-natured girl, though she had a will of her own.
She was intelligent and kind-hearted, and, if she were to marry Totski,
she would make him a good wife. She did not care for a brilliant
marriage; she was eminently a woman calculated to soothe and sweeten
the life of any man; decidedly pretty, if not absolutely handsome. What
better could Totski wish?

So the matter crept slowly forward. The general and Totski had agreed
to avoid any hasty and irrevocable step. Alexandra’s parents had not
even begun to talk to their daughters freely upon the subject, when
suddenly, as it were, a dissonant chord was struck amid the harmony of
the proceedings. Mrs. Epanchin began to show signs of discontent, and
that was a serious matter. A certain circumstance had crept in, a
disagreeable and troublesome factor, which threatened to overturn the
whole business.

This circumstance had come into existence eighteen years before. Close
to an estate of Totski’s, in one of the central provinces of Russia,
there lived, at that time, a poor gentleman whose estate was of the
wretchedest description. This gentleman was noted in the district for
his persistent ill-fortune; his name was Barashkoff, and, as regards
family and descent, he was vastly superior to Totski, but his estate
was mortgaged to the last acre. One day, when he had ridden over to the
town to see a creditor, the chief peasant of his village followed him
shortly after, with the news that his house had been burnt down, and
that his wife had perished with it, but his children were safe.

Even Barashkoff, inured to the storms of evil fortune as he was, could
not stand this last stroke. He went mad and died shortly after in the
town hospital. His estate was sold for the creditors; and the little
girls—two of them, of seven and eight years of age respectively,—were
adopted by Totski, who undertook their maintenance and education in the
kindness of his heart. They were brought up together with the children
of his German bailiff. Very soon, however, there was only one of them
left—Nastasia Philipovna—for the other little one died of
whooping-cough. Totski, who was living abroad at this time, very soon
forgot all about the child; but five years after, returning to Russia,
it struck him that he would like to look over his estate and see how
matters were going there, and, arrived at his bailiff’s house, he was
not long in discovering that among the children of the latter there now
dwelt a most lovely little girl of twelve, sweet and intelligent, and
bright, and promising to develop beauty of most unusual quality—as to
which last Totski was an undoubted authority.

He only stayed at his country seat a few days on this occasion, but he
had time to make his arrangements. Great changes took place in the
child’s education; a good governess was engaged, a Swiss lady of
experience and culture. For four years this lady resided in the house
with little Nastia, and then the education was considered complete. The
governess took her departure, and another lady came down to fetch
Nastia, by Totski’s instructions. The child was now transported to
another of Totski’s estates in a distant part of the country. Here she
found a delightful little house, just built, and prepared for her
reception with great care and taste; and here she took up her abode
together with the lady who had accompanied her from her old home. In
the house there were two experienced maids, musical instruments of all
sorts, a charming “young lady’s library,” pictures, paint-boxes, a
lap-dog, and everything to make life agreeable. Within a fortnight
Totski himself arrived, and from that time he appeared to have taken a
great fancy to this part of the world and came down each summer,
staying two and three months at a time. So passed four years peacefully
and happily, in charming surroundings.

At the end of that time, and about four months after Totski’s last
visit (he had stayed but a fortnight on this occasion), a report
reached Nastasia Philipovna that he was about to be married in St.
Petersburg, to a rich, eminent, and lovely woman. The report was only
partially true, the marriage project being only in an embryo condition;
but a great change now came over Nastasia Philipovna. She suddenly
displayed unusual decision of character; and without wasting time in
thought, she left her country home and came up to St. Petersburg,
straight to Totski’s house, all alone.

The latter, amazed at her conduct, began to express his displeasure;
but he very soon became aware that he must change his voice, style, and
everything else, with this young lady; the good old times were gone. An
entirely new and different woman sat before him, between whom and the
girl he had left in the country last July there seemed nothing in
common.

In the first place, this new woman understood a good deal more than was
usual for young people of her age; so much indeed, that Totski could
not help wondering where she had picked up her knowledge. Surely not
from her “young lady’s library”? It even embraced legal matters, and
the “world” in general, to a considerable extent.

Her character was absolutely changed. No more of the girlish
alternations of timidity and petulance, the adorable naivete, the
reveries, the tears, the playfulness... It was an entirely new and
hitherto unknown being who now sat and laughed at him, and informed him
to his face that she had never had the faintest feeling for him of any
kind, except loathing and contempt—contempt which had followed closely
upon her sensations of surprise and bewilderment after her first
acquaintance with him.

This new woman gave him further to understand that though it was
absolutely the same to her whom he married, yet she had decided to
prevent this marriage—for no particular reason, but that she _chose_ to
do so, and because she wished to amuse herself at his expense for that
it was “quite her turn to laugh a little now!”

Such were her words—very likely she did not give her real reason for
this eccentric conduct; but, at all events, that was all the
explanation she deigned to offer.

Meanwhile, Totski thought the matter over as well as his scattered
ideas would permit. His meditations lasted a fortnight, however, and at
the end of that time his resolution was taken. The fact was, Totski was
at that time a man of fifty years of age; his position was solid and
respectable; his place in society had long been firmly fixed upon safe
foundations; he loved himself, his personal comforts, and his position
better than all the world, as every respectable gentleman should!

At the same time his grasp of things in general soon showed Totski that
he now had to deal with a being who was outside the pale of the
ordinary rules of traditional behaviour, and who would not only
threaten mischief but would undoubtedly carry it out, and stop for no
one.

There was evidently, he concluded, something at work here; some storm
of the mind, some paroxysm of romantic anger, goodness knows against
whom or what, some insatiable contempt—in a word, something altogether
absurd and impossible, but at the same time most dangerous to be met
with by any respectable person with a position in society to keep up.

For a man of Totski’s wealth and standing, it would, of course, have
been the simplest possible matter to take steps which would rid him at
once from all annoyance; while it was obviously impossible for Nastasia
Philipovna to harm him in any way, either legally or by stirring up a
scandal, for, in case of the latter danger, he could so easily remove
her to a sphere of safety. However, these arguments would only hold
good in case of Nastasia acting as others might in such an emergency.
She was much more likely to overstep the bounds of reasonable conduct
by some extraordinary eccentricity.

Here the sound judgment of Totski stood him in good stead. He realized
that Nastasia Philipovna must be well aware that she could do nothing
by legal means to injure him, and that her flashing eyes betrayed some
entirely different intention.

Nastasia Philipovna was quite capable of ruining herself, and even of
perpetrating something which would send her to Siberia, for the mere
pleasure of injuring a man for whom she had developed so inhuman a
sense of loathing and contempt. He had sufficient insight to understand
that she valued nothing in the world—herself least of all—and he made
no attempt to conceal the fact that he was a coward in some respects.
For instance, if he had been told that he would be stabbed at the
altar, or publicly insulted, he would undoubtedly have been frightened;
but not so much at the idea of being murdered, or wounded, or insulted,
as at the thought that if such things were to happen he would be made
to look ridiculous in the eyes of society.

He knew well that Nastasia thoroughly understood him and where to wound
him and how, and therefore, as the marriage was still only in embryo,
Totski decided to conciliate her by giving it up. His decision was
strengthened by the fact that Nastasia Philipovna had curiously altered
of late. It would be difficult to conceive how different she was
physically, at the present time, to the girl of a few years ago. She
was pretty then... but now!... Totski laughed angrily when he thought
how short-sighted he had been. In days gone by he remembered how he had
looked at her beautiful eyes, how even then he had marvelled at their
dark mysterious depths, and at their wondering gaze which seemed to
seek an answer to some unknown riddle. Her complexion also had altered.
She was now exceedingly pale, but, curiously, this change only made her
more beautiful. Like most men of the world, Totski had rather despised
such a cheaply-bought conquest, but of late years he had begun to think
differently about it. It had struck him as long ago as last spring that
he ought to be finding a good match for Nastasia; for instance, some
respectable and reasonable young fellow serving in a government office
in another part of the country. How maliciously Nastasia laughed at the
idea of such a thing, now!

However, it appeared to Totski that he might make use of her in another
way; and he determined to establish her in St. Petersburg, surrounding
her with all the comforts and luxuries that his wealth could command.
In this way he might gain glory in certain circles.

Five years of this Petersburg life went by, and, of course, during that
time a great deal happened. Totski’s position was very uncomfortable;
having “funked” once, he could not totally regain his ease. He was
afraid, he did not know why, but he was simply _afraid_ of Nastasia
Philipovna. For the first two years or so he had suspected that she
wished to marry him herself, and that only her vanity prevented her
telling him so. He thought that she wanted him to approach her with a
humble proposal from his own side. But to his great, and not entirely
pleasurable amazement, he discovered that this was by no means the
case, and that were he to offer himself he would be refused. He could
not understand such a state of things, and was obliged to conclude that
it was pride, the pride of an injured and imaginative woman, which had
gone to such lengths that it preferred to sit and nurse its contempt
and hatred in solitude rather than mount to heights of hitherto
unattainable splendour. To make matters worse, she was quite impervious
to mercenary considerations, and could not be bribed in any way.

Finally, Totski took cunning means to try to break his chains and be
free. He tried to tempt her in various ways to lose her heart; he
invited princes, hussars, secretaries of embassies, poets, novelists,
even Socialists, to see her; but not one of them all made the faintest
impression upon Nastasia. It was as though she had a pebble in place of
a heart, as though her feelings and affections were dried up and
withered for ever.

She lived almost entirely alone; she read, she studied, she loved
music. Her principal acquaintances were poor women of various grades, a
couple of actresses, and the family of a poor schoolteacher. Among
these people she was much beloved.

She received four or five friends sometimes, of an evening. Totski
often came. Lately, too, General Epanchin had been enabled with great
difficulty to introduce himself into her circle. Gania made her
acquaintance also, and others were Ferdishenko, an ill-bred, and
would-be witty, young clerk, and Ptitsin, a money-lender of modest and
polished manners, who had risen from poverty. In fact, Nastasia
Philipovna’s beauty became a thing known to all the town; but not a
single man could boast of anything more than his own admiration for
her; and this reputation of hers, and her wit and culture and grace,
all confirmed Totski in the plan he had now prepared.

And it was at this moment that General Epanchin began to play so large
and important a part in the story.

When Totski had approached the general with his request for friendly
counsel as to a marriage with one of his daughters, he had made a full
and candid confession. He had said that he intended to stop at no means
to obtain his freedom; even if Nastasia were to promise to leave him
entirely alone in future, he would not (he said) believe and trust her;
words were not enough for him; he must have solid guarantees of some
sort. So he and the general determined to try what an attempt to appeal
to her heart would effect. Having arrived at Nastasia’s house one day,
with Epanchin, Totski immediately began to speak of the intolerable
torment of his position. He admitted that he was to blame for all, but
candidly confessed that he could not bring himself to feel any remorse
for his original guilt towards herself, because he was a man of sensual
passions which were inborn and ineradicable, and that he had no power
over himself in this respect; but that he wished, seriously, to marry
at last, and that the whole fate of the most desirable social union
which he contemplated, was in her hands; in a word, he confided his all
to her generosity of heart.

General Epanchin took up his part and spoke in the character of father
of a family; he spoke sensibly, and without wasting words over any
attempt at sentimentality, he merely recorded his full admission of her
right to be the arbiter of Totski’s destiny at this moment. He then
pointed out that the fate of his daughter, and very likely of both his
other daughters, now hung upon her reply.

To Nastasia’s question as to what they wished her to do, Totski
confessed that he had been so frightened by her, five years ago, that
he could never now be entirely comfortable until she herself married.
He immediately added that such a suggestion from him would, of course,
be absurd, unless accompanied by remarks of a more pointed nature. He
very well knew, he said, that a certain young gentleman of good family,
namely, Gavrila Ardalionovitch Ivolgin, with whom she was acquainted,
and whom she received at her house, had long loved her passionately,
and would give his life for some response from her. The young fellow
had confessed this love of his to him (Totski) and had also admitted it
in the hearing of his benefactor, General Epanchin. Lastly, he could
not help being of opinion that Nastasia must be aware of Gania’s love
for her, and if he (Totski) mistook not, she had looked with some
favour upon it, being often lonely, and rather tired of her present
life. Having remarked how difficult it was for him, of all people, to
speak to her of these matters, Totski concluded by saying that he
trusted Nastasia Philipovna would not look with contempt upon him if he
now expressed his sincere desire to guarantee her future by a gift of
seventy-five thousand roubles. He added that the sum would have been
left her all the same in his will, and that therefore she must not
consider the gift as in any way an indemnification to her for anything,
but that there was no reason, after all, why a man should not be
allowed to entertain a natural desire to lighten his conscience, etc.,
etc.; in fact, all that would naturally be said under the
circumstances. Totski was very eloquent all through, and, in
conclusion, just touched on the fact that not a soul in the world, not
even General Epanchin, had ever heard a word about the above
seventy-five thousand roubles, and that this was the first time he had
ever given expression to his intentions in respect to them.

Nastasia Philipovna’s reply to this long rigmarole astonished both the
friends considerably.

Not only was there no trace of her former irony, of her old hatred and
enmity, and of that dreadful laughter, the very recollection of which
sent a cold chill down Totski’s back to this very day; but she seemed
charmed and really glad to have the opportunity of talking seriously
with him for once in a way. She confessed that she had long wished to
have a frank and free conversation and to ask for friendly advice, but
that pride had hitherto prevented her; now, however, that the ice was
broken, nothing could be more welcome to her than this opportunity.

First, with a sad smile, and then with a twinkle of merriment in her
eyes, she admitted that such a storm as that of five years ago was now
quite out of the question. She said that she had long since changed her
views of things, and recognized that facts must be taken into
consideration in spite of the feelings of the heart. What was done was
done and ended, and she could not understand why Totski should still
feel alarmed.

She next turned to General Epanchin and observed, most courteously,
that she had long since known of his daughters, and that she had heard
none but good report; that she had learned to think of them with deep
and sincere respect. The idea alone that she could in any way serve
them, would be to her both a pride and a source of real happiness.

It was true that she was lonely in her present life; Totski had judged
her thoughts aright. She longed to rise, if not to love, at least to
family life and new hopes and objects, but as to Gavrila
Ardalionovitch, she could not as yet say much. She thought it must be
the case that he loved her; she felt that she too might learn to love
him, if she could be sure of the firmness of his attachment to herself;
but he was very young, and it was a difficult question to decide. What
she specially liked about him was that he worked, and supported his
family by his toil.

She had heard that he was proud and ambitious; she had heard much that
was interesting of his mother and sister, she had heard of them from
Mr. Ptitsin, and would much like to make their acquaintance,
but—another question!—would they like to receive her into their house?
At all events, though she did not reject the idea of this marriage, she
desired not to be hurried. As for the seventy-five thousand roubles,
Mr. Totski need not have found any difficulty or awkwardness about the
matter; she quite understood the value of money, and would, of course,
accept the gift. She thanked him for his delicacy, however, but saw no
reason why Gavrila Ardalionovitch should not know about it.

She would not marry the latter, she said, until she felt persuaded that
neither on his part nor on the part of his family did there exist any
sort of concealed suspicions as to herself. She did not intend to ask
forgiveness for anything in the past, which fact she desired to be
known. She did not consider herself to blame for anything that had
happened in former years, and she thought that Gavrila Ardalionovitch
should be informed as to the relations which had existed between
herself and Totski during the last five years. If she accepted this
money it was not to be considered as indemnification for her misfortune
as a young girl, which had not been in any degree her own fault, but
merely as compensation for her ruined life.

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, Gania’s 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.

Before long Nastasia and Gania had talked the matter over. Very little
was said—her modesty seemed to suffer under the infliction of
discussing such a question. But she recognized his love, on the
understanding that she bound herself to nothing whatever, and that she
reserved the right to say “no” up to the very hour of the marriage
ceremony. Gania was to have the same right of refusal at the last
moment.

It soon became clear to Gania, after scenes of wrath and quarrellings
at the domestic hearth, that his family were seriously opposed to the
match, and that Nastasia was aware of this fact was equally evident.
She said nothing about it, though he daily expected her to do so.

There were several rumours afloat, before long, which upset Totski’s
equanimity a good deal, but we will not now stop to describe them;
merely mentioning an instance or two. One was that Nastasia had entered
into close and secret relations with the Epanchin girls—a most unlikely
rumour; another was that Nastasia had long satisfied herself of the
fact that Gania was merely marrying her for money, and that his nature
was gloomy and greedy, impatient and selfish, to an extraordinary
degree; and that although he had been keen enough in his desire to
achieve a conquest before, yet since the two friends had agreed to
exploit his passion for their own purposes, it was clear enough that he
had begun to consider the whole thing a nuisance and a nightmare.

In his heart passion and hate seemed to hold divided sway, and although
he had at last given his consent to marry the woman (as he said), under
the stress of circumstances, yet he promised himself that he would
“take it out of her,” after marriage.

Nastasia seemed to Totski to have divined all this, and to be preparing
something on her own account, which frightened him to such an extent
that he did not dare communicate his views even to the general. But at
times he would pluck up his courage and be full of hope and good
spirits again, acting, in fact, as weak men do act in such
circumstances.

However, both the friends felt that the thing looked rosy indeed when
one day Nastasia informed them that she would give her final answer on
the evening of her birthday, which anniversary was due in a very short
time.

A strange rumour began to circulate, meanwhile; no less than that the
respectable and highly respected General Epanchin was himself so
fascinated by Nastasia Philipovna that his feeling for her amounted
almost to passion. What he thought to gain by Gania’s marriage to the
girl it was difficult to imagine. Possibly he counted on Gania’s
complaisance; for Totski had long suspected that there existed some
secret understanding between the general and his secretary. At all
events the fact was known that he had prepared a magnificent present of
pearls for Nastasia’s birthday, and that he was looking forward to the
occasion when he should present his gift with the greatest excitement
and impatience. The day before her birthday he was in a fever of
agitation.

Mrs. Epanchin, long accustomed to her husband’s infidelities, had heard
of the pearls, and the rumour excited her liveliest curiosity and
interest. The general remarked her suspicions, and felt that a grand
explanation must shortly take place—which fact alarmed him much.

This is the reason why he was so unwilling to take lunch (on the
morning upon which we took up this narrative) with the rest of his
family. Before the prince’s arrival he had made up his mind to plead
business, and “cut” the meal; which simply meant running away.

He was particularly anxious that this one day should be
passed—especially the evening—without unpleasantness between himself
and his family; and just at the right moment the prince turned up—“as
though Heaven had sent him on purpose,” said the general to himself, as
he left the study to seek out the wife of his bosom.

V.

Mrs. General Epanchin was a proud woman by nature. What must her
feelings have been when she heard that Prince Muishkin, the last of his
and her line, had arrived in beggar’s guise, a wretched idiot, a
recipient of charity—all of which details the general gave out for
greater effect! He was anxious to steal her interest at the first
swoop, so as to distract her thoughts from other matters nearer home.

Mrs. Epanchin was in the habit of holding herself very straight, and
staring before her, without speaking, in moments of excitement.

She was a fine woman of the same age as her husband, with a slightly
hooked nose, a high, narrow forehead, thick hair turning a little grey,
and a sallow complexion. Her eyes were grey and wore a very curious
expression at times. She believed them to be most effective—a belief
that nothing could alter.

“What, receive him! Now, at once?” asked Mrs. Epanchin, gazing vaguely
at her husband as he stood fidgeting before her.

“Oh, dear me, I assure you there is no need to stand on ceremony with
him,” the general explained hastily. “He is quite a child, not to say a
pathetic-looking creature. He has fits of some sort, and has just
arrived from Switzerland, straight from the station, dressed like a
German and without a farthing in his pocket. I gave him twenty-five
roubles to go on with, and am going to find him some easy place in one
of the government offices. I should like you to ply him well with the
victuals, my dears, for I should think he must be very hungry.”

“You astonish me,” said the lady, gazing as before. “Fits, and hungry
too! What sort of fits?”

“Oh, they don’t come on frequently, besides, he’s a regular child,
though he seems to be fairly educated. I should like you, if possible,
my dears,” the general added, making slowly for the door, “to put him
through his paces a bit, and see what he is good for. I think you
should be kind to him; it is a good deed, you know—however, just as you
like, of course—but he is a sort of relation, remember, and I thought
it might interest you to see the young fellow, seeing that this is so.”

“Oh, of course, mamma, if we needn’t stand on ceremony with him, we
must give the poor fellow something to eat after his journey;
especially as he has not the least idea where to go to,” said
Alexandra, the eldest of the girls.

“Besides, he’s quite a child; we can entertain him with a little
hide-and-seek, in case of need,” said Adelaida.

“Hide-and-seek? What do you mean?” inquired Mrs. Epanchin.

“Oh, do stop pretending, mamma,” cried Aglaya, in vexation. “Send him
up, father; mother allows.”

The general rang the bell and gave orders that the prince should be
shown in.

“Only on condition that he has a napkin under his chin at lunch, then,”
said Mrs. Epanchin, “and let Fedor, or Mavra, stand behind him while he
eats. Is he quiet when he has these fits? He doesn’t show violence,
does he?”

“On the contrary, he seems to be very well brought up. His manners are
excellent—but here he is himself. Here you are, prince—let me introduce
you, the last of the Muishkins, a relative of your own, my dear, or at
least of the same name. Receive him kindly, please. They’ll bring in
lunch directly, prince; you must stop and have some, but you must
excuse me. I’m in a hurry, I must be off—”

“We all know where _you_ must be off to!” said Mrs. Epanchin, in a
meaning voice.

“Yes, yes—I must hurry away, I’m late! Look here, dears, let him write
you something in your albums; you’ve no idea what a wonderful
caligraphist he is, wonderful talent! He has just written out ‘Abbot
Pafnute signed this’ for me. Well, _au revoir!_”

“Stop a minute; where are you off to? Who is this abbot?” cried Mrs.
Epanchin to her retreating husband in a tone of excited annoyance.

“Yes, my dear, it was an old abbot of that name—I must be off to see
the count, he’s waiting for me, I’m late—Good-bye! _Au revoir_,
prince!”—and the general bolted at full speed.

“Oh, yes—I know what count you’re going to see!” remarked his wife in a
cutting manner, as she turned her angry eyes on the prince. “Now then,
what’s all this about?—What abbot—Who’s Pafnute?” she added, brusquely.

“Mamma!” said Alexandra, shocked at her rudeness.

Aglaya stamped her foot.

“Nonsense! Let me alone!” said the angry mother. “Now then, prince, sit
down here, no, nearer, come nearer the light! I want to have a good
look at you. So, now then, who is this abbot?”

“Abbot Pafnute,” said our friend, seriously and with deference.

“Pafnute, yes. And who was he?”

Mrs. Epanchin put these questions hastily and brusquely, and when the
prince answered she nodded her head sagely at each word he said.

“The Abbot Pafnute lived in the fourteenth century,” began the prince;
“he was in charge of one of the monasteries on the Volga, about where
our present Kostroma government lies. He went to Oreol and helped in
the great matters then going on in the religious world; he signed an
edict there, and I have seen a print of his signature; it struck me, so
I copied it. When the general asked me, in his study, to write
something for him, to show my handwriting, I wrote ‘The Abbot Pafnute
signed this,’ in the exact handwriting of the abbot. The general liked
it very much, and that’s why he recalled it just now.”

“Aglaya, make a note of ‘Pafnute,’ or we shall forget him. H’m! and
where is this signature?”

“I think it was left on the general’s table.”

“Let it be sent for at once!”

“Oh, I’ll write you a new one in half a minute,” said the prince, “if
you like!”

“Of course, mamma!” said Alexandra. “But let’s have lunch now, we are
all hungry!”

“Yes; come along, prince,” said the mother, “are you very hungry?”

“Yes; I must say that I am pretty hungry, thanks very much.”

“H’m! I like to see that you know your manners; and you are by no means
such a person as the general thought fit to describe you. Come along;
you sit here, opposite to me,” she continued, “I wish to be able to see
your face. Alexandra, Adelaida, look after the prince! He doesn’t seem
so very ill, does he? I don’t think he requires a napkin under his
chin, after all; are you accustomed to having one on, prince?”

“Formerly, when I was seven years old or so. I believe I wore one; but
now I usually hold my napkin on my knee when I eat.”

“Of course, of course! And about your fits?”

“Fits?” asked the prince, slightly surprised. “I very seldom have fits
nowadays. I don’t know how it may be here, though; they say the climate
may be bad for me.”

“He talks very well, you know!” said Mrs. Epanchin, who still continued
to nod at each word the prince spoke. “I really did not expect it at
all; in fact, I suppose it was all stuff and nonsense on the general’s
part, as usual. Eat away, prince, and tell me where you were born, and
where you were brought up. I wish to know all about you, you interest
me very much!”

The prince expressed his thanks once more, and eating heartily the
while, recommenced the narrative of his life in Switzerland, all of
which we have heard before. Mrs. Epanchin became more and more pleased
with her guest; the girls, too, listened with considerable attention.
In talking over the question of relationship it turned out that the
prince was very well up in the matter and knew his pedigree off by
heart. It was found that scarcely any connection existed between
himself and Mrs. Epanchin, but the talk, and the opportunity of
conversing about her family tree, gratified the latter exceedingly, and
she rose from the table in great good humour.

“Let’s all go to my boudoir,” she said, “and they shall bring some
coffee in there. That’s the room where we all assemble and busy
ourselves as we like best,” she explained. “Alexandra, my eldest, here,
plays the piano, or reads or sews; Adelaida paints landscapes and
portraits (but never finishes any); and Aglaya sits and does nothing. I
don’t work too much, either. Here we are, now; sit down, prince, near
the fire and talk to us. I want to hear you relate something. I wish to
make sure of you first and then tell my old friend, Princess
Bielokonski, about you. I wish you to know all the good people and to
interest them. Now then, begin!”

“Mamma, it’s rather a strange order, that!” said Adelaida, who was
fussing among her paints and paint-brushes at the easel. Aglaya and
Alexandra had settled themselves with folded hands on a sofa, evidently
meaning to be listeners. The prince felt that the general attention was
concentrated upon himself.

“I should refuse to say a word if _I_ were ordered to tell a story like
that!” observed Aglaya.

“Why? what’s there strange about it? He has a tongue. Why shouldn’t he
tell us something? I want to judge whether he is a good story-teller;
anything you like, prince—how you liked Switzerland, what was your
first impression, anything. You’ll see, he’ll begin directly and tell
us all about it beautifully.”

“The impression was forcible—” the prince began.

“There, you see, girls,” said the impatient lady, “he _has_ begun, you
see.”

“Well, then, _let_ him talk, mamma,” said Alexandra. “This prince is a
great humbug and by no means an idiot,” she whispered to Aglaya.

“Oh, I saw that at once,” replied the latter. “I don’t think it at all
nice of him to play a part. What does he wish to gain by it, I wonder?”

“My first impression was a very strong one,” repeated the prince. “When
they took me away from Russia, I remember I passed through many German
towns and looked out of the windows, but did not trouble so much as to
ask questions about them. This was after a long series of fits. I
always used to fall into a sort of torpid condition after such a
series, and lost my memory almost entirely; and though I was not
altogether without reason at such times, yet I had no logical power of
thought. This would continue for three or four days, and then I would
recover myself again. I remember my melancholy was intolerable; I felt
inclined to cry; I sat and wondered and wondered uncomfortably; the
consciousness that everything was strange weighed terribly upon me; I
could understand that it was all foreign and strange. I recollect I
awoke from this state for the first time at Basle, one evening; the
bray of a donkey aroused me, a donkey in the town market. I saw the
donkey and was extremely pleased with it, and from that moment my head
seemed to clear.”

“A donkey? How strange! Yet it is not strange. Anyone of us might fall
in love with a donkey! It happened in mythological times,” said Madame
Epanchin, looking wrathfully at her daughters, who had begun to laugh.
“Go on, prince.”

“Since that evening I have been specially fond of donkeys. I began to
ask questions about them, for I had never seen one before; and I at
once came to the conclusion that this must be one of the most useful of
animals—strong, willing, patient, cheap; and, thanks to this donkey, I
began to like the whole country I was travelling through; and my
melancholy passed away.”

“All this is very strange and interesting,” said Mrs. Epanchin. “Now
let’s leave the donkey and go on to other matters. What are you
laughing at, Aglaya? and you too, Adelaida? The prince told us his
experiences very cleverly; he saw the donkey himself, and what have you
ever seen? _You_ have never been abroad.”

“I have seen a donkey though, mamma!” said Aglaya.

“And I’ve heard one!” said Adelaida. All three of the girls laughed out
loud, and the prince laughed with them.

“Well, it’s too bad of you,” said mamma. “You must forgive them,
prince; they are good girls. I am very fond of them, though I often
have to be scolding them; they are all as silly and mad as march
hares.”

“Oh, why shouldn’t they laugh?” said the prince. “I shouldn’t have let
the chance go by in their place, I know. But I stick up for the donkey,
all the same; he’s a patient, good-natured fellow.”

“Are you a patient man, prince? I ask out of curiosity,” said Mrs.
Epanchin.

All laughed again.

“Oh, that wretched donkey again, I see!” cried the lady. “I assure you,
prince, I was not guilty of the least—”

“Insinuation? Oh! I assure you, I take your word for it.” And the
prince continued laughing merrily.

“I must say it’s very nice of you to laugh. I see you really are a
kind-hearted fellow,” said Mrs. Epanchin.

“I’m not always kind, though.”

“I am kind myself, and _always_ kind too, if you please!” she retorted,
unexpectedly; “and that is my chief fault, for one ought not to be
always kind. I am often angry with these girls and their father; but
the worst of it is, I am always kindest when I am cross. I was very
angry just before you came, and Aglaya there read me a lesson—thanks,
Aglaya, dear—come and kiss me—there—that’s enough” she added, as Aglaya
came forward and kissed her lips and then her hand. “Now then, go on,
prince. Perhaps you can think of something more exciting than about the
donkey, eh?”

“I must say, again, _I_ can’t understand how you can expect anyone to
tell you stories straight away, so,” said Adelaida. “I know I never
could!”

“Yes, but the prince can, because he is clever—cleverer than you are by
ten or twenty times, if you like. There, that’s so, prince; and
seriously, let’s drop the donkey now—what else did you see abroad,
besides the donkey?”

“Yes, but the prince told us about the donkey very cleverly, all the
same,” said Alexandra. “I have always been most interested to hear how
people go mad and get well again, and that sort of thing. Especially
when it happens suddenly.”

“Quite so, quite so!” cried Mrs. Epanchin, delighted. “I see you _can_
be sensible now and then, Alexandra. You were speaking of Switzerland,
prince?”

“Yes. We came to Lucerne, and I was taken out in a boat. I felt how
lovely it was, but the loveliness weighed upon me somehow or other, and
made me feel melancholy.”

“Why?” asked Alexandra.

“I don’t know; I always feel like that when I look at the beauties of
nature for the first time; but then, I was ill at that time, of
course!”

“Oh, but I should like to see it!” said Adelaida; “and I don’t know
_when_ we shall ever go abroad. I’ve been two years looking out for a
good subject for a picture. I’ve done all I know. ‘The North and South
I know by heart,’ as our poet observes. Do help me to a subject,
prince.”

“Oh, but I know nothing about painting. It seems to me one only has to
look, and paint what one sees.”

“But I don’t know _how_ to see!”

“Nonsense, what rubbish you talk!” the mother struck in. “Not know how
to see! Open your eyes and look! If you can’t see here, you won’t see
abroad either. Tell us what you saw yourself, prince!”

“Yes, that’s better,” said Adelaida; “the prince _learned to see_
abroad.”

“Oh, I hardly know! You see, I only went to restore my health. I don’t
know whether I learned to see, exactly. I was very happy, however,
nearly all the time.”

“Happy! you can be happy?” cried Aglaya. “Then how can you say you did
not learn to see? I should think you could teach _us_ to see!”

“Oh! _do_ teach us,” laughed Adelaida.

“Oh! I can’t do that,” said the prince, laughing too. “I lived almost
all the while in one little Swiss village; what can I teach you? At
first I was only just not absolutely dull; then my health began to
improve—then every day became dearer and more precious to me, and the
longer I stayed, the dearer became the time to me; so much so that I
could not help observing it; but why this was so, it would be difficult
to say.”

“So that you didn’t care to go away anywhere else?”

“Well, at first I did; I was restless; I didn’t know however I should
manage to support life—you know there are such moments, especially in
solitude. There was a waterfall near us, such a lovely thin streak of
water, like a thread but white and moving. It fell from a great height,
but it looked quite low, and it was half a mile away, though it did not
seem fifty paces. I loved to listen to it at night, but it was then
that I became so restless. Sometimes I went and climbed the mountain
and stood there in the midst of the tall pines, all alone in the
terrible silence, with our little village in the distance, and the sky
so blue, and the sun so bright, and an old ruined castle on the
mountain-side, far away. I used to watch the line where earth and sky
met, and longed to go and seek there the key of all mysteries, thinking
that I might find there a new life, perhaps some great city where life
should be grander and richer—and then it struck me that life may be
grand enough even in a prison.”

“I read that last most praiseworthy thought in my manual, when I was
twelve years old,” said Aglaya.

“All this is pure philosophy,” said Adelaida. “You are a philosopher,
prince, and have come here to instruct us in your views.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said the prince, smiling. “I think I am a
philosopher, perhaps, and who knows, perhaps I do wish to teach my
views of things to those I meet with?”

“Your philosophy is rather like that of an old woman we know, who is
rich and yet does nothing but try how little she can spend. She talks
of nothing but money all day. Your great philosophical idea of a grand
life in a prison and your four happy years in that Swiss village are
like this, rather,” said Aglaya.

“As to life in a prison, of course there may be two opinions,” said the
prince. “I once heard the story of a man who lived twelve years in a
prison—I heard it from the man himself. He was one of the persons under
treatment with my professor; he had fits, and attacks of melancholy,
then he would weep, and once he tried to commit suicide. _His_ life in
prison was sad enough; his only acquaintances were spiders and a tree
that grew outside his grating—but I think I had better tell you of
another man I met last year. There was a very strange feature in this
case, strange because of its extremely rare occurrence. This man had
once been brought to the scaffold in company with several others, and
had had the sentence of death by shooting passed upon him for some
political crime. Twenty minutes later he had been reprieved and some
other punishment substituted; but the interval between the two
sentences, twenty minutes, or at least a quarter of an hour, had been
passed in the certainty that within a few minutes he must die. I was
very anxious to hear him speak of his impressions during that dreadful
time, and I several times inquired of him as to what he thought and
felt. He remembered everything with the most accurate and extraordinary
distinctness, and declared that he would never forget a single iota of
the experience.

“About twenty paces from the scaffold, where he had stood to hear the
sentence, were three posts, fixed in the ground, to which to fasten the
criminals (of whom there were several). The first three criminals were
taken to the posts, dressed in long white tunics, with white caps drawn
over their faces, so that they could not see the rifles pointed at
them. Then a group of soldiers took their stand opposite to each post.
My friend was the eighth on the list, and therefore he would have been
among the third lot to go up. A priest went about among them with a
cross: and there was about five minutes of time left for him to live.

“He said that those five minutes seemed to him to be a most
interminable period, an enormous wealth of time; he seemed to be
living, in these minutes, so many lives that there was no need as yet
to think of that last moment, so that he made several arrangements,
dividing up the time into portions—one for saying farewell to his
companions, two minutes for that; then a couple more for thinking over
his own life and career and all about himself; and another minute for a
last look around. He remembered having divided his time like this quite
well. While saying good-bye to his friends he recollected asking one of
them some very usual everyday question, and being much interested in
the answer. Then having bade farewell, he embarked upon those two
minutes which he had allotted to looking into himself; he knew
beforehand what he was going to think about. He wished to put it to
himself as quickly and clearly as possible, that here was he, a living,
thinking man, and that in three minutes he would be nobody; or if
somebody or something, then what and where? He thought he would decide
this question once for all in these last three minutes. A little way
off there stood a church, and its gilded spire glittered in the sun. He
remembered staring stubbornly at this spire, and at the rays of light
sparkling from it. He could not tear his eyes from these rays of light;
he got the idea that these rays were his new nature, and that in three
minutes he would become one of them, amalgamated somehow with them.

“The repugnance to what must ensue almost immediately, and the
uncertainty, were dreadful, he said; but worst of all was the idea,
‘What should I do if I were not to die now? What if I were to return to
life again? What an eternity of days, and all mine! How I should grudge
and count up every minute of it, so as to waste not a single instant!’
He said that this thought weighed so upon him and became such a
terrible burden upon his brain that he could not bear it, and wished
they would shoot him quickly and have done with it.”

The prince paused and all waited, expecting him to go on again and
finish the story.

“Is that all?” asked Aglaya.

“All? Yes,” said the prince, emerging from a momentary reverie.

“And why did you tell us this?”

“Oh, I happened to recall it, that’s all! It fitted into the
conversation—”

“You probably wish to deduce, prince,” said Alexandra, “that moments of
time cannot be reckoned by money value, and that sometimes five minutes
are worth priceless treasures. All this is very praiseworthy; but may I
ask about this friend of yours, who told you the terrible experience of
his life? He was reprieved, you say; in other words, they did restore
to him that ‘eternity of days.’ What did he do with these riches of
time? Did he keep careful account of his minutes?”

“Oh no, he didn’t! I asked him myself. He said that he had not lived a
bit as he had intended, and had wasted many, and many a minute.”

“Very well, then there’s an experiment, and the thing is proved; one
cannot live and count each moment; say what you like, but one
_cannot_.”