I should not be surprised by anything. She is mad! There are the letters. For a whole week she has been entreating and worrying and persuading me to marry you. She—well, she is clever, though she may be mad—much cleverer than I am, as you say. Well, she writes that she is in love with me herself, and tries to see me every day, if only from a distance. She writes that you love me, and that she has long known it and seen it, and that you and she talked about me—there. She wishes to see you happy, and she says that she is certain only I can ensure you the happiness you deserve. She writes such strange, wild letters—I haven’t shown them to anyone. Now, do you know what all this means? Can you guess anything?


It is madness—it is merely another proof of her insanity!


You are crying, aren’t you?


No, Aglaya. No, I’m not crying.


Well, what am I to do? What do you advise me? I cannot go on receiving these letters, you know.


Oh, let her alone, I entreat you!


What can you do in this dark, gloomy mystery? Let her alone, and I’ll use all my power to prevent her writing you any more letters.


If so, you are a heartless man! As if you can’t see that it is not myself she loves, but you, you, and only you! Surely you have not remarked everything else in her, and only not this? Do you know what these letters mean? They mean jealousy, sir—nothing but pure jealousy! She—do you think she will ever really marry this Rogojin, as she says here she will? She would take her own life the day after you and I were married.


God knows, Aglaya, that to restore her peace of mind and make her happy I would willingly give up my life. But I cannot love her, and she knows that.


Oh, make a sacrifice of yourself! That sort of thing becomes you well, you know. Why not do it? And don’t call me ‘Aglaya’; you have done it several times lately. You are bound, it is your duty to ‘raise’ her; you must go off somewhere again to soothe and pacify her. Why, you love her, you know!


I cannot sacrifice myself so, though I admit I did wish to do so once. Who knows, perhaps I still wish to! But I know for certain, that if she married me it would be her ruin; I know this and therefore I leave her alone. I ought to go to see her today; now I shall probably not go. She is proud, she would never forgive me the nature of the love I bear her, and we should both be ruined. This may be unnatural, I don’t know; but everything seems unnatural. You say she loves me, as if this were love! As if she could love me, after what I have been through! No, no, it is not love.


How pale you have grown!


Oh, it’s nothing. I haven’t slept, that’s all, and I’m rather tired. I—we certainly did talk about you, Aglaya.


Oh, indeed, it is true then! You could actually talk about me with her; and—and how could you have been fond of me when you had only seen me once?


I don’t know. Perhaps it was that I seemed to come upon light in the midst of my gloom. I told you the truth when I said I did not know why I thought of you before all others. Of course it was all a sort of dream, a dream amidst the horrors of reality. Afterwards I began to work. I did not intend to come back here for two or three years—


Then you came for her sake?


Yes, I came for her sake.


If you say, if you say that this woman of yours is mad—at all events I have nothing to do with her insane fancies. Kindly take these three letters, Lef Nicolaievitch, and throw them back to her, from me. And if she dares, if she dares so much as write me one word again, tell her I shall tell my father, and that she shall be taken to a lunatic asylum.


You cannot really feel like that! You don’t mean what you say. It is not true,


It is true, it is true,


What’s true? What’s all this? What’s true?


Why, it’s true that I am going to marry Gavrila Ardalionovitch, that I love him and intend to elope with him tomorrow,


Do you hear? Is your curiosity satisfied? Are you pleased with what you have heard?


H’m! well, you are not going away just yet, my friend, at all events. Kindly step home with me, and let me have a little explanation of the mystery. Nice goings on, these! I haven’t slept a wink all night as it is.


Don’t suppose, prince, don’t suppose that I have brought you here to ask questions. After last night, I assure you, I am not so exceedingly anxious to see you at all; I could have postponed the pleasure for a long while.


But at the same time you would be very glad to know how I happened to meet Aglaya Ivanovna this morning?


Well, what then? Supposing I should like to know? I’m sure I am not afraid of plain speaking. I’m not offending anyone, and I never wish to, and—


Pardon me, it is no offence to wish to know this; you are her mother. We met at the green bench this morning, punctually at seven o’clock,—according to an agreement made by Aglaya Ivanovna with myself yesterday. She said that she wished to see me and speak to me about something important. We met and conversed for an hour about matters concerning Aglaya Ivanovna herself, and that’s all.


Of course it is all, my friend. I don’t doubt you for a moment,


Well done, prince, capital! Thank you for assuming that I would not demean myself with lies. Come, is that enough, mamma, or do you intend to put any more questions?


You know I have never needed to blush before you, up to this day, though perhaps you would have been glad enough to make me. Good-bye, prince; forgive me for bothering you. I trust you will rest assured of my unalterable esteem for you.


Thank goodness, we’ve just managed to finish it before you came in!


Good-morning! My head whirls so; I didn’t sleep all night. I should like to have a nap now.


Here, on the verandah? Very well, I’ll tell them all not to come and wake you. Papa has gone out somewhere. Prince! have pity on that poor boy; don’t turn him out today.


Not for the world; he shall do just as he likes.


He won’t do any harm now; and—and don’t be too severe with him.


Oh dear no! Why—


And—and you won’t laugh at him? That’s the chief thing.


Oh no! Never.


How foolish I am to speak of such things to a man like you. Though you do look tired, your eyes are so splendid at this moment—so full of happiness.


Really?


What a dear little thing she is,


Well, here’s a go! What do you think of Hippolyte now? Don’t respect him any longer, eh?


Why not? But look here, Colia, I’m tired; besides, the subject is too melancholy to begin upon again. How is he, though?


Asleep—he’ll sleep for a couple of hours yet. I quite understand—you haven’t slept—you walked about the park, I know. Agitation—excitement—all that sort of thing—quite natural, too!


How do you know I walked in the park and didn’t sleep at home?


Vera just told me. She tried to persuade me not to come, but I couldn’t help myself, just for one minute. I have been having my turn at the bedside for the last two hours; Kostia Lebedeff is there now. Burdovsky has gone. Now, lie down, prince, make yourself comfortable, and sleep well! I’m awfully impressed, you know.


Naturally, all this—


No, no, I mean with the ‘explanation,’ especially that part of it where he talks about Providence and a future life. There is a gigantic thought there.


But it is not any one particular thought, only; it is the general circumstances of the case. If Voltaire had written this now, or Rousseau, I should have just read it and thought it remarkable, but should not have been so impressed by it. But a man who knows for certain that he has but ten minutes to live and can talk like that—why—it’s—it’s pride, that is! It is really a most extraordinary, exalted assertion of personal dignity, it’s—it’s defiant! What a gigantic strength of will, eh? And to accuse a fellow like that of not putting in the cap on purpose; it’s base and mean! You know he deceived us last night, the cunning rascal. I never packed his bag for him, and I never saw his pistol. He packed it himself. But he put me off my guard like that, you see. Vera says you are going to let him stay on; I swear there’s no danger, especially as we are always with him.


Who was by him at night?


I, and Burdovsky, and Kostia Lebedeff. Keller stayed a little while, and then went over to Lebedeff’s to sleep. Ferdishenko slept at Lebedeff’s, too; but he went away at seven o’clock. My father is always at Lebedeff’s; but he has gone out just now. I dare say Lebedeff will be coming in here directly; he has been looking for you; I don’t know what he wants. Shall we let him in or not, if you are asleep? I’m going to have a nap, too. By-the-by, such a curious thing happened. Burdovsky woke me at seven, and I met my father just outside the room, so drunk, he didn’t even know me. He stood before me like a log, and when he recovered himself, asked hurriedly how Hippolyte was. ‘Yes,’ he said, when I told him, ‘that’s all very well, but I really came to warn you that you must be very careful what you say before Ferdishenko.’ Do you follow me, prince?


Yes. Is it really so? However, it’s all the same to us, of course.


Of course it is; we are not a secret society; and that being the case, it is all the more curious that the general should have been on his way to wake me up in order to tell me this.


Ferdishenko has gone, you say?


Yes, he went at seven o’clock. He came into the room on his way out; I was watching just then. He said he was going to spend ‘the rest of the night’ at Wilkin’s; there’s a tipsy fellow, a friend of his, of that name. Well, I’m off. Oh, here’s Lebedeff himself! The prince wants to go to sleep, Lukian Timofeyovitch, so you may just go away again.


One moment, my dear prince, just one. I must absolutely speak to you about something which is most grave. I hear you have called twice; I suppose you are still worried about yesterday’s affair. What, about that boy, you mean? Oh dear no, yesterday my ideas were a little—well—mixed. Today, I assure you, I shall not oppose in the slightest degree any suggestions it may please you to make.


What’s up with you this morning, Lebedeff? You look so important and dignified, and you choose your words so carefully,


Nicolai Ardalionovitch! As I have a communication to make to the prince which concerns only myself—


Of course, of course, not my affair. All right,


I love that boy for his perception. My dear prince. I have had a terrible misfortune, either last night or early this morning. I cannot tell the exact time.


What is it?


I have lost four hundred roubles out of my side pocket! They’re gone!


You’ve lost four hundred roubles? Oh! I’m sorry for that.


Yes, it is serious for a poor man who lives by his toil.


Of course, of course! How was it?


Oh, the wine is to blame, of course. I confess to you, prince, as I would to Providence itself. Yesterday I received four hundred roubles from a debtor at about five in the afternoon, and came down here by train. I had my purse in my pocket. When I changed, I put the money into the pocket of my plain clothes, intending to keep it by me, as I expected to have an applicant for it in the evening.


It’s true then, Lebedeff, that you advertise to lend money on gold or silver articles?


Yes, through an agent. My own name doesn’t appear. I have a large family, you see, and at a small percentage—


Quite so, quite so. I only asked for information—excuse the question. Go on.


Well, meanwhile that sick boy was brought here, and those guests came in, and we had tea, and—well, we made merry—to my ruin! Hearing of your birthday afterwards, and excited with the circumstances of the evening, I ran upstairs and changed my plain clothes once more for my uniform —you must have noticed I had my uniform on all the evening? Well, I forgot the money in the pocket of my old coat—you know when God will ruin a man he first of all bereaves him of his senses—and it was only this morning at half-past seven that I woke up and grabbed at my coat pocket, first thing. The pocket was empty—the purse gone, and not a trace to be found!


Dear me! This is very unpleasant!


Unpleasant! Indeed it is. You have found a very appropriate expression,


But what’s to be done? It’s a serious matter. Don’t you think you may have dropped it out of your pocket whilst intoxicated?


Certainly. Anything is possible when one is intoxicated, as you neatly express it, prince. But consider—if I, intoxicated or not, dropped an object out of my pocket on to the ground, that object ought to remain on the ground. Where is the object, then?


Didn’t you put it away in some drawer, perhaps?


I’ve looked everywhere, and turned out everything.


I confess this disturbs me a good deal. Someone must have picked it up, then.


Or taken it out of my pocket—two alternatives.


It is very distressing, because who—? That’s the question!


Most undoubtedly, excellent prince, you have hit it—that is the very question. How wonderfully you express the exact situation in a few words!


Come, come, Lebedeff, no sarcasm! It’s a serious—


Sarcasm! All right, all right, I’m not angry. I’m only put out about this. Whom do you suspect?


That is a very difficult and complicated question. I cannot suspect the servant, for she was in the kitchen the whole evening, nor do I suspect any of my children.


I should think not. Go on.


Then it must be one of the guests.


Is such a thing possible?


Absolutely and utterly impossible—and yet, so it must be. But one thing I am sure of, if it be a theft, it was committed, not in the evening when we were all together, but either at night or early in the morning; therefore, by one of those who slept here. Burdovsky and Colia I except, of course. They did not even come into my room.


Yes, or even if they had! But who did sleep with you?


Four of us, including myself, in two rooms. The general, myself, Keller, and Ferdishenko. One of us four it must have been. I don’t suspect myself, though such cases have been known.


Oh! do go on, Lebedeff! Don’t drag it out so. Well, there are three left, then—Keller firstly. He is a drunkard to begin with, and a liberal (in the sense of other people’s pockets), otherwise with more of the ancient knight about him than of the modern liberal. He was with the sick man at first, but came over afterwards because there was no place to lie down in the room and the floor was so hard.


You suspect him?


I did suspect him. When I woke up at half-past seven and tore my hair in despair for my loss and carelessness, I awoke the general, who was sleeping the sleep of innocence near me. Taking into consideration the sudden disappearance of Ferdishenko, which was suspicious in itself, we decided to search Keller, who was lying there sleeping like a top. Well, we searched his clothes thoroughly, and not a farthing did we find; in fact, his pockets all had holes in them. We found a dirty handkerchief, and a love-letter from some scullery-maid. The general decided that he was innocent. We awoke him for further inquiries, and had the greatest difficulty in making him understand what was up. He opened his mouth and stared—he looked so stupid and so absurdly innocent. It wasn’t Keller.


Oh, I’m so glad! I was so afraid.


Afraid! Then you had some grounds for supposing he might be the culprit?


Oh no—not a bit! It was foolish of me to say I was afraid! Don’t repeat it please, Lebedeff, don’t tell anyone I said that!


My dear prince! your words lie in the lowest depth of my heart—it is their tomb!


Thanks; very well. Then I suppose it’s Ferdishenko; that is, I mean, you suspect Ferdishenko?


Whom else?


Of course—quite so, whom else? But what are the proofs?


We have evidence. In the first place, his mysterious disappearance at seven o’clock, or even earlier.


I know, Colia told me that he had said he was off to—I forget the name, some friend of his, to finish the night.


H’m! then Colia has spoken to you already?


Not about the theft.


He does not know of it; I have kept it a secret. Very well, Ferdishenko went off to Wilkin’s. That is not so curious in itself, but here the evidence opens out further. He left his address, you see, when he went. Now prince, consider, why did he leave his address? Why do you suppose he went out of his way to tell Colia that he had gone to Wilkin’s? Who cared to know that he was going to Wilkin’s? No, no! prince, this is finesse, thieves’ finesse! This is as good as saying, ‘There, how can I be a thief when I leave my address? I’m not concealing my movements as a thief would.’ Do you understand, prince?


Oh yes, but that is not enough.


Second proof. The scent turns out to be false, and the address given is a sham. An hour after—that is at about eight, I went to Wilkin’s myself, and there was no trace of Ferdishenko. The maid did tell me, certainly, that an hour or so since someone had been hammering at the door, and had smashed the bell; she said she would not open the door because she didn’t want to wake her master; probably she was too lazy to get up herself. Such phenomena are met with occasionally!


But is that all your evidence? It is not enough!


Well, prince, whom are we to suspect, then? Consider!


You should search your room and all the cupboards again,


But I have done so, my dear prince!


H’m! why must you needs go up and change your coat like that?


Oh, don’t be so worried on my account, prince! I assure you I am not worth it! At least, not I alone. But I see you are suffering on behalf of the criminal too, for wretched Ferdishenko, in fact!


Of course you have given me a disagreeable enough thing to think about, but what are you going to do, since you are so sure it was Ferdishenko?


But who else could it be, my very dear prince? If you don’t wish me to suspect Mr. Burdovsky?


Of course not.


Nor the general? Ha, ha, ha!


Nonsense!


Quite so, nonsense! Ha, ha, ha! dear me! He did amuse me, did the general! We went off on the hot scent to Wilkin’s together, you know; but I must first observe that the general was even more thunderstruck than I myself this morning, when I awoke him after discovering the theft; so much so that his very face changed—he grew red and then pale, and at length flew into a paroxysm of such noble wrath that I assure you I was quite surprised! He is a most generous-hearted man! He tells lies by the thousands, I know, but it is merely a weakness; he is a man of the highest feelings; a simple-minded man too, and a man who carries the conviction of innocence in his very appearance. I love that man, sir; I may have told you so before; it is a weakness of mine. Well—he suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, opened out his coat and bared his breast. ‘Search me,’ he says, ‘you searched Keller; why don’t you search me too? It is only fair!’ says he. And all the while his legs and hands were trembling with anger, and he as white as a sheet all over! So I said to him, ‘Nonsense, general; if anybody but yourself had said that to me, I’d have taken my head, my own head, and put it on a large dish and carried it round to anyone who suspected you; and I should have said: “There, you see that head? It’s my head, and I’ll go bail with that head for him! Yes, and walk through the fire for him, too.” There,’ says I, ‘that’s how I’d answer for you, general!’ Then he embraced me, in the middle of the street, and hugged me so tight (crying over me all the while) that I coughed fit to choke! ‘You are the one friend left to me amid all my misfortunes,’ says he. Oh, he’s a man of sentiment, that! He went on to tell me a story of how he had been accused, or suspected, of stealing five hundred thousand roubles once, as a young man; and how, the very next day, he had rushed into a burning, blazing house and saved the very count who suspected him, and Nina Alexandrovna (who was then a young girl), from a fiery death. The count embraced him, and that was how he came to marry Nina Alexandrovna, he said. As for the money, it was found among the ruins next day in an English iron box with a secret lock; it had got under the floor somehow, and if it had not been for the fire it would never have been found! The whole thing is, of course, an absolute fabrication, though when he spoke of Nina Alexandrovna he wept! She’s a grand woman, is Nina Alexandrovna, though she is very angry with me! Search me, you searched Keller; why don’t you search me too? It is only fair! Nonsense, general; if anybody but yourself had said that to me, I’d have taken my head, my own head, and put it on a large dish and carried it round to anyone who suspected you; and I should have said: “There, you see that head? It’s my head, and I’ll go bail with that head for him! Yes, and walk through the fire for him, too.” There,’ says I, ‘that’s how I’d answer for you, general! There, you see that head? It’s my head, and I’ll go bail with that head for him! Yes, and walk through the fire for him, too. You are the one friend left to me amid all my misfortunes, he said.


Are you acquainted with her?


Well, hardly at all. I wish I were, if only for the sake of justifying myself in her eyes. Nina Alexandrovna has a grudge against me for, as she thinks, encouraging her husband in drinking; whereas in reality I not only do not encourage him, but I actually keep him out of harm’s way, and out of bad company. Besides, he’s my friend, prince, so that I shall not lose sight of him, again. Where he goes, I go. He’s quite given up visiting the captain’s widow, though sometimes he thinks sadly of her, especially in the morning, when he’s putting on his boots. I don’t know why it’s at that time. But he has no money, and it’s no use his going to see her without. Has he borrowed any money from you, prince?


No, he has not.


Ah, he’s ashamed to! He meant to ask you, I know, for he said so. I suppose he thinks that as you gave him some once (you remember), you would probably refuse if he asked you again.


Do you ever give him money?


Prince! Money! Why I would give that man not only my money, but my very life, if he wanted it. Well, perhaps that’s exaggeration; not life, we’ll say, but some illness, a boil or a bad cough, or anything of that sort, I would stand with pleasure, for his sake; for I consider him a great man fallen—money, indeed!


H’m, then you do give him money?


N-no, I have never given him money, and he knows well that I will never give him any; because I am anxious to keep him out of intemperate ways. He is going to town with me now; for you must know I am off to Petersburg after Ferdishenko, while the scent is hot; I’m certain he is there. I shall let the general go one way, while I go the other; we have so arranged matters in order to pop out upon Ferdishenko, you see, from different sides. But I am going to follow that naughty old general and catch him, I know where, at a certain widow’s house; for I think it will be a good lesson, to put him to shame by catching him with the widow.


Oh, Lebedeff, don’t, don’t make any scandal about it!


Not for the world, not for the world! I merely wish to make him ashamed of himself. Oh, prince, great though this misfortune be to myself, I cannot help thinking of his morals! I have a great favour to ask of you, esteemed prince; I confess that it is the chief object of my visit. You know the Ivolgins, you have even lived in their house; so if you would lend me your help, honoured prince, in the general’s own interest and for his good. What help do you want from me? You may be certain that I am most anxious to understand you, Lebedeff. I felt sure of that, or I should not have come to you. We might manage it with the help of Nina Alexandrovna, so that he might be closely watched in his own house. Unfortunately I am not on terms... otherwise... but Nicolai Ardalionovitch, who adores you with all his youthful soul, might help, too.


No, no! Heaven forbid that we should bring Nina Alexandrovna into this business! Or Colia, either. But perhaps I have not yet quite understood you, Lebedeff?


But there is nothing to understand! Sympathy and tenderness, that is all—that is all our poor invalid requires! You will permit me to consider him an invalid?


Yes, it shows delicacy and intelligence on your part.


I will explain my idea by a practical example, to make it clearer. You know the sort of man he is. At present his only failing is that he is crazy about that captain’s widow, and he cannot go to her without money, and I mean to catch him at her house today—for his own good; but supposing it was not only the widow, but that he had committed a real crime, or at least some very dishonourable action (of which he is, of course, incapable), I repeat that even in that case, if he were treated with what I may call generous tenderness, one could get at the whole truth, for he is very soft-hearted! Believe me, he would betray himself before five days were out; he would burst into tears, and make a clean breast of the matter; especially if managed with tact, and if you and his family watched his every step, so to speak. Oh, my dear prince. I do not positively assert that he has... I am ready, as the saying is, to shed my last drop of blood for him this instant; but you will admit that debauchery, drunkenness, and the captain’s widow, all these together may lead him very far.


I am, of course, quite ready to add my efforts to yours in such a case, but I confess, Lebedeff, that I am terribly perplexed. Tell me, do you still think... plainly, you say yourself that you suspect Mr. Ferdishenko?


Why, who else could I possibly suspect? Who else, most outspoken prince?


You see, Lebedeff, a mistake here would be a dreadful thing. This Ferdishenko, I would not say a word against him, of course; but, who knows? Perhaps it really was he? I mean he really does seem to be a more likely man than... than any other. You see. I was given to understand that Ferdishenko was that sort of man,—that one can’t say everything before him. One has to take care not to say too much, you understand? I say this to prove that he really is, so to speak, more likely to have done this than anyone else, eh? You understand? The important thing is, not to make a mistake. And who told you this about Ferdishenko? Oh, I was told. Of course I don’t altogether believe it. I am very sorry that I should have had to say this, because I assure you I don’t believe it myself; it is all nonsense, of course. It was stupid of me to say anything about it.


You see, it is very important, it is most important to know where you got this report from. Because look here, prince, I don’t mind telling you now that as we were going along to Wilkin’s this morning, after telling me what you know about the fire, and saving the count and all that, the general was pleased to drop certain hints to the same effect about Ferdishenko, but so vaguely and clumsily that I thought better to put a few questions to him on the matter, with the result that I found the whole thing was an invention of his excellency’s own mind. Of course, he only lies with the best intentions; still, he lies. But, such being the case, where could you have heard the same report? It was the inspiration of the moment with him, you understand, so who could have told you? It is an important question, you see!


It was Colia told me, and his father told him at about six this morning. They met at the threshold, when Colia was leaving the room for something or other.


There now, that’s what we may call scent! I thought it must be so, you see. The general interrupted his innocent slumbers, at six o’clock, in order to go and wake his beloved son, and warn him of the dreadful danger of companionship with Ferdishenko. Dear me! what a dreadfully dangerous man Ferdishenko must be, and what touching paternal solicitude, on the part of his excellency, ha! ha! ha!


Listen, Lebedeff, do act quietly—don’t make a scandal, Lebedeff, I ask you—I entreat you! No one must know—no one, mind! In that case only, I will help you.


Be assured, most honourable, most worthy of princes—be assured that the whole matter shall be buried within my heart! I’d give every drop of my blood... Illustrious prince, I am a poor wretch in soul and spirit, but ask the veriest scoundrel whether he would prefer to deal with one like himself, or with a noble-hearted man like you, and there is no doubt as to his choice! He’ll answer that he prefers the noble-hearted man—and there you have the triumph of virtue! Au revoir, honoured prince! You and I together—softly! softly!


When you open this letter


look first at the signature. The signature will tell you all, so that I need explain nothing, nor attempt to justify myself. Were I in any way on a footing with you, you might be offended at my audacity; but who am I, and who are you? We are at such extremes, and I am so far removed from you, that I could not offend you if I wished to do so.


Do not consider my words as the sickly ecstasies of a diseased mind, but you are, in my opinion—perfection! I have seen you—I see you every day. I do not judge you; I have not weighed you in the scales of Reason and found you Perfection—it is simply an article of faith. But I must confess one sin against you—I love you. One should not love perfection. One should only look on it as perfection—yet I am in love with you. Though love equalizes, do not fear. I have not lowered you to my level, even in my most secret thoughts. I have written ‘Do not fear,’ as if you could fear. I would kiss your footprints if I could; but, oh! I am not putting myself on a level with you!—Look at the signature—quick, look at the signature!


However, observe


that although I couple you with him, yet I have not once asked you whether you love him. He fell in love with you, though he saw you but once. He spoke of you as of ‘the light.’ These are his own words—I heard him use them. But I understood without his saying it that you were all that light is to him. I lived near him for a whole month, and I understood then that you, too, must love him. I think of you and him as one.


What was the matter yesterday?


I passed by you, and you seemed to me to blush. Perhaps it was only my fancy. If I were to bring you to the most loathsome den, and show you the revelation of undisguised vice—you should not blush. You can never feel the sense of personal affront. You may hate all who are mean, or base, or unworthy—but not for yourself—only for those whom they wrong. No one can wrong you. Do you know, I think you ought to love me—for you are the same in my eyes as in his—you are as light. An angel cannot hate, perhaps cannot love, either. I often ask myself—is it possible to love everybody? Indeed it is not; it is not in nature. Abstract love of humanity is nearly always love of self. But you are different. You cannot help loving all, since you can compare with none, and are above all personal offence or anger. Oh! how bitter it would be to me to know that you felt anger or shame on my account, for that would be your fall—you would become comparable at once with such as me.


Yesterday, after seeing you, I went home and thought out a picture.


Artists always draw the Saviour as an actor in one of the Gospel stories. I should do differently. I should represent Christ alone—the disciples did leave Him alone occasionally. I should paint one little child left with Him. This child has been playing about near Him, and had probably just been telling the Saviour something in its pretty baby prattle. Christ had listened to it, but was now musing—one hand reposing on the child’s bright head. His eyes have a far-away expression. Thought, great as the Universe, is in them—His face is sad. The little one leans its elbow upon Christ’s knee, and with its cheek resting on its hand, gazes up at Him, pondering as children sometimes do ponder. The sun is setting. There you have my picture.


You are innocent—and in your innocence lies all your perfection—oh, remember that! What is my passion to you?—you are mine now; I shall be near you all my life—I shall not live long!


For Heaven’s sake, don’t misunderstand me! Do not think that I humiliate myself by writing thus to you, or that I belong to that class of people who take a satisfaction in humiliating themselves—from pride. I have my consolation, though it would be difficult to explain it—but I do not humiliate myself.


Why do I wish to unite you two? For your sakes or my own? For my own sake, naturally. All the problems of my life would thus be solved; I have thought so for a long time. I know that once when your sister Adelaida saw my portrait she said that such beauty could overthrow the world. But I have renounced the world. You think it strange that I should say so, for you saw me decked with lace and diamonds, in the company of drunkards and wastrels. Take no notice of that; I know that I have almost ceased to exist. God knows what it is dwelling within me now—it is not myself. I can see it every day in two dreadful eyes which are always looking at me, even when not present. These eyes are silent now, they say nothing; but I know their secret. His house is gloomy, and there is a secret in it. I am convinced that in some box he has a razor hidden, tied round with silk, just like the one that Moscow murderer had. This man also lived with his mother, and had a razor hidden away, tied round with white silk, and with this razor he intended to cut a throat.


All the while I was in their house I felt sure that somewhere beneath the floor there was hidden away some dreadful corpse, wrapped in oil-cloth, perhaps buried there by his father, who knows? Just as in the Moscow case. I could have shown you the very spot!


He is always silent, but I know well that he loves me so much that he must hate me. My wedding and yours are to be on the same day; so I have arranged with him. I have no secrets from him. I would kill him from very fright, but he will kill me first. He has just burst out laughing, and says that I am raving. He knows I am writing to you.


How did you come here?


I—I—came in—


Mamma is not very well, nor is Aglaya. Adelaida has gone to bed, and I am just going. We were alone the whole evening. Father and Prince S. have gone to town.


I have come to you—now—to—


Do you know what time it is?


N—no!


Half-past twelve. We are always in bed by one.


I—I thought it was half-past nine!


Never mind! but why didn’t you come earlier? Perhaps you were expected!


I thought


Au revoir! I shall amuse them all with this story tomorrow!


Get up!


Are you happy—are you happy?


Say this one word. Are you happy now? Today, this moment? Have you just been with her? What did she say?


I am going away tomorrow, as you bade me—I won’t write—so that this is the last time I shall see you, the last time! This is really the last time!


Oh, be calm—be calm! Get up!


Good-bye!


Wait a minute, prince. I shall be back in five minutes. I’ve put her in the carriage, it has been waiting round the corner there since ten o’clock. She expected that you would be with them all the evening. I told her exactly what you wrote me. She won’t write to the girl any more, she promises; and tomorrow she will be off, as you wish. She desired to see you for the last time, although you refused, so we’ve been sitting and waiting on that bench till you should pass on your way home. Did you read them? Of course—she showed them to me herself. You are thinking of the razor, eh? Ha, ha, ha!


Oh, she is mad!


Who knows? Perhaps she is not so mad after all. Well, good-bye. I’m off tomorrow too, you know. Remember me kindly! By-the-by, did you answer her question just now? Are you happy, or not?


No, no, no!


Ha, ha! I never supposed you would say ‘yes,’


Podkoleosin


Tu l’as voulu, Georges Dandin!


You know, you despise generals and generaldom, but you will see that ‘they’ will all end by being generals in their turn. You will see it if you live long enough!


But why should they suppose that I despise generals?


The old story, eh?


Old story? No! Heaven knows what’s up now—I don’t! Father has simply gone mad; mother’s in floods of tears. Upon my word, Varia, I must kick him out of the house; or else go myself,


You must make allowances,


Make allowances? For whom? Him—the old blackguard? No, no, Varia—that won’t do! It won’t do, I tell you! And look at the swagger of the man! He’s all to blame himself, and yet he puts on so much ‘side’ that you’d think—my word!—‘It’s too much trouble to go through the gate, you must break the fence for me!’ That’s the sort of air he puts on; but what’s the matter with you, Varia? What a curious expression you have!


I’m all right,


You’ve been there?


Yes.


Did you find out anything?


Nothing unexpected. I discovered that it’s all true. My husband was wiser than either of us. Just as he suspected from the beginning, so it has fallen out. Where is he?


Out. Well—what has happened?—go on.


The prince is formally engaged to her—that’s settled. The elder sisters told me about it. Aglaya has agreed. They don’t attempt to conceal it any longer; you know how mysterious and secret they have all been up to now. Adelaida’s wedding is put off again, so that both can be married on one day. Isn’t that delightfully romantic? Somebody ought to write a poem on it. Sit down and write an ode instead of tearing up and down like that. This evening Princess Bielokonski is to arrive; she comes just in time—they have a party tonight. He is to be presented to old Bielokonski, though I believe he knows her already; probably the engagement will be openly announced. They are only afraid that he may knock something down, or trip over something when he comes into the room. It would be just like him.


Well, it was clear enough all along. So that’s the end,


It’s a good thing that you take it philosophically, at all events. I’m really very glad of it.


Yes, it’s off our hands—off yours, I should say.


I think I have served you faithfully. I never even asked you what happiness you expected to find with Aglaya.


Did I ever expect to find happiness with Aglaya?


Come, come, don’t overdo your philosophy. Of course you did. Now it’s all over, and a good thing, too; pair of fools that we have been! I confess I have never been able to look at it seriously. I busied myself in it for your sake, thinking that there was no knowing what might happen with a funny girl like that to deal with. There were ninety to one chances against it. To this moment I can’t make out why you wished for it.


H’m! now, I suppose, you and your husband will never weary of egging me on to work again. You’ll begin your lectures about perseverance and strength of will, and all that. I know it all by heart,


He’s got some new idea in his head,


Are they pleased over there—the parents?


N-no, I don’t think they are. You can judge for yourself. I think the general is pleased enough; her mother is a little uneasy. She always loathed the idea of the prince as a husband; everybody knows that.


Of course, naturally. The bridegroom is an impossible and ridiculous one. I mean, has she given her formal consent?


She has not said ‘no,’ up to now, and that’s all. It was sure to be so with her. You know what she is like. You know how absurdly shy she is. You remember how she used to hide in a cupboard as a child, so as to avoid seeing visitors, for hours at a time. She is just the same now; but, do you know, I think there is something serious in the matter, even from her side; I feel it, somehow. She laughs at the prince, they say, from morn to night in order to hide her real feelings; but you may be sure she finds occasion to say something or other to him on the sly, for he himself is in a state of radiant happiness. He walks in the clouds; they say he is extremely funny just now; I heard it from themselves. They seemed to be laughing at me in their sleeves—those elder girls—I don’t know why.


I’ll turn him out! I shall just turn him out—we can’t have this.


Yes, and then he’ll go about the place and disgrace us as he did yesterday.


How ‘as he did yesterday’? What do you mean? What did he do yesterday?


Why, goodness me, don’t you know?


What? You don’t mean to say that he went there yesterday! Good heavens, Varia! Speak! You have just been there. Was he there or not, quick?


What are you doing? Where are you going to? You can’t let him go now; if you do he’ll go and do something worse.


What did he do there? What did he say?


Funny girl, Aglaya. Give my special and personal respects to your parents; I shall certainly find an opportunity to see your father one day,


Wasn’t she joking? She was speaking sarcastically!


Not a bit of it; that’s just the strange part of it.


Does she know about father, do you think—or not?


That they do not know about it in the house is quite certain, the rest of them, I mean; but you have given me an idea. Aglaya perhaps knows. She alone, though, if anyone; for the sisters were as astonished as I was to hear her speak so seriously. If she knows, the prince must have told her.


Oh! it’s not a great matter to guess who told her. A thief! A thief in our family, and the head of the family, too!


Oh! nonsense!


Father is a drunkard and a thief; I am a beggar, and the husband of my sister is a usurer,


Feeds me? Go on. Don’t stand on ceremony, pray. Don’t lose your temper. You are just like a schoolboy. You think that all this sort of thing would harm you in Aglaya’s eyes, do you? You little know her character. She is capable of refusing the most brilliant party, and running away and starving in a garret with some wretched student; that’s the sort of girl she is. You never could or did understand how interesting you would have seen in her eyes if you had come firmly and proudly through our misfortunes. The prince has simply caught her with hook and line; firstly, because he never thought of fishing for her, and secondly, because he is an idiot in the eyes of most people. It’s quite enough for her that by accepting him she puts her family out and annoys them all round—that’s what she likes. You don’t understand these things.


We shall see whether I understand or no! But I shouldn’t like her to know all about father, all the same. I thought the prince would manage to hold his tongue about this, at least. He prevented Lebedeff spreading the news—he wouldn’t even tell me all when I asked him—


Then you must see that he is not responsible. What does it matter to you now, in any case? What are you hoping for still? If you have a hope left, it is that your suffering air may soften her heart towards you.


Oh, she would funk a scandal like anyone else. You are all tarred with one brush!


What! Aglaya would have funked? You are a chicken-hearted fellow, Gania! All I’m afraid of is—mother. I’m afraid this scandal about father may come to her ears; perhaps it has already. I am dreadfully afraid.


It undoubtedly has already!


Who could have told her?


Hippolyte, probably. He would think it the most delightful amusement in the world to tell her of it the instant he moved over here; I haven’t a doubt of it.


But how could he know anything of it? Tell me that. Lebedeff and the prince determined to tell no one—even Colia knows nothing.


What, Hippolyte? He found it out himself, of course. Why, you have no idea what a cunning little animal he is; dirty little gossip! He has the most extraordinary nose for smelling out other people’s secrets, or anything approaching to scandal. Believe it or not, but I’m pretty sure he has got round Aglaya. If he hasn’t, he soon will. Rogojin is intimate with him, too. How the prince doesn’t notice it, I can’t understand. The little wretch considers me his enemy now and does his best to catch me tripping. What on earth does it matter to him, when he’s dying? However, you’ll see; I shall catch him tripping yet, and not he me.


Why did you get him over here, if you hate him so? And is it really worth your while to try to score off him?


Why, it was yourself who advised me to bring him over!


I thought he might be useful. You know he is in love with Aglaya himself, now, and has written to her; he has even written to Lizabetha Prokofievna!


Oh! he’s not dangerous there! However, I believe there is something of that sort in the air; he is very likely to be in love, for he is a mere boy. But he won’t write anonymous letters to the old lady; that would be too audacious a thing for him to attempt; but I dare swear the very first thing he did was to show me up to Aglaya as a base deceiver and intriguer. I confess I was fool enough to attempt something through him at first. I thought he would throw himself into my service out of revengeful feelings towards the prince, the sly little beast! But I know him better now. As for the theft, he may have heard of it from the widow in Petersburg, for if the old man committed himself to such an act, he can have done it for no other object but to give the money to her. Hippolyte said to me, without any prelude, that the general had promised the widow four hundred roubles. Of course I understood, and the little wretch looked at me with a nasty sort of satisfaction. I know him; you may depend upon it he went and told mother too, for the pleasure of wounding her. And why doesn’t he die, I should like to know? He undertook to die within three weeks, and here he is getting fatter. His cough is better, too. It was only yesterday that he said that was the second day he hadn’t coughed blood. Well, turn him out! I don’t hate, I despise him. Well, I do hate him, if you like! and I’ll tell him so to his face, even when he’s dying! If you had but read his confession—good Lord! what refinement of impudence! Oh, but I’d have liked to whip him then and there, like a schoolboy, just to see how surprised he would have been! Now he hates everybody because he—Oh, I say, what on earth are they doing there! Listen to that noise! I really can’t stand this any longer. Ptitsin!


what in the name of goodness are we coming to? Listen to that—


Look here, my dear sir,


Hadn’t you better say corkscrew?


No, sir, not corkscrew. I am a general, not a bottle, sir. Make your choice, sir—me or him.


But what have I done? What is his grievance?


You ought to be ashamed of yourself, teasing an old man like that—and in your position, too.


And pray what is my position, madame? I have the greatest respect for you, personally; but—


He’s a little screw. What did Gavrila bring you over here for? They’re all against me, even to my own son—all against me.


Oh, come—nonsense!


What—shame you? I?—what do you mean, you young calf? I shame you? I can only do you honour, sir; I cannot shame you.


Honour, indeed!


What do you say, sir?


I say that I have but to open my mouth, and you— It’s only for mother’s sake that I spare him,


Speak!


Oh, father’s curse be hanged—you don’t frighten me that way! Whose fault is it that you have been as mad as a March hare all this week? It is just a week—you see, I count the days. Take care now; don’t provoke me too much, or I’ll tell all. Why did you go to the Epanchins’ yesterday—tell me that? And you call yourself an old man, too, with grey hair, and father of a family! H’m—nice sort of a father.


Be quiet, Gania,


Yes, but how have I offended him?


Why does he call me a screw? You all heard it. He came to me himself and began telling me about some Captain Eropegoff. I don’t wish for your company, general. I always avoided you—you know that. What have I to do with Captain Eropegoff? All I did was to express my opinion that probably Captain Eropegoff never existed at all!


Of course he never existed!


There, you see! Even your own son supports my statement that there never was such a person as Captain Eropegoff!


Kapiton Eropegoff—not Captain Eropegoff!—Kapiton—major retired—Eropegoff—Kapiton.


Kapiton didn’t exist either!


What? Didn’t exist?


That’ll do, Gania!


Shut up, Gania!


What did you mean, sir, that he didn’t exist? Explain yourself,


Because he didn’t exist—never could and never did—there! You’d better drop the subject, I warn you!


And this is my son—my own son—whom I—oh, gracious Heaven! Eropegoff—Eroshka Eropegoff didn’t exist!


Ha, ha! it’s Eroshka now,


No, sir, Kapitoshka—not Eroshka. I mean, Kapiton Alexeyevitch—retired major—married Maria Petrovna Lu—Lu—he was my friend and companion—Lutugoff—from our earliest beginnings. I closed his eyes for him—he was killed. Kapiton Eropegoff never existed! tfu!


Enough of this! My curse—away, out of the house I go! Colia, bring my bag away!


What have you done now?


Well, he shouldn’t steal. As for you, sir,


I don’t quite agree with you that your father is out of his mind. On the contrary, I cannot help thinking he has been less demented of late. Don’t you think so? He has grown so cunning and careful, and weighs his words so deliberately; he spoke to me about that Kapiton fellow with an object, you know! Just fancy—he wanted me to—


Oh, devil take what he wanted you to do! Don’t try to be too cunning with me, young man! If you are aware of the real reason for my father’s present condition (and you have kept such an excellent spying watch during these last few days that you are sure to be aware of it)—you had no right whatever to torment the—unfortunate man, and to worry my mother by your exaggerations of the affair; because the whole business is nonsense—simply a drunken freak, and nothing more, quite unproved by any evidence, and I don’t believe that much of it!


Screw!


Because you are a humbug, sir; and thought fit to worry people for half an hour, and tried to frighten them into believing that you would shoot yourself with your little empty pistol, pirouetting about and playing at suicide! I gave you hospitality, you have fattened on it, your cough has left you, and you repay all this—


Excuse me—two words! I am Varvara Ardalionovna’s guest, not yours; you have extended no hospitality to me. On the contrary, if I am not mistaken, I believe you are yourself indebted to Mr. Ptitsin’s hospitality. Four days ago I begged my mother to come down here and find lodgings, because I certainly do feel better here, though I am not fat, nor have I ceased to cough. I am today informed that my room is ready for me; therefore, having thanked your sister and mother for their kindness to me, I intend to leave the house this evening. I beg your pardon—I interrupted you—I think you were about to add something?


Oh—if that is the state of affairs—


Excuse me—I will take a seat, for I am not strong yet. Now then, I am ready to hear you. Especially as this is the last chance we shall have of a talk, and very likely the last meeting we shall ever have at all.


I assure you I did not mean to reckon up debits and credits, and if you—


I don’t understand your condescension. As for me, I promised myself, on the first day of my arrival in this house, that I would have the satisfaction of settling accounts with you in a very thorough manner before I said good-bye to you. I intend to perform this operation now, if you like; after you, though, of course.


May I ask you to be so good as to leave this room?


You’d better speak out. You’ll be sorry afterwards if you don’t.


Hippolyte, stop, please! It’s so dreadfully undignified,


Well, only for the sake of a lady. I am ready to put off the reckoning, but only put it off, Varvara Ardalionovna, because an explanation between your brother and myself has become an absolute necessity, and I could not think of leaving the house without clearing up all misunderstandings first.


In a word, you are a wretched little scandal-monger, and you cannot go away without a scandal!


You see, you can’t restrain yourself. You’ll be dreadfully sorry afterwards if you don’t speak out now. Come, you shall have the first say. I’ll wait. I shall be as short as possible, for my part. Two or three times to-day I have had the word ‘hospitality’ pushed down my throat; this is not fair. In inviting me here you yourself entrapped me for your own use; you thought I wished to revenge myself upon the prince. You heard that Aglaya Ivanovna had been kind to me and read my confession. Making sure that I should give myself up to your interests, you hoped that you might get some assistance out of me. I will not go into details. I don’t ask either admission or confirmation of this from yourself; I am quite content to leave you to your conscience, and to feel that we understand one another capitally.


What a history you are weaving out of the most ordinary circumstances!


I told you the fellow was nothing but a scandal-monger,


Excuse me, Varia Ardalionovna, I will proceed. I can, of course, neither love nor respect the prince, though he is a good-hearted fellow, if a little queer. But there is no need whatever for me to hate him. I quite understood your brother when he first offered me aid against the prince, though I did not show it; I knew well that your brother was making a ridiculous mistake in me. I am ready to spare him, however, even now; but solely out of respect for yourself, Varvara Ardalionovna. “Having now shown you that I am not quite such a fool as I look, and that I have to be fished for with a rod and line for a good long while before I am caught, I will proceed to explain why I specially wished to make your brother look a fool. That my motive power is hate, I do not attempt to conceal. I have felt that before dying (and I am dying, however much fatter I may appear to you), I must absolutely make a fool of, at least, one of that class of men which has dogged me all my life, which I hate so cordially, and which is so prominently represented by your much esteemed brother. I should not enjoy paradise nearly so much without having done this first. I hate you, Gavrila Ardalionovitch, solely (this may seem curious to you, but I repeat)—solely because you are the type, and incarnation, and head, and crown of the most impudent, the most self-satisfied, the most vulgar and detestable form of commonplaceness. You are ordinary of the ordinary; you have no chance of ever fathering the pettiest idea of your own. And yet you are as jealous and conceited as you can possibly be; you consider yourself a great genius; of this you are persuaded, although there are dark moments of doubt and rage, when even this fact seems uncertain. There are spots of darkness on your horizon, though they will disappear when you become completely stupid. But a long and chequered path lies before you, and of this I am glad. In the first place you will never gain a certain person.”


Come, come! This is intolerable! You had better stop, you little mischief-making wretch!


Are you off? Wait a moment—look at this.


Good heavens! GAVRILA ARDOLIONOVITCH,—persuaded of your kindness of heart, I have determined to ask your advice on a matter of great importance to myself. I should like to meet you tomorrow morning at seven o’clock by the green bench in the park. It is not far from our house. Varvara Ardalionovna, who must accompany you, knows the place well. “A. E.” What on earth is one to make of a girl like that? And this is the very day that they were to announce the engagement! What will she do next?


What do you suppose she wants to talk about tomorrow?


Oh, that’s all the same! The chief thing is that she wants to see you after six months’ absence. Look here, Gania, this is a serious business. Don’t swagger again and lose the game—play carefully, but don’t funk, do you understand? As if she could possibly avoid seeing what I have been working for all this last six months! And just imagine, I was there this morning and not a word of this! I was there, you know, on the sly. The old lady did not know, or she would have kicked me out. I ran some risk for you, you see. I did so want to find out, at all hazards.


Now, Gania,


we can’t let him go out! We can’t afford to have a breath of scandal about the town at this moment. Run after him and beg his pardon—quick.


What are you up to? Where are you off to? You’ve nowhere to go to, you know,


Come back, father; the neighbours will hear!


My curse be upon this house!


Which observation should always be made in as theatrical a tone as possible,


I have long sought the honour and opportunity of meeting you—much-esteemed Lef Nicolaievitch,


No—I will not sit down,—I am keeping you, I see,—another time!—I think I may be permitted to congratulate you upon the realization of your heart’s best wishes, is it not so?


What best wishes?


Oh—be easy, sir, be easy! I shall not wound your tenderest feelings. I’ve been through it all myself, and I know well how unpleasant it is when an outsider sticks his nose in where he is not wanted. I experience this every morning. I came to speak to you about another matter, though, an important matter. A very important matter, prince.


Well—just for one second, then. The fact is, I came for advice. Of course I live now without any very practical objects in life; but, being full of self-respect, in which quality the ordinary Russian is so deficient as a rule, and of activity, I am desirous, in a word, prince, of placing myself and my wife and children in a position of—in fact, I want advice. Quite so—quite so! But this is all mere nonsense. I came here to speak of something quite different, something very important, prince. And I have determined to come to you as to a man in whose sincerity and nobility of feeling I can trust like—like—are you surprised at my words, prince?


But enough! I see I have been boring you with my—


Not in the least—not in the least, I assure you. On the contrary, I am listening most attentively, and am anxious to guess—


Prince, I wish to place myself in a respectable position—I wish to esteem myself—and to—


My dear sir, a man of such noble aspirations is worthy of all esteem by virtue of those aspirations alone.


Enough! you understand me, and that is the great thing. A heart like yours cannot help understanding the sufferings of another. Prince, you are the ideal of generosity; what are other men beside yourself? But you are young—accept my blessing! My principal object is to beg you to fix an hour for a most important conversation—that is my great hope, prince. My heart needs but a little friendship and sympathy, and yet I cannot always find means to satisfy it.


But why not now? I am ready to listen, and—


No, no—prince, not now! Now is a dream! And it is too, too important! It is to be the hour of Fate to me—my own hour. Our interview is not to be broken in upon by every chance comer, every impertinent guest—and there are plenty of such stupid, impertinent fellows who are unworthy to tie your shoe, prince. I don’t say mine, mind—you will understand me, prince. Only you understand me, prince—no one else. He doesn’t understand me, he is absolutely—absolutely unable to sympathize. The first qualification for understanding another is Heart.


Everyone has his worries, prince, especially in these strange and troublous times of ours,


Dear me, what a philosopher you are!


Philosophy is necessary, sir—very necessary—in our day. It is too much neglected. As for me, much esteemed prince, I am sensible of having experienced the honour of your confidence in a certain matter up to a certain point, but never beyond that point. I do not for a moment complain—


Lebedeff, you seem to be angry for some reason!


Not the least bit in the world, esteemed and revered prince! Not the least bit in the world! On the contrary, I am too painfully aware that neither by my position in the world, nor by my gifts of intellect and heart, nor by my riches, nor by any former conduct of mine, have I in any way deserved your confidence, which is far above my highest aspirations and hopes. Oh no, prince; I may serve you, but only as your humble slave! I am not angry, oh no! Not angry; pained perhaps, but nothing more.


My dear Lebedeff, I—


Oh, nothing more, nothing more! I was saying to myself but now... ‘I am quite unworthy of friendly relations with him,’ say I; ‘but perhaps as landlord of this house I may, at some future date, in his good time, receive information as to certain imminent and much to be desired changes—’


I don’t understand what you are driving at!


and, and—what an intriguer you are, Lebedeff!


And do you know, I am amazed at your naive ways, Lebedeff! Don’t be angry with me—not only yours, everybody else’s also! You are waiting to hear something from me at this very moment with such simplicity that I declare I feel quite ashamed of myself for having nothing whatever to tell you. I swear to you solemnly, that there is nothing to tell. There! Can you take that in?


And what can I do for you, esteemed prince? Since I am told you sent for me just now,


Oh, it was about the general,


and—and about the theft you told me of.


That is—er—about—what theft?


Oh come! just as if you didn’t understand, Lukian Timofeyovitch! What are you up to? I can’t make you out! The money, the money, sir! The four hundred roubles that you lost that day. You came and told me about it one morning, and then went off to Petersburg. There, now do you understand?


Oh—h—h! You mean the four hundred roubles! Thanks very much, prince, for your kind interest—you do me too much honour. I found the money, long ago!


You found it? Thank God for that!


Your exclamation proves the generous sympathy of your nature, prince; for four hundred roubles—to a struggling family man like myself—is no small matter!


I didn’t mean that; at least, of course, I’m glad for your sake, too,


but—how did you find it?


Very simply indeed! I found it under the chair upon which my coat had hung; so that it is clear the purse simply fell out of the pocket and on to the floor!


Under the chair? Impossible! Why, you told me yourself that you had searched every corner of the room? How could you not have looked in the most likely place of all?


Of course I looked there,—of course I did! Very much so! I looked and scrambled about, and felt for it, and wouldn’t believe it was not there, and looked again and again. It is always so in such cases. One longs and expects to find a lost article; one sees it is not there, and the place is as bare as one’s palm; and yet one returns and looks again and again, fifteen or twenty times, likely enough!


Oh, quite so, of course. But how was it in your case?—I don’t quite understand,


You say it wasn’t there at first, and that you searched the place thoroughly, and yet it turned up on that very spot!


Yes, sir—on that very spot.


And the general?


The—the general? How do you mean, the general?


Oh, good heavens! I mean, what did the general say when the purse turned up under the chair? You and he had searched for it together there, hadn’t you?


Quite so—together! But the second time I thought better to say nothing about finding it. I found it alone.


But—why in the world—and the money? Was it all there?


I opened the purse and counted it myself; right to a single rouble.


I think you might have come and told me,


Oh—I didn’t like to disturb you, prince, in the midst of your private and doubtless most interesting personal reflections. Besides, I wanted to appear, myself, to have found nothing. I took the purse, and opened it, and counted the money, and shut it and put it down again under the chair.


What in the world for?


Oh, just out of curiosity,


What, it’s still there then, is it? Ever since the day before yesterday?


Oh no! You see, I was half in hopes the general might find it. Because if I found it, why should not he too observe an object lying before his very eyes? I moved the chair several times so as to expose the purse to view, but the general never saw it. He is very absent just now, evidently. He talks and laughs and tells stories, and suddenly flies into a rage with me, goodness knows why.


Well, but—have you taken the purse away now?


No, it disappeared from under the chair in the night.


Where is it now, then?


Here, here, in the lining of my coat. Look, you can feel it for yourself, if you like! I took it out and had a look at it; it’s all right. I’ve let it slip back into the lining now, as you see, and so I have been walking about ever since yesterday morning; it knocks against my legs when I walk along.


H’m! and you take no notice of it?


Quite so, I take no notice of it. Ha, ha! and think of this, prince, my pockets are always strong and whole, and yet, here in one night, is a huge hole. I know the phenomenon is unworthy of your notice; but such is the case. I examined the hole, and I declare it actually looks as though it had been made with a pen-knife, a most improbable contingency.


And—and—the general?


Ah, very angry all day, sir; all yesterday and all today. He shows decided bacchanalian predilections at one time, and at another is tearful and sensitive, but at any moment he is liable to paroxysms of such rage that I assure you, prince, I am quite alarmed. I am not a military man, you know. Yesterday we were sitting together in the tavern, and the lining of my coat was—quite accidentally, of course—sticking out right in front. The general squinted at it, and flew into a rage. He never looks me quite in the face now, unless he is very drunk or maudlin; but yesterday he looked at me in such a way that a shiver went all down my back. I intend to find the purse tomorrow; but till then I am going to have another night of it with him.


What’s the good of tormenting him like this?


I don’t torment him, prince, I don’t indeed! I love him, my dear sir, I esteem him; and believe it or not, I love him all the better for this business, yes—and value him more.


Nonsense! love him and torment him so! Why, by the very fact that he put the purse prominently before you, first under the chair and then in your lining, he shows that he does not wish to deceive you, but is anxious to beg your forgiveness in this artless way. Do you hear? He is asking your pardon. He confides in the delicacy of your feelings, and in your friendship for him. And you can allow yourself to humiliate so thoroughly honest a man!


Thoroughly honest, quite so, prince, thoroughly honest! And only you, prince, could have found so very appropriate an expression. I honour you for it, prince. Very well, that’s settled; I shall find the purse now and not tomorrow. Here, I find it and take it out before your eyes! And the money is all right. Take it, prince, and keep it till tomorrow, will you? Tomorrow or next day I’ll take it back again. I think, prince, that the night after its disappearance it was buried under a bush in the garden. So I believe—what do you think of that?


Well, take care you don’t tell him to his face that you have found the purse. Simply let him see that it is no longer in the lining of your coat, and form his own conclusions.


Do you think so? Had I not just better tell him I have found it, and pretend I never guessed where it was?


No, I don’t think so,


it’s too late for that—that would be dangerous now. No, no! Better say nothing about it. Be nice with him, you know, but don’t show him—oh, you know well enough—


I know, prince, of course I know, but I’m afraid I shall not carry it out; for to do so one needs a heart like your own. He is so very irritable just now, and so proud. At one moment he will embrace me, and the next he flies out at me and sneers at me, and then I stick the lining forward on purpose. Well, au revoir, prince, I see I am keeping you, and boring you, too, interfering with your most interesting private reflections.


Now, do be careful! Secrecy, as before!


Oh, silence isn’t the word! Softly, softly!


I’ve brought your book back. Much obliged to you for lending it to me.


Ah, yes. Well, did you read it, general? It’s curious, isn’t it?


Curious enough, yes, but crude, and of course dreadful nonsense; probably the man lies in every other sentence.


Oh, but it’s only the simple tale of an old soldier who saw the French enter Moscow. Some of his remarks were wonderfully interesting. Remarks of an eye-witness are always valuable, whoever he be, don’t you think so?


Had I been the publisher I should not have printed it. As to the evidence of eye-witnesses, in these days people prefer impudent lies to the stories of men of worth and long service. I know of some notes of the year 1812, which—I have determined, prince, to leave this house, Mr. Lebedeff’s house.


Of course you have your own lodging at Pavlofsk at—at your daughter’s house,


At my wife’s; in other words, at my own place, my daughter’s house.


I beg your pardon, I—


I leave Lebedeff’s house, my dear prince, because I have quarrelled with this person. I broke with him last night, and am very sorry that I did not do so before. I expect respect, prince, even from those to whom I give my heart, so to speak. Prince, I have often given away my heart, and am nearly always deceived. This person was quite unworthy of the gift.


There is much that might be improved in him, but he has some qualities which—though amid them one cannot but discern a cunning nature—reveal what is often a diverting intellect.


Oh, that he possesses good traits, I was the first to show, when I very nearly made him a present of my friendship. I am not dependent upon his hospitality, and upon his house; I have my own family. I do not attempt to justify my own weakness. I have drunk with this man, and perhaps I deplore the fact now, but I did not take him up for the sake of drink alone (excuse the crudeness of the expression, prince); I did not make friends with him for that alone. I was attracted by his good qualities; but when the fellow declares that he was a child in 1812, and had his left leg cut off, and buried in the Vagarkoff cemetery, in Moscow, such a cock-and-bull story amounts to disrespect, my dear sir, to—to impudent exaggeration.


Oh, he was very likely joking; he said it for fun.


I quite understand you. You mean that an innocent lie for the sake of a good joke is harmless, and does not offend the human heart. Some people lie, if you like to put it so, out of pure friendship, in order to amuse their fellows; but when a man makes use of extravagance in order to show his disrespect and to make clear how the intimacy bores him, it is time for a man of honour to break off the said intimacy, and to teach the offender his place.


Oh, but Lebedeff cannot have been in Moscow in 1812. He is much too young; it is all nonsense.


Very well, but even if we admit that he was alive in 1812, can one believe that a French chasseur pointed a cannon at him for a lark, and shot his left leg off? He says he picked his own leg up and took it away and buried it in the cemetery. He swore he had a stone put up over it with the inscription: ‘Here lies the leg of Collegiate Secretary Lebedeff,’ and on the other side, ‘Rest, beloved ashes, till the morn of joy,’ and that he has a service read over it every year (which is simply sacrilege), and goes to Moscow once a year on purpose. He invites me to Moscow in order to prove his assertion, and show me his leg’s tomb, and the very cannon that shot him; he says it’s the eleventh from the gate of the Kremlin, an old-fashioned falconet taken from the French afterwards.


And, meanwhile both his legs are still on his body. I assure you, it is only an innocent joke, and you need not be angry about it.


Excuse me—wait a minute—he says that the leg we see is a wooden one, made by Tchernosvitoff.


They do say one can dance with those!


Quite so, quite so; and he swears that his wife never found out that one of his legs was wooden all the while they were married. When I showed him the ridiculousness of all this, he said, ‘Well, if you were one of Napoleon’s pages in 1812, you might let me bury my leg in the Moscow cemetery.’


Why, did you say—


Oh, go on, finish your sentence, by all means. Say how odd it appears to you that a man fallen to such a depth of humiliation as I, can ever have been the actual eye-witness of great events. Go on, I don’t mind! Has he found time to tell you scandal about me?


No, I’ve heard nothing of this from Lebedeff, if you mean Lebedeff.


H’m; I thought differently. You see, we were talking over this period of history. I was criticizing a current report of something which then happened, and having been myself an eye-witness of the occurrence—you are smiling, prince—you are looking at my face as if—


Oh no! not at all—I—


I am rather young-looking, I know; but I am actually older than I appear to be. I was ten or eleven in the year 1812. I don’t know my age exactly, but it has always been a weakness of mine to make it out less than it really is.


I assure you, general, I do not in the least doubt your statement. One of our living autobiographers states that when he was a small baby in Moscow in 1812 the French soldiers fed him with bread.


Well, there you see! There is nothing whatever unusual about my tale. Truth very often appears to be impossible. I was a page—it sounds strange, I dare say. Had I been fifteen years old I should probably have been terribly frightened when the French arrived, as my mother was (who had been too slow about clearing out of Moscow); but as I was only just ten I was not in the least alarmed, and rushed through the crowd to the very door of the palace when Napoleon alighted from his horse.


Undoubtedly, at ten years old you would not have felt the sense of fear, as you say,


Of course; and it all happened so easily and naturally. And yet, were a novelist to describe the episode, he would put in all kinds of impossible and incredible details.


Oh. I have often thought that! Why, I know of a murder, for the sake of a watch. It’s in all the papers now. But if some writer had invented it, all the critics would have jumped down his throat and said the thing was too improbable for anything. And yet you read it in the paper, and you can’t help thinking that out of these strange disclosures is to be gained the full knowledge of Russian life and character. You said that well, general; it is so true,


Yes, it’s quite true, isn’t it? A small boy, a child, would naturally realize no danger; he would shove his way through the crowds to see the shine and glitter of the uniforms, and especially the great man of whom everyone was speaking, for at that time all the world had been talking of no one but this man for some years past. The world was full of his name; I—so to speak—drew it in with my mother’s milk. Napoleon, passing a couple of paces from me, caught sight of me accidentally. I was very well dressed, and being all alone, in that crowd, as you will easily imagine...


Oh, of course! Naturally the sight impressed him, and proved to him that not all the aristocracy had left Moscow; that at least some nobles and their children had remained behind.


Just so! just so! He wanted to win over the aristocracy! When his eagle eye fell on me, mine probably flashed back in response. ‘Voilà un garçon bien éveillé! Qui est ton père?’ I immediately replied, almost panting with excitement, ‘A general, who died on the battle-fields of his country!’ ‘Le fils d’un boyard et d’un brave, pardessus le marché. J’aime les boyards. M’aimes-tu, petit?’ The Russian heart can recognize a great man even in the bitter enemy of his country. I like that boy’s pride; if all Russians think like this child, then— That was a great woman. Well, in a couple of days I was known all over the palace and the Kremlin as ‘le petit boyard.’ I only went home to sleep. They were nearly out of their minds about me at home. A couple of days after this, Napoleon’s page, De Bazancour, died; he had not been able to stand the trials of the campaign. Napoleon remembered me; I was taken away without explanation; the dead page’s uniform was tried on me, and when I was taken before the emperor, dressed in it, he nodded his head to me, and I was told that I was appointed to the vacant post of page. Well, I was glad enough, for I had long felt the greatest sympathy for this man; and then the pretty uniform and all that—only a child, you know—and so on. It was a dark green dress coat with gold buttons—red facings, white trousers, and a white silk waistcoat—silk stockings, shoes with buckles, and top-boots if I were riding out with his majesty or with the suite. Though the position of all of us at that time was not particularly brilliant, and the poverty was dreadful all round, yet the etiquette at court was strictly preserved, and the more strictly in proportion to the growth of the forebodings of disaster.


Quite so, quite so, of course! Your memoirs would be most interesting.


My memoirs! Write my memoirs? The idea has not tempted me. And yet, if you please, my memoirs have long been written, but they shall not see the light until dust returns to dust. Then, I doubt not, they will be translated into all languages, not of course on account of their actual literary merit, but because of the great events of which I was the actual witness, though but a child at the time. As a child, I was able to penetrate into the secrecy of the great man’s private room. At nights I have heard the groans and wailings of this ‘giant in distress.’ He could feel no shame in weeping before such a mere child as I was, though I understood even then that the reason for his suffering was the silence of the Emperor Alexander.


Yes, of course; he had written letters to the latter with proposals of peace, had he not?


We did not know the details of his proposals, but he wrote letter after letter, all day and every day. He was dreadfully agitated. Sometimes at night I would throw myself upon his breast with tears (Oh, how I loved that man!). ‘Ask forgiveness, Oh, ask forgiveness of the Emperor Alexander!’ I would cry. I should have said, of course, ‘Make peace with Alexander,’ but as a child I expressed my idea in the naive way recorded. ‘Oh, my child,’ he would say (he loved to talk to me and seemed to forget my tender years), ‘Oh, my child, I am ready to kiss Alexander’s feet, but I hate and abominate the King of Prussia and the Austrian Emperor, and—and—but you know nothing of politics, my child.’ He would pull up, remembering whom he was speaking to, but his eyes would sparkle for a long while after this. Well now, if I were to describe all this, and I have seen greater events than these, all these critical gentlemen of the press and political parties—Oh, no thanks! I’m their very humble servant, but no thanks!


Quite so—parties—you are very right. I was reading a book about Napoleon and the Waterloo campaign only the other day, by Charasse, in which the author does not attempt to conceal his joy at Napoleon’s discomfiture at every page. Well now, I don’t like that; it smells of ‘party,’ you know. You are quite right. And were you much occupied with your service under Napoleon?


I know Charasse’s book! Oh! I was so angry with his work! I wrote to him and said—I forget what, at this moment. You ask whether I was very busy under the Emperor? Oh no! I was called ‘page,’ but hardly took my duty seriously. Besides, Napoleon very soon lost hope of conciliating the Russians, and he would have forgotten all about me had he not loved me—for personal reasons—I don’t mind saying so now. My heart was greatly drawn to him, too. My duties were light. I merely had to be at the palace occasionally to escort the Emperor out riding, and that was about all. I rode very fairly well. He used to have a ride before dinner, and his suite on those occasions were generally Davoust, myself, and Roustan.


Constant?


No; Constant was away then, taking a letter to the Empress Josephine. Instead of him there were always a couple of orderlies—and that was all, excepting, of course, the generals and marshals whom Napoleon always took with him for the inspection of various localities, and for the sake of consultation generally. I remember there was one—Davoust—nearly always with him—a big man with spectacles. They used to argue and quarrel sometimes. Once they were in the Emperor’s study together—just those two and myself—I was unobserved—and they argued, and the Emperor seemed to be agreeing to something under protest. Suddenly his eye fell on me and an idea seemed to flash across him.


Child. If I were to recognize the Russian orthodox religion and emancipate the serfs, do you think Russia would come over to me?


Never!


In the flashing eyes of this patriotic child I read and accept the fiat of the Russian people. Enough, Davoust, it is mere phantasy on our part. Come, let’s hear your other project.


Yes, but that was a great idea. You ascribe it to Davoust, do you?


Well, at all events, they were consulting together at the time. Of course it was the idea of an eagle, and must have originated with Napoleon; but the other project was good too—it was the ‘Conseil du lion!’ as Napoleon called it. This project consisted in a proposal to occupy the Kremlin with the whole army; to arm and fortify it scientifically, to kill as many horses as could be got, and salt their flesh, and spend the winter there; and in spring to fight their way out. Napoleon liked the idea—it attracted him. We rode round the Kremlin walls every day, and Napoleon used to give orders where they were to be patched, where built up, where pulled down and so on. All was decided at last. They were alone together—those two and myself. Napoleon was walking up and down with folded arms. I could not take my eyes off his face—my heart beat loudly and painfully.


I’m off,


Where to?


To salt horse-flesh,


Child, what do you think of our plan?


Escape, general! Go home!—


Bah, il devient superstitieux!


All this is most interesting, if it really was so—that is, I mean—


Oh, my dear prince. You say, ‘if it really was so!’ There was more—much more, I assure you! These are merely a few little political acts. I tell you I was the eye-witness of the nightly sorrow and groanings of the great man, and of that no one can speak but myself. Towards the end he wept no more, though he continued to emit an occasional groan; but his face grew more overcast day by day, as though Eternity were wrapping its gloomy mantle about him. Occasionally we passed whole hours of silence together at night, Roustan snoring in the next room—that fellow slept like a pig. ‘But he’s loyal to me and my dynasty,’ said Napoleon of him. But he’s loyal to me and my dynasty,


You are sorry for me, you, my child, and perhaps one other child—my son, the King of Rome—may grieve for me. All the rest hate me; and my brothers are the first to betray me in misfortune.


Write, oh, write a letter to the Empress Josephine!


You remind me of a third heart which loves me. Thank you, my friend;


You did a good action, for in the midst of his angry feelings you insinuated a kind thought into his heart.


Just so, prince, just so. How well you bring out that fact! Because your own heart is good! Yes, prince, it was a wonderful spectacle. And, do you know, I all but went off to Paris, and should assuredly have shared his solitary exile with him; but, alas, our destinies were otherwise ordered! We parted, he to his island, where I am sure he thought of the weeping child who had embraced him so affectionately at parting in Moscow; and I was sent off to the cadet corps, where I found nothing but roughness and harsh discipline. Alas, my happy days were done!


I do not wish to deprive your mother of you, and, therefore, I will not ask you to go with me, but I should like to do something for you.


Write something in my sister’s album for me,


How old is your sister?


Three years old,


Ah, petite fille alors!


Ne mentez jamais! NAPOLÉON (votre ami sincère).


Yes, quite so; very remarkable. Oh, not in the least. On the contrary, I have been so much interested, I’m really very much obliged to you.


Prince. Prince, you are so kind, so simple-minded, that sometimes I really feel sorry for you! I gaze at you with a feeling of real affection. Oh, Heaven bless you! May your life blossom and fructify in love. Mine is over. Forgive me, forgive me!


Have I been acting rightly in allowing him to develop such vast resources of imagination?


signs of sympathy which were humiliating to the dignity of a man already miserable enough.


Well, where are we to go to now, father? You don’t want to go to the prince’s; you have quarrelled with Lebedeff; you have no money; I never have any; and here we are in the middle of the road, in a nice sort of mess.


Better to be of a mess than in a mess! I remember making a joke something like that at the mess in eighteen hundred and forty—forty—I forget. Where is my youth, where is my golden youth? Who was it said that, Colia?


It was Gogol, in Dead Souls, father,


Dead Souls, yes, of course, dead. When I die, Colia, you must engrave on my tomb: Here lies a Dead Soul, Shame pursues me. Who said that, Colia?


I don’t know, father.


There was no Eropegoff? Eroshka Eropegoff? No Eropegoff! And my own son to say it! Eropegoff was in the place of a brother to me for eleven months. I fought a duel for him. He was married afterwards, and then killed on the field of battle. The bullet struck the cross on my breast and glanced off straight into his temple.


I’ll never forget you,


I served my country well and honestly, Colia, but shame, shame has pursued me! You and Nina will come to my grave, Colia; poor Nina, I always used to call her Nina in the old days, and how she loved.... Nina, Nina, oh, Nina. What have I ever done to deserve your forgiveness and long-suffering? Oh, Colia, your mother has an angelic spirit, an angelic spirit, Colia!


I know that, father. Look here, dear old father, come back home! Let’s go back to mother. Look, she ran after us when we came out. What have you stopped her for, just as though you didn’t take in what I said? Why are you crying, father?


You kiss my hands, mine?


Yes, yes, yours, yours! What is there to surprise anyone in that? Come, come, you mustn’t go on like this, crying in the middle of the road; and you a general too, a military man! Come, let’s go back.


God bless you, dear boy, for being respectful to a disgraced man. Yes, to a poor disgraced old fellow, your father. You shall have such a son yourself; le roi de Rome. Oh, curses on this house!


Come, come, what does all this mean? What is it? What has happened to you? Why don’t you wish to come back home? Why have you gone out of your mind, like this?


I’ll explain it, I’ll explain all to you. Don’t shout! You shall hear. Le roi de Rome. Oh, I am sad, I am melancholy! Nurse, where is your tomb? Who said that, Colia?


I don’t know, I don’t know who said it. Come home at once; come on! I’ll punch Gania’s head myself, if you like—only come. Oh, where are you off to again?


Bend down—bend down your ear. I’ll tell you all—disgrace—bend down, I’ll tell you in your ear.


What are you dreaming of?


Le roi de Rome,


What? What do you mean? What roi de Rome?


I—I,


I—wish—to tell you—all—Maria—Maria Petrovna—Su—Su—Su.......


Well, really, you know


of course, you know all this is very strange, if true, which I cannot deny; but


But, on the other hand, if one looks things in the face, you know—upon my honour, the prince is a rare good fellow—and—and—and—well, his name, you know—your family name—all this looks well, and perpetuates the name and title and all that—which at this moment is not standing so high as it might—from one point of view—don’t you know? The world, the world is the world, of course—and people will talk—and—and—the prince has property, you know—if it is not very large—and then he—he—


First of all, this prince is an idiot, and, secondly, he is a fool—knows nothing of the world, and has no place in it. Whom can he be shown to? Where can you take him to? What will old Bielokonski say? We never thought of such a husband as that for our Aglaya!


And why is not the prince such a husband as you would have desired for Aglaya?


Old Bielokonski


Why were things always mismanaged in her house? Why had everybody been in such a frantic hurry in this matter? So far as she could see, nothing whatever had happened. Surely they had better wait and see what was to happen, instead of making mountains out of molehills.


I do not know the game,


little fools


after all that had happened


dear Colia,


Go and take this hedgehog to the prince from me, and ask him to accept it as a token of my profound respect.


What does the hedgehog mean? What is the meaning of such a present? I am sure that there is some allegory about it,


a silly boy.


If I did not respect all women in your person, and if my own principles would permit it, I would soon prove to you, that I know how to answer such an insult!


Colia, dear, please take care not to drop him!


No, I will not drop him! Don’t be afraid, Aglaya Ivanovna!


What children we are still, Colia! and how delightful it is that we can be children still!


Simply—my dear prince,—simply she is in love with you,—that’s the whole of the secret!


Otherwise. I shall die before evening.


I wish at least he would come and say something!


Did you get my hedgehog?


Yes, I got it,


Tell us now, at once, what you made of the present? I must have you answer this question for mother’s sake; she needs pacifying, and so do all the rest of the family!


Look here, Aglaya—


This—this is going beyond all limits!


It is not in the least beyond all limits, mamma! I sent the prince a hedgehog this morning, and I wish to hear his opinion of it. Go on, prince.


What—what sort of opinion, Aglaya Ivanovna?


About the hedgehog.


That is—I suppose you wish to know how I received the hedgehog, Aglaya Ivanovna,—or, I should say, how I regarded your sending him to me? In that case, I may tell you—in a word—that I—in fact—


Come—you haven’t told us much! Very well, I am ready to drop the hedgehog, if you like; but I am anxious to be able to clear up this accumulation of misunderstandings. Allow me to ask you, prince,—I wish to hear from you, personally—are you making me an offer, or not?


Gracious heavens!


Don’t deceive me now, prince—tell the truth. All these people persecute me with astounding questions—about you. Is there any ground for all these questions, or not? Come!


I have not asked you to marry me yet, Aglaya Ivanovna, but you know yourself how much I love you and trust you.


No—I asked you this—answer this! Do you intend to ask for my hand, or not?


Yes—I do ask for it!


No—no—my dear girl. You cannot proceed like this, Aglaya, if that’s how the matter stands. It’s impossible. Prince, forgive it, my dear fellow, but—Lizabetha Prokofievna! you must really—


Not I—not I! I retire from all responsibility,


Allow me to speak, please, mamma. I think I ought to have something to say in the matter. An important moment of my destiny is about to be decided and I wish to find out how the matter stands, for my own sake, though I am glad you are all here. Allow me to ask you, prince, since you cherish those intentions, how you consider that you will provide for my happiness?


I—I don’t quite know how to answer your question, Aglaya Ivanovna. What is there to say to such a question? And—and must I answer?


I think you are rather overwhelmed and out of breath. Have a little rest, and try to recover yourself. Take a glass of water, or—but they’ll give you some tea directly.


I love you, Aglaya Ivanovna,—I love you very much. I love only you—and—please don’t jest about it, for I do love you very much.


Well, this matter is important. We are not children—we must look into it thoroughly. Now then, kindly tell me—what does your fortune consist of?


No—Aglaya—come, enough of this, you mustn’t behave like this,


It’s disgraceful,


She’s mad—quite!


Fortune—money—do you mean?


Just so.


I have now—let’s see—I have a hundred and thirty-five thousand roubles,


Is that all, really? However, it’s not so bad, especially if managed with economy. Do you intend to serve?


I—I intended to try for a certificate as private tutor.


Very good. That would increase our income nicely. Have you any intention of being a Kammer-junker?


A Kammer-junker? I had not thought of it, but—


I knew it was all a joke! I felt it ever since—since the hedgehog.


No, no! I cannot allow this,—this is a little too much,


It’s—it’s really—now could you have imagined anything like it, Lef Nicolaievitch? Seriously now, seriously I mean—


I only see that Aglaya Ivanovna is laughing at me,


Wait a bit, my boy, I’ll just go—you stay here, you know. But do just explain, if you can, Lef Nicolaievitch, how in the world has all this come about? And what does it all mean? You must understand, my dear fellow; I am a father, you see, and I ought to be allowed to understand the matter—do explain, I beg you!


I love Aglaya Ivanovna—she knows it,—and I think she must have long known it.


Strange—it’s strange, and you love her very much?


Yes, very much.


Well—it’s all most strange to me. That is—my dear fellow, it is such a surprise—such a blow—that... You see, it is not your financial position (though I should not object if you were a bit richer)—I am thinking of my daughter’s happiness, of course, and the thing is—are you able to give her the happiness she deserves? And then—is all this a joke on her part, or is she in earnest? I don’t mean on your side, but on hers.


Papa!


Wait for me here, my boy—will you? Just wait and think it all over, and I’ll come back directly,


There, look at her now—Ivan Fedorovitch! Here she is—all of her! This is our real Aglaya at last! Oh, you cruel little girl! How will you treat us all next, I wonder?


Cruel? Yes, I am cruel, and worthless, and spoiled—tell father so,—oh, here he is—I forgot Father, listen!


My darling, my little idol, so you love this young man, do you?


No, no, no, can’t bear him, I can’t bear your young man! And if you dare say that once more, papa—I’m serious, you know, I’m,—do you hear me—I’m serious!


If that’s the case, darling—then, of course, you shall do exactly as you like. He is waiting alone downstairs. Hadn’t I better hint to him gently that he can go?


No, no, you needn’t do anything of the sort; you mustn’t hint gently at all. I’ll go down myself directly. I wish to apologize to this young man, because I hurt his feelings.


Yes, seriously,


Well, you’d better stay here, all of you, for a little, and I’ll go down to him alone to begin with. I’ll just go in and then you can follow me almost at once. That’s the best way. I shall laugh—I know I shall; I shall die of laughing,


Well, what does it all mean? What do you make of it?


I hardly dare say, but I think it’s as plain as anything can be.


I think so too, as clear as day; she loves him.


Loves him? She is head over ears in love, that’s what she is,


Well, God bless her, God bless her, if such is her destiny,


H’m destiny it is, and there’s no getting out of destiny.


Forgive a silly, horrid, spoilt girl and be quite assured that we all of us esteem you beyond all words. And if I dared to turn your beautiful, admirable simplicity to ridicule, forgive me as you would a little child its mischief. Forgive me all my absurdity of just now, which, of course, meant nothing, and could not have the slightest consequence.


Why do you speak so? Why do you ask my forgiveness?


it made one feel happy to look at him,


She looked at him, and stared and stared, and hung on every word he said, and yet, tell her that she loves him, and she is furious!


What’s to be done? It’s fate. It’s fate, it’s fate!


Do you know. I’ve remarked that you are dreadfully badly educated. You never know anything thoroughly, if one asks you; neither anyone’s name, nor dates, nor about treaties and so on. It’s a great pity, you know!


I told you I had not had much of an education,


How am I to respect you, if that’s the case? Read on now. No—don’t! Stop reading!


a new and approaching change in the family.


she had no intentions as yet of replacing anybody’s mistress.


Didn’t I tell you the truth now, when I said you were in love?


how irritating they all are there. They are such wretchedly small, vain, egotistical, commonplace people! Would you believe it, they invited me there under the express condition that I should die quickly, and they are all as wild as possible with me for not having died yet, and for being, on the contrary, a good deal better! Isn’t it a comedy? I don’t mind betting that you don’t believe me! I sometimes think of coming over to you again. So you don’t think them capable of inviting a man on the condition that he is to look sharp and die?


I certainly thought they invited you with quite other views.


Ho, ho! you are not nearly so simple as they try to make you out! This is not the time for it, or I would tell you a thing or two about that beauty, Gania, and his hopes. You are being undermined, pitilessly undermined, and—and it is really melancholy to see you so calm about it. But alas! it’s your nature—you can’t help it!


My word! what a thing to be melancholy about! Why, do you think I should be any happier if I were to feel disturbed about the excavations you tell me of?


It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool’s paradise! I suppose you don’t believe that you have a rival in that quarter?


Your insinuations as to rivalry are rather cynical, Hippolyte. I’m sorry to say I have no right to answer you! As for Gania, I put it to you, can any man have a happy mind after passing through what he has had to suffer? I think that is the best way to look at it. He will change yet, he has lots of time before him, and life is rich; besides—besides... As to being undermined, I don’t know what in the world you are driving at, Hippolyte. I think we had better drop the subject!


Very well, we’ll drop it for a while. You can’t look at anything but in your exalted, generous way. You must put out your finger and touch a thing before you’ll believe it, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I suppose you despise me dreadfully, prince, eh? What do you think?


Why? Because you have suffered more than we have?


No; because I am unworthy of my sufferings, if you like!


Whoever can suffer is worthy to suffer, I should think. Aglaya Ivanovna wished to see you, after she had read your confession, but—


She postponed the pleasure—I see—I quite understand! I hear—they tell me—that you read her all that nonsense aloud? Stupid bosh it was—written in delirium. And I can’t understand how anyone can be so—I won’t say cruel, because the word would be humiliating to myself, but we’ll say childishly vain and revengeful, as to reproach me with this confession, and use it as a weapon against me. Don’t be afraid, I’m not referring to yourself.


Oh, but I’m sorry you repudiate the confession, Hippolyte—it is sincere; and, do you know, even the absurd parts of it—and these are many are, as it were, redeemed by suffering—for it must have cost you something to admit what you there say—great torture, perhaps, for all I know. Your motive must have been a very noble one all through. Whatever may have appeared to the contrary, I give you my word, I see this more plainly every day. I do not judge you; I merely say this to have it off my mind, and I am only sorry that I did not say it all then—