V.
Mrs. General Epanchin was a proud woman by nature. What must her
feelings have been when she heard that Prince Muishkin, the last
of his and her line, had arrived in beggar's guise, a wretched
idiot, a recipient of charity--all of which details the general
gave out for greater effect! He was anxious to steal her interest
at the first swoop, so as to distract her thoughts from other
matters nearer home.
Mrs. Epanchin was in the habit of holding herself very straight,
and staring before her, without speaking, in moments of
excitement.
She was a fine woman of the same age as her husband, with a
slightly hooked nose, a high, narrow forehead, thick hair turning
a little grey, and a sallow complexion. Her eyes were grey and
wore a very curious expression at times. She believed them to be
most effective--a belief that nothing could alter.
"What, receive him! Now, at once?" asked Mrs. Epanchin, gazing
vaguely at her husband as he stood fidgeting before her.
"Oh, dear me, I assure you there is no need to stand on ceremony
with him," the general explained hastily. "He is quite a child,
not to say a pathetic-looking creature. He has fits of some sort,
and has just arrived from Switzerland, straight from the station,
dressed like a German and without a farthing in his pocket. I
gave him twenty-five roubles to go on with, and am going to find
him some easy place in one of the government offices. I should
like you to ply him well with the victuals, my dears, for I
should think he must be very hungry."
"You astonish me," said the lady, gazing as before. "Fits, and
hungry too! What sort of fits?"
"Oh, they don't come on frequently, besides, he's a regular
child, though he seems to be fairly educated. I should like you,
if possible, my dears," the general added, making slowly for the
door, "to put him through his paces a bit, and see what he is
good for. I think you should be kind to him; it is a good deed,
you know--however, just as you like, of course--but he is a sort
of relation, remember, and I thought it might interest you to see
the young fellow, seeing that this is so."
"Oh, of course, mamma, if we needn't stand on ceremony with him,
we must give the poor fellow something to eat after his journey;
especially as he has not the least idea where to go to," said
Alexandra, the eldest of the girls.
"Besides, he's quite a child; we can entertain him with a little
hide-and-seek, in case of need," said Adelaida.
"Hide-and-seek? What do you mean?" inquired Mrs. Epanchin.
"Oh, do stop pretending, mamma," cried Aglaya, in vexation. "Send
him up, father; mother allows."
The general rang the bell and gave orders that the prince should
be shown in.
"Only on condition that he has a napkin under his chin at lunch,
then," said Mrs. Epanchin, "and let Fedor, or Mavra, stand behind
him while he eats. Is he quiet when he has these fits? He doesn't
show violence, does he?"
"On the contrary, he seems to be very well brought up. His
manners are excellent--but here he is himself. Here you are,
prince--let me introduce you, the last of the Muishkins, a
relative of your own, my dear, or at least of the same name.
Receive him kindly, please. They'll bring in lunch directly,
prince; you must stop and have some, but you must excuse me. I'm
in a hurry, I must be off--"
"We all know where YOU must be off to!" said Mrs. Epanchin, in a
meaning voice.
"Yes, yes--I must hurry away, I'm late! Look here, dears, let him
write you something in your albums; you've no idea what a
wonderful caligraphist he is, wonderful talent! He has just
written out 'Abbot Pafnute signed this' for me. Well, au revoir!"
"Stop a minute; where are you off to? Who is this abbot?" cried
Mrs. Epanchin to her retreating husband in a tone of excited
annoyance.
"Yes, my dear, it was an old abbot of that name-I must be off to
see the count, he's waiting for me, I'm late--Good-bye! Au
revoir, prince!"--and the general bolted at full speed.
"Oh, yes--I know what count you're going to see!" remarked his
wife in a cutting manner, as she turned her angry eyes on the
prince. "Now then, what's all this about?--What abbot--Who's
Pafnute?" she added, brusquely.
"Mamma!" said Alexandra, shocked at her rudeness.
Aglaya stamped her foot.
"Nonsense! Let me alone!" said the angry mother. "Now then,
prince, sit down here, no, nearer, come nearer the light! I want
to have a good look at you. So, now then, who is this abbot?"
"Abbot Pafnute," said our friend, seriously and with deference.
"Pafnute, yes. And who was he?"
Mrs. Epanchin put these questions hastily and brusquely, and when
the prince answered she nodded her head sagely at each word he
said.
"The Abbot Pafnute lived in the fourteenth century," began the
prince; "he was in charge of one of the monasteries on the Volga,
about where our present Kostroma government lies. He went to
Oreol and helped in the great matters then going on in the
religious world; he signed an edict there, and I have seen a
print of his signature; it struck me, so I copied it. When the
general asked me, in his study, to write something for him, to
show my handwriting, I wrote 'The Abbot Pafnute signed this,' in
the exact handwriting of the abbot. The general liked it very
much, and that's why he recalled it just now. "
"Aglaya, make a note of 'Pafnute,' or we shall forget him. H'm!
and where is this signature?"
"I think it was left on the general's table."
"Let it be sent for at once!"
"Oh, I'll write you a new one in half a minute," said the prince,
"if you like!"
"Of course, mamma!" said Alexandra. "But let's have lunch now, we
are all hungry!"
"Yes; come along, prince," said the mother, "are you very
hungry?"
"Yes; I must say that I am pretty hungry, thanks very much."
"H'm! I like to see that you know your manners; and you are by no
means such a person as the general thought fit to describe you.
Come along; you sit here, opposite to me," she continued, "I wish
to be able to see your face. Alexandra, Adelaida, look after the
prince! He doesn't seem so very ill, does he? I don't think he
requires a napkin under his chin, after all; are you accustomed
to having one on, prince?"
"Formerly, when I was seven years old or so. I believe I wore
one; but now I usually hold my napkin on my knee when I eat."
"Of course, of course! And about your fits?"
"Fits?" asked the prince, slightly surprised. "I very seldom have
fits nowadays. I don't know how it may be here, though; they say
the climate may be bad for me. "
"He talks very well, you know!" said Mrs. Epanchin, who still
continued to nod at each word the prince spoke. "I really did not
expect it at all; in fact, I suppose it was all stuff and
nonsense on the general's part, as usual. Eat away, prince, and
tell me where you were born, and where you were brought up. I
wish to know all about you, you interest me very much!"
The prince expressed his thanks once more, and eating heartily
the while, recommenced the narrative of his life in Switzerland,
all of which we have heard before. Mrs. Epanchin became more and
more pleased with her guest; the girls, too, listened with
considerable attention. In talking over the question of
relationship it turned out that the prince was very well up in
the matter and knew his pedigree off by heart. It was found that
scarcely any connection existed between himself and Mrs.
Epanchin, but the talk, and the opportunity of conversing about
her family tree, gratified the latter exceedingly, and she rose
from the table in great good humour.
"Let's all go to my boudoir," she said, "and they shall bring
some coffee in there. That's the room where we all assemble and
busy ourselves as we like best," she explained. "Alexandra, my
eldest, here, plays the piano, or reads or sews; Adelaida paints
landscapes and portraits (but never finishes any); and Aglaya
sits and does nothing. I don't work too much, either. Here we
are, now; sit down, prince, near the fire and talk to us. I want
to hear you relate something. I wish to make sure of you first
and then tell my old friend, Princess Bielokonski, about you. I
wish you to know all the good people and to interest them. Now
then, begin!"
"Mamma, it's rather a strange order, that!" said Adelaida, who
was fussing among her paints and paint-brushes at the easel.
Aglaya and Alexandra had settled themselves with folded hands on
a sofa, evidently meaning to be listeners. The prince felt that
the general attention was concentrated upon himself.
"I should refuse to say a word if I were ordered to tell a story
like that!" observed Aglaya.
"Why? what's there strange about it? He has a tongue. Why
shouldn't he tell us something? I want to judge whether he is a
good story-teller; anything you like, prince-how you liked
Switzerland, what was your first impression, anything. You'll
see, he'll begin directly and tell us all about it beautifully."
"The impression was forcible--" the prince began.
"There, you see, girls," said the impatient lady, "he has begun,
you see."
"Well, then, LET him talk, mamma," said Alexandra. "This prince
is a great humbug and by no means an idiot," she whispered to
Aglaya.
"Oh, I saw that at once," replied the latter. "I don't think it
at all nice of him to play a part. What does he wish to gain by
it, I wonder?"
"My first impression was a very strong one," repeated the prince.
"When they took me away from Russia, I remember I passed through
many German towns and looked out of the windows, but did not
trouble so much as to ask questions about them. This was after a
long series of fits. I always used to fall into a sort of torpid
condition after such a series, and lost my memory almost
entirely; and though I was not altogether without reason at such
times, yet I had no logical power of thought. This would continue
for three or four days, and then I would recover myself again. I
remember my melancholy was intolerable; I felt inclined to cry; I
sat and wondered and wondered uncomfortably; the consciousness
that everything was strange weighed terribly upon me; I could
understand that it was all foreign and strange. I recollect I
awoke from this state for the first time at Basle, one evening;
the bray of a donkey aroused me, a donkey in the town market. I
saw the donkey and was extremely pleased with it, and from that
moment my head seemed to clear."
"A donkey? How strange! Yet it is not strange. Anyone of us might
fall in love with a donkey! It happened in mythological times,"
said Madame Epanchin, looking wrathfully at her daughters, who
had begun to laugh. "Go on, prince."
"Since that evening I have been specially fond of donkeys. I
began to ask questions about them, for I had never seen one
before; and I at once came to the conclusion that this must be
one of the most useful of animals--strong, willing, patient,
cheap; and, thanks to this donkey, I began to like the whole
country I was travelling through; and my melancholy passed away."
"All this is very strange and interesting," said Mrs. Epanchin.
"Now let's leave the donkey and go on to other matters. What are
you laughing at, Aglaya? and you too, Adelaida? The prince told
us his experiences very cleverly; he saw the donkey himself, and
what have you ever seen? YOU have never been abroad."
"I have seen a donkey though, mamma!" said Aglaya.
"And I've heard one!" said Adelaida. All three of the girls
laughed out loud, and the prince laughed with them.
"Well, it's too bad of you," said mamma. "You must forgive them,
prince; they are good girls. I am very fond of them, though I
often have to be scolding them; they are all as silly and mad as
march hares."
"Oh, why shouldn't they laugh?" said the prince. " I shouldn't
have let the chance go by in their place, I know. But I stick up
for the donkey, all the same; he's a patient, good-natured
fellow."
"Are you a patient man, prince? I ask out of curiosity," said
Mrs. Epanchin.
All laughed again.
"Oh, that wretched donkey again, I see!" cried the lady. "I
assure you, prince, I was not guilty of the least--"
"Insinuation? Oh! I assure you, I take your word for it." And the
prince continued laughing merrily.
"I must say it's very nice of you to laugh. I see you really are
a kind-hearted fellow," said Mrs. Epanchin.
"I'm not always kind, though."
"I am kind myself, and ALWAYS kind too, if you please!" she
retorted, unexpectedly; "and that is my chief fault, for one
ought not to be always kind. I am often angry with these girls
and their father; but the worst of it is, I am always kindest
when I am cross. I was very angry just before you came, and
Aglaya there read me a lesson--thanks, Aglaya, dear--come and
kiss me--there--that's enough" she added, as Aglaya came forward
and kissed her lips and then her hand. "Now then, go on, prince.
Perhaps you can think of something more exciting than about the
donkey, eh?"
"I must say, again, I can't understand how you can expect anyone
to tell you stories straight away, so," said Adelaida. "I know I
never could!"
"Yes, but the prince can, because he is clever--cleverer than you
are by ten or twenty times, if you like. There, that's so,
prince; and seriously, let's drop the donkey now--what else did
you see abroad, besides the donkey?"
"Yes, but the prince told us about the donkey very cleverly, all
the same," said Alexandra. "I have always been most interested to
hear how people go mad and get well again, and that sort of
thing. Especially when it happens suddenly."
"Quite so, quite so!" cried Mrs. Epanchin, delighted. "I see you
CAN be sensible now and then, Alexandra. You were speaking of
Switzerland, prince?"
"Yes. We came to Lucerne, and I was taken out in a boat. I felt
how lovely it was, but the loveliness weighed upon me somehow or
other, and made me feel melancholy."
"Why?" asked Alexandra.
"I don't know; I always feel like that when I look at the
beauties of nature for the first time; but then, I was ill at
that time, of course!"
"Oh, but I should like to see it!" said Adelaida; "and I don't
know WHEN we shall ever go abroad. I've been two years looking
out for a good subject for a picture. I've done all I know. 'The
North and South I know by heart,' as our poet observes. Do help
me to a subject, prince."
"Oh, but I know nothing about painting. It seems to me one only
has to look, and paint what one sees."
"But I don't know HOW to see!"
"Nonsense, what rubbish you talk!" the mother struck in. "Not
know how to see! Open your eyes and look! If you can't see here,
you won't see abroad either. Tell us what you saw yourself,
prince!"
"Yes, that's better," said Adelaida; "the prince learned to see
abroad."
"Oh, I hardly know! You see, I only went to restore my health. I
don't know whether I learned to see, exactly. I was very happy,
however, nearly all the time."
"Happy! you can be happy?" cried Aglaya. "Then how can you say
you did not learn to see? I should think you could teach us to
see!"
"Oh! DO teach us," laughed Adelaida.
"Oh! I can't do that," said the prince, laughing too. "I lived
almost all the while in one little Swiss village; what can I
teach you? At first I was only just not absolutely dull; then my
health began to improve--then every day became dearer and more
precious to me, and the longer I stayed, the dearer became the
time to me; so much so that I could not help observing it; but
why this was so, it would be difficult to say."
"So that you didn't care to go away anywhere else?"
"Well, at first I did; I was restless; I didn't know however I
should manage to support life--you know there are such moments,
especially in solitude. There was a waterfall near us, such a
lovely thin streak of water, like a thread but white and moving.
It fell from a great height, but it looked quite low, and it was
half a mile away, though it did not seem fifty paces. I loved to
listen to it at night, but it was then that I became so restless.
Sometimes I went and climbed the mountain and stood there in the
midst of the tall pines, all alone in the terrible silence, with
our little village in the distance, and the sky so blue, and the
sun so bright, and an old ruined castle on the mountain-side, far
away. I used to watch the line where earth and sky met, and longed
to go and seek there the key of all mysteries, thinking that
I might find there a new life, perhaps some great city where life
should be grander and richer--and then it struck me that life may
be grand enough even in a prison."
"I read that last most praiseworthy thought in my manual, when I
was twelve years old," said Aglaya.
"All this is pure philosophy," said Adelaida. "You are a
philosopher, prince, and have come here to instruct us in your
views."
"Perhaps you are right," said the prince, smiling. "I think I am
a philosopher, perhaps, and who knows, perhaps I do wish to teach
my views of things to those I meet with?"
"Your philosophy is rather like that of an old woman we know, who
is rich and yet does nothing but try how little she can spend.
She talks of nothing but money all day. Your great philosophical
idea of a grand life in a prison and your four happy years in
that Swiss village are like this, rather," said Aglaya.
"As to life in a prison, of course there may be two opinions,"
said the prince. "I once heard the story of a man who lived
twelve years in a prison--I heard it from the man himself. He was
one of the persons under treatment with my professor; he had
fits, and attacks of melancholy, then he would weep, and once he
tried to commit suicide. HIS life in prison was sad enough; his
only acquaintances were spiders and a tree that grew outside his
grating-but I think I had better tell you of another man I met
last year. There was a very strange feature in this case, strange
because of its extremely rare occurrence. This man had once been
brought to the scaffold in company with several others, and had
had the sentence of death by shooting passed upon him for some
political crime. Twenty minutes later he had been reprieved and
some other punishment substituted; but the interval between the
two sentences, twenty minutes, or at least a quarter of an hour,
had been passed in the certainty that within a few minutes he
must die. I was very anxious to hear him speak of his impressions
during that dreadful time, and I several times inquired of him as
to what he thought and felt. He remembered everything with the
most accurate and extraordinary distinctness, and declared that
he would never forget a single iota of the experience.
"About twenty paces from the scaffold, where he had stood to hear
the sentence, were three posts, fixed in the ground, to which to
fasten the criminals (of whom there were several). The first
three criminals were taken to the posts, dressed in long white
tunics, with white caps drawn over their faces, so that they
could not see the rifles pointed at them. Then a group of
soldiers took their stand opposite to each post. My friend was
the eighth on the list, and therefore he would have been among
the third lot to go up. A priest went about among them with a
cross: and there was about five minutes of time left for him to
live.
"He said that those five minutes seemed to him to be a most
interminable period, an enormous wealth of time; he seemed to be
living, in these minutes, so many lives that there was no need as
yet to think of that last moment, so that he made several
arrangements, dividing up the time into portions--one for saying
farewell to his companions, two minutes for that; then a couple
more for thinking over his own life and career and all about
himself; and another minute for a last look around. He remembered
having divided his time like this quite well. While saying good-
bye to his friends he recollected asking one of them some very
usual everyday question, and being much interested in the answer.
Then having bade farewell, he embarked upon those two minutes
which he had allotted to looking into himself; he knew
beforehand what he was going to think about. He wished to put it
to himself as quickly and clearly as possible, that here was he,
a living, thinking man, and that in three minutes he would be
nobody; or if somebody or something, then what and where? He
thought he would decide this question once for all in these last
three minutes. A little way off there stood a church, and its
gilded spire glittered in the sun. He remembered staring
stubbornly at this spire, and at the rays of light sparkling from
it. He could not tear his eyes from these rays of light; he got
the idea that these rays were his new nature, and that in three
minutes he would become one of them, amalgamated somehow with
them.
"The repugnance to what must ensue almost immediately, and the
uncertainty, were dreadful, he said; but worst of all was the
idea, 'What should I do if I were not to die now? What if I were
to return to life again? What an eternity of days, and all mine!
How I should grudge and count up every minute of it, so as to
waste not a single instant!' He said that this thought weighed so
upon him and became such a terrible burden upon his brain that he
could not bear it, and wished they would shoot him quickly and
have done with it."
The prince paused and all waited, expecting him to go on again
and finish the story.
"Is that all?" asked Aglaya.
"All? Yes," said the prince, emerging from a momentary reverie.
"And why did you tell us this?"
"Oh, I happened to recall it, that's all! It fitted into the
conversation--"
"You probably wish to deduce, prince," said Alexandra, "that
moments of time cannot be reckoned by money value, and that
sometimes five minutes are worth priceless treasures. All this is
very praiseworthy; but may I ask about this friend of yours, who
told you the terrible experience of his life? He was reprieved,
you say; in other words, they did restore to him that 'eternity
of days.' What did he do with these riches of time? Did he keep
careful account of his minutes?"
"Oh no, he didn't! I asked him myself. He said that he had not
lived a bit as he had intended, and had wasted many, and many a
minute."
"Very well, then there's an experiment, and the thing is proved;
one cannot live and count each moment; say what you like, but one
CANNOT."
"That is true," said the prince, "I have thought so myself. And
yet, why shouldn't one do it?"
"You think, then, that you could live more wisely than other
people?" said Aglaya.
"I have had that idea."
"And you have it still?"
"Yes--I have it still," the prince replied.
He had contemplated Aglaya until now, with a pleasant though
rather timid smile, but as the last words fell from his lips he
began to laugh, and looked at her merrily.
"You are not very modest!" said she.
"But how brave you are!" said he. "You are laughing, and I--
that man's tale impressed me so much, that I dreamt of it
afterwards; yes, I dreamt of those five minutes . . ."
He looked at his listeners again with that same serious,
searching expression.
"You are not angry with me?" he asked suddenly, and with a kind
of nervous hurry, although he looked them straight in the face.
"Why should we be angry?" they cried.
"Only because I seem to be giving you a lecture, all the time!"
At this they laughed heartily.
"Please don't be angry with me," continued the prince. "I know
very well that I have seen less of life than other people, and
have less knowledge of it. I must appear to speak strangely
sometimes . . ."
He said the last words nervously.
"You say you have been happy, and that proves you have lived, not
less, but more than other people. Why make all these excuses?"
interrupted Aglaya in a mocking tone of voice. "Besides, you need
not mind about lecturing us; you have nothing to boast of. With
your quietism, one could live happily for a hundred years at
least. One might show you the execution of a felon, or show you
one's little finger. You could draw a moral from either, and be
quite satisfied. That sort of existence is easy enough."
"I can't understand why you always fly into a temper," said Mrs.
Epanchin, who had been listening to the conversation and
examining the faces of the speakers in turn. "I do not understand
what you mean. What has your little finger to do with it? The
prince talks well, though he is not amusing. He began all right,
but now he seems sad."
"Never mind, mamma! Prince, I wish you had seen an execution,"
said Aglaya. "I should like to ask you a question about that, if
you had."
"I have seen an execution," said the prince.
"You have!" cried Aglaya. "I might have guessed it. That's a
fitting crown to the rest of the story. If you have seen an
execution, how can you say you lived happily all the while?"
"But is there capital punishment where you were?" asked Adelaida.
"I saw it at Lyons. Schneider took us there, and as soon as we
arrived we came in for that."
"Well, and did you like it very much? Was it very edifying and
instructive?" asked Aglaya.
"No, I didn't like it at all, and was ill after seeing it; but I
confess I stared as though my eyes were fixed to the sight. I
could not tear them away."
"I, too, should have been unable to tear my eyes away," said
Aglaya.
"They do not at all approve of women going to see an execution
there. The women who do go are condemned for it afterwards in the
newspapers."
"That is, by contending that it is not a sight for women they
admit that it is a sight for men. I congratulate them on the
deduction. I suppose you quite agree with them, prince?"
"Tell us about the execution," put in Adelaida.
"I would much rather not, just now," said the prince, a little
disturbed and frowning slightly;
" You don't seem to want to tell us," said Aglaya, with a mocking
air.
" No,--the thing is, I was telling all about the execution a
little while ago, and--"
"Whom did you tell about it?"
"The man-servant, while I was waiting to see the general."
"Our man-servant?" exclaimed several voices at once.
"Yes, the one who waits in the entrance hall, a greyish, red-
faced man--"
"The prince is clearly a democrat," remarked Aglaya.
"Well, if you could tell Aleksey about it, surely you can tell us
too."
"I do so want to hear about it," repeated Adelaida.
"Just now, I confess," began the prince, with more animation,
"when you asked me for a subject for a picture, I confess I had
serious thoughts of giving you one. I thought of asking you to
draw the face of a criminal, one minute before the fall of the
guillotine, while the wretched man is still standing on the
scaffold, preparatory to placing his neck on the block."
"What, his face? only his face?" asked Adelaida. "That would be a
strange subject indeed. And what sort of a picture would that
make?"
"Oh, why not?" the prince insisted, with some warmth. "When I was
in Basle I saw a picture very much in that style--I should like
to tell you about it; I will some time or other; it struck me
very forcibly."
"Oh, you shall tell us about the Basle picture another time; now
we must have all about the execution," said Adelaida. "Tell us
about that face as; it appeared to your imagination-how should it
be drawn?--just the face alone, do you mean?"
"It was just a minute before the execution," began the prince,
readily, carried away by the recollection and evidently
forgetting everything else in a moment; "just at the instant when
he stepped off the ladder on to the scaffold. He happened to look
in my direction: I saw his eyes and understood all, at once--but
how am I to describe it? I do so wish you or somebody else could
draw it, you, if possible. I thought at the time what a picture
it would make. You must imagine all that went before, of course,
all--all. He had lived in the prison for some time and had not
expected that the execution would take place for at least a week
yet--he had counted on all the formalities and so on taking
time; but it so happened that his papers had been got ready
quickly. At five o'clock in the morning he was asleep--it was
October, and at five in the morning it was cold and dark. The
governor of the prison comes in on tip-toe and touches the
sleeping man's shoulder gently. He starts up. 'What is it?' he
says. 'The execution is fixed for ten o'clock.' He was only just
awake, and would not believe at first, but began to argue that
his papers would not be out for a week, and so on. When he was
wide awake and realized the truth, he became very silent and
argued no more--so they say; but after a bit he said: 'It comes
very hard on one so suddenly' and then he was silent again and
said nothing.
"The three or four hours went by, of course, in necessary
preparations--the priest, breakfast, (coffee, meat, and some
wine they gave him; doesn't it seem ridiculous?) And yet I
believe these people give them a good breakfast out of pure
kindness of heart, and believe that they are doing a good action.
Then he is dressed, and then begins the procession through the
town to the scaffold. I think he, too, must feel that he has an
age to live still while they cart him along. Probably he thought,
on the way, 'Oh, I have a long, long time yet. Three streets of
life yet! When we've passed this street there'll be that other
one; and then that one where the baker's shop is on the right;
and when shall we get there? It's ages, ages!' Around him are
crowds shouting, yelling--ten thousand faces, twenty thousand
eyes. All this has to be endured, and especially the thought:
'Here are ten thousand men, and not one of them is going to be
executed, and yet I am to die.' Well, all that is preparatory.
"At the scaffold there is a ladder, and just there he burst into
tears--and this was a strong man, and a terribly wicked one, they
say! There was a priest with him the whole time, talking; even in
the cart as they drove along, he talked and talked. Probably the
other heard nothing; he would begin to listen now and then, and
at the third word or so he had forgotten all about it.
"At last he began to mount the steps; his legs were tied, so that
he had to take very small steps. The priest, who seemed to be a
wise man, had stopped talking now, and only held the cross for
the wretched fellow to kiss. At the foot of the ladder he had
been pale enough; but when he set foot on the scaffold at the
top, his face suddenly became the colour of paper, positively
like white notepaper. His legs must have become suddenly feeble
and helpless, and he felt a choking in his throat--you know the
sudden feeling one has in moments of terrible fear, when one does
not lose one's wits, but is absolutely powerless to move? If some
dreadful thing were suddenly to happen; if a house were just
about to fall on one;--don't you know how one would long to sit
down and shut one's eyes and wait, and wait? Well, when this
terrible feeling came over him, the priest quickly pressed the
cross to his lips, without a word--a little silver cross it was-
and he kept on pressing it to the man's lips every second. And
whenever the cross touched his lips, the eyes would open for a
moment, and the legs moved once, and he kissed the cross
greedily, hurriedly--just as though he were anxious to catch hold
of something in case of its being useful to him afterwards,
though he could hardly have had any connected religious thoughts
at the time. And so up to the very block.
"How strange that criminals seldom swoon at such a moment! On the
contrary, the brain is especially active, and works incessantly--
probably hard, hard, hard--like an engine at full pressure. I
imagine that various thoughts must beat loud and fast through his
head--all unfinished ones, and strange, funny thoughts, very
likely!--like this, for instance: 'That man is looking at me, and
he has a wart on his forehead! and the executioner has burst one
of his buttons, and the lowest one is all rusty!' And meanwhile
he notices and remembers everything. There is one point that
cannot be forgotten, round which everything else dances and turns
about; and because of this point he cannot faint, and this lasts
until the very final quarter of a second, when the wretched neck
is on the block and the victim listens and waits and KNOWS--
that's the point, he KNOWS that he is just NOW about to die, and
listens for the rasp of the iron over his head. If I lay there, I
should certainly listen for that grating sound, and hear it, too!
There would probably be but the tenth part of an instant left to
hear it in, but one would certainly hear it. And imagine, some
people declare that when the head flies off it is CONSCIOUS of
having flown off! Just imagine what a thing to realize! Fancy if
consciousness were to last for even five seconds!
"Draw the scaffold so that only the top step of the ladder comes
in clearly. The criminal must be just stepping on to it, his face
as white as note-paper. The priest is holding the cross to his
blue lips, and the criminal kisses it, and knows and sees and
understands everything. The cross and the head--there's your
picture; the priest and the executioner, with his two assistants,
and a few heads and eyes below. Those might come in as
subordinate accessories--a sort of mist. There's a picture for
you." The prince paused, and looked around.
"Certainly that isn't much like quietism," murmured Alexandra,
half to herself.
"Now tell us about your love affairs," said Adelaida, after a
moment's pause.
The prince gazed at her in amazement.
"You know," Adelaida continued, "you owe us a description of the
Basle picture; but first I wish to hear how you fell in love.
Don't deny the fact, for you did, of course. Besides, you stop
philosophizing when you are telling about anything."
"Why are you ashamed of your stories the moment after you have
told them?" asked Aglaya, suddenly.
"How silly you are!" said Mrs. Epanchin, looking indignantly
towards the last speaker.
"Yes, that wasn't a clever remark," said Alexandra.
"Don't listen to her, prince," said Mrs. Epanchin; "she says that
sort of thing out of mischief. Don't think anything of their
nonsense, it means nothing. They love to chaff, but they like
you. I can see it in their faces--I know their faces."
"I know their faces, too," said the prince, with a peculiar
stress on the words.
"How so?" asked Adelaida, with curiosity.
"What do YOU know about our faces?" exclaimed the other two, in
chorus.
But the prince was silent and serious. All awaited his reply.
"I'll tell you afterwards," he said quietly.
"Ah, you want to arouse our curiosity!" said Aglaya. "And how
terribly solemn you are about it!"
"Very well," interrupted Adelaida, "then if you can read faces so
well, you must have been in love. Come now; I've guessed--let's
have the secret!"
"I have not been in love," said the prince, as quietly and
seriously as before. "I have been happy in another way."
"How, how?"
"Well, I'll tell you," said the prince, apparently in a deep
reverie.
