VI.
As to the evening party at the Epanchins' at which Princess
Bielokonski was to be present, Varia had reported with accuracy;
though she had perhaps expressed herself too strongly.
The thing was decided in a hurry and with a certain amount of
quite unnecessary excitement, doubtless because "nothing could be
done in this house like anywhere else."
The impatience of Lizabetha Prokofievna "to get things settled"
explained a good deal, as well as the anxiety of both parents for
the happiness of their beloved daughter. Besides, Princess
Bielokonski was going away soon, and they hoped that she would
take an interest in the prince. They were anxious that he should
enter society under the auspices of this lady, whose patronage
was the best of recommendations for any young man.
Even if there seems something strange about the match, the
general and his wife said to each other, the "world" will accept
Aglaya's fiance without any question if he is under the patronage
of the princess. In any case, the prince would have to be "shown"
sooner or later; that is, introduced into society, of which he
had, so far, not the least idea. Moreover, it was only a question
of a small gathering of a few intimate friends. Besides Princess
Bielokonski, only one other lady was expected, the wife of a high
dignitary. Evgenie Pavlovitch, who was to escort the princess,
was the only young man.
Muishkin was told of the princess's visit three days beforehand,
but nothing was said to him about the party until the night
before it was to take place.
He could not help observing the excited and agitated condition of
all members of the family, and from certain hints dropped in
conversation he gathered that they were all anxious as to the
impression he should make upon the princess. But the Epanchins,
one and all, believed that Muishkin, in his simplicity of mind,
was quite incapable of realizing that they could be feeling any
anxiety on his account, and for this reason they all looked at
him with dread and uneasiness.
In point of fact, he did attach marvellously little importance to
the approaching event. He was occupied with altogether different
thoughts. Aglaya was growing hourly more capricious and gloomy,
and this distressed him. When they told him that Evgenie
Pavlovitch was expected, he evinced great delight, and said that
he had long wished to see him--and somehow these words did not
please anyone.
Aglaya left the room in a fit of irritation, and it was not until
late in the evening, past eleven, when the prince was taking his
departure, that she said a word or two to him, privately, as she
accompanied him as far as the front door.
"I should like you," she said, "not to come here tomorrow until
evening, when the guests are all assembled. You know there are to
be guests, don't you?"
She spoke impatiently and with severity; this was the first
allusion she had made to the party of tomorrow.
She hated the idea of it, everyone saw that; and she would
probably have liked to quarrel about it with her parents, but
pride and modesty prevented her from broaching the subject.
The prince jumped to the conclusion that Aglaya, too, was nervous
about him, and the impression he would make, and that she did not
like to admit her anxiety; and this thought alarmed him.
"Yes, I am invited," he replied.
She was evidently in difficulties as to how best to go on. "May I
speak of something serious to you, for once in my life?" she
asked, angrily. She was irritated at she knew not what, and could
not restrain her wrath.
"Of course you may; I am very glad to listen," replied Muishkin.
Aglaya was silent a moment and then began again with evident
dislike of her subject:
"I do not wish to quarrel with them about this; in some things
they won't be reasonable. I always did feel a loathing for the
laws which seem to guide mamma's conduct at times. I don't speak
of father, for he cannot be expected to be anything but what he
is. Mother is a noble-minded woman, I know; you try to suggest
anything mean to her, and you'll see! But she is such a slave to
these miserable creatures! I don't mean old Bielokonski alone.
She is a contemptible old thing, but she is able to twist people
round her little finger, and I admire that in her, at all events!
How mean it all is, and how foolish! We were always middle-class,
thoroughly middle-class, people. Why should we attempt to climb
into the giddy heights of the fashionable world? My sisters are
all for it. It's Prince S. they have to thank for poisoning their
minds. Why are you so glad that Evgenie Pavlovitch is coming?"
"Listen to me, Aglaya," said the prince, "I do believe you are
nervous lest I shall make a fool of myself tomorrow at your
party?"
"Nervous about you?" Aglaya blushed. "Why should I be nervous
about you? What would it matter to me if you were to make ever
such a fool of yourself? How can you say such a thing? What do
you mean by 'making a fool of yourself'? What a vulgar
expression! I suppose you intend to talk in that sort of way
tomorrow evening? Look up a few more such expressions in your
dictionary; do, you'll make a grand effect! I'm sorry that you
seem to be able to come into a room as gracefully as you do;
where did you learn the art? Do you think you can drink a cup of
tea decently, when you know everybody is looking at you, on
purpose to see how you do it?"
"Yes, I think I can."
"Can you? I'm sorry for it then, for I should have had a good
laugh at you otherwise. Do break SOMETHING at least, in the
drawing-room! Upset the Chinese vase, won't you? It's a valuable
one; DO break it. Mamma values it, and she'll go out of her
mind--it was a present. She'll cry before everyone, you'll see! Wave
your hand about, you know, as you always do, and just smash it.
Sit down near it on purpose."
"On the contrary, I shall sit as far from it as I can. Thanks for
the hint."
"Ha, ha! Then you are afraid you WILL wave your arms about! I
wouldn't mind betting that you'll talk about some lofty subject,
something serious and learned. How delightful, how tactful that
will be!"
"I should think it would be very foolish indeed, unless it
happened to come in appropriately."
"Look here, once for all," cried Aglaya, boiling over, "if I hear
you talking about capital punishment, or the economical condition
of Russia, or about Beauty redeeming the world, or anything of
that sort, I'll--well, of course I shall laugh and seem very
pleased, but I warn you beforehand, don't look me in the face
again! I'm serious now, mind, this time I AM REALLY serious." She
certainly did say this very seriously, so much so, that she
looked quite different from what she usually was, and the prince
could not help noticing the fact. She did not seem to be joking
in the slightest degree.
"Well, you've put me into such a fright that I shall certainly
make a fool of myself, and very likely break something too. I
wasn't a bit alarmed before, but now I'm as nervous as can be."
"Then don't speak at all. Sit still and don't talk."
"Oh, I can't do that, you know! I shall say something foolish out
of pure 'funk,' and break something for the same excellent
reason; I know I shall. Perhaps I shall slip and fall on the
slippery floor; I've done that before now, you know. I shall
dream of it all night now. Why did you say anything about it?"
Aglaya looked blackly at him.
"Do you know what, I had better not come at all tomorrow! I'll
plead sick-list and stay away," said the prince, with decision.
Aglaya stamped her foot, and grew quite pale with anger.
Oh, my goodness! Just listen to that! 'Better not come,' when the
party is on purpose for him! Good Lord! What a delightful thing
it is to have to do with such a--such a stupid as you are!"
"Well, I'll come, I'll come," interrupted the prince, hastily,
"and I'll give you my word of honour that I will sit the whole
evening and not say a word."
"I believe that's the best thing you can do. You said you'd
'plead sick-list' just now; where in the world do you get hold of
such expressions? Why do you talk to me like this? Are you trying
to irritate me, or what?"
"Forgive me, it's a schoolboy expression. I won't do it again. I
know quite well, I see it, that you are anxious on my account
(now, don't be angry), and it makes me very happy to see it. You
wouldn't believe how frightened I am of misbehaving somehow, and
how glad I am of your instructions. But all this panic is simply
nonsense, you know, Aglaya! I give you my word it is; I am so
pleased that you are such a child, such a dear good child. How
CHARMING you can be if you like, Aglaya."
Aglaya wanted to be angry, of course, but suddenly some quite
unexpected feeling seized upon her heart, all in a moment.
"And you won't reproach me for all these rude words of mine--some
day--afterwards?" she asked, of a sudden.
"What an idea! Of course not. And what are you blushing for
again? And there comes that frown once more! You've taken to
looking too gloomy sometimes, Aglaya, much more than you used to.
I know why it is."
"Be quiet, do be quiet!"
"No, no, I had much better speak out. I have long wished to say
it, and HAVE said it, but that's not enough, for you didn't
believe me. Between us two there stands a being who--"
"Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, be quiet!" Aglaya struck in,
suddenly, seizing his hand in hers, and gazing at him almost in
terror.
At this moment she was called by someone. She broke loose from
him with an air of relief and ran away.
The prince was in a fever all night. It was strange, but he had
suffered from fever for several nights in succession. On this
particular night, while in semi-delirium, he had an idea: what if
on the morrow he were to have a fit before everybody? The thought
seemed to freeze his blood within him. All night he fancied
himself in some extraordinary society of strange persons. The
worst of it was that he was talking nonsense; he knew that he
ought not to speak at all, and yet he talked the whole time; he
seemed to be trying to persuade them all to something. Evgenie
and Hippolyte were among the guests, and appeared to be great
friends.
He awoke towards nine o'clock with a headache, full of confused
ideas and strange impressions. For some reason or other he felt
most anxious to see Rogojin, to see and talk to him, but what he
wished to say he could not tell. Next, he determined to go and
see Hippolyte. His mind was in a confused state, so much so that
the incidents of the morning seemed to be imperfectly realized,
though acutely felt.
One of these incidents was a visit from Lebedeff. Lebedeff came
rather early--before ten--but he was tipsy already. Though the
prince was not in an observant condition, yet he could not avoid
seeing that for at least three days--ever since General Ivolgin
had left the house Lebedeff had been behaving very badly. He
looked untidy and dirty at all times of the day, and it was said
that he had begun to rage about in his own house, and that his
temper was very bad. As soon as he arrived this morning, he began
to hold forth, beating his breast and apparently blaming himself
for something.
"I've--I've had a reward for my meanness--I've had a slap in the
face," he concluded, tragically.
"A slap in the face? From whom? And so early in the morning?"
"Early?" said Lebedeff, sarcastically. "Time counts for nothing,
even in physical chastisement; but my slap in the face was not
physical, it was moral."
He suddenly took a seat, very unceremoniously, and began his
story. It was very disconnected; the prince frowned, and wished
he could get away; but suddenly a few words struck him. He sat
stiff with wonder--Lebedeff said some extraordinary things.
In the first place he began about some letter; the name of Aglaya
Ivanovna came in. Then suddenly he broke off and began to accuse
the prince of something; he was apparently offended with him. At
first he declared that the prince had trusted him with his
confidences as to "a certain person" (Nastasia Philipovna), but
that of late his friendship had been thrust back into his bosom,
and his innocent question as to "approaching family changes" had
been curtly put aside, which Lebedeff declared, with tipsy tears,
he could not bear; especially as he knew so much already both
from Rogojin and Nastasia Philipovna and her friend, and from
Varvara Ardalionovna, and even from Aglaya Ivanovna, through his
daughter Vera. "And who told Lizabetha Prokofievna something in
secret, by letter? Who told her all about the movements of a
certain person called Nastasia Philipovna? Who was the anonymous
person, eh? Tell me!"
"Surely not you?" cried the prince.
"Just so," said Lebedeff, with dignity; "and only this very
morning I have sent up a letter to the noble lady, stating that I
have a matter of great importance to communicate. She received
the letter; I know she got it; and she received ME, too."
"Have you just seen Lizabetha Prokofievna?" asked the prince,
scarcely believing his ears.
"Yes, I saw her, and got the said slap in the face as mentioned.
She chucked the letter back to me unopened, and kicked me out of
the house, morally, not physically, although not far off it."
"What letter do you mean she returned unopened?"
"What! didn't I tell you? Ha, ha, ha! I thought I had. Why, I
received a letter, you know, to be handed over--"From whom? To
whom?"
But it was difficult, if not impossible, to extract anything from
Lebedeff. All the prince could gather was, that the letter had
been received very early, and had a request written on the
outside that it might be sent on to the address given.
"Just as before, sir, just as before! To a certain person, and
from a certain hand. The individual's name who wrote the letter
is to be represented by the letter A.--"
"What? Impossible! To Nastasia Philipovna? Nonsense!" cried the
prince.
"It was, I assure you, and if not to her then to Rogojin, which
is the same thing. Mr. Hippolyte has had letters, too, and all
from the individual whose name begins with an A.," smirked
Lebedeff, with a hideous grin.
As he kept jumping from subject to subject, and forgetting what
he had begun to talk about, the prince said nothing, but waited,
to give him time.
It was all very vague. Who had taken the letters, if letters
there were? Probably Vera--and how could Lebedeff have got them?
In all probability, he had managed to steal the present letter
from Vera, and had himself gone over to Lizabetha Prokofievna
with some idea in his head. So the prince concluded at last.
"You are mad!" he cried, indignantly.
"Not quite, esteemed prince," replied Lebedeff, with some
acerbity. "I confess I thought of doing you the service of
handing the letter over to yourself, but I decided that it would
pay me better to deliver it up to the noble lady aforesaid, as I
had informed her of everything hitherto by anonymous letters; so
when I sent her up a note from myself, with the letter, you know,
in order to fix a meeting for eight o'clock this morning, I
signed it 'your secret correspondent.' They let me in at once--
very quickly--by the back door, and the noble lady received me."
"Well? Go on."
"Oh, well, when I saw her she almost punched my head, as I say;
in fact so nearly that one might almost say she did punch my
head. She threw the letter in my face; she seemed to reflect
first, as if she would have liked to keep it, but thought better
of it and threw it in my face instead. 'If anybody can have been
such a fool as to trust a man like you to deliver the letter,'
says she,' take it and deliver it! 'Hey! she was grandly
indignant. A fierce, fiery lady that, sir!"
"Where's the letter now?"
"Oh, I've still got it, here!"
And he handed the prince the very letter from Aglaya to Gania,
which the latter showed with so much triumph to his Sister at a
later hour.
"This letter cannot be allowed to remain in your hands."
"It's for you--for you! I've brought it you on purpose!" cried
Lebedeff, excitedly. "Why, I'm yours again now, heart and hand,
your slave; there was but a momentary pause in the flow of my
love and esteem for you. Mea culpa, mea culpa! as the Pope of
Rome says.
"This letter should be sent on at once," said the prince,
disturbed. "I'll hand it over myself."
"Wouldn't it be better, esteemed prince, wouldn't it be better--
to--don't you know--"
Lebedeff made a strange and very expressive grimace; he twisted
about in his chair, and did something, apparently symbolical,
with his hands.
"What do you mean?" said the prince.
"Why, open it, for the time being, don't you know?" he said, most
confidentially and mysteriously.
The prince jumped up so furiously that Lebedeff ran towards the
door; having gained which strategic position, however, he stopped
and looked back to see if he might hope for pardon.
"Oh, Lebedeff, Lebedeff! Can a man really sink to such depths of
meanness?" said the prince, sadly.
Lebedeff's face brightened.
"Oh, I'm a mean wretch--a mean wretch!" he said, approaching the
prince once more, and beating his breast, with tears in his eyes.
"It's abominable dishonesty, you know!"
"Dishonesty--it is, it is! That's the very word!"
"What in the world induces you to act so? You are nothing but a
spy. Why did you write anonymously to worry so noble and generous
a lady? Why should not Aglaya Ivanovna write a note to whomever
she pleases? What did you mean to complain of today? What did
you expect to get by it? What made you go at all?"
"Pure amiable curiosity,--I assure you--desire to do a service.
That's all. Now I'm entirely yours again, your slave; hang me if
you like!"
"Did you go before Lizabetha Prokofievna in your present
condition?" inquired the prince.
"No--oh no, fresher--more the correct card. I only became this
like after the humiliation I suffered there,
"Well--that'll do; now leave me."
This injunction had to be repeated several times before the man
could be persuaded to move. Even then he turned back at the door,
came as far as the middle of the room, and there went through his
mysterious motions designed to convey the suggestion that the
prince should open the letter. He did not dare put his suggestion
into words again.
After this performance, he smiled sweetly and left the room on
tiptoe.
All this had been very painful to listen to. One fact stood out
certain and clear, and that was that poor Aglaya must be in a
state of great distress and indecision and mental torment ("from
jealousy," the prince whispered to himself). Undoubtedly in this
inexperienced, but hot and proud little head, there were all
sorts of plans forming, wild and impossible plans, maybe; and the
idea of this so frightened the prince that he could not make up
his mind what to do. Something must be done, that was clear.
He looked at the address on the letter once more. Oh, he was not
in the least degree alarmed about Aglaya writing such a letter;
he could trust her. What he did not like about it was that he
could not trust Gania.
However, he made up his mind that he would himself take the note
and deliver it. Indeed, he went so far as to leave the house and
walk up the road, but changed his mind when he had nearly reached
Ptitsin's door. However, he there luckily met Colia, and
commissioned him to deliver the letter to his brother as if
direct from Aglaya. Colia asked no questions but simply delivered
it, and Gania consequently had no suspicion that it had passed
through so many hands.
Arrived home again, the prince sent for Vera Lebedeff and told
her as much as was necessary, in order to relieve her mind, for
she had been in a dreadful state of anxiety since she had missed
the letter. She heard with horror that her father had taken it.
Muishkin learned from her that she had on several occasions
performed secret missions both for Aglaya and for Rogojin,
without, however, having had the slightest idea that in so doing
she might injure the prince in any way.
The latter, with one thing and another, was now so disturbed and
confused, that when, a couple of hours or so later, a message
came from Colia that the general was ill, he could hardly take
the news in.
However, when he did master the fact, it acted upon him as a
tonic by completely distracting his attention. He went at once to
Nina Alexandrovna's, whither the general had been carried, and
stayed there until the evening. He could do no good, but there
are people whom to have near one is a blessing at such times.
Colia was in an almost hysterical state; he cried continuously,
but was running about all day, all the same; fetching doctors, of
whom he collected three; going to the chemist's, and so on.
The general was brought round to some extent, but the doctors
declared that he could not be said to be out of danger. Varia and
Nina Alexandrovna never left the sick man's bedside; Gania was
excited and distressed, but would not go upstairs, and seemed
afraid to look at the patient. He wrung his hands when the prince
spoke to him, and said that "such a misfortune at such a moment"
was terrible.
The prince thought he knew what Gania meant by "such a moment."
Hippolyte was not in the house. Lebedeff turned up late in the
afternoon; he had been asleep ever since his interview with the
prince in the morning. He was quite sober now, and cried with
real sincerity over the sick general--mourning for him as though
he were his own brother. He blamed himself aloud, but did not
explain why. He repeated over and over again to Nina Alexandrovna
that he alone was to blame--no one else--but that he had acted
out of "pure amiable curiosity," and that "the deceased," as he
insisted upon calling the still living general, had been the
greatest of geniuses.
He laid much stress on the genius of the sufferer, as if this
idea must be one of immense solace in the present crisis.
Nina Alexandrovna--seeing his sincerity of feeling--said at last,
and without the faintest suspicion of reproach in her voice:
"Come, come--don't cry! God will forgive you!"
Lebedeff was so impressed by these words, and the tone in which
they were spoken, that he could not leave Nina Alexandrovna all
the evening--in fact, for several days. Till the general's death,
indeed, he spent almost all his time at his side.
Twice during the day a messenger came to Nina Alexandrovna from
the Epanchins to inquire after the invalid.
When--late in the evening--the prince made his appearance in
Lizabetha Prokofievna's drawing-room, he found it full of guests.
Mrs. Epanchin questioned him very fully about the general as soon
as he appeared; and when old Princess Bielokonski wished to know
"who this general was, and who was Nina Alexandrovna," she
proceeded to explain in a manner which pleased the prince very
much.
He himself, when relating the circumstances of the general's
illness to Lizabetha Prokofievna, "spoke beautifully," as
Aglaya's sisters declared afterwards--"modestly, quietly, without
gestures or too many words, and with great dignity." He had
entered the room with propriety and grace, and he was perfectly
dressed; he not only did not "fall down on the slippery floor,"
as he had expressed it, but evidently made a very favourable
impression upon the assembled guests.
As for his own impression on entering the room and taking his
seat, he instantly remarked that the company was not in the least
such as Aglaya's words had led him to fear, and as he had dreamed
of--in nightmare form--all night.
This was the first time in his life that he had seen a little
corner of what was generally known by the terrible name of
"society." He had long thirsted, for reasons of his own, to
penetrate the mysteries of the magic circle, and, therefore, this
assemblage was of the greatest possible interest to him.
His first impression was one of fascination. Somehow or other he
felt that all these people must have been born on purpose to be
together! It seemed to him that the Epanchins were not having a
party at all; that these people must have been here always, and
that he himself was one of them--returned among them after a long
absence, but one of them, naturally and indisputably.
It never struck him that all this refined simplicity and nobility
and wit and personal dignity might possibly be no more than an
exquisite artistic polish. The majority of the guests--who were
somewhat empty-headed, after all, in spite of their aristocratic
bearing--never guessed, in their self-satisfied composure, that
much of their superiority was mere veneer, which indeed they had
adopted unconsciously and by inheritance.
The prince would never so much as suspect such a thing in the
delight of his first impression.
He saw, for instance, that one important dignitary, old enough to
be his grandfather, broke off his own conversation in order to
listen to HIM--a young and inexperienced man; and not only
listened, but seemed to attach value to his opinion, and was kind
and amiable, and yet they were strangers and had never seen each
other before. Perhaps what most appealed to the prince's
impressionability was the refinement of the old man's courtesy
towards him. Perhaps the soil of his susceptible nature was
really predisposed to receive a pleasant impression.
Meanwhile all these people-though friends of the family and of
each other to a certain extent--were very far from being such
intimate friends of the family and of each other as the prince
concluded. There were some present who never would think of
considering the Epanchins their equals. There were even some who
hated one another cordially. For instance, old Princess
Bielokonski had all her life despised the wife of the
"dignitary," while the latter was very far from loving Lizabetha
Prokofievna. The dignitary himself had been General Epanchin's
protector from his youth up; and the general considered him so
majestic a personage that he would have felt a hearty contempt
for himself if he had even for one moment allowed himself to pose
as the great man's equal, or to think of him--in his fear and
reverence-as anything less than an Olympic God! There were others
present who had not met for years, and who had no feeling
whatever for each other, unless it were dislike; and yet they met
tonight as though they had seen each other but yesterday in some
friendly and intimate assembly of kindred spirits.
It was not a large party, however. Besides Princess Bielokonski
and the old dignitary (who was really a great man) and his wife,
there was an old military general--a count or baron with a German
name, a man reputed to possess great knowledge and administrative
ability. He was one of those Olympian administrators who know
everything except Russia, pronounce a word of extraordinary
wisdom, admired by all, about once in five years, and, after
being an eternity in the service, generally die full of honour
and riches, though they have never done anything great, and have
even been hostile to all greatness. This general was Ivan
Fedorovitch's immediate superior in the service; and it pleased
the latter to look upon him also as a patron. On the other hand,
the great man did not at all consider himself Epanchin's patron.
He was always very cool to him, while taking advantage of his
ready services, and would instantly have put another in his place
if there had been the slightest reason for the change.
Another guest was an elderly, important-looking gentleman, a
distant relative of Lizabetha Prokofievna's. This gentleman was
rich, held a good position, was a great talker, and had the
reputation of being "one of the dissatisfied," though not
belonging to the dangerous sections of that class. He had the
manners, to some extent, of the English aristocracy, and some of
their tastes (especially in the matter of under-done roast beef,
harness, men-servants, etc.). He was a great friend of the
dignitary's, and Lizabetha Prokofievna, for some reason or other,
had got hold of the idea that this worthy intended at no distant
date to offer the advantages of his hand and heart to Alexandra.
Besides the elevated and more solid individuals enumerated, there
were present a few younger though not less elegant guests.
Besides Prince S. and Evgenie Pavlovitch, we must name the
eminent and fascinating Prince N.--once the vanquisher of female
hearts all over Europe. This gentleman was no longer in the first
bloom of youth--he was forty-five, but still very handsome. He
was well off, and lived, as a rule, abroad, and was noted as a
good teller of stories. Then came a few guests belonging to a
lower stratum of society--people who, like the Epanchins
themselves, moved only occasionally in this exalted sphere. The
Epanchins liked to draft among their more elevated guests a few
picked representatives of this lower stratum, and Lizabetha
Prokofievna received much praise for this practice, which proved,
her friends said, that she was a woman of tact. The Epanchins
prided themselves upon the good opinion people held of them.
One of the representatives of the middle-class present today was
a colonel of engineers, a very serious man and a great friend of
Prince S., who had introduced him to the Epanchins. He was
extremely silent in society, and displayed on the forefinger of
his right hand a large ring, probably bestowed upon him for
services of some sort. There was also a poet, German by name, but
a Russian poet; very presentable, and even handsome-the sort of
man one could bring into society with impunity. This gentleman
belonged to a German family of decidedly bourgeois origin, but he
had a knack of acquiring the patronage of "big-wigs," and of
retaining their favour. He had translated some great German poem
into Russian verse, and claimed to have been a friend of a famous
Russian poet, since dead. (It is strange how great a multitude of
literary people there are who have had the advantages of
friendship with some great man of their own profession who is,
unfortunately, dead.) The dignitary's wife had introduced this
worthy to the Epanchins. This lady posed as the patroness of
literary people, and she certainly had succeeded in obtaining
pensions for a few of them, thanks to her influence with those in
authority on such matters. She was a lady of weight in her own
way. Her age was about forty-five, so that she was a very young
wife for such an elderly husband as the dignitary. She had been a
beauty in her day and still loved, as many ladies of forty-five
do love, to dress a little too smartly. Her intellect was nothing
to boast of, and her literary knowledge very doubtful. Literary
patronage was, however, with her as much a mania as was the love
of gorgeous clothes. Many books and translations were dedicated
to her by her proteges, and a few of these talented individuals
had published some of their own letters to her, upon very weighty
subjects.
This, then, was the society that the prince accepted at once as
true coin, as pure gold without alloy.
It so happened, however, that on this particular evening all
these good people were in excellent humour and highly pleased
with themselves. Every one of them felt that they were doing the
Epanchins the greatest possible honour by their presence. But
alas! the prince never suspected any such subtleties! For
instance, he had no suspicion of the fact that the Epanchins,
having in their mind so important a step as the marriage of their
daughter, would never think of presuming to take it without
having previously "shown off" the proposed husband to the
dignitary--the recognized patron of the family. The latter, too,
though he would probably have received news of a great disaster
to the Epanchin family with perfect composure, would nevertheless
have considered it a personal offence if they had dared to marry
their daughter without his advice, or we might almost say, his
leave.
The amiable and undoubtedly witty Prince N. could not but feel
that he was as a sun, risen for one night only to shine upon the
Epanchin drawing-room. He accounted them immeasurably his
inferiors, and it was this feeling which caused his special
amiability and delightful ease and grace towards them. He knew
very well that he must tell some story this evening for the
edification of the company, and led up to it with the inspiration
of anticipatory triumph.
The prince, when he heard the story afterwards, felt that he had
never yet come across so wonderful a humorist, or such remarkable
brilliancy as was shown by this man; and yet if he had only known
it, this story was the oldest, stalest, and most worn-out yarn,
and every drawing-room in town was sick to death of it. It was
only in the innocent Epanchin household that it passed for a new
and brilliant tale--as a sudden and striking reminiscence of a
splendid and talented man.
Even the German poet, though as amiable as possible, felt that he
was doing the house the greatest of honours by his presence in
it.
But the prince only looked at the bright side; he did not turn
the coat and see the shabby lining.
Aglaya had not foreseen that particular calamity. She herself
looked wonderfully beautiful this evening. All three sisters were
dressed very tastefully, and their hair was done with special
care.
Aglaya sat next to Evgenie Pavlovitch, and laughed and talked to
him with an unusual display of friendliness. Evgenie himself
behaved rather more sedately than usual, probably out of respect
to the dignitary. Evgenie had been known in society for a long
while. He had appeared at the Epanchins' today with crape on his
hat, and Princess Bielokonski had commended this action on his
part. Not every society man would have worn crape for "such an
uncle." Lizabetha Prokofievna had liked it also, but was too
preoccupied to take much notice. The prince remarked that Aglaya
looked attentively at him two or three times, and seemed to be
satisfied with his behaviour.
Little by little he became very happy indeed. All his late
anxieties and apprehensions (after his conversation with
Lebedeff) now appeared like so many bad dreams--impossible, and
even laughable.
He did not speak much, only answering such questions as were put
to him, and gradually settled down into unbroken silence,
listening to what went on, and steeped in perfect satisfaction
and contentment.
Little by little a sort of inspiration, however, began to stir
within him, ready to spring into life at the right moment. When
he did begin to speak, it was accidentally, in response to a
question, and apparently without any special object.
