Текст книги "The Idiot"

Автор книги: Федор Достоевский

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"You're lying, my dear, as usual, you never carried her in your arms," she snapped at him indignantly.

"You've forgotten, maman,he really did, in Tver," Aglaya suddenly confirmed. "We lived in Tver then. I was six years old, I remember. He made me a bow and arrow, and taught me how to shoot, and I killed a pigeon. Remember, you and I killed a pigeon together?"

"And he brought me a cardboard helmet and a wooden sword then, and I remember it!" Adelaida cried out.

"I remember it, too," Alexandra confirmed. "You all quarreled then over the wounded pigeon and were made to stand in the corner; Adelaida stood like this in the helmet and with the sword."

The general, in announcing to Aglaya that he had carried her in his arms, had said it just so,only in order to start a conversation, and solely because he almost always started a conversation with young people in that way, if he found it necessary to make their acquaintance. But this time it so happened, as if by design, that he had told the truth and, as if by design, had forgotten that truth himself. So that now, when Aglaya suddenly confirmed that the two of them had shot a pigeon together, his memory suddenly lit up, and he remembered it all himself, to the last detail, as an old person often remembers something from the distant past. It is hard

*Intruder, outsider, or impostor.

to say what in this memory could have had such a strong effect on the poor and, as usual, slightly tipsy general; but he was suddenly extraordinarily moved.

"I remember, I remember it all!" he cried. "I was a staff-captain then. You were such a tiny, pretty little girl. Nina Alexandrovna . . . Ganya ... I was received ... in your house. Ivan Fyodorovich . . ."

"And see what you've come to now!" Mrs. Epanchin picked up. "Which means that all the same you haven't drunk up your noble feelings, since it affects you so! But you've worn out your wife. Instead of looking after your children, you've been sitting in debtors' prison. Leave us, my dear, go somewhere, stand in a corner behind a door and have a good cry, remembering your former innocence, and perhaps God will forgive you. Go, go, I'm telling you seriously. There's nothing better for mending your ways than recalling the past in repentance."

But there was no need to repeat that she was speaking seriously: the general, like all constantly tippling people, was very sentimental, and, like all tippling people who have sunk too low, he could not easily bear memories from the happy past. He got up and humbly walked to the door, so that Lizaveta Prokofyevna felt sorry for him at once.

"Ardalion Alexandrych, my dear!" she called out behind him. "Wait a minute! We're all sinners; when you're feeling less remorse of conscience, come and see me, we'll sit and talk about old times. I myself may well be fifty times more of a sinner than you are; well, good-bye now, go, there's no point in your . . ." She was suddenly afraid that he might come back.

"Don't follow him for now," the prince stopped Kolya, who had made as if to run after his father. "Or else he'll get vexed after a moment, and the whole moment will be spoiled."

"That's true, let him be; go in half an hour," Lizaveta Prokofyevna decided.

"That's what it means to tell the truth for once in your life– it moved him to tears!" Lebedev ventured to paste in.

"Well, and you must be a fine one, too, my dear, if what I've heard is true," Lizaveta Prokofyevna pulled him up short at once.

The mutual position of all the guests gathered at the prince's gradually defined itself. The prince, naturally, was able to appreciate and did appreciate the full extent of the concern shown for him by Mrs. Epanchin and her daughters and, of course, told them frankly that he himself, before their visit, had intended to call on them

today without fail, despite his illness and the late hour. Lizaveta Prokofyevna, glancing at his guests, replied that this wish could be realized even now. Ptitsyn, a courteous and extremely accommodating young man, very soon got up and withdrew to Lebedev's wing, hoping very much to take Lebedev himself along with him. The latter promised to follow him soon; meanwhile Varya fell to talking with the girls and stayed. She and Ganya were very glad of the general's departure; Ganya himself also soon followed Ptitsyn out. During the few minutes he had spent on the terrace with the Epanchins, he had behaved modestly, with dignity, and had not been taken aback in the least by the determined glances of Lizaveta Prokofyevna, who had twice looked him up and down. Actually, those who had known him before might have thought him quite changed. That pleased Aglaya very much.

"Was it Gavrila Ardalionovich who just left?" she suddenly asked, as she sometimes liked to do, loudly, sharply, interrupting other people's conversation with her question, and not addressing anyone personally.

"Yes, it was," replied the prince.

"I barely recognized him. He's quite changed and . . . greatly for the better."

"I'm very glad for him," said the prince.

"He was very ill," Varya added with joyful sympathy.

"How is he changed for the better?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna asked in irascible perplexity and all but frightened. "Where do you get that? There's nothing better. What precisely seems better to you?"

"There's nothing better than 'the poor knight'!" proclaimed Kolya, who had been standing all the while by Lizaveta Prokofyevna's chair.

"I think the same myself," Prince Shch. said and laughed.

"I'm of exactly the same opinion," Adelaida proclaimed solemnly.

"What 'poor knight'?" Mrs. Epanchin asked, looking around in perplexity and vexation at all the speakers, but, seeing that Aglaya had blushed, she added testily: "Some sort of nonsense! What is this 'poor knight'?"

"As if it's the first time this brat, your favorite, has twisted other people's words!" Aglaya replied with haughty indignation.

In each of Aglaya's wrathful outbursts (and she was often wrathful), almost each time, despite all her ostensible seriousness and implacability, there showed so much that was still childish, impatiently schoolgirlish and poorly concealed, that it was sometimes

quite impossible to look at her without laughing, to the great vexation of Aglaya, incidentally, who could not understand why they laughed and "how could they, how dared they laugh." Now, too, the sisters laughed, as did Prince Shch., and even Prince Lev Nikolaevich himself smiled, and for some reason also blushed. Kolya laughed loudly and triumphantly. Aglaya turned seriously angry and became twice as pretty. Her embarrassment, and her vexation with herself for this embarrassment, were extremely becoming to her.

"As if he hasn't twisted enough words of yours," she added.

"I base myself on your own exclamation!" Kolya cried. "A month ago you were looking through Don Quixoteand exclaimed those words, that there is nothing better than the 'poor knight.' I don't know who you were talking about then—Don Quixote, Evgeny Pavlych, or some other person—but only that you were speaking about someone, and the conversation went on for a long time . . ."

"I see, dear boy, that you allow yourself too much with your guesses," Lizaveta Prokofyevna stopped him with vexation.

"Am I the only one?" Kolya would not keep still. "Everybody was talking then, and they still do; just now Prince Shch. and Adelaida Ivanovna, and everybody said they were for the 'poor knight,' which means that this 'poor knight' exists and is completely real, and in my opinion, if it weren't for Adelaida Ivanovna, we'd all have known long ago who the 'poor knight' is."

"What did I do wrong?" Adelaida laughed.

"You didn't want to draw his portrait—that's what! Aglaya Ivanovna asked you then to draw a portrait of the 'poor knight' and even told you the whole subject for a painting she had thought up, don't you remember the subject? You didn't want to . . ."

"How could I paint it, and whom? The subject says about this 'poor knight':

From his face the visor He ne'er raised for anyone.

What sort of face could it be, then? What should I paint—a visor? An anonymity?"

"I don't understand anything, what's this about a visor?" Mrs. Epanchin was growing vexed and beginning to have a very good idea of who was meant by the name (probably agreed upon long ago) of the "poor knight." But she exploded particularly when Prince Lev Nikolaevich also became embarrassed and finally as

abashed as a ten-year-old boy. "Will there be no end to this foolishness? Are you going to explain this 'poor knight' to me or not? Is there some terrible secret in it that I can't even go near?"

But they all just went on laughing.

"Quite simply, there's a strange Russian poem," Prince Shch. finally mixed in, obviously wishing to hush things up quickly and change the subject, "about a 'poor knight,' a fragment with no beginning or end. ²⁸Once, about a month ago, we were all laughing together after dinner and, as usual, suggesting a subject for Adelaida Ivanovna's future painting. You know that our common family task has long consisted in finding subjects for Adelaida Ivanovna's paintings. It was then that we hit upon the 'poor knight,' I don't remember who first . . ."

"Aglaya Ivanovna!" cried Kolya.

"That may be, I agree, only I don't remember," Prince Shch. went on. "Some laughed at this subject, others declared that nothing could be loftier, but in order to portray the 'poor knight' there had in any case to be a face. We began going through the faces of all our acquaintances, but none was suitable, and the matter ended there; that's all; I don't understand why Nikolai Ardalionovich suddenly thought of bringing it all up again. What was funny once, and appropriate, is quite uninteresting now."

"Because there's some new sort of foolishness implied in it, sarcastic and offensive," Lizaveta Prokofyevna snapped.

"There isn't any foolishness, only the deepest respect," Aglaya suddenly declared quite unexpectedly in a grave and serious voice, having managed to recover completely and overcome her former embarrassment. Moreover, by certain tokens it could be supposed, looking at her, that she herself was now glad that the joke had gone further and further, and that this turnabout had occurred in her precisely at the moment when the prince's embarrassment, which was increasing more and more and reaching an extreme degree, had become all too noticeable.

"First they laugh dementedly, and then suddenly the deepest respect appears! Raving people! Why respect? Tell me right now, why does this deepest respect of yours appear so suddenly out of the blue?"

"The deepest respect because," Aglaya went on as seriously and gravely, in answer to her mother's almost spiteful question, "because this poem directly portrays a man capable of having an ideal and, second, once he has the ideal, of believing in it and, believing in

it, of blindly devoting his whole life to it. That doesn't always happen in our time. In the poem it's not said specifically what made up the ideal of the 'poor knight,' but it's clear that it was some bright image, 'an image of pure beauty,' ²⁹and instead of a scarf the enamored knight even wore a rosary around his neck. True, there's also some sort of dark, unexpressed motto, the letters A.N.., that he traced on his shield . . ."

"A.N.D.," Kolya corrected. ³⁰

"But I say A.N.., and that's how I want to say it," Aglaya interrupted with vexation. "Be that as it may, it's clear that it made no difference to this 'poor knight' who his lady was or what she might do. It was enough for him that he had chosen her and believed in her 'pure beauty,' and only then did he bow down to her forever; and the merit of it is that she might have turned out later to be a thief, but still he had to believe in her and wield the sword for her pure beauty. It seems the poet wanted to combine in one extraordinary image the whole immense conception of the medieval chivalrous platonic love of some pure and lofty knight; naturally, it's all an ideal. But in the 'poor knight' that feeling reached the ultimate degree—asceticism. It must be admitted that to be capable of such feeling means a lot and that such feelings leave a deep and, on the one hand, a very praiseworthy mark, not to mention Don Quixote. The 'poor knight' is that same Don Quixote, only a serious and not a comic one. At first I didn't understand and laughed, but now I love the 'poor knight' and, above all, respect his deeds."

So Aglaya concluded, and, looking at her, it was hard to tell whether she was speaking seriously or laughing.

"Well, he's some sort of fool, he and his deeds!" Mrs. Epanchin decided. "And you, dear girl, blathered out a whole lecture; in my opinion, it's even quite unsuitable on your part. Inadmissible, in any case. What is this poem? Recite it, you surely know it! I absolutely want to know this poem. All my life I never could stand poetry, as if I had a presentiment. For God's sake, Prince, be patient, it's clear that you and I must be patient together," she turned to Prince Lev Nikolaevich. She was very vexed.

Prince Lev Nikolaevich wanted to say something but, in his continuing embarrassment, was unable to get a word out. Only Aglaya, who had allowed herself so much in her "lecture," was not abashed in the least, she even seemed glad. She stood up at once, still as serious and grave as before, looking as though she had

prepared for it earlier and was only waiting to be asked, stepped into the middle of the terrace, and stood facing the prince, who went on sitting in his armchair. They all looked at her with a certain surprise, and nearly all of them—Prince Shch., her sisters, her mother—looked with an unpleasant feeling at this new prank she had prepared, which in any case had gone a bit too far. But it was evident that Aglaya precisely liked all this affectation with which she began the ceremony of reciting the poem. Lizaveta Prokofyevna nearly chased her back to her seat, but just at the moment when Aglaya began to declaim the well-known ballad, two new guests, talking loudly, came from the street onto the terrace. They were General Ivan Fyodorovich Epanchin and after him a young man. There was a slight stir.

VII

The young man who accompanied the general was about twenty-eight years old, tall, trim, with a handsome and intelligent face, and a bright gaze in his big, dark eyes, filled with wit and mockery. Aglaya did not even turn to look at him and went on reciting the poem, as she affectedly went on looking at the prince alone and addressing him alone. It was clear to the prince that she was doing all this with some special calculation. But the new guests at least improved his awkward position somewhat. Seeing them, he rose slightly, courteously nodded his head to the general from afar, gave a sign not to interrupt the recital, and himself managed to retreat behind the armchair, where, resting his left elbow on the back, he went on listening to the ballad, now, so to speak, in a more comfortable and less "ridiculous" position than sitting in the chair. Lizaveta Prokofyevna, for her part, waved twice with an imperious gesture to the entering men to make them stop. The prince, incidentally, was greatly interested in his new guest who accompanied the general; he guessed clearly that he was Evgeny Pavlovich Radomsky, of whom he had heard so much and had thought more than once. He was thrown off only by his civilian dress; he had heard that Evgeny Pavlovich was a military man. A mocking smile wandered over the lips of the new guest all through the recital of the poem, as if he, too, had already heard something about the "poor knight." .....

"Maybe it was he who came up with it," the prince thought to himself.

But it was quite different with Aglaya. All the initial affectation and pomposity with which she had stepped out to recite, she covered over with such seriousness and such penetration into the spirit and meaning of the poetic work, she uttered each word of the poem with such meaning, enunciated them with such lofty simplicity, that by the end of the recital she had not only attracted general attention but, by conveying the lofty spirit of the ballad, had as if partially justified the overly affected gravity with which she had so solemnly come out to the middle of the terrace. Now this gravity could be seen only as a boundless and perhaps even naïve respect for that which she had taken it upon herself to convey. Her eyes shone, and a slight, barely perceptible tremor of inspiration and rapture passed twice over her beautiful face. She recited:

Once there lived a poor knight, A silent, simple man,

Pale and grim his visage,

Bold and straight his heart.

He had a single vision

Beyond the grasp of mind,

It left a deep impression Engraved upon his heart.

From then on, soul afire, No woman would he see, Nor speak a word to any Until his dying day.

About his neck a rosary Instead of a scarf he bound, And from his face the visor He ne'er raised for anyone.

Filled with pure love ever, True to his sweet dream, A. M. D. in his own blood He traced upon his shield.

In Palestinian deserts, As over the steep cliffs,

Paladins rushed to battle Shouting their ladies' names,

Lumen coeli, sancta Rosa!He cried out, wild with zeal, And at his threat like thunder Many a Muslim fell.

Back in his distant castle, He lived a strict recluse, Ever silent, melancholy, Like one gone mad he died.

Recalling this whole moment afterwards, the prince, in extreme confusion, suffered for a long time over one question he was unable to resolve: how was it possible to unite such true, beautiful feeling with such obvious, spiteful mockery? That it was mockery he did not doubt; he clearly understood that and had reasons for it: during the recital Aglaya had allowed herself to change the letters A.M.D. to N.F.B. That it was not a mistake or a mishearing on his part he could not doubt (it was proved afterwards). In any case, Aglaya's escapade—certainly a joke, though much too sharp and light-minded—was intentional. Everyone had already been talking about (and "laughing at") the "poor knight" a month ago. And yet, for all the prince could remember, it came out that Aglaya had pronounced those letters not only without any air of joking or any sort of smile, or even any emphasis on the letters meant to reveal their hidden meaning, but, on the contrary, with such unfaltering seriousness, such innocent and naïve simplicity, that one might have thought those letters were in the ballad and it was printed that way in the book. It was as if something painful and unpleasant stung the prince. Of course, Lizaveta Prokofyevna did not understand or notice either the change of letters or the hint. General Ivan Fyodorovich understood only that poetry was being declaimed. Of the other listeners, many did understand and were surprised both at the boldness of the escapade and at its intention, but they kept silent and tried not to let anything show. But Evgeny Pavlovich (the prince was even ready to bet on it) not only understood but even tried to show that he understood: he smiled much too mockingly.

"What a delight!" Mrs. Epanchin exclaimed in genuine rapture, as soon as the recitation was over. "Whose poem is it?"

"Pushkin's, maman,don't disgrace us, it's shameful!" exclaimed Adelaida.

"I'll turn into a still worse fool here with you!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna retorted bitterly. "Disgraceful! The moment we get home, give me this poem of Pushkin's at once!"

"But I don't think we have any Pushkin."

"A couple of tattered volumes," Adelaida put in, "they've been lying about since time immemorial."

"Send someone at once to buy a copy in town, Fyodor or Alexei, on the first train—better Alexei. Aglaya, come here! Kiss me, you recite beautifully, but—if it was sincere," she added, almost in a whisper, "then I feel sorry for you; if you read it to mock him, I don't approve of your feelings, so in any case it would have been better for you not to recite it at all. Understand? Go, little miss, I'll talk more with you, but we've overstayed here."

Meanwhile the prince was greeting General Ivan Fyodorovich, and the general was introducing him to Evgeny Pavlovich Radomsky.

"I picked him up on the way, he'd just gotten off the train; he learned that I was coming here and that all of ours were here . . ."

"I learned that you, too, were here," Evgeny Pavlovich interrupted, "and since I've intended for a long time and without fail to seek not only your acquaintance but also your friendship, I did not want to lose any time. You're unwell? I've just learned . . ."

"I'm quite well and very glad to know you, I've heard a lot about you and have even spoken of you with Prince Shch.," replied Lev Nikolaevich, holding out his hand.

Mutual courtesies were exchanged, the two men shook hands and looked intently into each other's eyes. An instant later the conversation became general. The prince noticed (he now noticed everything quickly and greedily, perhaps even what was not there at all) that Evgeny Pavlovich's civilian dress produced a general and extraordinarily strong impression, so much so that all other impressions were forgotten for a time and wiped away. One might have thought that this change of costume meant something particularly important. Adelaida and Alexandra questioned Evgeny Pavlovich in perplexity. Prince Shch., his relation, did so even with great uneasiness; the general spoke almost with agitation. Aglaya alone curiously but quite calmly glanced at Evgeny Pavlovich for a moment, as if wishing merely to compare whether military or civilian dress was more becoming to him, but a moment later she

turned away and no longer looked at him. Lizaveta Prokofyevna also did not wish to ask anything, though she, too, was somewhat uneasy. To the prince it seemed that Evgeny Pavlovich might not be in her good graces.

"Surprising! Amazing!" Ivan Fyodorovich kept saying in answer to all the questions. "I refused to believe it when I met him today in Petersburg. And why so suddenly, that's the puzzle. He himself shouted first thing that there's no need to go breaking chairs." ³¹

From the ensuing conversation it turned out that Evgeny Pavlovich had already announced his resignation a long time ago; but he had spoken so unseriously each time that it had been impossible to believe him. Besides, he even spoke about serious things with such a jocular air that it was quite impossible to make him out, especially if he himself did not want to be made out.

"It's only a short-term resignation, for a few months, a year at the most," Radomsky laughed.

"But there's no need, at least insofar as I'm acquainted with your affairs," the general went on hotly.

"And what about visiting my estates? You advised me to yourself; and besides, I want to go abroad . . ."

However, they soon changed the subject; but all the same, the much too peculiar and still-continuing uneasiness, in the observant prince's opinion, went beyond the limits, and there must have been something peculiar in it.

"So the 'poor knight' is on the scene again?" Evgeny Pavlovich asked, going up to Aglaya.

To the prince's amazement, she gave him a perplexed and questioning look, as if wishing to let him know that there could be no talk of the "poor knight" between them and that she did not even understand the question.

"But it's too late, it's too late to send to town for Pushkin now, too late!" Kolya argued with Lizaveta Prokofyevna, spending his last strength. "I've told you three thousand times, it's too late."

"Yes, actually, it's too late to send to town now," Evgeny Pavlovich turned up here as well, hastening away from Aglaya. "I think the shops are closed in Petersburg, it's past eight," he confirmed, taking out his watch.

"We've gone so long without thinking of it, we can wait till tomorrow," Adelaida put in.

"And it's also improper," Kolya added, "for high-society people

to be too interested in literature. Ask Evgeny Pavlovich. Yellow charabancs with red wheels are much more proper."

"You're talking out of a book again, Kolya," observed Adelaida.

"But he never talks otherwise than out of books," Evgeny Pavlovich picked up. "He expresses himself with whole sentences from critical reviews. I've long had the pleasure of knowing Nikolai Ardalionovich's conversation, but this time he's not talking out of a book. Nikolai Ardalionovich is clearly hinting at my yellow charabanc with red wheels. Only I've already traded it, you're too late."

The prince listened to what Radomsky was saying ... It seemed to him that he bore himself handsomely, modestly, cheerfully, and he especially liked the way he talked with such perfect equality and friendliness to Kolya, who kept provoking him.

"What's that?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned to Vera, Lebedev's daughter, who stood before her holding several books of a large format, beautifully bound and nearly new.

"Pushkin," said Vera. "Our Pushkin. Papa told me to offer it to you."

"How so? How is it possible?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna was surprised.

"Not as a gift, not as a gift! I wouldn't dare!" Lebedev popped out from behind his daughter's shoulder. "For what it cost, ma'am. It's our family Pushkin, Annenkov's edition, ³²which is even impossible to find now—for what it cost, ma'am. I offer it to you with reverence, wishing to sell it and thereby satisfy the noble impatience of Your Excellency's most noble literary feelings."

"Ah, you're selling it, then I thank you. No fear of you not getting your own back. Only please do stop clowning, my dear. I've heard about you, they say you're very well read, we must have a talk some day; will you bring them home for me yourself?"

"With reverence and . . . deference!" Lebedev, extraordinarily pleased, went on clowning, snatching the books from his daughter.

"Well, just don't lose them on me, bring them without deference if you like, but only on one condition," she added, looking him over intently. "I'll let you come as far as the threshold, but I have no intention of receiving you today. Your daughter Vera you may send right now, though, I like her very much."

"Why don't you tell him about those men?" Vera asked her father impatiently. "They'll come in by themselves if you don't: they're already making noise. Lev Nikolaevich," she turned to the

prince, who had already picked up his hat, "some people came to see you quite a while ago now, four men, they're waiting in our part and they're angry, but papa won't let them see you."

"What sort of visitors?" asked the prince.

"On business, they say, only they're the kind that, if you don't let them in now, they'll stop you on your way. Better to let them in now, Lev Nikolaevich, and get them off your neck. Gavrila Ardalionovich and Ptitsyn are trying to talk sense into them, but they won't listen."

"Pavlishchev's son! Pavlishchev's son! Not worth it, not worth it!" Lebedev waved his arms. "It's not worth listening to them, sir; and it's not proper for you, illustrious Prince, to trouble yourself for them. That's right, sir. They're not worth it . . ."

"Pavlishchev's son! My God!" cried the prince in extreme embarrassment. "I know . . . but I ... I entrusted that affair to Gavrila Ardalionovich. Gavrila Ardalionovich just told me . . ."

But Gavrila Ardalionovich had already come out to the terrace; Ptitsyn followed him. In the nearest room noise could be heard, and the loud voice of General Ivolgin, as if he were trying to outshout several other voices. Kolya ran at once to where the noise was.

"That's very interesting," Evgeny Pavlovich observed aloud.

"So he knows about it!" thought the prince.

"What Pavlishchev's son? And . . . how can there be any Pavlishchev's son?" General Ivan Fyodorovich asked in perplexity, looking around curiously at all the faces and noticing with astonishment that this new story was unknown to him alone.

Indeed, the excitement and expectation were universal. The prince was deeply astonished that an affair so completely personal to himself could manage to interest everyone there so strongly.

"It would be very good if you ended this affair at once and yourself,"said Aglaya, going up to the prince with some sort of special seriousness, "and let us all be your witnesses. They want to besmirch you, Prince, you must triumphantly vindicate yourself, and I'm terribly glad for you beforehand."

"I also want this vile claim to be ended finally," Mrs. Epanchin cried. "Give it to them good, Prince, don't spare them! I've had my ears stuffed with this affair, and there's a lot of bad blood in me on account of you. Besides, it will be curious to have a look. Call them out, and we'll sit here. Aglaya's idea was a good one. Have you heard anything about this, Prince?" she turned to Prince Shch.

"Of course I have, in your own house. But I'd especially like to have a look at these young men," Prince Shch. replied.

"These are those nihilists, ³³aren't they?"

"No, ma'am, they're not really nihilists," Lebedev, who was also all but trembling with excitement, stepped forward. "They're different, ma'am, they're special, my nephew says they've gone further than the nihilists. You mustn't think to embarrass them with your witnessing, Your Excellency; they won't be embarrassed. Nihilists are still sometimes knowledgeable people, even learned ones, but these have gone further, ma'am, because first of all they're practical. This is essentially a sort of consequence of nihilism, though not in a direct way, but by hearsay and indirectly, and they don't announce themselves in some sort of little newspaper article, but directly in practice, ma'am; it's no longer a matter, for instance, of the meaninglessness of some Pushkin or other, or, for instance, the necessity of dividing Russia up into parts; no, ma'am, it's now considered a man's right, if he wants something very much, not to stop at any obstacle, even if he has to do in eight persons to that end. But all the same, Prince, I wouldn't advise you . . ."

But the prince was already going to open the door for his visitors.