Текст книги "The Idiot"

Автор книги: Федор Достоевский

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"My dearest, my idol!" the general, all beaming with happiness, kissed her hand. (Aglaya did not withdraw it.) "So it means that you love this . . . young man? ..."

"No, no, no! I can't bear . . . your young man, I can't bear him!" Aglaya suddenly boiled over and raised her head. "And if you dare once more, papa . . . I'm saying it to you seriously; do you hear: I'm saying it seriously!"

And she indeed said it seriously: she even turned all red and her eyes shone. Her father broke off and became frightened, but Lizaveta Prokofyevna made a sign to him behind Aglaya's back, and he understood that it meant: "Don't ask questions."

"If that is how you want it, my angel, it's as you will, he's waiting

there alone; shouldn't we delicately hint to him that he should leave?"

The general in turn winked at Lizaveta Prokofyevna.

"No, no, that's quite superfluous, especially if it's 'delicate.' Go out to him; I'll come out afterwards, right away. I want to ask forgiveness of this . . . young man, because I've hurt him."

"Very much so," Ivan Fyodorovich confirmed seriously.

"Well, so ... it will be better if you all stay here and I go alone first, and you follow me right away, that same second; that will be better."

She had already reached the door, but suddenly she came back.

"I'll burst out laughing! I'll die of laughter!" she announced ruefully.

But that same second she turned and ran to the prince.

"Well, what is it? What do you think?" Ivan Fyodorovich said hastily.

"I'm afraid even to say," Lizaveta Prokofyevna replied, also hastily, "but I think it's clear."

"I, too, think it's clear. Clear as day. She loves him."

"Not just loves him, she's in love with him!" Alexandra Ivanovna echoed. "Only I wonder what for?"

"God bless her, if such is her fate!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna piously crossed herself.

"It means it's fate," the general confirmed, "there's no escaping fate!"

And they all went to the drawing room, but there another surprise awaited them.

Aglaya not only did not burst out laughing, as she feared, when she walked up to the prince, but she said to him even almost timidly:

"Forgive a foolish, bad, spoiled girl" (she took his hand), "and be assured that we all have boundless respect for you. And if I dared to make a mockery of your beautiful . . . kind simple-heartedness, then forgive me as you would a child for a prank; forgive me that I insisted on an absurdity which, of course, cannot have the least consequences . . ."

Aglaya uttered these last words with special emphasis.

Father, mother, and sisters all arrived in the drawing room in time to see and hear everything, and they were all struck by the "absurdity which, of course, cannot have the least consequences,"

and still more by the serious air with which Aglaya spoke of this absurdity. They all exchanged questioning glances; but the prince, it seemed, did not understand these words and was in the highest degree of happiness.

"Why do you speak like that," he murmured, "why do you . . . ask . . . forgiveness . . ."

He was even going to say that he was unworthy of having anyone ask his forgiveness. Who knows, perhaps he did notice the meaning of the words about the "absurdity which cannot have the least consequences," but, as a strange man, he may even have been glad of those words. Unquestionably, for him the height of bliss was the fact alone that he could again visit Aglaya without hindrance, that he would be allowed to talk with her, sit with her, walk with her, and, who knows, perhaps that alone would have contented him for the rest of his life! (It was this contentment, it seems, that Lizaveta Prokofyevna was secretly afraid of; she had divined it; she secretly feared many things that she did not even know how to express.)

It is hard to describe how animated and encouraged the prince became that evening. He was so merry that one became merry just looking at him—so Aglaya's sisters put it afterwards. He talked a great deal, and that had not happened to him since the very morning, six months earlier, when he had first made the acquaintance of the Epanchins; on his return to Petersburg, he had been noticeably and intentionally silent, and very recently, in front of everyone, had let slip to Prince Shch. that he had to restrain himself and keep silent, because he had no right to humiliate a thought by stating it. He was almost the only one who spoke all that evening, telling many stories; he answered questions clearly, gladly, and in detail. However, nothing resembling polite conversation showed in his words. The thoughts were all quite serious, sometimes even quite abstruse. The prince even stated some of his own views, his own private observations, so that it would all even have been ridiculous, if it had not been so "well stated," as all the listeners agreed afterwards. Though the general loved serious topics of conversation, both he and Lizaveta Prokofyevna personally found that there was too much learning, so that by the end of the evening they even began to feel sad. However, in the end the prince went so far as to tell several very funny anecdotes, at which he was the first to laugh, so that the others laughed more at his joyful laughter than at the anecdotes themselves. As for Aglaya,

she hardly even spoke all evening; instead, she listened to Lev Nikolaevich, without tearing herself away, and even did not so much listen to him as look at him.

"She just looks at him, can't take her eyes away; hangs on his every little word; snatches at it, snatches at it!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna said later to her husband. "But tell her she loves him, and God save us all!"

"No help for it—it's fate!" the general shrugged his shoulders and for a long time went on repeating this little phrase that had caught his fancy. We shall add that, as a practical man, he also found much in the present state of all these things that displeased him greatly—above all the indefiniteness of the situation; but for the time being he also decided to keep silent and look . . . into Lizaveta Prokofyevna's eyes.

The family's joyful mood did not last long. The very next day Aglaya again quarreled with the prince, and so it went on incessantly, during all the days that followed. She would spend hours at a time making fun of the prince and all but turning him into a buffoon. True, they sometimes spent an hour or two sitting in the garden, in the gazebo, but it was noticed that at those times the prince almost always read the newspapers or some book to Aglaya.

"You know," Aglaya once said to him, interrupting the newspaper, "I've noticed that you are terribly uneducated; you don't know anything properly, if somebody asks you: neither precisely who, nor in what year, nor in what article. You're quite pathetic."

"I told you that I have little learning," the prince replied.

"What do you amount to after that? How can I respect you after that? Keep reading; or, no, stop reading, there's no need to."

And again that same evening there was a glimpse of something very mysterious on her part. Prince Shch. returned. Aglaya was very nice to him, asked many questions about Evgeny Pavlovich. (Prince Lev Nikolaevich had not arrived yet.) Suddenly Prince Shch. somehow permitted himself to allude to "the near and new change in the family," in response to a few words that Lizaveta Prokofyevna let drop about possibly having to postpone Adelaida's wedding again, so as to have both weddings take place together. It was impossible even to imagine how Aglaya flared up at "all these stupid suppositions"; and, among other things, the words escaped her that "she still had no intention of replacing anyone's mistresses."

These words struck everyone, but the parents most of all.

Lizaveta Prokofyevna, in a secret consultation with her husband, insisted on having a decisive talk with the prince concerning Nastasya Filippovna.

Ivan Fyodorovich swore that it was all only an "outburst," which came from Aglaya's "modesty"; that if Prince Shch. had not begun speaking about the wedding, there would have been no such outburst, because Aglaya herself knew, knew for certain, that it was all the slander of unkind people and that Nastasya Filippovna was going to marry Rogozhin; that the prince counted for nothing at all here, not only in any liaison; and even never had counted, if the whole truth were to be told.

But all the same the prince was not embarrassed by anything and went on being blissful. Oh, of course, he, too, sometimes noticed something dark and impatient, as it were, in Aglaya's eyes; but he believed more in something else, and the darkness vanished of itself. Once having believed, he could no longer be shaken by anything. Perhaps he was all too calm; so, at least, it seemed to Ippolit, who once chanced to meet him in the park.

"Well, wasn't it the truth I told you then, that you were in love?" he began, going up to the prince himself and stopping him. The latter gave him his hand and congratulated him on "looking well." The sick boy did seem cheerful, as is often the case with consumptives.

His purpose in going up to the prince was to say something sarcastic about his happy look, but he got thrown off at once and started talking about himself. He began to complain, complained much and long and rather incoherently.

"You wouldn't believe," he concluded, "the degree to which they are all irritable, petty, egoistic, vainglorious, ordinary; would you believe, they took me in only on the condition that I should die as soon as possible, and now everybody's furious that I don't die and, on the contrary, feel better. A comedy! I'll bet you don't believe me!"

The prince did not want to object.

"I sometimes even think of moving back to your place," Ippolit added casually. "So you, however, do not consider them capable of receiving a person with the notion that he should die without fail and as soon as possible?"

"I thought they invited you with something else in mind."

"Aha! No, you're not at all as simple as they recommend you to be! Now's not the time, or I'd reveal to you a thing or two about that Ganechka and his hopes. You're being undermined, Prince,

pitilessly undermined, and . . . it's even a pity you're so calm. But alas—you couldn't be otherwise!"

"What a thing to be pitied for!" laughed the prince. "So in your opinion I'd be happier if I worried more?"

"It's better to be unhappy, but to know,than to be happy and live ... as a fool. It seems you don't believe in the least that you have a rival and ... on that side?"

"Your words about rivalry are slightly cynical, Ippolit; I'm sorry I don't have the right to answer you. As for Gavrila Ardalionovich, you must agree that he can't remain calm after all he has lost, if you know his affairs at least in part. It seems to me that it's better to look at it from that point of view. He still has time to change; he has a long life ahead of him, and life is rich . . . but anyhow . . . anyhow," the prince was suddenly at a loss, "as for the undermining ... I don't even understand what you're talking about; it's better if we drop this conversation, Ippolit."

"We'll drop it for a time; besides, it's impossible to do without the noble pose on your part. Yes, Prince, you'll have to touch it with your own finger in order to stop believing again, ha, ha! ²⁵And, what do you think, do you despise me very much now?"

"What for? For having suffered and for suffering more than we?"

"No, but for being unworthy of my suffering."

"If someone can suffer more, it means he's worthy of suffering more. Aglaya Ivanovna wanted to see you, when she read your 'Confession,' but . . ."

"She's putting it off. . . it's impossible for her, I understand, I understand . . ." Ippolit interrupted, as if trying to divert the conversation quickly. "By the way, they say you read all that galimatias to her out loud; it was truly written and . . . done in delirium. And I don't understand the extent to which one must be—I won't say cruel (that would be humiliating to me), but childishly vain and vengeful, to reproach me with that 'Confession' and use it against me as a weapon! Don't worry, I'm not saying that with regard to you . . ."

"But I'm sorry that you reject that notebook, Ippolit; it's sincere, and you know that even its ridiculous sides, and it has many" (Ippolit winced deeply), "are redeemed by suffering, because to admit them was also suffering and . . . perhaps took great courage. The thought that moved you certainly had a noble basis, however it may seem. The further it goes, the more clearly I see it, I swear

to you. I'm not judging you, I'm saying it in order to speak my whole mind, and I'm sorry I was silent then . . ."

Ippolit flushed. The thought occurred to him that the prince was pretending and trying to catch him; but, peering into his face, he could not help believing in his sincerity; his face brightened.

"And here I have to die all the same!" he said, and nearly added: "such a man as I!" "And imagine how your Ganechka plagues me; he thought up, in the guise of an objection, that of those who listened to my notebook, three or four might die before me! I like that! He thinks it's a consolation, ha, ha! First of all, they haven't died yet; and even if those people all died off, what sort of consolation would it be, you'll agree! He judges by himself; however, he goes further still, he now simply abuses me, saying that a respectable man dies silently in such cases, and that the whole thing was only egoism on my part! I like that! No, but what egoism on his part! What a refinement or, better to say, at the same time what an ox-like crudeness of their egoism, which all the same they are in no way able to notice in themselves! . . . Have you read, Prince, about a certain death, of a certain Stepan Glebov, in the eighteenth century? I read it by chance yesterday ..."

"What Stepan Glebov?"

"He was impaled under Peter." ²⁶

"Ah, my God, I do know! He spent fifteen hours on the stake, in the freezing cold, in his fur coat, and died with extreme magnanimity; of course, I read that . . . but what of it?"

"God grants such deaths to some people, but not to us! Maybe you think I'm incapable of dying the way Glebov did?"

"Oh, not at all," the prince was embarrassed, "I only wanted to say that you ... I mean, that it's not that you wouldn't be like Glebov, but . . . that you . . . that then you'd sooner be like . . ."

"I can guess: Osterman ²⁷and not Glebov—is that what you want to say?"

"What Osterman?" the prince was surprised.

"Osterman, the diplomat Osterman, from Peter's time," murmured Ippolit, suddenly thrown off a little. A certain perplexity followed.

"Oh, n-n-no! That's not what I wanted to say," the prince drew out after some silence. "It seems to me you could . . . never be an Osterman . . ."

Ippolit frowned. "However, the reason I maintain that," the prince suddenly

picked up, obviously wishing to correct himself, "is because people back then (I swear to you, it has always struck me) were not at all the same sort of people as we are now, not the same breed as now, in our time, ²⁸really, like a different species ... At that time people were somehow of one idea, while now they're more nervous, more developed, sensitive, somehow of two or three ideas at once . . . today's man is broader—and, I swear, that's what keeps him from being such a monolithic man as in those times ... I ... I said it solely with that in mind, and not..."

"I understand; to make up for the naivety with which you disagreed with me, you are now foisting your consolations on me, ha, ha! You're a perfect child, Prince! However, I notice that you keep treating me like ... a porcelain cup . . . Never mind, never mind, I'm not angry. In any case, we've had a very funny conversation; you're a perfect child sometimes, Prince. Know, however, that I might like to be something better than Osterman; it wouldn't be worthwhile to rise from the dead in order to be an Osterman . . . However, I see I must die as soon as possible, otherwise I, too . . . Leave me. Good-bye! Well, all right, tell me yourself, well, how, in your opinion: how will it be best for me to die? So that it will go as well as . . . more virtuously, that is? Well, speak!"

"Pass us by and forgive us our happiness!" the prince said in a low voice.

"Ha, ha, ha! Just as I thought! I certainly expected something of that sort! You, though . . . you, though . .. Well, well! Eloquent people! Good-bye, good-bye!"

VI

Varvara Ardalionovna had also informed her brother quite correctly about the evening gathering at the Epanchins' dacha, where Belokonsky was expected; guests were expected precisely that evening; but, again, the way she had put it was slightly stronger than it should have been. True, the affair had been organized too hastily and even with a certain quite unnecessary excitement, and that precisely because in this family "everything was done as no one else did it." Everything was explained by the impatience of Lizaveta Prokofyevna, "who did not wish to have any more doubts" and by the ardent throbbings of both parental hearts over the happiness of their beloved daughter. Besides,

Belokonsky was in fact leaving soon; and since her protection indeed meant much in society and since it was hoped that she would look favorably on the prince, the parents reckoned that "society" would receive Aglaya's fiancé straight from the hands of the all-powerful "old woman," and so, if there was something strange in it, under such protection it would appear much less strange. The whole thing was that the parents were simply unable to decide for themselves: "Was there anything strange in this whole affair, and if so, precisely how much? Or was there nothing strange at all?" The friendly and candid opinion of people of authority and competence would precisely be useful at the present moment, when, thanks to Aglaya, nothing had been ultimately resolved yet. In any case, the prince had sooner or later to be introduced into society, of which he had not the slightest idea. In short, the intention was to "show" him. The evening, however, was planned without ceremony; only "friends of the house" were expected, a very small number of them. Besides Princess Belokonsky, a certain lady was expected, the wife of a very important gentleman and a dignitary. Among the young men they counted perhaps only on Evgeny Pavlovich; he was to arrive escorting Belokonsky.

Of the fact that Belokonsky would be there, the prince had heard possibly some three days before the evening; of the party he learned only the day before. Naturally, he noticed the busy look of the members of the family, and even grasped, from certain allusive and preoccupied remarks made to him, that they feared for the impression he might make. But somehow all the Epanchins to a person formed the idea that he, in his simplicity, would never be able to guess that they were so worried for him. Which was why, looking at him, they all felt an inner anguish. However, he in fact ascribed almost no significance to the forthcoming event; he was concerned with something else entirely: with every hour Aglaya was becoming more capricious and gloomy—this was killing him. When he learned that Evgeny Pavlovich was also expected, he was very glad and said he had long been wanting to see him. For some reason no one liked these words; Aglaya left the room in vexation, and only late in the evening, sometime past eleven, when the prince was leaving, did she seize the chance to tell him a few words alone, as she was seeing him off.

"I wish you wouldn't come to see us all day tomorrow, but come in the evening, when these . . . guests have gathered. You know there will be guests?"

She spoke impatiently and with increased sternness; this was the first time she had spoken of this "evening." For her, too, the thought of guests was almost unbearable; everyone noticed it. She might have wanted very much to quarrel with her parents over it, but pride and modesty kept her from speaking. The prince understood at once that she, too, feared for him (and did not want to admit it), and he suddenly felt afraid himself.

"Yes, I've been invited," he replied.

She was obviously embarrassed to go on.

"Is it possible to speak with you about anything serious? At least once in your life?" she suddenly became extremely angry, not knowing why herself and not able to restrain herself.

"It's possible, and I'm listening to you; I'm very glad," the prince murmured.

Aglaya paused again for about a minute and began with obvious repugnance:

"I didn't want to argue about it with them; in certain cases they can't be brought to reason. The rules that mamansometimes goes by have always been repugnant to me. I'm not speaking of father, there's nothing to be expected from him. Mamanis, of course, a noble woman; dare to suggest something mean to her and you'll see . . . Well, but before this . . . trash—she stands in awe! I'm not speaking of this Belokonsky alone: a trashy little hag, and with a trashy character, but she's intelligent and knows how to hold them all in her hand—that, at least, is a good thing about her. Oh, meanness! And it's ridiculous: we've always been people of the middle circle, as middle as can be; why climb into that high-society circle? And my sisters, too: this Prince Shch. has got them all confused. Why are you glad that Evgeny Pavlych will come?"

"Listen, Aglaya," said the prince, "it seems to me you're very afraid for me, that I'll flunk it tomorrow ... in that company?"

"For you? Afraid?" Aglaya flared up. "Why should I be afraid for you, even if you . . . even if you disgrace yourself completely? What is it to me? And how can you use such words? What does 'flunk' mean? It's a trite, trashy word."

"It's a . . . school word."

"Ah, yes, a school word! A trashy word! You intend, apparently, to speak in such words tomorrow. Go home and pick more words like that from your lexicon: what an effect you'll make! Too bad you seem to know how to make a proper entrance; where did you

learn that? Will you be able to take a cup of tea and drink it decently, while everybody's looking at you on purpose?"

"I think I'll be able to."

"That's too bad; otherwise I'd have had a good laugh. At least break the Chinese vase in the drawing room! It's expensive: please break it; it was a gift, mama will lose her mind and cry in front of everybody—it's so precious to her. Make some gesture, the way you always do, hit it and break it. Sit next to it on purpose."

"On the contrary, I'll try to sit as far away as possible: thank you for warning me."

"So you're afraid beforehand that you'll make grand gestures. I bet you'll start discussing some 'topic,' something serious, learned, lofty? That will be . . . proper!"

"I think it would be stupid ... if it's inappropriate."

"Listen once and for all," Aglaya finally could not stand it, "if you start talking about something like capital punishment or the economic situation in Russia, or that 'beauty will save the world'. . . I'll certainly be glad and laugh very much, but . . . I'm warning you ahead of time: don't let me set eyes on you afterwards! Do you hear? I'm speaking seriously! This time I'm speaking seriously!"

She actually uttered her threat seriously,so that something extraordinary could even be heard in her words and glimpsed in her eyes, something that the prince had never noticed before and that certainly bore no resemblance to a joke.

"Well, you've made it so that now I'll be sure to 'start talking' and even . . . maybe . . . break the vase as well. I wasn't afraid of anything before, but now I'm afraid of everything. I'm sure to flunk."

"Then keep quiet. Sit there and keep quiet."

"It won't be possible; I'm sure to start talking from fear and to break the vase from fear. Maybe I'll trip on the smooth floor, or something else like that will happen, because it's happened before; I'll dream about it all night; why did you speak of it!"

Aglaya gave him a dark look.

"You know what: I'd better not come at all tomorrow! I'll report myself sick and be done with it!" he decided at last.

Aglaya stamped her foot and even turned pale with wrath.

"Lord! Have you ever seen the like! He won't come when it's purposely for him and . . . oh, God! What a pleasure to deal with such a . . . senseless man as you!"

"Well, I'll come, I'll come!" the prince hastily interrupted. "And

I give you my word of honor that I'll sit all evening without saying a word. That's what I'll do."

"Splendid. You just said you'd 'report yourself sick.' Where indeed do you get these expressions? What makes you speak with me in such words? Are you teasing me or something?"

"I'm sorry; that's also a school phrase; I'll stop. I realize very well that you're . . . afraid for me . . . (no, don't be angry!), and I'm terribly glad of it. You won't believe how afraid I am now and– how glad I am of your words. But all this fear, I swear to you, it's all pettiness and nonsense. By God, Aglaya! And the joy will remain. I like it terribly that you're such a child, such a good and kind child! Ah, how beautiful you can be, Aglaya!"

Aglaya would of course have become angry, and was just about to, but suddenly some completely unexpected feeling seized her whole soul in an instant.

"And you won't reproach me for these rude words . . . sometime . . . afterwards?" she suddenly asked.

"How can you, how can you! And why have you blushed again? And again you have this dark look! You sometimes have this dark look, Aglaya, which you never had before. I know why . . ."

"Be quiet, be quiet!"

"No, it's better to say it. I've long wanted to say it; I already have, but ... it wasn't enough, because you didn't believe me. Between us a certain being still stands . . ."

"Quiet, quiet, quiet, quiet!" Aglaya suddenly interrupted, seizing him firmly by the hand and looking at him in all but horror. At that moment someone called her; as if glad of it, she left him and ran off.

The prince was in a fever all night. Strangely, for several nights in a row he had been in a fever. This time, in half-delirium, the thought came to him: what if he should have a fit tomorrow in front of everybody? Had he not had fits in a waking state? The thought petrified him; all night he imagined himself in some odd and unheard-of company, among some strange people. The main thing was that he "started talking"; he knew that he should not be talking, yet he talked all the time, trying to convince them of something. Evgeny Pavlovich and Ippolit were also among the guests and seemed to be on extremely friendly terms.

He woke up past eight o'clock with a headache, with disordered thoughts, with strange impressions. For some reason he wanted terribly to see Rogozhin, to see him and talk a great deal with

him—about what he did not know himself; then he became fully resolved to go for some reason to see Ippolit. There was something vague in his heart, so much so that the adventures that befell him that morning made an impression on him which, while extremely strong, was still somehow incomplete. One of those adventures was a visit from Lebedev.

Lebedev appeared quite early, just after nine, and almost completely drunk. Though the prince had not been observant of late, it had somehow struck his eye that, ever since General Ivolgin moved out of his house three days ago, Lebedev had begun to behave very badly. He had suddenly become somehow very dirty and greasy, his necktie was all askew, and the collar of his frock coat was torn. At home he even raged, and it could be heard across the little yard; Vera had come once in tears and told him something about it. Having appeared now, he began speaking very strangely, beating his breast and confessing something.

"I got ... I got my requital for my treason and my meanness ... I got a slap in the face!" he finally concluded tragically.

"A slap in the face? From whom? . . . And at such an early hour?"

"Early?" Lebedev smiled sarcastically. "Time means nothing here . . . even for a physical requital . . . but I got a moral ... a moral slap, not a physical one!"

He suddenly sat down unceremoniously and began telling the story. It was very incoherent; the prince frowned and wanted to leave, but suddenly a few words struck him. He was struck dumb with astonishment . . . Mr. Lebedev had strange things to tell.

To begin with, the matter apparently had to do with some letter; the name of Aglaya Ivanovna was spoken. Then suddenly Lebedev started bitterly accusing the prince himself; it was clear that he had been offended by the prince. First, he said, the prince had honored him with his trust in dealing with a certain "personage" (Nastasya Filippovna); but then had broken with him completely and driven him away in disgrace, and even to such an offensive degree that last time he was supposed to have rudely dismissed his "innocent question about imminent changes in the house." With drunken tears Lebedev confessed that "after that he could no longer endure, the less so as he knew a great deal ... a very great deal . . . both from Rogozhin and from Nastasya Filippovna, and from Nastasya Filippovna's friend, and from Varvara Ardalionovna . . . herself, sir . . . and from . . . and even from Aglaya Ivanovna

herself, if you can imagine, sir, through Vera, sir, through my beloved daughter Vera, my only-begotten ²⁹. . . yes, sir . . . though not my only-begotten, for I have three. And who informed Lizaveta Prokofyevna by letters, and that in the deepest secret, sir, heh, heh! Who reported to her on all the relations and ... on the movements of the personage Nastasya Filippovna, heh, heh, heh! Who, who is this anonymous person, may I ask?"

"Can it be you?" cried the prince.

"Precisely," the drunkard replied with dignity, "and it was today at half-past eight, only half an hour, no, already three-quarters of an hour ago, that I notified the noblest of mothers that I had an adventure to tell her of... an important one. I sent her a note, by a maid, at the back door, sir. She received it."