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The Adolescent
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Текст книги "The Adolescent"


Автор книги: Федор Достоевский



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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 45 страниц)

“And I’ll say it outright: I still can’t understand how Olya, mistrustful as she was, could have begun to listen to him then almost from the first word. What attracted us both most of all then was that he had such a serious look, stern even, he speaks softly, thoroughly, and so politely—ever so politely, even respectfully, and yet there’s no self-seeking to be seen in him: you see straight off that the man has come with a pure heart. ‘I read your advertisement in the newspaper,’ he says. ‘You didn’t write it correctly, miss,’ he says, ‘and you may even do yourself harm by it.’ And he began to explain, I confess I didn’t understand, there was something about arithmetic, only I can see Olya blushed, and became as if animated, she listens, gets into conversation so willingly (he really must be an intelligent man!), I hear how she even thanks him. He asked her about everything so thoroughly, and you could see he’d lived a long time in Moscow, and, it turned out, knew the directress of her high school personally. ‘I’m sure I’ll find lessons for you,’ he says, ‘because I have many acquaintances here and can even appeal to many influential persons, so that if you want a permanent position, then that, too, can be kept in view . . . and meanwhile,’ he says, ‘forgive me one direct question to you: may I not be of use to you right now in some way? It will not be I who give you pleasure,’ he says, ‘but, on the contrary, you who give it to me, if you allow me to be of use to you in any way at all. Let it be your debt,’ he says, ‘and once you get a position, you can pay it back to me in the shortest time. And, believe me on my honor, if I ever fell into such poverty afterwards, while you were provided with everything—I’d come straight to you for a little help, I’d send my wife and daughter . . .’ That is, I don’t remember all his words, only at this point I shed a few tears, because I saw Olya’s lips quiver with gratitude. ‘If I accept,’ she answers him, ‘it’s because I trust an honorable and humane man who could be my father . . .’ She said it to him so beautifully, briefly and nobly: ‘a humane man,’ she says. He stood up at once: ‘I’ll find lessons and a post for you without fail, without fail,’ he says, ‘I’ll busy myself with it starting today, because you have quite enough qualifications for that . . .’ And I forgot to say that at the very beginning, when he came in, he looked over all her documents from high school, she showed them to him, and he examined her in various subjects . . . ‘He examined me in some subjects, mama,’ Olya says to me later, ‘and how intelligent he is,’ she says, ‘it’s not every day you get to talk with such a developed and educated man . . .’ And she’s just beaming all over. The money, sixty roubles, is lying on the table. ‘Put it away, mama,’ she says, ‘we’ll get a post and pay it back to him first thing, we’ll prove that we’re honest, and that we’re delicate he’s already seen.’ She fell silent then, I see, she’s breathing so deeply: ‘You know, mama,’ she suddenly says to me, ‘if we were coarse people, maybe we wouldn’t have accepted it out of pride, but now that we’ve accepted it, we’ve proved our delicacy to him, showing that we trust him in everything, as a respectable, gray-haired man, isn’t it true?’ At first I didn’t understand right and said, ‘Why not accept the benevolence of a noble and wealthy man, Olya, if on top of that he’s kindhearted?’ She frowned at me: ‘No, mama,’ she says, ‘it’s not that, we don’t need his benevolence, what’s precious is his “humaneness.” And as for the money, it would even be better not to take it, mama. Since he’s promised to find me a position, that would be enough . . . though we are in need.’ ‘Well, Olya,’ I say, ‘our need is such that we simply can’t refuse’—I even smiled. Well, in myself I’m glad, only an hour later she slipped this in for me: ‘You wait, mama,’ she says, ‘and don’t spend the money.’ She said it so resolutely. ‘What?’ I say. ‘Just don’t,’ she said, broke off, and fell silent. She was silent the whole evening; only past one o’clock at night I wake up and hear Olya tossing on her bed. ‘You’re not asleep, mama?’ ‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m not.’ ‘Do you know,’ she says, ‘that he wanted to insult me?’ ‘How can you, how can you?’ I say. ‘It has to be so; he’s a mean man, don’t you dare spend one kopeck of his money.’ I tried to talk to her, I even cried a little right there in bed—she turned to the wall: ‘Be quiet,’ she says, ‘let me sleep!’ The next morning I watch her, she goes about not looking herself; and believe me or not, I’ll say it before God’s judgment seat: she wasn’t in her right mind then! Ever since they insulted her in that mean house, she got troubled in her heart . . . and in her mind. I look at her that morning and I have doubts about her; I feel frightened; I won’t contradict her, I thought, not in a single word. ‘Mama,’ she says, ‘he didn’t even leave his address.’ ‘Shame on you, Olya,’ I say, ‘you heard him yourself yesterday, you praised him yourself afterwards, you were about to weep grateful tears yourself.’ As soon as I said it, she shrieked, stamped her foot: ‘You’re a woman of mean feelings,’ she says, ‘you’re of the old upbringing on serfdom!’ . . . and despite all I said, she snatched her hat, ran out, and I shouted after her. ‘What’s the matter with her,’ I think, ‘where has she run to?’ And she ran to the address bureau, found out where Mr. Versilov lived, came back. ‘Today,’ she says, ‘right now, I’ll bring him the money and fling it in his face; he wanted to insult me,’ she says, ‘like Safronov’ (that’s our merchant); ‘only Safronov insulted me like a crude peasant, and this one like a cunning Jesuit.’ And here suddenly, as bad luck would have it, that gentleman from yesterday knocked: ‘I heard you speaking about Versilov, I can give you information.’ When she heard about Versilov, she fell on the man, totally beside herself, she talks and talks, I look at her, wondering: she’s so taciturn, she never speaks like that with anyone, and here it’s a complete stranger. Her cheeks are burning, her eyes flashing . . . And he up and says, ‘You’re perfectly right, miss,’ he says. ‘Versilov,’ he says, ‘is exactly like these generals here, that they describe in the newspapers; the general would deck himself out with all his medals and go calling on governesses who advertise in the newspapers, he’d go about and find what he wanted; and if he didn’t find what he wanted, he’d sit and talk and promise heaps of things, and go away—even so he provides himself with entertainment.’ Olya even burst out laughing, only so spitefully, and this gentleman, I see, takes her hand, puts it to his heart. ‘I, too, miss,’ he says, ‘have capital of my own, and I could always offer it to a beautiful girl, but it’s better,’ he says, ‘if I first kiss her sweet little hand . . .’ And I see him pulling her hand to kiss it. She just jumped up, but here I jumped up with her, and the two of us chased him out. Then, before evening, Olya snatched the money from me, ran out, comes back: ‘Mama,’ she says, ‘I took revenge on the dishonorable man!’ ‘Ah, Olya, Olya,’ I say, ‘maybe we’ve missed our chance, you’ve insulted a noble, benevolent man!’ I wept from vexation at her, I couldn’t help myself. She shouts at me: ‘I don’t want it,’ she shouts, ‘I don’t want it! Even if he’s the most honorable man, even then I don’t want his charity! If anybody pities me, even that I don’t want!’ I lay down, and there was nothing in my thoughts. How many times I had looked at that nail in your wall, left over from the mirror—it never occurred to me, never once occurred to me, not yesterday, not before, and I never thought of it, never dreamed of it at all, and never, ever expected it of Olya. I usually sleep soundly, I snore, it’s the blood flowing to my head, but sometimes it goes to my heart, I cry out in my sleep, so that Olya wakes me up in the night: ‘You sleep so soundly, mama,’ she says, ‘it’s even impossible to wake you up if I need to.’ ‘Oh, Olya,’ I say, ‘soundly, so soundly!’ So I must have started snoring last night, she waited a while, and then she was no longer afraid, and she got up. This long strap from the suitcase was there all the time, this whole month, I was still thinking about it yesterday morning: ‘Put it away, finally, so that it doesn’t lie about.’ And the chair she must have pushed away with her foot, and she spread her skirt beside it so that it wouldn’t make any noise. And I must have woken up long, long after, a whole hour or more. ‘Olya!’ I call, ‘Olya!’ I suspected something at once. I call her. It was either that I couldn’t hear her breathing in bed, or perhaps I made out in the darkness that her bed was empty—only I suddenly got up and felt with my hand: there was no one in the bed, and the pillow was cold. My heart just sank, I stand where I am as if senseless, my mind goes dim. ‘She went out,’ I thought—took a step, and I see her there by the bed, in the corner, near the door, as if she’s standing there herself. I stand, silent, look at her, and she also seems to be looking at me out of the darkness, without stirring . . . ‘Only why,’ I think, ‘did she get up on a chair?’ ‘Olya,’ I whisper, getting scared, ‘Olya, do you hear?’ Only suddenly it was as if it all dawned on me, I took a step, thrust both arms out, straight at her, put them around her, and she sways in my arms, I clutch her, and she sways, I understand everything, and I don’t want to understand . . . I want to cry out, but no cry comes . . . ‘Ah!’ I think. I dropped to the floor, and then I cried out . . .”

“Vasin,” I said in the morning, already past five o’clock, “if it hadn’t been for your Stebelkov, maybe this woudn’t have happened.”

“Who knows, it probably would. It’s impossible to judge like that here, it was all prepared for even without that . . . True, this Stebelkov sometimes . . .”

He didn’t finish and winced very unpleasantly. Before seven he went out again; he kept bustling about. I was finally left completely alone. Dawn had broken. My head was spinning slightly. I kept imagining Versilov; this lady’s story presented him in a totally different light. To think it over more comfortably, I lay down on Vasin’s bed, as I was, dressed and with my boots on, for a moment, with no intention of sleeping—and suddenly fell asleep. I don’t even remember how it happened. I slept for nearly four hours; nobody woke me up.


Chapter Ten

I

I WOKE UP at around half-past ten and for a long time could not believe my eyes: on the sofa where I had slept the night before sat my mother, and beside her—the unfortunate neighbor, the mother of the suicide. They were holding each other’s hands, speaking in whispers, probably so as not to wake me up, and both were weeping. I got out of bed and rushed straight to kiss mama. She beamed all over, kissed me, and crossed me three times with her right hand. We had no time to say a word: the door opened, and Versilov and Vasin came in. Mama stood up at once and took the neighbor with her. Vasin gave me his hand, but Versilov didn’t say a word to me and lowered himself into an armchair. He and mama had evidently been there for some time. His face was somber and preoccupied.

“I regret most of all,” he began saying measuredly to Vasin, obviously continuing a conversation already begun, “that I didn’t manage to settle it last evening, and—surely this dreadful thing wouldn’t have come about! And there was time enough: it wasn’t eight o’clock yet. As soon as she ran away from us last night, I at once resolved mentally to follow her here and reassure her, but this unforeseen and urgent matter, which, however, I could very well have put off until today . . . or even for a week—this vexatious matter hindered and ruined everything. That things should come together like that!”

“But maybe you wouldn’t have managed to reassure her; even without you, it seems a lot was seething and smoldering there,” Vasin remarked in passing.

“No, I’d have managed, I’d surely have managed. And the thought occurred to me of sending Sofya Andreevna in my place. It flashed, but only flashed. Sofya Andreevna alone would have won her over, and the unfortunate girl would have remained alive. No, never again will I meddle . . . with ‘good deeds’ . . . Just once in my life I tried meddling! And here I’m thinking that I haven’t lagged behind your generation and understand contemporary youth. Yes, our old folk grow old almost before they mature. Incidentally, there are actually an awful lot of people nowadays who, out of habit, still consider themselves the younger generation, because yesterday they still were, and they don’t notice that they’re already verbannte.” 30

“A misunderstanding occurred here, all too clear a misunderstanding,” Vasin observed sensibly. “Her mother says that after the cruel insult in the public house, it was as if she lost her mind. Add to that the surroundings, the original insult from the merchant . . . all this could have happened in the same way in former times, and I don’t think it’s in any way especially characteristic of present-day youth.”

“They’re a bit impatient, these present-day youth, and besides, naturally, there’s little understanding of actualities, which, though it’s characteristic of any youth at any time, is somehow especially so of our youth . . . Tell me, and what mischief did Mr. Stebelkov do here?”

“Mr. Stebelkov,” I suddenly cut in, “is the cause of it all. If it hadn’t been for him, nothing would have happened; he poured oil on the fire.”

Versilov listened, but he didn’t look at me. Vasin frowned.

“I also reproach myself for one ridiculous circumstance,” Versilov went on unhurriedly and drawing the words out as before. “It seems that I, as is my nasty habit, allowed myself a certain sort of merriment then, this light-minded little laugh—in short, I was insufficiently sharp, dry, and gloomy, three qualities that seem to be of great value among the contemporary younger generation . . . In short, I gave her reasons to take me for a wandering Céladon.” 57“Quite the contrary,” I again cut in abruptly, “her mother affirms in particular that you made an excellent impression precisely by your seriousness, sternness even, sincerity—her own words. The deceased girl praised you for it after you left.”

“D-did she?” Versilov mumbled, giving me a fleeting glance at last. “Take this scrap of paper, it’s necessary to the case”—he handed a tiny bit of paper to Vasin. The latter took it and, seeing that I was looking with curiosity, gave it to me to read. It was a note, two uneven lines scrawled with a pencil and maybe in the dark.

“Mama dear, forgive me for having stopped my life’s debut. Your distressing Olya.”

“It was found only in the morning,” Vasin explained.

“What a strange note!” I exclaimed in astonishment.

“Strange in what way?” asked Vasin.

“How can one write in humorous expressions at such a moment?”

Vasin looked at me questioningly.

“And the humor’s strange,” I went on, “the conventional high-school language among schoolmates . . . Well, at such a moment and in such a note to an unfortunate mother—and it turns out she did love her mother—who could write ‘stopped my life’s debut’!”

“Why can’t one write it?” Vasin still didn’t understand.

“There’s no humor here at all,” Versilov finally observed. “The expression is, of course, inappropriate, totally in the wrong tone, and indeed might have come from high-school talk or some sort of conventional language among schoolmates, as you said, or from some sort of feuilletons, but the deceased girl used it in this terrible note quite simpleheartedly and seriously.”

“That can’t be, she completed her studies and graduated with a silver medal.”

“A silver medal means nothing here. Nowadays there are many who complete their studies.”

“Down on the youth again,” Vasin smiled.

“Not in the least,” Versilov replied, getting up from his place and taking his hat. “If the present generation is not so literary, then it undoubtedly possesses . . . other virtues,” he added with extraordinary seriousness. “Besides, ‘many’ is not ‘all,’ and I don’t accuse you, for instance, of poor literary development, and you’re also still a young man.”

“Yes, and Vasin didn’t find anything wrong in ‘debut ’!” I couldn’t help observing.

Versilov silently gave Vasin his hand; the latter also seized his cap to go out with him, and shouted good-bye to me. Versilov left without noticing me. I also had no time to lose: I had at all costs to run and look for an apartment—now I needed it more than ever! Mama was no longer with the landlady, she had left and taken the neighbor with her. I went outside feeling somehow especially cheerful . . . Some new and big feeling was being born in my soul. Besides, as if on purpose, everything seemed to contribute: I ran into an opportunity remarkably quickly and found a quite suitable apartment; of this apartment later, but now I’ll finish about the main thing.

It was just getting past one o’clock when I went back to Vasin’s again for my suitcase and happened to find him at home again. Seeing me, he exclaimed with a merry and sincere air:

“How glad I am that you found me, I was just about to leave! I can tell you a fact that I believe will interest you very much.”

“I’m convinced beforehand!” I cried.

“Hah, how cheerful you look! Tell me, did you know anything about a certain letter that had been kept by Kraft and that Versilov got hold of yesterday, precisely something to do with the inheritance he won? In this letter the testator clarifies his will in a sense opposite to yesterday’s court decision. The letter was written long ago. In short, I don’t know precisely what exactly, but don’t you know something?”

“How could I not? Two days ago Kraft took me to his place just for that . . . from those gentlemen, in order to give me that letter, and yesterday I gave it to Versilov.”

“Did you? That’s what I thought. Then imagine, the business Versilov mentioned here today—which kept him from coming last evening and persuading that girl—this business came about precisely because of that letter. Last evening Versilov went straight to Prince Sokolsky’s lawyer, gave him the letter, and renounced the entire inheritance he had won. At the present moment this renunciation has already been put in legal form. Versilov isn’t giving it to them, but in this act he recognizes the full right of the princes.”

I was dumbstruck, but delighted. In reality I had been completely convinced that Versilov would destroy the letter. Moreover, though I did talk with Kraft about how it would not be noble, and though I had repeated it to myself in the tavern, and that “I had come to a pure man, not to this one”—still deeper within myself, that is, in my innermost soul, I considered that it was even impossible to act otherwise than to cross out the document completely. That is, I considered it a most ordinary matter. If I were to blame Versilov later, I’d do it only on purpose, for appearances, that is, to retain my superior position over him. But, hearing about Versilov’s great deed now, I was sincerely delighted, fully so, condemning with repentance and shame my cynicism and my indifference to virtue, and that instant, having exalted Versilov infinitely above me, I nearly embraced Vasin.

“What a man! What a man! Who else would have done that?” I exclaimed in ecstasy.

“I agree with you that a great many would not have done it . . . and that, indisputably, the act is highly disinterested . . .”

“‘But ’? . . . finish what you’re saying, Vasin, you have a ‘but’?”

“Yes, of course there’s a ‘but.’ Versilov’s act, in my opinion, is a little bit hasty and a little bit not so straightforward,” Vasin smiled.

“Not straightforward?”

“Yes. There’s something like a ‘pedestal’ here. Because in any case he could have done the same thing without hurting himself. If not half, then still, undoubtedly, a certain portion of the inheritance could go to Versilov now, too, even taking the most ticklish view of the matter, the more so as the document did not have decisive significance, and he had already won the case. That is the opinion held by the lawyer of the opposite side; I’ve just spoken with him. The act would remain no less handsome, but owing solely to a whim of pride it has happened otherwise. Above all, Mr. Versilov became overexcited and—needlessly over-hasty. He said himself today that he could have put it off for a whole week . . .”

“You know what, Vasin? I can’t help agreeing with you, but . . . I like it better this way! It pleases me better this way!”

“Anyhow, it’s a matter of taste. You challenged me yourself; I would have kept silent.”

“Even if there is a ‘pedestal’ here, that’s all the better,” I went on. “A pedestal’s a pedestal, but in itself it’s a very valuable thing. This ‘pedestal’ is the same old ‘ideal,’ and it’s hardly better that it’s missing from some present-day souls. Let it be, even with a slight deformity! And surely you think so yourself, Vasin, my dear heart Vasin, my darling Vasin! In short, I’ve talked my head off, of course, but you do understand me. That’s what makes you Vasin; and in any case I embrace you and kiss you, Vasin!”

“With joy?”

“With great joy! For this man ‘was dead and is alive again, was lost and is found!’ 58Vasin, I’m a trashy little brat and not worthy of you. I confess it precisely because there are some moments when I’m quite different, higher and deeper. Two days ago I praised you to your face (and praised you only because you had humiliated and crushed me), and for that I’ve hated you for two whole days! I promised myself that very night that I would never go to you, and I came to you yesterday morning only from spite, do you understand: from spite. I sat here on a chair alone and criticized your room, and you, and each of your books, and your landlady, trying to humiliate you and laugh at you . . .”

“You shouldn’t be saying this . . .”

“Yesterday evening, concluding from one of your phrases that you didn’t understand women, I was glad to have been able to catch you in that. Earlier today, catching you on the ‘debut,’ I was again terribly glad, and all because I myself had praised you the other time . . .”

“Why, how could it be otherwise!” Vasin finally cried (he still went on smiling, not surprised at me in the least). “No, that’s how it always happens, with almost everybody, and even first thing; only nobody admits it, and there’s no need to, because in any case it will pass and nothing will come of it.”

“Can it be the same with everybody? Everybody’s like that? And you say it calmly? No, it’s impossible to live with such views!”

“And in your opinion:

Dearer to me than a thousand truths

Is the falsehood that exalts?” 59

“But that’s right!” I cried. “Those two lines are a sacred axiom!”

“I don’t know; I wouldn’t venture to decide whether those two lines are right or not. It must be that the truth, as always, lies somewhere in between; that is, in one case it’s a sacred truth, in another it’s a lie. I only know one thing for certain: that this thought will remain for a long time one of the chief points of dispute among people. In any case, I notice that you now want to dance. So, dance then: exercise is good for you, and I’ve had an awful lot of work piled on me all at once this morning . . . and I’m late because of you!”

“I’m going, I’m going, I’m off! Only one word,” I cried, seizing my suitcase. “If I just ‘threw myself on your neck’ again, it’s solely because when I came in, you told me about this fact with such genuine pleasure and ‘were glad’ that I came in time to find you here, and that after yesterday’s ‘debut’; by that genuine pleasure you all at once turned my ‘young heart’ in your favor again. Well, good-bye, good-bye, I’ll try to stay away for as long as possible, and I know that will be extremely agreeable to you, as I see even by your eyes, and it will even be profitable for both of us . . .”

Babbling like this and nearly spluttering from my joyful babble, I dragged my suitcase out and went with it to my apartment. I was, above all, terribly pleased that Versilov had been so unquestionably angry with me earlier, had not wanted to speak or look. Having transported my suitcase, I immediately flew to my old prince. I confess, it had even been somewhat hard for me those two days without him. And he had surely already heard about Versilov.

II

I JUST KNEW he’d be terribly glad to see me, and I swear I’d have called on him today even without Versilov. I was only frightened, yesterday and today, at the thought that I might somehow meet Katerina Nikolaevna; but now I no longer feared anything.

He embraced me joyfully.

“And Versilov? Have you heard?” I began straight off with the main thing.

“Cher enfant, my dear friend, it’s so sublime, it’s so noble—in short, even Kilyan” (that clerk downstairs) “was tremendously impressed! It’s not sensible on his part, but it’s brilliant, it’s a great deed! We must value the ideal!”

“Isn’t it true? Isn’t it true? You and I always agreed about that.”

“My dear, you and I have always agreed. Where have you been? I absolutely wanted to go to you myself, but I didn’t know where to find you . . . Because all the same I couldn’t go to Versilov . . . Though now, after all this . . . You know, my friend, it was with this, it seems, that he used to win women over, with these features, there’s no doubt of it . . .”

“By the way, before I forget, I’ve saved this precisely for you. Yesterday one most unworthy buffoon, denouncing Versilov to my face, said of him that he’s a ‘women’s prophet’; what an expression, eh? the expression itself? I saved it for you . . .”

“A ‘women’s prophet’! Mais . . . c’est charmant! 31Ha, ha! But it suits him so well, that is, it doesn’t suit him at all—pah! . . . But it’s so apt . . . that is, it’s not apt at all, but . . .”

“Never mind, never mind, don’t be embarrassed, look at it just as a bon mot!”

“A splendid bon mot, and, you know, it has a most profound meaning . . . a perfectly right idea! That is, would you believe . . . In short, I’ll tell you a tiny secret. Did you notice that Olympiada? Would you believe it, her heart aches a little for Andrei Petrovich, and to the point that she even seems to be nurturing some . . .”

“Nurturing! How would she like this?” I cried out, making a fig 60in my indignation.

“Mon cher, don’t shout, it’s just so, and perhaps you’re right from your point of view. By the way, my friend, what was it that happened to you last time in front of Katerina Nikolaevna? You were reeling . . . I thought you were going to fall down and was about to rush to support you.”

“Of that some other time. Well, in short, I simply got embarrassed for a certain reason . . .”

“You’re blushing even now.”

“Well, and you have to go smearing it around at once. You know there’s hostility between her and Versilov . . . well, and all that, well, and so I got excited: eh, let’s drop it, another time!”

“Let’s drop it, let’s drop it, I’m glad to drop it myself . . . In short, I’m extremely guilty before her, and, remember, I even murmured in front of you then . . . Forget it, my friend; she’ll also change her opinion of you, I have a real presentiment . . . But here’s Prince Seryozha!”

A young and handsome officer came in. I looked at him greedily, I had never seen him before. That is, I say handsome, just as everybody said it of him, yet there was something in that young and handsome face that was not entirely attractive. I precisely note this as the impression of the very first moment, of my first glance at him, which remained in me ever after. He was lean, of a fine height, dark blond, with a fresh face, though slightly yellowish, and with a resolute gaze. His fine dark eyes had a somewhat stern look, even when he was quite calm. But his resolute gaze precisely repelled one, because one felt for some reason that this resoluteness cost him all too little. However, I don’t know how to put it . . . Of course, his face was able to turn suddenly from a stern to a surprisingly gentle, meek, and tender expression, the transformation being, above all, unquestionably simplehearted. And this simpleheartedness was attractive. I’ll note another feature: despite the gentleness and simpleheartedness, this face never showed mirth; even when the prince laughed with all his heart, you still felt as if there was never any genuine, bright, easy mirth in his heart . . . However, it’s extremely hard to describe a face like his. I’m quite incapable of it. The old prince straightaway rushed to introduce us, as was his stupid habit.

“This is my young friend, Arkady Andreevich Dolgoruky” (again that “Andreevich”!).

The young prince turned to me at once with a doubly polite expression on his face, but it was clear that my name was totally unknown to him.

“He’s . . . a relation of Andrei Petrovich,” my vexatious prince murmured. (How vexatious these little old men sometimes are with their habits!) The young prince caught on at once.

“Ah! I heard so long ago . . .” he said quickly. “I had the great pleasure of making the acquaintance of your sister, Lizaveta Makarovna, last year in Luga . . . She also spoke to me about you . . .”

I was even surprised: a decidedly sincere pleasure shone in his face.

“Excuse me, Prince,” I babbled, putting both hands behind my back, “I must tell you sincerely—and I’m glad to be speaking before our dear prince—that I even wished to meet you, and wished it still recently, only yesterday, but with an entirely different intent. I say it directly, however surprised you may be. In short, I wanted to challenge you for insulting Versilov a year and a half ago in Ems. And though you, of course, might not accept my challenge, because I’m only a high-school boy and an underage adolescent, nevertheless, I would make the challenge anyway, however you might take it and whatever you might do . . . and, I confess, I’m still of the same intent.”

The old prince told me afterwards that I had managed to say it extremely nobly.


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