Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

A strange, though still vague idea was beginning to take shape in his mind.

  Gavril Ardalionovitch was still sitting in the study absorbed in his papers. It was clear he did not receive his salary from the company for nothing. He was terribly disconcerted when the prince asked him for the portrait and told him how they had come to hear about it.

  “E-ech! What need had you to chatter about it?” he cried in angry vexation. “bu know nothing about it.... Idiot!” he muttered to himself.

  “I am sorry. I did it without thinking; it happened to come up. I said that Aglaia was almost as handsome as Nastasya Filippovna.”

  Ganya begged him to tell him exactly what had happened. Myshkin did so. Ganya looked at him sarcastically again.

  “You’ve got Nastasya Filippovna on the brain . . ,” he muttered, but paused and sank into thought.

  He was evidently upset. Myshkin reminded him of the photograph.

  “Listen, prince,” Ganya said suddenly, as though an idea had struck him. “I want to ask a great favour of you ... but I really don’t know.”

  He broke off, embarrassed. He seemed struggling with himself and trying to make up his mind. Myshkin waited in silence. Ganya scanned him once more with intent and searching eyes.

  “Prince,” he began again, “they are angry with me now ... in there . . . owing to a strange . . . and absurd incident, for which I am not to blame. In fact, there’s no need to go into it. I think they are rather vexed with me in there, so that for a time I don’t want to go in without being invited. But there is something I absolutely must say to Aglaia Ivanovna. I have written a few words, on the chance” — he held a tiny folded note in his hand— “and I don’t know how to give it to her. Won’t you take it for me and give it to her at once, but to Aglaia Ivanovna alone, so that no one sees it? bu understand? It’s no very terrible secret, nothing of that sort... but... Will you do it?”

  “I don’t quite like doing it,” answered Myshkin.

  “Oh, prince, it’s horribly important for me!” Ganya began entreating him. “She will perhaps answer. . . . Believe me, it’s only at the last extremity, at the last extremity that I could have recourse to ... By whom else could I send it? It’s very important. . . dreadfully important....”

  Ganya was terribly afraid that Myshkin would not consent, and looked in his eyes with cringing entreaty.

  “Very well, I’ll give it her.”

  “Only so that no one sees it,” Ganya besought him, delighted. “And another thing, I can rely on your word of honour, of course, prince?”

  “I won’t show it to anyone,” said Myshkin.

  “The note is not sealed, but . . .” Ganya was beginning in his anxiety, but he broke off in confusion.

  “Oh, I won’t read it,” answered Myshkin quite simply. He took the photograph and went out of the study.

  As soon as Ganya was left alone, he clutched at his head.

  “One word from her and I. . . and I will break it off, perhaps.”

  He could not settle down to his papers again for excitement and suspense, and began pacing from one corner of the room to the other.

  Myshkin pondered as he went. The task laid upon him impressed him unpleasantly. The thought of a letter from Ganya to Aglaia was unpleasant too. But when he was the length of two rooms from the drawing-room, he stopped short, as though recollecting something. He looked round, went to the window nearer to the liqht, and beqan lookinq at the portrait of Nastasya Filippovna.

  He seemed trying to decipher something that had struck him before, hidden in that face. The impression it had made had scarcely left him, and now he was in a hurry to verify it again. He was now even more struck by the face, which was extraordinary from its beauty and from something else in it. There was a look of unbounded pride and contempt, almost hatred, in that face, and at the same time something confiding, something wonderfully simple-hearted. The contrast of these two elements roused a feeling almost of compassion. Her dazzling beauty was positively unbearable — the beauty of a pale face, almost sunken cheeks and glowing eyes — a strange beauty! Myshkin gazed at it for a minute, then started suddenly, looked round him, hurriedly raised the portrait to his lips and kissed it. When he walked into the drawing-room a minute later, his face was perfectly calm.

  But he had hardly entered the dining-room (which was separated by one room from the drawing-room) when he almost ran against Aglaia, who was coming out. She was alone.

  “Gavril Ardalionovitch asked me to give you this,” said Myshkin, handing her the note.

  Aglaia stood still, took the note, and looked strangely at Myshkin. There was not the slightest embarrassment in her expression. There was only a shade of wonder in her eyes, and that seemed only in reference to Myshkin. Aglaia’s eyes seemed to ask him to account for having got mixed up in this affair with Ganya, and to ask him calmly and haughtily. They looked atone anotherfortwo or three seconds. Then something ironical seemed to come into her face; with a slight smile she walked away.

  Madame Epanchin gazed for some moments in silence, with a shade of nonchalance, at the photograph of Nastasya Filippovna, which she held affectedly at arm’s length.

  “Yes, good-looking,” she pronounced at last, “very good-looking indeed. I’ve seen her twice, only at a distance. That’s the sort of beauty you appreciate, then?” she suddenly said to Myshkin.

  “Yes, it is .. ,” answered Myshkin with some effort.

  “You mean, just that sort of beauty?”

  “Just that sort.”

  “Why?”

  “In that face . . . there is so much suffering,” answered Myshkin, as it were involuntarily speaking to himself, not in answer to her question.

  “But perhaps you are talking nonsense,” Madame Epanchin concluded, and with a haughty gesture she flung the photograph down on the table.

  Alexandra took it. Adelaida went up to her and they looked at it together. At that moment Aglaia came back into the drawing-room.

  “What power!” Adelaida cried suddenly, looking eagerly over her sister’s shoulder at the portrait.

  “Where? What power?” her mother asked sharply.

  “Such beauty is power,” said Adelaida warmly. “With beauty like that one might turn the world upside down.”

  She walked thoughtfully away to her easel. Aglaia only glanced cursorily at the portrait, screwed up her eyes, pouted, walked away and sat down clasping her hands.

  Madame Epanchin rang the bell.

  “Call Gavril Ardalionovitch here; he is in the study,” she told the servant who answered it.

  “Maman!’ cried Alexandra siqnificantlv.

  “I want to say a few words to him — that’s enough!” her mother snapped out, cutting short her protest. She was evidently irritated. “We have nothing but secrets here, prince, you see — nothing but secrets. It has to be so, it’s a sort of etiquette; it’s stupid. And in a matter which above everything needs frankness, openness and straightforwardness. There are marriages being arranged. I don’t like these marriages....”

  “Maman, what are you saying?” Alexandra again made haste to check her.

  “What is it, dear daughter? Do you like it yourself? As for the prince’s hearing it, we are friends. He and I are, anyway. God seeks men, good ones of course, but He does not want the wicked and capricious. Capricious especially, who say one thing one day and something else another. Do you understand, Alexandra Ivanovna? They say I am queer, prince, but I can tell what people are like. For the heart is the great thing, and the rest is all nonsense. One must have sense too, of course . . . perhaps sense is the great thing really. Don’t smile, Aglaia, I am not contradicting myself: a fool with a heart and no sense is just as unhappy as a fool with sense and no heart. It’s an old truth. I am a fool with a heart and no sense, and you are a fool with sense and no heart, and so we are both unhappy and miserable.”

  “What are you so unhappy about, maman?” Adelaida could not resist asking. She seemed the only one of the company who had not l
ost her good-humour.

  “Learned daughters, in the first place,” retorted her mother curtly, “and as that’s enough of itself, there’s no need to go into other causes. Words enough have been wasted. We shall see how you two (I don’t count Aglaia) will manage with your sense and your talk, and whether you will be happy with your fine gentleman, most admirable Alexandra Ivanovna. Ah!” she exclaimed, seeing Ganya enter, “here comes another matrimonial alliance. Good-day!” she said in response to Ganya’s bow, without asking him to sit down. “bu are contemplating marriage?”

  “Marriage? How? What marriage?” muttered Gavril Ardalionovitch, dumbfounded. He was terribly disconcerted.

  “Are you getting married, I ask you, if you prefer that expression?”

  “N-no . . . I. . . n-no . . .” Gavril Ardalionovitch lied, and a flush of shame overspread his face.

  He stole a glance at Aglaia who was sitting a little apart, and hurriedly looked away again. Aglaia looked coldly, intently and calmly at him, steadily watching his confusion.

  “No? You said no?” the ruthless lady persisted. “Enough. I shall remember that to-day, Wednesday morning, you have said ‘No’ in answer to my question. What is to-day — Wednesday?”

  “I think so, maman,” answered Adelaida.

  “They never know the days. What day of the month is it?”

  “The twenty-seventh,” answered Ganya.

  “The twenty-seventh. Just as well for some reasons. Good-bye. I think you’ve a great deal to do, and it’s time for me to dress and go out. Take your photograph. Give my kind regards to your unhappy mother. Good-bye for the present, dear prince. Come and see us often. I am going to see old Princess Byelokonsky on purpose to tell her about you. And listen, my dear, I believe it’s simply for my sake God has brought you to Petersburg from Switzerland. Perhaps you may have other work to do, but it was chiefly for my sake. That was just God’s design. Good-bye, dears. Alexandra, come to my room, my dear.”

  Madame Epanchin went out. Ganya, crestfallen, confused, angry, picked up the photograph from the table and turned with a wry smile to Myshkin.

  “Prince, I am just going home. If you’ve not changed your mind about boarding with us, I will take you, for you don’t even know the address.”

  “Staya little, prince,” said Aglaia, suddenly getting up from her chair. “bu must write in my album. Papa said you had a fine handwriting. I’ll bring it you directly.”

  And she went out.

  “Good-bye for the present, prince, I am going too,” said Adelaida.

  She pressed Myshkin’s hand warmly, smiling kindly and cordially to him, and went away. She did not look at Ganya.

  “That was your doing,” snarled Ganya, falling upon Myshkin as soon as every one had gone. “You’ve been babbling to them of my getting married!” he muttered in a rapid whisper, with a furious face and an angry gleam in his eyes. “bu are a shameless chatterbox!”

  “I assure you, you are mistaken,” Myshkin answered calmly and politely. “I didn’t even know you were going to be married.”

  “You heard Ivan Fyodorovitch say this morning that everything would be settled to-night at Nastasya Filippovna’s. You repeated it. bu are lying! From whom could they have found out? Damn it all, who could have told them except you? Didn’t the old woman hint it to me?”

  “You must know best who told them, if you really think they hinted at it. I haven’t said a word about it.”

  “Did you give the note? An answer?” Ganya interrupted with feverish impatience.

  But at that very moment Aglaia came back and Myshkin hadn’t time to answer.

  “Here, prince,” she said, laying the album on the table, “choose a page and write me something. Here is a pen, a new one too. You don’t mind it’s being a steel one? I hear that calligraphists never use steel pens.”

  Talking to Myshkin she seemed not to notice Ganya’s presence. But while the prince was fixing his pen, looking for a page and making ready, Ganya went up to the fireplace where Aglaia was standing, on Myshkin’s right hand. With a quavering, breaking voice he said almost in her ear:

  “One word — one word only from you and I am saved.”

  Myshkin turned round quickly and looked at them both. There was real despair in Ganya’s face; he seemed to have uttered those words in desperation without thinking. Aglaia looked at him for a few seconds with exactly the same calm wonder with which she had looked on the prince. And this calm wonder, this surprise, as though she were completely at a loss to understand what was said to her, seemed more terrible to Ganya at that moment than the most withering contempt.

  “What am I to write?” asked Myshkin.

  “I will dictate to you,” said Aglaia, turning to him. “Are you ready? Write: ‘I don’t make bargains’; then write the day and the month. Show me.”

  Myshkin handed her the album.

  “Excellent! bu’ve written it wonderfully. You have an exquisite handwritinq. Thank vou. Good-bve,

  prince. Stay,” she added, as though suddenly recollecting something. “Come along, I want to give you something for a keepsake.”

  Myshkin followed her, but in the dining-room Aglaia stood still.

  “Read this,” she said, handing him Ganya’s note.

  Myshkin took the note and looked wonderingly at Aglaia.

  “I know you haven’t read it, and that man cannot have confided in you. Read it, I want you to read it.”

  The note had evidently been written in haste.

  To-day my fate will be decided, you knowin what my. To-day I must give my word irrevocably. I have no claim on your sympathy; I dare not have any hope. But once you uttered a word — one word, and that word lighted the dark night of my life and has been my beacon ever since. Speak one such word again now and you will save me from ruin! Only say to me, “Break off everything, “and I will break it all off to-day. Oh, what will it cost you to say that! That word I only ask for as a sign of your sympathy and compassion forme. Only that-only that! Nothing more, nothing! I dare not dream of hope, fori am not worthy of it. But after a word from you I can accept my poverty again; I shall joyfully endure my hopeless lot. I shall face the struggle; I shall be glad of it; I shall rise up again with renewed strength.

  Send me that word of sympathy (only sympathy, I swear)! Do not be angry with the audacity of a desperate and drowning man for making a last effort to save himself from perdition.

  G.I.

  “This man assures me,” said Aglaia abruptly, when Myshkin had finished reading it, “that the words ‘break it all off’will not compromise me and will bind me to nothing, and gives me a written guarantee of it, as you see, in this note. Observe how naively he hastened to underline certain words, and how coarsely his secret thought shows through it. “Vfet he knows that if he broke it all off of himself, without a word from me, without even speaking of it to me, without expecting anything from me, I should have felt differently to him and perhaps might have become his friend. He knows that for a fact. But he has a dirty soul. He knows it, but can’t bring himself to it; he knows it, but still he asks for a guarantee. He can’t act on faith. He wants me to give him hope of my hand, to make up for the hundred thousand. As for my words in the past of which he speaks in his note, and which he says have lighted up his life, it’s simply an insolent lie. I merely pitied him once. But he is insolent and shameless. He at once conceived a notion that hope was possible for him. I saw it at once. Since then he has begun trying to catch me; he is trying to catch me even now. But enough. Take the note and give it back to him as soon as you are out of the house; not before, of course.”

  “And what answer am I to give him?”

  “Nothing, of course. That’s the best answer. So you are going to live in his house?”

  “Ivan Fyodorovitch himself advised me to this morning,” said Myshkin.

  “Then be on your guard with him, I warn you. He won’t forgive you for taking him back his note.”

  Aglaia pressed Myshki
n’s hand lightly and walked away. Her face was grave and frowning. She did not even smile when she bowed to him at parting.

  “I am just coming; I’ll only get my bundle,” said Myshkin to Ganya, “and we will go.”

  Ganya stamped with impatience. His face looked black with fury. At last both went out into the street, Myshkin with his bundle in his hand.

  “The answer? The answer?” cried Ganya, pouncing upon him. “What did she say to you? Did you give her the letter?”

  Myshkin gave him the note without a word. Ganya was petrified.

  “What? My letter?” he cried. “He didn’t give it to her. Ach, I might have expected it! Ach, d-d-damnation! ... I see how it was she didn’t understand just now. But how could you — how could you have failed to give it? Oh, d-damna ...”

  “Excuse me, on the contrary, I succeeded in giving your note at once, the very minute you’d given it me, and exactly as you asked me to. It’s in my hands again because Aglaia Ivanovna gave it back to me just now.”

  “When? When?”

  “As soon as I’d finished writing in her album, when she called me. bu heard her? We went into the dining-room, she gave me the note, told me to read it and to give it to you back.”

  “To read it?” Ganya shouted almost at the top of his voice. “To read it? You’ve read it?”

  And in amazement he stood stock still again in the middle of the pavement, so astounded that he positively gaped.

  “Yes, I’ve just read it.”

  “And she gave it you — gave it you herself to read? Herself?”

  “Yes; and I assure you I shouldn’t have read it unless she’d asked me to.”

  Ganya was silent for a minute, reflecting with painful effort. But suddenly he cried:

  “Impossible! She couldn’t have told you to read it. You are lying! You read it of yourself.”

  “I am speaking the truth,” answered Myshkin in the same perfectly untroubled voice, “and I assure you I am very sorry that it is so distasteful to you.”

  “But, you luckless creature, she must have said something at the time. Surely she made some answer?”

  “Yes, of course.”