"No—no—my dear girl," began the general. "You cannot proceed like this, Aglaya, if that's how the matter stands. It's impossible. Prince, forgive it, my dear fellow, but—Lizabetha Prokofievna!"—he appealed to his spouse for help—"you must really—"
"Not I—not I! I retire from all responsibility," said Lizabetha Prokofievna, with a wave of the hand.
"Allow me to speak, please, mamma," said Aglaya. "I think I ought to have something to say in the matter. An important moment of my destiny is about to be decided"—(this is how Aglaya expressed herself)—"and I wish to find out how the matter stands, for my own sake, though I am glad you are all here. Allow me to ask you, prince, since you cherish those intentions, how you consider that you will provide for my happiness?"
"I—I don't quite know how to answer your question, Aglaya Ivanovna. What is there to say to such a question? And—and must I answer?"
"I think you are rather overwhelmed and out of breath. Have a little rest, and try to recover yourself. Take a glass of water, or—but they'll give you some tea directly."
"I love you, Aglaya Ivanovna,—I love you very much. I love only you—and—please don't jest about it, for I do love you very much."
"Well, this matter is important. We are not children—we must look into it thoroughly. Now then, kindly tell me—what does your fortune consist of?"
"No—Aglaya—come, enough of this, you mustn't behave like this," said her father, in dismay.
"It's disgraceful," said Lizabetha Prokofievna in a loud whisper.
"She's mad—quite!" said Alexandra.
"Fortune—money—do you mean?" asked the prince in some surprise.
"Just so."
"I have now—let's see—I have a hundred and thirty-five thousand roubles," said the prince, blushing violently.
"Is that all, really?" said Aglaya, candidly, without the slightest show of confusion. "However, it's not so bad, especially if managed with economy. Do you intend to serve?"
"I—I intended to try for a certificate as private tutor."
"Very good. That would increase our income nicely. Have you any intention of being a Kammer-junker?"
"A Kammer-junker? I had not thought of it, but—"
But here the two sisters could restrain themselves no longer, and both of them burst into irrepressible laughter.
Adelaida had long since detected in Aglaya's features the gathering signs of an approaching storm of laughter, which she restrained with amazing self-control.
Aglaya looked menacingly at her laughing sisters, but could not contain herself any longer, and the next minute she too had burst into an irrepressible, and almost hysterical, fit of mirth. At length she jumped up, and ran out of the room.
"I knew it was all a joke!" cried Adelaida. "I felt it ever since—since the hedgehog."
"No, no! I cannot allow this,—this is a little too much," cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, exploding with rage, and she rose from her seat and followed Aglaya out of the room as quickly as she could.
The two sisters hurriedly went after her.
The prince and the general were the only two persons left in the room.
"It's—it's really—now could you have imagined anything like it, Lef Nicolaievitch?" cried the general. He was evidently so much agitated that he hardly knew what he wished to say. "Seriously now, seriously I mean—"
"I only see that Aglaya Ivanovna is laughing at me," said the poor prince, sadly.
"Wait a bit, my boy, I'll just go—you stay here, you know. But do just explain, if you can, Lef Nicolaievitch, how in the world has all this come about? And what does it all mean? You must understand, my dear fellow; I am a father, you see, and I ought to be allowed to understand the matter—do explain, I beg you!"
"I love Aglaya Ivanovna—she knows it,—and I think she must have long known it."
The general shrugged his shoulders.
"Strange—it's strange," he said, "and you love her very much?"
"Yes, very much."
"Well—it's all most strange to me. That is—my dear fellow, it is such a surprise—such a blow—that… You see, it is not your financial position (though I should not object if you were a bit richer)—I am thinking of my daughter's happiness, of course, and the thing is—are you able to give her the happiness she deserves? And then—is all this a joke on her part, or is she in earnest? I don't mean on your side, but on hers."
At this moment Alexandra's voice was heard outside the door, calling out "Papa!"
"Wait for me here, my boy—will you? Just wait and think it all over, and I'll come back directly," he said hurriedly, and made off with what looked like the rapidity of alarm in response to Alexandra's call.
He found the mother and daughter locked in one another's arms, mingling their tears.
These were the tears of joy and peace and reconciliation. Aglaya was kissing her mother's lips and cheeks and hands; they were hugging each other in the most ardent way.
"There, look at her now—Ivan Fedorovitch! Here she is—all of her! This is our REAL Aglaya at last!" said Lizabetha Prokofievna.
Aglaya raised her happy, tearful face from her mother's breast, glanced at her father, and burst out laughing. She sprang at him and hugged him too, and kissed him over and over again. She then rushed back to her mother and hid her face in the maternal bosom, and there indulged in more tears. Her mother covered her with a corner of her shawl.
"Oh, you cruel little girl! How will you treat us all next, I wonder?" she said, but she spoke with a ring of joy in her voice, and as though she breathed at last without the oppression which she had felt so long.
"Cruel?" sobbed Aglaya. "Yes, I AM cruel, and worthless, and spoiled—tell father so,—oh, here he is—I forgot Father, listen!" She laughed through her tears.
"My darling, my little idol," cried the general, kissing and fondling her hands (Aglaya did not draw them away); "so you love this young man, do you?"
"No, no, no, can't BEAR him, I can't BEAR your young man!" cried Aglaya, raising her head. "And if you dare say that ONCE more, papa—I'm serious, you know, I'm,—do you hear me—I'm serious!"
She certainly did seem to be serious enough. She had flushed up all over and her eyes were blazing.
The general felt troubled and remained silent, while Lizabetha Prokofievna telegraphed to him from behind Aglaya to ask no questions.
"If that's the case, darling—then, of course, you shall do exactly as you like. He is waiting alone downstairs. Hadn't I better hint to him gently that he can go?" The general telegraphed to Lizabetha Prokofievna in his turn.
"No, no, you needn't do anything of the sort; you mustn't hint gently at all. I'll go down myself directly. I wish to apologize to this young man, because I hurt his feelings."
"Yes, SERIOUSLY," said the general, gravely.
"Well, you'd better stay here, all of you, for a little, and I'll go down to him alone to begin with. I'll just go in and then you can follow me almost at once. That's the best way."
She had almost reached the door when she turned round again.
"I shall laugh—I know I shall; I shall die of laughing," she said, lugubriously.
However, she turned and ran down to the prince as fast as her feet could carry her.
"Well, what does it all mean? What do you make of it?" asked the general of his spouse, hurriedly.
"I hardly dare say," said Lizabetha, as hurriedly, "but I think it's as plain as anything can be."
"I think so too, as clear as day; she loves him."
"Loves him? She is head over ears in love, that's what she is," put in Alexandra.
"Well, God bless her, God bless her, if such is her destiny," said Lizabetha, crossing herself devoutly.
"H'm destiny it is," said the general, "and there's no getting out of destiny."
With these words they all moved off towards the drawing-room, where another surprise awaited them. Aglaya had not only not laughed, as she had feared, but had gone to the prince rather timidly, and said to him:
"Forgive a silly, horrid, spoilt girl"—(she took his hand here)—"and be quite assured that we all of us esteem you beyond all words. And if I dared to turn your beautiful, admirable simplicity to ridicule, forgive me as you would a little child its mischief. Forgive me all my absurdity of just now, which, of course, meant nothing, and could not have the slightest consequence." She spoke these words with great emphasis.
Her father, mother, and sisters came into the room and were much struck with the last words, which they just caught as they entered—"absurdity which of course meant nothing"—and still more so with the emphasis with which Aglaya had spoken.
They exchanged glances questioningly, but the prince did not seem to have understood the meaning of Aglaya's words; he was in the highest heaven of delight.
"Why do you speak so?" he murmured. "Why do you ask my forgiveness?"
He wished to add that he was unworthy of being asked for forgiveness by her, but paused. Perhaps he did understand Aglaya's sentence about "absurdity which meant nothing," and like the strange fellow that he was, rejoiced in the words.
Undoubtedly the fact that he might now come and see Aglaya as much as he pleased again was quite enough to make him perfectly happy; that he might come and speak to her, and see her, and sit by her, and walk with her—who knows, but that all this was quite enough to satisfy him for the whole of his life, and that he would desire no more to the end of time?
(Lizabetha Prokofievna felt that this might be the case, and she didn't like it; though very probably she could not have put the idea into words.)
It would be difficult to describe the animation and high spirits which distinguished the prince for the rest of the evening.
He was so happy that "it made one feel happy to look at him," as Aglaya's sisters expressed it afterwards. He talked, and told stories just as he had done once before, and never since, namely on the very first morning of his acquaintance with the Epanchins, six months ago. Since his return to Petersburg from Moscow, he had been remarkably silent, and had told Prince S. on one occasion, before everyone, that he did not think himself justified in degrading any thought by his unworthy words.
But this evening he did nearly all the talking himself, and told stories by the dozen, while he answered all questions put to him clearly, gladly, and with any amount of detail.
There was nothing, however, of love-making in his talk. His ideas were all of the most serious kind; some were even mystical and profound.
He aired his own views on various matters, some of his most private opinions and observations, many of which would have seemed rather funny, so his hearers agreed afterwards, had they not been so well expressed.
The general liked serious subjects of conversation; but both he and Lizabetha Prokofievna felt that they were having a little too much of a good thing tonight, and as the evening advanced, they both grew more or less melancholy; but towards night, the prince fell to telling funny stories, and was always the first to burst out laughing himself, which he invariably did so joyously and simply that the rest laughed just as much at him as at his stories.
As for Aglaya, she hardly said a word all the evening; but she listened with all her ears to Lef Nicolaievitch's talk, and scarcely took her eyes off him.
"She looked at him, and stared and stared, and hung on every word he said," said Lizabetha afterwards, to her husband, "and yet, tell her that she loves him, and she is furious!"
"What's to be done? It's fate," said the general, shrugging his shoulders, and, for a long while after, he continued to repeat: "It's fate, it's fate!"
We may add that to a business man like General Epanchin the present position of affairs was most unsatisfactory. He hated the uncertainty in which they had been, perforce, left. However, he decided to say no more about it, and merely to look on, and take his time and tune from Lizabetha Prokofievna.
The happy state in which the family had spent the evening, as just recorded, was not of very long duration. Next day Aglaya quarrelled with the prince again, and so she continued to behave for the next few days. For whole hours at a time she ridiculed and chaffed the wretched man, and made him almost a laughing-stock.
It is true that they used to sit in the little summer-house together for an hour or two at a time, very often, but it was observed that on these occasions the prince would read the paper, or some book, aloud to Aglaya.
"Do you know," Aglaya said to him once, interrupting the reading, "I've remarked that you are dreadfully badly educated. You never know anything thoroughly, if one asks you; neither anyone's name, nor dates, nor about treaties and so on. It's a great pity, you know!"
"I told you I had not had much of an education," replied the prince.
"How am I to respect you, if that's the case? Read on now. No—don't! Stop reading!"
And once more, that same evening, Aglaya mystified them all. Prince S. had returned, and Aglaya was particularly amiable to him, and asked a great deal after Evgenie Pavlovitch. (Muishkin had not come in as yet.)
Suddenly Prince S. hinted something about "a new and approaching change in the family." He was led to this remark by a communication inadvertently made to him by Lizabetha Prokofievna, that Adelaida's marriage must be postponed a little longer, in order that the two weddings might come off together.
It is impossible to describe Aglaya's irritation. She flared up, and said some indignant words about "all these silly insinuations." She added that "she had no intentions as yet of replacing anybody's mistress."
These words painfully impressed the whole party; but especially her parents. Lizabetha Prokofievna summoned a secret council of two, and insisted upon the general's demanding from the prince a full explanation of his relations with Nastasia Philipovna. The general argued that it was only a whim of Aglaya's; and that, had not Prince S. unfortunately made that remark, which had confused the child and made her blush, she never would have said what she did; and that he was sure Aglaya knew well that anything she might have heard of the prince and Nastasia Philipovna was merely the fabrication of malicious tongues, and that the woman was going to marry Rogojin. He insisted that the prince had nothing whatever to do with Nastasia Philipovna, so far as any liaison was concerned; and, if the truth were to be told about it, he added, never had had.
Meanwhile nothing put the prince out, and he continued to be in the seventh heaven of bliss. Of course he could not fail to observe some impatience and ill-temper in Aglaya now and then; but he believed in something else, and nothing could now shake his conviction. Besides, Aglaya's frowns never lasted long; they disappeared of themselves.
Perhaps he was too easy in his mind. So thought Hippolyte, at all events, who met him in the park one day.
"Didn't I tell you the truth now, when I said you were in love?" he said, coming up to Muishkin of his own accord, and stopping him.
The prince gave him his hand and congratulated him upon "looking so well."
Hippolyte himself seemed to be hopeful about his state of health, as is often the case with consumptives.
He had approached the prince with the intention of talking sarcastically about his happy expression of face, but very soon forgot his intention and began to talk about himself. He began complaining about everything, disconnectedly and endlessly, as was his wont.
"You wouldn't believe," he concluded, "how irritating they all are there. They are such wretchedly small, vain, egotistical, COMMONPLACE people! Would you believe it, they invited me there under the express condition that I should die quickly, and they are all as wild as possible with me for not having died yet, and for being, on the contrary, a good deal better! Isn't it a comedy? I don't mind betting that you don't believe me!"
The prince said nothing.
"I sometimes think of coming over to you again," said Hippolyte, carelessly. "So you DON'T think them capable of inviting a man on the condition that he is to look sharp and die?"
"I certainly thought they invited you with quite other views."
"
Ho, ho! you are not nearly so simple as they try to make you out! This is not the time for it, or I would tell you a thing or two about that beauty, Gania, and his hopes. You are being undermined, pitilessly undermined, and—and it is really melancholy to see you so calm about it. But alas! it's your nature—you can't help it!"
"My word! what a thing to be melancholy about! Why, do you think I should be any happier if I were to feel disturbed about the excavations you tell me of?"
"It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool's paradise! I suppose you don't believe that you have a rival in that quarter?"
"Your insinuations as to rivalry are rather cynical, Hippolyte. I'm sorry to say I have no right to answer you! As for Gania, I put it to you, CAN any man have a happy mind after passing through what he has had to suffer? I think that is the best way to look at it. He will change yet, he has lots of time before him, and life is rich; besides—besides… " the prince hesitated. "As to being undermined, I don't know what in the world you are driving at, Hippolyte. I think we had better drop the subject!"
"Very well, we'll drop it for a while. You can't look at anything but in your exalted, generous way. You must put out your finger and touch a thing before you'll believe it, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I suppose you despise me dreadfully, prince, eh? What do you think?"
"Why? Because you have suffered more than we have?"
"No; because I am unworthy of my sufferings, if you like!"
"Whoever CAN suffer is worthy to suffer, I should think. Aglaya Ivanovna wished to see you, after she had read your confession, but—"
"She postponed the pleasure—I see—I quite understand!" said Hippolyte, hurriedly, as though he wished to banish the subject. "I hear—they tell me—that you read her all that nonsense aloud? Stupid @ bosh it was—written in delirium. And I can't understand how anyone can be so I won't say CRUEL, because the word would be humiliating to myself, but we'll say childishly vain and revengeful, as to REPROACH me with this confession, and use it as a weapon against me. Don't be afraid, I'm not referring to yourself."
"Oh, but I'm sorry you repudiate the confession, Hippolyte—it is sincere; and, do you know, even the absurd parts of it—and these are many" (here Hippolyte frowned savagely) "are, as it were, redeemed by suffering—for it must have cost you something to admit what you there say—great torture, perhaps, for all I know. Your motive must have been a very noble one all through. Whatever may have appeared to the contrary, I give you my word, I see this more plainly every day. I do not judge you; I merely say this to have it off my mind, and I am only sorry that I did not say it all THEN—"
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