VII
WHEN THE PRINCE fell silent, they all looked at him gaily, even Aglaya, but especially Lizaveta Prokofyevna.
“Quite an examination!” she cried. “So, my dear ladies, you thought you were going to patronize him like a poor little thing, and he barely deigned to accept you, and that with the reservation that he would come only rarely. We’ve been made fools of—Ivan Fyodorovich most of all—and I’m glad. Bravo, Prince, we were told earlier to put you through an examination. And what you said about my face is all completely true: I am a child, and I know it. I knew it even before you said it; you precisely expressed my own thought in a single word. I think your character is completely identical to mine, and I’m very glad; like two drops of water. Only you’re a man and I’m a woman, and I’ve never been to Switzerland, that’s all the difference.”
“Don’t be in a hurry, maman,” cried Aglaya, “the prince said he had something special in mind in all his confessions, and he wasn’t simply saying it.”
“Yes, oh, yes,” the others laughed.
“Don’t tease him, my dears, he may be cleverer than all three of you put together. You’ll see. Only why have you said nothing about Aglaya, Prince? Aglaya’s waiting, and I am, too.”
“I can’t say anything now. I’ll say it later.”
“Why? She’s noticeable, I believe?”
“Oh, yes, she’s noticeable. You’re an extraordinary beauty, Aglaya Ivanovna. You’re so good-looking that one is afraid to look at you.”
“That’s all? And her qualities?” Mrs. Epanchin persisted.
“Beauty is difficult to judge; I’m not prepared yet. Beauty is a riddle.”
“That means you’ve set Aglaya a riddle,” said Adelaida. “Solve it, Aglaya. But she is good-looking, isn’t she, Prince?”
“Extremely!” the prince replied warmly, with an enthusiastic glance at Aglaya. “Almost like Nastasya Filippovna, though her face is quite different …”
They all exchanged astonished looks.
“Like who-o-om?” Mrs. Epanchin drew out. “Like Nastasya Filippovna? Where have you seen Nastasya Filippovna? What Nastasya Filippovna?”
“Gavrila Ardalionovich was just showing Ivan Fyodorovich her portrait.”
“What? He brought Ivan Fyodorovich her portrait?”
“To show him. Today Nastasya Filippovna presented Gavrila Ardalionovich with her portrait, and he brought it to show.”
“I want to see it!” Mrs. Epanchin heaved herself up. “Where is this portrait? If she gave it to him, he must have it, and, of course, he’s still in the office! He always comes to work on Wednesdays and never leaves before four. Send for Gavrila Ardalionovich at once! No, I’m hardly dying to see him. Do me a favor, my dear Prince, go to the office, take the portrait from him, and bring it here. Tell him we want to look at it. Please.”
“He’s nice, but much too simple,” said Adelaida, when the prince had gone.
“Yes, much too much,” agreed Alexandra, “so that he’s even slightly ridiculous.”
It was as if neither had spoken her whole mind.
“However, with our faces he got out of it nicely,” said Aglaya. “He flattered everyone, even maman.”
“Don’t be witty, please!” cried Mrs. Epanchin. “It was not he who flattered me, but I who was flattered.”
“Do you think he was trying to get out of it?” asked Adelaida.
“I don’t think he’s so simple.”
“Well, there she goes!” Mrs. Epanchin became angry. “And in my opinion you’re even more ridiculous than he is. He’s a bit simple, but he keeps his own counsel, in the most noble fashion, to be sure. Just as I do.”
“Of course, it was bad of me to let on about the portrait,” the prince reflected to himself on his way to the office, feeling some remorse. “But … maybe it’s a good thing I let on …” A strange idea was beginning to flash in his head, though not a very clear one as yet.
Gavrila Ardalionovich was still sitting in the office and was immersed in his papers. Evidently he did not get his salary from the joint-stock company for nothing. He became terribly embarrassed when the prince asked about the portrait and told him how they had found out about it.
“A-a-ah! Why did you have to blab!” he shouted in angry vexation. “You don’t know anything … Idiot!” he muttered to himself.
“I’m sorry, I said it quite unthinkingly, just by the way. I said that Aglaya was almost as good-looking as Nastasya Filippovna.”
Ganya asked for more detail. The prince complied. Ganya again gave him a mocking look.
“You do go on about Nastasya Filippovna …” he muttered, but lapsed into thought without finishing.
He was obviously alarmed. The prince reminded him about the portrait.
“Listen, Prince,” Ganya said suddenly, as if an unexpected thought had dawned on him. “I have a huge request to make of you … But I really don’t know …”
He became embarrassed and did not finish; he was venturing upon something and seemed to be struggling with himself. The prince waited silently. Ganya studied him once more with intent, searching eyes.
“Prince,” he began again, “right now they’re … owing to a completely strange circumstance … ridiculous … and for which I’m not to blame … well, in short, it’s irrelevant—they’re a bit angry with me in there, it seems, so for the time being I’d rather not go there without being sent for. I need terribly to talk with Aglaya Ivanovna now. I’ve written a few words just in case” (a small, folded note appeared in his hand), “and I don’t know how to deliver it. Would you take it upon yourself, Prince, to deliver it to Aglaya Ivanovna, right now, but only to Aglaya Ivanovna, that is, so that nobody sees—understand? It’s not such a great secret, God knows, there’s nothing to it, but … will you do it?”
“It’s not altogether pleasant for me,” said the prince.
“Ah, Prince, it’s of the utmost necessity for me!” Ganya began to plead. “Maybe she’ll answer … Believe me, only in the utmost, the very utmost case, would I turn to … Who else can I send it with?… It’s very important … It’s terribly important for me …”
Ganya was terribly afraid that the prince would not agree and kept peering into his eyes with cowardly entreaty.
“Very well, I’ll deliver it.”
“But only so that nobody notices,” the now joyful Ganya pleaded. “And another thing, Prince, I’m relying on your word of honor, eh?”
“I won’t show it to anybody,” said the prince.
“The note isn’t sealed, but …” the much too flustered Ganya let slip and stopped in embarrassment.
“Oh, I won’t read it,” the prince replied with perfect simplicity, took the portrait, and walked out of the office.
Ganya, left alone, clutched his head.
“One word from her, and I … and I really may break it off!…”
He started pacing up and down the office, too excited and expectant to sit down to his papers again.
The prince pondered as he went; he was unpleasantly struck by the errand, and unpleasantly struck by the thought of Ganya’s note to Aglaya. But two rooms away from the drawing room he suddenly stopped, seemed to remember something, looked around, went over to the window, closer to the light, and began to look at Nastasya Filippovna’s portrait.
It was as if he wanted to unriddle something hidden in that face which had also struck him earlier. The earlier impression had scarcely left him, and now it was as if he were hastening to verify something. That face, extraordinary for its beauty and for something else, now struck him still more. There seemed to be a boundless pride and contempt, almost hatred, in that face, and at the same time something trusting, something surprisingly simple-hearted; the contrast even seemed to awaken some sort of compassion as one looked at those features. That dazzling beauty was even unbearable, the beauty of the pale face, the nearly hollow cheeks and burning eyes—strange beauty! The prince gazed for a moment, then suddenly roused himself, loo
ked around, hastily put the portrait to his lips and kissed it. When he entered the drawing room a minute later, his face was completely calm.
But as he was going into the dining room (one room away from the drawing room), in the doorway he almost ran into Aglaya, who was coming out. She was alone.
“Gavrila Ardalionovich asked me to give you this,” said the prince, handing her the note.
Aglaya stopped, took the note, and looked at the prince somehow strangely. There was not the least embarrassment in her look, perhaps only a glimpse of a certain surprise, and even that seemed to refer only to the prince. With her look Aglaya seemed to demand an accounting from him—in what way had he ended up in this affair together with Ganya?—and to demand it calmly and haughtily. For two or three moments they stood facing each other; finally something mocking barely showed in her face; she smiled slightly and walked past him.
Mrs. Epanchin studied the portrait of Nastasya Filippovna for some time silently and with a certain tinge of scorn, holding it out in front of her at an extreme and ostentatious distance from her eyes.
“Yes, good-looking,” she said at last, “even very. I’ve seen her twice, only from a distance. So that’s the sort of beauty you appreciate?” she suddenly turned to the prince.
“Yes … that sort …” the prince replied with some effort.
“Meaning precisely that sort?”
“Precisely that sort.”
“Why so?”
“There’s so much suffering … in that face …” the prince said, as if inadvertently, as if he were talking to himself and not answering a question.
“You may be raving, however,” Mrs. Epanchin decided, and with an arrogant gesture she flung the portrait down on the table.
Alexandra picked it up, Adelaida came over to her, and they both began to study it. Just then Aglaya came back to the drawing room.
“Such power!” Adelaida cried all at once, peering greedily at the portrait over her sister’s shoulder.
“Where? What power?” Lizaveta Prokofyevna asked sharply.
“Such beauty has power,” Adelaida said hotly. “You can overturn the world with such beauty.”
She went pensively to her easel. Aglaya gave the portrait only a fleeting look, narrowed her eyes, thrust out her lower lip, and sat down to one side, her arms folded.
Mrs. Epanchin rang.
“Send Gavrila Ardalionovich here, he’s in the office,” she ordered the entering servant.
“Maman!” Alexandra exclaimed significantly.
“I want to say a couple of words to him—and enough!” Mrs. Epanchin snapped quickly, stopping the objection. She was visibly irritated. “You see, Prince, we now have all these secrets here. All these secrets! It’s required, it’s some sort of etiquette, a stupid thing. And that in a matter which requires the greatest openness, clarity, and honesty. Marriages are in the works, I don’t like these marriages …”
“Maman, what are you saying?” Alexandra again tried to stop her.
“What’s wrong, daughter dear? Do you like it yourself? And so what if the prince can hear, since we’re friends. I am his, at least. God seeks people, good people, of course, he doesn’t need the wicked and capricious—especially the capricious, who decide one thing today and say something else tomorrow. You understand, Alexandra Ivanovna? They say I’m odd, Prince, but I have discernment. Because the heart is the main thing, the rest is nonsense. Brains are also necessary, of course … maybe brains are the main thing. Don’t smile, Aglaya, I’m not contradicting myself: a fool with a heart and no brains is as unhappy a fool as a fool with brains but no heart. An old truth. I am a fool with a heart but no brains, and you are a fool with brains but no heart; and we’re both unhappy, and we both suffer.”
“What are you so unhappy about, maman?” Adelaida, who alone of the whole company seemed not to have lost her cheerful disposition, could not help asking.
“First of all, about my learned daughters,” Mrs. Epanchin snapped, and since that is enough in itself, there’s no point in expatiating on the rest. There’s been enough verbosity. We’ll see how the two of you (I don’t count Aglaya), with your brains and verbosity, are going to find your way and whether you, my much esteemed Alexandra Ivanovna, are going to be happy with your honorable gentleman … Ah!…” she exclaimed, seeing the entering Ganya. “Here comes one more matrimony. How do you do!” she responded to Ganya’s bow without inviting him to sit down. “Are you embarking upon matrimony?”
“Matrimony?… How?… What matrimony?…” Gavrila Ardalionovich murmured in stupefaction. He was terribly bewildered.
“Are you getting married, I’m asking, if you like that phrasing better?”
“N-no … I’m … n-not,” Gavrila Ardalionovich lied, and a flush of shame spread over his face. He glanced fleetingly at Aglaya, who was sitting to one side, and quickly looked away. Aglaya was looking at him coldly, intently, calmly, not taking her eyes off him, and observing his confusion.
“No? Did you say no?” the implacable Lizaveta Prokofyevna persistently interrogated him. “Enough! I’ll remember that today, Wednesday afternoon, you said ‘No’ to my question. Is today Wednesday?”
“I think so, maman,” replied Adelaida.
“They never know what day it is. What’s the date?”
“The twenty-seventh,” replied Ganya.
“The twenty-seventh? That’s good, for certain considerations. Good-bye. I suppose you have many things to do, and for me it’s time to dress and be on my way. Take your portrait. Give my respects to the unfortunate Nina Alexandrovna. Good-bye, Prince, my dear boy! Come more often, and I’ll be sure to call on old Belokonsky and tell her about you. And listen, my dear: I believe God brought you to Petersburg from Switzerland precisely for me. Maybe you’ll have other things to do, but it was mainly for me. That’s precisely how God reckoned. Good-bye, my dears. Alexandra, stop by for a minute.”
Mrs. Epanchin left. Ganya, overturned, confused, spiteful, took the portrait from the table and turned to the prince with a crooked smile:
“Prince, I’m going home now. If you haven’t changed your intention of living with us, I’ll take you there, since you don’t know the address.”
The Idiot Page 11