Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (388 page)

Rogozhin laughed, as he listened to Myshkin.

“But, I say, prince, have you come in for the same treatment? I’ve heard something of the sort about you, if it’s true.”

“What, what could you have heard?” Myshkin started, and stopped in extreme confusion.

Rogozhin went on laughing. He had listened with curiosity and perhaps with some pleasure to Myshkin, whose joyful and impulsive warmth had greatly impressed and encouraged him.

“And I’ve not merely heard it; I see now it’s true,” he added. “When have you talked like this before? I never heard you say such things before. If I hadn’t heard something of the sort about you, I shouldn’t have come here: to a park, too, and at midnight.”

“I don’t understand you at all, Parfyon Semyonitch.”

“She told me about it a long time ago, and I saw it for myself to-day as you sat listening to the band this afternoon with the young lady. She’s been vowing, she swore to me to-day and yesterday, that you were head over ears in love with Aglaia Epanchin. That’s nothing to me, prince, and it’s no business of mine. If you have left off loving her, she still loves you. \bu know that she’s set on marrying you to her. She has sworn to do it, ha-ha! She says to me: Tell them I won’t marry you without that. When they’ve gone to church, we’ll go to church.’ I can’t make out what it means, and I never have understood: she either loves you beyond all reckoning, or ... if she does love you, why does she want to marry you to some one else? She says, ‘I want to see him happy,’ so she must love you.”

“I’ve told you and written to you that she’s ... out of her mind,” said Myshkin, who had listened to Rogozhin with distress.

“The Lord knows! You may be mistaken. . . . But to-day she fixed the wedding-day when I brought her home from the gardens: in three weeks’ time or perhaps sooner, she said, we will certainly be married; she swore it, and kissed the ikon. It all rests with you now, it seems, prince. Ha-ha!”

“That’s all madness. What you’ve said about me will never be! I’ll come and see you to-morrow.”

“How can you call her mad?” observed Rogozhin. “How is it she seems sane to every one else, and only mad to you? How could she write letters to her? If she had been mad, they’d have noticed it in her letters!”

“What letters?” asked Myshkin in alarm.

“Why, to her, to the young lady, and she reads them. Don’t you know? Well, then, you’ll find out. Of course she’ll show you them herself.”

“I can’t believe that!” cried Myshkin.

“Ach! Lyov Nikolayevitch! You’ve only gone a little way along that path, as far as I can see. You’re only beginning. Wait a bit: you’ll keep your own detectives yet and be on the watch day and night too; and know of every step she takes, if only....”

“Stop, and never speak of that again!” cried Myshkin. “Listen, Parfyon, just before you appeared I came here and suddenly began laughing — I don’t know what about. The only reason was that I remembered it was my birthday to-morrow. It seems to have come on purpose. It’s almost twelve o’clock. Come, let us meet the day! I’ve got some wine. Let’s drink some. Wish for me what I don’t know how to wish for myself. \bu wish it, and I’ll wish all happiness to you. If not, give back the cross. You didn’t send the cross back to me next dav! You’ve got it on now, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” said Rogozhin.

“Well, then, come along. I don’t want to meet my new life without you, for my new life has begun. You don’t know, Parfyon, that my new life has begun today.”

“I see for myself now, and know that it has begun, and I’ll tell her so. \bu’re not like yourself at all, Lyov Nikolayevitch!”

CHAPTER 4

As HE drew near his villa, Myshkin noticed with great surprise that his verandah was brightly lighted up, and that a large and noisy company was assembled there. The party was a merry one, laughing and shouting; they seemed to be arguing at the top of their voices; the first glance suggested that they were having an hilarious time. And when he mounted to the verandah he found that in fact they had all been drinking, and drinking champagne, and apparently had been drinking for some time, so that many of the revellers had become very agreeably exhilarated by now. They were all people he knew, but it was strange that they should all have come together at once, as though by invitation, though Myshkin had not invited them, and had only by chance recollected that it was his birthday.

“No doubt you told some one you’d uncork the champagne, and so they’ve all run in,” muttered Rogozhin, following Myshkin to the verandah. “We know their ways. You’ve only to whistle to them. . . ,” he added, almost angrily, doubtless recalling his own recent past.

They all greeted Myshkin with shouts and good wishes, and surrounded him. Some were very noisy, others much quieter, but hearing that it was his birthday, all in turn hastened to congratulate him. Myshkin was puzzled at the presence of some persons, for instance, Burdovsky; but what was most surprising was that “Vfevgeny Pavlovitch turned out to be among them. Myshkin could scarcely believe his eyes, and was almost scared at seeing him.

Lebedyev, flushed and almost ecstatic, ran up with explanations; he was pretty far gone already. From his babble it appeared that the party had come together quite naturally, and in fact by chance. First of all, towards the evening, Ippolit had arrived, and feeling much better, had expressed the desire to wait for Myshkin on the verandah. He had installed himself on the sofa; then Lebedyev had gone down to join him and then all his household — that is, his daughters and General Ivolgin. Burdovsky had come with Ippolit, to bring him. Ganya and Ptitsyn seemed to have called in later, as they passed by, at about the time of the incident in the gardens. Then Keller had turned up, told them it was Myshkin’s birthday, and asked for champagne. Yevgeny Pavlovitch had only arrived half an hour ago. Kolya too had insisted vigorously on their bringing champagne and celebrating the occasion. Lebedyev had readily produced the wine.

“But my own! My own!” he murmured to Myshkin. “At my own expense, to celebrate your birthday and congratulate you; and there’ll be some supper, some light refreshments, my daughter is seeing to that. But, prince, if only you knew the subject they’re discussing! Do you remember in ‘Hamlet,”to be or not to be’? The subject of the day! Questions and answers.. .. And Mr. Terentyev’s at the utmost pitch. . . . He won’t go to bed! And he’s only had a sip of the champagne; it won’t hurt him. . . . Come along, prince, you settle it! They’ve all been waiting for you, all been waiting foryour happy wit....”

Myshkin met the sweet and kindly eyes of Vera Lebedyev, who was also trying to get to him through the crowd. Passing over the rest, he held out his hand first to her. She flushed with pleasure, and wished him “a happy life from that day fomard.” Then she rushed full speed to the kitchen; there she was preparing some supper. But even before Myshkin had arrived — whenever she could tear herself for a minute from her work — she had run out to the verandah and listened, all ears, to the heated discussion that never paused among the exhilarated guests concerning subjects of the most abstract nature, mysterious to her. Her open-mouthed younger sister was asleep on a chest in the next room; but the boy, Lebedyev’s son, was standing by Kolya and Ippolit, and the look on his eager face showed that he was ready to stand there, listening and enjoying himself for another ten hours at a stretch.

“I have been waiting particularly to see you, and I’m very glad that you’ve come in such a happy mood,” said Ippolit, when Myshkin went up to shake his hand, immediately after Vera’s.

“How do you know I’m in a happy mood?”

“One can see it from your face. Finish greeting the company and make haste and sit here. I’ve been waiting particularly to see you,” he added, seeming to lay stress on the fact that he had been waiting. In reply to an inquiry from Myshkin whether it were not bad for him to be sitting up so late, he answered that he could not help wondering himself how it was that he had been almost dying three days ago, and yet he had neverfelt better in his life than that evening.

Burdovsky jumped up from his chair and muttered that he “had only brought Ippolit,” and that he was glad; that he had “written nonsense” in his letter, but now was “simply glad . . .” Without finishing his sentence, he warmly pressed Myshkin’s hand and sat down on a chair.

Last of all Myshkin went up to Yevgeny Pavlovitch; the latter at once took his arm.

“I have a couple of words to say to you,” he whispered, “and about a very important circumstance. Let us move aside for a moment.”

“A couple of words,” whispered another voice in Myshkin’s other ear; and another hand took his arm on the other side.

With surprise Myshkin observed a terribly unkempt figure with a flushed, winking and laughing face, in which he instantly recognized Ferdyshtchenko, who had turned up from goodness knows where.

“Do you remember Ferdyshtchenko?” he asked Myshkin.

“Where have you come from?” cried Myshkin.

“He is sorry,” cried Keller, running up. “He was hiding. He didn’t want to come out to us. He was hiding in the corner there. He’s sorry, prince, he feels himself to blame.”

“But what for? What for?”

“I met him, prince. I met him just now and brought him along. He is one of the rarest men among my friends. But he’s sorry.”

“Delighted, gentlemen; go and sit down with the rest. I’ll come directly,” said Myshkin, getting away at last and hurrying to Yevgeny Pavlovitch.

“It’s very interesting here,” observed the latter. “I’ve enjoyed the half-hour I’ve been waiting for you. Look here, dear Lyov Nikolayevitch, I’ve settled everything with Kurmyshov and I’ve come to set your mind at rest. \bu have no need to be uneasy. He is taking the thing very very sensibly, especially as to my thinking, it was more his fault.”

“What Kurmyshov?”

“Why, the fellow whose arms you held this afternoon. He was so furious that he meant to come to you for an explanation to-morrow.”

“You don’t mean it! What nonsense!”

“Of course it is nonsense, and could only end in nonsense; but these people ...”

“You’ve come about something else, too, perhaps, Yevgeny Pavlovitch?”

“Oh, of course, I have,” replied the other, laughing. “I’m setting off at daybreak to-morrow, dear prince, for Petersburg, about that unhappy business, about my uncle, you know. Would you believe it, it’s all true, and everybody knew it except me. I feel so overwhelmed by it that I haven’t been able to go to them (the Epanchins). I can’t go to-morrow either, because I shall be in Petersburg. Do you understand? I may not be here for three days perhaps. In short, things are in a bad way with me. Though the matter is of the utmost importance, yet I decided that I must speak quite openly with you about something, and without delay — that is, before I

go. I’ll sit and wait, if you like, till your party has broken up; besides, I’ve nowhere else to go. I’m so excited that I couldn’t go to bed. Moreover, though it’s an unconscionable proceeding, and not at all the thing to pursue a man like this, I tell you straight out, I have come to ask for your friendship, my dear prince. You’re a unique sort of person — that is, you don’t tell a lie at every turn, perhaps not at all, and I want a friend and adviser in a certain matter; for there’s not a doubt I’m one of the unlucky, now....”

He laughed again.

“The trouble is this,” said Myshkin, thinking for an instant. “\bu want to wait till they have gone, but God knows when that will be. Wouldn’t it be better for us to take a walk in the park now? They’ll wait for me, of course; I’ll excuse myself.”

“No, no! I have my own reasons for not letting them suspect that we’re talking apart from some object. There are people here who are very inquisitive about our relations with one another. Don’t you know that, prince? And it will be much better if they see that we are on the most friendly terms without any private understanding. Do you understand? They’ll break up in another two hours; I’ll ask you to give me twenty minutes or half an hour then....”

“By all means, you are very welcome. I am delighted to see you without explanations, and thank you for your kind words about our friendly relations. Pardon me for having been inattentive to-day; do you know, I somehow can’t pay attention just now.”

“I see, I see,” muttered Yevgeny Pavlovitch, with a faint smile.

He was ready to laugh at anything that evening.

“What do you see?” said Myshkin, startled.

“But you don’t suspect, dear prince,” said Yevgeny Pavlovitch, still smiling, and not answering his direct question, “you don’t suspect that I’ve simply come to take you in and, incidentally, to get something out of you, eh?”

“That you have come to get something out of me I have no doubt,” said Myshkin, laughing too at last, “and perhaps you have planned to deceive me a little, too. But what of it? I am not afraid of you. Besides, I somehow don’t mind now. Would you believe it? And . . . and . . . and as I am convinced above all that you’re a splendid fellow, we shall perhaps end by really becoming friends. I like you very much, “Vfevgeny Pavlovitch. \bu are, in my opinion ... a thorough gentleman.”

“Well, anyway, it’s very nice to have to do with you in anything, whatever it may be,” said Yevgeny Pavlovitch in conclusion. “Come, I’ll drink a glass to your health. I’m awfully glad I came to you. Ah!” he stopped suddenly, “that Mr. Ippolit has come to stay with you, hasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“He isn’t going to die directly, I imagine?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing! I have been spending half an hour with him here....”

Ippolit had been waiting for Myshkin and watching him and “Vfevgeny Pavlovitch all the while they had been talking aside. He became feverishly excited when they came up to the table. He was uneasy and agitated. Sweat stood out on his forehead. In his glittering eyes could be seen a sort of vague impatience, as well as a continual wandering uneasiness. His eyes strayed aimlessly from object to object, from face to face. Though he took a leading part in the noisy general conversation, his excitement was simplv feverishness. He paid little heed to the conversation itself. His arguments were incoherent, ironical and carelessly paradoxical. He broke off in the middle and did not finish what he had begun with fervent heat. To his surprise and regret, Myshkin learnt that he had been allowed without protest that evening to drink two glasses of champagne, and that the glass that stood empty before him was the third. But he learnt this only later; at the moment he was not very observant.