Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (409 page)

“Constant.” The name was pronounced almost i nvolunta ri ly by Myshki n.

“N-no, Constant was not there then. He had gone with a letter... to the Empress Josephine. His place was taken by two orderlies and some Polish uhlans . . . and that made up the whole suite, except for the generals and marshals whom Napoleon took with him to explore the neighbourhood, and consult about the position of the troops. The one who was oftenest in attendance was Davoust, as I remember now; a huge, stout, cold-blooded man, in spectacles, with a strange look in his eyes. He was consulted more often than anyone by the Emperor, who appreciated his judgment. I remember they were in consultation for several days; Davoust used to go in to him morning and evening. Often they even argued; at last Napoleon seemed to be brought to agree. They were alone in the Emperor’s study; I was present, scarcely observed by them. Suddenly Napoleon’s eye chanced to fall upon me, a strange thought gleamed in his eye. ‘Child,’ said he to me, ‘what do you think? if I adopt the Orthodox faith, and set free your slaves, will the Russians come over to me or not?”Never!’ I cried indignantly. Napoleon was impressed. ‘In the patriotism shining in that child’s eyes,’ said he, ‘I read the verdict of the whole Russian people. Enough, Davoust! That’s all a fantasy! Explain your other plan.’”

“But there was a great idea in that plan too,” said Myshkin, evidently growing interested. “So you would ascribe that project to Davoust?”

“At any rate, they consulted together. No doubt, the idea was Napoleon’s, the idea of an eagle. But there was an idea too in the other plan. . . . That was the famous ‘conseil du lion,’ as Napoleon himself called that advice of Davoust’s. That advice was to shut himself up in the Kremlin with all the troops, to build barracks, to dig out earthworks, to place cannons, to kill as many horses as possible and salt the flesh, to procure by purchase or pillage as much corn as possible, and to spend the winter there till spring; and in the spring to fight their way through the Russians. This plan fascinated Napoleon. We used to ride round the Kremlin walls everyday; he used to show where to demolish, where to construct lunettes, ravelins, or a row of block-houses — he had a quick eye, swift judgment, a sure aim. Everything was settled at last. Davoust insisted on a final decision. Once more they were alone except for me. Again Napoleon paced the room with folded arms. I could not take my eyes off his face, my heart throbbed. ‘I am going,’ said Davoust, ‘Where?’ asked Napoleon. ‘To salt horse-flesh,’ said Davoust. Napoleon shuddered, it was the turning-point. ‘Child,’ said he to me, suddenly, ‘what do you think of our intention?’ No doubt he asked me as sometimes a man of the greatest intelligence will at the last moment toss up to decide. I turned to Davoust instead of Napoleon and spoke as though by inspiration: ‘You’d better cut and run home, general!’ The plan was abandoned. Davoust shrugged his shoulders, and went out, muttering in a whisper: ‘Bah, il devient superstitieux!’ And the next day the retreat was ordered.”

“All that is extremely interesting,” Myshkin murmured in a very low voice, “if it really was so. ... I mean to say..,” he hastened to correct himself.

“Oh, prince,” cried the general, so carried away by his own story that perhaps he could not stop short even of the most flagrant indiscretion, “you say, ‘if it really was so’! But there was more, I assure you, far more! These are only paltry political facts. But I repeat I was the witness of the tears and groans of that great man at night; and that no one saw but I! Towards the end, indeed, he ceased to weep, there were no more tears, he only moaned at times; but his face was more and more overcast, as it were, with darkness. As though eternity had already cast its dark wings about it. Sometimes at night we spent whole hours alone together, in silence — the mameluke Roustan would be snoring in the next room, the fellow slept fearfully soundly. ‘But he is devoted to me and to the dynasty,’ Napoleon used to say about him. Once I was dreadfully grieved; and suddenly he noticed tears in my eyes. He looked at me tenderly. ‘\bu feel for me!’ he cried, ‘you, a child, and perhaps another boy will feel for me — my son, le roi de Rome; all the rest, all, all hate me, and mv brothers would be the first to betray me in misfortune!’ I began to sob and flew to him. Then he broke down, he threw his arms round me, and our tears flowed together. ‘Do, do write a letter to the Empress Josephine!’ I sobbed to him. Napoleon started, pondered, and said to me: ‘You remind me of the one other heart that loves me; I thank you, my dear!’ He sat down on the spot, and wrote the letter to the Empress Josephine, which was taken by Constant next day.”

“You did splendidly,” said Myshkin. “In the midst of his evil thoughts you led him to good feelings.”

“Just so, prince, and how well you put it! How like your own good heart!” cried the general rapturously, and, strange to say, genuine tears stood in his eyes. “Yes, prince, yes, that was a magnificent spectacle. And do you know I very nearly went back with him to Paris, and should no doubt have shared with him his ‘sultry prison isle,’ but alas! — fate severed us! We were parted, he to the ‘sultry prison isle,’ where, who knows, he may have recalled in hours of tragic tribulation the tears of the poor boy who embraced him and forgave him Moscow. I was sent to the cadets’ corps, where I found nothing but strict discipline, the roughness of comrades, and . . . alas! all turned to dust and ashes! ‘I don’t want to part you from your mother, and take you with me,’ he said to me on the day of the retreat, ‘but I should like to do something for you.’ He had already mounted his horse. ‘Write something as a souvenir for me in my sister’s album,’ said I, timidly, for he was very troubled and gloomy. He turned, asked for a pen, took the album. ‘How old is your sister?’ he asked me. ‘Three years old,’ I answered. ‘Une petite fille a/ors/’And he wrote in the album.

7Ve mentezjamais.’

‘Napoleon, votre ami sincere.’

Such advice and in such a moment, prince, you can imagine!”

“Yes, that was remarkable.”

“That page was framed in gold under glass and always used to hang on the wall in my sister’s drawing-room, in the most conspicuous place, it hung there till her death; she died in childbirth; where it is now — I don’t know . . . but. . . Ach, Heaven! It’s two o’clock already! How I have kept you, prince! It’s unpardonable!”

The general got up from his chair.

“Oh, on the contrary,” mumbled Myshkin. “\bu have so entertained me, and ... in fact, it’s so interesting; I am so grateful to you!”

“Prince!” said the general again, squeezing his hand till it hurt, gazing at him with sparkling eyes, as though suddenly thunderstruck at some thought he had recollected. “Prince! you are so kind, so good-hearted, that I’m sometimes positively sorry for you. I am touched when I look at you. Oh, God bless you! May a new life begin for you, blossoming . . . with love. Mine is over! Oh, forgive me. Good-bye!”

He went out quickly, covering his face with his hands. Myshkin could not doubt the genuineness of his emotion. He realised too that the old man had gone away enraptured at his success; yet he had a misgiving that he was one of that class of liars with whom lying has become a blinding passion, though at the very acme of their intoxication they secretly suspect that they are not believed, and that they cannot be believed. In his present position the old man might be overwhelmed with shame when he returned to the reality of things. He might suspect Myshkin of too great a compassion for him and feel insulted. “Haven’t I made it worse by leading him on to such flights?” Myshkin wondered uneasily, and suddenly he could not restrain himself, and laughed violently for ten minutes. He was nearly beginning to reproach himself for his laughter, but at once realised that he had nothing to reproach himself with, since he had an infinite pity for the general.

His misgiving proved true. In the evening he received a strange letter, brief but resolute. The general informed him that he was parting from him, too, for ever, that he respected him, and was grateful to him, but that even from him he could not accept “proofs of compassion which were derogatory to the dignity of a man who was unhappy enough without that.” When Myshkin heard that the old man had taken refuge with Nina Alexandrovna, he felt almost at ease about him. But we have seen already that the general had caused some sort of trouble at Lizaveta Prokofyevna’s too. Here we cannot go into the details, but we will mention briefly that the upshot of the interview was that the general scared Lizaveta Prokofyevna, and by his bitter insinuations against Ganya had roused her to indignation. He was led out in disgrace. That was why he had spent such a night and such a morning, was completely unhinged and had run out into the street almost in a state of frenzy.

Kolya had not yet fully grasped the position, and even hoped to bring him round by severity.

“Well, where are we off to now, do you suppose, general?” he said. “\bu don’t want to go to the prince’s. You’ve quarrelled with Lebedyev, you’ve no money, and I never have any. We are in a nice mess in the street!”

‘“It’s better to be of a mess than in a mess!’ I made that . . . pun to the admiration of the officers’ mess ... in forty-four. ... In eighteen . . . forty-four, yes! ... I don’t remember... oh, don’t remind me, don’t remind me! ‘Where is my youth, where is my freshness!’ as exclaimed . . . who exclaimed it, Kolya?”

“Gogol, father, in ‘Dead Souls,’” answered Kolya, and he stole a timid glance at his father.

‘“Dead Souls’! Oh, yes, dead! When you bury me, write on the tombstone: ‘Here lies a dead soul!”Disqrace pursues me!’ Who said that, Kolva?”

“I don’t know, father.”

“There was no such person as Eropyegov? Eroshka. Eropyegov . . ,” he cried frantically, stopping short in the street. “And that was said by my son, my own son! Eropyegov, who for eleven months took the place to me of a brother, for whom I fought a duel. . . . Prince Vygoryetsky, our captain said to him over a bottle: ‘Grisha, where did you get your Anna ribbon, tell me that?”On the battlefield of my country, that’s where I got it!’ I shouted: ‘Bravo, Grisha!’ And that led to a duel, and afterwards he was married to Marya Petrovna Su .. . Sutugin, and was killed in the field. ... A bullet glanced off the cross on my breast and hit him straight in the brow. ‘I shall never forget!’ he cried, and fell on the spot. I . . . I’ve served with honour, Kolya; I’ve served nobly, but disgrace—’disgrace pursues me!’ You and Nina will come to my grave. ‘Poor Nina!’ I used to call her so in old days, Kolya, long ago in our early days, and how she loved. . . . Nina, Nina! What have I made of your life! For what can you love me, long-suffering soul! \bur mother has the soul of an angel, Kolya, do you hear, of an angel!”

“I know that, father. Father, darling, let’s go back home to mother! She was running after us! Come, why are you standing still? As though you don’t understand ... Whyare you crying?”

Kolya shed tears himself, and kissed his father’s hands.

“You’re kissing my hands, mine!”

“Yes, yours, yours. What is there to wonder at? Come, why are you crying in the middle of the street? And you call yourself a general, an army man; come, let’s go!”

“May God bless you, dear boy, for having been respectful to a wretched, disgraceful old man. Yes, to a wretched, disgraceful old man, your father. .. . May you, too, have such a boy . . . le roi de Rome. O, ‘a curse a curse on this house!’”

“But why on earth are you going on like this?” cried Kolya, boiling over suddenly, “what has happened? Why won’t you go home now? Why have you gone out of your mind?”

“I’ll explain, I’ll explain to you. . . . I’ll tell you everything; don’t shout, people will hear. . . le roi de Rome. . . . Oh, I’m sick, I’m sad. ‘Nurse, where is thy tomb?’ Who was it cried that, Kolya?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know who cried it! Let’s go home, at once, at once! I’ll give Ganya a hiding if necessary... but where are you off to again?”

But the general drew him to the steps of a house close by.

“Where are you going? That’s a stranger’s house!”

The general sat down on the step, still holding Kolya’s hand, and drawing him to him.

“Bend down, bend down!” he muttered. “I’ll tell you everything . . . disgrace . . . bend down . . . your ear, your ear; I’ll tell you in your ear...”

“But what is it?” cried Kolya, terribly alarmed, yet stooping down to listen.

“Le roi de Rome . . .”whispered the general. He, too, seemed trembling all over.

“What? Why do you keep harping on le roi de Rome? ... What?”

“I . . . I . . ,” whispered the general again, clinging more and more tightly to “his boy’s” shoulder. “I . . . want.. . I’ll tell. .. you everything, Marya . .. Marya .. . Petrovna Su-su-su ...”

Kolya tore himself away, seized the general by the shoulders, and looked at him frantically. The old man flushed crimson, his lips turned blue, faint spasms ran over his face. Suddenly he lurched forward and began slowly sinking into Kolya’s arms.

“A stroke!” the boy shouted aloud in the street, seeing at last what was the matter.

CHAPTER 5

In REALITY Varvara Ardalionovna had in her conversation with her brother somewhat exaggerated the certainty of her news concerning Myshkin’s engagement to Aglaia Epanchin.

Perhaps, like a sharp-sighted woman, she had divined what was bound to come to pass in the immediate future; perhaps, disappointed at her dream (in which, however, she had never really believed) passing off in smoke, she was too human to be able to deny herself the gratification of instilling added bitterness into her brother’s heart, by exaggerating the calamity, even though she loved him sincerely and felt sorry for him. In any case, she could not have received such exact information from her friends, the Epanchins; there were only hints,

half-uttered words, meaningful silences, and surmises. Though, perhaps, Aglaia’s sisters gossiped a little with design, so that they might themselves find out something from Varvara Ardalionovna. It may have been that they, too, could not forgo the feminine pleasure of teasing a friend a little, though they had known her from childhood; they could not in so long a time have failed to get at least a glimpse of what she was aiming at.