Complete works of fyodor.., p.280
Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky, page 280
“Varya does it from vanity, to show off, so as not to be inferior to mother; but mother really is ... I respect it in her. Yes, I respect that and think it right. Even Ippolit feels it, and he is bitter against almost everyone. At first he laughed, and called it low on my mother’s part; but now he begins to feel it sometimes. Hm! So you call that strength. I shall make a note of that. Ganya doesn’t know it, or he would call it conniving at things.”
“Ganya doesn’t know, then? There seems to be a qreat deal Ganva doesn’t know,” said Mvshkin,
pondering.
“Do you know, prince, I like you very much. I can’t forget what happened to you this afternoon.”
“And I like you very much too, Kolya.”
“Listen. How do you intend to live here? I shall soon get a job and be earning something. Let us live together, you and me and Ippolit. We’ll take a flat and will let the general come and see us.”
“I shall be delighted. But we’ll see. I feel very much upset just now. What? Are we there? Is this the house? What a magnificent entrance! And a hall-porter! Well, Kolya, I don’t know what will come of it.”
Myshkin stood still as though in bewilderment.
“You will tell me about it to-morrow. Don’t be too frightened. God give you good luck, for I think as you do about everything. Good-bye! I’ll go back there and tell Ippolit. There’s no doubt she will see you, don’t be uneasy. She is very original. It’s the first floor on this staircase, the porter will show you.”
CHAPTER 13
Myshkin FELT very uneasy as he went up, and did all he could to give himself courage. “The worst that can happen,” he thought, “is that she will refuse to see me and will think something bad of me; or perhaps she’ll see me and laugh in my face. ... Eh, never mind.” And in fact the prospect did not alarm him very much, but to the question what he would do and why he was going there he could find no satisfactory answer. It would hardly be altogether the right thing, even if he were to catch a favourable opportunity, to say to Nastasya Filippovna, “Don’t marry that man, don’t be your own destruction. He doesn’t love you, it’s your money he loves, he told me so himself; and Aglaia Epanchin told me so too, and I have come to tell you.”
There was another unanswered question before him, and such a vital one that Myshkin was afraid to consider it; he could not, dared not, even admit it; he did not know how to formulate it, he flushed and trembled at the mere thought of it. But in spite of all these doubts and apprehensions he ended by going in and asking for Nastasya Filippovna.
Nastasya Filippovna lived in a really magnificent, though not very large, flat. There had been one time, at the beginning of her five years in Petersburg, when Afanasy Ivanovitch had been particularly lavish in his expenditure on her. He had still had hopes of her love in those days, and had dreamed of tempting her chiefly by luxury and comfort, knowing how easily habits of luxury are acquired and how difficult they are to give up afterwards, when luxury gradually passes into necessity. In this respect Totsky clung to the good old tradition, without modifying it in any way, having an unbounded respect for the supreme power of the appeal to the senses. Nastasya Filippovna did not refuse luxury — she liked it, indeed — but strange as it seemed, she was not in the least a slave to it; apparently she could have done without it at any moment; she even took the trouble to say so plainly on several occasions, which made an unpleasant impression on Totsky. There was much, however, in Nastasya Filippovna which struck him unpleasantly, and subsequently even moved him to contempt. Apart from the inelegance of the class of people with whom she sometimes associated and to whom she must therefore have been attracted, she displayed other very strange propensities. She showed a sort of savage mingling of two tastes, a capacity for being satisfied and putting up with things and means of which one would have supposed that a well-bred and refined person would not admit the existence. In fact, if Nastasya Filippovna had displayed an elegant and charming ignorance of the fact, for instance, that peasant women were not in a position to wear the batiste garments that she did, Afanasy Ivanovitch would probably have been extremely pleased. The whole plan of Nastasya Filippovna’s education had been from the beginning elaborated with a view to such a result by Totsky, who was a very subtle person in his own line. But, alas! the finished product was a strange one. In spite of that, Nastasya Filippovna had, and always kept, somethinq which at times impressed even Totsky himself by its extraordinary and fascinating originality, by a sort of power. It sometimes enchanted him even now, when all his former designs on Nastasya Filippovna had collapsed.
Myshkin was met by a maid (Nastasya Filippovna kept only women servants). He asked her to take his name in, and to his surprise the girl showed no wonder, and she betrayed no hesitation at the sight of his dirty boots, his wide-brimmed hat, his sleeveless cloak, and his embarrassed air. She took off his cloak, asked him to wait in the reception-room, and went at once to announce him.
Nastasya Filippovna’s party consisted of the circle she always had about her. The guests were few in number, indeed, compared with similar birthday parties of previous years. In the first place, Afanasy Ivanovitch Totsky and Ivan Fyodorovitch Epanchin were present. Both were amiable but secretly uneasy and in ill-disguised apprehension of the promised declaration in regard to Ganya. Ganya of course was there too. He too was very gloomy and preoccupied, almost rude in fact. Most of the evening he stood apart at some distance and did not speak. He had not ventured to bring Varya, and Nastasya Filippovna made no reference to her, but immediately after greeting Ganya she alluded to his scene with Myshkin. General Epanchin, who had not heard of it, was much interested. Then Ganya drily and with restraint, but perfectly openly, told what had happened that afternoon and how he had gone to the prince to beg his pardon. He warmly expressed the opinion that it was strange and unaccountable to call the prince “an idiot,” that he thought him quite the opposite — a man, in fact, who knew very well what he was about.
Nastasya Filippovna listened to this dictum with great attention and watched Ganya curiously, but the conversation passed immediately to Rogozhin, as a leading figure in the scene at Ganya’s. Totsky and Epanchin were much interested to hear about him too. It appeared that the person who knew most about Rogozhin was Ptitsyn, who had been with him and busy in his service till nine o’clock that evening. Rogozhin had insisted on their obtaining a hundred thousand roubles that day. “It’s true he was drunk,” observed Ptitsyn, “but I believe he has secured the hundred thousand, difficult as it seems. Only I am not sure whether he will get it to-day, and whether he’ll get it all. Several people are at work for him — Kinder, Trepalov, Biskup. He doesn’t mind what interest he gives, of course, as he is drunk and in the first flush of fortune,” said Ptitsyn in conclusion.
All this information was received with interest, though it seemed to depress some, and Nastasya Filippovna was silent, obviously not caring to say what she felt. Ganya too was mute. Epanchin was secretly almost more uneasy than any one. The pearls he had presented that morning had been accepted with rather a frigid politeness and even a shade of mockery. Ferdyshtchenko alone of all the party was in a festive holiday mood. He laughed aloud at times for no special reason, simply because he had taken up the part of jester. Totsky himself, who had the reputation of a witty and elegant storyteller, and had usually led the conversation at these parties, was evidently out of humour and ill at ease, which was unlike him. The other guests, who were, however, few in number, were not merely incapable of lively conversation, but positively unable at times to say anything at all. One poor old teacher had been invited, goodness knows why; then there was an unknown and very young man, fearfully shy and absolutely mute the whole evening; a lively lady of forty, probably an actress; and an exceedingly handsome, exceedingly well and richly dressed, and extraordinarily taciturn young lady.
Myshkin’s appearance therefore was positively welcome. The announcement of his name caused surprise and some queer smiles, especially as from Nastasya Filippovna’s air of surprise it was clear that she had not dreamed of inviting him. But after the first moment of wonder she showed at once so much pleasure that most of the party promptly prepared to meet the unexpected visitor with mirth and laughter.
“Though it’s his innocence,” pronounced Ivan Fyodorovitch Epanchin, “and it’s rather dangerous to encourage such tendencies, it’s really not amiss at the moment that he has taken it into his head to turn up, even in such an original manner. He may perhaps amuse us, as far as I can judge of him at least.”
“Especially as he has invited himself,” Ferdvshtchenko put in at once.
“Well, what of that?” asked the general drily. He detested Ferdyshtchenko.
“Why, that he must pay for his entrance!” explained the latter.
“Oh, Prince Myshkin is not Ferdyshtchenko, anyway,” the general could not resist saying. He could never reconcile himself to the thought that he was in the same company and on an equal footing with Ferdyshtchenko.
“Aie, general, spare Ferdyshtchenko,” replied the latter, simpering. “I am here in a special position.”
“What special position are you in?”
“Last time I had the honour of explaining it exactly to the company. I’ll repeat it again to your excellency. “Vbu see, your excellency, every one has wit, but I have no wit. To make up for it I’ve asked leave to speak the truth, for every one knows that it’s only people who have no wit who speak the truth. Besides, I am a very vindictive man, and that is because I have no wit. I put up with every insult, but only till my antagonist comes to grief. As soon as he comes to grief, I remember it, and at once avenge myself in some way. ‘I kick,’ as Ivan Petrovitch Ptitsyn has said to me; though he, of course, never kicks any one. Do you know Krylov’s fable, your excellency, The Lion and the Ass’? Well, that’s you and me; it’s written about us.”
“You are talking nonsense again, I think, Ferdyshtchenko,” said the general, boiling over.
“What do you mean, your excellency?” retorted Ferdyshtchenko, who had reckoned on being able to retort and so lengthen out his twaddle. “Don’t be uneasy, your excellency, I know my place. If I say, ‘bu and I are the lion and the ass in Krylov’s fable,’ I take the part of the ass on myself, of course, and your excellency is the lion, as in Krylov’s fable:
The mighty lion, the terror of the mods, With growing years had lost his youthful strength.
I, your excellency, am the ass.”
“There I agree,” the general dropped incautiously.
All this, of course, was coarsely and intentionally done, but it seemed to be the accepted thing for Ferdyshtchenko to be allowed to play the fool.
“I am only kept and only received here that I may talk in this way,” Ferdyshtchenko had once exclaimed. “Can such a person as I am be received? I understand that. Can a person like me be set beside a refined gentleman like Afanasy Ivanovitch? One is driven to the only explanation, that they do it because it’s inconceivable.”
But though it was coarse, it was sometimes cutting, very cutting, indeed, and that was what Nastasya Filippovna seemed to like. Those who wanted to visit her had to make up their minds to put up with Ferdyshtchenko. He perhaps guessed the truth, that he was received because his presence had from the first been insufferable to Totsky. Ganya too endured unspeakable misery at his hands, and in that way Ferdyshtchenko was able to be of great use to Nastasya Filippovna.
“The prince will begin by singing us a fashionable song,” Ferdyshtchenko concluded, looking to see what Nastasya Filippovna would say.
“I don’t think so, Ferdyshtchenko, and please don’t get excited,” she said drily.
“A-ah! If he is under special protection, I will be indulgent too.”
But Nastasya Filippovna got up not listening to him, and went forward herself to meet Myshkin.
“I am sorry,” said she, suddenly appearing before him, “that I forgot to invite you this afternoon, and I am very glad that you give me an opportunity of thanking you and telling you how well you’ve done to come.”
As she spoke, she looked intently at Myshkin, trying to find some explanation of his coming.
Myshkin would perhaps have made some reply to her friendly words, but he was so dazzled and overwhelmed that he could not utter a word. Nastasya Filippovna noticed this with satisfaction. That evening she was in full dress and her appearance was very striking. She took him by the hand and led him to the company.
At the door of the drawing-room Myshkin suddenly stopped, and with extraordinary emotion whispered hurriedly:
“Everything is perfection in you . . . even your being thin and pale. . . . One would not like to imagine you different. ... I had such a longing to come to you.... I... forgive me!”
“Don’t ask forgiveness,” laughed Nastasya Filippovna; “that would destroy all the strangeness and originality. It’s true what they say, that you are a strange man. So you look upon me as perfection, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Though you are first-rate at guessing, you are mistaken. I’ll remind you of that to-day....”
She introduced Myshkin to her guests, to more than half of whom he was already known. Totsky at once said something cordial. The whole company seemed to revive, they all began talking and laughing. Nastasya Filippovna made Myshkin sit down beside her.
“But after all what is there wonderful in the prince’s having come?” Ferdyshtchenko cried louder than all of them. “It’s a clear case, it speaks for itself!”
“It’s too clear and speaks too plainly for itself,” put in Ganya, who had been silent till then. “I’ve been observing the prince to-day almost continuously from the very instant when he saw Nastasya Filippovna’s portrait for the first time this morning on Ivan Fyodorovitch’s table. I remember distinctly that I thought of something even then, which I am quite convinced of now, and which the prince confessed himself, by the way.”
This whole speech Ganya uttered quite seriously, without a hint of playfulness, in a gloomy tone which sounded strange.
“I’ve made you no confession,” replied Myshkin, flushing. “I simply answered your question.”
“Bravo! Bravo!” shouted Ferdyshtchenko. “That’s sincere anyway — it’s sly and sincere too!”
Everyone laughed aloud.
“Don’t shout, Ferdyshtchenko,” Ptitsyn observed to him in an undertone, with disgust.
“I should not have expected such an enterprise of you, prince,” remarked Ivan Fyodorovitch. “One wouldn’t have thought you were that sort of fellow. Why, I looked on you as a philosopher. Ah, the sly dog!”
“And to judge from the way the prince blushes at an innocent jest like an innocent young girl, I conclude that, like an honourable young man, he is cherishing the most laudable intentions in his heart,” the aged teacher, a toothless old man of seventy, suddenly said, or rather mumbled, to the general surprise, for no one had expected him to open his lips that evening.
Every one laughed more than ever. The old man, probably imagining that they were laughing at his wit, laughed more and more heartily as he looked at them, till he ended by coughing violently. Nastasya Filippovna, who had an unaccountable affection for all such queer old men and women, and for crazy people even, began looking after him at once, kissed him, and ordered some more tea for him. She told the servant who came in to bring her a cloak, in which she wrapped herself, and then to put more wood on the fire. She asked what time it was, and the servant answered that it was half-past ten.
“Friends, would you like some champagne?” Nastasya Filippovna suggested suddenly. “I’ve got some ready. Perhaps it will make you more cheerful. Please don’t stand on ceremony.”
The offer of wine, especially in such a naive way, seemed very strange from Nastasya Filippovna. Every one knew the rigid standard of decorum maintained at her previous parties. The company was becoming more lively, but not in the same way as usual. The wine was, however, accepted, first by General Epanchin himself, secondly by the sprightly lady, the old man, Ferdyshtchenko, and after them by the rest. Totsky too took his glass, hoping to modify the novel tone of the company by giving it as far as possible the character of pleasant playfulness. Only Ganya drank nothing.
Nastasya Filippovna had taken a glass of champagne, and declared that she would drink three that evening. It was difficult to understand her strange and at times abrupt and sudden sallies, her hysterical and causeless laughter, alternating with silent and even morose depression. Some of her visitors suspected that she was feverish. They began to notice at last that she too seemed expecting something, frequently looked at her watch, and was becoming impatient and preoccupied.
“You seem to be a little feverish?” asked the sprightly lady.
“Not a little, but very much. That’s why I wrapped myself up in my cloak,” replied Nastasya Filippovna, who really was turning pale and seemed at times trying to suppress a violent shiver.
They were all concerned and made a movement.
“Shouldn’t we let our hostess rest?” said Totsky, looking at Ivan Fyodorovitch.
“Certainly not. I beg you to stay; I need your presence especially to-day,” Nastasya Filippovna observed suddenly, with a significant emphasis.
And as almost all the guests knew that a very important decision was to be made that evening, her words seemed pregnant with meaning. General Epanchin and Totsky exchanged glances once more. Ganya twitched convulsively.
“It would be a good thing to play some petit-jeu,” observed the sprightly lady.
“I know a new splendid petit-jeu” put in Ferdyshtchenko. “Though it was only played once, and even then it was not successful.”
“What was it?” asked the sprightly lady.
“A party of us were together one day — we’d been drinking, it’s true — and suddenly some one made the suggestion that each one of us, without leaving the table, should tell something he had done, something that he himself honestly considered the worst of all the evil actions of his life. But it was to be done honestly, that was the point, that it was to be honest, no lying.”
