Complete works of fyodor.., p.327
Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky, page 327
The “old princess” listened to Lizaveta Prokofyevna’s feverish and desperate outpourings, and was not in the least moved by the tears of the harassed mother; she even looked at her sarcastically. The old lady was a terrible despot; she would not allow even her oldest friends to be on an equal footing with her, and she looked on Lizaveta Prokofyevna simply as her protege, as she had been thirty-five years before, and she never could reconcile herself to the abruptness and independence of her character. She observed among otherthings that “they were, as usual, in much too great a hurry, and were making a mountain out of a molehill; that so far as she heard, she was not convinced that anything serious had really happened; and wouldn’t it be better to wait until there was something to go upon? That the prince, in her opinion, was a nice young man, though sickly, eccentric, and of little consequence. The worst point about him was that he was openly keeping a mistress.” Madame Epanchin was well aware that the princess was rather cross at the failure of “Vfevgeny Pavlovitch whom she had introduced to them. She went home to Pavlovsk in a state of greater irritation than when she had set out, and she fell foul of every one at once, chiefly, on the ground that “they’d all gone crazy,” and that things were not done like that by anyone whatever except by them. “Why were they in such a hurry? What has happened? So far as I can judge I cannot see that anything has happened! Wait till there’s something to go upon! Ivan Fyodorovitch is always fancying things and making mountains out of molehills.”
The upshot of it was that they must keep calm, wait and look on coolly. But alas! the calm did not last ten minutes. The first blow to her composure was the news of what had happened during her absence at Kamennv Island. (Madame Epanchin’s visit had taken place on the day after Myshkin had paid a vist after midnight instead of at nine o’clock.) In reply to their mother’s impatient questions, the sisters answered in detail to begin with that “nothing special had happened during her absence,” that the prince had come, that for a long time, quite half an hour, Aglaia had not come down to see him, that afterwards she came down and at once asked Myshkin to play chess; that the prince did not know how to play and Aglaia had beaten him at once; that she was very lively and had scolded the prince, who was horribly ashamed of his ignorance; she had laughed at him dreadfully, so that they were sorry to look at him. Then she suggested a game of cards, “fools.” But that had turned out quite the other way. The prince played fools in masterly fashion, like a professor; Aglaia had even cheated and changed cards, and had stolen tricks from under his very nose, and yet he had made a “fool” of her five times running. Aglaia got fearfully angry, quite forgot herself, in fact; she said such biting and horrid things to the prince that at last he left off laughing, and turned quite pale when she told him at last that “she wouldn’t set foot in the room as long as he were there, and that it was positively disgraceful of him to come to them, especially at night, past twelve o’clock, after all that had happened” Then she slammed the door and went out. The prince walked out as though from a funeral, in spite of all their efforts to console him. All of a sudden, a quarter of an hour after the prince had gone, Aglaia had run downstairs to the verandah in such haste that she had not dried her eyes, and they were still wet with tears. She ran down because Kolya had come bringing a hedgehog. They had all begun looking at the hedgehog. Kolya explained that the hedgehog was not his; that he was out for a walk with a schoolfellow, Kostya Lebedyev, who had stayed in the street and was too shy to come in, because he was carrying a hatchet; that they had just bought the hedgehog and the hatchet from a peasant they had met. The peasant had sold them the hedgehog for fifty kopecks, and they had persuaded him to sell the hatchet, too, because “he might just as well,” and it was a very good hatchet. All of a sudden Aglaia had begun worrying Kolya to sell her the hedgehog; she got very excited about it, and even called Kolya “darling.” For a long time Kolya would not consent, but at last he gave way and summoned Kostya Lebedyev, who did in fact come in carrying a hatchet and very much abashed. But then it had suddenly appeared that the hedgehog was not theirs at all, but belonged to another, a third boy, called Petrov, who had given the two of them money to buy Schlosser’s “History” for him from a fourth boy, which, the latter, being in want of money, was selling cheap; that they had been going to buy Schlosser’s “History,” but they hadn’t been able to resist buying the hedgehog, so that it followed that the hedgehog and the hatchet belonged to the third boy, to whom they were carrying them instead of Schlosser’s “History.” But Aglaia had so insisted that at last they made up their minds and sold her the hedgehog. As soon as Aglaia had bought the hedgehog, she had, with Kolya’s help, placed it in a wicker basket, and covered it with a table-napkin, then she began asking Kolya to take it straight to the prince from her, begging him to accept it as a sign of her “profound respect.” Kolya agreed, delighted, and promised to do it without fail, but began immediately pestering her to know “what was meant bv the hedqehoq and by making him such a present?”
Aglaia had answered that it was not his business. He answered that he was convinced there was some allegory in it. Aglaia had been angry, and flew out at him, saying that he was nothing but a “silly boy.” Kolya at once retorted that if it were not that he respected her sex and, what was more, his own convictions, he would have shown her on the spot that he knew how to answer such insults. It had ended, however, in Kolya’s carrying off the hedgehog in delight, and Kostya Lebedyev had run after him. Aglaia, seeing that Kolya was swinging the basket too much, could not resist calling to him from the verandah: “Please, don’t drop it, Kolya darling!” as though she had not been quarrelling with him just before. Kolya had stopped, and he, too, as though he had not been quarrelling, had shouted with the utmost readiness: “I won’t drop him, Aglaia Ivanovna, don’t you be uneasy!” and had run on again at full speed. After that Aglaia had laughed tremendously and gone up to her own room exceedingly pleased, and had been in high spirits the rest of the day.
Lizaveta Prokofyevna was completely confounded by this account. One might ask why? But she was evidently in a morbid state of mind. Her apprehension was aroused to an extreme point, above all, by the hedgehog. What did the hedgehog mean? What compact underlay it? What was understood by it? What did it stand for? What was its cryptic message? Moreover, the luckless Ivan Fyodorovitch, who happened to be present during the inquisition, spoilt the whole business by his reply. In his opinion there was no cryptic message in it, and the hedgehog “was simply a hedgehog and nothing more — at most it meant a friendly desire to forget the past and make it up; in a word it was all mischief, but harmless and excusable.”
We may note in parenthesis that he had guessed right. Myshkin returned home after being dismissed and ridiculed by Aglaia, and sat for half an hour in the blackest despair, when Kolya suddenly appeared with the hedgehog. The sky cleared at once. Myshkin seemed to rise again from the dead; he questioned Kolya, hung on every word he said, repeated his questions ten times over, laughed like a child, and continually shook hands with the two laughing boys who gazed at him so frankly. The upshot of it was that Aglaia forgave him, and that he could go and see her again that evening, and that was for him not only the chief thing but everything.
“What children we still are, Kolya! and . . . and . . . how nice it is that we are such children,” he cried at last, joyfully.
“The simple fact is she’s in love with you, prince, that’s all about it!” Kolya answered authoritatively and impressively.
Myshkin flushed, but this time he said nothing, and Kolya simply laughed and clapped his hands. A minute later Myshkin laughed too, and he was looking at his watch every five minutes to see how time was going and how long it was till evening.
But Madame Epanchin’s mood got the upper hand of her, and at last she could not help giving way to hysterical excitement. In spite of the protests of her husband and daughters, she immediately sent for Aglaia in order to put the fatal question to her, and to extort from her a perfectly clear and final answer: “To make an end of it once for all, to be rid of it, and not to refer to it again!”
“I can’t exist till evening without knowing!” And only then they all realised to what an absurd pass they had brought things. They could get nothing out of Aglaia except feigned amazement, indignation, laughter and jeers at the prince and at all who questioned her. Lizaveta Prokofyevna lay on her bed and did not come down till evening tea, when Myshkin was expected. She awaited his coming with a tremor, and almost went into hysterics when he appeared.
And Myshkin, for his part, came in timidly, as it were feeling his way, looking into everyone’s eyes, and seeming to question them all because Aglaia was not in the room again, which made him uneasy at once. There were no other guests present that evening; the family was alone. Prince S. was still in Petersburg, busy over the affairs of Yevgeny Pavlovitch’s uncle. “If only he could have been here and said something, anyway,” said Lizaveta Prokofyevna to herself, deploring his absence. Ivan Fyodorovitch sat with a very puzzled air; the sisters were serious, and, as though intentionally, silent. Lizaveta Prokofyevna did not know how to begin the conversation. At last she vigorously abused the railway, and looked with resolute challenge at Myshkin.
Alas! Aqlaia did not come down, and Mvshkin was lost. Losing his head and hardly able to articulate, he began to express the opinion that to improve the line would be exceedingly useful, but Adelaida suddenly laughed, and he was crushed again. At that very instant Aglaia came in. Calmly and with dignity she made Myshkin a ceremonious bow, and solemnly seated herself in the most conspicuous place at the round table. She looked inquiringly at Myshkin. Every one realised that the moment had come when all doubts would be removed.
“Did you get my hedgehog?” Aglaia asked firmly and almost angrily.
“I did,” answered Myshkin, with a sinking heart, and he flushed red.
“Explain at once what you think about it. That’s essential for the peace of mind of mamma and all the family.”
“Come, come, Aglaia . . ,” began the general, suddenly uneasy.
“This is beyond everything!” said Lizaveta Prokofyevna, for some reason suddenly alarmed.
“It’s not beyond anything, maman,” her daughter answered sternly at once. “I sent the prince a hedgehog to-day, and I want to know his opinion. Well, prince?”
“What sort of opinion, Aglaia Ivanovna?”
“Of the hedgehog.”
“That is, I suppose, Aglaia Ivanovna, you want to know how I took ... the hedgehog ... or, rather, how I regarded the . . . sending . . . of the hedgehog, that is ... I imagine in such a case, that is, in fact....”
He gasped and was silent.
“Well, you’ve not said much,” said Aglaia, after waiting five seconds. “Very well, I agree to drop the hedgehog; but I am very glad that I can put an end to all this accumulation of misunderstanding. Let me know from you personally: are you making me an offeror not?”
“Good heavens!” broke from Lizaveta Prokofyevna. Myshkin started and drew back; Ivan Fyodorovitch was petrified; the sisters frowned.
“Don’t lie, prince, tell the truth. I am persecuted with strange questionings on your account. Is there any foundation for these questions? ... Well?”
“I have not made you an offer, Aglaia Ivanovna,” said Myshkin, suddenly reviving. “But you know how I
love you and believe in you ... even now....”
“What I am inquiring is — do you ask for my hand, or not?”
“I do,” Myshkin answered with a sinking heart.
A general stir of agitation followed.
“All this is not the thing, my dear fellow,” said Ivan Fyodorovitch, violently agitated. “This . . . this is almost impossible if it’s like this, Aglaia. . . . Forgive it, prince, forgive it, my dear fellow! . . . Lizaveta Prokofyevna!” he turned to his wife for assistance, “you must... go into it!”
“I refuse, I refuse!” cried Lizaveta Prokofyevna, waving her hands.
“Allow me to speak, maman: I count for something in this business; the extreme moment of my fate is being decided” (this was the expression Aglaia used) “and I want to find out for myself, and I’m glad besides that it’s before everyone. . . .Allow me to ask you, prince, if you ‘cherish such intentions,’ how do you propose to secure my happiness?”
“I really don’t know, Aglaia Ivanovna, how to answer you, in this question . . . What is there to answer? And besides ... is it necessary?”
“You seem to be embarrassed and out of breath; take a rest and pull yourself together; drink a glass of water, though they’ll soon give you some tea.”
“I love you, Aglaia Ivanovna. I love you very much, I love no one but you and .. . don’t jest, I implore you.. .. I love you very much.”
“This is an important matter, though, we are not children; we must look at it practically. . . . Have the goodness now to explain what your fortune is?”
“Come, come, Aglaia! What are you doing! This is not the thing, not the thing,” Ivan Fyodorovitch muttered in dismay.
“Disgraceful!” said Lizaveta Prokofyevna in a loud whisper.
“She’s out of her mind!” Alexandra whispered as loudly.
“My fortune . . . that is, money?” said Myshkin, surprised.
“Just so.”
“I have. ... I have now one hundred and thirty-five thousand,” Myshkin muttered, reddening.
“Is that all?” said Aglaia aloud, in open wonder, without the faintest blush. “It doesn’t matter though,
especially with economy. Do you intend to enter the service?”
“I was thinking of preparing for an examination to become a private tutor....”
“Very appropriate; no doubt that will increase our income. Are you proposing to be a kammer-junker?”
“A kammer-junker? I never imagined such a thing, but....”
But at this point the two sisters could not contain themselves and burst into laughter. Adelaida had long noticed in the twitching features of Aglaia’s face symptoms of imminent and irrepressible laughter, which she was, for the time, controlling with all her might. Aglaia looked menacingly at her laughing sisters, but a second later she, too, broke down, and went off into a frantic, almost hysterical, fit of laughter. At last she leapt up and ran out of the room.
“I knew it was all a joke and nothing more!” cried Adelaida, “from the very beginning, from the hedgehog.”
“No, this I will not allow; I will not,” cried Lizaveta Prokofyevna, suddenly boiling over with anger, and she hastened out after Aglaia. The sisters ran out immediately after her. Myshkin was left alone in the room with the head of the family.
“This is . . . could you have imagined anything like it, Lyov Nikolayevitch?” General Epanchin cried abruptly, hardly knowing what he wanted to say. “Yes, seriously, speak?”
“I see that Aglaia Ivanovna was laughing at me,” said Myshkin sadly.
“Wait a bit, my boy. I’ll go and you wait a bit, because . . . you at least, you at least, Lyov Nikolayevitch, explain to me how all this happened, and what does it all mean, looked at as a whole, so to say? You must admit, my boy — I’m her father; anyway I’m her father and so I don’t understand anything about it; you at least let me know.”
“I love Aglaia Ivanovna; she knows that . . . and I think she has known it a long time.”
The general shrugged his shoulders.
“Strange, strange! . . . And are you very fond of her?”
“Very.”
“This all seems so strange to me. That is, such a surprise and blow that. .. . You see, my dear boy, it’s not the fortune (though I did expect you had rather more), but. . . my daughter’s happiness . . . in fact. .
. are you in a position to secure . . . her happiness? And ... and ... what does it mean: is it a joke or real on her side? Not on your side, but on hers, I mean?”
Alexandra’s voice was heard at the door, calling her father.
“Wait a bit, my boy, wait a bit! Wait a bit and think it over. I’ll be back directly,” he said hurriedly, and almost in alarm he rushed out in response to the call.
He found his wife and daughter in each other’s arms, mingling their tears. They were tears of bliss, tenderness, and reconciliation. Aglaia was kissing her mother’s hands, cheeks and lips; they were hugging each other closely.
“Here, look at her, Ivan Fyodorovitch! There you have the whole of her,” said Lizaveta Prokofyevna.
Aglaia lifted her happy, tear-stained little face from her mother’s bosom, and looked at her father; she laughed aloud, jumped up to him, embraced him warmly, and kissed him several times. Then she flung herself on her mother again and hid her face completely in her bosom so that no one could see it, and began crying again at once. Lizaveta Prokofyevna covered her with the end of her shawl.
“What are vou doinq with us, vou cruel qirl — that’s what I want to know,” she said, but joyfully, as though she could breathe more easily now.
“Cruel! Yes, cruel!” Aglaia assented suddenly. “Spoilt! Good-for-nothing! Tell papa that. Oh, yes, he’s here! Papa, you’re here? Do you hear?” she laughed through her tears.
“My dear, my idol!” The general kissed her hand, beaming all over with happiness. (Aglaia did not take her hand away.) “So you love this young man then?”
“No-no-no! I can’t bear. . . your young man, I can’t endure him!” cried Aglaia, boiling over suddenly and raising her head. “And if you ever dare again. ... I mean it, papa, I mean it; do you hear? I mean it.”
And she certainly did mean it; she flushed all over and her eyes gleamed. Her father was nonplussed and alarmed. But Lizaveta Prokofyevna made a signal to him behind her daughter, and he took it to mean: “Don’t ask questions.”
“If it is so, my angel, it’s as you like, it’s for you to decide, he’s waiting there alone. Shouldn’t we give him a delicate hint to go away?”
