The Idiot (19 page)

He became confused, and did not finish what he was saying; he was trying to make his mind up about something, and seemed to be
struggling with himself. The prince waited in silence. Once more, Ganya surveyed him with a fixed, searching stare.

‘Prince,’ he began again, ‘in there just now ... because of a certain very strange circumstance ... and also a ridiculous one ... for which I am not to blame ... well, actually, this is superfluous ... I think they’re a little angry with me, so I don’t want to go in for a while unless I’m asked. I really do terribly need to talk to Aglaya Ivanovna now. I’ve written a few words just in case (he was holding a small, folded piece of paper) - but I don’t know how to get it to her. Prince, would you undertake to give it to Aglaya Ivanovna, right now, but only to Aglaya Ivanovna, that’s to say, so that no one else sees it, you understand? Lord knows, it isn’t any kind of a secret, there’s nothing of that sort ... but ... will you do it?’ ‘I don’t feel very comfortable about it,’ the prince replied.

‘Oh, Prince, it’s really urgent!’ Ganya began to implore. ‘She may reply ... Believe me, I would only have turned to you in an extreme, in the most extreme situation ... Who can I get to deliver it? ... It’s very important ... Terribly important to me...’

Ganya was horribly afraid that the prince would not agree, and began to look him in the eye, with a gaze of timid pleading.

‘Very well, I’ll give it to her.’

‘Only it must be done so no one notices,’ Ganya beseeched, overjoyed, ‘and I say, Prince - I mean, I rely on your word of honour, eh?’

‘I won’t show it to anyone,’ said the prince.

‘The note isn’t sealed, but...’ Ganya let slip in his turmoil, and stopped in embarrassment.

‘Oh, I shan’t read it,’ the prince replied quite simply, took the portrait and walked out of the study.

Ganya, left alone, clutched his head.

‘A single word from her, and ... and truly, I may break it off with her! ...’

He could no longer sit down at his papers again, so excited and expectant was he, and began to wander about the study from one corner to another.

The prince went off, in reflection; the errand had struck him unpleasantly, as had the thought of Ganya’s note to Aglaya. But while he was still two rooms away from the drawing room, he suddenly stopped, as though remembering something, looked round, went over to the window, closer to the light, and began to look at the portrait of Nastasya Filippovna.

It was as if he were trying to decipher something that was hidden in this face and had struck him earlier. His earlier impression had remained with him almost intact, and now he seemed to be hurrying to check something again. This face, unusual in its beauty and also for some other quality, struck him even more powerfully now. There was in this face something that resembled an immense pride and contempt, hatred, almost, and at the same time something trusting, something extremely artless; as one beheld these features, the two contrasts even seemed to arouse a kind of compassion. This dazzling beauty was positively unendura
ble, the beauty of the pale face, the almost hollow cheeks and the burning eyes; a strange beauty! The prince looked for about a minute, then suddenly recollected himself, glanced about him, and hurriedly brought the portrait to his lips, and kissed it. When, a minute later, he entered the drawing room, his face was completely calm.

But no sooner had he stepped into the dining room (one room away from the drawing room) than he almost collided in the doorway with Aglaya, who was coming out. She was alone.

‘Gavrila Ardalionovich asked me to bring this to you,’ said the prince, giving her the note.

Aglaya stopped, took the note, and gave the prince a rather strange look. There was not the slightest embarrassment in her gaze, except perhaps for a certain glint of surprise, and even that seemed to relate only to the prince. It was as if, with her gaze, Aglaya were demanding that he account for himself - how had he got involved in this business with Ganya? - and demanding calmly, and from a position of superiority. For a moment or two they stood facing each other; at last, a kind of mocking expression was barely delineated in her features; she smiled faintly and walked past.

The general’s wife examined the portrait of Nastasya Filippovna for some time, silently and with a nuance of disdain, holding it in front of her with her arm outstretched, keeping it at a distance from her gaze, and with much effect.

‘Yes, pretty,’ she said quietly, at last, ‘even very pretty. I’ve seen her twice, but only from afar. So that’s the sort of beauty you like?’ she said, turning to the prince suddenly.

‘Yes ... that sort ...’ the prince replied with a certain effort.

‘You mean precisely that sort?’

‘Precisely that sort.’

‘Why?’

‘In that face ... there is much suffering ...’ the prince said quietly, almost involuntarily, as though he were talking to himself, and not answering a question.

‘Well, I really think you may be talking nonsense,’ the general’s wife decided, and with a haughty gesture threw the portrait away from her on to the table.

Alexandra took the portrait, Adelaida went over to her, and they both began to examine it. At that moment Aglaya returned to the drawing room.

‘What power!’ Adelaida suddenly exclaimed, eagerly scrutinizing the portrait over her sister’s shoulder.

‘Where? What power?’ Lizaveta Prokofyevna asked sharply.

‘Beauty like that is power,’ Adelaida said hotly. ‘With beauty like that one may turn the world upside down!’

Reflectively, she walked over to her easel. Aglaya gave the portrait only a fleeting glance, narrowed her eyes, stuck out her lower lip, and went to sit down at one side, with her arms folded.

The general’s wife rang the bell.

‘Tell Gavrila Ardalionovich to come here, he’s in the study,’ she ordered the servant who entered.

‘Maman!’
Alexandra exclaimed meaningfully.

‘I just want to say a couple of words to him!’ the general’s wife snapped quickly, stopping the objection. She was apparently irritated. ‘As you can see, Prince, we have nothing but secrets here just now. Nothing but secrets! It’s
de rigueur,
a kind of etiquette, a stupid one. And this in a matter that demands the greatest possible frankness, clarity and honesty. There’s marriage in the air, and not the kind of marriage for which I particularly care ...’

‘Maman,
what
are
you talking about?’ Alexandra hurried to stop her again.

‘What is it to you, dear daughter? Do
you
care for it? Let the prince hear, for we are friends. He and I are, at least. God looks for people, good ones, of course, but he has no use for the bad and capricious; especially the capricious, who today decide one thing, and tomorrow say another. Do you understand, Alexandra Ivanovna? They say I’m an eccentric, Prince, but I have discernment. For the heart is the main thing, and the rest is rubbish. Intelligence plays a role, too, of course ... perhaps intelligence is the main thing. Don’t smile like that, Aglaya, I’m not contradicting myself: a silly woman with a heart and no intelligence is just as unhappy as one with intelligence and no heart. That’s an old truth. I’m a silly woman with a heart and no intelligence, and you’re a silly woman with intelligence and no heart; we’re both unhappy, and we both suffer.’

‘What makes you so unhappy,
Maman?’
Adelaida could not help asking, apparently alone among the whole company in not having lost her cheerful disposition.

‘For one thing, educated daughters do,’ snapped the general’s wife, ‘and as that in itself is enough, there’s no point in going into the rest. There’s been enough verbosity. We shall see how the two of you (I don’t count Aglaya) get out of it with your intelligence and verbosity, and whether you, my much esteemed Alexandra Ivanovna, will be happy with your honourable gentleman ... Ah! ...’ she exclaimed, seeing Ganya enter. ‘Here’s another matrimonial union. How do you do?’ she replied to Ganya’s bow, without asking him to sit down. ‘Are you entering upon marriage?’

‘Marriage? ... What ... ? What marriage?’ Gavrila Ardalionovich muttered, astounded. He was dreadfully taken aback.

‘I’m asking you, are you about to be wedded, if you prefer that expression?’

‘N-no ... I ... n-no ...’ Gavrila Ardalionvich lied, and a blush of shame suffused his face. He cast a fleeting glance at Aglaya, where she sat to one side, and quickly took his eyes away again. Aglaya stared at him coldly, fixedly and calmly, not averting her gaze, and observing his confusion.

‘No? Did you say no?’ the inexorable Lizaveta Prokofyevna continued to question him. ‘That will do, I shall remember that today, Wednesday morning, you answered “no” to my question. It’s Wednesday today, isn’t it?’

‘I think so,
Maman.’

‘They never know what day it is. What’s the date?’

‘The twenty-seventh,’ replied Ganya.

‘The twenty-seventh? That’s good, for a certain reason. Goodbye. I am sure you have a lot to do, and I must dress and go out; take your portrait with you. Give my greetings to poor Nina Alexandrovna.
Au revoir,
dear Prince! Come and see us often, and I shall drop in on old Belokonskaya with the express purpose of telling her about you. And listen, my dear: I believe that God has brought you to St Petersburg from Switzerland especially for me. It may be that you will have other things to do as well, but it is mainly for me. God has arranged it specially this way.
Au revoir,
my dears. Alexandra, come through and see me for a moment, dear.’

The general’s wife went out. Ganya, frustrated, embarrassed, and full of anger, took the portrait from the table and, with a twisted smile, addressed the prince:

‘Prince, I’m going home now. If you haven’t changed your mind about staying with us, I’ll take you there, for you don’t even know the address.’

‘Wait, Prince,’ said Aglaya, suddenly rising from her armchair. ‘I want you to write something in my album. Papa said you’re a calligraphist. I’ll bring it to you in a moment ...’

And she went out.

‘Au revoir,
Prince, I’m leaving, too,’ said Adelaida.

She squeezed the prince’s hand tightly, smiled at him affably and kindly, and went out.

‘It was you,’ Ganya began to grind out, suddenly hurling himself on the prince as soon as they had all left, ‘it was you who blabbed that I’m getting married!’ he muttered in a quick semi-whisper, his face livid and his eyes flashing with spite. ‘You shameless blabbermouth!’

‘I assure you that you are mistaken,’ the prince replied calmly and politely. ‘I didn’t even know that you are getting married.’

‘You heard Ivan Fyodorovich say earlier on that everything will be decided at Nastasya Filippovna’s this evening, and that’s what you told them! You’re lying! Where else could they have heard it from? The devil take it, who could have told them apart from you? The old woman hinted as much to me, didn’t she?’

‘You’re the one who should know who told them if you think you were given a hint, I said not a word about it.’

‘Did you deliver the note? Was there a reply?’ Ganya interrupted him with feverish impatience. But at that very moment Aglaya returned, and the prince had no time to answer.

‘Here, Prince,’ said Aglaya, putting her album on the table. ‘Choose a page and write something for me. Here is a pen, and a new one, too. Is it all right that it’s a steel one? I’ve heard that calligraphists don’t use steel ones.’

As she talked to the prince, she did not seem to notice Ganya’s presence. But while the prince adjusted the pen, found the right page and got himself ready, Ganya went over to the fireplace, where Aglaya was standing, immediately on the prince’s right, and in a trembling, faltering voice said, almost straight into her ear:

‘One word, only one word from you - and I am saved.’

The prince turned quickly and looked at them both. In Ganya’s face there was real despair; he seemed to utter these words almost without thinking, at lightning speed. Aglaya looked at him for a few seconds with exactly the same calm surprise as she had earlier looked at the prince, and this calm surprise of hers, this bewilderment, as if stemming from a complete failure to understand what was being said to her, was at that moment more dreadful to Ganya than the most withering contempt.

‘What shall I write, then?’ asked the prince.

‘I’ll dictate it to you in a moment,’ said Aglaya, turning to him. ‘Ready? Write: “I do not bargain.” Now write the date and the month underneath. Show me.’

The prince handed her the album.

‘Magnificent! You’ve done it splendidly: you have wonderful handwriting. Thank you.
Au revoir,
Prince ... Wait,’ she added, as if remembering something. ‘Come along, I want to give you something as a keepsake.’

The prince followed her; but, as they entered the dining room, Aglaya paused.

‘Read this,’ she said, giving him Ganya’s note.

The prince took the note and looked at Aglaya in bewilderment.

‘After all, I know you haven’t read it and cannot possibly be that man’s confidant. Read it, I want you to read it through.’

The note had obviously been written in a hurry: