The Idiot (93 page)

‘You don’t mean it was you?’ exclaimed the prince.

‘The very same,’ the drunkard replied with dignity, ‘and at half-past eight this morning, only half an hour ... no, sir, three quarters of an hour ago, I informed the most noble mother that I had a certain event to tell her about ... a significant one. I informed her in a note, delivered by a maid, at the back door, sir. She received me.’

‘You were in there, seeing Lizaveta Prokofyevna just now?’ the prince asked, scarcely able to believe his ears.

‘I was, and I received a slap in the face ... a moral one. She returned the letter, even hurled it at me, without opening it ... and threw me out upon my ear ... though only morally, not physically ... though
almost
physically, not far from it!’

‘What letter did she hurl at you without opening it?’

‘But haven’t I ... heh-heh-heh! Why, but I haven’t told you yet! And I thought I’d already told you ... I received a certain little letter, for delivery, sir ...’

‘From whom? To whom?’

But some of Lebedev’s ‘explanations’ were extremely difficult to make sense of, or even partially understand. The prince did, however, manage to ascertain that the letter had been brought early that morning, through a servant girl, to Vera Lebedeva, for delivery to an address ... ‘The same as before ... the same as before, to a certain personage and from the same person, sir ... (for one of them I describe as a “person”, sir, and the other only as a “personage”, sir, for the sake of disparagement and distinction; for there is a great difference between an innocent and most highly noble general’s daughter and ... a
camellia,
sir), and so, the letter was from the “person”, sir, whose name begins with the letter A ...’ ‘How is that possible? To Nastasya Filippovna? Nonsense!’ exclaimed the prince.

‘It was, it was, sir, and if not to her, then to Rogozhin, sir ... and there was even one to Mr Terentyev, for delivery, one day, sir, from the person whose name begins with A,’ Lebedev winked and smiled.

As Lebedev often moved from one subject to another, and forgot what he had begun to talk about, the prince fell silent, in order to let him say what he had to say. But even then, it was all extremely vague: had the letters been sent through him, or through Vera? If he maintained that it was a matter of indifference whom they had been sent to — ‘if not to Rogozhin, then to Nastasya Filippovna’ - this only meant it was more likely they had not passed through his hands, if there had been any letters at all, that is. As for the question of how this letter had reached him now, it was still decidedly obscure; the most likely thing to suppose was that he had somehow purloined it from Vera ... quietly stolen it and taken it to Lizaveta Prokofyevna with some plan. This the prince at last grasped and realized.

‘You’ve gone out of your mind!’ he cried, exceedingly perturbed.

‘Not entirely, much esteemed Prince,’ Lebedev replied, not without malice. ‘It’s true that I was going to hand it over to you, give it into your very own hands, in order to oblige ... but considered it better to oblige over there and declare it all to the most noble mother ... as I had once informed her of it already, by letter, anonymously; and when I wrote this morning on a slip of paper, in advance, asking to be received, at twenty minutes past eight, I also signed myself “your secret correspondent”; I was admitted at once, instantly, even with considerable haste, by the back entrance ... to the most noble mother.’

‘Well? ...’

‘It’s as I said, sir, she almost gave me a thrashing, sir; that is, just a little one, sir, so it could be said that she
almost
gave me a thrashing, sir. And then she hurled the letter at me. It’s true that she really wanted to keep it — I saw that, observed it — but she changed her mind and hurled it: “If they’ve entrusted someone like you to deliver it, then deliver it ...” She even felt insulted. Really, if she was too embarrassed to say it to my face, then she must have felt insulted. She does have a hot temper!’

‘And where is the letter now?’

‘I still have it with me, here it is, sir.’

And he handed the prince Aglaya’s note to Gavrila Ardalionovich, which the latter had shown his sister with triumph that same morning, two hours later.

‘This letter can’t remain in your possession.’

‘But it’s for you, for you! I’ve brought it for you, sir!’ Lebedev interjected with ardour. ‘Now I’m yours again, all yours, from head to heart, your servant, sir, after my transitory betrayal, sir! Punish my heart, but spare my beard, as Sir Thomas More said ...
¹
in England and Great Britain, sir.
Mea culpa, mea culpa,
as the Roman Pope says ... that’s to say, he’s the Pope of Rome, but I call him the Roman Pope.’

‘This letter must be dispatched at once,’ the prince began to fuss, ‘I’ll deliver it.’

‘But wouldn’t it be better, wouldn’t it be better, most noble Prince, wouldn’t it be better, sir ... to do this, sir!’

Lebedev performed a strange, obsequious grimace; he suddenly began to writhe horribly in his chair, as though he had suddenly been pricked by a needle and, slyly winking, made some motions with his hands, demonstrating something.

‘What on earth?’ the prince asked sternly.

‘You could open it first, sir!’ he whispered obsequiously, and as if in confidence.

The prince leapt up with such fury that Lebedev took to flight; but, having run as far as the door, he paused to see if there might be mercy.

‘Oh, Lebedev! Is it possible, is it possible to descend to such base immorality as you have done?’ exclaimed the prince, sorrowfully. Lebedev’s features brightened.

‘I’m base, base!’ he drew closer at once, with tears, beating his breast.

‘I mean, that’s a loathsome thing to do!’

‘Indeed, a loathsome thing, sir. That’s the right word, sir!’

‘And what is this habit of yours of ... acting so strangely? I mean, you’re ... simply a spy! Why did you write an anonymous note and upset ... such a very kind and noble woman? Why, tell me, doesn’t Aglaya Ivanovna have the right to write to anyone she pleases? So you went over there today in order to complain? What did you hope to achieve? What moved you to inform?’

‘Solely out of pleasant curiosity and ... in order to oblige a noble soul, yes, sir!’ muttered Lebedev. ‘But now I’m all yours, all of me again! Even if you hang me!’

‘Did you present yourself to Lizaveta Prokofyevna as you are now?’ the prince inquired with revulsion.

‘No sir ... fresher, sir ... and even more decent, sir; it was after my humiliation that I attained ... this state, sir.’

‘Very well, then leave me, please.’

However, this request had to be repeated several times before the visitor decided, at last, to leave. Having got the door wide open, he again turned back, tiptoed to the middle of the room and began to make signs with his hands once more, demonstrating the gesture of opening a letter; but he did not dare to express his advice in words; and thereupon he left, smiling quietly and sweetly.

All this had been extremely painful to hear. From it all there emerged one principal and glaring fact: that Aglaya was greatly anxious, greatly uncertain, and for some reason greatly tormented (‘by jealousy,’ the prince whispered to himself). It also turned out that she was, of course, also being harassed by unkind people, and it was really very strange that she placed such trust in them. Of course, in that inexperienced but hot and proud little head certain curious plans were ripening, which were possibly also fatal and ... resembled nothing on earth. The prince was extremely alarmed and, in his perplexity, did not know what to do. There was something he must certainly forestall, that he could feel. He looked again at the address on the sealed letter: oh, he had no doubts or anxieties there, because he trusted her; something else about this letter worried him: he did not trust Gavrila Ardalionovich. And yet, none the less, he had been on the point of deciding to deliver this letter to him himself, in person, and had already left the house for that purpose, but had changed his mind en route. Almost right outside Ptitsyn’s house, as if on purpose, Kolya turned up, and the prince charged him with the task of delivering the letter into his brother’s hands, as if it came directly from Aglaya Ivanovna herself. Kolya did not ask any questions and delivered it, so Ganya had no idea that the letter had passed through so many stations. Returning home, the prince asked to see Vera Lukyanovna, told her what was necessary and reassured her, because until now she had been looking for the letter and been crying. She was horrified when she learned that her father had taken the letter away. (The prince learned from her later that she had more than once served both Rogozhin and Aglaya Ivanovna in secret; she had never even dreamed that anything harmful to the prince could have been involved in it.)

At length, the prince became so upset that when, about two hours later, a messenger from Kolya arrived with the news that his father was ill, he was at first unable to comprehend what had happened. But it was this event that restored him, for it came as a powerful distraction. He remained at Nina Alexandrovna’s (where the sick man had, of course, been
taken) almost until evening. He was almost of no use at all, but there are people whom it is for some reason pleasant to see beside one at moments of crisis. Kolya was terribly shocked, wept hysterically, but, none the less, constantly ran errands: ran for a doctor and managed to find three, ran to the pharmacy, to the barbershop. The general was revived, but not brought back to consciousness; the doctors said that ‘at any rate, the
Pazient
is in danger’. Varya and Nina Alexandrovna did not leave the sick man’s bedside; Ganya was distraught and shaken, but did not want to go upstairs and was even afraid of seeing the sick man; he wrung his hands and, in an incoherent conversation with the prince, succeeded in getting out the words: ‘what a misfortune, and as if on purpose, at such a time!’ The prince thought he knew what ‘time’ he was referring to. As for Ippolit, the prince had not found him at Ptitsyn’s house. Towards evening Lebedev came running, having slept like a log all day after the morning’s ‘explanation’. Now he was almost sober, and wept real tears over the sick man, as though this were his own brother. He blamed himself aloud, without, however, explaining what had happened, and kept pestering Nina Alexandrovna, constantly assuring her that it was ‘he, he who was the cause of it, and no one but he ... solely out of pleasant curiosity ... and that “the deceased” (as he for some reason kept stubbornly calling the still living general) was even a man of the greatest genius!’ He made a particular point of earnestly insisting on this ‘genius’, as though some extraordinary healing power might at that moment proceed from it. Nina Alexandrovna, beholding the sincerity of his tears, said to him quietly at last, without any reproach and even almost with affection: ‘Well, God be with you, now don’t cry, God will forgive you!’ Lebedev was so shaken by these words and their tone that he was unwilling to leave Nina Alexandrovna all that evening (and all the days that followed, until the general’s death, he spent at their house almost from morning till night). During the day there twice arrived a messenger from Lizaveta Prokofyevna to obtain information about the sick man’s health. And when that evening, at nine o’ clock, the prince arrived in the Yepanchins’ drawing room, now full of guests, Lizaveta Prokofyevna at once began to ask him questions about the sick man, with compassion and in detail, and replied with dignity to Belokonskaya when she inquired who the sick man was and who Nina Alexandrovna was. This greatly pleased the prince. He himself, while explaining things to Lizaveta Prokofyevna, spoke ‘beautifully’, as Aglaya’s sisters expressed it later: ‘modestly, quietly, without superfluous words, without gestures, with dignity; made a beautiful entrance; was dressed superbly’, and not only did not ‘fall on the slippery floor’, as he had feared the day before, but plainly even made an agreeable impression on everyone.

For his part, having sat down and looked around him, he at once noticed that this entire gathering in no way resembled the phantoms with which Aglaya had frightened him the day before, or the nightmares he had had during the night. For the first time in his life he saw a c
orner of what is given the intimidating name of ‘society’. As a result of certain special intentions, considerations and personal inclinations, he had long been keen to penetrate this charmed circle of people, and so took a powerful interest in his first impressions. These first impressions of his were even ones of enchantment. It somehow suddenly seemed to him that all these people had been born to be together; that there was no ‘soiree’ at the Yepanchins’ that evening, that these were all just ‘good friends’ and that he himself had long been their devoted friend and like-minded associate and had returned to them after a recent separation. The charm of refined manners, simplicity and apparent sincerity was almost magical. It could not even have entered his thoughts that all this sincerity and nobility, wit and lofty personal dignity were, perhaps, merely a splendid artistic manufacture. Most of the guests, in spite of their imposing external appearance, were even rather empty people, but unaware in their self-satisfaction that many of their good aspects were simply a manufacture, for which they were moreover not to blame, for they had attained it unconsciously and by inheritance. This the prince was unwilling even to suspect, charmed under the spell of his first impressions. He saw, for example, that this old man, this important dignitary, who was old enough to be his grandfather, even broke off his conversation in order to listen to him, such a young and inexperienced man, and not only listened to what he had to say, but apparently valued his opinion, was so kind to him, so sincerely good-natured, and yet they were strangers who were meeting for the very first time. It was perhaps the refinement of this courtesy that had the most powerful effect on the prince’s excited susceptibility. He had been too much predisposed, suborned in advance, perhaps, to a favourable impression.