“Yes, I see and understand.”
Mrs. Epanchin gazed keenly into the prince’s eyes. She was anxious to see what impression the news as to Evgenie Pavlovitch had made upon him.
“Do you know anything about Gavrila Ardalionovitch?” she asked at last.
“Oh yes, I know a good deal.”
“Did you know he had communications with Aglaya?”
“No, I didn’t,” said the prince, trembling a little, and in great agitation. “You say Gavrila Ardalionovitch has private communications with Aglaya?—Impossible!”
“Only quite lately. His sister has been working like a rat to clear the way for him all the winter.”
“I don’t believe it!” said the prince abruptly, after a short pause. “Had it been so I should have known long ago.”
“Oh, of course, yes; he would have come and wept out his secret on your bosom. Oh, you simpleton—you simpleton! Anyone can deceive you and take you in like a—like a—aren’t you ashamed to trust him? Can’t you see that he humbugs you just as much as ever he pleases?”
“I know very well that he does deceive me occasionally, and he knows that I know it, but—” The prince did not finish his sentence.
“And that’s why you trust him, eh? So I should have supposed. Good Lord, was there ever such a man as you? Tfu! and are you aware, sir, that this Gania, or his sister Varia, have brought her into correspondence with Nastasia Philipovna?”
“Brought whom?” cried Muishkin.
“Aglaya.”
“I don’t believe it! It’s impossible! What object could they have?” He jumped up from his chair in his excitement.
“Nor do I believe it, in spite of the proofs. The girl is self-willed and fantastic, and insane! She’s wicked, wicked! I’ll repeat it for a thousand years that she’s wicked; they all are, just now, all my daughters, even that ‘wet hen’ Alexandra. And yet I don’t believe it. Because I don’t choose to believe it, perhaps; but I don’t. Why haven’t you been?” she turned on the prince suddenly. “Why didn’t you come near us all these three days, eh?”
The prince began to give his reasons, but she interrupted him again.
“Everybody takes you in and deceives you; you went to town yesterday. I dare swear you went down on your knees to that rogue, and begged him to accept your 10,000 roubles!”
“I never thought of doing any such thing. I have not seen him, and he is not a rogue, in my opinion. I have had a letter from him.”
“Show it me!”
The prince took a paper from his pocketbook, and handed it to Lizabetha Prokofievna. It ran as follows:
“Sir,
“In the eyes of the world I am sure that I have no cause for pride or self-esteem. I am much too insignificant for that. But what may be so to other men’s eyes is not so to yours. I am convinced that you are better than other people. Doktorenko disagrees with me, but I am content to differ from him on this point. I will never accept one single copeck from you, but you have helped my mother, and I am bound to be grateful to you for that, however weak it may seem. At any rate, I have changed my opinion about you, and I think right to inform you of the fact; but I also suppose that there can be no further intercourse between us.
“How extremely stupid!” cried Mrs. Epanchin, giving back the letter abruptly. “It was not worth the trouble of reading. Why are you smiling?”
“Confess that you are pleased to have read it.”
“What! Pleased with all that nonsense! Why, cannot you see that they are all infatuated with pride and vanity?”
“He has acknowledged himself to be in the wrong. Don’t you see that the greater his vanity, the more difficult this admission must have been on his part? Oh, what a little child you are, Lizabetha Prokofievna!”
“Are you tempting me to box your ears for you, or what?”
“Not at all. I am only proving that you are glad about the letter. Why conceal your real feelings? You always like to do it.”
“Never come near my house again!” cried Mrs. Epanchin, pale with rage. “Don’t let me see as much as a shadow of you about the place! Do you hear?”
“Oh yes, and in three days you’ll come and invite me yourself. Aren’t you ashamed now? These are your best feelings; you are only tormenting yourself.”
“I’ll die before I invite you! I shall forget your very name! I’ve forgotten it already!”
She marched towards the door.
“But I’m forbidden your house as it is, without your added threats!” cried the prince after her.
“What? Who forbade you?”
She turned round so suddenly that one might have supposed a needle had been stuck into her.
The prince hesitated. He perceived that he had said too much now.
“Who forbade you?” cried Mrs. Epanchin once more.
“Aglaya Ivanovna told me—”
“When? Speak—quick!”
“She sent to say, yesterday morning, that I was never to dare to come near the house again.”
Lizabetha Prokofievna stood like a stone.
“What did she send? Whom? Was it that boy? Was it a message?—quick!”
“I had a note,” said the prince.
“Where is it? Give it here, at once.”
The prince thought a moment. Then he pulled out of his waistcoat pocket an untidy slip of paper, on which was scrawled:
“Prince Lef Nicolaievitch—If you think fit, after all that has passed, to honour our house with a visit, I can assure you you will not find me among the number of those who are in any way delighted to see you.
Mrs. Epanchin reflected a moment. The next minute she flew at the prince, seized his hand, and dragged him after her to the door.
“Quick—come along!” she cried, breathless with agitation and impatience. “Come along with me this moment!”
“But you
