for some reason repugnant to you. You must admit that I have a perfect right to refuse to answer your questions; but, in order to show you that I am neither ashamed of the letter, nor sorry that I wrote it, and that I am not in the least inclined to blush about it '(here the prince's blushes redoubled), 'I will repeat the substance of my letter, for I think I know it almost by heart.'
So saying, the prince repeated the letter almost word for word, as he had written it.
'My goodness, what utter twaddle, and what may all this nonsense have signified, pray? If it had any meaning at all!' said Mrs. Epanchin, cuttingly, after having listened with great attention.
'I really don't absolutely know myself; I know my feeling was very sincere. I had moments at that time full of life and hope.'
'What sort of hope?'
'It is difficult to explain, but certainly not the hopes you have in your mind. Hopes--well, in a word, hopes for the future, and a feeling of joy that THERE, at all events, I was not entirely a stranger and a foreigner. I felt an ecstasy in being in my native land once more; and one sunny morning I took up a pen and wrote her that letter, but why to HER, I don't quite know. Sometimes one longs to have a friend near, and I evidently felt the need of one then,' added the prince, and paused.
'Are you in love with her?'
'N-no! I wrote to her as to a sister; I signed myself her brother.'
'Oh yes, of course, on purpose! I quite understand.'
'It is very painful to me to answer these questions, Lizabetha Prokofievna.'
'I dare say it is; but that's no affair of mine. Now then, assure me truly as before Heaven, are you lying to me or not?'
'No, I am not lying.'
'Are you telling the truth when you say you are not in love?'
'I believe it is the absolute truth.'
''I believe,' indeed! Did that mischievous urchin give it to her?'
'I asked Nicolai Ardalionovitch . . .'
'The urchin! the urchin!' interrupted Lizabetha Prokofievna in an angry voice. 'I do not want to know if it were Nicolai Ardalionovitch! The urchin!'
'Nicolai Ardalionovitch . . .'
'The urchin, I tell you!'
'No, it was not the urchin: it was Nicolai Ardalionovitch,' said the prince very firmly, but without raising his voice.
'Well, all right! All right, my dear! I shall put that down to your account.'
She was silent a moment to get breath, and to recover her composure.
'Well!--and what's the meaning of the 'poor knight,' eh?'
'I don't know in the least; I wasn't present when the joke was made. It IS a joke. I suppose, and that's all.'
'Well, that's a comfort, at all events. You don't suppose she could take any interest in you, do you? Why, she called you an 'idiot' herself.'
'I think you might have spared me that,' murmured the prince reproachfully, almost in a whisper.
'Don't be angry; she is a wilful, mad, spoilt girl. If she likes a person she will pitch into him, and chaff him. I used to be just such another. But for all that you needn't flatter yourself, my boy; she is not for you. I don't believe it, and it is not to be. I tell you so at once, so that you may take proper precautions. Now, I want to hear you swear that you are not married to that woman?'
'Lizabetha Prokofievna, what are you thinking of?' cried the prince, almost leaping to his feet in amazement.
'Why? You very nearly were, anyhow.'
'Yes--I nearly was,' whispered the prince, hanging his head.
'Well then, have you come here for HER? Are you in love with HER? With THAT creature?'
'I did not come to marry at all,' replied the prince.
'Is there anything you hold sacred?'
'There is.'
'Then swear by it that you did not come here to marry HER!'
'I'll swear it by whatever you please.'
'I believe you. You may kiss me; I breathe freely at last. But you must know, my dear friend, Aglaya does not love you, and she shall never be your wife while I am out of my grave. So be warned in time. Do you hear me?'
'Yes, I hear.'
The prince flushed up so much that he could not look her in the face.
'I have waited for you with the greatest impatience (not that you were worth it). Every night I have drenched my pillow with tears, not for you, my friend, not for you, don't flatter yourself! I have my own grief, always the same, always the same. But I'll tell you why I have been awaiting you so impatiently, because I believe that Providence itself sent you to be a friend and a brother to me. I haven't a friend in the world except Princess Bielokonski, and she is growing as stupid as a sheep from old age. Now then, tell me, yes or no? Do you know why she called out from her carriage the other night?'
'I give you my word of honour that I had nothing to do with the matter and know nothing about it.'
'Very well, I believe you. I have my own ideas about it. Up to yesterday morning I thought it was really Evgenie Pavlovitch who was to blame; now I cannot help agreeing with the others. But why he was made such a fool of I cannot understand. However, he is not going to marry Aglaya, I can tell you that. He may be a very excellent fellow, but--so it shall be. I was not at all sure of accepting him before, but now I have quite made up my mind that I won't have him. 'Put me in my coffin first and then into my grave, and then you may marry my daughter to whomsoever you please,' so I said to the general this very morning. You see how I trust you, my boy.'
'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
