account, even if you . . . even if you do disgrace yourself utterly. What is it to me? And how can you use such words? What do you mean by being ‘floored’? It’s a contemptible word, vulgar!”
“It’s … a schoolboy word.”
“Quite so, a schoolboy word! Contemptible! You seem to intend to use words like that all the evening to-morrow. You can look up more of them at home in your dictionary; you’ll make a sensation! It’s a pity that you know how to come into the room properly. Where did you learn it? Do you know how to take a cup of tea and drink it properly, when every one’s looking at you on purpose?”
“I believe I do.”
“I’m sorry you do. It would have made me laugh if you didn’t. Mind you break the Chinese vase in the drawing-room, anyway. It was an expensive one. Please do break it; it was a present. Mother would be beside herself and would cry before every one. She’s so fond of it! Gesticulate as you always do, knock it over and break it. Sit near it on purpose.”
“On the contrary, I’ll sit as far from it as I can. Thank you for warning me.”
“Then you are afraid you will wave your arms about. I’ll bet anything you’ll begin talking on some serious, learned, lofty subject. That will be .. . tactful.”
“I think that would be stupid … if it’s not appropriate.”
“Listen, once for all,” said Aglaia, losing all patience. “If you talk about anything like capital punishment, or the economic position of Russia, or of how ‘beauty will save the world’ … of course I should be delighted and laugh at it… but I warn you, never show yourself before me again! Do you hear? I’m in earnest! This time I’m in earnest!”
She really was in earnest in her threat. Something exceptional could be heard in her words and seen in her eyes, which Myshkin had never noticed before, and which was not like a joke.
“Now, after what you’ve said I’m sure to talk too much . . . even . . . perhaps break the vase. I wasn’t in the least afraid before, and now I’m afraid of everything. I shall certainly be floored.”
“Then hold your tongue. Sit quiet and hold your tongue.”
“I shan’t be able to. I’m sure I shall be so alarmed that I shall begin talking and shall break the vase. Perhaps I shall fall down on the slippery floor, or somethinq of that sort, for that has happened to me before. I shall dream about it all night. Why did you talk to me about it!”
Aglaia looked gloomily at him.
“I tell you what: I’d better not come at all tomorrow! I’ll report myself ill, and that will be the end of it,” he concluded at last.
Aglaia stamped and turned positively white with anger.
“Good God! Did anyone ever see anything like it? He’s not coming, when it has all been arranged on purpose for him and . . . my goodness! It’s a treat to have to do with a senseless person like you.”
“I’ll come! I’ll come!” Myshkin broke in hastily. “And I give you my word of honour that I’ll sit the whole evening without opening my mouth. I’ll manage it.”
“You’ll do well. You said just now you’d ‘report yourself ill.’ Where do you pick up such expressions? What possesses you to talk to me in such language? Are you trying to tease me?”
“I beg your pardon; that’s a schoolboy expression too. I won’t use it. I quite understand that you are . . . anxious … on my account (yes, don’t be angry), and I’m awfully glad of it. You don’t know how frightened I
am now — and how glad I am of your words. But I assure you, all this panic is petty and nonsensical. It really is, Aglaia. But the joy remains. I’m awfully glad that you’re such a child, such a kind good child! Oh, how splendid you can be, Aglaia!”
Aglaia, of course, was on the point of flying into a rage, butsuddenlya rush of quite unexpected feeling took possession of her soul in one instant.
“And you won’t reproach me for my coarse words just now . . . some day . . . afterwards?” she asked suddenly.
“How can you? How can you? Why are you flaring up again? And now you’re looking gloomy again. “Vbu’ve taken to looking too gloomy sometimes now, Aglaia, as you never used to look. I know why that is .
“Hush! Hush!”
“No, it’s better to speak. I’ve been wanting to say it a long time. I’ve said it already, but that’s not enough, for you didn’t believe me. There’s one person who stands between us …”
“Hush, hush, hush, hush!” Aglaia interrupted suddenly, gripping his hand tightly and looking at him almost in terror.
At that moment her name was called. With an air of relief she left him at once and ran away.
Myshkin was in a fever all night. Strange to say, he had been feverish for several nights running. That night, when he was half delirious, the thought occurred to him: what if he should have a fit tomorrow before everyone? He had had fits in public. He turned cold at the thought. All night he imagined himself in a mysterious and incredible company among strange people. The worst of it was that he “kept talking.” He knew he ought not to talk, but he went on talking all the time; he was trying to persuade them of something. Yevgeny Pavlovitch and Ippolit were of the party, and seemed extremely friendly.
He waked up at nine o’clock with a headache, with confusion in his mind and strange impressions. He felt an intense and unaccountable desire to see Rogozhin, to see him and to say a great deal to him — what about he could not himself have said — then he fully made up his mind to go and see Ippolit. There was some confused sensation in his heart, so much so that, although he felt acutely what happened to him that morning, he could not fully realise it. One thing that happened to him was a visit from Lebedyev.
Lebedyev made his appearance rather early, soon after nine, and was almost completely drunk. Although Myshkin had not been observant of late yet he could not help seeing that ever since General Ivolgin had left them — that is, for the last three days, Lebedyev had been behaving very badly. He seemed to have suddenly become extremely greasy and dirty, his cravat was on one side, and the collar of his coat was torn. In his lodge he kept up a continual storm, which was audible across the little courtyard. Vera had come in on one occasion in tears to tell him about it.
On presenting himself that morning, he talked very strangely, beating himself on the breast and blaming hi mse If fo r so methi ng.
“I have received … I have received the chastisement for my baseness and treachery — a slap in the face,” he concluded tragically at last.
“A slap in the face! From whom? And so early?”
“So early?” and Lebedyev smiled sarcastically. “Time has nothing to do with it. . . even for physical chastisement … but I’ve received a moral, not a physical, castigation.”
He suddenly sat down without ceremony and began to tell his story. It was a very incoherent one. Myshkin frowned, and wanted to get away, but all at once some words caught his attention. He was struck dumb with amazement. Mr. Lebedyev was telling of strange things.
He had apparently begun about some letter. Aglaia Ivanovna’s name was mentioned. Then Lebedyev began all at once bitterly reproaching Myshkin himself; it could be gathered that he was offended with the prince. At first, he said, the prince had honoured him with his confidence in transactions with a certain “person” (with Nastasya Filippovna), but had afterwards broken with him completely and had dismissed him with ignominy, and had even been so offensive as to repel with rudeness “an innocent question about the approaching changes in the house.” With drunken tears, Lebedyev protested that “after that, he could endure no more, especially as he knew a great deal . . . a very great deal . . . from Rogozhin, from Nastasya Filippovna, and from her friend, and from Varvara Ardalionovna . . . herself . . . and from . . . and from even Aglaia Ivanovna; would you believe it, through Vera, through my beloved, my only daughter . . . yes . . . though indeed she’s not my only one, for I’ve three. And who was it informed Lizaveta Prokofyevna by letters, in dead secret, of course? He-he! Who has been writing to her about all the shiftings and changings of the ‘personage,’ Nastasya Filippovna? He-he-he! Who, who is the anonymous writer, allow me to ask?”
“Can it be you?” cried Myshkin.
“Just so,” the drunkard replied with dignity, “and this very morning at half-past eight, only half an hour — no, three-quarters of an hour ago — I informed the noble-hearted mother that I had an incident … of importance to communicate to her. I informed her by letter through a maid at the back door. She received it.”
“You’ve just seen Lizaveta Prokofyevna!” cried Myshkin, unable to believe his ears.
“I saw her just now and received a blow … a moral one. She gave me back the letter; in fact she flung it in my face unopened . . . and even kicked me out . . . only morally speaking, not physically .