that he must pay for his entrance!” explained the latter.
“Oh, Prince Myshkin is not Ferdyshtchenko, anyway,” the general could not resist saying. He could never reconcile himself to the thought that he was in the same company and on an equal footing with Ferdyshtchenko.
“Aie, general, spare Ferdyshtchenko,” replied the latter, simpering. “I am here in a special position.”
“What special position are you in?”
“Last time I had the honour of explaining it exactly to the company. I’ll repeat it again to your excellency. “Vbu see, your excellency, every one has wit, but I have no wit. To make up for it I’ve asked leave to speak the truth, for every one knows that it’s only people who have no wit who speak the truth. Besides, I am a very vindictive man, and that is because I have no wit. I put up with every insult, but only till my antagonist comes to grief. As soon as he comes to grief, I remember it, and at once avenge myself in some way. ‘I kick,’ as Ivan Petrovitch Ptitsyn has said to me; though he, of course, never kicks any one. Do you know Krylov’s fable, your excellency, The Lion and the Ass’? Well, that’s you and me; it’s written about us.”
“You are talking nonsense again, I think, Ferdyshtchenko,” said the general, boiling over.
“What do you mean, your excellency?” retorted Ferdyshtchenko, who had reckoned on being able to retort and so lengthen out his twaddle. “Don’t be uneasy, your excellency, I know my place. If I say, ‘\bu and I are the lion and the ass in Krylov’s fable,’ I take the part of the ass on myself, of course, and your excellency is the lion, as in Krylov’s fable:
The mighty lion, the terror of the mods, With growing years had lost his youthful strength.
I, your excellency, am the ass.”
“There I agree,” the general dropped incautiously.
All this, of course, was coarsely and intentionally done, but it seemed to be the accepted thing for Ferdyshtchenko to be allowed to play the fool.
“I am only kept and only received here that I may talk in this way,” Ferdyshtchenko had once exclaimed. “Can such a person as I am be received? I understand that. Can a person like me be set beside a refined gentleman like Afanasy Ivanovitch? One is driven to the only explanation, that they do it because it’s inconceivable.”
But though it was coarse, it was sometimes cutting, very cutting, indeed, and that was what Nastasya Filippovna seemed to like. Those who wanted to visit her had to make up their minds to put up with Ferdyshtchenko. He perhaps guessed the truth, that he was received because his presence had from the first been insufferable to Totsky. Ganya too endured unspeakable misery at his hands, and in that way Ferdyshtchenko was able to be of great use to Nastasya Filippovna.
“The prince will begin by singing us a fashionable song,” Ferdyshtchenko concluded, looking to see what Nastasya Filippovna would say.
“I don’t think so, Ferdyshtchenko, and please don’t get excited,” she said drily.
“A-ah! If he is under special protection, I will be indulgent too.”
But Nastasya Filippovna got up not listening to him, and went forward herself to meet Myshkin.
“I am sorry,” said she, suddenly appearing before him, “that I forgot to invite you this afternoon, and I am very glad that you give me an opportunity of thanking you and telling you how well you’ve done to come.”
As she spoke, she looked intently at Myshkin, trying to find some explanation of his coming.
Myshkin would perhaps have made some reply to her friendly words, but he was so dazzled and overwhelmed that he could not utter a word. Nastasya Filippovna noticed this with satisfaction. That evening she was in full dress and her appearance was very striking. She took him by the hand and led him to the company.
At the door of the drawing-room Myshkin suddenly stopped, and with extraordinary emotion whispered hurriedly:
“Everything is perfection in you . . . even your being thin and pale. . . . One would not like to imagine you different. … I had such a longing to come to you…. I… forgive me!”
“Don’t ask forgiveness,” laughed Nastasya Filippovna; “that would destroy all the strangeness and originality. It’s true what they say, that you are a strange man. So you look upon me as perfection, do you?”
“Yes.”
“Though you are first-rate at guessing, you are mistaken. I’ll remind you of that to-day….”
She introduced Myshkin to her guests, to more than half of whom he was already known. Totsky at once said something cordial. The whole company seemed to revive, they all began talking and laughing. Nastasya Filippovna made Myshkin sit down beside her.
“But after all what is there wonderful in the prince’s having come?” Ferdyshtchenko cried louder than all of them. “It’s a clear case, it speaks for itself!”
“It’s too clear and speaks too plainly for itself,” put in Ganya, who had been silent till then. “I’ve been observing the prince to-day almost continuously from the very instant when he saw Nastasya Filippovna’s portrait for the first time this morning on Ivan Fyodorovitch’s table. I remember distinctly that I thought of something even then, which I am quite convinced of now, and which the prince confessed himself, by the way.”
This whole speech Ganya uttered quite seriously, without a hint of playfulness, in a gloomy tone which sounded strange.
“I’ve made you no confession,” replied Myshkin, flushing. “I simply answered your question.”
“Bravo! Bravo!” shouted Ferdyshtchenko. “That’s sincere anyway — it’s sly and sincere too!”
Everyone laughed aloud.
“Don’t shout, Ferdyshtchenko,” Ptitsyn observed to him in an undertone, with disgust.
“I should not have expected such an enterprise of you, prince,” remarked Ivan Fyodorovitch. “One wouldn’t have thought you were that sort of fellow. Why, I looked on you as a philosopher. Ah, the sly dog!”
“And to judge from the way the prince blushes at an innocent jest like an innocent young girl, I conclude that, like an honourable young man, he is cherishing the most laudable intentions in his heart,” the aged teacher, a toothless old man of seventy, suddenly said, or rather mumbled, to the general surprise, for no one had expected him to open his lips that evening.
Every one laughed more than ever. The old man, probably imagining that they were laughing at his wit, laughed more and more heartily as he looked at them, till he ended by coughing violently. Nastasya Filippovna, who had an unaccountable affection for all such queer old men and women, and for crazy people even, began looking after him at once, kissed him, and ordered some more tea for him. She told the servant who came in to bring her a cloak, in which she wrapped herself, and then to put more wood on the fire. She asked what time it was, and the servant answered that it was half-past ten.
“Friends, would you like some champagne?” Nastasya Filippovna suggested suddenly. “I’ve got some ready. Perhaps it will make you more cheerful. Please don’t stand on ceremony.”
The offer of wine, especially in such a naive way, seemed very strange from Nastasya Filippovna. Every one knew the rigid standard of decorum maintained at her previous parties. The company was becoming more lively, but not in the same way as usual. The wine was, however, accepted, first by General Epanchin himself, secondly by the sprightly lady, the old man, Ferdyshtchenko, and after them by the rest. Totsky too took his glass, hoping to modify the novel tone of the company by giving it as far as possible the character of pleasant playfulness. Only Ganya drank nothing.
Nastasya Filippovna had taken a glass of champagne, and declared that she would drink three that evening. It was difficult to understand her strange and at times abrupt and sudden sallies, her hysterical and causeless laughter, alternating with silent and even morose depression. Some of her visitors suspected that she was feverish. They began to notice at last that she too seemed expecting something, frequently looked at her watch, and was becoming impatient and preoccupied.
“You seem to be a little feverish?” asked the sprightly lady.
“Not a little, but very much. That’s why I wrapped myself up in my cloak,” replied Nastasya Filippovna, who really was turning pale and seemed at times trying to suppress a violent shiver.
They were all concerned and made a movement.
“Shouldn’t we let our hostess rest?” said Totsky, looking at Ivan Fyodorovitch.
“Certainly not. I beg you to stay; I need your presence especially to-day,” Nastasya Filippovna observed suddenly, with a significant emphasis.
And as almost all the guests knew that a very important decision was to be made that evening, her words seemed pregnant with meaning. General Epanchin and Totsky exchanged glances once more. Ganya twitched convulsively.
“It would be a good thing to play some petit-jeu,” observed the sprightly lady.
“I know a new splendid petit-jeu” put in Ferdyshtchenko. “Though it was only played once, and even then it was not successful.”
“What was it?” asked the sprightly lady.
“A party of us were together one day — we’d been drinking, it’s true — and suddenly some one made the suggestion that each one of us, without leaving the table, should tell something he had done, something that he himself honestly considered the worst of all the evil actions of his life. But it was to be done honestly, that was the point, that it was to be honest, no lying.”
“A strange idea!” said the general.
“Nothing could be stranger, your excellency; but that’s the best of it.”
“Ridiculous idea,” said Totsky. “But I can understand it — it’s just a form of bragging.”
“Perhaps that was just what we wanted,