He seemed to have been born with overwrought nerves, and in his passionate desire to excel, he was often led to the brink of some rash step; and yet, having resolved upon such a step, when the moment arrived, he invariably proved too sensible to take it. He was ready, in the same way, to do a base action in order to obtain his wished-for object; and yet, when the moment came to do it, he found that he was too honest for any great baseness. (Not that he objected to acts of petty meanness—he was always ready for THEM.) He looked with hate and loathing on the poverty and downfall of his family, and treated his mother with haughty con-tempt, although he knew that his whole future depended on her character and reputation.
Aglaya had simply frightened him; yet he did not give up
all thoughts of her—though he never seriously hoped that she would condescend to him. At the time of his ‘adventure’ with Nastasia Philipovna he had come to the conclusion that money was his only hope—money should do all for him.
At the moment when he lost Aglaya, and after the scene with Nastasia, he had felt so low in his own eyes that he actually brought the money back to the prince. Of this re-turning of the money given to him by a madwoman who had received it from a madman, he had often repented since— though he never ceased to be proud of his action. During the short time that Muishkin remained in Petersburg Gania had had time to come to hate him for his sympathy, though the prince told him that it was ‘not everyone who would have acted so nobly’ as to return the money. He had long pondered, too, over his relations with Aglaya, and had per-suaded himself that with such a strange, childish, innocent character as hers, things might have ended very differently. Remorse then seized him; he threw up his post, and buried himself in self-torment and reproach.
He lived at Ptitsin’s, and openly showed contempt for the latter, though he always listened to his advice, and was sensible enough to ask for it when he wanted it. Gavrila Ar-dalionovitch was angry with Ptitsin because the latter did not care to become a Rothschild. ‘If you are to be a Jew,’ he said, ‘do it properly— squeeze people right and left, show some character; be the King of the Jews while you are about it.’
Ptitsin was quiet and not easily offended—he only laughed. But on one occasion he explained seriously to Ga-
nia that he was no Jew, that he did nothing dishonest, that he could not help the market price of money, that, thanks to his accurate habits, he had already a good footing and was respected, and that his business was flourishing.
‘I shan’t ever be a Rothschild, and there is no reason why I should,’ he added, smiling; ‘but I shall have a house in the Liteynaya, perhaps two, and that will be enough for me.’ ‘Who knows but what I may have three!’ he concluded to himself; but this dream, cherished inwardly, he never con-fided to a soul.
Nature loves and favours such people. Ptitsin will cer-tainly have his reward, not three houses, but four, precisely because from childhood up he had realized that he would never be a Rothschild. That will be the limit of Ptitsin’s for-tune, and, come what may, he will never have more than four houses.
Varvara Ardalionovna was not like her brother. She too, had passionate desires, but they were persistent rather than impetuous. Her plans were as wise as her methods of carry-ing them out. No doubt she also belonged to the category of ordinary people who dream of being original, but she soon discovered that she had not a grain of true originality, and she did not let it trouble her too much. Perhaps a certain kind of pride came to her help. She made her first concession to the demands of practical life with great resolution when she consented to marry Ptitsin. However, when she mar-ried she did not say to herself, ‘Never mind a mean action if it leads to the end in view,’ as her brother would certainly have said in such a case; it is quite probable that he may have
said it when he expressed his elder-brotherly satisfaction at her decision. Far from this; Varvara Ardalionovna did not marry until she felt convinced that her future husband was unassuming, agreeable, almost cultured, and that nothing on earth would tempt him to a really dishonourable deed. As to small meannesses, such trifles did not trouble her. In-deed, who is free from them? It is absurd to expect the ideal! Besides, she knew that her marriage would provide a refuge for all her family. Seeing Gania unhappy, she was anxious to help him, in spite of their former disputes and misun-derstandings. Ptitsin, in a friendly way, would press his brother-in-law to enter the army. ‘You know,’ he said some-times, jokingly, ‘you despise generals and generaldom, but you will see that ‘they’ will all end by being generals in their turn. You will see it if you live long enough!’
‘But why should they suppose that I despise generals?’ Gania thought sarcastically to himself.
To serve her brother’s interests, Varvara Ardalionovna was constantly at the Epanchins’ house, helped by the fact that in childhood she and Gania had played with General Ivan Fedorovitch’s daughters. It would have been incon-sistent with her character if in these visits she had been pursuing a chimera; her project was not chimerical at all; she was building on a firm basis—on her knowledge of the character of the Epanchin family, especially Aglaya, whom she studied closely. All Varvara’s efforts were directed to-wards bringing Aglaya and Gania together. Perhaps she achieved some result; perhaps, also, she made the mistake of depending too much upon her brother, and expecting
more from him than he would ever be capable of giving. However this may be, her manoeuvres were skilful enough. For weeks at a time she would never mention Gania. Her attitude was modest but dignified, and she was always ex-tremely truthful and sincere. Examining the depths of her conscience, she found nothing to reproach herself with, and this still further strengthened her in her designs. But Varvara Ardalionovna sometimes remarked that she felt spiteful; that there was a good deal of vanity in her, perhaps even of wounded vanity. She noticed this at certain times more than at others, and especially after her visits to the Epanchins.
Today, as I have said, she returned from their house with a heavy feeling of dejection. There was a sensation of bitter-ness, a sort of mocking contempt, mingled with it.
Arrived at her own house, Varia heard a considerable commotion going on in the upper storey, and distinguished the voices of her father and brother. On entering the salon she found Gania pacing up and down at frantic speed, pale with rage and almost tearing his hair. She frowned, and subsided on to the sofa with a tired air, and without tak-ing the trouble to remove her hat. She very well knew that if she kept quiet and asked her brother nothing about his rea-son for tearing up and down the room, his wrath would fall upon her head. So she hastened to put the question:
‘The old story, eh?’
‘Old story? No! Heaven knows what’s up now—I don’t! Father has simply gone mad; mother’s in floods of tears. Upon my word, Varia, I must kick him out of the house;
or else go myself,’ he added, probably remembering that he could not well turn people out of a house which was not his own.
‘You must make allowances,’ murmured Varia.
‘Make allowances? For whom? Him—the old black-guard? No, no, Varia—that won’t do! It won’t do, I tell you! And look at the swagger of the man! He’s all to blame him-self, and yet he puts on so much ‘side’ that you’d think—my word!—‘It’s too much trouble to go through the gate, you must break the fence for me!’ That’s the sort of air he puts on; but what’s the matter with you, Varia? What a curious expression you have!’
‘I’m all right,’ said Varia, in a tone that sounded as though she were all wrong.
Gania looked more intently at her. ‘You’ve been THERE?’ he asked, suddenly. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you find out anything?’
‘Nothing unexpected. I discovered that it’s all true. My husband was wiser than either of us. Just as he suspected from the beginning, so it has fallen out. Where is he?’
‘Out. Well—what has happened?—go on.’
‘The prince is formally engaged to her—that’s settled. The elder sisters told me about it. Aglaya has agreed. They don’t attempt to conceal it any longer; you know how mysterious and secret they have all been up to now. Adelaida’s wedding is put off again, so that both can be married on one day. Isn’t that delightfully romantic? Somebody ought to write a poem on it. Sit down and write an ode instead of tearing
up and down like that. This evening Princess Bielokonski is to arrive; she comes just in time—they have a party tonight. He is to be presented to old Bielokonski, though I believe he knows her already; probably the engagement will be openly announced. They are only afraid that he may knock some-thing down, or trip over something when he comes into the room. It would be just like him.’
Gania listened attentively, but to his sister’s astonish-ment he was
