On the third day there was no talk of him at all, until Aglaya remarked at dinner: ‘Mamma is cross because the prince hasn’t turned up,’ to which the general replied that it was not his fault.
Mrs. Epanchin misunderstood the observation, and rising from her place she left the room in majestic wrath. In the evening, however, Colia came with the story of the prince’s adventures, so far as he knew them. Mrs. Epanchin was triumphant; although Colia had to listen to a long lec-ture. ‘He idles about here the whole day long, one can’t get rid of him; and then when he is wanted he does not come. He might have sent a line if he did not wish to inconve-nience himself.’
At the words ‘one can’t get rid of him,’ Colia was very an-gry, and nearly flew into a rage; but he resolved to be quiet for the time and show his resentment later. If the words had been less offensive he might have forgiven them, so pleased was he to see Lizabetha Prokofievna worried and anxious about the prince’s illness.
She would have insisted on sending to Petersburg at once, for a certain great medical celebrity; but her daughters dis-suaded her, though they were not willing to stay behind when she at once prepared to go and visit the invalid. Agla-
ya, however, suggested that it was a little unceremonious to go en masse to see him.
‘Very well then, stay at home,’ said Mrs. Epanchin, and a good thing too, for Evgenie Pavlovitch is coming down and there will be no one at home to receive him.’
Of course, after this, Aglaya went with the rest. In fact, she had never had the slightest intention of doing other-wise.
Prince S., who was in the house, was requested to escort the ladies. He had been much interested when he first heard of the prince from the Epanchins. It appeared that they had known one another before, and had spent some time to-gether in a little provincial town three months ago. Prince S. had greatly taken to him, and was delighted with the op-portunity of meeting him again,
The general had not come down from town as yet, nor had Evgenie Pavlovitch arrived.
It was not more than two or three hundred yards from the Epanchins’ house to Lebedeff’s. The first disagreeable impression experienced by Mrs. Epanchin was to find the prince surrounded by a whole assembly of other guests— not to mention the fact that some of those present were particularly detestable in her eyes. The next annoying cir-cumstance was when an apparently strong and healthy young fellow, well dressed, and smiling, came forward to meet her on the terrace, instead of the half-dying unfortu-nate whom she had expected to see.
She was astonished and vexed, and her disappointment pleased Colia immensely. Of course he could have unde-
ceived her before she started, but the mischievous boy had been careful not to do that, foreseeing the probably laugh-able disgust that she would experience when she found her dear friend, the prince, in good health. Colia was indelicate enough to voice the delight he felt at his success in manag-ing to annoy Lizabetha Prokofievna, with whom, in spite of their really amicable relations, he was constantly sparring.
‘Just wait a while, my boy!’ said she; ‘don’t be too certain of your triumph.’ And she sat down heavily, in the arm-chair pushed forward by the prince.
Lebedeff, Ptitsin, and General Ivolgin hastened to find chairs for the young ladies. Varia greeted them joyfully, and they exchanged confidences in ecstatic whispers.
‘I must admit, prince, I was a little put out to see you up and about like this—I expected to find you in bed; but I give you my word, I was only annoyed for an instant, before I collected my thoughts properly. I am always wiser on sec-ond thoughts, and I dare say you are the same. I assure you I am as glad to see you well as though you were my own son,— yes, and more; and if you don’t believe me the more shame to you, and it’s not my fault. But that spiteful boy delights in playing all sorts of tricks. You are his patron, it seems. Well, I warn you that one fine morning I shall deprive myself of the pleasure of his further acquaintance.’
‘What have I done wrong now?’ cried Colia. ‘What was the good of telling you that the prince was nearly well again? You would not have believed me; it was so much more inter-esting to picture him on his death-bed.’
‘How long do you remain here, prince?’ asked Madame
Epanchin.
‘All the summer, and perhaps longer.’ ‘You are alone, aren’t you,—not married?’
‘No, I’m not married!’ replied the prince, smiling at the ingenuousness of this little feeler.
‘Oh, you needn’t laugh! These things do happen, you know! Now then—why didn’t you come to us? We have a wing quite empty. But just as you like, of course. Do you lease it from HIM?—this fellow, I mean,’ she added, nod-ding towards Lebedeff. ‘And why does he always wriggle so?’
At that moment Vera, carrying the baby in her arms as usual, came out of the house, on to the terrace. Lebedeff kept fidgeting among the chairs, and did not seem to know what to do with himself, though he had no intention of go-ing away. He no sooner caught sight of his daughter, than he rushed in her direction, waving his arms to keep her away; he even forgot himself so far as to stamp his foot.
‘Is he mad?’ asked Madame Epanchin suddenly. ‘No, he …’
‘Perhaps he is drunk? Your company is rather peculiar,’ she added, with a glance at the other guests….
‘But what a pretty girl! Who is she?’
‘That is Lebedeff’s daughter—Vera Lukianovna.’ ‘Indeed? She looks very sweet. I should like to make her
acquaintance.’
The words were hardly out of her mouth, when Lebedeff dragged Vera forward, in order to present her.
‘Orphans, poor orphans!’ he began in a pathetic voice.
‘The child she carries is an orphan, too. She is Vera’s sis-ter, my daughter Luboff. The day this babe was born, six weeks ago, my wife died, by the will of God Almighty. … Yes… Vera takes her mother’s place, though she is but her sister… nothing more … nothing more…’
‘And you! You are nothing more than a fool, if you’ll ex-cuse me! Well! well! you know that yourself, I expect,’ said the lady indignantly.
Lebedeff bowed low. ‘It is the truth,’ he replied, with ex-treme respect.
‘Oh, Mr. Lebedeff, I am told you lecture on the Apoca-lypse. Is it true?’ asked Aglaya.
‘Yes, that is so … for the last fifteen years.’
‘I have heard of you, and I think read of you in the news-papers.’
‘No, that was another commentator, whom the papers named. He is dead, however, and I have taken his place,’ said the other, much delighted.
‘We are neighbours, so will you be so kind as to come over one day and explain the Apocalypse to me?’ said Agla-ya. ‘I do not understand it in the least.’
‘Allow me to warn you,’ interposed General Ivolgin, that he is the greatest charlatan on earth.’ He had taken the chair next to the girl, and was impatient to begin talking.
‘No doubt there are pleasures and amusements peculiar to the country,’ he continued, ‘and to listen to a pretended stu-dent holding forth on the book of the Revelations may be as good as any other. It may even be original. But … you seem to be looking at me with some surprise—may I intro-
duce myself—General Ivolgin—I carried you in my arms as a baby—‘
‘Delighted, I’m sure,’ said Aglaya; ‘I am acquainted with Varvara Ardalionovna and Nina Alexandrovna.’ She was trying hard to restrain herself from laughing.
Mrs. Epanchin flushed up; some accumulation of spleen in her suddenly needed an outlet. She could not bear this General Ivolgin whom she had once known, long ago—in society.
‘You are deviating from the truth, sir, as usual!’ she re-marked, boiling over with indignation; ‘you never carried her in your life!’
‘You have forgotten, mother,’ said Aglaya, suddenly. ‘He really did carry me about,—in Tver, you know. I was six years old, I remember. He made me a bow and arrow, and I shot a pigeon. Don’t you remember shooting a pigeon, you and I, one day?’
‘Yes, and he made me a cardboard helmet, and a little wooden sword—I remember!’ said Adelaida.
‘Yes, I remember too!’ said Alexandra. ‘You quarrelled about the wounded pigeon, and Adelaida was put in the corner, and stood there with her helmet and sword and all.’ The poor general had merely made the remark about having carried Aglaya in his arms because he always did so begin a conversation with young people. But it happened that this time he had really hit upon the truth, though he had himself entirely forgotten the fact. But when Adelaida
and Aglaya recalled the episode of the pigeon, his mind be-came filled with memories, and it is impossible to describe
how this poor old man, usually half drunk, was moved by the recollection.
‘I remember—I remember it all!’ he cried. ‘I was captain then. You were such a lovely little thing—Nina Al-exandrovna!—Gania, listen! I was received then by General Epanchin.’
‘Yes, and look what you have come to now!’ interrupted Mrs. Epanchin. ‘However, I see you have not quite drunk your better feelings away. But you’ve broken your wife’s heart, sir—and instead of looking after your children, you have spent your time
