none—none!’
But Lizabetha Prokofievna felt somewhat consoled when she could say that one of her girls, Adelaida, was settled at last. ‘It will be one off our hands!’ she declared aloud, though in private she expressed herself with greater tender-ness. The engagement was both happy and suitable, and was therefore approved in society. Prince S. was a distinguished man, he had money, and his future wife was devoted to him; what more could be desired? Lizabetha Prokofievna had felt less anxious about this daughter, however, although she considered her artistic tastes suspicious. But to make up for them she was, as her mother expressed it, ‘merry,’ and had plenty of ‘common-sense.’ It was Aglaya’s future which disturbed her most. With regard to her eldest daughter, Al-exandra, the mother never quite knew whether there was cause for anxiety or not. Sometimes she felt as if there was nothing to be expected from her. She was twenty-five now, and must be fated to be an old maid, and ‘with such beauty, too!’ The mother spent whole nights in weeping and la-menting, while all the time the cause of her grief slumbered peacefully. ‘What is the matter with her? Is she a Nihilist, or simply a fool?’
But Lizabetha Prokofievna knew perfectly well how un-necessary was the last question. She set a high value on Alexandra Ivanovna’s judgment, and often consulted her in dificulties; but that she was a ‘wet hen’ she never for a mo-ment doubted. ‘She is so calm; nothing rouses her—though wet hens are not always calm! Oh! I can’t understand it!’ Her eldest daughter inspired Lizabetha with a kind of puzzled
compassion. She did not feel this in Aglaya’s case, though the latter was her idol. It may be said that these outbursts and epithets, such as ‘wet hen ‘(in which the maternal so-licitude usually showed itself), only made Alexandra laugh. Sometimes the most trivial thing annoyed Mrs. Epanchin, and drove her into a frenzy. For instance, Alexandra Iva-novna liked to sleep late, and was always dreaming, though her dreams had the peculiarity of being as innocent and naive as those of a child of seven; and the very innocence of her dreams annoyed her mother. Once she dreamt of nine hens, and this was the cause of quite a serious quarrel—no one knew why. Another time she had—it was most unusu-al—a dream with a spark of originality in it. She dreamt of a monk in a dark room, into which she was too frightened to go. Adelaida and Aglaya rushed off with shrieks of laughter to relate this to their mother, but she was quite angry, and said her daughters were all fools.
‘H’m! she is as stupid as a fool! A veritable ‘wet hen’! Noth-ing excites her; and yet she is not happy; some days it makes one miserable only to look at her! Why is she unhappy, I wonder?’ At times Lizabetha Prokofievna put this question to her husband, and as usual she spoke in the threatening tone of one who demands an immediate answer. Ivan Fedo-rovitch would frown, shrug his shoulders, and at last give his opinion: ‘She needs a husband!’
‘God forbid that he should share your ideas, Ivan Fedoro-vitch!’ his wife flashed back. ‘Or that he should be as gross and churlish as you!’
The general promptly made his escape, and Lizabetha
Prokofievna after a while grew calm again. That evening, of course, she would be unusually attentive, gentle, and re-spectful to her ‘gross and churlish’ husband, her ‘dear, kind Ivan Fedorovitch,’ for she had never left off loving him. She was even still ‘in love’ with him. He knew it well, and for his part held her in the greatest esteem.
But the mother’s great and continual anxiety was Aglaya. ‘She is exactly like me—my image in everything,’ said Mrs. Epanchin to herself. ‘A tyrant! A real little demon! A Nihil-ist! Eccentric, senseless and mischievous! Good Lord, how
unhappy she will be!’
But as we said before, the fact of Adelaida’s approaching marriage was balm to the mother. For a whole month she forgot her fears and worries.
Adelaida’s fate was settled; and with her name that of Aglaya’s was linked, in society gossip. People whispered that Aglaya, too, was ‘as good as engaged;’ and Aglaya always looked so sweet and behaved so well (during this period), that the mother’s heart was full of joy. Of course, Evgenie Pavlovitch must be thoroughly studied first, before the final step should be taken; but, really, how lovely dear Aglaya had become—she actually grew more beautiful every day! And then—Yes, and then—this abominable prince showed his face again, and everything went topsy-turvy at once, and everyone seemed as mad as March hares.
What had really happened?
If it had been any other family than the Epanchins’, noth-ing particular would have happened. But, thanks to Mrs. Epanchin’s invariable fussiness and anxiety, there could not
be the slightest hitch in the simplest matters of everyday life, but she immediately foresaw the most dreadful and alarm-ing consequences, and suffered accordingly.
What then must have been her condition, when, among all the imaginary anxieties and calamities which so con-stantly beset her, she now saw looming ahead a serious cause for annoyance— something really likely to arouse doubts and suspicions!
‘How dared they, how DARED they write that hateful anonymous letter informing me that Aglaya is in com-munication with Nastasia Philipovna?’ she thought, as she dragged the prince along towards her own house, and again when she sat him down at the round table where the family was already assembled. ‘How dared they so much as THINK of such a thing? I should DIE with shame if I thought there was a particle of truth in it, or if I were to show the let-ter to Aglaya herself! Who dares play these jokes upon US, the Epanchins? WHY didn’t we go to the Yelagin instead of coming down here? I TOLD you we had better go to the Yelagin this summer, Ivan Fedorovitch. It’s all your fault. I dare say it was that Varia who sent the letter. It’s all Ivan Fe-dorovitch. THAT woman is doing it all for him, I know she is, to show she can make a fool of him now just as she did when he used to give her pearls.
‘But after all is said, we are mixed up in it. Your daugh-ters are mixed up in it, Ivan Fedorovitch; young ladies in society, young ladies at an age to be married; they were present, they heard everything there was to hear. They were mixed up with that other scene, too, with those dreadful
youths. You must be pleased to remember they heard it all. I cannot forgive that wretched prince. I never shall forgive him! And why, if you please, has Aglaya had an attack of nerves for these last three days? Why has she all but quar-relled with her sisters, even with Alexandra— whom she respects so much that she always kisses her hands as though she were her mother? What are all these riddles of hers that we have to guess? What has Gavrila Ardalionovitch to do with it? Why did she take upon herself to champion him this morning, and burst into tears over it? Why is there an allusion to that cursed ‘poor knight’ in the anonymous let-ter? And why did I rush off to him just now like a lunatic, and drag him back here? I do believe I’ve gone mad at last. What on earth have I done now? To talk to a young man about my daughter’s secrets—and secrets having to do with himself, too! Thank goodness, he’s an idiot, and a friend of the house! Surely Aglaya hasn’t fallen in love with such a gaby! What an idea! Pfu! we ought all to be put under glass cases—myself first of all—and be shown off as curiosities, at ten copecks a peep!’
‘I shall never forgive you for all this, Ivan Fedorovitch— never! Look at her now. Why doesn’t she make fun of him? She said she would, and she doesn’t. Look there! She stares at him with all her eyes, and doesn’t move; and yet she told him not to come. He looks pale enough; and that abomina-ble chatterbox, Evgenie Pavlovitch, monopolizes the whole of the conversation. Nobody else can get a word in. I could soon find out all about everything if I could only change the subject.’
The prince certainly was very pale. He sat at the table and seemed to be feeling, by turns, sensations of alarm and rapture.
Oh, how frightened he was of looking to one side—one particular corner—whence he knew very well that a pair of dark eyes were watching him intently, and how happy he was to think that he was once more among them, and oc-casionally hearing that well-known voice, although she had written and forbidden him to come again!
‘What on earth will she say to me, I wonder?’ he thought to himself.
He had not said a word yet; he sat silent and listened to Evgenie Pavlovitch’s eloquence. The latter had never ap-peared so happy and excited as on this evening. The prince listened to him, but for a long time did not take in a word he said.
Excepting Ivan Fedorovitch, who had not as yet returned from town, the whole family was present. Prince S. was there; and they all intended to go out to hear the band very soon.
Colia arrived presently and joined the circle. ‘So he is re-ceived as usual, after all,’
