The Idiot

ebedeff’s country-house was not large, but it was pretty and
convenient, especially the part which was let to the prince.

A row of orange and lemon trees and jasmines, planted in green tubs,
stood on the fairly wide terrace. According to Lebedeff, these trees
gave the house a most delightful aspect. Some were there when he bought
it, and he was so charmed with the effect that he promptly added to
their number. When the tubs containing these plants arrived at the
villa and were set in their places, Lebedeff kept running into the
street to enjoy the view of the house, and every time he did so the
rent to be demanded from the future tenant went up with a bound.

This country villa pleased the prince very much in his state of
physical and mental exhaustion. On the day that they left for Pavlofsk,
that is the day after his attack, he appeared almost well, though in
reality he felt very far from it. The faces of those around him for the
last three days had made a pleasant impression. He was pleased to see,
not only Colia, who had become his inseparable companion, but Lebedeff
himself and all the family, except the nephew, who had left the house.
He was also glad to receive a visit from General Ivolgin, before
leaving St. Petersburg.

It was getting late when the party arrived at Pavlofsk, but several
people called to see the prince, and assembled in the verandah. Gania
was the first to arrive. He had grown so pale and thin that the prince
could hardly recognize him. Then came Varia and Ptitsin, who were
rusticating in the neighbourhood. As to General Ivolgin, he scarcely
budged from Lebedeff’s house, and seemed to have moved to Pavlofsk with
him. Lebedeff did his best to keep Ardalion Alexandrovitch by him, and
to prevent him from invading the prince’s quarters. He chatted with him
confidentially, so that they might have been taken for old friends.
During those three days the prince had noticed that they frequently
held long conversations; he often heard their voices raised in argument
on deep and learned subjects, which evidently pleased Lebedeff. He
seemed as if he could not do without the general. But it was not only
Ardalion Alexandrovitch whom Lebedeff kept out of the prince’s way.
Since they had come to the villa, he treated his own family the same.
Upon the pretext that his tenant needed quiet, he kept him almost in
isolation, and Muishkin protested in vain against this excess of zeal.
Lebedeff stamped his feet at his daughters and drove them away if they
attempted to join the prince on the terrace; not even Vera was
excepted.

“They will lose all respect if they are allowed to be so free and easy;
besides it is not proper for them,” he declared at last, in answer to a
direct question from the prince.

“Why on earth not?” asked the latter. “Really, you know, you are making
yourself a nuisance, by keeping guard over me like this. I get bored
all by myself; I have told you so over and over again, and you get on
my nerves more than ever by waving your hands and creeping in and out
in the mysterious way you do.”

It was a fact that Lebedeff, though he was so anxious to keep everyone
else from disturbing the patient, was continually in and out of the
prince’s room himself. He invariably began by opening the door a crack
and peering in to see if the prince was there, or if he had escaped;
then he would creep softly up to the arm-chair, sometimes making
Muishkin jump by his sudden appearance. He always asked if the patient
wanted anything, and when the latter replied that he only wanted to be
left in peace, he would turn away obediently and make for the door on
tip-toe, with deprecatory gestures to imply that he had only just
looked in, that he would not speak a word, and would go away and not
intrude again; which did not prevent him from reappearing in ten
minutes or a quarter of an hour. Colia had free access to the prince,
at which Lebedeff was quite disgusted and indignant. He would listen at
the door for half an hour at a time while the two were talking. Colia
found this out, and naturally told the prince of his discovery.

“Do you think yourself my master, that you try to keep me under lock
and key like this?” said the prince to Lebedeff. “In the country, at
least, I intend to be free, and you may make up your mind that I mean
to see whom I like, and go where I please.”

“Why, of course,” replied the clerk, gesticulating with his hands.

The prince looked him sternly up and down.

“Well, Lukian Timofeyovitch, have you brought the little cupboard that
you had at the head of your bed with you here?”

“No, I left it where it was.”

“Impossible!”

“It cannot be moved; you would have to pull the wall down, it is so
firmly fixed.”

“Perhaps you have one like it here?”

“I have one that is even better, much better; that is really why I
bought this house.”

“Ah! What visitor did you turn away from my door, about an hour ago?”

“The-the general. I would not let him in; there is no need for him to
visit you, prince... I have the deepest esteem for him, he is a—a great
man. You don’t believe it? Well, you will see, and yet, most excellent
prince, you had much better not receive him.”

“May I ask why? and also why you walk about on tiptoe and always seem
as if you were going to whisper a secret in my ear whenever you come
near me?”

“I am vile, vile; I know it!” cried Lebedeff, beating his breast with a
contrite air. “But will not the general be too hospitable for you?”

“Too hospitable?”

“Yes. First, he proposes to come and live in my house. Well and good;
but he sticks at nothing; he immediately makes himself one of the
family. We have talked over our respective relations several times, and
discovered that we are connected by marriage. It seems also that you
are a sort of nephew on his mother’s side; he was explaining it to me
again only yesterday. If you are his nephew, it follows that I must
also be a relation of yours, most excellent prince. Never mind about
that, it is only a foible; but just now he assured me that all his
life, from the day he was made an ensign to the 11th of last June, he
has entertained at least two hundred guests at his table every day.
Finally, he went so far as to say that they never rose from the table;
they dined, supped, and had tea, for fifteen hours at a stretch. This
went on for thirty years without a break; there was barely time to
change the table-cloth; directly one person left, another took his
place. On feast-days he entertained as many as three hundred guests,
and they numbered seven hundred on the thousandth anniversary of the
foundation of the Russian Empire. It amounts to a passion with him; it
makes one uneasy to hear of it. It is terrible to have to entertain
people who do things on such a scale. That is why I wonder whether such
a man is not too hospitable for you and me.”

“But you seem to be on the best of terms with him?”

“Quite fraternal—I look upon it as a joke. Let us be brothers-in-law,
it is all the same to me,—rather an honour than not. But in spite of
the two hundred guests and the thousandth anniversary of the Russian
Empire, I can see that he is a very remarkable man. I am quite sincere.
You said just now that I always looked as if I was going to tell you a
secret; you are right. I have a secret to tell you: a certain person
has just let me know that she is very anxious for a secret interview
with you.”

“Why should it be secret? Not at all; I will call on her myself
tomorrow.”

“No, oh no!” cried Lebedeff, waving his arms; “if she is afraid, it is
not for the reason you think. By the way, do you know that the monster
comes every day to inquire after your health?”

“You call him a monster so often that it makes me suspicious.”

“You must have no suspicions, none whatever,” said Lebedeff quickly. “I
only want you to know that the person in question is not afraid of him,
but of something quite, quite different.”

“What on earth is she afraid of, then? Tell me plainly, without any
more beating about the bush,” said the prince, exasperated by the
other’s mysterious grimaces.

“Ah that is the secret,” said Lebedeff, with a smile.

“Whose secret?”

“Yours. You forbade me yourself to mention it before you, most
excellent prince,” murmured Lebedeff. Then, satisfied that he had
worked up Muishkin’s curiosity to the highest pitch, he added abruptly:
“She is afraid of Aglaya Ivanovna.”

The prince frowned for a moment in silence, and then said suddenly:

“Really, Lebedeff, I must leave your house. Where are Gavrila
Ardalionovitch and the Ptitsins? Are they here? Have you chased them
away, too?”

“They are coming, they are coming; and the general as well. I will open
all the doors; I will call all my daughters, all of them, this very
minute,” said Lebedeff in a low voice, thoroughly frightened, and
waving his hands as he ran from door to door.

At that moment Colia appeared on the terrace; he announced that
Lizabetha Prokofievna and her three daughters were close behind him.

Moved by this news, Lebedeff hurried up to the prince.

“Shall I call the Ptitsins, and Gavrila Ardalionovitch? Shall I let the
general in?” he asked.

“Why not? Let in anyone who wants to see me. I assure you, Lebedeff,
you have misunderstood my position from the very first; you have been
wrong all along. I have not the slightest reason to hide myself from
anyone,” replied the prince gaily.

Seeing him laugh, Lebedeff thought fit to laugh also, and though much
agitated his satisfaction was quite visible.

Colia was right; the Epanchin ladies were only a few steps behind him.
As they approached the terrace other visitors appeared from Lebedeff’s
side of the house—the Ptitsins, Gania, and Ardalion Alexandrovitch.

The Epanchins had only just heard of the prince’s illness and of his
presence in Pavlofsk, from Colia; and up to this time had been in a
state of considerable bewilderment about him. The general brought the
prince’s card down from town, and Mrs. Epanchin had felt convinced that
he himself would follow his card at once; she was much excited.

In vain the girls assured her that a man who had not written for six
months would not be in such a dreadful hurry, and that probably he had
enough to do in town without needing to bustle down to Pavlofsk to see
them. Their mother was quite angry at the very idea of such a thing,
and announced her absolute conviction that he would turn up the next
day at latest.

So next day the prince was expected all the morning, and at dinner,
tea, and supper; and when he did not appear in the evening, Mrs.
Epanchin quarrelled with everyone in the house, finding plenty of
pretexts without so much as mentioning the prince’s name.

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
lecture. “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 inconvenience himself.”

At the words “one can’t get rid of him,” Colia was very angry, 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 dissuaded her, though they
were not willing to stay behind when she at once prepared to go and
visit the invalid. Aglaya, 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 otherwise.

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 together in a little provincial town three months ago.
Prince S. had greatly taken to him, and was delighted with the
opportunity 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 circumstance 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 unfortunate whom she had expected to see.

She was astonished and vexed, and her disappointment pleased Colia
immensely. Of course he could have undeceived her before she started,
but the mischievous boy had been careful not to do that, foreseeing the
probably laughable 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 managing 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 second 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 interesting 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, nodding 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 going 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 sister, 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 excuse me! Well!
well! you know that yourself, I expect,” said the lady indignantly.

Lebedeff bowed low. “It is the truth,” he replied, with extreme
respect.

“Oh, Mr. Lebedeff, I am told you lecture on the Apocalypse. 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 newspapers.”

“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 Aglaya. “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 student 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 introduce 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 remarked,
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 became
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 Alexandrovna!—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 in public-houses and debtors’
prisons! Go away, my friend, stand in some corner and weep, and bemoan
your fallen dignity, and perhaps God will forgive you yet! Go, go! I’m
serious! There’s nothing so favourable for repentance as to think of
the past with feelings of remorse!”

There was no need to repeat that she was serious. The general, like all
drunkards, was extremely emotional and easily touched by recollections
of his better days. He rose and walked quietly to the door, so meekly
that Mrs. Epanchin was instantly sorry for him.

“Ardalion Alexandrovitch,” she cried after him, “wait a moment, we are
all sinners! When you feel that your conscience reproaches you a little
less, come over to me and we’ll have a talk about the past! I dare say
I am fifty times more of a sinner than you are! And now go, go,
good-bye, you had better not stay here!” she added, in alarm, as he
turned as though to come back.

“Don’t go after him just now, Colia, or he’ll be vexed, and the benefit
of this moment will be lost!” said the prince, as the boy was hurrying
out of the room.

“Quite true! Much better to go in half an hour or so,” said Mrs.
Epanchin.

“That’s what comes of telling the truth for once in one’s life!” said
Lebedeff. “It reduced him to tears.”

“Come, come! the less you say about it the better—to judge from all I
have heard about you!” replied Mrs. Epanchin.

The prince took the first opportunity of informing the Epanchin ladies
that he had intended to pay them a visit that day, if they had not
themselves come this afternoon, and Lizabetha Prokofievna replied that
she hoped he would still do so.

By this time some of the visitors had disappeared.

Ptitsin had tactfully retreated to Lebedeff’s wing; and Gania soon
followed him.

The latter had behaved modestly, but with dignity, on this occasion of
his first meeting with the Epanchins since the rupture. Twice Mrs.
Epanchin had deliberately examined him from head to foot; but he had
stood fire without flinching. He was certainly much changed, as anyone
could see who had not met him for some time; and this fact seemed to
afford Aglaya a good deal of satisfaction.

“That was Gavrila Ardalionovitch, who just went out, wasn’t it?” she
asked suddenly, interrupting somebody else’s conversation to make the
remark.

“Yes, it was,” said the prince.

“I hardly knew him; he is much changed, and for the better!”

“I am very glad,” said the prince.

“He has been very ill,” added Varia.

“How has he changed for the better?” asked Mrs. Epanchin. “I don’t see
any change for the better! What’s better in him? Where did you get
that idea from? what’s better?”

“There’s nothing better than the ‘poor knight’!” said Colia, who was
standing near the last speaker’s chair.

“I quite agree with you there!” said Prince S., laughing.

“So do I,” said Adelaida, solemnly.

“What poor knight?” asked Mrs. Epanchin, looking round at the face of
each of the speakers in turn. Seeing, however, that Aglaya was
blushing, she added, angrily:

“What nonsense you are all talking! What do you mean by poor knight?”

“It’s not the first time this urchin, your favourite, has shown his
impudence by twisting other people’s words,” said Aglaya, haughtily.

Every time that Aglaya showed temper (and this was very often), there
was so much childish pouting, such “school-girlishness,” as it were, in
her apparent wrath, that it was impossible to avoid smiling at her, to
her own unutterable indignation. On these occasions she would say, “How
can they, how dare they laugh at me?”

This time everyone laughed at her, her sisters, Prince S., Prince
Muishkin (though he himself had flushed for some reason), and Colia.
Aglaya was dreadfully indignant, and looked twice as pretty in her
wrath.

“He’s always twisting round what one says,” she cried.

“I am only repeating your own exclamation!” said Colia. “A month ago
you were turning over the pages of your Don Quixote, and suddenly
called out ‘there is nothing better than the poor knight.’ I don’t know
whom you were referring to, of course, whether to Don Quixote, or
Evgenie Pavlovitch, or someone else, but you certainly said these
words, and afterwards there was a long conversation...”

“You are inclined to go a little too far, my good boy, with your
guesses,” said Mrs. Epanchin, with some show of annoyance.

“But it’s not I alone,” cried Colia. “They all talked about it, and
they do still. Why, just now Prince S. and Adelaida Ivanovna declared
that they upheld ‘the poor knight’; so evidently there does exist a
‘poor knight’; and if it were not for Adelaida Ivanovna, we should have
known long ago who the ‘poor knight’ was.”

“Why, how am I to blame?” asked Adelaida, smiling.

“You wouldn’t draw his portrait for us, that’s why you are to blame!
Aglaya Ivanovna asked you to draw his portrait, and gave you the whole
subject of the picture. She invented it herself; and you wouldn’t.”

“What was I to draw? According to the lines she quoted:

“‘From his face he never lifted
That eternal mask of steel.’”

“What sort of a face was I to draw? I couldn’t draw a mask.”

“I don’t know what you are driving at; what mask do you mean?” said
Mrs. Epanchin, irritably. She began to see pretty clearly though what
it meant, and whom they referred to by the generally accepted title of
“poor knight.” But what specially annoyed her was that the prince was
looking so uncomfortable, and blushing like a ten-year-old child.

“Well, have you finished your silly joke?” she added, “and am I to be
told what this ‘poor knight’ means, or is it a solemn secret which
cannot be approached lightly?”

But they all laughed on.

“It’s simply that there is a Russian poem,” began Prince S., evidently
anxious to change the conversation, “a strange thing, without beginning
or end, and all about a ‘poor knight.’ A month or so ago, we were all
talking and laughing, and looking up a subject for one of Adelaida’s
pictures—you know it is the principal business of this family to find
subjects for Adelaida’s pictures. Well, we happened upon this ‘poor
knight.’ I don’t remember who thought of it first—”

“Oh! Aglaya Ivanovna did,” said Colia.

“Very likely—I don’t recollect,” continued Prince S.

“Some of us laughed at the subject; some liked it; but she declared
that, in order to make a picture of the gentleman, she must first see
his face. We then began to think over all our friends’ faces to see if
any of them would do, and none suited us, and so the matter stood;
that’s all. I don’t know why Nicolai Ardalionovitch has brought up the
joke now. What was appropriate and funny then, has quite lost all
interest by this time.”

“Probably there’s some new silliness about it,” said Mrs. Epanchin,
sarcastically.

“There is no silliness about it at all—only the profoundest respect,”
said Aglaya, very seriously. She had quite recovered her temper; in
fact, from certain signs, it was fair to conclude that she was
delighted to see this joke going so far; and a careful observer might
have remarked that her satisfaction dated from the moment when the fact
of the prince’s confusion became apparent to all.

“‘Profoundest respect!’ What nonsense! First, insane giggling, and
then, all of a sudden, a display of ‘profoundest respect.’ Why respect?
Tell me at once, why have you suddenly developed this ‘profound
respect,’ eh?”

“Because,” replied Aglaya gravely, “in the poem the knight is described
as a man capable of living up to an ideal all his life. That sort of
thing is not to be found every day among the men of our times. In the
poem it is not stated exactly what the ideal was, but it was evidently
some vision, some revelation of pure Beauty, and the knight wore round
his neck, instead of a scarf, a rosary. A device—A. N. B.—the meaning
of which is not explained, was inscribed on his shield—”

“No, A. N. D.,” corrected Colia.

“I say A. N. B., and so it shall be!” cried Aglaya, irritably. “Anyway,
the ‘poor knight’ did not care what his lady was, or what she did. He
had chosen his ideal, and he was bound to serve her, and break lances
for her, and acknowledge her as the ideal of pure Beauty, whatever she
might say or do afterwards. If she had taken to stealing, he would have
championed her just the same. I think the poet desired to embody in
this one picture the whole spirit of medieval chivalry and the platonic
love of a pure and high-souled knight. Of course it’s all an ideal, and
in the ‘poor knight’ that spirit reached the utmost limit of
asceticism. He is a Don Quixote, only serious and not comical. I used
not to understand him, and laughed at him, but now I love the ‘poor
knight,’ and respect his actions.”

So ended Aglaya; and, to look at her, it was difficult, indeed, to
judge whether she was joking or in earnest.

“Pooh! he was a fool, and his actions were the actions of a fool,” said
Mrs. Epanchin; “and as for you, young woman, you ought to know better.
At all events, you are not to talk like that again. What poem is it?
Recite it! I want to hear this poem! I have hated poetry all my life.
Prince, you must excuse this nonsense. We neither of us like this sort
of thing! Be patient!”

They certainly were put out, both of them.

The prince tried to say something, but he was too confused, and could
not get his words out. Aglaya, who had taken such liberties in her
little speech, was the only person present, perhaps, who was not in the
least embarrassed. She seemed, in fact, quite pleased.

She now rose solemnly from her seat, walked to the centre of the
terrace, and stood in front of the prince’s chair. All looked on with
some surprise, and Prince S. and her sisters with feelings of decided
alarm, to see what new frolic she was up to; it had gone quite far
enough already, they thought. But Aglaya evidently thoroughly enjoyed
the affectation and ceremony with which she was introducing her
recitation of the poem.

Mrs. Epanchin was just wondering whether she would not forbid the
performance after all, when, at the very moment that Aglaya commenced
her declamation, two new guests, both talking loudly, entered from the
street. The new arrivals were General Epanchin and a young man.

Their entrance caused some slight commotion.