The Idiot

he anger of the Epanchin family was unappeased for three days. As
usual the prince reproached himself, and had expected punishment, but
he was inwardly convinced that Lizabetha Prokofievna could not be
seriously angry with him, and that she probably was more angry with
herself. He was painfully surprised, therefore, when three days passed
with no word from her. Other things also troubled and perplexed him,
and one of these grew more important in his eyes as the days went by.
He had begun to blame himself for two opposite tendencies—on the one
hand to extreme, almost “senseless,” confidence in his fellows, on the
other to a “vile, gloomy suspiciousness.”

By the end of the third day the incident of the eccentric lady and
Evgenie Pavlovitch had attained enormous and mysterious proportions in
his mind. He sorrowfully asked himself whether he had been the cause of
this new “monstrosity,” or was it... but he refrained from saying who
else might be in fault. As for the letters N.P.B., he looked on that as
a harmless joke, a mere childish piece of mischief—so childish that he
felt it would be shameful, almost dishonourable, to attach any
importance to it.

The day after these scandalous events, however, the prince had the
honour of receiving a visit from Adelaida and her fiance, Prince S.
They came, ostensibly, to inquire after his health. They had wandered
out for a walk, and called in “by accident,” and talked for almost the
whole of the time they were with him about a certain most lovely tree
in the park, which Adelaida had set her heart upon for a picture. This,
and a little amiable conversation on Prince S.’s part, occupied the
time, and not a word was said about last evening’s episodes. At length
Adelaida burst out laughing, apologized, and explained that they had
come incognito; from which, and from the circumstance that they said
nothing about the prince’s either walking back with them or coming to
see them later on, the latter inferred that he was in Mrs. Epanchin’s
black books. Adelaida mentioned a watercolour that she would much like
to show him, and explained that she would either send it by Colia, or
bring it herself the next day—which to the prince seemed very
suggestive.

At length, however, just as the visitors were on the point of
departing, Prince S. seemed suddenly to recollect himself. “Oh yes,
by-the-by,” he said, “do you happen to know, my dear Lef Nicolaievitch,
who that lady was who called out to Evgenie Pavlovitch last night, from
the carriage?”

“It was Nastasia Philipovna,” said the prince; “didn’t you know that? I
cannot tell you who her companion was.”

“But what on earth did she mean? I assure you it is a real riddle to
me—to me, and to others, too!” Prince S. seemed to be under the
influence of sincere astonishment.

“She spoke of some bills of Evgenie Pavlovitch’s,” said the prince,
simply, “which Rogojin had bought up from someone; and implied that
Rogojin would not press him.”

“Oh, I heard that much, my dear fellow! But the thing is so impossibly
absurd! A man of property like Evgenie to give IOU’s to a money-lender,
and to be worried about them! It is ridiculous. Besides, he cannot
possibly be on such intimate terms with Nastasia Philipovna as she gave
us to understand; that’s the principal part of the mystery! He has
given me his word that he knows nothing whatever about the matter, and
of course I believe him. Well, the question is, my dear prince, do you
know anything about it? Has any sort of suspicion of the meaning of it
come across you?”

“No, I know nothing whatever about it. I assure you I had nothing at
all to do with it.”

“Oh, prince, how strange you have become! I assure you, I hardly know
you for your old self. How can you suppose that I ever suggested you
could have had a finger in such a business? But you are not quite
yourself today, I can see.” He embraced the prince, and kissed him.

“What do you mean, though,” asked Muishkin, “‘by such a business’? I
don’t see any particular ‘business’ about it at all!”

“Oh, undoubtedly, this person wished somehow, and for some reason, to
do Evgenie Pavlovitch a bad turn, by attributing to him—before
witnesses—qualities which he neither has nor can have,” replied Prince
S. drily enough.

Muiskhin looked disturbed, but continued to gaze intently and
questioningly into Prince S.’s face. The latter, however, remained
silent.

“Then it was not simply a matter of bills?” Muishkin said at last, with
some impatience. “It was not as she said?”

“But I ask you, my dear sir, how can there be anything in common
between Evgenie Pavlovitch, and—her, and again Rogojin? I tell you he
is a man of immense wealth—as I know for a fact; and he has further
expectations from his uncle. Simply Nastasia Philipovna—”

Prince S. paused, as though unwilling to continue talking about
Nastasia Philipovna.

“Then at all events he knows her!” remarked the prince, after a
moment’s silence.

“Oh, that may be. He may have known her some time ago—two or three
years, at least. He used to know Totski. But it is impossible that
there should be any intimacy between them. She has not even been in the
place—many people don’t even know that she has returned from Moscow! I
have only observed her carriage about for the last three days or so.”

“It’s a lovely carriage,” said Adelaida.

“Yes, it was a beautiful turn-out, certainly!”

The visitors left the house, however, on no less friendly terms than
before. But the visit was of the greatest importance to the prince,
from his own point of view. Admitting that he had his suspicions, from
the moment of the occurrence of last night, perhaps even before, that
Nastasia had some mysterious end in view, yet this visit confirmed his
suspicions and justified his fears. It was all clear to him; Prince S.
was wrong, perhaps, in his view of the matter, but he was somewhere
near the truth, and was right in so far as that he understood there to
be an intrigue of some sort going on. Perhaps Prince S. saw it all more
clearly than he had allowed his hearers to understand. At all events,
nothing could be plainer than that he and Adelaida had come for the
express purpose of obtaining explanations, and that they suspected him
of being concerned in the affair. And if all this were so, then she
must have some terrible object in view! What was it? There was no
stopping her, as Muishkin knew from experience, in the performance of
anything she had set her mind on! “Oh, she is mad, mad!” thought the
poor prince.

But there were many other puzzling occurrences that day, which required
immediate explanation, and the prince felt very sad. A visit from Vera
Lebedeff distracted him a little. She brought the infant Lubotchka with
her as usual, and talked cheerfully for some time. Then came her
younger sister, and later the brother, who attended a school close by.
He informed Muishkin that his father had lately found a new
interpretation of the star called “wormwood,” which fell upon the
water-springs, as described in the Apocalypse. He had decided that it
meant the network of railroads spread over the face of Europe at the
present time. The prince refused to believe that Lebedeff could have
given such an interpretation, and they decided to ask him about it at
the earliest opportunity. Vera related how Keller had taken up his
abode with them on the previous evening. She thought he would remain
for some time, as he was greatly pleased with the society of General
Ivolgin and of the whole family. But he declared that he had only come
to them in order to complete his education! The prince always enjoyed
the company of Lebedeff’s children, and today it was especially
welcome, for Colia did not appear all day. Early that morning he had
started for Petersburg. Lebedeff also was away on business. But Gavrila
Ardalionovitch had promised to visit Muishkin, who eagerly awaited his
coming.

About seven in the evening, soon after dinner, he arrived. At the first
glance it struck the prince that he, at any rate, must know all the
details of last night’s affair. Indeed, it would have been impossible
for him to remain in ignorance considering the intimate relationship
between him, Varvara Ardalionovna, and Ptitsin. But although he and the
prince were intimate, in a sense, and although the latter had placed
the Burdovsky affair in his hands—and this was not the only mark of
confidence he had received—it seemed curious how many matters there
were that were tacitly avoided in their conversations. Muishkin thought
that Gania at times appeared to desire more cordiality and frankness.
It was apparent now, when he entered, that he was convinced that the
moment for breaking the ice between them had come at last.

But all the same Gania was in haste, for his sister was waiting at
Lebedeff’s to consult him on an urgent matter of business. If he had
anticipated impatient questions, or impulsive confidences, he was soon
undeceived. The prince was thoughtful, reserved, even a little
absent-minded, and asked none of the questions—one in particular—that
Gania had expected. So he imitated the prince’s demeanour, and talked
fast and brilliantly upon all subjects but the one on which their
thoughts were engaged. Among other things Gania told his host that
Nastasia Philipovna had been only four days in Pavlofsk, and that
everyone was talking about her already. She was staying with Daria
Alexeyevna, in an ugly little house in Mattrossky Street, but drove
about in the smartest carriage in the place. A crowd of followers had
pursued her from the first, young and old. Some escorted her on
horse-back when she took the air in her carriage.

She was as capricious as ever in the choice of her acquaintances, and
admitted few into her narrow circle. Yet she already had a numerous
following and many champions on whom she could depend in time of need.
One gentleman on his holiday had broken off his engagement on her
account, and an old general had quarrelled with his only son for the
same reason.

She was accompanied sometimes in her carriage by a girl of sixteen, a
distant relative of her hostess. This young lady sang very well; in
fact, her music had given a kind of notoriety to their little house.
Nastasia, however, was behaving with great discretion on the whole. She
dressed quietly, though with such taste as to drive all the ladies in
Pavlofsk mad with envy, of that, as well as of her beauty and her
carriage and horses.

“As for yesterday’s episode,” continued Gania, “of course it was
pre-arranged.” Here he paused, as though expecting to be asked how he
knew that. But the prince did not inquire. Concerning Evgenie
Pavlovitch, Gania stated, without being asked, that he believed the
former had not known Nastasia Philipovna in past years, but that he had
probably been introduced to her by somebody in the park during these
four days. As to the question of the IOU’s she had spoken of, there
might easily be something in that; for though Evgenie was undoubtedly a
man of wealth, yet certain of his affairs were equally undoubtedly in
disorder. Arrived at this interesting point, Gania suddenly broke off,
and said no more about Nastasia’s prank of the previous evening.

At last Varvara Ardalionovna came in search of her brother, and
remained for a few minutes. Without Muishkin’s asking her, she informed
him that Evgenie Pavlovitch was spending the day in Petersburg, and
perhaps would remain there over tomorrow; and that her husband had also
gone to town, probably in connection with Evgenie Pavlovitch’s affairs.

“Lizabetha Prokofievna is in a really fiendish temper today,” she
added, as she went out, “but the most curious thing is that Aglaya has
quarrelled with her whole family; not only with her father and mother,
but with her sisters also. It is not a good sign.” She said all this
quite casually, though it was extremely important in the eyes of the
prince, and went off with her brother. Regarding the episode of
“Pavlicheff’s son,” Gania had been absolutely silent, partly from a
kind of false modesty, partly, perhaps, to “spare the prince’s
feelings.” The latter, however, thanked him again for the trouble he
had taken in the affair.

Muishkin was glad enough to be left alone. He went out of the garden,
crossed the road, and entered the park. He wished to reflect, and to
make up his mind as to a certain “step.” This step was one of those
things, however, which are not thought out, as a rule, but decided for
or against hastily, and without much reflection. The fact is, he felt a
longing to leave all this and go away—go anywhere, if only it were far
enough, and at once, without bidding farewell to anyone. He felt a
presentiment that if he remained but a few days more in this place, and
among these people, he would be fixed there irrevocably and
permanently. However, in a very few minutes he decided that to run away
was impossible; that it would be cowardly; that great problems lay
before him, and that he had no right to leave them unsolved, or at
least to refuse to give all his energy and strength to the attempt to
solve them. Having come to this determination, he turned and went home,
his walk having lasted less than a quarter of an hour. At that moment
he was thoroughly unhappy.

Lebedeff had not returned, so towards evening Keller managed to
penetrate into the prince’s apartments. He was not drunk, but in a
confidential and talkative mood. He announced that he had come to tell
the story of his life to Muishkin, and had only remained at Pavlofsk
for that purpose. There was no means of turning him out; nothing short
of an earthquake would have removed him.

In the manner of one with long hours before him, he began his history;
but after a few incoherent words he jumped to the conclusion, which was
that “having ceased to believe in God Almighty, he had lost every
vestige of morality, and had gone so far as to commit a theft.” “Could
you imagine such a thing?” said he.

“Listen to me, Keller,” returned the prince. “If I were in your place,
I should not acknowledge that unless it were absolutely necessary for
some reason. But perhaps you are making yourself out to be worse than
you are, purposely?”

“I should tell it to no one but yourself, prince, and I only name it
now as a help to my soul’s evolution. When I die, that secret will die
with me! But, excellency, if you knew, if you only had the least idea,
how difficult it is to get money nowadays! Where to find it is the
question. Ask for a loan, the answer is always the same: ‘Give us gold,
jewels, or diamonds, and it will be quite easy.’ Exactly what one has
not got! Can you picture that to yourself? I got angry at last, and
said, ‘I suppose you would accept emeralds?’ ‘Certainly, we accept
emeralds with pleasure. Yes!’ ‘Well, that’s all right,’ said I. ‘Go to
the devil, you den of thieves!’ And with that I seized my hat, and
walked out.”

“Had you any emeralds?” asked the prince.

“What? I have emeralds? Oh, prince! with what simplicity, with what
almost pastoral simplicity, you look upon life!”

Could not something be made of this man under good influences? asked
the prince of himself, for he began to feel a kind of pity for his
visitor. He thought little of the value of his own personal influence,
not from a sense of humility, but from his peculiar way of looking at
things in general. Imperceptibly the conversation grew more animated
and more interesting, so that neither of the two felt anxious to bring
it to a close. Keller confessed, with apparent sincerity, to having
been guilty of many acts of such a nature that it astonished the prince
that he could mention them, even to him. At every fresh avowal he
professed the deepest repentance, and described himself as being
“bathed in tears”; but this did not prevent him from putting on a
boastful air at times, and some of his stories were so absurdly comical
that both he and the prince laughed like madmen.

“One point in your favour is that you seem to have a child-like mind,
and extreme truthfulness,” said the prince at last. “Do you know that
that atones for much?”

“I am assuredly noble-minded, and chivalrous to a degree!” said Keller,
much softened. “But, do you know, this nobility of mind exists in a
dream, if one may put it so? It never appears in practice or deed. Now,
why is that? I can never understand.”

“Do not despair. I think we may say without fear of deceiving
ourselves, that you have now given a fairly exact account of your life.
I, at least, think it would be impossible to add much to what you have
just told me.”

“Impossible?” cried Keller, almost pityingly. “Oh prince, how little
you really seem to understand human nature!”

“Is there really much more to be added?” asked the prince, with mild
surprise. “Well, what is it you really want of me? Speak out; tell me
why you came to make your confession to me?”

“What did I want? Well, to begin with, it is good to meet a man like
you. It is a pleasure to talk over my faults with you. I know you for
one of the best of men... and then... then...”

He hesitated, and appeared so much embarrassed that the prince helped
him out.

“Then you wanted me to lend you money?”

The words were spoken in a grave tone, and even somewhat shyly.

Keller started, gave an astonished look at the speaker, and thumped the
table with his fist.

“Well, prince, that’s enough to knock me down! It astounds me! Here you
are, as simple and innocent as a knight of the golden age, and yet...
yet... you read a man’s soul like a psychologist! Now, do explain it to
me, prince, because I... I really do not understand!... Of course, my
aim was to borrow money all along, and you... you asked the question as
if there was nothing blameable in it—as if you thought it quite
natural.”

“Yes... from you it is quite natural.”

“And you are not offended?”

“Why should I be offended?”

“Well, just listen, prince. I remained here last evening, partly
because I have a great admiration for the French archbishop Bourdaloue.
I enjoyed a discussion over him till three o’clock in the morning, with
Lebedeff; and then... then—I swear by all I hold sacred that I am
telling you the truth—then I wished to develop my soul in this frank
and heartfelt confession to you. This was my thought as I was sobbing
myself to sleep at dawn. Just as I was losing consciousness, tears in
my soul, tears on my face (I remember how I lay there sobbing), an idea
from hell struck me. ‘Why not, after confessing, borrow money from
him?’ You see, this confession was a kind of masterstroke; I intended
to use it as a means to your good grace and favour—and then—then I
meant to walk off with a hundred and fifty roubles. Now, do you not
call that base?”

“It is hardly an exact statement of the case,” said the prince in
reply. “You have confused your motives and ideas, as I need scarcely
say too often happens to myself. I can assure you, Keller, I reproach
myself bitterly for it sometimes. When you were talking just now I
seemed to be listening to something about myself. At times I have
imagined that all men were the same,” he continued earnestly, for he
appeared to be much interested in the conversation, “and that consoled
me in a certain degree, for a double motive is a thing most difficult
to fight against. I have tried, and I know. God knows whence they
arise, these ideas that you speak of as base. I fear these double
motives more than ever just now, but I am not your judge, and in my
opinion it is going too far to give the name of baseness to it—what do
you think? You were going to employ your tears as a ruse in order to
borrow money, but you also say—in fact, you have sworn to the fact—that
independently of this your confession was made with an honourable
motive. As for the money, you want it for drink, do you not? After your
confession, that is weakness, of course; but, after all, how can anyone
give up a bad habit at a moment’s notice? It is impossible. What can we
do? It is best, I think, to leave the matter to your own conscience.
How does it seem to you?” As he concluded the prince looked curiously
at Keller; evidently this problem of double motives had often been
considered by him before.

“Well, how anybody can call you an idiot after that, is more than I can
understand!” cried the boxer.

The prince reddened slightly.

“Bourdaloue, the archbishop, would not have spared a man like me,”
Keller continued, “but you, you have judged me with humanity. To show
how grateful I am, and as a punishment, I will not accept a hundred and
fifty roubles. Give me twenty-five—that will be enough; it is all I
really need, for a fortnight at least. I will not ask you for more for
a fortnight. I should like to have given Agatha a present, but she does
not really deserve it. Oh, my dear prince, God bless you!”

At this moment Lebedeff appeared, having just arrived from Petersburg.
He frowned when he saw the twenty-five rouble note in Keller’s hand,
but the latter, having got the money, went away at once. Lebedeff began
to abuse him.

“You are unjust; I found him sincerely repentant,” observed the prince,
after listening for a time.

“What is the good of repentance like that? It is the same exactly as
mine yesterday, when I said, ‘I am base, I am base,’—words, and nothing
more!”

“Then they were only words on your part? I thought, on the contrary...”

“Well, I don’t mind telling you the truth—you only! Because you see
through a man somehow. Words and actions, truth and falsehood, are all
jumbled up together in me, and yet I am perfectly sincere. I feel the
deepest repentance, believe it or not, as you choose; but words and
lies come out in the infernal craving to get the better of other
people. It is always there—the notion of cheating people, and of using
my repentant tears to my own advantage! I assure you this is the truth,
prince! I would not tell any other man for the world! He would laugh
and jeer at me—but you, you judge a man humanely.”

“Why, Keller said the same thing to me nearly word for word a few
minutes ago!” cried Muishkin. “And you both seem inclined to boast
about it! You astonish me, but I think he is more sincere than you, for
you make a regular trade of it. Oh, don’t put on that pathetic
expression, and don’t put your hand on your heart! Have you anything to
say to me? You have not come for nothing...”

Lebedeff grinned and wriggled.

“I have been waiting all day for you, because I want to ask you a
question; and, for once in your life, please tell me the truth at once.
Had you anything to do with that affair of the carriage yesterday?”

Lebedeff began to grin again, rubbed his hands, sneezed, but spoke not
a word in reply.

“I see you had something to do with it.”

“Indirectly, quite indirectly! I am speaking the truth—I am indeed! I
merely told a certain person that I had people in my house, and that
such and such personages might be found among them.”

“I am aware that you sent your son to that house—he told me so himself
just now, but what is this intrigue?” said the prince, impatiently.

“It is not my intrigue!” cried Lebedeff, waving his hand.

“It was engineered by other people, and is, properly speaking, rather a
fantasy than an intrigue!”

“But what is it all about? Tell me, for Heaven’s sake! Cannot you
understand how nearly it touches me? Why are they blackening Evgenie
Pavlovitch’s reputation?”

Lebedeff grimaced and wriggled again.

“Prince!” said he. “Excellency! You won’t let me tell you the whole
truth; I have tried to explain; more than once I have begun, but you
have not allowed me to go on...”

The prince gave no answer, and sat deep in thought. Evidently he was
struggling to decide.

“Very well! Tell me the truth,” he said, dejectedly.

“Aglaya Ivanovna...” began Lebedeff, promptly.

“Be silent! At once!” interrupted the prince, red with indignation, and
perhaps with shame, too. “It is impossible and absurd! All that has
been invented by you, or fools like you! Let me never hear you say a
word again on that subject!”

Late in the evening Colia came in with a whole budget of Petersburg and
Pavlofsk news. He did not dwell much on the Petersburg part of it,
which consisted chiefly of intelligence about his friend Hippolyte, but
passed quickly to the Pavlofsk tidings. He had gone straight to the
Epanchins’ from the station.

“There’s the deuce and all going on there!” he said. “First of all
about the row last night, and I think there must be something new as
well, though I didn’t like to ask. Not a word about you, prince, the
whole time! The most interesting fact was that Aglaya had been
quarrelling with her people about Gania. Colia did not know any
details, except that it had been a terrible quarrel! Also Evgenie
Pavlovitch had called, and met with an excellent reception all round.
And another curious thing: Mrs. Epanchin was so angry that she called
Varia to her—Varia was talking to the girls—and turned her out of the
house ‘once for all’ she said. I heard it from Varia herself—Mrs.
Epanchin was quite polite, but firm; and when Varia said good-bye to
the girls, she told them nothing about it, and they didn’t know they
were saying goodbye for the last time. I’m sorry for Varia, and for
Gania too; he isn’t half a bad fellow, in spite of his faults, and I
shall never forgive myself for not liking him before! I don’t know
whether I ought to continue to go to the Epanchins’ now,” concluded
Colia—“I like to be quite independent of others, and of other people’s
quarrels if I can; but I must think over it.”

“I don’t think you need break your heart over Gania,” said the prince;
“for if what you say is true, he must be considered dangerous in the
Epanchin household, and if so, certain hopes of his must have been
encouraged.”

“What? What hopes?” cried Colia; “you surely don’t mean Aglaya?—oh,
no!—”

“You’re a dreadful sceptic, prince,” he continued, after a moment’s
silence. “I have observed of late that you have grown sceptical about
everything. You don’t seem to believe in people as you did, and are
always attributing motives and so on—am I using the word ‘sceptic’ in
its proper sense?”

“I believe so; but I’m not sure.”

“Well, I’ll change it, right or wrong; I’ll say that you are not
sceptical, but jealous. There! you are deadly jealous of Gania, over
a certain proud damsel! Come!” Colia jumped up, with these words, and
burst out laughing. He laughed as he had perhaps never laughed before,
and still more when he saw the prince flushing up to his temples. He
was delighted that the prince should be jealous about Aglaya. However,
he stopped immediately on seeing that the other was really hurt, and
the conversation continued, very earnestly, for an hour or more.

Next day the prince had to go to town, on business. Returning in the
afternoon, he happened upon General Epanchin at the station. The latter
seized his hand, glancing around nervously, as if he were afraid of
being caught in wrong-doing, and dragged him into a first-class
compartment. He was burning to speak about something of importance.

“In the first place, my dear prince, don’t be angry with me. I would
have come to see you yesterday, but I didn’t know how Lizabetha
Prokofievna would take it. My dear fellow, my house is simply a hell
just now, a sort of sphinx has taken up its abode there. We live in an
atmosphere of riddles; I can’t make head or tail of anything. As for
you, I feel sure you are the least to blame of any of us, though you
certainly have been the cause of a good deal of trouble. You see, it’s
all very pleasant to be a philanthropist; but it can be carried too
far. Of course I admire kind-heartedness, and I esteem my wife, but—”

The general wandered on in this disconnected way for a long time; it
was clear that he was much disturbed by some circumstance which he
could make nothing of.

“It is plain to me, that you are not in it at all,” he continued, at
last, a little less vaguely, “but perhaps you had better not come to
our house for a little while. I ask you in the friendliest manner,
mind; just till the wind changes again. As for Evgenie Pavlovitch,” he
continued with some excitement, “the whole thing is a calumny, a dirty
calumny. It is simply a plot, an intrigue, to upset our plans and to
stir up a quarrel. You see, prince, I’ll tell you privately, Evgenie
and ourselves have not said a word yet, we have no formal
understanding, we are in no way bound on either side, but the word may
be said very soon, don’t you see, very soon, and all this is most
injurious, and is meant to be so. Why? I’m sure I can’t tell you. She’s
an extraordinary woman, you see, an eccentric woman; I tell you I am so
frightened of that woman that I can’t sleep. What a carriage that was,
and where did it come from, eh? I declare, I was base enough to suspect
Evgenie at first; but it seems certain that that cannot be the case,
and if so, why is she interfering here? That’s the riddle, what does
she want? Is it to keep Evgenie to herself? But, my dear fellow, I
swear to you, I swear he doesn’t even know her, and as for those
bills, why, the whole thing is an invention! And the familiarity of the
woman! It’s quite clear we must treat the impudent creature’s attempt
with disdain, and redouble our courtesy towards Evgenie. I told my wife
so.

“Now I’ll tell you my secret conviction. I’m certain that she’s doing
this to revenge herself on me, on account of the past, though I assure
you that all the time I was blameless. I blush at the very idea. And
now she turns up again like this, when I thought she had finally
disappeared! Where’s Rogojin all this time? I thought she was Mrs.
Rogojin, long ago.”

The old man was in a state of great mental perturbation. The whole of
the journey, which occupied nearly an hour, he continued in this
strain, putting questions and answering them himself, shrugging his
shoulders, pressing the prince’s hand, and assuring the latter that, at
all events, he had no suspicion whatever of him. This last assurance
was satisfactory, at all events. The general finished by informing him
that Evgenie’s uncle was head of one of the civil service departments,
and rich, very rich, and a gourmand. “And, well, Heaven preserve him,
of course—but Evgenie gets his money, don’t you see? But, for all this,
I’m uncomfortable, I don’t know why. There’s something in the air, I
feel there’s something nasty in the air, like a bat, and I’m by no
means comfortable.”

And it was not until the third day that the formal reconciliation
between the prince and the Epanchins took place, as said before.