Since that day, my friends, I knew without a doubt that I was not the son of Golubchik, but of Krapotkin. Of course I was very sorry that the Prince had disdained to pass through the decorated village, and had missed the music and the songs. It would have been best, so it seemed to me, if he had driven through the village in a marvelous carriage, drawn by four snow-white horses, with me at his side. On such an occasion, I would have been recognized by all, by the teacher, by the peasants, by the servants, and even by the authorities, as the legitimate, almost heaven-sent, successor to the Prince. And the songs and the music and the garlands would have been for me rather than for my father. Yes, my friends, that is what I was like at that time: arrogant, vain, afflicted with boundless imagination and extremely egotistic. On that occasion I never gave the slightest thought to my mother. Although, indeed, I realized to a certain extent that it was a disgrace for a woman to have a child by any man other than her own husband. But neither my mother’s disgrace nor my own was important. On the contrary, it pleased me, and I preened myself greatly, not only because from the day of my birth I was marked with a distinctive brand, but also because I was the natural son of our Prince. But now, after everything had become as clear as day, the name of Golubchik annoyed me more and more, especially because everyone spoke it so scornfully after the death of the forester and since the Prince had visited my mother. They all uttered my name with a quite particular emphasis, as though it were not an honest, lawful name, but a nickname. And this infuriated me still more because I myself felt this ridiculous and totally unsuitable name to be a term both of contempt and derision; and that was so even during the days when it was still spoken with a certain amount of harmless respect. And thus in my young heart my feelings alternated with frenzied rapidity; I felt humiliated, yes, even debased, and immediately after — or rather, simultaneously — confident and proud, and sometimes all these feelings boiled up inside me together and fought against one another, a cruel torment, cruel in the heart of a small boy.
It was plain to see that the strong kind hand of the Prince protected me. Unlike all the other boys in our village, I was transferred to the higher school at D. just after I had reached the age of eleven. By many tokens I soon saw that the teachers there, too, knew the secret of my birth, and I was not a little pleased at that. But I never ceased to worry about my ridiculous name. I shot up like a cabbage stalk, and I grew broad in proportion, and my name was still Golubchik.
The older I became, the more I worried about this. I was a Krapotkin, and, by God, I had the right to call myself Krapotkin. But I determined to wait yet awhile. A year, perhaps. Perhaps the Prince would consider the matter in the meantime, and one day he would come over and, preferably in the presence of everybody, would bestow upon me his name, his title, and all his fabulous possessions. I made up my mind not to disgrace him. I studied hard and perseveringly. My teachers were well pleased with me. And yet all that, my friends, was not genuine ambition, it was only my devilish vanity which drove me on, and nothing else. Soon that fearful quality was to begin to work even more strongly within me. Soon I was to embark upon my first, although not yet despicable, undertaking. And that you shall hear about immediately.
Well, I had made up my mind to wait for a whole year, although, shortly after this decision, I began to think that a whole year was far too long a time. I soon tried to cut off a few months, for I was tortured with impatience. But at the same time I said to myself that a man who has decided to rise high in the world — and such a man I then considered myself to be — would indeed be unworthy if he showed impatience and weakened in his decisions. I also found a prop for my resolution in the superstitious conviction that the Prince in some secret, almost magical way must have long felt what I required of him. For I sometimes persuaded myself into thinking that I was possessed of magical powers and that by means of these I was in perpetual communication with my real father, even over a distance of many thousand versts. This conceit calmed me and held my impatience in check. But when the year was past, I held myself doubly justified in reminding the Prince of his duties towards me. And the fact that I had waited a whole year I naturally counted as no small credit to myself. Besides, something soon happened which seemed to prove clearly that even providence favored my plan. It was shortly after Easter, and well on into spring. At that time of the year I always felt — and still feel today — a new strength in my heart and muscles and a powerful, mad, unjustified conviction that I could succeed in even the most impossible undertakings. And there then occurred a most remarkable coincidence; for one day, in my lodgings, I chanced to overhear a conversation which was being carried on between my landlord and a strange man whom I could not see. At that time I would have given much to have been able to see the man and speak with him myself. But I dared not betray my presence. Obviously they believed that I was not at home, or at any rate not in my room. Indeed, they could never have guessed that I would be in the house at that hour, and I had only gone into my room by chance. My landlord, a postal official, was standing in the passage, conversing fairly loudly with the stranger. After the first few words, which I missed, I immediately realized that the stranger must be the man entrusted by the Prince with the duty of settling the monthly payment for my board, lodging, and clothing. Plainly my landlord had demanded an increase in prices, and the emissary of the Prince was refusing to agree to them. “But I tell you,” I heard the stranger say, “I cannot get in touch with him for another month. He is in Odessa. He is staying there for seven or eight weeks. He does not wish to be disturbed. He never opens a letter. He is quite cut off from the world. He stares all day long at the sea and cares for nothing. I tell you again: I cannot get in touch with him.”
“Well, how long must I wait, my friend?” said my landlord. “Since the boy’s been here I’ve given him thirty-six rubles extra pocket money; once he was ill, and the doctor came six times. I have never been paid for that.” Incidentally, I knew that my landlord was lying. I had never been ill. But I naturally paid no heed to that. What excited me beyond all bounds was the inconsequent fact that Krapotkin was living in Odessa, in a lonely house on the seashore. A great storm arose in my heart. The sea, the lonely house, the desire of the Prince to be cut off from the world for seven or eight weeks: all that wounded me deeply. It was as though the Prince had withdrawn from the world only in order that he should hear no more of me, and as though, in the whole world, he feared me and only me.
So that’s how it is, I said to myself. A year ago he learned, by the magical way, of my decision. From understandable weakness he has done nothing. And now, since the year is up, he is afraid of me and has gone into hiding. But, my friends, so that you may understand my character completely, I must add that I was at that moment even capable of a slight feeling of magnanimity towards the Prince. For I began to feel sorry for him. I was inclined to regard his flight from me as a pardonable weakness. So fantastically did I overestimate my powers. If my whole mad plan of bringing force to bear on the Prince was a ridiculous self-delusion, then the childish magnanimity with which I forgave him his weakness was certainly the product of a diseased mind, or as the doctors would call it, “a psychotic condition.”