"But I myself am renouncing the word 'skeptic,' and have found a new explanation," Kolya suddenly cried. "You're not a skeptic, you're jealous! You're infernally jealous of Ganya over a certain proud girl!"
Having said this, Kolya jumped up and burst into such laughter as he may never have laughed before. Seeing the prince turn all red, Kolya laughed even harder: he was terribly pleased with the thought that the prince was jealous over Aglaya, but he fell silent at once when he noticed that the prince was sincerely upset. After that they spent another hour or hour and a half in serious and preoccupied conversation.
The next day the prince spent the whole morning in Petersburg on a certain urgent matter. Returning to Pavlovsk past four in the afternoon, he met Ivan Fyodorovich at the railway station. The latter quickly seized him by the arm, looked around as if in fright, and drew the prince with him to the first-class car, so that they could ride together. He was burning with the desire to discuss something important.
"First of all, my dear Prince, don't be angry with me, and if there was anything on my part—forget it. I'd have called on you yesterday, but I didn't know how Lizaveta Prokofyevna would ... At home . . . it's simply hell, a riddling sphinx has settled in with us, and I go about understanding nothing. As for you, I think you're the least to blame, though, of course, much of it came about through you. You see, Prince, to be a philanthropist is nice, but not very. You've probably tasted the fruits of it by now. I, of course, love kindness, and I respect Lizaveta Prokofyevna, but . . ."
The general went on for a long time in this vein, but his words were surprisingly incoherent. It was obvious that he had been shaken and greatly confused by something he found incomprehensible in the extreme.
"For me there's no doubt that you have nothing to do with it," he finally spoke more clearly, "but don't visit us for a while, I ask you as a friend, wait till the wind changes. As regards Evgeny Pavlych," he cried with extraordinary vehemence, "it's all senseless slander, a slander of slanders! It's calumny, there's some intrigue, a wish to destroy everything and make us quarrel. You see, Prince, I'm saying it in your ear: not a word has been said yet between us
and Evgeny Pavlych, understand? We're not bound by anything— but that word may be spoken, and even soon, perhaps even very soon! So this was done to harm that! But why, what for—I don't understand! An astonishing woman, an eccentric woman, I'm so afraid of her I can hardly sleep. And what a carriage, white horses, that's chic, that's precisely what the French call chic! Who from? By God, I sinned, I thought the other day it was Evgeny Pavlych. But it turns out that it can't be, and if it can't be, then why does she want to upset things? That's the puzzle! In order to keep Evgeny Pavlych for herself? But I repeat to you, cross my heart, that he's not acquainted with her, and those promissory notes are a fiction! And what impudence to shout 'dear' to him across the street! Sheer conspiracy! It's clear that we must reject it with contempt and double our respect for Evgeny Pavlych. That is what I told Lizaveta Prokofyevna. Now I'll tell you my most intimate thought: I'm stubbornly convinced that she's doing it to take personal revenge on me, remember, for former things, though I was never in any way guilty before her. I blush at the very recollection. Now she has reappeared again, and I thought she had vanished completely. Where's this Rogozhin sitting, pray tell? I thought shehad long been Mrs. Rogozhin . . ."
In short, the man was greatly bewildered. During the whole nearly hour-long trip he talked alone, asked questions, answered them himself, pressed the prince's hand, and convinced him of at least this one thing, that he had never thought of suspecting him of anything. For the prince that was important. He ended by telling about Evgeny Pavlych's uncle, the head of some office in Petersburg—"a prominent fellow, seventy years old, a viveur,a gastronome, and generally a whimsical old codger . . . Ha, ha! I know he heard about Nastasya Filippovna and even sought after her. I called on him yesterday, he didn't receive me, was unwell, but he's rich, rich and important, and . . . God grant him a long life, but all the same Evgeny Pavlych will get everything . . . Yes, yes . . . but even so I'm afraid! I don't know why, but I'm afraid ... As if something's hovering in the air, trouble flitting about like a bat, and I'm afraid, afraid! . . ."
And finally, only after three days, as we have already written above, came the formal reconciliation of the Epanchins with Prince Lev Nikolaevich.
XII
It was seven o'clock in the evening; the prince was about to go to the park. Suddenly Lizaveta Prokofyevna came to him on the terrace alone.
"First,don't you dare think," she began, "that I've come to ask your forgiveness. Nonsense! You're to blame all around."
The prince was silent.
"Are you to blame or not?"
"As much as you are. However, neither I, nor you, neither of us is to blame for anything deliberate. Two days ago I thought I was to blame, but now I've decided that it's not so."
"So that's how you are! Well, all right; listen then and sit down, because I have no intention of standing."
They both sat down.
"Second:not a word about those spiteful brats! I'll sit and talk with you for ten minutes; I've come to you with an inquiry (and you thought for God knows what?), and if you utter so much as a single word about those impudent brats, I'll get up and leave, and break with you altogether."
"Very well," replied the prince.
"Kindly allow me to ask you: about two and a half months ago, around Eastertime, did you send Aglaya a letter?"
"Y-yes."
"With what purpose? What was in the letter? Show me the letter!"
Lizaveta Prokofyevna's eyes were burning, she was almost shaking with impatience.
"I don't have the letter," the prince was terribly surprised and grew timid. "If it still exists, Aglaya Ivanovna has it."
"Don't dodge! What did you write about?"
"I'm not dodging, and I'm not afraid of anything. I see no reason why I shouldn't write . . ."
"Quiet! You can talk later. What was in the letter? Why are you blushing?"
The prince reflected.
"I don't know what you're thinking, Lizaveta Prokofyevna. I can only see that you dislike this letter very much. You must agree that I could refuse to answer such a question; but in order to show you
that I have no fear of this letter, and do not regret having written it, and am by no means blushing at it" (the prince blushed nearly twice as much as before), "I'll recite the letter for you, because I believe I know it by heart."
Having said this, the prince recited the letter almost word for word as it was written.
"Sheer galimatias! What might this nonsense mean, in your opinion?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna said sharply, listening to the letter with extraordinary attention.
"I don't quite know myself; I know that my feeling was sincere. I had moments of full life there and the greatest hopes."
"What hopes?"
"It's hard to explain, but they were not the hopes you may be thinking of now . . . well, they were hopes for the future and joy that thereI might not be a stranger, a foreigner. I suddenly liked my native land very much. One sunny morning I took up a pen and wrote a letter to her; why to her—I don't know. Sometimes one wants to have a friend nearby; I, too, evidently wanted to have a friend ..." the prince added after a pause.
"Are you in love, or what?"
"N-no. I ... I wrote as to a sister; I signed it as a brother."