"Because there's some new sort of foolishness implied in it, sarcastic and offensive," Lizaveta Prokofyevna snapped.
"There isn't any foolishness, only the deepest respect," Aglaya suddenly declared quite unexpectedly in a grave and serious voice, having managed to recover completely and overcome her former embarrassment. Moreover, by certain tokens it could be supposed, looking at her, that she herself was now glad that the joke had gone further and further, and that this turnabout had occurred in her precisely at the moment when the prince's embarrassment, which was increasing more and more and reaching an extreme degree, had become all too noticeable.
"First they laugh dementedly, and then suddenly the deepest respect appears! Raving people! Why respect? Tell me right now, why does this deepest respect of yours appear so suddenly out of the blue?"
"The deepest respect because," Aglaya went on as seriously and gravely, in answer to her mother's almost spiteful question, "because this poem directly portrays a man capable of having an ideal and, second, once he has the ideal, of believing in it and, believing in
it, of blindly devoting his whole life to it. That doesn't always happen in our time. In the poem it's not said specifically what made up the ideal of the 'poor knight,' but it's clear that it was some bright image, 'an image of pure beauty,' 29and instead of a scarf the enamored knight even wore a rosary around his neck. True, there's also some sort of dark, unexpressed motto, the letters A.N.., that he traced on his shield . . ."
"A.N.D.," Kolya corrected. 30
"But I say A.N.., and that's how I want to say it," Aglaya interrupted with vexation. "Be that as it may, it's clear that it made no difference to this 'poor knight' who his lady was or what she might do. It was enough for him that he had chosen her and believed in her 'pure beauty,' and only then did he bow down to her forever; and the merit of it is that she might have turned out later to be a thief, but still he had to believe in her and wield the sword for her pure beauty. It seems the poet wanted to combine in one extraordinary image the whole immense conception of the medieval chivalrous platonic love of some pure and lofty knight; naturally, it's all an ideal. But in the 'poor knight' that feeling reached the ultimate degree—asceticism. It must be admitted that to be capable of such feeling means a lot and that such feelings leave a deep and, on the one hand, a very praiseworthy mark, not to mention Don Quixote. The 'poor knight' is that same Don Quixote, only a serious and not a comic one. At first I didn't understand and laughed, but now I love the 'poor knight' and, above all, respect his deeds."
So Aglaya concluded, and, looking at her, it was hard to tell whether she was speaking seriously or laughing.
"Well, he's some sort of fool, he and his deeds!" Mrs. Epanchin decided. "And you, dear girl, blathered out a whole lecture; in my opinion, it's even quite unsuitable on your part. Inadmissible, in any case. What is this poem? Recite it, you surely know it! I absolutely want to know this poem. All my life I never could stand poetry, as if I had a presentiment. For God's sake, Prince, be patient, it's clear that you and I must be patient together," she turned to Prince Lev Nikolaevich. She was very vexed.
Prince Lev Nikolaevich wanted to say something but, in his continuing embarrassment, was unable to get a word out. Only Aglaya, who had allowed herself so much in her "lecture," was not abashed in the least, she even seemed glad. She stood up at once, still as serious and grave as before, looking as though she had
prepared for it earlier and was only waiting to be asked, stepped into the middle of the terrace, and stood facing the prince, who went on sitting in his armchair. They all looked at her with a certain surprise, and nearly all of them—Prince Shch., her sisters, her mother—looked with an unpleasant feeling at this new prank she had prepared, which in any case had gone a bit too far. But it was evident that Aglaya precisely liked all this affectation with which she began the ceremony of reciting the poem. Lizaveta Prokofyevna nearly chased her back to her seat, but just at the moment when Aglaya began to declaim the well-known ballad, two new guests, talking loudly, came from the street onto the terrace. They were General Ivan Fyodorovich Epanchin and after him a young man. There was a slight stir.
VII
The young man who accompanied the general was about twenty-eight years old, tall, trim, with a handsome and intelligent face, and a bright gaze in his big, dark eyes, filled with wit and mockery. Aglaya did not even turn to look at him and went on reciting the poem, as she affectedly went on looking at the prince alone and addressing him alone. It was clear to the prince that she was doing all this with some special calculation. But the new guests at least improved his awkward position somewhat. Seeing them, he rose slightly, courteously nodded his head to the general from afar, gave a sign not to interrupt the recital, and himself managed to retreat behind the armchair, where, resting his left elbow on the back, he went on listening to the ballad, now, so to speak, in a more comfortable and less "ridiculous" position than sitting in the chair. Lizaveta Prokofyevna, for her part, waved twice with an imperious gesture to the entering men to make them stop. The prince, incidentally, was greatly interested in his new guest who accompanied the general; he guessed clearly that he was Evgeny Pavlovich Radomsky, of whom he had heard so much and had thought more than once. He was thrown off only by his civilian dress; he had heard that Evgeny Pavlovich was a military man. A mocking smile wandered over the lips of the new guest all through the recital of the poem, as if he, too, had already heard something about the "poor knight." .....
"Maybe it was he who came up with it," the prince thought to himself.
But it was quite different with Aglaya. All the initial affectation and pomposity with which she had stepped out to recite, she covered over with such seriousness and such penetration into the spirit and meaning of the poetic work, she uttered each word of the poem with such meaning, enunciated them with such lofty simplicity, that by the end of the recital she had not only attracted general attention but, by conveying the lofty spirit of the ballad, had as if partially justified the overly affected gravity with which she had so solemnly come out to the middle of the terrace. Now this gravity could be seen only as a boundless and perhaps even naïve respect for that which she had taken it upon herself to convey. Her eyes shone, and a slight, barely perceptible tremor of inspiration and rapture passed twice over her beautiful face. She recited:
Once there lived a poor knight, A silent, simple man,
Pale and grim his visage,
Bold and straight his heart.
He had a single vision
Beyond the grasp of mind,
It left a deep impression Engraved upon his heart.
From then on, soul afire, No woman would he see, Nor speak a word to any Until his dying day.
About his neck a rosary Instead of a scarf he bound, And from his face the visor He ne'er raised for anyone.
Filled with pure love ever, True to his sweet dream, A. M. D. in his own blood He traced upon his shield.
In Palestinian deserts, As over the steep cliffs,