Paladins rushed to battle Shouting their ladies' names,
Lumen coeli, sancta Rosa!He cried out, wild with zeal, And at his threat like thunder Many a Muslim fell.
Back in his distant castle, He lived a strict recluse, Ever silent, melancholy, Like one gone mad he died.
Recalling this whole moment afterwards, the prince, in extreme confusion, suffered for a long time over one question he was unable to resolve: how was it possible to unite such true, beautiful feeling with such obvious, spiteful mockery? That it was mockery he did not doubt; he clearly understood that and had reasons for it: during the recital Aglaya had allowed herself to change the letters A.M.D. to N.F.B. That it was not a mistake or a mishearing on his part he could not doubt (it was proved afterwards). In any case, Aglaya's escapade—certainly a joke, though much too sharp and light-minded—was intentional. Everyone had already been talking about (and "laughing at") the "poor knight" a month ago. And yet, for all the prince could remember, it came out that Aglaya had pronounced those letters not only without any air of joking or any sort of smile, or even any emphasis on the letters meant to reveal their hidden meaning, but, on the contrary, with such unfaltering seriousness, such innocent and naïve simplicity, that one might have thought those letters were in the ballad and it was printed that way in the book. It was as if something painful and unpleasant stung the prince. Of course, Lizaveta Prokofyevna did not understand or notice either the change of letters or the hint. General Ivan Fyodorovich understood only that poetry was being declaimed. Of the other listeners, many did understand and were surprised both at the boldness of the escapade and at its intention, but they kept silent and tried not to let anything show. But Evgeny Pavlovich (the prince was even ready to bet on it) not only understood but even tried to show that he understood: he smiled much too mockingly.
"What a delight!" Mrs. Epanchin exclaimed in genuine rapture, as soon as the recitation was over. "Whose poem is it?"
"Pushkin's, maman,don't disgrace us, it's shameful!" exclaimed Adelaida.
"I'll turn into a still worse fool here with you!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna retorted bitterly. "Disgraceful! The moment we get home, give me this poem of Pushkin's at once!"
"But I don't think we have any Pushkin."
"A couple of tattered volumes," Adelaida put in, "they've been lying about since time immemorial."
"Send someone at once to buy a copy in town, Fyodor or Alexei, on the first train—better Alexei. Aglaya, come here! Kiss me, you recite beautifully, but—if it was sincere," she added, almost in a whisper, "then I feel sorry for you; if you read it to mock him, I don't approve of your feelings, so in any case it would have been better for you not to recite it at all. Understand? Go, little miss, I'll talk more with you, but we've overstayed here."
Meanwhile the prince was greeting General Ivan Fyodorovich, and the general was introducing him to Evgeny Pavlovich Radomsky.
"I picked him up on the way, he'd just gotten off the train; he learned that I was coming here and that all of ours were here . . ."
"I learned that you, too, were here," Evgeny Pavlovich interrupted, "and since I've intended for a long time and without fail to seek not only your acquaintance but also your friendship, I did not want to lose any time. You're unwell? I've just learned . . ."
"I'm quite well and very glad to know you, I've heard a lot about you and have even spoken of you with Prince Shch.," replied Lev Nikolaevich, holding out his hand.
Mutual courtesies were exchanged, the two men shook hands and looked intently into each other's eyes. An instant later the conversation became general. The prince noticed (he now noticed everything quickly and greedily, perhaps even what was not there at all) that Evgeny Pavlovich's civilian dress produced a general and extraordinarily strong impression, so much so that all other impressions were forgotten for a time and wiped away. One might have thought that this change of costume meant something particularly important. Adelaida and Alexandra questioned Evgeny Pavlovich in perplexity. Prince Shch., his relation, did so even with great uneasiness; the general spoke almost with agitation. Aglaya alone curiously but quite calmly glanced at Evgeny Pavlovich for a moment, as if wishing merely to compare whether military or civilian dress was more becoming to him, but a moment later she
turned away and no longer looked at him. Lizaveta Prokofyevna also did not wish to ask anything, though she, too, was somewhat uneasy. To the prince it seemed that Evgeny Pavlovich might not be in her good graces.
"Surprising! Amazing!" Ivan Fyodorovich kept saying in answer to all the questions. "I refused to believe it when I met him today in Petersburg. And why so suddenly, that's the puzzle. He himself shouted first thing that there's no need to go breaking chairs." 31
From the ensuing conversation it turned out that Evgeny Pavlovich had already announced his resignation a long time ago; but he had spoken so unseriously each time that it had been impossible to believe him. Besides, he even spoke about serious things with such a jocular air that it was quite impossible to make him out, especially if he himself did not want to be made out.
"It's only a short-term resignation, for a few months, a year at the most," Radomsky laughed.
"But there's no need, at least insofar as I'm acquainted with your affairs," the general went on hotly.
"And what about visiting my estates? You advised me to yourself; and besides, I want to go abroad . . ."
However, they soon changed the subject; but all the same, the much too peculiar and still-continuing uneasiness, in the observant prince's opinion, went beyond the limits, and there must have been something peculiar in it.
"So the 'poor knight' is on the scene again?" Evgeny Pavlovich asked, going up to Aglaya.
To the prince's amazement, she gave him a perplexed and questioning look, as if wishing to let him know that there could be no talk of the "poor knight" between them and that she did not even understand the question.
"But it's too late, it's too late to send to town for Pushkin now, too late!" Kolya argued with Lizaveta Prokofyevna, spending his last strength. "I've told you three thousand times, it's too late."
"Yes, actually, it's too late to send to town now," Evgeny Pavlovich turned up here as well, hastening away from Aglaya. "I think the shops are closed in Petersburg, it's past eight," he confirmed, taking out his watch.
"We've gone so long without thinking of it, we can wait till tomorrow," Adelaida put in.
"And it's also improper," Kolya added, "for high-society people
to be too interested in literature. Ask Evgeny Pavlovich. Yellow charabancs with red wheels are much more proper."
"You're talking out of a book again, Kolya," observed Adelaida.
"But he never talks otherwise than out of books," Evgeny Pavlovich picked up. "He expresses himself with whole sentences from critical reviews. I've long had the pleasure of knowing Nikolai Ardalionovich's conversation, but this time he's not talking out of a book. Nikolai Ardalionovich is clearly hinting at my yellow charabanc with red wheels. Only I've already traded it, you're too late."
The prince listened to what Radomsky was saying ... It seemed to him that he bore himself handsomely, modestly, cheerfully, and he especially liked the way he talked with such perfect equality and friendliness to Kolya, who kept provoking him.
"What's that?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned to Vera, Lebedev's daughter, who stood before her holding several books of a large format, beautifully bound and nearly new.