“Did it miss fire?” people were asking.
“Perhaps it was not loaded?” others surmised.
“It was loaded,” Keller pronounced, examining the pistol, “but...”
“Can it have missed fire?”
“There was no cap in it,” Keller announced.
It is hard to describe the piteous scene that followed. The general pause of the first moment was quickly succeeded by laughter. Some of the party positively roared, and seemed to find a malignant pleasure in the position. Ippolit sobbed as though he were in hysterics, wrung his hands, rushed up to every one, even to Ferdyshtchenko, whom he clutched with both hands, swearing that he had forgotten, “forgotten quite accidentally and not on purpose,” to put in the cap; that “he had all the caps here, in his waistcoat pocket, a dozen of them (he showed them to everyone about him). But he hadn’t put them in before, for fear of its going off by accident in his pocket; that he had counted on always having time to put a cap in, and he had suddenly forgotten it.” He rushed up to Myshkin, to “Vfevgeny Pavlovitch, besought Keller to give him back the pistol, that he miqht show them all that “his honour, his honour” . . . that he was now “dishonoured forever.”
He fell unconscious at last. He was carried into Myshkin’s study and Lebedyev, completely sobered, sent at once for a doctor, while he himself remained by the invalid’s bedside with his daughter, his son, Burdovsky, and the general. When Ippolit had been carried out unconscious, Keller stood in the middle of the room, and with positive inspiration pronounced, dwelling on every word, and emphasizing it so that all might hear.
“Gentlemen! If any one of you ever once insinuates in my presence that the cap was forgotten intentionally, and maintains that the unhappy young man was acting a farce, he will have to deal with me.”
But no one answered him. The guests were at last leaving in a crowd and in haste. Ptitsyn, Ganya, and Rogozhi n set off together.
Myshkin was much surprised that Yevgeny Pavlovitch had changed his mind and was going away without speaking to him.
“You wanted to speak to me when the others had gone, didn’t you?” he asked him.
“Just so,” said Yevgeny Pavlovitch, suddenly sitting down and making Myshkin sit beside him. “But now I have changed my mind for a time. I confess that I have had rather a shock, and so have you. My thoughts are in a tangle. Besides, what I want to discuss with you is too important a matter to me and to you too. “Vbu see, prince, for once in my life, I want to do something absolutely honest, that is, something absolutely without any ulterior motive; and, well, I think I’m not quite capable of doing anything perfectly honest at this moment, and you too perhaps . . . and so . . . well, we’ll discuss it later. Perhaps the matter will be made more plain later to both of us, if we wait another three days which I shall spend now in Petersburg.”
Then he got up from his chair again, so that it seemed strange he should have sat down. Myshkin fancied, too, that “Vfevgeny Pavlovitch was annoyed and irritated, that there was a hostile look in his eyes which had not been there before.
“By the way, are you going to the patient now?”
“Yes.... I’m afraid,” said Myshkin.
“Don’t be afraid. He’ll live another six weeks, and he may even get well here. But the best thing you can do is to get rid of him to-morrow.”
“Perhaps I really did egg him on by . . . not saying anything. He may have thought I didn’t believe he would shoot himself? What do you think, Yevgeny Pavlovitch?”
“Not at all. It’s too good-natured of you to worry about it. I’ve heard tell of such things, but I’ve never in real life seen a man shoot himself on purpose to win applause, or from spite because he was not applauded for it. And, what’s more, I wouldn’t have believed in such an open exhibition of feebleness. But you’d better get rid of him to-morrow all the same.”
“Do you think he’ll shoot himself again?”
“No, he won’t do it now. But be on your guard with these home-bred Lasseners of ours. I repeat, crime is only too often the refuge of these mediocre, impatient and greedy nonentities.”
“Is he a Lassener?”
“The essence is the same, though the emplois are different, perhaps. You’ll see whether this gentleman isn’t capable of murdering a dozen people simplv as a ‘feat,’ as he read us just now in his ‘Explanation.’ Those words of his won’t let me sleep now.”
“You are too anxious perhaps.”
“You’re a wonderful person, prince. You don’t believe he’s capable of killing a dozen persons now.”
“I’m afraid to answer you. It’s all very strange; but.
“Well, as you like, as you like!” Yevgeny Pavlovitch concluded irritably. “Besides, you’re such a valiant person. Don’t you be one of the dozen, that’s all!”
“It’s most likely he won’t kill anyone,” said Myshkin, looking dreamily at Yevgeny Pavlovitch.
The latter laughed angrily.
“Good-bye! It’s time I was off. Did you notice he bequeathed a copy of his ‘Explanation’ to Aglaia Ivanovna?”
“Yes, I did, and ... lam thinking about it.”
“That’s right, in case of the ‘dozen,’” laughed Yevgeny Pavlovitch again, and he went out.
An hour later, when it was already past three o’clock, Myshkin went out into the park. He had tried to sleep, but was kept awake by the violent throbbing of his heart. Everything was quiet in the house, and,
as far as possible, tranquillity had been restored. The sick boy had fallen asleep, and the doctor declared that there was no special danger. Lebedyev, Kolya, and Burdovsky lay down in the invalid’s room, so as to take turns in watching him. There was nothing to be afraid of.
But Myshkin’s uneasiness grew from moment to moment. He wandered in the park, looking absently about him, and stopped in surprise when he reached the open space before the station, and saw the rows of seats, and the music-stands of the orchestra.
He was impressed by the scene, which struck him as horribly squalid. He turned back, and going by the path along which he had walked the day before with the Epanchins, he reached the green seat which had been fixed as the trysting place; sat down on it, and suddenly laughed out loud, which at once made him feel extremely indignant with himself. His dejection persisted; he longed to go away ... he knew not where. In a tree overhead a bird was singing, and he began looking for it among the leaves. All at once the bird darted out of the tree, and at the same instant he recalled the “fly in the warm sunshine,” of which Ippolit had written, that “it knew its place and took part in the general chorus, but he alone was an outcast.” The phrase had struck him at the time; and he recalled it now. One long-forgotten memory stirred within him and suddenly rose up clear before him.
It was in Switzerland, during his first year, in the early part of it, in fact. Then he was almost like an idiot; he could not even speak properly — and sometimes could not understand what was wanted of him. He once went up into the mountain-side, on a bright, sunny day, and walked a long time, his mind possessed with an agonizing but unformulated idea. Before him was the brilliant sky, below, the lake, and all around an horizon, bright and boundless which seemed to have no ending. He gazed a long time in distress. He remembered now how he had stretched out his hand to that bright, infinite blue, and had shed tears. What tortured him was that he was utterly outside all this. What was this festival? what was this grand, everlasting pageant to which there was no end, to which he had always, from his earliest childhood, been drawn and in which he could never take part? Every morning the same bright sun rises, every morning the same rainbow in the waterfall;
every evening that highest snow mountain glows, with a flush of purple against the distant sky, every “little fly that buzzes about him in the hot sunshine has its part in the chorus; knows its place, loves it and is happy.” Every blade of grass grows and is happy! Everything has its path, and everything knows its path, and with a song goes forth, and with a song returns. Only
he knows nothing, and understands nothing, neither men nor sounds; he is outside it all, and an outcast. Oh, of course he could not say it then in those words, could not utter his question. He suffered dumbly, not comprehending; but now it seemed to him that he had said all this at the time, those very words, and that that phrase about the “fly” Ippolit took from him; from his words then and his tears. He felt sure of it, and for some reason the thought set his heart beating.
He dropped asleep on the seat, but his agitation still persisted. Just as he was falling asleep he remembered that Ippolit was to kill a dozen people, and smiled at the absurdity of the notion. There was an exquisite brightness and stillness all round him, only broken by the rustle of the leaves which seemed to make it even more silent and solitary He had many dreams, and all were disquieting, and at times made him start uneasily. At last a woman came to him; he knew her, and knowing her was torture; he knew her name, and would have known her anywhere — but strange to say — her face now was not the same as he had always known it, and he felt an agonising reluctance to acknowledge her as the same woman. There was such remorse and horror in this face that it seemed as though she must be a fearful criminal, and had just committed some awful crime. Tears quivered on her pale cheeks; she beckoned to him and put her finger to her lips, as though to warn him to follow her quietly. His heart turned cold; nothing, nothing on earth would induce him to admit that she was a criminal; but he felt that something awful was about to happen, that would ruin his whole life. She seemed anxious to show him something not far off, in the park. He got up to follow her, and suddenly he heard beside him the sound of a gay, fresh laugh; he felt a hand in his. He seized the hand, pressed it tight and waked up. Aglaia was standing before him, laughing aloud.
CHAPTER 8
SHE WAS laughing, but she was indignant.
“Asleep! You were asleep!” she cried with disdainful wonder.
“It’s you!” muttered Myshkin, hardly awake, and recognising her with surprise. “Oh, yes! We were going to meet.... I’ve been asleep here.”
“So I see.”
“Did no one wake me but you? Has no one been here but you? I thought there was .. . another woman here.”
“Another woman’s been here?”
At last he was wide awake.
“It was only a dream,” he said pensively. “Strange at such a moment to have such a dream. ... Sit down!”
He took her hand and made her sit down on the seat; he sat beside her and sank into thought. Aglaia did not begin the conversation, but scrutinised her companion intently. He gazed at her too, though sometimes his eyes looked as though he did not see her. She began to flush.
“Oh, yes,” said Myshkin, starting, “Ippolit shot himself.”
“When? In your rooms?” she asked, but without great surprise. “He was alive only yesterday evening, wasn’t he? How could you sleep after such a thing?” she cried, with sudden animation.
“But he’s not dead, you know. The pistol did not go off.”
Aglaia insisted on Myshkin’s at once giving her a minute account of what had happened the previous evening. She continually urged him on in his story, though she kept interrupting him with questions, almost always irrelevant. She listened with great interest to what Yevgeny Pavlovitch had said, and several times asked him to repeat it.
“Well, that’s enough! We must make haste,” she ended, after hearing everything. “We’ve only an hour to be here, till eight o’clock. For at eight I must be at home, so that they mayn’t know I’ve been sitting here, and I’ve come out with an object. I have a great deal to tell you. Only you’ve quite put me out now. About Ippolit, I think that his pistol was bound not to go off. It’s just like him. But you’re sure that he really meant to shoot himself, and that there was no deception about it?”
“There was no deception.”
“That’s more likely, indeed. So he wrote that you were to bring me his confession? Why didn’t you bring it?”
“Why, he’s not dead. I’ll ask him for it.”
“Be sure to bring it. And there is no need to ask him. He’ll certainly be delighted, for perhaps it was with that object he shot at himself, that I might read his confession afterwards. Please don’t laugh at me, I beg you, Lyov Nikolayevitch, because it may very well be so.”
“I’m not laughing, for I’m convinced myself that that may very likely be partly the reason.”
“You’re convinced! Do you really think so, too?”
Aglaia was extremely surprised.
She asked rapid questions, talked quickly, but sometimes seemed confused, and often did not finish her sentences. At times she seemed in haste to warn him of something. Altogether she was in extraordinary agitation, and, though she looked very bold and almost defiant, she was perhaps a little scared too. She was wearing a very plain every-day dress, which suited her extremely well. She was sitting on the edge of the seat, and she often started and blushed. Myshkin’s confirmation of her idea, that Ippolit had shot himself that she might read his confession afterwards, surprised her very much.
“Of course,” Myshkin explained, “he wanted us all to praise him, as well as you....”
“Praise him?”
“That is . . . how shall I tell you ... it is very difficult to explain. Only he certainly wanted every one to come round him and tell him that they loved him very much and respected him; he longed for them all to beg him to remain alive. It may very well be that he had you in his mind more than anyone, because he mentioned you at such a moment . . . though, perhaps, he didn’t know himself that he had you in mind.”
“That I don’t understand at all; that he had it in his mind and didn’t know he had it in his mind. I think I
do understand, though. Do you know that thirty times I dreamed of poisoning myself, when I was only thirteen, and writing it all in a letter to my parents. And I, too, thought how I would lie in my coffin, and they would all weep over me, and blame themselves for having been too cruel to me. . . . Why are you smiling again?” she added quickly, frowning. “What do you think about when you dream by yourself? Perhaps you fancy yourself a field-marshal, and dream you’ve conquered Napoleon?”
“Well, honour bright, I do dream of that, especially when I’m dropping asleep,” said Myshkin, laughing. “Only it’s always the Austrians I conquer, not Napoleon.”
“I’m in no mood for joking with you, Lyov Nikolayevitch. I’ll see Ippolit myself. I beg you to tell him so. I think it’s very horrid on your part, for it’s very brutal to look on and judge a man’s soul, as you judge Ippolit. “Vbu have no tenderness, nothing but truth, and so you judge unjustly.”
Myshkin pondered.
“I think you’re unfair to me,” he said. “Why, I see no harm in his thinking in that way, because all people are inclined to think like that. Besides, perhaps he didn’t think like that at all, but only wanted it. . . . He longed for the last time to come near to men, to win their respect and love. Those are very good feelings, you know. Only it somehow all went wrong. It’s his illness, and something else, perhaps! Besides, everything always goes right with some people, while with others nothing ever comes off....”
“You mean that for yourself, I suppose?” observed Aglaia.
“Yes, I do,” answered Myshkin, not conscious of any sarcasm in the question.
“But I wouldn’t have fallen asleep in your place, anyway. It shows that wherever you pitch you fall asleep on the spot. It’s not at all nice of you.”
“But I haven’t slept all night. I walked and walked afterwards. I’ve been where the music was.”
“What music?”
“Where the band was playing, yesterday. Then I came here, sat down, thought and thought, and fell asleep.”
“Oh, so that’s how it was! That makes it a little better. But why did you go to the band-stand?”
“I don’t know. I happened to.”
“Very well, very well, afterwards; you keep interrupting me. And what does it matter to me
if you did go to the band-stand? What woman was it you were dreaming about?”
“It was ... you’ve seen her.”
“I understand. I quite understand. “Vbu think a lot. .. . How did you dream of her? What was she doing? Though I don’t care to know,” she snapped out, with an airof vexation. “Don’t interrupt me....”
She waited a little, as though to pluck up her courage or to overcome her vexation.
“I’ll tell you what I asked you to come for; I want to make a proposition that you should be my friend. Why are you staring at me all of a sudden?” she asked, almost wrathfully.
Myshkin certainly was watching her very intently at that moment, observing that she had begun to flush hotly again. In such cases, the more she blushed, the more angry she seemed with herself, and it was unmistakably apparent in her flashing eyes. Usually she transferred her anger to the person she was talking to, whether he were to blame or not, and would begin quarrelling with him. Being aware of her own awkwardness and desperate shyness and very conscious of it, she was, as a rule, not very ready to enter into conversation, and was more silent than her sisters, sometimes too silent, indeed. When, particularly in such delicate cases, she was positively obliged to speak, she would begin the conversation with marked haughtiness and with a sort of defiance. She always felt beforehand when she was beginning or about to begin to blush.
“Perhaps you don’t care to accept my proposition?” She looked haughtily at Myshkin.
“Oh, yes, I should like to. Only it was quite unnecessary.. .. That is, I shouldn’t have thought you need make such a proposition,” said Myshkin in confusion.
“What did you think then? What do you suppose I asked you to come here for? What’s in your mind? But perhaps you look on me as a little fool, as they all do at home?”
Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky Page 316
