“I didn’t know that they look on you as a fool. I... I don’t look on you so.”
“You don’t look on me so? Very clever on your part. Particularly cleverly expressed.”
“I think you may be quite clever at times,” Myshkin went on. “You said somethinq very clever just now.
bu were speaking of my uncertainty about Ippolit. There’s nothing but truth in it, and so it’s unjust.’ I shall remember that and think it over.”
Aglaia suddenly crimsoned with pleasure. All such transitions of feeling were artlessly apparent in her, and followed one another with extraordinary rapidity. Myshkin, too, was delighted, and positively laughed with pleasure, watching her.
“Listen,” she began again. “I’ve been waiting for a long time to tell you all about it. I’ve been wanting to, ever since you wrote me that letter, and even before then.... You heard half of it yesterday. I consider you the most honest and truthful of men, more honest and truthful than anyone; and if they do say that your mind . . . that is, that you’re sometimes afflicted in your mind, it’s unjust. I made up my mind about that, and disputed with others, because, though you really are mentally afflicted (you won’t be angry at that, of course; I’m speaking from a higher point of view), yet the mind that matters is better in you than in any of them. It’s something, in fact, they have never dreamed of. For there are two sorts of mind: one that matters, and one that doesn’t matter. Is that so? That is so, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps it is,” Myshkin articulated faintly. His heart was trembling and throbbing violently.
“I was sure you would understand,” she went on impressively. “Prince S. and “Vfevgeny Pavlovitch don’t understand about those two sorts of mind, nor Alexandra either, but, only fancy, maman understood.”
“You’re very like Lizaveta Prokofeyvna.”
“How so? Really?” Aglaia asked, surprised.
“Yes, really.”
“Thank you,” she said, after a moment’s thought. “I am very glad I’m like maman. “Vbu have a great respect for her, then?” she added, quite unconscious of the naivete of the question.
“Very great. And I’m glad you saw it so directly.”
“And I’m glad, because I’ve noticed that people sometimes . . . laugh at her. But let me tell you what matters most. I’ve been thinking a long time, and at last I’ve picked you out. I don’t want them to laugh at me at home. I don’t want them to look on me as a little fool. I don’t want them to tease me.... I realized it all at once, and refused Yevgeny Pavlovitch point-
blank, because I don’t want to be continually being married! I want... I want. . . Well, I want to run away from home, and I’ve chosen you to help me.”
“Run away from home!” cried Myshkin.
“Yes, yes, yes! Run away from home,” she cried, at once flaring up with extraordinary anger. “I can’t bear, I can’t bear their continually making me blush there. I don’t want to blush before them, or before Prince S. or before Yevgeny Pavlovitch, or before anyone, and so I’ve chosen you. To you I want to tell everything, everything, even the most important thing, when I want to, and you must hide nothing from me on your side. I want, with one person at least, to speak freely of everything, as I can to myself. They suddenly began saying that I was waiting for you, and that I loved you. That began before you came here, though I didn’t show them the letter. And now they’re all talking about it. I want to be bold, and not to be afraid of anything. I don’t want to go to their balls. I want to be of use. I’ve been wanting to get away for a long time. For twenty years I’ve been bottled up at home, and they keep trying to marry me. I’ve been thinking of running away since I was fourteen, though I was a silly. Now I’ve worked it all out, and was waiting for you to ask you all about foreign countries. I have never seen a Gothic cathedral. I want to go to Rome. I want to visit all the learned societies. I want to study in Paris. I was preparing myself and studying all last year, and I’ve read a great many books. I have read all the forbidden books. Alexandra and Adelaida read any books — they’re allowed to. But I am not allowed to read all of them; they supervise me. I don’t want to quarrel with my sisters, but I told my father and mother long ago that I want to make a complete change in my social position. I propose to take up teaching, and I’ve been reckoning on you because you said you were fond of children. Couldn’t we go in for education together, not at once perhaps, but in the future? We should be doing good together. I don’t want to be a general’s daughter. Tell me, are you a very learned person?”
“Oh, not at all.”
“That’s a pity, for I thought. . . how was it I thought so? “Vbu’ll be my guide all the same because I have chosen you.”
“That’s absurd, Aglaia Ivanovna.”
“I want to run away from home — I want to,” she cried, and again her eyes flashed. “If you won’t consent, I shall marry Gavril Ardalionovitch. I don’t want to be looked upon as a horrid girl at home, and be accused of goodness knows what.”
“Are you mad!” cried Myshkin, almost leaping up from his seat. “What are you accused of? Who accuses you?”
“Every one at home. Mother, my sisters, father, Prince S. even your horrid Kolya. If they don’t say so straight out, they think so. I told them all so to their faces, mother and father too. Maman was ill for a whole day afterwards. And next day Alexandra and papa told me that I didn’t understand what nonsense I was talking and what words I was speaking. And I told them straight out that I understood everything; all sorts of words; that I’m not a little girl; that I read two novels of Paul de Kock two years ago, so as to find out everything. Maman almost fainted when she heard me.”
A strange idea suddenly occurred to Myshkin. He looked intently at Aglaia and smiled.
He could scarcely believe that the haughty girl who had once so proudly and disdainfully read him Gavril Ardalionovitch’s letter was actually sitting before him. He could not conceive that the disdainful, stern beauty could turn out to be such a baby, a baby, who perhaps did not even nowunderstand some words.
“Have you always lived at home, Aglaia Ivanovna?” he asked. “I mean, did you never go to school or study at an institute?”
“I’ve never been anywhere. I’ve always sat at home, as though I were corked up in a bottle, and I’m to be married straight out of the bottle. Why are you laughing again? I notice that you, too, seem to be laughing at me, and taking their part,” she added, frowning menacingly. “Don’t make me angry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me as it is. I’m certain you came here fully persuaded that I am in love with you, and was making a tryst with you,” she snapped out irritably.
“I certainly was afraid of that yesterday,” Myshkin blurted out with simplicity. (He was very much confused.) “But lam convinced to-day that you ...”
“What?” cried Aglaia, and her lower lip began trembling. “You were afraid that I . . . You dared to imagine that I . . . Good heavens! You suspected perhaps that I invited you here to ensnare you, so that we might be found here afterwards, and that you might be forced to marry me.”
“Aglaia Ivanovna! Aren’t you ashamed? How could such a nasty idea arise in your pure, innocent heart? I’d swear that you don’t believe one word of it ... and you don’t know what you’re saying!”
Aglaia sat, looking doggedly at the ground, as though frightened herself at what she had said.
“I’m not ashamed at all,” she muttered. “How do you know that my heart is so innocent? How dared you send me a love-letter, that time?”
“A love-letter? My letter — a love-letter! That letter was most respectful; that letter was the outpouring of my heart at the bitterest moment of my life! I thought of you then as of some light... I...”
“Oh, very well, very well,” she interrupted suddenly, in a quite different, completely penitent and almost frightened tone. She turned to him, though still trying to avoid looking at him, and seemed on the point of touching his shoulder, to beg him more persuasively not to be
angry with her.
“It’s all right,” she added, terribly shamefaced. “I feel I used a very stupid expression. I said that just.. . to test vou. Take it as thouqh it were unsaid. If I
offended you, forgive me. Don’t look straight at me, please. Turn away. You said that was a very nasty idea. I said it on purpose to vex you. Sometimes I’m afraid of what I’m going to say myself, then all at once I say it. bu said just now that you wrote that letter at the most painful moment of your life. I know what moment it was,” she said softly, looking at the ground again.
“Oh, if you could know everything!”
“I do know everything!” she cried, with renewed excitement. “bu’d been living for a whole month in the same flat with that horrid woman with whom you ran away....”
She did not turn red this time, but turned pale as she uttered the words, and she stood up as though she did not know what she was doing, but recollecting herself, sat down again; for a long time her lip was still quivering. The silence lasted a minute. Myshkin was greatly taken aback by the suddenness of her outburst, and did not know how to account for it.
“I don’t love you at all,” she said suddenly, as though rapping out the phrase.
Myshkin made no answer; again they were silent for a minute.
“I love Gavril Ardalionovitch . . ,” she said, speaking hurriedly, but scarcely audibly, bending her head still lower.
“That’s not true,” answered Myshkin, also almost whispering.
“Then I’m lying? That’s true. I gave him my word the day before yesterday, on this very seat.”
Myshkin was frightened, and pondered a minute.
“That’s not true,” he repeated, with decision. “You’ve invented all that.”
“You’re wonderfully polite. Let me tell you he’s reformed. He loves me more than his life. He burnt his hand before my eyes to show me that he loved me more than his life.”
“Burnt his hand?”
“Yes, his hand. “Vbu may believe it or not — I don’t care.”
Myshkin was silent again. There was no trace of jesting in Aglaia’s words. She was angry.
“Why, did he bring a candle with him, if he did it here? I don’t see how else he could ...”
“Yes ... he did. What is there unlikelyabout it?”
“A whole one, in a candlestick?”
“Oh, well . . . no . . . half a candle ... a candle-end ... a whole one. It doesn’t matter. Let me alone! He brought matches, too, if you like. He lighted the candle, and he left his finger in it for half an hour. Is there anything impossible in that?”
“I saw him yesterday. His fingers were all right.”
Aglaia suddenly went off into a peal of laughter, like a child.
“Do you know why I told you that fib, just now?” She suddenly turned to Myshkin with childlike confidence, and the laugh still quivering on her lips. “Because, when you are lying, if you skilfully put in something not quite ordinary, something eccentric, something, you know, that never has happened, or very rarely, it makes the lie sound much more probable. I’ve noticed that. It didn’t answer with me because I didn’t do it properly...”
Suddenly she frowned again, as though recollecting herself.
“When,” she turned to Myshkin, looking seriously and even mournfully at him, “when I read you about the ‘poor knight,’ though I did mean to applaud you for one thing, yet I wanted also to put you to shame for your behaviour, and to show you I knew all about it.”
“You are very unjust to me ... to that unhappy woman of whom you spoke so horribly just now, Aglaia.”
“It’s because I know all about it, all about it. That’s why I spoke like that! I know that six months ago you offered her your hand in the presence of every one. Don’t interrupt me. “Vbu see, I speak without comment. After that she ran away with Rogozhin; then you lived with her in some country place or in the town, and she went away from you to some one else (Aglaia blushed painfully); then she went back again to Rogozhin who loves her like ... like a madman. Then you, a very clever person, too . . . galloped after her here, as soon as you heard she had gone back to Petersburg. Yesterday evening you rushed to defend her, and just now you were dreaming about her. . . . You see, I know all about it; it was for her sake, for her sake you came here, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, for her sake,” Myshkin answered softly, looking down mournfully and dreamily, not suspecting with what burninq eves Aqlaia qlared at him.
“For her sake, to find out. ... I don’t believe in her being happy with Rogozhin though. ... In short, I don’t know what I could do for her here, or how I could help her, but I came.”
He started and looked at Aglaia; she was listening to him with a look of hatred.
“If you came, not knowing why, then you love her very much,” she brought out at last.
“No,” answered Myshkin, “no, I don’t love her. Oh, if you only knew with what horror I recall the time I spent with her!”
A shudder ran down him, as he uttered the words.
“Tell me all,” said Aglaia.
“There is nothing in it you might not hear about. Why I wanted to tell you all about it, and only you, I don’t know. Perhaps because I really did love you very much. That unhappy woman is firmly convinced that she is the most fallen, the most vicious creature in the whole world. Oh, don’t cry shame on her, don’t throw stones at her! She has tortured herself too much from the consciousness of her undeserved shame! And, my God, she’s not to blame! Oh, she’s crying out every minute in her frenzy that she doesn’t admit going wrong, that she was the victim of others, the victim of a depraved and wicked man. But whatever she may say to you, believe me, she’s the first to disbelieve it, and to believe with her whole conscience that she is ... to blame. When I tried to dispel that gloomy delusion, it threw her into such misery that my heart will always ache when I remember that awful time. It’s as though my heart had been stabbed once for all. She ran away from me. Do you know what for? Simply to show me that she was a degraded creature. But the most awful thing is that perhaps she didn’t even know herself that she only wanted to prove that to me, but ran away because she had an irresistible inner craving to do something shameful, so as to say to herself at once, There, you’ve done something shameful again, so you’re a degraded creature!’ Oh, perhaps you won’t understand this, Aglaia. Do you know that in that continual consciousness of shame there is perhaps a sort of awful, unnatural enjoyment for her, a sort of revenge on some one. Sometimes I did bring her to seeing light round her once more, as it were. But she would grow restive again at once, and even came to accusing me bitterly of setting myself up above her (though I had no thought of such a thing) and told me in so many words at last, when I offered her marriage, that she didn’t want condescending sympathy or help from anyone, nor to be elevated to anyone’s level. bu saw her yesterday. Do you think she’s happy with that set, that they are fitting company for her? bu don’t know how well educated she is, and what she can understand! She really surprised me sometimes.”
“Did you ever then preach her such . . . sermons?”
“Oh, no,” Myshkin went on dreamily, not observing the tone and the question. “I hardly ever spoke. I often wanted to speak, but I really didn’t know sometimes what to say. You know, in some cases it is better not to speak at all. Oh, I loved her; oh, I loved her very much, but afterwards .. . afterwards .. . afterwards she guessed it all.”
“What did she guess?”
“That I only pitied her, but that I . . . don’t love her any more.”
“How do you know? Perhaps she really fell in love with that... landowner she went away with?”
“No, I know all about it. She was only laughing at him.”
“And did she never laugh at you?”
“N-no. She used to laugh in anger. Oh, then she would reproach me horribly, in a fury — and she was wretched herself! But . . . afterwards . . . Oh, don’t remind me, don’t remind me of that!”
; He hid his face in his hands.
“And do you know that she writes letters to me almost everyday?”
“Then it is true!” cried Myshkin, in dismay. “I heard so, but I wouldn’t believe it.”
“From whom did you hear it?” Aglaia asked, scared.
“Rogozhin said so yesterday, but not quite definitely.”
“Yesterday? Yesterday morning? What time yesterday? Before the band played, or after?”
“Afterwards. In the evening, past eleven.”
“Oh, if it was Rogozhin. . . . But do you know what she writes to me in these letters.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised at anything. She’s insane.”
“Here are the letters.” Aglaia pulled three letters in three envelopes out of her pocket and threw them down before Myshkin. “For the last week, she’s been beseeching, imploring, coaxing me to marry you. She . . . Oh, well, she’s clever, though she’s insane. And you’re right in saying she’s much cleverer than I am. . . . She writes that she’s in love with me, that she tries every day to get a chance of seeing me even in the distance. She writes that you love me, that she knows it, that she noticed it long ago, that you used to talk to her about me then. She wants to see you happy. She’s certain that only I can make you happy. . . . She writes so wildly... so strangely . . . I haven’t shown her letters to anyone. I’ve been waiting for you. Do you know what this means? Can you guess?”
“It’s madness, a proof of her insanity,” Myshkin brought out, and his lips began to tremble.
“You’re not crying now, are you?”
“No, Aglaia. No. I’m not crying.” Myshkin looked at her.
“What am I to do about it? What do you advise me? I can’t go on getting these letters!”
“Oh, leave her alone, I entreat you!” cried Myshkin. “What can you do in this darkness? I’ll do all I can to prevent her writing to you again.”
“Then you’re a man of no heart!” cried Aglaia. “Surely you must see that she’s not in love with me, but that she loves you, only you. How can you have noticed everything in her and not have seen that? Do you know what it is, what these letters mean? It’s jealousy. It’s more than jealousy! She ... do you suppose she’d really marry Rogozhin as she writes here in her letters? She’d kill herself the day after our wedding!”
Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky Page 317
