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 there I 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."

"Hm. On purpose. I understand."

"I find it very painful to answer these questions for you, Lizaveta Prokofyevna."

"I know it's painful, but it's none of my affair that you find it painful. Listen, tell me the truth as before God: are you lying to me or not?"

"I'm not lying."

"It's true what you say, that you're not in love?"

"Perfectly true, it seems."

"Ah, you and your 'it seems'! Did that brat deliver it?"

"I asked Nikolai Ardalionovich . . ."

"The brat! The brat!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna interrupted with passion. "I don't know any Nikolai Ardalionovich! The brat!"

"Nikolai Ardalionovich . . ."

"The brat, I tell you!"

"No, not the brat, but Nikolai Ardalionovich," the prince finally answered, firmly though rather quietly.

"Well, all right, my dear, all right! I shall add that to your account."

For a moment she mastered her excitement and rested.

"And what is this 'poor knight'?"

"I have no idea; I wasn't there; it must be some kind of joke."

"Nice to find out all of a sudden! Only is it possible that she could become interested in you? She herself called you a 'little freak' and an 'idiot.'"

"You might have not told me that," the prince observed reproachfully, almost in a whisper.

"Don't be angry. She's a despotic, crazy, spoiled girl—if she falls in love, she'll certainly abuse the man out loud and scoff in his face; I was just the same. Only please don't be triumphant, dear boy, she's not yours; I won't believe it, and it will never be! I tell you so that you can take measures now. Listen, swear to me you're not married to that one."

"Lizaveta Prokofyevna, how can you, for pity's sake?" the prince almost jumped up in amazement.

"But you almost married her?"

"I almost did," the prince whispered and hung his head.

"So you're in love with her, is that it? You've come for her now? For that one?"

"I haven't come to get married," replied the prince.

"Is there anything you hold sacred in this world?"

"There is."

"Swear to me that you haven't come to marry that one."

"I swear by whatever you like!"

"I believe you. Kiss me. At last I can breathe freely; but know this: Aglaya doesn't love you, take measures, and she won't be your wife as long as I live! Do you hear?"

"I hear."

The prince was blushing so much that he could not even look directly at Lizaveta Prokofyevna.

"Tie a string round your finger, then. I've been waiting for you as for Providence (you weren't worth it!), I drenched my pillow with tears at night—not over you, dear boy, don't worry, I have another grief of my own, eternal and ever the same. But here is why I waited for you so impatiently: I still believe that God himself sent you to me as a friend and a true brother. I have no one around me, except old Princess Belokonsky, and she, too, has flown away, and besides she's grown stupid as a sheep in her old age. Now answer me simply yes or no: do you know why she shouted from her carriage two days ago?"

"On my word of honor, I had no part in it and know nothing!"

"Enough, I believe you. Now I also have different thoughts about it, but still yesterday, in the morning, I blamed Evgeny Pavlych for everything. Yesterday morning and the whole day before. Now, of course, I can't help agreeing with them: it's obvious that he was being laughed at like a fool for some reason, with some purpose, to some end (that in itself is suspicious! and also unseemly!)—but Aglaya won't be his wife, I can tell you that! Maybe he's a good man, but that's how it will be. I hesitated before, but now I've decided for certain: 'First put me in a coffin and bury me in the earth, then marry off my daughter,' that's what I spelled out to Ivan Fyodorovich today. You see that I trust you, don't you?"

"I see and I understand."

Lizaveta Prokofyevna gazed piercingly at the prince; it may be that she wanted very much to know what impression the news about Evgeny Pavlych had made on him.