willful, spoiled girl, but above all wicked, wicked, wicked! But didn't this fat Alexandra also follow her to cut off that mop of hers, and not out of wickedness, not out of caprice, but sincerely, like a fool, because Aglaya convinced her that she'd sleep more peacefully and her head wouldn't ache? And they've had so many suitors—it's five years now—so many, so many! And really, there were some good, even some excellent people among them! What are they waiting for? Why don't they get married? Only so as to vex their mother—there's no other reason! None! None!"

Finally, the sun also rose for her maternal heart; at least one daughter, at least Adelaida, would finally be settled. "That's at least one off my back," Lizaveta Prokofyevna used to say, when she had to express herself aloud (to herself she expressed it much more tenderly). And how nicely, how decently the whole thing got done; even in society it was spoken of respectfully. A known man, a prince, with a fortune, a nice man, and on top of that one pleasing to her heart: what, it seemed, could be better? But she had feared less for Adelaida than for her other daughters even before, though the girl's artistic inclinations sometimes greatly troubled Lizaveta Prokofyevna's ceaselessly doubting heart. "But, then, she's of cheerful character and has much good sense to go with it—which means that the girl won't be lost," she used to comfort herself in the end. She feared most of all for Aglaya. Incidentally, with regard to the eldest, Alexandra, Lizaveta Prokofyevna did not know whether to fear for her or not. Sometimes it seemed to her that "the girl was completely lost"; twenty-five years old—meaning she would be left an old maid. And "with such beauty! ..." Lizaveta Prokofyevna even wept for her at night, while Alexandra Ivanovna spent those same nights sleeping the most peaceful sleep. "But what is she—a nihilist, or simply a fool?" That she was not a fool—of that, incidentally, Lizaveta Prokofyevna had no doubt: she had extreme respect for Alexandra Ivanovna's opinions and liked to consult her. But that she was a "wet hen"—of that there was no doubt: "So placid, there's no shaking her up!" However, "wet hens aren't placid either—pah! They've got me totally confused!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna had some inexplicable commiserating sympathy with Alexandra Ivanovna, more even than with Aglaya, who was her idol. But her acrimonious outbursts (in which her maternal care and sympathy chiefly expressed itself), her taunts, such names as "wet hen," only made Alexandra laugh. It would reach the point where the most trifling things would anger Lizaveta Prokofyevna terribly

and put her beside herself. Alexandra Ivanovna liked, for instance, to sleep long hours and usually had many dreams; but her dreams were always distinguished by a sort of extraordinary emptiness and innocence—suitable for a seven-year-old child; and so even this innocence of her dreams began for some reason to annoy her mother. Once Alexandra Ivanovna saw nine hens in a dream, and this caused a formal quarrel between her and her mother—why?— it is difficult to explain. Once, and only once, she managed to have a dream about something that seemed original—she dreamed of a monk, alone, in some dark room, which she was afraid to enter. The dream was at once conveyed triumphantly to Lizaveta Prokofyevna by her two laughing sisters; but the mother again became angry and called all three of them fools. "Hm! She's placid as a fool, and really a perfect 'wet hen,' there's no shaking her up, yet she's sad, there are times when she looks so sad. What, what is she grieving about?" Sometimes she put this question to Ivan Fyodorovich, hysterically, as was usual with her, threateningly, expecting an immediate answer. Ivan Fyodorovich would hem, frown, shrug his shoulders, and, spreading his arms, finally decide:

"She needs a husband!"

"Only God grant he's not one like you, Ivan Fyodorych," Lizaveta Prokofyevna would finally explode like a bomb, "not like you in his opinions and verdicts, Ivan Fyodorych; not such a boorish boor as you, Ivan Fyodorych . . ."

Ivan Fyodorovich would immediately run for his life, and Lizaveta Prokofyevna, after her explosion, would calm down. Naturally, towards evening that same day she would inevitably become extraordinarily attentive, quiet, affectionate, and respectful towards Ivan Fyodorovich, towards her "boorish boor" Ivan Fyodorovich, her kind, dear, and adored Ivan Fyodorovich, because all her life she had loved and had even been in love with her Ivan Fyodorovich, which Ivan Fyodorovich himself knew excellently well and for which he infinitely respected his Lizaveta Prokofyevna.

But her chief and constant torment was Aglaya.

"Exactly, exactly like me, my portrait in all respects," Lizaveta Prokofyevna said to herself, "a willful, nasty little demon! Nihilistic, eccentric, crazy, wicked, wicked, wicked! Oh, Lord, how unhappy she's going to be!"

But, as we have already said, the risen sun softened and brightened everything for a moment. There was nearly a month in Lizaveta Prokofyevna's life when she rested completely from all

her worries. On the occasion of Adelaida's impending wedding there was also talk in society about Aglaya, while Aglaya everywhere bore herself so beautifully, so equably, so intelligently, so victoriously, a little proudly, but that was so becoming to her! She was so affectionate, so affable to her mother for the whole month! ("True, this Evgeny Pavlovich must still be very closely scrutinized, plumbed to the depths, and besides, Aglaya doesn't seem to favor him much more than the others!") All the same she had suddenly become such a nice girl—and how pretty she is, God, how pretty she is, and getting better day by day! And then . . .

And then that nasty little prince, that worthless little idiot, appeared and everything immediately got stirred up, everything in the house turned upside down!

What had happened, though?

For other people, probably, nothing would have happened. But this was what made Lizaveta Prokofyevna different, that in a combination and confusion of the most ordinary things, she always managed, through her ever-present worry, to discern something that inspired in her, sometimes to the point of morbidity, a most insecure, most inexplicable, and therefore most oppressive, fear. How must it have been for her now, when suddenly, through that whole muddle of ridiculous and groundless worries, there actually came a glimpse of something that indeed seemed important, something that indeed seemed worthy of alarms, doubts, and suspicions.

"And how dared they, how dared they write me that cursed anonymous letter about that creature being in touch with Aglaya?" Lizaveta Prokofyevna thought all the way, as she dragged the prince with her, and at home, when she sat him at the round table where the whole family was gathered. "How dared they even think of it? But I'd die of shame if I believed the smallest drop of it or showed the letter to Aglaya! Such mockery of us, the Epanchins! And all, all through Ivan Fyodorych, all through you, Ivan Fyodorych! Ah, why didn't we move to Elagin: I told them we should move to Elagin! Maybe it was Varka who wrote the letter, I know, or maybe . . . it's all, all Ivan Fyodorych's fault! That creature pulled that stunt on him in memory of their former connections, to show him what a fool he is, just as she laughed at him before, the foolish man, and led him by the nose when he brought her those pearls . .. And in the end we're mixed up in it all the same, your daughters are, Ivan Fyodorych, girls, young ladies, young ladies of the best society, marriageable; they were right there, stood there, heard