"I am," said Rogozhin.

"Come on, then. I don't want to meet my new life without you, because my new life has begun! Don't you know, Parfyon, that my new life begins today?"

"Now I myself see and know that it's begun; and I'll report it to her. You're not yourself at all, Lev Nikolaich!"

IV

As he approached his dacha with Rogozhin, the prince noticed with extreme astonishment that a noisy and numerous society had gathered on his brightly lit terrace. The merry company was laughing, shouting; it seemed they were even arguing loudly; one would have suspected at first glance that they were having quite a joyful time of it. And indeed, going up onto the terrace, he saw that they were all drinking, and drinking champagne, and it seemed they had been at it for quite a while, so that many of the revelers had managed to become quite pleasantly animated. The guests were all acquaintances of the prince, but it was strange that they had all gathered at once, as if they had been invited, though the prince had not invited anyone, and he himself had only just chanced to remember about his birthday.

"You must have told somebody you'd stand them to champagne, so they came running," Rogozhin muttered, following the prince up onto the terrace. "That point we know; just whistle to them . . ." he added almost with spite, remembering, of course, his recent past.

They all met the prince with shouts and good wishes, and surrounded him. Some were very noisy, others much quieter, but they all hastened to congratulate him, having heard about his birthday,

and each one waited his turn. The prince found the presence of some persons curious, Burdovsky's, for instance; but the most astonishing thing was that amidst this company Evgeny Pavlovich suddenly turned up. The prince could hardly believe his eyes and was almost frightened when he saw him.

Meanwhile Lebedev, flushed and nearly ecstatic, ran up to him with explanations; he was rather well loaded. From his babble it turned out that they had all gathered quite naturally and even accidentally. First of all, towards evening, Ippolit had come and, feeling much better, had wanted to wait for the prince on the terrace. He had settled himself on the sofa; then Lebedev had come down to see him, and then his whole family, that is, his daughters and General Ivolgin. Burdovsky had come with Ippolit as his escort. Ganya and Ptitsyn, it seemed, had dropped in not long ago, while passing by (their appearance coincided with the incident in the vauxhall); then Keller had turned up, told them about the birthday, and asked for champagne. Evgeny Pavlovich had come only about half an hour ago. Kolya had also insisted with all his might on champagne and that a celebration be arranged. Lebedev readily served the wine.

"But my own, my own!" he babbled to the prince. "At my own expense, to glorify and celebrate, and there'll be food, a little snack, my daughter will see to that; but if you only knew, Prince, what a theme we've got going. Remember in Hamlet: 'To be or not to be'? A modern theme, sir, modern! Questions and answers . . . And Mr. Terentyev is in the highest degree . . . unwilling to sleep! He had just a sip of champagne, a sip, nothing harmful . . . Come closer, Prince, and decide! Everybody's been waiting for you, everybody's only been waiting for your happy wit . . ."

The prince noticed the sweet, tender eyes of Vera Lebedev, who was also hurriedly making her way to him through the crowd. He reached past them all and gave her his hand first; she blushed with pleasure and wished him "a happy life starting this very day." Then she rushed off to the kitchen; she was preparing the snack there; but before the prince's arrival—the moment she could tear herself away from her work—she would come to the terrace and listen as hard as she could to the heated arguments constantly going on among the tipsy guests about things that were most abstract and strange to her. Her younger sister, the one who opened her mouth, fell asleep on a trunk in the next room, but the boy, Lebedev's son, stood beside Kolya and Ippolit, and the very look on his animated

face showed that he was prepared to stand there in the same spot, relishing and listening, for another ten hours on end.

"I've been especially waiting for you, and I'm terribly glad you've come so happy," Ippolit said, when the prince went over to shake hands with him immediately after Vera.

"And how do you know that I'm 'so happy'?"

"By the look on your face. Greet the gentlemen, and then quickly come to sit with us. I've been waiting especially for you," he added, significantly stressing the fact that he had been waiting. To the prince's remark that it might be bad for him to stay up so late, he replied that he was surprised at his wanting to die three days ago and that he had never felt better than that evening.

Burdovsky jumped up and murmured that he had come "just so . . . ," that he was with Ippolit "as an escort," and that he was also glad; that he had "written nonsense" in his letter, and that now he was "simply glad . . ." He did not finish, pressed the prince's hand firmly, and sat down on a chair.

After everyone else, the prince went over to Evgeny Pavlovich. The latter immediately took him by the arm.

"I have only a couple of words to say to you," he whispered in a low voice, "and about an extremely important circumstance. Let's step aside for a moment."

"A couple of words," another voice whispered into the prince's other ear, and another hand took him by the arm from the other side. The prince was surprised to see a terribly disheveled, flushed, winking and laughing face, in which he instantly recognized Ferdyshchenko, who had appeared from God knows where.

"Remember Ferdyshchenko?" the man asked.

"Where did you come from?" cried the prince.

"He repents!" cried Keller, running up. "He was hiding, he didn't want to come out to you, he was hiding there in the corner, he repents, Prince, he feels guilty."

"But of what, of what?"

"It was I who met him, Prince, I met him just now and brought him along; he's a rare one among my friends; but he repents."

"I'm very glad, gentlemen. Go and sit there with everyone, I'll be back presently." The prince finally got rid of them and hurried to Evgeny Pavlovich.

"It's amusing here," Evgeny Pavlovich observed, "and it was with pleasure that I waited half an hour for you. The thing is, my most gentle Lev Nikolaevich, that I've settled everything with

Kurmyshev and have come to put you at ease; there's nothing to worry about, he took the matter very, very reasonably, the more so because, in my opinion, it was sooner his fault."

"What Kurmyshev?"

"The one you seized by the arms today . . . He was so infuriated that he wanted to send someone to you tomorrow for explanations."

"Come, come, what nonsense!"

"Naturally it's nonsense and would probably have ended in nonsense; but these people . . ."

"Perhaps you've come for something else, Evgeny Pavlovich?"

"Oh, naturally there's something else," the man laughed. "Tomorrow at daybreak, my dear Prince, I'm going to Petersburg on this unfortunate business (I mean, about my uncle). Imagine to yourself: it's all true and everybody already knows it except me. I was so struck that I haven't had time to go there (to the Epanchins'); I won't see them tomorrow either, because I'll be in Petersburg, you understand? I may not be back for three days—in short, my affairs are in poor shape. Though the matter is not of infinite importance, I reasoned that I ought to have a most candid talk with you about certain things, and without losing time, that is, before my departure. I'll sit here now and wait, if you tell me to, till the company disperses; besides, I have nothing else to do with myself: I'm so agitated that I won't be able to sleep. Finally, though it's shameless and improper to pursue a person so directly, I'll tell you directly: I've come to seek your friendship, my dear Prince. You are a most incomparable man, that is, you don't lie at every step, and maybe not at all, and there's one matter in which I need a friend and an advisor, because I now decidedly find myself among the unfortunate . . ."