"But, for God's sake, keep it a secret!"

"With quiet steps, sir, with quiet steps!"

But though the matter was ended, the prince was left almost more preoccupied than before. He waited impatiently for tomorrow's meeting with the general.

IV

The appointed hour was twelve, but the prince was quite unexpectedly late. Returning home, he found the general there waiting for him. He noticed at first glance that he was displeased, perhaps precisely at being forced to wait. Apologizing, the prince hastened to sit down, but somehow with a strange timidity, as if his visitor were made of porcelain and he was in constant fear of breaking him. He had never felt timid with the general before, and it had not occurred to him to feel timid. The prince soon discerned that this was now a completely different man than the day before: instead of perturbation and absentmindedness, he showed a sort

of extraordinary restraint; one might have concluded that this was a man who was ultimately resolved on something. His composure, however, was more ostensible than real. But in any case the visitor was nobly casual, though with restrained dignity; at first he even treated the prince as if with an air of some condescension—precisely the way certain proud but unjustly offended people are sometimes nobly casual. He spoke gently, though not without a certain ruefulness in his speech.

"Your book, which I borrowed from you the other day," he nodded significantly at the book he had brought with him, which lay on the table. "Many thanks."

"Ah, yes; you read that article, General? How did you like it? Curious, isn't it?" The prince was glad of the possibility of quickly beginning a somewhat extraneous conversation.

"Curious, perhaps, but crude and, of course, absurd. And maybe a lie at every step."

The general spoke with aplomb and even drew the words out slightly.

"Ah, it's such a simple-hearted story; the story of an old soldier, an eyewitness to the French occupation of Moscow; there are charming things in it. Besides, any memoirs by eyewitnesses are precious, whoever the eyewitness may be. Isn't it true?"

"In the editor's place, I wouldn't have published it; as for memoirs by eyewitnesses in general, people sooner believe a crude liar, but an amusing one, than a man of dignity and merit. I know certain memoirs about the year twelve⁷ that... I've taken a decision, Prince, I am leaving this house—the house of Mr. Lebedev."

The general gave the prince a meaningful look.

"You have your own quarters in Pavlovsk, at ... at your daughter's ..." said the prince, not knowing what to say. He remembered that the general had come for advice about a matter of extreme importance on which his destiny depended.

"At my wife's; in other words, my home and that of my daughter."

"Forgive me, I . . ."

"I am leaving Lebedev's house, my dear Prince, because I have broken with that man; I broke with him yesterday evening, with regret that it was not sooner. I demand respect, Prince, and I wish to receive it even from those persons to whom I have, so to speak, given my heart. I often give my heart to people, Prince, and I am almost always deceived. That man was unworthy of my gift."

"There is much disorder in him," the prince observed with restraint, "and certain traits . . . but amidst all that one notices a heart, and a cunning, but sometimes also amusing, mind."

The refinement of the expressions and the deferential tone obviously flattered the general, though he still sometimes glanced around with unexpected mistrust. But the prince's tone was so natural and sincere that it was impossible to doubt it.

"That there are also good qualities in him," the general picked up, "I was the first to proclaim, on the point of granting that individual my friendship. I do not need his home and his hospitality, because I have a family of my own. I do not justify my vices; I am intemperate; I drank with him, and now perhaps I lament it. But it was not for the drinking alone (forgive me, Prince, the crude candor of an irritated man), not for the drinking alone that I became connected with him. I was precisely charmed by his qualities, as you say. But all things have their limits, even qualities; and if he is suddenly bold enough to assure me to my face that in the year twelve, while still a child, he lost his left leg and buried it in the Vagankovsky Cemetery in Moscow, that goes over the line, that reveals disrespect, that shows insolence . . ."

"Maybe it was only a joke for the sake of a merry laugh."

"I understand, sir. An innocent lie for the sake of a merry laugh, even a crude one, is not offensive to the human heart. A man may lie, if you wish, out of friendship alone, to give pleasure to his interlocutor; but if disrespect shows through it, if that disrespect is precisely meant to indicate that the connection is burdensome, then the only thing that remains for a noble man is to turn away and break off the connection, showing the offender his true place."

The general even became red as he spoke.

"But Lebedev couldn't have been in Moscow in the year twelve; he's too young for that; it's ridiculous."

"First, there's that; but let us suppose he could already have been born then; but how can he assure me to my face that the French chasseur aimed his cannon at him and shot his leg off, just for fun; that he picked the leg up and brought it home, and then buried it in the Vagankovsky Cemetery, saying that he put a tombstone over it with an inscription on one side: 'Here lies the leg of Collegiate Secretary Lebedev,' and on the other: 'Rest, dear dust, till the gladsome morning,'⁸ and, finally, that every year he has a panikhida⁹ served for it (which is a sacrilege), and that he goes to Moscow every year for that. As proof, he invites me to Moscow, in order

to show me the grave and even that very French cannon, which was taken captive, in the Kremlin; he insists it's the eleventh from the gate, a French falconet of an old design."

"And what's more he has both legs intact, in plain sight!" laughed the prince. "I assure you, it's an innocent joke; don't be angry."

"But allow me some understanding, too, sir; concerning legs in plain sight—that, let us suppose, is not entirely implausible; he assures me that it is Chernosvitov's leg . . ."¹⁰

"Ah, yes, they say one can dance with Chernosvitov's leg."

"I'm perfectly aware of that, sir; when Chernosvitov invented his leg, he came first thing to show it to me. But Chernosvitov's leg was invented incomparably later . . . And besides, he insists that even his late wife, during the whole course of their married life, never knew that he, her husband, had a wooden leg. 'If you,' he said, when I pointed all these absurdities out to him, 'if you could be Napoleon's chamber-page in the year twelve, then you can also allow me to bury my leg in the Vagankovsky Cemetery."

"And were you really . . ." the prince began and became embarrassed.

The general gave the prince a decidedly haughty and all but mocking look.

"Finish what you were saying, Prince," he drew out especially smoothly, "finish what you were saying. I'm indulgent, you may say everything: admit that you find the very thought ridiculous of seeing before you a man in his present humiliation and . . . uselessness, and hearing at the same time that this man was a personal witness ... of great events. Is there anything that he has managed to . . . gossip to you about?"