she hardly even spoke all evening; instead, she listened to Lev Nikolaevich, without tearing herself away, and even did not so much listen to him as look at him.

"She just looks at him, can't take her eyes away; hangs on his every little word; snatches at it, snatches at it!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna said later to her husband. "But tell her she loves him, and God save us all!"

"No help for it—it's fate!" the general shrugged his shoulders and for a long time went on repeating this little phrase that had caught his fancy. We shall add that, as a practical man, he also found much in the present state of all these things that displeased him greatly—above all the indefiniteness of the situation; but for the time being he also decided to keep silent and look . . . into Lizaveta Prokofyevna's eyes.

The family's joyful mood did not last long. The very next day Aglaya again quarreled with the prince, and so it went on incessantly, during all the days that followed. She would spend hours at a time making fun of the prince and all but turning him into a buffoon. True, they sometimes spent an hour or two sitting in the garden, in the gazebo, but it was noticed that at those times the prince almost always read the newspapers or some book to Aglaya.

"You know," Aglaya once said to him, interrupting the newspaper, "I've noticed that you are terribly uneducated; you don't know anything properly, if somebody asks you: neither precisely who, nor in what year, nor in what article. You're quite pathetic."

"I told you that I have little learning," the prince replied.

"What do you amount to after that? How can I respect you after that? Keep reading; or, no, stop reading, there's no need to."

And again that same evening there was a glimpse of something very mysterious on her part. Prince Shch. returned. Aglaya was very nice to him, asked many questions about Evgeny Pavlovich. (Prince Lev Nikolaevich had not arrived yet.) Suddenly Prince Shch. somehow permitted himself to allude to "the near and new change in the family," in response to a few words that Lizaveta Prokofyevna let drop about possibly having to postpone Adelaida's wedding again, so as to have both weddings take place together. It was impossible even to imagine how Aglaya flared up at "all these stupid suppositions"; and, among other things, the words escaped her that "she still had no intention of replacing anyone's mistresses."

These words struck everyone, but the parents most of all.

Lizaveta Prokofyevna, in a secret consultation with her husband, insisted on having a decisive talk with the prince concerning Nastasya Filippovna.

Ivan Fyodorovich swore that it was all only an "outburst," which came from Aglaya's "modesty"; that if Prince Shch. had not begun speaking about the wedding, there would have been no such outburst, because Aglaya herself knew, knew for certain, that it was all the slander of unkind people and that Nastasya Filippovna was going to marry Rogozhin; that the prince counted for nothing at all here, not only in any liaison; and even never had counted, if the whole truth were to be told.

But all the same the prince was not embarrassed by anything and went on being blissful. Oh, of course, he, too, sometimes noticed something dark and impatient, as it were, in Aglaya's eyes; but he believed more in something else, and the darkness vanished of itself. Once having believed, he could no longer be shaken by anything. Perhaps he was all too calm; so, at least, it seemed to Ippolit, who once chanced to meet him in the park.

"Well, wasn't it the truth I told you then, that you were in love?" he began, going up to the prince himself and stopping him. The latter gave him his hand and congratulated him on "looking well." The sick boy did seem cheerful, as is often the case with consumptives.

His purpose in going up to the prince was to say something sarcastic about his happy look, but he got thrown off at once and started talking about himself. He began to complain, complained much and long and rather incoherently.

"You wouldn't believe," he concluded, "the degree to which they are all irritable, petty, egoistic, vainglorious, ordinary; would you believe, they took me in only on the condition that I should die as soon as possible, and now everybody's furious that I don't die and, on the contrary, feel better. A comedy! I'll bet you don't believe me!"

The prince did not want to object.

"I sometimes even think of moving back to your place," Ippolit added casually. "So you, however, do not consider them capable of receiving a person with the notion that he should die without fail and as soon as possible?"

"I thought they invited you with something else in mind."

"Aha! No, you're not at all as simple as they recommend you to be! Now's not the time, or I'd reveal to you a thing or two about that Ganechka and his hopes. You're being undermined, Prince,

pitilessly undermined, and . . . it's even a pity you're so calm. But alas—you couldn't be otherwise!"

"What a thing to be pitied for!" laughed the prince. "So in your opinion I'd be happier if I worried more?"

"It's better to be unhappy, but to know, than to be happy and live ... as a fool. It seems you don't believe in the least that you have a rival and ... on that side?"

"Your words about rivalry are slightly cynical, Ippolit; I'm sorry I don't have the right to answer you. As for Gavrila Ardalionovich, you must agree that he can't remain calm after all he has lost, if you know his affairs at least in part. It seems to me that it's better to look at it from that point of view. He still has time to change; he has a long life ahead of him, and life is rich . . . but anyhow . . . anyhow," the prince was suddenly at a loss, "as for the undermining ... I don't even understand what you're talking about; it's better if we drop this conversation, Ippolit."

"We'll drop it for a time; besides, it's impossible to do without the noble pose on your part. Yes, Prince, you'll have to touch it with your own finger in order to stop believing again, ha, ha!²⁵ And, what do you think, do you despise me very much now?"

"What for? For having suffered and for suffering more than we?"

"No, but for being unworthy of my suffering."

"If someone can suffer more, it means he's worthy of suffering more. Aglaya Ivanovna wanted to see you, when she read your 'Confession,' but . . ."

"She's putting it off. . . it's impossible for her, I understand, I understand . . ." Ippolit interrupted, as if trying to divert the conversation quickly. "By the way, they say you read all that galimatias to her out loud; it was truly written and . . . done in delirium. And I don't understand the extent to which one must be—I won't say cruel (that would be humiliating to me), but childishly vain and vengeful, to reproach me with that 'Confession' and use it against me as a weapon! Don't worry, I'm not saying that with regard to you . . ."

"But I'm sorry that you reject that notebook, Ippolit; it's sincere, and you know that even its ridiculous sides, and it has many" (Ippolit winced deeply), "are redeemed by suffering, because to admit them was also suffering and . . . perhaps took great courage. The thought that moved you certainly had a noble basis, however it may seem. The further it goes, the more clearly I see it, I swear

to you. I'm not judging you, I'm saying it in order to speak my whole mind, and I'm sorry I was silent then . . ."