Ippolit flushed. The thought occurred to him that the prince was pretending and trying to catch him; but, peering into his face, he could not help believing in his sincerity; his face brightened.

"And here I have to die all the same!" he said, and nearly added: "such a man as I!" "And imagine how your Ganechka plagues me; he thought up, in the guise of an objection, that of those who listened to my notebook, three or four might die before me! I like that! He thinks it's a consolation, ha, ha! First of all, they haven't died yet; and even if those people all died off, what sort of consolation would it be, you'll agree! He judges by himself; however, he goes further still, he now simply abuses me, saying that a respectable man dies silently in such cases, and that the whole thing was only egoism on my part! I like that! No, but what egoism on his part! What a refinement or, better to say, at the same time what an ox-like crudeness of their egoism, which all the same they are in no way able to notice in themselves! . . . Have you read, Prince, about a certain death, of a certain Stepan Glebov, in the eighteenth century? I read it by chance yesterday ..."

"What Stepan Glebov?"

"He was impaled under Peter."²⁶

"Ah, my God, I do know! He spent fifteen hours on the stake, in the freezing cold, in his fur coat, and died with extreme magnanimity; of course, I read that . . . but what of it?"

"God grants such deaths to some people, but not to us! Maybe you think I'm incapable of dying the way Glebov did?"

"Oh, not at all," the prince was embarrassed, "I only wanted to say that you ... I mean, that it's not that you wouldn't be like Glebov, but . . . that you . . . that then you'd sooner be like . . ."

"I can guess: Osterman²⁷ and not Glebov—is that what you want to say?"

"What Osterman?" the prince was surprised.

"Osterman, the diplomat Osterman, from Peter's time," murmured Ippolit, suddenly thrown off a little. A certain perplexity followed.

"Oh, n-n-no! That's not what I wanted to say," the prince drew out after some silence. "It seems to me you could . . . never be an Osterman . . ."

Ippolit frowned. "However, the reason I maintain that," the prince suddenly

picked up, obviously wishing to correct himself, "is because people back then (I swear to you, it has always struck me) were not at all the same sort of people as we are now, not the same breed as now, in our time,²⁸ really, like a different species ... At that time people were somehow of one idea, while now they're more nervous, more developed, sensitive, somehow of two or three ideas at once . . . today's man is broader—and, I swear, that's what keeps him from being such a monolithic man as in those times ... I ... I said it solely with that in mind, and not..."

"I understand; to make up for the naivety with which you disagreed with me, you are now foisting your consolations on me, ha, ha! You're a perfect child, Prince! However, I notice that you keep treating me like ... a porcelain cup . . . Never mind, never mind, I'm not angry. In any case, we've had a very funny conversation; you're a perfect child sometimes, Prince. Know, however, that I might like to be something better than Osterman; it wouldn't be worthwhile to rise from the dead in order to be an Osterman . . . However, I see I must die as soon as possible, otherwise I, too . . . Leave me. Good-bye! Well, all right, tell me yourself, well, how, in your opinion: how will it be best for me to die? So that it will go as well as . . . more virtuously, that is? Well, speak!"

"Pass us by and forgive us our happiness!" the prince said in a low voice.

"Ha, ha, ha! Just as I thought! I certainly expected something of that sort! You, though . . . you, though . .. Well, well! Eloquent people! Good-bye, good-bye!"

VI

Varvara Ardalionovna had also informed her brother quite correctly about the evening gathering at the Epanchins' dacha, where Belokonsky was expected; guests were expected precisely that evening; but, again, the way she had put it was slightly stronger than it should have been. True, the affair had been organized too hastily and even with a certain quite unnecessary excitement, and that precisely because in this family "everything was done as no one else did it." Everything was explained by the impatience of Lizaveta Prokofyevna, "who did not wish to have any more doubts" and by the ardent throbbings of both parental hearts over the happiness of their beloved daughter. Besides,

Belokonsky was in fact leaving soon; and since her protection indeed meant much in society and since it was hoped that she would look favorably on the prince, the parents reckoned that "society" would receive Aglaya's fiancé straight from the hands of the all-powerful "old woman," and so, if there was something strange in it, under such protection it would appear much less strange. The whole thing was that the parents were simply unable to decide for themselves: "Was there anything strange in this whole affair, and if so, precisely how much? Or was there nothing strange at all?" The friendly and candid opinion of people of authority and competence would precisely be useful at the present moment, when, thanks to Aglaya, nothing had been ultimately resolved yet. In any case, the prince had sooner or later to be introduced into society, of which he had not the slightest idea. In short, the intention was to "show" him. The evening, however, was planned without ceremony; only "friends of the house" were expected, a very small number of them. Besides Princess Belokonsky, a certain lady was expected, the wife of a very important gentleman and a dignitary. Among the young men they counted perhaps only on Evgeny Pavlovich; he was to arrive escorting Belokonsky.

Of the fact that Belokonsky would be there, the prince had heard possibly some three days before the evening; of the party he learned only the day before. Naturally, he noticed the busy look of the members of the family, and even grasped, from certain allusive and preoccupied remarks made to him, that they feared for the impression he might make. But somehow all the Epanchins to a person formed the idea that he, in his simplicity, would never be able to guess that they were so worried for him. Which was why, looking at him, they all felt an inner anguish. However, he in fact ascribed almost no significance to the forthcoming event; he was concerned with something else entirely: with every hour Aglaya was becoming more capricious and gloomy—this was killing him. When he learned that Evgeny Pavlovich was also expected, he was very glad and said he had long been wanting to see him. For some reason no one liked these words; Aglaya left the room in vexation, and only late in the evening, sometime past eleven, when the prince was leaving, did she seize the chance to tell him a few words alone, as she was seeing him off.

"I wish you wouldn't come to see us all day tomorrow, but come in the evening, when these . . . guests have gathered. You know there will be guests?"

She spoke impatiently and with increased sternness; this was the first time she had spoken of this "evening." For her, too, the thought of guests was almost unbearable; everyone noticed it. She might have wanted very much to quarrel with her parents over it, but pride and modesty kept her from speaking. The prince understood at once that she, too, feared for him (and did not want to admit it), and he suddenly felt afraid himself.