with him all the time, rode in the cart with him, and kept talking— the man scarcely heard him: he'd begin to listen and after three words lose all understanding. That's how it must have been. Finally, he started up the stairway; his legs were bound, so he could only take small steps. The priest, who must have been an intelligent man, stopped talking and kept giving him the cross to kiss. At the foot of the stairway he was very pale, but when he went up and stood on the scaffold, he suddenly turned white as paper, absolutely white as a sheet of writing paper. Probably his legs went weak and numb, and he felt nauseous—as if something was pressing his throat, and it was like a tickling—have you ever felt that when you were frightened, or in very terrible moments, when you keep your reason but it no longer has any power? It seems to me, for instance, that if disaster is imminent, if the house is collapsing on you, you want terribly much just to sit down, close your eyes, and wait—let come what may! ... It was here, when this weakness set in, that the priest hurriedly and silently, with such a quick gesture, put the cross suddenly right to his lips—a small silver cross with four points²⁵— and did it frequently, every minute. And the moment the cross touched his lips, he opened his eyes and seemed to revive for a few seconds, and his legs moved. He kissed the cross greedily, hurried to kiss it, as if hurrying to grasp something extra, just in case, but he was hardly conscious of anything religious at that moment. And so it went till he reached the plank . . . It's strange that people rarely faint in those last seconds! On the contrary, the head is terribly alive and must be working hard, hard, hard, like an engine running; I imagine various thoughts throbbing in it, all of them incomplete, maybe even ridiculous, quite irrelevant thoughts: 'That gaping one has a wart on his forehead . . . the executioner's bottom button is rusty . . .' and meanwhile you know everything and remember everything; there is this one point that can never be forgotten, and you can't faint, and around it, around that point, everything goes and turns. And to think that it will be so till the last quarter of a second, when his head is already lying on the block, and he waits, and . . . knows, and suddenly above him he hears the iron screech! You're bound to hear it! If I were lying there, I'd listen on purpose and hear it! It may be only one tenth of an instant, but you're bound to hear it! And imagine, to this day they still argue that, as the head is being cut off, it may know for a second that it has been cut off— quite a notion! And what if it's five seconds! Portray the scaffold so that only the last step is seen closely and clearly; the criminal has

stepped onto it: his head, his face white as paper, the priest offering him the cross, he greedily puts it to his blue lips and stares, and— knows everything. The cross and the head—there's the picture. The priest's face, the executioner, his two assistants, and a few heads and eyes below—all that could be painted as background, in a mist, as accessory . . . That's the sort of picture."

The prince fell silent and looked at them all.

"That, of course, is nothing like quietism," Alexandra said to herself.

"Well, now tell us how you were in love," said Adelaida.

The prince looked at her in surprise.

"Listen," Adelaida seemed to be hurrying, "you owe us the story about the Basel picture, but now I want to hear how you were in love. You were, don't deny it. Besides, as soon as you start telling about something, you stop being a philosopher."

"When you finish a story, you immediately feel ashamed of having told it," Aglaya suddenly observed. "Why is that?"

"This is quite stupid, finally," Mrs. Epanchin snapped, looking indignantly at Aglaya.

"Not clever," Alexandra agreed.

"Don't believe her, Prince," Mrs. Epanchin turned to him, "she does it on purpose out of some sort of spite; she hasn't been brought up so stupidly; don't think anything of their pestering you like this. They probably have something in mind, but they already love you. I know their faces."

"I know their faces, too," said the prince, giving special emphasis to his words.

"How is that?" Adelaida asked curiously.

"What do you know about our faces?" the other two also became curious.

But the prince was silent and serious; they all waited for his reply.

"I'll tell you later," he said quietly and seriously.

"You decidedly want to intrigue us," cried Aglaya. "And what solemnity!"

"Well, all right," Adelaida again began to hurry, "but if you're such an expert in faces, then surely you were also in love, which means I guessed right. Tell us about it."

"I wasn't in love," the prince replied as quietly and seriously, "I . . . was happy in a different way."

"How? In what way?"

"Very well, I'll tell you," the prince said, as if pondering deeply.

VI

"Here you all are now," the prince began, "looking at me with such curiosity that if I don't satisfy it, you may well get angry with me. No, I'm joking," he quickly added with a smile. "There . . . there it was all children, and I was with children all the time, only with children. They were the children of that village, a whole band, who went to school. It wasn't I who taught them; oh, no, they had a schoolmaster there for that—Jules Thibaut; or perhaps I did teach them, but more just by being with them, and I spent all my four years that way. I didn't need anything else. I told them everything, I didn't hide anything from them. Their fathers and relations all got angry with me, because the children finally couldn't do without me and kept gathering around me, and the schoolmaster finally even became my worst enemy. I acquired many enemies there, and all because of the children. Even Schneider scolded me. And what were they so afraid of? A child can be told everything—everything. I was always struck by the thought of how poorly grown-ups know children, even fathers and mothers their own children. Nothing should be concealed from children on the pretext that they're little and it's too early for them to know. What a sad and unfortunate idea! And how well children themselves can see that their fathers consider them too little and unable to understand anything, while they understand everything. Grown-ups don't know that a child can give extremely important advice even in the most difficult matters. Oh, God! when this pretty little bird looks at you trustingly and happily, it's a shame for you to deceive it! I call them little birds because nothing in the world is better than a little bird. However, they all got angry with me in the village mainly for a certain occurrence . . . and Thibaut simply envied me. At first he kept shaking his head and wondering how it was that with me the children understood everything and with him almost nothing, and then he started laughing at me when I told him that neither of us would teach them anything, but they might still teach us. And how could he be jealous of me and slander me, when he himself lived with children! The soul is cured through children . . . There was a patient at Schneider's institution, a very unhappy man. His unhappiness was so terrible, there could hardly be the like of it. He was placed there to be treated for insanity.

In my opinion, he wasn't insane, he just suffered terribly—that was the whole of his illness. And if you knew what our children became for him in the end . . . But I'd better tell you about the patient later; now I'll tell you how it all started. The children disliked me at first. I was so big, I'm always so clumsy; I know I'm also bad-looking . . . finally, there was the fact that I was a foreigner. The children laughed at me at first, and then even began throwing stones at me, when they spied me kissing Marie. And I only kissed her once . . . No, don't laugh," the prince hastened to stop the smiles of his listeners. "There wasn't any love here. If you knew what an unfortunate being she was, you'd pity her as I did. She was from our village. Her mother was an old woman, and in her tiny, completely decrepit house, one of the two windows was partitioned off, with the permission of the village authorities she was allowed to sell laces, thread, tobacco, and soap from this window, all at the lowest prices, and that was her subsistence. She was ill, her legs were swollen, so she always sat in her place. Marie was her daughter, about twenty, weak and thin; she had been consumptive for a long time, but she kept going from house to house, hiring herself out by the day to do heavy work—scrubbing floors, washing laundry, sweeping yards, tending cattle. A French traveling salesman seduced her and took her away, but after a week he abandoned her on the road alone and quietly left. She came home, begging on the way, all dirty, ragged, her shoes torn; she had walked for a week, slept in the fields, and caught a bad cold; her feet were covered with sores, her hands swollen and chapped. She had never been pretty anyway; only her eyes were gentle, kind, innocent. She was terribly taciturn. Once, before then, she suddenly began to sing over her work, and I remember that everybody was surprised and started laughing: 'Marie's begun to sing! What? Marie's begun to sing!' And she was terribly abashed and kept silent forever after. People were still nice to her then, but when she came back sick and worn out, there was no compassion for her in anyone! How cruel they are about that! What harsh notions they have of it all! Her mother was the first to greet her with spite and contempt: 'You've dishonored me now.' She was the first to hold her up to disgrace: when they heard in the village that Marie had come back, everybody ran to look at her, and nearly the whole village came running to the old woman's cottage: old men, children, women, girls, everybody, in such a hustling, greedy crowd. Marie was lying on the floor at the old woman's feet, hungry,