I might refuse the money, but if at the same time I say that I still consider my claim was a just one, it comes to my giving him the money, and, add to that the delicate position in regard to Natalya Nikolaevna, he’ll certainly fling the money in my face. . . .”
“There, you see, you say yourself he’ll fling it in your face so you do consider him an honest man, and that’s why you can be perfectly certain that he did not steal your money.
And if so, why shouldn’t you go to him and tell him straight out that you consider your claim as unjustified.
That would be honourable, and Ichmenyev would not perhaps find it difficult then to accept his money.”
“Hm! His money . . . that’s just the question; what sort of position do you put me into?
Go to him and tell him I consider my claim illegal.
‘Why did you make it then, if you considered it illegal?’ that’s what every one would say to my face.
And I’ve not deserved it, for my claim was legal. I have never said and never written that he stole the money, but I am still convinced of his carelessness, his negligence, and incapacity in managing business.
That money is undoubtedly mine, and therefore it would be mortifying to make a false charge against myself, and finally, I repeat, the old man brought the ignominy of it upon himself, and you want to force me to beg his pardon for that ignominy – that’s hard.”
“It seems to me that if two men wanted to be reconciled, then . . .”
“You think it’s easy?
“Yes.”
“No, sometimes it’s very far from easy, especially . . .”
“Especially if there are other circumstances connected with it.
Yes, there I agree with you, prince.
The position of Natalya Nikolaevna and of your son ought to be settled by you in all those points that depend upon you, and settled so as to be fully satisfactory to the Ichmenyevs.
Only then can you be quite sincere with Ichmenyev about the lawsuit too.
Now, while nothing has been settled, you have only one course open to you: to acknowledge the injustice of your claim, and to acknowledge it openly, and if necessary even publicly, that’s my opinion. I tell you so frankly because you asked me my opinion yourself. And probably you do not wish me to be insincere with you.
And this gives me the courage to ask you why you are troubling your head about returning this money to Ichmenyev?
If you consider that you were just in your claim, why return it?
Forgive my being so inquisitive, but this has such an intimate bearing upon other circumstances.”
“And what do you think?” he asked suddenly, as though he had not heard my question. “Are you so sure that old Ichmenyev would refuse the ten thousand if it were handed to him without any of these evasions and . . . and . . . and blandishments?”
“Of course he would refuse it.”
I flushed crimson and positively trembled with indignation.
This impudently sceptical question affected me as though he had spat into my face.
My resentment was increased by something else: the coarse, aristocratic manner in which, without answering my question, and apparently without noticing it, he interrupted it with another, probably to give me to understand that I had gone too far and had been too familiar in venturing to ask him such a question.
I detested, I loathed that aristocratic manoeuvre and had done my utmost in the past to get Alyosha out of it.
“Hm! You are too impulsive, and things are not done in real life as you imagine,” the prince observed calmly, at my exclamation.
“But I think that Natalya Nikolaevna might do something to decide the question; you tell her that she might give some advice.”
“Not a bit of it,” I answered roughly.
“You did not deign to listen to what I was saying to you just now, but interrupted me.
Natalya Nikolaevna will understand that if you return the money without frankness and without all those blandishments, as you call them, it amounts to your paying the father for the loss of his daughter, and her for the loss of Alyosha – in other words your giving them money compensation . . .”
“Hm! . . . so that’s how you understand me, my excellent Ivan Petrovitch,” the prince laughed.
Why did he laugh?
“And meanwhile,” he went on, “there are so many, many things we have to talk over together.
But now there’s no time.
I only beg you to understand one thing: Natalya Nikolaevna and her whole future are involved in the matter, and all this depends to some extent on what we decide.
You are indispensable, you’ll see for yourself.
So if you are still devoted to Natalya Nikolaevna, you can’t refuse to go frankly into things with me, however little sympathy you may feel for me.
But here we are . . . a bientot.”
Chapter IX
THE countess lived in good style.
The rooms were furnished comfortably and with taste, though not at all luxuriously.
Everything, however, had the special character of a temporary residence, not the permanent established habitation of a wealthy family with all the style of the aristocracy, and all the whims that they take for necessities.
There was a rumour that the countess was going in the summer to her ruined and mortgaged property in the province of Simbirsk, and that the prince would accompany her.
I had heard this already, and wondered uneasily how Alyosha would behave when Katya went away with the countess, I had not vet spoken of this to Natasha. I was afraid to. But from some signs I had noticed, I fancied that she, too, knew of the rumour.
But she was silent and suffered in secret.
The countess gave me an excellent reception, held out her hand to me cordially, and repeated that she had long wished to, make my acquaintance.
She made tea herself from a handsome silver samovar, round which we all sat, the prince, and I and another gentleman, elderly and extremely aristocratic wearing a star on his breast, somewhat starchy and diplomatic in his manners.
This visitor seemed an object of great respect.