In the street I noticed a carriage at the gate of the house where Natasha lodged, and I fancied that it was the prince’s carriage.
The entry was across the courtyard.
As soon as I began to mount the stairs I heard, a flight above me, someone carefully feeling his way, evidently unfamiliar with the place.
I imagined this must be the prince, but I soon began to doubt it.
The stranger kept grumbling and cursing the stairs as he climbed up, his language growing stronger and more violent as he proceeded.
Of course the staircase was narrow, filthy, steep, and never lighted; but the language I heard on the third floor was such that I could not believe it to be the prince: the ascending gentleman was swearing like a cabman.
But there was a glimmer of light on the third floor; a little lamp was burning at Natasha’s door.
I overtook the stranger at the door, and what was my astonishment when I recognized him as Prince Valkovsky!
I fancied he was extremely annoyed at running up against me so unexpectedly.
At the first moment he did not recognize me, but suddenly his whole face changed.
His first glance of anger and hatred relaxed into an affable, goodhumoured expression, and he held out both hands to me with extraordinary delight.
“Ach, that’s you!
And I was just about to kneel down to thank God my life was safe!
Did you hear me swearing?”
And he laughed in the most goodnatured way.
But suddenly his face assumed an earnest and anxious expression.
“How could Alyosha let Natalya Nikolaevna live in such a place!” he said, shaking his head.
“It’s just these socalled trifles that show what a man’s made of.
I’m anxious about him.
He is goodnatured, he has a generous heart, but here you have an example: he’s frantically in love, yet he puts the girl he loves in a hole like this.
I’ve even heard she has sometimes been short of food,” he added in a whisper, feeling for the bellhandle.
“My head aches when I think about his future and still more of the future of Anna Nikolaevna when she is his wife. . .
He used the wrong name, and did not notice it in his evident vexation at not finding the bellhandle.
But there was no bell.
I tugged at the doorhandle and Mavra at once opened the door to us, and met us fussily.
In the kitchen, which was divided off from the tiny entry by a wooden screen, through an open door some preparations could be seen; everything seemed somehow different from usual, cleaned and polished; there was a fire in the stove, and some new crockery on the table.
It was evident that we were expected.
Mavra flew to help us off with our coats.
“Is Alyosha here?” I asked her.
“He has not been,” she whispered mysteriously.
We went in to Natasha.
There was no sign of special preparation in her room. Everything was as usual.
But everything in her room was always so neat and charming that there was no need to arrange it.
Natasha met us, facing the door.
I was struck by the wasted look in her face, and its extreme pallor, though there was a flush of colour for a moment on her wan cheeks.
Her eyes were feverish.
Hastily she held out her hand to the prince without speaking, visibly confused and agitated.
She did not even glance at me.
I stood and waited in silence.
“Here I am!” said the prince with friendly gaiety. “I’ve only been back a few hours.
You’ve never been out of my mind all these days” (he kissed her hand tenderly) “and how much, how much I have thought about you.
How much I have thought of to say to you.... Well, we can talk to our hearts’ content!
In the first place my featherheaded youngster who is not here yet . . .”
“Excuse me, prince,” Natasha interrupted, flushing and embarrassed, “I have to say a word to Ivan Petrovitch.
Vanya, come along ... two words. . .”
She seized my hand and drew me behind the screen.
“Vanya,” she said in a whisper, leading me to the furthest comer, “will you forgive me?”
“Hush, Natasha, what do you mean?”
“No, no, Vanya, you have forgiven me too much, and too often. But there’s an end to all patience.
You will never leave off caring for me, I know. But you’ll call me ungrateful. And I was ungrateful to you yesterday and the day before yesterday, selfish, cruel . . .”