VII
The young man who accompanied the general was about twenty-eight years old, tall, trim, with a handsome and intelligent face, and a bright gaze in his big, dark eyes, filled with wit and mockery.
Aglaya did not even turn to look at him and went on reciting the poem, as she affectedly went on looking at the prince alone and addressing him alone.
It was clear to the prince that she was doing all this with some special calculation.
But the new guests at least improved his awkward position somewhat.
Seeing them, he rose slightly, courteously nodded his head to the general from afar, gave a sign not to interrupt the recital, and himself managed to retreat behind the armchair, where, resting his left elbow on the back, he went on listening to the ballad, now, so to speak, in a more comfortable and less "ridiculous" position than sitting in the chair.
Lizaveta Prokofyevna, for her part, waved twice with an imperious gesture to the entering men to make them stop.
The prince, incidentally, was greatly interested in his new guest who accompanied the general; he guessed clearly that he was Evgeny Pavlovich Radomsky, of whom he had heard so much and had thought more than once.
He was thrown off only by his civilian dress; he had heard that Evgeny Pavlovich was a military man.
A mocking smile wandered over the lips of the new guest all through the recital of the poem, as if he, too, had already heard something about the "poor knight." .....
"Maybe it was he who came up with it," the prince thought to himself.
But it was quite different with Aglaya.
All the initial affectation and pomposity with which she had stepped out to recite, she covered over with such seriousness and such penetration into the spirit and meaning of the poetic work, she uttered each word of the poem with such meaning, enunciated them with such lofty simplicity, that by the end of the recital she had not only attracted general attention but, by conveying the lofty spirit of the ballad, had as if partially justified the overly affected gravity with which she had so solemnly come out to the middle of the terrace.
Now this gravity could be seen only as a boundless and perhaps even naive respect for that which she had taken it upon herself to convey.
Her eyes shone, and a slight, barely perceptible tremor of inspiration and rapture passed twice over her beautiful face.
She recited:
Once there lived a poor knight, A silent, simple man, Pale and grim his visage, Bold and straight his heart.
He had a single vision Beyond the grasp of mind, It left a deep impression Engraved upon his heart.
From then on, soul afire, No woman would he see, Nor speak a word to any Until his dying day.
About his neck a rosary Instead of a scarf he bound, And from his face the visor He ne'er raised for anyone. Filled with pure love ever, True to his sweet dream, A. M. D. in his own blood He traced upon his shield.
In Palestinian deserts, As over the steep cliffs, Paladins rushed to battle Shouting their ladies' names, Lumen coeli, sancta Rosa!
He cried out, wild with zeal, And at his threat like thunder Many a Muslim fell.
Back in his distant castle, He lived a strict recluse, Ever silent, melancholy, Like one gone mad he died.
Recalling this whole moment afterwards, the prince, in extreme confusion, suffered for a long time over one question he was unable to resolve: how was it possible to unite such true, beautiful feeling with such obvious, spiteful mockery?
That it was mockery he did not doubt; he clearly understood that and had reasons for it: during the recital Aglaya had allowed herself to change the letters A.M.D. to N.F.B.
That it was not a mistake or a mishearing on his part he could not doubt (it was proved afterwards).
In any case, Aglaya's escapade—certainly a joke, though much too sharp and light-minded—was intentional.
Everyone had already been talking about (and "laughing at") the "poor knight" a month ago.
And yet, for all the prince could remember, it came out that Aglaya had pronounced those letters not only without any air of joking or any sort of smile, or even any emphasis on the letters meant to reveal their hidden meaning, but, on the contrary, with such unfaltering seriousness, such innocent and naive simplicity, that one might have thought those letters were in the ballad and it was printed that way in the book.
It was as if something painful and unpleasant stung the prince.
Of course, Lizaveta Prokofyevna did not understand or notice either the change of letters or the hint.
General Ivan Fyodorovich understood only that poetry was being declaimed.
Of the other listeners, many did understand and were surprised both at the boldness of the escapade and at its intention, but they kept silent and tried not to let anything show.
But Evgeny Pavlovich (the prince was even ready to bet on it) not only understood but even tried to show that he understood: he smiled much too mockingly.
"What a delight!" Mrs. Epanchin exclaimed in genuine rapture, as soon as the recitation was over. "Whose poem is it?"
"Pushkin's, maman, don't disgrace us, it's shameful!" exclaimed Adelaida.
"I'll turn into a still worse fool here with you!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna retorted bitterly. "Disgraceful!
The moment we get home, give me this poem of Pushkin's at once!"
"But I don't think we have any Pushkin."
"A couple of tattered volumes," Adelaida put in, "they've been lying about since time immemorial."
"Send someone at once to buy a copy in town, Fyodor or Alexei, on the first train—better Alexei.
Aglaya, come here!
Kiss me, you recite beautifully, but—if it was sincere," she added, almost in a whisper, "then I feel sorry for you; if you read it to mock him, I don't approve of your feelings, so in any case it would have been better for you not to recite it at all.
Understand?
Go, little miss, I'll talk more with you, but we've overstayed here."
Meanwhile the prince was greeting General Ivan Fyodorovich, and the general was introducing him to Evgeny Pavlovich Radomsky.
"I picked him up on the way, he'd just gotten off the train; he learned that I was coming here and that all of ours were here . . ."
"I learned that you, too, were here," Evgeny Pavlovich interrupted, "and since I've intended for a long time and without fail to seek not only your acquaintance but also your friendship, I did not want to lose any time.
You're unwell?
I've just learned . . ."