If I were fully noble, delicate, and just, I ought to give his son half of my inheritance; but since I am first of all a calculating man and understand only too well that it is not a legal matter, I will not give him half of my millions.
But all the same it would be much too base and shameless (and ill calculated as well, the scion forgot that) on my part, if I did not now return to his son those tens of thousands that P. spent on my idiocy.
Here it's not only a matter of conscience and justice!
For what would have happened to me if P. had not taken charge of my upbringing, but had concerned himself with his son instead of me?'
"But no, gentlemen!
Our scions do not reason that way.
No matter how the lawyer presented the young man, saying that he had undertaken to solicit for him solely out of friendship and almost against his will, almost by force, no matter how he pictured for him the duties of honor, nobility, justice, and even simple calculation, the Swiss ward remained inflexible, and what then?
All that would be nothing, but here is what was indeed unforgivable and inexcusable by any interesting illness: this millionaire, barely out of his professor's gaiters, could not even grasp that it was not charity or assistance that the young man's noble character, killing himself with lessons, asked of him, but his right and his due, though not juridically so, and he was not even asking, but his friends were merely soliciting for him.
With a majestic air, intoxicated by the opportunity offered him to crush people with impunity by his millions, our scion takes out a fifty-rouble note and sends it to the noble young man in the guise of insolent charity.
You do not believe it, gentlemen?
You are indignant, you are insulted, a cry of resentment bursts from you; and yet he did do it!
Naturally, the money was returned to him at once, was, so to speak, thrown in his face.
What are we left with to resolve this case!
The case is not a juridical one, all that is left is publicity!
We convey this anecdote to the public, vouching for its veracity.
They say one of our best-known humorists produced a delightful epigram on this occasion, worthy of a place not only in provincial but also in metropolitan articles on our morals:
"Little Lyova five years long In Schneider's overcoat did play, And the usual dance and song Filled his every day.
Comes home in gaiters, foreign-fashion, A million on his plate does find, So now he prays to God in Russian And robs all student-kind."38; When Kolya finished, he quickly handed the newspaper to the prince and, without saying a word, rushed to a corner, huddled tightly into it, and covered his face with his hands.
He was unbearably ashamed, and his child's impressionability, which had not yet had time to become accustomed to filth, was upset even beyond measure.
It seemed to him that something extraordinary had happened, which had destroyed everything all at once, and that he himself had almost been the cause of it by the mere fact of this reading aloud.
But it seemed they all felt something similar.
The girls felt very awkward and ashamed.
Lizaveta Prokofyevna held back her extreme wrath and also, perhaps, bitterly regretted having interfered in the affair; she was now silent.
What occurred with the prince was what often happens with very shy people on such occasions: he was so abashed by what others had done, he felt so ashamed for his visitors, that he was afraid at first even to look at them.
Ptitsyn, Varya, Ganya, even Lebedev—they all seemed to have a somewhat embarrassed look.
The strangest thing was that Ippolit and "Pavlishchev's son" were also as if amazed at something; Lebedev's nephew was also visibly displeased.
Only the boxer sat perfectly calm, twirling his moustaches, with an air of importance and his eyes slightly lowered, not from embarrassment, but, on the contrary, it seemed, as if out of noble modesty and all-too-obvious triumph.
Everything indicated that he liked the article very much.
"This is the devil knows what," Ivan Fyodorovich grumbled in a half-whisper, "as if fifty lackeys got together to write it and wrote it."
"But al-low me to ask, my dear sir, how can you insult people with such suggestions?" Ippolit declared and trembled all over.
"That, that, that ... for a noble man . . . you yourself must agree, General, if he's a noble man, that is insulting!" grumbled the boxer, also suddenly rousing himself, twirling his moustache and twitching his shoulders and body.
"First of all, I am not 'my dear sir' to you, and second, I have no intention of giving you any explanation," Ivan Fyodorovich, terribly worked up, answered sharply, rose from his place and, without saying a word, went to the door of the terrace and stood on the top step, his back to the public, in the greatest indignation at Lizaveta Prokofyevna, who even now did not think of budging from her place.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, let me speak, finally, gentlemen," the prince exclaimed in anguish and agitation. "And do me a favor, let's talk so that we can understand each other.
I don't mind the article, gentlemen, let it be; only the thing is, gentlemen, that it's all untrue, what's written in the article: I say that because you know it yourselves; it's even shameful.
So that I'm decidedly amazed if it was any one of you who wrote it."
"I knew nothing about this article till this very moment," Ippolit declared. "I don't approve of this article."
"I did know the article had been written, but ... I also would have advised against publishing it, because it's too early," Lebedev's nephew added.
"I knew, but I have the right . . . I . . ." muttered "Pavlishchev's son."
"What!
You made it all up by yourself?" asked the prince, looking at Burdovsky with curiosity. "It's not possible!"
"It is possible, however, not to acknowledge your right to ask such questions," Lebedev's nephew stepped in.
"I was only surprised that Mr. Burdovsky had managed to . . . but ... I mean to say that, since you've already made this affair public, why were you so offended earlier when I began speaking with my friends about this same affair?"
"Finally!" Lizaveta Prokofyevna muttered in indignation.
"And you've even forgotten, if you please, Prince," Lebedev, unable to contain himself, suddenly slipped between the chairs, almost in a fever, "you've forgotten, if you please, sir, that it's only out of your own good will and the incomparable goodness of your heart that you have received them and are listening to them, and that they have no right to make their demands, especially since you've already entrusted Gavrila Ardalionovich with this affair, and that, too, you did in your exceeding goodness, and that now, illustrious Prince, being amongst your chosen friends, you cannot sacrifice such company for these gentlemen and could show all these gentlemen, so to speak, off the premises this very moment, sir, so that I, in the quality of landlord, even with extreme pleasure . . ."
"Quite right!" General Ivolgin suddenly thundered from the depths of the room.
"Enough, Lebedev, enough, enough . . ." the prince began, but a whole burst of indignation drowned out his words.
"No, excuse us, Prince, excuse us, but now it is not enough!" Lebedev's nephew nearly outshouted them all. "Now this affair must be stated clearly and firmly, because it's obviously misunderstood.
Juridical pettifoggery got mixed into it, and on the basis of this pettifoggery we are threatened with being chucked off the premises!
But is it possible, Prince, that you consider us fools to such a degree that we ourselves do not understand to what degree our affair is not a juridical one, and that if we consider it juridically, we cannot demand even a single rouble from you according to the law?
But we precisely do understand that, if there is no juridical right here, there is on the other hand a human, natural one; the right of common sense and the voice of conscience, and even if our right is not written in any rotten human code, still, a noble and honest man, that is to say, a man of common sense, must remain a noble and honest man even on points that are not written down in codes.