She constantly scolded herself with being a "foolish, indecent eccentric" and suffered from insecurity, was continually at a loss, could not find her way out of some most ordinary concurrence of things, and constantly exaggerated her trouble.
We already mentioned at the beginning of our story that the Epanchins enjoyed universal and genuine respect.
Even General Ivan Fyodorovich himself, a man of obscure origin, was received everywhere indisputably and with respect.
And this respect he deserved, first, as a wealthy man and "not one of the least" and, second, as a fully respectable man, though none too bright.
But a certain dullness of mind, it seems, is almost a necessary quality, if not of every active man, at least of every serious maker of money.
Finally, the general had respectable manners, was modest, could keep his mouth shut and at the same time not let anyone step on his foot—and not only because of his generalship, but also as an honest and noble man.
Most important of all, he was a man with powerful connections.
As for Lizaveta Prokofyevna, she, as has been explained above, was of good family, though with us origin is not so highly regarded if it does not come with the necessary connections.
But it turned out in the end that she also had connections; she was respected and, in the end, loved by such persons that, after them, naturally, everyone had to respect and receive her.
There is no doubt that her family sufferings were groundless, had negligible cause, and were ridiculously exaggerated; but if you have a wart on your nose or forehead, it seems to you that all anyone in the world does and has ever done is to look at your wart, laugh at it, and denounce you for it, though for all that you may have discovered America.
Nor is there any doubt that in society Lizaveta Prokofyevna was indeed considered an "eccentric"; but for all that she was indisputably respected; yet Lizaveta Prokofyevna began in the end not to believe that she was respected—that was her whole trouble.
Looking at her daughters, she was tormented by the suspicion that she was continually hindering their careers in some way, that her character was ridiculous, indecent, and unbearable—for which, naturally, she continually accused her daughters and Ivan Fyodorovich, and spent whole days quarreling with them and at the same time loving them to distraction and almost to the point of passion.
Most of all she was tormented by the suspicion that her daughters were becoming the same sort of "eccentrics" as she, and that no such girls existed in the world, or ought to exist.
"They're growing up into nihilists, that's what!" she constantly repeated to herself.
Over the last year and especially most recently this sad thought had grown stronger and stronger in her.
"First of all, why don't they get married?" she constantly asked herself.
"So as to torment their mother—in that they see the whole purpose of their life, and that is so, of course, because there are all these new ideas, this whole cursed woman question!
Didn't Aglaya decide half a year ago to cut off her magnificent hair? (Lord, even I never had such hair in my day!) She already had the scissors in her hand, I had to go on my knees and beg her! . . .
Well, I suppose she did it out of wickedness, to torment her mother, because she's a wicked, willful, spoiled girl, but above all wicked, wicked, wicked!
But didn't this fat Alexandra also follow her to cut off that mop of hers, and not out of wickedness, not out of caprice, but sincerely, like a fool, because Aglaya convinced her that she'd sleep more peacefully and her head wouldn't ache?
And they've had so many suitors—it's five years now—so many, so many!
And really, there were some good, even some excellent people among them!
What are they waiting for? Why don't they get married?
Only so as to vex their mother—there's no other reason!
None!
None!"
Finally, the sun also rose for her maternal heart; at least one daughter, at least Adelaida, would finally be settled.
"That's at least one off my back," Lizaveta Prokofyevna used to say, when she had to express herself aloud (to herself she expressed it much more tenderly).
And how nicely, how decently the whole thing got done; even in society it was spoken of respectfully.
A known man, a prince, with a fortune, a nice man, and on top of that one pleasing to her heart: what, it seemed, could be better?
But she had feared less for Adelaida than for her other daughters even before, though the girl's artistic inclinations sometimes greatly troubled Lizaveta Prokofyevna's ceaselessly doubting heart.
"But, then, she's of cheerful character and has much good sense to go with it—which means that the girl won't be lost," she used to comfort herself in the end.
She feared most of all for Aglaya.
Incidentally, with regard to the eldest, Alexandra, Lizaveta Prokofyevna did not know whether to fear for her or not.
Sometimes it seemed to her that "the girl was completely lost"; twenty-five years old—meaning she would be left an old maid.
And "with such beauty! ..."
Lizaveta Prokofyevna even wept for her at night, while Alexandra Ivanovna spent those same nights sleeping the most peaceful sleep.
"But what is she—a nihilist, or simply a fool?" That she was not a fool—of that, incidentally, Lizaveta Prokofyevna had no doubt: she had extreme respect for Alexandra Ivanovna's opinions and liked to consult her.
But that she was a "wet hen"—of that there was no doubt: "So placid, there's no shaking her up!"
However, "wet hens aren't placid either—pah!
They've got me totally confused!"
Lizaveta Prokofyevna had some inexplicable commiserating sympathy with Alexandra Ivanovna, more even than with Aglaya, who was her idol.
But her acrimonious outbursts (in which her maternal care and sympathy chiefly expressed itself), her taunts, such names as "wet hen," only made Alexandra laugh.
It would reach the point where the most trifling things would anger Lizaveta Prokofyevna terribly and put her beside herself.
Alexandra Ivanovna liked, for instance, to sleep long hours and usually had many dreams; but her dreams were always distinguished by a sort of extraordinary emptiness and innocence—suitable for a seven-year-old child; and so even this innocence of her dreams began for some reason to annoy her mother.
Once Alexandra Ivanovna saw nine hens in a dream, and this caused a formal quarrel between her and her mother—why?— it is difficult to explain.
Once, and only once, she managed to have a dream about something that seemed original—she dreamed of a monk, alone, in some dark room, which she was afraid to enter.
The dream was at once conveyed triumphantly to Lizaveta Prokofyevna by her two laughing sisters; but the mother again became angry and called all three of them fools.
"Hm! She's placid as a fool, and really a perfect 'wet hen,' there's no shaking her up, yet she's sad, there are times when she looks so sad.
What, what is she grieving about?"