What an infernal allusion!
No, that doesn't suggest insanity.
I, of course, refuse to believe that Evgeny Pavlych could have known about the catastrophe beforehand, that is, on such-and-such a day, at seven o'clock, and so on.
But he might have anticipated it all.
And here I am, here we all are, including Prince Shch., counting on the old man leaving him an inheritance!
Terrible!
Terrible!
Understand, however, that I'm not accusing Evgeny Pavlych of anything, and I hasten to make that clear to you, but all the same it's suspicious.
Prince Shch. is extremely struck.
It's all fallen out so strangely."
"But what is suspicious in Evgeny Pavlych's behavior?"
"Nothing!
He behaved in the noblest fashion.
I wasn't hinting at anything.
His own fortune, I think, is intact.
Lizaveta Prokofyevna, naturally, won't hear anything . . . But the main thing is all these family catastrophes, or, better, all these squabbles, one doesn't even know what to call them . . .
You, truly speaking, are a friend of the house, Lev Nikolaich, and imagine, it now turns out—though, by the way, not precisely—that Evgeny Pavlych supposedly proposed to Aglaya more than a month ago and supposedly received a formal rejection from her."
"That can't be!" the prince cried hotly.
"Perhaps you know something?
You see, my dearest," the general roused himself in surprise, stopping as if rooted to the spot, "maybe I spilled it out to you needlessly and improperly, but it's because you're . . . you're . . . one might say, that sort of man.
Maybe you know something particular?"
"I know nothing . . . about Evgeny Pavlych," the prince murmured.
"Neither do I!
They . . . they decidedly want to dig a hole in the ground and bury me, brother, and they refuse to understand that it's hard on a man and that I won't survive it.
There was such a terrible scene just now!
I'm telling you like my own son.
The main thing is that Aglaya seems to be laughing at her mother.
That she apparently rejected Evgeny Pavlych about a month ago, and that they had a rather formal talk, her sisters told us, as a guess ... a firm guess, however.
But she's such a willful and fantastic being, it's impossible to describe!
All those magnanimities, all those brilliant qualities of heart and mind—all that, perhaps, is there in her, but along with such caprices and mockeries—in short, a demoniacal character, and with fantasies on top of it.
She just laughed in her mother's face, at her sisters, at Prince Shch.; to say nothing of me, it's rare that she doesn't laugh at me, but what am I, you know, I love her, love it even that she laughs at me—and the little demon seems to love me especially for that, that is, more than the others, it seems.
I'll bet she's already laughed at you for something.
I just found the two of you talking, after the storm upstairs; she was sitting with you as if nothing had happened."
The prince turned terribly red and clenched his right hand, but said nothing.
"My dear, kind Lev Nikolaich!" the general suddenly said with feeling and warmth, "I . . . and even Lizaveta Prokofyevna herself (who, incidentally, began railing at you again, and at me along with you and on account of you, only I don't understand what for), we love you all the same, sincerely love you and respect you, even in spite of everything, that is, all appearances.
But you must agree, dear friend, you yourself must agree, what a riddle it is suddenly, and how vexing to hear, when suddenly this cold-blooded little demon (because she stood before her mother with an air of the profoundest contempt for all our questions, and mostly for mine, because, devil take me, I got foolish, I decided to show my severity, since I'm the head of the family—well, and got foolish), this coldblooded little demon suddenly up and announced with a grin that this 'madwoman' (that was how she put it, and I find it strange that she used the same word as you: 'Couldn't you have figured it out by now?' she says), that this madwoman 'has taken it into her head to marry me off at all costs to Prince Lev Nikolaich, and that's why she's trying to drive Evgeny Pavlych out of our house . . .' That's all she said; she gave no further explanation, just laughed loudly, while we stood there gaping, slammed the door, and was gone.
Then they told me about the incident today between her and you . . . and . . . and . . . listen, my dear Prince, you're a very reasonable man, not about to take offense, I've noticed that in you, but . . . don't be angry: by God, she's making fun of you.
She does it like a child, so don't be angry with her, but it's decidedly so.
Don't think anything—she simply makes fools of you and us, out of idleness.
Well, good-bye!
You do know our feelings?
Our sincere feelings for you?
They haven't changed, never, not in anything . . . but ... I go that way now, good-bye!
I've rarely sat so poorly in my plate (or how does it go?) than I'm sitting now6 . . . Dacha life!"
Left alone at the intersection, the prince looked around, quickly crossed the road, went up to the lighted window of a dacha, unfolded a small piece of paper he had been clenching tightly in his right hand during the whole conversation with Ivan Fyodorovich, and read, catching a faint beam of light:
Tomorrow at seven o'clock in the morning I will be on the green bench in the park, waiting for you.
I have decided to talk with you about an extremely important matter that concerns you directly.
P.S.
I hope you won't show this note to anyone.
Though I'm ashamed to write such instructions to you, I consider that you deserve it, and so I've written it—blushing with shame at your ridiculous character.