He wanted to gain at least that one day and, above all, that evening, without any unpleasantnesses.
And suddenly the prince came along so opportunely.
"As if sent by God!" the general thought to himself as he entered his wife's rooms.
V
The general's wife was jealous of her origins.
Imagine her feelings when she was told, directly and without preliminaries, that this Prince Myshkin, the last of their line, whom she had already heard something about, was no more than a pathetic idiot and nearly destitute, and that he took beggar's alms.
The general was precisely after that effect, in order to draw her interest all at once and somehow turn everything in another direction.
In extreme cases his wife usually rolled her eyes out exceedingly and, with her body thrown slightly back, stared vaguely ahead of her without saying a word.
She was a tall, lean woman, of the same age as her husband, with much gray in her dark but still thick hair, a somewhat hooked nose, hollow yellow cheeks, and thin, sunken lips.
Her forehead was high but narrow; her gray, rather large eyes sometimes had a most unexpected expression.
She had once had the weakness of believing that her gaze produced an extraordinary effect; that conviction remained indelible in her.
"Receive him?
You say receive him now, this minute?" and the general's wife rolled her eyes out with all her might at Ivan Fyodorovich as he fidgeted before her.
"Oh, in that respect you needn't stand on ceremony, my friend, provided you wish to see him," the general hastened to explain.
"A perfect child, and even quite pathetic; he has fits of some illness; he's just come from Switzerland, straight from the train, strangely dressed, in some German fashion, and besides without a penny, literally; he's all but weeping.
I gave him twenty-five roubles and want to obtain some scrivener's post for him in the chancellery.
And you, mesdames, I ask to give him something to eat, because he also seems to be hungry ..."
"You astonish me," Mrs. Epanchin went on as before. "Hungry, and some sort of fits!
What fits?"
"Oh, they don't occur too often, and besides, he's almost like a child, though he's cultivated.
I'd like to ask you, mesdames," he again turned to his daughters, "to give him an examination; it would be good, after all, to know what he's able to do."
"An ex-am-i-na-tion?" Mrs. Epanchin drew out and, in deep amazement, again began to roll her eyes from her daughters to her husband and back.
"Ah, my friend, don't take it in that sense . . . however, as you wish; I had in mind to be nice to him and receive him in our house, because it's almost a good deed."
"In our house?
From Switzerland?!"
"Switzerland is no hindrance. But anyhow, I repeat, it's as you wish.
I suggested it, first, because he's your namesake and maybe even a relation, and second, he doesn't know where to lay his head.
I even thought you might be somewhat interested, because, after all, he's of the same family."
"Of course, maman, if we needn't stand on ceremony with him; besides, he's hungry after the journey, why not give him something to eat, if he doesn't know where to go?" said the eldest daughter, Alexandra.
"And a perfect child besides, we can play blindman's buff with him."
"Play blindman's buff?
In what sense?"
"Oh, maman, please stop pretending," Aglaya interfered vexedly.
The middle daughter, Adelaida, much given to laughter, could not help herself and burst out laughing.
"Send for him, papa, maman allows it," Aglaya decided.
The general rang and sent for the prince.
"But be sure a napkin is tied around his neck when he sits at the table," Mrs. Epanchin decided. "Send for Fyodor, or let Mavra ... so as to stand behind his chair and tend to him while he eats.
Is he at least quiet during his fits?
Does he gesticulate?"
"On the contrary, he's very well brought up and has wonderful manners.
A bit too simple at times . . . But here he is!
Allow me to introduce Prince Myshkin, the last of the line, a namesake and maybe even a relation, receive him, be nice to him.
They'll have lunch now, Prince, do them the honor . . . And I, forgive me, I'm late, I must hurry ..."
"We know where you're hurrying to," Mrs. Epanchin said imposingly.
"I must hurry, I must hurry, my friend, I'm late!
Give him your albums,19 mesdames, let him write something for you, he's a rare calligrapher! A talent! He did such a piece of old handwriting for me:
'The hegumen Pafnuty here sets his hand to it . . .' Well, good-bye."
"Pafnuty?
Hegumen?
Wait, wait, where are you going? What Pafnuty?" Mrs. Epanchin cried with insistent vexation and almost anxiously to her fleeing husband.