7
The young man who accompanied the general was about twenty-eight years old, tall, slim, with a handsome and intelligent face, and large, dark eyes that flashed with wit and mockery. Aglaya did not even turn round to look at him and went on with her recitation of the poem, making a point of looking only at the prince, and addressing him alone. It became obvious to the prince that she was doing all this with some special purpose. But at least the new visitors made his awkward situation a little easier. At the sight of them, he got up, nodded politely to the general, gave a sign that the recitation should not be interrupted, and managed to retreat out of his armchair and behind it, where, leaning his left elbow on its back, he continued to listen to the ballad, so to speak, in a more comfortable and less ‘ridiculous’ position than when he had been sitting down. For her part, Lizaveta Prokofyevna twice motioned with an imperious gesture to the two men who had entered to stand still. Incidentally, the prince was extremely interested in the new visitor who accompanied the general; he correctly guessed that he must be Yevgeny Pavlovich Radomsky, of whom he had heard a great deal and had thought about more than once. The only thing he found puzzling about him was his civilian dress; he had heard that Yevgeny Pavlovich was a military man. A mocking smile strayed across the lips of the new visitor throughout the whole recitation of the poem, as though he too had heard something about the “poor knight”.
‘Perhaps it was his idea,’ the prince thought to himself.
But it was quite different with Aglaya. Now she cloaked all the initial affectation and pomposity with which she had begun her recitation in such earnestness and such penetration to the spirit and meaning of the poetic work, articulating each word of it with such understanding, enunciating them with such lofty simplicity, that by the end of the recitation she not only drew general attention, but by her rendering of the ballad’s lofty spirit justified in part, as it were, the heightened and affected grandeur with which she had so solemnly stepped into the middle of the veranda. In this grandeur one could now discern only the immensity and, perhaps, even naivety of her respect for what she had undertaken to render. Her eyes shone, and a light, barely perceptible spasm of inspiration and rapture passed over her beautiful face a couple of times. She recited:
Once a poor knight lived in the world,
Silent and simple his state,
Though his mien was pale and gloomy,
His spirit was bold and straight.
A single vision he possessed,
From reason kept far apart -
And deep was its impression
Engraved upon his heart.
Thenceforth, his soul consumed to ash,
No look on womankind he cast,
Spoke not to them until the day
That to the grave he passed.
Round his neck a rosary he wore
In place of a scarf genteel,
And from his face he never raised
To anyone his visor’s steel.
Filled with a love for ever pure,
Faithful to his dream’s sweet note,
F.N.B. at last in his own blood
Upon his shield he wrote.
And in the wilds of Palestine
As o’er the rocks they came,
The paladins rushed into battle,
Declaimed each lady’s name,
Lumen coeli, sancta Rosa!
Cried he with zealous frown,
And like thunder did his menace
Strike the Moslems down.
Returning to his distant castle,
He lived, strictly confined,
Always silent, always sad,
As a madman he died.
Remembering the whole of this moment later on, the prince was for a long time extremely disturbed, tormented by a problem that he could not solve: how could such noble, fine emotion be combined with such open and malicious mockery? That it was mockery, of that he had no doubt; he clearly understood this and had reasons for it: during her recitation, Aglaya had taken the liberty of altering the letters
A.N.D.
to
N.F.B.
That this was not a mistake and not a mishearing on his part - of that he could not be in any doubt (it was later proved to be so). At any rate, Aglaya’s prank - a joke, of course, though a very harsh and thoughtless one - had been premeditated. Everyone had been talking (and ‘laughing’) about
the ‘poor knight’ for a month now. And yet, as far as the prince could later recall, it had turned out that Aglaya pronounced those letters not only with the complete absence of a joking manner, or any kind of ironic smile, or even any emphasis on those letters, in order to convey their hidden meaning in greater relief, but, on the contrary, with such immutable earnestness, with such innocent and naive simplicity, that one might have supposed those very letters were in the ballad and were printed in the book. Something painful and unpleasant seemed to sting the prince. Lizaveta Prokofyevna, of course, had not understood or noticed either the change of letters or the allusion. General Ivan Fyodorovich realized only that a poem was being declaimed. Of the other listeners very many understood, and were surprised at the boldness of the prank and its intention, but kept silent and tried not to let on. But Yevgeny Pavlovich (the prince was even ready to bet) had not only understood, but was even trying to let on that he understood: his smile was a very mocking one.
‘What a lovely poem!’ the general’s wife exclaimed in genuine rapture, as soon as the recitation was over. ‘Who is it by?’
‘Pushkin,
Maman,
don’t put us to shame - that’s shocking!’ exclaimed Aglaya.
‘It’s a wonder I’m not a complete fool with daughters like you!’ Lizaveta Prokofyevna retorted bitterly. ‘Shameful! I want you to give me that poem by Pushkin as soon as we get home.’
‘I don’t think we have a Pushkin at all.’
‘We’ve had two tattered volumes lying around since time immemorial.’
‘We must send someone to town to buy one, Fyodor or Alexei, by the first train - Alexei would be best. Aglaya, come here! Give me a kiss, you recited beautifully, but - if you were sincere in your recital,’ she added, ‘then I am sorry for you; if you recited it to make fun of him, then I don’t approve of your feelings, and so really it would have been better not to recite it at all. Do you understand? Go now, young lady, I’ll talk to you later, we’ve sat here too long.’
Meanwhile the prince exchanged greetings with General Yepanchin, and the general introduced him to Yevgeny Pavlovich Radomsky.
‘I picked him up on the way, he’d just arrived on the train; he learned that I was coming here and that all our family were here ...’
‘I learned that you were here, too,’ Yevgeny Pavlovich interrupted, ‘and since I long ago decided to seek not only your acquaintance, but also your friendship, I didn’t want to waste any time. Are you unwell? I’ve only just learned ...’
‘I’m quite well and very pleased to meet you, I’ve heard a lot about you and have even talked about you with Prince Shch.,’ replied Lev Nikolayevich, extending his hand.
Mutual courtesies were spoken, both men shook hands and looked each other fixedly in the eye. In a single moment the conversation became general. The prince noticed (and now he noticed ever
ything quickly and eagerly, even things that were perhaps not there at all) that Yevgeny Pavlovich’s civilian attire was causing universal and rather extreme surprise, to the point that all other impressions were even forgotten and effaced for a while. One might have thought there was something particularly significant about this change of clothing. Adelaida and Alexandra were questioning Yevgeny Pavlovich in puzzlement. Prince Shch., his relative, even with concern; the general spoke almost with agitation. Only Aglaya cast an inquisitive but completely calm glance at Yevgeny Pavlovich for a moment, as if she merely wanted to compare whether military or civilian dress suited him better, but a moment later turned away and did not look at him any more. Lizaveta Prokofyevna also was reluctant to ask any questions, although, perhaps, she too was somewhat concerned. It seemed to the prince that Yevgeny Pavlovich did not enjoy her favour.
‘Astonished, flabbergasted!’ Ivan Fyodorovich repeated in answer to all questions. ‘I couldn’t bring myself to believe it when I met him earlier in St Petersburg. And why just suddenly like that, that’s the mystery! He himself was the first to shout that one shouldn’t break the chairs.’
1
From the conversations that arose it turned out that Yevgeny Pavlovich had announced his retirement a long time ago; but every time he had spoken with such a lack of seriousness that one could not believe him. Indeed, of serious matters he always spoke with such a jesting look that it was impossible to make him out, especially if he did not want to be made out.
‘Oh, it’s just a temporary retirement, for a few months, a year at the very most,’ laughed Radomsky.
‘But there’s no need for it, from what I know of your affairs,’ the general still pursued, heatedly.
‘And what about visiting my estates? You advised it yourself; and I want to go abroad as well ...’
The conversation soon changed tack, however; but in the prince’s opinion their excessive and persisting unease went beyond the limits of the normal, and he felt there was definitely something peculiar behind it.
‘So the “poor knight” is back on the scene again?’ Yevgeny Pavlovich asked, going over to Aglaya.
To the prince’s amazement, she surveyed him in a puzzled, questioning fashion, as though wishing to indicate to him that there could be no talk between them of any ‘poor knight’ and that she did not even understand the question.
‘But it’s too late, it’s too late to send to town for a Pushkin, it’s too late!’ Kolya argued with Lizaveta Prokofyevna, straining himself to breaking point. ‘For the thousandth time: it’s too late.’
‘Yes, it really is too late to send to town now,’ Yevgeny Pavlovich inserted at this point, quickly leaving Aglaya. ‘I think the shops in St Petersburg will be closed, it’s getting on for nine,’ he confirmed, taking out his watch.
‘You’ve managed without it for so long, you can wait until tomorrow,’ Adelaida put in.
‘And anyway,’ Kolya added, ‘it’s not done for people of high society to take much interest in literature. Ask Yevgeny Pavlych. It’s much more the done thing to have a yellow char a
banes
with yellow wheels.’
‘Out of a book again, Kolya.’
‘Oh, he never ever says anything that isn’t out of a book,’ Yevgeny Pavlovich interjected. ‘He expresses himself in whole sentences taken from critical journals. I’ve long had the pleasure of being acquainted with Nikolai Ardalionovich’s conversation, but on this occasion he’s not talking out of a book. Nikolai Ardalionovich is clearly referring to my yellow
char à bancs
with red wheels. Only I’ve changed it now, you’re too late.’
The prince listened closely to what Radomsky was saying ... It seemed to him that Radomsky comported himself with excellent manners, in a cheerful way, and he especially liked it that he spoke to Kolya on equal terms, in friendly fashion, even though Kolya was trying to tease him.
‘What’s this?’ Lizaveta Prokofyevna addressed Vera, Lebedev’s daughter, who stood before her holding several books, in large format, magnificently bound and almost new.
‘Pushkin,’ said Vera. ‘Our Pushkin. Papa told me to present it to you.’
‘What? How can that be?’ Lizaveta Prokofyevna was surprised.
‘Not as a gift, not as a gift! I would not have the effrontery!’ Lebedev jumped out from behind his daughter’s shoulder. ‘At its purchase price, ma’am. This is our own family Pushkin, Annenkov’s edition, which one can’t find nowadays - at its purchase price, ma‘am. I present it to you with reverence, wishing to sell it and thus satisfy the noble impatience of your excellency’s most noble literary feelings.’
‘Well, if you’re selling it, then thank you. You won’t lose by it, I daresay; only please don’t cringe, sir. I have heard of you, they say you are very well read, we shall have a talk some time; will you bring the books to me yourself?’
‘With reverence and ... respect!’ Lebedev cringed, extremely pleased, snatching the books from his daughter,
‘Well, as long as you don’t lose them, you may bring them without respect, but only on this condition,’ she added, giving him a steady look. ‘I will only allow you as far as the threshold, and don’t intend to receive you today. You could send your daughter Vera right now if you want, I like her very much.’
‘Why don’t you tell him about those people?’ Vera said, turning to her father impatiently. ‘After all, if you don’t, they’ll just come in anyway: they’ve started making a row. Lev Nikolayevich,’ she addressed the prince, who had already picked up his hat, ‘some people came to see you a while ago, there are four of them, they’re waiting outside and shouting abuse, but Papa won’t let them in to see you.’
‘Who are these visitors?’ asked the prince.
‘They say they’re here on business, but they’re in the sort of mood where if you don’t let them in now they’ll stop you in the street. You’d better let them in, Lev Nikolayevich, and then you’ll be rid of them. Gavrila Ardalionovich and Ptitsyn are trying to reason with them, but they won’t listen.’
‘Pavlishchev’s son! Pavlishchev’s son! He’s not worth it, he’s not worth it!’ Lebedev waved his arms. ‘They’re not worth listening to, sir; and it would be indecent for you even to bother your head about them, Prince. Really, sir! They’re not worth it ...’
‘Pavlishchev’s son! Good heavens!’ the prince exclaimed in extreme confusion. ‘I know ... but I mean, I ... I entrusted that matter to Gavrila Ardalionovich. Gavrila Ardalionovich told me just now ...’
But Gavrila Ardalionovich had already emerged from the house on to the veranda; he was followed by Ptitsyn. In the nearest room there was a hubbub; the loud voice of General Ivolgin was apparently trying to shout down several other voices. Kolya ran at once towards the noise.
‘This is very interesting!’ Yevgeny Pavlovich observed aloud.