IT was seven in the evening, and the prince was just preparing to
go out for a walk in the park, when suddenly Mrs. Epanchin
appeared on the terrace.
"In the first place, don't dare to suppose," she began, "that I
am going to apologize. Nonsense! You were entirely to blame."
The prince remained silent.
"Were you to blame, or not?"
"No, certainly not, no more than yourself, though at first I
thought I was."
"Oh, very well, let's sit down, at all events, for I don't intend
to stand up all day. And remember, if you say, one word about
'mischievous urchins,' I shall go away and break with you
altogether. Now then, did you, or did you not, send a letter to
Aglaya, a couple of months or so ago, about Easter-tide?"
"Yes!"
"What for? What was your object? Show me the letter." Mrs. Epanchin's eyes flashed; she was almost trembling with impatience.
"I have not got the letter," said the prince, timidly, extremely
surprised at the turn the conversation had taken. "If anyone has
it, if it still exists, Aglaya Ivanovna must have it."
"No finessing, please. What did you write about?"
"I am not finessing, and I am not in the least afraid of telling
you; but I don't see the slightest reason why I should not have
written."
"Be quiet, you can talk afterwards! What was the letter about? Why are you blushing?"
The prince was silent. At last he spoke.
"I don't understand your thoughts, Lizabetha Prokofievna; but I
can see that the fact of my having written is for some reason
repugnant to you. You must admit that I have a perfect right to
refuse to answer your questions; but, in order to show you that I
am neither ashamed of the letter, nor sorry that I wrote it, and
that I am not in the least inclined to blush about it "(here the
prince's blushes redoubled), "I will repeat the substance of my
letter, for I think I know it almost by heart."
So saying, the prince repeated the letter almost word for word, as he had written it.
"My goodness, what utter twaddle, and what may all this nonsense
have signified, pray? If it had any meaning at all!" said Mrs. Epanchin, cuttingly, after having listened with great attention.
"I really don't absolutely know myself; I know my feeling was
very sincere. I had moments at that time full of life and hope."
"What sort of hope?"
"It is difficult to explain, but certainly not the hopes you have
in your mind. Hopes—well, in a word, hopes for the future, and a
feeling of joy that THERE, at all events, I was not entirely a
stranger and a foreigner. I felt an ecstasy in being in my native
land once more; and one sunny morning I took up a pen and wrote
her that letter, but why to HER, I don't quite know. Sometimes
one longs to have a friend near, and I evidently felt the need of
one then," added the prince, and paused.
"Are you in love with her?"
"N-no! I wrote to her as to a sister; I signed myself her
brother."
"Oh yes, of course, on purpose! I quite understand."
"It is very painful to me to answer these questions, Lizabetha
Prokofievna."
"I dare say it is; but that's no affair of mine. Now then, assure
me truly as before Heaven, are you lying to me or not?"
"No, I am not lying."
"Are you telling the truth when you say you are not in love?"
"I believe it is the absolute truth."
"'I believe,' indeed! Did that mischievous urchin give it to
her?"
"I asked Nicolai Ardalionovitch . . ."
"The urchin! the urchin!" interrupted Lizabetha Prokofievna in an
angry voice. "I do not want to know if it were Nicolai
Ardalionovitch! The urchin!"
"Nicolai Ardalionovitch . . ."
"The urchin, I tell you!"
"No, it was not the urchin: it was Nicolai Ardalionovitch," said
the prince very firmly, but without raising his voice.
"Well, all right! All right, my dear! I shall put that down to
your account."
She was silent a moment to get breath, and to recover her
composure.
"Well!—and what's the meaning of the 'poor knight,' eh?"
"I don't know in the least; I wasn't present when the joke was
made. It IS a joke. I suppose, and that's all."
"Well, that's a comfort, at all events. You don't suppose she
could take any interest in you, do you? Why, she called you an
'idiot' herself."
"I think you might have spared me that," murmured the prince
reproachfully, almost in a whisper.