Chapter 3 — Chapter 3

“I felt sure you would think I had some object in view when I resolved to
pay you this visit,” the prince interrupted; “but I give you my
word, beyond the pleasure of making your acquaintance I had no personal object
whatever.”

“The pleasure is, of course, mutual; but life is not all pleasure, as you
are aware. There is such a thing as business, and I really do not see what
possible reason there can be, or what we have in common to—”

“Oh, there is no reason, of course, and I suppose there is nothing in
common between us, or very little; for if I am Prince Muishkin, and your wife
happens to be a member of my house, that can hardly be called a
‘reason.’ I quite understand that. And yet that was my whole motive
for coming. You see I have not been in Russia for four years, and knew very
little about anything when I left. I had been very ill for a long time, and I
feel now the need of a few good friends. In fact, I have a certain question
upon which I much need advice, and do not know whom to go to for it. I thought
of your family when I was passing through Berlin. ‘They are almost
relations,’ I said to myself, ‘so I’ll begin with them;
perhaps we may get on with each other, I with them and they with me, if they
are kind people;’ and I have heard that you are very kind people!”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, I’m sure,” replied the general,
considerably taken aback. “May I ask where you have taken up your
quarters?”

“Nowhere, as yet.”

“What, straight from the station to my house? And how about your
luggage?”

“I only had a small bundle, containing linen, with me, nothing more. I
can carry it in my hand, easily. There will be plenty of time to take a room in
some hotel by the evening.”

“Oh, then you do intend to take a room?”

do

“Of course.”

“To judge from your words, you came straight to my house with the
intention of staying there.”

“That could only have been on your invitation. I confess, however, that I
should not have stayed here even if you had invited me, not for any particular
reason, but because it is—well, contrary to my practice and nature,
somehow.”

“Oh, indeed! Then it is perhaps as well that I neither did invite
you, nor do invite you now. Excuse me, prince, but we had better make
this matter clear, once for all. We have just agreed that with regard to our
relationship there is not much to be said, though, of course, it would have
been very delightful to us to feel that such relationship did actually exist;
therefore, perhaps—”

did

do

“Therefore, perhaps I had better get up and go away?” said the
prince, laughing merrily as he rose from his place; just as merrily as though
the circumstances were by no means strained or difficult. “And I give you
my word, general, that though I know nothing whatever of manners and customs of
society, and how people live and all that, yet I felt quite sure that this
visit of mine would end exactly as it has ended now. Oh, well, I suppose
it’s all right; especially as my letter was not answered. Well, good-bye,
and forgive me for having disturbed you!”

The prince’s expression was so good-natured at this moment, and so
entirely free from even a suspicion of unpleasant feeling was the smile with
which he looked at the general as he spoke, that the latter suddenly paused,
and appeared to gaze at his guest from quite a new point of view, all in an
instant.

“Do you know, prince,” he said, in quite a different tone, “I
do not know you at all, yet, and after all, Elizabetha Prokofievna would very
likely be pleased to have a peep at a man of her own name. Wait a little, if
you don’t mind, and if you have time to spare?”

“Oh, I assure you I’ve lots of time, my time is entirely my
own!” And the prince immediately replaced his soft, round hat on the
table. “I confess, I thought Elizabetha Prokofievna would very likely
remember that I had written her a letter. Just now your servant—outside
there—was dreadfully suspicious that I had come to beg of you. I noticed
that! Probably he has very strict instructions on that score; but I assure you
I did not come to beg. I came to make some friends. But I am rather bothered at
having disturbed you; that’s all I care about.—”

“Look here, prince,” said the general, with a cordial smile,
“if you really are the sort of man you appear to be, it may be a source
of great pleasure to us to make your better acquaintance; but, you see, I am a
very busy man, and have to be perpetually sitting here and signing papers, or
off to see his excellency, or to my department, or somewhere; so that though I
should be glad to see more of people, nice people—you see,
I—however, I am sure you are so well brought up that you will see at
once, and—but how old are you, prince?”

“Twenty-six.”

“No? I thought you very much younger.”

“Yes, they say I have a ‘young’ face. As to disturbing you I
shall soon learn to avoid doing that, for I hate disturbing people. Besides,
you and I are so differently constituted, I should think, that there must be
very little in common between us. Not that I will ever believe there is
nothing in common between any two people, as some declare is the case. I
am sure people make a great mistake in sorting each other into groups, by
appearances; but I am boring you, I see, you—”

nothing

“Just two words: have you any means at all? Or perhaps you may be
intending to undertake some sort of employment? Excuse my questioning you,
but—”

“Oh, my dear sir, I esteem and understand your kindness in putting the
question. No; at present I have no means whatever, and no employment either,
but I hope to find some. I was living on other people abroad. Schneider, the
professor who treated me and taught me, too, in Switzerland, gave me just
enough money for my journey, so that now I have but a few copecks left. There
certainly is one question upon which I am anxious to have advice,
but—”

“Tell me, how do you intend to live now, and what are your plans?”
interrupted the general.

“I wish to work, somehow or other.”

“Oh yes, but then, you see, you are a philosopher. Have you any talents,
or ability in any direction—that is, any that would bring in money and
bread? Excuse me again—”

“Oh, don’t apologize. No, I don’t think I have either talents
or special abilities of any kind; on the contrary. I have always been an
invalid and unable to learn much. As for bread, I should think—”

The general interrupted once more with questions; while the prince again
replied with the narrative we have heard before. It appeared that the general
had known Pavlicheff; but why the latter had taken an interest in the prince,
that young gentleman could not explain; probably by virtue of the old
friendship with his father, he thought.

The prince had been left an orphan when quite a little child, and Pavlicheff
had entrusted him to an old lady, a relative of his own, living in the country,
the child needing the fresh air and exercise of country life. He was educated,
first by a governess, and afterwards by a tutor, but could not remember much
about this time of his life. His fits were so frequent then, that they made
almost an idiot of him (the prince used the expression “idiot”
himself). Pavlicheff had met Professor Schneider in Berlin, and the latter had
persuaded him to send the boy to Switzerland, to Schneider’s
establishment there, for the cure of his epilepsy, and, five years before this
time, the prince was sent off. But Pavlicheff had died two or three years
since, and Schneider had himself supported the young fellow, from that day to
this, at his own expense. Although he had not quite cured him, he had greatly
improved his condition; and now, at last, at the prince’s own desire, and
because of a certain matter which came to the ears of the latter, Schneider had
despatched the young man to Russia.

The general was much astonished.

“Then you have no one, absolutely no one in Russia?” he
asked.

no

“No one, at present; but I hope to make friends; and then I have a letter
from—”

“At all events,” put in the general, not listening to the news
about the letter, “at all events, you must have learned something,
and your malady would not prevent your undertaking some easy work, in one of
the departments, for instance?”

something

“Oh dear no, oh no! As for a situation, I should much like to find one
for I am anxious to discover what I really am fit for. I have learned a good
deal in the last four years, and, besides, I read a great many Russian
books.”

“Russian books, indeed? Then, of course, you can read and write quite
correctly?”

“Oh dear, yes!”

“Capital! And your handwriting?”

“Ah, there I am really talented! I may say I am a real
caligraphist. Let me write you something, just to show you,” said the
prince, with some excitement.

really

“With pleasure! In fact, it is very necessary. I like your readiness,
prince; in fact, I must say—I—I—like you very well,
altogether,” said the general.

“What delightful writing materials you have here, such a lot of pencils
and things, and what beautiful paper! It’s a charming room altogether. I
know that picture, it’s a Swiss view. I’m sure the artist painted
it from nature, and that I have seen the very place—”

“Quite likely, though I bought it here. Gania, give the prince some
paper. Here are pens and paper; now then, take this table. What’s
this?” the general continued to Gania, who had that moment taken a large
photograph out of his portfolio, and shown it to his senior. “Halloa!
Nastasia Philipovna! Did she send it you herself? Herself?” he inquired,
with much curiosity and great animation.

“She gave it me just now, when I called in to congratulate her. I asked
her for it long ago. I don’t know whether she meant it for a hint that I
had come empty-handed, without a present for her birthday, or what,”
added Gania, with an unpleasant smile.

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense,” said the general, with decision.
“What extraordinary ideas you have, Gania! As if she would hint;
that’s not her way at all. Besides, what could you give her,
without having thousands at your disposal? You might have given her your
portrait, however. Has she ever asked you for it?”

you

“No, not yet. Very likely she never will. I suppose you haven’t
forgotten about tonight, have you, Ivan Fedorovitch? You were one of those
specially invited, you know.”

“Oh no, I remember all right, and I shall go, of course. I should think
so! She’s twenty-five years old today! And, you know, Gania, you must be
ready for great things; she has promised both myself and Afanasy Ivanovitch
that she will give a decided answer tonight, yes or no. So be prepared!”

Gania suddenly became so ill at ease that his face grew paler than ever.

“Are you sure she said that?” he asked, and his voice seemed to
quiver as he spoke.

“Yes, she promised. We both worried her so that she gave in; but she
wished us to tell you nothing about it until the day.”

The general watched Gania’s confusion intently, and clearly did not like
it.

“Remember, Ivan Fedorovitch,” said Gania, in great agitation,
“that I was to be free too, until her decision; and that even then I was
to have my ‘yes or no’ free.”

“Why, don’t you, aren’t you—” began the general,
in alarm.

“Oh, don’t misunderstand—”

“But, my dear fellow, what are you doing, what do you mean?”

“Oh, I’m not rejecting her. I may have expressed myself badly, but
I didn’t mean that.”

“Reject her! I should think not!” said the general with annoyance,
and apparently not in the least anxious to conceal it. “Why, my dear
fellow, it’s not a question of your rejecting her, it is whether you are
prepared to receive her consent joyfully, and with proper satisfaction. How are
things going on at home?”

“At home? Oh, I can do as I like there, of course; only my father will
make a fool of himself, as usual. He is rapidly becoming a general nuisance. I
don’t ever talk to him now, but I hold him in check, safe enough. I swear
if it had not been for my mother, I should have shown him the way out, long
ago. My mother is always crying, of course, and my sister sulks. I had to tell
them at last that I intended to be master of my own destiny, and that I expect
to be obeyed at home. At least, I gave my sister to understand as much, and my
mother was present.”

“Well, I must say, I cannot understand it!” said the general,
shrugging his shoulders and dropping his hands. “You remember your
mother, Nina Alexandrovna, that day she came and sat here and groaned—and
when I asked her what was the matter, she says, ‘Oh, it’s such a
dishonour to us!’ dishonour! Stuff and nonsense! I should like to
know who can reproach Nastasia Philipovna, or who can say a word of any kind
against her. Did she mean because Nastasia had been living with Totski? What
nonsense it is! You would not let her come near your daughters, says Nina
Alexandrovna. What next, I wonder? I don’t see how she can fail
to—to understand—”

dishonour

“Her own position?” prompted Gania. “She does understand.
Don’t be annoyed with her. I have warned her not to meddle in other
people’s affairs. However, although there’s comparative peace at
home at present, the storm will break if anything is finally settled
tonight.”

The prince heard the whole of the foregoing conversation, as he sat at the
table, writing. He finished at last, and brought the result of his labour to
the general’s desk.

“So this is Nastasia Philipovna,” he said, looking attentively and
curiously at the portrait. “How wonderfully beautiful!” he
immediately added, with warmth. The picture was certainly that of an unusually
lovely woman. She was photographed in a black silk dress of simple design, her
hair was evidently dark and plainly arranged, her eyes were deep and
thoughtful, the expression of her face passionate, but proud. She was rather
thin, perhaps, and a little pale. Both Gania and the general gazed at the
prince in amazement.

“How do you know it’s Nastasia Philipovna?” asked the
general; “you surely don’t know her already, do you?”

“Yes, I do! I have only been one day in Russia, but I have heard of the
great beauty!” And the prince proceeded to narrate his meeting with
Rogojin in the train and the whole of the latter’s story.

“There’s news!” said the general in some excitement, after
listening to the story with engrossed attention.

“Oh, of course it’s nothing but humbug!” cried Gania, a
little disturbed, however. “It’s all humbug; the young merchant was
pleased to indulge in a little innocent recreation! I have heard something of
Rogojin!”

“Yes, so have I!” replied the general. “Nastasia Philipovna
told us all about the earrings that very day. But now it is quite a different
matter. You see the fellow really has a million of roubles, and he is
passionately in love. The whole story smells of passion, and we all know what
this class of gentry is capable of when infatuated. I am much afraid of some
disagreeable scandal, I am indeed!”

“You are afraid of the million, I suppose,” said Gania, grinning
and showing his teeth.

“And you are not, I presume, eh?”

not

“How did he strike you, prince?” asked Gania, suddenly. “Did
he seem to be a serious sort of a man, or just a common rowdy fellow? What was
your own opinion about the matter?”

While Gania put this question, a new idea suddenly flashed into his brain, and
blazed out, impatiently, in his eyes. The general, who was really agitated and
disturbed, looked at the prince too, but did not seem to expect much from his
reply.

“I really don’t quite know how to tell you,” replied the
prince, “but it certainly did seem to me that the man was full of
passion, and not, perhaps, quite healthy passion. He seemed to be still far
from well. Very likely he will be in bed again in a day or two, especially if
he lives fast.”

“No! do you think so?” said the general, catching at the idea.

“Yes, I do think so!”

“Yes, but the sort of scandal I referred to may happen at any moment. It
may be this very evening,” remarked Gania to the general, with a smile.

“Of course; quite so. In that case it all depends upon what is going on
in her brain at this moment.”

“You know the kind of person she is at times.”

“How? What kind of person is she?” cried the general, arrived at
the limits of his patience. “Look here, Gania, don’t you go
annoying her tonight. What you are to do is to be as agreeable towards her as
ever you can. Well, what are you smiling at? You must understand, Gania, that I
have no interest whatever in speaking like this. Whichever way the question is
settled, it will be to my advantage. Nothing will move Totski from his
resolution, so I run no risk. If there is anything I desire, you must know that
it is your benefit only. Can’t you trust me? You are a sensible fellow,
and I have been counting on you; for, in this matter, that, that—”

“Yes, that’s the chief thing,” said Gania, helping the
general out of his difficulties again, and curling his lips in an envenomed
smile, which he did not attempt to conceal. He gazed with his fevered eyes
straight into those of the general, as though he were anxious that the latter
might read his thoughts.

The general grew purple with anger.

“Yes, of course it is the chief thing!” he cried, looking sharply
at Gania. “What a very curious man you are, Gania! You actually seem to
be glad to hear of this millionaire fellow’s arrival—just as
though you wished for an excuse to get out of the whole thing. This is an
affair in which you ought to act honestly with both sides, and give due
warning, to avoid compromising others. But, even now, there is still time. Do
you understand me? I wish to know whether you desire this arrangement or
whether you do not? If not, say so,—and—and welcome! No one is
trying to force you into the snare, Gavrila Ardalionovitch, if you see a snare
in the matter, at least.”

glad

“I do desire it,” murmured Gania, softly but firmly, lowering his
eyes; and he relapsed into gloomy silence.

The general was satisfied. He had excited himself, and was evidently now
regretting that he had gone so far. He turned to the prince, and suddenly the
disagreeable thought of the latter’s presence struck him, and the
certainty that he must have heard every word of the conversation. But he felt
at ease in another moment; it only needed one glance at the prince to see that
in that quarter there was nothing to fear.

“Oh!” cried the general, catching sight of the prince’s
specimen of caligraphy, which the latter had now handed him for inspection.
“Why, this is simply beautiful; look at that, Gania, there’s real
talent there!”

On a sheet of thick writing-paper the prince had written in medieval characters
the legend:

“The gentle Abbot Pafnute signed this.”

“There,” explained the prince, with great delight and animation,
“there, that’s the abbot’s real signature—from a
manuscript of the fourteenth century. All these old abbots and bishops used to
write most beautifully, with such taste and so much care and diligence. Have
you no copy of Pogodin, general? If you had one I could show you another type.
Stop a bit—here you have the large round writing common in France during
the eighteenth century. Some of the letters are shaped quite differently from
those now in use. It was the writing current then, and employed by public
writers generally. I copied this from one of them, and you can see how good it
is. Look at the well-rounded a and d. I have tried to translate the French
character into the Russian letters—a difficult thing to do, but I think I
have succeeded fairly. Here is a fine sentence, written in a good, original
hand—‘Zeal triumphs over all.’ That is the script of the
Russian War Office. That is how official documents addressed to important
personages should be written. The letters are round, the type black, and the
style somewhat remarkable. A stylist would not allow these ornaments, or
attempts at flourishes—just look at these unfinished tails!—but it
has distinction and really depicts the soul of the writer. He would like to
give play to his imagination, and follow the inspiration of his genius, but a
soldier is only at ease in the guard-room, and the pen stops half-way, a slave
to discipline. How delightful! The first time I met an example of this
handwriting, I was positively astonished, and where do you think I chanced to
find it? In Switzerland, of all places! Now that is an ordinary English hand.
It can hardly be improved, it is so refined and exquisite—almost
perfection. This is an example of another kind, a mixture of styles. The copy
was given me by a French commercial traveller. It is founded on the English,
but the downstrokes are a little blacker, and more marked. Notice that the oval
has some slight modification—it is more rounded. This writing allows for
flourishes; now a flourish is a dangerous thing! Its use requires such taste,
but, if successful, what a distinction it gives to the whole! It results in an
incomparable type—one to fall in love with!”

“Dear me! How you have gone into all the refinements and details of the
question! Why, my dear fellow, you are not a caligraphist, you are an artist!
Eh, Gania?”

“Wonderful!” said Gania. “And he knows it too,” he
added, with a sarcastic smile.

“You may smile,—but there’s a career in this,” said the
general. “You don’t know what a great personage I shall show this
to, prince. Why, you can command a situation at thirty-five roubles per month
to start with. However, it’s half-past twelve,” he concluded,
looking at his watch; “so to business, prince, for I must be setting to
work and shall not see you again today. Sit down a minute. I have told you that
I cannot receive you myself very often, but I should like to be of some
assistance to you, some small assistance, of a kind that would give you
satisfaction. I shall find you a place in one of the State departments, an easy
place—but you will require to be accurate. Now, as to your plans—in
the house, or rather in the family of Gania here—my young friend, whom I
hope you will know better—his mother and sister have prepared two or
three rooms for lodgers, and let them to highly recommended young fellows, with
board and attendance. I am sure Nina Alexandrovna will take you in on my
recommendation. There you will be comfortable and well taken care of; for I do
not think, prince, that you are the sort of man to be left to the mercy of Fate
in a town like Petersburg. Nina Alexandrovna, Gania’s mother, and Varvara
Alexandrovna, are ladies for whom I have the highest possible esteem and
respect. Nina Alexandrovna is the wife of General Ardalion Alexandrovitch, my
old brother in arms, with whom, I regret to say, on account of certain
circumstances, I am no longer acquainted. I give you all this information,
prince, in order to make it clear to you that I am personally recommending you
to this family, and that in so doing, I am more or less taking upon myself to
answer for you. The terms are most reasonable, and I trust that your salary
will very shortly prove amply sufficient for your expenditure. Of course
pocket-money is a necessity, if only a little; do not be angry, prince, if I
strongly recommend you to avoid carrying money in your pocket. But as your
purse is quite empty at the present moment, you must allow me to press these
twenty-five roubles upon your acceptance, as something to begin with. Of course
we will settle this little matter another time, and if you are the upright,
honest man you look, I anticipate very little trouble between us on that score.
Taking so much interest in you as you may perceive I do, I am not without my
object, and you shall know it in good time. You see, I am perfectly candid with
you. I hope, Gania, you have nothing to say against the prince’s taking
up his abode in your house?”

“Oh, on the contrary! my mother will be very glad,” said Gania,
courteously and kindly.

“I think only one of your rooms is engaged as yet, is it not? That fellow
Ferd-Ferd—”

“Ferdishenko.”

“Yes—I don’t like that Ferdishenko. I can’t understand
why Nastasia Philipovna encourages him so. Is he really her cousin, as he
says?”

“Oh dear no, it’s all a joke. No more cousin than I am.”

“Well, what do you think of the arrangement, prince?”

“Thank you, general; you have behaved very kindly to me; all the more so
since I did not ask you to help me. I don’t say that out of pride. I
certainly did not know where to lay my head tonight. Rogojin asked me to come
to his house, of course, but—”

“Rogojin? No, no, my good fellow. I should strongly recommend you,
paternally,—or, if you prefer it, as a friend,—to forget all about
Rogojin, and, in fact, to stick to the family into which you are about to
enter.”

“Thank you,” began the prince; “and since you are so very
kind there is just one matter which I—”

“You must really excuse me,” interrupted the general, “but I
positively haven’t another moment now. I shall just tell Elizabetha
Prokofievna about you, and if she wishes to receive you at once—as I
shall advise her—I strongly recommend you to ingratiate yourself with her
at the first opportunity, for my wife may be of the greatest service to you in
many ways. If she cannot receive you now, you must be content to wait till
another time. Meanwhile you, Gania, just look over these accounts, will you? We
mustn’t forget to finish off that matter—”

The general left the room, and the prince never succeeded in broaching the
business which he had on hand, though he had endeavoured to do so four times.

Gania lit a cigarette and offered one to the prince. The latter accepted the
offer, but did not talk, being unwilling to disturb Gania’s work. He
commenced to examine the study and its contents. But Gania hardly so much as
glanced at the papers lying before him; he was absent and thoughtful, and his
smile and general appearance struck the prince still more disagreeably now that
the two were left alone together.

Suddenly Gania approached our hero who was at the moment standing over Nastasia
Philipovna’s portrait, gazing at it.

“Do you admire that sort of woman, prince?” he asked, looking
intently at him. He seemed to have some special object in the question.

“It’s a wonderful face,” said the prince, “and I feel
sure that her destiny is not by any means an ordinary, uneventful one. Her face
is smiling enough, but she must have suffered terribly—hasn’t she?
Her eyes show it—those two bones there, the little points under her eyes,
just where the cheek begins. It’s a proud face too, terribly proud! And
I—I can’t say whether she is good and kind, or not. Oh, if she be
but good! That would make all well!”

“And would you marry a woman like that, now?” continued Gania,
never taking his excited eyes off the prince’s face.

“I cannot marry at all,” said the latter. “I am an
invalid.”

“Would Rogojin marry her, do you think?”

“Why not? Certainly he would, I should think. He would marry her
tomorrow!—marry her tomorrow and murder her in a week!”

Hardly had the prince uttered the last word when Gania gave such a fearful
shudder that the prince almost cried out.

“What’s the matter?” said he, seizing Gania’s hand.

“Your highness! His excellency begs your presence in her
excellency’s apartments!” announced the footman, appearing at the
door.

The prince immediately followed the man out of the room.

All three of the Miss Epanchins were fine, healthy girls, well-grown, with good
shoulders and busts, and strong—almost masculine—hands; and, of
course, with all the above attributes, they enjoyed capital appetites, of which
they were not in the least ashamed.

Elizabetha Prokofievna sometimes informed the girls that they were a little too
candid in this matter, but in spite of their outward deference to their mother
these three young women, in solemn conclave, had long agreed to modify the
unquestioning obedience which they had been in the habit of according to her;
and Mrs. General Epanchin had judged it better to say nothing about it, though,
of course, she was well aware of the fact.

It is true that her nature sometimes rebelled against these dictates of reason,
and that she grew yearly more capricious and impatient; but having a respectful
and well-disciplined husband under her thumb at all times, she found it
possible, as a rule, to empty any little accumulations of spleen upon his head,
and therefore the harmony of the family was kept duly balanced, and things went
as smoothly as family matters can.

Mrs. Epanchin had a fair appetite herself, and generally took her share of the
capital mid-day lunch which was always served for the girls, and which was
nearly as good as a dinner. The young ladies used to have a cup of coffee each
before this meal, at ten o’clock, while still in bed. This was a
favourite and unalterable arrangement with them. At half-past twelve, the table
was laid in the small dining-room, and occasionally the general himself
appeared at the family gathering, if he had time.

Besides tea and coffee, cheese, honey, butter, pan-cakes of various kinds (the
lady of the house loved these best), cutlets, and so on, there was generally
strong beef soup, and other substantial delicacies.

On the particular morning on which our story has opened, the family had
assembled in the dining-room, and were waiting the general’s appearance,
the latter having promised to come this day. If he had been one moment late, he
would have been sent for at once; but he turned up punctually.

As he came forward to wish his wife good-morning and kiss her hands, as his
custom was, he observed something in her look which boded ill. He thought he
knew the reason, and had expected it, but still, he was not altogether
comfortable. His daughters advanced to kiss him, too, and though they did not
look exactly angry, there was something strange in their expression as well.

The general was, owing to certain circumstances, a little inclined to be too
suspicious at home, and needlessly nervous; but, as an experienced father and
husband, he judged it better to take measures at once to protect himself from
any dangers there might be in the air.

However, I hope I shall not interfere with the proper sequence of my narrative
too much, if I diverge for a moment at this point, in order to explain the
mutual relations between General Epanchin’s family and others acting a
part in this history, at the time when we take up the thread of their destiny.
I have already stated that the general, though he was a man of lowly origin,
and of poor education, was, for all that, an experienced and talented husband
and father. Among other things, he considered it undesirable to hurry his
daughters to the matrimonial altar and to worry them too much with assurances
of his paternal wishes for their happiness, as is the custom among parents of
many grown-up daughters. He even succeeded in ranging his wife on his side on
this question, though he found the feat very difficult to accomplish, because
unnatural; but the general’s arguments were conclusive, and founded upon
obvious facts. The general considered that the girls’ taste and good
sense should be allowed to develop and mature deliberately, and that the
parents’ duty should merely be to keep watch, in order that no strange or
undesirable choice be made; but that the selection once effected, both father
and mother were bound from that moment to enter heart and soul into the cause,
and to see that the matter progressed without hindrance until the altar should
be happily reached.

Besides this, it was clear that the Epanchins’ position gained each year,
with geometrical accuracy, both as to financial solidity and social weight;
and, therefore, the longer the girls waited, the better was their chance of
making a brilliant match.

But again, amidst the incontrovertible facts just recorded, one more, equally
significant, rose up to confront the family; and this was, that the eldest
daughter, Alexandra, had imperceptibly arrived at her twenty-fifth birthday.
Almost at the same moment, Afanasy Ivanovitch Totski, a man of immense wealth,
high connections, and good standing, announced his intention of marrying.
Afanasy Ivanovitch was a gentleman of fifty-five years of age, artistically
gifted, and of most refined tastes. He wished to marry well, and, moreover, he
was a keen admirer and judge of beauty.

Now, since Totski had, of late, been upon terms of great cordiality with
Epanchin, which excellent relations were intensified by the fact that they
were, so to speak, partners in several financial enterprises, it so happened
that the former now put in a friendly request to the general for counsel with
regard to the important step he meditated. Might he suggest, for instance, such
a thing as a marriage between himself and one of the general’s daughters?

Evidently the quiet, pleasant current of the family life of the Epanchins was
about to undergo a change.

The undoubted beauty of the family, par excellence, was the youngest,
Aglaya, as aforesaid. But Totski himself, though an egotist of the extremest
type, realized that he had no chance there; Aglaya was clearly not for such as
he.

par excellence

Perhaps the sisterly love and friendship of the three girls had more or less
exaggerated Aglaya’s chances of happiness. In their opinion, the
latter’s destiny was not merely to be very happy; she was to live in a
heaven on earth. Aglaya’s husband was to be a compendium of all the
virtues, and of all success, not to speak of fabulous wealth. The two elder
sisters had agreed that all was to be sacrificed by them, if need be, for
Aglaya’s sake; her dowry was to be colossal and unprecedented.