The Idiot (Oxford World's Classics) by Dostoevsky Fyodor & Alan Myers & William Leatherbarrow

Author:Dostoevsky, Fyodor & Alan Myers & William Leatherbarrow [Dostoevsky, Fyodor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: OUP Oxford
Published: 2008-06-12T00:00:00+00:00

12

IT was seven o’clock in the evening and the prince was thinking of going for a walk in the park. All of a sudden, Lizaveta Prokofievna came on to the veranda unaccompanied.

‘First of all , don’t you dare imagine I’ve come to apologize’, she began. ‘Nonsense! You’re to blame for everything.’

The prince made no reply.

‘Well, are you or not?’

‘Just as much as you are. But neither of us were guilty of anything intentionally. Two days ago I thought I was to blame, but I’ve now decided that’s not so.’

‘So that’s what you think is it? Well all right; just listen then and sit down because I don’t intend to stand.’

They both sat down.

‘In the second place , not a word about those spiteful urchins. I’m going to sit and talk to you for ten minutes; I came to find out something, whatever you might have thought, and if you utter one squeak about those impudent young whelps, I’ll get up and leave and break with you altogether.’

‘Very well’, replied the prince.

‘And now, may I ask, did you about two or two and a half months ago around Easter send a letter to Aglaya?’

‘I d-did.’

‘Whatever for? What was in the letter? Show it to me!’ Lizaveta Prokofievna’s eyes were blazing, she was fairly trembling with impatience.

‘I haven’t got the letter.’ The prince was surprised and became horribly shy. ‘If it still exists, then Aglaya Ivanovna has it.’

‘Don’t try and wriggle out of it! What did you write about?’

‘I’m not wriggling and I’m not afraid of anything. I see no reason why I shouldn’t write …’

‘Be quiet! You can have your say afterwards. What was in the letter? Why are you blushing?’

The prince thought for a moment.

‘I don’t know what’s in your mind, Lizaveta Prokofievna. What I can see is that you’re upset over this letter. You will agree that I could refuse to answer a question like that, but to show you that I’m not afraid of anything to do with the letter and don’t regret writing it, and that I’m certainly not blushing because of that (here the prince blushed twice as deeply as before), I’ll read you the letter, as I believe I can remember it by heart.’

So saying, the prince repeated the letter almost word for word.

‘What a rigmarole! What is this nonsense supposed to mean?’ enquired Lizaveta Prokofievna bluntly, after listening to the letter with close attention.

‘I don’t really know myself, altogether: I know my feelings were sincere. I did have moments of intense existence and soaring hopes there.’

‘What sort of hopes?’

‘It’s hard to explain, but they weren’t the kind you’re perhaps thinking of. Hopes … well, in a word hopes for the future and joy, hopes that there I wasn’t a foreigner, an alien being. I was suddenly very pleased to be back in my native land. So one sunny morning I picked up a pen and wrote her a letter; why to her, I don’t know. Sometimes one feels like having a friend close by; that must have been how it was with me …’, added the prince, after a pause.

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