Historical fiction; Russia -- Social conditions -- 1801-1917 -- Fiction
“Yes. First, he proposes to come and live in my house. Well and good;
but he sticks at nothing; he immediately makes himself one of the
family. We have talked over our respective relations several times, and
discovered that we are connected by marriage. It seems also that you
are a sort of nephew on his mother’s side; he was explaining it to me
again only yesterday. If you are his nephew, it follows that I must
also be a relation of yours, most excellent prince. Never mind about
that, it is only a foible; but just now he assured me that all his
life, from the day he was made an ensign to the 11th of last June, he
has entertained at least two hundred guests at his table every day.
Finally, he went so far as to say that they never rose from the table;
they dined, supped, and had tea, for fifteen hours at a stretch. This
went on for thirty years without a break; there was barely time to
change the table-cloth; directly one person left, another took his
place. On feast-days he entertained as many as three hundred guests,
and they numbered seven hundred on the thousandth anniversary of the
foundation of the Russian Empire. It amounts to a passion with him; it
makes one uneasy to hear of it. It is terrible to have to entertain
people who do things on such a scale. That is why I wonder whether such
a man is not too hospitable for you and me.”
“But you seem to be on the best of terms with him?”
“Quite fraternal—I look upon it as a joke. Let us be brothers-in-law,
it is all the same to me,—rather an honour than not. But in spite of
the two hundred guests and the thousandth anniversary of the Russian
Empire, I can see that he is a very remarkable man. I am quite sincere.
You said just now that I always looked as if I was going to tell you a
secret; you are right. I have a secret to tell you: a certain person
has just let me know that she is very anxious for a secret interview
with you.”
“Why should it be secret? Not at all; I will call on her myself
tomorrow.”
“No, oh no!” cried Lebedeff, waving his arms; “if she is afraid, it is
not for the reason you think. By the way, do you know that the monster
comes every day to inquire after your health?”
“You call him a monster so often that it makes me suspicious.”
“You must have no suspicions, none whatever,” said Lebedeff quickly. “I
only want you to know that the person in question is not afraid of him,
but of something quite, quite different.”
“What on earth is she afraid of, then? Tell me plainly, without any
more beating about the bush,” said the prince, exasperated by the
other’s mysterious grimaces.
“Ah that is the secret,” said Lebedeff, with a smile.
“Whose secret?”
“Yours. You forbade me yourself to mention it before you, most
excellent prince,” murmured Lebedeff. Then, satisfied that he had
worked up Muishkin’s curiosity to the highest pitch, he added abruptly:
“She is afraid of Aglaya Ivanovna.”
The prince frowned for a moment in silence, and then said suddenly:
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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