Antip Burdovsky, was about twenty-two years of age, fair,thin and rather tall. He was remarkable for the poverty, not to sayuncleanliness, of his personal appearance: the sleeves of his overcoatwere greasy; his dirty waistcoat, buttoned up to his neck, showed not atrace of linen; a filthy black silk scarf, twisted till it resembled acord, was round his neck, and his hands were unwashed. He looked roundwith an air of insolent effrontery. His face, covered with pimples,was neither thoughtful nor even contemptuous; it wore an expressionof complacent satisfaction in demanding his rights and in being anaggrieved party. His voice trembled, and he spoke so fast, and with suchstammerings, that he might have been taken for a foreigner, thoughthe purest Russian blood ran in his veins. Lebedeff’s nephew, whomthe reader has seen already, accompanied him, and also the youth namedHippolyte Terentieff. The latter was only seventeen or eighteen. Hehad an intelligent face, though it was usually irritated and fretfulin expression. His skeleton-like figure, his ghastly complexion, thebrightness of his eyes, and the red spots of colour on his cheeks,betrayed the victim of consumption to the most casual glance. He coughedpersistently, and panted for breath; it looked as though he had buta few weeks more to live. He was nearly dead with fatigue, and fell,rather than sat, into a chair. The rest bowed as they came in; and beingmore or less abashed, put on an air of extreme self-assurance. In short,their attitude was not that which one would have expected in men whoprofessed to despise all trivialities, all foolish mundane conventions,and indeed everything, except their own personal interests.
“Antip Burdovsky,” stuttered the son of Pavlicheff.
“Vladimir Doktorenko,” said Lebedeff’s nephew briskly, and with acertain pride, as if he boasted of his name.
“Keller,” murmured the retired officer.
“Hippolyte Terentieff,” cried the last-named, in a shrill voice.
They sat now in a row facing the prince, and frowned, and played withtheir caps. All appeared ready to speak, and yet all were silent; thedefiant expression on their faces seemed to say, “No, sir, you don’ttake us in!” It could be felt that the first word spoken by anyonepresent would bring a torrent of speech from the whole deputation.
VIII.
“I _did_ not expect you, gentlemen,” began the prince. “I have been illuntil to-day. A month ago,” he continued, addressing himself to AntipBurdovsky, “I put your business into Gavrila Ardalionovitch Ivolgin’shands, as I told you then. I do not in the least object to having apersonal interview... but you will agree with me that this is hardly thetime... I propose that we go into another room, if you will not keep melong... As you see, I have friends here, and believe me...”
“Friends as many as you please, but allow me,” interrupted the harshvoice of Lebedeff’s nephew--“allow me to tell you that you might havetreated us rather more politely, and not have kept us waiting at leasttwo hours...
“No doubt... and I... is that acting like a prince? And you... you maybe a general! But I... I am not your valet! And I... I...” stammeredAntip Burdovsky.
He was extremely excited; his lips trembled, and the resentment of anembittered soul was in his voice. But he spoke so indistinctly thathardly a dozen words could be gathered.
“It was a princely action!” sneered Hippolyte.
“If anyone had treated me so,” grumbled the boxer.
“I mean to say that if I had been in Burdovsky’s place...I...”
“Gentlemen, I did not know you were there; I have only just beeninformed, I assure you,” repeated Muishkin.
“We are not afraid of your friends, prince,” remarked Lebedeff’s nephew,“for we are within our rights.”
The shrill tones of Hippolyte interrupted him. “What right have you...by what right do you demand us to submit this matter, about Burdovsky...to the judgment of your friends? We know only too well what the judgmentof your friends will be!...”
This beginning gave promise of a stormy discussion. The prince wasmuch discouraged, but at last he managed to make himself heard amid thevociferations of his excited visitors.
“If you,” he said, addressing Burdovsky--“if you prefer not to speakhere, I offer again to go into another room with you... and as to yourwaiting to see me, I repeat that I only this instant heard...”
“Well, you have no right, you have no right, no right at all!... Yourfriends indeed!”... gabbled Burdovsky, defiantly examining the facesround him, and becoming more and more excited. “You have no right!...” As he ended thus abruptly, he leant forward, staring at the prince withhis short-sighted, bloodshot eyes. The latter was so astonished, that hedid not reply, but looked steadily at him in return.
“Lef Nicolaievitch!” interposed Madame Epanchin, suddenly, “read this atonce, this very moment! It is about this business.”
She held out a weekly comic paper, pointing to an article on one ofits pages. Just as the visitors were coming in, Lebedeff, wishing toingratiate himself with the great lady, had pulled this paper from hispocket, and presented it to her, indicating a few columns marked inpencil. Lizabetha Prokofievna had had time to read some of it, and wasgreatly upset.
“Would it not be better to peruse it alone... later,” asked the prince,nervously.
“No, no, read it--read it at once directly, and aloud, aloud!” criedshe, calling Colia to her and giving him the journal.--“Read it aloud,so that everyone may hear it!”
An impetuous woman, Lizabetha Prokofievna sometimes weighed her anchorsand put out to sea quite regardless of the possible storms she mightencounter. Ivan Fedorovitch felt a sudden pang of alarm, but the otherswere merely curious, and somewhat surprised. Colia unfolded the paper,and began to read, in his clear, high-pitched voice, the followingarticle:
“Proletarians and scions of nobility! An episode of the brigandage oftoday and every day! Progress! Reform! Justice!”
“Strange things are going on in our so-called Holy Russia in this age ofreform and great enterprises; this age of patriotism in which hundredsof millions are yearly sent abroad; in which industry is encouraged, andthe hands of Labour paralyzed, etc.; there is no end to this, gentlemen,so let us come to the point. A strange thing has happened to a scionof our defunct aristocracy. (_De profundis!_) The grandfathers of thesescions ruined themselves at the gaming-tables; their fathers were forcedto serve as officers or subalterns; some have died just as they wereabout to be tried for innocent thoughtlessness in the handling of publicfunds. Their children are sometimes congenital idiots, like the hero ofour story; sometimes they are found in the dock at the Assizes, wherethey are generally acquitted by the jury for edifying motives; sometimesthey distinguish themselves by one of those burning scandals that amazethe public and add another blot to the stained record of our age. Sixmonths ago--that is, last winter--this particular scion returned toRussia, wearing gaiters like a foreigner, and shivering with cold inan old scantily-lined cloak. He had come from Switzerland, where hehad just undergone a successful course of treatment for idiocy (_sic!_).Certainly Fortune favoured him, for, apart from the interesting maladyof which he was cured in Switzerland (can there be a cure for idiocy?)his story proves the truth of the Russian proverb that ‘happiness isthe right of certain classes!’ Judge for yourselves. Our subject was aninfant in arms when he lost his father, an officer who died just ashe was about to be court-martialled for gambling away the funds of hiscompany, and perhaps also for flogging a subordinate to excess (rememberthe good old days, gentlemen). The orphan was brought up by the charityof a very rich Russian landowner. In the good old days, this man,whom we will call P----, owned four thousand souls as serfs (souls asserfs!--can you understand such an expression, gentlemen? I cannot; itmust be looked up in a dictionary before one can understand it; thesethings of a bygone day are already unintelligible to us). He appearsto have been one of those Russian parasites who lead an idle existenceabroad, spending the summer at some spa, and the winter in Paris, to thegreater profit of the organizers of public balls. It may safely be saidthat the manager of the Chateau des Fleurs (lucky man!) po
cketed atleast a third of the money paid by Russian peasants to their lords inthe days of serfdom. However this may be, the gay P---- brought up theorphan like a prince, provided him with tutors and governesses (pretty,of course!) whom he chose himself in Paris. But the little aristocrat,the last of his noble race, was an idiot. The governesses, recruited atthe Chateau des Fleurs, laboured in vain; at twenty years of age theirpupil could not speak in any language, not even Russian. But ignoranceof the latter was still excusable. At last P---- was seized with astrange notion; he imagined that in Switzerland they could change anidiot into a man of sense. After all, the idea was quite logical;a parasite and landowner naturally supposed that intelligence was amarketable commodity like everything else, and that in Switzerlandespecially it could be bought for money. The case was entrusted to acelebrated Swiss professor, and cost thousands of roubles; thetreatment lasted five years. Needless to say, the idiot did not becomeintelligent, but it is alleged that he grew into something more or lessresembling a man. At this stage P---- died suddenly,