What have I done wrong now? cried Colia. What was the good of telling you that the prince was nearly well again? You would not have believed me; it was so much more interesting to picture him on his death-bed.

How long do you remain here, prince? asked Madame Epanchin.

All the summer, and perhaps longer.

You are alone, aren’t you,—not married?

No, I’m not married! replied the prince, smiling at the ingenuousness of this little feeler.

Oh, you needn’t laugh! These things do happen, you know! Now then—why didn’t you come to us? We have a wing quite empty. But just as you like, of course. Do you lease it from him?—this fellow, I mean, she added, nodding towards Lebedeff. And why does he always wriggle so?

At that moment Vera, carrying the baby in her arms as usual, came out of the house, on to the terrace. Lebedeff kept fidgeting among the chairs, and did not seem to know what to do with himself, though he had no intention of going away. He no sooner caught sight of his daughter, than he rushed in her direction, waving his arms to keep her away; he even forgot himself so far as to stamp his foot.

Is he mad? asked Madame Epanchin suddenly.

No, he…

Perhaps he is drunk? Your company is rather peculiar, she added, with a glance at the other guests….

But what a pretty girl! Who is she?

That is Lebedeff’s daughter—Vera Lukianovna.

Indeed? She looks very sweet. I should like to make her acquaintance.

The words were hardly out of her mouth, when Lebedeff dragged Vera forward, in order to present her.

Orphans, poor orphans! he began in a pathetic voice.

The child she carries is an orphan, too. She is Vera’s sister, my daughter Luboff. The day this babe was born, six weeks ago, my wife died, by the will of God Almighty…. Yes… Vera takes her mother’s place, though she is but her sister… nothing more… nothing more…

And you! You are nothing more than a fool, if you’ll excuse me! Well! well! you know that yourself, I expect, said the lady indignantly.

Lebedeff bowed low. It is the truth, he replied, with extreme respect.

Oh, Mr. Lebedeff, I am told you lecture on the Apocalypse. Is it true? asked Aglaya.

Yes, that is so… for the last fifteen years.

I have heard of you, and I think read of you in the newspapers.

No, that was another commentator, whom the papers named. He is dead, however, and I have taken his place, said the other, much delighted.

We are neighbours, so will you be so kind as to come over one day and explain the Apocalypse to me? said Aglaya. I do not understand it in the least.

Allow me to warn you, interposed General Ivolgin, that he is the greatest charlatan on earth. He had taken the chair next to the girl, and was impatient to begin talking. No doubt there are pleasures and amusements peculiar to the country, he continued, and to listen to a pretended student holding forth on the book of the Revelations may be as good as any other. It may even be original. But… you seem to be looking at me with some surprise—may I introduce myself—General Ivolgin—I carried you in my arms as a baby—

Delighted, I’m sure, said Aglaya; I am acquainted with Varvara Ardalionovna and Nina Alexandrovna. She was trying hard to restrain herself from laughing.

Mrs. Epanchin flushed up; some accumulation of spleen in her suddenly needed an outlet. She could not bear this General Ivolgin whom she had once known, long ago—in society.

You are deviating from the truth, sir, as usual! she remarked, boiling over with indignation; you never carried her in your life!

You have forgotten, mother, said Aglaya, suddenly. He really did carry me about,—in Tver, you know. I was six years old, I remember. He made me a bow and arrow, and I shot a pigeon. Don’t you remember shooting a pigeon, you and I, one day?

Yes, and he made me a cardboard helmet, and a little wooden sword—I remember! said Adelaida.

Yes, I remember too! said Alexandra. You quarrelled about the wounded pigeon, and Adelaida was put in the corner, and stood there with her helmet and sword and all.

The poor general had merely made the remark about having carried Aglaya in his arms because he always did so begin a conversation with young people. But it happened that this time he had really hit upon the truth, though he had himself entirely forgotten the fact. But when Adelaida and Aglaya recalled the episode of the pigeon, his mind became filled with memories, and it is impossible to describe how this poor old man, usually half drunk, was moved by the recollection.

I remember—I remember it all! he cried. I was captain then. You were such a lovely little thing—Nina Alexandrovna!—Gania, listen! I was received then by General Epanchin.

Yes, and look what you have come to now! interrupted Mrs. Epanchin. However, I see you have not quite drunk your better feelings away. But you’ve broken your wife’s heart, sir—and instead of looking after your children, you have spent your time in public-houses and debtors’ prisons! Go away, my friend, stand in some corner and weep, and bemoan your fallen dignity, and perhaps God will forgive you yet! Go, go! I’m serious! There’s nothing so favourable for repentance as to think of the past with feelings of remorse!

There was no need to repeat that she was serious. The general, like all drunkards, was extremely emotional and easily touched by recollections of his better days. He rose and walked quietly to the door, so meekly that Mrs. Epanchin was instantly sorry for him.

Ardalion Alexandrovitch, she cried after him, wait a moment, we are all sinners! When you feel that your conscience reproaches you a little less, come over to me and we’ll have a talk about the past! I dare say I am fifty times more of a sinner than you are! And now go, go, good-bye, you had better not stay here! she added, in alarm, as he turned as though to come back.

Don’t go after him just now, Colia, or he’ll be vexed, and the benefit of this moment will be lost! said the prince, as the boy was hurrying out of the room.

Quite true! Much better to go in half an hour or so said Mrs. Epanchin.

That’s what comes of telling the truth for once in one’s life! said Lebedeff. It reduced him to tears.

Come, come! the less you say about it the better—to judge from all I have heard about you! replied Mrs. Epanchin.

The prince took the first opportunity of informing the Epanchin ladies that he had intended to pay them a visit that day, if they had not themselves come this afternoon, and Lizabetha Prokofievna replied that she hoped he would still do so.

By this time some of the visitors had disappeared.

Ptitsin had tactfully retreated to Lebedeff’s wing; and Gania soon followed him.

The latter had behaved modestly, but with dignity, on this occasion of his first meeting with the Epanchins since the rupture. Twice Mrs. Epanchin had deliberately examined him from head to foot; but he had stood fire without flinching. He was certainly much changed, as anyone could see who had not met him for some time; and this fact seemed to afford Aglaya a good deal of satisfaction.

That was Gavrila Ardalionovitch, who just went out, wasn’t it? she asked suddenly, interrupting somebody else’s conversation to make the remark.

Yes, it was, said the prince.

I hardly knew him; he is much changed, and for the better!

I am very glad, said the prince.

He has been very ill, added Varia.

How has he changed for the better? asked Mrs. Epanchin. I don’t see any change for the better! What’s better in him? Where did you get that idea from? what‘S better?

There’s nothing better than the ‘poor knight’! said Colia, who was standing near the last speaker’s chair.

I quite agree with you there! said Prince S., laughing.

So do I, said Adelaida, solemnly.

What poor knight? asked Mrs. Epanchin, looking round at the face of each of the speakers in turn. Seeing, however, that Aglaya was blushing, she added, angrily:

What nonsense you are all talking! What do you mean by poor knight?

It’s not the first time this urchin, your favourite, has shown his impudence by twisting other people’s words, said Aglaya, haughtily.

Every time that Aglaya showed temper (and this was very often), there was so much childish pouting, such school-girlishness, as it were, in her apparent wrath, that it was impossible to avoid smiling at her, to her own unutterable indignation. On these occasions she would say, How can they, how dare they laugh at me?

This time everyone laughed at her, her sisters, Prince S., Prince Muishkin (though he himself had flushed for some reason), and Colia. Aglaya was dreadfully indignant, and looked twice as pretty in her wrath.

He’s always twisting round what one says, she cried.

I am only repeating your own exclamation! said Colia. A month ago you were turning over the pages of your Don Quixote, and suddenly called out ‘there is nothing better than the poor knight.’ I don’t know whom you were referring to, of course, whether to Don Quixote, or Evgenie Pavlovitch, or someone else, but you certainly said these words, and afterwards there was a long conversation…

You are inclined to go a little too far, my good boy, with your guesses, said Mrs. Epanchin, with some show of annoyance.

But it’s not I alone, cried Colia. They all talked about it, and they do still. Why, just now Prince S. and Adelaida Ivanovna declared that they upheld ‘the poor knight’; so evidently there does exist a ‘poor knight’; and if it were not for Adelaida Ivanovna, we should have known long ago who the ‘poor knight’ was.

Why, how am I to blame? asked Adelaida, smiling.

You wouldn’t draw his portrait for us, that’s why you are to blame! Aglaya Ivanovna asked you to draw his portrait, and gave you the whole subject of the picture. She invented it herself; and you wouldn’t.

What was I to draw? According to the lines she quoted:

‘From his face he never lifted

That eternal mask of steel.’

What sort of a face was I to draw? I couldn’t draw a mask.

I don’t know what you are driving at; what mask do you mean? said Mrs. Epanchin, irritably. She began to see pretty clearly though what it meant, and whom they referred to by the generally accepted title of poor knight. But what specially annoyed her was that the prince was looking so uncomfortable, and blushing like a ten-year-old child.

Well, have you finished your silly joke? she added, and am I to be told what this ‘poor knight’ means, or is it a solemn secret which cannot be approached lightly?

But they all laughed on.

It’s simply that there is a Russian poem, began Prince S., evidently anxious to change the conversation, a strange thing, without beginning or end, and all about a ‘poor knight.’ A month or so ago, we were all talking and laughing, and looking up a subject for one of Adelaida’s pictures—you know it is the principal business of this family to find subjects for Adelaida’s pictures. Well, we happened upon this ‘poor knight.’ I don’t remember who thought of it first—

Oh! Aglaya Ivanovna did, said Colia.

Very likely—I don’t recollect, continued Prince S.

Some of us laughed at the subject; some liked it; but she declared that, in order to make a picture of the gentleman, she must first see his face. We then began to think over all our friends’ faces to see if any of them would do, and none suited us, and so the matter stood; that’s all. I don’t know why Nicolai Ardalionovitch has brought up the joke now. What was appropriate and funny then, has quite lost all interest by this time.

Probably there’s some new silliness about it, said Mrs. Epanchin, sarcastically.

There is no silliness about it at all—only the profoundest respect, said Aglaya, very seriously. She had quite recovered her temper; in fact, from certain signs, it was fair to conclude that she was delighted to see this joke going so far; and a careful observer might have remarked that her satisfaction dated from the moment when the fact of the prince’s confusion became apparent to all.

‘Profoundest respect!’ What nonsense! First, insane giggling, and then, all of a sudden, a display of ‘profoundest respect.’ Why respect? Tell me at once, why have you suddenly developed this ‘profound respect,’ eh?

Because, replied Aglaya gravely, in the poem the knight is described as a man capable of living up to an ideal all his life. That sort of thing is not to be found every day among the men of our times. In the poem it is not stated exactly what the ideal was, but it was evidently some vision, some revelation of pure Beauty, and the knight wore round his neck, instead of a scarf, a rosary. A device—A. N. B.—the meaning of which is not explained, was inscribed on his shield—

No, A. N. D., corrected Colia.

I say A. N. B., and so it shall be! cried Aglaya, irritably. Anyway, the ‘poor knight’ did not care what his lady was, or what she did. He had chosen his ideal, and he was bound to serve her, and break lances for her, and acknowledge her as the ideal of pure Beauty, whatever she might say or do afterwards. If she had taken to stealing, he would have championed her just the same. I think the poet desired to embody in this one picture the whole spirit of medieval chivalry and the platonic love of a pure and high-souled knight. Of course it’s all an ideal, and in the ‘poor knight’ that spirit reached the utmost limit of asceticism. He is a Don Quixote, only serious and not comical. I used not to understand him, and laughed at him, but now I love the ‘poor knight,’ and respect his actions.

So ended Aglaya; and, to look at her, it was difficult, indeed, to judge whether she was joking or in earnest.

Pooh! he was a fool, and his actions were the actions of a fool, said Mrs. Epanchin; and as for you, young woman, you ought to know better. At all events, you are not to talk like that again. What poem is it? Recite it! I want to hear this poem! I have hated poetry all my life. Prince, you must excuse this nonsense. We neither of us like this sort of thing! Be patient!

They certainly were put out, both of them.

The prince tried to say something, but he was too confused, and could not get his words out. Aglaya, who had taken such liberties in her little speech, was the only person present, perhaps, who was not in the least embarrassed. She seemed, in fact, quite pleased.

She now rose solemnly from her seat, walked to the centre of the terrace, and stood in front of the prince’s chair. All looked on with some surprise, and Prince S. and her sisters with feelings of decided alarm, to see what new frolic she was up to; it had gone quite far enough already, they thought. But Aglaya evidently thoroughly enjoyed the affectation and ceremony with which she was introducing her recitation of the poem.

Mrs. Epanchin was just wondering whether she would not forbid the performance after all, when, at the very moment that Aglaya commenced her declamation, two new guests, both talking loudly, entered from the street. The new arrivals were General Epanchin and a young man.

Their entrance caused some slight commotion.