Here is what happened:
Having gone right to the steps of the terrace, Ippolit stopped, holding the glass in his left hand, his right hand thrust into the right side pocket of his coat. Keller insisted later that Ippolit had kept that hand in his right pocket before as well, while he was talking with the prince and clutching at his shoulder and collar with his left hand, and this right hand in the pocket, Keller insisted, had supposedly aroused a first suspicion in him. Be that as it may, a
certain uneasiness made him also run after Ippolit. But he, too, was late. He saw only how something suddenly flashed in Ippolit's right hand, and in that same second the small pocket pistol was pressed to his temple. Keller rushed to seize his hand, but in that same second Ippolit pulled the trigger. The sharp, dry click of the trigger rang out, but no shot followed. As Keller put his arms around Ippolit, the latter collapsed as if unconscious, perhaps indeed imagining that he was killed. The pistol was already in Keller's hand. Ippolit was picked up, a chair was brought, he was seated, and everyone crowded around, everyone shouted, everyone asked questions. Everyone had heard the click of the trigger and now saw the man alive, not even scratched. Ippolit himself sat, not understanding what was happening, and looked at everyone around him with senseless eyes. Lebedev and Kolya came running at that moment.
"A misfire?" some asked.
"Maybe it's not loaded?" others tried to guess.
"It is loaded!" Keller announced, examining the pistol, "but. . ."
"A misfire, then?"
"There wasn't any cap," Keller declared.
It is hard to describe the pitiful scene that followed. The initial and general alarm quickly gave way to laughter; some even guffawed, finding a malicious pleasure in it. Ippolit sobbed as if in hysterics, wrung his hands, rushed to everyone, even to Ferdyshchenko, seized him with both hands, and swore to him that he had forgotten, "had forgotten quite by chance and not on purpose" to put a cap in, that "the caps are all here in his waistcoat pocket, about ten of them" (he showed them to everyone around him), that he had not put one in earlier for fear it might accidentally go off in his pocket, that he had reckoned he would always have time to put one in when necessary, and had suddenly forgotten. He rushed to the prince, to Evgeny Pavlovich, he implored Keller to give him the pistol, so that he could prove it to them all right then, that "his honor, honor" . . . that he was now "dishonored forever! ..."
In the end he really fell unconscious. They carried him to the prince's study, and Lebedev, completely sobered, immediately sent for the doctor and stayed at the sick boy's bedside, along with his daughter, his son, Burdovsky, and the general. When the unconscious Ippolit was taken out, Keller stepped to the middle of the room and announced for everyone to hear, distinctly and emphasizing each word, in decided inspiration:
"Gentlemen, if any of you doubts once more, aloud, in my presence, whether the cap was forgotten on purpose, and begins to maintain that the unfortunate young man was only putting on a show—that person will have to deal with me."
No one answered him. The guests finally left in a crowd and hurriedly. Ptitsyn, Ganya, and Rogozhin went off together.
The prince was very surprised that Evgeny Pavlovich had changed his mind and was leaving without having a talk with him.
"Didn't you want to talk to me once everyone was gone?" he asked him.
"So I did," said Evgeny Pavlovich, suddenly sitting down on a chair and sitting the prince down next to him, "but for the time being I've changed my mind. I'll confess to you that I'm somewhat perplexed, and you are, too. My thoughts are confused; besides, the matter I wanted to talk over with you is all too important for me, and for you, too. You see, Prince, I would like at least once in my life to do a completely honest deed, that is, completely without second thoughts, but I think that right now, at this moment, I'm not quite capable of a completely honest deed, and perhaps you're not either . . . so . . . and . . . well, we'll talk later. Perhaps the matter will gain in clarity, both for me and for you, if we wait those three days which I shall now be spending in Petersburg."
Here he got up from his chair again, which made it strange that he had sat down at all. It also seemed to the prince that Evgeny Pavlovich was displeased and irritated and looked about hostilely, and his gaze was not at all what it had been yesterday.
"By the way, are you going to the sufferer now?"
"Yes . . . I'm afraid," said the prince.
"Don't be afraid; he'll probably live another six weeks and may even recover here. But the best thing would be to send him away tomorrow."
"Maybe I really forced his hand by . . . not saying anything; maybe he thought that I, too, doubted that he would shoot himself? What do you think, Evgeny Pavlych?"
"No, no. It's too kind of you to be still worried. I've heard of it, but I've never seen in real life how a man can purposely shoot himself in order to be praised, or out of spite at not being praised. Above all, this sincerity of weakness is not to be believed! But you should still send him away tomorrow."
"You think he'll shoot himself again?"
"No, he won't shoot himself now. But you should beware of these homegrown Lacenaires 21of ours! I repeat to you that crime is all too common a resort for such giftless, impatient, and greedy nonentities."
"Is he a Lacenaire?"
"The essence is the same, though the line may be different. You'll see whether this gentleman isn't capable of doing in a dozen souls merely for a joke,' just as he read earlier in his 'Explanation.' Now those words won't let me sleep."
"Perhaps you're worrying too much."
"You're amazing, Prince. Don't you believe he's capable nowof killing a dozen souls?"
"I'm afraid to answer you; it's all very strange, but . . ."
"Well, as you wish, as you wish!" Evgeny Pavlovich concluded irritably. "Besides, you're such a brave man; only don't get yourself included in that dozen."
"Most likely he won't kill anybody," said the prince, looking pensively at Evgeny Pavlovich.
The man laughed maliciously.
"Good-bye, it's time to go! And did you notice that he bequeathed a copy of his 'Confession' to Aglaya Ivanovna?"
"Yes, I did and . . . I'm thinking about it."
"Do so, in case of those dozen souls," Evgeny Pavlovich laughed again and left.
An hour later, already past three o'clock, the prince went down into the park. He had tried to fall asleep at home, but could not, because of the violent beating of his heart. At home, however, everything was settled and peaceful, as far as possible; the sick boy had fallen asleep, and the doctor had come and had declared that there was no special danger. Lebedev, Kolya, and Burdovsky lay down in the sick boy's room to take turns watching over him; there was therefore nothing to fear.
But the prince's uneasiness was growing minute by minute. He wandered through the park, absentmindedly looking around, and stopped in surprise when he came to the green in front of the vauxhall and saw a row of empty benches and music stands for the orchestra. The place struck him and for some reason seemed terribly ugly. He turned back and straight down the path he had taken to the vauxhall the day before with the Epanchins, which brought him to the green bench appointed to him for the meeting, sat down on it, and suddenly laughed out loud, which at once