But here an incident suddenly occurred, and the orator's speech was interrupted in the most unexpected way.
This whole feverish tirade, this whole flow of passionate and agitated words and ecstatic thoughts, as if thronging in some sort of turmoil and leaping over each other, all this foreboded something dangerous, something peculiar in the mood of the young man, who
had boiled up so suddenly for no apparent reason. Of those present in the drawing room, all who knew the prince marveled fearfully (and some also with shame) at his outburst, which so disagreed with his usual and even timid restraint, with the rare and particular tact he showed on certain occasions and his instinctive sense of higher propriety. They could not understand where it came from: the news about Pavlishchev could not have been the cause of it. In the ladies' corner they looked at him as at one gone mad, and Belokonsky later confessed that "another moment and she would have run for her life." The "little old men" were nearly at a loss from their initial amazement; the general-superior gazed, displeased and stern, from his chair. The engineer-colonel sat perfectly motionless. The little German even turned pale, but was still smiling his false smile, glancing at the others to see how they would react. However, all this and "the whole scandal" could have been resolved in the most ordinary and natural way, perhaps, even a minute later; Ivan Fyodorovich was extremely surprised but, having collected his thoughts sooner than the others, had already tried several times to stop the prince; failing in that, he was now making his way towards him with firm and resolute purposes. Another moment and, if it had really been necessary, he might have decided to take the prince out amicably, under the pretext of his illness, which might actually have been true and of which Ivan Fyodorovich was very much convinced in himself. . . But things turned out otherwise.
From the very beginning, as soon as the prince entered the drawing room, he sat down as far as possible from the Chinese vase, with which Aglaya had frightened him so. Can one possibly believe that, after Aglaya's words the day before, some sort of indelible conviction settled in him, some sort of astonishing and impossible premonition that the next day he would unfailingly break that vase, however far away he kept from it, however much he avoided the disaster? But it was so. In the course of the evening other strong but bright impressions began to flow into his soul; we have already spoken of that. He forgot his premonition. When he heard about Pavlishchev, and Ivan Fyodorovich brought him and introduced him again to Ivan Petrovich, he moved closer to the table and ended up right in the armchair next to the enormous, beautiful Chinese vase, which stood on a pedestal almost at his elbow, slightly behind him.
With his last words he suddenly got up from his place, carelessly waved his arm, somehow moved his shoulder—and ... a general
cry rang out! The vase rocked, as if undecided at first whether it might not fall on the head of one of the little old men, but suddenly it leaned in the opposite direction, towards the little German, who barely managed to jump aside in terror, and toppled onto the floor. Noise, shouts, precious pieces scattered over the rug, fear, amazement—oh, it is difficult and almost unnecessary to depict how it was for the prince! But we cannot omit mention of one strange sensation that struck him precisely at that very moment and suddenly made itself distinct in the crowd of all the other vague and strange sensations: it was not the shame, not the scandal, not the fear, not the unexpectedness that struck him most of all, but the fulfilled prophecy! Precisely what was so thrilling in this thought he would have been unable to explain to himself; he felt only that he was struck to the heart, and he stood in a fear that was almost mystical. Another moment and everything before him seemed to expand, instead of horror there was light, joy, rapture; his breath was taken away, and . . . but the moment passed. Thank God, it was not that! He caught his breath and looked around.
For a long time he seemed not to understand the turmoil seething around him, that is, he understood it perfectly well and saw everything, but stood as if he were a special person, not taking part in anything, like the invisible man in a fairy tale, who has gotten into a room and is observing people who are strangers but who interest him. He saw the broken pieces being removed, heard rapid talk, saw Aglaya, pale and looking at him strangely, very strangely: there was no hatred in her eyes at all, nor any wrath; she looked at him with frightened but such sympathetic eyes, and at the others with such flashing eyes ... his heart suddenly ached sweetly. Finally he saw with strange amazement that everyone was sitting down and even laughing, as if nothing had happened! Another moment and the laughter grew louder; they laughed looking at him, at his stunned speechlessness, but they laughed amicably, merrily; many addressed him and spoke so gently, above all Lizaveta Prokofyevna: she was laughing and saying something very, very kind. Suddenly he felt Ivan Fyodorovich giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder; Ivan Petrovich was also laughing; but still better, still more attractive and sympathetic was the little old man; he took the prince by the hand and, pressing it lightly, patting it lightly with the palm of his other hand, was persuading him to recollect himself, as if he were a frightened little boy, which the prince liked terribly much, and finally sat him down next to him.
The prince peered into his face with delight and for some reason was still unable to speak; he was breathless; he liked the old man's face so much.
"What?" he finally murmured. "So you really forgive me? And . . . you, too, Lizaveta Prokofyevna?"