"Ah, don't, don't!" she exclaimed in fear, quickly pulling her hand away.
She soon left in some strange embarrassment. Among other things, she had time to tell him that that morning, at daybreak, her
father had gone running to "the deceased," as he called the general, to find out whether or not he had died in the night, and had heard it said that he would probably die soon. Towards noon Lebedev himself came home and called on the prince, but, essentially, "just for a moment, to inquire after his precious health," and so on, and, besides that, to pay a visit to the "little cupboard." He did nothing but "oh" and "ah," and the prince quickly dismissed him, but all the same the man tried to ask questions about yesterday's fit, though it was obvious that he already knew about it in detail. Kolya stopped to see him, also for a moment; this one was indeed in a hurry and in great and dark anxiety. He began by asking the prince, directly and insistently, to explain everything that had been concealed from him, adding that he had already learned almost everything yesterday. He was strongly and deeply shaken.
With all the possible sympathy that he was capable of, the prince recounted the whole affair, restoring the facts with full exactitude, and he struck the poor boy as if with a thunderbolt. He could not utter a word, and wept silently. The prince sensed that this was one of those impressions that remain forever and mark a permanent break in a young man's life. He hastened to tell him his own view of the affair, adding that in his opinion the old man's death had been caused, mainly, by the horror that remained in his heart after his misdeed, and that not everyone was capable of that. Kolya's eyes flashed as he heard the prince out.
"Worthless Ganka, and Varya, and Ptitsyn! I'm not going to quarrel with them, but our paths are different from this moment on! Ah, Prince, since yesterday I've felt so much that's new; it's a lesson for me! I also consider my mother as directly on my hands now; though she's provided for at Varya's, it's all not right . . ."
He jumped up, remembering that he was expected, hurriedly asked about the state of the prince's health and, having heard the answer, suddenly added hastily:
"Is there anything else? I heard yesterday . . . (though I have no right), but if you ever need a faithful servant in anything, he's here before you. It seems neither of us is entirely happy, isn't it so? But . . . I'm not asking, I'm not asking . . ."
He left, and the prince began to ponder still more deeply: everyone was prophesying unhappiness, everyone had already drawn conclusions, everyone looked as if they knew something, and something that he did not know; Lebedev asks questions, Kolya hints outright, and Vera weeps. At last he waved his hand in vexation:
"Cursed, morbid insecurity," he thought. His face brightened when, past one o'clock, he saw the Epanchins coming to call on him "for a moment." They indeed dropped in for a moment. Lizaveta Prokofyevna, getting up from lunch, announced that they were all going for a walk right then and together. The information was given in the form of an order, abruptly, drily, without explanations. They all went out—that is, mama, the girls, and Prince Shch. Lizaveta Prokofyevna went straight in the opposite direction from the one they took every day. They all understood what it meant, and they all kept silent, fearing to annoy the mother, while she, as if to shelter herself from reproaches and objections, walked ahead of them all without looking back. Finally Adelaida observed that there was no need to run like that during a stroll and that there was no keeping up with mother.
"I tell you what," Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly turned around, "we're now passing his house. Whatever Aglaya may think and whatever may happen afterwards, he's not a stranger to us, and now on top of it he's unhappy and sick; I at least will stop and see him. Whoever wants to come with me can come, whoever doesn't can walk past; the way is clear."
They all went in, of course. The prince, as was proper, hastened once again to apologize for yesterday's vase and . . . the scandal.
"Well, never mind that," replied Lizaveta Prokofyevna, "we're not sorry for the vase, we're sorry for you. So you yourself now realize that there was a scandaclass="underline" that's what 'the morning after . . .' means, but never mind that either, because everyone can see now that you're not answerable for anything. Well, good-bye, anyhow; if you're strong enough, go for a walk and then sleep again—that's my advice. And if you think of it, come and see us as formerly; rest assured, once and for all, that whatever happens, whatever may come, you'll still remain a friend of our house: of mine at least. I can at least answer for myself . . ."
They all responded to the challenge and confirmed the mother's feelings. They left, but this simple-hearted haste to say something affectionate and encouraging concealed much that was cruel, of which Lizaveta Prokofyevna was unaware. In the invitation to come "as formerly" and in the words "of mine at least" again something ominous sounded. The prince began to remember Aglaya; true, she had smiled wonderfully at him as she came in and as she left, but she had not said a word, even when they had all expressed their assurances of friendship, though she had looked
at him intently a couple of times. Her face had been paler than usual, as if she had slept badly that night. The prince decided that he would certainly go to them that evening "as formerly," and he glanced feverishly at his watch. Vera came in exactly three minutes after the Epanchins left.
"Lev Nikolaevich, Aglaya Ivanovna has just given me a little word for you in secret." The prince simply trembled. "A note?"
"No, verbally; she barely had time. She asks you very much not to leave your house all day today, not for a single moment, till seven o'clock in the evening, or even till nine, I didn't quite hear." "But . . . what for? What does it mean?"
"I don't know anything about that; only she asked me to tell you firmly."
"She said 'firmly'?"
"No, sir, she didn't say it straight out: she barely had time to turn around and tell me, once I ran up to her myself. But firmly or not, I could see by her face that it was an order. She looked at me with such eyes that my heart stopped . . ."
A few more questions and the prince, though he learned nothing further, instead became still more anxious. Left alone, he lay on the sofa and again began to think. "Maybe someone will be there till nine o'clock, and she's afraid for me again, that I might act up again in front of the guests," he thought up finally and again began waiting impatiently for evening and looking at his watch. But the answer to the riddle came long before evening and also in the form of a new visit, an answer in the form of a new, tormenting riddle: exactly half an hour after the Epanchins left, Ippolit came in, so tired and worn out that, on coming in, and without saying a word, he literally collapsed into an armchair, as if unconscious, and instantly broke into an unbearable fit of coughing. In the end he coughed up blood. His eyes glittered and red spots glowed on his cheeks. The prince murmured something to him, but he did not answer and for a long time, without answering, only waved his hand, so as not to be bothered meanwhile. Finally he recovered.