The Adolescent

“I’ll bring Pyotr Ippolitovich,” Anna Andreevna got up. Her face shone with pleasure; she was glad to see how affectionate I was with the old man. But as soon as she went out, the old man’s face changed instantly. He glanced back hastily at the door, looked around, and, leaning towards me from the sofa, whispered in a frightened voice:

“Cher ami! Oh, if only I could see the two of them here together! Oh, cher enfant! ”

“Calm yourself, Prince . . .”

“Yes, yes, but . . . we’ll reconcile them, n’est-ce pas? It’s an empty little quarrel of two most worthy women, n’est-ce pas? I put my hopes in you alone . . . We’ll straighten it all out here; and what a strange apartment you have here,” he looked around almost fearfully, “and, you know, this landlord . . . he’s got such a face . . . Tell me, he’s not dangerous?”

“The landlord? Oh, no! how could he be dangerous?”

“C’est ça.¹⁰⁷ So much the better. Il semble qu’il est bête, ce gentilhomme.¹⁰⁸ Cher enfant, for Christ’s sake, don’t tell Anna Andreevna that I’m afraid of everything here; I praised everything here from the first, I praised the landlord, too. Listen, you know the story of von Sohn⁴²—remember?”

“What about it?”

“Rien, rien du tout . . . Mais je suis libre ici, n’est-ce pas? ¹⁰⁹

What do you think, can anything happen to me here . . . of the same sort?”

“But I assure you, dearest Prince . . . for pity’s sake!”

“Mon ami! Mon enfant! ” he exclaimed suddenly, clasping his hands before him and no longer hiding his fear. “If you do indeed have something . . . documents . . . in short, if you have anything to tell me, then don’t tell me; for God’s sake, don’t tell me anything; better not tell me at all . . . for as long as you can, don’t tell me . . .”

He was about to rush and embrace me; tears poured down his face; I can’t express how my heart was wrung: the poor old man was like a pathetic, weak, frightened child, stolen from his own nest by gypsies and taken to strangers. But we were kept from embracing: the door opened, and in came Anna Andreevna, not with the landlord, but with her brother, the kammerjunker. This novelty astounded me; I got up and made for the door.

“Arkady Makarovich, allow me to introduce you,” Anna Andreevna said loudly, so that I involuntarily had to stop.

“I’m only too well acquainted with your dear brother already,” I said distinctly, especially emphasizing the words “only too well.”

“Ah, there’s a terrible mistake here! And I do apo-lo-gize, my dear And . . . Andrei Makarovich,” the young man began to maunder, approaching me with an extraordinarily casual air and taking hold of my hand, which I was unable to withdraw. “It’s all my Stepan’s fault. He announced you so stupidly then that I took you for someone else—this was in Moscow,” he clarified for his sister, “then I tried my best to find you and explain, but I fell ill, ask her . . . Cher prince, nous devons être amis même par droit de naissance . . .”¹¹⁰

And the brazen young man even dared to put one arm around my shoulder, which was the height of familiarity. I drew back, but, in my embarrassment, preferred to leave quickly without saying a word. Going into my room, I sat down on the bed, thoughtful and agitated. The intrigue was suffocating me, yet I couldn’t just dumbfound Anna Andreevna and cut her down. I suddenly felt that she, too, was dear to me, and that her position was terrible.

III

AS I EXPECTED, she came into my room herself, having left the prince with her brother, who began telling him some society gossip, the most recent and fresh-baked, and instantly cheered up the impressionable old man. I got up from the bed silently and with a questioning look.

“I’ve told you everything, Arkady Makarovich,” she began directly. “Our fate is in your hands.”

“But I also warned you that I can’t . . . The most sacred duties prevent me from fulfilling your expectations . . .”

“Oh? So that’s your answer? Well, let me perish, but what of the old man? What are your expectations: will he lose his mind by evening?”

“No, he’ll lose his mind if I show him his daughter’s letter, in which she consults a lawyer about declaring her father insane!” I exclaimed vehemently. “That’s what he won’t be able to bear. You should know that he doesn’t believe this letter, he’s already told me!”

I lied about his telling me; but it was opportune.

“Already told you? Just as I thought! In that case, I’m lost. He was weeping just now and asking to be taken home.”

“Tell me, what does your plan in fact consist in?” I asked insistently.

She blushed, from wounded arrogance, so to speak, though she controlled herself: