“Draw the scaffold so that only the top step of the ladder comes in clearly. The criminal must be just stepping on to it, his face as white as notepaper. The priest is holding the cross to his blue lips, and the criminal kisses it, and knows and sees and understands everything. The cross and the head—there’s your picture; the priest and the executioner, with his two assistants, and a few heads and eyes below. Those might come in as subordinate accessories—a sort of mist. There’s a picture for you.” The prince paused, and looked around.
“Certainly that isn’t much like quietism,” murmured Alexandra, half to herself.
“Now tell us about your love affairs,” said Adelaida, after a moment’s pause.
The prince gazed at her in amazement.
“You know,” Adelaida continued, “you owe us a description of the Basle picture; but first I wish to hear how you fell in love. Don’t deny the fact, for you did, of course. Besides, you stop philosophizing when you are telling about anything.”
“Why are you ashamed of your stories the moment after you have told them?” asked Aglaya, suddenly.
“How silly you are!” said Mrs. Epanchin, looking indignantly towards the last speaker.
“Yes, that wasn’t a clever remark,” said Alexandra.
“Don’t listen to her, prince,” said Mrs. Epanchin; “she says that sort of thing out of mischief. Don’t think anything of their nonsense, it means nothing. They love to chaff, but they like you. I can see it in their faces—I know their faces.”