Page 221 - the-idiot

‘Poor Peter Volhofskoi was desperately in love with Anfi-
sa Alexeyevna. I don’t know whether there was anything—I
mean I don’t know whether he could possibly have in-
dulged in any hope. The poor fellow was beside himself to
get her a bouquet of camellias. Countess Sotski and Sophia
Bespalova, as everyone knew, were coming with white ca-
mellia bouquets. Anfisa wished for red ones, for effect. Well,
her husband Platon was driven desperate to find some. And
the day before the ball, Anfisa’s rival snapped up the only
red camellias to be had in the place, from under Platon’s
nose, and Platon—wretched man—was done for. Now if Pe-
ter had only been able to step in at this moment with a red
bouquet, his little hopes might have made gigantic strides.
A woman’s gratitude under such circumstances would have
been boundless—but it was practically an impossibility.
‘The night before the ball I met Peter, looking radiant.
‘What is it?’ I ask. ‘I’ve found them, Eureka!’ ‘No! where,
where?’ ‘At Ekshaisk (a little town fifteen miles off) there’s a
rich old merchant, who keeps a lot of canaries, has no chil-
dren, and he and his wife are devoted to flowers. He’s got
some camellias.’ ‘And what if he won’t let you have them?’
‘I’ll go on my knees and implore till I get them. I won’t go
away.’ ‘When shall you start?’ ‘Tomorrow morning at five
o’clock.’ ‘Go on,’ I said, ‘and good luck to you.’
‘I was glad for the poor fellow, and went home. But an
idea got hold of me somehow. I don’t know how. It was
nearly two in the morning. I rang the bell and ordered the
coachman to be waked up and sent to me. He came. I gave
him a tip of fifteen roubles, and told him to get the carriage

0 The Idiot