The Idiot

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

shall amuse them all with this story tomorrow!”

  He walked along the road towards his own house. His heart was beating,his thoughts were confused, everything around seemed to be part of adream.

  And suddenly, just as twice already he had awaked from sleep with thesame vision, that very apparition now seemed to rise up before him. Thewoman appeared to step out from the park, and stand in the path in frontof him, as though she had been waiting for him there.

  He shuddered and stopped; she seized his hand and pressed it frenziedly.

  No, this was no apparition!

  There she stood at last, face to face with him, for the first time sincetheir parting.

  She said something, but he looked silently back at her. His heart achedwith anguish. Oh! never would he banish the recollection of this meetingwith her, and he never remembered it but with the same pain and agony ofmind.

  She went on her knees before him--there in the open road--like amadwoman. He retreated a step, but she caught his hand and kissedit, and, just as in his dream, the tears were sparkling on her long,beautiful lashes.

  “Get up!” he said, in a frightened whisper, raising her. “Get up atonce!”

  “Are you happy--are you happy?” she asked. “Say this one word. Are youhappy now? Today, this moment? Have you just been with her? What did shesay?”

  She did not rise from her knees; she would not listen to him; she puther questions hurriedly, as though she were pursued.

  “I am going away tomorrow, as you bade me--I won’t write--so that thisis the last time I shall see you, the last time! This is really the _lasttime!_”

  “Oh, be calm--be calm! Get up!” he entreated, in despair.

  She gazed thirstily at him and clutched his hands.

  “Good-bye!” she said at last, and rose and left him, very quickly.

  The prince noticed that Rogojin had suddenly appeared at her side, andhad taken her arm and was leading her away.

  “Wait a minute, prince,” shouted the latter, as he went. “I shall beback in five minutes.”

  He reappeared in five minutes as he had said. The prince was waiting forhim.

  “I’ve put her in the carriage,” he said; “it has been waiting round thecorner there since ten o’clock. She expected that you would be with _them_all the evening. I told her exactly what you wrote me. She won’t writeto the girl any more, she promises; and tomorrow she will be off, as youwish. She desired to see you for the last time, although you refused,so we’ve been sitting and waiting on that bench till you should pass onyour way home.”

  “Did she bring you with her of her own accord?”

  “Of course she did!” said Rogojin, showing his teeth; “and I saw formyself what I knew before. You’ve read her letters, I suppose?”

  “Did you read them?” asked the prince, struck by the thought.

  “Of course--she showed them to me herself. You are thinking of therazor, eh? Ha, ha, ha!”

  “Oh, she is mad!” cried the prince, wringing his hands.

  “Who knows? Perhaps she is not so mad after all,” said Rogojin, softly, as thoughthinking aloud.

  The prince made no reply.

  “Well, good-bye,” said Rogojin. “I’m off tomorrow too, you know.Remember me kindly! By-the-by,” he added, turning round sharply again,“did you answer her question just now? Are you happy, or not?”

  “No, no, no!” cried the prince, with unspeakable sadness.

  “Ha, ha! I never supposed you would say ‘yes,’” cried Rogojin, laughingsardonically.

  And he disappeared, without looking round again.

  PART IV

  I.

  A week had elapsed since the rendezvous of our two friends on thegreen bench in the park, when, one fine morning at about half-past teno’clock, Varvara Ardalionovna, otherwise Mrs. Ptitsin, who had beenout to visit a friend, returned home in a state of considerable mentaldepression.

  There are certain people of whom it is difficult to say anything whichwill at once throw them into relief--in other words, describe themgraphically in their typical characteristics. These are they who aregenerally known as “commonplace people,” and this class comprises, ofcourse, the immense majority of mankind. Authors, as a rule, attempt toselect and portray types rarely met with in their entirety, but thesetypes are nevertheless more real than real life itself.

  “Podkoleosin” [A character in Gogol’s comedy, The Wedding.] was perhapsan exaggeration, but he was by no means a non-existent character; on thecontrary, how many intelligent people, after hearing of this Podkoleosinfrom Gogol, immediately began to find that scores of their friends wereexactly like him! They knew, perhaps, before Gogol told them, that theirfriends were like Podkoleosin, but they did not know what name to givethem. In real life, young fellows seldom jump out of the window justbefore their weddings, because such a feat, not to speak of its otheraspects, must be a decidedly unpleasant mode of escape; and yet thereare plenty of bridegrooms, intelligent fellows too, who would be readyto confess themselves Podkoleosins in the depths of their consciousness,just before marriage. Nor does every husband feel bound to repeatat every step, “_Tu l’as voulu, Georges Dandin!_” like another typicalpersonage; and yet how many millions and billions of Georges Dandinsthere are in real life who feel inclined to utter this soul-drawn cryafter their honeymoon, if not the day after the wedding! Therefore,without entering into any more serious examination of the question, Iwill content myself with remarking that in real life typical charactersare “watered down,” so to speak; and all these Dandins and Podkoleosinsactually exist among us every day, but in a diluted form. I will justadd, however, that Georges Dandin might have existed exactly as Molièrepresented him, and probably does exist now and then, though rarely; andso I will end this scientific examination, which is beginning tolook like a newspaper criticism. But for all this, the questionremains,--what are the novelists to do with commonplace people, and howare they to be presented to the reader in such a form as to be inthe least degree interesting? They cannot be left out altogether, forcommonplace people meet one at every turn of life, and to leave them outwould be to destroy the whole reality and probability of the story. Tofill a novel with typical characters only, or with merely strange anduncommon people, would render the book unreal and improbable, andwould very likely destroy the interest. In my opinion, the duty of thenovelist is to seek out points of interest and instruction even in thecharacters of commonplace people.

  For instance, when the whole essence of an ordinary person’s nature liesin his perpetual and unchangeable commonplaceness; and when in spite ofall his endeavours to do something out of the common, this person ends,eventually, by remaining in his unbroken line of routine--. I thinksuch an individual really does become a type of his own--a type ofcommonplaceness which will not for the world, if it can help it,be contented, but strains and yearns to be something original andindependent, without the slightest possibility of being so. Tothis class of commonplace people belong several characters in thisnovel;--characters which--I admit--I have not drawn very vividly up tonow for my reader’s benefit.

  Such were, for instance, Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsin, her husband, andher brother, Gania.

  There is nothing so annoying as to be fairly rich, of a fairly goodfamily, pleasing presence, average education, to be “not stupid,” kind-hearted, and yet to have no talent at all, no originality, not asingle idea of one’s own--to be, in fact, “just like everyone else.”

  Of such people there are countless numbers in this world--far more eventhan appear. They can be divided into two classes as all men can--thatis, those of limited intellect, and those who are much cleverer. Theformer of these classes is the happier.

  To a commonplace man of limited intellect, for instance, nothing issimpler than to imagine himself an original character, and to revel inthat belief without the slightest misgiving.

  Many of our young women have thought fit to cut their hair short, put onblue spectacles, and call themselves Nihilists. By doing this
they havebeen able to persuade themselves, without further trouble, that theyhave acquired new convictions of their own. Some men have but felt somelittle qualm of kindness towards their fellow-men, and the fact hasbeen quite enough to persuade them that they stand alone in the van ofenlightenment and that no one has such humanitarian feelings as they.Others have but to read an idea of somebody else’s, and they canimmediately assimilate it and believe that it was a child of their ownbrain. The “impudence of ignorance,” if I may use the expression, isdeveloped to a wonderful extent in such cases;--unlikely as it appears,it is met with at every turn.

  This confidence of a stupid man in his own talents has been wonderfullydepicted by Gogol in the amazing character of Pirogoff. Pirogoff hasnot the slightest doubt of his own genius,--nay, of his _superiority_ ofgenius,--so certain is he of it that he never questions it. Howmany Pirogoffs have there not been among our writers--scholars,propagandists? I say “have been,” but indeed there are plenty of them atthis very day.

  Our friend, Gania, belonged to the other class--to the “much cleverer” persons, though he was from head