“It seems you’re running off at the mouth again, Ferdyshchenko,” the general boiled over.
“What’s that to you, Your Excellency?” Ferdyshchenko picked up. He was counting on being able to pick it up and embroider on it still more. “Don’t worry, Your Excellency, I know my place: if I said you and I were the Lion and the Ass from Krylov’s fable, I was, of course, taking the Ass’s role on myself, and you, Your Excellency, are the Lion, as it says in Krylov’s fable:
The mighty Lion, terror of the forest,
In old age saw his strength begin to fail.
And I, Your Excellency, am the Ass.”
“With that last bit I agree,” the general imprudently let slip.
All this was, of course, crude and deliberately affected, but there was a general agreement that Ferdyshchenko was allowed to play the role of buffoon.
“But I’m kept and let in here,” Ferdyshchenko once exclaimed, “only so that I can talk precisely in this spirit. I mean, is it really possible to receive somebody like me? I do understand that. I mean, is it possible to sit me, such a Ferdyshchenko, next to a refined gentleman like Afanasy Ivanovich? We’re left willy-nilly with only one explanation: they do it precisely because it’s impossible to imagine.”
But though it was crude, all the same it could be biting, sometimes even very much so, and that, it seems, was what Nastasya Filippovna liked. Those who wished absolutely to call on her had no choice but to put up with Ferdyshchenko. It may be that he had guessed the whole truth in supposing that the reason he was received was that from the first his presence had become impossible for Totsky. Ganya, for his part, had endured a whole infinity of torments from him, and in that sense Ferdyshchenko had managed to be very useful to Nastasya Filippovna.
“And I’ll have the prince start by singing a fashionable romance,” Ferdyshchenko concluded, watching out for what Nastasya Filippovna would say.
“I think not, Ferdyshchenko, and please don’t get excited,” she observed drily.
“Ahh! If he’s under special patronage, then I, too, will ease up …”
But Nastasya Filippovna rose without listening and went herself to meet her guest.
“I regretted,” she said, appearing suddenly before the prince, “that earlier today, being in a flurry, I forgot to invite you here, and I’m very glad that you have now given me the chance to thank you and to praise you for your determination.”
Saying this, she peered intently at the prince, trying at least somehow to interpret his action to herself.
The prince might have made some reply to her amiable words, but he was so dazzled and struck that he could not even get a word out. Nastasya Filippovna noticed it with pleasure. This evening she was in full array and made an extraordinary impression. She took him by the arm and brought him to her guests. Just before entering the reception room, the prince suddenly stopped and, with extraordinary excitement, hurriedly whispered to her:
“Everything in you is perfection … even the fact that you’re so thin and pale … one has no wish to imagine you otherwise … I wanted so much to come to you … I … forgive me …”
“Don’t ask forgiveness,” Nastasya Filippovna laughed. “That will ruin all the strangeness and originality. And it’s true, then, what they say about you, that you’re a strange man. So you consider me perfection, do you?”
“I do.”
“Though you’re a master at guessing, you’re nevertheless mistaken. I’ll remind you of it tonight …”
She introduced the prince to the guests, the majority of whom already knew him. Totsky at once said something amiable. Everyone seemed to cheer up a little, everyone immediately began talking and laughing. Nastasya Filippovna sat the prince down beside her.
“But anyhow, what’s so astonishing in the prince’s appearance?” Ferdyshchenko shouted louder than everyone else. “The matter’s clear, it speaks for itself!”
“The matter’s all too clear and speaks all too much for itself,” the silent Ganya suddenly picked up. “I’ve been observing the prince almost uninterruptedly today, from the moment he first looked at Nastasya Filippovna’s portrait on Ivan Fyodorovich’s desk this morning. I remember very well that already this morning I thought of something which I’m now perfectly convinced of, and which, let it be said in passing, the prince himself has confessed to me.”
Ganya uttered this whole phrase very gravely, without the slightest jocularity, even gloomily, which seemed somewhat strange.
“I didn’t make any confessions to you,” the prince replied, blushing, “I merely answered your question.”
“Bravo, bravo!” cried Ferdyshchenko. “At least it’s candid—both clever and candid!”
Everyone laughed loudly.
“Don’t shout, Ferdyshchenko,” Ptitsyn observed to him disgustedly in a half-whisper.
“I didn’t expect such prouessec from you, Prince,” said Ivan Fyodorovich. “Do you know what sort of man that suits? And I considered you a philosopher! Oh, the quiet one!”
“And judging by the way the prince blushes at an innocent joke like an innocent young girl, I conclude that, like a noble youth, he is nurturing the most praiseworthy intentions in his heart,” the toothless and hitherto perfectly silent seventy-year-old school-teacher, whom no one would have expected to make a peep all evening, suddenly said, or, better, maundered. Everyone laughed still more. The little old man, probably thinking they were laughing at his witticism, looked at them all and started laughing all the harder, which brought on so terrible a fit of coughing that Nastasya Filippovna, who for some reason was extremely fond of all such original little old men and women, and even of holy fools, at once began making a fuss over him, kissed him on both cheeks, and ordered more tea for him. When the maid came in, she asked for her mantilla, which she wrapped around herself, and told her to put more wood on the fire. Asked what time it was, the maid said it was already half-past ten.
“Ladies and gentlemen, would you care for champagne?” Nastasya Filippovna suddenly invited. “I have it ready. Maybe it will make you merrier. Please don’t stand on ceremony.”
The invitation to drink, especially in such naïve terms, seemed very strange coming from Nastasya Filippovna. Everyone knew the extraordinary decorum of her previous parties. Generally, the evening was growing merrier, but not in the usual way. The wine, however, was not refused, first, by the general himself, second, by the sprightly lady, the little old man, Ferdyshchenko, and the rest after him. Totsky also took his glass, hoping to harmonize the new tone that was setting in, possibly giving it the character of a charming joke. Ganya alone drank nothing. In the strange, sometimes very abrupt and quick outbursts of Nastasya Filippovna, who also took wine and announced that she would drink three glasses that evening, in her hysterical and pointless laughter, which alternated suddenly with a silent and even sullen pensiveness, it was hard to make anything out. Some suspected she was in a fever; they finally began to notice that she seemed to be waiting for something, glanced frequently at her watch, was growing impatient, distracted.
“You seem to have a little fever?” asked the sprightly lady.
“A big one even, not a little one—that’s why I’ve wrapped myself in a mantilla,” replied Nastasya Filippovna, who indeed had turned paler and at moments seemed to suppress a violent shiver.
They all started and stirred.
“Shouldn’t we allow our hostess some rest?” Totsky suggested, glancing at Ivan Fyodorovich.
“Certainly not, gentlemen! I precisely ask you to stay. Your presence is particularly necessary for me tonight,” Nastasya Filippovna suddenly said insistently and significantly. And as almost all the guests now knew that a very important decision was to be announced that evening, these words seemed extremely weighty. Totsky and the general exchanged glances once again; Ganya stirred convulsively.
“It would be nice to play some petit jeu,”d said the sprightly lady.
“I know an excellent and new petit jeu,” Ferdys
hchenko picked up, “at least one that happened only once in the world, and even then it didn’t succeed.”
“What was it?” the sprightly lady asked.
“A company of us got together once, and we drank a bit, it’s true, and suddenly somebody suggested that each of us, without leaving the table, tell something about himself, but something that he himself, in good conscience, considered the worst of all the bad things he’d done in the course of his whole life; and that it should be frank, above all, that it should be frank, no lying!”
“A strange notion!” said the general.
“Strange as could be, Your Excellency, but that’s what was good about it.”
“A ridiculous idea,” said Totsky, “though understandable: a peculiar sort of boasting.”
“Maybe that’s just what they wanted, Afanasy Ivanovich.”
“One is more likely to cry than laugh at such a petit jeu,” the sprightly lady observed.
“An utterly impossible and absurd thing,” echoed Ptitsyn.
“And was it a success?” asked Nastasya Filippovna.
“The fact is that it wasn’t, it turned out badly, people actually told all sorts of things, many told the truth, and, imagine, many even enjoyed the telling, but then they all felt ashamed, they couldn’t stand it! On the whole, though, it was quite amusing—in its own way, that is.”
“But that would be really nice!” observed Nastasya Filippovna, suddenly quite animated. “Really, why don’t we try it, gentlemen! In fact, we’re not very cheerful. If each of us agreed to tell something … of that sort … naturally, if one agrees, because it’s totally voluntary, eh? Maybe we can stand it? At least it’s terribly original …”
“A brilliant idea!” Ferdyshchenko picked up. “The ladies are excluded, however, the men will begin. We’ll arrange it by drawing lots as we did then! Absolutely, absolutely! If anyone is very reluctant, he needn’t tell anything, of course, but that would be particularly unfriendly! Give us your lots here in the hat, gentlemen, the prince will do the drawing. It’s the simplest of tasks, to tell the worst thing you’ve done in your life—it’s terribly easy, gentlemen! You’ll see! If anyone happens to forget, I’ll remind him!”
Nobody liked the idea. Some frowned, others smiled slyly. Some objected, but not very much—Ivan Fyodorovich, for example, who did not want to contradict Nastasya Filippovna and saw how carried away she was by this strange notion. In her desires Nastasya Filippovna was always irrepressible and merciless, once she decided to voice them, capricious and even useless for her as those desires might be. And now it was as if she was in hysterics, fussing about, laughing convulsively, fitfully, especially in response to the objections of the worried Totsky. Her dark eyes flashed, two red spots appeared on her pale cheeks. The sullen and squeamish tinge on some of her guests’ physiognomies perhaps inflamed her mocking desire still more; perhaps she precisely liked the cynicism and cruelty of the idea. Some were even certain that she had some special calculation here. However, they began to agree: in any case it was curious, and for many of them very enticing. Ferdyshchenko fussed about most of all.
“And if it’s something that can’t be told … in front of ladies,” the silent young man observed timidly.
“Then don’t tell it. As if there weren’t enough nasty deeds without that,” Ferdyshchenko replied. “Ah, young man!”
“But I don’t know which to consider the worst thing I’ve done,” the sprightly lady contributed.
“The ladies are exempt from the obligation of telling anything,” Ferdyshchenko repeated, “but that is merely an exemption. The personally inspired will be gratefully admitted. The men, if they’re very reluctant, are also exempt.”
“How can it be proved here that I’m not lying?” asked Ganya. “And if I lie, the whole notion of the game is lost. And who isn’t going to lie? Everybody’s bound to start lying.”
“But that’s what’s so enticing, to see how the person’s going to lie. As for you, Ganechka, you needn’t be especially worried about lying, because everybody knows your nastiest deed without that. Just think, ladies and gentlemen,” Ferdyshchenko suddenly exclaimed in some sort of inspiration, “just think with what eyes we’ll look at each other later, tomorrow, for instance, after our stories!”
“But is this possible? Can this indeed be serious, Nastasya Filippovna?” Totsky asked with dignity.
“He who fears wolves should stay out of the forest!” Nastasya Filippovna observed with a little smile.
“But excuse me, Mr. Ferdyshchenko, is it possible to make a petit jeu out of this?” Totsky went on, growing more and more worried. “I assure you that such things never succeed—you said yourself that it failed once.”
“What do you mean, failed! Why, last time I told how I stole three roubles, just up and told it!”
“Granted. But it’s surely not possible that you told it so that it resembled the truth and people believed you? And Gavrila Ardalionovich observed very correctly that it only needs to ring slightly false and the whole notion of the game is lost. Truth is then possible only accidentally, through a special sort of boasting mood in the very worst tone, which is unthinkable and quite improper here.”
“Ah, what an extraordinarily subtle man you are, Afanasy Ivanovich! I even marvel at it!” cried Ferdyshchenko. “Just imagine, ladies and gentlemen, with his observation that I couldn’t tell the story of my theft so that it resembled the truth, Afanasy Ivanovich has hinted in the subtlest fashion that in reality I also couldn’t have stolen (because it’s indecent to speak of it publicly), though it may be that in himself he’s quite certain that Ferdyshchenko might very well steal! But to business, gentlemen, to business, the lots are all here, and even you, Afanasy Ivanovich, have put yours in, so nobody has refused. Draw the lots, Prince!”
The prince silently put his hand into the hat and took out the first lot—Ferdyshchenko’s, the second—Ptitsyn’s, the third—the general’s, the fourth—Afanasy Ivanovich’s, the fifth—his own, the sixth—Ganya’s, and so on. The ladies had not put in any lots.
“Oh, God, how unlucky!” cried Ferdyshchenko. “And I thought the first turn would go to the prince and the second to the general. But, thank God, at least Ivan Petrovich comes after me, and I’ll be rewarded. Well, ladies and gentlemen, of course it’s my duty to set a noble example, but I regret most of all at the present moment that I’m so insignificant and in no way remarkable; even my rank is the lowest of the low. Well, what indeed is so interesting about Ferdyshchenko’s having done something nasty? And what is the worst thing I’ve done? Here we have an embarras de richesse.e Maybe I should tell about that same theft again, to convince Afanasy Ivanovich that one can steal without being a thief.”
“You also convince me, Mr. Ferdyshchenko, that it is indeed possible to feel an intoxicating pleasure in recounting one’s foul deeds, though one has not even been asked about them … But anyhow … Excuse me, Mr. Ferdyshchenko.”
“Begin, Ferdyshchenko, you produce a terrible amount of superfluous babble and can never finish!” Nastasya Filippovna ordered irritably and impatiently.
They all noticed that, after her latest fit of laughter, she had suddenly become sullen, peevish, and irritable; nevertheless she insisted stubbornly and despotically on her impossible whim. Afanasy Ivanovich was suffering terribly. He was also furious with Ivan Fyodorovich: the man sat over his champagne as if nothing was happening, and was perhaps even planning to tell something when his turn came.
XIV
“I’M NOT WITTY, Nastasya Filippovna, that’s why I babble superfluously!” Ferdyshchenko cried, beginning his story. “If I were as witty as Afanasy Ivanovich or Ivan Petrovich, I’d be sitting quietly this evening like Afanasy Ivanovich and Ivan Petrovich. Prince, allow me to ask what you think, because it seems to me that there are many more thieves than nonthieves in the world, and that there does not even exist such an honest man as has not stolen something at least once in his life. That is my thought, from which, howev
er, I by no means conclude that everyone to a man is a thief, though, by God, I’d sometimes like terribly much to draw that conclusion. What do you think?”
“Pah, what stupid talk,” responded Darya Alexeevna, “and what nonsense! It can’t be that everyone has stolen something. I’ve never stolen anything.”
“You’ve never stolen anything, Darya Alexeevna; but what will the prince say, who has so suddenly blushed all over?”
“It seems to me that what you say is true, only it’s greatly exaggerated,” said the prince, who was indeed blushing for some reason.
“And you yourself, Prince, have you ever stolen anything?”
“Pah! how ridiculous! Come to your senses, Mr. Ferdyshchenko,” the general stepped in.
“It’s quite simply that you’re ashamed, now that you have to tell your story, and you want to drag the prince in with you because he’s so unprotesting,” Darya Alexeevna declared.
“Ferdyshchenko, either tell your story or be quiet and mind your own business. You exhaust all my patience,” Nastasya Filippovna said sharply and vexedly.
“This minute, Nastasya Filippovna; but if even the prince admits it, for I maintain that what the prince has said is tantamount to an admission, then what, for instance, would someone else say (naming no names) if he ever wanted to tell the truth? As far as I’m concerned, ladies and gentlemen, there isn’t much more to tell: it’s very simple, and stupid, and nasty. But I assure you that I’m not a thief; I stole who knows how. It was two years ago, in Semyon Ivanovich Ishchenko’s country house, on a Sunday. He had guests for dinner. After dinner the men sat over the wine. I had the idea of asking Marya Semyonovna, his daughter, a young lady, to play something on the piano. I passed through the corner room, there was a green three-rouble note lying on Marya Ivanovna’s worktable: she had taken it out to pay some household expenses. Not a living soul in the room. I took the note and put it in my pocket, why—I don’t know. I don’t understand what came over me. Only I quickly went back and sat down at the table. I sat and waited in rather great excitement; I talked nonstop, told jokes, laughed; then I went to sit with the ladies. About half an hour later they found it missing and began questioning the maidservants. Suspicion fell on the maid Darya. I showed extraordinary curiosity and concern, and I even remember that, when Darya was completely at a loss, I began persuading her to confess her guilt, betting my life on Marya Ivanovna’s kindness—and that aloud, in front of everybody. Everybody was looking, and I felt an extraordinary pleasure precisely because I was preaching while the note was in my pocket. I drank up those three roubles in a restaurant that same evening. I went in and asked for a bottle of Lafite; never before had I asked for a bottle just like that, with nothing; I wanted to spend it quickly. Neither then nor later did I feel any particular remorse. I probably wouldn’t do it again; you may believe that or not as you like, it’s of no interest to me. Well, sirs, that’s all.”
The Idiot Page 19