The Idiot

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  So Aglaya concluded, and, looking at her, it was hard to tell whether she was speaking seriously or laughing.

  “Well, he’s some sort of fool, he and his deeds!” Mrs. Epanchin decided. “And you, dear girl, blathered out a whole lecture; in my opinion, it’s even quite unsuitable on your part. Inadmissible, in any case. What is this poem? Recite it, you surely know it! I absolutely want to know this poem. All my life I never could stand poetry, as if I had a presentiment. For God’s sake, Prince, be patient, it’s clear that you and I must be patient together,” she turned to Prince Lev Nikolaevich. She was very vexed.

  Prince Lev Nikolaevich wanted to say something but, in his continuing embarrassment, was unable to get a word out. Only Aglaya, who had allowed herself so much in her “lecture,” was not abashed in the least, she even seemed glad. She stood up at once, still as serious and grave as before, looking as though she had prepared for it earlier and was only waiting to be asked, stepped into the middle of the terrace, and stood facing the prince, who went on sitting in his armchair. They all looked at her with a certain surprise, and nearly all of them—Prince Shch., her sisters, her mother—looked with an unpleasant feeling at this new prank she had prepared, which in any case had gone a bit too far. But it was evident that Aglaya precisely liked all this affectation with which she began the ceremony of reciting the poem. Lizaveta Prokofyevna nearly chased her back to her seat, but just at the moment when Aglaya began to declaim the well-known ballad, two new guests, talking loudly, came from the street onto the terrace. They were General Ivan Fyodorovich Epanchin and after him a young man. There was a slight stir.

  VII

  THE YOUNG MAN who accompanied the general was about twenty-eight years old, tall, trim, with a handsome and intelligent face, and a bright gaze in his big, dark eyes, filled with wit and mockery. Aglaya did not even turn to look at him and went on reciting the poem, as she affectedly went on looking at the prince alone and addressing him alone. It was clear to the prince that she was doing all this with some special calculation. But the new guests at least improved his awkward position somewhat. Seeing them, he rose slightly, courteously nodded his head to the general from afar, gave a sign not to interrupt the recital, and himself managed to retreat behind the armchair, where, resting his left elbow on the back, he went on listening to the ballad, now, so to speak, in a more comfortable and less “ridiculous” position than sitting in the chair. Lizaveta Prokofyevna, for her part, waved twice with an imperious gesture to the entering men to make them stop. The prince, incidentally, was greatly interested in his new guest who accompanied the general; he guessed clearly that he was Evgeny Pavlovich Radomsky, of whom he had heard so much and had thought more than once. He was thrown off only by his civilian dress; he had heard that Evgeny Pavlovich was a military man. A mocking smile wandered over the lips of the new guest all through the recital of the poem, as if he, too, had already heard something about the “poor knight.”

  “Maybe it was he who came up with it,” the prince thought to himself.

  But it was quite different with Aglaya. All the initial affectation and pomposity with which she had stepped out to recite, she covered over with such seriousness and such penetration into the spirit and meaning of the poetic work, she uttered each word of the poem with such meaning, enunciated them with such lofty simplicity, that by the end of the recital she had not only attracted general attention but, by conveying the lofty spirit of the ballad, had as if partially justified the overly affected gravity with which she had so solemnly come out to the middle of the terrace. Now this gravity could be seen only as a boundless and perhaps even naïve respect for that which she had taken it upon herself to convey. Her eyes shone, and a slight, barely perceptible tremor of inspiration and rapture passed twice over her beautiful face. She recited:

  Once there lived a poor knight,

  A silent, simple man,

  Pale and grim his visage,

  Bold and straight his heart.

  He had a single vision

  Beyond the grasp of mind,

  It left a deep impression

  Engraved upon his heart.

  From then on, soul afire,

  No woman would he see,

  Nor speak a word to any

  Until his dying day.

  About his neck a rosary

  Instead of a scarf he bound,

  And from his face the visor

  He ne’er raised for anyone.

  Filled with pure love ever,

  True to his sweet dream,

  A. M. D. in his own blood

  He traced upon his shield.

  In Palestinian deserts,

  As over the steep cliffs,

  Paladins rushed to battle

  Shouting their ladies’ names,

  Lumen coeli, sancta Rosa!

  He cried out, wild with zeal,

  And at his threat like thunder

  Many a Muslim fell.

  Back in his distant castle,

  He lived a strict recluse,

  Ever silent, melancholy,

  Like one gone mad he died.

  Recalling this whole moment afterwards, the prince, in extreme confusion, suffered for a long time over one question he was unable to resolve: how was it possible to unite such true, beautiful feeling with such obvious, spiteful mockery? That it was mockery he did not doubt; he clearly understood that and had reasons for it: during the recital Aglaya had allowed herself to change the letters A.M.D. to N.F.B. That it was not a mistake or a mishearing on his part he could not doubt (it was proved afterwards). In any case, Aglaya’s escapade—certainly a joke, though much too sharp and light-minded—was intentional. Everyone had already been talking about (and “laughing at”) the “poor knight” a month ago. And yet, for all the prince could remember, it came out that Aglaya had pronounced those letters not only without any air of joking or any sort of smile, or even any emphasis on the letters meant to reveal their hidden meaning, but, on the contrary, with such unfaltering seriousness, such innocent and naïve simplicity, that one might have thought those letters were in the ballad and it was printed that way in the book. It was as if something painful and unpleasant stung the prince. Of course, Lizaveta Prokofyevna did not understand or notice either the change of letters or the hint. General Ivan Fyodorovich understood only that poetry was being declaimed. Of the other listeners, many did understand and were surprised both at the boldness of the escapade and at its intention, but they kept silent and tried not to let anything show. But Evgeny Pavlovich (the prince was even ready to bet on it) not only understood but even tried to show that he understood: he smiled much too mockingly.

  “What a delight!” Mrs. Epanchin exclaimed in genuine rapture, as soon as the recitation was over. “Whose poem is it?”

  “Pushkin’s, maman, don’t disgrace us, it’s shameful!” exclaimed Adelaida.

  “I’ll turn into a still worse fool here with you!” Lizaveta Prokofyevna retorted bitterly. “Disgraceful! The moment we get home, give me this poem of Pushkin’s at once!”

  “But I don’t think we have any Pushkin.”

  “A couple of tattered volumes,” Adelaida put in, “they’ve been lying about since time immemorial.”

  “Send someone at once to buy a copy in town, Fyodor or Alexei, on the first train—better Alexei. Aglaya, come here! Kiss me, you recite beautifully, but—if it was sincere,” she added, almost in a whisper, “then I feel sorry for you; if you read it to mock him, I don’t approve of your feelings, so in any case it would have been better for you not to recite it at all. Understand? Go, little miss, I’ll talk more with you, but we’ve overstayed here.”

  Meanwhile the prince was greeting General Ivan Fyodorovich, and the general was introducing him to Evgeny Pavlovich Radomsky.

  “I picked him up on the way, he’d just gotten off the train; he learned that I was coming here and that all of ours were here …”

  “I learned that you, too, were here,” Evgeny Pavlovich interrupt
ed, “and since I’ve intended for a long time and without fail to seek not only your acquaintance but also your friendship, I did not want to lose any time. You’re unwell? I’ve just learned …”

  “I’m quite well and very glad to know you, I’ve heard a lot about you and have even spoken of you with Prince Shch.,” replied Lev Nikolaevich, holding out his hand.

  Mutual courtesies were exchanged, the two men shook hands and looked intently into each other’s eyes. An instant later the conversation became general. The prince noticed (he now noticed everything quickly and greedily, perhaps even what was not there at all) that Evgeny Pavlovich’s civilian dress produced a general and extraordinarily strong impression, so much so that all other impressions were forgotten for a time and wiped away. One might have thought that this change of costume meant something particularly important. Adelaida and Alexandra questioned Evgeny Pavlovich in perplexity. Prince Shch., his relation, did so even with great uneasiness; the general spoke almost with agitation. Aglaya alone curiously but quite calmly glanced at Evgeny Pavlovich for a moment, as if wishing merely to compare whether military or civilian dress was more becoming to him, but a moment later she turned away and no longer looked at him. Lizaveta Prokofyevna also did not wish to ask anything, though she, too, was somewhat uneasy. To the prince it seemed that Evgeny Pavlovich might not be in her good graces.

  “Surprising! Amazing!” Ivan Fyodorovich kept saying in answer to all the questions. “I refused to believe it when I met him today in Petersburg. And why so suddenly, that’s the puzzle. He himself shouted first thing that there’s no need to go breaking chairs.”31

  From the ensuing conversation it turned out that Evgeny Pavlovich had already announced his resignation a long time ago; but he had spoken so unseriously each time that it had been impossible to believe him. Besides, he even spoke about serious things with such a jocular air that it was quite impossible to make him out, especially if he himself did not want to be made out.

  “It’s only a short-term resignation, for a few months, a year at the most,” Radomsky laughed.

  “But there’s no need, at least insofar as I’m acquainted with your affairs,” the general went on hotly.

  “And what about visiting my estates? You advised me to yourself; and besides, I want to go abroad …”

  However, they soon changed the subject; but all the same, the much too peculiar and still-continuing uneasiness, in the observant prince’s opinion, went beyond the limits, and there must have been something peculiar in it.

  “So the ‘poor knight’ is on the scene again?” Evgeny Pavlovich asked, going up to Aglaya.

  To the prince’s amazement, she gave him a perplexed and questioning look, as if wishing to let him know that there could be no talk of the “poor knight” between them and that she did not even understand the question.

  “But it’s too late, it’s too late to send to town for Pushkin now, too late!” Kolya argued with Lizaveta Prokofyevna, spending his last strength. “I’ve told you three thousand times, it’s too late.”

  “Yes, actually, it’s too late to send to town now,” Evgeny Pavlovich turned up here as well, hastening away from Aglaya. “I think the shops are closed in Petersburg, it’s past eight,” he confirmed, taking out his watch.

  “We’ve gone so long without thinking of it, we can wait till tomorrow,” Adelaida put in.

  “And it’s also improper,” Kolya added, “for high-society people to be too interested in literature. Ask Evgeny Pavlovich. Yellow charabancs with red wheels are much more proper.”

  “You’re talking out of a book again, Kolya,” observed Adelaida.

  “But he never talks otherwise than out of books,” Evgeny Pavlovich picked up. “He expresses himself with whole sentences from critical reviews. I’ve long had the pleasure of knowing Nikolai Ardalionovich’s conversation, but this time he’s not talking out of a book. Nikolai Ardalionovich is clearly hinting at my yellow charabanc with red wheels. Only I’ve already traded it, you’re too late.”

  The prince listened to what Radomsky was saying … It seemed to him that he bore himself handsomely, modestly, cheerfully, and he especially liked the way he talked with such perfect equality and friendliness to Kolya, who kept provoking him.

  “What’s that?” Lizaveta Prokofyevna turned to Vera, Lebedev’s daughter, who stood before her holding several books of a large format, beautifully bound and nearly new.

  “Pushkin,” said Vera. “Our Pushkin. Papa told me to offer it to you.”

  “How so? How is it possible?” Lizaveta Prokofyevna was surprised.

  “Not as a gift, not as a gift! I wouldn’t dare!” Lebedev popped out from behind his daughter’s shoulder. “For what it cost, ma’am. It’s our family Pushkin, Annenkov’s edition,32 which is even impossible to find now—for what it cost, ma’am. I offer it to you with reverence, wishing to sell it and thereby satisfy the noble impatience of Your Excellency’s most noble literary feelings.”

  “Ah, you’re selling it, then I thank you. No fear of you not getting your own back. Only please do stop clowning, my dear. I’ve heard about you, they say you’re very well read, we must have a talk some day; will you bring them home for me yourself?”

  “With reverence and … deference!” Lebedev, extraordinarily pleased, went on clowning, snatching the books from his daughter.

  “Well, just don’t lose them on me, bring them without deference if you like, but only on one condition,” she added, looking him over intently. “I’ll let you come as far as the threshold, but I have no intention of receiving you today. Your daughter Vera you may send right now, though, I like her very much.”

  “Why don’t you tell him about those men?” Vera asked her father impatiently. “They’ll come in by themselves if you don’t: they’re already making noise. Lev Nikolaevich,” she turned to the prince, who had already picked up his hat, “some people came to see you quite a while ago now, four men, they’re waiting in our part and they’re angry, but papa won’t let them see you.”

  “What sort of visitors?” asked the prince.

  “On business, they say, only they’re the kind that, if you don’t let them in now, they’ll stop you on your way. Better to let them in now, Lev Nikolaevich, and get them off your neck. Gavrila Ardalionovich and Ptitsyn are trying to talk sense into them, but they won’t listen.”

  “Pavlishchev’s son! Pavlishchev’s son! Not worth it, not worth it!” Lebedev waved his arms. “It’s not worth listening to them, sir; and it’s not proper for you, illustrious Prince, to trouble yourself for them. That’s right, sir. They’re not worth it …”

  “Pavlishchev’s son! My God!” cried the prince in extreme embarrassment. “I know … but I … I entrusted that affair to Gavrila Ardalionovich. Gavrila Ardalionovich just told me …”

  But Gavrila Ardalionovich had already come out to the terrace; Ptitsyn followed him. In the nearest room noise could be heard, and the loud voice of General Ivolgin, as if he were trying to outshout several other voices. Kolya ran at once to where the noise was.

  “That’s very interesting,” Evgeny Pavlovich observed aloud.

  “So he knows about it!” thought the prince.

  “What Pavlishchev’s son? And … how can there be any Pavlishchev’s son?” General Ivan Fyodorovich asked in perplexity, looking around curiously at all the faces and noticing with astonishment that this new story was unknown to him alone.

  Indeed, the excitement and expectation were universal. The prince was deeply astonished that an affair so completely personal to himself could manage to interest everyone there so strongly.

  “It would be very good if you ended this affair at once and yourself,” said Aglaya, going up to the prince with some sort of special seriousness, “and let us all be your witnesses. They want to besmirch you, Prince, you must triumphantly vindicate yourself, and I’m terribly glad for you beforehand.”

  “I also want this vile claim to be ended finally,” Mrs. Epanchin cried
. “Give it to them good, Prince, don’t spare them! I’ve had my ears stuffed with this affair, and there’s a lot of bad blood in me on account of you. Besides, it will be curious to have a look. Call them out, and we’ll sit here. Aglaya’s idea was a good one. Have you heard anything about this, Prince?” she turned to Prince Shch.

  “Of course I have, in your own house. But I’d especially like to have a look at these young men,” Prince Shch. replied.

  “These are those nihilists,33 aren’t they?”

  “No, ma’am, they’re not really nihilists,” Lebedev, who was also all but trembling with excitement, stepped forward. “They’re different, ma’am, they’re special, my nephew says they’ve gone further than the nihilists. You mustn’t think to embarrass them with your witnessing, Your Excellency; they won’t be embarrassed. Nihilists are still sometimes knowledgeable people, even learned ones, but these have gone further, ma’am, because first of all they’re practical. This is essentially a sort of consequence of nihilism, though not in a direct way, but by hearsay and indirectly, and they don’t announce themselves in some sort of little newspaper article, but directly in practice, ma’am; it’s no longer a matter, for instance, of the meaninglessness of some Pushkin or other, or, for instance, the necessity of dividing Russia up into parts; no, ma’am, it’s now considered a man’s right, if he wants something very much, not to stop at any obstacle, even if he has to do in eight persons to that end. But all the same, Prince, I wouldn’t advise you …”