The Idiot

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  “Calm yourself, my friend, that is an exaggeration. And you generally have no reason to thank us so much; it’s a beautiful feeling, but it’s exaggerated.”

  “I’m not thanking you, I simply … admire you, I’m happy looking at you; perhaps I’m speaking foolishly, but I—I need to speak, I need to explain … even if only out of respect for myself.”

  Everything in him was impulsive, vague, and feverish; it may well be that the words he spoke were often not the ones he wanted to say. By his gaze he seemed to be asking: may I speak to you? His gaze fell on Belokonsky.

  “Never mind, dear boy, go on, go on, only don’t get out of breath,” she observed. “You started breathlessly earlier and see what it led to; but don’t be afraid to speak: these gentlemen have seen queerer than you, they won’t be surprised, and God knows you’re not all that clever, you simply broke a vase and frightened us.”

  Smiling, the prince listened to her.

  “Wasn’t it you,” he suddenly turned to the little old man, “wasn’t it you who saved the student Podkumov and the clerk Shvabrin from being exiled three months ago?”

  The little old man even blushed slightly and murmured that he ought to calm down.

  “Wasn’t it you I heard about,” he turned to Ivan Petrovich at once, “who gave free timber to your burned-out peasants in —– province, though they were already emancipated and had caused you trouble?”

  “Well, that’s an ex-ag-ger-ation,” murmured Ivan Petrovich, though assuming a look of pleased dignity; but this time he was perfectly right that it was “an exaggeration”: it was merely a false rumor that had reached the prince.

  “And you, Princess,” he suddenly turned to Belokonsky with a bright smile, “didn’t you receive me six months ago in Moscow like your own son, following a letter from Lizaveta Prokofyevna, and give me, as if I were indeed your own son, some advice which I will never forget? Do you remember?”

  “Why get so worked up?” Belokonsky responded vexedly. “You’re a kind man, but a ridiculous one: someone gives you two cents, and you thank them as if they’d saved your life. You think it’s praiseworthy, but it’s disgusting.”

  She was getting quite angry, but suddenly burst out laughing, and this time it was kindly laughter. Lizaveta Prokofyevna’s face also lit up; Ivan Fyodorovich brightened, too.

  “I told you that Lev Nikolaich is a man … a man … in short, if only he didn’t become breathless, as the princess observed …” the general murmured in joyful rapture, repeating Belokonsky’s words, which had struck him.

  Aglaya alone was somehow sad; but her face still burned, perhaps with indignation.

  “He really is very nice,” the little old man again murmured to Ivan Petrovich.

  “I came here with pain in my heart,” the prince went on, with a somehow ever-increasing perturbation, speaking faster and faster, more strangely and animatedly, “I … I was afraid of you, afraid of myself as well. Most of all of myself. Returning here to Petersburg, I promised myself to be sure and see our foremost people, the elders, the ancient stock, to whom I myself belong, among whom I am one of the first by birth. For I am now sitting with princes like myself, am I not? I wanted to know you, that was necessary; very, very necessary! I’ve always heard so much more bad than good about you, about the pettiness and exclusiveness of your interests, about your backwardness, your shallow education, your ridiculous habits—oh, so much has been written and said about you! It was with curiosity that I came here today, with perturbation: I had to see for myself and become personally convinced: is it actually so that this whole upper stratum of the Russian people is good for nothing, has outlived its time, has exhausted its ancient life, and is only capable of dying out, but in a petty, envious struggle with people … of the future, hindering them, not noticing that it is dying itself? Before, too, I never fully believed this opinion, because we’ve never had any higher estate, except perhaps at court, according to the uniform, or … by chance, and now it has quite vanished, isn’t it so, isn’t it so?”

  “Well, no, that’s not so at all,” Ivan Petrovich laughed sarcastically.

  “Well, he’s yammering away again!” Belokonsky could not help saying.

  “Laissez-le dire,h he’s even trembling all over,” the little old man warned again in a half whisper.

  The prince was decidedly beside himself.

  “And what then? I saw gracious, simple-hearted, intelligent people; I saw an old man who was gentle and heard out a boy like me; I see people capable of understanding and forgiveness, people who are Russian and kind, people almost as kind and cordial as I met there, almost no worse. You can judge how joyfully surprised I was! Oh, allow me to speak this out! I had heard a lot and believed very much myself that in society everything is a manner, everything is a decrepit form, while the essence is exhausted; but I can see for myself now that among us that cannot be; anywhere else, but not among us. Can it be that you are all now Jesuits and swindlers? I heard Prince N. tell a story tonight: wasn’t it all artless, inspired humor, wasn’t it genuinely good-natured? Can such words come from the lips of a … dead man, with a dried-up heart and talent? Could dead people have treated me the way you have treated me? Is this not material … for the future, for hopes? Can such people fail to understand and lag behind?”

  “Once more I beg you, calm yourself, my dear, we’ll come back to it all another time, and it will be my pleasure …” the “dignitary” smiled.

  Ivan Petrovich grunted and shifted in his chair; Ivan Fyodorovich stirred; the general-superior was talking with the dignitary’s wife, no longer paying the slightest attention to the prince; but the dignitary’s wife kept listening and glancing at him.

  “No, you know, it’s better that I talk!” the prince went on with a new feverish impulse, addressing the little old man somehow especially trustfully and even confidentially. “Yesterday Aglaya Ivanovna forbade me to talk, and even mentioned the topics I shouldn’t talk about; she knows I’m ridiculous at them. I’m going on twenty-seven, but I know I’m like a child. I don’t have the right to express my thoughts, I said so long ago; I only spoke candidly in Moscow, with Rogozhin … He and I read Pushkin together, we read all of him; he knew nothing, not even Pushkin’s name … I’m always afraid of compromising the thought and the main idea by my ridiculous look. I lack the gesture. My gesture is always the opposite, and that provokes laughter and humiliates the idea. I have no sense of measure either, and that’s the main thing; that’s even the most main thing … I know it’s better for me to sit and be silent. When I persist in being silent, I even seem very reasonable, and what’s more I can think things over. But now it’s better that I speak. I started speaking because you looked at me so wonderfully; you have a wonderful face! Yesterday I gave Aglaya Ivanovna my word that I’d keep silent all evening.”

  “Vraiment?”i smiled the little old man.

  “But I have moments when I think that I’m wrong to think that way: sincerity is worth a gesture, isn’t it so? Isn’t it so?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I want to explain everything, everything, everything! Oh, yes! Do you think I’m a utopian? An ideologist? Oh, no, by God, my thoughts are all so simple … You don’t believe it? You smile? You know, I’m sometimes mean, because I lose my faith; today I was walking here and thinking: ‘Well, how shall I start speaking to them? What word should I begin with, so that they understand at least something?’ I was so afraid, but I was more afraid for you, terribly, terribly afraid! And yet how could I be afraid, wasn’t it shameful to be afraid? What of it, if for one advanced person there are such myriads of backward and unkind ones? This is precisely my joy, that I’m now convinced that it’s not so at all, and that there is living material! Nor is there any embarrassment in the fact that we’re ridiculous, isn’t that true? For it’s actually so, we are ridiculous, light-minded, with bad habits, we’re bored, we don’t know how to look, how to understand, we’re all like that, all, you, and I, and they! Now, you’
re not offended when I tell you to your face that you’re ridiculous? And if so, aren’t you material? You know, in my opinion it’s sometimes even good to be ridiculous, if not better: we can the sooner forgive each other, the sooner humble ourselves; we can’t understand everything at once, we can’t start right out with perfection! To achieve perfection, one must first begin by not understanding many things! And if we understand too quickly, we may not understand well. This I tell you, you, who have already been able to understand … and not understand … so much. I’m not afraid for you now; surely you’re not angry that such a boy is saying such things to you? You’re laughing, Ivan Petrovich. You thought I was afraid for them, that I was their advocate, a democrat, a speaker for equality?” he laughed hysterically (he laughed every other minute in short, ecstatic bursts). “I’m afraid for you, for all of you, for all of us together. For I myself am a prince of ancient stock, and I am sitting with princes. It is to save us all that I speak, to keep our estate from vanishing for nothing, in the darkness, having realized nothing, squabbling over everything and losing everything. Why vanish and yield our place to others, when we can remain the vanguard and the elders? Let us be the vanguard, then we shall be the elders. Let us become servants, in order to be elders.”i

  He kept trying to get up from his chair, but the little old man kept holding him back, looking at him, however, with growing uneasiness.

  “Listen! I know that talking is wrong: it’s better simply to set an example, better simply to begin … I have already begun … and—and is it really possible to be unhappy? Oh, what are my grief and my trouble, if I am able to be happy? You know, I don’t understand how it’s possible to pass by a tree and not be happy to see it. To talk with a man and not be happy that you love him! Oh, I only don’t know how to say it … but there are so many things at every step that are so beautiful, that even the most confused person finds beautiful. Look at a child, look at God’s sunrise, look at the grass growing, look into the eyes that are looking at you and love you …”

  He had long been standing, speaking. The little old man now looked at him fearfully. Lizaveta Prokofyevna cried: “Oh, my God!” realizing before anyone else, and clasped her hands. Aglaya quickly rushed to him, had time to receive him into her arms, and with horror, her face distorted by pain, heard the wild shout of the “spirit that convulsed and dashed down”41 the unfortunate man. The sick man lay on the carpet. Someone managed quickly to put a pillow under his head.

  No one had expected this. A quarter of an hour later Prince N., Evgeny Pavlovich, and the little old man tried to revive the party, but in another half an hour everybody had gone. There were many words of sympathy uttered, many laments, a few opinions. Ivan Petrovich, among other things, declared that “the young man is a Slav-o-phile,42 or something of the sort, but anyhow it’s not dangerous.” The little old man did not come out with anything. True, afterwards, for the next couple of days, everyone was a bit cross; Ivan Petrovich was even offended, but not greatly. The general-superior was somewhat cold to Ivan Fyodorovich for a while. The “patron” of the family, the dignitary, for his part, also mumbled some admonition to the father of the family, and said flatteringly that he was very, very interested in Aglaya’s fate. He was in fact a rather kind man; but among the reasons for his curiosity about the prince, in the course of the evening, had also been the old story between the prince and Nastasya Filippovna; he had heard something about this story and was even very interested; he would even have liked to ask about it.

  Belokonsky, on leaving the party, said to Lizaveta Prokofyevna:

  “Well, he’s both good and bad; and if you want to know my opinion, he’s more bad. You can see for yourself what sort of man—a sick man!”

  Lizaveta Prokofyevna decided definitively to herself that the fiancé was “impossible,” and promised herself during the night that “as long as she lived, the prince was not going to be Aglaya’s husband.” With that she got up in the morning. But that same day, between noon and one, at lunch, she fell into surprising contradiction with herself.

  To one question, though an extremely cautious one, from her sisters, Aglaya suddenly answered coldly but haughtily, as if cutting them off:

  “I’ve never given him any sort of promise, and never in my life considered him my fiancé. He’s as much a stranger to me as anyone else.”

  Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly flared up.

  “That I did not expect of you,” she said bitterly. “As a fiancé he’s impossible, I know, and thank God it all worked out this way; but I did not expect such words from you! I thought there would be something else from you. I’d throw out all those people from yesterday and keep him, that’s what kind of man he is!…”

  Here she suddenly stopped, frightened herself at what she had said. But if she had known how unjust she was being at that moment towards her daughter? Everything was already decided in Aglaya’s head; she was also waiting for her hour, which was to decide everything, and every hint, every careless touch made a deep wound in her heart.

  VIII

  FOR THE PRINCE, too, that morning began under the influence of painful forebodings; they might have been explained by his sickly condition, but he was too indefinitely sad, and that was the most tormenting thing for him. True, the facts stood before him, vivid, painful, and biting, but his sadness went beyond anything he recalled and realized; he understood that he could not calm down by himself. The expectation gradually took root in him that something special and definitive was going to happen to him that same day. His fit of the evening before had been a mild one; besides hypochondria, some heaviness in the head and pain in his limbs, he did not feel upset in any other way. His head worked quite distinctly, though his soul was sick. He got up rather late and at once clearly recalled the previous evening; though not quite distinctly, he recalled all the same that about half an hour after the fit he had been brought home. He learned that a messenger had already come from the Epanchins to inquire after his health. Another came at half-past eleven; this pleased him. Vera Lebedev was one of the first who came to visit him and look after him. The moment she saw him, she suddenly burst into tears, but the prince at once calmed her down, and she laughed. He was somehow suddenly struck by the strong compassion this girl felt for him; he seized her hand and kissed it. Vera blushed.

  “Ah, don’t, don’t!” she exclaimed in fear, quickly pulling her hand away.

  She soon left in some strange embarrassment. Among other things, she had time to tell him that that morning, at daybreak, her father had gone running to “the deceased,” as he called the general, to find out whether or not he had died in the night, and had heard it said that he would probably die soon. Towards noon Lebedev himself came home and called on the prince, but, essentially, “just for a moment, to inquire after his precious health,” and so on, and, besides that, to pay a visit to the “little cupboard.” He did nothing but “oh” and “ah,” and the prince quickly dismissed him, but all the same the man tried to ask questions about yesterday’s fit, though it was obvious that he already knew about it in detail. Kolya stopped to see him, also for a moment; this one was indeed in a hurry and in great and dark anxiety. He began by asking the prince, directly and insistently, to explain everything that had been concealed from him, adding that he had already learned almost everything yesterday. He was strongly and deeply shaken.

  With all the possible sympathy that he was capable of, the prince recounted the whole affair, restoring the facts with full exactitude, and he struck the poor boy as if with a thunderbolt. He could not utter a word, and wept silently. The prince sensed that this was one of those impressions that remain forever and mark a permanent break in a young man’s life. He hastened to tell him his own view of the affair, adding that in his opinion the old man’s death had been caused, mainly, by the horror that remained in his heart after his misdeed, and that not everyone was capable of that. Kolya’s eyes flashed as he heard the prince out.

  “Worthless Ganka, and Varya, and P
titsyn! I’m not going to quarrel with them, but our paths are different from this moment on! Ah, Prince, since yesterday I’ve felt so much that’s new; it’s a lesson for me! I also consider my mother as directly on my hands now; though she’s provided for at Varya’s, it’s all not right …”

  He jumped up, remembering that he was expected, hurriedly asked about the state of the prince’s health and, having heard the answer, suddenly added hastily:

  “Is there anything else? I heard yesterday … (though I have no right), but if you ever need a faithful servant in anything, he’s here before you. It seems neither of us is entirely happy, isn’t it so? But … I’m not asking, I’m not asking …”

  He left, and the prince began to ponder still more deeply: everyone was prophesying unhappiness, everyone had already drawn conclusions, everyone looked as if they knew something, and something that he did not know; Lebedev asks questions, Kolya hints outright, and Vera weeps. At last he waved his hand in vexation: “Cursed, morbid insecurity,” he thought. His face brightened when, past one o’clock, he saw the Epanchins coming to call on him “for a moment.” They indeed dropped in for a moment. Lizaveta Prokofyevna, getting up from lunch, announced that they were all going for a walk right then and together. The information was given in the form of an order, abruptly, drily, without explanations. They all went out—that is, mama, the girls, and Prince Shch. Lizaveta Prokofyevna went straight in the opposite direction from the one they took every day. They all understood what it meant, and they all kept silent, fearing to annoy the mother, while she, as if to shelter herself from reproaches and objections, walked ahead of them all without looking back. Finally Adelaida observed that there was no need to run like that during a stroll and that there was no keeping up with mother.

  “I tell you what,” Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly turned around, “we’re now passing his house. Whatever Aglaya may think and whatever may happen afterwards, he’s not a stranger to us, and now on top of it he’s unhappy and sick; I at least will stop and see him. Whoever wants to come with me can come, whoever doesn’t can walk past; the way is clear.”