The Idiot (Vintage Classics)

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  Five years of Petersburg life had already gone by, and, naturally, in such a period many things had become clear. Afanasy Ivanovich’s position was ungratifying; worst of all was that, having once turned coward, he could never afterwards be at peace. He was afraid—and did not even know why—he was simply afraid of Nastasya Filippovna. For some time, during the first two years, he began to suspect that Nastasya Filippovna wanted to marry him herself, but said nothing out of her extraordinary vanity and was stubbornly waiting for him to propose. It would have been a strange pretension; Afanasy Ivanovich scowled and pondered heavily. To his great and (such is man’s heart!) rather unpleasant amazement, he had occasion suddenly to become convinced that even if he had proposed, he would not have been accepted. For a long time he could not understand it. Only one explanation seemed possible to him, that the pride of the “insulted and fantastic woman” had reached such frenzy that she found it more pleasant to show her contempt once by refusing than to define her position forever and attain an unattainable grandeur. The worst of it was that Nastasya Filippovna had gained the upper hand terribly much. She also would not yield to mercenary interests, even if the interests were very great, and though she accepted the offered comfort, she lived very modestly and in those five years saved almost nothing. Afanasy Ivanovich risked another very clever means of breaking his fetters: he began inconspicuously and artfully to tempt her, being skillfully aided, with various ideal temptations; but the incarnate ideals—princes, hussars, embassy secretaries, poets, novelists, even socialists—nothing made any impression on Nastasya Filippovna, as if she had a stone in place of a heart, and her feeling had dried up and died out once and for all. She lived a largely solitary life, read, even studied, liked music. She had very few acquaintances; she kept company with some poor and ridiculous wives of officials, knew two actresses, some old women, was very fond of the numerous family of a certain respectable teacher, and this family was very fond of her and received her with pleasure. In the evening she quite often had gatherings of five or six acquaintances, not more. Totsky came very often and punctually. More recently General Epanchin, not without difficulty, had made Nastasya Filippovna’s acquaintance. At the same time, quite easily and without any difficulty, a young clerk named Ferdyshchenko had made her acquaintance—a very indecent and salacious buffoon, with a pretense to gaiety and a penchant for drink. She was also acquainted with a strange young man by the name of Ptitsyn, modest, neat, and sleek, who had risen from destitution and become a moneylender. Gavrila Ardalionovich, too, finally made her acquaintance … It ended with Nastasya Filippovna acquiring a strange fame: everyone knew of her beauty, but only that; no one had anything to boast of, no one had anything to tell. This reputation, her cultivation, elegant manners, wit—all this finally confirmed Afanasy Ivanovich in a certain plan. And it was at this moment that General Epanchin himself began to take such an active and great part in the story.

  When Totsky so courteously turned to him for friendly advice concerning one of his daughters, he at once, in the noblest fashion, made a most full and candid confession. He revealed that he had already resolved to stop at nothing to gain his freedom; that he would not be at peace even if Nastasya Filippovna herself declared to him that henceforth she would leave him entirely alone; that words were not enough for him, and he wanted the fullest guarantees. They came to an understanding and decided to act together. At first they determined to try the gentlest ways and to touch, so to speak, only on “the noble strings of the heart.” They both went to Nastasya Filippovna, and Totsky began straight off with the unbearable horror of his position; he blamed himself for everything; he said frankly that he was unable to repent of his initial behavior with her, because he was an inveterate sensualist and not in control of himself, but that now he wanted to marry, and the whole fate of this most highly respectable and society marriage was in her hands; in short, that he placed all his hopes in her noble heart. Then General Epanchin began to speak in his quality as father, and spoke reasonably, avoiding emotion, mentioning only that he fully recognized her right to decide Afanasy Ivanovich’s fate, deftly displaying his own humility, pointing out that the fate of his daughter, and perhaps of his two other daughters, now depended on her decision. To Nastasya Filippovna’s question: “Precisely what did they want of her?”—Totsky, with the same perfectly naked candor, admitted to her that he had been so frightened five years ago that even now he could not be entirely at peace until Nastasya Filippovna herself had married someone. He added at once that this request would, of course, be absurd on his part, if he did not have some grounds in this regard. He had noted very well and had positive knowledge that a young man of very good name, and living in a most worthy family, Gavrila Ardalionovich Ivolgin, whom she knew and received in her house, had long loved her with all the force of passion and would certainly give half his life just for the hope of obtaining her sympathy. Gavrila Ardalionovich himself had confessed it to him, Afanasy Ivanovich, long ago, in a friendly way and out of the purity of his young heart, and it had long been known to Ivan Fyodorovich, the young man’s benefactor. Finally, if he was not mistaken, Nastasya Filippovna herself had known of the young man’s love for a long time, and it even seemed to him that she looked indulgently upon that love. Of course, it was hardest for him of all people to speak of it. But if Nastasya Filippovna would allow him, Totsky, apart from egoism and the desire to arrange his own lot, to wish her at least some good as well, she would understand that he had long found it strange and even painful to contemplate her solitude: that here there was only uncertain darkness, total disbelief in the renewal of life, which could so beautifully resurrect in love and a family, and thereby acquire a new purpose; that here were ruined abilities, perhaps brilliant ones, a voluntary reveling in her own sorrow, in short, even some sort of romanticism unworthy both of Nastasya Filippovna’s common sense and of her noble heart. After repeating once again that it was harder for him to speak than for anyone else, he ended by saying that he could not give up the hope that Nastasya Filippovna would not reply to him with contempt if he expressed his sincere wish to secure her lot in the future and offer her the sum of seventy-five thousand roubles. He added by way of clarification that in any case this sum had already been allotted to her in his will; in short, that this was in no way a compensation of any sort … and that, finally, why not allow and excuse in him the human wish to unburden his conscience at least in some way, and so on and so forth—all that is usually said on the subject in such cases. Afanasy Ivanovich spoke long and eloquently, having appended, in passing so to speak, the very curious piece of information that he was now mentioning the seventy-five thousand for the first time and that no one knew of it, not even Ivan Fyodorovich himself, who was sitting right there; in short, no one knew.

  Nastasya Filippovna’s answer amazed the two friends.

  Not only was there not the slightest trace to be observed in her of the former mockery, the former hostility and hatred, the former laughter, the mere recollection of which sent a chill down Totsky’s spine, but, on the contrary, she seemed glad that she could finally speak with someone in an open and friendly way. She admitted that she herself had long wanted to ask for some friendly advice, that only pride had prevented her, but that now, since the ice had been broken, nothing could be better. At first with a sad smile, then with gay and brisk laughter, she confessed that the previous storm would in any case not be repeated; that she had long ago partly changed her view of things, and though she had not changed in her heart, she was still bound to allow for many things as accomplished facts; what was done was done, what was past was past, so that she even found it strange that Afanasy Ivanovich could go on being so frightened. Here she turned to Ivan Fyodorovich and, with a look of the profoundest respect, told him that she had long since heard a great deal about his daughters and was long accustomed to having a profound and sincere respect for them. The thought alone that she might be of at least some use to them would for her be a cause of happiness and pride
. It was true that she now felt oppressed and bored, very bored; Afanasy Ivanovich had divined her dreams; she would like to resurrect, if not in love, then in a family, with the consciousness of a new purpose; but of Gavrila Ardalionovich she could say almost nothing. True, he seemed to love her; she felt that she herself might come to love him, if she could trust in the firmness of his attachment; but, even if sincere, he was very young; it was hard to decide here. Incidentally, she liked most of all the fact that he worked, toiled, and supported the whole family by himself. She had heard that he was an energetic and proud man, that he wanted a career, wanted to make his way. She had also heard that Nina Alexandrovna Ivolgin, Gavrila Ardalionovich’s mother, was an excellent and highly estimable woman; that his sister, Varvara Ardalionovna, was a very remarkable and energetic girl; she had heard a lot about her from Ptitsyn. She had heard that they endured their misfortunes cheerfully; she wished very much to make their acquaintance, but the question was whether they would welcome her into their family. In general, she had nothing to say against the possibility of this marriage, but there was a great need to think it over; she did not wish to be rushed. Concerning the seventy-five thousand—Afanasy Ivanovich need not have been so embarrassed to speak of it. She understood the value of money and, of course, would take it. She thanked Afanasy Ivanovich for his delicacy, for not having mentioned it even to the general, let alone to Gavrila Ardalionovich, but anyhow, why should he not also know about it beforehand? She had no need to be ashamed of this money on entering their family. In any case, she had no intention of apologizing to anyone for anything, and wished that to be known. She would not marry Gavrila Ardalionovich until she was sure that neither he nor his family had any hidden thoughts concerning her. In any case, she did not consider herself guilty of anything, and Gavrila Ardalionovich had better learn on what terms she had been living all those years in Petersburg, in what relations with Afanasy Ivanovich, and how much money she had saved. Finally, if she did accept the capital now, it was not at all as payment for her maidenly dishonor, for which she was not to blame, but simply as a recompense for her maimed life.

  By the end she even became so excited and irritated as she was saying it all (which, incidentally, was quite natural) that General Epanchin was very pleased and considered the matter concluded; but the once frightened Totsky did not quite believe her even now and feared for a long time that here, too, there might be a serpent among the flowers.18 The negotiations nevertheless began; the point on which the two friends’ whole maneuver was based—namely, the possibility of Nastasya Filippovna being attracted to Ganya—gradually began to take shape and justify itself, so that even Totsky began to believe at times in the possibility of success. Meanwhile Nastasya Filippovna had a talk with Ganya: very few words were spoken, as if her chastity suffered from it. She admitted, however, and allowed him his love, but said insistently that she did not want to hamper herself in any way; that until the wedding itself (if the wedding took place) she reserved for herself the right to say no, even in the very last hour; exactly the same right was granted to Ganya. Soon Ganya learned positively, by an obliging chance, that the hostility of his whole family towards this marriage and towards Nastasya Filippovna personally, which had manifested itself in scenes at home, was already known to Nastasya Filippovna in great detail; she had not mentioned it to him, though he expected it daily. However, it would be possible to tell much more out of all the stories and circumstances that surfaced on the occasion of this engagement and its negotiations; but we have run ahead of ourselves as it is, especially since some of these circumstances appeared only as very vague rumors. For instance, Totsky was supposed to have learned somewhere that Nastasya Filippovna, in secret from everyone, had entered into some sort of vague relations with the Epanchin girls—a perfectly incredible rumor. But another rumor he involuntarily believed and feared to the point of nightmare: he had heard for certain that Nastasya Filippovna was supposedly aware in the highest degree that Ganya was marrying only for money, that Ganya’s soul was dark, greedy, impatient, envious, and boundlessly vain, out of all proportion to anything; that, although Ganya had indeed tried passionately to win Nastasya Filippovna over before, now that the two friends had decided to exploit that passion, which had begun to be mutual, for their own advantage, and to buy Ganya by selling him Nastasya Filippovna as a lawful wife, he had begun to hate her like his own nightmare. It was as if passion and hatred strangely came together in his soul, and though, after painful hesitations, he finally consented to marry “the nasty woman,” in his soul he swore to take bitter revenge on her for it and to “give it to her” later, as he supposedly put it. Nastasya Filippovna supposedly knew all about it and was secretly preparing something. Totsky was so afraid that he even stopped telling his worries to Epanchin; but there were moments when, being a weak man, he would decidedly feel heartened again and his spirits would quickly rise: he felt exceedingly heartened, for instance, when Nastasya Filippovna at last gave the two friends her word that on the evening of her birthday she would speak her final word. On the other hand, a most strange and incredible rumor concerning the esteemed Ivan Fyodorovich himself was, alas! proving more and more true.

  Here at first sight everything seemed utterly wild. It was hard to believe that Ivan Fyodorovich, in his venerable old age, with his excellent intelligence and positive knowledge of life, and so on and so forth, should be tempted by Nastasya Filippovna—and that, supposedly, to such an extent that the caprice almost resembled passion. Where he placed his hopes in this case is hard to imagine; perhaps even in the assistance of Ganya himself. Totsky at least suspected something of the sort, suspected the existence of some sort of almost silent agreement, based on mutual understanding, between the general and Ganya. As is known, however, a man too carried away by passion, especially if he is of a certain age, becomes completely blind and is ready to suspect hope where there is no hope at all; moreover, he takes leave of his senses and acts like a foolish child, though he be of the most palatial mind. It was known that for Nastasya Filippovna’s birthday the general had prepared his own present of an astonishing string of pearls, which had cost an enormous sum, and was very concerned about this present, though he knew that Nastasya Filippovna was an unmercenary woman. The day before Nastasya Filippovna’s birthday he was as if in a fever, though he skillfully concealed it. It was precisely these pearls that Mrs. Epanchin had heard about. True, Elizaveta Prokofyevna had long ago begun to experience her husband’s frivolity and was somewhat used to it; but it was impossible to overlook such an occasion: the rumor about the pearls interested her exceedingly. The general had perceived it just in time; certain little words had already been uttered the day before; he anticipated a major confrontation and was afraid of it. That was why he was terribly reluctant, on the morning on which we began our story, to go and have lunch in the bosom of his family. Before the prince’s arrival, he had resolved to use the excuse that he was busy and get out of it. To get out, for the general, sometimes simply meant to get away. He wanted to gain at least that one day and, above all, that evening, without any unpleasantnesses. And suddenly the prince came along so opportunely. “As if sent by God!” the general thought to himself as he entered his wife’s rooms.

  V

  THE GENERAL’S WIFE was jealous of her origins. Imagine her feelings when she was told, directly and without preliminaries, that this Prince Myshkin, the last of their line, whom she had already heard something about, was no more than a pathetic idiot and nearly destitute, and that he took beggar’s alms. The general was precisely after that effect, in order to draw her interest all at once and somehow turn everything in another direction.

  In extreme cases his wife usually rolled her eyes out exceedingly and, with her body thrown slightly back, stared vaguely ahead of her without saying a word. She was a tall, lean woman, of the same age as her husband, with much gray in her dark but still thick hair, a somewhat hooked nose, hollow yellow cheeks, and thin, sunken lips. Her forehead was high but na
rrow; her gray, rather large eyes sometimes had a most unexpected expression. She had once had the weakness of believing that her gaze produced an extraordinary effect; that conviction remained indelible in her.

  “Receive him? You say receive him now, this minute?” and the general’s wife rolled her eyes out with all her might at Ivan Fyodorovich as he fidgeted before her.

  “Oh, in that respect you needn’t stand on ceremony, my friend, provided you wish to see him,” the general hastened to explain. “A perfect child, and even quite pathetic; he has fits of some illness; he’s just come from Switzerland, straight from the train, strangely dressed, in some German fashion, and besides without a penny, literally; he’s all but weeping. I gave him twenty-five roubles and want to obtain some scrivener’s post for him in the chancellery. And you, mesdames, I ask to give him something to eat, because he also seems to be hungry …”