The Idiot

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  “How stupid!” Lebedev’s nephew cried.

  “You have no right … you have no right!” cried Burdovsky.

  “A son isn’t answerable for his father’s depraved conduct, and the mother is not to blame,” Ippolit shrieked vehemently.

  “The sooner, it seems, she should be spared …” the prince said timidly.

  “You’re not only naïve, Prince, but maybe even more far gone,” Lebedev’s nephew grinned spitefully.

  “And what right did you have!…” Ippolit shrieked in a most unnatural voice.

  “None, none at all!” the prince hastily interrupted. “You’re right about that, I admit, but it was involuntary, and I said to myself at once just then that my personal feelings shouldn’t have any influence on the affair, because if I acknowledge it as my duty to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky’s demands in the name of my feelings for Pavlishchev, then I must satisfy them in any case, that is, regardless of whether or not I respect Mr. Burdovsky. I began to speak of it, gentlemen, only because it did seem unnatural to me that a son should reveal his mother’s secret so publicly … In short, that was mainly why I was convinced that Chebarov must be a blackguard and must have prompted Mr. Burdovsky, by deceit, to such crookedness.”

  “But this is insupportable!” came from the visitors’ side, some of whom even jumped up from their seats.

  “Gentlemen! That is why I decided that the unfortunate Mr. Burdovsky must be a simple, defenseless man, a man easily swayed by crooks, and thus I had all the more reason to help him as ‘Pavlishchev’s son’—first, by opposing Mr. Chebarov, second, by my devotion and friendship, in order to guide him, and, third, by arranging to pay him ten thousand roubles, which, as I calculate, is all that Pavlishchev could have spent on me in cash …”

  “What! Only ten thousand!” cried Ippolit.

  “Well, Prince, you’re not very strong in arithmetic, or else you’re very strong, though you pretend to be a simpleton!” Lebedev’s nephew cried out.

  “I don’t agree to ten thousand,” said Burdovsky.

  “Antip! Agree!” the boxer, leaning over the back of Ippolit’s chair, said in a quick and distinct whisper. “Agree, and then later we’ll see!”

  “Listen he-e-ere, Mr. Myshkin,” shrieked Ippolit, “understand that we’re not fools, not vulgar fools, as your guests all probably think we are, and these ladies, who are smirking at us with such indignation, and especially this high-society gentleman” (he pointed to Evgeny Pavlovich), “whom I naturally do not have the honor of knowing, but of whom I seem to have heard a thing or two …”

  “Excuse me, excuse me, gentlemen, but again you haven’t understood me!” the prince addressed them in agitation. “First of all, Mr. Keller, in your article you give an extremely inexact notion of my fortune: I didn’t get any millions; I have only an eighth or a tenth part of what you suppose. Second, no one ever spent any tens of thousands on me in Switzerland: Schneider was paid six hundred roubles a year, and that only for the first three years; and Pavlishchev never went to Paris for pretty governesses—that again is slander. I think far less than ten thousand was spent on me in all, but I decided on ten thousand and, you must agree, in repaying a debt, I simply couldn’t offer Mr. Burdovsky more, even if I was terribly fond of him, I couldn’t do it simply from a feeling of delicacy, precisely because I was paying him back a debt and not sending him charity. I don’t see how you can fail to understand that, gentlemen! But I wanted to make up for it all later by my friendship, my active participation in the fate of the unfortunate Mr. Burdovsky, who had obviously been deceived, because without deceit he himself could not have agreed to such baseness as, for instance, today’s public statement about his mother in Mr. Keller’s article … But why, finally, are you again getting so beside yourselves, gentlemen! We finally won’t understand each other at all! Because it turned out my way! I’m now convinced by my own eyes that my guess was correct,” the excited prince went on persuading, trying to calm the agitation and not noticing that he was only increasing it.

  “How? Convinced of what?” they accosted him almost ferociously.

  “But, good heavens, first of all, I myself have had time to take a very good look at Mr. Burdovsky, and I can now see for myself how he is … He’s an innocent man, but whom everybody is deceiving! A defenseless man … and therefore I must spare him. And, second, Gavrila Ardalionovich, whom I entrusted with this affair and from whom I had not heard any news for a long time, because I was on the road and then sick for three days in Petersburg, now suddenly, just an hour ago, at our first meeting, informs me that he has gotten to the bottom of Chebarov’s intentions, that he has proofs, and that Chebarov is precisely what I supposed him to be. I know, gentlemen, that many people consider me an idiot, and Chebarov, going by my reputation for giving money away easily, thought it would be very easy to deceive me, counting precisely on my feelings for Pavlishchev. But the main thing is—no, hear me out, gentlemen, hear me out!—the main thing is that now it suddenly turns out that Mr. Burdovsky isn’t Pavlishchev’s son at all! Gavrila Ardalionovich just told me so, and he assures me that he has obtained positive proofs. Well, how does that strike you? It’s impossible to believe it, after all that’s gone on already! Positive proofs—you hear! I still don’t believe it, I don’t believe it myself, I assure you; I’m still doubtful, because Gavrila Ardalionovich hasn’t had time yet to tell me all the details, but that Chebarov is a blackguard there is not longer any doubt! He has duped the unfortunate Mr. Burdovsky and all of you, gentlemen, who came nobly to support your friend (for he obviously needs support, I do understand that!), he has duped you all, and involved you in a crooked affair, because it’s all essentially knavery and crookedness!”

  “What’s crooked about it!… How is he not ‘Pavlishchev’s son’?… How is it possible!…” exclamations rang out. Burdovsky’s whole company was in inexpressible confusion.

  “But naturally it’s crooked! You see, if Mr. Burdovsky now turns out not to be ‘Pavlishchev’s son,’ then in that case Mr. Burdovsky’s demand turns out to be downright crooked (that is, of course, if he knew the truth!), but the thing is that he was deceived, that’s why I insist that he be vindicated; that’s why I say that he deserves to be pitied in his simplicity, and cannot be left without support; otherwise he, too, will come out as a crook in this affair. And I myself am convinced that he doesn’t understand a thing! I, too, was in such a condition before I left for Switzerland; I, too, babbled incoherent words—you want to express yourself and can’t … I understand it; I can sympathize very much, because I’m almost like that myself, I’m permitted to speak! And, finally, I still—despite the fact that ‘Pavlishchev’s son’ is no more and it all turns out to be a mystification—I still haven’t changed my decision and am ready to hand over the ten thousand in memory of Pavlishchev. I wanted to use this ten thousand to start a school in memory of Pavlishchev even before Mr. Burdovsky appeared, but now it won’t make any difference whether it’s a school or Mr. Burdovsky, because if Mr. Burdovsky is not ‘Pavlishchev’s son,’ he’s almost like ‘Pavlishchev’s son,’ because he has been so wickedly deceived: he sincerely considered himself the son of Pavlishchev! Now listen to Gavrila Ardalionovich, gentlemen, let’s be done with it—don’t be angry, don’t worry, sit down! Gavrila Ardalionovich will explain it all now, and, I confess, I’m extremely anxious to learn all the details myself. He says he even went to Pskov to see your mother, Mr. Burdovsky, who didn’t die at all, as you were forced to write in the article … Sit down, gentlemen, sit down!”

  The prince sat down and managed to get the Burdovsky company, who had all jumped up from their places, to sit down again. For the last ten or twenty minutes he had been speaking vehemently, loudly, in an impatient patter, carried away, trying to talk above them all, to outshout them, and, of course, later he would bitterly regret some of the phrases and surmises that had escaped him. If he had not been so excited and all but beside himself, he would never have permitted himself to speak
some of his guesses and needless sincerities aloud so baldly and hastily. But as soon as he sat down, one burning regret painfully pierced his heart. Besides the fact that he had “insulted” Burdovsky by so publicly supposing him to have the same illness for which he himself had been treated in Switzerland—besides that, the offer of the ten thousand instead of the school had, in his opinion, been made crudely and carelessly, as if it were charity, and precisely in that it had been spoken aloud in front of other people. “I should have waited and offered it tomorrow when we were alone,” the prince thought at once, “and now it’s unlikely that I can put it right! Yes, I’m an idiot, a real idiot!” he decided to himself in a fit of shame and extreme distress.

  Meanwhile Gavrila Ardalionovich, who till then had kept himself apart and remained stubbornly silent, came forward at the prince’s invitation, stood beside him, and began calmly and clearly to give an account of the affair entrusted to him by the prince. All talk instantly stopped. Everyone listened with extreme curiosity, especially Burdovsky’s whole company.

  IX

  “YOU WILL NOT, of course, deny,” Gavrila Ardalionovich began, directly addressing Burdovsky, who was listening to him as hard as he could, his astonished eyes popping out, and was obviously in great confusion, “you will not, and will not wish, of course, to deny seriously that you were born exactly two years after your esteemed mother entered into lawful wedlock with the collegiate secretary Mr. Burdovsky, your father. The date of your birth is only too easy to prove factually, so that the distortion of this fact in Mr. Keller’s article, so offensive to you and to your mother, can be explained only by the playful personal fantasy of Mr. Keller, who hoped thereby to strengthen the obviousness of your right and thereby contribute to your interests. Mr. Keller says that he read the article to you prior to publication, though not all of it … no doubt he stopped before reading you this part …”

  “I didn’t, actually,” the boxer interrupted, “but I was informed of all the facts by competent persons, and I …”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Keller,” Gavrila Ardalionovich stopped him, “allow me to speak. I assure you, we will get to your article in its turn, and then you can offer your explanation, but now let us proceed in order. Quite by chance, with the help of my sister, Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsyn, I obtained from her close friend, Vera Alexeevna Zubkov, a landowner and a widow, a letter from the late Nikolai Andreevich Pavlishchev, written to her from abroad twenty-four years ago. Having approached Vera Alexeevna, I was directed by her to retired Colonel Timofei Fyodorovich Vyazovkin, a distant relation, and, in his time, a great friend of Mr. Pavlishchev. From him I managed to obtain two more of Nikolai Andreevich’s letters, also written from abroad. These three letters, the dates and facts mentioned in them, prove mathematically, with no possibility of refutation or even doubt, that Nikolai Andreevich went abroad (where he spent the next three years) exactly a year and a half before you were born, Mr. Burdovsky. Your mother, as you know, never left Russia … I will not read these letters at the present time. It is late now; I am, in any case, only stating the fact. But if you wish to make an appointment with me, Mr. Burdovsky, say, for tomorrow morning, and bring your own witnesses (as many as you like) and experts in the identification of handwriting, I have no doubt that you will not fail to be convinced of the obvious truth of the fact of which I have informed you. And if so, then, naturally, this whole affair collapses and ceases of itself.”

  Again a general stir and profound agitation ensued. Burdovsky himself suddenly got up from his chair.

  “If so, then I was deceived, deceived, not by Chebarov, but long, long ago. I don’t want any experts, I don’t want any appointments, I believe you, I renounce … no need for the ten thousand … good-bye …”

  He took his peaked cap and pushed a chair aside in order to leave.

  “If you can, Mr. Burdovsky,” Gavrila Ardalionovich said softly and sweetly, “please stay for another five minutes or so. Several more extremely important facts have been discovered in this affair, quite curious ones, especially for you in any case. In my opinion, you ought without fail to become acquainted with them, and for you yourself, perhaps, it will be more pleasant if the affair is completely cleared up …”

  Burdovsky sat down silently, bowing his head a little, as if in deep thought. After him, Lebedev’s nephew, who had also gotten up to go with him, sat down again; though he had not lost his head or his pluck, he was obviously greatly puzzled. Ippolit was downcast, sad, and seemed very surprised. Just then, however, he began to cough so hard that he even got bloodstains on his handkerchief. The boxer was all but frightened.

  “Eh, Antip!” he cried bitterly. “Didn’t I tell you then … two days ago … that maybe in fact you’re not Pavlishchev’s son?”

  Suppressed laughter was heard, two or three laughed louder than the others.

  “The fact of which you have just informed us, Mr. Keller,” Gavrila Ardalionovich picked up, “is a very precious one. Nevertheless I have the full right, on the basis of very precise data, to maintain that Mr. Burdovsky, though he was, of course, only too well aware of the date of his birth, was completely unaware of the circumstances of Pavlishchev’s residence abroad, where Mr. Pavlishchev spent the greater part of his life, never returning to Russia for more than short periods. Besides that, the very fact of his departure at that time is so unremarkable in itself that even those who knew Pavlishchev intimately would hardly remember it after more than twenty years, to say nothing of Mr. Burdovsky, who was not even born yet. Of course, to obtain information now turned out to be not impossible; but I must confess that the information I received came to me quite by chance, and might very well not have come; so that for Mr. Burdovsky, and even for Chebarov, this information would indeed have been almost impossible to obtain, even if they had taken it into their heads to obtain it. But they might not have taken it into their heads …”

  “If you please, Mr. Ivolgin,” Ippolit suddenly interrupted him irritably, “why all this galimatias (forgive me)? The affair has been explained, we agree to believe the main fact, why drag out this painful and offensive rigmarole any longer? Maybe you want to boast about the deftness of your research, to show us and the prince what a good investigator and sleuth you are? Or do you mean to try to excuse and vindicate Burdovsky by the fact that he got mixed up in this affair out of ignorance? But that is impudent, my dear sir! Burdovsky has no need of your vindications and excuses, let that be known to you! He’s offended, it’s painful for him as it is, he’s in an awkward position, you ought to have guessed, to have understood that …”

  “Enough, Mr. Terentyev, enough,” Gavrila Ardalionovich managed to interrupt him. “Calm down, don’t get irritated; you seem to be very ill? I sympathize with you. In that case, if you wish, I’m done, that is, I am forced to convey only briefly those facts which, in my conviction, it would not be superfluous to know in all their fullness,” he added, noticing a general movement that looked like impatience. “I merely wish to tell you, with evidence, for the information of all those interested in the affair, that your mother, Mr. Burdovsky, enjoyed the affection and care of Pavlishchev solely because she was the sister of a house-serf girl with whom Mr. Pavlishchev had been in love in his early youth, so much so that he would certainly have married her if she had not died unexpectedly. I have proofs that this family fact, absolutely precise and true, is very little known, even quite forgotten. Furthermore, I could explain how your mother, as a ten-year-old child, was taken by Mr. Pavlishchev to be brought up like a relation, that a significant dowry was set aside for her, and that all these cares generated extremely alarmed rumors among Pavlishchev’s numerous relations: they even thought he might marry his ward, but in the end she married by inclination (and I can prove that in the most precise fashion) a land surveyor, Mr. Burdovsky, when she was nineteen. Here I have gathered several very precise facts proving that your father, Mr. Burdovsky, a totally impractical man, having received fifteen thousand as your mother’s dowry, aba
ndoned his job, got into commercial ventures, was cheated, lost his capital, could not bear his grief, began to drink, which caused his illness, and finally died prematurely, in the eighth year of his marriage to your mother. Then, according to your mother’s own testimony, she was left destitute and would have perished altogether without the constant and magnanimous assistance of Pavlishchev, who gave her up to six hundred roubles a year as support. Then there are countless testimonies that he was extremely fond of you as a child. According to these testimonies, and again with your mother’s confirmation, it appears that he loved you mainly because as a child you had a speech defect and the look of a cripple, a pathetic, miserable child (and Pavlishchev, as I have deduced from precise evidence, had all his life a certain tender inclination towards everything oppressed and wronged by nature, especially in children—a fact, in my conviction, of extreme importance for our affair). Finally, I can boast of the most precise findings about the main fact of how this great attachment to you on the part of Pavlishchev (through whose efforts you entered high school and studied under special supervision) in the end gradually produced among Pavlishchev’s relations and household the notion that you were his son and that your father was merely a deceived husband. But the main thing is that this notion hardened into a precise and general conviction only in the last years of Pavlishchev’s life, when everyone had fears about the will and all the original facts were forgotten and inquiries were impossible. Undoubtedly this notion reached you, Mr. Burdovsky, and took complete possession of you. Your mother, whose acquaintance I had the honor of making personally, knew all about these rumors, but does not know to this day (I, too, concealed it from her) that you, her son, were also under the spell of this rumor. I found your much-esteemed mother in Pskov, Mr. Burdovsky, beset by illnesses and in the most extreme poverty, which she fell into after Pavlishchev’s death. She told me with tears of gratitude that she was alive in the world only through you and your support; she expects much from you in the future and fervently believes in your future success …”