The Idiot

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  “Then what is it, finally?”

  “How tiresome!”

  “The point is in the following anecdote from olden times, for it’s necessary that I tell you this anecdote from olden times. In our day, in our fatherland, which I hope you love as much as I do, gentlemen, because for my part I’m even ready to spill all my blood …”

  “Go on! Go on!”

  “In our fatherland, as well as in Europe, mankind is visited by universal, ubiquitous, and terrible famines, by possible reckonings and as far as I can remember, not more often now than once in a quarter century, in other words, once every twenty-five years. I won’t argue about the precise number, but comparatively quite rarely.”

  “Comparatively to what?”

  “To the twelfth century and its neighboring centuries on either side. For at that time, as writers write and maintain, universal famines visited mankind once every two or three years at least, so that in such a state of affairs man even resorted to anthropophagy, though he kept it a secret. One of these parasites, approaching old age, announced on his own and without being forced, that in the course of a long and meager life he had personally killed and eaten in deepest secrecy sixty monks and several lay babies—about six, not more, that is, remarkably few compared with the quantity of clergy he had eaten. Of lay adults, as it turned out, he had never touched any with that purpose.”

  “That cannot be!” cried the chairman himself, the general, in an all but offended voice. “I often discuss and argue with him, always about similar thoughts, gentlemen; but most often he produces such absurdities that one’s ears fall off, not a groatsworth of plausibility!”

  “General! Remember the siege of Kars, and you, gentlemen, should know that my anecdote is the naked truth. For my own part, I will observe that almost every actuality, though it has its immutable laws, is almost always incredible and implausible. And the more actual it is, the more implausible it sometimes seems.”

  “But how can one eat sixty monks?” they laughed all around.

  “Though he didn’t eat them all at once, which is obvious, but maybe over the course of fifteen or twenty years, which is quite understandable and natural …”

  “And natural?”

  “And natural!” Lebedev snapped at them with pedantic persistence. “And besides all that, a Catholic monk is prying and curious by his very nature, and it’s quite easy to lure him into a forest or some other secluded place and deal with him in the abovementioned way—but all the same I don’t deny that the quantity of persons eaten comes out as extraordinary, even to the point of intemperance.”

  “Maybe it’s true, gentlemen,” the prince suddenly observed.

  Up to then he had listened silently to the arguers and had not entered the conversation; he had often laughed heartily following the general outbursts of laughter. It was obvious that he was terribly glad that it was so merry, so noisy; even that they were drinking so much. Perhaps he would not have said a word the whole evening, but suddenly he somehow decided to speak. He spoke with extreme seriousness, so that everyone suddenly turned to him with curiosity.

  “Essentially, gentlemen, what I want to say is that there were such frequent famines back then. I’ve heard about it, too, though I have a poor knowledge of history. But it seems it must have been so. When I found myself in the Swiss mountains, I was terribly astonished by the ruins of the ancient knightly castles, built on the sides of the mountains, on steep cliffs, and at least half a mile straight up (meaning several miles by little paths). We know what a castle is: it’s a whole mountain of stones. Terrible, impossible labor! And, of course, they were built by all those poor people, the vassals. Besides that, they had to pay all sorts of taxes and support the clergy. How could they feed themselves and work the land? There were few of them then, they must have been terribly starved, and there may have been literally nothing to eat. I even used to think sometimes: how is it that these people did not cease altogether then and that nothing happened to them, how could they hold out and endure? Lebedev is undoubtedly right that there were cannibals, and perhaps a great many of them; only what I don’t know is why precisely he mixed monks into it and what does he mean to say by that?”

  “Probably that in the twelfth century only monks could be eaten, because only monks were fat,” observed Gavrila Ardalionovich.

  “A most splendid and correct thought!” cried Lebedev. “For he never even touched a layman. Not a single layman to sixty head of clergy, and this is a horrible thought, a historical thought, a statistical thought, finally, and it is from such facts that the knowing man constructs history; for it is asserted with numerical exactitude that the clergy lived at least sixty times more happily and freely than the rest of mankind at that time. And were, perhaps, at least sixty times fatter than the rest of mankind …”

  “An exaggeration, an exaggeration, Lebedev!” they guffawed all around.

  “I agree that it’s a historical thought, but what are you getting at?” the prince went on asking. (He spoke with such seriousness and such an absence of any joking or mockery of Lebedev, whom everyone laughed at, that his tone, amidst the general tone of the whole company, involuntarily became comical; a little more and they would have started making fun of him as well, but he did not notice it.)

  “Don’t you see he’s crazy, Prince?” Evgeny Pavlovich leaned towards him. “I was told here earlier that he went crazy over being a lawyer and making speeches, and that he wants to pass an examination. I’m expecting an excellent parody.”

  “I’m getting at a tremendous conclusion,” Lebedev meanwhile thundered. “But first of all let us analyze the psychological and juridical condition of the criminal. We see that the criminal, or, so to speak, my client, despite all the impossibility of finding other eatables, shows more than once, in the course of his peculiar career, a desire to repent, and avoids clergymen. We see it clearly from the facts: it is mentioned that he did, after all, eat five or six babies—a comparatively insignificant number, but portentous in another respect. It is obvious that, suffering from terrible remorse (for my client is a religious and conscientious man, as I shall prove), and in order to diminish his sin as far as possible, six times, by way of experiment, he changed monastic food for lay food. That it was by way of experiment is, again, unquestionable; for if it was only for gastronomic variety, the number six would be too insignificant: why only six and not thirty? (I’m considering a fifty-fifty proportion.) But if it was only an experiment, only out of despair before the fear of blaspheming and insulting the Church, then the number six becomes all too comprehensible; for six experiments, to satisfy the remorse of conscience, are quite sufficient, because the experiments could not have been successful. And, first of all, in my opinion, a baby is too small, that is, not of large size, so that for a given period of time he would need three or five times the number of lay babies as of clergymen, so that the sin, while diminishing on the one hand, would in the final end be increased on the other, if not in quality, then in quantity. In reasoning this way, gentlemen, I am, of course, descending into the heart of the twelfth-century criminal. For my own part, as a nineteenth-century man, I might have reasoned differently, of which I inform you, so there’s no need to go grinning at me, gentlemen, and for you, General, it is quite unsuitable. Second, a baby, in my personal opinion, is not nourishing, is perhaps even too sweet and cloying, so that, while not satisfying the need, it leaves one with nothing but remorse of conscience. Now for the conclusion, the finale, gentlemen, the finale which contains the answer to one of the greatest questions of that time and ours! The criminal ends by going and denouncing himself to the clergy, and surrenders to the hands of the authorities. One may ask, what tortures did he face, considering the time, what wheels, fires, and flames? Who prompted him to go and denounce himself? Why not simply stop at the number sixty, keeping your secret till your last breath? Why not simply give up monks and live in penitence as a recluse? Why, finally, not become a monk himself? Now here is the answer! It means
there was something stronger than fire and flame and even than a twenty-year habit! It means there was a thought stronger than all calamities, crop failures, torture, plague, leprosy, and all that hell, which mankind would have been unable to endure without that thought which binds men together, guides their hearts, and makes fruitful the wellsprings of the life of thought! Show me something resembling such a force in our age of crime and railways … that is, I should have said: our age of steam and railways, but I say: in our age of crime and railways, because I’m drunk, but just! Show me a thought binding present-day mankind together that is half as strong as in those centuries. And dare to say, finally, that the wellsprings of life have not weakened, have not turned muddy under this ‘star,’ under this network that ensnares people. And don’t try to frighten me with your prosperity, your wealth, the rarity of famines, and the speed of communication! There is greater wealth, but less force; the binding idea is gone; everything has turned soft, everything is overstewed, everyone is overstewed! We’re all, all, all overstewed!… But enough, that’s not the point now; the point is, shouldn’t we give orders, my highly esteemed Prince, about the little snack prepared for our guests?”

  Lebedev, who had almost driven some of his listeners to real indignation (the bottles, it should be noted, did not cease to be uncorked all the while), immediately won over all his opponents by unexpectedly concluding his speech with a little snack. He himself called such a conclusion a “clever, advocatory rounding off of the case.” Merry laughter arose again, the guests became animated; they all got up from the table to stretch and stroll about the terrace. Only Keller remained displeased with Lebedev’s speech and was in extreme agitation.

  “The man attacks enlightenment, preaches rabid twelfth-century fanaticism, clowns, and even without any innocence of heart: how did he pay for this house, may I ask?” he said aloud, stopping all and sundry.

  “I’ve seen a real interpreter of the Apocalypse,” the general said in another corner to other listeners, among them Ptitsyn, whom he seized by a button, “the late Grigory Semyonovich Burmistrov: he burned through your heart, so to speak. First, he put on his spectacles, opened a big old book bound in black leather, well, and a gray beard along with it, two medals for his donations. He’d begin sternly and severely, generals bowed down to him, and ladies swooned—well, and this one ends with a snack. I’ve never seen the like!”

  Ptitsyn listened to the general, smiled, and seemed about to take his hat, but could not quite make up his mind or else kept forgetting his intention. Ganya, before the moment when they all got up from the table, had suddenly stopped drinking and pushed his glass away; something dark had passed over his face. When they got up from the table, he went over to Rogozhin and sat down next to him. One might have thought they were on the most friendly terms. Rogozhin, who at first also made as if to leave quietly several times, now sat motionless, his head bowed, and also seemed to have forgotten that he wanted to leave. He did not drink a single drop of wine all evening and was very pensive; only from time to time he raised his eyes and looked them all over. Now one might have thought he was waiting there for something extremely important for him and was resolved not to leave till the time came.

  The prince drank only two or three glasses and was merely merry. Getting up from the table, he met Evgeny Pavlovich’s gaze, remembered about their forthcoming talk, and smiled affably. Evgeny Pavlovich nodded to him and suddenly pointed to Ippolit, whom he was observing intently at that moment. Ippolit was asleep, stretched out on the sofa.

  “Tell me, Prince, why has this boy foisted himself on you?” he said suddenly, with such obvious vexation and even spite that the prince was surprised. “I’ll bet he’s got something wicked in mind!”

  “I’ve noticed,” said the prince, “or at least it seems to me, that he interests you very much today, Evgeny Pavlych. Is it true?”

  “And add that in my circumstances I have a lot to think about, so that I’m surprised myself that I’ve been unable to tear myself away from that repulsive physiognomy all evening!”

  “He has a handsome face …”

  “There, there, look!” cried Evgeny Pavlovich, pulling the prince’s arm. “There!…”

  The prince again looked Evgeny Pavlovich over with surprise.

  V

  IPPOLIT, WHO TOWARDS the end of Lebedev’s dissertation had suddenly fallen asleep on the sofa, now suddenly woke up, as if someone had nudged him in the side, gave a start, sat up, looked around, and turned pale; he looked around even in a sort of fright; but horror almost showed in his face when he recalled and understood everything.

  “What, they’re going home? Is it over? Is it all over? Has the sun risen?” he asked in alarm, seizing the prince’s hand. “What time is it? For God’s sake, what time? I’ve overslept. Did I sleep long?” he added with an almost desperate look, as if he had slept through something on which at least his whole destiny depended.

  “You slept for seven or eight minutes,” Evgeny Pavlovich replied.

  Ippolit looked at him greedily and pondered for a few moments.

  “Ah … that’s all! So, I …”

  And he drew his breath deeply and greedily, as if throwing off an immense burden. He finally realized that nothing was “over,” that it was not dawn yet, that the guests had gotten up from the table only to have a snack, and that the only thing that was over was Lebedev’s babble. He smiled, and a consumptive flush in the form of two bright spots played on his cheeks.

  “So you’ve been counting the minutes while I slept, Evgeny Pavlych,” he picked up mockingly. “You haven’t torn yourself away from me all evening, I saw … Ah! Rogozhin! I just saw him in a dream,” he whispered to the prince, frowning and nodding towards Rogozhin, who was sitting by the table. “Ah, yes,” he again skipped on suddenly, “where is the orator, where is Lebedev? So Lebedev’s finished? What was he talking about? Is it true, Prince, that you once said ‘beauty’ would save the world? Gentlemen,” he cried loudly to them all, “the prince insists that beauty will save the world! And I insist that he has such playful thoughts because he’s in love now. Gentlemen, the prince is in love; as soon as he came in today, I was convinced of it. Don’t blush, Prince, or I’ll feel sorry for you. What beauty will save the world? Kolya told me what you said … Are you a zealous Christian? Kolya says you call yourself a Christian.”

  The prince studied him attentively and did not answer.

  “You don’t answer me? Maybe you think I love you very much?” Ippolit suddenly added, as if breaking off.

  “No, I don’t think so. I know you don’t love me.”

  “What? Even after yesterday? Wasn’t I sincere with you yesterday?”

  “Yesterday, too, I knew you didn’t love me.”

  “Because I envy you, envy you, is that it? You’ve always thought so and you think so now, but … but why am I telling you that? I want more champagne; pour me some, Keller.”

  “You shouldn’t drink more, Ippolit, I won’t let you …”

  And the prince moved the glass away from him.

  “In fact …” he agreed at once, as if pondering, “they might say … ah, what the devil do I care what they say! Isn’t it true, isn’t it true? Let them talk afterwards, right, Prince? As if it’s any of our business what happens afterwards!… Anyhow, I’m still not quite awake. I had a terrible dream. I’ve just remembered it … I don’t wish you such dreams, Prince, though maybe I actually don’t love you. Anyhow, if you don’t love someone, why wish him ill, isn’t it true? See how I keep asking, asking all the time! Give me your hand; I’ll press it firmly, like this … You do still give me your hand, though? Does that mean you know I’m sincere?… Maybe I won’t drink anymore. What time is it? Never mind, though, I know what time it is. The hour has come! It’s just the right time. What, they’ve put out the food in the corner? So this table is free? Excellent! Gentlemen, I … however, these gentlemen are not all listening … I intend to read an article, Prince; food is, of course, m
ore interesting, but …”

  And suddenly, quite unexpectedly, he pulled from his upper side pocket a big, official-sized envelope, sealed with a big red seal. He placed it on the table in front of him.

  This unexpectedness had an effect on the company, which was unprepared for it, or, better, was prepared, but not for that. Evgeny Pavlovich even jumped in his chair; Ganya quickly moved to the table; Rogozhin did the same, but with a sort of gruff vexation, as if he knew what it was about. Lebedev, who happened to be near by, came closer with his curious little eyes and gazed at the envelope, trying to guess what it was about.

  “What have you got there?” the prince asked uneasily.

  “With the first little rim of the sun, I’ll lie down, Prince, I told you that; on my word of honor: you’ll see!” cried Ippolit. “But … but … can you possibly think I’m not capable of opening this envelope?” he added, passing his gaze over them all with a sort of defiance, and as if addressing them all indiscriminately. The prince noticed that he was trembling all over.

  “None of us thinks that,” the prince answered for everyone, “and why do you think that anyone has such an idea, and what … what has given you this strange idea of reading? What is it you’ve got there, Ippolit?”

  “What is it? Has something happened to him again?” they asked all around. Everyone came closer, some still eating; the envelope with the red seal attracted them all like a magnet.

  “I wrote it myself yesterday, right after I gave you my word that I’d come and live with you, Prince. I spent all day yesterday writing it, then last night, and finished it this morning. Last night, towards morning, I had a dream …”

  “Wouldn’t it be better tomorrow?” the prince interrupted timidly.

  “Tomorrow ‘there will be no more time!’ ”13 Ippolit chuckled hysterically. “Don’t worry, however, I can read it through in forty minutes … well, in an hour … And you can see how interested everyone is; everyone came over; everyone is looking at my seal; if I hadn’t sealed the article in an envelope, there would have been no effect! Ha, ha! That’s what mysteriousness means! Shall I open it, gentlemen, or not?” he cried, laughing his strange laugh and flashing his eyes. “A mystery! A mystery! And do you remember, Prince, who it was who announced that ‘there will be no more time’? A huge and powerful angel in the Apocalypse announces it.”