The Idiot

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  “But you make God knows what out of a most ordinary matter!” cried Varya.

  “I told you: ‘a gossip and a little brat,’ ” said Ganya.

  “If you please, Varvara Ardalionovna, I shall continue. Of course, I can neither love nor respect the prince, but he is decidedly a kind man, though … a ridiculous one. But I have absolutely no reason to hate him; I remained impassive when your brother incited me against the prince; I precisely counted on having a good laugh at the denouement. I knew your brother would let things slip and miss the mark in the highest degree. And so it happened … I’m ready to spare him now, but solely out of respect for you, Varvara Ardalionovna. But, having explained to you that it is not so easy to catch me on a hook, I will also explain to you why I wanted so much to make a fool of your brother. Know that I did it out of hatred, I confess it frankly. In dying (because I shall die all the same, even though I’ve grown fatter, as you assure me), in dying, I have felt that I would go to paradise incomparably more peacefully if I managed to make a fool out of at least one of that numberless sort of people who have hounded me all my life, whom I have hated all my life, and of whom your much-esteemed brother serves as such a vivid representation. I hate you, Gavrila Ardalionovich, solely because—this may seem astonishing to you—solely because you are the type and embodiment, the personification and apex of the most impudent, the most self-satisfied, the most vulgar and vile ordinariness! You are a puffed-up ordinariness, an unquestioning and Olympianly calm ordinariness; you are the routine of routines! Not the least idea of your own will ever be embodied in your mind or in your heart. But you are infinitely envious; you are firmly convinced that you are the greatest of geniuses, but all the same, doubt visits you occasionally in your darkest moments, and you become angry and envious. Oh, there are still dark spots on your horizon; they will go away when you become definitively stupid, which is not far off; but all the same a long and diverse path lies ahead of you, I do not say a cheerful one, and I’m glad of that. First of all, I predict to you that you will not attain a certain person …”

  “No, this is unbearable!” Varya cried out. “Will you ever finish, you disgusting little stinker?”

  Ganya was pale, trembling, and silent. Ippolit stopped, looked at him intently and with relish, shifted his gaze to Varya, grinned, bowed, and left without adding a single word.

  Gavrila Ardalionovich could justly complain of his fate and ill luck. For some time Varya did not dare to address him, did not even glance at him, as he paced by her with big strides; finally, he went to the window and stood with his back to her. Varya was thinking about the proverb: every stick has two ends. There was noise again upstairs.

  “Are you leaving?” Ganya suddenly turned, hearing her get up from her seat. “Wait. Look at this.”

  He went over to her and flung down on the chair before her a small piece of paper folded like a little note.

  “Lord!” Varya cried and clasped her hands.

  There were exactly seven lines in the note:

  Gavrila Ardalionovich! Being convinced that you are kindly disposed towards me, I venture to ask your advice in a matter that is of importance for me. I would like to meet you tomorrow, at exactly seven o’clock in the morning, by the green bench. It is not far from our dacha. Varvara Ardalionovna, who must accompany you without fail, knows the place very well. A.E.

  “Try figuring her out after that!” Varvara Ardalionovna spread her arms.

  Much as Ganya would have liked to swagger at that moment, he simply could not help showing his triumph, especially after such humiliating predictions from Ippolit. A self-satisfied smile shone openly on his face, and Varya herself became all radiant with joy.

  “And that on the very day when they’re announcing the engagement! Try figuring her out after that!”

  “What do you think she’s going to talk about tomorrow?” asked Ganya.

  “That makes no difference, the main thing is that she wishes to see you for the first time after six months. Listen to me, Ganya: whatever there is to it, however it turns out, know that this is important! It’s all too important! Don’t swagger again, don’t miss the mark again, but watch out you don’t turn coward either! Could she have failed to grasp why I dragged myself there for half a year? And imagine: she didn’t say a word to me today, didn’t show a thing. I sneaked in to see them, the old woman didn’t know I was sitting with them, otherwise she might have chased me out. I risked that for you, to find out at all costs …”

  Shouting and noise again came from overhead; several people were going down the stairs.

  “Don’t allow it now for anything!” Varya cried, frightened and all aflutter. “There mustn’t be even the shadow of a scandal! Go and apologize!”

  But the father of the family was already in the street. Kolya lugged his bag after him. Nina Alexandrovna stood on the porch and wept; she was about to run after him, but Ptitsyn held her back.

  “You’ll only egg him on more that way,” he said to her. “He has nowhere to go, they’ll bring him back in half an hour, I’ve already discussed it with Kolya; let him play the fool a little.”

  “What are you showing off for, where are you going!” Ganya shouted out the window. “You’ve got nowhere to go!”

  “Come back, papa!” cried Varya. “The neighbors can hear.”

  The general stopped, turned around, stretched out his arm, and exclaimed:

  “My curse upon this house!”

  “And inevitably in a theatrical tone!” Ganya muttered, noisily shutting the window.

  The neighbors were indeed listening. Varya rushed from the room.

  When Varya was gone, Ganya took the note from the table, kissed it, clucked his tongue, and performed an entrechat.

  III

  AT ANY OTHER TIME the commotion with the general would have come to nothing. Before, too, there had been occasions of unexpected whimsicality of the same sort with him, though rather seldom, because generally speaking he was a very mild man and of almost kindly inclinations. A hundred times, perhaps, he had taken up the struggle with the disorder that had come over him in recent years. He would suddenly remember that he was the “father of the family,” make peace with his wife, weep sincerely. He respected Nina Alexandrovna to the point of adoration for having silently forgiven him so much and loved him even in his clownishness and humiliation. But his magnanimous struggle with disorder usually did not last long; the general was also all too “impulsive” a man, though in his own way; he usually could not bear a repentant and idle life in his family and ended by rebelling; he would fall into a fit of passion, perhaps reproaching himself for it at the same moment, but unable to control himself: he would quarrel, begin talking floridly and grandiloquently, demand a disproportionate and impossible respect for himself, and in the end disappear from the house, sometimes even for a long time. For the last two years, he had known about the affairs of his family only in general or by hearsay; he had stopped going into more detail, feeling not the slightest call for it.

  But this time something unusual manifested itself in the “commotion with the general”: everyone seemed to know about something and everyone seemed afraid to speak about something. The general had “formally” appeared in the family, that is, to Nina Alexandrovna, only three days ago, but somehow not humbly and not with repentance, as had always happened in his previous “appearances,” but on the contrary—with extraordinary irritability. He was garrulous, agitated, talked heatedly with everyone he met, as if falling upon the person, but it was all about such diverse and unexpected subjects that it was in no way possible to get at what, in essence, he was now so worried about. At moments he was merry, but more often brooding, though he himself did not know about what; he would suddenly begin talking about something—the Epanchins, or the prince and Lebedev—and would suddenly break off and stop talking altogether, and respond to further questions only with a dull smile, though without even noticing that he had been asked something and had merely smiled. He had
spent the last night moaning and groaning, and had worn out Nina Alexandrovna, who for some reason kept heating poultices for him all night; towards morning he had suddenly fallen asleep, slept for four hours, and woke up in a most violent and disorderly fit of hypochondria, which had ended in a quarrel with Ippolit and the “curse upon this house.” It had also been noticed that during those three days he was constantly having the most violent fits of ambition, and consequently of extraordinary touchiness. But Kolya insisted, reassuring his mother, that it was all the longing for a drink, and perhaps also for Lebedev, with whom the general had become extraordinarily friendly in recent days. But three days ago he had suddenly quarreled with Lebedev and parted from him in a terrible rage; there had even been some sort of scene with the prince. Kolya had asked the prince for an explanation, and had finally begun to suspect that he, too, had something that he was apparently unwilling to tell him. If, as Ganya quite plausibly supposed, there had been some special conversation between Ippolit and Nina Alexandrovna, then it was odd that this wicked gentleman, whom Ganya so directly called a gossip, had denied himself the pleasure of enlightening Kolya in the same way. It may well be that he was not such a wicked “little brat,” as Ganya had described him, talking with his sister, but was wicked in some other way; and he had hardly informed Nina Alexandrovna of some observation of his solely in order to “break her heart.” Let us not forget that the reasons for human actions are usually incalculably more complex and diverse than we tend to explain them later, and are seldom clearly manifest. Sometimes it is best for the narrator to limit himself to a simple account of events. So we shall do in our further clarification of the present catastrophe with the general; for, in spite of all our efforts, we find ourselves in the decided necessity of giving a bit more attention and space to this secondary character of our story than we had hitherto intended.

  The events followed one another in this order:

  When Lebedev, after his journey to Petersburg in search of Ferdyshchenko, returned that same day, together with the general, he did not tell the prince anything in particular. If at that time the prince had not been so distracted and taken up with other impressions important for him, he might soon have noticed that for the following two days Lebedev not only did not offer him any explanations but even, on the contrary, seemed to avoid meeting him. Paying attention to that at last, the prince wondered why, during those two days, when he had chanced to meet Lebedev, he remembered him not otherwise than in the most radiant spirits, and almost always together with the general. The two friends never parted for a moment now. Occasionally the prince heard loud and rapid conversation, guffawing, merry argument, coming to him from upstairs; once even, very late in the evening, suddenly and unexpectedly, the sounds of a military-bacchic song reached him, and he immediately recognized the general’s hoarse bass. But the resounding song did not come off and suddenly died out. Then, for about an hour more, a very animated and, by all tokens, drunken conversation went on. One could guess that the merrymaking friends upstairs kept embracing, and one of them finally wept. Then suddenly a violent quarrel ensued, which also died out quickly and soon. All this while Kolya was in a somehow especially preoccupied mood. The prince was most often away from home and sometimes came back very late; he was always told that Kolya had been looking for him and asking after him all day long. But when they met, Kolya could not say anything special, except that he was decidedly “displeased” with the general and his present behavior: “They drag themselves around, drink in the local tavern, embrace each other, quarrel in the streets, egg each other on, and simply cannot part.” When the prince observed to him that earlier as well it had been the same almost every day, Kolya decidedly did not know what to answer to that and how to explain precisely what caused his present anxiety.

  The morning after the bacchic song and quarrel, when the prince was leaving the house at around eleven o’clock, the general suddenly appeared before him, extremely agitated by something, almost shaken.

  “I have long been seeking the honor and occasion of meeting you, my much-esteemed Lev Nikolaevich, long, very long,” he murmured, pressing the prince’s hand extremely hard, almost painfully, “very, very long.”

  The prince invited him to sit down.

  “No, I won’t sit down, and moreover I’m keeping you, I will—some other time. It seems I may take this opportunity to congratulate you on … the fulfillment … of your heart’s desires.”

  “What heart’s desires?”

  The prince was embarrassed. Like a great many people in his position, he thought that decidedly no one saw anything, guessed anything, understood anything.

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry! I won’t upset your most delicate feelings. I have experienced and know myself how it is when a stranger’s … nose, so to speak … according to the saying … goes poking where it hasn’t been invited. I experience it every morning. I have come on a different matter, Prince, an important one. A very important matter, Prince.”

  The prince once again invited him to sit down and sat down himself.

  “Perhaps for one second … I’ve come for advice. I, of course, live without any practical goals, but, having respect for myself and … for efficiency, which is so lacking in the Russian man, generally speaking … I wish to put myself, my wife, and my children in a position … in short, Prince, I am looking for advice.”

  The prince warmly praised his intention.

  “Well, that’s all nonsense,” the general quickly interrupted, “moreover, I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about something different, and important. And I shall venture to explain it precisely to you, Lev Nikolaevich, as a man the sincerity of whose reception and the nobility of whose feelings I trust as … as … You’re not surprised at my words, Prince?”

  The prince was following his visitor with great attention and curiosity, if not with any particular surprise. The old man was slightly pale, his lips occasionally twitched a little, his hands seemed unable to find a place to rest. He had been sitting for only a few minutes, and had twice managed to get up suddenly from his chair for some reason and suddenly to sit down again, obviously not paying the least attention to his maneuvers. Some books were lying on the table; he took one, went on talking, opened it and peeked at a page, closed it again at once and put it on the table, snatched another book, which he did not open now, but spent the rest of the time holding in his right hand, constantly brandishing it in the air.

  “Enough!” he cried suddenly. “I see I’ve greatly inconvenienced you.”

  “Why, not in the least, good heavens, you’re quite welcome. On the contrary, I’ve been listening and wish I could guess …”

  “Prince! I wish to put myself in a respectable position … I wish to respect myself and … my rights.”

  “A man with such wishes is deserving of every respect for that alone.”

  The prince uttered this copybook phrase in the firm conviction that it would have an excellent effect. He somehow instinctively guessed that such a hollow but agreeable phrase, if spoken aptly, might suddenly subdue and pacify the soul of such a man, and especially in such a position as the general’s. In any case, such a visitor had to be sent away with his heart eased, and in that lay his task.

  The phrase flattered, touched, and greatly pleased: the general suddenly waxed sentimental, instantly changed tone, and lapsed into rapturously lengthy explanations. But no matter how the prince strained, no matter how he listened, he literally could not understand a thing. The general spoke for some ten minutes, heatedly, quickly, as if he had no time to articulate his crowding thoughts; in the end tears even glistened in his eyes, but all the same it was only phrases with no beginning or end, unexpected words and unexpected thoughts, which broke through quickly and unexpectedly and leaped one over the other.

  “Enough! You’ve understood me, and I am at peace,” he suddenly concluded, getting up. “A heart such as yours cannot fail to understand a sufferer. Prince, you are as noble as an ideal! W
hat are others compared with you? But you are young, and I give you my blessing. In the final end I have come to ask you to appoint me an hour for a serious conversation, and in this lies my chiefest hope. I seek only friendship and heart, Prince; I never could control the demands of my heart.”

  “But why not now? I’m prepared to hear out …”

  “No, Prince, no!” the general interrupted hotly. “Not now! Now is a dream! It is too, too important, too important! This hour of conversation will be the hour of my ultimate destiny. It will be my hour, and I would not wish us to be interrupted at such a sacred moment by the first comer, the first impudent fellow, and not seldom such an impudent fellow,” he suddenly bent over the prince with a strange, mysterious, and almost frightened whisper, “such an impudent fellow as is not worth the heel … of your foot, my beloved Prince! Oh, I don’t say of my foot! Make special note that I did not mention my foot; I respect myself enough to be able to say it without beating around the bush; but you alone are able to understand that, by rejecting my own heel in this case, I am showing, perhaps, an extraordinary pride of dignity. Besides you, no one else will understand, and he at the head of all the others. He doesn’t understand anything, Prince; he’s totally, totally unable to understand! One must have heart in order to understand!”

  In the end the prince was almost frightened and arranged to meet the general the next day at the same hour. The man went away cheerful, extremely comforted, and almost calm. In the evening, past six o’clock, the prince sent to ask Lebedev to come to him for a moment.

  Lebedev appeared with extreme haste, “considering it an honor,” as he began to say at once on coming in; there seemed to be no shadow of that three-day-long hiding and obvious avoidance of meeting the prince. He sat down on the edge of a chair, with grimaces, with smiles, with laughing and peering little eyes, with a rubbing of hands, and with an air of the most naïve expectation of hearing some sort of capital information, long awaited and guessed by all. The prince winced again; it was becoming clear to him that everyone had suddenly begun to expect something from him, that everyone looked at him as if wishing to congratulate him for something, dropping hints, smiling, and winking. Keller had already stopped by three times for a moment, and also with an obvious wish to congratulate him: he began each time rapturously and vaguely, never finished anything, and quickly effaced himself. (For the last few days he had been drinking especially heavily somewhere and had made a row in some billiard parlor.) Even Kolya, despite his sadness, also once or twice began talking vaguely about something with the prince.