PART III - IV

The Idiot

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Translated by Eva Martin

PART III - IV, THE IDIOT by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
An eText from LiteratureClassics.com.

Please see the eText readme for important copyright information (available from the options menu above if you are browsing online or as a separate file in the archive if you are browsing offline.)



THE prince observed with great surprise, as he approached his
villa, accompanied by Rogojin, that a large number of people were
assembled on his verandah, which was brilliantly lighted up. The
company seemed merry and were noisily laughing and talking--even
quarrelling, to judge from the sounds. At all events they were
clearly enjoying themselves, and the prince observed further on
closer investigation--that all had been drinking champagne. To
judge from the lively condition of some of the party, it was to
be supposed that a considerable quantity of champagne had been
consumed already.

All the guests were known to the prince; but the curious part of
the matter was that they had all arrived on the same evening, as
though with one accord, although he had only himself recollected
the fact that it was his birthday a few moments since.

"You must have told somebody you were going to trot out the
champagne, and that's why they are all come!" muttered Rogojin,
as the two entered the verandah. "We know all about that! You've
only to whistle and they come up in shoals!" he continued, almost
angrily. He was doubtless thinking of his own late experiences
with his boon companions.

All surrounded the prince with exclamations of welcome, and, on
hearing that it was his birthday, with cries of congratulation
and delight; many of them were very noisy.

The presence of certain of those in the room surprised the prince
vastly, but the guest whose advent filled him with the greatest
wonder--almost amounting to alarm--was Evgenie Pavlovitch. The
prince could not believe his eyes when he beheld the latter, and
could not help thinking that something was wrong.

Lebedeff ran up promptly to explain the arrival of all these
gentlemen. He was himself somewhat intoxicated, but the prince
gathered from his long-winded periods that the party had
assembled quite naturally, and accidentally.

First of all Hippolyte had arrived, early in the evening, and
feeling decidedly better, had determined to await the prince on
the verandah. There Lebedeff had joined him, and his household
had followed--that is, his daughters and General Ivolgin.
Burdovsky had brought Hippolyte, and stayed on with him. Gania
and Ptitsin had dropped in accidentally later on; then came
Keller, and he and Colia insisted on having champagne. Evgenie
Pavlovitch had only dropped in half an hour or so ago. Lebedeff
had served the champagne readily.

"My own though, prince, my own, mind," he said, "and there'll be
some supper later on; my daughter is getting it ready now. Come
and sit down, prince, we are all waiting for you, we want you
with us. Fancy what we have been discussing! You know the
question, 'to be or not to be,'--out of Hamlet! A contemporary
theme! Quite up-to-date! Mr. Hippolyte has been eloquent to a
degree. He won't go to bed, but he has only drunk a little
champagne, and that can't do him any harm. Come along, prince,
and settle the question. Everyone is waiting for you, sighing for
the light of your luminous intelligence..."

The prince noticed the sweet, welcoming look on Vera Lebedeff's
face, as she made her way towards him through the crowd. He held
out his hand to her. She took it, blushing with delight, and
wished him "a happy life from that day forward." Then she ran off
to the kitchen, where. her presence was necessary to help in the
preparations for supper. Before the prince's arrival she had
spent some time on the terrace, listening eagerly to the
conversation, though the visitors, mostly under the influence of
wine, were discussing abstract subjects far beyond her
comprehension. In the next room her younger sister lay on a
wooden chest, sound asleep, with her mouth wide open; but the
boy, Lebedeff's son, had taken up his position close beside Colia
and Hippolyte, his face lit up with interest in the conversation
of his father and the rest, to which he would willingly have
listened for ten hours at a stretch.

"I have waited for you on purpose, and am very glad to see you
arrive so happy," said Hippolyte, when the prince came forward to
press his hand, immediately after greeting Vera.

"And how do you know that I am 'so happy'?

"I can see it by your face! Say 'how do you do' to the others,
and come and sit down here, quick--I've been waiting for you!" he
added, accentuating the fact that he had waited. On the prince's
asking, "Will it not be injurious to you to sit out so late?" he
replied that he could not believe that he had thought himself
dying three days or so ago, for he never had felt better than
this evening.

Burdovsky next jumped up and explained that he had come in by
accident, having escorted Hippolyte from town. He murmured that
he was glad he had "written nonsense" in his letter, and then
pressed the prince's hand warmly and sat down again.

The prince approached Evgenie Pavlovitch last of all. The latter
immediately took his arm.

"I have a couple of words to say to you," he began, "and those on
a very important matter; let's go aside for a minute or two."

"Just a couple of words!" whispered another voice in the prince's
other ear, and another hand took his other arm. Muishkin turned,
and to his great surprise observed a red, flushed face and a
droll-looking figure which he recognized at once as that of
Ferdishenko. Goodness knows where he had turned up from!

"Do you remember Ferdishenko?" he asked.

"Where have you dropped from?" cried the prince.

"He is sorry for his sins now, prince," cried Keller. "He did not
want to let you know he was here; he was hidden over there in the
corner,--but he repents now, he feels his guilt."

"Why, what has he done?"

"I met him outside and brought him in--he's a gentleman who
doesn't often allow his friends to see him, of late--but he's
sorry now."

"Delighted, I'm sure!--I'll come back directly, gentlemen,--sit
down there with the others, please,--excuse me one moment," said
the host, getting away with difficulty in order to follow
Evgenie.

"You are very gay here," began the latter, "and I have had quite
a pleasant half-hour while I waited for you. Now then, my dear
Lef Nicolaievitch, this is what's the matter. I've arranged it
all with Moloftsoff, and have just come in to relieve your mind
on that score. You need be under no apprehensions. He was very
sensible, as he should be, of course, for I think he was entirely
to blame himself."

"What Moloftsoff?"

"The young fellow whose arms you held, don't you know? He was so
wild with you that he was going to send a friend to you tomorrow
morning."

"What nonsense!"

"Of course it is nonsense, and in nonsense it would have ended,
doubtless; but you know these fellows, they--"

"Excuse me, but I think you must have something else that you
wished to speak about, Evgenie Pavlovitch?"

"Of course, I have!" said the other, laughing. "You see, my dear
fellow, tomorrow, very early in the morning, I must be off to
town about this unfortunate business(my uncle, you know!). Just
imagine, my dear sir, it is all true--word for word--and, of
course, everybody knew it excepting myself. All this has been
such a blow to me that I have not managed to call in at the
Epanchins'. Tomorrow I shall not see them either, because I
shall be in town. I may not be here for three days or more; in a
word, my affairs are a little out of gear. But though my town
business is, of course, most pressing, still I determined not to go
away until I had seen you, and had a clear understanding with you
upon certain points; and that without loss of time. I will wait now,
if you will allow me, until the company departs; I may just as
well, for I have nowhere else to go to, and I shall certainly not
do any sleeping tonight; I'm far too excited. And finally, I must
confess that, though I know it is bad form to pursue a man in
this way, I have come to beg your friendship, my dear prince. You
are an unusual sort of a person; you don't lie at every step, as
some men do; in fact, you don't lie at all, and there is a matter
in which I need a true and sincere friend, for I really may claim
to be among the number of bona fide unfortunates just now."

He laughed again.

"But the trouble is," said the prince, after a slight pause for
reflection, "that goodness only knows when this party will break
up. Hadn't we better stroll into the park? I'll excuse myself,
there's no danger of their going away."

"No, no! I have my reasons for wishing them not to suspect us of
being engaged in any specially important conversation. There are
gentry present who are a little too much interested in us. You
are not aware of that perhaps, prince? It will be a great deal
better if they see that we are friendly just in an ordinary way.
They'll all go in a couple of hours, and then I'll ask you to
give me twenty minutes-half an hour at most."

"By all means! I assure you I am delighted--you need not have
entered into all these explanations. As for your remarks about
friendship with me--thanks, very much indeed. You must excuse my
being a little absent this evening. Do you know, I cannot somehow
be attentive to anything just now?"

"I see, I see," said Evgenie, smiling gently. His mirth seemed
very near the surface this evening.

"What do you see?" said the prince, startled.

"I don't want you to suspect that I have simply come here to
deceive you and pump information out of you!" said Evgenie, still
smiling, and without making any direct reply to the question.

"Oh, but I haven't the slightest doubt that you did come to pump
me," said the prince, laughing himself, at last; "and I dare say
you are quite prepared to deceive me too, so far as that goes.
But what of that? I'm not afraid of you; besides, you'll hardly
believe it, I feel as though I really didn't care a scrap one way
or the other, just now!--And-and-and as you are a capital fellow,
I am convinced of that, I dare say we really shall end by being
good friends. I like you very much Evgenie Pavlovitch; I consider
you a very good fellow indeed."

"Well, in any case, you are a most delightful man to have to deal
with, be the business what it may," concluded Evgenie. "Come
along now, I'll drink a glass to your health. I'm charmed to have
entered into alliance with you. By-the-by," he added suddenly,
has this young Hippolyte come down to stay with you

"Yes."

"He's not going to die at once, I should think, is he?"

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. I've been half an hour here with him, and he--"

Hippolyte had been waiting for the prince all this time, and had
never ceased looking at him and Evgenie Pavlovitch as they
conversed in the corner. He became much excited when they
approached the table once more. He was disturbed in his mind, it
seemed; perspiration stood in large drops on his forehead; in his
gleaming eyes it was easy to read impatience and agitation; his
gaze wandered from face to face of those present, and from object
to object in the room, apparently without aim. He had taken a
part, and an animated one, in the noisy conversation of the
company; but his animation was clearly the outcome of fever. His
talk was almost incoherent; he would break off in the middle of a
sentence which he had begun with great interest, and forget what
he had been saying. The prince discovered to his dismay that
Hippolyte had been allowed to drink two large glasses of
champagne; the one now standing by him being the third. All this
he found out afterwards; at the moment he did not notice
anything, very particularly.

"Do you know I am specially glad that today is your birthday!"
cried Hippolyte.

"Why?"

"You'll soon see. D'you know I had a feeling that there would be
a lot of people here tonight? It's not the first time that my
presentiments have been fulfilled. I wish I had known it was your
birthday, I'd have brought you a present--perhaps I have got a
present for you! Who knows? Ha, ha! How long is it now before
daylight?"

"Not a couple of hours," said Ptitsin, looking at his watch.
What's the good of daylight now? One can read all night in the
open air without it," said someone.

"The good of it! Well, I want just to see a ray of the sun," said
Hippolyte. Can one drink to the sun's health, do you think,
prince?"

"Oh, I dare say one can; but you had better be calm and lie down,
Hippolyte--that's much more important.

"You are always preaching about resting; you are a regular nurse
to me, prince. As soon as the sun begins to 'resound' in the sky
--what poet said that? 'The sun resounded in the sky.' It is
beautiful, though there's no sense in it!--then we will go to
bed. Lebedeff, tell me, is the sun the source of life? What does
the source, or 'spring,' of life really mean in the Apocalypse?
You have heard of the 'Star that is called Wormwood,' prince?"

"I have heard that Lebedeff explains it as the railroads that
cover Europe like a net."

Everybody laughed, and Lebedeff got up abruptly.

"No! Allow me, that is not what we are discussing!" he cried,
waving his hand to impose silence. "Allow me! With these
gentlemen ... all these gentlemen," he added, suddenly addressing
the prince, "on certain points ... that is ..." He thumped
the table repeatedly, and the laughter increased. Lebedeff was in
his usual evening condition, and had just ended a long and
scientific argument, which had left him excited and irritable. On
such occasions he was apt to evince a supreme contempt for his
opponents.

"It is not right! Half an hour ago, prince, it was agreed among
us that no one should interrupt, no one should laugh, that each
person was to express his thoughts freely; and then at the end,
when everyone had spoken, objections might be made, even by the
atheists. We chose the general as president. Now without some
such rule and order, anyone might be shouted down, even in the
loftiest and most profound thought. . . ."

"Go on! Go on! Nobody is going to interrupt you!" cried several
voices.

"Speak, but keep to the point!"

"What is this 'star'?" asked another.

I have no idea," replied General Ivolgin, who presided with much
gravity.

"I love these arguments, prince," said Keller, also more than
half intoxicated, moving restlessly in his chair. "Scientific and
political." Then, turning suddenly towards Evgenie Pavlovitch,
who was seated near him: "Do you know, I simply adore reading the
accounts of the debates in the English parliament. Not that the
discussions themselves interest me; I am not a politician, you
know; but it delights me to see how they address each other 'the
noble lord who agrees with me,' 'my honourable opponent who
astonished Europe with his proposal,' 'the noble viscount sitting
opposite'--all these expressions, all this parliamentarism of a
free people, has an enormous attraction for me. It fascinates me,
prince. I have always been an artist in the depths of my soul, I
assure you, Evgenie Pavlovitch."

"Do you mean to say," cried Gania, from the other corner, "do you
mean to say that railways are accursed inventions, that they are
a source of ruin to humanity, a poison poured upon the earth to
corrupt the springs of life?"

Gavrila Ardalionovitch was in high spirits that evening, and it
seemed to the prince that his gaiety was mingled with triumph. Of
course he was only joking with Lebedeff, meaning to egg him on,
but he grew excited himself at the same time.

"Not the railways, oh dear, no!" replied Lebedeff, with a mixture
of violent anger and extreme enjoyment. "Considered alone, the
railways will not pollute the springs of life, but as a whole
they are accursed. The whole tendency of our latest centuries, in
its scientific and materialistic aspect, is most probably
accursed."

"Is it certainly accursed? ... or do you only mean it might be?
That is an important point," said Evgenie Pavlovitch.

"It is accursed, certainly accursed!" replied the clerk,
vehemently.

"Don't go so fast, Lebedeff; you are much milder in the morning,"
said Ptitsin, smiling.

"But, on the other hand, more frank in the evening! In the
evening sincere and frank," repeated Lebedeff, earnestly. "More
candid, more exact, more honest, more honourable, and ...
although I may show you my weak side, I challenge you all; you
atheists, for instance! How are you going to save the world? How
find a straight road of progress, you men of science, of
industry, of cooperation, of trades unions, and all the rest?
How are you going to save it, I say? By what? By credit? What is
credit? To what will credit lead you?"

"You are too inquisitive," remarked Evgenie Pavlovitch.

"Well, anyone who does not interest himself in questions such as
this is, in my opinion, a mere fashionable dummy."

"But it will lead at least to solidarity, and balance of
interests," said Ptitsin.

"You will reach that with nothing to help you but credit? Without
recourse to any moral principle, having for your foundation only
individual selfishness, and the satisfaction of material desires?
Universal peace, and the happiness of mankind as a whole, being
the result! Is it really so that I may understand you, sir?"

"But the universal necessity of living, of drinking, of eating--
in short, the whole scientific conviction that this necessity can
only be satisfied by universal co-operation and the solidarity of
interests--is, it seems to me, a strong enough idea to serve as a
basis, so to speak, and a 'spring of life,' for humanity in
future centuries," said Gavrila Ardalionovitch, now thoroughly
roused.

"The necessity of eating and drinking, that is to say, solely the
instinct of self-preservation..."

"Is not that enough? The instinct of self-preservation is the
normal law of humanity..."

"Who told you that?" broke in Evgenie Pavlovitch.

"It is a law, doubtless, but a law neither more nor less normal
than that of destruction, even self-destruction. Is it possible
that the whole normal law of humanity is contained in this
sentiment of self-preservation?"

"Ah!" cried Hippolyte, turning towards Evgenie Pavlovitch, and
looking at him with a queer sort of curiosity.

Then seeing that Radomski was laughing, he began to laugh
himself, nudged Colia, who was sitting beside him, with his
elbow, and again asked what time it was. He even pulled Colia's
silver watch out of his hand, and looked at it eagerly. Then, as
if he had forgotten everything, he stretched himself out on the
sofa, put his hands behind his head, and looked up at the sky.
After a minute or two he got up and came back to the table to
listen to Lebedeff's outpourings, as the latter passionately
commentated on Evgenie Pavlovitch's paradox.

"That is an artful and traitorous idea. A smart notion,"
vociferated the clerk, "thrown out as an apple of discord. But it
is just. You are a scoffer, a man of the world, a cavalry
officer, and, though not without brains, you do not realize how
profound is your thought, nor how true. Yes, the laws of self-
preservation and of self-destruction are equally powerful in this
world. The devil will hold his empire over humanity until a limit
of time which is still unknown. You laugh? You do not believe in
the devil? Scepticism as to the devil is a French idea, and it is
also a frivolous idea. Do you know who the devil is? Do you know
his name? Although you don't know his name you make a mockery of
his form, following the example of Voltaire. You sneer at his
hoofs, at his tail, at his horns--all of them the produce of your
imagination! In reality the devil is a great and terrible spirit,
with neither hoofs, nor tail, nor horns; it is you who have
endowed him with these attributes! But ... he is not the
question just now!"

"How do you know he is not the question now?" cried Hippolyte,
laughing hysterically.

"Another excellent idea, and worth considering!" replied
Lebedeff. "But, again, that is not the question. The question at
this moment is whether we have not weakened 'the springs of life'
by the extension ..."

"Of railways?" put in Colia eagerly.

"Not railways, properly speaking, presumptuous youth, but the
general tendency of which railways may be considered as the
outward expression and symbol. We hurry and push and hustle, for
the good of humanity! 'The world is becoming too noisy, too
commercial!' groans some solitary thinker. 'Undoubtedly it is,
but the noise of waggons bearing bread to starving humanity is of
more value than tranquillity of soul,' replies another
triumphantly, and passes on with an air of pride. As for me, I
don't believe in these waggons bringing bread to humanity. For,
founded on no moral principle, these may well, even in the act
of carrying bread to humanity, coldly exclude a considerable
portion of humanity from enjoying it; that has been seen more
than once.

"What, these waggons may coldly exclude?" repeated someone.

"That has been seen already," continued Lebedeff, not deigning to
notice the interruption. "Malthus was a friend of humanity, but,
with ill-founded moral principles, the friend of humanity is the
devourer of humanity, without mentioning his pride; for, touch
the vanity of one of these numberless philanthropists, and to
avenge his self-esteem, he will be ready at once to set fire to
the whole globe; and to tell the truth, we are all more or less
like that. I, perhaps, might be the first to set a light to the
fuel, and then run away. But, again, I must repeat, that is not
the question."

"What is it then, for goodness' sake?"

"He is boring us!"

"The question is connected with the following anecdote of past
times; for I am obliged to relate a story. In our times, and in
our country, which I hope you love as much as I do, for as far as
I am concerned, I am ready to shed the last drop of my blood...

"Go on! Go on!"

"In our dear country, as indeed in the whole of Europe, a famine
visits humanity about four times a century, as far as I can
remember; once in every twenty-five years. I won't swear to this
being the exact figure, but anyhow they have become comparatively
rare."

"Comparatively to what?"

"To the twelfth century, and those immediately preceding and
following it. We are told by historians that widespread famines
occurred in those days every two or three years, and such was the
condition of things that men actually had recourse to
cannibalism, in secret, of course. One of these cannibals, who
had reached a good age, declared of his own free will that during
the course of his long and miserable life he had personally
killed and eaten, in the most profound secrecy, sixty monks, not
to mention several children; the number of the latter he thought
was about six, an insignificant total when compared with the
enormous mass of ecclesiastics consumed by him. As to adults,
laymen that is to say, he had never touched them."

The president joined in the general outcry.

"That's impossible!" said he in an aggrieved tone. "I am often
discussing subjects of this nature with him, gentlemen, but for
the most part he talks nonsense enough to make one deaf: this
story has no pretence of being true."

"General, remember the siege of Kars! And you, gentlemen, I
assure you my anecdote is the naked truth. I may remark that
reality, although it is governed by invariable law, has at times
a resemblance to falsehood. In fact, the truer a thing is the
less true it sounds."

"But could anyone possibly eat sixty monks?" objected the
scoffing listeners.

"It is quite clear that he did not eat them all at once, but in a
space of fifteen or twenty years: from that point of view the
thing is comprehensible and natural..."

"Natural?"

"And natural," repeated Lebedeff with pedantic obstinacy.
"Besides, a Catholic monk is by nature excessively curious; it
would be quite easy therefore to entice him into a wood, or some
secret place, on false pretences, and there to deal with him as
said. But I do not dispute in the least that the number of
persons consumed appears to denote a spice of greediness."

"It is perhaps true, gentlemen," said the prince, quietly. He had
been listening in silence up to that moment without taking part
in the conversation, but laughing heartily with the others from
time to time. Evidently he was delighted to see that everybody
was amused, that everybody was talking at once, and even that
everybody was drinking. It seemed as if he were not intending to
speak at all, when suddenly he intervened in such a serious
voice that everyone looked at him with interest.

"It is true that there were frequent famines at that time,
gentlemen. I have often heard of them, though I do not know much
history. But it seems to me that it must have been so. When I was
in Switzerland I used to look with astonishment at the many ruins
of feudal castles perched on the top of steep and rocky heights,
half a mile at least above sea-level, so that to reach them one
had to climb many miles of stony tracks. A castle, as you know,
is, a kind of mountain of stones--a dreadful, almost an
impossible, labour! Doubtless the builders were all poor men,
vassals, and had to pay heavy taxes, and to keep up the
priesthood. How, then, could they provide for themselves, and
when had they time to plough and sow their fields? The greater
number must, literally, have died of starvation. I have sometimes
asked myself how it was that these communities were not utterly
swept off the face of the earth, and how they could possibly
survive. Lebedeff is not mistaken, in my opinion, when he says
that there were cannibals in those days, perhaps in considerable
numbers; but I do not understand why he should have dragged in
the monks, nor what he means by that."

"It is undoubtedly because, in the twelfth century, monks were
the only people one could eat; they were the fat, among many
lean," said Gavrila Ardalionovitch.

"A brilliant idea, and most true!" cried Lebedeff, "for he never
even touched the laity. Sixty monks, and not a single layman! It
is a terrible idea, but it is historic, it is statistic; it is
indeed one of those facts which enables an intelligent historian
to reconstruct the physiognomy of a special epoch, for it brings
out this further point with mathematical accuracy, that the
clergy were in those days sixty times richer and more flourishing
than the rest of humanity. and perhaps sixty times fatter
also..."

"You are exaggerating, you are exaggerating, Lebedeff!" cried his
hearers, amid laughter.

"I admit that it is an historic thought, but what is your
conclusion?" asked the prince.

He spoke so seriously in addressing Lebedeff, that his tone
contrasted quite comically with that of the others. They were
very nearly laughing at him, too, but he did not notice it.

"Don't you see he is a lunatic, prince?" whispered Evgenie
Pavlovitch in his ear. "Someone told me just now that he is a bit
touched on the subject of lawyers, that he has a mania for making
speeches and intends to pass the examinations. I am expecting a
splendid burlesque now."

"My conclusion is vast," replied Lebedeff, in a voice like
thunder. "Let us examine first the psychological and legal
position of the criminal. We see that in spite of the difficulty
of finding other food, the accused, or, as we may say, my client,
has often during his peculiar life exhibited signs of repentance,
and of wishing to give up this clerical diet. Incontrovertible
facts prove this assertion. He has eaten five or six children, a
relatively insignificant number, no doubt, but remarkable enough
from another point of view. It is manifest that, pricked by
remorse--for my client is religious, in his way, and has a
conscience, as I shall prove later--and desiring to extenuate his
sin as far as possible, he has tried six times at least to
substitute lay nourishment for clerical. That this was merely an
experiment we can hardly doubt: for if it had been only a
question of gastronomic variety, six would have been too few; why
only six? Why not thirty? But if we regard it as an experiment,
inspired by the fear of committing new sacrilege, then this
number six becomes intelligible. Six attempts to calm his
remorse, and the pricking of his conscience, would amply suffice,
for these attempts could scarcely have been happy ones. In my
humble opinion, a child is too small; I should say, not
sufficient; which would result in four or five times more lay
children than monks being required in a given time. The sin,
lessened on the one hand, would therefore be increased on the
other, in quantity, not in quality. Please understand, gentlemen,
that in reasoning thus, I am taking the point of view which might
have been taken by a criminal of the middle ages. As for myself,
a man of the late nineteenth century, I, of course, should reason
differently; I say so plainly, and therefore you need not jeer at
me nor mock me, gentlemen. As for you, general, it is still more
unbecoming on your part. In the second place, and giving my own
personal opinion, a child's flesh is not a satisfying diet; it is
too insipid, too sweet; and the criminal, in making these
experiments, could have satisfied neither his conscience nor his
appetite. I am about to conclude, gentlemen; and my conclusion
contains a reply to one of the most important questions of that
day and of our own! This criminal ended at last by denouncing
himself to the clergy, and giving himself up to justice. We
cannot but ask, remembering the penal system of that day, and the
tortures that awaited him--the wheel, the stake, the fire!--we
cannot but ask, I repeat, what induced him to accuse himself of
this crime? Why did he not simply stop short at the number sixty,
and keep his secret until his last breath? Why could he not
simply leave the monks alone, and go into the desert to repent?
Or why not become a monk himself? That is where the puzzle comes
in! There must have been something stronger than the stake or the
fire, or even than the habits of twenty years! There must have
been an idea more powerful than all the calamities and sorrows of
this world, famine or torture, leprosy or plague--an idea which
entered into the heart, directed and enlarged the springs of
life, and made even that hell supportable to humanity! Show me a
force, a power like that, in this our century of vices and
railways! I might say, perhaps, in our century of steamboats and
railways, but I repeat in our century of vices and railways,
because I am drunk but truthful! Show me a single idea which
unites men nowadays with half the strength that it had in those
centuries, and dare to maintain that the 'springs of life' have
not been polluted and weakened beneath this 'star,' beneath this
network in which men are entangled! Don't talk to me about your
prosperity, your riches, the rarity of famine, the rapidity of
the means of transport! There is more of riches, but less of
force. The idea uniting heart and soul to heart and soul exists
no more. All is loose, soft, limp--we are all of us limp....
Enough, gentlemen! I have done. That is not the question. No, the
question is now, excellency, I believe, to sit down to the
banquet you are about to provide for us!"

Lebedeff had roused great indignation in some of his auditors (it
should be remarked that the bottles were constantly uncorked
during his speech); but this unexpected conclusion calmed even
the most turbulent spirits. "That's how a clever barrister makes
a good point!" said he, when speaking of his peroration later on.
The visitors began to laugh and chatter once again; the committee
left their seats, and stretched their legs on the terrace. Keller
alone was still disgusted with Lebedeff and his speech; he turned
from one to another, saying in a loud voice:

"He attacks education, he boasts of the fanaticism of the twelfth
century, he makes absurd grimaces, and added to that he is by no
means the innocent he makes himself out to be. How did he get the
money to buy this house, allow me to ask?"

In another corner was the general, holding forth to a group of
hearers, among them Ptitsin, whom he had buttonholed. "I have
known," said he, "a real interpreter of the Apocalypse, the late
Gregory Semeonovitch Burmistroff, and he--he pierced the heart
like a fiery flash! He began by putting on his spectacles, then
he opened a large black book; his white beard, and his two medals
on his breast, recalling acts of charity, all added to his
impressiveness. He began in a stern voice, and before him
generals, hard men of the world, bowed down, and ladies fell to
the ground fainting. But this one here--he ends by announcing a
banquet! That is not the real thing!"

Ptitsin listened and smiled, then turned as if to get his hat;
but if he had intended to leave, he changed his mind. Before the
others had risen from the table, Gania had suddenly left off
drinking, and pushed away his glass, a dark shadow seemed to come
over his face. When they all rose, he went and sat down by
Rogojin. It might have been believed that quite friendly
relations existed between them. Rogojin, who had also seemed on
the point of going away now sat motionless, his head bent,
seeming to have forgotten his intention. He had drunk no wine,
and appeared absorbed in reflection. From time to time he raised
his eyes, and examined everyone present; one might have imagined
that he was expecting something very important to himself, and
that he had decided to wait for it. The prince had taken two or
three glasses of champagne, and seemed cheerful. As he rose he
noticed Evgenie Pavlovitch, and, remembering the appointment he
had made with him, smiled pleasantly. Evgenie Pavlovitch made a
sign with his head towards Hippolyte, whom he was attentively
watching. The invalid was fast asleep, stretched out on the sofa.

"Tell me, prince, why on earth did this boy intrude himself upon
you?" he asked, with such annoyance and irritation in his voice
that the prince was quite surprised. "I wouldn't mind laying odds
that he is up to some mischief."

"I have observed," said the prince, "that he seems to be an
object of very singular interest to you, Evgenie Pavlovitch. Why
is it?"

"You may add that I have surely enough to think of, on my own
account, without him; and therefore it is all the more surprising
that I cannot tear my eyes and thoughts away from his detestable
physiognomy."

"Oh, come! He has a handsome face."

"Why, look at him--look at him now!"

The prince glanced again at Evgenie Pavlovitch with considerable
surprise.