PART IV - VII

The Idiot

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Translated by Eva Martin

PART IV - VII, THE IDIOT by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
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WHILE he feasted his eyes upon Aglaya, as she talked merrily with
Evgenie and Prince N., suddenly the old anglomaniac, who was
talking to the dignitary in another corner of the room,
apparently telling him a story about something or other--suddenly
this gentleman pronounced the name of "Nicolai Andreevitch
Pavlicheff" aloud. The prince quickly turned towards him, and
listened.

The conversation had been on the subject of land, and the present
disorders, and there must have been something amusing said, for
the old man had begun to laugh at his companion's heated
expressions.

The latter was describing in eloquent words how, in consequence
of recent legislation, he was obliged to sell a beautiful estate
in the N. province, not because he wanted ready money--in
fact, he was obliged to sell it at half its value. "To avoid
another lawsuit about the Pavlicheff estate, I ran away," he
said. "With a few more inheritances of that kind I should soon be
ruined!"

At this point General Epanchin, noticing how interested Muishkin
had become in the conversation, said to him, in a low tone:

"That gentleman--Ivan Petrovitch--is a relation of your late
friend, Mr. Pavlicheff. You wanted to find some of his relations,
did you not?"

The general, who had been talking to his chief up to this moment,
had observed the prince's solitude and silence, and was anxious
to draw him into the conversation, and so introduce him again to
the notice of some of the important personages.

"Lef Nicolaievitch was a ward of Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff,
after the death of his own parents," he remarked, meeting Ivan
Petrovitch's eye.

"Very happy to meet him, I'm sure," remarked the latter. "I
remember Lef Nicolaievitch well. When General Epanchin introduced
us just now, I recognized you at once, prince. You are very
little changed, though I saw you last as a child of some ten or
eleven years old. There was something in your features, I
suppose, that--"

"You saw me as a child!" exclaimed the prince, with surprise.

"Oh! yes, long ago," continued Ivan Petrovitch, "while you were
living with my cousin at Zlatoverhoff. You don't remember me? No,
I dare say you don't; you had some malady at the time, I
remember. It was so serious that I was surprised--"

"No; I remember nothing!" said the prince. A few more words of
explanation followed, words which were spoken without the
smallest excitement by his companion, but which evoked the
greatest agitation in the prince; and it was discovered that two
old ladies to whose care the prince had been left by Pavlicheff,
and who lived at Zlatoverhoff, were also relations of Ivan
Petrovitch.

The latter had no idea and could give no information as to why
Pavlicheff had taken so great an interest in the little prince,
his ward.

"In point of fact I don't think I thought much about it," said
the old fellow. He seemed to have a wonderfully good memory,
however, for he told the prince all about the two old ladies,
Pavlicheff's cousins, who had taken care of him, and whom, he
declared, he had taken to task for being too severe with the
prince as a small sickly boy--the elder sister, at least; the
younger had been kind, he recollected. They both now lived in
another province, on a small estate left to them by Pavlicheff.
The prince listened to all this with eyes sparkling with emotion
and delight.

He declared with unusual warmth that he would never forgive
himself for having travelled about in the central provinces
during these last six months without having hunted up his two old
friends.

He declared, further, that he had intended to go every day, but
had always been prevented by circumstances; but that now he would
promise himself the pleasure--however far it was, he would find
them out. And so Ivan Petrovitch REALLY knew Natalia Nikitishna!-
-what a saintly nature was hers!--and Martha Nikitishna! Ivan
Petrovitch must excuse him, but really he was not quite fair on
dear old Martha. She was severe, perhaps; but then what else
could she be with such a little idiot as he was then? (Ha, ha.)
He really was an idiot then, Ivan Petrovitch must know, though he
might not believe it. (Ha, ha.) So he had really seen him there!
Good heavens! And was he really and truly and actually a cousin
of Pavlicheff's?

"I assure you of it," laughed Ivan Petrovitch, gazing amusedly at
the prince.

"Oh! I didn't say it because I DOUBT the fact, you know. (Ha,
ha.) How could I doubt such a thing? (Ha, ha, ha.) I made the
remark because--because Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff was such a
splendid man, don't you see! Such a high-souled man, he really
was, I assure you."

The prince did not exactly pant for breath, but he "seemed almost
to CHOKE out of pure simplicity and goodness of heart," as
Adelaida expressed it, on talking the party over with her fiance,
the Prince S., next morning.

"But, my goodness me," laughed Ivan Petrovitch, "why can't I be
cousin to even a splendid man?"

"Oh, dear!" cried the prince, confused, trying to hurry his words
out, and growing more and more eager every moment: "I've gone and
said another stupid thing. I don't know what to say. I--I didn't
mean that, you know--I--I--he really was such a splendid man,
wasn't he?"

The prince trembled all over. Why was he so agitated? Why had he
flown into such transports of delight without any apparent
reason? He had far outshot the measure of joy and emotion
consistent with the occasion. Why this was it would be difficult
to say.

He seemed to feel warmly and deeply grateful to someone for
something or other--perhaps to Ivan Petrovitch; but likely enough
to all the guests, individually, and collectively. He was much
too happy.

Ivan Petrovitch began to stare at him with some surprise; the
dignitary, too, looked at him with considerable attention;
Princess Bielokonski glared at him angrily, and compressed her
lips. Prince N., Evgenie, Prince S., and the girls, all broke off
their own conversations and listened. Aglaya seemed a little
startled; as for Lizabetha Prokofievna, her heart sank within
her.

This was odd of Lizabetha Prokofievna and her daughters. They had
themselves decided that it would be better if the prince did not
talk all the evening. Yet seeing him sitting silent and alone,
but perfectly happy, they had been on the point of exerting
themselves to draw him into one of the groups of talkers around
the room. Now that he was in the midst of a talk they became more
than ever anxious and perturbed.

"That he was a splendid man is perfectly true; you are quite
right," repeated Ivan Petrovitch, but seriously this time. "He
was a fine and a worthy fellow--worthy, one may say, of the
highest respect," he added, more and more seriously at each
pause; " and it is agreeable to see, on your part, such--"

"Wasn't it this same Pavlicheff about whom there was a strange
story in connection with some abbot? I don't remember who the
abbot was, but I remember at one time everybody was talking about
it," remarked the old dignitary.

"Yes--Abbot Gurot, a Jesuit," said Ivan Petrovitch. "Yes, that's
the sort of thing our best men are apt to do. A man of rank, too,
and rich--a man who, if he had continued to serve, might have
done anything; and then to throw up the service and everything
else in order to go over to Roman Catholicism and turn Jesuit--
openly, too--almost triumphantly. By Jove! it was positively a
mercy that he died when he did--it was indeed--everyone said so
at the time."

The prince was beside himself.

"Pavlicheff?--Pavlicheff turned Roman Catholic? Impossible!" he
cried, in horror.

"H'm! impossible is rather a strong word," said Ivan Petrovitch.
"You must allow, my dear prince... However, of course you
value the memory of the deceased so very highly; and he certainly
was the kindest of men; to which fact, by the way, I ascribe,
more than to anything else, the success of the abbot in
influencing his religious convictions. But you may ask me, if you
please, how much trouble and worry I, personally, had over that
business, and especially with this same Gurot! Would you believe
it," he continued, addressing the dignitary, "they actually tried
to put in a claim under the deceased's will, and I had to resort
to the very strongest measures in order to bring them to their
senses? I assure you they knew their cue, did these gentlemen--
wonderful! Thank goodness all this was in Moscow, and I got the
Court, you know, to help me, and we soon brought them to their
senses.

"You wouldn't believe how you have pained and astonished me,"
cried the prince.

"Very sorry; but in point of fact, you know, it was all nonsense
and would have ended in smoke, as usual--I'm sure of that. Last
year,"--he turned to the old man again,--"Countess K. joined some
Roman Convent abroad. Our people never seem to be able to offer
any resistance so soon as they get into the hands of these--
intriguers--especially abroad."

"That is all thanks to our lassitude, I think," replied the old
man, with authority. "And then their way of preaching; they have
a skilful manner of doing it! And they know how to startle one,
too. I got quite a fright myself in '32, in Vienna, I assure you;
but I didn't cave in to them, I ran away instead, ha, ha!"

"Come, come, I've always heard that you ran away with the
beautiful Countess Levitsky that time--throwing up everything in
order to do it--and not from the Jesuits at all," said Princess
Bielokonski, suddenly.

"Well, yes--but we call it from the Jesuits, you know; it comes
to the same thing," laughed the old fellow, delighted with the
pleasant recollection.

"You seem to be very religious," he continued, kindly, addressing
the prince," which is a thing one meets so seldom nowadays among
young people."

The prince was listening open-mouthed, and still in a condition
of excited agitation. The old man was evidently interested in
him, and anxious to study him more closely.

"Pavlicheff was a man of bright intellect and a good Christian, a
sincere Christian," said the prince, suddenly. "How could he
possibly embrace a faith which is unchristian? Roman Catholicism
is, so to speak, simply the same thing as unchristianity," he
added with flashing eyes, which seemed to take in everybody in
the room.

"Come, that's a little TOO strong, isn't it?" murmured the old
man, glancing at General Epanchin in surprise.

"How do you make out that the Roman Catholic religion is
UNCHRISTIAN? What is it, then?" asked Ivan Petrovitch, turning to
the prince.

"It is not a Christian religion, in the first place," said the
latter, in extreme agitation, quite out of proportion to the
necessity of the moment. "And in the second place, Roman
Catholicism is, in my opinion, worse than Atheism itself. Yes--
that is my opinion. Atheism only preaches a negation, but
Romanism goes further; it preaches a disfigured, distorted
Christ--it preaches Anti-Christ--I assure you, I swear it! This
is my own personal conviction, and it has long distressed me. The
Roman Catholic believes that the Church on earth cannot stand
without universal temporal Power. He cries 'non possumus!' In my
opinion the Roman Catholic religion is not a faith at all, but
simply a continuation of the Roman Empire, and everything is
subordinated to this idea--beginning with faith. The Pope has
seized territories and an earthly throne, and has held them with
the sword. And so the thing has gone on, only that to the sword
they have added lying, intrigue, deceit, fanaticism,
superstition, swindling;--they have played fast and loose with
the most sacred and sincere feelings of men;--they have exchanged
everything--everything for money, for base earthly POWER! And is
this not the teaching of Anti-Christ? How could the upshot of all
this be other than Atheism? Atheism is the child of Roman
Catholicism--it proceeded from these Romans themselves, though
perhaps they would not believe it. It grew and fattened on hatred
of its parents; it is the progeny of their lies and spiritual
feebleness. Atheism! In our country it is only among the upper
classes that you find unbelievers; men who have lost the root or
spirit of their faith; but abroad whole masses of the people are
beginning to profess unbelief--at first because of the darkness
and lies by which they were surrounded; but now out of
fanaticism, out of loathing for the Church and Christianity!"

The prince paused to get breath. He had spoken with extraordinary
rapidity, and was very pale.

All present interchanged glances, but at last the old dignitary
burst out laughing frankly. Prince N. took out his eye-glass to
have a good look at the speaker. The German poet came out of his
corner and crept nearer to the table, with a spiteful smile.

"You exaggerate the matter very much," said Ivan Petrovitch, with
rather a bored air. "There are, in the foreign Churches, many
representatives of their faith who are worthy of respect and
esteem."

"Oh, but I did not speak of individual representatives. I was
merely talking about Roman Catholicism, and its essence--of Rome
itself. A Church can never entirely disappear; I never hinted at
that!"

"Agreed that all this may be true; but we need not discuss a
subject which belongs to the domain of theology."

"Oh, no; oh, no! Not to theology alone, I assure you! Why,
Socialism is the progeny of Romanism and of the Romanistic
spirit. It and its brother Atheism proceed from Despair in
opposition to Catholicism. It seeks to replace in itself the
moral power of religion, in order to appease the spiritual thirst
of parched humanity and save it; not by Christ, but by force.
'Don't dare to believe in God, don't dare to possess any
individuality, any property! Fraternite ou la Mort; two million
heads. 'By their works ye shall know them'--we are told. And we
must not suppose that all this is harmless and without danger to
ourselves. Oh, no; we must resist, and quickly, quickly! We must
let out Christ shine forth upon the Western nations, our Christ
whom we have preserved intact, and whom they have never known.
Not as slaves, allowing ourselves to be caught by the hooks of
the Jesuits, but carrying our Russian civilization to THEM, we
must stand before them, not letting it be said among us that
their preaching is 'skilful,' as someone expressed it just now."

"But excuse me, excuse me;" cried Ivan Petrovitch considerably
disturbed, and looking around uneasily. "Your ideas are, of
course, most praiseworthy, and in the highest degree patriotic;
but you exaggerate the matter terribly. It would be better if we
dropped the subject."

"No, sir, I do not exaggerate, I understate the matter, if
anything, undoubtedly understate it; simply because I cannot
express myself as I should like, but--"

"Allow me!"

The prince was silent. He sat straight up in his chair and gazed
fervently at Ivan Petrovitch.

"It seems to me that you have been too painfully impressed by the
news of what happened to your good benefactor," said the old
dignitary, kindly, and with the utmost calmness of demeanour.
"You are excitable, perhaps as the result of your solitary life.
If you would make up your mind to live more among your fellows in
society, I trust, I am sure, that the world would be glad to
welcome you, as a remarkable young man; and you would soon find
yourself able to look at things more calmly. You would see that
all these things are much simpler than you think; and, besides,
these rare cases come about, in my opinion, from ennui and from
satiety."

"Exactly, exactly! That is a true thought!" cried the prince.
"From ennui, from our ennui but not from satiety! Oh, no, you are
wrong there! Say from THIRST if you like; the thirst of fever!
And please do not suppose that this is so small a matter that we
may have a laugh at it and dismiss it; we must be able to foresee
our disasters and arm against them. We Russians no sooner arrive
at the brink of the water, and realize that we are really at the
brink, than we are so delighted with the outlook that in we
plunge and swim to the farthest point we can see. Why is this?
You say you are surprised at Pavlicheff's action; you ascribe it
to madness, to kindness of heart, and what not, but it is not so.

"Our Russian intensity not only astonishes ourselves; all Europe
wonders at our conduct in such cases! For, if one of us goes over
to Roman Catholicism, he is sure to become a Jesuit at once, and
a rabid one into the bargain. If one of us becomes an Atheist, he
must needs begin to insist on the prohibition of faith in God by
force, that is, by the sword. Why is this? Why does he then
exceed all bounds at once? Because he has found land at last, the
fatherland that he sought in vain before; and, because his soul
is rejoiced to find it, he throws himself upon it and kisses it!
Oh, it is not from vanity alone, it is not from feelings of
vanity that Russians become Atheists and Jesuits! But from
spiritual thirst, from anguish of longing for higher things, for
dry firm land, for foothold on a fatherland which they never
believed in because they never knew it. It is easier for a
Russian to become an Atheist, than for any other nationality in
the world. And not only does a Russian 'become an Atheist,' but
he actually BELIEVES IN Atheism, just as though he had found a
new faith, not perceiving that he has pinned his faith to a
negation. Such is our anguish of thirst! 'Whoso has no country
has no God.' That is not my own expression; it is the expression
of a merchant, one of the Old Believers, whom I once met while
travelling. He did not say exactly these words. I think his
expression was:

"'Whoso forsakes his country forsakes his God.'

"But let these thirsty Russian souls find, like Columbus'
discoverers, a new world; let them find the Russian world, let
them search and discover all the gold and treasure that lies hid
in the bosom of their own land! Show them the restitution of lost
humanity, in the future, by Russian thought alone, and by means
of the God and of the Christ of our Russian faith, and you will
see how mighty and just and wise and good a giant will rise up
before the eyes of the astonished and frightened world;
astonished because they expect nothing but the sword from us,
because they think they will get nothing out of us but barbarism.
This has been the case up to now, and the longer matters go on as
they are now proceeding, the more clear will be the truth of what
I say; and I--"

But at this moment something happened which put a most unexpected
end to the orator's speech. All this heated tirade, this outflow
of passionate words and ecstatic ideas which seemed to hustle and
tumble over each other as they fell from his lips, bore evidence
of some unusually disturbed mental condition in the young fellow
who had "boiled over" in such a remarkable manner, without any
apparent reason.

Of those who were present, such as knew the prince listened to
his outburst in a state of alarm, some with a feeling of
mortification. It was so unlike his usual timid self-constraint;
so inconsistent with his usual taste and tact, and with his
instinctive feeling for the higher proprieties. They could not
understand the origin of the outburst; it could not be simply the
news of Pavlicheff's perversion. By the ladies the prince was
regarded as little better than a lunatic, and Princess
Bielokonski admitted afterwards that "in another minute she would
have bolted."

The two old gentlemen looked quite alarmed. The old general
(Epanchin's chief) sat and glared at the prince in severe
displeasure. The colonel sat immovable. Even the German poet grew
a little pale, though he wore his usual artificial smile as he
looked around to see what the others would do.

In point of fact it is quite possible that the matter would have
ended in a very commonplace and natural way in a few minutes. The
undoubtedly astonished, but now more collected, General Epanchin
had several times endeavoured to interrupt the prince, and not
having succeeded he was now preparing to take firmer and more
vigorous measures to attain his end. In another minute or two he
would probably have made up his mind to lead the prince quietly
out of the room, on the plea of his being ill (and it was more
than likely that the general was right in his belief that the
prince WAS actually ill), but it so happened that destiny had
something different in store.

At the beginning of the evening, when the prince first came into
the room, he had sat down as far as possible from the Chinese
vase which Aglaya had spoken of the day before.

Will it be believed that, after Aglaya's alarming words, an
ineradicable conviction had taken possession of his mind that,
however he might try to avoid this vase next day, he must
certainly break it? But so it was.

During the evening other impressions began to awaken in his mind,
as we have seen, and he forgot his presentiment. But when
Pavlicheff was mentioned and the general introduced him to Ivan
Petrovitch, he had changed his place, and went over nearer to the
table; when, it so happened, he took the chair nearest to the
beautiful vase, which stood on a pedestal behind him, just about
on a level with his elbow.

As he spoke his last words he had risen suddenly from his seat
with a wave of his arm, and there was a general cry of horror.

The huge vase swayed backwards and forwards; it seemed to be
uncertain whether or no to topple over on to the head of one of
the old men, but eventually determined to go the other way, and
came crashing over towards the German poet, who darted out of the
way in terror.

The crash, the cry, the sight of the fragments of valuable china
covering the carpet, the alarm of the company--what all this
meant to the poor prince it would be difficult to convey to the
mind of the reader, or for him to imagine.

But one very curious fact was that all the shame and vexation and
mortification which he felt over the accident were less powerful
than the deep impression of the almost supernatural truth of his
premonition. He stood still in alarm--in almost superstitious
alarm, for a moment; then all mists seemed to clear away from his
eyes; he was conscious of nothing but light and joy and ecstasy;
his breath came and went; but the moment passed. Thank God it was
not that! He drew a long breath and looked around.

For some minutes he did not seem to comprehend the excitement
around him; that is, he comprehended it and saw everything, but
he stood aside, as it were, like someone invisible in a fairy
tale, as though he had nothing to do with what was going on,
though it pleased him to take an interest in it.

He saw them gather up the broken bits of china; he heard the loud
talking of the guests and observed how pale Aglaya looked, and
how very strangely she was gazing at him. There was no hatred in
her expression, and no anger whatever. It was full of alarm for
him, and sympathy and affection, while she looked around at the
others with flashing, angry eyes. His heart filled with a sweet
pain as he gazed at her.

At length he observed, to his amazement, that all had taken their
seats again, and were laughing and talking as though nothing had
happened. Another minute and the laughter grew louder--they were
laughing at him, at his dumb stupor--laughing kindly and merrily.
Several of them spoke to him, and spoke so kindly and cordially,
especially Lizabetha Prokofievna--she was saying the kindest
possible things to him.

Suddenly he became aware that General Epanchin was tapping him on
the shoulder; Ivan Petrovitch was laughing too, but still more
kind and sympathizing was the old dignitary. He took the prince
by the hand and pressed it warmly; then he patted it, and quietly
urged him to recollect himself--speaking to him exactly as he
would have spoken to a little frightened child, which pleased the
prince wonderfully; and next seated him beside himself.

The prince gazed into his face with pleasure, but still seemed to
have no power to speak. His breath failed him. The old man's face
pleased him greatly.

"Do you really forgive me?" he said at last. "And--and Lizabetha
Prokofievna too?" The laugh increased, tears came into the
prince's eyes, he could not believe in all this kindness--he was
enchanted.

"The vase certainly was a very beautiful one. I remember it here
for fifteen years--yes, quite that!" remarked Ivan Petrovitch.

"Oh, what a dreadful calamity! A wretched vase smashed, and a man
half dead with remorse about it," said Lizabetha Prokofievna,
loudly. "What made you so dreadfully startled, Lef
Nicolaievitch?" she added, a little timidly. "Come, my dear boy!
cheer up. You really alarm me, taking the accident so to heart."

"Do you forgive me all--ALL, besides the vase, I mean?" said the
prince, rising from his seat once more, but the old gentleman
caught his hand and drew him down again--he seemed unwilling to
let him go.

"C'est tres-curieux et c'est tres-serieux," he whispered across
the table to Ivan Petrovitch, rather loudly. Probably the prince
heard him.

"So that I have not offended any of you? You will not believe how
happy I am to be able to think so. It is as it should be. As if I
COULD offend anyone here! I should offend you again by even
suggesting such a thing."

"Calm yourself, my dear fellow. You are exaggerating again; you
really have no occasion to be so grateful to us. It is a feeling
which does you great credit, but an exaggeration, for all that."

"I am not exactly thanking you, I am only feeling a growing
admiration for you--it makes me happy to look at you. I dare say
I am speaking very foolishly, but I must speak--I must explain,
if it be out of nothing better than self-respect."

All he said and did was abrupt, confused, feverish--very likely
the words he spoke, as often as not, were not those he wished to
say. He seemed to inquire whether he MIGHT speak. His eyes
lighted on Princess Bielokonski.

"All right, my friend, talk away, talk away!" she remarked. "Only
don't lose your breath; you were in such a hurry when you began,
and look what you've come to now! Don't be afraid of speaking--
all these ladies and gentlemen have seen far stranger people than
yourself; you don't astonish THEM. You are nothing out-of-the-way
remarkable, you know. You've done nothing but break a vase, and
give us all a fright."

The prince listened, smiling.

"Wasn't it you," he said, suddenly turning to the old gentleman,
"who saved the student Porkunoff and a clerk called Shoabrin from
being sent to Siberia, two or three months since?"

The old dignitary blushed a little, and murmured that the prince
had better not excite himself further.

"And I have heard of YOU," continued the prince, addressing Ivan
Petrovitch, "that when some of your villagers were burned out you
gave them wood to build up their houses again, though they were
no longer your serfs and had behaved badly towards you."

"Oh, come, come! You are exaggerating," said Ivan Petrovitch,
beaming with satisfaction, all the same. He was right, however,
in this instance, for the report had reached the prince's ears in
an incorrect form.

"And you, princess," he went on, addressing Princess Bielokonski,
"was it not you who received me in Moscow, six months since, as
kindly as though I had been your own son, in response to a letter
from Lizabetha Prokofievna; and gave me one piece of advice,
again as to your own son, which I shall never forget? Do you
remember?"

"What are you making such a fuss about?" said the old lady, with
annoyance. "You are a good fellow, but very silly. One gives you
a halfpenny, and you are as grateful as though one had saved your
life. You think this is praiseworthy on your part, but it is not
--it is not, indeed."

She seemed to be very angry, but suddenly burst out laughing,
quite good-humouredly.

Lizabetha Prokofievna's face brightened up, too; so did that of
General Epanchin.

"I told you Lef Nicolaievitch was a man--a man--if only he would
not be in such a hurry, as the princess remarked," said the
latter, with delight.

Aglaya alone seemed sad and depressed; her face was flushed,
perhaps with indignation.

"He really is very charming," whispered the old dignitary to Ivan
Petrovitch.

"I came into this room with anguish in my heart," continued the
prince, with ever-growing agitation, speaking quicker and
quicker, and with increasing strangeness. "I--I was afraid of you
all, and afraid of myself. I was most afraid of myself. When I
returned to Petersburg, I promised myself to make a point of
seeing our greatest men, and members of our oldest families--the
old families like my own. I am now among princes like myself, am
I not? I wished to know you, and it was necessary, very, very
necessary. I had always heard so much that was evil said of you
all--more evil than good; as to how small and petty were your
interests, how absurd your habits, how shallow your education,
and so on. There is so much written and said about you! I came
here today with anxious curiosity; I wished to see for myself
and form my own convictions as to whether it were true that the
whole of this upper stratum of Russian society is WORTHLESS, has
outlived its time, has existed too long, and is only fit to die--
and yet is dying with petty, spiteful warring against that which
is destined to supersede it and take its place--hindering the
Coming Men, and knowing not that itself is in a dying condition.
I did not fully believe in this view even before, for there never
was such a class among us--excepting perhaps at court, by
accident--or by uniform; but now there is not even that, is
there? It has vanished, has it not?"

"No, not a bit of it," said Ivan Petrovitch, with a sarcastic
laugh.

"Good Lord, he's off again!" said Princess Bielokonski,
impatiently.

"Laissez-le dire! He is trembling all over," said the old man, in
a warning whisper.

The prince certainly was beside himself.

"Well? What have I seen?" he continued. "I have seen men of
graceful simplicity of intellect; I have seen an old man who is
not above speaking kindly and even LISTENING to a boy like
myself; I see before me persons who can understand, who can
forgive--kind, good Russian hearts--hearts almost as kind and
cordial as I met abroad. Imagine how delighted I must have been,
and how surprised! Oh, let me express this feeling! I have so
often heard, and I have even believed, that in society there was
nothing but empty forms, and that reality had vanished; but I now
see for myself that this can never be the case HERE, among us--it
may be the order elsewhere, but not in Russia. Surely you are not
all Jesuits and deceivers! I heard Prince N.'s story just now.
Was it not simple-minded, spontaneous humour? Could such words
come from the lips of a man who is dead?--a man whose heart and
talents are dried up? Could dead men and women have treated me so
kindly as you have all been treating me to-day? Is there not
material for the future in all this--for hope? Can such people
fail to UNDERSTAND? Can such men fall away from reality?"

"Once more let us beg you to be calm, my dear boy. We'll talk of
all this another time--I shall do so with the greatest pleasure,
for one," said the old dignitary, with a smile.

Ivan Petrovitch grunted and twisted round in his chair. General
Epanchin moved nervously. The latter's chief had started a
conversation with the wife of the dignitary, and took no notice
whatever of the prince, but the old lady very often glanced at
him, and listened to what he was saying.

"No, I had better speak," continued the prince, with a new
outburst of feverish emotion, and turning towards the old man
with an air of confidential trustfulness." Yesterday, Aglaya
Ivanovna forbade me to talk, and even specified the particular
subjects I must not touch upon--she knows well enough that I am
odd when I get upon these matters. I am nearly twenty-seven years
old, and yet I know I am little better than a child. I have no
right to express my ideas, and said so long ago. Only in Moscow,
with Rogojin, did I ever speak absolutely freely! He and I read
Pushkin together--all his works. Rogojin knew nothing of
Pushkin, had not even heard his name. I am always afraid of
spoiling a great Thought or Idea by my absurd manner. I have no
eloquence, I know. I always make the wrong gestures--
inappropriate gestures--and therefore I degrade the Thought, and
raise a laugh instead of doing my subject justice. I have no
sense of proportion either, and that is the chief thing. I know
it would be much better if I were always to sit still and say
nothing. When I do so, I appear to be quite a sensible sort of a
person, and what's more, I think about things. But now I must
speak; it is better that I should. I began to speak because you
looked so kindly at me; you have such a beautiful face. I
promised Aglaya Ivanovna yesterday that I would not speak all the
evening."

"Really?" said the old man, smiling.

"But, at times, I can't help thinking that I am. wrong in feeling
so about it, you know. Sincerity is more important than
elocution, isn't it?"

"Sometimes."

"I want to explain all to you--everything--everything! I know you
think me Utopian, don't you--an idealist? Oh, no! I'm not,
indeed--my ideas are all so simple. You don't believe me? You are
smiling. Do you know, I am sometimes very wicked--for I lose my
faith? This evening as I came here, I thought to myself, 'What
shall I talk about? How am I to begin, so that they may be able
to understand partially, at all events?' How afraid I was--
dreadfully afraid! And yet, how COULD I be afraid--was it not
shameful of me? Was I afraid of finding a bottomless abyss of
empty selfishness? Ah! that's why I am so happy at this moment,
because I find there is no bottomless abyss at all--but good,
healthy material, full of life.

"It is not such a very dreadful circumstance that we are odd
people, is it? For we really are odd, you know--careless,
reckless, easily wearied of anything. We don't look thoroughly
into matters--don't care to understand things. We are all like
this--you and I, and all of them! Why, here are you, now--you are
not a bit angry with me for calling you odd,' are you? And, if
so, surely there is good material in you? Do you know, I
sometimes think it is a good thing to be odd. We can forgive one
another more easily, and be more humble. No one can begin by
being perfect--there is much one cannot understand in life at
first. In order to attain to perfection, one must begin by
failing to understand much. And if we take in knowledge too
quickly, we very likely are not taking it in at all. I say all
this to you--you who by this time understand so much--and
doubtless have failed to understand so much, also. I am not
afraid of you any longer. You are not angry that a mere boy
should say such words to you, are you? Of course not! You know
how to forget and to forgive. You are laughing, Ivan Petrovitch?
You think I am a champion of other classes of people--that I am
THEIR advocate, a democrat, and an orator of Equality?" The
prince laughed hysterically; he had several times burst into
these little, short nervous laughs. "Oh, no--it is for you, for
myself, and for all of us together, that I am alarmed. I am a
prince of an old family myself, and I am sitting among my peers;
and I am talking like this in the hope of saving us all; in the
hope that our class will not disappear altogether--into the
darkness--unguessing its danger--blaming everything around it,
and losing ground every day. Why should we disappear and give
place to others, when we may still, if we choose, remain in the
front rank and lead the battle? Let us be servants, that we may
become lords in due season!"

He tried to get upon his feet again, but the old man still
restrained him, gazing at him with increasing perturbation as he
went on.

"Listen--I know it is best not to speak! It is best simply to
give a good example--simply to begin the work. I have done this--
I have begun, and--and--oh! CAN anyone be unhappy, really? Oh!
what does grief matter--what does misfortune matter, if one knows
how to be happy? Do you know, I cannot understand how anyone can
pass by a green tree, and not feel happy only to look at it! How
anyone can talk to a man and not feel happy in loving him! Oh, it
is my own fault that I cannot express myself well enough! But
there are lovely things at every step I take--things which even
the most miserable man must recognize as beautiful. Look at a
little child--look at God's day-dawn--look at the grass growing--
look at the eyes that love you, as they gaze back into your
eyes!"

He had risen, and was speaking standing up. The old gentleman was
looking at him now in unconcealed alarm. Lizabetha Prokofievna
wrung her hands. "Oh, my God!" she cried. She had guessed the
state of the case before anyone else.

Aglaya rushed quickly up to him, and was just in time to receive
him in her arms, and to hear with dread and horror that awful,
wild cry as he fell writhing to the ground.

There he lay on the carpet, and someone quickly placed a cushion
under his head.

No one had expected this.

In a quarter of an hour or so Prince N. and Evgenie Pavlovitch
and the old dignitary were hard at work endeavouring to restore
the harmony of the evening, but it was of no avail, and very soon
after the guests separated and went their ways.

A great deal of sympathy was expressed; a considerable amount of
advice was volunteered; Ivan Petrovitch expressed his opinion
that the young man was "a Slavophile, or something of that sort";
but that it was not a dangerous development. The old dignitary
said nothing.

True enough, most of the guests, next day and the day after, were
not in very good humour. Ivan Petrovitch was a little offended,
but not seriously so. General Epanchin's chief was rather cool
towards him for some while after the occurrence. The old
dignitary, as patron of the family, took the opportunity of
murmuring some kind of admonition to the general, and added, in
flattering terms, that he was most interested in Aglaya's future.
He was a man who really did possess a kind heart, although his
interest in the prince, in the earlier part of the evening, was
due, among other reasons, to the latter's connection with
Nastasia Philipovna, according to popular report. He had heard a
good deal of this story here and there, and was greatly
interested in it, so much so that he longed to ask further
questions about it.

Princess Bielokonski, as she drove away on this eventful evening,
took occasion to say to Lizabetha Prokofievna:

"Well--he's a good match--and a bad one; and if you want my
opinion, more bad than good. You can see for yourself the man is
an invalid."

Lizabetha therefore decided that the prince was impossible as a
husband for Aglaya; and during the ensuing night she made a vow
that never while she lived should he marry Aglaya. With this
resolve firmly impressed upon her mind, she awoke next day; but
during the morning, after her early lunch, she fell into a
condition of remarkable inconsistency.

In reply to a very guarded question of her sisters', Aglaya had
answered coldly, but exceedingly haughtily:

"I have never given him my word at all, nor have I ever counted
him as my future husband--never in my life. He is just as little
to me as all the rest."

Lizabetha Prokofievna suddenly flared up.

"I did not expect that of you, Aglaya," she said. "He is an
impossible husband for you,--I know it; and thank God that we
agree upon that point; but I did not expect to hear such words
from you. I thought I should hear a very different tone from you.
I would have turned out everyone who was in the room last night
and kept him,--that's the sort of man he is, in my opinion!"

Here she suddenly paused, afraid of what she had just said. But
she little knew how unfair she was to her daughter at that
moment. It was all settled in Aglaya's mind. She was only waiting
for the hour that would bring the matter to a final climax; and
every hint, every careless probing of her wound, did but further
lacerate her heart.