The Idiot

he prince was very nervous as he reached the outer door; but he did
his best to encourage himself with the reflection that the worst thing
that could happen to him would be that he would not be received, or,
perhaps, received, then laughed at for coming.

But there was another question, which terrified him considerably, and
that was: what was he going to do when he did get in? And to this
question he could fashion no satisfactory reply.

If only he could find an opportunity of coming close up to Nastasia
Philipovna and saying to her: “Don’t ruin yourself by marrying this
man. He does not love you, he only loves your money. He told me so
himself, and so did Aglaya Ivanovna, and I have come on purpose to warn
you”—but even that did not seem quite a legitimate or practicable thing
to do. Then, again, there was another delicate question, to which he
could not find an answer; dared not, in fact, think of it; but at the
very idea of which he trembled and blushed. However, in spite of all
his fears and heart-quakings he went in, and asked for Nastasia
Philipovna.

Nastasia occupied a medium-sized, but distinctly tasteful, flat,
beautifully furnished and arranged. At one period of these five years
of Petersburg life, Totski had certainly not spared his expenditure
upon her. He had calculated upon her eventual love, and tried to tempt
her with a lavish outlay upon comforts and luxuries, knowing too well
how easily the heart accustoms itself to comforts, and how difficult it
is to tear one’s self away from luxuries which have become habitual
and, little by little, indispensable.

Nastasia did not reject all this, she even loved her comforts and
luxuries, but, strangely enough, never became, in the least degree,
dependent upon them, and always gave the impression that she could do
just as well without them. In fact, she went so far as to inform Totski
on several occasions that such was the case, which the latter gentleman
considered a very unpleasant communication indeed.

But, of late, Totski had observed many strange and original features
and characteristics in Nastasia, which he had neither known nor
reckoned upon in former times, and some of these fascinated him, even
now, in spite of the fact that all his old calculations with regard to
her were long ago cast to the winds.

A maid opened the door for the prince (Nastasia’s servants were all
females) and, to his surprise, received his request to announce him to
her mistress without any astonishment. Neither his dirty boots, nor his
wide-brimmed hat, nor his sleeveless cloak, nor his evident confusion
of manner, produced the least impression upon her. She helped him off
with his cloak, and begged him to wait a moment in the ante-room while
she announced him.

The company assembled at Nastasia Philipovna’s consisted of none but
her most intimate friends, and formed a very small party in comparison
with her usual gatherings on this anniversary.

In the first place there were present Totski, and General Epanchin.
They were both highly amiable, but both appeared to be labouring under
a half-hidden feeling of anxiety as to the result of Nastasia’s
deliberations with regard to Gania, which result was to be made public
this evening.

Then, of course, there was Gania who was by no means so amiable as his
elders, but stood apart, gloomy, and miserable, and silent. He had
determined not to bring Varia with him; but Nastasia had not even asked
after her, though no sooner had he arrived than she had reminded him of
the episode between himself and the prince. The general, who had heard
nothing of it before, began to listen with some interest, while Gania,
drily, but with perfect candour, went through the whole history,
including the fact of his apology to the prince. He finished by
declaring that the prince was a most extraordinary man, and goodness
knows why he had been considered an idiot hitherto, for he was very far
from being one.

Nastasia listened to all this with great interest; but the conversation
soon turned to Rogojin and his visit, and this theme proved of the
greatest attraction to both Totski and the general.

Ptitsin was able to afford some particulars as to Rogojin’s conduct
since the afternoon. He declared that he had been busy finding money
for the latter ever since, and up to nine o’clock, Rogojin having
declared that he must absolutely have a hundred thousand roubles by the
evening. He added that Rogojin was drunk, of course; but that he
thought the money would be forthcoming, for the excited and intoxicated
rapture of the fellow impelled him to give any interest or premium that
was asked of him, and there were several others engaged in beating up
the money, also.

All this news was received by the company with somewhat gloomy
interest. Nastasia was silent, and would not say what she thought about
it. Gania was equally uncommunicative. The general seemed the most
anxious of all, and decidedly uneasy. The present of pearls which he
had prepared with so much joy in the morning had been accepted but
coldly, and Nastasia had smiled rather disagreeably as she took it from
him. Ferdishenko was the only person present in good spirits.

Totski himself, who had the reputation of being a capital talker, and
was usually the life and soul of these entertainments, was as silent as
any on this occasion, and sat in a state of, for him, most uncommon
perturbation.

The rest of the guests (an old tutor or schoolmaster, goodness knows
why invited; a young man, very timid, and shy and silent; a rather loud
woman of about forty, apparently an actress; and a very pretty,
well-dressed German lady who hardly said a word all the evening) not
only had no gift for enlivening the proceedings, but hardly knew what
to say for themselves when addressed. Under these circumstances the
arrival of the prince came almost as a godsend.

The announcement of his name gave rise to some surprise and to some
smiles, especially when it became evident, from Nastasia’s astonished
look, that she had not thought of inviting him. But her astonishment
once over, Nastasia showed such satisfaction that all prepared to greet
the prince with cordial smiles of welcome.

“Of course,” remarked General Epanchin, “he does this out of pure
innocence. It’s a little dangerous, perhaps, to encourage this sort of
freedom; but it is rather a good thing that he has arrived just at this
moment. He may enliven us a little with his originalities.”

“Especially as he asked himself,” said Ferdishenko.

“What’s that got to do with it?” asked the general, who loathed
Ferdishenko.

“Why, he must pay toll for his entrance,” explained the latter.

“H’m! Prince Muishkin is not Ferdishenko,” said the general,
impatiently. This worthy gentleman could never quite reconcile himself
to the idea of meeting Ferdishenko in society, and on an equal footing.

“Oh general, spare Ferdishenko!” replied the other, smiling. “I have
special privileges.”

“What do you mean by special privileges?”

“Once before I had the honour of stating them to the company. I will
repeat the explanation to-day for your excellency’s benefit. You see,
excellency, all the world is witty and clever except myself. I am
neither. As a kind of compensation I am allowed to tell the truth, for
it is a well-known fact that only stupid people tell ‘the truth.’ Added
to this, I am a spiteful man, just because I am not clever. If I am
offended or injured I bear it quite patiently until the man injuring me
meets with some misfortune. Then I remember, and take my revenge. I
return the injury sevenfold, as Ivan Petrovitch Ptitsin says. (Of
course he never does so himself.) Excellency, no doubt you recollect
Kryloff’s fable, ‘The Lion and the Ass’? Well now, that’s you and I.
That fable was written precisely for us.”

“You seem to be talking nonsense again, Ferdishenko,” growled the
general.

“What is the matter, excellency? I know how to keep my place. When I
said just now that we, you and I, were the lion and the ass of
Kryloff’s fable, of course it is understood that I take the role of the
ass. Your excellency is the lion of which the fable remarks:

‘A mighty lion, terror of the woods,
Was shorn of his great prowess by old age.’

And I, your excellency, am the ass.”

“I am of your opinion on that last point,” said Ivan Fedorovitch, with
ill-concealed irritation.

All this was no doubt extremely coarse, and moreover it was
premeditated, but after all Ferdishenko had persuaded everyone to
accept him as a buffoon.

“If I am admitted and tolerated here,” he had said one day, “it is
simply because I talk in this way. How can anyone possibly receive such
a man as I am? I quite understand. Now, could I, a Ferdishenko, be
allowed to sit shoulder to shoulder with a clever man like Afanasy
Ivanovitch? There is one explanation, only one. I am given the position
because it is so entirely inconceivable!”

But these vulgarities seemed to please Nastasia Philipovna, although
too often they were both rude and offensive. Those who wished to go to
her house were forced to put up with Ferdishenko. Possibly the latter
was not mistaken in imagining that he was received simply in order to
annoy Totski, who disliked him extremely. Gania also was often made the
butt of the jester’s sarcasms, who used this method of keeping in
Nastasia Philipovna’s good graces.

“The prince will begin by singing us a fashionable ditty,” remarked
Ferdishenko, and looked at the mistress of the house, to see what she
would say.

“I don’t think so, Ferdishenko; please be quiet,” answered Nastasia
Philipovna dryly.

“A-ah! if he is to be under special patronage, I withdraw my claws.”

But Nastasia Philipovna had now risen and advanced to meet the prince.

“I was so sorry to have forgotten to ask you to come, when I saw you,”
she said, “and I am delighted to be able to thank you personally now,
and to express my pleasure at your resolution.”

So saying she gazed into his eyes, longing to see whether she could
make any guess as to the explanation of his motive in coming to her
house. The prince would very likely have made some reply to her kind
words, but he was so dazzled by her appearance that he could not speak.

Nastasia noticed this with satisfaction. She was in full dress this
evening; and her appearance was certainly calculated to impress all
beholders. She took his hand and led him towards her other guests. But
just before they reached the drawing-room door, the prince stopped her,
and hurriedly and in great agitation whispered to her:

“You are altogether perfection; even your pallor and thinness are
perfect; one could not wish you otherwise. I did so wish to come and
see you. I—forgive me, please—”

“Don’t apologize,” said Nastasia, laughing; “you spoil the whole
originality of the thing. I think what they say about you must be true,
that you are so original.—So you think me perfection, do you?”

“Yes.”

“H’m! Well, you may be a good reader of riddles but you are wrong
there, at all events. I’ll remind you of this, tonight.”

Nastasia introduced the prince to her guests, to most of whom he was
already known.

Totski immediately made some amiable remark. All seemed to brighten up
at once, and the conversation became general. Nastasia made the prince
sit down next to herself.

“Dear me, there’s nothing so very curious about the prince dropping in,
after all,” remarked Ferdishenko.

“It’s quite a clear case,” said the hitherto silent Gania. “I have
watched the prince almost all day, ever since the moment when he first
saw Nastasia Philipovna’s portrait, at General Epanchin’s. I remember
thinking at the time what I am now pretty sure of; and what, I may say
in passing, the prince confessed to myself.”

Gania said all this perfectly seriously, and without the slightest
appearance of joking; indeed, he seemed strangely gloomy.

“I did not confess anything to you,” said the prince, blushing. “I only
answered your question.”

“Bravo! That’s frank, at any rate!” shouted Ferdishenko, and there was
general laughter.

“Oh prince, prince! I never should have thought it of you;” said
General Epanchin. “And I imagined you a philosopher! Oh, you silent
fellows!”

“Judging from the fact that the prince blushed at this innocent joke,
like a young girl, I should think that he must, as an honourable man,
harbour the noblest intentions,” said the old toothless schoolmaster,
most unexpectedly; he had not so much as opened his mouth before. This
remark provoked general mirth, and the old fellow himself laughed
loudest of the lot, but ended with a stupendous fit of coughing.

Nastasia Philipovna, who loved originality and drollery of all kinds,
was apparently very fond of this old man, and rang the bell for more
tea to stop his coughing. It was now half-past ten o’clock.

“Gentlemen, wouldn’t you like a little champagne now?” she asked. “I
have it all ready; it will cheer us up—do now—no ceremony!”

This invitation to drink, couched, as it was, in such informal terms,
came very strangely from Nastasia Philipovna. Her usual entertainments
were not quite like this; there was more style about them. However, the
wine was not refused; each guest took a glass excepting Gania, who
drank nothing.

It was extremely difficult to account for Nastasia’s strange condition
of mind, which became more evident each moment, and which none could
avoid noticing.

She took her glass, and vowed she would empty it three times that
evening. She was hysterical, and laughed aloud every other minute with
no apparent reason—the next moment relapsing into gloom and
thoughtfulness.

Some of her guests suspected that she must be ill; but concluded at
last that she was expecting something, for she continued to look at her
watch impatiently and unceasingly; she was most absent and strange.

“You seem to be a little feverish tonight,” said the actress.

“Yes; I feel quite ill. I have been obliged to put on this shawl—I feel
so cold,” replied Nastasia. She certainly had grown very pale, and
every now and then she tried to suppress a trembling in her limbs.

“Had we not better allow our hostess to retire?” asked Totski of the
general.

“Not at all, gentlemen, not at all! Your presence is absolutely
necessary to me tonight,” said Nastasia, significantly.

As most of those present were aware that this evening a certain very
important decision was to be taken, these words of Nastasia
Philipovna’s appeared to be fraught with much hidden interest. The
general and Totski exchanged looks; Gania fidgeted convulsively in his
chair.

“Let’s play at some game!” suggested the actress.

“I know a new and most delightful game, added Ferdishenko.

“What is it?” asked the actress.

“Well, when we tried it we were a party of people, like this, for
instance; and somebody proposed that each of us, without leaving his
place at the table, should relate something about himself. It had to be
something that he really and honestly considered the very worst action
he had ever committed in his life. But he was to be honest—that was the
chief point! He wasn’t to be allowed to lie.”

“What an extraordinary idea!” said the general.

“That’s the beauty of it, general!”

“It’s a funny notion,” said Totski, “and yet quite natural—it’s only a
new way of boasting.”

“Perhaps that is just what was so fascinating about it.”

“Why, it would be a game to cry over—not to laugh at!” said the
actress.

“Did it succeed?” asked Nastasia Philipovna. “Come, let’s try it, let’s
try it; we really are not quite so jolly as we might be—let’s try it!
We may like it; it’s original, at all events!”

“Yes,” said Ferdishenko; “it’s a good idea—come along—the men begin. Of
course no one need tell a story if he prefers to be disobliging. We
must draw lots! Throw your slips of paper, gentlemen, into this hat,
and the prince shall draw for turns. It’s a very simple game; all you
have to do is to tell the story of the worst action of your life. It’s
as simple as anything. I’ll prompt anyone who forgets the rules!”

No one liked the idea much. Some smiled, some frowned; some objected,
but faintly, not wishing to oppose Nastasia’s wishes; for this new idea
seemed to be rather well received by her. She was still in an excited,
hysterical state, laughing convulsively at nothing and everything. Her
eyes were blazing, and her cheeks showed two bright red spots against
the white. The melancholy appearance of some of her guests seemed to
add to her sarcastic humour, and perhaps the very cynicism and cruelty
of the game proposed by Ferdishenko pleased her. At all events she was
attracted by the idea, and gradually her guests came round to her side;
the thing was original, at least, and might turn out to be amusing.
“And supposing it’s something that one—one can’t speak about before
ladies?” asked the timid and silent young man.

“Why, then of course, you won’t say anything about it. As if there are
not plenty of sins to your score without the need of those!” said
Ferdishenko.

“But I really don’t know which of my actions is the worst,” said the
lively actress.

“Ladies are exempted if they like.”

“And how are you to know that one isn’t lying? And if one lies the
whole point of the game is lost,” said Gania.

“Oh, but think how delightful to hear how one’s friends lie! Besides
you needn’t be afraid, Gania; everybody knows what your worst action is
without the need of any lying on your part. Only think, gentlemen,”—and
Ferdishenko here grew quite enthusiastic, “only think with what eyes we
shall observe one another tomorrow, after our tales have been told!”

“But surely this is a joke, Nastasia Philipovna?” asked Totski. “You
don’t really mean us to play this game.”

“Whoever is afraid of wolves had better not go into the wood,” said
Nastasia, smiling.

“But, pardon me, Mr. Ferdishenko, is it possible to make a game out of
this kind of thing?” persisted Totski, growing more and more uneasy. “I
assure you it can’t be a success.”

“And why not? Why, the last time I simply told straight off about how I
stole three roubles.”

“Perhaps so; but it is hardly possible that you told it so that it
seemed like truth, or so that you were believed. And, as Gavrila
Ardalionovitch has said, the least suggestion of a falsehood takes all
point out of the game. It seems to me that sincerity, on the other
hand, is only possible if combined with a kind of bad taste that would
be utterly out of place here.”

“How subtle you are, Afanasy Ivanovitch! You astonish me,” cried
Ferdishenko. “You will remark, gentlemen, that in saying that I could
not recount the story of my theft so as to be believed, Afanasy
Ivanovitch has very ingeniously implied that I am not capable of
thieving—(it would have been bad taste to say so openly); and all the
time he is probably firmly convinced, in his own mind, that I am very
well capable of it! But now, gentlemen, to business! Put in your slips,
ladies and gentlemen—is yours in, Mr. Totski? So—then we are all ready;
now prince, draw, please.” The prince silently put his hand into the
hat, and drew the names. Ferdishenko was first, then Ptitsin, then the
general, Totski next, his own fifth, then Gania, and so on; the ladies
did not draw.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” cried Ferdishenko. “I did so hope the prince
would come out first, and then the general. Well, gentlemen, I suppose
I must set a good example! What vexes me much is that I am such an
insignificant creature that it matters nothing to anybody whether I
have done bad actions or not! Besides, which am I to choose? It’s an
embarras de richesse. Shall I tell how I became a thief on one
occasion only, to convince Afanasy Ivanovitch that it is possible to
steal without being a thief?”

“Do go on, Ferdishenko, and don’t make unnecessary preface, or you’ll
never finish,” said Nastasia Philipovna. All observed how irritable and
cross she had become since her last burst of laughter; but none the
less obstinately did she stick to her absurd whim about this new game.
Totski sat looking miserable enough. The general lingered over his
champagne, and seemed to be thinking of some story for the time when
his turn should come.