The Idiot

“ou will not deny, I am sure,” said Gavrila Ardalionovitch, turning to
Burdovsky, who sat looking at him with wide-open eyes, perplexed and
astonished. “You will not deny, seriously, that you were born just two
years after your mother’s legal marriage to Mr. Burdovsky, your father.
Nothing would be easier than to prove the date of your birth from
well-known facts; we can only look on Mr. Keller’s version as a work of
imagination, and one, moreover, extremely offensive both to you and
your mother. Of course he distorted the truth in order to strengthen
your claim, and to serve your interests. Mr. Keller said that he
previously consulted you about his article in the paper, but did not
read it to you as a whole. Certainly he could not have read that
passage...”

“As a matter of fact, I did not read it,” interrupted the boxer, “but
its contents had been given me on unimpeachable authority, and I...”

“Excuse me, Mr. Keller,” interposed Gavrila Ardalionovitch. “Allow me
to speak. I assure you your article shall be mentioned in its proper
place, and you can then explain everything, but for the moment I would
rather not anticipate. Quite accidentally, with the help of my sister,
Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsin, I obtained from one of her intimate
friends, Madame Zoubkoff, a letter written to her twenty-five years
ago, by Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff, then abroad. After getting into
communication with this lady, I went by her advice to Timofei
Fedorovitch Viazovkin, a retired colonel, and one of Pavlicheff’s
oldest friends. He gave me two more letters written by the latter when
he was still in foreign parts. These three documents, their dates, and
the facts mentioned in them, prove in the most undeniable manner, that
eighteen months before your birth, Nicolai Andreevitch went abroad,
where he remained for three consecutive years. Your mother, as you are
well aware, has never been out of Russia.... It is too late to read the
letters now; I am content to state the fact. But if you desire it, come
to me tomorrow morning, bring witnesses and writing experts with you,
and I will prove the absolute truth of my story. From that moment the
question will be decided.”

These words caused a sensation among the listeners, and there was a
general movement of relief. Burdovsky got up abruptly.

“If that is true,” said he, “I have been deceived, grossly deceived,
but not by Tchebaroff: and for a long time past, a long time. I do not
wish for experts, not I, nor to go to see you. I believe you. I give it
up.... But I refuse the ten thousand roubles. Good-bye.”

“Wait five minutes more, Mr. Burdovsky,” said Gavrila Ardalionovitch
pleasantly. “I have more to say. Some rather curious and important
facts have come to light, and it is absolutely necessary, in my
opinion, that you should hear them. You will not regret, I fancy, to
have the whole matter thoroughly cleared up.”

Burdovsky silently resumed his seat, and bent his head as though in
profound thought. His friend, Lebedeff’s nephew, who had risen to
accompany him, also sat down again. He seemed much disappointed, though
as self-confident as ever. Hippolyte looked dejected and sulky, as well
as surprised. He had just been attacked by a violent fit of coughing,
so that his handkerchief was stained with blood. The boxer looked
thoroughly frightened.

“Oh, Antip!” cried he in a miserable voice, “I did say to you the other
day—the day before yesterday—that perhaps you were not really
Pavlicheff’s son!”

There were sounds of half-smothered laughter at this.

“Now, that is a valuable piece of information, Mr. Keller,” replied
Gania. “However that may be, I have private information which convinces
me that Mr. Burdovsky, though doubtless aware of the date of his birth,
knew nothing at all about Pavlicheff’s sojourn abroad. Indeed, he
passed the greater part of his life out of Russia, returning at
intervals for short visits. The journey in question is in itself too
unimportant for his friends to recollect it after more than twenty
years; and of course Mr. Burdovsky could have known nothing about it,
for he was not born. As the event has proved, it was not impossible to
find evidence of his absence, though I must confess that chance has
helped me in a quest which might very well have come to nothing. It was
really almost impossible for Burdovsky or Tchebaroff to discover these
facts, even if it had entered their heads to try. Naturally they never
dreamt...”

Here the voice of Hippolyte suddenly intervened.

“Allow me, Mr. Ivolgin,” he said irritably. “What is the good of all
this rigmarole? Pardon me. All is now clear, and we acknowledge the
truth of your main point. Why go into these tedious details? You wish
perhaps to boast of the cleverness of your investigation, to cry up
your talents as detective? Or perhaps your intention is to excuse
Burdovsky, by proving that he took up the matter in ignorance? Well, I
consider that extremely impudent on your part! You ought to know that
Burdovsky has no need of being excused or justified by you or anyone
else! It is an insult! The affair is quite painful enough for him
without that. Will nothing make you understand?”

“Enough! enough! Mr. Terentieff,” interrupted Gania.

“Don’t excite yourself; you seem very ill, and I am sorry for that. I
am almost done, but there are a few facts to which I must briefly
refer, as I am convinced that they ought to be clearly explained once
for all....” A movement of impatience was noticed in his audience as he
resumed: “I merely wish to state, for the information of all concerned,
that the reason for Mr. Pavlicheff’s interest in your mother, Mr.
Burdovsky, was simply that she was the sister of a serf-girl with whom
he was deeply in love in his youth, and whom most certainly he would
have married but for her sudden death. I have proofs that this
circumstance is almost, if not quite, forgotten. I may add that when
your mother was about ten years old, Pavlicheff took her under his
care, gave her a good education, and later, a considerable dowry. His
relations were alarmed, and feared he might go so far as to marry her,
but she gave her hand to a young land-surveyor named Burdovsky when she
reached the age of twenty. I can even say definitely that it was a
marriage of affection. After his wedding your father gave up his
occupation as land-surveyor, and with his wife’s dowry of fifteen
thousand roubles went in for commercial speculations. As he had had no
experience, he was cheated on all sides, and took to drink in order to
forget his troubles. He shortened his life by his excesses, and eight
years after his marriage he died. Your mother says herself that she was
left in the direst poverty, and would have died of starvation had it
not been for Pavlicheff, who generously allowed her a yearly pension of
six hundred roubles. Many people recall his extreme fondness for you as
a little boy. Your mother confirms this, and agrees with others in
thinking that he loved you the more because you were a sickly child,
stammering in your speech, and almost deformed—for it is known that all
his life Nicolai Andreevitch had a partiality for unfortunates of every
kind, especially children. In my opinion this is most important. I may
add that I discovered yet another fact, the last on which I employed my
detective powers. Seeing how fond Pavlicheff was of you,—it was thanks
to him you went to school, and also had the advantage of special
teachers—his relations and servants grew to believe that you were his
son, and that your father had been betrayed by his wife. I may point
out that this idea was only accredited generally during the last years
of Pavlicheff’s life, when his next-of-kin were trembling about the
succession, when the earlier story was quite forgotten, and when all
opportunity for discovering the truth had seemingly passed away. No
doubt you, Mr. Burdovsky, heard this conjecture, and did not hesitate
to accept it as true. I have had the honour of making your mother’s
acquaintance, and I find that she knows all about these reports. What
she does not know is that you, her son, should have listened to them so
complaisantly. I found your respected mother at Pskoff, ill and in deep
poverty, as she has been ever since the death of your benefactor. She
told me with tears of gratitude how you had supported her; she expects
much of you, and believes fervently in your future success...”

“Oh, this is unbearable!” said Lebedeff’s nephew impatiently. “What is
the good of all this romancing?”

“It is revolting and unseemly!” cried Hippolyte, jumping up in a fury.

Burdovsky alone sat silent and motionless.

“What is the good of it?” repeated Gavrila Ardalionovitch, with
pretended surprise. “Well, firstly, because now perhaps Mr. Burdovsky
is quite convinced that Mr. Pavlicheff’s love for him came simply from
generosity of soul, and not from paternal duty. It was most necessary
to impress this fact upon his mind, considering that he approved of the
article written by Mr. Keller. I speak thus because I look on you, Mr.
Burdovsky, as an honourable man. Secondly, it appears that there was no
intention of cheating in this case, even on the part of Tchebaroff. I
wish to say this quite plainly, because the prince hinted a while ago
that I too thought it an attempt at robbery and extortion. On the
contrary, everyone has been quite sincere in the matter, and although
Tchebaroff may be somewhat of a rogue, in this business he has acted
simply as any sharp lawyer would do under the circumstances. He looked
at it as a case that might bring him in a lot of money, and he did not
calculate badly; because on the one hand he speculated on the
generosity of the prince, and his gratitude to the late Mr. Pavlicheff,
and on the other to his chivalrous ideas as to the obligations of
honour and conscience. As to Mr. Burdovsky, allowing for his
principles, we may acknowledge that he engaged in the business with
very little personal aim in view. At the instigation of Tchebaroff and
his other friends, he decided to make the attempt in the service of
truth, progress, and humanity. In short, the conclusion may be drawn
that, in spite of all appearances, Mr. Burdovsky is a man of
irreproachable character, and thus the prince can all the more readily
offer him his friendship, and the assistance of which he spoke just
now...”

“Hush! hush! Gavrila Ardalionovitch!” cried Muishkin in dismay, but it
was too late.

“I said, and I have repeated it over and over again,” shouted Burdovsky
furiously, “that I did not want the money. I will not take it...
why...I will not... I am going away!”

He was rushing hurriedly from the terrace, when Lebedeff’s nephew
seized his arms, and said something to him in a low voice. Burdovsky
turned quickly, and drawing an addressed but unsealed envelope from his
pocket, he threw it down on a little table beside the prince.

“There’s the money!... How dare you?... The money!”

“Those are the two hundred and fifty roubles you dared to send him as a
charity, by the hands of Tchebaroff,” explained Doktorenko.

“The article in the newspaper put it at fifty!” cried Colia.

“I beg your pardon,” said the prince, going up to Burdovsky. “I have
done you a great wrong, but I did not send you that money as a charity,
believe me. And now I am again to blame. I offended you just now.” (The
prince was much distressed; he seemed worn out with fatigue, and spoke
almost incoherently.) “I spoke of swindling... but I did not apply that
to you. I was deceived .... I said you were... afflicted... like me...
But you are not like me... you give lessons... you support your mother.
I said you had dishonoured your mother, but you love her. She says so
herself... I did not know... Gavrila Ardalionovitch did not tell me
that... Forgive me! I dared to offer you ten thousand roubles, but I
was wrong. I ought to have done it differently, and now... there is no
way of doing it, for you despise me...”

“I declare, this is a lunatic asylum!” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna.

“Of course it is a lunatic asylum!” repeated Aglaya sharply, but her
words were overpowered by other voices. Everybody was talking loudly,
making remarks and comments; some discussed the affair gravely, others
laughed. Ivan Fedorovitch Epanchin was extremely indignant. He stood
waiting for his wife with an air of offended dignity. Lebedeff’s nephew
took up the word again.

“Well, prince, to do you justice, you certainly know how to make the
most of your—let us call it infirmity, for the sake of politeness; you
have set about offering your money and friendship in such a way that no
self-respecting man could possibly accept them. This is an excess of
ingenuousness or of malice—you ought to know better than anyone which
word best fits the case.”

“Allow me, gentlemen,” said Gavrila Ardalionovitch, who had just
examined the contents of the envelope, “there are only a hundred
roubles here, not two hundred and fifty. I point this out, prince, to
prevent misunderstanding.”

“Never mind, never mind,” said the prince, signing to him to keep
quiet.

“But we do mind,” said Lebedeff’s nephew vehemently. “Prince, your
‘never mind’ is an insult to us. We have nothing to hide; our actions
can bear daylight. It is true that there are only a hundred roubles
instead of two hundred and fifty, but it is all the same.”

“Why, no, it is hardly the same,” remarked Gavrila Ardalionovitch, with
an air of ingenuous surprise.

“Don’t interrupt, we are not such fools as you think, Mr. Lawyer,”
cried Lebedeff’s nephew angrily. “Of course there is a difference
between a hundred roubles and two hundred and fifty, but in this case
the principle is the main point, and that a hundred and fifty roubles
are missing is only a side issue. The point to be emphasized is that
Burdovsky will not accept your highness’s charity; he flings it back in
your face, and it scarcely matters if there are a hundred roubles or
two hundred and fifty. Burdovsky has refused ten thousand roubles; you
heard him. He would not have returned even a hundred roubles if he was
dishonest! The hundred and fifty roubles were paid to Tchebaroff for
his travelling expenses. You may jeer at our stupidity and at our
inexperience in business matters; you have done all you could already
to make us look ridiculous; but do not dare to call us dishonest. The
four of us will club together every day to repay the hundred and fifty
roubles to the prince, if we have to pay it in instalments of a rouble
at a time, but we will repay it, with interest. Burdovsky is poor, he
has no millions. After his journey to see the prince Tchebaroff sent in
his bill. We counted on winning... Who would not have done the same in
such a case?”

“Who indeed?” exclaimed Prince S.

“I shall certainly go mad, if I stay here!” cried Lizabetha
Prokofievna.

“It reminds me,” said Evgenie Pavlovitch, laughing, “of the famous plea
of a certain lawyer who lately defended a man for murdering six people
in order to rob them. He excused his client on the score of poverty.
‘It is quite natural,’ he said in conclusion, ‘considering the state of
misery he was in, that he should have thought of murdering these six
people; which of you, gentlemen, would not have done the same in his
place?’”

“Enough,” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna abruptly, trembling with anger,
“we have had enough of this balderdash!”

In a state of terrible excitement she threw back her head, with flaming
eyes, casting looks of contempt and defiance upon the whole company, in
which she could no longer distinguish friend from foe. She had
restrained herself so long that she felt forced to vent her rage on
somebody. Those who knew Lizabetha Prokofievna saw at once how it was
with her. “She flies into these rages sometimes,” said Ivan Fedorovitch
to Prince S. the next day, “but she is not often so violent as she was
yesterday; it does not happen more than once in three years.”

“Be quiet, Ivan Fedorovitch! Leave me alone!” cried Mrs. Epanchin. “Why
do you offer me your arm now? You had not sense enough to take me away
before. You are my husband, you are a father, it was your duty to drag
me away by force, if in my folly I refused to obey you and go quietly.
You might at least have thought of your daughters. We can find our way
out now without your help. Here is shame enough for a year! Wait a
moment ‘till I thank the prince! Thank you, prince, for the
entertainment you have given us! It was most amusing to hear these
young men... It is vile, vile! A chaos, a scandal, worse than a
nightmare! Is it possible that there can be many such people on earth?
Be quiet, Aglaya! Be quiet, Alexandra! It is none of your business!
Don’t fuss round me like that, Evgenie Pavlovitch; you exasperate me!
So, my dear,” she cried, addressing the prince, “you go so far as to
beg their pardon! He says, ‘Forgive me for offering you a fortune.’ And
you, you mountebank, what are you laughing at?” she cried, turning
suddenly on Lebedeff’s nephew. “‘We refuse ten thousand roubles; we do
not beseech, we demand!’ As if he did not know that this idiot will
call on them tomorrow to renew his offers of money and friendship. You
will, won’t you? You will? Come, will you, or won’t you?”

“I shall,” said the prince, with gentle humility.

“You hear him! You count upon it, too,” she continued, turning upon
Doktorenko. “You are as sure of him now as if you had the money in your
pocket. And there you are playing the swaggerer to throw dust in our
eyes! No, my dear sir, you may take other people in! I can see through
all your airs and graces, I see your game!”

“Lizabetha Prokofievna!” exclaimed the prince.

“Come, Lizabetha Prokofievna, it is quite time for us to be going, we
will take the prince with us,” said Prince S. with a smile, in the
coolest possible way.

The girls stood apart, almost frightened; their father was positively
horrified. Mrs. Epanchin’s language astonished everybody. Some who
stood a little way off smiled furtively, and talked in whispers.
Lebedeff wore an expression of utmost ecstasy.

“Chaos and scandal are to be found everywhere, madame,” remarked
Doktorenko, who was considerably put out of countenance.

“Not like this! Nothing like the spectacle you have just given us,
sir,” answered Lizabetha Prokofievna, with a sort of hysterical rage.
“Leave me alone, will you?” she cried violently to those around her,
who were trying to keep her quiet. “No, Evgenie Pavlovitch, if, as you
said yourself just now, a lawyer said in open court that he found it
quite natural that a man should murder six people because he was in
misery, the world must be coming to an end. I had not heard of it
before. Now I understand everything. And this stutterer, won’t he turn
out a murderer?” she cried, pointing to Burdovsky, who was staring at
her with stupefaction. “I bet he will! He will have none of your money,
possibly, he will refuse it because his conscience will not allow him
to accept it, but he will go murdering you by night and walking off
with your cashbox, with a clear conscience! He does not call it a
dishonest action but ‘the impulse of a noble despair’; ‘a negation’; or
the devil knows what! Bah! everything is upside down, everyone walks
head downwards. A young girl, brought up at home, suddenly jumps into a
cab in the middle of the street, saying: ‘Good-bye, mother, I married
Karlitch, or Ivanitch, the other day!’ And you think it quite right?
You call such conduct estimable and natural? The ‘woman question’? Look
here,” she continued, pointing to Colia, “the other day that
whippersnapper told me that this was the whole meaning of the ‘woman
question.’ But even supposing that your mother is a fool, you are none
the less, bound to treat her with humanity. Why did you come here
tonight so insolently? ‘Give us our rights, but don’t dare to speak in
our presence. Show us every mark of deepest respect, while we treat you
like the scum of the earth.’ The miscreants have written a tissue of
calumny in their article, and these are the men who seek for truth, and
do battle for the right! ‘We do not beseech, we demand, you will get no
thanks from us, because you will be acting to satisfy your own
conscience!’ What morality! But, good heavens! if you declare that the
prince’s generosity will, excite no gratitude in you, he might answer
that he is not, bound to be grateful to Pavlicheff, who also was only
satisfying his own conscience. But you counted on the prince’s,
gratitude towards Pavlicheff; you never lent him any money; he owes you
nothing; then what were you counting upon if not on his gratitude? And
if you appeal to that sentiment in others, why should you expect to be
exempted from it? They are mad! They say society is savage and inhuman
because it despises a young girl who has been seduced. But if you call
society inhuman you imply that the young girl is made to suffer by its
censure. How then, can you hold her up to the scorn of society in the
newspapers without realizing that you are making her suffering, still
greater? Madmen! Vain fools! They don’t believe in God, they don’t
believe in Christ! But you are so eaten up by pride and vanity, that
you will end by devouring each other—that is my prophecy! Is not this
absurd? Is it not monstrous chaos? And after all this, that shameless
creature will go and beg their pardon! Are there many people like you?
What are you smiling at? Because I am not ashamed to disgrace myself
before you?—Yes, I am disgraced—it can’t be helped now! But don’t you
jeer at me, you scum!” (this was aimed at Hippolyte). “He is almost at
his last gasp, yet he corrupts others. You, have got hold of this lad—”
(she pointed to Colia); “you, have turned his head, you have taught him
to be an atheist, you don’t believe in God, and you are not too old to
be whipped, sir! A plague upon you! And so, Prince Lef Nicolaievitch,
you will call on them tomorrow, will you?” she asked the prince
breathlessly, for the second time.

“Yes.”

“Then I will never speak to you again.” She made a sudden movement to
go, and then turned quickly back. “And you will call on that atheist?”
she continued, pointing to Hippolyte. “How dare you grin at me like
that?” she shouted furiously, rushing at the invalid, whose mocking
smile drove her to distraction.

Exclamations arose on all sides.

“Lizabetha Prokofievna! Lizabetha Prokofievna! Lizabetha Prokofievna!”

“Mother, this is disgraceful!” cried Aglaya.

Mrs. Epanchin had approached Hippolyte and seized him firmly by the
arm, while her eyes, blazing with fury, were fixed upon his face.

“Do not distress yourself, Aglaya Ivanovitch,” he answered calmly;
“your mother knows that one cannot strike a dying man. I am ready to
explain why I was laughing. I shall be delighted if you will let me—”

A violent fit of coughing, which lasted a full minute, prevented him
from finishing his sentence.

“He is dying, yet he will not stop holding forth!” cried Lizabetha
Prokofievna. She loosed her hold on his arm, almost terrified, as she
saw him wiping the blood from his lips. “Why do you talk? You ought to
go home to bed.”

“So I will,” he whispered hoarsely. “As soon as I get home I will go to
bed at once; and I know I shall be dead in a fortnight; Botkine told me
so himself last week. That is why I should like to say a few farewell
words, if you will let me.”

“But you must be mad! It is ridiculous! You should take care of
yourself; what is the use of holding a conversation now? Go home to
bed, do!” cried Mrs. Epanchin in horror.

“When I do go to bed I shall never get up again,” said Hippolyte, with
a smile. “I meant to take to my bed yesterday and stay there till I
died, but as my legs can still carry me, I put it off for two days, so
as to come here with them to-day—but I am very tired.”

“Oh, sit down, sit down, why are you standing?”

Lizabetha Prokofievna placed a chair for him with her own hands.

“Thank you,” he said gently. “Sit opposite to me, and let us talk. We
must have a talk now, Lizabetha Prokofievna; I am very anxious for it.”
He smiled at her once more. “Remember that today, for the last time, I
am out in the air, and in the company of my fellow-men, and that in a
fortnight I shall certainly be no longer in this world. So, in a way,
this is my farewell to nature and to men. I am not very sentimental,
but do you know, I am quite glad that all this has happened at
Pavlofsk, where at least one can see a green tree.”

“But why talk now?” replied Lizabetha Prokofievna, more and more
alarmed; “You are quite feverish. Just now you would not stop shouting,
and now you can hardly breathe. You are gasping.”

“I shall have time to rest. Why will you not grant my last wish? Do you
know, Lizabetha Prokofievna, that I have dreamed of meeting you for a
long while? I had often heard of you from Colia; he is almost the only
person who still comes to see me. You are an original and eccentric
woman; I have seen that for myself—Do you know, I have even been rather
fond of you?”

“Good heavens! And I very nearly struck him!”

“You were prevented by Aglaya Ivanovna. I think I am not mistaken? That
is your daughter, Aglaya Ivanovna? She is so beautiful that I
recognized her directly, although I had never seen her before. Let me,
at least, look on beauty for the last time in my life,” he said with a
wry smile. “You are here with the prince, and your husband, and a large
company. Why should you refuse to gratify my last wish?”

“Give me a chair!” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, but she seized one for
herself and sat down opposite to Hippolyte. “Colia, you must go home
with him,” she commanded, “and tomorrow I will come my self.”

“Will you let me ask the prince for a cup of tea?... I am exhausted. Do
you know what you might do, Lizabetha Prokofievna? I think you wanted
to take the prince home with you for tea. Stay here, and let us spend
the evening together. I am sure the prince will give us all some tea.
Forgive me for being so free and easy—but I know you are kind, and the
prince is kind, too. In fact, we are all good-natured people—it is
really quite comical.”

The prince bestirred himself to give orders. Lebedeff hurried out,
followed by Vera.

“It is quite true,” said Mrs. Epanchin decisively. “Talk, but not too
loud, and don’t excite yourself. You have made me sorry for you.
Prince, you don’t deserve that I should stay and have tea with you, yet
I will, all the same, but I won’t apologize. I apologize to nobody!
Nobody! It is absurd! However, forgive me, prince, if I blew you
up—that is, if you like, of course. But please don’t let me keep
anyone,” she added suddenly to her husband and daughters, in a tone of
resentment, as though they had grievously offended her. “I can come
home alone quite well.”

But they did not let her finish, and gathered round her eagerly. The
prince immediately invited everyone to stay for tea, and apologized for
not having thought of it before. The general murmured a few polite
words, and asked Lizabetha Prokofievna if she did not feel cold on the
terrace. He very nearly asked Hippolyte how long he had been at the
University, but stopped himself in time. Evgenie Pavlovitch and Prince
S. suddenly grew extremely gay and amiable. Adelaida and Alexandra had
not recovered from their surprise, but it was now mingled with
satisfaction; in short, everyone seemed very much relieved that
Lizabetha Prokofievna had got over her paroxysm. Aglaya alone still
frowned, and sat apart in silence. All the other guests stayed on as
well; no one wanted to go, not even General Ivolgin, but Lebedeff said
something to him in passing which did not seem to please him, for he
immediately went and sulked in a corner. The prince took care to offer
tea to Burdovsky and his friends as well as the rest. The invitation
made them rather uncomfortable. They muttered that they would wait for
Hippolyte, and went and sat by themselves in a distant corner of the
verandah. Tea was served at once; Lebedeff had no doubt ordered it for
himself and his family before the others arrived. It was striking
eleven.