The Idiot

s a general rule, old General Ivolgin’s paroxysms ended in smoke. He
had before this experienced fits of sudden fury, but not very often,
because he was really a man of peaceful and kindly disposition. He had
tried hundreds of times to overcome the dissolute habits which he had
contracted of late years. He would suddenly remember that he was “a
father,” would be reconciled with his wife, and shed genuine tears. His
feeling for Nina Alexandrovna amounted almost to adoration; she had
pardoned so much in silence, and loved him still in spite of the state
of degradation into which he had fallen. But the general’s struggles
with his own weakness never lasted very long. He was, in his way, an
impetuous man, and a quiet life of repentance in the bosom of his
family soon became insupportable to him. In the end he rebelled, and
flew into rages which he regretted, perhaps, even as he gave way to
them, but which were beyond his control. He picked quarrels with
everyone, began to hold forth eloquently, exacted unlimited respect,
and at last disappeared from the house, and sometimes did not return
for a long time. He had given up interfering in the affairs of his
family for two years now, and knew nothing about them but what he
gathered from hearsay.

But on this occasion there was something more serious than usual.
Everyone seemed to know something, but to be afraid to talk about it.

The general had turned up in the bosom of his family two or three days
before, but not, as usual, with the olive branch of peace in his hand,
not in the garb of penitence—in which he was usually clad on such
occasions—but, on the contrary, in an uncommonly bad temper. He had
arrived in a quarrelsome mood, pitching into everyone he came across,
and talking about all sorts and kinds of subjects in the most
unexpected manner, so that it was impossible to discover what it was
that was really putting him out. At moments he would be apparently
quite bright and happy; but as a rule he would sit moody and
thoughtful. He would abruptly commence to hold forth about the
Epanchins, about Lebedeff, or the prince, and equally abruptly would
stop short and refuse to speak another word, answering all further
questions with a stupid smile, unconscious that he was smiling, or that
he had been asked a question. The whole of the previous night he had
spent tossing about and groaning, and poor Nina Alexandrovna had been
busy making cold compresses and warm fomentations and so on, without
being very clear how to apply them. He had fallen asleep after a while,
but not for long, and had awaked in a state of violent hypochondria
which had ended in his quarrel with Hippolyte, and the solemn cursing
of Ptitsin’s establishment generally. It was also observed during those
two or three days that he was in a state of morbid self-esteem, and was
specially touchy on all points of honour. Colia insisted, in discussing
the matter with his mother, that all this was but the outcome of
abstinence from drink, or perhaps of pining after Lebedeff, with whom
up to this time the general had been upon terms of the greatest
friendship; but with whom, for some reason or other, he had quarrelled
a few days since, parting from him in great wrath. There had also been
a scene with the prince. Colia had asked an explanation of the latter,
but had been forced to conclude that he was not told the whole truth.

If Hippolyte and Nina Alexandrovna had, as Gania suspected, had some
special conversation about the general’s actions, it was strange that
the malicious youth, whom Gania had called a scandal-monger to his
face, had not allowed himself a similar satisfaction with Colia.

The fact is that probably Hippolyte was not quite so black as Gania
painted him; and it was hardly likely that he had informed Nina
Alexandrovna of certain events, of which we know, for the mere pleasure
of giving her pain. We must never forget that human motives are
generally far more complicated than we are apt to suppose, and that we
can very rarely accurately describe the motives of another. It is much
better for the writer, as a rule, to content himself with the bare
statement of events; and we shall take this line with regard to the
catastrophe recorded above, and shall state the remaining events
connected with the general’s trouble shortly, because we feel that we
have already given to this secondary character in our story more
attention than we originally intended.

The course of events had marched in the following order. When Lebedeff
returned, in company with the general, after their expedition to town a
few days since, for the purpose of investigation, he brought the prince
no information whatever. If the latter had not himself been occupied
with other thoughts and impressions at the time, he must have observed
that Lebedeff not only was very uncommunicative, but even appeared
anxious to avoid him.

When the prince did give the matter a little attention, he recalled the
fact that during these days he had always found Lebedeff to be in
radiantly good spirits, when they happened to meet; and further, that
the general and Lebedeff were always together. The two friends did not
seem ever to be parted for a moment.

Occasionally the prince heard loud talking and laughing upstairs, and
once he detected the sound of a jolly soldier’s song going on above,
and recognized the unmistakable bass of the general’s voice. But the
sudden outbreak of song did not last; and for an hour afterwards the
animated sound of apparently drunken conversation continued to be heard
from above. At length there was the clearest evidence of a grand mutual
embracing, and someone burst into tears. Shortly after this, however,
there was a violent but short-lived quarrel, with loud talking on both
sides.

All these days Colia had been in a state of great mental preoccupation.
Muishkin was usually out all day, and only came home late at night. On
his return he was invariably informed that Colia had been looking for
him. However, when they did meet, Colia never had anything particular
to tell him, excepting that he was highly dissatisfied with the general
and his present condition of mind and behaviour.

“They drag each other about the place,” he said, “and get drunk
together at the pub close by here, and quarrel in the street on the way
home, and embrace one another after it, and don’t seem to part for a
moment.”

When the prince pointed out that there was nothing new about that, for
that they had always behaved in this manner together, Colia did not
know what to say; in fact he could not explain what it was that
specially worried him, just now, about his father.

On the morning following the bacchanalian songs and quarrels recorded
above, as the prince stepped out of the house at about eleven o’clock,
the general suddenly appeared before him, much agitated.

“I have long sought the honour and opportunity of meeting
you—much-esteemed Lef Nicolaievitch,” he murmured, pressing the
prince’s hand very hard, almost painfully so; “long—very long.”

The prince begged him to step in and sit down.

“No—I will not sit down,—I am keeping you, I see,—another time!—I think
I may be permitted to congratulate you upon the realization of your
heart’s best wishes, is it not so?”

“What best wishes?”

The prince blushed. He thought, as so many in his position do, that
nobody had seen, heard, noticed, or understood anything.

“Oh—be easy, sir, be easy! I shall not wound your tenderest feelings.
I’ve been through it all myself, and I know well how unpleasant it is
when an outsider sticks his nose in where he is not wanted. I
experience this every morning. I came to speak to you about another
matter, though, an important matter. A very important matter, prince.”

The latter requested him to take a seat once more, and sat down
himself.

“Well—just for one second, then. The fact is, I came for advice. Of
course I live now without any very practical objects in life; but,
being full of self-respect, in which quality the ordinary Russian is so
deficient as a rule, and of activity, I am desirous, in a word, prince,
of placing myself and my wife and children in a position of—in fact, I
want advice.”

The prince commended his aspirations with warmth.

“Quite so—quite so! But this is all mere nonsense. I came here to speak
of something quite different, something very important, prince. And I
have determined to come to you as to a man in whose sincerity and
nobility of feeling I can trust like—like—are you surprised at my
words, prince?”

The prince was watching his guest, if not with much surprise, at all
events with great attention and curiosity.

The old man was very pale; every now and then his lips trembled, and
his hands seemed unable to rest quietly, but continually moved from
place to place. He had twice already jumped up from his chair and sat
down again without being in the least aware of it. He would take up a
book from the table and open it—talking all the while,—look at the
heading of a chapter, shut it and put it back again, seizing another
immediately, but holding it unopened in his hand, and waving it in the
air as he spoke.

“But enough!” he cried, suddenly. “I see I have been boring you with
my—”

“Not in the least—not in the least, I assure you. On the contrary, I am
listening most attentively, and am anxious to guess—”

“Prince, I wish to place myself in a respectable position—I wish to
esteem myself—and to—”

“My dear sir, a man of such noble aspirations is worthy of all esteem
by virtue of those aspirations alone.”

The prince brought out his “copy-book sentence” in the firm belief that
it would produce a good effect. He felt instinctively that some such
well-sounding humbug, brought out at the proper moment, would soothe
the old man’s feelings, and would be specially acceptable to such a man
in such a position. At all hazards, his guest must be despatched with
heart relieved and spirit comforted; that was the problem before the
prince at this moment.

The phrase flattered the general, touched him, and pleased him
mightily. He immediately changed his tone, and started off on a long
and solemn explanation. But listen as he would, the prince could make
neither head nor tail of it.

The general spoke hotly and quickly for ten minutes; he spoke as though
his words could not keep pace with his crowding thoughts. Tears stood
in his eyes, and yet his speech was nothing but a collection of
disconnected sentences, without beginning and without end—a string of
unexpected words and unexpected sentiments—colliding with one another,
and jumping over one another, as they burst from his lips.

“Enough!” he concluded at last, “you understand me, and that is the
great thing. A heart like yours cannot help understanding the
sufferings of another. Prince, you are the ideal of generosity; what
are other men beside yourself? But you are young—accept my blessing! My
principal object is to beg you to fix an hour for a most important
conversation—that is my great hope, prince. My heart needs but a little
friendship and sympathy, and yet I cannot always find means to satisfy
it.”

“But why not now? I am ready to listen, and—”

“No, no—prince, not now! Now is a dream! And it is too, too important!
It is to be the hour of Fate to me—my own hour. Our interview is not
to be broken in upon by every chance comer, every impertinent guest—and
there are plenty of such stupid, impertinent fellows”—(he bent over and
whispered mysteriously, with a funny, frightened look on his face)—“who
are unworthy to tie your shoe, prince. I don’t say mine, mind—you
will understand me, prince. Only you understand me, prince—no one
else. He doesn’t understand me, he is absolutely—absolutely unable
to sympathize. The first qualification for understanding another is
Heart.”

The prince was rather alarmed at all this, and was obliged to end by
appointing the same hour of the following day for the interview
desired. The general left him much comforted and far less agitated than
when he had arrived.

At seven in the evening, the prince sent to request Lebedeff to pay him
a visit. Lebedeff came at once, and “esteemed it an honour,” as he
observed, the instant he entered the room. He acted as though there had
never been the slightest suspicion of the fact that he had
systematically avoided the prince for the last three days.

He sat down on the edge of his chair, smiling and making faces, and
rubbing his hands, and looking as though he were in delighted
expectation of hearing some important communication, which had been
long guessed by all.

The prince was instantly covered with confusion; for it appeared to be
plain that everyone expected something of him—that everyone looked at
him as though anxious to congratulate him, and greeted him with hints,
and smiles, and knowing looks.

Keller, for instance, had run into the house three times of late, “just
for a moment,” and each time with the air of desiring to offer his
congratulations. Colia, too, in spite of his melancholy, had once or
twice begun sentences in much the same strain of suggestion or
insinuation.

The prince, however, immediately began, with some show of annoyance, to
question Lebedeff categorically, as to the general’s present condition,
and his opinion thereon. He described the morning’s interview in a few
words.

“Everyone has his worries, prince, especially in these strange and
troublous times of ours,” Lebedeff replied, drily, and with the air of
a man disappointed of his reasonable expectations.

“Dear me, what a philosopher you are!” laughed the prince.

“Philosophy is necessary, sir—very necessary—in our day. It is too much
neglected. As for me, much esteemed prince, I am sensible of having
experienced the honour of your confidence in a certain matter up to a
certain point, but never beyond that point. I do not for a moment
complain—”

“Lebedeff, you seem to be angry for some reason!” said the prince.

“Not the least bit in the world, esteemed and revered prince! Not the
least bit in the world!” cried Lebedeff, solemnly, with his hand upon
his heart. “On the contrary, I am too painfully aware that neither by
my position in the world, nor by my gifts of intellect and heart, nor
by my riches, nor by any former conduct of mine, have I in any way
deserved your confidence, which is far above my highest aspirations and
hopes. Oh no, prince; I may serve you, but only as your humble slave! I
am not angry, oh no! Not angry; pained perhaps, but nothing more.

“My dear Lebedeff, I—”

“Oh, nothing more, nothing more! I was saying to myself but now... ‘I
am quite unworthy of friendly relations with him,’ say I; ‘but perhaps
as landlord of this house I may, at some future date, in his good time,
receive information as to certain imminent and much to be desired
changes—’”

So saying Lebedeff fixed the prince with his sharp little eyes, still
in hope that he would get his curiosity satisfied.

The prince looked back at him in amazement.

“I don’t understand what you are driving at!” he cried, almost angrily,
“and, and—what an intriguer you are, Lebedeff!” he added, bursting into
a fit of genuine laughter.

Lebedeff followed suit at once, and it was clear from his radiant face
that he considered his prospects of satisfaction immensely improved.

“And do you know,” the prince continued, “I am amazed at your naive
ways, Lebedeff! Don’t be angry with me—not only yours, everybody else’s
also! You are waiting to hear something from me at this very moment
with such simplicity that I declare I feel quite ashamed of myself for
having nothing whatever to tell you. I swear to you solemnly, that
there is nothing to tell. There! Can you take that in?” The prince
laughed again.

Lebedeff assumed an air of dignity. It was true enough that he was
sometimes naive to a degree in his curiosity; but he was also an
excessively cunning gentleman, and the prince was almost converting him
into an enemy by his repeated rebuffs. The prince did not snub
Lebedeff’s curiosity, however, because he felt any contempt for him;
but simply because the subject was too delicate to talk about. Only a
few days before he had looked upon his own dreams almost as crimes. But
Lebedeff considered the refusal as caused by personal dislike to
himself, and was hurt accordingly. Indeed, there was at this moment a
piece of news, most interesting to the prince, which Lebedeff knew and
even had wished to tell him, but which he now kept obstinately to
himself.

“And what can I do for you, esteemed prince? Since I am told you sent
for me just now,” he said, after a few moments’ silence.

“Oh, it was about the general,” began the prince, waking abruptly from
the fit of musing which he too had indulged in “and—and about the theft
you told me of.”

“That is—er—about—what theft?”

“Oh come! just as if you didn’t understand, Lukian Timofeyovitch! What
are you up to? I can’t make you out! The money, the money, sir! The
four hundred roubles that you lost that day. You came and told me about
it one morning, and then went off to Petersburg. There, now do you
understand?”

“Oh—h—h! You mean the four hundred roubles!” said Lebedeff, dragging
the words out, just as though it had only just dawned upon him what the
prince was talking about. “Thanks very much, prince, for your kind
interest—you do me too much honour. I found the money, long ago!”

“You found it? Thank God for that!”

“Your exclamation proves the generous sympathy of your nature, prince;
for four hundred roubles—to a struggling family man like myself—is no
small matter!”

“I didn’t mean that; at least, of course, I’m glad for your sake, too,”
added the prince, correcting himself, “but—how did you find it?”

“Very simply indeed! I found it under the chair upon which my coat had
hung; so that it is clear the purse simply fell out of the pocket and
on to the floor!”

“Under the chair? Impossible! Why, you told me yourself that you had
searched every corner of the room? How could you not have looked in the
most likely place of all?”

“Of course I looked there,—of course I did! Very much so! I looked and
scrambled about, and felt for it, and wouldn’t believe it was not
there, and looked again and again. It is always so in such cases. One
longs and expects to find a lost article; one sees it is not there, and
the place is as bare as one’s palm; and yet one returns and looks again
and again, fifteen or twenty times, likely enough!”

“Oh, quite so, of course. But how was it in your case?—I don’t quite
understand,” said the bewildered prince. “You say it wasn’t there at
first, and that you searched the place thoroughly, and yet it turned up
on that very spot!”

“Yes, sir—on that very spot.” The prince gazed strangely at Lebedeff.
“And the general?” he asked, abruptly.

“The—the general? How do you mean, the general?” said Lebedeff,
dubiously, as though he had not taken in the drift of the prince’s
remark.

“Oh, good heavens! I mean, what did the general say when the purse
turned up under the chair? You and he had searched for it together
there, hadn’t you?”

“Quite so—together! But the second time I thought better to say nothing
about finding it. I found it alone.”

“But—why in the world—and the money? Was it all there?”

“I opened the purse and counted it myself; right to a single rouble.”

“I think you might have come and told me,” said the prince,
thoughtfully.

“Oh—I didn’t like to disturb you, prince, in the midst of your private
and doubtless most interesting personal reflections. Besides, I wanted
to appear, myself, to have found nothing. I took the purse, and opened
it, and counted the money, and shut it and put it down again under the
chair.”

“What in the world for?”

“Oh, just out of curiosity,” said Lebedeff, rubbing his hands and
sniggering.

“What, it’s still there then, is it? Ever since the day before
yesterday?”

“Oh no! You see, I was half in hopes the general might find it. Because
if I found it, why should not he too observe an object lying before his
very eyes? I moved the chair several times so as to expose the purse to
view, but the general never saw it. He is very absent just now,
evidently. He talks and laughs and tells stories, and suddenly flies
into a rage with me, goodness knows why.”

“Well, but—have you taken the purse away now?”

“No, it disappeared from under the chair in the night.”

“Where is it now, then?”

“Here,” laughed Lebedeff, at last, rising to his full height and
looking pleasantly at the prince, “here, in the lining of my coat.
Look, you can feel it for yourself, if you like!”

Sure enough there was something sticking out of the front of the
coat—something large. It certainly felt as though it might well be the
purse fallen through a hole in the pocket into the lining.

“I took it out and had a look at it; it’s all right. I’ve let it slip
back into the lining now, as you see, and so I have been walking about
ever since yesterday morning; it knocks against my legs when I walk
along.”

“H’m! and you take no notice of it?”

“Quite so, I take no notice of it. Ha, ha! and think of this, prince,
my pockets are always strong and whole, and yet, here in one night, is
a huge hole. I know the phenomenon is unworthy of your notice; but such
is the case. I examined the hole, and I declare it actually looks as
though it had been made with a pen-knife, a most improbable
contingency.”

“And—and—the general?”

“Ah, very angry all day, sir; all yesterday and all today. He shows
decided bacchanalian predilections at one time, and at another is
tearful and sensitive, but at any moment he is liable to paroxysms of
such rage that I assure you, prince, I am quite alarmed. I am not a
military man, you know. Yesterday we were sitting together in the
tavern, and the lining of my coat was—quite accidentally, of
course—sticking out right in front. The general squinted at it, and
flew into a rage. He never looks me quite in the face now, unless he is
very drunk or maudlin; but yesterday he looked at me in such a way that
a shiver went all down my back. I intend to find the purse tomorrow;
but till then I am going to have another night of it with him.”

“What’s the good of tormenting him like this?” cried the prince.

“I don’t torment him, prince, I don’t indeed!” cried Lebedeff, hotly.
“I love him, my dear sir, I esteem him; and believe it or not, I love
him all the better for this business, yes—and value him more.”

Lebedeff said this so seriously that the prince quite lost his temper
with him.

“Nonsense! love him and torment him so! Why, by the very fact that he
put the purse prominently before you, first under the chair and then in
your lining, he shows that he does not wish to deceive you, but is
anxious to beg your forgiveness in this artless way. Do you hear? He is
asking your pardon. He confides in the delicacy of your feelings, and
in your friendship for him. And you can allow yourself to humiliate so
thoroughly honest a man!”

“Thoroughly honest, quite so, prince, thoroughly honest!” said
Lebedeff, with flashing eyes. “And only you, prince, could have found
so very appropriate an expression. I honour you for it, prince. Very
well, that’s settled; I shall find the purse now and not tomorrow.
Here, I find it and take it out before your eyes! And the money is all
right. Take it, prince, and keep it till tomorrow, will you? Tomorrow
or next day I’ll take it back again. I think, prince, that the night
after its disappearance it was buried under a bush in the garden. So I
believe—what do you think of that?”

“Well, take care you don’t tell him to his face that you have found the
purse. Simply let him see that it is no longer in the lining of your
coat, and form his own conclusions.”

“Do you think so? Had I not just better tell him I have found it, and
pretend I never guessed where it was?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said the prince, thoughtfully; “it’s too late
for that—that would be dangerous now. No, no! Better say nothing about
it. Be nice with him, you know, but don’t show him—oh, you know well
enough—”

“I know, prince, of course I know, but I’m afraid I shall not carry it
out; for to do so one needs a heart like your own. He is so very
irritable just now, and so proud. At one moment he will embrace me, and
the next he flies out at me and sneers at me, and then I stick the
lining forward on purpose. Well, au revoir, prince, I see I am
keeping you, and boring you, too, interfering with your most
interesting private reflections.”

“Now, do be careful! Secrecy, as before!”

“Oh, silence isn’t the word! Softly, softly!”

But in spite of this conclusion to the episode, the prince remained as
puzzled as ever, if not more so. He awaited next morning’s interview
with the general most impatiently.