The Idiot

ll three of the Miss Epanchins were fine, healthy girls, well-grown,
with good shoulders and busts, and strong—almost masculine—hands; and,
of course, with all the above attributes, they enjoyed capital
appetites, of which they were not in the least ashamed.

Elizabetha Prokofievna sometimes informed the girls that they were a
little too candid in this matter, but in spite of their outward
deference to their mother these three young women, in solemn conclave,
had long agreed to modify the unquestioning obedience which they had
been in the habit of according to her; and Mrs. General Epanchin had
judged it better to say nothing about it, though, of course, she was
well aware of the fact.

It is true that her nature sometimes rebelled against these dictates of
reason, and that she grew yearly more capricious and impatient; but
having a respectful and well-disciplined husband under her thumb at all
times, she found it possible, as a rule, to empty any little
accumulations of spleen upon his head, and therefore the harmony of the
family was kept duly balanced, and things went as smoothly as family
matters can.

Mrs. Epanchin had a fair appetite herself, and generally took her share
of the capital mid-day lunch which was always served for the girls, and
which was nearly as good as a dinner. The young ladies used to have a
cup of coffee each before this meal, at ten o’clock, while still in
bed. This was a favourite and unalterable arrangement with them. At
half-past twelve, the table was laid in the small dining-room, and
occasionally the general himself appeared at the family gathering, if
he had time.

Besides tea and coffee, cheese, honey, butter, pan-cakes of various
kinds (the lady of the house loved these best), cutlets, and so on,
there was generally strong beef soup, and other substantial delicacies.

On the particular morning on which our story has opened, the family had
assembled in the dining-room, and were waiting the general’s
appearance, the latter having promised to come this day. If he had been
one moment late, he would have been sent for at once; but he turned up
punctually.

As he came forward to wish his wife good-morning and kiss her hands, as
his custom was, he observed something in her look which boded ill. He
thought he knew the reason, and had expected it, but still, he was not
altogether comfortable. His daughters advanced to kiss him, too, and
though they did not look exactly angry, there was something strange in
their expression as well.

The general was, owing to certain circumstances, a little inclined to
be too suspicious at home, and needlessly nervous; but, as an
experienced father and husband, he judged it better to take measures at
once to protect himself from any dangers there might be in the air.

However, I hope I shall not interfere with the proper sequence of my
narrative too much, if I diverge for a moment at this point, in order
to explain the mutual relations between General Epanchin’s family and
others acting a part in this history, at the time when we take up the
thread of their destiny. I have already stated that the general, though
he was a man of lowly origin, and of poor education, was, for all that,
an experienced and talented husband and father. Among other things, he
considered it undesirable to hurry his daughters to the matrimonial
altar and to worry them too much with assurances of his paternal wishes
for their happiness, as is the custom among parents of many grown-up
daughters. He even succeeded in ranging his wife on his side on this
question, though he found the feat very difficult to accomplish,
because unnatural; but the general’s arguments were conclusive, and
founded upon obvious facts. The general considered that the girls’
taste and good sense should be allowed to develop and mature
deliberately, and that the parents’ duty should merely be to keep
watch, in order that no strange or undesirable choice be made; but that
the selection once effected, both father and mother were bound from
that moment to enter heart and soul into the cause, and to see that the
matter progressed without hindrance until the altar should be happily
reached.

Besides this, it was clear that the Epanchins’ position gained each
year, with geometrical accuracy, both as to financial solidity and
social weight; and, therefore, the longer the girls waited, the better
was their chance of making a brilliant match.

But again, amidst the incontrovertible facts just recorded, one more,
equally significant, rose up to confront the family; and this was, that
the eldest daughter, Alexandra, had imperceptibly arrived at her
twenty-fifth birthday. Almost at the same moment, Afanasy Ivanovitch
Totski, a man of immense wealth, high connections, and good standing,
announced his intention of marrying. Afanasy Ivanovitch was a gentleman
of fifty-five years of age, artistically gifted, and of most refined
tastes. He wished to marry well, and, moreover, he was a keen admirer
and judge of beauty.

Now, since Totski had, of late, been upon terms of great cordiality
with Epanchin, which excellent relations were intensified by the fact
that they were, so to speak, partners in several financial enterprises,
it so happened that the former now put in a friendly request to the
general for counsel with regard to the important step he meditated.
Might he suggest, for instance, such a thing as a marriage between
himself and one of the general’s daughters?

Evidently the quiet, pleasant current of the family life of the
Epanchins was about to undergo a change.

The undoubted beauty of the family, par excellence, was the youngest,
Aglaya, as aforesaid. But Totski himself, though an egotist of the
extremest type, realized that he had no chance there; Aglaya was
clearly not for such as he.

Perhaps the sisterly love and friendship of the three girls had more or
less exaggerated Aglaya’s chances of happiness. In their opinion, the
latter’s destiny was not merely to be very happy; she was to live in a
heaven on earth. Aglaya’s husband was to be a compendium of all the
virtues, and of all success, not to speak of fabulous wealth. The two
elder sisters had agreed that all was to be sacrificed by them, if need
be, for Aglaya’s sake; her dowry was to be colossal and unprecedented.

The general and his wife were aware of this agreement, and, therefore,
when Totski suggested himself for one of the sisters, the parents made
no doubt that one of the two elder girls would probably accept the
offer, since Totski would certainly make no difficulty as to dowry. The
general valued the proposal very highly. He knew life, and realized
what such an offer was worth.

The answer of the sisters to the communication was, if not conclusive,
at least consoling and hopeful. It made known that the eldest,
Alexandra, would very likely be disposed to listen to a proposal.

Alexandra was a good-natured girl, though she had a will of her own.
She was intelligent and kind-hearted, and, if she were to marry Totski,
she would make him a good wife. She did not care for a brilliant
marriage; she was eminently a woman calculated to soothe and sweeten
the life of any man; decidedly pretty, if not absolutely handsome. What
better could Totski wish?

So the matter crept slowly forward. The general and Totski had agreed
to avoid any hasty and irrevocable step. Alexandra’s parents had not
even begun to talk to their daughters freely upon the subject, when
suddenly, as it were, a dissonant chord was struck amid the harmony of
the proceedings. Mrs. Epanchin began to show signs of discontent, and
that was a serious matter. A certain circumstance had crept in, a
disagreeable and troublesome factor, which threatened to overturn the
whole business.

This circumstance had come into existence eighteen years before. Close
to an estate of Totski’s, in one of the central provinces of Russia,
there lived, at that time, a poor gentleman whose estate was of the
wretchedest description. This gentleman was noted in the district for
his persistent ill-fortune; his name was Barashkoff, and, as regards
family and descent, he was vastly superior to Totski, but his estate
was mortgaged to the last acre. One day, when he had ridden over to the
town to see a creditor, the chief peasant of his village followed him
shortly after, with the news that his house had been burnt down, and
that his wife had perished with it, but his children were safe.

Even Barashkoff, inured to the storms of evil fortune as he was, could
not stand this last stroke. He went mad and died shortly after in the
town hospital. His estate was sold for the creditors; and the little
girls—two of them, of seven and eight years of age respectively,—were
adopted by Totski, who undertook their maintenance and education in the
kindness of his heart. They were brought up together with the children
of his German bailiff. Very soon, however, there was only one of them
left—Nastasia Philipovna—for the other little one died of
whooping-cough. Totski, who was living abroad at this time, very soon
forgot all about the child; but five years after, returning to Russia,
it struck him that he would like to look over his estate and see how
matters were going there, and, arrived at his bailiff’s house, he was
not long in discovering that among the children of the latter there now
dwelt a most lovely little girl of twelve, sweet and intelligent, and
bright, and promising to develop beauty of most unusual quality—as to
which last Totski was an undoubted authority.

He only stayed at his country seat a few days on this occasion, but he
had time to make his arrangements. Great changes took place in the
child’s education; a good governess was engaged, a Swiss lady of
experience and culture. For four years this lady resided in the house
with little Nastia, and then the education was considered complete. The
governess took her departure, and another lady came down to fetch
Nastia, by Totski’s instructions. The child was now transported to
another of Totski’s estates in a distant part of the country. Here she
found a delightful little house, just built, and prepared for her
reception with great care and taste; and here she took up her abode
together with the lady who had accompanied her from her old home. In
the house there were two experienced maids, musical instruments of all
sorts, a charming “young lady’s library,” pictures, paint-boxes, a
lap-dog, and everything to make life agreeable. Within a fortnight
Totski himself arrived, and from that time he appeared to have taken a
great fancy to this part of the world and came down each summer,
staying two and three months at a time. So passed four years peacefully
and happily, in charming surroundings.

At the end of that time, and about four months after Totski’s last
visit (he had stayed but a fortnight on this occasion), a report
reached Nastasia Philipovna that he was about to be married in St.
Petersburg, to a rich, eminent, and lovely woman. The report was only
partially true, the marriage project being only in an embryo condition;
but a great change now came over Nastasia Philipovna. She suddenly
displayed unusual decision of character; and without wasting time in
thought, she left her country home and came up to St. Petersburg,
straight to Totski’s house, all alone.

The latter, amazed at her conduct, began to express his displeasure;
but he very soon became aware that he must change his voice, style, and
everything else, with this young lady; the good old times were gone. An
entirely new and different woman sat before him, between whom and the
girl he had left in the country last July there seemed nothing in
common.

In the first place, this new woman understood a good deal more than was
usual for young people of her age; so much indeed, that Totski could
not help wondering where she had picked up her knowledge. Surely not
from her “young lady’s library”? It even embraced legal matters, and
the “world” in general, to a considerable extent.

Her character was absolutely changed. No more of the girlish
alternations of timidity and petulance, the adorable naivete, the
reveries, the tears, the playfulness... It was an entirely new and
hitherto unknown being who now sat and laughed at him, and informed him
to his face that she had never had the faintest feeling for him of any
kind, except loathing and contempt—contempt which had followed closely
upon her sensations of surprise and bewilderment after her first
acquaintance with him.

This new woman gave him further to understand that though it was
absolutely the same to her whom he married, yet she had decided to
prevent this marriage—for no particular reason, but that she chose to
do so, and because she wished to amuse herself at his expense for that
it was “quite her turn to laugh a little now!”

Such were her words—very likely she did not give her real reason for
this eccentric conduct; but, at all events, that was all the
explanation she deigned to offer.

Meanwhile, Totski thought the matter over as well as his scattered
ideas would permit. His meditations lasted a fortnight, however, and at
the end of that time his resolution was taken. The fact was, Totski was
at that time a man of fifty years of age; his position was solid and
respectable; his place in society had long been firmly fixed upon safe
foundations; he loved himself, his personal comforts, and his position
better than all the world, as every respectable gentleman should!

At the same time his grasp of things in general soon showed Totski that
he now had to deal with a being who was outside the pale of the
ordinary rules of traditional behaviour, and who would not only
threaten mischief but would undoubtedly carry it out, and stop for no
one.

There was evidently, he concluded, something at work here; some storm
of the mind, some paroxysm of romantic anger, goodness knows against
whom or what, some insatiable contempt—in a word, something altogether
absurd and impossible, but at the same time most dangerous to be met
with by any respectable person with a position in society to keep up.

For a man of Totski’s wealth and standing, it would, of course, have
been the simplest possible matter to take steps which would rid him at
once from all annoyance; while it was obviously impossible for Nastasia
Philipovna to harm him in any way, either legally or by stirring up a
scandal, for, in case of the latter danger, he could so easily remove
her to a sphere of safety. However, these arguments would only hold
good in case of Nastasia acting as others might in such an emergency.
She was much more likely to overstep the bounds of reasonable conduct
by some extraordinary eccentricity.

Here the sound judgment of Totski stood him in good stead. He realized
that Nastasia Philipovna must be well aware that she could do nothing
by legal means to injure him, and that her flashing eyes betrayed some
entirely different intention.

Nastasia Philipovna was quite capable of ruining herself, and even of
perpetrating something which would send her to Siberia, for the mere
pleasure of injuring a man for whom she had developed so inhuman a
sense of loathing and contempt. He had sufficient insight to understand
that she valued nothing in the world—herself least of all—and he made
no attempt to conceal the fact that he was a coward in some respects.
For instance, if he had been told that he would be stabbed at the
altar, or publicly insulted, he would undoubtedly have been frightened;
but not so much at the idea of being murdered, or wounded, or insulted,
as at the thought that if such things were to happen he would be made
to look ridiculous in the eyes of society.

He knew well that Nastasia thoroughly understood him and where to wound
him and how, and therefore, as the marriage was still only in embryo,
Totski decided to conciliate her by giving it up. His decision was
strengthened by the fact that Nastasia Philipovna had curiously altered
of late. It would be difficult to conceive how different she was
physically, at the present time, to the girl of a few years ago. She
was pretty then... but now!... Totski laughed angrily when he thought
how short-sighted he had been. In days gone by he remembered how he had
looked at her beautiful eyes, how even then he had marvelled at their
dark mysterious depths, and at their wondering gaze which seemed to
seek an answer to some unknown riddle. Her complexion also had altered.
She was now exceedingly pale, but, curiously, this change only made her
more beautiful. Like most men of the world, Totski had rather despised
such a cheaply-bought conquest, but of late years he had begun to think
differently about it. It had struck him as long ago as last spring that
he ought to be finding a good match for Nastasia; for instance, some
respectable and reasonable young fellow serving in a government office
in another part of the country. How maliciously Nastasia laughed at the
idea of such a thing, now!

However, it appeared to Totski that he might make use of her in another
way; and he determined to establish her in St. Petersburg, surrounding
her with all the comforts and luxuries that his wealth could command.
In this way he might gain glory in certain circles.

Five years of this Petersburg life went by, and, of course, during that
time a great deal happened. Totski’s position was very uncomfortable;
having “funked” once, he could not totally regain his ease. He was
afraid, he did not know why, but he was simply afraid of Nastasia
Philipovna. For the first two years or so he had suspected that she
wished to marry him herself, and that only her vanity prevented her
telling him so. He thought that she wanted him to approach her with a
humble proposal from his own side. But to his great, and not entirely
pleasurable amazement, he discovered that this was by no means the
case, and that were he to offer himself he would be refused. He could
not understand such a state of things, and was obliged to conclude that
it was pride, the pride of an injured and imaginative woman, which had
gone to such lengths that it preferred to sit and nurse its contempt
and hatred in solitude rather than mount to heights of hitherto
unattainable splendour. To make matters worse, she was quite impervious
to mercenary considerations, and could not be bribed in any way.

Finally, Totski took cunning means to try to break his chains and be
free. He tried to tempt her in various ways to lose her heart; he
invited princes, hussars, secretaries of embassies, poets, novelists,
even Socialists, to see her; but not one of them all made the faintest
impression upon Nastasia. It was as though she had a pebble in place of
a heart, as though her feelings and affections were dried up and
withered for ever.

She lived almost entirely alone; she read, she studied, she loved
music. Her principal acquaintances were poor women of various grades, a
couple of actresses, and the family of a poor schoolteacher. Among
these people she was much beloved.

She received four or five friends sometimes, of an evening. Totski
often came. Lately, too, General Epanchin had been enabled with great
difficulty to introduce himself into her circle. Gania made her
acquaintance also, and others were Ferdishenko, an ill-bred, and
would-be witty, young clerk, and Ptitsin, a money-lender of modest and
polished manners, who had risen from poverty. In fact, Nastasia
Philipovna’s beauty became a thing known to all the town; but not a
single man could boast of anything more than his own admiration for
her; and this reputation of hers, and her wit and culture and grace,
all confirmed Totski in the plan he had now prepared.

And it was at this moment that General Epanchin began to play so large
and important a part in the story.

When Totski had approached the general with his request for friendly
counsel as to a marriage with one of his daughters, he had made a full
and candid confession. He had said that he intended to stop at no means
to obtain his freedom; even if Nastasia were to promise to leave him
entirely alone in future, he would not (he said) believe and trust her;
words were not enough for him; he must have solid guarantees of some
sort. So he and the general determined to try what an attempt to appeal
to her heart would effect. Having arrived at Nastasia’s house one day,
with Epanchin, Totski immediately began to speak of the intolerable
torment of his position. He admitted that he was to blame for all, but
candidly confessed that he could not bring himself to feel any remorse
for his original guilt towards herself, because he was a man of sensual
passions which were inborn and ineradicable, and that he had no power
over himself in this respect; but that he wished, seriously, to marry
at last, and that the whole fate of the most desirable social union
which he contemplated, was in her hands; in a word, he confided his all
to her generosity of heart.

General Epanchin took up his part and spoke in the character of father
of a family; he spoke sensibly, and without wasting words over any
attempt at sentimentality, he merely recorded his full admission of her
right to be the arbiter of Totski’s destiny at this moment. He then
pointed out that the fate of his daughter, and very likely of both his
other daughters, now hung upon her reply.

To Nastasia’s question as to what they wished her to do, Totski
confessed that he had been so frightened by her, five years ago, that
he could never now be entirely comfortable until she herself married.
He immediately added that such a suggestion from him would, of course,
be absurd, unless accompanied by remarks of a more pointed nature. He
very well knew, he said, that a certain young gentleman of good family,
namely, Gavrila Ardalionovitch Ivolgin, with whom she was acquainted,
and whom she received at her house, had long loved her passionately,
and would give his life for some response from her. The young fellow
had confessed this love of his to him (Totski) and had also admitted it
in the hearing of his benefactor, General Epanchin. Lastly, he could
not help being of opinion that Nastasia must be aware of Gania’s love
for her, and if he (Totski) mistook not, she had looked with some
favour upon it, being often lonely, and rather tired of her present
life. Having remarked how difficult it was for him, of all people, to
speak to her of these matters, Totski concluded by saying that he
trusted Nastasia Philipovna would not look with contempt upon him if he
now expressed his sincere desire to guarantee her future by a gift of
seventy-five thousand roubles. He added that the sum would have been
left her all the same in his will, and that therefore she must not
consider the gift as in any way an indemnification to her for anything,
but that there was no reason, after all, why a man should not be
allowed to entertain a natural desire to lighten his conscience, etc.,
etc.; in fact, all that would naturally be said under the
circumstances. Totski was very eloquent all through, and, in
conclusion, just touched on the fact that not a soul in the world, not
even General Epanchin, had ever heard a word about the above
seventy-five thousand roubles, and that this was the first time he had
ever given expression to his intentions in respect to them.

Nastasia Philipovna’s reply to this long rigmarole astonished both the
friends considerably.

Not only was there no trace of her former irony, of her old hatred and
enmity, and of that dreadful laughter, the very recollection of which
sent a cold chill down Totski’s back to this very day; but she seemed
charmed and really glad to have the opportunity of talking seriously
with him for once in a way. She confessed that she had long wished to
have a frank and free conversation and to ask for friendly advice, but
that pride had hitherto prevented her; now, however, that the ice was
broken, nothing could be more welcome to her than this opportunity.

First, with a sad smile, and then with a twinkle of merriment in her
eyes, she admitted that such a storm as that of five years ago was now
quite out of the question. She said that she had long since changed her
views of things, and recognized that facts must be taken into
consideration in spite of the feelings of the heart. What was done was
done and ended, and she could not understand why Totski should still
feel alarmed.

She next turned to General Epanchin and observed, most courteously,
that she had long since known of his daughters, and that she had heard
none but good report; that she had learned to think of them with deep
and sincere respect. The idea alone that she could in any way serve
them, would be to her both a pride and a source of real happiness.

It was true that she was lonely in her present life; Totski had judged
her thoughts aright. She longed to rise, if not to love, at least to
family life and new hopes and objects, but as to Gavrila
Ardalionovitch, she could not as yet say much. She thought it must be
the case that he loved her; she felt that she too might learn to love
him, if she could be sure of the firmness of his attachment to herself;
but he was very young, and it was a difficult question to decide. What
she specially liked about him was that he worked, and supported his
family by his toil.

She had heard that he was proud and ambitious; she had heard much that
was interesting of his mother and sister, she had heard of them from
Mr. Ptitsin, and would much like to make their acquaintance,
but—another question!—would they like to receive her into their house?
At all events, though she did not reject the idea of this marriage, she
desired not to be hurried. As for the seventy-five thousand roubles,
Mr. Totski need not have found any difficulty or awkwardness about the
matter; she quite understood the value of money, and would, of course,
accept the gift. She thanked him for his delicacy, however, but saw no
reason why Gavrila Ardalionovitch should not know about it.

She would not marry the latter, she said, until she felt persuaded that
neither on his part nor on the part of his family did there exist any
sort of concealed suspicions as to herself. She did not intend to ask
forgiveness for anything in the past, which fact she desired to be
known. She did not consider herself to blame for anything that had
happened in former years, and she thought that Gavrila Ardalionovitch
should be informed as to the relations which had existed between
herself and Totski during the last five years. If she accepted this
money it was not to be considered as indemnification for her misfortune
as a young girl, which had not been in any degree her own fault, but
merely as compensation for her ruined life.

She became so excited and agitated during all these explanations and
confessions that General Epanchin was highly gratified, and considered
the matter satisfactorily arranged once for all. But the once bitten
Totski was twice shy, and looked for hidden snakes among the flowers.
However, the special point to which the two friends particularly
trusted to bring about their object (namely, Gania’s attractiveness for
Nastasia Philipovna), stood out more and more prominently; the
pourparlers had commenced, and gradually even Totski began to believe
in the possibility of success.

Before long Nastasia and Gania had talked the matter over. Very little
was said—her modesty seemed to suffer under the infliction of
discussing such a question. But she recognized his love, on the
understanding that she bound herself to nothing whatever, and that she
reserved the right to say “no” up to the very hour of the marriage
ceremony. Gania was to have the same right of refusal at the last
moment.

It soon became clear to Gania, after scenes of wrath and quarrellings
at the domestic hearth, that his family were seriously opposed to the
match, and that Nastasia was aware of this fact was equally evident.
She said nothing about it, though he daily expected her to do so.

There were several rumours afloat, before long, which upset Totski’s
equanimity a good deal, but we will not now stop to describe them;
merely mentioning an instance or two. One was that Nastasia had entered
into close and secret relations with the Epanchin girls—a most unlikely
rumour; another was that Nastasia had long satisfied herself of the
fact that Gania was merely marrying her for money, and that his nature
was gloomy and greedy, impatient and selfish, to an extraordinary
degree; and that although he had been keen enough in his desire to
achieve a conquest before, yet since the two friends had agreed to
exploit his passion for their own purposes, it was clear enough that he
had begun to consider the whole thing a nuisance and a nightmare.

In his heart passion and hate seemed to hold divided sway, and although
he had at last given his consent to marry the woman (as he said), under
the stress of circumstances, yet he promised himself that he would
“take it out of her,” after marriage.

Nastasia seemed to Totski to have divined all this, and to be preparing
something on her own account, which frightened him to such an extent
that he did not dare communicate his views even to the general. But at
times he would pluck up his courage and be full of hope and good
spirits again, acting, in fact, as weak men do act in such
circumstances.

However, both the friends felt that the thing looked rosy indeed when
one day Nastasia informed them that she would give her final answer on
the evening of her birthday, which anniversary was due in a very short
time.

A strange rumour began to circulate, meanwhile; no less than that the
respectable and highly respected General Epanchin was himself so
fascinated by Nastasia Philipovna that his feeling for her amounted
almost to passion. What he thought to gain by Gania’s marriage to the
girl it was difficult to imagine. Possibly he counted on Gania’s
complaisance; for Totski had long suspected that there existed some
secret understanding between the general and his secretary. At all
events the fact was known that he had prepared a magnificent present of
pearls for Nastasia’s birthday, and that he was looking forward to the
occasion when he should present his gift with the greatest excitement
and impatience. The day before her birthday he was in a fever of
agitation.

Mrs. Epanchin, long accustomed to her husband’s infidelities, had heard
of the pearls, and the rumour excited her liveliest curiosity and
interest. The general remarked her suspicions, and felt that a grand
explanation must shortly take place—which fact alarmed him much.

This is the reason why he was so unwilling to take lunch (on the
morning upon which we took up this narrative) with the rest of his
family. Before the prince’s arrival he had made up his mind to plead
business, and “cut” the meal; which simply meant running away.

He was particularly anxious that this one day should be
passed—especially the evening—without unpleasantness between himself
and his family; and just at the right moment the prince turned up—“as
though Heaven had sent him on purpose,” said the general to himself, as
he left the study to seek out the wife of his bosom.