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The Idiot
Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Translated by Eva Martin
Part I The Idiot
I
Towards the end of November, during a thaw, at nine
o’clock one morning, a train on the Warsaw and
Petersburg railway was approaching the latter city at full
speed. The morning was so damp and misty that it was
only with great difficulty that the day succeeded in
breaking; and it was impossible to distinguish anything
more than a few yards away from the carriage windows.
Some of the passengers by this particular train were
returning from abroad; but the third-class carriages were
the best filled, chiefly with insignificant persons of various
occupations and degrees, picked up at the different stations
nearer town. All of them seemed weary, and most of them
had sleepy eyes and a shivering expression, while their
complexions generally appeared to have taken on the
colour of the fog outside.
When day dawned, two passengers in one of the third-
class carriages found themselves opposite each other. Both
were young fellows, both were rather poorly dressed, both
had remarkable faces, and both were evidently anxious to
start a conversation. If they had but known why, at this
particular moment, they were both remarkable persons,
they would undoubtedly have wondered at the strange The Idiot
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chance which had set them down opposite to one another
in a third-class carriage of the Warsaw Railway Company.
One of them was a young fellow of about twenty-
seven, not tall, with black curling hair, and small, grey,
fiery eyes. His nose was broad and flat, and he had high
cheek bones; his thin lips were constantly compressed into
an impudent, ironical—it might almost be called a
malicious—smile; but his forehead was high and well
formed, and atoned for a good deal of the ugliness of the
lower part of his face. A special feature of this
physiognomy was its death-like pallor, which gave to the
whole man an indescribably emaciated appearance in spite
of his hard look, and at the same time a sort of passionate
and suffering expression which did not harmonize with his
impudent, sarcastic smile and keen, self-satisfied bearing.
He wore a large fur—or rather astrachan—overcoat,
which had kept him warm all night, while his neighbour
had been obliged to bear the full severity of a Russian
November night entirely unprepared. His wide sleeveless
mantle with a large cape to it—the sort of cloak one sees
upon travellers during the winter months in Switzerland
or North Italy—was by no means adapted to the long cold
journey through Russia, from Eydkuhnen to St.
Petersburg. The Idiot
5 of 1149
The wearer of this cloak was a young fellow, also of
about twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age, slightly
above the middle height, very fair, with a thin, pointed
and very light coloured beard; his eyes were large and
blue, and had an intent look about them, yet that heavy
expression which some people affirm to be a peculiarity. as
well as evidence, of an epileptic subject. His face was
decidedly a pleasant one for all that; refined, but quite
colourless, except for the circumstance that at this moment
it was blue with cold. He held a bundle made up of an old
faded silk handkerchief that apparently contained all his
travelling wardrobe, and wore thick shoes and gaiters, his
whole appearance being very un-Russian.
His black-haired neighbour inspected these
peculiarities, having nothing better to do, and at length
remarked, with that rude enjoyment of the discomforts of
others which the common classes so often show:
‘Cold?’
‘Very,’ said his neighbour, readily. ‘and this is a thaw,
too. Fancy if it had been a hard frost! I never thought it
would be so cold in the old country. I’ve grown quite out
of the way of it.’
‘What, been abroad, I suppose?’
‘Yes, straight from Switzerland.’ The Idiot
6 of 1149
‘Wheugh! my goodness!’ The black-haired young
fellow whistled, and then laughed.
The conversation proceeded. The readiness of the fair-
haired young man in the cloak to answer all his opposite
neighbour’s questions was surprising. He seemed to have
no suspicion of any impertinence or inappropriateness in
the fact of such questions being put to him. Replying to
them, he made known to the inquirer that he certainly
had been long absent from Russia, more than four years;
that he had been sent abroad for his health; that he had
suffered from some strange nervous malady—a kind of
epilepsy, with convulsive spasms. His interlocutor burst
out laughing several times at his answers; and more than
ever, when to the question, ‘ whether he had been cured?’
the patient replied:
‘No, they did not cure me.’
‘Hey! that’s it! You stumped up your money for
nothing, and we believe in those fellows, here!’ remarked
the black-haired individual, sarcastically.
‘Gospel truth, sir, Gospel truth!’ exclaimed another
passenger, a shabbily dressed man of about forty, who
looked like a clerk, and possessed a red nose and a very
blotchy face. ‘Gospel truth! All they do is to get hold of
our good Russian money free, gratis, and for nothing. ‘ The Idiot
7 of 1149
‘Oh, but you’re quite wrong in my particular instance,’
said the Swiss patient, quietly. ‘Of course I can’t argue the
matter, because I know only my own case; but my doctor
gave me money—and he had very little—to pay my
journey back, besides having kept me at his own expense,
while there, for nearly two years.’
‘Why? Was there no one else to pay for you?’ asked the
black- haired one.
‘No—Mr. Pavlicheff, who had been supporting me
there, died a couple of years ago. I wrote to Mrs. General
Epanchin at the time (she is a distant relative of mine), but
she did not answer my letter. And so eventually I came
back.’
‘And where have you come to?’
‘That is—where am I going to stay? I—I really don’t
quite know yet, I—‘
Both the listeners laughed again.
‘I suppose your whole set-up is in that bundle, then?’
asked the first.
‘I bet anything it is!’ exclaimed the red-nosed
passenger, with extreme satisfaction, ‘and that he has
precious little in the luggage van!—though of course
poverty is no crime—we must remember that!’ The Idiot
8 of 1149
It appeared that it was indeed as they had surmised.
The young fellow hastened to admit the fact with
wonderful readiness.
‘Your bundle has some importance, however,’
continued the clerk, when they had laughed their fill (it
was observable that the subject of their mirth joined in the
laughter when he saw them laughing); ‘for though I dare
say it is not stuffed full of friedrichs d’or and louis d’or—
judge from your costume and gaiters—still—if you can
add to your possessions such a valuable property as a
relation like Mrs. General Epanchin, then your bundle
becomes a significant object at once. That is, of course, if
you really are a relative of Mrs. Epanchin’s, and have not
made a little error through—well, absence of mind, which
is very common to human beings; or, say—through a too
luxuriant fancy?’
‘Oh, you are right again,’ said the fair-haired traveller,
‘for I really am ALMOST wrong when I say she and I are
related. She is hardly a relation at all; so little, in fact, that I
was not in the least surprised to have no answer to my
letter. I expected as much.’
‘H’m! you spent your postage for nothing, then. H’m!
you are candid, however—and that is commendable. H’m!
Mrs. Epanchin—oh yes! a most eminent person. I know The Idiot
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her. As for Mr. Pavlicheff, who supported you in
Switzerland, I know him too—at least, if it was Nicolai
Andreevitch of that name? A fine fellow he was—and had
a property of four thousand souls in his day.’
‘Yes, Nicolai Andreevitch—that was his name,’ and the
young fellow looked earnestly and with curiosity at the
all-knowing gentleman with the red nose.
This sort of character is met with pretty frequently in a
certain class. They are people who know everyone—that
is, they know where a man is employed, what his salary is,
whom he knows, whom he married, what money his wife
had, who are his cousins, and second cousins, etc., etc.
These men generally have about a hundred pounds a year
to live on, and they spend their whole time and talents in
the amassing of this style of knowledge, which they
reduce—or raise—to the standard of a science.
During the latter part of the conversation the black-
haired young man had become very impatient. He stared
out of the window, and fidgeted, and evidently longed for
the end of the journey. He was very absent; he would
appear to listen-and heard nothing; and he would laugh of
a sudden, evidently with no idea of what he was laughing
about. The Idiot
10 of 1149
‘Excuse me,’ said the red-nosed man to the young
fellow with the bundle, rather suddenly; ‘whom have I the
honour to be talking to?’
‘Prince Lef Nicolaievitch Muishkin,’ replied the latter,
with perfect readiness.
‘Prince Muishkin? Lef Nicolaievitch? H’m! I don’t
know, I’m sure! I may say I have never heard of such a
person,’ said the clerk, thoughtfully. ‘At least, the name, I
admit, is historical. Karamsin must mention the family
name, of course, in his historybut as an individual—one
never hears of any Prince Muishkin nowadays.’
‘Of course not,’ replied the prince; ‘there are none,
except myself. I believe I am the last and only one. As to
my forefathers, they have always been a poor lot; my own
father was a sublieutenant in the army. I don’t know how
Mrs. Epanchin comes into the Muishkin family, but she is
descended from the Princess Muishkin, and she, too, is the
last of her line.’
‘And did you learn science and all that, with your
professor over there?’ asked the black-haired passenger.
‘Oh yes—I did learn a little, but—‘
‘I’ve never learned anything whatever,’ said the other. The Idiot
11 of 1149
‘Oh, but I learned very little, you know!’ added the
prince, as though excusing himself. ‘They could not teach
me very much on account of my illness. ‘
‘Do you know the Rogojins?’ asked his questioner,
abruptly.
‘No, I don’t—not at all! I hardly know anyone in
Russia. Why, is that your name?’
‘Yes, I am Rogojin, Parfen Rogojin.’
‘Parfen Rogojin? dear me—then don’t you belong to
those very Rogojins, perhaps—’ began the clerk, with a
very perceptible increase of civility in his tone.
‘Yes—those very ones,’ interrupted Rogojin,
impatiently, and with scant courtesy. I may remark that he
had not once taken any notice of the blotchy-faced
passenger, and had hitherto addressed all his remarks direct
to the prince.
‘Dear me—is it possible?’ observed the clerk, while his
face assumed an expression of great deference and
servility—if not of absolute alarm: ‘what, a son of that very
Semen Rogojin— hereditary honourable citizen—who
died a month or so ago and left two million and a half of
roubles?’
‘And how do YOU know that he left two million and
a half of roubles?’ asked Rogojin, disdainfully, and no The Idiot
12 of 1149
deigning so much as to look at the other. ‘However, it’s
true enough that my father died a month ago, and that
here am I returning from Pskoff, a month after, with
hardly a boot to my foot. They’ve treated me like a dog!
I’ve been ill of fever at Pskoff the whole time, and not a
line, nor farthing of money, have I received from my
mother or my confounded brother!’
‘And now you’ll have a million roubles, at least—
goodness gracious me!’ exclaimed the clerk, rubbing his
hands.
‘Five weeks since, I was just like yourself,’ continued
Rogojin, addressing the prince, ‘with nothing but a
bundle and the clothes I wore. I ran away from my father
and came to Pskoff to my aunt’s house, where I caved in
at once with fever, and he went and died while I was
away. All honour to my respected father’s memory—but
he uncommonly nearly killed me, all the same. Give you
my word, prince, if I hadn’t cut and run then, when I did,
he’d have murdered me like a dog.’
‘I suppose you angered him somehow?’ asked the
prince, looking at the millionaire with considerable
curiosity But though there may have been something
remarkable in the fact that this man was heir to millions of
roubles there was something about him which surprised The Idiot
13 of 1149
and interested the prince more than that. Rogojin, too,
seemed to have taken up the conversation with unusual
alacrity it appeared that he was still in a considerable state
of excitement, if not absolutely feverish, and was in real
need of someone to talk to for the mere sake of talking, as
safety-valve to his agitation.
As for his red-nosed neighbour, the latter—since the
information as to the identity of Rogojin—hung over
him, seemed to be living on the honey of his words and in
the breath of his nostrils, catching at every syllable as
though it were a pearl of great price.
‘Oh, yes; I angered him—I certainly did anger him,’
replied Rogojin. ‘But what puts me out so is my brother.
Of course my mother couldn’t do anything—she’s too
old—and whatever brother Senka says is law for her! But
why couldn’t he let me know? He sent a telegram, they
say. What’s the good of a telegram? It frightened my aunt
so that she sent it back to the office unopened, and there
it’s been ever since! It’s only thanks to Konief that I heard
at all; he wrote me all about it. He says my brother cut off
the gold tassels from my father’s coffin, at night because
they’re worth a lot of money!’ says he. Why, I can get him
sent off to Siberia for that alone, if I like; it’s sacrilege. The Idiot
14 of 1149
