is he to be killed because he murdered some one else? No,
it is not right, it’s an impossible theory. I assure you, I saw
the sight a month ago and it’s dancing before my eyes to
this moment. I dream of it, often.’
The prince had grown animated as he spoke, and a
tinge of colour suffused his pale face, though his way of
talking was as quiet as ever. The servant followed his
words with sympathetic interest. Clearly he was not at all The Idiot
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anxious to bring the conversation to an end. Who knows?
Perhaps he too was a man of imagination and with some
capacity for thought.
‘Well, at all events it is a good thing that there’s no pain
when the poor fellow’s head flies off,’ he remarked.
‘Do you know, though,’ cried the prince warmly, ‘you
made that remark now, and everyone says the same thing,
and the machine is designed with the purpose of avoiding
pain, this guillotine I mean; but a thought came into my
head then: what if it be a bad plan after all? You may
laugh at my idea, perhaps—but I could not help its
occurring to me all the same. Now with the rack and
tortures and so on—you suffer terrible pain of course; but
then your torture is bodily pain only (although no doubt
you have plenty of that) until you die. But HERE I
should imagine the most terrible part of the whole
punishment is, not the bodily pain at all—but the certain
knowledge that in an hour,—then in ten minutes, then in
half a minute, then now—this very INSTANT—your
soul must quit your body and that you will no longer be a
man— and that this is certain, CERTAIN! That’s the
point—the certainty of it. Just that instant when you place
your head on the block and hear the iron grate over your The Idiot
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head—then—that quarter of a second is the most awful of
all.
‘This is not my own fantastical opinion—many people
have thought the same; but I feel it so deeply that I’ll tell
you what I think. I believe that to execute a man for
murder is to punish him immeasurably more dreadfully
than is equivalent to his crime. A murder by sentence is far
more dreadful than a murder committed by a criminal.
The man who is attacked by robbers at night, in a dark
wood, or anywhere, undoubtedly hopes and hopes that he
may yet escape until the very moment of his death. There
are plenty of instances of a man running away, or
imploring for mercy—at all events hoping on in some
degree—even after his throat was cut. But in the case of
an execution, that last hope—having which it is so
immeasurably less dreadful to die,—is taken away from the
wretch and CERTAINTY substituted in its place! There
is his sentence, and with it that terrible certainty that he
cannot possibly escape death—which, I consider, must be
the most dreadful anguish in the world. You may place a
soldier before a cannon’s mouth in battle, and fire upon
him—and he will still hope. But read to that same soldier
his death-sentence, and he will either go mad or burst into
tears. Who dares to say that any man can suffer this The Idiot
39 of 1149
without going mad? No, no! it is an abuse, a shame, it is
unnecessary—why should such a thing exist? Doubtless
there may be men who have been sentenced, who have
suffered this mental anguish for a while and then have
been reprieved; perhaps such men may have been able to
relate their feelings afterwards. Our Lord Christ spoke of
this anguish and dread. No! no! no! No man should be
treated so, no man, no man!’
The servant, though of course he could not have
expressed all this as the prince did, still clearly entered into
it and was greatly conciliated, as was evident from the
increased amiability of his expression. ‘If you are really
very anxious for a smoke,’ he remarked, ‘I think it might
possibly be managed, if you are very quick about it. You
see they might come out and inquire for you, and you
wouldn’t be on the spot. You see that door there? Go in
there and you’ll find a little room on the right; you can
smoke there, only open the window, because I ought not
to allow it really, and—.’ But there was no time, after all.
A young fellow entered the ante-room at this moment,
with a bundle of papers in his hand. The footman hastened
to help him take off his overcoat. The new arrival glanced
at the prince out of the corners of his eyes. The Idiot
40 of 1149
‘This gentleman declares, Gavrila Ardalionovitch,’
began the man, confidentially and almost familiarly, ‘that
he is Prince Muishkin and a relative of Madame
Epanchin’s. He has just arrived from abroad, with nothing
but a bundle by way of luggage—.’
The prince did not hear the rest, because at this point
the servant continued his communication in a whisper.
Gavrila Ardalionovitch listened attentively, and gazed at
the prince with great curiosity. At last he motioned the
man aside and stepped hurriedly towards the prince.
‘Are you Prince Muishkin?’ he asked, with the greatest
courtesy and amiability.
He was a remarkably handsome young fellow of some
twenty-eight summers, fair and of middle height; he wore
a small beard, and his face was most intelligent. Yet his
smile, in spite of its sweetness, was a little thin, if I may so
call it, and showed his teeth too evenly; his gaze though
decidedly good-humoured and ingenuous, was a trifle too
inquisitive and intent to be altogether agreeable.
‘Probably when he is alone he looks quite different, and
hardly smiles at all!’ thought the prince.
He explained about himself in a few words, very much
the same as he had told the footman and Rogojin
beforehand. The Idiot
41 of 1149
Gavrila Ardalionovitch meanwhile seemed to be trying
to recall something.
‘Was it not you, then, who sent a letter a year or less
ago—from Switzerland, I think it was—to Elizabetha
Prokofievna (Mrs. Epanchin)?’
‘It was.’
‘Oh, then, of course they will remember who you are.
You wish to see the general? I’ll tell him at once—he will
be free in a minute; but you—you had better wait in the
ante-chamber,—hadn’t you? Why is he here?’ he added,
severely, to the man.
‘I tell you, sir, he wished it himself!’
At this moment the study door opened, and a military
man, with a portfolio under his arm, came out talking
loudly, and after bidding good-bye to someone inside,
took his departure.
‘You there, Gania? cried a voice from the study, ‘come
in here, will you?’
Gavrila Ardalionovitch nodded to the prince and
entered the room hastily.
A couple of minutes later the door opened again and
the affable voice of Gania cried:
‘Come in please, prince!’ The Idiot
42 of 1149
III
General Ivan Fedorovitch Epanchin was standing In the
middle of the room, and gazed with great curiosity at the
prince as he entered. He even advanced a couple of steps
to meet him.
The prince came forward and introduced himself.
‘Quite so,’ replied the general, ‘and what can I do for
you?’
‘Oh, I have no special business; my principal object was
to make your acquaintance. I should not like to disturb
you. I do not know your times and arrangements here,
you see, but I have only just arrived. I came straight from
the station. I am come direct from Switzerland.’
The general very nearly smiled, but thought better of it
and kept his smile back. Then he reflected, blinked his
eyes, stared at his guest once more from head to foot; then
abruptly motioned him to a chair, sat down himself, and
waited with some impatience for the prince to speak.
Gania stood at his table in the far corner of the room,
turning over papers. The Idiot
43 of 1149
‘I have not much time for making acquaintances, as a
rule,’ said the general, ‘but as, of course, you have your
object in coming, I—‘
‘I felt sure you would think I had some object in view
when I resolved to pay you this visit,’ the prince
interrupted; ‘but I give you my word, beyond the pleasure
of making your acquaintance I had no personal object
whatever.’
‘The pleasure is, of course, mutual; but life is not all
pleasure, as you are aware. There is such a thing as
business, and I really do not see what possible reason there
can be, or what we have in common to—‘
‘Oh, there is no reason, of course, and I suppose there
is nothing in common between us, or very little; for if I
am Prince Muishkin, and your wife happens to be a
member of my house, that can hardly be called a ‘reason.’
I quite understand that. And yet that was my whole
motive for coming. You see I have not been in Russia for
four years, and knew very little about anything when I
left. I had been very ill for a long time, and I feel now the
need of a few good friends. In fact, I have a certain
question upon which I much need advice, and do not
know whom to go to for it. I thought of your family
when I was passing through Berlin. ‘They are almost The Idiot
44 of 1149
relations,’ I said to myself,’ so I’ll begin with them;
perhaps we may get on with each other, I with them and
they with me, if they are kind people;’ and I have heard
that you are very kind people!’
‘Oh, thank you, thank you, I’m sure,’ replied the
general, considerably taken aback. ‘May I ask where you
have taken up your quarters?’
‘Nowhere, as yet.’
‘What, straight from the station to my house? And how
about your luggage?’
‘I only had a small bundle, containing linen, with me,
nothing more. I can carry it in my hand, easily. There will
be plenty of time to take a room in some hotel by the
evening.’
‘Oh, then you DO intend to take a room?’
‘Of course.’
‘To judge from your words, you came straight to my
house with the intention of staying there.’
‘That could only have been on your invitation. I
confess, however, that I should not have stayed here even
if you had invited me, not for any particular reason, but
because it is— well, contrary to my practice and nature,
somehow.’ The Idiot
45 of 1149
‘Oh, indeed! Then it is perhaps as well that I neither
DID invite you, nor DO invite you now. Excuse me,
prince, but we had better make this matter clear, once for
all. We have just agreed that with regard to our
relationship there is not much to be said, though, of
course, it would have been very delightful to us to feel
that such relationship did actually exist; therefore,
perhaps—‘
‘Therefore, perhaps I had better get up and go away?’
said the prince, laughing merrily as he rose from his place;
just as merrily as though the circumstances were by no
means strained or difficult. ‘And I give you my word,
general, that though I know nothing whatever of manners
and customs of society, and how people live and all that,
yet I felt quite sure that this visit of mine would end
exactly as it has ended now. Oh, well, I suppose it’s all
right; especially as my letter was not answered. Well,
good-bye, and forgive me for having disturbed you!’
The prince’s expression was so good-natured at this
moment, and so entirely free from even a suspicion of
unpleasant feeling was the smile with which he looked at
the general as he spoke, that the latter suddenly paused,
and appeared to gaze at his guest from quite a new point
of view, all in an instant. The Idiot
46 of 1149
‘Do you know, prince,’ he said, in quite a different
tone, ‘I do not know you at all, yet, and after all,
Elizabetha Prokofievna would very likely be pleased to
have a peep at a man of her own name. Wait a little, if
you don’t mind, and if you have time to spare?’
‘Oh, I assure you I’ve lots of time, my time is entirely
my own!’ And the prince immediately replaced his soft,
round hat on the table. ‘I confess, I thought Elizabetha
Prokofievna would very likely remember that I had
written her a letter. Just now your servant—outside
there—was dreadfully suspicious that I had come to beg of
you. I noticed that! Probably he has very strict instructions
on that score; but I assure you I did not come to beg. I
came to make some friends. But I am rather bothered at
having disturbed you; that’s all I care about.—‘
‘Look here, prince,’ said the general, with a cordial
smile, ‘if you really are the sort of man you appear to be, it
may be a source of great pleasure to us to make your
better acquaintance; but, you see, I am a very busy man,
and have to be perpetually sitting here and signing papers,
or off to see his excellency, or to my department, or
somewhere; so that though I should be glad to see more of
people, nice people—you see, I—however, I am sure you The Idiot
47 of 1149
are so well brought up that you will see at once, and—
but how old are you, prince?’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘No? I thought you very much younger.’
‘Yes, they say I have a ‘young’ face. As to disturbing
you I shall soon learn to avoid doing that, for I hate
disturbing people. Besides, you and I are so differently
constituted, I should think, that there must be very little in
common between us. Not that I will ever believe there is
NOTHING in common between any two people, as
some declare is the case. I am sure people make a great
mistake in sorting each other into groups, by appearances;
but I am boring you, I see, you—‘
‘Just two words: have you any means at all? Or perhaps
you may be intending to undertake some sort of
employment? Excuse my questioning you, but—‘
‘Oh, my dear sir, I esteem and understand your
kindness in putting the question. No; at present I have no
means whatever, and no employment either, but I hope to
find some. I was living on other people abroad. Schneider,
the professor who treated me and taught me, too, in
Switzerland, gave me just enough money for my journey,
so that now I have but a few copecks left. There certainly The Idiot
