ordinary affairs of life.
We said at the beginning of our story, that the
Epanchins were liked and esteemed by their neighbours.
In spite of his humble origin, Ivan Fedorovitch himself
was received everywhere with respect. He deserved this,
partly on account of his wealth and position, partly
because, though limited, he was really a very good fellow.
But a certain limitation of mind seems to be an
indispensable asset, if not to all public personages, at least
to all serious financiers. Added to this, his manner was
modest and unassuming; he knew when to be silent, yet
never allowed himself to be trampled upon. Also—and
this was more important than all— he had the advantage
of being under exalted patronage.
As to Lizabetha Prokofievna, she, as the reader knows,
belonged to an aristocratic family. True, Russians think
more of influential friends than of birth, but she had both. The Idiot
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She was esteemed and even loved by people of
consequence in society, whose example in receiving her
was therefore followed by others. It seems hardly necessary
to remark that her family worries and anxieties had little or
no foundation, or that her imagination increased them to
an absurd degree; but if you have a wart on your forehead
or nose, you imagine that all the world is looking at it, and
that people would make fun of you because of it, even if
you had discovered America! Doubtless Lizabetha
Prokofievna was considered ‘eccentric’ in society, but she
was none the less esteemed: the pity was that she was
ceasing to believe in that esteem. When she thought of
her daughters, she said to herself sorrowfully that she was a
hindrance rather than a help to their future, that her
character and temper were absurd, ridiculous,
insupportable. Naturally, she put the blame on her
surroundings, and from morning to night was quarrelling
with her husband and children, whom she really loved to
the point of self-sacrifice, even, one might say, of passion.
She was, above all distressed by the idea that her
daughters might grow up ‘eccentric,’ like herself; she
believed that no other society girls were like them. ‘They
are growing into Nihilists!’ she repeated over and over The Idiot
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again. For years she had tormented herself with this idea,
and with the question: ‘Why don’t they get married?’
‘It is to annoy their mother; that is their one aim in life;
it can be nothing else. The fact is it is all of a piece with
these modern ideas, that wretched woman’s question! Six
months ago Aglaya took a fancy to cut off her magnificent
hair. Why, even I, when I was young, had nothing like it!
The scissors were in her hand, and I had to go down on
my knees and implore her... She did it, I know, from
sheer mischief, to spite her mother, for she is a naughty,
capricious girl, a real spoiled child spiteful and mischievous
to a degree! And then Alexandra wanted to shave her
head, not from caprice or mischief, but, like a little fool,
simply because Aglaya persuaded her she would sleep
better without her hair, and not suffer from headache!
And how many suitors have they not had during the last
five years! Excellent offers, too! What more do they want?
Why don’t they get married? For no other reason than to
vex their mother—none—none!’
But Lizabetha Prokofievna felt somewhat consoled
when she could say that one of her girls, Adelaida, was
settled at last. ‘It will be one off our hands!’ she declared
aloud, though in private she expressed herself with greater
tenderness. The engagement was both happy and suitable, The Idiot
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and was therefore approved in society. Prince S. was a
distinguished man, he had money, and his future wife was
devoted to him; what more could be desired? Lizabetha
Prokofievna had felt less anxious about this daughter,
however, although she considered her artistic tastes
suspicious. But to make up for them she was, as her
mother expressed it, ‘merry,’ and had plenty of ‘common-
sense.’ It was Aglaya’s future which disturbed her most.
With regard to her eldest daughter, Alexandra, the mother
never quite knew whether there was cause for anxiety or
not. Sometimes she felt as if there was nothing to be
expected from her. She was twenty-five now, and must be
fated to be an old maid, and ‘with such beauty, too!’ The
mother spent whole nights in weeping and lamenting,
while all the time the cause of her grief slumbered
peacefully. ‘What is the matter with her? Is she a Nihilist,
or simply a fool?’
But Lizabetha Prokofievna knew perfectly well how
unnecessary was the last question. She set a high value on
Alexandra Ivanovna’s judgment, and often consulted her
in difficulties; but that she was a ‘wet hen’ she never for a
moment doubted. ‘She is so calm; nothing rouses her—
though wet hens are not always calm! Oh! I can’t
understand it!’ Her eldest daughter inspired Lizabetha with The Idiot
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a kind of puzzled compassion. She did not feel this in
Aglaya’s case, though the latter was her idol. It may be said
that these outbursts and epithets, such as ‘wet hen ‘(in
which the maternal solicitude usually showed itself), only
made Alexandra laugh. Sometimes the most trivial thing
annoyed Mrs. Epanchin, and drove her into a frenzy. For
instance, Alexandra Ivanovna liked to sleep late, and was
always dreaming, though her dreams had the peculiarity of
being as innocent and naive as those of a child of seven;
and the very innocence of her dreams annoyed her
mother. Once she dreamt of nine hens, and this was the
cause of quite a serious quarrel—no one knew why.
Another time she had—it was most unusual—a dream
with a spark of originality in it. She dreamt of a monk in a
dark room, into which she was too frightened to go.
Adelaida and Aglaya rushed off with shrieks of laughter to
relate this to their mother, but she was quite angry, and
said her daughters were all fools.
‘H’m! she is as stupid as a fool! A veritable ‘wet hen’!
Nothing excites her; and yet she is not happy; some days it
makes one miserable only to look at her! Why is she
unhappy, I wonder?’ At times Lizabetha Prokofievna put
this question to her husband, and as usual she spoke in the
threatening tone of one who demands an immediate The Idiot
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answer. Ivan Fedorovitch would frown, shrug his
shoulders, and at last give his opinion: ‘She needs a
husband!’
‘God forbid that he should share your ideas, Ivan
Fedorovitch!’ his wife flashed back. ‘Or that he should be
as gross and churlish as you!’
The general promptly made his escape, and Lizabetha
Prokofievna after a while grew calm again. That evening,
of course, she would be unusually attentive, gentle, and
respectful to her ‘gross and churlish’ husband, her ‘dear,
kind Ivan Fedorovitch,’ for she had never left off loving
him. She was even still ‘in love’ with him. He knew it
well, and for his part held her in the greatest esteem.
But the mother’s great and continual anxiety was
Aglaya. ‘She is exactly like me—my image in everything,’
said Mrs. Epanchin to herself. ‘A tyrant! A real little
demon! A Nihilist! Eccentric, senseless and mischievous!
Good Lord, how unhappy she will be!’
But as we said before, the fact of Adelaida’s
approaching marriage was balm to the mother. For a
whole month she forgot her fears and worries.
Adelaida’s fate was settled; and with her name that of
Aglaya’s was linked, in society gossip. People whispered
that Aglaya, too, was ‘as good as engaged;’ and Aglaya The Idiot
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always looked so sweet and behaved so well (during this
period), that the mother’s heart was full of joy. Of course,
Evgenie Pavlovitch must be thoroughly studied first,
before the final step should be taken; but, really, how
lovely dear Aglaya had become—she actually grew more
beautiful every day! And then—Yes, and then—this
abominable prince showed his face again, and everything
went topsy-turvy at once, and everyone seemed as mad as
March hares.
What had really happened?
If it had been any other family than the Epanchins’,
nothing particular would have happened. But, thanks to
Mrs. Epanchin’s invariable fussiness and anxiety, there
could not be the slightest hitch in the simplest matters of
everyday life, but she immediately foresaw the most
dreadful and alarming consequences, and suffered
accordingly.
What then must have been her condition, when,
among all the imaginary anxieties and calamities which so
constantly beset her, she now saw looming ahead a serious
cause for annoyance— something really likely to arouse
doubts and suspicions!
‘How dared they, how DARED they write that hateful
anonymous letter informing me that Aglaya is in The Idiot
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communication with Nastasia Philipovna?’ she thought, as
she dragged the prince along towards her own house, and
again when she sat him down at the round table where the
family was already assembled. ‘How dared they so much as
THINK of such a thing? I should DIE with shame if I
thought there was a particle of truth in it, or if I were to
show the letter to Aglaya herself! Who dares play these
jokes upon US, the Epanchins? WHY didn’t we go to the
Yelagin instead of coming down here? I TOLD you we
had better go to the Yelagin this summer, Ivan
Fedorovitch. It’s all your fault. I dare say it was that Varia
who sent the letter. It’s all Ivan Fedorovitch. THAT
woman is doing it all for him, I know she is, to show she
can make a fool of him now just as she did when he used
to give her pearls.
‘But after all is said, we are mixed up in it. Your
daughters are mixed up in it, Ivan Fedorovitch; young
ladies in society, young ladies at an age to be married; they
were present, they heard everything there was to hear.
They were mixed up with that other scene, too, with
those dreadful youths. You must be pleased to remember
they heard it all. I cannot forgive that wretched prince. I
never shall forgive him! And why, if you please, has
Aglaya had an attack of nerves for these last three days? The Idiot
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Why has she all but quarrelled with her sisters, even with
Alexandra— whom she respects so much that she always
kisses her hands as though she were her mother? What are
all these riddles of hers that we have to guess? What has
Gavrila Ardalionovitch to do with it? Why did she take
upon herself to champion him this morning, and burst
into tears over it? Why is there an allusion to that cursed
‘poor knight’ in the anonymous letter? And why did I
rush off to him just now like a lunatic, and drag him back
here? I do believe I’ve gone mad at last. What on earth
have I done now? To talk to a young man about my
daughter’s secrets—and secrets having to do with himself,
too! Thank goodness, he’s an idiot, and a friend of the
house! Surely Aglaya hasn’t fallen in love with such a
gaby! What an idea! Pfu! we ought all to be put under
glass cases—myself first of all—and be shown off as
curiosities, at ten copecks a peep!’
‘I shall never forgive you for all this, Ivan
Fedorovitch—never! Look at her now. Why doesn’t she
make fun of him? She said she would, and she doesn’t.
Look there! She stares at him with all her eyes, and doesn’t
move; and yet she told him not to come. He looks pale
enough; and that abominable chatterbox, Evgenie
Pavlovitch, monopolizes the whole of the conversation. The Idiot
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Nobody else can get a word in. I could soon find out all
about everything if I could only change the subject.’
The prince certainly was very pale. He sat at the table
and seemed to be feeling, by turns, sensations of alarm and
rapture.
Oh, how frightened he was of looking to one side—
one particular corner—whence he knew very well that a
pair of dark eyes were watching him intently, and how
happy he was to think that he was once more among
them, and occasionally hearing that well-known voice,
although she had written and forbidden him to come
again!
‘What on earth will she say to me, I wonder?’ he
thought to himself.
He had not said a word yet; he sat silent and listened to
Evgenie Pavlovitch’s eloquence. The latter had never
appeared so happy and excited as on this evening. The
prince listened to him, but for a long time did not take in
a word he said.
Excepting Ivan Fedorovitch, who had not as yet
returned from town, the whole family was present. Prince
S. was there; and they all intended to go out to hear the
band very soon. The Idiot
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Colia arrived presently and joined the circle. ‘So he is
received as usual, after all,’ thought the prince.
The Epanchins’ country-house was a charming
building, built after the model of a Swiss chalet, and
covered with creepers. It was surrounded on all sides by a
flower garden, and the family sat, as a rule, on the open
verandah as at the prince’s house.
The subject under discussion did not appear to be very
popular with the assembly, and some would have been
delighted to change it; but Evgenie would not stop
holding forth, and the prince’s arrival seemed to spur him
on to still further oratorical efforts.
Lizabetha Prokofievna frowned, but had not as yet
grasped the subject, which seemed to have arisen out of a
heated argument. Aglaya sat apart, almost in the corner,
listening in stubborn silence.
‘Excuse me,’ continued Evgenie Pavlovitch hotly, ‘I
don’t say a word against liberalism. Liberalism is not a sin,
it is a necessary part of a great whole, which whole would
collapse and fall to pieces without it. Liberalism has just as
much right to exist as has the most moral conservatism;
but I am attacking RUSSIAN liberalism; and I attack it for
