still a boy, at that droll age when the stories of duels and
highwaymen begin to delight one, and when one imagines
oneself nobly standing fire at some future day, in a duel.
‘There were a couple of old bullets in the bag which
contained the pistol, and powder enough in an old flask
for two or three charges.
‘The pistol was a wretched thing, very crooked and
wouldn’t carry farther than fifteen paces at the most.
However, it would send your skull flying well enough if
you pressed the muzzle of it against your temple.
‘I determined to die at Pavlofsk at sunrise, in the
park—so as to make no commotion in the house.
‘This ‘explanation’ will make the matter clear enough
to the police. Students of psychology, and anyone else
who likes, may make what they please of it. I should not
like this paper, however, to be made public. I request the
prince to keep a copy himself, and to give a copy to
Aglaya Ivanovna Epanchin. This is my last will and
testament. As for my skeleton, I bequeath it to the
Medical Academy for the benefit of science. The Idiot
758 of 1149
‘I recognize no jurisdiction over myself, and I know
that I am now beyond the power of laws and judges.
‘A little while ago a very amusing idea struck me. What
if I were now to commit some terrible crime—murder ten
fellow-creatures, for instance, or anything else that is
thought most shocking and dreadful in this world—what a
dilemma my judges would be in, with a criminal who
only has a fortnight to live in any case, now that the rack
and other forms of torture are abolished! Why, I should
die comfortably in their own hospital—in a warm, clean
room, with an attentive doctor—probably much more
comfortably than I should at home.
‘I don’t understand why people in my position do not
oftener indulge in such ideas—if only for a joke! Perhaps
they do! Who knows! There are plenty of merry souls
among us!
‘But though I do not recognize any jurisdiction over
myself, still I know that I shall be judged, when I am
nothing but a voiceless lump of clay; therefore I do not
wish to go before I have left a word of reply—the reply of
a free man—not one forced to justify himself—oh no! I
have no need to ask forgiveness of anyone. I wish to say a
word merely because I happen to desire it of my own free
will. The Idiot
759 of 1149
‘Here, in the first place, comes a strange thought!
‘Who, in the name of what Law, would think of
disputing my full personal right over the fortnight of life
left to me? What jurisdiction can be brought to bear upon
the case? Who would wish me, not only to be sentenced,
but to endure the sentence to the end? Surely there exists
no man who would wish such a thing—why should
anyone desire it? For the sake of morality? Well, I can
understand that if I were to make an attempt upon my
own life while in the enjoyment of full health and
vigour—my life which might have been ‘useful,’ etc.,
etc.—morality might reproach me, according to the old
routine, for disposing of my life without permission—or
whatever its tenet may be. But now, NOW, when my
sentence is out and my days numbered! How can morality
have need of my last breaths, and why should I die
listening to the consolations offered by the prince, who,
without doubt, would not omit to demonstrate that death
is actually a benefactor to me? (Christians like him always
end up with that—it is their pet theory.) And what do
they want with their ridiculous ‘Pavlofsk trees’? To
sweeten my last hours? Cannot they understand that the
more I forget myself, the more I let myself become
attached to these last illusions of life and love, by means of The Idiot
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which they try to hide from me Meyer’s wall, and all that
is so plainly written on it—the more unhappy they make
me? What is the use of all your nature to me—all your
parks and trees, your sunsets and sunrises, your blue skies
and your self-satisfied faces—when all this wealth of
beauty and happiness begins with the fact that it accounts
me—only me—one too many! What is the good of all this
beauty and glory to me, when every second, every
moment, I cannot but be aware that this little fly which
buzzes around my head in the sun’s rays—even this little
fly is a sharer and participator in all the glory of the
universe, and knows its place and is happy in it;—while
I—only I, am an outcast, and have been blind to the fact
hitherto, thanks to my simplicity! Oh! I know well how
the prince and others would like me, instead of indulging
in all these wicked words of my own, to sing, to the glory
and triumph of morality, that well-known verse of
Gilbert’s:
‘‘0, puissent voir longtemps votre beaute sacree Tant
d’amis, sourds a mes adieux! Qu’ils meurent pleins de
jours, que leur mort soit pleuree, Qu’un ami leur ferme les
yeux!’
‘But believe me, believe me, my simple-hearted
friends, that in this highly moral verse, in this academical The Idiot
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blessing to the world in general in the French language, is
hidden the intensest gall and bitterness; but so well
concealed is the venom, that I dare say the poet actually
persuaded himself that his words were full of the tears of
pardon and peace, instead of the bitterness of
disappointment and malice, and so died in the delusion.
‘Do you know there is a limit of ignominy, beyond
which man’s consciousness of shame cannot go, and after
which begins satisfaction in shame? Well, of course
humility is a great force in that sense, I admit that—
though not in the sense in which religion accounts
humility to be strength!
‘Religion!—I admit eternal life—and perhaps I always
did admit it.
‘Admitted that consciousness is called into existence by
the will of a Higher Power; admitted that this
consciousness looks out upon the world and says ‘I am;’
and admitted that the Higher Power wills that the
consciousness so called into existence, be suddenly
extinguished (for so—for some unexplained reason—it is
and must be)—still there comes the eternal question—why
must I be humble through all this? Is it not enough that I
am devoured, without my being expected to bless the
power that devours me? Surely—surely I need not suppose The Idiot
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that Somebody—there—will be offended because I do not
wish to live out the fortnight allowed me? I don’t believe
it.
‘It is much simpler, and far more likely, to believe that
my death is needed—the death of an insignificant atom—
in order to fulfil the general harmony of the universe—in
order to make even some plus or minus in the sum of
existence. Just as every day the death of numbers of beings
is necessary because without their annihilation the rest
cannot live on—(although we must admit that the idea is
not a particularly grand one in itself!)
‘However—admit the fact! Admit that without such
perpetual devouring of one another the world cannot
continue to exist, or could never have been organized—I
am ever ready to confess that I cannot understand why this
is so—but I’ll tell you what I DO know, for certain. If I
have once been given to understand and realize that I
AM—what does it matter to me that the world is
organized on a system full of errors and that otherwise it
cannot be organized at all? Who will or can judge me after
this? Say what you like—the thing is impossible and
unjust! The Idiot
763 of 1149
‘And meanwhile I have never been able, in spite of my
great desire to do so, to persuade myself that there is no
future existence, and no Providence.
‘The fact of the matter is that all this DOES exist, but
that we know absolutely nothing about the future life and
its laws!
‘But it is so difficult, and even impossible to
understand, that surely I am not to be blamed because I
could not fathom the incomprehensible?
‘Of course I know they say that one must be obedient,
and of course, too, the prince is one of those who say so:
that one must be obedient without questions, out of pure
goodness of heart, and that for my worthy conduct in this
matter I shall meet with reward in another world. We
degrade God when we attribute our own ideas to Him,
out of annoyance that we cannot fathom His ways.
‘Again, I repeat, I cannot be blamed because I am
unable to understand that which it is not given to
mankind to fathom. Why am I to be judged because I
could not comprehend the Will and Laws of Providence?
No, we had better drop religion.
‘And enough of this. By the time I have got so far in
the reading of my document the sun will be up and the
huge force of his rays will be acting upon the living world. The Idiot
764 of 1149
So be it. I shall die gazing straight at the great Fountain of
life and power; I do not want this life!
‘If I had had the power to prevent my own birth I
should certainly never have consented to accept existence
under such ridiculous conditions. However, I have the
power to end my existence, although I do but give back
days that are already numbered. It is an insignificant gift,
and my revolt is equally insignificant.
‘Final explanation: I die, not in the least because I am
unable to support these next three weeks. Oh no, I should
find strength enough, and if I wished it I could obtain
consolation from the thought of the injury that is done
me. But I am not a French poet, and I do not desire such
consolation. And finally, nature has so limited my capacity
for work or activity of any kind, in allotting me but three
weeks of time, that suicide is about the only thing left that
I can begin and end in the time of my own free will.
‘Perhaps then I am anxious to take advantage of my last
chance of doing something for myself. A protest is
sometimes no small thing.’
The explanation was finished; Hippolyte paused at last.
There is, in extreme cases, a final stage of cynical
candour when a nervous man, excited, and beside himself
with emotion, will be afraid of nothing and ready for any The Idiot
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sort of scandal, nay, glad of it. The extraordinary, almost
unnatural, tension of the nerves which upheld Hippolyte
up to this point, had now arrived at this final stage. This
poor feeble boy of eighteen—exhausted by disease—
looked for all the world as weak and frail as a leaflet torn
from its parent tree and trembling in the breeze; but no
sooner had his eye swept over his audience, for the first
time during the whole of the last hour, than the most
contemptuous, the most haughty expression of repugnance
lighted up his face. He defied them all, as it were. But his
hearers were indignant, too; they rose to their feet with
annoyance. Fatigue, the wine consumed, the strain of
listening so long, all added to the disagreeable impression
which the reading had made upon them.
Suddenly Hippolyte jumped up as though he had been
shot.
‘The sun is rising,’ he cried, seeing the gilded tops of
the trees, and pointing to them as to a miracle. ‘See, it is
rising now!’
‘Well, what then? Did you suppose it wasn’t going to
rise?’ asked Ferdishenko.
‘It’s going to be atrociously hot again all day,’ said
Gania, with an air of annoyance, taking his hat. ‘A month
of this... Are you coming home, Ptitsin?’ Hippolyte The Idiot
766 of 1149
listened to this in amazement, almost amounting to
stupefaction. Suddenly he became deadly pale and
shuddered.
‘You manage your composure too awkwardly. I see
you wish to insult me,’ he cried to Gania. ‘You—you are
a cur!’ He looked at Gania with an expression of malice.
‘What on earth is the matter with the boy? What
phenomenal feeble-mindedness!’ exclaimed Ferdishenko.
‘Oh, he’s simply a fool,’ said Gania.
Hippolyte braced himself up a little.
‘I understand, gentlemen,’ he began, trembling as
before, and stumbling over every word,’ that I have
deserved your resentment, and—and am sorry that I
should have troubled you with this raving nonsense’
(pointing to his article),’or rather, I am sorry that I have
not troubled you enough.’ He smiled feebly. ‘Have I
troubled you, Evgenie Pavlovitch?’ He suddenly turned
on Evgenie with this question. ‘Tell me now, have I
troubled you or not?’
‘Well, it was a little drawn out, perhaps; but—‘
‘Come, speak out! Don’t lie, for once in your life—
speak out!’ continued Hippolyte, quivering with agitation. The Idiot
767 of 1149
‘Oh, my good sir, I assure you it’s entirely the same to
me. Please leave me in peace,’ said Evgenie, angrily,
turning his back on him.
‘Good-night, prince,’ said Ptitsin, approaching his host.
‘What are you thinking of? Don’t go, he’ll blow his
brains out in a minute!’ cried Vera Lebedeff, rushing up to
Hippolyte and catching hold of his hands in a torment of
alarm. ‘What are you thinking of? He said he would blow
his brains out at sunrise.’
‘Oh, he won’t shoot himself!’ cried several voices,
sarcastically.
‘Gentlemen, you’d better look out,’ cried Colia, also
seizing Hippolyte by the hand. ‘Just look at him! Prince,
what are you thinking of?’ Vera and Colia, and Keller, and
Burdovsky were all crowding round Hippolyte now and
holding him down.
‘He has the right—the right—‘-murmured Burdovsky.
‘Excuse me, prince, but what are your arrangements?’
asked Lebedeff, tipsy and exasperated, going up to
Muishkin.
‘What do you mean by ‘arrangements’?’
‘No, no, excuse me! I’m master of this house, though I
do not wish to lack respect towards you. You are master The Idiot
768 of 1149
of the house too, in a way; but I can’t allow this sort of
thing—‘
‘He won’t shoot himself; the boy is only playing the
fool,’ said General Ivolgin, suddenly and unexpectedly,
with indignation.
‘I know he won’t, I know he won’t, general; but I—
