that belongs to your true life,—something that exists, and The Idiot
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has always existed, in your heart. You search your dream
for some prophecy that you were expecting. It has left a
deep impression upon you, joyful or cruel, but what it
means, or what has been predicted to you in it, you can
neither understand nor remember.
The reading of these letters produced some such effect
upon the prince. He felt, before he even opened the
envelopes, that the very fact of their existence was like a
nightmare. How could she ever have made up her mind
to write to her? he asked himself. How could she write
about that at all? And how could such a wild idea have
entered her head? And yet, the strangest part of the matter
was, that while he read the letters, he himself almost
believed in the possibility, and even in the justification, of
the idea he had thought so wild. Of course it was a mad
dream, a nightmare, and yet there was something cruelly
real about it. For hours he was haunted by what he had
read. Several passages returned again and again to his
mind, and as he brooded over them, he felt inclined to say
to himself that he had foreseen and known all that was
written here; it even seemed to him that he had read the
whole of this some time or other, long, long ago; and all
that had tormented and grieved him up to now was to be
found in these old, long since read, letters. The Idiot
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‘When you open this letter’ (so the first began), ‘look
first at the signature. The signature will tell you all, so that
I need explain nothing, nor attempt to justify myself.
Were I in any way on a footing with you, you might be
offended at my audacity; but who am I, and who are you?
We are at such extremes, and I am so far removed from
you, that I could not offend you if I wished to do so.’
Farther on, in another place, she wrote: ‘Do not
consider my words as the sickly ecstasies of a diseased
mind, but you are, in my opinion—perfection! I have seen
you—I see you every day. I do not judge you; I have not
weighed you in the scales of Reason and found you
Perfection—it is simply an article of faith. But I must
confess one sin against you—I love you. One should not
love perfection. One should only look on it as
perfection—yet I am in love with you. Though love
equalizes, do not fear. I have not lowered you to my level,
even in my most secret thoughts. I have written ‘Do not
fear,’ as if you could fear. I would kiss your footprints if I
could; but, oh! I am not putting myself on a level with
you!—Look at the signature—quick, look at the
signature!’
‘However, observe’ (she wrote in another of the
letters), ‘that although I couple you with him, yet I have The Idiot
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not once asked you whether you love him. He fell in love
with you, though he saw you but once. He spoke of you
as of ‘the light.’ These are his own words—I heard him
use them. But I understood without his saying it that you
were all that light is to him. I lived near him for a whole
month, and I understood then that you, too, must love
him. I think of you and him as one.’
‘What was the matter yesterday?’ (she wrote on another
sheet). ‘I passed by you, and you seemed to me to
BLUSH. Perhaps it was only my fancy. If I were to bring
you to the most loathsome den, and show you the
revelation of undisguised vice—you should not blush. You
can never feel the sense of personal affront. You may hate
all who are mean, or base, or unworthy—but not for
yourself—only for those whom they wrong. No one can
wrong YOU. Do you know, I think you ought to love
me—for you are the same in my eyes as in his-you are as
light. An angel cannot hate, perhaps cannot love, either. I
often ask myself—is it possible to love everybody? Indeed
it is not; it is not in nature. Abstract love of humanity is
nearly always love of self. But you are different. You
cannot help loving all, since you can compare with none,
and are above all personal offence or anger. Oh! how
bitter it would be to me to know that you felt anger or The Idiot
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shame on my account, for that would be your fall—you
would become comparable at once with such as me.
‘Yesterday, after seeing you, I went home and thought
out a picture.
‘Artists always draw the Saviour as an actor in one of
the Gospel stories. I should do differently. I should
represent Christ alone—the disciples did leave Him alone
occasionally. I should paint one little child left with Him.
This child has been playing about near Him, and had
probably just been telling the Saviour something in its
pretty baby prattle. Christ had listened to it, but was now
musing—one hand reposing on the child’s bright head.
His eyes have a far-away expression. Thought, great as the
Universe, is in them—His face is sad. The little one leans
its elbow upon Christ’s knee, and with its cheek resting on
its hand, gazes up at Him, pondering as children
sometimes do ponder. The sun is setting. There you have
my picture.
‘You are innocent—and in your innocence lies all your
perfection—oh, remember that! What is my passion to
you?—you are mine now; I shall be near you all my life—
I shall not live long!’
At length, in the last letter of all, he found: The Idiot
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‘For Heaven’s sake, don’t misunderstand me! Do not
think that I humiliate myself by writing thus to you, or
that I belong to that class of people who take a satisfaction
in humiliating themselves—from pride. I have my
consolation, though it would be difficult to explain it—
but I do not humiliate myself.
‘Why do I wish to unite you two? For your sakes or
my own? For my own sake, naturally. All the problems of
my life would thus be solved; I have thought so for a long
time. I know that once when your sister Adelaida saw my
portrait she said that such beauty could overthrow the
world. But I have renounced the world. You think it
strange that I should say so, for you saw me decked with
lace and diamonds, in the company of drunkards and
wastrels. Take no notice of that; I know that I have almost
ceased to exist. God knows what it is dwelling within me
now—it is not myself. I can see it every day in two
dreadful eyes which are always looking at me, even when
not present. These eyes are silent now, they say nothing;
but I know their secret. His house is gloomy, and there is
a secret in it. I am convinced that in some box he has a
razor hidden, tied round with silk, just like the one that
Moscow murderer had. This man also lived with his The Idiot
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mother, and had a razor hidden away, tied round with
white silk, and with this razor he intended to cut a throat.
‘All the while I was in their house I felt sure that
somewhere beneath the floor there was hidden away some
dreadful corpse, wrapped in oil-cloth, perhaps buried there
by his father, who knows? Just as in the Moscow case. I
could have shown you the very spot!
‘He is always silent, but I know well that he loves me
so much that he must hate me. My wedding and yours are
to be on the same day; so I have arranged with him. I have
no secrets from him. I would kill him from very fright,
but he will kill me first. He has just burst out laughing,
and says that I am raving. He knows I am writing to you.’
There was much more of this delirious wandering in
the letters— one of them was very long.
At last the prince came out of the dark, gloomy park, in
which he had wandered about for hours just as yesterday.
The bright night seemed to him to be lighter than ever. ‘It
must be quite early,’ he thought. (He had forgotten his
watch.) There was a sound of distant music somewhere.
‘Ah,’ he thought, ‘the Vauxhall! They won’t be there
today, of course!’ At this moment he noticed that he was
close to their house; he had felt that he must gravitate to The Idiot
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this spot eventually, and, with a beating heart, he mounted
the verandah steps.
No one met him; the verandah was empty, and nearly
pitch dark. He opened the door into the room, but it, too,
was dark and empty. He stood in the middle of the room
in perplexity. Suddenly the door opened, and in came
Alexandra, candle in hand. Seeing the prince she stopped
before him in surprise, looking at him questioningly.
It was clear that she had been merely passing through
the room from door to door, and had not had the
remotest notion that she would meet anyone.
‘How did you come here?’ she asked, at last.
‘I-I—came in—‘
‘Mamma is not very well, nor is Aglaya. Adelaida has
gone to bed, and I am just going. We were alone the
whole evening. Father and Prince S. have gone to town.’
‘I have come to you—now—to—‘
‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘N—no!’
‘Half-past twelve. We are always in bed by one.’
‘I-I thought it was half-past nine!’
‘Never mind!’ she laughed, ‘but why didn’t you come
earlier? Perhaps you were expected!’
‘I thought’ he stammered, making for the door. The Idiot
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‘Au revoir! I shall amuse them all with this story
tomorrow!’
He walked along the road towards his own house. His
heart was beating, his thoughts were confused, everything
around seemed to be part of a dream.
And suddenly, just as twice already he had awaked
from sleep with the same vision, that very apparition now
seemed to rise up before him. The woman appeared to
step out from the park, and stand in the path in front of
him, as though she had been waiting for him there.
He shuddered and stopped; she seized his hand and
pressed it frenziedly.
No, this was no apparition!
There she stood at last, face to face with him, for the
first time since their parting.
She said something, but he looked silently back at her.
His heart ached with anguish. Oh! never would he banish
the recollection of this meeting with her, and he never
remembered it but with the same pain and agony of mind.
She went on her knees before him—there in the open
road—like a madwoman. He retreated a step, but she
caught his hand and kissed it, and, just as in his dream, the
tears were sparkling on her long, beautiful lashes. The Idiot
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‘Get up!’ he said, in a frightened whisper, raising her.
‘Get up at once!’
‘Are you happy—are you happy?’ she asked. ‘Say this
one word. Are you happy now? Today, this moment?
Have you just been with her? What did she say?’
She did not rise from her knees; she would not listen to
him; she put her questions hurriedly, as though she were
pursued.
‘I am going away tomorrow, as you bade me—I won’t
write—so that this is the last time I shall see you, the last
time! This is really the LAST TIME!’
‘Oh, be calm—be calm! Get up!’ he entreated, in
despair.
She gazed thirstily at him and clutched his hands.
‘Good-bye!’ she said at last, and rose and left him, very
quickly.
The prince noticed that Rogojin had suddenly
appeared at her side, and had taken her arm and was
leading her away.
‘Wait a minute, prince,’ shouted the latter, as he went.
‘I shall be back in five minutes.’
He reappeared in five minutes as he had said. The
prince was waiting for him. The Idiot
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‘I’ve put her in the carriage,’ he said; ‘it has been
waiting round the corner there since ten o’clock. She
expected that you would be with THEM all the evening.
I told her exactly what you wrote me. She won’t write to
the girl any more, she promises; and tomorrow she will be
off, as you wish. She desired to see you for the last time,
although you refused, so we’ve been sitting and waiting
on that bench till you should pass on your way home.’
‘Did she bring you with her of her own accord?’
‘Of course she did!’ said Rogojin, showing his teeth;
‘and I saw for myself what I knew before. You’ve read her
letters, I suppose?’
‘Did you read them?’ asked the prince, struck by the
thought.
‘Of course—she showed them to me herself. You are
thinking of the razor, eh? Ha, ha, ha!’
‘Oh, she is mad!’ cried the prince, wringing his hands.
‘Who knows? Perhaps she is not so mad after all,’ said
Rogojin, softly, as though thinking aloud.
The prince made no reply.
‘Well, good-bye,’ said Rogojin. ‘I’m off tomorrow too,
you know. Remember me kindly! By-the-by,’ he added,
turning round sharply again, ‘did you answer her question
just now? Are you happy, or not?’ The Idiot
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‘No, no, no!’ cried the prince, with unspeakable
sadness.
‘Ha, ha! I never supposed you would say ‘yes,’’ cried
Rogojin, laughing sardonically.
And he disappeared, without looking round again. The Idiot
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Part IV The Idiot
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I
A WEEK had elapsed since the rendezvous of our two
friends on the green bench in the park, when, one fine
morning at about half- past ten o’clock, Varvara
Ardalionovna, otherwise Mrs. Ptitsin, who had been out
to visit a friend, returned home in a state of considerable
mental depression.
There are certain people of whom it is difficult to say
anything which will at once throw them into relief—in
other words, describe them graphically in their typical
characteristics. These are they who are generally known as
‘commonplace people,’ and this class comprises, of course,
the immense majority of mankind. Authors, as a rule,
attempt to select and portray types rarely met with in their
entirety, but these types are nevertheless more real than
real life itself.
‘Podkoleosin’ [A character in Gogol’s comedy, The
Wedding.] was perhaps an exaggeration, but he was by no
means a non-existent character; on the contrary, how
many intelligent people, after hearing of this Podkoleosin
from Gogol, immediately began to find that scores of their
