already in high favour. I remember when he came into the
first hall, the emperor stopped before a portrait of the
Empress Katherine, and after a thoughtful glance
remarked, ‘That was a great woman,’ and passed on.
‘Well, in a couple of days I was known all over the
palace and the Kremlin as ‘le petit boyard.’ I only went
home to sleep. They were nearly out of their minds about
me at home. A couple of days after this, Napoleon’s page,
De Bazancour, died; he had not been able to stand the
trials of the campaign. Napoleon remembered me; I was
taken away without explanation; the dead page’s uniform
was tried on me, and when I was taken before the
emperor, dressed in it, he nodded his head to me, and I
was told that I was appointed to the vacant post of page.
‘Well, I was glad enough, for I had long felt the
greatest sympathy for this man; and then the pretty
uniform and all that— only a child, you know—and so
on. It was a dark green dress coat with gold buttons—red
facings, white trousers, and a white silk waistcoat—silk The Idiot
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stockings, shoes with buckles, and top-boots if I were
riding out with his majesty or with the suite.
‘Though the position of all of us at that time was not
particularly brilliant, and the poverty was dreadful all
round, yet the etiquette at court was strictly preserved, and
the more strictly in proportion to the growth of the
forebodings of disaster.’
‘Quite so, quite so, of course!’ murmured the poor
prince, who didn’t know where to look. ‘Your memoirs
would be most interesting.’
The general was, of course, repeating what he had told
Lebedeff the night before, and thus brought it out glibly
enough, but here he looked suspiciously at the prince out
of the corners of his eyes.
‘My memoirs!’ he began, with redoubled pride and
dignity. ‘Write my memoirs? The idea has not tempted
me. And yet, if you please, my memoirs have long been
written, but they shall not see the light until dust returns
to dust. Then, I doubt not, they will be translated into all
languages, not of course on account of their actual literary
merit, but because of the great events of which I was the
actual witness, though but a child at the time. As a child, I
was able to penetrate into the secrecy of the great man’s
private room. At nights I have heard the groans and The Idiot
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wailings of this ‘giant in distress.’ He could feel no shame
in weeping before such a mere child as I was, though I
understood even then that the reason for his suffering was
the silence of the Emperor Alexander.’
‘Yes, of course; he had written letters to the latter with
proposals of peace, had he not?’ put in the prince.
‘We did not know the details of his proposals, but he
wrote letter after letter, all day and every day. He was
dreadfully agitated. Sometimes at night I would throw
myself upon his breast with tears (Oh, how I loved that
man!). ‘Ask forgiveness, Oh, ask forgiveness of the
Emperor Alexander!’ I would cry. I should have said, of
course, ‘Make peace with Alexander,’ but as a child I
expressed my idea in the naive way recorded. ‘Oh, my
child,’ he would say (he loved to talk to me and seemed to
forget my tender years), ‘Oh, my child, I am ready to kiss
Alexander’s feet, but I hate and abominate the King of
Prussia and the Austrian Emperor, and—and—but you
know nothing of politics, my child.’ He would pull up,
remembering whom he was speaking to, but his eyes
would sparkle for a long while after this. Well now, if I
were to describe all this, and I have seen greater events
than these, all these critical gentlemen of the press and The Idiot
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political parties—Oh, no thanks! I’m their very humble
servant, but no thanks!’
‘Quite so—parties—you are very right,’ said the prince.
‘I was reading a book about Napoleon and the Waterloo
campaign only the other day, by Charasse, in which the
author does not attempt to conceal his joy at Napoleon’s
discomfiture at every page. Well now, I don’t like that; it
smells of ‘party,’ you know. You are quite right. And
were you much occupied with your service under
Napoleon?’
The general was in ecstasies, for the prince’s remarks,
made, as they evidently were, in all seriousness and
simplicity, quite dissipated the last relics of his suspicion.
‘I know Charasse’s book! Oh! I was so angry with his
work! I wrote to him and said—I forget what, at this
moment. You ask whether I was very busy under the
Emperor? Oh no! I was called ‘page,’ but hardly took my
duty seriously. Besides, Napoleon very soon lost hope of
conciliating the Russians, and he would have forgotten all
about me had he not loved me—for personal reasons— I
don’t mind saying so now. My heart was greatly drawn to
him, too. My duties were light. I merely had to be at the
palace occasionally to escort the Emperor out riding, and
that was about all. I rode very fairly well. He used to have The Idiot
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a ride before dinner, and his suite on those occasions were
generally Davoust, myself, and Roustan.’
‘Constant?’ said the prince, suddenly, and quite
involuntarily.
‘No; Constant was away then, taking a letter to the
Empress Josephine. Instead of him there were always a
couple of orderlies—and that was all, excepting, of course,
the generals and marshals whom Napoleon always took
with him for the inspection of various localities, and for
the sake of consultation generally. I remember there was
one—Davoust—nearly always with him—a big man with
spectacles. They used to argue and quarrel sometimes.
Once they were in the Emperor’s study together—just
those two and myself—I was unobserved—and they
argued, and the Emperor seemed to be agreeing to
something under protest. Suddenly his eye fell on me and
an idea seemed to flash across him.
‘‘Child,’ he said, abruptly. ‘If I were to recognize the
Russian orthodox religion and emancipate the serfs, do
you think Russia would come over to me?’’
‘‘Never!’ I cried, indignantly.’
‘The Emperor was much struck.’
‘‘In the flashing eyes of this patriotic child I read and
accept the fiat of the Russian people. Enough, Davoust, it The Idiot
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is mere phantasy on our part. Come, let’s hear your other
project.’’
‘‘Yes, but that was a great idea,’ said the prince, clearly
interested. ‘You ascribe it to Davoust, do you?’
‘Well, at all events, they were consulting together at
the time. Of course it was the idea of an eagle, and must
have originated with Napoleon; but the other project was
good too—it was the ‘Conseil du lion!’ as Napoleon called
it. This project consisted in a proposal to occupy the
Kremlin with the whole army; to arm and fortify it
scientifically, to kill as many horses as could be got, and
salt their flesh, and spend the winter there; and in spring to
fight their way out. Napoleon liked the idea—it attracted
him. We rode round the Kremlin walls every day, and
Napoleon used to give orders where they were to be
patched, where built up, where pulled down and so on.
All was decided at last. They were alone together—those
two and myself.
‘Napoleon was walking up and down with folded arms.
I could not take my eyes off his face—my heart beat
loudly and painfully.
‘‘I’m off,’ said Davoust. ‘Where to?’ asked Napoleon.
‘‘To salt horse-flesh,’ said Davoust. Napoleon
shuddered—his fate was being decided. The Idiot
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‘‘Child,’ he addressed me suddenly, ‘what do you think
of our plan?’ Of course he only applied to me as a sort of
toss-up, you know. I turned to Davoust and addressed my
reply to him. I said, as though inspired:
‘‘Escape, general! Go home!—’
‘The project was abandoned; Davoust shrugged his
shoulders and went out, whispering to himself—’Bah, il
devient superstitieux!’ Next morning the order to retreat
was given.’
‘All this is most interesting,’ said the prince, very softly,
‘if it really was so—that is, I mean—’ he hastened to
correct himself.
‘Oh, my dear prince,’ cried the general, who was now
so intoxicated with his own narrative that he probably
could not have pulled up at the most patent indiscretion.
‘You say, if it really was so!’ There was more—much
more, I assure you! These are merely a few little political
acts. I tell you I was the eye-witness of the nightly sorrow
and groanings of the great man, and of that no one can
speak but myself. Towards the end he wept no more,
though he continued to emit an occasional groan; but his
face grew more overcast day by day, as though Eternity
were wrapping its gloomy mantle about him. Occasionally
we passed whole hours of silence together at night, The Idiot
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Roustan snoring in the next room—that fellow slept like a
pig. ‘But he’s loyal to me and my dynasty,’ said Napoleon
of him.
‘Sometimes it was very painful to me, and once he
caught me with tears in my eyes. He looked at me kindly.
‘You are sorry for me,’ he said, ‘you, my child, and
perhaps one other child—my son, the King of Rome—
may grieve for me. All the rest hate me; and my brothers
are the first to betray me in misfortune.’ I sobbed and
threw myself into his arms. He could not resist me—he
burst into tears, and our tears mingled as we folded each
other in a close embrace.
‘‘Write, oh, write a letter to the Empress Josephine!’ I
cried, sobbing. Napoleon started, reflected, and said, ‘You
remind me of a third heart which loves me. Thank you,
my friend;’ and then and there he sat down and wrote that
letter to Josephine, with which Constant was sent off next
day.’
‘You did a good action,’ said the prince, ‘for in the
midst of his angry feelings you insinuated a kind thought
into his heart.’
‘Just so, prince, just so. How well you bring out that
fact! Because your own heart is good!’ cried the ecstatic
old gentleman, and, strangely enough, real tears glistened The Idiot
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in his eyes.’ Yes, prince, it was a wonderful spectacle.
And, do you know, I all but went off to Paris, and should
assuredly have shared his solitary exile with him; but, alas,
our destinies were otherwise ordered! We parted, he to his
island, where I am sure he thought of the weeping child
who had embraced him so affectionately at parting in
Moscow; and I was sent off to the cadet corps, where I
found nothing but roughness and harsh discipline. Alas,
my happy days were done!
‘‘I do not wish to deprive your mother of you, and,
therefore, I will not ask you to go with me,’ he said, the
morning of his departure, ‘but I should like to do
something for you.’ He was mounting his horse as he
spoke. ‘Write something in my sister’s album for me,’ I
said rather timidly, for he was in a state of great dejection
at the moment. He turned, called for a pen, took the
album. ‘How old is your sister?’ he asked, holding the pen
in his hand. ‘Three years old,’ I said. ‘Ah, petite fille alors!’
and he wrote in the album:
’Ne mentes jamais! NAPOLEON (votre ami sincere).’
‘Such advice, and at such a moment, you must allow,
prince, was—‘
‘Yes, quite so; very remarkable.’ The Idiot
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‘This page of the album, framed in gold, hung on the
wall of my sister’s drawing-room all her life, in the most
conspicuous place, till the day of her death; where it is
now, I really don’t know. Heavens! it’s two o’clock!
HOW I have kept you, prince! It is really most
unpardonable of me.
The general rose.
‘Oh, not in the least,’ said the prince. ‘ On the
contrary, I have been so much interested, I’m really very
much obliged to you.’
‘Prince,’, said the general, pressing his hand, and
looking at him with flashing eyes, and an expression as
though he were under the influence of a sudden thought
which had come upon him with stunning force. ‘Prince,
you are so kind, so simple-minded, that sometimes I really
feel sorry for you! I gaze at you with a feeling of real
affection. Oh, Heaven bless you! May your life blossom
and fructify in love. Mine is over. Forgive me, forgive
me!’
He left the room quickly, covering his face with his
hands.
The prince could not doubt the sincerity of his
agitation. He understood, too, that the old man had left
the room intoxicated with his own success. The general The Idiot
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belonged to that class of liars, who, in spite of their
transports of lying, invariably suspect that they are not
believed. On this occasion, when he recovered from his
exaltation, he would probably suspect Muishkin of pitying
him, and feel insulted.
‘Have I been acting rightly in allowing him to develop
such vast resources of imagination?’ the prince asked
himself. But his answer was a fit of violent laughter which
lasted ten whole minutes. He tried to reproach himself for
the laughing fit, but eventually concluded that he needn’t
do so, since in spite of it he was truly sorry for the old
man. The same evening he received a strange letter, short
but decided. The general informed him that they must
part for ever; that he was grateful, but that even from him
he could not accept ‘signs of sympathy which were
humiliating to the dignity of a man already miserable
enough.’
When the prince heard that the old man had gone to
Nina Alexandrovna, though, he felt almost easy on his
account.
We have seen, however, that the general paid a visit to
Lizabetha Prokofievna and caused trouble there, the final
upshot being that he frightened Mrs. Epanchin, and
angered her by bitter hints as to his son Gania. The Idiot
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He had been turned out in disgrace, eventually, and
this was the cause of his bad night and quarrelsome day,
which ended in his sudden departure into the street in a
