theology.’
‘Oh, no; oh, no! Not to theology alone, I assure you!
Why, Socialism is the progeny of Romanism and of the
Romanistic spirit. It and its brother Atheism proceed from The Idiot
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Despair in opposition to Catholicism. It seeks to replace in
itself the moral power of religion, in order to appease the
spiritual thirst of parched humanity and save it; not by
Christ, but by force. ‘Don’t dare to believe in God, don’t
dare to possess any individuality, any property! Fraternite
ou la Mort; two million heads. ‘By their works ye shall
know them’—we are told. And we must not suppose that
all this is harmless and without danger to ourselves. Oh,
no; we must resist, and quickly, quickly! We must let out
Christ shine forth upon the Western nations, our Christ
whom we have preserved intact, and whom they have
never known. Not as slaves, allowing ourselves to be
caught by the hooks of the Jesuits, but carrying our
Russian civilization to THEM, we must stand before
them, not letting it be said among us that their preaching
is ‘skilful,’ as someone expressed it just now.’
‘But excuse me, excuse me;’ cried Ivan Petrovitch
considerably disturbed, and looking around uneasily.
‘Your ideas are, of course, most praiseworthy, and in the
highest degree patriotic; but you exaggerate the matter
terribly. It would be better if we dropped the subject.’
‘No, sir, I do not exaggerate, I understate the matter, if
anything, undoubtedly understate it; simply because I
cannot express myself as I should like, but—‘ The Idiot
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‘Allow me!’
The prince was silent. He sat straight up in his chair
and gazed fervently at Ivan Petrovitch.
‘It seems to me that you have been too painfully
impressed by the news of what happened to your good
benefactor,’ said the old dignitary, kindly, and with the
utmost calmness of demeanour. ‘You are excitable,
perhaps as the result of your solitary life. If you would
make up your mind to live more among your fellows in
society, I trust, I am sure, that the world would be glad to
welcome you, as a remarkable young man; and you would
soon find yourself able to look at things more calmly. You
would see that all these things are much simpler than you
think; and, besides, these rare cases come about, in my
opinion, from ennui and from satiety.’
‘Exactly, exactly! That is a true thought!’ cried the
prince. ‘From ennui, from our ennui but not from satiety!
Oh, no, you are wrong there! Say from THIRST if you
like; the thirst of fever! And please do not suppose that this
is so small a matter that we may have a laugh at it and
dismiss it; we must be able to foresee our disasters and arm
against them. We Russians no sooner arrive at the brink of
the water, and realize that we are really at the brink, than
we are so delighted with the outlook that in we plunge The Idiot
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and swim to the farthest point we can see. Why is this?
You say you are surprised at Pavlicheff’s action; you
ascribe it to madness, to kindness of heart, and what not,
but it is not so.
‘Our Russian intensity not only astonishes ourselves; all
Europe wonders at our conduct in such cases! For, if one
of us goes over to Roman Catholicism, he is sure to
become a Jesuit at once, and a rabid one into the bargain.
If one of us becomes an Atheist, he must needs begin to
insist on the prohibition of faith in God by force, that is,
by the sword. Why is this? Why does he then exceed all
bounds at once? Because he has found land at last, the
fatherland that he sought in vain before; and, because his
soul is rejoiced to find it, he throws himself upon it and
kisses it! Oh, it is not from vanity alone, it is not from
feelings of vanity that Russians become Atheists and
Jesuits! But from spiritual thirst, from anguish of longing
for higher things, for dry firm land, for foothold on a
fatherland which they never believed in because they
never knew it. It is easier for a Russian to become an
Atheist, than for any other nationality in the world. And
not only does a Russian ‘become an Atheist,’ but he
actually BELIEVES IN Atheism, just as though he had
found a new faith, not perceiving that he has pinned his The Idiot
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faith to a negation. Such is our anguish of thirst! ‘Whoso
has no country has no God.’ That is not my own
expression; it is the expression of a merchant, one of the
Old Believers, whom I once met while travelling. He did
not say exactly these words. I think his expression was:
‘‘Whoso forsakes his country forsakes his God.’
‘But let these thirsty Russian souls find, like Columbus’
discoverers, a new world; let them find the Russian world,
let them search and discover all the gold and treasure that
lies hid in the bosom of their own land! Show them the
restitution of lost humanity, in the future, by Russian
thought alone, and by means of the God and of the Christ
of our Russian faith, and you will see how mighty and just
and wise and good a giant will rise up before the eyes of
the astonished and frightened world; astonished because
they expect nothing but the sword from us, because they
think they will get nothing out of us but barbarism. This
has been the case up to now, and the longer matters go on
as they are now proceeding, the more clear will be the
truth of what I say; and I—‘
But at this moment something happened which put a
most unexpected end to the orator’s speech. All this
heated tirade, this outflow of passionate words and ecstatic
ideas which seemed to hustle and tumble over each other The Idiot
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as they fell from his lips, bore evidence of some unusually
disturbed mental condition in the young fellow who had
‘boiled over’ in such a remarkable manner, without any
apparent reason.
Of those who were present, such as knew the prince
listened to his outburst in a state of alarm, some with a
feeling of mortification. It was so unlike his usual timid
self-constraint; so inconsistent with his usual taste and tact,
and with his instinctive feeling for the higher proprieties.
They could not understand the origin of the outburst; it
could not be simply the news of Pavlicheff’s perversion.
By the ladies the prince was regarded as little better than a
lunatic, and Princess Bielokonski admitted afterwards that
‘in another minute she would have bolted.’
The two old gentlemen looked quite alarmed. The old
general (Epanchin’s chief) sat and glared at the prince in
severe displeasure. The colonel sat immovable. Even the
German poet grew a little pale, though he wore his usual
artificial smile as he looked around to see what the others
would do.
In point of fact it is quite possible that the matter would
have ended in a very commonplace and natural way in a
few minutes. The undoubtedly astonished, but now more
collected, General Epanchin had several times The Idiot
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endeavoured to interrupt the prince, and not having
succeeded he was now preparing to take firmer and more
vigorous measures to attain his end. In another minute or
two he would probably have made up his mind to lead the
prince quietly out of the room, on the plea of his being ill
(and it was more than likely that the general was right in
his belief that the prince WAS actually ill), but it so
happened that destiny had something different in store.
At the beginning of the evening, when the prince first
came into the room, he had sat down as far as possible
from the Chinese vase which Aglaya had spoken of the
day before.
Will it be believed that, after Aglaya’s alarming words,
an ineradicable conviction had taken possession of his
mind that, however he might try to avoid this vase next
day, he must certainly break it? But so it was.
During the evening other impressions began to awaken
in his mind, as we have seen, and he forgot his
presentiment. But when Pavlicheff was mentioned and the
general introduced him to Ivan Petrovitch, he had
changed his place, and went over nearer to the table;
when, it so happened, he took the chair nearest to the
beautiful vase, which stood on a pedestal behind him, just
about on a level with his elbow. The Idiot
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As he spoke his last words he had risen suddenly from
his seat with a wave of his arm, and there was a general cry
of horror.
The huge vase swayed backwards and forwards; it
seemed to be uncertain whether or no to topple over on
to the head of one of the old men, but eventually
determined to go the other way, and came crashing over
towards the German poet, who darted out of the way in
terror.
The crash, the cry, the sight of the fragments of
valuable china covering the carpet, the alarm of the
company—what all this meant to the poor prince it would
be difficult to convey to the mind of the reader, or for
him to imagine.
But one very curious fact was that all the shame and
vexation and mortification which he felt over the accident
were less powerful than the deep impression of the almost
supernatural truth of his premonition. He stood still in
alarm—in almost superstitious alarm, for a moment; then
all mists seemed to clear away from his eyes; he was
conscious of nothing but light and joy and ecstasy; his
breath came and went; but the moment passed. Thank
God it was not that! He drew a long breath and looked
around. The Idiot
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For some minutes he did not seem to comprehend the
excitement around him; that is, he comprehended it and
saw everything, but he stood aside, as it were, like
someone invisible in a fairy tale, as though he had nothing
to do with what was going on, though it pleased him to
take an interest in it.
He saw them gather up the broken bits of china; he
heard the loud talking of the guests and observed how pale
Aglaya looked, and how very strangely she was gazing at
him. There was no hatred in her expression, and no anger
whatever. It was full of alarm for him, and sympathy and
affection, while she looked around at the others with
flashing, angry eyes. His heart filled with a sweet pain as
he gazed at her.
At length he observed, to his amazement, that all had
taken their seats again, and were laughing and talking as
though nothing had happened. Another minute and the
laughter grew louder—they were laughing at him, at his
dumb stupor—laughing kindly and merrily. Several of
them spoke to him, and spoke so kindly and cordially,
especially Lizabetha Prokofievna—she was saying the
kindest possible things to him.
Suddenly he became aware that General Epanchin was
tapping him on the shoulder; Ivan Petrovitch was laughing The Idiot
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too, but still more kind and sympathizing was the old
dignitary. He took the prince by the hand and pressed it
warmly; then he patted it, and quietly urged him to
recollect himself—speaking to him exactly as he would
have spoken to a little frightened child, which pleased the
prince wonderfully; and next seated him beside himself.
The prince gazed into his face with pleasure, but still
seemed to have no power to speak. His breath failed him.
The old man’s face pleased him greatly.
‘Do you really forgive me?’ he said at last. ‘And—and
Lizabetha Prokofievna too?’ The laugh increased, tears
came into the prince’s eyes, he could not believe in all this
kindness—he was enchanted.
‘The vase certainly was a very beautiful one. I
remember it here for fifteen years—yes, quite that!’
remarked Ivan Petrovitch.
‘Oh, what a dreadful calamity! A wretched vase
smashed, and a man half dead with remorse about it,’ said
Lizabetha Prokofievna, loudly. ‘What made you so
dreadfully startled, Lef Nicolaievitch?’ she added, a little
timidly. ‘Come, my dear boy! cheer up. You really alarm
me, taking the accident so to heart.’
‘Do you forgive me all—ALL, besides the vase, I
mean?’ said the prince, rising from his seat once more, but The Idiot
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the old gentleman caught his hand and drew him down
again—he seemed unwilling to let him go.
‘C’est tres-curieux et c’est tres-serieux,’ he whispered
across the table to Ivan Petrovitch, rather loudly. Probably
the prince heard him.
‘So that I have not offended any of you? You will not
believe how happy I am to be able to think so. It is as it
should be. As if I COULD offend anyone here! I should
offend you again by even suggesting such a thing.’
‘Calm yourself, my dear fellow. You are exaggerating
again; you really have no occasion to be so grateful to us.
It is a feeling which does you great credit, but an
exaggeration, for all that.’
‘I am not exactly thanking you, I am only feeling a
growing admiration for you—it makes me happy to look
at you. I dare say I am speaking very foolishly, but I must
speak—I must explain, if it be out of nothing better than
self-respect.’
All he said and did was abrupt, confused, feverish—
very likely the words he spoke, as often as not, were not
those he wished to say. He seemed to inquire whether he
MIGHT speak. His eyes lighted on Princess Bielokonski.
‘All right, my friend, talk away, talk away!’ she
remarked. ‘Only don’t lose your breath; you were in such The Idiot
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a hurry when you began, and look what you’ve come to
now! Don’t be afraid of speaking— all these ladies and
gentlemen have seen far stranger people than yourself; you
don’t astonish THEM. You are nothing out-of-the-way
remarkable, you know. You’ve done nothing but break a
vase, and give us all a fright.’
The prince listened, smiling.
‘Wasn’t it you,’ he said, suddenly turning to the old
gentleman, ‘who saved the student Porkunoff and a clerk
called Shoabrin from being sent to Siberia, two or three
months since?’
