 Part 1, Chapter 4 of the Idiot This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Giesen. The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Translated by Eva M. Martin. Part 1, Chapter 4 All three of the Missyapanchines were fine, the girls, well-grown with good shoulders and busts, and strong, almost masculine hands. And of course, with all the above attributes, they enjoyed capital appetites, of which they were not in the least ashamed. Elisaveta Prokofievna sometimes informed the girls that they were a little too candid in this matter, but in spite of their outward deference to their mother, these three young women in solemn conclave had long agreed to modify the unquestioning obedience which they had been in the habit of according to her, and Mrs. General Yipanchine had judged it better to say nothing about it, though, of course, she was well aware of the fact. It is true that her nature sometimes rebelled against these dictates of reason, and that she grew yearly more capricious and impatient, but having a respectful and well-disciplined husband under her thumb at all times, she found it possible as a rule to empty any little accumulations of spleen upon his head, and therefore the harmony of the family was kept duly balanced, and things went as smoothly as family matters can. Mrs. Yipanchine had a fair appetite herself, and generally took her share of the capital midday lunch which was always served for the girls, and which was nearly as good as a dinner. The young ladies used to have a cup of coffee each before this meal at ten o'clock while still in bed. This was a favourite and unalterable arrangement with them. At half-past twelve the table was laid in the small dining-room, and occasionally the general himself appeared at the family gathering, if he had time. Besides tea and coffee, cheese, honey, butter, pancakes of various kinds, the lady of the house loved these best, cutlets and so on, there was generally strong beef soup and other substantial delicacies. On the particular morning on which our story has opened, the family had assembled in the dining-room, and were waiting the general's appearance, the latter having promised to come this day. If he had been one moment late he would have been sent for at once, but he turned up punctually. As he came forward to wish his wife good morning and kiss her hands, as his custom was, he observed something in her look which bowed it ill. He thought he knew the reason and had expected it, but still he was not altogether comfortable. His daughters advanced to kiss him too, and though they did not look exactly angry, there was something strange in their expression as well. The general was, owing to certain circumstances, a little inclined to be too suspicious at home, and needlessly nervous, but as an experienced father and husband he judged it better to take measures at once to protect himself from any dangers they might be in the air. However, I hope I shall not interfere with the proper sequence of my narrative too much if I diverge for a moment at this point in order to explain the mutual relations between General Yeppanchin's family and others acting apart in this history, at the time when we take up the thread of their destiny. I have already stated that the general, though he was a man of lowly origin and of poor education, was for all that an experienced and talented husband and father. Among other things he considered it undesirable to hurry his daughters to the matrimonial altar and to worry them too much with assurances of his paternal wishes for their happiness, as is the custom among parents of many grown-up daughters. He even succeeded in ranging his wife on his side on this question, though he found the feat very difficult to accomplish because unnatural. But the general's arguments were conclusive and founded upon obvious facts. The general considered that the girl's taste and good sense should be allowed to develop and mature deliberately, and that the parent's duty should merely be to keep watch, in order that no strange or undesirable choice be made. But that the selection once effected, both father and mother were bound from that moment to enter heart and soul into the cause, and to see that the matter progressed without hindrance until the altar should be happily reached. Besides this it was clear that the Japanchine's position gained each year with geometrical accuracy, both as to financial solidity and social weight, and therefore the longer the girl's waited the better was their chance of making a brilliant match. But again amidst the incontrovertible facts just recorded, one more equally significant rose up to confront the family, and this was that the eldest daughter Alexandra had imperceptibly arrived at her twenty-fifth birthday. Almost at the same moment Afanasiy Ivanovich Totsky, a man of immense wealth, high connections and good standing, announced his intention of marrying. Afanasiy Ivanovich was a gentleman of fifty-five years of age, artistically gifted, and of most refined tastes. He wished to marry well, and moreover he was a keen admirer and judge of beauty. Now since Totsky had of late been upon terms of great cordiality with Japanchine, which excellent relations were intensified by the fact that they were, so to speak, partners in several financial enterprises, it so happened that the former now put in a friendly request to the general for counsel with regard to the important step he meditated. Might he suggest, for instance, such a thing as a marriage between himself and one of the general's daughters? Only the quiet, pleasant current of the family life of the Japanchines was about to undergo a change. The undoubted beauty of the family par excellence was the youngest Aglaya, as aforesaid. But Totsky himself, though an egotist of the extremest type, realized that he had no chance there. Aglaya was clearly not for such as he. Perhaps the sisterly love and friendship of the three girls had more or less exaggerated Aglaya's chances of happiness. In their opinion the latter's destiny was not merely to be very happy, she was to live in a heaven on earth. Aglaya's husband was to be a compendium of all the virtues and of all success, not to speak of fabulous wealth. The two elder sisters had agreed that all was to be sacrificed by them, if need be, for Aglaya's sake, had dowry was to be colossal and unprecedented. The general and his wife were aware of this agreement, and therefore when Totsky suggested himself for one of the sisters, the parents made no doubt that one of the two elder girls would probably accept the offer, since Totsky would certainly make no difficulty as to dowry. The general valued the proposal very highly. He knew life and realized what such an offer was worth. The answer of the sisters to the communication was, if not conclusive, at least consoling and hopeful. It made known that the eldest Alexandra would very likely be disposed to listen to a proposal. Alexandra was a good-natured girl, though she had a will of her own. She was intelligent and kind-hearted, and if she were to marry Totsky, she would make him a good wife. She did not care for a brilliant marriage. She was eminently a woman calculated to soothe and sweeten the life of any man. Decidedly pretty, if not absolutely handsome. What better could Totsky wish? So the matter crept slowly forward. The general and Totsky had agreed to avoid any hasty and irrevocable step. Alexandra's parents had not even begun to talk to their daughters freely upon the subject, when suddenly, as it were, a dissonant chord was struck amid the harmony of the proceedings. These yepanchin began to show signs of discontent, and this was a serious matter. A certain circumstance had crept in, a disagreeable and troublesome factor which threatened to overturn the whole business. This circumstance had come into existence eighteen years before, close to an estate of Totsky's, in one of the central provinces of Russia. There lived at that time a poor gentleman whose estate was of the wretchedest description. This gentleman was noted in the district for his persistent ill fortune. His name was Barashkov, and as regards family and dissent he was vastly superior to Totsky, but his estate was mortgaged to the last acre. One day, when he had ridden over to the town to see a creditor, the chief peasant of his village followed him shortly after, with the news that his house had been burnt down, and that his wife had perished with it, but his children were safe. Even Barashkov, enured to the storms of evil fortune as he was, could not stand this last stroke. He went mad, and died shortly after in the town hospital. His estate was sold for the creditors, and the little girls, two of them, of seven and eight years of age respectively, were adopted by Totsky, who undertook their maintenance and education in the kindness of his heart. They were brought up together with the children of his German bailiff. Very soon, however, there was only one of them left, Nastasia Filipovna, for the other little one died of whooping cough. Totsky, who was living abroad at this time, very soon forgot all about the child, but five years after returning to Russia, it struck him that he would like to look over his estate and see how matters were going there, and arrived at his bailiff's house, he was not long in discovering that among the children of the latter there now dwelt a most lovely little girl of twelve, sweet and intelligent and bright, and promising to develop beauty of most unusual quality, as to which last Totsky was an undoubted authority. He only stayed at his country's seat a few days on this occasion, but he had time to make his arrangements. Great changes took place in the child's education. A good governess was engaged, a Swiss lady of experience and culture. For four years this lady resided in the house with little Nastia, and then the education was considered complete. The governess took her departure, and another lady came down to fetch Nastia by Totsky's instructions. The child was now transported to another of Totsky's estates in a distant part of the country. Here she found a delightful little house just built, and prepared for her reception with great care and taste, and here she took up her abode, together with the lady who had accompanied her from her old home. In the house there were two experienced maids, musical instruments of all sorts, a charming young lady's library, pictures, paint boxes, a lap dog, and everything to make life agreeable. Within a fortnight Totsky himself arrived, and from that time he appeared to have taken a great fancy to this part of the world, and came down each summer, staying two and three months at a time. So passed four years, peacefully and happily, in charming surroundings. At the end of that time, and about four months after Totsky's last visit, he had stayed but a fortnight on this occasion, a report reached Nastasia Philipovna that he was about to be married in St. Petersburg to a rich, eminent and lovely woman. The report was only partially true, the marriage project being only in an embryo condition, but a great change now came over Nastasia Philipovna. She suddenly displayed unusual decision of character, and without wasting time in thought she left her country home, and came up to St. Petersburg, straight to Totsky's house, all alone. The latter, amazed at her conduct, began to express his displeasure, but he very soon became aware that he must change his voice, style and everything else with this young lady. The good old times were gone, an entirely new and different woman sat before him, between whom and the girl he had left in the country last July there seemed nothing in common. In the first place this new woman understood a good deal more than was usual for young people of her age, so much indeed that Totsky could not help wondering where she had picked up her knowledge, surely not from her young lady's library. It even embraced legal matters and the world in general to a considerable extent. Her character was absolutely changed. No more of the girlish alternations of timidity and petulance, the adorable naivety, the reveries, the tears, the playfulness. It was an entirely new and hitherto unknown being who now sat and laughed at him, and informed him to his face that she had never had the faintest feeling for him of any kind except loathing and contempt. And which had followed closely upon her sensations of surprise and bewilderment after her first acquaintance with him. This new woman gave him further to understand that though it was absolutely the same to her whom he married, yet she had decided to prevent this marriage, for no particular reason, but that she chose to do so, and because she wished to amuse herself at his expense, thought that it was quite her turn to laugh a little now. Such were her words. Very likely she did not give her real reason for this eccentric conduct, but at all events that was all the explanation she deigned to offer. Meanwhile Totsky thought the matter over as well as his scattered ideas would permit. His meditations lasted a fortnight, however, and at the end of that time his resolution was taken. The fact was, Totsky was at that time a man of fifty years of age. His position was solid and respectable. His place in society had long been firmly fixed upon safe foundations. He loved himself, his personal comforts, and his position better than all the world. As every respectable gentleman should. At the same time his grasp of things in general soon showed Totsky that he now had to deal with a being who was outside the pale of the ordinary rules of traditional behaviour, and who would not only threaten mischief, but would undoubtedly carry it out, and stop for no one. There was evidently he concluded something at work here. Some storm of the mind, some paroxysm of romantic anger, goodness knows against whom or what, some insatiable contempt, in a word something altogether absurd and impossible, but at the same time most dangerous to be met with by any respectable person with a position in society to keep up. For a man of Totsky's wealth and standing it would, of course, have been the simplest possible matter to take steps which would rid him at once from all annoyance, while it was obviously impossible for Nastasya Finipovna to harm him in any way, either legally or by stirring up a scandal, for in the case of the latter danger he could so easily remove her to a sphere of safety. However, these arguments would only hold good in case of Nastasya acting as others might in such an emergency. She was much more likely to overstep the bounds of reasonable conduct by some extraordinary eccentricity. Here the sound judgment of Totsky stood him in good stead. He realised that Nastasya Finipovna must be well aware that she could do nothing by legal means to injure him, and that her flashing eyes betrayed some entirely different intention. Nastasya Finipovna was quite capable of ruining herself, and even of perpetrating something which would send her to Siberia, for the mere pleasure of injuring a man for whom she had developed so inhuman a sense of loathing and contempt. He had sufficient insight to understand that she valued nothing in the world, herself least of all, and he made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was a coward in some respects. For instance, if he had been told that he would be stabbed at the altar or publicly insulted, he would undoubtedly have been frightened, but not so much at the idea of being murdered or wounded or insulted, as at the thought that if such things were to happen he would be made to look ridiculous in the eyes of society. He knew well that Nastasya thoroughly understood him and where to wound him and how, and therefore as the marriage was still only in embryo, Totsky decided to conciliate her by giving it up. His decision was strengthened by the fact that Nastasya Finipovna had curiously altered of late. It would be difficult to conceive how different she was physically at the present time to the girl of a few years ago. She was pretty then, but now. Totsky laughed angrily when he thought how short-sighted he had been. In days gone by he remembered how he had looked at her beautiful eyes, how even then he had marvelled at their dark, mysterious depths, and at their wondering gaze which seemed to seek an answer to some unknown riddle. Her complexion also had altered. She was now exceedingly pale, but curiously this change only made her more beautiful. Like most men of the world, Totsky had rather despised such a cheaply-bought conquest, but of late years he had begun to think differently about it. It had struck him as long ago as last spring that he ought to be finding a good match for Nastasya. For instance, some respectable and reasonable young fellow serving in a government office in another part of the country. How maliciously Nastasya laughed at the idea of such a thing now! However, it appeared to Totsky that he might make use of her in another way, and he determined to establish her in St. Petersburg, surrounding her with all the comforts and luxuries that his wealth could command. In this way he might gain glory in certain circles. Five years of this Petersburg life went by, and of course during that time a great deal happened. Totsky's position was very uncomfortable. Having funked once, he could not totally regain his ease. He was afraid he did not know why, but he was simply afraid of Nastasya Philipovna. For the first two years or so he had suspected that she wished to marry him herself, and that only her vanity prevented her telling him so. He thought that she wanted him to approach her with a humble proposal from his own side. But to his great and not entirely pleasurable amazement he discovered that this was by no means the case, and that where he to offer himself he would be refused. He could not understand such a state of things, and was obliged to conclude that it was pride, the pride of an injured and imaginative woman, which had gone to such length that it preferred to sit and nurse its contempt and hatred in solitude, rather than mount to heights of hitherto unattainable splendour. To make matters worse she was quite impervious to mercenary considerations, and could not be bribed in any way. Finally, Totsky took cunning means to try to break his chains and be free. He tried to tempt her in various ways to lose her heart. He invited princes, hazzars, secretaries of embassies, poets, novelists, even socialists to see her, but not one of them all made the faintest impression upon Nastasya. It was as though she had a pebble in place of a heart, as though her feelings and affections were dried up and withered forever. She lived almost entirely alone. She read, she studied, she loved music. Her principal acquaintances were poor women of various grades, a couple of actresses, and the family of a poor schoolteacher. Among these people she was much beloved. She received four or five friends sometimes of an evening. Totsky often came. Lately too General Yepanchin had been enabled with great difficulty to introduce himself into her circle. Gania made her acquaintance also, and others were Ferdishenko, an ill-bred and would-be witty young clerk, and Ptitsin, a moneylender of modest and polished manners who had risen from poverty. In fact Nastasya Philipovna's beauty became a thing known to all the town, but not a single man could boast of anything more than his own admiration for her, and this reputation of hers and her wit and culture and grace all confirmed Totsky in the plan he had now prepared. And it was at this moment that General Yepanchin began to play so large and important a part in the story. When Totsky had approached the General with his request for friendly counsel, as to a marriage with one of his daughters, he had made a full and candid confession. He had said that he intended to stop at no means to obtain his freedom. Even if Nastasya were to promise to leave him entirely alone in future, he would not, he said, believe and trust her. Once were not enough for him. He must have solid guarantees of some sort. So he and the General determined to try what an attempt to appeal to her heart would effect. Having arrived at Nastasya's house one day with Yepanchin, Totsky immediately began to speak of the intolerable torment of his position. He admitted that he was to blame for all, but candidly confessed that he could not bring himself to feel any remorse for his original guilt towards herself, because he was a man of sensual passions which were inborn and ineradicable, and that he had no power over himself in this respect, but that he wished seriously to marry at last, and that the whole fate of the most desirable social union which he contemplated was in her hands. In a word he confided his all to her generosity of heart. General Yepanchin took up his part and spoke in the character of father of a family. He spoke sensibly and without wasting words over any attempt at sentimentality, he merely recorded his full admission of her right to be the arbiter of Totsky's destiny at this moment. He then pointed out that the fate of his daughter, and very likely of both his other daughters, now hung upon her reply. To Nastasya's question as to what they wished her to do, Totsky confessed that he had been so frightened by her five years ago that he could never now be entirely comfortable until she herself married. He immediately added that such a suggestion from him would, of course, be absurd, unless accompanied by remarks of a more pointed nature. He very well knew, he said, that a certain young gentleman of good family, namely Gavrila Ardalyonovich Wolgin, with whom she was acquainted, and whom she received at her house, had long loved her passionately, and would give his life for some response from her. The young fellow had confessed this love of his to him, Totsky, and had also admitted it in the hearing of his benefactor, General Yepanchin. Lastly, he could not help being of opinion that Nastasya must be aware of Gania's love for her, and if he, Totsky, mistook not, she had looked with some favour upon it, being often lonely, and rather tired of her present life. Having remarked how difficult it was for him of all people to speak to her of these matters, Totsky concluded by saying that he trusted Nastasya Philipovna would not look with contempt upon him, if he now expressed his sincere desire to guarantee her future by a gift of seventy-five thousand rubles. He added that the sum would have been left her all the same in his will, and that therefore she must not consider the gift as in any way an indemnification to her for anything, but that there was no reason, after all, why a man should not be allowed to entertain a natural desire to lighten his conscience, etc., etc. In fact, all that would naturally be said under the circumstances, Totsky was very eloquent all through, and in conclusion just touched on the fact that not a soul in the world, not even General Yepanchin, had ever heard a word about the above seventy-five thousand rubles, and that this was the first time he had ever given expression to his intentions in respect to them. Nastasya Philipovna's reply to this long rigmarole astonished both the friends considerably. Not only was there no trace of her former irony, of her old hatred and enmity, and of that dreadful laughter, the very recollection of which sent a cold chill down Totsky's back to this very day, but she seemed charmed and really glad to have the opportunity of talking seriously with him for once in a way. She confessed that she had long wished to have a frank and free conversation, and to ask for friendly advice, but that pride had hitherto prevented her. Now, however, that the ice was broken, nothing could be more welcome to her than this opportunity. First with a sad smile, and then with a twinkle of merriment in her eyes, she admitted that such a storm as that of five years ago was now quite out of the question. She said that she had long since changed her views of things, and recognised that facts must be taken into consideration in spite of the feelings of the heart. What was done was done and ended, and she could not understand why Totsky should still feel alarmed. She next turned to General Yepanchin, and observed most courteously that she had long since known of his daughters, and that she had heard none but good report, that she had learned to think of them with deep and sincere respect. The idea alone that she could in any way serve them would be to her both a pride and a source of real happiness. It was true that she was lonely in her present life. Totsky had judged her thoughts a right. She longed to rise, if not to love, at least to family life and new hopes and objects. But as to Gavrila Ardalyonovich, she could not as yet say much. She thought it must be the case that he loved her. She felt that she too might learn to love him, if she could be sure of the firmness of his attachment to herself. But he was very young, and it was a difficult question to decide. What she especially liked about him was that he worked and supported his family by his toil. She had heard that he was proud and ambitious. She had heard much that was interesting of his mother and sister. She had heard of them from Mr. Ptitsin, and would much like to make their acquaintance. But another question, would they like to receive her into their house? At all events, though she did not reject the idea of this marriage, she desired not to be hurried. As for the seventy-five thousand rubles, Mr. Totsky need not have found any difficulty or awkwardness about the matter. She quite understood the value of money, and would of course accept the gift. She thanked him for his delicacy, however, but saw no reason why Gavrila Ardelyonovich should not know about it. She would not marry the latter, she said, until she felt persuaded that neither on his part nor on the part of his family did there exist any sort of concealed suspicions as to herself. She did not intend to ask forgiveness for anything in the past which fact she desired to be known. She did not consider herself to blame for anything that had happened in former years, and she thought that Gavrila Ardelyonovich should be informed as to the relations which had existed between herself and Totsky during the last five years. If she accepted this money, it was not to be considered as indemnification for her misfortune as a young girl, which had not been in any degree her own fault, but merely as compensation for her ruined life. She became so excited and agitated during all these explanations and confessions that General Yepanchin was highly gratified, and considered the matter satisfactorily arranged once for all. But the once-bitten Totsky was twice shy, and looked for hidden snakes among the flowers. However the special point to which the two friends particularly trusted to bring about their object, namely Gania's attractiveness for Nastasia Philipovna, stood out more and more prominently. The Purch-Parlets had commenced, and gradually even Totsky began to believe in the possibility of success. Before long Nastasia and Gania had talked the matter over. Very little was said, her modesty seemed to suffer under the infliction of discussing such a question. But she recognized his love, on the understanding that she bound herself to nothing whatever, and that she reserved the right to say no up to the very hour of the marriage ceremony. Gania was to have the same right of refusal at the last moment. It soon became clear to Gania, after scenes of wrath and quarreling at the domestic hearth, that his family was seriously opposed to the match, and that Nastasia was aware of this fact was equally evident. She said nothing about it, though he daily expected her to do so. There were several rumours afloat before long, which upset Totsky's equanimity a good deal. But we will not now stop to describe them, merely mentioning an instance or two. One was that Nastasia had entered into close and secret relations with the Yepanchin girls, a most unlikely rumour. Another was that Nastasia had long satisfied herself of the fact that Gania was merely marrying her for money, and that his nature was gloomy and greedy, impatient and selfish to an extraordinary degree, and that although he had been keen enough in his desire to achieve a conquest before, yet since the two friends had agreed to exploit his passion for their own purposes, it was clear enough that he had begun to consider the whole thing a nuisance and a nightmare. In his heart passion and hate seemed to hold divided sway, and although he had at last given his consent to marry the woman, as he said, under the stress of circumstances, yet he promised himself that he would take it out of her after marriage. Nastasia seemed to Totsky to have divined all this, and to be preparing something on her own account, which frightened him to such an extent that he did not dare communicate his views even to the general. But at times he would pluck up his courage and be full of hope and good spirits again, acting in fact as weak men do act in such circumstances. However, both the friends felt that the thing looked rosy indeed when one day Nastasia informed them that she would give her final answer on the evening of her birthday, which anniversary was due in a very short time. A strange rumour began to circulate, meanwhile. No less than that the respectable and highly respected general Yopanchin was himself so fascinated by Nastasia Philipovna that his feeling for her amounted almost to passion. What he thought to gain by Gania's marriage to the girl, it was difficult to imagine. Possibly he counted on Gania's complacence, for Totsky had long suspected that their marriage existed some secret understanding between the general and his secretary. At all events the fact was known that he had prepared a magnificent present of pearls for Nastasia's birthday, and that he was looking forward to the occasion when he should present his gift with the greatest excitement and impatience. The day before her birthday he was in a fever of agitation. This Yopanchin, long accustomed to her husband's infidelities, had heard of the pearls, and the rumour excited her liveliest curiosity and interest. The general remarked her suspicions, and felt that a grand explanation must shortly take place, which factor alarmed him much. This is the reason why he was so unwilling to take lunch, on the morning upon which we took up this narrative, with the rest of his family. Before the prince's arrival he had made up his mind to plead business and cut the meal, which simply meant running away. He was particularly anxious that this one day should be passed, especially the evening, without unpleasantness between himself and his family. And just at the right moment the prince turned up. As though heaven had sent him on purpose, said the general to himself, as he left the study to seek out the wife of his bosom. End of Part 1 Chapter 4 Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Part 1 Chapter 5 of The Idiot. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Eva M. Martin. Part 1 Chapter 5 Mrs. General Yepanchin was a proud woman by nature. What must her feelings have been when she heard that Prince Mushkin, the last of his and her line, had arrived in beggars' guise, a wretched idiot, a recipient of charity. All of which details the general gave out for greater effect. She was anxious to steal her interest at the first swoop, so as to distract her thoughts from other matters nearer home. Mrs. Yepanchin was in the habit of holding herself very straight and staring before her without speaking, in moments of excitement. She was a fine woman of the same age as her husband, with a slightly hooked nose, a high, narrow forehead, thick hair turning a little grey, and a shallow complexion. Her eyes were grey, and wore a very curious expression at times. She believed them to be most effective, a belief that nothing could alter. What! Receive him! Now, at once, asked Mrs. Yepanchin, gazing vaguely at her husband as he stood fidgeting before her. Oh, dear me, I assure you there is no need to stand on ceremony with him! The general explained hastily, he is quite a child, not to say a pathetic looking creature. He has fits of some sort, and has just arrived from Switzerland, straight from the station, dressed like a German, and without a farthing in his pocket. I gave him twenty-five rubles to go on with, and am going to find him some easy place in one of the government offices. I should like you to ply him well with the vitals, my dears, for I should think he must be very hungry. You astonish me," said the lady gazing as before. Fits! And hungry, too! What sort of fits? Oh, they don't come on frequently! Besides he's a regular child, though he seems to be fairly educated. I should like you, if possible, my dears, the general added, making slowly for the door, to put him through his paces a bit, and see what he is good for. I think you should be kind to him. It is a good deed, you know. However, just as you like, of course. But he is a sort of relation, remember. And I thought it might interest you to see the young fellow, seeing that this is so. Oh, of course, my my, if we needn't stand on ceremony with him. We must give the poor fellow something to eat after his journey, especially as he has not the least idea where to go," said Alexandra, the eldest of the girls. Besides, he's quite a child. We can entertain him with a little hide-and-seek in case of need, said Arilaida. Hide-and-seek? What do you mean?" inquired Mrs. Yepanchin. Oh, do stop pretending, Mamar, cried Aglaya in vexation. Send him up, father. Mother allows. The general rang the bell and gave orders that the prince should be shown in, only on condition that he has a napkin under his chin at lunch, then, said Mrs. Yepanchin, and that Fyodor or Mavra stand behind him while he eats. Is he quiet when he has these fits? He doesn't show violence, does he? On the contrary, he seems to be very well brought up. His manners are excellent. But here he is himself. Here you are, prince. Let me introduce you to the last of the mushkins, a relative of your own, my dear, or at least of the same name. Receive him kindly, please. They'll bring in lunch directly, prince. You must stop and have some. But you must excuse me. I'm in a hurry. I must be off. We all know where you must be off, too," said Mrs. Yepanchin, in a meaning voice. Yes, yes, I must hurry away. I'm late. Look here, dears, let him write you something in your albums. You've no idea what a wonderful calligraphist he is—wonderful talent. He has just written out, Abbot Pafnute signed this, for me. Well, au revoir. Stop a minute. Where are you off to? Who is this Abbot? Guide Mrs. Yepanchin to her retreating husband in a tone of excited annoyance. Yes, my dear, it was an old Abbot of that name. I must be off to see the count he's waiting for me. I'm late. Goodbye, au revoir, prince, and the general bolted at full speed. Oh, yes, I know what count you're going to see," remarked his wife in a cutting manner, as she turned her angry eyes on the prince. Now, then, what's all this about? What Abbot? Whose Pafnute? She added brusquely. Mamma, said Alexandra, shocked at her rudeness. A glire stamped her foot. Nonsense, let me alone, said the angry mother. Now, then, prince, sit down here. No, Nira, come nearer the light. I want to have a good look at you. So now, then, who is this Abbot? Abbot Pafnute, said our friend, seriously and with deference. Pafnute, yes, and who was he? Mrs. Yepanchin put these questions hastily and brusquely, and when the prince answered, she nodded her head sagely at each word he said. The Abbot Pafnute, lived in the fourteenth century, began the prince. He was in charge of one of the monasteries on the Volga, about where our present Kostroma government lies. He went to Odyeol and helped in the great matters then going on in the religious world. He signed an edict there, and I have seen a print of his signature. It struck me, so I copied it. When the general asked me in his study to write something for him to show my handwriting, I wrote, the Abbot Pafnute signed this, in the exact handwriting of the Abbot. The general liked it very much, and that's why he recalled it just now. Aglaya, make a note of Pafnute, or we shall forget him. And where is this signature? I think it was left on the general's table. Let it be sent for at once. Oh, I'll write you a new one in half a minute," said the prince, if you like. Of course, Mama," said Alexandra, but let's have lunch now. We are all hungry. Yes, come along, prince," said the mother. Are you very hungry? Yes, I must say that I am pretty hungry, thanks very much. I'd like to see that you know your manners, and you are by no means such a person as the general thought fit to describe you. Come along. You sit here opposite to me," she continued. I wish to be able to see your face. Alexandra, Adelaida, look after the prince. He doesn't seem so very ill, does he? I don't think he requires a napkin under his chin, after all. Are you accustomed to having one on, prince? Normally, when I was seven years old or so, I believe I wore one, but now I usually hold my napkin on my knee when I eat. Of course, of course, and about your fits. Fits, asked the prince, slightly surprised. I very seldom have fits nowadays. I don't know how it may be here, though. They say the climate may be bad for me. He talks very well, you know," said Mrs. Yepanchin, who still continued to nod at each word the prince spoke. I really did not expect it at all. In fact, I suppose it was all stuff and nonsense on the general's part, as usual. Eat away, prince, and tell me where you were born and where you were brought up. I wish to know all about you. You interest me very much." The prince expressed his thanks once more, and eating heartily the while, recommends the narrative of his life in Switzerland, all of which we have heard before. Mrs. Yepanchin became more and more pleased with her guest. The girls, too, listened with considerable attention. In talking over the question of relationship, it turned out that the prince was very well up in the matter, and knew his pedigree off by heart. It was found that scarcely any connection existed between himself and Mrs. Yepanchin. But the talk and the opportunity of conversing about her family tree gratified the latter exceedingly, and she rose from the table in great good humour. Let's all go to my boudoir," she said, and they shall bring some coffee in there. That's the room where we all assemble and busy ourselves as we like best," she explained. At Exandra, my eldest here, plays the piano, or reads, or sews, Arilaida paints landscapes and portraits, but never finishes any, and Aglaya sits and does nothing. I don't work too much, either. Here we are now, sit down, prince, near the fire, and talk to us. I want to hear you relate something. I wish to make sure of you first, and then tell my old friend, Princess Bielokonsky, about you. I wish you to know all the good people and to interest them. Now then, begin. Mamma! It's rather a strange order, the hat," said Arilaida, who was fussing among her paints and paintbrushes at the easel. Aglaya and Alexandra had settled themselves with folded hands on a sofa, evidently meaning to be listeners. The prince felt that the general attention was concentrated upon himself. I should refuse to say a word if I were ordered to tell a story like that," observed Aglaya. Why, what's there strange about it? He has a tongue. Why shouldn't he tell us something? I want to judge whether he is a good storyteller. Anything you like, prince, how you liked Switzerland, what was your first impression, anything? You'll see, he'll begin directly, and tell us all about it, beautifully." The impression was forcible, the prince began. There you see, girls," said the impatient lady. He has begun, you see. Well then, let him talk, Mamma," said Alexandra. This prince is a great humbug, and by no means an idiot, she whispered to Aglaya. Oh, I saw that at once," replied the latter. I don't think it at all nice of him to play a part. What does he wish to gain by it, I wonder? My first impression was a very strong one, repeated the prince. When they took me away from Russia, I remember I passed through many German towns and looked out of the windows, but did not trouble so much as to ask questions about them. This was after a long series of fits. I always used to fall into a sort of torpid condition after such a series, and lost my memory almost entirely. And though I was not altogether without reason at such times, yet I had no logical power of thought. This would continue for three or four days, and then I would recover myself again. I remember my melancholy was intolerable. I felt inclined to cry. I sat and wondered and wondered uncomfortably. The consciousness that everything was strange weighed terribly upon me. I could understand that it was all foreign and strange. I recollect I awoke from this state for the first time at Baal one evening. The bray of a donkey aroused me, a donkey in the town market. I saw the donkey and was extremely pleased with it, and from that moment my head seemed to clear. A donkey? How strange! Yet it is not strange any one of us might fall in love with a donkey. It happened in mythological times," said Madame Yapanchine, looking rothfully at her daughters who had begun to laugh. Go on, Prince. Since that evening I have been specially fond of donkeys. I began to ask questions about them, for I had never seen one before. And I at once came to the conclusion that this must be one of the most useful of animals, strong, willing, patient, cheap. And thanks to this donkey I began to like the whole country I was travelling through, and my melancholy passed away. All this is very strange and interesting," said Mrs. Yapanchine. Now let's leave the donkey and go on to other matters. What are you laughing at, Aglaya? And you too, Adelaida? The Prince told us his experience is very cleverly. He saw the donkey himself. And what have you ever seen? You have never been abroad. I have seen a donkey, though, Mamar," said Aglaya. And I've heard one," said Adelaida, and all three of the girls laughed out loud, and the Prince laughed with them. Well, it's too bad of you," said Mamar. You must forgive them, Prince. They are good girls. I am very fond of them, though I often have to be scolding them. They are all as silly and mad as March-Hairs. Oh, I shouldn't they laugh," said the Prince. I shouldn't have let the chance go by in their place, I know. But I stick up for the donkey all the same. He's a patient, good-natured fellow. Are you a patient, man, Prince? I ask out of curiosity," said Mrs. Yapanchine. Oh, laughed again. Oh, that wretched donkey again, I see," cried the lady. I assure you, Prince, I was not guilty of the least. Insinuation. Oh, I assure you, I'd take your word for it. And the Prince continued laughing merrily. I must say it's very nice of you to laugh. I see you really are a kind-hearted fellow," said Mrs. Yapanchine. I'm not always kind, though. I am kind myself, and always kind, too, if you please," she retorted unexpectedly. And that is my chief fault, for one ought not to be always kind. I'm often angry with these girls and their father, but the worst of it is I'm always kindest when I am cross. I was very angry just before you came, and Aglaya there read me a lesson. Thanks, Aglaya dear! Come and kiss me." There, that's enough," she added as Aglaya came forward and kissed her lips and then her hand. Now then, go on, Prince. Perhaps you can think of something more exciting than about the donkey. I must say again I can't understand how you can expect anyone to tell you stories straight away so," said Adelaide. I know I never could. Yes, but the Prince can, because he is cleverer, cleverer than you are by ten or twenty times, if you like. There, that's so, Prince. And seriously, let's drop the donkey now. What else did you see abroad besides the donkey? Yes, but the Prince told us about the donkey, very cleverly, all the same," said Alexandra. I have always been most interested to hear how people go mad and get well again, and that sort of thing, especially when it happens suddenly. "'Quite so, quite so,' said Mrs. Japanchin, delighted. I see you can be sensible now and then, Alexandra. You were speaking of Switzerland, Prince." Yes, we came to Lucerne, and I was taken out in a boat. I felt how lovely it was, but the loveliness weighed upon me somehow or other, and made me feel melancholy. "'Why?' asked Alexandra. I don't know. I always feel like that when I look at the beauties of nature for the first time. But then I was ill at that time, of course. "'Oh, but I should like to see it,' said Adelaide. And I don't know when we shall ever go abroad. I've been two years looking out for a good subject for a picture. I've done all I know. The north and south I know by heart, as our poet observes. Do help me to a subject, Prince.' "'Oh, but I know nothing about painting. It seems to me one only has to look and paint what one sees. But I don't know how to see. Nonsense! What rubbish you talk!' the mother struck in. Not know how to see. Open your eyes and look. If you can't see here, you won't see abroad, either. Tell us what you saw yourself, Prince.' "'Yes, that's better,' said Adelaide. The Prince learned to see abroad. "'Oh, I hardly know. You see, I only went to restore my health. I don't know whether I learned to see exactly. I was very happy, however, nearly all the time.' "'Happy? You can be happy,' cried Aglaya. "'Then how can you say you did not learn to see? I should think you could teach us to see.' "'Oh, do teach us!' laughed Adelaide. "'Oh, I can't do that,' said the Prince, laughing, too. "'I lived almost all the while in one little Swiss village. What can I teach you? At first I was only just not absolutely dull. Then my health began to improve. Then every day became dearer and more precious to me. And the longer I stayed, the dearer became the time to me. How much so that I could not help observing it? But why this was so it would be difficult to say? So that you didn't care to go anywhere else? Well at first I did, I was restless. I didn't know, however, I should manage to support life. You know there are such moments, especially in solitude. There was a waterfall near us, such a lovely thin streak of water, like a thread but white and moving. It fell from a great height, but it looked quite low, and it was half a mile away, though it did not seem fifty paces. I loved to listen to it at night, but it was then that I became so restless. Sometimes I went and climbed the mountain and stood there in the midst of the tall pines, all alone in the terrible silence, with our little village in the distance, and the sky so blue, and the sun so bright, and an old ruined castle on the mountainside far away. I used to watch the line where earth and sky met, and longed to go and seek there the key of all mysteries, thinking that I might find there a new life, perhaps some great city where life should be grander and richer. And then it struck me that life may be grand enough, even in a prism. I read that last most praiseworthy thought in my manual when I was twelve years old, said Aglaya. All this is pure philosophy, said Adelaide. You are a philosopher, Prince, and have come here to instruct us in your views. Perhaps you are right, said the Prince, smiling. I think I am a philosopher, perhaps, and who knows, perhaps I do wish to teach my views of things to those I meet with. Your philosophy is rather like that of an old woman we know, who is rich and yet does nothing but try how little she can spend. She talks of nothing but money all day. Your great philosophical idea of a grand life in a prison, and your four happy years in that Swiss village are like this, rather, said Aglaya. As to life in a prison, of course there may be two opinions, said the Prince. I once heard the story of a man who lived twelve years in a prison. I heard it from the man himself. He was one of the persons under treatment with my professor. He had fits and attacks of melancholy, then he would weep, and once he tried to commit suicide. His life in prison was sad enough. His only acquaintances were spiders and a tree that grew outside his grating. But I think I had better tell you of another man I met last year. There was a very strange feature in this case, strange because of its extremely rare occurrence. This man had once been brought to the scaffold, in company with several others, and had had the sentence of death by shooting passed upon him for some political crime. Twenty minutes later he had been reprieved, and some other punishments substituted. But the interval between the two sentences, twenty minutes, or at least a quarter of an hour, had been passed in the certainty that within a few minutes he must die. I was very anxious to hear him speak of his impressions during that dreadful time. I several times inquired of him as to what he thought and felt. He remembered everything with the most accurate and extraordinary distinctness, and declared that he would never forget a single iota of the experience. About twenty paces from the scaffold where he had stood to hear the sentence were three posts fixed in the ground to which to fasten the criminals, of whom there were several. The first three criminals were taken to the posts, dressed in long white tunics with white caps drawn over their faces, so that they could not see the rifles pointed at them. Then a group of soldiers took their stand opposite to each post. My friend was the eighth on the list, and therefore he would have been among the third lot to go up. A priest went about among them with a cross, and there was about five minutes of time left for him to live. He said that those five minutes seemed to him to be a most interminable period, an enormous wealth of time. He seemed to be living in these minutes so many lives that there was no need as yet to think of that last moment, so that he made several arrangements, dividing up the time into portions, one for saying farewell to his companions, two minutes for that, then a couple more for thinking over his own life and career, and all about himself, and another minute for a last look around. He remembered having divided his time like this quite well. While saying good-bye to his friends, he recollected asking one of them some very usual everyday question, and being much interested in the answer. Then having bade farewell, he embarked upon those two minutes which he had allotted for looking into himself. He knew beforehand what he was going to think about. He wished to put it to himself as quickly and clearly as possible that here was he, a living, thinking man, and that in three minutes he would be nobody. Or if somebody or something, then what and where? He thought he would decide this question once and for all in these last three minutes. A little way off there stood a church, and its gilded spire glittered in the sun. He remembered staring stubbornly at this spire and at the rays of light sparkling from it. He could not tear his eyes from these rays of light. He got the idea that these rays were his new nature, and that in three minutes he would become one of them, amalgamated somehow with them. The repugnance to what must ensue almost immediately and the uncertainty were dreadful, he said, but worst of all was the idea, what should I do if I were not to die now? What if I were to return to life again? What an eternity of days and all mine! How I should grudge and count up every minute of it, so as not to waste a single instant! He said that this thought weighed so upon him and became such a terrible burden upon his brain that he could not bear it, and wished they would shoot him quickly and have done with it. The prince paused and all waited, expecting him to go on again and finish the story. "'Is that all?' asked Aglaya. "'All, yes,' said the prince, emerging from a momentary reverie. "'And why did you tell us this? Oh, I happen to recall it, that's all. It fitted into the conversation.' "'You probably wish to deduce, prince,' said Alexandra, that moments of time cannot be reckoned by money-value, and that sometimes five minutes are worth priceless treasures. All this is very praiseworthy, but may I ask about this friend of yours who told you the terrible experience of his life? He was reprieved, you say. In other words, they did restore him to that eternity of days. What did he do with these riches of time? Did he keep careful account of his minutes? Oh, no, he didn't! I asked him myself. He said that he had not lived a bit as he had intended, and had wasted many and many a minute. Very well, then, there's an experiment, and the thing is proved. One cannot live and count each moment. Say what you like, but one cannot." That is true," said the prince. I have thought so myself, and yet why shouldn't one do it? You think, then, that you could live more wisely than other people," said Aglaya. I have had that idea. And you have it still. Yes, I have it still," the prince replied. He had contemplated Aglaya until now with a pleasant, though rather timid, smile. But as the last words fell from his lips, he began to laugh, and looked at her merrily. You are not very modest," said she. But how brave you are, said he, you are laughing. And I, that man's tale, impressed me so much that I dreamt of it afterwards. Yes, I dreamt of those five minutes. He looked at his listeners again with that same serious searching expression. You are not angry with me," he asked suddenly, and with a kind of nervous hurry, although he looked them straight in the face. Why should we be angry? They cried. Only because I seemed to be giving you a lecture all the time. At this they laughed heartily. Please don't be angry with me," continued the prince. I know very well that I have seen less of life than other people, and have less knowledge of it. I must appear to speak strangely sometimes. He said the last words nervously. You say you have been happy, and that proves you have lived not less, but more than other people. Why make all these excuses? Interrupted Aglaya in a mocking tone of voice. Besides, you need not mind about lecturing us. You have nothing to boast of. With your quietism one could live happily a hundred years at least. One might show you the execution of a felon, or show you one's little finger. You could draw a moral from either, and be quite satisfied. That sort of existence is easy enough. I can't understand why you always fly into a temper," said Mrs. Yepanchin, who had been listening to the conversation and examining the faces of the speakers in turn. I do not understand what you mean. What is your little finger to do with it? The prince talks well, though he is not amusing. He began all right, but now he seems sad. Never mind, Mamar. Prince, I wish you had seen an execution," said Aglaya. I should like to ask you a question about that, if you had. I have seen an execution," said the prince. You have," cried Aglaya. I might have guessed it. That's a fitting crown to the rest of the story. If you have seen an execution, how can you say you lived happily all the while? Where is their capital punishment, where you were?" asked Adelaida. I saw it at Lyon. Schneider took us there, and as soon as we arrived we came in for that. Well, and did you like it very much? Was it very edifying and instructive? asked Aglaya. No, I didn't like it at all, and was ill after seeing it. But I confess I stared, as though my eyes were fixed to the sight. I could not tear them away. I too should have been unable to tear my eyes away," said Aglaya. They do not at all approve of women going to see an execution there. The women who do go are condemned for it afterwards in the newspapers. That is, by contending that it is not a sight for women, they admit that it is a sight for men. I congratulate them on the deduction. I suppose you quite agree with them, Prince. Tell us about the execution," put in Adelaida. I would much rather not, just now," said the Prince, a little disturbed and frowning slightly. You don't seem to want to tell us," said Aglaya, with a mocking air. No, the thing is, I was telling all about the execution a little while ago, and whom did you tell about it? The man-servant, while I was waiting to see the general. Our man-servant," exclaimed several voices at once. Yes, the one who waits in the entrance hall, a grayish red-faced man. The Prince is clearly a Democrat," remarked Aglaya. Well, if you could tell Alexei about it, surely you can tell us, too. I do so want to hear about it," repeated Adelaida. Just now, I confess, began the Prince with more animation. When you asked me for a subject for a picture, I confess I had serious thoughts of giving you one. I thought of asking you to draw the face of a criminal, one minute before the fall of the guillotine, while the wretched man is still standing on the scaffold, preparatory to placing his neck on the block. What, his face, only his face," asked Adelaida. That would be a strange subject, indeed. And what sort of picture would that make? Oh, why not? The Prince insisted with some warmth. When I was in Baal, I saw a picture very much in that style. I should like to tell you about it. I will, some time or other. It struck me very forcibly. Oh, you shall tell us about the Baal picture another time. Now we must have all about the execution," said Adelaida. Tell us about that face, as it appeared to your imagination. How should it be drawn? Just a face alone, do you mean? It was just a minute before the execution began the Prince readily, carried away by the recollection, and evidently forgetting everything else in a moment. Just at the instant when he stepped off the ladder onto the scaffold, he happened to look in my direction. I saw his eyes, and understood all at once. But how am I to describe it? I do so wish you or somebody else could draw it. You if possible. I thought at the time what a picture it would make. You must imagine all that went before, of course, all, all. He had lived in the prison for some time, and had not expected that the execution would take place for at least a week yet. He had counted on all the formalities and so on, taking time. But it so happened that his papers had been got ready quickly. At five o'clock in the morning he was asleep. It was October, and at five in the morning it was cold and dark. The governor of the prison comes in on tiptoe and touches the sleeping man's shoulder gently. He starts up. What is it, he says? The execution is fixed for ten o'clock. He was only just awake and would not believe it at first, but began to argue that his papers would not be out for a week, and so on. When he was wide awake and realized the truth, he became very silent and argued no more, so they say. But after a bit he said, it comes very hard on one so suddenly. And then he was silent again and said nothing. The three or four hours went by, of course, in necessary preparations. The priest, breakfast, coffee, meat, and some wine they gave him. Doesn't it seem ridiculous? And yet I believe these people give them a good breakfast out of pure kindness of heart. And believe that they are doing a good action. Then he is dressed, and then begins the procession through the town to the scaffold. I think he too must feel that he has an age to live still, while they cart him along. Probably he thought on the way, oh, I have a long, long time yet, three streets of life yet. When we've passed this street there'll be that other one, and then that one where the baker's shop is on the right. And when shall we get there? It's ages, ages! Around him are crowds shouting, yelling, ten thousand faces, twenty thousand eyes. All this has to be endured, and especially the thought, here are ten thousand men, and not one of them is going to be executed, and yet I am to die. While all that is preparatory. At the scaffold there is a ladder, and just there he bursts into tears. And this was a strong man, and a terribly wicked one, they say. There was a priest with him the whole time, talking, even in the cart as they drove along he talked and talked. Probably the other heard nothing, he would begin to listen now and then, and at the third word or so he had forgotten all about it. At last he began to mount the steps. His legs were tied so that he had to take very small steps. The priest, who seemed to be a wise man, had stopped talking now, and only held the cross for the wretched fellow to kiss. At the foot of the ladder he had been pale enough, but when he set foot on the scaffold at the top his face suddenly became the colour of paper, positively like white note paper. His legs must have become suddenly feeble and helpless, and he felt a choking in his throat. You know the sudden feeling one has in moments of terrible fear, when one does not lose one's wits, but is absolutely powerless to move. If some dreadful thing were suddenly to happen, if a house were just about to fall on one, don't you know how one would long to sit down and shut one's eyes, and wait, and wait. Well when this terrible feeling came over him the priest quickly pressed the cross to his lips without a word, a little silver cross it was, and he kept on pressing it to the man's lips every second, and whenever the cross touched his lips the eyes would open for a moment, and the legs moved once, and he kissed the cross greedily, hurriedly, just as though he were anxious to catch hold of something in case of its being useful to him afterwards, though he could hardly have had any connected religious thoughts at the time, and so up to the very block. How strange that criminals seldom swoon at such a moment! On the contrary, the brain is especially active, and works incessantly. Probably hard, hard, hard, like an engine at full pressure. I imagine that various thoughts must beat loud and fast through his head, all unfinished ones, and strange funny thoughts very likely, like this, for instance. That man is looking at me, and he has a wart on his forehead, and the executioner has burst one of his buttons, and the lowest one is all rusty. And meanwhile he notices and remembers everything. There is one point that cannot be forgotten, round which everything else dances and turns about, and because of this point he cannot faint, and this lasts until the very final quarter of a second, when the wretched neck is on the block, and the victim listens and waits, and knows. That's the point, he knows that he is just now about to die, and listens for the rasp of the iron above his head. If I lay there I should certainly listen for that grating sound, and hear it too. There would probably be but the tenth part of an instant left to hear it in, but one would certainly hear it, and imagine some people declare that when the head flies off it is conscious of having flown off. Just imagine what a thing to realise! Fancy if consciousness were to last for even five seconds. Draw the scaffold so that only the top step of the ladder comes in clearly. The criminal must be just stepping onto it, his face as white as note-paper. The priest is holding the cross to his blue lips, and the criminal kisses it, and knows and sees, and understands everything. The cross and the head, there's your picture. The priest and the executioner with his two assistants, and a few heads and eyes below. Those might come in as subordinate accessories, a sort of mist. There's a picture for you." The prince paused and looked around. Certainly that isn't much like quietism, murmured Alexandra half to herself. Now tell us about your love affairs, said Adelaida after a moment's pause. The prince gazed at her in amazement. You know Adelaida continued you owe us a description of the Baal picture, but first I wish to hear how you fell in love. Don't deny the fact, for you did, of course. Besides you stop philosophising when you are telling about anything. Why are you ashamed of your stories the moment after you have told them?" asked Aglaya suddenly. How silly you are, said Mrs. Japanchine, looking indignantly towards the last speaker. Yes, that wasn't a clever remark, said Alexandra. Don't listen to her, prince, said Mrs. Japanchine. She says that sort of thing out of mischief. Don't think anything of their nonsense, it means nothing. They love to chaff, but they like you. I can see it in their faces. I know their faces. I know their faces too," said the prince, with a peculiar stress on the words. How so? asked Adelaida with curiosity. What do you know about our faces? exclaimed the other two in chorus. But the prince was silent and serious. All awaited his reply. I'll tell you afterwards, he said quietly. Ah, you want to arouse our curiosity, said Aglaya. And how terribly solemn you are about it. Very well," interrupted Adelaida. Then if you can read faces so well, you must have been in love. Come now, I've guessed. Let's have the secret." I have not been in love," said the prince, as quietly and seriously as before. I have been happy in another way. How? how? Well, I'll tell you," said the prince, apparently in a deep reverie. End of Part 1, Chapter 5. Recording by Martin Geeson in Hazelmere Surrey. Part 1, Chapter 6 of The Idiot. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Martin Geeson. The Idiot by Fyodor Dastayevsky. Translated by Eva M. Martin. Part 1, Chapter 6. Here you all are," began the prince, settling yourselves down to listen to me with so much curiosity that if I do not satisfy you, you will probably be angry with me. No, no, I'm only joking," he added hastily with a smile. Well, then, they were all children there, and I was always among children, and only with children. They were the children of the village in which I lived, and they went to the school there, all of them. I did not teach them, oh, no, there was a master for that, Juan Jul Tebow. I may have taught them some things, but I was among them just as an outsider, and I passed all four years of my life there among them. I wished for nothing better. I used to tell them everything, and hid nothing from them. Their fathers and relations were very angry with me, because the children could do nothing without me at last, and used to throng after me at all times. The schoolmaster was my greatest enemy in the end. I had many enemies, and all because of the children. Even Schneider reproached me. What were they afraid of? One can tell a child everything, anything. I have often been struck by the fact that parents know their children so little. They should not conceal so much from them. How well even little children understand that their parents conceal things from them, because they consider them too young to understand. Children are capable of giving advice in the most important matters. How can one deceive these dear little birds, when they look at one so sweetly and confidingly? I call them birds, because there is nothing in the world better than birds. However, most of the people were angry with me about one and the same thing. But Tebow simply was jealous of me. At first he had wagged his head, and wondered how it was that the children understood what I told them so well, and could not learn from him, and he laughed like anything when I replied that neither he nor I could teach them very much, but that they might teach us a good deal. How he could hate me and tell scandalous stories about me, living among children as he did is what I cannot understand. Children soothe and heal the wounded heart. I remember there was one poor fellow at our professors, who was being treated for madness, and you have no idea what those children did for him eventually. I don't think he was mad, but only terribly unhappy. But I'll tell you all about him another day. Now I must get on with this story. The children did not love me at first. I was such a sickly, awkward kind of a fellow then, and I know I am ugly. Besides I was a foreigner. The children used to laugh at me at first, and they even went so far as to throw stones at me when they saw me kiss Marie. I only kissed her once in my life. No, no, don't laugh. The prince hastened to suppress the smiles of his audience at this point. It was not a matter of love at all. If only you knew what a miserable creature she was, you would have pitied her just as I did. She belonged to our village. Her mother was an old, old woman, and they used to sell string and thread and soap and tobacco out of the window of their little house, and lived by the pittance they gained by this trade. The old woman was ill, and very old, and could hardly move. Marie was her daughter, a girl of twenty, weak and thin and consumptive, but still she did heavy work at the houses around day by day. Well, one fine day a commercial traveller betrayed her and carried her off, and a week later he deserted her. She came home dirty, draggled, and shoeless. She had walked for a whole week without shoes. She had slept in the fields and caught a terrible cold. Her feet were swollen and sore, and her hands torn and scratched all over. She never had been pretty even before, but her eyes were quiet, innocent, kind eyes. She was very quiet always, and I remember once when she had suddenly begun singing at her work, everyone said, Marie tried to sing to-day, and she got so chuffed that she was silent for ever after. She had been treated unkindly in the place before, but when she came back now, ill and shunned and miserable, not one of them all had the slightest sympathy for her. Cruel people! Oh, what hazy understandings they have on such matters! Her mother was the first to show the way. She received her rothfully, unkindly, and with contempt. You have disgraced me," she said. She was the first to cast her into ignominy, but when they all heard that Marie had returned to the village, they ran out to see her and crowded into the little cottage. Old men, children, women, girls. Such a hurrying, stamping, greedy crowd. Marie was lying on the floor at the old woman's feet, hungry, torn, draggled, crying, miserable. When everyone crowded into the room, she hid her face in her dishevelled hair and lay cowering on the floor. Everyone looked at her as though she were a piece of dirt off the road. The old men scolded and condemned, and the young ones laughed at her. The women condemned her, too, and looked at her contemptuously, just as if she were some loathsome insect. Her mother allowed all this to go on and nodded her head and encouraged them. The old woman was very ill at that time, and knew she was dying. She really did die a couple of months later. And though she felt the end approaching, she never thought of forgiving her daughter to the very day of her death. She would not even speak to her. She made her sleep on straw in a shed, and hardly gave her food enough to support life. Marie was very gentle to her mother, and nursed her and did everything for her. But the old woman accepted all her services without a word, and never showed her the slightest kindness. Marie bore all this, and I could see when I got to know her that she thought it quite right and fitting, considering herself the lowest and meanest of creatures. When the old woman took to her bed finally, the other old women in the village sat with her by turns as the custom is there, and then Marie was quite driven out of the house. They gave her no food at all, and she could not get any work in the village. None would employ her. The men seemed to consider her no longer a woman. They said such dreadful things to her. Sometimes on Sundays, if they were drunk enough, they used to throw her a penny or two into the mud, and Marie would silently pick up the money. She had begun to spit blood at that time. At last her rags became so tattered and torn that she was ashamed of appearing in the village any longer. The children used to pelt her with mud, so she begged to be taken on as an assistant cowherd. But the cowherd would not have her. Then she took to helping him without leave, and he saw how valuable her assistance was to him, and did not drive her away again. On the contrary, he occasionally gave her the remnants of his dinner, bread and cheese. He considered that he was being very kind. When the mother died, the village parson was not ashamed to hold Marie up to public derision and shame. Marie was standing at the coffin's head, in all her rags, crying. A crowd of people had collected to see how she would cry. The parson, a young fellow ambitious of becoming a great preacher, began his sermon and pointed to Marie. "'There,' he said, "'there is the cause of the death of this venerable woman,' which was a lie, because she had been ill for at least two years. There she stands before you and dares not lift her eyes from the ground, because she knows that the finger of God is upon her. Look at her tatters and rags, the badge of those who lose their virtue! Who is she? Her daughter!' And so on to the end. And just fancy, this infamy pleased them, all of them nearly. Only the children had altered, for then they were all on my side, and had learned to love Marie. This is how it was. I had wished to do something for Marie. I longed to give her some money, but I never had a farthing while I was there. But I had a little diamond pin, and this I sold to a travelling peddler. He gave me eight francs for it. It was worth at least forty. I long sought to meet Marie alone, and at last I did meet her, on the hillside beyond the village. I gave her the eight francs, and asked her to take care of the money, because I could get no more. And then I kissed her, and said that she was not to suppose I kissed her with any evil motives, or because I was in love with her, for that I did so solely out of pity for her, and because from the first I had not accounted her as guilty, so much as unfortunate. I longed to console and encourage her somehow, and to assure her that she was not the low base thing which she and others strove to make out. But I don't think she understood me. She stood before me dreadfully ashamed of herself, and with downcast eyes, and when I had finished she kissed my hand. I would have kissed hers, but she drew it away. Just at this moment the whole troupe of children saw us. I found out afterwards that they had long kept a watch upon me. They all began whistling and clapping their hands, and laughing at us. Marie ran away at once, and when I tried to talk to them they threw stones at me. All the village heard of it the same day, and Marie's position became worse than ever. The children would not let her pass now in the streets, but annoyed her and threw dirt at her more than before. They used to run after her, she racing away with her poor feeble lungs, panting and gasping, and they pelting her and shouting abuse at her. Once I had to interfere by force, and after that I took to speaking to them every day and whenever I could. Occasionally they stopped and listened, but they teased Marie all the same. I told them how unhappy Marie was, and after a while they stopped their abuse of her, and let her go by silently. Little by little we got into the way of conversing together, the children and I. I concealed nothing from them, I told them all. They listened very attentively, and soon began to be sorry for Marie. At last some of them took to saying good morning to her, kindly, when they met her. It is the custom there to salute any one you meet with good morning, whether acquainted or not. I can imagine how astonished Marie was at these first greetings from the children. Once two little girls got hold of some food and took it to her, and came back and told me. They said she had burst into tears, and that they loved her very much now. Very soon after that they all became fond of Marie, and at the same time they began to develop the greatest affection for myself. They often came to me, and begged me to tell them stories. I think I must have told stories well, for they did so love to hear them. At last I took to reading up interesting things on purpose to pass them on to the little ones, and this went on for all the rest of my time there, three years. Later when everyone, even Schneider, was angry with me for hiding nothing from the children, I pointed out how foolish it was, for they always knew things, only they learnt them in a way that soiled their minds, but not so from me. One only has to remember one's own childhood to admit the truth of this, but nobody was convinced. It was two weeks before her mother died that I kissed Marie, and when the clergyman preached that sermon the children were all on my side. When I told them what a shame it was of the parson to talk as he had done, and explained my reason, they were so angry that some of them went and broke his windows with stones. Of course I stopped them, for that was not right, but all the village heard of it, and how I caught it for spoiling the children. Everyone discovered now that the little ones had taken to being fond of Marie, and their parents were terribly alarmed. But Marie was so happy. The children were forbidden to meet her, but they used to run out of the village to the herd and take her food and things, and sometimes just ran off there and kissed her, and said, Je vous aime, Marie, and then trotted back again. They imagined that I was in love with Marie, and this was the only point on which I did not un-deceive them, for they got such enjoyment out of it, and what delicacy and tenderness they showed. In the evening I used to walk to the waterfall. There was a spot there which was quite closed in and hidden from view by large trees, and to this spot the children used to come to me. They could not bear that their dear Léon should love a poor girl without shoes to her feet, and dressed all in rags and tatters. So would you believe it? They actually clubbed together somehow, and bought her shoes and stockings, and some linen, and even a dress. I can't understand how they managed it, but they did it all together. When I asked them about it, they only laughed and shouted, and the little girls clapped their hands and kissed me. I sometimes went to see Marie secretly, too. She had become very ill and could hardly walk. She still went with the herd, but could not help the herdsmen any longer. She used to sit on a stone near, and wait there almost motionless all day till the herd went home. Her consumption was so advanced, and she was so weak, that she used to sit with closed eyes, breathing heavily. Her face was as thin as a skeleton's, and Sweat used to stand on her white brow in large drops. I always found her sitting just like that. I used to come up quietly to look at her, but Marie would hear me, open her eyes, and tremble violently as she kissed my hands. I did not take my hand away, because it made her happy to have it, and so she would sit and cry quietly. Sometimes she tried to speak, but it was very difficult to understand her. She was almost like a madwoman, with excitement and ecstasy, whenever I came. Occasionally the children came with me. When they did so, they would stand some way off and keep guard over us, so as to tell me if anybody came near. This was a great pleasure to them. When we left her, Marie used to relapse at once into her old condition, and sit with closed eyes and motionless limbs. One day she could not go out at all, and remained at home all alone in the empty hut. But the children very soon became aware of the fact, and nearly all of them visited her that day as she lay alone and helpless in her miserable bed. For two days the children looked after her, and then, when the village people got to know that Marie was really dying, some of the old women came and took it in turns to sit by her and look after her a bit. I think they began to be a little sorry for her in the village at last. At all events they did not interfere with the children any more on her account. Marie lay in a state of uncomfortable delirium the whole while. She coughed dreadfully. The old women would not let the children stay in the room, but they all collected outside the window each morning, if only for a moment, and shouted, Bonjour, notre bonne Marie! And Barino soon a court sight of, or heard them, and she became quite animated at once, and in spite of the old women would try to sit up and nod her head and smile at them, and thank them. The little ones used to bring her nice things and sweets to eat, but she could hardly touch anything. Thanks to them, I assure you, the girl died almost perfectly happy. She almost forgot her misery, and seemed to accept their love as a sort of symbol of pardon for her offence, though she never ceased to consider herself a dreadful sinner. Marie used to flutter at her window, just like little birds, calling out, Noutement, Marie! She died very soon. I had thought she would live much longer. The day before her death I went to see her for the last time, just before sunset. I think she recognised me, for she pressed my hand. Next morning they came and told me that Marie was dead. The children could not be restrained now. They went and covered her coffin with flowers, and put a wreath of lovely blossoms on her head. The pastor did not throw any more shameful words at the poor dead woman. But there were very few people at the funeral. However, when it came to carrying the coffin, all the children rushed up to carry it themselves. Of course they could not do it alone, but they insisted on helping, and walked alongside and behind, crying. They have planted roses all round her grave, and every year they look after the flowers, and make Marie's resting place as beautiful as they can. I was in ill odour after all this with the parents of the children, and especially with the parson and schoolmaster. Schneider was obliged to promise that I should not meet them and talk to them, but we conversed from a distance by signs, and they used to write me sweet little notes. Afterwards I came closer than ever to those little souls, but even then it was very dear to me to have them so fond of me. Schneider said that I did the children great harm by my pernicious system. What nonsense that was! And what did he mean by my system? He said afterwards that he believed I was a child myself, just before I came away. You have the form and face of an adult, he said, but as regards soul and character, and perhaps even intelligence, you are a child in the completest sense of the word, and always will be if you live to be sixty. I laughed very much, for of course that is nonsense. But it is a fact that I do not care to be among grown-up people, and much prefer the society of children. However kind people may be to me, I never feel quite at home with them, and am always glad to get back to my little companions. Now my companions have always been children, not because I was a child myself once, but because young things attract me. On one of the first days of my stay in Switzerland I was strolling about alone and miserable, when I came upon the children rushing noisily out of school with their slates and bags and books, their games, their laughter and shouts, and my soul went out to them. I stopped and laughed happily as I watched their little feet moving so quickly. Troubles and boys, laughing and crying, for as they went home many of them found time to fight and make peace, to weep and play. I forgot my troubles in looking at them, and then all those three years I tried to understand why men should be forever tormenting themselves. I lived the life of a child there, and thought I should never leave the little village. Indeed I was far from thinking that I should ever return to Russia. But at last I recognized the fact that Schneider could not keep me any longer. And then something so important happened that Schneider himself urged me to depart. I'm going to see now if I can get good advice about it. Perhaps my lot in life will be changed, but that is not the principal thing. The principal thing is the entire change that has already come over me. I left many things behind me, too many. They have gone. On the journey I said to myself, I am going into the world of men. I don't know much, perhaps, but a new life has begun for me. I made up my mind to be honest and steadfast in accomplishing my task. Perhaps I shall meet with troubles and many disappointments, but I have made up my mind to be polite and sincere to everyone. More cannot be asked of me. People may consider me a child if they like. I am often called an idiot. And at one time I certainly was so ill that I was nearly as bad as an idiot. But I am not an idiot now. How can I possibly be so when I know myself that I am considered one? When I received a letter from those dear little souls while passing through Berlin, I only then realised how much I loved them. It was very, very painful getting that first little letter. How melancholy they had been when they saw me off! For a month before they had been talking of my departure and sorrowing over it. And at the waterfall of an evening when we parted for the night they would hug me so tight and kiss me so warmly, far more so than before. And every now and then they would turn up one by one when I was alone, just to give me a kiss and a hug to show their love for me. The whole flock went with me to the station, which was about a mile from the village, and every now and then one of them would stop to throw his arms round me, and all the little girls had tears in their voices, though they tried hard not to cry. As the train steamed out of the station I saw them all standing on the platform waving to me and crying, Hurrah, till they were lost in the distance. I assure you, when I came in here just now and saw your kind faces, I can read faces well. My heart felt light for the first time since that moment of parting. I think I must be one of those who were born to be in luck, for one does not often meet with people whom one feels he can love from the first sight of their faces, and yet no sooner do I step out of the railway carriage than I happen upon you. I know it is more or less a shame-faced thing to speak of one's feelings before others, and yet here am I talking like this to you, and am not a bit ashamed or shy. I am an unsociable sort of fellow, and shall very likely not come to see you again for some time, but don't think the worse of me for that. It is not that I do not value your society, and you must never suppose that I have taken offence at anything. You asked me about your faces and what I could read in them. I will tell you with the greatest pleasure. You, Adelaide Ivanovna, have a very happy face. It is the most sympathetic of the three. Not to speak of your natural beauty, one can look at your face and say to oneself, She has the face of a kind sister. You are simple and merry, but you can see into another's heart very quickly. That's what I read in your face. You too, Alexandra Ivanovna, have a very lovely face, but I think you may have some secret sorrow. Your heart is undoubtedly a kind, good one, but you are not merry. There is a suspicion of shadow in your face, like in that of Holbein's Madonna, in Dresden. So much for your face, have I guessed right? As for your face, Lisaveta Prokofievna, I not only think, but I'm perfectly sure, that you are an absolute child, in all, in all mind, both good and bad, and in spite of your years. Don't be angry with me for saying so. You know what my feelings for children are. And do not suppose that I am so candid out of pure simplicity of soul. Oh, dear, no! It is by no means the case. Perhaps I have my own very profound object in view. End of Part 1, Chapter 6