The Idiot (54 page)

Here he choked again, and began to cough.

‘Well, is that all? Is that all now, have you said it all? Well, now go to bed, you have a fever,’ Lizaveta Prokofyevna broke in impatiently, not taking her restless gaze off him. ‘Oh, merciful Lord! He’s still talking!’

‘I think you’re laughing, aren’t you? Why are you all laughing at me? I’ve noticed that you’re constantly laughing at me,’ he suddenly addressed Yevgeny Pavlovich anxiously and irritably; the latter really was laughing.

‘I merely wanted to ask you, Mr ... Ippolit ... forgive me, I’ve forgotten your surname.’

‘Mr Terentyev,’ said the prince.

‘Yes, Terentyev, thank you, Prince, they told me earlier, but it slipped my mind... I wanted to ask you, Mr Terentyev, if it’s true what I heard, that you believe you need only talk out of the window to the common folk
for a quarter of an hour and they will instantly agree with you in everything and instantly follow you?’

‘It may very well be that I said that...’ replied Ippolit, as though remembering something. ‘Yes, I certainly did!’ he added suddenly, growing animated again and giving Yevgeny Pavlovich a firm look. ‘But what of it?’

‘Nothing at all; I merely asked in order to be informed, for the sake of completeness.’

Yevgeny Pavlovich fell silent, but Ippolit still looked at him in impatient expectation.

‘Well, have you finished, then?’ Lizaveta Prokofyevna addressed Yevgeny Pavlovich. ‘Hurry up and finish, sir, it’s time he went to bed. Or do you not know how?’ (She was in a dreadful state of vexation.)

‘I must admit that I wouldn’t mind adding,’ Yevgeny Pavlovich continued, with a smile, ‘that all I have heard from your companions, Mr Terentyev, and all you have expounded just now, and with such indubitable talent, comes down, in my opinion, to a theory of the triumph of right, over everything else and in spite of everything else, and even to the exclusion of everything else, and even, perhaps, before the analysis of what that right consists in. Perhaps I’m mistaken?’

‘Of course you’re mistaken, I don’t even understand what you mean ... go on.’

There was also a murmur of protest from the corner. Lebedev’s nephew muttered something in an undertone.

‘There’s not really much more to go on with,’ Yevgeny Pavlovich continued. ‘I merely wished to observe that it’s a short hop from there to the concept of might is right, that is, to the right of the individual fist and the individual will, as it has often turned out in the way of the world - as a matter of fact, Proudhon
¹
was in favour of the principle of might is right. In the American War
²
many of the foremost liberals came out in support of the plantation owners, on the grounds that the Negroes were Negroes, inferior to the white race, and so the principle of might is right favoured the whites...’

‘Well?’

‘So, in other words, you don’t deny that might is right?’

‘Go on.’

‘You certainly are consistent, I’ll say that; I merely wished to observe that from the principle of might is right it’s a short step to the right of tigers and crocodiles, and even to the right of a Danilov or a Gorsky.’

‘I don’t know about that; but go on.’

Ippolit was hardly listening to Yevgeny Pavlovich, to whom he seemed to be saying “well” and “go on” more from an old acquired habit in conversation than from any particular attention or curiosity.

‘There’s nothing more ... that’s all.’

‘Actually, I’m not angry with you,’ Ippolit suddenly concluded quite unexpectedly and, not really fully conscious of what he was doin
g, extended his hand, even with a smile. Yevgeny Pavlovich was at first astonished, but touched the hand extended to him with a most serious look, as though he were receiving forgiveness.

‘I cannot help adding,’ he said in the same ambiguously respectful tone, ‘my gratitude to you for the consideration with which you have allowed me to speak, because, as I have seen from my numerous observations, our liberals are never able to allow anyone else to have their own opinion without replying at once to their opponents’ abuse, or even worse...’

‘That’s absolutely true,’ observed the general, Ivan Fyodorovich, and, putting his hands behind his back, with a look of the utmost boredom retreated to the exit from the veranda, where he yawned with vexation.

‘Well, that’s enough from you, sir,’ Lizaveta Prokofyevna suddenly announced to Yevgeny Pavlovich. ‘I’m fed up with you all...’

‘It’s time to go.’ Ippolit suddenly got to his feet looking anxious and almost in alarm, gazing around him perplexedly. ‘I’ve detained you; I wanted to tell you everything... I thought that everyone... for the last time... it was a fantasy...’

It was clear that he was returning to life in bursts, suddenly, for a few moments, emerging from something that was almost a state of delirium, suddenly remembering and speaking with full consciousness, for the most part in fragments, phrases that he had invented and learned by heart, perhaps, during the long, dreary hours of his illness, on his bed, in his solitude and insomnia.

‘Well, goodbye!’ he suddenly said, sharply. ‘Do you think it’s easy for me to say “goodbye” to you? Ha-ha!’ he laughed with vexed irony at his own ‘awkward’ question and suddenly, as though in a fit of anger that he was not going to be able to say what he wanted to, said loudly and irritably: ‘Your excellency! I have the honour of inviting you to my funeral, if you will do me such an honour, and... all of you, ladies and gentlemen, after the general! ...’

He began to laugh again; but now it was the laughter of a madman. Lizaveta Prokofyevna moved towards him in alarm, and caught him by the arm. He looked at her fixedly, with the same laugh, which did not, however, continue but seemed to halt and freeze on his face.

‘Do you know that I came here to see the trees? Those ones, there...’ (He pointed to the trees in the park.) ‘That’s not ridiculous, is it? I mean, there’s nothing ridiculous about it?’ he asked Lizaveta Prokofyevna seriously, and suddenly began to reflect; then, a moment later, raised his head and began to search the crowd with interest. He was looking for Yevgeny Pavlovich, who was standing not very far away, to the right, in the same place as before - but now he had forgotten this and kept searching around. ‘Ah, you’re still here!’ he found him, at last. ‘You kept laughing just now about my wanting to speak out of a window for a quarter of an hour ... But you know, I’m not eighteen: I’ve lain on that pillow so long, and have looked out of that window so long, and have thought so much ...
about everyone ... that ... A dead man has no age, you know. I thought about that only last week when I woke up one night ... And do you know what you’re afraid of most of all? It’s our sincerity you’re most afraid of, even though you despise us! That’s another thing I thought as I lay on my pillow that night ... Do you think I wanted to laugh at you just now, Lizaveta Prokofyevna? No, I wasn’t laughing at you, I simply wanted to give you some praise ... Kolya said that the prince called you a child ... that’s good ... Yes, what was it ... there was something else I was going to ...’

He covered his face with his hands and fell into reflection.

‘That’s it: as you were saying goodnight just now, I suddenly thought: here are these people, and they will never exist any more, never! And the trees, too - there will only be a brick wall, the red one, Meyer’s house ... opposite my window ... well, and tell them about all that ... go on, try and tell them; here’s a beautiful girl ... I mean, you’re dead, introduce yourself as a corpse, say that “a corpse can say anything” ... and that Princess Marya Alexevna won’t scold,
³
ha-ha! You’re not laughing?’ he looked at them all suspiciously. ‘But you know, a lot of thoughts came to me on that pillow ... you know, I’ve become convinced that nature is very given to mocking ... You said just now that I’m an atheist, but you know that this nature ... Why are you laughing again? You’re terribly cruel!’ he said suddenly with sad indignation, looking round at them all. ‘I’ve not been corrupting Kolya,’ he concluded in a completely different tone, serious and with conviction, as though he had suddenly also remembered this.

‘No one, no one here is laughing at you, calm yourself!’ Lizaveta Prokofyevna was almost in torment. ‘Tomorrow a new doctor will arrive; the other one was wrong; but sit down, you can hardly stand! You’re delirious ... Oh, what are we going to do with him now!’ she fussed, sitting him down in the armchair. A teardrop gleamed on her cheek.

Ippolit stopped, as if in shock, raised his hand, timidly reached out and touched this teardrop. He smiled a sort of childish smile.

‘I ... you ...’ he began joyfully, ‘you don’t know how I ... how he always spoke of you in such rapture, Kolya there ... I love his rapture. I have not been corrupting him! I am only leaving him ... I wanted to leave everyone, everyone - but there was no one, no one ... I wanted to be a man of public action, I had the right ... Oh, how many things I wanted! I don’t want anything now, I don’t want to want anything, I promised myself I wouldn’t want anything any more; let them, let them seek the truth without me! Yes, nature is given to mocking! Why does she,’ he suddenly caught up heatedly, ‘why does she create the very finest beings just in order to mock them? Was it she who made it so that the only being who was acknowledged on earth for his perfection ... was it she who made it so that, having shown him to people, she destined him to say things on account of which so much blood was shed that if it were shed all at once people would probably have drowned in it? Oh, it’s good that I am dying! I would also probably have uttered some horrible lie, nature would ha
ve betrayed me like that! ... I haven’t been corrupting anyone ... I wanted to live for the happiness of all people, for the revelation and the proclamation of the truth ... I looked out of the window at Meyer’s wall and thought of speaking for only a quarter of an hour, and convincing everyone, everyone, and for once in my life I’ve met ... you, if not the people! And what has come of it? Nothing! What’s come of it is that you despise me! That means I’m superfluous, that means I’m a fool, that means it’s time I went! And I haven’t been able to leave one single memory behind! Not a sound, not a trace, not a single deed, I haven’t spread a single conviction!
⁴
... Don’t laugh at a stupid fool! Forget him! Forget it all ... forget it, please don’t be so cruel! Do you know, if this consumption hadn’t happened along, I’d have killed myself ...’

It seemed that there was much he still wanted to say, but he did not finish, flung himself into his armchair, covered his face with his hands and began to weep like a little child.

‘Well, now what are we supposed to do with him?’ exclaimed Lizaveta Prokofyevna, leaped over to him, seized his head and pressed it hard as hard could be against her bosom. He was sobbing convulsively. ‘There, there, there! There, don’t cry, there, enough, you’re a good boy, God will forgive you, because of your ignorance; there, that’s enough, be a man ... What’s more, you’ll feel ashamed ...’

‘Back there at home,’ said Ippolit, making an effort to raise his head, ‘I have a brother and sisters, children, young, poor, innocent ...
She
will corrupt them! You are a saint, you ... yourself are a child - save them! Tear them away from that woman ... she ... shame ... Oh, help them, help them, God will reward you a hundredfold, in the name of God, in the name of Christ! ...’

‘Well, Ivan Fyodorovich, tell me what I’m to do now!’ Lizaveta Prokofyevna exclaimed irritably. ‘Please be so good as to break your majestic silence! If you don’t decide, then I think you ought to know that I shall stay the night here, you’ve tyrannized me long enough with your autocracy!’

Lizaveta Prokofyevna asked the question with feeling and anger, and expected an immediate reply. In such circumstances, however, those present, even if there are many of them, usually respond with silence and passive curiosity, reluctant to commit themselves, and only express their thoughts long afterwards. Among those present were also some who were ready to sit there until morning, if necessary, without saying a word, like Varvara Ardalionovna, for example, who had been sitting all evening at a slight distance, listening all the while with intense interest, perhaps having reasons for this.

‘My opinion, my dear,’ said the general, ‘is that what we need now, so to speak, is a sick-nurse rather than all this agitation, and, perhaps, a reliable, sober person for the night. At any rate, we must ask the p
rince and ... give him some peace without delay. Then tomorrow we may examine the matter again.’

‘It’s twelve o’clock now, and we’re leaving. Is he coming with us, or is he staying with you?’ Doktorenko addressed the prince irritably and angrily.

‘If you like, you can stay with him, too,’ said the prince. ‘There’s room.’

‘Your excellency,’ Mr Keller darted up to the general unexpectedly and enthusiastically, ‘if a reliable person is required for the night, I’m ready to make a sacrifice for a friend ... he’s such a wonderful fellow! I have long considered him a great man, your excellency! It’s true that I’ve neglected my education, but if he criticizes me, it’s as though pearls, pearls were scattered, your excellency! ...’

The general turned away in despair.

‘I’ll be very glad if he stays. Of course, it’s difficult for him to travel,’ the prince declared in response to Lizaveta Prokofyevna’s irritable questions.

‘You’re not asleep, are you? I mean, if you don’t want him here, sir, I’ll take him home with me! Merciful Lord, why, he can hardly stand on his feet! What’s wrong, are you feeling ill?’

That evening, not finding the prince on his deathbed, Lizaveta Prokofyevna really had much exaggerated the satisfactory condition of his health, judging by his external appearance, but the recent illness, the painful memories that had accompanied it, the tiredness caused by the busy evening, the incident with ‘Pavlishchev’s son’, the incident now with Ippolit - all this had really excited the prince’s morbid impressionability almost to the point of fever. But, what was more, in his eyes there was now another worry, a fear, even; he stared at Ippolit warily, as though he expected something further from him.