The Idiot (59 page)

To this an extremely simple answer is sometimes given - so simple that no one will even believe such an explanation. To be sure, it is said, everyone in our country has worked in the service or is currently serving, and this has already been going on for two hundred years, on the best German example, from grandfathers to grandsons - but civil servants are the least practical of men, and it has got to the point where abstraction and a lack of practical knowledge have, even quite recently, been considered, even among civil servants themselves, as almost the greatest virtue and recommendation. However, we ought not to be talking about civil servants, we really intended to talk about practical men. There is no doubt that we have always considered timidity and a most complete lack of personal initiative to be the principal and best indicators of the practical man - and they are so considered even now. But why blame only ourselves - if we construe this opinion as an accusation? Lack of originality has always, everywhere, in the whole world, from time immemorial, been considered the primary quality and finest recommendation of the efficient, businesslike and practical man, and at least ninety-nine per cent of men (at the very least) have always shared this view, while only one per cent has viewed, and continues to view, the matter differently.

At the beginning of their careers (and very often at the end of them, too), inventors and geniuses have always been considered in society as not mu
ch more than fools - that is really a most routine observation, all too familiar to everyone. If, for example, for scores of years everyone put their money into a loan bank, depositing billions there at four per cent interest, then, of course, when the loan bank folded and everyone was left to act on their own initiative, the greater part of those billions would be bound to perish in the stock-market fever and the hands of swindlers - and this would even be demanded by decency and decorum. Precisely by decorum; if decorous shyness and a decent lack of originality have until now constituted for us, according to generally received opinion, the inalienable qualities of the businesslike and respectable man, it would be most indecorous and even indecent to so suddenly change it all. What mother, for example, tenderly loving her child, would not be dismayed and sick with fear if her son or daughter were to go off the rails by even the smallest of margins: ‘No, let him be happy and live comfortably, without originality,’ thinks every mother, as she rocks her child. And our nurses, as they rock their children, have wailed and intoned from time immemorial: ‘One day you’ll walk about in gold, the rank of general you’ll hold!’ Thus, even among our nurses the rank of general was considered the acme of Russian happiness and has therefore been the most popular national ideal of peaceful, radiant bliss. And indeed, having passed the examination and served for thirty-five years - which of us would not be able to become generals and amass a certain amount in a loan bank? In this way the Russian, almost without any effort, has at last attained the designation of a businesslike and practical man. In essence only the man who is original, or in other words, the man who is restless, could fail to become a general. There may possibly be some misunderstanding here; but, on the whole, it seems that this is true and our society is quite correct in the way it defines its ideal of the practical man. None the less, we have said much that is superfluous; what we really intended to do was say a few explanatory words about the Yepanchin household, now familiar to us. Those people, or at least the more reasoning members of that household, constantly suffered from a certain family trait they almost all shared, one that was directly opposed to the virtues we were discussing just now, above. Not understanding the true situation completely (because it is difficult to understand), they still sometimes suspected that things in their household did not go as in others. In other households things went smoothly, while in theirs they went rather roughly; others simply rolled along the rails, while they kept falling off the rails. Others were always decorously diffident, while they were not. Lizaveta Prokofyevna, to be sure, was even very apprehensive, but this was not the decorous worldly diffidence for which they yearned. However, perhaps only Lizaveta Prokofyevna was anxious: the girls were still young - though a very shrewd and ironic bunch - while the general, though he was capable of being shrewd (though not without difficulty), in awkward situations merely said: ‘Hmm!’ and ended by placing all his hopes in Lizaveta Prokofyevna. So it was on her that the responsibility lay. And it was not as if, for exa
mple, this family were distinguished by any personal initiative, or fell off the rails out of any conscious inclination towards originality, which would have been quite indecent. Oh no! There was really nothing like that, that is to say, no consciously posited aim, and yet in the end it turned out that the Yepanchin household, though very respected, was none the less somehow not what all respected households ought to be. Recently Lizaveta Prokofyevna had begun to consider herself and her ‘unfortunate character’ to blame for everything - which made her sufferings even greater. She constantly referred to herself as a ‘stupid, indecent eccentric’, and suffered agonies of suspicion, was forever at a loss, unable to see a solution to the most ordinary conflicts, and was forever exaggerating all misfortunes.

Back at the beginning of our story we mentioned that the Yepanchins enjoyed widespread and real respect. Even General Ivan Fyodorovich, a man of obscure descent, was received unquestioningly everywhere with respect. He did indeed deserve respect, in the first place, as a man who was rich and ‘not among the least’, and, in the second place, as a man who was completely honest, though not any too clever. But a certain dullness of mind seems to be an almost indispensable quality if not of every public figure, then at least of every serious accumulator of money. Lastly, the general had decent manners, was modest, knew how to keep silent and at the same time not let anyone tread on his toes, and not just because of his general’s rank, but also as a man of honour and good breeding. Most important of all was that he was a man with powerful patronage. As for Lizaveta Prokofyevna, she, as has already been explained above, was of good family, although in our country family is not paid much regard unless it is accompanied by the necessary connections. But she eventually turned out to have the connections, too; she was respected and, eventually, loved by persons of such standing that after that everyone had no option but to respect and receive her. There is no doubt that the torments of anxiety she endured about her family were groundless, had a trivial cause and were exaggerated to the point of the ridiculous: but if someone has a wart on their nose or their forehead, it really does seem that the only thing anyone in the world wants to do is to look at your wart, laugh at it and condemn you for it, even though you may have discovered America in the meanwhile. There is no doubt either that in society Lizaveta Prokofyevna really was considered an ‘eccentric’; she was also unquestionably respected; but in the end, Lizaveta Prokofyevna began not to believe that she was respected - and that was where all the trouble lay. As she looked at her daughters, she was tormented by the suspicion that she was forever harming their career in some way, that her character was ridiculous, indecent and intolerable - for which, of course, she constantly accused her daughters and Ivan Fyodorovich, and quarrelled with them for whole days on end, while at the same time loving them to the point of self-forgetfulness and almost to the point of passion.

She was tormented most of all by the suspicion that her daughters were becoming ‘eccentrics’ like herself, and that there were no girls like them in society, nor should there be. ‘They’re growing into nihilists, that’s the plain truth of it!’ she would say to herself. During the last year, and especially in the most recent days, this melancholy thought had begun to take an increasing hold of her. ‘In the first place, why don’t they get married?’ she kept asking herself. ‘In order to torment their mother - that’s become the aim of their lives, and it’s all because of these new-fangled ideas, that damned “woman question”! Didn’t Aglaya take it into her head six months ago to cut off her magnificent hair? (Merciful Lord, I never had hair like that in my day!) I mean, the scissors were in her hands, I got down on my knees to beg her not to! ... Well, one must assume she did it out of spite, to torment her mother to the limit, because she’s a wicked girl, self-willed, spoilt, but above all, wicked, wicked, wicked! And didn’t that fat Alexandra compete with her by also cutting off her tresses, and not out of spite, not on caprice, but sincerely, like a fool, because Aglaya had convinced her that she’d sleep better without hair, and her headaches would go? And how many suitors have they had - it’s five years now - how many, how many? And they were really good-looking men, sometimes even the most splendid-looking men! But what are they waiting for, why don’t they marry? Just in order to vex their mother - there can be no other reason! None! None!’

At last the sun was about to rise for her motherly heart; at least one daughter, at least Adelaida, would finally be settled. ‘At least that’s one off our hands,’ said Lizaveta Prokofyevna, when she had to express an opinion on the subject (privately she expressed herself in much gentler fashion). And how well and how properly the whole thing had been handled; people had even begun to talk of it in society with respect. A man of renown, a prince, with a fortune, a man who was good and who in addition to all that was one after her own heart - what, it seemed, could be better? But earlier, too, she had been less afraid about Adelaida than about her other daughters, though her artistic inclinations sometimes ceaselessly troubled Lizaveta Prokofyevna’s doubting heart. ‘But she has a cheerful character, and a lot of common sense besides - so the girl won’t come to grief,’ she comforted herself in the last result. It was Aglaya she worried most about. Incidentally, with regard to her eldest, Alexandra, she did not know what to think: should she be worried about her or not? Now it seemed to her that the girl had quite ‘come to grief’; she was twenty-five - and so she would be left an old maid. And ‘with such beauty! ...’ Lizaveta Prokofyevna even wept for her at nights, while on those same nights Alexandra Ivanovna slept the soundest sleep. ‘But what is she - a nihilist or just a fool?’ That she was not a fool - of that, however, even Lizaveta Prokofyevna was in no doubt: she had exceeding respect for Alexandra Ivanovna’s opinions, and liked
to seek her advice.
²
But that she was a ‘wet hen’ - of that there was no doubt: ‘she’s so placid that one can’t shake her out of slumber! As a
matter of fact, even “wet hens” aren’t placid. Fie! They really do exasperate me!’ Lizaveta Prokofyevna had a kind of inexplicable compassion and sympathy for Alexandra, more even than for Aglaya, whom she idolized. But her splenetic outbursts (in which, above all, her maternal concern and sympathy were manifested), her teasing, such names as ‘wet hen’, only made Alexandra laugh. It sometimes got to the point that the most trivial things would make Lizaveta Prokofyevna terribly angry and throw her into a rage. For example, Alexandra Ivanovna was fond of sleeping for a very long time and usually had many dreams; but her dreams were always characterized by a kind of extraordinary triviality and innocence - they would have been right for a seven-year-old child; and so, even the innocence of these dreams began to irritate her mother for some reason. Once Alexandra Ivanovna had a dream about nine hens, and it caused a regular quarrel between her and her mother, why it was hard to explain. Once, only once, she succeeded in dreaming something that seemed original - she dreamed about a monk, on his own in some dark room she was frightened to enter. The dream was at once reported in triumph to Lizaveta Prokofyevna by the two laughing sisters; but their mother got angry again and called all three of them fools. ‘Hm! Placid as a fool, and I mean she’s an utter “wet hen”, one can’t shake her out of bed in the morning, yet she’s melancholy, sometimes she looks really melancholy! What is she grieving about, what?’ Sometimes she would ask Ivan Fyodorovich this question, and in the way she usually did, hysterically, threateningly, expecting an immediate reply. Ivan Fyodorovich would hem and haw, frown, shrug his shoulders and decide, at last, lifting his hands in dismay:

‘She needs a husband!’

‘Only please God may it not be one like you, Ivan Fyodorovich,’ Lizaveta Prokofyevna would explode at last, like a bomb. ‘Not like you in his opinions and verdicts; not a coarse boor like you, Ivan Fyodorovich ...’

Ivan Fyodorovich would immediately withdraw, while Lizaveta Prokyevna calmed down after her ‘explosion’. Of course, towards evening of the same day she would invariably become uncommonly attentive, quiet, affectionate and respectful to Ivan Fyodorovich, her ‘coarse boor Ivan Fyodorovich’, her kind and charming, adored Ivan Fyodorovich, because all her life she had loved her Ivan Fyodorovich, and even been in love with him, something that Ivan Fyodorovich knew very well and because of which he had an infinite respect for his Lizaveta Prokofyevna.

But her principal and constant torment was Aglaya.

‘Exactly like me, exactly, my portrait in every way,’ Lizaveta Prokofyevna would say, ‘the self-willed, nasty little demon! A nihilist, an eccentric, a mad girl, wicked, wicked, wicked! Oh, Lord, how unhappy she’s going to be!’

But, as we have already said, a rising sun began to soften and illuminate everything for a moment. There was almost a month in which she had had a complete rest from all her anxieties. People began to talk abou
t Adelaida’s imminent wedding and also about Aglaya, and in this Aglaya had comported herself so splendidly, so calmly, so cleverly, so triumphantly, with a certain pride; but after all, that suited her so well! So affectionate, so friendly she had been towards her mother for a whole month! (‘It’s true, that Yevgeny Pavlovich needs to be watched very, very closely, he needs to be thoroughly investigated, and Aglaya doesn’t seem to show him much more affection than she does the others!’) Yet she had suddenly become such a wonderful girl - and how pretty, oh Lord, how pretty she was, better from one day to the next! And now ...