The Idiot (43 page)

He thought about this as he sat on a bench, under a tree, in the Summer Gardens. It was about seven o’clock. The Gardens were deserted; a darkness clouded the setting sun for a moment. It was oppressive; there was something like the distant premonition of a thunderstorm. In his present contemplative state there was for him a kind of allure. He clung with his memories and mind to each external object, and this pleased him: he kept wanting to forget something, the present, the vital, but at a first glance around him he at once again recognized his gloomy thought, the thought he so much wanted to get rid of. He remembered that earlier he had talked to the waiter at the inn about a recent extremely strange murder that had produced much stir and talk. As soon as he remembered this, however, something peculiar happened to him again.

An extreme, overpowering desire, a temptation almost, suddenly froze his will entirely. He got up from the bench and walked out of the garden straight to the St Petersburg Side. Earlier, on the Neva Embankment, he had asked some passer-by to point out the St Petersburg Side to him across the Neva. The passer-by had pointed it out; but he had not gone there at the time. And in any case there was no point in going today; he knew that. He had had the address for a long time; he could easily locate the house of Lebedev’s female relative; but he knew almost for certain that he would not find her at home. ‘She’ll have gone to Pavlovsk, otherwise Kolya would have left some message at “The Scales”, as we arranged.’ Thus, if he was going there now, it was of course not in order to see her. The curiosity that tempted him was another, gloomy and tormenting. A new, sudden idea had occurred to him ...

But for him it was really more than enough that he was on his way and knew where he was going: a moment later he was again on the move, almost not noticing the route he was taking. To reflect any further on his ‘sudden idea’ at once seemed to him horribly repulsive and almost impossible. With agonizingly strained attention he scrutinized everything that met his eye, stared at the sky, at the Neva. He talked to a small child he met. Perhaps his epileptic condition was growing more and more intense. A storm really did seem to be approaching, though slowly. Distant thunder was already beginning. It was becoming very oppressive ...

For some reason he now kept remembering, as one sometimes remembers a nagging and stupidly tedious musical phrase, Lebedev’
s nephew, whom he had seen earlier. What was strange was that he kept remembering him in the guise of that murderer whom Lebedev had mentioned earlier when introducing his nephew. Yes, he had read about that murderer only very recently. Had read and heard a lot about such things since he had returned to Russia; he had followed it all assiduously. And earlier, in his conversation with the waiter, he had even got too interested in that very same murder of the Zhemarins. The waiter had agreed with him, he remembered that. He remembered the waiter, too; he was a fellow far from stupid, solid and cautious, though ‘goodness only knows. It’s hard to make out new people in a new country.’ In the Russian soul, however, he began to believe passionately. Oh, many, many things that were entirely new to him had he endured in these past six months, things that to him were unguessed-at, unheard-of and unexpected! But the soul of others is darkness, and so is the Russian soul - darkness to many. There was Rogozhin, with whom he had long been associating on close, ‘brotherly’ terms - but did he know Rogozhin? And as a matter of fact, what chaos, what muddle, what disorder there was in all this sometimes! And what a loathsome and self-contented pimple that nephew of Lebedev’s was! Though really, what am I saying? (the prince continued to muse). He didn’t murder those creatures, those six people, did he? I seem to be getting things mixed up ... how strange this is! My head seems to be spinning ... And what a sympathetic, what a charming face Lebedev’s elder daughter has, the one who stood with the baby, what an innocent, what an almost childlike expression and what almost childlike laughter! It was strange that he had almost forgotten that face and only now remembered it. Lebedev, stamping his feet at them, probably adored them all. But what was surer than anything, like two times two, was the fact that Lebedev also adored his nephew!

But then, how could he take it upon himself to judge them so finally, he who had only arrived this morning, how could he pronounce such verdicts? And Lebedev had set him a problem today: well, had he expected Lebedev to be like that? Had he known Lebedev to be like that earlier? Lebedev and Du Barry - good Lord! And in any case, if Rogozhin were to commit murder, he would not do it in such a disorderly fashion. There would be none of that chaos. A murder weapon made to order and six people dispatched in total frenzy! Did Rogozhin have a weapon made to order ... he had ... but ... was it certain that Rogozhin would kill? The prince shuddered suddenly. ‘Is it not a crime, is it not an act of baseness on my part to make such a hypothesis so cynically and openly?’ he exclaimed, and a flush of shame suffused his entire face. He was amazed, he stood in the road like one transfixed. He at once remembered both the Pavlovsk station and the Nikolayevsk station from earlier that day, and his question to Rogozhin, straight to his face, about the
eyes,
and Rogozhin’s cross, which he was wearing now, and the blessing of his mother, to whom Rogozhin himself had brought him, and the last final embrace, Rogozhin’
s final renunciation, earlier, on the staircase - and after that to catch himself in a ceaseless search for something around him, and that shop, and that object ... what baseness! And after all that he was now on his way with a ‘special purpose’, with a special ‘sudden idea’! Despair and suffering seized the whole of his soul. The prince wanted to go back to his room at the hotel immediately; he even turned round and set off; but after a moment he stopped, reflected, and turned back again along his previous route.

Indeed, he was already on the St Petersburg Side, he was close to the house; after all, he was not going there now with his former purpose, nor with his ‘special idea’! And how could that be! Yes, his illness was returning, there was no doubt of it; perhaps he would not avoid a fit today. It was because of the fit that all this darkness had fallen, because of the fit that he had the ‘idea’! Now the darkness was dispersed, the demon banished, no doubts existed, there was joy in his heart! And - it was so long since he had seen her, he had to see her, and ... yes, would like to have met Rogozhin now, he would have taken him by the arm, and they would have gone together ... His heart was pure. How could he be Rogozhin’s rival? Tomorrow he himself would go and tell Rogozhin that he had seen her; after all, he had sped to her, as Rogozhin had said earlier, just in order to see her! Perhaps he would find her at home, after all, it was not certain that she was in Pavlovsk!

Yes, everything now had to be clearly formulated, so that they could all clearly read one another’s thoughts, so that there were no more of these gloomy and passionate renunciations, like Rogozhin’s earlier on, and it should all take place freely and ... in the light. Rogozhin was able to withstand the light, was he not? He said that he did not love her in that way, that he had no compassion, had ‘no pity of that kind’. To be sure, he had added later that ‘your pity may be even stronger than my love’ - but he was slandering himself. Hm, Rogozhin at his book - was that not ‘pity’, the beginnings of ‘pity’? Did not the presence of that book prove that he was fully conscious of his attitude towards
her?
And what about his story earlier on? No, that was rather deeper than mere passion. And did her face only inspire passion? And could even that face inspire passion now? It inspired suffering, it captured the whole of one’s soul, it ... and a burning, agonizing memory suddenly passed through the prince’s heart.

Yes, it was agonizing. He remembered the agony he had recently experienced when he began to notice the signs of madness in her for the first time. Then he had almost felt despair. And how could he have left her, when she left him for Rogozhin? He ought to have run after her, not waited for news. But ... had Rogozhin really not noticed the madness in her yet? ... Hm ... Rogozhin saw different reasons for everything, reasons of passion! And what insane jealousy! What was he trying to say with his offer of that morning? (The prince suddenly blushed, and something seemed to shiver in his heart.)

But why remember this? Here there was insanity on both sides. And for him, the prince, to love this woman passionately was almost unthinkable, would almost amount to cruelty, inhumanity. Yes, yes! No, Rogozhin was slandering himself; he had an enormous heart that was able both to suffer and to have compassion. When he learned the whole truth and when he was convinced what a pitiful creature that damaged, half-witted woman was - would he not forgive her then for all the earlier things, all his torments? Would he not become her servant, brother, friend, Providence? Compassion would impart understanding and instruction even to Rogozhin. Compassion was the principal and, perhaps, the only law of existence for the whole of mankind. Oh, how unforgivably and dishonourably guilty he was before Rogozhin! No, it was not ‘the Russian soul’ that was ‘darkness’, but he himself had darkness in his soul, if he was able to imagine such horror. Because of a few warm and heartfelt words in Moscow, Rogozhin now called himself his brother, and he ... But this was illness and delirium! This would all be resolved! ... How gloomily Rogozhin had said earlier that he was ‘losing his faith’. The man must be suffering intensely. He said that he ‘liked looking at that painting’; not ‘liked’ really, but rather he felt a need to look at it. Rogozhin was not just a passionate soul; he was also a fighter: he wanted to restore his lost faith by force. He needed it now to the point of torment ... Yes! To believe in something! To believe in someone! But how strange that painting of Holbein’s was ... Ah, here is that street! This must be the house, yes, it is, number 16, ‘the house of collegiate secretary’s widow Filosova’. Here! The prince rang the bell and asked for Nastasya Filippovna.

The lady of the house replied to him that Nastasya Filippovna had left that morning for Darya Alexeyevna’s in Pavlovsk, ‘and it may even be, sir, that she will stay there for several days’. Filisova was a small, sharp-eyed and sharp-faced woman of about forty, with a sly, fixed look. To her question about his name - a question to which she intentionally gave a tinge of mystery - the prince at first did not want to reply, but at once returned and insistently asked that his name be given to Nastasya Filippovna. Filisova received this insistency with increased attention and an extraordinarily secretive air, which was evidently meant to convey: ‘Don’t worry, I understand, sir.’ The prince’s name had obviously made a most powerful impression on her. The prince looked at her absent-mindedly, turned and walked back to his hotel. But he came out with a look that was different from the one he had when he rang Filisova’s doorbell. Again, and as if in a single moment, an extraordinary change had come over him: as he walked, he again looked pale, weak, suffering, agitated; his knees were trembling, and a troubled, bewildered smile wandered across his bluish lips: his ‘sudden idea’ had been abruptly confirmed and justified, and - he again believed in his demon!

But had it been confirmed? But had it been justified? Why was there this shivering again, this cold sweat, this darkness and chill in the soul? Bec
ause he had seen those
eyes
again just now? But after all, he had left the Summer Gardens solely in order to see them! For that was what his ‘sudden idea’ was all about. He had insistently wanted to see those ‘eyes of earlier on’, in order to be finally convinced that he could not fail to encounter them
there,
outside this house. This was his convulsive desire, and so why was he so crushed and shocked by having actually seen them just now? As though he had not expected them! Yes, they were
the same
eyes (and that they were
the same ones,
of that there was no longer any doubt!) that had glittered at him that morning, in the crowd, when he had left the train at Nikolayevsk; those same eyes (absolutely the same!) whose gaze he had caught earlier, behind his back, as he sat down on the chair at Rogozhin’s. Rogozhin had denied it earlier: he had asked with a contorted, icy smile: ‘Then whose eyes were they?’ And the prince had felt a dreadful urge, just then, at Tsarskoye Selo station - when he had boarded the train in order to go to Aglaya, and had suddenly seen those eyes again, for the third time that day - to go up to Rogozhin and ask him, ‘Whose eyes were those?‘! But he had fled from the station and only regained his composure in front of the cutler’s shop at the moment when he had stood valuing an object with a deer-horn handle at sixty copecks. The strange and terrible demon had finally attached itself to him and did not want to leave him any more. This demon had whispered to him in the Summer Gardens, as he sat, in oblivion, under a lime tree, that if Rogozhin had found it so necessary to follow him since morning and dog his every step, then, having learned that he was not going to Pavlovsk (which for Rogozhin, of course, would be a fateful piece of information), Rogozhin would certainly go
there,
to that house on the St Petersburg Side, and would certainly lie in wait for him, the prince, there, who that morning had given him his word of honour that he ‘would not see her’, and that he ‘had not come to St Petersburg for that’. And yet here was the prince convulsively rushing off to that house, and what if he did encounter Rogozhin there? He had seen only an unhappy man, whose mental state was gloomy, but very understandable. This unhappy man was not even hiding now. Yes, for some reason Rogozhin had kept his mouth shut earlier and lied, but at the station he had stood there openly, almost without hiding. It was rather he, the prince, who had been hiding, not Rogozhin. And now, outside the house, he stood on the other side of the street, some fifty paces away, at an angle, on the opposite pavement, with his arms folded, waiting. Here he was entirely in view and, it seemed, deliberately wanted to be in view. He stood like an accuser and like a judge, and not like ... Not like what?