THE IDIOT
The man who now entered the room was about fifty years old, with
a pale, attenuated face pitted with smallpox, long grey hair, and
a scanty beard of a reddish hue. Likewise he was so tall that, on
coming through the doorway, he was forced not only to bend his
head, but to incline his whole body forward. He was dressed in a
sort of smock that was much torn, and held in his hand a stout
staff. As he entered he smote this staff upon the floor, and,
contracting his brows and opening his mouth to its fullest
extent, laughed in a dreadful, unnatural way. He had lost the
sight of one eye, and its colourless pupil kept rolling about and
imparting to his hideous face an even more repellent expression
than it otherwise bore.
"Hullo, you are caught!" he exclaimed as he ran to Woloda with
little short steps and, seizing him round the head, looked at it
searchingly. Next he left him, went to the table, and, with a
perfectly serious expression on his face, began to blow under the
oil-cloth, and to make the sign of the cross over it, "O-oh,
what a pity! O-oh, how it hurts! They are angry! They fly from
me!" he exclaimed in a tearful choking voice as he glared at
Woloda and wiped away the streaming tears with his sleeve, His
voice was harsh and rough, all his movements hysterical and
spasmodic, and his words devoid of sense or connection (for he
used no conjunctions). Yet the tone of that voice was so
heartrending, and his yellow, deformed face at times so sincere
and pitiful in its expression, that, as one listened to him, it
was impossible to repress a mingled sensation of pity, grief, and
fear.
This was the idiot Grisha. Whence he had come, or who were his
parents, or what had induced him to choose the strange life which
he led, no one ever knew. All that I myself knew was that from
his fifteenth year upwards he had been known as an imbecile who
went barefooted both in winter and summer, visited convents, gave
little images to any one who cared to take them, and spoke
meaningless words which some people took for prophecies; that
nobody remembered him as being different; that at, rate intervals
he used to call at Grandmamma's house; and that by some people
he was said to be the outcast son of rich parents and a pure,
saintly soul, while others averred that he was a mere peasant
and an idler.
At last the punctual and wished-for Foka arrived, and we went
downstairs. Grisha followed us sobbing and continuing to talk
nonsense, and knocking his staff on each step of the staircase.
When we entered the drawing-room we found Papa and Mamma walking
up and down there, with their hands clasped in each other's, and
talking in low tones. Maria Ivanovna was sitting bolt upright in
an arm-chair placed at tight angles to the sofa, and giving some
sort of a lesson to the two girls sitting beside her. When Karl
Ivanitch entered the room she looked at him for a moment, and
then turned her eyes away with an expression which seemed to say,
"You are beneath my notice, Karl Ivanitch." It was easy to see
from the girls' eyes that they had important news to communicate
to us as soon as an opportunity occurred (for to leave their
seats and approach us first was contrary to Mimi's rules). It was
for us to go to her and say, "Bon jour, Mimi," and then make her
a low bow; after which we should possibly be permitted to enter
into conversation with the girls.
What an intolerable creature that Mimi was! One could hardly say
a word in her presence without being found fault with. Also
whenever we wanted to speak in Russian, she would say, "Parlez,
donc, francais," as though on purpose to annoy us, while, if
there was any particularly nice dish at luncheon which we wished
to enjoy in peace, she would keep on ejaculating, "Mangez, donc,
avec du pain!" or, "Comment est-ce que vous tenez votre
fourchette?" "What has SHE got to do with us?" I used to think
to myself. "Let her teach the girls. WE have our Karl Ivanitch."
I shared to the full his dislike of "certain people."
"Ask Mamma to let us go hunting too," Katenka whispered to me,
as she caught me by the sleeve just when the elders of the family
were making a move towards the dining-room.
"Very well. I will try."
Grisha likewise took a seat in the dining-room, but at a little
table apart from the rest. He never lifted his eyes from his
plate, but kept on sighing and making horrible grimaces, as he
muttered to himself: "What a pity! It has flown away! The dove
is flying to heaven! The stone lies on the tomb!" and so forth.
Ever since the morning Mamma had been absent-minded, and Grisha's
presence, words, and actions seemed to make her more so.
"By the way, there is something I forgot to ask you," she said,
as she handed Papa a plate of soup,
"What is it?"
"That you will have those dreadful dogs of yours tied up, They
nearly worried poor Grisha to death when he entered the
courtyard, and I am sure they will bite the children some day."
No sooner did Grisha hear himself mentioned that he turned
towards our table and showed us his torn clothes. Then, as he went
on with his meal, he said: "He would have let them tear me in
pieces, but God would not allow it! What a sin to let the dogs
loose--a great sin! But do not beat him, master; do not beat him!
It is for God to forgive! It is past now!"
"What does he say?" said Papa, looking at him gravely and
sternly. "I cannot understand him at all."
"I think he is saying," replied Mamma, "that one of the
huntsmen set the dogs on him, but that God would not allow him to
be torn in pieces, Therefore he begs you not to punish the man."
"Oh, is that it? " said Papa, "How does he know that I intended
to punish the huntsman? You know, I am pot very fond of fellows
like this," he added in French, "and this one offends me
particularly. Should it ever happen that--"
"Oh, don't say so," interrupted Mamma, as if frightened by some
thought. "How can you know what he is?"
"I think I have plenty of opportunities for doing so, since no
lack of them come to see you--all of them the same sort, and
probably all with the same story."
I could see that Mamma's opinion differed from his, but that she
did not mean to quarrel about it.
"Please hand me the cakes," she said to him, "Are they good to-
day or not?"
"Yes, I AM angry," he went on as he took the cakes and put them
where Mamma could not reach them, "very angry at seeing
supposedly reasonable and educated people let themselves be
deceived," and he struck the table with his fork.
"I asked you to hand me the cakes," she repeated with
outstretched hand.
"And it is a good thing," Papa continued as he put the hand
aside, "that the police run such vagabonds in. All they are good
for is to play upon the nerves of certain people who are already
not over-strong in that respect," and he smiled, observing that
Mamma did not like the conversation at all. However, he handed
her the cakes.
"All that I have to say," she replied, "is that one can hardly
believe that a man who, though sixty years of age, goes
barefooted winter and summer, and always wears chains of two
pounds' weight, and never accepts the offers made to him to live
a quiet, comfortable life--it is difficult to believe that such a
man should act thus out of laziness." Pausing a moment, she added
with a sigh: "As to predictions, je suis payee pour y croire, I
told you, I think, that Grisha prophesied the very day and hour
of poor Papa's death?"
"Oh, what HAVE you gone and done?" said Papa, laughing and
putting his hand to his cheek (whenever he did this I used to
look for something particularly comical from him). "Why did you
call my attention to his feet? I looked at them, and now can eat
nothing more."
Luncheon was over now, and Lubotshka and Katenka were winking at
us, fidgeting about in their chairs, and showing great
restlessness. The winking, of course, signified, "Why don't you
ask whether we too may go to the hunt?" I nudged Woloda, and
Woloda nudged me back, until at last I took heart of grace, and
began (at first shyly, but gradually with more assurance) to ask
if it would matter much if the girls too were allowed to enjoy
the sport. Thereupon a consultation was held among the elder
folks, and eventually leave was granted--Mamma, to make things
still more delightful, saying that she would come too,
