The Idiot

"The Idiot" by Aleksandr Kuprin is a poignant novel that explores the life of its protagonist, a simple and kind-hearted man named the Prince Lev Nikolayevich Myshkin, who returns to Russia after spending years in a sanatorium for epilepsy. The story delves into themes of innocence, morality, and the clash between idealism and the harsh realities of society. As Myshkin navigates the complexities of love, social dynamics, and human folly, he becomes a mirror reflecting the weaknesses and vice of those around him. Kuprin's rich prose and deep characterizations invite readers to contemplate the nature of good and evil in a world rife with hypocrisy and struggle.

• Novel

								
We were seated in a little park, driven there by the unbearable heat of
the noonday sun. It was much cooler there than in the streets, where
the paving stones, steeped in the rays of the July sun, burnt the
soles of one's feet, and the walls of the buildings seemed red-hot.
The fine scorching dust of the roadway did not penetrate through the
close border of leafy old limes and spreading chestnuts, the latter
with their long upright pyramids of rosy flowers looking like gigantic
imperial candelabra. The park was full of frolicsome well-dressed
children, the older ones playing with hoops and skipping-ropes, chasing
one another or going together in pairs, their arms entwined as they
walked about with an air of importance, stepping quickly upon the
sidewalk. The little ones played at choosing colours, "My lady sent
me a hundred roubles," and "King of the castle." And then a group of
all the smallest ones gathered together on a large heap of warm yellow
sand, moulding it into buckwheat cakes and Easter loaves. The nurses
stood round in groups, gossiping about their masters and mistresses;
the governesses sat stiffly upright on the benches, deep in their
reading or their needlework.

Suddenly the children stopped their playing and began to gaze intently
in the direction of the entrance gate. We also turned to look. A tall
bearded peasant was wheeling in before him a bath-chair in which sat
a pitiful helpless being, a boy of about eighteen or twenty years,
with a flabby pale face, thick, wet, crimson hanging lips, and the
appearance of an idiot. The bearded peasant pushed the chair past us
and disappeared down a side path. I noticed as he passed that the
enormous sharp-pointed head of the boy moved from side to side, and
that at each movement of the chair it fell towards his shoulder or
dropped helplessly in front of him.

"Poor man!" exclaimed my companion in a gentle voice.

I heard such deep and sincere sympathy in his words that I
involuntarily looked at him in astonishment. I had known Zimina for a
long time--he was a strong, good-natured, jolly, virile type of man
serving in one of the regiments quartered in our town. To tell the
truth, I shouldn't have expected from him such sincere compassion
towards a stranger's misfortune.

"Poor, of course he is, but I shouldn't call him a man," said I,
wishing to get into conversation with Zimina.

"Why wouldn't you?" asked he in his turn.

"Well, it's difficult to say. But surely it's clear to everybody....
An idiot has none of the higher impulses and virtues which distinguish
man from the animal ... no reason or speech or will.... A dog or a cat
possesses these qualities in a much higher degree...."

But Zimina interrupted me.

"Pardon me, please," said he. "I am deeply convinced, on the contrary,
that idiots are not lacking in human instincts. These instincts are
only clouded over ... they exist deep below their animal feelings. ...
You see, I once had an experience which gives me, I think, the right
to say this. The remembrance of it will never leave me, and every time
I see such an afflicted person I feel touched almost to tears.... If
you'll allow me, I'll tell you why the sight of an idiot moves me to
such compassion."

I hastened to beg him to tell his story, and he began.

"In the year 18--, in the early autumn, I went to Petersburg to sit
for an examination at the Academy of the General Staff. I stopped in
the first hotel I came to, at the corner of Nevsky Prospect and the
Fontanka. From my windows I could see the bronze horses on the parapet
of the Anitchka Bridge--they were always wet and gleaming as if they
had been covered over with new oilcloth. I often drew them on the
marble window-seats of my room.

"Petersburg struck me as an unpleasant place, it seemed to be always
enveloped in a melancholy grey veil of drizzling rain. But when
I went into the Academy for the first time I was overwhelmed and
overawed by its grandeur. I remember now its immense broad staircase
with marble balustrades, its high-roofed amphilades, its severely
proportioned lecture-hall, and its waxed parquet floor, gleaming like
a mirror, upon which my provincial feet stepped warily. There were
four hundred officers there that day. Against the modest background
of green Armenian uniforms there flashed the clattering swords of the
Cuirassiers, the scarlet breasts of the Lancers, the white jackets of
the Cavalry Guards, waving plumes, the gold of eagles on helmets, the
various colours of facings, the silver of swords. These officers were
all my rivals, and as I watched them in pride and agitation I pulled
at the place where I supposed my moustache would grow by and by. When
a busy colonel of the General Staff, with his portfolio under his arm,
hurried past us, we shy foot soldiers stepped on one side with reverent
awe.

"The examination was to last over a month. I knew no one in all
Petersburg, and in the evening, returning to my lodging, I experienced
the dulness and wearisomeness of solitude. It was no good talking to
any of my companions; they were all immersed in sines and tangents,
in the qualities determining good positions for a battle ground,
in calculations about the declination of a projectile. Suddenly I
remembered that my father had advised me to seek out in Petersburg our
distant relative, Alexandra Ivanovna Gratcheva, and go and visit her. I
got a directory, found her address, and set out for a place somewhere
on the Gorokhavaya. After some little difficulty I found Alexandra
Ivanovna's room; she was living in her sister's house.

"I opened the door and stood there, hardly seeing anything at first.
A stout woman was standing with her back to me, near the single small
window of dull green glass. She was bending over a smoky paraffin
stove. The room was filled with the odour of paraffin and burning fat.
The woman turned round and saw me, and from a corner a barefooted boy,
wearing a loose-belted blouse, jumped up and ran quickly towards me.
I looked closely at him, and saw at once that he was an idiot, and,
though I did not recoil before him, in reality there was a feeling in
my heart like that of fear. The idiot looked unintelligently at me,
uttering strange sounds, something like oorli, oorli, oorli....

"'Don't be afraid, he won't touch it,' said the woman to the idiot,
coming forward. And then to me--'What can I do for you?' she added.

"I gave my name and reminded her of my father. She was glad to see
me, her face brightened up, she exclaimed in surprise and began to
apologise for not having the room in order. The idiot boy came closer
to me, and cried out more loudly, oorli, oorli....

"'This is my boy, he's been like that from birth,' said Alexandra
Ivanovna with a sad smile. 'What of it.... It's the will of God. His
name is Stepan.'

"Hearing his name the idiot cried out in a shrill, bird-like voice:

"'Papan!'

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes