The Idiot Page #2

"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

								


"Alexandra Ivanovna patted him caressingly on the shoulder.

"'Yes, yes, Stepan, Stepan.... You see, he guessed we were speaking
about him and so he introduced himself.'

"'Papan!' cried the idiot again, turning his eyes first on his mother
and then on me.

"In order to show some interest in the boy I said to him, 'How do you
do, Stepan,' and took him by the hand. It was cold, puffy, lifeless. I
felt a certain aversion, and only out of politeness went on:

"'I suppose he's about sixteen.'

"'Oh, no,' answered the mother. 'Everybody thinks he's about sixteen,
but he's over twenty-nine. ... His beard and moustache have never
grown.'

"We talked together. Alexandra Ivanovna was a quiet, timid woman,
weighed down by need and misfortune. Her sharp struggle against poverty
had entirely killed all boldness of thought in her and all interest in
anything outside the narrow bounds of this struggle. She complained
to me of the high price of meat, and about the impudence of the cab
drivers; told me of some people who had won money in a lottery, and
envied the happiness of rich people. All the time of our conversation
Stepan kept his eyes fixed on me. He was apparently struck by and
interested in my military overcoat. Three times he put out his hand
stealthily to touch the shining buttons, but drew it back each time as
if he were afraid.

"'Is it possible your Stepan cannot say even one word?' I asked.

"Alexandra Ivanovna shook her head sadly.

"'No, he can't speak. He has a few words of his own, but they're not
really words--just mutterings. For example, he calls himself Papan;
when he wants something to eat he says mnya; he calls money teki.
Stepan,' she continued, turning to her son, 'where is your teki; show
us your teki.'

"Stepan jumped up quickly from his chair, ran into a dark corner, and
crouched down on his heels. I heard the jingling of some copper coins
and the boy's voice saying oorli, oorli, but this time in a growling,
threatening tone.

"'He's afraid,' explained the mother; 'though he doesn't understand
what money is, he won't let anyone touch it ... he won't even let
me.... Well, well, we won't touch your money, we won't touch it,' she
went to her son and soothed him....

"I began to visit them frequently. Stepan interested me, and an idea
came to me to try and cure him according to the system of a certain
Swiss doctor, who tried to cure his feeble-minded patients by the slow
road of logical development. 'He has a few weak impressions of the
outer world and of the connection between phenomena,' I thought. 'Can
one not combine two or three of these ideas, and so give a fourth,
a fifth, and so on? Is it not possible by persistent exercise to
strengthen and broaden this poor mind a little?'

"I brought him a doll dressed as a coachman. He was much pleased with
it, and laughed and exclaimed, showing the doll and saying Papan! The
doll, however, seemed to awaken some doubt in his mind, and that same
evening Stepan, who was usually well-disposed to all that was small and
weak, tried to break the doll's head on the floor. Then I brought him
pictures, tried to interest him in boxes of bricks, and talked to him,
naming the different objects and pointing them out to him. But either
the Swiss doctor's system was not a good one or I didn't know how to
put it into practice--Stepan's development seemed to make no progress
at all.

"He was very fond of me in those days. When I came to visit them he ran
to meet me, uttering rapturous cries. He never took his eyes off me,
and when I ceased to pay him special attention he came up and licked my
hands, my shoes, my uniform, just like a dog. When I went away he stood
at the window for a long time, and cried so pitifully that the other
lodgers in the house complained of him to the landlady.

"But my personal affairs were in a bad way. I failed at the
examination, failed unusually badly in the last but one examination in
fortifications. Nothing remained but to collect my belongings and go
back to my regiment. I don't think that in all my life I shall ever
forget that dreadful moment when, coming out of the lecture-hall, I
walked across the great vestibule of the Academy. Good Lord! I felt
so small, so pitiful and so humbled, walking down those broad steps
covered with grey felt carpet, having a crimson stripe at the side and
a white linen tread down the middle.

"It was necessary to get away as quickly as possible. I was urged to
this by financial considerations--in my purse I had only ten copecks
and one ticket for a dinner at a student's restaurant.

"I thought to myself: 'I must get my "dismissal" quickly and set out
at once. Oh, the irony of that word "dismissal."' But it seemed the
most difficult thing in the world. From the Chancellor of the Academy I
was sent to the General Staff, thence to the Commandant's office, then
to the local intendant, then back to the Academy, and at last to the
Treasury. All these places were open only at special times: some from
nine to twelve, some from three to five. I was late at all of them, and
my position began to appear critical.

"When I used my dinner ticket I had thoughtlessly squandered my ten
copecks also. Next day, when I felt the pangs of hunger, I resolved to
sell my text-books. Thick 'Baron Bego,' adapted by Bremiker, bound,
I sold for twenty-five copecks; 'Professor Lobko' for twenty; solid
'General Durop' no one would buy.

"For two days I was half starved. On the third day there only remained
to me three copecks. I screwed up my courage and went to ask a loan
from some of my companions, but they all excused themselves by
saying there was a Torricellian vacuum in their pockets, and only
one acknowledged having a few roubles, but he never lent money. As
he explained, with a gentle smile, '"Loan oft loses both itself and
friend," as Shakspeare says in one of his immortal works.'

"Three copecks! I indulged in tragic reflections. Should I spend them
all at once on a box of ten cigarettes, or should I wait until my
hunger became unbearable, and then buy bread?

"How wise I was to decide on the latter! Towards evening I was as
hungry as Robinson Crusoe on his island, and I went out on to the
Nevsky Prospect. Ten times I passed and repassed Philipof's the
baker's, devouring with my eyes the immense loaves of bread in the
windows. Some had yellow crust, some red, and some were strewn with
poppy-seed. At last I resolved to go in. Some schoolboys stood there
eating hot pies, holding them in scraps of grey greasy paper. I felt a
hatred against them for their good fortune.

"'What would you like?' asked the shopman.

"I put on an indifferent air, and answered superciliously:

"'Cut me off a pound of black bread....'

"I was far from being at my ease while the man skilfully cut the bread
with his broad knife. And suddenly I thought to myself: 'Suppose it's
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