Dostoevsky idiot part nine read in large print.

PART ONE.

I.

At the end of November, during the thaw, at about nine in the morning, the Petersburg-Warsaw train railway was approaching St. Petersburg at full speed. It was so damp and foggy that it was difficult for it to dawn; ten steps away, to the right and left of the road, it was difficult to see anything from the windows of the carriage. Some of the passengers were returning from abroad; but the sections for the third class were more filled, and all with small and business people, not from very far away. Everyone, as usual, was tired, everyone’s eyes were heavy during the night, everyone was cold, everyone’s faces were pale yellow, the color of the fog. In one of the third-class carriages, at dawn, two passengers found themselves facing each other, right next to the window - both young people, both almost light, both not smartly dressed, both with rather remarkable physiognomies, and both who finally wanted to enter into conversation with each other. If they both knew about each other, why they were especially remarkable at that moment, then, of course, they would have been surprised that chance had so strangely placed them opposite each other in the third-class carriage of the St. Petersburg-Warsaw train. One of them was short, about twenty-seven, curly and almost black-haired, with gray, small but fiery eyes. His nose was broadly flattened, his face was cheekbones; thin lips constantly folded into some kind of insolent, mocking and even evil smile; but his forehead was high and well formed and brightened up the ignoblely developed lower part of his face. Particularly noticeable in this face was his deathly pallor, which gave his whole physiognomy young man an emaciated appearance, despite a rather strong build, and at the same time something passionate, to the point of suffering, which did not harmonize with his impudent and rude smile and his sharp, self-satisfied gaze. He was warmly dressed in a wide, fleece, black, covered sheepskin coat, and did not feel cold during the night, while his neighbor was forced to endure on his shivering back all the sweetness of the damp November Russian night, for which, obviously, he was not prepared. He was wearing a rather wide and thick cloak without sleeves and with a huge hood, just like what travelers often wear in winter, somewhere far abroad, in Switzerland, or, for example, in Northern Italy, without counting, of course. , at the same time at such ends along the road as from Eidkunen to St. Petersburg. But what was suitable and completely satisfactory in Italy turned out to be not entirely suitable in Russia. The owner of the cloak with a hood was a young man, also about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, slightly taller than average, very fair, thick hair, with sunken cheeks and a light, pointed, almost completely white beard. His eyes were large, blue and intent; in their gaze there was something quiet, but heavy, something full of it a strange expression by which some guess at first glance that a subject is suffering from epilepsy. The young man’s face, however, was pleasant, thin and dry, but colorless, and now even blue-cold. In his hands dangled a skinny bundle made of an old, faded foulard, which seemed to contain all his travel property. On his feet were thick-soled shoes with boots - everything was not in Russian. The black-haired neighbor in a covered sheepskin coat looked at all this, partly because he had nothing to do, and finally asked with that indelicate grin in which people’s pleasure at the failures of their neighbor is sometimes so unceremoniously and carelessly expressed: “Is it chilly?” And he shrugged his shoulders. “Very,” he answered. neighbor with extreme readiness - and note, this is still a thaw. What if it was frosty? I didn't even think it was so cold here. Out of habit. - From abroad or what? - Yes, from Switzerland. - Phew! Hey, you!.. The black-haired man whistled and laughed. A conversation ensued. The readiness of the blond young man in a Swiss cloak to answer all the questions of his dark-skinned neighbor was amazing and without any suspicion of complete negligence, inappropriateness and idleness of other questions. Answering, he announced, among other things, that he had indeed not been in Russia for a long time, too much for four years, that he had been sent abroad due to illness, some strange nervous illness, something like epilepsy or Witt’s dance, some tremors and convulsions. Listening to him, the black man grinned several times; He laughed especially when, in response to the question: “Well, were they cured?” - the blond one answered that “no, they weren’t cured.” - Heh! They must have overpaid the money for nothing, but we trust them here,” the black man sarcastically remarked. The real truth! - a poorly dressed gentleman sitting nearby, something like a clerical official, about forty years old, strongly built, with a red nose and acne-stained face, got involved in the conversation: - the real truth, sir, only all the Russian forces are transferred to themselves for nothing! “Oh, how wrong you are in my case,” the Swiss patient picked up in a quiet and reconciling voice; - Of course, I can’t argue, because I don’t know everything, but my doctor gave me one of his last ones to pay for the journey here, and he supported me there for almost two years at his own expense. - Well, there was no one to pay or what? - asked the black man. - Yes, Mr. Pavlishchev, who kept me there, died two years ago; I later wrote here to Generalsha Epanchina, my distant relative, but received no answer. So I came with that. “Where have you come?” “That is, where will I stay?.. I don’t know yet, really... so...” Haven’t decided yet? And both listeners laughed again. “And I suppose in this bundle all your essence is? - asked the black man. “I’ll bet it’s so,” he picked up with extreme looking pleased red-nosed official, - and that there is no further luggage in the baggage cars, although poverty is not a vice, which again cannot be ignored. It turned out that this was also the case: the blond young man immediately admitted this with extraordinary haste. “Your bundle still has some significance,” the official continued, when they had laughed their fill (it is remarkable that the owner of the bundle himself finally began to laugh, looking at them, which increased their gaiety), “and although one might bet that there is no consists of gold, foreign bundles with Napoleons and Fredericksdors, below with Dutch Arabs, which can still be concluded, if only from the boots that cover your foreign shoes, but... if you add to your bundle such a supposed relative, like, approximately, General Epanchina, then the bundle will take on some other meaning, of course, only if General Epanchina is really your relative, and you are not mistaken, due to absent-mindedness... which is very, very characteristic of a person, well, at least... from an excess of imagination.- Oh, “You guessed right again,” the blond young man picked up, “after all, I’m really almost mistaken, that is, almost not a relative; so much so that I really wasn’t at all surprised then that they didn’t answer me there. That's what I was waiting for. - They spent the money on franking the letter for nothing. Hm... at least they are simple-minded and sincere, and this is commendable! Hm... we know General Epanchin, sir, actually because he is a well-known person; and the late Mr. Pavlishchev, who supported you in Switzerland, was also known, sir, if only it was Nikolai Andreevich Pavlishchev, because they were two cousins. The other one was still in the Crimea, and Nikolai Andreevich, the deceased, was a respectable man with connections, and at one time they had four thousand souls, sir... - That’s right, his name was Nikolai Andreevich Pavlishchev, - and, having answered, the young man looked attentively and inquisitively Mr. know-it-all. These gentlemen know-it-alls are found sometimes, even quite often, in a certain social stratum. They know everything, all the restless inquisitiveness of their minds and abilities rush uncontrollably in one direction, of course, in the absence of more important ones. vital interests and views, as a modern thinker would say. By the word “everyone knows” we must understand, however, a rather limited area: where does such and such serve? who he knows, how much wealth he has, where he was governor, who he was married to, how much he took for his wife, who is his cousin, who is his second cousin, etc., etc., and everything like that. For the most part these know-it-alls walk around with skinned elbows and receive a salary of seventeen rubles a month. People about whom they know all the ins and outs, of course, would not have figured out what interests guide them, and yet many of them are positively consoled by this knowledge, which is equal to an entire science, and achieve self-respect and even the highest spiritual contentment. And science is seductive. I have seen scientists, writers, poets, political figures who found and found their highest reconciliation and goals in this same science, even making a positive career just by doing so. Throughout this entire conversation, the dark-skinned young man yawned, looked aimlessly out the window and looked forward to the end of the journey. He was somehow absent-minded, something very absent-minded, almost alarmed, he even became somehow strange: sometimes he listened and did not listen, he looked and did not look, he laughed and sometimes he himself did not know and did not remember why he was laughing. And excuse me, with whom I have the honor... - the acne-covered gentleman suddenly turned to the blond young man with a bundle. “Prince Lev Nikolaevich Myshkin,” he answered with complete and immediate readiness. “Prince Myshkin?” Lev Nikolaevich? I don't know, sir. So I haven’t even heard, sir,” the official answered thoughtfully, “that is, I’m not talking about the name, the name is historical, stories can and should be found in Karamzin, I’m talking about the face, sir, and the princes Myshkins are nowhere to be found.” does not occur, even the rumor has died down, sir. - Oh, of course! - the prince immediately answered: - there are no Myshkin princes at all now, except for me; I think I'm the last one. As for our fathers and grandfathers, they were also our fellow palace owners. My father, however, was a second lieutenant in the army, one of the cadets. But I don’t know how General Epanchina ended up also being one of the Myshkin princesses, also the last of her kind... - He-he-he! The last of its kind! Hehe! “How did you turn this around,” the official chuckled. The black man grinned too. The blond man was somewhat surprised that he managed to say quite a bad pun, however. “Imagine, I said it without thinking at all,” he finally explained in surprise. “Yes, I understand, sir, I understand,” the official assented cheerfully. - Why, prince, did you study science there, from a professor? - the black man suddenly asked. - Yes... I studied... - But I’ve never studied anything. - But I, too, only do something,” the prince added, almost in apology. - Due to illness, they did not find it possible to teach me systematically. - Do you know the Rogozhins? - the black man quickly asked. “No, I don’t know, not at all.” I know very few people in Russia. Are you Rogozhin? - Yes, I’m Rogozhin, Parfen. - Parfen? “Aren’t these the same Rogozhins…” the official began with increased importance. “Yes, those very same ones,” the dark-skinned man interrupted him quickly and with impolite impatience, who, however, had never addressed the pimply official at all, but from the very beginning he spoke only to one prince. “Yes... how is this?” - the official was surprised to the point of tetanus and his eyes almost bulged out, whose whole face immediately began to take shape into something reverent and obsequious, even frightened: - this is the same Semyon Parfenovich Rogozhin, hereditary honorary citizen, who died a month ago and two and a half million left to his capital? - How did you know that he left two and a half million to his net capital? - the black man interrupted, not deigning to look at the official this time: - look! (he blinked at him to the prince), and what good does it do them, that they immediately become henchmen? But it’s true that my parent died, and in a month I’m going home from Pskov almost without boots. Neither the scoundrel brother, nor the mother, nor money, nor notification - they sent nothing! Like a dog! I spent the whole month in a fever in Pskov. “And now you have to get a million all at once, and that, at least, oh my God!” - the official clasped his hands. - Well, why should he, please tell me! - Rogozhin nodded at him again irritably and angrily: - I won’t give you a penny, even if you walk upside down in front of me. - And I will, and I will walk. - See! But I won’t give it, I won’t give it, even if you dance for a whole week! - And don’t give it! Serves me right; do not give! And I will dance. I will leave my wife and small children, and I will dance before you. Flatter, flatter! - Fuck you! - the black man spat. “Five weeks ago, just like you,” he turned to the prince, “I ran away to my aunt in Pskov with one bundle from my parent; Yes, he fell ill there with a fever, and he would die without me. Kondrashka was killed. Eternal memory to the deceased, and then he almost killed me to death! Would you believe it, Prince, by God! If I hadn’t run away then, I would have killed him.” “Did you make him angry with something?” - the prince responded, examining the millionaire in a sheepskin coat with some special curiosity. But although there might have been something interesting about the million itself and about receiving the inheritance, the prince was surprised and interested in something else; and for some reason Rogozhin himself was especially willing to take the prince as his interlocutor, although his need for conversation seemed to be more mechanical than moral; somehow more from absent-mindedness than from simplicity; from anxiety, from excitement, just to look at someone and rattle on with his tongue about something. It seemed that he was still in a fever, and at least in a fever. As for the official, he hung over Rogozhin, didn’t dare to breathe, caught and weighed every word, as if he were looking for a diamond. “He got angry, he got angry, yes, maybe he should have,” Rogozhin answered, “but he’s worse than me.” My brother has just arrived. There is nothing to say about mother, she is an old woman, reads the Chetya-Minea, sits with old women, and whatever Senka-brother decides, so be it. Why didn’t he let me know at the time? We understand, sir! It’s true, I had no memory then. They also say that the telegram was sent. Yes, a telegram to your aunt and come. And she has been a widow there for thirty years and still sits with the holy fools from morning to night. A nun is not a nun, and even worse. She was scared of the telegrams, but without printing them out, she submitted them to the unit, and so they lay there until now. Only Konev, Vasily Vasilich, helped out and wrote everything down. At night, the brother cut cast gold tassels from the brocade cover on the coffin of his parent: “They say how much money they cost.” But he can go to Siberia for this alone if I want, because it is sacrilege. Hey you, scarecrow pea! - he turned to the official. - According to the law: sacrilege? - Sacrilege! Sacrilege! - the official immediately assented. - To Siberia for this? - To Siberia, to Siberia! Immediately to Siberia! “They all think that I’m still sick,” Rogozhin continued to the prince, “and I, without saying a word, slowly, still sick, got into the carriage, and I’m on my way; open the gates, brother Semyon Semyonich! He told the deceased parent about me, I know. And what I really did irritate my parent through Nastasya Filippovna is the truth. I'm alone here. Confused by sin. - Through Nastasya Filippovna? - the official said obsequiously, as if thinking something. - But you don’t know! - Rogozhin shouted at him impatiently. “And I know!” - the official answered triumphantly. “Evona!” Yes, Nastasy Filippovn is not enough! And how impudent you are, I’ll tell you, you creature! Well, that’s how I knew that some kind of creature would immediately hang like that! - he continued to the prince. - Well, maybe I know, sir! - the official fussed: - Lebedev knows! You, your lordship, deign to reproach me, but what if I prove it? And, that same Nastasya Filippovna is through whom your parent wished to inspire you with a viburnum staff, and Nastasya Filippovna is Barashkova, so to speak, even a noble lady, and also a princess in her own way, and she knows with a certain Totsky, with Afanasy Ivanovich, with one exclusively, a landowner and a capitalist, a member of companies and societies, and a great friendship in this regard with General Epanchin leading... - Hey! That's what you are! - Rogozhin was finally really surprised; - ugh, damn, he really knows. - He knows everything! Lebedev knows everything! I, Your Grace, traveled with Aleksashka Likhachev for two months, and also after the death of my parent, and everything, that is, I know all the corners and alleys, and without Lebedev, it came to the point that I couldn’t take a step. Now he is present in the debt department, and then he had the opportunity to know Armance, and Coralia, and Princess Patskaya, and Nastasya Filippovna, and he had the opportunity to know a lot of things. - Nastasya Filippovna? Is she really with Likhachev... - Rogozhin looked at him angrily, even his lips turned pale and trembled. - N-nothing! N-n-nothing! How to eat nothing! - the official caught himself and hurried quickly: - Likhachev couldn’t get there with any, that is, money! No, it's not like Armans. There is only Totsky here. Yes, in the evening in Bolshoi Alivo French theater sitting in his own box. The officers there say all sorts of things to each other, but even they can’t prove anything: “here, they say, this is the same Nastasya Filippovna,” and that’s all, but as for what follows - nothing! Because there is nothing. “This is all the way it is,” Rogozhin confirmed gloomily and frowning, “Zalezhev told me the same thing then.” Then, Prince, I was running across Nevsky Prospect in my father’s third-year-old bekesh, and she came out of the store and got into the carriage. That's how it burned me here. I meet Zalyozhev, he’s no match for me, he walks like a barber’s clerk, with a lorgnette in his eye, and we at our parents’ place were wearing greased boots and were distinguished by eating lean cabbage soup. This, he says, is not your match, this, he says, is a princess, and her name is Nastasya Filippovna, Barashkov’s last name, and she lives with Totsky, and Totsky now doesn’t know how to get rid of her, because he has reached the age of real fifty five, and wants to marry the most beautiful woman in all of St. Petersburg. Then he inspired me that today you can Nastasya Filippovna in Bolshoi Theater see, in the ballet, in his box, in the bonoir, he will sit. For us, as a parent, try to go to the ballet - one reprisal will kill you! However, I quietly ran away for an hour and saw Nastasya Filippovna again; I didn't sleep all that night. In the morning, the deceased gives me two five percent tickets, five thousand each, go and sell them, take seven thousand five hundred to the Andreevs’ office, pay, and present the rest of the change from ten thousand, without going anywhere; I'll be waiting for you. I sold the tickets, took the money, but didn’t go to the Andreevs’ office, but went, without looking anywhere, to an English store, and for everything I chose a couple of pendants, one diamond in each, it’s almost like a nut, four hundred I owed the rubles, I said my name, they believed me. I bring the pendants to Zalyozhev: so and so, let’s go, brother, to Nastasya Filippovna. Let's go. What was under my feet then, what was in front of me, what was on the sides, I don’t know or remember anything. They walked straight into her room and she came out to us. I, that is, did not say then that this was me; and “from Parfen, they say, Rogozhin,” says Zalyozhev, “to you in memory of the meeting of yesterday; deign to accept.” She opened it, looked, grinned: “Thank you,” he said, “to your friend Mr. Rogozhin for his kind attention,” bowed and left. Well, that's why I didn't die then! Yes, if he went, it was because he thought: “It doesn’t matter, I won’t come back alive!” And what was most offensive to me was that this beast Zalyozhev appropriated everything to himself. I’m small in stature, and dressed like a lackey, and I’m standing, silent, staring at her, because I’m ashamed, but he’s in all the fashion, wearing lipstick, and curled, ruddy, a checkered tie, and he’s just crumbling, he’s shuffling around, and She probably accepted him here instead of me! “Well, I say, as soon as we left, don’t you dare even think about me now, you understand!” He laughs: “But somehow you’re going to give a report to Semyon Parfenych now?” True, I wanted to get into the water right then, without going home, but I thought: “It doesn’t matter,” and like a damned person I returned home. - Eh! Wow! - the official grimaced, and even a shiver ran through him: - but the dead man lived not only for ten thousand, but for ten rubles in the next world, - he nodded to the prince. The prince examined Rogozhin with curiosity; it seemed that he was even paler at that moment. - He was living it up! - Rogozhin spoke: - what do you know? “Immediately,” he continued to the prince, “he found out about everything, and Zalyozhev went to chat with everyone he met. My parent took me and locked me upstairs and taught me for a whole hour. “It’s just me,” he says, “preparing you, but I’ll come back to say goodbye to you one more night.” What do you think? The gray-haired man went to Nastasya Filippovna, bowed to her, begged and cried; She finally brought him a box and threw it at him: “Here,” he says, “here are your earrings for you, old beard, and they are now ten times more expensive to me, since Parfen got them from under such a storm.” “Bow,” he says, “and thank Parfen Semenych.” Well, this time, with my mother’s blessing, I got twenty rubles from Seryozhka Protushin, and went to Pskov by car, but arrived with a fever; The old women there began to read out the holy calendar to me, and I was sitting drunk, and then I went to the taverns for the last one, and lay unconscious on the street all night, and by the morning I had a fever, and meanwhile the dogs gnawed them off during the night. I woke up with difficulty. “Well, well, well, now Nastasya Filippovna will sing with us!” - rubbing his hands, the official chuckled: - now, sir, what about pendants! Now we will reward such pendants... “And if you even once say a word about Nastasya Filippovna, then, God forbid, I’ll whip you, even though you went with Likhachev,” Rogozhin screamed, tightly grabbing his hand. “And If you carve it, then you won’t reject it! Seki! He carved it, and thereby captured it... And here we are! Indeed, they were driving into the station. Although Rogozhin said that he left quietly, several people were already waiting for him. They shouted and waved their hats at him. “Look, Zalyozhev is here!” - Rogozhin muttered, looking at them with a triumphant and even seemingly evil smile, and suddenly turned to the prince: “Prince, I don’t know why I fell in love with you.” Maybe because at such a moment he met him, but after all, he met him (he pointed to Lebedev), but he didn’t love him. Come to me, prince. We’ll take these boots off of you, I’ll dress you in a first-class marten fur coat; I’ll sew you a first-rate tailcoat, a white vest, or whatever you want, I’ll fill your pockets full of money and... let’s go to Nastasya Filippovna! Will you come or not? - Listen, Prince Lev Nikolaevich! - Lebedev picked up impressively and solemnly. - Oh, don't miss it! Oh, don’t miss it!.. Prince Myshkin stood up, politely extended his hand to Rogozhin and kindly said to him: “I will come with the greatest pleasure and thank you very much for loving me.” Maybe I’ll even come today if I have time. Because, I’ll tell you frankly, I really liked you yourself, especially when you talked about the diamond pendants. Even before, I liked the pendants, although you have a gloomy face. I also thank you for the dress and fur coat you promised me, because I really will need a dress and a fur coat soon. I don’t have almost a penny of money at the moment. “There will be money, there will be money by the evening, come!” “There will be, there will be,” the official picked up, “by the evening before dawn, there will still be!” “Are you, prince, a big hunter of the female gender?” Tell me earlier! - I n-n-no! I... You may not know, because of my congenital illness, I don’t even know women at all. “Well, if that’s the case,” Rogozhin exclaimed, “you, prince, are turning out to be a holy fool, and God loves people like you!” And God loves such people,” the official picked up. “And you follow me, line,” Rogozhin said to Lebedev, and everyone left the carriage. Lebedev ended up achieving his goal. Soon the noisy gang departed towards Voznesensky Prospekt. The prince had to turn to Liteinaya. It was damp and wet; The prince asked passers-by; the end of the road ahead of him was about three miles away, and he decided to take a cab.

Fedor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky

PART ONE

At the end of November, during a thaw, at about nine in the morning, a train of the St. Petersburg-Warsaw Railway was approaching St. Petersburg at full speed. It was so damp and foggy that it was difficult for it to dawn; ten steps away, to the right and left of the road, it was difficult to see anything from the windows of the carriage. Some of the passengers were returning from abroad; but the sections for the third class were more filled, and all with small and business people, not from very far away. Everyone, as usual, was tired, everyone’s eyes were heavy during the night, everyone was cold, everyone’s faces were pale yellow, the color of the fog.

In one of the third-class carriages, at dawn, two passengers found themselves facing each other, right next to the window - both young people, both carrying almost nothing, both not smartly dressed, both with rather remarkable physiognomies, and both finally wishing to enter each other. with a friend in conversation. If they both knew about each other, why they were especially remarkable at that moment, then, of course, they would have been surprised that chance had so strangely placed them opposite each other in the third-class carriage of the St. Petersburg-Warsaw train. One of them was short, about twenty-seven, curly and almost black-haired, with gray, small but fiery eyes. His nose was broadly flattened, his face was cheekbones; thin lips constantly folded into some kind of insolent, mocking and even evil smile; but his forehead was high and well formed and brightened up the ignoblely developed lower part of his face. Particularly noticeable in this face was his dead pallor, which gave the entire physiognomy of the young man an haggard look, despite his rather strong build, and at the same time something passionate, to the point of suffering, which did not harmonize with his impudent and rude smile and with his sharp, self-satisfied gaze . He was warmly dressed in a wide, fleece, black, covered sheepskin coat, and did not feel cold during the night, while his neighbor was forced to endure on his shivering back all the sweetness of the damp November Russian night, for which, obviously, he was not prepared. He was wearing a rather wide and thick cloak without sleeves and with a huge hood, just like what travelers often wear in winter, somewhere far abroad, in Switzerland, or, for example, in Northern Italy, without counting, of course. , at the same time at such ends along the road as from Eidkunen to St. Petersburg. But what was suitable and completely satisfactory in Italy turned out to be not entirely suitable in Russia. The owner of the cloak with a hood was a young man, also about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, slightly taller than average, very fair, thick hair, with sunken cheeks and a light, pointed, almost completely white beard. His eyes were large, blue and intent; in their gaze there was something quiet, but heavy, something full of that strange expression by which some guess at first glance that a subject is suffering from epilepsy. The young man’s face, however, was pleasant, thin and dry, but colorless, and now even blue-cold. In his hands dangled a skinny bundle made of an old, faded foulard, which seemed to contain all his travel property. On his feet were thick-soled shoes with boots - everything was not in Russian. The black-haired neighbor in the covered sheepskin coat took in all this, partly because he had nothing to do, and finally asked with that indelicate smile in which people’s pleasure at the failures of their neighbor is sometimes so unceremoniously and carelessly expressed:

And he shrugged his shoulders.

“Very,” the neighbor answered with extreme readiness, “and mind you, it’s still a thaw.” What if it was frosty? I didn't even think it was so cold here. Out of habit.

From abroad or what?

Yes, from Switzerland.

Phew! Eck, you!..

The black-haired man whistled and laughed.

A conversation ensued. The readiness of the blond young man in a Swiss cloak to answer all the questions of his dark-skinned neighbor was amazing and without any suspicion of complete negligence, inappropriateness and idleness of other questions. Answering, he announced, among other things, that he had indeed not been in Russia for a long time, too much for four years, that he had been sent abroad due to illness, some strange nervous illness, something like epilepsy or Witt’s dance, some tremors and convulsions. Listening to him, the black man grinned several times; He laughed especially when, in response to the question: “Well, have you been cured?” - the blond answered that “no, they weren’t cured.”

Heh! They must have overpaid the money for nothing, but we trust them here,” the black man remarked sarcastically.

The real truth! - a poorly dressed gentleman sitting nearby, something like a clerical official, about forty years old, strongly built, with a red nose and acne-stricken face, got involved in the conversation: - the true truth, sir, only all the Russian forces are transferred to themselves for nothing!

“Oh, how wrong you are in my case,” the Swiss patient picked up in a quiet and conciliatory voice; - Of course, I can’t argue, because I don’t know everything, but my doctor, one of his last ones, gave me money for the journey here, and supported me there for almost two years at his own expense.

Well, there was no one to pay or what? - asked the black man.

Yes, Mr. Pavlishchev, who kept me there, died two years ago; I later wrote here to Generalsha Epanchina, my distant relative, but received no answer. So that’s what I came with.

Where have you arrived?

That is, where will I stay?.. I don’t know yet, really... so...

Not decided yet?

And both listeners laughed again.

And perhaps your whole essence lies in this bundle? - asked the black man.

I’m willing to bet that it is so,” the red-nosed official picked up with an extremely pleased look, “and that there is no further luggage in the baggage cars, although poverty is not a vice, which again cannot be ignored.

It turned out that this was so: the blond young man immediately and with extraordinary haste admitted it.

“Your bundle still has some significance,” the official continued, when they had laughed their fill (it is remarkable that the owner of the bundle himself finally began to laugh, looking at them, which increased their gaiety), “and although one might bet that there is no consists of gold, foreign bundles with Napoleons and Fredericksdors, below with Dutch Arabs, which can still be concluded, if only from the boots that cover your foreign shoes, but... if you add to your bundle such a supposed relative, like, approximately, General Epanchina, then the bundle will take on some other meaning, of course, only if General Epanchina is really your relative, and you are not mistaken, due to absent-mindedness... which is very, very characteristic of a person, well, at least... from an excess of imagination.

Oh, you guessed right again,” the blond young man picked up, “after all, I’m really almost mistaken, that is, almost not a relative; so much so that I really wasn’t at all surprised then that they didn’t answer me there. That's what I was waiting for.

They spent money on franking the letter for nothing. Hm... at least they are simple-minded and sincere, and this is commendable! Hm... we know General Epanchin, sir, actually because he is a well-known person; and the late Mr. Pavlishchev, who supported you in Switzerland, was also known, sir, if only it was Nikolai Andreevich Pavlishchev, because they were two cousins. The other one is still in the Crimea, and Nikolai Andreevich, the deceased, was a respectable man with connections, and at one time he had four thousand souls, sir...

That’s right, his name was Nikolai Andreevich Pavlishchev,” and, having answered, the young man looked at Mr. know-it-all intently and inquisitively.

These know-it-all gentlemen are sometimes found, even quite often, in a certain social stratum. They know everything, all the restless inquisitiveness of their minds and abilities rush uncontrollably in one direction, of course, in the absence of more important life interests and views, as a modern thinker would say. By the word “everyone knows” we must understand, however, a rather limited area: where does such and such serve? who he knows, how much wealth he has, where he was governor, who he was married to, how much he took for his wife, who is his cousin, who is his second cousin, etc., etc., and everything like that. For the most part, these know-it-alls walk around with skinned elbows and receive a salary of seventeen rubles a month. People about whom they know all the ins and outs, of course, would not have figured out what interests guide them, and yet many of them are positively consoled by this knowledge, which is equal to an entire science, and achieve self-respect and even the highest spiritual contentment. And science is seductive. I have seen scientists, writers, poets, political figures who found and found their highest reconciliation and goals in this same science, even making a positive career just by doing so. Throughout this entire conversation, the dark-skinned young man yawned, looked aimlessly out the window and looked forward to the end of the journey. He was somehow absent-minded, something very absent-minded, almost alarmed, he even became somehow strange: sometimes he listened and did not listen, he looked and did not look, he laughed and sometimes he himself did not know and did not remember what he was laughing at.

Fedor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky

PART ONE

And he shrugged his shoulders.

“Very,” the neighbor answered with extreme readiness, “and mind you, it’s still a thaw.” What if it was frosty? I didn't even think it was so cold here. Out of habit.

From abroad or what?

Yes, from Switzerland.

Phew! Eck, you!..

The black-haired man whistled and laughed.

Heh! They must have overpaid the money for nothing, but we trust them here,” the black man remarked sarcastically.

Well, there was no one to pay or what? - asked the black man.

Yes, Mr. Pavlishchev, who kept me there, died two years ago; I later wrote here to Generalsha Epanchina, my distant relative, but received no answer. So that’s what I came with.

Where have you arrived?

That is, where will I stay?.. I don’t know yet, really... so...

Not decided yet?

And both listeners laughed again.

And perhaps your whole essence lies in this bundle? - asked the black man.

It turned out that this was so: the blond young man immediately and with extraordinary haste admitted it.

To some, the title of Dostoevsky’s novel “The Idiot” may seem too straightforward, even rude. But the fact is that it most accurately reflects original image the main character and at the same time introduces an element of irony into the content of the work. There is evidence that this particular novel was one of the writer’s favorites. It really stands out against the backdrop of other deeply tragic social stories created by Dostoevsky. Of course, here readers will not find a happy ending, but, according to the author himself, main character not a rebellious “denier”, but a “positively beautiful one.” Unfortunately, the handwritten version of the work has not survived to this day, so there is no accurate information about the formation of the characters’ images and the formation storylines in the process of the author’s work on the text of the work a little. There are only three notebooks with preparatory sketches, which the writer began writing down in 1867. Of these, researchers identify about nine different options developed plot. Selected moments future history are also visible in Dostoevsky’s previous works, but the final idea was formed by the author during a long stay abroad. Comparing Russian and Western European lifestyle, he more acutely felt the impact of the ongoing reforms on his compatriots and the need to create a special character. Work on the novel was also completed abroad in 1869. He began publishing in 1868. Separate edition was released only in 1874.

The book “The Idiot” amazes with the grandeur of its concept. Dostoevsky sought, through the prism of the fate of one person and his environment, to show the most complex processes that engulfed the entire society. The writer was concerned about the acute contradictions of Russian reality, when remnants of the past collide or are strangely intertwined with new trends. The author believed that destructive processes that affected the moral aspects of life could be stopped, that renewal would come after them. Let these be too optimistic judgments, because in the end Prince Myshkin loses in a kind of battle for his ideals. But such a person is still necessary for a society “infected” with chaos and experiencing a crisis of consciousness. It is no coincidence that some characters in the novel initially perceived Lev Nikolaevich as a cunning man. It is easier to believe in what is understandable than to realize judgments and lines of behavior that differ sharply from the usual. The image of the main character and the concept of “idiot” are very subtly played out in the work. This is not only the nervous illness (epilepsy) of Prince Myshkin and its catastrophic exacerbation at the end of the novel, but also the essence of the main character, misunderstood by others. A morally ideal hero who sees in people only best qualities, striving to bring peace and harmony to the surrounding reality, for the rest of the participants in the story he is none other than a naive, harmless, unintelligent little man who evokes only pity. But after a closer acquaintance with Lev Nikolaevich, many heroes change their opinion about him, become imbued with sympathy, unconsciously crave his company, as a result, ruining the bright personality with their rash actions.

In addition to the complex issues of the work, we should not forget about other components of the plot. Throughout the narrative, divided into four parts, an intriguing story unfolds before readers. love story, in which many heroes are drawn, with unexpected turns events, with detective elements. On our website it is convenient to read the novel “The Idiot” online in full or download it.

Part one

In one of the third-class carriages, at dawn, two passengers found themselves facing each other, right next to the window - both young people, both carrying almost nothing, both not smartly dressed, both with rather remarkable physiognomies, and both finally wishing to enter each other. with a friend in conversation. If they both knew about each other, why they were especially remarkable at that moment, then, of course, they would have been surprised that chance had so strangely placed them opposite each other in the third-class carriage of the St. Petersburg-Warsaw train. One of them was short, about twenty-seven, curly and almost black-haired, with gray, small but fiery eyes. His nose was wide and flattened, his face was cheekbones; thin lips constantly folded into some kind of insolent, mocking and even evil smile; but his forehead was high and well formed and brightened up the ignoblely developed lower part of his face. Particularly noticeable in this face was his dead pallor, which gave the entire physiognomy of the young man an haggard look, despite his rather strong build, and at the same time something passionate, to the point of suffering, which did not harmonize with his impudent and rude smile and with his sharp, self-satisfied gaze . He was warmly dressed in a wide, fleece, black, covered sheepskin coat, and did not feel cold during the night, while his neighbor was forced to endure on his shivering back all the sweetness of the damp November Russian night, for which, obviously, he was not prepared. He was wearing a rather wide and thick cloak without sleeves and with a huge hood, just like what travelers often wear in winter, somewhere far abroad, in Switzerland, or, for example, in Northern Italy, without counting, of course. , at the same time at such ends along the road as from Eidtkunen to St. Petersburg. But what was suitable and completely satisfactory in Italy turned out to be not entirely suitable in Russia. The owner of the cloak with a hood was a young man, also about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, slightly taller than average, very fair, thick hair, with sunken cheeks and a light, pointed, almost completely white beard. His eyes were large, blue and intent; in their gaze there was something quiet, but heavy, something full of that strange expression by which some guess at first glance that a subject is suffering from epilepsy. The young man’s face, however, was pleasant, thin and dry, but colorless, and now even blue-chilled. In his hands dangled a skinny bundle made of an old, faded foulard, which seemed to contain all his travel property. On his feet were thick-soled shoes with boots - everything was not in Russian. The black-haired neighbor in the covered sheepskin coat took in all this, partly because he had nothing to do, and finally asked with that indelicate smile in which people’s pleasure at the failures of their neighbor is sometimes so unceremoniously and carelessly expressed:

And he shrugged his shoulders.

“Very,” answered the neighbor with extreme readiness, “and mind you, it’s still a thaw.” What if it was frosty? I didn't even think it was so cold here. Out of habit.

- From abroad, or what?

- Yes, from Switzerland.

- Ew! Eck, you!..

The black-haired man whistled and laughed.

A conversation ensued. The readiness of the blond young man in a Swiss cloak to answer all the questions of his dark-skinned neighbor was amazing and without any suspicion of complete negligence, inappropriateness and idleness of other questions. Answering, he announced, among other things, that he had indeed not been in Russia for a long time, more than four years, that he had been sent abroad due to illness, some strange nervous illness, like epilepsy or Witt’s dance, some tremors and convulsions. Listening to him, the black man grinned several times; He laughed especially when, in response to the question: “Well, were they cured?” - the blond answered that “no, they weren’t cured.”

- Heh! They must have overpaid the money for nothing, but we trust them here,” the black man sarcastically remarked.

- The true truth! - a poorly dressed gentleman sitting nearby, something like a clerical official, about forty years old, strongly built, with a red nose and acne-like face, got involved in the conversation, - the true truth, sir, only all the Russian forces are transferred to themselves for nothing!

“Oh, how wrong you are in my case,” the Swiss patient picked up in a quiet and conciliatory voice, “of course, I can’t argue, because I don’t know everything, but my doctor gave me one of his last ones for the journey here, and almost two I kept it there for years at my own expense.

- Well, there was no one to pay, or what? – asked the black man.

– Yes, Mr. Pavlishchev, who kept me there, died two years ago; I later wrote here to Generalsha Epanchina, my distant relative, but received no answer. So that’s what I came with.

-Where have you arrived?

- That is, where will I stay?.. I don’t know yet, really... so...

– Haven’t decided yet?

And both listeners laughed again.

– And perhaps your whole essence lies in this bundle? – asked the black man.

“I’m willing to bet that it is so,” the red-nosed official picked up with an extremely pleased look, “and that there is no further luggage in the baggage cars, although poverty is not a vice, which again cannot be ignored.”

It turned out that this was so: the blond young man immediately and with extraordinary haste admitted it.

“Your bundle still has some significance,” the official continued when they had laughed their fill.