in speaking to his sister, but was malicious in a different way. And he could hardly have informed Nina Alexandrovna of what he had observed simply in order “to break her heart.” Don’t let us forget that the causes of human actions are usually immeasurably more complex and varied than our subsequent explanations of them. And these can rarely be distinctly defined. The best course for the story-teller at times is to confine himself to a simple narrative of events. And this is the line we will adopt in the rest of our account of the present catastrophe with the general; for, do what we may, it is absolutely inevitable we should bestow rather more space and attention than we had originally proposed on this person of secondary importance in our story.
These events had succeeded one another in the following order.
When Lebedyev on the same day returned with the general from his visit to Petersburg to look for Ferdyshtchenko, he told Myshkin nothing particular. If Myshkin had not been at the time too busy and preoccupied with other impressions of great importance to him, he might soon have noticed that during the two following days Lebedyev, far from giving him any kind of explanation, seemed, for some reason, to be trying to avoid meeting him. When Myshkin did at last turn his attention to the subject, he was surprised that he could not remember during those three days having met Lebedyev in any but the most blissful state of mind,
and almost always in company with the general. They were never apart for a moment. Myshkin sometimes heard the sound of loud and rapid talk and merry laughing dispute from overhead. Once, very late at night, the strains of a martial and Bacchanalian song had suddenly and unexpectedly burst upon his ears, and he recognised at once the husky bass of the general. But the song ceased suddenly before the end. Then for about another hour an extremely animated, and from all signs, drunken conversation followed. It might be conjectured that the friends were embracing one another, and one of them finally began to weep. Then followed a violent quarrel, which also ceased suddenly soon after. All this time Kolya seemed peculiarly preoccupied. Myshkin was generally not at home, and returned sometimes very late. He was always told that Kolya had been looking for him all day, and asking for him. But when they met, Kolya had nothing special to tell him except that he was “dissatisfied” with the general and his goings on at present: “They wander about together, get drunk in a tavern close by, embrace one another and quarrel in the street. They make each other worse, and can’t be parted.” When Myshkin observed that it had been just the same every day before, Kolya was quite unable to find an answer, and could not explain the cause of his present uneasiness.
The morning after the Bacchic song and quarrel, Myshkin was leaving the house about eleven o’clock when he was suddenly confronted by the general, who seemed greatly excited, almost overwhelmed, by something.
“I’ve long been seeking the honour of meeting you, honoured Lyov Nikolayevitch, very long,” he muttered, squeezing Myshkin’s hand very tightly, almost hurting him. “A very, very long time.”
Myshkin begged him to sit down.
“No, I won’t sit down. Besides, I’m keeping you. I’ll come another time. I believe I may take the opportunity of congratulating you on . . . the fulfilment of your heart’s desire.”
“What heart’s desire?”
Myshkin was disconcerted. Like many people in his position he fancied that nobody saw, guessed, or understood anything about him.
“Never mind, never mind! I would not wound your most delicate feelings. I have known them, and I
know what it is when another man . . . pokes his nose … as the saying is . . . where it isn’t wanted. I feel that every morning. I have come about another matter, an important one. A very important matter, prince.”
Myshkin once more begged him to be seated and sat down himself.
“Perhaps for one second. … I have come to ask advice. I have, of course, no practical aim in life, but as I respect myself and . . . business habits in which the Russian as a rule, is so conspicuously deficient.. . . Iwishto place myself and my wife and my children in a position … in fact, prince, I want your advice.”
Myshkin warmly applauded his intention.
“Well, that’s all nonsense,” the general interrupted suddenly, “that’s not what I want to say, but something else, something important. I simply want to explain to you, Lyov Nikolayevitch, as a man in the sincerity of whose heart and the nobility of whose feelings I have complete confidence, as . . . as . . . You are not surprised at my words, prince?”
Myshkin observed his visitor, if not with surprise, at least with extreme attention and curiosity.
The old man was rather pale, his lips quivered slightly at times, his hands seemed unable to find a resting-place. He only remained a few minutes in his seat, and had twice already got up from his chair for some reason, and sat down again, obviously not paying the slightest attention to what he was doing. There were books lying on the table: he took up one, and still talking, glanced at the opened page, shut it again at once, and laid it back on the table, snatched up another book which he did not open, and held it all the rest of the time in his right hand, waving it continually in the air.
“Enough!” he shouted suddenly. “I see that I have been disturbing you shockingly.”
“Oh, not in the least, please go on. Quite the contrary. I’m listening and trying to guess …”
“Prince! I am anxious to gain for myself a position of respect…. I am anxious to respect myself and … my rights.”
“A man animated by such a desire is deserving of respect, if only on that ground.”
The prince brought out his copybook phrase in the firm conviction that it would have an excellent effect. He guessed instinctively that some such hollow but agreeable phrase uttered at the right moment might immediately have an irresistible and soothing influence on the mind of such a man, especially in such a position as the general. In any case it was necessary to send such a visitor away with a lighter heart, and that was the problem.
The phrase flattered and touched and greatly pleased General Ivolgin: he suddenly melted, instantly changed his tone, and went off into a long, enthusiastic explanation. But, however intently Myshkin listened, he could make literally nothing of it. The general talked for ten minutes, heatedly, rapidly, as though he could not get out his crowding thoughts quickly enough. Tears positively shone in his eyes towards the end, yet it was nothing but sentences without beginning or end, unexpected words and unexpected ideas, bursting out rapidly and unexpectedly and stumbling over one another.
“Enough! You have understood me, and I am satisfied,” he concluded, suddenly getting up. “A heart such as yours cannot fail to understand a suffering man. Prince, you are ideally generous. What are other men beside you? But you are young and I bless you. The long and short of it is I came to ask you to appoint an hour for an important conversation with me, and on that I rest my chief hope. I seek for nothing but friendship and sympathy, prince. I have never been able to master the yearnings of my heart.”
“But why not at once? lam ready to listen….”
“No, prince, no!” the general interrupted hotly. “Not now! Now is a vain dream! It is too, too important! Too important! The hour of that conversation will be an hour of irrevocable destiny. That will be my hour, and I should not wish it to be possible for us to be interrupted at such a sacred moment by any chance comer, any impudent fellow, and there are plenty of such impudent fellows.” He bent down suddenly to Myshkin, with a strange, mysterious, and almost frightened whisper. “Such impudent fellows, not worthy the heel.. . of your shoe, adored prince. Oh! I don’t say of my shoe. Note particularly that I don’t refer to my own shoe, for I have too much self-respect to say that straight out. . . but you alone are able to understand that in waiving my heel in such a case I show perhaps the utmost pride of worth. Except you, no one will understand it, he least of all.
He understands nothing, prince; he is utterly, utterly incapable of understanding. One must have a heart to understand!”
At last Myshkin was almost alarmed and he made an appointment with General Ivolgin for the same hour next day.
The latter went out with a confident air, greatly comforted, and almost reassured. In the evening between six and seven Myshkin sent to ask Lebedyev to come to him for a minute.
Lebedyev made his appearance with great alacrity, “esteemed it an honour,” as he began at once on entering. There was not the shadow of a hint that he’d been as it were in hiding for the last three days, and was obviously trying to avoid meeting Myshkin. He sat down on the edge of the chair, with smiles and grimaces, with laughing and watchful little eyes, rubbing his hands and assuming an air of the most naive expectation of hearing something, of receiving some communication of the first importance, long expected and guessed by every one. Myshkin winced again. It became clear to him that every one