head of some old gentleman, but suddenly inclining in the opposite direction, towards the German poet, who skipped aside in alarm, it crashed to the ground. A crash, a scream, and the priceless fragments were scattered about the carpet, dismay and astonishment — what was Myshkin’s condition would be hard, and is perhaps unnecessary, to describe! But we must not omit to mention one odd sensation, which struck him at that very minute, and stood out clearly above the mass of other confused and strange sensations. It was not the shame, not the scandal, not the fright, nor the suddenness of it that impressed him most, but his foreknowledge of it! He could not explain what was so arresting about that thought, he only felt that it had gripped him to the heart, and he stood still in a terror that was almost superstitious! Another instant and everything seemed opening out before him; instead of horror there was light, joy, and ecstasy; his breath began to fail him, and . . . but the moment had passed. Thank God, it was not that! He drew a breath and looked about him.
He seemed for a long time unable to understand the fuss that was going on around him, or rather, he understood it perfectly and saw everything, but stood, as it were apart, as though he had no share in it, and, like some one invisible in a fairy-tale, had crept into the room and was watching people, with whom he had no concern though they interested him. He saw them picking up the pieces, heard rapid conversations, saw Aglaia, pale, looking strangely at him, very strangely; there was no trace of hatred, no trace of anger in her eyes, she was looking at him with a frightened expression, but there was so much affection in it and her eyes flashed so at the rest of the company … his heart ached with a sweet pain. At last he saw to his amazement that they had all sat down again and were positively laughing, as though nothing had happened! In another minute the laughter grew louder: they laughed, looking at him, at his dumb stupefaction; but their laughter was friendly and gay. Many of them addressed him, speaking so cordially, Lizaveta Prokofyevna most of all: she spoke laughingly and said something very, very kind. Suddenly he felt General Epanchin slap him amicably on the shoulder. Ivan Petrovitch, too, was laughing, but the old “dignitary” was the most charming and sympathetic of all: he took Myshkin’s hand and with a faint squeeze of it, and a light pat with the other hand, urged him to pull himself together, as though he were talking to a little frightened boy (Myshkin was highly delighted at this), and made him sit down beside him. Myshkin looked with pleasure into his face, and was somehow still unable to speak, his breath failed him; he liked the old man’s face so much.
“What,” he muttered at last, “you really forgive me? You, too, Lizaveta Prokofyevna?”
The laughter was louder than ever. Tears came into Myshkin’s eyes — he could hardly believe in it; he was enchanted.
“It was a fine vase, to be sure. I can remember it here for the last fifteen years, yes . . . fifteen . . .” Ivan Petrovitch was beginning.
“A terrible disaster, indeed! Even a man must come to an end, and all this to-do about a clay pot!” said Lizaveta Prokofyevna, in a loud voice. “Surely you’re not so upset over it, Lyov Nikolayevitch?” she added, with a positive note of apprehension. “Never mind, my dear boy, never mind! You’ll frighten me, really.”
“And you forgive me for everything? For everything, besides the vase?”
Myshkin would have got up from his seat, but the old man drew him again by the arm.
He would not let him go.
“C’est tres curieux et c’est tres serieux!” he whispered across the table to Ivan Petrovitch, speaking, however, rather loudly.
Myshkin may have heard it.
“So I’ve not offended anyone? You can’t think how happy I am at the notion, but that was bound to be so! Could I possibly offend anyone here? I should be offending you again, if I could think such a thing.”
“Calm yourself, my dear boy, this is all exaggerated. And there’s nothing for you to be so grateful about. That’s an excellent feeling, but exaggerated.”
“I’m not thanking you, I am only . . . admiring you, I’m happy looking at you. Perhaps I’m talking nonsense, but I must speak, I must explain … if only from self-respect….”
All he said and did was spasmodic, confused, feverish. It is quite likely that the words he uttered were often not those he intended to use. His eyes seemed to ask whether he might speak. His glance fell upon Princess Byelokonsky.
“It’s all right, my dear boy, go on, go on, only don’t be in such haste,” she observed. “You began in such a breathless hurry just now, and you see what came of it; but don’t be afraid to talk. These ladies and gentlemen have often seen queerer folk than you. They won’t be surprised at you. And you are not so very remarkable, either. You’ve done nothing but break a vase and given us all a fright.”
Myshkin listened to her, smiling.
“Why, it was you,” he began, addressing the old “dignitary,”
“it was you who saved a student called Podkumov and a clerk called Shvabrin from exile three months ago.”
The old man positively flushed a little, and muttered that he must calm himself.
“And, I think it’s you, I’ve heard,” he turned at once to Ivan Petrovitch, “who gave your peasants timber to rebuild their huts when they were burnt out, though they were free and had given you a lot of trouble?”
“Oh, that’s ex-ag-gera-ted,” muttered Ivan Petrovitch, though with anairof dignified pleasure.
But this time it was true that Myshkin’s words were “exaggerated”; it was only an incorrect rumour that had reached him.
“And did not you,” he went on, addressing Princess Byelokonsky, “receive me six months ago in Moscow, as though I had been your own son, when Lizaveta Prokofyevna wrote to you? And, exactly as though I had been your own son, you gave me one piece of advice which I shall never forget. Do you remember?”
“Why are you in such a state?” said Princess Byelokonsky, with vexation. “You’re a good-natured fellow but absurd. If some one gives you a halfpenny you thank him as though he had saved your life. You think it praiseworthy, but it’s disgusting.”
She was on the verge of being angry, but suddenly burst out laughing, and this time her laughter was good-humoured. Lizaveta Prokofyevna’s face brightened too; General Epanchin beamed.
“I said that Lyov Nikolayevitch was a man … a man … if only he wouldn’t be in such a hurry, as the princess observed. . . .” General Epanchin murmured in rapture, repeating Princess Byelokonskys words, which had struck him.
Only Aglaia seemed mournful, but there was a flush perhaps of indignation in herface.
“He really is very charming,” the old man muttered again to Ivan Petrovitch.
“I came here with anguish in my heart,” Myshkin went on, with increasing emotion, speaking more and more quickly, more and more queerly and eagerly. “I… I was afraid of you, afraid of myself too. Of myself most of all. When I came back here to Petersburg, I determined that I would see the best people, the people of old family, of ancient lineage, to which I belong myself, among whom I am in the front rank by birth. Now, I’m sitting with princes like myself, am I not? I wanted to get to know you, and it was necessary, very, very necessary! . . . I’ve always heard too much that was bad about you, more than what was qood; of vour pettiness, the exclusiveness of your interests, your stagnation, your shallow education, and your ridiculous habits. Oh, so much is said and written about you! I came here to-day with curiosity, with excitement. I wanted to see for myself and make up my own mind whether this upper crust of Russian society is really good for nothing and has out-lived its time, is drained of its ancient life and only fit to die, but still persists in a petty, endless strife with the men … of the future, getting in their way and not conscious that it is dying itself. I did not quite believe in this view before, because there never has been an upper class amongst us, except, perhaps, the courtiers, by uniform or. . . by accident, and now it has quite disappeared. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not right at all,” said Ivan Petrovitch, smiling ironically.
“There, he’s off again!” said Princess Byelokonsky, losing patience.
“Laissez le dire, he’s trembling all over,” the old man warned them in an undertone.
Myshkin had completely lost control of himself.
“And what do I find? I find people elegant, simple-
hearted, and clever. I meet an old man who is ready to listen to a boy like me and be kind to him. I find people ready to understand and to forgive, Russian, and kind-hearted, almost as kind and warm-hearted as I met there, and almost their equals. You can judge what a delightful surprise it is! Oh, do let me put it into words! I had heard so often and fully believed myself that society was nothing but manners, and antiquated forms, and that all reality was extinct. But I see now for myself that that cannot be so among us; that may be anywhere else but not in Russia. Can you all be