had disappeared entirely; his incredibly dirty black silk scarf was twisted like a rope. His hands were unwashed, he was fair and his face, which was covered with pimples, had, if one may so express it, an air of innocent insolence. He was about twenty-two, thin and not short. There was not a trace of irony or introspection in his face, nothing but a complete blank conviction of his own rights; and, at the same time, something like a strange and incessant craving to be and feel insulted. He spoke with excitement, hurrying and stuttering, hardly articulating the words, as though he had an impediment in his speech, or even were a foreigner, though he was, as a fact, entirely Russian by birth. He was accompanied, first, by Lebedyev’s nephew, already known to the reader, and, secondly, by Ippolit. The latter was a very young man, seventeen or possibly eighteen, with an intelligent but always irritable expression, and terrible signs of illness in his face. He was thin as a skeleton, pale and yellow, his eyes gleamed and two hectic spots glowed on his cheeks. He coughed incessantly; every word, almost every breath, was followed by gasping. He was evidently in the last stage of consumption. He looked as though he could scarcely live for more than another two or three weeks. He was very tired and before anyone else he sank into a chair. The other visitors were rather ceremonious and even a little embarrassed on entering; they had an important air, however, and were obviously afraid of failing to keep up their dignity in some way, which was strangely out of harmony with their reputation for despising all useless worldly trivialities, conventions and almost everything in the world except their own interests.
“Antip Burdovsky,” said “the son of Pavlishtchev,” in a hurried stutter.
“Vladimir Doktorenko,” Lebedyev’s nephew introduced himself clearly, distinctly, as though boasting of the fact that his name was Doktorenko.
“Keller,” muttered the retired lieutenant.
“Ippolit Terentyev,” squeaked the last of the party in an unexpectedly shrill voice.
All of them were sitting at last on chairs facing Myshkin; they had all introduced themselves, frowned and shifted their caps from one hand to the other to keep themselves in countenance. All of them seemed on the point of speaking, but remained silent, waiting for something with a defiant air, which seemed to say, “no, my friend, you are wrong there, you won’t take us in.” One felt that some one had only to utter one word to start them, and they would all begin talking at once, interrupting and tripping each other up.

Chapter 8

Gentlemen, i did not expect any of you,” Myshkin began, “I’ve been ill to-day, and I asked Gavril Ardalionovitch Ivolgin to deal with your business (he turned to Antip Burdovsky) a month ago, as I informed you at the time. However, I have no objection to a personal explanation, but you must admit that such a time … I suggest you should go with me into another room, if you won’t keep me long. . . . My friends are here now, and believe me . .
“As many friends as you like, but allow us,” Lebedyev’s nephew broke in, in a very reproving tone, though he did not raise his voice, “allow us to point out that you might have treated us more politely, and not have left us waiting two hours in your servants’ room …”
“And of course … I too . . . this is behaving like a prince . . . and this is … I suppose you are the general! But I am not your servant! And I . . . I . . .” Antip Burdovsky muttered, spluttering with extraordinary excitement, with trembling lips and a voice broken with resentment. He seemed suddenly to burst or explode, but was at once in such a hurry that at the tenth word one could not follow him.
“It was like a prince!” Ippolit cried in a shrill cracked voice.
“If I were treated like that,” muttered the boxer, “that is, if it were my personal affair, as a man of honour, if I were in Burdovsky’s place … I…”
“Gentlemen, I only heard this minute that you were here. I assure you.” Myshkin repeated again.
“We are not afraid of your friends, prince, whoever they may be, for we are within our rights,” Lebedyev’s nephew declared again.
“But what right had you, let me ask,” Ippolit squeaked again, by now extremely excited, “to submit Burdovsky’s case to the judgment of your friends; anyone can see what the judgment of your friends would be!”
“But if you don’t wish to speak here, Mr. Burdovsky,” Myshkin succeeded in interpellating at last, staggered by such an opening, “I tell you, let us go into another room at once, and I repeat that I only heard of you all this very minute …”
“But you’ve no right to, you’ve no right, you’ve no right! Your friends. … So there!” Burdovsky gabbled suddenly again, looking wildly and apprehensively about him, and the more shy and mistrustful he was, the more heated he became. “You have no right.”
And having uttered those words he stopped abruptly, as it were with a sudden snap, and fixing his short-sighted, extremely prominent and bloodshot eyes on Myshkin, he stared at him with dumb inquiry, his whole body bent forward. This time Myshkin was so surprised that he too was speechless, and gazed open-eyed, unable to utter a word.
“Lyov Nikolayevitch!” Lizaveta Prokofyevna called to him suddenly, “read this at once, this minute, it has to do with your business.”
She hurriedly held out to him a weekly comic paper, and pointed with her finger at the article. As soon as the visitors came in, Lebedyev had skipped sideways up to Lizaveta Prokofyevna, with whom he was trying to ingratiate himself, and without uttering a word he had pulled this paper out of his side-pocket and had put it just before her eyes, pointing to a marked passage. What Lizaveta Prokofyevna had had time to read had excited and upset her extremely.
“But wouldn’t it be better not aloud,” faltered Myshkin, very much embarrassed, “I could read it alone … afterwards.”
“Then you had better read it, read it at once, aloud!” said Lizaveta Prokofyevna, addressing Kolya, impatiently snatching the paper from Myshkin, almost before he had time to touch it. “Read it aloud to all, so that everyone may hear.”
Lizaveta Prokofyevna was an excitable lady, and readily carried away, so that sometimes she would all of a sudden, without stopping to think, heave all anchors, and launch into the open sea regardless of the weather. Ivan Fyodorovitch moved uneasily. While all involuntarily stopped for the first minute and waited in perplexity, Kolya opened the newspaper and began aloud at the passage which Lebedyev darted up to point out to him:
“Proletarians and noble scions, an episode of daily and everyday robbery! Progress! Reform! Justice!
“Strange things happen in our so-called holy Russia, in our age of reforms and of joint-stock enterprises, the age of national movements and of hundreds of millions of roubles sent abroad every year, the age of encouraging commerce and of the paralysis of industry, and so on and so on, one cannot enumerate all, gentlemen, and so — straight to the point. Here is a strange anecdote about a scion of our decaying nobility (de profundis!), one of those scions whose grandfathers were ruined by roulette, whose fathers have to serve as lieutenants and ensigns in the army, and usually die charged with some innocent misuse of public money; while they themselves, like the hero of our story, either grow up idiots, or are mixed up in criminal cases, in which, however, they are acquitted by the jury in the hope of their reformation, or else they end by perpetrating one of those pranks which amaze the public and disgrace our already degraded age. Our scion, wearing gaiters like a foreigner, and shivering in an unlined cloak, arrived about six months ago in Russia from Switzerland, where he had been under treatment for idiocy (sic!). It must be confessed that he was a lucky fellow, so that — to say nothing of the interesting malady for which he was undergoing treatment in Switzerland (can there be a treatment for idiocy, just imagine!) — he may serve as an illustration of the truth of the Russian proverb that a certain class of persons are lucky. Only think. Left a baby at his father’s death — they say he was a lieutenant, who died while on his trial for a sudden disappearance at cards of all the company’s money, or possibly for an excessive use of the rod on some subordinate (you remember what it was like in old days, gentlemen), our baron was taken and brought up by the charity of a very rich Russian landowner. This Russian landowner — we will call him P. — was the owner in the old golden days of four thousand souls. (The owner of four thousand souls! Do you understand, gentlemen, such an expression? I don’t. One must consult an explanatory dictionary, ‘the tale is new, yet it’s hard to believe!’) He was apparently one of those drones and sluggards who spend their idle lives abroad, in summer at the waters, and in winter at the Parisian Chateau-de-Fleurs, where in the course of their lives they have left incredible sums. One may say with certainty that at least one third of the tribute paid in old days by the serfs went into the pockets of the proprietors of the Parisian Chateau-de-Fleurs (he must have been a fortunate man!).