you written that?" He paused, took a pinch of snuff, and began again:
"Die grausamste ist die Un-dank-bar-keit [The most cruel of all passions
is ingratitude.] a capital U, mind."
The last word written, I looked at him, for him to go on.
"Punctum" (stop), he concluded, with a faintly perceptible smile, as he
signed to us to hand him our copy-books.
Several times, and in several different tones, and always with an
expression of the greatest satisfaction, did he read out that sentence,
which expressed his predominant thought at the moment. Then he set us
to learn a lesson in history, and sat down near the window. His face did
not look so depressed now, but, on the contrary, expressed eloquently
the satisfaction of a man who had avenged himself for an injury dealt
him.
By this time it was a quarter to one o'clock, but Karl Ivanitch never
thought of releasing us. He merely set us a new lesson to learn. My
fatigue and hunger were increasing in equal proportions, so that I
eagerly followed every sign of the approach of luncheon. First came the
housemaid with a cloth to wipe the plates. Next, the sound of crockery
resounded in the dining-room, as the table was moved and chairs placed
round it. After that, Mimi, Lubotshka, and Katenka. (Katenka was Mimi's
daughter, and twelve years old) came in from the garden, but Foka (the
servant who always used to come and announce luncheon) was not yet to be
seen. Only when he entered was it lawful to throw one's books aside and
run downstairs.
Hark! Steps resounded on the staircase, but they were not Foka's. Foka's
I had learnt to study, and knew the creaking of his boots well. The door
opened, and a figure unknown to me made its appearance.
V -- THE IDIOT
The man who now entered the room was about fifty years old, with a pale,
attenuated face pitted with smallpox, long grey hair, and a scanty beard
of a reddish hue. Likewise he was so tall that, on coming through the
doorway, he was forced not only to bend his head, but to incline his
whole body forward. He was dressed in a sort of smock that was much
torn, and held in his hand a stout staff. As he entered he smote this
staff upon the floor, and, contracting his brows and opening his mouth
to its fullest extent, laughed in a dreadful, unnatural way. He had lost
the sight of one eye, and its colourless pupil kept rolling about and
imparting to his hideous face an even more repellent expression than it
otherwise bore.
"Hullo, you are caught!" he exclaimed as he ran to Woloda with little
short steps and, seizing him round the head, looked at it searchingly.
Next he left him, went to the table, and, with a perfectly serious
expression on his face, began to blow under the oil-cloth, and to make
the sign of the cross over it, "O-oh, what a pity! O-oh, how it hurts!
They are angry! They fly from me!" he exclaimed in a tearful choking
voice as he glared at Woloda and wiped away the streaming tears with his
sleeve. His voice was harsh and rough, all his movements hysterical and
spasmodic, and his words devoid of sense or connection (for he used no
conjunctions). Yet the tone of that voice was so heartrending, and his
yellow, deformed face at times so sincere and pitiful in its expression,
that, as one listened to him, it was impossible to repress a mingled
sensation of pity, grief, and fear.
This was the idiot Grisha. Whence he had come, or who were his parents,
or what had induced him to choose the strange life which he led, no
one ever knew. All that I myself knew was that from his fifteenth year
upwards he had been known as an imbecile who went barefooted both in
winter and summer, visited convents, gave little images to any one who
cared to take them, and spoke meaningless words which some people took
for prophecies; that nobody remembered him as being different; that at,
rare intervals he used to call at Grandmamma's house; and that by some
people he was said to be the outcast son of rich parents and a pure,
saintly soul, while others averred that he was a mere peasant and an
idler.
At last the punctual and wished-for Foka arrived, and we went
downstairs. Grisha followed us sobbing and continuing to talk nonsense,
and knocking his staff on each step of the staircase. When we entered
the drawing-room we found Papa and Mamma walking up and down there, with
their hands clasped in each other's, and talking in low tones. Maria
Ivanovna was sitting bolt upright in an arm-chair placed at tight angles
to the sofa, and giving some sort of a lesson to the two girls sitting
beside her. When Karl Ivanitch entered the room she looked at him for a
moment, and then turned her eyes away with an expression which seemed to
say, "You are beneath my notice, Karl Ivanitch." It was easy to see from
the girls' eyes that they had important news to communicate to us as
soon as an opportunity occurred (for to leave their seats and approach
us first was contrary to Mimi's rules). It was for us to go to her
and say, "Bon jour, Mimi," and then make her a low bow; after which we
should possibly be permitted to enter into conversation with the girls.
What an intolerable creature that Mimi was! One could hardly say a word
in her presence without being found fault with. Also whenever we wanted
to speak in Russian, she would say, "Parlez, donc, francais," as though
on purpose to annoy us, while, if there was any particularly nice
dish at luncheon which we wished to enjoy in peace, she would keep on
ejaculating, "Mangez, donc, avec du pain!" or, "Comment est-ce que vous
tenez votre fourchette?" "What has SHE got to do with us?" I used to
think to myself. "Let her teach the girls. WE have our Karl Ivanitch." I
shared to the full his dislike of "certain people."
"Ask Mamma to let us go hunting too," Katenka whispered to me, as she
caught me by the sleeve just when the elders of the family were making a
move towards the dining-room.
"Very well. I will try."
Grisha likewise took a seat in the dining-room, but at a little table
apart from the rest. He never lifted his eyes from his plate, but kept
on sighing and making horrible grimaces, as he muttered to himself:
"What a pity! It has flown away! The dove is flying to heaven! The stone
lies on the tomb!" and so forth.
Ever since the morning Mamma had been absent-minded, and Grisha's
presence, words, and actions seemed to make her more so.
"By the way, there is something I forgot to ask you," she said, as she
handed Papa a plate of soup.
"What is it?"
"That you will have those dreadful dogs of yours tied up. They nearly
worried poor Grisha to death when he entered the courtyard, and I am
sure they will bite the children some day."
No sooner did Grisha hear himself mentioned that he turned towards our
table and showed us his torn clothes. Then, as he went on with his meal,
he said: "He would have let them tear me in pieces, but God would not
allow it! What a sin to let the dogs loose--a great sin! But do not beat
him, master; do not beat him! It is for God to forgive! It is past now!"
"What does he say?" said Papa, looking at him gravely and sternly. "I
cannot understand him at all."
"I think he is saying," replied Mamma, "that one of the huntsmen set
the dogs on him, but that God would not allow him to be torn in pieces.