The Idiot
A good man in a bad world, and the two women who loved him
Page 1
In the damp grey of a November morning, a train rattled towards St. Petersburg. Inside sat Prince Myshkin, a slender man with gentle blue eyes, returning to Russia after years in a Swiss sanatorium. Opposite him sat Parfyon Rogozhin, a merchant’s son, his dark eyes burning with intensity. Rogozhin, sensing the prince’s innocence, began to speak of his obsession. "There is a woman, Prince, Nastasya Filippovna. I saw her for just a moment on the street, and it was as if I'd been struck by lightning." Myshkin listened, his calm face full of a strange pity. "I gave her diamond earrings," Rogozhin continued, his voice rough, "and for that my father beat me. Now he is dead, and I will have her!" The prince felt a chill that had nothing to do with his thin coat. "Is she beautiful?" he asked quietly. Rogozhin laughed. "Beautiful? She is a fire that would burn a man to cinders."
Page 2
Prince Myshkin found his way to the grand house of his distant relatives, the Yepanchins. He charmed the general’s wife and three daughters with his honesty, speaking of his quiet life and his illness. The youngest daughter, the proud and beautiful Aglaya, was both irritated and fascinated by him. As he was about to leave, the General took a photograph from his desk. "Do you know this woman, Prince?" he asked, showing it to him. It was a portrait of Nastasya Filippovna. Myshkin gazed at it, stunned by the combination of pride and immense suffering in her eyes. "She is surprisingly beautiful," he said, his voice low. Aglaya watched him, a strange look on her face. "So beautiful that one could do something foolish?" she asked sharply. The Prince looked up from the portrait. "Yes," he answered simply. "One could overturn the world with such beauty."
Page 3
That night, Myshkin went to Nastasya Filippovna’s birthday party. The air was thick with tension. Suddenly, Rogozhin burst in with a drunken crowd, throwing a paper-wrapped bundle on the table: one hundred thousand rubles. "I buy you, Nastasya Filippovna!" he roared. She laughed, her dark eyes flashing with a wild, self-destructive light. She turned to the prince, the only calm person in the room. "The prince here is the only one I trust. Tell me, should I marry him?" she asked, pointing to her respectable fiancé. Myshkin looked at her with anguish. "No… do not," he said, and then, to the astonishment of all, offered to marry her himself. "I will take you just as you are, with your shame and your pain." For a moment, she was moved. But then she chose ruin, snatching up Rogozhin's money and throwing it in the fire. "I am a street-woman!" she cried. "And I am going with Rogozhin!"
Page 4
Months passed. The prince, having received an inheritance, now lived in the summer town of Pavlovsk, near the Yepanchins. He had fallen in love with Aglaya. But the shadow of Nastasya Filippovna was always there. One afternoon, as Myshkin walked with the Yepanchins near the town bandstand, Nastasya appeared in a fine carriage. She stopped it right beside them. Seeing Aglaya, she called out, her voice carrying over the music. "Is it true the 'perfect' Aglaya Yepanchin is to marry this... idiot?" A handsome officer, a friend of Aglaya's, stepped forward. "You forget yourself, madam!" Nastasya laughed. "And you, sir, are you her new protector?" She then turned her burning eyes on Myshkin, who stood frozen between the two women. "Prince, choose! Is your future with this innocent girl, or with me, the woman you tried to save?" The crowd stared, and Aglaya looked at Myshkin, her face pale with fury and humiliation.
Page 5
Drawn by a terrible feeling, Myshkin went to find Rogozhin in his vast, gloomy St. Petersburg house. In his study, Rogozhin showed the prince a painting, a terrifyingly realistic copy of Holbein’s *Christ in the Tomb*. "A man could lose his faith looking at that," Rogozhin muttered. His love for Nastasya had become a sickness. "She asks me, 'Are you going to kill me, Parfyon?' And I look at her and I hate her." A strange brotherhood bloomed in the gloom. "Let us exchange crosses, Prince," Rogozhin said suddenly. Myshkin gave Rogozhin his simple tin cross, and Rogozhin gave him his heavy gold one. As Myshkin prepared to leave, he felt Rogozhin's eyes on him. "Take care of yourself, Parfyon," Myshkin said gently. As he walked down the dark hotel staircase later, he saw eyes gleaming in a shadowy alcove. It was Rogozhin, a knife flashing in his raised hand. At that exact moment, the prince cried out and fell to the ground in a violent epileptic seizure.
Page 6
One bright green morning, Myshkin waited on a park bench. Aglaya had asked him to meet her there. When she arrived, her usual pride was gone, replaced by a nervous, shining love. She sat beside him. "I want you to be happy," she began. "I have waited for someone like you, someone good, to guide me." She spoke of her dreams, of running away with him, but she was terrified of his pity for Nastasya. "I will not share you with that woman, not even your pity!" she told him fiercely. "You must choose me, and only me." For the prince, it was a moment of perfect, hopeful clarity. He loved Aglaya with all his heart. He saw a future of light and happiness, a life finally free from the darkness. "I love only you," he promised her, taking her hand. "My feeling for her is only sorrow. It is not love. My whole life is with you."
Page 7
The Yepanchins held a grand soirée to introduce the prince to their influential friends, his official acceptance as Aglaya’s fiancé. Myshkin was terrified, knowing he must be calm. But as he spoke to the stuffy guests, he was overcome with passionate sincerity. 'We must show them our Russian world, we must let it lead!' he urged them. His voice grew louder, his gestures wilder. He saw Aglaya looking at him with terror. 'Do you think I am an idiot?' he cried out, his voice shaking. 'Perhaps you are right!' Reaching for a glass of water, he stumbled backwards, his arm catching a huge, priceless Chinese vase on a pedestal. It teetered, then crashed, shattering into a thousand pieces. The shock and the shame were too much. A strange cry tore from his throat. In front of the horrified guests, he collapsed into a severe epileptic seizure, his hopes for a normal life shattering with the vase.
Page 8
Aglaya could bear it no longer. She arranged a meeting with Nastasya and forced the prince to come. On a wooden bridge, the two women finally faced each other. "I want you to tell me plainly," Aglaya demanded, her voice trembling with rage. "Are you in love with him, or not?" Nastasya’s eyes glittered. "And if I am? Will you give him up, you perfect little doll?" The two proud, wounded women traded cruel insults. Finally, Nastasya, seeing Aglaya's genuine love, collapsed into hysterics. "Take him!" she shrieked, then turned to Myshkin. "Now, Prince, decide! Her, or me?" Myshkin, torn apart, could not bear Nastasya’s suffering. He instinctively moved towards her, reaching out to comfort her. Seeing that gesture of pity, Aglaya understood it as his final choice. She gave a cry of pain and pride, covered her face, and ran from the bridge without looking back.
Page 9
Trapped by his own compassion, Myshkin agreed to marry Nastasya. On their wedding day, a crowd gathered. The prince waited on the church steps, pale and grim. Nastasya arrived in her white dress and veil. She walked towards the church doors, then stopped, her eyes scanning the crowd. Standing among the onlookers was Rogozhin. 'What are you doing?' Myshkin asked, taking a step toward her. A wild cry escaped her lips. 'Save me!' she called out, but not to the prince. She ran from the church, past him, and straight into Rogozhin’s arms. He lifted her into a waiting carriage. 'She is mine!' Rogozhin roared to the astonished crowd. They vanished into the streets of St. Petersburg, leaving Myshkin utterly alone on the church steps, the wedding flowers crushed underfoot.
Page 10
The prince searched all night until he found Rogozhin, who let him into the dark house. Rogozhin led him into his study and pointed to a curtained alcove. 'She is there,' he whispered. On the bed, perfectly still under a white sheet, lay Nastasya. 'I covered her with the oilcloth,' Rogozhin muttered, pointing. 'And the jars... to stop the smell.' All night, the two men sat together in the dark room, the murderer and the prince, keeping a silent vigil. By morning, when people forced the door, they found Rogozhin delirious. Beside him, they found the prince, gently stroking Rogozhin's hair, a faint, senseless smile on his lips. He no longer understood anything. The world's violent passions had poured through his compassionate heart and broken his mind. He was sent back to Switzerland, a gentle, holy 'idiot' once more.
About this story
- Audience: general readers
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