The Idiot - Fyodor Dosteovsky

The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky

Today, we turn to one of the great classics of world literature: The Idiot, written by the Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky and first published in 1869.

Dostoevsky is widely regarded as one of the most influential literary figures in history. Born in Moscow in 1821, he lived through a turbulent period in Russian society—marked by political unrest, deep spiritual searching, and social inequality. His experiences, including imprisonment in Siberia and struggles with illness, profoundly shaped his view of human nature. He is known for exploring the psychology of the human soul, moral conflict, and the tension between good and evil. Some of his most famous works include Crime and Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov, and of course, The Idiot.

The Idiot centers on Prince Lev Nikolayevich Myshkin, a young man who returns to Russia after years in a Swiss sanatorium, where he was treated for epilepsy. Myshkin is portrayed as a man of deep innocence, goodness, and compassion—almost Christ-like in his purity. But when he reenters Russian high society, his kindness is often misunderstood as weakness.

The story follows his interactions with several key figures, including the beautiful but troubled Nastasya Filippovna and the ambitious Rogozhin. Through their entangled relationships, Dostoevsky examines the corruption of society, the destructive power of desire, and the challenges of maintaining goodness in a world that rewards manipulation and cynicism.

One of the most powerful aspects of the novel is Dostoevsky’s psychological depth. He doesn’t simply tell a story—he delves into the inner struggles of his characters, showing how ideals often clash with human weakness. Myshkin’s tragic journey raises difficult but timeless questions: Can pure goodness survive in a flawed world? And what does it truly mean to be “an idiot” in a society that values power and cunning over innocence?

The Idiot was initially met with mixed reactions, but over time it came to be recognized as one of Dostoevsky’s most profound works, admired for its moral vision, psychological insight, and philosophical depth. Today, it remains a cornerstone of 19th-century Russian literature and continues to inspire readers and scholars worldwide.

In short, The Idiot is more than a novel—it is a spiritual and philosophical exploration of human nature, challenging us to reflect on virtue, love, and the fragility of goodness in a complex world.

Reading I

TOWARDS THE END of November, during a warm spell, at around nine

o’clock in the morning, a train of the Petersburg–Warsaw line was

approaching Petersburg at full steam. It was so damp and foggy that

dawn could barely break; ten paces to right or left of the line it was

hard to make out anything at all through the carriage windows.

Among the passengers there were some who were returning from

abroad; but the third-class compartments were more crowded, and

they were all petty business folk from not far away. Everyone was

tired, as usual, everyone’s eyes had grown heavy overnight, everyone

was chilled, everyone’s face was pale yellow, matching the color of

the fog.

In one of the third-class carriages, at dawn, two passengers found

themselves facing each other just by the window—both young men,

both traveling light, both unfashionably dressed, both with rather

remarkable physiognomies, and both, finally, willing to get into

conversation with each other. If they had known what was so

remarkable about the one and the other at that moment, they would

certainly have marveled at the chance that had so strangely seated

them facing each other in the third-class carriage of the Petersburg–

Warsaw train. One of them was of medium height, about twenty￾seven years old, with curly, almost black hair, and small but fiery gray

eyes. He had a broad, flat nose and high cheekbones; his thin lips

were constantly twisting into a sort of impudent, mocking, and even

malicious smile; but his forehead was high and well formed and made

up for the lack of nobility in the lower part of his face. Especially

notable was the deathly pallor of his face, which gave the young

man’s whole physiognomy an exhausted look, despite his rather

robust build, and at the same time suggested something passionate, to

the point of suffering, which was out of harmony with his insolent

and coarsesmile and his sharp, self-satisfied gaze. He was warmly

dressed in an ample lambskin coat covered with black cloth and had

not been cold during the night, while his neighbor had been forced to

bear on his chilled back all the sweetness of a damp Russian

November night, for which he was obviously not prepared. He was

wearing a rather ample and thick sleeveless cloak with an enormous

hood, the sort often worn by winter travelers somewhere far abroad,

in Switzerland or northern Italy, for instance, certainly not reckoning

on such long distances as from Eydkuhnen1 to Petersburg. But what

was proper and quite satisfactory in Italy turned out to be not entirely

suitable to Russia. The owner of the cloak with the hood was a young

man, also about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, slightly taller

than average, with very blond, thick hair, sunken cheeks, and a

sparse, pointed, nearly white little beard. His eyes were big, blue, and

intent; their gaze had something quiet but heavy about it and was

filled with that strange expression by which some are able to guess at

first sight that the subject has the falling sickness. The young man’s

face, however, was pleasant, fine, and dry, but colorless, and now

even blue with cold. From his hands dangled a meager bundle made

of old, faded foulard, containing, apparently, all his traveling

possessions. On his feet he had thick-soled shoes with gaiters—all not

the Russian way. His black-haired companion in the lambskin coat

took all this in, partly from having nothing to do, and finally asked,

with that tactless grin which sometimes expresses so unceremoniously

and carelessly people’s pleasure in their neighbor’s misfortunes:

Reading II

The trip, however, might have taken place by the middle or the end

of summer, if only in the form of a one- or two-month excursion of

Lizaveta Prokofyevna and her two remaining daughters, in order to

dispel the sadness of Adelaida’s leaving them. But again something

new happened: at the end of spring (Adelaida’s wedding had been

delayed somewhat and was postponed till the middle of summer)

Prince Shch. introduced into the Epanchins’ house a distant relation of

his, with whom, however, he was rather well acquainted. This was a

certain Evgeny Pavlovich R., still a young man, about twenty-eight, an

imperial aide-de-camp, strikingly handsome, “of a noble family,” a

witty, brilliant “new” man, “exceedingly educated,” and—somehow

much too fabulously wealthy. With regard to this last point the

general was always careful. He made inquiries: “There is actually

something of the sort—though, in any case, it must be verified.” This

young and “promising” imperial aide-de-camp was given a strong

boost by the opinion of the old Princess Belokonsky from Moscow. In

one respect only was his reputation somewhat ticklish: there had been

several liaisons and, as it was maintained, “victories” over certain

unfortunate hearts. Having seen Aglaya, he became extraordinarily

sedentary in the Epanchins’ house. True, nothing had been said yet,

nor had any allusions been made, but all the same the parents thought

that there was no need even to think about a trip abroad that summer.

Aglaya herself was perhaps of a different opinion.

This happened just before our hero’s second appearance on the

scene of our story. By that time, judging from appearances, poor

Prince Myshkin had been totally forgotten in Petersburg. If he had

suddenly appeared now among those who had known him, it would

have been as if he had dropped from the moon. And yet we still have

one more fact to report, and with that we shall end our introduction.

Kolya Ivolgin, on the prince’s departure, at first went on with his

former life, that is, went to school, visited his friend Ippolit, looked

after the general, and helped Varya around the house, that is, ran

errands for her. But the tenants quickly vanished: Ferdyshchenko

moved somewhere three days after the adventure at Nastasya

Filippovna’s and quite soon disappeared, so that even all rumors

about him died out; he was said to be drinking somewhere, but

nothing was certain. The prince left for Moscow; that was the end of

the tenants. Afterwards, when Varya was already married, Nina

Alexandrovna and Ganya moved with her to Ptitsyn’s, in the

Ismailovsky quarter; as for General Ivolgin, a quite unforeseen

circumstance occurred with him at almost that same time: he went to

debtors’ prison. He was dispatched there by his lady friend, the

captain’s widow, on the strength of documents he had given her at

various times, worth about two thousand. All this came as a total

surprise to him, and the poor general was “decidedly the victim of his

boundless faith in the nobility of the human heart, broadly speaking.”

Having adopted the soothing habit of signing vouchers and

promissory notes, he never supposed the possibility of their effect, at

least at some point, always thinking it was just so. It turned to be not

so. “Trust people after that, show them your noble trustfulness!” he

exclaimed ruefully, sitting with his new friends in Tarasov House4

over a bottle of wine and telling them anecdotes about the siege of

Kars and a resurrected soldier. His life there, however, was excellent.

Ptitsyn and Varya used to say it was the right place for him; Ganya

agreed completely. Only poor Nina Alexandrovna wept bitterly on the

quiet (which even surprised her household) and, though eternally ill,

dragged herself as often as she could to see her husband in Tarasov

House.

Reading III

By six o’clock he found himself on the platform of the Tsarskoe Selo

railway. Solitude quickly became unbearable to him; a new impulse

ardently seized his heart, and for a moment a bright light lit up the

darkness in which his soul anguished. He took a ticket for Pavlovsk

and was in an impatient hurry to leave; but something was certainly

pursuing him, and this was a reality and not a fantasy, as he had

perhaps been inclined to think. He was about to get on the train when

he suddenly flung the just-purchased ticket to the floor and left the

station again, confused and pensive. A short time later, in the street, it

was as if he suddenly remembered, suddenly realized, something very

strange, something that had long been bothering him. He was

suddenly forced to catch himself consciously doing something that

had been going on for a long time, but which he had not noticed till

that minute: several hours ago, even in the Scales, and perhaps even

before the Scales, he had begun now and then suddenly searching for

something around him. And he would forget it, even for a long time,

half an hour, and then suddenly turn again uneasily and search for

something.

But he had only just noted to himself this morbid and till then quite

unconscious movement, which had come over him so long ago, when

there suddenly flashed before him another recollection that interested

him extremely: he recalled that at the moment when he noticed that

he kept searching around for something, he was standing on the

sidewalk outside a shopwindow and looking with great curiosity at

the goods displayed in the window. He now wanted to make

absolutely sure: had he really been standing in front of that

shopwindow just now, perhaps only five minutes ago, had he not

imagined it or confused something? Did that shop and those goods

really exist? For indeed he felt himself in an especially morbid mood

that day, almost as he had felt formerly at the onset of the fits of his

former illness. He knew that during this time before a fit he used to be

extraordinarily absentminded and often even confused objects and

persons, unless he looked at them with especially strained attention.

But there was also a special reason why he wanted very much to make

sure that he had been standing in front of the shop: among the things

displayed in the shopwindow there had been one that he had looked

at and that he had even evaluated at sixty kopecks, he remembered

that despite all his absentmindedness and anxiety. Consequently, if

that shop existed and that thing was actually displayed among the

goods for sale, it meant he had in fact stopped for that thing. Which

meant that the thing had held such strong interest for him that it had

attracted his attention even at the very time when he had left the

railway station and had been so painfully confused. He walked along,

looking to the right almost in anguish, his heart pounding with uneasy

impatience. But here was the shop, he had found it at last! He had

been five hundred paces away from it when he decided to go back.

And here was that object worth sixty kopecks.