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have no wit, Nastasia Philipovna,’ began Ferdishenko,
a
‘
‘I nd therefore I talk too much, perhaps. Were I as witty,
now, as Mr. Totski or the general, I should probably have
sat silent all the evening, as they have. Now, prince, what
do you think?—are there not far more thieves than honest
men in this world? Don’t you think we may say there does
not exist a single person so honest that he has never stolen
anything whatever in his life?’
‘What a silly idea,’ said the actress. ‘Of course it is not the
case. I have never stolen anything, for one.’
‘H’m! very well, Daria Alexeyevna; you have not stolen
anything— agreed. But how about the prince, now—look
how he is blushing!’
‘I think you are partially right, but you exaggerate,’ said
the prince, who had certainly blushed up, of a sudden, for
some reason or other.
‘Ferdishenko—either tell us your story, or be quiet, and
mind your own business. You exhaust all patience,’ cutting-
ly and irritably remarked Nastasia Philipovna.
‘Immediately, immediately! As for my story, gentlemen,
it is too stupid and absurd to tell you.
‘I assure you I am not a thief, and yet I have stolen; I can-
not explain why. It was at Semeon Ivanovitch Ishenka’s
country house, one Sunday. He had a dinner party. After

1 The Idiot