Page 433 - the-idiot

silent. He fell back into his chair, and, covering his face with
his hands, began to sob like a little child.
‘Oh! what on earth are we to do with him?’ cried Liz-
abetha Prokofievna. She hastened to him and pressed his
head against her bosom, while he sobbed convulsively.
‘Come, come, come! There, you must not cry, that will
do. You are a good child! God will forgive you, because you
knew no better. Come now, be a man! You know presently
you will be ashamed.’
Hippolyte raised his head with an effort, saying:
‘I have little brothers and sisters, over there, poor avid
innocent. She will corrupt them! You are a saint! You are a
child yourself—save them! Snatch them from that ... she is
... it is shameful! Oh! help them! God will repay you a hun-
dredfold. For the love of God, for the love of Christ!’
‘Speak, Ivan Fedorovitch! What are we to do?’ cried Liz-
abetha Prokofievna, irritably. ‘Please break your majestic
silence! I tell you, if you cannot come to some decision, I
will stay here all night myself. You have tyrannized over me
enough, you autocrat!’
She spoke angrily, and in great excitement, and expect-
ed an immediate reply. But in such a case, no matter how
many are present, all prefer to keep silence: no one will take
the initiative, but all reserve their comments till afterwards.
There were some present—Varvara Ardalionovna, for in-
stance—who would have willingly sat there till morning
without saying a word. Varvara had sat apart all the evening
without opening her lips, but she listened to everything
with the closest attention; perhaps she had her reasons for

The Idiot