Page 815 - the-idiot

whose heart and talents are dried up? Could dead men and
women have treated me so kindly as you have all been treat-
ing me to-day? Is there not material for the future in all
this—for hope? Can such people fail to UNDERSTAND?
Can such men fall away from reality?’
‘Once more let us beg you to be calm, my dear boy. We’ll
talk of all this another time—I shall do so with the greatest
pleasure, for one,’ said the old dignitary, with a smile.
Ivan Petrovitch grunted and twisted round in his chair.
General Epanchin moved nervously. The latter’s chief had
started a conversation with the wife of the dignitary, and
took no notice whatever of the prince, but the old lady very
often glanced at him, and listened to what he was saying.
‘No, I had better speak,’ continued the prince, with a
new outburst of feverish emotion, and turning towards the
old man with an air of confidential trustfulness.’ Yesterday,
Aglaya Ivanovna forbade me to talk, and even specified the
particular subjects I must not touch upon—she knows well
enough that I am odd when I get upon these matters. I am
nearly twenty-seven years old, and yet I know I am little
better than a child. I have no right to express my ideas, and
said so long ago. Only in Moscow, with Rogojin, did I ever
speak absolutely freely! He and I read Pushkin together—
all his works. Rogojin knew nothing of Pushkin, had not
even heard his name. I am always afraid of spoiling a great
Thought or Idea by my absurd manner. I have no eloquence,
I know. I always make the wrong gestures— inappropriate
gestures—and therefore I degrade the Thought, and raise a
laugh instead of doing my subject justice. I have no sense

1 The Idiot