On Kindness versus Ideology, through Dostoevsky’s The Idiot

Kindness does not survive its contact with the corrupted world unchanged. In Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, kindness in its purest form is embodied by Prince Myshkin, perceived as an idiot by everyone because of his childlike innocence, described as naivety — a vulgar word, which seems to lighten the mood of those already corrupted. During the course of the novel, as Myshkin matures through his experience of society, his kindness mutates. From its initial manifestation as childlike innocence, it transforms into a Christian kindness, bearing the weight of forgiveness, and when it finally reaches its limits, it hardens into ideology. This last step portrays kindness as an obligation, something different from the noble feeling evoked by the word: something heartfelt, which benefits those around us. And if one is to undertake this obligation, there are certain criteria to meet — and he must not fail to meet them. Theorizing kindness makes it difficult to define it in a manner that honors this feeling, seemingly trying to put something larger in a smaller frame. Trying to view kindness under the lens of morality and religion makes us forget what it meant to us before we came to know these abstract terms.

The Idiot follows Prince Myshkin, a young Russian nobleman returning to society after years of treatment abroad for epilepsy, as he moves between two women whose fates become entangled with his own. Nastasya Filippovna is a woman of great beauty and a scandalous past; she is proud, self-destructive, and convinced of her own ruin. Aglaya Yepanchina is the youngest daughter of a respected general’s family, spirited and idealistic. Around them circles Rogózhin, a merchant’s son whose obsessive love for Nastasya shadows the novel from its first pages; General Ívolgin, a compulsive liar and disgraced officer whose family Myshkin lodges with, and whose son Kólya becomes one of Myshkin’s few steady, unguarded friends; Yevgény Pavlovich, a worldly and perceptive suitor of Aglaya’s who often serves as the novel’s voice of clear-eyed judgment; Iván Fyódorovich, Aglaya’s father, a general more decent than his household’s ambitions; and Lizavéta Prokófyevna, Aglaya’s mother, whose blunt affection and impatience with pretense make her one of the novel’s few unguarded characters. It is through Myshkin’s dealings with this cast — their vanities, wounds, and competing claims on him — that his kindness is tested and, ultimately, transformed.

Having been ill most of his life, Prince Myshkin lacks practical knowledge, but most importantly lacks life experiences and emotional growth. He has an untainted innocence, one would meet in a child, not yet having been corrupted by the malice and strife of the world. Hence, initially, he has the kind of pure kindness that goes hand in hand with a childlike naivety, fully earning him the title of an idiot. He lacks sensitivity to social subtleties, which is cultivated through navigating everyday life. This appears early in the novel, when at a party he is challenged in a ridiculous way to confess his love for Nastasya at their first meeting. Oblivious to the imminent shame, he readily confesses, causing everyone to laugh at his expense. However, his mentality being different from those around him, he experiences embarrassment, registering only the awkwardness instead of the shame others would feel. His childlike demeanor also throws the rest off-guard; like a child, he fails to understand their subtle mockery.

Experiencing the social complexity of Petersburg, he loses his childlike naivety, while keeping a small part of his former innocence. Slowly, he grows smarter, as opposed to what the book title suggests; he becomes able to understand more things, to better interpret others’ intent. He himself is aware of this loss of innocence, which causes him grief; he considers his new thoughts a kind of ill-willed suspicion. At this point his kindness has transformed into Christian kindness. This Christian kindness is always accompanied by the sadness of losing his childlike naivety, pointing to the incompatibility of true kindness and the lack of pure thoughts. He now has to intellectually think how to be kind, instead of it happening unconsciously; he has to convince himself that he is kind. He remains kind, but his every action now is well-thought, since he perceives the complexity of the world — kind nonetheless. He understands when others try to belittle him, but does not fight it. Not out of fear, but out of piety. He chooses to believe that the perpetrator of an evil act is not himself evil, and is worthy of forgiveness. Even more, the evil act itself may have noble motivation. When General Ívolgin steals 400 rubles, to financially help the captain’s widow, he feels sad for him. Instead of confronting him, he fears the consequences that action might have for the general’s pride and soul. However, each time he forgives, he is reminded of his impure thoughts, a weight that accumulates. This hints that this kindness is not sustainable — it is only an intermediate state, starting from childish kindness and leading somewhere else.

Rushing forward, under the strain of corruption, impossible choices and utter folly, the notion of kindness itself collapses. The contradictions that arise lead us to think about the concept of kindness itself, to try to define what kindness is. First, to whom should we be kind, or perhaps an all-encompassing kindness is a kinder choice? What should the extent of our kindness be; when have we done enough? Most importantly, is kindness wholly good, or can it also cause damage? Myshkin himself acts in a way surprising for someone of his perceived ethos and traditional values, even causing the indignation of his followers. He decides to marry Nastasya while still desiring Aglaya. He displays an apathy for Aglaya’s feelings and fate, expecting to convince her to understand and forgive his actions — as if genuine understanding meant no forgiveness were needed at all. While this could be partly attributed to childish naivety, it is more an attempt to rewrite morality, or to selectively adhere to it. By insisting his marriage to Nastasya is irrelevant to Aglaya, and expecting her to accept it, he desecrates the idea of marriage in an Orthodox society. Yet every decision he makes appears to have kindness as its origin, and he tries not to exclude anyone from his kindness — he will save Nastasya by marrying her, while not betraying Aglaya’s feelings. In such absurd situations, how can one define kindness, when giving it to one person means withholding it from another — until it is stretched too thin to serve anyone at all? In his attempt to be kind, Myshkin becomes immoral, not the kind of immorality described by philosophers, but the kind admonished by everyday people.

If someone is kind, how can he behave this cruelly and unfairly to someone to whom he has declared love? However, as pointed out by Yevgény, this dilemma was self-imposed: it was the Prince’s decision from the beginning that led to this, that is to court Aglaya while promising marriage to Nastasya. This entanglement is in vain, because the love he holds towards Nastasya is not romantic — not the kind that would lead to marriage. In contrast to Rogózhin, whose passion leads him to follow her constantly and feel a strong possessiveness, the Prince behaves in a brotherly manner. He also does not appear to feel jealous of her, a feeling he experiences when a suitor approaches Aglaya. It is kindness out of piety he feels for Nastasya, and perhaps not entirely heartfelt; it is more of a conviction. It is thinking, and not free thinking but ideology, that leads to this impossible dilemma. He seeks to save an ill-fated woman, because that fits his worldview. As is evident when Myshkin passionately speaks about his beliefs at the engagement party, he dogmatizes religion and theorizes kindness. To support his idea of a perfect Russian, Orthodox world, kindness has become a set of rules, with some taking priority over others. Saving the ill-fated Nastasya precedes the feelings of Aglaya, and the sanctity of marriage — the image of a pious man saving an ill-fated woman matters more than that man’s happiness.

This is symmetrical to the argument from Notes from the Underground, where the protagonist complains that the utopian socialists want to dictate life in a mathematical way, producing a rational egoism’s “2+2=4” morality. In these two novels, Dostoevsky claims that a radical approach to an ideology, either a theological or a political, leads to the destruction of people. Blindly adhering to the new radical ideas, or dogmatically clinging to the most extreme version of the past, runs against Dostoevsky’s own worldview. In contrast, true kindness appears through people who try least to be moral or kind. Kólya is always understanding and eager to help; Iván Fyódorovich is kind to some, and at the very least not unkind to others; General Ívolgin, although a pathological liar of weak character, is also kind; and most of all Lizavéta Prokófyevna, who maintains the purest kind of childlike kindness, one belonging to her and to no ideology or norm.

The evolution of kindness that an individual displays is linked to the growth of the individual, and thus to his experiences. A corrupt environment strips the individual of his childlike innocence; even commiting no evil act, even being an innocent man, he is no longer pure — his kindness is calculated, if not calculative. One can only hope for exceptions such as the most kind Lizavéta. The Idiot explores kindness till it meets its limits; it may exhaust itself, unable to serve anymore; it may honestly be unable to save both Aglaya and Nastasya. Or it may harden into ideology. At that point, kindness is no longer heartfelt — no longer genuine kindness, the noble feeling, but a conviction toward morality. This kind of disingenuous kindness paints an even more tragic end: it did not fail to save the two women, it sacrificed them.