The Idiot

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

nobody was convinced... Itwas two weeks before her mother died that I had kissed Marie; and whenthe clergyman preached that sermon the children were all on my side.

  “When I told them what a shame it was of the parson to talk as he haddone, and explained my reason, they were so angry that some of them wentand broke his windows with stones. Of course I stopped them, for thatwas not right, but all the village heard of it, and how I caught it forspoiling the children! Everyone discovered now that the little ones hadtaken to being fond of Marie, and their parents were terribly alarmed;but Marie was so happy. The children were forbidden to meet her; butthey used to run out of the village to the herd and take her food andthings; and sometimes just ran off there and kissed her, and said,‘_Je vous aime, Marie!_’ and then trotted back again. They imaginedthat I was in love with Marie, and this was the only point on whichI did not undeceive them, for they got such enjoyment out of it. Andwhat delicacy and tenderness they showed!

  “In the evening I used to walk to the waterfall. There was a spot therewhich was quite closed in and hidden from view by large trees; and tothis spot the children used to come to me. They could not bear thattheir dear Leon should love a poor girl without shoes to her feet anddressed all in rags and tatters. So, would you believe it, they actuallyclubbed together, somehow, and bought her shoes and stockings, and somelinen, and even a dress! I can’t understand how they managed it, butthey did it, all together. When I asked them about it they only laughedand shouted, and the little girls clapped their hands and kissed me. Isometimes went to see Marie secretly, too. She had become very ill, andcould hardly walk. She still went with the herd, but could not help theherdsman any longer. She used to sit on a stone near, and wait therealmost motionless all day, till the herd went home. Her consumption wasso advanced, and she was so weak, that she used to sit with closed eyes,breathing heavily. Her face was as thin as a skeleton’s, and sweat usedto stand on her white brow in large drops. I always found her sittingjust like that. I used to come up quietly to look at her; but Mariewould hear me, open her eyes, and tremble violently as she kissed myhands. I did not take my hand away because it made her happy to have it,and so she would sit and cry quietly. Sometimes she tried to speak; butit was very difficult to understand her. She was almost like a madwoman,with excitement and ecstasy, whenever I came. Occasionally the childrencame with me; when they did so, they would stand some way off and keepguard over us, so as to tell me if anybody came near. This was a greatpleasure to them.

  “When we left her, Marie used to relapse at once into her old condition,and sit with closed eyes and motionless limbs. One day she could notgo out at all, and remained at home all alone in the empty hut; butthe children very soon became aware of the fact, and nearly all of themvisited her that day as she lay alone and helpless in her miserable bed.

  “For two days the children looked after her, and then, when the villagepeople got to know that Marie was really dying, some of the old womencame and took it in turns to sit by her and look after her a bit. Ithink they began to be a little sorry for her in the village at last;at all events they did not interfere with the children any more, on heraccount.

  “Marie lay in a state of uncomfortable delirium the whole while; shecoughed dreadfully. The old women would not let the children stay in theroom; but they all collected outside the window each morning, if onlyfor a moment, and shouted ‘_Bon jour, notre bonne Marie!_’ and Marie nosooner caught sight of, or heard them, and she became quite animated atonce, and, in spite of the old women, would try to sit up and nod herhead and smile at them, and thank them. The little ones used to bringher nice things and sweets to eat, but she could hardly touch anything.Thanks to them, I assure you, the girl died almost perfectly happy. Shealmost forgot her misery, and seemed to accept their love as a sort ofsymbol of pardon for her offence, though she never ceased to considerherself a dreadful sinner. They used to flutter at her window just likelittle birds, calling out: ‘_Nous t’aimons, Marie!_’

  “She died very soon; I had thought she would live much longer. Theday before her death I went to see her for the last time, just beforesunset. I think she recognized me, for she pressed my hand.

  “Next morning they came and told me that Marie was dead. The childrencould not be restrained now; they went and covered her coffin withflowers, and put a wreath of lovely blossoms on her head. The pastor didnot throw any more shameful words at the poor dead woman; but there werevery few people at the funeral. However, when it came to carrying thecoffin, all the children rushed up, to carry it themselves. Of coursethey could not do it alone, but they insisted on helping, and walkedalongside and behind, crying.

  “They have planted roses all round her grave, and every year they lookafter the flowers and make Marie’s resting-place as beautiful as theycan. I was in ill odour after all this with the parents of the children,and especially with the parson and schoolmaster. Schneider was obligedto promise that I should not meet them and talk to them; but weconversed from a distance by signs, and they used to write me sweetlittle notes. Afterwards I came closer than ever to those little souls,but even then it was very dear to me, to have them so fond of me.

  “Schneider said that I did the children great harm by my pernicious‘system’; what nonsense that was! And what did he mean by my system?He said afterwards that he believed I was a child myself--just beforeI came away. ‘You have the form and face of an adult’ he said, ‘but asregards soul, and character, and perhaps even intelligence, you are achild in the completest sense of the word, and always will be, if youlive to be sixty.’ I laughed very much, for of course that is nonsense.But it is a fact that I do not care to be among grown-up people andmuch prefer the society of children. However kind people may be to me, Inever feel quite at home with them, and am always glad to get back tomy little companions. Now my companions have always been children, notbecause I was a child myself once, but because young things attractme. On one of the first days of my stay in Switzerland, I was strollingabout alone and miserable, when I came upon the children rushing noisilyout of school, with their slates and bags, and books, their games, theirlaughter and shouts--and my soul went out to them. I stopped and laughedhappily as I watched their little feet moving so quickly. Girls andboys, laughing and crying; for as they went home many of them foundtime to fight and make peace, to weep and play. I forgot my troubles inlooking at them. And then, all those three years, I tried to understandwhy men should be for ever tormenting themselves. I lived the life ofa child there, and thought I should never leave the little village;indeed, I was far from thinking that I should ever return to Russia.But at last I recognized the fact that Schneider could not keep me anylonger. And then something so important happened, that Schneider himselfurged me to depart. I am going to see now if can get good adviceabout it. Perhaps my lot in life will be changed; but that is not theprincipal thing. The principal thing is the entire change that hasalready come over me. I left many things behind me--too many. They havegone. On the journey I said to myself, ‘I am going into the world ofmen. I don’t know much, perhaps, but a new life has begun for me.’ Imade up my mind to be honest, and steadfast in accomplishing my task.Perhaps I shall meet with troubles and many disappointments, but I havemade up my mind to be polite and sincere to everyone; more cannot beasked of me. People may consider me a child if they like. I am oftencalled an idiot, and at one time I certainly was so ill that I wasnearly as bad as an idiot; but I am not an idiot now. How can I possiblybe so when I know myself that I am considered one?

  “When I received a letter from those dear little souls, while passingthrough Berlin, I only then realized how much I loved them. It was very,very painful, getting that first little letter. How melancholy they hadbeen when they saw me off! For a month before, they had been talking ofmy departure and sorrowing over it; and at the waterfall, of an evening,when we parted for the night, they would hug me so tight and kiss me sowarmly, far more so than before. And every now and then they would turnup one by one when I was alone, just to give me a kiss
and a hug, toshow their love for me. The whole flock went with me to the station,which was about a mile from the village, and every now and then one ofthem would stop to throw his arms round me, and all the little girls hadtears in their voices, though they tried hard not to cry. As the trainsteamed out of the station, I saw them all standing on the platformwaving to me and crying ‘Hurrah!’ till they were lost in the distance.

  “I assure you, when I came in here just now and saw your kind faces (Ican read faces well) my heart felt light for the first time since thatmoment of parting. I think I must be one of those who are born to be inluck, for one does not often meet with people whom one feels he can lovefrom the first sight of their faces; and yet, no sooner do I step out ofthe railway carriage than I happen upon you!

  “I know it is more or less a shamefaced thing to speak of one’s feelingsbefore others; and yet here am I talking like this to you, and am nota bit ashamed or shy. I am an unsociable sort of