all her services without a word and never showed her the
slightest kindness. Marie bore all this; and I could see
when I got to know her that she thought it quite right and
fitting, considering herself the lowest and meanest of
creatures.
‘When the old woman took to her bed finally, the
other old women in the village sat with her by turns, as
the custom is there; and then Marie was quite driven out
of the house. They gave her no food at all, and she could
not get any work in the village; none would employ her.
The men seemed to consider her no longer a woman, they The Idiot
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said such dreadful things to her. Sometimes on Sundays, if
they were drunk enough, they used to throw her a penny
or two, into the mud, and Marie would silently pick up
the money. She had began to spit blood at that time.
‘At last her rags became so tattered and torn that she
was ashamed of appearing in the village any longer. The
children used to pelt her with mud; so she begged to be
taken on as assistant cowherd, but the cowherd would not
have her. Then she took to helping him without leave;
and he saw how valuable her assistance was to him, and
did not drive her away again; on the contrary, he
occasionally gave her the remnants of his dinner, bread
and cheese. He considered that he was being very kind.
When the mother died, the village parson was not
ashamed to hold Marie up to public derision and shame.
Marie was standing at the coffin’s head, in all her rags,
crying.
‘A crowd of people had collected to see how she would
cry. The parson, a young fellow ambitious of becoming a
great preacher, began his sermon and pointed to Marie.
‘There,’ he said, ‘there is the cause of the death of this
venerable woman’—(which was a lie, because she had
been ill for at least two years)—’there she stands before
you, and dares not lift her eyes from the ground, because The Idiot
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she knows that the finger of God is upon her. Look at her
tatters and rags—the badge of those who lose their virtue.
Who is she? her daughter!’ and so on to the end.
‘And just fancy, this infamy pleased them, all of them,
nearly. Only the children had altered—for then they were
all on my side and had learned to love Marie.
‘This is how it was: I had wished to do something for
Marie; I longed to give her some money, but I never had
a farthing while I was there. But I had a little diamond
pin, and this I sold to a travelling pedlar; he gave me eight
francs for it—it was worth at least forty.
‘I long sought to meet Marie alone; and at last I did
meet her, on the hillside beyond the village. I gave her the
eight francs and asked her to take care of the money
because I could get no more; and then I kissed her and
said that she was not to suppose I kissed her with any evil
motives or because I was in love with her, for that I did so
solely out of pity for her, and because from the first I had
not accounted her as guilty so much as unfortunate. I
longed to console and encourage her somehow, and to
assure her that she was not the low, base thing which she
and others strove to make out; but I don’t think she
understood me. She stood before me, dreadfully ashamed
of herself, and with downcast eyes; and when I had The Idiot
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finished she kissed my hand. I would have kissed hers, but
she drew it away. Just at this moment the whole troop of
children saw us. (I found out afterwards that they had long
kept a watch upon me.) They all began whistling and
clapping their hands, and laughing at us. Marie ran away at
once; and when I tried to talk to them, they threw stones
at me. All the village heard of it the same day, and Marie’s
position became worse than ever. The children would not
let her pass now in the streets, but annoyed her and threw
dirt at her more than before. They used to run after her—
she racing away with her poor feeble lungs panting and
gasping, and they pelting her and shouting abuse at her.
‘Once I had to interfere by force; and after that I took
to speaking to them every day and whenever I could.
Occasionally they stopped and listened; but they teased
Marie all the same.
‘I told them how unhappy Marie was, and after a while
they stopped their abuse of her, and let her go by silently.
Little by little we got into the way of conversing together,
the children and I. I concealed nothing from them, I told
them all. They listened very attentively and soon began to
be sorry for Marie. At last some of them took to saying
‘Good-morning’ to her, kindly, when they met her. It is
the custom there to salute anyone you meet with ‘Good-The Idiot
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morning’ whether acquainted or not. I can imagine how
astonished Marie was at these first greetings from the
children.
‘Once two little girls got hold of some food and took it
to her, and came back and told me. They said she had
burst into tears, and that they loved her very much now.
Very soon after that they all became fond of Marie, and at
the same time they began to develop the greatest affection
for myself. They often came to me and begged me to tell
them stories. I think I must have told stories well, for they
did so love to hear them. At last I took to reading up
interesting things on purpose to pass them on to the little
ones, and this went on for all the rest of my time there,
three years. Later, when everyone—even Schneider—was
angry with me for hiding nothing from the children, I
pointed out how foolish it was, for they always knew
things, only they learnt them in a way that soiled their
minds but not so from me. One has only to remember
one’s own childhood to admit the truth of this. But
nobody was convinced… It was two weeks before her
mother died that I had kissed Marie; and when the
clergyman preached that sermon the children were all on
my side. The Idiot
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‘When I told them what a shame it was of the parson
to talk as he had done, and explained my reason, they
were so angry that some of them went and broke his
windows with stones. Of course I stopped them, for that
was not right, but all the village heard of it, and how I
caught it for spoiling the children! Everyone discovered
now that the little ones had taken to being fond of Marie,
and their parents were terribly alarmed; but Marie was so
happy. The children were forbidden to meet her; but they
used to run out of the village to the herd and take her
food and things; and sometimes just ran off there and
kissed her, and said, ‘Je vous aime, Marie!’ and then
trotted back again. They imagined that I was in love with
Marie, and this was the only point on which I did not
undeceive them, for they got such enjoyment out of it.
And what delicacy and tenderness they showed!
‘In the evening I used to walk to the waterfall. There
was a spot there which was quite closed in and hidden
from view by large trees; and to this spot the children used
to come to me. They could not bear that their dear Leon
should love a poor girl without shoes to her feet and
dressed all in rags and tatters. So, would you believe it,
they actually clubbed together, somehow, and bought her
shoes and stockings, and some linen, and even a dress! I The Idiot
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can’t understand how they managed it, but they did it, all
together. When I asked them about it they only laughed
and shouted, and the little girls clapped their hands and
kissed me. I sometimes went to see Marie secretly, too.
She had become very ill, and could hardly walk. She still
went with the herd, but could not help the herdsman any
longer. She used to sit on a stone near, and wait there
almost motionless all day, till the herd went home. Her
consumption was so 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 used to stand on
her white brow in large drops. I always found her sitting
just like that. I used to come up quietly to look at her; but
Marie would hear me, open her eyes, and tremble
violently as she kissed my hands. 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;
but it was very difficult to understand her. She was almost
like a madwoman, with excitement and ecstasy, whenever
I came. Occasionally the children came with me; when
they did so, they would stand some way off and keep
guard over us, so as to tell me if anybody came near. This
was a great pleasure to them. The Idiot
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‘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 not go out at all, and remained
at home all alone in the empty hut; but the children very
soon became aware of the fact, and nearly all of them
visited 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 village people got to know that Marie was really
dying, some of the old women came and took it in turns
to sit by her and look after her a bit. I think 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 her
account.
‘Marie lay in a state of uncomfortable delirium the
whole while; she coughed dreadfully. The old women
would not let the children stay in the room; but they all
collected outside the window each morning, if only for a
moment, and shouted ‘Bon jour, notre bonne Marie!’ and
Marie no sooner caught sight of, or heard them, and she
became quite animated at once, and, in spite of the old
women, would try to sit up and nod her head and smile at
them, and thank them. The little ones used to bring her
nice things and sweets to eat, but she could hardly touch The Idiot
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anything. Thanks to them, I assure you, the girl died
almost perfectly happy. She almost forgot her misery, and
seemed to accept their love as a sort of symbol of pardon
for her offence, though she never ceased to consider
herself a dreadful sinner. They used to flutter at her
window just like little birds, calling out: ‘Nous t’aimons,
Marie!’
‘She died very soon; I had thought she would live
much longer. The day before her death I went to see her
for the last time, just before sunset. I think she recognized
me, for she pressed my hand.
‘Next morning they came and told me that Marie was
dead. The children could not be restrained now; they
went and covered her coffin with flowers, and put a
wreath of lovely blossoms on her head. The pastor did not
throw any more shameful words at the poor dead woman;
but there were very few people at the funeral. However,
when it came to carrying the coffin, all the children rushed
up, to carry it themselves. Of course they could not do it
alone, but they insisted on helping, and walked alongside
and behind, crying.
‘They have planted roses all round her grave, and every
year they look alter the flowers and make Marie’s resting-
place as beautiful as they can. I was in ill odour after all The Idiot
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this with the parents of the children, and especially with
the parson and schoolmaster. Schneider was obliged to
promise that I should not meet them and talk to them; but
we conversed from a distance by signs, and they used to
write me sweet little 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 before I came away.
‘You have the form and face of an adult’ he said, ‘but as
regards soul, and character, and perhaps even intelligence,
you are a child in the completest sense of the word, and
always will be, if you live 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 and much
prefer the society of children. However kind people may
be to me, I never feel quite at home with them, and am
always glad to get back to my little companions. Now my
companions have always been children, not because I was
a child myself once, but because young things attract me.
On one of the first days of my stay in Switzerland, I was
strolling about alone and miserable, when I came upon the The Idiot
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children rushing noisily out of school, with their slates and
bags, and books, their games, their laughter and shouts—
and my soul went out to them. I stopped and laughed
happily as I watched their little feet moving so quickly.
Girls and boys, laughing and crying; for as they went
home many of them found time to fight and make peace,
to weep and play. I forgot my troubles in looking at them.
And then, all those three years, I tried to understand why
men should be for ever tormenting themselves. I lived the
life of a 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 any longer. And then
something so important happened, that Schneider himself
urged me to depart. I am going to see now if can get good
advice about it. Perhaps my lot in life will be changed; but
that is not the principal thing. The principal thing is the
entire change that has already come over me. I left many
things behind me—too many. They have gone. On the
journey I said to myself, ‘I am going into the world of
men. I don’t know much, perhaps, but a new life has
