Page 669 - the-idiot

while he read the letters, he himself almost believed in the
possibility, and even in the justification, of the idea he had
thought so wild. Of course it was a mad dream, a nightmare,
and yet there was something cruelly real about it. For hours
he was haunted by what he had read. Several passages re-
turned again and again to his mind, and as he brooded over
them, he felt inclined to say to himself that he had foreseen
and known all that was written here; it even seemed to him
that he had read the whole of this some time or other, long,
long ago; and all that had tormented and grieved him up to
now was to be found in these old, long since read, letters.
‘When you open this letter’ (so the first began), ‘look
first at the signature. The signature will tell you all, so that I
need explain nothing, nor attempt to justify myself. Were I
in any way on a footing with you, you might be offended at
my audacity; but who am I, and who are you? We are at such
extremes, and I am so far removed from you, that I could
not offend you if I wished to do so.’
Farther on, in another place, she wrote: ‘Do not consider
my words as the sickly ecstasies of a diseased mind, but you
are, in my opinion—perfection! I have seen you—I see you
every day. I do not judge you; I have not weighed you in the
scales of Reason and found you Perfection—it is simply an
article of faith. But I must confess one sin against you—I
love you. One should not love perfection. One should only
look on it as perfection—yet I am in love with you. Though
love equalizes, do not fear. I have not lowered you to my
level, even in my most secret thoughts. I have written ‘Do
not fear,’ as if you could fear. I would kiss your footprints if I

The Idiot