Page 671 - the-idiot

‘Yesterday, after seeing you, I went home and thought out
a picture.
‘Artists always draw the Saviour as an actor in one of the
Gospel stories. I should do differently. I should represent
Christ alone—the disciples did leave Him alone occasion-
ally. I should paint one little child left with Him. This child
has been playing about near Him, and had probably just
been telling the Saviour something in its pretty baby prattle.
Christ had listened to it, but was now musing—one hand
reposing on the child’s bright head. His eyes have a far-away
expression. Thought, great as the Universe, is in them—His
face is sad. The little one leans its elbow upon Christ’s knee,
and with its cheek resting on its hand, gazes up at Him,
pondering as children sometimes do ponder. The sun is set-
ting. There you have my picture.
‘You are innocent—and in your innocence lies all your
perfection—oh, remember that! What is my passion to
you?—you are mine now; I shall be near you all my life—I
shall not live long!’
At length, in the last letter of all, he found:
‘For Heaven’s sake, don’t misunderstand me! Do not
think that I humiliate myself by writing thus to you, or that
I belong to that class of people who take a satisfaction in hu-
miliating themselves—from pride. I have my consolation,
though it would be difficult to explain it—but I do not hu-
miliate myself.
‘Why do I wish to unite you two? For your sakes or my
own? For my own sake, naturally. All the problems of my
life would thus be solved; I have thought so for a long time.

0 The Idiot