Текст книги "The Brothers Karamazov"
Автор книги: Федор Достоевский
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The mysterious visitor, by now my friend, divulged to me that at first he had even suffered no remorse at all. He did suffer for a long time, not from that, but from regret that he had killed the woman he loved, that she was no more, that having killed her, he had killed his love, while the fire of passion was still in his veins. But he gave almost no thought then to the blood he had shed, to the murder of a human being. The idea that his victim might have become another man’s wife seemed impossible to him, and thus for a long time he was convinced in his conscience that he could not have acted otherwise. The arrest of the servant caused him some anguish at first, but the speedy illness and then death of the arrested man set his mind at ease, for by all evidence he had died (so he reasoned then) not from the arrest or from fear, but from the chill he had caught precisely during his fugitive days, when he had lain, dead drunk, all night on the damp ground. And the stolen articles and money troubled him little, because (he kept reasoning in the same way) the theft had been committed not for gain but to divert suspicion elsewhere. The sum stolen was insignificant, and he soon donated the entire sum and even much more for the almshouse that was being established in our town. He did so on purpose to ease his conscience regarding the theft, and, remarkably, he did indeed feel eased for a time, even for a long time—he told me so himself. Then he threw himself into great official activity, took upon himself a troublesome and difficult assignment, which occupied him for about two years, and, being of strong character, almost forgot what had happened; and when he did remember, he tried not to give it any thought. He also threw himself into philanthropic work, gave and organized a great deal in our town, became known in the capitals, was elected a member of philanthropic societies in Moscow and Petersburg. Nevertheless, he fell to brooding at last, and the torment was more than he was able to bear. Just then he became attracted to a wonderful and sensible girl, and in a short time he married her, dreaming that marriage would dispel his solitary anguish, and that, entering upon a new path and zealously fulfilling his duty towards wife and children, he would escape his old memories altogether. But what happened was exactly the opposite of this expectation. Already in the first month of marriage, a ceaseless thought began troubling him: “So my wife loves me, but what if she found out?” When she became pregnant with their first child and told him of it, he suddenly became troubled: “I am giving life, but I have taken a life.” They had children: “How dare I love, teach, and raise them, how shall I speak to them of virtue: I have shed blood.” They were wonderful children, one longed to caress them: “And I cannot look at their innocent, bright faces; I am unworthy.” Finally the blood of the murdered victim began to appear to him, menacingly and bitterly, her destroyed young life, her blood crying out for revenge. He began to have horrible dreams. But, being stouthearted, he endured the torment for a long time: “I shall atone for it all with my secret torment.” But that hope, too, was vain: the longer it went on, the more intense his suffering grew. He came to be respected in society for his philanthropic activity, though everyone was afraid of his stern and gloomy character, but the more respected he became, the more unbearable it was for him. He confessed to me that he had thought of killing himself. But instead of that he began to picture a different dream—a dream he at first considered impossible and insane, but which stuck so fast to his heart that he was unable to shake it off. His dream was this: he would rise up, go out in front of people, and tell them all that he had killed a person. For about three years he lived with this dream, he kept picturing it in various forms. Finally he came to believe with his whole heart that, having told his crime, he would undoubtedly heal his soul and find peace once and for all. But, believing that, he felt terror in his heart, for how could it be carried out? And suddenly there occurred that incident at my duel. “Looking at you, I have now made up my mind.” I looked at him.
“Is it possible,” I cried to him, clasping my hands, “that such a small incident should generate such resolution in you?” “My resolution has been generating for three years,” he replied, “and your incident only gave it a push. Looking at you, I reproached myself and envied you,” he said this to me even with severity.
“But no one will believe you,” I observed to him, “it was fourteen years ago.”
“I have proofs, great proofs. I will present them.”
I wept then, and kissed him.
“Decide one thing, just one thing, for me!” he said (as if everything now depended on me). “My wife, my children! My wife may die of grief, and my children, even if they are not stripped of rank and property, my children will become a convict’s children, and that forever. And what a memory, what a memory I shall leave in their hearts!”
I was silent.
“And how to part with them, to leave them forever? For it will be forever, forever!”
I sat silently whispering a prayer to myself. Finally I got up, I was frightened.
“Well?” he looked at me.
“Go,” I said, “tell them. All will pass, the truth alone will remain. Your children , when they grow up, will understand how much magnanimity there was in your great resolution.”
He left me then, as if he had indeed made up his mind to it. Yet he still kept coming to me for more than two weeks, every evening, preparing himself, still unable to make up his mind. He tormented my heart. One time he would come determinedly and say with deep feeling:
“I know that paradise will come to me, will come at once, the moment I tell. For fourteen years I have been in hell. I want to suffer. I will embrace suffering and begin to live. One can go through the world with a lie, but there is no going back. Now I do not dare to love not only my neighbor, but even my own children. Lord, but perhaps my children really will understand the cost of my suffering and will not condemn me! The Lord is not in power but in truth.”
“Everyone will understand your deed,” I said to him, “if not now, they will understand later, for you will have served the truth, not earthly truth, but a higher one ...”
And he would go away seeming comforted, and the next day he would suddenly come again, malicious, pale, and say mockingly:
“Each time I come in, you look at me with such curiosity: What, you still have not told?’ Wait, do not despise me so much. It is not as easy to do as you may think. Perhaps I shall not do it at all. You would not go and denounce me then, would you, eh?” Yet not only would I have been afraid to look at him with senseless curiosity, I was even afraid to glance at him. This torment made me ill, and my soul was full of tears. I was even unable to sleep at night.
“I have just now come from my wife,” he went on. “Do you understand what a wife is? My children, as I was leaving, called out to me: ‘Good-bye, papa, come back soon and read to us from The Children’s Reader.’ No, you do not understand that! No one is the wiser for another man’s troubles.”
His eyes flashed, his lips trembled. Suddenly he struck the table with his fist so that the things on it jumped—he was such a mild man, it was the first time he had done anything like that.
“But is there any need?” he exclaimed, “is there any necessity? No one was condemned, no one was sent to hard labor because of me, the servant died of illness. And I have been punished by my sufferings for the blood I shed. And they will not believe me at all, they will not believe one of my proofs. Is there any need to tell, is there any need? I am ready to suffer still, all my life, for the blood I have shed, only so as not to strike at my wife and children. Would it be just to ruin them along with myself? Are we not mistaken? Where is the truth here? And will people know this truth, will they appreciate it, will they respect it?”
“Lord!” I thought to myself, “he thinks about people’s respect at such a moment!” And I felt so much pity for him then that I believe I would have shared his lot if it would have made it easier for him. I could see that he was nearly in a frenzy. I was horrified, having understood by then, not with reason alone but with my living soul, how great was the cost of such a resolution.
“Decide my fate!” he exclaimed again.
“Go and tell,” I whispered to him. There was little voice left in me, but I whispered it firmly. Then I took the Gospel from the table, the Russian translation, [206]and showed him John, chapter 12, verse 24:
“Verily, verily, I say unto you, except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.” I had read this verse just before he came.
He read it.
“True,” he said, and smiled bitterly. “Yes, in these books,” he said, after a pause, “one finds all sorts of terrible things. It is easy to shove them under someone’s nose. Who wrote them, were they human beings?”
“The Holy Spirit wrote them,” I said.
“It’s easy for you to babble,” he smiled again, but this time almost hatefully. I again took the book, opened it to a different place, and showed him the Epistle to the Hebrews, chapter 10, verse 31. He read: “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.” He read it and threw the book aside. He even began trembling all over.
“A fearful verse,” he said. “You picked a good one, I must say.” He got up from his chair. “So,” he said, “farewell, I may not come again ... we’ll see each other in paradise. Well, it has been fourteen years since I ‘fell into the hands of the living God,’ that is the right way to describe these fourteen years. Tomorrow I shall ask those hands to let me go...”
I wanted to embrace him and kiss him, but I did not dare—so contorted was his face, and so heavy his expression. He left. “Lord,” I thought, “what awaits the man!” Then I threw myself on my knees before the icon and wept for him to the most holy Mother of God, our swift intercessor and helper. I spent half an hour praying in tears, and it was already late, about midnight. Suddenly I saw the door open, and he came in again. I was amazed.
“Where have you been?” I asked him.
“I seem to have forgotten something . .. ,” he said, “my handkerchief, I think ... Well, even if I have not forgotten anything, let me sit down...”
He sat down in a chair. I stood over him. “You sit down, too,” he said. I sat down. We sat for about two minutes; he looked at me fixedly and suddenly smiled—I remembered that—then got up, embraced me firmly, and kissed me . . .
“Remember, friend,” he said, “how I came back to you this time—do you hear? Remember it!”
It was the first time he had called me “friend.” Then he left. “Tomorrow,” I thought.
And so it happened. I had not even known that evening that his birthday was the very next day. For I had not gone out over the past few days, and therefore could not have found out from anyone. Each year on that day he gave a big party; the whole town would come to it. They came this time, too. And so, after dinner, he stepped into the middle of the room with a paper in his hand—a formal statement to the authorities. And since the authorities were right there, he read the paper right then to the whole gathering. It contained a full account of the entire crime in all its details. “As an outcast, I cast myself out from among people. God has visited me,” he concluded the paper, “I want to embrace suffering!” Right then he brought out and placed on the table all the things he fancied would prove his crime and had been keeping for fourteen years: the gold objects belonging to the murdered woman, which he had stolen to divert suspicion from himself; her locket and cross, taken from around her neck—the locket containing a portrait of her fiancé; a notebook, and, finally, two letters: one from her fiancé, informing her of his imminent arrival, and her unfinished reply to his letter, left on the table to be sent to the post office the next day. He had taken both letters—but why? Why had he kept them for fourteen years instead of destroying them as evidence? And what happened then: everyone was astonished and horrified, and no one wanted to believe it, though they listened with great curiosity, but as to a sick man, and a few days later it was all quite decided among them, the verdict being that the unfortunate man had gone mad. The authorities and the court could not avoid starting proceedings, but they also held back: though the articles and letters he produced did make them think, here, too, it was decided that even if the documents proved to be authentic, a final accusation could not be pronounced on the basis of these documents alone. And the articles he might have obtained from the woman herself, as her acquaintance and trustee. I heard, however, that the authenticity of the articles was later verified by many acquaintances and relatives of the murdered woman, and that there were no doubts about that. But, again, the case was destined to be left unfinished. Within five days everyone knew that the sufferer had become ill and that they feared for his life. What the nature of his illness was, I cannot explain; it was said that he had a heart ailment; but it became known that the attending physicians, at his wife’s insistence, also examined his psychological condition, and reached the verdict that madness was indeed present. I betrayed nothing, though they came running to question me, but when I wished to visit him, I was prohibited for a long time, mainly by his wife: “It was you who upset him,” she said to me, “he was gloomy anyway, and over the past year everyone noticed his unusual anxiety and strange actions; then you came along and ruined him, you and your endless reading at him did it; he never left you for a whole month. “ And then not only his wife but everyone in town fell upon me and accused me: “It is all your fault,” they said. I kept silent, and was glad in my soul, for I saw the undoubted mercy of God towards him who had risen against himself and punished himself. I could not believe in his madness. At last they allowed me to see him, he had demanded it insistently in order to say farewell to me. I went in and saw at once that not only his days but even his hours were numbered. He was weak, yellow, his hands trembled, he gasped for breath, but his look was tender and joyful.
“It is finished!” he said to me. “I have long been yearning to see you, why didn’t you come?”
I did not tell him that I had not been allowed to see him.
“God has pitied me and is calling me to himself. I know I am dying, but I feel joy and peace for the first time after so many years. I at once felt paradise in my soul, as soon as I had done what I had to do. Now I dare to love my children and kiss them. No one believes me, neither my wife nor the judges; my children will never believe me either. In that I see the mercy of God towards my children. I shall die and for them my name will remain untainted. And now I am looking towards God, my heart rejoices as in paradise ... I have done my duty ...”
He could not speak, he was gasping for breath, ardently pressing my hand, looking at me fervently. But our conversation was not long, his wife was constantly peeking in at us. Still he managed to whisper to me:
“Do you remember how I came to you again, at midnight? I told you to remember it. Do you know why I came? I came to kill you!”
I started.
“I went out from you then into the darkness, I wandered about the streets, struggling with myself. And suddenly I hated you so much that my heart could barely stand it. ‘Now,’ I thought, ‘he alone binds me and is my judge; now I cannot renounce my punishment tomorrow, for he knows everything.’ Not that I was afraid you would turn me in (the idea never occurred to me), but I thought: ‘How can I face him if I do not turn myself in?’ And even if you had been in a faraway land, but still alive, the thought that you were alive and knew everything, and were judging me, would in any case have been unbearable. I hated you as if you were the cause of it all and to blame for it all. I came back to you then; I remembered that there was a dagger lying on your table. I sat down, and asked you to sit down, and thought for a whole minute. If I had killed you, I would have perished for that murder in any case, even if I did not tell about my previous crime. But I did not think of that at all, and did not want to think of it at that moment. I simply hated you and wished with all my might to revenge myself on you for everything. But my Lord defeated the devil in my heart. Know, however, that you have never been closer to death.”
A week later he died. The whole town followed his coffin to the grave. The archpriest made a heartfelt speech. They bemoaned the terrible illness that had ended his days. But once he was buried, the whole town rose up against me and even stopped receiving me. It is true that some, a few at first, and then more and more, came to believe in the truth of his testimony and began visiting me all the time, questioning me with great curiosity and joy: for men love the fall of the righteous man and his disgrace. But I kept silent and soon quit the town altogether, and five months later I was deemed worthy by the Lord God to step onto a firm and goodly path, blessing the unseen finger that pointed my way so clearly. And every day, down to this very day, I have remembered the long-suffering servant of God, Mikhail, in my prayers.
Chapter 3
From Talks and Homilies of the Elder Zosima
(e) Some Words about the Russian Monk and His Possible SignificanceFathers and teachers, what is a monk? In the enlightened world of today, this word is now uttered in mockery by some, and by others even as a term of abuse. And it gets worse and worse. True, ah, true, among monks there are many parasites, pleasure-seekers, sensualists, and insolent vagabonds. Educated men of the world point this out, saying: “You are idlers, useless members of society, shameless beggars, living on the labor of others.” And yet among monks so many are humble and meek, thirsting for solitude and fervent prayer in peace. People point less often to these monks, and even pass them over in silence, and how surprised they would be if I were to say that from these meek ones, thirsting for solitary prayer, will perhaps come once again the salvation of the Russian land! For truly they are made ready in peace “for the day and the hour, and the month and the year.” [207]Meanwhile, in their solitude they keep the image of Christ fair and undistorted, in the purity of God’s truth, from the time of the ancient fathers, apostles, and martyrs, and when the need arises they will reveal it to the wavering truth of the world. This is a great thought. This star will shine forth from the East. [208]
Thus I think of the monk, and can my thinking be false? can it be arrogant? Look at the worldly and at the whole world that exalts itself above the people of God: are the image of God and his truth not distorted in it? They have science, and in science only that which is subject to the senses. But the spiritual world, the higher half of man’s being, is altogether rejected, banished with a sort of triumph, even with hatred. The world has proclaimed freedom, especially of late, but what do we see in this freedom of theirs: only slavery and suicide! For the world says: “You have needs, therefore satisfy them, for you have the same rights as the noblest and richest men. Do not be afraid to satisfy them, but even increase them”– this is the current teaching of the world. And in this they see freedom. But what comes of this right to increase one’s needs? For the rich, isolationand spiritual suicide; for the poor, envy and murder, for they have been given rights, but have not yet been shown any way of satisfying their needs. We are assured that the world is becoming more and more united, is being formed into brotherly communion, by the shortening of distances, by the transmitting of thoughts through the air. Alas, do not believe in such a union of people. Taking freedom to mean the increase and prompt satisfaction of needs, they distort their own nature, for they generate many meaningless and foolish desires, habits, and the most absurd fancies in themselves. They live only for mutual envy, for pleasure-seeking and self-display. To have dinners, horses, carriages, rank, and slaves to serve them is now considered such a necessity that for the sake of it, to satisfy it, they will sacrifice life, honor, the love of mankind, and will even kill themselves if they are unable to satisfy it. We see the same thing in those who are not rich, while the poor, so far, simply drown their unsatisfied needs and envy in drink. But soon they will get drunk on blood instead of wine, they are being led to that. I ask you: is such a man free? I knew one “fighter for an idea” who told me himself that when he was deprived of tobacco in prison, he was so tormented by this deprivation that he almost went and betrayed his “idea,” just so that they would give him some tobacco. And such a man says: “I am going to fight for mankind. “ Well, how far will such a man get, and what is he good for? Perhaps some quick action, but he will not endure for long. And no wonder that instead of freedom they have fallen into slavery, and instead of serving brotherly love and human unity, they have fallen, on the contrary, into disunity and isolation, as my mysterious visitor and teacher used to tell me in my youth. And therefore the idea of serving mankind, of the brotherhood and oneness of people, is fading more and more in the world, and indeed the idea now even meets with mockery, for how can one drop one’s habits, where will this slave go now that he is so accustomed to satisfying the innumerable needs he himself has invented? He is isolated, and what does he care about the whole? They have succeeded in amassing more and more things, but have less and less joy. Very different is the monastic way. Obedience, fasting, and prayer are laughed at, yet they alone constitute the way to real and true freedom: I cut away my superfluous and unnecessary needs, through obedience I humble and chasten my vain and proud will, and thereby, with God’s help, attain freedom of spirit, and with that, spiritual rejoicing! Which of the two is more capable of upholding and serving a great idea—the isolated rich man or one who is liberated from the tyranny of things and habits? The monk is reproached for his isolation: “You isolate yourself in order to save your soul behind monastery walls, but you forget the brotherly ministry to mankind.”We shall see, however, who is more zealous in loving his brothers. For it is they who are isolated, not we, but they do not see it. Of old from our midst came leaders of the people, and can they not come now as well? Our own humble and meek ones, fasters and keepers of silence, will arise and go forth for a great deed. The salvation of Russia is from the people. And the Russian monastery has been with the people from time immemorial. If the people are isolated, we, too, are isolated. The people believe as we do, but an unbelieving leader will accomplish nothing in our Russia, even though he be sincere of heart and ingenious of mind. Remember that. The people will confront the atheist and overcome him, and there will be one Orthodox Russia. Watch over the people, therefore, and keep a watch on their hearts. Guide them in peace. Such is your monastic endeavor, for this is a God-bearing people.
(f) Some Words about Masters and Servants and Whether It Is Possible for Them to Become Brothers in Spirit
God knows there is sin among the people, too. And the flame of corruption is even visibly increasing by the hour, working down from above. Isolation is coming to the people as well: there are kulaks and commune-eaters; [209]the merchant now wants more and more honors, longs to show himself an educated man, though he has not the least education, and to that end basely scorns ancient customs, and is even ashamed of the faith of his fathers. He likes visiting princes, though he himself is only a peasant gone bad. The people are festering with drink and cannot leave off. And what cruelty towards their families, their wives, even their children, all from drunkenness! I have even seen ten-year-old children in the factories: frail, sickly, stooped, and already depraved. The stuffy workshop, work all day long, depraved talk, and wine, wine—is that what the soul of such a little child needs? He needs sunshine, children’s games, bright examples all around, and to be given at least a drop of love. Let there be none of that, monks, let there be no torture of children; rise up and preach it at once, at once! But God will save Russia, for though the simple man is depraved, and can no longer refrain from rank sin, still he knows that his rank sin is cursed by God and that he does badly in sinning. So our people still believe tirelessly in truth, acknowledge God, weep tenderly. Not so their betters. These, following science, want to make a just order for themselves by reason alone, but without Christ now, not as before, and they have already proclaimed that there is no crime, there is no sin. And in their own terms, that is correct: for if you have no God, what crime is there to speak of? In Europe the people are rising up against the rich with force, and popular leaders everywhere are leading them to bloodshed and teaching them that their wrath is righteous. But “their wrath is accursed, for it is cruel.” [210]Yet the Lord will save Russia, as he has saved her many times before. Salvation will come from the people, from their faith and their humility. Fathers and teachers, watch over the faith of the people—and this is no dream: all my life I have been struck by the true and gracious dignity in our great people, I have seen it, I can testify to it myself, I have seen it and marveled at it, seen it even in spite of the rank sins and beggarly appearance of our people. They are not servile, and that after two centuries of serfdom. They are free in appearance and manner, yet without any offense. And not vengeful, not envious. “You are noble, you are rich, you are intelligent and talented, very well, God bless you. I honor you, but I know that I, too, am a man. By honoring you without envy, I show my human dignity before you.” Verily, though they do not say it (for they cannot say it yet), that is how they act,I have seen it myself, I have experienced it, and would you believe that the poorer and lower our Russian man is, the more one notices this gracious truth in him, for the rich among them, the kulaks and commune-eaters, are already corrupted in great numbers, and much, oh, so much of that came about because of our negligence and oversight! But God will save his people, for Russia is great in her humility. I dream of seeing our future, and seem to see it clearly already: for it will come to pass that even the most corrupt of our rich men will finally be ashamed of his riches before the poor man, and the poor man, seeing his humility, will understand and yield to him in joy, and will respond with kindness to his gracious shame. Believe me, it will finally be so: things are heading that way. Equality is only in man’s spiritual dignity, and only among us will that be understood. Where there are brothers, there will be brotherhood; but before brotherhood they will never share among themselves. Let us preserve the image of Christ, that it may shine forth like a precious diamond to the whole world ... So be it, so be it! Fathers and teachers, a moving incident happened to me once. In my wanderings I met one day, in the provincial capital of K–, my former orderly, Afanasy. It was then already eight years since I had parted with him. He saw me by chance in the marketplace, recognized me, ran over to me, and God, how delighted he was to see me! He rushed up to me: “My dear master, is it you? Can it really be you?” He took me home. He had left the army by then, was married, and had two small children. They supported themselves by hawking wares in the marketplace. His room was poor, but clean, joyful. He sat me down, lit the samovar, sent for his wife, as if my appearance was somehow a festive occasion. He brought the children to me: “Bless them, father.” “Is it for me to bless them?” I replied. “I am a simple and humble monk, I shall pray to God for them; and for you, Afanasy Pavlovich, I have prayed to God always, every day, since that very day, for I tell you, it all came about because of you.” And I explained it to him as far as I could. And what do you think: the man looked at me and still could not imagine that I, his former master, an officer, could be there before him as I was, and dressed as I was. He even wept. “Why are you weeping?” I said to him. “Better rejoice for me in your soul, my dear, my unforgettable man, for my path is a bright and joyful one.” He did not say much, but kept sighing and shaking his head over me tenderly. “And where is your wealth?” he asked. “I gave it to the monastery,” I replied, “we live in common.” After tea I was saying good-bye to them when he suddenly produced fifty kopecks as a donation to the monastery, and then slipped another fifty kopecks hurriedly into my hand: “This is for you, father, maybe you’ll need it in your travels and wanderings.” I accepted his fifty kopecks, bowed to him and his wife, and left rejoicing, thinking as I went: “Here are the two of us, he at home and I on the road, both no doubt sighing and smiling joyfully, in the gladness of our hearts, shaking our heads when we recall how God granted us this meeting.” I never saw him again after that. I was his master, and he was my servant, and now, as we kissed each other lovingly and in spiritual tenderness, a great human communion took place between us. I have given it much thought, and now I reason thus: Is it so far beyond reach of the mind that this great and openhearted communion might in due time take place everywhere among our Russian people? I believe that it will take place, and that the time is near.
