The Brothers Karamazov (10 page)

“Now,” the elder said, “you are like Rachel in the Bible, weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted because they were no more. Such is the lot of mothers on earth. So do not be comforted—there is no need. Weep, but every time you do, remember that your little son is one of God’s angels, that he is looking down on you from where he is now, that he sees you and rejoices in your tears and shows them to God. You will shed a mother’s tears for a long time to come, but in the end your weeping will turn into quiet joy, and your bitter tears will become tears of quiet tenderness which will cleanse your heart of sin. And I shall pray for the peace of your boy’s soul. What was his name?”

“Alexei, Father.”

“That is a sweet name. Was he named for Alexei the man of God?”

“For the man of God, Father, for Alexei the man of God.”

“A great saint, he was! I will certainly remember your son in my prayers. I will remember your sorrow too and I will also pray for your husband, that the Lord may grant him health and happiness. And now, go back to your husband and look after him. If your little boy sees from up there that you have abandoned his father, he will weep over both of you. Why must you disturb his bliss? For he is alive, very much alive, since the soul lives forever. Although you cannot see him in the house with you, he is there, invisible, by your side. But how can he come home to you when you say that you hate your home now? To whom will he come if he cannot find his father and mother together? Now he comes to you in your dreams and torments you, but if you go back he will send you sweet dreams. Go back to your husband, mother, go back to him this very day.”

“I’ll go, Father, I’ll do as you say. You’ve seen into my heart! Ah, Nikita, my Nikita, you’re waiting for me, my good husband!” the woman started in a wailing cadence, but the elder had turned away from her to a very old woman. This one was not dressed like a pilgrim but wore ordinary town clothes. It was obvious from her expression that she had come on business, that she had something to tell him. She said she was the widow of an army sergeant. She had not had to travel a long way, since she was from our town. Her son Vasya, who was in the civil service, had been transferred to Irkutsk in Siberia. She had received two letters from him at first, but now there had been no word from him for over a year. She had tried to make inquiries about him, but she really didn’t even know where to inquire.

“The other day, Mrs. Bedryagin—she’s the wife of a rich merchant—she says to me, ‘Why don’t you go to church, Prokhorovna, and put your son’s name down for a requiem mass, just like he was dead. That will make his soul feel uneasy,’ she says, ‘and he’ll write you a letter. It’s a sure thing,’ Mrs. Bedryagin tells me, ‘it has worked time and again.’ But I don’t know, somehow it doesn’t feel right . . . Enlighten me, Father. Is she telling the truth? Would it be the right thing to do, Father?”

“Don’t even think of it! You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking. How can anyone ask for a requiem mass for someone who is still alive, and you, his mother of all people! That would be a mortal sin, akin to sorcery, and it is forgiven you only because of your ignorance. Instead, you’d better pray to the Mother of God to intercede for your son, that the Lord may grant him health, and for you, that He may forgive you for the error of your ways. And let me tell you this, Prokhorovna: your son will come back to you soon or at least he will certainly send you a letter. You can count on it. Go now and stop worrying—your son is alive, I promise you.”

“May God reward you, O beloved benefactor, who prays for us all, that all our sins may be forgiven . . .”

But the elder’s attention had already been caught by two burning eyes in the haggard, consumptive face of a young peasant woman. She looked at him in silence, her eyes imploring him, but did not dare to come closer.

“What is it you wish, my dear?”

“Take a load off my soul, dear Father,” she said softly and slowly as she went down on her knees and bowed to the ground. “I have sinned, my Father, and I’m afraid of my sin.”

The elder sat down on the bottom step, and the woman moved closer to him without rising from her knees.

“I’ve been a widow for two years,” she said in a half whisper, shuddering as she spoke. “It was hard being married to him, he was old and beat me terribly. So when he lay sick, I looked at him and I said to myself: ‘If he gets better, he’ll get up and then what?’ And that is when the thought came to me . . .”

“Wait,” the elder said and brought his ear close to her lips. The woman went on, whispering so quietly that it was almost impossible to make out the words. Soon she had finished.

“Over two years ago?” the elder asked.

“Yes. At first I didn’t think about it much, but now I’ve got sick, and it bothers me.”

“Have you come from far away?”

“Three hundred miles.”

“Have you already confessed this to a priest?”

“I have. Twice I’ve confessed it.”

“Have you been admitted to communion?”

“Yes. But I’m still afraid, Father. I’m afraid to die.”

“Don’t be afraid of anything, ever. And do not grieve. As long as your repentance does not weaken, God will forgive everything. There is not—there cannot be—a sin on earth that God will not forgive the truly repentant. Why, a man cannot commit a sin so great as to exhaust the infinite love of God. How could there be a sin that would surpass the love of God? Think only of repentance, all the time, and drive away all fear. Have faith that God loves you more than you can ever imagine. He loves you, sinful as you are and, indeed, because of your sin. It was said long ago that there is more joy in heaven over one repentant sinner than over ten righteous men. Go now, and fear nothing. Do not be offended if people treat you badly. Do not hold it against them. And forgive your departed husband all the harm he did you. Become truly reconciled with him. For if you repent, you love, and if you love, you are with God. Love redeems and saves everything. If I, a sinner like yourself, am moved and feel compassion for you, how infinitely much more will God! Love is such an infinite treasure it can buy the whole world and can redeem not only your sins, but the sins of all people. So go and fear no more.”

He made the sign of the cross over her three times, took the holy icon from his own neck, and put it around hers. She bowed down to the ground in silence.

He got up from the step where he had been sitting, looking smilingly at a big, strong peasant woman with a baby in her arms.

“I’m from Vyshegorie, beloved Father.”

“So you walked five weary miles, carrying the child,” he said. “What’s your trouble?”

“I just wanted to see you, Father. I’ve been here before. Don’t you recognize me? Your memory can’t be too good if you’ve forgotten me already. People in my village were saying you weren’t feeling good, so I think: ‘If that’s so, I’d better go and see for myself.’ But now I’m here, you don’t look too sick to me. You’ll be around for another twenty years yet, God bless you! Besides, there are enough people to pray for you to keep you from being sick.”

“Thank you for everything, my dear.”

“While I’m here, I must ask you a small favor too: I have sixty kopeks here, take it and give it to someone poorer than me. On my way here, I says to myself: ‘Guess I’d better give him this money. He knows better who needs it most.’ ”

“Thank you, my dear, thank you, good woman. I love you. I will do as you ask without fail. Is it a girl you have?”

“Yes, dear Father. Her name’s Lizaveta.”

“May the Lord bless you, both you and baby Lizaveta. You have gladdened my heart, my dear. And now, good-by, my dear, good-by, beloved people.”

He blessed all the women and bowed low to them.

Chapter 4: A Lady Of Little Faith

WATCHING THE elder talking to these humble women and blessing them, Mrs. Khokhlakov kept wiping away her tears with a little handkerchief. She was a sentimental lady with many genuinely kind impulses. When the elder finally approached her, she looked at him ecstatically.

“I’ve experienced so much, watching this inspiring scene, that . . .” She was too moved to finish. “Oh, I understand why the simple people love you . . . I myself love ordinary people, I want to love them . . . Besides, how can one help loving our wonderful Russian people, so simple in their very greatness?”

“How does your daughter feel? Did you want to talk to me again?”

“Oh, I begged for an interview. I requested it most insistently. I was prepared to go down on my knees, to stay kneeling before your windows for three whole days if I had to, until you received me. We have come to you, great healer, to express our fervent gratitude. Why, you have cured my Lise, cured her completely . . . And how? Just by saying a prayer over her last Thursday and laying your hands on her. We are anxious to kiss those hands, to pour out our feelings and our veneration.”

“What do you mean—I healed her? She’s still in her wheelchair, isn’t she?”

“But she’s had no fever for the past two nights, no fever since Thursday, none at all,” the lady rattled on. “Besides, her legs have grown stronger. She felt well when she woke up this morning. She had slept soundly all night, and her cheeks were rosy and her eyes bright . . . She used to cry all the time, but now she is cheerful and keeps laughing. Today she actually demanded to be allowed to get up, to stand on her feet, and she did stand up for a whole minute without any help. She wants to make a wager with me that in a fortnight she’ll be dancing the quadrille. I called in the local doctor, Herzenstube, to see her, and he just spread his arms wide in amazement: ‘I’m stunned!’ he said. ‘I just can’t explain it.’ And you expected us not to disturb you, as though we could keep ourselves from flying over here to thank you. Well, Lise, come, thank the elder!”

Lise’s pretty, laughing face suddenly turned grave. She raised herself as far as she could in her wheel-chair and, looking at the elder, clasped her hands as if in prayer. But the next second she lost control of herself and burst out laughing.

“It’s his fault. He’s the one who makes me laugh!” she cried, pointing at Alyosha, childishly annoyed at herself for not being able to restrain her laughter.

Anyone looking at Alyosha, who was standing one step behind the elder, would have noticed that his cheeks turned bright red; his eyes flashed and he lowered them.

Mrs. Khokhlakov turned toward Alyosha and, giving him her elegantly gloved hand, said: “She has a message for you, Alexei.”

The elder turned suddenly to look attentively at Alyosha, who then walked over to Lise and, smiling awkwardly, gave her his hand. Lise put on a serious face.

“Katerina Ivanovna asked me to give you this,” she said, handing him a small envelope. “She asks particularly that you come and see her, and she wants you to come soon, without fail, and not to let her down.”

“She wants me to go and see her? Me? Why?” Alyosha muttered, extremely surprised. His face took on a very worried look.

“Oh, it’s about your brother Dmitry and all that business that happened recently—you know,” Lise’s mother explained casually. “Katerina has made up her mind on a certain subject, but she absolutely must see you first. Why must she? That I don’t know, but she insisted it was very urgent and that you should go as soon as possible. And you must go. I would even say it is your duty as a Christian to go.”

“But I’ve only seen her once,” Alyosha said, still bewildered.

“She is such a noble, such an exceptional person! If only because of what she’s been through . . . Just imagine how she has suffered, how much she is suffering now, and how much more suffering she has in store for her . . . It’s most appalling, most appalling . . .”

“All right, I’ll go and see her,” Alyosha decided, holding in his hand the brief note, which contained no explanation, only an urgent request that he come.

“It would be so nice, so good of you!” Lise cried out, at once becoming very animated. “I never thought you would. ‘He won’t go,’ I told mother. ‘He’s too busy saving his soul.’ But you’re really wonderful! I always thought you were wonderful and I’m very happy to tell you so.”

“Lise!” her mother said reproachfully, but she could not suppress a smile and, turning to Alyosha, went on: “You seem to have forgotten us completely, Alexei. You refuse to come and visit us, although Lise has told me twice that you’re the only person with whom she feels at ease.”

Alyosha raised his downcast eyes, again turned red, and again grinned rather incongruously. The elder, however, was no longer watching him but was talking to the visiting monk who had been waiting near Lise’s chair. He was apparently a very lowly monk, of humble origin, a stubborn man with a narrow, rigid set of beliefs, but with genuine faith. He said he had come from the monastery of St. Sylvester in Obdorsk, somewhere in the far north, a poor little monastery that had only ten monks. The elder blessed him and invited him to come and visit him in his cell whenever he wished.

Suddenly the monk pointed at Lise and asked in a solemn and admonishing tone: “How do you presume to accomplish such feats?” He meant her “miraculous cure.”

“Of course, it’s still too early to tell—partial relief is by no means a complete recovery, and it could be due to other causes. But if something has been accomplished, it was not brought about by any power other than God’s will. Everything comes from God. Come and see me, Father,” the elder added, looking at the monk, “although there are moments when I’m in no state to see people. I’m a sick man and my days are numbered.”

“Oh, no, that cannot be. God will not take you from us—you will be with us for a long time yet,” Mrs. Khokhlakov exclaimed. “Besides, how can you be sick? You look gay, cheerful, and in good health to me!”

“As a matter of fact, I do feel incomparably better today, but I know very well that it cannot last. I’ve come to understand my illness unerringly now. And if you think I look cheerful, nothing you could say could give me more pleasure. For human beings were created to be happy, and those who are perfectly happy are entitled to say to themselves: ‘I have carried out God’s will on this earth.’ The righteous, the saints, the holy martyrs—they were all happy people.”