finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_8_part_2.txt
The Brothers Karamazov.book 6.chapter 1
book 6, chapter 1
{"name": "book 6, Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section9/", "summary": "The Elder Zosima and His Visitors When Alyosha returns to the monastery, he finds Zosima sitting in bed with a group of his students and followers around him. Zosima asks how Dmitri is doing and tells Alyosha that he bowed to Dmitri as he did because he foresees that Dmitri will soon undergo a great trial of pain and suffering. Zosima says that Dmitri's destiny is not Alyosha's, and encourages Alyosha again to leave the monastery and do good in the world", "analysis": ""}
Book VI. The Russian Monk Chapter I. Father Zossima And His Visitors


When with an anxious and aching heart Alyosha went into his elder's cell,
he stood still almost astonished. Instead of a sick man at his last gasp,
perhaps unconscious, as he had feared to find him, he saw him sitting up
in his chair and, though weak and exhausted, his face was bright and
cheerful, he was surrounded by visitors and engaged in a quiet and joyful
conversation. But he had only got up from his bed a quarter of an hour
before Alyosha's arrival; his visitors had gathered together in his cell
earlier, waiting for him to wake, having received a most confident
assurance from Father Paissy that "the teacher would get up, and as he had
himself promised in the morning, converse once more with those dear to his
heart." This promise and indeed every word of the dying elder Father
Paissy put implicit trust in. If he had seen him unconscious, if he had
seen him breathe his last, and yet had his promise that he would rise up
and say good-by to him, he would not have believed perhaps even in death,
but would still have expected the dead man to recover and fulfill his
promise. In the morning as he lay down to sleep, Father Zossima had told
him positively: "I shall not die without the delight of another
conversation with you, beloved of my heart. I shall look once more on your
dear face and pour out my heart to you once again." The monks, who had
gathered for this probably last conversation with Father Zossima, had all
been his devoted friends for many years. There were four of them: Father
Iosif and Father Paissy, Father Mihail, the warden of the hermitage, a man
not very old and far from being learned. He was of humble origin, of
strong will and steadfast faith, of austere appearance, but of deep
tenderness, though he obviously concealed it as though he were almost
ashamed of it. The fourth, Father Anfim, was a very old and humble little
monk of the poorest peasant class. He was almost illiterate, and very
quiet, scarcely speaking to any one. He was the humblest of the humble,
and looked as though he had been frightened by something great and awful
beyond the scope of his intelligence. Father Zossima had a great affection
for this timorous man, and always treated him with marked respect, though
perhaps there was no one he had known to whom he had said less, in spite
of the fact that he had spent years wandering about holy Russia with him.
That was very long ago, forty years before, when Father Zossima first
began his life as a monk in a poor and little monastery at Kostroma, and
when, shortly after, he had accompanied Father Anfim on his pilgrimage to
collect alms for their poor monastery.

The whole party were in the bedroom which, as we mentioned before, was
very small, so that there was scarcely room for the four of them (in
addition to Porfiry, the novice, who stood) to sit round Father Zossima on
chairs brought from the sitting-room. It was already beginning to get
dark, the room was lighted up by the lamps and the candles before the
ikons.

Seeing Alyosha standing embarrassed in the doorway, Father Zossima smiled
at him joyfully and held out his hand.

"Welcome, my quiet one, welcome, my dear, here you are too. I knew you
would come."

Alyosha went up to him, bowed down before him to the ground and wept.
Something surged up from his heart, his soul was quivering, he wanted to
sob.

"Come, don't weep over me yet," Father Zossima smiled, laying his right
hand on his head. "You see I am sitting up talking; maybe I shall live
another twenty years yet, as that dear good woman from Vishegorye, with
her little Lizaveta in her arms, wished me yesterday. God bless the mother
and the little girl Lizaveta," he crossed himself. "Porfiry, did you take
her offering where I told you?"

He meant the sixty copecks brought him the day before by the good-humored
woman to be given "to some one poorer than me." Such offerings, always of
money gained by personal toil, are made by way of penance voluntarily
undertaken. The elder had sent Porfiry the evening before to a widow,
whose house had been burnt down lately, and who after the fire had gone
with her children begging alms. Porfiry hastened to reply that he had
given the money, as he had been instructed, "from an unknown
benefactress."

"Get up, my dear boy," the elder went on to Alyosha. "Let me look at you.
Have you been home and seen your brother?" It seemed strange to Alyosha
that he asked so confidently and precisely, about one of his brothers
only--but which one? Then perhaps he had sent him out both yesterday and
to-day for the sake of that brother.

"I have seen one of my brothers," answered Alyosha.

"I mean the elder one, to whom I bowed down."

"I only saw him yesterday and could not find him to-day," said Alyosha.

"Make haste to find him, go again to-morrow and make haste, leave
everything and make haste. Perhaps you may still have time to prevent
something terrible. I bowed down yesterday to the great suffering in store
for him."

He was suddenly silent and seemed to be pondering. The words were strange.
Father Iosif, who had witnessed the scene yesterday, exchanged glances
with Father Paissy. Alyosha could not resist asking:

"Father and teacher," he began with extreme emotion, "your words are too
obscure.... What is this suffering in store for him?"

"Don't inquire. I seemed to see something terrible yesterday ... as though
his whole future were expressed in his eyes. A look came into his eyes--so
that I was instantly horror-stricken at what that man is preparing for
himself. Once or twice in my life I've seen such a look in a man's face
... reflecting as it were his future fate, and that fate, alas, came to
pass. I sent you to him, Alexey, for I thought your brotherly face would
help him. But everything and all our fates are from the Lord. 'Except a
corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it
die, it bringeth forth much fruit.' Remember that. You, Alexey, I've many
times silently blessed for your face, know that," added the elder with a
gentle smile. "This is what I think of you, you will go forth from these
walls, but will live like a monk in the world. You will have many enemies,
but even your foes will love you. Life will bring you many misfortunes,
but you will find your happiness in them, and will bless life and will
make others bless it--which is what matters most. Well, that is your
character. Fathers and teachers," he addressed his friends with a tender
smile, "I have never till to-day told even him why the face of this youth
is so dear to me. Now I will tell you. His face has been as it were a
remembrance and a prophecy for me. At the dawn of my life when I was a
child I had an elder brother who died before my eyes at seventeen. And
later on in the course of my life I gradually became convinced that that
brother had been for a guidance and a sign from on high for me. For had he
not come into my life, I should never perhaps, so I fancy at least, have
become a monk and entered on this precious path. He appeared first to me
in my childhood, and here, at the end of my pilgrimage, he seems to have
come to me over again. It is marvelous, fathers and teachers, that Alexey,
who has some, though not a great, resemblance in face, seems to me so like
him spiritually, that many times I have taken him for that young man, my
brother, mysteriously come back to me at the end of my pilgrimage, as a
reminder and an inspiration. So that I positively wondered at so strange a
dream in myself. Do you hear this, Porfiry?" he turned to the novice who
waited on him. "Many times I've seen in your face as it were a look of
mortification that I love Alexey more than you. Now you know why that was
so, but I love you too, know that, and many times I grieved at your
mortification. I should like to tell you, dear friends, of that youth, my
brother, for there has been no presence in my life more precious, more
significant and touching. My heart is full of tenderness, and I look at my
whole life at this moment as though living through it again."

                  -------------------------------------

Here I must observe that this last conversation of Father Zossima with the
friends who visited him on the last day of his life has been partly
preserved in writing. Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov wrote it down from
memory, some time after his elder's death. But whether this was only the
conversation that took place then, or whether he added to it his notes of
parts of former conversations with his teacher, I cannot determine. In his
account, Father Zossima's talk goes on without interruption, as though he
told his life to his friends in the form of a story, though there is no
doubt, from other accounts of it, that the conversation that evening was
general. Though the guests did not interrupt Father Zossima much, yet they
too talked, perhaps even told something themselves. Besides, Father
Zossima could not have carried on an uninterrupted narrative, for he was
sometimes gasping for breath, his voice failed him, and he even lay down
to rest on his bed, though he did not fall asleep and his visitors did not
leave their seats. Once or twice the conversation was interrupted by
Father Paissy's reading the Gospel. It is worthy of note, too, that no one
of them supposed that he would die that night, for on that evening of his
life after his deep sleep in the day he seemed suddenly to have found new
strength, which kept him up through this long conversation. It was like a
last effort of love which gave him marvelous energy; only for a little
time, however, for his life was cut short immediately.... But of that
later. I will only add now that I have preferred to confine myself to the
account given by Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov. It will be shorter and not
so fatiguing, though of course, as I must repeat, Alyosha took a great
deal from previous conversations and added them to it.

                  -------------------------------------

Notes of the Life of the deceased Priest and Monk, the Elder Zossima,
taken from his own words by Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

_(a)_ _Father Zossima's Brother_

Beloved fathers and teachers, I was born in a distant province in the
north, in the town of V. My father was a gentleman by birth, but of no
great consequence or position. He died when I was only two years old, and
I don't remember him at all. He left my mother a small house built of
wood, and a fortune, not large, but sufficient to keep her and her
children in comfort. There were two of us, my elder brother Markel and I.
He was eight years older than I was, of hasty irritable temperament, but
kind-hearted and never ironical. He was remarkably silent, especially at
home with me, his mother, and the servants. He did well at school, but did
not get on with his schoolfellows, though he never quarreled, at least so
my mother has told me. Six months before his death, when he was seventeen,
he made friends with a political exile who had been banished from Moscow
to our town for freethinking, and led a solitary existence there. He was a
good scholar who had gained distinction in philosophy in the university.
Something made him take a fancy to Markel, and he used to ask him to see
him. The young man would spend whole evenings with him during that winter,
till the exile was summoned to Petersburg to take up his post again at his
own request, as he had powerful friends.

It was the beginning of Lent, and Markel would not fast, he was rude and
laughed at it. "That's all silly twaddle, and there is no God," he said,
horrifying my mother, the servants, and me too. For though I was only
nine, I too was aghast at hearing such words. We had four servants, all
serfs. I remember my mother selling one of the four, the cook Afimya, who
was lame and elderly, for sixty paper roubles, and hiring a free servant
to take her place.

In the sixth week in Lent, my brother, who was never strong and had a
tendency to consumption, was taken ill. He was tall but thin and delicate-
looking, and of very pleasing countenance. I suppose he caught cold,
anyway the doctor, who came, soon whispered to my mother that it was
galloping consumption, that he would not live through the spring. My
mother began weeping, and, careful not to alarm my brother, she entreated
him to go to church, to confess and take the sacrament, as he was still
able to move about. This made him angry, and he said something profane
about the church. He grew thoughtful, however; he guessed at once that he
was seriously ill, and that that was why his mother was begging him to
confess and take the sacrament. He had been aware, indeed, for a long time
past, that he was far from well, and had a year before coolly observed at
dinner to our mother and me, "My life won't be long among you, I may not
live another year," which seemed now like a prophecy.

Three days passed and Holy Week had come. And on Tuesday morning my
brother began going to church. "I am doing this simply for your sake,
mother, to please and comfort you," he said. My mother wept with joy and
grief. "His end must be near," she thought, "if there's such a change in
him." But he was not able to go to church long, he took to his bed, so he
had to confess and take the sacrament at home.

It was a late Easter, and the days were bright, fine, and full of
fragrance. I remember he used to cough all night and sleep badly, but in
the morning he dressed and tried to sit up in an arm-chair. That's how I
remember him sitting, sweet and gentle, smiling, his face bright and
joyous, in spite of his illness. A marvelous change passed over him, his
spirit seemed transformed. The old nurse would come in and say, "Let me
light the lamp before the holy image, my dear." And once he would not have
allowed it and would have blown it out.

"Light it, light it, dear, I was a wretch to have prevented you doing it.
You are praying when you light the lamp, and I am praying when I rejoice
seeing you. So we are praying to the same God."

Those words seemed strange to us, and mother would go to her room and
weep, but when she went in to him she wiped her eyes and looked cheerful.
"Mother, don't weep, darling," he would say, "I've long to live yet, long
to rejoice with you, and life is glad and joyful."

"Ah, dear boy, how can you talk of joy when you lie feverish at night,
coughing as though you would tear yourself to pieces."

"Don't cry, mother," he would answer, "life is paradise, and we are all in
paradise, but we won't see it, if we would, we should have heaven on earth
the next day."

Every one wondered at his words, he spoke so strangely and positively; we
were all touched and wept. Friends came to see us. "Dear ones," he would
say to them, "what have I done that you should love me so, how can you
love any one like me, and how was it I did not know, I did not appreciate
it before?"

When the servants came in to him he would say continually, "Dear, kind
people, why are you doing so much for me, do I deserve to be waited on? If
it were God's will for me to live, I would wait on you, for all men should
wait on one another."

Mother shook her head as she listened. "My darling, it's your illness
makes you talk like that."

"Mother, darling," he would say, "there must be servants and masters, but
if so I will be the servant of my servants, the same as they are to me.
And another thing, mother, every one of us has sinned against all men, and
I more than any."

Mother positively smiled at that, smiled through her tears. "Why, how
could you have sinned against all men, more than all? Robbers and
murderers have done that, but what sin have you committed yet, that you
hold yourself more guilty than all?"

"Mother, little heart of mine," he said (he had begun using such strange
caressing words at that time), "little heart of mine, my joy, believe me,
every one is really responsible to all men for all men and for everything.
I don't know how to explain it to you, but I feel it is so, painfully
even. And how is it we went on then living, getting angry and not
knowing?"

So he would get up every day, more and more sweet and joyous and full of
love. When the doctor, an old German called Eisenschmidt, came:

"Well, doctor, have I another day in this world?" he would ask, joking.

"You'll live many days yet," the doctor would answer, "and months and
years too."

"Months and years!" he would exclaim. "Why reckon the days? One day is
enough for a man to know all happiness. My dear ones, why do we quarrel,
try to outshine each other and keep grudges against each other? Let's go
straight into the garden, walk and play there, love, appreciate, and kiss
each other, and glorify life."

"Your son cannot last long," the doctor told my mother, as she accompanied
him to the door. "The disease is affecting his brain."

The windows of his room looked out into the garden, and our garden was a
shady one, with old trees in it which were coming into bud. The first
birds of spring were flitting in the branches, chirruping and singing at
the windows. And looking at them and admiring them, he began suddenly
begging their forgiveness too: "Birds of heaven, happy birds, forgive me,
for I have sinned against you too." None of us could understand that at
the time, but he shed tears of joy. "Yes," he said, "there was such a
glory of God all about me: birds, trees, meadows, sky; only I lived in
shame and dishonored it all and did not notice the beauty and glory."

"You take too many sins on yourself," mother used to say, weeping.

"Mother, darling, it's for joy, not for grief I am crying. Though I can't
explain it to you, I like to humble myself before them, for I don't know
how to love them enough. If I have sinned against every one, yet all
forgive me, too, and that's heaven. Am I not in heaven now?"

And there was a great deal more I don't remember. I remember I went once
into his room when there was no one else there. It was a bright evening,
the sun was setting, and the whole room was lighted up. He beckoned me,
and I went up to him. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my
face tenderly, lovingly; he said nothing for a minute, only looked at me
like that.

"Well," he said, "run and play now, enjoy life for me too."

I went out then and ran to play. And many times in my life afterwards I
remembered even with tears how he told me to enjoy life for him too. There
were many other marvelous and beautiful sayings of his, though we did not
understand them at the time. He died the third week after Easter. He was
fully conscious though he could not talk; up to his last hour he did not
change. He looked happy, his eyes beamed and sought us, he smiled at us,
beckoned us. There was a great deal of talk even in the town about his
death. I was impressed by all this at the time, but not too much so,
though I cried a good deal at his funeral. I was young then, a child, but
a lasting impression, a hidden feeling of it all, remained in my heart,
ready to rise up and respond when the time came. So indeed it happened.

_(b) Of the Holy Scriptures in the Life of Father Zossima_

I was left alone with my mother. Her friends began advising her to send me
to Petersburg as other parents did. "You have only one son now," they
said, "and have a fair income, and you will be depriving him perhaps of a
brilliant career if you keep him here." They suggested I should be sent to
Petersburg to the Cadet Corps, that I might afterwards enter the Imperial
Guard. My mother hesitated for a long time, it was awful to part with her
only child, but she made up her mind to it at last, though not without
many tears, believing she was acting for my happiness. She brought me to
Petersburg and put me into the Cadet Corps, and I never saw her again. For
she too died three years afterwards. She spent those three years mourning
and grieving for both of us.

From the house of my childhood I have brought nothing but precious
memories, for there are no memories more precious than those of early
childhood in one's first home. And that is almost always so if there is
any love and harmony in the family at all. Indeed, precious memories may
remain even of a bad home, if only the heart knows how to find what is
precious. With my memories of home I count, too, my memories of the Bible,
which, child as I was, I was very eager to read at home. I had a book of
Scripture history then with excellent pictures, called _A Hundred and Four
Stories from the Old and New Testament_, and I learned to read from it. I
have it lying on my shelf now, I keep it as a precious relic of the past.
But even before I learned to read, I remember first being moved to
devotional feeling at eight years old. My mother took me alone to mass (I
don't remember where my brother was at the time) on the Monday before
Easter. It was a fine day, and I remember to-day, as though I saw it now,
how the incense rose from the censer and softly floated upwards and,
overhead in the cupola, mingled in rising waves with the sunlight that
streamed in at the little window. I was stirred by the sight, and for the
first time in my life I consciously received the seed of God's word in my
heart. A youth came out into the middle of the church carrying a big book,
so large that at the time I fancied he could scarcely carry it. He laid it
on the reading desk, opened it, and began reading, and suddenly for the
first time I understood something read in the church of God. In the land
of Uz, there lived a man, righteous and God-fearing, and he had great
wealth, so many camels, so many sheep and asses, and his children feasted,
and he loved them very much and prayed for them. "It may be that my sons
have sinned in their feasting." Now the devil came before the Lord
together with the sons of God, and said to the Lord that he had gone up
and down the earth and under the earth. "And hast thou considered my
servant Job?" God asked of him. And God boasted to the devil, pointing to
his great and holy servant. And the devil laughed at God's words. "Give
him over to me and Thou wilt see that Thy servant will murmur against Thee
and curse Thy name." And God gave up the just man He loved so, to the
devil. And the devil smote his children and his cattle and scattered his
wealth, all of a sudden like a thunderbolt from heaven. And Job rent his
mantle and fell down upon the ground and cried aloud, "Naked came I out of
my mother's womb, and naked shall I return into the earth; the Lord gave
and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord for ever and
ever."

Fathers and teachers, forgive my tears now, for all my childhood rises up
again before me, and I breathe now as I breathed then, with the breast of
a little child of eight, and I feel as I did then, awe and wonder and
gladness. The camels at that time caught my imagination, and Satan, who
talked like that with God, and God who gave His servant up to destruction,
and His servant crying out: "Blessed be Thy name although Thou dost punish
me," and then the soft and sweet singing in the church: "Let my prayer
rise up before Thee," and again incense from the priest's censer and the
kneeling and the prayer. Ever since then--only yesterday I took it up--I've
never been able to read that sacred tale without tears. And how much that
is great, mysterious and unfathomable there is in it! Afterwards I heard
the words of mockery and blame, proud words, "How could God give up the
most loved of His saints for the diversion of the devil, take from him his
children, smite him with sore boils so that he cleansed the corruption
from his sores with a pot-sherd--and for no object except to boast to the
devil! 'See what My saint can suffer for My sake.' " But the greatness of
it lies just in the fact that it is a mystery--that the passing earthly
show and the eternal verity are brought together in it. In the face of the
earthly truth, the eternal truth is accomplished. The Creator, just as on
the first days of creation He ended each day with praise: "That is good
that I have created," looks upon Job and again praises His creation. And
Job, praising the Lord, serves not only Him but all His creation for
generations and generations, and for ever and ever, since for that he was
ordained. Good heavens, what a book it is, and what lessons there are in
it! What a book the Bible is, what a miracle, what strength is given with
it to man! It is like a mold cast of the world and man and human nature,
everything is there, and a law for everything for all the ages. And what
mysteries are solved and revealed! God raises Job again, gives him wealth
again. Many years pass by, and he has other children and loves them. But
how could he love those new ones when those first children are no more,
when he has lost them? Remembering them, how could he be fully happy with
those new ones, however dear the new ones might be? But he could, he
could. It's the great mystery of human life that old grief passes
gradually into quiet, tender joy. The mild serenity of age takes the place
of the riotous blood of youth. I bless the rising sun each day, and, as
before, my hearts sings to meet it, but now I love even more its setting,
its long slanting rays and the soft, tender, gentle memories that come
with them, the dear images from the whole of my long, happy life--and over
all the Divine Truth, softening, reconciling, forgiving! My life is
ending, I know that well, but every day that is left me I feel how my
earthly life is in touch with a new infinite, unknown, that approaching
life, the nearness of which sets my soul quivering with rapture, my mind
glowing and my heart weeping with joy.

Friends and teachers, I have heard more than once, and of late one may
hear it more often, that the priests, and above all the village priests,
are complaining on all sides of their miserable income and their
humiliating lot. They plainly state, even in print--I've read it
myself--that they are unable to teach the Scriptures to the people because
of the smallness of their means, and if Lutherans and heretics come and
lead the flock astray, they let them lead them astray because they have so
little to live upon. May the Lord increase the sustenance that is so
precious to them, for their complaint is just, too. But of a truth I say,
if any one is to blame in the matter, half the fault is ours. For he may
be short of time, he may say truly that he is overwhelmed all the while
with work and services, but still it's not all the time, even he has an
hour a week to remember God. And he does not work the whole year round.
Let him gather round him once a week, some hour in the evening, if only
the children at first--the fathers will hear of it and they too will begin
to come. There's no need to build halls for this, let him take them into
his own cottage. They won't spoil his cottage, they would only be there
one hour. Let him open that book and begin reading it without grand words
or superciliousness, without condescension to them, but gently and kindly,
being glad that he is reading to them and that they are listening with
attention, loving the words himself, only stopping from time to time to
explain words that are not understood by the peasants. Don't be anxious,
they will understand everything, the orthodox heart will understand all!
Let him read them about Abraham and Sarah, about Isaac and Rebecca, of how
Jacob went to Laban and wrestled with the Lord in his dream and said,
"This place is holy"--and he will impress the devout mind of the peasant.
Let him read, especially to the children, how the brothers sold Joseph,
the tender boy, the dreamer and prophet, into bondage, and told their
father that a wild beast had devoured him, and showed him his blood-
stained clothes. Let him read them how the brothers afterwards journeyed
into Egypt for corn, and Joseph, already a great ruler, unrecognized by
them, tormented them, accused them, kept his brother Benjamin, and all
through love: "I love you, and loving you I torment you." For he
remembered all his life how they had sold him to the merchants in the
burning desert by the well, and how, wringing his hands, he had wept and
besought his brothers not to sell him as a slave in a strange land. And
how, seeing them again after many years, he loved them beyond measure, but
he harassed and tormented them in love. He left them at last not able to
bear the suffering of his heart, flung himself on his bed and wept. Then,
wiping his tears away, he went out to them joyful and told them,
"Brothers, I am your brother Joseph!" Let him read them further how happy
old Jacob was on learning that his darling boy was still alive, and how he
went to Egypt leaving his own country, and died in a foreign land,
bequeathing his great prophecy that had lain mysteriously hidden in his
meek and timid heart all his life, that from his offspring, from Judah,
will come the great hope of the world, the Messiah and Saviour.

Fathers and teachers, forgive me and don't be angry, that like a little
child I've been babbling of what you know long ago, and can teach me a
hundred times more skillfully. I only speak from rapture, and forgive my
tears, for I love the Bible. Let him too weep, the priest of God, and be
sure that the hearts of his listeners will throb in response. Only a
little tiny seed is needed--drop it into the heart of the peasant and it
won't die, it will live in his soul all his life, it will be hidden in the
midst of his darkness and sin, like a bright spot, like a great reminder.
And there's no need of much teaching or explanation, he will understand it
all simply. Do you suppose that the peasants don't understand? Try reading
them the touching story of the fair Esther and the haughty Vashti; or the
miraculous story of Jonah in the whale. Don't forget either the parables
of Our Lord, choose especially from the Gospel of St. Luke (that is what I
did), and then from the Acts of the Apostles the conversion of St. Paul
(that you mustn't leave out on any account), and from the _Lives of the
Saints_, for instance, the life of Alexey, the man of God and, greatest of
all, the happy martyr and the seer of God, Mary of Egypt--and you will
penetrate their hearts with these simple tales. Give one hour a week to it
in spite of your poverty, only one little hour. And you will see for
yourselves that our people is gracious and grateful, and will repay you a
hundred-fold. Mindful of the kindness of their priest and the moving words
they have heard from him, they will of their own accord help him in his
fields and in his house, and will treat him with more respect than
before--so that it will even increase his worldly well-being too. The thing
is so simple that sometimes one is even afraid to put it into words, for
fear of being laughed at, and yet how true it is! One who does not believe
in God will not believe in God's people. He who believes in God's people
will see His Holiness too, even though he had not believed in it till
then. Only the people and their future spiritual power will convert our
atheists, who have torn themselves away from their native soil.

And what is the use of Christ's words, unless we set an example? The
people is lost without the Word of God, for its soul is athirst for the
Word and for all that is good.

In my youth, long ago, nearly forty years ago, I traveled all over Russia
with Father Anfim, collecting funds for our monastery, and we stayed one
night on the bank of a great navigable river with some fishermen. A good-
looking peasant lad, about eighteen, joined us; he had to hurry back next
morning to pull a merchant's barge along the bank. I noticed him looking
straight before him with clear and tender eyes. It was a bright, warm,
still, July night, a cool mist rose from the broad river, we could hear
the plash of a fish, the birds were still, all was hushed and beautiful,
everything praying to God. Only we two were not sleeping, the lad and I,
and we talked of the beauty of this world of God's and of the great
mystery of it. Every blade of grass, every insect, ant, and golden bee,
all so marvelously know their path, though they have not intelligence,
they bear witness to the mystery of God and continually accomplish it
themselves. I saw the dear lad's heart was moved. He told me that he loved
the forest and the forest birds. He was a bird-catcher, knew the note of
each of them, could call each bird. "I know nothing better than to be in
the forest," said he, "though all things are good."

"Truly," I answered him, "all things are good and fair, because all is
truth. Look," said I, "at the horse, that great beast that is so near to
man; or the lowly, pensive ox, which feeds him and works for him; look at
their faces, what meekness, what devotion to man, who often beats them
mercilessly. What gentleness, what confidence and what beauty! It's
touching to know that there's no sin in them, for all, all except man, is
sinless, and Christ has been with them before us."

"Why," asked the boy, "is Christ with them too?"

"It cannot but be so," said I, "since the Word is for all. All creation
and all creatures, every leaf is striving to the Word, singing glory to
God, weeping to Christ, unconsciously accomplishing this by the mystery of
their sinless life. Yonder," said I, "in the forest wanders the dreadful
bear, fierce and menacing, and yet innocent in it." And I told him how
once a bear came to a great saint who had taken refuge in a tiny cell in
the wood. And the great saint pitied him, went up to him without fear and
gave him a piece of bread. "Go along," said he, "Christ be with you," and
the savage beast walked away meekly and obediently, doing no harm. And the
lad was delighted that the bear had walked away without hurting the saint,
and that Christ was with him too. "Ah," said he, "how good that is, how
good and beautiful is all God's work!" He sat musing softly and sweetly. I
saw he understood. And he slept beside me a light and sinless sleep. May
God bless youth! And I prayed for him as I went to sleep. Lord, send peace
and light to Thy people!





book 6, Chapter 1
The Elder Zosima and His Visitors When Alyosha returns to the monastery, he finds Zosima sitting in bed with a group of his students and followers around him. Zosima asks how Dmitri is doing and tells Alyosha that he bowed to Dmitri as he did because he foresees that Dmitri will soon undergo a great trial of pain and suffering. Zosima says that Dmitri's destiny is not Alyosha's, and encourages Alyosha again to leave the monastery and do good in the world