Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (598 page)

“You keep talking of ‘mystery’; what does it mean ‘having fulfilled his mystery’?” I asked, and looked round towards the door.  I was glad that we were alone, and that all around the stillness was unbroken.  The setting sun cast a dazzling light on the window.  His talk was rather highflown and rambling, but very sincere; there was a sort of intense exaltation in it, as though he really were delighted at my coming.  But I noticed unmistakable signs that he was feverish, extremely so in fact.  I, too, was ill; I, too, had been in a fever, from the moment I went in to him.

“What is the mystery?  Everything is a mystery, dear; in all is God’s mystery.  In every tree, in every blade of grass that same mystery lies hid.  Whether the tiny bird of the air is singing, or the stars in all their multitudes shine at night in heaven, the mystery is one, ever the same.  And the greatest mystery of all is what awaiteth the soul of man in the world beyond.  So it is, dear!”

“I don’t know in what sense you . . .  I am not speaking, of course, to tease you, and I assure you I believe in God; but all these mysteries have long been discovered by human intelligence, or if they have not yet been discovered they will be, for certain, and probably in a very short time.  The botanist knows perfectly well how the tree grows.  The psychologist and the anatomist know why the bird sings, or soon will know, and as for the stars, they are not only all counted, but all their motions have been calculated with the greatest exactitude, so that they can predict even a thousand years beforehand the very minute of the appearance of some comet . . . and now even the composition of the most remote star is known.  You take a microscope, that is a sort of magnifying glass that magnifies a thousand times, and look through it at a drop of water, and you will see in it a whole new world, a whole world of living creatures, yet this, too, was once a mystery, but it has been revealed by science.”

“I’ve heard about that, darling, I have heard folk tell of it more than once.  To be sure, it’s a great and glorious thing; all has been vouchsafed to man by God’s will; not for naught did the Lord breathe into him the breath of life; ‘live and learn.’”

“That’s a commonplace.  You’re not antagonistic to science though, not a clerical? though I don’t know whether you’ll understand?”

“No, darling, I did not study science in my youth, and though I am not learned I do not repine at that; if it’s not for me it will be for another.  Maybe better so, for every man has his allotted part, for science, dear, is not of use for all.  All men are unbridled, each wants to astonish all the world, and I should have perhaps more than all if I had been learned.  But now being very unlearned, how can I be puffed up when I know nothing?  You, now, are young and clever, you must study — such is the lot ordained you.  Understand all things, that when you meet an infidel or an evil- doer you may be able to answer him, and he may not lead you astray with his frantic words, or confound your unripe thoughts.  That glass I saw not so long ago.”

He took breath and heaved a sigh.  There was no doubt that my coming in was a source of great satisfaction to him.  His desire to be communicative was almost morbid.  What is more, I am certainly not mistaken in declaring that at moments he looked at me with extraordinary affection; he laid his hand on mine caressingly, stroked me on the shoulder . . . though there were minutes when I must confess he seemed to forget all about me, as though he had been sitting alone, and though he went on talking warmly, it seemed at times as though he were talking to the air.

“In the Gennadiev desert, dear, there lives a man of great understanding.  He is of noble birth, and by rank a major, and he has great possessions.  When he lived in the world he would not be bound by marriage; he has been withdrawn from the world for nearly ten years, loving still and silent resting-places, and keeping his heart free from worldly vanities.  He follows all the monastic rules, but will not become a monk, and he has so many books, dear, as I have never seen in any other man’s possession; he told me himself that his books were worth eight thousand roubles.  His name is Pyotr Valerianitch.  He has taught me a great deal at different times, and I loved listening to him exceedingly.  I said to him once:  ‘How is it, sir, that with your great understanding, after living here ten years in monastic obedience, and in complete renunciation of your will, how is it you don’t take honourable vows, so as to be still more perfect,’ and he said to me thereupon, “You talk of my understanding, old man, but perhaps my understanding has held me in bondage and I have not kept it in submission.  And you speak of my obedience; maybe I’ve long since lost the right measure for myself.  And you talk of the renunciation of my will; I am ready to be deprived of my money on the spot and to give up my rank and to lay all my medals and ribbons on the table, but my pipe of tobacco, though I’ve been struggling for ten years, I can’t do without.  What sort of a monk should I be, and how could you glorify the renunciation of my will?’  And I marvelled then at this humility.  Well, last year, about St. Peter’s day, I went again to that desert — the Lord led me there — and I saw standing in his cell that very thing, a microscope; he had ordered it for a great sum of money from abroad.  ‘Stay,’ said he, ‘old man, I’ll show you a marvellous thing you have never hitherto looked upon; you see a drop of water as pure as a tear; well, look what is in it and you will see that the mechanicians will soon seek out all the mysteries of God and not leave one for either you or me!’  That is what he said, I remember.  But I had looked through such a microscope thirty-five years before that, at Alexandr Vladimirovitch Malgasov’s, who was our old master, Andrey Petrovitch’s maternal uncle.  It was from him the property came on his death to Andrey Petrovitch.  He was a grand gentleman, a great general, and he used to keep a pack of hounds, and I lived many years with him as huntsman; so he, too, set up this microscope; he brought it with him, and he told all the servants to come up one after another, male and female, and look through; he showed them a flea and a louse and the end of a needle, and a hair and a drop of water.  And it was diverting, they were afraid to go up and afraid of the master — he was hasty.  Some did not know how to look properly, and the elder saw nothing; others were frightened and cried out; the elder Savin Makarov covered his eyes with both hands and cried, ‘Do what you will with me, I won’t go near!’  There was much foolish laughter.  I didn’t confess to Pyotr Valerianitch, though, that I had seen this marvel before more than thirty-five years ago, because I saw it was a great pleasure to him showing it; I began, on the contrary, admiring it and marvelling.  He waited a bit and asked, ‘Well, old man, what do you say now?’  And I lifted myself up and said to him, ‘The Lord said, Let there be light and there was light,’ and thereupon he said to me all at once, ‘And was there not darkness?’  And he said that so strangely, he did not even laugh.  I wondered at him then, and he seemed to be angered and said no more.”

“The fact of the matter is your Pyotr Valerianitch is eating rice and raisins in the monastery, and bowing to the ground, while he does not believe in God, and you hit on the wrong moment, that’s all,” I said.  “And what’s more, he is rather an absurd person: I suppose he must have seen that microscope a dozen times before, why should he go off his head when he saw it for the thirteenth?  What nervous susceptibility . . . he must have got that from living in a monastery.”

“He was a man of pure life and lofty mind,” the old man pronounced impressively, “and he was not an infidel.  There was a cloud over his mind and his heart was not at peace.  Very many such men have come nowadays from the ranks of the gentry and learned.  And something more I will tell you, a man punishes himself.  But you watch them and do not worry them, and before you lie down to sleep at night remember them in your prayers, for such are seeking God.  Do you pray at night?”

“No, I regard it as an empty ceremony.  I must own, though, that I like your Pyotr Valerianitch.  He’s not a man of straw, anyway, but a real person, rather like a man very near and well-known to us both.”

The old man only paid attention to the first part of my answer.

“You’re wrong, my dear, not to pray; it is a good thing, it cheers the heart before sleep, and rising up from sleep and awakening in the night.  Let me tell you this.  In the summer in July we were hastening to the monastery of Our Lady for the holy festival.  The nearer we got to the place the greater the crowd of people, and at last there were almost two hundred of us gathered together, all hastening to kiss the holy and miraculous relics of the two great saints, Aniky and Grigory.  We spent the night, brother, in the open country, and I waked up early in the morning when all was still sleeping and the dear sun had not yet peeped out from behind the forest.  I lifted up my head, dear, I gazed about me and sighed.  Everywhere beauty passing all utterance!  All was still, the air was light; the grass grows — Grow, grass of God, the bird sings — Sing, bird of God, the babe cries in the woman’s arms — God be with you, little man; grow and be happy, little babe!  And it seemed that only then for the first time in my life I took it all in. . . .  I lay down again, I slept so sweetly.  Life is sweet, dear!  If I were better,  I should like to go out again in the spring.  And that it’s a mystery makes it only the better; it fills the heart with awe and wonder and that awe maketh glad the heart:  ‘All is in Thee my Lord, and I, too, am in Thee; have me in Thy keeping.’  Do not repine, young man; it is even more beautiful because it is a mystery,” he added fervently.

“It’s the more beautiful for being a mystery. . . .  I will remember those words.  You express yourself very inaccurately, but I understand you. . . .  It strikes me that you understand and know a great deal more than you can express; only you seem to be in delirium.” . . . I added abruptly, looking at his feverish eyes and pale face.  But he did not seem to hear my words.

“Do you know, dear young man,” he began again, as though going on with what he had been saying before:  “Do you know there is a limit to the memory of a man on this earth?  The memory of a man is limited to a hundred years.  For a hundred years after his death his children or his grandchildren who have seen his face can still remember him, but after that though his memory may still remain, it is only by hearsay, in thought, for all who have seen his living face have gone before.  And his grave in the churchyard is overgrown with grass, the stones upon it crumble away, and all men, and even his children’s children, forget him; afterwards they forget even his name, for only a few are kept in the memory of men — and so be it!  You may forget me, dear ones, but I love you from the tomb.  I hear, my children, your gay voices; I hear your steps on the graves of your kin; live for a while in the sunshine, rejoice and I will pray to God for you, I will come to you in your dreams . . . it is all the same — even in death is love! . . . .”

I was myself in the same feverish state as he was; instead of going away or persuading him to be quiet, or perhaps putting him to bed, for he seemed quite delirious, I suddenly seized his arm and bending down to him and squeezing his hand, I said in an excited whisper, with inward tears:

“I am glad of you.  I have been waiting a long time for you, perhaps.  I don’t like any of them; there is no ‘seemliness’ in them . . . I won’t follow them, I don’t know where I’m going, I’ll go with you.” . . .  But luckily mother suddenly came in, or I don’t know how it would have ended.  She came in only just awake and looking agitated; in her hand she had a tablespoon and a glass; seeing us she exclaimed:

“I knew it would be so!  I am late with his quinine and he’s all in a fever!  I overslept myself, Makar Ivanovitch, darling!”

I got up and went out.  She gave him his quinine and put him to bed.  I, too, lay down on mine in a state of great excitement.  I tossed about pondering on this meeting with intense interest and curiosity.  What I expected from it I don’t know.  Of course, my reasoning was disconnected, and not thoughts but fragments of thoughts flitted through my brain.  I lay with my face to the wall, and suddenly I saw in the corner the patch of glowing light which I had been looking forward to with such curses, and now I remember my whole soul seemed to be leaping for joy, and a new light seemed penetrating to my heart.  I remember that sweet moment and I do not want to forget it.  It was only an instant of new hope and new strength. . . .  I was convalescent then, and therefore such transports may have been the inevitable result of the state of my nerves; but I have faith even now in that bright hope — that is what I wanted to record and to recall.  Of course, even then I knew quite well that I should not go on a pilgrimage with Makar Ivanovitch, and that I did not know the nature of the new impulse that had taken hold of me, but I had pronounced one word, though in delirium, “There is no seemliness in their lives!”  “Of course,” I thought in a frenzy, “from this minute I am seeking ‘seemliness,’ and they have none of it, and that is why I am leaving them.”

There was a rustle behind me, I turned round: mother stood there bending down to me and looking with timid inquiry into my face.  I took her hand.

“Why did you tell me nothing about our dear guest, mother?” I asked suddenly, not knowing I was going to say it.  All the uneasiness vanished from her face at once, and there was a flush as it were of joy, but she made me no reply except the words:

“Liza, don’t forget Liza, either; you’ve forgotten Liza.”

She said this in a hurried murmur, flushing crimson, and would have made haste to get away, for above all things she hated displaying her feelings, and in that she was like me, that is reverent and delicate; of course, too, she would not care to begin on the subject of Makar Ivanovitch with me; what we could say to each other with our eyes was quite enough.  But though I hated demonstrativeness, I still kept her by her hand; I looked tenderly into her eyes, and laughed softly and tenderly, and with my other hand stroked her dear face, her hollow cheeks.  She bent down and pressed her forehead to mine.