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卡拉马佐夫兄弟|The Brothers Karanazov

第一部 第二卷 不合时宜的聚会:三、虔诚的乡下女人

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 陀思妥耶夫斯基] 阅读：[7386]
PART I:Book II. An Unfortunate Gathering:Chapter III. Peasant Women Who Have Faith
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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紧挨着院墙外侧的木回廊下面，这时候聚集着一群妇女，二十来个乡下女人。她们已经被告知，长老最后总会来接见她们的，因此她们都等在那儿。女地主霍赫拉科娃也来到了回廊里，她也在等候长老，不过是在一间专门为贵客准备的房间里。她们是母女俩。母亲霍赫拉科娃太太很有钱，衣着打扮向来十分高雅，她还相当年轻，模样十分标致，脸色略显苍白，有一对灵活的黑眼睛。她至多不超过三十三岁，可守寡已经五年。她那可怜的十四岁女儿双脚瘫痪，已经有半年不能行走了，只能坐在又长又稳的轮椅上让人推来推去。她的小脸蛋长得很美，虽然由于疾病而略显消瘦，可始终乐呵呵的。她的眼睫毛很长，眼睛又黑又大，闪着调皮的光芒。早在春天的时候她母亲就打算把她带到国外去，可到了夏天又因为安排田庄上的事情耽误下来了。她们在我们城里已经住了将近一个多星期，主要是为了处理事务，其次才是为了朝圣。不过三天前已经见过一次长老。现在她们又突然来了，尽管知道长老几乎不再接待任何人，她们还是苦苦哀求，希望能再一次“有幸见到伟大的治病者”。

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母亲坐在轮椅旁的椅子上等候长老出来，离她两步远的地方站着一位年老的修士，他不是这个修道院的人，而是从遥远的北方一座名不见经传的小修道院来的。他也想请长老祝福。长老来到回廊，首先径直向众人走去。人们朝门廊拥过来，那门廊的三级台阶将低矮的回廊和空地联在一起。长老站到最上面的那级台阶上，披上肩带，开始替那些拥挤在他身旁的女人们祝福。一位疯疯癫癫的女人被人抓住双手，拉到长老面前。那女人一见长老便突然莫名其妙地尖叫起来，喉咙哽噎，浑身颤抖，就像产妇惊厥似的。长老把肩带放在她头上，为她念了一段简短的祷文，那女人立即安静下来，不再叫闹了。我不知道现在怎么样，反正我小时候在乡下和修道院里经常见到这种疯疯癫癫的女人，也经常听到她们的叫喊。她们被带到教堂做弥撒，她们尖声号叫，或者像狗叫似的闹得整个教堂不得安宁。可是当端上圣餐，人们把她们带去领受圣餐时，“疯癫”立即停止，这些病人总能安静一段时间。这种变化常常使我这个孩子感到惊讶。不过，当时我听另外一些地主，尤其是城里的教师们回答我的问题时说，这一切都是假装出来的，其目的是不想干活，只要采取必要的严厉措施，随时都可以根治。为了证明这一点，他们还讲了各种各样的笑话。可是后来我从医学专家那儿惊讶地了解到，这里根本没有丝毫假装的成分，这是一种可怕的妇女病，主要发生在我们俄罗斯，这说明我国乡下女人的命运特别悲惨。这病是因为在缺乏任何医疗条件的痛苦的难产之后马上从事繁重的体力劳动引起的，除此之外，还因为难以排解的悲伤、挨打，等等。有些女人天生无法像大多数人那样忍受这些折磨。只要把这些处于癫狂状态乱喊乱叫的女人带到圣餐面前，她们的病往往一下子会奇怪地消失。人们向我解释说这是假装出来的，甚至说是“教派分子”玩弄的花招。其实，这也许是极自然的事情。那些带病人去领受圣餐的乡下女人，主要是病人自己，全都像坚信颠扑不破的真理那样相信：如果把病人带去领受圣餐，那么附在病人身上的魔鬼无论如何也会坚持不住的。因此，当神经和心理上有病的女人领受圣餐的那一刻，她们整个机体一定会经受剧烈的震荡，引起这种现象的原因是她们完全坚信并且期待着一定会出现治愈的奇迹，于是，这种奇迹果然出现了，尽管只持续了一分钟。现在的情况正是这样，长老刚把肩带放到病人身上，奇迹马上出现了。

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挤在长老身边的许多女人被一时的效果感动得流下了欣喜的眼泪，另外一些女人挤过去哪怕是吻一吻他的衣角也感到满足，也有人不知为什么在那儿哭泣。长老为大家祈祷祝福，还跟一部分人交谈。那个疯疯癫癫的女人他已经认识，她就住在附近，离修道院六俄里的那个村庄里，再说以前她家里的人领她到这儿来过。

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“你是远道而来啊！”他指着一位年纪不大，但形容枯瘦的女人说。那女人脸色发黑，但不像是被太阳晒的。她跪在地上，眼睛直勾勾地望着长老，她的目光中似乎有一种呆滞麻木的神色。

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“大老远来的，长老，大老远来的，离这儿三百俄里。大老远来的，长老，大老远来的。”那女人不知为什么慢慢地摇晃着脑袋，一只手托着腮帮子，拖长了声音说道。她说话的腔调就像哭泣似的。老百姓中间有一种沉默无言的一忍再忍的悲伤，这悲伤只埋藏在心底，永远不会流露出来。但也有一种外露的悲伤，有时候通过眼泪加以宣泄，从而变成嘤嘤啜泣。这种情况女人居多，其悲伤的程度并不亚于默默无言的悲伤。嘤嘤啜泣不仅无法给人以慰藉，反而更加撕心裂肺。这种悲伤也不希望别人去安慰，它全靠无法排解的感觉而滋长。嘤嘤啜泣只不过是一种不断刺激创伤的手段罢了。

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“你是城里人吧？”长老问道，好奇地打量着她。

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“我们是城里人，长老，城里人，出生在乡下，住在城里，是城里人。我到这儿来是为了见一见你。我们听说了你的情况，长老，听说了。我埋葬了小儿子就出来求上帝了。我到过三个修道院，他们指点我说：‘娜斯塔茜娅，你上那儿去吧。’就是到您这儿，亲爱的，到您这儿。这样我就来了，昨天住了一宿，今天就上您这儿来了。”

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“你有什么伤心的事吗？”

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“可怜我那小儿子，长老，才三岁，差两三个月就满三岁了。我想儿子想得好苦啊，长老。我就剩这么个儿子了，我跟尼基图什卡生了四个孩子，可一个都没能活下来，亲爱的，一个都没能活下来。我埋葬了前面三个孩子，也没有太伤心，可埋了这最后一个，心里怎么也忘不掉。就好像还站在我面前，不肯离去，我的心都碎了。一见到他贴肉穿的衬衫衬裤，一件小衬衫或者一双小靴子，我就忍不住要大哭一场。我把他死后留下的东西翻出来，一面看一面哭，我对我丈夫尼基图什卡说，当家的，你让我去求上帝吧！我丈夫是马车夫，我们并不穷，长老，我们不穷，我们有马也有车，全是自己的，可我们这些家当现在又有什么用处呢？只要我不在，我的尼基图什卡就会生病，这是肯定的，以前就是这样：我一转身，他就没有力气了。现在我也不去牵挂他了，我离家已经三个月，我什么都不记得了，全忘了，什么也不愿想了。现在我跟他在一起还有什么意思？我跟他之间已经没有牵挂了，跟所有的人都无牵无挂了。现在我不想再看见自己的房子、自己的家产，我什么也不想看见！”

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“我要告诉你这当母亲的，”长老说道，“古代一位伟大的圣徒有一次在教堂里看到一位像你一样哭哭啼啼的母亲，她也因为唯一的孩子让上帝召唤去了而心痛万分。圣徒对她说：‘也许你不知道，这些孩子在上帝的宝座前面是多么勇敢。天国里甚至没有比他们更勇敢的了。他们对上帝说：主啊，你赐予了我们生命，可我们刚开始领略生的乐趣，你马上又收回去了。他们那么大胆地向上帝请求，上帝只好立即赐予他们天使的头衔。圣徒说，所以你这当母亲的应该高兴，不必哭泣，你的孩子成了上帝的一名天使。’这就是古时候圣徒对一位哭泣的女人所说的话。他是一位伟大的圣徒，不可能说假话，所以你这当母亲的也应该知道，你的孩子现在正站在上帝的宝座面前，他很高兴，也很快活，还在为你向上帝祈祷。所以你也不必哭泣，应该高兴才是。”

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女人手托着面颊，低着头听长老开导。她深深地叹了口气。

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“尼基图什卡也这样安慰我，说的话也一模一样，‘你这傻女人，’他说，‘你哭什么呢，我们的儿子现在肯定在主那儿，跟天使一起唱赞美诗呢。’他说这话的时候自己也哭了，我见他跟我一样也在哭。我说：‘尼基图什卡，这我知道，我们的孩子不在上帝身边又能在哪儿呢！不过他现在不在我们这儿，尼基图什卡，不在我们身边，不像从前那样坐在我们面前！’我真想看他一眼，哪怕只要再看他一眼也好，我可以不走到他跟前，可以一声不吭，躲在角落里，只要能看他一会儿，听他怎样在院子里玩耍，像从前那样回来奶声奶气地叫一声‘妈，你在哪儿’，我只想听听他迈着小腿在房间里走动的声音，听听他笃笃的走路声，我记得他常常这样跑到我身边，又是喊又是笑。我只想听一听他的脚步声，我一听就能听出来！可是他不在了！长老，不在了，我再也听不到他的声音了！你看，这是他的腰带，可他人不在了，现在我怎么也见不到他了，听不到他的声音了！”

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她从怀里掏出孩子的一条镶着金银饰边的小腰带，刚看了一眼就哭得浑身哆嗦起来，她用手指捂着眼睛，泪水突然从指缝里像泉水一样涌出来。

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“而这就是，”长老说，“这就是古代的拉结哭他的儿女，不肯受安慰，因为他们都不在了。你们这些当母亲的在世上的命运注定就是这样。你别安慰自己，你也不需要安慰自己，你别安慰自己，你尽管哭好了，但每次哭的时候都一定要想到你儿子现在成了上帝的一名天使，他从天国望着你，也能看到你，看到你的眼泪他很高兴，还把你的眼泪指给上帝看。伟大的慈母之泪你还要流很久，但这眼泪最后将使你转忧为喜，你那伤心的眼泪将成为暗自激动的眼泪，成为能够脱离罪恶、净化心灵的眼泪。我要为你的孩子祈祷安息，他叫什么名字？”

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“阿列克谢，长老。”

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“这名字真可爱。取自圣徒阿列克谢的名字吗？”

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“是的，长老，是用了圣徒阿列克谢的名字！”

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“他是个多好的圣徒！我一定为你的孩子祈祷，也要为你这当母亲的悲伤和你丈夫的健康祈祷，只不过你抛弃丈夫是一件罪孽，你要回到丈夫身边，精心照料他。如果你的孩子从天国看到你抛弃了他的父亲，他会为你们而伤心得哭起来的。你为何要破坏他的安宁呢？要知道他还活着，还活着，因为灵魂是永生的，尽管他不在家里，但他还在你们身边，只是看不见罢了。你说你恨自己的家，那他怎么能回家呢？如果他回家见到自己的父母不在一起，那他又去找谁呢？现在你经常梦见他，你心里感到痛苦，将来他会让你做各种美好的梦。回到你丈夫身边去吧，今天就回去。”

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“我这就回去，亲爱的，我听你的话，我回去。你把我的心思琢磨透了。尼基图什卡，我的尼基图什卡啊，你等着我，亲爱的，你等着我吧！”女人说着哭了起来，但长老已经转过身跟另一位年迈的老妇人说话了。那老妇人的穿着打扮不像朝圣者，而像城里人。从她的目光中可以看出她有什么心事，她来是要诉说什么。她自称是士官的遗孀，住得也不远，就在我们城里。她的儿子瓦辛卡在政府部门当差，后来到西伯利亚的伊尔库茨克去了，他从那里来过两三封信，但最近快一年没有信来了。她曾经打听过他的消息，不过说实在的，她也不知道该上哪儿去打听才好。

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“不过前几天斯捷潘尼达·伊里伊尼什娜·别特里亚金娜对我说，她是做买卖的，很有钱，她说，你把你儿子的名字写进追荐册，送到教堂里，祈祷他的灵魂安息。她说他的灵魂会想念你，这样，他就会给你写信。斯捷潘尼达·伊里伊尼什娜说，这肯定灵验，这办法试过多次了，每次都见效。不过我只是有点怀疑……亲爱的，这话是真是假？这样做好不好？”

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“别信这一套，连提这样的问题也是可耻的。怎么能为一个活着的人做安息祈祷呢，况且这样做的又是他亲生母亲！这是极大的罪孽，就跟施妖术一样。但是因为你无知，尚可饶恕。你最好还是求救苦救难的圣母保佑你儿子健康，求她饶恕你的邪念。我还要告诉你，普罗霍罗芙娜：你儿子或者会很快回到你身边，或者一定会写信给你。你去吧，从今以后你就放心好了。我告诉你，你儿子还活着。”

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“亲爱的，愿上帝赐福给你，你是我们的恩人，你替我们大家祈祷，饶恕我们的罪孽……”

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长老已经注意到在人群中有一个神情疲惫、好像害痨病的年轻农妇，她那两道燃烧似的目光正盯着他。她一声不响地望着他，那眼神在请求着什么，但她又不敢走上前。

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“你有什么事，亲爱的？”

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“请你饶恕我的灵魂吧，亲爱的。”她不慌不忙地轻轻说道，跪下来向他磕头。

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“我犯了罪，亲爱的长老，我害怕自己的罪孽。”

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长老坐到最下面的一级台阶上，那女人跪着将身体挪到他身边。

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“我守寡两年多了，”她悄悄地说，浑身像在发抖，“我出嫁以后日子难过，丈夫是个老头子，经常把我打得死去活来。后来他病倒了，躺在床上，我瞅着他那模样，心里想：要是他病好了，重新起床怎么办？当时我就生出了那个念头……”

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“等一等，”长老说着把自己的耳朵凑到她嘴边，女人继续悄悄地说着，几乎什么也听不清。她一会儿就说完了。

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“两年多了吗？”

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“两年多了。起初不觉得什么，现在开始闹病了，心烦意乱。”

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“你是远道来的吗？”

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“离这儿一千里地。”

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“忏悔的时候你说过没有？”

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“说了，每次说两遍。”

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“让你领过圣餐没有？”

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“领过了，我害怕，我怕死。”

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“什么也不用害怕，永远不用害怕，也不用发愁，只要你不断忏悔，上帝会饶恕一切的，只要你真正忏悔了，那么世上就没有也不可能有上帝无法饶恕的罪孽。一个人也不可能犯下那种连博大的上帝之爱都无法宽容的弥天大罪。难道有什么超出上帝之爱的罪孽吗？你只管不停地忏悔，根本用不着害怕。你要相信，上帝是爱你的，爱得出乎你的想象。尽管你犯了罪，罪孽在身，上帝还是爱你的。上帝对一个忏悔的人比对十个规规矩矩的人还喜欢，这是句老话。你去吧，不要害怕。不要迁怒于他人，受了委屈不要生气。你死去的丈夫侮辱过你，你心里要饶恕他，你要真心诚意地跟他和解。你忏悔了，就会有一颗仁爱的心。你有了爱心，你就是上帝的人了……爱能赎回一切，拯救一切。既然连我这样跟你同样有罪的人都能怜悯你，那上帝就更能怜悯你了。爱是无价之宝，你用爱可以赎回整个世界，不仅可以赎你的罪，还可以赎别人的罪。你去吧，别害怕。”

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他为她画了三次十字，从自己脖子上摘下一枚小圣像，戴到她身上。她默默地向他磕了个头。他欠起身，高兴地看着另一个怀抱婴儿的健壮妇人。

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“我是从维舍戈里耶来的，亲爱的。”

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“离这儿十二里地，抱着孩子来去不容易啊。你有什么事吗？”

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“我来看看你。我到你这儿来过几次，你不记得了？要是把我都给忘了，那你的记性真的不太好。我们村里的人说你病了，我心里就想：好吧，让我亲自去看看他吧。现在我见到了你，哪有什么病啊？你还能活二十年，真的，上帝保佑你！为你祈祷的人还会少吗？生病会轮得上你吗？”

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“谢谢你的一片好心，亲爱的。”

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“顺便我还有个小小的请求，这儿是六十戈比，亲爱的，你把这些钱送给比我还穷的人。我到这儿来的路上想：最好还是让他去给吧，他知道应该给谁。”

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“谢谢，亲爱的，谢谢，好心的人。我爱你，我一定照办。你手里抱的孩子是个女孩吗？”

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“是女孩，亲爱的，丽扎维塔。”

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“愿上帝赐福予你们母女俩，赐福予你和你的丽扎维塔。你让我心里感到非常快活，亲爱的。再见了，亲爱的人们，再见了，可敬可爱的人们。”

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他为所有的人祝福，向大家深深地鞠躬。

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Near the wooden portico below, built on to the outer wall of the precinct, there was a crowd of about twenty peasant women. They had been told that the elder was at last coming out, and they had gathered together in anticipation. Two ladies, Madame Hohlakov and her daughter, had also come out into the portico to wait for the elder, but in a separate part of it set aside for women of rank.

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Madame Hohlakov was a wealthy lady, still young and attractive, and always dressed with taste. She was rather pale, and had lively black eyes. She was not more than thirty‐three, and had been five years a widow. Her daughter, a girl of fourteen, was partially paralyzed. The poor child had not been able to walk for the last six months, and was wheeled about in a long reclining chair. She had a charming little face, rather thin from illness, but full of gayety. There was a gleam of mischief in her big dark eyes with their long lashes. Her mother had been intending to take her abroad ever since the spring, but they had been detained all the summer by business connected with their estate. They had been staying a week in our town, where they had come more for purposes of business than devotion, but had visited Father Zossima once already, three days before. Though they knew that the elder scarcely saw any one, they had now suddenly turned up again, and urgently entreated “the happiness of looking once again on the great healer.”

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The mother was sitting on a chair by the side of her daughter’s invalid carriage, and two paces from her stood an old monk, not one of our monastery, but a visitor from an obscure religious house in the far north. He too sought the elder’s blessing.

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But Father Zossima, on entering the portico, went first straight to the peasants who were crowded at the foot of the three steps that led up into the portico. Father Zossima stood on the top step, put on his stole, and began blessing the women who thronged about him. One crazy woman was led up to him. As soon as she caught sight of the elder she began shrieking and writhing as though in the pains of childbirth. Laying the stole on her forehead, he read a short prayer over her, and she was at once soothed and quieted.

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I do not know how it may be now, but in my childhood I often happened to see and hear these “possessed” women in the villages and monasteries. They used to be brought to mass; they would squeal and bark like a dog so that they were heard all over the church. But when the sacrament was carried in and they were led up to it, at once the “possession” ceased, and the sick women were always soothed for a time. I was greatly impressed and amazed at this as a child; but then I heard from country neighbors and from my town teachers that the whole illness was simulated to avoid work, and that it could always be cured by suitable severity; various anecdotes were told to confirm this. But later on I learnt with astonishment from medical specialists that there is no pretense about it, that it is a terrible illness to which women are subject, specially prevalent among us in Russia, and that it is due to the hard lot of the peasant women. It is a disease, I was told, arising from exhausting toil too soon after hard, abnormal and unassisted labor in childbirth, and from the hopeless misery, from beatings, and so on, which some women were not able to endure like others. The strange and instant healing of the frantic and struggling woman as soon as she was led up to the holy sacrament, which had been explained to me as due to malingering and the trickery of the “clericals,” arose probably in the most natural manner. Both the women who supported her and the invalid herself fully believed as a truth beyond question that the evil spirit in possession of her could not hold out if the sick woman were brought to the sacrament and made to bow down before it. And so, with a nervous and psychically deranged woman, a sort of convulsion of the whole organism always took place, and was bound to take place, at the moment of bowing down to the sacrament, aroused by the expectation of the miracle of healing and the implicit belief that it would come to pass; and it did come to pass, though only for a moment. It was exactly the same now as soon as the elder touched the sick woman with the stole.

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Many of the women in the crowd were moved to tears of ecstasy by the effect of the moment: some strove to kiss the hem of his garment, others cried out in sing‐song voices.

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He blessed them all and talked with some of them. The “possessed” woman he knew already. She came from a village only six versts from the monastery, and had been brought to him before.

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“But here is one from afar.” He pointed to a woman by no means old but very thin and wasted, with a face not merely sunburnt but almost blackened by exposure. She was kneeling and gazing with a fixed stare at the elder; there was something almost frenzied in her eyes.

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“From afar off, Father, from afar off! From two hundred miles from here. From afar off, Father, from afar off!” the woman began in a sing‐song voice as though she were chanting a dirge, swaying her head from side to side with her cheek resting in her hand.

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There is silent and long‐suffering sorrow to be met with among the peasantry. It withdraws into itself and is still. But there is a grief that breaks out, and from that minute it bursts into tears and finds vent in wailing. This is particularly common with women. But it is no lighter a grief than the silent. Lamentations comfort only by lacerating the heart still more. Such grief does not desire consolation. It feeds on the sense of its hopelessness. Lamentations spring only from the constant craving to reopen the wound.

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“You are of the tradesman class?” said Father Zossima, looking curiously at her.

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“Townfolk we are, Father, townfolk. Yet we are peasants though we live in the town. I have come to see you, O Father! We heard of you, Father, we heard of you. I have buried my little son, and I have come on a pilgrimage. I have been in three monasteries, but they told me, ‘Go, Nastasya, go to them’—that is to you. I have come; I was yesterday at the service, and to‐day I have come to you.”

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“What are you weeping for?”

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“It’s my little son I’m grieving for, Father. He was three years old—three years all but three months. For my little boy, Father, I’m in anguish, for my little boy. He was the last one left. We had four, my Nikita and I, and now we’ve no children, our dear ones have all gone. I buried the first three without grieving overmuch, and now I have buried the last I can’t forget him. He seems always standing before me. He never leaves me. He has withered my heart. I look at his little clothes, his little shirt, his little boots, and I wail. I lay out all that is left of him, all his little things. I look at them and wail. I say to Nikita, my husband, ‘Let me go on a pilgrimage, master.’ He is a driver. We’re not poor people, Father, not poor; he drives our own horse. It’s all our own, the horse and the carriage. And what good is it all to us now? My Nikita has begun drinking while I am away. He’s sure to. It used to be so before. As soon as I turn my back he gives way to it. But now I don’t think about him. It’s three months since I left home. I’ve forgotten him. I’ve forgotten everything. I don’t want to remember. And what would our life be now together? I’ve done with him, I’ve done. I’ve done with them all. I don’t care to look upon my house and my goods. I don’t care to see anything at all!”

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“Listen, mother,” said the elder. “Once in olden times a holy saint saw in the Temple a mother like you weeping for her little one, her only one, whom God had taken. ‘Knowest thou not,’ said the saint to her, ‘how bold these little ones are before the throne of God? Verily there are none bolder than they in the Kingdom of Heaven. “Thou didst give us life, O Lord,” they say, “and scarcely had we looked upon it when Thou didst take it back again.” And so boldly they ask and ask again that God gives them at once the rank of angels. Therefore,’ said the saint, ‘thou, too, O mother, rejoice and weep not, for thy little son is with the Lord in the fellowship of the angels.’ That’s what the saint said to the weeping mother of old. He was a great saint and he could not have spoken falsely. Therefore you too, mother, know that your little one is surely before the throne of God, is rejoicing and happy, and praying to God for you, and therefore weep not, but rejoice.”

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The woman listened to him, looking down with her cheek in her hand. She sighed deeply.

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“My Nikita tried to comfort me with the same words as you. ‘Foolish one,’ he said, ‘why weep? Our son is no doubt singing with the angels before God.’ He says that to me, but he weeps himself. I see that he cries like me. ‘I know, Nikita,’ said I. ‘Where could he be if not with the Lord God? Only, here with us now he is not as he used to sit beside us before.’ And if only I could look upon him one little time, if only I could peep at him one little time, without going up to him, without speaking, if I could be hidden in a corner and only see him for one little minute, hear him playing in the yard, calling in his little voice, ‘Mammy, where are you?’ If only I could hear him pattering with his little feet about the room just once, only once; for so often, so often I remember how he used to run to me and shout and laugh, if only I could hear his little feet I should know him! But he’s gone, Father, he’s gone, and I shall never hear him again. Here’s his little sash, but him I shall never see or hear now.”

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She drew out of her bosom her boy’s little embroidered sash, and as soon as she looked at it she began shaking with sobs, hiding her eyes with her fingers through which the tears flowed in a sudden stream.

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“It is Rachel of old,” said the elder, “weeping for her children, and will not be comforted because they are not. Such is the lot set on earth for you mothers. Be not comforted. Consolation is not what you need. Weep and be not consoled, but weep. Only every time that you weep be sure to remember that your little son is one of the angels of God, that he looks down from there at you and sees you, and rejoices at your tears, and points at them to the Lord God; and a long while yet will you keep that great mother’s grief. But it will turn in the end into quiet joy, and your bitter tears will be only tears of tender sorrow that purifies the heart and delivers it from sin. And I shall pray for the peace of your child’s soul. What was his name?”

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“Alexey, Father.”

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“A sweet name. After Alexey, the man of God?”

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“Yes, Father.”

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“What a saint he was! I will remember him, mother, and your grief in my prayers, and I will pray for your husband’s health. It is a sin for you to leave him. Your little one will see from heaven that you have forsaken his father, and will weep over you. Why do you trouble his happiness? He is living, for the soul lives for ever, and though he is not in the house he is near you, unseen. How can he go into the house when you say that the house is hateful to you? To whom is he to go if he find you not together, his father and mother? He comes to you in dreams now, and you grieve. But then he will send you gentle dreams. Go to your husband, mother; go this very day.”

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“I will go, Father, at your word. I will go. You’ve gone straight to my heart. My Nikita, my Nikita, you are waiting for me,” the woman began in a sing‐song voice; but the elder had already turned away to a very old woman, dressed like a dweller in the town, not like a pilgrim. Her eyes showed that she had come with an object, and in order to say something. She said she was the widow of a non‐commissioned officer, and lived close by in the town. Her son Vasenka was in the commissariat service, and had gone to Irkutsk in Siberia. He had written twice from there, but now a year had passed since he had written. She did inquire about him, but she did not know the proper place to inquire.

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“Only the other day Stepanida Ilyinishna—she’s a rich merchant’s wife—said to me, ‘You go, Prohorovna, and put your son’s name down for prayer in the church, and pray for the peace of his soul as though he were dead. His soul will be troubled,’ she said, ‘and he will write you a letter.’ And Stepanida Ilyinishna told me it was a certain thing which had been many times tried. Only I am in doubt.... Oh, you light of ours! is it true or false, and would it be right?”

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“Don’t think of it. It’s shameful to ask the question. How is it possible to pray for the peace of a living soul? And his own mother too! It’s a great sin, akin to sorcery. Only for your ignorance it is forgiven you. Better pray to the Queen of Heaven, our swift defense and help, for his good health, and that she may forgive you for your error. And another thing I will tell you, Prohorovna. Either he will soon come back to you, your son, or he will be sure to send a letter. Go, and henceforward be in peace. Your son is alive, I tell you.”

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“Dear Father, God reward you, our benefactor, who prays for all of us and for our sins!”

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But the elder had already noticed in the crowd two glowing eyes fixed upon him. An exhausted, consumptive‐looking, though young peasant woman was gazing at him in silence. Her eyes besought him, but she seemed afraid to approach.

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“What is it, my child?”

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“Absolve my soul, Father,” she articulated softly, and slowly sank on her knees and bowed down at his feet. “I have sinned, Father. I am afraid of my sin.”

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The elder sat down on the lower step. The woman crept closer to him, still on her knees.

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“I am a widow these three years,” she began in a half‐whisper, with a sort of shudder. “I had a hard life with my husband. He was an old man. He used to beat me cruelly. He lay ill; I thought looking at him, if he were to get well, if he were to get up again, what then? And then the thought came to me—”

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“Stay!” said the elder, and he put his ear close to her lips.

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The woman went on in a low whisper, so that it was almost impossible to catch anything. She had soon done.

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“Three years ago?” asked the elder.

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“Three years. At first I didn’t think about it, but now I’ve begun to be ill, and the thought never leaves me.”

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“Have you come from far?”

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“Over three hundred miles away.”

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“Have you told it in confession?”

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“I have confessed it. Twice I have confessed it.”

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“Have you been admitted to Communion?”

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“Yes. I am afraid. I am afraid to die.”

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“Fear nothing and never be afraid; and don’t fret. If only your penitence fail not, God will forgive all. There is no sin, and there can be no sin on all the earth, which the Lord will not forgive to the truly repentant! Man cannot commit a sin so great as to exhaust the infinite love of God. Can there be a sin which could exceed the love of God? Think only of repentance, continual repentance, but dismiss fear altogether. Believe that God loves you as you cannot conceive; that He loves you with your sin, in your sin. It has been said of old that over one repentant sinner there is more joy in heaven than over ten righteous men. Go, and fear not. Be not bitter against men. Be not angry if you are wronged. Forgive the dead man in your heart what wrong he did you. Be reconciled with him in truth. If you are penitent, you love. And if you love you are of God. All things are atoned for, all things are saved by love. If I, a sinner, even as you are, am tender with you and have pity on you, how much more will God. Love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole world by it, and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others.”

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He signed her three times with the cross, took from his own neck a little ikon and put it upon her. She bowed down to the earth without speaking.

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He got up and looked cheerfully at a healthy peasant woman with a tiny baby in her arms.

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“From Vyshegorye, dear Father.”

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“Five miles you have dragged yourself with the baby. What do you want?”

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“I’ve come to look at you. I have been to you before—or have you forgotten? You’ve no great memory if you’ve forgotten me. They told us you were ill. Thinks I, I’ll go and see him for myself. Now I see you, and you’re not ill! You’ll live another twenty years. God bless you! There are plenty to pray for you; how should you be ill?”

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“I thank you for all, daughter.”

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“By the way, I have a thing to ask, not a great one. Here are sixty copecks. Give them, dear Father, to some one poorer than me. I thought as I came along, better give through him. He’ll know whom to give to.”

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“Thanks, my dear, thanks! You are a good woman. I love you. I will do so certainly. Is that your little girl?”

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“My little girl, Father, Lizaveta.”

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“May the Lord bless you both, you and your babe Lizaveta! You have gladdened my heart, mother. Farewell, dear children, farewell, dear ones.”

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He blessed them all and bowed low to them.

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