feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_9_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: The Brothers Karamazov.book vi.chapter i-chapter iii
feat_summary_id: book vi
feat_summary: {"name": "Book VI", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219142226/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/b/the-brothers-karamazov/summary-and-analysis/part-2-book-vi", "summary": "Father Zossima is propped in bed, surrounded by his friends and followers, when Alyosha returns to the monastery. The elder is weak but is still quite alert and eager to talk with his audience. He greets Alyosha affectionately and asks about Dmitri; he says that the bow made to him was an acknowledgment of the intense suffering he foresees for the boy. Alyosha, however, he says, has quite a different future, and again he counsels the young monk to return to the world to look after his brothers. In this way, he says, Alyosha will learn to love all of life, to bless life, and to teach those who suffer to love and bless life. These pleas to Alyosha are Father Zossima's last requests. Now he tells all assembled the reasons why Alyosha is so very special to him. Once, the elder says, he had an older brother who influenced him tremendously. Alyosha bears a particularly strong resemblance to that brother -- physically and spiritually. Then Zossima begins to reminisce. He was born to a noble family of only moderate means. His father died when he was only two years old, and he was reared with his mother and the brother he spoke of. The brother, eight years older than Zossima, came under the influence of a freethinker and was soon a source of sorrow to the mother. He ridiculed her religious observances and her devout beliefs. Then, at seventeen, he contracted consumption, and the family was advised that he had but a few months to live. During the months he waited for death, a tremendous spiritual conversion took place in the boy. He became extremely pious and spoke continuously about the need to love all of God's creatures, even the little birds in the garden. He asked the servants to feel that they were his equal and often said that he wished he could be a servant to the servants. Besides his brother, Zossima says that there has been another influence on him: the Bible. This book, he says, is a testament of the extent of God's love for all men. Zossima mourns for those who cannot find the vast love that he finds contained in the Bible. But Zossima's affection for the Bible has not been lifelong. As a youth, he was sent to a military academy in St. Petersburg and soon neglected both the Bible and his religious training. After graduation, he led the carefree life that a typical young officer might. He courted a beautiful lady whom, he was sure, returned his affections, but while he was absent she married someone else. Zossima was insulted and immediately challenged her husband to a duel. But, waking on the morning of the duel, he looked out, saw a fresh, clean beauty on all of God's world, and remembered his dying brother's exhortation: love all of God's creatures. He leaped from his bed, apologized to a servant whom he had beaten the night before, and made plans for his duel. He would allow his opponent to take the first shot; afterward, Zossima would drop his pistols and beg the man's forgiveness. This he did. But the officers accompanying Zossima were shocked by the strange behavior. They questioned him and were even more surprised at the explanation: he had, he said, decided to resign his military commission and enter a monastery. Zossima fast became the talk of the town. One night a mysterious stranger visited him and begged to hear the motives that prompted Zossima's actions. Zossima talked at length to the man and for many nights afterward. Then, after hearing the whole of Zossima's story, the man made a confession of his own: years ago he killed a woman out of passion, and someone else was blamed for the deed. The man in question, however, died before he was tried. Now the perpetrator of the deed has wife and children and has become one of the most respected philanthropists in the community. But, he moans to Zossima, he has never found happiness for himself. In spite of an apparently successful life, he has always needed to confess. This, in fact, he finally did, and in public, but no one believed him; they thought that he was temporarily deranged. Not long after his confession to Zossima, the man falls ill. The elder visits him and is thanked greatly for his guidance. Zossima, until now, has never revealed the man's secret. The elder pauses and begins to speak to Alyosha of what it has meant to be a monk. Zossima feels that the Russian monk is, of all persons, closest to the Russian folk and that ultimately the salvation of Russia will come through these common people who, he feels sure, will always remain orthodox in their beliefs. He also talks of the equality of all people and hopes that everyone can someday be truly meek and can accept a servant as an equal and, in turn, function as a servant to others. True equality, he says, is found only in the \"spiritual dignity of man.\" As an example, he tells of an old servant's giving him a sum of money for the monastery. This, the elder reveals, is the ideal reversal in action; a master-servant relationship exists no longer. Zossima admonishes his listeners to love all of God's creatures and to take on the responsibility of all men's sins. He explains that often God expects many things that we cannot understand with human logic. Man, for example, should not judge his fellow men -- even criminals -- says Zossima; man must pray for those who are outside the church, for there does not exist a material hell. There is only a spiritual hell, he says. He then collapses to the floor and reaches out as though to embrace the earth. Joyfully he gives up his soul to God.", "analysis": "Because of their positive quality, Dostoevsky inserts the final views of Father Zossima next to the questioning disbeliefs of Ivan Karamazov. They act somewhat like a counterbalance to the many ideas presented in Book V. Unlike Ivan, Zossima is didactic -- the most didactic character in the novel, perhaps in all of Dostoevsky's writings. His ideas are too abstract to be presented as Ivan's were; his ideas are too profound to be presented in any other way than by simple exhortation. Parts of Zossima's philosophy have, of course, been discussed in earlier books, but here almost all of his tenets are gathered together and presented either by examples from his own life or through exhortations and miniature sermons. In one sense, Zossima is an extension of earlier Dostoevskian characters, but, because of his personal history, he is much more than a mere abstraction of the author's ideas. Surprisingly, Father Zossima is a rather robust character, one who undergoes many diverse experiences before dedicating his life to the monastery. There are reasons for his convictions; he is no conventional saint. Concerning the amount of background material that Zossima gives, it is most important that we see him against such relief. If the elder's theories are to be accepted as valid, we cannot view him as an isolated or even as a repressed person who turns to religion in order to escape the world's rejection. Zossima was not an introvert; his youth was wild and reckless, filled with \"drunkenness, debauchery, and devilry.\" He was popular with his fellow officers and with people in general. His conversion and his subsequent religious dedication, therefore, are grounded in motivated reality. The account of the duel and Zossima's actions show him to be a person of physical courage as well as of moral courage. It is significant that the conversion was brought about by his remembering some of his dead brother's ideas about loving life and respecting all things in this world. From this time onward, these ideas become more and more central to Zossima's final philosophy of life. Concerning suffering, Zossima's explanation of why he bowed down to Dmitri has its roots deep in Dostoevskian philosophy. In Crime and Punishment, for example, the protagonist bows down before a prostitute because he sees in her \"the suffering of all humanity.\" Suffering, Dostoevsky felt, was the genesis of retribution. Only through great suffering can a man be purified of his sins, and it is this process that Zossima sees within Dmitri. In speaking of his love for the Bible, Zossima says that the book's basic lesson is this: one must realize the vast love that God has for mankind. At first, admittedly, such a realization is not easy. It is difficult to accept God giving his beloved Job to the devil for no other reason than to boast to his opponent. But the value of the parable, says Zossima, lies in the fact that it is a mystery \"that the passing earthly show and the eternal verity are brought together.\" This, of course, is diametrically opposed to what Ivan believes. He refuses to accept any idea that cannot be comprehended by earthly logic. But for Zossima, the greatness of God lies in the fact that man cannot comprehend God's ways and that some things of earth must remain a mystery. Only with such a mystery does man realize the full extent of God's glory. If man could comprehend all, then God would lose his sense of majesty. Again in contrast to Ivan , Zossima says that \"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.\" The elder insists on practicing active love for mankind; only through love will one come to believe in God. For the present, Ivan would disagree. He spends his time intellectualizing over abstruse problems; he has no time left for active love. With the appearance of the mysterious stranger, Zossima is put to his first test. It would have been easy to tell the stranger that he has suffered enough and that there is no need for him to ruin his life and his family's life by making an open confession. But Zossima is quietly persuasive in his efforts to get the stranger to recognize his errors. There is no attempt at coercion, but simply a quiet plea for him to perform that which his conscience tells him must be done. As Zossima confides his wisdom to Alyosha, the reader should be aware that the elder's views are essentially those by which Dostoevsky himself tried to live, or at least wished to live. Particularly, Dostoevsky was interested in these concepts: 1. The Russian monk and his possible significance. -- Zossima believes that the salvation of Russia would come from two sources -- the Russian monks and a vast, idealized section of the Russian population that he referred to as the Russian people, or the Russian folk. The monks, however, were even more important than the folk if the regeneration of Russia was to be accomplished. From the monks would come the energy and ideas of purity and love. The monk, Zossima believes, practices obedience, fasting, and prayer, believing that these three disciplines will accomplish for him the only true freedom: sacred freedom. Such freedom is forever denied the man who exists in contemporary society, the slave to mechanical and material frivolities; he will never attain the freedom needed for a pure understanding of life's meaning. He is too involved with life to be able to contemplate life. Only the monk, a man who has \"freed himself from the tyranny of material things and habits\" can conceive great ideas and serve them. In essence, this is the elder's answer to the question posed by the Grand Inquisitor and Ivan. Only in freedom can man conceive of ideas great enough to make life worth preserving. After the monk gives birth to example and philosophy, the renascence begins, and within the Russian folk a new Russia is nourished. The folk, of course, can never hope to completely emulate the life of the monk, but because of their living close to the soil and to basic matters of life, they can easily assimilate the wisdom of the Russian monk. Of course, Zossima realizes that the average peasant sins occasionally, but he also believes that the peasant realizes that he is wrong in his sinning. This realization will be his salvation, for man must first recognize righteousness as the supreme virtue; this the folk do. One must not despair of the peasant, Zossima counsels, for even in his sinfulness and in his ignorant ways, \"salvation will come from the people, from their faith and their meekness,\" an idea very often advocated by Dostoevsky. He uses, for example, Sonia in Crime and Punishment as such a type, the so-called passive redemptive character, and suggests that through the passive acceptance of faith and by extreme meekness, salvation will be achieved. The folk are Zossima's hope, for they believe basically as does the monk. The elder says that \"an unbelieving reformer will never do anything in Russia. Even if he is sincere in heart and a genius, the people will meet the atheist and overcome him.\" But if one considers the widespread atheism that followed the Communist revolution in Russia, Dostoevsky perhaps never wrote anything that proved to be so absolutely incorrect as this prophecy of Father Zossima. 2. Of masters and servants, and of whether it is possible for them to be brothers in spirit. -- Zossima advocates absolute equality for all men. True dignity does not come from the possession of great material wealth. Dignity, the elder says, is derived only from an inner sense of personal worth; it is able to respect another person without envying that person. When man attains such dignity, he creates a unity, a brotherhood in which a master may associate with a servant without losing either self-respect or dignity. This is Zossima's utopia, founded on \"the grand unity of man,\" preserved by men who long with all their heart to be the servants of all. 3. Of prayer, of love, and of contact with other worlds. -- Zossima admonished his adherents to pray for others, even those who have sinned. God, he says, will look favorably upon any sinner who stands before Him, proving that someone is offering up a prayer for that sinner. Again the elder re-emphasizes to those assembled his strong belief in the power of positive love. \"Love a man even in his sin, for that is the semblance of Divine Love and is the highest love on earth. Love all God's creation, the whole and every grain of sand in it. Love every leaf, every ray of God's light. Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things.\" By loving, man gains new respect for everything in God's world. Thus \"we must love not occasionally, for a moment, but for ever.\" One of Zossima's principal ideas that particularly touches Alyosha is the elder's view of man's responsibility for another's sins. Zossima maintains that everyone must make himself \"responsible for all men's sins . . . for as soon as you sincerely make yourself responsible for everything and for all men, you will see at once that it is really so and that you are to blame for every one and for all things.\" If one carries this idea to its logical conclusion, we see that Alyosha must eventually take partial responsibility for the murder of his father. This he indeed does, finally realizing that man must become an active participant rather than a passive observer of life. Concerning man's limitation of understanding all that is holy, Zossima says that man is given a mystic sense of his loving bond with the other world. Like Ivan, the elder admits that man cannot understand the mysterious ways of God, but, for Zossima, the very existence of something so mysteriously unexplainable is proof that man owes love and allegiance to a higher power. Zossima takes Ivan's premises, therefore, for his proof of God's existence. \"On the final judgment,\" says the elder, \"man will not be asked to account for things which he cannot comprehend, but only for those things he understands.\" 4. Can a man judge his fellow creatures? -- Zossima believes that no one can judge a criminal. First, one must recognize that no man is only a criminal, and perhaps more than all other men, the seemingly innocent, and not the allegedly guilty, is most to blame for whatever crime has been committed. Alyosha uses such a theory when he refuses to judge Dmitri; furthermore, during his brother's trial, he forgives him. From a realistic point of view, Zossima's views on the criminal are too ideal. Zossima would allow a criminal to go free and hope that he would come to condemn his acts. Such idealism is touchingly naive. And with the same sort of idealism, Zossima advocates kissing the earth, \"love it with an unceasing, consuming love.\" Love of the mother earth, one might note, is central to many of Dostoevsky's novels. In Crime and Punishment, the murderer Raskolnikov is told to go and bow down to the earth, which he has defiled because of his crime. In the poem from Schiller that Dmitri often recites, there is a hymn of praise for the earthly existence. In total loving, then -- loving even the earth -- Zossima says that man can realize an ecstasy that is a \"gift of God,\" not given to many but certainly to the elect. The ideal of a spiritual elite is foreign to Ivan's thinking, but Zossima believes in such a minority and stresses that they should be proud of being elect; their examples will lead others to God's light. 5. Of hell and hell fire, a mystic reflection. -- Zossima's views on this subject do not conform with the orthodox views of the church. Later Ferapont will allude to this fact when he drives the devils from Zossima's cell. Zossima absolutely does not believe in a material hellfire, one that burns and punishes. To him, hell is spiritual agony, growing out of the inner conscience of the damned. If there were material punishment, he says, it would alleviate the spiritual punishment because of its intense physical pain. The greater punishment, the spiritual punishment, is the sinner's recognition that he is forever separated from God. Zossima strays even further from the teachings of the church by his prayers for the condemned. He prays for them because \"love can never be an offense to Christ.\""}
text: 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!
  
  
  
  
  Chapter II. The Duel
  
  
  _(c) Recollections of Father Zossima's Youth before he became a Monk. The
  Duel_
  
  I spent a long time, almost eight years, in the military cadet school at
  Petersburg, and in the novelty of my surroundings there, many of my
  childish impressions grew dimmer, though I forgot nothing. I picked up so
  many new habits and opinions that I was transformed into a cruel, absurd,
  almost savage creature. A surface polish of courtesy and society manners I
  did acquire together with the French language.
  
  But we all, myself included, looked upon the soldiers in our service as
  cattle. I was perhaps worse than the rest in that respect, for I was so
  much more impressionable than my companions. By the time we left the
  school as officers, we were ready to lay down our lives for the honor of
  the regiment, but no one of us had any knowledge of the real meaning of
  honor, and if any one had known it, he would have been the first to
  ridicule it. Drunkenness, debauchery and devilry were what we almost
  prided ourselves on. I don't say that we were bad by nature, all these
  young men were good fellows, but they behaved badly, and I worst of all.
  What made it worse for me was that I had come into my own money, and so I
  flung myself into a life of pleasure, and plunged headlong into all the
  recklessness of youth.
  
  I was fond of reading, yet strange to say, the Bible was the one book I
  never opened at that time, though I always carried it about with me, and I
  was never separated from it; in very truth I was keeping that book "for
  the day and the hour, for the month and the year," though I knew it not.
  
  After four years of this life, I chanced to be in the town of K. where our
  regiment was stationed at the time. We found the people of the town
  hospitable, rich and fond of entertainments. I met with a cordial
  reception everywhere, as I was of a lively temperament and was known to be
  well off, which always goes a long way in the world. And then a
  circumstance happened which was the beginning of it all.
  
  I formed an attachment to a beautiful and intelligent young girl of noble
  and lofty character, the daughter of people much respected. They were
  well-to-do people of influence and position. They always gave me a cordial
  and friendly reception. I fancied that the young lady looked on me with
  favor and my heart was aflame at such an idea. Later on I saw and fully
  realized that I perhaps was not so passionately in love with her at all,
  but only recognized the elevation of her mind and character, which I could
  not indeed have helped doing. I was prevented, however, from making her an
  offer at the time by my selfishness, I was loath to part with the
  allurements of my free and licentious bachelor life in the heyday of my
  youth, and with my pockets full of money. I did drop some hint as to my
  feelings however, though I put off taking any decisive step for a time.
  Then, all of a sudden, we were ordered off for two months to another
  district.
  
  On my return two months later, I found the young lady already married to a
  rich neighboring landowner, a very amiable man, still young though older
  than I was, connected with the best Petersburg society, which I was not,
  and of excellent education, which I also was not. I was so overwhelmed at
  this unexpected circumstance that my mind was positively clouded. The
  worst of it all was that, as I learned then, the young landowner had been
  a long while betrothed to her, and I had met him indeed many times in her
  house, but blinded by my conceit I had noticed nothing. And this
  particularly mortified me; almost everybody had known all about it, while
  I knew nothing. I was filled with sudden irrepressible fury. With flushed
  face I began recalling how often I had been on the point of declaring my
  love to her, and as she had not attempted to stop me or to warn me, she
  must, I concluded, have been laughing at me all the time. Later on, of
  course, I reflected and remembered that she had been very far from
  laughing at me; on the contrary, she used to turn off any love-making on
  my part with a jest and begin talking of other subjects; but at that
  moment I was incapable of reflecting and was all eagerness for revenge. I
  am surprised to remember that my wrath and revengeful feelings were
  extremely repugnant to my own nature, for being of an easy temper, I found
  it difficult to be angry with any one for long, and so I had to work
  myself up artificially and became at last revolting and absurd.
  
  I waited for an opportunity and succeeded in insulting my "rival" in the
  presence of a large company. I insulted him on a perfectly extraneous
  pretext, jeering at his opinion upon an important public event--it was in
  the year 1826(5)--and my jeer was, so people said, clever and effective.
  Then I forced him to ask for an explanation, and behaved so rudely that he
  accepted my challenge in spite of the vast inequality between us, as I was
  younger, a person of no consequence, and of inferior rank. I learned
  afterwards for a fact that it was from a jealous feeling on his side also
  that my challenge was accepted; he had been rather jealous of me on his
  wife's account before their marriage; he fancied now that if he submitted
  to be insulted by me and refused to accept my challenge, and if she heard
  of it, she might begin to despise him and waver in her love for him. I
  soon found a second in a comrade, an ensign of our regiment. In those days
  though duels were severely punished, yet dueling was a kind of fashion
  among the officers--so strong and deeply rooted will a brutal prejudice
  sometimes be.
  
  It was the end of June, and our meeting was to take place at seven o'clock
  the next day on the outskirts of the town--and then something happened that
  in very truth was the turning-point of my life. In the evening, returning
  home in a savage and brutal humor, I flew into a rage with my orderly
  Afanasy, and gave him two blows in the face with all my might, so that it
  was covered with blood. He had not long been in my service and I had
  struck him before, but never with such ferocious cruelty. And, believe me,
  though it's forty years ago, I recall it now with shame and pain. I went
  to bed and slept for about three hours; when I waked up the day was
  breaking. I got up--I did not want to sleep any more--I went to the
  window--opened it, it looked out upon the garden; I saw the sun rising; it
  was warm and beautiful, the birds were singing.
  
  "What's the meaning of it?" I thought. "I feel in my heart as it were
  something vile and shameful. Is it because I am going to shed blood? No,"
  I thought, "I feel it's not that. Can it be that I am afraid of death,
  afraid of being killed? No, that's not it, that's not it at all."... And
  all at once I knew what it was: it was because I had beaten Afanasy the
  evening before! It all rose before my mind, it all was as it were repeated
  over again; he stood before me and I was beating him straight on the face
  and he was holding his arms stiffly down, his head erect, his eyes fixed
  upon me as though on parade. He staggered at every blow and did not even
  dare to raise his hands to protect himself. That is what a man has been
  brought to, and that was a man beating a fellow creature! What a crime! It
  was as though a sharp dagger had pierced me right through. I stood as if I
  were struck dumb, while the sun was shining, the leaves were rejoicing and
  the birds were trilling the praise of God.... I hid my face in my hands,
  fell on my bed and broke into a storm of tears. And then I remembered my
  brother Markel and what he said on his death-bed to his servants: "My dear
  ones, why do you wait on me, why do you love me, am I worth your waiting
  on me?"
  
  "Yes, am I worth it?" flashed through my mind. "After all what am I worth,
  that another man, a fellow creature, made in the likeness and image of
  God, should serve me?" For the first time in my life this question forced
  itself upon me. He had said, "Mother, my little heart, in truth we are
  each responsible to all for all, it's only that men don't know this. If
  they knew it, the world would be a paradise at once."
  
  "God, can that too be false?" I thought as I wept. "In truth, perhaps, I
  am more than all others responsible for all, a greater sinner than all men
  in the world." And all at once the whole truth in its full light appeared
  to me; what was I going to do? I was going to kill a good, clever, noble
  man, who had done me no wrong, and by depriving his wife of happiness for
  the rest of her life, I should be torturing and killing her too. I lay
  thus in my bed with my face in the pillow, heedless how the time was
  passing. Suddenly my second, the ensign, came in with the pistols to fetch
  me.
  
  "Ah," said he, "it's a good thing you are up already, it's time we were
  off, come along!"
  
  I did not know what to do and hurried to and fro undecided; we went out to
  the carriage, however.
  
  "Wait here a minute," I said to him. "I'll be back directly, I have
  forgotten my purse."
  
  And I ran back alone, to Afanasy's little room.
  
  "Afanasy," I said, "I gave you two blows on the face yesterday, forgive
  me," I said.
  
  He started as though he were frightened, and looked at me; and I saw that
  it was not enough, and on the spot, in my full officer's uniform, I
  dropped at his feet and bowed my head to the ground.
  
  "Forgive me," I said.
  
  Then he was completely aghast.
  
  "Your honor ... sir, what are you doing? Am I worth it?"
  
  And he burst out crying as I had done before, hid this face in his hands,
  turned to the window and shook all over with his sobs. I flew out to my
  comrade and jumped into the carriage.
  
  "Ready," I cried. "Have you ever seen a conqueror?" I asked him. "Here is
  one before you."
  
  I was in ecstasy, laughing and talking all the way, I don't remember what
  about.
  
  He looked at me. "Well, brother, you are a plucky fellow, you'll keep up
  the honor of the uniform, I can see."
  
  So we reached the place and found them there, waiting us. We were placed
  twelve paces apart; he had the first shot. I stood gayly, looking him full
  in the face; I did not twitch an eyelash, I looked lovingly at him, for I
  knew what I would do. His shot just grazed my cheek and ear.
  
  "Thank God," I cried, "no man has been killed," and I seized my pistol,
  turned back and flung it far away into the wood. "That's the place for
  you," I cried.
  
  I turned to my adversary.
  
  "Forgive me, young fool that I am, sir," I said, "for my unprovoked insult
  to you and for forcing you to fire at me. I am ten times worse than you
  and more, maybe. Tell that to the person whom you hold dearest in the
  world."
  
  I had no sooner said this than they all three shouted at me.
  
  "Upon my word," cried my adversary, annoyed, "if you did not want to
  fight, why did not you let me alone?"
  
  "Yesterday I was a fool, to-day I know better," I answered him gayly.
  
  "As to yesterday, I believe you, but as for to-day, it is difficult to
  agree with your opinion," said he.
  
  "Bravo," I cried, clapping my hands. "I agree with you there too. I have
  deserved it!"
  
  "Will you shoot, sir, or not?"
  
  "No, I won't," I said; "if you like, fire at me again, but it would be
  better for you not to fire."
  
  The seconds, especially mine, were shouting too: "Can you disgrace the
  regiment like this, facing your antagonist and begging his forgiveness! If
  I'd only known this!"
  
  I stood facing them all, not laughing now.
  
  "Gentlemen," I said, "is it really so wonderful in these days to find a
  man who can repent of his stupidity and publicly confess his wrongdoing?"
  
  "But not in a duel," cried my second again.
  
  "That's what's so strange," I said. "For I ought to have owned my fault as
  soon as I got here, before he had fired a shot, before leading him into a
  great and deadly sin; but we have made our life so grotesque, that to act
  in that way would have been almost impossible, for only after I have faced
  his shot at the distance of twelve paces could my words have any
  significance for him, and if I had spoken before, he would have said, 'He
  is a coward, the sight of the pistols has frightened him, no use to listen
  to him.' Gentlemen," I cried suddenly, speaking straight from my heart,
  "look around you at the gifts of God, the clear sky, the pure air, the
  tender grass, the birds; nature is beautiful and sinless, and we, only we,
  are sinful and foolish, and we don't understand that life is heaven, for
  we have only to understand that and it will at once be fulfilled in all
  its beauty, we shall embrace each other and weep."
  
  I would have said more but I could not; my voice broke with the sweetness
  and youthful gladness of it, and there was such bliss in my heart as I had
  never known before in my life.
  
  "All this as rational and edifying," said my antagonist, "and in any case
  you are an original person."
  
  "You may laugh," I said to him, laughing too, "but afterwards you will
  approve of me."
  
  "Oh, I am ready to approve of you now," said he; "will you shake hands?
  for I believe you are genuinely sincere."
  
  "No," I said, "not now, later on when I have grown worthier and deserve
  your esteem, then shake hands and you will do well."
  
  We went home, my second upbraiding me all the way, while I kissed him. All
  my comrades heard of the affair at once and gathered together to pass
  judgment on me the same day.
  
  "He has disgraced the uniform," they said; "let him resign his
  commission."
  
  Some stood up for me: "He faced the shot," they said.
  
  "Yes, but he was afraid of his other shot and begged for forgiveness."
  
  "If he had been afraid of being shot, he would have shot his own pistol
  first before asking forgiveness, while he flung it loaded into the forest.
  No, there's something else in this, something original."
  
  I enjoyed listening and looking at them. "My dear friends and comrades,"
  said I, "don't worry about my resigning my commission, for I have done so
  already. I have sent in my papers this morning and as soon as I get my
  discharge I shall go into a monastery--it's with that object I am leaving
  the regiment."
  
  When I had said this every one of them burst out laughing.
  
  "You should have told us of that first, that explains everything, we can't
  judge a monk."
  
  They laughed and could not stop themselves, and not scornfully, but kindly
  and merrily. They all felt friendly to me at once, even those who had been
  sternest in their censure, and all the following month, before my
  discharge came, they could not make enough of me. "Ah, you monk," they
  would say. And every one said something kind to me, they began trying to
  dissuade me, even to pity me: "What are you doing to yourself?"
  
  "No," they would say, "he is a brave fellow, he faced fire and could have
  fired his own pistol too, but he had a dream the night before that he
  should become a monk, that's why he did it."
  
  It was the same thing with the society of the town. Till then I had been
  kindly received, but had not been the object of special attention, and now
  all came to know me at once and invited me; they laughed at me, but they
  loved me. I may mention that although everybody talked openly of our duel,
  the authorities took no notice of it, because my antagonist was a near
  relation of our general, and as there had been no bloodshed and no serious
  consequences, and as I resigned my commission, they took it as a joke. And
  I began then to speak aloud and fearlessly, regardless of their laughter,
  for it was always kindly and not spiteful laughter. These conversations
  mostly took place in the evenings, in the company of ladies; women
  particularly liked listening to me then and they made the men listen.
  
  "But how can I possibly be responsible for all?" every one would laugh in
  my face. "Can I, for instance, be responsible for you?"
  
  "You may well not know it," I would answer, "since the whole world has
  long been going on a different line, since we consider the veriest lies as
  truth and demand the same lies from others. Here I have for once in my
  life acted sincerely and, well, you all look upon me as a madman. Though
  you are friendly to me, yet, you see, you all laugh at me."
  
  "But how can we help being friendly to you?" said my hostess, laughing.
  The room was full of people. All of a sudden the young lady rose, on whose
  account the duel had been fought and whom only lately I had intended to be
  my future wife. I had not noticed her coming into the room. She got up,
  came to me and held out her hand.
  
  "Let me tell you," she said, "that I am the first not to laugh at you, but
  on the contrary I thank you with tears and express my respect for you for
  your action then."
  
  Her husband, too, came up and then they all approached me and almost
  kissed me. My heart was filled with joy, but my attention was especially
  caught by a middle-aged man who came up to me with the others. I knew him
  by name already, but had never made his acquaintance nor exchanged a word
  with him till that evening.
  
  _(d) The Mysterious Visitor_
  
  He had long been an official in the town; he was in a prominent position,
  respected by all, rich and had a reputation for benevolence. He subscribed
  considerable sums to the almshouse and the orphan asylum; he was very
  charitable, too, in secret, a fact which only became known after his
  death. He was a man of about fifty, almost stern in appearance and not
  much given to conversation. He had been married about ten years and his
  wife, who was still young, had borne him three children. Well, I was
  sitting alone in my room the following evening, when my door suddenly
  opened and this gentleman walked in.
  
  I must mention, by the way, that I was no longer living in my former
  quarters. As soon as I resigned my commission, I took rooms with an old
  lady, the widow of a government clerk. My landlady's servant waited upon
  me, for I had moved into her rooms simply because on my return from the
  duel I had sent Afanasy back to the regiment, as I felt ashamed to look
  him in the face after my last interview with him. So prone is the man of
  the world to be ashamed of any righteous action.
  
  "I have," said my visitor, "with great interest listened to you speaking
  in different houses the last few days and I wanted at last to make your
  personal acquaintance, so as to talk to you more intimately. Can you, dear
  sir, grant me this favor?"
  
  "I can, with the greatest pleasure, and I shall look upon it as an honor."
  I said this, though I felt almost dismayed, so greatly was I impressed
  from the first moment by the appearance of this man. For though other
  people had listened to me with interest and attention, no one had come to
  me before with such a serious, stern and concentrated expression. And now
  he had come to see me in my own rooms. He sat down.
  
  "You are, I see, a man of great strength of character," he said; "as you
  have dared to serve the truth, even when by doing so you risked incurring
  the contempt of all."
  
  "Your praise is, perhaps, excessive," I replied.
  
  "No, it's not excessive," he answered; "believe me, such a course of
  action is far more difficult than you think. It is that which has
  impressed me, and it is only on that account that I have come to you," he
  continued. "Tell me, please, that is if you are not annoyed by my perhaps
  unseemly curiosity, what were your exact sensations, if you can recall
  them, at the moment when you made up your mind to ask forgiveness at the
  duel. Do not think my question frivolous; on the contrary, I have in
  asking the question a secret motive of my own, which I will perhaps
  explain to you later on, if it is God's will that we should become more
  intimately acquainted."
  
  All the while he was speaking, I was looking at him straight into the face
  and I felt all at once a complete trust in him and great curiosity on my
  side also, for I felt that there was some strange secret in his soul.
  
  "You ask what were my exact sensations at the moment when I asked my
  opponent's forgiveness," I answered; "but I had better tell you from the
  beginning what I have not yet told any one else." And I described all that
  had passed between Afanasy and me, and how I had bowed down to the ground
  at his feet. "From that you can see for yourself," I concluded, "that at
  the time of the duel it was easier for me, for I had made a beginning
  already at home, and when once I had started on that road, to go farther
  along it was far from being difficult, but became a source of joy and
  happiness."
  
  I liked the way he looked at me as he listened. "All that," he said, "is
  exceedingly interesting. I will come to see you again and again."
  
  And from that time forth he came to see me nearly every evening. And we
  should have become greater friends, if only he had ever talked of himself.
  But about himself he scarcely ever said a word, yet continually asked me
  about myself. In spite of that I became very fond of him and spoke with
  perfect frankness to him about all my feelings; "for," thought I, "what
  need have I to know his secrets, since I can see without that that he is a
  good man? Moreover, though he is such a serious man and my senior, he
  comes to see a youngster like me and treats me as his equal." And I
  learned a great deal that was profitable from him, for he was a man of
  lofty mind.
  
  "That life is heaven," he said to me suddenly, "that I have long been
  thinking about"; and all at once he added, "I think of nothing else
  indeed." He looked at me and smiled. "I am more convinced of it than you
  are, I will tell you later why."
  
  I listened to him and thought that he evidently wanted to tell me
  something.
  
  "Heaven," he went on, "lies hidden within all of us--here it lies hidden in
  me now, and if I will it, it will be revealed to me to-morrow and for all
  time."
  
  I looked at him; he was speaking with great emotion and gazing
  mysteriously at me, as if he were questioning me.
  
  "And that we are all responsible to all for all, apart from our own sins,
  you were quite right in thinking that, and it is wonderful how you could
  comprehend it in all its significance at once. And in very truth, so soon
  as men understand that, the Kingdom of Heaven will be for them not a
  dream, but a living reality."
  
  "And when," I cried out to him bitterly, "when will that come to pass? and
  will it ever come to pass? Is not it simply a dream of ours?"
  
  "What then, you don't believe it," he said. "You preach it and don't
  believe it yourself. Believe me, this dream, as you call it, will come to
  pass without doubt; it will come, but not now, for every process has its
  law. It's a spiritual, psychological process. To transform the world, to
  recreate it afresh, men must turn into another path psychologically. Until
  you have become really, in actual fact, a brother to every one,
  brotherhood will not come to pass. No sort of scientific teaching, no kind
  of common interest, will ever teach men to share property and privileges
  with equal consideration for all. Every one will think his share too small
  and they will be always envying, complaining and attacking one another.
  You ask when it will come to pass; it will come to pass, but first we have
  to go through the period of isolation."
  
  "What do you mean by isolation?" I asked him.
  
  "Why, the isolation that prevails everywhere, above all in our age--it has
  not fully developed, it has not reached its limit yet. For every one
  strives to keep his individuality as apart as possible, wishes to secure
  the greatest possible fullness of life for himself; but meantime all his
  efforts result not in attaining fullness of life but self-destruction, for
  instead of self-realization he ends by arriving at complete solitude. All
  mankind in our age have split up into units, they all keep apart, each in
  his own groove; each one holds aloof, hides himself and hides what he has,
  from the rest, and he ends by being repelled by others and repelling them.
  He heaps up riches by himself and thinks, 'How strong I am now and how
  secure,' and in his madness he does not understand that the more he heaps
  up, the more he sinks into self-destructive impotence. For he is
  accustomed to rely upon himself alone and to cut himself off from the
  whole; he has trained himself not to believe in the help of others, in men
  and in humanity, and only trembles for fear he should lose his money and
  the privileges that he has won for himself. Everywhere in these days men
  have, in their mockery, ceased to understand that the true security is to
  be found in social solidarity rather than in isolated individual effort.
  But this terrible individualism must inevitably have an end, and all will
  suddenly understand how unnaturally they are separated from one another.
  It will be the spirit of the time, and people will marvel that they have
  sat so long in darkness without seeing the light. And then the sign of the
  Son of Man will be seen in the heavens.... But, until then, we must keep
  the banner flying. Sometimes even if he has to do it alone, and his
  conduct seems to be crazy, a man must set an example, and so draw men's
  souls out of their solitude, and spur them to some act of brotherly love,
  that the great idea may not die."
  
  Our evenings, one after another, were spent in such stirring and fervent
  talk. I gave up society and visited my neighbors much less frequently.
  Besides, my vogue was somewhat over. I say this, not as blame, for they
  still loved me and treated me good-humoredly, but there's no denying that
  fashion is a great power in society. I began to regard my mysterious
  visitor with admiration, for besides enjoying his intelligence, I began to
  perceive that he was brooding over some plan in his heart, and was
  preparing himself perhaps for a great deed. Perhaps he liked my not
  showing curiosity about his secret, not seeking to discover it by direct
  question nor by insinuation. But I noticed at last, that he seemed to show
  signs of wanting to tell me something. This had become quite evident,
  indeed, about a month after he first began to visit me.
  
  "Do you know," he said to me once, "that people are very inquisitive about
  us in the town and wonder why I come to see you so often. But let them
  wonder, for _soon all will be explained_."
  
  Sometimes an extraordinary agitation would come over him, and almost
  always on such occasions he would get up and go away. Sometimes he would
  fix a long piercing look upon me, and I thought, "He will say something
  directly now." But he would suddenly begin talking of something ordinary
  and familiar. He often complained of headache too.
  
  One day, quite unexpectedly indeed, after he had been talking with great
  fervor a long time, I saw him suddenly turn pale, and his face worked
  convulsively, while he stared persistently at me.
  
  "What's the matter?" I said; "do you feel ill?"--he had just been
  complaining of headache.
  
  "I ... do you know ... I murdered some one."
  
  He said this and smiled with a face as white as chalk. "Why is it he is
  smiling?" The thought flashed through my mind before I realized anything
  else. I too turned pale.
  
  "What are you saying?" I cried.
  
  "You see," he said, with a pale smile, "how much it has cost me to say the
  first word. Now I have said it, I feel I've taken the first step and shall
  go on."
  
  For a long while I could not believe him, and I did not believe him at
  that time, but only after he had been to see me three days running and
  told me all about it. I thought he was mad, but ended by being convinced,
  to my great grief and amazement. His crime was a great and terrible one.
  
  Fourteen years before, he had murdered the widow of a landowner, a wealthy
  and handsome young woman who had a house in our town. He fell passionately
  in love with her, declared his feeling and tried to persuade her to marry
  him. But she had already given her heart to another man, an officer of
  noble birth and high rank in the service, who was at that time away at the
  front, though she was expecting him soon to return. She refused his offer
  and begged him not to come and see her. After he had ceased to visit her,
  he took advantage of his knowledge of the house to enter at night through
  the garden by the roof, at great risk of discovery. But, as often happens,
  a crime committed with extraordinary audacity is more successful than
  others.
  
  Entering the garret through the skylight, he went down the ladder, knowing
  that the door at the bottom of it was sometimes, through the negligence of
  the servants, left unlocked. He hoped to find it so, and so it was. He
  made his way in the dark to her bedroom, where a light was burning. As
  though on purpose, both her maids had gone off to a birthday-party in the
  same street, without asking leave. The other servants slept in the
  servants' quarters or in the kitchen on the ground-floor. His passion
  flamed up at the sight of her asleep, and then vindictive, jealous anger
  took possession of his heart, and like a drunken man, beside himself, he
  thrust a knife into her heart, so that she did not even cry out. Then with
  devilish and criminal cunning he contrived that suspicion should fall on
  the servants. He was so base as to take her purse, to open her chest with
  keys from under her pillow, and to take some things from it, doing it all
  as it might have been done by an ignorant servant, leaving valuable papers
  and taking only money. He took some of the larger gold things, but left
  smaller articles that were ten times as valuable. He took with him, too,
  some things for himself as remembrances, but of that later. Having done
  this awful deed, he returned by the way he had come.
  
  Neither the next day, when the alarm was raised, nor at any time after in
  his life, did any one dream of suspecting that he was the criminal. No one
  indeed knew of his love for her, for he was always reserved and silent and
  had no friend to whom he would have opened his heart. He was looked upon
  simply as an acquaintance, and not a very intimate one, of the murdered
  woman, as for the previous fortnight he had not even visited her. A serf
  of hers called Pyotr was at once suspected, and every circumstance
  confirmed the suspicion. The man knew--indeed his mistress did not conceal
  the fact--that having to send one of her serfs as a recruit she had decided
  to send him, as he had no relations and his conduct was unsatisfactory.
  People had heard him angrily threatening to murder her when he was drunk
  in a tavern. Two days before her death, he had run away, staying no one
  knew where in the town. The day after the murder, he was found on the road
  leading out of the town, dead drunk, with a knife in his pocket, and his
  right hand happened to be stained with blood. He declared that his nose
  had been bleeding, but no one believed him. The maids confessed that they
  had gone to a party and that the street-door had been left open till they
  returned. And a number of similar details came to light, throwing
  suspicion on the innocent servant.
  
  They arrested him, and he was tried for the murder; but a week after the
  arrest, the prisoner fell sick of a fever and died unconscious in the
  hospital. There the matter ended and the judges and the authorities and
  every one in the town remained convinced that the crime had been committed
  by no one but the servant who had died in the hospital. And after that the
  punishment began.
  
  My mysterious visitor, now my friend, told me that at first he was not in
  the least troubled by pangs of conscience. He was miserable a long time,
  but not for that reason; only from regret that he had killed the woman he
  loved, that she was no more, that in killing her he had killed his love,
  while the fire of passion was still in his veins. But of the innocent
  blood he had shed, of the murder of a fellow creature, he scarcely
  thought. The thought that his victim might have become the wife of another
  man was insupportable to him, and so, for a long time, he was convinced in
  his conscience that he could not have acted otherwise.
  
  At first he was worried at the arrest of the servant, but his illness and
  death soon set his mind at rest, for the man's death was apparently (so he
  reflected at the time) not owing to his arrest or his fright, but a chill
  he had taken on the day he ran away, when he had lain all night dead drunk
  on the damp ground. The theft of the money and other things troubled him
  little, for he argued that the theft had not been committed for gain but
  to avert suspicion. The sum stolen was small, and he shortly afterwards
  subscribed the whole of it, and much more, towards the funds for
  maintaining an almshouse in the town. He did this on purpose to set his
  conscience at rest about the theft, and it's a remarkable fact that for a
  long time he really was at peace--he told me this himself. He entered then
  upon a career of great activity in the service, volunteered for a
  difficult and laborious duty, which occupied him two years, and being a
  man of strong will almost forgot the past. Whenever he recalled it, he
  tried not to think of it at all. He became active in philanthropy too,
  founded and helped to maintain many institutions in the town, did a good
  deal in the two capitals, and in both Moscow and Petersburg was elected a
  member of philanthropic societies.
  
  At last, however, he began brooding over the past, and the strain of it
  was too much for him. Then he was attracted by a fine and intelligent girl
  and soon after married her, hoping that marriage would dispel his lonely
  depression, and that by entering on a new life and scrupulously doing his
  duty to his wife and children, he would escape from old memories
  altogether. But the very opposite of what he expected happened. He began,
  even in the first month of his marriage, to be continually fretted by the
  thought, "My wife loves me--but what if she knew?" When she first told him
  that she would soon bear him a child, he was troubled. "I am giving life,
  but I have taken life." Children came. "How dare I love them, teach and
  educate them, how can I talk to them of virtue? I have shed blood." They
  were splendid children, he longed to caress them; "and I can't look at
  their innocent candid faces, I am unworthy."
  
  At last he began to be bitterly and ominously haunted by the blood of his
  murdered victim, by the young life he had destroyed, by the blood that
  cried out for vengeance. He had begun to have awful dreams. But, being a
  man of fortitude, he bore his suffering a long time, thinking: "I shall
  expiate everything by this secret agony." But that hope, too, was vain;
  the longer it went on, the more intense was his suffering.
  
  He was respected in society for his active benevolence, though every one
  was overawed by his stern and gloomy character. But the more he was
  respected, the more intolerable it was for him. He confessed to me that he
  had thoughts of killing himself. But he began to be haunted by another
  idea--an idea which he had at first regarded as impossible and unthinkable,
  though at last it got such a hold on his heart that he could not shake it
  off. He dreamed of rising up, going out and confessing in the face of all
  men that he had committed murder. For three years this dream had pursued
  him, haunting him in different forms. At last he believed with his whole
  heart that if he confessed his crime, he would heal his soul and would be
  at peace for ever. But this belief filled his heart with terror, for how
  could he carry it out? And then came what happened at my duel.
  
  "Looking at you, I have made up my mind."
  
  I looked at him.
  
  "Is it possible," I cried, clasping my hands, "that such a trivial
  incident could give rise to such a resolution in you?"
  
  "My resolution has been growing for the last three years," he answered,
  "and your story only gave the last touch to it. Looking at you, I
  reproached myself and envied you." He said this to me almost sullenly.
  
  "But you won't be believed," I observed; "it's fourteen years ago."
  
  "I have proofs, great proofs. I shall show them."
  
  Then I cried and kissed him.
  
  "Tell me one thing, one thing," he said (as though it all depended upon
  me), "my wife, my children! My wife may die of grief, and though my
  children won't lose their rank and property, they'll be a convict's
  children and for ever! And what a memory, what a memory of me I shall
  leave in their hearts!"
  
  I said nothing.
  
  "And to part from them, to leave them for ever? It's for ever, you know,
  for ever!"
  
  I sat still and repeated a silent prayer. I got up at last, I felt afraid.
  
  "Well?" He looked at me.
  
  "Go!" said I, "confess. Everything passes, only the truth remains. Your
  children will understand, when they grow up, the nobility of your
  resolution."
  
  He left me that time as though he had made up his mind. Yet for more than
  a fortnight afterwards, he came to me every evening, still preparing
  himself, still unable to bring himself to the point. He made my heart
  ache. One day he would come determined and say fervently:
  
  "I know it will be heaven for me, heaven, the moment I confess. Fourteen
  years I've been in hell. I want to suffer. I will take my punishment and
  begin to live. You can pass through the world doing wrong, but there's no
  turning back. Now I dare not love my neighbor nor even my own children.
  Good God, my children will understand, perhaps, what my punishment has
  cost me and will not condemn me! God is not in strength but in truth."
  
  "All will understand your sacrifice," I said to him, "if not at once, they
  will understand later; for you have served truth, the higher truth, not of
  the earth."
  
  And he would go away seeming comforted, but next day he would come again,
  bitter, pale, sarcastic.
  
  "Every time I come to you, you look at me so inquisitively as though to
  say, 'He has still not confessed!' Wait a bit, don't despise me too much.
  It's not such an easy thing to do, as you would think. Perhaps I shall not
  do it at all. You won't go and inform against me then, will you?"
  
  And far from looking at him with indiscreet curiosity, I was afraid to
  look at him at all. I was quite ill from anxiety, and my heart was full of
  tears. I could not sleep at night.
  
  "I have just come from my wife," he went on. "Do you understand what the
  word 'wife' means? When I went out, the children called to me, 'Good-by,
  father, make haste back to read _The Children's Magazine_ with us.' No,
  you don't understand that! No one is wise from another man's woe."
  
  His eyes were glittering, his lips were twitching. Suddenly he struck the
  table with his fist so that everything on it danced--it was the first time
  he had done such a thing, he was such a mild man.
  
  "But need I?" he exclaimed, "must I? No one has been condemned, no one has
  been sent to Siberia in my place, the man died of fever. And I've been
  punished by my sufferings for the blood I shed. And I shan't be believed,
  they won't believe my proofs. Need I confess, need I? I am ready to go on
  suffering all my life for the blood I have shed, if only my wife and
  children may be spared. Will it be just to ruin them with me? Aren't we
  making a mistake? What is right in this case? And will people recognize
  it, will they appreciate it, will they respect it?"
  
  "Good Lord!" I thought to myself, "he is thinking of other people's
  respect at such a moment!" And I felt so sorry for him then, that I
  believe I would have shared his fate if it could have comforted him. I saw
  he was beside himself. I was aghast, realizing with my heart as well as my
  mind what such a resolution meant.
  
  "Decide my fate!" he exclaimed again.
  
  "Go and confess," I whispered to him. My voice failed me, but I whispered
  it firmly. I took up the New Testament from the table, the Russian
  translation, and showed him the Gospel of St. John, chapter xii. verse 24:
  
  "Verily, verily, I say unto you, except a corn of wheat fall into the
  ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much
  fruit."
  
  I had just been reading that verse when he came in. He read it.
  
  "That's true," he said, but he smiled bitterly. "It's terrible the things
  you find in those books," he said, after a pause. "It's easy enough to
  thrust them upon one. And who wrote them? Can they have been written by
  men?"
  
  "The Holy Spirit wrote them," said I.
  
  "It's easy for you to prate," he smiled again, this time almost with
  hatred.
  
  I took the book again, opened it in another place and showed him the
  Epistle to the Hebrews, chapter x. verse 31. He read:
  
  "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God."
  
  He read it and simply flung down the book. He was trembling all over.
  
  "An awful text," he said. "There's no denying you've picked out fitting
  ones." He rose from the chair. "Well!" he said, "good-by, perhaps I shan't
  come again ... we shall meet in heaven. So I have been for fourteen years
  'in the hands of the living God,' that's how one must think of those
  fourteen years. To-morrow I will beseech those hands to let me go."
  
  I wanted to take him in my arms and kiss him, but I did not dare--his face
  was contorted and somber. He went away.
  
  "Good God," I thought, "what has he gone to face!" I fell on my knees
  before the ikon and wept for him before the Holy Mother of God, our swift
  defender and helper. I was half an hour praying in tears, and it was late,
  about midnight. Suddenly I saw the door open and he came in again. I was
  surprised.
  
  "Where have you been?" I asked him.
  
  "I think," he said, "I've forgotten something ... my handkerchief, I
  think.... Well, even if I've not forgotten anything, let me stay a
  little."
  
  He sat down. I stood over him.
  
  "You sit down, too," said he.
  
  I sat down. We sat still for two minutes; he looked intently at me and
  suddenly smiled--I remembered that--then he got up, embraced me warmly and
  kissed me.
  
  "Remember," he said, "how I came to you a second time. Do you hear,
  remember it!"
  
  And he went out.
  
  "To-morrow," I thought.
  
  And so it was. I did not know that evening that the next day was his
  birthday. I had not been out for the last few days, so I had no chance of
  hearing it from any one. On that day he always had a great gathering,
  every one in the town went to it. It was the same this time. After dinner
  he walked into the middle of the room, with a paper in his hand--a formal
  declaration to the chief of his department who was present. This
  declaration he read aloud to the whole assembly. It contained a full
  account of the crime, in every detail.
  
  "I cut myself off from men as a monster. God has visited me," he said in
  conclusion. "I want to suffer for my sin!"
  
  Then he brought out and laid on the table all the things he had been
  keeping for fourteen years, that he thought would prove his crime, the
  jewels belonging to the murdered woman which he had stolen to divert
  suspicion, a cross and a locket taken from her neck with a portrait of her
  betrothed in the locket, her notebook and two letters; one from her
  betrothed, telling her that he would soon be with her, and her unfinished
  answer left on the table to be sent off next day. He carried off these two
  letters--what for? Why had he kept them for fourteen years afterwards
  instead of destroying them as evidence against him?
  
  And this is what happened: every one was amazed and horrified, every one
  refused to believe it and thought that he was deranged, though all
  listened with intense curiosity. A few days later it was fully decided and
  agreed in every house that the unhappy man was mad. The legal authorities
  could not refuse to take the case up, but they too dropped it. Though the
  trinkets and letters made them ponder, they decided that even if they did
  turn out to be authentic, no charge could be based on those alone.
  Besides, she might have given him those things as a friend, or asked him
  to take care of them for her. I heard afterwards, however, that the
  genuineness of the things was proved by the friends and relations of the
  murdered woman, and that there was no doubt about them. Yet nothing was
  destined to come of it, after all.
  
  Five days later, all had heard that he was ill and that his life was in
  danger. The nature of his illness I can't explain, they said it was an
  affection of the heart. But it became known that the doctors had been
  induced by his wife to investigate his mental condition also, and had come
  to the conclusion that it was a case of insanity. I betrayed nothing,
  though people ran to question me. But when I wanted to visit him, I was
  for a long while forbidden to do so, above all by his wife.
  
  "It's you who have caused his illness," she said to me; "he was always
  gloomy, but for the last year people noticed that he was peculiarly
  excited and did strange things, and now you have been the ruin of him.
  Your preaching has brought him to this; for the last month he was always
  with you."
  
  Indeed, not only his wife but the whole town were down upon me and blamed
  me. "It's all your doing," they said. I was silent and indeed rejoiced at
  heart, for I saw plainly God's mercy to the man who had turned against
  himself and punished himself. I could not believe in his insanity.
  
  They let me see him at last, he insisted upon saying good-by to me. I went
  in to him and saw at once, that not only his days, but his hours were
  numbered. He was weak, yellow, his hands trembled, he gasped for breath,
  but his face was full of tender and happy feeling.
  
  "It is done!" he said. "I've long been yearning to see you, why didn't you
  come?"
  
  I did not tell him that they would not let me see him.
  
  "God has had pity on me and is calling me to Himself. I know I am dying,
  but I feel joy and peace for the first time after so many years. There was
  heaven in my heart from the moment I had done what I had to do. Now I dare
  to love my children and to kiss them. Neither my wife nor the judges, nor
  any one has believed it. My children will never believe it either. I see
  in that God's mercy to them. I shall die, and my name will be without a
  stain for them. And now I feel God near, my heart rejoices as in Heaven
  ... I have done my duty."
  
  He could not speak, he gasped for breath, he pressed my hand warmly,
  looking fervently at me. We did not talk for long, his wife kept peeping
  in at us. But he had time to whisper to me:
  
  "Do you remember how I came back to you that second time, at midnight? I
  told you to remember it. You know what I came back for? I came to kill
  you!"
  
  I started.
  
  "I went out from you then into the darkness, I wandered about the streets,
  struggling with myself. And suddenly I hated you so that I could hardly
  bear it. Now, I thought, he is all that binds me, and he is my judge. I
  can't refuse to face my punishment to-morrow, for he knows all. It was not
  that I was afraid you would betray me (I never even thought of that), but
  I thought, 'How can I look him in the face if I don't confess?' And if you
  had been at the other end of the earth, but alive, it would have been all
  the same, the thought was unendurable that you were alive knowing
  everything and condemning me. I hated you as though you were the cause, as
  though you were to blame for everything. I came back to you then,
  remembering that you had a dagger lying on your table. I sat down and
  asked you to sit down, and for a whole minute I pondered. If I had killed
  you, I should have been ruined by that murder even if I had not confessed
  the other. But I didn't think about that at all, and I didn't want to
  think of it at that moment. I only hated you and longed to revenge myself
  on you for everything. The Lord vanquished the devil in my heart. But let
  me tell you, you were never nearer death."
  
  A week later he died. The whole town followed him to the grave. The chief
  priest made a speech full of feeling. All lamented the terrible illness
  that had cut short his days. But all the town was up in arms against me
  after the funeral, and people even refused to see me. Some, at first a few
  and afterwards more, began indeed to believe in the truth of his story,
  and they visited me and questioned me with great interest and eagerness,
  for man loves to see the downfall and disgrace of the righteous. But I
  held my tongue, and very shortly after, I left the town, and five months
  later by God's grace I entered upon the safe and blessed path, praising
  the unseen finger which had guided me so clearly to it. But I remember in
  my prayer to this day, the servant of God, Mihail, who suffered so
  greatly.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter III. Conversations And Exhortations Of Father Zossima
  
  
  _(e) The Russian Monk and his possible Significance_
  
  Fathers and teachers, what is the monk? In the cultivated world the word
  is nowadays pronounced by some people with a jeer, and by others it is
  used as a term of abuse, and this contempt for the monk is growing. It is
  true, alas, it is true, that there are many sluggards, gluttons,
  profligates and insolent beggars among monks. Educated people point to
  these: "You are idlers, useless members of society, you live on the labor
  of others, you are shameless beggars." And yet how many meek and humble
  monks there are, yearning for solitude and fervent prayer in peace! These
  are less noticed, or passed over in silence. And how surprised men would
  be if I were to say that from these meek monks, who yearn for solitary
  prayer, the salvation of Russia will come perhaps once more! For they are
  in truth made ready in peace and quiet "for the day and the hour, the
  month and the year." Meanwhile, in their solitude, they keep the image of
  Christ fair and undefiled, in the purity of God's truth, from the times of
  the Fathers of old, the Apostles and the martyrs. And when the time comes
  they will show it to the tottering creeds of the world. That is a great
  thought. That star will rise out of the East.
  
  That is my view of the monk, and is it false? is it too proud? Look at the
  worldly and all who set themselves up above the people of God, has not
  God's image and His truth been distorted in them? They have science; but
  in science there is nothing but what is the object of sense. The spiritual
  world, the higher part of man's being is rejected altogether, dismissed
  with a sort of triumph, even with hatred. The world has proclaimed the
  reign of freedom, especially of late, but what do we see in this freedom
  of theirs? Nothing but slavery and self-destruction! For the world says:
  
  "You have desires and so satisfy them, for you have the same rights as the
  most rich and powerful. Don't be afraid of satisfying them and even
  multiply your desires." That is the modern doctrine of the world. In that
  they see freedom. And what follows from this right of multiplication of
  desires? In the rich, isolation and spiritual suicide; in the poor, envy
  and murder; for they have been given rights, but have not been shown the
  means of satisfying their wants. They maintain that the world is getting
  more and more united, more and more bound together in brotherly community,
  as it overcomes distance and sets thoughts flying through the air.
  
  Alas, put no faith in such a bond of union. Interpreting freedom as the
  multiplication and rapid satisfaction of desires, men distort their own
  nature, for many senseless and foolish desires and habits and ridiculous
  fancies are fostered in them. They live only for mutual envy, for luxury
  and ostentation. To have dinners, visits, carriages, rank and slaves to
  wait on one is looked upon as a necessity, for which life, honor and human
  feeling are sacrificed, and men even commit suicide if they are unable to
  satisfy it. We see the same thing among those who are not rich, while the
  poor drown their unsatisfied need and their envy in drunkenness. But soon
  they will drink blood instead of wine, they are being led on to it. I ask
  you is such a man free? I knew one "champion of freedom" who told me
  himself that, when he was deprived of tobacco in prison, he was so
  wretched at the privation that he almost went and betrayed his cause for
  the sake of getting tobacco again! And such a man says, "I am fighting for
  the cause of humanity."
  
  How can such a one fight? what is he fit for? He is capable perhaps of
  some action quickly over, but he cannot hold out long. And it's no wonder
  that instead of gaining freedom they have sunk into slavery, and instead
  of serving the cause of brotherly love and the union of humanity have
  fallen, on the contrary, into dissension and isolation, as my mysterious
  visitor and teacher said to me in my youth. And therefore the idea of the
  service of humanity, of brotherly love and the solidarity of mankind, is
  more and more dying out in the world, and indeed this idea is sometimes
  treated with derision. For how can a man shake off his habits? What can
  become of him if he is in such bondage to the habit of satisfying the
  innumerable desires he has created for himself? He is isolated, and what
  concern has he with the rest of humanity? They have succeeded in
  accumulating a greater mass of objects, but the joy in the world has grown
  less.
  
  The monastic way is very different. Obedience, fasting and prayer are
  laughed at, yet only through them lies the way to real, true freedom. I
  cut off my superfluous and unnecessary desires, I subdue my proud and
  wanton will and chastise it with obedience, and with God's help I attain
  freedom of spirit and with it spiritual joy. Which is most capable of
  conceiving a great idea and serving it--the rich man in his isolation or
  the man who has freed himself from the tyranny of material things and
  habits? The monk is reproached for his solitude, "You have secluded
  yourself within the walls of the monastery for your own salvation, and
  have forgotten the brotherly service of humanity!" But we shall see which
  will be most zealous in the cause of brotherly love. For it is not we, but
  they, who are in isolation, though they don't see that. Of old, leaders of
  the people came from among us, and why should they not again? The same
  meek and humble ascetics will rise up and go out to work for the great
  cause. The salvation of Russia comes from the people. And the Russian monk
  has always been on the side of the people. We are isolated only if the
  people are isolated. The people believe as we do, and an unbelieving
  reformer will never do anything in Russia, even if he is sincere in heart
  and a genius. Remember that! The people will meet the atheist and overcome
  him, and Russia will be one and orthodox. Take care of the peasant and
  guard his heart. Go on educating him quietly. That's your duty as monks,
  for the peasant has God in his heart.
  
  (_f_) _Of Masters and Servants, and of whether it is possible for them to
  be Brothers in the Spirit_
  
  Of course, I don't deny that there is sin in the peasants too. And the
  fire of corruption is spreading visibly, hourly, working from above
  downwards. The spirit of isolation is coming upon the people too. Money-
  lenders and devourers of the commune are rising up. Already the merchant
  grows more and more eager for rank, and strives to show himself cultured
  though he has not a trace of culture, and to this end meanly despises his
  old traditions, and is even ashamed of the faith of his fathers. He visits
  princes, though he is only a peasant corrupted. The peasants are rotting
  in drunkenness and cannot shake off the habit. And what cruelty to their
  wives, to their children even! All from drunkenness! I've seen in the
  factories children of nine years old, frail, rickety, bent and already
  depraved. The stuffy workshop, the din of machinery, work all day long,
  the vile language and the drink, the drink--is that what a little child's
  heart needs? He needs sunshine, childish play, good examples all about
  him, and at least a little love. There must be no more of this, monks, no
  more torturing of children, rise up and preach that, make haste, make
  haste!
  
  But God will save Russia, for though the peasants are corrupted and cannot
  renounce their filthy sin, yet they know it is cursed by God and that they
  do wrong in sinning. So that our people still believe in righteousness,
  have faith in God and weep tears of devotion.
  
  It is different with the upper classes. They, following science, want to
  base justice on reason alone, but not with Christ, as before, and they
  have already proclaimed that there is no crime, that there is no sin. And
  that's consistent, for if you have no God what is the meaning of crime? In
  Europe the people are already rising up against the rich with violence,
  and the leaders of the people are everywhere leading them to bloodshed,
  and teaching them that their wrath is righteous. But their "wrath is
  accursed, for it is cruel." But God will save Russia as He has saved her
  many times. Salvation will come from the people, from their faith and
  their meekness.
  
  Fathers and teachers, watch over the people's faith and this will not be a
  dream. I've been struck all my life in our great people by their dignity,
  their true and seemly dignity. I've seen it myself, I can testify to it,
  I've seen it and marveled at it, I've seen it in spite of the degraded
  sins and poverty-stricken appearance of our peasantry. They are not
  servile, and even after two centuries of serfdom they are free in manner
  and bearing, yet without insolence, and not revengeful and not envious.
  "You are rich and noble, you are clever and talented, well, be so, God
  bless you. I respect you, but I know that I too am a man. By the very fact
  that I respect you without envy I prove my dignity as a man."
  
  In truth if they don't say this (for they don't know how to say this yet),
  that is how they act. I have seen it myself, I have known it myself, and,
  would you believe it, the poorer our Russian peasant is, the more
  noticeable is that serene goodness, for the rich among them are for the
  most part corrupted already, and much of that is due to our carelessness
  and indifference. But God will save His people, for Russia is great in her
  humility. I dream of seeing, and seem to see clearly already, our future.
  It will come to pass, that even the most corrupt of our rich will end by
  being ashamed of his riches before the poor, and the poor, seeing his
  humility, will understand and give way before him, will respond joyfully
  and kindly to his honorable shame. Believe me that it will end in that;
  things are moving to that. Equality is to be found only in the spiritual
  dignity of man, and that will only be understood among us. If we were
  brothers, there would be fraternity, but before that, they will never
  agree about the division of wealth. We preserve the image of Christ, and
  it will shine forth like a precious diamond to the whole world. So may it
  be, so may it be!
  
  Fathers and teachers, a touching incident befell me once. In my wanderings
  I met in the town of K. my old orderly, Afanasy. It was eight years since
  I had parted from him. He chanced to see me in the market-place,
  recognized me, ran up to me, and how delighted he was! He simply pounced
  on me: "Master dear, is it you? Is it really you I see?" He took me home
  with him.
  
  He was no longer in the army, he was married and already had two little
  children. He and his wife earned their living as costermongers in the
  market-place. His room was poor, but bright and clean. He made me sit
  down, set the samovar, sent for his wife, as though my appearance were a
  festival for them. He brought me his children: "Bless them, Father."
  
  "Is it for me to bless them? I am only a humble monk. I will pray for
  them. And for you, Afanasy Pavlovitch, I have prayed every day since that
  day, for it all came from you," said I. And I explained that to him as
  well as I could. And what do you think? The man kept gazing at me and
  could not believe that I, his former master, an officer, was now before
  him in such a guise and position; it made him shed tears.
  
  "Why are you weeping?" said I, "better rejoice over me, dear friend, whom
  I can never forget, for my path is a glad and joyful one."
  
  He did not say much, but kept sighing and shaking his head over me
  tenderly.
  
  "What has became of your fortune?" he asked.
  
  "I gave it to the monastery," I answered; "we live in common."
  
  After tea I began saying good-by, and suddenly he brought out half a
  rouble as an offering to the monastery, and another half-rouble I saw him
  thrusting hurriedly into my hand: "That's for you in your wanderings, it
  may be of use to you, Father."
  
  I took his half-rouble, bowed to him and his wife, and went out rejoicing.
  And on my way I thought: "Here we are both now, he at home and I on the
  road, sighing and shaking our heads, no doubt, and yet smiling joyfully in
  the gladness of our hearts, remembering how God brought about our
  meeting."
  
  I have never seen him again since then. I had been his master and he my
  servant, but now when we exchanged a loving kiss with softened hearts,
  there was a great human bond between us. I have thought a great deal about
  that, and now what I think is this: Is it so inconceivable that that grand
  and simple-hearted unity might in due time become universal among the
  Russian people? I believe that it will come to pass and that the time is
  at hand.
  
  And of servants I will add this: In old days when I was young I was often
  angry with servants; "the cook had served something too hot, the orderly
  had not brushed my clothes." But what taught me better then was a thought
  of my dear brother's, which I had heard from him in childhood: "Am I worth
  it, that another should serve me and be ordered about by me in his poverty
  and ignorance?" And I wondered at the time that such simple and self-
  evident ideas should be so slow to occur to our minds.
  
  It is impossible that there should be no servants in the world, but act so
  that your servant may be freer in spirit than if he were not a servant.
  And why cannot I be a servant to my servant and even let him see it, and
  that without any pride on my part or any mistrust on his? Why should not
  my servant be like my own kindred, so that I may take him into my family
  and rejoice in doing so? Even now this can be done, but it will lead to
  the grand unity of men in the future, when a man will not seek servants
  for himself, or desire to turn his fellow creatures into servants as he
  does now, but on the contrary, will long with his whole heart to be the
  servant of all, as the Gospel teaches.
  
  And can it be a dream, that in the end man will find his joy only in deeds
  of light and mercy, and not in cruel pleasures as now, in gluttony,
  fornication, ostentation, boasting and envious rivalry of one with the
  other? I firmly believe that it is not and that the time is at hand.
  People laugh and ask: "When will that time come and does it look like
  coming?" I believe that with Christ's help we shall accomplish this great
  thing. And how many ideas there have been on earth in the history of man
  which were unthinkable ten years before they appeared! Yet when their
  destined hour had come, they came forth and spread over the whole earth.
  So it will be with us, and our people will shine forth in the world, and
  all men will say: "The stone which the builders rejected has become the
  corner-stone of the building."
  
  And we may ask the scornful themselves: If our hope is a dream, when will
  you build up your edifice and order things justly by your intellect alone,
  without Christ? If they declare that it is they who are advancing towards
  unity, only the most simple-hearted among them believe it, so that one may
  positively marvel at such simplicity. Of a truth, they have more fantastic
  dreams than we. They aim at justice, but, denying Christ, they will end by
  flooding the earth with blood, for blood cries out for blood, and he that
  taketh up the sword shall perish by the sword. And if it were not for
  Christ's covenant, they would slaughter one another down to the last two
  men on earth. And those two last men would not be able to restrain each
  other in their pride, and the one would slay the other and then himself.
  And that would come to pass, were it not for the promise of Christ that
  for the sake of the humble and meek the days shall be shortened.
  
  While I was still wearing an officer's uniform after my duel, I talked
  about servants in general society, and I remember every one was amazed at
  me. "What!" they asked, "are we to make our servants sit down on the sofa
  and offer them tea?" And I answered them: "Why not, sometimes at least?"
  Every one laughed. Their question was frivolous and my answer was not
  clear; but the thought in it was to some extent right.
  
  (_g_) _Of Prayer, of Love, and of Contact with other Worlds_
  
  Young man, be not forgetful of prayer. Every time you pray, if your prayer
  is sincere, there will be new feeling and new meaning in it, which will
  give you fresh courage, and you will understand that prayer is an
  education. Remember, too, every day, and whenever you can, repeat to
  yourself, "Lord, have mercy on all who appear before Thee to-day." For
  every hour and every moment thousands of men leave life on this earth, and
  their souls appear before God. And how many of them depart in solitude,
  unknown, sad, dejected that no one mourns for them or even knows whether
  they have lived or not! And behold, from the other end of the earth
  perhaps, your prayer for their rest will rise up to God though you knew
  them not nor they you. How touching it must be to a soul standing in dread
  before the Lord to feel at that instant that, for him too, there is one to
  pray, that there is a fellow creature left on earth to love him too! And
  God will look on you both more graciously, for if you have had so much
  pity on him, how much will He have pity Who is infinitely more loving and
  merciful than you! And He will forgive him for your sake.
  
  Brothers, have no fear of men's sin. Love a man even in his sin, for that
  is the semblance of Divine Love and is the highest love on earth. Love all
  God's creation, the whole and every grain of sand in it. Love every leaf,
  every ray of God's light. Love the animals, love the plants, love
  everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery
  in things. Once you perceive it, you will begin to comprehend it better
  every day. And you will come at last to love the whole world with an all-
  embracing love. Love the animals: God has given them the rudiments of
  thought and joy untroubled. Do not trouble it, don't harass them, don't
  deprive them of their happiness, don't work against God's intent. Man, do
  not pride yourself on superiority to the animals; they are without sin,
  and you, with your greatness, defile the earth by your appearance on it,
  and leave the traces of your foulness after you--alas, it is true of almost
  every one of us! Love children especially, for they too are sinless like
  the angels; they live to soften and purify our hearts and as it were to
  guide us. Woe to him who offends a child! Father Anfim taught me to love
  children. The kind, silent man used often on our wanderings to spend the
  farthings given us on sweets and cakes for the children. He could not pass
  by a child without emotion. That's the nature of the man.
  
  At some thoughts one stands perplexed, especially at the sight of men's
  sin, and wonders whether one should use force or humble love. Always
  decide to use humble love. If you resolve on that once for all, you may
  subdue the whole world. Loving humility is marvelously strong, the
  strongest of all things, and there is nothing else like it.
  
  Every day and every hour, every minute, walk round yourself and watch
  yourself, and see that your image is a seemly one. You pass by a little
  child, you pass by, spiteful, with ugly words, with wrathful heart; you
  may not have noticed the child, but he has seen you, and your image,
  unseemly and ignoble, may remain in his defenseless heart. You don't know
  it, but you may have sown an evil seed in him and it may grow, and all
  because you were not careful before the child, because you did not foster
  in yourself a careful, actively benevolent love. Brothers, love is a
  teacher; but one must know how to acquire it, for it is hard to acquire,
  it is dearly bought, it is won slowly by long labor. For we must love not
  only occasionally, for a moment, but for ever. Every one can love
  occasionally, even the wicked can.
  
  My brother asked the birds to forgive him; that sounds senseless, but it
  is right; for all is like an ocean, all is flowing and blending; a touch
  in one place sets up movement at the other end of the earth. It may be
  senseless to beg forgiveness of the birds, but birds would be happier at
  your side--a little happier, anyway--and children and all animals, if you
  were nobler than you are now. It's all like an ocean, I tell you. Then you
  would pray to the birds too, consumed by an all-embracing love, in a sort
  of transport, and pray that they too will forgive you your sin. Treasure
  this ecstasy, however senseless it may seem to men.
  
  My friends, pray to God for gladness. Be glad as children, as the birds of
  heaven. And let not the sin of men confound you in your doings. Fear not
  that it will wear away your work and hinder its being accomplished. Do not
  say, "Sin is mighty, wickedness is mighty, evil environment is mighty, and
  we are lonely and helpless, and evil environment is wearing us away and
  hindering our good work from being done." Fly from that dejection,
  children! There is only one means of salvation, then take yourself and
  make yourself responsible for all men's sins, that is the truth, you know,
  friends, for as soon as you sincerely make yourself responsible for
  everything and for all men, you will see at once that it is really so, and
  that you are to blame for every one and for all things. But throwing your
  own indolence and impotence on others you will end by sharing the pride of
  Satan and murmuring against God.
  
  Of the pride of Satan what I think is this: it is hard for us on earth to
  comprehend it, and therefore it is so easy to fall into error and to share
  it, even imagining that we are doing something grand and fine. Indeed,
  many of the strongest feelings and movements of our nature we cannot
  comprehend on earth. Let not that be a stumbling-block, and think not that
  it may serve as a justification to you for anything. For the Eternal Judge
  asks of you what you can comprehend and not what you cannot. You will know
  that yourself hereafter, for you will behold all things truly then and
  will not dispute them. On earth, indeed, we are as it were astray, and if
  it were not for the precious image of Christ before us, we should be
  undone and altogether lost, as was the human race before the flood. Much
  on earth is hidden from us, but to make up for that we have been given a
  precious mystic sense of our living bond with the other world, with the
  higher heavenly world, and the roots of our thoughts and feelings are not
  here but in other worlds. That is why the philosophers say that we cannot
  apprehend the reality of things on earth.
  
  God took seeds from different worlds and sowed them on this earth, and His
  garden grew up and everything came up that could come up, but what grows
  lives and is alive only through the feeling of its contact with other
  mysterious worlds. If that feeling grows weak or is destroyed in you, the
  heavenly growth will die away in you. Then you will be indifferent to life
  and even grow to hate it. That's what I think.
  
  _(h) Can a Man judge his Fellow Creatures? Faith to the End_
  
  Remember particularly that you cannot be a judge of any one. For no one
  can judge a criminal, until he recognizes that he is just such a criminal
  as the man standing before him, and that he perhaps is more than all men
  to blame for that crime. When he understands that, he will be able to be a
  judge. Though that sounds absurd, it is true. If I had been righteous
  myself, perhaps there would have been no criminal standing before me. If
  you can take upon yourself the crime of the criminal your heart is
  judging, take it at once, suffer for him yourself, and let him go without
  reproach. And even if the law itself makes you his judge, act in the same
  spirit so far as possible, for he will go away and condemn himself more
  bitterly than you have done. If, after your kiss, he goes away untouched,
  mocking at you, do not let that be a stumbling-block to you. It shows his
  time has not yet come, but it will come in due course. And if it come not,
  no matter; if not he, then another in his place will understand and
  suffer, and judge and condemn himself, and the truth will be fulfilled.
  Believe that, believe it without doubt; for in that lies all the hope and
  faith of the saints.
  
  Work without ceasing. If you remember in the night as you go to sleep, "I
  have not done what I ought to have done," rise up at once and do it. If
  the people around you are spiteful and callous and will not hear you, fall
  down before them and beg their forgiveness; for in truth you are to blame
  for their not wanting to hear you. And if you cannot speak to them in
  their bitterness, serve them in silence and in humility, never losing
  hope. If all men abandon you and even drive you away by force, then when
  you are left alone fall on the earth and kiss it, water it with your tears
  and it will bring forth fruit even though no one has seen or heard you in
  your solitude. Believe to the end, even if all men went astray and you
  were left the only one faithful; bring your offering even then and praise
  God in your loneliness. And if two of you are gathered together--then there
  is a whole world, a world of living love. Embrace each other tenderly and
  praise God, for if only in you two His truth has been fulfilled.
  
  If you sin yourself and grieve even unto death for your sins or for your
  sudden sin, then rejoice for others, rejoice for the righteous man,
  rejoice that if you have sinned, he is righteous and has not sinned.
  
  If the evil-doing of men moves you to indignation and overwhelming
  distress, even to a desire for vengeance on the evil-doers, shun above all
  things that feeling. Go at once and seek suffering for yourself, as though
  you were yourself guilty of that wrong. Accept that suffering and bear it
  and your heart will find comfort, and you will understand that you too are
  guilty, for you might have been a light to the evil-doers, even as the one
  man sinless, and you were not a light to them. If you had been a light,
  you would have lightened the path for others too, and the evil-doer might
  perhaps have been saved by your light from his sin. And even though your
  light was shining, yet you see men were not saved by it, hold firm and
  doubt not the power of the heavenly light. Believe that if they were not
  saved, they will be saved hereafter. And if they are not saved hereafter,
  then their sons will be saved, for your light will not die even when you
  are dead. The righteous man departs, but his light remains. Men are always
  saved after the death of the deliverer. Men reject their prophets and slay
  them, but they love their martyrs and honor those whom they have slain.
  You are working for the whole, you are acting for the future. Seek no
  reward, for great is your reward on this earth: the spiritual joy which is
  only vouchsafed to the righteous man. Fear not the great nor the mighty,
  but be wise and ever serene. Know the measure, know the times, study that.
  When you are left alone, pray. Love to throw yourself on the earth and
  kiss it. Kiss the earth and love it with an unceasing, consuming love.
  Love all men, love everything. Seek that rapture and ecstasy. Water the
  earth with the tears of your joy and love those tears. Don't be ashamed of
  that ecstasy, prize it, for it is a gift of God and a great one; it is not
  given to many but only to the elect.
  
  _(i) Of Hell and Hell Fire, a Mystic Reflection_
  
  Fathers and teachers, I ponder, "What is hell?" I maintain that it is the
  suffering of being unable to love. Once in infinite existence,
  immeasurable in time and space, a spiritual creature was given on his
  coming to earth, the power of saying, "I am and I love." Once, only once,
  there was given him a moment of active _living_ love, and for that was
  earthly life given him, and with it times and seasons. And that happy
  creature rejected the priceless gift, prized it and loved it not, scorned
  it and remained callous. Such a one, having left the earth, sees Abraham's
  bosom and talks with Abraham as we are told in the parable of the rich man
  and Lazarus, and beholds heaven and can go up to the Lord. But that is
  just his torment, to rise up to the Lord without ever having loved, to be
  brought close to those who have loved when he has despised their love. For
  he sees clearly and says to himself, "Now I have understanding, and though
  I now thirst to love, there will be nothing great, no sacrifice in my
  love, for my earthly life is over, and Abraham will not come even with a
  drop of living water (that is the gift of earthly active life) to cool the
  fiery thirst of spiritual love which burns in me now, though I despised it
  on earth; there is no more life for me and will be no more time! Even
  though I would gladly give my life for others, it can never be, for that
  life is passed which can be sacrificed for love, and now there is a gulf
  fixed between that life and this existence."
  
  They talk of hell fire in the material sense. I don't go into that mystery
  and I shun it. But I think if there were fire in material sense, they
  would be glad of it, for I imagine that in material agony, their still
  greater spiritual agony would be forgotten for a moment. Moreover, that
  spiritual agony cannot be taken from them, for that suffering is not
  external but within them. And if it could be taken from them, I think it
  would be bitterer still for the unhappy creatures. For even if the
  righteous in Paradise forgave them, beholding their torments, and called
  them up to heaven in their infinite love, they would only multiply their
  torments, for they would arouse in them still more keenly a flaming thirst
  for responsive, active and grateful love which is now impossible. In the
  timidity of my heart I imagine, however, that the very recognition of this
  impossibility would serve at last to console them. For accepting the love
  of the righteous together with the impossibility of repaying it, by this
  submissiveness and the effect of this humility, they will attain at last,
  as it were, to a certain semblance of that active love which they scorned
  in life, to something like its outward expression.... I am sorry, friends
  and brothers, that I cannot express this clearly. But woe to those who
  have slain themselves on earth, woe to the suicides! I believe that there
  can be none more miserable then they. They tell us that it is a sin to
  pray for them and outwardly the Church, as it were, renounces them, but in
  my secret heart I believe that we may pray even for them. Love can never
  be an offense to Christ. For such as those I have prayed inwardly all my
  life, I confess it, fathers and teachers, and even now I pray for them
  every day.
  
  Oh, there are some who remain proud and fierce even in hell, in spite of
  their certain knowledge and contemplation of the absolute truth; there are
  some fearful ones who have given themselves over to Satan and his proud
  spirit entirely. For such, hell is voluntary and ever consuming; they are
  tortured by their own choice. For they have cursed themselves, cursing God
  and life. They live upon their vindictive pride like a starving man in the
  desert sucking blood out of his own body. But they are never satisfied,
  and they refuse forgiveness, they curse God Who calls them. They cannot
  behold the living God without hatred, and they cry out that the God of
  life should be annihilated, that God should destroy Himself and His own
  creation. And they will burn in the fire of their own wrath for ever and
  yearn for death and annihilation. But they will not attain to death....
  
                    -------------------------------------
  
  Here Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov's manuscript ends. I repeat, it is
  incomplete and fragmentary. Biographical details, for instance, cover only
  Father Zossima's earliest youth. Of his teaching and opinions we find
  brought together sayings evidently uttered on very different occasions.
  His utterances during the last few hours have not been kept separate from
  the rest, but their general character can be gathered from what we have in
  Alexey Fyodorovitch's manuscript.
  
  The elder's death came in the end quite unexpectedly. For although those
  who were gathered about him that last evening realized that his death was
  approaching, yet it was difficult to imagine that it would come so
  suddenly. On the contrary, his friends, as I observed already, seeing him
  that night apparently so cheerful and talkative, were convinced that there
  was at least a temporary change for the better in his condition. Even five
  minutes before his death, they said afterwards wonderingly, it was
  impossible to foresee it. He seemed suddenly to feel an acute pain in his
  chest, he turned pale and pressed his hands to his heart. All rose from
  their seats and hastened to him. But though suffering, he still looked at
  them with a smile, sank slowly from his chair on to his knees, then bowed
  his face to the ground, stretched out his arms and as though in joyful
  ecstasy, praying and kissing the ground, quietly and joyfully gave up his
  soul to God.
  
  The news of his death spread at once through the hermitage and reached the
  monastery. The nearest friends of the deceased and those whose duty it was
  from their position began to lay out the corpse according to the ancient
  ritual, and all the monks gathered together in the church. And before dawn
  the news of the death reached the town. By the morning all the town was
  talking of the event, and crowds were flocking from the town to the
  monastery. But this subject will be treated in the next book; I will only
  add here that before a day had passed something happened so unexpected, so
  strange, upsetting, and bewildering in its effect on the monks and the
  townspeople, that after all these years, that day of general suspense is
  still vividly remembered in the town.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Book VI
target: Father Zossima is propped in bed, surrounded by his friends and followers, when Alyosha returns to the monastery. The elder is weak but is still quite alert and eager to talk with his audience. He greets Alyosha affectionately and asks about Dmitri; he says that the bow made to him was an acknowledgment of the intense suffering he foresees for the boy. Alyosha, however, he says, has quite a different future, and again he counsels the young monk to return to the world to look after his brothers. In this way, he says, Alyosha will learn to love all of life, to bless life, and to teach those who suffer to love and bless life. These pleas to Alyosha are Father Zossima's last requests. Now he tells all assembled the reasons why Alyosha is so very special to him. Once, the elder says, he had an older brother who influenced him tremendously. Alyosha bears a particularly strong resemblance to that brother -- physically and spiritually. Then Zossima begins to reminisce. He was born to a noble family of only moderate means. His father died when he was only two years old, and he was reared with his mother and the brother he spoke of. The brother, eight years older than Zossima, came under the influence of a freethinker and was soon a source of sorrow to the mother. He ridiculed her religious observances and her devout beliefs. Then, at seventeen, he contracted consumption, and the family was advised that he had but a few months to live. During the months he waited for death, a tremendous spiritual conversion took place in the boy. He became extremely pious and spoke continuously about the need to love all of God's creatures, even the little birds in the garden. He asked the servants to feel that they were his equal and often said that he wished he could be a servant to the servants. Besides his brother, Zossima says that there has been another influence on him: the Bible. This book, he says, is a testament of the extent of God's love for all men. Zossima mourns for those who cannot find the vast love that he finds contained in the Bible. But Zossima's affection for the Bible has not been lifelong. As a youth, he was sent to a military academy in St. Petersburg and soon neglected both the Bible and his religious training. After graduation, he led the carefree life that a typical young officer might. He courted a beautiful lady whom, he was sure, returned his affections, but while he was absent she married someone else. Zossima was insulted and immediately challenged her husband to a duel. But, waking on the morning of the duel, he looked out, saw a fresh, clean beauty on all of God's world, and remembered his dying brother's exhortation: love all of God's creatures. He leaped from his bed, apologized to a servant whom he had beaten the night before, and made plans for his duel. He would allow his opponent to take the first shot; afterward, Zossima would drop his pistols and beg the man's forgiveness. This he did. But the officers accompanying Zossima were shocked by the strange behavior. They questioned him and were even more surprised at the explanation: he had, he said, decided to resign his military commission and enter a monastery. Zossima fast became the talk of the town. One night a mysterious stranger visited him and begged to hear the motives that prompted Zossima's actions. Zossima talked at length to the man and for many nights afterward. Then, after hearing the whole of Zossima's story, the man made a confession of his own: years ago he killed a woman out of passion, and someone else was blamed for the deed. The man in question, however, died before he was tried. Now the perpetrator of the deed has wife and children and has become one of the most respected philanthropists in the community. But, he moans to Zossima, he has never found happiness for himself. In spite of an apparently successful life, he has always needed to confess. This, in fact, he finally did, and in public, but no one believed him; they thought that he was temporarily deranged. Not long after his confession to Zossima, the man falls ill. The elder visits him and is thanked greatly for his guidance. Zossima, until now, has never revealed the man's secret. The elder pauses and begins to speak to Alyosha of what it has meant to be a monk. Zossima feels that the Russian monk is, of all persons, closest to the Russian folk and that ultimately the salvation of Russia will come through these common people who, he feels sure, will always remain orthodox in their beliefs. He also talks of the equality of all people and hopes that everyone can someday be truly meek and can accept a servant as an equal and, in turn, function as a servant to others. True equality, he says, is found only in the "spiritual dignity of man." As an example, he tells of an old servant's giving him a sum of money for the monastery. This, the elder reveals, is the ideal reversal in action; a master-servant relationship exists no longer. Zossima admonishes his listeners to love all of God's creatures and to take on the responsibility of all men's sins. He explains that often God expects many things that we cannot understand with human logic. Man, for example, should not judge his fellow men -- even criminals -- says Zossima; man must pray for those who are outside the church, for there does not exist a material hell. There is only a spiritual hell, he says. He then collapses to the floor and reaches out as though to embrace the earth. Joyfully he gives up his soul to God.
feat_summary_analysis: Because of their positive quality, Dostoevsky inserts the final views of Father Zossima next to the questioning disbeliefs of Ivan Karamazov. They act somewhat like a counterbalance to the many ideas presented in Book V. Unlike Ivan, Zossima is didactic -- the most didactic character in the novel, perhaps in all of Dostoevsky's writings. His ideas are too abstract to be presented as Ivan's were; his ideas are too profound to be presented in any other way than by simple exhortation. Parts of Zossima's philosophy have, of course, been discussed in earlier books, but here almost all of his tenets are gathered together and presented either by examples from his own life or through exhortations and miniature sermons. In one sense, Zossima is an extension of earlier Dostoevskian characters, but, because of his personal history, he is much more than a mere abstraction of the author's ideas. Surprisingly, Father Zossima is a rather robust character, one who undergoes many diverse experiences before dedicating his life to the monastery. There are reasons for his convictions; he is no conventional saint. Concerning the amount of background material that Zossima gives, it is most important that we see him against such relief. If the elder's theories are to be accepted as valid, we cannot view him as an isolated or even as a repressed person who turns to religion in order to escape the world's rejection. Zossima was not an introvert; his youth was wild and reckless, filled with "drunkenness, debauchery, and devilry." He was popular with his fellow officers and with people in general. His conversion and his subsequent religious dedication, therefore, are grounded in motivated reality. The account of the duel and Zossima's actions show him to be a person of physical courage as well as of moral courage. It is significant that the conversion was brought about by his remembering some of his dead brother's ideas about loving life and respecting all things in this world. From this time onward, these ideas become more and more central to Zossima's final philosophy of life. Concerning suffering, Zossima's explanation of why he bowed down to Dmitri has its roots deep in Dostoevskian philosophy. In Crime and Punishment, for example, the protagonist bows down before a prostitute because he sees in her "the suffering of all humanity." Suffering, Dostoevsky felt, was the genesis of retribution. Only through great suffering can a man be purified of his sins, and it is this process that Zossima sees within Dmitri. In speaking of his love for the Bible, Zossima says that the book's basic lesson is this: one must realize the vast love that God has for mankind. At first, admittedly, such a realization is not easy. It is difficult to accept God giving his beloved Job to the devil for no other reason than to boast to his opponent. But the value of the parable, says Zossima, lies in the fact that it is a mystery "that the passing earthly show and the eternal verity are brought together." This, of course, is diametrically opposed to what Ivan believes. He refuses to accept any idea that cannot be comprehended by earthly logic. But for Zossima, the greatness of God lies in the fact that man cannot comprehend God's ways and that some things of earth must remain a mystery. Only with such a mystery does man realize the full extent of God's glory. If man could comprehend all, then God would lose his sense of majesty. Again in contrast to Ivan , Zossima says that "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." The elder insists on practicing active love for mankind; only through love will one come to believe in God. For the present, Ivan would disagree. He spends his time intellectualizing over abstruse problems; he has no time left for active love. With the appearance of the mysterious stranger, Zossima is put to his first test. It would have been easy to tell the stranger that he has suffered enough and that there is no need for him to ruin his life and his family's life by making an open confession. But Zossima is quietly persuasive in his efforts to get the stranger to recognize his errors. There is no attempt at coercion, but simply a quiet plea for him to perform that which his conscience tells him must be done. As Zossima confides his wisdom to Alyosha, the reader should be aware that the elder's views are essentially those by which Dostoevsky himself tried to live, or at least wished to live. Particularly, Dostoevsky was interested in these concepts: 1. The Russian monk and his possible significance. -- Zossima believes that the salvation of Russia would come from two sources -- the Russian monks and a vast, idealized section of the Russian population that he referred to as the Russian people, or the Russian folk. The monks, however, were even more important than the folk if the regeneration of Russia was to be accomplished. From the monks would come the energy and ideas of purity and love. The monk, Zossima believes, practices obedience, fasting, and prayer, believing that these three disciplines will accomplish for him the only true freedom: sacred freedom. Such freedom is forever denied the man who exists in contemporary society, the slave to mechanical and material frivolities; he will never attain the freedom needed for a pure understanding of life's meaning. He is too involved with life to be able to contemplate life. Only the monk, a man who has "freed himself from the tyranny of material things and habits" can conceive great ideas and serve them. In essence, this is the elder's answer to the question posed by the Grand Inquisitor and Ivan. Only in freedom can man conceive of ideas great enough to make life worth preserving. After the monk gives birth to example and philosophy, the renascence begins, and within the Russian folk a new Russia is nourished. The folk, of course, can never hope to completely emulate the life of the monk, but because of their living close to the soil and to basic matters of life, they can easily assimilate the wisdom of the Russian monk. Of course, Zossima realizes that the average peasant sins occasionally, but he also believes that the peasant realizes that he is wrong in his sinning. This realization will be his salvation, for man must first recognize righteousness as the supreme virtue; this the folk do. One must not despair of the peasant, Zossima counsels, for even in his sinfulness and in his ignorant ways, "salvation will come from the people, from their faith and their meekness," an idea very often advocated by Dostoevsky. He uses, for example, Sonia in Crime and Punishment as such a type, the so-called passive redemptive character, and suggests that through the passive acceptance of faith and by extreme meekness, salvation will be achieved. The folk are Zossima's hope, for they believe basically as does the monk. The elder says that "an unbelieving reformer will never do anything in Russia. Even if he is sincere in heart and a genius, the people will meet the atheist and overcome him." But if one considers the widespread atheism that followed the Communist revolution in Russia, Dostoevsky perhaps never wrote anything that proved to be so absolutely incorrect as this prophecy of Father Zossima. 2. Of masters and servants, and of whether it is possible for them to be brothers in spirit. -- Zossima advocates absolute equality for all men. True dignity does not come from the possession of great material wealth. Dignity, the elder says, is derived only from an inner sense of personal worth; it is able to respect another person without envying that person. When man attains such dignity, he creates a unity, a brotherhood in which a master may associate with a servant without losing either self-respect or dignity. This is Zossima's utopia, founded on "the grand unity of man," preserved by men who long with all their heart to be the servants of all. 3. Of prayer, of love, and of contact with other worlds. -- Zossima admonished his adherents to pray for others, even those who have sinned. God, he says, will look favorably upon any sinner who stands before Him, proving that someone is offering up a prayer for that sinner. Again the elder re-emphasizes to those assembled his strong belief in the power of positive love. "Love a man even in his sin, for that is the semblance of Divine Love and is the highest love on earth. Love all God's creation, the whole and every grain of sand in it. Love every leaf, every ray of God's light. Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things." By loving, man gains new respect for everything in God's world. Thus "we must love not occasionally, for a moment, but for ever." One of Zossima's principal ideas that particularly touches Alyosha is the elder's view of man's responsibility for another's sins. Zossima maintains that everyone must make himself "responsible for all men's sins . . . for as soon as you sincerely make yourself responsible for everything and for all men, you will see at once that it is really so and that you are to blame for every one and for all things." If one carries this idea to its logical conclusion, we see that Alyosha must eventually take partial responsibility for the murder of his father. This he indeed does, finally realizing that man must become an active participant rather than a passive observer of life. Concerning man's limitation of understanding all that is holy, Zossima says that man is given a mystic sense of his loving bond with the other world. Like Ivan, the elder admits that man cannot understand the mysterious ways of God, but, for Zossima, the very existence of something so mysteriously unexplainable is proof that man owes love and allegiance to a higher power. Zossima takes Ivan's premises, therefore, for his proof of God's existence. "On the final judgment," says the elder, "man will not be asked to account for things which he cannot comprehend, but only for those things he understands." 4. Can a man judge his fellow creatures? -- Zossima believes that no one can judge a criminal. First, one must recognize that no man is only a criminal, and perhaps more than all other men, the seemingly innocent, and not the allegedly guilty, is most to blame for whatever crime has been committed. Alyosha uses such a theory when he refuses to judge Dmitri; furthermore, during his brother's trial, he forgives him. From a realistic point of view, Zossima's views on the criminal are too ideal. Zossima would allow a criminal to go free and hope that he would come to condemn his acts. Such idealism is touchingly naive. And with the same sort of idealism, Zossima advocates kissing the earth, "love it with an unceasing, consuming love." Love of the mother earth, one might note, is central to many of Dostoevsky's novels. In Crime and Punishment, the murderer Raskolnikov is told to go and bow down to the earth, which he has defiled because of his crime. In the poem from Schiller that Dmitri often recites, there is a hymn of praise for the earthly existence. In total loving, then -- loving even the earth -- Zossima says that man can realize an ecstasy that is a "gift of God," not given to many but certainly to the elect. The ideal of a spiritual elite is foreign to Ivan's thinking, but Zossima believes in such a minority and stresses that they should be proud of being elect; their examples will lead others to God's light. 5. Of hell and hell fire, a mystic reflection. -- Zossima's views on this subject do not conform with the orthodox views of the church. Later Ferapont will allude to this fact when he drives the devils from Zossima's cell. Zossima absolutely does not believe in a material hellfire, one that burns and punishes. To him, hell is spiritual agony, growing out of the inner conscience of the damned. If there were material punishment, he says, it would alleviate the spiritual punishment because of its intense physical pain. The greater punishment, the spiritual punishment, is the sinner's recognition that he is forever separated from God. Zossima strays even further from the teachings of the church by his prayers for the condemned. He prays for them because "love can never be an offense to Christ."