(1877)
Twenty years ago I was obliged--in my capacity of private inspector--to
make the circuit of all my aunt's rather numerous estates. The parish
priests, with whom I regarded it as my duty to make acquaintance, proved
to be individuals of pretty much one pattern, and made after one model,
as it were. At length, in about the last of the estates which I was
inspecting, I hit upon a priest who did not resemble his brethren. He
was a very aged man, almost decrepit; and had it not been for the urgent
entreaties of his parishioners, who loved and respected him, he would
long before have petitioned to be retired that he might rest. Two
peculiarities impressed me in Father Alexyéi (that was the priest's
name). In the first place, he not only asked nothing for himself but
announced plainly that he required nothing; and, in the second place, I
have never beheld in any human face a more sorrowful, thoroughly
indifferent--what is called an "overwhelmed"--expression. The features
of that face were of the ordinary rustic type: a wrinkled forehead,
small grey eyes, a large nose, a wedge-shaped beard, a swarthy,
sunburned skin.... But the expression! ... the expression!... In that
dim gaze life barely burned, and sadly at that; and his voice also was,
somehow, lifeless and dim.
I fell ill and kept my bed for several days. Father Alexyéi dropped in
to see me in the evenings, not to chat, but to play "fool."[16] The game
of cards seemed to divert him more than it did me. One day, after having
been left "the fool" several times in succession (which delighted Father
Alexyéi not a little), I turned the conversation on his past life, on
the afflictions which had left on him such manifest traces. Father
Alexyéi remained obdurate for a long time at first, but ended by
relating to me his story. He must have taken a liking to me for some
reason or other. Otherwise he would not have been so frank with me.
I shall endeavour to transmit his story in his own words. Father Alexyéi
talked very simply and intelligently, without any seminary or provincial
tricks and turns of speech. It was not the first time I had noticed that
Russians, of all classes and callings, who have been violently shattered
and humbled express themselves precisely in such language.
... I had a good and sedate wife [thus he began], I loved her heartily,
and we begat eight children. One of my sons became a bishop, and died
not so very long ago, in his diocese. I shall now tell you about my
other son,--Yákoff was his name. I sent him to the seminary in the town
of T----, and soon began to receive the most comforting reports about
him. He was the best pupil in all the branches! Even at home, in his
boyhood, he had been distinguished for his diligence and discretion; a
whole day would sometimes pass without one's hearing him ... he would be
sitting all the time over his book, reading. He never caused me and my
wife[17] the slightest displeasure; he was a meek lad. Only sometimes he
was thoughtful beyond his years, and his health was rather weak. Once
something remarkable happened to him. He left the house at daybreak, on
St. Peter's day,[18] and was gone almost all the morning. At last he
returned. My wife and I ask him: "Where hast thou been?"
"I have been for a ramble in the forest," says he, "and there I met a
certain little green old man, who talked a great deal with me, and gave
me such savoury nuts!"
"What little green old man art thou talking about?" we ask him.
"I don't know," says he; "I never saw him before. He was a little old
man with a hump, and he kept shifting from one to the other of his
little feet, and laughing--and he was all green, just like a leaf."
"What," say we, "and was his face green also?"
"Yes, his face, and his hair, and even his eyes."
Our son had never lied to us; but this time my wife and I had our
doubts.
"Thou must have fallen asleep in the forest, in the heat of the day, and
have seen that old man in thy dreams."
"I wasn't asleep at all," says he. "Why, don't you believe me?" says
he. "See here, I have one of the nuts left in my pocket."
Yákoff pulled the nut out of his pocket and showed it to us.--The kernel
was small, in the nature of a chestnut, and rather rough; it did not
resemble our ordinary nuts. I laid it aside, and intended to show it to
the doctor ... but it got lost.... I did not find it again.
Well, sir, so we sent him to the seminary, and, as I have already
informed you, he rejoiced us by his success. So my spouse and I assumed
that he would turn out a fine man! When he came for a sojourn at home it
was a pleasure to look at him; he was so comely, and there was no
mischief about him;--every one liked him, every one congratulated us.
Only he was still rather thin of body, and there was no real good
rosiness in his face. So then, he was already in his nineteenth year,
and his education would soon be finished. When suddenly we receive from
him a letter.--He writes to us: "Dear father and mother, be not wroth
with me, permit me to be a layman;[19] my heart does not incline to the
ecclesiastical profession, I dread the responsibility, I am afraid I
shall sin--doubts have taken hold upon me! Without your parental
permission and blessing I shall venture on nothing--but one thing I will
tell you; I am afraid of myself, for I have begun to think a great
deal."
I assure you, my dear sir, that this letter made me very sad,--as though
a boar-spear had pricked my heart,--for I saw that I should have no one
to take my place![20] My eldest son was a monk; and this one wanted to
abandon his vocation altogether. I was also pained because priests from
our family have lived in our parish for close upon two hundred years.
But I thought to myself: "There's no use in kicking against the pricks;
evidently, so it was predestined for him. What sort of a pastor would he
be if he has admitted doubt to his mind?" I took counsel with my wife,
and wrote to him in the following sense:
"Think it over well, my son Yákoff; measure ten times before you cut
off once--there are great difficulties in the worldly service, cold and
hunger, and scorn for our caste! And thou must know beforehand that no
one will lend a hand to aid; so see to it that thou dost not repine
afterward. My desire, as thou knowest, has always been that thou
shouldst succeed me; but if thou really hast come to cherish doubts as
to thy calling and hast become unsteady in the faith, then it is not my
place to restrain thee. The Lord's will be done! Thy mother and I will
not refuse thee our blessing."
Yákoff answered me with a grateful letter. "Thou hast rejoiced me, dear
father," said he. "It is my intention to devote myself to the profession
of learning, and I have some protection; I shall enter the university
and become a doctor, for I feel a strong bent for science." I read
Yáshka's letter and became sadder than before; but I did not share my
grief with any one. My old woman caught a severe cold about that time
and died--from that same cold, or the Lord took her to Himself because
He loved her, I know not which. I used to weep and weep because I was a
lonely widower--but what help was there for that?[21] So it had to be,
you know. And I would have been glad to go into the earth ... but it is
hard ... it will not open. And I was expecting my son; for he had
notified me: "Before I go to Moscow," he said, "I shall look in at
home." And he did come to the parental roof, but did not remain there
long. It seemed as though something were urging him on; he would have
liked, apparently, to fly on wings to Moscow, to his beloved university!
I began to question him as to his doubts. "What was the cause of them?"
I asked. But I did not get much out of him. One idea had pushed itself
into his head, and that was the end of it! "I want to help my
neighbours," he said.--Well, sir, he left me. I don't believe he took a
penny with him, only a few clothes. He had such reliance on himself! And
not without reason. He passed an excellent examination, matriculated as
student, obtained lessons in private houses.... He was very strong on
the ancient languages! And what think you? He took it into his head to
send me money. I cheered up a little,--not on account of the money, of
course,--I sent that back to him, and even scolded him; but I cheered up
because I saw that the young fellow would make his way in the world. But
my rejoicing did not last long....
He came to me for his first vacation.... And, what marvel is this? I do
not recognise my Yákoff! He had grown so tiresome and surly,--you
couldn't get a word out of him. And his face had changed also: he had
grown about ten years older. He had been taciturn before, there's no
denying that! At the slightest thing he would grow shy and blush like a
girl.... But when he raised his eyes, you could see that all was bright
in his soul! But now it was quite different. He was not shy, but he held
aloof, like a wolf, and was always looking askance. He had neither a
smile nor a greeting for any one--he was just like a stone! If I
undertook to interrogate him, he would either remain silent or snarl. I
began to wonder whether he had taken to drink--which God forbid!--or had
conceived a passion for cards; or whether something in the line of a
weakness for women had happened to him. In youth love-longings act
powerfully,--well, and in such a large city as Moscow bad examples and
occasions are not lacking. But no; nothing of that sort was discernible.
His drink was kvas[22] and water; he never looked at the female sex--and
had no intercourse with people in general. And what was most bitter of
all to me, he did not have his former confidence in me; a sort of
indifference had made its appearance, just as though everything belonging
to him had become loathsome to him. I turned the conversation on the
sciences, on the university, but even there could get no real answer. He
went to church, but he was not devoid of peculiarities there also;
everywhere he was grim and scowling, but in church he seemed always
to be grinning.
After this fashion he spent six weeks with me, then went back to Moscow.
From Moscow he wrote to me twice, and it seemed to me, from his letters,
as though he were regaining his sensibilities. But picture to yourself
my surprise, my dear sir! Suddenly, in the very middle of the winter,
just before the Christmas holidays, he presents himself before me!
"How didst thou get here? How is this? What's the matter? I know that
thou hast no vacation at this time.--Dost thou come from Moscow?"--I
ask.
"Yes."
"And how about ... the university?"
"I have left the university."
"Thou hast left it?"
"Just so."
"For good?"
"For good."
"But art thou ill, pray, Yákoff?"
"No, father," says he, "I am not ill; but just don't bother me and
question me, dear father, or I will go away from here--and that's the
last thou wilt ever see of me."
Yákoff tells me that he is not ill, but his face is such that I am
fairly frightened. It was dreadful, dark--not human, actually!--His
cheeks were drawn, his cheek-bones projected, he was mere skin and bone;
his voice sounded as though it proceeded from a barrel ... while his
eyes.... O Lord and Master! what eyes!--menacing, wild, incessantly
darting from side to side, and it was impossible to catch them; his
brows were knit, his lips seemed to be twisted on one side.... What had
happened to my Joseph Most Fair,[23] to my quiet lad? I cannot
comprehend it. "Can he have gone crazy?" I say to myself. He roams about
like a spectre by night, he does not sleep,--and then, all of a sudden,
he will take to staring into a corner as though he were completely
benumbed.... It was enough to scare one!
Although he had threatened to leave the house if I did not leave him in
peace, yet surely I was his father! My last hope was ruined--yet I was
to hold my tongue! So one day, availing myself of an opportunity, I
began to entreat Yákoff with tears, I began to adjure him by the memory
of his dead mother:
"Tell me," I said, "as thy father in the flesh and in the spirit, Yásha,
what aileth thee? Do not kill me; explain thyself, lighten thy heart!
Can it be that thou hast ruined some Christian soul? If so, repent!"
"Well, dear father," he suddenly says to me (this took place toward
nightfall), "thou hast moved me to compassion. I will tell thee the
whole truth. I have not ruined any Christian soul--but my own soul is
going to perdition."
"How is that?"
"In this way...." And thereupon Yákoff raised his eyes to mine for the
first time.--"It is going on four months now," he began.... But suddenly
he broke off and began to breathe heavily.
"What about the fourth month? Tell me, do not make me suffer!"
"This is the fourth month that I have been seeing him."
"Him? Who is he?"
"Why, the person ... whom it is awkward to mention at night."