The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (best e book reader for android txt) 📖

the Lord God; and

a long while yet will you keep that great mother’s grief. But it

will turn in the end into quiet joy, and your bitter tears will be

only tears of tender sorrow that purifies the heart and delivers it

from sin. And I shall pray for the peace of your child’s soul. What

was his name?”

 

“Alexey, Father.”

 

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

 

“Yes, Father.”

 

“What a saint he was! I will remember him, mother, and your

grief in my prayers, and I will pray for your husband’s health. It

is a sin for you to leave him. Your little one will see from heaven

that you have forsaken his father, and will weep over you. Why do

you trouble his happiness? He is living, for the soul lives for

ever, and though he is not in the house he is near you, unseen. How

can he go into the house when you say that the house is hateful to

you? To whom is he to go if he find you not together, his father and

mother? He comes to you in dreams now, and you grieve. But then he

will send you gentle dreams. Go to your husband, mother; go this

very day.”

 

“I will go, Father, at your word. I will go. You’ve gone

straight to my heart. My Nikita, my Nikita, you are waiting for me,”

the woman began in a singsong voice; but the elder had already turned

away to a very old woman, dressed like a dweller in the town, not like

a pilgrim. Her eyes showed that she had come with an object, and in

order to say something. She said she was the widow of a

non-commissioned officer, and lived close by in the town. Her son

Vasenka was in the commissariat service, and had gone to Irkutsk in

Siberia. He had written twice from there, but now a year had passed

since he had written. She did inquire about him, but she did not

know the proper place to inquire.

 

“Only the other day Stepanida Ilyinishna-she’s a rich

merchant’s wife-said to me, ‘You go, Prohorovna, and put your son’s

name down for prayer in the church, and pray for the peace of his soul

as though he were dead. His soul will be troubled,’ she said, ‘and

he will write you a letter.’ And Stepanida Ilyinishna told me it was a

certain thing which had been many times tried. Only I am in

doubt…. Oh, you light of ours! is it true or false, and would it

be right?”

 

“Don’t think of it. It’s shameful to ask the question. How is it

possible to pray for the peace of a living soul? And his own mother

too! It’s a great sin, akin to sorcery. Only for your ignorance it

is forgiven you. Better pray to the Queen of Heaven, our swift defence

and help, for his good health, and that she may forgive you for your

error. And another thing I will tell you, Prohorovna. Either he will

soon come back to you, your son, or he will be sure to send a

letter. Go, and henceforward be in peace. Your son is alive, I tell

you.”

 

“Dear Father, God reward you, our benefactor, who prays for all of

us and for our sins!”

 

But the elder had already noticed in the crowd two glowing eyes

fixed upon him. An exhausted, consumptive-looking, though young

peasant woman was gazing at him in silence. Her eyes besought him, but

she seemed afraid to approach.

 

“What is it, my child?”

 

“Absolve my soul, Father,” she articulated softly, and slowly sank

on her knees and bowed down at his feet. “I have sinned, Father. I

am afraid of my sin.”

 

The elder sat down on the lower step. The woman crept closer to

him, still on her knees.

 

“I am a widow these three years,” she began in a half-whisper,

with a sort of shudder. “I had a hard life with my husband. He was

an old man. He used to beat me cruelly. He lay ill; I thought

looking at him, if he were to get well, if he were to get up again,

what then? And then the thought came to me-”

 

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

 

The woman went on in a low whisper, so that it was almost

impossible to catch anything. She had soon done.

 

“Three years ago?” asked the elder.

 

“Three years. At first I didn’t think about it, but now I’ve begun

to be ill, and the thought never leaves me.”

 

“Have you come from far?”

 

“Over three hundred miles away.”

 

“Have you told it in confession?”

 

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

 

“Have you been admitted to Communion?”

 

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

 

“Fear nothing and never be afraid; and don’t fret. If only your

penitence fail not, God will forgive all. There is no sin, and there

can be no sin on all the earth, which the Lord will not forgive to the

truly repentant! Man cannot commit a sin so great as to exhaust the

infinite love of God. Can there be a sin which could exceed the love

of God? Think only of repentance, continual repentance, but dismiss

fear altogether. Believe that God loves you as you cannot conceive;

that He loves you with your sin, in your sin. It has been said of

old that over one repentant sinner there is more joy in heaven than

over ten righteous men. Go, and fear not. Be not bitter against men.

Be not angry if you are wronged. Forgive the dead man in your heart

what wrong he did you. Be reconciled with him in truth. If you are

penitent, you love. And if you love you are of God. All things are

atoned for, all things are saved by love. If I, a sinner, even as

you are, am tender with you and have pity on you, how much more will

God. Love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole

world by it, and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of

others.”

 

He signed her three times with the cross, took from his own neck a

little ikon and put it upon her. She bowed down to the earth without

speaking.

 

He got up and looked cheerfully at a healthy peasant woman with

a tiny baby in her arms.

 

“From Vyshegorye, dear Father.”

 

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

want?”

 

“I’ve come to look at you. I have been to you before-or have

you forgotten? You’ve no great memory if you’ve forgotten me. They

told us you were ill. Thinks I, I’ll go and see him for myself. Now

I see you, and you’re not ill! You’ll live another twenty years. God

bless you! There are plenty to pray for you; how should you be ill?”

 

“I thank you for all, daughter.”

 

“By the way, I have a thing to ask, not a great one. Here are

sixty copecks. Give them, dear Father, to someone poorer than me. I

thought as I came along, better give through him. He’ll know whom to

give to.”

 

“Thanks, my dear, thanks! You are a good woman. I love you. I will

do so certainly. Is that your little girl?”

 

“My little girl, Father, Lizaveta.”

 

“May the Lord bless you both, you and your babe Lizaveta! You have

gladdened my heart, mother. Farewell, dear children, farewell, dear

ones.”

 

He blessed them all and bowed low to them.