Brothers Karamazov, The The. Федор Достоевский

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СКАЧАТЬ not enjoyment though, but ecstasy. Damn it all, whatever it is! A strong spirit, a weak spirit, a womanish spirit—whatever it is! Let us praise nature: you see what sunshine, how clear the sky is, the leaves are all green, it's still summer; four o'clock in the afternoon and the stillness! Where were you going?”

      “I was going to father's, but I meant to go to Katerina Ivanovna's first.”

      “To her, and to father! Oo! what a coincidence! Why was I waiting for you? Hungering and thirsting for you in every cranny of my soul and even in my ribs? Why, to send you to father and to her, Katerina Ivanovna, so as to have done with her and with father. To send an angel. I might have sent anyone, but I wanted to send an angel. And here you are on your way to see father and her.”

      “Did you really mean to send me?” cried Alyosha with a distressed expression.

      “Stay! You knew it! And I see you understand it all at once. But be quiet, be quiet for a time. Don't be sorry, and don't cry.”

      Dmitri stood up, thought a moment, and put his finger to his forehead.

      “She's asked you, written to you a letter or something, that's why you're going to her? You wouldn't be going except for that?”

      “Here is her note.” Alyosha took it out of his pocket. Mitya looked through it quickly.

      “And you were going the back-way! Oh, gods, I thank you for sending him by the back-way, and he came to me like the golden fish to the silly old fishermen in the fable! Listen, Alyosha, listen, brother! Now I mean to tell you everything, for I must tell someone. An angel in heaven I've told already; but I want to tell an angel on earth. You are an angel on earth. You will hear and judge and forgive. And that's what I need, that someone above me should forgive. Listen! If two people break away from everything on earth and fly off into the unknown, or at least one of them, and before flying off or going to ruin he comes to someone else and says, ‘Do this for me’—some favor never asked before that could only be asked on one's deathbed—would that other refuse, if he were a friend or a brother?”

      “I will do it, but tell me what it is, and make haste,” said Alyosha.

      “Make haste! H'm!... Don't be in a hurry, Alyosha, you hurry and worry yourself. There's no need to hurry now. Now the world has taken a new turning. Ah, Alyosha, what a pity you can't understand ecstasy. But what am I saying to him? As though you didn't understand it. What an ass I am! What am I saying? ‘Be noble, O man!’—who says that?”

      Alyosha made up his mind to wait. He felt that, perhaps, indeed, his work lay here. Mitya sank into thought for a moment, with his elbow on the table and his head in his hand. Both were silent.

      “Alyosha,” said Mitya, “you're the only one who won't laugh. I should like to begin—my confession—with ‘Schiller's Hymn to Joy,’ An die Freude! I don't know German, I only know it's called that. Don't think I'm talking nonsense because I'm drunk. I'm not a bit drunk. Brandy's all very well, but I need two bottles to make me drunk:

      Silenus with his rosy phiz

       Upon his stumbling ass.

      But I've not drunk a quarter of a bottle, and I'm not Silenus. I'm not Silenus, though I am strong,¹ for I've made a decision once for all. Forgive me the pun; you'll have to forgive me a lot more than puns to-day. Don't be uneasy. I'm not spinning it out. I'm talking sense, and I'll come to the point in a minute. I won't keep you in suspense. Stay, how does it go?”

      He raised his head, thought a minute, and began with enthusiasm:

      “Wild and fearful in his cavern

       Hid the naked troglodyte,

       And the homeless nomad wandered

       Laying waste the fertile plain.

       Menacing with spear and arrow

       In the woods the hunter strayed....

       Woe to all poor wretches stranded

       On those cruel and hostile shores!

      “From the peak of high Olympus

       Came the mother Ceres down,

       Seeking in those savage regions

       Her lost daughter Proserpine.

       But the Goddess found no refuge,

       Found no kindly welcome there,

       And no temple bearing witness

       To the worship of the gods.

      “From the fields and from the vineyards

       Came no fruits to deck the feasts,

       Only flesh of bloodstained victims

       Smoldered on the altar-fires,

       And where'er the grieving goddess

       Turns her melancholy gaze,

       Sunk in vilest degradation

       Man his loathsomeness displays.”

      Mitya broke into sobs and seized Alyosha's hand.

      “My dear, my dear, in degradation, in degradation now, too. There's a terrible amount of suffering for man on earth, a terrible lot of trouble. Don't think I'm only a brute in an officer's uniform, wallowing in dirt and drink. I hardly think of anything but of that degraded man—if only I'm not lying. I pray God I'm not lying and showing off. I think about that man because I am that man myself.

      Would he purge his soul from vileness

       And attain to light and worth,

       He must turn and cling for ever

       To his ancient Mother Earth.

      But the difficulty is how am I to cling forever to Mother Earth. I don't kiss her. I don't cleave to her bosom. Am I to become a peasant or a shepherd? I go on and I don't know whether I'm going to shame or to light and joy. That's the trouble, for everything in the world is a riddle! And whenever I've happened to sink into the vilest degradation (and it's always been happening) I always read that poem about Ceres and man. Has it reformed me? Never! For I'm a Karamazov. For when I do leap into the pit, I go headlong with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that degrading attitude, and pride myself upon it. And in the very depths of that degradation I begin a hymn of praise. Let me be accursed. Let me be vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand.

      Joy everlasting fostereth

       The soul of all creation,

       It is her secret ferment fires

       The cup of life with flame.

       'Tis at her beck the grass hath turned

       Each blade towards the light

       And solar systems have evolved

       From chaos and dark night,

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