“Quite simply, your Pyotr Valeryanych eats kutya 3in the monastery and bows, but doesn’t believe in God, and you happened onto such a moment—that’s all,” I said. “And on top of that, he’s a rather ridiculous man: he had probably already seen a microscope ten times before, why did he lose his mind the eleventh time? Some sort of nervous impressionability . . . worked up in the monastery.”
“He’s a pure man and of lofty mind,” the old man said imposingly, “and he’s not godless. He has a solid mind, but his heart is uneasy. There are a great many such people now, come from gentle-folk and of learned rank. And I’ll say this as welclass="underline" the man punishes himself. But you avoid them and don’t vex them, and remember them in your prayers before sleep at night, for such men seek God. Do you pray before sleep?”
“No, I consider it empty ritualism. I must confess, however, that I like your Pyotr Valeryanych: at least he’s not made of straw, but a human being, somewhat resembling a certain man close to us both, whom we both know.”
The old man paid attention only to the first part of my answer.
“It’s too bad you don’t pray, my friend; it’s a good thing, it gladdens the heart, before sleep, and rising from sleep, and waking up in the night. That I can tell you. In summer, in the month of July, we were hastening to the Bogorodsky Monastery for the feast. The closer we came to the place, the more people joined us, and finally almost tenscore people came together, all hurrying to kiss the holy and incorrupt relics of two great wonder-workers, Aniky and Grigory. We spent the night in the fields, brother, and I woke up early in the morning, everybody was still asleep, and the sun hadn’t even peeked out from behind the forest yet. I raised my head, my dear, gazed about me, and sighed: inexpressible beauty everywhere! All’s still, the air’s light; the grass is growing—grow, grass of God; a bird’s singing—sing, bird of God; a baby squeals in a woman’s arms—the Lord be with you, little person, grow and be happy, youngling! And for the first time in my life it was as if I contained it all in myself . . . I lay down again and fell asleep so easily. It’s good in the world, my dear! If I mended a bit, I’d go again in the spring. And that it’s a mystery makes it even better; your heart fears and wonders, and this fear gladdens the heart: ‘All is in thee, Lord, and I am in thee, and so receive me!’ Don’t murmur, young one: it’s all the more beautiful that it’s a mystery,” he added tenderly.
“‘It’s even more beautiful that it’s a mystery . . .’ I’ll remember those words. You express yourself terribly imprecisely, but I understand . . . It strikes me that you know and understand much more than you can express; only it’s as if you’re in delirium . . .” escaped me, looking at his feverish eyes and pale face. But it seems he didn’t hear my words.
“Do you know, my dear young one,” he began again, as if continuing his former speech, “do you know that there’s a limit to the memory of a man on this earth? The limit to the memory of a man is set at just a hundred years. A hundred years after a man’s death, his children or grandchildren, who have seen his face, can still remember him, but after that, though his memory may persist, it’s just orally, mentally, for all who have seen his face will have passed on. And his grave in the cemetery will overgrow with grass, its white stone will chip away, and all people will forget him, even his own posterity, then his very name will be forgotten, for only a few remain in people’s memory—and so be it! And let me be forgotten, my dears, but I’ll love you even from the grave. I hear your merry voices, little children, I hear your footsteps on your parents’ graves on forefathers’ day; 4live under the sun meanwhile, rejoice, and I’ll pray to God for you, I’ll come to you in a dream . . . it’s all the same and there is love after death! . . .”
Mainly, I was in as much of a fever as he was; and instead of leaving or persuading him to calm down, and maybe putting him on the bed, because he seemed to be quite delirious, I suddenly seized him by the hand and, leaning towards him and pressing his hand, said in an excited whisper and with tears in my souclass="underline"
“I’m glad of you. Maybe I’ve been waiting for you a long time. I don’t love any of them; they have no seemliness . . . I won’t go after them, I don’t know where I’ll go, I’ll go with you . . .”
But, fortunately, mama suddenly came in, otherwise I don’t know where it would have ended. She came in with a just-awakened and alarmed face, a vial and a tablespoon in her hands. Seeing us, she exclaimed:
“I just knew it! I’m late giving him his quinine, he’s all in a fever! I overslept, Makar Ivanovich, dear heart!”
I got up and left. She gave him the medicine anyway and laid him down in bed. I also lay down in mine, but in great agitation. I went back with great curiosity and thought as hard as I could about this encounter. What I expected from it then—I don’t know. Of course, I was reasoning incoherently, and not thoughts but only fragments of thoughts flashed through my mind. I lay with my face to the wall, and suddenly in the corner I saw the bright spot of light from the setting sun, the one I had been waiting for earlier with such a curse, and I remember it was as if my whole soul leaped up and a new light penetrated my heart. I remember that sweet moment and do not want to forget it. It was just a moment of new hope and new strength . . . I was recovering then, and therefore such impulses might have been the inevitable consequence of the state of my nerves; but I believe in that bright hope even now—that’s what I want to write down now and remember. Of course, I also knew firmly then that I wouldn’t go wandering with Makar Ivanovich and that I myself didn’t know what this new yearning was that had come over me, but I had uttered one phrase, though in delirium: “There’s no seemliness in them!” “That’s it,” I thought, beside myself, “from this moment on I’m seeking ‘seemliness,’ but they don’t have it, and for that I’ll leave them.”