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-bye to him, he would not have believed

perhaps even in death, but would still have expected the dead man to

recover and fulfil 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 anyone. 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-humoured woman to be given "to someone 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 marvellous, 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 marvellous 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

school-fellows, though he never quarrelled, 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 your 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 marvellous 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."

    Everyone 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 anyone 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, everyone 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 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 dishonoured 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

everyone, 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 marvellous 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 potsherd- 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 mould 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 heart 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 earthly life is in touch with a new

infinite, unknown, but 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 anyone 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, unrecognised

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 skilfully. 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

foId. 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 travelled 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

marvellously 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!