Sergius saw that he was a means of attracting visitors and contributions to the monastery3, and that therefore the authorities arranged matters in such a way as to make as much use of him as possible. For instance, they rendered it impossible for him to do any manual work. He was supplied with everything he could want, and they only demanded of him that he should not refuse his blessing4 to those who came to seek it. For his convenience they appointed days when he would receive. They arranged a reception-room for men, and a place was railed in so that he should not be pushed over by the crowds of women visitors, and so that he could conveniently bless those who came.
They told him that people needed him, and that fulfilling Christ’s law of love he could not refuse their demand to see him, and that to avoid them would be cruel. He could not but agree with this, but the more he gave himself up to such a life the more he felt that what was internal became external, and that the fount of living water within him dried up, and that what he did now was done more and more for men and less and less for God.
Whether he admonished5 people, or simply blessed them, or prayed for the sick, or advised people about their lives, or listened to expressions of gratitude6 from those he had helped by precepts7, or alms, or healing (as they assured him)—he could not help being pleased at it, and could not be indifferent to the results of his activity and to the influence he exerted. He thought himself a shining light, and the more he felt this the more was he conscious of a weakening, a dying down of the divine light of truth that shone within him.
‘In how far is what I do for God and in how far is it for men?’ That was the question that insistently8 tormented9 him and to which he was not so much unable to give himself an answer as unable to face the answer.
In the depth of his soul he felt that the devil had substituted an activity for men in place of his former activity for God. He felt this because, just as it had formerly10 been hard for him to be torn from his solitude11 so now that solitude itself was hard for him. He was oppressed and wearied by visitors, but at the bottom of his heart he was glad of their presence and glad of the praise they heaped upon him.
There was a time when he decided12 to go away and hide. He even planned all that was necessary for that purpose. He prepared for himself a peasant’s shirt, trousers, coat, and cap. He explained that he wanted these to give to those who asked. And he kept these clothes in his cell, planning how he would put them on, cut his hair short, and go away. First he would go some three hundred versts by train, then he would leave the train and walk from village to village. He asked an old man who had been a soldier how he tramped: what people gave him, and what shelter they allowed him. The soldier told him where people were most charitable, and where they would take a wanderer in for the night, and Father Sergius intended to avail himself of this information. He even put on those clothes one night in his desire to go, but he could not decide what was best—to remain or to escape. At first he was in doubt, but afterwards this indecision passed. He submitted to custom and yielded to the devil, and only the peasant garb13 reminded him of the thought and feeling he had had.
Every day more and more people flocked to him and less and less time was left him for prayer and for renewing his spiritual strength. Sometimes in lucid14 moments he thought he was like a place where there had once been a spring. ‘There used to be a feeble spring of living water which flowed quietly from me and through me. That was true life, the time when she tempted15 me!’ (He always thought with ecstasy16 of that night and of her who was now Mother Agnes.) She had tasted of that pure water, but since then there had not been time for it to collect before thirsty people came crowding in and pushing one another aside. And they had trampled17 everything down and nothing was left but mud.
So he thought in rare moments of lucidity18, but his usual state of mind was one of weariness and a tender pity for himself because of that weariness.
It was in spring, on the eve of the mid-Pentecostal feast. Father Sergius was officiating at the Vigil Service in his hermitage church, where the congregation was as large as the little church could hold—about twenty people. They were all well-to-do proprietors19 or merchants. Father Sergius admitted anyone, but a selection was made by the monk20 in attendance and by an assistant who was sent to the hermitage every day from the monastery. A crowd of some eighty people—pilgrims and peasants, and especially peasant-women—stood outside waiting for Father Sergius to come out and bless them. Meanwhile he conducted the service, but at the point at which he went out to the tomb of his predecessor21, he staggered and would have fallen had he not been caught by a merchant standing22 behind him and by the monk acting2 as deacon.
‘What is the matter, Father Sergius? Dear man! O Lord!’ exclaimed the women. ‘He is as white as a sheet!’
But Father Sergius recovered immediately, and though very pale, he waved the merchant and the deacon aside and continued to chant the service.
Father Seraphim23, the deacon, the acolytes24, and Sofya Ivanovna, a lady who always lived near the hermitage and tended Father Sergius, begged him to bring the service to an end.
‘No, there’s nothing the matter,’ said Father Sergius, slightly smiling from beneath his moustache and continuing the service. ‘Yes, that is the way the Saints behave!’ thought he.
‘A holy man—an angel of God!’ he heard just then the voice of Sofya Ivanovna behind him, and also of the merchant who had supported him. He did not heed25 their entreaties26, but went on with the service. Again crowding together they all made their way by the narrow passages back into the little church, and there, though abbreviating27 it slightly, Father Sergius completed vespers.
Immediately after the service Father Sergius, having pronounced the benediction28 on those present, went over to the bench under the elm tree at the entrance to the cave. He wished to rest and breathe the fresh air—he felt in need of it. But as soon as he left the church the crowd of people rushed to him soliciting29 his blessing, his advice, and his help. There were pilgrims who constantly tramped from one holy place to another and from one starets to another, and were always entranced by every shrine30 and every starets. Father Sergius knew this common, cold, conventional, and most irreligious type. There were pilgrims, for the most part discharged soldiers, unaccustomed to a settled life, poverty-stricken, and many of them drunken old men, who tramped from monastery to monastery merely to be fed. And there were rough peasants and peasant-women who had come with their selfish requirements, seeking cures or to have doubts about quite practical affairs solved for them: about marrying off a daughter, or hiring a shop, or buying a bit of land, or how to atone31 for having overlaid a child or having an illegitimate one.
All this was an old story and not in the least interesting to him. He knew he would hear nothing new from these folk, that they would arouse no religious emotion in him; but he liked to see the crowd to which his blessing and advice was necessary and precious, so while that crowd oppressed him it also pleased him. Father Seraphim began to drive them away, saying that Father Sergius was tired.
But Father Sergius, remembering the words of the Gospel: ‘Forbid them’ (children) ‘not to come unto me,’ and feeling tenderly towards himself at this recollection, said they should be allowed to approach.
He rose, went to the railing beyond which the crowd had gathered, and began blessing them and answering their questions, but in a voice so weak that he was touched with pity for himself. Yet despite his wish to receive them all he could not do it. Things again grew dark before his eyes, and he staggered and grasped the railings. He felt a rush of blood to his head and first went pale and then suddenly flushed.
‘I must leave the rest till to-morrow. I cannot do more to-day,’ and, pronouncing a general benediction, he returned to the bench. The merchant again supported him, and leading him by the arm helped him to be seated.
The merchant, having seated Father Sergius on the bench under the elm, took on himself police duties and drove the people off very resolutely33. It is true that he spoke34 in a low voice so that Father Sergius might not hear him, but his words were incisive35 and angry.
‘Be off, be off! He has blessed you, and what more do you want? Get along with you, or I’ll wring36 your necks! Move on there! Get along, you old woman with your dirty leg-bands! Go, go! Where are you shoving to? You’ve been told that it is finished. To-morrow will be as God wills, but for to-day he has finished!’
‘Father! Only let my eyes have a glimpse of his dear face!’ said an old woman.
‘I’ll glimpse you! Where are you shoving to?’
Father Sergius noticed that the merchant seemed to be acting roughly, and in a feeble voice told the attendant that the people should not be driven away. He knew that they would be driven away all the same, and he much desired to be left alone and to rest, but he sent the attendant with that message to produce an impression.
‘All right, all right! I am not driving them away. I am only remonstrating37 with them,’ replied the merchant. ‘You know they wouldn’t hesitate to drive a man to death. They have no pity, they only consider themselves.... You’ve been told you cannot see him. Go away! To-morrow!’ And he got rid of them all.
He took all these pains because he liked order and liked to domineer and drive the people away, but chiefly because he wanted to have Father Sergius to himself. He was a widower38 with an only daughter who was an invalid39 and unmarried, and whom he had brought fourteen hundred versts to Father Sergius to be healed. For two years past he had been taking her to different places to be cured: first to the university clinic in the chief town of the province, but that did no good; then to a peasant in the province of Samara, where she got a little better; then to a doctor in Moscow to whom he paid much money, but this did no good at all. Now he had been told that Father Sergius wrought40 cures, and had brought her to him. So when all the people had been driven away he approached Father Sergius, and suddenly falling on his knees loudly exclaimed:
‘Holy Father! Bless my afflicted41 offspring that she may be healed of her malady42. I venture to prostrate43 myself at your holy feet.’
And he placed one hand on the other, cup-wise. He said and did all this as if he were doing something clearly and firmly appointed by law and usage—as if one must and should ask for a daughter to be cured in just this way and no other. He did it with such conviction that it seemed even to Father Sergius that it should be said and done in just that way, but nevertheless he bade him rise and tell him what the trouble was. The merchant said that his daughter, a girl of twenty-two, had fallen ill two years ago, after her mother’s sudden death. She had moaned (as he expressed it) and since then had not been herself. And now he had brought her fourteen hundred versts and she was waiting in the hostelry till Father Sergius should give orders to bring her. She did not go out during the day, being afraid of the light, and could only come after sunset.
‘Is she very weak?’ asked Father Sergius.
‘No, she has no particular weakness. She is quite plump, and is only “nerastenic” the doctors say. If you will only let me bring her this evening, Father Sergius, I’ll fly like a spirit to fetch her. Holy Father! Revive a parent’s heart, restore his line, save his afflicted daughter by your prayers!’ And the merchant again threw himself on his knees and bending sideways, with his head resting on his clenched44 fists, remained stock still. Father Sergius again told him to get up, and thinking how heavy his activities were and how he went through with them patiently notwithstanding, he sighed heavily and after a few seconds of silence, said:
‘Well, bring her this evening. I will pray for her, but now I am tired....’ and he closed his eyes. ‘I will send for you.’
The merchant went away, stepping on tiptoe, which only made his boots creak the louder, and Father Sergius remained alone.
His whole life was filled by Church services and by people who came to see him, but to-day had been a particularly difficult one. In the morning an important official had arrived and had had a long conversation with him; after that a lady had come with her son. This son was a sceptical young professor whom the mother, an ardent45 believer and devoted46 to Father Sergius, had brought that he might talk to him. The conversation had been very trying. The young man, evidently not wishing to have a controversy47 with a monk, had agreed with him in everything as with someone who was mentally inferior. Father Sergius saw that the young man did not believe but yet was satisfied, tranquil48, and at ease, and the memory of that conversation now disquieted49 him.
‘Have something to eat, Father,’ said the attendant.
‘All right, bring me something.’
The attendant went to a hut that had been arranged some ten paces from the cave, and Father Sergius remained alone.
The time was long past when he had lived alone doing everything for himself and eating only rye-bread, or rolls prepared for the Church. He had been advised long since that he had no right to neglect his health, and he was given wholesome50, though Lenten, food. He ate sparingly, though much more than he had done, and often he ate with much pleasure, and not as formerly with aversion and a sense of guilt51. So it was now. He had some gruel52, drank a cup of tea, and ate half a white roll.
The attendant went away, and Father Sergius remained alone under the elm tree.
It was a wonderful May evening, when the birches, aspens, elms, wild cherries, and oaks, had just burst into foliage53.
The bush of wild cherries behind the elm tree was in full bloom and had not yet begun to shed its blossoms, and the nightingales—one quite near at hand and two or three others in the bushes down by the river—burst into full song after some preliminary twitters. From the river came the far-off songs of peasants returning, no doubt, from their work. The sun was setting behind the forest, its last rays glowing through the leaves. All that side was brilliant green, the other side with the elm tree was dark. The cockchafers flew clumsily about, falling to the ground when they collided with anything.
After supper Father Sergius began to repeat a silent prayer: ‘O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon us!’ and then he read a psalm54, and suddenly in the middle of the psalm a sparrow flew out from the bush, alighted on the ground, and hopped55 towards him chirping56 as it came, but then it took fright at something and flew away. He said a prayer which referred to his abandonment of the world, and hastened to finish it in order to send for the merchant with the sick daughter. She interested him in that she presented a distraction57, and because both she and her father considered him a saint whose prayers were efficacious. Outwardly he disavowed that idea, but in the depths of his soul he considered it to be true.
He was often amazed that this had happened, that he, Stepan Kasatsky, had come to be such an extraordinary saint and even a worker of miracles, but of the fact that he was such there could not be the least doubt. He could not fail to believe in the miracles he himself witnessed, beginning with the sick boy and ending with the old woman who had recovered her sight when he had prayed for her.
Strange as it might be, it was so. Accordingly the merchant’s daughter interested him as a new individual who had faith in him, and also as a fresh opportunity to confirm his healing powers and enhance his fame. ‘They bring people a thousand versts and write about it in the papers. The Emperor knows of it, and they know of it in Europe, in unbelieving Europe’—thought he. And suddenly he felt ashamed of his vanity and again began to pray. ‘Lord, King of Heaven, Comforter, Soul of Truth! Come and enter into me and cleanse58 me from all sin and save and bless my soul. Cleanse me from the sin of worldly vanity that troubles me!’ he repeated, and he remembered how often he had prayed about this and how vain till now his prayers had been in that respect. His prayers worked miracles for others, but in his own case God had not granted him liberation from this petty passion.
He remembered his prayers at the commencement of his life at the hermitage, when he prayed for purity, humility59, and love, and how it seemed to him then that God heard his prayers. He had retained his purity and had chopped off his finger. And he lifted the shrivelled stump60 of that finger to his lips and kissed it. It seemed to him now that he had been humble61 then when he had always seemed loathsome62 to himself on account of his sinfulness; and when he remembered the tender feelings with which he had then met an old man who was bringing a drunken soldier to him to ask alms; and how he had received HER, it seemed to him that he had then possessed63 love also. But now? And he asked himself whether he loved anyone, whether he loved Sofya Ivanovna, or Father Seraphim, whether he had any feeling of love for all who had come to him that day—for that learned young man with whom he had had that instructive discussion in which he was concerned only to show off his own intelligence and that he had not lagged behind the times in knowledge. He wanted and needed their love, but felt none towards them. He now had neither love nor humility nor purity.
He was pleased to know that the merchant’s daughter was twenty-two, and he wondered whether she was good-looking. When he inquired whether she was weak, he really wanted to know if she had feminine charm.
‘Can I have fallen so low?’ he thought. ‘Lord, help me! Restore me, my Lord and God!’ And he clasped his hands and began to pray.
The nightingales burst into song, a cockchafer knocked against him and crept up the back of his neck. He brushed it off. ‘But does He exist? What if I am knocking at a door fastened from outside? The bar is on the door for all to see. Nature—the nightingales and the cockchafers—is that bar. Perhaps the young man was right.’ And he began to pray aloud. He prayed for a long time till these thoughts vanished and he again felt calm and confident. He rang the bell and told the attendant to say that the merchant might bring his daughter to him now.
The merchant came, leading his daughter by the arm. He led her into the cell and immediately left her.
She was a very fair girl, plump and very short, with a pale, frightened, childish face and a much developed feminine figure. Father Sergius remained seated on the bench at the entrance and when she was passing and stopped beside him for his blessing he was aghast at himself for the way he looked at her figure. As she passed by him he was acutely conscious of her femininity, though he saw by her face that she was sensual and feeble-minded. He rose and went into the cell. She was sitting on a stool waiting for him, and when he entered she rose.
‘I want to go back to Papa,’ she said.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he replied. ‘What are you suffering from?’
‘I am in pain all over,’ she said, and suddenly her face lit up with a smile.
‘You will be well,’ said he. ‘Pray!’
‘What is the use of praying? I have prayed and it does no good’—and she continued to smile. ‘I want you to pray for me and lay your hands on me. I saw you in a dream.’
‘How did you see me?’
‘I saw you put your hands on my breast like that.’ She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. ‘Just here.’
He yielded his right hand to her.
‘What is your name?’ he asked, trembling all over and feeling that he was overcome and that his desire had already passed beyond control.
‘Marie. Why?’
She took his hand and kissed it, and then put her arm round his waist and pressed him to herself.
‘What are you doing?’ he said. ‘Marie, you are a devil!’
‘Oh, perhaps. What does it matter?’
And embracing him she sat down with him on the bed.
At dawn he went out into the porch.
‘Can this all have happened? Her father will come and she will tell him everything. She is a devil! What am I to do? Here is the axe64 with which I chopped off my finger.’ He snatched up the axe and moved back towards the cell.
The attendant came up.
‘Do you want some wood chopped? Let me have the axe.’
Sergius yielded up the axe and entered the cell. She was lying there asleep. He looked at her with horror, and passed on beyond the partition, where he took down the peasant clothes and put them on. Then he seized a pair of scissors, cut off his long hair, and went out along the path down the hill to the river, where he had not been for more than three years.
A road ran beside the river and he went along it and walked till noon. Then he went into a field of rye and lay down there. Towards evening he approached a village, but without entering it went towards the cliff that overhung the river. There he again lay down to rest.
It was early morning, half an hour before sunrise. All was damp and gloomy and a cold early wind was blowing from the west. ‘Yes, I must end it all. There is no God. But how am I to end it? Throw myself into the river? I can swim and should not drown. Hang myself? Yes, just throw this sash over a branch.’ This seemed so feasible and so easy that he felt horrified65. As usual at moments of despair he felt the need of prayer. But there was no one to pray to. There was no God. He lay down resting on his arm, and suddenly such a longing66 for sleep overcame him that he could no longer support his head on his hand, but stretched out his arm, laid his head upon it, and fell asleep. But that sleep lasted only for a moment. He woke up immediately and began not to dream but to remember.
He saw himself as a child in his mother’s home in the country. A carriage drives up, and out of it steps Uncle Nicholas Sergeevich, with his long, spade-shaped, black beard, and with him Pashenka, a thin little girl with large mild eyes and a timid pathetic face. And into their company of boys Pashenka is brought and they have to play with her, but it is dull. She is silly, and it ends by their making fun of her and forcing her to show how she can swim. She lies down on the floor and shows them, and they all laugh and make a fool of her. She sees this and blushes red in patches and becomes more pitiable than before, so pitiable that he feels ashamed and can never forget that crooked67, kindly68, submissive smile. And Sergius remembered having seen her since then. Long after, just before he became a monk, she had married a landowner who squandered69 all her fortune and was in the habit of beating her. She had had two children, a son and a daughter, but the son had died while still young. And Sergius remembered having seen her very wretched. Then again he had seen her in the monastery when she was a widow. She had been still the same, not exactly stupid, but insipid70, insignificant71, and pitiable. She had come with her daughter and her daughter’s fiance. They were already poor at that time and later on he had heard that she was living in a small provincial72 town and was very poor.
‘Why am I thinking about her?’ he asked himself, but he could not cease doing so. ‘Where is she? How is she getting on? Is she still as unhappy as she was then when she had to show us how to swim on the floor? But why should I think about her? What am I doing? I must put an end to myself.’
And again he felt afraid, and again, to escape from that thought, he went on thinking about Pashenka.
So he lay for a long time, thinking now of his unavoidable end and now of Pashenka. She presented herself to him as a means of salvation73. At last he fell asleep, and in his sleep he saw an angel who came to him and said: ‘Go to Pashenka and learn from her what you have to do, what your sin is, and wherein lies your salvation.’
He awoke, and having decided that this was a vision sent by God, he felt glad, and resolved to do what had been told him in the vision. He knew the town where she lived. It was some three hundred versts (two hundred miles) away, and he set out to walk there.
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1
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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seraphim
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| n.六翼天使(seraph的复数)；六翼天使( seraph的名词复数 ) | |
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acolytes
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| n.助手( acolyte的名词复数 )；随从；新手；（天主教）侍祭 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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abbreviating
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| 使简短( abbreviate的现在分词 )； 缩简； 缩略； 使用缩写词 | |
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benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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soliciting
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| v.恳求( solicit的现在分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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remonstrating
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的现在分词 )；告诫 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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