2 posts tagged “dostoevsky”

One of my favorite passages from The Brother's Karamazov occurs, ironically, during the sad grieving of Alyosha over the death of his beloved master, Elder Zossima.  Alyosha is on his knees before the open coffin, while Father Paissy continuously reads the Gospels (usually the psalter is read, but in the case of a very holy man, one reads the Gospels).

As Fr. Paissy reads through the wedding at Cana, Alyosha begins to have a vision, the room widening and the scene from the Gospel playing itself out before him... and guess who's amongst the guests...

"But what's this, what's this? Why is the room growing wider?... Ah, yes... It's the marriage, the wedding... yes, of course. Here are the guests, here are the young couple sitting, and the merry crowd and... Where is the wise governor of the feast? But who is this? Who? Again the walls are receding.... Who is getting up there from the great table? What!... He here, too? But he's in the coffin... but he's here, too. He has stood up, he sees me, he is coming here....

Yes, he came up to him, to him, he, the little, thin old man, with tiny wrinkles on his face, joyful and laughing softly. There was no coffin now, and he was in the same dress as he had worn yesterday sitting with them, when the visitors had gathered about him. His face was uncovered, his eyes were shining. How was this, then? He, too, had been called to the feast. He, too, at the marriage of Cana in Galilee....

"Yes, my dear, I am called, too, called and bidden," he heard a soft voice saying over him. "Why have you hidden yourself here, out of sight? You come and join us too."

It was his voice, the voice of Father Zossima. And it must be he, since he called him!

The elder raised Alyosha by the hand and he rose from his knees.

"We are rejoicing," the little, thin old man went on. "We are drinking the new wine, the wine of new, great gladness; do you see how many guests? Here are the bride and bridegroom, here is the wise governor of the feast, he is tasting the new wine. Why do you wonder at me? I gave an onion to a beggar*, so I, too, am here. And many here have given only an onion each--only one little onion.... What are all our deeds? And you, my gentle one, you, my kind boy, you too have known how to give a famished woman an onion to-day. Begin your work, dear one, begin it, gentle one! Do you see our Sun, do you see Him?"

"I am afraid... I dare not look," whispered Alyosha.

"Do not fear Him. He is terrible in His greatness, awful in His sublimity, but infinitely merciful. He has made Himself like unto us from love and rejoices with us. He is changing the water into wine that the gladness of the guests may not be cut short. He is expecting new guests, He is calling new ones unceasingly for ever and ever...."

Something glowed in Alyosha's heart, something filled it till it ached, tears of rapture rose from his soul.... He stretched out his hands, uttered a cry and waked up."

So, why do I have an emotional reaction to this passage every time I read it?

Notes:

* - gave an onion to a beggar - this refers to another part of the novel, referring to an old Russian proverb wherein the guardian angel of someone in hell searches their life vigorously to find something good that might merit release from hell - and ends up finding no good act except that the person once gave an onion to a beggar... and that was enough to pull the person out (or at least to try).  In the vision, the Elder equates his lifetime of holiness to the giving of one onion.

** - the picture is of Elder Ambrose, not the fictional Elder Zossima... though most believe that Dostoevsky patterned Zossima after an elder he'd befriended at the Optina monastery.

Having consumed a number of classics by Dostoevsky, Gogol, Turgenev, and Pushkin over the past year, I should have turned out a lot smarter and insightful by now than I actually did.  But maybe I picked up on a thing or two.

Amongst the things these writers have in common seems to be this - they are most aghast at the travesty of a life lived and completed with no impact whatsoever on anything - a creature having existed then perished without anyone having taken notice.

The writers' descriptions of such people usually focus on their mundane existence, their clockwork striving for the next scrap of food or clothing.  I think some of the novelists writings are meant to redeem the existence of these poor souls, to give some meaning to their life if only by proxy through fictional archetypes.

It seems to me that the poor and unnoticed characters sometimes represent the lost'ness of the well-to-do as well, sort of a mirror showing the reverse image of the same thing.  Those who are endlessly attending balls or counting their rubles may end up with just as meaningless an existence as their unbathed counterpart.

And all of this serves as a mirror for ourselves.  Those in the novels whose life is actually rich, worthwhile, and with lasting effect are the ones who live the Gospel - sometimes represented in Dostoevsky for example as the naive one, the one who suffers the scorn of others simply because they care deeply (Alyosha, the idiot, etc.).  And so we ask, how does one become like that, assuming they are prepared for ridicule?

I like the Church Father's discussions about developing a "habit of virtue", and St. Seraphim of Sarov's instructions to do all in order to attain the Holy Spirit.  Those two together, the practice of virtue and the reason for doing so, seem key to becoming one who's existence is not wasted.  Their memory becomes eternal, as they take on the attributes of God Himself.  Like this - "eternal life to those who by patient continuance in doing good seek for glory, honor, and immortality" (Romans 2:7).  Here's a synopsis of the practice as derived from St. Maximus the Confessor by Dr. Farrell, one in a series of explorations by my dear wife.