THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV. Fyodor Dostoyevsky

      “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 backway! Oh, gods, I thank you for sending him by the backway, 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 favour 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,* 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?”

      * In Russian, silen.

      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

      Smouldered 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 for ever 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,

      Filling the realms of boundless space

      Beyond the sage’s sight.

      At bounteous Nature’s kindly breast,

      All things that breathe drink Joy,

      And birds and beasts and creeping things

      All follow where She leads.

      Her gifts to man are friends in need,

      The wreath, the foaming must,

      To angels — vision of God’s throne,

      To insects — sensual lust.

      But enough poetry! I am in tears; let me cry. It may be foolishness that everyone would laugh at. But you won’t laugh. Your eyes are shining, too. Enough poetry. I want to tell you now about the insects to whom God gave ‘sensual lust.’ To insects — sensual lust.

      I am that insect, brother, and it is said of me specially. All we Karamazovs are such insects, and, angel as you are, that insect lives in you, too, and will stir up a tempest in your blood. Tempests, because sensual lust is a tempest worse than a tempest! Beauty is a terrible and awful thing! It is terrible because