The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky [children's books read aloud TXT] 📗

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 bloodstained

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