September 2, 2025 • 50 mins
Step into the mesmerizing world crafted by world-renowned Russian author Ivan Turgenev, as he presents a captivating collection of stories that delve into dreams, lost love, fleeting specters, and ominous premonitions. This anthology also features a selection of sketches and prose poems, all penned in Turgenevs deceptively simple but profoundly articulate style. These aren‚t your typical tales of romance and nature; instead, Turgenev intertwines a thread of cynicism and melancholy that enriches his poetic language, inviting readers to explore the deeper complexities of the human experience. (Summary by Ben Tucker)
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
Section seven of dream Tales and Prose Poems by Ivan Turkenyeff.
This LibriVox recordings in the public Domain reed by Ben Tucker.
Poems in Prose, Part two Alms. Near a large town
along the broad high road, walked an old sick man.
(00:21):
He tottered as he went, his old waisted legs halting, dragging, stumbling,
moved painfully and feebly, as though they did not belong
to him. His clothes hung in rags about him. His
uncovered head drooped on his breast. He was utterly worn out.
He sat down on a stone by the wayside, bent forward,
(00:41):
lined his elbows on his knees, hid his face in
his hands, and through the knotted fingers, the tears dropped
down on to the gray, dry dust. He remembered, remembered
how he too had been strong and rich, and how
he had wasted his health, and had lavished his riches
upon others, friends and enemies. And here he had not
(01:02):
now a crust of bread, and all had forsaken him friends,
even before foes. Must he sink to begging alms. There
was bitterness in his heart and shame. The tears still
dropped and dropped, spotting the gray dust. Suddenly he heard
some one call him by his name. He lifted his
(01:22):
weary head and saw standing before him a stranger, a
face calm and grave but not stern, eyes not beaming
but clear, a look penetrating but not unkind. Thou hast
given away all thy riches, said a tranquil voice. But
thou dost not regret having done good? Surely I regret it, not,
(01:45):
answered the old man with a sigh. But here I
am dying now. And had there been no beggars who
held out their hands to thee, the stranger went on,
thou wouldst have had none on whom to prove thy goodness,
thou thou couldst not have done thy good works. The
old man answered nothing, and pondered, so be thou also
(02:07):
now not proud, poor man? The stranger began again, Go
thou hold out thy hand. Do thou too, give to
other good men a chance to prove in deeds that
they are good? The old man started raised his eyes,
but already the stranger had vanished, and in the distance
a man came into sight walking along the road. The
(02:28):
old man went up to him and held out his hand.
This man turned away with a surly face, and gave
him nothing. But after him another passed, and he gave
the old man some trifling alms, And the old man
bought himself bread with the coppers given him, and sweet
to him. Seemed the morsel gained by begging, and there
was no shame in his heart, but the contrary, peace
(02:50):
and joy came as a blessing upon him. The insect.
I dreamed that we were sitting a party of twenty
in a big room with open windows. Among us were women, children,
old men. We were all talking of some very well
known subject, talking noisily and indistinctly. Suddenly, with a sharp
(03:12):
whirring sound, there flew into the room a big insect
two inches long. It flew in, circled round, and settled
on the wall. It was like a fly or a wasp,
Its body dirt colored of the same color too, its flat,
stiff wings, outspread feathered claws, and a head thick and
angular like a dragon flies. Both head and claws were
(03:33):
bright red, as though steeped in blood. This strange insect
incessantly turned its head up and down, to right and
to left, moved its claws, then suddenly darted from the
wall flew with a whirring sound about the room, and
again settled again, hatefully and loathsomely, wriggling all over without
stirring from the spot. In all of us, it excited
(03:56):
a sensation of loathing, dread, even terror. No one of
us had ever seen anything like it. We all cried,
drive that monstrous thing away, and waved our handkerchiefs at
it from a distance, but no one ventured to go
up to it. And when the insect began flying, every
one instinctively moved away. Only one of our party, a
(04:17):
pale faced young man, stared at us all in amazement.
He shrugged his shoulders, he smiled, and positively could not
conceive what had happened to us, and why we were
in such a state of excitement. He himself did not
see an insect at all, did not hear the ill
omened whirr of its wings. All at once, the insect
seemed to stare at him, darted off, and dropping on
(04:39):
its head, stung him on the forehead above the eyes.
The young man feebly groaned and fell dead. The fearful
fly flew out at once. Only then we guessed what
it was had visited us. Cabbage soup. A peasant woman,
a widow, had an only son, a young man of twenty,
(05:02):
the best workman in the village, and he died. The lady,
who was the owner of the village, hearing of the
woman's trouble, went to visit her on the very day
of the burial. She found her at home, standing in
the middle of her hut before the table. She was
without haste, with a regular movement of the right arm.
The left hung listless at her side, scooping up weak
(05:24):
cabbage soup from the bottom of a blackened pot and
swallowing it spoonful by spoonful. The woman's face was sunken
and dark, her eyes were red and swollen, but she
held herself as rigid and upright as in church. Heavens,
thought the lady, she can eat at such a moment.
What coarse feelings they have, really, all of them. And
(05:47):
at that point the lady recollected that when a few
years before she had lost her little daughter nine months old,
she had refused in her grief a lovely country villa
near Petersburg, and had spent the whole summer in town. Meanwhile,
the woman went on swallowing cabbage soup. The lady could
not contain herself at last, Tatiana, she said, really, I'm surprised.
(06:09):
Is it possible you didn't care for your son? How
is it you've not lost your appetite? How can you
eat that soup? My vage is dead, said the woman quietly,
and tears of anguish ran once more down her hollow cheeks.
It's the end of me too, of course, it's tearing
the heart out of me alive. But the soup's not
(06:30):
to be wasted. There's salt in it. The lady only
shrugged her shoulders and went away. Salt did not cost
her much. The realm of azure O, realm of azure O,
realm of light and color, of youth and happiness. I
have beheld thee in dream. We were together, a few
(06:51):
in a beautiful little boat, gayly decked out like a
swan's breast. The white sail swelled below, the streamers frolicking
in the wind. I knew not who were with me,
but in all my soul I felt that they were young,
light hearted, happy as I. But I looked not indeed
on them. I beheld all round the boundless blue of
the sea, dimpled with scales of gold, and overhead the
(07:14):
same boundless sea of blue, and in it, triumphant and mirthful,
it seemed, moved the sun. And among us ever and
anon rose laughter, ringing and gleeful as the laughter of
the gods. And on a sudden from one man's lips
to another's would flow words, songs of divine beauty and
inspiration and power. It seemed the sky itself echoed back
(07:38):
a greeting to them, and the sea quivered in unison,
then followed again the blissful stillness. Riding lightly over the
soft waves, swiftly, our little boats sped on. No wind
drove it along our own lightly beating hearts guided it
at our will. It floated, obedient as a living thing.
(07:59):
We came on island enchanted islands, half transparent with the
prismatic lights of precious stones, of amethysts and emeralds. Odors
of bewildering fragrance rose from the rounded shores. Some of
these islands showered on us a rain of roses and
valley lilies. From others, birds darted up with long wings
(08:19):
of rainbow hues. The birds flew circling above us, the
lilies and roses melted away in the pearly foam that
glided by the smooth sides of our boat. And with
the flowers and the birds, sounds floated to us, sounds
sweet as honey, women's voices. One fancied in them. And
all about us, sky sea, the heaving sail aloft, the
(08:42):
gurgling water at the rudder, all spoke of love, of
happy love. And she, the beloved of each of us.
She was there, unseen and close one moment more, and behold,
her eyes will shine upon thee, her smile will blossom
on thee her hands, and will take thy hand and
guide thee to the land of joy that fades. Not
(09:05):
o realm of azure in dream have I beheld thee
two rich men. When I hear the praises of the
rich man rothschild, who, out of his immense revenues, devotes
whole thousands to the education of children, the care of
the sick, the support of the aged, I admire and
(09:25):
am touched. But even while I admire it and am
touched by it, I cannot help recalling a poor peasant
family who took an orphaned niece into their little tumble
down hut. If we take Kotka, said the woman. Our
last farthing will go to her. There won't be enough
to get as salt to salt us a bit of bread. Well,
(09:46):
we'll do without salt, answered the peasant. Her husband rothschild
is a long way behind that peasant, the old man.
Days of darkness, of dreariness have come thy own infirmities,
the sufferings of those dear to thee, the chill and
gloom of old age. All that thou hast loved to
(10:09):
which thou hast given thyself irrevocably is falling, going to pieces.
The way is all down hill. What canst thou do grieve?
Complain thou wilt aid, not thyself nor others that way
On the bowed and withering tree, the leaves are smaller
and fewer, but its green is yet the same. Do
(10:30):
thou too, shrink within, withdraw into thyself, into thy memories,
and there, deep down in the very depths of the soul,
turned inwards on itself, thy old life to which thou
alone hadst. The key will be bright again for thee
in all the fragrance, all the fresh green, and the
grace and power of its spring. But beware look not
(10:54):
forward poor old man. The reporter. Two friends were sitting
at a table drinking tea. A sudden hubbub arose in
the street. They heard pitiable groans, furious abuse, bursts of
malignant laughter. They're beating some one, observed one of the
friends looking out of window. A criminal, a murderer, inquired
(11:18):
the other. I say, whatever he may be, we can't
allow this illegal chastisement. Let's go and take his part.
But it's not a murderer they're beating. Not a murderer.
Is it a thief? Then it makes no difference. Let's
go and get him away from the crowd. It's not
a thief either, Not a thief. Is it an absconding cashier.
(11:39):
Then a railway director, an army contractor, a Russian art patron,
a lawyer, a conservative editor, a social reformer. Anyway, let's
go and help him. No, it's a newspaper reporter there
beating a reporter. Uh, I tell you what. We'll finish
our glasses of tea first. Then the two brothers. It
(12:01):
was a vision. Two angels appeared to me, two genie,
I say angels, Genie, because both had no clothes on
their naked bodies and behind their shoulders, rose long, powerful wings.
Both were youths. One was rather plump, with soft, smooth
skin and dark curls. His eyes were brown and full
(12:22):
with thick eyelashes. His look was sly, merry, and eager.
His face was charming, bewitching, a little insolent, a little wicked.
His full, soft crimson lips were faintly quivering. The youth
smiled as one possessing power, self confidently and languidly. A
magnificent wreath of flowers rested lightly on his shining tresses,
(12:42):
almost touching his velvety eyebrows. A spotted leopard's skin, pinned
up with a golden arrow, hung lightly from his curved
shoulder to his rounded thigh. The feathers of his wings
were tinged with rose color. The ends of them were
bright red, as though dipped in fresh spilled scarlet blood.
From time to time they quivered rapidly with a sweet,
(13:04):
silvery sound, the sound of rain and spring. The other
was thin, and his skin yellowish. At every breath, his
ribs could be seen faintly heaving. His hair was fair,
thin and straight, his eyes big, round, pale gray, his
glance uneasy and strangely bright. All his features were sharp,
(13:24):
the little half open mouth with pointed fish like teeth,
the pinched eagle nose, the projecting chin covered with whitish down,
the parched lips. Never once smiled. It was a well
cut face, but terrible and pitiless. Though the face of
the first, the beautiful youth, sweet and lovely as it was,
showed no trace of pity either. About the head of
(13:45):
the second youth were twisted a few broken and empty
ears of corn entwined with faded grass stalks. A coarse
gray cloth girt his loins. The wings behind a dull,
dark gray color. Moved slowly and menacingly. The two youths
seemed inseparable companions. Each of them leaned upon the other's shoulder.
The soft hand of the first lay like a cluster
(14:07):
of grapes upon the bony neck of the second. The
slender wrist of the second, with its long, delicate fingers,
coiled like a snake about the girlish bosom of the first.
And I heard a voice. This is what it said.
Love and hunger stand before thee twin brothers, the two
foundation stones of all things living. All that lives moves
(14:30):
to get food and feeds to bring forth young love
and hunger. Their aim is one that life should cease,
not the life of the individual and the life of others,
the same universal life. The egoist he had every qualification
(14:51):
for becoming the scourge of his family. He was born healthy,
was born wealthy, and throughout the whole of his long life,
continuing to be wealthy and healthy. He never committed a
single sin, never fell into a single error, never once
made a slip or a blunder. He was irreproachably conscientious
and complaisant in the sense of his own conscientiousness. He
(15:12):
crushed every one with it, his family, his friends, and
his acquaintances. His conscientiousness was his capital, and he exacted
an exorbitant interest for it. His conscientiousness gave him the
right to be merciless and to do no good deeds
beyond what it dictated to him. And he was merciless
and did no good for good that is dictated is
(15:34):
no good at all. He took no interest in any
one except his own exemplary self, and was genuinely indignant
if others did not take as studious an interest in it.
At the same time, he did not consider himself an egoist,
and was particularly severe in censuring and keen in detecting
egoists and egoism. To be sure he was the egoism
(15:58):
of another, was a check on his own. Not recognizing
the smallest weakness in himself, he did not understand, did
not tolerate any weakness in any one. He did not,
in fact understand any one or anything. Since he was
all on all sides, above and below, before and behind,
encircled by himself. He did not even understand the meaning
(16:21):
of forgiveness. He had never had to forgive himself. What
inducement could he have to forgive others? Before the tribunal
of his own conscience, before the face of his own God,
He this marvel, this monster of virtue, raised his eyes heavenwards,
and with clear, unfaltering voice, declared, Yes, I am exemplary,
(16:43):
a truly moral man. He will repeat these words on
his death bed, and there will be no throb even
then in his heart of stone, and that heart without
stain or blemish. Oh, hideousness of self, complaisant, unbending, cheaply
bought virtue, Thou art almost more revolting than the frank,
(17:05):
hideousness of vice the banquet of the Supreme Being. One day,
the Supreme Being took it into his head to give
a great banquet in his palace of Azure. All the
virtues were invited. Only the virtues men, He did not ask,
only ladies. There were a great many of them, great
(17:27):
and small. The lesser virtues were more agreeable and genial
than the great ones. But they all appeared in good
humor and chatted amiably together, as was only becoming for
near relations and friends. But the Supreme Being noticed two
charming ladies who seemed to be totally unacquainted. The host
gave one of the ladies his arm and led her
up to the other. Beneficence, he said, indicating the first gratitude,
(17:53):
he added, indicating the second. Both the virtues were amazed
beyond expression. Ever since the world had stood, and it
had been standing a long time, this was the first
time they had met the sphinx. Yellowish gray, sand, soft
at the top, hard grating below sand without end wherever
(18:16):
one looks, and above this sandy desert, above the sea
of dead dust, rises the immense head of the Egyptian Sphinx.
What would they say, those thick projecting lips those immutable, distended,
upturned nostrils, and those eyes, those long, half drowsy, half
watchful eyes under the double arch of the high brows.
(18:40):
Something they would say, they are speaking truly, but only
Oedipus can solve the riddle and comprehend their mute speech. Stay,
but I know those features in them. There is nothing
Egyptian white, low brow, prominent cheek bones, nose, short and straight,
handsome mouth and white teeth, soft mustache and curly beard,
(19:02):
and those wide set, not large eyes, and on the
head the cap of hair parted down the middle. But
it is thou carp Cedar Simon, peasant of Yaroslav, of Rhyazan,
my countrymen, flesh and blood, Russian art thou too among
the sphinxes? Wouldst thou too say somewhat yes? And thou
(19:23):
too art a sphinx? And thy eyes, those colorless, deep
eyes are speaking to and as mute and enigmatic as
their speech. But where is thy Oedipus Alas it is
not enough to don the peasant's smock to become thy Oedipus,
O sphinx of all the rushes, the nymphs. I stood
(19:47):
before a chain of beautiful mountains forming a semicircle. A
young green forest covered them from summit to base, limpidly
blue above them was the southern sky. On the heights,
the sunbeams rioted below, half hidden in the grass, swift
brooks were babbling. And the old fable came to my mind.
(20:07):
How in the first century after Christ's birth, a Greek
ship was sailing on the Aegean Sea. The hour was midday,
it was still weather, and suddenly, up aloft above the
pilot's head, some one called, distinctly, when thou sailest by
the island, shout in a loud voice, great Pan is dead.
The pilot was amazed, afraid, but when the ship passed
(20:28):
the island, he obeyed. He called Great Pan is dead,
and at once, in response to his shout, all along
the coast, though the island was uninhabited, sounded loud sobs, moans,
long drawn out, plaintive wailings. Dead, dead is Great Pan.
I recalled this story, and a strange thought came to
(20:51):
what if I call an invocation? But in the sight
of the exultant beauty around me, I could not think
of death. And with all my might I shall Great
pan Is arisen. A risen and at once wonder of wonders.
In answer to my call, from all the wide half
circle of green mountains came peals of joyous laughter rose,
(21:12):
the murmur of glad voices, and the clapping of hands.
He is risen, pan is a resin clamored, fresh young voices.
Everything before me burst into sudden laughter, Brighter than the
sun on high, merrier than the brooks that babbled among
the grass, I heard the hurried thought of light steps
among the green undergrowth. There were gleams of the marble,
(21:35):
white of flowing tunics, the living flush of bare limbs.
It was the nymphs, nymphs, dryads, bacantes, hastening from the
heights down to the plain. All at once. They appeared
at every opening in the woods. Their curls flowed about
their godlike heads. Their slender hands hold aloft wreaths and cymbals,
(21:56):
and laughter, sparkling, olympian laughter comes leaping dancing with them.
Before them moves a goddess. She is taller and fairer
than the rest, A quiver on her shoulder, a bow
in her hands, a silvery crescent moon on her flowing tresses.
Diana is it thou. But suddenly the goddess stopped, and
(22:18):
at once all the nymphs following her stopped. The ringing
laughter died away. I see the face of the hushed goddess,
overspread with a deadly pallor. I saw her feet grew
rooted to the ground, her lips parted in unutterable horror.
Her eyes grew wide, fixed on the distance. What had
she seen? What was she gazing upon? I turned where
(22:40):
she was gazing, and on the distant sky line above
the low strip of fields gleamed like a point of fire,
the golden cross on the white bell tower of a
Christian church. That cross the goddess had caught sight of.
I heard behind me a long, broken sigh, like the
quiver of a broken string. And when I turned again,
(23:01):
no trace was left of the nymphs. The broad forest
was green as before, and only here and there among
the thick network of branches were fading gleams of something white,
whether the nymphs, white robes, or a mist rising from
the valley, I know not, but how I mourned for
those vanished goddesses, friend and enemy. A prisoner condemned to
(23:28):
confinement for life broke out of his prison and took
the headlong flight after him, just on his heels flew
his jailers in pursuit. He ran with all his might.
His pursuers began to be left behind. But behold before
him was a river with precipitous banks, a narrow but
deep river, and he could not swim. A thin, rotten
(23:50):
plank had been thrown across from one bank to the other.
The fugitive already had his foot upon it. But it
so happened that just there beside the river stood his
best friend and his bitterest enemy. His enemy said nothing,
he merely folded his arms. But the friend shrieked at
the top of his voice. Heavens, what are you doing, madman?
Think what you're about? Don't you see? The plank's utterly rotten.
(24:13):
It will break under your weight, and you will inevitably perish.
But there is no other way to cross. And don't
you hear them in pursuit, groaned the poor wretch in despair,
and he stepped on to the plank. I won't allow it, no,
I won't allow you to rush to destruction, cried the
zealous friend, and he snatched the plank from under the fugitive.
(24:35):
The latter instantly fell into the boiling torrent and was drowned.
The enemy smiled complacently and walked away, But the friend
sat down on the bank and fell to weeping bitterly
over his poor, poor friend. To blame himself for his
destruction did not, however, occur to him, not for an instant.
He would not listen to me. He would not listen,
(24:57):
he murmured dejectedly. The Oh, indeed, he added, at last,
he would have had to be sure to languish his
whole life long in an awful prison. At any rate,
he is out of suffering now, he is better off now.
Such was bound to be his fate, I suppose, And
yet I am sorry from humane feeling. And the kind
(25:21):
soul continued to sob inconsolably over the fate of his
misguided friend. Christ I saw myself in dream, a youth,
almost a boy, in a low pitched wooden church. The
slim wax candles gleamed spots of red before the old
pictures of the saints. A ring of colored light encircled
(25:42):
each tiny flame. Dark and dim it was in the church,
But there stood before me many people, all fair haired,
peasant heads. From time to time they began swaying, falling,
rising again, like the ripe ears of wheat when the
wind of summer passes in slow undulate over them all.
At once some man came up from behind and stood
(26:04):
beside me. I did not turn towards him, but at
once I felt that this man was Christ. Emotion curiosity
awe overmastered me. Suddenly I made an effort and looked
at my neighbor, a face like every one's, a face
like all men's faces. The eyes looked a little upwards,
(26:25):
quietly and intently, the lips closed but not compressed, the
upper lip as it were resting on the lower. A
small beard parted in two, the hands folded and still,
and the clothes on him like every one's. What sort
of Christ is this? I thought, such an ordinary, ordinary man.
(26:46):
It can't be. I turned away. But I had hardly
turned my eyes away from this ordinary man when I
felt again that it really was none other than Christ.
Standing beside me again, I made an effort over myself,
and again the same face, like all men's faces, the
same every day though unknown features. And suddenly my heart sank,
(27:07):
and I came to myself Only then I realized that
just such a face, a face like all men's faces,
is the face of Christ. The Stone eighteen seventy nine,
eighteen eighty two. Have you ever seen an old gray
stone on the sea shore, when at high tide on
(27:28):
a sunny day of spring, the living waves break upon
it on all sides, break and frolic and caress it,
and sprinkle over its sea mossed head to scattered pearls
of sparkling foam. The stone is still the same stone,
but its sullen surface blossoms out into bright colors. They
tell of those far off days when the molten granite
(27:51):
had but begun to harden, and was all aglow with
the hues of fire. Even so of late was my
old heart surrounded, broken in upon by a rush of
fresh girl's souls, and under their caressing touch, it flushed
with long faded colors, the traces of burnt out fires.
The waves have ebbed back, but the colors are not
(28:12):
yet dull, though a cutting wind is drying them. The doves.
I stood on top of a sloping hillside. Before me,
a gold and silver sea, shifting color stretched the ripe rye,
But no little wavelets ran over that sea. No stir
of wind was in the stifling air. A great storm
(28:35):
was gathering near me. The sun still shone with dusky fire.
But beyond the rye, not very far away, a dark
blue storm cloud lay a menacing mass over full half
of the horizon. All was hushed. All things were faint
under the malignant glare of the last sun rays. No sound,
(28:55):
no sight of a bird. Even the sparrows hid themselves
only so somewhere close by, persistently a great burdock leaf
flapped and whispered. How strong was the smell of the
wormwood and the hedges. I looked at the dark blue mass.
There was a vague uneasiness at my heart. Come then, quickly,
(29:16):
quickly was my thought, Flash, golden snake, and roll thunder, move, hasten,
break into flood's evil storm cloud cut short this agony
of suspense. But the storm cloud did not move. It
lay as before, a stifling weight upon the hushed earth,
and only seemed to swell and darken and lo over
(29:38):
its dead, dusky blue. Something darted in smooth, even flight,
like a white handkerchief or a handful of snow. It
was a white dove flying from the direction of the village.
It flew, flew on straight and plunged into the forest.
Some instance passed by, still the same cruel hush. But look.
(30:00):
Two handkerchiefs gleam in the air. Two handfuls of snow
are floating back. Two white doves are winging their way
homewards with even flight. And now at last the storm
has broken, and the tumult has begun. I could hardly
get home. The wind howled, tossing hither and thither, and frenzy.
Before its scudded. Low red clouds torn it seemed into shreds.
(30:23):
Everything was whirled round in confusion. The lashing rain streamed
in furious torrents down the upright trunks. Flashes of lightning
were blinding with greenish light. Sudden peals of thunder boomed
like cannon shots. The air was full of the smell
of sulfur. But under the overhanging roof, on the sill
of the dormer window, side by side, sat two white doves,
(30:45):
the one who flew after his mate and the mate
he brought back, saved perhaps from destruction. They sit ruffling
up their feathers, and each fills his mate's wing against
his wing. They are happy, and I am happy seeing them,
though I am alone, alone, as always tomorrow tomorrow. How empty,
(31:10):
dull and useless is almost every day when it is spent,
How few the traces it leaves behind it, How meaningless,
how foolish those hours as they coursed by one after another.
And yet it is man's wish to exist. He prizes life,
he rests hope on it, on himself, On the future. Oh,
what blessings he looks for from the future. But why
(31:33):
does he imagine that other coming days will not be
like this day he has just lived through. Nay, he
does not even imagine it. He likes not to think
at all, and he does well. Ah, tomorrow to morrow,
he comforts himself till tomorrow pitches him into the grave. Well,
and once in the grave, thou hast no choice, Thou
(31:55):
doest no more thinking nature. I dreamed I had come
into an immense underground temple with lofty arched roof. It
was filled with a sort of underground uniform light. In
the very middle of the temple sat a majestic woman
in a flowing robe of green color, her head propped
(32:16):
on her hand. She seemed buried in deep thought. At
once I was aware that this woman was nature herself,
and a thrill of reverent awe sent an instantaneous shiver
through my inmost soul. I approached the sitting figure, and
making a respectful bow, O common mother of us, all,
I cried of what is thy meditation? Is it of
(32:36):
the future destinies of man? Thou ponderest? Or how he
may attain the highest possible perfection and happiness? The woman
slowly turned upon me her dark, menacing eyes, Her lips moved,
and I heard a ringing voice, like the clang of iron.
I am thinking how to give greater power to the
leg muscles of the flea, that he may more easily
(32:57):
escape from his enemies. The balance of attack and defense
is broken. It must be restored. What I faltered in reply?
What is it thou art thinking upon? But are not
we men thy favorite children? The woman frowned slightly. All
creatures are my children, she pronounced, And I care for
(33:19):
them alike and all alike I destroy but right reason justice?
I faltered again. Those are men's words, I heard the
iron voice, saying, I know not right nor wrong. Reason
is no law for me? And what is justice? I
have given thee life, I shall take it away and
(33:39):
give to others, worms or men. I care not do
thou meanwhile look out for thyself and hinder me not
I would have retorted, But the earth uttered a hollow
groan and shuddered, and I awoke hang him. It happened
in eighteen o three, began my old acquaintance. Not long
(34:01):
before Austerlitz. The regiment in which I was an officer
was quartered in Moravia. We had strict orders not to
molest or annoy the inhabitants. As it was, they regarded
us very dubiously, though we were supposed to be allies.
I had a servant, formerly a serf of my mother's,
Yegor by name. He was a quiet, honest fellow. I
(34:22):
had known him from a child and treated him as
a friend well. One day in the house where I
was living, I heard screams of abuse, cries and lamentations.
The woman of the house had had two hens stolen,
and she laid the theft at my servant's door. He
defended himself, called me to witness. Likely he'd turned thief.
(34:42):
He Yegor Avtamanov. I assured the woman of Yegor's honesty,
but she would not listen to me. All at once
the thought of horses hoofs was heard along the street.
The Commander in Chief was riding by with his staff.
He was riding at a walking pace, a stout, corpulent man,
with drooping head and e letts hanging on his breast.
(35:02):
The woman saw him, and, rushing before his horse, flung
herself on her knees and bareheaded, and all in disorder.
She began loudly complaining of my servant. Pointing at him General,
she screamed, your excellency, make an inquiry, help me save me.
The soldier has robbed me. Yegor stood at the door
of the house, bolt upright, his cap in his hand.
(35:23):
He even arched his chest and brought his heels together
like a sentry, and not a word. Whether he was
abashed at all the General's suite, halting there in the
middle of the street, or stupefied by the calamity facing him,
I can't say. But there stood my poor Yegor, blinking
and white as chalk. The Commander in Chief cast an
abstracted and sullen glance at him, growled angrily, Well, Egor
(35:47):
stood like a statue, showing his teeth as if he
were grinning. Looking at him from the side, you'd say
the fellow was laughing. Then the commander in chief jerked out,
hung him, spurred his horse, and moved on, first at
a walking pace, then in a quick trot. The whole
staff hurried after him. Only one adjuttant turned round on
his saddle and took a passing glance at Igor. To
(36:10):
disobey was impossible. Egor was seized at once and led
off to execution. Then he broke down altogether and simply
gasped out twice, Grace's heavens, Grace's heavens, and then in
a whisper, God knows it wasn't me. Bitterly, bitterly, he cried,
saying good bye to me. I was in despair, Yegor, Yegor,
(36:31):
I cried, How came it? You said nothing to the general.
God knows it wasn't me, the poor fellow repeated, sobbing.
The woman herself was horrified. She had never expected such
a dreadful termination, and she started howling on her own account.
She fell to imploring all in each for mercy. Swore
the hens had been found that she was ready to
(36:54):
clear it all up. Of course, all that was no
sort of use. Those were sir, discipline. The woman sobbed
louder and louder. Yegor, who had received absolution from the priest,
turned to me, tell her your honor not to upset herself.
I've forgiven her my acquaintance. As he repeated this, his
(37:16):
servants last words murmured, my poor Yegor, dear fellow, a
real saint, And the tears trickled down his old cheeks.
What shall I think? What shall I think when I
come to die? If only I am in a condition
to think anything, Then shall I think? How little use
(37:38):
I have made of my life? How I have slumbered
dozed through it? How little I've known how to enjoy
its gifts? What is this death so soon impossible? Why
I have had no time to do anything? Yet I
have only been making ready to begin. Shall I recall
the past and dwell in thought on the few bright
(37:58):
moments I have lived through, on precious images and faces.
Will my ill deeds come back to my mind? And
will my soul be stung by the burning pain of remorse?
Too late? Shall I think of what awaits me? Beyond
the grave, and in truth does anything await me there?
No I fancy. I shall try not to think, and
(38:21):
shall force myself to take interest in some trifle, simply
to distract my own attention from the menacing darkness which
is black before me. I once saw a dying man
who kept complaining they would not let him have hazel
nuts to munch. And only in the depths of his
fast dimming eyes something quivered and struggled, like the torn
(38:42):
wing of a bird wounded to death. How fair? How
fresh were the roses? Somewhere, some time, long long ago,
I read a poem. It was soon forgotten, but the
first line has stuck in my memory. How fair, How
fresh were the roses? Now is winter, the frosts iced
(39:05):
over the window panes, and the dark room burns a
solitary candle. I sit huddled up in a corner, and
in my head the line keeps echoing and echoing, How fair,
How fresh were the roses? And I see myself before
the low window of a Russian country house. The summer
evening is slowly melting into night. The warm air is
(39:26):
fragrant of mignonette and lime blossom, And at the window
leaning on her arm, her head bent on her shoulder,
sits a young girl and silently, intently gazes into the sky,
as though looking for new stars to come out. What candor,
what inspiration in the dreamy eyes, What moving innocence in
(39:47):
the parted, questioning lips, How calmly breathes that still growing,
still untroubled bosom, How pure and tender the profile of
the young face. I dare not speak to her, but
how dear she is to me? How my heart beats?
How fair? How fresh were the roses? But here in
(40:09):
the room it gets darker and darker. The candle burns
dim and gutters, Dancing shadows quiver on the low ceiling.
The cruel crunch of the frost is heard outside and within,
the dreary murmur of old age, How fair, how fresh
were the roses? There? Rise up before me. Other images
(40:31):
I hear the merry hubbub of home life in the country.
Two flaxen heads, bending close together, looks saucily at me
with their bright eyes. Rosy cheeks shake with suppressed laughter,
hands are clasped in warm affection. Young kind voices ring
one above the other, while a little farther at the
end of the snug room. Other hands young too, fly
(40:52):
with unskilled fingers over the keys of the old piano,
and the lanner waltz cannot drown the hissing of the
patriarchal someovar. How fair? How fresh were the roses? The
candle flickers and goes out? Who is that? Hoarse and
hollow cough? Curled up? My old dog lies shuddering at
(41:13):
my feet, my only companion. I'm cold, I'm frozen, and
all of them are dead dead? How fair? How fresh
were the roses on the sea. I was going from
(41:34):
Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers,
I and a little female monkey whom a Hamburg merchant
was sending as a present to his English partner. She
was fastened by a light chain to one of the
seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in
a little plaintive pipe like a bird's. Every time I
passed by her, she stretched out her little black, cold
(41:55):
hand and peeped up at me out of her little, mournful,
almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased
whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm
the sea stretched on all sides, like a motionless sheet
of leaden color. It seemed narrowed and small. A thick
fog overhung it, hiding the very mast tops in cloud
(42:16):
and dazing, and wearying the eyes with its soft obscurity.
The sun hung a dull red blur in this obscurity,
but before evening it glowed with strange, mysterious, lurid light.
Long straight folds, like the folds in some heavy silken stuff,
passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prow,
(42:37):
and broadening as they passed, and wrinkling and widening, were
smoothed out again with a shake and vanished. The foam
flew up, churned by the tediously thudding wheels, white as milk,
with a faint hiss, It broke up into serpentine eddies,
and then melted together again and vanished, too, swallowed up
by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's wand
(43:00):
rang the small bell at the stern from time to time,
a porpoise swam up and with a sudden roll, disappeared
below the scarcely ruffled surface, and the captain, a silent
man with a gloomy, sunburnt face, smoked a short pipe
and angrily spat into the dull, stagnant sea. To all
my inquiries, he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was
(43:21):
obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I
sat down beside her. She ceased whining, and again held
out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us
both with its drowsy dampness, and buried in the same
unconscious dreaminess. We sat side by side, like brother and sister.
I smiled now, but then I had another feeling. We
(43:46):
are all children of one mother, and I was glad
that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so
confidingly up to me as to a brother in in
calmly and gracefully. Thou movest along the path of life,
tearless and smileless and scarce. A heedless glance of indifferent
attention ruffles thy calm. Thou art good and wise, and
(44:11):
all things are remote from thee, and of no one
hast thou need. Thou art fair, And no one can
say whether thou prizest thy beauty or not. No sympathy
hast thou to give. None, dost thou desire thy glance?
Is deep, and no thought is in it. In that
clear depth is emptiness. So in the Elysian field, to
(44:33):
the solemn strains of Gluk's melodies move without grief or bliss.
The graceful shades stay, stay, as I see thee now
abide forever in my memory. From thy lips the last
inspired note has broken. No light, no flash is in
thy eyes. They are dim, weighed down by the load
(44:56):
of happiness, of the blissful sense of the beauty. It
has been the thy glad lot to express the beauty
groping for which thou hadst stretched out thy yearning hands,
thy triumphant, exhausted hands. What is the radiance, purer and
higher than the sun's radiance? All about thy limbs, the
least fold of thy raiment. What God's caressing breath has
(45:18):
set thy scattered tresses, floating His kiss burns on thy brow?
White now is marble. This is it, the mystery revealed,
the mystery of poesy, of life, of love. This this
is immortality, other immortality. There is none nor need be
for this instant. Thou art immortal, It passes, and once
(45:41):
more thou art a grain of dust, a woman, a child,
But why needst thou care for this instant? Thou art above,
Thou art outside all that is passing temporary, This thy
instant will never end. Stay and let me share in
thy immortality. Shed into my soul the light of thy eternity.
(46:07):
The monk I used to know, a monk, a hermit,
a saint. He lived only for the sweetness of prayer,
and steeping himself in it. He would stand so long
on the cold floor of the church that his legs
below the knees grew numb and senseless as blocks of wood.
He did not feel them. He stood on and prayed.
(46:28):
I understood him, and perhaps envied him. But let him
too understand me, and not condemn me, me for whom
his joys are inaccessible. He has attained to annihilating himself
his hateful ego. But I too, it's not from egoism,
I pray not. My ego may be is even more
(46:50):
burdensome and more odious to me than his to him.
He is found wherein to forget himself, But I too
find the same, though not so continuously. He does not lie,
but neither do I lie. We will still fight on
(47:10):
what an insignificant trifle may sometimes transform the whole man
full of melancholy thought. I walked one day along the
high road. My heart was oppressed by a weight of
gloomy apprehension. I was overwhelmed by dejection. I raised my
head before me between two rows of tall poplars. The
road darted like an arrow in the distance, and across it,
(47:33):
Across this road, ten paces from me, in the golden
light of the dazzling summer sunshine, a whole family of
sparrows hopped, one after another, hopped saucily, drolly, self reliantly.
One of them in particular, skipped along sideways with desperate energy,
puffing out his little bosom and chirping impudently, as though
(47:54):
to say he was not afraid of any one, A
gallant little warrior, really. And meanwhile, high overhead in the heavens,
hovered a hawk, destined perhaps to devour that little warrior.
I looked, laughed, shook myself, and the mournful thoughts flew
right away. Pluck daring zeal for life, I felt anew.
(48:16):
Let him too, hover over me, my hawk, we will
fight on and damn it all. Prayer whatever a man
pray for, he prays for a miracle. Every prayer reduces
to this great God, grant that twice two be not four.
(48:37):
Only such a prayer as a real prayer, from person
to person, to pray, to the cosmic Spirit, to the
Higher Being, to the Kantian Hegelian quintessential formless God is
impossible and unthinkable. But can even a personal, living, imaged
God make twice two not be four? Every believer is
bound to answer he can, and is bound to persuade
(49:00):
himself of it. But if reason sets him revolting against
this senselessness, then Shakespeare comes to his aid. There are
more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, et cetera. And
if they set about confuting him in the name of truth,
he has but to repeat the famous question, what is truth?
(49:20):
And so let us drink and be merry, and say
our prayers. The Russian tongue in days of doubt, in
days of dreary musings on my country's fate, Thou alone
art my stay and support mighty true, free Russian speech.
But for thee how not fall into despair seeing all
(49:43):
that is done at home? But who can think that
such a tongue is not the gift of a great People.
End of Section seven Poems and Prose, Part two. End
of dream Tales and Prose Poems by Ivan Turgenev
Section seven of dream Tales and Prose Poems by Ivan Turkenyeff.
This LibriVox recordings in the public Domain reed by Ben Tucker.
Poems in Prose, Part two Alms. Near a large town
along the broad high road, walked an old sick man.
(00:21):
He tottered as he went, his old waisted legs halting, dragging, stumbling,
moved painfully and feebly, as though they did not belong
to him. His clothes hung in rags about him. His
uncovered head drooped on his breast. He was utterly worn out.
He sat down on a stone by the wayside, bent forward,
(00:41):
lined his elbows on his knees, hid his face in
his hands, and through the knotted fingers, the tears dropped
down on to the gray, dry dust. He remembered, remembered
how he too had been strong and rich, and how
he had wasted his health, and had lavished his riches
upon others, friends and enemies. And here he had not
(01:02):
now a crust of bread, and all had forsaken him friends,
even before foes. Must he sink to begging alms. There
was bitterness in his heart and shame. The tears still
dropped and dropped, spotting the gray dust. Suddenly he heard
some one call him by his name. He lifted his
(01:22):
weary head and saw standing before him a stranger, a
face calm and grave but not stern, eyes not beaming
but clear, a look penetrating but not unkind. Thou hast
given away all thy riches, said a tranquil voice. But
thou dost not regret having done good? Surely I regret it, not,
(01:45):
answered the old man with a sigh. But here I
am dying now. And had there been no beggars who
held out their hands to thee, the stranger went on,
thou wouldst have had none on whom to prove thy goodness,
thou thou couldst not have done thy good works. The
old man answered nothing, and pondered, so be thou also
(02:07):
now not proud, poor man? The stranger began again, Go
thou hold out thy hand. Do thou too, give to
other good men a chance to prove in deeds that
they are good? The old man started raised his eyes,
but already the stranger had vanished, and in the distance
a man came into sight walking along the road. The
(02:28):
old man went up to him and held out his hand.
This man turned away with a surly face, and gave
him nothing. But after him another passed, and he gave
the old man some trifling alms, And the old man
bought himself bread with the coppers given him, and sweet
to him. Seemed the morsel gained by begging, and there
was no shame in his heart, but the contrary, peace
(02:50):
and joy came as a blessing upon him. The insect.
I dreamed that we were sitting a party of twenty
in a big room with open windows. Among us were women, children,
old men. We were all talking of some very well
known subject, talking noisily and indistinctly. Suddenly, with a sharp
(03:12):
whirring sound, there flew into the room a big insect
two inches long. It flew in, circled round, and settled
on the wall. It was like a fly or a wasp,
Its body dirt colored of the same color too, its flat,
stiff wings, outspread feathered claws, and a head thick and
angular like a dragon flies. Both head and claws were
(03:33):
bright red, as though steeped in blood. This strange insect
incessantly turned its head up and down, to right and
to left, moved its claws, then suddenly darted from the
wall flew with a whirring sound about the room, and
again settled again, hatefully and loathsomely, wriggling all over without
stirring from the spot. In all of us, it excited
(03:56):
a sensation of loathing, dread, even terror. No one of
us had ever seen anything like it. We all cried,
drive that monstrous thing away, and waved our handkerchiefs at
it from a distance, but no one ventured to go
up to it. And when the insect began flying, every
one instinctively moved away. Only one of our party, a
(04:17):
pale faced young man, stared at us all in amazement.
He shrugged his shoulders, he smiled, and positively could not
conceive what had happened to us, and why we were
in such a state of excitement. He himself did not
see an insect at all, did not hear the ill
omened whirr of its wings. All at once, the insect
seemed to stare at him, darted off, and dropping on
(04:39):
its head, stung him on the forehead above the eyes.
The young man feebly groaned and fell dead. The fearful
fly flew out at once. Only then we guessed what
it was had visited us. Cabbage soup. A peasant woman,
a widow, had an only son, a young man of twenty,
(05:02):
the best workman in the village, and he died. The lady,
who was the owner of the village, hearing of the
woman's trouble, went to visit her on the very day
of the burial. She found her at home, standing in
the middle of her hut before the table. She was
without haste, with a regular movement of the right arm.
The left hung listless at her side, scooping up weak
(05:24):
cabbage soup from the bottom of a blackened pot and
swallowing it spoonful by spoonful. The woman's face was sunken
and dark, her eyes were red and swollen, but she
held herself as rigid and upright as in church. Heavens,
thought the lady, she can eat at such a moment.
What coarse feelings they have, really, all of them. And
(05:47):
at that point the lady recollected that when a few
years before she had lost her little daughter nine months old,
she had refused in her grief a lovely country villa
near Petersburg, and had spent the whole summer in town. Meanwhile,
the woman went on swallowing cabbage soup. The lady could
not contain herself at last, Tatiana, she said, really, I'm surprised.
(06:09):
Is it possible you didn't care for your son? How
is it you've not lost your appetite? How can you
eat that soup? My vage is dead, said the woman quietly,
and tears of anguish ran once more down her hollow cheeks.
It's the end of me too, of course, it's tearing
the heart out of me alive. But the soup's not
(06:30):
to be wasted. There's salt in it. The lady only
shrugged her shoulders and went away. Salt did not cost
her much. The realm of azure O, realm of azure O,
realm of light and color, of youth and happiness. I
have beheld thee in dream. We were together, a few
(06:51):
in a beautiful little boat, gayly decked out like a
swan's breast. The white sail swelled below, the streamers frolicking
in the wind. I knew not who were with me,
but in all my soul I felt that they were young,
light hearted, happy as I. But I looked not indeed
on them. I beheld all round the boundless blue of
the sea, dimpled with scales of gold, and overhead the
(07:14):
same boundless sea of blue, and in it, triumphant and mirthful,
it seemed, moved the sun. And among us ever and
anon rose laughter, ringing and gleeful as the laughter of
the gods. And on a sudden from one man's lips
to another's would flow words, songs of divine beauty and
inspiration and power. It seemed the sky itself echoed back
(07:38):
a greeting to them, and the sea quivered in unison,
then followed again the blissful stillness. Riding lightly over the
soft waves, swiftly, our little boats sped on. No wind
drove it along our own lightly beating hearts guided it
at our will. It floated, obedient as a living thing.
(07:59):
We came on island enchanted islands, half transparent with the
prismatic lights of precious stones, of amethysts and emeralds. Odors
of bewildering fragrance rose from the rounded shores. Some of
these islands showered on us a rain of roses and
valley lilies. From others, birds darted up with long wings
(08:19):
of rainbow hues. The birds flew circling above us, the
lilies and roses melted away in the pearly foam that
glided by the smooth sides of our boat. And with
the flowers and the birds, sounds floated to us, sounds
sweet as honey, women's voices. One fancied in them. And
all about us, sky sea, the heaving sail aloft, the
(08:42):
gurgling water at the rudder, all spoke of love, of
happy love. And she, the beloved of each of us.
She was there, unseen and close one moment more, and behold,
her eyes will shine upon thee, her smile will blossom
on thee her hands, and will take thy hand and
guide thee to the land of joy that fades. Not
(09:05):
o realm of azure in dream have I beheld thee
two rich men. When I hear the praises of the
rich man rothschild, who, out of his immense revenues, devotes
whole thousands to the education of children, the care of
the sick, the support of the aged, I admire and
(09:25):
am touched. But even while I admire it and am
touched by it, I cannot help recalling a poor peasant
family who took an orphaned niece into their little tumble
down hut. If we take Kotka, said the woman. Our
last farthing will go to her. There won't be enough
to get as salt to salt us a bit of bread. Well,
(09:46):
we'll do without salt, answered the peasant. Her husband rothschild
is a long way behind that peasant, the old man.
Days of darkness, of dreariness have come thy own infirmities,
the sufferings of those dear to thee, the chill and
gloom of old age. All that thou hast loved to
(10:09):
which thou hast given thyself irrevocably is falling, going to pieces.
The way is all down hill. What canst thou do grieve?
Complain thou wilt aid, not thyself nor others that way
On the bowed and withering tree, the leaves are smaller
and fewer, but its green is yet the same. Do
(10:30):
thou too, shrink within, withdraw into thyself, into thy memories,
and there, deep down in the very depths of the soul,
turned inwards on itself, thy old life to which thou
alone hadst. The key will be bright again for thee
in all the fragrance, all the fresh green, and the
grace and power of its spring. But beware look not
(10:54):
forward poor old man. The reporter. Two friends were sitting
at a table drinking tea. A sudden hubbub arose in
the street. They heard pitiable groans, furious abuse, bursts of
malignant laughter. They're beating some one, observed one of the
friends looking out of window. A criminal, a murderer, inquired
(11:18):
the other. I say, whatever he may be, we can't
allow this illegal chastisement. Let's go and take his part.
But it's not a murderer they're beating. Not a murderer.
Is it a thief? Then it makes no difference. Let's
go and get him away from the crowd. It's not
a thief either, Not a thief. Is it an absconding cashier.
(11:39):
Then a railway director, an army contractor, a Russian art patron,
a lawyer, a conservative editor, a social reformer. Anyway, let's
go and help him. No, it's a newspaper reporter there
beating a reporter. Uh, I tell you what. We'll finish
our glasses of tea first. Then the two brothers. It
(12:01):
was a vision. Two angels appeared to me, two genie,
I say angels, Genie, because both had no clothes on
their naked bodies and behind their shoulders, rose long, powerful wings.
Both were youths. One was rather plump, with soft, smooth
skin and dark curls. His eyes were brown and full
(12:22):
with thick eyelashes. His look was sly, merry, and eager.
His face was charming, bewitching, a little insolent, a little wicked.
His full, soft crimson lips were faintly quivering. The youth
smiled as one possessing power, self confidently and languidly. A
magnificent wreath of flowers rested lightly on his shining tresses,
(12:42):
almost touching his velvety eyebrows. A spotted leopard's skin, pinned
up with a golden arrow, hung lightly from his curved
shoulder to his rounded thigh. The feathers of his wings
were tinged with rose color. The ends of them were
bright red, as though dipped in fresh spilled scarlet blood.
From time to time they quivered rapidly with a sweet,
(13:04):
silvery sound, the sound of rain and spring. The other
was thin, and his skin yellowish. At every breath, his
ribs could be seen faintly heaving. His hair was fair,
thin and straight, his eyes big, round, pale gray, his
glance uneasy and strangely bright. All his features were sharp,
(13:24):
the little half open mouth with pointed fish like teeth,
the pinched eagle nose, the projecting chin covered with whitish down,
the parched lips. Never once smiled. It was a well
cut face, but terrible and pitiless. Though the face of
the first, the beautiful youth, sweet and lovely as it was,
showed no trace of pity either. About the head of
(13:45):
the second youth were twisted a few broken and empty
ears of corn entwined with faded grass stalks. A coarse
gray cloth girt his loins. The wings behind a dull,
dark gray color. Moved slowly and menacingly. The two youths
seemed inseparable companions. Each of them leaned upon the other's shoulder.
The soft hand of the first lay like a cluster
(14:07):
of grapes upon the bony neck of the second. The
slender wrist of the second, with its long, delicate fingers,
coiled like a snake about the girlish bosom of the first.
And I heard a voice. This is what it said.
Love and hunger stand before thee twin brothers, the two
foundation stones of all things living. All that lives moves
(14:30):
to get food and feeds to bring forth young love
and hunger. Their aim is one that life should cease,
not the life of the individual and the life of others,
the same universal life. The egoist he had every qualification
(14:51):
for becoming the scourge of his family. He was born healthy,
was born wealthy, and throughout the whole of his long life,
continuing to be wealthy and healthy. He never committed a
single sin, never fell into a single error, never once
made a slip or a blunder. He was irreproachably conscientious
and complaisant in the sense of his own conscientiousness. He
(15:12):
crushed every one with it, his family, his friends, and
his acquaintances. His conscientiousness was his capital, and he exacted
an exorbitant interest for it. His conscientiousness gave him the
right to be merciless and to do no good deeds
beyond what it dictated to him. And he was merciless
and did no good for good that is dictated is
(15:34):
no good at all. He took no interest in any
one except his own exemplary self, and was genuinely indignant
if others did not take as studious an interest in it.
At the same time, he did not consider himself an egoist,
and was particularly severe in censuring and keen in detecting
egoists and egoism. To be sure he was the egoism
(15:58):
of another, was a check on his own. Not recognizing
the smallest weakness in himself, he did not understand, did
not tolerate any weakness in any one. He did not,
in fact understand any one or anything. Since he was
all on all sides, above and below, before and behind,
encircled by himself. He did not even understand the meaning
(16:21):
of forgiveness. He had never had to forgive himself. What
inducement could he have to forgive others? Before the tribunal
of his own conscience, before the face of his own God,
He this marvel, this monster of virtue, raised his eyes heavenwards,
and with clear, unfaltering voice, declared, Yes, I am exemplary,
(16:43):
a truly moral man. He will repeat these words on
his death bed, and there will be no throb even
then in his heart of stone, and that heart without
stain or blemish. Oh, hideousness of self, complaisant, unbending, cheaply
bought virtue, Thou art almost more revolting than the frank,
(17:05):
hideousness of vice the banquet of the Supreme Being. One day,
the Supreme Being took it into his head to give
a great banquet in his palace of Azure. All the
virtues were invited. Only the virtues men, He did not ask,
only ladies. There were a great many of them, great
(17:27):
and small. The lesser virtues were more agreeable and genial
than the great ones. But they all appeared in good
humor and chatted amiably together, as was only becoming for
near relations and friends. But the Supreme Being noticed two
charming ladies who seemed to be totally unacquainted. The host
gave one of the ladies his arm and led her
up to the other. Beneficence, he said, indicating the first gratitude,
(17:53):
he added, indicating the second. Both the virtues were amazed
beyond expression. Ever since the world had stood, and it
had been standing a long time, this was the first
time they had met the sphinx. Yellowish gray, sand, soft
at the top, hard grating below sand without end wherever
(18:16):
one looks, and above this sandy desert, above the sea
of dead dust, rises the immense head of the Egyptian Sphinx.
What would they say, those thick projecting lips those immutable, distended,
upturned nostrils, and those eyes, those long, half drowsy, half
watchful eyes under the double arch of the high brows.
(18:40):
Something they would say, they are speaking truly, but only
Oedipus can solve the riddle and comprehend their mute speech. Stay,
but I know those features in them. There is nothing
Egyptian white, low brow, prominent cheek bones, nose, short and straight,
handsome mouth and white teeth, soft mustache and curly beard,
(19:02):
and those wide set, not large eyes, and on the
head the cap of hair parted down the middle. But
it is thou carp Cedar Simon, peasant of Yaroslav, of Rhyazan,
my countrymen, flesh and blood, Russian art thou too among
the sphinxes? Wouldst thou too say somewhat yes? And thou
(19:23):
too art a sphinx? And thy eyes, those colorless, deep
eyes are speaking to and as mute and enigmatic as
their speech. But where is thy Oedipus Alas it is
not enough to don the peasant's smock to become thy Oedipus,
O sphinx of all the rushes, the nymphs. I stood
(19:47):
before a chain of beautiful mountains forming a semicircle. A
young green forest covered them from summit to base, limpidly
blue above them was the southern sky. On the heights,
the sunbeams rioted below, half hidden in the grass, swift
brooks were babbling. And the old fable came to my mind.
(20:07):
How in the first century after Christ's birth, a Greek
ship was sailing on the Aegean Sea. The hour was midday,
it was still weather, and suddenly, up aloft above the
pilot's head, some one called, distinctly, when thou sailest by
the island, shout in a loud voice, great Pan is dead.
The pilot was amazed, afraid, but when the ship passed
(20:28):
the island, he obeyed. He called Great Pan is dead,
and at once, in response to his shout, all along
the coast, though the island was uninhabited, sounded loud sobs, moans,
long drawn out, plaintive wailings. Dead, dead is Great Pan.
I recalled this story, and a strange thought came to
(20:51):
what if I call an invocation? But in the sight
of the exultant beauty around me, I could not think
of death. And with all my might I shall Great
pan Is arisen. A risen and at once wonder of wonders.
In answer to my call, from all the wide half
circle of green mountains came peals of joyous laughter rose,
(21:12):
the murmur of glad voices, and the clapping of hands.
He is risen, pan is a resin clamored, fresh young voices.
Everything before me burst into sudden laughter, Brighter than the
sun on high, merrier than the brooks that babbled among
the grass, I heard the hurried thought of light steps
among the green undergrowth. There were gleams of the marble,
(21:35):
white of flowing tunics, the living flush of bare limbs.
It was the nymphs, nymphs, dryads, bacantes, hastening from the
heights down to the plain. All at once. They appeared
at every opening in the woods. Their curls flowed about
their godlike heads. Their slender hands hold aloft wreaths and cymbals,
(21:56):
and laughter, sparkling, olympian laughter comes leaping dancing with them.
Before them moves a goddess. She is taller and fairer
than the rest, A quiver on her shoulder, a bow
in her hands, a silvery crescent moon on her flowing tresses.
Diana is it thou. But suddenly the goddess stopped, and
(22:18):
at once all the nymphs following her stopped. The ringing
laughter died away. I see the face of the hushed goddess,
overspread with a deadly pallor. I saw her feet grew
rooted to the ground, her lips parted in unutterable horror.
Her eyes grew wide, fixed on the distance. What had
she seen? What was she gazing upon? I turned where
(22:40):
she was gazing, and on the distant sky line above
the low strip of fields gleamed like a point of fire,
the golden cross on the white bell tower of a
Christian church. That cross the goddess had caught sight of.
I heard behind me a long, broken sigh, like the
quiver of a broken string. And when I turned again,
(23:01):
no trace was left of the nymphs. The broad forest
was green as before, and only here and there among
the thick network of branches were fading gleams of something white,
whether the nymphs, white robes, or a mist rising from
the valley, I know not, but how I mourned for
those vanished goddesses, friend and enemy. A prisoner condemned to
(23:28):
confinement for life broke out of his prison and took
the headlong flight after him, just on his heels flew
his jailers in pursuit. He ran with all his might.
His pursuers began to be left behind. But behold before
him was a river with precipitous banks, a narrow but
deep river, and he could not swim. A thin, rotten
(23:50):
plank had been thrown across from one bank to the other.
The fugitive already had his foot upon it. But it
so happened that just there beside the river stood his
best friend and his bitterest enemy. His enemy said nothing,
he merely folded his arms. But the friend shrieked at
the top of his voice. Heavens, what are you doing, madman?
Think what you're about? Don't you see? The plank's utterly rotten.
(24:13):
It will break under your weight, and you will inevitably perish.
But there is no other way to cross. And don't
you hear them in pursuit, groaned the poor wretch in despair,
and he stepped on to the plank. I won't allow it, no,
I won't allow you to rush to destruction, cried the
zealous friend, and he snatched the plank from under the fugitive.
(24:35):
The latter instantly fell into the boiling torrent and was drowned.
The enemy smiled complacently and walked away, But the friend
sat down on the bank and fell to weeping bitterly
over his poor, poor friend. To blame himself for his
destruction did not, however, occur to him, not for an instant.
He would not listen to me. He would not listen,
(24:57):
he murmured dejectedly. The Oh, indeed, he added, at last,
he would have had to be sure to languish his
whole life long in an awful prison. At any rate,
he is out of suffering now, he is better off now.
Such was bound to be his fate, I suppose, And
yet I am sorry from humane feeling. And the kind
(25:21):
soul continued to sob inconsolably over the fate of his
misguided friend. Christ I saw myself in dream, a youth,
almost a boy, in a low pitched wooden church. The
slim wax candles gleamed spots of red before the old
pictures of the saints. A ring of colored light encircled
(25:42):
each tiny flame. Dark and dim it was in the church,
But there stood before me many people, all fair haired,
peasant heads. From time to time they began swaying, falling,
rising again, like the ripe ears of wheat when the
wind of summer passes in slow undulate over them all.
At once some man came up from behind and stood
(26:04):
beside me. I did not turn towards him, but at
once I felt that this man was Christ. Emotion curiosity
awe overmastered me. Suddenly I made an effort and looked
at my neighbor, a face like every one's, a face
like all men's faces. The eyes looked a little upwards,
(26:25):
quietly and intently, the lips closed but not compressed, the
upper lip as it were resting on the lower. A
small beard parted in two, the hands folded and still,
and the clothes on him like every one's. What sort
of Christ is this? I thought, such an ordinary, ordinary man.
(26:46):
It can't be. I turned away. But I had hardly
turned my eyes away from this ordinary man when I
felt again that it really was none other than Christ.
Standing beside me again, I made an effort over myself,
and again the same face, like all men's faces, the
same every day though unknown features. And suddenly my heart sank,
(27:07):
and I came to myself Only then I realized that
just such a face, a face like all men's faces,
is the face of Christ. The Stone eighteen seventy nine,
eighteen eighty two. Have you ever seen an old gray
stone on the sea shore, when at high tide on
(27:28):
a sunny day of spring, the living waves break upon
it on all sides, break and frolic and caress it,
and sprinkle over its sea mossed head to scattered pearls
of sparkling foam. The stone is still the same stone,
but its sullen surface blossoms out into bright colors. They
tell of those far off days when the molten granite
(27:51):
had but begun to harden, and was all aglow with
the hues of fire. Even so of late was my
old heart surrounded, broken in upon by a rush of
fresh girl's souls, and under their caressing touch, it flushed
with long faded colors, the traces of burnt out fires.
The waves have ebbed back, but the colors are not
(28:12):
yet dull, though a cutting wind is drying them. The doves.
I stood on top of a sloping hillside. Before me,
a gold and silver sea, shifting color stretched the ripe rye,
But no little wavelets ran over that sea. No stir
of wind was in the stifling air. A great storm
(28:35):
was gathering near me. The sun still shone with dusky fire.
But beyond the rye, not very far away, a dark
blue storm cloud lay a menacing mass over full half
of the horizon. All was hushed. All things were faint
under the malignant glare of the last sun rays. No sound,
(28:55):
no sight of a bird. Even the sparrows hid themselves
only so somewhere close by, persistently a great burdock leaf
flapped and whispered. How strong was the smell of the
wormwood and the hedges. I looked at the dark blue mass.
There was a vague uneasiness at my heart. Come then, quickly,
(29:16):
quickly was my thought, Flash, golden snake, and roll thunder, move, hasten,
break into flood's evil storm cloud cut short this agony
of suspense. But the storm cloud did not move. It
lay as before, a stifling weight upon the hushed earth,
and only seemed to swell and darken and lo over
(29:38):
its dead, dusky blue. Something darted in smooth, even flight,
like a white handkerchief or a handful of snow. It
was a white dove flying from the direction of the village.
It flew, flew on straight and plunged into the forest.
Some instance passed by, still the same cruel hush. But look.
(30:00):
Two handkerchiefs gleam in the air. Two handfuls of snow
are floating back. Two white doves are winging their way
homewards with even flight. And now at last the storm
has broken, and the tumult has begun. I could hardly
get home. The wind howled, tossing hither and thither, and frenzy.
Before its scudded. Low red clouds torn it seemed into shreds.
(30:23):
Everything was whirled round in confusion. The lashing rain streamed
in furious torrents down the upright trunks. Flashes of lightning
were blinding with greenish light. Sudden peals of thunder boomed
like cannon shots. The air was full of the smell
of sulfur. But under the overhanging roof, on the sill
of the dormer window, side by side, sat two white doves,
(30:45):
the one who flew after his mate and the mate
he brought back, saved perhaps from destruction. They sit ruffling
up their feathers, and each fills his mate's wing against
his wing. They are happy, and I am happy seeing them,
though I am alone, alone, as always tomorrow tomorrow. How empty,
(31:10):
dull and useless is almost every day when it is spent,
How few the traces it leaves behind it, How meaningless,
how foolish those hours as they coursed by one after another.
And yet it is man's wish to exist. He prizes life,
he rests hope on it, on himself, On the future. Oh,
what blessings he looks for from the future. But why
(31:33):
does he imagine that other coming days will not be
like this day he has just lived through. Nay, he
does not even imagine it. He likes not to think
at all, and he does well. Ah, tomorrow to morrow,
he comforts himself till tomorrow pitches him into the grave. Well,
and once in the grave, thou hast no choice, Thou
(31:55):
doest no more thinking nature. I dreamed I had come
into an immense underground temple with lofty arched roof. It
was filled with a sort of underground uniform light. In
the very middle of the temple sat a majestic woman
in a flowing robe of green color, her head propped
(32:16):
on her hand. She seemed buried in deep thought. At
once I was aware that this woman was nature herself,
and a thrill of reverent awe sent an instantaneous shiver
through my inmost soul. I approached the sitting figure, and
making a respectful bow, O common mother of us, all,
I cried of what is thy meditation? Is it of
(32:36):
the future destinies of man? Thou ponderest? Or how he
may attain the highest possible perfection and happiness? The woman
slowly turned upon me her dark, menacing eyes, Her lips moved,
and I heard a ringing voice, like the clang of iron.
I am thinking how to give greater power to the
leg muscles of the flea, that he may more easily
(32:57):
escape from his enemies. The balance of attack and defense
is broken. It must be restored. What I faltered in reply?
What is it thou art thinking upon? But are not
we men thy favorite children? The woman frowned slightly. All
creatures are my children, she pronounced, And I care for
(33:19):
them alike and all alike I destroy but right reason justice?
I faltered again. Those are men's words, I heard the
iron voice, saying, I know not right nor wrong. Reason
is no law for me? And what is justice? I
have given thee life, I shall take it away and
(33:39):
give to others, worms or men. I care not do
thou meanwhile look out for thyself and hinder me not
I would have retorted, But the earth uttered a hollow
groan and shuddered, and I awoke hang him. It happened
in eighteen o three, began my old acquaintance. Not long
(34:01):
before Austerlitz. The regiment in which I was an officer
was quartered in Moravia. We had strict orders not to
molest or annoy the inhabitants. As it was, they regarded
us very dubiously, though we were supposed to be allies.
I had a servant, formerly a serf of my mother's,
Yegor by name. He was a quiet, honest fellow. I
(34:22):
had known him from a child and treated him as
a friend well. One day in the house where I
was living, I heard screams of abuse, cries and lamentations.
The woman of the house had had two hens stolen,
and she laid the theft at my servant's door. He
defended himself, called me to witness. Likely he'd turned thief.
(34:42):
He Yegor Avtamanov. I assured the woman of Yegor's honesty,
but she would not listen to me. All at once
the thought of horses hoofs was heard along the street.
The Commander in Chief was riding by with his staff.
He was riding at a walking pace, a stout, corpulent man,
with drooping head and e letts hanging on his breast.
(35:02):
The woman saw him, and, rushing before his horse, flung
herself on her knees and bareheaded, and all in disorder.
She began loudly complaining of my servant. Pointing at him General,
she screamed, your excellency, make an inquiry, help me save me.
The soldier has robbed me. Yegor stood at the door
of the house, bolt upright, his cap in his hand.
(35:23):
He even arched his chest and brought his heels together
like a sentry, and not a word. Whether he was
abashed at all the General's suite, halting there in the
middle of the street, or stupefied by the calamity facing him,
I can't say. But there stood my poor Yegor, blinking
and white as chalk. The Commander in Chief cast an
abstracted and sullen glance at him, growled angrily, Well, Egor
(35:47):
stood like a statue, showing his teeth as if he
were grinning. Looking at him from the side, you'd say
the fellow was laughing. Then the commander in chief jerked out,
hung him, spurred his horse, and moved on, first at
a walking pace, then in a quick trot. The whole
staff hurried after him. Only one adjuttant turned round on
his saddle and took a passing glance at Igor. To
(36:10):
disobey was impossible. Egor was seized at once and led
off to execution. Then he broke down altogether and simply
gasped out twice, Grace's heavens, Grace's heavens, and then in
a whisper, God knows it wasn't me. Bitterly, bitterly, he cried,
saying good bye to me. I was in despair, Yegor, Yegor,
(36:31):
I cried, How came it? You said nothing to the general.
God knows it wasn't me, the poor fellow repeated, sobbing.
The woman herself was horrified. She had never expected such
a dreadful termination, and she started howling on her own account.
She fell to imploring all in each for mercy. Swore
the hens had been found that she was ready to
(36:54):
clear it all up. Of course, all that was no
sort of use. Those were sir, discipline. The woman sobbed
louder and louder. Yegor, who had received absolution from the priest,
turned to me, tell her your honor not to upset herself.
I've forgiven her my acquaintance. As he repeated this, his
(37:16):
servants last words murmured, my poor Yegor, dear fellow, a
real saint, And the tears trickled down his old cheeks.
What shall I think? What shall I think when I
come to die? If only I am in a condition
to think anything, Then shall I think? How little use
(37:38):
I have made of my life? How I have slumbered
dozed through it? How little I've known how to enjoy
its gifts? What is this death so soon impossible? Why
I have had no time to do anything? Yet I
have only been making ready to begin. Shall I recall
the past and dwell in thought on the few bright
(37:58):
moments I have lived through, on precious images and faces.
Will my ill deeds come back to my mind? And
will my soul be stung by the burning pain of remorse?
Too late? Shall I think of what awaits me? Beyond
the grave, and in truth does anything await me there?
No I fancy. I shall try not to think, and
(38:21):
shall force myself to take interest in some trifle, simply
to distract my own attention from the menacing darkness which
is black before me. I once saw a dying man
who kept complaining they would not let him have hazel
nuts to munch. And only in the depths of his
fast dimming eyes something quivered and struggled, like the torn
(38:42):
wing of a bird wounded to death. How fair? How
fresh were the roses? Somewhere, some time, long long ago,
I read a poem. It was soon forgotten, but the
first line has stuck in my memory. How fair, How
fresh were the roses? Now is winter, the frosts iced
(39:05):
over the window panes, and the dark room burns a
solitary candle. I sit huddled up in a corner, and
in my head the line keeps echoing and echoing, How fair,
How fresh were the roses? And I see myself before
the low window of a Russian country house. The summer
evening is slowly melting into night. The warm air is
(39:26):
fragrant of mignonette and lime blossom, And at the window
leaning on her arm, her head bent on her shoulder,
sits a young girl and silently, intently gazes into the sky,
as though looking for new stars to come out. What candor,
what inspiration in the dreamy eyes, What moving innocence in
(39:47):
the parted, questioning lips, How calmly breathes that still growing,
still untroubled bosom, How pure and tender the profile of
the young face. I dare not speak to her, but
how dear she is to me? How my heart beats?
How fair? How fresh were the roses? But here in
(40:09):
the room it gets darker and darker. The candle burns
dim and gutters, Dancing shadows quiver on the low ceiling.
The cruel crunch of the frost is heard outside and within,
the dreary murmur of old age, How fair, how fresh
were the roses? There? Rise up before me. Other images
(40:31):
I hear the merry hubbub of home life in the country.
Two flaxen heads, bending close together, looks saucily at me
with their bright eyes. Rosy cheeks shake with suppressed laughter,
hands are clasped in warm affection. Young kind voices ring
one above the other, while a little farther at the
end of the snug room. Other hands young too, fly
(40:52):
with unskilled fingers over the keys of the old piano,
and the lanner waltz cannot drown the hissing of the
patriarchal someovar. How fair? How fresh were the roses? The
candle flickers and goes out? Who is that? Hoarse and
hollow cough? Curled up? My old dog lies shuddering at
(41:13):
my feet, my only companion. I'm cold, I'm frozen, and
all of them are dead dead? How fair? How fresh
were the roses on the sea. I was going from
(41:34):
Hamburg to London in a small steamer. We were two passengers,
I and a little female monkey whom a Hamburg merchant
was sending as a present to his English partner. She
was fastened by a light chain to one of the
seats on deck, and was moving restlessly and whining in
a little plaintive pipe like a bird's. Every time I
passed by her, she stretched out her little black, cold
(41:55):
hand and peeped up at me out of her little, mournful,
almost human eyes. I took her hand, and she ceased
whining and moving restlessly about. There was a dead calm
the sea stretched on all sides, like a motionless sheet
of leaden color. It seemed narrowed and small. A thick
fog overhung it, hiding the very mast tops in cloud
(42:16):
and dazing, and wearying the eyes with its soft obscurity.
The sun hung a dull red blur in this obscurity,
but before evening it glowed with strange, mysterious, lurid light.
Long straight folds, like the folds in some heavy silken stuff,
passed one after another over the sea from the ship's prow,
(42:37):
and broadening as they passed, and wrinkling and widening, were
smoothed out again with a shake and vanished. The foam
flew up, churned by the tediously thudding wheels, white as milk,
with a faint hiss, It broke up into serpentine eddies,
and then melted together again and vanished, too, swallowed up
by the mist. Persistent and plaintive as the monkey's wand
(43:00):
rang the small bell at the stern from time to time,
a porpoise swam up and with a sudden roll, disappeared
below the scarcely ruffled surface, and the captain, a silent
man with a gloomy, sunburnt face, smoked a short pipe
and angrily spat into the dull, stagnant sea. To all
my inquiries, he responded by a disconnected grumble. I was
(43:21):
obliged to turn to my sole companion, the monkey. I
sat down beside her. She ceased whining, and again held
out her hand to me. The clinging fog oppressed us
both with its drowsy dampness, and buried in the same
unconscious dreaminess. We sat side by side, like brother and sister.
I smiled now, but then I had another feeling. We
(43:46):
are all children of one mother, and I was glad
that the poor little beast was soothed and nestled so
confidingly up to me as to a brother in in
calmly and gracefully. Thou movest along the path of life,
tearless and smileless and scarce. A heedless glance of indifferent
attention ruffles thy calm. Thou art good and wise, and
(44:11):
all things are remote from thee, and of no one
hast thou need. Thou art fair, And no one can
say whether thou prizest thy beauty or not. No sympathy
hast thou to give. None, dost thou desire thy glance?
Is deep, and no thought is in it. In that
clear depth is emptiness. So in the Elysian field, to
(44:33):
the solemn strains of Gluk's melodies move without grief or bliss.
The graceful shades stay, stay, as I see thee now
abide forever in my memory. From thy lips the last
inspired note has broken. No light, no flash is in
thy eyes. They are dim, weighed down by the load
(44:56):
of happiness, of the blissful sense of the beauty. It
has been the thy glad lot to express the beauty
groping for which thou hadst stretched out thy yearning hands,
thy triumphant, exhausted hands. What is the radiance, purer and
higher than the sun's radiance? All about thy limbs, the
least fold of thy raiment. What God's caressing breath has
(45:18):
set thy scattered tresses, floating His kiss burns on thy brow?
White now is marble. This is it, the mystery revealed,
the mystery of poesy, of life, of love. This this
is immortality, other immortality. There is none nor need be
for this instant. Thou art immortal, It passes, and once
(45:41):
more thou art a grain of dust, a woman, a child,
But why needst thou care for this instant? Thou art above,
Thou art outside all that is passing temporary, This thy
instant will never end. Stay and let me share in
thy immortality. Shed into my soul the light of thy eternity.
(46:07):
The monk I used to know, a monk, a hermit,
a saint. He lived only for the sweetness of prayer,
and steeping himself in it. He would stand so long
on the cold floor of the church that his legs
below the knees grew numb and senseless as blocks of wood.
He did not feel them. He stood on and prayed.
(46:28):
I understood him, and perhaps envied him. But let him
too understand me, and not condemn me, me for whom
his joys are inaccessible. He has attained to annihilating himself
his hateful ego. But I too, it's not from egoism,
I pray not. My ego may be is even more
(46:50):
burdensome and more odious to me than his to him.
He is found wherein to forget himself, But I too
find the same, though not so continuously. He does not lie,
but neither do I lie. We will still fight on
(47:10):
what an insignificant trifle may sometimes transform the whole man
full of melancholy thought. I walked one day along the
high road. My heart was oppressed by a weight of
gloomy apprehension. I was overwhelmed by dejection. I raised my
head before me between two rows of tall poplars. The
road darted like an arrow in the distance, and across it,
(47:33):
Across this road, ten paces from me, in the golden
light of the dazzling summer sunshine, a whole family of
sparrows hopped, one after another, hopped saucily, drolly, self reliantly.
One of them in particular, skipped along sideways with desperate energy,
puffing out his little bosom and chirping impudently, as though
(47:54):
to say he was not afraid of any one, A
gallant little warrior, really. And meanwhile, high overhead in the heavens,
hovered a hawk, destined perhaps to devour that little warrior.
I looked, laughed, shook myself, and the mournful thoughts flew
right away. Pluck daring zeal for life, I felt anew.
(48:16):
Let him too, hover over me, my hawk, we will
fight on and damn it all. Prayer whatever a man
pray for, he prays for a miracle. Every prayer reduces
to this great God, grant that twice two be not four.
(48:37):
Only such a prayer as a real prayer, from person
to person, to pray, to the cosmic Spirit, to the
Higher Being, to the Kantian Hegelian quintessential formless God is
impossible and unthinkable. But can even a personal, living, imaged
God make twice two not be four? Every believer is
bound to answer he can, and is bound to persuade
(49:00):
himself of it. But if reason sets him revolting against
this senselessness, then Shakespeare comes to his aid. There are
more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, et cetera. And
if they set about confuting him in the name of truth,
he has but to repeat the famous question, what is truth?
(49:20):
And so let us drink and be merry, and say
our prayers. The Russian tongue in days of doubt, in
days of dreary musings on my country's fate, Thou alone
art my stay and support mighty true, free Russian speech.
But for thee how not fall into despair seeing all
(49:43):
that is done at home? But who can think that
such a tongue is not the gift of a great People.
End of Section seven Poems and Prose, Part two. End
of dream Tales and Prose Poems by Ivan Turgenev
Popular Podcasts
Stuff You Should Know
If you've ever wanted to know about champagne, satanism, the Stonewall Uprising, chaos theory, LSD, El Nino, true crime and Rosa Parks, then look no further. Josh and Chuck have you covered.
Dateline NBC
Current and classic episodes, featuring compelling true-crime mysteries, powerful documentaries and in-depth investigations. Follow now to get the latest episodes of Dateline NBC completely free, or subscribe to Dateline Premium for ad-free listening and exclusive bonus content: DatelinePremium.com
The Herd with Colin Cowherd
The Herd with Colin Cowherd is a thought-provoking, opinionated, and topic-driven journey through the top sports stories of the day.