Beloved fathers and teachers, I was born in a distant province in the north, in the town of V.My father was a gentleman by birth, but of no great consequence or position.He died when I was only two years old, and I don't remember him at all.He left my mother a small house built of wood, and a fortune, not large, but sufficient to keep her and her children in comfort.There were two of us, my elder brother Markel and I.He was eight years older than I was, of hasty, irritable temperament, but kind-hearted and never ironical.He was remarkably silent, especially at home with me, his mother, and the servants.He did well at school, but did not get on with his school-fellows, though he never quarrelled, at least so my mother has told me.Six months before his death, when he was seventeen, he made friends with a political exile who had been banished from Moscow to our town for freethinking, and led a solitary existence there.He was a good scholar who had gained distinction in philosophy in the university.Something made him take a fancy to Markel, and he used to ask him to see him.The young man would spend whole evenings with him during that winter, till the exile was summoned to Petersburg to take up his post again at his own request, as he had powerful friends.
It was the beginning of Lent, and Markel would not fast, he was rude and laughed at it."That's all silly twaddle, and there is no God," he said, horrifying my mother, the servants, and me too.For though I was only nine, I too was aghast at hearing such words.We had four servants, all serfs.I remember my mother selling one of the four, the cook Afimya, who was lame and elderly, for sixty paper roubles, and hiring a free servant to take her place.
In the sixth week in Lent, my brother, who was never strong and had a tendency to consumption, was taken ill.He was tall but thin and delicate-looking, and of very pleasing countenance.I suppose he caught cold, anyway the doctor, who came, soon whispered to my mother that it was galloping consumption, that he would not live through the spring.My mother began weeping, and, careful not to alarm my brother, she entreated him to go to church, to confess and take the sacrament, as he was still able to move about.This made him angry, and he said something profane about the church.He grew thoughtful, however; he guessed at once that he was seriously ill, and that that was why his mother was begging him to confess and take the sacrament.He had been aware, indeed, for a long time past, that he was far from well, and had a year before coolly observed at dinner to your mother and me, "My life won't be long among you, I may not live another year," which seemed now like a prophecy.
Three days passed and Holy Week had come.And on Tuesday morning my brother began going to church."I am doing this simply for your sake, mother, to please and comfort you," he said.My mother wept with joy and grief."His end must be near," she thought, "if there's such a change in him." But he was not able to go to church long, he took to his bed, so he had to confess and take the sacrament at home.
It was a late Easter, and the days were bright, fine, and full of fragrance.I remember he used to cough all night and sleep badly, but in the morning he dressed and tried to sit up in an arm-chair.
That's how I remember him sitting, sweet and gentle, smiling, his face bright and joyous, in spite of his illness.A marvellous change passed over him, his spirit seemed transformed.The old nurse would come in and say, "Let me light the lamp before the holy image, my dear." And once he would not have allowed it and would have blown it out.
"Light it, light it, dear, I was a wretch to have prevented you doing it.You are praying when you light the lamp, and I am praying when I rejoice seeing you.So we are praying to the same God."Those words seemed strange to us, and mother would go to her room and weep, but when she went in to him she wiped her eyes and looked cheerful."Mother, don't weep, darling," he would say, "I've long to live yet, long to rejoice with you, and life is glad and joyful.""Ah, dear boy, how can you talk of joy when you lie feverish at night, coughing as though you would tear yourself to pieces.""Don't cry, mother," he would answer, "life is paradise, and we are all in paradise, but we won't see it; if we would, we should have heaven on earth the next day."Everyone wondered at his words, he spoke so strangely and positively; we were all touched and wept.Friends came to see us.
"Dear ones," he would say to them, "what have I done that you should love me so, how can you love anyone like me, and how was it I did not know, I did not appreciate it before?"When the servants came in to him he would say continually, "Dear, kind people, why are you doing so much for me, do I deserve to be waited on? If it were God's will for me to live, I would wait on you, for all men should wait on one another."Mother shook her head as she listened."My darling, it's your illness makes you talk like that.""Mother darling," he would say, "there must be servants and masters, but if so I will be the servant of my servants, the same as they are to me.And another thing, mother, every one of us has sinned against all men, and I more than any."Mother positively smiled at that, smiled through her tears.
"Why, how could you have sinned against all men, more than all?
Robbers and murderers have done that, but what sin have you committed yet, that you hold yourself more guilty than all?""Mother, little heart of mine," he said (he had begun using such strange caressing words at that time), "little heart of mine, my joy, believe me, everyone is really responsible to all men for all men and for everything.I don't know how to explain it to you, but Ifeel it is so, painfully even.And how is it we went on then living, getting angry and not knowing?"So he would get up every day, more and more sweet and joyous and full of love.When the doctor, an old German called Eisenschmidt, came:
"Well, doctor, have I another day in this world?" he would ask, joking.