He blessed them all and talked with some of them.The "possessed" woman he knew already.She came from a village only six versts from the monastery, and had been brought to him before.
"But here is one from afar." He pointed to a woman by no means old but very thin and wasted, with a face not merely sunburnt but almost blackened by exposure.She was kneeling and gazing with a fixed stare at the elder; there was something almost frenzied in her eyes.
"From afar off, Father, from afar off! From two hundred miles from here.From afar off, Father, from afar off!" the woman began in a sing-song voice as though she were chanting a dirge, swaying her head from side to side with her cheek resting in her hand.
There is silent and long-suffering sorrow to be met with among the peasantry.It withdraws into itself and is still.But there is a grief that breaks out, and from that minute it bursts into tears and finds vent in wailing.This is particularly common with women.But it is no lighter a grief than the silent.Lamentations comfort only by lacerating the heart still more.Such grief does not desire consolation.It feeds on the sense of its hopelessness.Lamentations spring only from the constant craving to re-open the wound.
"You are of the tradesman class?" said Father Zossima, looking curiously at her.
"Townfolk we are, Father, townfolk.Yet we are peasants though we live in the town.I have come to see you, O Father! We heard of you, Father, we heard of you.I have buried my little son, and Ihave come on a pilgrimage.I have been in three monasteries, but they told me, 'Go, Nastasya, go to them'- that is to you.I have come;I was yesterday at the service, and to-day I have come to you.""What are you weeping for?"
"It's my little son I'm grieving for, Father.he was three years old- three years all but three months.For my little boy, Father, I'm in anguish, for my little boy.He was the last one left.We had four, my Nikita and I, and now we've no children, our dear ones have all gone I buried the first three without grieving overmuch, and now Ihave buried the last I can't forget him.He seems always standing before me.He never leaves me.He has withered my heart.I look at his little clothes, his little shirt, his little boots, and I wail.Ilay out all that is left of him, all his little things.I look at them and wail.I say to Nikita, my husband, 'let me go on a pilgrimage, master.' He is a driver.We're not poor people, Father, not poor; he drives our own horse.It's all our own, the horse and the carriage.
And what good is it all to us now? My Nikita has begun drinking while I am away.He's sure to.It used to be so before.As soon as Iturn my back he gives way to it.But now I don't think about him.It's three months since I left home.I've forgotten him.I've forgotten everything.I don't want to remember.And what would our life be now together? I've done with him, I've done.I've done with them all.Idon't care to look upon my house and my goods.I don't care to see anything at all!""Listen, mother," said the elder."Once in olden times a holy saint saw in the Temple a mother like you weeping for her little one, her only one, whom God had taken.'Knowest thou not,' said the saint to her, 'how bold these little ones are before the throne of God? Verily there are none bolder than they in the Kingdom of Heaven."Thou didst give us life, O Lord," they say, "and scarcely had we looked upon it when Thou didst take it back again." And so boldly they ask and ask again that God gives them at once the rank of angels.
Therefore,' said the saint, 'thou, too, O Mother, rejoice and weep not, for thy little son is with the Lord in the fellowship of the angels.' That's what the saint said to the weeping mother of old.He was a great saint and he could not have spoken falsely.Therefore you too, mother, know that your little one is surely before the throne of God, is rejoicing and happy, and praying to God for you, and therefore weep, but rejoice."The woman listened to him, looking down with her cheek in her hand.She sighed deeply.
"My Nikita tried to comfort me with the same words as you.
'Foolish one,' he said, 'why weep? Our son is no doubt singing with the angels before God.' He says that to me, but he weeps himself.Isee that he cries like me.'I know, Nikita,' said I.'Where could he be if not with the Lord God? Only, here with us now he is not as he used to sit beside us before.' And if only I could look upon him one little time, if only I could peep at him one little time, without going up to him, without speaking, if I could be hidden in a corner and only see him for one little minute, hear him playing in the yard, calling in his little voice, 'Mammy, where are you?' If only Icould hear him pattering with his little feet about the room just once, only once; for so often, so often I remember how he used to run to me and shout and laugh, if only I could hear his little feet I should know him! But he's gone, Father, he's gone, and I shall never hear him again.Here's his little sash, but him I shall never see or hear now."She drew out of her bosom her boy's little embroidered sash, and as soon as she looked at it she began shaking with sobs, hiding her eyes with her fingers through which the tears flowed in a sudden stream.
"It is Rachel of old," said the elder, "weeping for her children, and will not be comforted because they are not.Such is the lot set on earth for you mothers.Be not comforted.Consolation is not what you need.Weep and be not consoled, but weep.Only every time that you weep be sure to remember that your little son is one of the angels of God, that he looks down from there at you and sees you, and rejoices at your tears, and points at them to the Lord God; and a long while yet will you keep that great mother's grief.But it will turn in the end into quiet joy, and your bitter tears will be only tears of tender sorrow that purifies the heart and delivers it from sin.And I shall pray for the peace of your child's soul.What was his name?""Alexey, Father."
"A sweet name.After Alexey, the man of God?""Yes, Father."
