Father AlexyÉi's Story Page #2

"Father AlexyÉi's Story" is a poignant short story by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev that explores themes of faith, redemption, and the complexities of human relationships. The narrative follows Father AlexyÉi, a Russian Orthodox priest, as he reflects on his life, struggles, and the moral dilemmas he faces within his spiritual duties and personal interactions. Through rich character development and evocative prose, Turgenev delves into the internal conflicts of the protagonist, highlighting the often challenging interplay between spirituality and worldly concerns. The story offers a profound commentary on the nature of compassion and the search for meaning in a turbulent world.

								

Yáshka's letter and became sadder than before; but I did not share my
grief with any one. My old woman caught a severe cold about that time
and died--from that same cold, or the Lord took her to Himself because
He loved her, I know not which. I used to weep and weep because I was a
lonely widower--but what help was there for that?[21] So it had to be,
you know. And I would have been glad to go into the earth ... but it is
hard ... it will not open. And I was expecting my son; for he had
notified me: "Before I go to Moscow," he said, "I shall look in at
home." And he did come to the parental roof, but did not remain there
long. It seemed as though something were urging him on; he would have
liked, apparently, to fly on wings to Moscow, to his beloved university!
I began to question him as to his doubts. "What was the cause of them?"
I asked. But I did not get much out of him. One idea had pushed itself
into his head, and that was the end of it! "I want to help my
neighbours," he said.--Well, sir, he left me. I don't believe he took a
penny with him, only a few clothes. He had such reliance on himself! And
not without reason. He passed an excellent examination, matriculated as
student, obtained lessons in private houses.... He was very strong on
the ancient languages! And what think you? He took it into his head to
send me money. I cheered up a little,--not on account of the money, of
course,--I sent that back to him, and even scolded him; but I cheered up
because I saw that the young fellow would make his way in the world. But
my rejoicing did not last long....

He came to me for his first vacation.... And, what marvel is this? I do
not recognise my Yákoff! He had grown so tiresome and surly,--you
couldn't get a word out of him. And his face had changed also: he had
grown about ten years older. He had been taciturn before, there's no
denying that! At the slightest thing he would grow shy and blush like a
girl.... But when he raised his eyes, you could see that all was bright
in his soul! But now it was quite different. He was not shy, but he held
aloof, like a wolf, and was always looking askance. He had neither a
smile nor a greeting for any one--he was just like a stone! If I
undertook to interrogate him, he would either remain silent or snarl. I
began to wonder whether he had taken to drink--which God forbid!--or had
conceived a passion for cards; or whether something in the line of a
weakness for women had happened to him. In youth love-longings act
powerfully,--well, and in such a large city as Moscow bad examples and
occasions are not lacking. But no; nothing of that sort was discernible.
His drink was kvas[22] and water; he never looked at the female sex--and
had no intercourse with people in general. And what was most bitter of
all to me, he did not have his former confidence in me; a sort of
indifference had made its appearance, just as though everything belonging
to him had become loathsome to him. I turned the conversation on the
sciences, on the university, but even there could get no real answer. He
went to church, but he was not devoid of peculiarities there also;
everywhere he was grim and scowling, but in church he seemed always
to be grinning.

After this fashion he spent six weeks with me, then went back to Moscow.
From Moscow he wrote to me twice, and it seemed to me, from his letters,
as though he were regaining his sensibilities. But picture to yourself
my surprise, my dear sir! Suddenly, in the very middle of the winter,
just before the Christmas holidays, he presents himself before me!

"How didst thou get here? How is this? What's the matter? I know that
thou hast no vacation at this time.--Dost thou come from Moscow?"--I
ask.

"Yes."

"And how about ... the university?"

"I have left the university."

"Thou hast left it?"

"Just so."

"For good?"

"For good."

"But art thou ill, pray, Yákoff?"

"No, father," says he, "I am not ill; but just don't bother me and
question me, dear father, or I will go away from here--and that's the
last thou wilt ever see of me."

Yákoff tells me that he is not ill, but his face is such that I am
fairly frightened. It was dreadful, dark--not human, actually!--His
cheeks were drawn, his cheek-bones projected, he was mere skin and bone;
his voice sounded as though it proceeded from a barrel ... while his
eyes.... O Lord and Master! what eyes!--menacing, wild, incessantly
darting from side to side, and it was impossible to catch them; his
brows were knit, his lips seemed to be twisted on one side.... What had
happened to my Joseph Most Fair,[23] to my quiet lad? I cannot
comprehend it. "Can he have gone crazy?" I say to myself. He roams about
like a spectre by night, he does not sleep,--and then, all of a sudden,
he will take to staring into a corner as though he were completely
benumbed.... It was enough to scare one!

Although he had threatened to leave the house if I did not leave him in
peace, yet surely I was his father! My last hope was ruined--yet I was
to hold my tongue! So one day, availing myself of an opportunity, I
began to entreat Yákoff with tears, I began to adjure him by the memory
of his dead mother:

"Tell me," I said, "as thy father in the flesh and in the spirit, Yásha,
what aileth thee? Do not kill me; explain thyself, lighten thy heart!
Can it be that thou hast ruined some Christian soul? If so, repent!"

"Well, dear father," he suddenly says to me (this took place toward
nightfall), "thou hast moved me to compassion. I will tell thee the
whole truth. I have not ruined any Christian soul--but my own soul is
going to perdition."

"How is that?"

"In this way...." And thereupon Yákoff raised his eyes to mine for the
first time.--"It is going on four months now," he began.... But suddenly
he broke off and began to breathe heavily.

"What about the fourth month? Tell me, do not make me suffer!"

"This is the fourth month that I have been seeing him."

"Him? Who is he?"

"Why, the person ... whom it is awkward to mention at night."

I fairly turned cold all over and fell to quaking.

"What?!" I said, "dost thou see him?"

"Yes."

"And dost thou see him now?"

"Yes."

"Where?" And I did not dare to turn round, and we both spoke in a
whisper.

"Why, yonder ..." and he indicated the spot with his eyes ... "yonder,
in the corner."

I summoned up my courage and looked at the corner; there was nothing
there.

"Why, good gracious, there is nothing there, Yákoff!"

"Thou dost not see him, but I do."

Again I glanced round ... again nothing. Suddenly there recurred to my
mind the little old man in the forest who had given him the chestnut.
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