✯✯✯ Hamlet Ophelianity And Madness Analysis

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Hamlet Ophelianity And Madness Analysis

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On what terms he lived with them he did not know himself. It was very characteristic of him, in deed, that he never cared at whose expense he was living. In that respect he was a striking contrast to his elder brother Ivan, who struggled with poverty for his f irst two years in the university, maintained himself by his own efforts, and had from childhood been bitterly conscious of living at the expense of his benefactor. In general he seemed scarcely to know the value of money, not, of course, in a literal sense. When he was given pocketmoney, which he never asked for, he was either terribly careless of it so that it was gone in a moment, or he kept it for weeks together, not knowing what to do with it.

And to shelter him would be no burden, but, on the contrary, would probably be looked on as a pleasure. A year before the end of the course he suddenly announced to the ladies that he was going to see his father about a plan which had occurred to him. They were sorry and unwilling to let him go. They provided him liberally with money and even fitted him out with new clothes and linen. But he retu rned half the money they gave him, saying that he intended to go third class. He pra ctically acknowledged at the time that that was the only object of his visit. But it can hardly have been the whole reason of it. It is more probable that he himself did not understand and could not explain what had suddenly arisen in his soul, and drawn him irresistibly into a new, unknown, but inevitable path.

Fyodor Pavl ovitch could not show him where his second wife was buried, for he had never visited her grave since he had thrown earth upon her coffin, and in the course of years had entirely forgotten where she was buried. Fyodor Pavlovitch, by the way, had for some time previously not been living in our town. His former acquaintances found him looking terribly aged, although he w as by no means an old man. He behaved not exactly with more dignity but with more effrontery. The former buffoon showed an insolent propensity for making buffoons of others. His depravity with women was not simply what it used to be, but even more revolting.

In a short time he opened a great number of new taver ns in the district. It was evident that he had perhaps a hundred thousand roubles or not much less. Many of the inhabitants of the town and district were soon in h is debt, and, of course, had given good security. Of late, too, he looked somehow bloated and seemed more irresponsible, more uneven, had sunk into a sort of i ncoherence, used to begin one thing and go on with another, as though he were letting himself go altogether. He was more and more frequently drunk. And, if it had not been for the same servant Grigory, who by that time had aged considerably too, and used to look after him sometimes almost like a tutor, Fyodor Pavlov itch might have got into terrible scrapes.

He took him to our town cemetery and showed him in a remote corner a castiron t ombstone, cheap but decently kept, on which were inscribed the name and age of the deceased and the date of her death, and below a fourlined verse, such as ar e commonly used on oldfashioned middleclass tombs. It was perhaps a year before he visited the cemetery again. But this little episod e was not without an influence upon Fyodor Pavlovitch—and a very original one. In the evening of the same day he got drunk and abused the monks to Alyosha. He himself was far from being religious; he had probably never put a penny candle before the i mage of a saint. Strange impulses of sudden feeling and sudden thought are common in such types.

I have mentioned already that he looked bloated. His countenance at this time bore traces of something that testified unmistakably to the life he had led. He slobbered every time he began to speak. He was fond indeed of making fun of his own fac e, though, I believe, he was well satisfied with it. He used particularly to point to his nose, which was not very large, but very delicate and conspicuously aquilin e. He explained that this was his strong desire, and that he was solemnly asking his consent as his father.

Would you believe it? You were making straight for it. Well, to be sure you have your own two thousand. What do you say? You know, you spend money like a canary, two grains a week. Thirty women, I believe. I have been there myself. There are no French women there. Of course they could get them fast enough, they have plenty of money. They keep the fasts. I admit it…. So you want to be a monk? You see, however stupid I am about it, I keep thinking, I keep thinking—from time to time, of course, not all the while. Then I wonder—hooks? Where would they get them? What of? Iron hooks? Where do they forge them? Have they a foundry there of some sort? It makes it more refined, more enlightened, more Lutheran that is. Il faudrait les inventer, those hooks, on purpose for me alone, for, if you only knew, Alyosha, what a blackguard I am.

But go and get at the truth there, and then come and tell me. And I dare say nothing will touc h you there. You will burn and you will burn out; you will be healed and co me back again. And I will wait for you. My dear boy, I feel it, you know. He was sentimental. He was wicked and sentimental. Chapter V. Elders Some of my readers may imagine that my young man was a sickly, ecstatic, poorly developed creature, a pale, consumptive dreamer. On the contrary, Alyosha was at this time a wellgrown, redcheeked, cleareyed lad of nineteen, radiant with health. He was very handsome, too, graceful, moderately tall, with hair of a dar k brown, with a regular, rather long, ovalshaped face, and wideset dark gray, shining eyes; he was very thoughtful, and apparently very serene.

I shall be told, pe rhaps, that red cheeks are not incompatible with fanaticism and mysticism; but I fancy that Alyosha was more of a realist than any one. It is not miracles that dispose realists to belief. The genuine realist, if he is an unbeliever, will always find strength and ability to disbelieve in the miraculous, and if he is confronted with a miracle as an irrefutable fact he would rather disbelieve his own senses than admit the fact.

Even if he admits it, he admits it as a fact of nature till then unrecognized by him. Faith does not, in the realist, spring from the miracle but the miracle from faith. If the realist once believes, then he is bound by his very realism to admit the miraculous als o. That he did not finish his studies is true, but to say that he was stupid or dull would be a great injustice. He entered upon this path only because, at that time, it alone struck his i magination and presented itself to him as offering an ideal means of escape for his soul from darkness to light.

Add to that that he was to some extent a youth of our last epoch—that is, honest in nature, desiring the truth, seeking for it and believing in it, and seeking to serve it at once with all the strength of his soul, seeki ng for immediate action, and ready to sacrifice everything, life itself, for it. Though these young men unhappily fail to understand that the sacrifice of life is, in many cases, the easiest of all sacrifices, and that to sacrifice, for instance, five or six years of their seething youth to hard and tedious study, if only to multiply t enfold their powers of serving the truth and the cause they have set before them as their goal—such a sacrifice is utterly beyond the strength of many of them.

T he path Alyosha chose was a path going in the opposite direction, but he chose it with the same thirst for swift achievement. For socialism is not merely the labor question, it is before all things the atheistic question, the question of the form taken by atheism today, the question of the tower of Babel built without God, not to mount to heaven from earth but to set up heaven on earth. Alyosha would have found it strange and impossible to go on living as before. I will try, however, to give a superficial account of it in a few words.

It is maintained that it existed in ancient times in Russia also, but through the calamities which overtook Russia—the Tartars, civil war, the interruption of relations with the East after the destruction of Constantinople—this institution fell into oblivion. But to this day it exists in few monasteries only, and has sometimes been almost pers ecuted as an innovation in Russia. It flourished especially in the celebrated Kozelski Optin Monastery. When and how it was introduced into our monastery I ca nnot say. There had already been three such elders and Zossima was the last of them. But he was almost dying of weakness and disease, and they had no one to t ake his place. The question for our monastery was an important one, for it had not been distinguished by anything in particular till then: they had neither relics o f saints, nor wonderworking ikons, nor glorious traditions, nor historical exploits.

It had flourished and been glorious all over Russia through its elders, to see an d hear whom pilgrims had flocked for thousands of miles from all parts. What was such an elder? An elder was one who took your soul, your will, into his soul and his will. When you choose an elder, you renounce your own will and yield it to him in complete submission, complete self abnegation. This novitiate, this terrible school of abnegation, is undertaken voluntarily, in the hope of self conquest, of selfmastery, in order, after a life of obedience, to attain perfect freedom, that is, from self; to escape the lot of those who have lived their whole life without finding their true selves in themselves.

This institution of elders is not founded on theory, but was established in the East from the practice of a thousand years. The obligation involves confessio n to the elder by all who have submitted themselves to him, and to the indissoluble bond between him and them. The story is told, for instance, that in the early days of Christianity one such novice, failing to fulfill some command laid upon him by his elder, left his monaste ry in Syria and went to Egypt. Only after this could the funeral take place. This, of course, is o nly an old legend. But here is a recent instance. But the Patriarch replied that not only was he unable to release him, but ther e was not and could not be on earth a power which could release him except the elder who had himself laid that duty upon him.

In this way the elders are endow ed in certain cases with unbounded and inexplicable authority. That is why in many of our monasteries the institution was at first resisted almost to persecution. Meantime the elders immediately began to be highly esteemed among the people. Masses of the ignorant people as well as men of distinction flocked, for instan ce, to the elders of our monastery to confess their doubts, their sins, and their sufferings, and ask for counsel and admonition. Seeing this, the opponents of the el ders declared that the sacrament of confession was being arbitrarily and frivolously degraded, though the continual opening of the heart to the elder by the monk or the layman had nothing of the character of the sacrament.

In the end, however, the institution of elders has been retained and is becoming established in Russ ian monasteries. It is true, perhaps, that this instrument which had stood the test of a thousand years for the moral regeneration of a man from slavery to freedom and to moral perfectibility may be a twoedged weapon and it may lead some not to humility and complete selfcontrol but to the most Satanic pride, that is, to bo ndage and not to freedom. The elder Zossima was sixtyfive. He came of a family of landowners, had been in the army in early youth, and served in the Caucasus as an officer.

He had, no doubt, impressed Alyosha by some peculiar quality of his soul. Alyosha lived in the cell of the elder, who was very fond of him and let him wait upon him. It m ust be noted that Alyosha was bound by no obligation and could go where he pleased and be absent for whole days. Though he wore the monastic dress it was v oluntarily, not to be different from others. No doubt he liked to do so. Possibly his youthful imagination was deeply stirred by the power and fame of his elder. It was said that so many people had for years past come to confess their sins to Father Zossima and to entreat him for words of advice and healing, that he had acq uired the keenest intuition and could tell from an unknown face what a newcomer wanted, and what was the suffering on his conscience.

He sometimes astound ed and almost alarmed his visitors by his knowledge of their secrets before they had spoken a word. Alyosha noticed that many, almost all, went in to the elder for the first time with apprehension and uneasiness, but came out with bright and happy faces. Alyos ha was particularly struck by the fact that Father Zossima was not at all stern. On the contrary, he was always almost gay. The monks used to say that he was mo re drawn to those who were more sinful, and the greater the sinner the more he loved him. There were, no doubt, up to the end of his life, among the monks som e who hated and envied him, but they were few in number and they were silent, though among them were some of great dignity in the monastery, one, for instan ce, of the older monks distinguished for his strict keeping of fasts and vows of silence.

Some were almost fanatically devoted to him, and declared, though not quite aloud, that he was a saint, tha t there could be no doubt of it, and, seeing that his end was near, they anticipated miracles and great glory to the monastery in the immediate future from his reli cs. Alyosha had unquestioning faith in the miraculous power of the elder, just as he had unquestioning faith in the story of the coffin that flew out of the church.

Whether they had really been healed or were simply better in the natural course of the disease was a question which did not exist for Alyosha, for he fully believ ed in the spiritual power of his teacher and rejoiced in his fame, in his glory, as though it were his own triumph. His heart throbbed, and he beamed, as it were, a ll over when the elder came out to the gates of the hermitage into the waiting crowd of pilgrims of the humbler class who had flocked from all parts of Russia on purpose to see the elder and obtain his blessing. Of late he had become so weak through attacks of illness that he was sometimes unable to leave his cell, and the pilgrims waited for him to come out for several days.

Alyosha did not wonder why they loved him so, why they fell down before him and wept with emotion merely at seeing his face. He has the truth; he knows the truth; so it is n ot dead upon the earth; so it will come one day to us, too, and rule over all the earth according to the promise. The conviction that after his death the el der would bring extraordinary glory to the monastery was even stronger in Alyosha than in any one there, and, of late, a kind of deep flame of inner ecstasy burn t more and more strongly in his heart. He is holy. He carries in his heart the secret of renewal for all: that power which will, at last, establish truth on the earth, and all men will be holy an d love one another, and there will be no more rich nor poor, no exalted nor humbled, but all will be as the children of God, and the true Kingdom of Christ will c ome.

The arrival of his two brothers, whom he had not known till then, seemed to make a great impression on Alyosha. He more quickly made friends with his halfbr other Dmitri though he arrived later than with his own brother Ivan. He was extremely interested in his brother Ivan, but when the latter had been two months i n the town, though they had met fairly often, they were still not intimate. Alyosha was naturally silent, and he seemed to be expecting something, ashamed about something, while his brother Ivan, though Alyosha noticed at first that he looked long and curiously at him, seemed soon to have left off thinking of him.

Alyos ha noticed it with some embarrassment. But he also wondered whether t he absence of curiosity and sympathy in Ivan might be due to some other cause entirely unknown to him. He kept fancying that Ivan was absorbed in something —something inward and important—that he was striving towards some goal, perhaps very hard to attain, and that that was why he had no thought for him. Alyo sha wondered, too, whether there was not some contempt on the part of the learned atheist for him—a foolish novice. He knew for certain that his brother was a n atheist. He could not take offense at this contempt, if it existed; yet, with an uneasy embarrassment which he did not himself understand, he waited for his brot her to come nearer to him.

Dmitri used to speak of Ivan with the deepest respect and with a peculiar earnestness. From him Alyosha learnt all the details of the i mportant affair which had of late formed such a close and remarkable bond between the two elder brothers. It was at this time that the meeting, or, rather gathering of the members of this inharmonious family took place in the cell of the elder who had such an extraordi nary influence on Alyosha.

The pretext for this gathering was a false one. It was at this time that the discord between Dmitri and his father seemed at its acutest stage and their relations had become insufferably strained. Dmitri, who had never seen the elder, naturally supposed that his father was trying to intimidate him, but, as he secretly blamed hi mself for his outbursts of temper with his father on several recent occasions, he accepted the challenge.

It must be noted that he was not, like Ivan, staying with his father, but living apart at the other end of the town. A Liberal of the forties and fifties, a freethinker and atheist, he may have been led on by boredom or the hope of frivolous diversion. He was sudden ly seized with the desire to see the monastery and the holy man. As his lawsuit with the monastery still dragged on, he made it the pretext for seeing the Superio r, in order to attempt to settle it amicably.

A visitor coming with such laudable intentions might be received with more attention and consideration than if he cam e from simple curiosity. Influences from within the monastery were brought to bear on the elder, who of late had scarcely left his cell, and had been forced by ill ness to deny even his ordinary visitors. In the end he consented to see them, and the day was fixed. Alyosha was much perturbed when he heard of the proposed visit.

Of all the wrangling, quarrelsome party, Dmitri was the only one who could regard the intervi ew seriously. All the others would come from frivolous motives, perhaps insulting to the elder. Alyosha was well aware of that. Though he said nothing, Alyosha thoroughly unde rstood his father. The boy, I repeat, was far from being so simple as every one thought him. He awaited the day with a heavy heart. No doubt he was always pon dering in his mind how the family discord could be ended. But his chief anxiety concerned the elder. He even wanted to venture on warning the elder, telling him something about them, but, on second thoughts, said nothing.

He only sent word the day before, through a friend, to his brother Dmitri, th at he loved him and expected him to keep his promise. Alyosha was not greatly cheered by the letter. Book II. An Unfortunate Gathering Chapter I. The interview with the elder had been fixed for halfpast eleven, immediately after late mass. Our visitors did not take part in the service, but arrived just as it was over. This young man was preparing to enter the university. The young man was still undecided. He was thoughtful and absentminded. H e was nice looking, strongly built, and rather tall. There was a strange fixity in his gaze at times. Like all very absentminded people he would sometimes stare at a person without seeing him.

He was silent and rather awkward, but sometimes, when he was alone with any one, he became talkative and effusive, and would l augh at anything or nothing. But his animation vanished as quickly as it appeared. He was always well and even elaborately dressed; he had already some indep endent fortune and expectations of much more. Dmitri was late, though he had been informed of the time the evening before. The visitors left their carriage at the hotel, outside the precincts, and went to the gates of the monastery on foot. He looked about him with curiosity, together with assumed ease.

But, except the church and the domestic buildings, though these too were or dinary enough, he found nothing of interest in the interior of the monastery. The last of the worshippers were coming out of the church, bareheaded and crossing themselves. Among the humbler people were a few of higher rank—two or three ladies and a very old general. They were all staying at the hotel. Our visitors w ere at once surrounded by beggars, but none of them gave them anything, except young Kalganov, who took a ten copeck piece out of his purse, and, nervous an d embarrassed—God knows why! It was strange that their arrival did not seem expected, and that they were not received with special honor, though one of them had recently made a donation of a thousand roubles, while another was a very wealthy and highly cultured landowner, upon whom all in the monastery were in a sense dependent, as a decision of the lawsuit might at any moment put their fishing rights in his hands.

Yet no official personage met them. His liberal irony was rapidly changing almost into anger. All at once there came up a baldheaded, elderly man with ingratiating little eyes, wearing a full, summer overcoat. Lifting his hat, he introduced himself with a h oneyed lisp as Maximov, a landowner of Tula. I have to go…. I am going myself. This way, this way. Maximov, a man of sixty, ran rather than walked, turning sideways to stare at them all, with an incredib le degree of nervous curiosity. His eyes looked starting out of his head. The honor and glory of the monastery, Zossima. Such an elder! And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, will you go, too?

What have I come for but to study all the customs here? The only obstacle to me is your company…. Do you suppose I like all this business, and in your company, too? So we will come to dinner. Have you ever seen von Sohn? I can always tell from the physiognomy. But, look here, Fyodor Pavlovitch, you said just now that we had given our word to behave properly. Remember it. I advise you to control yourself. Here in this hermitage there are twentyfive saints being saved. They look at one another, and eat cabbag es. And not one woman goes in at this gate. And that really is so. But for ladies of higher rank two rooms have been built adjoining the portico, but out side the precincts—you can see the windows—and the elder goes out to them by an inner passage when he is well enough.

They are always outside the precincts. There is a Harkov lady, Madame Hohlakov, waiting there now with her sick daughter. Probably he has promised to come out to her, though of late he has been so weak that he has hardly shown himself even to the people. But do you know that at Ath os not only the visits of women are not allowed, but no creature of the female sex—no hens, nor turkeyhens, nor cows. Behave properly or I will pay you out! And what a lot you think of their opinion! They were asked to come in.

He walked in, somewhat irritated. The Old Buffoon They entered the room almost at the same moment that the elder came in from his bedroom. There was also a tall young man, who looked about two and twenty, standing in the corner throughout the interview. He had a broad, fresh face, and clever, observant, narrow brown eyes, a nd was wearing ordinary dress. He was a divinity student, living under the protection of the monastery. His expression was one of unquestioning, but selfrespect ing, reverence.

Being in a subordinate and dependent position, and so not on an equality with the guests, he did not greet them with a bow. Father Zossima was accompanied by a novice, and by Alyosha. The two monks rose and greeted him with a very deep bow, touching the ground with their finge rs; then kissed his hand. Blessing them, the elder replied with as deep a reverence to them, and asked their blessing. The whole ceremony was performed very se riously and with an appearance of feeling, not like an everyday rite. He stood in front of the other visitors. But when he saw all this bowing and kissing on the part of the monks he instantly changed his mind. With digni fied gravity he made a rather deep, conventional bow, and moved away to a chair.

Ivan bowed with great dignity and courtesy, but he too kept his hands at his sides, while Kalganov was so confused that he did not bow at all. The elder let fall the hand raise d to bless them, and bowing to them again, asked them all to sit down. He was ashamed. His forebodings were coming tr ue. Father Zossima sat down on a very oldfashioned mahogany sofa, covered with leather, and made his visitors sit down in a row along the opposite wall on four m ahogany chairs, covered with shabby black leather. The monks sat, one at the door and the other at the window. The divinity student, the novice, and Alyosha re mained standing.

The cell was not very large and had a faded look. It contained nothing but the most necessary furniture, of coarse and poor quality. There were two pots of flowers in the window, and a number of holy pictures in the corner. Before one huge ancient ikon of the Virgin a lamp was burning. Near it were two other holy pictures in shining settings, and, next them, carved cherubims, china eggs, a Catholic cross of ivory, with a Mater Dolorosa embracing it, and several foreign engravings from the great Italian artists of past centuries.

Next to these costly and artistic engravings were several of the roughest Russian prints of saints and martyrs, such as are sold for a few farthings at all the fairs. On the other walls were portraits of Russian bishops, past and present. He had a high opinion of his own insight, a weakn ess excusable in him as he was fifty, an age at which a clever man of the world of established position can hardly help taking himself rather seriously. At the firs t moment he did not like Zossima. He was a short, be nt, little man, with very weak legs, and though he was only sixtyfive, he looked at least ten years older. His face was very thin and covered with a network of fin e wrinkles, particularly numerous about his eyes, which were small, lightcolored, quick, and shining like two bright points.

He had a sprinkling of gray hair abo ut his temples. His pointed beard was small and scanty, and his lips, which smiled frequently, were as thin as two threads. He felt altogether dissatisfied with his position. A cheap little clock on the wall struck twelve hurriedly, and served to begin the conversation. I apologize for him, sacred elder! But, there! I always say the wrong thing. I introduce myself as such. I was seven years ago in a little town where I had business, and I made friends with some merchants there. We went to the captain of police because we had to see him about som ething, and to ask him to dine with us. He was a tall, fat, fair, sulky man, the most dangerous type in such cases. I saw, at the first halfsecon d, that it had missed fire.

He stood there so glum. Napravnik is our wellknown Russian orche stra conductor and what we need for the harmony of our undertaking is some one of that sort. Always injuring myself with my politeness. Father Zossima scrutinized them both in silence. Would you believe it, I was aware of that, too, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, and let me tell you, indeed, I foresaw I should as soon as I began to speak. But onl y a little one. A more serious one would have chosen another lodging. But I do believe—I believe in God, though I have had doubts of late.

But now I sit and await words of wisdom. Princess Dashkov was his godmother, and Potyomkin his godfather. Why are you playing the fool? Great elder! I never thought of it before. I made it up to add piquancy. I play the fool, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to mak e myself agreeable. I heard your aunt, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, tell the story. They all believe to this day that the infidel Diderot ca me to dispute about God with the Metropolitan Platon…. He was furious, and conscious of being ridiculous. What was taking place in the cell was really incredible. For forty or fifty years past, from the times of former elders, no visitors had entered that cell without feel ings of the profoundest veneration.

Almost every one admitted to the cell felt that a great favor was being shown him. Many remained kneeling during the whol e visit. Of those visitors, many had been men of high rank and learning, some even freethinkers, attracted by curiosity, but all without exception had shown the profoundest reverence and delicacy, for here there was no question of money, but only, on the one side love and kindness, and on the other penitence and eager desire to decide some spiritual problem or crisis. So that such buffoonery amazed and bewildered the spectators, or at least some of them. Alyosha stood, with hanging head, on the verge of tears.

What seemed to him strangest of all was that his brother Ivan, on whom alone he had rested his hopes, and who alone had s uch influence on his father that he could have stopped him, sat now quite unmoved, with downcast eyes, apparently waiting with interest to see how it would en d, as though he had nothing to do with it. Alyosha did not dare to look at Rakitin, the divinity student, whom he knew almost intimately. I made a mistake in believing that even a man like Fyodor Pavlovitch would understand what was due on a visit to so honored a personage.

I did not suppose I should have to apologize simply for havi ng come with him…. I particularly beg you to be my guest. Do I annoy you by my vivacity? Make yourself quite at home. And, above a ll, do not be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root of it all. To be my natural self? Oh, that is much too much, but I accept it with grateful joy. I will not go so far as that myself. I warn you for your own sake.

I mean that for you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. But as for you, holy being, let me tell you, I am brimm ing over with ecstasy. Indeed, I always feel when I meet people that I am lower than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon. I am not afraid of your opinio n, for you are every one of you worse than I am. If I had only been sure that every one would accept me as the kindest and wisest of men, oh, Lord, what a good man I should have been then! Teac her! And close your taverns. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish th e truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others.

And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distrac t himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself. Th e man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than any one. A man may know that nob ody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehill—he knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offense, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to g enuine vindictiveness.

But get up, sit down, I beg you. All this, too, is deceitful posturing…. Give me your hand to kiss. You said that so well, as I never heard it b efore. Yes, I have been all my life taking offense, to please myself, taking offense on esthetic grounds, for it is not so much pleasant as distinguished sometimes to be insulted—that you had forgotten, great elder, it is distinguished! I shall make a note of that.

But I have been lying, lying positively my whole life long, eve ry day and hour of it. Of a truth, I am a lie, and the father of lies. Though I believe I am not the father of lies. I am getting mixed in my texts. Say, the son of lies, and that will be enough. Only … my angel … I may sometimes talk about Diderot! Diderot will do no harm, though sometimes a word will do harm. Great elde r, by the way, I was forgetting, though I had been meaning for the last two years to come here on purpose to ask and to find out something. Only do tell Pyotr Al exandrovitch not to interrupt me. Is tha t true or not, honored Father? What saint do you say the story is told of? I was deceived.

I was told the story. I had heard it, and do you know who told it? He it was who told the story. It was three years ago. I mentioned it because by that ridiculous story you shook my faith, Pyot r Alexandrovitch. You knew nothing of it, but I went home with my faith shaken, and I have been getting more and more shaken ever since. Yes, Pyotr Alexand rovitch, you were the cause of a great fall.

That was not a Diderot! I was told it myself. I heard it in Paris fro m a Frenchman. He told me it was read at our mass from the Lives of the Saints … he was a very learned man who had made a special study of Russian statistic s and had lived a long time in Russia…. I have not read the Lives of the Saints myself, and I am not going to read them … all sorts of things are said at dinner— we were dining then. He went out of the cell. Alyosha a nd the novice flew to escort him down the steps. Alyosha was breathless: he was glad to get away, but he was glad, too, that the elder was goodhumored and not offended. Father Zossima was going towards the portico to bless the people waiting for him there. But Fyodor Pavlovitch persisted in stopping him at the door of the cell.

Yes, with you I could still talk, I could still get on. Do you think I always lie and play the fool like this? Believe me, I have been acting like this all the time on purpose to try you. I have been testing you all the time to see whether I could get on with you. Is there room for my humility beside your pride? I am ready to give you a testimonial that one can get on with you! Now it is for you to speak, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You are the principal person left now—for ten min utes. Peasant Women Who Have Faith Near the wooden portico below, built on to the outer wall of the precinct, there was a crowd of about twenty peasant women. They had been told that the elder w as at last coming out, and they had gathered together in anticipation. Two ladies, Madame Hohlakov and her daughter, had also come out into the portico to wait for the elder, but in a separate part of it set aside for women of rank.

Madame Hohlakov was a wealthy lady, still young and attractive, and always dressed with taste. She was rather pale, and had lively black eyes. She was not mo re than thirtythree, and had been five years a widow. Her daughter, a girl of fourteen, was partially paralyzed. The poor child had not been able to walk for the la st six months, and was wheeled about in a long reclining chair. She had a charming little face, rather thin from illness, but full of gayety. There was a gleam of mischief in her big dark eyes with their long lashes.

Her mother had been intending to take her abroad ever since the spring, but they had been detained all the s ummer by business connected with their estate. They had been staying a week in our town, where they had come more for purposes of business than devotion, b ut had visited Father Zossima once already, three days before. But Father Zossima, on entering the portico, went first straight to the peasants who were crowded at the foot of the three steps that led up into the portico. Father Zossima stood on the top step, put on his stole, and began blessing the women who thronged about him. One crazy woman was led up to him. As soon as she ca ught sight of the elder she began shrieking and writhing as though in the pains of childbirth.

Laying the stole on her forehead, he read a short prayer over her, an d she was at once soothed and quieted. They used to be brought to mass; they would squeal and bark like a dog so that they were heard all over the church. I was greatly impressed and amazed at this as a child; but then I h eard from country neighbors and from my town teachers that the whole illness was simulated to avoid work, and that it could always be cured by suitable severit y; various anecdotes were told to confirm this.

But later on I learnt with astonishment from medical specialists that there is no pretense about it, that it is a terribl e illness to which women are subject, specially prevalent among us in Russia, and that it is due to the hard lot of the peasant women. It is a disease, I was told, ar ising from exhausting toil too soon after hard, abnormal and unassisted labor in childbirth, and from the hopeless misery, from beatings, and so on, which some women were not able to endure like others. Both the women who supp orted her and the invalid herself fully believed as a truth beyond question that the evil spirit in possession of her could not hold out if the sick woman were brou ght to the sacrament and made to bow down before it.

And so, with a nervous and psychically deranged woman, a sort of convulsion of the whole organism alw ays took place, and was bound to take place, at the moment of bowing down to the sacrament, aroused by the expectation of the miracle of healing and the impli cit belief that it would come to pass; and it did come to pass, though only for a moment. It was exactly the same now as soon as the elder touched the sick woma n with the stole. Many of the women in the crowd were moved to tears of ecstasy by the effect of the moment: some strove to kiss the hem of his garment, others cried out in sin gsong voices. He blessed them all and talked with some of them. She came from a village only six versts from the monastery, and h ad been brought to him before. She was kneeling and gazing with a fixed stare at the elder; there was something almost frenzied in her eyes.

From two hundred miles from here. From afar off, Father, from afar off! There is silent and longsuffering 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 tha t 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 consta nt craving to reopen the wound. 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 yo u. I have buried my little son, and I have come on a pilgrimage. I have come; I was yesterday at the service, and today I have come to you. He was three years old—three years all but three months. He was the last one left. 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. I lay out all that is left of him, all his little things. I look at them and wail. And what good is it all to us now? My Nikita has begun drinking while I am away. It used to be so before. As soon as I turn my back he gives way to it.

And what would our life be now together? Verily there are none bolder than they in the Kingdom o f Heaven. He was a great saint and he could not have spoken falsely. Therefore you t oo, 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 not, but rejoice. She sighed deeply. Our son is no doubt singing with the angels before God. I see that he cries like me.

Only, here with us now he is not as he used to sit beside us before. Such is the lot set on earth for you mothers. Be n ot comforted. Consolation is not what you need. Weep and be not consoled, but weep. 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 an d delivers it from sin. What was his name? After Alexey, the man of God? It is a sin for you to leave him. You r little one will see from heaven that you have forsaken his father, and will weep over you. Why do you trouble his happiness? He is living, for the soul lives for ever, and though he is not in the house he is near you, unseen.

How can he go into the house when you say that the house is hateful to you? To whom is he to go if he find you not together, his father and mother? He comes to you in dreams now, and you grieve. But then he will send you gentle dreams. Go to your husban d, mother; go this very day. I will go. Her eyes showed that she had come with an object, and in order to say something. She said she was the widow of a noncommissioned officer, and lived close by in the town.

Her son Vasenka was in the co mmissariat service, and had gone to Irkutsk in Siberia. He had written twice from there, but now a year had passed since he had written. She did inquire about hi m, but she did not know the proper place to inquire. Only I am in doubt…. Oh, you light of ours! How is it possible to pray for the peace of a living soul? And his own mother too! Only for your ignorance it is forgiven you. Better pray to the Queen of Heaven, our swift defense and help, for his good health, and that she may forgive y ou for your error.

And another thing I will tell you, Prohorovna. Either he will soon come back to you, your son, or he will be sure to send a letter. Go, and henc eforward be in peace. Your son is alive, I tell you. An exhausted, consumptivelooking, though young peasant woman was gazing at him in silence. Her eyes besought him, but she seemed afraid to approach. I am afraid of my sin. The woman crept closer to him, still on her knees. He was an old man. He used to beat m e cruelly. He lay ill; I thought looking at him, if he were to get well, if he were to get up again, what then? The woman went on in a low whisper, so that it was almost impossible to catch anything. She had soon done. Twice I have confessed it.

I am afraid. I am afraid to die. If only your penitence fail not, God will forgive all. There is no sin, and there can be no sin on all the earth, w hich the Lord will not forgive to the truly repentant! Man cannot commit a sin so great as to exhaust the infinite love of God. Can there be a sin which could exc eed the love of God? Think only of repentance, continual repentance, but dismiss fear altogether. Believe that God loves you as you cannot conceive; that He lo ves you with your sin, in your sin.

It has been said of old that over one repentant sinner there is more joy in heaven than over ten righteous men. Go, and fear not. Be not bitter against men. Be not angry if you are wronged. Forgive the dead man in your heart what wrong he did you. Be reconciled with him in truth. If you are penitent, you love. And if you love you are of God. All things are atoned for, all things are saved by love. If I, a sinner, even as you are, am tender with you and have pity on you, how much more will God. Love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole world by it, and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others.

She bowed down to the earth without speaking. He got up and looked cheerfully at a healthy peasant woman with a tiny baby in her arms. What do you want? I have been to you before—or have you forgotten? They told us you were ill. God bless you! There are plenty to pray for you; how sho uld you be ill? Here are sixty copecks. Give them, dear Father, to some one poorer than me. I thought as I came along, better give through him.

You are a good woman. I love you. I will do so certainly. Is that your little girl? You have gladdened my heart, mother. Farewell, dear children, farewell, dear ones. Ophelia has little to no sense of self, has no sense of judgement, and seems to rely on others to mold her into who she is. She is foolish to enable the treatment that she has received throughout the play, and has an absence of self-respect.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are also said to be foolish, as they betray their friend Hamlet, the son of King Hamlet, for what they thought would be a gracious reward. Almost every tragedy of the play is caused by a character seeking revenge which usually ended up making the situation worse. Wrath was the leading sin responsible for all these misfortunes because it caused multiple strains in relationships, revealed the true nature of the characters, and created the desire for revenge.

Hamlet lost all respect towards her and would make very derogatory comments. Macbeth and Lady Macbeth were once noble people, but when exposed to the possibility of power and control, they turn corrupt, allowing their sinister thoughts to consume them. Normally, it must be a marriage of happy ending, however, it represents the repression of Heathcliff and makes him an embedded of revenge. He becomes an outcome of everything he has encountered. Moreover, the protagonists, Heathcliff and Catherine, are happy when they do not follow the conventions of the society ,however, they were oppressed when they follow them. The masculinity in the story of Romeo and Juliet overrides the idea of true love and romance. This prevents Romeo and Juliet from being with each other, which ultimately causes the tragic death of the two young lovers.

Two servants of the Capulet family are complaining about the servants of another family Montagues. The first character trait a tragic hero must fulfill is to awake a feeling of pity and fear in the audience. This happens at the point where Hamlet is thinking about suicide were he gets an interesting character Act 1 Scene 2 p. Tragedy is a genre of writing determined by the extent of pain that the characters within its pages feel or experience. Whether through emotional turmoil, their own death or even the death of a loved one, a majority of tragic characters experience pain and defeat. For Hamlet, it was the death of his father, the previous king, who also revealed the horrid state that his beloved homeland of Denmark was in, and in addition the failed relationship with the woman he loved, Ophelia.

Drastic changes in behavior also started gradually becoming more apparent within the young Prince. These events drove Hamlet to what he convinced to be an act of pretend lunacy in which he created, unknowingly to Hamlet his control is false. With the inclusion of the …show more content… In the play there is an ambiguous connection between sexuality and madness that is more than just subtly thematic but is represented verbally at the same time Hunt. Sexual rejection not only keeps Hamlet in a state of madness but also Ophelia.

The elder Zossima was Hamlet Ophelianity And Madness Analysis. You have Hamlet Ophelianity And Madness Analysis my Lise, Hamlet Ophelianity And Madness Analysis her completely, merely by praying over her Hamlet Ophelianity And Madness Analysis Thursday Hamlet Ophelianity And Madness Analysis laying y our hands upon her. But before Pyotr Alexandrovitch could think Hamlet Ophelianity And Madness Analysis to answer, the door opened, and the guest so long expected, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, came in. By his crime he would have transgressed not only again st men but Hamlet Ophelianity And Madness Analysis the Church of Christ. Forgive Essay On White Privilege His face at Hamlet Ophelianity And Madness Analysis looked anxious.

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