The priest spoke; everyone was standing or sitting round the sickbed.
“In our sinful days,” the priest began smoothly, with a cup of tea in his hand, “faith in the Most High is the sole refuge of the race of man in all the trials and tribulations of life, as well as its hope for that eternal bliss promised to the righteous.”
Stepan Trofimovitch seemed to revive, a subtle smile strayed on his lips.
“Mon père, je vous remercie et vous êtes bien bon, mais …”
“No mais about it, no mais at all!” exclaimed Varvara Petrovna, bounding up from her chair. “Father,” she said, addressing the priest, “he is a man who … he is a man who … You will have to confess him again in another hour! That’s the sort of man he is.”
Stepan Trofimovitch smiled faintly.
“My friends,” he said, “God is necessary to me, if only because He is the only being whom one can love eternally.”
Whether he was really converted, or whether the stately ceremony of the administration of the sacrament had impressed him and stirred the artistic responsiveness of his temperament or not, he firmly and, I am told, with great feeling uttered some words which were in flat contradiction with many of his former convictions.
“My immortality is necessary if only because God will not be guilty of injustice and extinguish altogether the flame of love for Him once kindled in my heart. And what is more precious than love? Love is higher than existence, love is the crown of existence; and how is it possible that existence should not be under its dominance? If I have once loved Him and rejoiced in my love, is it possible that He should extinguish me and my joy and bring me to nothingness again? If there is a God, then I am immortal. Voilà ma profession de foi.”
“There is a God, Stepan Trofimovitch, I assure you there is,” Varvara Petrovna implored him. “Give it up, drop all your foolishness for once in your life!” (I think she had not quite understood his profession de foi.)
“My friend,” he said, growing more and more animated, though his voice broke frequently, “as soon as I understood … that turning of the cheek, I … understood something else as well. J’ai menti toute ma vie, all my life, all! I should like … but that will do tomorrow. … Tomorrow we will all set out.”
Varvara Petrovna burst into tears. He was looking about for someone.
“Here she is, she is here!” She seized Sofya Matveyevna by the hand and led her to him. He smiled tenderly.
“Oh, I should dearly like to live again!” he exclaimed with an extraordinary rush of energy. “Every minute, every instant of life ought to be a blessing to man … they ought to be, they certainly ought to be! It’s the duty of man to make it so; that’s the law of his nature, which always exists even if hidden. … Oh, I wish I could see Petrusha … and all of them … Shatov …”
I may remark that as yet no one had heard of Shatov’s fate—not Varvara Petrovna nor Darya Pavlovna, nor even Salzfish, who was the last to come from the town.
Stepan Trofimovitch became more and more excited, feverishly so, beyond his strength.
“The mere fact of the ever present idea that there exists something infinitely more just and more happy than I am fills me through and through with tender ecstasy—and glorifies me—oh, whoever I may be, whatever I have done! What is far more essential for man than personal happiness is to know and to believe at every instant that there is somewhere a perfect and serene happiness for all men and for everything. … The one essential condition of human existence is that man should always be able to bow down before something infinitely great. If men are deprived of the infinitely great they will not go on living and will die of despair. The Infinite and the Eternal are as essential for man as the little planet on which he dwells. My friends, all, all: hail to the Great Idea! The Eternal, Infinite Idea! It is essential to every man, whoever he may be, to bow down before what is the Great Idea. Even the stupidest man needs something great. Petrusha … oh, how I want to see them all again! They don’t know, they don’t know that that same Eternal, Grand Idea lies in them all!”
Doctor Salzfish was not present at the ceremony. Coming in suddenly, he was horrified, and cleared the room, insisting that the patient must not be excited.
Stepan Trofimovitch died three days later, but by that time he was completely unconscious. He quietly went out like a candle that is burnt down. After having the funeral service performed, Varvara Petrovna took the body of her poor friend to Skvoreshniki. His grave is in the precincts of the church and is already covered with a marble slab. The inscription and the railing will be added in the spring.
Varvara Petrovna’s absence from town had lasted eight days. Sofya Matveyevna arrived in the carriage with her and seems to have settled with her for good. I may mention that as soon as Stepan Trofimovitch lost consciousness (the morning that he received the sacrament) Varvara Petrovna promptly asked Sofya Matveyevna to leave the cottage again, and waited on the invalid herself unassisted to the end, but she sent for her at once when he had breathed his last. Sofya Matveyevna was terribly alarmed by Varvara Petrovna’s proposition, or rather command, that she should settle for good at Skvoreshniki, but the latter refused to listen to her protests.
“That’s all nonsense! I will go with you to sell the gospel. I have no one in the world now.”
“You have a son, however,” Salzfish observed.
“I have
