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Alyosha, said Mitya, youre the only one who wont laugh. I should like to beginmy confessionwith Schillers Hymn to Joy, An die Freude! I dont know German, I only know its called that. Dont think Im talking nonsense because Im drunk. Im not a bit drunk. Brandys all very well, but I need two bottles to make me drunk: Upon his stumbling ass. But Ive not drunk a quarter of a bottle, and Im not Silenus. Im not Silenus, though I am strong,1 for Ive made a decision once for all. Forgive me the pun; youll have to forgive me a lot more than puns to- day. Dont be uneasy. Im not spinning it out. Im talking sense, and Ill come to the point in a minute. I wont keep you in suspense. Stay, how does it go?He raised his head, thought a minute, and began with enthusiasm: Hid the naked troglodyte, And the homeless nomad wandered Laying waste the fertile plain. Menacing with spear and arrow In the woods the hunter strayed. Woe to all poor wretches stranded On those cruel and hostile shores! Came the mother Ceres down, Seeking in those savage regions Her lost daughter Proserpine. But the Goddess found no refuge, Found no kindly welcome there, And no temple bearing witness To the worship of the gods. Came no fruits to deck the feats, Only flesh of blood-stained victims Smouldered on the altar-fires, And whereer the grieving goddess Turns her melancholy gaze, Sunk in vilest degradation Man his loathesomeness displays. Mitya broke into sobs and seized Alyoshas hand. My dear, my dear, in degradation, in degradation now, too. Theres a terrible amount of suffering for man on earth, a terrible lot of trouble. Dont think Im only a brute in an officers uniform, wallowing in dirt and drink. I hardly think of anything but of that degraded manif only Im not lying. I pray God Im not lying and showing off. I think about that man because I am that man myself. And attain to light and worth, He must turn and cling forever To his ancient Mother Earth. But the difficulty is how am I to cling for ever to Mother Earth. I dont kiss her. I dont cleave her bosom. Am I to become a peasant or a shepherd? I go on and I dont know whether Im going to shame or to light and joy. Thats the trouble, for everything in the world is a riddle! And whenever Ive happened to sink into the vilest degradation (and its always been happening) I always read that poem about Ceres and man. Has it reformed me? Never! For Im a Karamazov. For when I do leap into the pit, I go headlong with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that degrading attitude, and pride myself upon it. And in the very depths of that degradation I begin a hymn of praise. Let me be accursed. Let me be vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand. The soul of all creation, It is her secret ferment fires The cup of life with flame. Tis at her beck the grass hath turned Each blade towards the light And solar systems have evolved From chaos and dark night, Filling the realms of boundless space Beyond the sages sight. All things that breathe drink Joy, And birds and beasts and creeping things All follow where She leads. Her gifts to man are friends in need, The wreath, the foaming must, To angelsvision of Gods throne, To insectssensual lust. |
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