Dostoevsky, on the Fall: “The people of that happy earth”

[From Fyodor Dostoevsky’s “The Dream of a Ridiculous Man,” The Eternal Husband and Other Stories (New York: Bantam Books, 1997), translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, starting on p. 289, near the end of section III . . .]

Suddenly, as if quite imperceptibly, I came to stand on this other earth, in the bright light of a sunny day, lovely as paradise.  I was standing, it seems, on one of those islands which on our earth make up the Greek archipelago, or somewhere on the coast of the mainland adjacent to that archipelago.  Oh, everything was exactly as with us, but seemed everywhere to radiate some festivity and a great, holy, and finally attained triumph.  The gentle emerald sea splashed softly against the shores and kissed them with love – plain, visible, almost conscious.  Tall, beautiful trees stood in all the luxury of their flowering, and their numberless leaves, I was convinced, greeted me with their soft, gentle sound, as if uttering words of love.  The grass glittered with bright, fragrant flowers.  Flocks of birds flew about in the air and, fearless of me, landed on my shoulders and arms, joyfully beating me with their dear, fluttering wings.  And finally I got to see and know the people of that happy earth.  They came to me themselves, they surrounded me, kissed me.  Children of the sun, children of their sun – oh, how beautiful they were!  Never on our earth have I seen such beauty in man.  Maybe only in our children, in their first years, can one find a remote, though faint, glimmer of that beauty.  The eyes of these happy people shone with clear brightness.  Their faces radiated reason and a sort of consciousness fulfilled to the point of serenity, yet they were mirthful faces; a childlike joy sounded in the words and voices of these people.  Oh, at once, with the first glance at their faces, I understood everything, everything!  This was the earth undefiled by the fall, the people who lived on it had not sinned, they lived in the same paradise in which, according to the legends of all mankind, our fallen forefathers lived, with the only difference that the whole earth here was everywhere one and the same paradise.  These people, laughing joyfully, crowded around me and caressed me; they took me with them and each of them wished to set me at ease.  Oh, they didn’t ask me about anything, but it seemed to me as if they already knew everything, and wished quickly to drive the torment from my face.


You see, once again: well, let it be only a dream!  But the feeling of love from these innocent and beautiful people remained in me ever after, and I feel that their love pours upon me from there even now.  I saw them myself, I knew them and was convinced, I loved them, I suffered for them afterward.  Oh, I at once understood, even then, that in many ways I would never understand them; to me, a modern Russian progressive and vile Petersburger, it seemed insoluble, for instance, that they, while knowing so much, did not have our science.  But I soon realized that their knowledge was fulfilled and nourished by different insights than on our earth, and that their aspirations were also quite different.  They did not wish for anything and were at peace, they did not aspire to a knowledge of life, as we do, because their life was fulfilled.  But their knowledge was deeper and loftier than our science; for our science seeks to explain what life is, it aspires to comprehend it, in order to teach others to live; but they knew how to live even without science, and I understood that, but I could not understand their knowledge.  They pointed out their trees to me, and I could not understand the extent of the love with which they looked at them: as if they were talking with creatures of their own kind.  And you know, perhaps I wouldn’t be mistaken if I said that they did talk to them!  Yes, they had found their language, and I’m convinced that the trees understood them.  They looked at the whole of nature in the same way – at the animals, who lived in peace with them, did not attack them, and loved them, won over by their love.  They pointed out the stars to me and talked of them with me about something I couldn’t understand, but I’m convinced that they had some contact, as it were, with the heavenly stars, not just in thought, but in some living way.  Oh, these people did not even try to make me understand them, they loved me even without that, but on the other hand I knew that they would also never understand me, and therefore I hardly ever spoke to them about our earth.  I only kissed before them that earth on which they lived and wordlessly adored them, and they saw it and allowed me to adore them without being ashamed of my adoring them, because they loved much themselves.  They did not suffer for me when sometimes, in tears, I kissed their feet, joyfully knowing at heart with what force of love they would respond to me.  At times I asked myself in astonishment: how could they manage, all this while, not to insult a man such as I, and never once provoke in a man such as I any feeling of jealousy or envy?  Many times I asked myself how I, a braggart and a liar, could manage not to speak to them about my knowledge – of which they, of course, had no notion – not to wish to astonish them with it, if only out of love for them?  They were frisky and gay as children.  They wandered through their beautiful groves and forests, they sang their beautiful songs, they ate their light food – fruit from their trees, honey from their forests, and milk from the animals who loved them.  For their food and clothing they labored little and but lightly.  There was love among them, and children were born, but I never observed in them any impulses of that cruel sensuality that overtakes almost everyone on our earth, each and every one, and is the only source of almost all the sins of our mankind.  They rejoiced in the children they had as new partakers of their bliss.  Among them there was no quarreling or jealousy, they did not even understand what it meant.  Their children were everyone’s children, because they all constituted one family.  They had almost no illnesses, though there was death; but their old people died quietly, as if falling asleep, surrounded by those bidding them farewell, blessing them, smiling at them, and receiving bright parting smiles themselves.  I saw no sorrow or tears at that, there was only love increased as if to the point of rapture, but a rapture that was calm, fulfilled, contemplative.  One might think they were in touch with their dead even after their death and that the earthly union between them was not interrupted by death.  They barely understood me when I asked them about eternal life, but they were apparently so convinced of it unconsciously that it did not constitute a question for them.  They had no temples, but they had some essential, living, and constant union with the Entirety of the universe; they had no faith, but instead had a firm knowledge that when their earthly joy was fulfilled to the limits of earthly nature, there would then come for them, both for the living and for the dead, a still greater expansion of their contact with the Entirety of the universe.  They waited for this moment with joy, but without haste, without suffering over it, but as if already having it in the presages of their hearts, which they conveyed to one another.  In the evenings, before going to sleep, they liked to sing in balanced, harmonious choruses.  In these songs they expressed all the feelings that the departing day had given them, praised it, and bade it farewell.  They praised nature, the earth, the sea, the forest.  They liked to compose songs about each other and praised each other like children; these were the most simple songs, but they flowed from the heart and penetrated hearts.  And not in songs only, but it seemed they spent their whole life only in admiring each other.  It was a sort of mutual being-in-love, total, universal.  And some of their songs, solemn and rapturous, I hardly understood at all.  While I understood the words, I was never able to penetrate their full meaning.  It remained as if inaccessible to my mind, yet my heart was as if unconsciously pervaded by it more and more.  I often told them that I had long ago had a presentiment of all this, that all this joy and glory had already spoken to me on our earth in an anguished call, sometimes reaching the point of unbearable sorrow; that I had had a presentiment of them all and of their glory in the dreams of my heart and the reveries of my mind, that I had often been unable, on our earth, to watch the setting sun without tears . . .  That my hatred of the people of our earth always contained anguish: why am I unable to hate them without loving them, why am I unable not to forgive them, and why is there anguish in my love for them: why am I unable to love them without hating them?  They listened to me, and I saw that they could not imagine what I was talking about, but I did not regret talking to them about it: I knew they understood all the intensity of my anguish for those whom I had abandoned.  Yes, when they looked at me with their dear eyes pervaded by love, when I felt that in their presence my heart, too, became as innocent and truthful as theirs, I did not regret not understanding them.  The feeling of the fullness of life took my breath away, and I silently worshipped them.

Oh, everyone laughs in my face now and assures me that even in dreams one cannot see such details as I’m now telling, that in my dream I saw or felt only a certain sensation generated by my own heart in delirium, and that I invented the details when I woke up.  And when I disclosed to them that perhaps it was actually so – God, what laughter they threw in my face, what fun they had at my expense!  Oh, yes, of course, I was overcome just by the sensation of that dream, and it alone survived in the bloody wound of my heart: yet the real images and forms of my dream, that is, those that I actually saw at the time of my dreaming, were fulfilled so harmoniously, they were so enchanting and beautiful, and so true, that having awakened, I was, of course, unable to embody them in our weak words, so that they must have been as if effaced in my mind, and therefore, indeed, perhaps I myself unconsciously was forced to invent the details afterward; and of course distorted them, especially with my so passionate desire to hurry and tell them at least somehow.  And yet how can I not believe that it all really was?  And was, perhaps, a thousand times better, brighter, and more joyful than I’m telling?  Let it be a dream, still it all could not but be.  You know, I’ll tell you a secret: perhaps it wasn’t a dream at all!  For here a certain thing happened, something so terribly true that it couldn’t have been imagined in a dream.  Let my dream have been generated by my heart, but was my heart alone capable of generating the terrible truth that happened to me afterward?  How could I myself invent or imagine it in my heart?  Can it be that my paltry heart and capricious, insignificant mind were able to rise to such a revelation of the truth!  Oh, judge for yourselves: I’ve concealed it so far, but now I’ll finish telling this truth as well.  The thing was that I . . . corrupted them all!

[to be continued . . .]

This entry was posted in Dostoevsky, Fyodor, Fall of man, Fall of man, series of posts, Russian literature, Russian religious philosophy. Bookmark the permalink.

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