The Brothers Karamazov

PART I

Book I. The History Of A Family

Chapter I.

Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov

Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovitch

Karamazov, a land owner well known in our district in his own day, and

still remembered among us owing to his gloomy and tragic death, which

happened thirteen years ago, and which I shall describe in its proper

place. For the present I will only say that this “landowner”—for so we

used to call him, although he hardly spent a day of his life on his own

estate—was a strange type, yet one pretty frequently to be met with, a

type abject and vicious and at the same time senseless. But he was one

of those senseless persons who are very well capable of looking after

their worldly affairs, and, apparently, after nothing else. Fyodor

Pavlovitch, for instance, began with next to nothing; his estate was of

the smallest; he ran to dine at other men’s tables, and fastened on

them as a toady, yet at his death it appeared that he had a hundred

thousand roubles in hard cash. At the same time, he was all his life

one of the most senseless, fantastical fellows in the whole district. I

repeat, it was not stupidity—the majority of these fantastical fellows

are shrewd and intelligent enough—but just senselessness, and a

peculiar national form of it.

He was married twice, and had three sons, the eldest, Dmitri, by his

first wife, and two, Ivan and Alexey, by his second. Fyodor

Pavlovitch’s first wife, Adelaïda Ivanovna, belonged to a fairly rich

and distinguished noble family, also landowners in our district, the

Miüsovs. How it came to pass that an heiress, who was also a beauty,

and moreover one of those vigorous, intelligent girls, so common in

this generation, but sometimes also to be found in the last, could have

married such a worthless, puny weakling, as we all called him, I won’t

attempt to explain. I knew a young lady of the last “romantic”

generation who after some years of an enigmatic passion for a

gentleman, whom she might quite easily have married at any moment,

invented insuperable obstacles to their union, and ended by throwing

herself one stormy night into a rather deep and rapid river from a high

bank, almost a precipice, and so perished, entirely to satisfy her own

caprice, and to be like Shakespeare’s Ophelia. Indeed, if this

precipice, a chosen and favorite spot of hers, had been less

picturesque, if there had been a prosaic flat bank in its place, most

likely the suicide would never have taken place. This is a fact, and

probably there have been not a few similar instances in the last two or

three generations. Adelaïda Ivanovna Miüsov’s action was similarly, no

doubt, an echo of other people’s ideas, and was due to the irritation

caused by lack of mental freedom. She wanted, perhaps, to show her

feminine independence, to override class distinctions and the despotism

of her family. And a pliable imagination persuaded her, we must

suppose, for a brief moment, that Fyodor Pavlovitch, in spite of his

parasitic position, was one of the bold and ironical spirits of that

progressive epoch, though he was, in fact, an ill-natured buffoon and

nothing more. What gave the marriage piquancy was that it was preceded

by an elopement, and this greatly captivated Adelaïda Ivanovna’s fancy.

Fyodor Pavlovitch’s position at the time made him specially eager for

any such enterprise, for he was passionately anxious to make a career

in one way or another. To attach himself to a good family and obtain a

dowry was an alluring prospect. As for mutual love it did not exist

apparently, either in the bride or in him, in spite of Adelaïda

Ivanovna’s beauty. This was, perhaps, a unique case of the kind in the

life of Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was always of a voluptuous temper, and

ready to run after any petticoat on the slightest encouragement. She

seems to have been the only woman who made no particular appeal to his

senses.

Immediately after the elopement Adelaïda Ivanovna discerned in a flash

that she had no feeling for her husband but contempt. The marriage

accordingly showed itself in its true colors with extraordinary

rapidity. Although the family accepted the event pretty quickly and

apportioned the runaway bride her dowry, the husband and wife began to

lead a most disorderly life, and there were everlasting scenes between

them. It was said that the young wife showed incomparably more

generosity and dignity than Fyodor Pavlovitch, who, as is now known,

got hold of all her money up to twenty-five thousand roubles as soon as

she received it, so that those thousands were lost to her for ever. The

little village and the rather fine town house which formed part of her

dowry he did his utmost for a long time to transfer to his name, by

means of some deed of conveyance. He would probably have succeeded,

merely from her moral fatigue and desire to get rid of him, and from

the contempt and loathing he aroused by his persistent and shameless

importunity. But, fortunately, Adelaïda Ivanovna’s family intervened

and circumvented his greediness. It is known for a fact that frequent

fights took place between the husband and wife, but rumor had it that

Fyodor Pavlovitch did not beat his wife but was beaten by her, for she

was a hot-tempered, bold, dark-browed, impatient woman, possessed of

remarkable physical strength. Finally, she left the house and ran away

from Fyodor Pavlovitch with a destitute divinity student, leaving

Mitya, a child of three years old, in her husband’s hands. Immediately

Fyodor Pavlovitch introduced a regular harem into the house, and

abandoned himself to orgies of drunkenness. In the intervals he used to

drive all over the province, complaining tearfully to each and all of

Adelaïda Ivanovna’s having left him, going into details too disgraceful

for a husband to mention in regard to his own married life. What seemed

to gratify him and flatter his self-love most was to play the

ridiculous part of the injured husband, and to parade his woes with

embellishments.

“One would think that you’d got a promotion, Fyodor Pavlovitch, you

seem so pleased in spite of your sorrow,” scoffers said to him. Many

even added that he was glad of a new comic part in which to play the

buffoon, and that it was simply to make it funnier that he pretended to

be unaware of his ludicrous position. But, who knows, it may have been

simplicity. At last he succeeded in getting on the track of his runaway

wife. The poor woman turned out to be in Petersburg, where she had gone

with her divinity student, and where she had thrown herself into a life

of complete emancipation. Fyodor Pavlovitch at once began bustling

about, making preparations to go to Petersburg, with what object he

could not himself have said. He would perhaps have really gone; but

having determined to do so he felt at once entitled to fortify himself

for the journey by another bout of reckless drinking. And just at that

time his wife’s family received the news of her death in Petersburg.

She had died quite suddenly in a garret, according to one story, of

typhus, or as another version had it, of starvation. Fyodor Pavlovitch

was drunk when he heard of his wife’s death, and the story is that he

ran out into the street and began shouting with joy, raising his hands

to Heaven: “Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace,” but

others say he wept without restraint like a little child, so much so

that people were sorry for him, in spite of the repulsion he inspired.

It is quite possible that both versions were true, that he rejoiced at

his release, and at the same time wept for her who released him. As a

general rule, people, even the wicked, are much more naïve and

simple-hearted than we suppose. And we ourselves are, too.

Chapter II.

He Gets Rid Of His Eldest Son

You can easily imagine what a father such a man could be and how he

would bring up his children. His behavior as a father was exactly what

might be expected. He completely abandoned the child of his marriage

with Adelaïda Ivanovna, not from malice, nor because of his matrimonial

grievances, but simply because he forgot him. While he was wearying

every one with his tears and complaints, and turning his house into a

sink of debauchery, a faithful servant of the family, Grigory, took the

three-year-old Mitya into his care. If he hadn’t looked after him there

would have been no one even to change the baby’s little shirt.

It happened moreover that the child’s relations on his mother’s side

forgot him too at first. His grandfather was no longer living, his

widow, Mitya’s grandmother, had moved to Moscow, and was seriously ill,

while his daughters were married, so that Mitya remained for almost a

whole year in old Grigory’s charge and lived with him in the servant’s

cottage. But if his father had remembered him (he could not, indeed,

have been altogether unaware of his existence) he would have sent him

back to the cottage, as the child would only have been in the way of

his debaucheries. But a cousin of Mitya’s mother, Pyotr Alexandrovitch

Miüsov, happened to return from Paris. He lived for many years

afterwards abroad, but was at that time quite a young man, and

distinguished among the Miüsovs as a man of enlightened ideas and of

European culture, who had been in the capitals and abroad. Towards the

end of his life he became a Liberal of the type common in the forties

and fifties. In the course of his career he had come into contact with

many of the most Liberal men of his epoch, both in Russia and abroad.

He had known Proudhon and Bakunin personally, and in his declining

years was very fond of describing the three days of the Paris

Revolution of February 1848, hinting that he himself had almost taken

part in the fighting on the barricades. This was one of the most

grateful recollections of his youth. He had an independent property of

about a thousand souls, to reckon in the old style. His splendid estate

lay on the outskirts of our little town and bordered on the lands of

our famous monastery, with which Pyotr Alexandrovitch began an endless

lawsuit, almost as soon as he came into the estate, concerning the

rights of fishing in the river or wood-cutting in the forest, I don’t

know exactly which. He regarded it as his duty as a citizen and a man

of culture to open an attack upon the “clericals.” Hearing all about

Adelaïda Ivanovna, whom he, of course, remembered, and in whom he had

at one time been interested, and learning of the existence of Mitya, he

intervened, in spite of all his youthful indignation and contempt for

Fyodor Pavlovitch. He made the latter’s acquaintance for the first

time, and told him directly that he wished to undertake the child’s

education. He used long afterwards to tell as a characteristic touch,

that when he began to speak of Mitya, Fyodor Pavlovitch looked for some

time as though he did not understand what child he was talking about,

and even as though he was surprised to hear that he had a little son in

the house. The story may have been exaggerated, yet it must have been

something like the truth.

Fyodor Pavlovitch was all his life fond of acting, of suddenly playing

an unexpected part, sometimes without any motive for doing so, and even

to his own direct disadvantage, as, for instance, in the present case.

This habit, however, is characteristic of a very great number of

people, some of them very clever ones, not like Fyodor Pavlovitch.

Pyotr Alexandrovitch carried the business through vigorously, and was

appointed, with Fyodor Pavlovitch, joint guardian of the child, who had

a small property, a house and land, left him by his mother. Mitya did,

in fact, pass into this cousin’s keeping, but as the latter had no

family of his own, and after securing the revenues of his estates was

in haste to return at once to Paris, he left the boy in charge of one

of his cousins, a lady living in Moscow. It came to pass that, settling

permanently in Paris he, too, forgot the child, especially when the

Revolution of February broke out, making an impression on his mind that

he remembered all the rest of his life. The Moscow lady died, and Mitya

passed into the care of one of her married daughters. I believe he

changed his home a fourth time later on. I won’t enlarge upon that now,

as I shall have much to tell later of Fyodor Pavlovitch’s firstborn,

and must confine myself now to the most essential facts about him,

without which I could not begin my story.

In the first place, this Mitya, or rather Dmitri Fyodorovitch, was the

only one of Fyodor Pavlovitch’s three sons who grew up in the belief

that he had property, and that he would be independent on coming of

age. He spent an irregular boyhood and youth. He did not finish his

studies at the gymnasium, he got into a military school, then went to

the Caucasus, was promoted, fought a duel, and was degraded to the

ranks, earned promotion again, led a wild life, and spent a good deal

of money. He did not begin to receive any income from Fyodor Pavlovitch

until he came of age, and until then got into debt. He saw and knew his

father, Fyodor Pavlovitch, for the first time on coming of age, when he

visited our neighborhood on purpose to settle with him about his

property. He seems not to have liked his father. He did not stay long

with him, and made haste to get away, having only succeeded in

obtaining a sum of money, and entering into an agreement for future

payments from the estate, of the revenues and value of which he was

unable (a fact worthy of note), upon this occasion, to get a statement

from his father. Fyodor Pavlovitch remarked for the first time then

(this, too, should be noted) that Mitya had a vague and exaggerated

idea of his property. Fyodor Pavlovitch was very well satisfied with

this, as it fell in with his own designs. He gathered only that the

young man was frivolous, unruly, of violent passions, impatient, and

dissipated, and that if he could only obtain ready money he would be

satisfied, although only, of course, for a short time. So Fyodor

Pavlovitch began to take advantage of this fact, sending him from time

to time small doles, installments. In the end, when four years later,

Mitya, losing patience, came a second time to our little town to settle

up once for all with his father, it turned out to his amazement that he

had nothing, that it was difficult to get an account even, that he had

received the whole value of his property in sums of money from Fyodor

Pavlovitch, and was perhaps even in debt to him, that by various

agreements into which he had, of his own desire, entered at various

previous dates, he had no right to expect anything more, and so on, and

so on. The young man was overwhelmed, suspected deceit and cheating,

and was almost beside himself. And, indeed, this circumstance led to

the catastrophe, the account of which forms the subject of my first

introductory story, or rather the external side of it. But before I

pass to that story I must say a little of Fyodor Pavlovitch’s other two

sons, and of their origin.

Chapter III.

The Second Marriage And The Second Family

Very shortly after getting his four-year-old Mitya off his hands Fyodor

Pavlovitch married a second time. His second marriage lasted eight

years. He took this second wife, Sofya Ivanovna, also a very young

girl, from another province, where he had gone upon some small piece of

business in company with a Jew. Though Fyodor Pavlovitch was a drunkard

and a vicious debauchee he never neglected investing his capital, and

managed his business affairs very successfully, though, no doubt, not

over-scrupulously. Sofya Ivanovna was the daughter of an obscure

deacon, and was left from childhood an orphan without relations. She

grew up in the house of a general’s widow, a wealthy old lady of good

position, who was at once her benefactress and tormentor. I do not know

the details, but I have only heard that the orphan girl, a meek and

gentle creature, was once cut down from a halter in which she was

hanging from a nail in the loft, so terrible were her sufferings from

the caprice and everlasting nagging of this old woman, who was

apparently not bad-hearted but had become an insufferable tyrant

through idleness.

Fyodor Pavlovitch made her an offer; inquiries were made about him and

he was refused. But again, as in his first marriage, he proposed an

elopement to the orphan girl. There is very little doubt that she would

not on any account have married him if she had known a little more

about him in time. But she lived in another province; besides, what

could a little girl of sixteen know about it, except that she would be

better at the bottom of the river than remaining with her benefactress.

So the poor child exchanged a benefactress for a benefactor. Fyodor

Pavlovitch did not get a penny this time, for the general’s widow was

furious. She gave them nothing and cursed them both. But he had not

reckoned on a dowry; what allured him was the remarkable beauty of the

innocent girl, above all her innocent appearance, which had a peculiar

attraction for a vicious profligate, who had hitherto admired only the

coarser types of feminine beauty.

“Those innocent eyes slit my soul up like a razor,” he used to say

afterwards, with his loathsome snigger. In a man so depraved this

might, of course, mean no more than sensual attraction. As he had

received no dowry with his wife, and had, so to speak, taken her “from

the halter,” he did not stand on ceremony with her. Making her feel

that she had “wronged” him, he took advantage of her phenomenal

meekness and submissiveness to trample on the elementary decencies of

marriage. He gathered loose women into his house, and carried on orgies

of debauchery in his wife’s presence. To show what a pass things had

come to, I may mention that Grigory, the gloomy, stupid, obstinate,

argumentative servant, who had always hated his first mistress,

Adelaïda Ivanovna, took the side of his new mistress. He championed her

cause, abusing Fyodor Pavlovitch in a manner little befitting a

servant, and on one occasion broke up the revels and drove all the

disorderly women out of the house. In the end this unhappy young woman,

kept in terror from her childhood, fell into that kind of nervous

disease which is most frequently found in peasant women who are said to

be “possessed by devils.” At times after terrible fits of hysterics she

even lost her reason. Yet she bore Fyodor Pavlovitch two sons, Ivan and

Alexey, the eldest in the first year of marriage and the second three

years later. When she died, little Alexey was in his fourth year, and,

strange as it seems, I know that he remembered his mother all his life,

like a dream, of course. At her death almost exactly the same thing

happened to the two little boys as to their elder brother, Mitya. They

were completely forgotten and abandoned by their father. They were

looked after by the same Grigory and lived in his cottage, where they

were found by the tyrannical old lady who had brought up their mother.

She was still alive, and had not, all those eight years, forgotten the

insult done her. All that time she was obtaining exact information as

to her Sofya’s manner of life, and hearing of her illness and hideous

surroundings she declared aloud two or three times to her retainers:

“It serves her right. God has punished her for her ingratitude.”

Exactly three months after Sofya Ivanovna’s death the general’s widow

suddenly appeared in our town, and went straight to Fyodor Pavlovitch’s

house. She spent only half an hour in the town but she did a great

deal. It was evening. Fyodor Pavlovitch, whom she had not seen for

those eight years, came in to her drunk. The story is that instantly

upon seeing him, without any sort of explanation, she gave him two

good, resounding slaps on the face, seized him by a tuft of hair, and

shook him three times up and down. Then, without a word, she went

straight to the cottage to the two boys. Seeing, at the first glance,

that they were unwashed and in dirty linen, she promptly gave Grigory,

too, a box on the ear, and announcing that she would carry off both the

children she wrapped them just as they were in a rug, put them in the

carriage, and drove off to her own town. Grigory accepted the blow like

a devoted slave, without a word, and when he escorted the old lady to

her carriage he made her a low bow and pronounced impressively that,

“God would repay her for the orphans.” “You are a blockhead all the

same,” the old lady shouted to him as she drove away.

Fyodor Pavlovitch, thinking it over, decided that it was a good thing,

and did not refuse the general’s widow his formal consent to any

proposition in regard to his children’s education. As for the slaps she

had given him, he drove all over the town telling the story.

It happened that the old lady died soon after this, but she left the

boys in her will a thousand roubles each “for their instruction, and so

that all be spent on them exclusively, with the condition that it be so

portioned out as to last till they are twenty-one, for it is more than

adequate provision for such children. If other people think fit to

throw away their money, let them.” I have not read the will myself, but

I heard there was something queer of the sort, very whimsically

expressed. The principal heir, Yefim Petrovitch Polenov, the Marshal of

Nobility of the province, turned out, however, to be an honest man.

Writing to Fyodor Pavlovitch, and discerning at once that he could

extract nothing from him for his children’s education (though the

latter never directly refused but only procrastinated as he always did

in such cases, and was, indeed, at times effusively sentimental), Yefim

Petrovitch took a personal interest in the orphans. He became

especially fond of the younger, Alexey, who lived for a long while as

one of his family. I beg the reader to note this from the beginning.

And to Yefim Petrovitch, a man of a generosity and humanity rarely to

be met with, the young people were more indebted for their education

and bringing up than to any one. He kept the two thousand roubles left

to them by the general’s widow intact, so that by the time they came of

age their portions had been doubled by the accumulation of interest. He

educated them both at his own expense, and certainly spent far more

than a thousand roubles upon each of them. I won’t enter into a

detailed account of their boyhood and youth, but will only mention a

few of the most important events. Of the elder, Ivan, I will only say

that he grew into a somewhat morose and reserved, though far from timid

boy. At ten years old he had realized that they were living not in

their own home but on other people’s charity, and that their father was

a man of whom it was disgraceful to speak. This boy began very early,

almost in his infancy (so they say at least), to show a brilliant and

unusual aptitude for learning. I don’t know precisely why, but he left

the family of Yefim Petrovitch when he was hardly thirteen, entering a

Moscow gymnasium, and boarding with an experienced and celebrated

teacher, an old friend of Yefim Petrovitch. Ivan used to declare

afterwards that this was all due to the “ardor for good works” of Yefim

Petrovitch, who was captivated by the idea that the boy’s genius should

be trained by a teacher of genius. But neither Yefim Petrovitch nor

this teacher was living when the young man finished at the gymnasium

and entered the university. As Yefim Petrovitch had made no provision

for the payment of the tyrannical old lady’s legacy, which had grown

from one thousand to two, it was delayed, owing to formalities

inevitable in Russia, and the young man was in great straits for the

first two years at the university, as he was forced to keep himself all

the time he was studying. It must be noted that he did not even attempt

to communicate with his father, perhaps from pride, from contempt for

him, or perhaps from his cool common sense, which told him that from

such a father he would get no real assistance. However that may have

been, the young man was by no means despondent and succeeded in getting

work, at first giving sixpenny lessons and afterwards getting

paragraphs on street incidents into the newspapers under the signature

of “Eye-Witness.” These paragraphs, it was said, were so interesting

and piquant that they were soon taken. This alone showed the young

man’s practical and intellectual superiority over the masses of needy

and unfortunate students of both sexes who hang about the offices of

the newspapers and journals, unable to think of anything better than

everlasting entreaties for copying and translations from the French.

Having once got into touch with the editors Ivan Fyodorovitch always

kept up his connection with them, and in his latter years at the

university he published brilliant reviews of books upon various special

subjects, so that he became well known in literary circles. But only in

his last year he suddenly succeeded in attracting the attention of a

far wider circle of readers, so that a great many people noticed and

remembered him. It was rather a curious incident. When he had just left

the university and was preparing to go abroad upon his two thousand

roubles, Ivan Fyodorovitch published in one of the more important

journals a strange article, which attracted general notice, on a

subject of which he might have been supposed to know nothing, as he was

a student of natural science. The article dealt with a subject which

was being debated everywhere at the time—the position of the

ecclesiastical courts. After discussing several opinions on the subject

he went on to explain his own view. What was most striking about the

article was its tone, and its unexpected conclusion. Many of the Church

party regarded him unquestioningly as on their side. And yet not only

the secularists but even atheists joined them in their applause.

Finally some sagacious persons opined that the article was nothing but

an impudent satirical burlesque. I mention this incident particularly

because this article penetrated into the famous monastery in our

neighborhood, where the inmates, being particularly interested in the

question of the ecclesiastical courts, were completely bewildered by

it. Learning the author’s name, they were interested in his being a

native of the town and the son of “that Fyodor Pavlovitch.” And just

then it was that the author himself made his appearance among us.

Why Ivan Fyodorovitch had come amongst us I remember asking myself at

the time with a certain uneasiness. This fateful visit, which was the

first step leading to so many consequences, I never fully explained to

myself. It seemed strange on the face of it that a young man so

learned, so proud, and apparently so cautious, should suddenly visit

such an infamous house and a father who had ignored him all his life,

hardly knew him, never thought of him, and would not under any

circumstances have given him money, though he was always afraid that

his sons Ivan and Alexey would also come to ask him for it. And here

the young man was staying in the house of such a father, had been

living with him for two months, and they were on the best possible

terms. This last fact was a special cause of wonder to many others as

well as to me. Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miüsov, of whom we have spoken

already, the cousin of Fyodor Pavlovitch’s first wife, happened to be

in the neighborhood again on a visit to his estate. He had come from

Paris, which was his permanent home. I remember that he was more

surprised than any one when he made the acquaintance of the young man,

who interested him extremely, and with whom he sometimes argued and not

without an inner pang compared himself in acquirements.

“He is proud,” he used to say, “he will never be in want of pence; he

has got money enough to go abroad now. What does he want here? Every

one can see that he hasn’t come for money, for his father would never

give him any. He has no taste for drink and dissipation, and yet his

father can’t do without him. They get on so well together!”

That was the truth; the young man had an unmistakable influence over

his father, who positively appeared to be behaving more decently and

even seemed at times ready to obey his son, though often extremely and

even spitefully perverse.

It was only later that we learned that Ivan had come partly at the

request of, and in the interests of, his elder brother, Dmitri, whom he

saw for the first time on this very visit, though he had before leaving

Moscow been in correspondence with him about an important matter of

more concern to Dmitri than himself. What that business was the reader

will learn fully in due time. Yet even when I did know of this special

circumstance I still felt Ivan Fyodorovitch to be an enigmatic figure,

and thought his visit rather mysterious.

I may add that Ivan appeared at the time in the light of a mediator

between his father and his elder brother Dmitri, who was in open

quarrel with his father and even planning to bring an action against

him.

The family, I repeat, was now united for the first time, and some of

its members met for the first time in their lives. The younger brother,

Alexey, had been a year already among us, having been the first of the

three to arrive. It is of that brother Alexey I find it most difficult

to speak in this introduction. Yet I must give some preliminary account

of him, if only to explain one queer fact, which is that I have to

introduce my hero to the reader wearing the cassock of a novice. Yes,

he had been for the last year in our monastery, and seemed willing to

be cloistered there for the rest of his life.

Chapter IV.

The Third Son, Alyosha

He was only twenty, his brother Ivan was in his twenty-fourth year at

the time, while their elder brother Dmitri was twenty-seven. First of

all, I must explain that this young man, Alyosha, was not a fanatic,

and, in my opinion at least, was not even a mystic. I may as well give

my full opinion from the beginning. He was simply an early lover of

humanity, and that he adopted the monastic life was simply because at

that time it struck him, so to say, as the ideal escape for his soul

struggling from the darkness of worldly wickedness to the light of

love. And the reason this life struck him in this way was that he found

in it at that time, as he thought, an extraordinary being, our

celebrated elder, Zossima, to whom he became attached with all the warm

first love of his ardent heart. But I do not dispute that he was very

strange even at that time, and had been so indeed from his cradle. I

have mentioned already, by the way, that though he lost his mother in

his fourth year he remembered her all his life—her face, her caresses,

“as though she stood living before me.” Such memories may persist, as

every one knows, from an even earlier age, even from two years old, but

scarcely standing out through a whole lifetime like spots of light out

of darkness, like a corner torn out of a huge picture, which has all

faded and disappeared except that fragment. That is how it was with

him. He remembered one still summer evening, an open window, the

slanting rays of the setting sun (that he recalled most vividly of

all); in a corner of the room the holy image, before it a lighted lamp,

and on her knees before the image his mother, sobbing hysterically with

cries and moans, snatching him up in both arms, squeezing him close

till it hurt, and praying for him to the Mother of God, holding him out

in both arms to the image as though to put him under the Mother’s

protection ... and suddenly a nurse runs in and snatches him from her

in terror. That was the picture! And Alyosha remembered his mother’s

face at that minute. He used to say that it was frenzied but beautiful

as he remembered. But he rarely cared to speak of this memory to any

one. In his childhood and youth he was by no means expansive, and

talked little indeed, but not from shyness or a sullen unsociability;

quite the contrary, from something different, from a sort of inner

preoccupation entirely personal and unconcerned with other people, but

so important to him that he seemed, as it were, to forget others on

account of it. But he was fond of people: he seemed throughout his life

to put implicit trust in people: yet no one ever looked on him as a

simpleton or naïve person. There was something about him which made one

feel at once (and it was so all his life afterwards) that he did not

care to be a judge of others—that he would never take it upon himself

to criticize and would never condemn any one for anything. He seemed,

indeed, to accept everything without the least condemnation though

often grieving bitterly: and this was so much so that no one could

surprise or frighten him even in his earliest youth. Coming at twenty

to his father’s house, which was a very sink of filthy debauchery, he,

chaste and pure as he was, simply withdrew in silence when to look on

was unbearable, but without the slightest sign of contempt or

condemnation. His father, who had once been in a dependent position,

and so was sensitive and ready to take offense, met him at first with

distrust and sullenness. “He does not say much,” he used to say, “and

thinks the more.” But soon, within a fortnight indeed, he took to

embracing him and kissing him terribly often, with drunken tears, with

sottish sentimentality, yet he evidently felt a real and deep affection

for him, such as he had never been capable of feeling for any one

before.

Every one, indeed, loved this young man wherever he went, and it was so

from his earliest childhood. When he entered the household of his

patron and benefactor, Yefim Petrovitch Polenov, he gained the hearts

of all the family, so that they looked on him quite as their own child.

Yet he entered the house at such a tender age that he could not have

acted from design nor artfulness in winning affection. So that the gift

of making himself loved directly and unconsciously was inherent in him,

in his very nature, so to speak. It was the same at school, though he

seemed to be just one of those children who are distrusted, sometimes

ridiculed, and even disliked by their schoolfellows. He was dreamy, for

instance, and rather solitary. From his earliest childhood he was fond

of creeping into a corner to read, and yet he was a general favorite

all the while he was at school. He was rarely playful or merry, but any

one could see at the first glance that this was not from any

sullenness. On the contrary he was bright and good-tempered. He never

tried to show off among his schoolfellows. Perhaps because of this, he

was never afraid of any one, yet the boys immediately understood that

he was not proud of his fearlessness and seemed to be unaware that he

was bold and courageous. He never resented an insult. It would happen

that an hour after the offense he would address the offender or answer

some question with as trustful and candid an expression as though

nothing had happened between them. And it was not that he seemed to

have forgotten or intentionally forgiven the affront, but simply that

he did not regard it as an affront, and this completely conquered and

captivated the boys. He had one characteristic which made all his

schoolfellows from the bottom class to the top want to mock at him, not

from malice but because it amused them. This characteristic was a wild

fanatical modesty and chastity. He could not bear to hear certain words

and certain conversations about women. There are “certain” words and

conversations unhappily impossible to eradicate in schools. Boys pure

in mind and heart, almost children, are fond of talking in school among

themselves, and even aloud, of things, pictures, and images of which

even soldiers would sometimes hesitate to speak. More than that, much

that soldiers have no knowledge or conception of is familiar to quite

young children of our intellectual and higher classes. There is no

moral depravity, no real corrupt inner cynicism in it, but there is the

appearance of it, and it is often looked upon among them as something

refined, subtle, daring, and worthy of imitation. Seeing that Alyosha

Karamazov put his fingers in his ears when they talked of “that,” they

used sometimes to crowd round him, pull his hands away, and shout

nastiness into both ears, while he struggled, slipped to the floor,

tried to hide himself without uttering one word of abuse, enduring

their insults in silence. But at last they left him alone and gave up

taunting him with being a “regular girl,” and what’s more they looked

upon it with compassion as a weakness. He was always one of the best in

the class but was never first.

At the time of Yefim Petrovitch’s death Alyosha had two more years to

complete at the provincial gymnasium. The inconsolable widow went

almost immediately after his death for a long visit to Italy with her

whole family, which consisted only of women and girls. Alyosha went to

live in the house of two distant relations of Yefim Petrovitch, ladies

whom he had never seen before. On what terms he lived with them he did

not know himself. It was very characteristic of him, indeed, 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 first 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. But this strange trait in Alyosha’s

character must not, I think, be criticized too severely, for at the

slightest acquaintance with him any one would have perceived that

Alyosha was one of those youths, almost of the type of religious

enthusiast, who, if they were suddenly to come into possession of a

large fortune, would not hesitate to give it away for the asking,

either for good works or perhaps to a clever rogue. In general he

seemed scarcely to know the value of money, not, of course, in a

literal sense. When he was given pocket-money, 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.

In later years Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miüsov, a man very sensitive on the

score of money and bourgeois honesty, pronounced the following

judgment, after getting to know Alyosha:

“Here is perhaps the one man in the world whom you might leave alone

without a penny, in the center of an unknown town of a million

inhabitants, and he would not come to harm, he would not die of cold

and hunger, for he would be fed and sheltered at once; and if he were

not, he would find a shelter for himself, and it would cost him no

effort or humiliation. And to shelter him would be no burden, but, on

the contrary, would probably be looked on as a pleasure.”

He did not finish his studies at the gymnasium. 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. The journey was not an expensive one, and

the ladies would not let him pawn his watch, a parting present from his

benefactor’s family. They provided him liberally with money and even

fitted him out with new clothes and linen. But he returned half the

money they gave him, saying that he intended to go third class. On his

arrival in the town he made no answer to his father’s first inquiry why

he had come before completing his studies, and seemed, so they say,

unusually thoughtful. It soon became apparent that he was looking for

his mother’s tomb. He practically 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

Pavlovitch 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. Three or four years after his wife’s death he had

gone to the south of Russia and finally turned up in Odessa, where he

spent several years. He made the acquaintance at first, in his own

words, “of a lot of low Jews, Jewesses, and Jewkins,” and ended by

being received by “Jews high and low alike.” It may be presumed that at

this period he developed a peculiar faculty for making and hoarding

money. He finally returned to our town only three years before

Alyosha’s arrival. His former acquaintances found him looking terribly

aged, although he was 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 taverns 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 his 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 incoherence, 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 Pavlovitch might have got into terrible scrapes.

Alyosha’s arrival seemed to affect even his moral side, as though

something had awakened in this prematurely old man which had long been

dead in his soul.

“Do you know,” he used often to say, looking at Alyosha, “that you are

like her, ‘the crazy woman’”—that was what he used to call his dead

wife, Alyosha’s mother. Grigory it was who pointed out the “crazy

woman’s” grave to Alyosha. He took him to our town cemetery and showed

him in a remote corner a cast-iron tombstone, cheap but decently kept,

on which were inscribed the name and age of the deceased and the date

of her death, and below a four-lined verse, such as are commonly used

on old-fashioned middle-class tombs. To Alyosha’s amazement this tomb

turned out to be Grigory’s doing. He had put it up on the poor “crazy

woman’s” grave at his own expense, after Fyodor Pavlovitch, whom he had

often pestered about the grave, had gone to Odessa, abandoning the

grave and all his memories. Alyosha showed no particular emotion at the

sight of his mother’s grave. He only listened to Grigory’s minute and

solemn account of the erection of the tomb; he stood with bowed head

and walked away without uttering a word. It was perhaps a year before

he visited the cemetery again. But this little episode was not without

an influence upon Fyodor Pavlovitch—and a very original one. He

suddenly took a thousand roubles to our monastery to pay for requiems

for the soul of his wife; but not for the second, Alyosha’s mother, the

“crazy woman,” but for the first, Adelaïda Ivanovna, who used to thrash

him. 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 image 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. Besides the long fleshy bags under his little, always

insolent, suspicious, and ironical eyes; besides the multitude of deep

wrinkles in his little fat face, the Adam’s apple hung below his sharp

chin like a great, fleshy goiter, which gave him a peculiar, repulsive,

sensual appearance; add to that a long rapacious mouth with full lips,

between which could be seen little stumps of black decayed teeth. He

slobbered every time he began to speak. He was fond indeed of making

fun of his own face, 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 aquiline. “A regular Roman nose,”

he used to say, “with my goiter I’ve quite the countenance of an

ancient Roman patrician of the decadent period.” He seemed proud of it.

Not long after visiting his mother’s grave Alyosha suddenly announced

that he wanted to enter the monastery, and that the monks were willing

to receive him as a novice. He explained that this was his strong

desire, and that he was solemnly asking his consent as his father. The

old man knew that the elder Zossima, who was living in the monastery

hermitage, had made a special impression upon his “gentle boy.”

“That is the most honest monk among them, of course,” he observed,

after listening in thoughtful silence to Alyosha, and seeming scarcely

surprised at his request. “H’m!... So that’s where you want to be, my

gentle boy?”

He was half drunk, and suddenly he grinned his slow half-drunken grin,

which was not without a certain cunning and tipsy slyness. “H’m!... I

had a presentiment that you would end in something like this. Would you

believe it? You were making straight for it. Well, to be sure you have

your own two thousand. That’s a dowry for you. And I’ll never desert

you, my angel. And I’ll pay what’s wanted for you there, if they ask

for it. But, of course, if they don’t ask, why should we worry them?

What do you say? You know, you spend money like a canary, two grains a

week. H’m!... Do you know that near one monastery there’s a place

outside the town where every baby knows there are none but ‘the monks’

wives’ living, as they are called. Thirty women, I believe. I have been

there myself. You know, it’s interesting in its own way, of course, as

a variety. The worst of it is it’s awfully Russian. There are no French

women there. Of course they could get them fast enough, they have

plenty of money. If they get to hear of it they’ll come along. Well,

there’s nothing of that sort here, no ‘monks’ wives,’ and two hundred

monks. They’re honest. They keep the fasts. I admit it.... H’m.... So

you want to be a monk? And do you know I’m sorry to lose you, Alyosha;

would you believe it, I’ve really grown fond of you? Well, it’s a good

opportunity. You’ll pray for us sinners; we have sinned too much here.

I’ve always been thinking who would pray for me, and whether there’s

any one in the world to do it. My dear boy, I’m awfully stupid about

that. You wouldn’t believe it. Awfully. You see, however stupid I am

about it, I keep thinking, I keep thinking—from time to time, of

course, not all the while. It’s impossible, I think, for the devils to

forget to drag me down to hell with their hooks when I die. 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? The monks in

the monastery probably believe that there’s a ceiling in hell, for

instance. Now I’m ready to believe in hell, but without a ceiling. It

makes it more refined, more enlightened, more Lutheran that is. And,

after all, what does it matter whether it has a ceiling or hasn’t? But,

do you know, there’s a damnable question involved in it? If there’s no

ceiling there can be no hooks, and if there are no hooks it all breaks

down, which is unlikely again, for then there would be none to drag me

down to hell, and if they don’t drag me down what justice is there in

the world? _Il faudrait les inventer_, those hooks, on purpose for me

alone, for, if you only knew, Alyosha, what a blackguard I am.”

“But there are no hooks there,” said Alyosha, looking gently and

seriously at his father.

“Yes, yes, only the shadows of hooks, I know, I know. That’s how a

Frenchman described hell: ‘_J’ai vu l’ombre d’un cocher qui avec

l’ombre d’une brosse frottait l’ombre d’une carrosse._’ How do you know

there are no hooks, darling? When you’ve lived with the monks you’ll

sing a different tune. But go and get at the truth there, and then come

and tell me. Anyway it’s easier going to the other world if one knows

what there is there. Besides, it will be more seemly for you with the

monks than here with me, with a drunken old man and young harlots ...

though you’re like an angel, nothing touches you. And I dare say

nothing will touch you there. That’s why I let you go, because I hope

for that. You’ve got all your wits about you. You will burn and you

will burn out; you will be healed and come back again. And I will wait

for you. I feel that you’re the only creature in the world who has not

condemned me. My dear boy, I feel it, you know. I can’t help feeling

it.”

And he even began blubbering. 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 well-grown, red-cheeked,

clear-eyed lad of nineteen, radiant with health. He was very handsome,

too, graceful, moderately tall, with hair of a dark brown, with a

regular, rather long, oval-shaped face, and wide-set dark gray, shining

eyes; he was very thoughtful, and apparently very serene. I shall be

told, perhaps, that red cheeks are not incompatible with fanaticism and

mysticism; but I fancy that Alyosha was more of a realist than any one.

Oh! no doubt, in the monastery he fully believed in miracles, but, to

my thinking, miracles are never a stumbling-block to the realist. 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

also. The Apostle Thomas said that he would not believe till he saw,

but when he did see he said, “My Lord and my God!” Was it the miracle

forced him to believe? Most likely not, but he believed solely because

he desired to believe and possibly he fully believed in his secret

heart even when he said, “I do not believe till I see.”

I shall be told, perhaps, that Alyosha was stupid, undeveloped, had not

finished his studies, and so on. That he did not finish his studies is

true, but to say that he was stupid or dull would be a great injustice.

I’ll simply repeat what I have said above. He entered upon this path

only because, at that time, it alone struck his imagination 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, seeking 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 tenfold 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. The path Alyosha chose

was a path going in the opposite direction, but he chose it with the

same thirst for swift achievement. As soon as he reflected seriously he

was convinced of the existence of God and immortality, and at once he

instinctively said to himself: “I want to live for immortality, and I

will accept no compromise.” In the same way, if he had decided that God

and immortality did not exist, he would at once have become an atheist

and a socialist. For socialism is not merely the labor question, it is

before all things the atheistic question, the question of the form

taken by atheism to-day, 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. It is written: “Give all that thou hast to the poor

and follow Me, if thou wouldst be perfect.”

Alyosha said to himself: “I can’t give two roubles instead of ‘all,’

and only go to mass instead of ‘following Him.’” Perhaps his memories

of childhood brought back our monastery, to which his mother may have

taken him to mass. Perhaps the slanting sunlight and the holy image to

which his poor “crazy” mother had held him up still acted upon his

imagination. Brooding on these things he may have come to us perhaps

only to see whether here he could sacrifice all or only “two roubles,”

and in the monastery he met this elder. I must digress to explain what

an “elder” is in Russian monasteries, and I am sorry that I do not feel

very competent to do so. I will try, however, to give a superficial

account of it in a few words. Authorities on the subject assert that

the institution of “elders” is of recent date, not more than a hundred

years old in our monasteries, though in the orthodox East, especially

in Sinai and Athos, it has existed over a thousand years. 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. It was revived

among us towards the end of last century by one of the great

“ascetics,” as they called him, Païssy Velitchkovsky, and his

disciples. But to this day it exists in few monasteries only, and has

sometimes been almost persecuted as an innovation in Russia. It

flourished especially in the celebrated Kozelski Optin Monastery. When

and how it was introduced into our monastery I cannot 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 take

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 of saints, nor wonder-working ikons, nor glorious

traditions, nor historical exploits. It had flourished and been

glorious all over Russia through its elders, to see and 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 self-mastery,

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 obligations due to an elder

are not the ordinary “obedience” which has always existed in our

Russian monasteries. The obligation involves confession 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 monastery in Syria and went to Egypt. There, after

great exploits, he was found worthy at last to suffer torture and a

martyr’s death for the faith. When the Church, regarding him as a

saint, was burying him, suddenly, at the deacon’s exhortation, “Depart

all ye unbaptized,” the coffin containing the martyr’s body left its

place and was cast forth from the church, and this took place three

times. And only at last they learnt that this holy man had broken his

vow of obedience and left his elder, and, therefore, could not be

forgiven without the elder’s absolution in spite of his great deeds.

Only after this could the funeral take place. This, of course, is only

an old legend. But here is a recent instance.

A monk was suddenly commanded by his elder to quit Athos, which he

loved as a sacred place and a haven of refuge, and to go first to

Jerusalem to do homage to the Holy Places and then to go to the north

to Siberia: “There is the place for thee and not here.” The monk,

overwhelmed with sorrow, went to the Œcumenical Patriarch at

Constantinople and besought him to release him from his obedience. But

the Patriarch replied that not only was he unable to release him, but

there 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 endowed 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 instance, 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 elders 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 Russian

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 two-edged

weapon and it may lead some not to humility and complete self-control

but to the most Satanic pride, that is, to bondage and not to freedom.

The elder Zossima was sixty-five. 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 must 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 voluntarily, 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 acquired the keenest intuition and

could tell from an unknown face what a new-comer wanted, and what was

the suffering on his conscience. He sometimes astounded 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. Alyosha 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 more 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 some

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 instance, of the older monks distinguished for his strict

keeping of fasts and vows of silence. But the majority were on Father

Zossima’s side and very many of them loved him with all their hearts,

warmly and sincerely. Some were almost fanatically devoted to him, and

declared, though not quite aloud, that he was a saint, that 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 relics. 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. He saw many who came with sick

children or relatives and besought the elder to lay hands on them and

to pray over them, return shortly after—some the next day—and, falling

in tears at the elder’s feet, thank him for healing their sick.

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 believed 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, all 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. They fell

down before him, wept, kissed his feet, kissed the earth on which he

stood, and wailed, while the women held up their children to him and

brought him the sick “possessed with devils.” The elder spoke to them,

read a brief prayer over them, blessed them, and dismissed them. 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. Oh! he understood that for the humble soul of the

Russian peasant, worn out by grief and toil, and still more by the

everlasting injustice and everlasting sin, his own and the world’s, it

was the greatest need and comfort to find some one or something holy to

fall down before and worship.

“Among us there is sin, injustice, and temptation, but yet, somewhere

on earth there is some one holy and exalted. He has the truth; he knows

the truth; so it is not dead upon the earth; so it will come one day to

us, too, and rule over all the earth according to the promise.”

Alyosha knew that this was just how the people felt and even reasoned.

He understood it, but that the elder Zossima was this saint and

custodian of God’s truth—of that he had no more doubt than the weeping

peasants and the sick women who held out their children to the elder.

The conviction that after his death the elder 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 burnt more

and more strongly in his heart. He was not at all troubled at this

elder’s standing as a solitary example before him.

“No matter. 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 and 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 come.” That was

the dream in Alyosha’s heart.

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 half-brother 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 in 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. Alyosha noticed it with some embarrassment.

He ascribed his brother’s indifference at first to the disparity of

their age and education. But he also wondered whether the 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. Alyosha 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 an 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

brother 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 important affair which had of late formed

such a close and remarkable bond between the two elder brothers.

Dmitri’s enthusiastic references to Ivan were the more striking in

Alyosha’s eyes since Dmitri was, compared with Ivan, almost uneducated,

and the two brothers were such a contrast in personality and character

that it would be difficult to find two men more unlike.

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 extraordinary 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. Fyodor Pavlovitch seems to

have been the first to suggest, apparently in joke, that they should

all meet in Father Zossima’s cell, and that, without appealing to his

direct intervention, they might more decently come to an understanding

under the conciliating influence of the elder’s presence. Dmitri, who

had never seen the elder, naturally supposed that his father was trying

to intimidate him, but, as he secretly blamed himself 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. It happened

that Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miüsov, who was staying in the district at

the time, caught eagerly at the idea. 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 suddenly 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

Superior, 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 came 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 illness to deny even his

ordinary visitors. In the end he consented to see them, and the day was

fixed.

“Who has made me a judge over them?” was all he said, smilingly, to

Alyosha.

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 interview seriously. All the others would come from

frivolous motives, perhaps insulting to the elder. Alyosha was well

aware of that. Ivan and Miüsov would come from curiosity, perhaps of

the coarsest kind, while his father might be contemplating some piece

of buffoonery. Though he said nothing, Alyosha thoroughly understood

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 pondering in his mind how the family discord could be ended. But

his chief anxiety concerned the elder. He trembled for him, for his

glory, and dreaded any affront to him, especially the refined,

courteous irony of Miüsov and the supercilious half-utterances of the

highly educated Ivan. 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, that he loved him and expected him to keep his promise.

Dmitri wondered, for he could not remember what he had promised, but he

answered by letter that he would do his utmost not to let himself be

provoked “by vileness,” but that, although he had a deep respect for

the elder and for his brother Ivan, he was convinced that the meeting

was either a trap for him or an unworthy farce.

“Nevertheless I would rather bite out my tongue than be lacking in

respect to the sainted man whom you reverence so highly,” he wrote in

conclusion. Alyosha was not greatly cheered by the letter.

Book II. An Unfortunate Gathering

Chapter I.

They Arrive At The Monastery

It was a warm, bright day at the end of August. The interview with the

elder had been fixed for half-past eleven, immediately after late mass.

Our visitors did not take part in the service, but arrived just as it

was over. First an elegant open carriage, drawn by two valuable horses,

drove up with Miüsov and a distant relative of his, a young man of

twenty, called Pyotr Fomitch Kalganov. This young man was preparing to

enter the university. Miüsov, with whom he was staying for the time,

was trying to persuade him to go abroad to the university of Zurich or

Jena. The young man was still undecided. He was thoughtful and

absent-minded. He was nice-looking, strongly built, and rather tall.

There was a strange fixity in his gaze at times. Like all very

absent-minded 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

laugh 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 independent fortune and expectations of much more. He was

a friend of Alyosha’s.

In an ancient, jolting, but roomy, hired carriage, with a pair of old

pinkish-gray horses, a long way behind Miüsov’s carriage, came Fyodor

Pavlovitch, with his son Ivan. 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. Except Fyodor Pavlovitch, none of the party had

ever seen the monastery, and Miüsov had probably not even been to

church for thirty years. He looked about him with curiosity, together

with assumed ease. But, except the church and the domestic buildings,

though these too were ordinary 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 were 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 and embarrassed—God knows why!—hurriedly gave it to an old

woman, saying: “Divide it equally.” None of his companions made any

remark upon it, so that he had no reason to be embarrassed; but,

perceiving this, he was even more overcome.

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.

Miüsov looked absent-mindedly at the tombstones round the church, and

was on the point of saying that the dead buried here must have paid a

pretty penny for the right of lying in this “holy place,” but

refrained. His liberal irony was rapidly changing almost into anger.

“Who the devil is there to ask in this imbecile place? We must find

out, for time is passing,” he observed suddenly, as though speaking to

himself.

All at once there came up a bald-headed, elderly man with ingratiating

little eyes, wearing a full, summer overcoat. Lifting his hat, he

introduced himself with a honeyed lisp as Maximov, a landowner of Tula.

He at once entered into our visitors’ difficulty.

“Father Zossima lives in the hermitage, apart, four hundred paces from

the monastery, the other side of the copse.”

“I know it’s the other side of the copse,” observed Fyodor Pavlovitch,

“but we don’t remember the way. It is a long time since we’ve been

here.”

“This way, by this gate, and straight across the copse ... the copse.

Come with me, won’t you? I’ll show you. I have to go.... I am going

myself. This way, this way.”

They came out of the gate and turned towards the copse. Maximov, a man

of sixty, ran rather than walked, turning sideways to stare at them

all, with an incredible degree of nervous curiosity. His eyes looked

starting out of his head.

“You see, we have come to the elder upon business of our own,” observed

Miüsov severely. “That personage has granted us an audience, so to

speak, and so, though we thank you for showing us the way, we cannot

ask you to accompany us.”

“I’ve been there. I’ve been already; _un chevalier parfait_,” and

Maximov snapped his fingers in the air.

“Who is a _chevalier_?” asked Miüsov.

“The elder, the splendid elder, the elder! The honor and glory of the

monastery, Zossima. Such an elder!”

But his incoherent talk was cut short by a very pale, wan-looking monk

of medium height, wearing a monk’s cap, who overtook them. Fyodor

Pavlovitch and Miüsov stopped.

The monk, with an extremely courteous, profound bow, announced:

“The Father Superior invites all of you gentlemen to dine with him

after your visit to the hermitage. At one o’clock, not later. And you

also,” he added, addressing Maximov.

“That I certainly will, without fail,” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, hugely

delighted at the invitation. “And, believe me, we’ve all given our word

to behave properly here.... And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, will you go,

too?”

“Yes, of course. What have I come for but to study all the customs

here? The only obstacle to me is your company....”

“Yes, Dmitri Fyodorovitch is non-existent as yet.”

“It would be a capital thing if he didn’t turn up. Do you suppose I

like all this business, and in your company, too? So we will come to

dinner. Thank the Father Superior,” he said to the monk.

“No, it is my duty now to conduct you to the elder,” answered the monk.

“If so I’ll go straight to the Father Superior—to the Father Superior,”

babbled Maximov.

“The Father Superior is engaged just now. But as you please—” the monk

hesitated.

“Impertinent old man!” Miüsov observed aloud, while Maximov ran back to

the monastery.

“He’s like von Sohn,” Fyodor Pavlovitch said suddenly.

“Is that all you can think of?... In what way is he like von Sohn? Have

you ever seen von Sohn?”

“I’ve seen his portrait. It’s not the features, but something

indefinable. He’s a second von Sohn. I can always tell from the

physiognomy.”

“Ah, I dare say you are a connoisseur in that. 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. But, if you

begin to play the fool I don’t intend to be associated with you

here.... You see what a man he is”—he turned to the monk—“I’m afraid to

go among decent people with him.” A fine smile, not without a certain

slyness, came on to the pale, bloodless lips of the monk, but he made

no reply, and was evidently silent from a sense of his own dignity.

Miüsov frowned more than ever.

“Oh, devil take them all! An outer show elaborated through centuries,

and nothing but charlatanism and nonsense underneath,” flashed through

Miüsov’s mind.

“Here’s the hermitage. We’ve arrived,” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. “The

gates are shut.”

And he repeatedly made the sign of the cross to the saints painted

above and on the sides of the gates.

“When you go to Rome you must do as the Romans do. Here in this

hermitage there are twenty-five saints being saved. They look at one

another, and eat cabbages. And not one woman goes in at this gate.

That’s what is remarkable. And that really is so. But I did hear that

the elder receives ladies,” he remarked suddenly to the monk.

“Women of the people are here too now, lying in the portico there

waiting. But for ladies of higher rank two rooms have been built

adjoining the portico, but outside 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.”

“So then there are loopholes, after all, to creep out of the hermitage

to the ladies. Don’t suppose, holy father, that I mean any harm. But do

you know that at Athos not only the visits of women are not allowed,

but no creature of the female sex—no hens, nor turkey-hens, nor cows.”

“Fyodor Pavlovitch, I warn you I shall go back and leave you here.

They’ll turn you out when I’m gone.”

“But I’m not interfering with you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. Look,” he

cried suddenly, stepping within the precincts, “what a vale of roses

they live in!”

Though there were no roses now, there were numbers of rare and

beautiful autumn flowers growing wherever there was space for them, and

evidently tended by a skillful hand; there were flower-beds round the

church, and between the tombs; and the one-storied wooden house where

the elder lived was also surrounded with flowers.

“And was it like this in the time of the last elder, Varsonofy? He

didn’t care for such elegance. They say he used to jump up and thrash

even ladies with a stick,” observed Fyodor Pavlovitch, as he went up

the steps.

“The elder Varsonofy did sometimes seem rather strange, but a great

deal that’s told is foolishness. He never thrashed any one,” answered

the monk. “Now, gentlemen, if you will wait a minute I will announce

you.”

“Fyodor Pavlovitch, for the last time, your compact, do you hear?

Behave properly or I will pay you out!” Miüsov had time to mutter

again.

“I can’t think why you are so agitated,” Fyodor Pavlovitch observed

sarcastically. “Are you uneasy about your sins? They say he can tell by

one’s eyes what one has come about. And what a lot you think of their

opinion! you, a Parisian, and so advanced. I’m surprised at you.”

But Miüsov had no time to reply to this sarcasm. They were asked to

come in. He walked in, somewhat irritated.

“Now, I know myself, I am annoyed, I shall lose my temper and begin to

quarrel—and lower myself and my ideas,” he reflected.

Chapter II.

The Old Buffoon

They entered the room almost at the same moment that the elder came in

from his bedroom. There were already in the cell, awaiting the elder,

two monks of the hermitage, one the Father Librarian, and the other

Father Païssy, a very learned man, so they said, in delicate health,

though not old. 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, and was

wearing ordinary dress. He was a divinity student, living under the

protection of the monastery. His expression was one of unquestioning,

but self-respecting, 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 fingers; 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 seriously and with an appearance of

feeling, not like an everyday rite. But Miüsov fancied that it was all

done with intentional impressiveness. He stood in front of the other

visitors. He ought—he had reflected upon it the evening before—from

simple politeness, since it was the custom here, to have gone up to

receive the elder’s blessing, even if he did not kiss his hand. But

when he saw all this bowing and kissing on the part of the monks he

instantly changed his mind. With dignified gravity he made a rather

deep, conventional bow, and moved away to a chair. Fyodor Pavlovitch

did the same, mimicking Miüsov like an ape. 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 raised to bless them, and bowing to them again, asked them all

to sit down. The blood rushed to Alyosha’s cheeks. He was ashamed. His

forebodings were coming true.

Father Zossima sat down on a very old-fashioned mahogany sofa, covered

with leather, and made his visitors sit down in a row along the

opposite wall on four mahogany 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 remained 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.

Miüsov took a cursory glance at all these “conventional” surroundings

and bent an intent look upon the elder. He had a high opinion of his

own insight, a weakness 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 first moment he did not like

Zossima. There was, indeed, something in the elder’s face which many

people besides Miüsov might not have liked. He was a short, bent,

little man, with very weak legs, and though he was only sixty-five, he

looked at least ten years older. His face was very thin and covered

with a network of fine wrinkles, particularly numerous about his eyes,

which were small, light-colored, quick, and shining like two bright

points. He had a sprinkling of gray hair about his temples. His pointed

beard was small and scanty, and his lips, which smiled frequently, were

as thin as two threads. His nose was not long, but sharp, like a bird’s

beak.

“To all appearances a malicious soul, full of petty pride,” thought

Miüsov. He felt altogether dissatisfied with his position.

A cheap little clock on the wall struck twelve hurriedly, and served to

begin the conversation.

“Precisely to our time,” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, “but no sign of my

son, Dmitri. I apologize for him, sacred elder!” (Alyosha shuddered all

over at “sacred elder.”) “I am always punctual myself, minute for

minute, remembering that punctuality is the courtesy of kings....”

“But you are not a king, anyway,” Miüsov muttered, losing his

self-restraint at once.

“Yes; that’s true. I’m not a king, and, would you believe it, Pyotr

Alexandrovitch, I was aware of that myself. But, there! I always say

the wrong thing. Your reverence,” he cried, with sudden pathos, “you

behold before you a buffoon in earnest! I introduce myself as such.

It’s an old habit, alas! And if I sometimes talk nonsense out of place

it’s with an object, with the object of amusing people and making

myself agreeable. One must be agreeable, mustn’t one? 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 something, and to ask him to dine with us. He was a tall,

fat, fair, sulky man, the most dangerous type in such cases. It’s their

liver. I went straight up to him, and with the ease of a man of the

world, you know, ‘Mr. Ispravnik,’ said I, ‘be our Napravnik.’ ‘What do

you mean by Napravnik?’ said he. I saw, at the first half-second, that

it had missed fire. He stood there so glum. ‘I wanted to make a joke,’

said I, ‘for the general diversion, as Mr. Napravnik is our well-known

Russian orchestra conductor and what we need for the harmony of our

undertaking is some one of that sort.’ And I explained my comparison

very reasonably, didn’t I? ‘Excuse me,’ said he, ‘I am an Ispravnik,

and I do not allow puns to be made on my calling.’ He turned and walked

away. I followed him, shouting, ‘Yes, yes, you are an Ispravnik, not a

Napravnik.’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘since you called me a Napravnik I am one.’

And would you believe it, it ruined our business! And I’m always like

that, always like that. Always injuring myself with my politeness.

Once, many years ago, I said to an influential person: ‘Your wife is a

ticklish lady,’ in an honorable sense, of the moral qualities, so to

speak. But he asked me, ‘Why, have you tickled her?’ I thought I’d be

polite, so I couldn’t help saying, ‘Yes,’ and he gave me a fine

tickling on the spot. Only that happened long ago, so I’m not ashamed

to tell the story. I’m always injuring myself like that.”

“You’re doing it now,” muttered Miüsov, with disgust.

Father Zossima scrutinized them both in silence.

“Am I? 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. And do you know I foresaw, too, that you’d be the

first to remark on it. The minute I see my joke isn’t coming off, your

reverence, both my cheeks feel as though they were drawn down to the

lower jaw and there is almost a spasm in them. That’s been so since I

was young, when I had to make jokes for my living in noblemen’s

families. I am an inveterate buffoon, and have been from birth up, your

reverence, it’s as though it were a craze in me. I dare say it’s a

devil within me. But only a little one. A more serious one would have

chosen another lodging. But not your soul, Pyotr Alexandrovitch; you’re

not a lodging worth having either. But I do believe—I believe in God,

though I have had doubts of late. But now I sit and await words of

wisdom. I’m like the philosopher, Diderot, your reverence. Did you ever

hear, most Holy Father, how Diderot went to see the Metropolitan

Platon, in the time of the Empress Catherine? He went in and said

straight out, ‘There is no God.’ To which the great bishop lifted up

his finger and answered, ‘The fool hath said in his heart there is no

God.’ And he fell down at his feet on the spot. ‘I believe,’ he cried,

‘and will be christened.’ And so he was. Princess Dashkov was his

godmother, and Potyomkin his godfather.”

“Fyodor Pavlovitch, this is unbearable! You know you’re telling lies

and that that stupid anecdote isn’t true. Why are you playing the

fool?” cried Miüsov in a shaking voice.

“I suspected all my life that it wasn’t true,” Fyodor Pavlovitch cried

with conviction. “But I’ll tell you the whole truth, gentlemen. Great

elder! Forgive me, the last thing about Diderot’s christening I made up

just now. I never thought of it before. I made it up to add piquancy. I

play the fool, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to make myself agreeable. Though I

really don’t know myself, sometimes, what I do it for. And as for

Diderot, I heard as far as ‘the fool hath said in his heart’ twenty

times from the gentry about here when I was young. I heard your aunt,

Pyotr Alexandrovitch, tell the story. They all believe to this day that

the infidel Diderot came to dispute about God with the Metropolitan

Platon....”

Miüsov got up, forgetting himself in his impatience. 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 feelings 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 whole 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. The monks, with unchanged

countenances, waited, with earnest attention, to hear what the elder

would say, but seemed on the point of standing up, like Miüsov. 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 such 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 end, 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. He alone in the monastery knew

Rakitin’s thoughts.

“Forgive me,” began Miüsov, addressing Father Zossima, “for perhaps I

seem to be taking part in this shameful foolery. 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 having come with him....”

Pyotr Alexandrovitch could say no more, and was about to leave the

room, overwhelmed with confusion.

“Don’t distress yourself, I beg.” The elder got on to his feeble legs,

and taking Pyotr Alexandrovitch by both hands, made him sit down again.

“I beg you not to disturb yourself. I particularly beg you to be my

guest.” And with a bow he went back and sat down again on his little

sofa.

“Great elder, speak! Do I annoy you by my vivacity?” Fyodor Pavlovitch

cried suddenly, clutching the arms of his chair in both hands, as

though ready to leap up from it if the answer were unfavorable.

“I earnestly beg you, too, not to disturb yourself, and not to be

uneasy,” the elder said impressively. “Do not trouble. Make yourself

quite at home. And, above all, do not be so ashamed of yourself, for

that is at the root of it all.”

“Quite at home? To be my natural self? Oh, that is much too much, but I

accept it with grateful joy. Do you know, blessed Father, you’d better

not invite me to be my natural self. Don’t risk it.... I will not go so

far as that myself. I warn you for your own sake. Well, the rest is

still plunged in the mists of uncertainty, though there are people

who’d be pleased to describe me for you. I mean that for you, Pyotr

Alexandrovitch. But as for you, holy being, let me tell you, I am

brimming over with ecstasy.”

He got up, and throwing up his hands, declaimed, “Blessed be the womb

that bare thee, and the paps that gave thee suck—the paps especially.

When you said just now, ‘Don’t be so ashamed of yourself, for that is

at the root of it all,’ you pierced right through me by that remark,

and read me to the core. Indeed, I always feel when I meet people that

I am lower than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon. So I say,

‘Let me really play the buffoon. I am not afraid of your opinion, for

you are every one of you worse than I am.’ That is why I am a buffoon.

It is from shame, great elder, from shame; it’s simply

over-sensitiveness that makes me rowdy. 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! Teacher!” he fell suddenly on

his knees, “what must I do to gain eternal life?”

It was difficult even now to decide whether he was joking or really

moved.

Father Zossima, lifting his eyes, looked at him, and said with a smile:

“You have known for a long time what you must do. You have sense

enough: don’t give way to drunkenness and incontinence of speech; don’t

give way to sensual lust; and, above all, to the love of money. And

close your taverns. If you can’t close all, at least two or three. And,

above all—don’t lie.”

“You mean about Diderot?”

“No, not about Diderot. Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who

lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he

cannot distinguish the 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 distract 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. The

man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than any one. You

know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offense, isn’t it? A man may

know that nobody 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

genuine vindictiveness. But get up, sit down, I beg you. All this, too,

is deceitful posturing....”

“Blessed man! Give me your hand to kiss.”

Fyodor Pavlovitch skipped up, and imprinted a rapid kiss on the elder’s

thin hand. “It is, it is pleasant to take offense. You said that so

well, as I never heard it before. 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, every 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 elder, 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 Alexandrovitch not to interrupt me. Here is my question: Is it

true, great Father, that the story is told somewhere in the _Lives of

the Saints_ of a holy saint martyred for his faith who, when his head

was cut off at last, stood up, picked up his head, and, ‘courteously

kissing it,’ walked a long way, carrying it in his hands. Is that true

or not, honored Father?”

“No, it is untrue,” said the elder.

“There is nothing of the kind in all the lives of the saints. What

saint do you say the story is told of?” asked the Father Librarian.

“I do not know what saint. I do not know, and can’t tell. I was

deceived. I was told the story. I had heard it, and do you know who

told it? Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miüsov here, who was so angry just now

about Diderot. He it was who told the story.”

“I have never told it you, I never speak to you at all.”

“It is true you did not tell me, but you told it when I was present. It

was three years ago. I mentioned it because by that ridiculous story

you shook my faith, Pyotr 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 Alexandrovitch, you were the cause of a

great fall. That was not a Diderot!”

Fyodor Pavlovitch got excited and pathetic, though it was perfectly

clear to every one by now that he was playing a part again. Yet Miüsov

was stung by his words.

“What nonsense, and it is all nonsense,” he muttered. “I may really

have told it, some time or other ... but not to you. I was told it

myself. I heard it in Paris from 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 statistics 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.”

“Yes, you were dining then, and so I lost my faith!” said Fyodor

Pavlovitch, mimicking him.

“What do I care for your faith?” Miüsov was on the point of shouting,

but he suddenly checked himself, and said with contempt, “You defile

everything you touch.”

The elder suddenly rose from his seat. “Excuse me, gentlemen, for

leaving you a few minutes,” he said, addressing all his guests. “I have

visitors awaiting me who arrived before you. But don’t you tell lies

all the same,” he added, turning to Fyodor Pavlovitch with a

good-humored face. He went out of the cell. Alyosha and 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 good-humored 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.

“Blessed man!” he cried, with feeling. “Allow me to kiss your hand once

more. 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! But now, I’ll be quiet; I

will keep quiet all the time. I’ll sit in a chair and hold my tongue.

Now it is for you to speak, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You are the principal

person left now—for ten minutes.”

Chapter III.

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 was 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 more than thirty-three, 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 last 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 summer 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, but had visited Father Zossima once

already, three days before. Though they knew that the elder scarcely

saw any one, they had now suddenly turned up again, and urgently

entreated “the happiness of looking once again on the great healer.”

The mother was sitting on a chair by the side of her daughter’s invalid

carriage, and two paces from her stood an old monk, not one of our

monastery, but a visitor from an obscure religious house in the far

north. He too sought the elder’s blessing.

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 caught 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, and

she was at once soothed and quieted.

I do not know how it may be now, but in my childhood I often happened

to see and hear these “possessed” women in the villages and

monasteries. They used to be brought to mass; they would squeal and

bark like a dog so that they were heard all over the church. But when

the sacrament was carried in and they were led up to it, at once the

“possession” ceased, and the sick women were always soothed for a time.

I was greatly impressed and amazed at this as a child; but then I heard

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 severity; 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 terrible 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,

arising 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. The strange and instant healing of the frantic and struggling

woman as soon as she was led up to the holy sacrament, which had been

explained to me as due to malingering and the trickery of the

“clericals,” arose probably in the most natural manner. Both the women

who supported 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 brought 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 always 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

implicit 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 woman 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 sing-song voices.

He blessed them all and talked with some of them. The “possessed” woman

he knew already. She came from a village only six versts from the

monastery, and had been brought to him before.

“But here is one from afar.” He pointed to a woman by no means old but

very thin and wasted, with a face not merely sunburnt but almost

blackened by exposure. She was kneeling and gazing with a fixed stare

at the elder; there was something almost frenzied in her eyes.

“From afar off, Father, from afar off! From two hundred miles from

here. From afar off, Father, from afar off!” the woman began in a

sing-song voice as though she were chanting a dirge, swaying her head

from side to side with her cheek resting in her hand.

There is silent and long-suffering 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 that 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 constant craving to reopen the wound.

“You are of the tradesman class?” said Father Zossima, looking

curiously at her.

“Townfolk we are, Father, townfolk. 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 you. I have buried my little son, and I have come on a

pilgrimage. I have been in three monasteries, but they told me, ‘Go,

Nastasya, go to them’—that is to you. I have come; I was yesterday at

the service, and to-day I have come to you.”

“What are you weeping for?”

“It’s my little son I’m grieving for, Father. He was three years

old—three years all but three months. For my little boy, Father, I’m in

anguish, for my little boy. He was the last one left. We had four, my

Nikita and I, and now we’ve no children, our dear ones have all gone. I

buried the first three without grieving overmuch, and now I have buried

the last I can’t forget him. 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. I

say to Nikita, my husband, ‘Let me go on a pilgrimage, master.’ He is a

driver. We’re not poor people, Father, not poor; he drives our own

horse. It’s all our own, the horse and the carriage. And what good is

it all to us now? My Nikita has begun drinking while I am away. He’s

sure to. It used to be so before. As soon as I turn my back he gives

way to it. But now I don’t think about him. It’s three months since I

left home. I’ve forgotten him. I’ve forgotten everything. I don’t want

to remember. And what would our life be now together? I’ve done with

him, I’ve done. I’ve done with them all. I don’t care to look upon my

house and my goods. I don’t care to see anything at all!”

“Listen, mother,” said the elder. “Once in olden times a holy saint saw

in the Temple a mother like you weeping for her little one, her only

one, whom God had taken. ‘Knowest thou not,’ said the saint to her,

‘how bold these little ones are before the throne of God? Verily there

are none bolder than they in the Kingdom of Heaven. “Thou didst give us

life, O Lord,” they say, “and scarcely had we looked upon it when Thou

didst take it back again.” And so boldly they ask and ask again that

God gives them at once the rank of angels. Therefore,’ said the saint,

‘thou, too, O mother, rejoice and weep not, for thy little son is with

the Lord in the fellowship of the angels.’ That’s what the saint said

to the weeping mother of old. He was a great saint and he could not

have spoken falsely. Therefore you too, 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.”

The woman listened to him, looking down with her cheek in her hand. She

sighed deeply.

“My Nikita tried to comfort me with the same words as you. ‘Foolish

one,’ he said, ‘why weep? Our son is no doubt singing with the angels

before God.’ He says that to me, but he weeps himself. I see that he

cries like me. ‘I know, Nikita,’ said I. ‘Where could he be if not with

the Lord God? Only, here with us now he is not as he used to sit beside

us before.’ And if only I could look upon him one little time, if only

I could peep at him one little time, without going up to him, without

speaking, if I could be hidden in a corner and only see him for one

little minute, hear him playing in the yard, calling in his little

voice, ‘Mammy, where are you?’ If only I could hear him pattering with

his little feet about the room just once, only once; for so often, so

often I remember how he used to run to me and shout and laugh, if only

I could hear his little feet I should know him! But he’s gone, Father,

he’s gone, and I shall never hear him again. Here’s his little sash,

but him I shall never see or hear now.”

She drew out of her bosom her boy’s little embroidered sash, and as

soon as she looked at it she began shaking with sobs, hiding her eyes

with her fingers through which the tears flowed in a sudden stream.

“It is Rachel of old,” said the elder, “weeping for her children, and

will not be comforted because they are not. Such is the lot set on

earth for you mothers. Be not comforted. Consolation is not what you

need. Weep and be not consoled, but weep. Only every time that you weep

be sure to remember that your little son is one of the angels of God,

that he looks down from there at you and sees you, and rejoices at your

tears, and points at them to the Lord God; and a long while yet will

you keep that great mother’s grief. 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 and delivers it from sin. And I shall pray for

the peace of your child’s soul. What was his name?”

“Alexey, Father.”

“A sweet name. After Alexey, the man of God?”

“Yes, Father.”

“What a saint he was! I will remember him, mother, and your grief in my

prayers, and I will pray for your husband’s health. It is a sin for you

to leave him. Your 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 husband, mother; go this very day.”

“I will go, Father, at your word. I will go. You’ve gone straight to my

heart. My Nikita, my Nikita, you are waiting for me,” the woman began

in a sing-song voice; but the elder had already turned away to a very

old woman, dressed like a dweller in the town, not like a pilgrim. Her

eyes showed that she had come with an object, and in order to say

something. She said she was the widow of a non-commissioned officer,

and lived close by in the town. Her son Vasenka was in the commissariat

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 him, but she did not know the proper place to inquire.

“Only the other day Stepanida Ilyinishna—she’s a rich merchant’s

wife—said to me, ‘You go, Prohorovna, and put your son’s name down for

prayer in the church, and pray for the peace of his soul as though he

were dead. His soul will be troubled,’ she said, ‘and he will write you

a letter.’ And Stepanida Ilyinishna told me it was a certain thing

which had been many times tried. Only I am in doubt.... Oh, you light

of ours! is it true or false, and would it be right?”

“Don’t think of it. It’s shameful to ask the question. How is it

possible to pray for the peace of a living soul? And his own mother

too! It’s a great sin, akin to sorcery. 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 you 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

henceforward be in peace. Your son is alive, I tell you.”

“Dear Father, God reward you, our benefactor, who prays for all of us

and for our sins!”

But the elder had already noticed in the crowd two glowing eyes fixed

upon him. An exhausted, consumptive-looking, though young peasant woman

was gazing at him in silence. Her eyes besought him, but she seemed

afraid to approach.

“What is it, my child?”

“Absolve my soul, Father,” she articulated softly, and slowly sank on

her knees and bowed down at his feet. “I have sinned, Father. I am

afraid of my sin.”

The elder sat down on the lower step. The woman crept closer to him,

still on her knees.

“I am a widow these three years,” she began in a half-whisper, with a

sort of shudder. “I had a hard life with my husband. He was an old man.

He used to beat me cruelly. He lay ill; I thought looking at him, if he

were to get well, if he were to get up again, what then? And then the

thought came to me—”

“Stay!” said the elder, and he put his ear close to her lips.

The woman went on in a low whisper, so that it was almost impossible to

catch anything. She had soon done.

“Three years ago?” asked the elder.

“Three years. At first I didn’t think about it, but now I’ve begun to

be ill, and the thought never leaves me.”

“Have you come from far?”

“Over three hundred miles away.”

“Have you told it in confession?”

“I have confessed it. Twice I have confessed it.”

“Have you been admitted to Communion?”

“Yes. I am afraid. I am afraid to die.”

“Fear nothing and never be afraid; and don’t fret. If only your

penitence fail not, God will forgive all. There is no sin, and there

can be no sin on all the earth, which 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 exceed 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

loves 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.”

He signed her three times with the cross, took from his own neck a

little ikon and put it upon her. 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.

“From Vyshegorye, dear Father.”

“Five miles you have dragged yourself with the baby. What do you want?”

“I’ve come to look at you. I have been to you before—or have you

forgotten? You’ve no great memory if you’ve forgotten me. They told us

you were ill. Thinks I, I’ll go and see him for myself. Now I see you,

and you’re not ill! You’ll live another twenty years. God bless you!

There are plenty to pray for you; how should you be ill?”

“I thank you for all, daughter.”

“By the way, I have a thing to ask, not a great one. Here are sixty

copecks. Give them, dear Father, to some one poorer than me. I thought

as I came along, better give through him. He’ll know whom to give to.”

“Thanks, my dear, thanks! You are a good woman. I love you. I will do

so certainly. Is that your little girl?”

“My little girl, Father, Lizaveta.”

“May the Lord bless you both, you and your babe Lizaveta! You have

gladdened my heart, mother. Farewell, dear children, farewell, dear

ones.”

He blessed them all and bowed low to them.

Chapter IV.

A Lady Of Little Faith

A visitor looking on the scene of his conversation with the peasants

and his blessing them shed silent tears and wiped them away with her

handkerchief. She was a sentimental society lady of genuinely good

disposition in many respects. When the elder went up to her at last she

met him enthusiastically.

“Ah, what I have been feeling, looking on at this touching scene!...”

She could not go on for emotion. “Oh, I understand the people’s love

for you. I love the people myself. I want to love them. And who could

help loving them, our splendid Russian people, so simple in their

greatness!”

“How is your daughter’s health? You wanted to talk to me again?”

“Oh, I have been urgently begging for it, I have prayed for it! I was

ready to fall on my knees and kneel for three days at your windows

until you let me in. We have come, great healer, to express our ardent

gratitude. You have healed my Lise, healed her completely, merely by

praying over her last Thursday and laying your hands upon her. We have

hastened here to kiss those hands, to pour out our feelings and our

homage.”

“What do you mean by healed? But she is still lying down in her chair.”

“But her night fevers have entirely ceased ever since Thursday,” said

the lady with nervous haste. “And that’s not all. Her legs are

stronger. This morning she got up well; she had slept all night. Look

at her rosy cheeks, her bright eyes! She used to be always crying, but

now she laughs and is gay and happy. This morning she insisted on my

letting her stand up, and she stood up for a whole minute without any

support. She wagers that in a fortnight she’ll be dancing a quadrille.

I’ve called in Doctor Herzenstube. He shrugged his shoulders and said,

‘I am amazed; I can make nothing of it.’ And would you have us not come

here to disturb you, not fly here to thank you? Lise, thank him—thank

him!”

Lise’s pretty little laughing face became suddenly serious. She rose in

her chair as far as she could and, looking at the elder, clasped her

hands before him, but could not restrain herself and broke into

laughter.

“It’s at him,” she said, pointing to Alyosha, with childish vexation at

herself for not being able to repress her mirth.

If any one had looked at Alyosha standing a step behind the elder, he

would have caught a quick flush crimsoning his cheeks in an instant.

His eyes shone and he looked down.

“She has a message for you, Alexey Fyodorovitch. How are you?” the

mother went on, holding out her exquisitely gloved hand to Alyosha.

The elder turned round and all at once looked attentively at Alyosha.

The latter went nearer to Lise and, smiling in a strangely awkward way,

held out his hand to her too. Lise assumed an important air.

“Katerina Ivanovna has sent you this through me.” She handed him a

little note. “She particularly begs you to go and see her as soon as

possible; that you will not fail her, but will be sure to come.”

“She asks me to go and see her? Me? What for?” Alyosha muttered in

great astonishment. His face at once looked anxious. “Oh, it’s all to

do with Dmitri Fyodorovitch and—what has happened lately,” the mother

explained hurriedly. “Katerina Ivanovna has made up her mind, but she

must see you about it.... Why, of course, I can’t say. But she wants to

see you at once. And you will go to her, of course. It is a Christian

duty.”

“I have only seen her once,” Alyosha protested with the same

perplexity.

“Oh, she is such a lofty, incomparable creature! If only for her

suffering.... Think what she has gone through, what she is enduring

now! Think what awaits her! It’s all terrible, terrible!”

“Very well, I will come,” Alyosha decided, after rapidly scanning the

brief, enigmatic note, which consisted of an urgent entreaty that he

would come, without any sort of explanation.

“Oh, how sweet and generous that would be of you!” cried Lise with

sudden animation. “I told mamma you’d be sure not to go. I said you

were saving your soul. How splendid you are! I’ve always thought you

were splendid. How glad I am to tell you so!”

“Lise!” said her mother impressively, though she smiled after she had

said it.

“You have quite forgotten us, Alexey Fyodorovitch,” she said; “you

never come to see us. Yet Lise has told me twice that she is never

happy except with you.”

Alyosha raised his downcast eyes and again flushed, and again smiled

without knowing why. But the elder was no longer watching him. He had

begun talking to a monk who, as mentioned before, had been awaiting his

entrance by Lise’s chair. He was evidently a monk of the humblest, that

is of the peasant, class, of a narrow outlook, but a true believer,

and, in his own way, a stubborn one. He announced that he had come from

the far north, from Obdorsk, from Saint Sylvester, and was a member of

a poor monastery, consisting of only ten monks. The elder gave him his

blessing and invited him to come to his cell whenever he liked.

“How can you presume to do such deeds?” the monk asked suddenly,

pointing solemnly and significantly at Lise. He was referring to her

“healing.”

“It’s too early, of course, to speak of that. Relief is not complete

cure, and may proceed from different causes. But if there has been any

healing, it is by no power but God’s will. It’s all from God. Visit me,

Father,” he added to the monk. “It’s not often I can see visitors. I am

ill, and I know that my days are numbered.”

“Oh, no, no! God will not take you from us. You will live a long, long

time yet,” cried the lady. “And in what way are you ill? You look so

well, so gay and happy.”

“I am extraordinarily better to-day. But I know that it’s only for a

moment. I understand my disease now thoroughly. If I seem so happy to

you, you could never say anything that would please me so much. For men

are made for happiness, and any one who is completely happy has a right

to say to himself, ‘I am doing God’s will on earth.’ All the righteous,

all the saints, all the holy martyrs were happy.”

“Oh, how you speak! What bold and lofty words!” cried the lady. “You

seem to pierce with your words. And yet—happiness, happiness—where is

it? Who can say of himself that he is happy? Oh, since you have been so

good as to let us see you once more to-day, let me tell you what I

could not utter last time, what I dared not say, all I am suffering and

have been for so long! I am suffering! Forgive me! I am suffering!”

And in a rush of fervent feeling she clasped her hands before him.

“From what specially?”

“I suffer ... from lack of faith.”

“Lack of faith in God?”

“Oh, no, no! I dare not even think of that. But the future life—it is

such an enigma! And no one, no one can solve it. Listen! You are a

healer, you are deeply versed in the human soul, and of course I dare

not expect you to believe me entirely, but I assure you on my word of

honor that I am not speaking lightly now. The thought of the life

beyond the grave distracts me to anguish, to terror. And I don’t know

to whom to appeal, and have not dared to all my life. And now I am so

bold as to ask you. Oh, God! What will you think of me now?”

She clasped her hands.

“Don’t distress yourself about my opinion of you,” said the elder. “I

quite believe in the sincerity of your suffering.”

“Oh, how thankful I am to you! You see, I shut my eyes and ask myself

if every one has faith, where did it come from? And then they do say

that it all comes from terror at the menacing phenomena of nature, and

that none of it’s real. And I say to myself, ‘What if I’ve been

believing all my life, and when I come to die there’s nothing but the

burdocks growing on my grave?’ as I read in some author. It’s awful!

How—how can I get back my faith? But I only believed when I was a

little child, mechanically, without thinking of anything. How, how is

one to prove it? I have come now to lay my soul before you and to ask

you about it. If I let this chance slip, no one all my life will answer

me. How can I prove it? How can I convince myself? Oh, how unhappy I

am! I stand and look about me and see that scarcely any one else cares;

no one troubles his head about it, and I’m the only one who can’t stand

it. It’s deadly—deadly!”

“No doubt. But there’s no proving it, though you can be convinced of

it.”

“How?”

“By the experience of active love. Strive to love your neighbor

actively and indefatigably. In as far as you advance in love you will

grow surer of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul.

If you attain to perfect self-forgetfulness in the love of your

neighbor, then you will believe without doubt, and no doubt can

possibly enter your soul. This has been tried. This is certain.”

“In active love? There’s another question—and such a question! You see,

I so love humanity that—would you believe it?—I often dream of

forsaking all that I have, leaving Lise, and becoming a sister of

mercy. I close my eyes and think and dream, and at that moment I feel

full of strength to overcome all obstacles. No wounds, no festering

sores could at that moment frighten me. I would bind them up and wash

them with my own hands. I would nurse the afflicted. I would be ready

to kiss such wounds.”

“It is much, and well that your mind is full of such dreams and not

others. Sometime, unawares, you may do a good deed in reality.”

“Yes. But could I endure such a life for long?” the lady went on

fervently, almost frantically. “That’s the chief question—that’s my

most agonizing question. I shut my eyes and ask myself, ‘Would you

persevere long on that path? And if the patient whose wounds you are

washing did not meet you with gratitude, but worried you with his

whims, without valuing or remarking your charitable services, began

abusing you and rudely commanding you, and complaining to the superior

authorities of you (which often happens when people are in great

suffering)—what then? Would you persevere in your love, or not?’ And do

you know, I came with horror to the conclusion that, if anything could

dissipate my love to humanity, it would be ingratitude. In short, I am

a hired servant, I expect my payment at once—that is, praise, and the

repayment of love with love. Otherwise I am incapable of loving any

one.”

She was in a very paroxysm of self-castigation, and, concluding, she

looked with defiant resolution at the elder.

“It’s just the same story as a doctor once told me,” observed the

elder. “He was a man getting on in years, and undoubtedly clever. He

spoke as frankly as you, though in jest, in bitter jest. ‘I love

humanity,’ he said, ‘but I wonder at myself. The more I love humanity

in general, the less I love man in particular. In my dreams,’ he said,

‘I have often come to making enthusiastic schemes for the service of

humanity, and perhaps I might actually have faced crucifixion if it had

been suddenly necessary; and yet I am incapable of living in the same

room with any one for two days together, as I know by experience. As

soon as any one is near me, his personality disturbs my

self-complacency and restricts my freedom. In twenty-four hours I begin

to hate the best of men: one because he’s too long over his dinner;

another because he has a cold and keeps on blowing his nose. I become

hostile to people the moment they come close to me. But it has always

happened that the more I detest men individually the more ardent

becomes my love for humanity.’”

“But what’s to be done? What can one do in such a case? Must one

despair?”

“No. It is enough that you are distressed at it. Do what you can, and

it will be reckoned unto you. Much is done already in you since you can

so deeply and sincerely know yourself. If you have been talking to me

so sincerely, simply to gain approbation for your frankness, as you did

from me just now, then of course you will not attain to anything in the

achievement of real love; it will all get no further than dreams, and

your whole life will slip away like a phantom. In that case you will

naturally cease to think of the future life too, and will of yourself

grow calmer after a fashion in the end.”

“You have crushed me! Only now, as you speak, I understand that I was

really only seeking your approbation for my sincerity when I told you I

could not endure ingratitude. You have revealed me to myself. You have

seen through me and explained me to myself!”

“Are you speaking the truth? Well, now, after such a confession, I

believe that you are sincere and good at heart. If you do not attain

happiness, always remember that you are on the right road, and try not

to leave it. Above all, avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood,

especially falseness to yourself. Watch over your own deceitfulness and

look into it every hour, every minute. Avoid being scornful, both to

others and to yourself. What seems to you bad within you will grow

purer from the very fact of your observing it in yourself. Avoid fear,

too, though fear is only the consequence of every sort of falsehood.

Never be frightened at your own faint-heartedness in attaining love.

Don’t be frightened overmuch even at your evil actions. I am sorry I

can say nothing more consoling to you, for love in action is a harsh

and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams. Love in dreams is

greedy for immediate action, rapidly performed and in the sight of all.

Men will even give their lives if only the ordeal does not last long

but is soon over, with all looking on and applauding as though on the

stage. But active love is labor and fortitude, and for some people too,

perhaps, a complete science. But I predict that just when you see with

horror that in spite of all your efforts you are getting farther from

your goal instead of nearer to it—at that very moment I predict that

you will reach it and behold clearly the miraculous power of the Lord

who has been all the time loving and mysteriously guiding you. Forgive

me for not being able to stay longer with you. They are waiting for me.

Good-by.”

The lady was weeping.

“Lise, Lise! Bless her—bless her!” she cried, starting up suddenly.

“She does not deserve to be loved. I have seen her naughtiness all

along,” the elder said jestingly. “Why have you been laughing at

Alexey?”

Lise had in fact been occupied in mocking at him all the time. She had

noticed before that Alyosha was shy and tried not to look at her, and

she found this extremely amusing. She waited intently to catch his eye.

Alyosha, unable to endure her persistent stare, was irresistibly and

suddenly drawn to glance at her, and at once she smiled triumphantly in

his face. Alyosha was even more disconcerted and vexed. At last he

turned away from her altogether and hid behind the elder’s back. After

a few minutes, drawn by the same irresistible force, he turned again to

see whether he was being looked at or not, and found Lise almost

hanging out of her chair to peep sideways at him, eagerly waiting for

him to look. Catching his eye, she laughed so that the elder could not

help saying, “Why do you make fun of him like that, naughty girl?”

Lise suddenly and quite unexpectedly blushed. Her eyes flashed and her

face became quite serious. She began speaking quickly and nervously in

a warm and resentful voice:

“Why has he forgotten everything, then? He used to carry me about when

I was little. We used to play together. He used to come to teach me to

read, do you know. Two years ago, when he went away, he said that he

would never forget me, that we were friends for ever, for ever, for

ever! And now he’s afraid of me all at once. Am I going to eat him? Why

doesn’t he want to come near me? Why doesn’t he talk? Why won’t he come

and see us? It’s not that you won’t let him. We know that he goes

everywhere. It’s not good manners for me to invite him. He ought to

have thought of it first, if he hasn’t forgotten me. No, now he’s

saving his soul! Why have you put that long gown on him? If he runs

he’ll fall.”

And suddenly she hid her face in her hand and went off into

irresistible, prolonged, nervous, inaudible laughter. The elder

listened to her with a smile, and blessed her tenderly. As she kissed

his hand she suddenly pressed it to her eyes and began crying.

“Don’t be angry with me. I’m silly and good for nothing ... and perhaps

Alyosha’s right, quite right, in not wanting to come and see such a

ridiculous girl.”

“I will certainly send him,” said the elder.

Chapter V.

So Be It! So Be It!

The elder’s absence from his cell had lasted for about twenty-five

minutes. It was more than half-past twelve, but Dmitri, on whose

account they had all met there, had still not appeared. But he seemed

almost to be forgotten, and when the elder entered the cell again, he

found his guests engaged in eager conversation. Ivan and the two monks

took the leading share in it. Miüsov, too, was trying to take a part,

and apparently very eagerly, in the conversation. But he was

unsuccessful in this also. He was evidently in the background, and his

remarks were treated with neglect, which increased his irritability. He

had had intellectual encounters with Ivan before and he could not

endure a certain carelessness Ivan showed him.

“Hitherto at least I have stood in the front ranks of all that is

progressive in Europe, and here the new generation positively ignores

us,” he thought.

Fyodor Pavlovitch, who had given his word to sit still and be quiet,

had actually been quiet for some time, but he watched his neighbor

Miüsov with an ironical little smile, obviously enjoying his

discomfiture. He had been waiting for some time to pay off old scores,

and now he could not let the opportunity slip. Bending over his

shoulder he began teasing him again in a whisper.

“Why didn’t you go away just now, after the ‘courteously kissing’? Why

did you consent to remain in such unseemly company? It was because you

felt insulted and aggrieved, and you remained to vindicate yourself by

showing off your intelligence. Now you won’t go till you’ve displayed

your intellect to them.”

“You again?... On the contrary, I’m just going.”

“You’ll be the last, the last of all to go!” Fyodor Pavlovitch

delivered him another thrust, almost at the moment of Father Zossima’s

return.

The discussion died down for a moment, but the elder, seating himself

in his former place, looked at them all as though cordially inviting

them to go on. Alyosha, who knew every expression of his face, saw that

he was fearfully exhausted and making a great effort. Of late he had

been liable to fainting fits from exhaustion. His face had the pallor

that was common before such attacks, and his lips were white. But he

evidently did not want to break up the party. He seemed to have some

special object of his own in keeping them. What object? Alyosha watched

him intently.

“We are discussing this gentleman’s most interesting article,” said

Father Iosif, the librarian, addressing the elder, and indicating Ivan.

“He brings forward much that is new, but I think the argument cuts both

ways. It is an article written in answer to a book by an ecclesiastical

authority on the question of the ecclesiastical court, and the scope of

its jurisdiction.”

“I’m sorry I have not read your article, but I’ve heard of it,” said

the elder, looking keenly and intently at Ivan.

“He takes up a most interesting position,” continued the Father

Librarian. “As far as Church jurisdiction is concerned he is apparently

quite opposed to the separation of Church from State.”

“That’s interesting. But in what sense?” Father Zossima asked Ivan.

The latter, at last, answered him, not condescendingly, as Alyosha had

feared, but with modesty and reserve, with evident goodwill and

apparently without the slightest _arrière-pensée_.

“I start from the position that this confusion of elements, that is, of

the essential principles of Church and State, will, of course, go on

for ever, in spite of the fact that it is impossible for them to

mingle, and that the confusion of these elements cannot lead to any

consistent or even normal results, for there is falsity at the very

foundation of it. Compromise between the Church and State in such

questions as, for instance, jurisdiction, is, to my thinking,

impossible in any real sense. My clerical opponent maintains that the

Church holds a precise and defined position in the State. I maintain,

on the contrary, that the Church ought to include the whole State, and

not simply to occupy a corner in it, and, if this is, for some reason,

impossible at present, then it ought, in reality, to be set up as the

direct and chief aim of the future development of Christian society!”

“Perfectly true,” Father Païssy, the silent and learned monk, assented

with fervor and decision.

“The purest Ultramontanism!” cried Miüsov impatiently, crossing and

recrossing his legs.

“Oh, well, we have no mountains,” cried Father Iosif, and turning to

the elder he continued: “Observe the answer he makes to the following

‘fundamental and essential’ propositions of his opponent, who is, you

must note, an ecclesiastic. First, that ‘no social organization can or

ought to arrogate to itself power to dispose of the civic and political

rights of its members.’ Secondly, that ‘criminal and civil jurisdiction

ought not to belong to the Church, and is inconsistent with its nature,

both as a divine institution and as an organization of men for

religious objects,’ and, finally, in the third place, ‘the Church is a

kingdom not of this world.’”

“A most unworthy play upon words for an ecclesiastic!” Father Païssy

could not refrain from breaking in again. “I have read the book which

you have answered,” he added, addressing Ivan, “and was astounded at

the words ‘the Church is a kingdom not of this world.’ If it is not of

this world, then it cannot exist on earth at all. In the Gospel, the

words ‘not of this world’ are not used in that sense. To play with such

words is indefensible. Our Lord Jesus Christ came to set up the Church

upon earth. The Kingdom of Heaven, of course, is not of this world, but

in Heaven; but it is only entered through the Church which has been

founded and established upon earth. And so a frivolous play upon words

in such a connection is unpardonable and improper. The Church is, in

truth, a kingdom and ordained to rule, and in the end must undoubtedly

become the kingdom ruling over all the earth. For that we have the

divine promise.”

He ceased speaking suddenly, as though checking himself. After

listening attentively and respectfully Ivan went on, addressing the

elder with perfect composure and as before with ready cordiality:

“The whole point of my article lies in the fact that during the first

three centuries Christianity only existed on earth in the Church and

was nothing but the Church. When the pagan Roman Empire desired to

become Christian, it inevitably happened that, by becoming Christian,

it included the Church but remained a pagan State in very many of its

departments. In reality this was bound to happen. But Rome as a State

retained too much of the pagan civilization and culture, as, for

example, in the very objects and fundamental principles of the State.

The Christian Church entering into the State could, of course,

surrender no part of its fundamental principles—the rock on which it

stands—and could pursue no other aims than those which have been

ordained and revealed by God Himself, and among them that of drawing

the whole world, and therefore the ancient pagan State itself, into the

Church. In that way (that is, with a view to the future) it is not the

Church that should seek a definite position in the State, like ‘every

social organization,’ or as ‘an organization of men for religious

purposes’ (as my opponent calls the Church), but, on the contrary,

every earthly State should be, in the end, completely transformed into

the Church and should become nothing else but a Church, rejecting every

purpose incongruous with the aims of the Church. All this will not

degrade it in any way or take from its honor and glory as a great

State, nor from the glory of its rulers, but only turns it from a

false, still pagan, and mistaken path to the true and rightful path,

which alone leads to the eternal goal. This is why the author of the

book _On the Foundations of Church Jurisdiction_ would have judged

correctly if, in seeking and laying down those foundations, he had

looked upon them as a temporary compromise inevitable in our sinful and

imperfect days. But as soon as the author ventures to declare that the

foundations which he predicates now, part of which Father Iosif just

enumerated, are the permanent, essential, and eternal foundations, he

is going directly against the Church and its sacred and eternal

vocation. That is the gist of my article.”

“That is, in brief,” Father Païssy began again, laying stress on each

word, “according to certain theories only too clearly formulated in the

nineteenth century, the Church ought to be transformed into the State,

as though this would be an advance from a lower to a higher form, so as

to disappear into it, making way for science, for the spirit of the

age, and civilization. And if the Church resists and is unwilling, some

corner will be set apart for her in the State, and even that under

control—and this will be so everywhere in all modern European

countries. But Russian hopes and conceptions demand not that the Church

should pass as from a lower into a higher type into the State, but, on

the contrary, that the State should end by being worthy to become only

the Church and nothing else. So be it! So be it!”

“Well, I confess you’ve reassured me somewhat,” Miüsov said smiling,

again crossing his legs. “So far as I understand, then, the realization

of such an ideal is infinitely remote, at the second coming of Christ.

That’s as you please. It’s a beautiful Utopian dream of the abolition

of war, diplomacy, banks, and so on—something after the fashion of

socialism, indeed. But I imagined that it was all meant seriously, and

that the Church might be _now_ going to try criminals, and sentence

them to beating, prison, and even death.”

“But if there were none but the ecclesiastical court, the Church would

not even now sentence a criminal to prison or to death. Crime and the

way of regarding it would inevitably change, not all at once of course,

but fairly soon,” Ivan replied calmly, without flinching.

“Are you serious?” Miüsov glanced keenly at him.

“If everything became the Church, the Church would exclude all the

criminal and disobedient, and would not cut off their heads,” Ivan went

on. “I ask you, what would become of the excluded? He would be cut off

then not only from men, as now, but from Christ. By his crime he would

have transgressed not only against men but against the Church of

Christ. This is so even now, of course, strictly speaking, but it is

not clearly enunciated, and very, very often the criminal of to-day

compromises with his conscience: ‘I steal,’ he says, ‘but I don’t go

against the Church. I’m not an enemy of Christ.’ That’s what the

criminal of to-day is continually saying to himself, but when the

Church takes the place of the State it will be difficult for him, in

opposition to the Church all over the world, to say: ‘All men are

mistaken, all in error, all mankind are the false Church. I, a thief

and murderer, am the only true Christian Church.’ It will be very

difficult to say this to himself; it requires a rare combination of

unusual circumstances. Now, on the other side, take the Church’s own

view of crime: is it not bound to renounce the present almost pagan

attitude, and to change from a mechanical cutting off of its tainted

member for the preservation of society, as at present, into completely

and honestly adopting the idea of the regeneration of the man, of his

reformation and salvation?”

“What do you mean? I fail to understand again,” Miüsov interrupted.

“Some sort of dream again. Something shapeless and even

incomprehensible. What is excommunication? What sort of exclusion? I

suspect you are simply amusing yourself, Ivan Fyodorovitch.”

“Yes, but you know, in reality it is so now,” said the elder suddenly,

and all turned to him at once. “If it were not for the Church of Christ

there would be nothing to restrain the criminal from evil-doing, no

real chastisement for it afterwards; none, that is, but the mechanical

punishment spoken of just now, which in the majority of cases only

embitters the heart; and not the real punishment, the only effectual

one, the only deterrent and softening one, which lies in the

recognition of sin by conscience.”

“How is that, may one inquire?” asked Miüsov, with lively curiosity.

“Why,” began the elder, “all these sentences to exile with hard labor,

and formerly with flogging also, reform no one, and what’s more, deter

hardly a single criminal, and the number of crimes does not diminish

but is continually on the increase. You must admit that. Consequently

the security of society is not preserved, for, although the obnoxious

member is mechanically cut off and sent far away out of sight, another

criminal always comes to take his place at once, and often two of them.

If anything does preserve society, even in our time, and does

regenerate and transform the criminal, it is only the law of Christ

speaking in his conscience. It is only by recognizing his wrong-doing

as a son of a Christian society—that is, of the Church—that he

recognizes his sin against society—that is, against the Church. So that

it is only against the Church, and not against the State, that the

criminal of to-day can recognize that he has sinned. If society, as a

Church, had jurisdiction, then it would know when to bring back from

exclusion and to reunite to itself. Now the Church having no real

jurisdiction, but only the power of moral condemnation, withdraws of

her own accord from punishing the criminal actively. She does not

excommunicate him but simply persists in motherly exhortation of him.

What is more, the Church even tries to preserve all Christian communion

with the criminal. She admits him to church services, to the holy

sacrament, gives him alms, and treats him more as a captive than as a

convict. And what would become of the criminal, O Lord, if even the

Christian society—that is, the Church—were to reject him even as the

civil law rejects him and cuts him off? What would become of him if the

Church punished him with her excommunication as the direct consequence

of the secular law? There could be no more terrible despair, at least

for a Russian criminal, for Russian criminals still have faith. Though,

who knows, perhaps then a fearful thing would happen, perhaps the

despairing heart of the criminal would lose its faith and then what

would become of him? But the Church, like a tender, loving mother,

holds aloof from active punishment herself, as the sinner is too

severely punished already by the civil law, and there must be at least

some one to have pity on him. The Church holds aloof, above all,

because its judgment is the only one that contains the truth, and

therefore cannot practically and morally be united to any other

judgment even as a temporary compromise. She can enter into no compact

about that. The foreign criminal, they say, rarely repents, for the

very doctrines of to-day confirm him in the idea that his crime is not

a crime, but only a reaction against an unjustly oppressive force.

Society cuts him off completely by a force that triumphs over him

mechanically and (so at least they say of themselves in Europe)

accompanies this exclusion with hatred, forgetfulness, and the most

profound indifference as to the ultimate fate of the erring brother. In

this way, it all takes place without the compassionate intervention of

the Church, for in many cases there are no churches there at all, for

though ecclesiastics and splendid church buildings remain, the churches

themselves have long ago striven to pass from Church into State and to

disappear in it completely. So it seems at least in Lutheran countries.

As for Rome, it was proclaimed a State instead of a Church a thousand

years ago. And so the criminal is no longer conscious of being a member

of the Church and sinks into despair. If he returns to society, often

it is with such hatred that society itself instinctively cuts him off.

You can judge for yourself how it must end. In many cases it would seem

to be the same with us, but the difference is that besides the

established law courts we have the Church too, which always keeps up

relations with the criminal as a dear and still precious son. And

besides that, there is still preserved, though only in thought, the

judgment of the Church, which though no longer existing in practice is

still living as a dream for the future, and is, no doubt, instinctively

recognized by the criminal in his soul. What was said here just now is

true too, that is, that if the jurisdiction of the Church were

introduced in practice in its full force, that is, if the whole of the

society were changed into the Church, not only the judgment of the

Church would have influence on the reformation of the criminal such as

it never has now, but possibly also the crimes themselves would be

incredibly diminished. And there can be no doubt that the Church would

look upon the criminal and the crime of the future in many cases quite

differently and would succeed in restoring the excluded, in restraining

those who plan evil, and in regenerating the fallen. It is true,” said

Father Zossima, with a smile, “the Christian society now is not ready

and is only resting on some seven righteous men, but as they are never

lacking, it will continue still unshaken in expectation of its complete

transformation from a society almost heathen in character into a single

universal and all-powerful Church. So be it, so be it! Even though at

the end of the ages, for it is ordained to come to pass! And there is

no need to be troubled about times and seasons, for the secret of the

times and seasons is in the wisdom of God, in His foresight, and His

love. And what in human reckoning seems still afar off, may by the

Divine ordinance be close at hand, on the eve of its appearance. And so

be it, so be it!”

“So be it, so be it!” Father Païssy repeated austerely and reverently.

“Strange, extremely strange!” Miüsov pronounced, not so much with heat

as with latent indignation.

“What strikes you as so strange?” Father Iosif inquired cautiously.

“Why, it’s beyond anything!” cried Miüsov, suddenly breaking out; “the

State is eliminated and the Church is raised to the position of the

State. It’s not simply Ultramontanism, it’s arch-Ultramontanism! It’s

beyond the dreams of Pope Gregory the Seventh!”

“You are completely misunderstanding it,” said Father Païssy sternly.

“Understand, the Church is not to be transformed into the State. That

is Rome and its dream. That is the third temptation of the devil. On

the contrary, the State is transformed into the Church, will ascend and

become a Church over the whole world—which is the complete opposite of

Ultramontanism and Rome, and your interpretation, and is only the

glorious destiny ordained for the Orthodox Church. This star will arise

in the east!”

Miüsov was significantly silent. His whole figure expressed

extraordinary personal dignity. A supercilious and condescending smile

played on his lips. Alyosha watched it all with a throbbing heart. The

whole conversation stirred him profoundly. He glanced casually at

Rakitin, who was standing immovable in his place by the door listening

and watching intently though with downcast eyes. But from the color in

his cheeks Alyosha guessed that Rakitin was probably no less excited,

and he knew what caused his excitement.

“Allow me to tell you one little anecdote, gentlemen,” Miüsov said

impressively, with a peculiarly majestic air. “Some years ago, soon

after the _coup d’état_ of December, I happened to be calling in Paris

on an extremely influential personage in the Government, and I met a

very interesting man in his house. This individual was not precisely a

detective but was a sort of superintendent of a whole regiment of

political detectives—a rather powerful position in its own way. I was

prompted by curiosity to seize the opportunity of conversation with

him. And as he had not come as a visitor but as a subordinate official

bringing a special report, and as he saw the reception given me by his

chief, he deigned to speak with some openness, to a certain extent

only, of course. He was rather courteous than open, as Frenchmen know

how to be courteous, especially to a foreigner. But I thoroughly

understood him. The subject was the socialist revolutionaries who were

at that time persecuted. I will quote only one most curious remark

dropped by this person. ‘We are not particularly afraid,’ said he, ‘of

all these socialists, anarchists, infidels, and revolutionists; we keep

watch on them and know all their goings on. But there are a few

peculiar men among them who believe in God and are Christians, but at

the same time are socialists. These are the people we are most afraid

of. They are dreadful people! The socialist who is a Christian is more

to be dreaded than a socialist who is an atheist.’ The words struck me

at the time, and now they have suddenly come back to me here,

gentlemen.”

“You apply them to us, and look upon us as socialists?” Father Païssy

asked directly, without beating about the bush.

But before Pyotr Alexandrovitch could think what to answer, the door

opened, and the guest so long expected, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, came in.

They had, in fact, given up expecting him, and his sudden appearance

caused some surprise for a moment.

Chapter VI.

Why Is Such A Man Alive?

Dmitri Fyodorovitch, a young man of eight and twenty, of medium height

and agreeable countenance, looked older than his years. He was

muscular, and showed signs of considerable physical strength. Yet there

was something not healthy in his face. It was rather thin, his cheeks

were hollow, and there was an unhealthy sallowness in their color. His

rather large, prominent, dark eyes had an expression of firm

determination, and yet there was a vague look in them, too. Even when

he was excited and talking irritably, his eyes somehow did not follow

his mood, but betrayed something else, sometimes quite incongruous with

what was passing. “It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking,” those who

talked to him sometimes declared. People who saw something pensive and

sullen in his eyes were startled by his sudden laugh, which bore

witness to mirthful and light-hearted thoughts at the very time when

his eyes were so gloomy. A certain strained look in his face was easy

to understand at this moment. Every one knew, or had heard of, the

extremely restless and dissipated life which he had been leading of

late, as well as of the violent anger to which he had been roused in

his quarrels with his father. There were several stories current in the

town about it. It is true that he was irascible by nature, “of an

unstable and unbalanced mind,” as our justice of the peace,

Katchalnikov, happily described him.

He was stylishly and irreproachably dressed in a carefully buttoned

frock-coat. He wore black gloves and carried a top-hat. Having only

lately left the army, he still had mustaches and no beard. His dark

brown hair was cropped short, and combed forward on his temples. He had

the long, determined stride of a military man. He stood still for a

moment on the threshold, and glancing at the whole party went straight

up to the elder, guessing him to be their host. He made him a low bow,

and asked his blessing. Father Zossima, rising in his chair, blessed

him. Dmitri kissed his hand respectfully, and with intense feeling,

almost anger, he said:

“Be so generous as to forgive me for having kept you waiting so long,

but Smerdyakov, the valet sent me by my father, in reply to my

inquiries, told me twice over that the appointment was for one. Now I

suddenly learn—”

“Don’t disturb yourself,” interposed the elder. “No matter. You are a

little late. It’s of no consequence....”

“I’m extremely obliged to you, and expected no less from your

goodness.”

Saying this, Dmitri bowed once more. Then, turning suddenly towards his

father, made him, too, a similarly low and respectful bow. He had

evidently considered it beforehand, and made this bow in all

seriousness, thinking it his duty to show his respect and good

intentions.

Although Fyodor Pavlovitch was taken unawares, he was equal to the

occasion. In response to Dmitri’s bow he jumped up from his chair and

made his son a bow as low in return. His face was suddenly solemn and

impressive, which gave him a positively malignant look. Dmitri bowed

generally to all present, and without a word walked to the window with

his long, resolute stride, sat down on the only empty chair, near

Father Païssy, and, bending forward, prepared to listen to the

conversation he had interrupted.

Dmitri’s entrance had taken no more than two minutes, and the

conversation was resumed. But this time Miüsov thought it unnecessary

to reply to Father Païssy’s persistent and almost irritable question.

“Allow me to withdraw from this discussion,” he observed with a certain

well-bred nonchalance. “It’s a subtle question, too. Here Ivan

Fyodorovitch is smiling at us. He must have something interesting to

say about that also. Ask him.”

“Nothing special, except one little remark,” Ivan replied at once.

“European Liberals in general, and even our liberal dilettanti, often

mix up the final results of socialism with those of Christianity. This

wild notion is, of course, a characteristic feature. But it’s not only

Liberals and dilettanti who mix up socialism and Christianity, but, in

many cases, it appears, the police—the foreign police, of course—do the

same. Your Paris anecdote is rather to the point, Pyotr

Alexandrovitch.”

“I ask your permission to drop this subject altogether,” Miüsov

repeated. “I will tell you instead, gentlemen, another interesting and

rather characteristic anecdote of Ivan Fyodorovitch himself. Only five

days ago, in a gathering here, principally of ladies, he solemnly

declared in argument that there was nothing in the whole world to make

men love their neighbors. That there was no law of nature that man

should love mankind, and that, if there had been any love on earth

hitherto, it was not owing to a natural law, but simply because men

have believed in immortality. Ivan Fyodorovitch added in parenthesis

that the whole natural law lies in that faith, and that if you were to

destroy in mankind the belief in immortality, not only love but every

living force maintaining the life of the world would at once be dried

up. Moreover, nothing then would be immoral, everything would be

lawful, even cannibalism. That’s not all. He ended by asserting that

for every individual, like ourselves, who does not believe in God or

immortality, the moral law of nature must immediately be changed into

the exact contrary of the former religious law, and that egoism, even

to crime, must become not only lawful but even recognized as the

inevitable, the most rational, even honorable outcome of his position.

From this paradox, gentlemen, you can judge of the rest of our

eccentric and paradoxical friend Ivan Fyodorovitch’s theories.”

“Excuse me,” Dmitri cried suddenly; “if I’ve heard aright, crime must

not only be permitted but even recognized as the inevitable and the

most rational outcome of his position for every infidel! Is that so or

not?”

“Quite so,” said Father Païssy.

“I’ll remember it.”

Having uttered these words Dmitri ceased speaking as suddenly as he had

begun. Every one looked at him with curiosity.

“Is that really your conviction as to the consequences of the

disappearance of the faith in immortality?” the elder asked Ivan

suddenly.

“Yes. That was my contention. There is no virtue if there is no

immortality.”

“You are blessed in believing that, or else most unhappy.”

“Why unhappy?” Ivan asked smiling.

“Because, in all probability you don’t believe yourself in the

immortality of your soul, nor in what you have written yourself in your

article on Church jurisdiction.”

“Perhaps you are right! ... But I wasn’t altogether joking,” Ivan

suddenly and strangely confessed, flushing quickly.

“You were not altogether joking. That’s true. The question is still

fretting your heart, and not answered. But the martyr likes sometimes

to divert himself with his despair, as it were driven to it by despair

itself. Meanwhile, in your despair, you, too, divert yourself with

magazine articles, and discussions in society, though you don’t believe

your own arguments, and with an aching heart mock at them inwardly....

That question you have not answered, and it is your great grief, for it

clamors for an answer.”

“But can it be answered by me? Answered in the affirmative?” Ivan went

on asking strangely, still looking at the elder with the same

inexplicable smile.

“If it can’t be decided in the affirmative, it will never be decided in

the negative. You know that that is the peculiarity of your heart, and

all its suffering is due to it. But thank the Creator who has given you

a lofty heart capable of such suffering; of thinking and seeking higher

things, for our dwelling is in the heavens. God grant that your heart

will attain the answer on earth, and may God bless your path.”

The elder raised his hand and would have made the sign of the cross

over Ivan from where he stood. But the latter rose from his seat, went

up to him, received his blessing, and kissing his hand went back to his

place in silence. His face looked firm and earnest. This action and all

the preceding conversation, which was so surprising from Ivan,

impressed every one by its strangeness and a certain solemnity, so that

all were silent for a moment, and there was a look almost of

apprehension in Alyosha’s face. But Miüsov suddenly shrugged his

shoulders. And at the same moment Fyodor Pavlovitch jumped up from his

seat.

“Most pious and holy elder,” he cried, pointing to Ivan, “that is my

son, flesh of my flesh, the dearest of my flesh! He is my most dutiful

Karl Moor, so to speak, while this son who has just come in, Dmitri,

against whom I am seeking justice from you, is the undutiful Franz

Moor—they are both out of Schiller’s _Robbers_, and so I am the

reigning Count von Moor! Judge and save us! We need not only your

prayers but your prophecies!”

“Speak without buffoonery, and don’t begin by insulting the members of

your family,” answered the elder, in a faint, exhausted voice. He was

obviously getting more and more fatigued, and his strength was failing.

“An unseemly farce which I foresaw when I came here!” cried Dmitri

indignantly. He too leapt up. “Forgive it, reverend Father,” he added,

addressing the elder. “I am not a cultivated man, and I don’t even know

how to address you properly, but you have been deceived and you have

been too good-natured in letting us meet here. All my father wants is a

scandal. Why he wants it only he can tell. He always has some motive.

But I believe I know why—”

“They all blame me, all of them!” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch in his turn.

“Pyotr Alexandrovitch here blames me too. You have been blaming me,

Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you have!” he turned suddenly to Miüsov, although

the latter was not dreaming of interrupting him. “They all accuse me of

having hidden the children’s money in my boots, and cheated them, but

isn’t there a court of law? There they will reckon out for you, Dmitri

Fyodorovitch, from your notes, your letters, and your agreements, how

much money you had, how much you have spent, and how much you have

left. Why does Pyotr Alexandrovitch refuse to pass judgment? Dmitri is

not a stranger to him. Because they are all against me, while Dmitri

Fyodorovitch is in debt to me, and not a little, but some thousands of

which I have documentary proof. The whole town is echoing with his

debaucheries. And where he was stationed before, he several times spent

a thousand or two for the seduction of some respectable girl; we know

all about that, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, in its most secret details. I’ll

prove it.... Would you believe it, holy Father, he has captivated the

heart of the most honorable of young ladies of good family and fortune,

daughter of a gallant colonel, formerly his superior officer, who had

received many honors and had the Anna Order on his breast. He

compromised the girl by his promise of marriage, now she is an orphan

and here; she is betrothed to him, yet before her very eyes he is

dancing attendance on a certain enchantress. And although this

enchantress has lived in, so to speak, civil marriage with a

respectable man, yet she is of an independent character, an

unapproachable fortress for everybody, just like a legal wife—for she

is virtuous, yes, holy Fathers, she is virtuous. Dmitri Fyodorovitch

wants to open this fortress with a golden key, and that’s why he is

insolent to me now, trying to get money from me, though he has wasted

thousands on this enchantress already. He’s continually borrowing money

for the purpose. From whom do you think? Shall I say, Mitya?”

“Be silent!” cried Dmitri, “wait till I’m gone. Don’t dare in my

presence to asperse the good name of an honorable girl! That you should

utter a word about her is an outrage, and I won’t permit it!”

He was breathless.

“Mitya! Mitya!” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch hysterically, squeezing out a

tear. “And is your father’s blessing nothing to you? If I curse you,

what then?”

“Shameless hypocrite!” exclaimed Dmitri furiously.

“He says that to his father! his father! What would he be with others?

Gentlemen, only fancy; there’s a poor but honorable man living here,

burdened with a numerous family, a captain who got into trouble and was

discharged from the army, but not publicly, not by court-martial, with

no slur on his honor. And three weeks ago, Dmitri seized him by the

beard in a tavern, dragged him out into the street and beat him

publicly, and all because he is an agent in a little business of mine.”

“It’s all a lie! Outwardly it’s the truth, but inwardly a lie!” Dmitri

was trembling with rage. “Father, I don’t justify my action. Yes, I

confess it publicly, I behaved like a brute to that captain, and I

regret it now, and I’m disgusted with myself for my brutal rage. But

this captain, this agent of yours, went to that lady whom you call an

enchantress, and suggested to her from you, that she should take

I.O.U.’s of mine which were in your possession, and should sue me for

the money so as to get me into prison by means of them, if I persisted

in claiming an account from you of my property. Now you reproach me for

having a weakness for that lady when you yourself incited her to

captivate me! She told me so to my face.... She told me the story and

laughed at you.... You wanted to put me in prison because you are

jealous of me with her, because you’d begun to force your attentions

upon her; and I know all about that, too; she laughed at you for that

as well—you hear—she laughed at you as she described it. So here you

have this man, this father who reproaches his profligate son!

Gentlemen, forgive my anger, but I foresaw that this crafty old man

would only bring you together to create a scandal. I had come to

forgive him if he held out his hand; to forgive him, and ask

forgiveness! But as he has just this minute insulted not only me, but

an honorable young lady, for whom I feel such reverence that I dare not

take her name in vain, I have made up my mind to show up his game,

though he is my father....”

He could not go on. His eyes were glittering and he breathed with

difficulty. But every one in the cell was stirred. All except Father

Zossima got up from their seats uneasily. The monks looked austere but

waited for guidance from the elder. He sat still, pale, not from

excitement but from the weakness of disease. An imploring smile lighted

up his face; from time to time he raised his hand, as though to check

the storm, and, of course, a gesture from him would have been enough to

end the scene; but he seemed to be waiting for something and watched

them intently as though trying to make out something which was not

perfectly clear to him. At last Miüsov felt completely humiliated and

disgraced.

“We are all to blame for this scandalous scene,” he said hotly. “But I

did not foresee it when I came, though I knew with whom I had to deal.

This must be stopped at once! Believe me, your reverence, I had no

precise knowledge of the details that have just come to light, I was

unwilling to believe them, and I learn for the first time.... A father

is jealous of his son’s relations with a woman of loose behavior and

intrigues with the creature to get his son into prison! This is the

company in which I have been forced to be present! I was deceived. I

declare to you all that I was as much deceived as any one.”

“Dmitri Fyodorovitch,” yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch suddenly, in an

unnatural voice, “if you were not my son I would challenge you this

instant to a duel ... with pistols, at three paces ... across a

handkerchief,” he ended, stamping with both feet.

With old liars who have been acting all their lives there are moments

when they enter so completely into their part that they tremble or shed

tears of emotion in earnest, although at that very moment, or a second

later, they are able to whisper to themselves, “You know you are lying,

you shameless old sinner! You’re acting now, in spite of your ‘holy’

wrath.”

Dmitri frowned painfully, and looked with unutterable contempt at his

father.

“I thought ... I thought,” he said, in a soft and, as it were,

controlled voice, “that I was coming to my native place with the angel

of my heart, my betrothed, to cherish his old age, and I find nothing

but a depraved profligate, a despicable clown!”

“A duel!” yelled the old wretch again, breathless and spluttering at

each syllable. “And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miüsov, let me tell you

that there has never been in all your family a loftier, and more

honest—you hear—more honest woman than this ‘creature,’ as you have

dared to call her! And you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, have abandoned your

betrothed for that ‘creature,’ so you must yourself have thought that

your betrothed couldn’t hold a candle to her. That’s the woman called a

‘creature’!”

“Shameful!” broke from Father Iosif.

“Shameful and disgraceful!” Kalganov, flushing crimson, cried in a

boyish voice, trembling with emotion. He had been silent till that

moment.

“Why is such a man alive?” Dmitri, beside himself with rage, growled in

a hollow voice, hunching up his shoulders till he looked almost

deformed. “Tell me, can he be allowed to go on defiling the earth?” He

looked round at every one and pointed at the old man. He spoke evenly

and deliberately.

“Listen, listen, monks, to the parricide!” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch,

rushing up to Father Iosif. “That’s the answer to your ‘shameful!’ What

is shameful? That ‘creature,’ that ‘woman of loose behavior’ is perhaps

holier than you are yourselves, you monks who are seeking salvation!

She fell perhaps in her youth, ruined by her environment. But she loved

much, and Christ himself forgave the woman ‘who loved much.’”

“It was not for such love Christ forgave her,” broke impatiently from

the gentle Father Iosif.

“Yes, it was for such, monks, it was! You save your souls here, eating

cabbage, and think you are the righteous. You eat a gudgeon a day, and

you think you bribe God with gudgeon.”

“This is unendurable!” was heard on all sides in the cell.

But this unseemly scene was cut short in a most unexpected way. Father

Zossima rose suddenly from his seat. Almost distracted with anxiety for

the elder and every one else, Alyosha succeeded, however, in supporting

him by the arm. Father Zossima moved towards Dmitri and reaching him

sank on his knees before him. Alyosha thought that he had fallen from

weakness, but this was not so. The elder distinctly and deliberately

bowed down at Dmitri’s feet till his forehead touched the floor.

Alyosha was so astounded that he failed to assist him when he got up

again. There was a faint smile on his lips.

“Good-by! Forgive me, all of you!” he said, bowing on all sides to his

guests.

Dmitri stood for a few moments in amazement. Bowing down to him—what

did it mean? Suddenly he cried aloud, “Oh, God!” hid his face in his

hands, and rushed out of the room. All the guests flocked out after

him, in their confusion not saying good-by, or bowing to their host.

Only the monks went up to him again for a blessing.

“What did it mean, falling at his feet like that? Was it symbolic or

what?” said Fyodor Pavlovitch, suddenly quieted and trying to reopen

conversation without venturing to address anybody in particular. They

were all passing out of the precincts of the hermitage at the moment.

“I can’t answer for a madhouse and for madmen,” Miüsov answered at once

ill-humoredly, “but I will spare myself your company, Fyodor

Pavlovitch, and, trust me, for ever. Where’s that monk?”

“That monk,” that is, the monk who had invited them to dine with the

Superior, did not keep them waiting. He met them as soon as they came

down the steps from the elder’s cell, as though he had been waiting for

them all the time.

“Reverend Father, kindly do me a favor. Convey my deepest respect to

the Father Superior, apologize for me, personally, Miüsov, to his

reverence, telling him that I deeply regret that owing to unforeseen

circumstances I am unable to have the honor of being present at his

table, greatly as I should desire to do so,” Miüsov said irritably to

the monk.

“And that unforeseen circumstance, of course, is myself,” Fyodor

Pavlovitch cut in immediately. “Do you hear, Father; this gentleman

doesn’t want to remain in my company or else he’d come at once. And you

shall go, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, pray go to the Father Superior and good

appetite to you. I will decline, and not you. Home, home, I’ll eat at

home, I don’t feel equal to it here, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, my amiable

relative.”

“I am not your relative and never have been, you contemptible man!”

“I said it on purpose to madden you, because you always disclaim the

relationship, though you really are a relation in spite of your

shuffling. I’ll prove it by the church calendar. As for you, Ivan, stay

if you like. I’ll send the horses for you later. Propriety requires you

to go to the Father Superior, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to apologize for

the disturbance we’ve been making....”

“Is it true that you are going home? Aren’t you lying?”

“Pyotr Alexandrovitch! How could I dare after what’s happened! Forgive

me, gentlemen, I was carried away! And upset besides! And, indeed, I am

ashamed. Gentlemen, one man has the heart of Alexander of Macedon and

another the heart of the little dog Fido. Mine is that of the little

dog Fido. I am ashamed! After such an escapade how can I go to dinner,

to gobble up the monastery’s sauces? I am ashamed, I can’t. You must

excuse me!”

“The devil only knows, what if he deceives us?” thought Miüsov, still

hesitating, and watching the retreating buffoon with distrustful eyes.

The latter turned round, and noticing that Miüsov was watching him,

waved him a kiss.

“Well, are you coming to the Superior?” Miüsov asked Ivan abruptly.

“Why not? I was especially invited yesterday.”

“Unfortunately I feel myself compelled to go to this confounded

dinner,” said Miüsov with the same irritability, regardless of the fact

that the monk was listening. “We ought, at least, to apologize for the

disturbance, and explain that it was not our doing. What do you think?”

“Yes, we must explain that it wasn’t our doing. Besides, father won’t

be there,” observed Ivan.

“Well, I should hope not! Confound this dinner!”

They all walked on, however. The monk listened in silence. On the road

through the copse he made one observation however—that the Father

Superior had been waiting a long time, and that they were more than

half an hour late. He received no answer. Miüsov looked with hatred at

Ivan.

“Here he is, going to the dinner as though nothing had happened,” he

thought. “A brazen face, and the conscience of a Karamazov!”

Chapter VII.

A Young Man Bent On A Career

Alyosha helped Father Zossima to his bedroom and seated him on his bed.

It was a little room furnished with the bare necessities. There was a

narrow iron bedstead, with a strip of felt for a mattress. In the

corner, under the ikons, was a reading-desk with a cross and the Gospel

lying on it. The elder sank exhausted on the bed. His eyes glittered

and he breathed hard. He looked intently at Alyosha, as though

considering something.

“Go, my dear boy, go. Porfiry is enough for me. Make haste, you are

needed there, go and wait at the Father Superior’s table.”

“Let me stay here,” Alyosha entreated.

“You are more needed there. There is no peace there. You will wait, and

be of service. If evil spirits rise up, repeat a prayer. And remember,

my son”—the elder liked to call him that—“this is not the place for you

in the future. When it is God’s will to call me, leave the monastery.

Go away for good.”

Alyosha started.

“What is it? This is not your place for the time. I bless you for great

service in the world. Yours will be a long pilgrimage. And you will

have to take a wife, too. You will have to bear _all_ before you come

back. There will be much to do. But I don’t doubt of you, and so I send

you forth. Christ is with you. Do not abandon Him and He will not

abandon you. You will see great sorrow, and in that sorrow you will be

happy. This is my last message to you: in sorrow seek happiness. Work,

work unceasingly. Remember my words, for although I shall talk with you

again, not only my days but my hours are numbered.”

Alyosha’s face again betrayed strong emotion. The corners of his mouth

quivered.

“What is it again?” Father Zossima asked, smiling gently. “The worldly

may follow the dead with tears, but here we rejoice over the father who

is departing. We rejoice and pray for him. Leave me, I must pray. Go,

and make haste. Be near your brothers. And not near one only, but near

both.”

Father Zossima raised his hand to bless him. Alyosha could make no

protest, though he had a great longing to remain. He longed, moreover,

to ask the significance of his bowing to Dmitri, the question was on

the tip of his tongue, but he dared not ask it. He knew that the elder

would have explained it unasked if he had thought fit. But evidently it

was not his will. That action had made a terrible impression on

Alyosha; he believed blindly in its mysterious significance.

Mysterious, and perhaps awful.

As he hastened out of the hermitage precincts to reach the monastery in

time to serve at the Father Superior’s dinner, he felt a sudden pang at

his heart, and stopped short. He seemed to hear again Father Zossima’s

words, foretelling his approaching end. What he had foretold so exactly

must infallibly come to pass. Alyosha believed that implicitly. But how

could he be left without him? How could he live without seeing and

hearing him? Where should he go? He had told him not to weep, and to

leave the monastery. Good God! It was long since Alyosha had known such

anguish. He hurried through the copse that divided the monastery from

the hermitage, and unable to bear the burden of his thoughts, he gazed

at the ancient pines beside the path. He had not far to go—about five

hundred paces. He expected to meet no one at that hour, but at the

first turn of the path he noticed Rakitin. He was waiting for some one.

“Are you waiting for me?” asked Alyosha, overtaking him.

“Yes,” grinned Rakitin. “You are hurrying to the Father Superior, I

know; he has a banquet. There’s not been such a banquet since the

Superior entertained the Bishop and General Pahatov, do you remember? I

shan’t be there, but you go and hand the sauces. Tell me one thing,

Alexey, what does that vision mean? That’s what I want to ask you.”

“What vision?”

“That bowing to your brother, Dmitri. And didn’t he tap the ground with

his forehead, too!”

“You speak of Father Zossima?”

“Yes, of Father Zossima.”

“Tapped the ground?”

“Ah, an irreverent expression! Well, what of it? Anyway, what does that

vision mean?”

“I don’t know what it means, Misha.”

“I knew he wouldn’t explain it to you! There’s nothing wonderful about

it, of course, only the usual holy mummery. But there was an object in

the performance. All the pious people in the town will talk about it

and spread the story through the province, wondering what it meant. To

my thinking the old man really has a keen nose; he sniffed a crime.

Your house stinks of it.”

“What crime?”

Rakitin evidently had something he was eager to speak of.

“It’ll be in your family, this crime. Between your brothers and your

rich old father. So Father Zossima flopped down to be ready for what

may turn up. If something happens later on, it’ll be: ‘Ah, the holy man

foresaw it, prophesied it!’ though it’s a poor sort of prophecy,

flopping like that. ‘Ah, but it was symbolic,’ they’ll say, ‘an

allegory,’ and the devil knows what all! It’ll be remembered to his

glory: ‘He predicted the crime and marked the criminal!’ That’s always

the way with these crazy fanatics; they cross themselves at the tavern

and throw stones at the temple. Like your elder, he takes a stick to a

just man and falls at the feet of a murderer.”

“What crime? What murderer? What do you mean?”

Alyosha stopped dead. Rakitin stopped, too.

“What murderer? As though you didn’t know! I’ll bet you’ve thought of

it before. That’s interesting, too, by the way. Listen, Alyosha, you

always speak the truth, though you’re always between two stools. Have

you thought of it or not? Answer.”

“I have,” answered Alyosha in a low voice. Even Rakitin was taken

aback.

“What? Have you really?” he cried.

“I ... I’ve not exactly thought it,” muttered Alyosha, “but directly

you began speaking so strangely, I fancied I had thought of it myself.”

“You see? (And how well you expressed it!) Looking at your father and

your brother Mitya to-day you thought of a crime. Then I’m not

mistaken?”

“But wait, wait a minute,” Alyosha broke in uneasily. “What has led you

to see all this? Why does it interest you? That’s the first question.”

“Two questions, disconnected, but natural. I’ll deal with them

separately. What led me to see it? I shouldn’t have seen it, if I

hadn’t suddenly understood your brother Dmitri, seen right into the

very heart of him all at once. I caught the whole man from one trait.

These very honest but passionate people have a line which mustn’t be

crossed. If it were, he’d run at your father with a knife. But your

father’s a drunken and abandoned old sinner, who can never draw the

line—if they both let themselves go, they’ll both come to grief.”

“No, Misha, no. If that’s all, you’ve reassured me. It won’t come to

that.”

“But why are you trembling? Let me tell you; he may be honest, our

Mitya (he is stupid, but honest), but he’s—a sensualist. That’s the

very definition and inner essence of him. It’s your father has handed

him on his low sensuality. Do you know, I simply wonder at you,

Alyosha, how you can have kept your purity. You’re a Karamazov too, you

know! In your family sensuality is carried to a disease. But now, these

three sensualists are watching one another, with their knives in their

belts. The three of them are knocking their heads together, and you may

be the fourth.”

“You are mistaken about that woman. Dmitri—despises her,” said Alyosha,

with a sort of shudder.

“Grushenka? No, brother, he doesn’t despise her. Since he has openly

abandoned his betrothed for her, he doesn’t despise her. There’s

something here, my dear boy, that you don’t understand yet. A man will

fall in love with some beauty, with a woman’s body, or even with a part

of a woman’s body (a sensualist can understand that), and he’ll abandon

his own children for her, sell his father and mother, and his country,

Russia, too. If he’s honest, he’ll steal; if he’s humane, he’ll murder;

if he’s faithful, he’ll deceive. Pushkin, the poet of women’s feet,

sung of their feet in his verse. Others don’t sing their praises, but

they can’t look at their feet without a thrill—and it’s not only their

feet. Contempt’s no help here, brother, even if he did despise

Grushenka. He does, but he can’t tear himself away.”

“I understand that,” Alyosha jerked out suddenly.

“Really? Well, I dare say you do understand, since you blurt it out at

the first word,” said Rakitin, malignantly. “That escaped you unawares,

and the confession’s the more precious. So it’s a familiar subject;

you’ve thought about it already, about sensuality, I mean! Oh, you

virgin soul! You’re a quiet one, Alyosha, you’re a saint, I know, but

the devil only knows what you’ve thought about, and what you know

already! You are pure, but you’ve been down into the depths.... I’ve

been watching you a long time. You’re a Karamazov yourself; you’re a

thorough Karamazov—no doubt birth and selection have something to

answer for. You’re a sensualist from your father, a crazy saint from

your mother. Why do you tremble? Is it true, then? Do you know,

Grushenka has been begging me to bring you along. ‘I’ll pull off his

cassock,’ she says. You can’t think how she keeps begging me to bring

you. I wondered why she took such an interest in you. Do you know,

she’s an extraordinary woman, too!”

“Thank her and say I’m not coming,” said Alyosha, with a strained

smile. “Finish what you were saying, Misha. I’ll tell you my idea

after.”

“There’s nothing to finish. It’s all clear. It’s the same old tune,

brother. If even you are a sensualist at heart, what of your brother,

Ivan? He’s a Karamazov, too. What is at the root of all you Karamazovs

is that you’re all sensual, grasping and crazy! Your brother Ivan

writes theological articles in joke, for some idiotic, unknown motive

of his own, though he’s an atheist, and he admits it’s a fraud

himself—that’s your brother Ivan. He’s trying to get Mitya’s betrothed

for himself, and I fancy he’ll succeed, too. And what’s more, it’s with

Mitya’s consent. For Mitya will surrender his betrothed to him to be

rid of her, and escape to Grushenka. And he’s ready to do that in spite

of all his nobility and disinterestedness. Observe that. Those are the

most fatal people! Who the devil can make you out? He recognizes his

vileness and goes on with it! Let me tell you, too, the old man, your

father, is standing in Mitya’s way now. He has suddenly gone crazy over

Grushenka. His mouth waters at the sight of her. It’s simply on her

account he made that scene in the cell just now, simply because Miüsov

called her an ‘abandoned creature.’ He’s worse than a tom-cat in love.

At first she was only employed by him in connection with his taverns

and in some other shady business, but now he has suddenly realized all

she is and has gone wild about her. He keeps pestering her with his

offers, not honorable ones, of course. And they’ll come into collision,

the precious father and son, on that path! But Grushenka favors neither

of them, she’s still playing with them, and teasing them both,

considering which she can get most out of. For though she could filch a

lot of money from the papa he wouldn’t marry her, and maybe he’ll turn

stingy in the end, and keep his purse shut. That’s where Mitya’s value

comes in; he has no money, but he’s ready to marry her. Yes, ready to

marry her! to abandon his betrothed, a rare beauty, Katerina Ivanovna,

who’s rich, and the daughter of a colonel, and to marry Grushenka, who

has been the mistress of a dissolute old merchant, Samsonov, a coarse,

uneducated, provincial mayor. Some murderous conflict may well come to

pass from all this, and that’s what your brother Ivan is waiting for.

It would suit him down to the ground. He’ll carry off Katerina

Ivanovna, for whom he is languishing, and pocket her dowry of sixty

thousand. That’s very alluring to start with, for a man of no

consequence and a beggar. And, take note, he won’t be wronging Mitya,

but doing him the greatest service. For I know as a fact that Mitya

only last week, when he was with some gypsy girls drunk in a tavern,

cried out aloud that he was unworthy of his betrothed, Katya, but that

his brother Ivan, he was the man who deserved her. And Katerina

Ivanovna will not in the end refuse such a fascinating man as Ivan.

She’s hesitating between the two of them already. And how has that Ivan

won you all, so that you all worship him? He is laughing at you, and

enjoying himself at your expense.”

“How do you know? How can you speak so confidently?” Alyosha asked

sharply, frowning.

“Why do you ask, and are frightened at my answer? It shows that you

know I’m speaking the truth.”

“You don’t like Ivan. Ivan wouldn’t be tempted by money.”

“Really? And the beauty of Katerina Ivanovna? It’s not only the money,

though a fortune of sixty thousand is an attraction.”

“Ivan is above that. He wouldn’t make up to any one for thousands. It

is not money, it’s not comfort Ivan is seeking. Perhaps it’s suffering

he is seeking.”

“What wild dream now? Oh, you—aristocrats!”

“Ah, Misha, he has a stormy spirit. His mind is in bondage. He is

haunted by a great, unsolved doubt. He is one of those who don’t want

millions, but an answer to their questions.”

“That’s plagiarism, Alyosha. You’re quoting your elder’s phrases. Ah,

Ivan has set you a problem!” cried Rakitin, with undisguised malice.

His face changed, and his lips twitched. “And the problem’s a stupid

one. It is no good guessing it. Rack your brains—you’ll understand it.

His article is absurd and ridiculous. And did you hear his stupid

theory just now: if there’s no immortality of the soul, then there’s no

virtue, and everything is lawful. (And by the way, do you remember how

your brother Mitya cried out: ‘I will remember!’) An attractive theory

for scoundrels!—(I’m being abusive, that’s stupid.) Not for scoundrels,

but for pedantic _poseurs_, ‘haunted by profound, unsolved doubts.’

He’s showing off, and what it all comes to is, ‘on the one hand we

cannot but admit’ and ‘on the other it must be confessed!’ His whole

theory is a fraud! Humanity will find in itself the power to live for

virtue even without believing in immortality. It will find it in love

for freedom, for equality, for fraternity.”

Rakitin could hardly restrain himself in his heat, but, suddenly, as

though remembering something, he stopped short.

“Well, that’s enough,” he said, with a still more crooked smile. “Why

are you laughing? Do you think I’m a vulgar fool?”

“No, I never dreamed of thinking you a vulgar fool. You are clever but

... never mind, I was silly to smile. I understand your getting hot

about it, Misha. I guess from your warmth that you are not indifferent

to Katerina Ivanovna yourself; I’ve suspected that for a long time,

brother, that’s why you don’t like my brother Ivan. Are you jealous of

him?”

“And jealous of her money, too? Won’t you add that?”

“I’ll say nothing about money. I am not going to insult you.”

“I believe it, since you say so, but confound you, and your brother

Ivan with you. Don’t you understand that one might very well dislike

him, apart from Katerina Ivanovna. And why the devil should I like him?

He condescends to abuse me, you know. Why haven’t I a right to abuse

him?”

“I never heard of his saying anything about you, good or bad. He

doesn’t speak of you at all.”

“But I heard that the day before yesterday at Katerina Ivanovna’s he

was abusing me for all he was worth—you see what an interest he takes

in your humble servant. And which is the jealous one after that,

brother, I can’t say. He was so good as to express the opinion that, if

I don’t go in for the career of an archimandrite in the immediate

future and don’t become a monk, I shall be sure to go to Petersburg and

get on to some solid magazine as a reviewer, that I shall write for the

next ten years, and in the end become the owner of the magazine, and

bring it out on the liberal and atheistic side, with a socialistic

tinge, with a tiny gloss of socialism, but keeping a sharp look out all

the time, that is, keeping in with both sides and hoodwinking the

fools. According to your brother’s account, the tinge of socialism

won’t hinder me from laying by the proceeds and investing them under

the guidance of some Jew, till at the end of my career I build a great

house in Petersburg and move my publishing offices to it, and let out

the upper stories to lodgers. He has even chosen the place for it, near

the new stone bridge across the Neva, which they say is to be built in

Petersburg.”

“Ah, Misha, that’s just what will really happen, every word of it,”

cried Alyosha, unable to restrain a good-humored smile.

“You are pleased to be sarcastic, too, Alexey Fyodorovitch.”

“No, no, I’m joking, forgive me. I’ve something quite different in my

mind. But, excuse me, who can have told you all this? You can’t have

been at Katerina Ivanovna’s yourself when he was talking about you?”

“I wasn’t there, but Dmitri Fyodorovitch was; and I heard him tell it

with my own ears; if you want to know, he didn’t tell me, but I

overheard him, unintentionally, of course, for I was sitting in

Grushenka’s bedroom and I couldn’t go away because Dmitri Fyodorovitch

was in the next room.”

“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten she was a relation of yours.”

“A relation! That Grushenka a relation of mine!” cried Rakitin, turning

crimson. “Are you mad? You’re out of your mind!”

“Why, isn’t she a relation of yours? I heard so.”

“Where can you have heard it? You Karamazovs brag of being an ancient,

noble family, though your father used to run about playing the buffoon

at other men’s tables, and was only admitted to the kitchen as a favor.

I may be only a priest’s son, and dirt in the eyes of noblemen like

you, but don’t insult me so lightly and wantonly. I have a sense of

honor, too, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I couldn’t be a relation of Grushenka,

a common harlot. I beg you to understand that!”

Rakitin was intensely irritated.

“Forgive me, for goodness’ sake, I had no idea ... besides ... how can

you call her a harlot? Is she ... that sort of woman?” Alyosha flushed

suddenly. “I tell you again, I heard that she was a relation of yours.

You often go to see her, and you told me yourself you’re not her lover.

I never dreamed that you of all people had such contempt for her! Does

she really deserve it?”

“I may have reasons of my own for visiting her. That’s not your

business. But as for relationship, your brother, or even your father,

is more likely to make her yours than mine. Well, here we are. You’d

better go to the kitchen. Hullo! what’s wrong, what is it? Are we late?

They can’t have finished dinner so soon! Have the Karamazovs been

making trouble again? No doubt they have. Here’s your father and your

brother Ivan after him. They’ve broken out from the Father Superior’s.

And look, Father Isidor’s shouting out something after them from the

steps. And your father’s shouting and waving his arms. I expect he’s

swearing. Bah, and there goes Miüsov driving away in his carriage. You

see, he’s going. And there’s old Maximov running!—there must have been

a row. There can’t have been any dinner. Surely they’ve not been

beating the Father Superior! Or have they, perhaps, been beaten? It

would serve them right!”

There was reason for Rakitin’s exclamations. There had been a

scandalous, an unprecedented scene. It had all come from the impulse of

a moment.

Chapter VIII.

The Scandalous Scene

Miüsov, as a man of breeding and delicacy, could not but feel some

inward qualms, when he reached the Father Superior’s with Ivan: he felt

ashamed of having lost his temper. He felt that he ought to have

disdained that despicable wretch, Fyodor Pavlovitch, too much to have

been upset by him in Father Zossima’s cell, and so to have forgotten

himself. “The monks were not to blame, in any case,” he reflected, on

the steps. “And if they’re decent people here (and the Father Superior,

I understand, is a nobleman) why not be friendly and courteous with

them? I won’t argue, I’ll fall in with everything, I’ll win them by

politeness, and ... and ... show them that I’ve nothing to do with that

Æsop, that buffoon, that Pierrot, and have merely been taken in over

this affair, just as they have.”

He determined to drop his litigation with the monastery, and relinquish

his claims to the wood-cutting and fishery rights at once. He was the

more ready to do this because the rights had become much less valuable,

and he had indeed the vaguest idea where the wood and river in question

were.

These excellent intentions were strengthened when he entered the Father

Superior’s dining-room, though, strictly speaking, it was not a

dining-room, for the Father Superior had only two rooms altogether; they were,

however, much larger and more comfortable than Father Zossima’s. But

there was no great luxury about the furnishing of these rooms either.

The furniture was of mahogany, covered with leather, in the

old-fashioned style of 1820; the floor was not even stained, but

everything was shining with cleanliness, and there were many choice

flowers in the windows; the most sumptuous thing in the room at the

moment was, of course, the beautifully decorated table. The cloth was

clean, the service shone; there were three kinds of well-baked bread,

two bottles of wine, two of excellent mead, and a large glass jug of

kvas—both the latter made in the monastery, and famous in the

neighborhood. There was no vodka. Rakitin related afterwards that there

were five dishes: fish-soup made of sterlets, served with little fish

patties; then boiled fish served in a special way; then salmon cutlets,

ice pudding and compote, and finally, blanc-mange. Rakitin found out

about all these good things, for he could not resist peeping into the

kitchen, where he already had a footing. He had a footing everywhere,

and got information about everything. He was of an uneasy and envious

temper. He was well aware of his own considerable abilities, and

nervously exaggerated them in his self-conceit. He knew he would play a

prominent part of some sort, but Alyosha, who was attached to him, was

distressed to see that his friend Rakitin was dishonorable, and quite

unconscious of being so himself, considering, on the contrary, that

because he would not steal money left on the table he was a man of the

highest integrity. Neither Alyosha nor any one else could have

influenced him in that.

Rakitin, of course, was a person of too little consequence to be

invited to the dinner, to which Father Iosif, Father Païssy, and one

other monk were the only inmates of the monastery invited. They were

already waiting when Miüsov, Kalganov, and Ivan arrived. The other

guest, Maximov, stood a little aside, waiting also. The Father Superior

stepped into the middle of the room to receive his guests. He was a

tall, thin, but still vigorous old man, with black hair streaked with

gray, and a long, grave, ascetic face. He bowed to his guests in

silence. But this time they approached to receive his blessing. Miüsov

even tried to kiss his hand, but the Father Superior drew it back in

time to avoid the salute. But Ivan and Kalganov went through the

ceremony in the most simple-hearted and complete manner, kissing his

hand as peasants do.

“We must apologize most humbly, your reverence,” began Miüsov,

simpering affably, and speaking in a dignified and respectful tone.

“Pardon us for having come alone without the gentleman you invited,

Fyodor Pavlovitch. He felt obliged to decline the honor of your

hospitality, and not without reason. In the reverend Father Zossima’s

cell he was carried away by the unhappy dissension with his son, and

let fall words which were quite out of keeping ... in fact, quite

unseemly ... as”—he glanced at the monks—“your reverence is, no doubt,

already aware. And therefore, recognizing that he had been to blame, he

felt sincere regret and shame, and begged me, and his son Ivan

Fyodorovitch, to convey to you his apologies and regrets. In brief, he

hopes and desires to make amends later. He asks your blessing, and begs

you to forget what has taken place.”

As he uttered the last word of his tirade, Miüsov completely recovered

his self-complacency, and all traces of his former irritation

disappeared. He fully and sincerely loved humanity again.

The Father Superior listened to him with dignity, and, with a slight

bend of the head, replied:

“I sincerely deplore his absence. Perhaps at our table he might have

learnt to like us, and we him. Pray be seated, gentlemen.”

He stood before the holy image, and began to say grace, aloud. All bent

their heads reverently, and Maximov clasped his hands before him, with

peculiar fervor.

It was at this moment that Fyodor Pavlovitch played his last prank. It

must be noted that he really had meant to go home, and really had felt

the impossibility of going to dine with the Father Superior as though

nothing had happened, after his disgraceful behavior in the elder’s

cell. Not that he was so very much ashamed of himself—quite the

contrary perhaps. But still he felt it would be unseemly to go to

dinner. Yet his creaking carriage had hardly been brought to the steps

of the hotel, and he had hardly got into it, when he suddenly stopped

short. He remembered his own words at the elder’s: “I always feel when

I meet people that I am lower than all, and that they all take me for a

buffoon; so I say let me play the buffoon, for you are, every one of

you, stupider and lower than I.” He longed to revenge himself on every

one for his own unseemliness. He suddenly recalled how he had once in

the past been asked, “Why do you hate so and so, so much?” And he had

answered them, with his shameless impudence, “I’ll tell you. He has

done me no harm. But I played him a dirty trick, and ever since I have

hated him.”

Remembering that now, he smiled quietly and malignantly, hesitating for

a moment. His eyes gleamed, and his lips positively quivered. “Well,

since I have begun, I may as well go on,” he decided. His predominant

sensation at that moment might be expressed in the following words,

“Well, there is no rehabilitating myself now. So let me shame them for

all I am worth. I will show them I don’t care what they think—that’s

all!”

He told the coachman to wait, while with rapid steps he returned to the

monastery and straight to the Father Superior’s. He had no clear idea

what he would do, but he knew that he could not control himself, and

that a touch might drive him to the utmost limits of obscenity, but

only to obscenity, to nothing criminal, nothing for which he could be

legally punished. In the last resort, he could always restrain himself,

and had marveled indeed at himself, on that score, sometimes. He

appeared in the Father Superior’s dining-room, at the moment when the

prayer was over, and all were moving to the table. Standing in the

doorway, he scanned the company, and laughing his prolonged, impudent,

malicious chuckle, looked them all boldly in the face. “They thought I

had gone, and here I am again,” he cried to the whole room.

For one moment every one stared at him without a word; and at once

every one felt that something revolting, grotesque, positively

scandalous, was about to happen. Miüsov passed immediately from the

most benevolent frame of mind to the most savage. All the feelings that

had subsided and died down in his heart revived instantly.

“No! this I cannot endure!” he cried. “I absolutely cannot! and ... I

certainly cannot!”

The blood rushed to his head. He positively stammered; but he was

beyond thinking of style, and he seized his hat.

“What is it he cannot?” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, “that he absolutely

cannot and certainly cannot? Your reverence, am I to come in or not?

Will you receive me as your guest?”

“You are welcome with all my heart,” answered the Superior.

“Gentlemen!” he added, “I venture to beg you most earnestly to lay

aside your dissensions, and to be united in love and family

harmony—with prayer to the Lord at our humble table.”

“No, no, it is impossible!” cried Miüsov, beside himself.

“Well, if it is impossible for Pyotr Alexandrovitch, it is impossible

for me, and I won’t stop. That is why I came. I will keep with Pyotr

Alexandrovitch everywhere now. If you will go away, Pyotr

Alexandrovitch, I will go away too, if you remain, I will remain. You

stung him by what you said about family harmony, Father Superior, he

does not admit he is my relation. That’s right, isn’t it, von Sohn?

Here’s von Sohn. How are you, von Sohn?”

“Do you mean me?” muttered Maximov, puzzled.

“Of course I mean you,” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. “Who else? The Father

Superior could not be von Sohn.”

“But I am not von Sohn either. I am Maximov.”

“No, you are von Sohn. Your reverence, do you know who von Sohn was? It

was a famous murder case. He was killed in a house of harlotry—I

believe that is what such places are called among you—he was killed and

robbed, and in spite of his venerable age, he was nailed up in a box

and sent from Petersburg to Moscow in the luggage van, and while they

were nailing him up, the harlots sang songs and played the harp, that

is to say, the piano. So this is that very von Sohn. He has risen from

the dead, hasn’t he, von Sohn?”

“What is happening? What’s this?” voices were heard in the group of

monks.

“Let us go,” cried Miüsov, addressing Kalganov.

“No, excuse me,” Fyodor Pavlovitch broke in shrilly, taking another

step into the room. “Allow me to finish. There in the cell you blamed

me for behaving disrespectfully just because I spoke of eating gudgeon,

Pyotr Alexandrovitch. Miüsov, my relation, prefers to have _plus de

noblesse que de sincérité_ in his words, but I prefer in mine _plus de

sincérité que de noblesse_, and—damn the _noblesse_! That’s right,

isn’t it, von Sohn? Allow me, Father Superior, though I am a buffoon

and play the buffoon, yet I am the soul of honor, and I want to speak

my mind. Yes, I am the soul of honor, while in Pyotr Alexandrovitch

there is wounded vanity and nothing else. I came here perhaps to have a

look and speak my mind. My son, Alexey, is here, being saved. I am his

father; I care for his welfare, and it is my duty to care. While I’ve

been playing the fool, I have been listening and having a look on the

sly; and now I want to give you the last act of the performance. You

know how things are with us? As a thing falls, so it lies. As a thing

once has fallen, so it must lie for ever. Not a bit of it! I want to

get up again. Holy Father, I am indignant with you. Confession is a

great sacrament, before which I am ready to bow down reverently; but

there in the cell, they all kneel down and confess aloud. Can it be

right to confess aloud? It was ordained by the holy Fathers to confess

in secret: then only your confession will be a mystery, and so it was

of old. But how can I explain to him before every one that I did this

and that ... well, you understand what—sometimes it would not be proper

to talk about it—so it is really a scandal! No, Fathers, one might be

carried along with you to the Flagellants, I dare say ... at the first

opportunity I shall write to the Synod, and I shall take my son,

Alexey, home.”

We must note here that Fyodor Pavlovitch knew where to look for the

weak spot. There had been at one time malicious rumors which had even

reached the Archbishop (not only regarding our monastery, but in others

where the institution of elders existed) that too much respect was paid

to the elders, even to the detriment of the authority of the Superior,

that the elders abused the sacrament of confession and so on and so

on—absurd charges which had died away of themselves everywhere. But the

spirit of folly, which had caught up Fyodor Pavlovitch, and was bearing

him on the current of his own nerves into lower and lower depths of

ignominy, prompted him with this old slander. Fyodor Pavlovitch did not

understand a word of it, and he could not even put it sensibly, for on

this occasion no one had been kneeling and confessing aloud in the

elder’s cell, so that he could not have seen anything of the kind. He

was only speaking from confused memory of old slanders. But as soon as

he had uttered his foolish tirade, he felt he had been talking absurd

nonsense, and at once longed to prove to his audience, and above all to

himself, that he had not been talking nonsense. And, though he knew

perfectly well that with each word he would be adding more and more

absurdity, he could not restrain himself, and plunged forward blindly.

“How disgraceful!” cried Pyotr Alexandrovitch.

“Pardon me!” said the Father Superior. “It was said of old, ‘Many have

begun to speak against me and have uttered evil sayings about me. And

hearing it I have said to myself: it is the correction of the Lord and

He has sent it to heal my vain soul.’ And so we humbly thank you,

honored guest!” and he made Fyodor Pavlovitch a low bow.

“Tut—tut—tut—sanctimoniousness and stock phrases! Old phrases and old

gestures. The old lies and formal prostrations. We know all about them.

A kiss on the lips and a dagger in the heart, as in Schiller’s

_Robbers_. I don’t like falsehood, Fathers, I want the truth. But the

truth is not to be found in eating gudgeon and that I proclaim aloud!

Father monks, why do you fast? Why do you expect reward in heaven for

that? Why, for reward like that I will come and fast too! No, saintly

monk, you try being virtuous in the world, do good to society, without

shutting yourself up in a monastery at other people’s expense, and

without expecting a reward up aloft for it—you’ll find that a bit

harder. I can talk sense, too, Father Superior. What have they got

here?” He went up to the table. “Old port wine, mead brewed by the

Eliseyev Brothers. Fie, fie, fathers! That is something beyond gudgeon.

Look at the bottles the fathers have brought out, he he he! And who has

provided it all? The Russian peasant, the laborer, brings here the

farthing earned by his horny hand, wringing it from his family and the

tax-gatherer! You bleed the people, you know, holy fathers.”

“This is too disgraceful!” said Father Iosif.

Father Païssy kept obstinately silent. Miüsov rushed from the room, and

Kalganov after him.

“Well, Father, I will follow Pyotr Alexandrovitch! I am not coming to

see you again. You may beg me on your knees, I shan’t come. I sent you

a thousand roubles, so you have begun to keep your eye on me. He he he!

No, I’ll say no more. I am taking my revenge for my youth, for all the

humiliation I endured.” He thumped the table with his fist in a

paroxysm of simulated feeling. “This monastery has played a great part

in my life! It has cost me many bitter tears. You used to set my wife,

the crazy one, against me. You cursed me with bell and book, you spread

stories about me all over the place. Enough, fathers! This is the age

of Liberalism, the age of steamers and railways. Neither a thousand,

nor a hundred roubles, no, nor a hundred farthings will you get out of

me!”

It must be noted again that our monastery never had played any great

part in his life, and he never had shed a bitter tear owing to it. But

he was so carried away by his simulated emotion, that he was for one

moment almost believing it himself. He was so touched he was almost

weeping. But at that very instant, he felt that it was time to draw

back.

The Father Superior bowed his head at his malicious lie, and again

spoke impressively:

“It is written again, ‘Bear circumspectly and gladly dishonor that

cometh upon thee by no act of thine own, be not confounded and hate not

him who hath dishonored thee.’ And so will we.”

“Tut, tut, tut! Bethinking thyself and the rest of the rigmarole.

Bethink yourselves, Fathers, I will go. But I will take my son, Alexey,

away from here for ever, on my parental authority. Ivan Fyodorovitch,

my most dutiful son, permit me to order you to follow me. Von Sohn,

what have you to stay for? Come and see me now in the town. It is fun

there. It is only one short verst; instead of lenten oil, I will give

you sucking-pig and kasha. We will have dinner with some brandy and

liqueur to it.... I’ve cloudberry wine. Hey, von Sohn, don’t lose your

chance.” He went out, shouting and gesticulating.

It was at that moment Rakitin saw him and pointed him out to Alyosha.

“Alexey!” his father shouted, from far off, catching sight of him. “You

come home to me to-day, for good, and bring your pillow and mattress,

and leave no trace behind.”

Alyosha stood rooted to the spot, watching the scene in silence.

Meanwhile, Fyodor Pavlovitch had got into the carriage, and Ivan was

about to follow him in grim silence without even turning to say good-by

to Alyosha. But at this point another almost incredible scene of

grotesque buffoonery gave the finishing touch to the episode. Maximov

suddenly appeared by the side of the carriage. He ran up, panting,

afraid of being too late. Rakitin and Alyosha saw him running. He was

in such a hurry that in his impatience he put his foot on the step on

which Ivan’s left foot was still resting, and clutching the carriage he

kept trying to jump in. “I am going with you!” he kept shouting,

laughing a thin mirthful laugh with a look of reckless glee in his

face. “Take me, too.”

“There!” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, delighted. “Did I not say he was von

Sohn. It is von Sohn himself, risen from the dead. Why, how did you

tear yourself away? What did you _vonsohn_ there? And how could you get

away from the dinner? You must be a brazen-faced fellow! I am that

myself, but I am surprised at you, brother! Jump in, jump in! Let him

pass, Ivan. It will be fun. He can lie somewhere at our feet. Will you

lie at our feet, von Sohn? Or perch on the box with the coachman. Skip

on to the box, von Sohn!”

But Ivan, who had by now taken his seat, without a word gave Maximov a

violent punch in the breast and sent him flying. It was quite by chance

he did not fall.

“Drive on!” Ivan shouted angrily to the coachman.

“Why, what are you doing, what are you about? Why did you do that?”

Fyodor Pavlovitch protested.

But the carriage had already driven away. Ivan made no reply.

“Well, you are a fellow,” Fyodor Pavlovitch said again.

After a pause of two minutes, looking askance at his son, “Why, it was

you got up all this monastery business. You urged it, you approved of

it. Why are you angry now?”

“You’ve talked rot enough. You might rest a bit now,” Ivan snapped

sullenly.

Fyodor Pavlovitch was silent again for two minutes.

“A drop of brandy would be nice now,” he observed sententiously, but

Ivan made no response.

“You shall have some, too, when we get home.”

Ivan was still silent.

Fyodor Pavlovitch waited another two minutes.

“But I shall take Alyosha away from the monastery, though you will

dislike it so much, most honored Karl von Moor.”

Ivan shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and turning away stared at

the road. And they did not speak again all the way home.

Book III. The Sensualists

Chapter I.

In The Servants’ Quarters

The Karamazovs’ house was far from being in the center of the town, but

it was not quite outside it. It was a pleasant-looking old house of two

stories, painted gray, with a red iron roof. It was roomy and snug, and

might still last many years. There were all sorts of unexpected little

cupboards and closets and staircases. There were rats in it, but Fyodor

Pavlovitch did not altogether dislike them. “One doesn’t feel so

solitary when one’s left alone in the evening,” he used to say. It was

his habit to send the servants away to the lodge for the night and to

lock himself up alone. The lodge was a roomy and solid building in the

yard. Fyodor Pavlovitch used to have the cooking done there, although

there was a kitchen in the house; he did not like the smell of cooking,

and, winter and summer alike, the dishes were carried in across the

courtyard. The house was built for a large family; there was room for

five times as many, with their servants. But at the time of our story

there was no one living in the house but Fyodor Pavlovitch and his son

Ivan. And in the lodge there were only three servants: old Grigory, and

his old wife Marfa, and a young man called Smerdyakov. Of these three

we must say a few words. Of old Grigory we have said something already.

He was firm and determined and went blindly and obstinately for his

object, if once he had been brought by any reasons (and they were often

very illogical ones) to believe that it was immutably right. He was

honest and incorruptible. His wife, Marfa Ignatyevna, had obeyed her

husband’s will implicitly all her life, yet she had pestered him

terribly after the emancipation of the serfs. She was set on leaving

Fyodor Pavlovitch and opening a little shop in Moscow with their small

savings. But Grigory decided then, once for all, that “the woman’s

talking nonsense, for every woman is dishonest,” and that they ought

not to leave their old master, whatever he might be, for “that was now

their duty.”

“Do you understand what duty is?” he asked Marfa Ignatyevna.

“I understand what duty means, Grigory Vassilyevitch, but why it’s our

duty to stay here I never shall understand,” Marfa answered firmly.

“Well, don’t understand then. But so it shall be. And you hold your

tongue.”

And so it was. They did not go away, and Fyodor Pavlovitch promised

them a small sum for wages, and paid it regularly. Grigory knew, too,

that he had an indisputable influence over his master. It was true, and

he was aware of it. Fyodor Pavlovitch was an obstinate and cunning

buffoon, yet, though his will was strong enough “in some of the affairs

of life,” as he expressed it, he found himself, to his surprise,

extremely feeble in facing certain other emergencies. He knew his

weaknesses and was afraid of them. There are positions in which one has

to keep a sharp look out. And that’s not easy without a trustworthy

man, and Grigory was a most trustworthy man. Many times in the course

of his life Fyodor Pavlovitch had only just escaped a sound thrashing

through Grigory’s intervention, and on each occasion the old servant

gave him a good lecture. But it wasn’t only thrashings that Fyodor

Pavlovitch was afraid of. There were graver occasions, and very subtle

and complicated ones, when Fyodor Pavlovitch could not have explained

the extraordinary craving for some one faithful and devoted, which

sometimes unaccountably came upon him all in a moment. It was almost a

morbid condition. Corrupt and often cruel in his lust, like some

noxious insect, Fyodor Pavlovitch was sometimes, in moments of

drunkenness, overcome by superstitious terror and a moral convulsion

which took an almost physical form. “My soul’s simply quaking in my

throat at those times,” he used to say. At such moments he liked to

feel that there was near at hand, in the lodge if not in the room, a

strong, faithful man, virtuous and unlike himself, who had seen all his

debauchery and knew all his secrets, but was ready in his devotion to

overlook all that, not to oppose him, above all, not to reproach him or

threaten him with anything, either in this world or in the next, and,

in case of need, to defend him—from whom? From somebody unknown, but

terrible and dangerous. What he needed was to feel that there was

_another_ man, an old and tried friend, that he might call him in his

sick moments merely to look at his face, or, perhaps, exchange some

quite irrelevant words with him. And if the old servant were not angry,

he felt comforted, and if he were angry, he was more dejected. It

happened even (very rarely however) that Fyodor Pavlovitch went at

night to the lodge to wake Grigory and fetch him for a moment. When the

old man came, Fyodor Pavlovitch would begin talking about the most

trivial matters, and would soon let him go again, sometimes even with a

jest. And after he had gone, Fyodor Pavlovitch would get into bed with

a curse and sleep the sleep of the just. Something of the same sort had

happened to Fyodor Pavlovitch on Alyosha’s arrival. Alyosha “pierced

his heart” by “living with him, seeing everything and blaming nothing.”

Moreover, Alyosha brought with him something his father had never known

before: a complete absence of contempt for him and an invariable

kindness, a perfectly natural unaffected devotion to the old man who

deserved it so little. All this was a complete surprise to the old

profligate, who had dropped all family ties. It was a new and

surprising experience for him, who had till then loved nothing but

“evil.” When Alyosha had left him, he confessed to himself that he had

learnt something he had not till then been willing to learn.

I have mentioned already that Grigory had detested Adelaïda Ivanovna,

the first wife of Fyodor Pavlovitch and the mother of Dmitri, and that

he had, on the contrary, protected Sofya Ivanovna, the poor “crazy

woman,” against his master and any one who chanced to speak ill or

lightly of her. His sympathy for the unhappy wife had become something

sacred to him, so that even now, twenty years after, he could not bear

a slighting allusion to her from any one, and would at once check the

offender. Externally, Grigory was cold, dignified and taciturn, and

spoke, weighing his words, without frivolity. It was impossible to tell

at first sight whether he loved his meek, obedient wife; but he really

did love her, and she knew it.

Marfa Ignatyevna was by no means foolish; she was probably, indeed,

cleverer than her husband, or, at least, more prudent than he in

worldly affairs, and yet she had given in to him in everything without

question or complaint ever since her marriage, and respected him for

his spiritual superiority. It was remarkable how little they spoke to

one another in the course of their lives, and only of the most

necessary daily affairs. The grave and dignified Grigory thought over

all his cares and duties alone, so that Marfa Ignatyevna had long grown

used to knowing that he did not need her advice. She felt that her

husband respected her silence, and took it as a sign of her good sense.

He had never beaten her but once, and then only slightly. Once during

the year after Fyodor Pavlovitch’s marriage with Adelaïda Ivanovna, the

village girls and women—at that time serfs—were called together before

the house to sing and dance. They were beginning “In the Green

Meadows,” when Marfa, at that time a young woman, skipped forward and

danced “the Russian Dance,” not in the village fashion, but as she had

danced it when she was a servant in the service of the rich Miüsov

family, in their private theater, where the actors were taught to dance

by a dancing master from Moscow. Grigory saw how his wife danced, and,

an hour later, at home in their cottage he gave her a lesson, pulling

her hair a little. But there it ended: the beating was never repeated,

and Marfa Ignatyevna gave up dancing.

God had not blessed them with children. One child was born but it died.

Grigory was fond of children, and was not ashamed of showing it. When

Adelaïda Ivanovna had run away, Grigory took Dmitri, then a child of

three years old, combed his hair and washed him in a tub with his own

hands, and looked after him for almost a year. Afterwards he had looked

after Ivan and Alyosha, for which the general’s widow had rewarded him

with a slap in the face; but I have already related all that. The only

happiness his own child had brought him had been in the anticipation of

its birth. When it was born, he was overwhelmed with grief and horror.

The baby had six fingers. Grigory was so crushed by this, that he was

not only silent till the day of the christening, but kept away in the

garden. It was spring, and he spent three days digging the kitchen

garden. The third day was fixed for christening the baby: mean-time

Grigory had reached a conclusion. Going into the cottage where the

clergy were assembled and the visitors had arrived, including Fyodor

Pavlovitch, who was to stand god-father, he suddenly announced that

the baby “ought not to be christened at all.” He announced this

quietly, briefly, forcing out his words, and gazing with dull

intentness at the priest.

“Why not?” asked the priest with good-humored surprise.

“Because it’s a dragon,” muttered Grigory.

“A dragon? What dragon?”

Grigory did not speak for some time. “It’s a confusion of nature,” he

muttered vaguely, but firmly, and obviously unwilling to say more.

They laughed, and of course christened the poor baby. Grigory prayed

earnestly at the font, but his opinion of the new-born child remained

unchanged. Yet he did not interfere in any way. As long as the sickly

infant lived he scarcely looked at it, tried indeed not to notice it,

and for the most part kept out of the cottage. But when, at the end of

a fortnight, the baby died of thrush, he himself laid the child in its

little coffin, looked at it in profound grief, and when they were

filling up the shallow little grave he fell on his knees and bowed down

to the earth. He did not for years afterwards mention his child, nor

did Marfa speak of the baby before him, and, even if Grigory were not

present, she never spoke of it above a whisper. Marfa observed that,

from the day of the burial, he devoted himself to “religion,” and took

to reading the _Lives of the Saints_, for the most part sitting alone

and in silence, and always putting on his big, round, silver-rimmed

spectacles. He rarely read aloud, only perhaps in Lent. He was fond of

the Book of Job, and had somehow got hold of a copy of the sayings and

sermons of “the God-fearing Father Isaac the Syrian,” which he read

persistently for years together, understanding very little of it, but

perhaps prizing and loving it the more for that. Of late he had begun

to listen to the doctrines of the sect of Flagellants settled in the

neighborhood. He was evidently shaken by them, but judged it unfitting

to go over to the new faith. His habit of theological reading gave him

an expression of still greater gravity.

He was perhaps predisposed to mysticism. And the birth of his deformed

child, and its death, had, as though by special design, been

accompanied by another strange and marvelous event, which, as he said

later, had left a “stamp” upon his soul. It happened that, on the very

night after the burial of his child, Marfa was awakened by the wail of

a new-born baby. She was frightened and waked her husband. He listened

and said he thought it was more like some one groaning, “it might be a

woman.” He got up and dressed. It was a rather warm night in May. As he

went down the steps, he distinctly heard groans coming from the garden.

But the gate from the yard into the garden was locked at night, and

there was no other way of entering it, for it was enclosed all round by

a strong, high fence. Going back into the house, Grigory lighted a

lantern, took the garden key, and taking no notice of the hysterical

fears of his wife, who was still persuaded that she heard a child

crying, and that it was her own baby crying and calling for her, went

into the garden in silence. There he heard at once that the groans came

from the bath-house that stood near the garden gate, and that they were

the groans of a woman. Opening the door of the bath-house, he saw a

sight which petrified him. An idiot girl, who wandered about the

streets and was known to the whole town by the nickname of Lizaveta

Smerdyastchaya (Stinking Lizaveta), had got into the bath-house and

had just given birth to a child. She lay dying with the baby beside

her. She said nothing, for she had never been able to speak. But her

story needs a chapter to itself.

Chapter II.

Lizaveta

There was one circumstance which struck Grigory particularly, and

confirmed a very unpleasant and revolting suspicion. This Lizaveta was

a dwarfish creature, “not five foot within a wee bit,” as many of the

pious old women said pathetically about her, after her death. Her

broad, healthy, red face had a look of blank idiocy and the fixed stare

in her eyes was unpleasant, in spite of their meek expression. She

wandered about, summer and winter alike, barefooted, wearing nothing

but a hempen smock. Her coarse, almost black hair curled like lamb’s

wool, and formed a sort of huge cap on her head. It was always crusted

with mud, and had leaves, bits of stick, and shavings clinging to it,

as she always slept on the ground and in the dirt. Her father, a

homeless, sickly drunkard, called Ilya, had lost everything and lived

many years as a workman with some well-to-do tradespeople. Her mother

had long been dead. Spiteful and diseased, Ilya used to beat Lizaveta

inhumanly whenever she returned to him. But she rarely did so, for

every one in the town was ready to look after her as being an idiot,

and so specially dear to God. Ilya’s employers, and many others in the

town, especially of the tradespeople, tried to clothe her better, and

always rigged her out with high boots and sheepskin coat for the

winter. But, although she allowed them to dress her up without

resisting, she usually went away, preferably to the cathedral porch,

and taking off all that had been given her—kerchief, sheepskin, skirt

or boots—she left them there and walked away barefoot in her smock as

before. It happened on one occasion that a new governor of the

province, making a tour of inspection in our town, saw Lizaveta, and

was wounded in his tenderest susceptibilities. And though he was told

she was an idiot, he pronounced that for a young woman of twenty to

wander about in nothing but a smock was a breach of the proprieties,

and must not occur again. But the governor went his way, and Lizaveta

was left as she was. At last her father died, which made her even more

acceptable in the eyes of the religious persons of the town, as an

orphan. In fact, every one seemed to like her; even the boys did not

tease her, and the boys of our town, especially the schoolboys, are a

mischievous set. She would walk into strange houses, and no one drove

her away. Every one was kind to her and gave her something. If she were

given a copper, she would take it, and at once drop it in the alms-jug

of the church or prison. If she were given a roll or bun in the market,

she would hand it to the first child she met. Sometimes she would stop

one of the richest ladies in the town and give it to her, and the lady

would be pleased to take it. She herself never tasted anything but

black bread and water. If she went into an expensive shop, where there

were costly goods or money lying about, no one kept watch on her, for

they knew that if she saw thousands of roubles overlooked by them, she

would not have touched a farthing. She scarcely ever went to church.

She slept either in the church porch or climbed over a hurdle (there

are many hurdles instead of fences to this day in our town) into a

kitchen garden. She used at least once a week to turn up “at home,”

that is at the house of her father’s former employers, and in the

winter went there every night, and slept either in the passage or the

cowhouse. People were amazed that she could stand such a life, but she

was accustomed to it, and, although she was so tiny, she was of a

robust constitution. Some of the townspeople declared that she did all

this only from pride, but that is hardly credible. She could hardly

speak, and only from time to time uttered an inarticulate grunt. How

could she have been proud?

It happened one clear, warm, moonlight night in September (many years

ago) five or six drunken revelers were returning from the club at a

very late hour, according to our provincial notions. They passed

through the “back-way,” which led between the back gardens of the

houses, with hurdles on either side. This way leads out on to the

bridge over the long, stinking pool which we were accustomed to call a

river. Among the nettles and burdocks under the hurdle our revelers saw

Lizaveta asleep. They stopped to look at her, laughing, and began

jesting with unbridled licentiousness. It occurred to one young

gentleman to make the whimsical inquiry whether any one could possibly

look upon such an animal as a woman, and so forth.... They all

pronounced with lofty repugnance that it was impossible. But Fyodor

Pavlovitch, who was among them, sprang forward and declared that it was

by no means impossible, and that, indeed, there was a certain piquancy

about it, and so on.... It is true that at that time he was overdoing

his part as a buffoon. He liked to put himself forward and entertain

the company, ostensibly on equal terms, of course, though in reality he

was on a servile footing with them. It was just at the time when he had

received the news of his first wife’s death in Petersburg, and, with

crape upon his hat, was drinking and behaving so shamelessly that even

the most reckless among us were shocked at the sight of him. The

revelers, of course, laughed at this unexpected opinion; and one of

them even began challenging him to act upon it. The others repelled the

idea even more emphatically, although still with the utmost hilarity,

and at last they went on their way. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch swore

that he had gone with them, and perhaps it was so, no one knows for

certain, and no one ever knew. But five or six months later, all the

town was talking, with intense and sincere indignation, of Lizaveta’s

condition, and trying to find out who was the miscreant who had wronged

her. Then suddenly a terrible rumor was all over the town that this

miscreant was no other than Fyodor Pavlovitch. Who set the rumor going?

Of that drunken band five had left the town and the only one still

among us was an elderly and much respected civil councilor, the father

of grown-up daughters, who could hardly have spread the tale, even if

there had been any foundation for it. But rumor pointed straight at

Fyodor Pavlovitch, and persisted in pointing at him. Of course this was

no great grievance to him: he would not have troubled to contradict a

set of tradespeople. In those days he was proud, and did not condescend

to talk except in his own circle of the officials and nobles, whom he

entertained so well.

At the time, Grigory stood up for his master vigorously. He provoked

quarrels and altercations in defense of him and succeeded in bringing

some people round to his side. “It’s the wench’s own fault,” he

asserted, and the culprit was Karp, a dangerous convict, who had

escaped from prison and whose name was well known to us, as he had

hidden in our town. This conjecture sounded plausible, for it was

remembered that Karp had been in the neighborhood just at that time in

the autumn, and had robbed three people. But this affair and all the

talk about it did not estrange popular sympathy from the poor idiot.

She was better looked after than ever. A well-to-do merchant’s widow

named Kondratyev arranged to take her into her house at the end of

April, meaning not to let her go out until after the confinement. They

kept a constant watch over her, but in spite of their vigilance she

escaped on the very last day, and made her way into Fyodor Pavlovitch’s

garden. How, in her condition, she managed to climb over the high,

strong fence remained a mystery. Some maintained that she must have

been lifted over by somebody; others hinted at something more uncanny.

The most likely explanation is that it happened naturally—that

Lizaveta, accustomed to clambering over hurdles to sleep in gardens,

had somehow managed to climb this fence, in spite of her condition, and

had leapt down, injuring herself.

Grigory rushed to Marfa and sent her to Lizaveta, while he ran to fetch

an old midwife who lived close by. They saved the baby, but Lizaveta

died at dawn. Grigory took the baby, brought it home, and making his

wife sit down, put it on her lap. “A child of God—an orphan is akin to

all,” he said, “and to us above others. Our little lost one has sent us

this, who has come from the devil’s son and a holy innocent. Nurse him

and weep no more.”

So Marfa brought up the child. He was christened Pavel, to which people

were not slow in adding Fyodorovitch (son of Fyodor). Fyodor Pavlovitch

did not object to any of this, and thought it amusing, though he

persisted vigorously in denying his responsibility. The townspeople

were pleased at his adopting the foundling. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch

invented a surname for the child, calling him Smerdyakov, after his

mother’s nickname.

So this Smerdyakov became Fyodor Pavlovitch’s second servant, and was

living in the lodge with Grigory and Marfa at the time our story

begins. He was employed as cook. I ought to say something of this

Smerdyakov, but I am ashamed of keeping my readers’ attention so long

occupied with these common menials, and I will go back to my story,

hoping to say more of Smerdyakov in the course of it.

Chapter III.

The Confession Of A Passionate Heart—In Verse

Alyosha remained for some time irresolute after hearing the command his

father shouted to him from the carriage. But in spite of his uneasiness

he did not stand still. That was not his way. He went at once to the

kitchen to find out what his father had been doing above. Then he set

off, trusting that on the way he would find some answer to the doubt

tormenting him. I hasten to add that his father’s shouts, commanding

him to return home “with his mattress and pillow” did not frighten him

in the least. He understood perfectly that those peremptory shouts were

merely “a flourish” to produce an effect. In the same way a tradesman

in our town who was celebrating his name-day with a party of friends,

getting angry at being refused more vodka, smashed up his own crockery

and furniture and tore his own and his wife’s clothes, and finally

broke his windows, all for the sake of effect. Next day, of course,

when he was sober, he regretted the broken cups and saucers. Alyosha

knew that his father would let him go back to the monastery next day,

possibly even that evening. Moreover, he was fully persuaded that his

father might hurt any one else, but would not hurt him. Alyosha was

certain that no one in the whole world ever would want to hurt him,

and, what is more, he knew that no one could hurt him. This was for him

an axiom, assumed once for all without question, and he went his way

without hesitation, relying on it.

But at that moment an anxiety of a different sort disturbed him, and

worried him the more because he could not formulate it. It was the fear

of a woman, of Katerina Ivanovna, who had so urgently entreated him in

the note handed to him by Madame Hohlakov to come and see her about

something. This request and the necessity of going had at once aroused

an uneasy feeling in his heart, and this feeling had grown more and

more painful all the morning in spite of the scenes at the hermitage

and at the Father Superior’s. He was not uneasy because he did not know

what she would speak of and what he must answer. And he was not afraid

of her simply as a woman. Though he knew little of women, he had spent

his life, from early childhood till he entered the monastery, entirely

with women. He was afraid of that woman, Katerina Ivanovna. He had been

afraid of her from the first time he saw her. He had only seen her two

or three times, and had only chanced to say a few words to her. He

thought of her as a beautiful, proud, imperious girl. It was not her

beauty which troubled him, but something else. And the vagueness of his

apprehension increased the apprehension itself. The girl’s aims were of

the noblest, he knew that. She was trying to save his brother Dmitri

simply through generosity, though he had already behaved badly to her.

Yet, although Alyosha recognized and did justice to all these fine and

generous sentiments, a shiver began to run down his back as soon as he

drew near her house.

He reflected that he would not find Ivan, who was so intimate a friend,

with her, for Ivan was certainly now with his father. Dmitri he was

even more certain not to find there, and he had a foreboding of the

reason. And so his conversation would be with her alone. He had a great

longing to run and see his brother Dmitri before that fateful

interview. Without showing him the letter, he could talk to him about

it. But Dmitri lived a long way off, and he was sure to be away from

home too. Standing still for a minute, he reached a final decision.

Crossing himself with a rapid and accustomed gesture, and at once

smiling, he turned resolutely in the direction of his terrible lady.

He knew her house. If he went by the High Street and then across the

market-place, it was a long way round. Though our town is small, it is

scattered, and the houses are far apart. And meanwhile his father was

expecting him, and perhaps had not yet forgotten his command. He might

be unreasonable, and so he had to make haste to get there and back. So

he decided to take a short cut by the back-way, for he knew every inch

of the ground. This meant skirting fences, climbing over hurdles, and

crossing other people’s back-yards, where every one he met knew him and

greeted him. In this way he could reach the High Street in half the

time.

He had to pass the garden adjoining his father’s, and belonging to a

little tumbledown house with four windows. The owner of this house, as

Alyosha knew, was a bedridden old woman, living with her daughter, who

had been a genteel maid-servant in generals’ families in Petersburg.

Now she had been at home a year, looking after her sick mother. She

always dressed up in fine clothes, though her old mother and she had

sunk into such poverty that they went every day to Fyodor Pavlovitch’s

kitchen for soup and bread, which Marfa gave readily. Yet, though the

young woman came up for soup, she had never sold any of her dresses,

and one of these even had a long train—a fact which Alyosha had learned

from Rakitin, who always knew everything that was going on in the town.

He had forgotten it as soon as he heard it, but now, on reaching the

garden, he remembered the dress with the train, raised his head, which

had been bowed in thought, and came upon something quite unexpected.

Over the hurdle in the garden, Dmitri, mounted on something, was

leaning forward, gesticulating violently, beckoning to him, obviously

afraid to utter a word for fear of being overheard. Alyosha ran up to

the hurdle.

“It’s a good thing you looked up. I was nearly shouting to you,” Mitya

said in a joyful, hurried whisper. “Climb in here quickly! How splendid

that you’ve come! I was just thinking of you!”

Alyosha was delighted too, but he did not know how to get over the

hurdle. Mitya put his powerful hand under his elbow to help him jump.

Tucking up his cassock, Alyosha leapt over the hurdle with the agility

of a bare-legged street urchin.

“Well done! Now come along,” said Mitya in an enthusiastic whisper.

“Where?” whispered Alyosha, looking about him and finding himself in a

deserted garden with no one near but themselves. The garden was small,

but the house was at least fifty paces away.

“There’s no one here. Why do you whisper?” asked Alyosha.

“Why do I whisper? Deuce take it!” cried Dmitri at the top of his

voice. “You see what silly tricks nature plays one. I am here in

secret, and on the watch. I’ll explain later on, but, knowing it’s a

secret, I began whispering like a fool, when there’s no need. Let us

go. Over there. Till then be quiet. I want to kiss you.

Glory to God in the world,

Glory to God in me ...

I was just repeating that, sitting here, before you came.”

The garden was about three acres in extent, and planted with trees only

along the fence at the four sides. There were apple-trees, maples,

limes and birch-trees. The middle of the garden was an empty grass

space, from which several hundredweight of hay was carried in the

summer. The garden was let out for a few roubles for the summer. There

were also plantations of raspberries and currants and gooseberries laid

out along the sides; a kitchen garden had been planted lately near the

house.

Dmitri led his brother to the most secluded corner of the garden.

There, in a thicket of lime-trees and old bushes of black currant,

elder, snowball-tree, and lilac, there stood a tumble-down green

summer-house, blackened with age. Its walls were of lattice-work, but

there was still a roof which could give shelter. God knows when this

summer-house was built. There was a tradition that it had been put up

some fifty years before by a retired colonel called von Schmidt, who

owned the house at that time. It was all in decay, the floor was

rotting, the planks were loose, the woodwork smelled musty. In the

summer-house there was a green wooden table fixed in the ground, and

round it were some green benches upon which it was still possible to

sit. Alyosha had at once observed his brother’s exhilarated condition,

and on entering the arbor he saw half a bottle of brandy and a

wineglass on the table.

“That’s brandy,” Mitya laughed. “I see your look: ‘He’s drinking

again!’ Distrust the apparition.

Distrust the worthless, lying crowd,

And lay aside thy doubts.

I’m not drinking, I’m only ‘indulging,’ as that pig, your Rakitin,

says. He’ll be a civil councilor one day, but he’ll always talk about

‘indulging.’ Sit down. I could take you in my arms, Alyosha, and press

you to my bosom till I crush you, for in the whole world—in reality—in

re-al-i-ty—(can you take it in?) I love no one but you!”

He uttered the last words in a sort of exaltation.

“No one but you and one ‘jade’ I have fallen in love with, to my ruin.

But being in love doesn’t mean loving. You may be in love with a woman

and yet hate her. Remember that! I can talk about it gayly still. Sit

down here by the table and I’ll sit beside you and look at you, and go

on talking. You shall keep quiet and I’ll go on talking, for the time

has come. But on reflection, you know, I’d better speak quietly, for

here—here—you can never tell what ears are listening. I will explain

everything; as they say, ‘the story will be continued.’ Why have I been

longing for you? Why have I been thirsting for you all these days, and

just now? (It’s five days since I’ve cast anchor here.) Because it’s

only to you I can tell everything; because I must, because I need you,

because to-morrow I shall fly from the clouds, because to-morrow life

is ending and beginning. Have you ever felt, have you ever dreamt of

falling down a precipice into a pit? That’s just how I’m falling, but

not in a dream. And I’m not afraid, and don’t you be afraid. At least,

I am afraid, but I enjoy it. It’s not enjoyment though, but ecstasy.

Damn it all, whatever it is! A strong spirit, a weak spirit, a womanish

spirit—whatever it is! Let us praise nature: you see what sunshine, how

clear the sky is, the leaves are all green, it’s still summer; four

o’clock in the afternoon and the stillness! Where were you going?”

“I was going to father’s, but I meant to go to Katerina Ivanovna’s

first.”

“To her, and to father! Oo! what a coincidence! Why was I waiting for

you? Hungering and thirsting for you in every cranny of my soul and

even in my ribs? Why, to send you to father and to her, Katerina

Ivanovna, so as to have done with her and with father. To send an

angel. I might have sent any one, but I wanted to send an angel. And

here you are on your way to see father and her.”

“Did you really mean to send me?” cried Alyosha with a distressed

expression.

“Stay! You knew it! And I see you understand it all at once. But be

quiet, be quiet for a time. Don’t be sorry, and don’t cry.”

Dmitri stood up, thought a moment, and put his finger to his forehead.

“She’s asked you, written to you a letter or something, that’s why

you’re going to her? You wouldn’t be going except for that?”

“Here is her note.” Alyosha took it out of his pocket. Mitya looked

through it quickly.

“And you were going the back-way! Oh, gods, I thank you for sending him

by the back-way, and he came to me like the golden fish to the silly

old fishermen in the fable! Listen, Alyosha, listen, brother! Now I

mean to tell you everything, for I must tell some one. An angel in

heaven I’ve told already; but I want to tell an angel on earth. You are

an angel on earth. You will hear and judge and forgive. And that’s what

I need, that some one above me should forgive. Listen! If two people

break away from everything on earth and fly off into the unknown, or at

least one of them, and before flying off or going to ruin he comes to

some one else and says, ‘Do this for me’—some favor never asked before

that could only be asked on one’s deathbed—would that other refuse, if

he were a friend or a brother?”

“I will do it, but tell me what it is, and make haste,” said Alyosha.

“Make haste! H’m!... Don’t be in a hurry, Alyosha, you hurry and worry

yourself. There’s no need to hurry now. Now the world has taken a new

turning. Ah, Alyosha, what a pity you can’t understand ecstasy. But

what am I saying to him? As though you didn’t understand it. What an

ass I am! What am I saying? ‘Be noble, O man!’—who says that?”

Alyosha made up his mind to wait. He felt that, perhaps, indeed, his

work lay here. Mitya sank into thought for a moment, with his elbow on

the table and his head in his hand. Both were silent.

“Alyosha,” said Mitya, “you’re the only one who won’t laugh. I should

like to begin—my confession—with Schiller’s _Hymn to Joy_, _An die

Freude_! I don’t know German, I only know it’s called that. Don’t think

I’m talking nonsense because I’m drunk. I’m not a bit drunk. Brandy’s

all very well, but I need two bottles to make me drunk:

Silenus with his rosy phiz

Upon his stumbling ass.

But I’ve not drunk a quarter of a bottle, and I’m not Silenus. I’m not

Silenus, though I am strong,[1] for I’ve made a decision once for all.

Forgive me the pun; you’ll have to forgive me a lot more than puns

to-day. Don’t be uneasy. I’m not spinning it out. I’m talking sense,

and I’ll come to the point in a minute. I won’t keep you in suspense.

Stay, how does it go?”

He raised his head, thought a minute, and began with enthusiasm:

“Wild and fearful in his cavern

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!

“From the peak of high Olympus

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.

“From the fields and from the vineyards

Came no fruits to deck the feasts,

Only flesh of bloodstained victims

Smoldered on the altar-fires,

And where’er the grieving goddess

Turns her melancholy gaze,

Sunk in vilest degradation

Man his loathsomeness displays.”

Mitya broke into sobs and seized Alyosha’s hand.

“My dear, my dear, in degradation, in degradation now, too. There’s a

terrible amount of suffering for man on earth, a terrible lot of

trouble. Don’t think I’m only a brute in an officer’s uniform,

wallowing in dirt and drink. I hardly think of anything but of that

degraded man—if only I’m not lying. I pray God I’m not lying and

showing off. I think about that man because I am that man myself.

Would he purge his soul from vileness

And attain to light and worth,

He must turn and cling for ever

To his ancient Mother Earth.

But the difficulty is how am I to cling for ever to Mother Earth. I

don’t kiss her. I don’t cleave to her bosom. Am I to become a peasant

or a shepherd? I go on and I don’t know whether I’m going to shame or

to light and joy. That’s the trouble, for everything in the world is a

riddle! And whenever I’ve happened to sink into the vilest degradation

(and it’s always been happening) I always read that poem about Ceres

and man. Has it reformed me? Never! For I’m 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.

Joy everlasting fostereth

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 sage’s sight.

At bounteous Nature’s kindly breast,

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 angels—vision of God’s throne,

To insects—sensual lust.

But enough poetry! I am in tears; let me cry. It may be foolishness

that every one would laugh at. But you won’t laugh. Your eyes are

shining, too. Enough poetry. I want to tell you now about the insects

to whom God gave “sensual lust.”

To insects—sensual lust.

I am that insect, brother, and it is said of me specially. All we

Karamazovs are such insects, and, angel as you are, that insect lives

in you, too, and will stir up a tempest in your blood. Tempests,

because sensual lust is a tempest—worse than a tempest! Beauty is a

terrible and awful thing! It is terrible because it has not been

fathomed and never can be fathomed, for God sets us nothing but

riddles. Here the boundaries meet and all contradictions exist side by

side. I am not a cultivated man, brother, but I’ve thought a lot about

this. It’s terrible what mysteries there are! Too many riddles weigh

men down on earth. We must solve them as we can, and try to keep a dry

skin in the water. Beauty! I can’t endure the thought that a man of

lofty mind and heart begins with the ideal of the Madonna and ends with

the ideal of Sodom. What’s still more awful is that a man with the

ideal of Sodom in his soul does not renounce the ideal of the Madonna,

and his heart may be on fire with that ideal, genuinely on fire, just

as in his days of youth and innocence. Yes, man is broad, too broad,

indeed. I’d have him narrower. The devil only knows what to make of it!

What to the mind is shameful is beauty and nothing else to the heart.

Is there beauty in Sodom? Believe me, that for the immense mass of

mankind beauty is found in Sodom. Did you know that secret? The awful

thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the

devil are fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man. But a

man always talks of his own ache. Listen, now to come to facts.”

Chapter IV.

The Confession Of A Passionate Heart—In Anecdote

“I was leading a wild life then. Father said just now that I spent

several thousand roubles in seducing young girls. That’s a swinish

invention, and there was nothing of the sort. And if there was, I

didn’t need money simply for _that_. With me money is an accessory, the

overflow of my heart, the framework. To-day she would be my lady,

to-morrow a wench out of the streets in her place. I entertained them

both. I threw away money by the handful on music, rioting, and gypsies.

Sometimes I gave it to the ladies, too, for they’ll take it greedily,

that must be admitted, and be pleased and thankful for it. Ladies used

to be fond of me: not all of them, but it happened, it happened. But I

always liked side-paths, little dark back-alleys behind the main

road—there one finds adventures and surprises, and precious metal in

the dirt. I am speaking figuratively, brother. In the town I was in,

there were no such back-alleys in the literal sense, but morally there

were. If you were like me, you’d know what that means. I loved vice, I

loved the ignominy of vice. I loved cruelty; am I not a bug, am I not a

noxious insect? In fact a Karamazov! Once we went, a whole lot of us,

for a picnic, in seven sledges. It was dark, it was winter, and I began

squeezing a girl’s hand, and forced her to kiss me. She was the

daughter of an official, a sweet, gentle, submissive creature. She

allowed me, she allowed me much in the dark. She thought, poor thing,

that I should come next day to make her an offer (I was looked upon as

a good match, too). But I didn’t say a word to her for five months. I

used to see her in a corner at dances (we were always having dances),

her eyes watching me. I saw how they glowed with fire—a fire of gentle

indignation. This game only tickled that insect lust I cherished in my

soul. Five months later she married an official and left the town,

still angry, and still, perhaps, in love with me. Now they live

happily. Observe that I told no one. I didn’t boast of it. Though I’m

full of low desires, and love what’s low, I’m not dishonorable. You’re

blushing; your eyes flashed. Enough of this filth with you. And all

this was nothing much—wayside blossoms _à la_ Paul de Kock—though the

cruel insect had already grown strong in my soul. I’ve a perfect album

of reminiscences, brother. God bless them, the darlings. I tried to

break it off without quarreling. And I never gave them away. I never

bragged of one of them. But that’s enough. You can’t suppose I brought

you here simply to talk of such nonsense. No, I’m going to tell you

something more curious; and don’t be surprised that I’m glad to tell

you, instead of being ashamed.”

“You say that because I blushed,” Alyosha said suddenly. “I wasn’t

blushing at what you were saying or at what you’ve done. I blushed

because I am the same as you are.”

“You? Come, that’s going a little too far!”

“No, it’s not too far,” said Alyosha warmly (obviously the idea was not

a new one). “The ladder’s the same. I’m at the bottom step, and you’re

above, somewhere about the thirteenth. That’s how I see it. But it’s

all the same. Absolutely the same in kind. Any one on the bottom step

is bound to go up to the top one.”

“Then one ought not to step on at all.”

“Any one who can help it had better not.”

“But can you?”

“I think not.”

“Hush, Alyosha, hush, darling! I could kiss your hand, you touch me so.

That rogue Grushenka has an eye for men. She told me once that she’d

devour you one day. There, there, I won’t! From this field of

corruption fouled by flies, let’s pass to my tragedy, also befouled by

flies, that is by every sort of vileness. Although the old man told

lies about my seducing innocence, there really was something of the

sort in my tragedy, though it was only once, and then it did not come

off. The old man who has reproached me with what never happened does

not even know of this fact; I never told any one about it. You’re the

first, except Ivan, of course—Ivan knows everything. He knew about it

long before you. But Ivan’s a tomb.”

“Ivan’s a tomb?”

“Yes.”

Alyosha listened with great attention.

“I was lieutenant in a line regiment, but still I was under

supervision, like a kind of convict. Yet I was awfully well received in

the little town. I spent money right and left. I was thought to be

rich; I thought so myself. But I must have pleased them in other ways

as well. Although they shook their heads over me, they liked me. My

colonel, who was an old man, took a sudden dislike to me. He was always

down upon me, but I had powerful friends, and, moreover, all the town

was on my side, so he couldn’t do me much harm. I was in fault myself

for refusing to treat him with proper respect. I was proud. This

obstinate old fellow, who was really a very good sort, kind-hearted and

hospitable, had had two wives, both dead. His first wife, who was of a

humble family, left a daughter as unpretentious as herself. She was a

young woman of four and twenty when I was there, and was living with

her father and an aunt, her mother’s sister. The aunt was simple and

illiterate; the niece was simple but lively. I like to say nice things

about people. I never knew a woman of more charming character than

Agafya—fancy, her name was Agafya Ivanovna! And she wasn’t bad-looking

either, in the Russian style: tall, stout, with a full figure, and

beautiful eyes, though a rather coarse face. She had not married,

although she had had two suitors. She refused them, but was as cheerful

as ever. I was intimate with her, not in ‘that’ way, it was pure

friendship. I have often been friendly with women quite innocently. I

used to talk to her with shocking frankness, and she only laughed. Many

women like such freedom, and she was a girl too, which made it very

amusing. Another thing, one could never think of her as a young lady.

She and her aunt lived in her father’s house with a sort of voluntary

humility, not putting themselves on an equality with other people. She

was a general favorite, and of use to every one, for she was a clever

dressmaker. She had a talent for it. She gave her services freely

without asking for payment, but if any one offered her payment, she

didn’t refuse. The colonel, of course, was a very different matter. He

was one of the chief personages in the district. He kept open house,

entertained the whole town, gave suppers and dances. At the time I

arrived and joined the battalion, all the town was talking of the

expected return of the colonel’s second daughter, a great beauty, who

had just left a fashionable school in the capital. This second daughter

is Katerina Ivanovna, and she was the child of the second wife, who

belonged to a distinguished general’s family; although, as I learnt on

good authority, she too brought the colonel no money. She had

connections, and that was all. There may have been expectations, but

they had come to nothing.

“Yet, when the young lady came from boarding-school on a visit, the

whole town revived. Our most distinguished ladies—two ‘Excellencies’

and a colonel’s wife—and all the rest following their lead, at once

took her up and gave entertainments in her honor. She was the belle of

the balls and picnics, and they got up _tableaux vivants_ in aid of

distressed governesses. I took no notice, I went on as wildly as

before, and one of my exploits at the time set all the town talking. I

saw her eyes taking my measure one evening at the battery commander’s,

but I didn’t go up to her, as though I disdained her acquaintance. I

did go up and speak to her at an evening party not long after. She

scarcely looked at me, and compressed her lips scornfully. ‘Wait a bit.

I’ll have my revenge,’ thought I. I behaved like an awful fool on many

occasions at that time, and I was conscious of it myself. What made it

worse was that I felt that ‘Katenka’ was not an innocent

boarding-school miss, but a person of character, proud and really

high-principled; above all, she had education and intellect, and I had

neither. You think I meant to make her an offer? No, I simply wanted to

revenge myself, because I was such a hero and she didn’t seem to feel

it.

“Meanwhile, I spent my time in drink and riot, till the

lieutenant-colonel put me under arrest for three days. Just at that

time father sent me six thousand roubles in return for my sending him a

deed giving up all claims upon him—settling our accounts, so to speak,

and saying that I wouldn’t expect anything more. I didn’t understand a

word of it at the time. Until I came here, Alyosha, till the last few

days, indeed, perhaps even now, I haven’t been able to make head or

tail of my money affairs with father. But never mind that, we’ll talk

of it later.

“Just as I received the money, I got a letter from a friend telling me

something that interested me immensely. The authorities, I learnt, were

dissatisfied with our lieutenant-colonel. He was suspected of

irregularities; in fact, his enemies were preparing a surprise for him.

And then the commander of the division arrived, and kicked up the devil

of a shindy. Shortly afterwards he was ordered to retire. I won’t tell

you how it all happened. He had enemies certainly. Suddenly there was a

marked coolness in the town towards him and all his family. His friends

all turned their backs on him. Then I took my first step. I met Agafya

Ivanovna, with whom I’d always kept up a friendship, and said, ‘Do you

know there’s a deficit of 4,500 roubles of government money in your

father’s accounts?’

“‘What do you mean? What makes you say so? The general was here not

long ago, and everything was all right.’

“‘Then it was, but now it isn’t.’

“She was terribly scared.

“‘Don’t frighten me!’ she said. ‘Who told you so?’

“‘Don’t be uneasy,’ I said, ‘I won’t tell any one. You know I’m as

silent as the tomb. I only wanted, in view of “possibilities,” to add,

that when they demand that 4,500 roubles from your father, and he can’t

produce it, he’ll be tried, and made to serve as a common soldier in

his old age, unless you like to send me your young lady secretly. I’ve

just had money paid me. I’ll give her four thousand, if you like, and

keep the secret religiously.’

“‘Ah, you scoundrel!’—that’s what she said. ‘You wicked scoundrel! How

dare you!’

“She went away furiously indignant, while I shouted after her once more

that the secret should be kept sacred. Those two simple creatures,

Agafya and her aunt, I may as well say at once, behaved like perfect

angels all through this business. They genuinely adored their ‘Katya,’

thought her far above them, and waited on her, hand and foot. But

Agafya told her of our conversation. I found that out afterwards. She

didn’t keep it back, and of course that was all I wanted.

“Suddenly the new major arrived to take command of the battalion. The

old lieutenant-colonel was taken ill at once, couldn’t leave his room

for two days, and didn’t hand over the government money. Dr. Kravchenko

declared that he really was ill. But I knew for a fact, and had known

for a long time, that for the last four years the money had never been

in his hands except when the Commander made his visits of inspection.

He used to lend it to a trustworthy person, a merchant of our town

called Trifonov, an old widower, with a big beard and gold-rimmed

spectacles. He used to go to the fair, do a profitable business with

the money, and return the whole sum to the colonel, bringing with it a

present from the fair, as well as interest on the loan. But this time

(I heard all about it quite by chance from Trifonov’s son and heir, a

driveling youth and one of the most vicious in the world)—this time, I

say, Trifonov brought nothing back from the fair. The

lieutenant-colonel flew to him. ‘I’ve never received any money from

you, and couldn’t possibly have received any.’ That was all the answer

he got. So now our lieutenant-colonel is confined to the house, with a

towel round his head, while they’re all three busy putting ice on it.

All at once an orderly arrives on the scene with the book and the order

to ‘hand over the battalion money immediately, within two hours.’ He

signed the book (I saw the signature in the book afterwards), stood up,

saying he would put on his uniform, ran to his bedroom, loaded his

double-barreled gun with a service bullet, took the boot off his right

foot, fixed the gun against his chest, and began feeling for the

trigger with his foot. But Agafya, remembering what I had told her, had

her suspicions. She stole up and peeped into the room just in time. She

rushed in, flung herself upon him from behind, threw her arms round

him, and the gun went off, hit the ceiling, but hurt no one. The others

ran in, took away the gun, and held him by the arms. I heard all about

this afterwards. I was at home, it was getting dusk, and I was just

preparing to go out. I had dressed, brushed my hair, scented my

handkerchief, and taken up my cap, when suddenly the door opened, and

facing me in the room stood Katerina Ivanovna.

“It’s strange how things happen sometimes. No one had seen her in the

street, so that no one knew of it in the town. I lodged with two

decrepit old ladies, who looked after me. They were most obliging old

things, ready to do anything for me, and at my request were as silent

afterwards as two cast-iron posts. Of course I grasped the position at

once. She walked in and looked straight at me, her dark eyes

determined, even defiant, but on her lips and round her mouth I saw

uncertainty.

“‘My sister told me,’ she began, ‘that you would give me 4,500 roubles

if I came to you for it—myself. I have come ... give me the money!’

“She couldn’t keep it up. She was breathless, frightened, her voice

failed her, and the corners of her mouth and the lines round it

quivered. Alyosha, are you listening, or are you asleep?”

“Mitya, I know you will tell the whole truth,” said Alyosha in

agitation.

“I am telling it. If I tell the whole truth just as it happened I

shan’t spare myself. My first idea was a—Karamazov one. Once I was

bitten by a centipede, brother, and laid up a fortnight with fever from

it. Well, I felt a centipede biting at my heart then—a noxious insect,

you understand? I looked her up and down. You’ve seen her? She’s a

beauty. But she was beautiful in another way then. At that moment she

was beautiful because she was noble, and I was a scoundrel; she in all

the grandeur of her generosity and sacrifice for her father, and I—a

bug! And, scoundrel as I was, she was altogether at my mercy, body and

soul. She was hemmed in. I tell you frankly, that thought, that

venomous thought, so possessed my heart that it almost swooned with

suspense. It seemed as if there could be no resisting it; as though I

should act like a bug, like a venomous spider, without a spark of pity.

I could scarcely breathe. Understand, I should have gone next day to

ask for her hand, so that it might end honorably, so to speak, and that

nobody would or could know. For though I’m a man of base desires, I’m

honest. And at that very second some voice seemed to whisper in my ear,

‘But when you come to-morrow to make your proposal, that girl won’t

even see you; she’ll order her coachman to kick you out of the yard.

“Publish it through all the town,” she would say, “I’m not afraid of

you.”’ I looked at the young lady, my voice had not deceived me. That

is how it would be, not a doubt of it. I could see from her face now

that I should be turned out of the house. My spite was roused. I longed

to play her the nastiest swinish cad’s trick: to look at her with a

sneer, and on the spot where she stood before me to stun her with a

tone of voice that only a shopman could use.

“‘Four thousand! What do you mean? I was joking. You’ve been counting

your chickens too easily, madam. Two hundred, if you like, with all my

heart. But four thousand is not a sum to throw away on such frivolity.

You’ve put yourself out to no purpose.’

“I should have lost the game, of course. She’d have run away. But it

would have been an infernal revenge. It would have been worth it all.

I’d have howled with regret all the rest of my life, only to have

played that trick. Would you believe it, it has never happened to me

with any other woman, not one, to look at her at such a moment with

hatred. But, on my oath, I looked at her for three seconds, or five

perhaps, with fearful hatred—that hate which is only a hair’s-breadth

from love, from the maddest love!

“I went to the window, put my forehead against the frozen pane, and I

remember the ice burnt my forehead like fire. I did not keep her long,

don’t be afraid. I turned round, went up to the table, opened the

drawer and took out a banknote for five thousand roubles (it was lying

in a French dictionary). Then I showed it her in silence, folded it,

handed it to her, opened the door into the passage, and, stepping back,

made her a deep bow, a most respectful, a most impressive bow, believe

me! She shuddered all over, gazed at me for a second, turned horribly

pale—white as a sheet, in fact—and all at once, not impetuously but

softly, gently, bowed down to my feet—not a boarding-school curtsey,

but a Russian bow, with her forehead to the floor. She jumped up and

ran away. I was wearing my sword. I drew it and nearly stabbed myself

with it on the spot; why, I don’t know. It would have been frightfully

stupid, of course. I suppose it was from delight. Can you understand

that one might kill oneself from delight? But I didn’t stab myself. I

only kissed my sword and put it back in the scabbard—which there was no

need to have told you, by the way. And I fancy that in telling you

about my inner conflict I have laid it on rather thick to glorify

myself. But let it pass, and to hell with all who pry into the human

heart! Well, so much for that ‘adventure’ with Katerina Ivanovna. So

now Ivan knows of it, and you—no one else.”

Dmitri got up, took a step or two in his excitement, pulled out his

handkerchief and mopped his forehead, then sat down again, not in the

same place as before, but on the opposite side, so that Alyosha had to

turn quite round to face him.

Chapter V.

The Confession Of A Passionate Heart—“Heels Up”

“Now,” said Alyosha, “I understand the first half.”

“You understand the first half. That half is a drama, and it was played

out there. The second half is a tragedy, and it is being acted here.”

“And I understand nothing of that second half so far,” said Alyosha.

“And I? Do you suppose I understand it?”

“Stop, Dmitri. There’s one important question. Tell me, you were

betrothed, you are betrothed still?”

“We weren’t betrothed at once, not for three months after that

adventure. The next day I told myself that the incident was closed,

concluded, that there would be no sequel. It seemed to me caddish to

make her an offer. On her side she gave no sign of life for the six

weeks that she remained in the town; except, indeed, for one action.

The day after her visit the maid-servant slipped round with an envelope

addressed to me. I tore it open: it contained the change out of the

banknote. Only four thousand five hundred roubles was needed, but there

was a discount of about two hundred on changing it. She only sent me

about two hundred and sixty. I don’t remember exactly, but not a note,

not a word of explanation. I searched the packet for a pencil

mark—n-nothing! Well, I spent the rest of the money on such an orgy

that the new major was obliged to reprimand me.

“Well, the lieutenant-colonel produced the battalion money, to the

astonishment of every one, for nobody believed that he had the money

untouched. He’d no sooner paid it than he fell ill, took to his bed,

and, three weeks later, softening of the brain set in, and he died five

days afterwards. He was buried with military honors, for he had not had

time to receive his discharge. Ten days after his funeral, Katerina

Ivanovna, with her aunt and sister, went to Moscow. And, behold, on the

very day they went away (I hadn’t seen them, didn’t see them off or

take leave) I received a tiny note, a sheet of thin blue paper, and on

it only one line in pencil: ‘I will write to you. Wait. K.’ And that

was all.

“I’ll explain the rest now, in two words. In Moscow their fortunes

changed with the swiftness of lightning and the unexpectedness of an

Arabian fairy-tale. That general’s widow, their nearest relation,

suddenly lost the two nieces who were her heiresses and

next-of-kin—both died in the same week of small-pox. The old lady,

prostrated with grief, welcomed Katya as a daughter, as her one hope,

clutched at her, altered her will in Katya’s favor. But that concerned

the future. Meanwhile she gave her, for present use, eighty thousand

roubles, as a marriage portion, to do what she liked with. She was an

hysterical woman. I saw something of her in Moscow, later.

“Well, suddenly I received by post four thousand five hundred roubles.

I was speechless with surprise, as you may suppose. Three days later

came the promised letter. I have it with me now. You must read it. She

offers to be my wife, offers herself to me. ‘I love you madly,’ she

says, ‘even if you don’t love me, never mind. Be my husband. Don’t be

afraid. I won’t hamper you in any way. I will be your chattel. I will

be the carpet under your feet. I want to love you for ever. I want to

save you from yourself.’ Alyosha, I am not worthy to repeat those lines

in my vulgar words and in my vulgar tone, my everlastingly vulgar tone,

that I can never cure myself of. That letter stabs me even now. Do you

think I don’t mind—that I don’t mind still? I wrote her an answer at

once, as it was impossible for me to go to Moscow. I wrote to her with

tears. One thing I shall be ashamed of for ever. I referred to her

being rich and having a dowry while I was only a stuck-up beggar! I

mentioned money! I ought to have borne it in silence, but it slipped

from my pen. Then I wrote at once to Ivan, and told him all I could

about it in a letter of six pages, and sent him to her. Why do you look

like that? Why are you staring at me? Yes, Ivan fell in love with her;

he’s in love with her still. I know that. I did a stupid thing, in the

world’s opinion; but perhaps that one stupid thing may be the saving of

us all now. Oo! Don’t you see what a lot she thinks of Ivan, how she

respects him? When she compares us, do you suppose she can love a man

like me, especially after all that has happened here?”

“But I am convinced that she does love a man like you, and not a man

like him.”

“She loves her own _virtue_, not me.” The words broke involuntarily,

and almost malignantly, from Dmitri. He laughed, but a minute later his

eyes gleamed, he flushed crimson and struck the table violently with

his fist.

“I swear, Alyosha,” he cried, with intense and genuine anger at

himself; “you may not believe me, but as God is holy, and as Christ is

God, I swear that though I smiled at her lofty sentiments just now, I

know that I am a million times baser in soul than she, and that these

lofty sentiments of hers are as sincere as a heavenly angel’s. That’s

the tragedy of it—that I know that for certain. What if any one does

show off a bit? Don’t I do it myself? And yet I’m sincere, I’m sincere.

As for Ivan, I can understand how he must be cursing nature now—with

his intellect, too! To see the preference given—to whom, to what? To a

monster who, though he is betrothed and all eyes are fixed on him,

can’t restrain his debaucheries—and before the very eyes of his

betrothed! And a man like me is preferred, while he is rejected. And

why? Because a girl wants to sacrifice her life and destiny out of

gratitude. It’s ridiculous! I’ve never said a word of this to Ivan, and

Ivan of course has never dropped a hint of the sort to me. But destiny

will be accomplished, and the best man will hold his ground while the

undeserving one will vanish into his back-alley for ever—his filthy

back-alley, his beloved back-alley, where he is at home and where he

will sink in filth and stench at his own free will and with enjoyment.

I’ve been talking foolishly. I’ve no words left. I use them at random,

but it will be as I have said. I shall drown in the back-alley, and

she will marry Ivan.”

“Stop, Dmitri,” Alyosha interrupted again with great anxiety. “There’s

one thing you haven’t made clear yet: you are still betrothed all the

same, aren’t you? How can you break off the engagement if she, your

betrothed, doesn’t want to?”

“Yes, formally and solemnly betrothed. It was all done on my arrival in

Moscow, with great ceremony, with ikons, all in fine style. The

general’s wife blessed us, and—would you believe it?—congratulated

Katya. ‘You’ve made a good choice,’ she said, ‘I see right through

him.’ And—would you believe it?—she didn’t like Ivan, and hardly

greeted him. I had a lot of talk with Katya in Moscow. I told her about

myself—sincerely, honorably. She listened to everything.

There was sweet confusion,

There were tender words.

Though there were proud words, too. She wrung out of me a mighty

promise to reform. I gave my promise, and here—”

“What?”

“Why, I called to you and brought you out here to-day, this very

day—remember it—to send you—this very day again—to Katerina Ivanovna,

and—”

“What?”

“To tell her that I shall never come to see her again. Say, ‘He sends

you his compliments.’”

“But is that possible?”

“That’s just the reason I’m sending you, in my place, because it’s

impossible. And, how could I tell her myself?”

“And where are you going?”

“To the back-alley.”

“To Grushenka, then!” Alyosha exclaimed mournfully, clasping his hands.

“Can Rakitin really have told the truth? I thought that you had just

visited her, and that was all.”

“Can a betrothed man pay such visits? Is such a thing possible and with

such a betrothed, and before the eyes of all the world? Confound it, I

have some honor! As soon as I began visiting Grushenka, I ceased to be

betrothed, and to be an honest man. I understand that. Why do you look

at me? You see, I went in the first place to beat her. I had heard, and

I know for a fact now, that that captain, father’s agent, had given

Grushenka an I.O.U. of mine for her to sue me for payment, so as to put

an end to me. They wanted to scare me. I went to beat her. I had had a

glimpse of her before. She doesn’t strike one at first sight. I knew

about her old merchant, who’s lying ill now, paralyzed; but he’s

leaving her a decent little sum. I knew, too, that she was fond of

money, that she hoarded it, and lent it at a wicked rate of interest,

that she’s a merciless cheat and swindler. I went to beat her, and I

stayed. The storm broke—it struck me down like the plague. I’m

plague-stricken still, and I know that everything is over, that there

will never be anything more for me. The cycle of the ages is

accomplished. That’s my position. And though I’m a beggar, as fate

would have it, I had three thousand just then in my pocket. I drove

with Grushenka to Mokroe, a place twenty-five versts from here. I got

gypsies there and champagne and made all the peasants there drunk on

it, and all the women and girls. I sent the thousands flying. In three

days’ time I was stripped bare, but a hero. Do you suppose the hero had

gained his end? Not a sign of it from her. I tell you that rogue,

Grushenka, has a supple curve all over her body. You can see it in her

little foot, even in her little toe. I saw it, and kissed it, but that

was all, I swear! ‘I’ll marry you if you like,’ she said, ‘you’re a

beggar, you know. Say that you won’t beat me, and will let me do

anything I choose, and perhaps I will marry you.’ She laughed, and

she’s laughing still!”

Dmitri leapt up with a sort of fury. He seemed all at once as though he

were drunk. His eyes became suddenly bloodshot.

“And do you really mean to marry her?”

“At once, if she will. And if she won’t, I shall stay all the same.

I’ll be the porter at her gate. Alyosha!” he cried. He stopped short

before him, and taking him by the shoulders began shaking him

violently. “Do you know, you innocent boy, that this is all delirium,

senseless delirium, for there’s a tragedy here. Let me tell you,

Alexey, that I may be a low man, with low and degraded passions, but a

thief and a pickpocket Dmitri Karamazov never can be. Well, then; let

me tell you that I am a thief and a pickpocket. That very morning, just

before I went to beat Grushenka, Katerina Ivanovna sent for me, and in

strict secrecy (why I don’t know, I suppose she had some reason) asked

me to go to the chief town of the province and to post three thousand

roubles to Agafya Ivanovna in Moscow, so that nothing should be known

of it in the town here. So I had that three thousand roubles in my

pocket when I went to see Grushenka, and it was that money we spent at

Mokroe. Afterwards I pretended I had been to the town, but did not show

her the post office receipt. I said I had sent the money and would

bring the receipt, and so far I haven’t brought it. I’ve forgotten it.

Now what do you think you’re going to her to-day to say? ‘He sends his

compliments,’ and she’ll ask you, ‘What about the money?’ You might

still have said to her, ‘He’s a degraded sensualist, and a low

creature, with uncontrolled passions. He didn’t send your money then,

but wasted it, because, like a low brute, he couldn’t control himself.’

But still you might have added, ‘He isn’t a thief though. Here is your

three thousand; he sends it back. Send it yourself to Agafya Ivanovna.

But he told me to say “he sends his compliments.”’ But, as it is, she

will ask, ‘But where is the money?’”

“Mitya, you are unhappy, yes! But not as unhappy as you think. Don’t

worry yourself to death with despair.”

“What, do you suppose I’d shoot myself because I can’t get three

thousand to pay back? That’s just it. I shan’t shoot myself. I haven’t

the strength now. Afterwards, perhaps. But now I’m going to Grushenka.

I don’t care what happens.”

“And what then?”

“I’ll be her husband if she deigns to have me, and when lovers come,

I’ll go into the next room. I’ll clean her friends’ goloshes, blow up

their samovar, run their errands.”

“Katerina Ivanovna will understand it all,” Alyosha said solemnly.

“She’ll understand how great this trouble is and will forgive. She has

a lofty mind, and no one could be more unhappy than you. She’ll see

that for herself.”

“She won’t forgive everything,” said Dmitri, with a grin. “There’s

something in it, brother, that no woman could forgive. Do you know what

would be the best thing to do?”

“What?”

“Pay back the three thousand.”

“Where can we get it from? I say, I have two thousand. Ivan will give

you another thousand—that makes three. Take it and pay it back.”

“And when would you get it, your three thousand? You’re not of age,

besides, and you must—you absolutely must—take my farewell to her

to-day, with the money or without it, for I can’t drag on any longer,

things have come to such a pass. To-morrow is too late. I shall send

you to father.”

“To father?”

“Yes, to father first. Ask him for three thousand.”

“But, Mitya, he won’t give it.”

“As though he would! I know he won’t. Do you know the meaning of

despair, Alexey?”

“Yes.”

“Listen. Legally he owes me nothing. I’ve had it all from him, I know

that. But morally he owes me something, doesn’t he? You know he started

with twenty-eight thousand of my mother’s money and made a hundred

thousand with it. Let him give me back only three out of the

twenty-eight thousand, and he’ll draw my soul out of hell, and it will

atone for many of his sins. For that three thousand—I give you my

solemn word—I’ll make an end of everything, and he shall hear nothing

more of me. For the last time I give him the chance to be a father.

Tell him God Himself sends him this chance.”

“Mitya, he won’t give it for anything.”

“I know he won’t. I know it perfectly well. Now, especially. That’s not

all. I know something more. Now, only a few days ago, perhaps only

yesterday he found out for the first time _in earnest_ (underline _in

earnest_) that Grushenka is really perhaps not joking, and really means

to marry me. He knows her nature; he knows the cat. And do you suppose

he’s going to give me money to help to bring that about when he’s crazy

about her himself? And that’s not all, either. I can tell you more than

that. I know that for the last five days he has had three thousand

drawn out of the bank, changed into notes of a hundred roubles, packed

into a large envelope, sealed with five seals, and tied across with red

tape. You see how well I know all about it! On the envelope is written:

‘To my angel, Grushenka, when she will come to me.’ He scrawled it

himself in silence and in secret, and no one knows that the money’s

there except the valet, Smerdyakov, whom he trusts like himself. So now

he has been expecting Grushenka for the last three or four days; he

hopes she’ll come for the money. He has sent her word of it, and she

has sent him word that perhaps she’ll come. And if she does go to the

old man, can I marry her after that? You understand now why I’m here in

secret and what I’m on the watch for.”

“For her?”

“Yes, for her. Foma has a room in the house of these sluts here. Foma

comes from our parts; he was a soldier in our regiment. He does jobs

for them. He’s watchman at night and goes grouse-shooting in the

day-time; and that’s how he lives. I’ve established myself in his room.

Neither he nor the women of the house know the secret—that is, that I

am on the watch here.”

“No one but Smerdyakov knows, then?”

“No one else. He will let me know if she goes to the old man.”

“It was he told you about the money, then?”

“Yes. It’s a dead secret. Even Ivan doesn’t know about the money, or

anything. The old man is sending Ivan to Tchermashnya on a two or three

days’ journey. A purchaser has turned up for the copse: he’ll give

eight thousand for the timber. So the old man keeps asking Ivan to help

him by going to arrange it. It will take him two or three days. That’s

what the old man wants, so that Grushenka can come while he’s away.”

“Then he’s expecting Grushenka to-day?”

“No, she won’t come to-day; there are signs. She’s certain not to

come,” cried Mitya suddenly. “Smerdyakov thinks so, too. Father’s

drinking now. He’s sitting at table with Ivan. Go to him, Alyosha, and

ask for the three thousand.”

“Mitya, dear, what’s the matter with you?” cried Alyosha, jumping up

from his place, and looking keenly at his brother’s frenzied face. For

one moment the thought struck him that Dmitri was mad.

“What is it? I’m not insane,” said Dmitri, looking intently and

earnestly at him. “No fear. I am sending you to father, and I know what

I’m saying. I believe in miracles.”

“In miracles?”

“In a miracle of Divine Providence. God knows my heart. He sees my

despair. He sees the whole picture. Surely He won’t let something awful

happen. Alyosha, I believe in miracles. Go!”

“I am going. Tell me, will you wait for me here?”

“Yes. I know it will take some time. You can’t go at him point blank.

He’s drunk now. I’ll wait three hours—four, five, six, seven. Only

remember you must go to Katerina Ivanovna to-day, if it has to be at

midnight, _with the money or without the money_, and say, ‘He sends his

compliments to you.’ I want you to say that verse to her: ‘He sends his

compliments to you.’”

“Mitya! And what if Grushenka comes to-day—if not to-day, to-morrow, or

the next day?”

“Grushenka? I shall see her. I shall rush out and prevent it.”

“And if—”

“If there’s an if, it will be murder. I couldn’t endure it.”

“Who will be murdered?”

“The old man. I shan’t kill her.”

“Brother, what are you saying?”

“Oh, I don’t know.... I don’t know. Perhaps I shan’t kill, and perhaps

I shall. I’m afraid that he will suddenly become so loathsome to me

with his face at that moment. I hate his ugly throat, his nose, his

eyes, his shameless snigger. I feel a physical repulsion. That’s what

I’m afraid of. That’s what may be too much for me.”

“I’ll go, Mitya. I believe that God will order things for the best,

that nothing awful may happen.”

“And I will sit and wait for the miracle. And if it doesn’t come to

pass—”

Alyosha went thoughtfully towards his father’s house.

Chapter VI.

Smerdyakov

He did in fact find his father still at table. Though there was a

dining-room in the house, the table was laid as usual in the

drawing-room, which was the largest room, and furnished with

old-fashioned ostentation. The furniture was white and very old,

upholstered in old, red, silky material. In the spaces between the

windows there were mirrors in elaborate white and gilt frames, of

old-fashioned carving. On the walls, covered with white paper, which

was torn in many places, there hung two large portraits—one of some

prince who had been governor of the district thirty years before, and

the other of some bishop, also long since dead. In the corner opposite

the door there were several ikons, before which a lamp was lighted at

nightfall ... not so much for devotional purposes as to light the room.

Fyodor Pavlovitch used to go to bed very late, at three or four o’clock

in the morning, and would wander about the room at night or sit in an

arm-chair, thinking. This had become a habit with him. He often slept

quite alone in the house, sending his servants to the lodge; but

usually Smerdyakov remained, sleeping on a bench in the hall.

When Alyosha came in, dinner was over, but coffee and preserves had

been served. Fyodor Pavlovitch liked sweet things with brandy after

dinner. Ivan was also at table, sipping coffee. The servants, Grigory

and Smerdyakov, were standing by. Both the gentlemen and the servants

seemed in singularly good spirits. Fyodor Pavlovitch was roaring with

laughter. Before he entered the room, Alyosha heard the shrill laugh he

knew so well, and could tell from the sound of it that his father had

only reached the good-humored stage, and was far from being completely

drunk.

“Here he is! Here he is!” yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch, highly delighted at

seeing Alyosha. “Join us. Sit down. Coffee is a lenten dish, but it’s

hot and good. I don’t offer you brandy, you’re keeping the fast. But

would you like some? No; I’d better give you some of our famous

liqueur. Smerdyakov, go to the cupboard, the second shelf on the right.

Here are the keys. Look sharp!”

Alyosha began refusing the liqueur.

“Never mind. If you won’t have it, we will,” said Fyodor Pavlovitch,

beaming. “But stay—have you dined?”

“Yes,” answered Alyosha, who had in truth only eaten a piece of bread

and drunk a glass of kvas in the Father Superior’s kitchen. “Though I

should be pleased to have some hot coffee.”

“Bravo, my darling! He’ll have some coffee. Does it want warming? No,

it’s boiling. It’s capital coffee: Smerdyakov’s making. My Smerdyakov’s

an artist at coffee and at fish patties, and at fish soup, too. You

must come one day and have some fish soup. Let me know beforehand....

But, stay; didn’t I tell you this morning to come home with your

mattress and pillow and all? Have you brought your mattress? He he he!”

“No, I haven’t,” said Alyosha, smiling, too.

“Ah, but you were frightened, you were frightened this morning, weren’t

you? There, my darling, I couldn’t do anything to vex you. Do you know,

Ivan, I can’t resist the way he looks one straight in the face and

laughs? It makes me laugh all over. I’m so fond of him. Alyosha, let me

give you my blessing—a father’s blessing.”

Alyosha rose, but Fyodor Pavlovitch had already changed his mind.

“No, no,” he said. “I’ll just make the sign of the cross over you, for

now. Sit still. Now we’ve a treat for you, in your own line, too. It’ll

make you laugh. Balaam’s ass has begun talking to us here—and how he

talks! How he talks!”

Balaam’s ass, it appeared, was the valet, Smerdyakov. He was a young

man of about four and twenty, remarkably unsociable and taciturn. Not

that he was shy or bashful. On the contrary, he was conceited and

seemed to despise everybody.

But we must pause to say a few words about him now. He was brought up

by Grigory and Marfa, but the boy grew up “with no sense of gratitude,”

as Grigory expressed it; he was an unfriendly boy, and seemed to look

at the world mistrustfully. In his childhood he was very fond of

hanging cats, and burying them with great ceremony. He used to dress up

in a sheet as though it were a surplice, and sang, and waved some

object over the dead cat as though it were a censer. All this he did on

the sly, with the greatest secrecy. Grigory caught him once at this

diversion and gave him a sound beating. He shrank into a corner and

sulked there for a week. “He doesn’t care for you or me, the monster,”

Grigory used to say to Marfa, “and he doesn’t care for any one. Are you

a human being?” he said, addressing the boy directly. “You’re not a

human being. You grew from the mildew in the bath-house.[2] That’s what

you are.” Smerdyakov, it appeared afterwards, could never forgive him

those words. Grigory taught him to read and write, and when he was

twelve years old, began teaching him the Scriptures. But this teaching

came to nothing. At the second or third lesson the boy suddenly

grinned.

“What’s that for?” asked Grigory, looking at him threateningly from

under his spectacles.

“Oh, nothing. God created light on the first day, and the sun, moon,

and stars on the fourth day. Where did the light come from on the first

day?”

Grigory was thunderstruck. The boy looked sarcastically at his teacher.

There was something positively condescending in his expression. Grigory

could not restrain himself. “I’ll show you where!” he cried, and gave

the boy a violent slap on the cheek. The boy took the slap without a

word, but withdrew into his corner again for some days. A week later he

had his first attack of the disease to which he was subject all the

rest of his life—epilepsy. When Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of it, his

attitude to the boy seemed changed at once. Till then he had taken no

notice of him, though he never scolded him, and always gave him a

copeck when he met him. Sometimes, when he was in good humor, he would

send the boy something sweet from his table. But as soon as he heard of

his illness, he showed an active interest in him, sent for a doctor,

and tried remedies, but the disease turned out to be incurable. The

fits occurred, on an average, once a month, but at various intervals.

The fits varied too, in violence: some were light and some were very

severe. Fyodor Pavlovitch strictly forbade Grigory to use corporal

punishment to the boy, and began allowing him to come upstairs to him.

He forbade him to be taught anything whatever for a time, too. One day

when the boy was about fifteen, Fyodor Pavlovitch noticed him lingering

by the bookcase, and reading the titles through the glass. Fyodor

Pavlovitch had a fair number of books—over a hundred—but no one ever

saw him reading. He at once gave Smerdyakov the key of the bookcase.

“Come, read. You shall be my librarian. You’ll be better sitting

reading than hanging about the courtyard. Come, read this,” and Fyodor

Pavlovitch gave him _Evenings in a Cottage near Dikanka_.

He read a little but didn’t like it. He did not once smile, and ended

by frowning.

“Why? Isn’t it funny?” asked Fyodor Pavlovitch.

Smerdyakov did not speak.

“Answer, stupid!”

“It’s all untrue,” mumbled the boy, with a grin.

“Then go to the devil! You have the soul of a lackey. Stay, here’s

Smaragdov’s _Universal History_. That’s all true. Read that.”

But Smerdyakov did not get through ten pages of Smaragdov. He thought

it dull. So the bookcase was closed again.

Shortly afterwards Marfa and Grigory reported to Fyodor Pavlovitch that

Smerdyakov was gradually beginning to show an extraordinary

fastidiousness. He would sit before his soup, take up his spoon and

look into the soup, bend over it, examine it, take a spoonful and hold

it to the light.

“What is it? A beetle?” Grigory would ask.

“A fly, perhaps,” observed Marfa.

The squeamish youth never answered, but he did the same with his bread,

his meat, and everything he ate. He would hold a piece on his fork to

the light, scrutinize it microscopically, and only after long

deliberation decide to put it in his mouth.

“Ach! What fine gentlemen’s airs!” Grigory muttered, looking at him.

When Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of this development in Smerdyakov he

determined to make him his cook, and sent him to Moscow to be trained.

He spent some years there and came back remarkably changed in

appearance. He looked extraordinarily old for his age. His face had

grown wrinkled, yellow, and strangely emasculate. In character he

seemed almost exactly the same as before he went away. He was just as

unsociable, and showed not the slightest inclination for any

companionship. In Moscow, too, as we heard afterwards, he had always

been silent. Moscow itself had little interest for him; he saw very

little there, and took scarcely any notice of anything. He went once to

the theater, but returned silent and displeased with it. On the other

hand, he came back to us from Moscow well dressed, in a clean coat and

clean linen. He brushed his clothes most scrupulously twice a day

invariably, and was very fond of cleaning his smart calf boots with a

special English polish, so that they shone like mirrors. He turned out

a first-rate cook. Fyodor Pavlovitch paid him a salary, almost the

whole of which Smerdyakov spent on clothes, pomade, perfumes, and such

things. But he seemed to have as much contempt for the female sex as

for men; he was discreet, almost unapproachable, with them. Fyodor

Pavlovitch began to regard him rather differently. His fits were

becoming more frequent, and on the days he was ill Marfa cooked, which

did not suit Fyodor Pavlovitch at all.

“Why are your fits getting worse?” asked Fyodor Pavlovitch, looking

askance at his new cook. “Would you like to get married? Shall I find

you a wife?”

But Smerdyakov turned pale with anger, and made no reply. Fyodor

Pavlovitch left him with an impatient gesture. The great thing was that

he had absolute confidence in his honesty. It happened once, when

Fyodor Pavlovitch was drunk, that he dropped in the muddy courtyard

three hundred-rouble notes which he had only just received. He only

missed them next day, and was just hastening to search his pockets when

he saw the notes lying on the table. Where had they come from?

Smerdyakov had picked them up and brought them in the day before.

“Well, my lad, I’ve never met any one like you,” Fyodor Pavlovitch said

shortly, and gave him ten roubles. We may add that he not only believed

in his honesty, but had, for some reason, a liking for him, although

the young man looked as morosely at him as at every one and was always

silent. He rarely spoke. If it had occurred to any one to wonder at the

time what the young man was interested in, and what was in his mind, it

would have been impossible to tell by looking at him. Yet he used

sometimes to stop suddenly in the house, or even in the yard or street,

and would stand still for ten minutes, lost in thought. A physiognomist

studying his face would have said that there was no thought in it, no

reflection, but only a sort of contemplation. There is a remarkable

picture by the painter Kramskoy, called “Contemplation.” There is a

forest in winter, and on a roadway through the forest, in absolute

solitude, stands a peasant in a torn kaftan and bark shoes. He stands,

as it were, lost in thought. Yet he is not thinking; he is

“contemplating.” If any one touched him he would start and look at one

as though awakening and bewildered. It’s true he would come to himself

immediately; but if he were asked what he had been thinking about, he

would remember nothing. Yet probably he has, hidden within himself, the

impression which had dominated him during the period of contemplation.

Those impressions are dear to him and no doubt he hoards them

imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he does

not know either. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many

years, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage for

his soul’s salvation, or perhaps he will suddenly set fire to his

native village, and perhaps do both. There are a good many

“contemplatives” among the peasantry. Well, Smerdyakov was probably one

of them, and he probably was greedily hoarding up his impressions,

hardly knowing why.

Chapter VII.

The Controversy

But Balaam’s ass had suddenly spoken. The subject was a strange one.

Grigory had gone in the morning to make purchases, and had heard from

the shopkeeper Lukyanov the story of a Russian soldier which had

appeared in the newspaper of that day. This soldier had been taken

prisoner in some remote part of Asia, and was threatened with an

immediate agonizing death if he did not renounce Christianity and

follow Islam. He refused to deny his faith, and was tortured, flayed

alive, and died, praising and glorifying Christ. Grigory had related

the story at table. Fyodor Pavlovitch always liked, over the dessert

after dinner, to laugh and talk, if only with Grigory. This afternoon

he was in a particularly good-humored and expansive mood. Sipping his

brandy and listening to the story, he observed that they ought to make

a saint of a soldier like that, and to take his skin to some monastery.

“That would make the people flock, and bring the money in.”

Grigory frowned, seeing that Fyodor Pavlovitch was by no means touched,

but, as usual, was beginning to scoff. At that moment Smerdyakov, who

was standing by the door, smiled. Smerdyakov often waited at table

towards the end of dinner, and since Ivan’s arrival in our town he had

done so every day.

“What are you grinning at?” asked Fyodor Pavlovitch, catching the smile

instantly, and knowing that it referred to Grigory.

“Well, my opinion is,” Smerdyakov began suddenly and unexpectedly in a

loud voice, “that if that laudable soldier’s exploit was so very great

there would have been, to my thinking, no sin in it if he had on such

an emergency renounced, so to speak, the name of Christ and his own

christening, to save by that same his life, for good deeds, by which,

in the course of years to expiate his cowardice.”

“How could it not be a sin? You’re talking nonsense. For that you’ll go

straight to hell and be roasted there like mutton,” put in Fyodor

Pavlovitch.

It was at this point that Alyosha came in, and Fyodor Pavlovitch, as we

have seen, was highly delighted at his appearance.

“We’re on your subject, your subject,” he chuckled gleefully, making

Alyosha sit down to listen.

“As for mutton, that’s not so, and there’ll be nothing there for this,

and there shouldn’t be either, if it’s according to justice,”

Smerdyakov maintained stoutly.

“How do you mean ‘according to justice’?” Fyodor Pavlovitch cried still

more gayly, nudging Alyosha with his knee.

“He’s a rascal, that’s what he is!” burst from Grigory. He looked

Smerdyakov wrathfully in the face.

“As for being a rascal, wait a little, Grigory Vassilyevitch,” answered

Smerdyakov with perfect composure. “You’d better consider yourself

that, once I am taken prisoner by the enemies of the Christian race,

and they demand from me to curse the name of God and to renounce my

holy christening, I am fully entitled to act by my own reason, since

there would be no sin in it.”

“But you’ve said that before. Don’t waste words. Prove it,” cried

Fyodor Pavlovitch.

“Soup-maker!” muttered Grigory contemptuously.

“As for being a soup-maker, wait a bit, too, and consider for yourself,

Grigory Vassilyevitch, without abusing me. For as soon as I say to

those enemies, ‘No, I’m not a Christian, and I curse my true God,’ then

at once, by God’s high judgment, I become immediately and specially

anathema accursed, and am cut off from the Holy Church, exactly as

though I were a heathen, so that at that very instant, not only when I

say it aloud, but when I think of saying it, before a quarter of a

second has passed, I am cut off. Is that so or not, Grigory

Vassilyevitch?”

He addressed Grigory with obvious satisfaction, though he was really

answering Fyodor Pavlovitch’s questions, and was well aware of it, and

intentionally pretending that Grigory had asked the questions.

“Ivan,” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch suddenly, “stoop down for me to

whisper. He’s got this all up for your benefit. He wants you to praise

him. Praise him.”

Ivan listened with perfect seriousness to his father’s excited whisper.

“Stay, Smerdyakov, be quiet a minute,” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch once

more. “Ivan, your ear again.”

Ivan bent down again with a perfectly grave face.

“I love you as I do Alyosha. Don’t think I don’t love you. Some

brandy?”

“Yes.—But you’re rather drunk yourself,” thought Ivan, looking steadily

at his father.

He was watching Smerdyakov with great curiosity.

“You’re anathema accursed, as it is,” Grigory suddenly burst out, “and

how dare you argue, you rascal, after that, if—”

“Don’t scold him, Grigory, don’t scold him,” Fyodor Pavlovitch cut him

short.

“You should wait, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if only a short time, and

listen, for I haven’t finished all I had to say. For at the very moment

I become accursed, at that same highest moment, I become exactly like a

heathen, and my christening is taken off me and becomes of no avail.

Isn’t that so?”

“Make haste and finish, my boy,” Fyodor Pavlovitch urged him, sipping

from his wine-glass with relish.

“And if I’ve ceased to be a Christian, then I told no lie to the enemy

when they asked whether I was a Christian or not a Christian, seeing I

had already been relieved by God Himself of my Christianity by reason

of the thought alone, before I had time to utter a word to the enemy.

And if I have already been discharged, in what manner and with what

sort of justice can I be held responsible as a Christian in the other

world for having denied Christ, when, through the very thought alone,

before denying Him I had been relieved from my christening? If I’m no

longer a Christian, then I can’t renounce Christ, for I’ve nothing then

to renounce. Who will hold an unclean Tatar responsible, Grigory

Vassilyevitch, even in heaven, for not having been born a Christian?

And who would punish him for that, considering that you can’t take two

skins off one ox? For God Almighty Himself, even if He did make the

Tatar responsible, when he dies would give him the smallest possible

punishment, I imagine (since he must be punished), judging that he is

not to blame if he has come into the world an unclean heathen, from

heathen parents. The Lord God can’t surely take a Tatar and say he was

a Christian? That would mean that the Almighty would tell a real

untruth. And can the Lord of Heaven and earth tell a lie, even in one

word?”

Grigory was thunderstruck and looked at the orator, his eyes nearly

starting out of his head. Though he did not clearly understand what was

said, he had caught something in this rigmarole, and stood, looking

like a man who has just hit his head against a wall. Fyodor Pavlovitch

emptied his glass and went off into his shrill laugh.

“Alyosha! Alyosha! What do you say to that! Ah, you casuist! He must

have been with the Jesuits, somewhere, Ivan. Oh, you stinking Jesuit,

who taught you? But you’re talking nonsense, you casuist, nonsense,

nonsense, nonsense. Don’t cry, Grigory, we’ll reduce him to smoke and

ashes in a moment. Tell me this, O ass; you may be right before your

enemies, but you have renounced your faith all the same in your own

heart, and you say yourself that in that very hour you became anathema

accursed. And if once you’re anathema they won’t pat you on the head

for it in hell. What do you say to that, my fine Jesuit?”

“There is no doubt that I have renounced it in my own heart, but there

was no special sin in that. Or if there was sin, it was the most

ordinary.”

“How’s that the most ordinary?”

“You lie, accursed one!” hissed Grigory.

“Consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch,” Smerdyakov went on, staid

and unruffled, conscious of his triumph, but, as it were, generous to

the vanquished foe. “Consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch; it is

said in the Scripture that if you have faith, even as a mustard seed,

and bid a mountain move into the sea, it will move without the least

delay at your bidding. Well, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if I’m without

faith and you have so great a faith that you are continually swearing

at me, you try yourself telling this mountain, not to move into the sea

for that’s a long way off, but even to our stinking little river which

runs at the bottom of the garden. You’ll see for yourself that it won’t

budge, but will remain just where it is however much you shout at it,

and that shows, Grigory Vassilyevitch, that you haven’t faith in the

proper manner, and only abuse others about it. Again, taking into

consideration that no one in our day, not only you, but actually no

one, from the highest person to the lowest peasant, can shove mountains

into the sea—except perhaps some one man in the world, or, at most,

two, and they most likely are saving their souls in secret somewhere in

the Egyptian desert, so you wouldn’t find them—if so it be, if all the

rest have no faith, will God curse all the rest? that is, the

population of the whole earth, except about two hermits in the desert,

and in His well-known mercy will He not forgive one of them? And so I’m

persuaded that though I may once have doubted I shall be forgiven if I

shed tears of repentance.”

“Stay!” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, in a transport of delight. “So you do

suppose there are two who can move mountains? Ivan, make a note of it,

write it down. There you have the Russian all over!”

“You’re quite right in saying it’s characteristic of the people’s

faith,” Ivan assented, with an approving smile.

“You agree. Then it must be so, if you agree. It’s true, isn’t it,

Alyosha? That’s the Russian faith all over, isn’t it?”

“No, Smerdyakov has not the Russian faith at all,” said Alyosha firmly

and gravely.

“I’m not talking about his faith. I mean those two in the desert, only

that idea. Surely that’s Russian, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s purely Russian,” said Alyosha smiling.

“Your words are worth a gold piece, O ass, and I’ll give it to you

to-day. But as to the rest you talk nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. Let

me tell you, stupid, that we here are all of little faith, only from

carelessness, because we haven’t time; things are too much for us, and,

in the second place, the Lord God has given us so little time, only

twenty-four hours in the day, so that one hasn’t even time to get sleep

enough, much less to repent of one’s sins. While you have denied your

faith to your enemies when you’d nothing else to think about but to

show your faith! So I consider, brother, that it constitutes a sin.”

“Constitute a sin it may, but consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch,

that it only extenuates it, if it does constitute. If I had believed

then in very truth, as I ought to have believed, then it really would

have been sinful if I had not faced tortures for my faith, and had gone

over to the pagan Mohammedan faith. But, of course, it wouldn’t have

come to torture then, because I should only have had to say at that

instant to the mountain, ‘Move and crush the tormentor,’ and it would

have moved and at the very instant have crushed him like a

black-beetle, and I should have walked away as though nothing had

happened, praising and glorifying God. But, suppose at that very moment

I had tried all that, and cried to that mountain, ‘Crush these

tormentors,’ and it hadn’t crushed them, how could I have helped

doubting, pray, at such a time, and at such a dread hour of mortal

terror? And apart from that, I should know already that I could not

attain to the fullness of the Kingdom of Heaven (for since the mountain

had not moved at my word, they could not think very much of my faith up

aloft, and there could be no very great reward awaiting me in the world

to come). So why should I let them flay the skin off me as well, and to

no good purpose? For, even though they had flayed my skin half off my

back, even then the mountain would not have moved at my word or at my

cry. And at such a moment not only doubt might come over one but one

might lose one’s reason from fear, so that one would not be able to

think at all. And, therefore, how should I be particularly to blame if

not seeing my advantage or reward there or here, I should, at least,

save my skin. And so trusting fully in the grace of the Lord I should

cherish the hope that I might be altogether forgiven.”

Chapter VIII.

Over The Brandy

The controversy was over. But, strange to say, Fyodor Pavlovitch, who

had been so gay, suddenly began frowning. He frowned and gulped brandy,

and it was already a glass too much.

“Get along with you, Jesuits!” he cried to the servants. “Go away,

Smerdyakov. I’ll send you the gold piece I promised you to-day, but be

off! Don’t cry, Grigory. Go to Marfa. She’ll comfort you and put you to

bed. The rascals won’t let us sit in peace after dinner,” he snapped

peevishly, as the servants promptly withdrew at his word.

“Smerdyakov always pokes himself in now, after dinner. It’s you he’s so

interested in. What have you done to fascinate him?” he added to Ivan.

“Nothing whatever,” answered Ivan. “He’s pleased to have a high opinion

of me; he’s a lackey and a mean soul. Raw material for revolution,

however, when the time comes.”

“For revolution?”

“There will be others and better ones. But there will be some like him

as well. His kind will come first, and better ones after.”

“And when will the time come?”

“The rocket will go off and fizzle out, perhaps. The peasants are not

very fond of listening to these soup-makers, so far.”

“Ah, brother, but a Balaam’s ass like that thinks and thinks, and the

devil knows where he gets to.”

“He’s storing up ideas,” said Ivan, smiling.

“You see, I know he can’t bear me, nor any one else, even you, though

you fancy that he has a high opinion of you. Worse still with Alyosha,

he despises Alyosha. But he doesn’t steal, that’s one thing, and he’s

not a gossip, he holds his tongue, and doesn’t wash our dirty linen in

public. He makes capital fish pasties too. But, damn him, is he worth

talking about so much?”

“Of course he isn’t.”

“And as for the ideas he may be hatching, the Russian peasant,

generally speaking, needs thrashing. That I’ve always maintained. Our

peasants are swindlers, and don’t deserve to be pitied, and it’s a good

thing they’re still flogged sometimes. Russia is rich in birches. If

they destroyed the forests, it would be the ruin of Russia. I stand up

for the clever people. We’ve left off thrashing the peasants, we’ve

grown so clever, but they go on thrashing themselves. And a good thing

too. ‘For with what measure ye mete it shall be measured to you again,’

or how does it go? Anyhow, it will be measured. But Russia’s all

swinishness. My dear, if you only knew how I hate Russia.... That is,

not Russia, but all this vice! But maybe I mean Russia. _Tout cela

c’est de la cochonnerie_.... Do you know what I like? I like wit.”

“You’ve had another glass. That’s enough.”

“Wait a bit. I’ll have one more, and then another, and then I’ll stop.

No, stay, you interrupted me. At Mokroe I was talking to an old man,

and he told me: ‘There’s nothing we like so much as sentencing girls to

be thrashed, and we always give the lads the job of thrashing them. And

the girl he has thrashed to-day, the young man will ask in marriage

to-morrow. So it quite suits the girls, too,’ he said. There’s a set of

de Sades for you! But it’s clever, anyway. Shall we go over and have a

look at it, eh? Alyosha, are you blushing? Don’t be bashful, child. I’m

sorry I didn’t stay to dinner at the Superior’s and tell the monks

about the girls at Mokroe. Alyosha, don’t be angry that I offended your

Superior this morning. I lost my temper. If there is a God, if He

exists, then, of course, I’m to blame, and I shall have to answer for

it. But if there isn’t a God at all, what do they deserve, your

fathers? It’s not enough to cut their heads off, for they keep back

progress. Would you believe it, Ivan, that that lacerates my

sentiments? No, you don’t believe it as I see from your eyes. You

believe what people say, that I’m nothing but a buffoon. Alyosha, do

you believe that I’m nothing but a buffoon?”

“No, I don’t believe it.”

“And I believe you don’t, and that you speak the truth. You look

sincere and you speak sincerely. But not Ivan. Ivan’s supercilious....

I’d make an end of your monks, though, all the same. I’d take all that

mystic stuff and suppress it, once for all, all over Russia, so as to

bring all the fools to reason. And the gold and the silver that would

flow into the mint!”

“But why suppress it?” asked Ivan.

“That Truth may prevail. That’s why.”

“Well, if Truth were to prevail, you know, you’d be the first to be

robbed and suppressed.”

“Ah! I dare say you’re right. Ah, I’m an ass!” burst out Fyodor

Pavlovitch, striking himself lightly on the forehead. “Well, your

monastery may stand then, Alyosha, if that’s how it is. And we clever

people will sit snug and enjoy our brandy. You know, Ivan, it must have

been so ordained by the Almighty Himself. Ivan, speak, is there a God

or not? Stay, speak the truth, speak seriously. Why are you laughing

again?”

“I’m laughing that you should have made a clever remark just now about

Smerdyakov’s belief in the existence of two saints who could move

mountains.”

“Why, am I like him now, then?”

“Very much.”

“Well, that shows I’m a Russian, too, and I have a Russian

characteristic. And you may be caught in the same way, though you are a

philosopher. Shall I catch you? What do you bet that I’ll catch you

to-morrow. Speak, all the same, is there a God, or not? Only, be

serious. I want you to be serious now.”

“No, there is no God.”

“Alyosha, is there a God?”

“There is.”

“Ivan, and is there immortality of some sort, just a little, just a

tiny bit?”

“There is no immortality either.”

“None at all?”

“None at all.”

“There’s absolute nothingness then. Perhaps there is just something?

Anything is better than nothing!”

“Absolute nothingness.”

“Alyosha, is there immortality?”

“There is.”

“God and immortality?”

“God and immortality. In God is immortality.”

“H’m! It’s more likely Ivan’s right. Good Lord! to think what faith,

what force of all kinds, man has lavished for nothing, on that dream,

and for how many thousand years. Who is it laughing at man? Ivan! For

the last time, once for all, is there a God or not? I ask for the last

time!”

“And for the last time there is not.”

“Who is laughing at mankind, Ivan?”

“It must be the devil,” said Ivan, smiling.

“And the devil? Does he exist?”

“No, there’s no devil either.”

“It’s a pity. Damn it all, what wouldn’t I do to the man who first

invented God! Hanging on a bitter aspen tree would be too good for

him.”

“There would have been no civilization if they hadn’t invented God.”

“Wouldn’t there have been? Without God?”

“No. And there would have been no brandy either. But I must take your

brandy away from you, anyway.”

“Stop, stop, stop, dear boy, one more little glass. I’ve hurt Alyosha’s

feelings. You’re not angry with me, Alyosha? My dear little Alexey!”

“No, I am not angry. I know your thoughts. Your heart is better than

your head.”

“My heart better than my head, is it? Oh, Lord! And that from you.

Ivan, do you love Alyosha?”

“Yes.”

“You must love him” (Fyodor Pavlovitch was by this time very drunk).

“Listen, Alyosha, I was rude to your elder this morning. But I was

excited. But there’s wit in that elder, don’t you think, Ivan?”

“Very likely.”

“There is, there is. _Il y a du Piron là-dedans._ He’s a Jesuit, a

Russian one, that is. As he’s an honorable person there’s a hidden

indignation boiling within him at having to pretend and affect

holiness.”

“But, of course, he believes in God.”

“Not a bit of it. Didn’t you know? Why, he tells every one so, himself.

That is, not every one, but all the clever people who come to him. He

said straight out to Governor Schultz not long ago: ‘_Credo_, but I

don’t know in what.’”

“Really?”

“He really did. But I respect him. There’s something of Mephistopheles

about him, or rather of ‘The hero of our time’ ... Arbenin, or what’s

his name?... You see, he’s a sensualist. He’s such a sensualist that I

should be afraid for my daughter or my wife if she went to confess to

him. You know, when he begins telling stories.... The year before last

he invited us to tea, tea with liqueur (the ladies send him liqueur),

and began telling us about old times till we nearly split our sides....

Especially how he once cured a paralyzed woman. ‘If my legs were not

bad I know a dance I could dance you,’ he said. What do you say to

that? ‘I’ve plenty of tricks in my time,’ said he. He did Dernidov, the

merchant, out of sixty thousand.”

“What, he stole it?”

“He brought him the money as a man he could trust, saying, ‘Take care

of it for me, friend, there’ll be a police search at my place

to-morrow.’ And he kept it. ‘You have given it to the Church,’ he

declared. I said to him: ‘You’re a scoundrel,’ I said. ‘No,’ said he,

‘I’m not a scoundrel, but I’m broad-minded.’ But that wasn’t he, that

was some one else. I’ve muddled him with some one else ... without

noticing it. Come, another glass and that’s enough. Take away the

bottle, Ivan. I’ve been telling lies. Why didn’t you stop me, Ivan, and

tell me I was lying?”

“I knew you’d stop of yourself.”

“That’s a lie. You did it from spite, from simple spite against me. You

despise me. You have come to me and despised me in my own house.”

“Well, I’m going away. You’ve had too much brandy.”

“I’ve begged you for Christ’s sake to go to Tchermashnya for a day or

two, and you don’t go.”

“I’ll go to-morrow if you’re so set upon it.”

“You won’t go. You want to keep an eye on me. That’s what you want,

spiteful fellow. That’s why you won’t go.”

The old man persisted. He had reached that state of drunkenness when

the drunkard who has till then been inoffensive tries to pick a quarrel

and to assert himself.

“Why are you looking at me? Why do you look like that? Your eyes look

at me and say, ‘You ugly drunkard!’ Your eyes are mistrustful. They’re

contemptuous.... You’ve come here with some design. Alyosha, here,

looks at me and his eyes shine. Alyosha doesn’t despise me. Alexey, you

mustn’t love Ivan.”

“Don’t be ill-tempered with my brother. Leave off attacking him,”

Alyosha said emphatically.

“Oh, all right. Ugh, my head aches. Take away the brandy, Ivan. It’s

the third time I’ve told you.”

He mused, and suddenly a slow, cunning grin spread over his face.

“Don’t be angry with a feeble old man, Ivan. I know you don’t love me,

but don’t be angry all the same. You’ve nothing to love me for. You go

to Tchermashnya. I’ll come to you myself and bring you a present. I’ll

show you a little wench there. I’ve had my eye on her a long time.

She’s still running about bare-foot. Don’t be afraid of bare-footed

wenches—don’t despise them—they’re pearls!”

And he kissed his hand with a smack.

“To my thinking,” he revived at once, seeming to grow sober the instant

he touched on his favorite topic. “To my thinking ... Ah, you boys! You

children, little sucking-pigs, to my thinking ... I never thought a

woman ugly in my life—that’s been my rule! Can you understand that? How

could you understand it? You’ve milk in your veins, not blood. You’re

not out of your shells yet. My rule has been that you can always find

something devilishly interesting in every woman that you wouldn’t find

in any other. Only, one must know how to find it, that’s the point!

That’s a talent! To my mind there are no ugly women. The very fact that

she is a woman is half the battle ... but how could you understand

that? Even in _vieilles filles_, even in them you may discover

something that makes you simply wonder that men have been such fools as

to let them grow old without noticing them. Bare-footed girls or

unattractive ones, you must take by surprise. Didn’t you know that? You

must astound them till they’re fascinated, upset, ashamed that such a

gentleman should fall in love with such a little slut. It’s a jolly

good thing that there always are and will be masters and slaves in the

world, so there always will be a little maid-of-all-work and her

master, and you know, that’s all that’s needed for happiness. Stay ...

listen, Alyosha, I always used to surprise your mother, but in a

different way. I paid no attention to her at all, but all at once, when

the minute came, I’d be all devotion to her, crawl on my knees, kiss

her feet, and I always, always—I remember it as though it were

to-day—reduced her to that tinkling, quiet, nervous, queer little

laugh. It was peculiar to her. I knew her attacks always used to begin

like that. The next day she would begin shrieking hysterically, and

this little laugh was not a sign of delight, though it made a very good

counterfeit. That’s the great thing, to know how to take every one.

Once Belyavsky—he was a handsome fellow, and rich—used to like to come

here and hang about her—suddenly gave me a slap in the face in her

presence. And she—such a mild sheep—why, I thought she would have

knocked me down for that blow. How she set on me! ‘You’re beaten,

beaten now,’ she said. ‘You’ve taken a blow from him. You have been

trying to sell me to him,’ she said.... ‘And how dared he strike you in

my presence! Don’t dare come near me again, never, never! Run at once,

challenge him to a duel!’... I took her to the monastery then to bring

her to her senses. The holy Fathers prayed her back to reason. But I

swear, by God, Alyosha, I never insulted the poor crazy girl! Only

once, perhaps, in the first year; then she was very fond of praying.

She used to keep the feasts of Our Lady particularly and used to turn

me out of her room then. I’ll knock that mysticism out of her, thought

I! ‘Here,’ said I, ‘you see your holy image. Here it is. Here I take it

down. You believe it’s miraculous, but here, I’ll spit on it directly

and nothing will happen to me for it!’... When she saw it, good Lord! I

thought she would kill me. But she only jumped up, wrung her hands,

then suddenly hid her face in them, began trembling all over and fell

on the floor ... fell all of a heap. Alyosha, Alyosha, what’s the

matter?”

The old man jumped up in alarm. From the time he had begun speaking

about his mother, a change had gradually come over Alyosha’s face. He

flushed crimson, his eyes glowed, his lips quivered. The old sot had

gone spluttering on, noticing nothing, till the moment when something

very strange happened to Alyosha. Precisely what he was describing in

the crazy woman was suddenly repeated with Alyosha. He jumped up from

his seat exactly as his mother was said to have done, wrung his hands,

hid his face in them, and fell back in his chair, shaking all over in

an hysterical paroxysm of sudden violent, silent weeping. His

extraordinary resemblance to his mother particularly impressed the old

man.

“Ivan, Ivan! Water, quickly! It’s like her, exactly as she used to be

then, his mother. Spurt some water on him from your mouth, that’s what

I used to do to her. He’s upset about his mother, his mother,” he

muttered to Ivan.

“But she was my mother, too, I believe, his mother. Was she not?” said

Ivan, with uncontrolled anger and contempt. The old man shrank before

his flashing eyes. But something very strange had happened, though only

for a second; it seemed really to have escaped the old man’s mind that

Alyosha’s mother actually was the mother of Ivan too.

“Your mother?” he muttered, not understanding. “What do you mean? What

mother are you talking about? Was she?... Why, damn it! of course she

was yours too! Damn it! My mind has never been so darkened before.

Excuse me, why, I was thinking, Ivan.... He he he!” He stopped. A

broad, drunken, half-senseless grin overspread his face.

At that moment a fearful noise and clamor was heard in the hall, there

were violent shouts, the door was flung open, and Dmitri burst into the

room. The old man rushed to Ivan in terror.

“He’ll kill me! He’ll kill me! Don’t let him get at me!” he screamed,

clinging to the skirt of Ivan’s coat.

Chapter IX.

The Sensualists

Grigory and Smerdyakov ran into the room after Dmitri. They had been

struggling with him in the passage, refusing to admit him, acting on

instructions given them by Fyodor Pavlovitch some days before. Taking

advantage of the fact that Dmitri stopped a moment on entering the room

to look about him, Grigory ran round the table, closed the double doors

on the opposite side of the room leading to the inner apartments, and

stood before the closed doors, stretching wide his arms, prepared to

defend the entrance, so to speak, with the last drop of his blood.

Seeing this, Dmitri uttered a scream rather than a shout and rushed at

Grigory.

“Then she’s there! She’s hidden there! Out of the way, scoundrel!”

He tried to pull Grigory away, but the old servant pushed him back.

Beside himself with fury, Dmitri struck out, and hit Grigory with all

his might. The old man fell like a log, and Dmitri, leaping over him,

broke in the door. Smerdyakov remained pale and trembling at the other

end of the room, huddling close to Fyodor Pavlovitch.

“She’s here!” shouted Dmitri. “I saw her turn towards the house just

now, but I couldn’t catch her. Where is she? Where is she?”

That shout, “She’s here!” produced an indescribable effect on Fyodor

Pavlovitch. All his terror left him.

“Hold him! Hold him!” he cried, and dashed after Dmitri. Meanwhile

Grigory had got up from the floor, but still seemed stunned. Ivan and

Alyosha ran after their father. In the third room something was heard

to fall on the floor with a ringing crash: it was a large glass

vase—not an expensive one—on a marble pedestal which Dmitri had upset

as he ran past it.

“At him!” shouted the old man. “Help!”

Ivan and Alyosha caught the old man and were forcibly bringing him

back.

“Why do you run after him? He’ll murder you outright,” Ivan cried

wrathfully at his father.

“Ivan! Alyosha! She must be here. Grushenka’s here. He said he saw her

himself, running.”

He was choking. He was not expecting Grushenka at the time, and the

sudden news that she was here made him beside himself. He was trembling

all over. He seemed frantic.

“But you’ve seen for yourself that she hasn’t come,” cried Ivan.

“But she may have come by that other entrance.”

“You know that entrance is locked, and you have the key.”

Dmitri suddenly reappeared in the drawing-room. He had, of course,

found the other entrance locked, and the key actually was in Fyodor

Pavlovitch’s pocket. The windows of all the rooms were also closed, so

Grushenka could not have come in anywhere nor have run out anywhere.

“Hold him!” shrieked Fyodor Pavlovitch, as soon as he saw him again.

“He’s been stealing money in my bedroom.” And tearing himself from Ivan

he rushed again at Dmitri. But Dmitri threw up both hands and suddenly

clutched the old man by the two tufts of hair that remained on his

temples, tugged at them, and flung him with a crash on the floor. He

kicked him two or three times with his heel in the face. The old man

moaned shrilly. Ivan, though not so strong as Dmitri, threw his arms

round him, and with all his might pulled him away. Alyosha helped him

with his slender strength, holding Dmitri in front.

“Madman! You’ve killed him!” cried Ivan.

“Serve him right!” shouted Dmitri breathlessly. “If I haven’t killed

him, I’ll come again and kill him. You can’t protect him!”

“Dmitri! Go away at once!” cried Alyosha commandingly.

“Alexey! You tell me. It’s only you I can believe; was she here just

now, or not? I saw her myself creeping this way by the fence from the

lane. I shouted, she ran away.”

“I swear she’s not been here, and no one expected her.”

“But I saw her.... So she must ... I’ll find out at once where she

is.... Good-by, Alexey! Not a word to Æsop about the money now. But go

to Katerina Ivanovna at once and be sure to say, ‘He sends his

compliments to you!’ Compliments, his compliments! Just compliments and

farewell! Describe the scene to her.”

Meanwhile Ivan and Grigory had raised the old man and seated him in an

arm-chair. His face was covered with blood, but he was conscious and

listened greedily to Dmitri’s cries. He was still fancying that

Grushenka really was somewhere in the house. Dmitri looked at him with

hatred as he went out.

“I don’t repent shedding your blood!” he cried. “Beware, old man,

beware of your dream, for I have my dream, too. I curse you, and disown

you altogether.”

He ran out of the room.

“She’s here. She must be here. Smerdyakov! Smerdyakov!” the old man

wheezed, scarcely audibly, beckoning to him with his finger.

“No, she’s not here, you old lunatic!” Ivan shouted at him angrily.

“Here, he’s fainting! Water! A towel! Make haste, Smerdyakov!”

Smerdyakov ran for water. At last they got the old man undressed, and

put him to bed. They wrapped a wet towel round his head. Exhausted by

the brandy, by his violent emotion, and the blows he had received, he

shut his eyes and fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Ivan and Alyosha went back to the drawing-room. Smerdyakov removed the

fragments of the broken vase, while Grigory stood by the table looking

gloomily at the floor.

“Shouldn’t you put a wet bandage on your head and go to bed, too?”

Alyosha said to him. “We’ll look after him. My brother gave you a

terrible blow—on the head.”

“He’s insulted me!” Grigory articulated gloomily and distinctly.

“He’s ‘insulted’ his father, not only you,” observed Ivan with a forced

smile.

“I used to wash him in his tub. He’s insulted me,” repeated Grigory.

“Damn it all, if I hadn’t pulled him away perhaps he’d have murdered

him. It wouldn’t take much to do for Æsop, would it?” whispered Ivan to

Alyosha.

“God forbid!” cried Alyosha.

“Why should He forbid?” Ivan went on in the same whisper, with a

malignant grimace. “One reptile will devour the other. And serve them

both right, too.”

Alyosha shuddered.

“Of course I won’t let him be murdered as I didn’t just now. Stay here,

Alyosha, I’ll go for a turn in the yard. My head’s begun to ache.”

Alyosha went to his father’s bedroom and sat by his bedside behind the

screen for about an hour. The old man suddenly opened his eyes and

gazed for a long while at Alyosha, evidently remembering and

meditating. All at once his face betrayed extraordinary excitement.

“Alyosha,” he whispered apprehensively, “where’s Ivan?”

“In the yard. He’s got a headache. He’s on the watch.”

“Give me that looking-glass. It stands over there. Give it me.”

Alyosha gave him a little round folding looking-glass which stood on

the chest of drawers. The old man looked at himself in it; his nose was

considerably swollen, and on the left side of his forehead there was a

rather large crimson bruise.

“What does Ivan say? Alyosha, my dear, my only son, I’m afraid of Ivan.

I’m more afraid of Ivan than the other. You’re the only one I’m not

afraid of....”

“Don’t be afraid of Ivan either. He is angry, but he’ll defend you.”

“Alyosha, and what of the other? He’s run to Grushenka. My angel, tell

me the truth, was she here just now or not?”

“No one has seen her. It was a mistake. She has not been here.”

“You know Mitya wants to marry her, to marry her.”

“She won’t marry him.”

“She won’t. She won’t. She won’t. She won’t on any account!”

The old man fairly fluttered with joy, as though nothing more

comforting could have been said to him. In his delight he seized

Alyosha’s hand and pressed it warmly to his heart. Tears positively

glittered in his eyes.

“That image of the Mother of God of which I was telling you just now,”

he said. “Take it home and keep it for yourself. And I’ll let you go

back to the monastery.... I was joking this morning, don’t be angry

with me. My head aches, Alyosha.... Alyosha, comfort my heart. Be an

angel and tell me the truth!”

“You’re still asking whether she has been here or not?” Alyosha said

sorrowfully.

“No, no, no. I believe you. I’ll tell you what it is: you go to

Grushenka yourself, or see her somehow; make haste and ask her; see for

yourself, which she means to choose, him or me. Eh? What? Can you?”

“If I see her I’ll ask her,” Alyosha muttered, embarrassed.

“No, she won’t tell you,” the old man interrupted, “she’s a rogue.

She’ll begin kissing you and say that it’s you she wants. She’s a

deceitful, shameless hussy. You mustn’t go to her, you mustn’t!”

“No, father, and it wouldn’t be suitable, it wouldn’t be right at all.”

“Where was he sending you just now? He shouted ‘Go’ as he ran away.”

“To Katerina Ivanovna.”

“For money? To ask her for money?”

“No. Not for money.”

“He’s no money; not a farthing. I’ll settle down for the night, and

think things over, and you can go. Perhaps you’ll meet her.... Only be

sure to come to me to-morrow in the morning. Be sure to. I have a word

to say to you to-morrow. Will you come?”

“Yes.”

“When you come, pretend you’ve come of your own accord to ask after me.

Don’t tell any one I told you to. Don’t say a word to Ivan.”

“Very well.”

“Good-by, my angel. You stood up for me, just now. I shall never forget

it. I’ve a word to say to you to-morrow—but I must think about it.”

“And how do you feel now?”

“I shall get up to-morrow and go out, perfectly well, perfectly well!”

Crossing the yard Alyosha found Ivan sitting on the bench at the

gateway. He was sitting writing something in pencil in his note-book.

Alyosha told Ivan that their father had waked up, was conscious, and

had let him go back to sleep at the monastery.

“Alyosha, I should be very glad to meet you to-morrow morning,” said

Ivan cordially, standing up. His cordiality was a complete surprise to

Alyosha.

“I shall be at the Hohlakovs’ to-morrow,” answered Alyosha, “I may be

at Katerina Ivanovna’s, too, if I don’t find her now.”

“But you’re going to her now, anyway? For that ‘compliments and

farewell,’” said Ivan smiling. Alyosha was disconcerted.

“I think I quite understand his exclamations just now, and part of what

went before. Dmitri has asked you to go to her and say that he—well, in

fact—takes his leave of her?”

“Brother, how will all this horror end between father and Dmitri?”

exclaimed Alyosha.

“One can’t tell for certain. Perhaps in nothing: it may all fizzle out.

That woman is a beast. In any case we must keep the old man indoors and

not let Dmitri in the house.”

“Brother, let me ask one thing more: has any man a right to look at

other men and decide which is worthy to live?”

“Why bring in the question of worth? The matter is most often decided

in men’s hearts on other grounds much more natural. And as for

rights—who has not the right to wish?”

“Not for another man’s death?”

“What even if for another man’s death? Why lie to oneself since all men

live so and perhaps cannot help living so. Are you referring to what I

said just now—that one reptile will devour the other? In that case let

me ask you, do you think me like Dmitri capable of shedding Æsop’s

blood, murdering him, eh?”

“What are you saying, Ivan? Such an idea never crossed my mind. I don’t

think Dmitri is capable of it, either.”

“Thanks, if only for that,” smiled Ivan. “Be sure, I should always

defend him. But in my wishes I reserve myself full latitude in this

case. Good-by till to-morrow. Don’t condemn me, and don’t look on me as

a villain,” he added with a smile.

They shook hands warmly as they had never done before. Alyosha felt

that his brother had taken the first step towards him, and that he had

certainly done this with some definite motive.

Chapter X.

Both Together

Alyosha left his father’s house feeling even more exhausted and

dejected in spirit than when he had entered it. His mind too seemed

shattered and unhinged, while he felt that he was afraid to put

together the disjointed fragments and form a general idea from all the

agonizing and conflicting experiences of the day. He felt something

bordering upon despair, which he had never known till then. Towering

like a mountain above all the rest stood the fatal, insoluble question:

How would things end between his father and his brother Dmitri with

this terrible woman? Now he had himself been a witness of it, he had

been present and seen them face to face. Yet only his brother Dmitri

could be made unhappy, terribly, completely unhappy: there was trouble

awaiting him. It appeared too that there were other people concerned,

far more so than Alyosha could have supposed before. There was

something positively mysterious in it, too. Ivan had made a step

towards him, which was what Alyosha had been long desiring. Yet now he

felt for some reason that he was frightened at it. And these women?

Strange to say, that morning he had set out for Katerina Ivanovna’s in

the greatest embarrassment; now he felt nothing of the kind. On the

contrary, he was hastening there as though expecting to find guidance

from her. Yet to give her this message was obviously more difficult

than before. The matter of the three thousand was decided irrevocably,

and Dmitri, feeling himself dishonored and losing his last hope, might

sink to any depth. He had, moreover, told him to describe to Katerina

Ivanovna the scene which had just taken place with his father.

It was by now seven o’clock, and it was getting dark as Alyosha entered

the very spacious and convenient house in the High Street occupied by

Katerina Ivanovna. Alyosha knew that she lived with two aunts. One of

them, a woman of little education, was that aunt of her half-sister

Agafya Ivanovna who had looked after her in her father’s house when she

came from boarding-school. The other aunt was a Moscow lady of style

and consequence, though in straitened circumstances. It was said that

they both gave way in everything to Katerina Ivanovna, and that she

only kept them with her as chaperons. Katerina Ivanovna herself gave

way to no one but her benefactress, the general’s widow, who had been

kept by illness in Moscow, and to whom she was obliged to write twice a

week a full account of all her doings.

When Alyosha entered the hall and asked the maid who opened the door to

him to take his name up, it was evident that they were already aware of

his arrival. Possibly he had been noticed from the window. At least,

Alyosha heard a noise, caught the sound of flying footsteps and

rustling skirts. Two or three women, perhaps, had run out of the room.

Alyosha thought it strange that his arrival should cause such

excitement. He was conducted however to the drawing-room at once. It

was a large room, elegantly and amply furnished, not at all in

provincial style. There were many sofas, lounges, settees, big and

little tables. There were pictures on the walls, vases and lamps on the

tables, masses of flowers, and even an aquarium in the window. It was

twilight and rather dark. Alyosha made out a silk mantle thrown down on

the sofa, where people had evidently just been sitting; and on a table

in front of the sofa were two unfinished cups of chocolate, cakes, a

glass saucer with blue raisins, and another with sweetmeats. Alyosha

saw that he had interrupted visitors, and frowned. But at that instant

the portière was raised, and with rapid, hurrying footsteps Katerina

Ivanovna came in, holding out both hands to Alyosha with a radiant

smile of delight. At the same instant a servant brought in two lighted

candles and set them on the table.

“Thank God! At last you have come too! I’ve been simply praying for you

all day! Sit down.”

Alyosha had been struck by Katerina Ivanovna’s beauty when, three weeks

before, Dmitri had first brought him, at Katerina Ivanovna’s special

request, to be introduced to her. There had been no conversation

between them at that interview, however. Supposing Alyosha to be very

shy, Katerina Ivanovna had talked all the time to Dmitri to spare him.

Alyosha had been silent, but he had seen a great deal very clearly. He

was struck by the imperiousness, proud ease, and self-confidence of the

haughty girl. And all that was certain, Alyosha felt that he was not

exaggerating it. He thought her great glowing black eyes were very

fine, especially with her pale, even rather sallow, longish face. But

in those eyes and in the lines of her exquisite lips there was

something with which his brother might well be passionately in love,

but which perhaps could not be loved for long. He expressed this

thought almost plainly to Dmitri when, after the visit, his brother

besought and insisted that he should not conceal his impressions on

seeing his betrothed.

“You’ll be happy with her, but perhaps—not tranquilly happy.”

“Quite so, brother. Such people remain always the same. They don’t

yield to fate. So you think I shan’t love her for ever.”

“No; perhaps you will love her for ever. But perhaps you won’t always

be happy with her.”

Alyosha had given his opinion at the time, blushing, and angry with

himself for having yielded to his brother’s entreaties and put such

“foolish” ideas into words. For his opinion had struck him as awfully

foolish immediately after he had uttered it. He felt ashamed too of

having given so confident an opinion about a woman. It was with the

more amazement that he felt now, at the first glance at Katerina

Ivanovna as she ran in to him, that he had perhaps been utterly

mistaken. This time her face was beaming with spontaneous good-natured

kindliness, and direct warm-hearted sincerity. The “pride and

haughtiness,” which had struck Alyosha so much before, was only

betrayed now in a frank, generous energy and a sort of bright, strong

faith in herself. Alyosha realized at the first glance, at the first

word, that all the tragedy of her position in relation to the man she

loved so dearly was no secret to her; that she perhaps already knew

everything, positively everything. And yet, in spite of that, there was

such brightness in her face, such faith in the future. Alyosha felt at

once that he had gravely wronged her in his thoughts. He was conquered

and captivated immediately. Besides all this, he noticed at her first

words that she was in great excitement, an excitement perhaps quite

exceptional and almost approaching ecstasy.

“I was so eager to see you, because I can learn from you the whole

truth—from you and no one else.”

“I have come,” muttered Alyosha confusedly, “I—he sent me.”

“Ah, he sent you! I foresaw that. Now I know everything—everything!”

cried Katerina Ivanovna, her eyes flashing. “Wait a moment, Alexey

Fyodorovitch, I’ll tell you why I’ve been so longing to see you. You

see, I know perhaps far more than you do yourself, and there’s no need

for you to tell me anything. I’ll tell you what I want from you. I want

to know your own last impression of him. I want you to tell me most

directly, plainly, coarsely even (oh, as coarsely as you like!), what

you thought of him just now and of his position after your meeting with

him to-day. That will perhaps be better than if I had a personal

explanation with him, as he does not want to come to me. Do you

understand what I want from you? Now, tell me simply, tell me every

word of the message he sent you with (I knew he would send you).”

“He told me to give you his compliments—and to say that he would never

come again—but to give you his compliments.”

“His compliments? Was that what he said—his own expression?”

“Yes.”

“Accidentally perhaps he made a mistake in the word, perhaps he did not

use the right word?”

“No; he told me precisely to repeat that word. He begged me two or

three times not to forget to say so.”

Katerina Ivanovna flushed hotly.

“Help me now, Alexey Fyodorovitch. Now I really need your help. I’ll

tell you what I think, and you must simply say whether it’s right or

not. Listen! If he had sent me his compliments in passing, without

insisting on your repeating the words, without emphasizing them, that

would be the end of everything! But if he particularly insisted on

those words, if he particularly told you not to forget to repeat them

to me, then perhaps he was in excitement, beside himself. He had made

his decision and was frightened at it. He wasn’t walking away from me

with a resolute step, but leaping headlong. The emphasis on that phrase

may have been simply bravado.”

“Yes, yes!” cried Alyosha warmly. “I believe that is it.”

“And, if so, he’s not altogether lost. I can still save him. Stay! Did

he not tell you anything about money—about three thousand roubles?”

“He did speak about it, and it’s that more than anything that’s

crushing him. He said he had lost his honor and that nothing matters

now,” Alyosha answered warmly, feeling a rush of hope in his heart and

believing that there really might be a way of escape and salvation for

his brother. “But do you know about the money?” he added, and suddenly

broke off.

“I’ve known of it a long time; I telegraphed to Moscow to inquire, and

heard long ago that the money had not arrived. He hadn’t sent the

money, but I said nothing. Last week I learnt that he was still in need

of money. My only object in all this was that he should know to whom to

turn, and who was his true friend. No, he won’t recognize that I am his

truest friend; he won’t know me, and looks on me merely as a woman.

I’ve been tormented all the week, trying to think how to prevent him

from being ashamed to face me because he spent that three thousand. Let

him feel ashamed of himself, let him be ashamed of other people’s

knowing, but not of my knowing. He can tell God everything without

shame. Why is it he still does not understand how much I am ready to

bear for his sake? Why, why doesn’t he know me? How dare he not know me

after all that has happened? I want to save him for ever. Let him

forget me as his betrothed. And here he fears that he is dishonored in

my eyes. Why, he wasn’t afraid to be open with you, Alexey

Fyodorovitch. How is it that I don’t deserve the same?”

The last words she uttered in tears. Tears gushed from her eyes.

“I must tell you,” Alyosha began, his voice trembling too, “what

happened just now between him and my father.”

And he described the whole scene, how Dmitri had sent him to get the

money, how he had broken in, knocked his father down, and after that

had again specially and emphatically begged him to take his compliments

and farewell. “He went to that woman,” Alyosha added softly.

“And do you suppose that I can’t put up with that woman? Does he think

I can’t? But he won’t marry her,” she suddenly laughed nervously.

“Could such a passion last for ever in a Karamazov? It’s passion, not

love. He won’t marry her because she won’t marry him.” Again Katerina

Ivanovna laughed strangely.

“He may marry her,” said Alyosha mournfully, looking down.

“He won’t marry her, I tell you. That girl is an angel. Do you know

that? Do you know that?” Katerina Ivanovna exclaimed suddenly with

extraordinary warmth. “She is one of the most fantastic of fantastic

creatures. I know how bewitching she is, but I know too that she is

kind, firm and noble. Why do you look at me like that, Alexey

Fyodorovitch? Perhaps you are wondering at my words, perhaps you don’t

believe me? Agrafena Alexandrovna, my angel!” she cried suddenly to

some one, peeping into the next room, “come in to us. This is a friend.

This is Alyosha. He knows all about our affairs. Show yourself to him.”

“I’ve only been waiting behind the curtain for you to call me,” said a

soft, one might even say sugary, feminine voice.

The portière was raised and Grushenka herself, smiling and beaming,

came up to the table. A violent revulsion passed over Alyosha. He fixed

his eyes on her and could not take them off. Here she was, that awful

woman, the “beast,” as Ivan had called her half an hour before. And yet

one would have thought the creature standing before him most simple and

ordinary, a good-natured, kind woman, handsome certainly, but so like

other handsome ordinary women! It is true she was very, very

good-looking with that Russian beauty so passionately loved by many

men. She was a rather tall woman, though a little shorter than Katerina

Ivanovna, who was exceptionally tall. She had a full figure, with soft,

as it were, noiseless, movements, softened to a peculiar

over-sweetness, like her voice. She moved, not like Katerina Ivanovna,

with a vigorous, bold step, but noiselessly. Her feet made absolutely

no sound on the floor. She sank softly into a low chair, softly

rustling her sumptuous black silk dress, and delicately nestling her

milk-white neck and broad shoulders in a costly cashmere shawl. She was

twenty-two years old, and her face looked exactly that age. She was

very white in the face, with a pale pink tint on her cheeks. The

modeling of her face might be said to be too broad, and the lower jaw

was set a trifle forward. Her upper lip was thin, but the slightly

prominent lower lip was at least twice as full, and looked pouting. But

her magnificent, abundant dark brown hair, her sable-colored eyebrows

and charming gray-blue eyes with their long lashes would have made the

most indifferent person, meeting her casually in a crowd in the street,

stop at the sight of her face and remember it long after. What struck

Alyosha most in that face was its expression of childlike good nature.

There was a childlike look in her eyes, a look of childish delight. She

came up to the table, beaming with delight and seeming to expect

something with childish, impatient, and confiding curiosity. The light

in her eyes gladdened the soul—Alyosha felt that. There was something

else in her which he could not understand, or would not have been able

to define, and which yet perhaps unconsciously affected him. It was

that softness, that voluptuousness of her bodily movements, that

catlike noiselessness. Yet it was a vigorous, ample body. Under the

shawl could be seen full broad shoulders, a high, still quite girlish

bosom. Her figure suggested the lines of the Venus of Milo, though

already in somewhat exaggerated proportions. That could be divined.

Connoisseurs of Russian beauty could have foretold with certainty that

this fresh, still youthful beauty would lose its harmony by the age of

thirty, would “spread”; that the face would become puffy, and that

wrinkles would very soon appear upon her forehead and round the eyes;

the complexion would grow coarse and red perhaps—in fact, that it was

the beauty of the moment, the fleeting beauty which is so often met

with in Russian women. Alyosha, of course, did not think of this; but

though he was fascinated, yet he wondered with an unpleasant sensation,

and as it were regretfully, why she drawled in that way and could not

speak naturally. She did so evidently feeling there was a charm in the

exaggerated, honeyed modulation of the syllables. It was, of course,

only a bad, underbred habit that showed bad education and a false idea

of good manners. And yet this intonation and manner of speaking

impressed Alyosha as almost incredibly incongruous with the childishly

simple and happy expression of her face, the soft, babyish joy in her

eyes. Katerina Ivanovna at once made her sit down in an arm-chair

facing Alyosha, and ecstatically kissed her several times on her

smiling lips. She seemed quite in love with her.

“This is the first time we’ve met, Alexey Fyodorovitch,” she said

rapturously. “I wanted to know her, to see her. I wanted to go to her,

but I’d no sooner expressed the wish than she came to me. I knew we

should settle everything together—everything. My heart told me so—I was

begged not to take the step, but I foresaw it would be a way out of the

difficulty, and I was not mistaken. Grushenka has explained everything

to me, told me all she means to do. She flew here like an angel of

goodness and brought us peace and joy.”

“You did not disdain me, sweet, excellent young lady,” drawled

Grushenka in her sing-song voice, still with the same charming smile of

delight.

“Don’t dare to speak to me like that, you sorceress, you witch! Disdain

you! Here, I must kiss your lower lip once more. It looks as though it

were swollen, and now it will be more so, and more and more. Look how

she laughs, Alexey Fyodorovitch! It does one’s heart good to see the

angel.”

Alyosha flushed, and faint, imperceptible shivers kept running down

him.

“You make so much of me, dear young lady, and perhaps I am not at all

worthy of your kindness.”

“Not worthy! She’s not worthy of it!” Katerina Ivanovna cried again

with the same warmth. “You know, Alexey Fyodorovitch, we’re fanciful,

we’re self-willed, but proudest of the proud in our little heart. We’re

noble, we’re generous, Alexey Fyodorovitch, let me tell you. We have

only been unfortunate. We were too ready to make every sacrifice for an

unworthy, perhaps, or fickle man. There was one man—one, an officer

too, we loved him, we sacrificed everything to him. That was long ago,

five years ago, and he has forgotten us, he has married. Now he is a

widower, he has written, he is coming here, and, do you know, we’ve

loved him, none but him, all this time, and we’ve loved him all our

life! He will come, and Grushenka will be happy again. For the last

five years she’s been wretched. But who can reproach her, who can boast

of her favor? Only that bedridden old merchant, but he is more like her

father, her friend, her protector. He found her then in despair, in

agony, deserted by the man she loved. She was ready to drown herself

then, but the old merchant saved her—saved her!”

“You defend me very kindly, dear young lady. You are in a great hurry

about everything,” Grushenka drawled again.

“Defend you! Is it for me to defend you? Should I dare to defend you?

Grushenka, angel, give me your hand. Look at that charming soft little

hand, Alexey Fyodorovitch! Look at it! It has brought me happiness and

has lifted me up, and I’m going to kiss it, outside and inside, here,

here, here!”

And three times she kissed the certainly charming, though rather fat,

hand of Grushenka in a sort of rapture. She held out her hand with a

charming musical, nervous little laugh, watched the “sweet young lady,”

and obviously liked having her hand kissed.

“Perhaps there’s rather too much rapture,” thought Alyosha. He blushed.

He felt a peculiar uneasiness at heart the whole time.

“You won’t make me blush, dear young lady, kissing my hand like this

before Alexey Fyodorovitch.”

“Do you think I meant to make you blush?” said Katerina Ivanovna,

somewhat surprised. “Ah, my dear, how little you understand me!”

“Yes, and you too perhaps quite misunderstand me, dear young lady.

Maybe I’m not so good as I seem to you. I’ve a bad heart; I will have

my own way. I fascinated poor Dmitri Fyodorovitch that day simply for

fun.”

“But now you’ll save him. You’ve given me your word. You’ll explain it

all to him. You’ll break to him that you have long loved another man,

who is now offering you his hand.”

“Oh, no! I didn’t give you my word to do that. It was you kept talking

about that. I didn’t give you my word.”

“Then I didn’t quite understand you,” said Katerina Ivanovna slowly,

turning a little pale. “You promised—”

“Oh, no, angel lady, I’ve promised nothing,” Grushenka interrupted

softly and evenly, still with the same gay and simple expression. “You

see at once, dear young lady, what a willful wretch I am compared with

you. If I want to do a thing I do it. I may have made you some promise

just now. But now again I’m thinking: I may take to Mitya again. I

liked him very much once—liked him for almost a whole hour. Now maybe I

shall go and tell him to stay with me from this day forward. You see,

I’m so changeable.”

“Just now you said—something quite different,” Katerina Ivanovna

whispered faintly.

“Ah, just now! But, you know. I’m such a soft-hearted, silly creature.

Only think what he’s gone through on my account! What if when I go home

I feel sorry for him? What then?”

“I never expected—”

“Ah, young lady, how good and generous you are compared with me! Now

perhaps you won’t care for a silly creature like me, now you know my

character. Give me your sweet little hand, angelic lady,” she said

tenderly, and with a sort of reverence took Katerina Ivanovna’s hand.

“Here, dear young lady, I’ll take your hand and kiss it as you did

mine. You kissed mine three times, but I ought to kiss yours three

hundred times to be even with you. Well, but let that pass. And then it

shall be as God wills. Perhaps I shall be your slave entirely and want

to do your bidding like a slave. Let it be as God wills, without any

agreements and promises. What a sweet hand—what a sweet hand you have!

You sweet young lady, you incredible beauty!”

She slowly raised the hands to her lips, with the strange object indeed

of “being even” with her in kisses.

Katerina Ivanovna did not take her hand away. She listened with timid

hope to the last words, though Grushenka’s promise to do her bidding

like a slave was very strangely expressed. She looked intently into her

eyes; she still saw in those eyes the same simple-hearted, confiding

expression, the same bright gayety.

“She’s perhaps too naïve,” thought Katerina Ivanovna, with a gleam of

hope.

Grushenka meanwhile seemed enthusiastic over the “sweet hand.” She

raised it deliberately to her lips. But she held it for two or three

minutes near her lips, as though reconsidering something.

“Do you know, angel lady,” she suddenly drawled in an even more soft

and sugary voice, “do you know, after all, I think I won’t kiss your

hand?” And she laughed a little merry laugh.

“As you please. What’s the matter with you?” said Katerina Ivanovna,

starting suddenly.

“So that you may be left to remember that you kissed my hand, but I

didn’t kiss yours.”

There was a sudden gleam in her eyes. She looked with awful intentness

at Katerina Ivanovna.

“Insolent creature!” cried Katerina Ivanovna, as though suddenly

grasping something. She flushed all over and leapt up from her seat.

Grushenka too got up, but without haste.

“So I shall tell Mitya how you kissed my hand, but I didn’t kiss yours

at all. And how he will laugh!”

“Vile slut! Go away!”

“Ah, for shame, young lady! Ah, for shame! That’s unbecoming for you,

dear young lady, a word like that.”

“Go away! You’re a creature for sale!” screamed Katerina Ivanovna.

Every feature was working in her utterly distorted face.

“For sale indeed! You used to visit gentlemen in the dusk for money

once; you brought your beauty for sale. You see, I know.”

Katerina Ivanovna shrieked, and would have rushed at her, but Alyosha

held her with all his strength.

“Not a step, not a word! Don’t speak, don’t answer her. She’ll go

away—she’ll go at once.”

At that instant Katerina Ivanovna’s two aunts ran in at her cry, and

with them a maid-servant. All hurried to her.

“I will go away,” said Grushenka, taking up her mantle from the sofa.

“Alyosha, darling, see me home!”

“Go away—go away, make haste!” cried Alyosha, clasping his hands

imploringly.

“Dear little Alyosha, see me home! I’ve got a pretty little story to

tell you on the way. I got up this scene for your benefit, Alyosha. See

me home, dear, you’ll be glad of it afterwards.”

Alyosha turned away, wringing his hands. Grushenka ran out of the

house, laughing musically.

Katerina Ivanovna went into a fit of hysterics. She sobbed, and was

shaken with convulsions. Every one fussed round her.

“I warned you,” said the elder of her aunts. “I tried to prevent your

doing this. You’re too impulsive. How could you do such a thing? You

don’t know these creatures, and they say she’s worse than any of them.

You are too self-willed.”

“She’s a tigress!” yelled Katerina Ivanovna. “Why did you hold me,

Alexey Fyodorovitch? I’d have beaten her—beaten her!”

She could not control herself before Alyosha; perhaps she did not care

to, indeed.

“She ought to be flogged in public on a scaffold!”

Alyosha withdrew towards the door.

“But, my God!” cried Katerina Ivanovna, clasping her hands. “He! He! He

could be so dishonorable, so inhuman! Why, he told that creature what

happened on that fatal, accursed day! ‘You brought your beauty for

sale, dear young lady.’ She knows it! Your brother’s a scoundrel,

Alexey Fyodorovitch.”

Alyosha wanted to say something, but he couldn’t find a word. His heart

ached.

“Go away, Alexey Fyodorovitch! It’s shameful, it’s awful for me!

To-morrow, I beg you on my knees, come to-morrow. Don’t condemn me.

Forgive me. I don’t know what I shall do with myself now!”

Alyosha walked out into the street reeling. He could have wept as she

did. Suddenly he was overtaken by the maid.

“The young lady forgot to give you this letter from Madame Hohlakov;

it’s been left with us since dinner-time.”

Alyosha took the little pink envelope mechanically and put it, almost

unconsciously, into his pocket.

Chapter XI.

Another Reputation Ruined

It was not much more than three-quarters of a mile from the town to the

monastery. Alyosha walked quickly along the road, at that hour

deserted. It was almost night, and too dark to see anything clearly at

thirty paces ahead. There were cross-roads half-way. A figure came into

sight under a solitary willow at the cross-roads. As soon as Alyosha

reached the cross-roads the figure moved out and rushed at him,

shouting savagely:

“Your money or your life!”

“So it’s you, Mitya,” cried Alyosha, in surprise, violently startled

however.

“Ha ha ha! You didn’t expect me? I wondered where to wait for you. By

her house? There are three ways from it, and I might have missed you.

At last I thought of waiting here, for you had to pass here, there’s no

other way to the monastery. Come, tell me the truth. Crush me like a

beetle. But what’s the matter?”

“Nothing, brother—it’s the fright you gave me. Oh, Dmitri! Father’s

blood just now.” (Alyosha began to cry, he had been on the verge of

tears for a long time, and now something seemed to snap in his soul.)

“You almost killed him—cursed him—and now—here—you’re making

jokes—‘Your money or your life!’”

“Well, what of that? It’s not seemly—is that it? Not suitable in my

position?”

“No—I only—”

“Stay. Look at the night. You see what a dark night, what clouds, what

a wind has risen. I hid here under the willow waiting for you. And as

God’s above, I suddenly thought, why go on in misery any longer, what

is there to wait for? Here I have a willow, a handkerchief, a shirt, I

can twist them into a rope in a minute, and braces besides, and why go

on burdening the earth, dishonoring it with my vile presence? And then

I heard you coming—Heavens, it was as though something flew down to me

suddenly. So there is a man, then, whom I love. Here he is, that man,

my dear little brother, whom I love more than any one in the world, the

only one I love in the world. And I loved you so much, so much at that

moment that I thought, ‘I’ll fall on his neck at once.’ Then a stupid

idea struck me, to have a joke with you and scare you. I shouted, like

a fool, ‘Your money!’ Forgive my foolery—it was only nonsense, and

there’s nothing unseemly in my soul.... Damn it all, tell me what’s

happened. What did she say? Strike me, crush me, don’t spare me! Was

she furious?”

“No, not that.... There was nothing like that, Mitya. There—I found

them both there.”

“Both? Whom?”

“Grushenka at Katerina Ivanovna’s.”

Dmitri was struck dumb.

“Impossible!” he cried. “You’re raving! Grushenka with her?”

Alyosha described all that had happened from the moment he went in to

Katerina Ivanovna’s. He was ten minutes telling his story. He can’t be

said to have told it fluently and consecutively, but he seemed to make

it clear, not omitting any word or action of significance, and vividly

describing, often in one word, his own sensations. Dmitri listened in

silence, gazing at him with a terrible fixed stare, but it was clear to

Alyosha that he understood it all, and had grasped every point. But as

the story went on, his face became not merely gloomy, but menacing. He

scowled, he clenched his teeth, and his fixed stare became still more

rigid, more concentrated, more terrible, when suddenly, with incredible

rapidity, his wrathful, savage face changed, his tightly compressed

lips parted, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch broke into uncontrolled,

spontaneous laughter. He literally shook with laughter. For a long time

he could not speak.

“So she wouldn’t kiss her hand! So she didn’t kiss it; so she ran

away!” he kept exclaiming with hysterical delight; insolent delight it

might have been called, if it had not been so spontaneous. “So the

other one called her tigress! And a tigress she is! So she ought to be

flogged on a scaffold? Yes, yes, so she ought. That’s just what I

think; she ought to have been long ago. It’s like this, brother, let

her be punished, but I must get better first. I understand the queen of

impudence. That’s her all over! You saw her all over in that

hand-kissing, the she-devil! She’s magnificent in her own line! So she

ran home? I’ll go—ah—I’ll run to her! Alyosha, don’t blame me, I agree

that hanging is too good for her.”

“But Katerina Ivanovna!” exclaimed Alyosha sorrowfully.

“I see her, too! I see right through her, as I’ve never done before!

It’s a regular discovery of the four continents of the world, that is,

of the five! What a thing to do! That’s just like Katya, who was not

afraid to face a coarse, unmannerly officer and risk a deadly insult on

a generous impulse to save her father! But the pride, the recklessness,

the defiance of fate, the unbounded defiance! You say that aunt tried

to stop her? That aunt, you know, is overbearing, herself. She’s the

sister of the general’s widow in Moscow, and even more stuck-up than

she. But her husband was caught stealing government money. He lost

everything, his estate and all, and the proud wife had to lower her

colors, and hasn’t raised them since. So she tried to prevent Katya,

but she wouldn’t listen to her! She thinks she can overcome everything,

that everything will give way to her. She thought she could bewitch

Grushenka if she liked, and she believed it herself: she plays a part

to herself, and whose fault is it? Do you think she kissed Grushenka’s

hand first, on purpose, with a motive? No, she really was fascinated by

Grushenka, that’s to say, not by Grushenka, but by her own dream, her

own delusion—because it was _her_ dream, _her_ delusion! Alyosha,

darling, how did you escape from them, those women? Did you pick up

your cassock and run? Ha ha ha!”

“Brother, you don’t seem to have noticed how you’ve insulted Katerina

Ivanovna by telling Grushenka about that day. And she flung it in her

face just now that she had gone to gentlemen in secret to sell her

beauty! Brother, what could be worse than that insult?”

What worried Alyosha more than anything was that, incredible as it

seemed, his brother appeared pleased at Katerina Ivanovna’s

humiliation.

“Bah!” Dmitri frowned fiercely, and struck his forehead with his hand.

He only now realized it, though Alyosha had just told him of the

insult, and Katerina Ivanovna’s cry: “Your brother is a scoundrel!”

“Yes, perhaps, I really did tell Grushenka about that ‘fatal day,’ as

Katya calls it. Yes, I did tell her, I remember! It was that time at

Mokroe. I was drunk, the gypsies were singing.... But I was sobbing. I

was sobbing then, kneeling and praying to Katya’s image, and Grushenka

understood it. She understood it all then. I remember, she cried

herself.... Damn it all! But it’s bound to be so now.... Then she

cried, but now ‘the dagger in the heart’! That’s how women are.”

He looked down and sank into thought.

“Yes, I am a scoundrel, a thorough scoundrel!” he said suddenly, in a

gloomy voice. “It doesn’t matter whether I cried or not, I’m a

scoundrel! Tell her I accept the name, if that’s any comfort. Come,

that’s enough. Good-by. It’s no use talking! It’s not amusing. You go

your way and I mine. And I don’t want to see you again except as a last

resource. Good-by, Alexey!”

He warmly pressed Alyosha’s hand, and still looking down, without

raising his head, as though tearing himself away, turned rapidly

towards the town.

Alyosha looked after him, unable to believe he would go away so

abruptly.

“Stay, Alexey, one more confession to you alone!” cried Dmitri,

suddenly turning back. “Look at me. Look at me well. You see here,

here—there’s terrible disgrace in store for me.” (As he said “here,”

Dmitri struck his chest with his fist with a strange air, as though the

dishonor lay precisely on his chest, in some spot, in a pocket,

perhaps, or hanging round his neck.) “You know me now, a scoundrel, an

avowed scoundrel, but let me tell you that I’ve never done anything

before and never shall again, anything that can compare in baseness

with the dishonor which I bear now at this very minute on my breast,

here, here, which will come to pass, though I’m perfectly free to stop

it. I can stop it or carry it through, note that. Well, let me tell

you, I shall carry it through. I shan’t stop it. I told you everything

just now, but I didn’t tell you this, because even I had not brass

enough for it. I can still pull up; if I do, I can give back the full

half of my lost honor to-morrow. But I shan’t pull up. I shall carry

out my base plan, and you can bear witness that I told you so

beforehand. Darkness and destruction! No need to explain. You’ll find

out in due time. The filthy back-alley and the she-devil. Good-by.

Don’t pray for me, I’m not worth it. And there’s no need, no need at

all.... I don’t need it! Away!”

And he suddenly retreated, this time finally. Alyosha went towards the

monastery.

“What? I shall never see him again! What is he saying?” he wondered

wildly. “Why, I shall certainly see him to-morrow. I shall look him up.

I shall make a point of it. What does he mean?”

He went round the monastery, and crossed the pine-wood to the

hermitage. The door was opened to him, though no one was admitted at

that hour. There was a tremor in his heart as he went into Father

Zossima’s cell.

“Why, why, had he gone forth? Why had he sent him into the world? Here

was peace. Here was holiness. But there was confusion, there was

darkness in which one lost one’s way and went astray at once....”

In the cell he found the novice Porfiry and Father Païssy, who came

every hour to inquire after Father Zossima. Alyosha learnt with alarm

that he was getting worse and worse. Even his usual discourse with the

brothers could not take place that day. As a rule every evening after

service the monks flocked into Father Zossima’s cell, and all confessed

aloud their sins of the day, their sinful thoughts and temptations;

even their disputes, if there had been any. Some confessed kneeling.

The elder absolved, reconciled, exhorted, imposed penance, blessed, and

dismissed them. It was against this general “confession” that the

opponents of “elders” protested, maintaining that it was a profanation

of the sacrament of confession, almost a sacrilege, though this was

quite a different thing. They even represented to the diocesan

authorities that such confessions attained no good object, but actually

to a large extent led to sin and temptation. Many of the brothers

disliked going to the elder, and went against their own will because

every one went, and for fear they should be accused of pride and

rebellious ideas. People said that some of the monks agreed beforehand,

saying, “I’ll confess I lost my temper with you this morning, and you

confirm it,” simply in order to have something to say. Alyosha knew

that this actually happened sometimes. He knew, too, that there were

among the monks some who deeply resented the fact that letters from

relations were habitually taken to the elder, to be opened and read by

him before those to whom they were addressed.

It was assumed, of course, that all this was done freely, and in good

faith, by way of voluntary submission and salutary guidance. But, in

fact, there was sometimes no little insincerity, and much that was

false and strained in this practice. Yet the older and more experienced

of the monks adhered to their opinion, arguing that “for those who have

come within these walls sincerely seeking salvation, such obedience and

sacrifice will certainly be salutary and of great benefit; those, on

the other hand, who find it irksome, and repine, are no true monks, and

have made a mistake in entering the monastery—their proper place is in

the world. Even in the temple one cannot be safe from sin and the

devil. So it was no good taking it too much into account.”

“He is weaker, a drowsiness has come over him,” Father Païssy whispered

to Alyosha, as he blessed him. “It’s difficult to rouse him. And he

must not be roused. He waked up for five minutes, sent his blessing to

the brothers, and begged their prayers for him at night. He intends to

take the sacrament again in the morning. He remembered you, Alexey. He

asked whether you had gone away, and was told that you were in the

town. ‘I blessed him for that work,’ he said, ‘his place is there, not

here, for awhile.’ Those were his words about you. He remembered you

lovingly, with anxiety; do you understand how he honored you? But how

is it that he has decided that you shall spend some time in the world?

He must have foreseen something in your destiny! Understand, Alexey,

that if you return to the world, it must be to do the duty laid upon

you by your elder, and not for frivolous vanity and worldly pleasures.”

Father Païssy went out. Alyosha had no doubt that Father Zossima was

dying, though he might live another day or two. Alyosha firmly and

ardently resolved that in spite of his promises to his father, the

Hohlakovs, and Katerina Ivanovna, he would not leave the monastery next

day, but would remain with his elder to the end. His heart glowed with

love, and he reproached himself bitterly for having been able for one

instant to forget him whom he had left in the monastery on his

deathbed, and whom he honored above every one in the world. He went

into Father Zossima’s bedroom, knelt down, and bowed to the ground

before the elder, who slept quietly without stirring, with regular,

hardly audible breathing and a peaceful face.

Alyosha returned to the other room, where Father Zossima had received

his guests in the morning. Taking off his boots, he lay down on the

hard, narrow, leathern sofa, which he had long used as a bed, bringing

nothing but a pillow. The mattress, about which his father had shouted

to him that morning, he had long forgotten to lie on. He took off his

cassock, which he used as a covering. But before going to bed, he fell

on his knees and prayed a long time. In his fervent prayer he did not

beseech God to lighten his darkness but only thirsted for the joyous

emotion, which always visited his soul after the praise and adoration,

of which his evening prayer usually consisted. That joy always brought

him light untroubled sleep. As he was praying, he suddenly felt in his

pocket the little pink note the servant had handed him as he left

Katerina Ivanovna’s. He was disturbed, but finished his prayer. Then,

after some hesitation, he opened the envelope. In it was a letter to

him, signed by Lise, the young daughter of Madame Hohlakov, who had

laughed at him before the elder in the morning.

“Alexey Fyodorovitch,” she wrote, “I am writing to you without any

one’s knowledge, even mamma’s, and I know how wrong it is. But I cannot

live without telling you the feeling that has sprung up in my heart,

and this no one but us two must know for a time. But how am I to say

what I want so much to tell you? Paper, they say, does not blush, but I

assure you it’s not true and that it’s blushing just as I am now, all

over. Dear Alyosha, I love you, I’ve loved you from my childhood, since

our Moscow days, when you were very different from what you are now,

and I shall love you all my life. My heart has chosen you, to unite our

lives, and pass them together till our old age. Of course, on condition

that you will leave the monastery. As for our age we will wait for the

time fixed by the law. By that time I shall certainly be quite strong,

I shall be walking and dancing. There can be no doubt of that.

“You see how I’ve thought of everything. There’s only one thing I can’t

imagine: what you’ll think of me when you read this. I’m always

laughing and being naughty. I made you angry this morning, but I assure

you before I took up my pen, I prayed before the Image of the Mother of

God, and now I’m praying, and almost crying.

“My secret is in your hands. When you come to-morrow, I don’t know how

I shall look at you. Ah, Alexey Fyodorovitch, what if I can’t restrain

myself like a silly and laugh when I look at you as I did to-day.

You’ll think I’m a nasty girl making fun of you, and you won’t believe

my letter. And so I beg you, dear one, if you’ve any pity for me, when

you come to-morrow, don’t look me straight in the face, for if I meet

your eyes, it will be sure to make me laugh, especially as you’ll be in

that long gown. I feel cold all over when I think of it, so when you

come, don’t look at me at all for a time, look at mamma or at the

window....

“Here I’ve written you a love-letter. Oh, dear, what have I done?

Alyosha, don’t despise me, and if I’ve done something very horrid and

wounded you, forgive me. Now the secret of my reputation, ruined

perhaps for ever, is in your hands.

“I shall certainly cry to-day. Good-by till our meeting, our _awful_

meeting.—LISE.

“P.S.—Alyosha! You must, must, must come!—LISE.”

Alyosha read the note in amazement, read it through twice, thought a

little, and suddenly laughed a soft, sweet laugh. He started. That

laugh seemed to him sinful. But a minute later he laughed again just as

softly and happily. He slowly replaced the note in the envelope,

crossed himself and lay down. The agitation in his heart passed at

once. “God, have mercy upon all of them, have all these unhappy and

turbulent souls in Thy keeping, and set them in the right path. All

ways are Thine. Save them according to Thy wisdom. Thou art love. Thou

wilt send joy to all!” Alyosha murmured, crossing himself, and falling

into peaceful sleep.

PART II

Book IV. Lacerations

Chapter I.

Father Ferapont

Alyosha was roused early, before daybreak. Father Zossima woke up

feeling very weak, though he wanted to get out of bed and sit up in a

chair. His mind was quite clear; his face looked very tired, yet bright

and almost joyful. It wore an expression of gayety, kindness and

cordiality. “Maybe I shall not live through the coming day,” he said to

Alyosha. Then he desired to confess and take the sacrament at once. He

always confessed to Father Païssy. After taking the communion, the

service of extreme unction followed. The monks assembled and the cell

was gradually filled up by the inmates of the hermitage. Meantime it

was daylight. People began coming from the monastery. After the service

was over the elder desired to kiss and take leave of every one. As the

cell was so small the earlier visitors withdrew to make room for

others. Alyosha stood beside the elder, who was seated again in his

arm-chair. He talked as much as he could. Though his voice was weak, it

was fairly steady.

“I’ve been teaching you so many years, and therefore I’ve been talking

aloud so many years, that I’ve got into the habit of talking, and so

much so that it’s almost more difficult for me to hold my tongue than

to talk, even now, in spite of my weakness, dear Fathers and brothers,”

he jested, looking with emotion at the group round him.

Alyosha remembered afterwards something of what he said to them. But

though he spoke out distinctly and his voice was fairly steady, his

speech was somewhat disconnected. He spoke of many things, he seemed

anxious before the moment of death to say everything he had not said in

his life, and not simply for the sake of instructing them, but as

though thirsting to share with all men and all creation his joy and

ecstasy, and once more in his life to open his whole heart.

“Love one another, Fathers,” said Father Zossima, as far as Alyosha

could remember afterwards. “Love God’s people. Because we have come

here and shut ourselves within these walls, we are no holier than those

that are outside, but on the contrary, from the very fact of coming

here, each of us has confessed to himself that he is worse than others,

than all men on earth.... And the longer the monk lives in his

seclusion, the more keenly he must recognize that. Else he would have

had no reason to come here. When he realizes that he is not only worse

than others, but that he is responsible to all men for all and

everything, for all human sins, national and individual, only then the

aim of our seclusion is attained. For know, dear ones, that every one

of us is undoubtedly responsible for all men and everything on earth,

not merely through the general sinfulness of creation, but each one

personally for all mankind and every individual man. This knowledge is

the crown of life for the monk and for every man. For monks are not a

special sort of men, but only what all men ought to be. Only through

that knowledge, our heart grows soft with infinite, universal,

inexhaustible love. Then every one of you will have the power to win

over the whole world by love and to wash away the sins of the world

with your tears.... Each of you keep watch over your heart and confess

your sins to yourself unceasingly. Be not afraid of your sins, even

when perceiving them, if only there be penitence, but make no

conditions with God. Again I say, Be not proud. Be proud neither to the

little nor to the great. Hate not those who reject you, who insult you,

who abuse and slander you. Hate not the atheists, the teachers of evil,

the materialists—and I mean not only the good ones—for there are many

good ones among them, especially in our day—hate not even the wicked

ones. Remember them in your prayers thus: Save, O Lord, all those who

have none to pray for them, save too all those who will not pray. And

add: it is not in pride that I make this prayer, O Lord, for I am lower

than all men.... Love God’s people, let not strangers draw away the

flock, for if you slumber in your slothfulness and disdainful pride, or

worse still, in covetousness, they will come from all sides and draw

away your flock. Expound the Gospel to the people unceasingly ... be

not extortionate.... Do not love gold and silver, do not hoard them....

Have faith. Cling to the banner and raise it on high.”

But the elder spoke more disconnectedly than Alyosha reported his words

afterwards. Sometimes he broke off altogether, as though to take

breath, and recover his strength, but he was in a sort of ecstasy. They

heard him with emotion, though many wondered at his words and found

them obscure.... Afterwards all remembered those words.

When Alyosha happened for a moment to leave the cell, he was struck by

the general excitement and suspense in the monks who were crowding

about it. This anticipation showed itself in some by anxiety, in others

by devout solemnity. All were expecting that some marvel would happen

immediately after the elder’s death. Their suspense was, from one point

of view, almost frivolous, but even the most austere of the monks were

affected by it. Father Païssy’s face looked the gravest of all.

Alyosha was mysteriously summoned by a monk to see Rakitin, who had

arrived from town with a singular letter for him from Madame Hohlakov.

In it she informed Alyosha of a strange and very opportune incident. It

appeared that among the women who had come on the previous day to

receive Father Zossima’s blessing, there had been an old woman from the

town, a sergeant’s widow, called Prohorovna. She had inquired whether

she might pray for the rest of the soul of her son, Vassenka, who had

gone to Irkutsk, and had sent her no news for over a year. To which

Father Zossima had answered sternly, forbidding her to do so, and

saying that to pray for the living as though they were dead was a kind

of sorcery. He afterwards forgave her on account of her ignorance, and

added, “as though reading the book of the future” (this was Madame

Hohlakov’s expression), words of comfort: “that her son Vassya was

certainly alive and he would either come himself very shortly or send a

letter, and that she was to go home and expect him.” And “Would you

believe it?” exclaimed Madame Hohlakov enthusiastically, “the prophecy

has been fulfilled literally indeed, and more than that.” Scarcely had

the old woman reached home when they gave her a letter from Siberia

which had been awaiting her. But that was not all; in the letter

written on the road from Ekaterinenburg, Vassya informed his mother

that he was returning to Russia with an official, and that three weeks

after her receiving the letter he hoped “to embrace his mother.”

Madame Hohlakov warmly entreated Alyosha to report this new “miracle of

prediction” to the Superior and all the brotherhood. “All, all, ought

to know of it!” she concluded. The letter had been written in haste,

the excitement of the writer was apparent in every line of it. But

Alyosha had no need to tell the monks, for all knew of it already.

Rakitin had commissioned the monk who brought his message “to inform

most respectfully his reverence Father Païssy, that he, Rakitin, has a

matter to speak of with him, of such gravity that he dare not defer it

for a moment, and humbly begs forgiveness for his presumption.” As the

monk had given the message to Father Païssy before that to Alyosha, the

latter found after reading the letter, there was nothing left for him

to do but to hand it to Father Païssy in confirmation of the story.

And even that austere and cautious man, though he frowned as he read

the news of the “miracle,” could not completely restrain some inner

emotion. His eyes gleamed, and a grave and solemn smile came into his

lips.

“We shall see greater things!” broke from him.

“We shall see greater things, greater things yet!” the monks around

repeated.

But Father Païssy, frowning again, begged all of them, at least for a

time, not to speak of the matter “till it be more fully confirmed,

seeing there is so much credulity among those of this world, and indeed

this might well have chanced naturally,” he added, prudently, as it

were to satisfy his conscience, though scarcely believing his own

disavowal, a fact his listeners very clearly perceived.

Within the hour the “miracle” was of course known to the whole

monastery, and many visitors who had come for the mass. No one seemed

more impressed by it than the monk who had come the day before from St.

Sylvester, from the little monastery of Obdorsk in the far North. It

was he who had been standing near Madame Hohlakov the previous day and

had asked Father Zossima earnestly, referring to the “healing” of the

lady’s daughter, “How can you presume to do such things?”

He was now somewhat puzzled and did not know whom to believe. The

evening before he had visited Father Ferapont in his cell apart, behind

the apiary, and had been greatly impressed and overawed by the visit.

This Father Ferapont was that aged monk so devout in fasting and

observing silence who has been mentioned already, as antagonistic to

Father Zossima and the whole institution of “elders,” which he regarded

as a pernicious and frivolous innovation. He was a very formidable

opponent, although from his practice of silence he scarcely spoke a

word to any one. What made him formidable was that a number of monks

fully shared his feeling, and many of the visitors looked upon him as a

great saint and ascetic, although they had no doubt that he was crazy.

But it was just his craziness attracted them.

Father Ferapont never went to see the elder. Though he lived in the

hermitage they did not worry him to keep its regulations, and this too

because he behaved as though he were crazy. He was seventy-five or

more, and he lived in a corner beyond the apiary in an old decaying

wooden cell which had been built long ago for another great ascetic,

Father Iona, who had lived to be a hundred and five, and of whose

saintly doings many curious stories were still extant in the monastery

and the neighborhood.

Father Ferapont had succeeded in getting himself installed in this same

solitary cell seven years previously. It was simply a peasant’s hut,

though it looked like a chapel, for it contained an extraordinary

number of ikons with lamps perpetually burning before them—which men

brought to the monastery as offerings to God. Father Ferapont had been

appointed to look after them and keep the lamps burning. It was said

(and indeed it was true) that he ate only two pounds of bread in three

days. The beekeeper, who lived close by the apiary, used to bring him

the bread every three days, and even to this man who waited upon him,

Father Ferapont rarely uttered a word. The four pounds of bread,

together with the sacrament bread, regularly sent him on Sundays after

the late mass by the Father Superior, made up his weekly rations. The

water in his jug was changed every day. He rarely appeared at mass.

Visitors who came to do him homage saw him sometimes kneeling all day

long at prayer without looking round. If he addressed them, he was

brief, abrupt, strange, and almost always rude. On very rare occasions,

however, he would talk to visitors, but for the most part he would

utter some one strange saying which was a complete riddle, and no

entreaties would induce him to pronounce a word in explanation. He was

not a priest, but a simple monk. There was a strange belief, chiefly

however among the most ignorant, that Father Ferapont had communication

with heavenly spirits and would only converse with them, and so was

silent with men.

The monk from Obdorsk, having been directed to the apiary by the

beekeeper, who was also a very silent and surly monk, went to the

corner where Father Ferapont’s cell stood. “Maybe he will speak as you

are a stranger and maybe you’ll get nothing out of him,” the beekeeper

had warned him. The monk, as he related afterwards, approached in the

utmost apprehension. It was rather late in the evening. Father Ferapont

was sitting at the door of his cell on a low bench. A huge old elm was

lightly rustling overhead. There was an evening freshness in the air.

The monk from Obdorsk bowed down before the saint and asked his

blessing.

“Do you want me to bow down to you, monk?” said Father Ferapont. “Get

up!”

The monk got up.

“Blessing, be blessed! Sit beside me. Where have you come from?”

What most struck the poor monk was the fact that in spite of his strict

fasting and great age, Father Ferapont still looked a vigorous old man.

He was tall, held himself erect, and had a thin, but fresh and healthy

face. There was no doubt he still had considerable strength. He was of

athletic build. In spite of his great age he was not even quite gray,

and still had very thick hair and a full beard, both of which had once

been black. His eyes were gray, large and luminous, but strikingly

prominent. He spoke with a broad accent. He was dressed in a peasant’s

long reddish coat of coarse convict cloth (as it used to be called) and

had a stout rope round his waist. His throat and chest were bare.

Beneath his coat, his shirt of the coarsest linen showed almost black

with dirt, not having been changed for months. They said that he wore

irons weighing thirty pounds under his coat. His stockingless feet were

thrust in old slippers almost dropping to pieces.

“From the little Obdorsk monastery, from St. Sylvester,” the monk

answered humbly, whilst his keen and inquisitive, but rather frightened

little eyes kept watch on the hermit.

“I have been at your Sylvester’s. I used to stay there. Is Sylvester

well?”

The monk hesitated.

“You are a senseless lot! How do you keep the fasts?”

“Our dietary is according to the ancient conventual rules. During Lent

there are no meals provided for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. For

Tuesday and Thursday we have white bread, stewed fruit with honey, wild

berries, or salt cabbage and wholemeal stirabout. On Saturday white

cabbage soup, noodles with peas, kasha, all with hemp oil. On weekdays

we have dried fish and kasha with the cabbage soup. From Monday till

Saturday evening, six whole days in Holy Week, nothing is cooked, and

we have only bread and water, and that sparingly; if possible not

taking food every day, just the same as is ordered for first week in

Lent. On Good Friday nothing is eaten. In the same way on the Saturday

we have to fast till three o’clock, and then take a little bread and

water and drink a single cup of wine. On Holy Thursday we drink wine

and have something cooked without oil or not cooked at all, inasmuch as

the Laodicean council lays down for Holy Thursday: ‘It is unseemly by

remitting the fast on the Holy Thursday to dishonor the whole of Lent!’

This is how we keep the fast. But what is that compared with you, holy

Father,” added the monk, growing more confident, “for all the year

round, even at Easter, you take nothing but bread and water, and what

we should eat in two days lasts you full seven. It’s truly

marvelous—your great abstinence.”

“And mushrooms?” asked Father Ferapont, suddenly.

“Mushrooms?” repeated the surprised monk.

“Yes. I can give up their bread, not needing it at all, and go away

into the forest and live there on the mushrooms or the berries, but

they can’t give up their bread here, wherefore they are in bondage to

the devil. Nowadays the unclean deny that there is need of such

fasting. Haughty and unclean is their judgment.”

“Och, true,” sighed the monk.

“And have you seen devils among them?” asked Ferapont.

“Among them? Among whom?” asked the monk, timidly.

“I went to the Father Superior on Trinity Sunday last year, I haven’t

been since. I saw a devil sitting on one man’s chest hiding under his

cassock, only his horns poked out; another had one peeping out of his

pocket with such sharp eyes, he was afraid of me; another settled in

the unclean belly of one, another was hanging round a man’s neck, and

so he was carrying him about without seeing him.”

“You—can see spirits?” the monk inquired.

“I tell you I can see, I can see through them. When I was coming out

from the Superior’s I saw one hiding from me behind the door, and a big

one, a yard and a half or more high, with a thick long gray tail, and

the tip of his tail was in the crack of the door and I was quick and

slammed the door, pinching his tail in it. He squealed and began to

struggle, and I made the sign of the cross over him three times. And he

died on the spot like a crushed spider. He must have rotted there in

the corner and be stinking, but they don’t see, they don’t smell it.

It’s a year since I have been there. I reveal it to you, as you are a

stranger.”

“Your words are terrible! But, holy and blessed Father,” said the monk,

growing bolder and bolder, “is it true, as they noise abroad even to

distant lands about you, that you are in continual communication with

the Holy Ghost?”

“He does fly down at times.”

“How does he fly down? In what form?”

“As a bird.”

“The Holy Ghost in the form of a dove?”

“There’s the Holy Ghost and there’s the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit

can appear as other birds—sometimes as a swallow, sometimes a goldfinch

and sometimes as a blue-tit.”

“How do you know him from an ordinary tit?”

“He speaks.”

“How does he speak, in what language?”

“Human language.”

“And what does he tell you?”

“Why, to-day he told me that a fool would visit me and would ask me

unseemly questions. You want to know too much, monk.”

“Terrible are your words, most holy and blessed Father,” the monk shook

his head. But there was a doubtful look in his frightened little eyes.

“Do you see this tree?” asked Father Ferapont, after a pause.

“I do, blessed Father.”

“You think it’s an elm, but for me it has another shape.”

“What sort of shape?” inquired the monk, after a pause of vain

expectation.

“It happens at night. You see those two branches? In the night it is

Christ holding out His arms to me and seeking me with those arms, I see

it clearly and tremble. It’s terrible, terrible!”

“What is there terrible if it’s Christ Himself?”

“Why, He’ll snatch me up and carry me away.”

“Alive?”

“In the spirit and glory of Elijah, haven’t you heard? He will take me

in His arms and bear me away.”

Though the monk returned to the cell he was sharing with one of the

brothers, in considerable perplexity of mind, he still cherished at

heart a greater reverence for Father Ferapont than for Father Zossima.

He was strongly in favor of fasting, and it was not strange that one

who kept so rigid a fast as Father Ferapont should “see marvels.” His

words seemed certainly queer, but God only could tell what was hidden

in those words, and were not worse words and acts commonly seen in

those who have sacrificed their intellects for the glory of God? The

pinching of the devil’s tail he was ready and eager to believe, and not

only in the figurative sense. Besides he had, before visiting the

monastery, a strong prejudice against the institution of “elders,”

which he only knew of by hearsay and believed to be a pernicious

innovation. Before he had been long at the monastery, he had detected

the secret murmurings of some shallow brothers who disliked the

institution. He was, besides, a meddlesome, inquisitive man, who poked

his nose into everything. This was why the news of the fresh “miracle”

performed by Father Zossima reduced him to extreme perplexity. Alyosha

remembered afterwards how their inquisitive guest from Obdorsk had been

continually flitting to and fro from one group to another, listening

and asking questions among the monks that were crowding within and

without the elder’s cell. But he did not pay much attention to him at

the time, and only recollected it afterwards.

He had no thought to spare for it indeed, for when Father Zossima,

feeling tired again, had gone back to bed, he thought of Alyosha as he

was closing his eyes, and sent for him. Alyosha ran at once. There was

no one else in the cell but Father Païssy, Father Iosif, and the novice

Porfiry. The elder, opening his weary eyes and looking intently at

Alyosha, asked him suddenly:

“Are your people expecting you, my son?”

Alyosha hesitated.

“Haven’t they need of you? Didn’t you promise some one yesterday to see

them to-day?”

“I did promise—to my father—my brothers—others too.”

“You see, you must go. Don’t grieve. Be sure I shall not die without

your being by to hear my last word. To you I will say that word, my

son, it will be my last gift to you. To you, dear son, because you love

me. But now go to keep your promise.”

Alyosha immediately obeyed, though it was hard to go. But the promise

that he should hear his last word on earth, that it should be the last

gift to him, Alyosha, sent a thrill of rapture through his soul. He

made haste that he might finish what he had to do in the town and

return quickly. Father Païssy, too, uttered some words of exhortation

which moved and surprised him greatly. He spoke as they left the cell

together.

“Remember, young man, unceasingly,” Father Païssy began, without

preface, “that the science of this world, which has become a great

power, has, especially in the last century, analyzed everything divine

handed down to us in the holy books. After this cruel analysis the

learned of this world have nothing left of all that was sacred of old.

But they have only analyzed the parts and overlooked the whole, and

indeed their blindness is marvelous. Yet the whole still stands

steadfast before their eyes, and the gates of hell shall not prevail

against it. Has it not lasted nineteen centuries, is it not still a

living, a moving power in the individual soul and in the masses of

people? It is still as strong and living even in the souls of atheists,

who have destroyed everything! For even those who have renounced

Christianity and attack it, in their inmost being still follow the

Christian ideal, for hitherto neither their subtlety nor the ardor of

their hearts has been able to create a higher ideal of man and of

virtue than the ideal given by Christ of old. When it has been

attempted, the result has been only grotesque. Remember this

especially, young man, since you are being sent into the world by your

departing elder. Maybe, remembering this great day, you will not forget

my words, uttered from the heart for your guidance, seeing you are

young, and the temptations of the world are great and beyond your

strength to endure. Well, now go, my orphan.”

With these words Father Païssy blessed him. As Alyosha left the

monastery and thought them over, he suddenly realized that he had met a

new and unexpected friend, a warmly loving teacher, in this austere

monk who had hitherto treated him sternly. It was as though Father

Zossima had bequeathed him to him at his death, and “perhaps that’s

just what had passed between them,” Alyosha thought suddenly. The

philosophic reflections he had just heard so unexpectedly testified to

the warmth of Father Païssy’s heart. He was in haste to arm the boy’s

mind for conflict with temptation and to guard the young soul left in

his charge with the strongest defense he could imagine.

Chapter II.

At His Father’s

First of all, Alyosha went to his father. On the way he remembered that

his father had insisted the day before that he should come without his

brother Ivan seeing him. “Why so?” Alyosha wondered suddenly. “Even if

my father has something to say to me alone, why should I go in unseen?

Most likely in his excitement yesterday he meant to say something

different,” he decided. Yet he was very glad when Marfa Ignatyevna, who

opened the garden gate to him (Grigory, it appeared, was ill in bed in

the lodge), told him in answer to his question that Ivan Fyodorovitch

had gone out two hours ago.

“And my father?”

“He is up, taking his coffee,” Marfa answered somewhat dryly.

Alyosha went in. The old man was sitting alone at the table wearing

slippers and a little old overcoat. He was amusing himself by looking

through some accounts, rather inattentively however. He was quite alone

in the house, for Smerdyakov too had gone out marketing. Though he had

got up early and was trying to put a bold face on it, he looked tired

and weak. His forehead, upon which huge purple bruises had come out

during the night, was bandaged with a red handkerchief; his nose too

had swollen terribly in the night, and some smaller bruises covered it

in patches, giving his whole face a peculiarly spiteful and irritable

look. The old man was aware of this, and turned a hostile glance on

Alyosha as he came in.

“The coffee is cold,” he cried harshly; “I won’t offer you any. I’ve

ordered nothing but a Lenten fish soup to-day, and I don’t invite any

one to share it. Why have you come?”

“To find out how you are,” said Alyosha.

“Yes. Besides, I told you to come yesterday. It’s all of no

consequence. You need not have troubled. But I knew you’d come poking

in directly.”

He said this with almost hostile feeling. At the same time he got up

and looked anxiously in the looking-glass (perhaps for the fortieth

time that morning) at his nose. He began, too, binding his red

handkerchief more becomingly on his forehead.

“Red’s better. It’s just like the hospital in a white one,” he observed

sententiously. “Well, how are things over there? How is your elder?”

“He is very bad; he may die to-day,” answered Alyosha. But his father

had not listened, and had forgotten his own question at once.

“Ivan’s gone out,” he said suddenly. “He is doing his utmost to carry

off Mitya’s betrothed. That’s what he is staying here for,” he added

maliciously, and, twisting his mouth, looked at Alyosha.

“Surely he did not tell you so?” asked Alyosha.

“Yes, he did, long ago. Would you believe it, he told me three weeks

ago? You don’t suppose he too came to murder me, do you? He must have

had some object in coming.”

“What do you mean? Why do you say such things?” said Alyosha, troubled.

“He doesn’t ask for money, it’s true, but yet he won’t get a farthing

from me. I intend living as long as possible, you may as well know, my

dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, and so I need every farthing, and the longer

I live, the more I shall need it,” he continued, pacing from one corner

of the room to the other, keeping his hands in the pockets of his loose

greasy overcoat made of yellow cotton material. “I can still pass for a

man at five and fifty, but I want to pass for one for another twenty

years. As I get older, you know, I shan’t be a pretty object. The

wenches won’t come to me of their own accord, so I shall want my money.

So I am saving up more and more, simply for myself, my dear son Alexey

Fyodorovitch. You may as well know. For I mean to go on in my sins to

the end, let me tell you. For sin is sweet; all abuse it, but all men

live in it, only others do it on the sly, and I openly. And so all the

other sinners fall upon me for being so simple. And your paradise,

Alexey Fyodorovitch, is not to my taste, let me tell you that; and it’s

not the proper place for a gentleman, your paradise, even if it exists.

I believe that I fall asleep and don’t wake up again, and that’s all.

You can pray for my soul if you like. And if you don’t want to, don’t,

damn you! That’s my philosophy. Ivan talked well here yesterday, though

we were all drunk. Ivan is a conceited coxcomb, but he has no

particular learning ... nor education either. He sits silent and smiles

at one without speaking—that’s what pulls him through.”

Alyosha listened to him in silence.

“Why won’t he talk to me? If he does speak, he gives himself airs. Your

Ivan is a scoundrel! And I’ll marry Grushenka in a minute if I want to.

For if you’ve money, Alexey Fyodorovitch, you have only to want a thing

and you can have it. That’s what Ivan is afraid of, he is on the watch

to prevent me getting married and that’s why he is egging on Mitya to

marry Grushenka himself. He hopes to keep me from Grushenka by that (as

though I should leave him my money if I don’t marry her!). Besides if

Mitya marries Grushenka, Ivan will carry off his rich betrothed, that’s

what he’s reckoning on! He is a scoundrel, your Ivan!”

“How cross you are! It’s because of yesterday; you had better lie

down,” said Alyosha.

“There! you say that,” the old man observed suddenly, as though it had

struck him for the first time, “and I am not angry with you. But if

Ivan said it, I should be angry with him. It is only with you I have

good moments, else you know I am an ill-natured man.”

“You are not ill-natured, but distorted,” said Alyosha with a smile.

“Listen. I meant this morning to get that ruffian Mitya locked up and I

don’t know now what I shall decide about it. Of course in these

fashionable days fathers and mothers are looked upon as a prejudice,

but even now the law does not allow you to drag your old father about

by the hair, to kick him in the face in his own house, and brag of

murdering him outright—all in the presence of witnesses. If I liked, I

could crush him and could have him locked up at once for what he did

yesterday.”

“Then you don’t mean to take proceedings?”

“Ivan has dissuaded me. I shouldn’t care about Ivan, but there’s

another thing.”

And bending down to Alyosha, he went on in a confidential half-whisper.

“If I send the ruffian to prison, she’ll hear of it and run to see him

at once. But if she hears that he has beaten me, a weak old man, within

an inch of my life, she may give him up and come to me.... For that’s

her way, everything by contraries. I know her through and through!

Won’t you have a drop of brandy? Take some cold coffee and I’ll pour a

quarter of a glass of brandy into it, it’s delicious, my boy.”

“No, thank you. I’ll take that roll with me if I may,” said Alyosha,

and taking a halfpenny French roll he put it in the pocket of his

cassock. “And you’d better not have brandy, either,” he suggested

apprehensively, looking into the old man’s face.

“You are quite right, it irritates my nerves instead of soothing them.