 Section 16 of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This Libber-Fox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary. Book III. CHAPTER III. THE CONFESSION OF A PASSIONATE HEART, IN FIRST. 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. A 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. Aliaschia 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 anyone else but would not hurt him. Aliaschia 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 Holikov 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's superiors. 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 chance 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 Dmitry 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. Dmitry 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 Dmitry before that fateful interview. Without showing him the letter he could talk to him about it. But Dmitry 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 backyards where everyone 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 tumble-down house with four windows. The owner of this house, as Alyosha knew, was a bed-ridden old woman, living with her daughter, who had been a genteel maidservant in General's 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. But 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 Rakiten, 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. Near the hurdle in the garden, Dmitry, 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,' Mitches 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. Mitches 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 Mitche 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? Doos take it!' cried Dmitry 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 hundred weight of hay was carried in the summer. The garden was let out for a few rubles 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. Dmitry led his brother to the most secluded corner of the garden. There in the thicket of lime trees and old bushes of black current, elder, snow-wall tree, and lilac, this 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 set. El Yasha had at once observed his brother's exhilarated condition, and on entering the arbor he saw half a bottle of brandy and a wine-glass on the table. "'That's brandy,' Mitchell laughed. "'I see your look, he's drinking again. Not the apparition, distrust the worthless lying crowd, and lay aside thy doubts. I'm not drinking. I'm only indulging, as that pig, your Raketen, says. He'll be a civil-counselor one day, and he'll always talk about indulging. Sit down. I could take you in my arms, El Yasha, and press you to my bosom till I crush you. For in the whole world, in reality, in reality, 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 gaily 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. It's only to you I can tell everything. Because I must, because I need you. Because tomorrow I shall fly from the clouds. Because tomorrow 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 Fathers, but I meant to go to Catarina Ivanovna's first. To her and to father. Oh, 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, Catarina 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. 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. He'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. Misha 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 fisherman in the fable. Listen, Alyosha, listen, brother, now I mean to tell you everything. Or I must tell someone. 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 someone 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 someone 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. 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. Alyosha sank into thought for a moment, with his elbow on the table and his head in his hand. Both were silent. Alyosha, said Mitcha, you are the only one who won't laugh. I should like to begin my confession with Schiller's hymn to joy, and die Freude. I don't know German. I only know what'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 fizz upon his stumbling ass. But I've not drunk a quarter of the bottle, and I'm not Silenus. I'm not Silenus, though I am strong, for I've made a decision once for all. Forgive me the pun. You'll have to forgive me a lot more than puns today. 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, series 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 ere the grieving goddess turns her melancholy gaze, sunk in vilest degradation, man, his loathesomeness displays. Misha broke into sobs and seized Daliash'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. If I 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 forever to his ancient Mother Earth. But the difficulty is how am I to cling forever 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 series 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 back the grass has turned, each blade towards the light, and solar systems have evolved from chaos and dark night, filling the realms of boundless space beyond the sages' sight, at bounteous natures 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 everyone would laugh at, but you won't laugh, your eyes are shining to 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 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. End of Section 16 Section 17 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary. Book 3, Chapter 4. The Confession of a Passionate Heart in Anecdote. I was leading a wild life then. Father said just now that I spent several thousand rubles 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. Today she would be my lady, tomorrow 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 mean 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 caramazov. 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, and 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. Your blushing, your eyes flushed. Enough of this filth with you. And all this was nothing much. We sighed blossoms, ala paul de cock, though the cruel insect had already grown strong in my soul. I have 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, Al-Yasha 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 Al-Yasha warmly. Obviously the idea was not a new one. The latter'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. Anyone on the bottom step is bound to go up to the top one. Then why not not to step on at all? Anyone who can help it had better not. But can you? I think not. Hush, Al-Yasha, hush, darling! I could kiss your hand, you touch me so. That rogue Grushanka 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 be fouled 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 anyone about it. You're the first, except Yvonne, of course. Yvonne knows everything. He knew about it long before you. But Yvonne's a tomb. Yvonne's a tomb? Yes. Al-Yasha listened with great attention. I was lieutenant in the 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'd like to say nice things about people. I never knew a woman of more charming character than Agathia. Fancy, her name was Agathia 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 the sort of voluntary humility, not putting themselves on an equality with other people. She was a general favourite, and of use to everyone, for she was a clever dressmaker. She had a talent for it. She gave her services freely, without asking for payment, but if anyone 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 Katharina Ivanovna, and she was the child of the second wife, who belonged to a distinguished general's family, although, as I learned 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 honour. She was the bell of the balls and picnics, and they got up tableau vivant 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 commanders, 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 Katanka 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 rubles, 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, Ayasha, 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 learned, 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 Ashindi. 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 Agafiya Ivanovna, with whom I'd always kept up a friendship, and said, Do you know there's a deficit of 4,500 rubles 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 anyone. 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 rubles 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 4,000 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, Agafia and her aunt, I may as well say it once, behaved like perfect angels all through this business. They genuinely adored their cacha, thought her far above them, and waited on her hand and foot. But Agafia 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. Kofchenko 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 Trifanoff, 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 wholesome to the Colonel, bringing with it the present from the fair, as well as interest on the loan. But this time I heard all about it quite by chance from Trifanoff's son and heir, a driveling youth and one of the most vicious in the world. This time, I say, Trifanoff 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 around his head while they're all three busy putting ice on it. And 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 Agathia, 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, centered my handkerchief, and taken up my cap, when suddenly the door opened, and facing me in the room stood Katarina 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 the 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 rubles 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, at the corners of her mouth and the lines round it quivered. Alyosha, are you listening or are you asleep? Misha, 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 make your proposal, that girl won't even see you. She'll order her coachmen 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 pain, 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 bank note for five thousand rubles. It was lying in a French dictionary. Then I showed it to 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 curtsy, 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. Dmitry got up, took a step or two in his excitement, pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead, and 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. End of Section 17 Section 18 of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary. Book III. Chapter V. The confession of a passionate heart heals 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, Dmitry. 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 bank note. Only four thousand five hundred rubles 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, 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 everyone, for nobody believed that he had the money untouched. He 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 fairytale. 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 smallpox. The old lady, prostrated with grief, welcomed Katcha as a daughter, as her one hope, clutched at her, altered her will in Katcha's favor. But that concerned the future. Meanwhile, she gave her, for present use, 80,000 rubles, 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, 4,500 rubles. 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 forever. I want to save you from yourself. Ah, Yasha, 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, forever. 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 it once to Yvonne 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, Yvonne fell in love with her. He's in love with her still. I know that. I did the stupid thing, in the world's opinion, but perhaps that one stupid thing may be the saving of us all now. Oh, don't you see what a lot she thinks of Yvonne, 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 Dmitry. He laughed, but a minute later his eyes gleamed. He flushed crimson and struck the table violently with his fist. I swear, Ayasha, 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 angels. That's the tragedy of it, that I know that for certain. What if anyone does show off a bit, don't I do it myself? And yet, I'm sincere. I'm sincere. As for Yvonne, 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 Yvonne, and Yvonne, 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 forever, 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 used them at random, but it will be, as I have said. I shall drown in the back alley, and she will marry Yvonne. Stop, Dimitri, Alyasha 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 icons all in fine style. The General's wife blessed us, and, would you believe it, congratulated Katcha. You've made a good choice, she said. I see right through him. And, would you believe it, she didn't like Yvonne, and hardly greeted him. I had a lot of talk with Katcha in Moscow. I told her about myself, sincerely, honourably. 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 today, this very day, remember it, to send you, this very day again, to Katarina 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 Grushanka then, Al-Yasha exclaimed mournfully, clasping his hands. Can Raketan 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? Confounded, I have some honour. As soon as I began visiting Grushanka, 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 Grushanka an IOU 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, whose lying ill now paralysed, 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 Grushanka to Makro, a place twenty-five versed 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 Grushanka 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. Dmitry 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. Alyasha, 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, Alexei, that I may be a low man, with low and degraded passions, but a thief and a pickpocket, Dmitry 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 Grushanka, Katarina 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 rubles to Agafiya Ivanovna in Moscow, so that nothing should be known of it in the town here. So I had that three thousand rubles in my pocket when I went to see Grushanka, and it was that money we spent at Makrow. 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 today, 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 sensuelist 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 Agafiya 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 Grushanka, I don't care what happens. And what then? I'll be her husband, as she deems to have me, and when lovers come, I'll go to the next room, I'll clean her friends' galoshes, blow up their samavar, run their errands. Katarina Ivanovna will understand it all, Al-Yasha 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 Dimitri 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. Yvonne will give you another thousand. That makes three. Take it, and pay it back. And when would you get your three thousand? You're not of age, besides, and you must, you absolutely must take my farewell to her today, with the money or without it, for I can't drag on any longer. Things have come to such a pass. Tomorrow is too late. I shall send you to father. To father? Yes, to father first. Ask him for three thousand. But Mitchell, he won't give it. As though he would. I know he won't. Do you know the meaning of despair, Alexei? 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. Mitchell, 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 Grushka 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 rubles, 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 Grushanka, 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, Smerjakov, whom he trusts like himself. So now he has been expecting Grushanka 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 gross shooting in the daytime, 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 Smerjakov knows then. No one else. He will let me know if she goes to the old man. It was he who told you about the money then. Yes, it's a dead secret. Even Yvon doesn't know about the money or anything. The old man is sending Yvon to Chermashnaya on a two or three days journey. A purchaser has turned up for the cops. He'll give 8,000 for the timber. So the old man keeps asking Yvon 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 Grushanka can come while he's away. Then he's expecting Grushanka today. No, she won't come today. There are signs. She's certain not to come, cried Mitches suddenly. Smerjakov thinks so too. Father's drinking now. He's sitting at table with Yvon. Go to him, Alyasha, and ask for the 3,000. Mitcheteer, what's the matter with you? cried Alyasha, jumping up from his place and looking keenly at his brother's frenzied face. For one moment the thought struck him that Dimitri was mad. What is it? I'm not insane, said Dimitri, 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. Alyasha, I believe in miracles. Go! I am going. Tell me, will you wait for me here? Yes, I know what 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 Katarina Ivanovna today, 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. Mitche, and what if Grushanka comes today, if not today, tomorrow, or the next day? Grushanka, 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, Mitche. 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. End of Section 18. Section 19 of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary. Book 3, Chapter 6, Smirjakov. 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 prints 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 icons before which a lamp was lighted at nightfall, not so much for devotional purposes as to light the room. Fyodor Pavlovich 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 armchair, thinking. This had become a habit with him. He often slept quite alone in the house, sending his servants to the lodge, but usually Smirjakov remained, sleeping on a bench in the hall. When Alyosha came in, dinner was over, but coffee and preserves had been served. Fyodor Pavlovich liked sweet things with brandy after dinner. Yvonne was also at table, sipping coffee. The servants, Grigori and Smirjakov, were standing by. Both the gentlemen and the servants seemed in singularly good spirits. Fyodor Pavlovich 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-humoured stage, and was far from being completely drunk. Here he is, here he is, yelled Fyodor Pavlovich, highly delighted at seeing Alyosha. Join us, sit down. Coffee is a lentendish, 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. Smirjakov, 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 Pavlovich, beaming. But stay, have you dined? Yes, answered Alyosha, who had in truth only eaten a piece of bread, and drunk a glass of glass in the father's 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. Smirjakov's making. My Smirjakov'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? 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 once 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 have a treat for you, in your own line, too. It'll make you laugh. Balem's ass has begun talking to us here, and how he talks, how he talks. Balem's ass, it appeared, was the valet, Smirjakov. 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 Grigori and Marfa, but the boy grew up with no sense of gratitude, as Grigori 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 surplus, and sang and waved some object over the dead cat as though it were a censor. All this he did on the sly, with the greatest secrecy. Grigori 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, Grigori used to say to Marfa, and he doesn't care for anyone. Are you a human being? he said, addressing the boy directly. He said, addressing the boy directly. You're not a human being. You grew from the mildew in the bath-house. That's what you are. Smirjakov, it appeared afterwards, could never forgive him those words. Grigori 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 Grigori, 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? Grigori was thunderstruck. The boy looked sarcastically at his teacher. There was something positively condescending in his expression. Grigori 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 to all the rest of his life, epilepsy. When Fyodor Pavlovich 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 copac 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 Pavlovich strictly forbade Grigori 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 Pavlovich noticed him lingering by the bookcase and reading the titles through the glass. Fyodor Pavlovich had a fair number of books, over a hundred, but no one ever saw him reading. He at once gave Smerdikov 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 Pavlovich gave him evenings in a cottage near Dekanka. 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 Pavlovich. Smerdikov did not speak. And, sir, 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 Smerdikov's universal history. That's all true. Read that. But Smerdikov did not get through ten pages of Smerdikov. He thought it dull. So the bookcase was closed again. Shortly afterwards, Marfa and Grigory reported to Fyodor Pavlovich that Smerdikov 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. Ah, what fine gentleman's airs! Grigory muttered, looking at him. When Fyodor Pavlovich heard of this development in Smerdikov, 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 theatre, 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 Pavlovich paid him a salary, almost the whole of which Smirjakov 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 Pavlovich 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 Pavlovich at all. Why are your fits getting worse? asked Fyodor Pavlovich, looking a scanset his new cook. Would you like to get married? Shall I find you a wife? But Smirjakov turned pale with anger, and made no reply. Fyodor Pavlovich left him with an impatient gesture. The great thing was that he had absolute confidence in his honesty. It happened once, when Fyodor Pavlovich was drunk, that he dropped in the muddy courtyard three hundred rubal 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? Smirjakov had picked them up and brought them in the day before. Well, my lad, I've never met anyone like you. Fyodor Pavlovich said shortly and gave him ten rubles. 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 everyone and was always silent. He rarely spoke. If it had occurred to anyone 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 barked shoes. He stands as it were lost in thought. Yet he is not thinking. He is contemplating. If anyone 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, Smierchikov was probably one of them, and he probably was greedily hoarding up his impressions, hardly knowing why. Section 20 of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky Translated by Konstantz Garnet But Bélem's ass had suddenly spoken. The subject was a strange one. Grigori 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, played alive, and died praising and glorifying Christ. Grigori had related the story at table. Fyodor Pavlovich always liked over the dessert after dinner to laugh and talk, if only with Grigori. This afternoon he was in a particularly good humour 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. Grigori frowned, seeing that Fyodor Pavlovich was by no means touched, but as usual was beginning to scoff. At that moment Smirjakov, who was standing by the door, smiled. Smirjakov often waited at table towards the end of dinner, and since Yvon's arrival in our town he had done so every day. What are you grinning at? asked Fyodor Pavlovich, catching the smile instantly and knowing that had referred to Grigori. Well, my opinion is, Smirjakov 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 Pavlovich. It was at this point that Alyosha came in and Fyodor Pavlovich, 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, Smirjakov maintained stoutly. How do you mean according to justice, Fyodor Pavlovich cried still more gaily, nudging Alyosha with his knee? He's a rascal, that's what he is, burst from Grigori. He looked Smirjakov breathfully in the face. As for being a rascal, wait a little, Grigori Vasilievich, answered Smirjakov with perfect composure. You'd better consider yourself that once I am taken prisoner by the enemies of the Christian race, and they demand for 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 Pavlovich. Soup-maker, muttered Grigori contemptuously. As for being a soup-maker, wait a bit, too, and consider for yourself, Grigori Vasilievich, 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 allowed, but when I think of saying it before a quarter of a second has passed, I am cut off. Is that so or not, Grigori Vasilievich? He addressed Grigori with obvious satisfaction, though he was really answering Fyodor Pavlovich's questions, and was well aware of it, and intentionally pretending that Grigori had asked the questions. Ivan, cried Fyodor Pavlovich 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, Smerdiakov, be quiet a minute, cried Fyodor Pavlovich once more. Ivan, your ear again. Ivan bent down again with the perfectly grave phase. I love you as I do, Alyosha. Don't think I don't love you. Some brandy? Yes, but you're rather drunk yourself, fought Ivan, looking steadily at his father. He was watching Smerdiakov with great curiosity. You're anathema accursed as it is, Grigori suddenly burst out, and how dare you argue, you rascal, after that, if— Don't scold him, Grigori, don't scold him, Fyodor Pavlovich cut him short. You should wait, Grigori Vasilievich, 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 Pavlovich 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 Vasilievich, 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 Pavlovich emptied his glass and went off into his shrill laugh. Alyosha, Alyosha, what do you say to that? Ah, you chazooist! He must have been with the Jesuits somewhere, Yvonne. Oh, you stinking Jesuit! Who taught you? But you're talking nonsense, you chazooist. Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. Don't cry, Grigory. We'll reduce him to smoke and ashes in a moment. Tell me this, oh 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 Vasilievich, Smeryakov went on, staid and unruffled, conscious of his triumph, but, as it were, generous to the vanquished foe. Consider yourself, Grigory Vasilievich, 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 Vasilievich, 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 Vasilievich, 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 Pavlovich, in a transport of delight, so you do suppose there are two who can move mountains? Yvon 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, Yvon 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, Smirnyakov 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 today, 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 Vasilievich, 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, crushed 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 play 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. END OF SECTION XX. Section XXI of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary. Book III. CHAPTER VIII. OVER THE BRANDI. The controversy was over, but strange to say, Fyodor Pavlovich, 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, Smirjakov. I'll send you the gold piece I promised you today, but be off. Don't cry, Grigori. 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. Smirjakov 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 Yvon. Nothing whatever, answered Yvon. 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 balum's ass like that thinks and thinks, and the devil knows where he gets to. He's storing up ideas, said Yvon, smiling. You see, I know he can't bear me, nor anyone else, even you, though you fancy that he has a high opinion of you. We're 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. But 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 meet 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. Toussela said de la cuchonnerie. Didn't 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 makro 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 desads 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 superiors and tell the monks about the girls at makro. 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, Yvonne, 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, that you speak the truth. You look sincere, and you speak sincerely. But not Yvonne. Yvonne'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 Yvonne. 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. I'm an ass, burst out Fyodor Pavlovich, 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, Yvonne, it must have been so ordained by the Almighty Himself. Yvonne, 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 Smirjakov'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. Yvonne, 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's 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. Mmm. It's more likely Yvonne'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? Yvonne, 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, Yvonne? It must be the devil, said Yvonne, 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 civilisation 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 Alexei? 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. Yvonne, do you love Alyosha? Yes. You must love him. Fyodor Pavlovich 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, Yvonne? Very likely. There is, there is. Il y a dupiron la dédent. He's a Jesuit, a Russian one, that is. As he's an honourable 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 everyone so himself. That is, not everyone, but all the clever people who come to him. He said straight out to Governor Schultz not long ago, kredo, but I don't know in what. Really. He really did. But I respect him. There's something of methistopheles 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 sent him liqueur, and began telling us about old times till we nearly split our sides, especially how he once cured a paralysed woman. If my legs were not bad I know a dance I could dance you, he said, and what do you say to that? I've plenty of tricks in my time, said he. He did Dernodov 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 tomorrow. 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 someone else. I've muddled him with someone else, without noticing it. Come, another glass, and that's enough. Take away the bottle, Yvonne. I've been telling lies. Why didn't you stop me, Yvonne, 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 Charmashnia 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. Alexei, you mustn't love Yvonne. Don't be ill-tempered with my brother. Leave off attacking him, Alyosha said emphatically. Oh, all right. My head aches. Take away the brandy, Yvonne. 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, Yvonne. 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 Chermashnya. 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 barefoot. Don't be afraid of barefooted wenches. Don't despise them. They're purros. And he kissed his hand with a smack. To my thinking, he revived it 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 vie, fie, 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. Barefooted girls are 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 everyone. Once Spelyevsky, 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 Ayasha, 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, rung her hands, then suddenly hit her face in them, began trembling all over, and fell on the floor, fell all of a heap. Ayasha? Ayasha? 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 Ayasha's face. He flushed crimson, his eyes glowed, his lips quivered. The old sought had gone spluttering on, noticing nothing, till the moment when something very strange happened to Ayasha. Precisely what he was describing in The Crazy Woman was suddenly repeated with Ayasha. He jumped up from his seat exactly as his mother was said to have done, rung his hands, hit 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 really seemed to have escaped the old man's mind that Ayasha'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, dammit, of course she was yours too. Dammit, my mind has never been so darkened before. Excuse me, why, I was thinking, Ivan. He stopped, a broad, drunken, half-senseless grin overspread his face. At that moment a fearful noise and clamour was heard in the hall. There were violent shouts, the door was flung open, and Dimitri 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. End of section 21