 Book 7, Chapter 1 of the Brothers Kara Mazah. The Brothers Kara Mazah by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Part 3, Book 7, Alyosha, Chapter 1, The Breath of Corruption. The body of Father Zosima was prepared for burial according to the established ritual. As is well known, the bodies of dead monks and hermits are not washed. In the words of the church ritual, if any one of the monks depart in the Lord, the monk designated, that is, whose office it is, shall wipe the body with warm water, making first the sign of the cross with a sponge on the forehead of the deceased, on the breast and on the hands and feet and on the knees, and that is enough. All this was done by Father Pisci, who then closed the deceased in his monastic garb and wrapped him in his cloak, which was, according to custom, somewhat slit to allow its being folded about him in the form of a cross. On his head he put a hood with an eight-cornered cross. The hood was left open, and the dead man's face was covered with black gauze. In his hands was put an icon of the Saviour. Towards morning he was put in the coffin which had been made ready long before. It was decided to leave the coffin all day in the cell, in the larger room in which the elder used to receive his visitors and fellow monks. As the deceased was a priest and monk of the strictest rule, the gospel, not the sultr, had to be read over his body by monks in holy orders. The reading was begun by Father Yosef immediately after the requiem's service. Father Pisci desired later on to read the gospel all day and night over his dead friend, but for the present he, as well as the Father Superintendent of the Hermitage, was very busy and occupied for something extraordinary and unheard of, even unseemly excitement and impatient expectation, began to be apparent in the monks and the visitors from the monastery hostels and the crowds of people flocking from the town. And as time went on, this grew more and more marked. Both the Superintendent and Father Pisci did their utmost to calm the general bustle and agitation. When it was fully daylight some people began bringing their sick, in most cases children, with them from the town, as though they had been waiting expressly for this moment to do so, evidently persuaded that the dead elders' remains had a power of healing, which would be immediately made manifest in accordance with their faith. It was only then apparent how unquestionably everyone in our town had accepted Father Zosima during his lifetime as a great saint. And those who came were far from being all of the humbler classes. This intense expectation on the part of believers displayed with such haste, such openness, even with impatience and almost insistence, impressed Father Pisci as unseemly. Though he had long foreseen something of the sort, the actual manifestation of the feeling was beyond anything he had looked for. When he came across any of the monks who displayed this excitement, Father Pisci began to reprove them. Such immediate expectation of something extraordinary, he said, shows a levity possible to worldly people, but unseemly in us. But little attention was paid him, and Father Pisci noticed it uneasily. Yet he himself, if the whole truth must be told, secretly at the bottom of his heart cherished almost the same hopes, and could not but be aware of it, though he was indignant at the too impatient expectation around him, and saw in it light-mindedness and vanity. Nevertheless it was particularly unpleasant to him to meet certain persons whose presence aroused in him great misgivings. In the crowd in the dead man's cell he noticed with inward aversion, for which he immediately reproached himself, the presence of Raketan and of the monk from Obdorsk, who was still staying in the monastery. Of both of them Father Pisci felt for some reason suddenly suspicious, though indeed he might well have felt the same about others. The monk from Obdorsk was conspicuous as the most fussy in the excited crowd. He was to be seen everywhere, everywhere he was asking questions, everywhere he was listening, on all sides he was whispering with a peculiar mysterious air. His expression showed the greatest impatience and even a sort of irritation. As for Raketan, he, as appeared later, had come so early to the hermitage at the special request of Madame Holokov. As soon as that good-hearted but weak-minded woman, who could not herself have been admitted to the hermitage, waked and heard of the death of Father Zosima, she was overtaken with such intense curiosity that she promptly dispatched Raketan to the hermitage to keep a careful look out and report to her by letter every half hour or so everything that takes place. She regarded Raketan as a most religious and devout young man. He was particularly clever in getting round people and assuming whatever part he thought most to their taste, if he detected the slightest advantage to himself from doing so. It was a bright, clear day, and many of the visitors were thronging about the tombs which were particularly numerous round the church and scattered here and there about the hermitage. As he walked round the hermitage, Father Paisie remembered Alyosha and that he had not seen him for some time, not since the night. And he had no sooner thought of him than he had once noticed him in the furthest corner of the hermitage garden, sitting on a tombstone of a monk who had been famous long ago for his saintliness. He sat with his back to the hermitage and his face to the wall and seemed to be hiding behind the tombstone. Going up to him, Father Paisie saw that he was weeping quietly but bitterly, with his face hidden in his hands and that his whole frame was shaking with sobs. Father Paisie stood over him for a little. Enough, dear son, enough, dear, he pronounced with feeling at last. Why do you weep? Rejoice and weep not. Did you know that this is the greatest of his days? Think only where he is now at this moment. Alyosha glanced at him, uncovering his face which was swollen with crying like a child, but turned away at once without uttering a word and hid his face in his hands again. Maybe it is well, said Father Paisie thoughtfully, weep if you must. Christ has sent you those tears. Your touching tears are but a relief to your spirit and will serve to gladden your dear heart. He added to himself walking away from Alyosha and thinking lovingly of him. He walked away quickly, however, for he felt that he too might weep, looking at him. Meanwhile the time was passing. The monastery services and the requiems for the dead followed in their due course. Father Paisie again took Father Yosef's place by the coffin and began reading the gospel. But before three o'clock in the afternoon that something took place to which I alluded at the end of the last book, something so unexpected by all of us and so contrary to the general hope that I repeat this trivial incident has been minutely remembered to this day in our town and all the surrounding neighborhood. I may add here for myself personally that I feel it almost repulsive that event which caused such frivolous agitation and was such a stumbling block to many, though in reality it was the most natural and trivial matter. I should, of course, have omitted all mention of it in my story if it had not exerted a very strong influence on the heart and soul of the chief, though future hero of my story Alyosha forming a crisis and turning point in his spiritual development, giving a shock to his intellect which finally strengthened it for the rest of his life and gave it a definite aim. And so to return to our story, when before dawn they laid Father Zosima's body in the coffin and brought it to the front room, the question of opening the windows was raised among those who were around the coffin, but this suggestion made casually by someone was unanswered and almost unnoticed. Some of the present may perhaps have inwardly noticed it, only to reflect that the anticipation of decay and corruption from the body of such a saint was an actual absurdity, calling for compassion, if not a smile, for the lack of faith and frivolity it implied, for they expected something quite different. And behold, soon after midday there were signs of something at first only observed in silence by those who came in and out and were evidently each afraid to communicate the thought in his mind. But by three o'clock those signs had become so clear and unmistakable that the news swiftly reached all the monks and visitors in the Hermitage, promptly penetrated to the monastery, throwing all the monks into amazement, and finally in the shortest possible time spread to the town, exciting everyone in it, believers and unbelievers alike. The unbelievers rejoiced, and as for the believers some of them rejoiced even more than the unbelievers, for men loved the downfall and disgrace of the righteous, as the deceased elder had said in one of his exhortations. The fact is that a smell of decomposition began to come from the coffin, growing gradually more marked, and by three o'clock it was quite unmistakable. In all the past history of our monastery no such scandal could be recalled, and in no other circumstances could such a scandal have been possible, as showed itself in unseemly disorder immediately after this discovery among the many monks themselves. Afterwards, even many years afterwards, some sensible monks were amazed and horrified when they recalled that day that the scandal could have reached such proportions. For in the past monks of very holy life had died, God fearing old men, whose saintliness was acknowledged by all, yet from their humble coffins too the breath of corruption had come naturally as from all dead bodies, but that had caused no scandal nor even the slightest excitement. Of course there had been in former times saints in the monastery whose memory was carefully preserved, and whose relics, according to tradition, showed no signs of corruption. This fact was regarded by the monks as touching and mysterious, and the tradition of it was cherished as something blessed and miraculous, and as a promise by God's grace of still greater glory from their tombs in the future. One such, whose memory was particularly cherished, was an old monk, Job, who had died seventy years before at the age of a hundred and five. He had been a celebrated ascetic, rigid in fasting and silence, and his tomb was pointed out to all visitors on their arrival with peculiar respect and mysterious hints of great hopes connected with it. That was the very tomb on which Father Paisie had found Alyosha sitting in the morning. Another memory cherished in the monastery was that of the famous father Varsanofi, who was only recently dead and had preceded Father Zosima in the elder ship. He was reverenced during his lifetime as a crazy saint by all the pilgrims to the monastery. There was a tradition that both of these had lain in their coffins as though alive, that they had shown no signs of decomposition when they were buried, and that there had been a holy light in their faces. And some people even insisted that a sweet fragrance came from their bodies. Yet in spite of these edifying memories, it would be difficult to explain the frivolity, absurdity and malice that were manifested beside the coffin of Father Zosima. It is my private opinion that several different causes were simultaneously at work, one of which was the deeply rooted hostility to the institution of elders as a pernicious innovation, an antipathy hidden deep in the hearts of many of the monks. Even more powerful was jealousy of the dead man's saintliness, so firmly established during his lifetime that it was almost a forbidden thing to question it. For though the late elder had won over many hearts, more by love than by miracles, and had gathered round him a mass of loving adherents, nonetheless, in fact, rather the more on that account, he had awakened jealousy and so had come to have bitter enemies, secret and open, not only in the monastery, but in the world outside it. He did no one any harm, but why do they think him so saintly? And that question alone, gradually repeated, gave rise at last to an intense insatiable hatred of him. That I believe was why many people were extremely delighted at the smell of decomposition which came so quickly, for not a day had passed since his death. At the same time there were some among these who had been hitherto reverently devoted to the elder, who were almost mortified and personally affronted by this incident. This was how the thing happened. As soon as signs of decomposition had begun to appear, the whole aspect of the monks betrayed their secret motives in entering the cell. They went in, stayed a little while, and hastened out to confirm the news to the crowd of other monks waiting outside. Some of the latter shook their heads mournfully, but others did not even care to conceal the delight which gleamed unmistakably in their malignant eyes. And now no one reproached them for it. No one raised his voice in protest, which was strange, for the majority of the monks had been devoted to the dead elder. But it seemed as though God had in this case let the minority get the upper hand for a time. Visitors from outside, particularly of the educated class, soon went into the cell, too, with the same spying intent. Of the peasantry few went into the cell, though there were crowds of them at the gates of the Hermitage. After three o'clock the rush of worldly visitors was greatly increased, and this was no doubt owing to the shocking news. People were attracted who would not otherwise have come on that day and had not intended to come, and among them were some personages of high standing. But the external decorum was still preserved, and Father Paisie, with a stern face, continued firmly and distinctly reading aloud the gospel, apparently not noticing what was taking place around him, though he had, in fact, observed something unusual long before. But at last the murmurs, first subdued but gradually louder and more confident, reached even him. It shows God's judgment is not as man's, Father Paisie heard suddenly. The first to give utterance to this sentiment was a layman, an elderly official from the town, known to be a man of great piety. But he only repeated aloud what the monks had long been whispering. They had long before formulated this damning conclusion, and the worst of it was that a sort of triumphant satisfaction at that conclusion became more and more apparent every moment. Soon they began to lay aside even external decorum, and almost seemed to feel they had a sort of right to discard it. And for what reason can this have happened, some of the monks said, at first with a show of regret, he had a small frame, and his flesh was dried up on his bones. What was there to decay? It must be a sign from heaven, others hastened to add, and their opinion was adopted at once without protest. For it was pointed out, too, that if the decomposition had been natural, as in the case of every dead sinner, it would have been apparent later, after a lapse of at least 24 hours, but this premature corruption was in excess of nature, and so the finger of God was evident. It was meant for a sign. This conclusion seemed irresistible. Gentle Father Yossi, the librarian, a great favorite of the dead man's, tried to reply to some of the evil speakers that this is not held everywhere alike, and that the incorruptibility of the bodies of the just was not a dogma of the Orthodox Church, but only an opinion, and that even in the most Orthodox regions, at Athos, for instance, they were not greatly confounded by the smell of corruption, and there the chief sign of the glorification of the saved was not bodily incorruptibility, but the color of the bones when the bodies have lain many years in the earth, and have decayed in it. And if the bones are yellow as wax, that is the great sign that the Lord has glorified the dead saint. If they are not yellow, but black, it shows that God has not deemed him worthy of such glory. That is the belief in Athos, a great place, which the Orthodox doctrine has been preserved from of old, unbroken and in its greatest purity, said Father Yoseph in conclusion. But the meek Father's words had little effect, and even provoked a mocking retort. That's all pedantry and innovation, no use listening to it, the monks decided. We stick to the old doctrine. There are all sorts of innovations nowadays. Are we to follow them all? added others. We have had as many holy fathers as they had. There they are among the Turks. They have forgotten everything. Their doctrine has long been impure, and they have no bells even, the most sneering added. Father Yoseph walked away, grieving the more because he had put forward his own opinion with little confidence as though scarcely believing in it himself. He foresaw with distress that something very unseemly was beginning, and that there were positive signs of disobedience. Little by little, all the sensible monks were reduced to silence like Father Yoseph. And so it came to pass that all who loved the elder and had accepted with devout obedience the institution of the eldership were all at once terribly cast down and glanced timidly in one another's faces when they met. Those who were hostile to the institution of elders as a novelty held up their heads proudly. There was no smell of corruption from the late elder Varsanofi, but a sweet fragrance, they recalled malignantly, but he gained that glory not because he was an elder, but because he was a holy man. And this was followed by a shower of criticism and even blame of Father Zosima. His teaching was false. He taught that life is a great joy and not a veil of tears, said some of the more unreasonable. He followed the fashionable belief he did not recognize material fire in hell. Others still more unreasonable added. He was not strict in fasting, allowed himself sweet things, ate cherry jam with his tea. Ladies used to send it to him. Is it for a monk of strict rule to drink tea? Could be heard among some of the envious. He sat in pride, the most malignant declared vindictively. He considered himself a saint, and he took it as his do when people knelt before him. He abused the sacrament of confession, the fiercest opponents of the institution of elders added in a malicious whisper. And among these were some of the oldest monks strictest in their devotion, genuine ascetics, who had kept silent during the life of the deceased elder, but now suddenly unsealed their lips. And this was terrible, for their words had great influence on young monks who were not yet firm in their convictions. The monk from Obdorus heard all this attentively, heaving deep sighs and nodding his head. Yes, clearly Father Farapont was right in his judgment yesterday, and at that moment Father Farapont himself made his appearance, as though on purpose to increase the confusion. I have mentioned already that he rarely left his wooden cell by the apiary. He was seldom even seen at church, and they overlooked this neglect on the ground of his craziness, and did not keep him to the rules binding on all the rest. But if the whole truth is to be told, they hardly had a choice about it, for it would have been discreditable to insist on burdening with the common regulations so great an ascetic who prayed day and night he even dropped asleep on his knees. If they had insisted, the monks would have said, he is holier than all of us, and he follows a rule harder than ours. And if he does not go to church, it's because he knows when he ought to, he has his own rule. It was to avoid the chance of these sinful murmurs that Father Farapont was left in peace. As everyone was aware, Father Farapont particularly disliked Father Zosima, and now the news had reached him in his hut that God's judgment is not the same as man's, and that something had happened which was in excess of nature. It may well be supposed that among the first to run to him with the news was the monk from Obdorsk who had visited him the evening before and left his cell terror-stricken. I have mentioned above that though Father Paisie standing firm and immovable reading the Gospel over the coffin could not hear nor see what was passing outside the cell, he gauged most of it correctly in his heart, for he knew the men surrounding him well. He was not shaken by it, but awaited what would come next without fear, watching with penetration and insight for the outcome of the general excitement. Suddenly an extraordinary uproar in the passage in open defiance of Decorum burst on his ears. The door was flung open, and Father Farapont appeared in the doorway. Behind him there could be seen accompanying him a crowd of monks, together with many people from the town. They did not, however, enter the cell, but stood at the bottom of the steps, waiting to see what Father Farapont would say or do, for they felt with a certain ah, in spite of their audacity, that he had not come for nothing. Standing in the doorway, Father Farapont raised his arms, and under his right arm the keen inquisitive little eyes of the monk from Obdorsk peeped in. He alone in his intense curiosity could not resist running up the steps after Father Farapont. The others, on the contrary, pressed farther back in sudden alarm when the door was noisily flung open. Holding his hands aloft, Father Farapont suddenly roared. Casting out, I cast out, and, turning in all directions, he began at once making the sign of the cross at each of the four walls and four corners of the cell in succession. Well who accompanied Father Farapont immediately understood his action, for they knew he always did this wherever he went, and that he would not sit down or say a word till he had driven out the evil spirits. Satan, go hence, Satan, go hence! He repeated at each sign of the cross. Casting out, I cast out, he roared again. He was wearing his coarse gown, girt with a coat. His bare chest, covered with gray hair, could be seen under his hempen shirt. His feet were bare. As soon as he began waving his arms, the cruel irons he wore under his gown could be heard clanking. Father Paisie paused in his reading, stepped forward, and stood before him, waiting. What have you come for, worthy father? Why do you offend against good order? Why do you disturb the peace of the flock? He said at last, looking sternly at him. What have I come for? You ask why? What is your faith? shouted Father Farapont crazily. I've come here to drive out your visitors, the unclean devils. I've come to see how many have gathered here while I have been away. I want to sweep them out with a birch broom. You cast out the evil spirit, but perhaps you are serving him yourself. Father Paisie went on fearlessly. And who can say of himself, I am holy. Can you, father? I am unclean, not holy. I would not sit in an armchair and would not have them bow down to me as an idol, thundered Father Farapont. Nowadays folk destroy the true faith. The dead man, your saint, he turned to the crowd, pointing with his finger to the coffin, did not believe in devils. He gave medicine to keep off the devils. And so they have become as common as spiders in the corners. And now he has begun to stink himself. In that we see a great sign from God. The incident he referred to was this. One of the monks was haunted in his dreams and later on in waking moments by visions of evil spirits. When in his utmost terror he confided this to Father Zosima, the elder had advised continual prayer and rigid fasting. But when that was of no use, he advised him while persisting in prayer and fasting to take a special medicine. Many persons were shocked at the time and waged their heads as they talked over it. And most of all Father Farapont, to whom some of the censorious had hastened to report this extraordinary counsel on the part of the elder. Go away, father, said Father Paisie in a commanding voice. It is not for man to judge but for God. Perhaps we see here a sign which neither you nor I nor any one of us is able to comprehend. Go, father, do not trouble the flock, he said impressively. He did not keep the fasts according to the rule and therefore the sign has come. That is clear and it's a sin to hide it. The fanatic carried away by a zeal that outstripped his reason would not be quieted. He was seduced by sweet meats. Ladies brought them to him in their pockets. He sipped tea. He worshiped his belly, filling it with sweet things and his mind with haughty thoughts. And for this he has put to shame. You speak lightly, father. Father Paisie, too, raised his voice. I admire your fasting and severities but you speak lightly like some frivolous youth, fickle and childish. Go away, father, I command you. Father Paisie thundered in conclusion. I will go, said Farrapont, seeming somewhat taken aback but still as bitter. You learned men, you are so clever, you look down upon my humbleness. I came hither with little learning and here I have forgotten what I did know. God himself has preserved me in my weakness from your subtlety. Father Paisie stood over him waiting resolutely. Father Farrapont paused and, suddenly leaning his cheek on his hand despondently, pronounced in a sing-song voice, looking at the coffin of the dead elder, tomorrow they will sing over him our helper and defender, a splendid anthem. And over me when I die, all they'll sing will be what earthly joy, a little canticle, he added with tearful regret. Translators note, when a monk's body is carried out from the cell to the church and from the church to the graveyard, the canticle, what earthly joy is sung. If the deceased was a priest as well as a monk, the canticle, our helper and defender, is sung instead. And note, you are proud and puffed up, this is a vain place. He shouted suddenly like a madman and with a wave of his hand he turned quickly and quickly descended the steps. The crowd awaiting him below wavered. Some followed him at once and some lingered for the cell was still open and Father Paisie, following Father Farrapont onto the steps, stood watching him. The excited old fanatic was not completely silenced. Walking 20 steps away, he suddenly turned towards the setting sun, raised both his arms and as though someone had cut him down, fell to the ground with a loud scream. My God has conquered, Christ has conquered the setting sun. He shouted frantically, stretching up his hands to the sun and falling face downwards on the ground, he sobbed like a little child, shaken by his tears and spreading out his arms on the ground. Then all rushed up to him. There were exclamations and sympathetic sobs. A kind of frenzy seemed to take possession of them all. This is the one who is a saint, this is the one who is a holy man. Some cried aloud, losing their fear. This is he who should be an elder. Others added malignantly. He wouldn't be an elder, he would refuse. He wouldn't serve a cursed innovation. He wouldn't imitate their foolery. Others chimed in at once. And it is hard to say how far they might have gone but at that moment the bell rang summoning them to service. All began crossing themselves at once. Father Faripon too got up and crossing himself went back to his cell without looking round still uttering exclamations which were utterly incoherent. A few followed him but the greater number dispersed hastening to service. Father Paisie led Father Yosef read in his place and went down. The frantic outcries of bigots could not shake him but his heart was suddenly filled with melancholy for some special reason and he felt that. He stood still and suddenly wondered, why am I sad even to dejection? And immediately grasped with surprise that his sudden sadness was due to a very small and special cause. In the crowd thronging at the entrance to the cell he had noticed Alyosha and he remembered that he had felt at once a ping at heart on seeing him. Can that boy mean so much to my heart now? He asked himself wondering. At that moment Alyosha passed him hurrying away but not in the direction of the church. Their eyes met. Alyosha quickly turned away his eyes and dropped them to the ground and from the boy's look alone Father Paisie guessed what a great change was taking place in him at that moment. Have you too fallen into temptation? cried Father Paisie. Can you be with those of little faith? He added mournfully. Alyosha stood still and gazed vaguely at Father Paisie but quickly turned his eyes away again and again looked on the ground. He stood sideways and did not turn his face to Father Paisie who watched him attentively. Where are you hastening? The bell calls to service. He asked again but again Alyosha gave no answer. Are you leaving the hermitage? What without asking leave without asking a blessing? Alyosha suddenly gave a wry smile, cast a strange, very strange look at the Father to whom his former guide, the former sovereign of his heart and mind, his beloved elder had confided him as he lay dying and suddenly still without speaking waved his hand as though not carrying even to be respectful and with rapid steps walked towards the gates away from the hermitage. You will come back again, murmured Father Paisie, looking after him with sorrowful surprise. End of chapter one of book seven. Book seven, chapter two of The Brothers Karamazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mark Savage. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Book seven, chapter two, a critical moment. Father Paisie, of course, was not wrong when he decided that his dear boy would come back again. Perhaps, indeed, to some extent, he penetrated with insight into the true meaning of Alyosha's spiritual condition. Yet I must frankly own that it would be very difficult for me to give a clear account of that strange, vague moment in the life of the young hero I love so much. To Father Paisie's sorrowful question, are you too with those of little faith? I could, of course, confidently answer for Alyosha. No, he's not with those of little faith, quite the contrary. Indeed, all his trouble came from the fact that he was of great faith. But still the trouble was there and was so agonizing that even long afterwards, Alyosha thought of that sorrowful day as one of the bitterest and most fatal days of his life. If the question is asked, could all his grief and disturbance have been only due to the fact that his elder's body had shown signs of premature decomposition instead of at once performing miracles? I must answer without beating about the bush. Yes, it certainly was. I would only beg the reader not to be in too great a hurry to laugh at my young hero's pure heart. I'm far from intending to apologize for him or to justify his innocent faith on the ground of his youth or the little progress he had made in his studies or any such reason. I must declare on the contrary that I have genuine respect for the qualities of his heart. No doubt a youth who received impressions cautiously, whose love was lukewarm and whose mind was too prudent for his age and so of little value, such a young man might, I admit, have avoided what happened to my hero. But in some cases it is really more creditable to be carried away by an emotion, however unreasonable, which springs from a great love than to be unmoved. And this is even truer in youth. For a young man who is always sensible is to be suspected and is of little worth. That's my opinion. But reasonable people will exclaim perhaps every young man cannot believe in such a superstition and your hero is no model for others. To this I reply again, yes, my hero had faith, a faith wholly instead fast, but still I am not going to apologize for him. Though I declared above and perhaps too hastily that I should not explain or justify my hero, I see that some explanation is necessary for the understanding of the rest of the story. Let me say, then, it was not a question of miracles. There was no frivolous and impatient expectation of miracles in his mind, and Alyosha needed no miracles at the time for the triumph of some preconceived idea. Oh, no, not at all. What he saw before all was one figure, the figure of his beloved elder, the figure of that holy man who he revered with such adoration. The fact is that all the love that lay concealed in his pure young heart for everyone and everything had, for the past year, been concentrated, and perhaps wrongly so, on one being, his beloved elder. It is true that being had for so long been accepted by him as his ideal, that all his young strength and energy could not but turn towards that ideal, even to the forgetting at the moment of everyone and everything. He remembered afterwards how, on that terrible day, he'd entirely forgotten his brother Dmitri, about whom he had been so anxious and troubled the day before. He'd forgotten, too, to take the 200 rubles to Alyosha's father, though he had so warmly intended to do so the preceding evening. But again, it was not miracles he needed, but only the higher justice, which had been, in his belief, outraged by that blow that had so suddenly and cruelly wounded his heart. And what does it signify that this justice looked for by Alyosha inevitably took the shape of miracles to be wrought immediately by the ashes of his adored teacher? Why, everyone in the monastery cherished the same thought and the same hope, even those whose intellect Alyosha revered, Father Paisi himself, for instance. And so Alyosha, untroubled by doubts, clothed his dreams, too, in the same form as all the rest. And a whole year of life in the monastery had formed the habit of this expectation in his heart. But it was justice, justice, he thirsted for, not simply miracles. And now the man who should, he believed, have been exalted above everyone in the whole world. That man, instead of receiving the glory that was his due, was suddenly degraded and dishonored. What for? Who had judged him? Who could have decreed this? Those were the questions that rung his inexperienced and virginal heart. He could not endure without mortification, without resentment even, that the holiest of holy men should have been exposed to the jeering and spiteful mockery of the frivolous crowd so inferior to him. Even had there been no miracles, had there been nothing marvelous to justify his hopes, why this indignity, why this humiliation, why this premature decay, in excess of nature, as a spiteful monk said, why this sign from heaven, which they so triumphantly acclaimed, in company with Father Farapont, and why did they believe they had gained the right to acclaim it? Where is the finger of Providence? Why did Providence hide its face at the most critical moment? So Alyosha thought it, as though volunteering submitting to the blind, dumb, pitiless laws of nature. That was why Alyosha's heart was bleeding. And of course, as I have said already, the sting of it all was that the man he'd loved above everything on earth should be put to shame and humiliated. This murmuring may have been shallow and unreasonable in my hero. But I repeat again for the third time, and am prepared to admit that it might be difficult to defend my feeling. I'm glad that my hero showed himself not too reasonable at that moment. For any man of sense will always come back to reason in time. But if love does not gain the upper hand in a boy's heart at such an exceptional moment, when will it? I will not, however, omit to mention something strange, which came for a time to the surface of Alyosha's mind at this fatal and obscure moment. This new something was the harassing impression left by the conversation with Ivan, which now persistently haunted Alyosha's mind. At this moment it haunted him. Oh, it was not that something of the fundamental, elemental, so to speak, faith of his soul had been shaken. He loved his God and believed in him steadfastly, though he was suddenly murmuring against him. Yet a vague but tormenting and evil impression left by his conversation with Ivan the day before suddenly revived again now in his soul and seemed forcing its way to the surface of his consciousness. It had begun to get dusk when Raketen, crossing the pinecops from the hermitage to the monastery, suddenly noticed Alyosha, lying face downwards on the ground under a tree, not moving and apparently asleep. He went up and called him by his name. You hear, Alexi? Can you have? He began wondering but broke off. He had meant to say, can you have come to this? Alyosha did not look at him, but from a slight movement Raketen at once saw that he had heard and understood him. What's the matter, he went on, but the surprise in his face gradually passed into a smile that became more and more ironical. I say, I've been looking for you for the last two hours. You suddenly disappeared. What are you about? What foolery is this? You might just look at me. Alyosha raised his head, sat up and leaned his back against the tree. He was not crying, but there was a look of suffering and irritability in his face. He did not look at Raketen, however, but looked away to one side of him. Do you know your face has quite changed? There's none of your famous mildness to be seen in it. Are you angry with someone? Have they been ill-treating you? Let me alone, said Alyosha suddenly, with the weary gesture of his hand still looking away from him. Oh, so that's how we are feeling, so you can shout at people like other mortals. That is a come down from the angels. I say, Alyosha, you've surprised me, do you hear? I mean it. It's long since I've been surprised at anything here. I always took you for an educated man. Alyosha at last looked at him, but vaguely as though scarcely understanding what he said. Can you really be so upset simply because your old man has begun to stink? You don't mean to say you seriously believed that he was going to work miracles, exclaimed Raketen, genuinely surprised again. I believed, I believe, I want to believe, I will believe, what more do you want? cried Alyosha irritably. Nothing at all, my boy, dammit, hall. Why, no schoolboy of 13 believes in that now. But there, so now you're in a temper with your God. You're rebelling against him. He hasn't given promotion. He hasn't bestowed the order of merit. Hey, you are a set. Alyosha gazed a long while with his eyes half closed at Raketen, and there was a sudden gleam in his eyes, but not of anger with Raketen. I'm not rebelling against my God. I simply don't accept his world. Alyosha suddenly smiled, a forced smile. How do you mean you don't accept the world? Raketen thought a moment over his answer. What idiocy is this? Alyosha did not answer. Come, enough nonsense, not a business. Have you had anything to eat today? I don't remember, I think I have. You need keeping up to judge by your face. Makes one sorry to look at you. You didn't sleep all night, either, I hear. You had a meeting in there, and then all this bobbery afterwards. Most likely you've had nothing to eat but a mouthful of holy bread. Got some sausages in my pocket. I brought it from the town in case of need. Only you won't eat sausage. Give me some. I say you are going it. Why, it's a regular mutiny with barricades. Well, my boy, we must make the most of it. Come to my place. Shouldn't mind a drop of vodka myself, I'm tired to death. Vodka's coming too far for you, I suppose. Or would you like some? Give me some vodka, too. Hello, you surprised me, brother. Raketen looked at him in amazement. Well, one way or another, vodka or sausage, this is a jolly fine chance and mustn't be missed. Come along. Alyosha got up in silence and followed Raketen. If your little brother, Ivan, could see this, wouldn't he be surprised? By the way, your brother, Ivan, said off to Moscow this morning, did you know? Yes, answered Alyosha listlessly. And suddenly the image of his brother Dmitry rose before his mind, but only for a minute. And though it reminded him of something that must not be put off for a moment, some duty, some terrible obligation, even that reminder made no impression on him, did not reach his heart and instantly faded out of his mind and was forgotten. But a long while afterwards, Alyosha remembered this. Once you, too, could not resist letting me know I was dishonorable, well, I should like to see what your talents and sense of honor will do for you now. This phrase Raketen finished to himself in a whisper. Listen, he said aloud, let's go by the path beyond the monastery to the town. Hmm, I ought to go to Madame Holikov's, by the way. Only fancy, I've written to tell her everything that happened and would you believe it? She answered me instantly in pencil. The lady has a passion for writing notes that she'd never expected such conduct from a man with such a reverent character as Father Zosima. That was her very word, conduct. She's angry, too. Hey, you are a set, stay. He cried suddenly again. He suddenly stopped and taking Alyosha by the shoulder made him stop, too. Do you know Alyosha? He peeped inquisitively into his eyes, absorbed in a sudden new thought which had dawned on him. And though he was laughing outwardly, he was evidently afraid to utter that new idea aloud. So difficult he still thought it to believe in the strange and unexpected mood in which he now saw Alyosha. Alyosha, do you know where we had better go? He brought out at last timidly and insinuatingly. I don't care where you like. Let's go to Grushenko, eh? Will you come? Pronounced Raketen at last, trembling with timid suspense. Let's go to Grushenko, Alyosha answered calmly at once. And this prompt and calm agreement was such a surprise to Raketen that he almost started back. Well, I say, he cried in amazement. But seizing Alyosha firmly by the arm, he led him along the path, still dreading that he would change his mind. Then walked along in silence. Raketen was positively afraid to talk. And how glad she will be, how delighted he muttered, but lapsed into silence again. And indeed it was not to please Grushenko he was taking Alyosha to her. He was a practical person and never undertook anything without a prospect of gain for himself. His object in this case was twofold. First, a revengeful desire to see the downfall of the righteous, and Alyosha's fall from the saints to the sinners, over which he was already gloating in his imagination. And in the second place, he had in view a certain material gain for himself, which more will be said later. So the critical moment has come, he thought to himself with spiteful glee, and we shall catch it on the hop, for it's just what we want. End of chapter two of book seven, recorded by Mark Savage, Los Angeles. Book seven, chapter three of the Brothers Karamazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by James. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Book seven, chapter three, An Onion. Gurushinka lived in the busiest part of the town near the Cathedral Square in a small wooden lodge in the courtyard belonging to the house of the widow Marazov. The house was a large stone building of two stories, old and very ugly. The widow led a secluded life with her two unmarried nieces, who are also elderly women. She had no need to let her lodge, but everyone knew that she had taken in Gurushinka as a lodger four years before, solely to please her kinsman, the merchant Samsanov, who was known to the girl's protector. It was said that the jealous old man's object in placing his favorite with the widow Marazov was that the old woman should keep a sharp eye on her new lodger's conduct. But this sharp eye soon proved to be unnecessary, and in the end, the widow Marazov seldom met Gurushinka and did not worry here by looking after her in any way. It is true that four years had passed since the old man had brought the slim, delicate, shy, timid, dreamy, and sad girl of 18 from the chief town of the province, and much had happened since then. Little was known of the girl's history in the town, and that little was vague. Nothing more had been learned during the last four years, even after many persons had become interested in the beautiful young woman, into whom Agrafina Alexandrovna had meanwhile developed. There were rumors that she had been at 17, betrayed by someone, some sort of officer, and immediately afterwards abandoned by him. The officer had gone away and afterwards married, while Gurushinka had been left in poverty and disgrace. It was said, however, that though Gurushinka had been raised from destitution by the old man Samsanov, she came of a respectable family belonging to the clerical class. That she was the daughter of a deacon or something of the sort. And now, after four years, the sensitive, injured, and pathetic little orphan had become a plump, rosy beauty of the Russian type, a woman of bold and determined character, proud and insolent. She had a good head for business, was acquisitive, saving, and careful, and by fair means or foul had succeeded, it was said, in amassing a little fortune. There was only one point on which all were agreed. Gurushinka was not easily to be approached and, except her aged protector, there had not been one man who could boast of her favors during those four years. It was a positive fact, for there had been a good many, especially during the last two years, who had attempted to obtain those favors. But all their effort had been in vain and some of these suitors had been forced to beat an undignified and even comic retreat owing to the firm and ironical de-resistance they met from the strong-willed young person. It was known, too, that the young person had, especially of late, been given to what is called speculation and she had shown marked abilities in that direction so that many people began to say that she was no better than a Jew. It was not that she lent money on interest, but it was known, for instance, that she had, for some time, passed in partnership with old Karamaswalf actually invested in the purchase of bad debts for a trifle, a tenth of their nominal value, and afterwards had made out of them 10 times their value. The old widower, Samsonov, a man of large fortune, was stingy and merciless. He tyrannized over his grown-up sons, but for the last year during which he had fallen ill and lost the use of his swollen legs, he had fallen greatly under the influence of his protégé, whom he had at first kept strictly and in humble surroundings, on Lenten fair, as the wit said at the time. But Kurushinka had succeeded in emancipating herself while she established in him a boundless belief in her fidelity. The old man, now long since dead, had had a large business in his day and was also a noteworthy character, miserly and hard as flint. Though Kurushinka's hold upon him was so strong that he could not live without her, it had been so especially for the last two years. He did not settle any considerable fortune on her and would not have been moved to do so if she had threatened to leave him. But he had presented her with a small sum, and even that was a surprise to everyone when it became known. "'You are a wench with brains,' he said to her, when he gave her 8,000 rubles, and you must look after yourself. But let me tell you that except your yearly allowances before, you'll get nothing more from me to the day of my death, and I'll leave you nothing in my will, either.' And he kept his word. He died and left everything to his sons, whom, with their wives and children, he had treated all his life as servants. Kurushinka was not even mentioned in his will. All this became known afterwards. He helped Kurushinka with his advice to increase her capital and put business in her way. When Fyodor Pavlovich, who first came into contact with Kurushinka over a piece of speculation, ended to his own surprise by falling madly in love with her, Old Samsonov, gravely ill as he was, was immensely amused. It is remarkable that throughout their whole acquaintance, Kurushinka was absolutely and spontaneously open with the old man. And he seems to have been the only person in the world with whom she was so. Of late, when Dimitri too had come on the scene with his love, the old man left off laughing. On the contrary, he once gave Kurushinka a stern and earnest piece of advice. If you have to choose between the two, father or son, you better choose the old man. If only you make sure the old scoundrel will marry you and settle some fortune on you beforehand. But don't keep on with the captain. You'll get no good out of that. These were the very words of the old profligate who felt already that his death was not far off and who actually died five months later. I will note too, in passing, that although many in our town knew of the grotesque and monstrous rivalry of the Karlamazovs, father and son, the object of which was Kurushinka, scarcely anyone understood what really underlay her attitude to both of them. Even Kurushinka's two servants, after the catastrophe of which we will speak later, testified in court that she received Dmitry Fyodorovich simply from fear because he threatened to murder her. These servants were an old cook, invalidish and almost deaf, who came from Kurushinka's old home and her granddaughter, a smart young girl of 20, who performed the duties of a maid. Kurushinka lived very economically and her surroundings were anything but luxurious. Her lodge consisted of three rooms furnished with mahogany furniture in the fashion of 1820, belonging to her landlady. It was quite dark when Narakitin and Alyosha entered her rooms, yet they were not lighted up. Kurushinka was lying down in her drawing room on the big hard clumsy sofa with a mahogany back. The sofa was covered with shabby and ragged leather. Under her head, she had two white down pillows taken from her bed. She was lying stretched out motionless on her back with her hands behind her head. She was dressed as though expecting someone in a black silk dress with a dainty laced fish shoe on her head, which was very becoming. Over her shoulders was thrown a lace shawl pinned with a massive gold brooch. She certainly was expecting someone. She lay as though impatient and weary, her face rather pale and her lips and eyes hot, restlessly tapping the arm of the sofa with the tip of her right foot. The appearance of Narakitin and Alyosha caused a slight excitement. From the hall they could hear Kurushinka leap up from the sofa and cry out in a frightened voice. Who's there? But the maid met the visitors and at once called back to her mistress. It's not he, it's nothing, only other visitors. What can be the matter? Mother Narakitin leading Alyosha into the drawing room. Kurushinka was standing by the sofa as though still alarmed. A thick coil of her dark brown hair escaped from its lace covering and fell on her right shoulder. But she did not notice it and did not put it back till she had gazed at her visitors and recognized them. It's you, Narakitin, you quite frightened me. Who have you brought? Who is this with you? Good heavens, you've brought him? She exclaimed, recognizing Alyosha. Do send for candles, said Narakitin, with the free and easy air of a most intimate friend whose privilege to give orders in the house. Candles, of course candles. Fenya, fetch him a candle. Well, you have chosen a moment to bring him. She exclaimed again, nodding towards Alyosha and turning to the looking glass, she began quickly fastening up her hair with both hands. She seemed displeased. Haven't I managed to please you? Asked for Rakitin, instantly almost offended. You frightened me, Rakitin, that's what it is. Kurushinka turned with a smile to Alyosha. Don't be afraid of me, my dear Alyosha. You cannot think how glad I am to see you. My unexpected visitor. But you frightened me, Rakitin. I thought it was Mitsuya breaking in. You see, I deceived him just now. I made him promise to believe me and I told him a lie. I told him that I was going to spend the evening with my old man, Kuzma Kuzmich, and should be there till late counting up his money. I always spend one whole evening a week with him making up his accounts. We lock ourselves in and he counts on the reckoning beads while I sit and put things down in the book. I am the only person he trusts. Mitsuya believes that I am there, but I came back and have been sitting locked in here expecting some news. How was it Fenya let you in? Fenya, Fenya, run out to the gate, open it and look about whether the captain is to be seen. Perhaps he is hiding and spying. I'm treadfully frightened. There's no one there, Agrafya and Alexanderovna. I've just looked out. I keep running to peep through the crack. I'm in fear and trembling myself. Are the shutters fastened Fenya? And we must draw the curtains. That's better. She drew the heavy curtains herself. He'd rush in at once if he saw a light. I am afraid of your brother Mitsuya today, Alyosha. Grushka spoke aloud and though she was alarmed, she seemed very happy about something. Why are you so afraid of Mitsuya today? inquired Akiten. I should have thought you were not timid with him. You twist him around your little finger. I tell you, I am expecting news, priceless news. So I don't want Mitsuya at all. And he didn't believe, I feel he didn't, that I should stay at Kuzma Kuzmich's. He must be in his ambush now, behind Fyodor Pavlovich's and the garden watching for me. And if he's there, he won't come here so much the better. But I really have been to Kuzma Kuzmich's. Mitsuya escorted me there. I told him I should stay there till midnight. And I asked him to be sure to come at midnight to fetch me home. He went away and I sat 10 minutes with Kuzma Kuzmich and came back here again. I was afraid. I ran for fear of meeting him. And why are you so dressed up? What a curious cap you've got on. How curious you are yourself, Akiten. I tell you, I am expecting a message. If the message comes, I shall fly. I shall gallop away and you will see no more of me. That's why I'm dressed up, so as to be ready. And where are you flying to? If you know too much, you'll get old too soon. Upon my word, you are highly delighted. I've never seen you like this before. You are dressed up as if you were going to a ball. But Akiten looked her up and down. Much you know about balls. And do you know much about them? I have seen them all. The year before last, Kuzma Kuzmich's son was married and I looked on from the gallery. Do you suppose I want to be talking to you, Akiten, while a prince like this is standing here? Such a visitor. Aliosha, my dear boy, I gaze at you and can't believe my eyes. Good heavens, can you have come here to see me? To tell you the truth, I never had a thought of seeing you and I didn't think that you would ever come and see me. Though this is not the moment now I am awfully glad to see you. Sit down on the sofa. Here, that's right, my bright young moon. I really can't take it in even now. Akiten, if only you had brought him yesterday or the day before. But I'm glad as it is. Perhaps it's better he has come now at such a moment and not the day before yesterday. She gaily sat down beside Aliosha on the sofa looking at him with positive delight. And she really was glad. She was not lying when she said so. Her eyes glowed, her lips laughed, but it was a good-hearted merry laugh. Aliosha had not expected to see such a kind expression in her face. He had hardly met her till the day before. He had formed an alarming idea of her and had been horribly distressed the day before by the spiteful and treacherous trick she had played on Katarina Ivanovna. He was greatly surprised to find her now altogether different from what he had expected. And, crushed as he was by his own sorrow, his eyes involuntarily rested on her with attention. Her whole manner seemed changed for the better since yesterday. There was scarcely any trace of that mawkish sweetness in her speech, of that voluptuous softness in her movements. Everything was simple and good-natured. Her gestures were rapid, direct, and fighting. But she was greatly excited. Dear me, how everything comes together today, she chattered on again. And why I am so glad to see you, Aliosha. I couldn't say myself. If you ask me, I couldn't tell you. Come now. Don't you know why you're glad, said that Akitin, grinning. You used to always be pestering me to bring him, some object, I suppose. I had a different object once, but now that's over. This is not the moment. I say, I want you to have something nice. I am so good-natured now. You sit down too, Akitin. Why are you standing? You've sat down already? There's no fear that Akitin's forgetting to look after himself. Look, Aliosha, he's sitting there opposite us, so offended that I didn't ask him to sit down before you. Akitin is such a one-to-take offense, laughed Glushika. Don't be angry, dear Akitin. I'm kind today. Why are you so depressed, Aliosha? Are you afraid of me? She peeped into his eyes with merry mockery. He said, the promotion has not been given. Boom to Akitin. His elder stinks. What? If you're talking some nonsense, you want to say something nasty. Be quiet, you stupid. Let me sit on your knee, Aliosha, like this. She suddenly skipped forward and jumped, laughing on his knee like a nesting kitten with her right arm about his neck. I'll cheer you up, my pious boy. Yes, really, will you let me sit on your knee? You won't be angry? If you tell me I'll get off. Aliosha did not speak. He sat, afraid to move. He heard her words. If you tell me I'll get off. But he did not answer. But there was nothing in his heart, such as at Akitin, for instance, watching him malignantly from his corner, might have expected or fancied. The great grief in his heart swallowed up every sensation that might have been aroused. And if only he could have thought clearly at that moment, he would have realized that he had now the strongest armor to protect him from every lust and temptation. Yet, in spite of the vague irresponsiveness of his spiritual condition and the sorrow that overwhelmed him, he could not help wondering at a new and strange sensation in his heart. This woman, this dreadful woman, had no terror for him now, none of that terror that had stirred in his soul at any passing thought of woman. On the contrary, this woman, dreaded above all women, sitting now on his knee, holding him in her arms, aroused in him now a quite different, unexpected, peculiar feeling, a feeling of the intensest and purest interest without a trace of fear of his former terror. That was what instinctively surprised him. You've talked nonsense enough, cried Yedakitin. You'd much better give us some champagne. You owe it me, you know you do. Yes, I really do. Do you know Alyosha? I promised him champagne on the top of everything if he'd bring you. I'll have some too. Fania, Fania, bring us the bottle Mithia left. Look sharp. Though I am so stingy, I'll stand about him. Not for you, Yedakitin, you're a toadstool, but he is a falcon. And though my heart is full of something very different, so be it. I'll drink with you. I long for some dissipation. But what is the matter with you? And what is this message? May I ask her, is it a secret? Yedakitin put in inquisitively doing his best to pretend not to notice the snubs that were being continually aimed at him. It's not a secret. You know it too, Huluschenka said, in a voice suddenly anxious, turning her head towards Yedakitin, and drawing a little away from Alyosha, though she still sat on his knee with her arm around his neck. My officer is coming, Yedakitin. My officer is coming. I heard he was coming. But is he so near? He is at Macroia now. He'll send a messenger from there, so he wrote. I got a letter from him today. I am expecting the messenger every minute. You don't say so. Why at Macroia? It's a long story. I've told you enough. Mityel be up to something now. And I say, does he know or doesn't he? He, no, of course he doesn't. If he knew, there would be murder. But I am not afraid of that now. I am not afraid of his knife. Be quiet, Yedakitin. Don't remind me of Dimitri Fyodorovich. He has bruised my heart. And I don't want to think of that at this moment. I can think of Alyosha here. I can look at Alyosha. Smile at me, dear Chirup. Smile at my foolishness and my pleasure. He's smiling, he's smiling. How kindly he looks at me. And you know, Alyosha, I've been thinking all this time you were angry with me because of the day before yesterday and because of that young lady. I was a cur, that's the truth. But it's a good thing, it happens so. It was a horrid thing, but a good thing too. Grushinka smiled dreamily and a little cruel line showed in her smile. Mitya told me that she screamed out that I ought to be flogged. I did insult her dreadfully. She sent for me, she wanted to make a conquest of me to win me over with her chocolate. No, it's a good thing it did end like that. She smiled again. But I am still afraid of your being angry. Yes, that's really true. Rakyatin put in suddenly with genuine surprise. Alyosha, she really is afraid of a chicken like you. He is a chicken to you, Rakyatin, because you've no conscience, that's what it is. You see, I love him with all my soul, that's how it is. Alyosha, do you believe that I love you with all my soul? You shameless woman. She's making you a declaration, Alexi. Well, what of it? I love him. And what about your officer and the priceless message from Makroya? That is quite different. That's a woman's way of looking at it. Don't you make me angry, Rakyatin. Guru Shinkha caught him up hotly. This is quite different. I love Alyosha in a different way. It's true, Alyosha. I had sly designs on you before. Before I am a horrid, violent creature. But at other times, I've looked upon you, Alyosha, as my conscience. I've kept thinking how anyone like that must despise a nasty thing like me. I thought that the day before yesterday as I ran home from the young ladies, I have thought of you a long time in that way, Alyosha. And Metsia knows. I've talked to him about it. Metsia understands. Would you believe it? I sometimes look at you and feel ashamed, utterly ashamed of myself. And how? And since when I began to think about you like that, I can't say. I don't remember. Fenya came in and put a tray with an uncorked bottle and three glasses of champagne on the table. Here's the champagne, cried Rakyatin. You're excited, Agrafya and Alexanderovna, and not yourself. When you've had a glass of champagne, you'll be ready to dance. They can't even do that properly, he added, looking at the bottle. The old woman's poured it out in the kitchen and the bottle's been brought in warm and without a cork. Now, let me have some anyway. He went up to the table, took a glass, emptied it at one gulp, and poured himself another. One doesn't often stumble upon champagne, he said, licking his lips. Now, Alyosha, take a glass, show what you can do. What should we drink to? The Gates of Paradise? Take a glass, Gurushinka. You drink to the Gates of Paradise too. What Gates of Paradise? She took a glass, Alyosha took his, tasted it and put it back. No, I'd better not, he smiled gently. And you bragged, cried Rakyatin. Well, if so, I won't either, chimed in Gurushinka. I really don't want any. You can drink the whole bottle alone, Rakyatin. If Alyosha has some, I will. What touching sentimentality, said Rakyatin, tauntingly. And she's sitting on his knee too. He's got something to grieve over, but what's the matter with you? He is rebelling against his God and ready to eat sausage. How so? His elder died today, Father Zosima, the saint. So Father Zosima is dead? Cried Gurushinka. Good God, I did not know. She crossed herself devoutly. Goodness, what have I been doing, sitting on his knee like this at such a moment? She started up as though in dismay, instantly slipped off his knee and sat down on the sofa. Alyosha bent a long wondering look upon her and the light seems to dawn in his face. Rakyatin, he said suddenly in a firm and loud voice. Don't taunt me with having rebelled against God. I don't want to feel angry with you, so you must be kinder too. I've lost a treasure such as you have never had and you cannot judge me now. You had much better look at her. Do you see how she has pity on me? I came here to find a wicked soul. I felt drawn to evil because I was based in evil myself and I've found a true sister. I have found a treasure, a loving heart. She had pity on me just now. Agrafiana Alexandrovna, I am speaking to you. You've raised my soul from the depths. Alyosha's lips were quivering and he caught his breath. She has saved you, it seems, laughed Rakyatin spitefully, and she meant to get you in her clutches. Do you realize that? Stay, Rakyatin, Grushinka jumped up, hush both of you. Now, I'll tell you all about it, hush. Alyosha, your words make me ashamed for I am bad and not good, that's what I am. You hush, Rakyatin, because you are telling lies. I had the low idea of trying to get him in my clutches, but now you are lying, now it's all different. And don't let me hear anything more from you, Rakyatin. All this, Grushinka said with extreme emotion. They are both crazy, said Rakyatin, looking at them with amazement. I feel as though I'm in a madhouse. They're both getting so feeble they'll begin crying in a minute. I shall begin to cry, I shall, repeated Grushinka. He called me his sister, and I shall never forget that. Only, let me tell you, Rakyatin, though I am bad, I did give away an onion. An onion? Hang it all, you really are crazy. Rakyatin wondered at their enthusiasm. He was aggrieved and annoyed, though he might have reflected that each of them was just passing through a spiritual crisis such as does not come often in a lifetime. But though Rakyatin was very sensitive about everything that concerned himself, he was very obtuse as regards the feelings and sensations of others, partly from his youth and inexperience, partly from his intense egoism. You see, Oliosha, Grushinka turned to him with a nervous laugh. I was boasting when I told Rakyatin I had given away an onion, but it's not to boast, I tell you about it. That's only a story, but it's a nice story. I used to hear it when I was a child from Matryona, my cook, who is still with me. It's like this. Once upon a time, there was a peasant woman and a very wicked woman she was, and she died and did not leave a single good deed behind. The devils caught her and plunged her into the lake of fire. So her guardian angel stood and wondered what good deed of hers he could remember to tell to God. She once pulled up an onion in her garden, said he, and gave it to a beggar woman. And God answered, you take that onion then, hold it out to her in the lake, and let her take hold and be pulled out. And if you can pull her out of the lake, let her come to paradise. But if the onion breaks, then the woman must stay where she is. The angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her. Come, said he, catch hold and I'll pull you out. He began cautiously pulling her out. He had just pulled her right out when the other sinners in the lake, seeing how she was being drawn out, began catching hold of her, so as to be pulled out with her. But she was a very wicked woman and she began kicking them. I'm to be pulled out, not you, it's my onion, not yours. As soon as she said that, the onion broke. And the woman fell into the lake and she is burning there to this day. So the angel wept and went away. So that's the story, Alyosha. I know it by heart, for I am that wicked woman myself. I boasted to Rakitin that I had given away an onion, but to you I'll say, I've done nothing, but give away one onion all my life. That's the only good deed I've done. Don't praise me, Alyosha. Don't think me good, I am bad. I am a wicked woman and you make me ashamed if you praise me. I must confess everything. Listen, Alyosha. I was so anxious to get hold of you that I promised to Rakitin 25 rubles if he would bring you to me. Stay, did Rakitin wait? She went with rapid steps to the table, opened a drawer, pulled out a purse and took from it a 25 rubles note. What nonsense, what nonsense? cried did Rakitin, disconcerted. Take it, did Rakitin, I owe it you. There's no fear of your refusing it. You asked for it yourself. And she threw the note to him. Likely I should refuse it. Boom, did Rakitin, obviously abashed, but carrying off his confusion with a swagger. That will come in very handy. Fools are made for wise men's profit. And now hold your tongue, did Rakitin. What I'm going to say now is not for your ears. Sit down in that corner and keep quiet. You don't like us, so hold your tongue. What should I like you for? Did Rakitin snarled, not concealing his ill humor. He put the 25 rubles note in his pocket and he felt ashamed at Alyosha's seeing it. He had reckoned on receiving his payment later without Alyosha's knowing of it. And now, feeling ashamed, he lost his temper. Till that moment, he had thought it discreet not to contradict Borushika too flatly in spite of her snubbing since he had something to get out of it. But now he too is angry. One loves people for some reason, but what have either of you done for me? You should love people without a reason, as Alyosha does. How does he love you? How has he shown it that you make such a fuss about it? Borushika was standing in the middle of the room. She spoke with heat and there were hysterical notes in her voice. What should I eat in? You know nothing about us and don't dare to speak to me like that again. How dare you be so familiar? Sit in that corner and be quiet as though you were my footman. And now, Alyosha, I'll tell you the whole truth that you may see what a wretch I am. I am not talking to Rakhitin, but to you. I wanted to ruin you, Alyosha. That's the holy truth I quite meant to. I wanted to so much that I bribed Rakhitin to bring you. And why did I want to do such a thing? You knew nothing about it, Alyosha. You turned away from me. If you passed me, you dropped your eyes and I've looked at you a hundred times before today. I began asking everyone about you. Your face haunted my heart. He despises me. I thought he won't even look at me. And I felt it so much at last that I wanted it myself for being so frightened of a boy. I'll get him in my clutches and laugh at him. I was full of spite and anger. Would you believe it? Nobody here dares talk or think of coming to Agurafyena Aleksandrovna with any evil purpose. Kuzma is the only man I have anything to do with here. I was bound and sold to him. Satan brought us together, but there has been no one else. But looking at you, I thought, I'll get him in my clutches and laugh at him. You see what a spiteful cur I am and you called me your sister. And now that man who wronged me has come. I sit here waiting for a message from him. And do you know what that man has been to me? Five years ago, when Kuzma brought me here, I used to shut myself up that no one might have sight or sound of me. I was a silly slip of a girl. I used to sit here sobbing. I used to lie awake all night thinking, where is he now, the man who wronged me? He's laughing at me with some other woman, most likely. If only I could see him. If I could meet him again, I'd pay him out, I'd pay him out. At night, I used to lie sobbing into my pillow in the dark and I used to brood over it. I used to tear my heart on purpose and gloat over my anger. I'll pay him out, I'll pay him out. That's what I used to cry out in the dark. And when I suddenly thought that I should really do nothing to him and that he was laughing at me or perhaps had utterly forgotten me, I would fling myself on the floor, melted to helpless tears and liars, shaking till dawn. In the morning, I would get up more spiteful than a dog, ready to tear the whole world to pieces. And then what do you think? I began saving money. I became hard-hearted, grew stop, grew wiser. Would you say no? No one in the whole world sees it. No one knows it. But when night comes on, sometimes I lie as I did five years ago when I was a silly girl, clenching my heart and crying all night thinking, I'll pay him out, I'll pay him out. Do you hear? Well, then now you understand me. A month ago, a letter came to me. He was coming. He was a widower. He wanted to see me. It took my breath away. Then I suddenly thought, if he comes and whistles to call me, I shall creep back to him like a beaten dog. I couldn't believe myself. Am I so object? Shall I run to him or not? And I've been in such a rage with myself all this month that I'm worse than I was five years ago. Do you see now? I'm not a person with a violent, vindictive creature I am. I've shown you the whole truth. I played with me, Tia, to keep me from running to that other. Hush! Raketen is not for you to judge me. I am not speaking to you. Before you came in, I was lying here waiting, brooding, deciding my whole future life. And you can never know it was in my heart. Yes, I'll tell you, young lady, not to be angry with me for what happened the day before yesterday. Nobody in the whole world knows what I am going through now. And no one ever can know for perhaps I shall take a knife with me today. I can't make up my mind. And at this tragic phrase, Kurushinka broke down. He hit her face in her hands, flown herself on the sofa pillows and sobbed like a little child. Alyosha got up and went to Raketen. Misha, he said, don't be angry. She wounded you, but don't be angry. You heard what she said just now. You mustn't ask too much of human endurance. One must be merciful. Alyosha said this at the instinctive prompting of his heart. He felt obliged to speak, and he turned to Raketen. If Raketen had not been there, he would have spoken to the air. But Raketen looked at him ironically, and Alyosha stopped short. You were so primed up with your elders reading last night that now you have to let it off on me. Alexie, man of God, said Raketen with a smile of hatred. Don't laugh, Raketen. Don't smile. Don't talk of the dead. He was better than anyone in the world. cried Alyosha with tears in his voice. I didn't speak to you as a judge, but as the lowest of the judged. What am I beside her? I came here seeking my ruin and said to myself, what does it matter in my cowardliness? But she, after five years in torment, as soon as anyone says a word from the heart to her, it makes her forget everything, forgive everything in her tears. The man who has wronged her has come back. He sends for her, and she forgives him everything, and hastens joyfully to meet him, and she won't take a knife with her. She won't. No, I am not like that. I don't know whether you are, Misha, but I am not like that. It's a lesson to me. She is more loving than we. Have you heard her speak before of what she has just told us? No, you haven't. If you had, you would have understood her long ago. And the person insulted the day before yesterday must forgive her too. She will when she knows, and she shall know. This soul is not yet at peace with itself. One must be tender with, but there may be a treasure in that soul. Alyosha stopped because he caught his breath. In spite of his ill-humored, Akitin looked at him with astonishment. He had never expected such a tirade from the gentle Alyosha. She's found someone to plead her cause. Well, you in love with her. Ah, good of you. Now, Alexander Rove, now our monks really in love with you. You've made a conquest. He cried with a coarse laugh. Alyosha lifted her head from the pillow and looked at Alyosha with a tender smile shining on her tear-stained face. Let him alone, Alyosha, my cherub. You see what he is. He is not a person for you to speak to. Mikhail Osipovich, she turned to Akitin. I meant to beg your pardon for being rude to you, but now I don't want to. Alyosha come to me, sit down here. She beckoned to him with a happy smile. That's right, sit here. Tell me, she took him by the hand and peeped into his face smiling. Tell me, do I love that man or not? The man who wronged me, do I love him or not? Before you came, I lay here in the dark asking my heart whether I loved him. Decide for me, Alyosha, the time has come. It shall be as you say. Am I to forgive him or not? But you have forgiven him already, said Alyosha, smiling. Yes, I really have forgiven him. Rushenka murmured thoughtfully. What an abject heart. To my abject heart, she snatched up a glass from the table, emptied it at a gulp, lifted it in the air and flung it to the floor. The glass broke with a crash. A little cruel line came into her smile. Perhaps I haven't forgiven him though, she said with a sort of menace in her voice and she dropped her eyes to the ground as though she were talking to herself. Perhaps my heart is only getting ready to forgive. I shall struggle with my heart. You see, Alyosha, I've grown to love my tears in these five years. Perhaps I only love my resentment, not him. Well, I shouldn't care to be in his shoes, hissed Akiten. Well, you won't be, Akiten. You'll never be in his shoes. You shall black my shoes, Akiten. That's the place you're fit for. You'll never get a woman like me. And he won't either, perhaps. Wonny, then why are you dressed up like that? Said Akiten with a venomous sneer. Don't taunt me with dressing up, Akiten. You don't know all that is in my heart. If I choose to tear off my finery, I'll tear it off at once this minute. She cried in a resonant voice. You don't know what the finery is for, Akiten. Perhaps I shall see him and say, have you ever seen me look like this before? He left me a thin, consumptive crybaby of 17. I'll sit by him, fascinate him, and work him up. Do you see what I'm like now? I'll say to him, well, that's enough for you, my dear sir. There's many a slip, tooks the cup and the lip. That may be what the finery is for, Akiten. Kuroshenka finished with a malicious laugh. I'm violent and resentful, Alyosha. I'll tear off my finery, I'll destroy my beauty, I'll scorch my face, slash it with a knife, and turn beggar. If I choose, I won't go anywhere now to see anyone. If I choose, I'll send Kuzma back, all he has ever given me, tomorrow, and all his money, and I'll go out charring for the rest of my life. You think I wouldn't do it, Akiten, that I would not dare to do it? I would, I would. I could do it directly, only don't exasperate me, and I shall send him about his business. I'll snap my fingers in his face. He shall never see me again. She uttered the last words in a hysterical scream that broke down again, hit her face in her hands, buried it in the pillow, and shook with psalms. Akiten got up. It's time we were off, he said. It's late, we shall be shut out of the monastery. Kuroshenka leapt up from her place. Surely you don't want to go, Alyosha. She cried in mournful surprise. What are you doing to me? You've stirred up my feeling, tortured me, and now you leave me to face this night alone? He can hardly spend the night with you. I love he wants to let him, I'll go alone. Akiten scoffed jeeringly. Hush, evil tongue. Kuroshenka cried angrily at him. You never said such words to me as he has come to say. What has he said to you so special? Asked Akiten irritably. I can't say, I don't know. I don't know what he said to me. It went straight to my heart. He has wrung my heart. He is the first, the only one who has pitted me. That's what it is. Why did you not come before you angel? She fell on her knees before him as though in a sudden frenzy. I've been waiting all my life for someone like you. I knew that someone like you would come and forgive me. I believed that, nasty as I am, someone would really love me, not only with a shameful love. What have I done to you? Answered Alyosha, bending over her with a tender smile and gently taking her by the hands. I only gave you an onion, nothing but a tiny little onion. That was all. He was moved to tears himself as he said it. At that moment, there was a sudden noise in the passage. Someone came into the hall. Wurushika jumped up, seeming greatly alarmed. Fenya ran noisily into the room crying out. Mistress, Mistress Darling, a messenger has galloped up. She cried breathless and joyful. A carriage from Makroya for you. Timofei, the driver, with three horses. They are just putting in fresh horses. A letter, here's the letter, Mistress. A letter was in her hand and she waved it in the air all the while she talked. Wurushika snatched the letter from her and carried it to the candle. It was only a note, a few lines. She read it in one instant. He has sent for me, she cried, her face white and distorted with a wanned smile. He whistles, crawl back, little dog, but only for one instant she stood so hesitating. Suddenly the blood rushed to her head and sent a glow to her cheeks. I will go, she cried. Five years of my life, goodbye. Goodbye, Alyosha, my fate is sealed. Go, go, leave me, all of you. Don't let me see you again. Wurushika is flying to a new life. Don't you remember evil against me either, Rakuten? I may be going to my death. I feel as though I were drunk. She suddenly left them and ran into her bedroom. Well, she has no thoughts for us now, grumbled Rakuten. Let's go or we may hear that feminine shriek again. I am sick of all these tears and cries. Alyosha mechanically let himself be let out. In the yard stood a covered cart. Horses were being taken out of the shafts. Men were running to and fro with a lantern. Three fresh horses were being let in at the open gate. But when Alyosha and Rakuten reached the bottom of the steps, Wurushika's bedroom window was suddenly opened and she called in a ringing voice after Alyosha. Alyosha, give my greetings to your brother Mitya and tell him not to remember evil against me though I have brought him misery and tell him to, in my words, Wurushika has fallen to a scoundrel and not to you, noble heart. And add too that Wurushika loved him only one hour, only one short hour she loved him. So let him remember that hour all his life. Say, Wurushika tells you too. She ended in a voice full of sobs. The window was shut with a slam. Grouded Akiten laughing, she murders your brother Mitya and then tells him to remember it all his life. What ferocity. Alyosha made no reply. He seemed not to have heard. He walked fast beside Akiten as though in a terrible hurry. He was lost in thought and moved mechanically. But Akiten felt a sudden twinge as though he had been touched on an open wound. He had expected something quite different by bringing Grushika and Alyosha together. Something very different from what he had hoped for had happened. He is a pole, that officer of hers. He began again, restraining himself. And indeed, he is not an officer at all now. He served in the customs in Siberia, somewhere on the Chinese frontier, some puny little beggar of a pole, I expect. Lost his job, they say. He's heard now that Grushika saved a little money, so he's turned up again. That's the explanation of the mystery. Again, Alyosha seemed not to hear. But Akiten could not control himself. Well, so you've saved the sinner. He laughed, spitefully. Now have you turned the Magdalene into the true path, driven out the seven devils, eh? So you see the miracles you are looking out for just now have come to pass. Hush, Arakiitin, Alyosha answered with an aching heart. So you despise me now for those 25 rubles? I've sold my friend, you think. But you are not Christ, you know. And I am not Judas. Oh, Arakiitin, I assure you, I'd forgotten about it, cried Alyosha. You remind me of it yourself. But this was the last straw for Arakiitin. Damnation, take you all and each of you, he cried suddenly. Why the devil did I take you up? I don't want to know you from this time forward. Go along, there's your road. And he turned abruptly into another street, leaving Alyosha alone in the dark. Alyosha came out of the town and walked across the fields to the monastery. End of chapter three of book seven, recording by James Fort Myers, Florida. Book seven, chapter four of The Brothers Karamazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kate McKenzie. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. Book seven, chapter four, Cana of Galilee. It was very late, according to the monastery ideas, when Alyosha returned to the hermitage, the doorkeeper let him in by a special entrance. It had struck nine o'clock, the hour of rest and repose after a day of such agitation for all. Alyosha timidly opened the door and went into the eldest cell where his coffin was now standing. There was no one in the cell but Father Pacey, reading the gospel in solitude over the coffin and the young novice Porphyry, who, exhausted by the previous night's conversation and the disturbing incidents of the day, was sleeping the deep sound sleep of youth on the floor of the other room. Though Father Pacey heard Alyosha come in, he did not even look in his direction. Alyosha turned to the right from the door to the corner, fell on his knees and began to pray. His soul was overflowing but with mingled feelings. No single sensation stood out distinctly. On the contrary, one drove out another in a slow, continual rotation. But there was a sweetness in his heart and, strange to say, Alyosha was not surprised at it. Again he saw that coffin before him, the hidden dead figure so precious to him, but the weeping and poignant grief of the morning was no longer aching in his soul. As soon as he came in, he fell down before the coffin as before a holy shrine. But joy, joy was glowing in his mind and in his heart. The one window of the cell was open, the air was fresh and cool. So the smell must have become stronger if they opened the window, thought Alyosha. But even this thought of the smell of corruption, which had seemed to him so awful and humiliating a few hours before, no longer made him feel miserable or indignant. He began quietly praying, but he soon felt that he was praying almost mechanically. Fragments of thought floated through his soul, flashed like stars and went out again at once to be succeeded by others. But yet there was raining in his soul a sense of the wholeness of things, something steadfast and comforting, and he was aware of it himself. Sometimes he began praying ardently. He longed to pour out his thankfulness and love, but when he had begun to pray, he passed suddenly to something else and sank into thought, forgetting both the prayer and what had interrupted it. He began listening to what Father Pacey was reading, but worn out with exhaustion, he gradually began to dose. And the third day there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee, where Father Pacey and the mother of Jesus was there, and both Jesus was there, and both Jesus was called and his disciples to the marriage. Marriage, what's that? The marriage floated whirling through Alyosha's mind. There is happiness for her too. She has gone to the feast. No, she has not taken the knife. That was only a tragic phrase. Well, tragic phrases should be forgiven. They must be. Tragic phrases comfort the heart. Without them, sorrow would be too heavy for men to bear. Raketin has gone off to the back alley. As long as Raketin broods over his rungs, he will always go off to the back alley. But the high road, the road is wide and straight and bright as crystal, and the sun is at the end of it. What's being read? And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, they have no wine, Alyosha heard. Ah, yes, I was missing that, and I didn't want to miss it. I love that passage. It's kind of galley, the first miracle. Ah, that miracle. Ah, that sweet miracle. It was not men's grief, but their joy Christ visited. He worked his first miracle to help men's gladness. He who loves men loves their gladness too. He was always repeating that. It was one of his leading ideas. There's no living without joy, Mitja says. Yes, Mitja. Everything that is true and good is always full of forgiveness. He used to say that too. Jesus saith unto her, woman, what has it to do with thee or me? Mine hour not yet come. His mother saith unto the servants, whatsoever he saith unto you, do it, do it. Gladness, the gladness of some poor, very poor people. Of course they were poor since they hadn't wine enough even at a wedding. The historians write that, in those days, the people living about the Lake of Ganaseret were the poorest that can possibly be imagined. And another great heart, that other great being, his mother, knew that he had come not only to make his great terrible sacrifice, she knew that his heart was open even to the simple, artless, merry-making of some obscure and unlearned people who had warmly bidden him to their poor wedding. Mine hour is not yet come. He said with a soft smile. He must have smiled gently to her. And indeed, was it to make wine abundant at poor weddings he had come down to earth? And yet he went, and did as she asked him. Aye, he's reading again. Jesus saith unto them, fill the water-pots with water, and they filled them up to the brim. And he saith unto them, draw out now, and bear unto the governor of the feast, and they bear it. When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made wine, and knew not whence it was, but the servants which drew the water knew, the governor of the feast called the bridegroom, and saith unto him, every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine. And when men have well drunk, that which is worse, but thou hast kept the good wine until now. But what's this, what's this? Why is the room growing wider? Ah, yes, it's the marriage, the wedding, yes, of course. Here are the guests, here are the young couples sitting, and the merry crowd, and where is the wise governor of the feast? But who is this? Who? Again, the walls are receding. He's getting up there from the great table. What? He hid too, but he's in the coffin, but he's here too. He has stood up, he sees me. He is coming here, God! Yes, he came up to him, to him, he, the little, thin old man, with tiny wrinkles on his face, joyful, and laughing softly. There was no coffin now, and he was in the same dress as he had won yesterday, sitting with them, when the visitors had gathered about him. His face was uncovered, his eyes were shining. How was this, then? He too had been called to the feast. He too, at the marriage of Cana in Galilee. Yes, my dear, I am called too, called and bidden, he heard a soft voice saying over him. Why have you hidden yourself here, out of sight? You come and join us too. It was his voice, the voice of Father Tsosima, and it must be he, since he called him. The elder, raising Alyosha by the hand, and he rose from his knees. We are rejoicing, the little, thin old man went on. We are drinking the new wine, the wine of new great gladness. Do you see how many guests? Here are the bride and bridegroom. Here is the wise governor of the feast. He's tasting the new wine. Why do you wonder at me? I gave an onion to a beggar, so I too am here. And many here have given only an onion each, only one little onion. What are all our deeds? And you, my gentle one, you, my kind boy, you too have known how to give a famished woman an onion today. Begin your work, dear one, begin it, gentle one. Do you see our son? Do you see him? I am afraid. I dare not look, whispered Alyosha. Do not fear him. He is terrible in his greatness, awful in his sublimity, but infinitely merciful. He has made himself like unto us, from love and rejoices with us. He is changing the water into wine, that the gladness of the guests may not be cut short. He is expecting new guests. He is calling new ones unceasingly, forever and ever. There they are, bringing new wine. Do you see they are bringing the vessels? Something glowed in Alyosha's heart. Something filled it till it ached. Tears of rapture rose from his soul. He stretched out his hands, uttered a cry, and waked up. Again the coffin, the open window, and the soft, solemn, distinct reading of the gospel. But Alyosha did not listen to the reading. It was strange. He had fallen asleep on his knees, but now he was on his feet. And suddenly, as though phone forward, with three firm rapid steps, he went right up to the coffin. His shoulder brushed against Father Pacey without his noticing it. Father Pacey raised his eyes for an instant from his book, but looked away again at once, seeing that something strange was happening to the boy. Alyosha gazed for half a minute at the coffin, at the covered, motionless dead man that lay in the coffin, with the icon on his breast and the peaked cap with the octangular cross on his head. He had only just been hearing his voice, and that voice was still ringing in his ears. He was listening, still expecting other words. But suddenly he turned sharply and went out of the cell. He did not stop on the steps either, but went quickly down. His soul, overflowing with rapture, yearned for freedom, space, openness. The vault of heaven, full of soft, shining stars, stretched vast and fathomless above him. The Milky Way ran in two pale streams from the zenith to the horizon. The fresh motionless, still night unfolded the earth. The white towers and golden domes of the cathedral gleamed out against the sapphire sky. The gorgeous autumn flowers in the beds around the house were slumbering till morning. The silence of earth seemed to melt into the silence of the heavens. The mystery of earth was won with the mystery of the stars. Ayosha stood, gazed, and suddenly threw himself down on the earth. He did not know why he embraced it. He could not have told why he longed so irresistibly to kiss it, to kiss it all. But he kissed it, weeping, sobbing, and watering it with his tears, and vowed passionately to love it, to love it for ever and ever. Water the earth with the tears of your joy and love those tears, echoed in his soul. What was he weeping over? Oh, in his rapture he was weeping even over those stars which were shining to him from the abyss of space, and he was not ashamed of that ecstasy. There seemed to be threads from all those innumerable worlds of God linking his soul to them, and it was trembling all over, in contact with other worlds. He longed to forgive everyone and for everything, and to beg forgiveness. Oh, not for himself, but for all men, for all and for everything. And others are praying for me too, echoed again in his soul. But with every instant he felt clearly and, as it were, tangibly, that something firm and unshakable as that vault of heaven had entered into his soul. It was as though some idea had seized the sovereignty of his mind, and it was for all his life, and for ever and ever. He had fallen on the earth a weak boy, but he rose up a resolute champion, and he knew and felt it suddenly at the very moment of his ecstasy. And never, never, his life long, could Aliotta forget that minute. Someone visited my soul in that hour. He used to say afterwards with implicit faith in his words. Within three days he left the monastery in accordance with the words of his elder, who had bidden him, sojourn in the world. End of book seven. Recording by Kate McKenzie.