 Section XI of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary. Book II. CHAPTER VI. Why is such a man alive? Dmitry Fyodorovich, a young man of eight and twenty, of medium height and agreeable countenance, looked older than his years. He was muscular and showed signs of considerable physical strength. Yet there was something not healthy in his face. It was rather thin, his cheeks were hollow, and there was an unhealthy Saloness in their colour. His rather large, prominent dark eyes had an expression of firm determination, and yet there was a vague look in them, too. Even when he was excited and talking irritably, his eyes somehow did not follow his mood, but betrayed something else, sometimes quite incongruous with what was passing. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, those who talked to him sometimes declared. People who saw something pensive and sullen in his eyes were startled by his sudden laugh, which bore witness to mirthful and lighthearted thoughts at the very time when his eyes were so gloomy. A certain strained look in his face was easy to understand that this moment everyone knew or had heard of the extremely restless and dissipated life which he had been leading of late, as well as of the violent anger to which he had been roused in his quarrels with his father. There were several stories current in the town about it. It is true that he was irascible by nature of an unstable and unbalanced mind, as our justice of the peace Kacholnikov happily described him. He was stylishly and irreproachably dressed in a carefully buttoned frock coat. He wore black gloves and carried a top hat. Having only lately left the army, he still had mustaches and no beard. His dark brown hair was cropped short and combed forward on his temples. He had the long determined stride of a military man. He stood still for a moment on the threshold and, glancing at the whole party, went straight up to the elder, guessing him to be their host. He made him a low bow and asked his blessing. Father Zasima, rising in his chair, blessed him. Dmitry kissed his hand respectfully and, with intense feeling, almost to anger, he said, "'Be so generous as to forgive me for having kept you waiting so long, but Smerjakov, the valet, sent me by my father in reply to my inquiries, told me twice over that the appointment was for one. Now I suddenly learn. Don't disturb yourself, interposed the elder. No matter. You are a little late. It's of no consequence. I'm extremely obliged to you and expected no less from your goodness." Saying this, Dmitry bowed once more, then, turning suddenly towards his father, made him, too, a similarly low and respectful bow. He had evidently considered it beforehand and made this bow in all seriousness, thinking at his duty to show his respect and good intentions. Although Fyodor Pavlovich was taken unawares, he was equal to the occasion. In response to Dmitry's bow, he jumped up from his chair and made his son a bow as low in return. His face was suddenly solemn and impressive, which gave him a positively malignant look. Dmitry bowed generally to all present, and without a word walked to the window with his long-resolute stride, sat down on the only empty chair near Father Paesee, and, bending forward, prepared to listen to the conversation he had interrupted. Dmitry's entrance had taken no more than two minutes, and the conversation was resumed. But this time Moussoth thought it unnecessary to reply to Father Paesee's persistent and almost irritable question. Allow me to withdraw from this discussion, he observed with a certain well-bred nonchalance. It's a subtle question, too. Here Ivan Fyodorovich is smiling at us. He must have something interesting to say about that also. Ask him. Nothing special except one little remark, Ivan replied at once. Happy and liberals in general, and even our liberal dilettante, often mix up the final results of socialism with those of Christianity. This wild notion is, of course, a characteristic feature. But it's not only liberals and dilettante who mix up socialism and Christianity, but, in many cases, it appears, the police, the foreign police, of course, do the same. Your Paris anecdote is, rather to the point, Piotr Alexandrovich. I ask your permission to drop this subject altogether, Moussoth repeated. I will tell you instead, gentlemen, another interesting and rather characteristic anecdote of Ivan Fyodorovich himself. Only five days ago, in a gathering here, principally of ladies, he solemnly declared in argument that there was nothing in the whole world to make men love their neighbours, that there was no law of nature that man should love mankind, and that if there had been any love on earth hitherto, it was not owing to a natural law, but simply because men have believed in immortality. Ivan Fyodorovich added, in parenthesis, that the whole natural law lies in that faith, and that if you were to destroy in mankind the belief in immortality, not only love, but every living force maintaining the life of the world would at once be dried up. Moreover, nothing then would be immoral. Everything would be lawful, even cannibalism. That's not all. He ended by asserting that for every individual, like ourselves, who does not believe in God or immortality, the moral law of nature must immediately be changed into the exact contrary of the former religious law, and that egoism, even to crime, must become not only lawful, but even recognised as the inevitable, the most rational, even honourable outcome of his position. From this paradox, gentlemen, you can judge of the rest of our eccentric and paradoxical friend Ivan Fyodorovich's theories. Excuse me, Dmitry cried suddenly. If I've heard a right, crime must not only be permitted, but even recognised as the inevitable and the most rational outcome of his position for every infidel. Is that so or not? Quite so, said Father Paese. I'll remember it. Having uttered these words, Dmitry ceased speaking as suddenly as he had begun. Everyone looked at him with curiosity. Is that really your conviction as to the consequences of the disappearance of the faith in immortality? The elder asked Ivan suddenly. Yes, that was my contention. There is no virtue if there is no immortality. You are blessed in believing that, or else, most unhappy. Why unhappy, Ivan asked, smiling? Because, in all probability, you don't believe yourself in the immortality of your soul, nor in what you have written yourself in your article on Church Jurisdiction. Perhaps you are right, but I wasn't altogether joking. Ivan suddenly and strangely confessed, flushing quickly. You were not altogether joking. That's true. The question is still fretting your heart and not answered. But the martyr likes sometimes to divert himself with his despair, as it were driven to it by despair itself. Meanwhile, in your despair you too divert yourself with magazine articles and discussions in society, though you don't believe your own arguments and with an aching heart mock at them inwardly. That question you have not answered, and it is your great grief, for it clamours for an answer. But can it be answered by me, answered in the affirmative? Ivan went on asking strangely, still looking at the elder with the same inexplicable smile. If it can't be decided in the affirmative, it will never be decided in the negative. You know that that is the peculiarity of your heart, and all its suffering is due to it. But thank the Creator, who has given you a lofty heart capable of such suffering, of thinking and seeking higher things, for our dwelling is in the heavens. God grant that your heart will attain the answer on earth, and may God bless your path. The elder raised his hand and would have made the sign of the crossover Ivan from where he stood, but the letter rose from his seat, went up to him, received his blessing, and kissing his hand went back to his place in silence. His face looked firm and earnest. This action and all the preceding conversation, which was so surprising from Ivan, impressed everyone by its strangeness and a certain solemnity, so that all were silent for a moment, and there was a look almost of apprehension in Al-Yash's face. But Musav suddenly shrugged his shoulders, and at the same moment Fyodor Pavlovich jumped up from his seat. Most pious and holy elder, he cried, pointing to Ivan, that is my son, flesh of my flesh, the dearest of my flesh. He is my most dutiful Carl Moore, so to speak, while this son who has just come in, Dmitry, against whom I am seeking justice from you, is the undutiful France Moore. They are both out at Schiller's robbers, and so I am the reigning Count von Moore. Judge and save us. We need not only your prayers, but your prophecies. Speak without buffoonery, and don't begin by insulting the members of your family, answered the elder in a faint, exhausted voice. He was obviously getting more and more fatigued, and his strength was failing. An unseemly farce which I foresaw when I came here, cried Dmitry indignantly. He too leapt up. Forgive it, Reverend Father, he added, addressing the elder. I am not a cultivated man, and I don't even know how to address you properly. But you have been deceived, and you have been too good-natured in letting us meet here. All my father wants is a scandal. Why he wants it, only he can tell. He always has some motive. But I believe I know why. They all blame me, all of them, cried Fyodor Pavlovich in his turn. Piotr Alexandrovich here blames me too. You have been blaming me, Piotr Alexandrovich, you have. He turned suddenly to Musov, although the latter was not dreaming of interrupting him. They all accuse me of having hidden the children's money in my boots, and cheated them. But isn't there a court of law? There they will reckon out for you, Dmitry Fyodorovich, from your notes, your letters, and your agreements, how much money you had, how much you have spent, and how much you have left. Why does Piotr Alexandrovich refuse to pass judgment? Dmitry is not a stranger to him. Because they are all against me, while Dmitry Fyodorovich is in debt to me, and not a little, but some thousands of which I have documentary proof. The whole town is echoing with his debaucheries, and where he was stationed before, he several times spent a thousand or two for the seduction of some respectable girl. We know all about that, Dmitry Fyodorovich, in its most secret details. I'll prove it. Would you believe it, Holy Father? He has captivated the heart of the most honourable of young ladies of good family and fortune, daughter of a gallant colonel, formerly his superior officer, who had received many honours and had the Anna order on his breast. He compromised the girl by his promise of marriage. Now she is an orphan and here. She is betrothed to him. Yet before her very eyes he is dancing attendance on a certain enchantress. And though this enchantress has lived in, so to speak, civil marriage with a respectable man, yet she is of an independent character, an unapproachable fortress for everybody, just like a legal wife. For she is virtuous, yes, Holy Fathers, she is virtuous. Dmitry Fyodorovich wants to open this fortress with the golden key, and that's why he is insolent to me now, trying to get money from me, though he has wasted thousands on this enchantress already. He's continually borrowing money for the purpose. From whom do you think? Shall I say, Mitcha? Be silent, cried Dmitry. Wait till I'm gone. Don't dare in my presence to espers the good name of an honourable girl, that you should utter a word about her is an outrage, and I won't permit it. He was breathless. Mitcha, Mitcha, cried Fyodor Pavlovich hysterically, squeezing out a tear. And is your father's blessing nothing to you? If I curse you, what then? Shameless hypocrite, exclaimed Dmitry furiously. He says that to his father, his father. What would he be with others? Gentlemen, only fancy. There's a poor but honourable man living here, burdened with a numerous family, a captain who got into trouble and was discharged from the army, but not publicly, not by court marshal, with no slur on his honour. And three weeks ago Dmitry seized him by the beard in a tavern, dragged him out into the street, and beat him publicly. And all because he is an agent in a little business of mine. It's all a lie. Outwardly it's a truth, but inwardly a lie. Dmitry was trembling with rage. Father, I don't justify my action. Yes, I confess it publicly. I behaved like a brute to that captain, and I regret it now, and I'm disgusted with myself for my brutal rage. But this captain, this agent of yours, went to that lady whom you call an enchantress, and suggested to her, from you, that she should take IOUs of mine, which were in your possession, and should sue me for the money, so as to get me into prison by means of them, if I persisted in claiming an account from you of my property. Now you reproach me for having a weakness for that lady, when you yourself incited her to captivate me. She told me so to my face. She told me the story, and laughed at you. You wanted to put me in prison because you were jealous of me with her, because you'd begun to force your attentions upon her, and I know all about that, too. She laughed at you for that as well. You hear? She laughed at you, as she described it. So here you have this man, this father, who reproaches his profligate son. Gentlemen, forgive my anger, but I foresaw that this crafty old man would only bring you together to create a scandal. I had come to forgive him if he held out his hand, to forgive him and ask forgiveness. But as he has just this minute insulted not only me, but an honourable young lady, for whom I feel such reverence that I dare not take her name in vain, I have made up my mind to show up his game, though he is my father. He could not go on. His eyes were glittering, and he breathed with difficulty, but everyone in the cell was stirred. All except Father Zosima got up from their seats uneasily. The monks looked austere, but waited for guidance from the elder. He sat still, pale, not from excitement, but from the weakness of disease. An imploring smile lighted up his face, from time to time he raised his hand as though to check the storm, and of course a gesture from him would have been enough to end the scene, but he seemed to be waiting for something and watched them intently, as though trying to make out something which was not perfectly clear to him. At last Musov felt completely humiliated and disgraced. We are all to blame for this scandalous scene, he said hotly, but I did not foresee it when I came, though I knew with whom I had to deal. This must be stopped at once. Believe me, your reverence, I had no precise knowledge of the details that have just come to light. I was unwilling to believe them, and I learned for the first time. A father is jealous of his son's relations with a woman of loose behaviour and intrigues with the creature to get his son into prison. This is the company in which I have been forced to be present. I was deceived. I declare to you all that I was as much deceived as anyone. Dmitri Fyodorovich yelled Fyodor Pavlovich suddenly in an unnatural voice. If you were not my son I would challenge you this instant to a duel, with pistols at three paces, across a handkerchief. He ended, stamping with both feet. With old liars who have been acting all their lives, there are moments when they enter so completely into their part that they tremble or shed tears of emotion in earnest, though at that very moment, or a second later, they are able to whisper to themselves, you know you are lying, you shameless old sinner, you're acting now, in spite of your holy wrath. Dmitri frowned painfully and looked with unutterable contempt at his father. I thought. I thought, he said, in a soft and as it were controlled voice, that I was coming to my native place with the angel of my heart, my betrothed, to cherish his old age, and I find nothing but a depraved profligate, a despicable clown. A duel, yelled the old wretch again, breathless and spluttering at each syllable. And you, Pyotr Alexandrovich Musov, let me tell you that there has never been in all your family a loftier and more honest, you hear more honest woman than this creature as you have dared to call her. And you, Dmitri Fyodorovich, have abandoned your betrothed for that creature, so you must yourself have thought that your betrothed couldn't hold a candle to her. That's the woman called a creature. Shameful broke from Father Yosef. Shameful and disgraceful, Kalganov, flushing crimson, cried in a boyish voice, trembling with emotion. He had been silent till that moment. Why is such a man alive? Dmitri, beside himself with rage, growled in a hollow voice, hunching up his shoulders till he looked almost deformed. Tell me, can he be allowed to go on defiling the earth? He looked round at everyone and pointed at the old man. He spoke evenly and deliberately. Listen, listen, monks, to the parasite, cried Fyodor Pavlovich, rushing up to Father Yosef. That's the answer to your shameful. What is shameful? That creature, that woman of loose behaviour, is perhaps holier than you are yourselves, you monks who are seeking salvation. She fell, perhaps, in her youth, ruined by her environment, but she loved much, and Christ himself forgave the woman who loved much. It was not for such love Christ forgave her, broke impatiently from the gentle Father Yosef. Yes, it was for such, monks, it was. You save your souls here eating cabbage, and think you are the righteous, you eat a gudgeon a day, and you think you bribe God with gudgeon. This is unendurable, was heard on all sides in the cell. But this unseemly scene was cut short in the most unexpected way. Father Zasima rose suddenly from his seat, almost distracted with anxiety for the elder and everyone else. Alyosha succeeded, however, in supporting him by the arm. Father Zasima moved towards Dmitry, and reaching him, sank on his knees before him. Alyosha thought that he had fallen from weakness, but this was not so. The elder distinctly and deliberately bowed down at Dmitry's feet till his forehead touched the floor. Alyosha was so astounded that he failed to assist him when he got up again. There was a faint smile on his lips. Good-bye, forgive me, all of you, he said, bowing on all sides to his guests. Dmitry stood for a few moments in amazement. Bowing down to him, what did it mean? Suddenly he cried aloud, Oh God! hid his face in his hands and rushed out of the room. All the guests flocked out after him, in their confusion not saying good-bye or bowing to their host. Only the monks went up to him again for a blessing. What did it mean, falling at his feet like that? Was it symbolic or what? said Fyodor Pavlovich, suddenly quieted and trying to reopen conversation without venturing to address anybody in particular. They were all passing out of the precincts of the hermitage at the moment. I can't answer for a madhouse and for madmen, Musov answered at once ill-humoredly, but I will spare myself your company, Fyodor Pavlovich, and trust me, forever. Where's that monk? That monk, that is, the monk who had invited them to dine with the superior, did not keep them waiting. He met them as soon as they came down the steps from the elder's cell, as though he had been waiting for them all the time. Reverend Father, kindly do me a favour. Convey my deepest respect to the Father Superior. Apologize, for me, personally, Musov, to his reverence, telling him that I deeply regret that owing to unforeseen circumstances I am unable to have the honour of being present at his table, greatly as I should desire to do so, Musov said irritably to the monk. And that unforeseen circumstance, of course, is myself, Fyodor Pavlovich, cut in immediately. Do you hear, Father, this gentleman doesn't want to remain in my company, or else he'd come at once. And you shall go, Piotr Alexandrovich, pray, go to the Father Superior, and good appetite to you. I will decline and not you. Home, home, I'll eat at home. I don't feel equal to adhere, Piotr Alexandrovich, my amiable relative. I am not your relative, and never have been, you contemptible man. I set it on purpose to madden you, because you always disclaim the relationship, though you really are a relation, in spite of your shuffling. I'll prove it by the church calendar. As for you, Yvonne, stay, if you like. I'll send the horses for you later. Propriety requires you to go to the Father Superior, Piotr Alexandrovich, to apologize for the disturbance we've been making. Is it true that you are going home, aren't you lying? Piotr Alexandrovich, how could I dare after what's happened? Forgive me, gentlemen, I was carried away and upset, besides, and indeed I am ashamed. Gentlemen, one man has the heart of Alexander of Macedon, and another the heart of the little dog Thaido. Mine is that of the little dog Thaido. I am ashamed. After such an escapade, how can I go to dinner to gobble up the monastery's sauces? I am ashamed, I can't. You must excuse me. The devil only knows what if he deceives us, thought Musov, still hesitating, and watching the retreating buffoon with distrustful eyes. The latter turned round, and noticing that Musov was watching him, waved him a kiss. Well, are you coming to the Superior? Musov asked Ivan abruptly. Why not? I was especially invited yesterday. Unfortunately, I feel myself compelled to go to this confounded dinner, said Musov, with the same irritability, regardless of the fact that the monk was listening. We ought at least to apologize for the disturbance and explain that it was not our doing. What do you think? Yes, we must explain that it wasn't our doing. Besides, Father won't be there, observed Ivan. Well, I should hope not. Confound this dinner! They all walked on, however. The monk listened in silence. On the road through the cops he made one observation, however, that the Father Superior had been waiting a long time and that they were more than half an hour late. He received no answer. Musov looked with hatred at Ivan. Here he is going to the dinner as though nothing had happened, he thought, a brazen face and the conscience of a Karamazov. CHAPTER VII. A young man bent on a career. Alyosha helped Father Zasima to his bedroom and seated him on his bed. It was a little room furnished with the bare necessities. There was a narrow iron bedstead with a strip of felt for a mattress. In the corner under the icons was a reading desk with the cross and the gospel lying on it. The elder sank exhausted on the bed. His eyes glittered and he breathed hard. He looked intently at Alyosha as though considering something. Go, my dear boy, go. Porphyry is enough for me. Make haste, you are needed there. Go and wait at the Father Superior's table. Let me stay here, Alyosha entreated. You are more needed there. There is no peace there. You will wait and be of service. If evil spirits rise up, repeat a prayer, and remember my son, the elder light to call him that. This is not the place for you in the future. When it is God's will to call me, leave the monastery, go away for good. Alyosha started. What is it? This is not your place for the time. I bless you for great service in the world. Yours will be a long pilgrimage, and you will have to take a wife, too. You will have to bear all before you come back. There will be much to do. But I don't doubt of you, and so I send you forth. Christ is with you. Do not abandon him, and he will not abandon you. You will see great sorrow, and in that sorrow you will be happy. This is my last message to you. In sorrow seek happiness. Work, work unceasingly. Remember my words, for although I shall talk with you again, not only my days but my hours are numbered. Alyosha's face again betrayed strong emotion, the corners of his mouth quivered. What is it again? Father Zasima asked, smiling gently. The worldly may follow the dead with tears, but here we rejoice over the Father who is departing. We rejoice and pray for him. Leave me, I must pray. Go and make haste. Be near your brothers, and not near one only, but near both. Father Zasima raised his hand to bless him. Alyosha could make no protest, though he had a great longing to remain. He longed more over to ask the significance of his bowing to Dimitri. The question was on the tip of his tongue, but he dared not ask it. He knew that the elder would have explained it unasked if he had thought fit, but evidently it was not his will. That action had made a terrible impression on Alyosha. He believed blindly in its mysterious significance, mysterious and perhaps awful. As he hastened out of the hermitage precincts to reach the monastery in time to serve at the Father's Superior's dinner, he felt a sudden pang at his heart and stopped short. He seemed to hear again Father Zasima's words for telling his approaching end. What he had foretold so exactly must infallibly come to pass. Alyosha believed that implicitly. But how could he be left without him? How could he live without seeing and hearing him? Where should he go? He had told him not to weep and to leave the monastery. Good God! It was long since Alyosha had known such anguish. He hurried through the cops that divided the monastery from the hermitage and, unable to bear the burden of his thoughts, he gazed at the ancient pines beside the path. He had not far to go, about five hundred paces. He expected to meet no one at that hour, but at the first turn of the path he noticed Raketan. He was waiting for someone. Are you waiting for me? asked Alyosha, overtaking him. Yes, Grind Raketan. You are hurrying to the Father's Superior, I know. He has a banquet. There's not been such a banquet since the Superior entertained the bishop in General Pahatov. Do you remember? I shan't be there, but you go and hand the sauces. Tell me one thing, Alexei. What does that vision mean? That's what I want to ask you. What vision? That bowing to your brother Dimitri, and didn't he tap the ground with his forehead, too? You speak of Father Zasima? Yes, of Father Zasima. Tapped the ground? Ah, and your reverent expression. Well, what of it? Anyway, what does that vision mean? I don't know what it means, Misha. I knew he wouldn't explain it to you. There's nothing wonderful about it, of course, only the usual holy mummery. But there was an object in the performance. All the pious people in the town will talk about it and spread the story through the province, wondering what it meant. To my thinking, the old man really has a keen nose. He sniffed a crime. Your house stinks of it. What crime? Raketen evidently had something he was eager to speak of. It'll be in your family this crime, between your brothers and your rich old father. So Father Zasima flopped down to be ready for what may turn up. If something happens later on, it'll be, ah, the holy man foresaw it, prophesied it, though it's a poor sort of prophecy, flopping like that. Ah, but it was symbolic, they'll say, an allegory in the devil knows what all. It'll be remembered to his glory. He predicted the crime and marked the criminal. That's always the way with these crazy fanatics. They cross themselves at the tavern and throw stones at the temple. Like your elder, he takes a stick to adjust man and falls at the feet of a murderer. What crime? What murderer? What do you mean? Alyosha stopped dead. Raketen stopped too. What murderer? As though you didn't know. I bet you've thought of it before. That's interesting too, by the way. Listen, Alyosha, you always speak the truth, though you're always between two stools. Have you thought of it or not? Answer. I have. Answered Alyosha in a low voice. Even Raketen was taken aback. What, have you, really? He cried. I—I've not exactly thought it, muttered Alyosha, but directly you began speaking so strangely. I fancied I had thought of it myself. You see, and how well you expressed it, looking at your father and your brother Misha today, you thought of a crime, then I'm not mistaken. But wait, wait a minute. Alyosha broke in uneasily. What has led you to see all this? Why does it interest you? That's the first question. Two questions, disconnected, but natural. I'll deal with them separately. What led me to see it? I shouldn't have seen it if I hadn't suddenly understood your brother Dimitri, seen right into the very heart of him all at once. I caught the whole man from one trait. These very honest but passionate people have a line which mustn't be crossed. If it were, he'd run at your father with a knife. But your father's a drunken and abandoned old sinner who can never draw the line. If they both let themselves go, they'll both come to grief. No, Misha, no. If that's all, you've reassured me. It won't come to that. But why are you trembling? Let me tell you. He may be honest, our Misha. He is stupid, but honest. But he's a sensualist. That's the very definition and inner essence of him. It's your father who has handed him on his low sensuality. Do you know, I simply wonder at you, Alyosha, how you can have kept your purity. You're a Karamazov too, you know. In your family sensuality is carried to a disease. But now these three sensualists are watching one another with their knives and their belts. The three of them are knocking their heads together and you may be the fourth. You are mistaken about that woman. Dimitri despises her, said Alyosha with a sort of shutter. Grushanka? No, brother. He doesn't despise her. Since he has openly abandoned his betrothed for her, he doesn't despise her. There's something here, my dear boy, that you don't understand yet. A man will fall in love with some beauty, with a woman's body, or even with a part of the woman's body, a sensualist can understand that, and he'll abandon his own children for her, sell his father and mother and his country, Russia, too. If he's honest, he'll steal. If he's humane, he'll murder. If he's faithful, he'll deceive. Pushkin, the poet of women's feet, sung of their feet in his verse. Others don't sing their praises, but they can't look at their feet without a thrill, and it's not only their feet. Contempts no help here, brother, even if he did despise Grushanka. He does, but he can't tear himself away. I understand that, Alyosha jerked out suddenly. Really? Well, I daresay you do understand, since you blurted out at the first word, said Raketen malignantly. That escaped you unawares, and the confession's the more precious. So it's a familiar subject. You've thought about it already. About sensuality, I mean. Oh, you virgin soul! You're a quiet one, Alyosha. You're a saint, I know. But the devil only knows what you've thought about, and what you know already. You are pure, but you've been down into the depths. I've been watching you a long time. You're a Karamazov yourself. You're a thorough Karamazov. No doubt birth and selection have something to answer for. You're a sensualist from your father. Crazy saint from your mother. Why do you tremble? Is it true, then? Do you know Grushanka has been begging me to bring you along? I'll pull off his cassock, she says. You can't think how she keeps begging me to bring you. I wondered why she took such an interest in you. Do you know she's an extraordinary woman, too? Thank her and say I'm not coming, said Alyosha, with a strained smile. Finish what you were saying, Misha. I'll tell you my idea after. There's nothing to finish. It's all clear. It's the same old tune, brother. If even you are a sensualist at heart, what of your brother, Ivan? He's a Karamazov too. What is at the root of all you Karamazovs is that you're all sensual, grasping, and crazy. Your brother, Ivan, writes theological articles in joke for some idiotic, unknown motive of his own, though he's an atheist, and he admits it's a fraud himself. That's your brother, Ivan. He's trying to get Misha's betrothed for himself, and I fancy he'll succeed, too. And what's more, it's with Misha's consent, for Misha will surrender his betrothed to him to be rid of her and escape to Grushanka, and he's ready to do that in spite of all his nobility and disinterestedness. Observe that. Those are the most fatal people. Who the devil can make you out? He recognizes his fileness and goes on with it. Let me tell you, too, the old man, your father, is standing in Misha's way now. He has suddenly gone crazy over Grushanka. His mouth waters at the sight of her. It's simply on her account he made that scene in the cell just now simply because Musav called her an abandoned creature. He's worse than a tomcat in love. At first she was only employed by him in connection with his taverns and in some other shady business, but now he has suddenly realized all she is and has gone wild about her. He keeps pestering her with his offers, not honorable ones, of course. And they'll come into collision the precious father and son on that path. But Grushanka favors neither of them. She's still playing with them and teasing them both, considering which she can get the most out of. For though she could filch a lot of money from the papa, he wouldn't marry her. And maybe he'll turn stingy in the end and keep his purse shut. That's where Misha's value comes in. He has no money, but he's ready to marry her. Yes, ready to marry her, to abandon his betrothed, a rare beauty, Katarina Ivanovna, who's rich and the daughter of a colonel, and to marry Grushanka, who has been the mistress of the dissolute old merchant, Samsonov, a coarse uneducated provincial mayor. Some murderous conflict may well come to pass from all this, and that's what your brother, Ivan, is waiting for. It would suit him down to the ground. He'll carry off Katarina Ivanovna, for whom he is languishing, and pocket her dowry of sixty thousand. That's very alluring to start with, for a man of no consequence and a beggar. And take note, he won't be wronging Misha, but doing him the greatest service. For I know as a fact that Misha only last week, when he was with some gypsy girls drunk in a tavern, cried out aloud that he was unworthy of his betrothed Katya, but that his brother, Ivan, he was the man who deserved her. And Katarina Ivanovna will not, in the end, refuse such a fascinating man as Ivan. She's hesitating between the two of them already. And how has that Ivan won you all, so that you all worship him? He is laughing at you and enjoying himself at your expense. How do you know? How can you speak so confidently? Alyosha asked, sharply frowning. Why do you ask and are frightened at my answer? It shows that you know I'm speaking the truth. You don't like Ivan. Ivan wouldn't be tempted by money. Really. And the beauty of Katarina Ivanovna is not only the money, though a fortune of sixty thousand is an attraction. Ivan is above that. He wouldn't make up to anyone for thousands. It is not money. It's not comfort Ivan is seeking. Perhaps it's suffering he is seeking. What wild dream now! Oh, you aristocrats! Ah, Misha! He has a stormy spirit. His mind is in bondage. He is haunted by a great unsolved doubt. He is one of those who don't want millions, but an answer to their questions. That's plagiarism, Alyosha. You're quoting your elder's phrases. Ah, Ivan has set you a problem, cried Raketen, with undisguised malice. His face changed and his lips twitched. And the problem's a stupid one. It's no good guessing it. Rack your brains, you'll understand it. His article is absurd and ridiculous. And did you hear his stupid theory just now? If there's no immortality of the soul, then there's no virtue, and everything is lawful. And, by the way, do you remember how your brother Misha cried out, I will remember. An attractive theory for scoundrels. I'm being abusive, that's stupid, not for scoundrels, but for pedantic posares, haunted by profound unsolved doubts. He's showing off. And what it all comes to is, on the one hand we cannot but admit, and on the other it must be confessed. His whole theory is a fraud. Humanity will find in itself the power to live for virtue even without believing in immortality. It will find it in love for freedom, for equality, for fraternity. Raketen could hardly restrain himself in his heat, but suddenly, as though remembering something, he stopped short. Well, that's enough, he said, with a still more crooked smile. Why are you laughing? Do you think I'm a vulgar fool? No, I never dreamed of thinking you a vulgar fool. You are clever, but never mind. I was silly to smile. I understand you're getting hot about it, Misha. I guess, from your warmth, that you are not indifferent to Catarina Ivanovna yourself. I've suspected that for a long time, brother. That's why you don't like my brother Ivan. Are you jealous of him? And jealous of her money, too? Won't you add that? I'll say nothing about money. I'm not going to insult you. I believe it, since you say so, but confound you and your brother Ivan with you. Don't you understand that one might very well dislike him, apart from Catarina Ivanovna? And why the devil should I like him? He condescends to abuse me, you know. Why haven't I a right to abuse him? I've never heard of his saying anything about you, good or bad. He doesn't speak of you at all. But I heard that the day before yesterday at Catarina Ivanovna's, he was abusing me for all he was worth. You see what an interest he takes in your humble servant, and which is the jealous one after that, brother, I can't say. He was so good as to express the opinion that if I don't go in for the career of an Archimandrite in the immediate future, and don't become a monk, I shall be sure to go to Petersburg and get on to some solid magazine as a reviewer, that I shall write for the next ten years, and in the end become the owner of the magazine, and bring it out on the liberal and atheistic side with a socialistic tinge, with a tiny gloss of socialism, but keeping a sharp lookout all the time that he is keeping in with both sides and hoodwinking the fools. According to your brother's account, the tinge of socialism won't hinder me from laying by the proceeds and investing them under the guidance of some Jew, till at the end of my career I build a great house in Petersburg and move my publishing offices to it and let out the upper stories to lodgers. He has even chosen the place for it, near the new Stone Bridge across the Neva, which they say is to be built in Petersburg. Ah, Misha, that's just what will really happen, every word of it, cried Alyosha, unable to restrain a good-humoured smile. You are pleased to be sarcastic too, Alexei Fyodorovich. No, no, I'm joking, forgive me. I've something quite different in my mind. But, excuse me, who can have told you all this? You can't have been at Katarina Ivanovna's yourself when he was talking about you. I wasn't there, but Dmitriy Fyodorovich was, and I heard him tell it with my own ears. If you want to know, he didn't tell me, but I overheard him, unintentionally, of course, for I was sitting in Grushenko's bedroom and I couldn't go away because Dmitriy Fyodorovich was in the next room. Oh, yes, I'd forgotten she was a relation of yours. A relation? That Grushenko a relation of mine? cried Raketen, turning crimson. Are you mad? You're out of your mind. Why, isn't she a relation of yours? I heard so. Where can you have heard it? You Karamazov's sprag of being an ancient noble family, though your father used to run about playing the buffoon at other men's tables, and was only admitted to the kitchen as a favour. I may be only a priest's son, and dirt in the eyes of noble men like you, but don't insult me so lightly and wantonly. I have a sense of honour too, Alexei Fyodorovich. I couldn't be a relation of Grushenko, a common harlot. I beg you to understand that. Raketen was intensely irritated. Forgive me, for goodness sake, I had no idea. Besides, how can you call her a harlot? Is she that sort of woman? Alyosha flushed suddenly. I tell you again, I heard that she was a relation of yours. You often go to see her, and you told me yourself you're not her lover. I never dreamed that you of all people had such contempt for her. Does she really deserve it? I may have reasons of my own for visiting her. That's not your business. But as for relationship, your brother, or even your father, is more likely to make her yours than mine. Well, here we are. You'd better go to the kitchen. Hello! What's wrong? What is it? Are we late? They can't have finished dinner so soon. Have the Karamazovs been making trouble again? No doubt they have. Here's your father and your brother Ivan after him. They've broken out from the father's superiors. And look! Father Isidor is shouting out something after them from the steps. And your father's shouting and waving his arms, and I expect he's swearing. And there goes Musov driving away in his carriage. You see, he's going. And there's old Maximov running. There must have been a row. There can't have been any dinner. Surely they've not been beating the father's superior. Or have they perhaps been beaten? It would serve them right. There was reason for Raketen's exclamations. There had been a scandalous and unprecedented scene. It had all come from the impulse of a moment. End of Section 12 Section 13 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Konstantz Garnet. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Book II. Chapter 8 The Scandalous Scene Musov, as a man of breeding and delicacy, could not but feel some inward qualms when he reached the father's superiors with Ivan. He felt ashamed of having lost his temper. He felt that he ought to have disdained that despicable wretch, Fyodor Pavlovich, too much to have been upset by him in father Zosima's cell, and so to have forgotten himself. The monks were not to blame in any case. He reflected on the steps, and if they're decent people here, and the father's superior, I understand, is a nobleman, why not be friendly and courteous with them. I won't argue, I'll fall in with everything, I'll win them by politeness, and show them that I've nothing to do with that esop, that buffoon, that pierrot, and have merely been taken in over this affair just as they have. He determined to drop his litigation with the monastery, and relinquish his claims to the wood-cutting and fishery rites at once. He was the more ready to do this because the rites had become much less valuable, and he had indeed the vaguest idea where the wood and river in question were. These excellent intentions were strengthened when he entered the father's superior's dining-room, though strictly speaking it was not a dining-room, for the father's superior had only two rooms altogether. They were, however, much larger and more comfortable than father's ossemas. But there was no great luxury about the furnishing of these rooms, either. The furniture was of mahogany covered with leather in the old-fashioned style of 1820. The floor was not even stained, but everything was shining with cleanliness, and there were many choice flowers in the windows. The most sumptuous thing in the room at the moment was, of course, the beautifully decorated table. The cloth was clean, the service shone. There were three kinds of well-baked bread, two bottles of wine, two of excellent mead, and a large glass jug of kvath, both the latter made in the monastery and famous in the neighbourhood. There was no vodka. Raketan related, afterwards, that there were five dishes, fish soup made of stirlets served with little fish patties, then boiled fish served in a special way, then salmon cutlets, ice pudding and compote, and finally blanche. Raketan found out about all these good things, for he could not resist peeping into the kitchen where he already had a footing. He had a footing everywhere and got information about everything. He was of an uneasy and envious temper. He was well aware of his own considerable abilities, and nervously exaggerated them in his self-conceit. He knew he would play a prominent part of some sort, but Alyosha, who was attached to him, was distressed to see that his friend Raketan was dishonourable and quite unconscious of being so himself, considering, on the contrary, that because he would not steal money left on the table, he was a man of the highest integrity. Neither Alyosha nor anyone else could have influenced him in that. Raketan, of course, was a person of too little consequence to be invited to the dinner, to which Father Yosef, Father Paisi, and one other monk were the only inmates of the monastery invited. They were already waiting when Musov, Kalgana, and Ivan arrived. The other guest, Maximoth, stood a little aside, waiting also. The father superior stepped into the middle of the room to receive his guests. He was a tall, thin, but still vigorous old man, with black hair streaked with gray and a long, grave, ascetic face. He bowed to his guests in silence. But this time they approached to receive his blessing. Musov even tried to kiss his hand, but the father superior drew it back in time to avoid the salute. But Ivan and Kalganov went through the ceremony in the most simple-hearted and complete manner, kissing his hand as peasants do. We must apologize most humbly. Your reverence began, Yosef, simpering affably and speaking in a dignified and respectful tone. Pardon us for having come alone without the gentleman you invited, Fyodor Pavlovich. He felt obliged to decline the honour of your hospitality, and not without reason. In the reverent father Zasima's cell he was carried away by the unhappy dissension with his son, and let fall words which were quite out of keeping. In fact, quite unseemly, as he glanced at the monks, your reverence is no doubt already aware, and therefore recognizing that he had been to blame, he felt sincere regret and shame, and begged me, and his son Ivan Fyodorovich, to convey to you his apologies and regrets. In brief he hopes and desires to make amends later. He asks your blessing, and begs you to forget what has taken place. As he uttered the last word of his tirade, Yosef completely recovered his self-complicency, and all traces of his former irritation disappeared. He fully and sincerely loved humanity again. The father's superior listened to him with dignity, and with a slight bend of the head, replied, I sincerely deplore his absence. Perhaps at our table he might have learnt to like us, and we him. Pray be seated, gentlemen. He stood before the holy image, and began to say grace aloud. All met their heads reverently, and Maximov clasped his hands before him with peculiar fervour. It was at this moment that Fyodor Pavlovich played his last prank. It must be noted that he really had meant to go home, and really had felt the impossibility of going to dine with the father's superior as though nothing had happened after his disgraceful behaviour in the elder's cell. Not that he was so very much ashamed of himself, quite the contrary, perhaps, but still he felt it would be unseemly to go to dinner. Yet his creaking carriage had hardly been brought to the steps of the hotel, and he had hardly got into it, when he suddenly stopped short. He remembered his own words at the elders. I always feel when I meet people that I am lower than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon, so I say let me play the buffoon, for you are every one of you stupider and lower than I. He longed to revenge himself on everyone for his own unseemliness. He suddenly recalled how he had once in the past been asked, Why do you hate so-and-so so much? And he had answered them with his shameless impudence. I'll tell you, he has done me no harm, but I played him a dirty trick, and ever since I have hated him. Remembering that now, he smiled quietly and malignantly, hesitating for a moment. His eyes gleamed and his lips positively quivered. Well, since I have begun, I may as well go on, he decided. His predominant sensation at that moment might be expressed in the following words. Well, there is no rehabilitating myself now, so let me shame them for all I am worth. I will show them I don't care what they think. That's all. He told the coachman to wait, while with rapid steps he returned to the monastery and straight to the Father's superiors. He had no clear idea what he would do, but he knew that he could not control himself, and that a touch might drive him to the utmost limits of obscenity, but only to obscenity, to nothing criminal, nothing for which he could be legally punished. In the last resort he could always restrain himself, and had marveled indeed at himself on that score sometimes. He appeared in the Father's superiors' dining-room at the moment when the prayer was over and all were moving to the table. Standing in the doorway, he scanned the company, and, laughing his prolonged impudent malicious chuckle, looked them all boldly in the face. They thought I had gone, and here I am again. He cried to the whole room. For one moment everyone stared at him without a word, and at once everyone felt that something revolting grotesque, positively scandalous, was about to happen. Musov passed immediately from the most benevolent frame of mind to the most savage. All the feelings that had subsided and died down in his heart revived instantly. No, this I cannot endure, he cried. I absolutely cannot, and I certainly cannot. The blood rushed to his head. He positively stammered, but he was beyond thinking of style, and he seized his hat. What is it he cannot? cried Fyodor Pavlovich, that he absolutely cannot and certainly cannot. Your reverence, am I to come in or not? Will you receive me as your guest? You are welcome with all my heart, answered the superior. Gentlemen, he added, I venture to beg you most earnestly to lay aside your dissensions, and to be united in love and family harmony, with prayer to the Lord at our humble table. No, no, it is impossible, cried Musov, beside himself. Well, if it is impossible for Piotr Aleksandrovich, it is impossible for me, and I won't stop. That is why I came. I will keep with Piotr Aleksandrovich everywhere now. If you will go away, Piotr Aleksandrovich, I will go away too. If you remain, I will remain. You stung him by what you said about family harmony, Father Superior. He does not admit he is my relation. That's right, isn't it? Van Sonne. Here's Van Sonne. How are you, Van Sonne? Do you mean me, muttered Maximov, puzzled? Of course I mean you, cried Fyodor Pavlovich. Who else? The Father Superior could not be Van Sonne. But I am not Van Sonne either. I am Maximov. No, you are Van Sonne. Your reverence, do you know who Van Sonne was? It was a famous murder case. He was killed in a house of harlotry. I believe that is what such places are called among you. He was killed and robbed, and in spite of his venerable age he was nailed up in a box and sent from Petersburg to Moscow in the luggage van. And while they were nailing him up, the harlots sang songs and played the harp, that is to say, the piano. So this is that very Van Sonne. He has risen from the dead, hasn't he, Van Sonne? What is happening? What's this? Voices were heard in the group of monks. Let us go, cried Musov, addressing Kalganov. No, excuse me, Fyodor Pavlovich, broken, shrilly, taking another step into the room, allow me to finish. There, in the cell, you blamed me for behaving disrespectfully just because I spoke of eating gudgeon, Pyotr Alexandrovich. Musov, my relation, prefers to have plued a noblesse could a sincerity in his words, but I prefer in mine, plued a sincerity could a noblesse, and damn the noblesse. That's right, isn't it, Van Sonne? Allow me, Father Superior, though I am a buffoon and play the buffoon, yet I am the soul of honour, and I want to speak my mind. Yes, I am the soul of honour, while in Pyotr Alexandrovich there is wounded vanity and nothing else. I came here perhaps to have a look, and speak my mind. My son Alexei is here, being saved. I am his father, I care for his welfare, and it is my duty to care. While I have been playing the fool, I have been listening and having a look on the sly, and now I want to give you the last act of the performance. You know how things are with us? As a thing falls, so it lies. As a thing once has fallen, so it must lie for ever. Not a bit of it. I want to get up again. Holy Father, I am indignant with you. Confession is a great sacrament before which I am ready to bow down reverently, but there in the cell they all kneel down and confess aloud. Can it be right to confess aloud? It was ordained by the Holy Fathers to confess in secret. Then only your confession will be a mystery, and so it was of old. But how can I explain to him before everyone that I did this and that? Well, you understand what. Sometimes it would not be proper to talk about it, so it is really a scandal. No, Fathers, one might be carried along with you to the flagellance, I dare say. At the first opportunity I shall rate to the Synod and I shall take my son Alexei home. We must note here that Fyodor Pavlovich knew where to look for the weak spot. There had been at one time malicious rumours which had even reached the Archbishop, not only regarding our monastery but in others where the institution of elders existed, that too much respect was paid to the elders even to the detriment of the authority of the superior, that the elders abused the sacrament of confession and so on and so on. Absurd charges which had died away of themselves everywhere, but the spirit of folly which had caught up Fyodor Pavlovich and was bearing him on the current of his own nerves into lower and lower depths of ignominy prompted him with this old slander. Fyodor Pavlovich did not understand a word of it, and he could not even put it sensibly, for on this occasion no one had been kneeling and confessing aloud in the elder's cell so that he could not have seen anything of the kind. He was only speaking from confused memory of old slanders, but as soon as he had uttered his foolish tirade he felt he had been talking absurd nonsense, and at once longed to prove to his audience and above all to himself that he had not been talking nonsense. And, though he knew perfectly well that with each word he would be adding more and more absurdity, he could not restrain himself and plunged forward blindly. "'How disgraceful!' cried Piotr Alexandrovich. "'Pardon me,' said the Father Superior. It was said of old. Many have begun to speak against me and have uttered evil sayings about me, and hearing it, I have said to myself, it is the correction of the Lord, and he has sent it to heal my vain soul. And so we humbly thank you,' honoured Guest. And he made Piotr Pavlovich a low bow. Sanctimoniousness and stock phrases, old phrases and old gestures, the old lies and formal prostrations. We know all about them, a kiss on the lips and a dagger in the heart, as in shillers robbers. I don't like falsehood, Fathers, I want the truth, but the truth is not to be found in eating gudgeon, and that I proclaim aloud. Father Monks, why do you fast? Why do you expect reward in heaven for that? Why, for a reward like that I will come in fast, too? No, saintly monk, you try being virtuous in the world. Do good to society, without shutting yourself up in a monastery at other people's expense, and without expecting a reward, a ploughed for it. You'll find that a bit harder. I can talk sense to Father Superior. What have they got here? He went up to the table. Old port wine, mead brewed by the Alice of Brothers? Five, five, Fathers, that is something beyond gudgeon. Look at the bottles the Fathers have brought out. He he he, and who has provided it all? The Russian peasant, the labourer, brings here the farthing earned by his horny hand, ringing it from his family and the tax-gatherer. You bleed the people, you know, holy Fathers. This is too disgraceful, said Father Yosef. Father Paisi kept obstinately silent. Musav rushed from the room, and Kalganath after him. Well, Father, I will follow, Pyotr Alexandrovich. I am not coming to see you again. You may beg me on your knees, I shan't come. I sent you a thousand rubles, so you have begun to keep your eye on me. He he he, no, I'll say no more. I am taking my revenge for my youth, for all the humiliation I endured. He thumped the table with his fist in a paroxysm of simulated feeling. This monastery has played a great part in my life. It has cost me many bitter tears. You used to set my wife, the crazy one, against me. You cursed me with bell and book. You spread stories about me all over the place. Enough, Fathers. This is the age of liberalism, the age of steamers and railways. Neither a thousand nor a hundred rubles? No, nor a hundred farthings will you get out of me. It must be noted again that our monastery never had played any great part in his life, and he never had shed a bitter tear owing to it. But he was so carried away by his simulated emotion that he was for one moment almost believing it himself. He was so touched, he was almost weeping. But at that very instant he felt that it was time to draw back. The Father Superior bowed his head at his malicious lie, and again spoke impressively. It is written again, Bear circumspectly and gladly, Dishonor that cometh upon thee by no act of thine own. Be not confounded, and hate not him who hath dishonored thee. And so will we. Be thinking thyself and the rest of the rigmarole. Be think yourselves, Fathers, I will go, but I will take my son, Alexei, away from here forever on my parental authority. Yvon Piotrovich, my most dutiful son, permit me to order you to follow me. Fançon, what have you to stay for? Come and see me now in the town. It is fun there. It is only one short versed. Instead of lent and oil, I will give you sucking pig and kasha. We will have dinner with some brandy and liqueur to it. I've cloudberry wine. Hey, Fançon, don't lose your chance. He went out, shouting and gesticulating. It was at that moment Raketen saw him and pointed him out to Alyosha. Alexei, his father shouted, from far off, catching sight of him, you come home to me to-day, for good, and bring your pillow and mattress, and leave no trace behind. Alyosha stood rooted to the spot, watching the scene in silence. Meanwhile, Fyodor Pavlovich had got into the carriage, and Yvon was about to follow him in grim silence, without even turning to say goodbye to Alyosha. But at this point another almost incredible scene of grotesque buffoonery gave the finishing touch to the episode. Maximov suddenly appeared by the side of the carriage. He ran up, panting, afraid of being too late. Raketen and Alyosha saw him running. He was in such a hurry that in his impatience he put his foot on the step on which Yvon's left foot was still resting, and clutching the carriage he kept trying to jump in. I am going with you, he kept shouting, laughing a thin, mirthful laugh with a look of reckless glee in his face. Take me, too. There, cried Fyodor Pavlovich, delighted, did I not say he was Fonson. It is Fonson himself, risen from the dead. Why, how did you tear yourself away? What did you Fonson there? And how could you get away from the dinner? You must be a brazen-faced fellow. I am that myself, but I am surprised at you, brother. Jump in, jump in. Let him pass, Yvon. It will be fun. He can lie somewhere at our feet. Will you lie at our feet, Fonson? Or perch on the box with the coachmen. Skip on to the box, Fonson. But Yvon, who had by now taken his seat, without a word gave Maximov a violent punch in the breast and sent him flying. It was quite by chance he did not fall. Drive on, Yvon shouted angrily to the coachmen. Why, what are you doing? What are you about? Why did you do that? Fyodor Pavlovich protested. But the carriage had already driven away. Yvon made no reply. Well, you are a fellow, Fyodor Pavlovich said again. After a pause of two minutes, looking as scant at his son, while it was you got up all this monastery business, you urged it, you approved of it. Why are you angry now? You've talked rotten enough. You might rest a bit now. Yvon snapped sullenly. Fyodor Pavlovich was silent again for two minutes. A drop of brandy would be nice now. He observed sententiously, but Yvon made no response. You shall have some, too, when we get home. Yvon was still silent. Fyodor Pavlovich waited another two minutes. But I shall take Alyosha away from the monastery, though you will dislike it so much, most honoured Carl von Moer. Yvon shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and turning away stared at the road. And they did not speak again, all the way home. CHAPTER I The Karamazov's house was far from being in the centre of the town, but it was not quite outside it. It was a pleasant-looking old house of two stories, painted grey with the red iron roof. It was roomy and snug, and might still last many years. There were all sorts of unexpected little cupboards and closets and staircases. There were rats in it, but Fyodor Pavlovich did not altogether dislike them. One doesn't feel so solitary when one's left alone in the evening, he used to say. It was his habit to send the servants away to the lodge for the night and to lock himself up alone. The lodge was a roomy and solid building in the yard. Fyodor Pavlovich used to have the cooking done there, though there was a kitchen in the house. He did not like the smell of cooking, and winter and summer alike the dishes were carried in across the courtyard. The house was built for a large family. There was room for five times as many with their servants, but at the time of our story there was no one living in the house but Fyodor Pavlovich and his son Ivan. And in the lodge there were only three servants, old Grigori and his old wife Marfa, and a young man called Smirjakov. Of these three we must say a few words. Of old Grigori we have said something already. He was firm and determined and went blindly and obstinately for his object, if once he had been brought by any reasons, and they were often very illogical ones, to believe that it was immutably right. He was honest and incorruptible. His wife, Marfa Ignatyevna, had obeyed her husband's will implicitly all her life, yet she had pestered him terribly after the emancipation of the serfs. She was set on leaving, Fyodor Pavlovich, and opening a little shop in Moscow with their small savings. But Grigori decided then, once for all, that the woman's talking nonsense, for every woman is dishonest, and that they ought not to leave their old master, whatever he might be, for that was now their duty. Do you understand what duty is? he asked Marfa Ignatyevna. I understand what duty means, Grigori Vasilyevich, but why it's our duty to stay here I never shall understand, Marfa answered firmly. Well, don't understand then, but so it shall be, and you hold your tongue. And so it was. They did not go away, and Fyodor Pavlovich promised them a small sum for wages and paid it regularly. Grigori knew, too, that he had an indisputable influence over his master. It was true, and he was aware of it. Fyodor Pavlovich was an obstinate and cunning buffoon, yet, though his will was strong enough in some of the affairs of life, as he expressed it, he found himself, to his surprise, extremely feeble in facing certain other emergencies. He knew his weaknesses and was afraid of them. There are positions in which one has to keep a sharp lookout, and that's not easy without a trustworthy man, and Grigori was a most trustworthy man. Many times in the course of his life Fyodor Pavlovich had only just escaped a sound thrashing through Grigori's intervention, and on each occasion the old servant gave him a good lecture. But it wasn't only thrashings that Fyodor Pavlovich was afraid of. There were graver occasions, and very subtle and complicated ones, when Fyodor Pavlovich could not have explained the extraordinary craving for someone faithful and devoted, which sometimes unaccountably came upon him all in a moment. It was almost a morbid condition, corrupt and often cruel in his lust, like some noxious insect. Fyodor Pavlovich was sometimes, in moments of drunkenness, overcome by superstitious terror and a moral convulsion which took an almost physical form, my souls simply quaking in my throat at those times, he used to say. At such moments he liked to feel that there was near at hand, in the lodge if not in the room, a strong faithful man, virtuous and unlike himself, who had seen all his debauchery and knew all his secrets but was ready, in his devotion, to overlook all that, not to oppose him, above all not to reproach him or threaten him with anything, either in this world or in the next, and in case of need to defend him, from whom? From somebody unknown but terrible and dangerous. What he needed was to feel that there was another man, an old and tried friend, that he might call him in his sick moments merely to look at his face or perhaps exchange some quite irrelevant words with him. And if the old servant were not angry, he felt comforted, and if he were angry he was more dejected. It happened even, very rarely, however, that Fyodor Pavlovich went at night to the lodge to wake Grigori and fetch him for a moment. When the old man came, Fyodor Pavlovich would begin talking about the most trivial matters and would soon let him go again, sometimes even with a jest. And, after he had gone, Fyodor Pavlovich would get into bed with a curse and sleep the sleep of the just. Something of the same sort had happened to Fyodor Pavlovich on Alyosha's arrival. Alyosha pierced his heart by living with him, seeing everything and blaming nothing. Moreover, Alyosha brought with him something his father had never known before, a complete absence of contempt for him and an invariable kindness, a perfectly natural, unaffected devotion to the old man who deserved it so little. All this was a complete surprise to the old profligate, who had dropped all family ties. It was a new and surprising experience for him, who had till then loved nothing but evil. When Alyosha had left him, he confessed to himself that he had learned something he had not till then been willing to learn. I have mentioned already that Grigori had detested Adelaida Ivanovna, the first wife of Fyodor Pavlovich and the mother of Dmitry, and that he had, on the contrary, protected Sophia Ivanovna, the poor, crazy woman, against his master and anyone who chanced to speak ill or lightly of her. His sympathy for the unhappy wife had become something sacred to him, so that even now, twenty years after, he could not bear a slating allusion to her from anyone, and would at once check the offender. Externally, Grigori was cold, dignified and taciturn, and spoke weighing his words without frivolity. It was impossible to tell, at first sight, whether he loved his meek, obedient wife, but he really did love her, and she knew it. Martha Ignacevna was by no means foolish. She was probably indeed cleverer than her husband, or at least more prudent than he in worldly affairs, and yet she had given in to him in everything without question or complaint ever since her marriage, and respected him for his spiritual superiority. It was remarkable how little they spoke to one another in the course of their lives and only of the most necessary daily affairs. The grave and dignified Grigori thought over all his cares and duties alone, so that Martha Ignacevna had long grown used to knowing that he did not need her advice. She felt that her husband respected her silence, and took it as a sign of her good sense. He had never beaten her, but once, and then only, slightly. Once during the year after Fyodor Pavlovich's marriage with Adelaivna Ivanovna, the village girls and women, at that time serfs, were called together before the house to sing and dance. They were beginning in the green meadows, when Martha, at that time a young woman, skipped forward and danced the Russian dance, not in the village fashion, but as she had danced it when she was a servant in the service of the rich Musov family in their private theatre, where the actors were taught to dance by a dancing master from Moscow. Grigori saw how his wife danced, and an hour later, at home in their cottage, he gave her a lesson, pulling her hair a little. But there attended, the beating was never repeated, and Martha Ignacevna gave up dancing. God had not blessed them with children. One child was born, but it died. Grigori was fond of children and was not ashamed of showing it. When Adelaivna Ivanovna had run away, Grigori took Dmitry, then a child of three years old, combed his hair and washed him in a tub with his own hands and looked after him for almost a year. Afterwards he had looked after Ivan and Alyosha, for which the General's widow had rewarded him with a slap in the face, but I have already related all that. The only happiness his own child had brought him had been in the anticipation of its birth. When it was born he was overwhelmed with grief and horror. The baby had six fingers. Grigori was so crushed by this, that he was not only silent till the day of the christening, but kept away in the garden. It was spring and he spent three days digging the kitchen garden. The third day was fixed for christening the baby. Meantime Grigori had reached a conclusion. Going into the cottage where the clergy were assembled and the guests had arrived, including Fyodor Pavlovich, who was to stand godfather, he suddenly announced that the baby ought not to be christened at all. He announced this quietly, briefly, forcing out his words, and gazing with dull intentness at the priest. Why not? asked the priest with good-humoured surprise. Because it's a dragon, muttered Grigori. A dragon? What dragon? Grigori did not speak for some time. It's a confusion of nature, he muttered vaguely but firmly and obviously unwilling to say more. They laughed and, of course, christened the poor baby. Grigori prayed earnestly at the font, but his opinion of the newborn child remained unchanged. Yet he did not interfere in any way. As long as the sickly infant lived he scarcely looked at it, tried indeed not to notice it, and for the most part kept out of the cottage. But when, at the end of a fortnight, the baby died of thrush, he himself laid the child in its little coffin, looked at it in profound grief, and when they were filling up the shallow little grave he fell on his knees and bowed down to the earth. He did not for years afterwards mention his child, nor did Marfa speak of the baby before him, and even if Grigori were not present she never spoke of it above a whisper. Marfa observed that, from the day of the burial, he devoted himself to religion and took to reading the lives of the saints, for the most part sitting alone and in silence, and always putting on his big round silver-rimmed spectacles. He rarely read aloud, only perhaps in lent. He was fond of the Book of Job, and had somehow got hold of a copy of the sayings and sermons of the God-fearing Father Isaac the Syrian, which he read persistently for years together, understanding very little of it, but perhaps prizing and loving it the more for that. Of late he had begun to listen to the doctrines of the sect of flagellance settled in the neighborhood. He was evidently shaken by them, but judged it unfitting to go over to the new faith. His habit of theological reading gave him an expression of still greater gravity. He was perhaps predisposed to mysticism, and the birth of his deformed child and its death had, as though by special design, been accompanied by another strange and marvellous event which, as he said later, had left a stamp upon his soul. It happened that, on the very night after the burial of his child, Martha was awakened by the wail of a newborn baby. She was frightened and waked her husband. He listened, and said he thought it was more like someone groaning. It might be a woman. He got up and dressed. It was a rather warm night in May. As he went down the steps, he distinctly heard groans coming from the garden. But the gate from the yard into the garden was locked at night, and there was no other way of entering it, for it was enclosed all around by a strong high fence. Going back into the house, Grigori lighted a lantern, took the garden key, and, taking no notice of the hysterical fears of his wife, who was still persuaded that she heard a child crying, and that it was her own baby crying and calling for her, went into the garden in silence. There he heard at once that the groans came from the bath-house that stood near the garden gate, and that they were the groans of a woman. Opening the door of the bath-house, he saw a sight which petrified him. An idiot girl, who wandered about the streets, and was known to the whole town by the nickname of Lisaveta Smirjaseya, stinking Lisaveta, had got into the bath-house, and had just given birth to a child. She lay dying with the baby beside her. She said nothing, for she had never been able to speak. But her story needs a chapter to itself. There was one circumstance which struck Grigori particularly, and confirmed a very unpleasant and revolting suspicion. This Lisaveta was a dwarfish creature, not five foot within a wee bit, as many of the pious old women said pathetically about her after her death. Her broad healthy red face had a look of blank idiocy, and the fixed stare in her eyes was unpleasant, in spite of their meek expression. She wandered about, summer and winter alike, barefooted, wearing nothing but a hempened smock. Her coarse, almost black hair, curled like lambswool, and formed a sort of huge cap on her head. It was always crusted with mud, and had leaves, bits of stick, and shavings clinging to it, as she always slept on the ground and in the dirt. Her father, a homeless, sickly drunkard called Ilya, had lost everything and lived many years as a workman with some well-to-do tradespeople. Her mother had long been dead. Spiteful and diseased, Ilya used to beat Lisaveta inhumanely whenever she returned to him, but she rarely did so, for everyone in the town was ready to look after her as being an idiot, and so specially dear to God. Ilya's employers, and many others in the town, especially of the tradespeople, tried to clothe her better, and always rigged her out with high boots and sheepskin coat for the winter. But although she allowed them to dress her up without resisting, she usually went away, preferably to the cathedral porch, and taking off all that had been given her, kerchief, sheepskin, skirt, or boots, she left them there, and walked away barefoot in her smock as before. It happened on one occasion that a new governor of the province, making a tour of inspection in our town, saw Lisaveta and was wounded in his tenderest susceptibilities, and though he was told she was an idiot, he pronounced that for a young woman of twenty to wander about in nothing but a smock was a breach of the proprieties and must not occur again, but the governor went his way and Lisaveta was left as she was. At last her father died, which made her even more acceptable in the eyes of the religious persons of the town as an orphan. In fact, everyone seemed to like her, even the boys did not tease her, and the boys of our town, especially the school boys, are a mischievous set. She would walk into strange houses and no one drove her away, everyone was kind to her and gave her something. If she were given a copper, she would take it and at once drop it in the alms jug of the church or prison. If she were given a roll or bun in the market, she would hand it to the first child she met. Sometimes she would stop one of the richest ladies in the town and give it to her, and the lady would be pleased to take it. She herself never tasted anything but black bread and water. If she went into an expensive shop where there were costly goods or money lying about, no one kept watch on her, for they knew that if she saw thousands of rubles overlooked by them she would not have touched a farthing. She scarcely ever went to church. She slept, either in the church porch or climbed over a hurdle, there are many hurdles instead of fences to this day in our town, into a kitchen garden. She used at least once a week to turn up at home, that is at the house of her father's former employers, and in the winter went there every night and slept either in the passage or the cowhouse. People were amazed that she could stand such a life, but she was accustomed to it, and although she was so tiny, she was of a robust constitution. Some of the townspeople declared that she did all this only from pride, but that is hardly credible. She could hardly speak, and only from time to time uttered an inarticulate grunt. How could she have been proud? It happened one clear warm moonlight night in September, many years ago. Five or six drunken revelers were returning from the club at a very late hour, according to our provincial notions. They passed through the back way, which led between the back gardens of the houses, with hurdles on either side. This way leads out onto the bridge over the long stinking pool, which we were accustomed to call a river. Among the nettles and bird-awks under the hurdle, our revelers saw Lisaveta, asleep. They stopped to look at her, laughing, and began jesting with unbridled licentiousness. It occurred to one young gentleman to make the whimsical inquiry whether anyone could possibly look upon such an animal as a woman, and so forth. They all pronounced with lofty repugnance that it was impossible. But Fyodor Pavlovich, who was among them, sprang forward and declared that it was by no means impossible, and that indeed there was a certain pecancy about it, and so on. It is true that at that time he was overdoing his part as a buffoon. He liked to put himself forward and entertain the company, ostensibly on equal terms, of course, though in reality he was on a servile footing with them. It was just at the time when he had received news of his first white's death in Petersburg, and, with crepe upon his hat, was drinking and behaving so shamelessly that even the most reckless among us were shocked at the sight of him. The revelers, of course, laughed at this unexpected opinion, and one of them even began challenging him to act upon it. The others repelled the idea even more emphatically, though still with the utmost hilarity, and at last they went on their way. Later on Fyodor Pavlovich swore that he had gone with them, and perhaps it was so, no one knows for certain, and no one ever knew. But five or six months later all the town was talking with intense and sincere indignation of Liza Veta's condition, and trying to find out who was the miscreant who had wronged her. Then suddenly a terrible rumour was all over the town that this miscreant was no other than Fyodor Pavlovich. Who set the rumour going? Of that drunken manned, five had left the town, and the only one still among us was an elderly and much respected civil counsellor, the father of grown-up daughters, who could hardly have spread the tale, even if there had been any foundation for it. But rumour pointed straight at Fyodor Pavlovich, and persisted in pointing at him. Of course this was no great grievance to him. He would not have trouble to contradict a set of tradespeople. In those days he was proud and did not condescend to talk, except in his own circle of the officials and nobles whom he entertained so well. At the time Grigori stood up for his master vigorously. He provoked quarrels and altercations in defence of him, and succeeded in bringing some people round to his side. It's the wench's own fault, he asserted, and the culprit was Karp, a dangerous convict who had escaped from prison and whose name was well known to us, as he had hidden in our town. This conjecture sounded plausible, for it was remembered that Karp had been in the neighbourhood just at that time in the autumn, and had robbed three people. But this affair, and all a talk about it, did not estrange popular sympathy from the poor idiot. She was better looked after than ever. A well-to-do merchant's widow, named Kondratchev, arranged to take her into her house at the end of April, meaning not to let her go out until after the confinement. They kept a constant watch over her, but in spite of their vigilance she escaped on the very last day, and made her way into Fyodor Pavlovitch's garden. How in her condition she managed to climb over the high strong fence remained a mystery. Some maintained that she must have been lifted over by somebody, others hinted at something more uncanny. The most likely explanation is that it happened naturally, that Lizaveta accustomed to clamouring over hurdles to sleep in gardens had somehow managed to climb this fence in spite of her condition, and had leapt down, injuring herself. Grigori rushed to Martha and sent her to Lizaveta, while he ran to fetch an old midwife who lived close by. They saved the baby, but Lizaveta died at dawn. Grigori took the baby, brought it home, and making his wife sit down, put it on her lap. A child of God, an orphan is akin to all, he said, and to us above others. Our little lost one has sent us this, who has come from the devil's son and a holy innocent. Nurse him, and weep no more. So Martha brought up the child. He was christened Pavel, to which people were not slow in adding Fyodorovitch, son of Fyodor. Fyodor Pavlovitch did not object to any of this, and thought it amusing, though he persisted vigorously in denying his responsibility. The townspeople were pleased at his adopting the foundling. Later on Fyodor Pavlovitch invented a surname for the child, calling him Smirjakov, after his mother's nickname. So this Smirjakov became Fyodor Pavlovitch's second servant, and was living in the lodge with Grigori and Martha, at the time our story begins. He was employed as cook. I ought to say something of this Smirjakov, but I am ashamed of keeping my reader's attention so long occupied with these common menials, and I will go back to my story, hoping to say more of Smirjakov in the course of it.