 Book II. Peasant Women Who Have Faith. Here the wooden portico below, built on to the outer wall of the precinct, there was a crowd of about twenty peasant women. They had been told that the elder was at last coming out, and they had gathered together in anticipation. Two ladies, Madame Hoflokoff and her daughter, had also come out into the portico to wait for the elder, but in a separate part of it, set aside for women of rank. Madame Hoflokoff was a wealthy lady, still young and attractive, and always dressed with taste. She was rather pale and had lively black eyes. She was not more than thirty-three, and had been five years a widow. Her daughter, a girl of fourteen, was partially paralyzed. The poor child had not been able to walk for the last six months, and was wheeled about in a long reclining chair. She had a charming little face, rather thin from illness, but full of gaiety. There was a gleam of mischief in her big dark eyes with their long lashes. Her mother had been intending to take her abroad ever since the spring, but they had been detained all the summer by business connected with their estate. They had been staying a week in our town, where they had come more for purposes of business than devotion, but had visited Father Zosema once already, three days before. Though they knew that the elders scarcely saw any one, they had now suddenly turned up again, and urgently entreated the happiness of looking once again on the great healer. The mother was sitting on a chair by the side of her daughter's invalid carriage, and two paces from her stood an old monk, not one of our monastery, but a visitor from an obscure religious house in the far north. He too sought the elders' blessing. But Father Zosema, on entering the portico, went first straight to the peasants, who were crowded at the foot of the three steps that led up into the portico. Father Zosema stood on the top-step, put on his stole, and began blessing the women who thronged about him. One crazy woman was led up to him. As soon as she caught sight of the elders, she began shrieking and writhing as though in the pains of childbirth. Laying the stole on her forehead, he read a short prayer over her, and she was at once soothed and quieted. I do not know how it may be now, but in my childhood I often happened to see and hear these possessed women in the villages and monasteries. They used to be brought to mass. They would squeal and bark like a dog so that they were heard all over the church. But when the sacrament was carried in, and they were led up to it, I had once the possession ceased, and the sick women were always soothed for a time. I was greatly impressed and amazed at this as a child. But when I heard from country-neighbours and from my town-teachers that the whole illness was simulated to avoid work, and that it could always be cured by suitable severity, various anecdotes were told to confirm this. But later on I learnt with astonishment from medical specialists that there is no pretense about it, that it is a terrible illness to which women are subject, especially prevalent among us in Russia, and that it is due to the hard lot of the peasant women. It is a disease, I was told, arising from exhausting toil too soon after hard, abnormal and unassisted labour in childbirth, and from the hopeless misery, from beatings and so on, which some women were not able to endure like others. The strange and instant healing of the frantic and struggling woman as soon as she was led up to the holy sacrament, which had been explained to me as due to malingering and the trickery of the clericals, arose probably in the most natural manner. Both the women who supported her and the invalid herself fully believed as a truth beyond question that the evil spirit and possession of her could not hold out if the sick woman were brought to the sacrament and made to bow down before it. And so, with a nervous and psychically deranged woman, a sort of convulsion of the whole organism always took place, and was bound to take place, at the moment of bowing down to the sacrament, aroused by the expectation of the miracle of healing and the implicit belief that it would come to pass. And it did come to pass, though only for a moment. It was exactly the same now as soon as the elder touched the sick woman with the stole. Many of the women in the crowd were moved to tears of ecstasy by the effect of the moment. Some strove to kiss the hem of his garment. Others cried out in sing-song voices. He blessed them all, and talked with some of them. The possessed woman he knew already. She came from a village only six bursts from the monastery, and had been brought to him before. But here is one from afar. He pointed to a woman by no means old, but very thin, and twisted, with a face not merely sunburnt, but almost blackened by exposure. She was kneeling and gazing with a fixed stare at the elder. There was something almost frenzied in her eyes. From afar off, father, from afar off, from two hundred miles from here, from afar off, father, from afar off. The woman began in a sing-song voice, as though she were chanting a dirge, swaying her head from side to side with her cheek resting in her hand. There is silent and long-suffering sorrow to be met with among the peasantry. It withdraws into itself, and is still. But there is a grief that breaks out, and from that minute it bursts into tears and finds vent in wailing. This is particularly common with women, but it is no lighter a grief than the silent. Lamentations comfort only by lacerating the heart still more. Such grief does not desire consolation. It feeds on the sense of its hopelessness. Lamentations spring only from the constant craving to reopen the wound. You are of the tradesman's class, said Father Zosima, looking curiously at her. Townfolk we are, father. Townfolk. Yet we are peasants, though we live in the town. I have come to see you, O Father. We heard of you. Father, we heard of you. I have buried my little son, and I have come on a pilgrimage. I have been in three monasteries, but they told me, go, Natasya, go to them. That is to you. I have come. I was yesterday at the service, and today I have come to you. What are you weeping for? It's my little son I'm grieving for, Father. He was three years old, three years, all but three months. For my little boy, Father, I'm in anguish for my little boy. He was the last one left. We had four, my Nikita and I, and now we've no children. Our dear ones have all gone. I buried the first three without grieving over much, and now I have buried the last. I can't forget him. He seems always standing before me. He never leaves me. He has withered my heart. I look at his little clothes, his little shirt, his little boots, and I wail. I lay out all that is left of him, all his little things. I look at them and wail. I say to Nikita, my husband, let me go on a pilgrimage, Master. He is a driver. We're not poor people, Father, not poor. He drives our own horse. It's all our own, the horse and the carriage. And what good is it all to us now? My Nikita has begun drinking while I'm away. He's sure to. It used to be so before. As soon as I turn my back, he gives way to it. But now I don't think about him. It's three months since I left home. I've forgotten him. I've forgotten everything. I don't want to remember. And what would our life be now together? I've done with him. I've done. I've done with him all. I don't care to look upon my house and my goods. I don't care to see anything at all. Listen, mother, said the elder. Once in olden times a holy saint saw in the temple a mother like you weeping for her little one, her only one whom God had taken. Knowest thou not, said the saint to her, how bold these little ones are before the throne of God? Verily, there are none bolder than they in the kingdom of heaven. Thou didst give us life, O Lord, they say, and scarcely had we looked upon it when thou didst take it back again. And so boldly they ask and ask again that God gives them at once the rank of angels. Therefore said the saint, Thou too, O mother, rejoice and weep not, for thy little son is with the Lord in the fellowship of the angels. That's what the saint said to the weeping mother of old. He was a great saint, and he could not have spoken falsely. Therefore you too, mother, know that your little one is surely before the throne of God, is rejoicing and happy, and praying to God for you, and therefore weep, but rejoice. The woman listened to him, looking down with her cheek in her hand. She sighed deeply. My Nikita tried to come for me with these same words as you. Why weep? Our son is no doubt singing with the angels before God. He says that to me, but he weeps himself. I see that he cries like me. I know, Nikita, said I, where could he be if not with the Lord God? Only here with us, now he is not, as he used to sit before us. And if only I could look upon him one little time, if I only could peek at him one little time, without going up to him, without speaking, if I could be hidden in a quarter and only see him for one little minute, hear him playing in the yard, calling in his little voice, Mommy, where are you? If only I could hear him pattering with his little feet about the room just once, only once, for so often. So often I remember how he used to run to me and shout and laugh. If only I could hear his little feet. I should know him. But he's gone, Father. He's gone, and I shall never, never hear him again. Here's his little sash, but him I shall never see or hear now. She drew out of her bosom her boy's little embroidered sash, and as soon as she looked at it she began shaking with sobs, hiding her eyes with her fingers through which the tears flowed in a sudden stream. It is Rachel of old, said the elder, weeping for her children, and will not be comforted because they are not, such as the lots that are unearthed for you mothers. Be not comforted, consolation is not what you need. Weep and be not consoled, but weep. Only every time that you weep, be sure to remember that your little son is one of the angels of God, that he looks down from there at you, and sees you, and rejoices at your tears, and points at them to the Lord God, and a long while yet will you keep that great mother's grief. But it will turn in the end into quiet joy, and your bitter tears will be only tears of tender sorrow that purifies the heart, and delivers it from sin. And I shall pray for the peace of your child's soul. What was his name? Alexei, father. A sweet name, after Alexei, the man of God? Yes, father. What a saint he was! I will remember him, mother, and your grief in my prayers, and I will pray for your husband's health. It is a sin for you to leave him. Your little one will see from heaven that you have forsaken his father, and will weep over you. Why do you trouble his happiness? He is living for the soul lives forever, and though he is not in the house he is near you, unseen. How can he go into the house when you say that the house is hateful to you? To whom is he to go, if he finds you not together? His father and mother. He comes to you in dreams now, and you grieve. But then he will send you gentle dreams. Go to your husband, mother. Go this very day. I will go, father, at your word. I will go. You've gone straight to my heart. My Nikita, my Nikita, you are waiting for me. The woman began in a sing-song voice, but the elder had already turned away to a very old woman, dressed like a dweller in the town, not like a pilgrim. Her eyes showed that she had come with an object, and in order to say something. She said she was the widow of a non-commissioned officer, and lived close by in the town. Her son Vsenka was in the commissariat service, and had gone to Ikerts in Siberia. He had written twice from there, but now a year had passed since he had written. She did inquire about him, but she did not know the proper place to inquire. Only the other day, Stepanidha Yelishna, she is a rich merchant's wife. She said to me, You go, Prohorovna, and put your son's name down for prayer in the church, and pray for the peace of his soul as though he were dead. His soul will be troubled, she said, and he will write you a letter. And Stepanidha Yelishna, she told me it was a certain thing which had been many times tried. Only I am in doubt. O you light of ours, is it true or false, and would it be right? Don't think of it. It is shameful to ask the question. How is it possible to pray for the peace of a living soul? And his own mother, too. It is a great sin akin to sorcery. Only for your ignorance it is forgiven to you. Better pray to the Queen of Heaven, our swift defense and help for his good health, and that she may forgive you for your error. And another thing I will tell you, Prohorovna, either he will soon come back to you, your son, or he will be sure to send a letter. Go, and henceforward be in peace. Your son is alive, I tell you. Dear Father, God rewards you, our benefactor who prays for all of us and for our sins. But the elder had already noticed in the crowd two glowing eyes fixed upon him, an exhausted, consumptive-looking, though young peasant woman was gazing at him in silence. Her eyes besought him, but she seemed afraid to approach. What is it, my child? Ask my soul, Father, she articulated softly and slowly sank on her knees and bowed down at his feet. I have sinned, Father, I am afraid of my sin. The elder sat down on the lower step. The woman crept closer to him, still on her knees. I am a widow these three years. She began in a half whisper, with a sort of shutter. I had a hard life with my husband. He was an old man. He used to beat me cruelly. He lay ill. I thought, looking at him, if he were to get well, if he were to get up again, what then? And then the thought came to me. Stay, said the elder, and he put his ear close to her lips. The woman went on in a low whisper, so that it was almost impossible to catch anything. She had soon done. Three years ago, asked the elder, three years. At first I didn't think about it, but now I've begun to be ill, and the thought never leaves me. Have you come from far, over 300 miles away? Have you told it in confession? I have confessed it. Twice I have confessed it. Have you been admitted to communion? Yes. I am afraid. I am afraid to die. Fear nothing, and never be afraid, and don't fret. If only repentance fail not, God will forgive all. There is no sin, and there can be no sin, on all the earth, which the Lord will not forgive to the truly repentant. Man cannot commit a sin so great as to exhaust the infinite love of God. Can there be a sin which could exceed the love of God? Think only of repentance, continual repentance, but dismissed fear altogether. Believe that God loves you, as you cannot conceive, that he loves you with your sin, in your sin. It has been said of old, that over one repentant sinner, there is more joy in heaven than over 10 righteous men. Go and fear not. Be not bitter against men. Be not angry if you are wronged. Forgive the dead men in your heart what wrong he did you. Be reconciled with him in truth. If you are penitent, you love. And if you love, you are of God. All things are atoned for. All things are saved by love. If I, a sinner, even as you are, am tender with you and have pity on you, how much more will God? Love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole world by it, and expiate not only your own sins, but the sins of others. He signed her three times with the cross, took from his own neck a little icon, and put it upon her. She bowed down to the earth without speaking. He got up and looked cheerfully at a healthy peasant woman with a tiny baby in her arms. From Vaisagore, dear father, five miles you have dragged yourself with the baby. What do you want? I've come to look at you. I've been to you before, or have you forgotten? You've no great memory if you've forgotten me. They told us you were ill. Thanks, I'll go and see him for myself. Now I see you, and you're not ill. You'll live another 20 years. God bless you. There are plenty to pray for you. How should you be ill? I thank you for all, daughter. By the way, I have a thing to ask, not a great one. Here are 60 copecs. Give them, dear father, to someone poorer than me. I thought as I came along, better give through him. He'll know whom to give to. Thanks, my dear. Thanks. You are a good woman. I love you. I will do so certainly. Is that your little girl? My little girl, father, Lizavietta. May the Lord bless you both, you and your baby, Lizavietta. You have gladdened my heart, mother. Farewell, dear children, farewell, dear ones. He blessed them all and bowed low to them. This ends chapter three. Book two, 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. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. Book two, chapter four, A Lady of Little Faith. A visitor, looking on the scene of his conversation with the peasants and his blessing them, shed silent tears and wiped them away with her handkerchief. She was a sentimental society lady of genuinely good disposition in many respects. When the elder went up to her, at last she met him enthusiastically. Ah, what I have been feeling, looking on it, at this touching scene. She could not go on for emotion. Oh, I understand the people's love for you. I love the people myself. I want to love them. And who could help loving them, our splendid Russian people, so simple in their greatness. How is your daughter's health? You wanted to talk to me again? Oh, I have been urgently begging for it. I have prayed for it. I was ready to fall on my knees and kneel for three days at your windows until you let me in. We have come, great healer, to express our ardent gratitude. You have healed my lease. Healed her completely, merely by praying over her last Thursday and laying your hands upon her. We have hastened here to kiss those hands, to pour out our feelings and our homage. What do you mean by healed? But she is still lying down in her chair. But her night-fevers have entirely ceased ever since Thursday, said the lady with nervous haste. And that's not all. Her legs are stronger. This morning she got up well. She had slept all night. Look at her rosy cheeks, her bright eyes. She used to be always crying, but now she laughs and is gay and happy. This morning she insisted on my letting her stand up. And she stood up for a whole minute without any support. She wagers that in a fortnight she'll be dancing a quadril. I've called in Dr. Herzenstube. He shrugged his shoulders and said, I'm amazed, I can make nothing of it. And you would have us not come here to disturb you, not fly here to thank you. Lisa, thank him, thank him. Lisa's pretty little laughing face became suddenly serious. She rose in her chair as far as she could and looking at the elder clasped her hands before him, but could not restrain herself and broke into laughter. It's at him, she said, pointing to Alyosha with childish vexation at herself for not being able to repress her mirth. If anyone had looked at Alyosha standing a step behind the elder, he would have caught a quick flush, crimsoning his cheeks in an instant. His eyes shone and he looked down. She has a message for you, Alexei Fyodorovich, how are you? The mother went on, holding out her exquisitely gloved hand to Alyosha. The elder turned round and all at once looked attentively at Alyosha. The latter went nearer to Lisa and smiling in a strangely awkward way, held out his hand to her. Lisa assumed an important air. Katarina Ivanovna has sent you this through me. She handed him a little note. She particularly begs you to go and see her as soon as possible, that you will not fail her, but will be sure to come. She asks me to go and see her? Me? What for? Alyosha muttered in great astonishment. His face at once looked anxious. Oh, it's all to do with Dmitriy Fyodorovich and what has happened lately, the mother explained hurriedly. Katarina Ivanovna has made up her mind, but she must see you about it. Why, of course, I can't say, but she wants to see you at once, and you will go to her, of course. It is a Christian duty. I've only seen her once. Alyosha protested with the same perplexity. Oh, she is such a lofty, incomparable creature, if only for her suffering. Think what she's gone through, what she is enduring now. Think what awaits her. It's all terrible, terrible. Very well, I will come, Alyosha decided, after rapidly scanning the brief enigmatic note, which consisted of an urgent entreaty that he would come, without any sort of explanation. Oh, how sweet and generous that would be of you, cried Liza with sudden animation. I told Mama you'd be sure not to go. I said you were saving your soul. How splendid you are. I've always thought that you were splendid. How glad I am to tell you so. Liza, said her mother impressively, though she smiled after she had said it. You have quite forgotten us, Alexei Fyodorovich, she said. You never come to see us, yet Liza has told me twice that she is never happy except with you. Alyosha raised his downcast eyes and again flushed, and again smiled without knowing why, but the elder was no longer watching him. He had begun talking to a monk who, as mentioned before, had been awaiting his entrance by Liza's chair. He was evidently a monk of the humblest, that of the peasant class, of a narrow outlook, but a true believer, and in his own way, a stubborn one. He announced that he had come from the far north, from Obdorsk, from St. Sylvester, and was a member of a poor monastery consisting of only 10 monks. The elder gave him his blessing and invited him to come to his cell whenever he liked. How can you presume to do such deeds? The monk asked suddenly, pointing solemnly and significantly at Liza. He was referring to her healing. Oh, it's too early, of course, to speak of that. Relief is not a complete cure and may proceed from different causes. But if there has been any healing, it is by no power but God's will. It is all from God. Visit me, Father, he added to the monk. It's not often I can see visitors. I am ill, and I know that my days are numbered. Oh, no, no, God will not take you from us. You will live a long, long time yet, cried the lady. And in what way are you ill? You look so well, so gay and happy. I am extraordinarily better today, but I know that it's only for a moment. I understand my disease now thoroughly. If I seemed so happy to you, you could never say anything that would please me so much. For men are made for happiness and anyone who is completely happy has a right to say to himself, I am doing God's will on earth. All the righteous, all the saints, all the holy martyrs were happy. Oh, how you speak what bold and lofty words, cried the lady. You seem to pierce with your words, and yet happiness. Happiness, where is it? You who can save himself that he is happy? Oh, since you have been so good as to let us see you once more today, let me tell you what I could not utter last time, what I dared not say. All I am suffering and have been for so long, I am suffering. Forgive me, I am suffering. And in a rush of fervent feeling, she clasped her hands before him. From what, specially? I suffer from lack of faith. Lack of faith in God? Oh, no, no, I dare not even think of that. But the future life, it is such an enigma and no one, no one can solve it. Listen, you are a healer, you are deeply versed in the human soul, and of course I dare not expect you to believe me entirely, but I assure you on my word of honor that I am not speaking lightly now. The thought of the life beyond this grave distracts me to anguish, to terror, and I don't know to whom to appeal, and have not dared to all my life. And now I am so bold as to ask you. Oh, God, what will you think of me now? She clasped her hands. Don't distress yourself about my opinion of you, said the elder. I quite believe in the sincerity of your suffering. Oh, thankful I am to you. You see, I shut my eyes and ask myself, if everyone has faith, where did it come from? And then they do say that it all comes from terror at the mention of phenomenal of the nature, and that none of it's real. And I say to myself, what if I've been believing all my life and when I come to die, there's nothing but the bird oaks growing on my grave. As I read in some author, it's awful. How, how can I get back my faith? But I only believed when I was a little child, mechanically, without thinking of anything. How, how is one to prove it? I have come now to lay my soul before you and to ask you about it. If I let this chance slip, no one all my life will answer me. How can I prove it? How can I convince myself? Oh, how unhappy I am. I stand and look about me and see that scarcely anyone else cares. No one troubles his head about it. And I'm the only one who can't stand it. It's deadly, deadly. No doubt, but there's no proving it, though you can be convinced of it. By the experience of active love, strive to love your neighbor actively and indefatigably. And as far as you advance in love, you will grow sure of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul. If you attain to perfect self-forgetfulness and the love of your neighbor, then you'll believe without doubt and no doubt can possibly enter your soul. This has been tried. This is certain. Inactive love, there's another question and such a question. You see, I so love humanity that would you believe it? I often dream of forsaking all that I have, leaving Lisa and becoming a sister of mercy. I close my eyes and think and dream and at that moment I feel full of strength to overcome all obstacles. No wounds, no festering sores could at that moment frighten me. I would bind them up and wash them with my own hands. I would nurse the afflicted. I would be ready to kiss such wounds. It is much and well that your mind is so full of dreams and not others. Sometime unawares, you may do a good deed in reality. Yes, but could I endure such a life for long? The lady went on fervently, almost frantically. That is the chief question. That is my most agonizing question. I shut my eyes and ask myself, would you persevere long on that path? And if the patient whose wounds you are washing did not meet you with gratitude, but worried you with his whims, without valuing or remarking your charitable services, began abusing you and rudely commanding you and complaining to the superior authorities of you, which often happens when people are in great suffering. What then? Would you persevere in your love or not? And do you know, I came with horror to the conclusion that if anything could dissipate my love to humanity, it would be in gratitude. In short, I am a hired servant. I expect my payment at once. That is praise and the repayment of love with love. Otherwise I am incapable of loving anyone. She was in a paroxon of self-castigation and concluding she looked with defiant resolution at the elder. It's just the same story as a doctor once told me, observed the elder. He was a man getting on in years and undoubtedly clever. He spoke as frankly as you, though in jest, in bitter jest. I love humanity, he said, but I wonder at myself. The more I love humanity in general, the less I love man in particular. In my dreams, he said, I have often come to making enthusiastic schemes for the service of humanity and perhaps I might actually have faced crucifixion if it had been suddenly necessary. And yet I am incapable of living in the same room with anyone for two days together, as I know my experience. As soon as anyone is near me, his personality disturbs my self complacency and restricts my freedom. In 24 hours, I begin to hate the best of men, one because he's too long over his dinner, another because he has a cold and keeps on blowing his nose. I become hostile to people the moment they come close to me. But it has always happened that the more I detest men individually, the more ardent becomes my love for humanity. But what's to be done? What can one do in such a case? Must one despair? No, it is enough that you are distressed at it. Do what you can and it will be reckoned on to you. Much is done already in you since you can so deeply and sincerely know yourself. If you have been talking to me so sincerely, simply to gain approbation for your frankness, as you did for me just now, then of course you will not attain to anything in the achievement of real love. It will all get no further than dreams and your whole life will slip away like a phantom. In that case, you will naturally cease to think of the future life too and will of yourself grow calmer after a fashion in the end. You have crushed me. Only now as you speak, I understand that I was really only seeking your approbation for my sincerity when I told you I could not endure in gratitude. You have revealed me to myself. You have seen through me and explained me to myself. Are you speaking the truth? Well now, after such a confession, I believe that you are sincere and good at heart. If you do not attain happiness, always remember that you are on the right road and try not to leave it. Above all, avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood, especially falseness to yourself. Watch over your own deceitfulness and look into it every hour, every minute. Avoid being scornful both to others and to yourself. What seems to you bad within you will grow purer from the very fact of your observing it in yourself. Avoid fear too, though fear is only the consequence of every sort of falsehood. Never be frightened at your own faint heartedness in attaining love. Don't be frightened over much, even at your evil actions. I'm sorry I can say nothing more consoling to you, for love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams. Love in dreams is greedy for immediate action, rapidly performed and in the sight of all. Men will even give their lives if only the ordeal does not last long but is soon over, with all looking on and applauding as though on the stage. But active love is labor and fortitude. And for some people too, perhaps a complete science. But I predict that just when you see with horror that in spite of all your efforts you are getting farther from your goal instead of nearer to it, at that very moment I predict that you will reach it and behold clearly the miraculous power of the Lord who has been all the time loving and mysteriously guiding you. Forgive me for not being able to stay longer with you. They are waiting for me. Goodbye. Lisa, Lisa, bless her, bless her. She cried, starting up suddenly. She does not deserve to be loved. I have seen her naughtiness all along, the elder said jestingly. Why have you been laughing at Alexei? Lisa had in fact been occupied and mocking at him all the time. She had noticed before that Al-Yasha was shy and tried not to look at her and she found this extremely amusing. She waited intently to catch his eye. Al-Yasha, unable to endure her persistent stare, was irresistibly and suddenly drawn to glance at her and at once she smiled triumphantly in his face. Al-Yasha was even more disconcerted and vexed. At last he turned away from her altogether and hid behind the elder's back. After a few minutes, drawn by the same irresistible force he turned again to see whether he was being looked at or not and found Lisa almost hanging out of her chair to peep sideways at him, eagerly waiting for him to look. Catching his eyes, she laughed so that the elder could not help saying, why do you make fun of him like that, naughty girl? Lisa suddenly and quite unexpectedly blushed. Her eyes flashed and her face became quite serious. She began speaking quickly and nervously in a warm and resentful voice. Why has he forgotten everything then? He used to carry me about when I was little. We used to play together. He used to come to teach me to read, do you know? Two years ago when he went away he said that he would never forget me, that we were friends forever, forever, forever. And now he's afraid of me all at once. Am I going to eat him? Why doesn't he want to come near me? Why doesn't he talk? Why won't he come and see us? It's not that you won't let him. We know that he goes everywhere. It's not good manners for me to invite him. He ought to have thought of it first if he hasn't forgotten me. No, now he's saving his soul. Why have you put that long gown on him? If he runs he'll fall. And suddenly she hid her face in her hand and went off into irresistible, prolonged, nervous, inaudible laughter. The elder listened to her with a smile and blessed her tenderly. As she kissed his hand she suddenly pressed it to her eyes and began crying. Don't be angry with me. I'm silly and good for nothing. And perhaps Eliosha's right. Quite right in not wanting to come and see such a ridiculous girl. I will certainly send him, said the elder. This ends chapter four. Book two, chapter five 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. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky. Translated by Konstantin Skarnet. Book two, chapter five. So be it, so be it. The elder's absence from his cell had lasted for about 25 minutes. It was more than half past 12, but Dmitry, on whose account they had all met there, had still not appeared. But he seemed almost to be forgotten. And when the elder entered the cell again, he found his guests engaged in eager conversation. Yvonne and the two monks took the leading share in it. Musov, too, was trying to take apart and apparently very eagerly in the conversation. But he was unsuccessful in this also. He was evidently in the background and his remarks were treated with neglect, which increased his irritability. He had had intellectual encounters with Yvonne before and he could not endure a certain carelessness Yvonne showed him. Here, the two at last stood in the front ranks of all that is progressive in Europe and here the new generation positively ignores us, he thought. Fyodor Pavlovich, who had given his word to sit still and be quiet, had actually been quiet for some time. But he watched his neighbor Musov with an ironical little smile, obviously enjoying his discomforture. He had been waiting for some time to pay off old scores and now he could not let the opportunity slip. Bending over his shoulder, he began teasing him again in a whisper. Why didn't you go away just now after the courteously kissing? Why did you consent to remain in such unseemly company? It was because you felt insulted and aggrieved and you remained to vindicate yourself by showing off your intelligence. Now you won't go till you've displayed your intellect to them. You again, on the contrary, I'm just going. You'll be the last, the last of all to go. Fyodor Pavlovich delivered him another thrust almost at the moment of Father Zosima's return. The discussion died down for a moment but the elder, seating himself in his former place, looked at them all as though cordially inviting them to go on. Alyosha, who knew every expression of his face, saw that he was fearfully exhausted and making a great effort. Of late he had been liable to fainting fits from exhaustion. His face had the pallor that was common before such attacks and his lips were white but he evidently did not want to break up the party. He seemed to have some special object of his own in keeping them. What object? Alyosha watched him intently. We're discussing this gentleman's most interesting article, said Father Yosef, the librarian, addressing the elder and indicating Yvonne. He brings forward much that is new but I think the argument cuts both ways. It is an article written in answer to a book by an ecclesiastical authority on the question of ecclesiastical court and the scope of its jurisdiction. I'm sorry I have not read your article but I've heard of it, said the elder, looking keenly and intently at Yvonne. He takes up a most interesting position, continued the father librarian. As far as church jurisdiction is concerned, he is apparently quite opposed to the separation of church and state. That's interesting. But in what sense? Father Zosima asked Yvonne. The latter, at last, answered him, not condescendingly as Alyosha had feared but with modesty and reserve, with evident goodwill, and apparently without the slightest arrière pensée. I start from the position that this confusion of elements, that is of the essential principles of church and state, will of course go on forever in spite of the fact that it is impossible for them to mingle and that the confusion of these elements cannot lead to any consistent or even normal results for there is falsity at the very foundation of it. Compromise between the church and state in such questions as, for instance, jurisdiction, is to my thinking impossible in any real sense. My clerical opponent maintains that the church holds a precise and defined position in the state. I maintain, on the contrary, that the church ought to include the whole state and not simply to occupy a corner in it. And if this is, for some reason, impossible at present, then it ought, in reality, to be set up as the direct and chief aim of the future development of Christian society. Perfectly true, Father Paisi, the silent and learned monk, assented with fervor and decision. The purest ultramontism, cried Musoff, impatiently crossing and recrossing his legs. Oh, well we have no mountains, cried Father Yosef, and turning to the elder he continued. Observe the answer he makes to the following, fundamental and essential positions of his opponent, who is, you must note, an ecclesiastic. First, that no social organization can or ought to irrigate to itself power to dispose of the civic and political rights of its members. Secondly, that criminal and civil jurisdiction ought not to belong to the church and is inconsistent with its nature, both as a divine institution and as an organization of men for religious objects. And finally, in the third place, the church is a kingdom not of this world. A most unworthy play upon words for an ecclesiastic. Father Paisi cannot refrain from breaking in again. I have read the book which you have answered, he added, addressing Yvonne, and was astounded at the words, the church is a kingdom not of this world. If it is not of this world, then it cannot exist on earth at all. In the gospel, the words not of this world are not used in that sense. To play with such words is indefensible. Our Lord Jesus Christ came to set up the church upon earth. The kingdom of heaven, of course, is not of this world, but in heaven, but it has only entered through the church, which has been founded and established upon earth. And so a frivolous play upon words in such a connection is unpardonable and improper. The church is, in truth, a kingdom and ordained to rule. And in the end, must undoubtedly become the kingdom ruling over all the earth, for that we have the divine promise. He ceased speaking suddenly as though checking himself. After listening attentively and respectfully, Yvonne went on, addressing the elder with perfect composure and as before with ready cordiality. The whole point of my article lies in the fact that during the first three centuries, Christianity only existed on earth in the church and was nothing but the church. When the pagan Roman Empire desired to become Christian, it inevitably happened that by becoming Christian, it included the church, but remained a pagan state in very many of its departments. In reality, this was bound to happen, but Rome as a state retained too much of the pagan civilization and culture, as for example, in the very objects and fundamental principles of the state. The Christian church entering into the state could, of course, surrender no part of its fundamental principles, the rock on which it stands and could pursue no other aims than those which have been ordained and revealed by God himself, and among them that of drawing the whole world and therefore the ancient pagan state itself into the church. In that way, that is with a view to the future, it is not the church that should seek a definite position in the state, like every social organization or as an organization of men for religious purposes as my opponent calls the church. But on the contrary, every earthly state should be in the end completely transformed into the church and should become nothing else but a church, rejecting every purpose in congruence with the aims of the church. All this will not degrade it in any way or take from its honor and glory as a great state, nor from the glory of its rulers, but only turns it from a false, still pagan and mistaken path to the true and rightful path which alone leads to the eternal goal. This is why the author of the book on the foundations of church jurisdiction would have judged correctly if in seeking and laying down those foundations, he had looked upon them as a temporary compromise, inevitable in our sinful and imperfect date, but as soon as the author ventures to declare that the foundations, which he predicates now, part of which, Father Yosef just enumerated, are the permanent essential and eternal foundations. He is going directly against the church and its sacred and eternal vocation. That is the gist of my article. That is in brief, Father Paisi began again, laying stress on each word. According to certain theories, only too clearly formulated in the 19th century, the church ought to be transformed into the state, as though this would be in advance from a lower to a higher form, so as to disappear into it, making way for science, for the spirit of the age and civilization. And if the church resists and is unwilling, some corner will be set apart for her in the state and even that under control. And this will be so everywhere in all modern European countries. But Russian hopes and conceptions demand not the church should pass as from a lower into a higher type into the state, but on the contrary, that the state should end by being worthy to become only the church and nothing else. So be it, so be it. Well, I confess you've reassured me somewhat. Musov said, smiling, again crossing his legs. So far as I understand then, the realization of such an ideal is infinitely remote. At the second coming of Christ, that's as you please. It's a beautiful utopian dream of the abolition of war, diplomacy, banks and so on. Something after the fashion of socialism indeed. But I imagined that it was all meant seriously and that the church might be now going to try criminals and sentence them to beating, prison and even death. But if there were none but the ecclesiastical court, the church would not even now sentence a criminal to prison or to death. Crime and the way of regarding it would inevitably change. Not all at once, of course, but fairly soon. Yvonne replied calmly, without flinching. Are you serious? Musov glanced keenly at him. If everything became the church, the church would exclude all the criminal and disobedient and would not cut off their heads, Yvonne went on. I ask you, what would be cub of the excluded? He would be cut off that not only from men as now, but from Christ. By his crime he would have transgressed not only against men, but against the church of Christ. This is so even now, of course, strictly speaking, but is not clearly enumerated. And very, very often the criminal of today compromises with his conscience. I steal, he says, but I don't go against the church. I'm not an enemy of Christ. That's what the criminal of today is continually saying to himself. But when the church takes the place of the state, it will be difficult for him in opposition to the church all over the world to say, all men are mistaken, all in error, all mankind are the false church. I, a thief and murderer, am the only true Christian church. It will be very difficult to say this to himself. It requires a rare combination of unusual circumstances. Now on the other side, take the church's own view of crime. Is it not bound to renounce the present, almost pagan attitude, and to change from a mechanical cutting off of its tainted member for the preservation of society, as at present, into completely and honestly adopting the idea of the regeneration of the man, of his reformation and salvation? What do you mean? I fail to understand again, Musoff interrupted. Some sort of dream again, something shapeless and even incomprehensible. What is excommunication? What sort of exclusion? I suspect you are simply amusing yourself, Yvonne Fyodorovich. Yes, but you know, in reality it is so now, said the elder suddenly, and all turned to him at once. If it were not for the church of Christ, there would be nothing to restrain the criminal from evil doing, no real chastisement for it afterwards. None that is but the mechanical punishments spoken of just now, which in the majority of cases only embitters the heart, and not the real punishment, the only effectual one, the only deterrent and softening one, which lies in the recognition of sin by conscience. How is that, may one inquire, asked Musoff with lively curiosity. Why, began the elder, all these sentences to exile with hard labor, and formerly with flogging also reform no one, and what's more, deter hardly a single criminal, and the number of crimes does not diminish, but is continually on the increase. You must admit that. Consequently, the security of society is not preserved, for although the obnoxious member is mechanically cut off and sent far away out of sight, another criminal always comes to take his place at once, and often two of them. If anything does preserve society, even in our time, and does regenerate and transform the criminal, it is only the law of Christ speaking in his conscience. It is only by recognizing his wrongdoing as a son of a Christian society, that is of the church, that he recognizes his sin against society, that is against the church, so that it is only against the church, and not against the state, that the criminal of today can recognize that he has sinned. If society, as a church, had jurisdiction, then it would know when to bring back from exclusion and to reignite to itself. Now the church having no real jurisdiction, but only the power of moral condemnation withdraws of her own accord from punishing the criminal actively. She does not excommunicate him, but simply persists in motherly exhortation of him. What is more, the church even tries to preserve all Christian communion with the criminal. She admits him to church services, to the holy sacrament, gives him alms, and treats him more as a captive than as a convict. And what would become of the criminal, oh Lord, if even the Christian society, that is the church, were to reject him, even as the civil law rejects him and cuts him off? What would become of him if the church punished him with her excommunication as the direct consequence of the secular law? There could be no more terrible despair, at least for a Russian criminal. For Russian criminals still have faith. Though who knows, perhaps then a fearful thing would happen. Perhaps the despairing heart of the criminal would lose its faith, and then what would become of him? But the church, like a tender, loving mother, holds aloof from active punishment herself, as the sinner is too severely punished already by the civil law, and there must be at least someone to have pity on him. The church holds aloof, above all, because its judgment is the only one that contains the truth, and therefore cannot practically and morally be united to any other judgment, even as a temporary compromise. She can enter into no compact about that. The foreign criminal, they say, rarely repents, for the very doctrines of today confirm him in the idea that his crime is not a crime, but only a reaction against an unjustly oppressive force. Society cuts him off completely by a force that triumphs over him mechanically, and so at least they say of themselves in Europe, accompanies this exclusion with hatred, forgetfulness, and the most profound indifference as to the ultimate fate of the airing brother. In this way it all takes place without the compassionate intervention of the church, for in many cases there are no churches there at all. For though ecclesiastics and splendid church buildings remain, the churches themselves have long ago been striven to pass from church into state and to disappear in it completely. So it seems at least in Lutheran countries. As for Rome, it was proclaimed a state instead of a church a thousand years ago, and so the criminal is no longer conscious of being a member of the church and sinks into despair. If he returns to society, often it is with such hatred that society itself instinctively cuts him off. You can judge for yourself how it must end. In many cases it would seem to be the same with us, but the difference is that besides the established law courts, we have the church too, which always keeps up relations with the criminal as a dear and still precious son. And besides that, there is still preserved, though only in thought, the judgment of the church, which though no longer existing in practice is still living as a dream for the future, and is no doubt instinctively recognized by the criminal in his soul. What was said here just now is true too. That is, that if the jurisdiction of the church were introduced in practice in his full force, that is, if the whole of the society were changed into the church, not only the judgment of the church would have influence on the reformation of the criminal, such as it has never had now, but possibly also the crimes themselves would be incredibly diminished. And there can be no doubt that the church would look upon the criminal and the crime of the future in many cases quite differently, and would succeed in restoring the excluded, in restraining those who plan evil, and in regenerating the fallen. It is true, said Father Sosema with a smile. The Christian society now is not ready, and is only resting on some seven righteous men, but as they are never lacking, it will continue still unshaken in expectation of its complete transformation from a society almost heathen in character into a single universal and all powerful church. So be it, so be it. Even though at the end of the ages, Ford is ordained to come to pass, and there is no need to be troubled about times and seasons. For the secret of the times and seasons is the wisdom of God in his foresight and his love. And what in human reckoning seems still far off may by the divine ordinance be close at hand on the eve of its appearance, and so be it, so be it. So be it, so be it. Father Paese repeated, austerely and reverently. Strange, extremely strange, Musoff pronounced, not so much with heat as with latent indignation. What strikes you as so strange, Father Yosef inquired cautiously. Why, it's beyond anything, cried Musoff, suddenly breaking out. The state is eliminated, and the church is raised to the position of the state. It's not simply ultramontanism, it's arched ultramontanism. It's beyond the dreams of Pope Gregory VII. You are completely misunderstanding it, said Father Paese sternly. Understand the church is not to be transformed into the state. That is Rome and its dream. That is the third temptation of the devil. On the contrary, the state is transformed into the church. We'll ascend and become a church over the whole world, which is the complete opposite of ultramontism and Rome and your interpretation, and is only the glorious destiny ordained for the orthodox church. This star will arise in the east. Musoff was significantly silent. His whole figure expressed extraordinary personal dignity. A supercilious and condescending smile played on his lips. Alyosha watched it all with a throbbing heart. The whole conversation stirred him profoundly. He glanced casually at Raketen, who was standing immovable in his place by the door, listening and watching intently, though with downcast eyes. But from the color in his cheeks, Alyosha guessed that Raketen was probably no less excited and he knew what caused his excitement. Allow me to tell you one little anecdote, gentlemen. Musoff said impressively with a peculiar majestic air. Some years ago, soon after the coup d'etat of December, I happened to be calling in Paris on an extremely influential personage in the government, and I met a very interesting man in his house. This individual was not precisely a detective, but was a sort of superintendent of a whole regiment of political detectives, a rather powerful position in its own way. I was prompted by curiosity to seize the opportunity of conversation with him, and as he had not come as a visitor, but as a subordinate official bringing a special report, and as he saw the reception given me by his chief, he deigned to speak with some openness, to a certain extent only, of course. He was rather courteous than open, as French men know how to be courteous, especially to a foreigner. But I thoroughly understood him. The subject was the socialist revolutionaries who were at that time persecuted. I will quote only one most curious remark dropped by this person. We are not particularly afraid, said he, of all these socialists, anarchists, infidels, and revolutionists. We keep watch on them and know all their goings on. But there are a few peculiar men among them who believe in God and are Christians, but at the same time are socialists. These are the people we are most afraid of. They are dreadful people. The socialist who is a Christian is more to be dreaded than a socialist who is an atheist. The words struck me at the time, and now they have suddenly come back to me here, gentlemen. You apply them to us and look upon us as socialists, Father Paisi asked directly without beating about the bush. But before Piotr Alexandrovich could think what to answer, the door opened, and the guest so long expected, Dmitri Fyodorovich, came in. They had, in fact, given up expecting him, and his sudden appearance caused some surprise for a moment. This ends chapter five. Book two, chapter six, of the brother's car mausoleum. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The brother's car mausoleum by Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. Book two, chapter six, why is such a man alive? Dmitri Fyodorovich, a young man of eight and 20, 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 soloness in their color. His rather large, prominent, dark eyes had an expression of firm determination, and yet there was a vague look in them too. Even when he was excited and talking irritably, his eyes somehow did not follow his mood, but betrayed something else, something quite incongruous with what was passing. It's hard to tell what he's thinking. Those who talk to him sometimes declared. People who saw something pensive and solon in his eyes were startled by his sudden laugh, which bore witness to mirthful and light-hearted thoughts at the very time when his eyes were so gloomy. A certain strange look in his face was easy to understand at this moment. Everyone knew, or had heard of, the extremely restless and dissipated life which he had been leading of late, as well as 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, Kachalnikov, 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 Zosima, rising in his chair, blessed him. Dimitri kissed his hand respectfully and with intense feeling, almost anger, he said. Be so generous as to forgive me for having kept you waiting so long. But Smedjekov, the valet sent me by my father and replied 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, Dimitri bowed once more, then turning suddenly toward 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 Dimitri'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. Dimitri 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 Paesi and bending forward, prepared to listen to the conversation he had interrupted. Dimitri's entrance had taken no more than two minutes and the conversation was resumed, but this time Musov thought it unnecessary to reply to Father Paesi'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. European 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 the 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, Pewter Alexandrovich. I ask your permission to drop this subject altogether, Musov repeated. I will tell you instead gentlemen another interesting and rather characteristic anecdote of Ivan Fyodorovich himself. Only five days ago in the gathering here, principally of ladies, he solemnly declared an argument that there was nothing in the whole world to make men love their neighbors. That there was no law of nature that man should love mankind. And that if there had been any love on earth hitherto, it was not owing to a natural law, but simply because men have believed in immortality. Ivan Fyodorovich added in parentheses that the whole natural law lies in that faith and that if you were to destroy in mankind the belief in immortality, not only love, but every living force maintaining the life of the world would at once be dried up. Moreover, nothing then would be immoral. Everything would be lawful, even cannibalism. That's not all. He ended by asserting that for every individual like ourselves who does not believe in God or immortality, the moral law of nature must immediately be changed into the exact contrary of the former religious law and that egoism, even to crime, must become not only lawful, but even recognized as inevitable, the most rational, even honorable outcome of his position. From this paradox, gentlemen, you can judge of the rest of our eccentric and paradoxical friend Ivan Fyodorovich's theories. Excuse me, Dmitri cried suddenly. If I've heard a right, crime must not only be permitted, but even recognized as the inevitable and the most rational outcome of his position for every infidel, is that so or not? Quite so, said Father Paisi. I'll remember it. Having uttered these words, Dmitri 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're 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 to your great grief, for it clamors for an answer. But can it be answered by me, answered in the affirmative? Ivan went on asking strangely, still looking at the elder with the same inexplicable smile. If it can't be decided in the affirmative, it will never be decided in the negative. You know that that is the peculiarity of your heart, and all its suffering is due to it. But thank the Creator who has given you a lofty heart capable of such suffering, of thinking and seeking higher things, for our dwelling is in the heavens. God grant that your heart will attain the answer on earth, and may God bless your path. The elder raised his hand and would have made the sign of the cross over Ivan from where he stood, but the latter rose from his seat, went up to him, received his blessing, and kissing his hand went back to his place in silence. His face looked firm and earnest. This action and all the preceding conversation, which was so surprising from Ivan, impressed 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 Alyosha's face. But Musov 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 the son who has just come in, Dimitri, against whom I am seeking justice from you, is the undutiful Franz Moore. They're both of Schiller's robbers, and so I am the reigning Count von Moore. Judge, 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. Answer 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 Dimitri 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 Aleksandrovich here blames me too. You've been blaming me, Piotr Aleksandrovich, you have. He turned suddenly to Musolf, although the latter was not dreaming of interrupting him. They all accused 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, Dimitri 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 Aleksandrovich refuse to pass judgment? Dimitri is not a stranger to him, because they are all against me, while Dimitri 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, Dimitri Fyodorovich, in its most secret details. I'll prove it. Would you believe it, Holy Father? He has captivated the heart of the most honorable of young ladies, of good family and fortune, daughter of a gallant's colonel, formerly his superior officer, who had received many honors, and who had the honor order on his breast. He compromised the girl by his promise of marriage. Now she's an orphan, and here, she is betrothed to him. Yet before her very eyes, he is dancing attendance on a certain enchantress. And although this enchantress has lived in, so to speak, civil marriage with a respectable man, yet she is of an independent character, an unapproachable fortress for everybody, just like a legal wife, for she is virtuous. Yes, Holy Father, she is virtuous. Dimitri Fyodorovich wants to open this fortress with a golden key, and that's why he is insolent to me now, trying to get money from me, though he has wasted thousands on this enchantress already. He continually borrows money for the purpose. From whom do you think? Shall I say, Mitya? Be silent, cried Dimitri. Wait till I'm gone. Don't dare in my presence to espers the good name of an honorable girl, that you should utter a word about her as an outrage, and I won't permit it. He was breathless. Mitya, Mitya, cried Fyodorovich, hysterically squeezing out a tear. And is your father's blessing nothing to you? If I curse you, what then? Shameless hypocrite, exclaimed Dimitri furiously. He says that to his father, his father. What would he be with others, gentlemen? Only fancy. There's a poor but honorable man living here, burdened with a numerous family, a captain who got into trouble and was discharged from the army, but not publicly, not by court-martial, with no slur on his honor. And three weeks ago, Dimitri seized him by the beard and a tavern, dragged him out into the street and beat him publicly, all because he is an agent in a little business of mine. It's a lie. Outwardly it's the truth, but inwardly a lie. Dimitri was trembling with rage. Father, I don't justify my action. Yes, I confess it publicly. I behave 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 and chantress 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 that was supposed 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. Here you have this man, this father who reproaches his profligate son. Gentlemen, forgive my anger, but I first saw that this crafty old man would only bring you together to create a scandal. I have come to forgive him if he had held out his hand, to forgive him and ask forgiveness. But as he is just this minute insulted not only me, but an honorable young lady for whom I feel such reverence that I dare not take her name in vain, I have made up my mind to show up his game, though he is my father. He could not go on. His eyes were glittering and he breathed with difficulty. But everyone in the cell was stirred. All except Father Zosima got up from their seats uneasily. The monks looked off steer, 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 Musal felt completely humiliated and disgraced. We are to blame for the 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 behavior and intrigues with the creature to get his son into prison. This is the company in which I have been forced to be present. I was deceived. I declare to you all that I was as much deceived as 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 the handkerchief. He ended, stamping both feet. With old liars who have been acting all their lives, there are moments when they enter so completely into their part that they tremble or shed tears of emotion in earnest. Although at that very moment, where second later they are able to whisper to themselves, you know you are lying, you shameless old sinner. You are 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 and a despicable clown. A duel yelled the old wretch again, breathless and splattering at each syllable. And you, Piotr 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 Piotr Orvich, 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 behavior is perhaps holier than you are yourselves, you monks who are seeking salvation. She fell perhaps in her youth, ruined by her environment, but she loved much and Christ himself forgave the woman who loved much. It was not for such love Christ forgave her, broke impatiently from the gentle Father Yosef. Yes, it was for such monks, it was. You save your souls here, eating cabbage, and think you are righteous. You eat a grudgen a day, and you think you bribe God with grudgen. This is un-indurable, was heard on all sides of the cell, but this unseemly scene was cut short in a most unexpected way. Father Zosima rose suddenly from his seat, almost distracted with anxiety for the elder and everyone else, al-Yosha succeeded, however, in supporting him by the arm. Father Zosima moved towards Dimitri and reaching him, sank on his knees before him. Al-Yosha thought that he had fallen from weakness, but this was not so. The elder distinctly and deliberately bowed down at Dimitri's feet, till his forehead touched the floor. Al-Yosha was so astounded that he failed to assist him when he got up again. There was a faint smile on his lips. Goodbye, forgive me, all of you, he said, bowing on all sides to his guests. Dimitri 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 goodbye 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 anyone in particular. They were all passing out of the precincts of the hermitage at that moment. I can't answer for a madhouse and for bad men, Musoff answered at once ill-humored, but I will spare myself your company, Fyodor Pavlovich, and trust me for ever. Where's that monk? That monk, that is, the monk who had invited them to dine with the superior, did not keep them waiting. He met them as soon as they came down the steps from the elder's cell, as though he had been waiting for them all the time. Reverend Father, kindly do me a favor, convey my deepest respect to the father superior, apologize for me personally, Musoff, to his reference, telling him that I deeply regret that owing to unforeseen circumstances, I am unable to have the honor of being present at his table, greatly as I should desire to do so. Musoff 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 Alexanderovich. Pray go to the father superior and good appetite to you. I will decline and not to you. Home, home, I'll eat at home. I don't feel quite equal to it here, Piotr Alexanderovich, 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 go to the father superior. Piotr Alexanderovich, to apologize for my disturbance. We've been making. Is it true that you are going home? Aren't you lying? Piotr Alexanderovich, how could I dare after what's happened? Forgive me, gentlemen, I was carried away and upset besides, and indeed I am ashamed. Gentlemen, one man has the heart of Alexander of Macedon and another the heart of the little dog Fido. Mine is that of the little dog Fido. I am ashamed. After such an escapade, how can I go to dinner to gobble up the monastery's sauces? I am ashamed. 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 Yvonne 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 Yvonne. 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's 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 Yvonne. Here he is, going to the dinner as though nothing had happened, he thought, a brazen face and a conscience of a Karamazov. This ends chapter six. Book two, chapter seven of the brother's Karamazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Brother's Karamazov by Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. Book two, chapter seven, a young man bent on a career. Alyosha helped Father Sosema to his bedroom and seated him on his bed. It was a little room furnished with the bare necessities. There was a narrow iron bed stand with a strip of felt for a mattress. In the corner under the icons was a reading desk with a cross and the gospel lying on it. The elder sank exhausted on 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 liked to call him that. This is not the place for you in the future. When it is God's will to call me, leave the monastery. Go away for good. Alyosha started. What is it? This is not your place for the time. I bless you for great service in the world. Yours will be a long pilgrimage and you will have to take a wife too. You will have to bear all before you come back. There will be much to do, but I don't doubt of you and so I send you forth. Christ is with you. Do not abandon him and he will not abandon you. You will see great sorrow and in that sorrow you will be happy. This is my last message to you. In sorrow, seek happiness. Work, work unceasingly. Remember my words, for although I shall talk with you again, not only my days, but my hours are numbered. Alyosha's face again betrayed strong emotion. The corners of his mouth quivered. What is it again? Father Zosima 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, not near one only, but near both. Father Zosima raised his hand to bless him. Alyosha could make no protest, though he had a great longing to remain. He longed moreover to ask the significance of his bowing to 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 thought fit, but evidently it was not his will. That action had been 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 in his heart and stopped short. He seemed to hear again Father Zosima'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 Rikitin. He was waiting for someone. Are you waiting for me? Asked Alyosha, overtaking him. Yes, Grinder Keaton. You are hurrying to the Father Superior, I know. He has a banquet. There's not been such a banquet since the Superior entertained the bishop and the 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 Zosima? Yes, a Father Zosima. Tapped the ground? Ah, in a 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 Zosima flopped down to be ready for what may turn up. If something happens later on, it'll be, ah, the holy man foresaw it, prophesized it. Though it's a poor sort of prophecy flopping like that. Ah, but it was symbolic, they'll say, an allegory, and the devil knows what all. It'll be remembered to his glory. He predicted the crime and marked the criminal. That's always the way with these crazy fanatics. They crossed 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? Is though you didn't know, I'll bet you've thought of it before. That's interesting too, by the way. Listen Alyosha, you always speak the truth, though you're always between two stools. Have you thought of it or not? Answer? I have. Answered Alyosha in a low voice. Even Raketen was taken aback. What? Have you really? He cried. I... I've not exactly thought it, Mother 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 Metsia today, you've 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, Metsia, 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, Armitia. He's stupid but honest. But he's a sensualist. That's the very definition and interessence 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. And your family's 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 shudder. 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 beauty, or even with a part of a woman's body. A sensualist can understand that. And he'll abandon his own children for her, sell his father and mother and his country, too. 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. He can tempts 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 Raketan 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're 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 centralist from your father, a 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 cossack, 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 strange smile. Finish what you're 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 centralist 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 vileness 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 has made that scene in the cell just now, simply because Musov 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 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 those 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, Katerina Ivanovna, who's rich and the daughter of a colonel, and to marry Grushanka, who has been the mistress of a desolate old merchant. Samsonov, of course, uneducated, provincial mayor. Some murderous conflict may welcome to pass from all this, and that's what your brother Ivan is waiting for. It would suit him down to the ground. He'll carry off Katerina Ivanovna, for whom he is languishing, and pocket her dowry of sixty thousand. That's very alluring to start with, for a man of no consequence and a beggar. And take note—he won't be wronging Mitya, but doing him the greatest service, for I know as a fact that Mitya, only last week, when he was with some gypsy girls drunk in a tavern, cried out aloud that he was unworthy of his betrothed Katya, but that his brother Ivan, he was the man who deserved her, and Katerina Ivanovna will not in the end refuse such a fascinating man as Ivan. She's hesitating between the two of them already. And how has that Ivan won you all, so that you all worship him? He is laughing at you, and enjoying himself at your expense. How do you know? How can you speak so confidently? Al-Yasha asked sharply, frowning. Why do you ask? And are you frightened at my answer? It shows that you know I'm speaking the truth. You don't like Ivan. Ivan wouldn't be tempted by money. Really? And the beauty of Katerina Ivanovna? It's not only the money, though a fortune of sixty thousand is an attraction. Ivan is above that. He wouldn't make up to anyone for thousands. It's not the money. It's not comfort Ivan is seeking. Perhaps it's suffering he is seeking. What wild dream now! Oh, you aristocrats! Al-Yasha, he has a stormy spirit. His mind is in bondage. He is haunted by a great unresolved doubt. He's one of those who don't want millions, but an answer to their questions. That's plagiarism, Al-Yasha. You're quoting your elder's phrases. Ah, Ivan has such 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 Mitya cried out? I will remember. An attractive theory for scoundrels. I'm being abusive. That's stupid. Not for scoundrels, but for pedantic posseurs. Haunted by profound, unresolved 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 Katerina Ivanovna yourself. I've suspected that for a long time, brother. That's why you don't like my brother, Iván. 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 Iván with you. Don't you understand that one might very well dislike him, apart from Katerina Ivanovna? And why the devil should I like him? He condescends to abuse me, you know. Why haven't I a right to abuse him? I never heard of his saying anything about you, good or bad. He doesn't speak of you at all. But I heard that the day before yesterday, at Katerina Ivanovna's, he was abusing me for all he was worth. You see what an interest he takes in your humble servant. And which is the jealous one after that, brother, I can't say. He was so good as to express the opinion that, if I don't go in for the career of an arch-a-mandrite 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 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 from the Neva, which they say is to be built in Petersburg. Ah, Misha, that's just what will really happen, every word of it, cried Alyosha, unable to restrain a good-humored smile. You are pleased to be sarcastic to 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 Katerina Ivanovna's news yourself when he was talking about it. 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 Grushinka'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. Ah, a relation? That Grushinka, a relation of mine, cried Raketen, turning crimson. Are you mad? Are you out of your mind? Why, isn't she a relation of yours? I had heard so. Where can you have heard it? You Karamazov's brag of being an ancient noble family, though your father used to run about playing the buffoon at other men's tables and was only admitted to the kitchen as a favor. I may be only a priest's son and dirt in the eyes of noblemen like you, but don't insult me so lightly and wantonly. I have a sense of honor, too, Alexei Fyodorovich. I couldn't be a relation of Grushinka, a common harlot. I beg you to understand that. Raketen was intensely irritated. Forgive me for goodness sakes, 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 a 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 Yvon after him. They've broken out from the father's superiors. And look! Father Isidore is shouting out something after them from the steps. And your father shouting and waving his arms. I expect he's swearing. Bah! And there goes Muzov 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'd not been beating the father 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. This ends Chapter 7.