 Section 22 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary. Book 3, Chapter 9. The Sensualists Grigori and Smirjakov ran into the room after Dmitry. They had been struggling with him in the passage, refusing to admit him, acting on instructions given them by Fyodor Pavlovich some days before. Taking advantage of the fact that Dmitry stopped the moment on entering the room to look about him, Grigori ran round the table, closed the double doors on the opposite side of the room leading to the inner apartments, and stood before the closed doors, stretching wide his arms, prepared to defend the entrance, so to speak, with the last drop of his blood. Seeing this, Dmitry uttered a scream rather than a shout, and rushed at Grigori. Then she's there, she's hidden there, out of the way, scoundrel. He tried to pull Grigori away, but the old servant pushed him back. Beside himself with fury, Dmitry struck out and hit Grigori with all his might. The old man fell like a log, and Dmitry, leaping over him, broke in the door. Smirjakov remained pale and trembling at the other end of the room, huddling close to Fyodor Pavlovich. "'She's here,' shouted Dmitry. I saw her turn towards the house just now, but I couldn't catch her. Where is she? Where is she?' That shout, she's here, produced an indescribable effect on Fyodor Pavlovich. All his terror left him. "'Hold him, hold him,' he cried, and dashed after Dmitry. Meanwhile, Grigori had got up from the floor, but still seemed stunned. Yvonne and Alyosha ran after their father. In the third room something was heard to fall on the floor with a ringing crash. It was a large glass vase, not an expensive one, on a marble pedestal which Dmitry had upset as he ran past it. "'At him,' shouted the old man, help. Yvonne and Alyosha caught the old man, and were forcibly bringing him back. "'Why do you run after him? He'll murder you outright,' Yvonne cried wrathfully at his father. "'Yvonne, Alyosha, she must be here. Grushanka's here. He said he saw her himself running.' He was choking. He was not expecting Grushanka at the time, and the sudden news that she was here made him beside himself. He was trembling all over. He seemed frantic. "'But you've seen for yourself that she hasn't come,' cried Yvonne. "'But she may have come by that other entrance. You know that entrance is locked, and you have the key.' Dmitry suddenly reappeared in the drawing-room. He had, of course, found the other entrance locked, and the key actually was in Fyodor Pavlovitch's pocket. The windows of all the rooms were also closed, so Grushanka could not have come in anywhere, nor have run out anywhere. "'Hold him,' shrieked Fyodor Pavlovitch as soon as he saw him again. "'He's been stealing money in my bedroom.' And tearing himself from Yvonne, he rushed again at Dmitry. But Dmitry threw up both hands, and suddenly clutched the old man by the two tufts of hair that remained on his temples, tugged at them, and flung him with a crash on the floor. He kicked him two or three times with his heel in the face. The old man moaned shrilly. Yvonne, though not so strong as Dmitry, threw his arms round him, and with all his might pulled him away. Alyosha helped him with his slender strength, holding Dmitry in front. "'Matman, you've killed him,' cried Yvonne. "'Serve him right,' shouted Dmitry breathlessly. "'If I haven't killed him, I'll come again and kill him. You can't protect him.' "'Dmitry, go away at once,' cried Alyosha, commandingly. "'Alexa, you tell me. It's only you I can believe. Was she here just now or not? I saw her, myself, creeping this way by the fence from the lane. I shouted, she ran away. I swear she's not been here, and no one expected her. But I saw her, so she must—I'll find out at once where she is. Goodbye, Alexei. Not a word to ease up about the money now. But go to Katarina Yvonne at once, and be sure to say he sends his compliments to you. Compliments, his compliments, just compliments, and farewell. Describe the scene to her.' Meanwhile Yvonne and Grigori had raised the old man and seated him in an armchair. His face was covered with blood, but he was conscious and listened greedily to Dmitry's cries. He was still fancying that Grushanka really was somewhere in the house. Dmitry looked at him with hatred as he went out. "'I don't repent shedding your blood,' he cried. Beware, old man, beware of your dream, for I have my dream, too. I curse you and disown you altogether.' He ran out of the room. "'She's here. She must be here. Smerchikov, Smerchikov!' The old man wheezed, scarcely audibly, beckoning to him with his finger. "'No, she's not here, you old lunatic,' Yvonne shouted at him angrily. Here he's fainting. Water, a towel, make haste, Smerchikov.' Smerchikov ran for water. At last they got the old man undressed and put him to bed. They wrapped a wet towel round his head. Exhausted by the brandy, by his violent emotion and the blows he had received, he shut his eyes and fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Yvonne and Valyosha went back to the drawing-room. Smerchikov removed the fragments of the broken vase, while Grigori stood by the table looking gloomily at the floor. "'Shouldn't you put a wet bandage on your head and go to bed, too?' Valyosha said to him. "'We'll look after him. My brother gave you a terrible blow on the head.' "'He's insulted me,' Grigori articulated gloomily and distinctly. "'He's insulted his father, not only you,' observed Yvonne with a forced smile. "'I used to wash him in his tub. "'He's insulted me,' repeated Grigori. "'Damn it, Olive, I hadn't pulled him away. Perhaps he'd have murdered him. It wouldn't take much to do for Esop, would it?' whispered Yvonne to Valyosha. "'God forbid,' cried Valyosha. "'Why should he forbid?' Yvonne went on in the same whisper, with a malignant grimace. One reptile will devour the other, and serve them both right, too.' Valyosha shuddered. "'Of course I won't let him be murdered, as I didn't just now. Stay here, Valyosha. I'll go for a turn in the yard. My head's begun to ache.' Valyosha went to his father's bedroom and sat by his bedside behind the screen for about an hour. The old man suddenly opened his eyes and gazed for a long while at Valyosha, evidently remembering and meditating. All at once his face betrayed extraordinary excitement. Valyosha, he whispered apprehensively, "'Where's Yvonne?' "'In the yard. He's got a headache. He's on the watch. "'Give me that looking-glass. It stands over there. Give it me.' Valyosha gave him a little round, folding looking-glass, which stood on the chest of drawers. The old man looked at himself in it. His nose was considerably swollen, and on the left side of his forehead there was a rather large crimson bruise. "'What does Yvonne say?' Valyosha, my dear, my only son, I'm afraid of Yvonne. I'm more afraid of Yvonne than the other. You're the only one I'm not afraid of.' "'Don't be afraid of Yvonne, either. He is angry, but he'll defend you.' "'Alyosha, and what of the other? He's run to Grushanka. My angel, tell me the truth. Was she here just now or not?' "'No one has seen her. It was a mistake. She has not been here.' "'You know Mitchell wants to marry her, to marry her.' "'She won't marry him.' "'She won't. She won't. She won't. She won't on any account.' The old man fairly fluttered with joy, as though nothing more comforting could have been said to him. In his delay he seized Alyosha's hand and pressed it warmly to his heart. Tears positively glittered in his eyes. "'That image of the mother of God of which I was telling you just now,' he said, take it home and keep it for yourself, and I'll let you go back to the monastery. I was joking this morning. Don't be angry with me. My head aches, Alyosha. Alyosha, comfort my heart. Be an angel, and tell me the truth.' "'You're still asking whether she has been here or not?' Alyosha said, sorrowfully. "'No, no, no, I believe you. I'll tell you what it is. You go to Grushenko yourself, or see her somehow. Make haste and ask her. See for yourself which she means to choose, him or me. What, can you?' "'If I see her, I'll ask her,' Alyosha muttered, embarrassed. "'No, she won't tell you,' the old man interrupted. "'She's a rogue. She'll begin kissing you and say that it's you she wants. She's a deceitful, shameless hussy. You mustn't go to her. You mustn't.' "'No, Father, and it wouldn't be suitable. It wouldn't be right at all.' "'Where was he sending you just now?' He shouted, go, as he ran away.' "'To Katarina Ivanovna. For money? To ask her for money?' "'No, not for money. He's no money, not a farthing.' "'I'll settle down for the night and think things over, and you can go. Perhaps you'll meet her. Only be sure to come to me tomorrow, in the morning. Be sure to. I have a word to say to you, tomorrow. Will you come?' "'Yes.' "'When you come, pretend you've come of your own accord to ask after me. Don't tell anyone I told you to. Don't say a word to Ivan.' "'Very well. Good-bye, my angel. You stood up for me just now. I shall never forget it. I have a word to say to you, tomorrow. But I must think about it. And how do you feel now? I shall get up tomorrow and go out perfectly well, perfectly well.' Crossing the yard, Alyosha found Ivan sitting on the bench at the gateway. He was sitting writing something in pencil in his notebook. Alyosha told Ivan that their father had waked up, was conscious, and had let him go back to sleep at the monastery. "'Alyosha, I should be very glad to meet you tomorrow morning,' said Ivan cordially, standing up. His cordiality was a complete surprise to Alyosha. "'I shall be at the holocausts tomorrow,' answered Alyosha. I may be at Caterina Ivanovna's too, if I don't find her now. "'But you're going to her now anyway? For that compliments and farewell?' said Ivan, smiling. Alyosha was disconcerted. I think I quite understand his exclamations just now, and part of what went before. Dmitry has asked you to go to her and say that he, well, in fact, takes his leave of her?' "'Brother, how will all this horror end between father and Dmitry?' exclaimed Alyosha. "'One can't tell for certain. Perhaps in nothing it may all fizzle out. That woman is a beast. In any case, we must keep the old man indoors and not let Dmitry in the house.' "'Brother, let me ask one thing more. Has any man a right to look at other men and decide which is worthy to live?' "'Why bring in the question of worth? The matter is most often decided in men's hearts on other grounds much more natural, and as for rights, who has not the right to wish?' "'Not for another man's death.' "'What even if for another man's death? Why lie to oneself, since all men live so, and perhaps cannot help living so? Are you referring to what I said just now, that one reptile will devour the other? In that case, let me ask you. Do you think me, like Dmitry, capable of shedding Esop's blood, murdering him, hey? What are you saying, Yvonne? Such an idea never crossed my mind. I don't think Dmitry is capable of it, either.' "'Thanks, if only for that,' smiled Yvonne. "'Be sure, I should always defend him. But in my wishes, I reserve myself full latitude in this case. Good-bye till to-morrow. Don't condemn me, and don't look on me as a villain,' he added, with a smile. They shook hands warmly as they had never done before. Alyosha felt that his brother had taken the first step towards him, and that he had certainly done this with some definite motive. CHAPTER X BOTH TOGETHER Alyosha left his father's house, feeling even more exhausted and dejected in spirit than when he had entered it. His mind, too, seemed shattered and unhinged, while he felt that he was afraid to put together the disjointed fragments and form a general idea from all the agonizing and conflicting experiences of the day. He felt something bordering upon despair, which he had never known till then. Towering like a mountain above all the rest, stood the fatal insoluble question—how would things end between his father and his brother Dimitri with this terrible woman? Now he had himself been a witness of it, he had been present and seen them face to face. Yet only his brother Dimitri could be made unhappy, terribly, completely unhappy. There was trouble awaiting him. It appeared, too, that there were other people concerned, far more so than Alyosha could have supposed before. There was something positively mysterious in it, too. Yvonne had made a step towards him, which was what Alyosha had been long desiring, yet now he felt for some reason that he was frightened at it. And these women, strange to say, that morning he had set out for Katerina Yvonnevna's in the greatest embarrassment. Now he felt nothing of the kind. On the contrary, he was hastening bear as though expecting to find guidance from her. Yet to give her this message was obviously more difficult than before. The matter of the three thousand was decided irrevocably, and Dimitri, feeling himself dishonoured and losing his last hope, might sink to any depth. He had, moreover, told him to describe to Katerina Yvonnevna the scene which had just taken place with his father. It was by now seven o'clock, and it was getting dark as Alyosha entered the very spacious and convenient house in the high street occupied by Katerina Yvonnevna. Alyosha knew that she lived with two aunts. One of them, a woman of little education, was that aunt of her half-sister Agafia Yvonnevna, who had looked after her in her father's house when she came from boarding school. The other aunt was a Moscow lady of style and consequence, though in straightened circumstances. It was said that they both gave way in everything to Katerina Yvonnevna, and that she only kept them with her as chaperones. Katerina Yvonnevna herself gave way to no one but her benefactress, the General's widow, who had been kept by illness in Moscow, and to whom she was obliged to write twice a week a full account of all her doings. When Alyosha entered the hall and asked the maid who opened the door to him to take his name up, it was evident that they were already aware of his arrival, possibly he had been noticed from the window. At least Alyosha heard a noise, caught the sound of flying footsteps and rustling skirts. Two or three women perhaps had run out of the room. Alyosha thought it strange that his arrival should cause such excitement. He was conducted, however, to the drawing-room at once. It was a large room, elegantly and amply furnished, not at all in provincial style. There were many sofas, lounges, setties, big and little tables. There were pictures on the walls, vases and lamps on the tables, masses of flowers, and even an aquarium in the window. It was twilight and rather dark. Alyosha made out a silk mantle thrown down on the sofa, where people had evidently just been sitting, and on a table in front of the sofa were two unfinished cups of chocolate, cakes, a glass saucer with blue raisins, and another with sweetmeats. Alyosha saw that he had interrupted visitors and frowned, but at that instant the portier was raised, and with rapid hurrying footsteps Katarina Ivanovna came in, holding out both hands to Alyosha with the radiant smile of delight. At the same instant a servant brought in two lighted candles and set them on the table. Thank God, at last you have come to! I've been simply praying for you all day. Sit down. Alyosha had been struck by Katarina Ivanovna's beauty, when three weeks before Dmitry had first brought him at Katarina Ivanovna's special request to be introduced to her. There had been no conversation between them at that interview, however. Supposing Alyosha to be very shy, Katarina Ivanovna had talked all the time to Dmitry, to spare him. Alyosha had been silent, but he had seen a great deal very clearly. He was struck by the imperiousness, proud ease, and self-confidence of the hotty girl. And all that was certain, Alyosha felt that he was not exaggerating it. He thought her great glowing black eyes were very fine, especially with her pale, even rather shallow, longish face. But in those eyes and in the lines of her exquisite lips there was something with which his brother might well be passionately in love, but which perhaps could not be loved for long. He expressed this thought almost plainly to Dmitry, when after the visit his brother besought and insisted that he should not conceal his impressions on seeing his betrothed. You'll be happy with her, but perhaps not tranquilly happy. Quite so, brother, such people remain always the same, they don't yield to fate, so you think I shan't love her for ever. No, perhaps you will love her for ever, but perhaps you won't always be happy with her. Alyosha had given his opinion at the time, blushing and angry with himself for having yielded to his brothers and treaties, and put such foolish ideas into words, for his opinion had struck him as awfully foolish immediately after he had uttered it. He felt ashamed, too, of having given so confident an opinion about a woman. It was with the more amazement that he felt now, at the first glance at Katarina Ivanovna as she ran into him, that he had perhaps been utterly mistaken. This time her face was beaming with spontaneous good-natured kindliness and direct warm-hearted sincerity. The pride and haughtiness which had struck Alyosha so much before was only betrayed now in a frank, generous energy and a sort of bright, strong faith in herself. Alyosha realized at the first glance, at the first word, that all the tragedy of her position in relation to the man she loved so dearly was no secret to her, that she perhaps already knew everything, positively everything, and yet, in spite of that, there was such brightness in her face, such faith in the future. Alyosha felt at once that he had gravely wronged her in his thoughts. He was conquered and captivated immediately. Besides all this, he noticed at her first words that she was in great excitement, an excitement perhaps quite exceptional and almost approaching ecstasy. I was so eager to see you because I can learn from you the whole truth from you and no one else. I have come, muttered Alyosha, confusedly. He sent me. Ah, he sent you, I foresaw that. Now I know everything, everything, cried Katarina Ivanovna, her eyes flashing. Wait a moment, Alexei Fyodorovich, I'll tell you why I've been so longing to see you. You see, I know perhaps far more than you do yourself, and there's no need for you to tell me anything. I'll tell you what I want from you. I want to know your own last impression of him. I want you to tell me most directly, plainly, coarsely even, oh, as coarsely as you like, what you thought of him just now, and of his position after your meeting with him today. That will perhaps be better than if I had a personal explanation with him, as he does not want to come to me. Do you understand what I want from you? Now tell me simply, tell me every word of the message he sent you with. I knew he would send you. He told me to give you his compliments, and to say that he would never come again, but to give you his compliments. His compliments? Was that what he said, his own expression? Yes. Accidentally perhaps he made a mistake in the word, perhaps he did not use the right word? No, he told me precisely to repeat that word. He begged me two or three times not to forget to say so. Katarina Ivanovna flushed hotly. Help me now, Alexei Fyodorovich, now I really need your help. I'll tell you what I think, and you must simply say whether it's right or not. Listen, if he had sent me his compliments in passing without insisting on your repeating the words, without emphasizing them, that would be the end of everything. But if he particularly insisted on those words, if he particularly told you not to forget to repeat them to me, then perhaps he was in excitement beside himself. He had made his decision and was frightened at it. He wasn't walking away from me with a resolute step, but leaping headlong, the emphasis on that phrase may have been simply bravado. Yes, yes, cried Alyosha warmly, I believe that is it. And if so, he's not altogether lost, I can still save him. Stay, did he not tell you anything about money, about three thousand rubles? He did speak about it, and it's that more than anything that's crushing him. He said he had lost his honour, and that nothing matters now. Alyosha answered warmly, feeling a rush of hope in his heart, and believing that there really might be a way of escape and salvation for his brother. But do you know about the money? he added, and suddenly broke off. I've known of it a long time. I telegraphed to Moscow to inquire, and heard long ago that the money had not arrived. He hadn't sent the money, but I said nothing. Last week I learned that he was still in need of money. My only object in all this was that he should know to whom to turn, and who was his true friend. No, he won't recognise that I am his truest friend. He won't know me, and looks on me merely as a woman. I've been tormented all the week, trying to think how to prevent him from being ashamed to face me because he spent that three thousand. Let him feel ashamed of himself, let him be ashamed of other people's knowing, but not of my knowing. He can tell God everything without shame. Why is it he still does not understand how much I am ready to bear for his sake? Why? Why doesn't he know me? How dare he not know me after all that has happened? I want to save him forever. Let him forget me as is betrothed, and hear he fears that he is dishonoured in my eyes. Why, he wasn't afraid to be open with you, Alexei Fyodorovich. How is it that I don't deserve the same? The last words she uttered in tears, tears gushed from her eyes. I must tell you, Al-Yasha began, his voice trembling too, what happened just now between him and my father. And he described the whole scene, how Dimitri had sent him to get the money, how he had broken in, knocked his father down, and after that had again specially and emphatically begged him to take his compliments and farewell. He went to that woman, Al-Yasha added, softly. And do you suppose that I can't put up with that woman? Does he think I can't? But he won't marry her. She suddenly laughed nervously. Could such a passion last forever in a Karamazov? It's passion, not love. He won't marry her because she won't marry him. Again Katarina Ivanovna laughed strangely. He may marry her, said Al-Yasha mournfully, looking down. He won't marry her, I tell you. That girl is an angel. Do you know that? Do you know that? Katarina Ivanovna exclaimed suddenly with extraordinary warmth. She is one of the most fantastic of fantastic creatures. I know how bewitching she is, but I know too that she is kind, firm, and noble. Why do you look at me like that, Alexey Fyodorovitch? Perhaps you are wondering it my words. Perhaps you don't believe me. Agrafena Alexandrovna, my angel, she cried suddenly to someone peeping into the next room. Come into us. This is a friend. This is Al-Yasha. He knows all about our affairs. Show yourself to him. I have only been waiting behind the curtain for you to call me, said a soft, one might even say, sugary, feminine voice. The portrait was raised, and Grushanka herself, smiling and beaming, came up to the table. A violent revulsion passed over Al-Yasha. He fixed his eyes on her and could not take them off. Here she was, that awful woman, the beast, as Yvonne had called her half an hour before. And yet one would have thought the creature standing before him most simple and ordinary, a good-natured, kind woman, handsome, certainly, but so like other handsome, ordinary women. It is true she was very, very good-looking, with that Russian beauty so passionately loved by many men. She was a rather tall woman, though a little shorter than Katarina Ivanovna, who was exceptionally tall. She had a full figure with soft, as it were, noiseless movements, softened to a peculiar over-sweetness like her voice. She moved, not like Katarina Ivanovna, with a vigorous bold step, but noiselessly. Her feet made absolutely no sound on the floor. She sank softly into a low chair, softly rustling her sumptuous black silk dress, and delicately nestling her milk-white neck and broad shoulders in a costly cashmere shawl. She was twenty-two years old, and her face looked exactly that age. She was very white in the face, with a pale pink tint on her cheeks. The modelling of her face might be said to be too broad, and the lower jaw was set a trifle forward. Her upper lip was thin, but the slightly prominent lower lip was at least twice as full, and looked pouting. But her magnificent abundant dark brown hair, her sable-coloured eyebrows, and charming grey-blue eyes with their long lashes, would have made the most indifferent person, meeting her casually in a crowd in the street, stop at the sight of her face, and remember it long after. What struck Alyosha most in that face was its expression of childlike good nature. There was a childlike look in her eyes, a look of childish delight. She came up to the table, beaming with delight and seeming to expect something with childish impatient and confiding curiosity. The light in her eyes gladdened the soul. Alyosha felt that. There was something else in her which she could not understand, or would not have been able to define, and which yet perhaps unconsciously affected him. It was that softness, that voluptuousness of her bodily movements, that cat-like noiselessness. Yet it was a vigorous ample body. Under the shawl could be seen full broad shoulders, a high, still quite girlish bosom. Her figure suggested the lines of the Venus of Milo, though already in somewhat exaggerated proportions. That could be divine. Connoisseurs of Russian beauty could have foretold with certainty that this fresh, still youthful beauty would lose its harmony by the age of thirty, would spread, that the face would become puffy, and that wrinkles would very soon appear upon her forehead and round the eyes. The complexion would grow coarse and red perhaps, in fact that it was the beauty of the moment, the fleeting beauty which is so often met with in Russian women. Alyosha, of course, did not think of this, but though he was fascinated, yet he wondered with an unpleasant sensation, and as it were regretfully, why she drawled in that way and could not speak naturally. She did so evidently feeling there was a charm in the exaggerated, honeyed modulation of the syllables. It was, of course, only a bad, underbred habit that showed bad education and a false idea of good manners. And yet this intonation and manner of speaking impressed Alyosha as almost incredibly incongruous, with the childishly simple and happy expression of her face, the soft, babyish joy in her eyes. Katerina Ivanovna at once made her sit down in an armchair facing Alyosha, and ecstatically kissed her several times on her smiling lips. She seemed quite in love with her. This is the first time we've met, Alexei Fyodorovich, she said rapturously. I wanted to know her, to see her. I wanted to go to her, but I'd no sooner expressed the wish than she came to me. I knew we should settle everything together. Everything, my heart told me so. I was begged not to take the step, but I foresaw it would be a way out of the difficulty, and I was not mistaken. Grushenko has explained everything to me, told me all she means to do. She flew here like an angel of goodness, and brought us peace and joy. You did not disdain me, sweet, excellent young lady, drolled Grushenko in her sing-song voice, still with the same charming smile of delight. Don't dare to speak to me like that, you sorceress, you witch! Disdain you? Here, I must kiss your lower lip once more. It looks as though it were swollen, and now it will be more so, and more and more. Look how she laughs, Alexei Fyodorovich! It does one's heart good to see the angel. Alyosha flushed, and faint, imperceptible shivers kept running down him. You make so much of me, dear young lady, and perhaps I am not at all worthy of your kindness. Not worthy? She's not worthy of it? Katerina Ivanovna cried again with the same warmth. You know, Alexei Fyodorovich, we're fanciful, we're self-willed, but proudest of the proud in our little heart. We're noble, we're generous, Alexei Fyodorovich, let me tell you. We have only been unfortunate. We were too ready to make every sacrifice for an unworthy, perhaps, or fickle man. There was one man, one an officer, two. We loved him, we sacrificed everything to him. That was long ago, five years ago, and he has forgotten us, he has married. Now he is a widower, he has written, he is coming here, and do you know? We've loved him, none but him, all this time, and we've loved him all our life. He will come, and Grushanka will be happy again. For the last five years she's been wretched. But who can reproach her? Who can boast of her favour? Only that bed ridden old merchant, but he is more like her father, her friend, her protector. He found her, then, in despair, in agony, deserted by the man she loved. She was ready to drown herself, then, but the old merchant saved her, saved her. You defend me very kindly, dear young lady. You are in a great hurry about everything. Grushanka drawled again. Defend you? Is it for me to defend you? Should I dare to defend you? Grushanka, angel, give me your hand. Look at that charming, soft little hand, Alexey Fyodorovich. Look at it. It has brought me happiness, and has lifted me up, and I'm going to kiss it outside and inside, here, here, here. And three times she kissed, the certainly charming, though rather fat hand of Grushanka, in a sort of rapture. She held out her hand with a charming musical nervous little laugh, watched the sweet young lady, and obviously liked having her hand kissed. Perhaps there's rather too much rapture, thought Al-Yasha. He blushed. He felt a peculiar uneasiness at heart the whole time. You won't make me blush, dear young lady, kissing my hand like this before Alexey Fyodorovich. Do you think I meant to make you blush? Said Katarina Ivanovna, somewhat surprised. Oh, my dear, how little you understand me! Yes, and you too, perhaps, quite misunderstand me, dear young lady. Maybe I'm not so good as I seem to you. I have a bad heart. I will have my own way. I fascinated poor Dmitry Fyodorovich that day, simply for fun. But now you'll save him. You've given me your word. You'll explain it all to him. You'll break to him that you have long loved another man, who is now offering you his hand. Oh no! I didn't give you my word to do that. It was you kept talking about that. I didn't give you my word. Then I didn't quite understand you, said Katarina Ivanovna slowly, turning a little pale. You promised. Oh no, angel lady, I've promised nothing. Krushenka interrupted softly and evenly, still with the same gay and simple expression. You see at once, dear young lady, what a willful wretch I am compared with you. If I want to do a thing, I do it. I may have made you some promise just now, but now again I'm thinking I may take Dmitry again. I liked him very much once, liked him for almost a whole hour. Now maybe I shall go and tell him to stay with me from this day forward. You see, I'm so changeable. Just now you said something quite different, Katarina Ivanovna whispered faintly. Ah, just now. But you know, I'm such a soft-hearted silly creature. Only think what he's gone through on my account. What if when I go home I feel sorry for him? What then? I never expected. Ah, young lady, how good and generous you are compared with me. Now perhaps you won't care for a silly creature like me. Now you know my character. Give me your sweet little hand, angelic lady, she said tenderly, and with the sort of reverence took Katarina Ivanovna's hand. Here, dear young lady, I'll take your hand and kiss it as you did mine. You kissed mine three times, but I ought to kiss yours three hundred times to be even with you. Well, but let that pass. And then it shall be as God wills. Perhaps I shall be your slave entirely and want to do your bidding like a slave. Let it be as God wills without any agreements and promises. What a sweet hand, what a sweet hand you have, you sweet young lady, you incredible beauty. She slowly raised the hands to her lips with the strange object indeed of being even with her in kisses. Katarina Ivanovna did not take her hand away. She listened with timid hope to the last words, though Grushanka's promise to do her bidding like a slave was very strangely expressed. She looked intently into her eyes. She still saw in those eyes the same simple-hearted, confiding expression, the same bright gaiety. She's perhaps too naive, thought Katarina Ivanovna with a gleam of hope. Grushanka, meanwhile, seemed enthusiastic over the sweet hand. She raised it deliberately to her lips, but she held it for two or three minutes near her lips as though reconsidering something. Do you know, angel lady, she suddenly drawled in an even more soft and sugary voice. Do you know, after all, I think I won't kiss your hand. And she laughed, a little merry laugh. As you please, what's the matter with you? said Katarina Ivanovna, starting suddenly, so that you may be left to remember that you kissed my hand, but I didn't kiss yours. There was a sudden gleam in her eyes. She looked with awful intentness at Katarina Ivanovna. Insolent creature! cried Katarina Ivanovna, as though suddenly grasping something, she flushed all over and leapt up from her seat. Grushanka too got up but without haste. So I shall tell me to how you kissed my hand, but I didn't kiss yours at all, and how he will laugh. Vile slut! go away! Ah, for shame, young lady! ah, for shame! that's unbecoming for you, dear young lady, a word like that. Go away! you're a creature for sale! screamed Katarina Ivanovna. Every feature was working in her utterly distorted face. For sale, indeed! you used to visit gentlemen in the dusk for money, once. You brought your beauty for sale, you see I know. Katarina Ivanovna shrieked and would have rushed at her, but Al-Yasha held her with all his strength. Not a step, not a word. Don't speak, don't answer her. She'll go away. She'll go at once. At that instant Katarina Ivanovna's two aunts ran Ian at her cry, and with them a maid-servant, all hurried to her. I will go away, said Grushanka, taking a permantle from the sofa. Al-Yasha, darling, see me home. Go away! go away! make haste! cried Al-Yasha, clasping his hands imploringly. Dear little Al-Yasha, see me home. I've got a pretty little story to tell you on the way. I got up this scene for your benefit, Al-Yasha. See me home, dear. You'll be glad if it afterwards. Al-Yasha turned away, wringing his hands. Grushanka ran out of the house, laughing musically. Katarina Ivanovna went into a fit of hysterics. She sobbed and was shaken with convulsions. Everyone fussed round her. I warned you, said the elder of her aunts. I tried to prevent your doing this. You're too impulsive. How could you do such a thing? You don't know these creatures, and they say she's worse than any of them. You are too self-willed. She's a tigress, yelled Katarina Ivanovna. Why did you hold me, Alexei Fyodorovich? I'd have beaten her, beaten her. She could not control herself before Al-Yasha. Perhaps she did not care to, indeed. She ought to be flogged in public on a scaffold. Al-Yasha withdrew towards the door. But my God! cried Katarina Ivanovna, clasping her hands. He, he, he could be so dishonourable, so inhuman. Why, he told that creature what happened on that fatal, accursed day. You brought your beauty for sale, dear young lady. She knows it. Your brother's a scoundrel, Alexei Fyodorovich. Al-Yasha wanted to say something, but he couldn't find a word. His heart ached. Go away, Alexei Fyodorovich. It's shameful. It's awful for me. Tomorrow I beg you on my knees. Come, tomorrow. Don't condemn me. Forgive me. I don't know what I shall do with myself now. Al-Yasha walked out into the street, reeling. He could have wept as she did. Suddenly he was overtaken by the maid. The young lady forgot to give you this letter from Madame Holikov. It's been left with us since dinnertime. Al-Yasha took the little pink envelope mechanically and put it almost unconsciously into his pocket. Reputation ruined. It was not much more than three-quarters of a mile from the town to the monastery. Al-Yasha walked quickly along the road at that hour deserted. It was almost night and too dark to see anything clearly at thirty paces ahead. There were crossroads halfway. A figure came into sight under a solitary willow at the crossroads. As soon as Al-Yasha reached the crossroads, the figure moved out and rushed at him, shouting savagely, your money or your life. So it's you, Mitcha, cried Al-Yasha, in surprise, violently startled, however. You didn't expect me. I wondered where to wait for you. By her house? There are three ways from it and I might have missed you. At last I thought of waiting here, for you had to pass here. There's no other way to the monastery. Come, tell me the truth. Crush me like a beetle. But what's the matter? Nothing, brother. It's the fright you gave me. Oh, Dimitri, father's blood just now. Al-Yasha began to cry. He had been on the verge of tears for a long time, and now something seemed to snap in his soul. You almost killed him, cursed him, and now here you're making jokes, your money or your life. Well, what of that? It's not seemly, is that it? Not suitable in my position? No, I only— Stay. Look at the night. You see what a dark night, what clouds, what a wind has risen. I hid here under the willow, waiting for you. And, as gods above, I suddenly thought, why go on in misery any longer? What is there to wait for? Here I have a willow, a handkerchief, a shirt, I can twist them into a rope in a minute, and braces besides, and why go on burdening the earth, dishonoring it with my vile presence? And then I heard you coming. Heavens, it was as though something flew down to me suddenly. So there is a man, then, whom I love. Here he is, that man, my dear little brother, whom I love more than anyone in the world, the only one I love in the world. And I loved you so much, so much at that moment that I thought I'll fall on his neck at once. Then a stupid idea struck me to have a joke with you and scare you. I shouted like a fool, your money. Forgive my foolery. It was only nonsense, and there's nothing unseemly in my soul. Damn it all, tell me what's happened. What did she say? Strike me, crush me, don't spare me. Was she furious? No, not that. There was nothing like that, Mitya. There I found them both there. Both? Whom? Grushenko at Katarina Ivanovna's. Dimitri was struck dumb. Impossible, he cried. You're raving. Grushenko with her? Alyosha described all that had happened from the moment he went into Katarina Ivanovna's. He was ten minutes telling his story. He can't be said to have told it fluently and consecutively, but he seemed to make it clear, not omitting any word or action of significance, and vividly describing, often in one word, his own sensations. Dimitri listened in silence, gazing at him with a terrible fixed stare, but it was clear to Alyosha that he understood it all, and had grasped every point. But as the story went on, his face became not merely gloomy, but menacing. He scowled, he clenched his teeth, and his fixed stare became still more rigid, more concentrated, more terrible. When suddenly, with incredible rapidity, his wrathful, savage face changed, his tightly compressed lips parted, and Dimitri Fyodorovich broke into uncontrolled, spontaneous laughter. He literally shook with laughter. For a long time he could not speak. So she wouldn't kiss her hand. So she didn't kiss it. So she ran away. He kept exclaiming with hysterical delight, insolent delight. It might have been called if it had not been so spontaneous. So the other one called her Tigris, and a Tigris she is. So she ought to be flogged on a scaffold? Yes, yes. So she ought. That's just what I think. She ought to have been long ago. It's like this, brother. Let her be punished, but I must get better first. I understand the queen of impudence. That's her all over. You saw her all over in that hand-kissing, the she-devil. She's magnificent in her own line. So she ran home. I'll go. I'll run to her. Alyosha, don't blame me. I agree that hanging is too good for her. But Katarina Ivanovna exclaimed Alyosha so roughly. I see her too. I see right through her, as I've never done before. It's a regular discovery of the four continents of the world. That is, of the five. What a thing to do. That's just like Katya, who was not afraid to face a coarse unmanorly officer and risk a deadly insult on a generous impulse to save her father. But the pride, the recklessness, the defiance of fate, the unbounded defiance. You say that aunt tried to stop her. That aunt, you know, is overbearing herself. She's the sister of the general's widow in Moscow and even more stuck up than she. But her husband was caught stealing government money. He lost everything, his estate and all, and the proud wife had to lower her colours and hasn't raised them since. So she tried to prevent Katya, but she wouldn't listen to her. She thinks she can overcome everything, that everything will give way to her. She thought she could bewitch Grushanka if she liked and she believed it herself. She plays a part to herself, and whose fault is it? Do you think she kissed Grushanka's hand first on purpose, with a motive? No. She really was fascinated by Grushanka. That's to say, not by Grushanka, but by her own dream, her own delusion, because it was her dream, her delusion. Alyasha, darling, how did you escape from them, those women? Did you pick up your cassock and run? Brother, you don't seem to have noticed how you've insulted Katarina Ivanovna by telling Grushanka about that day. And she flung it in her face just now that she had gone to gentlemen in secret to sell her beauty. Brother, what could be worse than that insult? What worried Alyasha more than anything was that, incredible as it seemed, his brother appeared pleased at Katarina Ivanovna's humiliation. Dmitry frowned fiercely and struck his forehead with his hand. He only now realized it, though Alyasha had just told him of the insult, and Katarina Ivanovna's cry, your brother is a scoundrel. Yes, perhaps I really did tell Grushanka about that fatal day, as Katya calls it. Yes, I did tell her, I remember. It was that time at Makrow. I was drunk, the gypsies were singing, but I was sobbing, I was sobbing then, kneeling and praying to Katya's image, and Grushanka understood it. She understood it all then. I remember she cried herself. Damn it all. But it's bound to be so now. Then she cried, but now, the dagger in the heart, that's how women are. He looked down and sank into thought. Yes, I am a scoundrel, a thorough scoundrel, he said suddenly in a gloomy voice. It doesn't matter whether I cried or not, I'm a scoundrel. Tell her I accept the name, if that's any comfort. Come, that's enough. Goodbye. It's no use talking, it's not amusing. You go your way, and I mine. And I don't want to see you again except as a last resource. Goodbye, Alexei. He warmly pressed Alyasha's hand and, still looking down, without raising his head, as though tearing himself away, turned rapidly towards the town. Alyasha looked after him, unable to believe he would go away so abruptly. Stay, Alexei, one more confession to you alone, cried Dimitri, suddenly turning back. Look at me, look at me well. You see here, here, there's terrible disgrace in store for me. As he said here, Dimitri struck his chest with his fist, with a strange air, as though the dishonor lay precisely on his chest, in some spot in a pocket, perhaps, or hanging round his neck. You know me now, a scoundrel, an avowed scoundrel, but let me tell you that I've never done anything before and never shall again, anything that can compare in baseness with the dishonor, which I bear now at this very minute, on my breast. Here, here, which will come to pass, though I'm perfectly free to stop it, I can stop it or carry it through, note that. Well, let me tell you, I shall carry it through, I shan't stop it. I told you everything just now, but I didn't tell you this, because even I had not brass enough for it. I can still pull up. If I do, I can give back the full half of my lost honour tomorrow, but I shan't pull up. I shall carry out my base plan, and you can bear witness that I told you so beforehand. Darkness and destruction. No need to explain. You'll find out in due time the filthy back alley and the she-devil. Good-bye. Don't pray for me. I'm not worth it. And there's no need, no need at all. I don't need it. Away! And he suddenly retreated, this time finally. El Yasha went towards the monastery. What! I shall never see him again. What is he saying? He wondered wildly. Why, I shall certainly see him tomorrow. I shall look him up. I shall make a point of it. What does he mean? He went round the monastery and crossed the pine wood to the hermitage. The door was open to him, though no one was admitted at that hour. There was a tremor in his heart as he went into Father Zasima's cell. Why, why had he gone forth? Why had he sent him into the world? Here was peace. Here was holiness. But there was confusion. There was darkness in which one lost one's way and went astray at once. In the cell he found the novice Porphyry and Father Paisi, who came every hour to inquire after Father Zasima. El Yasha learned with alarm that he was getting worse and worse. Even his usual discourse with the brothers could not take place that day. As a rule every evening after service the monks flocked into Father Zasima's cell and all confessed aloud their sins of the day, their sinful thoughts and temptations, even their disputes if there had been any. Some confessed kneeling. The elder absolved, reconciled, exhorted, imposed penance, blessed and dismissed them. It was against this general confession that the opponents of elders protested, maintaining that it was a profanation of the sacrament of confession, almost a sacrilege, though this was quite a different thing. They even represented to the diocesan authorities that such confessions attained no good object, but actually to a large extent led to sin and temptation. Many of the brothers disliked going to the elder and went against their own will, because everyone went, and for fear they should be accused of pride and rebellious ideas. People said that some of the monks agreed beforehand, saying, I'll confess I lost my temper with you this morning and you confirm it, simply in order to have something to say. Alyosha knew that this actually happened sometimes. He knew, too, that there were among the monks some who deeply resented the fact that letters from relations were habitually taken to the elder to be opened and read by him before those to whom they were addressed. It was assumed, of course, that all this was done freely and in good faith by way of voluntary submission and salutary guidance, but in fact there was sometimes no little insincerity and much that was false and strained in this practice. Yet the older and more experienced of the monks adhered to their opinion, arguing that for those who have come within these walls sincerely seeking salvation such obedience and sacrifice will certainly be salutary and of great benefit. Those on the other hand who find it irksome and repine are no true monks and have made a mistake in entering the monastery. Their proper place is in the world. Even in the temple one cannot be safe from sin and the devil, so it was no good taking it too much into account. He is weaker. A drowsiness has come over him. Father Paesee whispered to Al Yasha as he blessed him. It's difficult to rouse him, and he must not be roused. He waked up for five minutes, sent his blessing to the brothers, and begged their prayers for him at night. He intends to take the sacrament again in the morning. He remembered you, Alexei. He asked whether you had gone away and was told that you were in the town. I blessed him for that work, he said. His place is there, not here, for a while. Those were his words about you. He remembered you lovingly, with anxiety. Do you understand how he honoured you? But how is it that he has decided that you shall spend some time in the world? He must have foreseen something in your destiny. Understand, Alexei, that if you return to the world it must be to do the duty laid upon you by your elder and not for frivolous vanity and worldly pleasures. Father Paesee went out. Al Yasha had no doubt that Father Zasima was dying, though he might live another day or two. Al Yasha firmly and ardently resolved that in spite of his promises to his father, Aholikovs and Katerina Ivanovna, he would not leave the monastery next day, but would remain with his elder to the end. His heart glowed with love, and he reproached himself bitterly for having been able for one instant to forget him whom he had left in the monastery on his deathbed, and whom he honoured above everyone in the world. He went into Father Zasima's bedroom, knelt down and bowed to the ground before the elder, who slept quietly without stirring with regular, hardly audible breathing and a peaceful face. Al Yasha returned to the other room where Father Zasima had received his guests in the morning. Taking off his boots, he lay down on the hard, narrow, leathered sofa which he had long used as a bed, bringing nothing but a pillow. The mattress about which his father had shouted to him that morning, he had long forgotten to lie on. He took off his cassock which he used as a covering, but before going to bed he fell on his knees and prayed a long time. In his fervent prayer he did not beseech God to lighten his darkness, but only thirsted for the joyous emotion which always visited his soul after the praise and adoration of which his evening prayer usually consisted. That joy always brought him light, untroubled sleep. As he was praying, he suddenly felt in his pocket the little pink note the servant had handed him as he left Katarina Ivanovna's. He was disturbed but finished his prayer. Then, after some hesitation, he opened the envelope. In it was a letter to him signed by Lise, the young daughter of Madame Holakoff, who had laughed at him before the elder in the morning. Alexei Fyodorovich, she wrote, I am writing to you without any one's knowledge, even Mama's, and I know how wrong it is, but I cannot live without telling you the feeling that has sprung up in my heart and this no one but us too must know for a time, but how am I to say what I want so much to tell you. Paper, they say, does not blush, but I assure you it's not true and that it's blushing just as I am now, all over. Dear Alyosha, I love you. I've loved you from my childhood since our Moscow days, when you were very different from what you are now, and I shall love you all my life. My heart has chosen you to unite our lies and pass them together till our old age. Of course, on condition that you will leave the monastery. As for our age, we will wait for the time fixed by the law. By that time I shall certainly be quite strong, I shall be walking and dancing, there can be no doubt of that. You see how I've thought of everything? There's only one thing I can't imagine, what you'll think of me when you read this. I'm always laughing and being naughty, I made you angry this morning, but I assure you before I took up my pen I prayed before the image of the mother of God, and now I'm praying and almost crying. My secret is in your hands. When you come to me tomorrow, I don't know how I shall look at you. Alexei Fyodorovich, what if I can't restrain myself like a silly and laugh when I look at you as I did today? You'll think I'm a nasty girl making fun of you and you won't believe my letter. And so I beg you, dear one, if you've any pity for me, when you come tomorrow, don't look me straight in the face, for if I meet your eyes it will be sure to make me laugh, especially as you'll be in that long gown. I feel cold all over when I think of it, so when you come don't look at me at all for a time, look at my ma or at the window. Here I've written you a love letter. Oh, dear, what have I done? Alyosha, don't despise me, and if I've done something very horrid and wounded you, forgive me. Now the secret of my reputation, ruined perhaps forever, is in your hands. I shall certainly cry today. Goodbye till our meeting, our awful meeting. Please. P.S. Alyosha, you must, must, must come. Please. Alyosha read the note in amazement, read it through twice, thought a little, and suddenly laughed a soft, sweet laugh. He started. That laugh seemed to him sinful. But a minute later he laughed again, just as softly and happily. He slowly replaced the note in the envelope, crossed himself and lay down. The agitation in his heart passed at once. God, have mercy upon all of them. Have all these unhappy and turbulent souls in thy keeping, and set them in the right path. Always are thine. Save them according to thy wisdom. Thou art love, thou wilt send joy to all. Alyosha murmured, crossing himself, and falling into peaceful sleep. Father Farapont Alyosha was roused early, before daybreak. Father Zasima woke up feeling very weak, though he wanted to get out of bed and sit up in a chair. His mind was quite clear, his face looked very tired, yet bright and almost joyful. It wore an expression of gaiety, kindness, and cordiality. Maybe I shall not live through the coming day, he said to Alyosha. Then he desired to confess and take the sacrament at once. He always confessed to Father Paesi. After taking the communion, the service of extreme unction followed. The monks assembled, and the cell was gradually filled up by the inmates of the Hermitage. Meantime it was daylight. People began coming from the monastery. After the service was over, the elder desired to kiss and take leave of everyone. As the cell was so small, the earlier visitors withdrew to make room for others. Alyosha stood beside the elder, who was seated again in his armchair. He talked as much as he could. Though his voice was weak, it was fairly steady. I've been teaching you so many years, and therefore I've been talking aloud so many years that I've got into the habit of talking, and so much so that it's almost more difficult for me to hold my tongue than to talk, even now, in spite of my weakness, dear fathers and brothers. He gestured, looking with emotion at the group round him. Alyosha remembered afterwards something of what he said to them. But though he spoke out distinctly, and his voice was fairly steady, his speech was somewhat disconnected. He spoke of many things. He seemed anxious before the moment of death to say everything he had not said in his life, and not simply for the sake of instructing them, but as though thirsting to share with all men and all creation his joy and ecstasy, and once more in his life to open his whole heart. Love one another, fathers, said Father Sassama, as far as Alyosha could remember afterwards. Love God's people. Because we have come here and shut ourselves within these walls, we are no holier than those who are outside, but on the contrary, from the very fact of coming here, each of us has confessed to himself that he is worse than others, than all men on earth. And the longer the monk lives in his seclusion, the more keenly he must recognize that, else he would have had no reason to come here. When he realizes that he is not only worse than others, but that he is responsible to all men for all and everything, for all human sins, national and individual, only then the aim of our seclusion is attained. For, no, dear ones, that every one of us is undoubtedly responsible for all men and everything on earth, not merely through the general sinfulness of creation, but each one personally, for all mankind and every individual man. This knowledge is the crown of life for the monk and for every man. For monks are not a special sort of man, but only what all men ought to be. Only through that knowledge our heart grows soft with infinite universal inexhaustible love. Then every one of you will have the power to win over the whole world by love and to wash away the sins of the world with your tears. Each of you keep watch over your heart and confess your sins to yourself unceasingly. Be not afraid of your sins, even when perceiving them, if only there be penitence, but make no conditions with God. Again I say, be not proud, be proud neither to the little nor to the great. Hate not those who reject you, who insult you, who abuse and slander you. Hate not the atheists, the teachers of evil, the materialists. And I mean not only the good ones, for there are many good ones among them, especially in our day. Hate not even the wicked ones. Remember them in your prayers, thus. Save, O Lord, all those who have none to pray for them. Save too all those who will not pray. And add, It is not in pride that I make this prayer, O Lord, for I am lower than all men. Love God's people. Let not strangers draw away the flock, for if you slumber in your slothfulness and disdainful pride, or worse still, in covetousness, they will come from all sides and draw away your flock. Expound the gospel to the people unceasingly. Be not extortionate. Do not love gold and silver. Do not hoard them. Have faith. Cling to the banner and raise it on high. But the elder spoke more disconnectedly than Alyosha reported his words afterwards. Sometimes he broke off altogether as though to take breath and recover his strength, but he was in a sort of ecstasy. They heard him with emotion, though many wondered at his words and found them obscure. Afterwards all remembered those words. When Alyosha happened for a moment to leave the cell, he was struck by the general excitement and suspense in the monks who were crowding about it. This anticipation showed itself in some by anxiety, in others by devout solemnity. All were expecting that some marvel would happen immediately after the elder's death. Their suspense was, from one point of view, almost frivolous, but even the most austere of the monks were affected by it. Father Patti See's face looked the gravest of all. Alyosha was mysteriously summoned by a monk to see Raketan, who had arrived from town with a singular letter for him from Madame Holikov. In it she informed Alyosha of a strange and very opportune incident. It appeared that among the women who had come on the previous day to receive Father Zasima's blessing, there had been an old woman from the town, a sergeant's widow, called Prohorovna. She had inquired whether she might pray for the rest of the soul of her son, Vasenka, who had gone to Irkutsk and had sent her no news for over a year, to which Father Zasima had answered sternly, forbidding her to do so, and saying that to pray for the living as though they were dead was a kind of sorcery. He afterwards forgave her on account of her ignorance and added, as though reading the book of the future—this was Madame Holikov's expression—words of comfort, that her son Vasya was certainly alive, and he would either come himself very shortly or send a letter, and that she was to go home and expect him. And would you believe it? exclaimed Madame Holikov enthusiastically. The prophecy has been fulfilled literally indeed, and more than that. Scarcely had the old woman reached home when they gave her a letter from Siberia which had been awaiting her. But that was not all. In the letter written on the road from Ekaterinenberg, Vasya informed his mother that he was returning to Russia with an official, and that three weeks after her receiving the letter he hoped to embrace his mother. Madame Holikov warmly entreated Alyosha to report this new miracle of prediction to the superior and all the brotherhood. All, all ought to know of it, she concluded. The letter had been written in haste, the excitement of the writer was apparent in every line of it. But Alyosha had no need to tell the monks, for all knew of it already. Raketan had commissioned the monk who brought his message to inform most respectfully his reverence Father Paisi that he Raketan has a matter to speak of with him of such gravity that he dare not defer it for a moment, and humbly begs forgiveness for his presumption. As the monk had given the message to Father Paisi before that to Alyosha, the letter found, after reading the letter, there was nothing left for him to do but to hand it to Father Paisi in confirmation of the story. And even that austere and cautious man, though he frowned as he read the news of the miracle, could not completely restrain some inner emotion. His eyes gleamed and a grave and solemn smile came into his lips. We shall see greater things broke from him. We shall see greater things, greater things yet, the monks around repeated. But Father Paisi, frowning again, begged all of them, at least for a time, not to speak of the matter till it be more fully confirmed, seeing there is so much credulity among those of this world, and indeed this might well have chanced naturally, he added, prudently, as it were to satisfy his conscience, though scarcely believing his own disavowal, a fact his listeners very clearly perceived. Within the hour the miracle was of course known to the whole monastery and many visitors who had come for the mass. No one seemed more impressed by it than the monk who had come the day before from St. Sylvester, from the little monastery of Obdorsk in the far north. It was he who had been standing near Madame Holakoff the previous day, and had asked Father Sassima earnestly, referring to the healing of the lady's daughter, how can you presume to do such things? He was now somewhat puzzled, and did not know whom to believe. The evening before he had visited Father Farapont in his cell apart behind the apiary, and had been greatly impressed and overawed by the visit. This Father Farapont was that aged monk so devout in fasting and observing silence who has been mentioned already as antagonistic to Father Sassima and the whole institution of elders, which he regarded as a pernicious and frivolous innovation. He was a very formidable opponent, although from his practice of silence he scarcely spoke a word to any one. What made him formidable was that a number of monks fully shared his feeling, and many of the visitors looked upon him as a great saint and ascetic, although they had no doubt that he was crazy, but it was just his craziness attracted them. Father Farapont never went to see the elder. Though he lived in the hermitage, they did not worry him to keep its regulations, and this too because he behaved as though he were crazy. He was seventy-five or more, and he lived in a corner beyond the apiary in an old decaying wooden cell which had been built long ago for another great ascetic, Father Yona, who had lived to be a hundred and five, and of whose saintly doings many curious stories were still extant in the monastery and the neighborhood. Father Farapont had succeeded in getting himself installed in this same solitary cell seven years previously. It was simply a peasant's hut, though it looked like a chapel for it contained an extraordinary number of icons with lamps perpetually burning before them, which men brought to the monastery as offerings to God. Father Farapont had been appointed to look after them and keep the lamps burning. It was said, and indeed it was true, that he ate only two pounds of bread in three days. The beekeeper, who lived close by the apiary, used to bring him the bread every three days, and even to this man who waited upon him, Father Farapont rarely uttered a word. The four pounds of bread, together with the sacrament bread, regularly sent him on Sundays after the late Mass by the Father Superior, made up his weekly rations. The water in his jug was changed every day. He rarely appeared at Mass. Visitors who came to do him homage saw him sometimes kneeling all day long at prayer without looking round. If he addressed them, he was brief, abrupt, strange, and almost always rude. On very rare occasions, however, he would talk to visitors, but for the most part he would utter some one strange saying which was a complete riddle, and no entreaties would induce him to pronounce a word in explanation. He was not a priest, but a simple monk. There was a strange belief, chiefly, however, among the most ignorant, that Father Farapont had communication with heavenly spirits and would only converse with them, and so was silent with men. The monk from Obdorsk, having been directed to the apiary by the beekeeper, who was also a very silent and surly monk, went to the corner where Father Farapont's cell stood. Maybe he will speak as you are a stranger, and maybe you'll get nothing out of him, the beekeeper had warned him. The monk, as he related afterwards, approached in the utmost apprehension. It was rather late in the evening. Father Farapont was sitting at the door of his cell on a low bench. A huge old elm was lightly rustling overhead. There was an evening freshness in the air. The monk from Obdorsk bowed down before the saint and asked his blessing. Do you want me to bow down to you, monk? said Father Farapont. Get up. The monk got up. Blessing be blessed. Sit beside me. Where have you come from? What most struck the poor monk was the fact that, in spite of his strict fasting and great age, Father Farapont still looked a vigorous old man. He was tall, held himself erect, and had a thin but fresh and healthy face. There was no doubt he still had considerable strength. He was of athletic build. In spite of his great age he was not even quite gray, and still had very thick hair and a full beard, both of which had once been black. His eyes were gray, large, and luminous, but strikingly prominent. He spoke with a broad accent. He was dressed in a peasant-slong reddish coat of coarse convict cloth, as it used to be called, and had a stout rope round his waist. His throat and chest were bare. Beneath his coat his shirt of the carcest linen showed almost black with dirt, not having been changed for months. They said that he wore irons weighing thirty pounds under his coat. His stockingless feet were thrust in old slippers almost dropping to pieces. From the little obdorsk monastery from St. Sylvester the monk answered humbly, whilst his keen and inquisitive but rather frightened little eyes kept watch on the hermit. I have been at your Sylvesters. I used to stay there. Is Sylvester well? The monk hesitated. You are a senseless lot. How do you keep the fasts? Our dietary is according to the ancient conventional rules. During Lent there are no meals provided for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. For Tuesday and Thursday we have white bread, stewed fruit with honey, wild berries, or salt, cabbage, and whole meals stir about. On Saturday white cabbage soup, noodles with peas, cashew, all with hemp oil. On weekdays we have dried fish and cashew with the cabbage soup. From Monday till Saturday evening, six whole days in holy week, nothing is cooked, and we have only bread and water, and that sparingly, if possible not taking food every day, just the same as is ordered for first week in Lent. On Good Friday nothing is eaten. In the same way on the Saturday we have to fast till three o'clock, and then take a little bread and water and drink a single cup of wine. On holy Thursday we drink wine and have something cooked without oil or not cooked at all. Inasmuch as the Laodicean Council lays down for holy Thursday, it is unseemly by remitting the fast on the holy Thursday to dishonour the whole of Lent. That is how we keep the fast. But what is that compared with you, Holy Father? added the monk, growing more confident. For all the year round, even at Easter, you take nothing but bread and water, and what we should eat in two days lasts you full seven. It's truly marvellous, your great abstinence. And mushrooms, asked Father Farrapont suddenly. Mushrooms? repeated the surprised monk. Yes, I can give up their bread, not kneading it at all, and go away into the forest and live there on the mushrooms or the berries, but they can't give up their bread here, wherefore they are in bondage to the devil. Nowadays the unclean deny that there is need of such fasting. Hotty and unclean is their judgment. Ah, true! sighed the monk. And have you seen devils among them? asked Farrapont. Among them? among whom? asked the monk timidly. I went to the Father Superior on Trinity Sunday last year, I haven't been since. I saw a devil sitting on one man's chest, hiding under his cassock, only his horns poked out. Another had one peeping out of his pocket with such sharp eyes. He was afraid of me. Another settled in the unclean belly of one. Another was hanging round a man's neck, and so he was carrying him a boat without seeing him. You can see spirits? the monk inquired. And I tell you I can see, I can see through them. When I was coming out from the superiors I saw one hiding from me behind the door, and a big one, a yard and a half or more high, with a thick long grey tail, and the tip of his tail was in the crack of the door, and I was quick and slammed the door, pinching his tail in it. He squealed and began to struggle, and I made the sign of the cross over him three times, and he died on the spot like a crushed spider. He must have rotted there in the corner and be stinking, but they don't see, they don't smell it. It's a year since I have been there. I reveal it to you, as you are a stranger. Your words are terrible, but Holy and Blessed Father, said the monk, growing bolder and bolder, Is it true, as they noise abroad even to distant lands, about you, that you are in continual communication with the Holy Ghost? He does fly down at times. How does he fly down? In what form? As a bird. The Holy Ghost in the form of a dove? There's the Holy Ghost and there's the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit can appear as other birds, sometimes as a swallow, sometimes a gold bench, and sometimes as a blue tit. How do you know him from an ordinary tit? He speaks. How does he speak? In what language? Human language. And what does he tell you? Why, today he told me that a fool would visit me and would ask me unseemly questions. You want to know too much, monk. Terrible are your words, most Holy and Blessed Father. The monk shook his head, but there was a doubtful look in his frightened little eyes. Do you see this tree? asked Father Farrapont after a pause. I do, Blessed Father. You think it's an elm, but for me it has another shape. What sort of shape? inquired the monk after a pause of vain expectation. It happens at night. You see those two branches? In the night it is Christ holding out his arms to me and seeking me with those arms. I see it clearly and tremble. It's terrible, terrible. What is there terrible if it's Christ himself? Why, he'll snatch me up and carry me away. Alive? In the spirit and glory of Elijah, haven't you heard, he will take me in his arms and bear me away. Though the monk returned to the cell he was sharing with one of the brothers in considerable perplexity of mind, he still cherished at heart a greater reverence for Father Farrapont than for Father Sassima. He was strongly in favour of fasting, and it was not strange that one who kept so rigid a fast as Father Farrapont should see marvels. His words seemed certainly queer, but God only could tell what was hidden in those words, and were not worse words and acts commonly seen in those who have sacrificed their intellects for the glory of God. The pinching of the devil's tail he was ready and eager to believe, and not only in the figurative sense. Besides, he had, before visiting the monastery, a strong prejudice against the institution of elders, which he only knew of by hearsay, and believed to be a pernicious innovation. Before he had been long at the monastery he had detected the secret murmurings of some shallow brothers who disliked the institution. He was, besides a meddlesome inquisitive man who poked his nose into everything. This was why the news of the fresh miracle performed by Father Sassima reduced him to extreme perplexity. Alyosha remembered, afterwards, how their inquisitive guests from Obdorsk had been continually flitting to and fro from one group to another, listening and asking questions among the monks that were crowding within and without the elder's cell. But he did not pay much attention to him at the time, and only recollected it afterwards. He had no thought to spare for it, indeed, for when Father Sassima, feeling tired again, had gone back to bed, he thought of Alyosha as he was closing his eyes and sent for him. Alyosha ran at once. There was no one else in the cell, but Father Paisi, Father Yosef, and the novice Porfiri. The elder, opening his weary eyes and looking intently at Alyosha, asked him suddenly, Are your people expecting you, my son? Alyosha hesitated. Haven't they need of you? Didn't you promise someone yesterday to see them today? I did promise, to my father, my brothers, others too. You see, you must go. Don't grieve. Be sure I shall not die without your being by to hear my last word. To you I will say that word, my son. It will be my last gift to you, to you, dear son, because you love me. But now go to keep your promise. Alyosha immediately obeyed, though it was hard to go. But the promise that he should hear his last word on earth, that it should be the last gift to him, Alyosha, sent a thrill of rapture through his soul. He made haste that he might finish what he had to do in the town and return quickly. Father Paisi, too, uttered some words of exhortation, which moved and surprised him greatly. He spoke as they left the cell together. Remember, young man, unceasingly, Father Paisi began, without preface, that the science of this world which has become a great power has, especially in the last century, analyzed everything divine handed down to us in the holy books. After this cruel analysis, the learned of this world have nothing left of all that was sacred of old. But they have only analyzed the parts and overlooked the whole, and indeed their blindness is marvelous. Yet the whole still stands steadfast before their eyes, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. Has it not lasted nineteen centuries? Is it not still a living, a moving power in the individual's soul and in the masses of people? It is still as strong and living even in the souls of atheists who have destroyed everything. For even those who have renounced Christianity and attack it, in their inmost being still follow the Christian ideal, for hitherto neither their subtleteen or the ardor of their hearts has been able to create a higher ideal of man and of virtue than the ideal given by Christ of old. When it has been attempted, the result has been only grotesque. Remember this, especially, young man, since you are being sent into the world by your departing elder. Maybe, remembering this great day, you will not forget my words, uttered from the heart for your guidance, seeing you are young, and the temptations of the world are great and beyond your strength to endure. Well, now go, my orphan. With these words, Father Paisi blessed him. As Alyosha left the monastery and thought them over, he suddenly realized that he had met a new and unexpected friend, a warmly loving teacher, in this austere monk who had hitherto treated him sternly. It was as though Father Sassima had bequeathed him to him at his death, and perhaps that's just what had passed between them, Alyosha thought suddenly. The philosophic reflections he had just heard so unexpectedly testified to the warmth of Father Paisi's heart. He was in haste to arm the boy's mind for conflict with temptation, and to guard the young soul left in his charge with the strongest defense he could imagine. End of Section 25 Section 26 of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky Translated by Konstantz Garnet First of all Alyosha went to his father. On the way he remembered that his father had insisted the day before that he should come without his brother Ivan seeing him. Why so, Alyosha wondered suddenly. Even if my father has something to say to me alone, why should I go in unseen? Most likely in his excitement yesterday he meant to say something different, he decided. Yet he was very glad when Marfa Ignatyevna, who opened the garden gate to him, Grigori it appeared was ill in bed in the lodge, told him, in answer to his question, that Ivan Fyodorovich had gone out two hours ago. And my father? He is up, taking his coffee. Marfa answered, somewhat drier. Alyosha went in. The old man was sitting alone at the table wearing slippers and a little old overcoat. He was amusing himself by looking through some accounts, rather inattentively, however. He was quite alone in the house, for Smagikov too had gone out marketing. Though he had got up early and was trying to put a bold face on it, he looked tired and weak. His forehead, upon which huge purple bruises had come out during the night, was bandaged with the red handkerchief. His nose, too, had swollen terribly in the night, and some smaller bruises covered it in patches, giving his whole face of peculiarly spiteful and irritable look. The old man was aware of this and turned a hostile glance on Alyosha as he came in. The coffee is cold, he cried harshly. I won't offer you any. I have ordered nothing but a lent and fish soup to-day, and I don't invite any one to share it. Why have you come? To find out how you are, said Alyosha. Yes, besides, I told you to come, yesterday. It's all of no consequence. You need not have troubled. But I knew you'd come poking in directly. He said this with almost hostile feeling. At the same time he got up and looked anxiously in the looking-glass, perhaps for the fortieth time that morning, at his nose, he began, too, binding his red handkerchief more becomingly on his forehead. Red's better. It's just like the hospital in a white one, he observed sententially. Well, how are things over there? How is your elder? He is very bad. He may die today, answered Alyosha. But his father had not listened and had forgotten his own question at once. Yvonne's gone out, he said suddenly. He is doing his utmost to carry off Mitch's betrothed. That's what he is staying here for, he added maliciously, and, twisting his mouth, looked at Alyosha. Surely he did not tell you so, asked Alyosha. Yes, he did, long ago. Would you believe it, he told me three weeks ago. You don't suppose he, too, came to murder me, do you? He must have had some object in coming. What do you mean? Why do you say such things? said Alyosha, troubled. He doesn't ask for money, it's true, but yet he won't get a farthing from me. I intend living as long as possible. You may as well know, my dear Alexei Fyodorovich, and so I need every farthing, and the longer I live the more I shall need it, he continued, pacing from one corner of the room to the other, keeping his hands in the pockets of his loose, greasy overcoat made of yellow cotton material. I can still pass for a man at five and fifty, but I want to pass for one for another twenty years. As I get older, you know, I shan't be a pretty object. The wenches won't come to me of their own accord, so I shall want my money. So I am saving up more and more, simply for myself, my dear son, Alexei Fyodorovich. You may as well know. For I mean to go on in my sins to the end, let me tell you. For sin is sweet. All abuse it, but all men live in it. Only others do it on the sly, and I openly, and so all the other sinners fall upon me for being so simple. And your paradise, Alexei Fyodorovich, is not to my taste, let me tell you that, and it's not the proper place for a gentleman, your paradise, even if it exists. I believe that I fall asleep and don't wake up again, and that's all. You can pray for my soul, if you like, and if you don't want to, don't, damn you, that's my philosophy. Ivan talked well here yesterday, though we were all drunk. Ivan is a conceited cox-com, but he has no particular learning nor education, either. He sits silent and smiles at one without speaking. That's what pulls him through. Alyosha listened to him in silence. Why won't he talk to me? If he does speak, he gives himself airs. Your Ivan is a scoundrel, and I'll marry Grushanka in a minute, if I want to. For if you've money, Alexei Fyodorovich, you have only to want a thing, and you can have it. That's what Ivan is afraid of. He's on the watch to prevent me getting married, and that's why he is egging on Mitya to marry Grushanka himself. He hopes to keep me from Grushanka by that, as though I should leave him my money if I don't marry her. Besides, if Mitya marries Grushanka, Ivan will carry off his rich betrothed. That's what he's reckoning on. He is a scoundrel, your Ivan. How cross you are! It's because of yesterday. You had better lie down, said Alyosha. There, you say that, the old man observed suddenly, as though it had struck him for the first time, and I am not angry with you. But if Ivan said it, I should be angry with him. It is only with you I have good moments. Else you know I am an ill-natured man. You are not ill-natured, but distorted, said Alyosha, with a smile. Listen, I meant this morning to get that ruffian Mitya locked up, and I don't know now what I shall decide about it. Of course in these fashionable days fathers and mothers are looked upon as a prejudice, but even now the law does not allow you to drag your old father about by the hair to kick him in the face in his own house and brag of murdering him outright, all in the presence of witnesses. If I liked I could crush him and could have him locked up at once for what he did yesterday. Then you don't mean to take proceedings? Ivan has dissuaded me. I shouldn't care about Ivan, but there's another thing. And bending down to Alyosha he went on in a confidential half-whisperer. If I send the ruffian to prison she'll hear of it and run to see him at once. But if she hears that he has beaten me, a weak old man, within an inch of my life, she may give him up and come to me, for that's her way, everything by contraries, I know her through and through. Won't you have a drop of brandy? Take some cold coffee, and I'll pour a quarter of a glass of brandy into it. It's delicious, my boy. No, thank you. I'll take that roll with me, if I may, said Alyosha, and taking a half-penny French roll he put it in the pocket of his cassock. And you'd better not have brandy either, he suggested apprehensively, looking into the old man's face. You are quite right. It irritates my nerves instead of soothing them. Only one little glass. I'll get it out of the cupboard. He unlocked the cupboard, poured out a glass, drank it, then locked the cupboard and put the key back in his pocket. That's enough. One glass won't kill me. You see you are in a better humour now, said Alyosha, smiling. I love you even without the brandy, but with scoundrels I am a scoundrel. Yvonne is not going to cherish Nya. Why is that? He wants to spy how much I give Krushankar if she comes. They are all scoundrels. But I don't recognise Yvonne. I don't know him at all. Where does he come from? He is not one of us in soul, as though I'd leave him anything. I shan't leave a will at all, you may as well know. And I'll crush Mitcha like a beetle. I squash black beetles at night with my slipper. They squelch when you tread on them. And your Mitcha will squelch too. Your Mitcha. For you love him. Yes, you love him, and I am not afraid of your loving him. But if Yvonne loved him, I should be afraid for myself at his loving him. But Yvonne loves nobody. Yvonne is not one of us. People like Yvonne are not our sort, my boy. They are like a cloud of dust. When the wind blows, the dust will be gone. I had a silly idea in my head when I told you to come today. I wanted to find out from you about Mitcha. If I were to hand him over a thousand, or maybe two, now, would the beggarly wretch agree to take himself off altogether for five years, or better still, thirty-five, and without Krushanka, and give her up once for all, eh? I'll ask him, Matard Alliosha. If you would give him three thousand, perhaps he— That's nonsense. You needn't ask him now. No need. I've changed my mind. It was a nonsensical idea of mine. I won't give him anything, not a penny. I want my money myself, cried the old man, waving his hand. And I'll crush him like a beetle without it. Don't say anything to him, or else he will begin hoping. There's nothing for you to do here. You needn't stay. Is that betrothed of his, Katarina Ivanovna, whom he has kept so carefully hidden from me all this time, going to marry him or not? You went to see her yesterday, I believe. Nothing will induce her to abandon him. There, you see how dearly these fine young ladies love a rake and a scoundrel. They are poor creatures, I tell you, those pale young ladies, very different from—ah, if I had his youth and the looks I had then, for I was better looking than he at eight and twenty, I'd have been a conquering hero just as he is. He is a low cad, but he shan't have Grushanka anyway. He shan't. I'll crush him. His anger had returned with the last words. You can go. There's nothing for you to do here today. He snapped harshly. Aliyasha went up to say good-bye to him and kissed him on the shoulder. What's that for? The old man was a little surprised. We shall see each other again, or do you think we shan't? Not at all. I didn't mean anything. Nor did I. I did not mean anything, said the old man, looking at him. Listen, listen, he shouted after him. Make haste and come again, and I'll have a fish soup for you, a fine one, not like today. Be sure to come. Come, tomorrow. Do you hear? Tomorrow. And as soon as Aliyasha had gone out of the door, he went to the cupboard again and poured out another half-class. I won't have more, he muttered, clearing his throat, and again he locked the cupboard and put the key in his pocket. Then he went into his bedroom, lay down on the bed, exhausted, and in one minute he was asleep. End of section 26