 Section 32 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Book V. Pro and Contra. CHAPTER I. THE ENGAGEMENT Madame Holokhov was again the first to meet Alyosha. She was flustered. Something important had happened. Anna Ivanovna's hysterics had ended in a fainting fit, and then a terrible, awful weakness had followed. She lay with her eyes turned up and was delirious. Now she was in a fever. They had sent for Herzinstube, they had sent for the ants. The ants were already here, but Herzinstube had not yet come. They were all sitting in her room, waiting. She was unconscious now, and what if it turned to brain fever? Madame Holokhov looked gravely alarmed. This is serious, serious, she added at every word, as though nothing that had happened to her before had been serious. Alyosha listened with distress and was beginning to describe his adventures, but she interrupted him at the first words. She had not time to listen. She begged him to sit with Lise and wait for her there. Lise, she whispered almost in his ear, Lise has greatly surprised me just now, dear Alexei Fyodorovich. She touched me too, and so my heart forgives her everything. Only fancy, as soon as you had gone, she began to be truly remorseful for having laughed at you today and yesterday, though she was not laughing at you, but only joking. But she was seriously sorry for it, almost ready to cry, so that I was quite surprised. She has never been really sorry for laughing at me, but has only made a joke of it. And you know she is laughing at me every minute. But this time she was in earnest, she thinks a great deal of your opinion, Alexei Fyodorovich, and don't take offense or be wounded by her if you can help it. I am never hard upon her, for she's such a clever little thing. Would you believe it? She said just now that you were a friend of her childhood, the greatest friend of her childhood. Just think of that, greatest friend, and what about me? She has very strong feelings and memories. And what's more, she uses these phrases, most unexpected words, which come out all of a sudden when you least expect them. She spoke lately about a pine-tree, for instance. There used to be a pine-tree standing in our garden in her early childhood. Very likely it's standing there still, so there's no need to speak in the past tense. Pine-trees are not like people, Alexei Fyodorovich. They don't change quickly. Mama, she said, I remember this pine-tree as in a dream. Suddenly she said something so original about it, that I can't repeat it. Besides I've forgotten it. Well, good-bye. I am so worried I feel I shall go out of my mind. Ah, Alexei Fyodorovich, I've been out of my mind twice in my life. Go to Lise, cheer her up, as you always can so charmingly. Lise, she cried, going to her door, here I've brought you, Alexei Fyodorovich, whom you insulted so. He's not at all angry, I assure you. On the contrary, he is surprised that you could suppose so. Merci, maman. Come in, Alexei Fyodorovich. Alyosha went in. Lise looked rather embarrassed and at once flushed crimson. She was evidently ashamed of something, and as people always do in such cases, she began immediately talking of other things, as though they were of absorbing interest to her at the moment. Maman has just told me all about the two hundred rubles, Alexei Fyodorovich, and you're taking them to that poor officer, and she told me all the awful story of how he had been insulted. And you know, although Maman muddles things, she always rushes from one thing to another, I cried when I heard. Well, did you give him the money, and how is that poor man getting on? The fact is I didn't give it to him, and it's a long story, answered Alyosha. As though he too could think of nothing but his regret at having failed, yet Lise saw perfectly well that he too looked away and that he too was trying to talk of other things. Alyosha sat down to the table and began to tell his story, but at the first words he lost his embarrassment and gained the whole of Lise's attention as well. He spoke with deep feeling under the influence of the strong impression he had just received, and he succeeded in telling his story well and circumstantially. In old days in Moscow he had been fond of coming to Lise and describing to her what had just happened to him, what he had read, or what he remembered of his childhood. Sometimes they had made daydreams and woven-hole romances together, generally cheerful and amusing ones. Now they both felt suddenly transported to the old days in Moscow two years before. Lise was extremely touched by his story. Alyosha described Ilyusha with warm feeling. When he finished describing how the luckless man trampled on the money, Lise could not help clasping her hands and crying out, "'So you didn't give him the money, so you let him run away? Oh, dear, you ought to have run after him!' "'No, Lise, it's better I didn't run after him,' said Alyosha, getting up from his chair and walking thoughtfully across the room. "'How so? How is it better? Now they are without food, and their case is hopeless?' "'Not hopeless, for the two hundred rubles will still come to them. He'll take the money to-morrow. Tomorrow he will be sure to take it,' said Alyosha, pacing up and down, pondering. "'You see, Lise,' he went on, stopping suddenly before her, "'I made one blunder, but that, even that, is all for the best.' "'What blunder? And why is it for the best?' "'I'll tell you. He is a man of weak and timorous character. He has suffered so much and is very good-natured. I keep wondering why he took offence so suddenly, for I assure you, up to the last minute, he did not know that he was going to trample on the notes. And I think now there was a great deal to offend him, and it could not have been otherwise in his position. To begin with, he was sore at having been so glad of the money in my presence and not having concealed it from me. If he had been pleased but not so much, if he had not shown it, if he had begun affecting scruples and difficulties as other people do when they take money, he might still ensure to take it. But he was too genuinely delighted, and that was mortifying. Ah, Lees, he is a good and truthful man, that's the worst of the whole business. All the while he talked, his voice was so weak, so broken, he talked so fast, so fast, he kept laughing such a laugh, or perhaps he was crying—yes, I am sure he was crying, he was so delighted—and he talked about his daughters and about the situation he could get in another town. And when he had poured out his heart, he felt ashamed at having shown me his inmost soul like that. So he began to hate me at once. He is one of those awfully sensitive poor people. What had made him feel most ashamed was that he had given in too soon and accepted me as a friend, you see. At first he almost flew at me and tried to intimidate me, but as soon as he saw the money he had begun embracing me. He kept touching me with his hands. This must have been how he came to feel it all so humiliating. And then I made that blunder, a very important one. I suddenly said to him that if he had not money enough to move to another town we would give it to him, and indeed I myself would give him as much as he wanted out of my own money. That struck him all at once. Why, he thought, did I put myself forward to help him? You know, Lise, it is awfully hard for a man who has been injured when other people look at him as though they were his benefactors. I've heard that. Father Sassima told me so. I don't know how to put it, but I have often seen it myself. And I feel like that myself, too. And the worst of it was that, though he did not know, up to the very last minute that he would trample on the notes, he had a kind of presentiment of it. I am sure of that. That's just what made him so ecstatic that he had that presentiment. And though it's so dreadful, it's all for the best. In fact, I believe nothing better could have happened. Why, why could nothing better have happened? cried Lise, looking with great surprise at Al Yasha. Because if he had taken the money, in an hour after getting home he would be crying with mortification. That's just what would have happened. And most likely he would have come to me early tomorrow and perhaps have flung the notes at me and trampled upon them as he did just now. But now he has gone home awfully proud and triumphant, though he knows he has ruined himself. So now nothing could be easier than to make him accept the two hundred rubles by tomorrow, for he has already vindicated his honour, tossed away the money, and trampled it underfoot. He couldn't know, when he did it, that I should bring it to him again tomorrow, and yet he is in terrible need of that money. Though he is proud of himself now, yet even today he'll be thinking what a help he has lost. He will think of it more than ever at night, will dream of it, and by tomorrow morning he may be ready to run to me to ask forgiveness. That's just then that I'll appear. Here you are a proud man, I shall say, you have shown it, but now take the money and forgive us, and then he will take it. Al-Yasha was carried away with joy as he uttered his last words, and then he will take it. Lise clapped her hands. Ah! That's true! I understand that perfectly now. Ah! Al-Yasha! How do you know all this? Though young, and yet he knows what's in the heart, I should never have worked it out. The great thing now is to persuade him that he is on an equal footing with us in spite of his taking money from us. Al-Yasha went on in his excitement, and not only on an equal, but even on a higher footing. On a higher footing is charming, Alexei Fyodorovich, but go on, go on. You mean there isn't such an expression as on a higher footing, but that doesn't matter, because— Oh, no! Of course it doesn't matter. Forgive me, Al-Yasha, dear. You know, I scarcely respected you till now. That is, I respected you, but on an equal footing. But now I shall begin to respect you on a higher footing. Don't be angry, dear, at my joking, she put in at once, with strong feeling. I am absurd and small, but you, you! Listen, Alexei Fyodorovich, isn't there in all our analysis? I mean, your analysis—no, better call it ours—aren't we showing contempt for him, for that poor man, in analysing his soul like this, as it were from above, eh, in deciding so certainly that he will take the money? No, Lise, it's not contempt, Al-Yasha answered, as though he had prepared himself for the question. I was thinking of that on the way here. How can it be contempt, when we are all like him, when we are all just the same as he is? For you know we are just the same. No better. If we are better, we should have been just the same in his place. I don't know about you, Lise, but I consider that I have a sordid soul, in many ways, and his soul is not sordid, on the contrary, full of fine feeling. No, Lise, I have no contempt for him. Do you know, Lise, my elder told me once to care for most people exactly as one would for children, and for some of them as one would for the sick in hospitals. Ah, Alexei Fyodorovich dear, let us care for people as we would for the sick. Let us, Lise, I am ready. Though I am not altogether ready in myself, I am sometimes very impatient, and at other times I don't see things. It's different with you. Ah, I don't believe it. Alexei Fyodorovich, how happy I am! I'm so glad you say so, Lise. Alexei Fyodorovich, you are wonderfully good, but you are sometimes sort of formal, and yet you are not a bit formal, really. Go to the door, open it gently, and see whether my ma is listening, said Lise, in a nervous, hurried whisper. Aliasha went, opened the door, and reported that no one was listening. Come here, Alexei Fyodorovich, Lise went on, flushing redder and redder. Give me your hand, that's right, I have to make a great confession. I didn't write to you yesterday in joke, but in earnest. And she hid her eyes with her hand. It was evident that she was greatly ashamed of the confession. Suddenly she snatched his hand and impulsively kissed it three times. Ah, Lise, what a good thing! cried Aliasha joyfully. You know I was perfectly sure you were in earnest. Sure, upon my word! She put aside his hand, but did not leave go of it, blushing hotly, and laughing a little happy laugh. I kiss his hand, and he says what a good thing! But her reproach was undeserved. Aliasha, too, was greatly overcome. I should like to please you always, Lise, but I don't know how to do it. He muttered, blushing, too. Aliasha, dear, you are cold and rude. Do you see? He has chosen me as his wife, and is quite settled about it. He is sure I was in earnest. What a thing to say! Why, that's impertinent, that's what it is. Why, was it wrong of me to feel sure? Aliasha asked, laughing suddenly. Ah, Aliasha, on the contrary, it was delightfully right! cried Lise, looking tenderly and happily at him. Aliasha stood still, holding her hand in his. Suddenly he stooped down and kissed her on her lips. Oh, what are you doing? cried Lise. Aliasha was terribly abashed. Oh, forgive me if I shouldn't. Yes, I'm awfully stupid. You said I was cold, so I kissed you, but I see it was stupid. Lise laughed and hit her face in her hands, and in that dress she ejaculated in the midst of her mirth, but she suddenly ceased laughing and became serious, almost stern. Aliasha, we must put off kissing. We are not ready for that yet, and we shall have a long time to wait. She ended suddenly. Tell me rather why you, who are so clever, so intellectual, so observant, choose a little idiot and invalid like me. Ah, Aliasha, I am awfully happy, for I don't deserve you a bit. You do, Lise. I shall be leaving the monastery altogether in a few days. If I go into the world I must marry. I know that. He told me to marry, too. Whom could I marry better than you, and who would have me except you? I have been thinking it over. In the first place you've known me from a child, and you have a great many qualities I haven't. You are more light-hearted than I am, above all you are more innocent than I am. I have been brought into contact with many, many things already. Ah, you don't know, but I too am a Karamazov. What does it matter if you do laugh and make jokes and at me, too? Go on laughing, I am so glad you do. You laugh like a little child, but you think like a martyr. Like a martyr? How? Yes, Lise, your question just now, whether we weren't showing contempt for that poor man by dissecting his soul, that was the question of a sufferer. You see, I don't know how to express it, but anyone who thinks of such questions is capable of suffering. Sitting in your invalid chair, you must have thought over many things already. Al-Yasha, give me your hand. Why are you taking it away, murmured Lise, in a failing voice, weak with happiness? Listen, Al-Yasha, what will you wear when you come out of a monastery? What sort of suit? Don't laugh, don't be angry. It's very, very important to me. I haven't thought about the suit, Lise, but I'll wear whatever you like. I should like you to have a dark blue velvet coat, a white PK waistcoat, and a soft grey felt hat. Tell me, did you believe that I didn't care for you when I said I didn't mean what I wrote? No, I didn't believe it. Oh, you insupportable person, you are incorrigible. You see, I knew that you seemed to care for me, but I pretended to believe that you didn't care for me to make it easier for you. That makes it worse, worse and better than all. Al-Yasha, I am awfully fond of you. Just before you came this morning I tried my fortune. I decided I would ask you for my letter, and if you brought it out calmly and gave it to me, as might have been expected from you, it would mean that you did not love me at all, that you felt nothing and were simply a stupid boy good for nothing and that I am ruined. But you left the letter at home, and that cheered me. You left it behind on purpose, so as not to give it back, because you knew I would ask for it? That was it, wasn't it? Ah, Lise, it was not so a bit. The letter is with me now, and it was this morning, in this pocket. Here it is. Al-Yasha pulled the letter out, laughing, and showed it her at a distance. But I am not going to give it to you. Look at it from here. Why, then you told a lie? You a monk told a lie. I told a lie, if you like. Al-Yasha laughed, too. I told a lie, so as not to give you back the letter. It's very precious to me. He added suddenly with strong feeling, and again he flushed. It always will be, and I won't give it up to any one. Lise looked at him joyfully. Al-Yasha, she murmured again. Look at the door. Isn't Le Mans listening? Very well, Lise, I'll look. But wouldn't it be better not to look? Why suspect your mother of such meanness? What meanness? As for her spying on her daughter, it's her right. It's not meanness, cried Lise, firing up. You may be sure, Alexei Fyodorovich, that when I am a mother, if I have a daughter like myself, I shall certainly spy on her. Really, Lise, that's not right. Oh, my goodness, what has meanness to do with it? If she were listening to some ordinary worldly conversation, it would be meanness. But when her own daughter is shut up with a young man, listen, Al-Yasha, do you know I shall spy upon you as soon as we are married, and let me tell you I shall open all your letters and read them, so you may as well be prepared. Yes, of course, if so, muttered Al-Yasha, only it's not right. Ah, how contemptuous! Al-Yasha, dear, we won't quarrel the very first day. I'd better tell you the whole truth. Of course it's very wrong to spy on people, and of course I am not right, and you are. Only I shall spy on you all the same. Do then, you won't find out anything, laughed Al-Yasha. And Al-Yasha, will you give in to me? We must decide that, too. I shall be delighted to, Lise, and certain to, only not in the most important things. And if you don't agree with me, I shall do my duty in the most important things. That's right, but let me tell you I am ready to give in to you not only in the most important matters but in everything, and I am ready to vow to do so now, in everything, and for all my life, cried Lise fervently, and I'll do it gladly, gladly. What's more, I'll swear never to spy on you, never once, never to read one of your letters, for you are right and I am not, and though I shall be awfully tempted to spy, I know that I won't do it since you consider it dishonourable. You are my conscience now. Listen, Alexei Fyodorovich, why have you been so sad lately, both yesterday and today? I know you have a lot of anxiety and trouble, but I see you have some special grief besides, some secret one, perhaps? Yes, Lise, I have a secret one too, answered Al-Yasha mournfully. I see you love me since you guessed that. What grief! What about? Can you tell me? asked Lise with timid entreaty. I'll tell you later, Lise, afterwards, said Al-Yasha, confused. Now you wouldn't understand it, perhaps, and perhaps I couldn't explain it. I know your brothers and your father are worrying you too. Yes, my brothers too, murmured Al-Yasha, pondering. I don't like your brother Yvonne Al-Yasha, said Lise suddenly. He noticed this remark with some surprise, but did not answer it. My brothers are destroying themselves, he went on, my father too, and they are destroying others with them. Yes, the primitive force of the Karamazovs, as Father Paesi said the other day, a crude, unbridled, earthly force. Does the spirit of God move above that force? Even that I don't know. I only know that I too am a Karamazov. Me a monk, a monk. Am I a monk, Lise? You said just now that I was. Yes, I did. Perhaps I don't even believe in God. You don't believe? What is the matter? said Lise quietly and gently, but Al-Yasha did not answer. There was something too mysterious, too subjective in these last words of his, perhaps obscure to himself, but yet torturing him. And now, on the top of it all, my friend, the best man in the world, is going, is leaving the earth. If you knew, Lise, how bound up in soul I am with him, and then I shall be left alone. I shall come to you, Lise, for the future we will be together. Yes, together, together, henceforward we shall be always together, all our lies. Listen, kiss me, I allow you. Al-Yasha kissed her. Come, now go, Christ be with you. And she made the sign of the cross over him. Make haste back to him, while he is still alive. I see I've kept you cruelly. I'll pray today for him and you, Al-Yasha. We shall be happy, shall we be happy, shall we? I believe we shall, Lise. Al-Yasha thought it better not to go into Madame Holikov and was going out of the house without saying good-bye to her, but no sooner had he opened the door than he found Madame Holikov standing before him. From the first word Al-Yasha guessed that she had been waiting on purpose to meet him. Alexei Fyodorovich, this is awful! This is all childish nonsense and ridiculous! I trust you won't dream! It's foolishness! Nothing but foolishness! She said, attacking him at once. Only don't tell her that, said Al-Yasha, or she will be upset and that's bad for her now. Sensible advice from a sensible young man! Am I to understand that you only agreed with her from compassion for her invalid state because you didn't want to irritate her by contradiction? Oh, no, not at all. I was quite serious in what I said, Al-Yasha declared stoutly. To be serious about it is impossible, unthinkable, and in the first place I shall never be at home to you again, and I shall take her away, you may be sure of that. But why, asked Al-Yasha, it's all so far off, we may have to wait another year and a half. Ah! Alexei Fyodorovich, that's true, of course, and you'll have time to quarrel and separate a thousand times in a year and a half. But I am so unhappy, though it's such nonsense it's a great blow to me. I feel like Famosov in the last scene of Sorrow from Witt. You are Chatsky, and she is Sophia, and only fancy I've run down to meet you on the stairs, and in the play the fatal scene takes place on the staircase. I heard it all, I almost dropped. So this is the explanation of her dreadful night and her hysterics of late. It means love to the daughter, but death to the mother. I might as well be in my grave at once. And a more serious matter still. What is this letter she has written? Show it to me at once, at once. No, there's no need. Tell me, how is Katerina Ivanovna now? I must know. She still lies in delirium, she has not regained consciousness, her answer here, but they do nothing but sigh and give themselves airs. First since Shduba came, and he was so alarmed that I didn't know what to do for him, and nearly sent for a doctor to look after him. He was driven home in my carriage, and on the top of it all, you, and this letter. It's true, nothing can happen for a year and a half. In the name of all that's holy, in the name of your dying elder, show me that letter, Alexei Fyodorovich. I'm her mother. Hold it in your hand, if you like, and I will read it so. No, I won't show it to you. Even if she sanctioned it, I wouldn't. I am coming to moral, and if you like we can talk over many things, but now, goodbye. And Al-Yasha ran downstairs and into the street. End of Section 32 Section 33 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. LibriVox Recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Book 5, Chapter 2. Smierdekoff with a Guitar He had no time to lose, indeed. Even while he was saying goodbye to Lise, the thought had struck him that he must attempt some stratagem to find his brother Dmitry, who was evidently keeping out of his way. It was getting late, nearly three o'clock. Al-Yasha's whole soul turned to the monastery, to his dying saint, but the necessity of seeing Dmitry outweighed everything. The conviction that a great inevitable catastrophe was about to happen grew stronger in Al-Yasha's mind with every hour. What that catastrophe was, and what he would say at that moment to his brother, he could perhaps not have said, definitely. And if my benefactor must die without me, anyway, I won't have to reproach myself all my life with the thought that I might have saved something, and did not, but passed by, and hastened home. If I do as I intend, I shall be following his great precept. His plan was to catch his brother Dmitry unawares, to climb over the fence as he had the day before, get into the garden, and sit in the summer-house. If Dmitry were not there, thought Al-Yasha, he would not announce himself to Foma or the women of the house, but would remain hidden in the summer-house, even if he had to wait there till evening. If as before Dmitry were lying in wait for Grushanka to come, he would be very likely to come to the summer-house. Al-Yasha did not, however, give much thought to the details of his plan, but resolved to act upon it, even if it meant not getting back to the monastery that day. Everything happened without hindrance. He climbed over the hurdle almost in the same spot as the day before, and stole into the summer-house unseen. He did not want to be noticed. The woman of the house and Foma too, if he were here, might be loyal to his brother and obey his instructions, and so refuse to let Al-Yasha come into the garden, or might warn Dmitry that he was being sought and inquired for. There was no one in the summer-house. Al-Yasha sat down and began to wait. He looked round the summer-house, which somehow struck him as a great deal more ancient than before. Though the day was just as fine as yesterday, it seemed a wretched little place this time. There was a circle on the table, left no doubt from the glass of brandy having been spilt the day before. Foolish and irrelevant ideas strayed about his mind, as they always do in a time of tedious waiting. He wondered, for instance, why he had sat down precisely in the same place as before. Why not in the other seat? At last he felt very depressed, depressed by suspense and uncertainty. But he had not sat there more than a quarter of an hour, when he suddenly heard the thrum of a guitar, somewhere quite close. People were sitting, or had only just sat down, somewhere in the bushes not more than twenty paces away. Al-Yasha suddenly recollected that on coming out of the summer-house the day before, he had caught a glimpse of an old green, low garden seat among the bushes on the left by the fence. The people must be sitting on it now. Who were they? A man's voice suddenly began singing in a sugary falsetto, accompanying himself on the guitar. With invincible force I am bound to my dear, O Lord have mercy on her and on me, on her and on me, on her and on me. The voice ceased. It was a lackey's tenor and a lackey's song. Another voice, a woman's, suddenly asked, insinuatingly and bashfully, though with mincing affectation. Why haven't you been to see us for so long, Pavel Fyodorovich? Why do you always look down upon us? Not at all, answered a man's voice politely but with emphatic dignity. It was clear that the man had the best of the position and that the woman was making advances. I believe the man must be Smerzhikov, thought Alyosha, from his voice, and the lady must be the daughter of the house here, who has come from Moscow, the one who wears the dress with a tail, and goes to Marfa for soup. I am awfully fond of verses of all kinds if they rhyme, the woman's voice continued. Why don't you go on? The man sang again. What do I care for royal wealth if but my dear one be in health? Lord have mercy on her and on me, on her and on me, on her and on me. It was even better last time, observed the woman's voice. You sang, if my darling be in health, it sounded more tender. I suppose you've forgotten to-day. Poetry is rubbish, said Smerzhikov curtly. Oh no, I am very fond of poetry. So far as it's poetry it's essential rubbish. Consider yourself, whoever talks in rhyme, and if we were all to talk in rhyme even though it were decreed by government we shouldn't say much, should we? Poetry is no good, Maria Kondrachevna. How clever you are! How is it you've gone so deep into everything? The woman's voice was more and more insinuating. I could have done better than that. I could have known more than that if it had not been for my destiny, for my childhood up. I would have shot a man in a duel, if he called me names because I am descended from a filthy beggar and have no father, and they used to throw it in my teeth in Moscow. It had reached them from here, thanks to Grigory Fasilyevich. Grigory Fasilyevich blames me for rebelling against my birth, but I would have sanctioned their killing me before I was born, that I might not have come into the world at all. They used to say in the market, and your mama, too, with great lack of delicacy, set off telling me that her hair was like a mat on her head and that she was short of five foot by a wee bit—well, I talk of a wee bit—well, she might have said a little bit like everyone else. He wanted to make it touching, a regular peasant's feeling. Can a Russian peasant be said to feel, in comparison with an educated man? He can't be said to have feeling at all in his ignorance. From my childhood up, when I hear a wee bit, I am ready to burst with rage. I hate all Russia, Maria Kondratyevna. If you'd been a cadet in the army, or a young hizare, you wouldn't have talked like that, but would have drawn your sabre to defend all Russia. I don't want to be a hizare, Maria Kondratyevna, and what's more, I should like to abolish all soldiers. And when an enemy comes, who is going to defend us? There's no need of defense. In 1812 there was a great invasion of Russia by Napoleon, first emperor of the French, father of the present one, and it would have been a good thing if they had conquered us. A clever nation would have conquered a very stupid one, and annexed it. We should have had quite different institutions. Are they so much better in their own country than we are? I wouldn't change a dandy I know of, for three young Englishmen, observed Maria Kondratyevna tenderly, doubtless accompanying her words with a most languishing glance. That says one prefers. And you are just like a foreigner, just like a most gentlemanly foreigner. I tell you that, though it makes me bashful. If you care to know, the folks there and ours here are just alike in their vice. They are swindlers. Only there the scoundrel wears polished boots, and here he grovels and filth and sees no harm in it. The Russian people want threshing, as Fyodor Pavlovich said very truly yesterday, though he is mad and all his children. You said yourself you had such a respect for Ivan Fyodorovitch. But he said I was a stinking lackey. He thinks that I might be unruly. He is mistaken there. If I had a certain sum in my pocket I would have left here long ago. Dmitry Fyodorovitch is lower than any lackey in his behaviour, in his mind, and in his poverty. He doesn't know how to do anything, and yet he is respected by everyone. I may be only a soup-maker, but with luck I could open a cafe-restaurant in Petrovka, in Moscow, for my cookery is something special, and there's no one in Moscow except the foreigners, whose cookery is anything special. Dmitry Fyodorovitch is a beggar, but if he were to challenge the son of the first count in the country he'd fight him. And in what way is he better than I am, for he is ever so much stupider than I am? Look at the money he has wasted without any need. It must be lovely a duel, Maria Kondrachevna observed suddenly. How so? It must be so dreadful and so brave, especially when young officers with pistols in their hands pop at one another for the sake of some lady. A perfect picture. Ah, if only girls were allowed to look on I'd give anything to see one. It's all very well when you are firing at someone, but when he is firing straight in your mug you must feel pretty silly. You'd be glad to run away, Maria Kondrachevna. You don't mean you would run away? But Smerdekov did not deign to reply. After a moment's silence the guitar tinkled again, and he sang again in the same falsetto. Whatever you may say I shall go far away, life will be bright and gay in the city far away, I shall not grieve, I shall not grieve at all, I don't intend to grieve at all. Then something unexpected happened. Alyosha suddenly sneezed. They were silent. Alyosha got up and walked towards them. He found Smerdekov dressed up and wearing polished boots, his hair pomaded and perhaps curled. The guitar lay on the garden-seat. His companion was the daughter of the house, wearing a light-blue dress with a train two yards long. She was young and would not have been bad-looking but that her face was so round and terribly freckled. "'Will my brother Dimitri soon be back?' asked Alyosha, with as much composure as he could. Smerdekov got up slowly. Maria Kondrachevna rose too. How am I to know about Dimitri Fyodorovitch? It's not as if I were his keeper,' answered Smerdekov quietly, distinctly and superciliously. "'But I simply asked whether you do know,' Alyosha explained. I know nothing of his whereabouts and don't want to. But my brother told me that you let him know all that goes on in the house and promised to let him know when Agrafenna Alexandrovna comes.' Smerdekov turned a deliberate, unmoved glance upon him. "'And how did you get in this time, since the gate was bolted an hour ago?' he asked, looking at Alyosha. "'I came in from the back alley over the fence and went straight to the summer house. I hope you'll forgive me,' he added, addressing Maria Kondrachevna. I was in a hurry to find my brother. Ah, as though we could take it a miss in you!' Drawed Maria Kondrachevna, flattered by Alyosha's apology. For Dimitri Fyodorovitch often goes to the summer house in that way. We don't know he is here, and he is sitting in the summer house. I am very anxious to find him or to learn from you where he is now. Believe me, it's on business of great importance to him.' He never tells us,' lisped Maria Kondrachevna. "'Though I used to come here as a friend,' Smerdekov began again, Dimitri Fyodorovitch has pestered me in a merciless way, even here, by his incessant questions about the master. What news?' he'll ask. What's going on in there now? Who's coming and going? And can't I tell him something more? Twice already he's threatened me with death.' "'With death?' Alyosha exclaimed in surprise. Do you suppose he'd think much of that with his temper, which you had a chance of observing yourself yesterday? He says, if I let Agrafenna Alexandrovna in, and she passes the night there, I'll be the first to suffer for it. I am terribly afraid of him, and if I were not even more afraid of doing so, I ought to let the police know. God only knows what he might not do.' His honour said to him the other day, I'll pound you in a mortar,' added Maria Kondratchevna. "'Oh, if it's pounding in a mortar, it may be only talk,' observed Alyosha. If I could meet him, I might speak to him about that, too.' "'Well, the only thing I can tell you is this,' said Smerdekov, as though thinking better of it. I am here as an old friend and neighbour, and it would be odd if I didn't come. On the other hand, Yvon Fyodorovich sent me first thing this morning to your brother's lodging in Lake Street, without a letter, but with a message to Dmitriy Fyodorovich to go to dine with him at the restaurant here in the market place. I went, but didn't find Dmitriy Fyodorovich at home, though it was eight o'clock. He's been here, but he is quite gone. Those were the very words of his landlady. It's as though there was an understanding between them. Perhaps at this moment he is in the restaurant with Yvon Fyodorovich, for Yvon Fyodorovich has not been home to dinner, and Fyodor Pavlovich dined alone an hour ago and is gone to lie down. But I beg you, most particularly, not to speak of me and of what I have told you, for he'd kill me for nothing at all." Brother Yvon invited Dmitriy to the restaurant today. Repeated Alyosha quickly. That's so. The metropolis tavern in the market place? The very same. That's quite likely, cried Alyosha, much excited. Thank you, Smerjakov, that's important. I'll go there at once. Don't betray me, Smerjakov called after him. Oh no, I'll go to the tavern as though by chance. Don't be anxious. But wait a minute, I'll open the gate to you, cried Maria Kondrachevna. No, it's a shortcut. I'll get over the fence again. What he had heard threw Alyosha into great agitation. He ran to the tavern. It was impossible for him to go into the tavern in his monastic dress, but he could inquire at the entrance for his brothers and call them down. But just as he reached the tavern, a window was flung open and his brother Yvon called down to him from it. Alyosha, can't you come up here to me? I shall be awfully grateful. To be sure I can, only I don't quite know whether in this dress. But I am in a room apart. Come up the steps, I'll run down to meet you. A minute later Alyosha was sitting beside his brother. Yvon was alone, dining. End of section 33. Section 34 of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Translated by Konstantz Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Book 5, Chapter 3. The Brothers Make Friends. Yvon was not, however, in a separate room, but only in a place shut off by a screen, so that it was unseen by other people in the room. It was the first room from the entrance, with the buffet along the wall. Waiters were continually darting to and fro in it. The only customer in the room was an old retired military man, drinking tea in a corner. But there was the usual bustle going on in the other rooms of the tavern. There were shouts for the waiters, the sound of popping corks, the click of billiard balls, the drone of the organ. Alyosha knew that Yvon did not usually visit this tavern and disliked taverns in general. So he must have come here, he reflected, simply to meet Dmitry by arrangement. Yet Dmitry was not there. Shall I order you fish, soup, or anything? You don't live on tea alone, I suppose, cried Yvon, apparently delighted at having got hold of Alyosha. He had finished dinner and was drinking tea. Let me have soup and tea afterwards. I am hungry, said Alyosha Gailey. And cherry jam? They have it here. You remember how you used to love cherry jam when you were little. You remember that. Let me have jam too, I like it still. Yvon rang for the waiter and ordered soup, jam, and tea. I remember everything, Alyosha. I remember you till you were eleven, I was nearly fifteen. There's such a difference between fifteen and eleven that brothers are never companions at those ages. I don't know whether I was fond of you even. When I went away to Moscow for the first few years I never thought of you at all. Then when you came to Moscow yourself we only met once somewhere, I believe. And now I've been here more than three months and so far we've scarcely said a word to each other. Tomorrow I'm going away and I was just thinking as I sat here how I could see you to say good-bye and just then you passed. Were you very anxious to see me then? Very. I want to get to know you once for all and I want you to know me and then to say good-bye. I believe it's always best to get to know people just before leaving them. I've noticed how you've been looking at me these three months. There has been a continual look of expectation in your eyes and I can't endure that. That's how it is I've kept away from you. But in the end I have learned to respect you. The little man stands firm, I thought. Though I am laughing, I am serious. You do stand firm, don't you? I like people who are firm like that, whatever it is they stand by, even if they are such little fellows as you. Your expectant eyes ceased to annoy me. I grew fond of them in the end, those expectant eyes. You seem to love me for some reason, Alyosha. I do love you, Ivan. Dimitri says of you, Ivan is a tomb. I say of you, Ivan is a riddle. You are a riddle to me even now. But I understand something in you and I did not understand it till this morning. What's that? laughed Ivan. You won't be angry? Alyosha laughed too. Well, that you are just as young as other young men of three and twenty, that you are just a young and fresh and nice boy, green in fact. Now have I insulted you dreadfully? On the contrary, I am struck by a coincidence, cried Ivan, warmly and good humoredly. Would you believe it that ever since that scene with her I have thought of nothing else but my youthful greenness, and just as though you guessed that, you begin about it. Do you know I've been sitting here thinking to myself, that if I didn't believe in life, if I lost faith in the woman I love, lost faith in the order of things, were convinced in fact that everything is a disorderly, damnable, and perhaps devil-ridden chaos, if I were struck by every horror of man's disillusionment, still I should want to live, and, having once tasted of the cup, I would not turn away from it till I had drained it. At thirty, though, I shall be sure to leave the cup, even if I've not emptied it, and turn away, where I don't know. But till I am thirty I know that my youth will triumph over everything, every disillusionment, every disgust with life. I've asked myself many times whether there is in the world any despair that would overcome this frantic and, perhaps unseemly, thirst for life in me, and I've come to the conclusion that there isn't. That is, till I am thirty, and then I shall lose it of myself, I fancy. Some driveling consumptive moralists, and poets especially, often call that thirst for life base. It's a feature of the Karamazovs, it's true, that thirst for life regardless of everything. You have it, no doubt, too, but why is it base? The centripetal force on our planet is still fearfully strong, Al-Yasha. I have a longing for life, and I go on living in spite of logic. Though I may not believe in the order of the universe, yet I love the sticky little leaves as they open in spring, I love the blue sky, I love some people, whom one loves, you know, sometimes without knowing why. I love some great deeds done by men, though I've long ceased perhaps to have faith in them, yet from old habit one's heart prizes them. Here they have brought the soup for you. Eat it, it will do you good. It's first-rate soup, they know how to make it here. I want to travel in Europe, Al-Yasha, I shall set off from here. And yet I know that I am only going to a graveyard, but it's a most precious graveyard, that's what it is. These are the dead that lie there. Every stone over them speaks of such burning life in the past, of such passionate faith in their work, their truth, their struggle, and their science, that I know I shall fall on the ground and kiss those stones and weep over them, though I'm convinced in my heart that it's long been nothing but a graveyard. And I shall not weep from despair, but simply because I shall be happy in my tears. I shall steep my soul in my emotion. I love the sticky leaves in spring, the blue sky, that's all it is. It's not a matter of intellect or logic. It's loving with one's inside, with one's stomach. One loves the first strength of one's youth. Do you understand anything of my tirade, Al-Yasha? Yvonne laughed suddenly. I understand too well, Yvonne. Yvonne longs to love with one's inside, with one's stomach. You said that so well, and I am awfully glad that you have such a longing for life, cried Al-Yasha. I think everyone should love life above everything in the world. Love life more than the meaning of it? Certainly love it regardless of logic, as you say. It must be regardless of logic, and it's only then one will understand the meaning of it. I have thought so a long time. Half your work is done, Yvonne. You love life. Now you've only to try to do the second half, and you are saved. You are trying to save me, but perhaps I am not lost. And what does your second half mean? Why, one has to raise up your dead, who perhaps have not died after all. Come, let me have tea. I am so glad of our talk, Yvonne. I see you are feeling inspired. I am awfully fond of such profession de foie from such novices. You are a steadfast person, Alexei. Is it true that you mean to leave the monastery? Yes, my elder sends me out into the world. We shall see each other then, in the world. We shall meet before I am thirty, when I shall begin to turn aside from the cup. Father doesn't want to turn aside from his cup till he is seventy. He dreams of hanging on to eighty, in fact, so he says. He means it only too seriously, though he is a buffoon. He stands on a firm rock, too. He stands on his sensuality, though after we are thirty, indeed, there may be nothing else to stand on. But to hang on to seventy is nasty, better only to thirty, one might retain a shadow of nobility by deceiving oneself. Have you seen Dimitri today? No, but I saw Smirjakov, and Alyosha rapidly, though minutely, described his meeting with Smirjakov. Yvonne began listening anxiously and questioned him. But he begged me not to tell Dimitri that he had told me about him, added Alyosha. Yvonne frowned and pondered. Are you frowning on Smirjakov's account? asked Alyosha. Yes, on his account. Damn him, I certainly did want to see Dimitri, but now there's no need, said Yvonne reluctantly. But are you really going so soon, brother? Yes. What of Dimitri and father? How will it end? asked Alyosha anxiously. You are always harping upon it. What have I to do with it? Am I my brother Dimitri's keeper? Yvonne snapped irritably, but then he suddenly smiled bitterly. Kane's answer about his murdered brother, wasn't it? Perhaps that's what you're thinking at this moment. Well, gametal, I can't stay here to be their keeper, can I? I've finished what I had to do, and I am going. Do you imagine that I am jealous of Dimitri, that I've been trying to steal his beautiful Katerina Yvonnevna for the last three months? Nonsense! I had business of my own. I finished it. I'm going. I finished it just now. You were witness. At Katerina Yvonnevna's? Yes, and I've released myself once for all. And after all, what have I to do with Dimitri? Dimitri doesn't come in. I had my own business to settle with Katerina Yvonnevna. You know, on the contrary, that Dimitri behaved as though there was an understanding between us. I didn't ask him to do it, but he solemnly handed her over to me and gave us his blessing. It's all too funny. Ah, Al-Yasha, if you only knew how light my heart is now, would you believe it? I sat here eating my dinner and was nearly ordering champagne to celebrate my first hour of freedom. It's been going on nearly six months, and all at once I've thrown it off. I could never have guessed, even yesterday, how easy it would be to put an end to it if I wanted. You are speaking of your love, Yvonnevna? Of my love, if you like. I fell in love with the young lady. I worried myself over her, and she worried me. I sat watching over her, and all at once it's collapsed. I spoke this morning with inspiration, but I went away and roared with laughter. Would you believe it? Yes, it's the literal truth. You seem very merry about it now, observed Al-Yasha, looking into his face, which had suddenly grown brighter. But how could I tell that I didn't care for her a bit? It appears, after all, I didn't. And yet how she attracted me, how attractive she was just now when I'm in my speech, and do you know she attracts me awfully, even now, yet how easy it is to leave her. Do you think I am boasting? No, only perhaps it wasn't love. Al-Yasha, laughed Yvonne, don't make reflections about love. It's unseemly for you. How you rushed into the discussion this morning. I've forgotten to kiss you for it. But how she tormented me. It certainly was sitting by a laceration. She knew how I loved her. She loved me and not Dmitry. Yvonne insisted gaily. Her feeling for Dmitry was simply a self-laceration. All I told her just now was perfectly true, but the worst of it is, it may take her fifteen or twenty years to find out that she doesn't care for Dmitry and loves me whom she torments, and perhaps she may never find it out at all, in spite of her lesson today. Well, it's better so. I can simply go away for good. By the way, how is she now? What happened after I departed? Yasha told him she had been hysterical, and that she was now, he heard, unconscious and delirious. Isn't Madame Holokov laying it on? I think not. I must find out. Nobody dies of hysterics, though. They don't matter. God gave woman hysterics as a relief. I won't go to her at all. Why push myself forward again? But you told her that she had never cared for you. I did that on purpose. Al-Yasha, shall I call for some champagne? Let us drink to my freedom. Ah, if only you knew how glad I am. No, brother, we had better not drink, said Al-Yasha suddenly. Besides, I feel somehow depressed. Yes, you've been depressed a long time. I've noticed it. If you settled to go to-morrow morning, then? Morning? I didn't say I should go in the morning, but perhaps it may be the morning. Would you believe it? I dined here today only to avoid dining with the old man. I loathe him so. I should have left long ago, so far as he is concerned. But why are you so worried about my going away? We've plenty of time before I go, and eternity. If you are going away tomorrow, what do you mean by an eternity? But what does it matter to us? laughed Yvonne. We've time enough for our talk, for what brought us here. Why do you look so surprised? Answer. Why have we met here? To talk of my love for Katerina Ivanovna, of the old man, and Dmitry, of foreign travel, of the fatal position of Russia, of the Emperor Napoleon? Is that it? No. And you know what for? It's different for other people, but we, in our green youth, have to settle the eternal questions, first of all. That's what we care about. Young Russia is talking about nothing but the eternal questions now. Just when the old folks are all taken up with practical questions. Why have you been looking at me in expectation for the last three months? You ask me, what do you believe, or don't you believe at all? That's what your eyes have been meaning for these three months, haven't they? Perhaps so, smiled Alyosha. You're not laughing at me now, Yvonne? Me laughing? I don't want to wound my little brother who has been watching me with such expectation for three months. Alyosha, look straight at me. Of course I am just such a little boy as you are, only not a novice. And what have Russian boys been doing up till now, some of them, I mean, in this stinking tavern, for instance, here, they meet and sit down in a corner. They've never met in their lives before, and when they go out of the tavern they won't meet again for forty years. And what do they talk about in that momentary halt in the tavern? Is the eternal questions of the existence of God and immortality, and those who do not believe in God talk of socialism or anarchism, of the transformation of all humanity on a new pattern, so that it all comes to the same, that the same questions turned inside out? And masses, masses of the most original Russian boys, do nothing but talk of the eternal questions. Isn't it so? Yes, for real Russians the questions of God's existence and of immortality, or, as you say, the same questions turned inside out, come first and foremost, of course, and so they should, said Alyosha, still watching his brother with the same gentle and inquiring smile. Well, Alyosha, it's sometimes very unwise to be a Russian at all, but anything stupider than the way Russian boys spend their time one can hardly imagine. But there's one Russian boy called Alyosha I am awfully fond of. How nicely you put that in, Alyosha laughed suddenly. Well, tell me where to begin. Give your orders. The existence of God, eh? Begin where you like. You declared yesterday at Father's that there was no God. Alyosha looked searchingly at his brother. I said that yesterday at dinner on purpose to tease you, and I saw your eyes glow. But now I've no objection to discussing with you, and I say so very seriously. I want to be friends with you, Alyosha, for I have no friends and want to try it. Well, only fancy. Perhaps I too accept God, laughed Yvonne. That's a surprise for you, isn't it? Yes, of course, if you are not joking now. Joking. I was told at the elders yesterday that I was joking. You know, dear boy, there was an old sinner in the eighteenth century who declared that if there were no God he would have to be invented, s'il n'existait pas dur il faudrait l'inventer. And man has actually invented God, and what's strange, what would be marvelous, is not that God should really exist. The marvel is that such an idea, the idea of the necessity of God, could enter the head of such a savage, vicious beast as man. So holy it is, so touching, so wise, and so great a credit it does to man. As for me, I've long resolved not to think whether man created God or God man, and I won't go through all the axioms laid down by Russian boys on that subject, all derived from European hypotheses, for what's a hypothesis there is an axiom with the Russian boy, and not only with the boys but with their teachers too, for our Russian professors are often just the same boys themselves. And so I omit all the hypotheses. For what are we aiming at now? I am trying to explain as quickly as possible my essential nature, that is, what manner of man I am, what I believe in, and for what I hope. That's it, isn't it? And therefore I tell you that I accept God simply, but you must note this. If God exists, and if He really did create the world, then, as we all know, He created it according to the geometry of Euclid and the human mind with the conception of only three dimensions in space. Yet there have been, and still are, geometricians and philosophers, and even some of the most distinguished, who doubt whether the whole universe, or to speak more widely, the whole of being, was only created in Euclid's geometry. They even dare to dream that two parallel lines, which according to Euclid can never meet on earth, may meet somewhere in infinity. I have come to the conclusion that since I can't understand even that, I can't expect to understand about God. I acknowledge humbly that I have no faculty for settling such questions. I have a Euclidean earthly mind, and how could I solve problems that are not of this world? And I advise you never to think about it either, my dear Al-Yasha, especially about God, whether He exists or not. All such questions are utterly inappropriate for a mind created with an idea of only three dimensions. And so I accept God, and am glad to, and what's more I accept His wisdom, His purpose, which are utterly beyond our can. I believe in the underlying order and the meaning of life. I believe in the eternal harmony, in which they say we shall one day be blended. I believe in the word to which the universe is striving, and which itself was with God, and which itself is God, and so on and so on to infinity. There are all sorts of phrases for it. I seem to be on the right path, don't I? Yet would you believe it? In the final result, I don't accept this world of God's, and although I know it exists, I don't accept it at all. It's not that I don't accept God, you must understand. It's the world created by Him I don't and cannot accept. Let me make it plain. I believe, like a child, that suffering will be healed and made up for, that all the humiliating absurdity of human contradictions will vanish like a pitiful mirage, like the despicable fabrication of the impotent and infinitely small Euclidean mind of man, that in the world's finale, at the moment of eternal harmony, something so precious will come to pass that it will suffice for all hearts, for the comforting of all resentments, for the atonement of all the crimes of humanity, of all the blood they've shed, that it will make it not only possible to forgive, but to justify all that has happened with men. But though all that may come to pass, I don't accept it. I won't accept it. Even if parallel lines do meet, and I see it myself, I shall see it and say that they've met, but still I won't accept it. That's what's at the root of me, Al-Yasha, that's my creed. I am in earnest in what I say. I began our talk as stupidly as I could on purpose, but I've led up to my confession, for that's all you want. You don't want to hear about God, but only to know what the brother you love lives by. And so I've told you. Yvon concluded his long tirade with marked and unexpected feeling. And why did you begin as stupidly as you could? Asked Al-Yasha, looking dreamily at him. To begin with, for the sake of being Russian, Russian conversations on such subjects are always carried on inconceivably stupidly. And secondly, the stupider one is, the closer one is to, reality. The stupider one is, the clearer one is. Stupidity is brief and artless, while intelligence wriggles and hides itself. Intelligence is a nave, but stupidity is honest and straightforward. I've led the conversation to my despair, and the more stupidly I have presented it, the better for me. You will explain why you don't accept the world, said Al-Yasha. You be sure I will, it's not a secret, that's what I've been leading up to. Dear little brother, I don't want to corrupt you or to turn you from your stronghold, perhaps I want to be healed by you. Yvon smiled, suddenly, quite like a little gentle child. Al-Yasha had never seen such a smile on his face before. I must make you one confession, Yvon began. I could never understand how one can love one's neighbors. It's just one's neighbors, to my mind, that one can't love, though one might love those at a distance. I once read somewhere of John the Merciful, a saint, that when a hungry frozen beggar came to him, he took him into his bed, held him in his arms, and began breathing into his mouth, which was putrid and loathsome from some awful disease. I am convinced that he did that from self-laceration, from the self-laceration of falsity, for the sake of the charity imposed by duty as a penance laid on him. For anyone to love a man, he must be hidden, for as soon as he shows his face, love is gone. Father Sassima has talked of that more than once, observed Al-Yasha. He too said that the face of a man often hinders many people not practiced in love from loving him. But yet there's a great deal of love in mankind, and almost Christ-like love. I know that myself, Yvonne. Well, I know nothing of it so far, and can't understand it, and the innumerable mass of mankind are with me there. The question is, whether that's due to men's bad qualities or whether it's inherent in their nature. To my thinking, Christ-like love for men is a miracle impossible on earth. He was God, but we are not gods. Suppose I, for instance, suffer intensely. Another can never know how much I suffer because he is another and not I. And what's more, a man is rarely ready to admit another's suffering as though it were a distinction. Why won't he admit it, do you think? Because I smell unpleasant because I have a stupid face because I once trod on his foot. Besides, there is suffering and suffering. Degrading, humiliating suffering such as humbles me, hunger, for instance, my benefactor will perhaps allow me. But when you come to higher suffering for an idea, for instance, he will very rarely admit that, perhaps because my face strikes him as not at all what he fancies a man should have who suffers for an idea. And so he deprives me instantly of his favour and not at all from badness of heart. Beggars, especially genteel beggars, ought never to show themselves but to ask for charity through the newspapers. One can love one's neighbours in the abstract, or even at a distance, but at close quarters it's almost impossible. If it were as on the stage in the ballet, where if beggars come in, they wear silken rags and tattered lace and beg for alms dancing gracefully, then one might like looking at them. But even then we should not love them. But enough of that. I simply wanted to show you my point of view. I meant to speak of the suffering of mankind generally, but we had better confine ourselves to the sufferings of the children. That reduces the scope of my argument to a tenth of what it would be. Well, we'd better keep to the children, though it does weaken my case. But in the first place, children can be loved even at close quarters, even when they are dirty, even when they are ugly. I fancy though children never are ugly. The second reason why I won't speak of grown-up people is that, besides being disgusting and unworthy of love, they have a compensation. They've eaten the apple and no good and evil, and they've become like gods. They go on eating it still. But the children haven't eaten anything, and are so far innocent. Are you fond of children, Alyosha? I know you are, and you will understand why I prefer to speak of them. If they too suffer horribly on earth, they must suffer for their father's sins. They must be punished for their father's, who have eaten the apple. But that reasoning is of the other world and is incomprehensible for the heart of man here on earth. The innocent must not suffer for another's sins, and especially such innocence. You may be surprised of me, Alyosha, but I am awfully fond of children, too. And observe. Cruel people, the violent, the rapacious, the karamazas, are sometimes very fond of children. Children, while they are quite little, up to seven, for instance, are so remote from grown-up people they are different creatures, as it were, of a different species. I knew a criminal in prison who had, in the course of his career as a burglar, murdered whole families, including several children. But when he was in prison, he had a strange affection for them. He spent all his time at his window, watching the children playing in the prison-yard. He trained one little boy to come up to his window and made great friends with him. You don't know why I'm telling you all this, Alyosha. My head aches, and I am sad. You speak with a strange air, observed Alyosha uneasily, as though you were not quite yourself. By the way, a Bulgarian I met lately in Moscow, Yvonne went on, seeming not to hear his brother's words, told me about the crimes committed by Turks and Circassians in all parts of Bulgaria, through fear of a general rising of the Slavs. They burn villages, murder, outrage women and children, they nail their prisoners by the ears to the fences, leave them so till morning, and in the morning they hang them, all sorts of things you can't imagine. People talk sometimes of bestial cruelty, but that's a great injustice and insult to the beasts. A beast can never be so cruel as a man, so artistically cruel. The tiger only tears and gnaws, that's all he can do. He would never think of nailing people by the ears, even if he were able to do it. These Turks took a pleasure in torturing children, too, cutting the unborn child from the mother's womb and tossing babies up in the air and catching them on the points of their bayonets before their mother's eyes. Doing it before the mother's eyes was what gave zest to the amusement. Here is another scene that I thought very interesting. Imagine a trembling mother with her baby in her arms, a circle of invading Turks around her. They've planned a diversion. They pet the baby, laugh to make it laugh. They succeed, the baby laughs. At that moment a Turk points a pistol four inches from the baby's face. The baby laughs with glee, holds out its little hands to the pistol, and he pulls the trigger in the baby's face and blows out its brains. Artistic, wasn't it? By the way, Turks are particularly fond of sweet things, they say. Brother, what are you driving at? asked Al-Yasha. I think if the devil doesn't exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness. Just as he did God then, observed Al-Yasha. It's wonderful how you can turn words, as Polonius says in Hamlet, laughed Yvonne. You turned my words against me. Well, I am glad. Yours must be a fine God if man created him in his image and likeness. You asked just now what I was driving at. You see, I am fond of collecting certain facts, and would you believe I even copy anecdotes of a search and sort from newspapers and books, and I've already got a fine collection. The Turks, of course, have gone into it, but they are foreigners. I have specimens from home that are even better than the Turks. You know, we prefer beating, rods, and scourges, that's our national institution. Nailing ears is unthinkable for us, for we are, after all, Europeans. But the rod and the scourge we have always with us and they cannot be taken from us. Good now, they scarcely do any beating. Manners are more humane, or laws have been passed, so that they don't dare to flog men now. But they make up for it in another way, just as national as ours, and so national that it would be practically impossible among us, though I believe we are being inoculated with it since the religious movement began in our aristocracy. I have a charming pamphlet translated from the French, describing how, quite recently, five years ago, a murderer, Richard, was executed, a young man, I believe, of three and twenty, who repented and was converted to the Christian faith at the very scaffold. This Richard was an illegitimate child who was given as a child of six by his parents to some shepherds on the Swiss mountains. They brought him up to work for them. He grew up like a little wild beast among them. The shepherds taught him nothing, and scarcely fed or clothed him, but sent him out at seven to herd the flock in cold and wet, and no one hesitated or scrupled to treat him so. Quite the contrary, they thought they had every right, for Richard had been given to them as a chattel, and they did not even see the necessity of feeding him. Richard himself describes how in those years, like the prodigal son in the Gospel, he longed to eat of the mash given to the pigs, which were fattened for sale. But they wouldn't give him even that, and beat him when he stole from the pigs. And that was how he spent all his childhood and his youth, till he grew up and was strong enough to go away and be a thief. The savage began to earn his living as a day labourer in Geneva. He drank what he earned, he lived like a brute, and finished by killing and robbing an old man. He was caught, tried, and condemned to death. They are not sentimentalists there. And in prison he was immediately surrounded by pastors, members of Christian brotherhoods, philanthropic ladies, and the like. They taught him to read and write in prison, and expounded the Gospel to him. They exhorted him, worked upon him, drummed at him incessantly, till at last he solemnly confessed his crime. He was converted. He wrote to the court himself that he was a monster, but that in the end God had vouchsafed him light and shown grace. All Geneva was an excitement about him, all philanthropic and religious Geneva. All the aristocratic and well-bred society of the town rushed to the prison, kissed Lyshar, and embraced him. You are our brother, you have found grace. And Lyshar does nothing but weep with emotion. Yes, I have found grace. All my youth and childhood I was glad of pig's food, but now even I have found grace. I am dying in the Lord. Yes, Lyshar, die in the Lord. You have shed blood, and must die, though it's not your fault that you knew not the Lord, when you coveted the pig's food and were beaten for stealing it, which was very wrong of you for stealing, is forbidden. But you've shed blood, and you must die. But on the last day Lyshar, perfectly limp, did nothing but cry and repeat every minute. This is my happiest day. I am going to the Lord. Yes, cry the pastors and the judges and philanthropic ladies, this is the happiest day of your life, for you are going to the Lord. They all walk or drive to the scaffold in procession behind the prison van. At the scaffold they call to Lyshar, die, brother, die in the Lord, for even thou hast found grace. And so, covered with his brother's kisses, Lyshar is dragged onto the scaffold and led to the guillotine, and they chopped off his head in brotherly fashion because he had found grace. Yes, that's characteristic. That pamphlet is translated into Russian by some Russian philanthropists of aristocratic rank and evangelical aspirations, and has been distributed gratis for the enlightenment of the people. The case of Lyshar is interesting, because it's national. Though to us it's absurd to cut off a man's head, because he has become our brother and has found grace, yet we have our own specialty, which is all but worse. Our historical pastime is the direct satisfaction of inflicting pain. There are lines in Nekrasov describing how a peasant lashes a horse on the eyes, on its meek eyes. Everyone must have seen it. It's peculiarly Russian. He describes how a feeble little nag has foundered under too heavy a load and cannot move. The peasant beats it, beats it savagely, beats it at last not knowing what he is doing in the intoxication of cruelty, thrashes it mercilessly over and over again. However weak you are, you must pole if you die for it. The nag strains, and then he begins lashing the poor defenseless creature on its weeping, on its meek eyes. The frantic beast tugs and draws the load, trembling all over, gasping for breath, moving sideways with a sort of unnatural spasmodic action. It's awful in Nekrasov, but that's only a horse, and God has given horses to be beaten, so the Tatars have taught us, and they left us the note as a remembrance of it. But men too can be beaten. A well-educated cultured gentleman and his wife beat their own child with the birch-rod, a girl of seven, I have an exact account of it. The papa was glad that the birch was covered with twigs. Stings more, said he, as so he began stinging his daughter. I know for a fact there are people who, at every blow, are worked up to sensuality, to literal sensuality, which increases progressively at every blow they inflict. They beat for a minute, for five minutes, for ten minutes. More often, and more savagely, the child screams, but last the child cannot scream. It gasps, Daddy, Daddy! By some diabolical unseemly chance the case was brought into court. A council is engaged. The Russian people have long called a barrister a conscience for hire. The council protests in his client's defence. It's such a simple thing, he says, an everyday domestic event. A father corrects his child. To our shame, be it said, it is brought into court. The jury, convinced by him, give a favourable verdict. The public roars with delight that the torturer is acquitted. Ah! Kitty, I wasn't there. I would have proposed to raise a subscription in his honour, charming pictures. But I've still better things about children. I've collected a great, great deal about Russian children, El Yasha. There was a little girl of five who was hated by her father and mother, most worthy and respectable people of good education and breeding. You see, I must repeat again. It is a peculiar characteristic of many people, this love of torturing children and children only. To all other types of humanity, these torturers behave mildly and benevolently, like cultivated and humane Europeans. But they are very fond of tormenting children. Even fond of children themselves in that sense. It's just their defencelessness that tempts the tormentor. Just the angelic confidence of the child who has no refuge and no appeal that sets his vile blood on fire. In every man, of course, a demon lies hidden, the demon of rage, the demon of lustful heat at the screams of the tortured victim, the demon of lawlessness let off the chain, the demon of diseases that follow on vice, goat, kidney disease, and so on. This poor child of five was subjected to every possible torture by those cultivated parents. They beat her, thrashed her, kicked her for no reason till her body was one bruise. Then they went to greater refinements of cruelty, shut her up all night in the cold and frost in a privy, and because she didn't ask to be taken up at night, as though a child of five, sleeping its angelic sound sleep, could be trained to wake and ask. They smeared her face and filled her mouth with excrement, and it was her mother, her mother did this. And that mother could sleep, hearing the poor child's groans. Can you understand why a little creature who can't even understand what's done to her should beat her little aching heart with her tiny fist in the dark and the cold, and weep her meek unresentful tears to dear kind God to protect her? Do you understand that, friend and brother, you pious and humble novice, do you understand why this infamy must be and is permitted? Without it, I am told, man could not have existed on earth, for he could not have known good and evil. Why should he know that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much? Why the whole world of knowledge is not worth that child's prayer to dear kind God. I say nothing of the sufferings of grown-up people. They have eaten the apple, damn them, and the devil take them all. But these little ones. I am making you suffer, Al Yasha, you are not yourself. I'll leave off, if you like. Never mind. I want to suffer too, Mother Dalyasha. One picture, only one more, because it's so curious, so characteristic, and I have only just read it in some collection of Russian antiquities—I've forgotten the name, I must look it up—it was in the darkest days of serfdom at the beginning of the century and long lived the liberator of the people. There was in those days a general of aristocratic connections, the owner of great estates, one of those men, somewhat exceptional, I believe, even then, who, retiring from the service into a life of leisure, are convinced that they've earned absolute power over the lives of their subjects. There were such men then. So our general, settled on his property of two thousand souls, lives in pomp and dominiers over his poor neighbours as though they were dependents and buffoons. He has kennels of hundreds of hounds, and nearly a hundred dog boys, all mounted and in uniform. One day a serf boy, a little child of eight, threw a stone in play and hurt the paw of the general's favourite hound. Why is my favourite dog lame? He is told that the boy threw a stone that hurt the dog's paw. So you did it! The general looked the child up and down, take him. He was taken, taken from his mother, and kept shut up all night. Early that morning the general comes out on horseback, with the hounds, his dependents, dog boys and huntsmen, all mounted around him in full hunting parade. The servants are summoned for their edification, and in front of them all stands the mother of the child. The child is brought from the lock-up. It's a gloomy, cold, foggy autumn day, a capital day for hunting. The general orders the child to be undressed. The child is stripped naked. He shivers, numb with terror, not daring to cry. Make him run, commands the general. Run, run, shout the dog boys. The boy runs. At him yells the general, and he sets the whole pack of hounds on the child. The hounds catch him, and tear him to pieces before his mother's eyes. I believe the general was afterwards declared incapable of administering his estates. Well, what did he deserve? To be shot? To be shot for the satisfaction of our moral feelings? Speak, Alyosha! To be shot, murmured Alyosha, lifting his eyes to Yvonne with a pale, twisted smile. Bravo, cried Yvonne, delighted. If even you say so, you're a pretty monk, so there is a little devil sitting in your heart, Alyosha Kanamazov. What I said was absurd, but— That's just the point. That but, cried Yvonne. Let me tell you, novice, that the absurd is only too necessary on earth. The world stands on absurdities, and perhaps nothing would have come to pass in it without them. We know what we know. What do you know? I understand nothing, Yvonne went on, as though in delirium. I don't want to understand anything now. I want to stick to the fact. I made up my mind long ago not to understand. If I try to understand anything, I shall be false to the fact, that I have determined to stick to the fact. Why are you trying me, Alyosha cried, with sudden distress? Will you say what you mean, at last? Of course I will, that's what I've been leading up to. You are dear to me. I don't want to let you go, and I won't give you up to your sassima. Yvonne for a minute was silent. His face became all at once very sad. Listen, I took the case of children, only to make my case clearer. Of the other tiers of humanity, with which the earth is soaked from its crust to its center, I will say nothing. I have narrowed my subject on purpose. I am a bug, and I recognize in all humility that I cannot understand why the world is arranged as it is. Men are themselves to blame, I suppose. They were given paradise, they wanted freedom, and stole fire from heaven, though they knew they would become unhappy, so there was no need to pity them. With my pitiful earthly Euclidean understanding, all I know is that there is suffering, and that there are none guilty, that cause follows effect, simply and directly, that everything flows and finds its level. But that's only Euclidean nonsense, I know that, and I can't consent to live by it. What comfort is it to me that there are none guilty, and that cause follows effect simply and directly, and that I know it? I must have justice, or I will destroy myself. And not justice in some remote, infinite time and space, but here, on earth, and that I could see myself. I have believed in it, I want to see it, and if I am dead by then, let me rise again, for if it all happens without me it will be too unfair. Surely I haven't suffered, simply that I, my crimes and my sufferings, may manure the soil of the future harmony for somebody else. I want to see with my own eyes the hind lie down with the lion, and the victim rise up and embrace his murderer. I want to be there when everyone suddenly understands what it has all been for. All the religions of the world are built on this longing, and I am a believer. But then there are the children, and what am I to do about them? That's a question I can't answer. For the hundredth time I repeat there are numbers of questions, but I've only taken the children, because in their case what I mean is so unanswerably clear. Listen, if all must suffer to pay for the eternal harmony, what have children to do with it? Tell me, please, it's beyond all comprehension why they should suffer and why they should pay for the harmony. Why should they too furnish material to enrich the soil for the harmony of the future? I understand solidarity and sin among men. I understand solidarity and retribution too, but there can be no such solidarity with children. And if it is really true that they must share responsibility for all their fathers' crimes, such a truth is not of this world and is beyond my comprehension. Some jester will say, perhaps, that the child would have grown up and have sinned, but you see he didn't grow up. He was torn to pieces by the dogs at eight years old. Al-Yosh, I am not blaspheming. I understand, of course, what an upheaval of the universe it will be, when everything in heaven and earth blends in one hymn of praise and everything that lives and has lived, cries aloud, that we're just, O Lord, for thy ways are revealed. When the mother embraces the fiend who threw her child to the dogs, and all three cry aloud with tears, thou art just, O Lord. Then, of course, the crown of knowledge will be reached and all will be made clear. But what pulls me up here is that I can't accept that harmony. And while I am on earth I make haste to take my own measures. You see, Al-Yosha, perhaps it really may happen that if I live to that moment, or rise again to see it, I too perhaps may cry aloud with the rest, looking at the mother embracing the child's torturer, thou art just, O Lord. But I don't want to cry aloud, then. While there is still time I hasten to protect myself, and so I renounce the higher harmony altogether. It's not worth the tears of that one tortured child who beat itself on the breast with its little fist and preyed in its stinking out-house with its unexpiated tears to dear kind God. It's not worth it, because those tears are unattoned for. They must be attoned for, or there can be no harmony. But how? How are you going to atone for them? Is it possible? By their being avenged? What do I care for avenging them? What do I care for a hell for oppressors? What good can hell do, since those children have already been tortured? And what becomes of harmony if there is hell? I want to forgive, I want to embrace, I don't want more suffering, and if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum of sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a price. I don't want the mother to embrace the oppressor who threw her son to the dogs. She dare not forgive him. Let her forgive him for herself, if she will, let her forgive the torturer for the immeasurable suffering of her mother's heart. But the sufferings of her tortured child, she has no right to forgive. She dare not forgive the torturer, even if the child were to forgive him. And if that is so, if they dare not forgive, what becomes of harmony? Is there in the world a being who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? I don't want harmony. From love for humanity I don't want it. I would rather be left with the un-avenged suffering. I would rather remain with my un-avenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation even if I were wrong. Besides, too high a price is asked for harmony. It's beyond our means to pay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance ticket, and if I am an honest man I am bound to give it back as soon as possible, and that I am doing. It's not God that I don't accept Al-Yasha, only I most respectfully return him the ticket. That's rebellion, murmured Al-Yasha, looking down. Rebellion. I am sorry you call it that, said Yvonne earnestly. One can hardly live in rebellion, and I want to live. Tell me yourself, I challenge you, answer. Then that you are creating a fabric of human destiny with the object of making men happy in the end, giving them peace and rest at last, but that it was essential and inevitable to torture to death only one tiny creature, that baby beating its breast with its fist, for instance, and to found that edifice on its un-avenged tears. Would you consent to be the architect on those conditions? Tell me, and tell the truth. No, I wouldn't consent, said Al-Yasha, softly. And can you admit the idea that men for whom you are building it would agree to accept their happiness on the foundation of the unexpeated blood of a little victim, and accepting it would remain happy forever? No, I can't admit it. Brother, said Al-Yasha, suddenly with flashing eyes, you said just now, is there a being in the whole world who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? But there is a being, and he can forgive everything, all and for all, because he gave his innocent blood for all and everything. You have forgotten him, and on him is built the edifice, and it is to him they cry aloud, Thou art just, O Lord, for Thy ways are revealed. Ah, the one withered sin and his blood! No, I have not forgotten him. On the contrary, I have been wondering all the time how it was you did not bring him in before, for usually all arguments on your side put him in the foreground. Do you know, Al-Yasha, don't laugh, I made a poem about a year ago. If you can waste another ten minutes on me, I'll tell it to you. You wrote a poem? Oh, no, I didn't write it, laughed Yvonne, and I've never written two lines of poetry in my life, but I made up this poem in prose, and I remembered it. I was carried away when I made it up. You will be my first reader, that is, listener. Why should an author forego even one listener? Smiled Yvonne, shall I tell it to you? I am all attention, said Al-Yasha. My poem is called The Grand Inquisitor. It's a ridiculous thing, but I want to tell it to you. End of section 35