The Brothers Karamazov

The Brothers Karamazov_Part_1

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By Theodore Mikhailovich Dostoevsky. Translated by Constance Garnet. Part 1. The History of a Family. Chapter 1. Theodore Pavlovitch Karamazov. Alexi Theodoreevitch Karamazov was the third son of Theodore Pavlovitch Karamazov. A landowner well known in our district in his own day and still remembered among us owing to his gloomy and tragic death which happened 13 years ago in which I shall describe in its proper place. For the presence I will only say that this landowner, for so we used to call him, although he hardly spent a day of his life on his own estate, was a strange type. Yet one pretty frequently to be met with. A type abject and vicious and at the same time senseless. But he was one of those senseless persons who were very well capable of looking after their worldly affairs. And apparently after nothing else. Theodore Pavlovitch for instance began with next to nothing. His estate was of the smallest. He ran to die in another men's tables and fastened on them as a toady. Yet at his death it appeared that he had a hundred thousand rubles and hard cash. At the same time he was all his life one of the most senseless, fantastical fellows in the whole district. I repeat, it was not stupidity. The majority of these fantastical fellows are shrewd and intelligent enough, but just senselessness and a peculiar national form of it. He was married twice and had three sons. The eldest Dimitri by his first wife, and two, Ivan and Alexi by his second. Theodore Pavlovitch's first wife, Adeleda Ivanovna, belonged to a fairly rich and distinguished noble family, also landowners in our district. The muse-solves. How it came to pass than an heiress, who is also a beauty, and moreover one of those vigorous, intelligent girls so common in this generation, but sometimes also to be found in the last, could have married such a worthless puny weakling, as we all called him. I won't attempt to explain. I knew a young lady of the last romantic generation, who after some years of an enigmatic passion for a gentleman, whom she might quite easily have married at any moment, invented insufferable obstacles to their union, and ended by throwing herself, one stormy night, into a rather deep and rapid river from a high bank. Almost a precipice, and so perished, entirely to satisfy her own caprice, and to be like Shakespeare's Ophelia. Indeed, if this precipice, a chosen and favorite spot of hers, had been less picked to ask, if there had been a prosaic, flat bank in its place. Most likely the suicide would never have taken place. This is a fact, and probably, there have not been a few similar instances in the last two or three generations. Adelena Yvonne for Musam's action was similarly no doubt an echo of other people's ideas, and was due to the irritation caused by lack of mental freedom. She wanted, perhaps, to show her feminine independence, to override class distinctions and the despotism of her family, and applyable imagination and persuaded her, we must suppose for a brief moment, that Feudor Pavlovich, in spite of his parasitic position, was one of the bold and their ironical spirits of that progressive epoch, though he was, in fact, an ill-natured buffoon and nothing more. What gave the marriage pickancy was that it was preceded by an elopement, and this greatly captivated Adelena Yvonne as fancy. Feudor Pavlovich's position at the time made him specially eager for any such enterprise, for he was passionately anxious to make a career in one way or another; to attach himself to a good family and obtain a dowry was an alluring prospect. As for mutual love, it did not exist, apparently, either in the bride or in him, in spite of Adelena Yvonne's beauty. This was perhaps a unique case of the kind in the life of Feudor Pavlovich, who was always of a voluptuous temper, and ready to run after any petticoat on the slightest encouragement. She seems to have been the only woman who made no particular appeal to his senses. Immediately after the elopement, Adelena Yvonne discerned in a flash that she had no feeling for her husband but contempt. The marriage accordingly showed itself in its true colors with extraordinary rapidity. Although the family accepted the event pretty quickly, and apportioned the runaway bride her dowry, the husband and wife began to lead a most disorderly life, and there were everlasting scenes between them. It was said that the young wife showed incomparably more generosity and dignity than Feudor Pavlovich, who, as is known, got hold of all her money up to twenty-five thousand rubles as soon as she had received it, so that those thousands were lost to her forever. The little village, and the rather fine townhouse which formed part of her dowry, he did his utmost for a long time to transfer to his name, by means of some deed of conveyance. He would probably have succeeded, merely from her moral fatigue and desire to get rid of him, and from the contempt and loathing he aroused by her persistent and shameless opportunity. But fortunately, Adeleda Ivanovna's family intervened and circumvented his greediness. It is known for a fact that frequent fights took place between the husband and wife, but rumor had it that Feudor Pavlovich did not beat his wife but was beaten by her. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, A Plenty, and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. It is Ryan here, and I have a question for you. What do you do when you win? Like are you a fist-pumper? A woohoo! A hand clap or a high-fiver? If you want to hone in on those winning moves, check out Chumba Casino. Choose from hundreds of social casino style games for your chance to redeem serious cash prizes. There are new game releases weekly plus free daily bonuses, so don't wait. Start having the most fun ever at Chumba Casino.com. Sponsored by Chumba Casino, no purchase necessary. VGW Group. Void were prohibited by law. 18 plus terms and conditions apply. For she was a hot-tempered, bold, dark-brown impatient woman, possessed of remarkable physical strength. Finally, she left the house and ran away from Theodore Pavlovitch with a destitute divinity student, leaving Mitzya, a child of three years old, in her husband's hands. Immediately, Theodore Pavlovitch introduced a regular harem into the house and abandoned himself to orgies of drunkenness. In the intervals, he used to drive all over the province, complaining tearfully to each and all of adelated Yvonneves having left him. Going into details, too disgraceful for a husband to mention, in regard to his own married life. What seemed to gratify him, and flatter his self-love most, was to play the ridiculous part of the injured husband, and to parade his woes with embellishments. One would think that you got a promotion, Theodore Pavlovitch, who seemed so pleased in spite of your sorrow, scoffers said to him. Many even added that he was glad of a new comic part in which to play the buffoon, and that it was simply to make it funnier, that he pretended to be unaware of his ludicrous position. But who knows, it may have been simplicity. At least he succeeded in getting on the track of his runaway wife. The poor woman turned out to be in Petersburg, where she had gone with her divinity student, and where she had thrown herself into a life of complete emancipation. Theodore Pavlovitch at once began bustling about making preparations to go to Petersburg, with what object he could not have self have said. He would perhaps have really gone. But having determined to do so, he felt at once entitled to fortify himself for the journey, by another bout of reckless drinking. And just at that time his wife's family received the news of her death in Petersburg. She had died quite suddenly in a garret, according to one story, of typhus, whereas another version had it of starvation. Theodore Pavlovitch was drunk when he heard of his wife's death, and the story is that he ran out into the street and began shouting with joy, raising his hands to heaven. Lord now let us thou thy servant depart in peace. But others say he wept without restraint like a little child, so much though that people were sorry for him, in spite of the repulsion he inspired. It is quite possible that both versions were true, that he rejoiced at his release, and at the same time wept for her who released him, as a general rule, people, even the wicked, are much more naive and simple harder than we suppose, and we ourselves are too. You can easily imagine what a father such a man could be, and how he would bring up his children. His behavior as a father was exactly what might be expected. He completely abandoned the child of his marriage with Adelaide at Ivanovna, not from Malice, nor because of his matrimonial grievances, but simply because he forgot him. While he was wearing everyone with his tears and complaints, and turning his house into a sink of debauchery, a faithful servant of the family, Gregori, took the three-year-old Mica into his care. If he hadn't looked after him, there would have been no one even to change the baby's little shirt. It happens moreover that the child's relations on his mother's side forgot him too at first. His grandfather was no longer living. His widow, Mica's grandmother, had moved to Moscow, and was seriously ill, while his daughters were married, so that Mica remained for almost a whole year in old Gregori's charge, and lived with him in the servant's cottage. But if his father had remembered him, he could not indeed have been altogether unaware of his existence. He would have sent him back to the cottage, as the child would only have been in the way of his debaucheries. But a cousin of Mica's mother, Piotr Alexander Vich-Musov, happened to return from Paris. He lived for many years afterwards abroad, but was at that time quite a young man, and distinguished among the Musovs, as a man of enlightened ideas and of European culture, who had been in the capitals and abroad. Towards the end of his life, he became a liberal of the type common in the 40s and 50s. In the course of his career, he had come into contact with many of the most liberal men of his epoch, both in Russia and abroad. He had known Prudhoon, and Buck Noonan, personally, and in his declining years was very fond of describing the three days of the Paris Revolution of February 1848, hinting that he himself had almost taken part in the fighting on the barricades. This was one of the most grateful recollections of his youth. He had an independent property of about a thousand souls to reckon in the old style. His splendid estate lay on the outskirts of our little town, and bordered on the lands of our famous monastery, with which Piotr Alexander Vich began an endless lawsuit, almost as soon as he came into the estate, concerning the rights of fishing in the river, or woodcutting in the forest, I don't know exactly which. He regarded it as his duty as a citizen and a man of culture, to open an attack upon the clericals. Hearing all about Adeleda Ivanovna, whom he, of course, remembered, and in whom he had at one time been interested. And learning of the existence of Mitya, he intervened in spite of all his youthful indignation and contempt for Fyodor Polovitch. He made the latter's acquaintance for the first time, and told him directly that he wished to undertake the child's education. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. Step into the world of power, loyalty, and luck. 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Feudor Pavlovich was all his life fond of acting, of suddenly playing an unexpected part, sometimes without any motive for doing so, and even to his own direct disadvantage, as for instance in the present case. This habit, however, is characteristic of a very great number of people, some of them very clever ones, not like Feudor Pavlovich. Piotor Alexandrovich carried the business through vigorously, and was appointed with Feudor Pavlovich, joint guardian of the child, who had a small property, a house and land, left him by his mother. Micha did, in fact, pass into this cousin's keeping, but as the latter had no family of his own, and after securing the revenues of his estates was in haste to return at once to Paris, he left the boy in charge of one of his cousins, a lady living in Moscow. It came to pass that settling permanently in Paris, he too forgot the child, especially when the revolution of February broke out, making an impression on his mind that he remembered all the rest of his life. The Moscow lady died, and Micha passed into the care of one of her married daughters. I believe he changed his home a fourth time later on. I won't enlarge upon that now, as I shall have much to tell later of Feudor Pavlovich's firstborn, and must confine myself now to the most essential facts about him, without which I could not begin my story. In the first place, this Micha, or rather Dimitri Feudorovich, was the only one of Feudor Pavlovich's three sons who grew up in the belief that he had property, and that he would be independent on coming of age. He spent an irregular boyhood and youth. He did not finish his studies at the gymnasium. He got into a military school, then went to the Caucasus, was promoted, fought a duel, and was degraded to the ranks, earned promotion again, led a wildlife, and spent a good deal of money. He did not begin to receive any income from Feudor Pavlovich until he came of age, and until then got into debt. He saw and knew his father Feudor Pavlovich for the first time on coming of age, when he visited our neighborhood on purpose, to settle with him about his property. He seems not to have liked his father, he did not stay long with him, and made haste to get away, having only succeeded in obtaining a sum of money, and entering into an agreement for future payments from the estate, of the revenues and value of which he was unable, a fact worthy of note, upon this occasion to get a statement from his father. Feudor Pavlovich remarked for the first time then, this too should be noted, that Mitsya had a vague and exaggerated idea of his property. Feudor Pavlovich was very well satisfied with this, and it fell in with his own designs. He gathered only that the young man was frivolous, unruly, of violent passions, impatient and dissipated, and that if he could only obtain ready money, he would be satisfied, although only of course, for a time. So Feudor Pavlovich began to take advantage of this fact, sending him from time to time small dolls, installments, in the end, when four years later Mitsya, losing patience, came a second time to our little town to settle up once and for all with his father. It turned out to his amazement, that he had nothing, that it was difficult to get an account even, that he had received the whole value of his property in sums of money from Feudor Pavlovich, and was perhaps even in debt to him, that by various agreements into which he had, of his own desire, entered at various previous states, he had no right to expect anything more, and so on, and so on. The young man was overwhelmed, suspected deceit and cheating, and was almost beside himself. And indeed this circumstance led to the catastrophe, the account of which forms the subject of my first introductory story, or rather the external side of it, but before I pass to that story, I must say a little of Feudor Pavlovich's other two sons, and of their orchard. This ends chapter two. Chapter three, the second marriage, and the second family. Very shortly after getting his four-year-old Mitsya off his hands, Feudor Pavlovich married a second time. His second marriage lasted eight years. He took this wife, Sophia Ivanovna, also a very young girl from another province, where he had gone upon some small piece of business in company with a Jew. Though Feudor Pavlovich was a drunkard, and a vicious debauche, he never neglected investing his capital, and managed his business of theirs very successfully, though no doubt, not over-scrupulously. Sophia Ivanovna was the daughter of an obscure deacon, and was left from childhood in orphan without relations. She grew up in the house of a general's widow, a wealthy old lady of good position, who was at once her benefactress and tormentor. I don't know the details, but I have only heard that the orphan girl, a meek and gentle creature, was once cut down from a halter in which she was hanging from a nail in the loft. So terrible were her sufferings from the caprice and everlasting nagging of this old woman, who was apparently not bad-hearted, but had become an insufferable tyrant through idleness. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. It is Ryan here and I have a question for you. What do you do when you win? Like are you a fist pumper? A woohoo, a hand clap or a highfiver? If you want to hone in on those winning moves, check out Chumba Casino. Choose from hundreds of social casino style games for your chance to redeem serious cash prizes. There are new game releases weekly plus free daily bonuses so don't wait. Start having the most fun ever at Chumba Casino.com. Sponsored by Chumba Casino, no purchase necessary. A V.G.W. Group, void work prohibited by law, 18 plus terms and conditions apply. Feudor Pavlovich made her an offer. Inqueries were made about him and he was refused. But again, as in his first marriage, he proposed an elopement to the orphan girl. There's very little doubt that she would not on any account have married him if she had known a little more about him in time. But she lived in another province. Besides, what could a little girl of 16 know about it? Except that she would be better at the bottom of a river than remaining with her benefactress. So the poor child exchanged a benefactress for a benefactor. Feudor Pavlovich did not get a penny this time, for the general's widow was furious. She gave them nothing and cursed them both, but he had not reckoned on endowary. What elured him was the remarkable beauty of the innocent girl. Above all, her innocent appearance, which had a peculiar attraction for a vicious prothligate, who had hitherto admired only the courser types of feminine beauty. Those innocent eyes slit my soul up like a razor, he used to say afterwards, with his loathsome snigger. In a man so depraved, this might, of course, mean no more than sensual attraction. As he had received no dowry with his wife, and had, so to speak, taken her from the halter, he did not stand on ceremony with her. Making her feel that she had wronged him, he took advantage of her phenomenal meekness and submissiveness to trample on the elementary decencies of marriage. He gathered loose women into his house and carried on orgies of debauchery in his wife's presence. To show what a past things had come to you, I may mention that Grigori, the gloomy, stupid, obstinate, argumentative servant who had always hated his first mistress, Adeleda Ivanovna, took the side of his new mistress. He championed her cause, abusing Feudor Pavlovich in a manner little befitting a servant. And on one occasion broke up the rebels and drove all the disorderly women out of the house. In the end the unhappy young woman, kept in terror from her childhood, fell into that kind of nervous disease, which is most frequently found in peasant women, who are said to be possessed by devils. At times after terrible fits of hysterics, she even lost her reason. Yet she bore Feudor Pavlovich two sons, Ivan and Alexi. The eldest in the first year of marriage, and the second three years later. When she died, little Alexi was in his fourth year, and strange as it seems, I know that he remembered his mother all his life like a dream, of course. At her death, almost exactly the same thing happened to the two little boys as to their elder brother Mitya. They were completely forgotten and abandoned by their father. They were looked after by the same Grigori and lived in his cottage. Where they were found by the tyrannical old lady who had brought up their mother. She was still alive and had not all those eight years forgotten the insult done her. All that time she was obtaining exact information as to her Sophia's manner of life, and hearing of her illness and hideous surroundings, she declared aloud two or three times to her retainers. It serves her right. God has punished her for her ingratitude. Exactly three months after Sophia Ivanovna's death, the General's widow suddenly appeared in our town, and went straight to Feodor Pavlovich's house. She spent only half an hour in the town, but she did a great deal. It was evening Feodor Pavlovich, whom she had not seen for those eight years, came into her drunk. The story is that instantly upon seeing him, without any sort of explanation, she gave him two good resounding slaps on the face, seized him by a tuft of hair, and shook him three times up and down. And without a word, she went straight to the cottage to the two boys. Seeing at the first glance that they were unwashed and in dirty linen, she promptly gave Grigori two a box on the ear, and announcing that she would carry off both the children she wrapped them just as they were in a rug, put them in the carriage, and drove off to her own town. Grigori accepted the blow like a devoted slave without a word, and when he escorted the old lady to her carriage, he made her a low bow, and pronounced impressively, that God would repay her for the orphans. You were a blockhead all the same, the lady shouted to him as she drove away. Feodor Pavlovich, thinking it over, decided that it was a good thing, and did not refuse the general widows, his formal consent, and any proposition in regard to his children's education. As for the slaps she had given him, he drove all over the town telling the story. It happened that the old lady died soon after this, but she left the boys in her will a thousand girls each, for their instruction, and so that all be spent on them exclusively, with the condition that it be so portioned out as to last till their twenty-one, for it is more than adequate provision for such children, if other people think fit to throw away their money, let them. I have not read the will myself, but I heard there was something queer of that sort, very whimsically expressed. The principal heir, Yafim Petrovich Polinov, the marshal of nobility of the province, turned out, however, to be an honest man. Writing to Feodor Pavlovich, and discerning at once that he could extract nothing from him for his children's education, though the latter never directly refused, but only procrastinated, as he always did in such cases, and was indeed at times effusively sentimental. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, A Plenty, and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. It is Ryan C. Crest here. 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He kept the two thousand rubles left to them by the general's widow intact, so that by the time they came of age their portions had been doubled by the accumulation of interest. He educated them both at his own expense, and certainly spent far more than a thousand rubles upon each of them. I won't enter into a detailed account of their boyhood and youth, but will only mention a few of the most important events. Of the elder, Ivan, I will only say that he grew into a somewhat morose and reserved, though far from timid boy. At ten years old he had realized that they were living not in their own home, but on other people's charity, and that their father was a man of whom it was disgraceful to speak. This boy began very early, almost in his infancy, so they say at least, to show a brilliant and unusual aptitude for learning. I don't know precisely why, but he left the family of Yafim Petrovich when he was hardly thirteen, entering a Moscow gymnasium, and boarding with an experienced and celebrated teacher, an old friend of Yafim Petrovich. Ivan used to declare afterwards that this was all due to the "arter for good works" of Yafim Petrovich, who was captivated by the idea that the boy's genius should be trained by a teacher of genius. But neither Yafim Petrovich nor this teacher was living when the young man finished at the gymnasium and entered the university. As Yafim Petrovich had made no provision for the pavement of the tyrannical old lady's legacy, which had grown from one thousand to two, it was delayed, owing to formalities inevitable in Russia, and the young man was in great straits for the first two years at the university, as he was forced to keep himself all the time he was studying. It must be noted that he did not even attempt to communicate with his father, perhaps from pride, from contempt for him, or perhaps from his cool common sense, which told him that such a father, he would get no real assistance from. However, that may have been, the young man was by no means despondent, and succeeded in getting work, at first giving six penny lessons, and afterwards getting paragraphs on street incidences into the newspaper under the signature of eyewitness. These paragraphs, it was said, were so interesting and picket that they were soon taken. This alone showed the young man's practical and intellectual superiority over the masses of needy and unfortunate students of both sexes who hang about the offices of the newspapers and journals, unable to think of anything better than everlasting entreaties for copying and translations from the French. Having once gotten to touch with the editors, Ivan Fiodorovich always kept up his connection with them, and in his latter years at the university, he published brilliant reviews of books upon various special subjects, so that he became well known in literary circles. But only in his last year, he suddenly succeeded in attracting the attention of a far wider circle of readers, so that a great many people noticed and remembered him. It was rather a curious incident, when he had just left the university and was preparing to go abroad upon his two thousand rubles, Ivan Fiodorovich, published in one of the more important journals, a strange article which attracted General Notis, on a subject of which he might have been supposed to know nothing, as he was a student of natural science. The article dealt with a subject which was being debated everywhere at the time, the position of the ecclesiastical courts. After discussing several opinions on the subject, he went on to explain his own view. What was most striking about the article was its tone and its unexpected conclusion. Many of the church party regarded him unquestionably as on their side, and yet not only the secularists, but even atheists joined them in the hair applause. Finally, some sagacious persons opined that the article was nothing but an impudent satirical burlesque. I mention this incident particularly because this article penetrated to the famous monastery in our neighborhood, where the inmates, being particularly interested in question of the ecclesiastical courts, were completely bewildered by it. Learning the author's name, they were interested in his being a native of the town and the son of that Fiodor Pavlovitch, and just then it was that the author himself made his appearance among us. Why Ivan Fiodorovich had come amongst us, I remember asking myself at the time with a certain uneasiness. This fateful visit, which was the first step leading to so many consequences, I never fully explained to myself. It seems strange on the face of it that a young man so learned, so proud and apparently so cautious, should suddenly visit such an infamous house, and a father who had ignored him all his life, hardly knew him, never thought of him, it would not under any circumstances have given him money, though he was always afraid that his sons Ivan Alexi would also come to ask him for it. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites, plus save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week, don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh, select varieties. 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I remember that he was more surprised than anyone when he made the acquaintance of the young man, who interested him extremely and with whom he sometimes argued and not without inner pang, compared himself in acquirements. "He is proud," he used to say. "He will never be in want of pence. He's got money enough to go abroad now. What does he want here? Everyone can see that he hasn't come for money, for his father would never give him any. He has no taste for drink and dissipation, and yet his father can't do without him. They get on so well together." That was the truth. The young man had an unmistakable influence over his father, who positively appeared to be behaving more decently, and even seemed at times ready to obey his son, though often extremely and even spitefully perverse. It was only later that we learned that Ivan had come partly at the request of, and in the interests of, his elder brother Dimitri, whom he saw for the first time on this very visit, though he had before leaving Moscow been in correspondence with him about an important matter of more concern to Dimitri than to himself. What that business was, the reader will learn fully in due time. Yet even when I did know of the special circumstance, I still felt Ivan Feudorovich to be an enigmatic figure, and thought his visit rather mysterious. I may add that Ivan appeared at the time in the light of a mediator between his father and his elder brother Dimitri, who was an open quarrel with his father and even planning to bring an action against him. The family, I repeat, was now united for the first time, and some of its members met for the first time in their lives. The younger brother Alexei had been a year already among us, having been the first of the three to arrive. It is of that brother Alexei. I find it most difficult to speak in this introduction. Yet I must give some preliminary account of him, if only to explain one queer fact, which is that I have to introduce my hero to the reader, wearing the cossack of a novice. Yes, he had been for the last year in our monastery, and seemed willing to be closer there for the rest of his life. This ends chapter 3. Book 1, chapter 4, the third son, Al-Yosha. He was only 20. His brother Ivan was in his 24th year at the time, while their elder brother Dimitri was 27. First of all, I must explain that this young man, Al-Yosha, was not a fanatic, and, in my opinion at least, was not even a mystic. I may as well give my full opinion from the beginning. He was simply an early lover of humanity, and that he adopted the monastic life, was simply because at that time it struck him, so to say, as the ideal escape for his soul, struggling from the darkness of worldly wickedness, to the light of love. And the reason this life struck him in this way was that he found in it, at that time, as he thought, an extraordinary being, our celebrated elder, Zosima, to whom he became attached with all the warm first love of his ardent heart. But I do not dispute that he was very strange, even at that time, and had been so indeed from his cradle. I have mentioned already, by the way, that, though he lost his mother in his fourth year, he remembered her all his life, her face, her caresses, as though she stood living before me. Such memories may persist, as everyone knows, from an even earlier age, even from two years old, but scarcely standing out through a whole lifetime, like spots of light out of darkness, like a corner torn out of a huge picture, which has all faded and disappeared, except that fragment. That is how it was with him. He remembered one still summer evening, an open window, the slanting rays of the setting sun, that he'll recall to most vividly of all. In a corner of the room, the holy image, before it a lighted lamp, and on her knees, before the image, his mother, sobbing hysterically with cries and moans, snatching him up in both arms, squeezing him close till it hurt, and praying for him to the mother of God, holding him out in both arms, to the image, as though to put him under the mother's protection, and suddenly a nurse runs in, and snatches him from her in terror. That was the picture, and I sure remember his mother's face at that minute. He used to say that it was fancy to put beautiful as he remembered, but he rarely cared to speak of his memory to anyone. In his childhood and youth, he was by no means expansive and talked little indeed, but not from shyness or a sullen unsociability, quite a contrary, from something different, from a sort of inopoe occupation, entirely personal, and unconcerned with other people, but so important to him that he seemed, as it were, to forget others on account of it, but he was fond of people. He seemed, throughout his life, to put implicit trust in people, yet no one ever looked on him as a simpleton or naive person. There was something about him which made one feel at once, and it was so always life afterwards, that he did not care to be a judge of others, that he would never take it upon himself to criticize and would never condemn anyone for anything. He seemed indeed to accept everything without the least condemnation, though often grieving bitterly, and this was so much so that no one could surprise or frighten him, even in his earliest youth. Coming at twenty to his father's house, which was a very sink of filthy debauchery, he, chased and pure as he was, simply withdrew in silence, when to look on was unbearable, but without a slightest sign of contempt or condemnation. His father, who had once been in a dependent position, and so was sensitive and ready to take offense, made him at first with distrust and solowness. He does not say much, he used to say, and thinks the more, but soon, within a fortnight indeed, he took to embracing him and kissing him terribly often, with drunken tears, with such a sentimentality, yet he evidently felt a real and deep affection for him, such as he had never been capable of feeling for anyone before. Everyone, indeed, loved this young man, whatever he went, and it was so from his earliest childhood. When he entered the household of his patron and benefactor, Yifim Petrovich Polianov, he gained the hearts of all the family, so that he looked on him quite as their own child. Yet, he entered the house at such a tender age, that he could not have acted from design, nor artfulness, in winning affection. So, that the gift of making himself loved directly and unconsciously was inherent in him, in his very nature, so to speak. It was the same at school, though he seemed to be just one of those children who are distrusted, sometimes ridiculed, and even disliked by the school fellows. He was dreamy, for instance, and rather solitary. From his earliest childhood, he was fond of creeping into a corner to read, and yet he was a general favourite, or the while he was, at school. He was rarely playful or merry, but anyone could see, at the first glance, that this was not from any solenice. On the contrary, he was bright and good-tempered; he never tried to show off among his school fellows. Perhaps, because of this, he was never afraid of anyone. Yet, the boys immediately understood that he was not proud of his fearlessness, and seemed to be unaware that he was bold and courageous. He never resented an insult. It would happen that, an hour after the offence, he would address the offender, or answer some question, with a stressful and candid an expression, as though nothing had happened between them. And it was not that he seemed to have forgotten, or intentionally forgiven the affront, but simply that he did not regard it as an affront, and this completely conquered and captivated the boys. He had one characteristic which made all his school fellows, from the bottom class to the top, warned to mock at him, not from Alice, but because it amused him. This characteristic was a wild fanatical modesty and chastity. He could not bear to hear certain words, and certain conversations about women. There are certain words and conversations, unhappily impossible to eradicate in schools. Boys, pure in mind and heart, almost children, are fond of talking in school among themselves, and even a lot of things, pictures, and images of which even soldiers would sometimes hesitate to speak. More than that, much that soldiers have no knowledge or conception of is familiar to quite young children of our intellectual and higher classes. There is no moral depravity, no real corrupt inner cynicism in it, but there is the appearance of it, and it is often looked upon among them as something refined, subtle, daring, and worthy of imitation. Seeing that Al-Yosha Karamazov put his fingers in his ears when he talked of that, they used sometimes to crowd around him, pull his hands away, and shout nastiness into both ears, while he struggled, slipped to the floor, tried to hide himself with that uttering one word of abuse enduring their insults in silence. But at last they left him alone and gave up taunting him with being a regular girl, and what's more, they looked upon it with compassion as a weakness. He was always one of the best in the class, but was never first. At the time of Yefim Petrovich, death, Al-Yosha had two more years to complete at a preferential gymnasium. The inconserable widow went almost immediately after his death for a long visit to Italy with her whole family, which consisted only of women and girls. Al-Yosha went to live in the house of two distant relations of Yefim Petrovich, ladies whom he had never seen before. On what term she lived with him, he did not know himself. It was very characteristic of him indeed that he never cared at whose expense he was living. In that respect, he was a striking contrast to his elder brother Ivan, who struggled with poverty for his first two years in university, maintained himself by his own efforts, and had from childhood been bitterly conscious of living at the expense of his benefactor. But this strange trait in Al-Yosha's character must not, I think, criticized too severely. For at the slightest acquaintance with him, anyone would have perceived that Al-Yosha was one of those youths, almost of the type of religious enthusiast, who, if they were suddenly to come into possession of a large fortune, would not hesitate to give it away for the asking, either for good works, or perhaps to a clever rogue. In general, he seems scarcely to know the value of money, not, of course, in a literal sense. When he was given pocket money, which he never asked for, he was either terribly careless of it, so that it was gone in a moment, or he kept it for weeks together, not knowing what to do with it. In later years, Jotar Aleksandruj Musov, a man very sensitive on the score of money, and bourgeois honesty, pronounced the following judgment after getting to know Al-Yosha. Here is perhaps the one man in the world whom you might leave alone without a penny in the center of an unknown town of a million inhabitants. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites, plus save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon Saver, 365 by Whole Foods Market, A Plenty, and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. Hello, it is Ryan, and we could all use an extra bright spot in our day, couldn't we? Just to make up for things like sitting in traffic, doing the dishes, counting your steps, you know, all the mundane stuff. 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The journey was not an expensive one, and the ladies would not let him pawn his watch, apart in present from his benefactor's family. They provided him liberally with money, and even fitted him out with new clothes and linen. But he returned half the money they gave him, saying that he intended to go third class. On his arrival in the town, he made no answer to his father's first inquiry why he had come before completing his studies, and seemed, so they say, unusually thoughtful. It soon became apparent that he was looking for his mother's tomb. He practically acknowledged how the time that that was the only object of his visit. But it can hardly have been the whole reason of it. It is more probable that he himself did not understand and could not explain what had suddenly arisen in his soul, and drawn him irresistibly into a new, unknown, but inevitable path. Fjordor Paulovic could not show him where his second wife has buried, for he had never visited a grave since he had thrown earth on a coffin, and in the course of years, had entirely forgotten where she was buried. Fjordor Paulovic, by the way, had for some time previously not been living in our town. Three or four years after his wife's death, he had gone to the south of Russia, and finally turned up in Odessa, where he spent several years. He made the acquaintance at first, in his own words, of a lot of low Jews, Jewesses and Jukins, and ended by being received by Jews high and low alike. It may be presumed that at this period he developed a peculiar faculty for making and hoarding money. He finally returned to our town only three years before Alyosha's arrival. His former acquaintances found him looking terribly aged, although he was by no means an old man. He behaved not exactly with more dignity, but with more affrontary. The former buffoon showed an insolent propensity for making buffoons of others. His depravity with women was not as it used to be, but even more revolting. In a short time, he opened a great number of new taverns in the district. It was evident that he had perhaps a hundred thousand rubles, or not much less. Many of the inhabitants of the town and district were soon in his debt, and, of course, had given good security. Of late, too, he looked at somehow bloated, and seemed more irresponsible, more uneven, that sunk into a sort of incoherence, used to begin one thing and go on with another, as though he were letting himself go all together. He was more and more frequently drunk, and, if it had not been for the same servant Grigori, who, by the time it aged considerably, too, and used to look after him, sometimes almost like a tutor, Kordo Pavlovitch might have got into terrible scrapes. A Yotius' arrival seemed to affect even his moral side, as though something had awakened in this prematurely old man, which had long been dead in his soul. "Do you know," he used often to say, looking at Al-Yosha, "that you are like her, a crazy woman." That was what he used to call his dead wife, Al-Yosha's mother. Grigori, it was, who pointed out, the crazy woman's grave to Al-Yosha. He took him to our town cemetery, and showed him in a remote corner a cast iron tombstone, cheap, but decently kept, on which were inscribed the name and age of the deceased, and the date of a death, and below a four-light verse, such as are commonly used on old-fashioned middle-class tombs. "Do yosha's amazement," this tomb turned out to be Grigori's doing. Yet put it up on the poor, crazy woman's grave at his own expense, after Fjorda Paolovic, whom he had often pestered about the grave, had gone to Odessa, abandoning the grave and all his memories. Al-Yosha showed no particular emotion at the sight of his mother's grave. He only listened to Grigori's minute and solemn account of the erection of the tomb. He stood with bowed head and walked away without uttering a word. It was perhaps a year before he visited the cemetery again. But this little episode was not without an influence upon Fjorda Paolovic, and a very original one. He suddenly took a thousand troubles to our monastery to pay for requiem's for the soul of his wife, but not for the second Al-Yosha's mother, the crazy woman, but for the first, and later Ivanovna, who used to thrash him. In the evening of the same day, he got drunk and abused the monks to Al-Yosha. He himself was far from being religious, yet probably never put a penny candle before the image of a saint. Strange impulses of sudden feeling and sudden thought are common in such types. I have mentioned already that he looked bloated. His countenance, at this time, bore traces of something that testified unmistakably to the life he had led. Besides, the long fleshy bags under his little are with insulin, suspicious, and ironical eyes. Besides, the multitude of deep wrinkles in this little fat face, the Adam's apple hung below his sharp chin like a great fleshy goiter, which gave him a peculiar repulsive, sensual appearance. Add to that a long, rapacious mouth, with full lips between which could be seen little stumps of black, decayed teeth. His slobbered every time he began to speak. He was fond indeed of making fun of his own face, though, I believe, he was well satisfied with it. He used particularly to point to his nose, which was not very large, but very delicate, and conspicuously aquiline. A regular Roman nose, he used to say. With my goiter, I've quite the countenance of an ancient Roman patrician of the decadent period. He seemed proud of it. Not long after visiting his mother's grave, Ayosha suddenly announced that he wanted to enter the monastery, and that the monks were willing to receive him as a novice. He explained that this was his strong desire, and that he was solemnly asking his consent as his father. The old man knew that the elder Zosima, who was living in a monastery hermitage, had made a special impression upon his gentle boy. That is the most honest monk among them, of course, he observed after listening in thoughtful silence to Ayosha, and seeming scarcely surprised at his request. So that's where you want to be, my gentle boy. He was half drunk, and suddenly he grinned his slow, half-drunken grin, which was smot without a certain cunning and tipsy slyness. I had a presentiment that you would end in something like this. Would you believe it? You were making straight for it. Well, to be sure you have your own two thousand. That's a dowry for you, and I'll never desert you, my angel, and I'll pay what's wanted for you there, if they ask for it. But of course, if they don't ask, why shall we worry them? What do you say? You know, you spend money like a canary to grains a week. Do you know that near one monastery there's a place outside the town, where every baby knows there are none but the monk's wives living, as they are called? Thirty women, I believe. I have been there myself. You know, it's interesting in its way, of course, as a variety. The worst of it is, it's awfully Russian. There are no French women there. Of course, they could get them fast enough, and they have plenty of money. If they get to hear of it, they'll come along. Well, there's nothing of that sort here, no monk's wives, and two hundred monks. They're honest. They keep the fasts. I admit it. So you want to be a monk? And do you know I'm so delusional, Yorsha? Would you believe it? I've really grown fond of you. Well, there's a good opportunity. You'll pray for us sinners. We are sinned too much here. I've always been thinking who would pray for me, and whether there's anyone in the world to do it. My dear boy, I'm awfully stupid about that. He wouldn't believe it, awfully. You see, however stupid I am about it, I keep thinking. I keep thinking from time to time, of course, not all the while. It's impossible, I think, for the devils to forget to drag me down to hell with their hooks when I die. Then I wonder, hooks, where would they get them? What of? Iron hooks? Where do they forge them? Have they found you there or some sort? The monks in the monastery probably believe there's a ceiling in hell, for instance. Now I'm ready to believe in hell, but without a ceiling. It makes it more refined, more enlightened, more Lutheran, that is. And after all, what does it matter whether it has a ceiling or hasn't? But do you know, there's a damnable question involved in it. If there's no ceiling, there can be no hooks, and if there are no hooks, it all breaks down, which is unlikely again. For then, there would be none to drag me down to hell, and if they don't drag me down, what justice is there in the world? In Fotrelles Avanti, those hooks, on purpose for me alone, for if you only knew Al-Yosha or the Blackguard, I am. Translator's note, it would be necessary to invent them. But there are no hooks there, said Al-Yosha, looking gently and seriously at his father. "Yes, yes. Only the shadows of hooks. I know, I know. That's our Frenchman described hell. Je vous l'omre d'encourche, que vous l'omre d'une de bros, forte l'omre d'une carros." Translator's note, I've seen a shadow of a coachman, rubbing the shadow of a coach with a shadow of a brush. How do you know there are no hooks, darling, when you've lived at the monks, you'll sing a different tune, but go, and get out the truth there, and then come and tell me. Anyway, it's easier to go to the other world if one knows what there is there. Besides, it will be more seemingly for you with the monks than he with me, or the drunken old man and young harlots, though you're like an angel. Nothing touches you, and I dare say nothing will touch you there. That's why I let you go, because I hope for that. You've got all your wits about you. You will burn, and you will burn out. You will be healed and come back again, and I will wait for you. I feel that you're the only creature in the world who has not condemned me. My dear boy, I feel it, you know. I can't help feeling it, and he even began blubbering. He was sentimental, he was wicked, and sentimental. End of chapter four. Chapter five. Elders. Some of my readers may imagine that my young man was a sickly, aesthetic, poorly developed creature. Pale, consumptive dreamer. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? 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On the contrary, Al Yosha was at this time a well-grown, red-cheeked, clear-eyed lad of 19, radiant with health. He was very handsome too, graceful, moderately tall, with hair of a dark brown, with a regular, rather long, oval-shaped face, and wide-set, dark gray, shining eyes. He was very thoughtful, and apparently very serene. I shall be told, perhaps, that red-cheeks are not incompatible with fanaticism and mysticism. But I fancy that Al Yosha was more of a realist than anyone. Oh, no doubt, in the monastery, he fully believed in miracles. But to my thinking, miracles are never a stumbling block to the realist. It is not miracles that dispose realists to believe. The genuine realist, if he is an unbeliever, will always find strength and ability to disbelieve in the miraculous, and if he is confronted with a miracle as an irrefutable fact, he would rather disbelieve his own senses that admit that fact. Even if he admits it, he admits it as a fact of nature, till he unrecognized by him. Faith does not, in the realists spring from the miracle, but the miracle from faith. If the realist once believes, then he is bound by his very realism to admit the miraculous also. The apostle Thomas said that he would not believe till he saw, but when he did see, he said, "My lord and my god." Was it the miracle forced him to believe? Most likely not, but he believed solely because he desired to believe, and possibly fully believed in his secret heart, even when he said, "I do not believe till I see. I shall be told perhaps that Ayasha was stupid, undeveloped, had not finished his studies," and so on, that he did not finish his studies as true, but to say that he was stupid or dull would be a great injustice. I will simply repeat what I have said above. He entered upon this path only because, at that time, it alone struck his imagination, and presented itself to him as offering an ideal means of escape for his soul from darkness to light. Add to that that he was to some extent a youth of our last epoch, that is, honest in nature, desiring the truth, seeking for it, and believing in it, and seeking to serve it at once with all the strength of his soul, seeking for immediate action, and ready to sacrifice everything, life itself for it. Though these young men unhappily fail to understand that the sacrifice of life is, in many cases, the easiest of all sacrifices, and that is a sacrifice, for instance, five or six years of their seething youth to hard and tedious study, if only to multiply tenfold their powers of serving the truth and the cause they have set before them as their goal, such as sacrifices utterly beyond the strength of many of them. The path that Ayasha chose was a path going in the opposite direction, but he chose it with the same thirst for swift achievement. As soon as he reflected seriously, he was convinced of the existence of God and immortality, and at once he instinctively said to himself, "I want to live for immortality, and I will accept no compromise." In the same way, if he had decided that God and immortality did not exist, he would at once have become an atheist and a socialist. For socialism is not merely the labor question, it is before all things the atheistic question. The question of the form taken by atheism today, the question of the tower of Babel, built without God, not to mount to heaven from earth, but to set up heaven on earth. Ayasha would have found it strange and impossible to go on living as before. It is written, "Give all that thou hast to the poor and follow me, if thou wouldst be perfect." Ayasha said to himself, "I can't give two rubles instead of all, and only to go to Mass instead of following him. Perhaps his memories of childhood brought back our monastery, to which his mother may have taken him to Mass. Perhaps that slanting sunlight, and the holy image to which his poor, crazy mother had held him up to, still acted upon his imagination. Brooding on these things, he may have come to us perhaps only to see whether he could sacrifice all or only two rubles, and in the monastery he met this elder. I must digress to explain what an elder is in Russian monasteries, and I am sorry that I do not feel very competent to do so. I will try, however, to give a superficial account of it in a few words. Authorities on the subject assert that the institution of elders is of recent date, not more than a hundred years old in our monasteries, though when in the Orthodox East, especially in Sinai and Athos, it has existed over a thousand years. It is maintained that it existed in ancient times in Russia also, but through the calamities which overtook Russia, the Tartars, Civil War, the interruption of relations with the East after the destruction of Constantinople, this institution fell into oblivion. It was revived among us towards the end of the last century by one of the great ascetics, as they called him, Pase village Kofsky, and his disciples, but to this day it exists in few monasteries only, and has sometimes been almost persecuted as an innovation in Russia. It flourished especially in the celebrated kazelkkski optsine monastery, when and how it was introduced into our monastery, I cannot say. There had already been three such elders, and Zostima was the last of them. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? 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The question for our monastery was an important one, for it had not been distinguished by anything in particular till then. They had neither relics of saints, nor wonder working icons, nor glorious traditions, nor historical exploits. It had flourished and had been glorious all over Russia through its elders, to see and hear whom pilgrims had flocked for thousands of miles from all parts. What was such an elder? An elder was one who took your soul, your will, into his soul, and his will. When you choose an elder, you renounce your own will and yield it to him in complete submission, complete self-abnegation, this nivisciate, this terrible school of abnegation, is undertaken voluntarily in the hope of self-conquest, or self-mastery, in order after a life of obedience, to attain perfect freedom, that is, from self, to escape the lot of those who have lived their whole life without finding their true selves in themselves. This institution of elders is not founded on theory, but was established in the east from the practice of a thousand years. The obligations due to an elder are not the ordinary obedience, which has always existed in our Russian monasteries. The obligation involves confession to the elder by all who have submitted themselves to him, and to the insoluble bond between him and them. The story is told, for instance, that in the early days of Christianity, one such novice, failing to fulfill some command laid upon him by his elder, left his monastery in Syria and went to Egypt. Thereafter great exploits, he was found worthy, at least, to suffer torture and a martyr's death for his faith. When the church, regarding him as a saint, was burying him, suddenly at the deacon's exhortation, the part all ye unvaptized. The coffin containing the martyr's body left its place and was cast forth from the church, and this took place three times. And only at last they learned that this holy man had broken his vow of obedience and left his elder, and therefore could not be forgiven without the elder's absolution in spite of his great deeds. Only after this could the funeral take place. This, of course, is only an old legend, but here is a recent instant. A monk was suddenly commanded by his elder to quit Athos, which he loved as a sacred place, and a haven of refuge, and to go first to Jerusalem, to do homage to the holy places, and then to go north to Siberia. There is the place for thee and not here. The monk overwhelmed with sorrow went to the ecumenical patriarch at Constantinople and besought him to release him from his obedience. But the patriarch replied that not only was he unable to release him, but there was not, it could not be on earth a power which could release him, except the elder who had himself laid that duty upon him. In this way the elders are endowed in certain cases with unbounded and inexplicable authority. That is why, in many of our monasteries, the institution was at first resisted almost to persecution. Meantime, the elders immediately began to be highly esteemed among the people. Masses of the ignorant people, as well as of the distinguished and flocked, for instance, to the elders of our monastery to confess their doubts, their sins and their sufferings, and to ask for counsel and admonition. Seeing this, the opponents of the elders declared that the sacrament of confession was being arbitrarily and frivolously degraded, though the continual opening of the heart to the elder by the monk, or the layman, had nothing of the character of the sacrament. In the end, however, the institution of elders has been retained, and is becoming established in Russian monasteries. It is true, perhaps, that this instrument, which had stood the test of thousand years for the moral regeneration of a man from slavery to freedom, and to moral perfectibility, may be a two-edged weapon, and it may lead some not to humility and complete self-control, but to the most satanic pride, that is, to bondage and not to freedom. The elder Zosima was sixty-five. He came of a family of landowners and had been in the army in his early youth, and served in the Caucasus as an officer. He had no doubt impressed Al-Yosha by some peculiar quality of his soul. Al-Yosha lived in the cell of the elder, who was very fond of him, and let him wait upon him. It must be noted that Al-Yosha was bound by no obligation, and could go where he pleased, and be absent for whole days. Though he wore the monastic dress, it was voluntarily not to be different from the others. No doubt he liked to do so. Possibly his youthful imagination was deeply stirred by the power and fame of his elder. It was said that so many people had for years past come to confess their sins to Fr. Zosima, and to entreat him for words of advice and healing, that he had acquired the keenest intuition and could tell from an unknown face what a newcomer wanted, and what was the suffering on his conscience. He sometimes astounded and almost alarmed his visitors by his knowledge of their secrets before they had spoken a word. Al-Yosha noticed that many, almost all, went into the elder for the first time with apprehension and uneasiness, but came out with bright and happy faces. Al-Yosha was particularly struck by the fact that Fr. Zosima was not at all stern. On the contrary, he was almost always gay. The monks used to say that he was more drawn to those who were more sinful, and the greater the sinner, the more he loved them. There were no doubt to the end of his life, among the monks, some who hated and envied him, but they were few in number, and they were silent, though among them were some of great dignity in the monastery. One, for instance, of the older monks distinguished for his strict keeping of fasts and vows of silence. But the majority were on Fr. Zosima's side, and very many of them loved him with all their hearts, warmly and sincerely, some were almost fanatically devoted to him, and declared, though not quite allowed, that he was a saint, that there could be no doubt of it, and seeing that his end was near, they anticipated miracles and great glory to the monastery in the immediate future from his relics. Al-Yosha had unquestioning faith in the miraculous power of the elder, just as he had unquestioning faith in the story of the coffin that flew out of the church. He saw many who came with sick children or relatives, and besought the elder to lay hands on them and to pray over them, return shortly after, some the next day, and falling in tears at the elder's feet, thank him for healing their sick. Whether they had really been healed or were simply better in the natural course of the disease was a question which did not exist for Al-Yosha, for he fully believed in the spiritual power of his teacher and rejoiced in his fame, in his glory, as though it were his own triumph. His heart throbbed, and he beamed, as it were all over when the elder came out to the gates of the hermitage, into the wading crowd of pilgrims of the humbler class who had flocked from all parts of Russia, on purpose to see the elder, and obtain his blessing. They fell down before him, wept, kissed his feet, kissed the earth on which he stood, and wailed, while the women held up their children to him, and brought him the sick, possessed with devils. 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See terms and conditions, 18-plus. Of late, he had become so weak through attacks of illness that he was sometimes unable to leave his cell, and the pilgrims waited for him to come out for several days. Al-Yasha did not wonder why they loved him so, why they fell down before him and wept with emotion, merely at seeing his face. Oh, he understood that for the humble soul of the Russian peasants, worn out by grief and toil, and still more by the everlasting injustice and everlasting sin, his own and the worlds. It was the greatest need and comfort to find someone who were something holy to fall down before in worship. Among us there is sin, injustice, and temptation, but yet somewhere on earth there is someone holy and exalted. He has the truth. He knows the truth, so it is not dead upon the earth. So it will come one day to us too, and rule over all the earth according to the promise. Al-Yasha knew that this was just how the people felt, and even reasoned. He understood it, but that the Elder Zosimo was this saint and custodian of God's truth, of that he had no more doubt than the weeping peasants and the sick women who held out their children to the elder. The conviction that after his death the elder would bring extraordinary glory to the monastery was even stronger in Al-Yasha than in anyone there, and of late, a kind of deep flame of inner ecstasy burnt more and more strongly in his heart. He was not at all troubled at this elder standing as a solitary example before him. No matter, he is holy. He carries in his heart the secret of renewal for all. That power which will, at last, establish truth on the earth, in all men will be holy and loved one another, and there will be no more rich, nor poor, nor exalted, nor humbled, but all will be as children of God, and the true kingdom of Christ will come. That was the dream in Al-Yasha's heart. The arrival of his two brothers whom he had not known till then seemed to make a great impression on Al-Yasha. He more quickly made friends with his half-brother Dimitri, though he arrived later, than with his own brother Ivan. He was extremely interested in his brother Ivan, but when the latter had been two months in the town, though they had met fairly often, they were still not intimate. Al-Yasha was naturally silent, and he seemed to be expecting something, ashamed about something, while his brother Ivan, though Al-Yasha noticed at first that he looked long and curiously at him, seemed soon to have left off thinking of him. Al-Yasha noticed it with some embarrassment. He ascribed his brothers indifference at first to the disparity of their age and education, but he also wondered whether the absence of curiosity and sympathy in Ivan might be due to some other cause entirely unknown to him. He kept venting that Ivan was absorbed in something, something inward and important, that he was striving towards some goal, perhaps very hard to attain, and that that was why he had no thought for him. Al-Yasha wondered too whether there was not some contempt in the part of the learned atheist for him, a foolish novice. He knew for certain that his brother wasn't atheist. He could not take offense at this contempt, if it existed, yet, with an uneasy embarrassment which he did not himself understand, he waited for his brother to come nearer to him. Dimitri used to speak of Ivan with the deepest respect and with a peculiar earnestness. From him Al-Yasha learned all the details of the important affair which had of late formed such a close and remarkable bond between the two elder brothers. Dimitri's enthusiastic references to Ivan were the more striking in Al-Yasha's eyes, since Dimitri was, compared to Ivan, almost uneducated, and the two brothers were such a contrast in personality and character that it would be difficult to find two men more unlike. It was at this time that the meeting, or rather gathering of the members of this inharmonious family, took place in the cell of the elder who had such an extraordinary influence on Al-Yasha. The pretext for this gathering was a false one. It was at this time that the discord between Dimitri and his father seemed at its acuteest stage and their relations had become insufferably strained. Feudropolovich seems to have been the first to suggest, apparently in joke, that they should all meet in Father Zosima's cell, and that without appealing to his direct intervention, they might more decently come to an understanding under the conciliating influence of the elder's presence. Dimitri, who had never seen the elder, naturally supposed that his father was trying to intimidate him, but as he secretly blamed himself for his outbursts of temper with his father on several recent occasions, he accepted the challenge. It must be noted that he was not like Ivan, staying with his father, but living apart at the other end of the town. It happened that Pierdora Alexandrovitz Musov, who was staying in the district at the time, caught eagerly at the idea. A liberal of the 40s and 50s, a free thinker and atheist, he may have been led on by boredom, or the hope of frivolous diversion. He was suddenly seized with the desire to see the monastery and the holy man. As his lawsuit with the monastery still dragged on, he made it the pretext for seeing the superior, in order to attempt to settle it amicably. A visitor coming with such laudable intentions might be received with more attention and consideration than if he came from simple curiosity. Influences from within the monastery were brought to bear on the elder, who of late had scarcely left his cell and had been forced by illness to deny even his ordinary visitors. In the end, he consented to see them, and the day was fixed. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. How to Have Fun. Anytime. Anywhere. Step 1. Go to Chumbukasino.com. Chumbukasino.com. Got it. Step 2. Collect your welcome bonus. Come to top of welcome bonus. Step 3. Play hundreds of casino-style games for free. That's a lot of games, all for free. Step 4. Unleash your excitement. Chumbukasino has been delivering thrills for over a decade, so claim your free welcome bonus now, and live the Chumba life. Visit chumbukasino.com. Who has made me a judge over them? Was all he said, smilingly to Allyasha. Allyasha was much perturbed when he heard of the proposed visit. Of all the wrangling, quarrelsome party, Dimitri was the only one whom he could regard the interview seriously. All the others would come from fabulous motives, perhaps insulting to the elder. Allyasha was well aware of that. Yvonne and Musov would come from curiosity, perhaps of the corsest kind, while his father might be contemplating some piece of buffoonery. Though he said nothing, Allyasha thoroughly understood his father. The boy, I repeat, was far from being so simple as everyone thought him. He awaited the day with a heavy heart. No doubt he was always pondering in his mind how the family discord could be ended, but his chief anxiety concerned the elder. He trembled for him, for his glory, and dreaded any affront to him, especially the refined, courteous irony of Musov and the supercilious half utterances of the highly educated Yvonne. He even wanted to venture on warning the elder, telling him something about them. But on second thought said nothing. He only sent word the day before, through a friend to his brother Dimitri, that he loved him and expected him to keep his promise. Dimitri wondered for he could not remember what he had promised, but he answered by letter that he would do his utmost not to let himself be provoked by vileness, but that, although he had a deep respect for the elder and for his brother Yvonne, he was convinced that the meaning was either a trap for him or an unworthy farce. Nevertheless, I would rather bite out my tongue than be lacking in respect to the sainted man whom you revere so highly, he wrote, in conclusion, although Allyasha was not greatly cheered by the letter. This ends Chapter 5. Book 2 An Unfortunate Gathering Chapter 1 They arrive at the Monastery It was a warm bright day at the end of August. The interview with the elder had been fixed for half past eleven, immediately after late Mass. Our visitors did not take part in the service, but arrived just as it was over. First an elegant open carriage drawn by two valuable horses, drove up with Musov, and a distant relative of his, a young man of twenty, called Pyotr Fomovich Kaldganov. This young man was preparing to enter the university, Musov, with whom he was staying for the time, was trying to persuade him to go abroad to the University of Zurich or Jenna. The young man was still undecided, he was thoughtful and absent minded, he was nice looking, strongly built, and rather tall. There was a strange fixicity in his gaze at times. Like all very absent-minded people, he would sometimes stare at a person without seeing him. He was silent and rather awkward, but sometimes when he was alone with anyone, he became talkative and effusive, and would laugh at anything or nothing. But his animation vanished as quickly as it appeared. He was always well and even elaborately dressed. He had already some independent fortune and expectations of much more. He was a friend of Al-Yosha's. In an ancient, jolting but roomy, hired carriage, with a pair of old pinkish grey horses, a long way behind Musov's carriage, came Pyotr Fomovich with his son Ivan. Dimitri was late, though he had been informed of the time the evening before. The visitors left their carriage at the hotel, outside the pre-six, and went to the gates of the monastery on foot. Except Pyotr Fomovich, none of the party had ever seen the monastery, and Musov had probably not even been to church for thirty years. He looked about him with curiosity, together with assumed ease. But except the church, and the domestic buildings, though these two were ordinary enough, he found nothing of interest in the interior of the monastery. The last of the worshipers were coming out of the church, bareheaded and crossing themselves. Among the humbler people were a few of higher rank, two or three ladies, and a very old general. They were all staying at the hotel. Our visitors were at once surrounded by beggars, but none of them gave them anything, except young Kalganov, who took a ten-kobec piece out of his purse, and nervous and embarrassed, God knows why. Hurriedly gave it to an old woman, saying, "Dwighted equally." None of his companions made any remark upon it, so that he had no reason to be embarrassed. But perceiving this, he was even more overcome. It was strange that their arrival did not seem expected, and that they were not received with special honor, though one of them had recently made a donation of a thousand rubles, while another was a very wealthy and highly cultured landowner, upon whom all in the monastery were in a sense dependent. As a decision of the lawsuit might at any moment put their fishing rights in his hands, yet no official personage met them. Musov looked absentmindedly at the tombstones round the church, and was on the point of saying that the dead buried here must have paid a pretty penny for the right of lying in this holy place. But refrained, his liberal irony was rapidly changing almost into anger. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, Aplenty, and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. Ryan Seacrest here. When you have a busy schedule, it's important to maximize your downtime. One of the best ways to do that is by going to ChumbahCasino.com. ChumbahCasino has all your favorite social casino games, like spin slots, bingo, and solitaire that you can play for free for a chance to redeem some serious prizes. So hop on to ChumbahCasino.com now and live the Chumbah life. Sponsored by ChumbahCasino. No purchase necessary. VGW Group. Void we're prohibited by law. 18 plus terms and conditions apply. Who the devil is there to ask in this imbecile place? We must find out for time is passing. He observed suddenly as they're speaking to himself. All at once there came up a bald-headed elderly man with ingratiating little eyes, wearing a full summer overcoat. Lifting his hat, he introduced himself with a honeyed lisp as Maximov, a landowner of Tula. He had once entered into our visitor's difficulty. Father Zosima lives in the hermitage, a part, 400 paces from the monastery, the other side of the cops. I know it's the other side of the cops, observed fear to a public bitch, but we don't remember the way. It's a long time since we've been here. This way, by this gate and straight across the cops. The cops. Come with me, won't you all show you? I have to go. I'm going myself this way, this way. They came out of the gate and turned towards the cops. Maximov, a man of 60, ran rather than walked, turning sideways to stare at them all with an incredible degree of nervous curiosity. His eyes looked starting out of his head. "You see, we have come to the elder upon business of our own," observed Musov severely. "That person who has granted us an audience, so to speak. And so, though we thank you for showing us the way, we cannot ask you to accompany us." "I've been there. I've been already." And Maximov snapped his fingers in the air. "Who is the Chevalier?" asked Musov. "The elder, the splendid elder, the elder, the honour and glory of the monastery, Zosima, such an elder. But his incoherent talk was cut short by a very pale, one-looking monk of medium height, wearing a monk's cap, who overtook them. Feudor Pavlovitch and Musov stopped. The monk, with an extremely courteous, profound bow, announced. "The father's superior invites all of you gentlemen to dine with him after your visit to the hermitage. At one o'clock, not later, and you also," he added, addressing Maximov. "That I certainly will, without fail," cried Feudor Pavlovitch, hugely delighted at the invitation. "And believe me, we've all given our word to behave properly here, and you appear to our Alexandervitch. Will you go to?" "Yes, of course. What have I come, for but to study all the customs here? The only obstacle to me is your company." "Yes, Dimitri Feudorovitch is non-existent as yet." "It would be a capital thing if he didn't turn up. Do you suppose I like all this business? And in your company too? So we will come to dinner. Thank the father's superior," he said to the monk. "No, it is my duty now to conduct you to the elder," answered the monk. "If so, I'll go straight to the father's superior, to the father's superior," babbled Maximov. "The father's superior is engaged just now, but as you please," the monk hesitated. "In pertinent old man, Musov observed aloud, while Maximov ran back to the monastery." "He's like Vonsan," Feudorovitch said suddenly. "Is that all you can think of? In what way is he like Vonsan? Have you ever seen Vonsan?" "I've seen his portrait. It's not the features, but something indefinable. He's a second Vonsan. I can always tell from the physiognomy." "I dare say you are a connoisseur in that, but look here, Feudorovitch. You said just now that we had given our word to behave properly. Remember it. I advise you to control yourself." "But if you begin to play the fool, I don't intend to be associated with you here." "You see what a man he is?" he turned to the monk. "I'm afraid to go among decent people with him." A fine smile, not without a certain slioness, came onto the pale, bloodless lips of the monk. But he made no reply, and was evidently silent from a sense of his own dignity. Musov found more than ever. "Oh, devil, take them all." An outer show elaborated through centuries, and nothing but charlatanism and nonsense underneath. Flashed through Musov's mind. "Here's the hermitage we've arrived," cried Feudorovitch. "The gates are shut, and he repeatedly made the sign of the cross to the saints painted above and on the sides of the gates." "When you go to Rome, you must do as the Romans do. Here in this hermitage there are twenty-five saints being saved. They look at one another and eat cabbages, and not one woman goes in at this gate. That's what is remarkable." And that really is so, but I did hear that the elder receives ladies, he remarked suddenly to the monk. "Women of the people are here too now, lying in the portico they're waiting, but for ladies of higher rank, two rooms have them built, adjoining the portico, but outside the precincts. You can see the windows, and the elder goes out to them by an inner passage when he's well enough. They're always outside the precincts. "There's the harkov lady, madam holikof, waiting there now with her sick daughter. Probably he has promised to come out to her, though of late he has been so weak that he has hardly shown himself even to the people." "So then there are loopholes after all to creep out of the hermitage to the ladies. Don't suppose, holy father, that I mean any harm, but you know that at Athos not only the visits of women are not allowed, but no creature of the female sex, no hens, no turkeys, no cows. Theodore Pavlovitch, I warn you I shall go back and leave you here. They'll turn you out when I'm gone. But I'm not interfering with you, Theodore Alexander-vitch. Look!" He cried suddenly, stepping within the precincts. What a veil of roses they live in. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon Saver, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. Hey, it is Ryan Seacrest. There's something so thrilling about playing Chumba Casino. Maybe it's the simple reminder that with a little luck, anything is possible. Chumbak Casino.com has hundreds of social casino style games to choose from with new game releases each week. Play for free anytime, anywhere, for your chance to redeem some serious prizes. Join me in the fun. Sign up now at Chumbak Casino.com, sponsored by Chumba Casino. No purchase necessary. VGW Group, void where prohibited by law, 18 plus terms and conditions apply. Though there were no roses now, there were numbers of rare and beautiful autumn flowers growing wherever there was space for them and evidently tended by a skillful hand. There were flower beds round the church and between the tombs and the one-storied wooden house where the elder lived was also surrounded with flowers. And was it like this in the time of the last elder, Varsanafi? He didn't care for such elegance. They say he used to jump up and thrash even ladies with a stick. Observed Fyodor Popovitch as he went up the steps. The elder Varsanafi did sometimes seem rather strange, but a great deal that's told his foolishness. He never thrashed anyone. Enter the monk. Now gentlemen, if you will wait a minute, I will announce you. Fyodor Popovitch, for the last time your compact, do you hear? Behave properly, or I will pay you out. Museff had time to mutter again. "I can't think why you're so agitated," Fyodor Popovitch observed sarcastically. "Are you uneasy about your sins? They say he can tell by one's eyes what one has come about, and what a lot you think of their opinion. You, a Parisian, and so advanced. I'm surprised at you." But Museff had no time to reply to this sarcasm. They were asked to come in. He walked in somewhat irritated. "Now, I know myself. I am annoyed. I shall lose my temper and begin to quarrel, and lower myself and my ideas," he reflected. This ends chapter one. Book two. Chapter two. The Old Buffoon. They entered the room almost at the same moment that the elder came in from his bedroom. They were already in the cell, awaiting the elder. Two monks of the hermitage, won the father librarian, and the other father Paeci, a very learned man, so they said, in delicate health, though not old. There was also a tall young man, who looked about two and twenty, standing in the corner throughout the interview. He had a broad fresh face and clever, observant, narrow brown eyes, and was wearing ordinary dress. He was a divinity student, living under the protection of the monastery. His expression was one of unquestioning but self-respecting reverence, being in a subordinate and dependent position, and so not on an equality with the guests, he did not greet them with a bow. Father's Dossima was accompanied by a novice and by Al-Yosha. The two monks rose and greeted him with a very deep bow, touching the ground with their fingers, then kissed his hand, blessing them the elder replied with his deeper reference to them, and asked their blessing. The whole ceremony was performed very seriously, and with an appearance of feeling, not like an everyday right. But Musauff fancied that it was all done with intentional impressiveness. He stood in front of the other visitors. He ought, he had reflected upon it the evening before, from simple politeness, since it was the custom here, to have gone up to receive the elder's blessing, even if he did not kiss his hand. But when he saw all this bowing and kissing on the part of the monks, he instantly changed his mind. With dignified gravity, he made a rather deep, conventional bow, and moved away to a chair. Feudor Pavlovich did the same, mimicking Musauff like an ape. Ivan bowed with great dignity and courtesy, but he too kept his hands at his sides, while Kalganov was so confused that he did not bow at all. The elder let fall the hand raised to bless them, and bowing to them again, asked them all to sit down. The blood rushed Al-Yosha's cheeks. He was ashamed. His forebodings were coming true. Father Zosima sat down on a very old-fashioned mahogany sofa, covered with leather, and made his visitors sit down in a row along the opposite wall and four mahogany chairs, covered with shabby black leather. The monk sat one at the door and the other at the window. The divinity student, the novice, and Al-Yosha remained standing. The cell was not very large and had a faded look. It contains nothing but the most necessary furniture, of course, and poor quality. There were two pots of flowers in the window, and a number of holy pictures in the corner. Before one huge ancient icon of the Virgin, a lamp was burning. Near it were two other holy pictures in shining settings, and next to them, carved cherubim, china eggs, a catholic cross of ivory, with a mother Dolorosa embracing it, and several foreign engravings from the great Italian artists of past centuries. Next to these costly and artistic engravings were several of the roughest Russian prints of saints and martyrs, such as are sold for a few farthing at all the fairs. On the other walls were portraits of Russian bishops, past and present. Musov took a cursory glance at all these conventional surroundings, and bent an intent look upon the elder. He had a high opinion of his own insight, a weakness excusable in him as he was fifty, an age at which a clever man of the world of established position can hardly help taking himself rather seriously. At the first moment, he did not like Zosima. There was indeed something in the elder's face which many people besides Musov might not have liked. He was short, bent, little man, with very weak legs, and those he was only sixty-five. He looked at least ten years older. His face was very thin, and covered with a network of fine wrinkles, particularly numerous about his eyes, which were small, light-colored, quick, and shining like two bright points. He had a sprinkling of gray hair about his temples. His pointed beard was small and scanty, and his lips, which smiled frequently, were as thin as two threads. His nose was not long but sharp, like a bird's beak. To all appearances a malicious soul, full of petty pride, thought Musov. He felt all together dissatisfied with his position. A cheap little clock on the wall struck twelve hurriedly, and served to begin the conversation. "Precisely to our time," cried Fyodor Pavlovich, "but no sign of my son Dimitri. I apologize for him, Sacred Elder." Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? 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But you are not a king anyway, Musov muttered, losing his self-restraint at once. Yes, that's true, I'm not a king, and wouldn't you believe it, Pyotorellic Zandervitch? I was aware of that myself. But there, I always say the wrong thing. Your reverence, he cried, with sudden pathos. You behold before you a buffoon in earnest. I introduce myself as such. It's an old habit alas, and if I sometimes talk nonsense out of place, it's with an object, with the object of amusing people, and making myself agreeable. One must be agreeable, mustn't one? I was seven years ago in a little town where I had business, and I made friends with some merchants there. We went to the captain of the police because we had to see him about something, and to ask him to dine with us. He was a tall, fat, fair, sulky man, the most dangerous type in such cases. It's their liver. I went straight up to him, and with the ease of a man of the world. You know, Mr. Provenick, I said, "Be our naprovnik." "What do you mean by naprovnik?" said he. I saw it the first half-second that it mystified. He stood there so glum. I wanted to make a joke, said I, for the general division, as Mr. Naprovnik is our well-known Russian orchestra conductor, and what we need for the harmony of our undertaking is some one of that sort. And I explained my comparison very reasonably, didn't I? "Excuse me," said he, "I am an aprovnik, and I do not allow puns to be made on my calling." He turned and walked away. I followed him shouting, "Yes, yes, you are an aprovnik. Not an aprovnik. No, said he. Since you call me an aprovnik, I am one. And would you believe it? It ruined our business. And I'm always like that. I'm always like that, always injuring myself with my politeness. Once, many years ago, I said to an influential person, "Your wife is a ticklish lady in an honorable sense of the moral quality, so to speak. But he asked me, "Why have you tickled her?" I thought I'd be polite, so I couldn't help saying, "Yes." And he gave me a fine tickling on the spot, only that happened long ago, so I'm not ashamed to tell the story. I'm always injuring myself like that. "You're doing it now," muttered Musoph with disgust. "Father's also most scrutinized than both in silence." "Am I? Would you believe it? I was aware of that too, Pietro or Alexandrovich. And let me tell you, indeed, I foresaw I should, as soon as I began to speak. And do you know I foresaw too, that you'd be the first to remark on it? The minute I see my joke isn't coming off, your reverence. Both my cheeks feel as though they were drawn down to the lower jaw, and there's almost a spasm in them. That's been so since I was young. When I had to make jokes from my living to nobleman's families, I'm an inveterate buffoon, and I have been from birth up your reverence. It's as though it were a craze in me. I dare say it's a devil within me, but only a little one. A more serious one would have chosen another lodging. But not your soul, Pietro or Alexandrovich. You're not a lodging worth having, either. But I do believe—I believe in God, though I had doubts of late. But now I sit and await words of wisdom. I'm like the philosopher, Diderot, your reverence. Did you ever hear, most holy father, how Diderot went to see the metropolitan platen in the time of the Empress Catherine? He went in and said straight out, "There is no God." To which the great bishop lifted up his finger and answered, "The fool has said in his heart there is no God, and he fell down at his feet on the spot. I believe he cried, and will be christened." And so he was. Princess Doshkopf was his godmother, and Pudalamic, his father. Theodore Pavlovich, this is unbearable! You know you're telling lies, and that that stupid anecdote isn't true. Why are you playing the fool? cried Musoph in a shaking voice. I suspected all my life that it wasn't true. Theodore Pavlovich cried with conviction. But I tell you the whole truth, gentlemen. Great elder, forgive me. The last thing about Diderot's christening, I made up just now. I never thought of it before. I made it up to add pick and see. I play the fool, Pietro Alexandrovich, to make myself agreeable. Though I really don't know myself sometimes what I do it for. And, as for Diderot, I heard as far as the fool had said in his heart twenty times from the gentry about here when I was young. I heard your aunt, Pietro Alexandrovich, tell the story. They all believed to this day that the infidel Diderot came to dispute about God with the metropolitan platen. Musoph got up, forgetting himself and his impatience. He was furious and conscious of being ridiculous. What was taking place in the cell was really incredible. For forty or fifty years past, from the times of former elders, no visitors had entered that cell without feelings of the profoundest veneration. Almost everyone admitted to the cell felt that a great favor was being shown him. Many remained kneeling during the whole visit. Of those visitors, many had been men of high rank and learning. Some even free thinkers attracted by curiosity. But all without exception had shown the profoundest reverence and delicacy. For here there was no question of money, but only on the one side love and kindness, and on the other penitence, an eager desire to decide some spiritual problem or crisis. So that such buffoonery amazed and bewildered the spectators, or at least some of them, the monks with unchanged countenances waited, with earnest attention to hear what the elder would say, but seemed on the point of standing up like Musoph. Al-Yosha stood with hanging head on the verge of tears. What seemed to him strangest of all was that his brother Ivan, on whom alone he had rested his hopes, and who alone had such influence on his father, that he could have stopped him, sat now quite unmoved, with downcast eyes, apparently waiting with interest to see how it would end, as though he had nothing to do with it. Al-Yosha did not dare to look at Rekkeaton, the divinity students whom he knew almost intimately. He alone in the monastery knew Rekkeaton's thoughts. "Forgive me," began Musoph, addressing Father Zosima. "For perhaps I seem to be taking part in this shameful foolery. I made a mistake in believing that even a man like Fyodor Pavlovich would understand what was due on a visit to so honoured a personage. I did not suppose I should have to apologize simply for having come with him." Putor Alexanderich could say no more, and was about to leave the room overwhelmed with confusion. "Don't distress yourself, I beg." The elder got on to his feeble legs, and taking Peter Alexanderich by both hands made him sit down again. "I beg you not to disturb yourself. I particularly beg you to be my guest." And with a bow, he went back and sat down again on his little sofa. "Great elder speak! Do I annoy you by my vivacity?" Fyodor Pavlovich cried suddenly, clutching the arms of his chair in both hands, as though ready to leap up from it if the answer were unfavourable. "I earnestly beg you not to disturb yourself, and not to be uneasy." The elder said impressively, "Do not trouble, make yourself quite at home, and above all, do not be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root of it all." "Quite at home? To be my natural self. Oh, that is much too much, but I accept it with grateful joy. Do you know, blessed father, you better not invite me to be my natural self? Don't risk it. I will not go so far as that myself. I warn you for your own sake. Well, the rest is still plunged in the midst of uncertainty, though there are people who'd be pleased to describe me for you. I mean that, for you, P.R. looks under which. But as for you, holy being, let me tell you, I am brimming over with ecstasy." He got up, and throwing up his hands, declaimed, blessed be the womb that bear thee, and the paps that gave thee suck. The paps, especially, when you said just now, don't be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root of it all, you pierced right through me by that remark, and read me to the core. Indeed, I always feel when I meet people that I am lower than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon. So I say, let me really play the buffoon. I am not afraid of your opinion, for you, every one of you, are worse than I am. That is why I am a buffoon. It is from shame, great elder, from shame. It's simply over-sensitiveness that makes me rowdy. If I had only been sure that everyone would accept me as the kindest and wisest of men, oh, Lord, when a good man I should have been then, teacher, he fell suddenly on his knees. What must I do to gain eternal life? It was difficult, even now, to decide whether he was joking, or really moved. Father Zosima, lifting his eyes, looked at him, and said with a smile, "You have known for a long time what you must do. You have sense enough. Don't give way to drunkenness and incontinence of speech. Don't give way to central lust, and above all to the love of money. And close your taverns. If you can't close all, at least two or three, and above all, don't lie." "You mean about Diderot?" "No. Not about Diderot. Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a past that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love. And in order to occupy and distract himself without love, he gives way to passions and course pleasures and sinks to beastiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than anyone. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offense, isn't it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it pick to ask, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a mole hill. He knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offense and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness. But get up, sit down, I beg you, all this too is deceitful posturing. Blessed man, give me your hand to kiss. Fyodor Pavlovich skipped up and imprinted a rapid kiss on the elder's thin hand. It is, it is pleasant to take offense. You said that so well, as I never heard it before, yes, I have been all my life taking offense to please myself, taking offense on aesthetic grounds, for it is not so much pleasant as distinguished sometimes to be insulted. That you had forgotten, great elder, it is distinguished, I shall make a note of that, but I have been lying, lying positively my whole life every day and hour of it, of a truth I am a lie and the father of lies, though I believe I am not the father of lives. I am getting mixed in my texts. Say, the son of lies, and that will be enough, only my angel, I may sometimes talk about ditro, ditro will do no harm, though sometimes a word will do harm. Great elder, by the way, I was forgetting, though I had been meaning for the last two years to come here on purpose to ask and to find out something, only do tell Piotar Alexandrovich not to interrupt me. Here is my question. Is it true, great father, that the story is told somewhere in the lives of the saints, of a holy saint martyred for his faith, who, when his head was cut off at last, stood up, picked up his head, and courteously kissing it, walked a long way, carrying it in his hands? Is that true or not honored father? "No, it is untrue," said the elder. "There is nothing of the kind in all the lives of the saints. What saint do you say the story is told of?" asked the father librarian. "I don't know what saint. I do not know, and can't tell, I was deceived, I was told the story, I had heard it, and do you know who told it? Piotar Alexandrovich's new self here, who was so angry just now about Diderot, it was he who told me the story." "I, I have never told it to you. I never speak to you at all." "It is true you did not tell me, but you told it when I was present. It was three years ago. I mentioned it because that ridiculous story, you shook my faith, Piotar Alexandrovich, you knew nothing of it, but I went home with my faith shaken, and I have been getting more and more shaken ever since. Yes, Piotar Alexandrovich, you were the cause of a great fall. That was not a Diderot." Piotar Pavlovich got excited and pathetic, though it was perfectly clear to everyone by now that he was playing a part again, yet Musov was stung by his words. "What nonsense! And it is all nonsense!" he muttered. "I may really have told it some time or other, but not to you. I was told it myself. I heard it in Paris from a Frenchman. He told me it was red at our mass from the lives of the saints. He was a very learned man who had made a special study of Russian statistics and had lived a long time in Russia. I have not read the lives of the saint. We were dining then." "Yes, you were dining then. And so I lost my faith," said Piotar Pavlovich, mimicking him. "What do I care for your faith?" Musov was on the point of shouting, but he suddenly checked himself and said with contempt, "You devile everything you touch." The elder suddenly rose from his seat. "Excuse me, gentlemen, for leaving you a few minutes," he said, addressing all his guests. "I have visitors awaiting me, who arrived before you. But don't you tell lies all the same," he added, turning to Piotar Pavlovich with a good-humoured face. He went out of the cell. Al-Yosha and the novice flew to escort him down the steps. Al-Yosha was breathless. He was glad to get away, but he was glad, too, that the elder was good-humoured and not offended. Father Zosama was going towards the portico to bless the people, waiting for him there. But Piotar Pavlovich persisted in stopping him at the door of the cell. "Blessed man," he cried with feeling, "allow me to kiss your hand once more. Yes, with you I could still talk. I could still get on. Do you think I always lie and play the fool like this? Believe me, I have been acting like this all the time on purpose to try you. I have been testing you all the time to see whether I could get on with you. Is there room for my humility beside your pride? I am ready to give you a testimonial that one can get on with you. But now I'll be quiet. I will keep quiet all the time. I'll sit in a chair and hold my tongue. Now it is for you to speak, Piotar Pavlovich. You are the principal person left now, for ten minutes." This ends chapter two. Book two, chapter three, peasant women who have faith. Near the wooden portico below, built onto the outer wall of the precinct, there was a crowd of about twenty peasant women. They had been told that the elder was at last coming out, and they had gathered together in anticipation. Two ladies, Madame Hoflakov and her daughter, had also come out into the portico to wait for the elder, but in a separate part of it set aside for women of rank. Madame Hoflakov was a wealthy lady, still young and attractive, and always dressed with taste. She was rather pale and had lively black eyes. She was not more than thirty-three and had been five years a widow. Her daughter, a girl of fourteen, was partially paralyzed. The poor child had not been able to walk for the last six months and was wheeled about in a long reclining chair. She had a charming little face, rather thin from illness but full of gaiety. There was a gleam of mischief in her big dark eyes with their long lashes. Her mother had been intending to take her abroad ever since the spring, but they had been detained all the summer by business connected with their estate. They had been staying a week in our town, where they had come more for purposes of business than devotion, but had visited Fathers of Simma once already, three days before. Though they knew that the elder scarcely saw anyone, they had now suddenly turned up again, and urgently entreated the happiness of looking once again on the great healer. The mother was sitting on a chair by the side of her daughter's invalid carriage, and two paces from her stood an old monk, not one of our monastery, but a visitor from an obscure religious house in the far north. He too sought the elder's blessing. But Fathers of Simma, on entering the portico, went first straight to the peasants, who were crowded at the foot of the three steps that led up into the portico. Fathers of Simma stood on the top step, put on his soul, and began blessing the women who thronged about him. One crazy woman was led up to him. As soon as she caught sight of the elder, she began shrieking and writhing as though in the pains of childbirth. Laying the stole on her forehead, he read a short prayer over her, and she was at once soothed and quieted. I do not know how it may be now, but in my childhood I often happen to see and hear these possessed women in the villages and monasteries. They used to be brought to mass. They would squeal and bark like a dog so that they were heard all over the church. But when the sacrament was carried in and they were led up to it, I had once the possession ceased, and the sick women were always soothed for a time. I was greatly impressed and amazed at this as a child, but when I heard from country neighbors and from my town teachers that the whole illness was simulated to avoid work, and that it could always be cured by suitable severity, various anecdotes were told to confirm this. But later on I learnt with astonishment from medical specialists that there is no pretense about it, that it is a terrible illness to which women are subject, especially prevalent among us in Russia, and that it is due to the hard lot of the peasant women. It is a disease, I was told, arising from exhausting toil too soon after hard, abnormal, and unassisted labor in childbirth, and from the hopeless misery, from beatings, and so on, which some women were not able to endure like others. The strange and instant healing of the frantic and struggling woman as soon as she was led up to the holy sacrament, which had been explained to me as due to malingering and the trickery of the clericals, arose probably in the most natural manner. Both the women who supported her and the invalid herself fully believed as a truth beyond question that the evil spirit in possession of her could not hold out if the sick woman were brought to the sacrament and made to bow down before it. And so, with a nervous and psychically deranged woman, a sort of convulsion of the whole organism always took place, and was bound to take place, at the moment of bowing down to the sacrament around. How to Have Fun, Anytime, Anywhere, Step 1. Go to Chumba Casino.com. Chumba Casino.com. Got it. Step 2. Collect your welcome bonus. Come to Topo welcome bonus. Step 3. Play hundreds of casino-style games for free. That's a lot of games, all for free. Step 4. Unleash your excitement. Chumba Casino has been delivering thrills for over a decade, so claim your free welcome bonus now, and live the Chumba life. Visit Chumba Casino.com. Call us by the expectation of the miracle of healing and the implicit belief that it would come to pass. And it did come to pass, though only for a moment. It was exactly the same now as soon as the elder touched the sick woman with the stool. Many of the women in the crowd were moved to tears of ecstasy by the effect of the moment. Some strove to kiss the hem of his garment. Others cried out in sing-song voices. He blessed them all and talked with some of them. The possessed woman he knew already. She came from a village only six bursts from the monastery, and had been brought to him before. But here is one from afar. He pointed to a woman by no means old, but very thin and wasted, with a face not merely sunburnt, but almost blackened by exposure. She was kneeling and gazing with a fixed stare at the elder. There were something almost frenzied in her eyes. From a far off father, from a far off, from 200 miles from here, from a far off father, from a far off. The woman began in a sing-song voice as though she were chanting a dirge, swaying her head from side to side with her cheek resting in her hand. There is silent and long-suffering sorrow to be met with among the peasantry. It withdraws into itself and is still. But there is a grief that breaks out, and from that minute it bursts into tears and finds vent and wailing. This is particularly common with women, but it is no lighter a grief than the silence. Lamentations comfort only by lacerating the heart still more. Such grief does not desire consolation. It feeds on the sense of its hopelessness. Lamentations spring only from the constant craving to reopen the wound. "You are of the tradesman's class," said Father Zosima, looking curiously at her. "Townfolk, we are Father. Townfolk. Yet we are peasants that we live in the town. I have come to see you, O Father. We heard of you. Father, we heard of you. I have buried my little son, and I have come on a pilgrimage. I have been in three monasteries, but they told me, "Go, Natasya. Go to them. That is to you. I have come. I was yesterday at the service, and today I have come to you." "What are you weeping for?" "It's my little son I'm grieving for, Father. He was three years old, three years, all but three months. For my little boy, Father, I'm in anguish for my little boy. He was the last one left. We had four, my Nikita and I, and now we've no children. Our dear ones have all gone. I buried the first three without grieving over much. And now I have buried the last. I can't forget him. He seems always standing before me. He never leaves me. He has withered my heart. I look at his little clothes, his little shirt, his little boots, and I wail. I lay out all that is left of him, all his little things. I look at them and wail. I stand and keep them, my husband. Let me go on a pilgrimage master. He is a driver. We're not poor people, Father, not poor. He drives our own horse. It's all our own, the horse and the carriage. And what good is it all to us now? My Nikita has begun drinking while I'm away. He's sure to. It used to be so before. As soon as I turn my back, he gives way to it. But now I don't think about him. It's three months since I left home. I've forgotten him. I've forgotten everything. I don't want to remember. And what would our life be now together? I've done with him. I've done. I've done with him all. I don't care to look upon my house and my goods. I don't care to see anything at all. "Listen, Mother," said the elder. "Once in olden times, a holy saint saw in the temple a mother like you weeping for her little one, her only one whom God had taken." "Knowest thou not," said the saint to her, "how bold these little ones are before the throne of God. Verily there are none bolder than they in the kingdom of heaven." "Thou didst give us life, O Lord," they say, "and scarcely had we looked upon it, when thou didst take it back again." "And so boldly they ask and ask again that God gives them at once the rank of angels." "Therefore," said the saint, "thou too, O Mother, rejoice and weep not, for thy little son is with the Lord in the fellowship of the angels." That's what the saint said to the weeping mother of old. He was a great saint, and he could not have spoken falsely. "Therefore, you too, Mother, know that your little one is surely before the throne of God, is rejoicing and happy, and praying to God for you, and therefore weep but rejoice." The woman listened to him, looking down with her cheek in her hand, she sighed deeply. "My Nikita tried to come for me with these same words as you. Foolish one," he said, "why weep? Our son is no doubt singing with the angels before God." He says that to me, but he weeps himself. I see that he cries like me. "I know Nikita," said I, "where could he be if not with the Lord God? Only here with us now he is not, as he used to sit before us. And if only I could look upon him one little time. If I only could peek at him one little time, without going up to him, without speaking, if I could be hidden in a quarter and only see him for one little minute, hear him playing in the yard, calling in his little voice, "Mommy where are you?" If only I could hear him pattering with his little feet about the room just once, only once, for so often, so often I remember how he used to run to me and shout and laugh. If only I could hear his little feet, I should know him. "But he's gone, Father. He's gone, and I shall never, never hear him again. Here's his little sash, but him I shall never see or hear now." She drew out of her bosom, her boy's little embroidered sash, and as soon as she looked at it she began shaking with sobs, hiding her eyes with her fingers through which the tears flowed in a sudden stream. "It is Rachel of old," said the elder, weeping for her children and will not be comforted because they are not. "Such is the lots that are north for you, mothers. Be not comforted. Consolation is not what you need. Weep and be not consoled, but weep. Only every time that you weep be sure to remember that your little son is one of the angels of God, that he looks down from there at you and sees you and rejoices at your tears and points at them to the Lord God. And a long while yet will you keep that great mother's grief. But it will turn in the end into quiet joy, and your bitter tears will be only tears of tender sorrow that purifies the heart and delivers it from sin. "And I shall pray for the peace of your child's soul." What was his name? Alexei Father. "A sweet name after Alexei the man of God?" "Yes, Father." "What a saint he was. I will remember him, mother, and your grief in my prayers, and I will pray for your husband's health. It is a sin for you to leave him. Your little one will see from heaven that you have forsaken his father, and will weep over you. Why do you trouble his happiness? He is living for the soul lives forever, and though he is not in the house he is near you, unseen. How can he go into the house when you say that the house is hateful to you? To whom is he to go if he find you not together, his father and mother? He comes to you in dreams now and you grieve, but then he will send you gentle dreams. Go to your husband, mother. Go this very day. "I will go, Father, at your word. I will go. You've gone straight to my heart. My Nikita, my Nikita, you're waiting for me." The woman began in a sing-song voice, but the elder had already turned away to a very old woman dressed like a dweller in the town, not like a pilgrim. Her eyes showed that she had come with an object, and in order to say something. She said she was the widow of a non-commissioned officer and lived close by in the town. Her son, Vasenka, was in the commissariat service and had gone to Ikhert since Iberia. He had written twice from there, but now a year had passed since he had written. She did inquire about him, but she did not know the proper place to inquire. "Only the other day, Stepanita y el Yishna, she's a rich merchant's wife, she said to me, 'You go, Prohoravna, and put your son's name down for prayer in the church, and pray for the peace of his soul as though he were dead. His soul will be troubled,' she said, and he will write to a letter. "And Stepanita y el Yishna, she told me it was a certain thing which had been many times tried. Only I am in doubt. Oh, you light of ours. Is it true or false, and would it be right?" "Don't think of it. It's shameful to ask the question. How is it possible to pray for the peace of a living soul? And his own mother, too. It is a great sin akin to sorcery. Only for your ignorance it is forgiven to you. Better pray to the Queen of Heaven, our swift defense and help for his good health, and that she may forgive you for your error. And another thing I will tell you, Prohoravna, either he will soon come back to you, your son, or he will be sure to send a letter. Go, and henceforward be in peace. Your son is alive, I tell you." "Dear Father, God reward you, our benefactor, who prays for all of us and for our sins. But the elder had already noticed in the crowd two glowing eyes fixed upon him, an exhausted, consumptive looking, though young peasant woman was gazing at him in silence. Her eyes besought him, but she seemed afraid to approach." "What is it, my child?" "Obsolve my soul, Father," she articulated softly, and slowly sank on her knees and bowed down at his feet. "I have sinned. Father, I am afraid of my sin." The elder sat down on the lower step. The woman crept closer to him, still on her knees. "I am a widow these three years." She began in a half whisper with a sort of shudder. "I had a hard life with my husband. He was an old man. He used to beat me, cruelly. He lay ill. I thought looking at him. If he were to get well, if he were to get up again, what then?" And then the thought came to me. "Stay!" said the elder, and he put his ear close to her lips. The woman went on in a low whisper, so that it was almost impossible to catch anything. She had soon done. "Three years ago," asked the elder, "three years. At first I didn't think about it, but now I've begun to be ill, and the thought never leaves me." "Have you come from far?" "Over three hundred miles away." "Have you told it in confession?" "I have confessed it. Twice I have confessed it." "Have you been admitted to communion?" "Yes." "I am afraid. I am afraid to die." "Fear nothing, and never be afraid, and don't fret. If only your penitents fail not, God will forgive all. There is no sin, and there can be no sin, on all the earth, which the Lord will not forgive to the truly repentant. Man cannot commit a sin so great as to exhaust the infinite love of God. Can there be a sin which could exceed the love of God? Think only of repentance, continual repentance, but dismiss fear altogether. Believe that God loves you as you cannot conceive, that he loves you with your sin, in your sin. It has been set of old, then over one repentant sinner, there is more joy in heaven than over ten righteous men. Go and fear not. Be not bitter against men. Be not angry if you are wronged. Forgive the dead men in your heart what wrong he did you. Be reconciled with him in truth. If you are penitents, you love. And if you love, you are of God. All things are atoned for. All things are saved by love. If I, a sinner even as you are, am tender with you and have pity on you, how much more will God? Love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole world by it and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others. He signed her three times with the cross, took from his own neck a little icon and put it upon her. She bowed down to the earth without speaking. He got up and looked cheerfully at a healthy peasant woman with a tiny baby in her arms. From Vaishagur, dear father, five miles you have dragged yourself with a baby? What do you want? I've come to look at you. I've been to you before or have you forgotten. You've no great memory if you've forgotten me. They told us you were ill. Things I'll go and see him for myself. Now I see you and you're not ill. You'll live another twenty years. God bless you. There are plenty to pray for you. How should you be ill? I thank you for all daughter. By the way, I have a thing to ask, not a great one. Here are sixty copacs. Give them dear father to someone poorer than me. I thought as I came along, better give through him. He'll know whom to give to. Thanks, my dear. Thanks. You are a good woman. I love you. I will do so certainly. Is that your little girl? My little girl father, Lisevieta. May the Lord bless you both. You and your babe, Lisevieta. You have gladdened my heart, mother. Farewell, dear children. Farewell, dear ones. He bless them all and bowed low to them. This ends chapter three. Book two. Chapter four. A Lady of Little Faith. A visitor, looking on the scene of his conversation with the peasants, and his blessing them, she had silent tears and wiped them away with her handkerchief. She was a sentimental society lady of genuinely good disposition in many respects. When the elder went up to her, at last she met him enthusiastically. Ah, what I have been feeling, looking on, at this touching scene. She could not go on for a motion. Oh, I understand the people's love for you. I love the people myself. I want to love them, and who could help loving them? Our splendid Russian people. So simple in their greatness. How is your daughter's health? You wanted to talk to me again? Oh, I have been urgently banging for it. I have prayed for it. I was ready to fall on my knees and kneel for three days at your windows until you let me in. We have come, great healer, to express our ardent gratitude. You have healed my lease. Heal her completely, merely by praying over her last Thursday and laying your hands upon her. We have hastened here to kiss those hands, to pour out our feelings and our homage. What do you mean by healed? But she is still lying down in her chair. "But her night favors have entirely ceased ever since Thursday," said the lady with nervous haste. "And that's not all. Her legs are stronger. This morning she got up well. She slept all night. Look at her rosy cheeks. Her bright eyes. She used to be always crying, but now she laughs and is gay and happy. This morning she insisted on my letting her stand up, and she stood up for a whole minute without any support. She wagers that in a fortnight she'll be dancing a quadriole. I've called in Dr. Herson's stoop. He shrugged his shoulders and said, "I'm amazed. I can make nothing of it. And you would have us not come here to disturb you, not fly here to thank you. Lisa, thank him! Thank him!" Lisa's pretty little laughing face became suddenly serious. She rose in her chair as far as she could, and, looking at the elder, clasped her hands before him, but could not restrain herself, and broke into laughter. "It's at him," she said, pointing to Ayosha, with childish vexation at herself for not being able to repress her birth. If anyone had looked at Ayosha standing a step behind the elder, he would have caught a quick flush, crimsoning his cheeks in an instant. His eyes shone and he looked down. "She has a message for you, Alexey Feodorovich. How are you?" the mother went on, holding out her exquisitely gloved hand to Ayosha. The elder turned round, and all at once looked attentively at Ayosha. The latter went nearer to Lisa, and smiling in a strangely awkward way, held out his hand to her. Lisa assumed an important air. "Katerina Ivanovna has sent you this through me." She handed him a little note. "She particularly begs you to go and see her as soon as possible, that you will not fail her, but will be sure to come." She asked me to go and see her. "Me?" "What for?" while Ayosha muttered in great astonishment. His face at once looked anxious. "Oh, it's all to do with Dimitri Feodorovich, and what has happened lately?" the mother explained hurriedly. "Katerina Ivanovna has made up her mind, but she must see you about it. Why, of course, I can't say, but she wants to see you at once, and you will go to her, of course. It is a Christian duty." "I've only seen her once," Ayosha protested with the same perplexity. "Oh, she is such a lofty, incomparable creature. If only for her suffering, think what she's gone through, what she is enduring now, think what awaits her. It's all terrible, terrible." "Very well, I will come," Ayosha decided after rapidly scanning the brief enigmatic note, which consisted of an urgent and treaty that he would come, without any sort of explanation. "Oh, how sweet and generous that would be of you," cried Lisa with sudden animation, "I told Momma you'd be sure not to go. I said you were saving your soul. How splendid you are. I've always thought that you were splendid. How glad I am to tell you so." "Lisa!" said her mother impressively, though she smiled after she had said it. "You've quite forgotten us, Alexey Feodorovich," she said. "You never come to see us, yet Lisa has told me twice that she is never happy except with you." Ayosha raised his downcast eyes and again flushed, and again smiled without knowing why, but the elder was no longer watching him. He had begun talking to a monk, who, as mentioned before, had been awaiting his entrance by Lisa's chair. He was evidently a monk of the humblest, that of the peasant class, of a narrow outlook, but a true believer, and in his own way, a stubborn one. He announced that he had come from the far north, from Obdorsk, from St. Sylvester, and was a member of a poor monastery consisting of only 10 monks. Hey Amazon Prime members! Why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon Saver, 365 by Whole Foods Market, A Plenty, and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. I'm Victoria Cash. Thanks for calling the Lucky Land Hotline. If you feel like you do the same thing every day, press 1. If you're ready to have some serious fun, for the chance to redeem some serious prizes, press 2. We heard you loud and clear, so go to luckielandslots.com right now, and play over a hundred social casino style games for free. Get lucky today. The Elder gave him his blessing and invited him to come to his cell whenever he liked. How can you presume to do such deeds? The monk asked suddenly, pointing solemnly and significantly at least he was referring to her healing. Oh, it's too early, of course, to speak of that. Relief is not a complete cure and may proceed from different causes. But if there has been any healing, it is by no power but God's will. It is all from God. Visit me, Father," he added to the monk. "It's not often I can see visitors. I am ill, and I know that my days are numbered." "Oh, no, no! God will not take you from us. You will live a long, long time yet!" cried the lady. "And in what way are you ill? You look so well, so gay and happy!" "I am extraordinarily better today, but I know that it's only for a moment. I understand my disease now thoroughly. If I seem so happy to you, you could never say anything that would please me so much. For men are made for happiness, and anyone who is completely happy has a right to say to himself, "I am doing God's will on earth." All the righteous, all the saints, all the holy martyrs were happy. "Oh, how you speak what bold and lofty words!" cried the lady. "You seem to pierce with your words, and yet happiness. Happiness, where is it?" "You who can save himself that he is happy? Oh, since you have been so good as to let us see you once more today. Let me tell you what I could not utter last time. What I dared not say. All I am suffering, and I have been for so long. I am suffering. Forgive me, I am suffering. And in a rush of fervent feeling, she clasped her hands before him." "From what, specially? I suffer from lack of faith, lack of faith in God?" "Oh, no, no, I dare not even think of that. But the future life, it is such an enigma, and no one. No one can solve it. Listen, you are a healer. You are deeply versed in a human soul, and of course I dare not expect you to believe me entirely. But I assure you on my word of honor that I am not speaking lightly now. The thought of the life beyond this grave distracts me to anguish, to terror, and I don't know to whom to appeal, and have not dared to all my life. And now I am so bold as to ask you." "Oh God, what will you think of me now?" She clasped her hands. "Don't distress yourself about my opinion of you," said the Elder. "I quite believe in the sincerity of your suffering." "Oh, thankful I am to you. You see, I shut my eyes and ask myself, if everyone has faith, where did it come from? And then they do say that it all comes from terror at the mention of phenomenal the nature, and that none of it is real. And I say to myself, what if I have been believing all my life? And when I come to die, there is nothing but the burdocks growing on my grave?" As I read in some author, "It is awful. How? How can I get back my faith?" But I only believed when I was a little child, mechanically, without thinking of anything. "How is one to prove it? I have come now to lay my soul before you and to ask you about it. If I let this chance slip, no one all my life will answer me. How can I prove it? How can I convince myself? Oh, how unhappy I am. I stand and look about me and see that scarcely anyone else cares. No one troubles his head about it. And I'm the only one who can't stand it. It's deadly, deadly. No doubt. But there's no proving it, though you can be convinced of it." "How?" By the experience of active love, strive to love your neighbor actively and indefatigably. And as far as you advance in love, you will grow sure of the reality of God, and of the immortality of your soul. If you attain to perfect self-forgetfulness in the love of your neighbor, then you will believe without doubt, and no doubt can possibly enter your soul. "This has been tried. This is certain." In active love, there's another question, and such a question. You see, I so love humanity that, would you believe it, I often dream of forsaking all that I have, leaving Lisa and becoming a sister of mercy. I close my eyes and think and dream, and at that moment I feel full of strength to overcome all obstacles. No wounds, no festering sores, could at that moment frighten me. I would bind them up and wash them with my own hands. I would nurse the afflicted. I would be ready to kiss such wounds." "It is much, and well, that your mind is so full of dreams, and not others. Sometimes, unawares, you may do a good deed in reality." "Yes, but could I endure such a life for long?" the lady went on fervently, almost frantically. "That is the chief question. That is my most agonizing question. I shut up my eyes and ask myself, 'Would you persevere long on that path?' And if the patient whose wounds you are washing did not meet you with gratitude, but worried you with his whims, without valuing or remarking or charitable services, began abusing you and rudely commanding you and complaining to the superior authorities of you, which often happens when people are earning great suffering." "What then? Would you persevere in your love or not? And do you know, I came with horror to the conclusion that, if anything could dissipate my love to humanity, it would be in gratitude. In short, I am a hired servant. I expect my payment at once. That is praise, and the repayment of love with love. Otherwise, I am incapable of loving anyone." She was in a peroxum of self-castigation, and concluding, she looked with defiant resolution at the elder. "It's just the same story as a doctor once told me," observed the elder. "He was a man getting on in years and undoubtedly clever. He spoke as frankly as you, though in jest, in bitter jest. I love humanity," he said, "but I wonder at myself. The more I love humanity in general, the less I love man in particular." In my dreams, he said, "I have often come to making enthusiastic schemes for the service of humanity, and perhaps I might actually have faced crucifixion if it had been suddenly necessary. And yet I am incapable of living in the same room with anyone for two days together, as I know my experience. As soon as anyone is near me, his personality disturbs my self complacency and restricts my freedom. In twenty-four hours, I begin to hate the best of men, one because he's too long over his dinner, another because he has a cold and keeps on blowing his nose. I become hostile to people the moment they come close to me. But it has always happened that the more I detest men individually, the more ardent becomes my love for humanity. "But what's to be done? What can one do in such a case must one despair?" "No. It is enough that you are distressed at it. Do what you can and it will be reckoned on to you. Much is done already in you since you can so deeply and sincerely know yourself. If you have been talking to me so sincerely, simply to gain approbation for your frankness, as you did for me just now, then of course you will not attain to anything in the achievement of real love. It will all get no further than dreams, and your whole life will slip away like a phantom. In that case you will naturally cease to think of the future life too, and will of yourself grow calmer after a fashion in the end. "You have crushed me. Only now as you speak, I understand that I was really only seeking your approbation for my sincerity when I told you I could not endure ingraditude. You have revealed me to myself. You have seen through me and explained me to myself." "Are you speaking the truth?" "Well now, after such a confession, I believe that you are sincere and good at heart. If you do not attain happiness, always remember that you are on the right road and try not to leave it. Above all, avoid falsehood. Every kind of falsehood, especially falseness to yourself. Watch over your own deceitfulness and look into it every hour, every minute. Avoid being scornful both to others and to yourself. What seems to you bad within you will grow purer from the very fact of your observing it in yourself. Avoid fear too, though fear is only the consequence of every sort of falsehood. Never be frightened that your own faint-heartedness in attaining love. Don't be frightened over much, even at your evil actions. I'm sorry I can say nothing more consoling to you. For love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams. Love in dreams is greedy for immediate action, rapidly performed and in the sight of all. Men will even give their lives if only the ordeal does not last long, but is soon over, with all looking on and applauding as though on the stage. But active love is labor and fortitude, and for some people too, perhaps a complete science. But I predict that just when you see with horror that in spite of all your efforts you are getting farther from your goal instead of nearer to it. At that very moment I predict that you will reach it, and behold clearly the miraculous power of the Lord, who has been all the time loving and mysteriously guiding you. Forgive me for not being able to stay longer with you. They are waiting for me. But-bye. "Liza! Liza! Bless her! Bless her!" she cried, starting up suddenly. "She does not deserve to be loved. I have seen her naughtiness all along," the elder said jestingly. "Why have you been laughing at Alexei?" Liza had in fact been occupied and mocking at him all the time. She had noticed before that Al-Yasha was shy and tried not to look at her, and she found this extremely amusing. She waited intently to catch his eye. Al-Yasha, unable to endure her persistent stare, was irresistibly and suddenly drawn to glance at her, and at once she smiled triumphantly in his face. Al-Yasha was even more disconcerted and vexed. At last he turned away from her altogether and hid behind the elder's back. After a few minutes, drawn by the same irresistible force, he turned again to see whether he was being looked at or not, and found Liza almost hanging out of her chair to peep sideways at him, eagerly waiting for him to look. Catching his eyes she laughed so that the elder could not help saying, "Why do you make fun of him like that naughty girl?" Liza suddenly and quite unexpectedly blushed. Her eyes flashed and her face became quite serious. She began speaking quickly, and nervously in a warm and resentful voice. "Why has he forgotten everything, then? He used to carry me about when I was little. We used to play together. He used to come to teach me to read, do you know? Two years ago when he went away he said that he would never forget me, that we were friends forever, forever, forever. And now he's afraid of me all at once. Am I going to eat him? Why doesn't he want to come near me? Why doesn't he talk? Why won't he come and see us? It's not that you won't let him. We know that he goes everywhere. It's not good manners for me to invite him. He ought to have thought of it first if he hasn't forgotten me. No, now he's saving his soul. Why have you put that long gown on him? If he runs he'll fall. And suddenly she hid her face in her hand and went off into irresistible, prolonged, nervous, inaudible laughter. The elder listened to her with a smile and blessed her tenderly. As she kissed his hand she suddenly pressed it to her eyes and began crying. "Don't be angry with me. I'm silly and good for nothing. And perhaps Elliosh is right, quite right in not wanting to come and see such a ridiculous girl?" "I will certainly send him," said the elder. This ends chapter 4. Book 2, chapter 5. So be it, so be it. The elder's absence from his cell had lasted for about 25 minutes. It was more than half past wealth, but Dimitri, on whose account they had all met there, had still not appeared. But he seemed almost to be forgotten, and when the elder entered the cell again, he found his guests engaged in eager conversation. Yvonne and the two monks took the leading share in it. Musoph II was trying to take apart and apparently very eagerly in the conversation, but he was unsuccessful in this also. He was evidently in the background, and his remarks were treated with neglect, which increased his irritability. He had had intellectual encounters with Yvonne before, and he could not endure a certain carelessness Yvonne showed him. "Hitherto at last I have stood in the front ranks of all that is progressive in Europe, and hear the new generation positively ignores us," he thought. Fyodor Pavlovich, who had given his word to sit still and be quiet, had actually been quiet for some time, but he watched his neighbor Musoph with an ironical little smile, obviously enjoying his discomfort. He had been waiting for some time to pay off old scores, and now he could not let the opportunity slip. Bending over his shoulder, he began teasing him again in a whisper. "Why didn't you go away just now after the courteously kissing? Why did you consent to remain in such unseemly company? It was because you felt insulted and aggrieved, and you remained to vindicate yourself by showing off your intelligence. Now you won't go till you've displayed your intellect to them." "You again, on the contrary, I'm just going. You'll be the last, the last of all to go." Fyodor Pavlovich delivered him another thrust, almost at the moment of Father Tsosima's return. The discussion died down for a moment, but the elder, seating himself in his former place, looked at them all as though cordially inviting them to go on. Al-Yosha, who knew every expression of his face, saw that he was fearfully exhausted and making a great effort. Of late he had been liable to fainting fits from exhaustion. His face had the pallor that was common before such attacks and his lips were white. But he evidently did not want to break up the party. He seemed to have some special object of his own in keeping them. "What object?" Al-Yosha watched him intently. "We are discussing this gentleman's most interesting article," said Father Joseph, the librarian, addressing the elder and indicating Yvonne. "He brings forward much that is new, but I think the argument cuts both ways. It is an article written in answer to a book by an ecclesiastical authority on the question of ecclesiastical court and the scope of its jurisdiction." "I'm sorry I have not read your article, but I've heard of it," said the elder, looking keenly and intently at Yvonne. "He takes up a most interesting position," continued the father librarian. "As far as church jurisdiction is concerned, he is apparently quite opposed to the separation of church and state." "That's interesting. But in what sense?" Father Zosima asked Yvonne. "The latter," at last answered him, "not condescendingly as Al-Yosha had feared, but with modesty and reserve, with evident goodwill, and apparently without the slightest ariyere pulsé." "I start from the position that this confusion of elements, that is of the essential principles of church and state, will of course go on forever, in spite of the fact that it is impossible for them to mingle, and that the confusion of these elements cannot lead to any consistent or even normal results, for there is falsity at the very foundation of it. Compromise between the church and state in such questions as, for instance, church's jurisdiction is to my thinking impossible in any real sense. My clerical opponent maintains that the church holds a precise and defined position in the state. I maintain on the contrary, that the church ought to include the whole state, and not simply to occupy a corner in it, and if this is, for some reason, impossible at present, then it ought, in reality, to be set up as the direct and chief aim of the future development of Christian society." "Perfectly true," Father Paisie, the silent and learned monk, assented with fervor and decision. "The purest, ultramontism," cried Musoph, impatiently crossing and recrossing his legs. "Oh, well we have no mountains," cried Father Yosef, and turning to the elder he continued. "Observe the answer he makes to the following, fundamental and essential positions of his opponent, who is you must note and ecclesiastic. First, that no social organization can or ought to irrigate to itself power to dispose of the civic and political rights of its members. Secondly, that criminal and civil jurisdiction ought not to belong to the church, and is inconsistent with its nature, both as a divine institution, and as an organization of men for religious objects. And finally, in the third place, the church is a kingdom not of this world. Ha, most unworthy play upon words for an ecclesiastic. Father Paisie cannot refrain from breaking in again. "I have read the book which you have answered," he added, addressing Yvonne, and was astounded at the words, "The church is a kingdom not of this world. If it is not of this world, then it cannot exist on earth at all." In the gospel, the words "not of this world" are not used in that sense. To play with such words is indefensible. Our Lord Jesus Christ came to set up the church upon earth. The kingdom of heaven, of course, is not of this world, but in heaven. But it is only entered through the church, which has been founded and established upon earth. And so a frivolous play upon words in such a connection is unpardonable and improper. The church is, in truth, a kingdom, an ordained to rule, and in the end must undoubtedly become the kingdom ruling over all the earth. For that we have the divine promise. He ceased speaking suddenly as though checking himself. After listening attentively and respectfully, Yvonne went on, addressing the elder with perfect composure and, as before, with ready cordiality. The whole point of my article lies in the fact that during the first three centuries, Christianity only existed on earth in the church and was nothing but the church. When the pagan Roman Empire desired to become Christian, it inevitably happened that, by becoming Christian, it included the church, but remained a pagan state in very many of its departments. In reality this was bound to happen, but Rome as a state retained too much of the pagan civilization and culture, as for example, in the very objects and fundamental principles of the state. The Christian church, entering into the state, could of course surrender no part of its fundamental principles, the rock on which it stands, and could pursue no other aims than those which have been ordained and revealed by God himself, and among them that of drawing the whole world and therefore the ancient pagan state itself into the church. In that way, that is, with a view to the future, it is not the church that should seek a definite position in the state, like every social organization, or as an organization of men for religious purposes, as my opponent calls the church. But, on the contrary, every earthly state should be in the end, completely transformed into the church. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's favorite, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. IT is Ryan C. Chris here. People always say it's good to unwind, but that's easier said than done. The exception, Chumba Casino. They actually make it easier done than said, or at least the same. 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He had looked upon them as a temporary compromise, inevitable in our sinful and imperfect date, but as soon as the author ventures to declare that the foundations, which he predicates now, part of which Father Joseph just enumerated, are the permanent essential and eternal foundations, he is going directly against the church, and its sacred and eternal vocation. That is the gist of my article. That is in brief, Father Piusy began again, laying stress on each word. According to certain theories, only too clearly formulated in the nineteenth century, the church ought to be transformed into the state, as though this would be an advance from a lower to a higher form, so as to disappear into it, making way for science, for the spirit of the age, and civilization. And if the church resists and is unwilling, some corner will be set apart for her in the state, and even that under control. And this will be so everywhere in all modern European countries, but rotten hopes and conceptions demand not the church should pass as from a lower into a higher type into the state, but on the contrary, that the state should end by being worthy to become only the church and nothing else. So be it, so be it. Well, I confess you've reassured me somewhat. Mysov said smiling, again crossing his legs. So far as I understand then, the realization of such an ideal is infinitely remote. At the second coming of Christ, that says you please, it's a beautiful utopian dream of the abolition of war, diplomacy, banks, and so on, something after the fashion of socialism indeed, but I imagined that it was all meant seriously, and that the church might be now going to try criminals and sentence them to beating prison and even death. But if there were none but the ecclesiastical court, the church would not even now sentence a criminal to prison or to death. Crime in the way of regarding it would inevitably change, not all at once of course, but fairly soon, Yvonne replied calmly without flinching. Are you serious? Mysov glanced keenly at him. If everything became the church, the church would exclude all the criminal and disobedient and would not cut off their heads, Yvonne went on. I ask you, what would be cub of the excluded? He would be cut off that not only from men as now, but from Christ. By his crime he would have transgressed not only against men, but against the church of Christ. This is so even now, of course, strictly speaking, but is not clearly enumerated, and very, very often the criminal of today compromises with his conscience. I steal, he says, but I don't go against the church, I'm not an enemy of Christ. That's what the criminal of today is continually saying to himself. But when the church takes the place at the state, it will be difficult for him in opposition to the church all over the world to say, "All men are mistaken, all in error. All men kind are the false church. I, a thief and murderer, am the only true Christian church." It will be very difficult to say this to himself. It requires a rare combination of unusual circumstances. Now on the other side, take the church's own view of it crime. Is it not bound to renounce the present, almost pagan attitude, and a change from a mechanical cutting off of its tainted member for the preservation of society, as at present, into completely and honestly adopting the idea of the regeneration of the man, of his reformation and salvation? "What do you mean? I fail to understand again," Musof interrupted, "some sort of dream again, something shapeless and even incomprehensible. What is excommunication? What sort of exclusion? I suspect you are simply amusing yourself, Yvonne Feodorovich." "Yes, but you know, in reality it is so now," said the elder suddenly, "and all turn to him at once." "If it were not for the church of Christ, there would be nothing to restrain the criminal from evil doing. No real chastisement for it afterwards. None that is but the mechanical punishment spoken of just now, which in the majority of cases only in bidders the heart, and not the real punishment, the only effectual one, the only deterrent and softening one, which lies in the recognition of sin by conscience." "How is that, may one inquire?" asked Musof with lively curiosity. "Why?" began the elder. "All these sentences to exile with hard labor and formerly with flogging also reform no one, and what's more, deter hardly a single criminal, and the number of crimes does not diminish but is continually on the increase. You must admit that. Consequently, the security of society is not preserved, for although the obnoxious members mechanically cut off and sent far away out of sight, another criminal always comes to take his place at once, and often two of them. If anything does preserve society, even in our time, it does regenerate and transform the criminal. It is only the law of Christ speaking in his conscience. It is only by recognizing his wrongdoing as a son of a Christian society, that is of the church, that he recognizes his sin against society, that is against the church, so that it is only against the church, and not against the state, that the criminal of today can recognize that he has sinned. If society, as a church, had jurisdiction, then it would know when to bring back from exclusion and to reignite to itself. Now the church having no real jurisdiction, but only the power of moral condemnation, withdraws of her own accord from punishing the criminal actively. She does not excommunicate him, but simply persists in motherly excitation of him. What is more, the church even tries to preserve all Christian communion with the criminal. She admits him to church services, to the holy sacrament, gives him alms, and treats him more as a captive than as a convict, and what would become of the criminal, O Lord, if even the Christian society, that is the church, were to reject him even as the civil law rejects him and cuts him off. What would become of him if the church punished him with her excommunication as the direct consequence of the secular law? There could be no more terrible despair, at least for a Russian criminal, for Russian criminals still have faith. Though who knows, perhaps then a fearful thing would happen, perhaps the despairing heart of the criminal would lose its faith, and then what would become of him. But the church, like a tender, loving mother, holds aloof from active punishment herself, as the sinner is too severely punished already by the civil law, and there must be at least someone to have pity on him. The church holds aloof above all, because its judgment is the only one that contains the truth, and therefore cannot practically and morally be united to any other judgment, even as a temporary compromise. She can enter into no compact about that. The foreign criminal, they say, rarely repents, for the very doctrines of today confirm him in the idea that his crime is not a crime, but only a reaction against an unjustly oppressive force. Society cuts him off completely by a force that triumphs over him mechanically, and so at least they say of themselves in Europe, a company is this exclusion with hatred, forgetfulness, and the most profound indifference as to the ultimate fate of the airing brother. In this way, it all takes place without the compassionate intervention of the church. For in many cases there are no churches there at all. For though ecclesiastics and splendid church buildings remain, the churches themselves have long ago striven to pass from church into state, and to disappear in it completely. So it seems at least in Lutheran countries. As for Rome, it was proclaimed a state instead of a church a thousand years ago, and so the criminal is no longer conscious of being a member of the church and sinks into despair. If he returns to society, often it is with such hatred that society itself instinctively cuts him off. You can judge for yourself how it must end. In many cases it would seem to be the same with us, but the difference is that besides the established law courts, we have the church too, which always keeps up relations with the criminal as a dear and still precious son. And besides that, there is still preserved, though only in thought, the judgment of the church, which though no longer existing in practice, is still living as a dream for the future, and is no doubt instinctively recognized by the criminal in his soul. What was said here just now is true too, that is, that if the jurisdiction of the church were introduced in practice, in his full force, that is, if the whole of the society were changed into the church, not only the judgment of the church would have influence on the reformation of the criminal, such as it has never had now, but possibly also the crimes themselves would be incredibly diminished. And there can be no doubt that the church would look upon the criminal and the crime of the future in many cases quite differently, and would succeed in restoring the excluded, in restraining those who plan evil, and in regenerating the fallen. "It is true," said Father Sosema with a smile, "the Christian society now is not ready and is only resting on some seven righteous men, but as they are never lacking, it will continue still unshaken in expectation of its complete transformation from a society almost he than a character into a single, universal, and all-powerful church. So be it, so be it. Even though at the end of the ages, Ford is ordained to come to pass, and there is no need to be troubled about times and seasons, for the secret of the times and seasons is the wisdom of God. In his foresight and his love, and what inhuman reckoning seems still far off, may by the divine ordinance be close at hand on the eve of its appearance, and so be it, so be it. So be it, so be it, Father Paisie repeated austerely and reverently." "Strange, extremely strange," Musoph pronounced, "not so much with heat as with latent indignation." "What strikes you as so strange," Father Joseph inquired cautiously. "Why, it's beyond anything," cried Musoph, suddenly breaking out. "The state is eliminated, and the church is raised to the position of the state. It's not simply ultramontanism. It's arched ultramontanism. It's beyond the dreams of Pope Gregory VII." "You are completely misunderstanding it," said Father Paisie sternly. "Understand the church is not to be transformed into the state. That is Rome and its dream. That is the third temptation of the devil. On the contrary, the state is transformed into the church. Will ascend and become a church over the whole world, which is the complete opposite of ultramontism and Rome, and your interpretation, and is only the glorious destiny ordained for the orthodox church. This star will arise in the east." Musoph was significantly silent. His whole figure expressed extraordinary personal dignity, a super-silious and condescending smile played on his lips. Al-Yosha watched it all with a throbbing heart. The whole conversation stirred him profoundly. He glanced casually at Raketan, who was standing immovable in his place by the door, listening and watching intently, though with downcast eyes. But from the color in his cheeks, Al-Yosha guessed that Raketan was probably no less excited, and he knew what caused his excitement. "Allow me to tell you one little anecdote, gentlemen," Musoph said impressively, with a peculiar, majestic air. "Some years ago, soon after the coup d'etat of December, I happened to be calling in Paris on an extremely influential personage in the government, and I met a very interesting man in his house. This individual was not precisely a detective, but was a sort of superintendent of a whole regiment of political detectives, a rather powerful position in its own way. I was prompted by curiosity to seize the opportunity of conversation with him, and as he had not come as a visitor, but as a subordinate official bringing a special report, and as he saw the reception given me by his chief, he dained to speak with some openness, to a certain extent only, of course. He was rather courteous than open, as French men know how to be courteous, especially to a foreigner. But I thoroughly understood him. The subject was a socialist revolutionaries who were at that time persecuted. I will quote only one most curious remark dropped by this person. "We are not particularly afraid," said he, "of all these socialists, and our guests, infidels, and revolutionists. We keep watch on them and know all their goings on. But there are a few peculiar men among them who believe in God and our Christians, but at the same time our socialists. These are the people we are most afraid of. They are dreadful people. The socialist who is a Christian is more to be dreaded than a socialist who is an atheist. The words struck me at the time, and now they have suddenly come back to me here, gentlemen." "You apply them to us, and look upon us as socialists," Fr. Paisie asked directly without beating about the bush. "But before Piotere Alexandrovich could think what to answer, the door opened, and the guest so long expected, Dimitri Fiedorrovich, came in. They had, in fact, given up expecting him, and his sudden appearance caused some surprise for a moment." This ends chapter 5. Book 2, chapter 6. Why is such a man alive? Dimitri Fiedorrovich, a young man of 8 and 20, of medium height and agreeable countenance, looked older than his years. He was muscular and showed signs of considerable physical strength, yet there was something not healthy in his face. It was rather thin. His cheeks were hollow, and there was an unhealthy salowness in their color. His rather large, prominent, dark eyes had an expression of firm determination, and yet there was a vague look in them, too. Even when he was excited and talking irritably, his eyes somehow did not follow his mood, but betrayed something else, something quite incongruous with what was passing. It's hard to tell what he's thinking. Those who talk to him sometimes declared. People who saw something pensive and sullen in his eyes were startled by his sudden laugh, which bore witness to mirthful and light-hearted thoughts, at the very time when his eyes were so gloomy. A certain strange look in his face was easy to understand at this moment. Everyone knew, or had heard of, the extremely restless and dissipated life which he had been leading of late, as well as the violent anger to which he had been roused in his quarrels with his father. There were several stories current in the town about it. It is true that he was irascible by nature, of an unstable and unbalanced mind, as our justice of the peace, Kachalnikov, happily described him. He was stylishly and irreprotably dressed in a carefully buttoned frock-coat. He wore black gloves and carried a top hat. Having only lately left the army, he still had mustaches and no beard. His dark brown hair was cropped short and combed forward on his temples. He had the long, determined stride of a military man. He stood still for a moment on the threshold, and glancing at the whole party went straight up to the elder, guessing him to be their host. He made him a low bow and asked his blessing. Father Zosima, rising in his chair, blessed him. Dimitri kissed his hand respectfully, and with intense feeling, almost anger, he said. "Be so generous as to forgive me for having kept you waiting so long, but smed you cough, the valet sent me by my father, and replied to my inquiries, told me twice over that the appointment was for one. Now I suddenly learn." "Don't disturb yourself," interposed the elder. "No matter. You are little late. It's of no consequence." "I am extremely obliged to you, and expected no less from your goodness." Saying this, Dimitri bowed once more, then turning suddenly toward his father, made him too a similarly low and respectful bow. He had evidently considered it beforehand, and made this bow in all seriousness, thinking at his duty to show his respect and good intentions. Although Theodore Pavlovitch was taken unaware, he was equal to the occasion. In response to Dimitri's bow, he jumped up from his chair, and made his son a bow as low in return. His face was suddenly solemn and impressive, which gave him a positively malignant look. Dimitri bowed generally to all present, and without a word walked to the window with his long, resolute stride, sat down on the only empty chair near Father Piusi, and bending forward, prepared to listen to the conversation he had interrupted. Dimitri's entrance had taken no more than two minutes, and the conversation was resumed, but this time, Musov thought it unnecessary to reply to Father Piusi's persistent and almost irritable question. "Allow me to withdraw from this discussion," he observed with a certain well bred nonchalance. It's a subtle question, too. Here, Ivan Fedorvitch is smiling at us. He must have something interesting to say about that also. Ask him. "Nothing special, except one little remark," Ivan replied at once. "European liberals in general, and even our liberal Dilitante, often mix up the final results of socialism, those of Christianity. This wild notion is, of course, a characteristic feature, but it's not only liberals, and the Dilitante who mix up socialism and Christianity, but in many cases, it appears the police, the foreign police, of course, do the same. Your paracentic tote is rather to the point-pewter-al-exantovich." Hey Amazon Prime members! Why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon Saver, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. It is Ryan Seacrest here. There was a recent social media trend, which consisted of flying on a plane with no music, no movies, no entertainment, but a better trend would be going to Chumbacacino.com. It's like having a mini social casino in your pocket. Chumbacacino has over 100 online casino-style games, all absolutely free. It's the most fun you can have online and on a plane, so grab your free welcome bonus now at Chumbacacacino.com. Sponsored by Chumbacacino, no purchase necessary. VGW Group, voidware prohibited by law, 18-plus terms and conditions apply. I ask your permission to drop this subject all together, Musa repeated. I will tell you instead, gentlemen, another interesting and rather characteristic anecdote of Yvonne Fiedorovich himself. Only five days ago, in a gathering here, principally of ladies, he solemnly declared an argument that there was nothing in the whole world to make men love their neighbors, that there was no law of nature that man should love mankind, and that, if there had been any love on earth hitherto, it was not owing to a natural law, but simply because men have believed in immortality. Yvonne Fiedorovich added in parentheses that the whole natural law lies in that faith, and that if you were to destroy in mankind the belief in immortality, not only love, but every living force maintaining the life of the world would at once be dried up. Moreover, nothing then would be immoral. Everything would be lawful, even cannibalism. That's not all. He ended by asserting that for every individual like ourselves who does not believe in God or immortality, the moral law of nature must immediately be changed into the exact contrary of the former religious law, and that egoism, even to crime, must become not only lawful, but even recognized as inevitable, the most rational, even honorable outcome of his position. From this paradox, gentlemen, you can judge of the rest of our eccentric and paradoxical friend, Yvonne Fiedorovich's theories. "Excuse me," Dimitri cried suddenly, "if I've heard a right, crime must not only be permitted, but even recognize as the inevitable and the most rational outcome of his position for every infidel, is that so or not?" "Quite so," said Father Paisie. "I'll remember it." Having uttered these words, Dimitri ceased speaking as suddenly as he had begun. Everyone looked at him with curiosity. "Is that really your conviction as to the consequences of the disappearance of the faith and immortality?" the elder asked Yvonne suddenly. "Yes, that was my contention. There is no virtue if there is no immortality." "You are blessed in believing that, or else most unhappy." "Why unhappy?" Yvonne asked, smiling. "Because in all probability you don't believe yourself in the immortality of your soul, nor in what you have written yourself in your article on church jurisdiction." "Perhaps you're right, but I wasn't altogether joking," Yvonne suddenly and strangely confessed, flushing quickly. "You were not altogether joking, that's true. The question is still fretting your heart and not answered, but the martyr likes sometimes to divert himself with his despair, as it were driven to it by despair itself. Meanwhile in your despair you too divert yourself with magazine articles and discussions in society, though you don't believe your own arguments, and with an aching heart mock at them inwardly. That question you have not answered, and it is to your great grief for a glamorous foreign answer." "But can it be answered by me?" answered in the affirmative. Yvonne went on asking strangely, still looking at the elder with the same inexplicable smile. "If it can't be decided in the affirmative, it will never be decided in the negative. You know that that is the peculiarity of your heart, and all its suffering is due to it. But thank the Creator who has given you a lofty heart capable of such suffering, of thinking and seeking higher things, for our dwelling is in the heavens. God grant that your heart will attain the answer on earth and may God bless your path." The elder raised his hand and would have made the sign of the cross over Yvonne from where he stood, but the latter rose from his seat, went up to him, received his blessing, and kissing his hand went back to his place in silence. His face looked firm and earnest. This action and all the preceding conversation, which was so surprising from Yvonne, impressed everyone by its strangeness, and a certain solemnity, so that all were silent for a moment, and there was a look almost of apprehension in Aliyasha's face. But Musaf suddenly shrugged to his shoulders, and at the same moment, Feudwapavlovich jumped up from his seat. "Most pious and holy elder," he cried, pointing to Yvonne, "that is my son, flesh of my flesh, the dearest of my flesh. He is my most dutiful Carl Moore, so to speak, while the son who has just come in, demitry, against whom I am seeking justice from you, is the undutiful Franz Moore. They are both of Schiller's robbers, and so I am the reigning Count von Moore. Judge save us, we need not only your prayers, but your prophecies." "Speak without buffoonery, and don't begin by insulting the members of your family," answered the elder, in a faint, exhausted voice. He was obviously getting more and more fatigued, and his strength was failing. An unseemly farce which I foresaw when I came here, cried demitry indignantly, he too leapt up. "Forgive it, Reverend Father," he added, addressing the elder. "I am not a cultivated man, and I don't even know how to address you properly, but you have been deceived, and you have been too good-natured in letting us meet here. All my father wants is a scandal. Why he wants it only he can tell, he always has submotive, but I believe I know why." "They all blame me, all of them," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch in his turn. "Pyodor Alexandrovitch here blames me too. You have been blaming me Pyodor Alexandrovitch you have." He turned suddenly to Musov, although the latter was not dreaming of interrupting him. "They all accused me of having hidden the children's money in my boots, and cheated them. But isn't there court of law? There they will reckon out for you, Demitry Fyodorovich, from your notes, your letters, and your agreements, how much money you had, how much you have spent, and how much you have left. Why does Pyodor Alexandrovitch refuse to pass judgment? Demitry is not a stranger to him. Because they are all against me, while Demitry Fyodorovich is in debt to me, and not a little, but some thousands of which I have documentary proof. The whole town is echoing with his debaucheries, and where he was stationed before, he several times spent a thousand or two for the seduction of some respectable girl. We know all about that, Demitry Fyodorovich, and its both secret details. I'll prove it. Would you believe it, Holy Father? He has captivated the heart of the most honorable of young ladies, of good family and fortune, daughter of a gallant colonel, formerly his superior officer, who had received many honors, and who had the honor order on his breast. He compromised the girl by his promise of marriage. Now she's an orphan, and here. She's betrothed to him. Yet before her very eyes, he is dancing attendants on a certain enchantress. And although this enchantress has lived in, so to speak, civil marriage with a respectable man, yet she is of an independent character, an unapproachable fortress for everybody, just like a legal wife. For she is virtuous. Yes, Holy Father, she is virtuous. Demitry Fyodorovich wants to open this fortress with a golden key, and that's why he is insolent to me now, trying to get money from me, though he has wasted thousands on this enchantress already. He continually borrows money for the purpose. From whom do you think? Shall I say, Mitya? Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, A Plenty, and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. It is Ryan Seacrest here. There was a recent social media trend which consisted of flying on a plane with no music, no movies, no entertainment, but a better trend would be going to Chumbakocino.com. It's like having a mini social casino in your pocket. Chumbakocino has over 100 online casino style games, all absolutely free. It's the most fun you can have online and on a plane, so grab your free welcome bonus now at Chumbakocino.com. Sponsored by Chumbakocino. No purchase necessary. VGW Group. Void where prohibited by law. 18 plus terms and conditions apply. "Be silent!" cried Dimitri. "Wait till I'm gone. Don't dare in my presence to disperse the good name of an honorable girl. That you should utter a word about her as an outrage, and I won't permit it." He was breathless. "Meet ya! Meet ya!" cried Feudor Pavlovitch, hysterically squeezing out at here. "And is your father's blessing nothing to you? If I curse you, what then?" "Shameless hypocrite!" exclaimed Dimitri furiously. "He says that to his father! His father! What would he be with others, gentlemen? Holy fancy! There's a poor but honorable man living here, burdened with a numerous family, a captain who got into trouble and was discharged from the army, but not publicly, not by court-martial, with no slur on his honour. And three weeks ago, Dimitri seized him by the beard and a tavern, dragged him out into the street and beat him publicly, all because he is an agent in a little business of mine." "It's a lie! Outwardly it's the truth, but inwardly a lie!" Dimitri was trembling with rage. "Father, I don't justify my action. Yes, I confess it publicly. I behave like a brute to that captain, and I regret it now, and I'm disgusted with myself from my brutal rage. But this captain, this agent of yours, went to that lady whom you call and chantress, and suggested to her from you that she should take IOU's of mine which were in your possession, and should sue me for the money, so as to get me into prison by means of them. If I persisted in claiming an account from you of my property, now you reproach me for having a weakness for that lady when you yourself incited her to captivate me. She told me so to my face. She told me the story and laughed at you. You wanted to put me in prison because you were jealous of me with her, because you'd begun to force your attentions upon her, and I know all about that too. She laughed at you for that as well. You hear? She laughed at you as she described it. Here you have this man, this father who reproaches his profligate son. Gentlemen forgive my anger, but I foresaw that this crafty old man would only bring you together to create a scandal. I have come to forgive him, if he had held out his hand, to forgive him and asked for forgiveness. But as he is just as minute and salted not only me, but an honorable young lady, for whom I feel such reverence that I dare not take her name in vain, I have made up my mind to show up his game, though he is my father. He could not go on. His eyes were glittering, and he breathed with difficulty. But every one in the cell was stirred. All except father Zosima got up from their seats uneasily. The monks looked off steer, but waited for guidance from the elder. He sat still, pale, not from excitement but from the weakness of disease. An imploring smile lighted up his face from time to time, he raised his hands, as though to check the storm. And of course, a gesture from him would have been enough to end the scene. But he seemed to be waiting for something, and watched them intently, as though trying to make out something which was not perfectly clear to him. At last, Musau felt completely humiliated and disgraced. "We are to blame for the scandalous scene," he said hotly. "But I did not foresee it when I came, though I knew with whom I had to deal. This must be stopped at once. Believe me, your reverence, I had no precise knowledge of the details that have just come to light. I was unwilling to believe them, and I learned for the first time a father is jealous of his son's relations with a woman of loose behavior and intrigues with a creature to get his son into prison. This is the company in which I have been forced to be present. I was deceived. I declared to you all that I was as much deceived as anyone." "Demitri Viedorovitch," yelled Feodor Pavlovitch suddenly in an unnatural voice. "If you were not my son, I would challenge you this instant to a duel, with pistols, at three paces across the handkerchief," he ended, stepping both feet. With old liars who have been acting all their lives, there are moments when they enter so completely into their part that they tremble or shed tears of emotion in earnest. Although at that very moment, where a second later, they are able to whisper to themselves, "You know you are lying, you shameless old sinner. You are acting now in spite of your holy wrath." "Demitri frowned painfully and looked with unutterable contempt at his father." "I thought, I thought," he said in a soft, and as it were controlled voice, "That I was coming to my native place, with the angel of my heart." Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. Every day when you log in to ChumbaCocino.com, the ultimate online social casino, you get a free daily bonus. Imagine if you got daily bonuses in other parts of your life. "I chose french fries over loaded french fries." "I asked Stewart from accounting about his weekend, even though I don't care." "I updated my operating system without having to call tech support." Collect your free daily bonus at ChumbaCocino.com now. "I live the Chumba Life." My betrothed to cherish his old age and I find nothing but a depravid, profligate, and a despicable clown. "A duel!" yelled the old wretch again, breathless and spluttering at each syllable. "And you," Pietor Aleksandrovich-Musov, "let me tell you that there has never been in all your family a loftier and more honest. You hear? More honest, woman, than this creature as you have dared to call her. And you, Dimitri Feodorovich, have abandoned your betrothed for that creature, so you must yourself have thought that your betrothed couldn't hold a candle to her. That's the woman called a creature." "Shameful!" broke from Father Yosef. "Shameful and disgraceful." Colganov Flushing Crimson cried in a boyish voice, trembling with emotion. He had been silent till that moment. "Why is such a man alive?" Dimitri, beside himself with rage, growled in a hollow voice, hunching up his shoulders till he looked almost deformed. "Tell me, can he be allowed to go on defiling the earth?" He looked round at everyone and pointed at the old man. He spoke evenly and deliberately. "Listen! Listen, monks, to the parasite!" cried Feodor Pavlovich, rushing up to Father Yosef. "That's the answer to your shameful. What is shameful? That creature, that woman of loose behavior, is perhaps holier than you are yourselves, you monks who are seeking salvation? She fell perhaps in her youth, ruined by her environment, but she loved much, and Christ himself forgave the woman who loved much." "It was not for such love Christ forgave her," broke impatiently from the gentle Father Yosef. "Yes, it was for such monks, it was. You save your souls here, eating cabbage, and think you are righteous. You eat a grudgeon a day, and you think you bribed God with grudgeon." "This is unindorable," was heard on all sides in the cell. But this unseemly scene was cut short in a most unexpected way. Father Yosef rose suddenly from his seat, almost distracted with anxiety for the elder and everyone else. Al-Yosha succeeded, however, in supporting him by the arm. Father Yosef moved towards Dimitri and, reaching him, sank on his knees before him. Al-Yosha thought that he had fallen from weakness, but this was not so. The elder distinctly and deliberately bowed down at Dimitri's feet till his forehead touched the floor. Al-Yosha was so astounded that he failed to assist him when he got up again. There was a faint smile on his lips. "Good-bye. Forgive me all of you," he said, bowing on all sides to his guests. Dimitri stood for a few moments in amazement, bowing down to him. "What did it mean?" Suddenly he cried aloud. "Oh, God!" hid his face in his hands and rushed out of the room. All the guests flocked out after them. In their confusion, not saying goodbye or bowing to their host, only the monks went up to him again for a blessing. "What did it mean, falling at his feet like that? Was it symbolic or what?" said Fyodor Pavlovitch, suddenly quieted and trying to reopen conversation without venturing to address any one in particular. They were all passing out of the precincts of the Hermitage at that moment. "I can't answer for a madhouse and for bad men," Yosef answered at once ill-humoured. "But I will spare myself your company, Fyodor Pavlovitch, and trust me forever. Where's that monk?" "That monk," that is, the monk who had invited them to dine with the superior, did not keep them waiting. He met them as soon as they came down the steps from the elder's cell, as though he had been waiting for them all the time. Reverend Father, kindly do me a favour. Convey my deepest respect to the father superior, apologize for me personally, Yosef, to his reference, telling him that I deeply regret that owing to unforeseen circumstances, I am unable to have the honour of being present at his table, greatly as I should desire to do so. Yosef said iritably to the monk. "And that unforeseen circumstance, of course, is myself," Fyodor Pavlovitch cut in immediately. "Do you hear, Father, this gentleman doesn't want to remain in my company, or else he'd come at once. And you shall go, Piotor-Alexandervitch. Pray, go to the father superior, and good appetite to you. I will decline and not you." "Home, home, I'll eat at home. I don't feel quite equal to adhere, Piotor-Alexandervitch, my amiable relative." Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. It is Ryan C. Crest here. There was a recent social media trend which consisted of flying on a plane with no music, no movies, no entertainment. But a better trend would be going to Chumbakocino.com. It's like having a mini social casino in your pocket. Chumbakocino has over 100 online casino-style games, all absolutely free. It's the most fun you can have online and on a plane. So grab your free welcome bonus now at Chumbakocino.com. Sponsored by Chumbakocino. No purchase necessary. VGW Group. Void where prohibited by law. 18 plus terms and conditions apply. I am not your relative and never have been you contemptible man. I have said it on purpose to mad at you because you always disclaim the relationship. Though you really are a relation in spite of your shuffling. I'll prove it by the church calendar. As for you, Yvonne, stay if you like. I'll send the horses for you later. Propriity requires you to go to the Father Superior. Pioterellexandervitch to apologize for my disturbance we've been making. Is it true that you are going home? Aren't you lying? Pioterellexandervitch, how could I dare after what's happened? Forgive me, gentlemen, I was carried away and upset besides, and indeed I am ashamed. Gentlemen, one man has the heart of Alexander of Macedon and another the heart of the little dog Fido. Mine is that of the little dog Fido. I am ashamed. After such an escapade, how can I go to dinner to gobble up the monastery's sauces? I am ashamed. You must excuse me. The devil only knows what if he deceives us, thought Musov, still hesitating and watching the retreating buffoon with distrustful eyes. The latter turned round, and noticing that Musov was watching him, waved him a kiss. "Well, are you coming to the Superior?" Musov asked Yvonne abruptly. "Why not? I was especially invited yesterday." "Unfortunately, I feel myself compelled to go to this confounded dinner," said Musov, with the same irritability, regardless of the fact that the monk was listening. "We ought at least to apologize for the disturbance and explain that it was not our doing. What do you think?" "Yes, we must explain that it wasn't our doing. Besides, father won't be there," observed Yvonne. "Well, I should hope not confound this dinner." They all walked on, however. The monk listened to silence. On the road through the cops, he made one observation, however, that the father's Superior had been waiting a long time, and that they were more than half an hour late. He received no answer. Musov looked with hatred at Yvonne. "Here he is, going to the dinner as there nothing had happened," he thought. A brazen face, and a conscience of a caramelosoph. This ends chapter 6. Book 2 Chapter 7 A young man bent on a career. Al-Yasha helped Father Zosima to his bedroom and seated him on his bed. It was a little room furnished with the bare necessities. There was a narrow iron bedstand with a strip of felt for a mattress. In the corner, under the icons, was a reading desk with a cross and the gospel lying on it. The elder sank exhausted on bed. His eyes glittered and he breathed hard. He looked intently at Al-Yasha as though considering something. "Go, my dear boy. Go. Porphyry is enough for me. Make haste, you are needed there. Go and wait at the father's Superior's table." "Let me stay here," Al-Yasha entreated. "You are more needed there. There is no peace there. You will wait and be of service. If evil spirits rise up, repeat a prayer, and remember my son. The elder liked to call him that. This is not the place for you in the future. When it is God's will to call me, leave the monastery. Go away for good." Al-Yasha started. "What is it? This is not your place for the time. I bless you for great service in the world. Yours will be a long pilgrimage, and you will have to take a wife, too. You will have to bear all before you come back. There will be much to do. But I don't doubt of you, and so I send you forth. Christ is with you. Do not abandon him, and he will not abandon you. You will see great sorrow, and in that sorrow, you will be happy. This is my last message to you. In sorrow, seek happiness. Work unceasingly. Remember my words, "For although I shall talk with you again, not only my days, but my hours are numbered." Al-Yasha's face again betrayed strong emotion, the corners of his mouth quivered. "What is it again?" Father Zosima asked, smiling gently. "The worldly may follow the dead with tears, but here we rejoice over the Father who is departing. We rejoice and pray for him. Leave me. I must pray. Go and make haste. Be near your brothers, not near one only, but near both." Father Zosima raised his hand to bless him. Al-Yasha could make no protest, though he had a great longing to remain. He longed more over to ask the significance of his bowing to Dimitri. The question was on the tip of his tongue, but he dared not ask it. He knew that the elder would have explained it unasked, if he thought fit, but evidently, it was not his will. That action had been a terrible impression on Al-Yasha. He believed blindly in its mysterious significance, mysterious and perhaps awful. As he hastened out of the hermitage precincts to reach the monastery in time to serve at the Father's superior's dinner, he felt a sudden pang in his heart and stopped short. He seemed to hear again Father Zosima's words for telling his approaching end. What he had foretold so exactly must infallibly come to pass. Al-Yasha believed that implicitly. But how could he be left without him? How could he live without seeing and hearing him? Where should he go? He had told him not to weep and to leave the monastery. Good God! It was long since Al-Yasha had known such anguish. He hurried through the cops that divided the monastery from the hermitage, and unable to bear the burden of his thoughts, he gazed at the ancient pines beside the path. He had not far to go. About five hundred paces. He expected to meet no one at that hour. But at the first turn of the path, he noticed Rick Eaton. He was waiting for someone. "Are you waiting for me?" asked Al-Yasha, overtaking him. "Yes," grinned Rick Eaton. "You are hurrying to the Father's superior, I know. He has a banquet. There's not been such a banquet since the superior entertained the bishop and the general pahatov. Do you remember? I shan't be there, but you go and hand the sauces. Tell me one thing, Alexei. What does that vision mean? That's what I want to ask you." What vision? "That bowing to your brother Dimitri, and didn't he tap the ground with his forehead too?" "You speak of Father Zosima?" "Yes, of Father Zosima." "Tapped the ground?" "Ah, in a reverent expression. Well, what of it? Anyway, what does that vision mean?" "I don't know what it means, Misha." "I knew he wouldn't explain it to you. There's nothing wonderful about it, of course. Only the usual holy memory. But there was an object in the performance. All the pious people in the town will talk about it and spread the story through the province, wondering what it meant. To my thinking, the old man really has a keen nose. He sniffed a crime. Your house stinks of it." "What crime?" Raketon evidently had something he was eager to speak of. "It'll be in your family this crime, between your brothers and your rich old father. So Father Zosima flopped down to be ready for what may turn up. If something happens later on, it'll be, ah, the holy man foresaw it, prophesied it. Though it's a poor sort of prophecy flopping like that. Ah, but it was symbolic, they'll say, and allegory, and the devil knows what all. It'll be remembered to his glory. He predicted the crime and marked the criminal. That's always the way with these crazy fanatics. They cross themselves at the tavern and throw stones at the temple. Like your elder, he takes a stick to a just man and falls at the feet of a murderer." "What crime? What murderer? What do you mean? Al-Yosha stopped dead. Raketon stopped too." "What murderer is though you didn't know? I'll bet you've thought of it before. That's interesting, too, by the way. Listen, Al-Yosha, you always speak the truth, though you're always between two stools. Have you thought of it or not? Answer." "I have," answered Al-Yosha in a low voice. Even Raketon was taken aback. "What? Have you really?" he cried. "I've not exactly thought it," wondered Al-Yosha. "But directly you begin speaking so strangely. I can't say that I had thought of it myself." "You see? And how well you expressed it. Looking at your father and your brother Michia today you've thought of a crime that I'm not mistaken." "But wait, wait a minute. Al-Yosha broke in uneasily. What has led you to see all this? Why does it interest you?" "That's the first question." "Two questions disconnected but natural. I'll deal with them separately. What led me to see it? I shouldn't have seen it. If I hadn't suddenly understood your brother Dimitri, seen right into the very heart of him all at once, I caught the whole man from one trait. These very honest but passionate people have a line which mustn't be crossed. If it were, he'd run at your father with a knife. But your father's a drunken and abandoned old sinner, who can never draw the line. If they both let themselves go, they'll both come to grief." "No, Michia, no. If that's all you've reassured me, it won't come to that." "But why are you trembling?" "Let me tell you. He may be honest, Armitia. He's stupid, but honest. But he's a sensualist. That's the very definition and inner essence of him. It's your father has handed him on his low sensuality. Do you know I simply wonder at you, Al-Yosha, how you can have kept your purity. You're a Karamazov, too, you know. And your family's sensuality is carried to a disease. But now these three sensualists are watching one another, with their knives and their belts. The three of them are knocking their heads together, and you may be the fourth." "You are mistaken about that woman. Dimitri despises her," said Al-Yosha, with a sort of shudder. "Grushanka? No, brother. He doesn't despise her. Since he is openly abandoned his betrules for her, he doesn't despise her. There's something here, my dear boy, that you don't understand yet. A man will fall in love with some beauty, with a woman's beauty, or even with a part of a woman's body. A sensualist can understand that. And he'll abandon his own children for her, sell his father and mother and his country, too. Russia, too. If he's honest, he'll steal. If he's humane, he'll murder. If he's faithful, he'll deceive. Pushkin, the poet of women's feet, sung of their feet in his verse. Others don't sing their praises, but they can't look at their feet without a thrill, and it's not only their feet. Contents no help here, brother, even if he did despise Grushanka. He does, but he can't tear himself away." "I understand that," Al-Yosha jerked out suddenly. "Really?" "Well, I dare say you do understand, since you've blurred it out at the first word," said Raikitin malignantly. "That escaped you unawares, and the confessions the more precious. So it's a familiar subject. You've thought about it already, about sensuality, I mean. Oh, you virgins soul. You're a quiet one, Al-Yosha. You're a saint, I know, but the devil only knows what you've thought about and what you know already. You're pure, but you've been down into the depths. I've been watching you a long time. You're a Karamazov yourself. You're a thorough Karamazov. No doubt birth and selection have something to answer for. You're a centralist from your father, a crazy saint from your mother. Why do you tremble? Is it true then? Do you know Grushanka has been begging me to bring you along? I'll pull off his classic, she says. "You can't think how she keeps begging me to bring you. I wondered why she took such an interest in you. Do you know she's a extraordinary woman too?" "Thank her and say I'm not coming," said Al-Yosha, with a strange smile. "Finish what you are saying, Misha. I'll tell you my idea after." "There's nothing to finish. It's all clear. It's the same old-tuned brother. If even you are a centralist at heart, what of your brother Ivan? He's a Karamazov too. What is at the root of all you Karamazovs is that you're all sensual, grasping and crazy. Your brother Ivan writes theological articles in joke for some idiotic, unknown motive of his own, though he's an atheist and he admits it's a fraud himself. That's your brother Ivan. He's trying to get Misha's betrothed for himself, and I fancy he'll succeed too. And what's more, it's with Misha's consent. For Misha will surrender his betrothed to him to be rid of her and escape to Grushanka, and he's ready to do that in spite of all his nobility and disinterestedness. Observe that. Those are the most fatal people. Who the devil can make you out? He recognizes his vileness and goes on with it. Let me tell you too, the old man, your father, is standing in Misha's way now. He has suddenly gone crazy over Grushanka, his mouth waters at the sight of her. It's simply on her account he has made that scene in the cell just now, simply because Musov called her an abandoned creature. He's worse than a Tomcat in love. At first she was only employed by him in connection with his taverns and in some shady business, but now he has suddenly realized all she is and has gone wild about her. He keeps pestering her with his offers, not honorable ones of course, and they'll come into collision, the precious father and son on that path. But Grushanka favors neither of them. She's still playing with them and teasing them both, considering which she can get the most out of. For those she could filter a lot of money from the papa, he wouldn't marry her, and maybe he'll turn stingy in the end and keep his first shot. That's where Misha's value comes in. He has no money, but he's ready to marry her. Yes, ready to marry her to abandon his betrothed, a rare beauty, katerina Ivanovna, who's rich in the daughter of a colonel, and to marry Grushanka, who has been the mistress of a desolate old merchant, Samsonov, of course, uneducated, provincial mayor. Some murderous conflict may welcome to Bastramaldis, and that's what your brother Ivan is waiting for. He would suit him down to the ground, he'll carry off katerina Ivanovna, for whom he is languishing, and pocket her dowry of 60,000. That's very alluring to start with, for a man of no consequence, and a beggar. And take note, he won't be wronging Misha, but doing him the greatest service, for I know as a fact that Misha, only last week when he was with some gypsy girl, drunken and tavern, cried out aloud that he was unworthy of his betrothed katya, but that his brother Ivan, he was the man who deserved her, and katerina Ivanovna will not in the end refuse such a fascinating man as Ivan. She's hesitating between the two of them already. And how has that Ivan won you all, so that you all worship him? He is laughing at you, and enjoying himself at your expense. How do you know? How can you speak so confidently? Alayosha asked sharply, frowning. Why do you ask? And are you frightened at my answer? It shows that you know I'm speaking the truth. You don't like Ivan. Ivan wouldn't be tempted by money. Really? And the beauty of katerina Ivanovna? It's not only the money, though a fortune of 60,000 is an attraction. Ivan is above that. He wouldn't make up to anyone for thousands. It's not the money. It's not comfort Ivan is seeking. Perhaps it's suffering he is seeking. What wild dream now? Oh, you aristocrats. Ah, Misha, he has a stormy spirit. His mind is in bondage. He is haunted by a great unresolved doubt. He's one of those who don't want millions, but an answer to their questions. That's played your vision Alayosha. You're quoting your elder's phrases. Ah, Ivan has such you a problem, cried for Keaton, with undisguised malice. His face changed, and his lips twitched. And the problems are stupid one. It's no good guessing it. Rack your brains, you'll understand it. His article is absurd and ridiculous, and did you hear his stupid theory just now? If there's no immortality of the soul, then there's no virtue, and everything is lawful? And by the way, do you remember how your brother Misha cried out? I will remember an attractive theory for scoundrels. I'm being abusive. That's stupid. Not for scoundrels, but for pedantic posiers, haunted by profound unresolved doubts. He's showing off, and what it all comes to is, on the one hand we cannot but admit, and on the other, it must be confessed. His whole theory is a fraud. Humanity will find in itself the power to live for virtue, even without believing in immortality. It will find it in love for freedom, for equality, for fraternity. Where Keaton could hardly restrain himself in his heat, but suddenly as though remembering something he stopped short. "Well, that's enough," he said, with a still more crooked smile. "Why are you laughing? Do you think I'm a vulgar fool?" "No, I never dreamed of thinking you a vulgar fool. You are clever, but, never mind, I was silly to smile. I understand you're getting hot about it, Misha. I guess from your warmth that you are not indifferent to Katarina Yvonne of day yourself. I've suspected that for a long time, brother. That's why you don't like my brother Yvonne. Are you jealous of him?" "And jealous of her money, too, won't you add that?" "I'll say nothing about money. I'm not going to insult you." "I believe it since you say so, but confound you and your brother Yvonne with you. Don't you understand that one might very well dislike him, apart from Katarina Yvonne of and why the devil should I like him? He condescends to abuse me, you know. Why haven't I a right to abuse him?" "I never heard of his saying anything about you, go to her bed. He doesn't speak of you at all." "But I heard that the day before yesterday at Katarina Yvonne of days, he was abusing me for all he was worth. You see what an interest he takes in your humble servant, and which is the jealous one after that, brother, I can't say. He was so good as to express the opinion that, if I don't go in for the career of an archimandrite in the immediate future and don't become a monk, I shall be sure to go to Petersburg and get on to some solid magazine as a reviewer, that I shall write for the next ten years and in the end become the owner of the magazine and bring it out on the liberal and atheistic side, with a socialistic tinge, with a tiny gloss of socialism, but keeping a sharp look out all the time. That is, keeping in with both sides and hoodwinking the fools. According to your brother's account, the tinge of socialism won't hinder me from laying by the proceeds and investing them under the guidance of some Jew, till at the end of my career I build a great house in Petersburg and move my publishing offices to it and let out the upper stories to lodgers. He has even chosen the place for it near the new stone bridge across from the Neva, which they say is to be built in Petersburg." "Ah, Misha! That's just what will really happen, every word of it!" cried El-Yosha, unable to restrain a good-humoured smile. "You are pleased to be sarcastic to Alexei Fyodorovich." "No, no. I'm joking. Forgive me. I've something quite different in my mind. But excuse me, who can have told you all this? You can't have been at Katarina Ivanov's nurse yourself when he was talking about it." "I wasn't there, but Dimitri Fyodorovich was, and I heard him tell it with my own ears, if you want to know. He didn't tell me, but I overheard him, unintentionally, of course, for I was sitting in Grushenko's bedroom, and I couldn't go away because Dimitri Fyodorovich was in the next room." "Oh, yes. I'd forgotten she was a relation of yours." "Ah, a relation? That Grushenko, a relation of mine?" cried Rakeetin, turning crimson. "Are you mad? Are you out of your mind?" "Why isn't she a relation of yours?" "I had heard so." "Where can you have heard it?" "You Karamazov's brag of being an ancient noble family, though your father used to run about playing the buffoon at other men's tables, and was only admitted to the kitchen as a favor. I may be only a priest's son, and dirt in the eyes of noblemen like you, but don't insult me so lightly and wantonly. I have a sense of honor to Alexey Fyodorovich. I couldn't be a relation of Grushenko, a common harlot. I beg you to understand that." Rakeetin was intensely irritated. "Forgive me for goodness' sakes, I had no idea. Besides, how can you call her a harlot? Is she that sort of woman?" Al-Yosha flushed suddenly. "I tell you again I heard that she was a relation of yours. You often go to see her, and you told me yourself you're not her lover. I never dreamed that you of all people had such contempt for her. Does she really deserve it?" "I may have reasons of my own for visiting her. That's not your business, but as for a relationship, your brother or even your father is more likely to make her yours than mine." "Well, here we are. You'd better go to the kitchen." "Hello? What's wrong? What is it? Are we late?" "They can't have finished dinner so soon." "Have the Karamazov's been making trouble again?" "No doubt they have. Here's your father and your brother Ivan after him. They've broken out from the father's superiors. And look! Father Isadors shouting out something after them from the steps. And your father's shouting and waving his arms." "I expect he's swearing." "Ah, and there goes Mussoff driving away in his carriage. You see, he's going. And there's old Maxima of running. There must have been a row. There can't have been any dinner. Surely they'd not been beating the father's superior. Or have they perhaps been beaten. It would serve them right." "There was reason for Raketan's exclamations. There had been a scandalous and unprecedented scene. It had all come from the impulse of a moment." This ends chapter seven. Book two, chapter eight, the scandalous scene. Mussoff, as a man of breathing and delicacy, could not but feel some inward qualms when he reached the father's superiors with Ivan. He felt ashamed of having lost his temper. He felt that he ought to have disdained that despicable wretch, feud or pothovich, too much to have been upset by him and father's ocema's cell, and so to have forgotten himself. "The monks were not to blame in any case," he reflected on the steps. "And if they're decent people here, and the first father's superior, I understand, is a nobleman. Why not be friendly and courteous with them? I won't argue. I'll fall in with everything. I'll win them by politeness. And show them that I've nothing to do with that aesop, that buffoon, that pyro, and have merely been taken in over this affair just as they have." He determined to drop its litigation with the monastery, and relinquish his claims to the wood cutting and fishing rights at once. He was the more ready to do this, because the rights had become much less valuable, and he had indeed the vagus idea where the wood and river in question were. These excellent intentions were strengthened when he entered the father's superiors dining room, though strictly speaking it was not a dining room, for the father's superior had only two rooms all together. They were, however, much larger and more comfortable than father's ocema's. But there was no great luxury about the furnishing of these rooms either. The furniture was of mahogany, covered with leather in the old-fashioned style of 1820. The floor was not even stained, but everything was shining with cleanliness, and there were many choice flowers in the windows. The most sumptuous thing in the room at the moment was, of course, the beautifully decorated table. The cloth was clean, the service shown. There were three kinds of well-baked bread, two bottles of wine, two of excellent meat, and a large glass jug of cloths. Both the latter made in the monastery, and famous in the neighborhood. There was no vodka. Raqueton related afterwards that there were five dishes. Fish soup, made of stirlots, served with little fish patties, then boiled fish served in a special way, then salmon cutlets, ice pudding and kompot, and finally, lonk mulch. Raqueton found out about all these good things, for he could not resist peeping into the kitchen, where he already had a footing. He had a footing everywhere, and got information about everything. He was of an uneasy and envious temper, he was well aware of his own considerable abilities, and nervously exaggerated them in his self-conceit. He knew he would play a prominent part of some sort, but Al-Yosha, who was attached to him, was distressed to see that his friend Raqueton was dishonorable, and quite unconscious of being so himself, considering on the contrary, that because he would not steal money left on the table, he was a man of the highest integrity. Neither Al-Yosha nor anyone else could have influenced him in that. Raqueton, of course, was a person of two little consequence to be invited to the dinner, to which Father Yosef, Father Paeci, and one other monk were the only inmates of the monastery invited. They were already waiting when Muself, Kalganov, and Ivan arrived. The other guest, Maximov, stirred a little aside, waiting also. The father superior stepped into the middle of the room to receive his guests. He was a tall, thin, but still vigorous old man, with black hair streaked with gray, and a long, grave, ascetic face. He bowed to his guests in silence, but this time they approached to receive his blessing. Muself even tried to kiss his hand, but the father superior drew it back in time to avoid the salute. But Ivan and Kalganov went through the ceremony in the most simple-hearted and complete manner, kissing his hand as peasants do. "We must apologize most humbly, O reverence," began Muself, simpering affably and speaking in a dignified and respectable tone. "Part in us for having come alone without the gentleman you invited, Theodore Pavlovitch, he felt obliged to decline the honour of your hospitality, and not without reason. In the Reverend Father Yosef, Muself, he was carried away by the unhappy dissension with his son, and let fall words which were quite out of keeping. In fact, quite unseemly, as he glanced at the monks, your reverence is no doubt already aware, and therefore recognizing that he had been to blame, he felt sincere regret and shame, and begged me and his son Ivan Theodore Pavlovitch to convey to you his apologies and regrets. In brief, he hopes and desires to make events later. He asks your blessing, and begs you to forget what has taken place." As he uttered the last word of his tirade, Muself completely recovered his self-complacency, and all traces of his former irritation disappeared. He fully and sincerely loved humanity again. The father's superior listened to him, with dignity, and with a slight bend of the head, replied, "I sincerely deplore his absence, perhaps at our table he might have learnt to like us, and we him. Pray be seated, gentlemen." He stood before the holy image and began to say grace aloud, all bent their heads reverently, and Maximeov clasped his hands before him with peculiar fervour. It was at this moment that Theodore Pavlovitch played his last prank. It must be noted that he really had meant to go home, and really had felt the impossibility of going to dine with the father's superior, as though nothing had happened, after his disgraceful behaviour in the elder's cell. Not that he was so very much ashamed of himself. Quite the contrary, perhaps; but still, he felt it would be unseemly to go to dinner. Yet his creaking carriage had hardly been brought to the steps of the hotel, and he had hardly gotten to it, when he suddenly stopped short. He remembered his own words at the elders, "I always feel when I meet people that I am lower than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon, so I say let me play the buffoon, for you are every one of you stupider and lower than I." He longed to revenge himself on everyone for his own unseemliness. He suddenly recalled how he had once in the past been asked, "Why do you hate so and so so much?" And he had answered them. With his shameless imprudence, "I'll tell you, he has done me no harm, but I played him a dirty trick, and ever since I have hated him." Remembering that now, he smiled quietly and malignantly, hesitating for a moment, his eyes gleamed, and his lips positively quivered. "Well, since I have begun, I may as well go on," he decided. His predominant sensation at that moment might be expressed in the following words, "Well, there's no rehabilitating myself now, so let me shame them all for I am worth. I will show them I don't care what they think that's all." He told the coachman to wait, while with rapid steps he returned to the monastery, and straight to the father's superiors. He had no clear idea what he would do, but he knew that he could not control himself, and that a touch might drive him to the utmost limits of obscenity, but only to obscenity, to nothing criminal, nothing for which he could be legally punished. In the last resort he could always restrain himself and had marveled indeed at himself on that score sometimes. He appeared in the father's superiors dining room at the moment when the prayer was over, and all were moving to the table. Standing in the doorway, he scanned the company, and, laughing his prolonged, impudent, malicious chuckle, looked them all boldly in the face. "They thought I'd gone, and here I am again," he cried to the whole room. For one moment everyone stared at him without a word, and at once everyone felt that something revolting, grotesque, positively scandalous, was about to happen. Musoph passed immediately from the most benevolent frame of mind, to the most savage, all the feelings that had subsided and died down in his heart revived instantly. "No, this I cannot endure," he cried. "I absolutely cannot, and I certainly cannot." The blood rushed to his head, he positively stammered, but he was beyond thinking of style, and he seized his hat. "What is it he cannot," cried Feudor Polyvitch, "that he absolutely cannot, and certainly cannot. Your reverence am I to come in or not? Will you receive me as your guest?" "You are welcome with all my heart," answered the superior. "Gentlemen," he added, "I venture to beg you most earnestly, to lay aside your dissensions, and to be united in love and family harmony, with prayer to the Lord at our humble table." "No, no, it is impossible," cried Musoph, beside himself. "Well, if it is impossible for Feudor Polyvitch, it is impossible for me, and I won't stop. That is why I came. I will keep with Feudor Polyvitch everywhere now. If you will go away, Feudor Polyvitch, I will go away too. If you remain, I will remain. You stung him by what you said about family harmony, Father Superior. He does not admit he is my relation. That's right, isn't it, Vonson? Here's Vonson. How are you, Vonson?" "Do you mean me?" muttered Maximoff puzzled. "Of course I mean you," cried Feudor Polyvitch. "Who else the Father Superior could not be Vonson?" "But I am not Vonson either. I am Maximoff." "Oh no, you are Vonson. You referenced you know who Vonson was. It was a famous murder case. He was killed in a house of harlotry. I believe that is what such places are called among you. He was killed and robbed, and in spite of his venerable age, he was nailed up in a box and sent from Petersburg to Moscow in the luggage van. And while they were nailing him up, the harlot sang songs and played the harp, that is to say the piano. So that is that very Vonson. He has risen from the dead. Hasn't he, Vonson?" "What is happening? What's this?" Voices were heard in the group of monks. "Let us go," cried Maximoff, addressing Kalgonov. "No, excuse me," Feudor Polyvitch broke and shrilly, taking another step into the room. "Allow me to finish. There in the cell you blamed me for behaving disrespectfully, just because I spoke of eating grudge and pure trolaxandovich." Miusov, my relation, prefers to have "pluedenumblesse" "cous de sensarite" in his words, but I prefer in mine "pluedes sensarite que de numblesse" and damn the nublesse. "That's right, isn't it, Vonson?" "Allow me, Father Superior, though I am a buffoon and play the buffoon, yet I am the soul of honor, and I want to speak my mind. Yes, I am the soul of honor, while in Pietrolaxandovich there is wounded vanity in nothing else. I came here perhaps to have a look and speak my mind. My son, Alexi, is here being saved. I am his father. I care for his welfare, and it is my duty to care. While I've been playing the fool, I have been listening and having a look on the sly, and now I want to give you the last act of the performance. You know how things are with us? As a thing falls, so it lies. As a thing once has fallen, so it must lie forever. Not a bit of it. I want to get up again. Holy Father, I am indignant with you. Confession is a great sacrament, before which I am ready to bow down reverently. But there in the cell, they all kneel down and confess aloud. Can it be right to confess aloud? It was ordained by the Holy Fathers to confess in secret, then only your confession will be a mystery, and so it was of old. But how can I explain to him before everyone that I did this and that? Well, you understand what. Sometimes it would not be proper to talk about it, so it is really a scandal. No, fathers, one might be carried along with you to the flaglands, I dare say. At the first opportunity I shall write to the synod, and I shall take my son, Alexi, home. We must note here that Feudor Pavlovich knew where to look for the weak spot. There had been at one time malicious rumors which had even reached the archbishop, not only regarding our monastery, but in others where the institution of elders existed, that too much respect was paid to the elders, even to the detriment of the authority of the superior, that the elders abused the sacrament of confession, and so on and so on. Absurd charges which had died away of themselves everywhere, but the spirit of folly which had caught up Feudor Pavlovich was bearing him on the current of his own nerves into lower and lower depths, of economy prompted him with his old slander. Feudor Pavlovich did not understand a word of it, and he could not even put it sensibly. For on this occasion no one had been kneeling into confessing aloud in the elders' cell, so that he could not have seen anything of the kind. He was only speaking from confused memory of old slanders, but as soon as he had uttered his foolish tirade, he felt he had been talking absurd nonsense, and it once long to prove to his audience, and above all to himself, that he had not been talking nonsense. And though he knew perfectly well that with each word he would be adding more and more absurdity, he could not restrain himself and plunged forward blindly. "How disgraceful!" cried Piotor Alexandervitch. "Pardon me," said the Father Superior, "it was set of old. Many have begun to speak against me and have uttered evil sayings about me, and hearing it I have said to myself, it is the correction of the Lord, and he has sent it to heal my vain soul, and so we humbly thank you, honoured guest, and he made Fiotor Piotor Piotor a low bow." T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-sanctimoniousness and stock phrases, old phrases and old gestures, the old lies and formal prostrations, we know all about them, a kiss on the lips and a dagger in the heart, and in shillers robbers. I don't like falsehood, fathers. I want the truth, but the truth is not to be found in eating grudgeon, and that, I proclaim aloud, "Father monks, why do you fast? Why do you expect reward in heaven for that? Why, for reward like that, I will come in fast too. No saintly monk, you try being virtuous in this world. Do good to society without shutting yourself up in a monastery at other people's expense, and without expecting a reward up aloft for it, you'll find that a bit harder. I can talk sense to Father Superior. What have they got there?" He went up to the table. "Old Port wine, mead brewed by the Alessia of brothers. Five, five fathers. That is something beyond grudgeon. Look at the bottles the fathers have brought out. And who has provided it all? The Russian peasant, the laborer, brings here the fathering earned by his horny hand, ringing it from his family in the tax-gatherer. You bleed the people, you know, holy fathers. "This is disgraceful," said Father Yosef. Father Paisie kept instantly silent. Imusov rushed from the room, and Kalganov after him. "Well, Father, I will follow Piotor Alexandrovich. I'm not coming to see you again. You may beg me on your knees. I shan't come. I sent you a thousand rubles, so you've begun to keep your eye on me. No, I'll say no more. I am taking my revenge from my youth and all the humiliation I endured." He thumped the table with his fist in a paroxysm of simulated feeling. "This monastery has played a great part in my life. It has cost me many bitter tears. You used to set my wife the crazy one against me. You cursed me with bell and book. You spread stories about me all over the place. Enough, fathers. This is the age of liberalism, the age of steamers and railways, neither a thousand nor a hundred rubles, no, nor a hundred farthings will you get out of me. It must be noted again that our monastery never had played any great part in his life, and he never had shed a bitter tear owing to it, but he was so carried away by his simulated emotion that he was for one moment almost believing it himself. He was so touched he was almost weeping, but at that very instant he felt that it was time to draw back. The father's superior bowed his head at his malicious lie and again spoke impressively. "It is written again, bear circumspectly and gladly dishonor that cometh upon thee by no act of thy known. Be not confounded and hate not him who hast dishonor thee, and so will we." "Tut, tut, tut. Be thinking thyself and the rest of the rigmarole. Be think yourselves, fathers, I will go, but I will take my son Alexei away from hereforever, on my parental authority. Yvonne Fiedorovich, my most dutiful son, permit me to order you to follow me. Von Son, what have you to say for? Come and see me now in the town. It's fun there. It is only one short burst instead of Lenten oil. I will give you suckling pig and kasha. We will have dinner with some brand-new and liqueur in it. I've cloud berry wine. Hey Von Son, don't lose your chance." He went out, shouting and justiculating. He was at that moment, Raketan saw him and pointed him out to Ayasha. "Alexei," his father shouted from far off, catching sight of him, "you come home to me today, for good, and bring your pillow and mattress, and leave no trace behind." Ayasha stood rooted to the spot, watching the scene in silence. Meanwhile Fiedorovich had got into the carriage, and Yvonne was about to follow him in grim silence without even turning to say goodbye to Ayasha. But at this point, another almost incredible scene of grotesque buffoonery gave the finishing touch to the episode. Maximov suddenly appeared by the side of the carriage. He ran up, panting, afraid of being too late. Raketan and Ayasha saw him running. He was in such a hurry that in his impatience he put his foot on the step on which Yvonne's left foot was still resting, and clutching the carriage he kept trying to jump in. "I'm going with you," he kept shouting, laughing a thin, mirthful laugh with a look of recklessly in his face. "Take me to—" "There!" cried Fiedorovich, delighted. "Didn't I not say he was Vonsan? It is Vonsan himself, risen from the dead. Why, how did you tear yourself away? What did you Vonsan there?" "And how could you get away from the dinner? You must be a brazen-faced fellow." "I am not myself, but I am surprised at you, brother. Jump in, jump in, let him pass you on. It will be fun. He can lie somewhere at our feet. Will you lie at our feet, Vonsan, or perch on the box with a coachman? Skip on to the box, Vonsan." But Yvonne, who had by now taken his seat, without a word, gave Maximov a violent punch in the breast and sent him flying. It was quite by chance he did not fall. "Drive on," Yvonne shouted angrily to the coachman. "Why, what are you doing? What are you about? Why did you do that?" Feudor Pavlovich protested. But the carriage had already driven away. Yvonne made no reply. "Well, you are a fellow," Feudor Pavlovich said again. After a pause of two minutes, looking a scant at his son. "Why, it was you got up all this monastery business. You urged it. You approved of it. Why are you angry now?" "You've talked, wrought enough. You must rest a bit now," Yvonne snapped suddenly. Feudor Pavlovich was silent again for two minutes. "A drop of brand, you would be nice now," he observed syntentiously. But Yvonne made no response. "You shall have some too when we get home." Yvonne was still silent. Feudor Pavlovich waited another two minutes. "But I shall take all your show away from the monastery, though you will dislike it so much, most honoured Carl von Moore. Yvonne shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and turning away stared at the road, and they did not speak again all the way home." This ends chapter eight. Book three, the centralists. Chapter one. In the servants' quarters. The Karmazov's house was far from being in the centre of town, but it was not quite outside it. It was a pleasant-looking old house of two stories, paint and gray with a red-iron roof. It was roomy and snug, and might still last many years. There were all sorts of unexpected little cupboards and closets and staircases. There were rats in it, but Feudor Pavlovich did not altogether dislike them. "One doesn't feel so solitary when one's left alone in the evening," he used to say. "It was his habit to send the servants away to the lodge for the night and to lock himself up alone. The lodge was a roomy and solid building in the yard. Feudor Pavlovich used to have the cooking done there, although there was a kitchen in the house. He did not like the smell of cooking, and winter and summer-like, the dishes were carried in across the courtyard. The house was built for a large family. There was room for five times as many with their servants, but at the time of our story there was no one living in the house, but Feudor Pavlovich and his son Ivan. And in the lodge there were only three servants, Old Grigori and his old wife Marfa, and a young man called Smajakoff. Of these three, we must say a few words. Of Old Grigori, we have said something already. He was firm and determined, and went blindly and obstinately for his object. If once he had been brought by any reasons, and they were often very illogical ones, to believe that it was immutably right, he was honest and incorruptible. His wife, Marfa Ignativna, had obeyed her husband's will implicitly all her life. Yet she had pestered him terribly after the emancipation of the serfs. She was set on leaving Feudor Pavlovich and opening a little shop in Moscow with their small savings. But Grigori decided then, once for all, that the woman's talking nonsense, for every woman is dishonest, and that they ought not to leave their old master, whatever he might be, for what was now their duty. "Do you understand what duty is?" he asked Marfa Ignativna. "I understand what duty means, Grigori Vasilyevich, but why it's our duty to stay here I shall never understand," Marfa answered firmly. "Well, don't understand then, but so it shall be, and you hold your tongue." And so it was. They did not go away, and Feudor Pavlovich promised them a small sum for wages, and paid it regularly. Grigori knew too, that he had an indisputable influence over his master. It was true, and he was aware of it. Feudor Pavlovich was an obstinate and cunning buffoon, yet though his will was strong enough, in some of the affairs of life, as he expressed it, he found himself to his surprise, extremely feeble in facing certain other emergencies. He knew his weaknesses and was afraid of them. There were positions in which one has to keep a sharp lookout, and that's not easy without a trustworthy man, and Grigori was a most trustworthy man. Many times in the course of his life, Feudor Pavlovich had only just escaped a sound thrashing through Grigori's intervention, and on each occasion the old servant gave him a good lecture. But it wasn't only thrashing that Feudor Pavlovich was afraid of. There were graver occasions, and very subtle and complicated ones, when Feudor Pavlovich could not have explained the extraordinary craving for someone faithful and devoted, which sometimes unaccountably came upon him all in a moment. It was almost of morbid condition, corrupt and often cruel in his lust, like some nauseous insect. Feudor Pavlovich was sometimes, in moments of drunkenness, overcome by a superstitious terror and a moral convulsion which took an almost physical form. "My soul simply quaking in my throat at those times," he used to say. At such moments he liked to feel that there was near at hand, in the lodge if not in the room, a strong, faithful man, virtuous and unlike himself, who had seen all his debauchery, and knew all his secrets, but was ready in his devotion to overlook all that, not to oppose him, above all not to reproach him or threaten him with anything, either in this world or in the next, and in case of need to defend him. From whom? From somebody unknown, but terrible and dangerous, from what he needed was to feel that there was another man, an old and tried friend that he might call him in his sick moments, merely to look at his face, or perhaps exchange some quite irrelevant words with him. And if the old servant were not angry, he felt comforted, and if he were angry, he was more dejected. It happened even, very rarely, however, that Feudor Pavlovich went at night to the lodge to wake Gregori and fetch him for a moment. When the old man came, Feudor Pavlovich would begin talking about the most trivial matters, and would soon let him go again, sometimes even with a jest. And after he had gone, Feudor Pavlovich would get into bed with a curse, and sleep the sleep of the just. Something of the same sort had happened to Feudor Pavlovich on Al-Yosha's arrival. Al-Yosha pierced by his heart, by living with him, seeing everything and blaming nothing. Moreover, Al-Yosha brought with him something his father had never known before, a complete absence of contempt for him, and an invariable kindness, a perfectly natural, unaffected devotion to the old man who deserved it so little. All this was a complete surprise to the old profligate, who had dropped all family ties. It was a new and surprising experience for him, who had till then loved nothing but evil. When Al-Yosha had left him, he confessed to himself that he had learned something he had not till then been willing to learn. I have mentioned already that Gregori had detested Adeleda Ivanovna, the first wife of Feudor Pavlovich, and the mother of Dimitri, and that he had, on the contrary, protected Sofia Ivanovna, the poor crazy woman, against his master and anyone who chanced to speak ill or lightly of her. His sympathy for the unhappy wife had become something sacred to him, so that even now, twenty years after, he could not bear a sliding illusion to her from anyone, and would at once check the offender. Externally, Gregori was cold, dignified, and taciturn, and spoke, weighing his words without frivolity. It was impossible to tell at first sight whether he loved his meek, obedient wife, but he really did love her, and she knew it. Marfa Ignatina was by no means foolish. She was probably indeed cleverer than her husband, or at least more prudent than he and worldly affairs, and yet she had given into him in everything without question or complaint ever since her marriage, and respected him for his spiritual superiority. It was remarkable how little they spoke to one another in the course of their lives, and only of the most necessary daily affairs. The grave and dignified Gregori thought over all his cares and duties alone, so that Marfa Ignatina had long grown used to knowing that he did not need her advice. She felt that her husband respected her silence, and took it as a sign of her good sense. He had never beaten her but once, and then only slightly. Once during the year after Feudra Palavitch was married with Adelita Yvonnefna, the village girls and women, at time serfs, were called together before the house to sing and dance. They were beginning in the green meadows, when Marfa, at that time a young woman, skipped forward and danced the Russian dance, not in the village fashion, but as she had danced it when she was a servant in the service of the rich Musau family, and their private theater, where the actors were taught to dance by a dancing master from Moscow. Gregori saw how his wife danced, and an hour later at home in their cottage, he gave her a lesson, pulling her hair a little. But there it ended, the beating was never repeated, and Marfa Yavnefna gave up dancing. God had not blessed them with children. One child was born, but it died. Gregori was fond of children, and was not ashamed of showing it. When Adelita Yvonnefna had run away, Gregori took Dimitri, then a child of three years old, combed his hair, and washed him in a tub with his own hands, and looked after him for almost a year. Afterwards he had looked after Ivan and Al Yasha, for which the generals widow had rewarded him with a slap in the face. But I have already related all that. The only happiness his own child had brought him had been in the anticipation of its birth. When it was born he was overwhelmed with grief and horror. The baby had six fingers. Gregori was so crushed by this that he was not only silent till the day of the christening, but kept away in the garden. It was spring, and he had spent three days digging the kitchen garden. The third day was fixed for christening the baby. Meantime, Gregori had reached a conclusion. Going into the cottage where the clergy were assembled and the visitors had arrived, including Feudor Pavlovich, who was to stand godfather, he suddenly announced that the baby ought not to be christened at all. He announced this quietly, briefly, forcing out his words, and gazing with dull intentness at the priest. "Why not?" asked the priest with good-humoured surprise. "Because it is a dragon," muttered Gregori. "A dragon? What dragon?" Gregori did not speak for some time. "It's a confusion of nature," he muttered vaguely, but firmly and obviously unwilling to say more. They laughed, and of course christened the poor baby. Gregori prayed earnestly at the front, but his opinion of the newborn child remained unchanged. Yet he did not interfere in any way. As long as the sickly infant lived, he scarcely looked at it, tried indeed not to notice it, and for the most part kept out of the cottage. But when, at the end of a fortnight, the baby died of thrush, he himself laid the child in its little coffin, looked at it in profound grief, and when they were filling up the shallow little grave, he fell on his knees and bowed down to the earth. He did not for years afterwards mention his child, nor did Mafya, speak of the baby before him; and even if Gregori were not present, she never spoke of it above a whisper. Marfa observed that, from the day of the burial, he devoted himself to religion, and took to reading the lives of the saints, for the most part sitting alone and in silence, and always putting on his big, round, silver-rimmed spectacles. He rarely read aloud, only perhaps in Lent. He was fond of the book of Job, and had somehow got hold of a copy of the sayings and sermons of the godfearing father Isaac the Syrian, which he read persistently for years together, understanding very little of it, but perhaps surprising and lovingeth the more for that. Of late he had begun to listen to the doctrines of the sect of Flaglands, settled in the neighbourhood. He was evidently shaken by them, but judged at unfitting to go over to the new faith. His habit of theological reading gave him an expression of still greater gravity. He was perhaps predisposed to mysticism, and the birth of his deformed child, and its death, had as though by special design been accompanied by another strange and marvelous event, which as he said later, had left a stamp upon his soul. It happened that on the very night after the burial of his child, Martha was awakened by the wail of a newborn baby. She was frightened, and waked her husband. He listened and said he thought it was born like someone groaning. It might be a woman. He got up and dressed. It was a rather warm night in May, and he went down the steps. He distinctly heard groans coming from the garden, but the gate from the garden to the garden was locked at night, and there was no other way of entering it, for it was enclosed all around by a strong, high fence. Going back into the house, Gregori leded a lantern, took the garden key, and taking no notice of the hysterical fears of his wife, who was still persuaded that she heard a child crying, and that it was her own baby crying and calling for her, went into the garden in silence. There he heard at once that groans came from the bathhouse that stood near the garden gate, and that there were groans of a woman. Opening the door of the bathhouse, he saw a sight which petrified him. An idiot girl, who wandered about the streets and was known to the whole town by the nickname of Lizivieta Smirjaczka, stinking Lizivieta, had gone into the bathhouse and had just given birth to a child. She lay dying with the baby beside her. She said nothing, for she had never been able to speak, but her story needs a chapter to itself. This ends chapter one. Book three, chapter two, Lizivieta. There was one circumstance which struck Gregori particularly, and confirmed a very unpleasant and revolting suspicion. This Lizivieta was a dwarfish creature, not five foot within a wee bit, as many of the pious old women said pathetically about her, after her death. Her broad, healthy red face had a look of blank idiocy, and the fixed stare in her eyes was unpleasant, in spite of their meek expression. She wandered about summer and winter alike, barefooted, wearing nothing but a hemp and smock. Her coarse, almost black hair, curled like lambswool, and formed a sort of huge cap on her head. It was always crusted with mud, and had leaves, bits of stick and shavings clinging to it, as she always slept on the ground and in the dirt. Her father, a homeless, sickly drunkard, called Iliya, had lost everything and lived many years as a workman with some well-to-do tradespeople. Her mother had long been dead. Spitful and diseased, Iliya used to beat Lizivieta inhumanly whenever she returned to him, but she rarely did so, for everyone in the town was ready to look after her as being an idiot, and so especially dear to God. Iliya's employers and many others in the town, especially of the tradespeople, tried to clothe her better and always rigged her out with high boots and sheepskin coat for the winter. But although she allowed them to dress her up without resisting, she usually went away, preferably to the cathedral porch, and taking off all that had been given her, kerchief, sheepskin, skirt or boots, she left them there and walked away barefoot in her smock as before. It happened on one occasion that a new governor of the province, making a tour of inspection in our town, saw Lizivieta, and was wounded in his tenderest acceptabilities. And though he was told she was an idiot, he pronounced that for a young woman of twenty to wander about in nothing but a smock was a breach of the proprieties and must not occur again. But the governor went his way, and Lizivieta was left as she was. At last her father died, which made her even more acceptable in the eyes of the religious persons of the town as an orphan. In fact, everyone seemed to like her. Even the boys did not tease her, and the boys of our town, especially the school boys, are mischievous set. She would walk into strange houses, and no one drove her away. Everyone was kind to her and gave her something. If she were given a copper, she would take it, and it once dropped it in the alms-jug of the church or prison. If she were given a roll or a bun in the market, she would hand it to the first child she met. Sometimes she would stop one of the richest ladies in the town and give it to her, and the lady would be pleased to take it. She herself never tasted anything but black bread and water. If she went into an expensive shop, where there were costly goods or money lying about, no one kept watch on her, for they knew that if she saw thousands of rubles overlooked by them, she would not have touched a farthing. She scarcely ever went to church. She slept either in the church porch or climbed over a hurdle. There are many hurdles instead of fences to this day in our town, into a kitchen garden. She used at least once a week to turn up at home, that is at the house of her father's former employers, and in the winter went there every night and slept either in the passage or the cowhouse. People were amazed that she could stand such a life, but she was accustomed to it, and although she was so tiny, she was of a robust constitution. Some of the town's people declared that she did all this only from pride, but that is hardly credible. She could hardly speak, and only from time to time uttered an inarticulate grunt. How could she have been proud? It happened one clear, warm, moonlit night in September, many years ago, five or six drunken revelers were returning from the club at a very late hour, according to our provincial notions. They passed through the backway, which led between the back gardens of the houses with hurdles on either side. This way leads out to the bridge, over the long, stinking pool which we were accustomed to call a river. Among the nettles and birdocks, under the hurdle our revelers are lizavieta asleep. They stopped to look at her, laughing, and began jesting with unbridled licentiousness. It occurred to one young gentleman to make the whimsical inquiry whether anyone could possibly look upon such an animal as a woman, and so forth. They all pronounced with lofty repugnance that it was impossible. But Feudor Pavlovitch, who was among them, sprang forward and declared that it was by no means impossible, and that indeed there was a certain pickancy about it, and so on. It is true that at that time he was overdoing his part as a buffoon. He liked to put himself forward and entertain the company, ostensibly on equal terms, of course, though in reality he was on servile footing with them. It was just at the time when he had received the news of his first wife's death in Petersburg, and with creep upon his hat was drinking and behaving so shamelessly that even the most reckless among us were shocked at the sight of him. The revelers, of course, laughed at this unexpected opinion, and one of them even began challenging him to act upon it. The others repelled the idea even more emphatically, although still with the utmost hilarity, and at last they went on their way. Later on Feudor Pavlovitch swore that he had gone with them, and perhaps it was so. No one knows for certain, and no one ever knew. But five or six months later all the town was talking with intense and sincere indignation of the ziviatist condition, and trying to find out who was the miscreant and who had wronged her. Then suddenly a terrible rumor was all over the town that this miscreant was no other than Feudor Pavlovitch. Who set the rumor going? Of that drunken band, five had left the town, and the only one still among us was an elderly and much respected civil counselor, the father of grown-up daughters, who could hardly have spread the tale, even if there had been any foundation for it. But rumor pointed straight at Feudor Pavlovitch, and persisted in pointing at him. Of course this was no great grievance to him. He would not have trouble to contradict a set of tradespeople. In those days he was proud, and did not condescend to talk except in his own circle of the officials and nobles whom he entertained so well. At the time Gregori stood up for his master vigorously. He provoked quarrels and altercations in defense of him, and succeeded in bringing some people's round to his side. "It's the wrench's own fault," he asserted, and the culprit was carp, a dangerous convict who had escaped from prison, and his name was well known to us as he had hidden in our town. This conjecture sounded plausible, for it was remembered that carp had been in the neighbourhood just at that time in the autumn, and had robbed three people. But this affair, and all the talk about it, did not a strange, popular sympathy from the poor idiot. She was better looked after than ever. A well-to-do merchant's widow, named Condottiev, arranged to take her into her house at the end of April, meaning not to let her out until after the confinement. They kept a constant watch over her, but in spite of their vigilant, she escaped on the very last day, and made her way into Feudor Palavitch's garden. How, in her condition, she managed to climb over the high, strong fence remained a mystery. Some maintained that she must have been lifted over by somebody. Others hinted at something more uncanny. The most likely explanation is that it happened naturally, that, Lizavieta, accustomed to clambering over hurdles to sleeping gardens, had somehow managed to climb this fence in spite of her condition, and had leapt down, injuring herself. Grigori rushed to Martha, and sent her to Lizavieta, while he ran to fetch an old midwife who lived close by. They saved the baby, but Lizavieta died at dawn. Grigori took the baby, brought it home in making his wife sit down, put it on her lap. "A child of God, an orphan is akin to all," he said, "and to us above others. Our little lost one has sent us this, who has come from the devil's son, and a holy innocent. Nurse him, and weaped no more." So Martha brought up the child. He was christened Pavel, to which people were not slow in adding Fyodorovitch, son of Fyodor. Fyodor Pavelovitch did not object to any of this, and thought it amusing, though he persisted vigorously in denying his responsibility. The townspeople were pleased at his adopting the foundling. Later on, Fyodor Pavelovitch invented a surname for the child, calling him Smejukov, after his mother's nickname. So this Smejukov became Fyodor Pavelovitch's second servant, and was living in the lodge with Kukori and Martha at the time our story begins. He was employed as cook. I ought to say something of this Smejukov, but I am ashamed of keeping my reader's attention so long occupied with these common menials, and I will go back to my story, hoping to say more of Smejukov in the course of it. This ends chapter two. Book three. Chapter three. The confession of a passionate heart in verse. Al-Yosha remained for some time, irisolute after hearing the command his father shouted to him from the carriage. But in spite of his uneasiness, he did not stand still. That was not his way. He went at once to the kitchen to find out what his father had been doing above. Then he set off, trusting that on the way he would find some answer to the doubt tormenting him. I hasten to add that his father's shouts commanding him to return home with his mattress and pillow to not frighten him in the least. He understood perfectly that those peremptory shouts were merely a flourish, to produce an effect. In the same way, a tradesman in our town who was celebrating his name-day with a party of friends, getting angry at being refused more vodka, smashed up his own crockery and furniture, and tore his own and his wife's clothes, and finally broke his windows, all for the sake of effect. Next day, of course, when he was sober, he regretted the broken cups and saucers. Al-Yosha knew his father would let him go back to the monastery next day, possibly even that evening. Moreover, he was fully persuaded that his father might hurt anyone else, but would not hurt him. Al-Yosha was certain that no one in the whole world would ever want to hurt him, and what is more, he knew that no one could hurt him. This was for him an axiom, assumed once for all without question, and he went his way without hesitation, relying on it. But at that moment, an anxiety of a different sort disturbed him, and worried him the more because he could not formulate it. It was the fear of a woman of Katerina Ivanovna, who had so urgently entreated him in the note handed to him by Madame Hoflakov to come and see her about something. This request and the necessity of going had it once aroused an uneasy feeling in his heart, and this feeling had grown more and more painful all the morning in spite of the scenes at the hermitage and at the father's superiors. He was not uneasy because he did not know what she would speak of and what he must answer, and he was not afraid of her simply as a woman. Though he knew little of women, he had spent his life from early childhood till he entered the monastery, entirely with women. He was afraid of that woman, Katerina Ivanovna. He had been afraid of her from the first time he saw her. He had only seen her two or three times and had only chance to say a few words to her. He thought of her as a beautiful, proud, imperious girl. It was not her beauty which troubled him, but something else. And the vagueness of his apprehension increased the apprehension itself. The girl's aims were of the noblis. He knew that. She was trying to save his brother Dimitri simply through generosity, though he had already behaved badly to her. Yet, although Aliyosha recognized and did justice to all these fine and generous sentiments, a shiver began to run down his back as soon as he drew near her house. He reflected that he would not find Ivan, who was so intimate a friend with her. For Ivan was certainly now with his father. Dimitri, he was even more certain not to find there, and he had a foreboding of the reason. And so, his conversation would be with her alone. He had a great longing to run and see his brother Dimitri before that fateful interview. Without showing him the letter, he could talk to him about it. But Dimitri lived a long way off, and he was sure to be away from home too. Standing still for a minute, he reached a final decision. Crossing himself with a rapid and accustomed gesture, and at once smiling, he turned resolutely in the direction of his terrible lady. He knew her house. If he went by the high street and then across the marketplace, it was a long way round. Though our town is small, it is scattered, and the houses are far apart. And meanwhile, his father was expecting him, and perhaps had not yet forgotten his command. He might be unreasonable, and so he had to make haste to get there and back. So he decided to take a shortcut by the back way, for he knew every inch of the ground. This meant skirting fences, climbing over hurdles, and crossing other people's backyards, where everyone he met knew him and greeted him. In this way, he could reach the high street in half the time. He had to pass the garden to joining his fathers, and belonging to a little tumble-down house with four widows. The owner of this house, Azaleosha Neum, was a bedridden old woman, living with her daughter, who had been a gentle maidservant in the general's families in Petersburg. Now she had been at home a year, looking after her sick mother. She always dressed up in fine clothes, though her old mother, and she had sunk into such poverty that they went every day to Fjordor Parlovich's kitchen, for soup and bread, which Marfa gave readily. Yet though the young woman came up for soup, she had never sold any of her dresses, and one of these even had a long train, a fact which Al-Yosha had learned from Raketon, who always knew everything that was going on in the town. He had forgotten it as soon as he had heard it, but now on reaching the garden, he remembered the dress with the train, raised his head, which had been bowed and thought, and came upon something quite unexpected. Over the hurdle in the garden, Dimitri, mounted on something, was leaning forward, gesticulating violently, beckoning to him, obviously afraid to utter a word for fear of being overheard. Al-Yosha ran up to the hurdle. "It's a good thing you looked up! I was nearly shouting to you!" Mitya said in a joyful hurried whisper, "Climmy near quickly! How splendid that you've come! I was just thinking of you!" Al-Yosha was delighted too, but he did not know how to get over the hurdle. Mitya put his powerful hand under his elbow to help him jump, talking up his cossack. Al-Yosha leapt over the hurdle with the agility of a bare-legged street urchin. "Well done! Now come along!" said Mitya in an enthusiastic whisper. "Where?" whispered Al-Yosha, looking about him and finding himself in a deserted garden, with no one near but themselves. The garden was small, but the house was at least 50 pieces away. "There's no one here! Why do you whisper?" asked Al-Yosha. "Why do I whisper?" "Duce take it!" cried Dimitri at the top of his voice. "You see what silly tricks nature plays on one? I'm here in secret, and on the watch." I'll explain later on, but knowing it's a secret, I began whispering like a fool when there's no need. "Let us go. Over there, till then be quiet. I want to kiss you." "Glory! Glory to God in the world! Glory to God in me! I was just repeating that, sitting here before you came." The garden was about three acres in extent, and planted with trees only along the fence at the four sides. There were apple trees, maples, limes, and birch trees. The middle of the garden was an empty grass space from which several hundred weight of hay was carried in the summer. The garden was let out for a few rubles for the summer. There were also plantations of raspberries and currants and gooseberries laid out along the sides. A kitchen garden had been planted lately near the house. Dimitri led his brother to the most secluded corner of the garden, there in a thicket of lime trees and old bushes of black currant, elder, snowball tree, and lilac. There stood a tumble down green summer house, blackened with age. Its walls were of lattice work, but there was still a roof which could give shelter. God knows when the summer house was built. There was a tradition that it had been put up some fifty years before by a retired colonel called von Schmidt, who owned the house at the time. It was all in decay. The floor was rotting. The planks were loose. The woodwork smelled musty. In the summer house there was a green wooden table fixed in the ground, and round it were some green benches upon which it was still possible to sit. Al-Yasha had it once observed his brother's accelerated condition, and on entering the arbor he saw half a bottle of brandy and a wine glass on the table. "That's brandy," Mitya laughed. "I see your look. He's drinking again. Distrust the apparition. Distrust the worthless, lying crowd, and lay aside thy doubts. I'm not drinking." "I'm only indulging," as that pig, your raketan, says. He'll be a civil counselor one day, but he'll always talk about indulging. "Sit down. I could take you in my arms, Al-Yasha, and press you to my bosom till I crush you, for in the whole world, in reality, in reality, can you take it in? I love no one but you." He uttered the last words in a sort of exaltation. "No one but you, and one jade, I have fallen in love with, to my ruin. But being in love doesn't mean loving. You may be in love with a woman, and yet hate her. Remember that. I can talk about it gaily still. Sit down here by the table, and I'll sit beside you, and look at you, and go on talking. You shall keep quiet, and I'll go on talking, for the time has come. But on reflection, you know, I'd better speak quietly, for here. Here you can never tell what ears are listening." "I will explain everything. As they say, the story will be continued. Why have I been longing for you? Why have I been thirsting for you all these days, and just now? It's five days since I've cast anchor here. Because it's only to you I can tell everything. Because I must. Because I need you. Because tomorrow I shall fly from the clouds. Because tomorrow life is ending, and beginning. Have you ever felt? Have you ever dreamt of falling down a precipice into a pit? That's just how I'm falling, but not in a dream. And I'm not afraid, and don't you be afraid? At least, I am afraid, but I enjoy it. It's not enjoyment, though, but ecstasy. Damn it all, whatever it is, a strong spirit, a weak spirit, a womanish spirit, whatever it is, let us praise nature. You see what sunshine, how clear the sky is, the leaves are all green, it's still summer, four o'clock in the afternoon, and the stillness. Where were you going? I was going to Father's, but I meant to go to Katarina Ivanovna's first. To her and to Father. What a coincidence! Why was I waiting for you, hungering and thirsting for you, and every cranny of my soul, and even in my ribs? Why to send you to Father and to her, Katarina Ivanovna, so as to have done with her and with Father, to send an angel. I might have sent anyone, but I wanted to send an angel. And here you are, on your way to see Father and her. "Did you really mean to send me?" cried Al-Yasha with a distressed expression. "Stay! You knew it, and I see you understand it all at once. But be quiet, be quiet for a time. Don't be sorry, and don't cry." Dimitri stood up, thought a moment, and put his finger to his forehead. "She's asked you, written to you a letter or something. That's why you're going to her?" "You wouldn't be going except for that." "Here is her note. Al-Yasha took it out of his pocket. Mitch had looked through it quickly." "And you were going the back way. Oh, gods! I thank you for sending him by the back way. And he came to me like the golden fish to the silly old fisherman in the fable." "Listen, Al-Yasha. Listen, brother. Now I mean to tell you everything, for I must tell someone. An angel in heaven I've told already, but I want to tell an angel on earth. You are an angel on earth. You will hear and judge and forgive. And that's what I need. That someone above me should forgive." "Listen, if two people break away from everything on earth and fly off into the unknown, or at least one of them, and before flying off or going to ruin he comes to someone else and says, 'Do this for me.'" "Some favor never asked before that could only be asked on one's deathbed. Would that other refuse if you were a friend or brother?" "I will do it, but tell me what it is and make haste," said Al-Yasha. "Make haste. Don't be in a hurry, Al-Yasha. You worry and worry yourself. There's no need to hurry now. Now the world has taken a new turning." "Ah, Yasha. What a pity you can't understand ecstasy. But what am I saying to him, as though you didn't understand it? What an ass I am. What am I saying? Be noble, oh man. Who says that?" Al-Yasha made up his mind to wait. He felt that perhaps, indeed his work lay here, Mitya sank into thought for a moment, with his elbow on the table and his head in his hand. Both were silent. "Al-Yasha," said Mitya. "You're the only one who won't laugh." "I should like to begin my confession with Schiller's hymn to joy, and Da'iv Klyud." "I don't know, German. I only know what's called that. Don't think I'm talking nonsense, because I'm drunk. I'm not a bit drunk. Brandy's all very well, but I need two bottles to make me drunk. Salinas with his rosy fizz upon his stumbling ass. But I've not drunk a quarter of a bottle, and I'm not Salinas. I'm not Salinas, though I am strong, for I've made a decision once for all. Forgive me the pun. You'll have to forgive me a lot more than puns today. Don't be uneasy. I'm not spinning it out. I'm talking sense, and I'll come to the point in a minute. I won't keep you in suspense. Say, how does it go?" He raised his head, thought a minute, and began with enthusiasm. Wild and fearful in his cavern hid the naked troglodyte, and the homeless nomad wandered, laying waste his fertile plain, menacing with spear and arrow in the woods the hunter-strade, woe to all poor wretches stranded on those cruel and hostile shores. From the peak of high Olympus came the mother, Sirus, down. Seeking in those savage regions her lost daughter, Procepine, but the goddess found no refuge, found no kindly welcome there, and no temple bearing witness to the worship of the gods. From the fields and from the vineyards came no fruit to deck the feasts, only flesh of blood-stained victims smoldered on the altar-fires. And where the grieving goddess turned to melancholy gaze, sunk in vilest degradation, man his loathsomeness displays. Mitya broke into sobs and seized Al-Yosha's hand. "My dear, my dear in degradation, in degradation now too, there's a terrible amount of suffering for man on earth, a terrible lot of trouble. Don't think I'm only a brute in an officer's uniform, wallowing in dirt and drink. I hardly think of anything but of that degraded man. If only I'm not lying, I pray God I'm not lying and showing off. I think about that man because I am that man myself." Would he purge his soul from violence and attain to light and worth? He must turn and cling forever to his ancient mother earth. But the difficulty is how am I to cling forever to mother earth? I don't kiss her, I don't cleave to her bosom. Am I to become a peasant or shepherd? I go on, and I don't know whether I'm going to shame or to lighten joy. That's the trouble for everything in the world, it's a riddle, and whenever I've happened to sink into the vilest degradation, and it's always been happening, I always read that poem about serious and man. Has it reformed me? Never, for I'm a caramazov, for when I do leap into the pit I go headlong with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that degrading attitude and pride myself upon it. And in the very depths of that degradation, I begin a hem of praise. Let me be accursed, let me be vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am thy son, O Lord, and I love thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand. Joy of her lasting fosterth, the soul of all creation, it is her secret ferment fires, the cup of life with flame. Tis at her beck the grass has turned, each blade toward the light, and solar systems have evolved from chaos and dark night, filling the realms of boundless space beyond the sage's sight, at bounteous nature's kindly breast, all things that breathe drink joy, and birds and beasts and creeping things all follow where she leads. Her gifts to man are friends in need, the wreath, the foaming must, to angels, vision of God's throne, to insects, central lust. But enough poetry, I am in tears let me cry, maybe foolishness that everyone would laugh at, but you won't laugh. Your eyes are shining, too, enough poetry. I want to tell you now about the insects to whom God gave central lust. To insects, central lust, I am that insect, brother, and it is said of me, especially. All we karmasas are such insects, and angel as you are, that insect lives in you, too, and will stir up a tempest in your blood. Tempests, because central lust is a tempest, worse than a tempest. Beauty is a terrible and awful thing. It is terrible beginners that has not been fathomed, and can never be fathomed, for God sets us nothing but riddles. Hear the boundaries meet, and all contradictions exist side by side. I am a cultivated man, brother, but I've thought a lot about this. It's terrible what mysteries there are. Too many riddles weigh men down on earth. We must solve them as we can, and try to keep a dry skin in the water. Beauty, I can't endure the thought that a man of lofty mind and heart begins with the ideal of the Madonna, and ends with the ideal of Sodom. What's still more awful is that a man with the ideal of Sodom and his soul does not renounce the ideal of the Madonna, and his heart may be on fire with that ideal, genuinely on fire, just as in his days of youth and innocence. Yes, man is broad, too broad indeed. I'd have him narrower. The devil only knows what to make of it. What to the mind is shameful is beauty, and nothing else to the heart. Is there beauty in Sodom? Believe me, that for the immense mass of mankind, beauty is found in Sodom. Did you know that secret? The awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is the heart of man, but a man always talks on his own ache. Listen now to come to facts. This ends chapter 3. Book 3, chapter 4, the confession of a passionate heart in anecdote. I was leading a wild life then. Father said just now that I spent several thousand rules in seducing young girls. That's a swine-ish invention, and there was nothing of the sort. And if there was, I didn't need money simply for that. With me, money is an accessory, the overflow of my heart, the framework. Today she would be my lady, tomorrow a wench out of the streets in her place. I entertained them both. I threw away money by the handful on music, rioting, and gypsies. Sometimes I gave it to the ladies too, for they'll take it greedily. That must be admitted, and be pleased and thankful for it. Ladies used to be fond of me. Not all of them, but it happened. It happened. But I always liked side paths, little dark back alleys behind the main road. There one finds adventures and surprises, in precious metal in the dirt. I'm speaking figuratively, brother. In the town I was in, there were no such back alleys, in the literal sense. But morally there were. If you were like me, you'd know what that means. I loved vice. I loved the economy of vice. I loved cruelty. Am I not a bug? Am I not a nauseous insect? In fact, a caramazov? Once we went a whole lot of us for picnic in seven sledges. It was dark. It was winter. And I began squeezing a girl's hand, and forced her to kiss me. She was the daughter of an official, a sweet, gentle, submissive creature. She allowed me. She allowed me much in the dark. She thought poor thing that I should come next day to make her an offer. I was looked upon as a good match too. But I didn't say a word to her for five months. I used to see her in a corner at dances. We were always having dances. Her eyes watching me. I saw how they glowed with fire. A fire of gentle indignation. This game only tickled that insect lost I cherished in my soul. Five months later she married an official, and left the town, still angry, and still perhaps in love with me. Now they live happily. Observed that I told no one, I didn't boast of it, though I am full of low desires. And love, what's low? I'm not dishonorable. You're blushing. Your eyes flashed. Of enough of this filth with you, and all this was nothing much. Wayside blossoms ala Baldukok, though the cruel insect had already grown strong in my soul. I have a perfect album of reminiscences, brother. God bless them, the darlings. I tried to break it off without quarreling, and I never gave them away. I never bragged of one of them. But that's enough. You can't suppose I brought you here simply to talk of such nonsense. No, I'm going to tell you something more curious, and don't be surprised that I'm glad to tell you instead of being ashamed. "You say that because I blushed," Al-Yosha said suddenly, "I wasn't blushing at what you were saying, or at what you've done. I blushed because I am the same as you are." "You come that's going a little too far." "No. It's not too far," said Al-Yosha, warmly. "Obviously the idea was not a new one. The latter's the same. I'm at the bottom step, and you're above. Somewhere above the thirteenth, that's how I see it. But it's all the same. Absolutely the same in kind. Anyone on the bottom step is bound to go up to the top one." "Then why not not to step on it at all?" "Anyone who can help it had better not," said Al-Yosha. "But can you?" "I think not," said Al-Yosha. "Hosh, Al-Yosha. Hosh, darling. I could kiss your hand, you touch me so." "That rogue Grushenka has an eye for men. She told me once that she devour you one day." "There there I won't. From this field of corruption fouled by flies, let's pass to my tragedy. Also be fouled by flies. That is, by every sort of fileness. Although the old man told flies about my seducing innocence, there really was something of the sort in my tragedy. Though it was only once, and that it did not come off. The old man, who has repurged me with what never happened, does not even know of this fact. I never told anyone about it. You're the first. Except Ivan, of course. Ivan knows everything, but he knew about it long before you. Ivan is a tomb. Ivan's a tomb? Yes. Al-Yosha listened with great attention. "I was a lieutenant in a line regiment, but still I was under supervision, like a kind of convict. Yet I was awfully well received in the little town. I spent money right and left. I was thought to be rich. I thought so myself. But I must have pleased them in other ways as well. Although they shook their heads over me, they liked me. My colonel, who was an old man, took a sudden dislike to me. He was always down upon me, but I had powerful friends, and moreover all the town was on my side, so he couldn't do me much harm. I was in fault myself for refusing to treat him with proper respect. I was proud. This obstinate old fellow, who was really a very good sort, kind-hearted and hospitable, had had two wives, both dead. His first wife, who was of a humble family, left a daughter as unpretentious as herself. She was a young woman of four and twenty when I was there, and was living with her father and an aunt, her mother's sister. The aunt was simple and illiterate. The niece was simple but lively. I like to say nice things about people. I never knew a woman of more charming character than Agafia. Fancy her name was Agafia Ivanovda. And she wasn't bad looking, either, in the Russian style. Tall, stout, with a full figure, and beautiful eyes, though a rather coarse face. She had not married, although she had had two suitors. She refused them, but was as cheerful as ever. I was intimate with her, not in that way. It was pure friendship. I have often been friendly with women quite innocently. I used to talk to her with shocking frankness, and she only laughed. Many women like such freedom, and she was a girl, too, which made it very amusing. Another thing, one could never think of her as a young lady. She and her aunt lived in her father's house with a sort of voluntary humility, not putting themselves on an equality with other people. She was a general favorite, and have used to everyone. She was this clever dressmaker. She had a talent for it. She gave her services freely without asking for payment, but if anyone offered her payment, she didn't refuse. The colonel, of course, was a very different matter. He was one of the chief personages in the district. He kept open house, entertained the whole town, gave suppers and dances. At the time I arrived and joined the battalion, all the town was talking of the expected return of the colonel's second daughter, a great beauty, who had just left a fashionable school in the capital. The second daughter is Katarita Ivanovna, and she was the child of the second wife, who belonged to a distinguished general's family. Although, as I learned on good authority, she too brought the colonel no money. She had connections, and that was all. There may have been expectations, but they had come to nothing. Yet when the young lady came from boarding school in a visit, the whole town revived. Our most distinguished ladies, two excellencies and a colonel's wife, in all the rest following their lead, at once took her up and gave entertainments in her honour. She was the bell of the balls and picnics, and they got up Tableau Vivon in aid of distressed governesses. I took no notice. I went on as wildly as before, and one of my exploits at the time said all the town talking. I saw her eyes taking my measure one evening at the battery commanders, but I didn't go up to her, as though I just stained her acquaintance. I did go up and speak to her at an evening party not long after. She scarcely looked at me, and compressed her lips scornfully. "Wait a bit. I'll have my revenge," thought I. I behaved like an awful fool on many occasions at that time, and I was conscious of it myself. What made it worse was that I felt that Katenka was not an innocent boarding school miss, but a person of character, proud and really high principled. Above all, she had education and intellect, and I hadn't either. You think I meant to make her an offer? No, I simply wanted to revenge myself because I was such a hero, and she didn't seem to feel it. Meanwhile, I spent my time in drink and riot, to the Lieutenant Colonel put me under arrest for three days. Just at that time, father sent me six thousand rubles and returned from my sending him a deed, giving up all claims upon him, settling our account, so to speak, and saying that I wouldn't expect anything more. I didn't understand a word of it at that time. Until I came here, Al-Yusha, till the last few days, indeed, perhaps even now, I haven't been able to make head or tail of my money affairs with father. But never mind that. We'll talk of it later. Just as I received the money, I got a letter from a friend telling me something that interested me immensely. The authorities, I learned, were dissatisfied with our Lieutenant Colonel. He was suspected of irregularities. In fact, his enemies were preparing a surprise for him, and then the commander at the division arrived, and kicked up the devil of a shindy shortly afterwards he was ordered to retire. I won't tell you how it all happened. He had enemies, certainly. Suddenly there was a marked coolness in the town towards him in all his family. His friends all turned their backs on him. Then I took my first step. I met Agafia Ivanovna, with whom I'd always kept up a friendship, and said, "Do you know there's a deficit of forty-five hundred rubles of government money in your father's accounts?" "What do you mean? What makes you say so? The general was here not long ago, and everything was all right." Then it was. But now it isn't. She was terribly scared. "Don't frighten me," she said. "Who told you so?" "Don't be uneasy," I said. "I won't tell anyone. You know I'm as silent as the tomb. I only wanted in view of possibilities to add that when they demand that forty-five hundred rubles from your father, and he can't produce it. He'll be tried, and made to serve as a common soldier in his old age. Unless you like to send me your young lady in secret. I've just had money paid me. I'll give her four thousand if you like, and keep the secret religiously." "Ah, you scoundrel!" That's what she said. "You wicked scoundrel! How dare you?" She went away furiously in dignity. While I shouted after her once more that the secret should be kept sacred, there's two simple creatures. Agafia and her aunt, I may as well say it once behaved like perfect angels all through this business. They genuinely adored their katya, fought her far above them, and waited on her handed foot. But Agafia told her of our conversation. I found that out afterwards. She didn't keep it back. And, of course, that was all I wanted. Suddenly, the new major arrived to take command of the battalion. The old lieutenant colonel was taken ill at once, couldn't leave his room for two days, and didn't hand over the government money. Dr. Cravincico declared that he really was ill, but I knew for a fact and had known for a long time that for the last four years the money had never been in his hands except when the commander made his visits of inspection. He used to lend it to a trustworthy person, a merchant of our town called Trifonov, an old widower with a big beard and gold-roomed spectacles. He used to go to the fair, drew a profitable business with the money, and returned the whole sum to the colonel, bringing with it a present from the fair, as well as interest on the loan. But this time I heard all about it quite perchance from Trifonov's son and heir, a driveling youth and one of the most vicious in the world. This time I say, Trifonov brought nothing back from the fair. The lieutenant colonel flew to him. I've never received any money from you and couldn't possibly have received any. That was all the answer he got, so now our lieutenant colonel is confined to the house, with his howl round his head, while they're all three busy putting ice on it. All at once an orderly arrives on the scene with a book and the order to hand over the battalion money immediately within two hours. He signed the book. I saw the signature in the book afterwards, stood up, saying he would put on his uniform, ran to his bedroom, loaded his double-barrow gun with a service bullet, took the boot off his right foot, fixed the gun against his chest, and began feeling for the trigger with his foot. But Agafia, remembering what I had told her, had her suspicions. She stole up and peeped into the room just in time. She rushed in, flung herself upon him from behind, threw her arms round him and the gun went off, hit the ceiling, but hurt no one. The others ran in, took away the gun and held him by the arms. I heard all about this afterwards. I was at home. It was getting dusk and I was just preparing to go out. I had dressed, brushed my hair, scented my handkerchief, and taken up my cap. When suddenly, the door opened, and facing me in the room, stood Katerina Ivanovna. It's strange how things happen sometimes. No one had seen her in the street, so that no one knew of it in the town. I lodged with two decrepit old ladies who looked after me. They were most obliging old things, ready to do anything for me, and at my request were as silent afterwards as two cast iron pots. Of course, I grasped the position at once. She walked in and looked straight at me. Her dark eyes determined, even defiant, but on her lips and round her mouth, I saw uncertainty. "My sister told me," she began, "that you would give me 4,500 rubles if I came to you for it myself. I have come. Give me the money." She couldn't keep it up. She was breathless, frightened, her voice failed her, and the corners of her mouth and the lines round it quivered. "Alyasha, are you listening, or are you asleep?" "Mitya, I know you will tell the whole truth," said Alyasha in agitation. "I am telling it. If I tell the whole truth just as it happened, I shan't spare myself. My first idea was a caromazov one. Once I was bitten by a centipede, brother, and laid up a fortnight with a fever from it. Well, I felt a centipede biting at my heart then." "Hannoshes insect, you understand?" I looked her up and down. "You've seen her. She's a beauty. But she was beautiful in another way then. At that moment she was beautiful because she was noble, and I was a scoundrel. She, in all the grandeur of her generosity and sacrifice for her father, and I, a bug. In scoundrel, as I was, she was altogether at my mercy, body and soul. She was hemmed in. I tell you, frankly, that thought that venomous thought so possessed my heart that it almost swooned with suspense. It seemed as if there could be no resisting it, as though I should act like a bug, like a venomous spider without a spark of pity. I could scarcely breathe. Understand, I should have gone next day to ask for her hand so that it might an honor, please, so to speak, and that nobody would or could know. For though I am a man of base desires, I'm honest. And at that very second some voice seemed to whisper in my ear. But when you come tomorrow to make your proposal, that girl won't even see you, she'll order her coachman to kick you out of the yard, publish it all through the town, she would say, I'm not afraid of you. I looked at the young lady, my voice had not deceived me. That is how it would be, not a doubt of it. I could see from her face now that I should be turned out of the house. My spite was roused. I longed to play her the nastiest, swinish cad's trick, to look at her with a sneer, and on the spot where she stood before me, to stun her, with a tone of voice that only a shot-man could use. Four thousand! What do you mean? I was joking. You've been counting your chickens too easily, madam. Two hundred, if you like, with all my heart. But four thousand, it is not a sum to throw away on such frivolity. You've put yourself out to no purpose. I should have lost the game, of course. She'd have run away. But it would have been an infernal revenge. It would have been worth it all. I'd have howled with regret, all the rest of my life, only to have played that trick. Would you believe it? It has never happened to me with any other woman, not one, to look at her at such a moment with hatred. But on my oath, I looked at her for three seconds, for five, perhaps, with fearful hatred, that hate which is only a hair's breadth from love, from the maddest love. I went to the window, put my forehead against the frozen pain, and I remember the ice burnt my forehead like fire. I did not keep her long, don't be afraid. I turned round, went up to the table, opened the drawer, and took out a banknote for five thousand rubles. It was lying in a French dictionary. Then I showed it to her in silence, folded it, handed it to her, opened the door into the passage, and stepping back, made her a deep bow, a most respectful, a most impressive bow, believe me. She shuttered all over, gazed at me for a second, turned horribly pale, white as a sheet, in fact, and all at once, not impetuously, but softly, gently, bowed down to my feet, not a boarding school curtsy, but a russian bow, with her forehead to the floor. She jumped up and ran away. I was wearing my sword. I drew it and nearly stabbed myself with it on the spot. Why, I don't know, it would have been frightfully stupid, of course. I suppose it was delight. Can you understand that one might kill oneself from delight? But I didn't stab myself. I only kissed my sword and put it back in the scabbard, which there was no need to have told you, by the way, and I fancy that in telling you about my inner conflict I have laid it on rather thick to glorify myself, but let it pass, and to hell with all who pry into the human heart. Well, so much for that adventure with Catarina Yvonnefna. So now Yvonne knows of it, and you, and no one else. Dimitri got up, took a step or two in his excitement, pulled out his handkerchief, and mopped his forehead, then sat down again, not in the same place as before, but on the opposite side, so that Al-Yosha had to turn quite round to face him. This ends chapter four. Book three, chapter five, the confession of a passionate heart, heals up. "Now," said Al-Yosha, "I understand the first half. You understand the first half. That half is a drama, and it was played out there. The second half is a tragedy, and it is being acted here. And I understand nothing of that second half so far," said Al-Yosha. "And I, do you suppose I understand it?" "Stop, Dimitri. There's one important question. Tell me. You will be trolled. Be trolled still?" "We weren't betrothed at once, not for three months after that adventure. The next day I told myself that the incident was closed, concluded. It seemed to be caddish to make her an offer. On her side, she gave no sign of life for the six weeks that she remained in the town, except indeed for one action. The day after her visit, the maidservant slipped around with an envelope addressed to me. I tore it open. It contained the change out of the banknote. Only 4,500 rubles was needed, but there was a discount of about 200 on chanting it. She only sent me about 260. I don't remember exactly, but not a note, not a word of explanation. I searched the packet for a pencil mark, and nothing. Well, I spent the rest of the money on such an orgy that the new major was obliged to reprimand me. Well, the lieutenant colonel produced the battalion money to the astonishment of everyone, for nobody believed that he had the money untouched. He'd no sooner paid it than he fell ill, took to his bed, and, three weeks later, softening of the brain set in, and he died five days afterwards. He was buried with military honours, for he had not had time to receive his discharge. Ten days after his funeral, Katarina, Ivanova, with her aunt and sister, went to Moscow. And behold, on the very day they went away, I hadn't seen them, didn't see them off or take leave. I received a tiny note, a sheet of thin blue paper, and on it only one line in pencil. I will write to you, wait. Okay. And that was all. I'll explain the rest now in two words. In Moscow, their fortunes changed with the swiftness of lightning and the unexpectedness of an Arabian fairy tale. That general's widow, their nearest relation, suddenly lost the two nieces who were her heiresses and next of kin. Both died in the same week of smallpox. The old lady prostrated with grief, welcomed Katya as a daughter, as her one hope, clutched at her, altered her will and Katya's favour. But that concerned the future. Meanwhile, she gave her, for present use, eighty thousand rubles as a marriage portion, to do what she liked with. She was an hysterical woman. I saw something of her in Moscow later. While suddenly I received by post 4,500 rubles, I was speechless with surprise as you may suppose. Three days later came the promised letter. I have it with me now. You must read it. She offers to be my wife, offers herself to me. I love you madly, she says. Even if you don't love me, never mind. Be my husband, don't be afraid. I won't hamper you in any way. I will be your chattel. I will be the carpet under your feet. I want to love you forever. I want to save you from yourself. Alyosha, I am not worthy to repeat those lines in my vulgar words and in my vulgar tone, my everlasting vulgar tone. And I can never cure myself of it. That letter stabs me even now. Do you think I don't mind, that I don't mind still? I wrote her an answer at once, but it was impossible for me to go to Moscow. I wrote to her with tears. One thing I shall be ashamed of forever, I referred to her being rich and having a dowry while I was only a stuck-up beggar. I mentioned money. I got to have borne it in silence, but it slipped from my pen. Then I wrote at once to Ivan and told him all I could about it in a letter of six pages and sent him to her. Do you look like that? Why do you look like that? Why are you staring at me? Yes, Ivan fell in love with her. He's in love with her still. I know that. I did a stupid thing in the world's opinion, but perhaps that one stupid thing may be the saving of us all now. Ooh, don't you see what a lot she thinks of Ivan? How she respects him? When she compares us, do you suppose she can love a man like me, especially after all that has happened here? But I'm convinced that she does love a man like you, and not a man like him. She loves her own virtue, not me. The words broken voluntarily, and almost malignantly from gimitry. He laughed, but a minute later his eyes gleamed. He flushed crimson and struck the table violently with his fist. "I swear, Alyosha," he cried, with intense and genuine anger at himself, "You may not believe me, but as God is holy and as Christ is God, I swear that though I smound that her lofty sentiments just now, I know that I'm million times baser and soul than she, and that these lofty sentiments of hers are as sincere as the heavenly angels. That's the tragedy of it, that I know that for certain. What if anyone does show off a bit? Don't I do it myself? Yet I'm sincere. I'm sincere. As for Ivan, I can understand how he must be cursing nature now, with his intellect, too. To see the preference given, to whom, to what, to a monster who, though he is betrothed and all eyes are fixed on him, can restrain his debaucheries, and before the very eyes of his betrothed. And a man like me is preferred, while he is rejected. And why? Because a girl wants to sacrifice her life and death to me out of gratitude. It's ridiculous. I've never said a word of this to Ivan. And Ivan, of course, has never dropped a hint of the sort to me. But destiny will be accomplished, and the best man will hold his ground while that undeserving one will vanish into the back alley forever. His filthy back alley, his beloved back alley, where he is at home, and where he will sink and filth and stench, at his own free will and with enjoyment. I've been talking foolishly. I have no words left. I use them at random, but it will be as I have said. I shall drown in the back alley, and she will marry Ivan. Stop to me, tree, all you should interrupt it again with great anxiety. There's one thing you haven't made clear yet. You are still betrothed all the same, are you not? Can you break off the engagement if she, your betrothed, doesn't want to? Yes, formally, and solemnly betrothed. It was all done on my arrival in Moscow, with great ceremony, with icons, all in fine style. The general's wife blessed us, and, would you believe it? Congratulated kacha. You've made a good choice, she said. I see right through him. And would you believe it? She didn't like Ivan, and hardly greeted him. I had a lot of talk with kacha in Moscow. I told her about myself, sincerely, honorably. She listened to everything. There was sweet confusion, there were tender words. Though there were proud words, too, she wrung out of me a mighty promise to reform. I gave my promise, and here. What? Why, I called you and brought you out here today. This very day, remember it, to send you, this very day again, to Katerina Ivanova, and, to tell her that I shall never come see her again, say, he sends you his compliments. But is that possible? That's just the reason I'm sending you and my place, because it's impossible. And how can I tell her myself? And where are you going? To the back alley. To Grishenko, then, although she explained morefully, clasping his hands, can Rakuten really have told truth? I thought you had just visited her, and that was all. Can a betrothed man pay such visits? Is such a thing possible? Was such a betrothed, and before the eyes of all the worlds? Confound it, I have some honor. As soon as I began visiting Grishenko, I ceased to be betrothed, and to be an honest man. I understand that. Why do you look at me? You see, I went in the first place to beat her. I had heard, and I know for a fact now, that that captain, father's agent, had given Grishenko an IOU of mine, for her to sue me for payment, so as to put an end to me. They wanted to scare me. I went to beat her. I had had a glimpse of her before. She doesn't strike one at first sight. I knew about her old merchant, who's lying ill now, paralyzed, but he's leaving for a decent little son. I knew too that she was fond of money, that she hoarded it, and lent it at a wicked rate of interest, that she's a merciless cheat and swindler. I went to beat her, and I stayed. The storm broke. It struck me down like the plague. I'm plague-stricken still, and know that everything is over. There will never be anything more for me. The cycle of the ages is accomplished. That's my position, and be able to beg her as fate would have it. I had three thousand just then in my pocket. I drove with Grishenko to Machrow, a place twenty-five verse from here. I got gypsies there and champagne, and made all the peasants that had drunk on it, and all the women and girls. I sent the thousands flying. In three days' time, I was stripped bare, but a hero. Do you suppose the hero had gained his end? Not a sign of it from her. I tell you that rogue Grishenko has a supple curve all over her body. You can see it in her little foot, even in her little toe. I saw it, and kissed it. But that was all I swear. "I'll marry you if you like," she said. "You're a beggar, you know. Say that you won't beat me, and you will let me do anything I choose, and perhaps I will marry you," she laughed, and she's laughing still. Dimitri leapt up with a sort of fury. He seemed all at once as though he were drunk. His eyes became suddenly bloodshot. "And do you really mean to marry her?" "At once, if she will, and if she won't, I shall stay all the same." "I'll be the porter at her gate, Alyosha," he cried. He stopped short before him, and taking him by the shoulders began shaking him violently. "Do you know, you innocent boy, that this is all delirium, senseless delirium? For there's a tragedy here. Let me tell you, Alexi, that I must be a low man with low and degraded passions, but a thief and a pickpocket Dimitri Karamazov never can be. Well, then, let me tell you that I am a thief and a pickpocket." That very morning, just before I went to be Grishenko, Katarina Ivanova sent for me, an in strict secrecy, why I don't know, I suppose she had some reason, asked me to go to the chief town of the province and to post 3,000 rubles to Gafia Ivanova in Moscow, so that nothing should be known of it in the town here. So I had that 3,000 rubles in my pocket when I went to seek Grishenko, and it was that money we spent at Makro. Afterward, I pretended I had been to the town, but did not show her the post office receipt. I said I had sent the money and would bring the receipt, and so far I haven't brought it. I've forgotten it. Now what do you think you're going to her today to say? He sends his compliments, and she'll ask you, "What about the money?" He might still have said to her, "He's a degraded sensualist and a low creature with uncontrolled passions. He didn't send your money then but wasted it because, like a low brute, he couldn't control himself." But still, you might have added, "Isn't a thief, though? Here is your 3,000. He sends it back. Send it to Gafia Ivanova." But he told me to say he sends his compliments. But as it is, she will ask, "But where is the money?" "Mitcha, you are unhappy, yes, but not as unhappy as you think. Don't worry yourself to death with despair. What do you suppose I'd shoot myself because I can't get 3,000 to pay back? That's just it. I shan't shoot myself. I haven't the strength now. Afterwards, perhaps. But now I'm going to Grishenko. I don't care what happens. And what then? I'll be her husband if she gains to have me. And when lovers come, I'll go into the next room, I'll clean her friends' galoshes. Blow up their semivar, run their errands. Katarina Ivanova will understand it all, all Yoshis had solemnly. She'll understand how great this trouble is, and she will forgive. She has a lofty mind, and no one could be more unhappy than you. She'll see that for herself. She won't forgive anything such a metry with the grin. There's something in it, brother, that no woman could forgive. Do you know what would be the best thing to do? What? Pay back 3,000. Where can we get it from? I say I have 2,000. Ivan will give you another 1,000. That makes 3. Take it and pay it back. And when would you get it, your 3,000? You're not of age, besides. And you absolutely must take my farewell to her today, with money or without it, for I can't drag on any longer. Things have come to such a pass. Tomorrow is too late. I shall send you to father. To father? Yes, to father first. Ask him for 3,000. But Mitchell, he won't give it. As though he would, I know he won't. Do you know the meaning of despair, Lexi? Yes. Listen, legally he owes me nothing. I've had it all from him. I know that. But morally he owes me something, doesn't he? You know he started with 28,000 of my mother's money and made 100,000 with it. Let him give me back only three of the 28,000, and he'll draw my soul out of hell, and it will atone for many of my sins. For that 3,000 I shall give you solemn word. I'll make an end of everything, and he shall hear nothing more of me. For the last time I give him the chance to be a father, tell him God himself sends him this chance. Mitchell, he won't give it for anything. I know he won't. I know it perfectly well. Now especially. That's not all. I know something more. Now only a few days ago, perhaps only yesterday he found out for the first time in earnest, underlined in earnest, that Grushenko is really perhaps not joking, and really means to marry me. He knows her nature. He knows the cat. He's supposed he's going to give me money to help to bring that about when he's crazy about her himself. And that's not all either. I can tell you more than that. I know that for the last five days he has had the 3,000 drawn out of the bank, changed into notes of a hundred rubles, packed into a large envelope, sealed with five seals, and tied across with red tape. You see how well I know it all about it? On the envelope is written, "To my angel Grushenko, when she will come to me." He scolded himself in silence and in secret, and no one knows that the money is there except the valet, smirtikoth, whom he trusts like himself. So now he has been expecting Grushenko for the last three or four days. He hopes she'll come for the money. He has sent her word of it, and she has sent him word that perhaps she'll come, and if she does go to the old man, can I marry her after that? You understand now why I'm here in secret and what I'm on the watch for. For her? Yes, for her. Foma has a room in the house of these sluts here. Foma comes from our parts. He was a soldier in our regiment. He does jobs for them. He's a watchman at night and goes grouse shooting in the daytime, and that's how he lives. I've established myself in his room, neither he nor the women of the house know the secret that is, that I am on the watch here. No one but shmirtikoth knows then. No one else. He will let me know if she goes to the old man. It was he told you about the money then? Yes, is it dead secret? Even Ivan doesn't know about the money or anything. The old man is sending Ivan to Mysnaya on a two or three days journey. A purchaser has turned up for the copes. He'll give 8,000 for the timber, so the old man keeps asking Ivan to help him by going to arrange it. It will take him two or three days. That's what the old man wants so that Grushenko can come while he's away. Then he's expecting Grushenko today. No, she won't come today. There are signs. She's certain not to come, cried Mysha suddenly. Smirtikoth thinks so too. Father is drinking now. He's sitting at a table with Ivan. Go to him, Al-Yosha, and ask for the three thousand. "Mitcha dear, what's the matter with you?" cried Al-Yosha, jumping up from his place and looking keenly at his brother's frenzied face. For one moment, the thought struck him that Dimitri was mad. "What is it? I'm not insane," said Dimitri, looking intently and earnestly at him. "No fear. I'm sending you to Father, and I know what I'm saying. I believe in miracles." Miracles? In a miracle of divine providence. God knows my heart. He sees my despair. He sees the whole picture. Surely he won't let something awful happen. Al-Yosha, I believe in miracles. Go. "I'm going. Tell me. Will you wait for me here?" Yes. I know it will take some time. You can't go at him point blank. He's drunk now. I'll wait three hours, four, five, six, seven. Only remember you must go to Katarina Ivanova today, if it has to be at midnight with the money or without the money and say he sends his compliments to you. I want you to say that verse to her. He sends his compliments to you. "Mitcha, and what if Gruscheka comes today? If not today or the next day?" "Gruscheka? I shall see her. I shall rush out and prevent it." "And if there's an if, it will be murder. I couldn't endure it." "Who will be murdered?" "The old man. I shan't kill her." "Brother, what are you saying?" "Oh, I don't know. I don't know. Perhaps I shan't kill, and perhaps I shall. I'm afraid that he will suddenly become so loathsome to me with his face at that moment. I hate his ugly throat, his eyes, his nose, his shameless snigger. I feel a physical repulsion. That's what I'm afraid of. That's what may be too much for me. I'll go, Mitcha. I believe that God will order things for the best. That nothing awful may happen. And I will sit and wait for the miracle. If it doesn't come to pass, I'll yoshua went thoughtfully toward his father's house." End of chapter five. Book three, chapter six, Smirjikov. She did in fact find his father still at table. Though there was a dining room in the house, the table was laid as usual in the drawing room, which was the largest room, and furnished with old-fashioned ostentation. The furniture was white and very old, upholstered in old red silky material. In the spaces between the windows there were mirrors in elaborate white and gilt frames of old-fashioned carving. On the walls covered with white paper, which was torn in many places, there hung two large portraits, one of some prints who had been governor of the district 30 years before, and the other of some bishop also long since dead. In the corner opposite the door, there were several icons before which a lamp was lighted at nightfall, not so much for devotional purposes as to light the room. Fyodor Pavlovitch used to go to bed very late at three or four o'clock in the morning and would wander about the room at night or sit in an armchair thinking. This had become a habit with him. He often slept quite alone in the house, sending his servants to the lodge, but usually smedgy cough remained, sleeping on a bench in the hall. When all Yasha came in, dinner was over, but coffee and preserves had been served. Fyodor Pavlovitch liked sweet things with brandy after dinner. Yvonne was also at table, sipping coffee. The servants Gregorian smedgy cough were standing by. Both the gentlemen and the servants seemed in singularly good spirits. Fyodor Pavlovitch was roaring with laughter. Before he entered the room, Al-Yasha heard the shrill laugh he knew so well, and could tell from the sound of it that his father had only reached the good-humoured stage and was far from being completely drunk. "Here he is, here he is," yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch, highly delighted at saying Al-Yasha. "Join us, sit down. Coffee is a lentin dish, but it's hot. I don't offer you brandy, you're keeping the fast. But would you like some?" "No. I'd better give you some of our famous liqueur. Smedgy cough go to the cupboard, the second shelf on the right. Here are the keys, look sharp." Al-Yasha began refusing the liqueur. "Never mind. If you won't have it, we will," said Fyodor Pavlovitch beaming. "But stay, have you dined?" "Yes," answered Al-Yasha, who hadn't truth only eaten a piece of bread and drunk a glass of coughs in the father's superior's kitchen. "Though I should be pleased to have some hot coffee." "Bravo, by darling. He'll have some coffee. Does it want warming? No, it's boiling. It's capital coffee. Smedgy cough's making. My smedgy cough's an artist at coffee, and at fishpaddies, and at fish soup, too. You must come one day and have some fish soup. Let me know beforehand, but stay. Didn't I tell you this morning to come home with your mattress and pillow and all? Have you brought your mattress?" "No, I haven't," said Al-Yasha, smiling, too. "Ah, but you were frightened. You were frightened this morning, weren't you?" "There, my darling. I couldn't do anything to vex you. Do you know, Yvonne? I can't resist the way he looks one straight in the face and laughs. It makes me laugh all over. I'm so fond of him. Al-Yasha, let me give you my blessing. A father's blessing." Al-Yasha rose, but Feudor Palavitch had already changed his mind. "No, no," he said. "I'll just make the sign of the cross over you for now. Sit still. Now we've a treat for you. In your own line, too. It'll make you laugh." Balam's ass has begun talking to us here, and how he talks, how he talks. Balam's ass, it appeared, was the valet smedgy cough. He was a young man of about four and twenty, remarkably unsocial, and taciturn. Not that he was shy or bashful. On the contrary, he was conceited, and seemed to despise everybody. But we must pause to say a few words about him now. He was brought up by Gregorian Marfa, but the boy grew up with no sense of gratitude, as Gregori expressed it. He was an unfriendly boy, and seemed to look at the world mistrustfully. In his childhood he was very fond of hanging cats, and burying them with great ceremony. He used to dress up in a sheet as though it were a surplus, and sang and waved some object over the dead cat as though it were a censor. All this he did on the sly, with the greatest secrecy. Gregori caught him once at this diversion and gave him a good beating. He shrank into a corner and soaked there for a week. "He doesn't care for you or me, the monster." Gregori used to say to Marfa, and he doesn't care for anyone. "Are you a human being?" he said, addressing the boy directly. "You're not a human being. You grew from the milledoo in the bath-house, that's what you are." Smed your coffin appeared afterwards, could never forgive him those words. Gregori taught him to read and write, and when he was twelve years old, began teaching him the scriptures. But this teaching came to nothing. At the second or third lesson, the boy suddenly grinned. "What's that for?" asked Gregori, looking at him threateningly from under his spectacles. "Oh, nothing! God created light on the first day, and the sun, moon, and stars on the fourth day. Where did the light come from on the first day?" Gregori was thunderstruck. The boy looked sarcastically at his teacher. There was something positively condescending in his expression. Gregori could not restrain himself. "I'll show you where," he cried, and gave the boy a violent slap on the cheek. The boy took the slap without a word, but withdrew into his corner again for some days. A week later he had his first attack of the disease to which he was subject to all the rest of his life. Epilepsy. When Theodore Pavlovich heard of it, his attitude to the boy seemed to change at once. Till then he had taken no notice of him, though he never scolded him and always gave him a copac when he met him. Sometimes, when he was in good humour, he would send the boy something sweet from his table. But as soon as he heard of his illness, he showed an active interest in him, sent for a doctor and tried remedies, but the disease turned out to be incurable. The fits occurred on an average once a month, but at various intervals. The fits varied too in violence. Some were light, and some were very severe. Theodore Pavlovich strictly forbade Gregori to use corporal punishment to the boy and began allowing him to come upstairs to him. He forbade him to be taught anything whatever for a time too. One day when the boy was about fifteen, Theodore Pavlovich noticed him lingering by the bookcase and reading the titles through the glass. Theodore Pavlovich had a fair number of books, over a hundred, but no one ever saw him reading. He at once gave Smetjokoff the key to the bookcase. "Come, read. You shall be my librarian. You'll be better sitting reading than hanging about the courtyard." "Come, read this," said Theodore Pavlovich, gave him evenings in a cottage near de Kanka. He read a little but didn't like it. He did not once smile and ended by frowning. "Why, isn't it funny?" asked Theodore Pavlovich. "Smetjokoff did not speak." "Answer stupid." "It's all untrue," mumbled the boy with a grin. "Then go to the devil. You have the soul of a lackey. Stay. Here's Smaragot's universal history. That's all true. Read that." But Smetjokoff did not get through ten pages of it. He thought it dull, so the bookcase was closed again. Shortly afterwards, Marfa and Gregori reported to Theodore Pavlovich that Smetjokoff was gradually beginning to show an extraordinary fastidiousness. He would sit before his soup, take up his spoon, and look into the soup, bend over it, examine it, take a spoonful, and hold it to the light. "What is it, a beetle?" Gregori would ask. A fly, perhaps, observed Marfa. The squeamish youth never answered, but he did the same with his bread, his meat, and everything he ate. He would hold a piece on his fork to the light, scrutinize it microscopically, and only after long deliberation decide to put it in his mouth. "Ugh, what fine gentlemen's heirs?" Gregori muttered, looking at him. When Theodore Pavlovich heard of this development in Smetjokoff, he determined to make him his cook, and sent him to Moscow to be trained. He spent some years there, and came back remarkably changed in appearance. He looked extraordinarily old for his age. His face had grown wrinkled, yellow, and strangely emasculate. In character, he seemed almost exactly the same as before he went away. He was just as unsocial, and showed not the slightest inclination for any companionship. In Moscow, too, as we heard afterwards, he had always been silent. Moscow itself had little interest for him. He saw very little there, and took scarcely any notice of anything. He went once to the theatre, but returned silent and displeased with it. On the other hand, he came back to us from Moscow well-dressed, in a clean coat and clean linen. He brushed his clothes most scrupulously twice a day invariably, and was very fond of cleaning his smart calf boots with a special English polish so that they shone like mirrors. He turned out a first-rate cook. Theodore Pavlovich paid him a salary, almost the whole of which Smetjokoff spent on clothes, pomade, perfumes, and such things. But he seemed to have as much contempt for the female sex as for men. He was discreet, almost unapproachable with them. Theodore Pavlovich began to regard him rather differently. His fits were becoming more frequent, and on the days he was ill, Marfa cooked, which did not suit Theodore Pavlovich at all. "Why are your fits getting worse?" asked Theodore Pavlovich, looking at scans at his new cook. "Would you like to get married? Shall I find you a wife?" But Smetjokoff turned pale with anger and made no reply. Theodore Pavlovich left him with an inpatient gesture. The great thing was that he had absolute confidence in his honesty. It happened once when Theodore Pavlovich was drunk that he dropped in the muddy courtyard three hundred ruble notes which he had only just received. He only missed them next day and was just hastening to search his pockets when he saw the notes lying on the table. "Where had they come from?" Smetjokoff had picked them up and brought them in the day before. "Well, my lad, I've never met anyone like you." Theodore Pavlovich said shortly and gave him ten rubles. "We may add that he not only believed in his honesty, but had for some reason a liking for him, although the young man looked as morosely at him as if everyone was always silent." He rarely spoke. If it had occurred to anyone to wonder at the time what the young man was interested in and what was in his mind, it would have been impossible to tell by looking at him. Yet he used sometimes to stop suddenly in the house or even in the yard or street and would stand still for ten minutes lost in thought. A physiognomist studying his face would have said that there was no thought in it, no reflection, but only a sort of contemplation. There is a remarkable picture by the painter Crumscoy called the contemplation. There is a forest in winter and on a roadway through the forest in absolute solitude stands a peasant in a torn kaftan and barked shoes. He stands as it were, lost in thought. Yet he is not thinking. He is contemplating. If anyone touched him, he would start and look at one as though awakening and bewildered. It's true he would come to himself immediately, but if you were asked what he had been thinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably he has, hidden within himself, the impression which had dominated him during the period of contemplation. Those impressions are dear to him, and no doubt he hoards them imperceptively and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he does not know either. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many years, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage for his soul's salvation, or perhaps he will suddenly set fire to his native village and perhaps do both. There are good many contemptatives among the peasantry. Well, Commander Koff was probably one of them, and he probably was greedily hoarding up his impressions, hardly knowing why. This ends chapter 6. Book 3, chapter 7, The Controversy But Balaam's ass had suddenly spoken. The subject was a strange one. Gregory had gone in the morning to make purchases, and had heard from the shopkeeper, Lukianov, the story of a Russian soldier which had appeared in the newspaper of that day. This soldier had been taken prisoner in some remote part of Asia, and was threatened with an immediate agonizing depth if he did not renounce Christianity and follow Islam. He refused to deny his faith and was tortured, flayed alive, and died, praising and glorifying Christ. Gregory had related the story at table. Theodore Pavlovitch always liked, over the dessert after dinner, to laugh and talk, if only with Gregory. This afternoon he was in a particularly good-humoured and expansive mood, sipping his brandy and listening to the story. He observed that they ought to make a saint of a soldier like that, and to take his skin to some monastery. That would make the people flock and bring the money in. Gregory Fraun, seeing that Theodore Pavlovitch was by no means touched, but as usual was beginning to scoff. At that moment, Smirjakov, who was standing by the door, smiled. Smirjakov often waited at table towards the end of dinner, and since Ivan's arrival in our town, he had done so every day. "What are you grinning at?" asked Theodore Pavlovitch, catching the smile instantly, and knowing that it referred to Gregory. "Well, my opinion is," Smirjakov began suddenly, and unexpectedly in a loud voice, "that if that laudable soldier's exploit was so very great there would have been to my thinking, no sin in it, if he had on such an emergency renounced, so to speak, the name of Christ, and his own christening, to save by that same his life, for good deeds, by which, in the course of years, to expiate his cowardice. How could it not be a sin? You're talking nonsense. For that, you'll go straight to hell and be roasted there like mutton," put in Theodore Pavlovitch. It was at this point that Al-Yosha came in, and Theodore Pavlovitch, as we have seen, was highly delighted in his appearance. "We're on your subject, your subject," he chuckled gleefully, making Al-Yosha sit down to listen. "As for mutton, that's not so, and there'll be nothing there for this, and there shouldn't be either, if it's according to justice," Smirjakov maintained, stoutly. "How do you mean, according to justice?" Theodore Pavlovitch cried, still more gaily, nudging Al-Yosha with his knee. "He's a rascal, that's what he is," burst from Grigory. He looked Smirjakov raffily in the face. "As for being a rascal, wait a little, Grigory of Vasilyevitch," answered Smirjakov with perfect composure. "You'd better consider yourself that once I am taken prisoner by the enemies of the Christian race, and they demand for me to curse the name of God, and to renounce my holy christening, I am fully entitled to act by my own reason, since there would be no sin in it. But you've said that before, don't waste words, prove it," cried Theodore Pavlovitch. "Soupmaker," muttered Grigory contemptuously. "As for being a suitmaker, wait a bit too, and consider for yourself Grigory of Vasilyevitch, without abusing me. For as soon as I say to those enemies, 'No, I'm not a Christian, and I curse my true God, then at once, by God's high judgment, I become immediately and especially anathema cursed, and am cut off from the holy church, exactly as though I were a heathen, so that at the very instant, not only when I say it aloud, but when I think of saying it, before a quarter of a second has passed, I am cut off, is that so or not Grigory Vasilyevitch." He addressed Grigory with obvious satisfaction, though he was really answering Fedor Pavlovitch's questions, and was well aware of it, and intentionally pretending that Grigory had asked the questions. "I haven't," cried Fedor Pavlovitch suddenly, "stooped down for me to whisper. He's got this all up for your benefit. He wants you to praise him, praise him." Ivan listened with perfect seriousness to his father's excited whisper. "Stay," smeared your cough, "be quite a minute," cried Fedor Pavlovitch once more. Ivan, your ear again. Ivan bent down again with a perfectly gray face. "I love you as I do, Al-Yosha. Don't think I don't love you, some brandy?" "Yes, but you rather drunk yourself," thought Ivan, looking steadily at his father. He was watching Smurjikov with great curiosity. "You're anathema, a cursed as it is," Grigory suddenly burst out. "And how dare you argue you rascal after that. If don't scold him, Grigory, don't scold him," Fedor Pavlovitch cut him short. "You should wait, Grigory Vasilyevitch, if only a short time, and listen, for I haven't finished all I had to say, for at the very moment I become a cursed, at that same highest moment I become exactly like a heathen, and my christening has taken off me, and becomes of no avail. Isn't that so?" "Make haste and finish my boy," Fedor Pavlovitch urged him, sipping from his wine glass with relish. "And if I cease to be a Christian, then I told no lie to the enemy when they asked whether I was a Christian or not a Christian, saying I had already been relieved by God himself of my Christianity, by reason of the thought alone, before I had time to utter a word to the enemy. And if I have already been discharged, in what manner, and in what sort of justice, can I be held responsible as a Christian in the other world for having denied Christ, when, through the very thought alone before denying him, I had been relieved from my christening. If I'm no longer a Christian, then I can't renounce Christ, for I've nothing then to renounce, who will hold an unclean tartar responsible gregory of a cellulite, even in heaven, for not having been born a Christian. And who would punish him for that, considering that you can't take two skins off one ox? For God Almighty himself, even if he did make the tartar responsible, when he dies, would give him the smallest possible punishment, I imagine, since he must be punished, judging that he is not to blame if he has come into the world an unclean heathen from heathen parents. Oh Lord God can't surely take a tartar and say he was a Christian. That would mean that the Almighty would tell a real untrue. And can the Lord of heaven and earth tell a lie, even in one word? Gregory was thunderstruck and looked at the orator, his eyes nearly staring out of his head, though he did not clearly understand what was said. He had caught something in this rigmarole, and stood looking like a man who has just hit his head against a wall. Feudor Pavlovitch emptied his glass and went off into his shrill laugh. Oh Yosha, oh Yosha, what do you say to that? Ah, you casualist. You must have been with a Jesuit somewhere, Ivan. Oh, you stinking Jesuit, who taught you? But you're talking nonsense, you casualist nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. Don't cry, Gregory. We'll reduce him to smoke and ashes in a moment. Tell me this, oh ask, you may be right before your enemies, but you have renounced your faith all the same in your own heart, and you say yourself, in that very hour you became anathema accursed. And if once you're anathema, they won't pat you on the head for it in hell. What do you say to that? My fine Jesuit? There's no doubt that I have renounced it in my own heart. But there's no special sin in that. Or if there was sin, it was the most ordinary. How's that the most ordinary? You lie a cursed one, histh Gregory. Consider yourself, Gregory Vasavitch. Smirgeokov went on, stayed and unruffled, conscious of his triumph. But as it were generous to the vanquished foe, consider yourself, Gregory Vasavitch. It is said in the scripture that if you have faith, even as a mustard sea, and bid a mountain move into the sea, it will move without the least delay at your bidding. While Gregory Vasavitch, if I'm without faith, and you have so great faith that you are continually swearing at me, you'd try yourself telling this mountain not to move into the sea. Well, that's a long way off. But even to our stinking little river which runs at the bottom of the garden, you'll see for yourself that it won't budge, but will remain just where it is, however much you shout at it. And that shows Gregory Vasavitch that you haven't faith in the proper manner, and only abuse others about it. Again, taking into consideration that no one in our day, not only you, but actually no one from the highest person to the lowest peasant, can shove mountains into the sea, except perhaps some one man in the world, or at most two, and they most likely are saving their souls in secret somewhere in the Egyptian desert, so you wouldn't find them. If so it be, if all the rest have no faith, will God curse all the rest? That is, the population of the whole earth, except about two hermits in the desert, and his well-known mercy, will he not forgive one of them? And so I'm persuaded that though I may once have doubted I shall be forgiven if I shed tears of repentance. Stay, cried Fidor Pavlovitch in a transport of delight, so you do suppose there are two who can move mountains. Ivan, make a note of it, write it down. There you have the Russian all over. You're quite right in saying it's characteristic of the people's faith, Ivan asserted with an improving smile. You agree? Then it must be so if you agree. It's true, isn't it, Alyosha? That's the Russian faith all over, isn't it? No, Smirjakov has not the Russian faith at all, said Alyosha firmly and gravely. I'm not talking about his faith, I mean those two in the desert, only that idea. Surely, that's Russian, isn't it? Yes, that's purely Russian, said Alyosha, smiling. Your words are worth a gold piece, so ask, and I'll give it to you today. But as to the rest, you talk nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. Let me tell you stupid that we here are all a little faith, only from carelessness, because we haven't time. Things are too much for us. And in the second place, the Lord God has given us so little time, only 24 hours in the day, so that one hasn't even time to get sleep enough, much less to repent with one sins. While you have denied your faith to your enemies, when you'd nothing else to think about, but to show your faith, so I consider, brother, that it constitutes a sin. Constitutes a sin it may, but consider yourself, Grigareva Salivitch, that it only extenuates it if it does not constitute. If I had believed them in very truth, as I ought to have believed, then it really would have been sinful. If I had not faced torches for my faith, and had gone over to the pagan Muhammadan faith, but of course it wouldn't have come to torture then, because I should only have had to say, at that instant to the mountain, move and crush the tormentor, and it would have moved, and at the very instant have crushed him like a black beetle, and I should have walked away as though nothing had happened, praising and glorifying God. But suppose at that very moment I had tried all that and cried to the mountain, crushed these tormentors, and it hadn't crushed them. How could I have helped doubting, pray at such a time, and at such a dread hour of mortal terror? And apart from that I should know already that I could not attain to the fullness of the kingdom of heaven, for since the mountain had not moved at my word they could not think very much of my faith up aloft, and there could be no very great reward awaiting me in the world to come. So why should I let them flay the skin off me as well, and to no good purpose? For even though they had flayed my skin half off my back, and even then the mountain would not have moved at my word or at my cry, and at such a moment not only doubt might come over one, but one might lose one's reason from fear, so that one would not be able to think at all. And therefore, how should I be particularly to blame, if not seeing my advantage or reward there or here, I should at least save my skin. And so, trusting fully in the grace of the Lord, I should cherish the hope that I might be altogether forgiven, end of chapter seven. Book three, chapter eight, over the brandy. The controversy was over, but strange to say, feudal Pavlovitch, who had been so gay, suddenly began frowning. He frowned and gulped brandy, and it was already a glass too much. "Get along with you, Jesuits," he cried to the servants. "Go away, Smejokov, I'll send you the gold piece I promised you today, but be off. Don't cry, gory, go to Marfa, she'll come for chew and put you to bed. The rascals won't let us sit in peace after dinner." He snapped peevishly, as the servants promptly withdrew at his word. Smejokov always pokes himself in now after dinner. "It's you he's so interested in. What have you done to fascinate him?" He added to Ivan. "Nothing whatever," answered Ivan. "He's pleased to have a high opinion of me. He's a lackey and a mean soul. Raw material for revolution, however, when the time comes." "For revolution, there will be others and better ones, but there will be some like him as well. His kind will come first, and better ones after." And when will the time come? The rocket will go off and fizzle out, perhaps. The peasants are not very fond of listening to these suit makers so far. "Ah, brother, but a balam's ass like that thinks and thinks and the devil knows where he gets to." "He's storing up ideas," said Ivan, smiling. "You see, I know he can't bear me, nor anyone else, even you, though you fancy that he has a high opinion of you. We're still with Al-Yosha. He despises Al-Yosha, but he doesn't steal. That's one thing, and he's not a gossip. He holds his tongue and doesn't wash our dirty linen in public. He makes capital fish pasties, too. But damn it, is he worth talking about so much?" "Of course he isn't." And as for the ideas he may be hatching, the Russian peasant, generally speaking, needs thrashing. "That I've always maintained. Our peasants are swindlers and don't deserve to be pitied, and it's a good thing there still flogs sometimes. Russia is rich in birches. If they destroy the forests, it would be the ruin of Russia. I stand up for the clever people. We've left off thrashing the peasants. We've grown so clever. But they go on thrashing themselves, and a good thing, too. For with what measure you met, it shall be measured to you again. Or how does it go? Anyhow, it will be measured. But Russia's all swindishness. My dear, if only you knew how I hate Russia. That is not Russia, but all this vice. But maybe I mean Russia." "Chusela, cuschonachri. Do you know what I like? I like wit." "You've had another glass. That's enough." "Wait a bit. I'll have one more in than another, and then I'll stop." "No, stay. You interrupted me. At Makroya, I was talking to an old man, and he told me, 'There's nothing we like so much, as sentencing girls to be thrashed, and we all weeks give the lads the job of thrashing them.' And the girl he has thrashed today, the young man will ask in marriage tomorrow, so it quite suits the girls, too," he said. "There's a set of decides for you. But it's clever, anyway. Shall we go over and have a look at it, hey?" "Oh, Yasha, are you blushing? Don't be bashful, child. I'm sorry I didn't stay to dinner at the superiors, and tell the monks about the girls at Makroya." "Oh, Yasha, don't be angry that I offended your superior this morning. I lost my temper. If there is a god, if he exists, then of course I'm to blame, and I shall have to answer for it. But if there isn't a god at all, what do they deserve your fathers? It's not enough to cut their heads off, for they keep back progress. Would you believe it, Yvonne, that that lacerates my sentiments? No, you don't believe it as I see from your eyes. You believe what people say, that I'm nothing but a buffoon. Hell, Yasha, do you believe that I'm nothing but a buffoon?" "No, I don't believe it." "And I believe you don't, and that you speak the truth. You look sincere, and you speak sincerely. But not Yvonne, Yvonne's super-silious. I'll make an end of your monks, though, all the same. I take all that mystic stuff and suppress it, once for all, all over Russia, so as to bring all the fools to reason, and the gold and the silver would flow into the mint." "But why suppress it?" asked Yvonne. "That truth may prevail. That's why." "Well, if the truth were to prevail, you know, you'd be the first to be robbed and suppressed." "Ah, I dare say you're right. Ah, I'm an ass," burst out Fyodor Pavlovitch, striking himself lightly on the forehead. "Well, your monastery may stand then, Al-Yasha. If that's how it is, and we, clever people, will sit snug and enjoy our brandy. You know Yvonne, it must have been so ordained by the almighty himself. Yvonne, speak. Is there a god or not?" "Stay, speak the truth. Speak seriously. Why are you laughing again?" "I'm laughing that you should have made a clever remark just now, but smed your cough's belief in the existence of two saints who could move mountains." "Why, am I like him now then?" "Very much." "Well, that shows I'm Russian too, and I have a Russian characteristic, and you may be caught in the same way, though you are a philosopher. Shall I catch you?" "What do you bet that I'll catch you tomorrow? Speak all the same. Is there a god or not? Only be serious. I want you to be serious now." "No, there is no god." "Al-Yasha, is there a god?" "There is." "Ivonne, and is there immortality of some sort? Just a little? Just a tiny bit?" "There is no immortality either. Not at all? None at all?" "There's absolute nothingness then. Perhaps there's just something. Anything is better than nothing." "Absolutely nothingness." "Al-Yasha, is there immortality?" "There is." "God and immortality?" "God and immortality. In God is immortality." "It's more likely Ivonne's right, good lord, to think what faith, what force of all kinds man has lavished for nothing on that dream, and for how many thousands of years?" "Who is laughing at man?" "Ivonne, for the last time, once for all. Is there a god or not? I ask for the last time." "And for the last time, there is not." "Who is laughing at mankind, Ivonne?" "It must be the devil," said Ivonne, smiling. "And the devil, does he exist?" "No, there's no devil either." "Ah, it's a pity. Damn it all, and wouldn't I do to the man who first invented God? Hanging on a bitter aspen tree would be too good for him." "There would have been no civilization if they hadn't invented God." "Wouldn't there have been? Without God?" "No, and there would have been no brandy either. But I must take your brandy away from you anyway." "Stop, stop, stop, dear boy. One more little glass. I've heard Heliosha's feelings. You're not angry with me, Heliosha. My dear little Alexei." "No, I'm not angry. I know your thoughts. Your heart is better than your head." "My heart, better than my head, is it? Oh, Lord, and that from you. Yvonne, do you love Heliosha?" "Yes. You must love him. Feudor Pavlovitch was, by this time, very drunk." "Liesen al Yorsha. I was rude to your elder this morning. But I was excited. But there's wit in that elder. Don't you think, Yvonne?" "Very likely. There is. There is. He's a Jesuit, a Russian one that is, and he's an honorable person. There's a hidden indignation boiling within him at having to pretend and affect holiness. But of course he believes in God. Not a bit of it, didn't you know? Why he tells everyone so himself. That is, not everyone, but all the clever people who come to him. He said straight out to Governor Schulz not long ago, "Credo. But I don't know in what." "Really? He really did. But I respect him. There's something a Mephistopheles about him. Or rather of the hero of our time, our beanen. Or what's his name? You see, he's a sensualist. He's such a sensualist that I should be afraid for my daughter or my wife if she went to confess to him. You know, when he begins telling stories, the year before last he invited us to tea. Tea with the core. The ladies sent him the core, and began telling us about old times till we nearly split our sides, especially how he once cured a paralyzed woman. "If my legs were not bad, I know a dance, I would dance you," he said. "What do you say to that? I've plenty of tricks in my time," said he. "He did Demidov, the merchant out of sixty thousand." "What, he stole it?" "He brought him the money as a man he could trust, saying, 'Take care of it for me, friend. There'll be a police search at my place tomorrow.' And he kept it. "You have given it to the church," he declared. "I said to him, 'You're a scoundrel,' I said. 'No,' said he. I'm not a scoundrel, but I'm broad-minded. But that wasn't he that was someone else. I've muddled him with someone else without noticing it. Come another glass, and that's enough. Take away the bottle, Yvonne. I've been telling lies. Why didn't you stop me, Yvonne? And tell me I was lying." "I knew you'd stop of yourself." "That's a lie. You did it from spite. You simple spite against me. You despise me. You've come to me and despise me in my own house." "Well, I'm going away. You've had too much, Brandi. I've begged you for Christ's sakes to go to Tromachna for a day or two. And you don't go." "I'll go tomorrow if you're so upset about it. You won't go. You want to keep an eye on me. That's what you want, spiteful fellow. That's why you won't go." The old man persisted. He had reached that state of drunkenness, when the drunkard, who has till then been inoffensive, tries to pick a quarrel and to assert himself. "Why are you looking at me? Why do you look like that? Your eyes look at me and say, 'You ugly drunkard. Your eyes are mistrustful. They're contemptuous. You've come here with some design. Al-Yasha here looks at me in his eyes shine. Al-Yasha doesn't despise me. Alexei, you mustn't love Ivan. Don't be ill-tempered with my brother. Leave off attacking him. Al-Yasha said emphatically." "All right, my headaches. Take away the brand, Ivan. It's the third time I've told you." He mused and suddenly a slow, cunning grin spread over his face. "Don't be angry with a feeble old man, Ivan. I know you don't love me, but don't be angry all the same. You've nothing to love me for. You go to Trimachnia. I'll come to you myself and bring you a present. I'll show you a little wench there. I've had my eye on her a long time. She's still running about barefoot. Don't be afraid of barefoot at wenches. Don't despise them. They're pearls." And he kissed his hand with a smack. "To my thinking," he revived at once, seeming to grow sober the instant he touched on his favourite topic, "to my thinking, 'Hi, you boys. You children. Little fucking pigs, to my thinking. I never thought a woman ugly in my life. That's been my rule. Can you understand that? How could you understand it? You've milk in your veins, not blood. You're not out of your shells yet. My rule has been that you can always find something devilishly interesting in every woman that you wouldn't find in any other. Only one must know how to find it. That's the point. That's a talent. To my mind, there are no ugly women. The very fact that she is a woman is half the battle. But how could you understand that? Even in vega feeds, even in them, you may discover something that makes you simply wonder that men have been such fools as to let them grow old without noticing them. Barefooted girls are unattractive ones. You must take by surprise." "Didn't you know that? You must astound them, till they're fascinated, upset, ashamed, that such a gentleman should fall in love with such a little slut. It's a jolly good thing that there always are, and will be masters and slaves in the world. So there always will be a little maid of all work in her master. And you know, that's all that's needed for happiness." "Stay. Listen, Al Yousa. I always used to surprise your mother. But in a different way, I paid no attention to her at all. But all at once, when the minute came, I'd be all devotion to her, crawl on my knees, kiss her feet, and I always, always, I remember, as though it were today, reduced her to that tinkling, quiet, nervous, queer little laugh. It was peculiar to her. I knew her attacks always used to begin like that. The next day, she would begin shrieking hysterically, and this little laugh was not a sign of delight, though it made a very good counterfeit. That's the great thing to know how to take everyone. "Once Billievsky, he was a handsome fellow and rich, he used to like to come here and hang about her. Suddenly gave me a slap in the face in her presence. And she, such a mild sheep, who I thought she would have knocked me down for that blow, how she set on me, 'You're beaten, you're beaten now,' she said. 'You've taken a blow from him. You've been trying to sell me to him,' she said. 'And how dared he strike you in my presence? Don't dare come near me again. Never, never, run at once, challenge him to a duel.' I took her to the monastery, then, to bring her to her senses. The Holy Fathers prayed her back to reason, but I swear by God, Al-Yosha, I never insulted the poor, crazy girl. Only once, perhaps, in the first year, then she was very fond of praying. She used to keep the feasts of our lady, particularly, and used to turn me out of her room, then. 'I'll knock that mysticism out of her, thought I. Here,' said I, 'you see your holy image. Here it is. Here I take it down. You believe it's miraculous, but here I'll spit on it directly, and nothing will happen to me for it.' When she thought, 'Good Lord,' I thought she would kill me, but she only jumped up, wrung her hands, then suddenly hit her face in them, began trembling all over and fell on the floor. 'Fell all of a heap.' Al-Yosha? Al-Yosha, what's the matter? The old man jumped up in alarm. From the time he had begun speaking about his mother, a change had gradually come over Al-Yosha's face. He flushed crimson, his eyes glowed, his lips quivered. The old sought had gone spluttering on, noticing nothing, to the moment when something very strange happened to Al-Yosha. Precisely what he was describing, and the crazy woman was suddenly repeated with Al-Yosha. He jumped up from his seat exactly as his mother was said to have done, wrung his hands, hit his face in them, and fell back in his chair, shaking all over in his hysterical peroxysm of sudden, violent, silent weeping. His extraordinary resemblance to his mother, particularly impressed the old man. 'Ivan! Ivan! Water quickly! It's like her! Exactly as she used to be then his mother! Spirt some water on him from your mouth! That's what I used to do to her! He's upset about his mother! His mother! He muttered to Ivan. But she was my mother too, I believe. His mother. Was she not? Said Ivan, with uncontrolled anger and contempt. The old man shrank before his flashing eyes. But something very strange had happened, though only for a second. It seemed really to have escaped the old man's mind that Al-Yosha's mother actually was the mother of Ivan too. 'Your mother?' he muttered, not understanding. 'What do you mean? What mother are you talking about? Was she?' 'Why, damn it! Of course she was your suit, damn it! My mind has never been so darkened before! Excuse me! Why, I was thinking Ivan! He, he, he stopped. A broad drunken half-senseless grin overspread his face. At that moment a fearful noise and clamor was heard in the hall. There were violent shouts, the door was flung open, and Dimitri burst into the room. The old man rushed to Ivan in terror. 'He'll kill me! He'll kill me! Don't let him get at me!' He screamed, clinging to the skirt of Ivan's coat. The sensualists. Gregori and Smejokov ran into the room after Dimitri. They had been struggling with him in the passage, refusing to admit him, acting on instructions given them by Fyodor Pavlovitch some days before. Taking advantage of the fact that Dimitri stopped a moment on entering the room to look about him, Gregori 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, Dimitri uttered a scream rather than a shout and rushed at Gregori. Then she's here! She's hidden there, out of the way, scoundrel! He tried to pull Gregori away, but the old servant pushed him back. Beside himself with fury, Dimitri struck out and hit Gregori with all his might. The old man fell like a log, and Dimitri, leaping over him, broke in the door. Smejokov remained pale and trembling at the other end of the room, huddling close to Fyodor Pavlovitch. 'She's here!' shouted Dimitri. 'I saw her turn towards the house just now, but I couldn't catch her. Where is she?' 'Where is she?' 'That shout, she is here!' produced an indescribable effect on Fyodor Pavlovitch. All his terror left him. 'Hold him! Hold him!' he cried, and dashed after Dimitri. Meanwhile, Gregori had got up from the floor, but still seemed stunned. Ivan and Al Yasha ran after their father. In the third room, something was heard to fall on the floor with a ring and crash. It was a large glass face, not an expensive one, on a marble pedestal, which Dimitri had upset as he ran past it. 'At him!' shouted the old man. 'Help!' Ivan and Al Yasha caught the old man, and were forcibly bringing him back. 'Why, do you run after him? He'll murder you outright!' Ivan cried wrathfully at his father. 'Ivan!' Al Yasha. '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 Ivan. 'But she may have come by that other entrance. You know that entrance is locked, and you have the key.' Dimitri 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 Ivan he rushed again at Dimitri. But Dimitri 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. Ivan, though not so strong as Dimitri, threw his arms round him, and with all his might pulled him away. Alyasha helped him with his slender strength, holding Dimitri in front. 'Madman, you've killed him,' cried Ivan. 'Serve him right,' shouted Dimitri breathlessly. 'If I haven't killed him, I'll come again and kill him. You can't protect him.' 'Dimitri, go away at once,' cried Alyasha, commandingly. 'Alexei, 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 it once where she is.' 'Good-bye, Alexei. Not a word to ace up about the money now. But go to Katerina Ivarovna. 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, Ivan and Gregori 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 Dimitri's cries. He was still fancying that Grushenka really was somewhere in the house. Dimitri looked at him with hatred as he went out. 'I don't repent, shedding your blood,' he cried. 'Be where, old man. Be where 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. Spend your cough. Spend your cough.' The old man wheezed, scarcely audibly, beckoning to him with his finger. 'No, she's not here, you old lunatic,' Ivan shouted at him angrily. 'Here he's fainting. Water, a towel. Make haste, magickov.' 'Smedrickov 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. Ivan and Allysha went back to the drawing-room. Smedrickov removed the fragments of the broken vase, while Gregori stood by the table looking gloomily at the floor. 'Shouldn't you put a wet bandage on your head and go to bed too?' Allysha said to him. 'We'll look after him. My brother gave you a terrible blow on the head.' 'He's insulted me,' Gregori articulated, gloomily and distinctly. 'He's insulted his father, not only you,' observed Ivan with a forced smile. 'I used to wash him in his tub. He's insulted me,' repeated Gregori. 'Damn it all. If I hadn't pulled him away, perhaps he'd have murdered him. He wouldn't have take too much to do a stop in, would it?' whispered Ivan to Allysha. 'God forbid,' cried Allysha. 'Why should he forbid?' Ivan went on in the same whisper, with a malignant grimace. 'One reptile will devour the other, and serve them both right too,' Allysha shuttered. 'Of course I won't let him be murdered as I didn't just now. Stay here, Allysha. I'll go for a turn in the yard. My heads begun to ache.' Allysha went to his father's bedroom and sat by his bedside beside the screen for about an hour. The old man suddenly opened his eyes and gazed for a long while at Allysha, evidently remembering and meditating. All at once his face betrayed extraordinary excitement. 'Allysha,' he whispered apprehensively. 'Where's Ivan?' 'In the yard he's got a headache. He's on the watch.' 'Give me that looking-glass. It stands over there. Give it to me.' Allysha 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 Ivan say? Allysha, my dear, my only son. I'm afraid of Ivan. I'm more afraid of Ivan than the other. You're the only one I'm not afraid of.' 'Don't be afraid of Ivan either. He's angry, but he'll defend you.' 'Allysha, and one of the other, he's run to Grushanga. 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 Nitya wants to marry her. To marry her! She won't marry him. She won't. 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 delight he seized Allysha'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 headaches, Allysha. Allysha. Comfort my heart. Be an angel, and tell me the truth.' 'You're still asking whether she has been here or not,' Allysha said soarfully. 'No, no, no. I believe you. I'll tell you what it is. You go to Grushanga yourself.' 'Or see her somehow. Make haste and ask her. See for yourself which she means to choose.' 'Him or me.' 'Hey? What? Can you?' 'If I see her, I'll ask her. Allysha 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 housey. 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 Katerina 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 off your own accord to ask after me. Don't tell anyone I've told you to. Don't say a word to Ivan. Very well.' 'Goodbye, 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, Ayasha found Ivan sitting on the bench at the gateway. He was sitting riding something in pencil in his notebook. Al-Yasha told Ivan that their father had waked up, was conscious, and had let him go back to sleep at the monastery. 'Al-Yasha, I should be very glad to meet you tomorrow morning,' said Ivan cordially, standing up. His cordiality was a complete surprise to Al-Yasha. 'I shall be at the Hoflukofs tomorrow,' answered Al-Yasha. 'I may be at Katerina 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. Al-Yasha was disconcerted. 'I think I quite understand his exclamations just now, and part of what went before. Dimitri 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 Dimitri?' exclaimed Al-Yasha.' 'One can't tell for certain, perhaps in nothing, and may all fizzle out, but women is a beast, in any case we must keep the old man indoors and not let Dimitri in the house.' 'Brother, let me ask one more thing. Has any man a right to look at any other man 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 Dimitri capable of shedding Asop's blood, murdering him?' 'What are you saying, Yvonne?' 'Such an idea never crossed my mind. I don't think Dimitri 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. Goodbye until tomorrow. 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. Al-Yosha felt that his brother had taken the first step towards him, and that he had certainly done this with some definite motive. This ends chapter 9. Book 3. Chapter 10, Both Together Al-Yosha 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 Al-Yosha could have supposed before. There was something positively mysterious in it, too. Yvonne had made a step towards him, which was what Al-Yosha 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 Caterina Yvonne ofness in the greatest embarrassment. Now he felt nothing of the kind. On the contrary, he was hastening there 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 dishonored and losing his last hope, might sink to any depth. He had moreover told him to describe to Caterina Yvonne ofness the scene which had just taken place with his father. It was by now seven o'clock, and it was getting dark as Al-Yosha entered the very spacious and convenient house in the High Street occupied by Caterina Yvonne ofness. Al-Yosha knew that she lived with two aunts. One of them, a woman of little education, was that aunt of her half-sister Agafia Yvonne ofness, 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 Caterina Yvonne ofness, and that she only kept them as her chaperones. Caterina Yvonne ofness 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 Al-Yosha 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 Al-Yosha heard a noise, caught the sound of flying footsteps and rustling skirts. Two or three women, perhaps, had run out of the room. Al-Yosha 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, setes, 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. Al-Yosha 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 sweet meats. Al-Yosha saw that he had interrupted visitors and frowned. But at that instant the Portier was raised, and with rapid hurrying footsteps, Katharina Ivana came in, holding out both hands to Al-Yosha with a 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've come too. I've been simply praying for you all day. Sit down." Al-Yosha had been struck by Katharina Ivana's beauty, when three weeks before, Dimitri had first brought him at Katharina Ivana's special request to be introduced to her. There had been no conversation between them at that interview. Supposing Al-Yosha to be very shy, Katharina Ivana had talked all the time to Dimitri to spare him. Al-Yosha 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 haughty girl. And all that was certain. Al-Yosha felt that he was not exaggerating it. He thought her great glowing black eyes were very fine, especially with her pale, even rather salut 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 Dimitri, when after the visit his brother be sought 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 forever. No, perhaps you will love her forever, but perhaps you won't always be happy with her. Al-Yosha 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'd felt now, at the first glance at Katarina Ivanovna as she ran to 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 hotiness which had struck Al-Yosha so much before was only betrayed now in a frank, generous energy, and a sort of bright, strong faith in herself. Al-Yosha 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 perhaps already she knew everything, positively everything. And yet in spite of that, there was such brightness in her face, such faith in the future. Al-Yosha 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 from no one else." "I've come," muttered Al-Yosha, confusedly. "I—he sent me." "Ah! He sent you! I foresaw that. Now I know everything—everything!" cried Katarina Ivanovna, her eyes flashing. "Wait a moment, Alexe Fierroarovich. 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, always 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 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." "Exidentally, 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." "Kadarina Ivanovta flushed hotly." "Help me now, Alexe Fierroarovich. Now I really need your help." "I 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 an excitement beside himself. He had made his decision and was frightened at it. He wasn't walking away from me with resolute step, but leaping headlong, the emphasis on that phrase may have been simply bravano." "Yes, yes!" cried Al-Yosha 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 that he had lost his honor, and that nothing matters now." Al-Yosha 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 recognize that I am his trueest 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 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 his betrothed, and here he fears that he is dishonored in my eyes. Why he wasn't afraid to be open with you, Alexey Feudorovich. 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," Alyosha began, his voice trembling to, "what happened just now between him and 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," Alyosha 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 garamazov? 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 Alyosha 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 explained 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, Alex, if you're an orific? Perhaps you are wondering at my words. Perhaps you don't believe me." Agrahfina Alexandrana, my angel, she cried suddenly to someone, peeping into the next room. "Come into us. This is a friend. This is Alyosha. He knows all about our affairs. Show yourself to him." "I've only been waiting behind the curtain for you to call me." Set a soft, one might even say sugary, feminine voice. The Poitier was raised, and Grushenko herself, smiling and beaming, came up to the table. A violent revulsion passed over Alyosha. He fixed his eyes on her and could not take them off. Here she was, that awful woman, the beast as Ivan 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 woman. It is true that 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 meant 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 modeling 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, meaning her casually in a crowd in the street, stop at the sight of her face, and remember it long after. What struck Alyasha most in that face was his 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 glowed in the soul. Alyasha felt that. There was something else in her which he could not understand, or would not have been able to define, in which yet perhaps unconsciously affected him. It was that softness, that voluptuousness of her bodily movements, that catlike 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 in red, perhaps. In fact, that it was the beauty of the moment, the fleeting beauty which is so often met with in Russian women. Alyasha 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, unbred habit that showed bad education in a false idea of good manners. And yet this intonation and manner of speaking impressed Alyasha is almost incredibly incongruous with the childishly simple and happy expression of her face—the soft, babyish joy in her eyes. Katarina Ivanovna at once made her sit down in an armchair facing Alyasha, 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, Alexey Firoirovich," she said rapturously. "I wanted to know her, to see her. I wanted to go to her, but I know 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 that step, but I foresaw it would be a way out of the difficulty, and I was not mistaken. Grshenka 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 Grshenka 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 ood more so, and more and more. Look how she laughs, Alexey Firoirovich. It does once heart good to see the angel." Alyasha flashed, 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," Katarina Ivanovna cried again with the same warmth. "You know, Alexey Firoirovich, we're fanciful, we're self-willed, but proudest of the proud in our little heart. We're noble, we're generous, Alexey Firoirovich. Let me tell you. We have only been unfortunate. We were too ready to make every sacrifice for an unworthy, perhaps, or a fickle man. There was one man, one in Officer 2. We loved him. We sacrificed everything to him. That was long ago, five years ago, and he has forgotten us. He was married. Now he's a widower. He is written. He is coming here. And do you know, we've loved him. None but him all this time. And we've loved him for all our life. He will come, and Grushenko will be happy again. For the last five years she's been wretched. But who can reproach her? Who can boast of her favor? Only that bedridden 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. Grushenko trolled again. Defend you? Is it for me to defend you? Should I dare to defend you? Grushenko Angel, give me your hand. Look at that charming, soft little hand, Alexey Firoirovich. 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, the rather fat, hand of Grushenko 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 Heliosa. 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 Firoirovich. "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 two 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 Dimitri Firoirovich 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. Gruschenka 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 me to 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've said something quite different," Katarina Ivanovna no whispered faintly. "Huh, 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 a 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 a strange object indeed of being even with her and kisses. Katarina Ivanovna did not take her hand away. She listened with timid hope to the last words, though Grouxenka'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. Grouxenka 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. Insulin creature cried at Katarina Ivanovna as though suddenly grasping something, she flushed all over and leapt up from her seat. Grouxenka too got up, but without haste. "So I shall tell Mitya how you kissed my hand, but I didn't kiss yours at all, and how he will laugh." "Vile slut, go away!" "For shame, young lady, 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-Yosha 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 away at once." At that instant, Katarina Ivanovna's two aunts ran in at her cry, and with them a maidservant, all hurried to her. "I will go away," said Grouxenka, taking up her mantle from the sofa. Al-Yosha darling, see me home. "Go away, go away, make haste," cried Al-Yosha, clasping his hands imploringly. "Dear little Al-Yosha, 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-Yosha. See me home, dear. You'll be glad for it afterwards." Al-Yosha turned away, wringing his hands. Grouxenka ran out of the house, laughing musically. Katarina Ivanovna went into a fit of hysterics. She sobbed and was shaken with convulsions. Everyone rushed around 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're too self-willed." "She's a TIGRESS!" yelled Katarina Ivanovna. "Why did you hold me alexaepheodorovich? I'd have beaten her! Beaten her!" She could not control herself before Al-Yosha. Perhaps she did not care to indeed. She ought to be flogged in a public on a scaffold. Al-Yosha withdrew towards the door. "But my GOD!" cried Katarina Ivanovna, clasping her hands. "He! He could be so dishonorable! So inhumane! 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 alexaepheodorovich." Al-Yosha wanted to say something, but he couldn't find a word. His heart ached. "Go away, alexaepheodorovich. 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-Yosha 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 Madam Hoflikoff. It's been left with us since dinnertime." Al-Yosha took the little pink envelope mechanically and put it almost unconsciously into his pocket. This ends chapter 10. It was not much more than three-quarters of a mile from the town to the monastery. Al-Yosha 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-Yosha reached the crossroads, the figure moved out and rushed at him, shouting savagely, "Your money or your life." "So it's you, mitya," cried Al-Yosha 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 least I thought of waiting here. For you had to pass here. There's no other way than 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. Demetri, father's blood just now. Al-Yosha 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 have it? 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, why go on burning 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. Senna's 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. Dammit, I'll 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? Grushenka at Cadrin Aevonimnes. Dimitri was struck down. Impossible, he cried. You're raving. Grushenka? With her? Al-Yosha described all that had happened from the moment he went into Cadrin Aevonimnes. 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 Al-Yosha that he had 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 Fyodorovic 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. Ah, she's magnificent in her own line. So she ran home. I'll go. Ah, I'll run to her. Al-Yasha don't blame me. I agree that hanging is too good for her. "But Katarina Ivanovna!" exclaimed Al-Yasha sorrowfully. "I see her too. I see right through her as I've never done before. It's her regular discovery on the four continents of the world. That is of the five. What a thing to do. That's just like Katya, who is not afraid to face a course, unmannerly 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, has a state in all, and the proud wife had to lower her colors 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 be which Grushenko she liked, and she believed it herself. She plays a part to herself, and whose fault is it? Do you think she kissed Grushenko's hand first on purpose with a motive? No. She really was fascinated by Grushenko. That's to say, not by Grushenko, but by her own dream. Her own delusion. Because it was her dream. Her delusion. Al-Yasha darling, how did you escape from them, those women? Did you pick up your classic and run? Brother, you don't seem to have noticed how you've insulted Katya in a van under by telling Grushenko about that day, and she flung it in her face just now, that she had gone to gentleman in secret to sell her beauty. Brother, what could be worse than that insult? What worried Al-Yasha more than anything was that, incredible as it seemed, his brother appeared pleased at Katarina Ivanovna's humiliation. Pah! Dimitri frowned fiercely, and struck his forehead with his hand. He only now realized it, though Al-Yasha had just told him of the insult, and Katarina Ivanovna's cry, "Your brother is a scoundrel!" Yes. Perhaps I really did tell Grushenko about that fatal day, as Katya calls it. Yes, I did tell her. I remember. It was that time at Makraya. I was drunk, the gypsies were singing, but I was sobbing. I was sobbing, then kneeling and praying to Katya's image, and Grushenko 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 resort. Goodbye, Alexei. He warmly pressed Alyosha's hand and still looking down, without raising his head, as though tearing himself away turned rapidly towards the town. Alyosha 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 and basis 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 if 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 honor 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 in the she devil. Goodbye. 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. Al 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 to Father Zosima'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 Porfiry and Father Paeci, who came every hour to inquire after Father Zosima. Al 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 Zosima'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 it was a profanation of sacrament and of confession. Almost a sacrilege, though this was quite a different thing. They even represented to the diocese and 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 that they should be accused of pride and rebellious ideas. People said that some of the monks agreed before him, saying, "I'll confess I lost my temper with you this morning and you confirm it, simply in order to have something to say." Al Yasha 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 places 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, and drowsiness has come over him. Father Paisie whispered to Al-Yasha as he blessed him. It is difficult to rouse him, and he must not be roused. He walked 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 honored you? But how is that he had 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 Paisie went out. Al-Yasha had no doubt that Father Zosima 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 the Hoflukoffs and Katerina Yvonna, 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 the monastery on his deathbed, and whom he honored above everyone in the world. He went in to Father Zosima'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 Zosima had received his guests in the morning. Taking off his boots, he lay down on the hard, narrow, leather, and 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 kasak, 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 on troubled sleep. As he was praying, he suddenly felt in his pocket the little pink note the servant had handed him as he left Katarina Yvonneufness. He was disturbed, but finished his prayer. Then, after some hesitation, he opened the envelope. And it was a letter to him, signed by Lisa, the young daughter of Madam Hoflokov, who had laughed at him before the elder in the morning. "Allexa Fyodorovitch," she wrote, "I'm writing to you without anyone's knowledge, even mamas, 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 blessing, just as I am now all over." "Dear Al Yasha, I love you. I've loved you from my childhood. Since our Moscow days, when you are very different from what you are now, and I shall love you all my life, my heart has chosen you to unite our lives 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 tomorrow, I don't know how I shall look at you. Ah, alexifio dorovitch. 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 Mama, or at the window. Here I've written you a love letter. Oh, dear, what have I done? Al-Yosha don't despise me, and if I've done something very horrid and wound to do, forgive me. Now the secret of my reputation, ruined perhaps forever, is in your hands. I shall certainly cry today. "Goodbye to our meeting, our awful meeting. Lee's. P.S. Al-Yosha, you must, must, must come. Lee's." Al-Yosha 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. All ways are thine. Save them according to thy wisdom. Thou art love, thou wilt send joy to all." Al-Yosha murmured, crossing himself, and falling into peaceful sleep. This ends chapter 11. Book 4. Lacerations. Chapter 1. Father Therapont. Al-Yosha was roused early before daybreak. Father's also now 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 Al-Yosha. Then he desired to confess and take the sacrament at once. He was confessed to Father Pesi. After taking the communion, the services 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 decided to kiss and take leave of everyone. As the cell was so small, the earlier visitors withdrew to make room for others. Al-Yosha 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 gotten to 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 suggested, looking with a motion at the group round him. Al-Yosha remembered afterwards something of what he said to them. But though he spoke out distinctly in 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 firsting 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 Zossamer, as far as Al-Yosha could remember afterwards. "Love God's people. Because we have come here and shut ourselves within these walls, we are no holier than those that are outside, but on the contrary, from the very fact of coming here, each of us has confessed himself that he is worse than others than all men on earth, and the longer the monk lives in this occlusion 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 men, 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 yourselves unceasingly. Be not afraid of your sins, even when deceiving 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 to 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. That not strangers draw away the flock, for if you slumber in your slothfulness and disdainful pride, or were still in covetousness, they will come from all sides and draw away your flock. Exbound the gospel to the people unceasingly. Be not extortionate. Do not love, gold, and silver do not hoard to them. Have faith. Cling to the banner, and raise it on high. But the elder spoke more disconnectedly than Alosha 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 Alosha happened for a moment to leave the cell, he was struck by the general excitement and suspense of 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 Pacey's face looked the gravest of all. Alosha was mysteriously summoned by a monk to see Rakatin, who had arrived from town with a singular letter for him from Madame Holocaust. In it she informed Alosha of a strange and very opportune incident. It appeared that among the women who had come on the previous day to receive Father Zosma's blessing, there had been an old woman from the town, a sergeant's widow, called Prohorodna. She had inquired whether she might pray for the rest of the soul of her son, Vasenka, who had gone to Erykud's and had sent her no news for over a year, to which Father Zosma 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 Holocaust's expression, "words of comfort, that her son Vasya was certainly alive, and that he would either come himself very shortly, or send a letter, and that she was to go home and to expect him." "And would you believe it?" explained Madame Holocaust, enthusiastically. "The prophecy has been fulfilled, literally indeed, and more than that." Scarcely had the old woman reach her home, and 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 Holocaust warmly intrigued 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. Raketin had commissioned the monk, who brought his message, to inform most respectfully his reverent's father, Paisie, that he, Raketin, has a matter to speak of with him, of such gravity that he did not defer it for a moment, and humbly begs forgiveness for his presumption. As the monk had given the message to Father Paisie, before that to Alyosha, the latter found after reading the letter there was nothing left for him to do but hand it to Father Paisie, 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 Paisie 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 credility amongst those of this world, and indeed this might well have chanced naturally," he added. Prudanly, as if it were to satisfy his conscience, who scarcely believing his own disavowal, a fact that 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 Abdorsk in the far north. It was here who had been standing near Madam Holocaust, the previous day, and had asked Father Zosima 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 and his cell apart, behind the aviary, and had been greatly impressed and overawed by the visit. His father, Farapont, was that aged monk so devout in fasting and observing silence, who it has been mentioned already, as antagonistic to Father Zosima 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 anyone. 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 that attracted them. Father Farapont never went to see the elder. Now 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 a long time ago for another great ascetic, Father Iona, who had lived to be a hundred and five, and whose saintly doings many curious stories were so extant in the monastery and the neighbourhood. Father Farapont had succeeded in getting himself installed in the same solitary cell seven years previously. It was simply a peasants 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. The 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 shame, which was a complete riddle, and no entreaties would induce him to pronounce a word in explanation. He was not pleased but a simple monk. There was a strange belief chiefly, however, amongst the most ignorant, that Father Farapont had a 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 silly monk, went to the corner where Father Farapont Sal 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 age he was not even quite grey, and still had very thick hair and a full beard, both of which had once been black. His eyes were grey, large and luminous, but strikingly prominent. He spoke with a broad accent. He was dressed in a peasant's long reddish coat of coarse convicts' cloth, as it used to be called, and had a stout rope around his waist. His throat and chest were bare. Beneath his coat, his shirt of the corsus 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 monasteries from Saint Sylvester, the monk answered humbly, whilst his keen and inquisitive, but rather frightened little eyes kept watch on hermit. "I have been at your Sylvesters. I used to stay there. Is Sylvester well?" The monk hesitated. "You're a senseless lot. How do you keep that past?" 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 wholemeal stir about. On Saturday, white cabbage soup, noodles with peas, casher or with hemp oil. On weekdays, we have dried fish and casher with the cabbage soup. From Monday till Saturday evening, six whole days in the Holy Week, nothing is cooked, and we have only bread and water, and that's sparingly, if possible, not taking food every day. Just the same as is ordered for the 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, in as much as the layer to see in council lays down for Holy Thursday. It is unseemly by remitting the fast on the Holy Thursday to dishonour the whole of Lent. This is how we keep the fast. But what is that compared with you, Holy Father, added the monk growing more confident? For all 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,' as Father Berrybond suddenly, 'mushrooms,' repeated the surprise monk, 'yes, I can give up their bread, not needing 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 a need of such fasting. Haughty and unclean is their judgement.' 'Oh, true,' sighed the monk. 'And have you seen devils among them?' asked Berrybond. 'Among them? Among whom?' asked the monk timidly. 'I went to the Father Superion 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 about without seeing him.' 'You can see spirits?' the monk inquired. 'I tell you, I can see, I can see through them. When I was coming out of 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 the year since I've been there. I reveal it to you as you are a stranger.' 'Your words are terrible, but wholly implicit father,' said the monk, growing bolder and bolder. 'Is it true, as they noise abroad, even to distant lands about you, that you're 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 the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit can appear as other birds, sometimes a swallow, sometimes a goldfinch, 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 ask me unseemly questions. 'You want to know too much, monk.' 'Terrible are your words, most wholly implicit father,' the monk shook his head, but there was a doubtful look in his frightened little eyes. 'Do you see this tree?' asked Father Therapont, 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 that terrible if it's Christ himself? Why, he'll snatch me up and carry me away.' 'A life?' '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 Therapont than for Father Zosima. He was strongly in favour of fasting, and it was not strange that one who kept so rigid a fast as Father Therapont should see marbles. 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 their 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 nenerings 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 Zosima, reduced him to extreme perplexity. Al-Yosha remembered afterwards how their inquisitive guest from Obdorsk had been continually flitting to and fro from one group to another, listening and asking question among the monks that were crowding within and without the 'elders' 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 Zosima, feeling tired again, had gone back to bed, he thought of Al-Yosha as he was closing his eyes and sent for him, Al-Yosha ran at once. There was no one else in the cell but Father Paisie, Father Iozov, and the novice puffery. The elder, opening his weary eyes and looking intently at Al-Yosha, asked him suddenly, "Are your people expecting you, my son?" Al-Yosha 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." Al-Yosha 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, Al-Yosha, 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 Paisie too, I did some words of exhortation which moved and surprised him greatly. He spoke as they left the cell together. Remember, young man, unceasingly, Father Paisie began, without preface, that the signs 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 the sacred of old, but they have only analyzed the parts and overlooked the whole, and indeed their blindness is marvellous. 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 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 hither own neither their subtlety, or the ardour 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 a young, and the temptations of the world are great and beyond your strength to endure. Well now go, my orphan. With these words, Father Pacey blessed him. As Al-Yasha laughed 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 retreated him sternly. It was as though Father's awesome had bequeathed him to him at his death. And perhaps that's just what had passed between them, Al-Yasha thought suddenly. The philosophic reflections he had just heard so unexpectedly testified to the warmth of Father Pacey'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 offence he could imagine; end of Chapter 1 of Book 4. Book 4 Chapter 2 At His Fathers First of all, Al-Yasha 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?" Al-Yasha 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 Ignat Jevna, who opened the garden gate to him, Grigory, it appeared, was ill in bed in the lodge, told him in answer to his question that Ivan Vyodorovitch had gone out two hours ago. "And my father is up taking his coffee," Marfa answered somewhat dryly. Al-Yasha 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 Smurgyakov too had gone out marketing. Though he had gone 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 a red handkerchief. His nose too was swollen terribly in the night, and some smaller bruises covered it in patches, giving his whole face a peculiarly spiteful and irritable look. The old man was aware of this, and turned a hostile glance on Al-Yasha as he came in. "The coffee is cold," he cried harshly. "I won't offer you any. I ordered nothing but a Lenten fish soup today, and I don't invite anyone to share it. Why have you come?" "To find out how you are," said Al-Yasha. "Yes. Besides, I told you to come yesterday. It's all of no consequence. You need not have troubled, but I know 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 40th 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, sententiously. "Well, how are things over there? How is your elder?" "He is very bad. He may die today," answered Al-Yasha. But his father had not listened and had forgotten his own question at once. "Ivan'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 Al-Yasha. "Surely he did not tell you so," asked Al-Yasha. "Yes, he did, long ago. Will 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 Al-Yasha, troubled. "He doesn't ask for money. It's true. But yet he won't get a farthing for me. I intend living as long as possible. You may as well know, my dear Alexey Fiedorovich. 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. He be his hands in the pockets of his long 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 Alexey Fiedorovich. 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, Alexey Fiedorovich, 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 Coxcomb, but he has no particular learning. Nor education either. He sits silent and smiles at one without speaking. That's what pulls him through. Al Yosha listened to him in silence. "Why won't he talk to me? If he does speak, he gives himself heirs. Your Ivan is a scoundrel. And I'll marry Grishenko in a minute if I want to. For if you have money, Alexey Fiedorovich, you have only to want a thing and you can have it. That's what Ivan is afraid of. He is on the watch to prevent me getting married, and that's why he is egging on Mitcha to marry Grishenko himself. He hopes to keep me from Grishenko by that, as though I should leave him my money if I don't marry her. Besides, if Mitcha marries Grishenko Ivan will carry off his rich patrols. 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 Al Yosha. "There, you say that," the old man observed suddenly, as though it had struck him for the first time. "And I'm 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 Al Yosha, with a smile. "Listen, I meant this morning to get that ruffian Mitcha locked up, and I don't know now what I shall decide about it. Of course, in these fashionable days, fathers and mothers I 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 Al Yosha, he went on in a confidential half-whisper. 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. "Don'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 Al Yosha, 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 humor now," said Al Yosha, smiling. "I love you even without the Brandy, but with scoundrels. I am a scoundrel. Ivan is not going to Shermashnya. Why is that? He wants to spy how much I give Grishenko if she comes. They are all scoundrels, but I don't recognize Ivan. I don't know him at all. Where does he come from? He is not one of us in Seoul, as though I'd leave him anything. I shan't leave a will at all. You may as well know, and I'll crush Mitchia like a beetle. I squash black beetles at night with my slipper. They squelch when you tread on them, and your Mitchia will squelch too. Your Mitchia, for you love him. Yes, you love him, and I am not afraid of your loving him. But if Ivan loved him, I should be afraid for myself at his loving him. But Ivan loves nobody. Ivan is not one of us. People like Ivan 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 Mitchia. 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 35, and without Grishenko, and give her up once for all? Eh? I'll ask him, muttered Aliyosha. If you would give him 3,000 perhaps, 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. "I'll crush him like a beetle without it. Don't say anything to him, or else he will begin hoping. There is nothing for you to do here. You needn't stay. Is that betrothed of his? Tatarina 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 a better looking than he at 8 in 20, I'd have been a conquering hero just as he is. He is a low cad. But he shan't have Grasenka 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. Alyosha went up to say goodbye 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." "No 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 Alyosha had gone out of the door, he went to the cupboard again and poured out another half glass. "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. And of Chapter 2 of Book 4. Book 4, Chapter 3, a meeting with the school boys. "Thank goodness he did not ask me about Gushanka," thought Alyosha, as he loved his father's house and turned towards Madam Holocaust. "Or I might have had to tell him of my meeting with Gushanka yesterday." Alyosha fanned painfully. "That since yesterday, both combatants had renewed their energies, and that their hearts had grown hard again." "Father, he's partful and angry. He's made some plan and will stick to it. And what of the mystery he too will be harder than yesterday? He too must be spiteful and angry, and he too, no doubt, has made some plan. Oh, I must succeed in fighting him today, whatever happens." But Alyosha had not long to meditate. An incident occurred on the road, which, though apparently of little consequence, made a great impression on him. Just after he had crossed the square, and turned the corner coming out into Mikhailofsky's street, which is divided by a small ditch from the highest street. Our whole town is intersected by ditches. He saw a group of school boys between the edges of 9 and 12 at the bridge. They were going home from school, some with their backs on their shoulders, others with leather satchel slum across them, some in short jackets, others in little overcoats, some even had those high boots with creases round the ankles, such as little boys spoiled by rich fathers loved to wear. The whole group was talking eagerly about something, apparently holding a castle. Alyosha had never, from his most cold eyes, been able to pass children without taking notice of them. And although he was particularly fond of children of three or their rebels, he liked school boys of 10 and 11, too. And so anxious as he was today, he wanted at once to turn a sign to talk to them. He looked into their excited rosy faces and noticed at once that all the boys had stones in their hands. Behind the ditch, some thirty faces away, there was another school boy standing by a fence. He, too, had the satchel at his sides. He was about ten years old, pale, delicate looking, and with sparkling black eyes. He kept an attentive and anxious watch on the other six. Obviously, his school fellas, with whom he had just come out of school, but with whom he had devidently had the feud. Alyosha went up and, addressing a fair, curly-headed, rosy boy in a black jacket, observed. When I used to wear a satchel like yours, I always used to carry it on my left side, so as to have my right hand free. But you've got yours on your right side, so it won't be awkward for you to get at it. Alyosha had no art or premeditation in beginning with this practical remark. But it is the only way for a grown-up person to get at once into confidential relations with their child, or still more with the group of children. One must begin in a serious, business-like way, so as to be on a perfectly equal footing. Alyosha understood it by instinct. But his left-handed, another, a fine, healthy-looking boy of 11, answered promptly. All the others said that Alyosha, he even throw stones with his left hand, observed a third. Of that instant, a stone flew into the group, but only just graced the left-handed boy, though it was well and vigorously thrown by the boy standing on the other side of the ditch. "Give it him! Hit him back, Smurov!" they all shouted, but Smurov, the left-handed boy, needed no telling, and at once, revengeed himself. He threw a stone, but it missed the boy and hit the ground. The boy on the other side of the ditch, the pocket of horse-coat, was visibly bunching with stones, flung another stone at the group. This time, it flew straight at Alyosha and hit him painfully on the shoulder. "He aimed it at you. He meant it for you. You are chromosome, chromosome!" The boy shouted, laughing. "Come! All throw at him at once!" And six stones flew at the boy. One struck the boy on the head, and he found down, but at once lapped up and began ferociously, returning their fire. Both signs threw stones incessantly. Many of the group had their pockets full too. "What are you about? Aren't you ashamed? Six against one. Who I? You'll kill him!" cried Alyosha. He ran forward and mapped the flying stones to screen the solitary boy. Three or four ceased, throwing for a minute. He began first, cried the boy in a rat-shoot, in an angry, childish voice. "He's the beast. He stabbed Krasokin in class the other day with a pen-knife. It bled. Krasokin wouldn't tell tales, but he must be trashed." "But what for? I suppose it is him." "There! He sand the stone in your back again. He knows you!" cried the children. "Is he who he's throwing at now? Notice! Come! All of you! Up him again! Don't mess more of!" And again, a fire of stones, and a very vicious one, began. The boy on the other side of the ditch was hit in the chest. He screamed, began to cry, and ran away, uphill to watch Mikalovskis straight. They all shouted, "Aha! He's franken! He's running away! Waspopto!" "You don't know what the beast is, Krasokin." "Killing is too good for him," said the boy in the jacket, with flashing eyes. He seemed to be the eldest. "What's wrong with him?" asked Al-Yosha. "Is he a telltale or what?" The boys looked at one another, as they arrived safely. "Are you going that way, to Mikalovskis?" the same boy went on. "Patch him up! You see? He stopped again. He is waiting and looking at you. He is looking at you!" the other boys chimed in. "You ask him? Does he like a disheveled wispopto?" "Do you hear? Ask him that!" There was a general bust of laughter. Al-Yosha looked at them, and they at him. "Don't go near him! He will hurt you!" cried Smuroff in a warning voice. "I shan't ask him about the wispopto. For I expect you to kiss him with that question somehow. But I will find out from him. Why you hate him so?" "Find out then! Find out!" cried the boys, laughing. Al-Yosha crossed the bridge and walked uphill by the fence, straight to watch the boy. "You'd better look out!" the boys called up to him. He wanted to be afraid of you. He will stab you in a minute, on the sly, as he did croissotkin. The boy waited for him without bunching. Coming up to him, Al-Yosha saw, facing him a child of about nine years old. He was an undersized, weakly boy, with a thin pale face, with large, dark eyes that graced at him vindictively. He was dressed in a rather shabby old overcoat, which he has monstrously outgrown. His bare arms stuck out beyond his sleeves. There was a large patch on the right knee of his trousers and in his right boots. Just at the toe, there was a big hole in the ladder, carefully blackened with ink. Both the pocket of his great coat were weighed down with stones. Al-Yosha stopped two steps in front of him, looking inquiringly at him. The boy, seeing at once from Al-Yosha's eyes, that he wouldn't beat him, became less defiant and addressed him first. "I'm alone, and there are six of them. I'll beat them all alone!" He said suddenly, with flashing eyes. "I think one of the stones must have hurt you badly, observe the Al-Yosha. But I hit smooth on the head!" cried the boy. "They told me that you know me, and that you threw a stone at me on purpose," said the Al-Yosha. The boy looked darkly at him. "I don't know you. Do you know me?" Al-Yosha continued. "Let me alone!" The boy cried irritably, but he did not move, as though he were expecting something, and again there was a vindictive light in his eyes. "Very well. I'm going," said the Al-Yosha. "Only I don't know you, and I don't tease you. They told me how they tease you, but I don't want to tease you. Goodbye!" "Mong and silk trousers!" cried the boy, following Al-Yosha with the same vindictive and defiant expression. And he threw himself into an attitude of defense, feeling sure that now Al-Yosha would fall upon him. But Al-Yosha turned, looked at him, and walked away. He had not gone three steps. Before the biggest storm the boy had in his pocket hit him a painful blow in the back. "So hit the man from behind! They tell the truth then, when they say that you attack on the sly," said Al-Yosha, turning railed again. This time the boy threw a stone savagely right into Al-Yosha's face, but Al-Yosha just had time to guard himself, and the stone struck him on the elbow. "Aren't you ashamed? What have I done to you?" he cried. The boy waited in silent defiance, certain that now Al-Yosha would attack him, seeing that even now he would not, his wretch was like little white beasts. He flew at the Al-Yosha himself, and before Al-Yosha had time to move. The spiteful giant has seized his left hand with both of his and bit his middle finger. He fixed his teeth in it, and it was 10 seconds before he let go. Al-Yosha cried out with pain, and pulled his finger away with all his might. The child let go at last, and retreated to his former distance. Al-Yosha's finger had been badly beaten to the bone, close to the nail. It began to bleed. Al-Yosha took out his handkerchief, and bowed it tightly around his injured hand. He was a full minute bandaging it, the boy stood, waiting all the time. At last Al-Yosha raised his gentle eyes and looked at him. "Very well," he said. "You see how badly you've beaten me? That's enough, isn't it? Now tell me, what have I done to you?" the boy stared in amazement. "Though I don't know you, and it's the first time I've seen you," Al-Yosha went on with the same serenity. "Yet I must have done something to you. You wouldn't have hurt me like this for nothing. So what have I done? How have I wronged you? Tell me," instead of answering, the boy broke into a lounge tearful well and ran away. Al-Yosha walked slowly after him towards Mikalofsky's street. And for a long time, he saw the chime running in the distance as fast as ever, not turning his head and no doubt, still keeping up his tearful well. He made up his mind to find him out as soon as he had time and to solve this mystery. Just now, he had not the time. And Chapter 3 of Book 4 Book 4, Chapter 4 at the Holocaust. Al-Yosha soon reached Madam Holocaust House, a handsome stone house of two stories, one of the finest in our town. Though Madam Holocaust spent most of her time in another province where she had an estate, or in Moscow where she had a house of her own, yet she had a house in our town too, inherited from her forefathers. The estate in our district was the largest of her three estates, yet she had been very little in our province before this time. She ran out to Al-Yosha in the hall. "Did you get my letter about the new miracle?" she spoke rapidly and nervously. "Yes. Did you show it to everyone? He restored the son to his mother." "He is dying today," said Al-Yosha. "I have heard. I know. Oh, how I long to talk to you, to you or someone about all this. No, to you, to you. And how sorry I am. I can't see him. The whole town is in excitement. They are all suspense. But now, do you know, Katharina Ivanovna is here now?" "Ah, that's lucky," cried Al-Yosha. "Then I shall see her here." She told me yesterday to be sure to come and see her today. "I know. I know all. I've heard exactly what happened yesterday, and the atrocious behavior of that creature, Sitarijik. And if I'd been in her place, I don't know what I should have done. And your brother, Dimitri Fyodorovitch, what do you think of him?" "My goodness. Alexi Fyodorovitch, I am forgetting. Only fancy. Your brother is in there with her, not that dreadful brother who was so shocking yesterday, but the other. Ivan Fyodorovitch, he is sitting with her, talking. They are having a serious conversation. If you could only imagine what's passing between them now, it's awful, I tell you. It's lacerating. It's like some incredible tale of horror. They are ruining their lives, for no reason anyone can see. They both recognize it and revel in it. I've been watching for you. I've been thirsting for you. It's too much for me. That's the worst of it. I'll tell you all about it presently. But now I must speak of something else. The most important thing. I had quite forgotten what's most important. Tell me. Why has Liza been in hysterics? As soon as she heard you were here, she began to be hysterical. "Ma'am, it's you who are hysterical now, not I." Liza's voice caroled through a tiny crack of the door at the side. Her voice sounded as though she wanted to laugh, but was doing her utmost to control it. Alyosha at once noticed the crack, and no doubt Liza was peeping through it, but that he could not see. "And no wonder, Liza, no wonder, your caprices will make me hysterical too, but she is so ill, Alexey Fidorovich. She has been so ill at night, feverish and moaning. I could hardly wait for the morning, and for the Hertzen Stuba to come. He says that he can make nothing of it, that we must wait. Hertzen Stuba always comes and says that he can make nothing of it. As soon as you approached the house, she screamed, fell into hysterics, and insisted on being wheeled back into this room here. "Ma'am, I didn't know he had come. It wasn't on his account I wanted to be wheeled into this room. That's not true, Liza. Yulia ran to tell you that Alexey Fidorovich was coming. She was on the lookout for you." "My darling, mama, it's not at all clever of you. But if you want to make up for it and say something very clever, dear mama, you'd better tell our honored visitor, Alexey Fidorovich, that he has shown his want of wit by venturing to us after what happened yesterday, and although everyone is laughing at him." "Liza, you go too far. I declare I shall have to be severe. Who laughs at him? I am so glad he has come. I need him. I can't do without him. Oh, Alexey Fidorovich, I am exceedingly unhappy." "But what's the matter with you, mama darling?" "Ah, your caprices, Liza. Your fidgetiness, your illness. That awful night of fever, that awful everlasting hearth since Tuba, everlasting, everlasting. That's the worst of it. Everything, in fact, everything, even that miracle, too. Oh, how it has upset me, how it has shattered me, that miracle, dear Alexey Fidorovich, and that tragedy in the drawing-room, it's more than I can bear. I warn you. I can't bear it. A comedy, perhaps not a tragedy. Tell me, will Father Zosima live tomorrow? Will he? Oh, my God. What is happening to me? Every minute I close my eyes and see that it's all nonsense, all nonsense. I should be very grateful, Al-Yosha interrupted suddenly, if you could give me a clean rag to bind up my finger with. I've heard it, and it's very painful. Al-Yosha unbounded his bitten finger. The handkerchief was soaked with blood. Madam Holokov screamed and shut her eyes. "Good heavens! What a wound! How awful!" But as soon as Liza saw Al-Yosha's finger through the crack, she flung the door wide open. "Come here!" she cried imperiously. "No nonsense now. Good heavens! Why did you stand there saying nothing about it all this time? He might have bled to death, mama. How did you do it? Water! Water! You must wash it, first of all. Simply hold it in cold water to stop the pain. And keep it there. Keep it there. Make haste, mama. Some water in a slop basin. But do make haste!" She finished nervously. She was quite frightened at the sight of Al-Yosha's wound. "Shouldn't we send for Harrison Stuba?" cried Madam Holokov. "Mama, you'll be the death of me. Your Harrison Stuba will come and say that he can't make nothing of it. Water! Water, mama! For goodness sake, go yourself and hurry, Yulia! She is such a slow coach, and never can come quickly. Be-caste, mama, or I shall die!" "Why, it's nothing much!" cried Al-Yosha, frightened at this alarm. Yulia ran in with water, and Al-Yosha put his finger in it. "Some lint, mama. For mercy sake, bring some lint, and that muddy, caustic lotion for wounds. What's it called? We got some. You know where the bottle is, mama. It's in your bedroom, in the right hand cupboard. There's a big bottle of it there with the lint. I'll bring everything in a minute, Lisa. Only don't scream and don't fuss. You see how bravely Alexey Feudorovich bears it. Where did you get such a dreadful wound Alexey Feudorovich?" Madame Holocaust hastened away. This was all Lisa was waiting for. "First of all, answer the question. Where did you get hurt like this?" She asked Al-Yosha quickly, and then I'll talk to you about something quite different. Well? Instinctively feeling that the time of her mother's absence was precious for her. Al-Yosha hastened to tell her of his enigmatic meeting with the schoolboys. In the fewest words possible, Lisa clasped her hands at his story. "How can you? And in that dress too, associate with schoolboys," she cried angrily, as though she had a right to control him. "You are nothing but a boy yourself. If you can do that, a perfect boy. But you must find out for me about that horrid boy and tell me all about it, for there's some mystery in it. Now for the second thing, but first the question, does the pain prevent you talking about utterly unimportant things but talking sensibly? Of course not, and I don't feel much pain now. That's because your finger is in the water. It must be changed directly, for it will get warm in a minute. Heal you, bring some ice from the cellar, and another basin of water. Now she is gone, I can speak. Will you give me the letter I sent you yesterday, dear Alexey Fidorovich? Be quick, for mama will be back in a minute, and I don't want I haven't got the letter. That's not true. You have. I knew you would say that. You've got it in that pocket. I've been regretting that joke all night. Give me back the letter at once. Give it me. I've left it at home. But you can't consider me as a child, a little girl after that silly joke. I beg your pardon for that silliness, but you must bring me the letter if you really haven't got it. Bring today. You must. You must. Today I can't possibly, for I am going back to the monastery, and I shan't come and see you for the next two days. Three or four perhaps, for Father Zazima. Four days? What nonsense? Listen. Did you laugh at me very much? I didn't laugh at all. Why not? Because I believed all you said. You are insulting me. Not at all. As soon as I read it, I thought that all that would come to pass. For as soon as Father Zazima dies, I am to leave the monastery. Then I shall go back and finish my studies, and when you reach the legal age, we will be married. I shall love you. Though I haven't had time to think about it, I believe I couldn't find a better wife than you, and Father Zazima tells me I must marry. But I am a cripple, wheeled about in a chair, left, Lisa, flushing crimson. I'll wheel you about myself, but I'm sure you'll get well by then. But you are mad, said Lisa nervously, to make all this nonsense out of a joke. Here's Mama, very apropos, perhaps. Mama, how slow you always are. How can you be so long? And here's Yulia with the ice. Oh, Lisa, don't scream. Above all things, don't scream. That scream drives me. How can I help it when you put the lint in another place? I've been hunting and hunting. I do believe you did it on purpose. But I couldn't tell that he would come with a bad finger, or else perhaps I might have done it on purpose. My darling, Mama, you begin to say really witty things. Never mind my being witty, but I must say you show nice feeling for Alexey Fiedorovich's sufferings. All my dear Alexey Fiedorovich, what's killing me is no one thing in particular, not Harrison Stuber, but everything together. That's what is too much for me. That's enough, Mama, enough about Harrison Stuber, Lisa laughed Gailie, make haste with the lint and the lotion, Mama. That's simply Gullard's water, Alexey Fiedorovich. I remember the name now, but it's a splendid lotion. Will you believe it, Mama, on the way here? He had a fight with the boys in the street, and it was a boy but his finger. Isn't he a child, a child himself? Is he fit to be married after that? For only fancy he wants to be married, Mama. Just think of him married. Wouldn't it be funny? What did it be awful? And Lisa kept laughing, her thin hysterical giggle, looking slyly at Alyosha. But why married, Lisa? What makes you talk of such a thing? It's quite out of place, and perhaps the boy was rabid. Why, Mama, as though there were rabid boys. Why not, Lisa? As though I had said something stupid. Your boy might have been bitten by a mad dog, and he would become mad and bite anyone near him. How well she has bandaged it, Alexey Fiedorovich. I couldn't have done it. Do you still feel the pain? It's nothing much now. You don't feel afraid of water, asked Lisa. Calm, that's enough, Lisa. Perhaps I really was rather too quick talking of the boy being rabid, and you pounced upon it at once. Katharina Ivanovna has only just heard that you are here, Alexey Fiedorovich. She simply rushed at me, and she's dying to see you, dying. "Ah, Mama. Go to them yourself. He can't go just now. He is in too much pain." "Not at all. I can go quite well," said Alyosha. "What? You are going away. Is that what you say?" "Well, when I've seen them, I'll come back here, and we can talk as much as you like. But I should like to see Katharina Ivanovna at once, for I am very anxious to be back at the monastery as soon as I can." "Mama, take him away quickly. Alexey Fiedorovich, don't trouble to come and see me afterwards, but go straight back to your monastery, and a good riddance. I want to sleep. I didn't sleep all night." "Ah, Lisa. You are only making fun, but how I wish you would sleep," cried Madame Holocaust. "I don't know what I've done. I'll stay another three minutes, five if you like," muttered Alyosha. "Even five. Do take him away quickly, Mama. He is a monster." "Lisa, you are crazy. Let us go, Alexey Fiedorovich. She is too capricious today. I'm afraid to cross her. All the trouble one has with nervous girls. Perhaps she really will be able to sleep after seeing you. How quickly you have made her sleepy, and how fortunate it is. Ah, Mama, how sweetly you talk. I must kiss you for it, Mama. And I kiss you too, Lisa. Listen, Lexey Fiedorovich." Madame Holocaust began mysteriously, and importantly, speaking in a rapid whisper. "I don't want to suggest anything. I don't want to lift the veil. You will see for yourself what's going on. It's appalling. It's the most fantastic farce. She loves your brother Ivan, and she is doing her utmost to persuade herself. She loves your brother Dimitri. It's appalling. I'll go in with you, and if they don't turn me out, I'll stay it to the end." End of chapter four of book four. Book four, chapter five. A laceration in the drawing room. But in the drawing room, the conversation was already over. Caterina Ivanona was greatly excited, though she looked resolute. At the moment, Alyosha and Madame Holocaust entered, Ivan Fiedorovich stood up to take leave. His face was rather pale, and Alyosha looked at him, anxiously. For this moment was to solve a doubt, a harassing enigma, which had for some time haunted Alyosha. During the preceding month, it had been several times suggested to him that his brother Ivan was in love with Caterina Ivanona, and what was more that he meant to carry her off from Dimitri, until quite lately the idea seemed to Alyosha monstrous, though it worried him extremely. He loved both his brothers and dreaded such rivalry between them. Meantime, Dimitri had said outright on the previous day that he was glad that Ivan was his rival, and that it was a great assistance to him, Dimitri. In what way did it assist him? To marry Grushenko, but that Alyosha considered the worst thing possible. Besides all this, Alyosha had, till the evening before implicitly believed that Caterina Ivanona had a steadfast and passionate love for Dimitri, but he had only believed it till the evening before. He had fancied too that she was incapable of loving a man like Ivan, and that she did love Dimitri, and loved him just as he was, in spite of all the strangeness of such a passion. But during yesterday's scene with Grushenko, another idea had struck him. The word lacerating, which Madame Holocaust had just uttered, almost made him start, because half waking up towards daybreak that night, he had cried out, laceration, laceration, probably applying it to his dream. He had been dreaming all night of the previous day's scene at Caterina Ivanona's. Now Alyosha was impressed by Madame Holocaust blunt and persistent insertion that Caterina Ivanona was in love with Ivan, and only deceived herself through some sort of pose, from self-laceration, and tortured herself by her pretended love for Dimitri from some fancy duty of gratitude. "Yes," he thought, "perhaps the whole truth lies in those words." But in that case, what was Ivan's position? Alyosha felt instinctively that a character, like Caterina Ivanona's, must dominate, and she could only dominate someone like Dimitri, and never a man like Ivan. For Dimitri might, at last, submit to her domination, to his own happiness, which was what Alyosha would have desired. But Ivan, no. Ivan could not submit to her, and such submission would not give him happiness. Alyosha could not help believing that of Ivan, and now all these doubts and reflections flitted through his mind as he entered the drawing room. Another idea, too, forced itself upon him. What if she loved neither of them, neither Ivan nor Dimitri? It must be noted that Alyosha felt, as it were, ashamed of his own thoughts, and blamed himself when they kept reoccurring to him during the last month. "What do I know about love and woman, and how can I decide such questions," he thought reproachfully. After such doubts and surmises, and yet it was impossible not to think about it, he felt instinctively that this rivalry was of immense importance in his brother's lives, and that a great deal depended upon it. "One reptile will devour the other," Ivan had pronounced the day before, speaking in anger of his father and Dimitri. So Ivan looked upon Dimitri as a reptile, and perhaps long done so. Was it perhaps since he had known Katerina Ivanovna? That phrase had, of course, escaped Ivan unawares yesterday. But that only made it more important, if he felt like that, what chance was there of peace? Were there not, on the contrary, new grounds for hatred and hostility in their family? And with which of them was Alyosha to sympathize? And what was he to wish for each of them? He loved them both. But what could he desire for each in the midst of these conflicting interests? He might go quite astray in this maze, and Alyosha's heart could not endure uncertainty, because his love was always of an active character. He was incapable of passive love. If he loved anyone, he's set to work at once to help him, and to do so, he must know what he was aiming at. He must know for certain what was best for each, and, having ascertained this, it was natural for him to help them both. But instead of a definite aim, he found nothing, but uncertainty and perplexity on all sides. It was lacerating. As was said just now, but what could he understand even in this laceration? He did not understand the first word in this perplexing maze. Seeing Alyosha, Katarina Ivanovna, said quickly and joyfully to Ivan, who had already got up to Ligo. "A minute! Stay another minute! I want to hear the opinion of this person here, whom I trust absolutely." "Don't go away," she added, addressing Madame Holocaust. She made Alyosha sit down beside her, and Madame Holocaust set opposite by Ivan. "You are all my friends here. All I have in the world, dear friends." She warmly, in a voice which quivered with genuine tears of suffering, and Alyosha's heart warmed to her at once. "You, Alexey Fiedorvitch, were witnessed yesterday of that unpominable scene, and saw what I did. You did not see it, Ivan Fiedorvitch. He did. What he thought of me yesterday, I don't know. I only know one thing, that if it were repeated today, this minute, I should express the same feelings again as yesterday, the same feelings, the same words, the same actions. You remember my actions, Alexey Fiedorvitch? You checked me in one of them." As she said that, she flushed, and her eyes shone. "I must tell you that I can't get over it. Listen, Alexey Fiedorvitch. I don't even know whether I still love him. I feel pity for him, and that is a poor sign of love. If I loved him, if I still loved him, perhaps I wouldn't be sorry for him now, but should hate him." Her voice quivered, and tears glittered in her eyelashes. Alyosha shuttered inwardly, "That girl is truthful, and sincere," he thought, "and she does not love to meet me any more." "That's true, that's true," cried Madame Holocaust. "Wait, dear, I haven't told you the chief. The final decision I came to during the night. I feel that perhaps my decision is a terrible one for me, but I foresee that nothing will induce me to change it. Nothing. It will be so all my life, my dear, kind, ever faithful and generous advisor. The one friend I have in the world, Ivan Fiedorvitch, with his deep insight into the heart, approves, and commends my decision. He knows it. Yes, I approve of it." Ivan is sent in, in a subdued, but firm voice. "But I should like Alyosha, too, a Lexifia Dorovitch, forgive my calling you simply Alyosha. I should like a Lexifia Dorovitch, too, to tell me before my two friends, whether I am right. I feel instinctively that you, Alyosha, my dear brother, for you are a dear brother to me." She said again, ecstatically, taking his cold hand in her hot one. "I foresee that your decision, your approval, will bring me peace in spite of all my sufferings. For after your words, I shall be calm and submit. I feel that." "I don't know what you are asking me," said Alyosha, flushing. "I only know that I love you, and at this moment wish for your happiness more than my own, but I know nothing about such affairs, something impaled him to add hurriedly. In such affairs, a Lexifia Dorovitch, in such affairs, the chief thing is honor and duty, and something higher. I don't know what, but higher, perhaps even than duty. I am conscious of this irresistible feeling in my heart, and it compels me irresistibly. But it may all be put in two words. I've already decided, even if he marries that "creature," she began solemnly, "whom I never, never can forgive, even then I will not abandon him. Henceforth I will never, never abandon him." She cried, breaking into a sort of pale, hysterical ecstasy. Not that I would run after him continually, getting his way and worry him, "Oh, no, I will go away to another town, where you like, but I will watch over him all my life. I will watch over him all my life unceasingly. When he becomes unhappy with that woman, and that is bound to happen quite soon, let him come to me, and he will find a friend, a sister, only a sister of course, and so forever. But he will learn, at least, that that sister is really his sister, who loves him, and has sacrificed all her life to him. I will gain my point. I will insist on his knowing me, confiding entirely in me, without reserve," she cried, in a sort of frenzy. "I will be a god to whom he can pray, and that, at least, he owes me for his treachery, and for what I suffered yesterday through him, and let him see that all my life I will be true to him, and the promise I gave him, in spite of his being untrue and betraying me. I will, I will become nothing but a means for his happiness, or, how shall I say, an instrument, a machine for his happiness, and that for my whole life, my whole life, and that he may see that all his life—that's my decision—I've been for a door which fully approves me." She was breathless. She had perhaps intended to express her idea with more dignity, art, and naturalness, but her speech was too hurried and crude. It was full of youthful impulsiveness. It betrayed that she was still smarting from yesterday's insult, and that her pride craved satisfaction. She felt this herself. Her face suddenly darkened, and unpleasant look came into her eyes. Aliyosha at once saw it. "I've only expressed my own view," he said. "From anyone else, this would have been affected, and over-strained, but from you, no. Any other woman would have been wrong, but you are right. I don't know how to explain it, but I see that you are absolutely genuine, and therefore you are right. But that's only for a moment. And what does this moment stand for? Nothing, but yesterday's insult." Madam Holocaust obviously had not intended to interfere, but she could not refrain from this very just comment. "Quite so, quite so," cried Ivan, with particular eagerness, obviously annoyed at being interrupted. "In anyone else, this moment would be only due to yesterday's impression, and would be only a moment, but with Katarina, even Novna's character, that moment will last all her life." What for anyone else would be only a promise is for her, and everlasting burdensome, grim, perhaps, but unflagging duty, and she will be sustained by the feeling of this duty being fulfilled. Your life, Katarina, Ivan, and Novna, will henceforth be spent in painful brooding over your own feelings, your own heroism, and your own suffering. But in the end, that suffering will be softened and will pass into sweet contemplation of the fulfillment of a bold and proud design. Yes, proud it certainly is, and desperate in any case, but a triumph for you, and the consciousness of it will at last be a source of complete satisfaction, and will make you resigned to everything else. This was unmistakably said, with some malice and obviously with intention, even perhaps with no desire to conceal that he spoke ironically and with intention. "Oh, dear, how mistaken it all is," Madame Holocaust cried again. "Alexi, Fyodorovich, you speak. I want dreadfully to know what you will say," cried Katarina, even Novna, and burst into tears. Aliyosha got up from the sofa. "It's nothing, nothing," she went on through her tears. "I'm upset. I didn't sleep last night, but by the side of two such friends as you and your brother, I still feel strong, for I know you two will never desert me. Unluckily, I'm obliged to return to Moscow, perhaps tomorrow, and leave you for a long time. And, unluckily, it's unavoidable," Ivan said suddenly. "Tomorrow? To Moscow?" Her face was suddenly contorted. "But, but, dear me, how fortunate!" She cried in a voice suddenly changed. In one instant there was no trace left of her tears. She underwent an instantaneous transformation, which amazed Aliyosha. Instead of a poor, insulted girl weeping in a sort of laceration, he saw a woman completely self-possessed and even exceedingly pleased, as though something agreeable had just happened. "Oh, not fortunate that I am losing you, of course not," she collected herself suddenly, with a charming society smile. "Such a friend as you are could not suppose that. I am only too unhappy at losing you," she rushed impossibly at Ivan, and, seizing both his hands, pressed them warmly. "But what is fortunate is that you will be able, in Moscow, to see Auntie and Agafia, and to tell them all the horror of my present position. You can speak with complete openness to Agafia, but, spare, dear Auntie, you will know how to do that. You can't think how wretched I was yesterday and this morning, wondering how I could write them that dreadful letter, for one can never tell such things in a letter. Now it will be easy for me to write, for you will see them and explain everything. Oh, how glad I am! But I am only glad of that. Believe me, of course, no one can take your place. I will run it once to write the letter. She finished suddenly, and took a step, as though to go out of the room. "And what about Eleosha, and his opinion, which you were so desperately anxious to hear?" cried Madame Holocaust. There was a sarcastic, angry note in her voice. "I had not forgotten that," cried Katarina, Ivan Novna, coming to a sudden standstill. "And why are you so antagonistic at such a moment?" she added, with warm and bitter reproachfulness. "What I said, I repeat. I must have his opinion. More than that, I must have his decision. As he says, "So it shall be." "You see how anxious I am for your words," elect Sifidorovich. "But what's the matter?" "I couldn't have believed it. I can't understand it." Eleosha cried suddenly, in distress. "He is going to Moscow, and you cry out that you are glad." "You said that on purpose. And you begin explaining that you are not glad of that, but sorry to be losing a friend, but that was acting too. You were playing a part as in a theater." "In a theater?" "What? What do you mean?" exclaimed Katarina, Ivan Novna. "We're fondly astonished, flushing crimson and frowning. Though you assure him you are sorry to lose a friend in him, you persist in telling him to his face that it's fortunate he is going," said Eleosha breathlessly. He was standing at the table and did not sit down. "What are you talking about? I don't understand." "I don't understand myself. I seem to see in a flash. I know I am not saying it properly, but I'll say it all the same." Eleosha went on in the same shaking and broken voice. "What I see is that perhaps you didn't love Dimitri at all, and never have, from the beginning, and Dimitri too has never loved you, and only asthemes you. I really don't know how I dare to say all this, but somebody must tell the truth, for nobody here will tell the truth." "What truth?" cried Katarina, Ivan Novna, and there was an hysterical ring in her voice. "I'll tell you," Eleosha went on, with desperate haste, as though he were jumping from the top of a house. "Call Dimitri. I will fetch him, and let him come here, and take your hand, and take Ivan's, and join your hands, for your torturing Ivan, simply because you love him, and torturing him, because you loved Dimitri through self-laceration, with an unreal love, because you've persuaded yourself." Eleosha broke off, and was silent. "You, you, you are a little religious idiot! That's what you are," Katarina even Novna snapped. Her face was white, and her lips were moving with anger. Ivan suddenly laughed and got up. His hat was in his hands. "You are mistaken, my good, Eleosha," he said. With an expression Eleosha had never seen in his face before, an expression of youthful sincerity, and strong, irresistible frank feeling. Katarina Ivan Novna has never cared for me. She has known all the time that I cared for her, though I never said a word of my love to her. She knew, but she didn't care for me. I have never been her friend either, not for one moment. She is too proud to need my friendship. She kept me at her side as a means of revenge. She revenged with me and on me all the insults which she had been continually receiving from Dimitri ever since their first meeting. For even that first meeting has wrinkled in her heart and insult. That's what her heart is like. She has talked to me of nothing but her love for him. I am going now. But believe me, Katarina Ivan Novna, you really love him. And the more he insults you, the more you love him. That's your laceration. You love him just as he is. You love him for insulting you. If he reformed, you'd give him up at once and cease to love him. But you need him so, as to contemplate continually your heroic fidelity and to reproach him for infidelity. And it all comes from your pride. Oh, there's a great deal of humiliation and self abasement about it, but it all comes from pride. I am too young and I loved you too much. I know that I ought not to say this, that it would be more dignified on my part simply to leave you and it would be less offensive for you. But I am going far away and shall never come back. It is forever. I don't want to sit beside a laceration. But I don't know how to speak now. I've said everything. Goodbye, Katarina Ivan Novna. You can't be angry with me. For I am a hundred times more severely punished than you, if only by the fact that I shall never see you again. Goodbye. I don't want your hand. You have tortured me too deliberately for me to be able to forgive you at this moment. I shall forgive you later. But now I don't want your hand. Then, thank dame, begur iknikt, translators note, thank you, madam. I want nothing. He added with a force smile showing, however, that he could read Shiller and read him till he knew him by heart, which Alleosha would never have believed. He went out of the room without saying goodbye even to his hostess, madam holikov. Alleosha clasped his hands. "Ivan," he cried desperately after him. "Come back, Ivan." "No, nothing will induce him to come back now," he cried again, regretfully realizing it. "But it's my fault. My fault. I began it!" Ivan spoke angrily, wrongly, unjustly and angrily. "He must come back here." "Come back," Alleosha kept exclaiming frantically. Katarina Ivanovna went suddenly into the next room. "You have done no harm. You behaved beautifully like an angel," madam holikov whispered rapidly and ecstatically to Alleosha. "I will do my utmost to prevent Ivan Fiedorovich from going." Her face beamed with delight to the great distress of Alleosha, but Katarina Ivanovna suddenly returned. She had two hundred ruble notes in her hand. "I have a great favor to ask of you, Alexey Fiedorovich," she began, addressing Alleosha with an apparently calm and even voice, as though nothing had happened. "A week?" "Yes, I think it was a week ago. Dimitri Fiedorovich was guilty of a hasty and unjust action, a very ugly action. There was a low tavern here, and in it he met that discharged officer, that captain, whom your father used to employ in some business." Dimitri Fiedorovich somehow lost his temper with this captain, seized him by the beard, and dragged him out into the street, and for some distance along it, in that insulting fashion, and I am told that his son, a boy, quite a child, who is at the school here, saw it, and ran beside them crying and begging for his father, appealing to everyone to defend him, while everyone laughed. "You must forgive me, Alexey Fiedorovich. I cannot think without indignation of that disgraceful action of his, one of those actions of which only Dimitri Fiedorovich would be capable in his anger and in his passions. I can't describe it even. I can't find my words. I've made inquiries about his victim and find he is quite a poor man. His name is Snigorov. He did something wrong in the army and was discharged. I can't tell you what, and now he is sunk into terrible destitution with his family, an unhappy family of sick children, and I believe an insane wife. He has been living here a long time. He used to work as a copy and clerk, but now he is getting nothing. I thought, if you, that is, I thought, I don't know, I am so confused. You see, I wanted to ask you, my dear Alexey Fiedorovich, to go to him, to find some excuse to go to them. I mean, to that captain, oh goodness, how badly I explain it, and delicately, carefully, as only you know how to, Alyosha blushed, managed to give him this assistance, these two hundred rubles, he will be sure to take it. I mean, persuade him to take it, or rather, what do I mean? You see, it's not by way of compensation to prevent him from taking proceedings, for I believe he meant to, but simply a token of sympathy, of a desire to assist him from me. Did me treat Fiedorovich as betrothed, not from himself, but you know, I would go myself, but you'll know how to do it ever so much better. He lives in Lake Street, in the house of a woman called Kalimokov. For God's sake, Alexey Fiedorovich, do it for me, and now, now I am rather tired. Goodbye. She turned and disappeared behind the portia, so quickly that Alyosha had not time to utter a word, though he wanted to speak. He longed to beg her pardon, to blame himself, to say something, for his heart was full and he could not bear to go out of the room without it, but Madame Holocaust took him by the hand and drew him along with her. In the hall, she stops him again, as before. She is proud. She is struggling with herself, but kind, charming, generous, she explained in a half whisper, "Oh, how I love her, especially sometimes, and how glad I am again of everything, dear Alexey Fiedorovich, you don't know, but I must tell you that we all, all, both her aunts, I and all of us, lies, even, have been hoping and praying for nothing for the last month, but that she may give up your favorite Demetri, who takes no notice of her, and does not care for her, and may marry Ivan Fiedorovich, such an excellent and cultivated young man, who loves her more than anything in the world, we are in a regular plot to bring it about, and I am even staying on here, perhaps, on that account. But she has been crying, she has been wounded again," cried Alyosha, "never trust a woman's tears," Alexey Fiedorovich, "I am never for a woman in such cases, I am always on the side of the men." "Mama, you are spoiling him," Liza's little voice cried from behind the door. "No, it was all my fault, I am horribly to blame," Alyosha repeated, unconsold, hiding his face in his hands in an agony of remorse for his indiscretion. "Quite the contrary, you behaved like an angel, like an angel, I am ready to say so a thousand times over." "Mama, how has he behaved like an angel?" Liza's voice was heard again. "I somehow fancied all at once," Alyosha went on, as though he had not heard Liza. "That she loved Ivan, and so I said that stupid thing. What will happen now?" "To whom? To whom?" cried Liza. "Mama, you really want to be the death of me? I ask you, and you don't answer." At that moment, the maid ran in. "Cadarina, even Novna is ill! She is crying, struggling, hysterics!" "What is the matter?" cried Liza, in a tone of real anxiety. "Mama, I shall be having hysterics and not she!" Leaks for mercy's sake, don't scream, don't persecute me. At your age, one can't know everything that grown up people know. "I'll come and tell you everything you ought to know. Oh, mercy on us! I am coming! I am coming!" "Histerics is a good sign, Alexey Fiedorgic. It's an excellent thing that she is hysterical. That's just as it ought to be. In such cases, I am always against the woman, against all these feminine tears and hysterics. Run and say, Yulia, that I'll fly to her. As for Ivan Fiedorgic is going away like that, it's her own fault. But he won't go away. Lease, for mercy's sake, don't scream. "Oh, yes, you are not screaming. It's I am screaming! Forgive your mama! But I am delighted, delighted, delighted!" Did you notice, Alexey Fiedorgic, how young, how young Ivan Fiedorgic was, just now, when he went out. When he said all that and went out, I thought he was so learned, such a savant, and all of a sudden he behaved so warmly, openly, and youthfully, with such youthful inexperience, and it was all so fine, like you. And the way he repeated that German verse, "It was just like you. But I must fly! I must fly!" Alexey Fiedorgic make haste to carry out her commission, and then make haste back. "Lease, do you want anything now?" "For mercy's sake, don't keep Alexey Fiedorgic a minute. He will come back to you at once." Madame Holocaust, at last, ran off. Before leaving, Aliyosha would have opened the door to see Lease. "On no account!" cried Lease. "On no account now. Speak through the door." "How have you come to be an angel?" "That's the only thing I want to know." "For an awful piece of stupidity, Lease." "Good-bye." "Don't dare go away like that," Lease was beginning. "Lease, I have a real sorrow. I'll be back directly, but I have a great, great sorrow." And he ran out of the room. End of chapter five of book four. Book four, chapter six, "Alaceration in the Cottage." He certainly was really grieved in a way he had seldom been before. He had rushed in like a fool, and meddled in what? In a love affair. "But what do I know about it? What can I tell about such things?" He repeated to himself for the hundredth time, flushing crimson. "Oh, being ashamed would be nothing. Shame is only the punishment I deserve. The trouble is, I shall certainly have caused more unhappiness, and Father Zosima sent me to reconcile and bring them together. Is this the way to bring them together?" Then he suddenly remembered how he had tried to join their hands, and he felt fearfully ashamed again. "Though I acted quite sincerely, I must be more sensible in the future," he concluded suddenly, and did not even smile at his conclusion. Catarina Ivanovna's commission took him to Lake Street, and his brother Dimitri lived close by in a turning out of Lake Street. Aliyosha decided to go to him in any case before going to the captain, though he had a pre-sentiment that he would not find his brother. He suspected that he would intentionally keep out of his way now, but he must find him anyhow. Time was passing. The thought of his dying elder had not left Aliyosha for one minute from the time he set off from the monastery. There was one point which interested him particularly about Catarina Ivanovna's commission, when she had mentioned the captain's son, the little schoolboy, who had run beside his father crying. The idea had at once struck Aliyosha that this must be the schoolboy who had bitten his finger when he, Aliyosha, asked him what he had done to hurt him. Now Aliyosha felt practically certain of this, though he could not have said why. Thinking of another subject was a relief, and he resolved to think no more about the mischief he had done, and not to torture himself with remorse, but to do what he had to do, let come what would. At that thought he was completely comforted. Turning to the street where Dimitri lodged, he felt hungry, and taking out of his pocket the role he had brought from his father's, he ate it. It made him feel stronger. Dimitri was not at home. The people of the house, an old cabinet maker, his son, and his old wife, looked with positive suspicion at Aliyosha. He hasn't slept here for the last three nights, maybe he has gone away, the old man said, in answer to Aliyosha's persistent inquiries. Aliyosha saw that he was answering in accordance with instructions. When he asked whether he were not at Gushankas, or in hiding at Formas, Aliyosha spoke so freely, on purpose. All three looked at him in alarm. Their fond of him, they are doing their best for him, thought Aliyosha. That's good. At last he found the house in Lake Street. It was a decrepit little house, sunk on one side, with three windows looking into the street, and with a muddy yard in the middle of which stood a solitary cow. He crossed the yard, and found the door opening into the passage. On the left of the passage lived the old woman of the house with her old daughter. Both seemed to be deaf. In answer to his repeated inquiry for the captain, one of them at last understood that he was asking for their lodges, and pointed to a door across the passage. The captain's lodging turned out to be a simple cottage room. Aliyosha had his hand on the iron latch to open the door when he was struck by a strange hush within. Yet he knew from Katharina Ivanovna's words that the man had a family. Either they are all asleep, or perhaps they have heard me coming and are waiting for me to open the door. I'd better knock first, and he knocked. An answer came but not at once, after an interval of perhaps ten seconds. "Who's there?" shouted someone in a loud and very angry voice. Then Aliyosha opened the door and crossed the threshold. He found himself in a regular peasant's room, though it was large, it was cumbered up with domestic belongings of all sorts, and there were several people in it. On the left was a large Russian stove. From the stove to the window on the left, there was a string running across the room, and on it there were rags hanging. There was a bedstead against the wall on each side, right and left, covered with knitted quilts. On the one on the left was a pyramid of four print-covered pillows, each smaller than the one beneath. On the other, there was only one very small pillow. The opposite corner was screened off by a curtain or a sheet hung on a string. Behind this curtain could be seen a bed made up on a bench and a chair. The rough square table of plain wood had been moved into the middle window. The three windows which consisted of four tiny greenish mildewy panes gave little light and were closed shut so that the room was not very light and rather stuffy. On the table was a frying pan with the remains of some fried eggs, a half-eaten piece of bread, and a small bottle with a few drops of vodka. A woman of genteel appearance wearing a cotton gown was sitting on a chair by the bed on the left. Her face was thin and yellow and her sunken cheeks betrayed at the first glance that she was ill. But what struck Alyosha most was the expression in the poor woman's eyes, a look of surprised inquiry and yet of haughty pride. And while he was talking to her husband, her big brown eyes moved from one speaker to the other with the same haughty and questioning expression. Beside her at the window stood a young girl rather plain with scanty reddish hair, poorly but very neatly dressed. She looked disdainfully at Alyosha as he came in. Beside the other bed was sitting another female figure. She was a very sad sight, a young girl of about twenty but hunched back and crippled with withered legs as Alyosha was told afterwards. Her crutches stood in the corner close by. The strikingly beautiful and gentle eyes of this poor girl looked with mild serenity at Alyosha. A man of forty-five was sitting at the table, finishing the fried eggs. He was spare, small and weakly built. He had reddish hair and a scanty, light-colored beard, very much like a wisp of toe. This comparison and the phrase "a wisp of toe" flashed at once into Alyosha's mind for some reason. He remembered it afterwards. It was obviously this gentleman who had shouted to him as there was no other man in the room. But when Alyosha went in, he leapt up from the bench on which he was sitting and hastily wiping his mouth with a ragged napkin, darted up to Alyosha. It's a monk come to beg for the monastery, a nice place to come to the girl standing in the left corner said aloud. The man spun round instantly towards her and answered her in an excited and breaking voice. "No, Vaira, you are wrong. Allow me to ask," he turned again to Alyosha. "What has brought you to our retreat?" Alyosha looked attentively at him. It was the first time he had seen him. There was something angular, fluried and irritable about him. Though he had obviously just been drinking, he was not drunk. There was an extraordinary impudence in his expression, and yet strange to say, at the same time, there was fear. He looked like a man who had long been kept in subjection and had submitted to it, and now had suddenly turned and was trying to assert himself. Or, better still, like a man who wants dreadfully to hit you but is horribly afraid you will hit him. In his words and in the intonation of his shrill voice, there was a sort of crazy humor, at times spiteful and at times cringing and continually shifting from one tone to another. "The question about our retreat," he had asked, as it were, quivering all over, rolling his eyes and skipping up so close to Alyosha that he instinctively drew back a step. He was dressed in a very shabby dark cotton coat, touched and spotted. He wore checked trousers of an extremely light color, long out of fashion, and a very thin material. They were so crumpled and so short that he looked as though he had grown out of them like a boy. "I am Alexei Karamazov," Alyosha began in reply. "I quite understand that, sir," the gentleman snapped out at once to assure him that he knew who he was already. "I am Captain Snagiryov, sir." "But I am still desirous to know precisely what has led you. Oh, I've come for nothing special. I wanted to have a word with you, if only you'll allow me." "In that case, here's a chair, sir, kindly be seated." "That's what they used to say in the old comedies, kindly be seated, and with a rapid gesture, he seized an empty chair. It was a rough wooden chair, not upholstered, and set it for him in the middle of the room. Then, taking another similar chair for himself, he sat down facing Alyosha, so close to him that their knees almost touched." "Nikolai Iliach Znegiryov, sir, formerly a captain in the Russian infantry, put to shame for his vices, but still a captain. Though I might not be one now, for the way I talk, for the last half of my life, I've learned to say, sir, it's a word you use when you've come down in the world." "That's very true," smiled Alyosha, "but is it used involuntarily or on purpose?" "As gods above, it's involuntary, but I use it to use it. I didn't use the word, sir, or my life. But as soon as I sank into low water, I began to say, sir, it's the work of a higher power. I see you are interested in contemporary questions, but how can I have excited your curiosity, living as I do, in surroundings impossible for the exercise of hospitality?" "I've come about that business. About what business?" the captain interrupted impatiently. "About your meeting with my brother Dimitri Fyldarovic," Alyosha blurted out awkwardly. "What meeting, sir? You don't mean that meeting? About my wisp of toe, then?" He moved closer so that his knees positively knocked against Alyosha. His lips were strangely compressed like a thread. "What wisp of toe?" muttered Alyosha. "He has come to complain of me, father, quite a voice familiar to Alyosha, the voice of the schoolboy, from behind the curtain." "I bit his finger just now," the curtain was pulled, and Alyosha saw his assailant, lying on a little bed made up on the bench and the chair in the corner under the icons. The boy lay covered by his coat in an old-wadded quilt. He was evidently unwell, and judging by his glittering eyes, he was in a fever. He looked at Alyosha without fear, as though he felt he was at home and could not be touched. "What? Did he bite your finger?" the captain jumped up from his chair. "Was it your finger, he bit?" "Yes, he was throwing stones without the schoolboys. There were six of them against him alone. I went up to him, and he threw a stone at me, and then another at my head. I asked him what I had done to him, and then he rushed at me and bit my finger badly." "I don't know why." "I'll thrash him, sir, at once, this minute," the captain jumped up from his seat. "But I am not complaining at all. I am simply telling you. I don't want him to be thrashed. Besides, he seems ill." "And do you suppose that I thrash him? That I take my Alyosha and thrash him before you for your satisfaction? Would you like it done at once, sir?" said the captain, suddenly turning to Alyosha, as though he were going to attack him. "I am sorry about your finger, sir, but instead of thrashing Alyosha, would you like me to chop off my four fingers with this knife here before your eyes to satisfy your just wrath? I should think four fingers would be enough to satisfy your thirst for vengeance. You won't ask for the fifth one, too." He stopped short with the catch in his throat. Every feature in his face, with twitching and working, he looked extremely defiant. He was in a sort of frenzy. "I think I understand it all now," said Alyosha gently, and sorrowfully, still keeping his seat. "So your boy is a good boy. He loves his father, and he attacked me as the brother of your assailant." "Now I understand it," he repeated thoughtfully. "But my brother, Dimitri Filderovich, regrets his action. I know that. And if only it is possible for him to come to you, or better still, to meet you in that same place, he will ask for your forgiveness before everyone if you wish it." After pulling out my beard, you mean? He will ask my forgiveness? And he thinks that will be a satisfactory finish, doesn't he? "Oh no, on the contrary, he will do anything you like, and in any way you like." So if I were to ask his highness to go down on his knees before me, in that very tavern, the metropolis it's called, or in the marketplace, he would do it? Yes, he would even go down on his knees. "You've pierced me to the heart, sir. Touch me to tears, and pierced me to the heart. I am only too sensible of your brother's generosity. Allow me to introduce my family, my two daughters, and my son, my litter. If I die, who will care for them? And while I live, who but they will care for a wretch like me? That's a great thing the Lord has ordained for every man of my sort, sir, for there must be someone able to love even a man like me." "Ah, that's perfectly true," exclaimed Aliyosha. "Oh, do leave off playing the fool. Some idiot comes in, and you put us to shame," cried the girl by the window, suddenly turning to her father with a disdainful and contemptuous air. "Wait a little, Avarva," cried her father, speaking "peremptorily, but looking at them quite approvingly. That's her character," he said, addressing Aliyosha again. "And in all nature, there was not that could find favor in his eyes, or rather in the feminine that would find favor in her eyes. But now let me present you to my wife, Arina Petrovna. She's crippled. She's 43. She can move, but very little. She is of humble origin." "Arina Petrovna, compose your countenance. This is Alexei Fyodorovic Karamazov." "Get up, Alexei Fyodorovic." He took him by the hand, and with unexpected force pulled him up. "You must stand up to be introduced to a lady. It's not the Karamazov mama, who, hmm, etc., but his brother, radiant with modest virtues. Come, Arina Petrovna. Come, mama. First your hand to be kissed." And he kissed his wife's hand respectfully, and even tenderly, the girl at the window turned her back indignantly on the scene. An expression of extraordinary cordiality came over the hardy, inquiring face of the woman. "Good morning. Sit down, Mr. Chernonazov," she said. "Karmazov mama, karmazov. We have humble origin," he whispered again. "Well, karmazov, or whatever it is. But I always think of Chernmamazov. Sit down. Why?" as he told you up. "He calls me crippled, but I am not. Only my legs are swollen like barrels, and I am shriveled up myself." "Once I used to be so fat, but now it's as though I had swallowed a needle." "We are of humble origin," the captain muttered again. "Oh, father, father," the hunchback girl, who had till then been silent on her chair, said suddenly, and she hid her eyes in the handkerchief. "Buff food," blurted out the girl at the window. "Have you heard our news," said the mother, pointing at her daughters. "It's like clouds coming over. The clouds pass, and we have music again. When we were with the army, we used to have many such guests. I don't mean to make any comparisons. Everyone to their taste." The deacon's wife used to come and say, "Alexanderovnych is a man of the noblest heart, but that dacia petrovna, she would say, is of the brood of hell." "Well," I said, "that's a matter of taste. But you are a little spitfire. And you want keeping in your place," says she. "You black sword," said I. "Who asked you to teach me?" "But my breath," says she, "is clean, and yours is unclean." "You ask all the officers whether my breath is unclean, and ever since then I had it in my mind." "Not long ago I was sitting here as I am now, when I saw that very general come in, who came here for Easter, and I asked him, "Your excellency," said I, "Can a lady's breath be unpleasant?" "Yes," he answered. "You ought to open a window pane, or open the door, for the air is not fresh here, and they go on like that." "And what is my breath to them? The dead smell worse still." "I won't spoil the air," said I, "I'll order some slippers, and I'll go away. My darlings, don't blame your own mother. Nikolai Ilyich, how is it I can't please you?" "There's only Arusha who comes home from school and loves me. Yesterday he brought me an apple." "Forgive your own mother, forgive a poor lonely creature. Why is my breath become so unpleasant to you?" "And the poor mad woman broke into sobs and tears streamed down in cheeks. The captain rushed up to her." "Mama, mama, my dear, give over. You are not lonely. Everyone loves you. Everyone adores you." He began kissing both her hands again, and tenderly stroking her face. Taking the dinner napkin, he began wiping away her tears. "Alyosha fancied that he too had tears in his eyes. There, you see, you hear?" he turned with a sort of fury to Alyosha, pointing to the poor imbecile. "I see and hear," muttered Alyosha. "Father, Father, how can you, with him, let him alone?" cried the boy, sitting up in his bed and gazing at his father with glowing eyes. "Do give over, fooling, showing off your silly antics, which never lead to anything, shouted Vavara, stamping her foot with passion. Your anger is quite just this time, Vavara, and I'll make haste to satisfy you. Come, put on your cap, Alexei Filderovich, and I'll put on mine. We will go out. I have a word to say to you in earnest, but not within these walls. This girl sitting here is my daughter Nina. I forgot to introduce her to you. She is a heavenly angel incarnate, who is flown down to us mortals, if you can understand. There he is, shaking all over, as though he is in convulsions, Vavara went on indignantly. And there, stamping her foot at me and calling me a fool just now. She is a heavenly angel incarnate too, and she has good reason to call me so. Come along, Alexei Filderovich. We must make an end, and, snatching Aliausha's hand, he drew him out of the room into the street. End of chapter 6, book 4. Book 4, chapter 7, and in the open air. The air is fresh, but in my apartment it is not so in any sense of the word. Let us walk slowly, sir. I should be glad of your kind interest. I too have something important to say to you, observed Aliausha, only I don't know how to begin. To be sure you must have business with me, you would never have looked in upon me without some object, unless you come simply to complain of the boy, and that's hardly likely. And by the way, about the boy, I could not explain to you in there, but here I will describe that scene to you. My toe was thicker a week ago. I mean, my beard. That's the nickname they gave to my beard, the school boys most of all. Well, your brother, Dimitri Filderovich, was pulling me by my beard. I'd done nothing. He was in a towering rage and happened to come upon me. He dragged me out of the tavern and into the marketplace, and at that moment the boys were coming out of school, and with them, Aliausha. As soon as he saw me in such a state he rushed up to me, father he cried, father, he caught hold of me, hugged me, tried to pull me away, crying to my assailant, let go, let go, it's my father, forgive him. Yes, he actually cried, forgive him. He clutched at that hand, that very hand, in his little hands, and kissed it. I remember his little face at that moment. I haven't forgotten it, and I never shall. I swear, cried Aliausha, that my brother will express his most deep and sincere regret, even if he has to go down on his knees in that same marketplace. I'll make him, or he is no brother of mine. Aha! Then it's only a suggestion, and it does not come from him, but simply from the generosity of your own warm heart. You should have said so. No, in that case, allow me to tell you of your brother's highly shillerous, soldierly generosity, for he did give expression to it at the time. He left off dragging me by the beard and released me. You are an officer, he said, and I am an officer. If you can find a decent man to be your second, send me your challenge. I will give satisfaction, though you are a scoundrel. That is what he said, a shiller of spirit indeed. I retired with Aliausha, and that scene is a family record imprinted forever on Aliausha's soul. No, it's not for us to claim the privileges of noblemen, judge for yourself. You've just been in our mansion. What did you see there? Three ladies? One a cripple and weak-minded? Another a cripple and hunchback? And the third not crippled but far too clever. She is a student, dying to get back to Petersburg, to work for the emancipation of the Russian woman on the banks of the Neva. I won't speak of Aliausha, he is only nine. I am alone in the world, and if I die, what will become of all of them? I simply ask you that, and if I challenge him and he kills me on the spot, what then? What will become of them? And worse still, if he doesn't kill me but only cripples me, I couldn't work. But I should still be a mouth to feed. Who would feed it, and who would feed them all? Must I take Aliausha from school and send him to beg in the streets? That's what it means for me to challenge him to a duel. It's silly talk, and nothing else. He will beg your forgiveness, he will bow down at your feet in the middle of the marketplace, quite Aliausha again, with glowing eyes. I did think of prosecuting him, the captain went on. But look in our code, could I get much compensation for a personal injury? And then Agrafena Alexandrovna, open bracket, translators note, Grushenko, close bracket, said for me, and shouted at me, "Don't dare to dream of it. If you proceed against him, I'll publish it to all the world that he beat you for your dishonesty, and then you will be prosecuted." I call God the witness whose was a dishonesty, and by whose commands I acted. Wasn't it by her own and Fyodor Pablo Viches? And what more, she went on, I'll dismiss you for good, and you'll never earn another penny from me. I'll speak to my merchant, too. That's what she calls her old man, and he will dismiss you. And if he dismisses me, what can I earn then from anyone? Those two are all I have to look to, for your Fyodor Pablo Viches has not only given over to employing me for another reason, but he means to make use of papers I've signed to go to law against me, and so I keep quiet, and you have seen our retreat. But now, let me ask you, Didilusha hurt your finger much? I didn't like to go into our mansion before him. Yes, very much, and he was in a great fury. He was avenging you on me as a Karamazov. I see that now. But if only you had seen how he was throwing stones at his school fellows, it's very dangerous. They might kill him. They are children and stupid. A stone may be thrown, and break somebody's head. That's just what happened. He had been bruised by a stone today, not on the head, but on the chest, just above the heart. He came home crying and groaning, and now he is ill. And you know, he attacks them first. He is bitter against them, on your account. They say he stabbed a boy called Krasotkin with a pen knife not long ago. I've heard about that too. It's dangerous. Krasotkin is an official here. We may hear more about that. I would advise you, Aliyosha went on warmly, not to send him to school for a time until he is calmer, and his anger is past. "Anger!" the captain repeated. "That's just what it is. He is a little creature, but it's a mighty anger. You don't know at all, sir. Let me tell you more. Since that incident, all the boys have been teasing him about the wisp of toe. School boys are a merciless race. Individually they are angels, but together, especially in schools, they are often merciless. Their teasing has stiffed up a gallant spirit in Aliyosha. An ordinary boy, a weak son, would have submitted, felt ashamed of his father, sir, but he stood up for his father against them all, for his father and for truth and justice. For what he suffered, when he kissed your brother's hand and cried to him, "Forgive, father! Forgive him!" That only God knows, and I, his father, for our children, not your children, but ours, the children of the poor gentleman looked down upon by everyone, know what justice means, sir, even at nine years old. How should the rich know? They don't explore such depths once in their lives, but at that moment, in the square, when he kissed his hand, at that moment, my Aliyosha had grasped all the justice means. That truth entered into him and crushed him forever, sir, the captain said hotly again, with a sort of frenzy, and he struck his right fist against his left palm, as though he wanted to show how the truth crushed Aliyosha. That very day, sir, he fell ill with fever, and was delirious all night. All that day he hardly said a word to me, but I noticed he kept watching me from the corner, though he turned to the window and pretended to be learning his lessons, but I could see his mind was not on his lessons. Next day I got drunk and forgot my troubles, sinful man as I am, and I don't remember much. Mama began crying, too. I am very fond of Mama. Well, I spent my last penny drowning my troubles. Don't despise me for that, sir. In Russia, men who drink are the best. The best amongst us are the greatest drunkards. I lay down, and I don't remember about Aliyosha. Though all that day the boys had been jeering at him at school. Wisp of toe, they shouted, your father was pulled out of the tavern by his wisp of toe, you ran and begged forgiveness. On the third day, when he came back from school, I saw he looked pale and wretched. "What is it?" I asked, he wouldn't answer. "Well, there's no talking in our mansion without Mama and the girls taking part in it. What's more, the girls had heard about it. The very first day, Vavada had begun snarling. You fools and buffoons. Can you ever do anything rational?" "Quite so," I said. "Can we ever do anything rational?" "For the time I turned it off like that. So in the evening I took the boy out for a walk. You must know that we go for a walk every evening, always the same way, along which we are going now. From our gate to that great stone which lies in the road under the hurdle, which marks the beginning of the town pasture, a beautiful and lonely spot, sir. Ilusha and I walked hand in hand as usual. He has a little hand, his fingers are thin and cold, he suffers with his chest, you know. "Father," said he. "Father." "Well," said I. I saw his eyes flashing. "Father, how he treated you then?" "It can't be helped, Ilusha," I said. "Don't forgive him, father. Don't forgive him. At school they say that he has paid you ten rubles for it." "No, Ilusha," said I. "I would not take money from him for anything. He began trembling all over, took my hand in both his, and kissed it again." "Father," he said. "Father, challenge him to a duel. At school they say you are coward and won't challenge him, and at that you'll accept ten rubles from him. I can't challenge him to a duel, Ilusha," I answered, "and I told briefly what I've just told you." He listened. "Father," he said. "Anyway, don't forgive him. When I grow up, I'll call him out myself and kill him, his eyes shone and glowed. And of course I am his father, and I had to put in a word. "It's a sin to kill," I said, even in a duel. "Father," he said, "when I grow up, I'll knock him down, knock the sword out of his hand. I'll fall on him, wave my sword over him, and say, 'I could kill you, but I forgive you so there.'" You see what the workings of his little mind have been during these two days. He must have been planning that vengeance all day, and raving about it at night. But he began to come home from school, badly beaten. I found out about it the day before yesterday, and you are right. I won't send him to that school anymore. I heard that he was standing up against all the class alone, and defying them all, that his heart was full of resentment, of bitterness. I was alarmed about him. We went for another walk. "Father," he asked, "are rich people stronger than anyone else on earth?" "Yes, Ilusha," I said. "There are no people on earth stronger than the rich." "Father," he said, "I will get rich, I will become an officer, and conquer everybody. The Tsar will reward me. I will come back here, and then no one will dare." Then he was silent, and his lips kept trembling. "Father," he said, "what a horde town this is." "Yes, Ilusha," I said. "It isn't a very nice town." "Father, let us move into another town, a nice one," he said, "where people don't know about us." "We will move, we will, Ilusha," said I. "Only I must save up for it." I was glad to be able to turn his mind from painful thoughts, and we began to dream of how we would move to another town, how we would buy a horse and cart. We will put mama and your sisters inside, we will cover them up, and we'll walk. You shall have a lift now and then, and I'll walk beside, for we must take care of our horse. We can't all ride." That's how we'll go. He was enchanted at that, most of all, at the thought of having a horse and driving him, for of course a Russian boy is born among horses. We chatted a long while, thank God I thought, I have diverted his mind, and comforted him. That was the day before yesterday, in the evening, but last night everything changed. He had gone to school in the morning, he came back depressed, terribly depressed. In the evening I took him by the hand and we went for a walk, he would not talk. There was a wind blowing and no sun, and a feeling of autumn, twilight was coming on, we walked along, both of us depressed. "Well, my boy," said I, "how about our setting off on our travels?" I thought I might bring him back to our talk of the day before, he didn't answer, but I felt his fingers trembling in my hand. "Ah," I thought, "it's a bad job, there's something fresh." We had reached the stone where we are now, I sat down on the stone, and in the air, there were lots of kites flapping and whirling. There were as many as thirty in sight. "Of course, it's just the season for the kites," Loki Lucia said. "It's time we got out our last year's kite again, I'll mend it. Where have you put it away?" My boy made no answer, he looked away and turned sideways to me, and then a gust of wind blew up the sand. He suddenly fell on me, threw both his little arms around my neck and held me tight. You know, when children are silent and proud and try to keep back their tears, when they are in great trouble and suddenly break down, their tears fall in streams. With those warm streams of tears, he suddenly wetted my face. He sobbed and shook as though he were in convulsions, and squeezed up against me as I sat on the stone. "Father," he kept crying, "Dear Father, how he insulted you." And I sobbed, too. "We saw it shaking in each other's arms." "Elucia," I said to him, "Elucia darling." "No one saw us then. God alone saw us. I hope he will accord it to my credit. You must thank your brother, Alexi Fieldrovitch. No, sir, I won't thrash my boy for your satisfaction." He had gone back to his original tone of resentful buffoonery. Elucia felt, though that he trusted him, and if there had been someone else in his, Elucia's place, the man would not have spoken so openly, and would not have told what he had just told. This encouraged Elucia, whose heart was trembling on the verge of tears. "Ah, how I would like to make friends with your boy," he cried. "If you could arrange it, certainly, sir," muttered the captain. "But now listen to something quite different," Elucia went on. "I have a message for you. That same brother of mine, Dimitri, has insulted his betrothed, too, a noble-hearted girl, of whom you have probably heard. I have a right to tell you of her wrong. I ought to do so, in fact, for hearing of the insult done to you, and learning all about your unfortunate position, she commissioned me at once, just now, to bring you this help from her. But only from her alone, not from Dimitri, who has abandoned her. Nor from me, his brother, nor from anyone else, but from her, only from her. She entreats you to accept her help. You have both been insulted by the same man. She thought of you, when she had just received a similar insult from him. Similar in its cruelty, I mean. She comes like a sister, to help a brother in misfortune. She told me to persuade you to take these two hundred rubles from her, as from a sister, knowing that you are in such need. No one will know it. It can give rise to no one just slander. There are the two hundred rubles, and I swear you must take them unless, unless all men are to be enemies on earth. But there are brothers even on earth. You have a generous heart. You must see that. You must. And Aliyosha held out the two new rainbow-colored hundred ruble notes. They were both standing at the time by the great stone close to the fence, and there was no one near. The notes seemed to produce a tremendous impression on the captain. He started, but at first, only from astonishment. Such an outcome of their conversation was the last thing he expected. Nothing could have been farther from his dreams than help from anyone, and such a sum. He took the notes, and for a minute, he was almost unable to answer. Quite a new expression came into his face. That for me, so much money, two hundred rubles. Good heavens! Why, I haven't seen so much money for the last four years. Mercy on us. And she says she is a sister? And is that the truth? I swear that all I told you is the truth, cried Aliyosha, the captain flushed red. Listen, my dear, listen. If I take it, I shan't be behaving like a scoundrel. In your eyes, alexifielderovich, I shan't be a scoundrel? No, alexifielderovich, listen, listen. He hurried, touching Aliyosha with both his hands. You are persuading me to take it, saying that it's a sister sends it. But inwardly, in your heart, won't you feel contempt for me if I take it, eh? No, no, on my salvation I swear I shan't, and no one will ever know but me. I, you, and she, and one other lady, her great friend. Never mind the lady. Listen, alexifielderovich, at a moment like this you must listen, for you can't understand what these two hundred rubles mean to me now. The poor fellow went on, rising gradually, into a sort of incoherent, almost wild enthusiasm. He was thrown off his balance, and talked extremely fast, as though afraid he would not be allowed to say all he had to say. Besides, it's being honestly acquired from a sister, so highly respected and revered. Do you know that now I can look after mama and Nina, my hunchback angel daughter? Dr. Hertsenstoopa came to me in the kindness of his heart, and was examining them for a whole hour. "I can make nothing of it," said he, but he prescribed the mineral water, which is kept at the chemist here. He said it would be sure to do her good, and he ordered baths, too, with some medicine in them. The mineral water cost thirty copex, and she'd need to drink forty bottles, perhaps, so I took the prescription, and laid it on the shelf under the icons, and there it lies. And he ordered hot baths for Nina with something dissolved in them, morning and evening. But how can we carry out such a cure in our mansion, without servants, without help, without a bath, and without water? Nina is rheumatic all over, I think I told you that. All her right side aches at night, she has an agony, and would you believe it the angel bears it without groaning for fear of waking us? We eat what we can get, and she'll only take the leavings, what you'll scarcely give to a dog. I am not worth it, I am not taking it from you, I am a burden on you. That's what her angel has tried to express. We wait on her, but she doesn't like it, I'm a useless cripple, no good to anyone. As though she were not worth it, when she is saving us all with her angelic sweetness, without her, without her gentle word, it would be hell among us, she softens even vivara. And don't judge vivara harshly either, she is an angel too. She too has suffered wrong. She came to us this summer, and she brought sixteen rubles she had earned by lessons and saved up to go back to Petersburg in September, but that is now. But we took her money and lived on it, so now she has nothing to go back with. Though indeed she can't go back, for yet she has to work for us like a slave. She is like an overdriven horse with all of us on her back, she waits on us all, mens and washes, sweeps the floor, puts mama to bed, and mama is capricious and tearful and insane, and now I can get a servant with his money, you understand, Alexia Feudorovich, I can get medicines for the dear creatures, I can send my student to Petersburg, I can buy beef, I can feed them properly, good lord, but it's a dream. Alexia was delighted that he had brought him such happiness that the poor fellow had consented to be made happy. Stay, Alexia Feudorovich, stay. The captain began to talk with frenzied rapidity, carried away by a new dream. Do you know that Ilucia and I will perhaps really carry out our dream? We will buy a horse and cart, a black horse, he insists on its being black, and we will set off as we pretended the other day. I have an old friend, a lawyer in Kay province, and I heard, through a trustworthy man, that if I were to go, he'd give me a place as clerk in his office, so who knows, maybe he would. So I just put mama and Nina in the cart, and Ilucia could drive, and I'd walk, I'd walk. Why, if only I succeed in getting one debt paid that's owing me, I should have perhaps enough for that too. There would be enough, Crite Ilucia. Katarina Ivanovna will send you as much as you need, and you know I have money too. Take what you want, as you would from a brother, from a friend, you can give it back later. You'll get rich, you'll get rich, and you know you couldn't have a better idea than to move to another province. It would be the saving of you, especially of your boy, and you ought to go quickly before the winter, before the cold. You must write to us when you are there, and we will always be brothers. No, it's not a dream. Ilucia could have hugged him, he was so pleased, but glancing at him he stopped short. The man was standing with his neck outstretched and his lips protruding, with a pale and frenzied face. His lips were moving, as though trying to articulate something. No sound came, but his lips moved. It was uncanny. "What is it?" asked Ilucia, startled. "I'd like say Fildorovich. I, you," muttered the captain, faltering, looking at him with a strange, wild, fixed stare, and an air of desperate resolution. At the same time, there was a sort of grin on his lips. "I, you, sir." "Wouldn't you like me to show you a little trick I know?" he murmured, suddenly, in a firm rabid whisper, his voice no longer faltering. "What trick?" "A pretty trick," whispered the captain. His mouth was twisted on the left side. His eye was screwed up, and he still stared at Ilucia. "What is the matter? What trick?" Ilucia cried, now thoroughly alarmed. "Why, look!" squealed the captain suddenly, and showing him the two notes which he had been holding by one corner between his thumb and forefinger during the conversation, he crumpled them up savagely and squeezed them, tight in his right hand. "Do you see? Do you see?" he shrieked, pale and infuriated, and suddenly flinging up his hand he threw the crumpled notes on the sand. "Do you see?" he shrieked again, pointing to them. "Look there!" And with wild fury he began trampling them under his heel, gasping and exclaiming as he did so. "So much for your money, so much for your money, so much for your money, so much for your money!" Suddenly he darted back and drew himself up before Ilucia, and his whole figure expressed unutterable pride. "Tell those who sent you that the wisp of toe does not sell his honor," he cried, rising his arm in the air. Then he turned quickly and began to run, but he had not run five steps before he turned completely round and kissed his hand to Ilucia. He ran another five paces and then turned round for the last time. This time his face was not contorted with laughter but quivering all over with tears, in a tearful, faltering, sobbing voice he cried. "What should I say to my boy if I took money from you for our shame?" And then he ran on without turning. Ilucia looked after him, inexpressibly grieved. Oh, he saw that till the very last moment, the man had not known he would crumple up and fling away those notes. He did not turn back. Ilucia knew he would not. He would not follow him and call him back. He knew why. When he was out of sight, Ilucia picked up the two notes. They were very much crushed and crumpled and had been pressed into the sand but were uninjured and even rustled like new ones when Ilucia unfolded them and smoothed them out. After smoothing them out, he folded them up, put them in his pocket, and went to Catarina Ivanovna to report on the success of her commission. Book 5. Pro and Contra. Chapter 1. The Engagement Madame Holocaust was again the first to meet Ilucia. She was flustered. Something important had happened. Catarina 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 herzen stoop. They had sent for the ants. The ants were already here, but herzen stoop 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 Holocaust looked gravely alarmed. "This is serious, serious," she added at every word, as though nothing that had happened to her before had been serious. Ilucia 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 Gleeze and wait for her there. "Lleeze," she whispered almost in his ear. "Lleeze has greatly surprised me just now, dear Alexey Fiedorovich. 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 an earnest. She thinks a great deal of your opinion, Alexey Fiedorovich. And don't take offence 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 are 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, Alexey Fiedorovich, they don't change quickly. "Mama," she said, "I remember this pine tree as in a dream. Only she said something so original about it that I can't repeat it. Besides, I've forgotten it. Well, goodbye, I'm so worried I feel I shall go out of my mind. Ah, Alexey Fiedorovich, I've been out of my mind twice in my life. Go to Lee's, cheer her up as you always can so charmingly. Lee's," she cried, going to her door. "Here I've brought you Alexey Fiedorovich, whom you insulted so. He is not at all angry, I assure you. On the contrary, he is surprised that you could suppose so." "Meseema mon. Come in, Alexey Fiedorovich." Al-Yosha went in. Lee's looked rather embarrassed, and at once flushed Crimson. She was evidently ashamed of something, and, as other 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. "Mama has just told me all about the two hundred rubles, Alexey Fiedorovich, 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 Mama muddles things, she always rushes from one thing to another. I cried when I heard. "Well, did you give him the money, and how was that poor man getting on?" "The fact is I didn't give it to him, and it's a long story," answered Al-Yosha, as though he too could think of nothing but his regret at having failed. Yet Lee saw perfectly well that he too looked away, and that he too was trying to talk of other things. Al-Yosha 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 Lee'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 Lee's 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 whole romances together, generally cheerful and amusing ones. Now they both felt suddenly transported to the old days in Moscow—two years before. Lee's was extremely touched by his story. Al-Yosha described Il-Yosha with warm feeling. When he finished describing how the luckless man trampled on the money, Lee's 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, Lee's. It's better I didn't run after him," said Al-Yosha, 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 tomorrow. Tomorrow he will be sure to take it," said Al-Yosha, pacing up and down, pondering. "You see, Lee's," he went on, stopping suddenly before her. "I made one blender, but that, even that, is all for the best." "What blender, 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 offense 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 that there was a great deal to offend him, and it could not have been otherwise in his position. To begin with, he was sort 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 endure to take it. But he was too genuinely delighted, and that was mortifying. Al-Yosha, 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'm 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, Lee's, it's 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 Zosima 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, to the very last minute that he would trample on the notes, he had a kind of presentment of it. I'm sure of that. That's just what made him so ecstatic that he had that presentment. 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 Lee's, looking with great surprise at Al-Yosha? 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 honor, 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. It's just them that all 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-Yosha was carried away with joy as he uttered his last words, and then he will take it. Lee's clapped her hands. Ah, that's true. I understand that perfectly now. Al-Yosha, how do you know all this? So 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-Yosha went on in his excitement, and not only on an equal, but even on a higher footing. On a higher footing is charming, elects a feud or a vich. 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-Yosha, 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, elects a feud or a vich. Isn't there an all our analysis? I mean your analysis. No, better call it ours. Aren't we showing contempt for him, for that poor man in analyzing his soul like this as it were from above, a, in deciding so certainly that he will take the money? No, Lee's, it's not contempt, Al-Yosha 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, Lee's, but I consider that I have a sorted soul in many ways, and his soul is not sorted on the contrary full of fine feeling. No, Lee's, I have no contempt for him. Do you know, Lee's, 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, elects a feud or a vich, dear, let us care for people as we would for the sick. Let us, Lee's, 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, elects a feud or a vich, how happy I am. I am so glad you say so, Lee's. Elects a feud or a vich, 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 Momma is listening, said Lee's, in a nervous, hurried whisper. Aylia went, opened the door, and reported that no one was listening. "Come here, elects a feud or a vich." Lee's 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 evidence that she was greatly ashamed of the confession. Suddenly she snatched his hand and impulsively kissed it three times. "Aylia, what a good thing!" cried Alyosha 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. Alyosha, too, was greatly overcome. "I should like to please you always, Lee's, but don't know how to do it," he muttered, blushing, too. "Alyosha, dear, you are cold and rude. Do you see? He has chosen me as his wife, and has quite settled about it. He is sure I was in earnest. What a thing to say. Why, that's impertinence. That's what it is." "Why, was it wrong of me to feel sure?" Alyosha asked, laughing suddenly. "Alyosha, on the contrary, it was delightfully right," cried Lee's, looking tenderly and happily at him. Alyosha stood still, holding her hand in his. Suddenly he stooped down and kissed her on her lips. "Oh, what are you doing?" cried Lee's. Alyosha was terribly abashed. "Oh, forgive me, if I shouldn't--perhaps I'm awfully stupid. You said I was cold, so I kissed you, but I see it was stupid." Lee's laughed and hit her face in her hands, and in that dress she ejaculated in the midst of her mouth. But she suddenly ceased laughing and became serious, almost stern. "Alyosha, 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, chose a little idiot, an invalid like me. Ah, Alyosha, I am awfully happy, for I don't deserve you a bit." "You do, Lee's. 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 accept you? I've been thinking it over. In the first place, you've known me from a child, and you've 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've been brought into contact with many, many things already. Ah, you don't know, but I, too, am a caramazov. 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, Lee's. 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." "Alyosha, give me your hand. Why are you taking it away?" murmured Lee's in a failing voice, weak with happiness. "Listen, Alyosha. What will you wear when you come out of the 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, Lee's, but I'll wear whatever you like. I should like you to have a dark blue velvet coat, a white peak waistcoat, and a soft gray feld's 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're 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. Alyosha, 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, Lee's. It was not so a bit. The letter is with me now, and it was this morning, in this pocket. Here it is." Alyosha pulled the letter out laughing, and showed it her at a distance. "But I'm not going to give it to you. Look at it from here." "Why, then you told the lie?" "You, a monk, told the lie." "I told the lie, if you like," Alyosha laughed too. "I told the 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 anyone." Lee's looked at him joyfully. "Alyosha," she murmured again, "look at the door. Isn't mama listening?" "Very well, Lee's a look. But wouldn't it be better not to look? Why suspect your mother of such meanness? What meanness? As for spying on her daughter, it's her right. It's not meanness," cried Lee's, firing up. "You may be sure a Lexa Fiedorovich, that when I am a mother, if I have a daughter like myself, I shall certainly spy on her." "Really, Lee's?" "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, Alyosha, 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 Alyosha, "only it's not right. Ah, how contemptuous. Alyosha, 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 Alyosha, "and Alyosha will you give in to me, we must decide that too. I shall be delighted to Lee's and certain to, only not in the most important things. Even 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'm 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 Lee's 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 dishonorable. You are my conscience now. Listen, Alyosha, fiered or a bitch. 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, Lee's. I have a secret one, too," answered Alyosha mournfully. "I see you love me, since you guessed that." "What grief, what about? Can you tell me?" asked Lee's with timid and treaty. "I'll tell you later, Lee's, afterwards," said Alyosha, 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 Alyosha, pondering. "I don't like your brother, Yvonne, Alyosha," said Lee's 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." "It's the primitive force of the Caramazovs, as Father Paisie 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 Caramazov. Me, a monk, a monk. Am I a monk, Lee's? You said just now that I was. Yes, I did. And perhaps I don't even believe in God." "You don't believe?" "What does the matter?" said Lee's quietly and gently. "But Alyosha 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 Lee's, how bound up in soul I am with him. And then I shall be left alone. I shall come to you, Lee's, for the future we will be together." "Yes, together, together. Hence forward we shall be always together, all our lives. Listen, kiss me, I allow you." Alyosha 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 alive. I see I've kept you cruelly. I'll pray today for him, and you. Alyosha, we shall be happy. Shall we be happy, shall we?" "I believe we shall, Lee's." Alyosha thought it better not to go into Madam Holocaust, and was going out of the house without saying goodbye to her. But no sooner had he opened the door than he found Madam Holocaust standing before him. From the first word, Alyosha guessed that she had been waiting on purpose to meet him. "Alex, say few, Dorovich, this is awful. This is all child dish 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 Alyosha, "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," Alyosha 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 Alyosha. "It's also far off. We may have to wait another year and a half." "Alex, say few, Dorovich. That's true, of course, and you'll have time to quarrel and separate a thousand times in the year and a half. But I am so unhappy, though at such nonsense it's a great blow to me. I feel like famusov in the last scene of sorrow from wit. You are Chikatsky, and she is Sophia, and only fancy. I 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 the sledder she has written? Show it me at once, at once." "No, there's no need. Tell me, how does Katarina Ivanovna know? I must know." "She still lies in delirium. She has not regained consciousness. Her aunts are here, but they do nothing but sigh and give themselves heirs." Her doesn't stoop came, and he was so alarmed that I didn't know what to do for him. I 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, Alexey Fiedorovich. 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's sanctioned it, I wouldn't. I'm coming tomorrow, and if you like, we can talk over many things. But now, goodbye." And Al Yosha ran downstairs and entered the street. End of chapter 1 of book 5 Book 5, chapter 2. Smerd Yakov with a guitar. He had no time to lose, indeed. Even while he was saying goodbye to Lisa, the thought had struck him that he must attempt some stratagem to find his brother Demetri, who was evidently keeping out of his way. It was getting late, nearly three o'clock. Al Yosha's whole soul turned to the monastery, to his dying saint. But the necessity of seeing Demetri out weighed everything. The conviction that a great, inevitable catastrophe was about to happen grew stronger in Al Yosha'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. Even 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 Demetri unawares, to climb over the fence as he had the day before, get into the garden, and sit in the summer house. "If Demetri were not there," thought Al Yosha, 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, Demetri were lying in wait for Groshenko to come, he would be very likely to come to the summer house. Al Yosha did not, however, give much thought to the details of his plan, but resolve 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 in almost the same spot as the day before, and stole into the summer house unseen. He did not want to be noticed. The women of the house and Foma, too, if he were here, might be loyal to his brother and obey his instructions, and so refused to let Al Yosha come into the garden, or might warn Demetri that he was being sought and inquired for. There was no one in the summer house. Al Yosha 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. It 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 places 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 Yosha 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 lackiest tenor and a lackiest song. Another voice, a woman, suddenly asked insinuatingly and bashfully, though with mincing affectation. Why haven't you been to see us for so long, powerful for your daughter, rich? 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 Smurrtyarkov," thought Al Yosha 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 the tail and goes to Martha 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 today." "Poetry is rubbish," said Smurrtyarkov, curtly. "Oh no, I'm very fond of poetry." "So far as it's poetry is essential rubbish. Consider your-" Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh. Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50 percent on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10 percent on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. 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