The Brothers Karamazov

The Brothers Karamazov_Part_2

http://www.adfreebooks.com - 1000+ audiobooks, all ad free!

Broadcast on:: 11 Oct 2024
Audio Format:: other

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 a hundred 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 we're prohibited by law. 18 plus terms and conditions apply. So if whoever talks in rhyme, and if we were all to talk in rhyme, even though it were decreed by government, we shouldn't say much, should we? Poetry is no good, Maria, Condra Chivna. How clever you are. How is it you've gone so deep into everything? The woman's voice was more and more insinuating. I could have done better than that. I could have known more than that if it had knocked him for my destiny from my childhood up. I would have shot a man in a duel if he called me names, because I'm descended from a filthy beggar and have no father. And they used to throw it in my teeth in Moscow. It had reached them from here thanks to Grigori Vasilievich. Grigori Vasilievich blames me for rebelling against my birth, but I would have sanctioned their killing me before I was born that I might not have to come into the world at all. They used to say in the market, in your mama too, with great lack of delicacy, set off telling me that her hair was like a mat on her head, and that she was short of five foot by a wee bit. Why talk of a wee bit, when she might have said a little bit like everyone else? She wanted to make it touching, a regular peasant's feeling. Can a Russian peasant be said to feel in comparison with an educated man? He can't be said to have feeling at all in his ignorance. From my childhood up, when I hear a wee bit, I'm ready to burst with rage. I hate all Russia, Maria Kondratjevna. If you'd been a cadet in the army, or a young Hazar, you wouldn't have talked like that, but would have drawn your saber to defend all Russia. I don't want to be a Hazar, Maria Kondratjevna, and what's more, I should like to abolish all soldiers. And when an enemy comes, who's going to defend us? There's no need of defense. In 1812, there was a great invasion of Russia by Napoleon, first emperor of the French, father of the present one, and it would have been a good thing if they had conquered us. A clever nation would have conquered a very stupid one, and annexed it. We should have had quite different institutions. Are they so much better in their own country than we are? I wouldn't change it, Dandy. I know, offered three young Englishmen, observed Maria Kondratjevna tenderly, doubtless accompanying her words with the most languishing glance. That's as one prefers. But you are just like a foreigner, just like a most gentlemanly foreigner. I tell you that, though, it makes me bashful. If you care to know, the folks there, and ours here, are just alike in their vice. They are swindlers, only there the scoundrel wears polished boots, and here he grovels in filth and sees no harm in it. The Russian people want thrashing, as for Yodor Pavlovitch said very truly yesterday, though he is mad and all his children. You said yourself, you have such a respect, for you run for Yodor Pavlovitch. But he said I was a stinking lackey. He thinks that I might be unruly. He is mistaken there. If I had a certain sum in my pocket, I would have left here long ago. To me to leave Yodor Pavlovitch is lower than any lackey in his behaviour, and his mind, and in his poverty. He doesn't know how to do anything, and yet he is respected by everyone. I may be only a suit maker, but with luck I could open a cafe restaurant, Petrovka, in Moscow, for my cookery is something special, and there is no one in Moscow except the foreigners whose cookery is anything special. To me to eat for Yodor Pavlovitch is a beggar, but if he were to challenge the son of the first count in the country he'd fight him, though in what way is he better than I am, for he's ever so much stupid of than I am. Look at the money he's wasted without any need. It must be lovely a duel, Madhir Kundraach, if no observed suddenly. How so? It must be so dreadful and so brave, especially when young officers with pistols in their hands pop at one another for the sake of some lady, a perfect picture. If only girls were allowed to look on, I'd give anything to see one. It's all very well when you're firing at someone, but when he is firing straight into your mug you must feel pretty silly. You'd be glad to run away, Madhir Kundraachivna. You don't mean you would run away, but Smirajakoff did not dain to reply. After a moment's silence the guitar tinkled again, and he sang again in the same falsetto. Whatever you may say, I shall go far away. Life will be bright and gay in the city far away. I shall not grieve, I shall not grieve at all. I don't intend to grieve at all. 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's Ryan C. Chris. Life comes at you fast, which is why it's important to find some time to relax a little you time. Enter Chumba Casino with no download required. You can jump on any time, anywhere for the chance to redeem some serious prizes. So treat yourself with Chumba Casino and play over a hundred online casino style games all for free. Go to Chumba Casino.com to collect your free welcome bonus. Sponsor by Chumba Casino. No purchase necessary. VGW Group, void where prohibited by law, 18 plus terms and conditions apply. Then something unexpected happened. Alyosha suddenly sneezed. They were silent. Alyosha got up and walked towards them. He found Smertyakov dressed up and wearing polished boots, his hair commanded and perhaps curled. The guitar lay on the garden seat. His companion was the daughter of the house wearing a light blue dress with a train two yards long. She was young and would not have been bad looking, but that her face was so round and terribly freckled. "Will my brother Demetri be soon be back?" asked Alyosha, with as much composure as he could. Smertyakov got up slowly. "May be a contract if no rose, too." "How am I to know about Demetri Piodorovich?" "Not as if I were his keeper," answered Smertyakov quietly, distinctly and supersoniously. "But I simply asked whether you do know," Alyosha explained. "I know nothing of his whereabouts and don't want to, but my brother told me that you let him know all that goes on in the house and promised to let him know when Agrofena Alexandrovna comes." Smertyakov turned a deliberate, unmoved glance upon him. "And how did you get in this time since the gate was bolted an hour ago?" he asked, looking at Alyosha. "I came in from the back alley over the fence and went straight to the summer house. I hope you'll forgive me," he added, addressing Mario Contrativna. "I was in a hurry to find my brother. Ah, though we could take it amiss in you," drove Mario Contrativna, flattered by Alyosha's apology. "For Demitri Fyodorovitch often goes to the summer house in that way. We don't know he is here, and he's sitting in the summer house." "I'm very anxious to find him or to learn from you where he is now. Believe me, it's on business of great importance to him." "He never tells us," lisped Mario Contrativna. "Though I used to come here as a friend," Smerdyakov began again. "Demitri Fyodorovitch has pestered me in a merciless way, even here, by his incessant questions about the master." "What news?" he laughed. "What's going on in there now? Who's coming and going? And can't I tell him anything more? Twice already he's threatened me with death." "With death?" Alyosha exclaimed in surprise. "Do you suppose you'd think much of that with his temper which you had a chance of observing yourself yesterday?" He said, "If I let Agra Fena Alexandrovna in and she passes the night there, I'll be the first to suffer for it. I'm terribly afraid of him, and if I were not even more afraid of doing so, I ought to let the police know. God only knows what he might not do." "He's honest," said to him the other day, "I'll pound you in a mortar," added Madia Contrativna. "Oh, if it's pounding in a mortar, it may be only talk," observed Alyosha. "If I could meet him, I might speak to him about that, too." "Well, the only thing I can tell you is this," said Smerdyakov, as though thinking better of it. "I am here as an old friend and neighbor, and it would be odd if I didn't come. On the other hand, Yubran Fyodorovitch sent me first thing this morning to your brothers lodging in Lake Street without a letter but with a message to Dmitri Fyodorovitch to go to dine with him at the restaurant here in the marketplace. I went but didn't find Dmitri Fyodorovitch at home, though it was eight o'clock. He's been here, but he's quite gone. Those are the very words of his landlady. It's as though there was an understanding between them. Perhaps at this moment he's in the restaurant with Ivan Fyodorovitch, but Ivan Fyodorovitch has not been home to dinner, and Fyodor Pavlovitch dined alone an hour ago and has gone to lie down. "But I beg you most particularly not to speak of me and what I've told you, or he'd kill me for nothing at all." Brother Ivan invited Dmitri to the restaurant today, repeated Alyosha quickly. "That's so. The Metropolis Tavern in the marketplace. The very same." "That's quite likely," cried Alyosha, much excited. "Thank you, Smirtyakov. That's important. I'll go there at once." "Don't betray me," Smirtyakov called after him. "Oh no, I'll go to the taverness, though, by chance. Don't be anxious." "But wait a minute. I'll open the gate to you," cried Maria Condraachivna. "No, it's a shortcut. I'll get over the fence again." What he had heard through Alyosha into great agitation. He ran to the tavern. He was impossible for him to go into the tavern in his monastic dress, but he could inquire at the entrance for his brothers and call them down. "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 100 social casino style games for free. Get lucky today. But just as he reached the tavern, a window is flung open, and his brother Ivan called down to him from it. "Alyasha, can't you come up here to me? I shall be awfully grateful. To be sure I can, only I don't quite know whether in this dress, but I'm in a rumour part. Come up the steps. I'll run down to meet you. A minute later, Alyasha was sitting beside his brother. Ivan was alone dining. End of chapter 2 of book 5 Book 5 chapter 3. The Brothers Make Friends Ivan was not, however, in a separate room, but only in a place shut off by a screen, so that it was unseen by other people in the room. It was the first room from the entrance with a buffet along the wall. Waiters were continually darting to and fro in it. The only customer in the room was an old, retired military man, drinking tea in a corner. But there was the usual bustle going on in the other rooms of the tavern. There were shouts for the waiters, the sound of popping corks, the click of billiard balls, the drone of the organ. Alyasha knew that Ivan did not usually visit this tavern and disliked taverns in general. "So he must have come here," he reflected, simply to meet Dimitri by arrangement. "Yet Dimitri was not there." "Shall I order you fish, soup or anything? You don't live on tea alone, I suppose," cried Ivan, apparently delighted at having got hold of Alyasha. He had finished dinner and was drinking tea. "Let me have soup, and tea afterwards. I am hungry," said Alyasha Galy. "And cherry jam, they have it here. You remember how you used to love cherry jam when you were little?" "You remember that? Let me have jam, too. I like it still." Ivan rang for the waiter and ordered soup, jam, and tea. "I remember everything, Alyasha. I remember you till you were eleven. I was nearly fifteen. There's such a difference between fifteen and eleven that brothers are never companions at those ages. I don't know whether I was fond of you even. When I went away to Moscow for the first few years, I never thought of you at all. Then, when you came to Moscow yourself, we only met once somewhere, I believe, and now I've been here more than three months, and so far we have scarcely said a word to each other. Tomorrow I am going away, and that I was just thinking, as I sat here, how I could see you, to say goodbye, and just then you passed. Were you very anxious to see me, then?" "Very. I want to get to know you once for all, and I want you to know me, and then to say goodbye. I believe it's always best to get to know people just before leaving them. I've noticed how you've been looking at me these three months. There has been a continual look of expectation in your eyes, and I can't endure that. That's how it is I've kept away from you. But in the end I've learned to respect you. The little man stands firm, I thought. Though I am laughing, I am serious. You do stand firm, don't you. I like people who are firm like that. Whatever it is they stand by, even if they are such little fellows as you. Your expectant eyes cease to annoy me. I grew fond of them in the end, those expectant eyes. You seem to love me for some reason, Al Yosha." "I do love you, Ivan. Dimitri says of you, Ivan is a tomb. I say of you, Ivan is a riddle. You are a riddle to me even now. But I understand something in you, and I did not understand it till this morning." "What's that?" laughed Ivan. "You won't be angry?" Al Yosha laughed, too. "Well?" "That you are just as young as other young men of three and twenty. That you are just a young and fresh and nice boy. Green, in fact. Now have I insulted you dreadfully?" "On the contrary, I am struck by a coincidence," cried Ivan, warmly and good humoredly. "Would you believe it, that ever since that scene with her, I have thought of nothing else, but my youthful greenness, and just as though you guessed that, you began about it." "Do you know I have been sitting here thinking to myself, that if I didn't believe in life, if I lost faith in the woman I love, lost faith in the order of things, were convinced, in fact, that everything is a disorderly, damnable, and perhaps devil-ridden chaos. If I were struck by every horror of man's disillusionment, still I should want to live, and, having once tasted of the cup, I would not turn away from it till I had drained it. At thirty, though, I should be sure to leave the cup, even if I am not emptied it, and turn away, where I don't know. But till I am thirty, I know that my youth will triumph over everything, every disillusionment, every disgust with life. I've asked myself many times whether there is in the world any despair that would overcome this frantic, and perhaps unseemly thirst for life in me, and I've come to the conclusion that there isn't, that is, till I am thirty, and then I shall lose it of myself, I fancy. Some driveling, consumptive moralists, and poets especially, often call that thirst for life base. It's a feature of the Caramazovs, it's true, that thirst for life, regardless of everything. You have it, no doubt, too. But why is it base? The centripetal force on our planet is still fearfully strong, Al-Yosha. I have a longing for life, and I go on living in spite of logic. Though I may not believe in the order of the universe, yet I love the sticky little leaves as they open in spring. I love the blue sky. I love some people, whom one loves, you know, sometimes, without knowing why. I love some great deeds done by men, though I've long ceased, perhaps, to have faith in them. Yet from old habit one's heart prizes them. Here they have brought the soup for you, eat it, it will do you good, it's first-rate soup, they know how to make it here. I want to travel in Europe, Al-Yosha. I shall set off from here. And yet I know that I am only going to a graveyard. But it's a most precious graveyard, that's what it is. Precious are the dead that lie there. Every stone over them speaks of such burning life in the past, of such passionate faith in their work, their truth, their struggle, and their science, that I know I shall fall on the ground and kiss those stones and weep over them, though I'm convinced in my heart that it's long been nothing but a graveyard. And I shall not weep from despair. But simply because I shall be happy in my tears, I shall steep my soul in emotion. I love the sticky leaves in spring, the blue sky. That's all it is. It's not a matter of intellect or logic, it's loving with one's inside, with one's stomach. One loves the first strength of one's youth. Do you understand anything of my tirade, Al-Yosha? Yvonne laughed suddenly. I understand too well, Yvonne. "One longs to love with one's inside, with one's stomach. You said that so well, and I am awfully glad that you have such longing for life," cried Al-Yosha. "I think everyone should love life above everything in the world." "Love life more than the meaning of it?" "Certainly. Love it regardless of logic, as you say. It must be regardless of logic, and it's only then one will understand the meaning of it. I've thought so a long time. Half your work is done, Yvonne. You love life. Now you've only to try to do the second half and you are saved." "You are trying to save me, but perhaps I am not lost. And what does your second half mean?" "Why, one has to raise up your dead, who perhaps have not died after all. Come, let me have tea. I am so glad of our talk, Yvonne." "I see you are feeling inspired. I am awfully fond of such professión's default from such novices. You are a steadfast person, Alexei. Is it true that you mean to leave the monastery?" "Yes, my elder sends me out into the worlds." "We shall see each other then in the worlds. We shall meet before I am thirty, when I shall begin to turn aside from the cup." "Father doesn't want to turn aside from his cup till he is seventy. He dreams of hanging on to eighty, in fact, so he says. He means it only too seriously, though he is a buffoon. He stands on a firm rock, too. He stands on his sensuality, though after we are thirty. Indeed, there may be nothing else to stand on. But to hang on to seventy is nasty. Better only to thirty. One might retain a shadow of nobility by deceiving oneself. Have you seen Demetri today?" "No, but I saw Samar Dayakoff, and Al-Yosha rapidly, though minutely, described his meeting with Samar Dayakoff. Yvonne began listening anxiously and questioned him. "But he begged me not to tell Demetri that he had told me about him," added Al-Yosha. Yvonne frowned and pondered. "Are you frowning on Samar Dayakoff's account?" asked Al-Yosha. "Yes, on his account—damn him—I certainly did want to see Demetri, but now there's no need," said Yvonne reluctantly. "But are you really going so soon, brother?" "What of Demetri, and father? How will it end?" asked Al-Yosha anxiously. "You are always harping upon it. What have I to do with it? Am I my brother Demetri's keeper?" Yvonne snapped irritably. But then he suddenly smiled bitterly. Cain's answer about his murdered brother, wasn't it? "Perhaps that's what you're thinking at this moment?" "Well, damn it all. I can't stay here to be their keeper, can I?" "I've finished what I had to do, and I'm going. Do you imagine I am jealous of Demetri that I've been trying to steal his beautiful Katarina Ivanovna for the last three months?" "Nonsense, I had business of my own. I finished it. I am going. I finished it just now. You were witness." "At Katarina Ivanovna's?" "Yes, and I've released myself once for all." "And after all, what have I to do with Demetri? Demetri doesn't come in. I had my own business to settle with Katarina Ivanovna. You know, on the contrary, that Demetri behaved as though there was an understanding between us. I didn't ask to do it, but he solemnly handed her over to me and gave us his blessing. It's all too funny. Ah, Eljosha, if you only knew how light my heart is now, would you believe it? I sat here eating my dinner, and was nearly ordering champagne to celebrate my first hour of freedom. It's been going on nearly six months, and all at once I've thrown it off. I could never have guessed even yesterday how easy it would be to put an end to it if I wanted." "You are speaking of your love, Ivan?" "Of my love, if you like. I fell in love with the young lady. I worried myself over her, and she worried me. I sat watching over her, and all at once it's collapsed. I spoke this morning with inspiration, but I went away and roared with laughter. Would you believe it? Yes, it's the literal truth." "You seem very merry about it now," observed Eljosha, looking into his face, which had suddenly grown brighter. "But how could I tell that I didn't care for her a bit? Haha! It appears after all I didn't. And yet how she attracted me. How attractive she was just now when I made my speech. And do you know she attracts me awfully even now? Yet how easy it is to leave her. Do you think I am boasting?" "No, only perhaps it wasn't love." "Eljosha," laughed Ivan, "don't make reflections about love. It's unseemly for you. How you rushed into the discussion this morning. I've forgotten to kiss you for it. But how she tormented me. It certainly was sitting by a laceration. Ah, she knew how I loved her. She loved me and not Demetri," Ivan insisted Galy. Her feeling for Demetri was simply a self-laceration. All I told her just now was perfectly true. But the worst of it is, it may take her fifteen or twenty years to find out that she doesn't care for Demetri and loves me whom she torments. And perhaps she may never find it out as all, in spite of her lesson today. Well, it's better so. I can simply go away for good. By the way, how is she now? What happened after I departed?" Aljosha told him she had been hysterical, and that she was now, he heard, unconscious and delirious. "Isn't Madam Holocaust laying it on?" "I think not. I must find out. Nobody dies of hysterics, though. They don't matter. God gave woman hysterics as a relief. I won't go to her at all. Why push myself forward again?" "But you told her that she had never cared for you." "I did that on purpose. Aljosha, shall I call for some champagne? Let us drink to my freedom. Ah, if only you knew how glad I am." "No, brother. We had better not drink," said Aljosha suddenly. "Besides, I feel somehow depressed." "Yes, you've been depressed a long time. I've noticed it." "Have you settled to go tomorrow morning, men?" "Morning. I didn't say I should go in the morning. But perhaps it may be the morning. Would you believe it? I dined here today, only to avoid dining with the old man. I loathe him so. I should have left long ago, so far as he is concerned. But why are you so worried about my going away? We've plenty of time before I go. An eternity." "If you are going away tomorrow, what do you mean by an eternity?" "But what does it matter to us?" laughed Ivan. "We've time enough for our talk, for what brought us here. Why do you look so surprised? Answer, why have we met here, to talk of my love for Katarina Ivanovna, of the old man and Dimitri, a foreign travel, of the fatal position of Russia, of the Emperor Napoleon? Is that it?" "No." "Then you know what, for? It's different for other people. But we in our green youth have to settle the eternal questions, first of all. That's what we care about." Young Russia is talking about nothing but the eternal questions now, just when the old folks are all taken up with practical questions. "Why have you been looking at me in expectation for the last three months? To ask me, what do you believe, or don't you believe at all?" "That's what your eyes have been meaning for these three months, haven't they?" "Perhaps so," smiled Al-Yosha. "You are not laughing at me now, Ivan." "Me laughing? I don't want to wound my little brother who has been watching me with such expectation for three months. Al-Yosha looks straight at me. Of course, I'm just such a little boy as you are, only not an office. And what have Russian boys been doing up till now, some of them I mean? In this stinking tavern, for instance, here they meet and sit down in a corner. They've never met in their lives before, and when they go out of the tavern, they won't meet again for forty years. And what do they talk about in that momentary halt in the tavern? Of the eternal questions, of the existence of God and immortality. And those who do not believe in God talk of socialism or anarchism, of the transformation of all humanity on a new pattern, so that it all comes to the same. They're the same questions turned inside out. And masses, masses of the most original Russian boys, do nothing but talk of the eternal questions. Isn't it so?" "Yes, for real Russians the questions of God's existence and of immortality. Or, as you say, the same questions turned inside out, come first and foremost, of course, and so they should," said Al-Yosha, still watching his brother with the same gentle and inquiring smile. "Well, Al-Yosha, it's sometimes very unwise to be a Russian at all, but anything stupider than the way Russian boys spend their time one can hardly imagine. But there's one Russian boy called Al-Yosha I am awfully fond of." "How nicely you put that in," Al-Yosha laughed suddenly. "Well, tell me where to begin. Give your orders. The existence of God, eh?" "Begin where you like. You declared yesterday at Father's that there was no God." Al-Yosha looked searchingly at his brother. "I said that yesterday at dinner on purpose to tease you, and I saw your eyes glow. But now I've no objection to discussing with you, and I say so very seriously. I want to be friends with you Al-Yosha, for I have no friends, and want to try it." "Well, only fancy. Perhaps I too accept God," laughed Ivan. "That's a surprise for you, isn't it?" "Yes, of course. If you are not joking now." "Joking?" "I was told that the elders yesterday that I was joking." "You know, dear boy, there was an old sinner in the 18th century who declared that, if there were no God, he would have to be invented." "See on the existing padu, Il-Foldre-Lauvente. And man has actually invented God. And what strange, what would be marvelous is not that God should really exist. The marvel is that such an idea, the idea of the necessity of God, could enter the head of such a savage, vicious beast as man. So holy it is, so touching, so wise, and so great a credit it does to man. As for me, I have long resolved not to think whether man created God or God man. And I won't go through all the axioms laid down by Russian boys on that subject, all derived from European hypotheses. For what's a hypothesis there is an axiom with the Russian boy, and not only with the boys, but with their teachers, too, for our Russian professors are often just the same boys themselves. And so I admit all the hypotheses. For what are we aiming at now? I am trying to explain as quickly as possible my essential nature. That is what manner of man I am, what I believe in, and for what I hope. That's it, isn't it? And therefore, I tell you that I accept God simply. But you must note this, if God exists, and if he really did create the world, then, as we all know, he created it according to the geometry of Euclid and the human mind, with a conception of only three dimensions in space. Yet there have been, and still are, geometricians and philosophers, and even some of the most distinguished, who doubt whether the whole universe, or to speak more widely, the whole of being, was only created in Euclid's geometry. They even dare to dream that two parallel lines, which according to Euclid, can never meet on earth, may meet somewhere in infinity. I have come to the conclusion that, since I can't understand even that, I can't expect to understand about God. I acknowledge humbly that I have no faculty for settling such questions. I have a Euclidian earthly mind. And how could I solve problems that are not of this world? And I advise you never to think about it either, my dear Al-Yosha, especially about God, whether he exists or not. All such questions are utterly inappropriate for a mind created with an idea of only three dimensions. And so I accept God, and I'm glad to, and what's more, I accept his wisdom, his purpose, which are utterly beyond our kin. I believe in the underlying order and the meaning of life. I believe in the eternal harmony, in which they say we shall one day be blended. I believe in the word, to which the universe is striving, and which itself was with God, and which itself is God, and so on, and so on, to infinity. There are all sorts of phrases for it. I seem to be on the right path, don't I? Yet would you believe it? In the final results I don't accept this world of gods. And although I know it exists, I don't accept it at all. It's not that I don't accept God, you must understand. It's the world created by him I don't, and cannot accept. Let me make it plain. I believe like a child that suffering will be healed and made up for, that all the humiliating absurdity of human contradictions will vanish like a pitiful mirage, like the despicable fabrication of the impotent and infinitely small Euclidean mind of man, that in the world's finale, at the moment of eternal harmony, something so precious will come to pass that it will suffice for all hearts, for the comforting of all resentments, for the atonement of all the crimes of humanity, of all the blood they've shed, that it will make it not only possible to forgive, but to justify all that has happened with men. But though all that may come to pass, I don't accept it, I won't accept it. Even if parallel lines do meet, and I see it myself, I shall see it and say that they've met, but still I won't accept it. That's what's at the roots of Mialyosha, that's my creed. I am an earnest in what I say. I began our talk as stupidly as I could on purpose, but I've led up to my confession, for that's all you want. You didn't want to hear about God, but only to know what the brother you love lives by, and so I've told you. Yvonne concluded his long tirade, with marked and unexpected feeling. "And why did you begin as stupidly as you could?" asked Al-Yosha, looking dreamly at him. To begin with, for the sake of being Russian, Russian conversations on such subjects are always carried on inconceivably stupidly. And secondly, the stupider one is, the closer one is to reality. The stupider one is, the clearer one is. Stupidity is brief and artless, while intelligence wriggles and hides itself. Intelligence is a nave, but stupidity is honest and straightforward. I've led the conversation to my despair, and the more stupiderly I have presented it, the better for me. "You will explain why you don't accept the world?" said Al-Yosha. "To be sure I will. It's not a secret. That's what I've been leading up to. Dear little brother, I don't want to corrupt you or to turn you from your stronghold. Perhaps I want to be healed by you." Yvonne smiled suddenly, quite like a little gentle child. Al-Yosha had never seen such a smile on his face before. End of chapter 3 of book 5. Book 5, chapter 4. Rebellion. "I must make one confession even begin. I could never understand how one can love one's neighbors. It's just one's neighbors, to my mind, that one can't love. The one might love those at a distance. I once read somewhere of John the Merciful, a saint, that when a hungry frozen beggar came to him, he took him into his bed, held him in his arms, and began breathing into his mouth, which was peatured and loafsome for some awful disease. I am convinced that he did that from self-laceration, from the self-laceration of falsity, for the sake of the charity imposed by duty, as a pen enslaved on him. For anyone to love a man, he must be hidden, as for soon as he shows his face, love is gone." Father Zosima has talked of that more than once observed Al-Yosha. He too said that the face of a man often hinders many people not practiced in love from loving him, but yet there is a great deal of love and mankind and almost Christlike love. I know that myself, even. Well, I know nothing of it so far, and I can't understand, and the innumerable mass of mankind are with me there. The question is, whether that's due to men's bad qualities, or whether it's inherent in their nature. To my thinking, Christlike love for man is a miracle impossible on earth. He was God, but we are not gods. Suppose I, for instance, suffer intensely. Another can never know how much I suffer, because he is another and not I. And what's more, a man is rarely ready to admit another's suffering, as though it were a distinction. Why won't he admit it, do you think? Because I smell unpleasant, because I have a stupid face, because I want straw on his foot? Besides, there is suffering and suffering, degrading, humiliating suffer such as humbles me hunger, for instance. My benefactor will perhaps allow me, but when you come to hire suffering for an idea, for instance, he will very rarely admit that, perhaps because my face strikes him as not at all what he fancies a man should have, who suffers for an idea. And so he deprives me instantly of his favor, and not at all from badness of heart. Baggers, especially genteel baggers, are never to show themselves, but to ask for charity through the newspaper. One can love one's neighbors in the abstract, or even at a distance, but at close quarters it's almost impossible. If it were as on the stage, in the ballet, where if beggars come in they wear silken rags and tattered lace and back for alms dancing gracefully, then one might like looking at them. But even then we should not love them. But enough of that. I simply wanted to show you my point of view. I meant to speak of the sufferings of mankind generally, but we had better confine ourselves through the sufferings of the children. That reduces the scope of my argument to a tenth of what it would be. Still, we'd better keep to the children, though it does weaken my case. But, in the first place, children can be loved even at close quarters, even when they are dirty, even when they are ugly. I fancy though, children never are ugly. The second reason why I won't speak of grown up people is that, besides being disgusting and unworthy of love, they have a compensation. They've eaten the apple and no good and evil, and they have become like gods. They go on eating it, still. But the children haven't eaten anything, and are so far innocent. Are you fond of children, Alasha? I know you are, and you will understand why I prefer to speak of them. If they, too, suffer horribly on earth, they must suffer for their fathers, since they must be punished for their fathers who have eaten the apple. But that reasoning is of the other world, and is incomprehensible for the heart of man here on earth. The innocent must not suffer for another sins, and especially such innocence. He may be surprised at me, Alasha, but I am awfully fond of children, too. And observe cruel people, the violent, the rapacious, the karamazovs are sometimes very fond of children. Children, while they are quite little, up to seven, for instance, they are so remote from grown up people, they are different creatures, as it were of a different species. I knew a criminal in the prison, who had, in the course of his career, as a burglar, murdered whole families, including several children. But when he was in prison, he had a strange affection for them. He spent all his time at his window, watching the children playing in the prison yard. He trained one little boy to come up to his window and made great friends with him. You don't know why I'm telling you all this, Alasha. My head aches, and I am sad. You speak with a stranger, observed Alasha uneasily, as though you were not quiet yourself. By the way, Bulgarian I met lately in Moscow, Ivan went on, seeming not to hear his brother's words, told me about the crimes committed by Turks and Circasions and all parts of Bulgaria through fear of the general rising of the Slavs. They burned villages, murder, outrage women and children, they nail their prisoners by the ears to the fences, leave them so till morning and in morning, they hang them. All sorts of things you can't imagine. People talk sometimes of beasts you'll cruelty, but that's a great injustice and insult to the beasts. A beast can never be so cruel as a man, so artistically cruel. The tiger only pears and gnaws, that's all he can do. He would never think of mailing people by the ears, even if he were able to do it. These takes took a pleasure in torturing children, too. Cupping the unborn child. 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 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. With the Lucky Land Sluts, you can get lucky just about anywhere. This is your captain speaking. We've got clear runway and the weather's fine, but we're just going to circle up here a while and get lucky. No, no, nothing like that. It's just these cash prizes that up quick. So I suggest you sit back, keep your tray table upright, and start getting lucky. Play for free at luckylandsluts.com. Are you feeling lucky? No purchase necessary. BGW, we're prohibited by law. 18 plus terms and conditions apply. From the mother's womb and tossing babies up in the air and catching them, on the points of their bayonets before their mother's eyes. Doing it before the mother's eyes was what gave zest to the amusement. Here's another scene that I thought of very interesting. Imagine a trembling mother with her baby in her arms, a circle of invading turks around her. They've planned a diversion. They pet the baby, laugh to make it laugh. They succeed. The baby laughs. At that moment, the turk points a pistol, four inches from the baby's face. The baby laughs with glee, holds out its little hands to the pistol, and he pulls the trigger in the baby's face and blows out its brains. Artistic wasn't it? By the way, turks are particularly fond of sweet things, they say. "Brother, what are you driving at?" asked Elosha. I think if the devil doesn't exist but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness, just as he did God, then observed Elosha. It's wonderful how you can turn words, as Polonius says in Hamlet, laughed even. You turn my words against me. Well, I'm glad. Yours must be a fine God if man created him in his image and likeness. You ask me just now what I was driving at. You see, I am fond of collecting certain facts and which you believe I even copy some anecdotes of a certain sword from newspapers and books, and I have already got a fine collection. The turks, of course, have gone into it too, but they are foreigners. I have specimen from home that are even better than the turks. You know, we prefer beating rods and scruges. That's our national institution. Nailing ears is unthinkable for us, for we are, after all, Europeans, but the rod and the screwed we have always with us, and they cannot be taken from us. Abroad now, they scarcely do any beating. Manors are more humane, or laws have been passed so that they don't dare to flog men now. But they make it up for it in other ways just as national as arts, and so national that it would be practically impossible among us, though I believe we are being inoculated with it since the religious movement began in our aristocracy. I have a charming pamphlet translated from the French, describing how, quite recently, five years ago, a murderer, Richard, was executed. A young man, I believe, of three and twenty, who repented and was converted to the Christian faith at the very scaffold. This Richard was an illegitimate child who was given as a child of six by his parents to some shepherds on the Swiss mountain. They brought him up to work for them. He grew up like little wild beast among them. The shepherds taught him nothing, and scarcely fed or clothed him, but sent him out at seven to herd, flock, and cold and wet, and no one has sedated or scribbled to treat him so. Quite the contrary, they thought they had every ride for Richard had been given to them as a chattel, and they did not even see the necessity of feeding him. Richard himself describes how in those years, like the procedural son in the gospel, he longed to eat the mash given to the pigs, which were fed and for sale. But they wouldn't even give that, and beat him when he stole from the pigs, and that was how he spent all his childhood and his youth till he grew up and was strong enough to go away and be a thief. The savage began to earn his living as a day laborer in Geneva. He drank what he earned. He lived like a brute and finished by killing and robbing an old man. He was caught, tried, and condemned to death. They are not sentimentalists there, and in prison he was immediately surrounded by pastors, members of Christian brotherhoods, philanthropic ladies, and the like. They taught him to read and write in prison and expounded the gospel to him. They exhorted him, worked upon him, rummed at him incessantly till at last he solemnly confessed his crime. He was converted. He wrote to the court himself that he was a monster, but that in the end God had out saved him light and shone grace. Old Geneva was an excitement about him. Old philanthropic and religious Geneva. All the aristocratic and well-bracked society of town rushed to the prison, kissed Richard and embraced him. You are our brother, you have found grace, and Richard does nothing but weep with emotion. Yes, I have found grace. All my youth and childhood I was glad of pig's food, but now even I have found grace. I am dying in the Lord. Yes, Richard, die in the Lord. You have shed blood and must die, though it's not your fault that you knew not the Lord when you coveted the pig's food and were beaten for stealing it, which was very wrong of you for stealing its forbidden, but you've shed blood and you must die. And on the last day, Richard, perfectly limp, did nothing but cry and repeat every minute. This is my happiest day. I am going to the Lord. Yes, are the pastors and the judges and philanthropic ladies. This is the happiest day of your life for you are going to the Lord. They all walk and drive this scaffold in procession behind the prison van. And the scaffold, they call to Richard, die, brother, die in the Lord for even you have found grace. And so covered with his brother's kisses, Richard is dragged onto the scaffold and led to the guillotine. And they chopped off his head in brotherly fashion because he had found grace. Yes, that's characteristic. That pamphlet is translated into Russian by some Russian philanthropist of our stopartic rank and evangelical aspirations and has been distributed gratis for the enlightenment of the people. The case of Richard is interesting because it's national. Though to us it's absurd to cut over men's head because he has become our brother and has found grace, yet we have our own speciality, which is all but worse. Our historical pastime is the direct satisfaction of inflicting pain. There are lines in the cross of describing how a peasant lashed the horse on the ice on its meek eyes. Everyone must have seen it. It's peculiarly Russian. He describes how a feeble little nag has foundered under too heavy a load and cannot move. The peasant beats it. Beats it savagely. Beats it, at last not knowing what he is doing and in intoxication of cruelty, trashes inversely over and over again. However weak you are, you must pull. You'll die for it. The nag strains and then he begins lashing the poor defenseless creature on its weeping on its meek eyes. The frantic beast tucks and draws the load trembling all over, gasping for breath, moving sideways with a sort of unnatural spasmodic action. It's awful in the cross of. But that, only horse, and God has horses to be beaten. So the taters have taught us and they left us the note as a remembrance of it. But man too can be beaten. A well-educated, cultured gentleman and his wife beat their own child with a birdtrod, a girl of seven. I have an exact account of it. The papa was glad that the bird was covered with twigs. It stings more, he said, and so he began stinging his daughter. I know for a fact there are people who at every blow are worked up to sensuality, to literal sensuality which increases progressively at every blow they inflict. They beat for a minute, for five minutes, for ten minutes, more often than more savagely, the child screams. At last the child cannot scream, it gasps daddy. Daddy. By some, theabolical, unseemly champs, the case was brought into court, a council is engaged. The Russian people have long called the barrister a conscious for hire. The council protests in his client's defense. It's such a simple thing, he says, an everyday domestic event. A father corrects his child. To our shame me it said it is brought into court. The jury, convinced by him, give a favorable verdict. The public roars with the light that the torture is acquitted. P.D. I wasn't there. I would have proposed to raise a subscription in his honor, charming pictures. But I've still bettered things about children. I've collected a great, great deal about Russian children in Russia. There was a little girl, five, who was hated by her father and mother, most worthy and respectable people of good education and reading. You see, I must repeat again, it is a peculiar characteristic of many people, this love of torturing children and children only. To all other types of humanity, these tortures behave mildly and benevolently like cultivated and humane Europeans. But they are very fond of tormenting children, even fond of children themselves in that sense. It's just their defenslessness that tempts the tormentor, just the angelic confidence of the child who has no refuge and no appeal that sets his vile blood on fire. In every man, of course, a demon lies hidden, the demon of rage, the demon of lustful heed at the screams of the tortured victim, the demon of lawlessness led of chain, the demon of diseases that follow and vice, doubt, kidney, disease and so on. This poor child of five was subjected to every possible torture by those cultivated parents. They beat her, trashed her, caked her for no reason till her body was one bruised. Then they went to greater refinements of cruelty, shot her up all night in the cold and frost in the privy, and because she didn't ask to be taken up at night, as though a child of five sleeping its angelic sound sleep could be trained to wake and ask, they smeared her face and filled her mouth with excrement. And it was her mother, her mother did this. And that mother could sleep. Hearing the poor child's groans, can you understand why a little creature who can't even understand what's done to her should beat her little aching heart with her tiny fist in the dark and the cold and weep her meek unreasonable tears to deal kind God to protect her? Do you understand that, friend and brother, you pious and humble novice, do you understand why this infamy must be and is permitted? Without it, I am told, man could not have existed on earth, for he could not have known good and evil. Why should he know that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much? Why, the whole world of knowledge is not worth that child's prayer to dear kind God? I say nothing of the sufferings of grown-up people, they have eaten the apple, damn them, and devil, take them all, but these little ones, I am making you suffer a lotia, you are not yourself, I leave off if you like. Never mind, I want to suffer too, moderate a lotia. One picture, only one more because it's so curious, so characteristic, and I have only just read it in some collection of Russian antiquities. I forgot a name, I must look it up. It was in the darkest days of Servdom at the beginning of the century, and long lived the liberator of the people. There was, in those days, a general of aristocratic connections, the owner of great estates, one of those men somewhat exceptional, I believe, even then, who, retiring from the service into a life of leisure, are convinced that they've earned absolute power over lives of their subjects. There were such men then, so our general, settled on his property of two thousand souls, lives in pump, and domineers over his poor neighbors, as though they were dependents and buffoons. He has kennels of hundreds of hounds, and nearly a hundred dogboys, all mounted and in uniform. One day, a Servboy, a little child of eight, threw a stone in play and heard the paw of the general's favorite hound. "Why is my favorite dog lame?" He stole that devoy through a stone that heard the dog's paw. "So you did it?" The general looked the child up and down. "Take him." He was taken, taken from his mother, and kept shut up all night. Early that morning, the general comes out on horseback with the hounds, his dependents, dogboys and huntsmen, all mounted around him in full hunting parade. The servants are summoned for their edification, and in front of them all stands the mother of the child. The child is brought from the look-up. It's a gloomy, cold, foggy autumn day, a capital day for hunting. The general orders the child to be undressed. The child is stripped naked. He shivers, numb with terror, not daring to cry. "Make him run," commands the general. "Run, run!" Shout the dogboys. The boy runs. "Add him," yells the general, and he sets the whole pack of hounds on the child. The hounds catch him and tear him to pieces before his mother's eyes. I believe the general was afterwards declared incapable of administering his estates. "Well, what did he deserve? To be shot? To be shot for the satisfaction of our moral feelings? Speed, Alosha." "To be shot," murmured Alosha, lifting his eyes to even with a pale, twisted smile. "Ravo," cried even delighted. "If even you say so, you're a... pretty mong. So there is a little devil sitting in your heart, Alosha, Karamazov." What I said was absurd, but that's just a point that but cried even. Let me tell you, novice, that the absurd is only too necessary on earth. The world stands on absurdities, and perhaps nothing would have come to pass in it without them. "We know what we know." "What do you know?" "I understand nothing," even went on as though in delirium. "I don't want to understand anything now. I want to stick to the fact. I made up my mind long ago not to understand. If I try to understand anything, I shall be false to the fact and I have determined to stick to the fact." "Why are you trying me?" Alosha cried with a sudden distress. "Will you say what you mean at last?" "Of course I will. That's what I've been leading up to. You're dear to me. I don't want to let you go, and I won't give you up to your Zosima." Even for a minute was silent his face, became all at once very sad. Listen. "I took the case of children only to make my case clearer. Of the other tiers of humanity with which the earth is soaked from its crust to its center, I will say nothing. I have narrowed my subject on purpose. I am a bug, and I recognize an old humility that I cannot understand why the world is arranged as it is. Men are themselves to blame, I suppose. They were given paradise, they wanted freedom, and stole fire from heaven, though they knew they would become unhappy, so there is no need to pity them. With my pitiful earthly Euclidean understanding, all I know is that there is suffering and that there are non-guilty. That cause follows effect simply and directly. That everything flows and finds its level. But that's only Euclidean nonsense, I know that, and I can't consent to live by it. What comfort is to me that there are non-guilty and that cause follows effect simply and directly, and that I know it? I must have justice, or I will destroy myself. And not justice in some remote infinite time and space, but here on earth, and that I could see myself. I have believed in it, I want to see it, and if I am bad by then, let me rise again, for if it all happens without me, it will be too unfair. Surely I haven't suffered simply that I, my crimes and my sufferings, may manure the soil of the future harmony for somebody else. I want to see with my own eyes the hind, lie down with the lion and the victim, rise up and embrace his murderer. I want to be there when everybody suddenly understands what it has all been for. All the religions of the world are built on this longing, and I am a believer. But then there are the children, and what am I to do about them? That's a question I can't answer. For the hundredth time I repeat, there are numbers of questions, but I've only taken the children because in their case, what I mean is so unanswerably clear. Listen, if all must suffer to pay for the eternal harmony, what have children to do with it? Tell me, please. It's beyond all comprehension why they should suffer, and why they should pay for the harmony. Why should they, too, furnish material to enrich the soil for the harmony of the future? I understand solidarity in sin among men. I understand solidarity in retribution, too. But there can be no such solidarity with children, and if it is really true that they must share responsibility for all their father's crimes, such a truth is not of this world, and is beyond my comprehension. Some jester will say, perhaps, that the child would have grown up and have sinned, but you see, he didn't grow up. He was torn to pieces by the dogs at eight years old. Oh, Alosha, I am not blaspheming. I understand, of course, when an upheaval of the universe it will be, when everything in heaven and earth blends in one hymn of praise, and everything that lives and has lived cries aloud, "Thou art just, O Lord, for thou ways are revealed." When the mother embraces the fiend who threw her child to the dogs, and all three cry aloud with tears, "Thou art just, O Lord." Then, of course, the crown of knowledge will be reached, and all will be made clear. But what pulls me up here is that I can't accept that harmony, and while I am on earth, I make haste to take my own measures. You see, Alosha, perhaps, it really may happen, that if I live to that moment, or rise again to see it, I, too, perhaps, may cry aloud with the rest, looking at the mother embracing child's torture, "Thou art just, O Lord." But I don't want to cry aloud, then. While there is still time, I hasten to protect myself, and so I renounce the higher harmony altogether. It's not worth the tears of that one tortured child, who beat itself on the breast with its little fist, and prayed in its thinking outhouse with its unexpieted tears to dear kind God. It's not worth it, because those tears are unattoned for. They must be atoned for, or there can be no harmony. But how? How are you going to atone for them? Is it possible? By their being avenged? But what do I care for avenging them? What do I care for a hell for oppressors? What good can hell do, since those children have already been tortured? And what becomes of harmony if there is hell? I want to forgive. I want to embrace. I don't want more suffering, and if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum of sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a prize. I don't want the mother to embrace the oppressor who threw her son to the dogs. She dare not forgive him. Let her forgive him for herself, if she will. Let her forgive the torture for the immeasurable suffering of her mother's heart. But the sufferings of her tortured child, she has no right to forgive. She dare not forgive the torture, even if the child were to forgive him. And if that is so, if they dare not forgive, what becomes of harmony? Is there in the whole world a being who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? I don't want harmony. From love for humanity, I don't want it. I would rather be left with the unavanged suffering. I would rather remain with my unavanged suffering and unsatisfying indignation even if I were wrong. Besides, too high a prize is asked for harmony. It's beyond our means to pay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance ticket, and if I am an honest man, I am bound to give it back as soon as possible, and that I am doing. It's not God that I don't accept Alasha, only I most respectfully return him the ticket. That's rebellion, murmured Alasha looking down. Rebellion? I am sorry you call it that, said even earnestly. One can hardly live in rebellion, and I want to live. Tell me yourself, I challenge your answer. Imagine that you are creating a fabric of human destiny with the object of making man happy in the end, giving them peace and rest at last, but that it was essential and inevitable to torture to death. Only one tiny creature, that baby beating its breast with its fist, for instance, and to found that edifice on its unavanged tears would you consent to be the architect on those conditions? Tell me, and tell the truth. No, I wouldn't consent, said Alasha softly. And can you admit the idea that man for whom you are building it would agree to accept their happiness on the foundation of the unexpiated blood of a little victim, and accepting it would remain happy forever? "No, I can't admit it, brother," said Alasha, suddenly with flashing eyes. "You said just now, is there a being in the whole world who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? But there is a being and he can forgive everything, all and for all, because he gave his innocent blood for all and everything. You have forgotten him, and on him is built the edifice, and it is to him they cry aloud, "Thou art just O Lord, for thou ways are revealed." "The one without sin and his blood." "No, I have not forgotten him. On the contrary, I've been wondering all the time how it was you did not bring him in before. For usually all arguments on your side put him in the foregowns." "Do you know, Alasha?" "Don't laugh, I made a poem about a year ago. If you can waste another ten minutes on me, I'll tell it to you." You wrote a poem? "Oh no, I didn't write it," laughed even, "and I've never ridden two lines of poetry in my life, but I made up this poem in prose and I remembered it. I was carried away when I made it up. You will be my first reader that is listener." "Why should an author forego even one listener?" smiled even. "Shall I tell it to you?" "I am all attention," said Alasha. "My poem is called The Grand Inquisitor. It's a ridiculous thing, but I want to tell it to you." End of chapter four of book five. Book five, chapter five, The Grand Inquisitor. 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 can get lonely climbing by McKinley, so to entertain myself, I go to Chumbakestino.com. At Chumbakestino, I can play hundreds of online casino-style games for free, like online slots, bingo, slingo, and more. Plus, I get a daily login bonus. It's just too bad that up here, I don't have anyone to share my excitement with. Live the Chumbalife anytime, anywhere. Play for free now at Chumbakestino.com. pw room no purchases are avoided by law. See terms of conditions, 18 plus. Even this must have a preface. That is a literary preface, left Ivan, and I have a poor hand at making one. You see, my action takes place in the 16th century, and at that time, as you probably learned at school, it was customary in poetry to bring down heavenly powers on earth. Not to speak of Dante. In France, clerks, as well as the monks in the monasteries, used to give regular performances in which the Madonna, the Saints, the Angels, Christ, and God himself were brought on the stage. In those days, it was done in all simplicity. In Victor Hugo's Notre Dame de Paris, an edifying and gratuitous spectacle was provided for the people in the Hotel de Vil of Paris, in the reign of Louis XI, in honour of the birth of the Dauphin. It was called Le Bonjouche Mon de la Tresseint de Gracias vieres jammeri, and she appears herself on the stage and pronounces her Bonjouche Mon. Similar plays, chiefly from the Old Testament, were occasionally performed in Moscow too, up to the times of Peter the Great. But besides plays, there were all sorts of legends and ballads scattered about the world, in which the Saints and Angels and all the powers of heaven took part when required. In our monasteries, the monks busied themselves in translating, copying, and even composing such poems, and even under the Tatars. There is, for instance, one such poem, of course from the Greek, the wanderings of our Lady through hell, with descriptions as bold as Dante's. Our Lady visits hell, and the Archangel Michael leads her through the torments. She sees the sinners in their punishment. There she sees, among others, one noteworthy set of sinners in a burning lake. Some of them sink to the bottom of the lake so that they can't swim out, and these God forgets, an expression of extraordinary depth and force. And so our Lady, shocked and weeping, falls before the throne of God, and begs for mercy, for all in hell, for all she has seen there indiscriminately. Her conversation with God is immensely interesting. She beseeches him, she will not desist, and what God points to the hands and feet of her son, nailed to the cross, and asks, "How can I forgive his tormentors?" She bids all the Saints, all the Martyrs, all the Angels and Archangels, to fall down with her and pray for mercy on all without distinction. It ends by her winning from God a respite of suffering every year from good Friday till Trinity Day, and the sinners at once raise a cry of thankfulness from hell, chanting, "Thou art just, O Lord, in this judgment." Well, my poem would have been of that kind if it had appeared at that time. He comes on the scene in my poem, but he says nothing, only appears and passes on. Fifteen centuries have passed since he promised to come in his glory, fifteen centuries since his prophet wrote, "Behold, I come quickly." Of that day and that hour, noeth no man, neither the son, but the father, as he himself predicted on earth. But humanity awaits him with the same faith and with the same love, or with greater faith, for it is fifteen centuries since man has ceased to see signs from heaven. No signs from heaven come today to add to what the heart doth say. There was nothing left but faith in what the heart doth say. It is true there were many miracles in those days. There were Saints who performed miraculous cures. Some holy people, according to their biographies, were visited by the Queen of Heaven herself. But the devil did not slumber, and doubts were already arising among men of the truth of these miracles. And just then, there appeared in the north of Germany a terrible new heresy. A huge star, like to a torch, that is to a church, fell on the sources of the waters, and they became bitter. These heretics began blasphemously denying miracles. But those who remained faithful were all the more ardent in their faith. The tears of humanity rose up to him as before, a way that his coming loved him, hoped for him, yearned to suffer and die for him as before. And for so many ages, mankind had prayed with faith and fervor, O Lord our God hasten thy coming. For so many ages called upon him that in his infinite mercy he dained to come down to his servants. Before that day he had come down. He had visited some holy men, martyrs, and hermits, as is written in their lives. Among us, Tuchyev, with absolute faith in the truth of his words, bore witness that bearing the cross in slavish dress, weary and warn the heavenly king our mother Russia came to bless, and through our land went wandering. And that certainly was so, I assure you. And behold, he dained to appear for a moment to the people, to the tortured, suffering people, sunk in iniquity, but loving him like children. My story is laid in Spain, in Seville, in the most terrible time of the Inquisition, when fires were lighted every day to the glory of God, and in the splendid, out-o-de-fay the wicked heretics were burnt. Oh, of course, this was not the coming in which he will appear according to his promise, at the end of time in all his heavenly glory, and which will be sudden as lightening flashing from east to west. No, he visited his children only for a moment, and there were the flames were crackling round the heretics. In his infinite mercy, he came once more among men in that human shape in which he walked among men for thirty-three years, fifteen centuries ago. He came down to the hot pavements of the southern town, in which on the day before, almost a hundred heretics had, at Myorum Glorium Day, been burnt by the cardinal, the grand inquisitor, in a magnificent out-o-de-fay, in the presence of the king, the court, the knights, the cardinals, the most charming ladies of the court, and the whole population of Seville. He came softly, unobserved, and yet strange to say, everyone recognized him. That might be one of the best passages in the poem, I mean why they recognized him. The people are irresistibly drawn to him, they surround him, they flock about him, follow him. He moves silently in their midst with a gentle smile of infinite compassion. The son of love burns in his heart, light and power shine from his eyes, and their radiance shed on the people, stirs their hearts with responsive love. He holds out his hands to them, blesses them, and a healing virtue comes from contact with him, even with his garments. An old man in the crowd, blind from childhood, cries out, "Oh Lord, heal me, and I shall see thee!" And as it were, scales fall from his eyes, and the blind man sees him. The crowd weeps and kisses the earth under his feet. Children throw flowers before him, sing and cry, "Huzanna!" It is he, it is he all repeat, it must be he, it can be no one but him. He stops at the steps of the Seville Cathedral, at the moment when the weeping mourners are bringing in a little open white coffin. In it lies a child of seven, the only daughter of a prominent citizen. The dead child lies hidden in flowers. "He will raise your child!" the crowd shouts to the weeping mother. The priest, coming to meet the coffin, looks perplexed and frowns. But the mother of the dead child throws herself at his feet with a whale, "If it is thou, raise my child!" she cries, holding out her hands to him. The procession halts, the coffin is laid on the steps at his feet. He looks with compassion, and his lips once more softly pronounced, "Maiden, arise!" and the maiden arises. The little girl sits up in the coffin and looks around, smiling with wide open, wandering eyes, holding a bunch of white roses they had put in her hand. There are cries, sobs, confusion among the people. And at that moment the cardinal himself, the grand inquisitor, passes by the cathedral. He is an old man, almost ninety, tall and erect with a withered face and sunken eyes in which there is still a gleam of light. He is not dressed in his gorgeous cardinals robes as he was the day before, when he was burning the enemies of the Roman Church. At this moment he is wearing his coarse old monk's cassock. At a distance behind him come his gloomy assistance and slaves and the holy guard. He stops at the sight of the crowd and watches it from a distance. He sees everything. He sees them set the coffin down at his feet, sees the child rise up, and his face darkens. He knits his thick grey brows and his eyes gleam with a sinister fire. He holds out his finger and bids the guards take him. And such is his power, so completely are the people cowed in submission and trembling obedience to him that the crowd immediately makes way for the guards and in the midst of death-like silence they lay hands on him and lead him away. The crowd instantly bows down to the earth like one man before the old Inquisitor. He blesses the people in silence and passes on. The guards lead their prisoner to the close, gloomy, vaulted prison in the ancient palace of the holy Inquisition and shut him in it. The day passes and is followed by the dark, burning, breathless night of Seville. The air is fragrant with laurel and lemon. In the pitch darkness the iron door of the prison is suddenly opened and the grand Inquisitor himself comes in with a light in his hand. He is alone. The door is closed at once behind him. He stands in the doorway and for a minute or two gazes into his face. At last he goes up slowly, sets the light on the table, and speaks. Is it thou? Thou? But receiving no answer he adds at once. Don't answer, be silent. What canst thou say indeed? I know too well what thou would say and thou hast no right to add anything to what thou hast said of old. Why then art thou come to hinder us, for thou hast come to hinder us and thou knowest that? But dost thou know what will be tomorrow? I know not who thou art, and care not to know whether it is thou or only a semblance of him. But tomorrow I shall condemn thee and burn thee at the stake as the worst of heretics. And the very people who have today kissed thy feet. Tomorrow at the faintest sign from me will rush to heap up the embers of thy fire. Knowest thou that? Yes, may be thou knowest it, he added with thoughtful penetration, never for a moment taking his eyes off the prisoner. I don't quite understand, Yvonne. What does it mean, Alioria, who had been listening in silence, said with a smile? Is it simply a wild fantasy or a mistake on the part of the old man? Some impossible quid pro quo? Take it as a last, said Yvonne laughing, if you are so corrupted by modern realism and can't stand anything fantastic, if you like it to be a case of mistaken identity, let it be so. It is true he went on laughing, the old man was ninety, and he might well be crazy over his set idea. He might have been struck by the appearance of the prisoner. It might in fact be simply his ravings, the delusion of an old man of ninety, overexcited by the out-o-de-fay of a hundred heretics the day before. But, does it matter to us, after all, whether it was a mistake of identity or a wild fantasy? All that matters is that the old man should speak out, that he should speak openly of what he has thought in silence for ninety years. And the prisoner, too, is silent? Does he look at him and not say a word? That's inevitable in any case, Yvonne laughed again. The old man has told him he hasn't the right to add anything to what he has said of old. One may say it is the most fundamental feature of Roman Catholicism, in my opinion at least. "All has been given by thee to the pope," they say, "and all therefore it's still in the pope's hands, and there is no need for thee to come now at all. Thou must not meddle for the time at least." That's how they speak, and write, too, the Jesuits at any rate. I've read it myself in the works of their theologians. "Hast thou the right to reveal to us one of the mysteries of that world from which thou hast come?" My old man asks him, and answers a question for him. "No, thou hast not. That thou mayest not add to what has been said of old, and mayest not take from men the freedom which thou didst exalt when thou wast on earth. Whatsoever thou revealest in you will encroach on men's freedom of faith, for it will be manifest as a miracle, and the freedom of their faith was dear to thee than anything in those days fifteen hundred years ago. Didst thou not often say, then, I will make you free. But now thou hast seen these free men, the old men adds suddenly with a pensive smile. "Yes, we've paid dearly for it," he goes on, looking sternly at him, "but at last we have completed that work in thy name. For fifteen centuries we have been wrestling with thy freedom, but now it is ended and over for good. Thus thou not believe that it's over for good? Thou lookest meekly at me, and dainest not even to be wroth with me. But let me tell thee that now, today, people are more persuaded than ever that they have perfect freedom, yet they have brought their freedom to us and laid it humbly at our feet. But that has been our doing. Was this what thou didst? Was this thy freedom?" "I don't understand again, Al-Yosha broke in. Is he ironical? Is he jesting?" "Not a bit of it." He claims that as a merit for himself and his church, that at last they have vanquished freedom and have done so to make men happy. "For now," he is speaking of the Inquisition, of course, "for the first time it has become possible to think of the happiness of men. Man was created a rebel, and how can rebels be happy?" "Thou wast warned," he says to him, "Thou has said no lack of admonitions and warnings, but thou dst not listen to those warnings. Thou dst reject the only way by which men might be made happy. But fortunately departing, thou dst hand on the work to us. Thou hast promised, thou hast established by thy word, thou hast given to us the right to bind and to unbind, and now, of course, thou canst not think of taking it away. Why, then, hast thou come to hinder us? And what's the meaning of no lack of admonitions and warnings, hast thou Yorsha? Why, that's the chief part of what the old man must say. The wise and dread spirit, the spirit of self-destruction and non-existence, the old man goes on, the great spirit, talked with thee in the wilderness, and we are told in the books that he tempted thee. Is that so? And could anything truer be said than what he revealed to thee in three questions, and what thou dst reject, and what in the books is called the temptation? And yet, if there has ever been on earth a real stupendous miracle, it took place on that day, on the day of the three temptations. The statement of those three questions was itself the miracle. If it were possible to imagine, simply for the sake of argument that those three questions of the dread spirit had perished utterly from the books, and that we had to restore them and to invent them anew, and to do so had gathered together all the wise men of the earth, rulers, chief priests, learned men, philosophers, poets, and had set them the task to invent three questions, such as would not only fit the occasion, but express in three words three human phrases the whole future history of the world and of humanity. Dost thou believe that all the wisdom of the earth united could have invented anything in depth and force equal to the three questions, which were actually put to thee then by the wise and mighty spirit in the wilderness? From those questions alone, from the miracle of their statement, we can see that we have here to do not with a fleeting human intelligence, but with the absolute and eternal, for in those three questions the whole subsequent history of mankind is, as it were, brought together into one whole, and foretold, and in them are united all the unsolved historical contradictions of human nature. At the time it could not be so clear, since the future was unknown, but now that fifteen hundred years have passed, we see that everything in those three questions was so justly divided and foretold, and has been so truly fulfilled that nothing can be added to them or taken from them. Judge thyself, who was right? Thou, or he who questioned thee then? Remember the first question. Its meaning, in other words, was this. Thou wouldst go into the world and art going with empty hands, with some promise of freedom, which men in their simplicity, and their natural unruliness cannot even understand, which they fear and dread, for nothing has ever been more insupportable for a man and a human society than freedom. But seeest thou these stones in this parched and barren wilderness? Turn them into bread, and mankind will run after thee like a flock of sheep, grateful and obedient, though forever trembling, lest thou withdraw thy hand and deny them thy bread. But thou wouldst not deprive man of freedom, and didst reject the offer, thinking, "What is that freedom worth if obedience is bought with bread?" Thou didst reply that man lives not by bread alone. But dost thou know that for the sake of that earthly bread, the spirit of the earth will rise up against thee and will strive with thee and overcome thee, and all will follow him, crying, "Who can compare with this beast? He has given us fire from heaven!" Dost thou know that the ages will pass, and humanity will proclaim by the lips of their sages that there is no crime, and therefore no sin, there is only hunger? Feed men, and then ask of them virtue. That's what they'll write on the banner, which they will raise against thee, and with which they will destroy thy temple. Where thy temple stood will rise a new building, the terrible tower of Babel will be built again, and though, like the one of old, it will not be finished, yet thou mightest have prevented that new tower, and have cut short the sufferings of men for a thousand years, for they will come back to us after a thousand years of agony with their tower, they will seek us again, hidden underground in the catacombs, for we shall again be persecuted and tortured. They will find us and cry to us, feed us, for those who have promised us fire from heaven haven't given it, and then we shall finish building their tower, for he finishes the building who feeds them, and we alone shall feed them in thy name, declaring falsely that it is in thy name, of never, never can they feed themselves without us. No science will give them bread so long as they remain free. In the end they will lay their freedom at our feet and say to us, 'Make us your slaves, but feed us.' They will understand themselves at last, that freedom and breading of for all are inconceivable together, for never, never will they be able to share between them. They will be convinced too that they can never be free, for they are weak, vicious, worthless, and rebellious. Thou didst promise them the bread of heaven. But I repeat again, can it compare with earthly bread in the eyes of the weak, ever sinful, and ignoble race of man? And if for the sake of the bread of heaven thousands shall follow thee, what has to become of the millions and tens of thousands of millions of creatures who will not have the strength to forgo the earthly bread for the sake of the heavenly? Or dost thou care only for the tens of thousands of the great and strong, why the millions numerous as the sands of the sea who are weak but love thee must exist only for the sake of the great and strong? No, we care for the weak too. They are sinful and rebellious, but in the end they too will become obedient. They will marvel at us and look on us as gods, because we are ready to endure the freedom which they have found so dreadful and to rule over them, so awful it will seem to them to be free. But we shall tell them that we are thy servants and rule them in thy name, we shall deceive them again, for we will not let thee come to us again. That deception will be our suffering, for we shall be forced to lie. This is the significance of the first question in the wilderness, and this is what thou hast rejected for the sake of that freedom which thou has exalted above everything. Yet in this question lies hid the great secret of this world. Choosing bread, thou wouldst have satisfied the universal and everlasting craving of humanity to find someone to worship. So long as man remains free he strives for nothing so incessantly and so painfully as to find someone to worship. But man seeks to worship what is established beyond dispute, so that all men would agree at once to worship it. For these pitiful creatures are concerned not only to find what one or the other can worship, what is essential is that all may be together in it, this craving for community of worship is the chief misery of every man individually and of all humanity from the beginning of time. For the sake of common worship they slay each other with the sword. They have set up gods and challenged one another, put away your gods and come and worship ours, or we will kill you and your gods. And so it will be to the end of the world, even when gods disappear from the earth they will fall down before idols just the same. Thou didst know, thou couldst not but have known this fundamental secret of human nature, but thou didst reject the one infallible banner which was offered thee to make all men bow down to thee alone, the banner of earthly bread, and thou hast rejected it for the sake of freedom and the bread of heaven. Behold what thou didst further, and all again in the name of freedom. I tell thee that man is tormented by no greater anxiety than to find someone quickly to whom he can hand over that gift of freedom with which the ill-fated creature is born, but only one who can appease their conscience can take over their freedom. In bread there was offered thee an invincible banner, give bread, and man will worship thee, for nothing is more certain than bread. But if someone else gains possession of his conscience, oh, then he will cast away thy bread, and follow after him who has ensnared his conscience. In that thou wast right, for the secret of man's being is not only to live, but to have something to live for. Without a stable conception of the object of life, man would not consent to go on living, and would rather destroy himself than remain on earth, though he had bread in abundance. That is true. But what happened? Instead of taking men's freedom from them, thou didst make it greater than ever. Didst thou forget that man prefers peace, and even death to freedom of choice in the knowledge of good and evil? Nothing is more seductive for man than his freedom of conscience, but nothing is a greater cause of suffering. And behold, instead of giving a firm foundation for setting the conscience of man at rest forever, thou didst choose all that is exceptional vague and enigmatic, thou didst choose what was utterly beyond the strength of men, acting as though thou didst not love them at all, thou who didst come to give thy life for them. Instead of taking possession of men's freedom, thou didst increase it, and burdened the spiritual kingdom of mankind with its sufferings forever. Thou didst desire man's free love, that he should follow thee freely, enticed, and taken captive by thee. In place of the rigid ancient law, man must hereafter with free heart decide for himself what is good and what is evil, having only thy image before him as his guide. But didst thou not know that he would at last reject even thy image and thy truth, if he is weighed down with a fearful burden of free choice? They will cry aloud at last that the truth is not in thee, for they could not have been left in greater confusion and suffering than thou has caused, laying upon them so many cares and unanswerable problems. So that in truth, thou didst thyself lay the foundation for the destruction of thy kingdom, and no one is more to blame for it. Yet what was offered thee? There are three powers, three powers alone able to conquer and to hold captive forever the conscience of these impotent rebels for their happiness. Those forces are miracle, mystery, and authority. Thou has rejected all three and has set the example for doing so. When the wise and dread spirits set thee on the pinnacle of the temple and said to thee, "If thou wouldst know whether thou art the Son of God, then cast thyself down, for it is written, the angels shall hold him up lest he fall and bruise himself, and thou shalt know then whether thou art the Son of God, and shalt prove then how great is thy faith and thy father." But thou didst refuse and would not cast thyself down, or of course thou didst proudly and well like God, but the weak, unruly race of men are they gods. Hold out. 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. Looking for excitement? Chumba Casino is here. Play anytime, play anywhere. Play on the train, play at the store, play at home, play when you're bored. Play today for your chance to win and get daily bonuses when you log in. So, what are you waiting for? Don't delay. Chumba Casino is free to play. Experience social gameplay like never before. Go to Chumba Casino right now to play hundreds of games, including online slots. Bingo, Slingo, and more. Live the Chumba Life at chumbakestino.com. BTW Group, no purchase necessary. Board work prohibited by law. See terms and conditions, 18 plus. It's no then that in taking one step, in making one movement to cast thyself down, thou would be tempting God and have lost all thy faith in him, and wouldst have been dashed to pieces against that earth which thou didst come to save. And the wise spirit that tempted thee would have rejoiced. But I ask again, are there many like thee? And couldst thou believe for one moment that men too could face such a temptation? Is the nature of men such that they can reject miracle, and at the great moments of their life, the moments of their deepest, most agonizing, spiritual difficulties cling only to the free verdict of the heart? Oh, thou didst know that thy deed would be recorded in books, would be handed down to remote times, and the utmost ends of the earth, and thou didst hope that man following thee would cling to God and not ask for a miracle. But thou didst not know that when man rejects miracle, he rejects God too. For man seeks not so much God as the miraculous, and as man cannot bear to be without the miraculous, he will create new miracles of his own for himself, and will worship deeds of sorcery and witchcraft, though he might be a hundred times over a rebel, heretic, and infidel. Thou didst not come down from the cross when they shouted to thee, mocking and reviling thee, come down from the cross, and we will believe that thou art he. Thou didst not come down, for again thou wouldst not enslave man by a miracle, and didst crave faith given freely, not based on miracle. Thou didst crave for free love, and not the base raptors of the slave before the might that has overawed him forever. But thou didst think too highly of men therein, for they are slaves, of course, though rebellious by nature, look round and judge. Fifteenth centuries have passed, look upon them. Whom hast thou raised up to thyself? I swear man is weaker and baser by nature than thou hast believed him. Can he, can he do what thou didst? By showing him so much respect, thou didst as it were ceased to feel for him, for thou didst ask far too much from him, thou who hast loved him more than thyself. Respecting him less thou wouldst have asked less of him. That would have been more like love, for his burden would have been lighter. He is weak and vile. What though he is everywhere now, rebelling against our power, and proud of his rebellion? It is the pride of a child in a schoolboy, their little children rioting and barring of the teacher at school, but their childish delight will end. It will cost them dear. They will cast down temples and drenched the earth with their blood. But they will see at last the foolish children, that though they are rebels they are impotent rebels, unable to keep up their own rebellion. Bathed in their foolish tears, they will recognize at last that he who created them rebels must have meant to mock at them. They will say this in despair, and their utterance will be a blasphemy, which will make them more unhappy still, for man's nature cannot bear blasphemy, and in the end always avengers it on itself. And so unrests confusion and unhappiness. That is the present lot of man, after a doubt it bears so much for his freedom. The great prophet tells in vision and in image that he saw all those who took part in the first resurrection, and that there were of each tribe twelve thousand. But if there were so many of them, they must have been not men but gods. They had borne thy cross, they had endured scores of years in the barren, hungry wilderness, living upon locusts and roots. And thou mayest, indeed, point with pride at those children of freedom, of free love, of free and splendid sacrifice for thy name. But remember that they were only some thousands, and what of the rest, and how are the other weak ones to blame, because they could not endure what the strong have endured? How is a weak soul to blame that it is unable to receive such terrible gifts? Canst thou have simply come to the elect, and for the elect? If so, it is a mystery, and we cannot understand it. And if it is a mystery, we too have a right to preach a mystery, and to teach men that it's not the free judgment of their hearts, not love that matters, but a mystery which they must follow, blindly, even against their conscience. So we have done. We have corrected thy work, and have founded it upon miracle, mystery, and authority. Can men rejoice that they were again led like sheep, and that the terrible gift that had brought them such suffering was at last lifted from their hearts? Were we right teaching them this? Speak, did we not love mankind so meekly acknowledging their feebleness, lovingly lightening their burden, and permitting their weak nature even seen with our sanction? Why has thou come now to hinder us? And why does thou look silently and searchingly at me with thy mild eyes? Be angry, I don't want thy love, for I love thee not. And what uses it for me to hide anything from thee? Don't I know to whom I am speaking, all that I can say is known to thee already? And is it for me to conceal from thee our mystery? Perhaps it is thy will to hear it from my lips? Listen then, we are not working with thee, but with him. That is our mystery. It's long, eight centuries since we have been on his side and not on thine. Just eight centuries ago we took from him the wise and mighty spirit and the wilderness, what thou didst reject with scorn, the last gift he offered thee, showing the all the kingdoms of the earth. We took from him Rome and the sword of Caesar and proclaimed ourselves soul rulers of the earth, though we have not yet been able to complete our work. But whose fault is that? Oh, the work is only beginning, but it has begun. It has longed to await completion, and the earth has yet much to suffer. But we shall triumph, and shall be Caesar's, and then we shall plan the universal happiness of man. But thou mightest have taken even then the sword of Caesar. Why didst thou reject that last gift? Had thou accepted that last offer of the mighty spirit, thou wouldst have accomplished all that man seeks on earth, that is, someone to worship, someone to keep his conscience, and some means of uniting all in one unanimous and harmonious and heap. Because the craving for universal unity is the third and last anguish of men. Mankind as a whole has always striven to organize a universal state. There have been many great nations with great histories, but the more highly they were developed, the more unhappy they were, for they felt more acutely than other people the craving for worldwide union. The great conquerors, Timors and Genghis cons, whirled like hurricanes over the face of the earth, striving to subdue its people, and they too were but the unconscious expression of the same craving for universal unity. Hadst thou taken the world and Caesar's purple, thou wouldst have founded the universal state, and have given universal peace, for who can rule men if not he who holds their conscience and their bread in his hands? We have taken the sword of Caesar, and in taking it, of course, have rejected thee and followed him. Ho-ho, ages are yet to come of the confusion of free thought, of their science and cannibalism, for having begun to build their tower of Babel without us, they will end, of course, with cannibalism. But then the beast will crawl to us and lick our feet and spatter them with tears of blood, and we shall sit upon the beast and raise the cup, and on it will be written mystery. But then, and only then, the reign of peace and happiness will come for men. Thou art proud of thine elect, but thou hast only the elect, while we give rest to all. And besides, how many of those elect, those mighty ones who could become elect, have grown weary waiting for thee, and have transferred and will transfer the powers of their spirit and the warmth of their heart to the other camp, and end by raising their free banner against thee? Thou didst thyself lift up that banner? But with us all will be happy, and will no more rebel nor destroy one another as under thy freedom. No, we shall persuade them that they will only become free when they renounce their freedom to us and submit to us. And shall we be right, or shall we be lying? They will be convinced that we are right, for they will remember the horrors of slavery and confusion to which thy freedom brought them. Freedom, free thought, and science will lead them into such straits, and will bring them face to face with such marvels and insoluble mysteries, that some of them, the fierce and rebellious, will destroy themselves. Others, rebellious but weak, will destroy one another. While the rest, weak and unhappy, will crawl fawning to our feet and wind to us. Yes, you are right, you will long possess his mystery, and we come back to save us from ourselves. Receiving bread from us, they will see clearly that we take the bread made by their hands from them to give it to them, without any miracle. They will see that we do not change the stones to bread, but in truth they will be more thankful for taking it from our hands than for the bread itself, for they will remember only too well that in old days without our help, even the bread they made turn to stones in their hands, while since they have come back to us, the very stones have turned to bread in their hands. Too, too well will they know the value of complete submission, and until men know that they will be unhappy. Who is most to blame for their not knowing it? Speak, who scattered the flock and sent it astray on unknown paths? But the flock will come together again, and will submit once more, and then it will be once for all. Then we shall give them the quiet, humble happiness of weak creatures such as they are by nature. Oh, we shall persuade them at last not to be proud; for thou didst lift them up and thereby taught them to be proud. We shall show them that they are weak, that they are only pitiful children, but the childlike happiness is the sweetest of all. They will become timid, and will look to us and huddle close to us in fear as chicks to the hen. They will marvel at us, and will be all stricken before us, and will be proud at our being so powerful and clever that we have been able to subdue such a turbulent flock of thousands of millions. They will tremble impotently before our wrath. Their minds will grow fearful; they will be quick to shed tears like women and children, but they will be just as ready at a sign from us to pass, to laughter and rejoicing, to happy mirth and childish song. Yes, we shall set them to work, but in their leisure hours we shall make their life like a child's game, with children's songs and innocent dance. Oh, we shall allow them even sin. They are weak and helpless, and they will love us like children because we allow them to sin. We shall tell them that every sin will be expiated, if it is done with our permission, that we allow them to sin because we love them, and the punishment for these sins we take upon ourselves, and we shall take it upon ourselves, and they will adore us as their saviors, who have taken on themselves their sins before God, and they will have no secrets from us. We shall allow or forbid them to live with their wives and mistresses, to have or not to have children according to whether they have been obedient or disobedient, and they will submit to us gladly and cheerfully the most painful secrets of their conscience, all, all they will bring to us, and we shall have an answer for all, and they will be glad to believe our answer, for it will save them from the great anxiety and terrible agony they endure at present in making a free decision for themselves, and all will be happy. All the millions of creatures except the hundred thousand who rule over them, for only we, we who guard the mystery shall be unhappy, there will be thousands of millions of happy babes and hundred thousand sufferers who have taken upon themselves the curse of the knowledge of good and evil, peacefully they will die, peacefully they will expire in thy name, and beyond the grave they will find nothing but death, but we shall keep the secret, and for their happiness we shall allure them with the reward of heaven and eternity. Though if there were anything in the other world it certainly would not be for such as they. It is prophesied that thou will come again in victory, thou will come with thy chosen, the proud and the strong, but we will say that they have only saved themselves, but we have saved all. We are told that the harlot who sits upon the beast and holds in her hands the mystery shall be put to shame, that the weak will rise up again and will rent her royal purple and will strip naked her loathsome body, but then I will stand up and point out to thee the thousand millions of happy children who have known no sin, and we who have taken their sins upon us for their happiness will stand up before thee and say, judge us if thou canst and darest. Know that I fear thee not, know that I too have been in the wilderness, I too have lived on roots and locusts, I too prize the freedom with which thou hast blessed men, and I too were striving to stand among thy elect, among the strong and powerful, thirsting to make up the number. But I awakened and would not serve madness, I turned back and joined the ranks of those who have corrected thy work. I left the proud and went back to the humble for the happiness of the humble. What I say to thee will come to pass, and our dominion will be built up, I repeat, tomorrow thou shalt see that obedient flock, where to sign from me will hasten to heap up the hot cinders about the pile on which I shall burn thee for coming to hinder us, for if anyone has ever deserved our fires it is thou. Tomorrow I shall burn thee, Dixie." Ivan stopped, he was carried away as he talked and spoke with excitement. When he had finished, he suddenly smiled. Alyosha had listened in silence. Towards the end he was greatly moved, and seemed several times on the point of interrupting, but restrained himself. Now his words came with a rush. "But that's absurd!" he cried, flushing. "Your poem is in praise of Jesus, not in blame of him as you meant it to be. And who will believe you about freedom? Is that the way to understand it? That's not the idea of it in the Orthodox Church, that's Rome, and not even the whole of Rome, it's false. Those are the worst of the Catholics, the inquisitors, the Jesuits, and there could not be such a fantastic creature as your inquisitor. What are these sins of mankind they take on themselves? Who are these keepers of the mystery who have taken some curse upon themselves for the happiness of mankind? When have they been seen? We know the Jesuits, they are spoken ill of, but surely they are not what you describe. They're not that at all, not at all. They're simply the Romish army for the earthly sovereignty of the world in the future, with the pontiff of Rome for emperor. That's their ideal, but there's no sort of mystery or lofty melancholy about it. It's simple lust of power, a filthy, earthly gain, of domination. Something like a universal serfdom with them as masters. That's all they stand for. They don't even believe in God, perhaps. Your suffering inquisitor is a mere fantasy. Stay, stay, laughed Yvonne. How hot you are. A fantasy, you say. Let it be so. Of course it's a fantasy, but allow me to say, do you really think that the Roman Catholic movement of the last centuries is actually nothing but the lust of power, of filthy, earthly gain? Is that Father Pisces teaching? No, no, on the contrary. Father Pisces did once say something rather the same as you. But, of course, it's not the same. Not a bit the same, Aliyosha hastily corrected himself. A precious admission, in spite of your not a bit the same. I ask you why your Jesuits and inquisitors have united simply for vile material gain. Why can there not be among them one martyr oppressed by great sorrow and loving humanity? You see, only suppose that there was one such man among all those who desire nothing but filthy material gain. If there's only one like my old inquisitor, who had himself eaten roots in the desert and made frenzied efforts to subdue his flesh to make himself free and perfect. But yet all his life he loved humanity. And suddenly his eyes were opened, and he saw that it is no great moral blessedness to attain perfection and freedom, if at the same time one gains the conviction that millions of God's creatures have been created as a mockery, that they will never be capable of using their freedom, that these poor rebels can never turn into giants to complete the tower, that it was not for such geese that the great idealists dreamt his dream of harmony. Seeing all that, he turned back and joined the clever people. Surely that could have happened. Joint whom? What clever people cried Aliyosha completely carried away. They had no such great cleverness and no mysteries and secrets. Perhaps nothing but atheism. That's all their secret. Your inquisitor does not believe in God. That's his secret. What if it is so? At last you've guessed it. It's perfectly true. It's true that that's the whole secret. But isn't that suffering? At least for a man like that who has wasted his whole life in the desert and yet could not shake off his incurable love of humanity. In his old age he reached the clear conviction that nothing but the advice of the great dread spirit could build up any tolerable sort of life for the feeble, unruly, incomplete, empirical creatures created in jest. And so convinced of this, he sees that he must follow the counsel of the wise spirit, the dread spirit of death and destruction, and therefore accept lying and deception and lead men consciously to death and destruction, and yet deceive them all the way so that they may not notice where they are being led, that the poor, blind creatures may at least on the way think themselves happy. And note the deception is in the name of him in whose ideal the old man had so fervently believed all his life long. It's not that tragic. And if only one such stood at the head of the whole army, filled with the lust of power only for the sake of filthy gain, would not one such be enough to make a tragedy? More than that, one such standing at the head is enough to create the actual leading idea of the Roman Church with all its armies and Jesuits, its highest idea. I tell you frankly that I firmly believe that there has always been such a man among those who stood at the head of the movement. Who knows? There may have been some such even among the Roman popes. Who knows? Perhaps the spirit of that accursed old man, who loves mankind so obstinately in his own way, is to be found even now in a whole multitude of such old men, existing not by chance but by agreement, as a secret league formed long ago for the guarding of the mystery, to guard it from the weak and the unhappy so as to make them happy. No doubt it is so, and so it must be indeed. I fancy that even among the masons there's something of the same mystery at the bottom, and that that's why the Catholics so detest the masons as their rivals, breaking up the unity of the idea while it is so essential that there should be one flock and one shepherd. But from the way I defend my idea, I might be an author impatient of your criticism, enough of it. "You are perhaps a mace in yourself," broke suddenly from Al-Yorsha. "You don't believe in God," he added, speaking this time very sorrowfully. He fancied besides that his brother was looking at him ironically. "How does your poem end?" he asked, suddenly looking down, or was at the end. I meant it to end like this. When the Inquisitor ceased speaking, he waited some time for his prisoner to answer him. His silence weighed down upon him. He saw that the prisoner had listened intently all the time, looking gently in his face, and evidently not wishing to reply. The old man longed for him to say something, however bitter and terrible. But he suddenly approached the old man in silence and softly kissed him on his bloodless aged lips. That was all his answer. The old man shuddered, his lips moved. He went to the door, opened it, and said to him, "Go! And come no more! Come not at all! Never! Never!" And he let him out into the dark alleys of the town. The prisoner went away. And the old man, the kiss glows in his heart. But the old man adheres to his idea. "And you with him, you too?" cried Al-Yosha mournfully. Yvonne laughed. "Why, it's all nonsense, Al-Yosha! It's only a senseless poem of a senseless student who could never write two lines of verse. Why do you take it so seriously? Surely you don't suppose I'm going straight off to the Jesuits to join the men who are correcting his work? Could, Lord, it's no business of mine. I told you, all I want is to live on to thirty, and then dash like up to the ground." But the sticky little leaves, and the precious tombs, and the blue sky, and the woman you love. How will you live? How will you love them? Al-Yosha cried sorrowfully. With such a hell in your heart and your head, how can you? No, that's just what you were going away for, to join them. If not, you will kill yourself. You can't endure it." "There is a strength to endure everything," Yvonne said with a cold smile. "The strength of the Karamazov's. The strength of the Karamazov's business." "To sink into debauchery. To stifle your soul with corruption, yes?" "Possibly even that. Only perhaps till I am thirty I shall escape it, and then..." "How will you escape it? By what will you escape it? That's impossible with your ideas." "And the Karamazov weigh again." "Everything is lawful, you mean?" "Everything is lawful. Is that it?" Yvonne scowled, and all at once turned strangely pale. "You've caught up yesterday's phrase, which so offended Musov, and which Dimitri pounced upon so naively and paraphrased." He smiled, clearly. "Yes, if you like. Everything is lawful, since the word has been said, I won't deny it, and Mica's version isn't bad." Al-Yosha looked at him in silence. "I thought that going away from here I would have you at least," Yvonne said suddenly with unexpected feeling. "But now I see that there is no place for me, even in your heart, my dear hermit. The formula all is lawful, I won't renounce. Will you renounce me for that, yes?" Al-Yosha got up, went to him, and softly kissed him on the lips. "That's plagiarism!" cried Yvonne, highly delighted. "You stole that from my poem. Thank you, though." "Get up, Al-Yosha. It's time we were going, both of us." They went out, but stopped when they reached the entrance of the restaurant. "Listen, Al-Yosha," Yvonne began in a resolute voice. "If I am really able to care for the sticky little leaves, I shall only love them, remembering you. It's enough for me that you are somewhere here, and I shan't lose my desire for life yet. Is that enough for you? Take it as a declaration of love, if you like. And now you go to the right, and I to the left. And it's enough. Do you hear enough? I mean, even if I don't go away tomorrow, I think I certainly shall go, and we meet again. Don't say a word more on these subjects. I beg that particularly. And about Dimitri, too, I ask you especially never to speak to me again," he added, with sudden irritation. "It's all exhausted. It has all been said over and over again, hasn't it?" "And I'll make you one promise in return for it. When, at thirty, I want to dash the cup to the ground. Wherever I may be, I'll come to have one more talk with you. Even though it were from America, you may be sure of that. I'll come on purpose. It will be very interesting to have a look at you, to see what you'll be by that time. It's rather a solemn promise, you see. And we really may be parting for seven years or ten." "Come. Go now to your potter Serothicus. He is dying. If he dies without you, you'll be angry with me for having kept you." "Goodbye. Kiss me once more. That's right. Now go." Yvonne turned suddenly, and went his way without looking back. It was just as Dimitri had left Al-Yosha the day before, though the parting had been very different. The strange resemblance flashed like an arrow through Al-Yosha's mind in the distress and dejection of that moment. He waited a little, looking after his brother. He suddenly noticed that Yvonne swayed as he walked, and that his right shoulder looked lower than his left. He'd never noticed it before. But all at once, he turned to, and almost ran to the monastery. It was nearly dark, and he felt almost frightened. Something new was growing up in him for which he could not account. The wind had risen again as on the previous evening, and the ancient pines murmured gloomily about him when he entered the hermitage coaps. He almost ran. "Pater Serafikus, he got that name from somewhere. Where from?" Al-Yosha wondered. "Yvonne, poor Yvonne, and when shall I see you again?" "Here is the hermitage." "Yes, yes. That he is. Pater Serafikus. He will save me from him and forever." Several times afterwards, he wondered how he could on leaving Yvonne, so completely forget his brother Dimitri, though he had that morning only a few hours before, so firmly resolved to find him, and not to give up doing so, even should he be unable to return to the monastery that night. End of chapter 5 of book 5. Book 5. Chapter 6 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. Hey, it's Ryan Seacrest. Life comes at you fast, which is why it's important to find some time to relax a little you time. Enter Chumba Casino with no download required you can jump on any time, anywhere for the chance to redeem some serious prizes. So treat yourself with Chumba Casino and play over 100 online casino-style games all for free. Go to ChumbaCasino.com to collect your free welcome bonus. Sponsored by Chumba Casino. No purchase necessary. VGW Group. Void where prohibited by law. 18 plus terms and conditions apply. For a while, a very obscure one. And Yvonne, on parting from Al-Yosha, went home to Fyodor Pavlovitch's house. But, strange to say, he was overcome by insufferable depression, which grew greater at every step he took towards the house. There was nothing strange in his being depressed. What was strange was that Yvonne could not have said what was the cause of it. He had often been depressed before, and there was nothing surprising at his feeling so at such a moment when he had broken off with everything had brought him here, and was preparing that day to make a new start and enter upon a new, unknown future. He would again be as solitary as ever, and though he had great hopes and great, too great, expectations from life, he could not have given any definite account of his hopes, his expectations, or even his desires. Yet at that moment, though the apprehension of the new and unknown certainly found a place in his heart, what was worrying him was something quite different. "Is it loathing for my father's house?" he wondered. "Quite likely. I am so sick of it. And though it's the last time I shall cross its hateful threshold, still I loathe it. No, it's not that either. Is it the parting with Al-Yosha, and the conversation I had with him?" "For so many years I've been silent with the whole world, and not dained to speak. And all of a sudden I reel off a rigmarole like that, certainly might have been the youthful vexation of youthful inexperience and vanity. Vexation at having failed to express himself, especially with such a being as Al-Yosha, on whom his heart had certainly been reckoning. No doubt that came in, that vexation, it must have done indeed. But yet that was not it. That was not it either. "I feel sick with depression, and yet I can't tell what I want. Better not think, perhaps." Yvonne tried not to think, but that, too, was no use. What made his depression so vexatious and irritating was that it had a kind of casual external character. He felt that. Some person or thing seemed to be standing out somewhere, just as something will sometimes intrude itself upon the eye. And though one may be so busy with work or conversation, that for a long time one does not notice it, yet it irritates and almost torments one till at last one realises and removes the offending object, often quite trifling and ridiculous one. Some article left about in the wrong place, a handkerchief on the floor, a book not replaced on the shelf, and so on. At last, feeling very cross and ill-humoured, Yvonne arrived home, and suddenly, about fifteen paces from the garden-gate, he guessed what was fretting and worrying him. On a bench in the gateway, the valet smerigikoff was sitting enjoying the coolness of the evening, and at the first glance at him, Yvonne knew that the valet smerigikoff was on his mind, and that it was this man that is so loathed. It all dawned upon him suddenly, and became clear. Just before, when Al-Yosha had been telling him of his meeting with smerigikoff, he had felt a sudden twinge of gloom and loathing, which had immediately stirred response of anger in his heart. Afterwards, as he talked, smerigikoff had been forgotten for the time, but still he had been in his mind, and as soon as Yvonne parted with Al-Yosha, and was walking home, the forgotten sensation began to obtrude itself again. "Is it possible that a miserable, contemptible creature like that can worry me so much?" he wondered, with insufferable irritation. It was true that Yvonne had come of late to feel an intense dislike for the man, especially during the last few days. He had even begun to notice in himself a growing feeling that was almost of hatred for the creature. Perhaps this hatred was accentuated by the fact that, when Yvonne first came to the neighbourhood, he had felt quite differently. Then he had taken a marked interest in smerigikoff, and had even thought him very original. He had encouraged him to talk to him, although he had always wondered at a certain incoherence, or rather restlessness, in his mind, and could not understand what it was that so continually and insistently worked upon the brain of the contemplative. They discussed philosophical questions, and even how there could have been light on the first day, when the sun, moon, and stars were only created on the fourth day, and how that was to be understood. But Yvonne soon saw that, though the sun, moon, and stars might be an interesting subject, yet that it was quite secondary to smerigikoff, and that he was looking for something altogether different. In one way and another, he began to betray a boundless vanity, and a wounded vanity too, and that Yvonne disliked. 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 favourites, 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! It had first given rise to his aversion. Later on, there had been trouble in the house. Grushenka had come on the scene, and there had been the scandals with his brother Demetri. They discussed that too, but those Smeary Jukoff always talked of that with great excitement. It was impossible to discover what he desired to come of it. There was in fact something surprising in the illogicality and incoherence of some of his desires, accidentally betrayed and always vaguely expressed. Smeary Jukoff was always inquiring, putting certain indirect but obviously premeditated questions, but what his object was he did not explain, and usually, at the most important moment, he would break off and relapse into silence or pass to another subject. But what finally irritated Ivan most and confirmed his dislike for him was the peculiar revolting familiarity which Smeary Jukoff began to show more and more markedly. Not that he forgot himself and was rude, on the contrary, he always spoke very respectfully. Yet he had obviously begun to consider goodness, knows why, that there was some sort of understanding between him and Ivan Fyodorovich. He always spoke in a tone that suggested that those two had some kind of compact, some secret between them, that had at some time been expressed on both sides, only known to them and beyond the comprehension of those around them. But for a long while, Ivan did not recognize the real cause of his growing dislike, and he had only lately realized what was at the root of it. With a feeling of disgust and irritation, he tried to pass in at the gate without speaking or looking at Smeary Jukoff. But Smeary Jukoff rose from the bench, and from that action alone Ivan knew instantly that he wanted particularly to talk to him. Ivan looked at him and stopped, and the fact that he did stop instead of passing by as he meant to the minute before drove him to fury. With anger and repulsion he looked at Smeary Jukoff's emasculate, sickly face, with the little curls combed forward on his forehead. His left eye winked, and he grinned as if to say, "Where are you going? You won't pass by. You see that we two clever people have something to say to each other." Ivan shook. "Get away, miserable idiot. What have I to do with you?" was on the tip of his tongue, but to his profound astonishment he heard himself say, "Is my father still asleep or has he waked?" He asked the question softly and meekly to his own surprise, and at once, again to his own surprise, sat down on the bench. For an instant he felt almost frightened, he remembered it afterwards. Smeary Jukoff stood facing him, his hands behind his back, looking at him with assurance, and almost severity. "His honour is still asleep," he articulated deliberately. "You were the first to speak, not I," he seemed to say. "I'm surprised at you, sir," he added, after a pause, dropping his eyes effectively, setting his right foot forward and playing with the tip of his polished boot. "Why are you surprised at me?" Ivan asked abruptly and suddenly, doing his utmost to restrain himself, and suddenly realizing, with disgust, that he was feeling intense curiosity and would not, on any account, have gone away without satisfying it. "Why don't you go to Chermashnya, sir?" Smeary Jukoff suddenly raised his eyes and smiled familiarly. "Why I smile you must understand of yourself, if you are a clever man," his screwed up left eye seemed to say. "Why should I go to Chermashnya?" Ivan asked in surprise. Smeary Jukoff was silent again. "Fyodor Poplovich himself has begged you to," he said at last, slowly and apparently attaching no significance to his answer. "I put you off with a secondary reason," he seemed to suggest, simply to say something. "Damn you, speak out what you want," Ivan cried angrily at last, passing from meekness to violence. Smeary Jukoff drew his right foot up to his left, pulled himself up, but still looked at him with the same serenity and the same little smile. Substantially nothing, but just by way of conversation. Another silence followed. They did not speak for nearly a minute. Ivan knew that he ought to get up and show anger, and Smeary Jukoff stood before him and seemed to be waiting as though to see whether he would be angry or not. So at least it seemed to Ivan. At last he moved to get up. Smeary Jukoff seemed to seize the moment. "I'm in an awful position, Ivan Fyodorovich. I don't know how to help myself," he said resolutely and distinctly, and at his last word he sighed. Ivan Fyodorovich sat down again. "They are both utterly crazy. They are no better than little children," Smeary Jukoff went on. "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 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." With the Lucky Land Sluts, you can get lucky just about anywhere. "This is your captain speaking. We've got clear runway and the weather's fine, but we're just going to circle up here a while and get lucky." "No, no, nothing like that. It's just these cash prizes that are quick. So I suggest you sit back, keep your tray table upright, and start getting lucky." Play for free at Luckylandsluts.com. Are you feeling lucky? "No purchase necessary. BGW Graboid were prohibited by law. 18-plus terms and conditions apply." "I'm speaking of your parent and your brother, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. Here, Fyodor Pavlovitch will get up directly and begin worrying me every minute. Has she come? Why hasn't she come? And so on, up till midnight and even after midnight. And if Agrifena Alexandrovna doesn't come, for very likely she does not mean to come at all, then he will be at me again tomorrow morning. Why hasn't she come? When will she come? As though I were to blame for it. On the other side, it's no better. As soon as it gets dark or even before, your brother will appear with his gun in his hands. "Look out, you rogue, you soup maker. If you miss her and don't let me know she's been, I'll kill you before anyone." When the night's over, in the morning, he too, like Fyodor Pavlovitch, begins worrying me to death. "Why hasn't she come? Will she come soon?" And he too thinks me to blame because his lady hasn't come. And every day and every hour they get angrier and angrier so that I sometimes think I shall kill myself in a fright. I can't depend them, sir. "And why have you meddled? Why did you begin to spy for Dmitri Fyodorovitch?" said Yvonne irritably. "How could I help meddling, though indeed I haven't meddled at all if you want to know the truth of the matter?" I kept quiet from the very beginning, not daring to answer, but he pitched on me to be his servant. He has had only one thing to say since. "I'll kill you, you scoundrel, if you miss her. I feel certain, sir, that I shall have a long fit tomorrow." "What do you mean by a long fit?" "A long fit, lasting a long time, several hours, or perhaps a day or two. Once it went on for three days, I fell from the garret that time, the struggling ceased and then began again, and for three days I couldn't come back to my senses, Fyodorovitch sent for a herzen stoop, the doctor here, and he put ice on my head and tried another remedy, too. I might have died. But they say one can't tell with epilepsy when a fit is coming. What makes you say you will have one tomorrow?" Yvonne inquired, with a peculiar, irritable curiosity. "That's just so. You can't tell beforehand." "Besides, you fell from the garret, then?" "I climb up to the garret every day. I might fall from the garret again, tomorrow. And if not, I might fall down the cellar steps. I have to go into the cellar every day, too." Yvonne took a long look at him. "You are talking nonsense, I see. And I don't quite understand you," he said softly, but with a sort of menace. "Do you mean to pretend to be ill tomorrow for three days, eh?" Smearajikov, who was looking at the ground again, and playing with the toe of his right foot, set the foot down, moved the left one forward, and grinning, articulated. "If I were able to play such a trick, that is, pretend to have a fit, and it would not be difficult for a man accustomed to them, I should have a perfect right to use such a means to save myself from death. For even if Agrifena Alexandrovna comes to see his father while I am ill, his honour can't blame a sick man for not telling him. He'd be ashamed, too." "Hang it all," Yvonne cried, his face working with anger. "Why are you always in such a funk for your life? All my brother Demetri's threats are only hasty words, and mean nothing. He won't kill you. It's not you, he'll kill." "He'd kill me, first of all, like a fly. But even more than that, I'm afraid I shall be taken for an accomplice of his when he does something crazy to his father." "Why should you be taken for an accomplice?" "They'll think I'm an accomplice because I let him know the signals as a great secret." "What signals? Whom did you tell? Confound you. Speak more plainly." "I'm bound to admit the fact," Smearjikov drawled with pedantic composure. "That I have a secret with Fyodor Pavlovitch in this business." "As you know yourself, if only you do know it, he has for several days past locked himself in as soon as night or even evening comes on." "Of late you've been going upstairs to your room early every evening, and yesterday you did not come down at all, and so perhaps you don't know how carefully he has begun to lock himself in at night, and even if Grigori Vasilyevitch comes to the door, he won't open to him till he hears his voice. But Grigori Vasilyevitch does not come because I wait upon him alone in his room now. That's the arrangement he made himself ever since this to-do with Agrifane Alexandrovna began. But at night, by his orders, I go away to the lodge so that I don't get to sleep till midnight. But I'm on the watch, getting up and walking about the yard, waiting for Agrifane Alexandrovna to come. For the last few days, he's been perfectly frantic expecting her. What he argues is, she's afraid of him to meet three Fyodorvitch. "Meet ya," as he calls him. "And so," says he, "she'll come the back way, late at night, to me. You look out for her," says he, "till midnight and later, and if she does come, you run up and knock at my door or at the window from the garden. Knock at first twice rather gently, and then three times more quickly. Then," says he, "I shall understand at once that she has come, and will open the door to you quietly." 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 here, and I have a question for you. What do you do when you win? Like, are you a fist-pumper? A woo hoo! 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, voidware prohibited by law, 18-plus terms and conditions apply. Another signal he gave me in case anything unexpected happens. At first, two knocks, and then, after an interval, another much louder. Then, he will understand that something has happened suddenly, and that I must see him. And he will open to me so that I can go and speak to him. That's all in case Agrofena Alexandrovina can't come herself, but sends a message. Besides, Dimitri Fyodorovic might come, too, so I must let him know he is near. His honor is awfully afraid of Dimitri Fyodorovic, so that even if Agrofena Alexandrovina had come, and were locked in with him, and Dimitri Fyodorovic were to turn up anywhere near at the time, I should be bound to let him know at once, knocking three times, so that the first signal of five knocks means Agrofena Alexandrovina has come, while the second signal of three knocks means something important to tell you. His honor has shown me them several times and explained them, and as in the whole universe no one knows of these signals but myself and his honor, so he'd open the door without the slightest hesitation, and without calling out, he is awfully afraid of calling out aloud. Well, those signals are known to Dimitri Fyodorovic, too, now. How are they known? Did you tell him? How dared you tell him? It was through fright I did it? How could I dare to keep it back from him? Dimitri Fyodorovic kept persisting every day. You were deceiving me, you are hiding something from me, I'll break both your legs for you. So I told him those secret signals that he might see my slavish devotion, and might be satisfied that I was not deceiving him, but was telling him all I could. If you think that he'll make use of those signals and try to get in, don't let him in. But if I should be laid up with a fit, how can I prevent him coming in then, even if I dared prevent him knowing how desperate he is? Hang it! How can you be so sure you are going to have a fit confound you? Are you laughing at me? How could I dare laugh at you? I am in no laughing humor with this fear on me. I feel I am going to have a fit. I have a presentiment. Fight alone will bring it on. Confound it! If you are laid up, Grigori will be on the watch. Let Grigori know beforehand. He will be sure not to let him in. I should never dare to tell Grigori Vasilievich about the signals without orders from my master. And as for Grigori Vasilievich hearing him, and not admitting him, he has been ill ever since yesterday, and Marfa Ignativna intends to give him medicine tomorrow. They've just arranged it. It's a very strange remedy of hers. Marfa Ignativna knows of a preparation and always keeps it. It's a strong thing made from some herb. She has the secret of it, and she always gives it to Grigori Vasilievich three times a year when his lumbago's so bad he's almost paralyzed by it. Then she takes a towel, wess it with the stuff, and rubs his whole back for half an hour till it's quite red and swollen. And what's left in the bottle, she gives him to drink with a special prayer. But not quite all, for on such occasions, she leaves some for herself, and drinks at herself. And as they never take strong drink, I assure you, they both drop a sleep at once, and sleep sound a very long time. And when Grigori Vasilievich wakes up, he is perfectly well after it, but Marfa Ignativna always has a headache from it. So if Marfa Ignativna carries out her intention tomorrow, they won't hear anything, and hinder Demetri Fyodorovich, they'll be asleep. What a rigmarole. And it all seems to happen at once, as though it were planned. You'll have a fit and they'll both be unconscious, cried Ivan. "But aren't you trying to arrange it so?" broke from him suddenly, and he frowned threateningly. "How could I? And why should I, when it all depends on Demetri Fyodorovich and his plans? If he means to do anything, he'll do it. But if not, I shan't be thrusting him upon his father." "And why should he go to father, especially on the sly, if, as you say yourself, Agrefena Alexandrovna won't come at all?" Ivan went on, turning white with anger. "You say that yourself, and all the while I've been here, I felt sure it was all the old man's fancy, and the creature won't come to him. Why should Demetri break in on him, if she doesn't come? Speak, I want to know what you are thinking." "You know yourself why he'll come? What's the use of what I think? His honour will come simply because he is in a rage or suspicious on account of my illness, perhaps, and he'll dash in, as he did yesterday through impatient search the rooms, to see whether she hasn't escaped him on the sly. He is perfectly well aware, too, that Fyodorov Fyodorovich has a big envelope with three thousand rubles in it, tied up with ribbon and sealed with three seals. On it is written in his own hand, "To my angel Grushenka, if she will come." To which he added three days later, "For my little chicken, there's no knowing what that might do." "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 favourites, 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, V.G.W. Group. Voidware prohibited by law, 18-plus terms and conditions apply." "Nonsense," cried Ivan, almost beside himself. "The Metri won't come to steal money and kill my father to do it. He might have killed him yesterday on the count of Grushenko, like the frantic savage fool he is, but he won't steal." "He isn't very great need of money now. The greatest need, Ivan Fyodorovich. You don't know in what need he is?" Smerdukov explained, with perfect composure and remarkable distinctness. "He looks on that three thousand as his own, too. He said so to me himself." "My father still owes me just three thousand," he said. "And besides that consider, Ivan Fyodorovich, there is something else perfectly true. It's as good as certain, so to say that Agrifena Alexandrovna will force him, if only she cares to, to marry her. The master himself, I mean, Fyodor Pavlovitch. If only she cares to, and of course she may care to." "All I've said is that she won't come, but maybe she's looking for more than that. I mean to be mistress here. I know myself that Samsonov, her merchant, was laughing with her about it, telling her quite openly that it would not be at all a stupid thing to do. And she's got plenty of sense. She wouldn't marry a beggar like Demitri Fyodorovich, so taking that into consideration, Ivan Fyodorovich, reflect that then neither Demitri Fyodorovich, nor yourself, and your brother Alex Fyodorovich, would have anything after the master's death, not a ruble. Fyodorafena Alexandrovna would marry him simply to get hold of the whole, all the money there is. But if your father were to die now, there'd be some forty thousand for sure. Even for Demitri Fyodorovich, whom he hates so, or he's made no will, Demitri Fyodorovich knows all that very well. A sort of shudder passed over Ivan's face. He suddenly flushed. "Then why on earth?" he suddenly interrupted Smearyukov. "Do you advise me to go to Chermashnya? What did you mean by that? If I go away, you see what will happen here?" Ivan drew his breath with difficulty. "Precisely so," said Smearyukov softly and reasonably, watching Ivan intently, however. "What do you mean by precisely so?" Ivan questioned him, with a menacing light in his eyes, restraining himself with difficulty. "I spoke because I felt sorry for you. If I were in your place, I should simply throw it all up, rather than stay on in such a position?" answered Smearyukov, with the most candid air looking at Ivan's flashing eyes. They were both silent. "You seem to be a perfect idiot, and what's more, an awful scoundrel too?" Ivan rose suddenly from the bench. He was about to pass straight through the gate, but he stopped short and turned to Smearyukov. Something strange followed. Ivan, in a sudden peroxysm, bit his lip, clenched his fists, and in another minute, would have flung himself on Smearyukov. The latter anyway noticed it at the same moment, started, and shrank back. But the moment passed without mischief to Smearyukov, and Ivan turned in silence as it seemed in perplexity to the gate. "I'm going away to Moscow tomorrow, if you care to know. Early tomorrow morning. That's all." He suddenly said aloud angrily and wondered himself afterwards what need there was to say this then to Smearyukov. "That's the best thing you can do," he responded as though he had expected to hear it, except that you can always be telegraphed for from Moscow, if anything should happen here. Ivan stopped again, and again turned quickly to Smearyukov, but a change had passed over him too. All his familiarity and carelessness had completely disappeared. His face expressed attention and expectation, intent but timid and cringing. Haven't you something more to say? Something to add? Could be read in the intent gaze he fixed on Ivan. And couldn't I be sent for from Charmashnya too, in case anything happened? Ivan shouted suddenly for some unknown reason raising his voice. "From Charmashnya too, you could be sent for," Smearyukov muttered almost in a whisper, looking disconcerted but gazing intently into Ivan's eyes. "Only Moscow is farther, and Charmashnya is nearer. Is it to save my spending money on the fair, or to save my going so far out of my way that you insist on Charmashnya?" "Precisely so," muttered Smearyukov with a breaking voice. He looked at Ivan with a revolting smile, and again made ready to draw back. But to his astonishment Ivan broke into a laugh, and went through the gate still laughing. Anyone who had seen his face at that moment would have known that he was not laughing from lightness of heart, and he could not have explained himself what he was feeling at that instant. He moved and walked, as though in a nervous frenzy. End of chapter 6 of book 5. 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. [Music] 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 Chumbakasino.com. Chumbakasino 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 Chumbakasino.com now and live the Chumba life. Sponsored by Chumbakasino. No purchase necessary. VGW Group. Void were prohibited by law. 18+ terms and conditions apply. Book 5. Chapter 7. It's always worthwhile speaking to a clever man. And in the same nervous frenzy too, he spoke. Meeting Fyodor Pavlovitch in the drawing room directly, he went in. He shouted to him, waving his hands. "I'm going upstairs to my room, not into you. Goodbye!" and passed by, trying not even to look at his father. Very possibly the old man was too hateful to him at that moment, but such an unceremonious display of hostility was a surprise even to Fyodor Pavlovitch. And the old man evidently wanted to tell him something at once, and had come to meet him in the drawing room on purpose. Receiving this amiable greeting, he stood still in silence, and with an ironical air watched his son going upstairs till he passed out of sight. "What's the matter with him?" He promptly asked Smardukov, who had followed Ivan. "Angry about something who can tell," the valet muttered evasively. "Confound him. Let him be angry then. Bring in the Samavar and get along with you. Look sharp. No news!" Then followed a series of questions such as Smardukov had just complained of to Ivan, all relating to his expected visitor, and these questions we will omit. Half an hour later the house was locked, and the crazy old man was wandering along through the rooms in excited expectation of hearing every minute the five knocks agreed upon. Now and then he peered out into the darkness, seeing nothing. It was very late, but Ivan was still awake and reflecting. He sat up late that night till two o'clock. But we will not give an account of his thoughts, and this is not the place to look into that soul, its turn will come. And even if one tried it would be very hard to give an account of them, for there were no thoughts in his brain, but something very vague and above all, intense excitement. He felt himself that he had lost his bearings. He was fretted too by all sorts of strange and almost surprising desires. For instance, after midnight he suddenly had an intense, irresistible inclination to go down, open the door, go to the lodge, and beat Smardukov. But if he had been asked why, he could not have given any exact reason, except perhaps that he loathed the valet as one who had insulted him more gravely than anyone in the world. On the other hand he was more than once that night overcome by a sort of inexplicable, humiliating terror, which he felt positively paralyzed his physical powers. His head ached and he was giddy. A feeling of hatred was wrinkling in his heart, as though he meant to avenge himself on someone. He even hated Alyosha, recalling the conversation he had just had with him. At moments he hated himself intensely. Of Katharina Ivanovna, he almost forgot to think, and wondered greatly at this afterwards, especially as he remembered perfectly that when he had protested so valiantly to Katharina Ivanovna that he would go away next day to Moscow, something had whispered in his heart, "That's nonsense. You are not going, and it won't be so easy to tear yourself away as you are boasting now." Remembering that night long afterwards, Ivan recalled with peculiar repulsion how he had suddenly got up from the sofa and had stealthily, as though he were afraid of being watched, opened at the door, gone out on the staircase and listened to Fyodor Pavlovitch, stirring down below. Had listened a long while, some five minutes, with a sort of strange curiosity, holding his breath while his heart throbbed. And why he had done all this, why he was listening, he could not have said. That action all his life afterwards he called infamous. And at the bottom of his heart he thought of it as the "basest action of his life." For Fyodor Pavlovitch himself he felt no hatred at that moment, but was simply intensely curious to know how he was walking down there below, and what he must be doing now. He wondered and imagined how he must be peeping out of the dark windows and stopping in the middle of the room, listening, listening, for someone to knock. Ivan went out on the stairs twice to listen like this. About two o'clock when everything was quiet and even Fyodor Pavlovitch had gone to bed, Ivan had gotten to bed firmly resolved to fall asleep at once, as he felt fearfully exhausted. And he did fall asleep at once and slept soundly without dreams, but waked early at seven o'clock when it was broad daylight, opening his eyes he was surprised to feel himself destroyed and narrowly vigorous. He jumped up at once and dressed quickly, then dragged out his trunk and began packing immediately. 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's time for today's Lucky Land Horoscope with Victoria Cash. Life's gotten mundane, so shake up the daily routine and be adventurous with a trip to Lucky Land. You know what they say. Your chance to win starts with a spin. So go to luckylandslots.com to play over 100 social casino-style games for free for your chance to redeem some serious prizes. Get lucky today at luckylandslots.com. No purchase necessary. VGW Group void were prohibited by law. 18+ terms of condition supply. His linen had come back from the laundress that previous morning. Yvonne positively smiled at the thought that everything was helping his sudden departure. And his departure certainly was sudden. Though Yvonne had said the day before to Katerina Yvonne of Na, Al-Yosha, and Smerdukov, that he was leaving next day, yet he remembered that he had no thought of departure when he went to bed, or at least had not dreamed that his first act in the morning would be to pack his trunk. At last his trunk and bag were ready. It was about nine o'clock when Marfa Ignativna came in with her usual inquiry. "Where will your honor take your tea in your own room or downstairs?" He looked almost cheerful, but there was about him, about his words and gestures, something hurried and scattered. Greeting his father affably, and even inquiring specially after his health, though he did not wait to hear his answer to the end, he announced that he was starting off in an hour to return to Moscow for good, and begged him to send for the horses. His father heard this announcement with no sign of surprise, and forgot in an unmannerly way to show regret at losing him. Instead of doing so, he flew into a great flutter at the recollection of some important business of his own. "What a fellow you are! Not to tell me yesterday! Never mind, we'll manage it all the same. Do me a great service, my dear boy. Go to Chermashnya on the way. It's only to turn to the left from the station at Volovia. Only another twelve vests, and you come to Chermashnya." "I'm sorry, I can't. It's 80 vests to the railway, and the train starts for Moscow at seven o'clock tonight. I can only just catch it." "You'll catch it tomorrow or the day after, but today turn off to Chermashnya. It won't put you out much to humour your father. If I hadn't had something to keep me here, I would have run over myself long ago, for I have some business there in a hurry. But here I..." "It's not the time for me to go now. You see, I have two pieces of Cop's land there. The Muslov's. An old merchant and his son will give eight thousand for the timber. But last year I'd just missed a purchaser who would have given twelve. There's no getting anyone about here to buy it. The Muslov's have it all their own way. One has to take what they'll give, for no one here dare bid against them." The priest, at Ilyinsko, wrote to me last Thursday that a merchant called Gorstkin, a man I know, had turned up. What makes him valuable is that he is not from these parts, so he is not afraid of the Muslov's. He says he will give me eleven thousand for the Cop's. Do you hear? "But he'll only be here," the priest writes, "for a week altogether. So you must go at once and make a bargain with him." "Well, you write to the priest. He'll make the bargain." "He can't do it. He has no eye for business. He is a perfect treasure. I'd give him twenty thousand to take care of for me without a receipt. But he has no eye for business. He is a perfect child. A crow could deceive him. And yet he is a learned man. Would you believe it?" "This Gorstkin looks like a peasant. He was a blue captain. But he is a regular rogue. That's the common complaint. He is a liar. Sometimes he tells such lies that you would wonder why he is doing it. He told me the year before last that his wife was dead, and that he had married another. And would you believe it? There is not a word of truth in it." His wife had never died at all. She is alive to this day and gives him a beating twice a week. So what you have to find out is whether he is lying or speaking the truth, when he says he wants to buy it and would give eleven thousand. "I shall be no use in such a business. I have no eye either." "Stay. Wait a bit. You will be of use, for I will tell you the signs by which you can judge about Gorstkin. I've done business with him a long time. You see, you must watch his beard. He has a nasty thin red beard. If his beard shakes when he talks and he gets cross, it's all right. He is saying what he means. He wants to do business. But if he strokes his beard with his left hand and grins, he is trying to cheat you. Don't watch his eyes. You won't find out anything from his eyes. He is a deep one, a rogue but watch his beard. I'll give you a note, and you show it to him. He's called "Gorstkin", though his real name is "Leagavie". Translator's note, set her dog. But don't call him so. He will be offended. If you come to an understanding with him, and see it's all right, right here at once. 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. 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. That is why I'm such a big fan of Chumba Casino. Chumba Casino has all your favorite social casino style games that you can play for free anytime, anywhere with daily bonuses. So sign up now at ChumbaCocino.com. That's ChumbaCocino.com. Sponsored by Chumba Casino, no purchase necessary. V.G.W. Group, void where prohibited by law. 18-plus terms and conditions apply. You need only right. He's not lying. Stand out for 11,000. 1,000 you can knock off, but not more. Just think. There's a difference between 8,000 and 11,000. It's as good as picking up 3,000. It's not so easy to find a purchaser, and I'm in desperate need of money. Only let me know it's serious, and I'll run over and fix it up. I'll snatch the time somehow. But what's the good of my galloping over, if it's all a notion of the priests? Come, will you go? Oh, I can't spare the time. You must excuse me. Come. You might oblige your father. I can't forget it. You've no heart. Any of you, that's what it is. What's a day or two to you? Where are you going now, to Venice? Your Venice will keep another two days. I would have sent Al-Yosha, but what uses Al-Yosha in a thing like that? I send you just because you are a clever fellow. Do you suppose I don't see that? You know nothing about timber, but you've got an eye. All that I wanted is to see whether the man is in earnest. I tell you, watch his beard. If his beard shakes, you know he is in earnest. You force me to go to that damned Chermashnya yourself, then? Crydivon, with a malignant smile. Jodor Pavlovitch did not catch, or would not catch the malignancy, but he caught the smile. Then you'll go. You'll go. I'll scribble the note for you at once. I don't know whether I shall go. I don't know. I'll decide on the way. Nonsense. Decide at once. My dear fellow, decide. If you settle the matter, write me a line. Give it to the priest, and he'll send it on to me at once. And I won't delay you more than that. You can go to Venice. The priest will give you horses back to Volovia Station. The old man was quite delighted. He wrote the note and sent for the horses. A light lunch was brought in with Brandy. When Jodor Pavlovitch was pleased, he usually became expansive, but today he seemed to restrain himself. Of Dimitri, for instance, he did not say a word. He was quite unmoved by the parting, and seemed, in fact, at a loss for something to say. Ivan noticed this particularly. "He must be bored with me," he thought. Only when accompanying his son out onto the steps, the old man began to fuss about. He would have kissed him, but Ivan made haste, told out his hand. Obviously avoiding the kiss. His father saw it at once, and instantly pulled himself up. "Well, good luck to you." "Good luck to you," he repeated from the steps. "You'll come again some time or other." "Mind you, do come. I shall always be glad to see you." "Well, Christ be with you." Ivan got into the carriage. "Goodbye, Ivan. Don't be too hard on me," the father called for the last time. "The whole household came out to take leave, smared Yakov, Marfa, and Grigori. Ivan gave them ten rubles each. When he had seated himself in the carriage, smared Yakov jumped up to arrange the rug. "You see, I am going to Chermashnya," broke suddenly from Ivan. Again, as the day before, the words seemed to drop of themselves, and he laughed, too, a peculiar, nervous laugh. He remembered it long after. "It's a true saying, then, that it's always worth while speaking to a clever man," answered smared Yakov firmly, looking significantly at Ivan. The carriage rolled away. Nothing was clear in Ivan's soul, but he looked eagerly around him at the fields, at the hills, at the trees, at a flock of geese flying high overhead in the bright sky. And all of a sudden, he felt very happy. He tried to talk to the driver, and he felt intensely interested in an answer the peasant made him. But a minute later, he realized that he was not catching anything, and that he had not really even taken in the peasant's answer. He was silent, and it was pleasant, even so. The air was pure and cool, sky bright. The images of Alyosha and Katarina Ivanovna, floated into his mind. But he softly smiled, blew softly on the friendly phantoms, and they flew away. There's plenty of time for them, he thought. They reached the station quickly, changed horses, and galloped to Volovia. Why is it worth while speaking to a clever man? What did he mean by that? The thought seemed suddenly to clutch at his breathing. And why did I tell him I was going to Chermashnya? They reached Volovia Station, Ivan got out of the carriage, and the driver stood around him, bargaining over the journey of 12 vests to Chermashnya. 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. [Music] Hello, it is Ryan, and I was on a flight the other day playing one of my favorite social spin slot games on Chumbakasino.com. I looked over the person sitting next to me, and you know what they were doing. They're also playing Chumbakasino. Everybody's loving having fun with it. Chumbakasino's home to hundreds of casino-style games that you can play for free anytime, anywhere. So sign up now at Chumbakasino.com to claim you're a free welcome bonus. That's Chumbakasino.com and live the Chumbalife. Sponsored by Chumbakasino, no purchase necessary. VGW Group, forward we're prohibited by law. Eighteen plus terms and conditions apply. He told them to harness the horses. He went into the station house, looked round, glanced at the overseer's wife, and suddenly went back to the entrance. I won't go to Chermashnya. Am I too late to reach the railway by seven, brothers? We shall just do it. Shall we get the carriage out? At once. Will any one of you be going to the town tomorrow? To be sure, Mitri here will. Can you do me a service, Mitri? Go to my father's, to Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov. And tell him I haven't gone to Chermashnya. Can you? Of course I can. I've known Fyodor Pavlovitch a long time. And here's something for you. For I dare say he won't give you anything. Sarivan, laughing gaily. You may depend on it he won't. Mitri laughed too. Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to do it. At seven o'clock Ivan got into the train and set off to Moscow. Away with the past I've done with the old world forever, and may I have no news, no echo from it. To a new life, new places, and no looking back. But instead of delight, his soul was filled with such gloom, and his heart ached with such anguish as he had never known in his life before. He was thinking all the night, the train flew on, and only at daybreak, when he was approaching Moscow, he suddenly roused himself from his meditation. "I am a scoundrel," he whispered to himself. Fyodor Pavlovitch remained well satisfied at having seen his son off. For two hours afterwards he felt almost happy, and sat drinking brandy. But suddenly something happened, which was very annoying and unpleasant for everyone in the house, and completely upset Fyodor Pavlovitch's equanimity at once. Smerejukov went to the cellar for something and fell down from the top of the steps. Fortunately, Marfa Ignatyevna was in the yard and heard him in time. She did not see the fall, but heard his scream, the strange peculiar scream, long familiar to her, the scream of the epileptic falling in a fit. They could not tell whether the fit had come on him at the moment he was descending the steps, so that he must have fallen unconscious, or whether it was the fall and the shock that it caused the fit in Smerejukov, who was known to be liable to them. They found him at the bottom of the cellar steps, writhing in convulsions and foaming at the mouth. It was thought at first that he must have broken something, an arm or a leg, and hurt himself. But God had preserved him, as Marfa Ignatyevna expressed it. Nothing of the kind had happened. But it was difficult to get him out of the cellar. They asked the neighbors to help, and managed it somehow. Fyodor Pavlovitch himself was present at the whole ceremony. He helped, evidently alarmed and upset. The sick man did not regain consciousness. The convulsions ceased for a time, but then began again. And everyone concluded that the same thing would happen, as had happened a year before, when he accidentally fell from the garret. They remembered that ice had been put on his head, then. There was still ice in the cellar, and Marfa Ignatyevna had some brought up. In the evening, Fyodor Pavlovitch sent for Dr. Herzenstube, who arrived at once. He was a most estimable old man, and the most careful and conscientious doctor in the province. After careful examination, he concluded that the fit was a very violent one, and might have serious consequences. That meanwhile, he, Herzenstube, did not fully understand it. But that by tomorrow morning, if the present remedies were unavailing, he would venture to try something else. The invalid was taken to the lodge, to a room next to Grigori's, and Marfa Ignatyevna's. Then Fyodor Pavlovitch had one misfortune after another to put up with that day. Marfa Ignatyevna cooked the dinner, and the soup, compared with Smerejikov's, was no better than dishwater. And the foul was so dried up that it was impossible to masticate it. To her master's bitter, though deserved, reproaches, Marfa Ignatyevna replied that the foul was a very old one to begin with, and that she had never been trained as a cook. In the evening, there was another trouble in store for Fyodor Pavlovitch. He was informed that Grigori, who had not been well for the last three days, was completely laid up by his lumbago. Fyodor Pavlovitch finished his tea as early as possible, and locked himself up alone in the house. He was in terrible excitement and suspense. That evening, he reckoned on Gruschenka's coming almost as a certainty. He had received from Smerejikov that morning an assurance that she had promised to come without fail. The incorrigible old man's heart throbbed with excitement. He paced up and down his empty rooms. Listening. 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. I'm going to make him an offer he can't refuse. With family, canollies, and spins mean everything. Now you want to get mixed up in the family business. Introducing The Godfather at ChampaCasino.com. Test your luck in the shadowy world of The Godfather Slodge. Someday, I will call upon you to do a service for me. Play The Godfather, now at ChampaCasino.com. Welcome to the family. No purchase necessary, V.D.W. Group, boy where prohibited by law, 18+ terms and conditions apply. He had to be on the alert. Dimitri might be on the watch for her somewhere, and when she knocked on the window, Smirajikoff had informed him two days before that he had told her where and how to knock. The door must be opened at once. She must not be a second in the passage, for fear which God forbid, that she should be frightened and run away. Fyodor Pavlovitch had much to think of, but never had his heart been steeped in such voluptuous hopes, this time he could say almost certainly that she would come. End of Book V. Book VI. The Russian Monk. Chapter 1. Father Zosima and his visitors. When with an anxious and aching heart Alyosha went into his elder cell, he stood still, almost astonished. Instead of a sick man at his last gasp, perhaps unconscious as he had feared to find him, he saw him sitting up in his chair, and though weak and exhausted, his face was bright and cheerful. He was surrounded by visitors and engaged in quiet and joyful conversation. But he had only got up from his bed a quarter of an hour before Alyosha's arrival. His visitors had gathered together in his cell earlier, waiting for him to wake, having received a most confident assurance from Father Paisie that the teacher would get up, and as he had himself promised in the morning, converse once more with those dear to his heart. His promise, and indeed every word of the dying elder, Father Paisie put implicit trust in, if he had seen him unconscious, if he had seen him breathe his last, and yet had his promise that he would rise up and say goodbye to him, he would have not believed perhaps even in death, but would still have expected the dead man to recover and fulfill his promise. In the morning as he lay down to sleep, Father Zosima had told him positively, "I shall not die without the delight of another conversation with you, beloved of my heart. I shall look once more on your dear face and pour out my heart to you once again." The monks who had gathered for this probably last conversation with Father Zosima had all been his devoted friends for many years. There were four of them, Father Yosif and Father Paisie, Father Mihail, the warden of the Hermitage, a man not very old and far from being learned. He was of humble origin, of strong will instead fast faith, of austere appearance, but of deep tenderness, though he obviously concealed it as though he were almost ashamed of it. The fourth, Father Anfime, was a very old and humble little monk of the poorest peasant class. He was almost illiterate and very quiet, scarcely speaking to anyone. He was the humblest of the humble, and looked as though he had been frightened by something great and awful beyond the scope of his intelligence. Father Zosima had a great affection for this timorous man, and always treated him with marked respect, though perhaps there was no one he had known to whom he had said less, in spite of the fact that he had spent years wandering about holy Russia with him. That was very long ago, forty years before, when Father Zosima first began his life as a monk in a poor and little monastery at Costroma, and when, shortly after, he had accompanied Father Anfime on his pilgrimage to collect alms for their poor monastery. The whole party were in the bedroom, which, as we mentioned before, was very small, so there was scarcely room for the four of them, in addition to poor fury the novice who stood, to sit around Father Zosima on chairs brought from the sitting-room. It was already beginning to get dark; the room was lighted up by the lamps and the candles before the icons. Seeing Alyosha standing embarrassed in the doorway, Father Zosima smiled at him joyfully and held out his hand, "Welcome my quiet one, welcome my dear, here you are too. I knew you would come." Alyosha went up to him, bowed down before him to the ground and wept. Something surged up from his heart, his soul was quivering. He wanted to sob. "Come, don't weep over me yet," Father Zosima smiled, laying his right hand on his head. "You see, I am sitting up, talking. Maybe I shall live another twenty years yet." As that dear woman from Vishnigoria, with her little Lisa Vetta in her arms, wished me yesterday, "God bless the mother and the little girl Lisa Vetta," he crossed himself. "Pohiri, did you take her offering where I told you?" He meant the sixty copacs brought him the day before by the good-humoured woman to be given to someone poorer than me. Such offerings, always of money gained by personal toil. "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 fifty percent on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save ten percent on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon Favor, three sixty-five 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. Chumba 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 Chumba Casino.com. Sponsored by Chumba Casino. No purchase necessary. VGW Group. Void we're prohibited by law. Eighteen plus terms and conditions apply. The elder had sent Porfira the evening before to a widow whose house had been burnt down lately and who after the fire had gone with her children begging alms. Porfira hastened to reply that he had given the money as he had been instructed from an unknown benefactress. "I'll get up, my dear boy," the elder went on to Aliyosha. "Let me look at you. Have you been home and seen your brother?" It seemed strange to Aliyosha that he asked so confidently and precisely about one of his brothers only. But which one? Then perhaps he had sent him out both yesterday and today for the sake of that brother. "I have seen one of my brothers," answered Aliyosha. "I mean the elder one, to whom I bow down." "I only saw him yesterday and could not find him today," said Aliyosha. "Make haste to find him. Go ahead. Make haste to find him. Go again tomorrow and make haste. Leave everything and make haste. Perhaps you may still have time to prevent something terrible. I bow down yesterday to the great suffering in store for him." He was suddenly silent and seemed to be pondering. The words were strange. Father Yosha, who had witnessed the scene yesterday, exchanged glances with Father Paisie. Aliyosha could not resist asking, "Father, teacher," he began with extreme emotion. "Your words are too obscure. What is this suffering in store for him?" "Don't inquire. I seem to see something terrible yesterday, as though his whole future were expressed in his eyes. A look came into his eyes, so that I was instantly horror-stricken at what that man is preparing for himself. Once or twice in my life I have seen such a look in a man's face, reflecting as it were his future fate, and that fate, alas, came to pass. I sent you to him, Alexie, for I thought your brotherly face would help him. But everything and all our fates are from the Lord. Except the corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone, but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit." "Remember that. You, Alexie, I've many times silently blessed for your face. Know that," added the altar with a gentle smile. "This is what I think of you. You will go forth from these walls, but will live like a monk in the world. You will have many enemies, but even your foes will love you. Life will bring you many misfortunes, but you will find your happiness in them, and will bless life, and will make others blessed, which is what matters most." "Well, that is your character." "Fathers and teachers," he addressed his friends with a tender smile. "I have never till today told even him why the face of this youth is so dear to me. Now I will tell you. His face has been as it were a remembrance and a prophecy for me. At the dawn of my life when I was a child, I had an elder brother who died before my eyes at seventeen, and later on in the course of my life, I gradually became convinced that that brother had been a guidance and a sign from on high for me. For had he not come into my life, I should never, perhaps, so I fancy at least, have become a monk and entered on this precious path. He appeared first to me in my childhood, and here, at the end of my pilgrimage, he seems to have come to me over again. It is marvelous, fathers and teachers, that Alexei, who has some, though not a great resemblance in face, seems to me so like him spiritually, that many times I have taken him for that young man, my brother, mysteriously come back to me at the end of my pilgrimage, as a reminder and an inspiration, so that I positively wondered at so strange a dream in myself. Do you hear this, Porfiry? He turned to the novice who waited on him. Many times I have seen in your face, as it were, a look of mortification that I love, Alexei, more than you. Now you know why that was so, but I love you too, know that, and many times I grieved at your mortification. I should like to tell you, dear friends, of that youth, my brother, for there has been no presence in my life more precious, more significant and touching. My heart is full of tenderness, and I look at my whole life at this moment as though living through it again. Here I must observe that this last conversation of Father Zosima, with the friends who visited him on the last day of his life, has been partly preserved in writing. 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. Itty is Ryan C. Crest 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. Chumba Casino is an online social casino with hundreds of casino-style games like Slots and Blackjack. Play for fun, play for free, for your chance to redeem some serious prizes. Sign up now and collect your free welcome bonus at ChumbaCasino.com. Sponsored by Chumba Casino. No purchase necessary. VGW Group. Void. We're prohibited by law. 18 plus terms and conditions apply. Alakse-Fyodorovich Karamazov wrote it down from memory, sometime after his elder's death. But whether this was the only conversation that took place then, or whether he added to it, his notes of parts of former conversations with his teacher, I cannot determine. In his account, Brother's Awesomeous Talk goes on without interruption, as though he told his life to his friends in the form of a story. Though there is no doubt from other accounts of it, that the conversation that evening was general. Though the guests did not interrupt, Father's Awesomeous Much, yet they too talked, perhaps even told something themselves. Besides, Father's Awesomeous could not have carried on in an uninterrupted narrative, for he was sometimes gasping for breath. His voice failed him, and he even laid down to rest on his bed, though he did not fall asleep, and his visitors did not leave their seats. Once or twice the conversation was interrupted by Father Paisie's reading of the gospel. It is worthy too that no one of them suppose that he would die that night. For on that evening of his life, after his deep sleep in the day, he seemed suddenly to have found new strength, which kept him up through this long conversation. It was like a last effort of love which gave him marvellous energy. Only for a little time, however, for his life was cut short immediately. But of that later, I will only add now that I have preferred to confine myself to the account given by Alexie Fjodorovitch Karamazov. It will be shorter, and not so fatiguing, though, of course, as I must repeat, Aliyosha took a great deal from previous conversations and added them to it. Notes of the life of the deceased priest and monk, the elder Zosima, taken from his own words by Alexie Fjodorovitch Karamazov. Biographical notes, section A, Father Zosima's brother. Beloved brothers and teachers, I was born in a distant province in the north, in the town of V. My father was a gentleman by birth, but of no great consequence or position. He died when I was only two years old, and I don't remember him at all. He left my mother a small house built of wood and a fortune, not large, but sufficient to keep her and her children in comfort. There were two of us, my older brother Markle and I. He was eight years older than I was, of hasty, irritable temperament, but kindhearted and never ironical. He was remarkably silent, especially at home with me, his mother, and the servants. He did well at school, but did not get on with his school fellows, though he never quarreled. At least so my mother had told me. Six months before his death when he was seventeen, he made friends with a political exile who had been banished from Moscow to our town for free thinking, and led a solitary existence there. He was a good scholar who had gained distinction in philosophy in the university. Something made him take a fancy to Markle, and he used to ask to see him. The young man would spend whole evenings with him during that winter, till the exile was summoned to Petersburg to take up his post again at his own request, as he had powerful friend. It was the beginning of Lent, and Markle would not fast. He was rude and laughed about it. That's all silly twaddle. And there is no God, he said, horrifying my mother, the servants, and me too, for though I was only nine, I too was a gas to hearing such words. We had four servants, all serfs. I remember my mother selling one of the four, the Cook Ofhemia, who was lame and elderly, for sixty paper rules, and hiring a free servant to take her place. In the sixth week of Lent, my brother, who was never strong and had a tendency to consumption, was taken ill. He was tall, but thin and delicate looking, and a very pleasing countenance. I suppose he caught cold. Any way the doctor, who came, soon whispered to my mother that it was galloping consumption, that he would not live through the spring. My mother began weeping, and careful not to alarm my brother, she entreated him to go to church, and to confess, and take the sacrament, as he was still able to move about. This made him angry, and he said something profane about the church. He grew thoughtful, however. He guessed at once that he was seriously ill, and had a year before, coolly observed that dinner to my mother and me. 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 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. "My life won't be long among you. I may not live another year." Which seemed now like a prophecy. Three days passed and holy we could come. And on Tuesday morning, my brother began going to church. "I am doing this simply for your sake, mother, to please and comfort you," he said. My mother wept with joy and grief. His end must be near, she thought, if there's such a change in him. But he was not able to go to church long. He took to his bed, so he had to confess and take the sacrament at home. It was a late Easter, and the days were bright and fine and full of fragrance. I remember he used to cough all night and sleep badly, but in the morning he dressed and tried to sit up in an armchair. That's how I remember him. Sitting, sweet and gentle, smiling, his face bright and joyous, in spite of his illness. A marvelous change passed over him. His spirit seemed transformed. The old nurse would come in and say, "Let me light the lamp before the holy image, my dear." And once he would not have allowed it and would have blown it out. "Light it, light it, dear. I was a wretch to have prevented you doing. You are praying when you light the lamp, and I am praying when I rejoice seeing you. So we are praying to the same God." Those words seemed strange to us, and mother would go to her room and weep. But when she went into him she wiped her eyes and looked cheerful. "Mother, don't weep darling," he would say. "I've long to live yet, long to rejoice with you, and life is glad and joyful." "But, dear boy, how can you talk of joy when you life feverish at night, coughing as though you would tear yourself to pieces?" "Don't cry, mother," he would answer. "Life is paradise, and we are all in paradise, but we don't see it. If we would, we should have heaven on earth the next day." Everyone wondered at his words. He spoke so strangely and positively. We were all touched and wept. Friends came to see us. "Dear ones," he would say to them, "What have I done that you should love me so? How can you love anyone like me? And how was it I did not know? I did not appreciate it before." When the servants came into him he would say continually, "Dear kind people, why are you doing so much for me? Do I deserve to be waited on? If it were God's will for me to live, I would wait on you, for all men should wait on one another." Mother shook her head as she listened, "My darling, it's your illness makes you talk like that." Mother darling, he would say, "There must be servants and masters, but if so, I will be the servant of my servants the same as they are to me." And another thing, mother, every one of us has sinned against all men, and I am more than any. Mother positively smiled at that, smiled through her tears. "Why, how could you have sinned against all men more than all? Robbers and murderers have done that, but what sin have you committed yet that you hold yourself more guilty than all?" Mother, little heart of mine, he said, he had begun using such strange, caressing words at that time, little heart of mine, my joy, believe me. Everyone is really responsible to all men, for all men and for everything. I don't know how to explain it to you, but I feel it so painfully even. And how is it we went on then living, getting angry and not knowing? So he would get up every day, more and more sweet and joyous and full of love. When the doctor, an old German named Eisenschmitt, came, "Well, doctor, have I another day in this world?" he would ask, joking. "You'll live many days yet," the doctor would answer, "and months and years, too. Months and years," he would exclaim. "Why reckon the days? One day is enough for a man to know all happiness?" "My dear ones, why do we quarrel, try to outshine each other and keep grudges against each other? Let's go straight into the garden, walk and play there, love, appreciate and kiss each other, and glorify life." "Your son cannot last long," the doctor told my mother. And she accompanied him to the door. But the disease is affecting his brain. 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. 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 luckylandslots.com right now and play over 100 social casino style games for free. Get lucky today at luckylandslots.com. No purchase necessary. VGW Group, boy perhibited by law. 18 plus terms of condition supply. The windows of his room looked out into the garden and our garden was a shady one. With old trees in it which were coming into bud, the first birds of spring were flitting in the branches, chirping and singing at the windows. And looking at them and admiring them, he began suddenly begging their forgiveness too. Birds of heaven, happy birds, forgive me, for I have sinned against you too. None of us could understand at that time, but he shed tears of joy. Yes, he said, there was such a glory of God all about me. Birds, trees, meadows, sky. Only I lived in shame and dishonored it all and did not notice the beauty and glory. "You take too many sins on yourself," Mother used to say, weeping. "Mother, darling, it's for joy, not for grief, I am crying." Though I can't explain it to you, I like to humble myself before them, for I don't know how to love them enough. If I have sinned against everyone, let all forgive me too. And that's heaven. Am I not in heaven now? And there was a great deal more I don't remember. I remember I went once into his room when there was no one else there. It was a bright evening, the sun was setting, and the whole room was lighted up. He beckoned me and I went up to him. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my face tenderly, lovingly. He said nothing for a minute, only looked at me like that. "Well," he said, "run and play now. Enjoy life for me too." I went out then and ran to play, and many times in my life afterwards I remembered even with tears how he told me to enjoy life for him too. There were many other marvelous and beautiful sayings of his, though we did not understand them at the time. He died the third week after Easter. He was fully conscious, though he could not talk. Up to his last hour he did not change. He looked happy, his eyes beamed and sought us. He smiled at us, beckoned us. There was a great deal of talk even in the town about his death. I was surprised by all this at the time, but not too much so, though I cried a good deal at his funeral. I was young then, a child, but a lasting impression, a hidden feeling of it all remained in my heart, ready to rise up and respond when the time came. And so, indeed, it happened. Section B of the Holy Scriptures in the Life of Father Zosima I was left alone with my mother. Her friends began advising her to send me to Petersburg as other parents did. "You only have one son now," they said, "and have a fair income, and you will be depriving him perhaps of a brilliant career if you keep him here." They suggested that I should be sent to Petersburg to the cadet corps, that I might afterwards enter the imperial guard. My mother hesitated for a long time. It was awful to part with her only child, but she made up her mind to it at last, though not without many tears, believing she was acting for my happiness. She brought me to Petersburg and put me into the cadet corps, and I never saw her again, for she too died three years afterward. She spent those three years mourning and grieving for both of us. From the house of my childhood I have brought nothing but precious memories, for there are no memories more precious than those of early childhood in one's own home, and that is almost always so if there is any love and harmony in the family at all. Indeed, precious memories may remain even of a bad home, if only the heart knows how to find what is precious. With my memories of whom I count two my memories of the Bible, which, child as I was, I was very eager to read at home. I had a book of scripture history then with excellent pictures called a hundred and four stories from the Old and New Testament, and I learned to read from it. I have it lying on my shelf now. I keep it as a precious relic of the past. But even before I learned to read, I remember first being moved to a devotional feeling at eight years old. My mother took me alone to Mass. I don't remember where my brother was at the time, on the morning before Easter. It was a fine day, and I remember today as though I saw it now, how the incense rose from the sensor and softly floated upwards and overhead in the cupola mingled in rising waves with the sunlight that streamed in at the little window. 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. 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. That is why I'm such a big fan of Chumba Casino. Chumba Casino has all your favorite social casino style games that you can play for free anytime, anywhere, with daily bonuses. So sign up now at Chumba Casino dot com. That's Chumba Casino dot com. Sponsored by Chumba Casino, no purchase necessary. VGW Group. Forward, we're prohibited by law. 18 plus terms and conditions apply. I was stirred by the sight, and for the first time in my life, I consciously received the seed of God's Word in my heart. A youth came out into the middle of the church, carrying a big book, so large that at the time I fancied he could scarcely carry it. He laid it on the reading desk, opened it, and began reading, and suddenly, for the first time, I understood something red in the Church of God. In the land of Oz there lived a man righteous and Godfearing, and he had great wealth, so many camels, so many sheep and asses, and his children feasted, and he loved them very much and prayed for them. It may be that my sons have sinned in their feasting. Now the devil came before the Lord together with the sons of God, and said to the Lord that he had gone up and down the earth and under the earth, and hast all considered my servant Job, God asked of him, and God boasted to the devil, pointing to his great and holy servant, and the devil laughed at God's words, give him over to me, and thou will see that thy servant will murmur against thee and curse thy name. And God gave up the just man he loved so to the devil, and the devil smote his children and his cattle, and scattered his wealth, all of a sudden like a thunderbolt from heaven, and Job rent his mantle, and fell down upon the ground, and cried aloud, naked came I uttered my mother's womb, and naked shall I return into the earth. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord forever and ever. Fathers and teachers, forgive my tears now, for all my childhood rises up again before me, and I breathe now as I breathe then with the breast of a little child of eight, and I feel as I did then awe and wonder and gladness. The camels at that time caught my imagination, and Satan, who talked like that with God, and God, who gave his servant up to destruction, and his servant crying out, blessed be thy name, although thou dost punish me. And then the soft and sweet singing in the church, let my prayer rise up before thee, and again incense from the priest's censor, and the kneeling and the prayer. Ever since then, only yesterday I took it up, I've never been able to read that sacred tear without tear. And how much that is great, mysterious, and unfathomable there is in it. Afterward I heard the words of mockery and blame, proud words. How could God give up the most loved of his saints for the diversion of the devil, taken from his children, smite him with sore boils so that he cleansed the corruption from his swords with a potchered, and for no object except to boast to the devil, see what my saint can suffer for my sake? But the greatness of it lies just in the fact that it is a mystery, at the passing earthly show, and the eternal vanity are brought together in it. In the face of the earthly truth, the eternal truth is accomplished. The Creator, just as on the first days of creation he ended the day with praise, that is good that I have created, looks upon Job and again praises his creation. And Job, praising the Lord, serves not only him, but all his creation for generations and generations, and forever and ever, since for that he was ordained. What a book the Bible is, what a miracle, what strength is given with it to man. It is like a mole cast of the world, and man, and human nature. Everything is there, and a law for everything for all the ages. And what mysteries are solved and revealed, God raises Job again, gives him wealth again, many years pass by and he has other children and loves them. But how could he love those new ones when those first children are no more, when he has lost them? Remembering them, how could he be fully happy with those new ones, however dear the new ones might be? But he could. He could. It's the great mystery of human life that old grief passes gradually into quiet tender joy. The mild serenity of age takes the place of the riotous blood of youth. I bless the rising sun each day, and as before my heart seems to meet it. But now I love even more its setting, its long slanting rays and the soft tender gentle memories that come with them, the dear images from the whole of my long happy life, and overall the divine truth, softening, reconciling, forgiving. My life is ending. I know that well. But every day that has left me, I feel how earthly life is in touch with a new infinite unknown but approaching life. The nearness of which sets my soul quivering with rapture, my mind glowing, and my heart weeping with joy. Our friends and teachers, I have heard more than once, and of late one may hear it more often, that the priests and above all the village priests are complaining on all sides of their miserable income and their humiliating lot. They plainly state, even in print, I've read it myself, that they are unable to teach the scriptures to the people because of the smallness of their means, and if Lutherans and heretics come and lead the flock astray, they let them lead them astray because they have so little to live upon. May the Lord increase the sustenance that is so precious to them, for their complaint is just too. But of a truth, I say, if anyone is to blame in the matter, half the false is ours. For he may be short of time, he may say truly that he is overwhelmed all the while with work and services, but it's still not all the time, even if he has an hour a week to remember God, and he does not work the whole year round, let him gather round him once a week, some hour in the evening, if only the children at first, the fathers will hear of it, and they too will begin to come. There's no need to build halls for this, let them take them into his own cottage. They won't spoil his cottage, they would only be their one hour. Let him open that book and begin reading it without grand words or super silliness, without condescension to them, but gently and kindly being glad that he is reading to them and that they are listening with attention, loving the words himself, only stopping from time to time to explain words that are not understood by the peasants. Don't be anxious, they will understand everything. The orthodox heart will understand all. Let him read them about Abraham and Sarah, about Isaac and Rebecca, of how Jacob went to Laban and wrestled with the Lord in his dream and said, "This place is holy," and he will impress the devout mind of the peasant. Let him read, especially to the children, how the brothers sold Joseph, the tender boy, the dreamer and prophet, into bondage, and told their father that a wild beast had devoured him and showed him his blood-stained clothes. Let him read them how the brothers afterwards journeyed into Egypt for corn, and Joseph, already a great ruler, unrecognized by them, tormented them, accused them, kept his brother Benjamin, and all through love. "I love you, and loving you, I torment you." For him remembered all his life how they had sold him to the merchants in the burning desert by the well, and how, ringing his hands, he had wept and besought his brothers not to sell him as a slave in a strange land, and how, seeing them again after many years, he loved them beyond measure, but he harassed and tormented them in love. He left them at last not able to bear the suffering of his heart, flung himself on his bed, and wept. Then, wiping his tears away, he went out to them joyful and told them, "Brothers, I am your brother, Joseph." Let him read them further how happy old Jacob was on learning that his darling boy was still alive, and how he went to Egypt, leaving his own country, and died in a foreign land, bequeathing the great prophecy that had lain mysteriously hidden in his meek and timid heart all his life, that from his offspring from Judah will come the great hope of the world, the Messiah and the Savior. "Fathers and teachers, forgive me, and don't be angry, that like a little child I've been babbling of what you know long ago, and can teach me a hundred times more skillfully. I only speak from rapture, and forgive my tears, for I love the Bible, let him too weep the priest of God, and be sure that the hearts of his listers will throb in response. Only a little tiny seed is needed, drop it into the heart of the peasant, and it won't die. It will live in his soul all his life. It will be hidden in the midst of his darkness and sin like a bright spot, like a great reminder. And there's no need of much teaching or explanation. He will understand it all simply. Do you suppose that the peasants don't understand? Try reading them the touching story of the fair Esther and the haughty Vashti, or the miraculous story of Jonah in the whale. Don't forget either the parables of our Lord, choose especially from the Gospel of St. Luke. That's what I did. And then from the Acts of the Apostles, the conversion of St. Paul, that you mustn't leave out on any account. And from the lives of the saints, for instance, the life of Alexei, the man of God, and greatest of all, the happy martyr and the seer of God, Mary of Egypt. And you will penetrate their hearts with these simple tales. Give one hour a week to it in spite of your poverty, only one little hour. And you will see for yourselves that our people are gracious and grateful, and will repay you a hundredfold. Mindful of the kindness of their priest, and the moving words they have heard from him, they will of their own accord help him in his fields, and in his house, and will treat him with more respect than before, so that he will even increase his worldly well-being, too. The thing is so simple, that sometimes one is even afraid to put it into words for fear being laughed at, and yet how true it is. One who does not believe in God will not believe in God's people. He who believes in God's people will see his holiness, too, even though he had not believed in it till then. Only the people and their future spiritual power will convert our atheists who have torn themselves away from their native soil. And what is the use of Christ's words unless we set an example? The people are lost without the word of God, for their soul is a thirst for the word, and for all that is good. In my youth long ago, nearly forty years ago, I traveled all over Russia with Father Anfim, collecting funds for our monastery, and we stayed one night on the bank of a great navigable river with some fishermen. A good-looking peasant lad, about eighteen, joined us. He had to hurry back next morning to pull a merchant's barge along the bank. I noticed him looking straight before him with clear and tender eyes. It was a bright, warm still, July night. A cool mist rose from the broad river. We could hear the splash of a fish. The birds were still. All was hushed and beautiful, everything praying to God. Only we, too, were not sleeping, the lad and I, and we talked of the beauty of this world of God's and of the great mystery of it. Every blade of grass, every insect, ant, and golden bee also marvelously know their path. Though they have not intelligence, they bear witness to the mystery of God and continually accomplish it themselves. I saw the dear lad's heart was moved. He told me that he loved the forest, and the forest birds. He was a bird catcher, knew the note of each of them, could call each bird. "I know nothing better than to be in the forest," said he. "Though all things are good." "Truly," I answered him, "all things are good and fair, because all is truth." "Look," said I, "at the horse, that great beast that is so near to man, or the lowly pensive ox which feeds him and works for him, look at their faces, what meekness, what devotion to man, who often beats them mercilessly. What gentleness, what confidence, and what beauty. It's touching to know that there is no sin in them. For all, all except man, is sinless, and Christ has been with them before us." "Why?" asked the boy, "is Christ with them too?" "I cannot but be so," said I. "Since the word is for all, all creation and all creatures, every leaf is striving to the word, singing glory to God, weeping to Christ, unconsciously accomplishing this by the mystery of their sinless life." Yonder said I, in the forest wanders the dreadful bear, fierce and menacing, and yet innocent in it. And I told him how once a bear came to a great saint who had taken refuge in a tiny cell in the wood, and the great saint pitted him, went up to him without fear and gave him a piece of bread. "Go along," said he, "Christ be with you." And the savage beast walked away meekly and obediently, doing no harm. And the lad was delighted that the bear had walked away without hurting the saint, and that Christ was with him too. "Ah," he said, "how good that is, how good and beautiful is all God's work." He sat musing softly and sweetly. I saw he understood, and he slept beside me a light and sinless sleep. May God bless you, and I prayed for him as I went to sleep, Lord, send peace and light to thy people. End of chapter 1 of book 6. Book 6, chapter 2. Section C, "Recollections of Father Zosimah's youth before he became a monk." The Jewel. I spent a long time, almost eight years, in a military cadet school at Petersburg, and in the novelty of my surroundings there, many of my childish impressions grew dimmer, though I forgot nothing. I picked up so many new habits and opinions that I was transformed into a cruel, absurd, almost savage creature. A surface polish of courtesy and society manners I did acquire together with the French language. But we all, myself included, looked upon the soldiers in our service as cattle. I was perhaps worse than the rest in that respect, for I was so much more impressionable than my companions. By the time we left the school as officers, we were ready to lay down our lives for the honor of the regiment. But no one of us had any knowledge of the real meaning of honor. And if anyone had known it, he would have been the first to ridicule it. Drunkenness, debauchery, and devilry were what we almost prided ourselves on. I don't say that we were bad by nature. All these young men were good fellows, but they behaved badly. And I, worst of all, what made it worse for me was that I had come into my own money, and so I flung myself into a life of pleasure, and pledged headlong into all the recklessness of you. I was fond of reading. It strange to say the Bible was the one book I never opened at that time, though I always carried it about with me, and I was never separated from it. In very truth, I was keeping that book for the day and the hour for the month and the year, though I knew it not. After four years of this life, I chance to be in the town of Kay where our regiment was stationed at the time. We found the people of the town hospitable, rich, and fond of entertainments. I met with a cordial reception everywhere as I was of a lively temperament, and was known to be well off, which always goes a long way in the world. And then a circumstance happened which was the beginning of it all. I formed an attachment to a beautiful and intelligent young girl, of noble and lofty character, the daughter of people much respected. They were well to do people of influence and position. They always gave me a cordial and friendly reception. I fancied that the young lady looked on me with favor, and my heart was a flame at such an idea. Later on, I saw and fully realized that I was perhaps not so passionately in love with her at all, but only recognized the elevation of her mind and character, which I could not indeed have helped doing. I was prevented, however, from making her an offer at the time by my selfishness. I was loathed apart with the allurements of my free and licentious bachelor life in the heyday of my youth and with my pockets full of money. I did drop some hint as to my feelings, however, though I put off taking any decisive step for a time. Then all of a sudden, we were ordered off for two months to another district. On my return two months later, I found the young lady already married, to a rich neighboring landowner, a very amiable man, still young, though older than I was, connected with the best Petersburg society, which I was not, and of excellent education, which I also was not. I was so overwhelmed at this unexpected circumstance that my mind was positively clouded. The worst of it all was that, as I learned then, the young landowner had been a long while betrothed to her, and I had met him indeed many times in her house, but blinded by my conceit, I had noticed nothing, and this particularly mortified me. Almost everybody had known all about it, while I knew nothing. I was filled with sudden, irrepressible fury. With flushed face, I began recalling how often I had been on the point of declaring my love to her, and she had not attempted to stop me or to warn me, so she must, I concluded, have been laughing at me all the time. Later on, of course, I reflected and remembered that she had been very far from laughing at me. On the contrary, she used to turn off any lovemaking on my part with a jest, and begin talking of other subjects, but at that moment I was incapable of reflecting, and was all eagerness for revenge. I am surprised to remember, that my wrath and revengeful feelings were extremely repugnant to my nature. For being of an easy temper, I found it difficult to be angry with anyone for long, and so I had to work myself up artificially, and became, at last, revolting, and absurd. I waited for an opportunity, and succeeded in insulting my rival in the presence of a large company. I insulted him on a perfectly extraneous pretext, during his opinion upon an important public event. He was in the year 1826. My jeer was, so people said, clever and effective. Then I forced him to ask for an explanation, and behaved so rudely that he accepted my challenge in spite of the vast inequality between us, as I was younger, a person of no consequence, and of inferior rank. I learned afterwards for a fact that it was from a jealous feeling on his side also that my challenge was accepted. He had been rather jealous of me on his wife's account before their marriage. He fancied now that if he submitted to be insulted by me, and refused to accept my challenge, and if she heard of it, she might begin to despise him and waver in her love for him. I soon found a second in a comrade, an ensign of our regiment. In those days, though, duels were severely punished, yet dueling was a kind of fashion among the officers, so strongly and deeply rooted will a brutal prejudice sometimes be. It was the end of June, and our meeting was to take place at seven o'clock the next day on the outskirts of town. And then, something happened that in very truth was the turning point of my life. In the evening, returning home in a savage and brutal humor, I flew into a rage with my orderly Afanazi, and gave him two blows in the face with all my might, so that it was covered with blood. He had not long been in my service, and I had struck him before, but never with such ferocious cruelty. And believe me, though it's forty years ago, I recall it now with shame and pain. I went to bed and slipped for about three hours. When I woke up, the day was breaking. I got up. I did not want to sleep anymore. I went to the window, opened it. I looked out upon the garden. I saw the sun rising. It was warm and beautiful. The birds were singing. "What's the meaning of it?" I thought. I feel in my heart as it were something vile and shameful. "Is it because I'm going to shed blood?" No, I thought. I feel it's not that. "Can it be that I am afraid of death, afraid of being killed?" No, that's not it. That's not it at all. And all at once, I knew what it was. It was because I had beaten Afanazi the evening before. It all rose before my mind. It all was, as it were, repeated over again. He stood before me, and I was beating him straight on the face. And he was holding his arm stiffly down. His head erect, his eyes fixed upon me as though unparade. He staggered at every blow and did not even dare to raise his hands to protect himself. This is what a man has been brought to, and that was a man beating a fellow creature. What a crime! It was as though a sharp dagger had pierced me right through. I stood as if I was struck dumb. While the sun was shining, the leaves were rejoicing, and the birds were chilling the praise of God. I hid my face in my hands, fell on my bed, and broke into a storm of tears. And then I remembered my brother Marko, and what he said on his deathbed to his servants, "My dear one, why do you wait on me? Why do you love me? Am I worth your waiting on me?" "Yes. Am I worth it?" flashed through my mind. After all, what am I worth that another man, a fellow creature, made in their likeness an image of God should serve me? For the first time in my life this question forced itself upon me. He had said, "Mother, my little heart, in truth we are each responsible to all for all. It's only that men don't know this. If they knew it, the world would be a paradise at once." "God, can that too be false?" I thought as I wept. "In truth, perhaps, I am more than all others responsible for all, a greater sinner than all men in the world. And all that wants the whole truth in its full light appeared to me. And what was I going to do? I was going to kill a good, clever, noble man who had done me no wrong. And by depriving his wife of happiness for the rest of her life, I should be torturing and killing her, too. I lay thus in my bed, with my face in the pillow, heedless how the time was passing. Suddenly, my second, the ensign came in with the pistols to fetch me. "Ah," he said, "it's a good thing you're up already. It's time we were off. Come along." I did not know what to do, and hurried to and fro undecided. We went out to the carriage, however. "Wait here a minute," I said. "I'll be back directly. I've forgotten my purse." And I ran back alone to Afanazi's little room. Afanazi, I gave you two blows on the face yesterday. "Forgive me," I said. He started as though he were frightened and looked at me, and I saw that it was not enough. And on the spot, in my full officer's uniform, I dropped at his feet and bowed my head to the ground. "Forgive me," I said. Then he was completely aghast. "Your honor, sir, what are you doing? Am I worth it?" And he burst out crying as I had done before, hid his face in his hands, and turned the window and shook all over with his sobs. I flew out to my comrade and jumped into the carriage. "Ready," I cried. "Have you ever seen a conqueror?" I asked him. "Here is one before you." I was an ecstasy, laughing and talking all the way. I don't remember what about. He looked at me. "Well, brother, you are a plucky fellow. You'll keep up the honor of the uniform, I can see." So he reached the place and found him there, waiting for us. We were placed twelve paces apart. He had the first shot. I stood gaily, looking him full in the face. I did not twitch an eyelash. I looked lovingly at him, for I knew what I would do. His shot just grazed my cheek and ear. "Thank God!" I cried. "No man has been killed, and I seize my pistol, turned back and flung it far away into the wood. That's the place for you!" I cried. I turned to my adversary. "Forgive me, young fool, that I am, sir," I said, "for my unprovoked insult to you, and for forcing you to fire at me." I am ten times worse than you, and more, maybe. Tell that to the person whom you hold dearest in the world. I had no sooner said this than the all three shouted at me. "Upon my word!" cried my adversary, annoyed. "If you did not want a fight, why did you not let me alone?" "Yesterday I was a fool. Today I know better," I answered him gaily. "As to yesterday I believe you, but as for today it is difficult to agree with your opinion," said he. "Bravo!" I cried, clapping my hands. "I agree with you there, too. I have deserved it." "Will you shoot, sir, or not?" "No, I won't," I said. "If you like, fire at me again, but it would be better for you not to fire." The seconds, especially mine, were shouting, too. "Can you disgrace the regiment like this, facing your antagonist and begging his forgiveness, if I'd only known this?" I stood facing them all, not laughing now. "Gentlemen," I said. "Is it really so wonderful in these days to find a man who can repent of his stupidity and publicly confess his wrongdoing?" "But not in a jewel!" cried my second again. "That's what's so strange," I said, "for I ought to have owned my fault as soon as I got here, before he had fired a shot, before leading him into a great and deadly sin. But we have made our world so grotesque, that to act in that way would have been almost impossible, for only, after I faced his shot at a distance of twelve paces, could my words have any significance for him. And if I had spoken before, he would have said, "He is a coward, the sight of the pistols has frightened him, no use to listen to him." "Gentlemen," I cried suddenly, speaking straight from my heart, "look around you with the gifts of God, the clear sky, the pure air, the tender grass, the birds. Nature is beautiful and sinless, and we, only we, are sinful and foolish. And we don't understand that life is heaven, before we have only to understand that, and it will at once be fulfilled in all its beauty, we shall embrace each other and weep." I would have said more, but I could not. My voice broke with the sweetness and youthful gladness of it, and there was such bliss in my heart as I have never known before in my life. "Oh, this is rational and edifying," said my antagonist. "At an end, in any case, you are an original person. You may laugh," I said to him, laughing to, "but afterwards you will approve of me." "Oh, I am ready to approve of you now," said he. "Will you shake hands, for I believe you are genuinely sincere?" "No," I said, "not now. Later on, when I have grown worthier and deserve your esteem, then shake hands, and you will do well." We went home, my second abrading me all the way, while I kissed him. All my comrades heard of the affair at once, and gathered together to pass judgment on me the same day. "He has disgraced the uniform," they said, "but him resign his commission." "Some stood up for me. He faced a shot," they said. "Yes, but he was afraid of his other shot and begged for forgiveness." If he had been afraid of being shot, he would have shot his own pistol first before asking forgiveness while he flung it loaded into the forest. "No, there's something else in this, something original." "I enjoyed listening and looking at them." "My dear friends and comrades," said I. "Don't worry about my resigning my commission, for I have done so already. I have sent in my papers this morning, and as soon as I get my discharge, I shall go into a monastery. It's with that object. I am leaving the regiment." When I had said this, every one of them burst out laughing. "You should have told us of that first. That explains everything. We can't judge a monk." They laughed and could not stop themselves, and not scornfully, but kindly and merrily. They all felt friendly to me at once, even those who had been sternest in their censure, and all the following month before my discharge came, they could not make enough of me. "Ah, you monk," they would say. And everyone said something kind to me. They began trying to dissuade me, even to pity me. "What are you doing to yourself?" "No," they would say. "He is a brave fellow. He faced fire and could have fired his own pistol to, but he had a dream the night before that he should become a monk. That's why he did it." It was the same thing with the Society of the Town, till then I had been kindly received, but had not been the object of special attention. And now all came to know me at once and invited me. They laughed at me, and they loved me. I may mention that although everybody talked openly of our duel, the authorities took no notice of it, because my antagonist was a near relation of our general, and as there had been no bloodshed and no serious consequences, and as I resigned my commission, they took it as a joke. And I began then to speak aloud and fearlessly, regardless of their laughter, for it was always kindly and not spiteful after. Thus conversations mostly took place in the evenings, in the company of ladies. Women particularly like listening to me then, and they made the men listen. But how could I possibly be responsible for all everyone with life in my face? Can I, for instance, be responsible for you? You may well not know it, I would answer, since the whole world has long been going on a different line, since we consider the various lies as truth and demand the same lies from others. Here I have for once in my life acted sincerely, and well, you all look upon me as a man-man. Though you are friendly to me, yet you see, you all laugh at me. But how can we help being friendly to you, said my hostess, laughing? The room was full of people. All of a sudden, the young lady rose on whose account the duel had been fought, and whom only lately I had intended to be my future wife. I had not noticed her coming into the room. She got up, came to me, and held out my hand. "Let me tell you," she said, "that I am the first not to laugh at you. But on the contrary, I thank you with tears and express my respect for you for your action then." Her husband too came up, and then they all approached me and almost kissed me. My heart was filled with joy, but my attention was especially caught by a middle-aged man who came up to me with the others. I knew him by name already, but had never made his acquaintance nor exchanged a word with him till that evening. Section D, the mysterious visitor. He had long been an official in the town. He was in a prominent position, respected by all, rich, and had a reputation for benevolence. He subscribed considerable sums to the arm-house and the orphaness island. He was very charitable too, in secret, a fact which only became known after his death. He was a man of about fifty, almost stern in appearance and not much given to conversation. He had been married about ten years, and his wife, who was still young, had borne him three children. Well, I was sitting alone in my room the following evening when my door suddenly opened, and this gentleman walked in. I must mention, by the way, that I was no longer living in my former quarters. As soon as I reside in my commission, I took rooms with an old lady, the widow of a government clerk. My landlady's servant waited upon me, for I had moved into her room simply because on my return from the jewel I had sent Afanazi back to the regiment, as I was ashamed to look him in the face after my first interview with him. So prone is the man of the world to be ashamed of any righteous action. "I have," said my visitor, "with great interests listen to you speaking in different houses the last few days, and I wanted a last to make your personal acquaintance, so as to talk to you more intimately. Can you, dear sir, grant me this favour? I can with the greatest pleasure, and shall look upon it as an honour." I said this, though I felt almost dismayed, so greatly was I impressed from the first moment by the appearance of this man. For though other people had listened to me with interest and attention, no one had come to me before with such a serious stern and concentrated expression, and now he had come to see me in my own rooms. He sat down. "You are, I see, a man of great strength of character," he said. "As you have dared to serve the truth, even when by doing so you risked incurring the contempt of all." "Your praise is perhaps excessive," I replied. "No, it's not excessive," he answered. "Believe me, such a course of action is far more difficult than you think. It is that which has impressed me, and it is only on that account that I have come to you," he continued. "Tell me, please, that is if you are not annoyed by my perhaps unseemly curiosity. What were your exact sensations if you can recall them at the moment when you made up your mind to ask forgiveness at the duel?" "Do not think my question frivolous. On the contrary, I have been asking the question a secret motive of my own, which I will perhaps explain to you later on. If it is God's will that we should have become more intimately acquainted." All the while he was speaking, I was looking at him straight into the face, and felt all at once a complete trust in him, and great curiosity on my side also, for I felt there was some strange secret in his soul. "You ask what were my exact sensations at the moment when I asked my opponents forgiveness," I answered. "But I had better tell you from the beginning what I have not yet told anyone else, and I described all that had passed between Afanazi and me, and how I had bowed down to the ground at his feet. From that you can see for yourself," I concluded, "that at the time of the duel it was easier for me, for I had made a beginning already at home, and when once I had started on that road to go further along it was far from being difficult, but came as a source of joy and happiness." I liked the way he looked at me as he listened. "All that," he said, "is exceedingly interesting. I will come to see you again and again." And from that time forth he came to see me nearly every evening, and we should have become greater friends if only he had talked of himself, but about himself he scarcely ever said a word that continually asked me about myself. In spite of that I became very fond of him and spoke with perfect brightness to him about all my feelings. For, thought I, wouldn't need have I to know his secrets, since I can see without that that he is a good man. Moreover, though he is such a serious man and my senior, he comes to see a youngster like me and treats me as his equal, and I learned a great deal that was profitable from him, for he was a man of lofty mind. "That life is heaven," he said to me suddenly, "that I have long been thinking about, and all at once," he added, "I think of nothing else, indeed." He looked at me and smiled. "I am more convinced of it than you are. I will tell you later why." I listened to him and thought he evidently wanted to tell me something. "Heaven," he went on, "lies hidden within all of us. Here it lies hidden in me now, and if I will it, it will be revealed to me tomorrow, and for all time." I looked at him. He was speaking with great emotion and gazing mysteriously at me as if he were questioning me. And that we are all responsible to all for all, apart from our own sins you are quite right in thinking that, and it is wonderful how you could comprehend it in all its significance at once, and in very truth, so soon as men understand that, the kingdom of heaven will be for them not a dream, but a living reality. And when I cry to him bitterly, when will that come to pass? And will it ever come to pass? Is not it simply a dream of ours? "But then you don't believe it," he said, "you preach it and don't believe it yourself." Believe me, this dream, as you call it, will come to pass without doubt. It will come, but not now, for every process has its law. It's a spiritual psychological process. To transform the world to recreate it afresh, men must turn into another path psychologically, until you have become really, in actual fact, a brother to everyone. Brotherhood will not come to pass. No sort of scientific teaching, no kind of common interest, will ever teach men to share property and privileges with equal consideration for all. Everyone will think he's shared too small, and they will always be envying, complaining and attacking one another. You ask when it will come to pass. It will come to pass. But first, we have to go through the period of isolation. What do you mean by isolation? I asked him. Why, the isolation that prevails everywhere, above all, in our age. It has not fully developed, and has not reached its limit yet. For everyone strives to keep his individually as a part as possible, which is to secure the greatest possible fullness of life for himself. But meantime, all his efforts result not in attaining fullness of life, but self-destruction. For instead of self-realization, he ends up arriving at complete solitude. All mankind in our age have split up into units. They all keep apart, each in his own groove. Each one holds a loop, hides himself, and hides what he has from the rest. And he ends by being repelled by others and repelling them. He heaps up riches by himself and things, how strong I am now and how secure. And in his madness, he does not understand that the more he heaps up, the more he sinks into self-destructive impotence. For he is accustomed to rely upon himself alone, and to cut himself off from the whole. He has trained himself not to believe in the help of others, in men and in humanity, and only trembles for fear he should lose his money, and the privileges that he has won for himself. Everywhere in these days men have, in their mockery, cease to understand that the true security is to be found in social solidarity rather than isolated individual effort. But this terrible individualism must inevitably have an end, and all will suddenly understand how unnaturally they are separated from one another. It will be the spirit of the time, and people will marvel that they have sat so long in darkness without seeing the light. And then the sign of the Son of Man will be seen in the heavens. But until then, we must keep the banner flying. Sometimes, even if he has to do it alone and his conduct seems to be crazy, a man must set an example, and so draw men's souls out of their solitude and spur them to some act of brotherly love that the great idea may not die. Our evenings, one after another, were spent in such stirring and fervent talk. I gave up society and visited my neighbours much less frequently. Besides, my vogue was somewhat over. I say this not as blame, for they still loved me and treated me good humourly. But there is no denying that fashion is a great power in society. I began to regard my serious visitor with admiration, for besides enjoying his intelligence, I began to perceive that he was brooding over some plan in his heart and was preparing himself perhaps for a great deed. Perhaps he liked my not showing curiosity about his secret, not seeking to discover it by direct questions, no by insinuation. But I noticed at last that he seemed to show signs of wanting to tell me something. This had become quite evident, indeed about a month after he first began to visit me. "Do you know," he said to me once, "that people are very inquisitive about us in the town and wonder why I come to see you so often. I have let them wonder, or soon all will be explained." Sometimes an extraordinary agitation would come over him, and almost always on such occasions he would get up and go away. Sometimes he would fix a long piercing look upon me, and I thought he would say something directly now. But he would suddenly begin talking of something ordinary and familiar. He often complained of headaches, too. One day, quite unexpectedly indeed, after he had been talking with great fervour for a long time, I saw him suddenly turn pale, and his face worked convulsively, while he stared persistently at me. "What's the matter?" I said. "Do you feel ill?" He had just been complaining of headache. "I… do you know? I… I murdered someone." He said this, and smiled with a face as white as chalk, why as he's smiling. The thought flashed through my mind before I realized anything else. I too turned pale. "What are you saying?" I cried. "You see?" he said, with a pale smile. "How much it has cost me to say the first word. Now I have said it. I feel I've taken the first step, and shall go on. For a long while I could not believe him, and I did not believe him at that time, but only after he had been to see me three days running and told me all about it. I thought he was mad, but ended by being convinced and to my great grief and amazement. His crime was a great and terrible one. Fourteen years before he had murdered the widow of a landowner, a wealthy and handsome young woman who had a house in our town. He fell passionately in love with her, declared this feeling, and tried to persuade her to marry him. But she had already given her heart to another man, an officer of noble birth and high rank in the service, who was at that time away at the front, though she was expecting him soon to return. She refused his offer, and begged him not to come and see her. After he had seized to visit her, it took advantage of his knowledge of the house to enter at night through the garden by the roof, at great risk of discovery. But as often happens, a crime committed with extraordinary audacity is more successful than others. Entering the garth through the skylights, he went down the ladder, knowing that the door at the bottom of it was sometimes through the negligence of the servants left unlocked. He hoped to find it so, and so it was. He made his way in the dark in her bedroom, where a light was burning. As though on purpose, both her maids had gone off to a birthday party in the same street, without asking leave. The other servants slept in the servants' quarters, or in the kitchen on the ground floor. His passion flamed up at the side of her sleep, and then vindictive jealous anger took possession of his heart, and like a drunken man beside himself, he thrust a knife into her heart, so that she did not even cry out. Then with devilish and criminal cunning, he can try that suspicion would fall on the servants. He was so base as to take her purse, to open her chest with keys from under her pillow, and to take some things from it, doing it all as it might have been done by an ignorant servant, leaving valuable papers and taking only money. He took some of the larger gold things, but left smaller articles that were ten times as valuable. He took with him too some things for himself as remembrances, but of that later. Having done this awful deed, he returned by the way he had come. Neither the next day, when the alarm was raised, no at any time after in his life, did anyone dream of suspecting that he was the criminal. No one indeed knew of his love for her, where he was always reserved and silent, and had no friend to whom he would have opened his heart. He was looked upon simply as an acquaintance, and not a very intimate one of the murdered woman. As for the previous fortnight, he had not even visited her. A serf of hers called Piotr was at once suspected, and every circumstance confirmed the suspicion. The man knew, indeed his mistress did not conceal the fact, that having to send one of her serfs as a recruit, she had decided to send him as he had no relations, and his contact was unsatisfactory. People had heard him angrily threatening to murder her when he was drunk in its haven. Two days before her death he had run away, staying no one knew where in the town. The day after the murder he was found on the road leading out of town, dead drunk, with a knife in his pocket, and his right hand happened to be stained with blood. He declared that his nose had been bleeding, but no one believed him. The maids confessed that they had gone to a party, and that the street door had been left open till they returned, and a number of similar details came to light, throwing suspicion on the innocent servant. They arrested him, and he was tried for the murder, but a week after the arrest the prisoner fell sick of a fever and died unconscious in the hospital. There the matter ended, and the judges and the authorities and everyone in town remained convinced that the crime had been committed by no one but the servant who had died in the hospital. And after that the punishment began. My mysterious visitor, now my friend, told me that at first he was not in the lease troubled by pangs of conscience. He was miserable a long time, but not for that reason, only from regret that he had killed the woman he loved, that she was no more, that in killing her he had killed his love, while the fire of passion was still in his veins. But of the innocent blood he had shed, of the murder of a fellow creature he scarcely thought. The thought that his victim might have become the wife of another man was insupportable to him, and so for a long time he was convinced in his conscience that he could not have acted otherwise. At first he was worried at the arrest of the servant, but his illness and death soon set his mind at rest. For the man's death was apparently, so he reflected at the time, not owing to his arrest or his fright, but a chill he had taken on the day he ran away when he had lain all night dead drunk on the damp ground. The theft of the money and other things troubled him little, for he argued that the theft had not been committed for gain but to avert suspicion. The Somstolen was small, and he shortly afterwards subscribed the whole of it, and much more, towards the funds from maintaining an almshouse in the town. He did this on purpose, to set his conscience at rest about the theft, and it's a remarkable fact that for a long time he really was at peace. He told me this himself. He entered then upon a career of great activity in the service, volunteered for a difficult and laborious duty which occupied him two years, and being a man of strong will almost forgot the past. Whenever he recalled it he tried not to think of it at all. He became active in philanthropy too, founded and helped to maintain many institutions in the town, did a great deal in the two capitals, and in both Moscow and Petersburg, was elected a member of philanthropic society. At last, however, he began brooding over the past, and the strain of it was too much for him. It was retracted by a foreign and intelligent girl, and soon after married her, hoping that marriage would dispel his lonely depression, and that by entering on a new life, and scrupulously doing his duty to his wife and children, he would escape from all memories altogether. But the very opposite of what he expected happened. He began, even in the first month of his marriage, to be continually fretted by the thought, "My wife loves me, but what if she knew?" When she first told him that she would soon bury him a child, he was troubled. I am giving life, but I have taken life. Children came. "How do I love, teach, and educate them? How can I talk to them of virtue? I have shed blood." They were splendid children. He longed to caress them, and I can't look at their innocent candid faces. I am unworthy. At last he began to be bitterly and ominously haunted by the blood of his murdered victim, by the young life he had destroyed, by the blood that had cried out for vengeance. He had begun to have awful dreams, but being a man of fortitude, he bore his suffering a long time thinking, "I shall expiate everything by the secret agony." But that hope, too, was vain. The longer it went on, the more intense was his suffering. He was respected in society for his active benevolence, though everyone was overawed by his stern and gloomy character. But the more he was respected, the more intolerable it was for him. He had confessed to me that he had thoughts of killing himself, but he began to be haunted by another idea, an idea which he had at first regarded as impossible and unthinkable, though at last it got such a hold on his heart that he could not shake it off. He dreamed of rising up, going out and confessing, in the face of all men, that he had committed murder. For three years the stream had pursued him, haunting him in different forms. At last he believed with his whole heart that if he confessed his crime, he would heal his soul and would be at peace forever. But this belief filled his heart with terror, for how could he carry it out? And then came what happened at my duel. "Looking at you, I have made up my mind," I looked at him. "Is it possible?" I cried, clasping my hands. "That such a trivial incident could give rise to a resolution in you." "My resolution has been growing for the last three years," he answered. "And your story only gave the last touch to it. Looking at you, I reproached myself and envied you." He said this to me almost solidly. "But you won't be believed," I answered. "It's 14 years ago. I have proofs, great proofs. I shall show them." And I cried and kissed him. "Tell me one thing, one thing," he said, as though it all depended upon me. "My wife, my children, my wife, will die of grief. And though my children won't lose their rank in property, they'll be convict's children, and forever. And what a memory, what a memory of me I shall leave in their hearts." I said nothing. And to part from them, to leave them forever. "It's forever, you know. Forever," I said still and repeated a silent prayer. I got up at last. I felt afraid. "Well," he looked at me. "Go," I said. "Confess." "Everything passes. Only the truth remains. Your children will understand when they grow up the nobility of your resolution." He left me that time as though he had made up his mind. Yet for more than a fortnight afterwards he came to me every evening, still preparing himself, still unable to bring himself to the point. He made my heart ache. One day he would come determined and say fervently, "I know it will be heaven for me. I want to suffer. I will take my punishment and begin to live. You can pass through the world doing wrong, but there's no turning back. Now I dare not love my neighbor, nor even my own children. Good God, my children will understand perhaps what my punishment has cost me and will not condemn me. God is not in strength, but in truth." "All will understand your sacrifice," I said to him. "If not at once, they will understand later, for you have served truth, the higher truth, not of the earth." And he would go away seeming comforted, but next day he would come again bitter, pale, sarcastic. "Every time I come to you, you look at me so inquisitively as though to say, he has still not confessed. Wait a bit. Don't despise me too much. It's not such an easy thing to do as you would think. Perhaps I shall not do it at all. You, you won't go and inform against me, then, will you?" And far from looking at him with indiscreet curiosity, I was afraid to look at him at all. I was quite ill from anxiety, and my heart was full of tears. I could not sleep that night. "I have just come from my wife," he went on. "Do you understand what the word 'wife' means?" When I went out, the children called to me, "Goodbye, Father, make haste back to read the children's magazine with us." "No, you don't understand that. No one is wise from another man's woe." His eyes were glittering, his lips were twitching. Suddenly, he struck the table with his fist so that everything on had danced. It was the first time he had done such a thing. He was such a mild man. "But need I," he exclaimed, "must I. No one has been condemned. No one has been sent to Siberia in my place. The man died of fever, and I've been punished by my sufferings for the blood I shed, and I shed to be believed. They won't believe my proofs. Need I confess? Need I? I am ready to go on suffering all my life for the blood I have shed, if only my wife and children may be spared. Will it be just to ruin them with me? Aren't we making a mistake? One is right in this case, and will people recognize it? Will they appreciate it? Will they respect it? Good Lord, I thought to myself. He is thinking of other people's respect at such a moment, and I felt so sorry for him then, that I believe I could have shared his fate if I could have comforted him. I saw he was beside himself. I was aghast, realizing with my heart as well as my mind what such a resolution meant. Beside my fate," he exclaimed again. "Go and confess," I whispered to him. "My voice failed me, but I whispered it firmly." I took up the New Testament from the table, the Russian translation, and showed him the gospel of St. John, chapter 12, verse 24. Verily, verily, I say unto you, accept a corn of wheat, fall into the ground, and die in the bite of the loan. But if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit. I had just been reading that verse when he came in. He read it. "That's true," he said. He smiled bitterly. "It's terrible the things you find in those books," he said after a pause. "It's easy enough to trust them upon one. And who wrote them? Can they have been written by men?" "The Holy Spirit wrote them," said I. "It's easy for you to pray," he smiled again, this time almost with hatred. I took the book again, opened it to another place, and showed him the epistle to the Hebrews, chapter 10, verse 31. He read, "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God." He read it and simply flung down the book. He was trembling all over. "An awful text," he said, "there's no denying you've picked out fitting ones," he rose from the chair. "Well," he said, "good-bye. Perhaps I shan't come again. We shall meet in heaven. So I have been for fourteen years in the hands of a living God, and that's how one must think of those fourteen years. Tomorrow, I will beseech those hands to let me go." I wanted to take him in my arms and kiss him, but I did not dare. His face was contorted and somber. He went away. "Good God," I thought. "What has he gone to face?" I fell on my knees before the icon and wept for him before the Holy Mother of God, our swift defender and helper. I was half an hour praying in tears, and it was late, about midnight. Suddenly, I saw the door open and he came in again. I was surprised. "Where have you been?" I asked him. "I think," he said, "I've forgotten something." "My handkerchief," I think. "Well, even if I've not forgotten anything, let me stay a little." He sat down. I stood over him. "You sit down, too," said he. I sat down. He sat still for two minutes. He looked intently at me and suddenly smiled. I remembered that. Then he got up, embraced me warmly, and kissed me. "Remember," he said, "I came to you a second time. Do you hear? Remember it." And he went out. "Tomorrow," I thought. And so it was. I did not know that evening that the next day was his birthday. It had not been out for the last few days, so I had no chance of hearing it from anyone. On that day, he always had a great gathering. Everyone in the town went to it. It was the same this time. After dinner, he walked into the middle of the room with a paper in his hand, a formal declaration of the chief of his department who was present. This declaration, he read aloud to the whole assembly. It contained the full account of the crime in every detail. "I cut myself off from men as a monster. God has visited me," he said in conclusion. "I want to suffer from my sin." Then he brought out and laid on the table all the things he had been keeping for fourteen years that he had thought would prove his crime. The jewels belonging to the murdered woman which he had stolen to divert suspicion, a cross and a locket taken from her neck with a portrait of her betrothed in the locket, her notebook and two letters, one from her betrothed, telling her that he would soon be with her, and her unfinished answer left on the table to be sent off next day. He carried off these letters, but four. Why had he kept them for fourteen years afterwards instead of destroying them as evidence against him? And this is what happened. Everyone was amazed and horrified. Everyone refused to believe it and thought he was deranged, though all listened with intense curiosity. A few days later, he was fully decided and agreed in every house that the unhappy man was mad. The legal authorities could not refuse to take the case up, but they too dropped it. Though the trinkets and letters made them ponder, they decided that even if they did turn out to be authentic, no charge could be based on those alone. Besides, she might have given him those things as a friend, or asked him to take care of them for her. I heard afterwards, however, that the genuineness of the things was proved by the friends and relations of the murdered woman, and that there was no doubt about them. Yet nothing was destined to come of it, after all. Five days later, all had heard that he was ill, and that his life was in danger. The nature of his illness I can't explain. They said it was an affection of the heart. But it became known that the doctors had been induced by his wife to investigate his mental condition also, and had come to the conclusion that it was a case of insanity. I betrayed nothing, though people ran to question me. But when I wanted to visit him, I was for a long while forbidden to do so, above all, by his wife. "It's you who have caused his illness," she said to me. "He was always gloomy, but for the last year people noticed that he was particularly excited and did strange things. You have been the ruin of him. Your preaching has brought him to this. For the last month he was always with you." Indeed, not only his wife, but the whole town were down upon me and blamed me. "It's all you're doing," they said. I was silent and indeed rejoiced at heart, for I saw plainly God's mercy to the man who had turned against himself and punished himself. I could not believe in his insanity. They let me see him at last. He insisted upon saying goodbye to me. I went into him and saw at once that not only his days, but his hours were numbered. He was weak, yellow. His hands trembled. He gasped for breath. But his face was full of tender and happy feeling. "It is done," he said. "I've long been yearning to see you. Why didn't you come?" I did not tell him that they would not let me see him. God has had pity on me, and is calling me to himself. I know I am dying, but I feel joy and peace for the first time after so many years. There was heaven in my heart from the moment I had done what I had to do. Now I dare to love my children and to kiss them. Other my wife, nor the judges, nor anyone has believed it. My children will never believe it either. I see that in God's mercy to them. I shall die, and my name will be without a stain for them. And now I feel God near. My heart rejoices as in heaven. I have done my duty. He could not speak. He gasped for breath. He pressed my hand warmly, looking fervently at me. We did not talk for long. His wife kept peeping in at us. But he had time to whisper to me. "Do you remember how I came back to you that second time at midnight?" "I told you to remember it. You know what I came back for?" "I came to kill you." I started. I went out from you then into the darkness. I wandered about the streets struggling with myself. And suddenly I hated you so that I could hardly bear it. Now I thought he is all that binds me, and he is my judge. I can't refuse to face my punishment tomorrow, for he knows all. It was not that I was afraid you would betray me. I never even thought of that. But I thought, how can I look him in the face if I don't confess? And if you had been at the other end of the world, but alive, it would have been all the same. The thought was endurable that you were alive knowing everything and condemning me. I hated you as though you were the cause, as though you were to blame for everything. I came back to you then, remembering that you had a dagger lying on your table. I sat down and asked you to sit down. And for a whole minute, I pondered. If I had killed you, I should have been ruined by that murder, even if I had not confessed the other. But I didn't think about that at all. I didn't want to think of it at that moment. I only hated you, and long to revenge myself on you for everything. The Lord vanquished a devil in my heart. But let me tell you, you were never near her death. A week later he died. The whole town followed him to the grave. The chief priests made a speech full of feeling. All lamented the terrible illness that had cut short his days. But all the town was up in arms against me after the funeral, and people even refused to see me. Some, a first of few, and afterwards more, began indeed to believe in the truth of his story. And they visited me and questioned me with great interest and eagerness, for man loves to see the downfall and disgrace of the righteous. But I held my tongue, and very shortly after I left the town. And five months later, by God's grace, I entered the safe and blessed path, praising the unseen finger which had guarded me so clearly to it. But I remember in my prayer to this day, the servant of God, Mihael, who suffered so greatly. Section E. The Russian monk and his possible significance. Fathers and teachers, what is the monk? In the cultivated world, the word is nowadays pronounced by some people with a jeer, and by others it is used as a term of abuse, and this contempt for the monk is growing. It is true, alas, it is true, that there are many sluggards, gluttons, profligates, and insolent beggars among monks. Educated people point to these. You are idlers, useless members of society. You live on the labor of others. You are shameless beggars. And yet how many meek and humble monks there are, yearning for solitude and fervent prayer in peace? These are less noticed or passed over in silence. And how surprised men would be if I were to say that from these meek monks who yearn for solitary prayer, the salvation of Russia will come perhaps once more. For they are in truth made ready in peace and quiet, for the day and the hour, the month and the year. Meanwhile in their solitude they keep the image of Christ fair and undefiled in the purity of God's truth, from the times of the fathers of old, the apostles and the martyrs. And when the time comes they will show it to the tottering creeds of the world. That is a great thought, that star will rise out of the east. That is my view of the monk. And is it false? Is it too proud? Look at the worldly and all who set themselves up above the people of God. Has not God's image and his truth been distorted in them? They have science, but in science there is nothing but what is the object of sense. The spiritual world, though higher part of man's being, is rejected altogether, dismissed with the sort of triumph, even with hatred. The world has proclaimed the reign of freedom, especially of late, but what do we see in this freedom of theirs? Nothing but slavery and self-destruction. You have desires, and so satisfy them, for you have the same rights as the most rich and powerful. Don't be afraid of satisfying them, and even multiply your desires. That is the modern doctrine of the world, in that they see freedom, and what follows from this right of multiplication of desires, in the rich isolation and spiritual suicide, in the poor envy and murder, for they have been given rights but have not been shown the means of satisfying their wants. They maintain that the world is getting more and more united, more and more bound together in brotherly community, as it overcomes distance and sets thoughts flying through the air, alas put no faith in such a bond of union. Interpreting freedom as the multiplication and rapid satisfaction of desires, men distort their own nature, for many senseless and foolish desires and habits and ridiculous fancies are fostered in them. They live only for mutual envy, for luxury and ostentation. To have dinners, visits, carriages, rank and slaves to wait on one is looked upon as a necessity, for which life, honour and human feeling are sacrificed, and men even commit suicide if they are unable to satisfy it. We see the same thing among those who are not rich, while the poor drown their unsatisfied need and their envy in drunkenness. But soon they will drink blood instead of wine, they are being led on to it. I ask you, is such a man free? I knew one champion of freedom who told me himself that when he was deprived of tobacco in prison, he was so wretched at the privation that he almost went and betrayed his cause for the sake of getting tobacco again. And such a man says, I am fighting for the cause of humanity. How can such a one fight? What is he fit for? He is capable perhaps of some action quickly over, but he cannot hold out long. And it is no wonder that instead of gaining freedom, they have sunk into slavery, and instead of serving the cause of brotherly love and the union of humanity have fallen on the contrary into dissension and isolation, as my mysterious visitor and teacher said to me in my youth. And therefore the idea of the service of humanity, of brotherly love and the solidarity of mankind is more and more dying out in the world, and indeed this idea is sometimes treated with derision. For how can a man shake off his habits? What can become of him if he is in such bondage to the habit of satisfying the innumerable desires he has created for himself? He is isolated, and what concern has he with the rest of humanity? They have succeeded in accumulating a greater mass of objects, but the joy in the world has grown less. The monastic way is very different. Obedience, fasting, and prayer are laughed at, yet only through them lies the way to real, true freedom. I cut off my superfluous and unnecessary desires. I subdue my proud and wanton will and chastise it with obedience, and with God's help I attain freedom of spirit, and with its spiritual joy, which is most capable of conceiving a great idea and serving it the rich in his isolation, or the man who has freed himself from the tyranny of material things and habits. The monk is reproached for his solitude. You have secluded yourself within the walls of the monastery for your own salvation, and have forgotten the brotherly service of humanity. But we shall see which will be the most zealous in the cause of brotherly love, for it is not we but they who are in isolation, though they don't see that. Of old, leaders of the people came from among us, and why should they not again? The same meat and humble ascetics will rise up and go out to work for the great cause. The salvation of Russia comes from the people, and the Russian monk has always been on the side of the people. We are isolated, only if the people are isolated. The people believe as we do, and an unbelieving reformer will never do anything in Russia, even if he is sincere in heart and a genius. Remember that. The people will meet the atheist and overcome him, and Russia will be one and orthodox. Take care of the peasant and guard his heart. Go on educating him quietly. That's your duty as monks, for the peasant has God in his heart. Section F of masters and servants, and of whether it is possible for them to be brothers in the spirit. Of course, I don't deny that there is sin in the peasants, too, and the fire of corruption is spreading visibly, hourly, working from above downwards. The spirit of isolation is coming upon the people, too. Money-lenders and devours of the commune are rising up. Already the merchant grows more and more eager for rank and strives to show himself cultured, though he has not a trace of culture, and this end meanly despises his old traditions, and is even ashamed of the faith of his fathers. He visits princes, though he is only a peasant corrupted. The peasants are rotting in drunkenness, and cannot shake off the habit, and what cruelty to their wives, to their children even, all from drunkenness. I've seen in the factories children of nine years old, frail, rickety, bent and already depraved. The stuffy workshop, the din of machinery, work all day long, the vile language and the drink, the drink, is that what a little child's heart needs, he needs sunshine, childish play, good examples all about him, and at least a little love. There must be no more of this, monks, no more torturing of children, rise up and preach that, make haste, make haste. But God will save Russia, for though the peasants are corrupted and cannot renounce their filthy sin, yet they know it is cursed by God, and that they do wrong in sinning, so that our people will believe in righteousness, have faith in God, and weep tears of devotion. It is different with the upper classes. They, following science, want to base justice on reason alone, but not with Christ as before, and they have already proclaimed that there is no crime, that there is no sin, and that's consistent, for if you have no God, what is the meaning of crime? In Europe the people are already rising up against the rich with violence, and the leaders of the people are everywhere leading them to bloodshed and teaching them that their wrath is righteous. But their wrath is a cursed for it is cruel. But God will save Russia as he has saved her many times. Salvation will come from the people, from their faith and their meekness. Fathers and teachers watch over the people's faith, and this will not be a dream. I've been struck all my life in our great people by their dignity, their true and seemingly dignity. I've seen it myself. I can testify to it. I've seen it and marveled at it. I've seen it in spite of the degraded sins and the poverty-stricken appearance of our peasantry. They are not servile, and even after two centuries of serfdom they are free in manner and bearing, yet without insolence, and not revengeful and not envious. You are rich and noble. You are clever and talented. Well, be so. God bless you. I respect you, but I know that I too am a man. By the very fact that I respect you without envy, I prove my dignity as a man. In truth, if they don't say this, for they don't know how to say this yet, that is how they act. I have seen it myself. I have known it myself, and would you believe it, the poorer our Russian peasant is, the more noticeable is that serene goodness, for the rich among them are for the most part corrupted already, and much of that is due to our carelessness and indifference. But God will save his people, for Russia is great in her humility. I dream of seeing and seem to see clearly already our future. It will come to pass that even the most corrupt of our rich will end by being ashamed of his riches before the poor, and the poor seeing his humility will understand and give way before him will respond joyfully and kindly to his honorable shame. Believe me that it will end in that. Things are moving to that. Equality is to be found only in the spiritual dignity of man, and that will only be understood among us. If we were brothers, there would be fraternity, but before that they will never agree about the division of wealth. We preserve the image of Christ, and it will shine forth like a precious diamond to the whole world. So may it be, so may it be, fathers and teachers, a touching incident be found me once. In my wanderings I met in the town of Kay, my old orderly apanazi. It was eight years since I had parted from him. He chanced to see me in the marketplace, recognized me, ran up to me, and how delighted he was. He simply pounced on me. "Master, dear, is it you? Is it really you I see?" He took me home with him. He was no longer in the army. He was married and already had two little children. He and his wife earned their living as costamongers in the marketplace. His room was poor, but bright and clean. He made me sit down, set the sum of our, sent for his wife as though my appearance were a festival for them. He brought me his children. "Bless them, father. Is it for me to bless them? I am only a humble monk. I will pray for them. And for you, apanazi, powerful, which I have prayed every day since that day, for it all came from you," said I. And I explained that to him as well as I could. "And what do you think? The man kept gazing at me and could not believe that I, his former master, and officer, was now before him in such a guy's end position. It made him shed tears." "Why are you weeping?" said I. "Better rejoice over me, dear friend, whom I can never forget, for my path is a glad and joyful one." He did not say much, but kept sighing and shaking his head over me tenderly. "What has become of your fortune?" he asked. "I gave it to the monastery," I answered. "We live in common. After tea I began saying goodbye, and suddenly he brought out half a ruble as an offering to the monastery, and another half ruble I saw him thrusting hurriedly into my hand. That's for you in your wanderings it may be of use to your father." I took his half ruble, bowed to him and his wife, and went out rejoicing. And on my way I thought, "Here we are both now, he at home and I on the road, sighing and shaking our heads no doubt, and yet smiling joyfully in the gladness of our hearts, remembering how God brought about our meeting." I have never seen him again since then. I had been his master and he my servant, but now when we exchanged a loving kiss with softened hearts there was a great human bond between us. I have thought a great deal about that, and now what I think is this. Is it so inconceivable that that grand and simple-hearted unity might in due time become universal among the Russian people? I believe that it will come to pass, and that the time is at hand. And of servants I will add this. In old days when I was young I was often angry with servants. The cook had served something too hot, the orderly had not brushed by clothes. But what taught me better then was a thought of my dear brothers, which I had heard from him in childhood. Am I worth it that another should serve me and be ordered about by me in his poverty and ignorance? And I wondered at the time that such simple and self-evident ideas should be so slow to occur to our minds. It is impossible that there should be no servants in the world, but act so that your servant may be freer in spirit than if he were not a servant. And why cannot I be a servant to my servant and even let him see it? And that without any pride on my part or any mistrust on his. Why should not my servant be like my own kindred, so that I may take him into my family and rejoice in doing so? Even now this can be done, but it will lead to the grand unity of men in the future, when a man will not seek servants for himself or desire to turn his fellow creatures into servants as he does now, but on the contrary will long with his whole heart to be the servant of all as the gospel teaches. And can it be a dream that in the end man will find his joy only in deeds of light and mercy, and not in cruel pleasures as now, in gluttony, fornication, ostentation, boasting and envious rivalry of one with the other? I firmly believe that it is not, and that the time is at hand. People laugh and ask, when will that time come, and does it look like coming? I believe that with Christ's help we shall accomplish this great thing, and how many ideas there have been on earth in the history of man, which were unthinkable ten years before they appeared. Yet when their destined hour had come, they came forth and spread over the whole earth. So it will be with us, and our people will shine forth in the world, and all men will say, the stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone of the building. And we may ask the scornful themselves, if our hope is a dream, when will you build up your edifice and order things justly by your intellect alone without Christ? If they declare that it is they who are advancing towards unity, only the most simple hearted among them believe it, so that one may positively marvel at such simplicity. Of a truth they have more fantastic dreams than we. They aim at justice, but denying Christ, they will end by flooding the earth with blood, for blood cries out for blood, and he that taker that the sword shall perish by the sword. And if it were not for Christ's covenant, they would slaughter one another down to the last two men on earth, and those last two men would not be able to restrain each other in their pride, and the one would slay the other and then himself. And that would come to pass were it not for the promise of Christ, that for the sake of the humble and meek the days shall be shortened. While I was still wearing an officer's uniform after my duel, I talked about servants in general society, and I remember everyone was amazed at me. "What?" they asked. "Are we to make our servants sit down on the sofa and offer them tea?" and I answered them, "Why not? Sometimes at least." Everyone laughed, their question was frivolous, and my answer was not clear, but the thought in it was to some extent right. Section G of prayer of love and of contact with other worlds. Young man, be not forgetful of prayer. Every time you pray, if your prayer is sincere, there will be new feeling and new meaning in it, which will give you fresh courage, and you will understand that prayer is an education. Remember, too, every day, and whenever you can, repeat to yourself, "Lord, have mercy on all who appear before thee today." For every hour and every moment, thousands of men leave life on this earth, and their souls appear before God. And how many of them depart in solitude, unknown, sad, dejected, that no one mourns for them, or even knows whether they have lived or not. And behold, from the other end of the earth perhaps your prayer for their rest will rise up to God, though you knew them not, nor they you. How touching it must be, to a soul standing in dread before the Lord, to feel at that instant that for him too there is one to pray, but there is a fellow creature left on earth to love him too, and God will look on you both more graciously. For if you have had so much pity on him, how much will he have pity who is infinitely more loving and merciful than you, and he will forgive him for your sake? Brothers, have no fear of men's sin. Love a man, even in his sin, for that is the semblance of divine love, and is the highest love on earth. Love all God's creation, the whole, and every grain of sand in it. Love every leaf, every ray of God's light. Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things. Once you perceive it, you will begin to comprehend it better every day, and you will come at last to love the whole world with an all-embracing love. Love the animals, God has given them the rudiments of thought and joy untroubled. Do not trouble it. Do not harass them. Don't deprive them of their happiness. Don't work against God's intent. Man, do not pride yourself on superiority to the animals. They are without sin, and you, with your greatness, defile the earth by your appearance on it, and leave the traces of your foundness after you. Alas, it is true of almost every one of us. Love children especially, for they too are sinless like the angels. They live to soften and purify our hearts, and as it were to guide us. Woe to him who offends a child. Father and theme taught me to love children. The kind, silent man used often on our wanderings to spend the fathings given us on sweets and cakes for the children. He could not pass by a child without emotion. That's the nature of the man. At some thoughts one stands perplexed, especially at the sight of men's sin, and wonders whether one should use force or humble love. Always decide to use humble love. If you resolve on that once for all, you may subdue the whole world. Loving humility is marvelously strong, the strongest of all things, and there is nothing else like it. Every day and every hour, every minute, walk round yourself and watch yourself, and see that your image is a seemingly one. You pass by a little child. You pass by spiteful with ugly words with wrathful heart. You may not have noticed the child, but he has seen you, and your image unseemly and ignoble may remain in his defenseless heart. You don't know it, but you may have sown an evil seed in him, and it may grow, and all because you were not careful before the child, because you did not foster in yourself a careful, actively benevolent love. Brothers, love is a teacher, but one must know how to acquire it, for it is hard to acquire. It is dearly bought. It is won slowly by long labor. For we must love not only occasionally for a moment, but forever. Everyone can love occasionally, even the wicked can. My brother asked the birds to forgive him. That sounds senseless, but it is right, for all is like an ocean, all is flowing and blending. A touch in one place sets up movement at the other end of the earth. It may be senseless to beg forgiveness of the birds, but birds would be happier at your side—a little happier anyway—and children and all animals, if you were nobler than you are now. It's all like an ocean, I tell you. Then you would pray to the birds, too, consumed by an all-embracing love in a sort of transport, and pray that they too will forgive you your sin. Treasure this ecstasy, however senseless it may seem to men. My friends pray to God for gladness. Be glad as children as the birds of heaven, and let not the sin of men confound you in your doings. Fear not that it will wear away your work and hinder its being accomplished. Do not say sin is mighty, wickedness is mighty, evil environment is mighty, and we are lonely and helpless, and evil environment is wearing us away and hindering our good work from being done. Fly from that dejection, children. There is only one means of salvation. Then take yourself and make yourself responsible for all men's sins. That is the truth, you know, friends. For as soon as you sincerely make yourself responsible for everything and all men, you will see at once that it is really so, and that you are to blame for everyone and for all things. But throwing your own indolence and impotence on others, you will end by sharing the pride of Satan and murmuring against God. Of the pride of Satan what I think is this, it is hard for us on earth to comprehend it, and therefore it is so easy to fall into error and to share it, even imagining that we are doing something grand and fine. Indeed, many of the strongest feelings and movements of our nature we cannot comprehend on earth. Let not that be a stumbling block, and think not that it may serve as a justification to you for anything. For the eternal judge asks of you what you can comprehend and not what you cannot. You will know that yourself hereafter, for you will behold all things truly then and will not dispute them. On earth, indeed, we are, as it were, astray, and if it were not for the precious image of Christ before us, we should be undone and altogether lost, as was the human race before the flood. Much on earth is hidden from us, but to make up for that we have been given a precious, mystic sense of our living bond with the other world, with the higher heavenly world, and the roots of our thoughts and feelings are not here but in other worlds. That is why the philosophers say that we cannot apprehend the reality of things on earth. God took seeds from different worlds and sewed them on this earth, and his garden grew up, and everything came up that could come up. But what grows lives, and is alive only through the feeling of its contact with other mysterious worlds. If that feeling grows weak or is destroyed in you, the heavenly growth will die away in you. Then you will be indifferent to life and even grow to hate it. That is what I think. Section H. Can a man judge his fellow creatures? Faith to the end. Remember particularly that you cannot be a judge of anyone. For no one can judge a criminal until he recognizes that he is just such a criminal as the man standing before him, and that he is perhaps more than all men to blame for that crime. When he understands that he will be able to be a judge. Though that sounds absurd, it is true. If I had been righteous myself, perhaps there would have been no criminal standing before me. If you can take upon yourself the crime of the criminal your heart is judging, take it at once, suffer for him yourself, and let him go without reproach. And even if the law itself makes you his judge, act in the same spirit so far as possible, for he will go away and condemn himself more bitterly than you have done. If after your kiss he goes away untouched, mocking at you, do not let that be a stumbling block to you. It shows his time has not yet come. But it will come in due course, and if it come not, no matter. If not he then another in his place will understand and suffer, and judge and condemn himself, and the truth will be fulfilled. Believe me, believe it without doubt, for in that lies all the hope and faith of the saints. Work without ceasing. If you remember in the night as you go to sleep, I have not done what I ought to have done. Rise up at once and do it. If the people around you are spiteful and callous and will not hear you, fall down before them and beg their forgiveness, for in truth you ought to blame for their not wanting to hear you. And if you cannot speak to them in their bitterness, serve them in silence and in humility, never losing hope. If all men abandon you and even drive you away by force, then when you are left alone, fall on the earth and kiss it, water it with your tears, and it will bring forth fruit, even though no one has seen or heard you in your solitude. Believe it to the end, even if all men went astray and you were left the only one faithful, bring your offering even then and praise God in your loneliness. And if two of you are gathered together, then there is a whole world, a world of living love. Embrace each other tenderly and praise God, for if only in you too, his truth has been fulfilled. If you sin yourself and grieve even unto death for your sins or for your sudden sin, then rejoice for others, rejoice for the righteous man, rejoice that if you have sinned, he is righteous and has not sinned. If the evil doing of men moves you to indignation and overwhelming distress, even to a desire for vengeance on the evil doers, shun above all things that feeling. Go at once and seek suffering for yourself, as though you yourself were guilty of that wrong. Accept that suffering and bear it and your heart will find comfort, and you will understand that you too are guilty, for you might have been a light to the evil doers, even as the one man sinless, and you are not a light to them. If you had been a light, you would have lightened the path for others too, and the evil doer might perhaps have been saved by your light from his sin. And even though your light was shining, yet you see men were not saved by it, hold firm and doubt not the power of the heavenly light. Believe that if they were not saved, they will be saved hereafter, and if they are not saved hereafter, then their sons will be saved, for your light will not die even when you are dead. The righteous man departs, but his light remains. Men are always saved after the death of the deliverer. Men reject their prophets and slay them, but they love their martyrs, and honor those whom they have slain. You are working for the whole, or acting for the future. Seek no reward for great is your reward on this earth. The spiritual joy which is only vouch saved to the righteous man. Fear not the great nor the mighty, but be wise and ever serene. Know the measure, know the times, study that. When you are left alone, pray. Love to throw yourself on the earth and kiss it. Kiss the earth and love it with an unceasing, consuming love. Love all men, love everything. Seek that rapture and ecstasy. Water the earth with the tears of your joy and love those tears. Don't be ashamed of that ecstasy, prize it, for it is a gift of God and a great one. It is not given to many, but only to the elect. Section I of Hell and Hellfire, a mystic reflection. Fathers and teachers. I ponder what is hell. I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love. Once, in infinite existence, immeasurable in time and space, a spiritual creature was given on his coming to earth, the power of saying, "I am, and I love." Once, only once, there was given him a moment of active, lifting love, and for that was earthly life given him, and with it times and seasons, and that happy creature ejected the priceless gift, prized it and loved it not, scorned it and remained callous. Such a one, having left the earth, sees Abraham's bosom and talks with Abraham as we are told in the parable of the rich man and Lazarus, and beholds heaven and can go up to the Lord. But that is just his torment to rise up to the Lord without ever having loved, to be brought close to those who have loved when he has despised their love. For he sees clearly and says to himself, "Now I have understanding, and though I now thirst to love, there will be nothing great, no sacrifice in my love, for my earthly life is over, and Abraham will not come even with a drop of living water, that is the gift of earthly, active life, to cool the fiery thirst of spiritual love which burns in me now, though I despised it on earth. There is no more life for me, and will be no more time. Even though I would gladly give my life for others, it can never be; for that life is past, which can be sacrificed for love. And now there is a gulf fixed between that life and this existence. They talk of hell fire in the material sense. I don't go into that mystery and I shun it. But I think if there were fire in material sense, they would be glad of it. For I imagine that in material agony, there still greater spiritual agony would be forgotten for a moment. Moreover, that spiritual agony cannot be taken from them; for that suffering is not external but within them. And if it could be taken from them, I think it would be bitter as still for the unhappy creatures. For even if the righteous in paradise forgave them, beholding their torments, and called them up to heaven in their infinite love, they would only multiply their torments, for they would arouse in them still more keenly a flaming thirst for responsive, active and grateful love, which is now impossible. In the timidity of my heart, I imagine, however, that the very recognition of this impossibility would serve at last to console them. For accepting the love of the righteous, together with the impossibility of repaying it, by this submissiveness and the effect of this humility, they will attain at last, as it were, to a certain semblance of that active love which they scorned in life, to something like its outward expression. I am sorry, friends and brothers, that I cannot express this clearly, but woe to those who have slain themselves on earth, woe to the suicides. I believe that there can be none more miserable than they. They tell us that it is a sin to pray for them, and outwardly the church, as it were renounced system. But in my secret heart I believe that we may pray even for them. Love can never be an offence to Christ. For such as those I have prayed inwardly all my life, I confess it, fathers and teachers, and even now I pray for them every day. Oh, there are some who remain proud and fierce even in hell, in spite of their certain knowledge and contemplation of the absolute truth. There are some fearful ones who have given themselves over to Satan and his proud spirit entirely. For such hell is voluntary and ever consuming. They are tortured by their own choice. For they have cursed themselves, cursing God and life. They live upon their vindictive pride, like a starving man in the desert, sucking blood out of his own body. But they are never satisfied, and they refuse forgiveness. They curse God who calls them. They cannot behold the living God without hatred, and they cry out that the God of life should be annihilated, that God should destroy himself and his own creation. And they will burn in the fire of their own wrath forever, and yearn for death and annihilation. But they will not attain to death. Here, Alex A. Fjordovitch Karamazov's manuscript ends. I repeat it is incomplete and fragmentary. Biographical details, for instance, cover only Father Zosima's earliest use. Of his teaching and opinions we find brought together, sayings evidently uttered on very different occasions. His utterances during the last few hours have not been kept separate from the rest, but their general character can be gathered from what we have in Alex A. Fjordovitch's manuscript. The eldest death came in the end quite unexpectedly. For although those who were gathered about him that last evening realized that his death was approaching, yet it was difficult to imagine that it would come so suddenly. On the contrary, his friends, as I observed already, seeing him that night apparently so cheerful and talkative, were convinced that there was at least a temporary change for the better in his condition. Even five minutes before his death, they said afterwards, wonderingly, it was impossible to foresee it. He seemed suddenly to feel an acute pain in his chest. He turned pale and pressed his hands to his heart. All rose from their seats and hastened to him; but though suffering he still looked at them with a smile, sank slowly from his chair onto his knees, then bowed his face to the ground, stretched out his arms, and as though in joyful ecstasy, praying and kissing the ground, quietly and joyfully gave up his soul to God. The news of his death spread at once through the hermitage and reached the monastery. The nearest friends of the deceased, and those whose duty it was from their position, began to lay out the corpse according to the ancient ritual, and all the monks gathered together in the church. And before dawn, the news of the death reached the town. By the morning all the town was talking of the event, and crowds were flocking from the town to the monastery; but this subject will be treated in the next book. I will only adhere that before a day had passed, something happened so unexpected, so strange, upsetting, and bewildering in its effect on the monks and the townspeople, that after all these years, that day of general suspense is still vividly remembered in the town. End of Book VI Book VII, Aliyosha, Chapter 1, The Breath of Corruption The body of Father Zosima was prepared for burial according to the established ritual. As is well known, the bodies of dead monks and hermits are not washed. In the words of the church ritual, "If any one of the monks depart in the Lord, the monk designated, that is, whose office it is, shall wipe the body with warm water, making first the sign of the cross with a sponge on the forehead of the deceased, on the breast, and on the hands and feet, and on the knees, and that is enough." All this was done by Father Paisie, who then closed the deceased in his monastic garb, and wrapped him in his cloak, which was, according to custom, somewhat slit to allow its being folded about him in the form of a cross. On his head he put a hood with an eight cornered cross. The hood was left open, and the dead man's face was covered with black gauze. In his hands was put an icon of the Savior. Towards mourning, he was put in the coffin which had been made ready long before. It was decided to leave the coffin all day in the cell, in the larger room in which the elder used to receive his visitors and fellow monks. As the deceased was a priest and monk of the strictest rule, the gospel, not the Psalter, had to be read over his body by monks in holy orders. The reading was begun by Father Josie, immediately after the Requiem service. Father Paisie desired later on to read the gospel all day and night over his dead friend, but for the present he, as well as the father superintendent of the Hermitage, was very busy and occupied. For something extraordinary and unheard of, even unseemly excitement and impatient expectation began to be apparent in the monks and the visitors from the monastery hostels and the crowds of people flocking from the town. And as time went on, this grew more and more marked. Both the superintendent and Father Paisie did their utmost to calm the general bustle and agitation. When it was fully daylight, some people began bringing their sick, in most cases children, with them from the town, as though they had been waiting expressly for this moment to do so. Evidently persuaded that the dead elders' remains had a power of healing, which would be immediately made manifest in accordance with their faith. It was only then apparent how unquestionably everyone in our town had accepted Father Josiema during his lifetime as a great saint, and those who came were far from being all of the humbler classes. This intense expectation on the part of believers displayed with such haste, such openness, even with impatience and almost insistence, impressed Father Paisie as unseemly. Though he had long foreseen something of the sort, the actual manifestation of the feeling was beyond anything he had looked for. When he came across any of the monks who displayed this excitement, Father Paisie began to reprove them. Such immediate expectation of something extraordinary, he said, shows a levity possible to worldly people, but unseemly in us. But little attention was paid him, and Father Paisie noticed it uneasily. Yet he himself, if the whole truth must be told, secretly at the bottom of his heart, cherished almost the same hopes, and could not but be aware of it, though he was indignant at the two impatient expectation around him, and saw in it light-mindedness and vanity. Nevertheless, it was particularly unpleasant to him to meet certain persons whose presence aroused in him great misgivings. In the crowd in the deadman's cell, he noticed with inward aversion, for which he immediately reproached himself, the presence of Raketan and of the monk from Obdorsk, who was still staying in the monastery. Of both of them, Father Paisie felt for some reason suddenly suspicious. Though indeed, he might well have felt the same about others. The monk from Obdorsk was conspicuous as the most fussy in the excited crowd. He was to be seen everywhere, everywhere he was asking questions, everywhere he was listening, on all sides he was whispering with a peculiar, mysterious air. His expression showed the greatest impatience, and even a sort of irritation. As for Raketan, he, as appeared later, had come so early to the hermitage at the special request of Madame Holokoff. As soon as that good-hearted but weak-minded woman, who could not herself have been admitted to the hermitage, waked and heard of the death of Father Zosima, she was overtaken with such intense curiosity that she promptly dispatched Raketan to the hermitage, to keep a careful lookout, and report to her by letter every half hour or so, everything that takes place. She regarded Raketan as a most religious and devout young man. He was particularly clever in getting round people and assuming whatever part he thought most to their taste, if he detected the slightest advantage to himself from doing so. It was a bright, clear day, and many of the visitors were thronging about the tombs, which were particularly numerous round the church, then scattered here and there about the hermitage. As he walked round the hermitage, Father Paisie remembered Aliyosha and that he had not seen him for some time, not since the night, and he had no sooner thought of him than he at once noticed him in the furthest corner of the hermitage garden, sitting on a tombstone of a monk who had been famous long ago for his saintliness. He sat with his back to the hermitage, and his face to the wall, and seemed to be hiding behind the tombstone. Going up to him, Father Paisie saw that he was weeping quietly but bitterly, with his face hidden in his hands, and that his whole frame was shaking with sobs. Father Paisie stood over him for a little. "Enough, dear son, enough, dear," he pronounced with feeling at last, "why do you weep, rejoice and weep not? Don't you know that this is the greatest of his days? Think only where he is now at this moment." Aliyosha glanced at him, uncovering his face, which was swollen with crying like a child's, but turned away at once without uttering a word and hid his face in his hands again. "Maybe it is well," said Father Paisie thoughtfully, "weep if you must. Christ has sent you those tears." "Your touching tears are butter-relief to your spirit and will serve to gladden your dear heart," he added to himself, walking away from Aliyosha and thinking lovingly of him. He walked away quickly, however, for he felt that he too might weep, looking at him. Meanwhile the time was passing, the monastery's services and the requiem's for the dead followed in their due course. Father Paisie again took Father Yoseve's place by the coffin and began reading the gospel, but before three o'clock in the afternoon that something took place to which I alluded at the end of the last book, something so unexpected by all of us and so contrary to the general hope that I repeat, this trivial incident has been minutely remembered to this day in our town and all the surrounding neighborhood. I may adhere for myself personally that I feel it almost repulsive, that event which caused such frivolous agitation and was such a stumbling block to many, though in reality it was the most natural and trivial matter. I should, of course, have omitted all mention of it in my story if it had not exerted a very strong influence on the heart and soul of the chief, though future hero of my story, Aliyosha, forming a crisis and turning point in his spiritual development, giving a shock to his intellect which finally strengthened it for the rest of his life and gave it a definite aim. And so, to return to our story, when before dawn they laid Father Zosima's body in the coffin and brought it to the front room, the question of opening the windows was raised among those who were around the coffin, but this suggestion made casually by someone was unanswered and almost unnoticed. Some of the present may perhaps have inwardly noticed it, only to reflect that the anticipation of decay and corruption from the body of such a saint was an actual absurdity, calling for compassion, if not a smile, for the lack of faith and frivolity it implied, for they expected something quite different. And behold, soon after midday there were signs of something, at first only observed in silence by those who came in and out, and were evidently each afraid to communicate the thought in his mind. But by three o'clock, those signs had become so clear and unmistakable that the news swiftly reached all the monks and visitors in the hermitage, promptly penetrated to the monastery, throwing all the monks into amazement, and finally, in the shortest possible time, spread to the town, exciting everyone in it, believers and unbelievers alike. The unbelievers rejoiced, and as for the believers, some of them rejoiced even more than the unbelievers, for men loved the downfall and disgrace of the righteous, as the deceased elder had said in one of his exhortations. The fact is that a smell of decomposition began to come from the coffin, growing gradually more marked, and by three o'clock it was quite unmistakable. In all the past history of our monastery, no such scandal could be recalled, and in no other circumstances could such a scandal have been possible, as showed itself in unseemly disorder, immediately after this discovery among the many monks themselves. Afterwards, even many years afterwards, some sensible monks were amazed and horrified when they recalled that day that the scandal could have reached such proportions. For in the past, monks of very holy life had died, Godfearing old men, whose saintliness was acknowledged by all, yet from their humble coffins too, the breath of corruption had come, naturally, as from all dead bodies, but that had caused no scandal, nor even the slightest excitement. Of course, there had been, in former times, saints in the monastery whose memory was carefully preserved, and whose relics, according to tradition, showed no signs of corruption. This fact was regarded by the monks as touching and mysterious, and the tradition of it was cherished as something blessed and miraculous, and as a promise by God's grace, of still greater glory from their tombs in the future. One such, whose memory was particularly cherished, was an old monk, Job, who had died seventy years before at the age of a hundred and five. He had been a celebrated ascetic, rigid in fasting and silence, and his tomb was pointed out to all visitors on their arrival with peculiar respect and mysterious hints of great hopes connected with it. That was the very tomb on which Father Paisie had found Alyosha sitting in the morning. Another memory cherished in the monastery was that of the famous father Varsanofi, who was only recently dead, and had preceded Father Zosima in the eldership. He was reverent during his lifetime as a crazy saint by all the pilgrims to the monastery. There was a tradition that both of these had lain in their coffins as though alive, that they had shown no signs of decomposition when they were buried, and that there had been a holy light in their faces. And some people even insisted that a sweet fragrance came from their bodies. Yet, in spite of these edifying memories, it would be difficult to explain the frivolity, absurdity, and malice that were manifested beside the coffin of Father Zosima. It is my private opinion that several different causes were simultaneously at work, one of which was the deeply rooted hostility to the institution of elders as a pernicious innovation, and antipathy hidden deep in the hearts of many of the monks. Even more powerful was jealousy of the dead man's saintliness, so firmly established during his lifetime that it was almost a forbidden thing to question it. For though the late elder had won over many hearts, more by love than by miracles, and had gathered round him a mass of loving adherents, nonetheless, in fact, rather the more on that account, he had awakened jealousy, and so had come to have bitter enemies, secret and open, not only in the monastery, but in the world outside it. He did no one any harm, but why do they think him so saintly? And that question alone, gradually repeated, gave rise at last to an intense insatiable hatred of him. That, I believe, was why many people were extremely delighted at the smell of decomposition which came so quickly, for not a day had passed since his death. At the same time, there were some among these who had been hitherto reverently devoted to the elder, who were almost mortified and personally affronted by this incident. This was how the thing happened. As soon as signs of decomposition had begun to appear, the whole aspect of the monks betrayed their secret motives in entering the cell. They went in, stayed a little while, and hastened out to confirm the news to the crowd of other monks waiting outside. Some of the latter shook their heads mournfully, but others did not even care to conceal the delight which gleaned unmistakably in their malignant eyes. And now no one reproached them for it; no one raised his voice in protest, which was strange, for the majority of the monks had been devoted to the dead elder. But it seemed as though God had in this case let the minority get the upper hand for a time. Visitors from outside, particularly of the educated class, soon went into the cell, too, with the same spying intent. Of the peasantry, few went into the cell, though there were crowds of them at the gates of the hermitage. After three o'clock, the rush of worldly visitors was greatly increased, and this was no doubt owing to the shocking news. People were attracted who would not otherwise have come on that day and had not intended to come, and among them were some personages of high standing. But the external decorum was still preserved, and Father Paisie, with a stern face, continued firmly and distinctly reading aloud the gospel, apparently not noticing what was taking place around him, though he had, in fact, observed something unusual long before. But at last, the murmurs, first subdued but gradually louder and more confident, reached even him. "It shows God's judgment is not as man's," Father Paisie heard suddenly. The first to give utterance to this sentiment was a layman, an elderly official from the town known to be a man of great piety. But he only repeated aloud what the monks had long been whispering. They had long before formulated this damning conclusion, and the worst of it was that a sort of triumphant satisfaction at that conclusion became more and more apparent every moment. Soon they began to lay aside even external decorum, and almost seemed to feel they had a sort of right to discard it. And for what reason can this have happened, some of the monks said, at first with a show of regret? He had a small frame, and his flesh was dried up on his bones. What was there to decay? "It must be a sign from heaven," others hastened to add, and their opinion was adopted at once without protest. For it was pointed out, too, that if the decomposition had been natural, as in the case of every dead sinner, it would have been apparent later after a lapse of at least twenty-four hours. But this premature corruption was in excess of nature, and so the finger of God was evident. It was meant for a sign. This conclusion seemed irresistible. Gentle Father Yossi, the librarian, a great favorite of the dead man's, tried to reply to some of the evil speakers that "This is not held everywhere alike," and that the incorruptibility of the bodies of the just was not a dogma of the Orthodox Church, but only an opinion, and that even in the most Orthodox regions, at Athos, for instance, they were not greatly confounded by the smell of corruption, and there the chief sign of the glorification of the sage was not bodily incorruptibility, but the color of the bones when the bodies have lain many years in the earth, and have decayed in it. And if the bones are yellow as wax, that is the great sign that the Lord has glorified the dead saint. If they are not yellow but black, it shows that God has not deemed him worthy of such glory. That is the belief in Athos, a great place, which the Orthodox doctrine has been preserved from of old, unbroken, and in its greatest purity," said Father Yossi in conclusion. But the meek Father's words had little effect, and even provoked a mocking retort. "That's all pedantry and innovation, no use listening to it," the monks decided. "We stick to the old doctrine. There are all sorts of innovations nowadays. Are we to follow them all?" added others. "We have had as many holy fathers as they had. There they are among the Turks. They have forgotten everything. Their doctrine has long been impure, and they have no bells even," the most sneering added. Father Yossi walked away, grieving the more because he had put forward his own opinion with little confidence as though scarcely believing in it himself. He foresaw with distress that something very unseemly was beginning and that there were positive signs of disobedience. Little by little, all the sensible monks were reduced to silence like Father Yossi. And so it came to pass that all who loved the elder and had accepted with devout obedience, the institution of the eldership, were all at once terribly cast down and glanced timidly in one another's faces when they met. Those who were hostile to the institution of elders as a novelty held up their heads proudly. There was no smell of corruption from the late elder Varsanafi but a sweet fragrance, they recalled malignantly. But he gained that glory not because he was an elder, but because he was a holy man. And this was followed by a shower of criticism and even blame of Father Zosima. His teaching was false; he taught that life is a great joy and not avail of tears, said some of the more unreasonable. He followed the fashionable belief; he did not recognize material fire in hell; others still more unreasonable added. He was not strict in fasting, allowed himself sweet things, ate cherry jam with his tea, ladies used to send it to him. Is it for a monk of strict rule to drink tea? Could be heard among some of the envious? He sat in pride, the most malignant declared vindictively. He considered himself a saint, and he took it as his do when people knelt before him. He abused the sacrament of confession, the fiercest opponents of the institution of elders added in a malicious whisper. And among these were some of the oldest monks, strictest in their devotion, genuine ascetics, who had kept silent during the life of the deceased elder, but now suddenly unsealed their lips. And this was terrible, for their words had great influence on young monks who were not yet firm in their convictions. The monk from obdors curd all this attentively, keeping deep sighs and nodding his head. Yes, clearly Father Farapont was right in his judgment yesterday, and at that moment Father Farapont himself made his appearance, as though on purpose to increase the confusion. I have mentioned already that he rarely left his wooden cell by the apiary. He was seldom even seen at church, and they overlooked this neglect on the ground of his craziness, and did not keep him to the rules binding on all the rest. But if the whole truth is to be told they hardly had a choice about it, for it would have been discreditable to insist on burdening with the common regulations so great an ascetic, who prayed day and night he even dropped a sleep on his knees. If they had insisted, the monks would have said, "He is holier than all of us, and he follows a rule harder than ours, and if he does not go to church, it's because he knows when he ought to, he has his own rule." He'd was to avoid the chance of these sinful murmurs that Father Farapont was left in peace. As everyone was aware, Father Farapont particularly disliked Father Zosima, and now the news had reached him in his hut that God's judgment is not the same as man's, and that something had happened which was in excess of nature. It may well be supposed that among the first to run to him with the news was the monk from Obdorsk, who had visited him the evening before and left his cell terror stricken. I have mentioned above that though Father Paisie standing firm and immovable reading the gospel over the coffin, could not hear nor see what was passing outside the cell, he gauged most of it correctly in his heart, for he knew the men surrounding him well. He was not shaken by it, but awaited what would come next without fear, watching with penetration and insight for the outcome of the general excitement. Suddenly an extraordinary uproar in the passage in open defiance of decorum burst on his ears. The door was flung open, and Father Farapont appeared in the doorway. Behind him there could be seen accompanying him a crowd of monks together with many people from the town. They did not however enter the cell, but stood at the bottom of the steps, waiting to see what Father Farapont would say or do, for they felt with a certain awe in spite of their audacity that he had not come for nothing. Standing in the doorway Father Farapont raised his arms, and under his right arm the keen inquisitive little eyes of the monk from Obdorsk peeped in. He alone in his intense curiosity could not resist running up the steps after Father Farapont. The others on the contrary pressed farther back in sudden alarm when the door was noisily flung open. Holding his hands aloft, Father Farapont suddenly roared, casting out I cast out, and, turning in all directions, he began at once making the sign of the cross at each of the four walls and four corners of the cell in succession. Alhu accompanied Father Farapont immediately understood his action, for they knew he always did this wherever he went, and that he would not sit down or say a word till he had driven out the evil spirits. Satan go hence, Satan go hence, he repeated at each sign of the cross, casting out I cast out, he roared again. He was wearing his coarse gown girt with a rope, his bare chest covered with gray hair could be seen under his hempen shirt, his feet were bare, as soon as he began waving his arms, the cruel irons he wore under his gown could be heard clanking. Father Paisie paused in his reading, stepped forward, and stood before him, waiting. "What have you come for, worthy father? Why do you offend against good order? Why do you disturb the peace of the flock?" He said at last, looking sternly at him. "What have I come for? You ask why? What is your faith?" shouted Father Farapont crazily. "I've come here to drive out your visitors, the unclean devils. I've come to see how many have gathered here while I have been away. I want to sweep them out with a birch broom." "You cast out the evil spirit, but perhaps you are serving him yourself," Father Paisie went on fearlessly. "And who can say of himself, "I am holy. Can you, father?" "I am unclean, not holy. I would not sit in an armchair and would not have them bow down to me as an idol," thundered Father Farapont. Nowadays folk destroy the true faith. "The dead man, your saint," he turned to the crowd, pointing with his finger to the coffin, "did not believe in devils. He gave medicine to keep off the devils, and so they have become as common as spiders in the corners, and now he has begun to stink himself. In that we see a great sign from God." The incident he referred to was this. One of the monks was haunted in his dreams, and later on in waking moments by visions of evil spirits. When in his utmost terror he confided this to Father Zosima, the elder-head advised continual prayer and rigid fasting. But when that was of no use, he advised him while persisting in prayer and fasting to take a special medicine. Many persons were shocked at the time and waged their heads as they talked over it, and most of all, Father Farapont, to whom some of the sensorious head hastened to report this extraordinary counsel on the part of the elder. "Go away, Father," said Father Paisie in a commanding voice, "it is not for man to judge, but for God. Perhaps we see here a sign, which neither you nor I nor any one of us is able to comprehend. Go, Father, do not trouble the flock," he said impressively. He did not keep the fasts according to the rule, and therefore the sign has come. That is clear, and it's a sin to hide it. The fanatic, carried away by a zeal that outstripped his reason, would not be quieted. He was seduced by sweet meats; ladies brought them to him in their pockets; he sipped tea; he worshipped his belly, filling it with sweet things, and his mind with haughty thoughts. And for this he has put to shame. "You speak lightly, Father," Father Paisie too raised his voice. "I admire your fasting and severities, but you speak lightly like some frivolous youth, fickle and childish. "Go away, Father, I command you," Father Paisie thundered in conclusion. "I will go," said Farapont, seeming somewhat taken aback, "but still is bitter." "You learned, men, you are so clever you look down upon my humbleness. I came hither with little learning, and here I have forgotten what I did know. God himself has preserved me in my weakness from your subtlety." Father Paisie stood over him, waiting resolutely. Father Farapont paused, and, suddenly leaning his cheek on his hand despondently, pronounced in a sing-song voice, looking at the coffin of the dead elder. "Tomorrow they will sing over him, our helper and defender, a splendid anthem. And over me when I die, all thou sing will be what earthly joy, a little canticle," he added with tearful regret. Translator's note, when a monk's body is carried out from the cell to the church, and from the church to the graveyard, the canticle, what earthly joy is sung. If the deceased was a priest as well as a monk, the canticle, our helper and defender, is sung instead. And note, "You are proud and puffed up. This is a vain place," he shouted suddenly like a madman, and with a wave of his hand, he turned quickly and quickly descended the steps. The crowd awaiting him below wavered. Some followed him at once, and some lingered, for the cell was still open, and Father Paisie, following Father Farapont onto the steps, stood watching him. The excited old fanatic was not completely silenced. Walking twenty steps away, he suddenly turned towards the setting sun, raised both his arms, and as though someone had cut him down, fell to the ground with a loud scream. "My God has conquered, Christ has conquered the setting sun," he shouted frantically, stretching up his hands to the sun, and falling face downwards on the ground, he sobbed like a little child, shaken by his tears, and spreading out his arms on the ground. Then all rushed up to him. There were exclamations and sympathetic sobs, a kind of frenzy seemed to take possession of them all. "This is the one who is a saint, this is the one who is a holy man," some cried aloud, losing their fear. "This is he who should be an elder," others added malignantly. "He wouldn't be an elder, he would refuse, he wouldn't serve a cursed innovation, he wouldn't imitate their foolery," others chimed in at once, and it is hard to say how far they might have gone, but at that moment the bell rang, summoning them to service. All began crossing themselves at once. Father Farapont, too, got up and crossing himself, went back to his cell without looking round, still uttering exclamations, which were utterly incoherent. A few followed him, but the greater number dispersed, hastening to service. Father Paisie let Father Yossi read in his place, and went down. The frantic outcries of bigots could not shake him, but his heart was suddenly filled with melancholy for some special reason, and he felt that. He stood still and suddenly wondered, "Why am I sad even to dejection?" and immediately grasped with surprise, that his sudden sadness was due to a very small and special cause. In the crowd thronging at the entrance to the cell, he had noticed Aliyosha, and he remembered that he had felt at once a ping at heart on seeing him. "Can that boy mean so much to my heart now?" he asked himself, wondering. At that moment, Aliyosha passed him, hurrying away, but not in the direction of the church. Their eyes met. Aliyosha quickly turned away his eyes, and dropped them to the ground, and from the boy's look alone, Father Paisie guessed what a great change was taking place in him at that moment. "Have you two fallen into temptation?" cried Father Paisie. "Can you be with those of little faith?" he added mournfully. Aliyosha stood still, engaged vaguely at Father Paisie, but quickly turned his eyes away again, and again looked on the ground. He stood sideways and did not turn his face to Father Paisie, who watched him attentively. "Where are you hastening?" the bell calls to service, he asked again, but again Aliyosha gave no answer. "Are you leaving the hermitage? What, without asking leave, without asking a blessing?" Aliyosha suddenly gave a wry smile, cast a strange, very strange look at the Father to whom his former guide, the former sovereign of his heart and mind, his beloved elder, had confided him as he lay dying, and suddenly, still without speaking, waved his hand as though not caring even to be respectful, and with rapid steps walked towards the gates away from the hermitage. "You will come back again," murmured Father Paisie, looking after him with sorrowful surprise. End of chapter 1 of book 7 Book 7, chapter 2, a critical moment. Father Paisie, of course, was not wrong when he decided that his dear boy would come back again. Perhaps, indeed, to some extent, he penetrated with insight into the true meaning of Aliyosha's spiritual condition. Yet I must frankly own that it would be very difficult for me to give a clear account of that strange, vague moment in the life of the young hero I love so much. "To Father Paisie's sorrowful question, are you two with those of little faith? "I could, of course, confidently answer for Aliyosha. No, he's not with those of little faith, quite the contrary." Indeed, all his trouble came from the fact that he was of great faith, but still the trouble was there and was so agonizing that even long afterwards Aliyosha thought of that sorrowful day as one of the bitterest and most fatal days of his life. If the question is asked, could all his grief and disturbance have been only due to the fact that his elder's body had shown signs of premature decomposition instead of at once performing miracles? I must answer without beating about the bush. Yes, it certainly was. I would only beg the reader not to be in too great a hurry to laugh at my young hero's pure heart. I'm far from intending to apologize for him, or to justify his innocent faith on the ground of his youth or the little progress he had made in his studies, or any such reason. I must declare, on the contrary, that I have genuine respect for the qualities of his heart. No doubt a youth who received impressions cautiously, whose love was lukewarm and whose mind was too prudent for his age and so of little value, such a young man might, I admit, have avoided what happened to my hero. But in some cases it is really more creditable to be carried away by an emotion, however unreasonable, which springs from a great love, than to be unmoved. And this is even truer in youth, for a young man who is always sensible, is to be suspected and is of little worth. That's my opinion. But reasonable people will exclaim, perhaps, every young man cannot believe in such a superstition, and your hero is no model for others. To this I reply again, yes, my hero had faith, a faith wholly instead fast, but still I am not going to apologize for him. Though I declared above, and perhaps too hastily, that I should not explain or justify my hero, I see that some explanation is necessary for the understanding of the rest of the story. Let me say, then, it was not a question of miracles. There was no frivolous and impatient expectation of miracles in his mind. Now Yosha needed no miracles at the time, for the triumph of some preconceived idea. Oh no, not at all. What he saw before all was one figure, the figure of his beloved elder, the figure of that holy man who he revered with such adoration. The fact is that all the love that lay concealed in his pure young heart for everyone and everything had for the past year been concentrated, and perhaps wrongly so, on one being, his beloved elder. It is true that being had for so long been accepted by him as his ideal. Not at all his young strength and energy could not but turn towards that ideal, even to the forgetting at the moment of everyone and everything. He remembered afterwards how, on that terrible day, he had entirely forgotten his brother Dimitri, about whom he had been so anxious and troubled the day before. He had forgotten too to take the 200 rubles to Yosha's father. Though he had so warmly intended to do so the preceding evening, but again it was not miracles he needed, but only the higher justice, which had been in his belief outraged by that blow that had so suddenly and cruelly wounded his heart. And what does it signify that this justice looked for by Yosha inevitably took the shape of miracles to be wrought immediately by the ashes of his adored teacher. Why, everyone in the monastery cherished the same thought and the same hope, even those whose intellects Yosha revered, Father Paisie himself, for instance. And so Yosha, untroubled by doubts, clothed his dreams too in the same form as all the rest, and a whole year of life in the monastery had formed the habit of this expectation in his heart. But it was justice, justice he thirsted for, not simply miracles. And now the man who should, he believed, have been exalted above everyone in the whole world. That man, instead of receiving the glory that was his due, was suddenly degraded and dishonored. What for? Who had judged him? Who could have decreed this? Those were the questions that wrung his inexperienced and virginal heart. He could not endure without mortification, without resentment, even, that the holiest of holy men should have been exposed to the jeering and spiteful mockery of the frivolous crowd so inferior to him. Even had there been no miracles, had there been nothing marvelous to justify his hopes, why this indignity, why this humiliation, why this premature decay, in excess of nature, as a spiteful monk said, why this sign from heaven, which they so triumphantly acclaimed, in company with Father Farapant, and why did they believe they had gained the right to acclaim it? Where is the finger of providence? Why did providence hide its face at the most critical moment, so Yosha thought it, as though volunteering submitting to the blind, dumb, pitiless laws of nature? That was why Al Yosha's heart was bleeding, and, of course, as I have said already, the sting of it all was that the man he loved above everything on earth should be put to shame and humiliated. This murmuring may have been shallow and unreasonable in my hero. But I repeat again for the third time, and am prepared to admit that it might be difficult to defend my feeling, I am glad that my hero showed himself not too reasonable at that moment, for any man of sense will always come back to reason in time. But if love does not gain the upper hand in a boy's heart at such an exceptional moment, when will it? I will not, however, omit to mention something strange, which came for a time to the surface of Al Yosha's mind at this fatal and obscure moment. This new something was the harassing impression left by the conversation with Yvonne, which now persistently haunted Al Yosha's mind. At this moment it haunted him. Oh, it was not that something of the fundamental, elemental, so to speak, faith of his soul had been shaken. He loved his God and believed in him steadfastly, though he was suddenly murmuring against him. Yet a vague but tormenting and evil impression left by his conversation with Yvonne the day before suddenly revived again now in his soul and seemed forcing its way to the surface of his consciousness. It had begun to get dusk when Rekkeaton, crossing the pine-cops from the hermitage to the monastery, suddenly noticed Al Yosha, lying face downwards on the ground under a tree, not moving, and apparently asleep. He went up and called him by his name. "You hear, Alexey? Can you have?" He began wondering, but broke off. He had meant to say, "Can you have come to this?" Al Yosha did not look at him, but from a slight movement Rekkeaton at once saw that he heard heard and understood him. "What's the matter?" he went on, but the surprise in his face gradually passed into a smile that became more and more ironical. "I say, I've been looking for you for the last two hours. You've suddenly disappeared. What are you about? What foolery is this? You might just look at me." Al Yosha raised his head, sat up and leaned his back against the tree. He was not crying, but there was a look of suffering and irritability in his face. He did not look at Rekkeaton, however, but looked away to one side of him. "Do you know your face is quite changed? There's none of your famous mildness to be seen in it. Are you angry with someone? Have they been ill-treating you?" "Let me alone," said Al Yosha, suddenly, with a weary gesture of his hand still looking away from him. "Oh, so that's how we are feeling. So you can shout at people like other mortals. That is a come-down from the angels. I say, Al Yosha, you've surprised me. Do you hear? I mean it. It's long since I've been surprised at anything here. I always took you for an educated man." Al Yosha had last looked at him, but vaguely, as though scarcely understanding what he said. "Can you really be so upset simply because your old man has begun to stink? You don't mean to say you seriously believe that he was going to work miracles," exclaimed Rekkeaton, genuinely surprised again. "I believed. I believe. I want to believe. I will believe. What more do you want?" Al Yosha irritably. "Nothing at all, my boy. Damn it, Hall. Why no schoolboy of thirteen believes in that now. But there. So now you're in a temper with your God. You're rebelling against him. He hasn't given promotion. He hasn't bestowed the order of merit. Hey, you are a set." Al Yosha gazed a long while, with his eyes half-closed at Rekkeaton, and there was a sudden gleam in his eyes. "But not of anger with Rekkeaton." "I'm not rebelling against my God. I simply don't accept his world," Al Yosha suddenly smiled, a forced smile. "How do you mean you don't accept the world?" Rekkeaton thought a moment over his answer. "What idiocy is this?" Al Yosha did not answer. "Come. Enough nonsense. Not a business. Have you had anything to eat today?" "I don't remember. I think I have." "You need keeping up to judge by your face. Makes one sorry to look at you. You didn't sleep all night, either, I hear. You had a meeting in there, and then all this bobbery afterwards. Most likely you've had nothing to eat but a mouthful of holy bread. Got some sausages in my pocket. I brought it from the town, in case of need. Only you won't eat sausage. Give me some." "I say you are going it. Why, it's a regular mutiny, with barricades. Well, my boy, we must make the most of it. Come to my place. Shouldn't mind to drop a vodka myself. I'm tired to death." "Vodka's coming too far for you, I suppose. Or would you like some?" "Give me some vodka too." "Hello. You surprised me, brother." Raqueton looked at him in amazement. "Well, one way or another. Vodka or sausage. This is a jolly fine chance and mustn't be missed. Come along." Yosha got up in silence and followed Raqueton. "If your little brother Yvonne could see this, wouldn't he be surprised?" "By the way, your brother Yvonne said off to Moscow this morning. Did you know?" "Yes," answered Oliyosha, listlessly. And suddenly the image of his brother Dimitri rose before his mind, but only for a minute, and though it reminded him of something that must not be put off for a moment, some duty, some terrible obligation, even that reminder made no impression on him, did not reach his heart and instantly faded out of his mind and was forgotten. But a long while afterwards, Yosha remembered this. "Once you too could not resist letting me know I was dishonorable. Well, I should like to see what your town's and sense of honor will do for you now." This phrase Raqueton finished to himself in a whisper. "Listen," he settled out, "let's go by the path beyond the monastery to the town." "I ought to go to Madame Holikov's, by the way." "Only fancy, I've written to tell her everything that happened, and would you believe it?" She answered me instantly in pencil. The lady has a passion for writing notes, that she'd never expected such conduct from a man with such a reverend character as Father Zosima. That was her very word, conduct. She's angry, too. "Hey, you are a set. Stay!" He cried suddenly again. He suddenly stopped, and taking Al-Yosha by the shoulder made him stop, too. "Do you know Al-Yosha?" He peeped inquisitively into his eyes, absorbed in a sudden new thought which had dawned on him. And though he was laughing outwardly, he was evidently afraid to utter that new idea aloud. So difficult, he still thought it to believe in the strange and unexpected mood in which he now saw Al-Yosha. "Al-Yosha, do you know where we had better go?" He brought out at last timidly and insinuatingly. "I don't care where you like." "Let's go to Gruschenka, eh? Will you come?" Pronounced Raqueton at last, trembling with timid suspense. "Let's go to Gruschenka," Al-Yosha answered calmly at once, and this prompt and calm agreement was such a surprise to Raqueton that he almost started back. "Well, I say," he cried in amazement. But seizing Al-Yosha firmly by the arm, he led him along the past, still dreading that he would change his mind. There walked along in silence. Raqueton was positively afraid to talk. "And how glad she will be, how delighted," he muttered, but lapsed into silence again. "And indeed it was not to please Gruschenka," he was taking Al-Yosha to her. He was a practical person and never undertook anything without a prospect of gain for himself. His object in this case was twofold. First, a revengeful desire to see the downfall of the righteous, and Al-Yosha's fall from the saints to the sinners over which he was already gloating in his imagination. And in the second place, he had in view a certain material gained for himself, at which more will be said later. "So the critical moment has come," he thought to himself with spiteful glee, "and we shall catch it on the hop for it's just what we want." End of chapter 2 of book 7 Book 7, chapter 3. An Onion Gruschenka lived in the busiest part of the town near the Cathedral Square in a small wooden lodge in the courtyard belonging to the house of the widow Marzof. The house was a large stone building of two stories, old and very ugly. The widow led a secluded life with her two unmarried nieces, who were also elderly women. She had no need to let her lodge, but everyone knew that she had taken in Gruschenka as a lodger four years before, solely to please her kinsmen, the merchant samsanof, who was known to the girl's protector. It was said that the jealous old man's object in placing his favorite with the widow Marzof was that the old woman should keep a sharp eye on her new lodger's conduct, but this sharp eye soon proved to be unnecessary, and in the end the widow Marzof seldom met Gruschenka and did not worry here by looking after her in any way. It is true that four years had passed since the old man had brought the slim, delicate, shy, timid, dreamy, and sad, a girl of eighteen from the chief town of the province, and much had happened since then. Liddle was known of the girl's history in the town, and that little was vague. Nothing more had been learnt during the last four years, even after many persons had become interested in the beautiful young woman into whom Agrafien Alexandrovna had meanwhile developed. There were rumors that she had been at seventeen betrayed by someone, some sort of officer, and immediately afterwards abandoned by him. The officer had gone away, and afterwards married, while Gruschenka had been left in poverty and disgrace. It was said, however, that no Gruschenka had been raised from destitution by the old man, Samsa Noof. She came of a respectable family belonging to the clerical class, that she was the daughter of a deacon or something of the sort. And now, after four years, the sensitive, injured, and pathetic little orphan had become a plump, rosy beauty of the Russian type, a woman of bold and determined character, proud and insolent. She had a good head for business, was acquisitive, saving, and careful, and, by fair means or foul, had succeeded, it was said, in amassing a little fortune. There was only one point on which all were agreed. Gruschenka was not easily to be approached, and, except her aged protector, there had not been one man who could boast of her favours during those four years. It was a positive fact, for there had been a good many, especially during the last two years, who had attempted to obtain those favours. But all their effort had been in vain, and some of these suitors had been forced to beat an undignified and even comic retreat, owing to the firm and ironical de resistance they met from the strong-willed young person. It was known, too, that the young person had, especially of late, been given to what is called speculation, and she had shown marked abilities in that direction, so that many people began to say that she was no better than a Jew. It was not that she lent money on interest, but it was known, for instance, that she had for some time passed, in partnership with Old Karama Swulf, actually invested in the purchase of bad debts for a trifle, a tenth of their nominal value, and afterwards had made out of them ten times their value. The old widower, Sam Sanof, a man of large fortune, was stingy and merciless. He tyrannised over his grown-up sons, but for the last year, during which he had fallen ill, and lost the use of his swollen legs, he had fallen greatly under the influence of his protégé, whom he had at first kept strictly and in humble surroundings, on Lenten's fair, as the wit set at the time. But Grushenka had succeeded in emancipating herself, while she established in him a boundless belief in her fidelity. The old man, now long since dead, had had a large business in his day, and was also a noteworthy character, miserly and hardest flint. Though Grushenka's hold upon him was so strong that he could not live without her, it had been so especially for the last two years. He did not settle any considerable fortune on her, and would not have been moved to do so, if she had threatened to leave him. But he had presented her with a small sum, and even that was a surprise to everyone when it became known. "You are a wench with brains," he said to her, "when he gave her eight thousand rubles, and you must look after yourself. But let me tell you that except your yearly allowances before, you'll get nothing more from me to the day of my death, and I'll leave you nothing in my will either." And he kept his word. He died and left everything to his sons, whom, with their wives and children, he had treated all his life as servants. Grushenka was not even mentioned in his will. All this became known afterwards. He helped Grushenka with his advice to increase her capital, and put business in her way. When Fyodor de Pavlovitch, who first came into contact with Grushenka over a piece of speculation, ended to his own surprise by falling madly in love with her, old samsanov, gravely ill as he was, was immensely amused. It is remarkable that throughout their whole acquaintance Grushenka was absolutely and spontaneously open with the old man, and he seems to have been the only person in the world with whom she was so. Of late, when Demetri II had come on the scene with his love, the old man left off laughing. On the contrary, he once gave Grushenka a stern and earnest piece of advice. "If you have to choose between the two, father or son, you better choose the old man. If only you make sure the old scoundrel will marry you, and settle some fortune on you before hand. But don't keep on with the captain, you'll get no good out of that." These were the very words of the old profligate who felt already that his death was not far off, and who actually died five months later. "I will note, too, in passing, that although many in our town knew of the grotesque and monstrous rivalry of the Carla Muslofs, father and son, the object of which was Grushenka, scarcely anyone understood what really underlay her attitude to both of them. Even Grushenka's two servants, after the catastrophe of which we will speak later, testified in court that she received Demetri Fyogetovich simply from fear, because he threatened to murder her. These servants were an old cook, invalidish and almost deaf, who came from Grushenka's old home, and her granddaughter, a smart young girl of twenty, who performed the duties of a maid. Grushenka lived very economically, and her surroundings were anything but luxurious. Her lodge consisted of three rooms furnished with mahogany furniture in the fashion of 1820, belonging to her land-lady. It was quite dark when Nadakitin and Al-Yosha entered her rooms, yet they were not lighted up. Grushenka was lying down in her drawing-room on the big-hard clumsy sofa with a mahogany back. The sofa was covered with shabby and ragged leather. Under her head, she had two white-down pillows taken from her bed. She was lying stretched out motionless on her back, with her hands behind her head. She was dressed as though expecting someone in a black silk dress, with a dainty-laced fishoo on her head, which was very becoming. Over her shoulders was thrown a lace shawl pinned with a massive gold brooch. She certainly was expecting someone. She lays, though impatient and weary, her face rather pale, and her lips and eyes hot, restlessly tapping the arm of the sofa with the tip of her right foot. The appearance of Radakitin and Al-Yosha caused a slight excitement. From the hall they could hear Grushenka leap up from the sofa and cry out in a frightened voice. "Who's there?" But the maid met the visitors, and at once called back to her mistress. "It's not he, it's nothing on the other visitors." "What can be the matter?" muttered Radakitin, leading Al-Yosha into the drawing-room. Grushenka was standing by the sofa as though still alarmed. A thick coil of her dark brown hair escaped from its lace covering and fell on her right shoulder, but she did not notice it and did not put it back till she had gazed at her visitors and recognized them. "It's you, Radakitin. You quite frightened me. Whom have you brought? Who is this with you? Good heavens, you've brought him?" she exclaimed, recognizing Al-Yosha. "Do send for candles," said Radakitin, with the free and easy air of a most intimate friend, who's privileged to give orders in the house. "Handals? Of course, candles. Fenya, fetch him a candle." "Well, you have chosen a moment to bring him," she exclaimed again, nodding towards Al-Yosha, and turning to the looking glass she began quickly fastening up her hair with both hands. She seemed displeased. "Haven't I managed to please you?" asked Radakitin, instantly almost offended. "You frightened me, Radakitin. That's what it is." Buddha Shinkha turned with a smile to Al-Yosha. "Don't be afraid of me, my dear Al-Yosha. You cannot think how glad I am to see you," my unexpected visitor. "But you frightened me, Radakitin. I thought it was Meetsia breaking in. You see, I deceived him just now. I made him promised to believe me, and I told him a lie. I told him that I was going to spend the evening with my old men, Huzma Kuzmich, and should be there till late, counting up his money. I always spend one whole evening a week with him, making up his accounts. We lock ourselves in, and he counts on the reckoning beads while I sit and put things down in the book. I am the only person he trusts. Meetsia believes that I am there, but I came back and have been sitting locked in here, expecting some news. "How was it, Fenya, let you in? Fenya, Fenya, run out to the gate, open it and look about whether the captain is to be seen. Perhaps he is hiding and spying. I'm treadfully frightened." "There's no one there," Al-Yosha said. "I've just looked out. I keep running to peep through the crack. I'm in fear and trembling myself." "Are the shutters fastened, Fenya, and we must draw the curtains. That's better. She drew the heavy curtains herself. He'd rush in at once if he saw a light. I am afraid of your brother Meetsia today, Al-Yosha. Grinchik has spoke aloud, and though she was alarmed, she seemed very happy about something. "Why are you so afraid of Meetsia today?" inquired Akiten. "I should have thought you were not timid with him. You twist him around your little finger." "I tell you, I am expecting news, priceless news. So I don't want Meetsia at all. And he didn't believe, I feel he didn't, but I should stay at Kuzma Kuzmich's. He must be in his ambush, now, behind field at the Pavlovitch's and the garden watching for Me. And if he's there, he won't come here, so much the better. But I really have been to Kuzma Kuzmich's. Meetsia escorted me there. I told him I should stay there till midnight. And I asked him to be sure to come at midnight to fetch me home. He went away, and I sat ten minutes with Kuzma Kuzmich, and came back here again. Ugh, I was afraid. I ran for fear of meeting him. "And why are you so dressed up? What a curious cap you've got on. How curious you are yourself, Akiten. I tell you, I am expecting a message. If the message comes, I shall fly. I shall gallop away, and you will see no more of me. That's why I'm dressed up, supposed to be ready. And where are you flying to? If you know too much, you'll get old too soon. Upon my word, you are highly delighted. I've never seen you like this before. You are dressed up as if you were going to a ball. But Akiten looked her up and down. Much you know about balls. And do you know much about them? I have seen them all. The year before last, Kuzmich's son was married, and I looked on from the gallery. Do you suppose I want to be talking to you, Akiten? While the prince like this is standing here? Such a visitor. A new ocean, my dear boy. I can't use it. You and can't believe my eyes. Good heavens, can you have come here to see me? To tell you the truth, I never had a thought of seeing you, and I didn't think that you would ever come and see me. Though this is not the moment now, I am awfully glad to see you. Sit down on the sofa here. That's right, my bright young moon. I really can't take it even now. And Akiten, if only you had brought him yesterday or the day before. But I'm glad as it is. Perhaps it's better he has come now at such a moment and not the day before yesterday. She gaily sat down beside Aliyosha on the sofa, looking at him with positive delight. And she really was glad. She was not lying when she said so. Her eyes glowed. Her lips laughed, but it was a good-hearted Mary laugh. Aliyosha had not expected to see such a kind expression in her face. He had hardly met her till the day before. He had formed an alarming idea of her, and had been horribly distressed the day before by the spiteful and treacherous trick she had played on Katarina Ivanovna. He was greatly surprised to find her now altogether different from what he had expected. And crushed as he was by his own sorrow, his eyes and voluntarily rested on her with attention. Her whole manner seemed changed for the better since yesterday. There was scarcely any trace of that mockish sweetness in her speech, of that voluptuous softness in her movements. Everything was simple and good-natured. Her gestures were rapid, direct, and fighting. But she was greatly excited. To hear me how everything comes together today, she chatted on again. "And why, I am so glad to see you, Aliyosha, that I couldn't say myself. If you ask me, I couldn't tell you." "Come now, don't you know why you're glad?" said that Akitin grinning. "You used to always be pestering me to bring him. Some object, I suppose." "I had a different object once, but now that's over. This is not the moment. I say, I want you to have something nice. I am so good-natured now. You sit down to, Akitin, why are you standing? You've sat down already? There's no fear that Akitin's forgetting to look after himself." "Look, Aliyosha, he's sitting there opposite us, so offended that I didn't ask him to sit down before you." "The Akitin is such a one to take offense," left Glushika. "Don't be angry at Akitin. I'm kind today. Why are you so depressed, Aliyosha? Are you afraid of me?" She peeped into his eyes with Mary Macquarie. "He said the promotion has not been given," whom did Akitin? "His elder stinks." "What?" "You're talking some nonsense. You want to say something nasty. Be quiet, you stupid. Let me sit on your knee, Aliyosha, like this." She suddenly skipped forward and jumped, laughing on his knee, like a nesting kitten with her right arm about his neck. "I'll cheer you up, my pious boy." "Yes, really. Will you let me sit on your knee? You want me angry? If you tell me, I'll get off." Aliyosha did not speak. He sat, afraid to move. He heard her words. "If you tell me, I'll get off." But he did not answer. But there was nothing in his heart, such as Akitin, for instance, watching him malignantly from his corner. Might have expected her fancied. The great grief in his heart swallowed up every sensation that might have been aroused. And if only he could have thought clearly at that moment, he would have realized that he had now the strongest armor to protect him from every lost temptation. Yet, in spite of the vague irresponsibleness of his spiritual condition and the sorrow that overwhelmed him, he could not help wondering at a new and strange sensation in his heart. This woman, this dreadful woman, had no terror for him now, none of that terror that had stirred in his soul at any passing thought of woman. On the contrary, this woman, dreaded above all women, sitting now on his knee, holding him in her arms, aroused in him now a quite different, unexpected, peculiar feeling, a feeling of the intense and purest interest without a trace of fear of his former terror. That was what instinctively surprised him. "You've talked nonsense enough," cried Akitin. "You'd much better give us some champagne. You owe it me. You know you do." "Yes, I really do. Do you know, Aliyosha? I promised him champagne on the top of everything. If he'd bring you, I'll have some too. Fanya, Fanya, bring us the bottle. Meetia left. Look sharp. Though I am so stingy, I'll stand a bottle, not for you, Akitin. You're a toad stool. But he is a falcon. And though my heart is full of something very different, so be it. I'll drink with you. I long for some dissipation. But what is the matter with you? And what is this message may I ask, or is it a secret?" Akitin put in inquisitively, doing his best to pretend not to notice the snubs that were being continually aimed at him. "Ah, it's not a secret. You know it, too." Urushika said, in a voice suddenly anxious, turning her head towards it, Akitin, and drawing a little away from Aliyosha. Though she still sat on his knee with her armor on his neck. "My officer is coming, Akitin. My officer is coming." "I heard he was coming. But is he so near?" "He is at Makroya now. He'll send a messenger from there, so he wrote. I got a letter from him today. I am expecting the messenger every minute." "You don't say so. Why at Makroya? It's a long story. I've told you enough. Me too. I'll be up to something now." And I say, "Does he know or doesn't he?" "He? No. Of course he doesn't. If he knew, there would be murder. But I am not afraid of that. Now, I am not afraid of his knife. Be quiet, Akitin. Don't remind me of Dimitri Fyotarovich. He has bruised my heart. And I don't want to think of that at this moment. I can think of Aliyosha here. I can look at Aliyosha, smile at me. Dear, cheer up, smile at my foolishness and my pleasure. He's smiling. He's smiling. How kindly he looks at me. And you know, Aliyosha, I've been thinking all this time you were angry with me because of the day before yesterday, because of that young lady. I was a carer. That's the truth. But it's a good thing. It happened. So it was a horrid thing, but a good thing too. Guru Shankar smiled dreamily and a little cruel lion showed in her smile. Meetsya told me that she screamed out that I ought to be flogged. I did insult her dreadfully. She sent for me. She wanted to make a conquest of me to win me over with her chocolate. No. It's a good thing it did end like that. She smiled again. But I am still afraid if you are being angry. Yes, that's really true. Adai Keaton put in suddenly with genuine surprise. Adaiosha, she really is afraid of a chicken like you. He is a chicken to you, Adai Keaton, because you've no conscience. That's what it is. You see, I love him with all my soul. That's how it is. Adaiosha, do you believe that I love you with all my soul? You shameless woman. She's making you a declaration, Alexei. Well, what of it? I love him. And what about your officer in the priceless message from Makroya? That is quite different. And that's a woman's way of looking at it. Don't you make me angry, Adai Keaton. Guru Shankar caught him up hotly. This is quite different. I love Adaiosha in a different way. It's true, Adaiosha. I had slide designs on you before. Before I am a horrid, violent creature. But at other times, I've looked upon you, Adaiosha, as my conscience. I've kept thinking how anyone like that must despise an nasty thing like me. I thought that the day before yesterday, as I ran home from the young ladies, I have thought of you a long time in that way, Adaiosha, and Mitzya knows. I've talked to him about it. Mitzya understands. Would you believe it? I sometimes look at you and feel ashamed, utterly ashamed of myself. And how? And since when I began to think about you like that, I can't say. I don't remember. Then you came in and put a tray with an uncorked bottle and three glasses of champagne on the table. "Here's the champagne," cried your Adai Keaton. "You're excited, I've got a fan of Aleksandarovna and not yourself. When you've had a glass of champagne, you'll be ready to dance. They can't even do that properly," he added, looking at the bottle. The old woman's poured it out in the kitchen, and the bottle's been brought in warm and without a cork. "Now, let me have some anyway." He went up to the table, took a glass, emptied it at one gulp, and poured himself another. "One doesn't often stumble upon champagne," he said, licking his lips. "Now, Adaiosha, take a glass, show what you can do. What should we drink to? The gates of Paradise? Take a glass, Grusinke. You drink to the gates of Paradise, too." What gates of Paradise? She took a glass. Aleksha took his, tasted it, and put it back. "No, I'd better not," he smiled gently. "And you bragged," cried your Adai Keaton. "Well, if so, I won't either," chimed in Grusinke. "I really don't want any. You can drink the whole bottle alone, Adai Keaton. If Aleksha has some I will." "What touching sentimentality," said Adai Keaton tauntingly. "And she's sitting on his knee, too. He's got something to grieve over, but what's the matter with you? He is rebelling against his God and ready to eat sausage." "How so?" "He is elder died today." "Father Zosima, the saint." "So father Zosima is dead?" cried Grusinke. "Good God, I did not know." She crossed herself devoutly. "Goodness, what have I been doing? Sitting on his knee like this is such a moment." She started up as though in dismay, instantly slipped off his knee and sat down on the sofa. Aleksha bent a long, wandering look upon her, and the light seems to dawn in his face. "Adai Keaton," he said suddenly in a firm and loud voice, "don't taunt me with having rebelled against God. I don't want to feel angry with you, so you must be kinder, too. I've lost a treasure, such as you have never had, and you cannot judge me now. You had much better look at her. Do you see how she has pity on me? I came here to find a wicked soul. I felt drawn to evil because I was based on evil myself, and I found a true sister. I have found a treasure, a loving heart. She had pity on me just now. Agrafina Alexandrosna, I am speaking to you. You've raised my soul from the depths." Aleksha's lips were quivering, and he caught his breath. "She has saved you," it seems, laughed Grusinkeaton spitefully, and she meant to get you in her clutches. Do you realize that? "Stay, Grusinkeaton," Grusinke had jumped up. "Hush, both of you." Now, I'll tell you all about "Hush," are the OSH that your words make me ashamed. For I am bad, and not good. That's what I am. You, Hush, should I, Keaton, because you are telling lies. I had the low idea of trying to get him in my clutches, but now you are lying. Now it's all different. And don't let me hear anything more from you, Dr. Keaton. All this, Grusinke said with extreme emotion. "They are both crazy," said Dr. Keaton, looking at them with amazement. "I feel as though I'm in a madhouse. They're both getting so feeble they'll begin crying in a minute." "I shall begin to cry. I shall," repeated Grusinke. He called me his sister, and I shall never forget that. Only, let me tell you, Dr. Keaton, though I am bad, I did give away an onion. An onion. Hang it all. You really are crazy. Dr. Keaton wondered at their enthusiasm. He was aggrieved and annoyed, though he might have reflected that each of them was just passing through a spiritual crisis, such as does not come often in a lifetime. But though Dr. Keaton was very sensitive about everything that concerned himself, he was very obtuse as regards the feelings and sensations of others, partly from his youth and inexperience, partly from his intense egoism. "You see, Oh Yoshio," Grusinke turned to him with a nervous laugh. "I was boasting when I told that I'd Keaton I had given away an onion, but it's not to boast I tell you about it. It's only a story, but it's a nice story. I used to hear it when I was a child from Matriona, my cook who is still with me. It's like this. Once upon a time, there was a peasant woman and a very wicked woman she was, and she died and did not leave a single good deed behind. The devils caught her and plunged her into the lake of fire. So her guardian angel stood and wondered what good deed of hers he could remember to tell to God. "She once pulled up an onion in her garden," said he, "and gave it to a beggar woman." And God answered, "You take that onion then, hold it up to her in the lake, and let her take hold and be pulled out. And if you can pull her out of the lake, let her come to paradise. But if the onion breaks, then the woman must stay where she is." The angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her. "Come," said he, "catch hold and I'll pull you out." He began cautiously pulling her out. He had just pulled her right out, one of the other sinners in the lake, seeing how she was being drawn out, began catching hold of her, so as to be pulled out with her. But she was a very wicked woman and she began kicking them. "I'm to be pulled out, not you, it's my onion, not yours." As soon as she said that, the onion broke and the woman fell into the lake and she is burning there to this day. So the angel wept and went away. So that's the story, Aliyosha. I know it by heart, for I am that wicked woman myself. I boasted to Rakitin that I had given away an onion, but to you I'll say, I've done nothing but give away one onion all my life. That's the only good deed I've done. Don't praise me, Aliyosha. Don't think me good. I am bad. I am a wicked woman and you make me ashamed if you praise me. I must confess everything. Listen, Aliyosha, I was so anxious to get hold of you that I promised that I'd keep in twenty-five rubles, if he would bring you to me. Stay, that I'd keep in wait." She went with rapid steps to the table, opened a drawer, pulled out a purse and took from it a twenty-five ruble note. "What nonsense! What nonsense!" cried that I'd keep in disconcerted. "Take it, Aliyosha. I owe it you. There's no fear of your refusing it you ask for it yourself." And she threw the note to him. "Likely I should refuse it." Boom, did I keep in, obviously abashed, but carrying off his confusion with a swagger. "That will come in very handy. Fools are made for wise men's profit." "And now hold your tongue, did I keep in. What I'm going to say now is not for your ears. Sit down in that corner and keep quiet. You don't like us, so hold your tongue." "What should I like you for?" did I keep in snarled, not concealing his ill humor. He put the twenty-five ruble note in his pocket, and he felt a shame that Aliyosha is seeing it. He had reckoned on receiving his payment later, without Aliyosha's knowing of it. And now, feeling ashamed, he lost his temper. Till that moment, he had thought it discreet not to contradict Peruchinka too flatly, in spite of her snubbing, since he had something to get out of it. But now he too was angry. Long loves people for some reason, but what have either of you done for me? You should love people without a reason, as Aliyosha does. How does he love you? How has he shown it? You make such a fuss about it." Peruchinka was standing in the middle of the room. She spoke with heat, and there were hysterical notes in her voice. "Why should I keep in? You know nothing about us. And don't dare to speak to me like that again. How dare you be so familiar. Sit in that corner and be quiet as though you were my footman. And now, Aliyosha, I'll tell you the whole truth, that you may see what a wretch I am. I am not talking to Adakitim, but to you. I wanted to ruin you, Aliyosha. That's the holy truth I quite meant to. I wanted to so much that I bribed Adakitim to bring you. And why did I want to do such a thing? You knew nothing about it, Aliyosha. You turned away from me. If you passed me, you dropped your eyes. And I've looked at you a hundred times before today. I began asking everyone about you. Your face haunted my heart. He despises me. I thought he won't even look at me. And I felt it so much, at last, that I wanted it myself for being so frightened of a boy. I'll get him. My clutches and laugh at him. I was full of spite and anger. Would you believe it? Nobody here dares talk or think of coming to Akrafianna, Alexander Dovna, with any evil purpose? Well, to customize the only man I have anything to do with here. I was bound and sold to him. Satan brought us together, but there has been no one else. But looking at you, I thought I'll get him in my clutches and laugh at him. You see, despite full care I am, and you called me your sister. And now that man who wronged me has come, I sit here waiting for a message from him. And do you know what that man has been to me? Five years ago, when Kuzma brought me here, I used to shut myself up that no one might have sight or sound of me. I was a silly slip of a girl. I used to sit here sobbing. I used to lie awake all night, thinking where is he now? The man who wronged me, he is laughing at me with some other woman most likely. If only I could see him. If I could meet him again, I'd pay him out. I'd pay him out. At night I used to lie sobbing into my pillow in the dark, and I used to brood over it. I used to tear my heart on purpose and gloat over my anger. I'll pay him out. I'll pay him out. That's what I used to cry out in the dark. And when I suddenly thought that I should really do nothing to him, and that he was laughing at me, or perhaps it utterly forgotten me, I would fling myself on the floor, melted to help us tears and lie. There's shaking till dawn. In the morning I would get up more spiteful than a dog, ready to tear the whole world to pieces. And then what do you think I began saving money? I became hard-hearted, grew, stopped, grew wiser. Would you say no? No one in the whole world sees it. No one knows it. But when night comes on, sometimes I lie as I did five years ago when I was a silly girl, clenching my heart and crying all night, thinking, I'll pay him out. I'll pay him out. Do you hear? Well then now you understand me. A month ago a letter came to me. He was coming. He was a widower. He wanted to see me. It took my breath away. Then I suddenly thought, if he comes and whistles to call me, I shall creep back to him like a beaten dog. I couldn't believe myself. Am I so object? Shall I run to him or not? And I've been in such a rage with myself all this month that I'm worse than I was five years ago. Do you see now Aliyosha would a violent vindictive creature I am? I have shown you the whole truth. I played with me, Tia, to keep me from running to that other. Rakuten is not for you to judge me. I am not speaking to you. Before you came in, I was lying here waiting, brooding, deciding my whole future life, and you can never know it was in my heart. Yes, Aliyosha tell your young lady not to be angry with me for what happened the day before yesterday. Nobody in the whole world knows what I am going through now, and no one ever can know for perhaps I shall take a knife with me today. I can't make up my mind. And at this tragic phrase, Glushika broke down, hit her face in her hands, flown herself on the sofa pillows and sobbed like a little child. Aliyosha got up and went to Rakuten. "Misha," he said, "don't be angry. She wounded you, but don't be angry. You heard what she said just now. You mustn't ask too much of human endurance. One must be merciful." Aliyosha said this at the instinctive prompting of his heart. He felt obliged to speak, and he turned to Rakuten. If Rakuten had not been there, he would have spoken to the air. But Rakuten looked at him, ironically, and Aliyosha stopped short. "You were so primed up with your elder's reading last night that now you have to let it off on me, Alexia, man of God," said Rakuten, with a smile of hatred. "Don't laugh, Rakuten. Don't smile. Don't talk of the dead. He was better than anyone in the world," cried Aliyosha, with tears in his voice. "I didn't speak to you as a judge, but this is the lowest of the judge. What am I beside her? I came here seeking my ruin, and said to myself, 'What does it matter?' in my cowardliness, but she, after five years in torment, as soon as anyone says a word from the heart to her, it makes her forget everything, forgive everything in her tears. The man who is wrong to her has come back. He sends for her, and she forgives him everything, and hastens joyfully to meet him, and she won't take a knife with her. She won't. "No, I am not like that. I don't know whether you are, Misha, but I am not like that. It's a lesson to me. She is more loving than we. Have you heard her speak before of what she has just told us? No, you haven't. If you had, you would have understood her long ago, and the person insulted the day before yesterday must forgive her, too. She will, when she knows, and she shall know. This soul is not yet at peace with itself. One must be tender with, there may be a treasure in that soul. Al-Yosha stopped, because he caught his breath. In spite of his ill-humoured, Akita looked at him with astonishment. He had never expected such a tirade from the gentle Al-Yosha. She's found someone to plead her cause. Where are you in love with her? Agrafian Aleksandrovna, our monks really in love with you. You've made a conquest." He cried with a coarse laugh. Borushinka lifted her head from the pillow and looked at Al-Yosha with a tender smile, shining on her tear-stained face. "Let him alone Al-Yosha, my cherub. You see what he is. He is not a person for you to speak to. Mihayil Osipovitch," she turned to Akita. "I meant to beg your pardon for being rude to you, but now I don't want to. Al-Yosha come to me sit down here." She beckoned to him with a happy smile. "That's right, sit here. Tell me," she took him by the hand and peeped into his face, smiling. "Tell me, do I love that man or not?" "The man who wronged me. Do I love him or not?" "Before you came, I lay here in the dark asking my heart whether I loved him. Decide for me, Al-Yosha. The time has come. It shall be as you say. Am I to forgive him or not?" "But you have forgiven him already," said Al-Yosha, smiling. "Yes. I really have forgiven him," Borushinka murmured thoughtfully. "What an abject heart." To my abject heart, she snatched up a glass from the table, emptied it at a gulp, lifted it in the air and flung it to the floor. The glass broke with a crash. A little cruel line came into her smile. "Perhaps I have him to forgive him, though," she said with a sort of menace in her voice, and she dropped her eyes to the ground as though she were talking to herself. "Perhaps my heart is only getting ready to forgive. I shall struggle with my heart. You see, Al-Yosha, I have grown to love my tears in these five years. Perhaps I only love my resentment, not him." "Well, I shouldn't care to be in his shoes," he asked at Akita. "Well, you won't be at Akita, and you will never be in his shoes. You shall black my shoes at Akita, and that's the place you're fit for. You'll never get a woman like me." "And he won't either, perhaps." "Wony, then why are you dressed up like that?" said did Akita, with a venomous sneer. "Don't taunt me with dressing up at Akita. You don't know all that is in my heart. If I choose to tear off my finery, I'll tear it off at once this minute," she cried in a resonant voice. "You don't know what the finery is for at Akita. Perhaps I shall see him and say, 'Have you ever seen me look like this before?' He left me a thin, consumptive crybaby of seventeen. I'll sit by him, fascinated me to work him up, do you see what I'm like now? I'll say to him, 'Well, that's enough for you, my dear sir. There's many a slip took to the cup in the lip. That may be what the finery is for at Akita." Gudushika finished with a malicious laugh. "I'm violent and resentful, Al-Yosha. I'll tear off my finery. I'll destroy my beauty. I'll scorch my face, slash it with a knife, and turn beggar. If I choose, I won't go anywhere now to see anyone. If I choose, I'll send Kuzma back all he has ever given me tomorrow, and all his money, and I'll go out charring for the rest of my life. You think I wouldn't do it at Akita, but I would not dare to do it? I would. I could do it directly. Only don't exacerbate me, and I shall send him about his business. I'll snap my fingers in his face. He shall never see me again." She uttered the last words, and in hysterical scream, that broke down again, hid her face in her hands, buried it in the pillow, and shook with psalms. But Akita got up. "It's time we were off," he said. "It's late. We shall be shut out of the monastery." Gudushika leapt up from her place. "Surely, you don't want to go, Al-Yosha!" She cried in mournful surprise. "What are you doing to me? You've stirred up my feeling tortured me, and now you leave me to face this night alone?" "He can hardly spend the night with you. I don't know if he wants to let him. I'll go alone." Gudushika scoffed, jeeringly. "Hush, evil tongue," Gudushika cried angrily at him. "You never said such words to me as he has come to say." "What has he said to you so special?" asked Gudushika in irritably. "I can't say. I don't know. I don't know what he said to me. It went straight to my heart. He has rung my heart. He is the first, the only one who is pitting me. That's what it is. Why did you not come before you, angel?" She fell on her knees before him, as though in a sudden frenzy. "I've been waiting all my life for someone like you. I knew that someone like you would come and forgive me. I believed that. Nasty as I am. Someone would really love me, not only with a shameful love. "What have I done to you?" answered Onyosha, bending over her with a tender smile, and gently taking her by the hands. "I only gave you an onion. Nothing but a tiny little onion. That was all." He was moved to tears himself, as he said it. At that moment, there was a sudden noise in the passage. Someone came into the hall. Gudushika jumped up, seeming greatly alarmed. Fenya ran noisily into the room, crying out. "Mr. Starling, a messenger has galloped up!" She cried, "Breathless and joyful." "A carriage from McRoya for you, Timofan, the driver, with three horses. They are just putting in fresh horses. A letter. Here's the letter, mistress." A letter was in her hand, and she waved it in the air all the while she talked. Gudushika snatched the letter from her and carried it to the candle. It was only a note, a few lines. She read it in one instant. "He has sent for me," she cried, her face white and distorted with a wan smile. "He whistles." "Crawl back, little dog." But only for one instant, she stood so hesitating, suddenly the blood rushed to her head, and sent a glow to her cheeks. "I will go," she cried. "Five years of my life. Good-bye. Good-bye, Alyosha. My fate is sealed. Go, go, leave me, all of you. Don't let me see you again. Gudushika is flying to a new life. Don't you remember evil against me, either?" "I may be going to my death." "I feel as though I were drunk." She suddenly left them and ran into her bedroom. "Well, she has no thoughts for us now," grumbled to the kitchen. "Let's go, or we may hear that feminine shriek again. I am sick of all these tears and cries." Alyosha mechanically let himself be let out, and the yards did a covered cart. Horses were being taken out of the shafts. Men were running to and fro with a lantern. Three fresh horses were being led in at the open gate. But when Alyosha and Rakeetan reached the bottom of the steps, Gudushika's bedroom window was suddenly opened, and she called in a ringing voice after Alyosha. "Alyosha, give my greetings to your brother, Nitya, and tell him not to remember evil against me, though I have brought him misery. And tell him, too, in my words, Gudushika has fallen to his scoundrel, and not to you, noble heart. And add, too, that Gudushika loved him only one hour, only one short hour she loved him. So let him remember that hour, all his life. Say, "Gudushika tells you, too." She ended in a voice full of sobs. The window was shut with a slam. Growled Rakeetan laughing. "She murders your brother Mitzian and tells him to remember it all his life, but ferocity." Alyosha made no reply. He seemed not to have heard. He walked fast beside Rakeetan as though in a terrible hurry. He was lost in thought and moved mechanically. Rakeetan felt a sudden twinge as though he had been touched on an open wound. He had expected something quite different by bringing Gudushika and Alyosha together. Something very different from what he had hoped for had happened. He is a pole that officer of hers. He began again, restraining himself. And indeed, he is not an officer at all now. He served in the customs in Siberia, somewhere on the Chinese frontier. Some puny little beggar of a pole, I expect, lost his job, they say. He's heard now that Gudushika saved all the money, so he's turned up again. That's the explanation of the mystery. Again, Alyosha seems not to hear. Rakeetan could not control himself. "Well, so you've saved the sinner." He laughed, spitefully. "Have you turned the Magdalene into the true path, driven out to seven devils, eh?" "So you see the miracles you were looking out for just now have come to pass." "Hush, Rakeetan," Alyosha answered with an aching hurt. "So you despise me now for those twenty-five rubles? I've sold my friend, you think. But you are not Christ, you know. And I am not Judas." "Oh, Rakeetan, I assure you I'd forgotten about it," cried Alyosha. "You remind me of it yourself." "But this was the last straw for Rakeetan." "Damn nation, take you all and each of you," he cried suddenly. "Why the devil did I take you up? I don't want to know you from this time forward. Go alone, there's your road." And he turned abruptly into another street, leaving Alyosha alone in the dark. Alyosha came out of the town and walked across the fields to the monastery. End of chapter three of book seven. Book seven, chapter four, Kaina of Galilee. It was very late, according to the monastery ideas, when Alyosha returned to the Hermitage, the doorkeeper let him in by a special entrance. It had struck nine o'clock, the hour of rest and repose after a day of such agitation for all. Alyosha timidly opened the door and went into the eldest cell where his coffin was now standing. There was no one in the cell but farther pacy, reading the gospel in solitude over the coffin, and the young novice, Porphyry, who, exhausted by the previous night's conversation and the disturbing incidents of the day, was sleeping the deep sound sleep of youth on the floor of the other room. Though Father Pacy heard Alyosha come in, he did not even look in his direction. Alyosha turned to the right from the door to the corner, fell on his knees, and began to pray. His soul was overflowing but with mingled feelings, no single sensation stood out distinctly, on the contrary, one drove out another in a slow, continual rotation. But there was a sweetness in his heart and, strange to say, Alyosha was not surprised at it. Again, he saw that coffin before him, the hidden dead figure so precious to him, but the weeping and poignant grief of the morning was no longer aching in his soul. As soon as he came in, he fell down before the coffin as before a holy shrine, but joy, joy was glowing in his mind and in his heart. The one window of the cell was open, the air was fresh and cool, so the smell must have become stronger if they opened the window, thought Alyosha. But even this thought of the smell of corruption, which had seemed to him so awful in humiliating a few hours before, no longer made him feel miserable or indignant. He began quietly praying, but he soon felt that he was praying almost mechanically. Fragments of thought floated through his soul, flashed like stars and went out again at once to be succeeded by others. But yet there was reining in his soul a sense of the wholeness of things, something steadfast and comforting, and he was aware of it himself. Sometimes he began praying ardently, he longed to pour out his thankfulness and love, but when he had begun to pray, he passed suddenly to something else, and sank into thought, forgetting both the prayer and what had interrupted it. He began listening to what Father Paisie was reading, but worn out with exhaustion, he gradually began to doze. And the third day there was a marriage in Kaina of Galilee, read Father Paisie, and the mother of Jesus was there, and both Jesus was there, and both Jesus was called, and his disciples, to the marriage. "Marriage? What's that?" "The marriage," floated whirling through Aliyasha's mind, "there is happiness for her too. She has gone to the feast. No, she has not taken the night. That was only a tragic phrase. Well, tragic phrases should be forgiven. They must be. Tragic phrases comfort the heart without them. Sora would be too happy for men to bear. Raketin has gone off to the back alley. As long as Raketin broods over his rungs, he will always go off to the back alley. But the high road, the road is wide and straight and bright as crystal, and the sun is at the end of it. What's being read? And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, "They have no wine," Aliyasha heard. "Ah, yes, I was missing that, and I didn't want to miss it. I love that passage. It's kind of Galilee, the first miracle. That miracle. Ah, that sweet miracle. It was not men's grief, but their joy Christ visited. He worked his first miracle to help men's gladness. He who loves men loves their gladness too. He was always repeating that. It was one of his leading ideas. "There's no living without joy," Mitya says. "Yes, Mitya. Everything that is true and good is always full of forgiveness." He used to say that too. "Jesus saith unto her woman. What has it to do with thee or me? Mine hour not yet come. His mother saith unto the servants. Whatsoever he saith unto you? Do it. Do it. Gladness. The gladness of some poor, very poor people. Of course they were poor, since they hadn't wine enough, even at a wedding. The historians write that in those days. The people living about the lake of Ganesaret were the poorest that can possibly be imagined. And another great heart, that other great being, his mother, knew that he had come not only to make his great terrible sacrifice. She knew that his heart was open even to the simple, artless, merry-making of some obscure and unlearned people who had warmly biden him to their poor wedding. "My hour is not yet come," he said with a soft smile. He must have smiled gently to her. And indeed, was it to make wine abundant at poor weddings he had come down to earth? And yet he went, and did as she asked him. "Aye, he's reading again. Jesus saith unto them, fill the waterpots with water, and they fill them up to the brim. And he saith unto them, draw out now and bear unto the governor of the feast, and they bear it. When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made wine, and knew not whence it was, but the servants which drew the water knew, the governor of the feast called the bridegroom, and saith unto him, every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine. And when men have well-drunked that which is worse, but thou hast kept the good wine until now. But what's this? What's this? Why is the room growing wider? Ah, yes, it's the marriage, the wedding, yes, of course. Here are the guests, here are the young couple sitting in the merry crowd, and where is the wise governor of the feast? But who is this? Who? Again, the walls are receding. He's getting up there from the great table. What? He here too, but he's in the coffin, but he's here too. He has stood up. He sees me. He is coming here. God! Yes, he came up to him. To him he, the little thin old man, with tiny wrinkles on his face, joyful and laughing softly. There was no coffin now, and he was in the same dress as he had won yesterday, sitting with them, when the visitors had gathered about him. His face was uncovered, his eyes were shining. How was this, then? He too had been called to the feast. He too, at the marriage of Kana and Galilee. "Yes, my dear, I am called too, called and biden," he heard a soft voice saying over him. "Why have you hidden yourself here, out of sight? You come and join us too." It was his voice, the voice of Father Tsosima, and it must be he, since he called him. The elder, raising Aliasha by the hand, and he rose from his knees. "We are rejoicing," the little thin old man went on. "We are drinking the new wine, the wine of new great gladness. Do you see how many guests?" "Here are the bride and bridegroom. Here is the wise governor of the feast. He's tasting the new wine. Why do you wonder at me?" I gave an onion to a beggar, so I too am here, and many here have given only an onion each, only one little onion. "What are all our deeds? And you, my gentle one, you my kind boy, you too have known how to give a famished woman an onion today. Begin your work, dear, and begin it, gentle one. Do you see our son? Do you see him?" "I am afraid. I dare not look," whispered Aliasha. "Do not fear him. He is terrible in his greatness, awful in his sublimity, but infinitely merciful. He has made himself like unto us from love and rejoices with us. He is changing the water into wine, that the gladness of the guests may not be cut short. He is expecting new guests. He is calling new ones unceasingly forever and ever. There they are bringing new wine. Do you see they are bringing the vessels?" Something glowed in Aliasha's heart. Something filled it till it ached. Tears of rapture rose from his soul. He stretched out his hands, uttered a cry, and waked up. Again the coffin, the open window, and the soft, solemn, distinct reading of the gospel, but Aliasha did not listen to the reading. It was strange he had fallen asleep on his knees, but now he was on his feet. And suddenly, as though foam forward, with three firm, rapid steps, he went right up to the coffin. He's sure the brushed against Father Pacey without his noticing it. Father Pacey raised his eyes for an instant from his book, but looked away again at once, seeing that something strange was happening to the boy. Aliasha gazed for half a minute at the coffin, at the covered, motionless dead man that lay in the coffin, with the icon on his breast and the peaked cap with the octaneal across on his head. He had only just been hearing his voice, and that voice was still ringing in his ears. He was listening, still expecting other words, but suddenly he turned sharply and went out of the cell. He did not stop on the steps either, but went quickly down. His soul overflowing with rapture yearned for freedom, space, openness. The vault of heaven, full of soft, shining stars, stretched vast and fathomless above him. The Milky Way ran in two pale streams from the zenith to the horizon. The fresh, motionless still light had folded the earth. The white towers and golden domes of the cathedral gleaned out against the sapphire sky. The gorgeous autumn flowers in the bed around the house was slumbering till morning. The silence of earth seemed to melt into the silence of the heavens. The mystery of earth was one with the mystery of the stars. Aliasha stood, gazed, and suddenly threw himself down on the earth. He did not know why he embraced it. He could not have told why he longed so irresistibly to kiss it, to kiss it all. But he kissed it, weeping, sobbing, and watering it with his tears, and vowed passionately to love it, to love it for ever and ever. What are the earth with the tears of your joy and love those tears echoed in his soul? What was he weeping over? Oh! In his rapture he was weeping even over those stars which was shining to him from the abyss of space, and he was not ashamed of that ecstasy. There seemed to be threads from all those innumerable worlds of God, linking his soul to them, and it was trembling all over, in contact with other worlds. He longed to forgive everyone and for everything, and to beg forgiveness, or not for himself, but for all men, for all and for everything, and others are praying for me too, echoed again in his soul. But with every instant he felt clearly and that it were tangibly, that something firm and unshakable as that vault of heaven had entered into his soul. It was as though some idea had seized the sovereignty of his mind, and it was for all his life, and for ever and ever. He had fallen on the earth a weak boy, but he rose up a resolute champion, and he knew, and felt it suddenly at the very moment of his ecstasy. And never, never, his life long, could aliata forget that minute. Someone visited my soul in that hour, he used to say afterwards with implicit faith in his words. Within three days he left the monastery in accordance with the words of his elder, who had bitten him, Sejorn in the world. End of book seven. Book eight, meet ya. Chapter one, Kuzmar Samsonov. But Demetri, to whom Groushanka, flying away to a new life, had left her last greetings, bidding him remember the hour of her love forever, knew nothing of what had happened to her, and was at that moment in a condition of feverish agitation and activity. For the last two days he had been in such an inconceivable state of mind, that he might easily have fallen ill with brain fever, as he said himself afterwards. Al-Yosha had not been able to find him the morning before, and Ivan had not succeeded in meeting him at the tavern on the same day. The people at his lodgings, by his orders, concealed his movements. He had spent those two days literally rushing in all directions, struggling with his destiny and trying to save himself, as he expressed it himself afterwards. And for some hours he even made a dash out of the town on urgent business, terrible as it was to him to lose sight of Groushanka for a moment. All this was explained afterwards in detail, and confirmed by documentary evidence. But for the present we will only note the most essential incidents of those two terrible days, immediately preceding the awful catastrophe that broke so suddenly upon him. Though Groushanka had it is true loved him for an hour, genuinely and sincerely, yet she tortured him, sometimes cruelly and mercilessly. The worst of it was that he could never tell what she meant to do. To prevail upon her by force or kindness was also impossible, she would yield to nothing. She would only have become angry and turned away from him altogether, he knew that well already. He suspected quite correctly that she too was passing through an inward struggle, and was in a state of extraordinary indecision, that she was making up her mind to something and unable to determine upon it. And so not for that good reason he divined with a sinking heart that at the moment she must simply hate him and his passion. And so perhaps it was, but what was distress in Groushanka he did not understand. For him the whole tormenting question lay between him and Fyodor Pavlovitch. Here we must note by the way one certain fact, he was firmly persuaded that Fyodor Pavlovitch would offer or perhaps had offered Groushanka lawful wedlock, and did not for a moment believe that the old voluptury hoped to gain his object for three thousand rubles. Nietzsche had reached this conclusion from his knowledge of Groushanka and her character. That was how it was that he could believe at times that all Groushanka's uneasiness rose not from knowing which of them to choose, which was most to her advantage. Strange to say, during those days it never occurred to him to think of the approaching return of the officer, that is of the man who had been such a fatal influence in Groushanka's life, and whose arrival she was expecting with such emotion and dread. It is true that of late Groushanka had been very silent about it, yet he was perfectly aware of a letter she had received a month ago from her seducer, and had heard of it from her own lips. He partly knew too what the letter contained, in a moment of spite Groushanka had shown him that letter, but to her astonishment he attached hardly any consequence to it. It would be hard to say why this was, perhaps weighed down by all the hideous horror of his struggle with his own father for this woman. He was incapable of imagining any danger more terrible at any rate for the time. He simply did not believe in a suitor who suddenly turned up again after five years' disappearance, still less in his speedy arrival. Moreover, in the officer's first letter which had been shown to meet you, the possibility of his new rival's visit was very vaguely suggested. The letter was very indefinite, high-flown and full of sentimentality. It must be noted that Groushanka had concealed from him the last lines of the letter, in which his return was alluded to more definitely. He had, besides, noticed at that moment, he remembered afterwards, a certain involuntary proud contempt for this missive from Siberia on Groushanka's face. Groushanka told him nothing of what had passed later between her and this rival, so that by degrees he had completely forgotten the officer's existence. He felt that whatever might come later, whatever turn things might take, his final conflict with Fyodor Parvalovich was close upon him, and must be decided before anything else. With a sinking heart he was expecting every moment Groushanka's decision, always believing that it would come suddenly on the impulse of the moment. All of a sudden she would say to him, "Take me, I'm yours forever," and it would be all over. Then he would bear her away at once, as far, far away as possible, to the farthest end of Russia, if not of the earth. Then he would marry her and settle down with her incognito, so that no one would know anything about them, there, here, or anywhere. Then, over then, a new life would begin at once. Of this different, reformed, and virtuous life, it must, it must, be virtuous. He dreamed feverishly at every moment. He first did for that reformation and renewal. The filthy morass in which he had sunk, of his own free will, was too revolting to him, and like very many men in such cases, he put faith above all in change of place. If only it were not for these people, if only it were not for these circumstances, if only he could fly away from this accursed place, he would be altogether regenerated, would enter on a new path. That was what he believed in and what he was yearning for. But all this could only be on condition of the first, the happy solution of the question. There was another possibility, a different and awful ending. Suddenly, she might say to him, "Go away, I have just come to terms with Fyodor Pavlovitch, I am going to marry him and don't want you." And then, but then, but Meteor did not know what would happen then. Up to the last hour, he didn't know. That must be said to his credit. He had no definite intentions, had planned no crime. He was simply watching and spying in agony, while he prepared himself for the first happy solution of his destiny. He drove away any other idea, in fact. But for that ending, a quite different anxiety arose, a new incidental, but yet fatal and insoluble difficulty presented itself. If she were to say to him, "I'm yours, take me away," how could he take her away? Where had he the means, the money, to do it? It was just at this time that all sources of revenue from Fyodor Pavlovitch, dolls which had gone on without interruption for so many years, ceased. Glushanker had money, of course. But with regard to this, Meteor suddenly evinced extraordinary pride. He wanted to carry her away and begin the new life with her himself, at his own expense, not at hers. He could not conceive of taking her money, and the very idea caused him a pang of intense repulsion. I won't enlarge on this fact or analyse it here, but confine myself to remarking that this was his attitude at the moment. All this may have arisen indirectly and unconsciously from the secret stings of his conscience for the money of Katharina Ivanovna, that he had dishonestly appropriated. "I've been a scoundrel to one of them, and I shall be a scoundrel again to the other directly," was his feeling then, as he explained after, "and when Glushanker knows she won't care for such a scoundrel." Where then was he to get the means? Where was he to get the fateful money? Without it all would be lost, and nothing could be done, and only because I hadn't the money of the shame of it. To anticipate things, he did perhaps know where to get the money, knew perhaps where it lay at that moment. I will say no more of this here as it will all be clear later. But his chief trouble, I must explain, however obscurely, lay in the fact that to have that some he knew of, to have the right to take it, he must first restore Katharina Ivanovna's 3000. If not, I'm a common pickpocket, I'm a scoundrel, and I don't want to begin a new life as a scoundrel, Meteor decided. And so he made up his mind to move heaven and earth to return Katharina Ivanovna, that 3000, and that first of all. The final stage of this decision, so to say, had been reached only during the last hours, that if after his last interview with Alyosha, two days before, on the high road, on the evening when Glushanker had insulted Katharina Ivanovna, and Meteor, after hearing Alyosha's account of it, had admitted that he was a scoundrel, and told him to tell Katharina Ivanovna so, if it could be of any comfort to her. After parting from his brother on that night, he had felt in his frenzy that it would be better to murder and rob someone, than fail to pay my debt to Katya. I'd rather everyone thought to me a robber and a murderer, I'd rather go to Siberia than that Katya should have the right to say that I deceived her and stole her money, and used her money to run away with Glushanker and begin a new life, that I can't do. So Meteor decided grinding his teeth, and he might well fancy at times that his brain would give way, but meanwhile he went on struggling. Strange to say, though one would have supposed there was nothing left for him but despair, for what chance had he with nothing in the world to raise such a sum, yet to the very end he persisted in hoping that he would get that three thousand, that the money would somehow come to him of itself, as though it might drop from heaven. That is just how it is with people who like Dimitri have never had anything to do with money, except to squander what has come to them by inheritance without any effort of their own, and have no notion how money is obtained. A well of the most fantastic notions took possession of his brain immediately after he had parted with Al-Yosha two days before, and threw his thoughts into a tangle of confusion. This is how it was he pitched first on a perfectly wild enterprise, and perhaps to men of that kind in such circumstances the most impossible, fantastic schemes occur first and seem most practical. He suddenly determined to go to Samsonov, the merchant who was Glushanker whole sum required. Of the commercial value of his scheme he had no doubt, not the slightest, and was only uncertain how Samsonov would look upon his freak, supposing he were to consider it from any but the commercial point of view. Though Métien knew the merchant by sight he was not acquainted with him, and had never spoken a word to him, but for some unknown reason he had long entertained the conviction that the old reprobate, who was lying at death's door, would perhaps not at all object now to Glushanker's securing a respectable position, and marrying a man to be depended upon. And he believed not only that he would not object, but that this was what he desired, and if opportunity arose that he would be ready to help. From some rumour, or perhaps from some stray word of Glushanker, he had gathered further that the old man would perhaps prefer him to Theodore Pavlovitch for Glushanker. Possibly many of the readers of my novel will feel that in reckoning on such assistance, and being ready to take his bride, so to speak, from the hands of her protector, the Métri showed great coarseness and want of delicacy. I will only observe that Métien looked upon Glushanker's past as something completely over. He looked on that past with infinite pity, and resolved with all the fervour of his passion, that when once Glushanker told him she loved him and would marry him, it would mean the beginning of a new Glushanker and a new Demetri, free from every vice. They would forgive one another and would begin their lives afresh. As for Kuzma Sampsonov, the Métri looked upon him as a man who had exercised a fateful influence in that remote past of Glushanker, though she had never loved him, and who was now himself a thing of the past, completely done with, and so to say non-existent. Besides, Métri hardly looked upon him as a man at all, for it was known to everyone in the town that he was only a shattered wreck whose relations with Glushanker had changed their character, and were now simply paternal, and that this had been so for a long time. In any case, there was much simplicity on Métien's part in all this. For in spite of all his vices, he was a very simple-hearted man. It was an instance of this simplicity that Métien was seriously persuaded that, being on the eve of his departure for the next world, old Kuzma must sincerely repent of his past relations with Glushanker, and that she had no more devoted friend and protector in the world than this now harmless old man. After his conversation with Allysha at the Crossroads, he hardly slept all night, and at ten o'clock next morning he was at the house of Sampsonov, and telling the servants to announce him. It was a very large and gloomy old house of two stories with a large and outhouses. In the lower story, lived Sampsonov's two married sons with their families, his old sister and his unmarried daughter. In the large lived two of his clerks, one of whom also had a large family. Both the large and the lower story were overcrowded, but the old man kept the upper floor to himself, and would not even let the daughter live there with him, though she waited upon him. And in spite of her asthma was obliged at certain fixed hours, and at any time he might call her to run upstairs to him from below. This upper floor contained a number of large rooms kept purely for show, furnished in the old-fashioned merchant style, with long monotonous rows of clumsy mahogany chairs along the walls, with glass chandeliers and the shades and gloomy mirrors on the walls. All these rooms were entirely empty and unused, for the old man kept to one room a small remote bedroom where he was waited upon by an old servant with a kerchief on her head, and by a lad who used to sit on the locker in the passage. Owing to his swollen legs, the old man could hardly walk at all, and was only rarely lifted from his leather armchair, when the old woman supporting him led him up and down the room once or twice. He was morose and taciturn, even with this old woman. When he was informed of the arrival of the captain, he had once refused to see him, but Meteah persisted and sent his name up again. Some son off questioned the lad minutely, what he looked like, whether he was drunk, was he going to make a row? The answer he received was that he was sober but wouldn't go away. The old man again refused to see him. Then Meteah, who had foreseen this and purposely brought pencil and paper with him, wrote clearly on the piece of paper the words, "On most important business closely concerning Agra Fena Alexandrovna," and sent it up to the old man. After thinking a little son son off told the lad to take the visitor to the drawing-room and sent the old woman downstairs with a summons to his younger son to come upstairs to him at once. This younger son, a man of over six foots and of exceptional physical strength, who was closely shaven and dressed in the European style, though his father still wore a captain and a beard, came at once without a comment. All the family trembled before the father. The old man had sent for this giant, not because he was afraid of the captain, he was by no means of a timorous temper, but in order to have a witness in case of any emergency. Supported by his son and the servant lad, he waddled at last into the drawing-room. It may be assumed that he felt considerable curiosity. The drawing-room in which Meteor was awaiting him was a vast, dreary run that laid a weight of depression on the heart. It had a double row of windows, a gallery, marbled walls, and three immense chandeliers with glass luster covered with shades. Meteor was sitting on a little chair at the entrance awaiting his fate with nervous impatience. When the old man appeared at the opposite door seventy feet away, Meteor jumped up at once, and with his long military stride walked to meet him. Meteor was well-dressed in a frock-coat buttoned up with a round hat and black gloves in his hands, just as he had been three days before at the elders at the family meeting with his father and brothers. The old man waited for him, standing dignified and unbending, and Meteor felt at once that he looked him through and through as he advanced. Meteor was greatly impressed, too, with some son of immensely swollen face. His lower lip, which had always been thick, hung down now, looking like a bun. He bowed to his guest in dignified silence, motioned him to a low chair by the sofa, and leaning on his son's arm, he began lowering himself onto the sofa opposite, groaning painfully. So that Meteor, seeing his painful exertions, immediately felt remorseful and sensitively conscious of his insignificance in the presence of the dignified person he had ventured to disturb. "What is it you want of me, sir?" said the old man, deliberately, distinctly, severely, but courteously, when he was at last seated. Meteor started leapt up, but sat down again. Then he began at once speaking with loud, nervous haste, gesticulating and in a positive frenzy. He was unmistakably a man driven into a corner on the brink of ruin, catching at the last straw, ready to sink if he failed. Old Samson of probably grasped all this in an instant, though his face remained cold and immovable as a statues. Most honored, sir, Kuzma Kuzmich, you have no doubt heard more than once of my disputes with my father, Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, who robbed me of my inheritance from my mother. Seeing the whole town is gossiping about it, for here everyone's gossiping and what they shouldn't. And beside it might have reached you through Groushanka, I beg your pardon, through Agrafena Alexandrovna. Agrafena Alexandrovna, the lady of whom I have the highest respect and esteem. So Meteor began and broke down at the first sentence. We will not reproduce his speech word for word, but will only summarize the gist of it. Three months ago, he said, he had of express intention. Meteor purposely used these words instead of intentionally, consulted a lawyer in the chief town of the province. A distinguished lawyer, Kuzma Kuzmich, Pavlovitch Karamazov, he had perhaps heard of him. A man of vast intellect, the mind of a statesman. He knows you, too, spoke of you in the highest terms. Meteor broke down again. But these breaks did not deter him. He leapt instantly over the gaps and struggled on and on. This Karamazov, after questioning him minutally and inspecting the documents he was able to bring him, Meteor alluded somewhat vaguely to these documents and slurred over the subject with special haste. Reported that they may certainly might take proceedings concerning the village of Chermashnya, which ought, he said, to have come to him, Meteor, from his mother. And so Czech makes the old villain his father, because every door was not closed and justice might still find a loophole. In fact, he might reckon on an additional sum of six or even 7,000 rubles from Fyodor Pavlovitch. As Chermashnya was worth at least 25,000, he might say 28,000. In fact, 30, 30 Kuzma Kuzmich. And would you believe it, I didn't get 17 from that heartless man. So he, Meteor, had thrown the business up for the time, knowing nothing about the law. But oncoming here was struck down by a cross claim made upon him. Here, Meteor went and drift again, and again took a flying leap forward. So will not you, excellent and honored Kuzma Kuzmich, be willing to take up all my claims against that unnatural monster, and pay me a sum down of only 3,000. You see, you cannot in any case lose over it. On my honor, my honor, I swear that. Quite the contrary, you may make six or 7,000 instead of three. Above all, he wanted this concluded that very day. I'll do the business with you at a notary's or whatever it is. In fact, I'm ready to do anything. I'll hand over all the deeds, whatever you want, sign anything, and we could draw up the agreement at once. And if it were possible, if we're only possible, that very morning, you could pay me that 3,000. For there isn't a capitalist in this town to compare with you, and so would save me from, save me, in fact. For a good, I might say, an honorable action. For I cherish the most honorable feelings for a certain person whom you know well, and care for as a father. I would not have come indeed if it had not been as a father. And indeed it's a struggle of three in this business, for it's fate. That's a fearful thing, Kuzmakuznych, a tragedy, Kuzmakuznych, a tragedy. And as you've dropped out long ago, it's a tug of war between two. I'm expressing it awkwardly, perhaps, but I'm not a literary man. You see, I'm on one side, and that monster on the other, so you must choose its either I or the monster. It all lies in your hands, the fate of three lives, and the happiness of two. Excuse me, I'm making a mess of it, but you understand. I see from your venerable eyes that you understand. And if you don't understand, I'm done for, so you see. Meteor broke off his clumsy speech with that so you see, and jumping up from his seat, awaited the answer to his foolish proposal. At the last phrase, he had suddenly become hopelessly aware that his door fallen flat, above all that he had been talking utter nonsense. How strange it is, on the way here it seemed all right, and now it's nothing but nonsense. The idea suddenly dawned on his despairing mind, all the while he'd been talking, the old man sat motionless, watching him with an icy expression in his eyes. After keeping him for a moment in suspense, Kuzma Kuzmich pronounced at last in the most positive and chilling tone. Excuse me, we don't undertake such business. Meteor suddenly felt his legs growing weak under him. "What am I to do now, Kuzma Kuzmich?" he muttered with a pale smile. "I suppose it's all up with me. What do you think?" "Excuse me," Meteor remained standing, staring motionless. He suddenly noticed a movement in the old man's face. He started. "You see, sir, a business of that sort's not in our line." Said the old man slowly. "There's the court and the lawyers. It's a perfect misery. But if you like, there is a man here you might apply to." "Good heavens, who is it? You're my salvation, Kuzma Kuzmich," faltered Meteor. He doesn't live here, and he's not here just now. He is a peasant. He does business in timber. His name is Yagave. He's been haggling with Fyodor Pavlovitch for the last year over your cops at Chermashnya. They can't agree on the price. Maybe you've heard. Now he's come back again, and he's staying with the priest at Hilean Scoyer, about 12 vets from the Volovia station. He wrote to me too about the business of the cops, asking my advice. Fyodor Pavlovitch means to go and see him himself. So if you were to be beforehand with Fyodor Pavlovitch and to make Yagave the offer you've made me, he might possibly... a brilliant idea Meteor interrupted ecstatically. He's the very man. It would just suit him. He's haggling with him for it, being asked too much, and here he would have all the documents entitling him to the property itself. Ha ha ha! And Meteor suddenly went off into his short wooden lap, startling Sam Sonnoff. "How can I thank you, Cosmakuzmitch," cried Meteor effusively. "Don't mention it," said Sam Sonnoff, inclining his head. "But you don't know, you've saved me. Oh, it was a true presentiment brought me to you. So now to this priest. No need of thanks. I'll make haste there and fly there. I'm afraid I've overtaxed your strength. I shall never forget it. It's a russian," says that, Cosmakuzmitch, a russian. "To be sure," Meteor seized his hand to press it, "but there was a malignant gleam in the old man's eye." Meteor drew back his hand, but that once blamed himself for his mistrustfulness. "It's because he's tired," he thought. "For her sake, for her sake," Cosmakuzmitch, "you understand that it's for her," he cried, his voice ringing through the room. He bowed, turned sharply round, and with the same long stride walked to the door without looking back, he was trembling with delight. Everything was on the verge of ruined, and my guardian angel saved me, was the thought in his mind. And if such a businessman as Sam Sonnoff, a most worthy old man, and what dignity, had suggested this course, then, then success was assured, he would fly off immediately. "I will be back before night. I shall be back at night, and the thing is done." "Could the old man have been laughing at me?" exclaimed Meteor, as he strode towards his lodging. He could, of course, imagine nothing but that the advice was practical from such a businessman, with an understanding of the business, with an understanding of this Gyagave, curious surname, or the old man was laughing at him. Alas, the second alternative was the correct one. Long afterwards, when the catastrophe had happened, old Sam Sonnoff himself confessed, laughing, that he had made a fool of the captain. He was a cold, spiteful, and sarcastic man, liable to violent antipathy. Whether it was the captain's excited face, or the foolish conviction of the rape and spendthrift, that he, Sam Sonnoff, could be taken in by such a cock and bull's story as his scheme, or his jealousy of Grushenker, in whose name this scape-grace had rushed in on him with such a tail to get money, which worked on the old man I can't tell. But at the instant when Meteor stood before him, feeling his legs grow weak under him, and frantically exclaiming that he was ruined, at that moment the old man looked at him with intense spite, and resolved to make a laughing stock of him. When Meteor had gone, Kuzma Kuznich, white with rage, turned to his son, and made him see to it that that beggar be never seen again, and never admitted even into the yard, or else he did not utter his threat. But even his son, who often saw him enraged, trembled with fear. For a whole hour afterwards, the old man was shaking with anger. By evening, he was worse, and sent for the doctor. Book VIII. CHAPTER II. LIGAVI. So he must drive at full speed, and he had not the money for horses. He had forty co-pecks, and that was all, all that was left, after so many years of prosperity. But he had at home an old silver watch which had long ceased to go. He snatched it up and carried it to a Jewish watchmaker who had a shop in the marketplace. The Jew gave him six rubles for it. And I didn't expect that, cried Meteor ecstatically. He was still in a state of ecstasy. He seized his six rubles and ran home. At home he borrowed three rubles from the people of the house, who loved him so much that they were pleased to give it him, though it was all they had. Meteor, in his excitement, told them on the spot that his fate would be decided that day, and he described in desperate haste the whole scene he had put before Samsonov, the latter's decision, his own hopes for the future, and so on. These people had been told many of their larger secrets before, and so looked upon him as a gentleman who was not at all proud, and almost one of themselves. Having thus collected nine rubles, Meteor sent for posting horses to take him to the Volovia station. This was how the fact came to be remembered and established that at midday on the day before the event, Meteor had not a farthing, and that he had sold his watch to get money and had borrowed three rubles from his landlord, all in the presence of witnesses. I note this fact. Later on it will be apparent why I do so. Though he was radiant with the joyful anticipation that he would at last solve all his difficulties yet, as he drew near Volovia station, he trembled at the thought of what Grushenko might be doing in his absence. This was why he had gone off without telling her, and why he left orders with his landlady not to let out where he had gone, if anyone came to inquire for him. "I must, I must get back tonight," he repeated, as he was jolted along in the cart, "and I dare say I shall have to bring this legavi back here to draw up the deed." So amused Metia, with a throbbing heart, but alas his dreams were not faded to be carried out. To begin with, he was laid, taking a shortcut from a Volovia station which turned out to be eighteen verses instead of twelve. Secondly, he did not find the priest at home in Ilya Scoy. He had gone off to a neighboring village. While Metia setting off there with the same exhausted horses was looking for him, it was almost dark. The priest, a shy and amiable-looking little man, informed him at once that though layagavi had been staying with him at first, he was now at Suhoipasyoluk, that he was staying the night in the forester's cottage as he was by in timber thereto. At Metia's urgent request that he would take him to Leeagavi at once and by so doing save him so to speak, the priest agreed after some demure to conduct him to Suhoipasyoluk. His curiosity was obviously aroused, but unluckily he advised there going on foot, as it would not be much over reversed. Metia, of course, agreed and marched off with his yard long strides so that the poor priest almost ran after him. He was a very cautious man though not old. Metia at once began talking to him two of his plans, nervously and excitedly asking advice in regard to layagavi, and talking all the way. The priest listened attentively but gave little advice. He turned off Metia's questions with, "I don't know. I can't say. How can I tell?" and so on. When Metia began to speak of his quarrel with his father over his inheritance, the priest was positively alarmed as he was, in some way, dependent on Fiedor Pablovitch. He inquired, however, with surprise, why he called the peasant trader Gorskine-Luiagavi, and obligingly explained to Metia that though the man's name really was layagavi, he was never called so, as he would be grisly offended at the name and that he must be sure to call him Gorskine. "Or you'll do nothing with him. He won't even listen to you," said the priest in conclusion. Metia was somewhat surprised for a moment and explained that that was what Samsonov had called him. On hearing this fact, the priest dropped the subject, though he would have done well to put into words his doubt whether if Samsonov had sent him to that peasant calling him layagavi, there was not something wrong about it, and he was turning him into ridicule. But Metia had no time to pause over such trifles. He hurried, striding along, and only when he reached Suhoipasayala, did he realize that he had come not one verse, nor one and a half, but at least three. This annoyed him, but he controlled himself. They went into the hut. The forester lived in one half of the hut, and Gorskine was lodging in the other. The better room the other side of the passage. They went into that room and lighted a tallow candle. The hut was extremely overheated. On the table there was a samovar that had gone out, a tray with cups, an empty rum bottle, a bottle of vodka partly full, and some half-eaten crusts of wheat and bread. The visitor himself layy stretched at full length on the bench, with his coat crushed up under his head for a pillow, snoring heavily. Metia stood in perplexity. "Of course I must wake him. My business is too important. I've come in such haste. I'm in a hurry to get back today," he said in great agitation. But the priest and the forester stood in silence, not giving their opinion. Metia went up and began trying to wake him himself. He tried vigorously, but the sleeper did not wake. "He's drunk," Metia decided. "Good Lord, what am I to do? What am I to do?" And terribly impatient, he began pulling him by the arms by the legs, shaking his head, lifting him up and making him sit on the bench. Yet after prolonged exertions he could only succeed in getting the drunken man to utter absurd grunts and violent but inarticulate oaths. "No, you'd better wait a little," the priest pronounced at last, for he's obviously not in a fit state. "He's been drinking the whole day," the forester chimed in. "Good heavens," cried Metia, "if only you knew how important it is to me and how desperate I am. No, you'd better wait till morning," the priest repeated. "Till morning? Mercy, that's impossible." And in his despair he was on the point of attacking the sleeping man again but stopped short at once, realizing the uselessness of his efforts. The priest said nothing. The sleepy forester looked gloomy. "What terrible tragedies real life contrives for people," said Metia in complete despair. The perspiration was streaming down his face. The priest seized the moment to put before him very reasonably that even if he succeeded in awakening the man, he would still be drunk and incapable of conversation. "And your business is important," he said, "so you'd certainly better put it off till morning, with the gesture of despair, Metia agreed." "Father, I will stay here with the light and seize the favorable moment. As soon as he wakes, I'll begin. I'll pay you for the light," he said to the forester, "for the night slodging too. You'll remember Dimitri Karamazov." "Only father, I don't know what we're to do with you. Where will you sleep?" "No, I'm going home. I'll take his horse and get home," he said, indicating the forester. "And now I'll say goodbye. I wish you all success." So it was settled. The priest rode off on the forester's horse, delighted to escape, though he shook his head uneasily, wondering whether he ought not next day to inform his benefactor, Fyodor Prablovitch, of this curious incident, or he may, in an unlucky hour hear of it, be angry and withdraw his favor. The forester scratching himself went back to his room without a word, and Metia sat on the bench to catch the favorable moment as he expressed it. Profound ejection clung about his soul like a heavy mist, a profound intense ejection. He sat thinking but could reach no conclusion. The candle burnt dimly, a cricket chirped, it became insufferably close in the overheated room. He suddenly pictured the garden, the path behind the garden, the door of his father's house mysteriously opening and Grashenko running in. He leapt up from the bench. "It's a tragedy," he said, grinding his teeth. Mechanically he went up to the sleeping man and looked in his face. He was a lean, middle-aged peasant with a very long face, flax and curls, and a long, thin, reddish beard, wearing a blue cotton shirt and a black waistcoat from the pocket of which peeped the chain of a silver watch. Metia looked at his face with intense hatred, and for some unknown reason, his curly hair particularly irritated him. What was insufferably humiliating was that after leaving things of such importance and making such sacrifices, he, Metia, utterly worn out, should with business of such urgency be standing over this dolt on whom his whole fate depended, while he snored as though there was nothing the matter, as though he dropped from another planet. "Oh, the irony of fate!" cried Metia, and quite losing his head, he fell again to rousing the tipsy peasant. He roused him with a sort of ferocity, pulled at him, pushed him, even beat him, but after five minutes of vain exertions he returned to his bench and helpless to spare and sat down. "Stupid, stupid!" cried Metia. "And how dishonorable it all is!" Something made him add. His head began to ache horribly. "Should he fling it up and go away altogether?" he wondered. "No. Wait till tomorrow now." "I'll stay on purpose. What else did I come for? Besides, I have no means of going. How am I to get away from here now?" "Oh, the idiocy of it." But his head ached more and more. He sat without moving and unconsciously dosed off and fell asleep as he sat. He seemed to have slept for two hours or more. He was waked up by his head, acing so unbearably that he could have screamed. There was a hammering in his temples and the top of his head ached. It was a long time before he could wake up fully and understand what had happened to him. At last he realized that the room was full of charcoal fumes from the stove and then he might die a suffocation, and the drunken peasants still lay snoring. The candle guttered and was about to go out. Mitya cried out and ran, staggering across the passage into the forester's room. The forester waked up at once. But hearing that the other room was full of fumes, Tumitya's surprise and annoyance accepted the fact with strange unconcern, though he did go to see it. "But he's dead. He's dead. And what am I to do then?" cried Mitya frantically. They threw open the doors, opened a window and the chimney. Mitya brought a pail of water from the passage. First he wetted his own head, then finding a rag of some sort, dipped it into the water and put it on legaby's head. The forester still treated the matter contemptuously, and when he opened the window said grumpily, "It'll be all right now." He went back to sleep, leaving Mitya a light Atlanta. Mitya fussed about the drunken peasant for half an hour, wetting his head, and gravely resolved not to sleep all night. But he was so worn out that when he sat down for a moment to take breath he closed his eyes, unconsciously stretched himself full length on the bench and slept like the dead. It was dreadfully late when he wiped. It was somewhere about nine o'clock. The sun was shining brightly in the two little windows of the hut. The curly-headed peasant was sitting on the bench and had his coat on. He had another samofar and another bottle in front of him. Yesterday's bottle had already been finished and the new one was more than half empty. Mitya jumped up and saw it once that the cursed peasant was drunk again, hopelessly and incurably. He stared at him for a moment with wide open dyes. The peasant was silently and slyly watching him with insulting composure and even a sort of contemptuous condescension so met you fancied. He rushed up to him. "Excuse me, you see, I--" "You've most likely heard from the forester here in the hut. I'm Lieutenant Demetri Karamazov, the son of the old Karamazov whose cops you are buying." "That's a lie," said the peasant calmly and confidently. "A lie? You know Fiedor Pavlovitch?" "I don't know any of your Fiedor Pavlovitch's," said the peasant speaking thickly. "You're bargaining with him for the cops, for the cops." "Do wake up and collect yourself." "Father Pavloviliansko brought me here." "You wrote to Samsonov and he has sent me to you," meant yourghast, breathlessly. "Your lying leg I'll be blurted out again," meant his legs went cold. "For mercy's sake, it isn't a joke. You're drunk, perhaps. Yet you can speak and understand." "Or else, I understand nothing." "You're a painter." "For mercy's sake, I'm Karamazov, Demetri Karamazov. I have an offer to make you an advantageous offer, very advantageous offer concerning the cops. The peasant stroked his beard importantly." "No, you've contracted for the job and turned out a scam. You're a scoundrel." "I assure you your mistake and cried, Mitya, wringing his hands in despair. The peasant still stroked his beard and suddenly screwed up his eyes cunningly." "No, you show me this. You tell me the law that allows roguery. Do you hear? You're a scoundrel. Do you understand that?" Mitya stepped back gloomily and suddenly. Something seemed to hit him on the head, as he said afterwards. In an instant, a light seemed to dawn in his mind. A light was kindled and I grasped it all. He stood, stupefied, wondering how he, after all, a man of intelligence could have yielded to such folly, had been led into such an adventure and have kept it up for almost twenty-four hours fussing round this lagavi wetting his head. "Why the man's drunk, dead drunk, and he'll go on drinking now for a week. What's the use of waiting here? And what if Samsonov sent me here on purpose? What if she—oh God, what have I done?" The peasant sat, watching him and grinning. Another time Mitya might have killed the fool in a fury, but now he felt as weak as a child. He went quietly to the bench, took up his overcoat, put it on without a word, and went out of the hut. He did not find the forester in the next room. There was no one there. He took fifty copecs and small change out of his pocket and put them on the table for his night's lodging, the candle, and the trouble he had given. Coming out of the hut he saw nothing but forest all round. He walked at hazard, not knowing which way to turn out of the hut, to the right or to the left. Hurrying there the evening before with the priest he had not noticed the road. He had no revengeful feeling for anybody, even for Samsonov in his heart. He strode along a narrow forest path, aimless dazed, without heating where he was going. A child could have knocked him down, so weak was he in body and soul. He got out of the forest somehow, however, and a vista of fields bare after the harvest stretched as far as the eye could see. "What despair? What death all round?" he repeated, striding on and on. He was saved by meeting an old merchant who was being driven across country in a hired trap. When he overtook him, Metia asked the way, and it turned out that the old merchant, too, was going to Volovia. After some discussion, Metia got into the trap. Three hours later they arrived. At Volovia, Metia at once ordered posting horses to drive to the town and suddenly realized that he was a pawingly hungry. While the horses were being harnessed, an omelet was prepared for him. He ate it all in an instant, ate a huge chunk of bread, ate a sausage, and swallowed three glasses of vodka. After eating his spirits and his heart grew lighter, he flew towards the town, urged on the driver, and suddenly made a new and unalterable plan to procure that accursed money before evening. And to think, only to think that a man's life should be ruined for the sake of that paltry three thousand he cried contemptuously, "I'll settle it today. And if it had not been for the thought of Gruschenka, and of what might have happened to her which never left him, he would perhaps have become quite cheerful again. But the thought of her was stabbing him to the heart every moment, like a sharp knife. At last they arrived, and Metia at once ran to Gruschenka." This was the visit of Metia, of which Gruschenka had spoken to Rakuten, with such horror. She was just then expecting the message, and was much relieved that Metia had not been to see her that day or the day before. She hoped that, "Please, God, he won't come till I'm gone away," and he suddenly burst in on her. The rest we know already. To get him off her hands, she suggested it once that he should walk with her to Samsonovs. Where she said she absolutely must go to settle his accounts, and when Metia accompanied her at once, she said goodbye to him at the gate, making him promise to come at twelve o'clock to take her home again. Metia, too, was delighted at this arrangement. If she was sitting at Samsonovs, she could not be going to Feudor Pavlovitch's. If only she's not lying, he added at once; but he thought she was not lying from what he saw. He was that sort of jealous man who, in the absence of the beloved woman, at once invents all sorts of awful fancies of what may be happening to her, and how she may be betraying him. But when shaken, heartbroken, convinced of her faithlessness, he runs back to her. At the first glance at her face, her gay, laughing affectionate face he revives at once, lays aside all suspicion and with joyful shame abuses himself for his jealousy. After leaving Grishenko at the gate he rushed home. Oh, he had so much still to do that day; but a load had been lifted from his heart anyway. Now I must only make haste, and find out from Smurgeokoff whether anything happened there last night, whether by any chance she went to Feudor Pavlovitch. Ah! floated through his mind. Before he had time to reach his lodging, jealousy had surged up again in his restless heart. Jealousy! Othello was not jealous; he was trustful, observed Pushkin; and that remark alone is enough to show the deep insight of our great poet. Othello's soul was shattered, and his whole outlook clouded simply because his ideal was destroyed. But Othello did not begin hiding spying peeping. He was trustful on the contrary. He had to be led up, pushed on, excited with great difficulty before he could entertain the idea of deceit. The truly jealous man is not like that. It is impossible to picture to oneself the shame and moral degradation to which the jealous man can descend without a qualm of conscience. And yet it's not as though the jealous were all vulgar and base souls. On the contrary, a man of lofty feelings whose love is pure and full of self-sacrifice may yet hide under tables, bribe the vilest people, and be familiar with the lowest ignominy of spine and eavesdropping. Othello was incapable of making up his mind a faithlessness, not incapable of forgiving it, but of making up his mind to it, though his soul was as innocent and free from malice as a babes. It is not so with the really jealous man. It is hard to imagine what some jealous men can make their mind up to and overlook and what they can forgive. The jealous are the rediest of all to forgive, and all women know it. The jealous man can forgive extraordinarily quickly, though of course after a violent scene, and he is able to forgive infidelity almost conclusively proved. The very kisses and embraces he has seen, if only he can somehow be convinced that it has all been for the last time, and that his rival will vanish from that day forward, will depart to the ends of the earth, or that he himself will carry her away somewhere where that dreaded rival will not get near her. Of course, the reconciliation is only for an hour. For even if the rival did disappear next day, he would invent another one, and would be jealous of him. And one might wonder what there it was in a love that had to be so watched over, what a love could be worth that needed such strenuous guarding, but that the jealous will never understand. And yet among them are men of noble hearts. It is remarkable, too, that those very men of noble hearts standing hidden in some cupboard, listening and spine, never feel the stings of conscience at that moment. Anyway, though they understand clearly enough with their noble hearts, the shameful depths to which they have voluntarily sunk. At the sight of Grishenko, Metia's jealousy vanished, and for an instant he became trustful and generous, and positively despised himself for his evil feelings. But it only proved that in his love for the woman there was an element of something far higher that he himself imagined, that it was not only a sensual passion, not only the curve of her body, of which he had talked to Elisha. But as soon as Grishenko had gone, Metia began to suspect her of all below cunning of faithlessness, and he felt no sting of conscience at it. And so jealousy surged up in him again, he had in any case to make haste. The first thing to be done was to get hold of at least a small temporary loan of money. The nine rubles had almost all gone on his expedition, and as we all know one can't take a step without money. But he had thought over in the cart where he could get a loan. He had a brace of fine dueling pistols in a case, which he had not pawn till then because he prized them above all his possessions. In the metropolis tavern he had sometimes since made acquaintance with a young official, and had learnt that this very opulent bachelor was passionately fond of weapons. He used to buy pistols, revolvers, daggers, hang them on his wall, and show them to acquaintances. He prided himself on them and was quite a specialist on the mechanism of the revolver. Metia, without stopping to think, went straight to him and offered upon his pistols to him for ten rubles. The official delighted began trying to persuade him to sell them outright, but Metia would not consent. So the young man gave him ten rubles, protesting that nothing would induce him to take interest. They parted friends. Metia was in haste. He rushed toward field or pavilavages by the back way to his arbor. To get hold a smurgeok off, as soon as possible. In this way the fact was established at three or four hours before a certain event of which I shall speak later on, Metia had not a farthing, and pawned for ten rubles of possession he valued, though three hours later he was in possession of thousands. But I am anticipating. From Mario Condret Yevna, the woman living near Fyodor Pavlovitch's, he learned the very disturbing fact of smurgeokov's illness. He heard the story of his fall in the cellar, his fit, the doctor's visit. Fyodor Pavlovitch's anxiety. He heard with interest, too, that his brother Yvonne had set off that morning from Moscow. Then he must have driven through Volovia before me thought Demetri, but he was terribly distressed about smurgeokov. "What will happen now? Who keep watch for me? Who bring me word?" he thought. He began greedily questioning the women whether they had seen anything the evening before. They quite understood what he was trying to find out and completely reassured him. No one had been there. Yvonne Fyodorovitch had been there that night. Everything had been perfectly as usual. Mitya grew thoughtful. He would certainly have to keep watch today, but where? Here are at Simsonov's gate. He decided that he must be on the lookout both here and there, and meanwhile, meanwhile, the difficulty was that he had to carry out the new plan that he had made on the journey back. He was sure of its success, but he must not delay in acting upon it. Mitya resolved to sacrifice an hour to it. In an hour I shall know everything. I shall settle everything, and then, then, first of all, to Simsonov's. I'll enquire whether Grushenko's there and instantly be back here again, stay till eleven, and then to Simsonov's again to bring her home. This was what he decided. He flew home, washed, combed his hair, brushed his clothes dressed, and went to Madame Holocaust. Alas, he had built his hopes on her. He had resolved to borrow three thousand from that lady, and what was more, he felt suddenly convinced that she would not refuse to lend it to him. It may be wondered why, if he felt so certain, he had not gone to her at first, one of his own sorts, so to speak, instead of to Simsonov, a man he did not know, who was not of his own class, and to whom he hardly knew how to speak. But the fact was that he had never known Madame Holocaust well, and he had seen nothing of her for the last month, and that he knew she could not endure him. She had detested him from the first because he was engaged to Katarina Ivanovna. While she had, for some reason, suddenly conceived the desire that Katarina Ivanovna should throw him over and marry the charming, chivalrously refined Ivan, who had such excellent manners. "Mitt is manners," she detested. Mittya positively laughed at her, and had once said about her that she was just as lively in her ease as she was uncultivated. But that morning in the cart a brilliant idea had struck him. If she is so anxious that I should not marry Katarina Ivanovna, and he knew that she was positively hysterical upon the subject, why should she refuse me now that three thousand, just to enable me to leave Katya and get away from her forever? The spoiled fine ladies, if they set their hearts on anything, will spare no expense to satisfy their caprice. "Besides, she is so rich," Mittya argued. As for his plan, it was just the same as before. It consisted of the offer of his right to Tirmashnya, not with a commercial object as it had been with Samsenov, not trying to allure the lady with a possibility of making a profit of six or seven thousand, but simply as a security for the debt. As he worked out this new idea, Mittya was enchanted with it. But so it always was with him, in all his undertakings, in all his sudden decisions, he gave himself up to every new idea with passionate enthusiasm. Yet, when he mounted the steps of Madame Holocaust House, he felt a shiver of fear run down his spine. At that moment, he saw fully, as a mathematical certainty, that this was his last hope, that if this broke down, nothing else was left him in the world but to rob and murder someone for the three thousand. It was half past seven when he rang at the bell. At first, fortune seemed to smile upon him. As soon as he was announced, he was received with extraordinary rapidity. As though she were waiting for me, thought Mittya, and as soon as he had been led into the drawing room, the lady of the house herself ran in and declared it once that she was expecting him. "I was expecting you, I was expecting you, though I had no reason to suppose you would come to see me as you will admit yourself. Yet, I did expect you. You may marvel at my instinct, Demetri and Fittya Rovitch, but I was convinced all the morning that you would come. That is certainly wonderful, Madame, observed Mittya, sitting down limply, but I have come to you on a matter of great importance. On a matter of supreme importance for me, that is, Madame, for me alone, and I hasten, I know you've come on the most important business. Demetri Fittya Rovitch, it's not a case of presentiment, no reactionary harking back to the miraculous. Have you heard about Father Zosima? This is a case of mathematics. You couldn't help coming after all that is passed with katerina Ivanovna. You couldn't, you couldn't, that's a mathematical certainty. The realism of actual life, Madame, that's what it is, but allow me to explain. Realism and div, Demetri Fittya Rovitch, I'm all for realism now. I've seen too much of miracles. You've heard that Father Zosima is dead. No, Madam, it's the first time I've heard of it. Mittya was a little surprised. The image of Elisha rose to his mind. "Last night, and only imagine." "Madam," said Mittya, "I can imagine nothing except that I'm in a desperate position, and that if you don't help me, everything will come to grief, and I, first of all. Excuse me for the triviality of the expression, but I'm in a fever. I know, I know that you're in a fear. You could hardly fail to be, and whatever you may say to me I know beforehand. I have long been thinking over your destiny, Demetri Fittya Rovitch. I am watching over it and studying it. Oh, believe me, I am an experienced doctor of the soul, Demetri Fittya Rovitch." "Madam, if you are an experienced doctor, I'm certainly an experienced patient," said Mittya, with an effort to be polite. "And I will feel that if you are watching over my destiny in this way, you will come to help me in my ruin. And so allow me at least to explain to you the plan with which I have ventured to come to you. And what I am hoping of you. I have come, Madam. Don't explain it. It's of secondary importance. But as for help, you're not the first I have helped Demetri Fittya Rovitch. You have most likely heard of my cousin, Madam Belmesov. Her husband was ruined, had come to grief as you characteristically express it, Demetri Fittya Rovitch." "I recommended him to take to horse-breeding. And now he's doing well. Have you any idea of horse-breeding Demetri Fittya Rovitch?" "Not the faintest, Madam. Ah, Madam, not the faintest," cried Mittya, in nervous impatience, positively starting from his seat. "I simply implore you, Madam, to listen to me. Only give me two minutes of free speech that I may just explain to you everything, the whole plan with which I have come. Besides, I am short of time. I'm in a fearful hurry," Mittya cried hysterically, feeling that she was just going to begin talking again and hoping to cut her short. "I have come in despair. In the last gas of despair, to beg you to lend me the sum of three thousand, alone but on safe, most safe security, Madam, with the most trustworthy guarantees. Only let me explain." "You must tell me that afterwards, afterwards. Madam holocaust with the gesture demanded silence in her turn. And whatever you may tell me, I know it all beforehand. I've told you so already. You ask for a certain sum, for three thousand, but I can give you more immeasurably more. I will save you, Demetri Fittya Rovitch, but you must listen to me." Mittya started from his seat again. "Madam, you will really be so good," he cried, with strong feeling. "Good God, you've saved me. You've saved a man from a violent death, from a bullet, my eternal gratitude. I will give you more, infinitely more than three thousand," cried Madam holocaust, looking with a radiant smile as ecstasy. "Infinitely, but I don't need so much. I only need that fatal three thousand. And on my part, I can give security for that sum with infinite gratitude, and I propose a plan which, enough Demetri Fittya Rovitch, it's said and done. Madam holocaust cut him short, with modest triumph of beneficence. I have promised to save you, and I will save you. I will save you as I did Belmosov. What do you think of the gold mines, Demetri Fittya Rovitch? Of the gold mines, Madam? I have never thought anything about them. But I have thought of them for you. Thought of them over and over again. I have been watching you for the last month. I've watched you a hundred times as you walked past, saying to myself, "That's a man of energy who ought to be at the gold mines." I've studied your gate and come to the conclusion, "That's a man who would find gold." "From my gate, Madam?" said Madam. "Yes, from your gate. You surely don't deny that character can be told from the gate, Demetri Fittya Rovitch. Science supports the idea. I am all for science and realism now. After all this business with Father Zosima, which has so upset me from this very day I'm a realist, and I want to devote myself to practical usefulness. I'm cured. Enough," Estragani says. "But, Madam, the three thousand you so generously promised to lend me. It's yours, Demetri Fittya Rovitch. Madam, hold the call. Cut in at once. The money is as good as in your pocket. Not three thousand, but three million, Demetri Fittya Rovitch, in less than no time. I'll make you a present of the idea. You shall find gold mines, make millions, return, and become a leading man, and wake us up and lead us to better things. Are we to leave it all to the Jews? You will found institutions and enterprises of all sorts. You will help the poor and they will bless you. This is the age of railways, Demetri Fittya Rovitch. You'll become famous and indispensable to the Department of Finance, which is so badly off at present. The depreciation of the ruble keeps me awake at night. Demetri Fittya Rovitch, people don't know that side of me. Madam, Madam, Demetri interrupted with an uneasy presentiment. I shall indeed perhaps follow your advice, your wise advice, Madam. I shall perhaps set off to the gold mines. I'll come and see you again about it, many times indeed. But now, that three thousand you so generously, oh, that would set me free, and if you could today, you see I haven't a minute, a minute to lose today. Enough, Demetri Fittya Rovitch, enough, Madam Holocaust interrupted emphatically. The question is, will you go to the gold mines or not? Have you quite made up your mind? Answer yes or no. "I will go, Madam afterwards. I'll go where you like, but now." "Wait!" cried Madam Holocaust, and jumping up and running to a handsome bureau with numerous little drawers, she began pulling out one drawer after another, looking for something with desperate haste. The three thousand thought Midya his heart almost stopping, and at the instant, without any papers or formalities, that's doing things in gentlemanly style. She's a splendid woman if only she didn't talk so much. "Here!" cried Madam Holocaust, running joyfully back to Midya. "Here is what I was looking for. It was a tiny silver icon on a cord, such as is worn sometimes next to the skin with a cross. This is from Kiev Demetri Fittya Rovitch, she went on reverently from the relics of the holy martyr of Arbarya. Let me put it on your neck myself, and with it dedicate you to a new life, to a new career. And she actually put the cord round his neck and began arranging it. In extreme embarrassment Midya bent down and helped her, and at last he got it under his necktie and collar through his shirt to his chest. "Now you can set off," Madam Holocaust pronounced, sitting down triumphantly in her place again. "Madam, I am so touched. I don't know how to thank you, indeed, for such kindness, but if you only knew how precious time is to me, that some of money for which I shall be indebted to your generosity. O Madam, since you are so kind, so touchingly generous to me, Midya exclaimed impulsively, then let me reveal to you, though, of course you've known it a long time, that I love somebody here. I've been false to Katya. Katarina Ivanova, I should say. Oh, I've behaved inhumanly, dishonorably to her. But I fell in love here with another woman, a woman whom you, Madam, perhaps despise, for you know everything already, but whom I cannot leave on any account, and therefore that three thousand now." "Leave everything, Demetri, Fier de Roebich," Madam Holocaust interrupted in the most decisive tone. "Leave everything, especially women. Goldmines are your goal, and there's no place for women there. Afterwards, when you come back, rich and famous, you will find the girl of your heart in the highest society. That will be a modern girl, a girl of education and advanced ideas. By that time, the dawning woman question will have gained ground, and the new woman will have appeared. Madam, that's not the point, not at all. Midya clasped his hands in entreaty. Yes, it is, Demetri, Fier de Roebich. Just what you need. The very thing you're yearning for, though you don't realize it yourself. I am not at all opposed to the present woman movement, Demetri, Fier de Roebich, the development of woman, and even the political emancipation of woman in the near future. That's my ideal. I have a daughter myself, Demetri, Fier de Roebich. People don't know that side of me." "I wrote a letter to the author, Shredden, on that subject. He has taught me so much, so much about the vocation of woman. So last year I sent him an anonymous letter of two lines. I kiss and embrace you, my teacher, for the modern woman, persevere, and I sign myself a mother. I thought of signing myself a contemporary mother and hesitated, but I stuck to the simple mother. There's more and more of beauty in that, Demetri, Fier de Roebich, and the word contemporary might have reminded him of the contemporary, a painful recollection owing to the censorship. Good heavens, what is the matter?" "Madam," cried Mitt, jumping up at last, clasping his hands before her and helpless in treaty, "you will make me weep if you delay what you have so generously." "Oh, do weep," Demetri, Fier de Roebich, "do weep. That's a noble feeling. Such a path lies open before you. Tears will ease your heart, and later on you will return rejoicing." "You will hasten to me from Siberia on purpose to share your joy with me. But allow me to," Mitt, you cried suddenly, "for the last time I entreat you tell me. Can I have the sum you promised to me today? If not, when may I come for it. What sum, Demetri, Fier de Roebich, the three thousand you promised me? That you so generously—three thousand—rubles?" "Oh, no, I haven't got three thousand." Madam Holocaust announced with serene amazement. Mitt, you were stupefied. "Why, you said just now, you said—you said it was as good as in my hands." "Oh, no, you misunderstood me, Demetri, Fier de Roebich. In that case, you misunderstood me. I was talking of the gold mines. It's true, I promised you more—infinitely more than three thousand. I remember it all now, but I was referring to the gold mines." "But the money?" The three thousand meant yet exclaimed awkwardly. "Oh, if you meant money, I haven't any. I haven't a penny, Demetri Fier de Roebich. I'm quarreling with my steward about it, and I've just borrowed five hundred rubles from meosoft myself." "No, no, I've no money. And do you know, Demetri Fier de Roebich, if I had, I wouldn't give it to you. In the first place, I never lend money. Lending money means losing friends. And I wouldn't give it to you, particularly. I wouldn't give it to you, because I like you, and I want to save you. For all you need is the gold mines—the gold mines—the gold mines." "Oh, the devil roared, Mitya, and with all his might brought his fist down on the table." "I—I!" cried Madam Holocaust alarmed, and she flew to the other end of the drawing room. Mitya spat on the ground and strode rapidly out of the room, out of the house, into the street, into the darkness. He walked like one possessed, beating himself on the breast, on the spot where he had struck himself two days previously before Aloysia, the last time he saw him in the dark on the road. What those blows upon his breast signified on that spot, and what he meant by it, that was, for the time, a secret, which was known to no one in the world, and had not been told even to Aloysia. But that secret meant for him more than disgrace. It meant ruin, suicide. So he had determined, if he did not get hold of the three thousand, that he would pay his debt to Katarina Ivanova, and so remove from his breast, from that spot on his breast, the shame he carried upon it, that weighed upon his conscience. All this will be fully explained to the reader later on, but now that his last hope had vanished, this man so strong an appearance, burst out crying like little child, a few steps from the Holocaust's house. He walked on, and not knowing what he was doing, wiped away his tears with his fist. In this way he reached the square, and suddenly became aware that he had stumbled against something. He heard a piercing whale from an old woman whom he had almost knocked down. "Good Lord, you've nearly killed me. Why don't you look where you're going, Scape Grace?" "Why, it's you!" cried Mittya, recognizing the old woman in the dark. It was the old servant who waited on Samsonov, who Mittya had particularly noticed the day before. "And who are you, my good sir?" said the woman in quite a different voice. "I don't know you in the dark." "You live at Kuzma Kuzmitch's. You're the servant there?" "Just so, sir, I was only running out to pro-horitches, but I don't know you now." "Tell me, my good woman." "Is Agrifena Alexandrovna there?" said Mittya, beside himself with suspense. "I saw her to the house some time ago." "She has been there, sir. She stayed a little while and went off again." "What?" went away, cried Mittya. "When did she go?" "Why, as soon as she came, she only stayed a minute." She only told Kuzma Kuzmitch a tale that made him laugh, and then she ran away. "You're lying, damn you, roared Mittya." "I--I!" shrieked the old woman, but Mittya had vanished. He ran with all his might to the house where Grushenko lived. At the moment he reached it, Grushenko was on her way to Mochro. It was not more than a quarter of an hour after her departure. Fena was sitting with her grandmother, the old cook, Matryona, in the kitchen when the captain ran in. Fena uttered a piercing shriek on seeing him. "You scream, roared Mittya? Where is she?" But without giving the terror-stricken Fena time to utter a word, he fell all in a heap at her feet. "Fena, for Christ's sake, tell me, where is she?" "I don't know, Demetri Fiederovich. My dear, I don't know. He may kill me, but I can't tell you, Fena, swore and protested. You went out with her, yourself, not long ago." "She came back. Indeed, she didn't. By God, I swear she didn't come back. "You're lying," shouted Mittya. "From your terror, I know where she is. He rushed away. Fena in her fright was glad she had got off so easily. But she knew very well that it was only that he was in such haste or she might not have fared so well. But as he ran, he surprised both Fena and old Matryona by an unexpected action. On the table stood a brass mortar with a pestle in it, a small brass pestle not much more than six inches long. Mittya already had opened the door with one hand when with the other he snatched up the pestle and thrust it in his side pocket. "O Lord, he's going to murder someone," cried Fena, flinging up her hands. "End of book eight, chapter three." Book eight, chapter four, in the dark. "Where was he running? Where could she be accepted, Theodore Pavlovitch's? She must have run straight to him from Samsonov's. That was clear now. The whole intrigue, the whole deceit, was evident. It all rushed, whirling through his mind. He did not run to Maurya-Kondret-Yevno's. There was no need to go there, not the slightest need. He must raise no alarm. They would run and tell directly. Maurya-Kondret-Yevno was clearly in the plot. Smurjakov II, he too, all had been bought over. He formed another plan of action. He ran a long way round, Theodore Pavlovitch's house, crossing the lane, running down to Mittrowski Street, then over the little bridge and so came straight to the deserted alley at the back, which was empty and uninhabited, with, on one side, the hurdle fence of the neighbor's kitchen garden, on the other side, the strong high fence that ran all around Theodore Pavlovitch's garden. Here he chose a spot, apparently the very place, where, according to the tradition, he knew Lisa Vetta had once climbed over it. If she could climb over it, the thought, God knows why, occurred to him, surely I can. He did, in fact, jump up and instantly contrived to catch hold of the top of the fence, then he vigorously pulled himself up and sat a stride on it. Close by, in the garden stood the bath-house, but from the fence he could see the lighted windows of the house, too. Yes, the old man's bedroom is lighted up. She's there, and he leapt from the fence into the garden. Though he knew Gregori was ill, and very likely Smurjakov II, and that there was no one to hear him, he instinctively hid himself, stood still, and began to listen. But there was dead silence on all sides, and as though of design complete stillness, not the slightest breath of wind. And not but the whispering silence, the line for some reason rose to his mind. If only no one heard me jump over the fence, I think not. Standing still for a minute, he walked softly over the grass in the garden, avoiding the trees and shrubs. He walked slowly, creeping stealthily at every step, listening to his own footsteps. It took him five minutes to reach the lighted window. He remembered that just under the window there were several thick and high bushes of elder and white mean. The door from the house into the garden on the left-hand side was shut. He had carefully looked on purpose to see and passing. At last he reached the bushes and hid behind them. He held his breath. I must wait now, he thought, to reassure them, in case they heard my footsteps and are listening. If only I don't call for sneeze. He waited two minutes. His heart was beating violently, and at moments he could scarcely breathe. No, this throbbing at my heart won't stop, he thought. I can't wait any longer. He was standing behind a bush in the shadow. The light of the window fell on the front part of the bush. How read the white beanberries are, he murmured, not knowing why. Softly and noiselessly, step by step, he approached the window and raised himself on tiptoe. All of Theodore Pavlovitch's bedroom lay open before him. It was not a large room, and was divided in two parts by a red screen. Chinese, as Theodore Pavlovitch used to call it. The word "Chinese" flashed into Mitty's mind, and behind the screen is Grishinke, thought Mittya. He began watching Theodore Pavlovitch, who was wearing his new striped silk dressing gown, which Mittya had never seen, and a silk cord with tassels round the waist. A clean, dandified shirt, a fine linen with gold studs peeped out under the collar of the dressing gown. On his head, Theodore Pavlovitch had the same red bandage which Halyosha had seen. He has got himself up, thought Mittya. His father was standing near the window, apparently lost in thought. Suddenly he jerked up his head, listened a moment, and hearing nothing went up to the table, poured out half a glass of brandy from a decanter and drank it off. Then he uttered a deep sigh, again stood still a moment, walked carelessly up to the looking glass on the wall. With his right hand raised the red bandage on his forehead a little, and began examining his bruises and scars, which had not yet disappeared. He's alone, thought Mittya. In all probability he's alone. Theodore Pavlovitch moved away from the looking glass, turned suddenly to the window and looked out. Mittya instantly slipped away into the shadow. She may be there behind the screen. Perhaps she's asleep by now, he thought, with a pain in his heart. Theodore Pavlovitch moved away from the window. He's looking for her out of the window, so she's not there. Why should he stare out into the dark? He's wild with impatience. Mittya slipped back at once and fell to gazing in at the window again. The old man was sitting down at the table, apparently disappointed. At last he put his elbow on the table and laid his right cheek against his hand. Mittya watched him eagerly. He's alone. He's alone, he repeated again. If she were here, his face would be different. Strange to say, a queer irrational vexation rose up in his heart that she was not here. It's not that she's not here, explained to himself immediately, but that I can't tell for certain whether she is or not. Mittya remembered afterwards that his mind was at that moment exceptionally clear, that he took in everything to the slightest detail and missed no point, but a feeling of misery. The misery of uncertainty and indecision was growing in his heart with every instant. Is she here or not? The angry doubt filled his heart and suddenly making up his mind, he put out his hand and softly knocked on the window frame. He knocked the signal the old man had agreed upon with smeared Yakov. Twice slowly and then three times more quickly, the signal that meant Grishinka is here. The old man started, jerked up his head, and jumping up quickly ran to the window. Mittya slipped away into the shadow. Theodore Pavlovitch opened the window and thrust his whole head out. "Grishinka, is it you?" "Is it you?" he said, in a sort of trembling half-whisper. "Where are you, my angel? Where are you?" He was fearfully agitated and breathless. "He's alone," Mittya decided. "Where are you?" cried the old man again, and he thrust his head out farther, thrust it out to the shoulders, gazing in all directions right and left. "Come here, I the little present for you. Come, I'll show you." He means the three thousand thought, Mittya. "But where are you? Are you at the door? I'll open it directly." And the old man almost climbed out of the window, peering out to the right where there was a door into the garden, trying to see into the darkness. In another second, he would certainly have run out to open the door without waiting for Grishinka's answer. Mittya looked at him from the side without stirring. The old man's profile that he loathed so, his pendant Adam's apple, his hooked nose, his lips that smiled in greedy expectation, were all brightly lighted up by the slanting lamp-light falling on the left from the room. A horrible fury of hatred suddenly surged up in Mittya's heart. There he was, his rival, the man who had tormented him, had ruined his life. It was a rush of that sudden furious, revengeful anger of which he had spoken, as though foreseeing it to Elisha four days ago in the arbor. When in answer to Elisha's question, "How can you say you'll kill our father?" "I don't know. I don't know," he had said then. "Perhaps I shall not kill him. Perhaps I shall. I'm afraid he'll suddenly be so loathsome to me at that moment. I hate his double chin, his nose, his eyes, his shameless grin. I feel a personal repulsion. That's what I'm afraid of. That's what may be too much for me." This personal repulsion was growing unendurable. Mittya was beside himself. He suddenly pulled the brass pestle out of his pocket. "God was watching over me then," Mittya himself said afterwards. At that very moment, Gregori waked up on his bed of sickness. Earlier in the evening, he had undergone the treatment which Murtanyakov had described to Yvonne. He had rubbed himself all over with vodka mixed with a secret very strong decoction. Had drunk what was left in the mixture while his wife repeated a certain prayer over him after which he had gone to bed, Marfa Ignatavina had tasted the stuff too, and being unused to strong drink slept like the dead beside her husband. But Gregori waked up in the night, quite suddenly, and after a moment's reflection, though he immediately felt a sharp pain in his back he sat up in bed. He deliberated again, got up and dressed hurriedly. Perhaps his conscious was uneasy at the thought of sleeping while the house was unguarded in such perilous times. Murtanyakov, exhausted by his fit lay motionless in the next room. Marfa Ignatavina did not stir. The stuffs been too much for the woman Gregori thought. Glancing at her and groaning, he went out on the steps. No doubt he only intended to look out from the steps, for he was hardly able to walk. The pain in his back and his right leg was intolerable, but he suddenly remembered that he had not locked the little gate into the garden that evening. He was the most punctual and precise of men, a man who adhered to an unchangeable routine and habits that lasted for years. Limping and writhing with pain he went down the steps and towards the garden. Yes, the gate stood wide open. Mechanically he stepped into the garden. Perhaps he fancied something, perhaps caught some sound, and glancing to the left he saw his master's window open. No one was looking out of it then. What's it open for? It's not summer now, thought Gregori, and suddenly at that very instant he caught a glimpse of something extraordinary before him in the garden. Forty paces in front of him a man seemed to be running in the dark. A sort of shadow was moving very fast. "Good lord!" cried Gregori beside himself, and for getting the pain in his back he hurried to intercept the running figure. He took a shortcut. Evidently he knew the garden better. The flying figure went towards the bathhouse, ran behind it, and rushed to the garden fence. Gregori followed, not losing sight of him, and ran for getting everything. He reached the fence at the very moment the man was climbing over it. Gregori cried out beside himself, pounced on him, and clutched his leg in his two hands. "Yes!" His foreboding had not deceived him. He recognized him. It was he, the monster, the parasite. "Paraside!" the old man shouted so that the whole neighborhood could hear, but he had not time to shout more. He fell at once as though struck by lightning. Mitya jumped back into the garden and bent over the fallen man. In Mitya's hands was a brass pestle, and he flung it mechanically in the grass. The pestle fell two paces from Gregori. Not in the grass, but on the path, in a most conspicuous place. For some seconds he examined the prostate figure before him. The old man's head was covered with blood. Mitya put out his hand and began feeling it. He remembered afterwards clearly that he had been awfully anxious to make sure whether he had broken the old man's skull or simply stunned him with the pestle. But the blood was flowing horribly, and in a moment it his fingers were drenched with the hot stream. He remembered taking out of his pocket the clean white handkerchief, with which he had provided himself for his visit to Madame Holakov. And putting it to the old man's head, sensibly trying to wipe the blood from his face and temples. But the handkerchief was instantly soaked with blood. "Good heavens! What am I doing it for?" thought Mitya, suddenly pulling himself together. "If I have broken his skull, how can I find out now? And what difference does it make now?" he added hopelessly. "If I've killed him, I've killed him. You've suddenly come to grief, old man, so there you must lie," he said aloud, and suddenly turning to the fence he vaulted over it into the lane and fell to running. The handkerchief soaked with blood he held, crushed up in his right fist. And as he ran, he thrust it into the back pocket of his coat. He ran headlong, and the few passersby who he met in the dark in the streets remembered afterwards that they had met a man running that night. He flew back again to the widow Morazov's house. Immediately after he had left it that evening, Fenya had rushed to the chief porter, Nesar Ivanovich, and besought him for Christ's sake not to let the captain in again today or tomorrow. Nesar Ivanovich promised, but went upstairs to his mistress who had suddenly sent for him, and meeting his nephew a boy of twenty who had recently come from the country on the way up, told him to take his place, but forgot to mention the captain. Mitya, running up to the gate, knocked. The lad instantly recognized him for Mitya had more than once tipped him, opening the gate at once he let him in, and hastened to inform him with a good, humoured smile that Agrofenya, Alexandrov now, is not at home now, you know. Where is she, then, pro-hor, as Mitya's stopping short? She set off this evening some two hours ago with Timothée, Tumacro. "What for?" cried Mitya. "That, I can't say, to see some officer. Someone invited her, and horses were sent to fetch her." Mitya left him and ran like a madman to Finya. End of chapter four of book eight. Book eight, chapter five, a sudden resolution. She was sitting in the kitchen with her grandmother. They were both just going to bed. Relying on Nesar Ivanovich, they had not locked themselves in. Mitya ran in, pounced on Finya, and ceased her by the throat. "Speak at once! Where is she? With whom is she now at Mokkoi?" He roared furiously. Both the women squealed. "Ah, I'll tell you! Ah! Dimitufiro, each darling. I'll tell you everything directly. I won't hide anything," gabbled Finya, frightened to death. "She's gone to Mokkoi, to her officer." "What officer?" roared Mitya. "To her officer, the same one she used to know, the one who threw her over five years ago," cackled Finya, as fast as she could speak. Mitya withdrew the hands with which he was squeezing her throat. He stood facing her, pale as death, unable to utter a word, but his eyes showed that he realized it all, all, from the first word, and guessed the whole position. Poor Finya was not in a condition at that moment to observe whether he understood or not. She remained sitting on the trunk as she had been when he ran into the room, trembling all over, holding her hands out before her as though trying to defend herself. She seemed to have grown rigid in that position. Her wide-open, scared eyes were fixed immovably upon him, and to make matters worse both his hands were smeared with blood. On the way, as he ran, he must have touched his forehead with them, wiping off the perspiration so that on his forehead and his right cheek were blood-stained patches. Finya was on the verge of hysterics. The old cook had jumped up and was staring at him like a mad woman, almost unconscious with terror. Mecia stood for a moment, then mechanically sank onto a chair next to Finya. He sat, not reflecting, but as it were, terror-stricken, bonant. Yet everything was clear as day. That officer, he knew about him, he knew everything perfectly, he had known it from Kurashenko herself, had known that a letter had come from him a month before, so that for a month, for a whole month, this had been going on, a secret from him, till the very arrival of this new man, and he had never thought of him. But how could he? How could he not have thought of him? Why was it he had forgotten his officer, like that, forgotten him, as soon as he heard of him? That was the question that faced him like some monstrous thing, and he looked at this monstrous thing with horror, growing cold with horror. But suddenly, as gently and mildly as a gentle and affectionate child, he began speaking to Finya as though he had utterly forgotten how he had scared and hurt her just now. He felt a questioning, Finya, with an extreme preciseness, astonishing in his position, and though the girl looked wildly at his blood-stained hands, she too, with wonderful readiness and rapidity, answered every question as though eager to put the whole truth and nothing but the truth before him. Little by little, even with the sort of enjoyment, she began explaining every detail, not wanting to mend him, but as it were, eager to be of their utmost service to him. She described the whole of that day, in great detail, the visit of Akitin and Allysha, how she, Finya, had stood on the watch, how the mistress had set off, and how she had called out of the window to Allysha to give him, Mycha, her greetings, and to tell him, to remember, forever, how she had loved him for an hour. Hearing of the message, Mycha suddenly smiled, and there was a flush of colour on his pale cheeks. At the same moment, Finya said to him, not a bit afraid now to be inquisitive. "Look at your hands, Dimit Tufiorovic! They're all over blood!" "Yes," answered Mycha, mechanically. He looked carelessly at his hands, and at once forgot them, and Finya's question. He thanked at the silence again. Twenty minutes had passed since he had run in. His first horror was over, but evidently some new fixed determination had taken possession of him. He suddenly stood up, smiling dreamly. "What has happened to you, sir?" said Finya, pointing to his hands again. She spoke compassionately, as though she felt very near to him now in his grief. "Mycha, look at his hands again." "That's blocked, Finya," he said, looking at her with a strange expression. "That's human blood, and, my God, why was it shed?" "But," Finya, there's a fence here. He looked at her as though setting her a riddle. A high fence, and terrible to look at. But at dawn tomorrow, when the sun rises, Mycha will leap over that fence. You don't understand what fence, Finya, and, never mind, you'll hear tomorrow and understand. And now, goodbye. I won't stand in our way. I'll step aside. I know how to step aside. Live, my joy. You loved me for an hour. Remember, Mychaenka Karamazov so forever." "She always used to call me Mychaenka, do you remember?" And with those words, he went suddenly out of the kitchen. Finya was almost more frightened that this sudden departure than she had been when he ran in and attacked her. Just ten minutes later, Dimitri went in to Pyotar Ijpartin, the young official with whom he'd pawned his pistols. It was by now half past eight, and Pyotar Ij had finished his evening tea, and had just put his coat on again to go to the Metropolis to play Billiards. Mycha caught him coming out. Seeing him with his face all smeared with blood, the young man uttered a cry of surprise. "Good heavens! What's the matter?" "I've come for my pistols," said Mychaen, and brought you the money. "And thanks very much. I'm in a hurry, Pyotar Ij, please make haste." Pyotar Ij grew more and more surprised. He suddenly caught sight of a bundle of bank notes in Mychaen's hand, and, what was more, he'd walked in holding the notes as no one walks in, and no one carries money. He had them in his right hand, and held them outstretched as if to show them. Perhotin's servant boy, who met Mychaen, the passage, said afterwards that he walked into the passage in the same way, with the money outstretched in his hand, so he must have been carrying them like that, even in the streets. They were all rainbow-colored, hundred ruble notes, and the fingers holding them were covered with blood. When Pyotar Ij was questioned later on, as to the sum of money, he said that it was difficult to judge at a glance, but that it might have been two thousand, or perhaps three, but it was a big, fat bundle. "Mychaen, Pyotar Ij," so he testified afterwards, seemed unlike himself, too. Not drunk, but, as it were, exalted, lost to everything. But, at the same time, as it were, absorbed, as though pondering and searching for something, and unable to come to a decision, he was in a great haste, answered abruptly and very strangely, and at moments seemed not at all dejected, but quite cheerful. "But what is the matter with you? What's wrong?" cried Pyotar Ij, looking wildly at his guest. "How is it that you're all covered with blood? Have you had a fool? Look at yourself!" He took a body elbow and led him to the glass. Seeing his blood-stained face, Mitea started and scowled wrathfully. "Damn nation! That's the last straw," he muttered angrily, hurriedly changing the notes from his right hand to the left, and impulsively jerked the handkerchief out of his pocket. But the handkerchief turned out to be soaked with blood, too. It was the handkerchief he'd used to wipe Gregory's face. There was scarcely a white spot on it, and it not merely began to dry, but it stiffened into a crumpled wall and could not be pulled apart. Mitea threw it angrily on the floor. "Oh, damn it," he said. "Haven't you a rag of some sort to wipe my face?" "So you're only stained, not wounded. You'd better wash," said Pyotar Ij. "Here's a wash stand. I'll pour you out some water." "A wash stand? That's all right. But where am I to put this?" With his strangest perplexity, he indicated his bundle of hung up ruble notes, looking enquirally at Pyotar Ij, as though it were for him to decide what he, Mitea, was to do with his own money. "In your pocket, or on the table here, they won't be lost." "In my pocket?" "Yes, in my pocket. All right. But I say, that's all nonsense," he cried, as though suddenly coming out of his absorption. "Look here, that's first settled at business of the pistols. Give them back to me. Here's your money, 'cause I'm in great need of them, and I have in a minute a minute to spare." And taking the topmost note from the bundle, he held it out to Pyotar Ij. "But I shall have changed enough, haven't you less?" "No," said Mitea, looking again at the bundle, and as though not trusting his own words, he turned over two or three of the topmost ones. "No, they're all like," he added, and again he looked inquiringly at Pyotar Ij. "Have you grown so rich?" the latter asked. "Wait, I'll send my boy to Plotnikov's. They close late, to see if they won't change it." "Here, Misha," he called into the passage. "To Plotnikov's shop, first rate," cried Mitea, as though struck by an idea. "Misha," he turned to the boy as he came in. "Look here, run to Plotnikov's, and tell them that Mitea Pyotar Ij sends his greetings, and will be there directly. But listen, listen, tell them to have champagne, three dozen bottles, ready before I come, and packed as it was to take to McCoy. "I took four dozen with me then," he added, suddenly addressing Pyotar Ij. "They know all about it, don't you trouble, Misha?" he turned again to the boy. "Stay, listen, tell them to put in cheese, stress-worked pies, smoked fish, ham, caviar, and everything. Everything they've got, up to a hundred rubles, or a hundred and twenty as before. But wait, don't let them forget dessert, sweets, pears, watermelons, two or three or four. No, one melon's enough, and chocolate, candy, toffee, fondants. In fact, everything I took to McCoy before, three hundred rubles worth with the champagne. Let it be just the same again. "I remember, Misha, if you're called, Misha. His name is Misha, isn't it?" he turned to Pyotar Ij again. "Wait a minute, Pyotar Ij intervened, listening and watching him uneasily. You'd better go yourself and tell them, he'll muddle it." "He will, I see you will, and Misha, why I was going to kiss you for the commission. If you don't make a mistake, there's ten rubles for you. Run along, make haste. Champagne's the chief thing. Let them bring up champagne, and brandy too, and red and white wine, and all I had then, they know what I had then." "But listen," Pyotar Ij interrupted with some impatience, "I say, let him simply run and change the money, and tell them not to close, and you go and tell them, give him your note. Be off, Misha. Put your best leg forward." Pyotar Ij seemed to hurry Misha off on purpose, because the boy remained standing with his mouth and eyes wide open, apparently understanding little of Misha's orders, gazing up with amazement and terror at his blood-stained face, and the trembling blood-stained fingers that helpen notes." "Well, now come and wash," said Pyotar Ij sternly, "put the money on the table, or else in your pocket. That's right, come along, but take off your coat." And beginning to help him off with his coat, he cried out again. "Look, your coat's covered with blood too." "That's--it's not the coat. It's only a little here on the sleeve, and that's only here whether the handkerchief lay. It must have soaked through. I must have sat on the handkerchief at fenya's, and the bloods come through," Misha explained at once, with a childlike unconsciousness that was astounding." Pyotar Ij listened, frowning. "Well, you must have been up to something. You must have been fighting with someone," he muttered. "They began to wash. Pyotar Ij helped the jug and poured out the water." Misha, in desperate haste, scarcely soaked his hands. They were trembling, and Pyotar Ij remembered it afterwards. But the young official insisted on his soaping them thoroughly and rubbing them more. He seemed to exercise more and more sway over Misha as time went on. It may be noted in pausing that he was a young man of sturdy character. "Look, you haven't got your nails clean. Now rip your face, here, on your temples, by your ear. Will you go in that shirt? Where are you going? Look, all the cuff of your right sleeve is covered with blood." "Yes, it's all bloody," observed Misha, looking at the cuff of his shirt. "Then change your shirt." "I haven't time. You see, I'll," Misha went on with the same confiding ingeniousness, drying his face and hands on the towel, and putting on his coat. "I'll turn it up at the wrist. It won't be seen under the coat, you see." "Tell me now, what game have you been up to? Have you been fighting with someone? In the tavern again, as before? Has you been beating that captain again?" Pyotar Ij asked him, reproachfully. "Who have you been beating now, or killing, perhaps?" "Nonsense," said Misha. "Don't worry," said Misha, and he suddenly laughed. "I smashed an old woman in the marketplace just now." "Smashed an old woman?" "An old man!" cried Misha, looking Pyotar Ij, straight in the face, laughing and shouting at him as though he were deaf. "Confounded an old woman, an old man. Have you killed someone?" "We made it up. We had a row and made it up. In a place I know of. We parted friends. A fool. He's forgiven me. He's sure they're forgiven me by now. If he got up, he wouldn't have forgiven me." Misha suddenly winked. "Only damn him. You know I say, Pyotar Ij, damn him. Don't worry about him. I don't want to just now," Misha snapped out, resolutely. "Whatever do you want to go picking crawls with everyone full? Just as you did with that captain over some nonsense. You've been fighting, and now you're rushing off on this pre. That's you all over. Three dozen champagne. What do you want all that for?" "Bravo, now give me the pistols. Upon my honour I've no time now. I should like to have a chat with you, my dear boy, but I haven't the time. And there's no need. It's too late for talking. Where's my money? Where have I put it?" he cried, thrusting his hands into his pocket. "You put it on the table yourself. Here it is. Had you forgotten? Money's like dirt or water to you, it seems. Hear your pistols. It's an odd thing. At six o'clock you pledged them for ten rubles, and now you've got thousands. Two or three, I should say." "Three, you bet," laughed Misha, stuffing the note into the side pocket of his trousers. "You lose it like that. Have you found a goldmine?" "The mines. The gold mines," Misha shouted at the top of his voice and went off into a roar of laughter. "Would you like to go to the mines, pardon? As a lady here he'll stump up three thousand for you, if only you'll go. She did it for me. She's so awfully fond of gold mines. Do you know Madame Chaclakov?" "I don't know her, but I've heard of her and seen her. Did she really give you three thousand? Did she really?" said Piazza Euge, eyeing him dubiously. "As soon as the sun rises tomorrow, as soon as fevers, ever young, flies upwards, praising and glorifying God, you go to her, this Madame Chaclakov, and ask her whether she did stump up that three thousand or not. Try and find out." "I don't know what turns you are. Since you say it so positively, I suppose she did give it to you. You've got the money in your hand. But instead of going to Siberia, you're spending it all. Where are you really off to now, huh?" "To Mokhoy. To Mokhoy. But it's night." "Once the lad at all, now the lad has not," cried Misha suddenly. "How not, you say that with all those thousands?" "I'm not talking about thousands. Damn thousands. I'm talking of female character. Fickle is the heart of woman, treacherous and full of vice. I agree with Ulysses. That's what he says." "I don't understand you. Am I drunk?" "Not drunk, but worse." "I'm drunk in spirit, Piazza Euge. Drunk in spirit. But that's enough." "What are you doing, loading the pistol?" "I'm loading the pistol." Unfastening the pistol case, Misha actually opened the powder horn and carefully sprinkled and rammed in the charge. Then he took the bullet and, before inserting it, held it in two fingers in front of the candle. "Why are you looking at the bullet?" asked Piazza Euge, watching him with uneasy curiosity. "Ah, fancy. Why, if you're meant to put that bullet in your brain, would you look at it or not?" "Why look at it?" "It's going into my brain, so it's interesting to look and see what it's like." "Ha, but that's foolishness. A moment's foolishness. Now that's done," he added, putting on the bullet and driving it home with the ramrod. "Piazza Euge, my dear fellow, that's nonsense. All nonsense. And if only you knew what nonsense, give me a little piece of paper now." "Here's some paper." "No, I want clean new piece, writing paper. That's right." And taking a pen from the table, Misha rapidly wrote two lines, folded the paper in four, and thrust it in his waistcoat pocket. He put the pistols in the case, locked it up, and kept it in his hand. Then he looked at Piazza Euge with a slow, thoughtful smile. "Now, let's go." "Where are we going?" "No, wait a minute. Are you thinking of putting that bullet in your brain, perhaps?" Piazza Euge asked uneasily. "I was fooling about the bullet. I want to live. I love life. You may be sure of that. I love golden-haired, forest, and its warm light." "Dear Piazza Euge, do you know how to step aside?" "What do you mean by stepping aside?" "Making way. Making way for a dear creature, and for one I hate, and let the one I hate become dear. That's what making way means." Had to say to them, "God bless you. Go your way. Pass on. While I..." "While you..." "That's enough. Let's go." "Up on my word, I'll tell someone to prevent your going there," said Piazza Euge, looking at him. "What are you going to microwave for now?" "There's a woman there. A woman. That's enough for you. You shut up." "Listen. Though you're such a savage, I've always liked you. I feel anxious." "Thanks, old fellow. I'm a savage, you say. Savages. Savages. That's what I am always saying. Savages. Why, here's Mischa. I was forgetting him." Mischa ran in, posed haste, with a handful of notes and change, and reported that everyone was in a bustle at the Plotnikos. They were carrying down the bottles, and the fish, and the tea. "It will all be ready directly." Mischa seized ten rubles and handed it to Piazza Euge, then tossed another ten ruble note to Mischa. "Don't dare to do such a thing," cried Piazza Euge. "I won't have it in my house. It's a bad demoralizing habit. Put your money away." "Here. Put it here. Why waste it? Who would come in handy tomorrow? My dare say you'll be coming to me tomorrow. Ten rubles again. Why do you keep putting the notes in your side pocket? You'll lose them." "I say, my dear fellow. Let's go to Mokkoade together." "What should I go for?" "I say. Let's open a bottle at once and drink to life. I want to drink, and especially to drink with you. I've never drunk with you, have I?" "Very well. We can go to the Metropolis. I was just going there." "I haven't time for that. Let's drink at the Plotnikos, in the back room. Shall I ask you a riddle?" "Ask away." Mischa took the piece of paper out of his wasted pocket, unfolded it, and showed it. In a large distinct hand was written. "I punish myself for my whole life. My whole life I punish." "I will certainly speak to someone. I'll go at once," said Prater Ilyich, after reading the paper. "You won't have time, dear boy. Come and have a drink. March." Plotnikos shop was at the corner of the street, next door but one to Prater Ilyich's. It was the largest grocery shop in our town, and by no means a bad one, belonging to some rich merchants. They kept everything that could be got in a Petersburg shop, grocery of all sort, wines bottled by the brothers Elisev, fruits, cigars, tea, coffee, sugar, and so on. There were three shop assistants, and two errand boys always employed. Though our part of the country had grown poorer, the land owners had gone away, and trade had got worse, yet the grocery stores flourished as before, every year with increasing prosperity. There were plenty of purchases for their goods. They were awaiting Micha with impatience in the shop. They had vivid recollections of how it bought three or four weeks ago, wine and goods of all sorts, to the value of several hundred rubles, paid for in cash. They would never have let him have anything on credit, of course. They remembered that then, as now, he had had a bundle of hundred ruble notes in his hand, and had scattered them at random, without bargaining, without reflecting, or caring to reflect, what use so much wine and provisions would beat him. The story was told all over the town that, driving off then with Groshenko to McCoy, he had spent three thousand in one night, and the following day, and had come back from the spree without a penny. He had picked up a whole troop of gypsies, and camped in our neighbourhood at the time, who for two days got money without stint out of him, while he was drunk, and drank expensive wine without stint. People used to tell, laughing at Micha, how it given champagne to grimy-handed peasants, and feasted the village women and girls on sweets and Strasbourg pies. Though to laugh at Micha to his face was rather a risky proceeding, there was much laughter behind his back, especially in the tavern, at his own ingenious public avale, that all he had got out of Groshenko by this escapade was permission to kiss her foot, and that was the utmost she had allowed him. By the time Micha and Petar Euge reached the shop, they found a cart with three horses harnessed a breast with bells, and with Andre, the driver, ready waiting for Micha at the entrance, in the shop that almost entirely finished packing one box of provisions, and were only waiting for Micha's arrival to nail it down and put it in the cart. Petar Euge was astounded. "Where did this cart come from?" In such a hurry, he asked Micha. "I met Andre as I ran to you, and told him to drive straight here to the shop. There's no time to lose. Last time I drove with Timofe, but Timofe now has gone on before me with the witch. Shall we be very late, Andre?" "They'll only get there an hour at most before us. Not even that, maybe. I got Timofe ready to start. I know how it will go. Their pace won't be ours, emitteri fjorovic. How could it be? They won't get there an hour earlier." Andre, a lanky red-haired middle-aged driver, wearing a full-skirted coat, and with a calf-tonormous arm, replied warmly. "Fifty rubles for vodka, if we're only an hour behind them." "I warn't the time you met with fjorovic. Eh, they won't be half an hour before us, let alone an hour." Though Micha bustled about seeing after things, he gave his orders strangely, as it were, disconnectedly and inconsideratively. He began a sentence and forgot the end of it. Pia-to-e-age found himself obliged to come to the rescue. "Four hundred rubles worth, not less than four hundred rubles worth, just as it was then," commanded Micha. "Four dozen champagne, not a bottle less." "What do you want with so much? What's it full? Stay!" cried Pia-to-e-age. "What's this box? What's in it? Surely there isn't four hundred rubles worth here?" The officious shopman began explaining with oily politeness that the first box contained only half a dozen bottles of champagne, and only the most indispensable articles, such as savories, sweets, toffee, et cetera. But the main part of the goods ordered would be packed and sent off, as on the previous occasion, in a special cart, also with three horses, traveling at full speed, so that it would arrive not more than an hour later than Micha-to-e-fjorovic himself. "Not more than an hour, not more than an hour, and put in more toffee and fondence. The girls there are so fond of it," Micha insisted hotly. "The fondents are all right. But what do you want with four dozen of champagne? One would be enough," said Pia-toe-e-age, almost angry. He began bargaining, asking for a bill of goods, and refused to be satisfied. But he only succeeded in saving a hundred rubles. In the end, it was agreed that only three hundred rubles worth should be sent. "Well, you may go to the devil," cried Pia-toe-e-age, on second thought. "What's it to do with me? Throw away your money, since it costs you nothing." "This way, my economist. This way. Don't be angry." Micha drew him into a room at the back of the shop. "The guf is a bottle here directly. We'll taste it." "Ah, Pia-toe-e-e-age. Come along with me, for you're a nice fellow. The sword I like." Micha sat down on a wicker chair, before a little table, covered with a dirty dinner napkin. Pia-toe-e-age sat down opposite, and the champagne soon appeared, and oysters were suggested to the gentleman. "First-class oysters, the last lolly-in." "Hang the oysters. I don't eat them, and we don't need anything," cried Pia-toe-e-e-age, almost angrily. "There's no time for oysters," said Micha. "And I'm not hungry." "Do you know a friend," he said suddenly, with feeling. "I never have liked all this disorder." "Who does like it? Three dozen of champagne for peasants, upon my word, that's enough to make anyone angry." "That's not what I mean. I'm talking of a higher order. There's no order in me, no higher order. But that's all over. There's no need to grieve about it. It's too late, dammit. My whole life has been disordered, and one must set it in order. Is that a punner?" "You're raving, not making puns." "Glory be to God in heaven. Glory be to God in me. That verse came from my heart once. It's not a verse, but a tear. I made it myself. Not while I was pulling the captain's beard, though. Why do you bring him in, all of a sudden?" "Why do I bring him in?" "Foolery. All things come to an end. All things are made equal. That's the long and short of it." "You know, I keep thinking of your pistols." "That's all foolery, too. Drink and don't be fanciful. I love life. I've loved life too much, shamefully much. Enough. Let's drink to life, dear boy. I propose the toast. Why am I pleased with myself? I'm a scoundrel, but I'm satisfied myself, and yet I'm tortured by the thought that I'm a scoundrel, but satisfied with myself. I bless the creation. I'm ready to bless God and his creation directly, but I must kill one noxious insect for fear to crawl and spoil life for others. That is drink to life, dear brother. What can be more precious than life? Nothing. To life, add to one queen of queens." "Let's drink to life, and to your queen, too, if you like." "They drank a glass each. Although Misha was excited and expensive, yet he was melancholy, too. It was as though some heavy, overwhelming anxiety were weighing upon him." "Mish, here's your Misha come. Mish, come here, my boy. Drink this glass to fever's the golden head of tomorrow morning." "What are you giving it him for?" "Quite pure to each, irritably." "Yes, yes, yes, let me. I want to." "Eh!" Misha emptied the glass, bowed, and ran out. "He'll remember it afterwards," Misha remarked. "Woman, I love woman. What is woman? The queen of creation. My heart is sad. My heart is sad, Piotr Ilyich. Do you remember Hamlet? I'm very sorry, good Horatio. A less poor Yorick. Perhaps that's me, Yorick. Yes, I'm Yorick now, and a skull afterwards." Piotr Ilyich listened in silence. Misha, too, was silent for a while. "What darks that you've got here?" he asked the shopman casually, noticing a pretty little lab dog with dark eyes sitting in the corner. "It belongs to her work, Alexander. The mistress answered the clerk. She brought it, and forgot it here. It must be taken back to her." "I saw one like it, in the regiment," murmured Misha, dreamily. "Only that one had its hind leg broken. By the way, Piotr Ilyich, I wanted to ask you. Have you ever stolen anything in your life?" "What a question." "Oh, I didn't mean anything. From somebody's pocket, you know. I don't mean government money. Everyone steals that, and no doubt you do, too. You go to the devil." "I'm talking of other people's money, stealing straight out of a pocket, out of a person." "I stole twenty topics for my mother when I was nine years old. I took it off the table on the sly and held it tight in my hand." "Well, and what happened?" "Oh, nothing. I kept it three days. Then I felt ashamed, confessed, and gave it back." "And what then?" "Naturally I was whipped. But why do you ask? Have you stolen something?" "I have," said Misha, winking slyly. "What have you stolen?" inquired Piotr Ilyich, curiously. "I stole twenty topics for my mother when I was nine years old and caved back three days later." As he said this, Misha suddenly got up. "Mitri Fyodorovich, won't you come now?" called Andre from the door of the shop. "Are you ready? Well, come," Misha started. A few more last words, and Andre, a glass of vodka, starting. "Give him some brandy as well. That box, the one with the pistols, put under my seat. Goodbye, Piotr Ilyich. Don't remember evil against me." "But you're coming back tomorrow. Will you settle the little bell now?" cried the clerk, springing forward. "Ah, yes, the bill, of course." He pulled the bundle of notes out of his pocket again, picked out three hundred rubles, threw them on the counter, and ran hurriedly out of the shop. Everyone followed him out, bowing and wishing him good luck. Andre, coughing from the brandy had just swallowed, jumped up on the box. But Misha was only just taking his seat, when suddenly to his surprise he saw Fenya before him. She ran up, panting, clasped her hands before him with a cry, and plumbed down at his feet. "Demitry Fjordr Ilyich. Dear good, Demitry Fjordr Ilyich, don't harm my mistress. And it was I told you all about it. And don't murder him. He came first, he's hers. He'll marry a kafina alexandrovna now. That's why he's come back from Siberia. Demitry Fjordr Ilyich, dear, don't take a fellow creature's life." "Tatatatatat, that's it, is it? So you're off there to make trouble." "Not at Pjordr Ilyich. Now it's all clear, as clear as daylight." "Demitry Fjordr Ilyich, give me your pistols at once. If you mean to behave like a man, he shouted aloud to Misha. "Demitry Fjordr Ilyich? The pistols?" "Wait a bit, brother. I'll throw them into the pool on the road," answered Misha. "Fenya, get up. Don't kneel to me. Misha won't hurt anyone. The silly fool won't hurt anyone again." "But I say fenya," he shouted, after having taken his seat. "I hurt you just now, so forgive me, and have pity on me. Forgive his scoundrel. But it doesn't matter if he don't. It's all the same now." "Now then, Andry, look alive. Fly along, full speed." Andry whipped up the horses, and the bells began ringing. "Goodbye, Pjordr Ilyich. My last tear is for you." "He's not drunk, but he keeps burbling like a lunatic," Pjordr Ilyich thought, as he watched him go. He had half a mind to stay, and see the cart packed with the remaining wines and provisions, knowing that they would deceive and defraud Misha. But, suddenly feeling vexed with himself, he turned away with a curse, and went to the tavern to play billiards. "He's a fool. There is a good fellow," he muttered, as he went. "I've heard of that officer, Gershanka's former flame. Well, if he has turned up--" "Ah, those pistols. Damn it all. I'm not as nurse. Let them do what they like. Besides, it'll come to nothing. There are a set of brawlers, that's all. They'll drink and fight, fight and make friends again. They're not men who do anything real. What does he mean by, I'm stepping aside. I'm punishing myself. It'll come to nothing. He shouted such phrases a thousand times, drunk in the taverns. But now he's not drunk. Drunk in spirit. Their fond of frightened phrases, the villains. "Am I as nurse?" he must have been fighting. His face was all over blood. "With whom?" I shall find out at the metropolis, and his hand-cutty was soaked in blood. It's still lying on my floor. "Hang it!" He reached the tavern in a bad humour, and at once made up a game. The game cheered him. He played a second game, and suddenly began telling one of his partners that Dmitry Karamazov had come in for some cash again, something like three thousand rubles, and had gone to Mukheray again to spend it with Kuchenka. This news roused singular interest in his listeners. They all spoke of it, not laughing, with its strange gravity. They left off playing. "Three thousand? But where can you have got three thousand?" Questions were asked. The story of Madam Hochlakov's present was received with skepticism. Hasn't he robbed his old father? That's the question. "Three thousand? There's something odd about it!" He both allowed that he would kill his father. We all heard him here, and it was three thousand he talked about. Piotriliaged listened. All at once. He became short and dry in his answers. He said not a word about the blood on Mukheray's face and hands, though it meant to speak of it at first. They began a third game, and by degrees, the talk about Mukheray died away. But by the end of the third game, Piotriliaged felt no more desire for Billyard. He laid down the queue, and without having supper as he had intended, he walked out of the tavern. When he reached the marketplace, he stood still in perplexity, wondering at himself. He realized that what he wanted was to go to Fyodor Pavlovitch's and find out if anything had happened there. "On account of some stupid nonsense, it's sure to turn out. How am I going to wake up the household and make a scandal?" "Foo! Damn it! Is it my business to look after them?" In a very bad humour, he went straight home, and suddenly remembered Fenya. "Damn it all! I ought to have questioned her just now," he thought with vexation. "I should have heard everything." And the desire to speak to her and so find out became so pressing and important that when he was half way home, he turned abruptly and went towards the house where Kinshenko lodged. Going up to the gate, he knocked. The sound of the knock and the silence of the night sobered him and made him feel annoyed, and no one answered him. Everyone in the house was asleep. "And I shall be making a fuss," he thought, with a feeling of positive discomfort. But instead of going away altogether, he felt a knocking again, with always might, filling the street with clamour. "Not coming? Well, I will knock them up, I will," he muttered at each knock, fuming at himself, but at the same time he would double his knocks on the gate. "And of Chapter Five of Book Eight." Book Eight, Chapter Six. "I am coming, too." But Dimitri Theodorovich was speeding along the road. It was a little more than twenty verse to macho, but Andrey's three horses galloped at such a pace that the distance might be covered in an hour and a quarter. The swift motion revived, Mitya. The air was fresh and cool. There were big stars shining in the sky. It was the very night, and perhaps the very hour, in which Eloysia fell on the earth and rapturously swore to love it forever and ever. All was confusion. Confusion in Mitya's soul. But although many things were goading his heart, at that moment his whole being was yearning for her, his queen, to whom he was flying to look on her for the last time. "One thing I can say for certain, his heart did not waver for one instant. I shall perhaps not be believed when I say that this jealous lover felt not the slightest jealousy of this new rival, who seemed to have sprung out of the earth. If any other had appeared on the scene he would have been jealous at once, and would perhaps have sustained his fierce hands with blood again. But as he flew through the night he felt no envy, no hostility even, for the man who had been her first lover. It is true that he had not yet seen him. Here there was no room for dispute. It was her right in his. This was her first love which, after five years, she had not forgotten. So she had loved him only for those five years. And I, how do I come in? What right have I? Step aside, Mitya, and make way. What am I now? Now everything is over apart from the officer, even if he had not appeared, everything would be over. These words would roughly have expressed his feelings if he had been capable of reasoning. But he could not reason at that moment. His present plan of action had arisen without reasoning. At Fenya's first words it had sprung from feeling, and been adopted in a flash with all its consequences. And yet, in spite of his resolution there was confusion in his soul, an agonizing confusion. His resolution did not give him peace. There was so much behind that tortured him. And it seemed strange to him at moments to think that he had written his own sentence of death with pen and paper. I punished myself. And the paper was lying there in his pocket ready. The pistol was loaded. He had already resolved how, next morning he would meet the first warm ray of golden-haired Phoebus. And yet he could not be quit of the past, of all that he had left behind and that tortured him. He felt that miserably, and the thought of its sank into his heart with despair. There was one moment when he felt an impulse to stop Andre, to jump out of the cart, to pull out his loaded pistol, and to make an end of everything without waiting for the dawn. But that moment flew by like a spark. The horses galloped on devouring space, and as he drew near his goal again the thought of her, of her alone, took more and more complete possession of his soul, chasing away the fearful images that had been haunting it. Oh, how he longed to look upon her, if only for a moment, if only from a distance. She's now with him, he thought. Now I shall see what she looks like with him, her first love, and that's all I want. Never had this woman, who was such a fateful influence in his life, aroused such love in his breast, such new and unknown feeling, surprising even to himself, a feeling of tender devoutness, to self-effacement before her. "I will face," myself, he said, in a rush of almost hysterical ecstasy. "They had been galloping nearly an hour, met you with silent, and though Andre was, as a rule, a talkative peasant, he did not utter a word either. He seemed afraid to talk; he only whipped up smartly his three lean but meddlesome bay horses. Suddenly, Mitya cried out in horrible anxiety. Andre, what if they were asleep? This thought fell upon him like a blow. It had not occurred to him before. It may well be that they are gone to bed by now, Dimitri Fiederovich. Mitya frowned as though in pain. Yes, indeed. He was rushing there, with such feelings, while they were asleep. She was asleep, perhaps there too, and angry feeling surged up in his heart. Drive on, Andre, whip them up, look alive, he cried beside himself. But maybe they are not in bed, Andre went on after a pause. Timothée said they were a lot of them there. At the station, not at the posting station, but at plastinovs, at the inn where they let out horses too. "I know. So you say there are a lot of them. How's that? Who are they?" cried Mitya, greatly dismayed at this unexpected news. "Well, Timothée was saying they are all gentle folk. Two from our town, who they are, I can't say, and there are two other strangers. Maybe more besides." "I didn't ask particularly. They set to play in cards," so Timothée said. "Cards? So maybe they are not in bed, if they are at cards. It is most likely not more than eleven." "Quick, Andre, quicker," Mitya cried again nervously. "May I ask you something, sir?" said Andre, after a pause. "Only I am afraid of angry, you sir. What is it? Why, fen you through herself at your feet just now, and beg you not to harm her mistress, and someone else too. So you see, sir, it is I am taking you there. Forgive me, sir, it is my conscience. Maybe it is stupid of me to speak of it." Mitya suddenly seized him by the shoulders from behind. "Are you a driver?" he asked frantically. "Yes, sir. Then you know that one has to make way. What would you say to a driver who wouldn't make way for anyone, but who would just drive on and crush people?" "No, a driver mustn't run over people. One can't run over a man. One can't spoil people's lives, and if you have spoiled a life, punish yourself. If only you've spoiled. If only you've ruined anyone's life, punish yourself and go away." These phrases burst from Mitya almost hysterically. Though Andre was surprised at him, he kept up the conversation. "That's right, Dimitri Fiederovich. You're quite right. One mustn't crush or torment a man, or any kind of creature, for every creature is created by God. Take a horse, for instance, for some folks, even among us drivers, drive anyhow. Nothing will restrain them. They just force it along. To hell Mitya interrupted and went off into his abrupt short laugh. Andre's simple soul, he seized him by the shoulders again. "Tell me, will Dimitri Fiederovich Karamazov go to hell or not? What do you think?" "I don't know, darling. It depends on you. For you are, you see, sir, when the son of God was nailed on the cross and died, he went straight down to hell from the cross and set free all sinners that were in agony. And the devil groaned, because he thought that he would get no more sinners in hell. "And God said to him, then, don't groan, for you shall have all the mighty of the earth, the rulers, the chief judges, and the rich men, and shall be filled up as you have been in all the ages till I come again. Those were his very words. A peasant legend, capital, whip up the left, Andre. So you see, sir, who it is, hell's force, and Andre whipping up the left horse, but you're like a little child. That's how we look on you. And though you're hasty-tempered, sir, yet God will forgive you for your kind heart. And you, do you forgive me, Andre? What should I forgive you for, sir? You've never done me any harm. No, for everyone, for everyone, you here alone on the road. Will you forgive me for everyone? Speak, simple peasant heart. Oh, sir, I feel afraid of driving you. Your talk is so strange. But Mitya did not hear. He was frantically praying and muttering to himself. "Lord, receive me with all my lawlessness, and do not condemn me. Let me pass by thy judgment. Do not condemn me, for I have condemned myself. Do not condemn me, for I love thee, O Lord. I am a wretch, but I love thee. If thou send us me to hell, I shall love thee there, and from there I shall cry out that I love thee forever and ever. But let me love to the end, here and now, for just five hours, till the first light of thy day, for I love the queen of my soul. I love her and I cannot help loving her. Thou seest my whole heart, I shall gallop up, I shall fall before her and say, You are right to pass on and leave me. Farewell and forget your victim. Never fret yourself about me." Mockrow cried Andre, pointing ahead with his whip. Through the pale darkness of the night, loomed a solid black mass of buildings, flung down, as it were, in the vast plain. The village of Mockrow numbered two thousand inhabitants, but at that hour all were asleep, and only here and there a few lights still twinkled. "Drive on, Andre, I come," midya exclaimed feverishly. "They're not asleep," said Andre again, pointing with his whip to the Plostinov's inn, which was at the entrance to the village. The six windows looking on the street were all brightly lighted up. "They're not asleep," midya repeated joyously. "Quick, Andre, gallop. Drive up with the dash, set the bells ringing. Let all know that I have come. I'm coming. I'm coming too." Andre lashed his exhausted team into a gallop, drove with the dash, and pulled up, his steaming, panting horses at the high flight of steps. Midya jumped out of the cart just as the innkeeper on his way to bed peeped out from the steps, curious to see who had arrived. "Tryphon Barisovich, is that you?" The innkeeper bent down, looking intently, ran down the steps, and rushed up to the guest with obsequious delight. "Dameetry Fiederovich, your honor. Do I see you again?" "Tryphon Barisovich was a thick-set, healthy peasant of middle height, with a rather fat face. His expression was severe and uncompromising, especially with the peasants of Machrow, but he had the power of assuming the most obsequious countenance, when he had an inkling that it was to his interest. He dressed in Russian style, with a shirt buttoning down on one side and a full-skirted coat. He had saved a good sum of money, but was forever dreaming of improving his position. More than half the peasants were in his clutches. Everyone in the neighborhood was in debt to him. From the neighboring landowners he bought and rented lands which were worked by the peasants, in payments of debts which they could never shake off. He was a widower with four grown-up daughters. One of them was already a widow and lived in the inn with her two children. His grandchildren and worked for him like a charwoman. Another of his daughters was married to a petty official, and in one of the rooms of the inn on the wall could be seen among the family photographs, a miniature photograph of this official in uniform and official epulets. The two younger daughters used to wear fashionable blue or green dresses, fitting tight at the back and with trains a yard long on church holidays or when they went to pay visits. But next morning they would get up at dawn as usual, sweep out the rooms with a birch room, empty the slops, and clean up after lodgers. In spite of the thousands of rubles he had saved, triphon barrisovitch was very fond of empty in the pockets of a drunken guest, and remembering that not a month ago he had, in twenty-four hours, made two, if not three hundred, rubles out of Dimitri, when he had come on his escapade with Grishenko. He met him now with eager welcome, senting his prey the moment Mitti drove up to the steps. "Dimitri Fiederovich, dear sir, we see you once more. Stay, triphon barrisovitch," began Mittia, first and foremost, where is she? Agrifenna, Alexandrovna. The innkeeper understood at once, looking sharply into Mittia's face. She's here, too, with whom, with whom. Some strangers, one is an official gentleman, a pole to judge from his speech. He sent the horses for her from here, and there's another with him, a friend of his or a fellow traveler. There's no telling, they're dressed like civilians. "Well, are they feasting? Have they money?" "Poor sort of a feast, nothing to boast of, to meet Drifieerovich." "Nothing to boast of, and who are the others?" "They're two gentlemen from the town. They've come back from Churney and are putting up here. One's quite a young gentleman, a relative of Mr. Musov, he must be, but I've forgotten his name, and I expect you know the other two, a gentleman named Maximov. He's been on a pilgrimage, so he says to the monastery in the town. He's traveling with this young relation of Mr. Musov. "Is that all? Stay, listen, triphon barrisovitch. Tell me the chief thing. What of her? How is she?" "Oh, she's only just come. She's sitting with them. Is she cheerful? Is she laughing? No, I think she's not laughing much. She's sitting quite dull. She's combing the young gentleman's hair. The pole, the officer? He's not young, and he's not an officer, either. Not him, sir. It's the young gentleman that's Mr. Musov's relation. I've forgotten his name. "Calgonov?" "That's it, Calgonov. All right, I'll see for myself. Are they playing cards?" "They have been playing, but they've left off. They've been drinking tea. The official gentleman asked for liqueurs. Stay, triphon barrisovitch. Stay, my good soul. I'll see for myself. Now, answer one more question. Are the gypsies here?" "You can't have the gypsies now, Demetri Theorovitch. The authorities have sent them away. But we've Jews that play the symbols and the fiddle in the village, so one might send for them. They'd come." "Send for them. Certainly send for them, cried Mitya. And you can get the girls together, as you did then. Maria, especially. Stepanita, too. An arena. Two hundred rubles for a chorus." "Oh, for a sum like that I can get all the village together, though by now they're asleep. Are the peasants here worth such kindness, Demetri Theorovitch, or the girls either?" "To spend a sum like that on such coarseness and rudeness." "What's the good of giving a peasant a cigar to smoke the stinking ruffian? And the girls are all lousy. Besides, I'll get my daughters up for nothing, let alone a sum like that. They've only just gone to bed. I'll give them a kick and set them singing for you." "You gave the peasants champagne to drink the other day." "Eck." For all his pretended compassion for Mitya, Trifon Barisovich had hidden half a dozen bottles of champagne on that last occasion, and had picked up a hundred ruble note under the table, and it had remained in his clutches. Trifon Barisovich, I sent more than one thousand flying last time. I was here. Do you remember? You did send it flying. I may well remember. You must have left three thousand behind you." "Well, I've come to do the same again. Do you see?" And he pulled out his roll of notes and held them up before the innkeeper's nose. Now listen and remember, in an hour's time the wine will arrive. Savory's pies and sweets. Bring them all up at once. That box, Andre has got, is to be brought up at once too. Open it and hand champagne immediately. And the girls, we must have the girls. Mario, especially." He turned to the cart and pulled out the box of pistols. Here, Andre, let's settle. Here's fifteen rubles for the drive and fifty for vodka. For your readiness, for your love. Remember Cara Mazov. "I'm afraid, sir," Andre. "Give me five rubles extra, but more I won't take. Trifon Barisovich, bear witness. Forgive my foolish words." "What are you afraid of?" asked Mitya, scanning him. "Well, go to the devil, if that's it." He cried, flinging him five rubles. "Now, Trifon Barisovich, take me up quietly and let me first get a look at them so that they don't see me. Where are they, in the blue room?" Trifon Barisovich looked apprehensively at Mitya, but at once obediently did his bidding. Leading him into the passage, he went himself into the first large room, adjoining that in which the visitors were sitting and took the light away. Then he stealthily led Mitya in and put him in a corner in the dark, whence he could freely watch the company without being seen. But Mitya did not look long, and indeed he could not see them. He saw her, his heart throbbed violently and all was dark before his eyes. She was sitting sideways to the table in a low chair, and beside her on the sofa was the pretty youth, Cal Ganov. She was holding his hand and seemed to be laughing while he seeming vexed, and not looking at her was saying something in a loud voice to Maximov, who sat on the other side of the table facing Grushenko. Maximov was laughing violently at something. On the sofa sat he, and on a chair by the sofa there was another stranger. The one on the sofa was lolling backward, smoking a pipe, and Mitya had an impression of a stoutish broad-faced, short little man who was apparently angry about something. His friend, the other stranger, struck Mitya as extraordinarily tall, but he could make out nothing more. He caught his breath. He could not bear it for a minute. He put the pistol case on a chest, and with a throbbing heart he walked, feeling cold all over, straight into the blue room to face the company. "Aye!" shrieked Grushenko, the first to notice him. End of chapter 6 of book 8 book 8, chapter 7, the first and rightful lover. With his long rapid strides, Mitya walked straight up to the table. "Gentlemen!" he said in a loud voice, almost shouting, "Get scammering at every word." "Aye, I'm all right. Don't be afraid," he exclaimed. There's nothing to the matter. He turned suddenly to Grushenko, put shrunk back in her chair towards Kalganov, and clasped his hand tightly. "Aye, I'm coming too. I'm here till morning. Gentlemen, may I stay with you till morning? Only till morning, for the last time in the same room?" So he finished, turning to the fat little man with the pipe, sitting on the sofa. The latter removed his pipe from his lips with dignity and observed severely. "Paniye, we're here in private. There are other rooms." Translators know, "Pon and Paniye mean Mr. and Polish. Pani means Mrs. Panovier. Gentlemen. Why it's you, Dimitri Fieodorovich. What do you mean?" answered Kalganov suddenly. "Sit down with us. How are you?" "Delighted to see you, dear, and precious fellow, I always thought a lot of you meet your responded joyfully and eagerly at once holding out his hand across the table." "Aye, how tight you squeeze. You've quite broken my fingers," laughed Kalganov. He always squeezes like that, always Grushenko put in gayly with a timid smile. Seeming suddenly convinced from Mita's face that he was not going to make a scene. She was watching him with intense curiosity and still some uneasiness. She was impressed by something about him and indeed the last thing she expected of him was that he would come in and speak like this at such a moment. "Good evening, Maximov," ventured blindly on the left. "Meet your rush up to him, too." "Good evening, you're here, too. How glad I am to find you here, too." Gentlemen, gentlemen, I, he addressed the Polish gentleman with the pipe again, evidently taking him for the most important person present. I flew here. I wanted to spend my last day, my last hour in this room, in this very room where I, too, adored my queen, forgive me, Kanye. He cried wildly. I flew here and vowed, "Oh, don't be afraid, it's my last night, let's drink to our good understanding." They'll bring the wine at once. I brought this with me. Something made him pull out his bundle of notes. "Allow me, Kanye. I want to have music, singing, a rebel, as we had before. But the worm, the unnecessary worm, will crawl away, and there'll be no more of him. I will commemorate my day of joy on my last night." He was almost choking. There was so much, so much he wanted to say, but strange explanations were all that came from his lips. The pole gazed fixly at him, at the bundle of notes in his hand, looked at Gershenka, and was an evident perplexity. "If my sovereign lady is permitting, he was beginning." "What's a sovereign mean? Sovereign," I supposed, interrupted Gershenka, "I can't help laughing at you the way you talk. Sit down, media. What are you talking about? Don't frighten us, please. You won't frighten us, will you? If you won't, I am glad to see you." "Me, me, frighten you," cried media, flinging out his hands. "Oh, pass me by, go your way, I won't hinder you." And suddenly he surprised them all, and no doubt himself, as well, by flinging himself on a chair and bursting into tears, turning his head away to the opposite wall while his arms clasped the back of the chair tight as though embracing it. "Come, come, what a fellow you are," cried Gershenka, reproachfully. "That's just how he comes to see me," he begins, talking, "and I can't make out what he means," he cried like that once before, and now he's crying again. "It's shameful, why are you crying?" As though you had anything to cry for, she added in magnetically, emphasizing each word with some irritability. "I'm, I'm not crying. Well, good evening," he instantly turned round in his chair and suddenly laughed, not his abrupt wooden lap, but a long, quivering, inaudible, nervous laugh. "Well, there you are, again. Come, cheer up, cheer up," Gershenka said to him persuasively. "I'm very glad you've come, very glad, meet ya. Do you hear? I'm very glad. I want him to stay here with us," she said, pre-empturally, addressing the whole company, though her words were obviously meant for the man sitting on the sofa. "I wish it, I wish it, and if he goes away, I shall go too," she added, with flashing eyes. "What my queen commands is law," pronounced the pole, gallantly kissing Gershenka's hand. "I beg you, Kanye, to join our company," he added politely, addressing meet ya. "Meet ya was jumping up with the obvious intention of delivering another tirade, but the words did not come. Let's street Kanye," he blurted out instead of making a speech. "Everyone laughed. Good heavens, I thought he was going to begin again," Gershenka explained nervously. "Do you hear, meet ya?" She went on insistently. "Don't prance about, but it's nice you brought the champagne. I want some myself, and I can't bear the cores, and best of all, you've come herself. We were fearfully dull here. You've come for a spree again, I suppose, but put your money in your pocket. Where did you get such a lot? Meet ya had been all this time holding in his hand the crumpled bundle of notes on which the eyes of all, especially of the poles, were fixed. In confusion, he thrust them hurriedly in his pocket. He flushed. At that moment, the innkeeper brought in an uncorked bottle of champagne, and glasses on a tray. Meet ya snatched up the bottle, but he was so bewildered that he did not know what to do with it. Kalganov took it from him and poured out the champagne. "Another, another bottle, meet your cry to the innkeeper. And forgetting to clank glasses with the pole, whom he had solemnly invited the drink to their good understanding, he drank off his glass without waiting for anyone else. His whole countenance suddenly changed. The solemn and tragic expression with which he had entered vanished completely, and a look of something childlike came into his face. He seemed to have become suddenly gentle and subdued. He looked shyly and happily at everyone, with a continual, nervous little laugh, and the blissful expression of a dog who has done wrong, been punished, and forgiven. He seemed to have forgotten everything, and was looking around at everyone with a childlike smile of delight. He looked at Krashenka, laughing continually, and bringing his chair close up to her. By degrees, he had gained some idea of the two poles, though he had formed no definite conception of them yet. The pole and the sofa struck him by his dignified demeanor and his Polish accent, and above all, by his pipe. "Well, what of it? It's a good thing he's smoking a pipe," he reflected. The pole's puffy middle-aged face, with its tiny nose and two very thin, pointed dyed and imputed looking mustaches, had not so far aroused the faintest doubts and neat yet. He was not even particularly struck by the pole's absurd wig made in Siberia, with love-locks foolishly combed forward over the temples. "I suppose it's all right, since he wears a wig," he went on, using blissfully. The other younger pole, who was staring insolently and defiantly at the company and listening to the conversation with silent content, still only impressed meat yet by his great height, which was in striking contrast to the pole and the sofa. If he stood up, he'd be six foot three, the thought flitted through meat in his mind. It occurred to him, too, that this pole must be the friend of the other, as it were, a bodyguard, and no doubt the big pole was at the disposal of the little pole with the pipe. But this all seemed to meet you perfectly right and not to be questioned. In his mood of doglike submissiveness, all feeling of rivalry had died away. Grishenko's mood and the enigmatic tone of some of her words he completely failed to grasp. All he understood with thrilling heart was that she was kind to him, that she had forgiven him and made him sit by her. He was beside himself with delight, watching her sip her glass of champagne. The silence of the company seemed somehow to strike him, however, and he looked around at everyone with expectant eyes. "Why are we sitting here, though, gentlemen? Why don't you begin doing something?" his smiling eye seemed to ask. He keeps talking nonsense, and we were all laughing, Calvin offs began suddenly, as though dividing his thoughts and pointing to Maximov. Meat yet immediately stared at Calvin off and then at Maximov. He's talking nonsense, he laughed his short wooden lap, seeming suddenly delighted at something. "Ha ha!" "Yes, would you believe it? He will have it that all our cavalry officers in the 20s married Polish women. That's awful rot, isn't it?" Polish women repeated Meat yet perfectly ecstatic. Calvin off was well aware of Meat yet's attitude to Grishenko, and he guessed about the pole too, but that did not so much interest him. Perhaps did not interest him at all. What he was interested in was Maximov. He had come here with Maximov by chance, and he met the poles here at the end for the first time in his life. Grishenko he knew before, and had once been with someone to see her, but she had not taken to him. But here she looked at him very affectionately, before Meat is a rival. She had been making much of him, but he seemed somehow to be unmoved by it. He was a boy, not over twenty, dressed like a dandy, with a very charming, fair-skinned face, and splendid thick fair hair. From his fair face looked out beautiful pale blue eyes with an intelligent and sometimes even deep expression beyond his age and deed. Although the young man sometimes looked and talked quite like a child, and was not at all ashamed of it, even when he was aware of it himself, as a rule he was very willful, even capricious, though always friendly. Sometimes there was something fixed and obstinate in his expression. He would look at you and listen, seeming all the while to be persistently dreaming over something else. Often he was listless and lazy. Other times he would grow excited, sometimes apparently over the most trivial matters. Only imagine I've been taking him about with me for the last four days he went on indolently drawing his words quite naturally, though without the slightest affectation. Ever since your brother, do you remember shoved him off the carriage and sin and flying? That made me take an interest in him at that time. And I took him into the country, but he keeps talking such rot I'm ashamed to be with him. I'm taking him back. The gentleman has not seen Polish ladies and says what is impossible, the pole with the pipe observed to Maximal. He spoke Russian fairly well, much better anyway than he pretended. If he used Russian words, he always distorted them into a Polish form. But that was married to a Polish lady, myself tattered Maximal. But did you serve in the cavalry? Were you talking about the cavalry? Were you a cavalry officer put in Kalganov at once? Was he a cavalry officer? Indeed, ha ha! cried media listening eagerly. And turning his inquiring eyes to each as he spoke, as though there were no knowing what he might hear from each. No, you see Maximal turned to him. What I mean is that those pretty Polish ladies, when they danced the Maserka with our Ulan's, when one of them dances the Maserka with an Ulan, she jumps on his knee like a kitten, a little white one, and the pawn father and pawn mother look on and allow it. They allow it. And next day the Ulan comes and offers her his hand. That's how it is. Officer's hand, ha ha! Maximal ended tittering. The pawn is a watch duck, translators know, scoundrel. The tall pole in the chair growled suddenly and crossed one leg over the other. And he and his eye was caught by his huge greased boot with its thick dirty soul. The dress of both the poles looked rather greasy. Well now it's watch duck. What's he scolding about? Sid Grushenko suddenly vexed. Honey agropina. What the gentleman saw in Poland were servant girls and not ladies of good birth. The pole with the pipe observed to Grushenko. You can reckon on that. The tall pole snapped continuously. What next? Let him talk. People talk. Why hinder them? "It makes it cheerful," Grushenko said crossling. "I'm not hindering them, honey," said the pole in the wig with a long look at Grushenko and relapsing into dignified silence. He sucked his pipe again. "No, no." The Polish gentleman spoke the truth. Kaganov got excited again. As though it were a question of vast import, he's never been in Poland. So how can he talk about it? I suppose you weren't married in Poland, were you? No, in the province of Smolensk. Only an Ulan had brought her to Russia before that, my future wife with her mama and her aunt, and another female relation with the grown-up son. He brought her straight from Poland and gave her up to me. He was a lieutenant in our regiment, a very nice young man. At first he meant to marry her himself, but he didn't marry her because she turned out to be lame. So you married a lame woman, cried Kaganov? Yes, they both deceived me a little bit at the time and concealed it. I thought she was hopping. She kept hopping. I thought it was for fun. So pleased she was going to marry you, young Kaganov, in a ringing childish voice. Yes, so pleased, but it turned out to be quite a different cause. Afterwards, when we were married, after the wedding, that very evening, she confessed and very touchingly asked forgiveness. I once jumped over a puddle when I was a child, she said, and injured my leg. Hee hee. Kaganov went off into the most childish laughter, all was falling on the sofa. Krushenko too laughed. Meet you with at the pinnacle of happiness. Do you know that's the truth? He's not lying now, exclaimed Kaganov, turning to meet you. And do you know if he's been married twice? It's his first wife he's talking about, but his second wife, do you know, ran away and is alive now? Is it possible, said meet you, turning quickly to Maximov with an expression of the utmost astonishment? Yes, she did run away. I've had the unpleasant experience Maximov modestly ascended with the mature, and what was worse, she'd had all my little property transferred to her beforehand. "You're an educated man," she said to me. "You can always get your living." She settled my business with that. A bearable bishop once said to me, "One of your wives was lame, but the other was too light-footed." Hee hee. Listen, listen, Craig Kaganov bubbling over. If he's telling wise, and he often is, he's only doing it to amuse us all. There's no harm in that, is there? You know, I sometimes like him. He's awfully low, but it's natural to him, hey? Don't you think so? Some people are low from self-interest, but he's simply so from nature. Only fancy, he claims, he was arguing about it all the way he yesterday, that Google wrote dead souls about him. Do you remember? There's a landowner called Maximov in it, whom Nastria thrashed. He was charged, do you remember, for inflicting bodily injury with rods on the landowner Maximov in a drunken condition? Would you believe it? He claims that he was that Maximov and that he was beaten. Now, can it be so? Chik-chikov made his journey at the very latest, at the beginning of the 20s, so that the dates don't fit. He couldn't have been thrashed then. He couldn't, could he? It was difficult to imagine what Kaganov wasn't excited about, but his excitement was genuine. Me, you followed his lead without protest. "Well, but if they did thrash him," he cried, laughing, "it's not that they thrashed me exactly, but what I mean is, but put in Maximov, what do you mean? Either they thrashed you or they didn't." "What a clock is it?" Paneeth, the pole with the pite asked his tall friend with a board expression. The other shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Neither of them had a watch." "Why not talk? Let other people talk. Mustn't other people talk because you're bored?" Grishankah flew at him with evident intention of finding fault. "Something seemed for the first time to flash upon me is mine. This time the pole answered with unmistakable irritability." "Pane, I didn't oppose it. I didn't say anything." "Alright, then. Come, tell us your story," Grishankah cried to Maximov. "Why are you all silent?" "There's nothing to tell. It's also foolish," answered Maximov at once, with evident satisfaction, mincing a little. Besides, all that spy way of allegory and google, for he's made all the names had a meaning. Nasriov was really called Nasov, and Kushinakov had quite a different name. He was called Shigwarnath. Vennardi really was called finardi. Only he wasn't an Italian but a Russian, and Mam's elf finardi was a pretty girl with pretty little legs and tights, and she had a little short skirt with spangles, and she kept turning round and round, only not for four hours, but for four minutes only, and she bewitched everyone. "But what were you beaten for?" cried Kalganov. "For Peron," answered Maximov. "What Peron?" cried Mika. The famous French writer Peron, we were all drinking then, a big party of us, in a tavern at the very fair. They'd invited me, and first of all, I began quoting epigrams. "Is that you, Welo? What a funny get-up, and boy-low answers that he's going to a masquerade, that is, to the best. He-he, and they took it to themselves, so I made Haster repeat another. Very sarcastic, well known to all educated people. "Yes, sappen fade on our wheat, but one grief is weighing on me. You don't know your way to the sea!" They were still more offended and began amusing me in the most unseemly way for it, and as ill luck would have it, to set things right, I began telling a very cultivated antidote about Peron. How he was not accepted into the French Academy, and to revenge himself, wrote his own epitaph. "Sijit Peron, Qui Nifut, Rien, Hasmime, Academician," translators note. "Here lies Peron, who was nothing, not even an academician. They seized me and thrashed me, but what for?" "For my education, people can thrash a man for anything," Maximo concluded briefly and statistically. "That's enough. That's all stupid. I don't want to listen. I thought it would be amusing. Grecian could cut them short suddenly. Meat just started, and at once left off laughing. The tall pole rose upon his feet, and with the haughty air of a man poured out of his element, again pacing from corner to corner of the room, his hands behind his back. "Ah, he can't sit still!" said Grecianca. Looking at him contemptuously, meaty began to feel anxious. He noticed, besides that the pole on his toe, who was looking at him with an irritable expression. "Ponnier cried meaty. Let's drink!" And the other pawns, too, let us drink. In a flash, he had pulled three glasses towards him and filled them with champagne. "To Poland, Panovier. I drink to your Poland, cried meaty. I shall be delighted, Ponnier," said the pole on the sofa with dignity and affable condescension, and he took his glass. And the other pawn, what's his name? "Drink most illustrious. Take your glass," meaty urged. "Ponnier Bluski put in the pole on the sofa." "Ponnier Bluski came up to the table, swaying as he walked. To Poland, Panovier cried meaty, raising his glass. Hoorah!" All three drink, meaty seized the bottle and again poured out three glasses. "Now to Russia, Panovier, and let us be brothers. Pour out some for us," said Grecianca. "I'll drink to Russia, too." "So am I," said Calvin on. "And I would, too, to Russia, the old grandmother, tiddered maximal. All, all cried meaty. Shufambor, sovaged. Some more bottles." The other three bottles meaty had brought with him were put on the table, meaty filled the glasses. "To Russia, hurrah!" he shouted again. "I'll drink the toast, except the poles, and Grecianca tossed off her whole glass at once. The poles did not touch theirs." "How's this Panovier cried meaty? Won't you drink it?" Pannier Bluski took the glass, raised it, and said with the resonant voice, "To Russia, as she was before 1772." "Come, that's better," cried the other pole, and they both emptied their glasses at once. "Your fools, you Panovier!" broke suddenly from meaty. "Pannier!" shouted both the poles menacingly, setting on meaty like a couple of cocks. Pannier Bluski was especially furious. "Can one help loving one's own country?" he shouted. "Be silent, don't quarrel. I won't have any quarreling!" cried Grecianca imperiously, and she stamped her foot on the floor. Her face glowed, her eyes were shining. The effects of the glass she had just drunk were apparent. Meaty was terribly alarmed. "Panovier, forgive me. It was my fault. I'm sorry. Bear Bluski, Pannier, Bear Bluski, I'm sorry. Hold your tongue, you! Anyway, sit down, you stupid, Grecianca scolded with angry annoyance. Everyone sat down, all over silent, looking at one another. Gentlemen, I was the cause of it all. Meaty began again, unable to make anything of Grecianca's words. "Come, why are we sitting here? What shall we do to amuse ourselves again?" "Ah! It's certainly anything but amusing," Kalkenauve mumbled lazily. "Let's play Pharaoh again." As we did just now, Max mobbed hitted suddenly. "Pharaoh? Splendid?" cried Meatkit. "If only the Panovier, it's light," Panovier. The pole on the sofa responded, as it were, unwillingly. "That's true," said Pannier Bluski. "Light, what do you mean light?" said Grecianca. "Late, Pani. A late hour, I mean," the pole on the sofa explained. "It's always late with them. They can never do anything," Grecianca almost shrieked in her anger. "They're dull themselves, so they want others to be dull. Before came Meat yet, they were just as silent and kept turning up their noses at me." "My goodness," cried the pole on the sofa, "I see you're not well disposed to me. That's why I am gloomy. I'm ready," Panovier added he, addressing Meat yet. "Again," Panovier meant yes since it, pulling his notes out of his pocket and laying 200 ruble notes on the table, "I want to lose a lot to you. Take your cards. Make the bank." "We'll have cards for the landlord," Panovier said a little pole gravely and emphatically. "That's much the best way," chimed in Panvair Bluski. "From the landlord, very good. I understand. Let's get them from him." "Cards?" Meat yet shouted to the landlord. "The landlord brought in a new unopen pack and informed Meat yet that the girls were getting ready and that the Jews with them symbols would most likely be here soon, for the cart with the provisions had not yet arrived." Meat yet jumped up from the table and ran into the next room to give orders, but only three girls had arrived and Mary was not there yet, and he did not know himself what orders to give and why he had run out. He only told them to take out of the box, the present for the girls, the sweets, the toffee, and the fondants. "And vodka for Andre. Vodka for Andre," he cried in haze. "I was rude to Andre." Suddenly, Maximov, who had fallen out, touched him on the shoulder, "Give me five rubles," he whispered to Meat yet. "I'll stay something at Pharaoh, too." He capital splendid. "Take ten here." Again, he took all the notes out of his pocket and picked out one for ten rubles, and if you lose that, come again, come again. Very good, Maximov whispered joyfully, and he ran back again. Meat yet too returned, apologizing for having kept them waiting. The polls had already sat down and opened the pack. They looked much more amiable, almost cordial. The poll in the sofa had lighted another pipe and was preparing to throw. He wore an air of solemnity. "To your places," gentleman cried, "Panburg Blasky." "No, I'm not going to play anymore," observed Kalkinov. "I've lost fifty rubles to them just now." The pond had no luck. Perhaps they'll be lucky this time the poll in the sofa observed in this direction. "How much in the bank to correspond?" asked Meat yet. "That's according, Panie, maybe a hundred, maybe two hundred, as much as you will stake." "A million!" laughed Meat yet. The pond captain has heard of the pond, Pod Misotsky, perhaps? What pod Misotsky? In Warsaw, there was a bank, and anyone comes and stakes against it. Pod Misotsky comes, sees a thousand gold pieces, sticks against the bank, and Banker says, "Panie, Pod Misotsky, are you laying down the gold, or must we trust to your honor?" "To my honor, Panie says Pod Misotsky, so much the better." The banker throws the dice, Pod Misotsky wins. "Take it, Panie, says the Banker," and pulling out the drawer, he gives him a million. "Take it, Panie, this is your game." "There was a million in the bank." "I didn't know that," says Pod Misotsky. "Panie, Pod Misotsky, said the banker, you pledged your honor, and we pledged ours." Pod Misotsky took the million. "That's not true," said Calganov. "Panie, Calganov, and gentlemanly society, one doesn't say such things." As if a Polish gambler would give away a million, cried Meat yet, but checked himself at once. "Forgive me, Panie, it's my fault again." He would, he would give away a million, for honor, for Polish honor. "You see how I talk Polish?" "Ha ha!" "Here, I stick ten rubles, the nave leads." "And I put a ruble on the queen, the queen of hearts, the pretty little Panie Notchka." "Translators note, littleness." "He, he," laughed Maximov, pulling out his queen, and as though trying to conceal it from everyone, he moved right up and crossed himself hurriedly under the table. "Meet your wand." "The ruble wand, too." "A corner," cried Meat yet. "I'll bet another ruble, a single stake," Maximov muttered gleefully, hugely delighted at having wand a ruble. "Lost!" shouted Meat yet, a double on the seven. The seven, too, was trumped. "Stop!" cried Kaganov suddenly. "Double, double, meet your double to stakes, and each time you double mistake, the card he doubled was trumped by the poles. The ruble stakes kept winning. On the double shouted Meat, yes, furiously." "You've lost two hundred, Panie, will you stake another hundred?" The pole and the sofa inquired. "What, lost two hundred already, then another two hundred? All doubles!" And pulling his money out of his pocket, Meat yet was about to fling two hundred rubles on the queen, but Kaganov covered it with his hand. "That's enough," he shouted in his bringing voice. "What's the matter?" Meat, yes, stared at him. "That's enough. I don't want you to play any more. Don't. Why? Because I don't. Hang it. Come away. That's why I won't let you go on playing." Meat, it gazed at him in astonishment. "Give it up Meat. Yeah, he may be right. You've lost a lot as it is," said Greshenka, with a curious note in her voice. Both the poles rose from their seats with a deeply offended air. "Are you joking, Panie?" said the short man, looking severely at Kaganov. "How dare you!" Panvera Blevsky, too, growled at Kaganov. "Don't dare to shout like that," cried Greshenka. "Ah, you turkey-cocks!" Meat yet looked at each of them in turn, but something in Greshenka's face suddenly struck him, and at the same instant something new flashed into his mind, a strange new thought. Panie Agrippina, the little pole was beginning crimson with anger, when Meat is suddenly went up to him and slapped him on the shoulder. "Most illustrious, two words with you," cried Meat yet. "What do you want?" "In the next room, I have two words to say to you, something pleasant, very pleasant. You will be glad to hear it." The little pond was taken aback and looked apprehensively at Meat yet. He agreed at once, however, on condition that Panvera Blevsky went with him. "The bodyguard let him come, and I want him too. I must have him," cried Meat yet. "March, Panovier." "Where are you going?" cried Greshenka anxiously. "We'll be back in one moment," answered Meat yet. There was a sort of boldness, a sudden confidence shining in his eyes. His face had looked very different when he entered the room an hour before. He led the poles not into the large room where the chorus of girls was assembling and the table was being laid, but into the bedroom on the right where the trunks and packages were kept. And there were two large beds with pyramids of cotton pillows on each. There was a lighted candle on a small deal table in the corner. The small man and Meat just sat down to this table, facing each other, while the huge fair of Lefsky stood beside them. His hands behind his back. The poles looked severe but were evidently inquisitive. "What can I do for you, Panea," lists the little pole. "Well, look here, Panea. I won't keep you long. There's money for you." He pulled out his notes. "Would you like 3,000? Take it, and go your way." The pole gazed open night at Meat yet with a searching look. "3,000, Panea?" His changed glances with Panvera Blesky. "Three, Panovier. Three, listen, Panea. I see yours since school men. Take 3,000 and go to the devil. And Vera Blesky with you. Do you hear? But at once, this very minute and forever. You understand that, Panea, forever. Here's the door. You go out of it. "What have you got there? A grey coat? A fur coat? I'll bring it out to you. They'll get the horses out directly. And then goodbye, Panea." We get awaited in answer with assurance. He had no doubts. An expression of extraordinary resolution passed over the pole's face. And the money, Panea? The money, Panea. "Five hundred rubles. I'll give you this moment for the journey. And as a first installment in 2,500 tomorrow in the town, I swear on my honor, I'll get it. I'll get it at any cause cried Meat yet." The pole's exchanged glances again. The short man's face looked more forbidding. "700. 700. Not 500. At once, this minute. Cashed down." Meat get added. Feeling something wrong. "What's the matter, Panea? Don't you trust me? I can't give you the whole 3,000 straight off. If I give it, you may come back to her tomorrow. Besides, I haven't the 3,000 with me. I've got it at home in the town," faltered Meat yet, his spirit sinking at every word he uttered. "Upon my word, the money's there. Hidden. In an instant, an extraordinary sense of personal dignity showed itself in the little man's face. What next?" he asked, ironically. "For shame." And he spat on the floor. "Panea rescue spat, too." "You do that, Panea," said Meat yet, recognizing the despair that all was over because you hoped to make more out of Grashenka. "You're a couple of capons. That's what you are. This is a mortal insult," the little pole turned as red as a crab. And he went out of the room briskly, as though unwilling to hear another word. "Barob Lefsky swung out after him and Meat yet followed, confused and crestfallen. He was afraid of Grashenka, afraid that the Pane would had once raised an outcry. And so indeed he did. The pole walked into the room and threw himself in a theatrical attitude before Grashenka. "Panea Grapina, I have received a mortal insult," he exclaimed. But Grashenka suddenly lost all patience, as though they had wounded her in the tender spot. "Speak Russian, speak Russian," she cried. "Another word of Polish. He used to talk Russian. You can't have forgotten it in five years." She was red with passion. "Panea Grapina, my name's Agra Fanea Grashenka, speak Russian or I won't listen. The pole gassed with offended dignity and quickly and pompously delivered himself in a broken Russian." "Panea Grapina, I came here to forget the past and forget it, to forget all that has happened till today. Forgive, came here to forgive me." Grashenka cut him short, jumping up from her seat. "Just so, Panea, I'm not from Solanimus, I'm magnanimous, but I was astounded." 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 ChumbaCasino.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 ChumbaCasino.com now.