The Brothers Karamazov
besides that, there is still preserved, though only in thought, the
judgment of the Church, which though no longer existing in practice is
still living as a dream for the future, and is, no doubt, instinctively
recognized by the criminal in his soul. What was said here just now is
true too, that is, that if the jurisdiction of the Church were
introduced in practice in its full force, that is, if the whole of the
society were changed into the Church, not only the judgment of the
Church would have influence on the reformation of the criminal such as
it never has now, but possibly also the crimes themselves would be
incredibly diminished. And there can be no doubt that the Church would
look upon the criminal and the crime of the future in many cases quite
differently and would succeed in restoring the excluded, in restraining
those who plan evil, and in regenerating the fallen. It is true,” said
Father Zossima, with a smile, “the Christian society now is not ready
and is only resting on some seven righteous men, but as they are never
lacking, it will continue still unshaken in expectation of its complete
transformation from a society almost heathen in character into a single
universal and all-powerful Church. So be it, so be it! Even though at
the end of the ages, for it is ordained to come to pass! And there is
no need to be troubled about times and seasons, for the secret of the
times and seasons is in the wisdom of God, in His foresight, and His
love. And what in human reckoning seems still afar off, may by the
Divine ordinance be close at hand, on the eve of its appearance. And so
be it, so be it!”
“So be it, so be it!” Father Païssy repeated austerely and reverently.
“Strange, extremely strange!” Miüsov pronounced, not so much with heat
as with latent indignation.
“What strikes you as so strange?” Father Iosif inquired cautiously.
“Why, it’s beyond anything!” cried Miüsov, suddenly breaking out; “the
State is eliminated and the Church is raised to the position of the
State. It’s not simply Ultramontanism, it’s arch-Ultramontanism! It’s
beyond the dreams of Pope Gregory the Seventh!”
“You are completely misunderstanding it,” said Father Païssy sternly.
“Understand, the Church is not to be transformed into the State. That
is Rome and its dream. That is the third temptation of the devil. On
the contrary, the State is transformed into the Church, will ascend and
become a Church over the whole world—which is the complete opposite of
Ultramontanism and Rome, and your interpretation, and is only the
glorious destiny ordained for the Orthodox Church. This star will arise
in the east!”
Miüsov was significantly silent. His whole figure expressed
extraordinary personal dignity. A supercilious and condescending smile
played on his lips. Alyosha watched it all with a throbbing heart. The
whole conversation stirred him profoundly. He glanced casually at
Rakitin, who was standing immovable in his place by the door listening
and watching intently though with downcast eyes. But from the color in
his cheeks Alyosha guessed that Rakitin was probably no less excited,
and he knew what caused his excitement.
“Allow me to tell you one little anecdote, gentlemen,” Miüsov said
impressively, with a peculiarly majestic air. “Some years ago, soon
after the _coup d’état_ of December, I happened to be calling in Paris
on an extremely influential personage in the Government, and I met a
very interesting man in his house. This individual was not precisely a
detective but was a sort of superintendent of a whole regiment of
political detectives—a rather powerful position in its own way. I was
prompted by curiosity to seize the opportunity of conversation with
him. And as he had not come as a visitor but as a subordinate official
bringing a special report, and as he saw the reception given me by his
chief, he deigned to speak with some openness, to a certain extent
only, of course. He was rather courteous than open, as Frenchmen know
how to be courteous, especially to a foreigner. But I thoroughly
understood him. The subject was the socialist revolutionaries who were
at that time persecuted. I will quote only one most curious remark
dropped by this person. ‘We are not particularly afraid,’ said he, ‘of
all these socialists, anarchists, infidels, and revolutionists; we keep
watch on them and know all their goings on. But there are a few
peculiar men among them who believe in God and are Christians, but at
the same time are socialists. These are the people we are most afraid
of. They are dreadful people! The socialist who is a Christian is more
to be dreaded than a socialist who is an atheist.’ The words struck me
at the time, and now they have suddenly come back to me here,
gentlemen.”
“You apply them to us, and look upon us as socialists?” Father Païssy
asked directly, without beating about the bush.
But before Pyotr Alexandrovitch could think what to answer, the door
opened, and the guest so long expected, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, came in.
They had, in fact, given up expecting him, and his sudden appearance
caused some surprise for a moment.
Chapter VI.
Why Is Such A Man Alive?
Dmitri Fyodorovitch, a young man of eight and twenty, of medium height
and agreeable countenance, looked older than his years. He was
muscular, and showed signs of considerable physical strength. Yet there
was something not healthy in his face. It was rather thin, his cheeks
were hollow, and there was an unhealthy sallowness in their color. His
rather large, prominent, dark eyes had an expression of firm
determination, and yet there was a vague look in them, too. Even when
he was excited and talking irritably, his eyes somehow did not follow
his mood, but betrayed something else, sometimes quite incongruous with
what was passing. “It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking,” those who
talked to him sometimes declared. People who saw something pensive and
sullen in his eyes were startled by his sudden laugh, which bore
witness to mirthful and light-hearted thoughts at the very time when
his eyes were so gloomy. A certain strained look in his face was easy
to understand at this moment. Every one knew, or had heard of, the
extremely restless and dissipated life which he had been leading of
late, as well as of the violent anger to which he had been roused in
his quarrels with his father. There were several stories current in the
town about it. It is true that he was irascible by nature, “of an
unstable and unbalanced mind,” as our justice of the peace,
Katchalnikov, happily described him.
He was stylishly and irreproachably dressed in a carefully buttoned
frock-coat. He wore black gloves and carried a top-hat. Having only
lately left the army, he still had mustaches and no beard. His dark
brown hair was cropped short, and combed forward on his temples. He had
the long, determined stride of a military man. He stood still for a
moment on the threshold, and glancing at the whole party went straight
up to the elder, guessing him to be their host. He made him a low bow,
and asked his blessing. Father Zossima, rising in his chair, blessed
him. Dmitri kissed his hand respectfully, and with intense feeling,
almost anger, he said:
“Be so generous as to forgive me for having kept you waiting so long,
but Smerdyakov, the valet sent me by my father, in reply to my
inquiries, told me twice over that the appointment was for one. Now I
suddenly learn—”
“Don’t disturb yourself,” interposed the elder. “No matter. You are a
little late. It’s of no consequence....”
“I’m extremely obliged to you, and expected no less from your
goodness.”
Saying this, Dmitri bowed once more. Then, turning suddenly towards his
father, made him, too, a similarly low and respectful bow. He had
evidently considered it beforehand, and made this bow in all
seriousness, thinking it his duty to show his respect and good
intentions.
Although Fyodor Pavlovitch was taken unawares, he was equal to the
occasion. In response to Dmitri’s bow he jumped up from his chair and
made his son a bow as low in return. His face was suddenly solemn and
impressive, which gave him a positively malignant look. Dmitri bowed
generally to all present, and without a word walked to the window with
his long, resolute stride, sat down on the only empty chair, near
Father Païssy, and, bending forward, prepared to listen to the
conversation he had interrupted.
Dmitri’s entrance had taken no more than two minutes, and the
conversation was resumed. But this time Miüsov thought it unnecessary
to reply to Father Païssy’s persistent and almost irritable question.
“Allow me to withdraw from this discussion,” he observed with a certain
well-bred nonchalance. “It’s a subtle question, too. Here Ivan
Fyodorovitch is smiling at us. He must have something interesting to
say about that also. Ask him.”
“Nothing special, except one little remark,” Ivan replied at once.
“European Liberals in general, and even our liberal dilettanti, often
mix up the final results of socialism with those of Christianity. This
wild notion is, of course, a characteristic feature. But it’s not only
Liberals and dilettanti who mix up socialism and Christianity, but, in
many cases, it appears, the police—the foreign police, of course—do the
same. Your Paris anecdote is rather to the point, Pyotr
Alexandrovitch.”
“I ask your permission to drop this subject altogether,” Miüsov
repeated. “I will tell you instead, gentlemen, another interesting and
rather characteristic anecdote of Ivan Fyodorovitch himself. Only five
days ago, in a gathering here, principally of ladies, he solemnly
declared in argument that there was nothing in the whole world to make
men love their neighbors. That there was no law of nature that man
should love mankind, and that, if there had been any love on earth
hitherto, it was not owing to a natural law, but simply because men
have believed in immortality. Ivan Fyodorovitch added in parenthesis
that the whole natural law lies in that faith, and that if you were to
destroy in mankind the belief in immortality, not only love but every
living force maintaining the life of the world would at once be dried
up. Moreover, nothing then would be immoral, everything would be
lawful, even cannibalism. That’s not all. He ended by asserting that
for every individual, like ourselves, who does not believe in God or
immortality, the moral law of nature must immediately be changed into
the exact contrary of the former religious law, and that egoism, even
to crime, must become not only lawful but even recognized as the
inevitable, the most rational, even honorable outcome of his position.
From this paradox, gentlemen, you can judge of the rest of our
eccentric and paradoxical friend Ivan Fyodorovitch’s theories.”
“Excuse me,” Dmitri cried suddenly; “if I’ve heard aright, crime must
not only be permitted but even recognized as the inevitable and the
most rational outcome of his position for every infidel! Is that so or
not?”
“Quite so,” said Father Païssy.
“I’ll remember it.”
Having uttered these words Dmitri ceased speaking as suddenly as he had
begun. Every one looked at him with curiosity.
“Is that really your conviction as to the consequences of the
disappearance of the faith in immortality?” the elder asked Ivan
suddenly.
“Yes. That was my contention. There is no virtue if there is no
immortality.”
“You are blessed in believing that, or else most unhappy.”
“Why unhappy?” Ivan asked smiling.
“Because, in all probability you don’t believe yourself in the
immortality of your soul, nor in what you have written yourself in your
article on Church jurisdiction.”
“Perhaps you are right! ... But I wasn’t altogether joking,” Ivan
suddenly and strangely confessed, flushing quickly.