The Brothers Karamazov
Alyosha was so astounded that he failed to assist him when he got up
again. There was a faint smile on his lips.
“Good-by! Forgive me, all of you!” he said, bowing on all sides to his
guests.
Dmitri stood for a few moments in amazement. Bowing down to him—what
did it mean? Suddenly he cried aloud, “Oh, God!” hid his face in his
hands, and rushed out of the room. All the guests flocked out after
him, in their confusion not saying good-by, or bowing to their host.
Only the monks went up to him again for a blessing.
“What did it mean, falling at his feet like that? Was it symbolic or
what?” said Fyodor Pavlovitch, suddenly quieted and trying to reopen
conversation without venturing to address anybody in particular. They
were all passing out of the precincts of the hermitage at the moment.
“I can’t answer for a madhouse and for madmen,” Miüsov answered at once
ill-humoredly, “but I will spare myself your company, Fyodor
Pavlovitch, and, trust me, for ever. Where’s that monk?”
“That monk,” that is, the monk who had invited them to dine with the
Superior, did not keep them waiting. He met them as soon as they came
down the steps from the elder’s cell, as though he had been waiting for
them all the time.
“Reverend Father, kindly do me a favor. Convey my deepest respect to
the Father Superior, apologize for me, personally, Miüsov, to his
reverence, telling him that I deeply regret that owing to unforeseen
circumstances I am unable to have the honor of being present at his
table, greatly as I should desire to do so,” Miüsov said irritably to
the monk.
“And that unforeseen circumstance, of course, is myself,” Fyodor
Pavlovitch cut in immediately. “Do you hear, Father; this gentleman
doesn’t want to remain in my company or else he’d come at once. And you
shall go, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, pray go to the Father Superior and good
appetite to you. I will decline, and not you. Home, home, I’ll eat at
home, I don’t feel equal to it here, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, my amiable
relative.”
“I am not your relative and never have been, you contemptible man!”
“I said it on purpose to madden you, because you always disclaim the
relationship, though you really are a relation in spite of your
shuffling. I’ll prove it by the church calendar. As for you, Ivan, stay
if you like. I’ll send the horses for you later. Propriety requires you
to go to the Father Superior, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to apologize for
the disturbance we’ve been making....”
“Is it true that you are going home? Aren’t you lying?”
“Pyotr Alexandrovitch! How could I dare after what’s happened! Forgive
me, gentlemen, I was carried away! And upset besides! And, indeed, I am
ashamed. Gentlemen, one man has the heart of Alexander of Macedon and
another the heart of the little dog Fido. Mine is that of the little
dog Fido. I am ashamed! After such an escapade how can I go to dinner,
to gobble up the monastery’s sauces? I am ashamed, I can’t. You must
excuse me!”
“The devil only knows, what if he deceives us?” thought Miüsov, still
hesitating, and watching the retreating buffoon with distrustful eyes.
The latter turned round, and noticing that Miüsov was watching him,
waved him a kiss.
“Well, are you coming to the Superior?” Miüsov asked Ivan abruptly.
“Why not? I was especially invited yesterday.”
“Unfortunately I feel myself compelled to go to this confounded
dinner,” said Miüsov with the same irritability, regardless of the fact
that the monk was listening. “We ought, at least, to apologize for the
disturbance, and explain that it was not our doing. What do you think?”
“Yes, we must explain that it wasn’t our doing. Besides, father won’t
be there,” observed Ivan.
“Well, I should hope not! Confound this dinner!”
They all walked on, however. The monk listened in silence. On the road
through the copse he made one observation however—that the Father
Superior had been waiting a long time, and that they were more than
half an hour late. He received no answer. Miüsov looked with hatred at
Ivan.
“Here he is, going to the dinner as though nothing had happened,” he
thought. “A brazen face, and the conscience of a Karamazov!”
Chapter VII.
A Young Man Bent On A Career
Alyosha helped Father Zossima to his bedroom and seated him on his bed.
It was a little room furnished with the bare necessities. There was a
narrow iron bedstead, with a strip of felt for a mattress. In the
corner, under the ikons, was a reading-desk with a cross and the Gospel
lying on it. The elder sank exhausted on the bed. His eyes glittered
and he breathed hard. He looked intently at Alyosha, as though
considering something.
“Go, my dear boy, go. Porfiry is enough for me. Make haste, you are
needed there, go and wait at the Father Superior’s table.”
“Let me stay here,” Alyosha entreated.
“You are more needed there. There is no peace there. You will wait, and
be of service. If evil spirits rise up, repeat a prayer. And remember,
my son”—the elder liked to call him that—“this is not the place for you
in the future. When it is God’s will to call me, leave the monastery.
Go away for good.”
Alyosha started.
“What is it? This is not your place for the time. I bless you for great
service in the world. Yours will be a long pilgrimage. And you will
have to take a wife, too. You will have to bear _all_ before you come
back. There will be much to do. But I don’t doubt of you, and so I send
you forth. Christ is with you. Do not abandon Him and He will not
abandon you. You will see great sorrow, and in that sorrow you will be
happy. This is my last message to you: in sorrow seek happiness. Work,
work unceasingly. Remember my words, for although I shall talk with you
again, not only my days but my hours are numbered.”
Alyosha’s face again betrayed strong emotion. The corners of his mouth
quivered.
“What is it again?” Father Zossima asked, smiling gently. “The worldly
may follow the dead with tears, but here we rejoice over the father who
is departing. We rejoice and pray for him. Leave me, I must pray. Go,
and make haste. Be near your brothers. And not near one only, but near
both.”
Father Zossima raised his hand to bless him. Alyosha could make no
protest, though he had a great longing to remain. He longed, moreover,
to ask the significance of his bowing to Dmitri, the question was on
the tip of his tongue, but he dared not ask it. He knew that the elder
would have explained it unasked if he had thought fit. But evidently it
was not his will. That action had made a terrible impression on
Alyosha; he believed blindly in its mysterious significance.
Mysterious, and perhaps awful.
As he hastened out of the hermitage precincts to reach the monastery in
time to serve at the Father Superior’s dinner, he felt a sudden pang at
his heart, and stopped short. He seemed to hear again Father Zossima’s
words, foretelling his approaching end. What he had foretold so exactly
must infallibly come to pass. Alyosha believed that implicitly. But how
could he be left without him? How could he live without seeing and
hearing him? Where should he go? He had told him not to weep, and to
leave the monastery. Good God! It was long since Alyosha had known such
anguish. He hurried through the copse that divided the monastery from
the hermitage, and unable to bear the burden of his thoughts, he gazed
at the ancient pines beside the path. He had not far to go—about five
hundred paces. He expected to meet no one at that hour, but at the
first turn of the path he noticed Rakitin. He was waiting for some one.
“Are you waiting for me?” asked Alyosha, overtaking him.
“Yes,” grinned Rakitin. “You are hurrying to the Father Superior, I
know; he has a banquet. There’s not been such a banquet since the
Superior entertained the Bishop and General Pahatov, do you remember? I
shan’t be there, but you go and hand the sauces. Tell me one thing,
Alexey, what does that vision mean? That’s what I want to ask you.”
“What vision?”
“That bowing to your brother, Dmitri. And didn’t he tap the ground with
his forehead, too!”
“You speak of Father Zossima?”
“Yes, of Father Zossima.”
“Tapped the ground?”
“Ah, an irreverent expression! Well, what of it? Anyway, what does that
vision mean?”
“I don’t know what it means, Misha.”
“I knew he wouldn’t explain it to you! There’s nothing wonderful about
it, of course, only the usual holy mummery. But there was an object in
the performance. All the pious people in the town will talk about it
and spread the story through the province, wondering what it meant. To
my thinking the old man really has a keen nose; he sniffed a crime.
Your house stinks of it.”
“What crime?”
Rakitin evidently had something he was eager to speak of.
“It’ll be in your family, this crime. Between your brothers and your
rich old father. So Father Zossima flopped down to be ready for what
may turn up. If something happens later on, it’ll be: ‘Ah, the holy man
foresaw it, prophesied it!’ though it’s a poor sort of prophecy,
flopping like that. ‘Ah, but it was symbolic,’ they’ll say, ‘an
allegory,’ and the devil knows what all! It’ll be remembered to his
glory: ‘He predicted the crime and marked the criminal!’ That’s always
the way with these crazy fanatics; they cross themselves at the tavern
and throw stones at the temple. Like your elder, he takes a stick to a
just man and falls at the feet of a murderer.”
“What crime? What murderer? What do you mean?”
Alyosha stopped dead. Rakitin stopped, too.
“What murderer? As though you didn’t know! I’ll bet you’ve thought of
it before. That’s interesting, too, by the way. Listen, Alyosha, you
always speak the truth, though you’re always between two stools. Have
you thought of it or not? Answer.”
“I have,” answered Alyosha in a low voice. Even Rakitin was taken
aback.
“What? Have you really?” he cried.
“I ... I’ve not exactly thought it,” muttered Alyosha, “but directly
you began speaking so strangely, I fancied I had thought of it myself.”
“You see? (And how well you expressed it!) Looking at your father and
your brother Mitya to-day you thought of a crime. Then I’m not
mistaken?”
“But wait, wait a minute,” Alyosha broke in uneasily. “What has led you
to see all this? Why does it interest you? That’s the first question.”
“Two questions, disconnected, but natural. I’ll deal with them
separately. What led me to see it? I shouldn’t have seen it, if I
hadn’t suddenly understood your brother Dmitri, seen right into the
very heart of him all at once. I caught the whole man from one trait.
These very honest but passionate people have a line which mustn’t be
crossed. If it were, he’d run at your father with a knife. But your
father’s a drunken and abandoned old sinner, who can never draw the
line—if they both let themselves go, they’ll both come to grief.”
“No, Misha, no. If that’s all, you’ve reassured me. It won’t come to
that.”
“But why are you trembling? Let me tell you; he may be honest, our
Mitya (he is stupid, but honest), but he’s—a sensualist. That’s the
very definition and inner essence of him. It’s your father has handed
him on his low sensuality. Do you know, I simply wonder at you,
Alyosha, how you can have kept your purity. You’re a Karamazov too, you
know! In your family sensuality is carried to a disease. But now, these
three sensualists are watching one another, with their knives in their
belts. The three of them are knocking their heads together, and you may
be the fourth.”
“You are mistaken about that woman. Dmitri—despises her,” said Alyosha,
with a sort of shudder.
“Grushenka? No, brother, he doesn’t despise her. Since he has openly
abandoned his betrothed for her, he doesn’t despise her. There’s
something here, my dear boy, that you don’t understand yet. A man will