The Brothers Karamazov
We must note here that Fyodor Pavlovitch knew where to look for the
weak spot. There had been at one time malicious rumors which had even
reached the Archbishop (not only regarding our monastery, but in others
where the institution of elders existed) that too much respect was paid
to the elders, even to the detriment of the authority of the Superior,
that the elders abused the sacrament of confession and so on and so
on—absurd charges which had died away of themselves everywhere. But the
spirit of folly, which had caught up Fyodor Pavlovitch, and was bearing
him on the current of his own nerves into lower and lower depths of
ignominy, prompted him with this old slander. Fyodor Pavlovitch did not
understand a word of it, and he could not even put it sensibly, for on
this occasion no one had been kneeling and confessing aloud in the
elder’s cell, so that he could not have seen anything of the kind. He
was only speaking from confused memory of old slanders. But as soon as
he had uttered his foolish tirade, he felt he had been talking absurd
nonsense, and at once longed to prove to his audience, and above all to
himself, that he had not been talking nonsense. And, though he knew
perfectly well that with each word he would be adding more and more
absurdity, he could not restrain himself, and plunged forward blindly.
“How disgraceful!” cried Pyotr Alexandrovitch.
“Pardon me!” said the Father Superior. “It was said of old, ‘Many have
begun to speak against me and have uttered evil sayings about me. And
hearing it I have said to myself: it is the correction of the Lord and
He has sent it to heal my vain soul.’ And so we humbly thank you,
honored guest!” and he made Fyodor Pavlovitch a low bow.
“Tut—tut—tut—sanctimoniousness and stock phrases! Old phrases and old
gestures. The old lies and formal prostrations. We know all about them.
A kiss on the lips and a dagger in the heart, as in Schiller’s
_Robbers_. I don’t like falsehood, Fathers, I want the truth. But the
truth is not to be found in eating gudgeon and that I proclaim aloud!
Father monks, why do you fast? Why do you expect reward in heaven for
that? Why, for reward like that I will come and fast too! No, saintly
monk, you try being virtuous in the world, do good to society, without
shutting yourself up in a monastery at other people’s expense, and
without expecting a reward up aloft for it—you’ll find that a bit
harder. I can talk sense, too, Father Superior. What have they got
here?” He went up to the table. “Old port wine, mead brewed by the
Eliseyev Brothers. Fie, fie, fathers! That is something beyond gudgeon.
Look at the bottles the fathers have brought out, he he he! And who has
provided it all? The Russian peasant, the laborer, brings here the
farthing earned by his horny hand, wringing it from his family and the
tax-gatherer! You bleed the people, you know, holy fathers.”
“This is too disgraceful!” said Father Iosif.
Father Païssy kept obstinately silent. Miüsov rushed from the room, and
Kalganov after him.
“Well, Father, I will follow Pyotr Alexandrovitch! I am not coming to
see you again. You may beg me on your knees, I shan’t come. I sent you
a thousand roubles, so you have begun to keep your eye on me. He he he!
No, I’ll say no more. I am taking my revenge for my youth, for all the
humiliation I endured.” He thumped the table with his fist in a
paroxysm of simulated feeling. “This monastery has played a great part
in my life! It has cost me many bitter tears. You used to set my wife,
the crazy one, against me. You cursed me with bell and book, you spread
stories about me all over the place. Enough, fathers! This is the age
of Liberalism, the age of steamers and railways. Neither a thousand,
nor a hundred roubles, no, nor a hundred farthings will you get out of
me!”
It must be noted again that our monastery never had played any great
part in his life, and he never had shed a bitter tear owing to it. But
he was so carried away by his simulated emotion, that he was for one
moment almost believing it himself. He was so touched he was almost
weeping. But at that very instant, he felt that it was time to draw
back.
The Father Superior bowed his head at his malicious lie, and again
spoke impressively:
“It is written again, ‘Bear circumspectly and gladly dishonor that
cometh upon thee by no act of thine own, be not confounded and hate not
him who hath dishonored thee.’ And so will we.”
“Tut, tut, tut! Bethinking thyself and the rest of the rigmarole.
Bethink yourselves, Fathers, I will go. But I will take my son, Alexey,
away from here for ever, on my parental authority. Ivan Fyodorovitch,
my most dutiful son, permit me to order you to follow me. Von Sohn,
what have you to stay for? Come and see me now in the town. It is fun
there. It is only one short verst; instead of lenten oil, I will give
you sucking-pig and kasha. We will have dinner with some brandy and
liqueur to it.... I’ve cloudberry wine. Hey, von Sohn, don’t lose your
chance.” He went out, shouting and gesticulating.
It was at that moment Rakitin saw him and pointed him out to Alyosha.
“Alexey!” his father shouted, from far off, catching sight of him. “You
come home to me to-day, for good, and bring your pillow and mattress,
and leave no trace behind.”
Alyosha stood rooted to the spot, watching the scene in silence.
Meanwhile, Fyodor Pavlovitch had got into the carriage, and Ivan was
about to follow him in grim silence without even turning to say good-by
to Alyosha. But at this point another almost incredible scene of
grotesque buffoonery gave the finishing touch to the episode. Maximov
suddenly appeared by the side of the carriage. He ran up, panting,
afraid of being too late. Rakitin and Alyosha saw him running. He was
in such a hurry that in his impatience he put his foot on the step on
which Ivan’s left foot was still resting, and clutching the carriage he
kept trying to jump in. “I am going with you!” he kept shouting,
laughing a thin mirthful laugh with a look of reckless glee in his
face. “Take me, too.”
“There!” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, delighted. “Did I not say he was von
Sohn. It is von Sohn himself, risen from the dead. Why, how did you
tear yourself away? What did you _vonsohn_ there? And how could you get
away from the dinner? You must be a brazen-faced fellow! I am that
myself, but I am surprised at you, brother! Jump in, jump in! Let him
pass, Ivan. It will be fun. He can lie somewhere at our feet. Will you
lie at our feet, von Sohn? Or perch on the box with the coachman. Skip
on to the box, von Sohn!”
But Ivan, who had by now taken his seat, without a word gave Maximov a
violent punch in the breast and sent him flying. It was quite by chance
he did not fall.
“Drive on!” Ivan shouted angrily to the coachman.
“Why, what are you doing, what are you about? Why did you do that?”
Fyodor Pavlovitch protested.
But the carriage had already driven away. Ivan made no reply.
“Well, you are a fellow,” Fyodor Pavlovitch said again.
After a pause of two minutes, looking askance at his son, “Why, it was
you got up all this monastery business. You urged it, you approved of
it. Why are you angry now?”
“You’ve talked rot enough. You might rest a bit now,” Ivan snapped
sullenly.
Fyodor Pavlovitch was silent again for two minutes.
“A drop of brandy would be nice now,” he observed sententiously, but
Ivan made no response.
“You shall have some, too, when we get home.”
Ivan was still silent.
Fyodor Pavlovitch waited another two minutes.
“But I shall take Alyosha away from the monastery, though you will
dislike it so much, most honored Karl von Moor.”
Ivan shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and turning away stared at
the road. And they did not speak again all the way home.
Book III. The Sensualists
Chapter I.
In The Servants’ Quarters
The Karamazovs’ house was far from being in the center of the town, but
it was not quite outside it. It was a pleasant-looking old house of two
stories, painted gray, with a red iron roof. It was roomy and snug, and
might still last many years. There were all sorts of unexpected little
cupboards and closets and staircases. There were rats in it, but Fyodor
Pavlovitch did not altogether dislike them. “One doesn’t feel so
solitary when one’s left alone in the evening,” he used to say. It was
his habit to send the servants away to the lodge for the night and to
lock himself up alone. The lodge was a roomy and solid building in the
yard. Fyodor Pavlovitch used to have the cooking done there, although
there was a kitchen in the house; he did not like the smell of cooking,
and, winter and summer alike, the dishes were carried in across the
courtyard. The house was built for a large family; there was room for
five times as many, with their servants. But at the time of our story
there was no one living in the house but Fyodor Pavlovitch and his son
Ivan. And in the lodge there were only three servants: old Grigory, and
his old wife Marfa, and a young man called Smerdyakov. Of these three
we must say a few words. Of old Grigory we have said something already.
He was firm and determined and went blindly and obstinately for his
object, if once he had been brought by any reasons (and they were often
very illogical ones) to believe that it was immutably right. He was
honest and incorruptible. His wife, Marfa Ignatyevna, had obeyed her
husband’s will implicitly all her life, yet she had pestered him
terribly after the emancipation of the serfs. She was set on leaving
Fyodor Pavlovitch and opening a little shop in Moscow with their small
savings. But Grigory decided then, once for all, that “the woman’s
talking nonsense, for every woman is dishonest,” and that they ought
not to leave their old master, whatever he might be, for “that was now
their duty.”
“Do you understand what duty is?” he asked Marfa Ignatyevna.
“I understand what duty means, Grigory Vassilyevitch, but why it’s our
duty to stay here I never shall understand,” Marfa answered firmly.
“Well, don’t understand then. But so it shall be. And you hold your
tongue.”
And so it was. They did not go away, and Fyodor Pavlovitch promised
them a small sum for wages, and paid it regularly. Grigory knew, too,
that he had an indisputable influence over his master. It was true, and
he was aware of it. Fyodor Pavlovitch was an obstinate and cunning
buffoon, yet, though his will was strong enough “in some of the affairs
of life,” as he expressed it, he found himself, to his surprise,
extremely feeble in facing certain other emergencies. He knew his
weaknesses and was afraid of them. There are positions in which one has
to keep a sharp look out. And that’s not easy without a trustworthy
man, and Grigory was a most trustworthy man. Many times in the course
of his life Fyodor Pavlovitch had only just escaped a sound thrashing
through Grigory’s intervention, and on each occasion the old servant
gave him a good lecture. But it wasn’t only thrashings that Fyodor
Pavlovitch was afraid of. There were graver occasions, and very subtle
and complicated ones, when Fyodor Pavlovitch could not have explained
the extraordinary craving for some one faithful and devoted, which
sometimes unaccountably came upon him all in a moment. It was almost a
morbid condition. Corrupt and often cruel in his lust, like some
noxious insect, Fyodor Pavlovitch was sometimes, in moments of
drunkenness, overcome by superstitious terror and a moral convulsion
which took an almost physical form. “My soul’s simply quaking in my
throat at those times,” he used to say. At such moments he liked to
feel that there was near at hand, in the lodge if not in the room, a
strong, faithful man, virtuous and unlike himself, who had seen all his