The Brothers Karamazov
might have been called, if it had not been so spontaneous. “So the
other one called her tigress! And a tigress she is! So she ought to be
flogged on a scaffold? Yes, yes, so she ought. That’s just what I
think; she ought to have been long ago. It’s like this, brother, let
her be punished, but I must get better first. I understand the queen of
impudence. That’s her all over! You saw her all over in that
hand-kissing, the she-devil! She’s magnificent in her own line! So she
ran home? I’ll go—ah—I’ll run to her! Alyosha, don’t blame me, I agree
that hanging is too good for her.”
“But Katerina Ivanovna!” exclaimed Alyosha sorrowfully.
“I see her, too! I see right through her, as I’ve never done before!
It’s a regular discovery of the four continents of the world, that is,
of the five! What a thing to do! That’s just like Katya, who was not
afraid to face a coarse, unmannerly officer and risk a deadly insult on
a generous impulse to save her father! But the pride, the recklessness,
the defiance of fate, the unbounded defiance! You say that aunt tried
to stop her? That aunt, you know, is overbearing, herself. She’s the
sister of the general’s widow in Moscow, and even more stuck-up than
she. But her husband was caught stealing government money. He lost
everything, his estate and all, and the proud wife had to lower her
colors, and hasn’t raised them since. So she tried to prevent Katya,
but she wouldn’t listen to her! She thinks she can overcome everything,
that everything will give way to her. She thought she could bewitch
Grushenka if she liked, and she believed it herself: she plays a part
to herself, and whose fault is it? Do you think she kissed Grushenka’s
hand first, on purpose, with a motive? No, she really was fascinated by
Grushenka, that’s to say, not by Grushenka, but by her own dream, her
own delusion—because it was _her_ dream, _her_ delusion! Alyosha,
darling, how did you escape from them, those women? Did you pick up
your cassock and run? Ha ha ha!”
“Brother, you don’t seem to have noticed how you’ve insulted Katerina
Ivanovna by telling Grushenka about that day. And she flung it in her
face just now that she had gone to gentlemen in secret to sell her
beauty! Brother, what could be worse than that insult?”
What worried Alyosha more than anything was that, incredible as it
seemed, his brother appeared pleased at Katerina Ivanovna’s
humiliation.
“Bah!” Dmitri frowned fiercely, and struck his forehead with his hand.
He only now realized it, though Alyosha had just told him of the
insult, and Katerina Ivanovna’s cry: “Your brother is a scoundrel!”
“Yes, perhaps, I really did tell Grushenka about that ‘fatal day,’ as
Katya calls it. Yes, I did tell her, I remember! It was that time at
Mokroe. I was drunk, the gypsies were singing.... But I was sobbing. I
was sobbing then, kneeling and praying to Katya’s image, and Grushenka
understood it. She understood it all then. I remember, she cried
herself.... Damn it all! But it’s bound to be so now.... Then she
cried, but now ‘the dagger in the heart’! That’s how women are.”
He looked down and sank into thought.
“Yes, I am a scoundrel, a thorough scoundrel!” he said suddenly, in a
gloomy voice. “It doesn’t matter whether I cried or not, I’m a
scoundrel! Tell her I accept the name, if that’s any comfort. Come,
that’s enough. Good-by. It’s no use talking! It’s not amusing. You go
your way and I mine. And I don’t want to see you again except as a last
resource. Good-by, Alexey!”
He warmly pressed Alyosha’s hand, and still looking down, without
raising his head, as though tearing himself away, turned rapidly
towards the town.
Alyosha looked after him, unable to believe he would go away so
abruptly.
“Stay, Alexey, one more confession to you alone!” cried Dmitri,
suddenly turning back. “Look at me. Look at me well. You see here,
here—there’s terrible disgrace in store for me.” (As he said “here,”
Dmitri struck his chest with his fist with a strange air, as though the
dishonor lay precisely on his chest, in some spot, in a pocket,
perhaps, or hanging round his neck.) “You know me now, a scoundrel, an
avowed scoundrel, but let me tell you that I’ve never done anything
before and never shall again, anything that can compare in baseness
with the dishonor which I bear now at this very minute on my breast,
here, here, which will come to pass, though I’m perfectly free to stop
it. I can stop it or carry it through, note that. Well, let me tell
you, I shall carry it through. I shan’t stop it. I told you everything
just now, but I didn’t tell you this, because even I had not brass
enough for it. I can still pull up; if I do, I can give back the full
half of my lost honor to-morrow. But I shan’t pull up. I shall carry
out my base plan, and you can bear witness that I told you so
beforehand. Darkness and destruction! No need to explain. You’ll find
out in due time. The filthy back-alley and the she-devil. Good-by.
Don’t pray for me, I’m not worth it. And there’s no need, no need at
all.... I don’t need it! Away!”
And he suddenly retreated, this time finally. Alyosha went towards the
monastery.
“What? I shall never see him again! What is he saying?” he wondered
wildly. “Why, I shall certainly see him to-morrow. I shall look him up.
I shall make a point of it. What does he mean?”
He went round the monastery, and crossed the pine-wood to the
hermitage. The door was opened to him, though no one was admitted at
that hour. There was a tremor in his heart as he went into Father
Zossima’s cell.
“Why, why, had he gone forth? Why had he sent him into the world? Here
was peace. Here was holiness. But there was confusion, there was
darkness in which one lost one’s way and went astray at once....”
In the cell he found the novice Porfiry and Father Païssy, who came
every hour to inquire after Father Zossima. Alyosha learnt with alarm
that he was getting worse and worse. Even his usual discourse with the
brothers could not take place that day. As a rule every evening after
service the monks flocked into Father Zossima’s cell, and all confessed
aloud their sins of the day, their sinful thoughts and temptations;
even their disputes, if there had been any. Some confessed kneeling.
The elder absolved, reconciled, exhorted, imposed penance, blessed, and
dismissed them. It was against this general “confession” that the
opponents of “elders” protested, maintaining that it was a profanation
of the sacrament of confession, almost a sacrilege, though this was
quite a different thing. They even represented to the diocesan
authorities that such confessions attained no good object, but actually
to a large extent led to sin and temptation. Many of the brothers
disliked going to the elder, and went against their own will because
every one went, and for fear they should be accused of pride and
rebellious ideas. People said that some of the monks agreed beforehand,
saying, “I’ll confess I lost my temper with you this morning, and you
confirm it,” simply in order to have something to say. Alyosha knew
that this actually happened sometimes. He knew, too, that there were
among the monks some who deeply resented the fact that letters from
relations were habitually taken to the elder, to be opened and read by
him before those to whom they were addressed.
It was assumed, of course, that all this was done freely, and in good
faith, by way of voluntary submission and salutary guidance. But, in
fact, there was sometimes no little insincerity, and much that was
false and strained in this practice. Yet the older and more experienced
of the monks adhered to their opinion, arguing that “for those who have
come within these walls sincerely seeking salvation, such obedience and
sacrifice will certainly be salutary and of great benefit; those, on
the other hand, who find it irksome, and repine, are no true monks, and
have made a mistake in entering the monastery—their proper place is in
the world. Even in the temple one cannot be safe from sin and the
devil. So it was no good taking it too much into account.”
“He is weaker, a drowsiness has come over him,” Father Païssy whispered
to Alyosha, as he blessed him. “It’s difficult to rouse him. And he
must not be roused. He waked up for five minutes, sent his blessing to
the brothers, and begged their prayers for him at night. He intends to
take the sacrament again in the morning. He remembered you, Alexey. He
asked whether you had gone away, and was told that you were in the
town. ‘I blessed him for that work,’ he said, ‘his place is there, not
here, for awhile.’ Those were his words about you. He remembered you
lovingly, with anxiety; do you understand how he honored you? But how
is it that he has decided that you shall spend some time in the world?
He must have foreseen something in your destiny! Understand, Alexey,
that if you return to the world, it must be to do the duty laid upon
you by your elder, and not for frivolous vanity and worldly pleasures.”
Father Païssy went out. Alyosha had no doubt that Father Zossima was
dying, though he might live another day or two. Alyosha firmly and
ardently resolved that in spite of his promises to his father, the
Hohlakovs, and Katerina Ivanovna, he would not leave the monastery next
day, but would remain with his elder to the end. His heart glowed with
love, and he reproached himself bitterly for having been able for one
instant to forget him whom he had left in the monastery on his
deathbed, and whom he honored above every one in the world. He went
into Father Zossima’s bedroom, knelt down, and bowed to the ground
before the elder, who slept quietly without stirring, with regular,
hardly audible breathing and a peaceful face.
Alyosha returned to the other room, where Father Zossima had received
his guests in the morning. Taking off his boots, he lay down on the
hard, narrow, leathern sofa, which he had long used as a bed, bringing
nothing but a pillow. The mattress, about which his father had shouted
to him that morning, he had long forgotten to lie on. He took off his
cassock, which he used as a covering. But before going to bed, he fell
on his knees and prayed a long time. In his fervent prayer he did not
beseech God to lighten his darkness but only thirsted for the joyous
emotion, which always visited his soul after the praise and adoration,
of which his evening prayer usually consisted. That joy always brought
him light untroubled sleep. As he was praying, he suddenly felt in his
pocket the little pink note the servant had handed him as he left
Katerina Ivanovna’s. He was disturbed, but finished his prayer. Then,
after some hesitation, he opened the envelope. In it was a letter to
him, signed by Lise, the young daughter of Madame Hohlakov, who had
laughed at him before the elder in the morning.
“Alexey Fyodorovitch,” she wrote, “I am writing to you without any
one’s knowledge, even mamma’s, and I know how wrong it is. But I cannot
live without telling you the feeling that has sprung up in my heart,
and this no one but us two must know for a time. But how am I to say
what I want so much to tell you? Paper, they say, does not blush, but I
assure you it’s not true and that it’s blushing just as I am now, all
over. Dear Alyosha, I love you, I’ve loved you from my childhood, since
our Moscow days, when you were very different from what you are now,
and I shall love you all my life. My heart has chosen you, to unite our
lives, and pass them together till our old age. Of course, on condition
that you will leave the monastery. As for our age we will wait for the
time fixed by the law. By that time I shall certainly be quite strong,
I shall be walking and dancing. There can be no doubt of that.
“You see how I’ve thought of everything. There’s only one thing I can’t