The Brothers Karamazov
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, where the Orthodox doctrine has been preserved from of old,
unbroken and in its greatest purity,” said Father Iosif 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 Iosif walked away, grieving the more since 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
Iosif. 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 Varsonofy, 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
Zossima. “His teaching was false; he taught that life is a great joy
and not a vale 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 due 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 Obdorsk heard all this attentively, heaving deep sighs
and nodding his head. “Yes, clearly Father Ferapont was right in his
judgment yesterday,” and at that moment Father Ferapont 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 asleep 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.”
It was to avoid the chance of these sinful murmurs that Father Ferapont
was left in peace.
As every one was aware, Father Ferapont particularly disliked Father
Zossima. 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 Païssy, 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 Ferapont
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 Ferapont 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 Ferapont 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 Ferapont. The others, on the
contrary, pressed farther back in sudden alarm when the door was
noisily flung open. Holding his hands aloft, Father Ferapont 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. All who accompanied Father Ferapont
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 Païssy 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
Ferapont 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 Païssy 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 arm-chair and would not
have them bow down to me as an idol,” thundered Father Ferapont.
“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 the utmost terror he confided this to Father Zossima,
the elder had 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
wagged their heads as they talked over it—and most of all Father
Ferapont, to whom some of the censorious had hastened to report this
“extraordinary” counsel on the part of the elder.
“Go away, Father!” said Father Païssy, in a commanding voice, “it’s 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, and do not trouble the flock!” he repeated 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 sweetmeats, ladies brought them to him in
their pockets, he sipped tea, he worshiped his belly, filling it with
sweet things and his mind with haughty thoughts.... And for this he is
put to shame....”
“You speak lightly, Father.” Father Païssy, 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 Païssy thundered in conclusion.
“I will go,” said Ferapont, seeming somewhat taken aback, but still as
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 Païssy stood over him, waiting resolutely. Father Ferapont
paused and, suddenly leaning his cheek on his hand despondently,
pronounced in a sing-song voice, looking at the coffin of the dead
elder:
“To-morrow they will sing over him ‘Our Helper and Defender’—a splendid
anthem—and over me when I die all they’ll sing will be ‘What earthly
joy’—a little canticle,”[6] he added with tearful regret. “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 Païssy, following Father Ferapont on to the steps, stood
watching him. But 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 some one 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,” other voices
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 Ferapont, 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 Païssy let
Father Iosif 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