The Brothers Karamazov
grasped with surprise that his sudden sadness was due to a very small
and special cause. In the crowd thronging at the entrance to the cell,
he had noticed Alyosha and he remembered that he had felt at once a
pang at heart on seeing him. “Can that boy mean so much to my heart
now?” he asked himself, wondering.
At that moment Alyosha passed him, hurrying away, but not in the
direction of the church. Their eyes met. Alyosha quickly turned away
his eyes and dropped them to the ground, and from the boy’s look alone,
Father Païssy guessed what a great change was taking place in him at
that moment.
“Have you, too, fallen into temptation?” cried Father Païssy. “Can you
be with those of little faith?” he added mournfully.
Alyosha stood still and gazed vaguely at Father Païssy, but quickly
turned his eyes away again and again looked on the ground. He stood
sideways and did not turn his face to Father Païssy, who watched him
attentively.
“Where are you hastening? The bell calls to service,” he asked again,
but again Alyosha gave no answer.
“Are you leaving the hermitage? What, without asking leave, without
asking a blessing?”
Alyosha suddenly gave a wry smile, cast a strange, very strange, look
at the Father to whom his former guide, the former sovereign of his
heart and mind, his beloved elder, had confided him as he lay dying.
And suddenly, still without speaking, waved his hand, as though not
caring even to be respectful, and with rapid steps walked towards the
gates away from the hermitage.
“You will come back again!” murmured Father Païssy, looking after him
with sorrowful surprise.
Chapter II.
A Critical Moment
Father Païssy, of course, was not wrong when he decided that his “dear
boy” would come back again. Perhaps indeed, to some extent, he
penetrated with insight into the true meaning of Alyosha’s spiritual
condition. Yet I must frankly own that it would be very difficult for
me to give a clear account of that strange, vague moment in the life of
the young hero I love so much. To Father Païssy’s sorrowful question,
“Are you too with those of little faith?” I could of course confidently
answer for Alyosha, “No, he is not with those of little faith. Quite
the contrary.” Indeed, all his trouble came from the fact that he was
of great faith. But still the trouble was there and was so agonizing
that even long afterwards Alyosha thought of that sorrowful day as one
of the bitterest and most fatal days of his life. If the question is
asked: “Could all his grief and disturbance have been only due to the
fact that his elder’s body had shown signs of premature decomposition
instead of at once performing miracles?” I must answer without beating
about the bush, “Yes, it certainly was.” I would only beg the reader
not to be in too great a hurry to laugh at my young hero’s pure heart.
I am far from intending to apologize for him or to justify his innocent
faith on the ground of his youth, or the little progress he had made in
his studies, or any such reason. I must declare, on the contrary, that
I have genuine respect for the qualities of his heart. No doubt a youth
who received impressions cautiously, whose love was lukewarm, and whose
mind was too prudent for his age and so of little value, such a young
man might, I admit, have avoided what happened to my hero. But in some
cases it is really more creditable to be carried away by an emotion,
however unreasonable, which springs from a great love, than to be
unmoved. And this is even truer in youth, for a young man who is always
sensible is to be suspected and is of little worth—that’s my opinion!
“But,” reasonable people will exclaim perhaps, “every young man cannot
believe in such a superstition and your hero is no model for others.”
To this I reply again, “Yes! my hero had faith, a faith holy and
steadfast, but still I am not going to apologize for him.”
Though I declared above, and perhaps too hastily, that I should not
explain or justify my hero, I see that some explanation is necessary
for the understanding of the rest of my story. Let me say then, it was
not a question of miracles. There was no frivolous and impatient
expectation of miracles in his mind. And Alyosha needed no miracles at
the time, for the triumph of some preconceived idea—oh, no, not at
all—what he saw before all was one figure—the figure of his beloved
elder, the figure of that holy man whom he revered with such adoration.
The fact is that all the love that lay concealed in his pure young
heart for every one and everything had, for the past year, been
concentrated—and perhaps wrongly so—on one being, his beloved elder. It
is true that being had for so long been accepted by him as his ideal,
that all his young strength and energy could not but turn towards that
ideal, even to the forgetting at the moment “of every one and
everything.” He remembered afterwards how, on that terrible day, he had
entirely forgotten his brother Dmitri, about whom he had been so
anxious and troubled the day before; he had forgotten, too, to take the
two hundred roubles to Ilusha’s father, though he had so warmly
intended to do so the preceding evening. But again it was not miracles
he needed but only “the higher justice” which had been in his belief
outraged by the blow that had so suddenly and cruelly wounded his
heart. And what does it signify that this “justice” looked for by
Alyosha inevitably took the shape of miracles to be wrought immediately
by the ashes of his adored teacher? Why, every one in the monastery
cherished the same thought and the same hope, even those whose
intellects Alyosha revered, Father Païssy himself, for instance. And so
Alyosha, untroubled by doubts, clothed his dreams too in the same form
as all the rest. And a whole year of life in the monastery had formed
the habit of this expectation in his heart. But it was justice,
justice, he thirsted for, not simply miracles.
And now the man who should, he believed, have been exalted above every
one in the whole world, that man, instead of receiving the glory that
was his due, was suddenly degraded and dishonored! What for? Who had
judged him? Who could have decreed this? Those were the questions that
wrung his inexperienced and virginal heart. He could not endure without
mortification, without resentment even, that the holiest of holy men
should have been exposed to the jeering and spiteful mockery of the
frivolous crowd so inferior to him. Even had there been no miracles,
had there been nothing marvelous to justify his hopes, why this
indignity, why this humiliation, why this premature decay, “in excess
of nature,” as the spiteful monks said? Why this “sign from heaven,”
which they so triumphantly acclaimed in company with Father Ferapont,
and why did they believe they had gained the right to acclaim it? Where
is the finger of Providence? Why did Providence hide its face “at the
most critical moment” (so Alyosha thought it), as though voluntarily
submitting to the blind, dumb, pitiless laws of nature?
That was why Alyosha’s heart was bleeding, and, of course, as I have
said already, the sting of it all was that the man he loved above
everything on earth should be put to shame and humiliated! This
murmuring may have been shallow and unreasonable in my hero, but I
repeat again for the third time—and am prepared to admit that it might
be difficult to defend my feeling—I am glad that my hero showed himself
not too reasonable at that moment, for any man of sense will always
come back to reason in time, but, if love does not gain the upper hand
in a boy’s heart at such an exceptional moment, when will it? I will
not, however, omit to mention something strange, which came for a time
to the surface of Alyosha’s mind at this fatal and obscure moment. This
new something was the harassing impression left by the conversation
with Ivan, which now persistently haunted Alyosha’s mind. At this
moment it haunted him. Oh, it was not that something of the
fundamental, elemental, so to speak, faith of his soul had been shaken.
He loved his God and believed in Him steadfastly, though he was
suddenly murmuring against Him. Yet a vague but tormenting and evil
impression left by his conversation with Ivan the day before, suddenly
revived again now in his soul and seemed forcing its way to the surface
of his consciousness.
It had begun to get dusk when Rakitin, crossing the pine copse from the
hermitage to the monastery, suddenly noticed Alyosha, lying face
downwards on the ground under a tree, not moving and apparently asleep.
He went up and called him by his name.
“You here, Alexey? Can you have—” he began wondering but broke off. He
had meant to say, “Can you have come to this?”
Alyosha did not look at him, but from a slight movement Rakitin at once
saw that he heard and understood him.
“What’s the matter?” he went on; but the surprise in his face gradually
passed into a smile that became more and more ironical.
“I say, I’ve been looking for you for the last two hours. You suddenly
disappeared. What are you about? What foolery is this? You might just
look at me...”
Alyosha raised his head, sat up and leaned his back against the tree.
He was not crying, but there was a look of suffering and irritability
in his face. He did not look at Rakitin, however, but looked away to
one side of him.
“Do you know your face is quite changed? There’s none of your famous
mildness to be seen in it. Are you angry with some one? Have they been
ill-treating you?”
“Let me alone,” said Alyosha suddenly, with a weary gesture of his
hand, still looking away from him.
“Oho! So that’s how we are feeling! So you can shout at people like
other mortals. That is a come-down from the angels. I say, Alyosha, you
have surprised me, do you hear? I mean it. It’s long since I’ve been
surprised at anything here. I always took you for an educated man....”
Alyosha at last looked at him, but vaguely, as though scarcely
understanding what he said.
“Can you really be so upset simply because your old man has begun to
stink? You don’t mean to say you seriously believed that he was going
to work miracles?” exclaimed Rakitin, genuinely surprised again.
“I believed, I believe, I want to believe, and I will believe, what
more do you want?” cried Alyosha irritably.
“Nothing at all, my boy. Damn it all! why, no schoolboy of thirteen
believes in that now. But there.... So now you are in a temper with
your God, you are rebelling against Him; He hasn’t given promotion, He
hasn’t bestowed the order of merit! Eh, you are a set!”
Alyosha gazed a long while with his eyes half closed at Rakitin, and
there was a sudden gleam in his eyes ... but not of anger with Rakitin.
“I am not rebelling against my God; I simply ‘don’t accept His world.’”
Alyosha suddenly smiled a forced smile.
“How do you mean, you don’t accept the world?” Rakitin thought a moment
over his answer. “What idiocy is this?”
Alyosha did not answer.
“Come, enough nonsense, now to business. Have you had anything to eat
to-day?”
“I don’t remember.... I think I have.”
“You need keeping up, to judge by your face. It makes one sorry to look
at you. You didn’t sleep all night either, I hear, you had a meeting in
there. And then all this bobbery afterwards. Most likely you’ve had
nothing to eat but a mouthful of holy bread. I’ve got some sausage in
my pocket; I’ve brought it from the town in case of need, only you
won’t eat sausage....”
“Give me some.”
“I say! You are going it! Why, it’s a regular mutiny, with barricades!
Well, my boy, we must make the most of it. Come to my place.... I
shouldn’t mind a drop of vodka myself, I am tired to death. Vodka is
going too far for you, I suppose ... or would you like some?”
“Give me some vodka too.”