The Brothers Karamazov
cried suddenly, stepping within the precincts, “what a vale of roses
they live in!”
Though there were no roses now, there were numbers of rare and
beautiful autumn flowers growing wherever there was space for them, and
evidently tended by a skillful hand; there were flower-beds round the
church, and between the tombs; and the one-storied wooden house where
the elder lived was also surrounded with flowers.
“And was it like this in the time of the last elder, Varsonofy? He
didn’t care for such elegance. They say he used to jump up and thrash
even ladies with a stick,” observed Fyodor Pavlovitch, as he went up
the steps.
“The elder Varsonofy did sometimes seem rather strange, but a great
deal that’s told is foolishness. He never thrashed any one,” answered
the monk. “Now, gentlemen, if you will wait a minute I will announce
you.”
“Fyodor Pavlovitch, for the last time, your compact, do you hear?
Behave properly or I will pay you out!” Miüsov had time to mutter
again.
“I can’t think why you are so agitated,” Fyodor Pavlovitch observed
sarcastically. “Are you uneasy about your sins? They say he can tell by
one’s eyes what one has come about. And what a lot you think of their
opinion! you, a Parisian, and so advanced. I’m surprised at you.”
But Miüsov had no time to reply to this sarcasm. They were asked to
come in. He walked in, somewhat irritated.
“Now, I know myself, I am annoyed, I shall lose my temper and begin to
quarrel—and lower myself and my ideas,” he reflected.
Chapter II.
The Old Buffoon
They entered the room almost at the same moment that the elder came in
from his bedroom. There were already in the cell, awaiting the elder,
two monks of the hermitage, one the Father Librarian, and the other
Father Païssy, a very learned man, so they said, in delicate health,
though not old. There was also a tall young man, who looked about two
and twenty, standing in the corner throughout the interview. He had a
broad, fresh face, and clever, observant, narrow brown eyes, and was
wearing ordinary dress. He was a divinity student, living under the
protection of the monastery. His expression was one of unquestioning,
but self-respecting, reverence. Being in a subordinate and dependent
position, and so not on an equality with the guests, he did not greet
them with a bow.
Father Zossima was accompanied by a novice, and by Alyosha. The two
monks rose and greeted him with a very deep bow, touching the ground
with their fingers; then kissed his hand. Blessing them, the elder
replied with as deep a reverence to them, and asked their blessing. The
whole ceremony was performed very seriously and with an appearance of
feeling, not like an everyday rite. But Miüsov fancied that it was all
done with intentional impressiveness. He stood in front of the other
visitors. He ought—he had reflected upon it the evening before—from
simple politeness, since it was the custom here, to have gone up to
receive the elder’s blessing, even if he did not kiss his hand. But
when he saw all this bowing and kissing on the part of the monks he
instantly changed his mind. With dignified gravity he made a rather
deep, conventional bow, and moved away to a chair. Fyodor Pavlovitch
did the same, mimicking Miüsov like an ape. Ivan bowed with great
dignity and courtesy, but he too kept his hands at his sides, while
Kalganov was so confused that he did not bow at all. The elder let fall
the hand raised to bless them, and bowing to them again, asked them all
to sit down. The blood rushed to Alyosha’s cheeks. He was ashamed. His
forebodings were coming true.
Father Zossima sat down on a very old-fashioned mahogany sofa, covered
with leather, and made his visitors sit down in a row along the
opposite wall on four mahogany chairs, covered with shabby black
leather. The monks sat, one at the door and the other at the window.
The divinity student, the novice, and Alyosha remained standing. The
cell was not very large and had a faded look. It contained nothing but
the most necessary furniture, of coarse and poor quality. There were
two pots of flowers in the window, and a number of holy pictures in the
corner. Before one huge ancient ikon of the Virgin a lamp was burning.
Near it were two other holy pictures in shining settings, and, next
them, carved cherubims, china eggs, a Catholic cross of ivory, with a
Mater Dolorosa embracing it, and several foreign engravings from the
great Italian artists of past centuries. Next to these costly and
artistic engravings were several of the roughest Russian prints of
saints and martyrs, such as are sold for a few farthings at all the
fairs. On the other walls were portraits of Russian bishops, past and
present.
Miüsov took a cursory glance at all these “conventional” surroundings
and bent an intent look upon the elder. He had a high opinion of his
own insight, a weakness excusable in him as he was fifty, an age at
which a clever man of the world of established position can hardly help
taking himself rather seriously. At the first moment he did not like
Zossima. There was, indeed, something in the elder’s face which many
people besides Miüsov might not have liked. He was a short, bent,
little man, with very weak legs, and though he was only sixty-five, he
looked at least ten years older. His face was very thin and covered
with a network of fine wrinkles, particularly numerous about his eyes,
which were small, light-colored, quick, and shining like two bright
points. He had a sprinkling of gray hair about his temples. His pointed
beard was small and scanty, and his lips, which smiled frequently, were
as thin as two threads. His nose was not long, but sharp, like a bird’s
beak.
“To all appearances a malicious soul, full of petty pride,” thought
Miüsov. He felt altogether dissatisfied with his position.
A cheap little clock on the wall struck twelve hurriedly, and served to
begin the conversation.
“Precisely to our time,” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, “but no sign of my
son, Dmitri. I apologize for him, sacred elder!” (Alyosha shuddered all
over at “sacred elder.”) “I am always punctual myself, minute for
minute, remembering that punctuality is the courtesy of kings....”
“But you are not a king, anyway,” Miüsov muttered, losing his
self-restraint at once.
“Yes; that’s true. I’m not a king, and, would you believe it, Pyotr
Alexandrovitch, I was aware of that myself. But, there! I always say
the wrong thing. Your reverence,” he cried, with sudden pathos, “you
behold before you a buffoon in earnest! I introduce myself as such.
It’s an old habit, alas! And if I sometimes talk nonsense out of place
it’s with an object, with the object of amusing people and making
myself agreeable. One must be agreeable, mustn’t one? I was seven years
ago in a little town where I had business, and I made friends with some
merchants there. We went to the captain of police because we had to see
him about something, and to ask him to dine with us. He was a tall,
fat, fair, sulky man, the most dangerous type in such cases. It’s their
liver. I went straight up to him, and with the ease of a man of the
world, you know, ‘Mr. Ispravnik,’ said I, ‘be our Napravnik.’ ‘What do
you mean by Napravnik?’ said he. I saw, at the first half-second, that
it had missed fire. He stood there so glum. ‘I wanted to make a joke,’
said I, ‘for the general diversion, as Mr. Napravnik is our well-known
Russian orchestra conductor and what we need for the harmony of our
undertaking is some one of that sort.’ And I explained my comparison
very reasonably, didn’t I? ‘Excuse me,’ said he, ‘I am an Ispravnik,
and I do not allow puns to be made on my calling.’ He turned and walked
away. I followed him, shouting, ‘Yes, yes, you are an Ispravnik, not a
Napravnik.’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘since you called me a Napravnik I am one.’
And would you believe it, it ruined our business! And I’m always like
that, always like that. Always injuring myself with my politeness.
Once, many years ago, I said to an influential person: ‘Your wife is a
ticklish lady,’ in an honorable sense, of the moral qualities, so to
speak. But he asked me, ‘Why, have you tickled her?’ I thought I’d be
polite, so I couldn’t help saying, ‘Yes,’ and he gave me a fine
tickling on the spot. Only that happened long ago, so I’m not ashamed
to tell the story. I’m always injuring myself like that.”
“You’re doing it now,” muttered Miüsov, with disgust.
Father Zossima scrutinized them both in silence.
“Am I? Would you believe it, I was aware of that, too, Pyotr
Alexandrovitch, and let me tell you, indeed, I foresaw I should as soon
as I began to speak. And do you know I foresaw, too, that you’d be the
first to remark on it. The minute I see my joke isn’t coming off, your
reverence, both my cheeks feel as though they were drawn down to the
lower jaw and there is almost a spasm in them. That’s been so since I
was young, when I had to make jokes for my living in noblemen’s
families. I am an inveterate buffoon, and have been from birth up, your
reverence, it’s as though it were a craze in me. I dare say it’s a
devil within me. But only a little one. A more serious one would have
chosen another lodging. But not your soul, Pyotr Alexandrovitch; you’re
not a lodging worth having either. But I do believe—I believe in God,
though I have had doubts of late. But now I sit and await words of
wisdom. I’m like the philosopher, Diderot, your reverence. Did you ever
hear, most Holy Father, how Diderot went to see the Metropolitan
Platon, in the time of the Empress Catherine? He went in and said
straight out, ‘There is no God.’ To which the great bishop lifted up
his finger and answered, ‘The fool hath said in his heart there is no
God.’ And he fell down at his feet on the spot. ‘I believe,’ he cried,
‘and will be christened.’ And so he was. Princess Dashkov was his
godmother, and Potyomkin his godfather.”
“Fyodor Pavlovitch, this is unbearable! You know you’re telling lies
and that that stupid anecdote isn’t true. Why are you playing the
fool?” cried Miüsov in a shaking voice.
“I suspected all my life that it wasn’t true,” Fyodor Pavlovitch cried
with conviction. “But I’ll tell you the whole truth, gentlemen. Great
elder! Forgive me, the last thing about Diderot’s christening I made up
just now. I never thought of it before. I made it up to add piquancy. I
play the fool, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to make myself agreeable. Though I
really don’t know myself, sometimes, what I do it for. And as for
Diderot, I heard as far as ‘the fool hath said in his heart’ twenty
times from the gentry about here when I was young. I heard your aunt,
Pyotr Alexandrovitch, tell the story. They all believe to this day that
the infidel Diderot came to dispute about God with the Metropolitan
Platon....”
Miüsov got up, forgetting himself in his impatience. He was furious,
and conscious of being ridiculous.
What was taking place in the cell was really incredible. For forty or
fifty years past, from the times of former elders, no visitors had
entered that cell without feelings of the profoundest veneration.
Almost every one admitted to the cell felt that a great favor was being
shown him. Many remained kneeling during the whole visit. Of those
visitors, many had been men of high rank and learning, some even
freethinkers, attracted by curiosity, but all without exception had
shown the profoundest reverence and delicacy, for here there was no
question of money, but only, on the one side love and kindness, and on
the other penitence and eager desire to decide some spiritual problem
or crisis. So that such buffoonery amazed and bewildered the
spectators, or at least some of them. The monks, with unchanged
countenances, waited, with earnest attention, to hear what the elder