The Brothers Karamazov (16 page)

Rakitin had so worked himself up that he could hardly control himself. Then suddenly he seemed to remember something and stopped.

“Well, I’ve talked enough,” he said, his smile more twisted than ever. “Why are you laughing? You think I’m a vulgar boor?”

“No, I’ve never thought you were a boor. You’re an intelligent person, but . . . Don’t pay any attention to me. I really don’t know why I felt like laughing. I understand why you got a bit carried away, Misha—from your heated tone I guess you’re not quite indifferent to Katerina yourself. I’ve suspected as much for a long time, you know. That’s why you dislike Ivan. You’re jealous of him, aren’t you?”

“And I suppose I’m also jealous because of her money, no? Go on, why don’t you say that too?”

“No, I’ve nothing to say about the money—I have no wish to offend you, Misha.”

“I believe it, since you say so, but again, as far as your brother Ivan is concerned, you can go to hell! You, none of you understand that one might thoroughly dislike him, quite apart from being jealous of Katerina. And why should. I like him, damn it all? Since he does me the honor of abusing me, why shouldn’t I abuse him?”

“I’ve never heard him say anything either good or bad about you. He’s never mentioned you at all as far as I know.”

“Well, I was told that two days ago he was belaboring me for all he was worth at Katerina’s. Doesn’t that prove that he’s very much interested in yours truly? Can you be so sure who’s jealous of whom? He was pleased to predict on that occasion that, if I decided in the near future that the career of an archimandrite was not for me, and that I would not be tonsured, I would be sure to go off to Petersburg, that I would get myself onto the staff of some thick magazine, in the literary section, of course. He said I’d write for it for about ten years, by which time I’d have managed to get the whole magazine under my own name. Then, according to him, I’d be sure to make it toe a liberal, atheistic line, with socialist overtones, a slight varnish of socialism that is, but very carefully handled, keeping an ear to the ground. That is, pleasing everyone and hoodwinking the fools. The crowning glory of my career, according to your dear brother, would come when, despite my socialist varnish, I had accumulated a solid bank account from the subscriptions to the magazine, which I would swell by investing at every good opportunity, through the intermediary of some Jew, until I had enough to buy myself a large apartment building in Petersburg. Then I would transfer my editorial offices there and rent the rest of the apartments. He even decided on a location for the house—near the Newstone Bridge that is to be built across the Neva between Liteinaya and Vyborg Streets . . .”

“Ah, Misha, you know, that’s how it will really happen, word for word!” Alyosha cried out, unable to suppress a cheerful grin.

“Now you’re being sarcastic too, Mr. Alexei Karamazov.”

“No, no, I was joking. Don’t be angry with me. I have something altogether different on my mind. But tell me—who could possibly have repeated what he said to you in such detail? Surely, you can’t have been at Katerina’s when he said all that about you . . . ?”

“I wasn’t there, of course, but your brother Dmitry was and I heard it from him with my own ears. As a matter of fact, though, he did not tell me; I overheard him—accidentally, it goes without saying—because I was sitting in Grushenka’s bedroom and I couldn’t get out of there as long as Dmitry was in the next room.”

“That’s right! I had completely forgotten—she’s a relative of yours.”

“Grushenka, a relative of mine!” Rakitin shouted loudly, turning red. “You’re out of your mind! Your brains must be turning soft!”

“Why, isn’t she related to you? I’d heard she was.”

“Where could you possibly have heard that? Oh, you Karamazovs! You give yourselves airs as though you came from an ancient line of distinguished gentry, whereas in fact your father used to act the clown, scrounging meals in other people’s houses, depending on their charity. And even if I am only the son of a lowly priest and a mere louse compared with you members of the landed gentry, you shouldn’t keep insulting me so light-heartedly and with such zest. For I also have a sense of dignity, Alexei Karamazov, and I’d like you to get it through your head that I could not possibly be related to a prostitute like Grushenka.”

Rakitin was in a state of great agitation.

“Please forgive me. I’m terribly sorry . . . It never occurred to me . . . Besides, why is she a prostitute? Is she really?” Alyosha suddenly turned beet-red. “I repeat, I heard someone say she was related to you. You do often go to see her, and you told me yourself that you’d never been her lover . . . I had no idea that you felt such profound scorn for her. Do you really think she deserves it?”

“I might have special reasons for visiting her and that should be good enough for you. As for being related to her, you have a much better chance than I have of winding up as a relative of hers, courtesy of your brother, or perhaps even of your father. Well, here we are. You’d better hurry in to the kitchen. But what’s going on? Are we late? Why, they can’t possibly have finished eating their lunch so quickly! Perhaps the Karamazovs have been up to something again? It looks like it. There’s your father over there. And look, Ivan is following him. They’ve left the Father Superior’s. Look, Father Isidore is shouting something to them from the doorstep. And your father is shouting too, and waving his hands in the air—I’m sure he must be swearing. And there’s Miusov, driving off in his carriage. And now I see Maximov, the landowner, running—there must have been a real explosion. The luncheon can’t have even taken place! They can’t have beaten up the Father Superior! Or perhaps they got beaten? I wish I could have seen it . . .”

Rakitin had good reason for shrieking with excitement: something scandalous, unheard of, and completely unexpected had just taken place. And it had all happened as the result of an “inspired” idea.

Chapter 8: A Scandalous Scene

BEING A well-bred and sincerely decent man, Miusov underwent a rapid process of self-examination, as he entered the Father Superior’s rooms with Ivan, as a result of which he grew ashamed of having lost his temper. He felt that he should have sufficiently despised that old wretch Karamazov not to have lost his own composure in the elder’s cell as he had done. In any case, he decided as he crossed the threshold of the Father Superior’s rooms, the monks were not to blame for anything, and if, here too, they were such respectable men (“I believe Father Superior Nikolai himself comes from the gentry”), why not be courteous and polite with them? “I won’t get involved in any arguments,” he promised himself. “In fact, I’ll try to agree with them. I’ll overwhelm them with graciousness, and . . . and I’ll prove to them that I have nothing in common with that Aesop, that clown, that ridiculous 
pierrot
, that I was in his company by sheer bad luck, just as everyone else was . . .”

As to the contested wood-cutting and fishing rights (he wasn’t actually too sure which streams and woods were involved), he decided to concede them to the monastery once and for all, that very day, especially since it would cost him very little; he would drop all his lawsuits against the monastery.

All these good intentions were further strengthened when they entered the Father Superior’s dining room. It was not really a dining room, since the Father Superior had only two rooms altogether. They were larger and more comfortable than the elder’s, but their furnishings were not very lavish either: the chairs were mahogany covered with leather in the old style of the 1820’s and the floors were not even stained, but everything was spotlessly clean and there were beautiful flowers in the windows. The chief luxury, on this occasion, of course, was a sumptuous table laden with choice foods, although even that luxury was relative: the tablecloth was immaculate, the plates and the silverware shone; there were three kinds of freshly baked bread, two bottles of wine, two bottles of the monastery’s excellent mead, and a large jug of its 
kvas
, which was famous throughout the district. No vodka was served at all.

Later, Rakitin disclosed that five courses had been prepared for the meal: a sterlet soup with fish patties; then some excellent boiled fish prepared according to a special recipe; then salmon cutlets; then ice cream and stewed fruit; and finally a sort of blanc-mange. Rakitin sniffed all this out; he had connections in the Father Superior’s kitchen too and he could not resist having a look.

Rakitin had connections everywhere and he could always find out what was going on from various informants. He was a restless and envious man. He was a man, too, of considerable ability, of which he was very much aware, indeed, which, in his conceit, he tended to exaggerate. He felt sure that one day he would be an important man. Alyosha, who was very attached to him, worried because his friend was dishonest without realizing it. On the contrary, Rakitin, because he knew he would not have stolen money if he had found it lying on a table, believed himself to be scrupulously honest. And no one, not even Alyosha, could do anything to make him see differently.

Rakitin’s position at the monastery was too lowly for him to be invited to the Father Superior’s table. But Father Joseph and Father Paisii were to be among the guests, as was another monk. They were already in the dining room when Miusov, Kalganov, and Ivan Karamazov made their entrance. Maximov, the little landowner, was there too, waiting in a corner by himself.

The monastery’s Father Superior stepped into the middle of the room to welcome his guests. He was a tall, thin, but still-vigorous old man with pepper-and-salt hair and a long, solemn, emaciated face. He bowed to them in silence but, this time, they went up to him to receive his blessing. Miusov even contemplated kissing his hand, but the Father Superior withdrew it before he had a chance. Ivan and Kalganov, however, underwent the complete ritual, culminating in a resounding kiss on the hand that blessed them, like simple peasants.

“We must apologize profoundly, Your Reverence,” Miusov started, smiling amiably, but speaking in a solemn and respectful tone, “for the absence of our companion, Mr. Fyodor Karamazov, who felt obliged for very good reasons to decline your invitation. When we were all in the elder Zosima’s cell, Mr. Karamazov became carried away by his unfortunate feud with his son and said some things he should not have said . . . a few most inappropriate things, I dare say . . . But I believe Your Reverence has already been informed,” Miusov said, glancing at the monks. “And so, realizing he was at fault and sincerely regretting his behavior, but being too embarrassed to come here and apologize in person, he asked his son Ivan and myself to convey to you his profound apologies and regrets. In brief, he hopes and intends to make amends for everything, begs you for your blessing, and beseeches you to forget what has happened.”

Miusov finished. He was very pleased with himself as he uttered the final words of his speech. So pleased, in fact, that the last traces of his recent irritation were wiped away. Once again, he was the sincere lover of mankind.

The Father Superior, who had listened to him with a solemn air, lowered his head slightly and replied:

“I am very sorry that the gentleman has decided not to come. Perhaps by sharing this meal with us, he would have learned to love us as we love him. And now, gentlemen, please be seated.”

First he went to the icon and said grace aloud. They all lowered their heads respectfully, and Maximov did so with special zeal, clasping his hands with particular fervor and reverence.

And that was the moment that Fyodor Karamazov chose to produce his final surprise. It must be said, though, that he really had wanted to leave, for he realized that, after his disgraceful display in the elder’s cell, he could hardly appear at the Father Superior’s lunch as if nothing at all had happened. This was not really because he was too embarrassed or too angry with himself—quite the contrary, perhaps—but still, he felt it would not be appropriate for him to attend the party. When his ramshackle carriage drove up to the doorway of the inn to pick him up, however, and he was already climbing into it, he suddenly stopped. He remembered what he himself had said in the elder’s cell: that whenever he appeared among people, he always felt they considered him the most despicable of men and that his usual reaction at those moments was to say to himself, “Well, if that’s so, I’ll act like the fool they think I am and show them that in reality they are stupider and more despicable than I am.” And he felt an urge to punish the others for his own disgusting display. He also remembered that when someone had once asked him, “Why do you hate so-and-so so much?” he had answered in a fit of shameless buffoonery: “True, the fellow has never wronged me, but I have wronged him in the most disgusting, unscrupulous manner, and I have hated him ever since.” He grew thoughtful for a second. He snorted wickedly, his eyes flashed, his lips quivered. “Well, once I’ve started something, I might as well finish it,” he decided. His state of mind at that moment could be described as follows: Since it was not in his power to regain their respect, why shouldn’t he go on and disgrace himself altogether, to show them that he could not care less what they thought of him?

Ordering his driver to wait for him, he hurried back to the monastery, and went straight to the Father Superior’s rooms. He still did not know exactly what he was going to do, but he did know that he was no longer in full control of himself and that the least provocation could push him to the very limit, to some unspeakable abomination—although he knew he would not do anything for which he could be held legally punishable and that he would never commit a crime. He could always stop himself before breaking the law and, at times, he wondered at that himself.

And so he appeared in the dining room at the very moment the Father Superior finished saying grace and everyone started to move toward the table to sit down. He stood in the doorway, staring at them. Then he let out a long, arrogant, spiteful chuckle and, with a challenging glare in his eyes, shouted: