The Brothers Karamazov (30 page)

You see, I’ve thought of everything—that is, everything but one thing that I cannot imagine: What will you think of me when you read this? I always seem to be laughing and being naughty, and I think you were annoyed with me this morning. But believe me, before I started writing this, I prayed before the icon of the Mother of God. I am praying even now, and I am almost in tears.

So now you know my secret and I don’t know how I’ll be able to look you in the eye when you come tomorrow. Ah, Alexei, what will happen if I again cannot control myself and begin to laugh like a fool when I see you, as I did today? Then you may think I am just a nasty scoffer, trying to make fun of you, and you won’t believe my letter. And so I beg you, my dear Alyosha, if you have any compassion, don’t look directly into my eyes when you come tomorrow, for if our eyes meet, I’m afraid I will indeed burst out laughing, especially since you’ll be wearing those long skirts of yours . . . Even at this moment, I feel the cold creeping over me as I think of it. So when you come in, you’d better not even look at me for a while—look at mother or out of the window instead.

Here I’ve written you a love letter. My God, what have I done! Alyosha, please don’t despise me for this, and if it is really an awful thing to do and if it annoys you very much, forgive me please. Now my secret is in your hands and my good reputation may be lost forever.

I’m afraid I will cry today. So, until we meet, until that
  terrifying  
moment,

Lise

P.S. Alyosha, be sure to come without, without, without fail! Lise.

*

Alyosha read it all, greatly surprised. He reread it twice, thought for a while, and suddenly began to laugh, quietly and sweetly. Then the sound of his own laughter made him shudder—he felt it might be sinful. But a second later he was laughing again, just as quietly and happily. He slowly put the letter back into the envelope, crossed himself, and stretched out on the sofa. All that had been weighing on him was gone. “Have mercy upon them all, O Lord. Save them, the unhappy and the tormented. Guide them onto the path that is right for each one of them, according to Your wisdom. You are love. You will bring joy and happiness to all . . .” Alyosha muttered, crossing himself and drifting into peaceful sleep.

PART TWO

Book IV: Torment

Chapter 1: Father Ferapont

ALYOSHA WAS roused before dawn. The elder had awakened and, although he felt extremely weak, had asked to be moved from his bed to the armchair. His mind was entirely clear and, tired though he looked, his expression was serene, almost happy, and there was a cheerful, warm glow in his eyes. “I may not live through the day,” he told Alyosha, adding that he wished to confess and receive the sacrament right away. Father Paisii, his regular confessor, complied. When he had received the two sacraments, there was a gathering in the cell. Monks started to come in and the cell gradually filled with the inmates of the hermitage. As it grew lighter, monks from the monastery began arriving too. After the prayers, the elder expressed the wish to take leave of everyone and, as he did so, he kissed each of them. Because the cell was overcrowded, those who had come earlier left to make room for others. Alyosha stood by the elder’s chair. Zosima spoke and preached to them, his voice weak but firm.

“I have been preaching to you for a great many years, my dear fathers and brethren, and, of course, all the time I have been doing the talking. It has become such a habit with me to talk all the time and give you advice that, finally, I find it almost harder to keep quiet than to talk, even in my present weak state.”

Making this light remark, he looked with warm affection on those crowding around him.

Some of what Zosima said that day was to remain engraved in Alyosha’s memory forever. But, although the elder spoke distinctly and in a firm voice, his speech was somewhat incoherent. He spoke of many things and seemed to want, before dying, to say all that he had left unsaid during his lifetime. And it was not just for their edification that he wanted to say it all—it was more like a yearning to convey the joy and rapture he felt, a yearning to share it with everyone, to pour forth his heart once more while he was still alive.

This is what Alyosha later remembered of his words:

“Love one another, fathers. Love God’s people. We are no holier than those outside, just because we have shut ourselves up behind these walls. Just the opposite, by coming here, each of us has acknowledged to himself that he is worse than those who remain outside, worse than anyone in the world. The longer a monk lives within the monastery walls, the more acutely must he be aware of this. Otherwise there was no reason for him to come here. It is only when it is revealed to him that not only is he worse than all those outside these walls, but also that he is responsible to all men for everyone and everything, for all human sins, universal and individual—only then will he have achieved the purpose of his seclusion. For I want you to know, my beloved ones, that every one of us is responsible for all men and for everything on earth, not only responsible through the universal responsibility of mankind, but responsible personally—every man for all people and for each individual man who lives on earth. Such an awareness is the crown of a monk’s life and, indeed, the crown of any human life on earth. For monks are no different from other men, and they must be what other men ought to strive to become. Only then will our hearts be moved by a love that is infinite and universal, and knows no surfeit. Then every one of you will be able to gain the whole world by his love and wash away the world’s sins with his tears . . . Each of you must keep constant watch over his heart and constantly confess to himself. Do not be afraid of sin, even if you recognize it as such, as long as there is repentance, but do not try to bargain with God. And, above all, remember—do not be proud! Do not be proud before the weak or before the mighty. Do not hate those who reject you, those who dishonor you, those who abuse you and slander you. Do not hate atheists, or teachers of evil, or materialists, whether they are wicked or good—for many among them are good people, especially in our time. Remember them in your prayers thus: ‘Save all those, O Lord, who have no one to pray for them, and all who refuse to pray.’ And you must add this to that prayer: ‘I do not pray for them out of pride, O Lord, for I myself am the most loathsome creature of all’ . . . Love God’s people and do not let strangers drive your flock from you. For if you lose interest out of idleness, supercilious pride, or, worst of all, greed, others will come from all directions and snatch your flock from you. Never cease to explain the Gospels to the people . . . Do not be avaricious, do not love gold and silver. Do not hoard . . . Have faith and defend its banner. Raise it, raise it high.”

Actually Zosima’s speech was less smooth than it appears here, or than Alyosha noted it down afterward. At times his voice would break off. He seemed to gasp for breath, but he was in a state of ecstasy. Most of those listening to him were very moved, although some were rather bewildered by his words and found them obscure. Later, those words were remembered and discussed.

When Alyosha had to leave the cell for a moment, he was struck by the general atmosphere of anxiety and suspense among the monks, both in and outside the cell. Some looked worried, others wore solemn expressions. All of them were expecting something immensely significant to happen immediately after the elder’s death. Such an expectation seemed in a sense frivolous, but even the oldest and sternest monks succumbed to it. The severest face of all was Father Paisii’s.

A monk whispered into Alyosha’s ear that Rakitin had just arrived from town and wanted to see him. Rakitin had a letter from Mrs. Khokhlakov for him. It contained a strange and very timely message. She wrote that, among the women who had come to see the elder the day before, to receive his blessing, there was an old sergeant’s widow from town, one Prokhorovna. It was she who had asked the elder whether she could have prayers said for her son Vasya’s soul as if he were dead, because she hadn’t had any news from him for more than a year and didn’t know whether he was still alive in Irkutsk, in faraway Siberia. The elder had told her sternly that she could not have prayers said for the soul of a living person, that it would be witchcraft, but he then had forgiven her because she didn’t know any better and added, “as though reading out of the Book of the Future,” as Mrs. Khokhlakov put it in her letter, that her son Vasya was indeed alive and that he would soon either come back to her or send her a letter, and that she should go home and wait. “And what do you think?” Mrs. Khokhlakov wrote ecstatically. “This prophecy has been fulfilled, indeed more than that!” When the old woman arrived home, she was handed a letter from Siberia that had come during her absence. But that was not all. In the letter, mailed in Ekaterinburg, Vasya informed his mother that he was on his way home, traveling in the company of a government official, and that he hoped “to embrace his mother within three weeks.” Mrs. Khokhlakov begged Alyosha to report this “miraculous prophecy” to the Father Superior and to the monks—for “everyone should know about it!” she exclaimed at the end of her letter. The letter was written hurriedly and the excitement of the writer was evident in every line.

But Alyosha had nothing new to tell the monks for they already knew all about it: when Rakitin had sent the monk to call Alyosha, he had also asked him “to most respectfully request His Reverence Father Paisii” to receive him, because he had “a message of such great urgency” to deliver that he didn’t dare to “delay one minute.” He begged Father Paisii “to forgive his presumption.” Since the monk had spoken to Father Paisii before speaking to Alyosha, all Alyosha had left to do, after reading the letter, was to give it to Father Paisii as further evidence of the “miracle.” And now that stern, severe man, having read the letter with a frown, could not prevent himself from showing his feelings a little. A glint appeared in his eye and his lips stretched into a grave and solemn smile.

“We may see even greater things yet,” he said, the words barely escaping his lips.

“We may see greater things, see greater things yet!” the surrounding monks repeated, but Father Paisii frowned again and asked them not to tell anyone, for the time being, what had happened. “Not until there is further confirmation, for there is a great deal of irresponsibility among laymen and, besides, the whole thing may have a natural explanation,” he added prudently, to satisfy his conscience, although he himself did not really believe the reservation was necessary, as those around him realized very well. Within the hour, everyone in the monastery had heard about the “miracle,” even the outsiders who came to attend mass. But the person most impressed by it was the visiting monk from St. Sylvester of Obdorsk, a small monastery in the far north. He was the monk who had stood next to Mrs. Khokhlakov the day before and who, indicating that lady’s “cured” daughter, had asked Elder Zosima how he “dared” to tamper with such things.

This monk was already somewhat at a loss and was not sure what he should believe. Later the same day, he had gone to see Father Ferapont in his isolated cell behind the apiary, and the visit had made a tremendous and terrifying impression on him. Father Ferapont was a very old monk who was famous for his fasting and his vow of silence and who was a staunch opponent of the institution of elders in general and of Elder Zosima in particular. He considered the institution a harmful and irresponsible new fad. He was a very dangerous opponent, even though, because of his vow of silence, he hardly ever spoke to anyone. He was dangerous mainly because many monks were in sympathy with him and also because so many lay visitors considered him a great ascetic and a saint, although they did not doubt that he was one of God’s fools. His being a holy fool only moved and impressed them.

Father Ferapont never went to see Father Zosima. Although he lived within the confines of the hermitage, he was not subject to its rules, again mainly because he behaved like a holy fool. He was at least seventy-five years old and he lived behind the hermitage apiary, by the wall, in a dilapidated wooden shack that had been built long before, back in the eighteenth century, for another famous observer of fasts and silence, one Father Jonas, who had lived to the age of a hundred and five and about whose acts of devotion many curious stories were told in the monastery and in the surrounding countryside. Father Ferapont had obtained permission to move into this isolated cell, or rather shack, about seven years before. It looked like a chapel because of its tremendous number of icons with lamps perpetually burning before them, all brought by visitors to the monastery. And Father Ferapont was supposed to act as keeper of these holy icons. It was said—and it was quite true—that he lived on only two pounds of bread every three days. The bread was brought to him every fourth day by the monk bee-keeper, but even with him Father Ferapont seldom exchanged a word. So his weekly fare consisted of four pounds of bread and the communion wafer sent to him regularly by the Father Superior after the late mass on Sundays. The water in his jug was changed every day. He rarely appeared at mass. His visiting admirers watched him kneeling in prayer throughout the day, never once standing up or looking around. And even when he did, on occasion, talk to them, he was always brief, abrupt, and peculiar, and often rude. On very rare occasions, he would hold a whole conversation with his visitors, but mostly he would just utter some strange word that would puzzle them, after which, even if he was beseeched to say more, he would not give any explanation at all. He was just a simple monk with no priestly rank. There was a strange rumor circulating—only among the less educated people, it is true—that Father Ferapont was in direct communication with celestial spirits and that this was the reason for his silence with men.

The visitor from remote Obdorsk reached the apiary and from there followed the directions of the bee-keeper, also a very glum and taciturn monk, who explained to him how to find Father Ferapont’s shack and warned him:

“He may talk to you or you may not get a single word out of him.”

As the visiting monk recounted later, he approached the shack with immense apprehension. It was already late in the day. Father Ferapont was sitting on a very low bench outside the door of his cabin. A huge elm rustled faintly overhead. The evening freshness could be felt in the air. The visitor prostrated himself before the holy man and asked for his blessing.

“Do you want me, too, to prostrate myself before you, monk?” Father Ferapont said. “Get up.”

The visitor got up.

“It is by blessing that one is blessed. Sit down here, next to me. Where do you come from?”

What surprised the visitor most was that, despite his known fasting and his advanced years, Father Ferapont was such a strong old man—tall, erect, with a fresh complexion and a healthy albeit drawn look. He was powerfully built and it was quite obvious that he still had considerable physical strength. Despite his great age, he was not even completely white-headed and there were still black strands in his hair and his beard. His eyes were large, gray, luminous, and amazingly prominent. He spoke with a strong regional accent. He wore a long rust-colored coat of a coarse material called at the time “prison cloth,” and had a rope tied around his waist. Under his coat, his rough cotton shirt was almost black with dirt since he did not take it off for months at a time. It was open at the neck, leaving his chest bare. It was said that he wore thirty-pound chains under his coat. His sockless feet were thrust into dilapidated shoes with gaping holes in them.

“I come from a small monastery, St. Sylvester in Obdorsk,” the visiting monk said in a humble tone, watching the hermit out of quick, curious, and somewhat frightened eyes.

“I’ve been at your Sylvester’s. Stayed with him. So how is Sylvester? Is he all right?”

The monk looked at him, taken aback.

“You muddle-headed people! How do you keep your fasts?”

“Since ancient times, in our monastery, we have had no meals on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays during Lent. On Tuesdays and Thursdays we receive white bread, stewed fruit with honey, wild berries or pickled cabbage, and oatmeal porridge. On Saturdays, cabbage soup, peas, noodles, and porridge—everything with vegetable oil. During the week we get dried fish with gruel as well as cabbage soup. During Holy Week, from Monday through Saturday, for those six days, no food is cooked at all and we get only bread and water, and very little of that; and we abstain from eating at all on some days, as is prescribed for the first week of Lent. We eat and drink nothing on Good Friday and nothing on Holy Saturday until three o’clock in the afternoon, and then only a little bread and one glass of wine. On Holy Thursday, we have something cooked without oil and drink wine with some dry food, because the Laodicean Council says of Holy Thursday: ‘It is wrong to break your fast on the Thursday of the last week of Lent and thus dishonor the whole of Lent.’ That’s how it is in our monastery. But that’s nothing compared with your own fasting, Reverend Father,” the visiting monk added in a bolder tone, “for you live on nothing but bread and water throughout the whole year, even during Easter, and the bread we eat in two days lasts you a whole week. Your fasting is, indeed, wondrous to behold!”