The Brothers Karamazov (31 page)

“And what about mushrooms?”

“Mushrooms?” repeated the puzzled visitor.

“That’s right. I could easily do without their bread—I don’t need it at all: I could go into the forest and live on mushrooms and berries, while here they can’t leave, for they can’t do without the bread they’re given. That shows they’re tied to the devil. And nowadays some of these heathens say there’s no need to fast all that much; that’s insolent, heathen talk, that’s what it is!”

“Very true.”

“And did you see devils there, among them?”

“Where? Among whom?” the monk inquired timidly.

“I went to see the Father Superior last year on Trinity Sunday, and I’ve never been back since. I saw devils hiding under the cassocks of some of those monks, close to their bosoms, with just their horns showing. Others had devils peeping out of their pockets; they had those quick, shifty little eyes, the unholy ones, and they were certainly frightened of me. And one of them went to live inside the unclean belly of a monk; another hung around a monk’s neck, and the monk carried him everywhere he went without ever seeing him.”

“And you . . . you saw them?”

“I’m telling you I saw them—I can see through things, that’s why. As I was leaving the Father Superior’s, I looked and saw one of them trying to hide from me behind the door. That was a big one, more than three feet tall, and you should have seen the tail he had: it was thick and long and brown! Well, the end of that tail of his was in the crack of the door and, as I had a sharp eye open, I quickly slammed it shut and caught his tail in it. Ah, the way he squealed then and started pulling and jumping! But I made the sign of the cross over him, three times I made it, and that got him—he was dead as a stepped-on spider! And now I’m sure he’s rotting away in that corner and reeking, but they can’t see or smell him . . . Well, I haven’t been back there for over a year, and I’ve only told this to you because you’re a visitor from other parts.”

“It’s frightening what you tell me, Blessed and Reverend Father. But tell me now, are the wonderful things they say about you true? Do you really converse with the Holy Ghost as you are reputed to even in the most distant lands?”

“Sometimes. He comes down to see me.”

“How does he come down to you, in what shape?” the monk asked, becoming bolder and bolder.

“As a bird.”

“The Holy Ghost in the shape of a dove?”

“That’s the Holy Ghost. I’m talking about the Holy Spirit and the Holy Spirit can come down in the shape of some other bird—a swallow, a goldfinch, or sometimes a tom-tit.”

“And how do you recognize him in a tom-tit?”

“He talks to me.”

“In what tongue does he talk?”

“In human tongue.”

“And what does he say to you?”

“Well, today, for instance, he warned me that a fool would visit me and ask me stupid questions. You want to know too much, monk.”

“Your words are frightening, Blessed and Reverend Father,” the visitor said, shaking his head. But in his frightened little eyes there was a suggestion of disbelief.

“Do you see that tree there?” Father Ferapont asked him after a brief silence.

“I do, Blessed Father.”

“And you think it’s an elm, don’t you? But I see it differently.”

After waiting in vain for Father Ferapont to tell him what the tree looked like to him, the monk asked:

“And what is it to you, Reverend Father?”

“See those two branches? Sometimes at night they are Christ’s arms. He stretches His arms out toward me, searching for me with those arms. I see it clearly and I tremble: it’s frightening, too frightening!”

“But why is it frightening since it is Christ Himself?”

“And what if he grabs me and carries me off to heaven?”

“What do you mean? Carries you off to heaven alive?”

“Why, haven’t you heard about Elijah? He’ll just put those arms around me and carry me off . . .”

Even though the visiting monk from Obdorsk was rather taken aback by this conversation, when he returned to the cell assigned to him, which he shared with another monk, his sympathies were still with Father Ferapont rather than with Father Zosima. The visitor considered fasting of the utmost importance and he thought it quite natural that a man famous for his observance of fasts should have miraculous visions. Of course, certain things Father Ferapont had said sounded rather incongruous, but our Lord knows the meaning of those words and, besides, all the holy fools whom Christ loves say and do far stranger things than Ferapont. As to the story about the devil’s tail being caught in the door, the Obdorsk monk was not only prepared to accept it in a metaphorical and symbolic sense—he was eager to believe it literally. On the other hand, before he had even come to our monastery, he had been very strongly prejudiced against the institution of elders, an institution which he knew only from hearsay and which, subscribing to the opinion of many others, he viewed as an extremely undesirable and harmful innovation. Moreover, in our monastery, he had found considerable resentment against the institution of elders among some irresponsible and dissenting monks. On top of this, the visitor was very curious by nature. He was a very energetic and inquisitive man; and the news about the great “miracle” performed by Father Zosima puzzled him. Later, Alyosha remembered that, among the monks who crowded around Zosima and stayed constantly in the vicinity of the cell, there was always the smallish figure of the inquisitive visiting monk, darting from one group to another, listening to conversations, asking everybody questions. At the time, though, he paid little attention to him; it was only later that he remembered it.

Alyosha had other more important things to worry about right then. Zosima, who again felt very tired and had been transferred back to his bed from the armchair, was just dozing off when he remembered Alyosha and asked for him. Alyosha came running at once. Near the elder were only Father Paisii, Father Joseph, and the novice Porfiry. The elder opened his tired eyes, looked intently at Alyosha, and asked:

“Aren’t people expecting you, my dear son?”

Alyosha mumbled something hesitatingly.

“Doesn’t someone need you? Didn’t you promise someone yesterday that you’d come to see them today?”

“I did promise . . . I promised my father . . . and my brothers . . . others too . . .”

“So you see. You must go without fail. And don’t be sad. Know that I won’t die without saying my last words on earth in your presence. I’ll say those words to you, my dear son, and I’ll bequeath them to you. To you, my sweet son, because you love me. But now you must go to see those you promised.”

Alyosha obeyed immediately, although he found it very painful to leave. But the elder’s promise that he would hear his last words on earth and, above all, that those words would be bequeathed to him—Alyosha—filled him with elation. He hurried to town so that he could attend as quickly as possible to everything he had to do there and get back as soon as he could. Before he left, Father Paisii also said something to him that made a strong and unexpected impression on him. As they stepped out of the elder’s cell, Father Paisii spoke suddenly and without preliminaries:

“Secular science, which has grown into a great force, has investigated, particularly during the past century, everything that has been handed down to us in the sacred books. That is something you must always remember, young man. After their thorough, merciless analysis, there was nothing sacred left in the hands of those secular scholars. That was because they analyzed only the parts and failed to study the whole, showing thereby a truly astonishing blindness. And the whole still stands today, firm and unassailable before their eyes, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. Hasn’t it survived nineteen centuries and isn’t its existence apparent today in the spiritual emotions experienced equally by individual men and by masses of people? And in the hearts of the very atheists who are trying to destroy everything, that spiritual emotion lives on to this day. This is so because even those who have renounced Christianity, even those who rebel against it—even they, in their essence, were created in the image of Christ and have remained in His image. Their combined wisdom and their desperate efforts to create a nobler man with greater dignity, the ideal set by Christ, have come to naught. From all their attempts, only freaks have resulted. I want you to remember that, young man, because your dying elder has decided that you shall live in the secular world. And perhaps, remembering this day, you will also think of my words of guidance uttered from the bottom of my heart, because you are still young and the world is full of great temptations beyond your endurance. Well, you must go now, my bereaved boy.” And Father Paisii blessed Alyosha.

As he left the monastery gates, thinking of Father Paisii’s unexpected speech, Alyosha suddenly understood that, in that severe and unsmiling monk who had until now always treated him sternly, he had suddenly found a new friend and guide, just as if Father Zosima had bequeathed Father Paisii to him as he was dying. “Perhaps that’s exactly what happened between them,” Alyosha suddenly thought. The fact that Father Paisii had started directly with a philosophical discourse rather than with some other approach testified to the impulsiveness of his heart: he was anxious to arm Alyosha’s young mind for the forthcoming struggle against temptations and to provide the young soul that was now entrusted to him with the strongest defenses he could conceive of.

Chapter 2: Alyosha In His Father’s House

ALYOSHA WENT to his father’s house first. Just before reaching it, he remembered his father’s insistence that he slip into the house unseen by Ivan. This struck him suddenly as very strange. “Why?” he wondered. “Even if father wishes to tell me a secret, there’s still no reason why Ivan shouldn’t see me come in. It’s true, though, that father wanted to tell me something else yesterday, but somehow couldn’t in his excitement . . .” He was nevertheless very pleased when Martha opened the gate for him (Gregory, it turned out, was sick in bed in the cottage) and, in answer to his question about Ivan, told him that his brother had left two hours before.

“And what is father doing?”

“He’s up and having his coffee,” Martha replied, rather drily it seemed to Alyosha.

When he entered, the old man was sitting alone at the table. He wore bedroom slippers and an old overcoat and was looking distractedly through some accounts. Mr. Karamazov was entirely alone in the house, as Smerdyakov had gone out to do some shopping for dinner. His thoughts had obviously wandered away from the accounts he had before him. And although he had been up since early morning and had tried to convince himself that he felt fine, he looked weak and tired. Huge purplish bruises had come out on his forehead during the night and he had tied a red scarf around his head. His nose was also considerably swollen and displayed smaller dark bruises that somehow gave him an impatient and irritated expression. The old man was aware of this himself as he greeted Alyosha with an unfriendly look.

“The coffee’s cold. I won’t offer you any,” he shouted abruptly. “What can I do for you?”

“I came to find out how you were.”

“I see, and besides I told you to come here myself yesterday. But that was all a lot of nonsense and I wish you hadn’t bothered to come. I was pretty sure, though, that you’d be hanging around here today.”

He said this in the sourest possible tone, got up and looked at his nose in the mirror—for about the fortieth time that morning. Then he adjusted the red kerchief more becomingly around his head.

“I prefer something red around my head—white would remind me too much of a hospital. Well, how are things with you, over there? How’s your elder?”

“He’s very weak; he may die today,” Alyosha answered, but his father wasn’t listening and appeared even to have forgotten his question.

“Ivan has gone out,” Mr. Karamazov announced. “He’s trying as hard as he can to take that good-for-nothing Dmitry’s fiancée away from him. That’s actually the only reason he’s staying here,” he added spitefully.

“Did he really tell you that?”

“He certainly did, and not just now—he told me three weeks ago. What other reason could he have had for coming here? I don’t expect it was to cut my throat secretly, or was it? He certainly must have had some reason for coming.”

“But why? How can you say things like that?”

“True, he never asks me for money, but it would be all the same if he did. For your information, my good son Alexei, I plan to stay in this world as long as possible, so I need every kopek I have, and the longer I manage to live, the more I’ll need it.”

Mr. Karamazov paced the room from corner to corner, his hands thrust into the pockets of his soiled, loose yellow summer topcoat.

“I’m only fifty-five,” he went on. “I’m a man in my prime and I intend to live like a man, in the full sense of the word, for another twenty years or so, when I’ll have become repulsive and they won’t come to me of their own free will. Well, then I’ll need all my money. So now I’m trying to put as much aside as I can, and just for my personal, private use, my dear son Alexei Karamazov—I want everyone to know that. A sinful life is sweet, you know, and although they all say they disapprove, every one of them lives sinfully. Only they all do it in secret, whereas I do it openly. And it’s because of my frankness that all those sinners have pounced on me. As for reaching your paradise, Alexei, my son, I don’t even want to reach it—I want you to understand that. Even if there is such a paradise somewhere, I don’t think it’s a suitable place for a self-respecting man. But the way I picture it is this: A man goes to sleep and never wakes up, and there’s nothing left of him. Now if you wish to have prayers said for my soul, you’re welcome to, and if you don’t wish to, you can go to hell yourself for all I care—and that’s my whole philosophy. Yesterday Ivan talked sense about these things, although we were all pretty drunk. But otherwise Ivan is just a little braggart, and he’s not at all the great scholar he fancies he is. He’s not even that well educated, I dare say; all he does is look at you and grin, without saying much. And that’s how he gets away with it.”