The Brothers Karamazov (61 page)

“It’s strange, though, that 
this
 should have happened to him,” some monks said, at first pretending to be sad about it. “Why, he was so small and thin—nothing but skin and bones—it’s even hard to imagine where the smell could be coming from.”

“It must be a special sign from heaven then,” others chimed in eagerly, and their opinion was accepted unquestionably when they explained that even an ordinary sinner’s body does not usually start to decay until about twenty-four hours after death, whereas in this case it had started uncannily soon, and that was also against the laws of nature and therefore must be seen as the finger of God! “God wants to warn us,” they said, and to many this argument seemed irrefutable. Father Joseph, the gentle monk-librarian and one of the closest friends of the deceased, tried to argue with some of these ill-wishers. He told them that the basis of their judgment was not necessarily true, that it was not a dogma of the Orthodox Church that the body of the righteous never decays, that it was only a belief held by some, that, indeed, in the most strictly Orthodox countries, on Mount Athos, for example, they attached no particular importance to decay and, to them, an absence of decay was not as important a sign of the deceased’s saintliness as, for instance, the color of his bones after the body had been buried for several years and had rotted in its grave.

“If the bones are yellow, like wax, it is a most important sign that the Lord has glorified the deceased; if they are black instead, it shows that the Lord has deemed him unworthy of glory,” Father Joseph explained, adding: “That is what they believe on Mount Athos, a famed and holy place where Orthodox teachings have been preserved in the greatest purity since the most ancient times.”

But the gentle Father Joseph’s words were wasted on them and even met with sarcastic rejoinders. “That’s all hair-splitting and innovation,” the monks came back at him. “Our own ancient ways are good enough for us,” some said. “Why must we pick up innovations? There are too many of them,” others answered Father Joseph. “No use listening to him!” chimed in still others. “We have at least as many holy fathers as they do. Besides, they are sitting there under the Turks and have lost touch with many things, even their orthodoxy is no longer pure: they have even given up church bells nowadays,” the most sarcastic of them all concluded.

Father Joseph walked away from them filled with a sadness that was the greater because he felt he had not defended his views strongly enough, as if he himself had not been entirely convinced of what he had said. He felt that something unseemly was afoot and that disobedience itself loomed behind it. Gradually all the reasonable voices were silenced, as Father Joseph’s had been. And somehow it happened that all those who had loved the departed elder and had obediently and devotedly accepted the institution of elders now seemed terribly afraid of something. When they met they only dared exchange timid and fleeting glances. At the same time, the enemies of that institution walked about with their heads raised proudly.

“When Father Varsonofy died, not only was there no smell of decay, there was even a decided aroma of flowers from his body,” they repeated with malicious insistence, “but it was not because he had been an elder that he deserved it, but because he was a righteous man.”

Then some began to criticize openly the recently deceased elder, and even to make accusations against him.

“His teachings were false,” some confused monks said. “He taught that life was a great joy and not tearful resignation.”

“His interpretation was too modern,” others, even more confused, joined in. “He didn’t believe in actual physical fire in hell.”

“He didn’t observe the fasts very strictly,” some of the envious said. “He indulged in sweet things; he liked to have his tea with the cherry jam that was sent him by rich ladies. Is that right for an ascetic?”

“He sat in pride and fancied himself a saint,” the most spiteful said cruelly; “people knelt and prostrated themselves before him and he accepted it as normal, as his due.”

“He abused the sacrament of confession,” came the accusing angry whispers of the most hardened opponents of the institution of elders, who counted among them some of the oldest monks, the strictest in their devotions, great fasters, famed for their long periods of silence, some of whom, indeed, had not spoken since long before Father Zosima’s death and who had now suddenly unsealed their lips. And that made even greater the effect of their words upon the younger monks, whose ideas were not yet settled.

The visiting monk from the St. Sylvester Monastery of Obdorsk listened intently to all this talk and kept sighing and repeating to himself: “Well, I see now how right Father Ferapont was in what he said yesterday.” Then he saw Father Ferapont approaching.

It was as though Father Ferapont had left his retreat just in order to increase the confusion.

As I noted earlier, Father Ferapont left his wooden hut behind the apiary only on very rare occasions. He even appeared very rarely in church, and this was tolerated in his case because he was considered a simple holy fool, not bound by the monastery rules. In actual fact, they had no choice but to grant him this dispensation because they could not very well impose their rules on a monk who fasted constantly, kept his vow of silence, and often prayed day and night without rest (he would even fall asleep on his knees). “Why should a monk who is holier than any of us and who imposes even stricter rules upon himself be subject to the official regulations?” the monks would have objected. “As to his church attendance, well, he knows best himself when he should attend services.” It was probably to avoid such remarks and comments that Father Ferapont was allowed to do as he pleased. Everyone in the monastery was aware that Father Ferapont bore no love whatever for Father Zosima. And now the news had reached him in his hut that “God’s judgment proved to be different from that of men,” and “God has even overruled natural law to stress it.” It must be assumed that one of the first to announce the news to him was the Obdorsk monk, who had been to see him the day before and then had left in such a state of terror. As was also mentioned earlier, although Father Paisii remained constantly by the coffin reading the Gospels and so could not see or hear what was going on, he was nevertheless fully aware of the essentials, for he knew the monastery all too well. He was not worried. He was prepared to face whatever might happen, and to face it fearlessly, as he watched the general agitation, already anticipating the outcome.

Suddenly there was a loud noise that could not be ignored. The door of the cell was flung open wide and Father Ferapont appeared. Behind him could be seen a whole crowd of monks who had accompanied him, and even some laymen too. The others, however, did not enter the cell. They remained outside, waiting for Father Ferapont to say or do something, for they suspected, and, indeed, despite their irreverent behavior, with some apprehension, that Father Ferapont had not come there for nothing.

As Father Ferapont stopped in the doorway and raised his hands, there appeared, under his right arm, the curious little eyes of the Obdorsk visitor, who at the last moment had not been able to resist the temptation and had followed Father Ferapont into the cell, while the others, on the contrary, had pressed back in sudden fear when the door was so brutally flung open.

Raising his arms over his head, Father Ferapont roared:

“Casting out, I cast out!”

Then, describing a full circle, he made the sign of the cross eight times in succession, once on each wall and once in each corner. Those who had followed him understood his gesture at once, for they knew that he always did this whenever he entered a room and that he would never sit down anywhere or utter one word until he had driven out the unholy spirits.

“Satan, get thee hence; Satan, get thee hence,” he said each time he made the sign of the cross. “Casting out, I cast out!” he roared again when he had finished his ritual.

He wore his coarse cassock with a rope around the waist. His hemp shirt was open at the neck, showing his chest covered with gray hair. He was barefoot. When he waved his arms, the heavy chains he wore under his cassock clanked.

Father Paisii interrupted his reading, stepped forward, faced him, and waited.

“What do you want here, worthy father?” he asked after a while, looking sternly at Father Ferapont. “Why do you disrupt peace and order and lead astray the meek flock?”

“What do I want here? Is that what you are asking me, you whose faith is so weak?” Father Ferapont shouted in the sing-song tone of a holy fool. “I am here to drive out your guests—the unholy devils that are here with you. I have come to see how many of them you have gathered here while my back was turned. I have come now to sweep them out with a broom . . .”

“You say that you want to cast out the unholy spirit, but it looks rather as if you were serving him yourself,” Father Paisii said fearlessly. “Who is the man who can say of himself, ‘I am holy’? Are you that man, Father?”

“I’m unclean, not holy, and I will not sit in an armchair and demand that people worship me like an idol!” Father Ferapont thundered again. “Nowadays people destroy faith—that saint of yours, the deceased,” he shouted, pointing at the coffin, “he denied devils, he gave you castor oil to keep them away, and now this whole place is teeming with them. They are breeding in every corner like spiders. And now he stinks himself, and that is a great sign from God.”

Father Ferapont was referring to something that had really happened. One of the monks, who dreamt constantly of devils, had started seeing them when he was awake as well. Trembling with fear, he had told this to the elder, who had advised continual prayer and strenuous fasting. But when that failed to help, Father Zosima had advised him, without giving up his prayers and fasting, to take a certain medicine. When they heard about this, the monks were scandalized and discussed it excitedly, shaking their heads. And the most shocked of all was Father Ferapont, who had been quickly informed by Father Zosima’s enemies about the elder’s “peculiar” remedy for such a complaint.

“Go away, Father!” Father Paisii said imperiously. “It is for God to judge, not men. Perhaps there is a ‘sign’ here that neither you nor I nor anybody is able to interpret. Go away, Father, and do not confuse the flock.”

“He did not keep the fasts according to the rules of his order—that is why the sign is here. That is quite clear and it is a sin to try to hide it!” the fanatic screamed, quite impervious to reason in his zeal for denunciation. “He indulged in the sweet things those rich ladies brought him in their pockets, didn’t he? He liked to fill himself with tea. He was a slave to his belly, which he stuffed with sweetmeats, while his mind became stuffed with pride and irreverent thoughts—that is why he has been put to shame now!”

“These are thoughtless words, Father!” Paisii said, raising his voice. “I admire your fasting and your ascetic life, but your words are as thoughtless as if they were spoken by some vain and callow youth from the outside world. So go now, Father—I order you to leave!”

Father Paisii’s voice had also grown to a roar.

“I’ll go,” Ferapont said, looking somewhat taken aback but still full of anger. “Ah, you learned ones! Your learning makes you look down on me because I came here hardly able to read and write and then forgot what little I knew, which goes to show that God Almighty Himself has sheltered his humble servant from that learning of yours . . .”

Father Paisii stood facing him, looking determined. Father Ferapont remained silent for a moment; then, with a sorrowful expression, he covered one cheek with the palm of his right hand, fixed his eyes on the coffin, and said in a whining, self-pitying sing-song voice:

“Over him, tomorrow, they’ll sing the glorious anthem ‘Our Helper and Our Defender.’ But over me, when I die, they’ll just reel off the little canticle ‘What Earthly Joy.’ ”

All of a sudden, Ferapont’s countenance changed completely.

“You have grown rotten with pride and think yourselves almighty!” he screamed like a madman. “This is an unholy, unholy place!” And, with a sweeping gesture of condemnation, he turned around, walked out of the cell, and went quickly down the few steps into the yard.

The crowd waiting for him outside stirred hesitantly. Some followed him right away, others waited, for the door of the cell had been left open, and Father Paisii, who had followed Ferapont to the top of the steps, stood there, watching. But the infuriated old man had not said his last word yet. After taking a few steps, he suddenly faced the setting sun, raised both arms, and, just as if someone had cut him down, hurled himself to the ground, yelling crazily:

“My Lord has conquered! Christ has overcome the setting sun!”

His voice was frantic, his hands were raised toward the sun, his face was pressed against the earth. Then he began to sob, crying aloud like a little child, his body shaking convulsively, his arms now spread out crosswise on the ground.

The whole crowd was around him now, shouting excitedly, some beginning to sob with him. They were all gripped by a strange frenzy.

“Here’s the one who is really a saint!” “Here’s a truly righteous man!” was shouted from the crowd. The monks were no longer afraid, and some even cried out spitefully: “He’s the one who should be an elder!”

“He wouldn’t want to be an elder!” others replied at once. “He would refuse it if it was offered to him. He would have no part of that accursed innovation. He’s not one to imitate their ridiculous clowning . . .”

It is hard to say how all this would have ended had it not been for the bell that rang just then to summon the monks to church. They all started crossing themselves. Father Ferapont, too, got up and, repeatedly making the sign of the cross around him as though fencing himself off from the world, he made his way to his hut, muttering some incoherent phrases, and never once turning his head. A few monks followed him, but most of them dispersed, hurrying to church.

Father Paisii turned the reading over to Father Joseph and went out into the yard. Of course he had not been shaken by the crazy shouting of the fanatics, but there was something he could not define that disturbed him a great deal, something that made him very sad. He stopped and asked himself: “Why do I feel so depressed?” Suddenly, to his own great surprise, he realized that the cause of his depression was rather strange and, on the whole, quite insignificant.