The Brothers Karamazov (62 page)

In the excited crowd that had gathered outside the cell, Father Paisii now remembered, he had seen Alyosha and the sight of him had caused a feeling of pain. “Why should this boy be so important to me?” he asked himself, suddenly feeling very surprised. And just at that moment Alyosha passed quite close by him, apparently hurrying somewhere, although he was not going toward the church. Their eyes met. Alyosha turned quickly away, keeping his eyes on the ground. From Alyosha’s very appearance, Father Paisii could tell that a violent upheaval was taking place within the youth.

“Do you, too, feel like the others?” Father Paisii said to him at last. “Have you joined these men who have so little faith?” he added bitterly.

Alyosha stopped, lifted his eyes, gave Father Paisii a strangely vague glance, and looked down again. He was standing at an angle to Father Paisii and he did not turn to face him fully. Paisii watched him intently.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry? Didn’t you hear the bell announcing the service?” he asked again, but again Alyosha did not answer. “Or are you leaving the hermitage?” Paisii went on. “But if so, why without taking leave and without a blessing?”

A strange twisted grin then appeared on Alyosha’s face. He looked in a very strange way at the man to whose guidance he had been entrusted by his dying elder, who had such great influence on his mind and heart. Then he shrugged and, still without answering, walked quickly to the gate and out of the hermitage.

“You’ll be back yet!” Father Paisii whispered as he watched him in sad surprise.

Chapter 2: The Crucial Moment

FATHER PAISII was, of course, quite right in anticipating that “the sweet boy” would come back, and he may even have guessed fairly accurately (although not entirely) the true nature of Alyosha’s inner feelings. But I must admit that I myself would find it very hard to describe clearly the exact nature of that strange and unclear moment in the life of the youthful hero of my narrative, for whom I feel such deep affection. I could, however, have answered Paisii’s bitter question as to whether Alyosha had joined those of “little faith.” No, Alyosha had not joined them. Actually, just the opposite was true: Alyosha’s inner upheaval arose from the very intensity of his faith. And yet he had received a shock and felt bewildered, so deeply bewildered, in fact, that, long after, he was to remember that day as one of the most fateful and painful in his life. Now if I were asked directly, “Is it really possible that all his anxiety and distress stemmed entirely from the fact that, instead of at once acquiring healing powers, the elder’s body started almost immediately to decay?”—I would answer without hesitation, “Yes, that is correct.” I would like, though, to ask my readers not to be in too great a hurry to laugh at my hero’s naivety. That does not mean that I feel I must apologize for him and find excuses for the simplicity of his faith by bringing in his youth, his limited understanding of the sciences he had studied at school, and so on and so forth. Indeed, I state here and now that I have a tremendous respect for Alyosha’s kind of heart.

There is no doubt in my mind that some other young man, who responded more cautiously to the impulses of his heart, who had learned to love tepidly rather than hotly, whose judgment was correct, even though a bit too dispassionate (and therefore cheap) for his age—that that young man would certainly have avoided the pitfall of my young hero. I submit, however, that there are cases when there is more honor in allowing ourselves to be swayed even by unreasonable passion, as long as it stems from a great love, than in not being subjected to it at all. And that is particularly true in youth, for there is something suspect about a young person who is always very reasonable, and I do not rate such a person very highly. So now you know my personal opinion! I suspect that some reasonable people may declare that every youth, after all, cannot expect to believe in such a superstition and that my young man certainly would not be a very good example for others to follow. To that, I would answer once more that my young man had faith, a sacred and unshakable faith, and that I still refuse to apologize for him.

But now I realize I may have been a bit hasty in declaring that I will not apologize for my hero or try to explain his behavior, for I may, after all, have to explain a few things that are indispensable for the further understanding of my story. Let me say at this point that it was not an irresponsible impatience for miracles that was the cause of Alyosha’s trouble. It was not to prove to himself that his convictions were true that he wanted miracles (he certainly did not need that), nor was it because he wanted to see some preconceived idea of his triumph over some other idea. No, it was nothing like that. What concerned him above all was the image of his beloved elder, the image of the righteous man whom he had venerated to the point of adoration. The truth of the matter was that all the love contained in that pure young heart, a love sufficient to extend to “everyone and everything,” had then, as it had during the whole preceding year, been concentrated, perhaps wrongly, on one single person. And that person, Alyosha’s beloved elder, was now dead. It is true that the elder had been his unquestionable ideal for so long that all his aspirations and youthful energies could not help but follow that ideal to the exclusion of all others, even to the point of forgetting everything and everyone else at certain moments. (Alyosha later remembered himself that on that terrible day he forgot completely about his brother Dmitry, although earlier he had been so worried about him; he also forgot to take the two hundred rubles back to Ilyusha’s father, although he had been so anxious to do so the day before.) What he needed after Father Zosima’s death was not miracles but “higher justice,” and he felt it had been violated. It was this that had wounded him so deeply and cruelly. And what does it matter if that “justice” had, in Alyosha’s thoughts, gradually assumed the form of miracles expected at once from the remains of his beloved teacher? Didn’t everyone in the monastery expect it, even men whose intelligence Alyosha admired so greatly, such as Father Paisii? And so, untroubled by doubts, Alyosha’s belief came to be expressed in the same hopes as those of everyone around him. Besides, these hopes had been building up within him during the whole year of his life in the monastery and had become a habit with him. But it was not miracles, it was justice that he craved above all! And now the one whom he had expected to be glorified above all others, instead of receiving the glory that was his due, was being cast down and disgraced! Why? By whose judgment? What could have determined that judgment? These were the questions that arose at once in his inexperienced young heart and made it writhe in pain. He felt it an insult, and it was with bitterness that he watched the most righteous of men exposed to the derision and spite of a mindless crowd made up of creatures so infinitely inferior to him. If it had been only that the expected miracles had not happened immediately after the elder’s death, that would have been all right—let there be no miraculous manifestations at all—but what was the point of inflicting that indignity upon him? Why was he allowed to be disgraced by having his body decay so quickly that, according to some spiteful tongues, even “the laws of nature” were violated? What was the reason for this “sign” which they, like Father Ferapont, had now seized upon so eagerly? And why should they think they had the right to interpret it that way? Where was Providence, then, and its guiding finger? Why, Alyosha wondered, had Providence made that finger invisible at “the crucial moment” as if it were deliberately submitting itself to the blind, deaf, and merciless laws of nature?

All this made Alyosha’s heart bleed and obviously, as I mentioned before, what hurt him most was that the one he had loved more than anybody in the world now stood “dishonored” and “disgraced.” Even if this rebellion on the part of this young man was callow and unreasonable, I repeat for the third time (and I admit that I, too, am perhaps being unreasonable) that I am very pleased to find that this young man did not turn out to be too reasonable at this juncture, for everyone, unless he is very stupid, acquires sufficient reason in time, but if a young heart shows a lack of love at such a critical moment, when will it know love? I must not, however, pass over in silence another strange feeling that arose, although only briefly, at that fateful and confusing moment in Alyosha’s life. This fleeting new feeling was due to a lingering, nagging impression left from his conversation of the day before with Ivan, which now kept coming back to him. Oh, it was not that any of Alyosha’s fundamental beliefs, beliefs that were an integral part of him, so to speak, had been shaken: he loved God and unwaveringly believed in Him, even though he murmured against Him now. And yet some vague, painful, evil residue from his conversation with Ivan kept stirring deep within him, striving to come to the surface.

It was growing dark when Rakitin, crossing the small wood separating the hermitage from the monastery, caught sight of Alyosha lying face downward under a tree. Alyosha lay motionless and seemed to be asleep. Rakitin walked over to him.

“Alexei,” he called out, “is that you, Alexei? Is it really possible that . . .” He was about to say “that you should have come to this?” Although Alyosha did not answer, Rakitin knew by a slight jerk of his body that he had heard him.

“But what’s the matter with you, after all?” he asked in surprise. But soon the surprised expression on his face changed to a smile which grew increasingly sarcastic.

“Listen,” he said, “I’ve been looking for you for more than two hours—you seemed to have suddenly vanished. Anyway, what are you doing here? What’s all this stupid nonsense? You might at least look at me now!”

Alyosha raised his head from the ground and sat up, leaning against a tree. His eyes were dry, but his face was ravaged by pain and there was an irritated look in his eyes, although he was not actually looking at Rakitin but somewhere off to the side.

“Why, you look completely different—there’s not a trace of that famous gentleness of yours in your face! Are you angry with someone? Have they offended you or something?”

“Leave me alone,” Alyosha said, with a weary gesture of his hand, still without looking at him.

“Aha, that’s how it is! You’re snapping at people now, just like the rest of us mortals. So you’re not an angel anymore! Well, Alyosha, my boy, this is really a surprise, and I mean it! And you know, with all that goes on here, I haven’t been surprised at anything for a long time. It’s amazing, though—I used to consider you an educated man . . .”

Alyosha looked at him at last, but absentmindedly, as if he still hardly understood him.

“Are you really in this state just because that old man of yours has begun to rot? You didn’t really believe he’d start performing miraculous tricks the moment he died, did you?” Rakitin cried, again genuinely surprised.

“I did believe, I still believe, and I want to believe—and now what more do you want to know?” Alyosha cried irritably.

“Nothing, nothing at all . . . But, listen, no . . . after all, a thirteen-year-old schoolboy doesn’t believe in these things. Still, the hell with it, it’s up to you. But what it really amounts to is that you’re angry with your God today—it’s as though there had been unfair discrimination and the right man had not got his promotion or his name was left off the New Year’s list of honors. Ah, what a bunch, the lot of you!”

Alyosha gave Rakitin a long look, his eyes narrowed, and then an angry flash appeared in them. But it was not against Rakitin that his anger was directed.

“I’m not angry with my God—I just cannot accept His world,” Alyosha said with a twisted grin.

“What does that mean—you cannot accept His world?” Rakitin paused for a second and thought. “What sort of nonsense is that?” he said after a while.

Alyosha didn’t answer.

“Well, we’ve wasted enough time on these imbecilities,” Rakitin said. “Let’s talk about important things: have you had anything to eat today?”

“I’m not sure . . . I suppose so.”

“I can tell by your face that you could do with some nourishment. You’re a heartbreaking sight, you know. Besides, you must have been up all night, for I understand you had a meeting in there, and with all that fuss and bustle I bet you haven’t had anything more substantial to chew on than a little piece of holy bread. You know what, I have some salami in my pocket, which I picked up in town just in case I got hungry on my way here . . . I don’t suppose you’ll eat salami under the circumstances, will you?”

“Salami would be fine.”

“I see—that’s the way it is now! You’re in open rebellion then, ready to man the barricades! In that case, why not come to my place? Such an opportunity should not be allowed to slip by . . . In fact, I myself wouldn’t at all mind having a swig or two of vodka. I feel pretty tired and it would give me a lift. Now, what about you, would it be going too far for you to have a drink with me?”

“Fine, let’s have some vodka too.”

“Look at that! This 
is
 a real miracle!” Rakitin cried, staring unbelievingly at Alyosha. “Well, whatever it is, vodka or salami, this is great and we mustn’t let the opportunity slip! So let’s get going!”

Alyosha stood up and followed Rakitin.

“I wish your dear brother Vanya could see this. I can just imagine how surprised he’d be! And, by the way, that sweet brother of yours left for Moscow today. Did you know that?”

“Yes, I knew,” Alyosha said apathetically.

Suddenly the picture of his other brother, Dmitry, flashed through his head. It just came and vanished in a flash, vaguely reminding him that he had something terribly urgent to do, something that could not be delayed another minute, some duty to perform, some obligation . . . But even that awareness left him indifferent, did not go to his heart, and within a minute he had forgotten about it altogether. But later Alyosha was to remember about this for a very, very long time.

“Vanya, that charming brother of yours, once described me as a ‘talentless windbag of a liberal.’ And once you, too, were unable to resist the pleasure of making me understand how ‘dishonest’ I was . . .” Rakitin said, and then added under his breath: “I don’t care, but I’ll soon find out how talented and honest you people are yourselves.” “Oh hell!” he said aloud. “You know what—let’s take this path, avoid the monastery, and go straight to town, because, now that I come to think of it, I ought to drop in on Mrs. Khokhlakov. Imagine what happened: I sent her a complete written account of everything and she at once answered me with a penciled note (the lady loves writing notes!) that she ‘never expected such 
behavior
 from a venerable elder like Father Zosima.’ Yes, that’s exactly the way she put it—‘such 
behavior
’! You see, she too was furious—you’re really all the same! Wait!” he suddenly shouted, stopping and seizing Alyosha by the shoulder. “You know, Alyosha,” he said at last, looking searchingly into Alyosha’s eyes. Rakitin seemed full of enthusiasm over a new idea that had suddenly descended upon him, and yet, although it made him laugh, he was afraid to mention the scheme that had suddenly become possible because of the peculiar and surprising mood in which he had found Alyosha. “You know where we really ought to go now, Alyosha?” he said in the hesitant voice of a man groping in the dark.