The Brothers Karamazov (7 page)

Book II: An Incongruous Gathering

Chapter 1: They Arrive At The Monastery

IT WAS a beautiful, clear, warm day in late August. The elder was to receive them at about half-past eleven, immediately after late mass. Our visitors did not attend the service, but arrived just as it was over. They drove up in two carriages. The first, an elegant barouche drawn by two fine horses, brought Peter Miusov and a distant relative, Peter Kalganov. He was a young man of twenty or so, who was preparing to enter the university, but Miusov, with whom, for some reason, he was living for the moment, was trying to persuade him to accompany him abroad, to attend the university in either Zurich or Jena and obtain his degree there. Kalganov had not yet made up his mind. He seemed absorbed in his thoughts and rather absentminded. He had a pleasant face, was well built and quite tall. At times, there was a strange fixity in his gaze: like all absent-minded people, he would often stare at you for a long time without seeing you. He was silent and rather awkward, but sometimes when he was alone with another person, he would suddenly become talkative, effusive, and was liable to burst out laughing quite unaccountably. He always dressed well, indeed with studied elegance. He had an independent income even then, and had even more sizable expectations. He and Alyosha were good friends.

The second carriage, a jolting but roomy old hired carriage, which was drawn by a pair of sedate, pinkish-gray horses and which kept falling behind Miusov’s barouche, brought Mr. Karamazov and his son Ivan.

As to Dmitry, he was late, although he had been informed in advance of the day and the time they were to meet.

The visitors left their carriages outside the monastery wall, near an inn, and entered the gates on foot. I do not believe any of them, except Mr. Karamazov, had ever been in a monastery before, and, as to Miusov, it is unlikely that he had seen the inside even of a church for a good thirty years. He looked around him with a certain curiosity, trying nevertheless to appear quite casual about it all. But there was nothing there to interest a man of his mentality, except perhaps the architecture of the church and the buildings where the monks lived, though even they were quite ordinary. The last of the worshippers were coming out of church, bare-headed and crossing themselves. Among the simple people there were a few better-class people—two or three ladies and a very old general, all of whom were staying at the nearby inn. Beggars surrounded our visitors as soon as they appeared, but nobody gave them anything, except for young Kalganov who dug a ten-kopek piece out of his purse and, for some reason looking very embarrassed, pushed it hurriedly into one woman’s hand, muttering something like “to share among you.” None of his companions commented on his act, so there seemed no reason for further embarrassment, but when he became aware of it, he grew even more confused.

It was rather strange, though; there really should have been someone to receive them, and perhaps even with some esteem: one of them had just recently donated a thousand rubles to the monastery and another was one of the wealthiest landowners in the district; he was considered one of the best-educated of men, and his decision about the fishing rights on the river could determine the whole course of the litigation. But none of the monastery officials came out to meet them. Miusov gazed abstractedly at the graves in the churchyard and was about to remark that the dead had to pay a very high price for the privilege of being buried in this “holy place,” but he let it pass, for his usual ironic “liberal” tone was turning into something like anger.

“Damn it, isn’t there anyone to direct us in this chaos?” he muttered as if talking to himself. “We must find out because it will soon be time for us to go back . . .”

Then, all of a sudden a middle-aged, balding gentleman in a loose summer coat walked up to them. He raised his hat and, looking at them ingratiatingly, introduced himself to the whole party in a mellifluous voice. He was a landowner named Maximov from near Tula. He immediately did his best to be helpful to them:

“The elder Zosima lives in the hermitage,” he lisped. “He lives in complete seclusion, you know . . . It’s about four hundred yards from the monastery on the other side of that little wood over there . . .”

“I know it’s on the other side of the wood,” Mr. Karamazov told him. “The only trouble is, we don’t quite remember the way—we haven’t been here for a long time.”

“Well, you can go through that gate over there and then straight through the wood, straight through. Wouldn’t you like me . . . I’ll be glad to show you. You see, I myself have to . . . It’s this way, please . . .”

They went through the gate and crossed the little wood with Maximov, a man of about sixty, trotting along beside them and examining them with an almost morbid curiosity, his eyes almost starting from his head.

“You see, we’ve come here on private business,” Miusov said sternly. “We have been granted what we may call ‘an audience’ by the person in question and, therefore, grateful though we are to you for showing us the way, we won’t be able to invite you to come in with us.”

“I’ve already been there, seen him . . . 
un chevalier parfait!
” Maximov said, raising his hand and snapping his fingers.

“Who is a 
chevalier?
” Miusov asked.

“The elder . . . He is admirable . . . That elder is the pride and glory of the monastery. An elder such as Zosima . . .”

But his incoherent speech was cut short by a small, cowled monk, pale and haggard, who just then caught up with them. As Mr. Karamazov and Mr. Miusov stopped, the monk bowed almost from the waist and said in a most courteous tone:

“After your visit to the hermitage, gentlemen, the Father Superior invites you to dinner, if possible no later than one o’clock.” And then, turning to Maximov, he added: “And you too, sir.”

“I will certainly be there!” exclaimed Mr. Karamazov, delighted at the invitation. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. And let me say, we have all promised to behave properly while we’re here . . . What about you, Mr. Miusov, are you coming too?”

“Of course I will come. I came here primarily to study monastery customs, after all. The only thing that troubles me is that I’m here with you, Mr. Karamazov . . .”

“But where’s Dmitry? He hasn’t shown up yet,” Mr. Karamazov remarked.

“I wouldn’t mind if he didn’t come at all,” Miusov said. “Do you really think I relish all these squabbles between you two? Your presence alone is bad enough. Please thank the Father Superior for his invitation, then,” he said to the monk. “We will be there for dinner.”

“Yes, sir, but first I have been told to take you to the elder,” the monk said.

“And I,” Maximov lisped, “will go straight to the Father Superior’s since we’ve been invited.”

“The Father Superior is rather busy just now,” the monk said hesitatingly, “but, of course, it’s up to you, sir.”

“What an awful bore that old man is,” Mr. Miusov said as Maximov trotted off, back toward the monastery.

“He reminds me of von Sohn,” Mr. Karamazov announced unexpectedly.

“What makes you say that? In what way is he like von Sohn? Have you ever set eyes on von Sohn?”

“I’ve seen his picture. But I didn’t say they looked alike—it’s difficult to explain. This man is just another von Sohn. I can tell simply by looking at him.”

“Well, I suppose you’re an expert in these matters. But let me remind you of one thing, Mr. Karamazov: you said yourself a moment ago that we had promised to behave decently while we are here, and I’d like you to remember it. I warn you—restrain yourself, for if you start playing the fool, I have absolutely no intention of allowing it to reflect on me. You see what kind of a man he is,” Miusov said, turning to the monk. “I’m quite afraid to visit respectable people with him.”

A suspicion of a smile appeared on the wan, bloodless lips of the monk, a hint of sly amusement. But he kept silent, obviously feeling that it would not be dignified for him to say anything. This only deepened Miusov’s frown as he thought to himself: “And to hell with the lot of them—it has taken them centuries to learn to keep that imperturbable face, and underneath they’re nothing but a bunch of charlatans.”

“Here is the hermitage at last,” Mr. Karamazov announced, “but the gates are shut . . .”

And he proceeded to cross himself vigorously before the saints’ images painted above and beside the gates.

“When in Rome, do as the Romans,” he remarked. “Altogether there are twenty-five saints busy saving their souls in this hermitage, staring at one another, and eating cabbage. And the most remarkable thing about it is that not a single woman is allowed through these gates. And that’s the truth . . . But then how can that be, since I’ve heard that the elder receives ladies?” he asked suddenly, addressing the monk.

“There are women here right now, sir—peasant women,” the monk replied. “See, over there, sitting and waiting under that wooden gallery. And above the gallery, but beyond the walls, where those windows are, there are two special rooms for ladies. When he’s well enough to receive them, the elder reaches those rooms by an inside passage, for they are outside the hermitage wall, sir. At this moment, for instance, there’s a lady waiting for him there with her sick daughter. She’s a landowner from Kharkov Province, Mrs. Khokhlakov is her name. I expect he must have promised to come out to her, although recently he has been so weak that he has hardly shown himself even to the poor people.”

“Well, so there is a secret passage from the hermitage to the ladies after all! But please, Holy Father, you mustn’t think for one moment that I’m implying anything—I was just wondering . . . But on Mount Athos, you may know perhaps, they keep out not only women but all creatures of the female sex—like hens, turkey hens, cows . . .”

“Mr. Karamazov, please!” Miusov said. “If you go on like this, I’ll walk out on you, and once I’ve left they’ll turn you out too, that I can promise you.”

“I don’t see why what I say should affect you, Mr. Miusov . . . But look at that!” Karamazov suddenly exclaimed, stepping through the gate onto the hermitage grounds. “These people live in a regular rose garden!”

Although there were no roses in the hermitage garden, there were many rare and beautiful autumn flowers that had been planted wherever there was room for them, and it was clear that they were tended by a skillful hand. There were also flowerbeds all around the church and between the graves in the churchyard. The elder’s cell was in a small wooden one-story house with a porch before the entrance, which was also surrounded by flowers.

“I wonder if it was like this under the previous elder, the elder Varsonofy?” Mr. Karamazov asked as he walked up the front steps. “I understand he didn’t go in for refinement and that he even had a propensity for suddenly leaping up and using his stick on persons of the female sex.”

“The elder Varsonofy did at times seem a little strange,” the monk said, “but many of the stories that are told about him are nonsense. In any case, he certainly never used a stick on anybody. And now, gentlemen, I beg you to wait here a minute while I announce you.”

“For the last time, Mr. Karamazov,” Miusov warned him again hurriedly in a threatening whisper, “remember your promise to behave—or I’ll make you pay for it!”

“I really cannot see why you should be so excited,” Karamazov replied sarcastically, “unless you’re worrying about your sins at last? Why, they say he can tell just by a man’s eyes what’s troubling him! And anyway, why should the opinion of these people be so important to you, a Parisian and an enlightened gentleman? You really amaze me!”

But before Miusov could answer this sarcasm, they were asked to come in. He entered feeling rather irritated.

“Ah, I know myself. I’m irritated now and I’ll start arguing and lose my temper. I will discredit both myself and my ideas,” he thought.

Chapter 2: The Old Buffoon

JUST AS they entered the cell, the elder appeared, emerging from his bedroom. Two monks from the hermitage were already waiting, the Father Librarian and Father Paisii, a sickly man who, although he was not very advanced in years, had a reputation as a great scholar. Besides them, a young man of about twenty-two wearing ordinary clothes stood waiting in a corner (where he remained standing all the time). He was a divinity student who, for some reason, was a protégé of the monks. He was fairly tall, had a fair complexion, prominent cheekbones, and narrow brown eyes that were intelligent and observant. His bearing was deferential but dignified, without the least subservience. As if conscious of his subordinate and dependent position, of not being their equal, he did not greet the visitors.

The elder Zosima entered accompanied by a novice and by Alyosha. The monks rose, greeted him with bows so deep that their fingers touched the floor, and went up to him, to kiss his hand and receive his blessing. After he had blessed them, Zosima in turn bowed just as deeply, also touching the floor with his fingers, and asked each of them for his blessing. The whole ceremony was performed very seriously, not like some daily rite but with a real show of feeling. Miusov, however, was convinced that it was all put on to impress the visitors. He stood in front of the party deliberating (he had been wondering about it since the day before) whether he should, despite his ideas, just out of courtesy (since it was the custom here), step forward and ask the elder for his blessing, although he certainly would not kiss his hand. Now, seeing all the bowing and hand-kissing of the monks, he made up his mind. Serious and dignified, he went up to the elder, bowed rather deeply by ordinary standards, and moved over to a chair. Mr. Karamazov went through exactly the same motions, but exaggerated them, making them seem ridiculous. Ivan also bowed politely and gravely, his hands stiffly at his sides, while Kalganov was so embarrassed that he didn’t bow at all. The elder dropped his hand, which he had raised to bless them, bowed to them once more, and invited them to sit down. Alyosha’s worst forebodings were coming true; he was ashamed and the blood rushed to his cheeks.