The Brothers Karamazov (11 page)

“Oh, you speak so well. Your words are so bold and so noble!” Mrs. Khokhlakov exclaimed ecstatically. “When you say something, you go right to the essence of things . . . And yet you talk of happiness. Happiness? Where is that happiness? Who can say that he is truly happy? And since you have been so kind as to see us once more, I hope you will allow me to tell you something I didn’t finish telling you last time . . . I didn’t dare tell you all that has been tormenting me for such a long, long time! I suffer, forgive me, I suffer . . .”

She clasped her hands prayerfully, overwhelmed by emotion.

“What makes you suffer so?”

“I suffer from my lack of faith . . .”

“From not believing in God?”

“Oh no, no! I wouldn’t even dare think of that . . . But life after death—it is such a puzzle and no one, no one at all, has the answer! Please listen to me, you who can heal, you who know the human soul so well; of course I don’t dare to presume that you will believe everything I say, but I give you my solemn word that I am not talking lightly now, and that the thought of life beyond the grave worries, terrifies, and torments me. And I don’t know to whom to turn. I’ve never dared to speak of it before . . . And now I’ve told you . . . Oh, my God, what will you think of me now!”

And she threw up her hands in despair.

“Don’t worry about my opinion of you,” the elder said. “I entirely believe in the sincerity of your anguish.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you! You see, I close my eyes and I reason like this: people do have faith, but where does it come from? I’ve heard it said that it all came originally from fear of menacing natural phenomena, and that there’s nothing else to it. So I say to myself: ‘What if, after I’ve been a believer all my life, when I die it suddenly turns out that after life there’s nothing at all, nothing but wild grass growing on my grave,’ as some writer put it. That’s horrible! And how can I regain my faith? I must say, I only really believed when I was a little girl. I took things for granted then, without questioning. What is there to prove it to me now? This is what I have come here for, to throw myself at your feet and ask you. Why, if I miss this opportunity, I will never find the answer in all my life. So how can I prove it to myself, how can I become convinced? Oh, I am so unhappy! When I look around me, I realize that people don’t care, hardly anyone does, and I’m the only one who cannot bear it. It is dreadful, just dreadful!”

“I am sure it is dreadful, but nothing can be proved, although one can become convinced.”

“How? By what?”

“By acts of love. Try to love your neighbors, love them actively and unceasingly. And as you learn to love them more and more, you will be more and more convinced of the existence of God and of the immortality of your soul. And if you achieve complete self-abnegation in your love for your fellow man, you will certainly gain faith, and there will be no room in your soul for any doubt whatsoever. This has been tested. This is the true way.”

“Acts of love? That’s another problem, and what a problem! You see, I love mankind so much that, believe it or not, there are moments when I would like to give up everything, abandon Lise, and become a hospital nurse. I close my eyes and let my imagination wander, and during those minutes I feel an irresistible strength within me. No wounds, no infected sores, however terrible, could frighten me away then. I would clean them with my own hands. I would look after those sufferers. I would be ready to kiss their sores . . .”

“It is good that you should think of these things rather than others . . . But it would be very nice if you actually performed some good deed.”

“Yes, but how long do you think I could live such a life?” Mrs. Khokhlakov said heatedly, an almost hysterical note creeping into her voice. “That’s the crucial point! Yes, that’s the question that torments me most. I close my eyes and I ask myself: ‘How long do you think you could endure that life? What if a patient, whose sores you were cleaning, instead of being grateful to you, tormented you with his whims and had no appreciation whatsoever for your services to mankind, talked rudely to you, or even complained about you to your superiors, as people who are in pain so often do? What would happen then? Would you go on loving him or not?’ And I must tell you that, to my own dismay, I have come to this conclusion: if anything could dampen my ‘active love’ for mankind, it is ingratitude. In other words, I’m willing to work if I’m paid for it. But I want to be paid at once. I mean I want to be praised and paid for love with love. Otherwise, I’m quite incapable of loving anyone.”

She seemed to be in a paroxysm of sincere self-deprecation and, as she finished, there was a challenge to the elder in her eyes.

“That’s exactly what a doctor told me quite some time ago,” the elder remarked. “He was not a young man and he was certainly intelligent. He was just as sincere as you are, although he spoke in an amused tone, with a sort of bitter humor. ‘I love mankind,’ he said, ‘but I find to my amazement that the more I love mankind as a whole, the less I love individual people. In my thoughts,’ the doctor told me, ‘I often visualize ecstatically the sacrifices I could make for mankind and, indeed, I might even accept martyrdom for my fellow men if circumstances suddenly demanded it of me. In actual fact, however, I cannot bear to spend two days in the same room with another person. And this I know from personal experience. Whenever someone is too close to me, I feel my personal dignity and freedom are being infringed upon. Within twenty-four hours I can come to hate the best of men, perhaps because he eats too slowly or because he has a cold and keeps blowing his nose. I become a man’s enemy,’ he said, ‘as soon as he touches me. But to make up for it, the more I hate individual people, the more ardent is my general love for mankind.’ ”

“But what’s the answer then? What’s to be done in such a case? Is it completely hopeless?”

“No, because the very fact that it worries you is enough in itself. Do the best you can and it will stand you in good stead. As it is, you have done a great deal, for you have come to know yourself deeply and sincerely. However, if you have spoken to me so frankly only to make me praise you for your sincerity, then, of course, you will fail to accomplish true acts of love; all your good intentions will remain mere daydreams, and your whole life will slip by like a shadow. In that case, you will certainly forget all about the future life as well, and in the end you will somehow or other stop worrying altogether.”

“I feel completely crushed! This very second I realize that, just as you say, I was expecting you to praise me for my sincerity when I told you that I would not be able to bear ingratitude. You have brought out what was within me. You saw it and you have shown it to me!”

“Do you really mean what you say now? If so, after what you have admitted, I am sure that you are sincere and that you have a good heart. Even if it is not given to you to achieve happiness, you must always remember that you are on the right path and you must try not to stray from it. Above all, avoid lying, especially lying to yourself. Keep watching out for your lies, watch for them every hour, every minute. Also avoid disgust, both for others and for yourself: whatever strikes you as disgusting within yourself is cleansed by the mere fact that you notice it. Avoid fear too, although fear is really only a consequence of lies. Never be afraid of your petty selfishness when you try to achieve love, and don’t be too alarmed if you act badly on occasion. I’m sorry I cannot tell you anything more reassuring. A true act of love, unlike imaginary love, is hard and forbidding. Imaginary love yearns for an immediate heroic act that is achieved quickly and seen by everyone. People may actually reach a point where they are willing to sacrifice their lives, as long as the ordeal doesn’t last too long, is quickly over—just like on the stage, with the public watching and admiring. A true act of love, on the other hand, requires hard work and patience, and, for some, it is a whole way of life. But I predict that at the very moment when you see despairingly that, despite all your efforts, you have not only failed to come closer to your goal but, indeed, seem even farther from it than ever—at that very moment, you will have achieved your goal and will recognize the miraculous power of our Lord, who has always loved you and has secretly guided you all along. And now, please forgive me—I cannot stay with you any longer. Some people are waiting for me. Good-by.”

Mrs. Khokhlakov was weeping.

“Lise, Lise. Won’t you bless her? Please bless her!” she cried suddenly, as if emerging from a trance.

“She doesn’t even deserve to be loved,” the elder said jokingly. “She’s been misbehaving. I’ve been watching her . . . Why have you been laughing at Alexei all this time?”

And it was true. Lise had been doing just this. She had realized, ever since she had seen Alyosha on the previous occasion, that he seemed embarrassed in her presence and avoided looking at her. She found this very funny and amused herself by trying to catch his eye. Feeling her intense gaze constantly following him, Alyosha felt impelled by some irresistible force and was unable to prevent himself from quickly glancing at her from time to time. And whenever he did so, their eyes met and she smiled triumphantly, right in his face, and Alyosha became even more embarrassed and angry with himself. So finally he turned away from her completely and hid behind the elder’s back. After a few minutes, again acting on the same uncontrollable impulse, Alyosha turned to see whether she was still looking at him, and saw Lise, leaning over so far that she was almost hanging out of her chair, looking at him from the side and waiting intently for him to glance at her. This time, when she caught his eye, she laughed aloud, so that the elder turned to her and said:

“You are a bad girl! Why are you trying to embarrass him?”

Lise unexpectedly turned very red. Her eyes flashed, her face became grave, and she spoke heatedly and nervously, as though complaining indignantly about Alyosha:

“And why has he forgotten everything? When I was little, he used to carry me around and we used to play together. You know he taught me to read? And when he was leaving two years ago, he told me he’d never forget me and that we’d always be friends, always, always, he said. And now he seems to be afraid of me, as though I were going to eat him or something. Why won’t he come over and talk to me? Why doesn’t he want to come to our house? Is it you who won’t allow him to come and visit us? But we know that he goes where he pleases. It wasn’t right for me to have to invite him. He should have thought of it himself if he really hadn’t forgotten me. But I see that he’s too busy saving his soul now! But why do you make him wear that cassock? It’s too long, and he’ll fall down if he tries to run . . .”

And suddenly, unable to restrain herself, she covered her face with both hands and burst into nervous, violent, but muted laughter.

The elder listened to her with a smile and then blessed her with great gentleness. As she was about to kiss his hand, she suddenly pressed it against her eyes and began to cry.

“Please don’t be angry with me,” she said. “I’m a fool and I’m really not worth bothering about . . . And I think Alyosha is right, quite right, not to come and see a ridiculous person like me.”

“I’ll see to it that he comes to see you,” the elder said.

Chapter 5: So It Shall Be And So Be It!

THE ELDER had been away from his cell for about twenty-five minutes. It was after twelve-thirty and Dmitry Karamazov, who was the main reason for the gathering, had still not arrived. They seemed almost to have forgotten about him, however, and when the elder returned to his cell his guests were engaged in a very animated conversation. The principals were Ivan Karamazov and the two monks. Miusov kept trying—apparently very anxiously—to join in the argument, but again he had no luck. He was obviously not taken seriously, the others hardly even bothering to answer him, and this seemed to increase his irritability even further. The trouble was that even before this he and Ivan had needled each other on various learned subjects and he could not bear Ivan’s condescendingly casual air toward him. “Up till now I’ve always been abreast of the latest developments in European thinking, yet this new Russian generation is just determined to ignore us,” he thought. As to Fyodor Karamazov, who had promised to remain silent, he did indeed stay quiet for a while. He sat in his chair and watched his neighbor Miusov with a sarcastic little smile, obviously delighting in his frustration. For a long time he had been planning to get even with Miusov for certain things and now he did not want to miss the opportunity to do so. Finally, unable to contain himself any longer, he bent toward his neighbor’s ear and said in an undertone, taunting him:

“How is it that you didn’t leave right after the kissing ceremony, but consented to stay in such disreputable company? Shall I tell you why? It was because you felt humbled and insulted and decided to stay to get your own back and show them all how brilliant you are. And now you won’t leave until you’ve succeeded in showing them.”

“There you go again! Well, you’re wrong, I’ll leave now . . .”

“You’ll leave after all the others!” Karamazov said, needling him again.

It was at this point that the elder came back into the room. The conversation came to a halt for a moment, but as the elder resumed his seat, he looked around at the others, apparently inviting them to continue their discussion. Alyosha, who had come to know every expression on the elder’s face, saw clearly that he was exhausted and that it cost him a great effort to remain there. In the latest phase of his sickness, Zosima often suffered fainting fits which were caused by physical weakness. Now he was almost as pale as just before such a fit, and his lips had turned white. But he obviously did not want to send the visitors away yet. He seemed to have something on his mind—but what could it be? Alyosha watched him intently.

“We’ve been talking about the very interesting article this gentleman wrote,” the monastery librarian said, gesturing toward Ivan. “It is full of original ideas, but I think it cuts both ways. It is about the jurisdiction of the ecclesiastical courts and was written in answer to a whole book by a prominent churchman on that subject . . .”