The Brothers Karamazov (17 page)

“So you people thought I was gone, but here I am!”

They all gaped at him in silence, sensing that something disgraceful was about to happen, something absurd that would end in a disgusting public exhibition. Within a second, Miusov’s mood switched from the utmost benignity to fury. The fire that had been subdued within him exploded and burst forth.

“No, no!” he cried. “I can’t stand it, I can’t, I won’t! . . .”

The blood rushed to his head. Feeling confused and unable to utter a word, he seized his hat.

“What is it he can’t and won’t stand? Tell me, Your Reverence, may I come in or not? Will you receive a fellow diner?”

“You are most welcome!” the Father Superior said. “Gentlemen,” he added suddenly, addressing the rest of the company, “may I beg you to forget your past quarrels and to be reunited in love and harmony as befits relatives, and we will pray to God at our humble table . . .”

“No, no, it is quite out of the question!” Miusov cried, still beside himself.

“Well, if he feels it’s out of the question, then it’s out of the question for me too—I won’t stay either. I decided on my way here that now Mr. Miusov and I will be inseparable—if he leaves, I’ll leave; if he stays, I’ll stay. You know, Father Superior, you hurt his feelings by mentioning family harmony: he refuses to acknowledge the fact that we’re related. Isn’t that so, von Sohn? It is von Sohn standing here, isn’t it? Good afternoon, von Sohn, how are you?”

“Are you addressing me, sir?” Maximov muttered in amazement.

“Of course, I am. Who else? You don’t think I’d address the Father Superior as von Sohn, do you?”

“But I’m not von Sohn either, sir. My name is Maximov.”

“It isn’t. It’s von Sohn. By the way, Your Reverence, do you know who von Sohn really was? Well, there was a criminal proceeding: he was murdered in a house of ill-fame—I believe that is how you refer to those establishments—he was murdered and robbed, and despite his venerable years, he was packed into a crate, which was nailed, labeled, and dispatched from Petersburg to Moscow in a freight train. While they were nailing up the crate, by the way, the harlots sang and played the psaltery, or was it the piano? That’s who von Sohn is. So you’ve come back from the dead, have you, von Sohn?”

“What’s he talking about?” “What does this mean?” came the voices of the monks.

“Come on, we’re leaving!” Miusov called out to Kalganov.

“Ah no! Just a moment!” Karamazov cried shrilly, moving a step closer. “First you must let me finish. Back in the cell I was reproached for disrespectful behavior, for yelling something about carp. My kinsman Peter Miusov would rather speeches contained 
plus de noblesse que de sincérité
, whereas I prefer mine to have 
plus de sincérité que de noblesse
, because I don’t give a damn about 
noblesse
! Am I right, von Sohn? Forgive me, Father Superior—I may be a buffoon and act like one, but I have a courtly idea of honor and must be allowed to speak my mind. Yes, sir, and while I’m filled with chivalry, Mr. Miusov here is just a case of frustrated sensitivity. Perhaps I came to the monastery today to have a look around and then express my opinion. One of my sons—Alexei—is seeking salvation here and, being his father, it is my duty to concern myself about his future. All the time I was playing the fool I was secretly listening and observing, and now it’s time for me to give you the last act of my performance. Well, what’s going on here? It looks as if when something falls here it stays fallen—once down, it will lie there to all eternity. I don’t accept that: I want to rise again! I am outraged by you, holy fathers! A confession is a confession—a holy sacrament—I revere it and prostrate myself before it. But what did I find in that cell? I found all sorts of people kneeling and confessing aloud. Do you think it is really right to confess publicly? The Church Fathers decreed that confession should be whispered into the priest’s ear, that only then would it be a sacrament. And so it has been since ancient times . . . How could you expect me, for instance, to explain to him in front of a whole audience that I . . . that I have . . . well, done certain things—you can imagine what. Why, some of those things are not even mentionable, as you know. No, really, the whole thing is scandalous! The next thing you know, holy fathers, they’ll be practicing flagellation in your monastery . . . I’ll write and complain to the Holy Synod at the very first opportunity, and I’ll have to take my son Alexei back home . . .”

It must be noted here that Karamazov had heard some things. All sorts of wicked rumors had been circulating about the goings-on in the monastery, and some of these stories (not only about our monastery but also about others where the institution of elders had been introduced) had reached the Bishop himself. They claimed that the elders were venerated at the expense of the father superiors, that they abused the sacrament of confession, and so on. These accusations were quite absurd and they were gradually dropped in our part of the country, just as they were everywhere else. But some stupid devil, by manipulating his victim’s nerves, was pushing Karamazov deeper and deeper into the pit of disgrace and making him formulate these discarded accusations, about which he did not understand the first thing. He had even failed to set them forth intelligently. After all, when he was in the cell no one had knelt and confessed aloud, so he could not have seen anything of the sort and was just repeating old gossip that he somehow remembered. But having said it and feeling that he had made a stupid blunder, he was suddenly filled with an uncontrollable urge to prove to his audience, and even more to himself, that he had not really blundered, that what he had said was indeed very much to the point. And although he was conscious of sliding deeper and deeper into absurdity with every word he said, he was quite incapable of stopping and felt like someone slipping faster and faster down the side of a mountain.

“Disgraceful!” Miusov cried.

“Allow me,” the Father Superior interjected. “It was said long ago: ‘Many have spoken out against me, saying evil things, and hearing them I said to myself: it is the healing of the Lord and He has sent it to cure my vain soul!’ Therefore we thank you humbly, dear guest.”

He bowed waist-deep to Karamazov.

“Tut-tut-tut, the same old phrases, the same old hypocrisy! A pack of old lies, the old bowing that has become meaningless! We all know what it is worth: ‘a kiss on the lips and a dagger in the heart,’ as in Schiller’s 
Robbers
. I don’t like sham, fathers. What I’m after is truth, and it’s not in carp that you’re likely to find truth! I have said so before. Why do you keep fasting, fathers? Because you expect it to be credited to you in heaven? Why, for a reward, I would fast too! Now, fathers, try to be virtuous in life instead of confining yourselves inside the walls of a monastery with your meals assured and expecting a reward up there—that’ll be more difficult. You see, Father Superior, I too can express myself nicely . . . Now, let’s see what we have here . . .” He moved toward the table. “Why, but this is some nice old port, and that’s good Médoc bottled by the Yeliseyev Brothers . . . Well done, fathers. That’s no carp for you! Look at those lovely bottles, fathers! And who provided you with all that? It is the same hard-working old Russian 
muzhik
, laboring with his calloused hands, who brings his copper kopek to you instead of giving it to his poor family or to the State! Why, holy fathers, don’t you realize that you suck the blood of the poor!”

“Now that’s really an improper thing to say,” Father Joseph, the monastery’s librarian, remarked. Father Paisii remained stubbornly silent. Miusov leaped up and rushed out of the room, followed by Kalganov.

“Well, fathers, I must keep up with Mr. Miusov. Good-by now. I won’t come back to pay you another visit even if you beg me on bended knee. Since I sent you that thousand rubles, you’ve been eyeing me so sweetly, hoping perhaps for more, ha-ha-ha! But you’re wasting your efforts—you won’t get another ruble. I’ve paid you back now for my lost youth, for all the humiliations I had to suffer!” He banged the table with his fist, carried away by his own playacting. “This little monastery, though, meant so much to me!” he went on. “How many bitter tears I have shed because of it! It was you who set my poor crazy wife against me. You anathematized me in the seven cathedrals. You spread evil rumors about me all over the countryside! But it is finished, fathers; now we live in an age of liberalism, railroads, and steamboats, and you’ll never get another thousand rubles from me, or a hundred rubles, or even a single kopek!”

It must be noted again that our monastery had never played an important role in his life and that Karamazov had never shed any tears because of it. But he was so carried away by his false misery that for a second he almost believed himself and was so moved that he actually did shed a few sentimental tears. But he also knew that the time had come to leave.

When Karamazov stopped spouting his stream of malicious slander, the Father Superior bowed his head and once more said solemnly:

“It is also written: ‘Bear with patience and fortitude the dishonor that befalleth thee and hate not him who dishonoreth thee.’ We shall obey.”

“Tut-tut—‘befalleth,’ ‘dishonoreth,’ all that verbiage and claptrap! But while you ‘dishonoreth thyself’ I’ll be off and I’ll use my parental authority to remove my son Alexei from here once and for all. And you too, Ivan, my respectful son, hear that I command thee to follow me from this place! And what about you, von Sohn, there’s no point your staying around. Come back to town with me and pay me a visit. We’ll have a bit of fun at my house. It’s just a mile or so from here and, instead of their lenten diet, you’ll get a suckling pig for dinner and I’ll bring out some brandy for you and then some liqueur too—I have, for instance, a certain raspberry liqueur . . . So what do you say, von Sohn? You wouldn’t want to miss such an opportunity, would you?”

He left, shouting and gesticulating.

That was the moment when Rakitin caught sight of him and pointed him out to Alyosha. And when Karamazov saw his son, he called out to him:

“Alexei! I want you to move back home for good! Today! Bring your pillow and mattress too, and don’t you ever dare set foot here again!”

Alyosha stood motionless, watching in silence. Mr. Karamazov got into his carriage and Ivan, grim and silent, was about to follow him without even turning to Alyosha to say good-by. But at that moment something almost unbelievably absurd took place, a worthy finale to the whole preposterous episode.

The little landowner Maximov suddenly appeared at the step of the carriage. He was panting—he had run all the way to catch up with Karamazov before he drove off. Rakitin and Alyosha had seen him running. He was so anxious to get into the carriage that he put his foot on the step although Ivan still had his left foot on it. Maximov nevertheless continued to pull himself up by the strap, trying to jump in, Ivan notwithstanding.

“I’m coming too!” he shouted, wriggling and chuckling with delight. “Take me with you!”

“Wasn’t I right?” Mr. Karamazov shouted delightedly. “Wasn’t I right when I said this fellow was von Sohn! He’s the true von Sohn risen from the dead! But how did you manage to escape? What von Sohnish trick did you play on them? How could you leave the table? One needs the skin of an elephant to do that! I know mine is like that, but I’m surprised at you! Come on, jump in, friend, hurry! Let him in, Vanya, my son. We’ll have great fun with him and in the meantime he can lie somewhere between our feet. Or shall we put him on the box with the coachman? Jump up on the box, von Sohn!”

But Ivan, who had silently taken his seat, suddenly swung around, put his hands on Maximov’s chest, and shoved him so violently that he landed a good three yards away, only by miracle remaining on his feet.

“Drive on!” Ivan shouted angrily to the coachman.

“Why did you do that, Vanya? What’s come over you?” Karamazov protested, but Ivan didn’t answer.

“Can’t make you out!” Karamazov said again after a two-minute silence. “This whole visit to the monastery was your idea,” he said, looking angrily at Ivan. “You suggested it, you insisted on it, so what’s the matter with you now?”

“Haven’t you had enough nonsense yet?” Ivan said grimly. “Why don’t you give yourself a rest for a while?”

Old Karamazov remained silent for another two minutes.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to have a swig of brandy now?” he asked conversationally. As Ivan didn’t answer, he added: “When we get home, we’ll both have a drink.”

Ivan still ignored him. Karamazov waited two more minutes.

“But however much you may disapprove, my dear Karl von Moor, I’m still determined to take Alyosha out of the monastery,” he announced.

Ivan glanced at him scornfully, shrugged, and turned away to look at the road. Not another word was uttered until they got home.

Book III: The Sensualists

Chapter 1: In The Servants’ Quarters

ALTHOUGH IT was far from the center, Fyodor Karamazov’s house was not altogether on the outskirts of town. Rather old and weather-beaten, but still pleasant looking, it was a two-story gray house with a red iron roof. Old as it was, it seemed solid enough to last many years, and the inside was spacious and comfortable. It had many closets, snug little corners, unexpected little stairways and passages. It had some rats too, but Karamazov didn’t really mind them: “You don’t feel quite so lonely in the evenings with them around,” he used to say. He was usually alone at night, since he sent the servants off to their quarters in a cottage on the grounds, locking himself in until morning.

The servants’ cottage was in the yard and it, too, was solidly built and quite roomy. It was in the kitchen of the cottage that Karamazov’s meals were prepared. There was a kitchen in the main house, but he disliked the smell of cooking, so his food had to be carried across the yard all year around, summer and winter.

The house must have been built for a very large family, for it could easily have accommodated five times as many people, masters and servants, as it ever had since Karamazov had owned it. And now the main house was occupied only by Fyodor Karamazov and his son Ivan, and the cottage by only three servants: old Gregory, his wife Martha, and another, younger man-servant called Smerdyakov.

At this point it is necessary to say a few words about these three servants. We have already met old Gregory. He was a steadfast, resolute man, who would stubbornly and unwaveringly follow a course once, for some reason (often extremely illogical), he had decided it was incontrovertibly right. On the whole, he was an honest and incorruptible man. His wife Martha, although she always submitted to her husband’s decisions in the end, often nagged him mercilessly. For instance, after the emancipation of the serfs, she tried to persuade Gregory to leave Mr. Karamazov, move to Moscow, and open a little store with their savings. But Gregory decided then and there that his wife was talking nonsense, “because all women are dishonest,” that it would be improper to leave the master whose serf he had been, whether that master was a good or a bad man, that it was their duty to stay with him now.

“Don’t you know what duty means, woman?”

“I know what duty means, Gregory, but I don’t see why it’s our duty to stay here; that don’t make sense to me,” Martha objected firmly.

“So it don’t make sense to you—we’re still staying here. And don’t bring it up again.”

And that’s the way it was. They stayed. Mr. Karamazov named the wages he’d pay, and paid them regularly. Besides, Gregory knew that he had a certain influence over his master; he gauged quite correctly that, although his clownish master was a very strong and obstinate man in some respects, in others he was surprisingly weak. Karamazov himself was aware of his weak points. There were many things that frightened him, and he worried constantly—and this would have made it hard if he had not had someone who was loyal to him—and Gregory was as loyal a man as anyone could hope to have. In the course of Karamazov’s life there had been many occasions when he had been in danger of being beaten, sometimes quite badly, but every time Gregory came to his rescue, although afterward the old servant would always admonish him at great length. But Gregory meant much more to Karamazov than a means of avoiding beatings; there were moments when, for some complex and subtle reasons that he himself could not explain, he felt an urgent and pressing need to have someone loyal and trustworthy by him. Some of these times were of a rather morbid nature: debauched in his sensuality and often cruel, like some vicious insect, Karamazov was occasionally, especially when drunk, subject to moments of mental anguish, of torment arising from a feeling of guilt that made him feel his soul was hurting him physically, so to speak. “It feels as if my soul had got caught in my throat and was quivering there,” was the way he sometimes described it. It was at such moments as these that he wanted somewhere close to him—not necessarily in the same room, in the servants’ quarters was good enough—someone firm and faithful, someone quite unlike his dissipated self, someone who, aware of all his goings-on and knowing all his secrets, would still tolerate it all out of sheer loyalty, would not try to stop him, and would make neither reproaches nor, above all, threats by bringing up all the horrible retributions to come in this world or the next. And again, in case of need, he wanted someone to protect him from something unknown but terrifying. What Karamazov actually needed was to have near him 
another
 human being, someone he had known for a long time, someone friendly, someone he could call on in a painful moment just to look into his face, perhaps exchange a few words, sometimes completely extraneous words. Then he would be relieved to see that the faithful man was not angry, or, if he was angry, well, then he would feel a little sad about it. Sometimes, though very seldom, Karamazov would even go over to the servants’ cottage, wake Gregory up, and ask him to come over to the house for a few minutes. Then he would just talk to him about complete trifles and let him go, perhaps even with a sarcastic remark or a sneer, after which he would shrug, go to bed, and sink into the sleep of the just.

When Alyosha came to live with his father, Mr. Karamazov felt rather the same way about him. Alyosha “touched his very heart by being there, seeing everything, condemning nothing.” Moreover, Alyosha offered his father something that he had never had before—a complete absence of contempt for him. Indeed, Alyosha treated him with invariable kindness and a completely genuine and sincere affection, which Karamazov little deserved. All this came as a complete surprise to the old profligate who led a bachelor’s life and who, until then, had known only “wicked” joys. And when Alyosha left his house, his father understood and admitted to himself something he had refused to understand before.

I have already mentioned at the beginning of my story that, while Gregory had hated Fyodor Karamazov’s first wife, Dmitry’s mother, Adelaida, he had sided with Sofia, “the crazy one,” his master’s second wife, against the master himself or against anybody who said anything deprecating or slighting about her. His sympathy for that unhappy woman had turned into a sort of sacred cause for him so that, even twenty years after her death, he would not let a disparaging remark about her go unchallenged. Outwardly, Gregory appeared to be a cold, grave man whose words were few but weighty and trenchant. And it would have been hard to tell at first glance whether he loved his patient and obedient wife, although in fact he did love her and she was well aware of it.

As to Martha, she was no fool; indeed, she was probably more intelligent than her husband and certainly much more practical in life. Nevertheless, from the beginning of their married life, she had given in completely to his wishes and she respected him for his moral superiority. The remarkable thing about this couple was that they spoke to each other very little, except on the most pressing and important matters. Pompous and solemn as he was, Gregory always pondered over his affairs and troubles in silence, and Martha had understood once and for all that he did not want her advice. She felt that her husband appreciated her discretion and took it as a sign of her intelligence. He had never used physical force on her, except once, and then only for form’s sake. It was during the first year of Karamazov’s marriage to Adelaida; the village girls, who were still serfs at that time, had gathered in their master’s yard to sing and do some folk dancing. When they began singing, Martha, who was still a young woman at the time, dashed forward in front of the singers to do the “Russian dance,” which she performed not as the ordinary village girls did, but as she had been trained to do by a Moscow dancing master in the private theater of her former masters, the wealthy Miusovs. Gregory watched his wife perform in silence, but later at home he pushed her around a bit and pulled her hair. That was all, however, and he never touched her again. Besides, after that Martha gave up dancing altogether.

God had not blessed them with children; they had had one but he had died. This was particularly hard for Gregory, who loved children and was not ashamed to show it. After Adelaida’s elopement, he took the three-year-old Mitya into his cottage and looked after him himself, combing his hair and washing him in a trough. And later he did the same for Vanya and Alyosha, for which he was rewarded by having his face slapped, as I recounted earlier. As to his own child, he was only happy during the time his wife was pregnant, for when his son was born, Gregory was filled with grief and despair: the boy had six fingers. Gregory was so overwhelmed that he did not speak one word until the christening, spending most of his time out of the house, away from everybody. It was spring and during those three days he spent his time digging in the vegetable garden. On the day the boy was to be christened, Gregory was struck by an idea. As he entered the servants’ cottage where the priest and the guests had already gathered and where Mr. Karamazov had appeared to act as godfather, Gregory suddenly announced, “There’s no need to christen him at all.” He said it quietly, letting the words out one by one, and giving no further explanation, stared blankly at the priest.

“What has made you decide that?” the priest asked, amused.

“Because he’s . . . he’s a dragon . . .” Gregory muttered.

“Why a dragon? What are you talking about?”

Gregory remained silent for a while.

“Because nature,” he mumbled, “got mixed up.”

Although his words were slurred and rather hard to understand, his tone was firm and he obviously did not wish to add anything more.

They all laughed and, of course, the poor baby was christened. Gregory prayed at the font with great zeal, but he did not change his mind about the newborn child. During the two weeks that the poor sickly boy lived, Gregory never interfered with anything. In fact he hardly even looked at his son, apparently trying not to notice him, and spent as much time as possible out of the house. When at the end of the second week the boy died of thrush, however, Gregory put him in the coffin himself, looking at his son with infinite sadness; and when the shallow little grave had been filled, he knelt down and bowed to the ground. Since that time he had never mentioned his son, nor had Martha done so in his presence. Indeed, whenever she happened to talk about her “little baby” to someone or other, she did so in a whisper, even though Gregory was out of earshot. Martha noticed that, after their child was buried, Gregory spent a great deal of time on “godly things.” He would often put on his large, round, silver-rimmed glasses and read, mostly to himself, from the 
Lives of the Saints
. Only very rarely, on a few occasions during Lent, would he read some passage aloud. He was particularly fond of the Book of Job and he had somehow got hold of a copy of the sayings and sermons of “our God-bearing Father Isaac of Syria,” which he read perseveringly for many years although he hardly understood a word. But then, he may have revered and loved the book so much for just that reason. Lately, he had become interested in the teachings of the Flagellants, having met some members of that sect in the vicinity. Apparently they impressed him considerably, but he did not deem it proper to embrace a new faith. His reading of “godly things” lent his face an even graver expression.

It is possible that Gregory was naturally inclined toward mysticism so that the birth of his six-fingered son, followed by the boy’s death and another strange and unexpected event, “left a mark” on him, as he put it himself. On the night after the child’s funeral, Martha was awakened by what she took to be the crying of a newborn baby. She was frightened and awakened her husband. He listened and thought it sounded more like moaning—“could be a woman.” He got up and pulled on some clothes. It was a warm May night and, as he stepped out onto the porch to listen, he heard clearly that the moans were coming from the garden. Yet he knew that the gate between the garden and the yard—the only way into the garden—had been padlocked for the night and that no one could have climbed over the solid, very tall fence. He returned to his cottage to get a lantern and the key to the padlock. Ignoring his wife’s frightened and hysterical protests that they were the cries of her little baby calling her, Gregory went into the garden. Once there, he realized that the moans were coming from the bath-house near the garden gate and that it was a woman moaning. He opened the door of the bath-house and was stunned by what he saw: the local God’s fool, known throughout the area as Reeking Lizaveta, had hidden herself in the Karamazovs’ garden bath-house where she had just given birth to a baby boy. And now she lay dying beside her newborn baby. She did not say anything since she had never been able to speak.

But all this needs further explanation.

Chapter 2: Reeking Lizaveta

THE CIRCUMSTANCES of this childbirth confirmed an unsavory and revolting suspicion that Gregory had had ever since a certain incident. Reeking Lizaveta was a tiny creature, “just a teeny-weeny thing of four-and-a-half feet,” as many of the old women around the church tearfully described her after her death. At twenty, she had a round, rosy, healthy face, but it was the face of an idiot; her eyes, although gentle enough, had a peculiar, heavy stare that made an unpleasant impression. Winter and summer, she went around barefoot, wearing only a hemp smock. Her hair, which was very thick, almost black, and curly as lamb’s wool, looked like some huge strange hat sitting on her head, a dusty, muddy hat, with leaves, small twigs, and wood shavings sticking out of it, for she often slept on the ground. Her father was a former shopkeeper who had lost all his money, and, homeless and sickly, had taken to drink. His name was Ilya and for many years he lived with a family of well-to-do shopkeepers, working for them as a sort of handyman. As for Lizaveta’s mother, she had been dead for quite some time. Always in poor health and irritable, Ilya would beat Lizaveta mercilessly whenever she came home. And so she went home very seldom; she slept outside and the townsfolk fed her, believing her to be a holy fool. Ilya himself, his employers, and various kind-hearted townspeople, mostly local merchants, often tried to make Lizaveta dress more decently. They gave her other clothes and in winter they would dress her in a sheepskin coat and a pair of boots. But, after meekly allowing them to put these clothes on her without a word of protest, she would usually go to a particular corner somewhere behind the cathedral, pull off all the things that had been given her, leave them there in a heap, and walk away barefoot in just her smock as before.