finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_4_part_0.txt
The Brothers Karamazov.book 3.chapters 6-11
book 3 chapters 6-11
{"name": "Book III: Chapters 6-11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219142226/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/b/the-brothers-karamazov/summary-and-analysis/part-1-book-iii-chapters-611", "summary": "Arriving at the Karamazov house, Alyosha finds his father almost drunk but still at the table with Ivan. They are listening to old Grigory and Smerdyakov arguing, and it is at this point that we learn more about the bastard Karamazov son. Smerdyakov is rather taciturn, somewhat morose, and naturally resents his position. Strangely, however, he even resents his foster parents. Smerdyakov is an enigma, plagued by jealousy, hatred, and epilepsy. In the household, he works as a cook. Years ago old Fyodor sent him off to Moscow for training, and since he returned he has functioned only in that capacity. He is a trustworthy sort, all believe, regardless of his sullenness, for they remember that he once returned 300 rubles to Fyodor, which the old man lost while drunk. Smerdyakov, at present, is arguing with his foster father as Alyosha arrives. He asserts that it is permissible for a man to renounce his faith in God in order to save his life. To prove that man cannot function by faith alone, he says that no man has enough faith to tell a mountain to move to the sea. He thinks, therefore, that this is reason enough to realize that man may deny God to save his life and later ask for repentance. Curiously, throughout the argument, he seems particularly eager to please and impress Ivan. After Karamazov tires of the argument, he sends the servants away, but the conversation manages to return to the subject of religion. In answer to their father's queries, Ivan insists that there is no God. Further, he says, there is no immortality. Alyosha, of course, maintains that God does exist and that through Him man can gain immortality. Karamazov changes the subject. He talks now of women and begins a long, drunken, and cynical narration centering upon Alyosha's mother. The attack is depraved. Karamazov delights in mocking his late wife's religious beliefs. He is so vicious, in fact, that Alyosha collapses and succumbs to a seizure exactly like the one that Karamazov described as afflicting Alyosha's mother. Ivan bitterly reminds his drunken father that the woman of whom he has spoken so crudely was also Ivan's mother, and, for a moment, old Karamazov is confused, but recalls then that Ivan and Alyosha did indeed have the same mother. The two are attempting to revive Alyosha as Dmitri dashes into the house. Karamazov is startled and runs for protection. When he hears Dmitri shout that Grushenka is in the house, the old man grows even more excited and fearful. Dmitri runs frantically through the house trying to discover Grushenka, then returns to the dining room, where old Karamazov begins screaming that Dmitri has been stealing money from him. Dmitri seizes his father, flings him to the floor, and kicks him in the head; then, before leaving, he threatens to return and kill the old man, shouting, \"Beware, old man, beware of your dreams, because I have my dream too.\" And he dashes out to continue his search for Grushenka. After Ivan and Alyosha bandage their father's wounds and put him to bed, Alyosha remains with him for a while; then he leaves to go talk with Katerina Ivanovna. He stops in the yard and talks a bit with Ivan, and this is the first time that Ivan has been cordial to his brother. Alyosha arrives at Madame Hohlakov's home and asks for Katerina. The girl is anxious about Dmitri and promises to help save him, although he seems not to want her help; she is positive, though, that his infatuation for Grushenka will pass. Alyosha is greatly surprised to hear Katerina call Grushenka by name and is even more surprised when he discovers that Grushenka has been hiding behind a screen, listening to their conversation. Katerina explains that Grushenka has just confessed to her that she will soon be reunited with a man whom she has loved for five years. Obviously Katerina is overjoyed at the news, and, as she explains the new turn of events to Alyosha, she impulsively kisses and fondles Grushenka, calling her endearing names. She asks Grushenka to affirm what she has just said, but Grushenka surprises them all. She becomes capricious and says that she just might change her mind. She also informs Katerina that she does not return the embraces Katerina has bestowed upon her. Katerina fumes. She has humbled herself in gratitude before Grushenka and is furious at the girl's flippancy. She lashes out with stinging, angry insults, but Grushenka merely laughs and walks out, leaving Katerina in hysterics. Alyosha also leaves the house, but on the way out he is stopped by a maid, who gives him a letter. She tells him that it is from Lise. Alyosha continues on his way back to the monastery but is stopped once more, this time by Dmitri. His brother is lighthearted and seems wholly unconcerned about the earlier events of the evening. He listens now to Alyosha explain what has happened between Katerina and Grushenka and seems delighted. He laughs at Grushenka's actions and calls her affectionately his \"she-devil.\" But suddenly his face darkens and he moans that he is a scoundrel. Nothing, he swears to Alyosha, \"can compare in baseness with the dishonor which I bear now at this very minute on my breast.\" The events of the night have been unnerving. Back at the monastery, Alyosha receives more bad news: Zossima's condition has worsened; he has only a short time to live. Deeply saddened by his family's sorrows, Alyosha nevertheless decides to remain close to the elder, for this man is also his father. Having made his decision, he begins to prepare for bed, and then remembers Lise's letter and reads it. It is a love letter; she says that she loves Alyosha very much and hopes to marry him when she is old enough. She apologizes sincerely for making fun of the young priest and implores him to come visit her.", "analysis": "Dostoevsky carefully details in this book the special sort of characterization needed for the enigmatic Smerdyakov, the son who will murder Karamazov. We learn, for example, that he \"seemed to despise everybody,\" including his real father and also his foster father. It is clear that he could conceivably murder either one, and in cold blood. Furthermore, we learn that in childhood \"he was very fond of hanging cats,\" certainly a sadistic and perverse pastime. As a complement to his psychological ills, he is physically sick; epilepsy, a disease he inherited from his idiot mother, overtakes him on occasion. Of late, nervous fits have attacked him increasingly, and it is one of these attacks that he later shams as his alibi when his innocence is questioned. In his argument with Grigory, put forward to impress the intellectual Ivan, Smerdyakov uses the most basic semantic logic to prove his point. But the argument shows that he is interested in questions similar to those that disturb Ivan. In this way, Dostoevsky sets up conflicting emotions within Ivan. Because of their like interests, he is drawn to his half-brother, but at the same time, with a Dostoevskian duality of emotion, he is repulsed and sees him as a \"mean soul.\" The vulgarity of old Karamazov is once more emphasized in this section. This time, in the presence of Alyosha, he crudely ridicules his son's mother. This is a particularly painful scene because we have been told that Alyosha remembers his mother with deep love and respect. The father's attack, then, believably brings on Alyosha's convulsions. Karamazov commits a verbal murder on Alyosha's memories, and it is significant, following Alyosha's collapse, that Karamazov does not realize that the same woman gave birth to both Ivan and Alyosha. In other words, the two sons are so different that the old man has completely forgotten that they had the same mother. In Chapter 9, when Dmitri unleashes an uncontrollable fit of anguish and knocks down first Grigory and later his father, Dostoevsky is tempering our credence in Dmitri's being a potential murderer. Both father and son are victims of powerful emotions, and both are passionate sensualists; their antagonism and hatred has collided over the same woman. It is likely that such viciousness as we witness might result in murder. Even Alyosha realizes the possibility of parricide within his family when he questions Ivan as to a man's right to assess another man and decide whether or not he is worthy to live. Ivan too realizes the potential of parricide as it smolders, for he answers Alyosha that \"one reptile will devour the other.\" In Chapter 10, we are introduced finally to the beautiful and paradoxical Katerina Ivanovna. Several times we have heard of this lovely and haughty woman, willing to devote herself to Dmitri in spite of his barbarous forays. Now we see her. She refuses to accept Dmitri's breaking of their engagement. And her resolve is so extreme that she even humbles herself before Grushenka. As for Grushenka, she turns out to be far more interesting than gossip suggests. She may or may not be waiting for a scoundrel who deserted her five years earlier. His return, incidentally, precipitates the pivotal action of the novel. Grushenka's mercurial qualities are quite thorough; she is whimsical and mischievous and does seem as though she might be, as Dmitri laughingly tags her, a \"she-devil.\" She is more than a tease, however, and immediately after the murder she realizes that she, in large part, is to blame for keeping both Dmitri and his father in suspense as to what she actually intends for them. Dmitri's confession of baseness to Alyosha is in reference to his retention of the 1,500 rubles that he saved from the night of the Grushenka orgy; this money he has not yet returned to Katerina. And his keeping it burdens his scheme of values with far greater dishonor than the fact that he spent the other half of the sum. Later, this anguish of Dmitri's over the money he did not spend convinces many people that such a man could not commit a murder. At the monastery, Alyosha still does not know why Zossima has ordered him to go into the world. \"Here was peace. Here was holiness\"; one can easily lose one's way in the world, Alyosha realizes, and go astray. It is exactly for these reasons, though, that the elder has asked him to go into the world. Alyosha is the one person who will be able to walk through confusion and darkness and not lose his footing. At this moment, his father, Katerina, Lise, Dmitri, and Grushenka are all waiting to talk with him again; his life's work is among the people of the world, who need his quiet example of love and respect."}
Chapter VI. Smerdyakov


He did in fact find his father still at table. Though there was a dining-
room in the house, the table was laid as usual in the drawing-room, which
was the largest room, and furnished with old-fashioned ostentation. The
furniture was white and very old, upholstered in old, red, silky material.
In the spaces between the windows there were mirrors in elaborate white
and gilt frames, of old-fashioned carving. On the walls, covered with
white paper, which was torn in many places, there hung two large
portraits--one of some prince who had been governor of the district thirty
years before, and the other of some bishop, also long since dead. In the
corner opposite the door there were several ikons, before which a lamp was
lighted at nightfall ... not so much for devotional purposes as to light
the room. Fyodor Pavlovitch used to go to bed very late, at three or four
o'clock in the morning, and would wander about the room at night or sit in
an arm-chair, thinking. This had become a habit with him. He often slept
quite alone in the house, sending his servants to the lodge; but usually
Smerdyakov remained, sleeping on a bench in the hall.

When Alyosha came in, dinner was over, but coffee and preserves had been
served. Fyodor Pavlovitch liked sweet things with brandy after dinner.
Ivan was also at table, sipping coffee. The servants, Grigory and
Smerdyakov, were standing by. Both the gentlemen and the servants seemed
in singularly good spirits. Fyodor Pavlovitch was roaring with laughter.
Before he entered the room, Alyosha heard the shrill laugh he knew so
well, and could tell from the sound of it that his father had only reached
the good-humored stage, and was far from being completely drunk.

"Here he is! Here he is!" yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch, highly delighted at
seeing Alyosha. "Join us. Sit down. Coffee is a lenten dish, but it's hot
and good. I don't offer you brandy, you're keeping the fast. But would you
like some? No; I'd better give you some of our famous liqueur. Smerdyakov,
go to the cupboard, the second shelf on the right. Here are the keys. Look
sharp!"

Alyosha began refusing the liqueur.

"Never mind. If you won't have it, we will," said Fyodor Pavlovitch,
beaming. "But stay--have you dined?"

"Yes," answered Alyosha, who had in truth only eaten a piece of bread and
drunk a glass of kvas in the Father Superior's kitchen. "Though I should
be pleased to have some hot coffee."

"Bravo, my darling! He'll have some coffee. Does it want warming? No, it's
boiling. It's capital coffee: Smerdyakov's making. My Smerdyakov's an
artist at coffee and at fish patties, and at fish soup, too. You must come
one day and have some fish soup. Let me know beforehand.... But, stay;
didn't I tell you this morning to come home with your mattress and pillow
and all? Have you brought your mattress? He he he!"

"No, I haven't," said Alyosha, smiling, too.

"Ah, but you were frightened, you were frightened this morning, weren't
you? There, my darling, I couldn't do anything to vex you. Do you know,
Ivan, I can't resist the way he looks one straight in the face and laughs?
It makes me laugh all over. I'm so fond of him. Alyosha, let me give you
my blessing--a father's blessing."

Alyosha rose, but Fyodor Pavlovitch had already changed his mind.

"No, no," he said. "I'll just make the sign of the cross over you, for
now. Sit still. Now we've a treat for you, in your own line, too. It'll
make you laugh. Balaam's ass has begun talking to us here--and how he
talks! How he talks!"

Balaam's ass, it appeared, was the valet, Smerdyakov. He was a young man
of about four and twenty, remarkably unsociable and taciturn. Not that he
was shy or bashful. On the contrary, he was conceited and seemed to
despise everybody.

But we must pause to say a few words about him now. He was brought up by
Grigory and Marfa, but the boy grew up "with no sense of gratitude," as
Grigory expressed it; he was an unfriendly boy, and seemed to look at the
world mistrustfully. In his childhood he was very fond of hanging cats,
and burying them with great ceremony. He used to dress up in a sheet as
though it were a surplice, and sang, and waved some object over the dead
cat as though it were a censer. All this he did on the sly, with the
greatest secrecy. Grigory caught him once at this diversion and gave him a
sound beating. He shrank into a corner and sulked there for a week. "He
doesn't care for you or me, the monster," Grigory used to say to Marfa,
"and he doesn't care for any one. Are you a human being?" he said,
addressing the boy directly. "You're not a human being. You grew from the
mildew in the bath-house.(2) That's what you are." Smerdyakov, it appeared
afterwards, could never forgive him those words. Grigory taught him to
read and write, and when he was twelve years old, began teaching him the
Scriptures. But this teaching came to nothing. At the second or third
lesson the boy suddenly grinned.

"What's that for?" asked Grigory, looking at him threateningly from under
his spectacles.

"Oh, nothing. God created light on the first day, and the sun, moon, and
stars on the fourth day. Where did the light come from on the first day?"

Grigory was thunderstruck. The boy looked sarcastically at his teacher.
There was something positively condescending in his expression. Grigory
could not restrain himself. "I'll show you where!" he cried, and gave the
boy a violent slap on the cheek. The boy took the slap without a word, but
withdrew into his corner again for some days. A week later he had his
first attack of the disease to which he was subject all the rest of his
life--epilepsy. When Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of it, his attitude to the boy
seemed changed at once. Till then he had taken no notice of him, though he
never scolded him, and always gave him a copeck when he met him.
Sometimes, when he was in good humor, he would send the boy something
sweet from his table. But as soon as he heard of his illness, he showed an
active interest in him, sent for a doctor, and tried remedies, but the
disease turned out to be incurable. The fits occurred, on an average, once
a month, but at various intervals. The fits varied too, in violence: some
were light and some were very severe. Fyodor Pavlovitch strictly forbade
Grigory to use corporal punishment to the boy, and began allowing him to
come upstairs to him. He forbade him to be taught anything whatever for a
time, too. One day when the boy was about fifteen, Fyodor Pavlovitch
noticed him lingering by the bookcase, and reading the titles through the
glass. Fyodor Pavlovitch had a fair number of books--over a hundred--but no
one ever saw him reading. He at once gave Smerdyakov the key of the
bookcase. "Come, read. You shall be my librarian. You'll be better sitting
reading than hanging about the courtyard. Come, read this," and Fyodor
Pavlovitch gave him _Evenings in a Cottage near Dikanka_.

He read a little but didn't like it. He did not once smile, and ended by
frowning.

"Why? Isn't it funny?" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch.

Smerdyakov did not speak.

"Answer, stupid!"

"It's all untrue," mumbled the boy, with a grin.

"Then go to the devil! You have the soul of a lackey. Stay, here's
Smaragdov's _Universal History_. That's all true. Read that."

But Smerdyakov did not get through ten pages of Smaragdov. He thought it
dull. So the bookcase was closed again.

Shortly afterwards Marfa and Grigory reported to Fyodor Pavlovitch that
Smerdyakov was gradually beginning to show an extraordinary
fastidiousness. He would sit before his soup, take up his spoon and look
into the soup, bend over it, examine it, take a spoonful and hold it to
the light.

"What is it? A beetle?" Grigory would ask.

"A fly, perhaps," observed Marfa.

The squeamish youth never answered, but he did the same with his bread,
his meat, and everything he ate. He would hold a piece on his fork to the
light, scrutinize it microscopically, and only after long deliberation
decide to put it in his mouth.

"Ach! What fine gentlemen's airs!" Grigory muttered, looking at him.

When Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of this development in Smerdyakov he
determined to make him his cook, and sent him to Moscow to be trained. He
spent some years there and came back remarkably changed in appearance. He
looked extraordinarily old for his age. His face had grown wrinkled,
yellow, and strangely emasculate. In character he seemed almost exactly
the same as before he went away. He was just as unsociable, and showed not
the slightest inclination for any companionship. In Moscow, too, as we
heard afterwards, he had always been silent. Moscow itself had little
interest for him; he saw very little there, and took scarcely any notice
of anything. He went once to the theater, but returned silent and
displeased with it. On the other hand, he came back to us from Moscow well
dressed, in a clean coat and clean linen. He brushed his clothes most
scrupulously twice a day invariably, and was very fond of cleaning his
smart calf boots with a special English polish, so that they shone like
mirrors. He turned out a first-rate cook. Fyodor Pavlovitch paid him a
salary, almost the whole of which Smerdyakov spent on clothes, pomade,
perfumes, and such things. But he seemed to have as much contempt for the
female sex as for men; he was discreet, almost unapproachable, with them.
Fyodor Pavlovitch began to regard him rather differently. His fits were
becoming more frequent, and on the days he was ill Marfa cooked, which did
not suit Fyodor Pavlovitch at all.

"Why are your fits getting worse?" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch, looking
askance at his new cook. "Would you like to get married? Shall I find you
a wife?"

But Smerdyakov turned pale with anger, and made no reply. Fyodor
Pavlovitch left him with an impatient gesture. The great thing was that he
had absolute confidence in his honesty. It happened once, when Fyodor
Pavlovitch was drunk, that he dropped in the muddy courtyard three
hundred-rouble notes which he had only just received. He only missed them
next day, and was just hastening to search his pockets when he saw the
notes lying on the table. Where had they come from? Smerdyakov had picked
them up and brought them in the day before.

"Well, my lad, I've never met any one like you," Fyodor Pavlovitch said
shortly, and gave him ten roubles. We may add that he not only believed in
his honesty, but had, for some reason, a liking for him, although the
young man looked as morosely at him as at every one and was always silent.
He rarely spoke. If it had occurred to any one to wonder at the time what
the young man was interested in, and what was in his mind, it would have
been impossible to tell by looking at him. Yet he used sometimes to stop
suddenly in the house, or even in the yard or street, and would stand
still for ten minutes, lost in thought. A physiognomist studying his face
would have said that there was no thought in it, no reflection, but only a
sort of contemplation. There is a remarkable picture by the painter
Kramskoy, called "Contemplation." There is a forest in winter, and on a
roadway through the forest, in absolute solitude, stands a peasant in a
torn kaftan and bark shoes. He stands, as it were, lost in thought. Yet he
is not thinking; he is "contemplating." If any one touched him he would
start and look at one as though awakening and bewildered. It's true he
would come to himself immediately; but if he were asked what he had been
thinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably he has, hidden
within himself, the impression which had dominated him during the period
of contemplation. Those impressions are dear to him and no doubt he hoards
them imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he
does not know either. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many
years, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage for his
soul's salvation, or perhaps he will suddenly set fire to his native
village, and perhaps do both. There are a good many "contemplatives" among
the peasantry. Well, Smerdyakov was probably one of them, and he probably
was greedily hoarding up his impressions, hardly knowing why.




Chapter VII. The Controversy


But Balaam's ass had suddenly spoken. The subject was a strange one.
Grigory had gone in the morning to make purchases, and had heard from the
shopkeeper Lukyanov the story of a Russian soldier which had appeared in
the newspaper of that day. This soldier had been taken prisoner in some
remote part of Asia, and was threatened with an immediate agonizing death
if he did not renounce Christianity and follow Islam. He refused to deny
his faith, and was tortured, flayed alive, and died, praising and
glorifying Christ. Grigory had related the story at table. Fyodor
Pavlovitch always liked, over the dessert after dinner, to laugh and talk,
if only with Grigory. This afternoon he was in a particularly good-humored
and expansive mood. Sipping his brandy and listening to the story, he
observed that they ought to make a saint of a soldier like that, and to
take his skin to some monastery. "That would make the people flock, and
bring the money in."

Grigory frowned, seeing that Fyodor Pavlovitch was by no means touched,
but, as usual, was beginning to scoff. At that moment Smerdyakov, who was
standing by the door, smiled. Smerdyakov often waited at table towards the
end of dinner, and since Ivan's arrival in our town he had done so every
day.

"What are you grinning at?" asked Fyodor Pavlovitch, catching the smile
instantly, and knowing that it referred to Grigory.

"Well, my opinion is," Smerdyakov began suddenly and unexpectedly in a
loud voice, "that if that laudable soldier's exploit was so very great
there would have been, to my thinking, no sin in it if he had on such an
emergency renounced, so to speak, the name of Christ and his own
christening, to save by that same his life, for good deeds, by which, in
the course of years to expiate his cowardice."

"How could it not be a sin? You're talking nonsense. For that you'll go
straight to hell and be roasted there like mutton," put in Fyodor
Pavlovitch.

It was at this point that Alyosha came in, and Fyodor Pavlovitch, as we
have seen, was highly delighted at his appearance.

"We're on your subject, your subject," he chuckled gleefully, making
Alyosha sit down to listen.

"As for mutton, that's not so, and there'll be nothing there for this, and
there shouldn't be either, if it's according to justice," Smerdyakov
maintained stoutly.

"How do you mean 'according to justice'?" Fyodor Pavlovitch cried still
more gayly, nudging Alyosha with his knee.

"He's a rascal, that's what he is!" burst from Grigory. He looked
Smerdyakov wrathfully in the face.

"As for being a rascal, wait a little, Grigory Vassilyevitch," answered
Smerdyakov with perfect composure. "You'd better consider yourself that,
once I am taken prisoner by the enemies of the Christian race, and they
demand from me to curse the name of God and to renounce my holy
christening, I am fully entitled to act by my own reason, since there
would be no sin in it."

"But you've said that before. Don't waste words. Prove it," cried Fyodor
Pavlovitch.

"Soup-maker!" muttered Grigory contemptuously.

"As for being a soup-maker, wait a bit, too, and consider for yourself,
Grigory Vassilyevitch, without abusing me. For as soon as I say to those
enemies, 'No, I'm not a Christian, and I curse my true God,' then at once,
by God's high judgment, I become immediately and specially anathema
accursed, and am cut off from the Holy Church, exactly as though I were a
heathen, so that at that very instant, not only when I say it aloud, but
when I think of saying it, before a quarter of a second has passed, I am
cut off. Is that so or not, Grigory Vassilyevitch?"

He addressed Grigory with obvious satisfaction, though he was really
answering Fyodor Pavlovitch's questions, and was well aware of it, and
intentionally pretending that Grigory had asked the questions.

"Ivan," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch suddenly, "stoop down for me to whisper.
He's got this all up for your benefit. He wants you to praise him. Praise
him."

Ivan listened with perfect seriousness to his father's excited whisper.

"Stay, Smerdyakov, be quiet a minute," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch once more.
"Ivan, your ear again."

Ivan bent down again with a perfectly grave face.

"I love you as I do Alyosha. Don't think I don't love you. Some brandy?"

"Yes.--But you're rather drunk yourself," thought Ivan, looking steadily at
his father.

He was watching Smerdyakov with great curiosity.

"You're anathema accursed, as it is," Grigory suddenly burst out, "and how
dare you argue, you rascal, after that, if--"

"Don't scold him, Grigory, don't scold him," Fyodor Pavlovitch cut him
short.

"You should wait, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if only a short time, and listen,
for I haven't finished all I had to say. For at the very moment I become
accursed, at that same highest moment, I become exactly like a heathen,
and my christening is taken off me and becomes of no avail. Isn't that
so?"

"Make haste and finish, my boy," Fyodor Pavlovitch urged him, sipping from
his wine-glass with relish.

"And if I've ceased to be a Christian, then I told no lie to the enemy
when they asked whether I was a Christian or not a Christian, seeing I had
already been relieved by God Himself of my Christianity by reason of the
thought alone, before I had time to utter a word to the enemy. And if I
have already been discharged, in what manner and with what sort of justice
can I be held responsible as a Christian in the other world for having
denied Christ, when, through the very thought alone, before denying Him I
had been relieved from my christening? If I'm no longer a Christian, then
I can't renounce Christ, for I've nothing then to renounce. Who will hold
an unclean Tatar responsible, Grigory Vassilyevitch, even in heaven, for
not having been born a Christian? And who would punish him for that,
considering that you can't take two skins off one ox? For God Almighty
Himself, even if He did make the Tatar responsible, when he dies would
give him the smallest possible punishment, I imagine (since he must be
punished), judging that he is not to blame if he has come into the world
an unclean heathen, from heathen parents. The Lord God can't surely take a
Tatar and say he was a Christian? That would mean that the Almighty would
tell a real untruth. And can the Lord of Heaven and earth tell a lie, even
in one word?"

Grigory was thunderstruck and looked at the orator, his eyes nearly
starting out of his head. Though he did not clearly understand what was
said, he had caught something in this rigmarole, and stood, looking like a
man who has just hit his head against a wall. Fyodor Pavlovitch emptied
his glass and went off into his shrill laugh.

"Alyosha! Alyosha! What do you say to that! Ah, you casuist! He must have
been with the Jesuits, somewhere, Ivan. Oh, you stinking Jesuit, who
taught you? But you're talking nonsense, you casuist, nonsense, nonsense,
nonsense. Don't cry, Grigory, we'll reduce him to smoke and ashes in a
moment. Tell me this, O ass; you may be right before your enemies, but you
have renounced your faith all the same in your own heart, and you say
yourself that in that very hour you became anathema accursed. And if once
you're anathema they won't pat you on the head for it in hell. What do you
say to that, my fine Jesuit?"

"There is no doubt that I have renounced it in my own heart, but there was
no special sin in that. Or if there was sin, it was the most ordinary."

"How's that the most ordinary?"

"You lie, accursed one!" hissed Grigory.

"Consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch," Smerdyakov went on, staid and
unruffled, conscious of his triumph, but, as it were, generous to the
vanquished foe. "Consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch; it is said in
the Scripture that if you have faith, even as a mustard seed, and bid a
mountain move into the sea, it will move without the least delay at your
bidding. Well, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if I'm without faith and you have so
great a faith that you are continually swearing at me, you try yourself
telling this mountain, not to move into the sea for that's a long way off,
but even to our stinking little river which runs at the bottom of the
garden. You'll see for yourself that it won't budge, but will remain just
where it is however much you shout at it, and that shows, Grigory
Vassilyevitch, that you haven't faith in the proper manner, and only abuse
others about it. Again, taking into consideration that no one in our day,
not only you, but actually no one, from the highest person to the lowest
peasant, can shove mountains into the sea--except perhaps some one man in
the world, or, at most, two, and they most likely are saving their souls
in secret somewhere in the Egyptian desert, so you wouldn't find them--if
so it be, if all the rest have no faith, will God curse all the rest? that
is, the population of the whole earth, except about two hermits in the
desert, and in His well-known mercy will He not forgive one of them? And
so I'm persuaded that though I may once have doubted I shall be forgiven
if I shed tears of repentance."

"Stay!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, in a transport of delight. "So you do
suppose there are two who can move mountains? Ivan, make a note of it,
write it down. There you have the Russian all over!"

"You're quite right in saying it's characteristic of the people's faith,"
Ivan assented, with an approving smile.

"You agree. Then it must be so, if you agree. It's true, isn't it,
Alyosha? That's the Russian faith all over, isn't it?"

"No, Smerdyakov has not the Russian faith at all," said Alyosha firmly and
gravely.

"I'm not talking about his faith. I mean those two in the desert, only
that idea. Surely that's Russian, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's purely Russian," said Alyosha smiling.

"Your words are worth a gold piece, O ass, and I'll give it to you to-day.
But as to the rest you talk nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. Let me tell you,
stupid, that we here are all of little faith, only from carelessness,
because we haven't time; things are too much for us, and, in the second
place, the Lord God has given us so little time, only twenty-four hours in
the day, so that one hasn't even time to get sleep enough, much less to
repent of one's sins. While you have denied your faith to your enemies
when you'd nothing else to think about but to show your faith! So I
consider, brother, that it constitutes a sin."

"Constitute a sin it may, but consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch,
that it only extenuates it, if it does constitute. If I had believed then
in very truth, as I ought to have believed, then it really would have been
sinful if I had not faced tortures for my faith, and had gone over to the
pagan Mohammedan faith. But, of course, it wouldn't have come to torture
then, because I should only have had to say at that instant to the
mountain, 'Move and crush the tormentor,' and it would have moved and at
the very instant have crushed him like a black-beetle, and I should have
walked away as though nothing had happened, praising and glorifying God.
But, suppose at that very moment I had tried all that, and cried to that
mountain, 'Crush these tormentors,' and it hadn't crushed them, how could
I have helped doubting, pray, at such a time, and at such a dread hour of
mortal terror? And apart from that, I should know already that I could not
attain to the fullness of the Kingdom of Heaven (for since the mountain
had not moved at my word, they could not think very much of my faith up
aloft, and there could be no very great reward awaiting me in the world to
come). So why should I let them flay the skin off me as well, and to no
good purpose? For, even though they had flayed my skin half off my back,
even then the mountain would not have moved at my word or at my cry. And
at such a moment not only doubt might come over one but one might lose
one's reason from fear, so that one would not be able to think at all.
And, therefore, how should I be particularly to blame if not seeing my
advantage or reward there or here, I should, at least, save my skin. And
so trusting fully in the grace of the Lord I should cherish the hope that
I might be altogether forgiven."




Chapter VIII. Over The Brandy


The controversy was over. But, strange to say, Fyodor Pavlovitch, who had
been so gay, suddenly began frowning. He frowned and gulped brandy, and it
was already a glass too much.

"Get along with you, Jesuits!" he cried to the servants. "Go away,
Smerdyakov. I'll send you the gold piece I promised you to-day, but be
off! Don't cry, Grigory. Go to Marfa. She'll comfort you and put you to
bed. The rascals won't let us sit in peace after dinner," he snapped
peevishly, as the servants promptly withdrew at his word.

"Smerdyakov always pokes himself in now, after dinner. It's you he's so
interested in. What have you done to fascinate him?" he added to Ivan.

"Nothing whatever," answered Ivan. "He's pleased to have a high opinion of
me; he's a lackey and a mean soul. Raw material for revolution, however,
when the time comes."

"For revolution?"

"There will be others and better ones. But there will be some like him as
well. His kind will come first, and better ones after."

"And when will the time come?"

"The rocket will go off and fizzle out, perhaps. The peasants are not very
fond of listening to these soup-makers, so far."

"Ah, brother, but a Balaam's ass like that thinks and thinks, and the
devil knows where he gets to."

"He's storing up ideas," said Ivan, smiling.

"You see, I know he can't bear me, nor any one else, even you, though you
fancy that he has a high opinion of you. Worse still with Alyosha, he
despises Alyosha. But he doesn't steal, that's one thing, and he's not a
gossip, he holds his tongue, and doesn't wash our dirty linen in public.
He makes capital fish pasties too. But, damn him, is he worth talking
about so much?"

"Of course he isn't."

"And as for the ideas he may be hatching, the Russian peasant, generally
speaking, needs thrashing. That I've always maintained. Our peasants are
swindlers, and don't deserve to be pitied, and it's a good thing they're
still flogged sometimes. Russia is rich in birches. If they destroyed the
forests, it would be the ruin of Russia. I stand up for the clever people.
We've left off thrashing the peasants, we've grown so clever, but they go
on thrashing themselves. And a good thing too. 'For with what measure ye
mete it shall be measured to you again,' or how does it go? Anyhow, it
will be measured. But Russia's all swinishness. My dear, if you only knew
how I hate Russia.... That is, not Russia, but all this vice! But maybe I
mean Russia. _Tout cela c'est de la cochonnerie_.... Do you know what I
like? I like wit."

"You've had another glass. That's enough."

"Wait a bit. I'll have one more, and then another, and then I'll stop. No,
stay, you interrupted me. At Mokroe I was talking to an old man, and he
told me: 'There's nothing we like so much as sentencing girls to be
thrashed, and we always give the lads the job of thrashing them. And the
girl he has thrashed to-day, the young man will ask in marriage to-morrow.
So it quite suits the girls, too,' he said. There's a set of de Sades for
you! But it's clever, anyway. Shall we go over and have a look at it, eh?
Alyosha, are you blushing? Don't be bashful, child. I'm sorry I didn't
stay to dinner at the Superior's and tell the monks about the girls at
Mokroe. Alyosha, don't be angry that I offended your Superior this
morning. I lost my temper. If there is a God, if He exists, then, of
course, I'm to blame, and I shall have to answer for it. But if there
isn't a God at all, what do they deserve, your fathers? It's not enough to
cut their heads off, for they keep back progress. Would you believe it,
Ivan, that that lacerates my sentiments? No, you don't believe it as I see
from your eyes. You believe what people say, that I'm nothing but a
buffoon. Alyosha, do you believe that I'm nothing but a buffoon?"

"No, I don't believe it."

"And I believe you don't, and that you speak the truth. You look sincere
and you speak sincerely. But not Ivan. Ivan's supercilious.... I'd make an
end of your monks, though, all the same. I'd take all that mystic stuff
and suppress it, once for all, all over Russia, so as to bring all the
fools to reason. And the gold and the silver that would flow into the
mint!"

"But why suppress it?" asked Ivan.

"That Truth may prevail. That's why."

"Well, if Truth were to prevail, you know, you'd be the first to be robbed
and suppressed."

"Ah! I dare say you're right. Ah, I'm an ass!" burst out Fyodor
Pavlovitch, striking himself lightly on the forehead. "Well, your
monastery may stand then, Alyosha, if that's how it is. And we clever
people will sit snug and enjoy our brandy. You know, Ivan, it must have
been so ordained by the Almighty Himself. Ivan, speak, is there a God or
not? Stay, speak the truth, speak seriously. Why are you laughing again?"

"I'm laughing that you should have made a clever remark just now about
Smerdyakov's belief in the existence of two saints who could move
mountains."

"Why, am I like him now, then?"

"Very much."

"Well, that shows I'm a Russian, too, and I have a Russian characteristic.
And you may be caught in the same way, though you are a philosopher. Shall
I catch you? What do you bet that I'll catch you to-morrow. Speak, all the
same, is there a God, or not? Only, be serious. I want you to be serious
now."

"No, there is no God."

"Alyosha, is there a God?"

"There is."

"Ivan, and is there immortality of some sort, just a little, just a tiny
bit?"

"There is no immortality either."

"None at all?"

"None at all."

"There's absolute nothingness then. Perhaps there is just something?
Anything is better than nothing!"

"Absolute nothingness."

"Alyosha, is there immortality?"

"There is."

"God and immortality?"

"God and immortality. In God is immortality."

"H'm! It's more likely Ivan's right. Good Lord! to think what faith, what
force of all kinds, man has lavished for nothing, on that dream, and for
how many thousand years. Who is it laughing at man? Ivan! For the last
time, once for all, is there a God or not? I ask for the last time!"

"And for the last time there is not."

"Who is laughing at mankind, Ivan?"

"It must be the devil," said Ivan, smiling.

"And the devil? Does he exist?"

"No, there's no devil either."

"It's a pity. Damn it all, what wouldn't I do to the man who first
invented God! Hanging on a bitter aspen tree would be too good for him."

"There would have been no civilization if they hadn't invented God."

"Wouldn't there have been? Without God?"

"No. And there would have been no brandy either. But I must take your
brandy away from you, anyway."

"Stop, stop, stop, dear boy, one more little glass. I've hurt Alyosha's
feelings. You're not angry with me, Alyosha? My dear little Alexey!"

"No, I am not angry. I know your thoughts. Your heart is better than your
head."

"My heart better than my head, is it? Oh, Lord! And that from you. Ivan,
do you love Alyosha?"

"Yes."

"You must love him" (Fyodor Pavlovitch was by this time very drunk).
"Listen, Alyosha, I was rude to your elder this morning. But I was
excited. But there's wit in that elder, don't you think, Ivan?"

"Very likely."

"There is, there is. _Il y a du Piron la-dedans._ He's a Jesuit, a Russian
one, that is. As he's an honorable person there's a hidden indignation
boiling within him at having to pretend and affect holiness."

"But, of course, he believes in God."

"Not a bit of it. Didn't you know? Why, he tells every one so, himself.
That is, not every one, but all the clever people who come to him. He said
straight out to Governor Schultz not long ago: '_Credo_, but I don't know
in what.' "

"Really?"

"He really did. But I respect him. There's something of Mephistopheles
about him, or rather of 'The hero of our time' ... Arbenin, or what's his
name?... You see, he's a sensualist. He's such a sensualist that I should
be afraid for my daughter or my wife if she went to confess to him. You
know, when he begins telling stories.... The year before last he invited
us to tea, tea with liqueur (the ladies send him liqueur), and began
telling us about old times till we nearly split our sides.... Especially
how he once cured a paralyzed woman. 'If my legs were not bad I know a
dance I could dance you,' he said. What do you say to that? 'I've plenty
of tricks in my time,' said he. He did Dernidov, the merchant, out of
sixty thousand."

"What, he stole it?"

"He brought him the money as a man he could trust, saying, 'Take care of
it for me, friend, there'll be a police search at my place to-morrow.' And
he kept it. 'You have given it to the Church,' he declared. I said to him:
'You're a scoundrel,' I said. 'No,' said he, 'I'm not a scoundrel, but I'm
broad-minded.' But that wasn't he, that was some one else. I've muddled
him with some one else ... without noticing it. Come, another glass and
that's enough. Take away the bottle, Ivan. I've been telling lies. Why
didn't you stop me, Ivan, and tell me I was lying?"

"I knew you'd stop of yourself."

"That's a lie. You did it from spite, from simple spite against me. You
despise me. You have come to me and despised me in my own house."

"Well, I'm going away. You've had too much brandy."

"I've begged you for Christ's sake to go to Tchermashnya for a day or two,
and you don't go."

"I'll go to-morrow if you're so set upon it."

"You won't go. You want to keep an eye on me. That's what you want,
spiteful fellow. That's why you won't go."

The old man persisted. He had reached that state of drunkenness when the
drunkard who has till then been inoffensive tries to pick a quarrel and to
assert himself.

"Why are you looking at me? Why do you look like that? Your eyes look at
me and say, 'You ugly drunkard!' Your eyes are mistrustful. They're
contemptuous.... You've come here with some design. Alyosha, here, looks
at me and his eyes shine. Alyosha doesn't despise me. Alexey, you mustn't
love Ivan."

"Don't be ill-tempered with my brother. Leave off attacking him," Alyosha
said emphatically.

"Oh, all right. Ugh, my head aches. Take away the brandy, Ivan. It's the
third time I've told you."

He mused, and suddenly a slow, cunning grin spread over his face.

"Don't be angry with a feeble old man, Ivan. I know you don't love me, but
don't be angry all the same. You've nothing to love me for. You go to
Tchermashnya. I'll come to you myself and bring you a present. I'll show
you a little wench there. I've had my eye on her a long time. She's still
running about bare-foot. Don't be afraid of bare-footed wenches--don't
despise them--they're pearls!"

And he kissed his hand with a smack.

"To my thinking," he revived at once, seeming to grow sober the instant he
touched on his favorite topic. "To my thinking ... Ah, you boys! You
children, little sucking-pigs, to my thinking ... I never thought a woman
ugly in my life--that's been my rule! Can you understand that? How could
you understand it? You've milk in your veins, not blood. You're not out of
your shells yet. My rule has been that you can always find something
devilishly interesting in every woman that you wouldn't find in any other.
Only, one must know how to find it, that's the point! That's a talent! To
my mind there are no ugly women. The very fact that she is a woman is half
the battle ... but how could you understand that? Even in _vieilles
filles_, even in them you may discover something that makes you simply
wonder that men have been such fools as to let them grow old without
noticing them. Bare-footed girls or unattractive ones, you must take by
surprise. Didn't you know that? You must astound them till they're
fascinated, upset, ashamed that such a gentleman should fall in love with
such a little slut. It's a jolly good thing that there always are and will
be masters and slaves in the world, so there always will be a little maid-
of-all-work and her master, and you know, that's all that's needed for
happiness. Stay ... listen, Alyosha, I always used to surprise your
mother, but in a different way. I paid no attention to her at all, but all
at once, when the minute came, I'd be all devotion to her, crawl on my
knees, kiss her feet, and I always, always--I remember it as though it were
to-day--reduced her to that tinkling, quiet, nervous, queer little laugh.
It was peculiar to her. I knew her attacks always used to begin like that.
The next day she would begin shrieking hysterically, and this little laugh
was not a sign of delight, though it made a very good counterfeit. That's
the great thing, to know how to take every one. Once Belyavsky--he was a
handsome fellow, and rich--used to like to come here and hang about
her--suddenly gave me a slap in the face in her presence. And she--such a
mild sheep--why, I thought she would have knocked me down for that blow.
How she set on me! 'You're beaten, beaten now,' she said. 'You've taken a
blow from him. You have been trying to sell me to him,' she said.... 'And
how dared he strike you in my presence! Don't dare come near me again,
never, never! Run at once, challenge him to a duel!'... I took her to the
monastery then to bring her to her senses. The holy Fathers prayed her
back to reason. But I swear, by God, Alyosha, I never insulted the poor
crazy girl! Only once, perhaps, in the first year; then she was very fond
of praying. She used to keep the feasts of Our Lady particularly and used
to turn me out of her room then. I'll knock that mysticism out of her,
thought I! 'Here,' said I, 'you see your holy image. Here it is. Here I
take it down. You believe it's miraculous, but here, I'll spit on it
directly and nothing will happen to me for it!'... When she saw it, good
Lord! I thought she would kill me. But she only jumped up, wrung her
hands, then suddenly hid her face in them, began trembling all over and
fell on the floor ... fell all of a heap. Alyosha, Alyosha, what's the
matter?"

The old man jumped up in alarm. From the time he had begun speaking about
his mother, a change had gradually come over Alyosha's face. He flushed
crimson, his eyes glowed, his lips quivered. The old sot had gone
spluttering on, noticing nothing, till the moment when something very
strange happened to Alyosha. Precisely what he was describing in the crazy
woman was suddenly repeated with Alyosha. He jumped up from his seat
exactly as his mother was said to have done, wrung his hands, hid his face
in them, and fell back in his chair, shaking all over in an hysterical
paroxysm of sudden violent, silent weeping. His extraordinary resemblance
to his mother particularly impressed the old man.

"Ivan, Ivan! Water, quickly! It's like her, exactly as she used to be
then, his mother. Spurt some water on him from your mouth, that's what I
used to do to her. He's upset about his mother, his mother," he muttered
to Ivan.

"But she was my mother, too, I believe, his mother. Was she not?" said
Ivan, with uncontrolled anger and contempt. The old man shrank before his
flashing eyes. But something very strange had happened, though only for a
second; it seemed really to have escaped the old man's mind that Alyosha's
mother actually was the mother of Ivan too.

"Your mother?" he muttered, not understanding. "What do you mean? What
mother are you talking about? Was she?... Why, damn it! of course she was
yours too! Damn it! My mind has never been so darkened before. Excuse me,
why, I was thinking, Ivan.... He he he!" He stopped. A broad, drunken,
half-senseless grin overspread his face.

At that moment a fearful noise and clamor was heard in the hall, there
were violent shouts, the door was flung open, and Dmitri burst into the
room. The old man rushed to Ivan in terror.

"He'll kill me! He'll kill me! Don't let him get at me!" he screamed,
clinging to the skirt of Ivan's coat.




Chapter IX. The Sensualists


Grigory and Smerdyakov ran into the room after Dmitri. They had been
struggling with him in the passage, refusing to admit him, acting on
instructions given them by Fyodor Pavlovitch some days before. Taking
advantage of the fact that Dmitri stopped a moment on entering the room to
look about him, Grigory ran round the table, closed the double doors on
the opposite side of the room leading to the inner apartments, and stood
before the closed doors, stretching wide his arms, prepared to defend the
entrance, so to speak, with the last drop of his blood. Seeing this,
Dmitri uttered a scream rather than a shout and rushed at Grigory.

"Then she's there! She's hidden there! Out of the way, scoundrel!"

He tried to pull Grigory away, but the old servant pushed him back. Beside
himself with fury, Dmitri struck out, and hit Grigory with all his might.
The old man fell like a log, and Dmitri, leaping over him, broke in the
door. Smerdyakov remained pale and trembling at the other end of the room,
huddling close to Fyodor Pavlovitch.

"She's here!" shouted Dmitri. "I saw her turn towards the house just now,
but I couldn't catch her. Where is she? Where is she?"

That shout, "She's here!" produced an indescribable effect on Fyodor
Pavlovitch. All his terror left him.

"Hold him! Hold him!" he cried, and dashed after Dmitri. Meanwhile Grigory
had got up from the floor, but still seemed stunned. Ivan and Alyosha ran
after their father. In the third room something was heard to fall on the
floor with a ringing crash: it was a large glass vase--not an expensive
one--on a marble pedestal which Dmitri had upset as he ran past it.

"At him!" shouted the old man. "Help!"

Ivan and Alyosha caught the old man and were forcibly bringing him back.

"Why do you run after him? He'll murder you outright," Ivan cried
wrathfully at his father.

"Ivan! Alyosha! She must be here. Grushenka's here. He said he saw her
himself, running."

He was choking. He was not expecting Grushenka at the time, and the sudden
news that she was here made him beside himself. He was trembling all over.
He seemed frantic.

"But you've seen for yourself that she hasn't come," cried Ivan.

"But she may have come by that other entrance."

"You know that entrance is locked, and you have the key."

Dmitri suddenly reappeared in the drawing-room. He had, of course, found
the other entrance locked, and the key actually was in Fyodor Pavlovitch's
pocket. The windows of all the rooms were also closed, so Grushenka could
not have come in anywhere nor have run out anywhere.

"Hold him!" shrieked Fyodor Pavlovitch, as soon as he saw him again. "He's
been stealing money in my bedroom." And tearing himself from Ivan he
rushed again at Dmitri. But Dmitri threw up both hands and suddenly
clutched the old man by the two tufts of hair that remained on his
temples, tugged at them, and flung him with a crash on the floor. He
kicked him two or three times with his heel in the face. The old man
moaned shrilly. Ivan, though not so strong as Dmitri, threw his arms round
him, and with all his might pulled him away. Alyosha helped him with his
slender strength, holding Dmitri in front.

"Madman! You've killed him!" cried Ivan.

"Serve him right!" shouted Dmitri breathlessly. "If I haven't killed him,
I'll come again and kill him. You can't protect him!"

"Dmitri! Go away at once!" cried Alyosha commandingly.

"Alexey! You tell me. It's only you I can believe; was she here just now,
or not? I saw her myself creeping this way by the fence from the lane. I
shouted, she ran away."

"I swear she's not been here, and no one expected her."

"But I saw her.... So she must ... I'll find out at once where she is....
Good-by, Alexey! Not a word to AEsop about the money now. But go to
Katerina Ivanovna at once and be sure to say, 'He sends his compliments to
you!' Compliments, his compliments! Just compliments and farewell!
Describe the scene to her."

Meanwhile Ivan and Grigory had raised the old man and seated him in an
arm-chair. His face was covered with blood, but he was conscious and
listened greedily to Dmitri's cries. He was still fancying that Grushenka
really was somewhere in the house. Dmitri looked at him with hatred as he
went out.

"I don't repent shedding your blood!" he cried. "Beware, old man, beware
of your dream, for I have my dream, too. I curse you, and disown you
altogether."

He ran out of the room.

"She's here. She must be here. Smerdyakov! Smerdyakov!" the old man
wheezed, scarcely audibly, beckoning to him with his finger.

"No, she's not here, you old lunatic!" Ivan shouted at him angrily. "Here,
he's fainting! Water! A towel! Make haste, Smerdyakov!"

Smerdyakov ran for water. At last they got the old man undressed, and put
him to bed. They wrapped a wet towel round his head. Exhausted by the
brandy, by his violent emotion, and the blows he had received, he shut his
eyes and fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Ivan and
Alyosha went back to the drawing-room. Smerdyakov removed the fragments of
the broken vase, while Grigory stood by the table looking gloomily at the
floor.

"Shouldn't you put a wet bandage on your head and go to bed, too?" Alyosha
said to him. "We'll look after him. My brother gave you a terrible blow--on
the head."

"He's insulted me!" Grigory articulated gloomily and distinctly.

"He's 'insulted' his father, not only you," observed Ivan with a forced
smile.

"I used to wash him in his tub. He's insulted me," repeated Grigory.

"Damn it all, if I hadn't pulled him away perhaps he'd have murdered him.
It wouldn't take much to do for AEsop, would it?" whispered Ivan to
Alyosha.

"God forbid!" cried Alyosha.

"Why should He forbid?" Ivan went on in the same whisper, with a malignant
grimace. "One reptile will devour the other. And serve them both right,
too."

Alyosha shuddered.

"Of course I won't let him be murdered as I didn't just now. Stay here,
Alyosha, I'll go for a turn in the yard. My head's begun to ache."

Alyosha went to his father's bedroom and sat by his bedside behind the
screen for about an hour. The old man suddenly opened his eyes and gazed
for a long while at Alyosha, evidently remembering and meditating. All at
once his face betrayed extraordinary excitement.

"Alyosha," he whispered apprehensively, "where's Ivan?"

"In the yard. He's got a headache. He's on the watch."

"Give me that looking-glass. It stands over there. Give it me."

Alyosha gave him a little round folding looking-glass which stood on the
chest of drawers. The old man looked at himself in it; his nose was
considerably swollen, and on the left side of his forehead there was a
rather large crimson bruise.

"What does Ivan say? Alyosha, my dear, my only son, I'm afraid of Ivan.
I'm more afraid of Ivan than the other. You're the only one I'm not afraid
of...."

"Don't be afraid of Ivan either. He is angry, but he'll defend you."

"Alyosha, and what of the other? He's run to Grushenka. My angel, tell me
the truth, was she here just now or not?"

"No one has seen her. It was a mistake. She has not been here."

"You know Mitya wants to marry her, to marry her."

"She won't marry him."

"She won't. She won't. She won't. She won't on any account!"

The old man fairly fluttered with joy, as though nothing more comforting
could have been said to him. In his delight he seized Alyosha's hand and
pressed it warmly to his heart. Tears positively glittered in his eyes.

"That image of the Mother of God of which I was telling you just now," he
said. "Take it home and keep it for yourself. And I'll let you go back to
the monastery.... I was joking this morning, don't be angry with me. My
head aches, Alyosha.... Alyosha, comfort my heart. Be an angel and tell me
the truth!"

"You're still asking whether she has been here or not?" Alyosha said
sorrowfully.

"No, no, no. I believe you. I'll tell you what it is: you go to Grushenka
yourself, or see her somehow; make haste and ask her; see for yourself,
which she means to choose, him or me. Eh? What? Can you?"

"If I see her I'll ask her," Alyosha muttered, embarrassed.

"No, she won't tell you," the old man interrupted, "she's a rogue. She'll
begin kissing you and say that it's you she wants. She's a deceitful,
shameless hussy. You mustn't go to her, you mustn't!"

"No, father, and it wouldn't be suitable, it wouldn't be right at all."

"Where was he sending you just now? He shouted 'Go' as he ran away."

"To Katerina Ivanovna."

"For money? To ask her for money?"

"No. Not for money."

"He's no money; not a farthing. I'll settle down for the night, and think
things over, and you can go. Perhaps you'll meet her.... Only be sure to
come to me to-morrow in the morning. Be sure to. I have a word to say to
you to-morrow. Will you come?"

"Yes."

"When you come, pretend you've come of your own accord to ask after me.
Don't tell any one I told you to. Don't say a word to Ivan."

"Very well."

"Good-by, my angel. You stood up for me, just now. I shall never forget
it. I've a word to say to you to-morrow--but I must think about it."

"And how do you feel now?"

"I shall get up to-morrow and go out, perfectly well, perfectly well!"

Crossing the yard Alyosha found Ivan sitting on the bench at the gateway.
He was sitting writing something in pencil in his note-book. Alyosha told
Ivan that their father had waked up, was conscious, and had let him go
back to sleep at the monastery.

"Alyosha, I should be very glad to meet you to-morrow morning," said Ivan
cordially, standing up. His cordiality was a complete surprise to Alyosha.

"I shall be at the Hohlakovs' to-morrow," answered Alyosha, "I may be at
Katerina Ivanovna's, too, if I don't find her now."

"But you're going to her now, anyway? For that 'compliments and
farewell,' " said Ivan smiling. Alyosha was disconcerted.

"I think I quite understand his exclamations just now, and part of what
went before. Dmitri has asked you to go to her and say that he--well, in
fact--takes his leave of her?"

"Brother, how will all this horror end between father and Dmitri?"
exclaimed Alyosha.

"One can't tell for certain. Perhaps in nothing: it may all fizzle out.
That woman is a beast. In any case we must keep the old man indoors and
not let Dmitri in the house."

"Brother, let me ask one thing more: has any man a right to look at other
men and decide which is worthy to live?"

"Why bring in the question of worth? The matter is most often decided in
men's hearts on other grounds much more natural. And as for rights--who has
not the right to wish?"

"Not for another man's death?"

"What even if for another man's death? Why lie to oneself since all men
live so and perhaps cannot help living so. Are you referring to what I
said just now--that one reptile will devour the other? In that case let me
ask you, do you think me like Dmitri capable of shedding AEsop's blood,
murdering him, eh?"

"What are you saying, Ivan? Such an idea never crossed my mind. I don't
think Dmitri is capable of it, either."

"Thanks, if only for that," smiled Ivan. "Be sure, I should always defend
him. But in my wishes I reserve myself full latitude in this case. Good-by
till to-morrow. Don't condemn me, and don't look on me as a villain," he
added with a smile.

They shook hands warmly as they had never done before. Alyosha felt that
his brother had taken the first step towards him, and that he had
certainly done this with some definite motive.




Chapter X. Both Together


Alyosha left his father's house feeling even more exhausted and dejected
in spirit than when he had entered it. His mind too seemed shattered and
unhinged, while he felt that he was afraid to put together the disjointed
fragments and form a general idea from all the agonizing and conflicting
experiences of the day. He felt something bordering upon despair, which he
had never known till then. Towering like a mountain above all the rest
stood the fatal, insoluble question: How would things end between his
father and his brother Dmitri with this terrible woman? Now he had himself
been a witness of it, he had been present and seen them face to face. Yet
only his brother Dmitri could be made unhappy, terribly, completely
unhappy: there was trouble awaiting him. It appeared too that there were
other people concerned, far more so than Alyosha could have supposed
before. There was something positively mysterious in it, too. Ivan had
made a step towards him, which was what Alyosha had been long desiring.
Yet now he felt for some reason that he was frightened at it. And these
women? Strange to say, that morning he had set out for Katerina Ivanovna's
in the greatest embarrassment; now he felt nothing of the kind. On the
contrary, he was hastening there as though expecting to find guidance from
her. Yet to give her this message was obviously more difficult than
before. The matter of the three thousand was decided irrevocably, and
Dmitri, feeling himself dishonored and losing his last hope, might sink to
any depth. He had, moreover, told him to describe to Katerina Ivanovna the
scene which had just taken place with his father.

It was by now seven o'clock, and it was getting dark as Alyosha entered
the very spacious and convenient house in the High Street occupied by
Katerina Ivanovna. Alyosha knew that she lived with two aunts. One of
them, a woman of little education, was that aunt of her half-sister Agafya
Ivanovna who had looked after her in her father's house when she came from
boarding-school. The other aunt was a Moscow lady of style and
consequence, though in straitened circumstances. It was said that they
both gave way in everything to Katerina Ivanovna, and that she only kept
them with her as chaperons. Katerina Ivanovna herself gave way to no one
but her benefactress, the general's widow, who had been kept by illness in
Moscow, and to whom she was obliged to write twice a week a full account
of all her doings.

When Alyosha entered the hall and asked the maid who opened the door to
him to take his name up, it was evident that they were already aware of
his arrival. Possibly he had been noticed from the window. At least,
Alyosha heard a noise, caught the sound of flying footsteps and rustling
skirts. Two or three women, perhaps, had run out of the room.

Alyosha thought it strange that his arrival should cause such excitement.
He was conducted however to the drawing-room at once. It was a large room,
elegantly and amply furnished, not at all in provincial style. There were
many sofas, lounges, settees, big and little tables. There were pictures
on the walls, vases and lamps on the tables, masses of flowers, and even
an aquarium in the window. It was twilight and rather dark. Alyosha made
out a silk mantle thrown down on the sofa, where people had evidently just
been sitting; and on a table in front of the sofa were two unfinished cups
of chocolate, cakes, a glass saucer with blue raisins, and another with
sweetmeats. Alyosha saw that he had interrupted visitors, and frowned. But
at that instant the portiere was raised, and with rapid, hurrying
footsteps Katerina Ivanovna came in, holding out both hands to Alyosha
with a radiant smile of delight. At the same instant a servant brought in
two lighted candles and set them on the table.

"Thank God! At last you have come too! I've been simply praying for you
all day! Sit down."

Alyosha had been struck by Katerina Ivanovna's beauty when, three weeks
before, Dmitri had first brought him, at Katerina Ivanovna's special
request, to be introduced to her. There had been no conversation between
them at that interview, however. Supposing Alyosha to be very shy,
Katerina Ivanovna had talked all the time to Dmitri to spare him. Alyosha
had been silent, but he had seen a great deal very clearly. He was struck
by the imperiousness, proud ease, and self-confidence of the haughty girl.
And all that was certain, Alyosha felt that he was not exaggerating it. He
thought her great glowing black eyes were very fine, especially with her
pale, even rather sallow, longish face. But in those eyes and in the lines
of her exquisite lips there was something with which his brother might
well be passionately in love, but which perhaps could not be loved for
long. He expressed this thought almost plainly to Dmitri when, after the
visit, his brother besought and insisted that he should not conceal his
impressions on seeing his betrothed.

"You'll be happy with her, but perhaps--not tranquilly happy."

"Quite so, brother. Such people remain always the same. They don't yield
to fate. So you think I shan't love her for ever."

"No; perhaps you will love her for ever. But perhaps you won't always be
happy with her."

Alyosha had given his opinion at the time, blushing, and angry with
himself for having yielded to his brother's entreaties and put such
"foolish" ideas into words. For his opinion had struck him as awfully
foolish immediately after he had uttered it. He felt ashamed too of having
given so confident an opinion about a woman. It was with the more
amazement that he felt now, at the first glance at Katerina Ivanovna as
she ran in to him, that he had perhaps been utterly mistaken. This time
her face was beaming with spontaneous good-natured kindliness, and direct
warm-hearted sincerity. The "pride and haughtiness," which had struck
Alyosha so much before, was only betrayed now in a frank, generous energy
and a sort of bright, strong faith in herself. Alyosha realized at the
first glance, at the first word, that all the tragedy of her position in
relation to the man she loved so dearly was no secret to her; that she
perhaps already knew everything, positively everything. And yet, in spite
of that, there was such brightness in her face, such faith in the future.
Alyosha felt at once that he had gravely wronged her in his thoughts. He
was conquered and captivated immediately. Besides all this, he noticed at
her first words that she was in great excitement, an excitement perhaps
quite exceptional and almost approaching ecstasy.

"I was so eager to see you, because I can learn from you the whole
truth--from you and no one else."

"I have come," muttered Alyosha confusedly, "I--he sent me."

"Ah, he sent you! I foresaw that. Now I know everything--everything!" cried
Katerina Ivanovna, her eyes flashing. "Wait a moment, Alexey Fyodorovitch,
I'll tell you why I've been so longing to see you. You see, I know perhaps
far more than you do yourself, and there's no need for you to tell me
anything. I'll tell you what I want from you. I want to know your own last
impression of him. I want you to tell me most directly, plainly, coarsely
even (oh, as coarsely as you like!), what you thought of him just now and
of his position after your meeting with him to-day. That will perhaps be
better than if I had a personal explanation with him, as he does not want
to come to me. Do you understand what I want from you? Now, tell me
simply, tell me every word of the message he sent you with (I knew he
would send you)."

"He told me to give you his compliments--and to say that he would never
come again--but to give you his compliments."

"His compliments? Was that what he said--his own expression?"

"Yes."

"Accidentally perhaps he made a mistake in the word, perhaps he did not
use the right word?"

"No; he told me precisely to repeat that word. He begged me two or three
times not to forget to say so."

Katerina Ivanovna flushed hotly.

"Help me now, Alexey Fyodorovitch. Now I really need your help. I'll tell
you what I think, and you must simply say whether it's right or not.
Listen! If he had sent me his compliments in passing, without insisting on
your repeating the words, without emphasizing them, that would be the end
of everything! But if he particularly insisted on those words, if he
particularly told you not to forget to repeat them to me, then perhaps he
was in excitement, beside himself. He had made his decision and was
frightened at it. He wasn't walking away from me with a resolute step, but
leaping headlong. The emphasis on that phrase may have been simply
bravado."

"Yes, yes!" cried Alyosha warmly. "I believe that is it."

"And, if so, he's not altogether lost. I can still save him. Stay! Did he
not tell you anything about money--about three thousand roubles?"

"He did speak about it, and it's that more than anything that's crushing
him. He said he had lost his honor and that nothing matters now," Alyosha
answered warmly, feeling a rush of hope in his heart and believing that
there really might be a way of escape and salvation for his brother. "But
do you know about the money?" he added, and suddenly broke off.

"I've known of it a long time; I telegraphed to Moscow to inquire, and
heard long ago that the money had not arrived. He hadn't sent the money,
but I said nothing. Last week I learnt that he was still in need of money.
My only object in all this was that he should know to whom to turn, and
who was his true friend. No, he won't recognize that I am his truest
friend; he won't know me, and looks on me merely as a woman. I've been
tormented all the week, trying to think how to prevent him from being
ashamed to face me because he spent that three thousand. Let him feel
ashamed of himself, let him be ashamed of other people's knowing, but not
of my knowing. He can tell God everything without shame. Why is it he
still does not understand how much I am ready to bear for his sake? Why,
why doesn't he know me? How dare he not know me after all that has
happened? I want to save him for ever. Let him forget me as his betrothed.
And here he fears that he is dishonored in my eyes. Why, he wasn't afraid
to be open with you, Alexey Fyodorovitch. How is it that I don't deserve
the same?"

The last words she uttered in tears. Tears gushed from her eyes.

"I must tell you," Alyosha began, his voice trembling too, "what happened
just now between him and my father."

And he described the whole scene, how Dmitri had sent him to get the
money, how he had broken in, knocked his father down, and after that had
again specially and emphatically begged him to take his compliments and
farewell. "He went to that woman," Alyosha added softly.

"And do you suppose that I can't put up with that woman? Does he think I
can't? But he won't marry her," she suddenly laughed nervously. "Could
such a passion last for ever in a Karamazov? It's passion, not love. He
won't marry her because she won't marry him." Again Katerina Ivanovna
laughed strangely.

"He may marry her," said Alyosha mournfully, looking down.

"He won't marry her, I tell you. That girl is an angel. Do you know that?
Do you know that?" Katerina Ivanovna exclaimed suddenly with extraordinary
warmth. "She is one of the most fantastic of fantastic creatures. I know
how bewitching she is, but I know too that she is kind, firm and noble.
Why do you look at me like that, Alexey Fyodorovitch? Perhaps you are
wondering at my words, perhaps you don't believe me? Agrafena
Alexandrovna, my angel!" she cried suddenly to some one, peeping into the
next room, "come in to us. This is a friend. This is Alyosha. He knows all
about our affairs. Show yourself to him."

"I've only been waiting behind the curtain for you to call me," said a
soft, one might even say sugary, feminine voice.

The portiere was raised and Grushenka herself, smiling and beaming, came
up to the table. A violent revulsion passed over Alyosha. He fixed his
eyes on her and could not take them off. Here she was, that awful woman,
the "beast," as Ivan had called her half an hour before. And yet one would
have thought the creature standing before him most simple and ordinary, a
good-natured, kind woman, handsome certainly, but so like other handsome
ordinary women! It is true she was very, very good-looking with that
Russian beauty so passionately loved by many men. She was a rather tall
woman, though a little shorter than Katerina Ivanovna, who was
exceptionally tall. She had a full figure, with soft, as it were,
noiseless, movements, softened to a peculiar over-sweetness, like her
voice. She moved, not like Katerina Ivanovna, with a vigorous, bold step,
but noiselessly. Her feet made absolutely no sound on the floor. She sank
softly into a low chair, softly rustling her sumptuous black silk dress,
and delicately nestling her milk-white neck and broad shoulders in a
costly cashmere shawl. She was twenty-two years old, and her face looked
exactly that age. She was very white in the face, with a pale pink tint on
her cheeks. The modeling of her face might be said to be too broad, and
the lower jaw was set a trifle forward. Her upper lip was thin, but the
slightly prominent lower lip was at least twice as full, and looked
pouting. But her magnificent, abundant dark brown hair, her sable-colored
eyebrows and charming gray-blue eyes with their long lashes would have
made the most indifferent person, meeting her casually in a crowd in the
street, stop at the sight of her face and remember it long after. What
struck Alyosha most in that face was its expression of childlike good
nature. There was a childlike look in her eyes, a look of childish
delight. She came up to the table, beaming with delight and seeming to
expect something with childish, impatient, and confiding curiosity. The
light in her eyes gladdened the soul--Alyosha felt that. There was
something else in her which he could not understand, or would not have
been able to define, and which yet perhaps unconsciously affected him. It
was that softness, that voluptuousness of her bodily movements, that
catlike noiselessness. Yet it was a vigorous, ample body. Under the shawl
could be seen full broad shoulders, a high, still quite girlish bosom. Her
figure suggested the lines of the Venus of Milo, though already in
somewhat exaggerated proportions. That could be divined. Connoisseurs of
Russian beauty could have foretold with certainty that this fresh, still
youthful beauty would lose its harmony by the age of thirty, would
"spread"; that the face would become puffy, and that wrinkles would very
soon appear upon her forehead and round the eyes; the complexion would
grow coarse and red perhaps--in fact, that it was the beauty of the moment,
the fleeting beauty which is so often met with in Russian women. Alyosha,
of course, did not think of this; but though he was fascinated, yet he
wondered with an unpleasant sensation, and as it were regretfully, why she
drawled in that way and could not speak naturally. She did so evidently
feeling there was a charm in the exaggerated, honeyed modulation of the
syllables. It was, of course, only a bad, underbred habit that showed bad
education and a false idea of good manners. And yet this intonation and
manner of speaking impressed Alyosha as almost incredibly incongruous with
the childishly simple and happy expression of her face, the soft, babyish
joy in her eyes. Katerina Ivanovna at once made her sit down in an arm-
chair facing Alyosha, and ecstatically kissed her several times on her
smiling lips. She seemed quite in love with her.

"This is the first time we've met, Alexey Fyodorovitch," she said
rapturously. "I wanted to know her, to see her. I wanted to go to her, but
I'd no sooner expressed the wish than she came to me. I knew we should
settle everything together--everything. My heart told me so--I was begged
not to take the step, but I foresaw it would be a way out of the
difficulty, and I was not mistaken. Grushenka has explained everything to
me, told me all she means to do. She flew here like an angel of goodness
and brought us peace and joy."

"You did not disdain me, sweet, excellent young lady," drawled Grushenka
in her sing-song voice, still with the same charming smile of delight.

"Don't dare to speak to me like that, you sorceress, you witch! Disdain
you! Here, I must kiss your lower lip once more. It looks as though it
were swollen, and now it will be more so, and more and more. Look how she
laughs, Alexey Fyodorovitch! It does one's heart good to see the angel."

Alyosha flushed, and faint, imperceptible shivers kept running down him.

"You make so much of me, dear young lady, and perhaps I am not at all
worthy of your kindness."

"Not worthy! She's not worthy of it!" Katerina Ivanovna cried again with
the same warmth. "You know, Alexey Fyodorovitch, we're fanciful, we're
self-willed, but proudest of the proud in our little heart. We're noble,
we're generous, Alexey Fyodorovitch, let me tell you. We have only been
unfortunate. We were too ready to make every sacrifice for an unworthy,
perhaps, or fickle man. There was one man--one, an officer too, we loved
him, we sacrificed everything to him. That was long ago, five years ago,
and he has forgotten us, he has married. Now he is a widower, he has
written, he is coming here, and, do you know, we've loved him, none but
him, all this time, and we've loved him all our life! He will come, and
Grushenka will be happy again. For the last five years she's been
wretched. But who can reproach her, who can boast of her favor? Only that
bedridden old merchant, but he is more like her father, her friend, her
protector. He found her then in despair, in agony, deserted by the man she
loved. She was ready to drown herself then, but the old merchant saved
her--saved her!"

"You defend me very kindly, dear young lady. You are in a great hurry
about everything," Grushenka drawled again.

"Defend you! Is it for me to defend you? Should I dare to defend you?
Grushenka, angel, give me your hand. Look at that charming soft little
hand, Alexey Fyodorovitch! Look at it! It has brought me happiness and has
lifted me up, and I'm going to kiss it, outside and inside, here, here,
here!"

And three times she kissed the certainly charming, though rather fat, hand
of Grushenka in a sort of rapture. She held out her hand with a charming
musical, nervous little laugh, watched the "sweet young lady," and
obviously liked having her hand kissed.

"Perhaps there's rather too much rapture," thought Alyosha. He blushed. He
felt a peculiar uneasiness at heart the whole time.

"You won't make me blush, dear young lady, kissing my hand like this
before Alexey Fyodorovitch."

"Do you think I meant to make you blush?" said Katerina Ivanovna, somewhat
surprised. "Ah, my dear, how little you understand me!"

"Yes, and you too perhaps quite misunderstand me, dear young lady. Maybe
I'm not so good as I seem to you. I've a bad heart; I will have my own
way. I fascinated poor Dmitri Fyodorovitch that day simply for fun."

"But now you'll save him. You've given me your word. You'll explain it all
to him. You'll break to him that you have long loved another man, who is
now offering you his hand."

"Oh, no! I didn't give you my word to do that. It was you kept talking
about that. I didn't give you my word."

"Then I didn't quite understand you," said Katerina Ivanovna slowly,
turning a little pale. "You promised--"

"Oh, no, angel lady, I've promised nothing," Grushenka interrupted softly
and evenly, still with the same gay and simple expression. "You see at
once, dear young lady, what a willful wretch I am compared with you. If I
want to do a thing I do it. I may have made you some promise just now. But
now again I'm thinking: I may take to Mitya again. I liked him very much
once--liked him for almost a whole hour. Now maybe I shall go and tell him
to stay with me from this day forward. You see, I'm so changeable."

"Just now you said--something quite different," Katerina Ivanovna whispered
faintly.

"Ah, just now! But, you know. I'm such a soft-hearted, silly creature.
Only think what he's gone through on my account! What if when I go home I
feel sorry for him? What then?"

"I never expected--"

"Ah, young lady, how good and generous you are compared with me! Now
perhaps you won't care for a silly creature like me, now you know my
character. Give me your sweet little hand, angelic lady," she said
tenderly, and with a sort of reverence took Katerina Ivanovna's hand.

"Here, dear young lady, I'll take your hand and kiss it as you did mine.
You kissed mine three times, but I ought to kiss yours three hundred times
to be even with you. Well, but let that pass. And then it shall be as God
wills. Perhaps I shall be your slave entirely and want to do your bidding
like a slave. Let it be as God wills, without any agreements and promises.
What a sweet hand--what a sweet hand you have! You sweet young lady, you
incredible beauty!"

She slowly raised the hands to her lips, with the strange object indeed of
"being even" with her in kisses.

Katerina Ivanovna did not take her hand away. She listened with timid hope
to the last words, though Grushenka's promise to do her bidding like a
slave was very strangely expressed. She looked intently into her eyes; she
still saw in those eyes the same simple-hearted, confiding expression, the
same bright gayety.

"She's perhaps too naive," thought Katerina Ivanovna, with a gleam of
hope.

Grushenka meanwhile seemed enthusiastic over the "sweet hand." She raised
it deliberately to her lips. But she held it for two or three minutes near
her lips, as though reconsidering something.

"Do you know, angel lady," she suddenly drawled in an even more soft and
sugary voice, "do you know, after all, I think I won't kiss your hand?"
And she laughed a little merry laugh.

"As you please. What's the matter with you?" said Katerina Ivanovna,
starting suddenly.

"So that you may be left to remember that you kissed my hand, but I didn't
kiss yours."

There was a sudden gleam in her eyes. She looked with awful intentness at
Katerina Ivanovna.

"Insolent creature!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, as though suddenly grasping
something. She flushed all over and leapt up from her seat.

Grushenka too got up, but without haste.

"So I shall tell Mitya how you kissed my hand, but I didn't kiss yours at
all. And how he will laugh!"

"Vile slut! Go away!"

"Ah, for shame, young lady! Ah, for shame! That's unbecoming for you, dear
young lady, a word like that."

"Go away! You're a creature for sale!" screamed Katerina Ivanovna. Every
feature was working in her utterly distorted face.

"For sale indeed! You used to visit gentlemen in the dusk for money once;
you brought your beauty for sale. You see, I know."

Katerina Ivanovna shrieked, and would have rushed at her, but Alyosha held
her with all his strength.

"Not a step, not a word! Don't speak, don't answer her. She'll go
away--she'll go at once."

At that instant Katerina Ivanovna's two aunts ran in at her cry, and with
them a maid-servant. All hurried to her.

"I will go away," said Grushenka, taking up her mantle from the sofa.
"Alyosha, darling, see me home!"

"Go away--go away, make haste!" cried Alyosha, clasping his hands
imploringly.

"Dear little Alyosha, see me home! I've got a pretty little story to tell
you on the way. I got up this scene for your benefit, Alyosha. See me
home, dear, you'll be glad of it afterwards."

Alyosha turned away, wringing his hands. Grushenka ran out of the house,
laughing musically.

Katerina Ivanovna went into a fit of hysterics. She sobbed, and was shaken
with convulsions. Every one fussed round her.

"I warned you," said the elder of her aunts. "I tried to prevent your
doing this. You're too impulsive. How could you do such a thing? You don't
know these creatures, and they say she's worse than any of them. You are
too self-willed."

"She's a tigress!" yelled Katerina Ivanovna. "Why did you hold me, Alexey
Fyodorovitch? I'd have beaten her--beaten her!"

She could not control herself before Alyosha; perhaps she did not care to,
indeed.

"She ought to be flogged in public on a scaffold!"

Alyosha withdrew towards the door.

"But, my God!" cried Katerina Ivanovna, clasping her hands. "He! He! He
could be so dishonorable, so inhuman! Why, he told that creature what
happened on that fatal, accursed day! 'You brought your beauty for sale,
dear young lady.' She knows it! Your brother's a scoundrel, Alexey
Fyodorovitch."

Alyosha wanted to say something, but he couldn't find a word. His heart
ached.

"Go away, Alexey Fyodorovitch! It's shameful, it's awful for me! To-
morrow, I beg you on my knees, come to-morrow. Don't condemn me. Forgive
me. I don't know what I shall do with myself now!"

Alyosha walked out into the street reeling. He could have wept as she did.
Suddenly he was overtaken by the maid.

"The young lady forgot to give you this letter from Madame Hohlakov; it's
been left with us since dinner-time."

Alyosha took the little pink envelope mechanically and put it, almost
unconsciously, into his pocket.




Chapter XI. Another Reputation Ruined


It was not much more than three-quarters of a mile from the town to the
monastery. Alyosha walked quickly along the road, at that hour deserted.
It was almost night, and too dark to see anything clearly at thirty paces
ahead. There were cross-roads half-way. A figure came into sight under a
solitary willow at the cross-roads. As soon as Alyosha reached the cross-
roads the figure moved out and rushed at him, shouting savagely:

"Your money or your life!"

"So it's you, Mitya," cried Alyosha, in surprise, violently startled
however.

"Ha ha ha! You didn't expect me? I wondered where to wait for you. By her
house? There are three ways from it, and I might have missed you. At last
I thought of waiting here, for you had to pass here, there's no other way
to the monastery. Come, tell me the truth. Crush me like a beetle. But
what's the matter?"

"Nothing, brother--it's the fright you gave me. Oh, Dmitri! Father's blood
just now." (Alyosha began to cry, he had been on the verge of tears for a
long time, and now something seemed to snap in his soul.) "You almost
killed him--cursed him--and now--here--you're making jokes--'Your money or your
life!' "

"Well, what of that? It's not seemly--is that it? Not suitable in my
position?"

"No--I only--"

"Stay. Look at the night. You see what a dark night, what clouds, what a
wind has risen. I hid here under the willow waiting for you. And as God's
above, I suddenly thought, why go on in misery any longer, what is there
to wait for? Here I have a willow, a handkerchief, a shirt, I can twist
them into a rope in a minute, and braces besides, and why go on burdening
the earth, dishonoring it with my vile presence? And then I heard you
coming--Heavens, it was as though something flew down to me suddenly. So
there is a man, then, whom I love. Here he is, that man, my dear little
brother, whom I love more than any one in the world, the only one I love
in the world. And I loved you so much, so much at that moment that I
thought, 'I'll fall on his neck at once.' Then a stupid idea struck me, to
have a joke with you and scare you. I shouted, like a fool, 'Your money!'
Forgive my foolery--it was only nonsense, and there's nothing unseemly in
my soul.... Damn it all, tell me what's happened. What did she say? Strike
me, crush me, don't spare me! Was she furious?"

"No, not that.... There was nothing like that, Mitya. There--I found them
both there."

"Both? Whom?"

"Grushenka at Katerina Ivanovna's."

Dmitri was struck dumb.

"Impossible!" he cried. "You're raving! Grushenka with her?"

Alyosha described all that had happened from the moment he went in to
Katerina Ivanovna's. He was ten minutes telling his story. He can't be
said to have told it fluently and consecutively, but he seemed to make it
clear, not omitting any word or action of significance, and vividly
describing, often in one word, his own sensations. Dmitri listened in
silence, gazing at him with a terrible fixed stare, but it was clear to
Alyosha that he understood it all, and had grasped every point. But as the
story went on, his face became not merely gloomy, but menacing. He
scowled, he clenched his teeth, and his fixed stare became still more
rigid, more concentrated, more terrible, when suddenly, with incredible
rapidity, his wrathful, savage face changed, his tightly compressed lips
parted, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch broke into uncontrolled, spontaneous
laughter. He literally shook with laughter. For a long time he could not
speak.

"So she wouldn't kiss her hand! So she didn't kiss it; so she ran away!"
he kept exclaiming with hysterical delight; insolent delight it might have
been called, if it had not been so spontaneous. "So the other one called
her tigress! And a tigress she is! So she ought to be flogged on a
scaffold? Yes, yes, so she ought. That's just what I think; she ought to
have been long ago. It's like this, brother, let her be punished, but I
must get better first. I understand the queen of impudence. That's her all
over! You saw her all over in that hand-kissing, the she-devil! She's
magnificent in her own line! So she ran home? I'll go--ah--I'll run to her!
Alyosha, don't blame me, I agree that hanging is too good for her."

"But Katerina Ivanovna!" exclaimed Alyosha sorrowfully.

"I see her, too! I see right through her, as I've never done before! It's
a regular discovery of the four continents of the world, that is, of the
five! What a thing to do! That's just like Katya, who was not afraid to
face a coarse, unmannerly officer and risk a deadly insult on a generous
impulse to save her father! But the pride, the recklessness, the defiance
of fate, the unbounded defiance! You say that aunt tried to stop her? That
aunt, you know, is overbearing, herself. She's the sister of the general's
widow in Moscow, and even more stuck-up than she. But her husband was
caught stealing government money. He lost everything, his estate and all,
and the proud wife had to lower her colors, and hasn't raised them since.
So she tried to prevent Katya, but she wouldn't listen to her! She thinks
she can overcome everything, that everything will give way to her. She
thought she could bewitch Grushenka if she liked, and she believed it
herself: she plays a part to herself, and whose fault is it? Do you think
she kissed Grushenka's hand first, on purpose, with a motive? No, she
really was fascinated by Grushenka, that's to say, not by Grushenka, but
by her own dream, her own delusion--because it was _her_ dream, _her_
delusion! Alyosha, darling, how did you escape from them, those women? Did
you pick up your cassock and run? Ha ha ha!"

"Brother, you don't seem to have noticed how you've insulted Katerina
Ivanovna by telling Grushenka about that day. And she flung it in her face
just now that she had gone to gentlemen in secret to sell her beauty!
Brother, what could be worse than that insult?"

What worried Alyosha more than anything was that, incredible as it seemed,
his brother appeared pleased at Katerina Ivanovna's humiliation.

"Bah!" Dmitri frowned fiercely, and struck his forehead with his hand. He
only now realized it, though Alyosha had just told him of the insult, and
Katerina Ivanovna's cry: "Your brother is a scoundrel!"

"Yes, perhaps, I really did tell Grushenka about that 'fatal day,' as
Katya calls it. Yes, I did tell her, I remember! It was that time at
Mokroe. I was drunk, the gypsies were singing.... But I was sobbing. I was
sobbing then, kneeling and praying to Katya's image, and Grushenka
understood it. She understood it all then. I remember, she cried
herself.... Damn it all! But it's bound to be so now.... Then she cried,
but now 'the dagger in the heart'! That's how women are."

He looked down and sank into thought.

"Yes, I am a scoundrel, a thorough scoundrel!" he said suddenly, in a
gloomy voice. "It doesn't matter whether I cried or not, I'm a scoundrel!
Tell her I accept the name, if that's any comfort. Come, that's enough.
Good-by. It's no use talking! It's not amusing. You go your way and I
mine. And I don't want to see you again except as a last resource. Good-
by, Alexey!"

He warmly pressed Alyosha's hand, and still looking down, without raising
his head, as though tearing himself away, turned rapidly towards the town.

Alyosha looked after him, unable to believe he would go away so abruptly.

"Stay, Alexey, one more confession to you alone!" cried Dmitri, suddenly
turning back. "Look at me. Look at me well. You see here, here--there's
terrible disgrace in store for me." (As he said "here," Dmitri struck his
chest with his fist with a strange air, as though the dishonor lay
precisely on his chest, in some spot, in a pocket, perhaps, or hanging
round his neck.) "You know me now, a scoundrel, an avowed scoundrel, but
let me tell you that I've never done anything before and never shall
again, anything that can compare in baseness with the dishonor which I
bear now at this very minute on my breast, here, here, which will come to
pass, though I'm perfectly free to stop it. I can stop it or carry it
through, note that. Well, let me tell you, I shall carry it through. I
shan't stop it. I told you everything just now, but I didn't tell you
this, because even I had not brass enough for it. I can still pull up; if
I do, I can give back the full half of my lost honor to-morrow. But I
shan't pull up. I shall carry out my base plan, and you can bear witness
that I told you so beforehand. Darkness and destruction! No need to
explain. You'll find out in due time. The filthy back-alley and the she-
devil. Good-by. Don't pray for me, I'm not worth it. And there's no need,
no need at all.... I don't need it! Away!"

And he suddenly retreated, this time finally. Alyosha went towards the
monastery.

"What? I shall never see him again! What is he saying?" he wondered
wildly. "Why, I shall certainly see him to-morrow. I shall look him up. I
shall make a point of it. What does he mean?"

                  -------------------------------------

He went round the monastery, and crossed the pine-wood to the hermitage.
The door was opened to him, though no one was admitted at that hour. There
was a tremor in his heart as he went into Father Zossima's cell.

"Why, why, had he gone forth? Why had he sent him into the world? Here was
peace. Here was holiness. But there was confusion, there was darkness in
which one lost one's way and went astray at once...."

In the cell he found the novice Porfiry and Father Paissy, who came every
hour to inquire after Father Zossima. Alyosha learnt with alarm that he
was getting worse and worse. Even his usual discourse with the brothers
could not take place that day. As a rule every evening after service the
monks flocked into Father Zossima's cell, and all confessed aloud their
sins of the day, their sinful thoughts and temptations; even their
disputes, if there had been any. Some confessed kneeling. The elder
absolved, reconciled, exhorted, imposed penance, blessed, and dismissed
them. It was against this general "confession" that the opponents of
"elders" protested, maintaining that it was a profanation of the sacrament
of confession, almost a sacrilege, though this was quite a different
thing. They even represented to the diocesan authorities that such
confessions attained no good object, but actually to a large extent led to
sin and temptation. Many of the brothers disliked going to the elder, and
went against their own will because every one went, and for fear they
should be accused of pride and rebellious ideas. People said that some of
the monks agreed beforehand, saying, "I'll confess I lost my temper with
you this morning, and you confirm it," simply in order to have something
to say. Alyosha knew that this actually happened sometimes. He knew, too,
that there were among the monks some who deeply resented the fact that
letters from relations were habitually taken to the elder, to be opened
and read by him before those to whom they were addressed.

It was assumed, of course, that all this was done freely, and in good
faith, by way of voluntary submission and salutary guidance. But, in fact,
there was sometimes no little insincerity, and much that was false and
strained in this practice. Yet the older and more experienced of the monks
adhered to their opinion, arguing that "for those who have come within
these walls sincerely seeking salvation, such obedience and sacrifice will
certainly be salutary and of great benefit; those, on the other hand, who
find it irksome, and repine, are no true monks, and have made a mistake in
entering the monastery--their proper place is in the world. Even in the
temple one cannot be safe from sin and the devil. So it was no good taking
it too much into account."

"He is weaker, a drowsiness has come over him," Father Paissy whispered to
Alyosha, as he blessed him. "It's difficult to rouse him. And he must not
be roused. He waked up for five minutes, sent his blessing to the
brothers, and begged their prayers for him at night. He intends to take
the sacrament again in the morning. He remembered you, Alexey. He asked
whether you had gone away, and was told that you were in the town. 'I
blessed him for that work,' he said, 'his place is there, not here, for
awhile.' Those were his words about you. He remembered you lovingly, with
anxiety; do you understand how he honored you? But how is it that he has
decided that you shall spend some time in the world? He must have foreseen
something in your destiny! Understand, Alexey, that if you return to the
world, it must be to do the duty laid upon you by your elder, and not for
frivolous vanity and worldly pleasures."

Father Paissy went out. Alyosha had no doubt that Father Zossima was
dying, though he might live another day or two. Alyosha firmly and
ardently resolved that in spite of his promises to his father, the
Hohlakovs, and Katerina Ivanovna, he would not leave the monastery next
day, but would remain with his elder to the end. His heart glowed with
love, and he reproached himself bitterly for having been able for one
instant to forget him whom he had left in the monastery on his deathbed,
and whom he honored above every one in the world. He went into Father
Zossima's bedroom, knelt down, and bowed to the ground before the elder,
who slept quietly without stirring, with regular, hardly audible breathing
and a peaceful face.

Alyosha returned to the other room, where Father Zossima had received his
guests in the morning. Taking off his boots, he lay down on the hard,
narrow, leathern sofa, which he had long used as a bed, bringing nothing
but a pillow. The mattress, about which his father had shouted to him that
morning, he had long forgotten to lie on. He took off his cassock, which
he used as a covering. But before going to bed, he fell on his knees and
prayed a long time. In his fervent prayer he did not beseech God to
lighten his darkness but only thirsted for the joyous emotion, which
always visited his soul after the praise and adoration, of which his
evening prayer usually consisted. That joy always brought him light
untroubled sleep. As he was praying, he suddenly felt in his pocket the
little pink note the servant had handed him as he left Katerina
Ivanovna's. He was disturbed, but finished his prayer. Then, after some
hesitation, he opened the envelope. In it was a letter to him, signed by
Lise, the young daughter of Madame Hohlakov, who had laughed at him before
the elder in the morning.

"Alexey Fyodorovitch," she wrote, "I am writing to you without any one's
knowledge, even mamma's, and I know how wrong it is. But I cannot live
without telling you the feeling that has sprung up in my heart, and this
no one but us two must know for a time. But how am I to say what I want so
much to tell you? Paper, they say, does not blush, but I assure you it's
not true and that it's blushing just as I am now, all over. Dear Alyosha,
I love you, I've loved you from my childhood, since our Moscow days, when
you were very different from what you are now, and I shall love you all my
life. My heart has chosen you, to unite our lives, and pass them together
till our old age. Of course, on condition that you will leave the
monastery. As for our age we will wait for the time fixed by the law. By
that time I shall certainly be quite strong, I shall be walking and
dancing. There can be no doubt of that.

"You see how I've thought of everything. There's only one thing I can't
imagine: what you'll think of me when you read this. I'm always laughing
and being naughty. I made you angry this morning, but I assure you before
I took up my pen, I prayed before the Image of the Mother of God, and now
I'm praying, and almost crying.

"My secret is in your hands. When you come to-morrow, I don't know how I
shall look at you. Ah, Alexey Fyodorovitch, what if I can't restrain
myself like a silly and laugh when I look at you as I did to-day. You'll
think I'm a nasty girl making fun of you, and you won't believe my letter.
And so I beg you, dear one, if you've any pity for me, when you come to-
morrow, don't look me straight in the face, for if I meet your eyes, it
will be sure to make me laugh, especially as you'll be in that long gown.
I feel cold all over when I think of it, so when you come, don't look at
me at all for a time, look at mamma or at the window....

"Here I've written you a love-letter. Oh, dear, what have I done? Alyosha,
don't despise me, and if I've done something very horrid and wounded you,
forgive me. Now the secret of my reputation, ruined perhaps for ever, is
in your hands.

"I shall certainly cry to-day. Good-by till our meeting, our _awful_
meeting.--LISE.

"P.S.--Alyosha! You must, must, must come!--LISE."

Alyosha read the note in amazement, read it through twice, thought a
little, and suddenly laughed a soft, sweet laugh. He started. That laugh
seemed to him sinful. But a minute later he laughed again just as softly
and happily. He slowly replaced the note in the envelope, crossed himself
and lay down. The agitation in his heart passed at once. "God, have mercy
upon all of them, have all these unhappy and turbulent souls in Thy
keeping, and set them in the right path. All ways are Thine. Save them
according to Thy wisdom. Thou art love. Thou wilt send joy to all!"
Alyosha murmured, crossing himself, and falling into peaceful sleep.







Book III: Chapters 6-11
Arriving at the Karamazov house, Alyosha finds his father almost drunk but still at the table with Ivan. They are listening to old Grigory and Smerdyakov arguing, and it is at this point that we learn more about the bastard Karamazov son. Smerdyakov is rather taciturn, somewhat morose, and naturally resents his position. Strangely, however, he even resents his foster parents. Smerdyakov is an enigma, plagued by jealousy, hatred, and epilepsy. In the household, he works as a cook. Years ago old Fyodor sent him off to Moscow for training, and since he returned he has functioned only in that capacity. He is a trustworthy sort, all believe, regardless of his sullenness, for they remember that he once returned 300 rubles to Fyodor, which the old man lost while drunk. Smerdyakov, at present, is arguing with his foster father as Alyosha arrives. He asserts that it is permissible for a man to renounce his faith in God in order to save his life. To prove that man cannot function by faith alone, he says that no man has enough faith to tell a mountain to move to the sea. He thinks, therefore, that this is reason enough to realize that man may deny God to save his life and later ask for repentance. Curiously, throughout the argument, he seems particularly eager to please and impress Ivan. After Karamazov tires of the argument, he sends the servants away, but the conversation manages to return to the subject of religion. In answer to their father's queries, Ivan insists that there is no God. Further, he says, there is no immortality. Alyosha, of course, maintains that God does exist and that through Him man can gain immortality. Karamazov changes the subject. He talks now of women and begins a long, drunken, and cynical narration centering upon Alyosha's mother. The attack is depraved. Karamazov delights in mocking his late wife's religious beliefs. He is so vicious, in fact, that Alyosha collapses and succumbs to a seizure exactly like the one that Karamazov described as afflicting Alyosha's mother. Ivan bitterly reminds his drunken father that the woman of whom he has spoken so crudely was also Ivan's mother, and, for a moment, old Karamazov is confused, but recalls then that Ivan and Alyosha did indeed have the same mother. The two are attempting to revive Alyosha as Dmitri dashes into the house. Karamazov is startled and runs for protection. When he hears Dmitri shout that Grushenka is in the house, the old man grows even more excited and fearful. Dmitri runs frantically through the house trying to discover Grushenka, then returns to the dining room, where old Karamazov begins screaming that Dmitri has been stealing money from him. Dmitri seizes his father, flings him to the floor, and kicks him in the head; then, before leaving, he threatens to return and kill the old man, shouting, "Beware, old man, beware of your dreams, because I have my dream too." And he dashes out to continue his search for Grushenka. After Ivan and Alyosha bandage their father's wounds and put him to bed, Alyosha remains with him for a while; then he leaves to go talk with Katerina Ivanovna. He stops in the yard and talks a bit with Ivan, and this is the first time that Ivan has been cordial to his brother. Alyosha arrives at Madame Hohlakov's home and asks for Katerina. The girl is anxious about Dmitri and promises to help save him, although he seems not to want her help; she is positive, though, that his infatuation for Grushenka will pass. Alyosha is greatly surprised to hear Katerina call Grushenka by name and is even more surprised when he discovers that Grushenka has been hiding behind a screen, listening to their conversation. Katerina explains that Grushenka has just confessed to her that she will soon be reunited with a man whom she has loved for five years. Obviously Katerina is overjoyed at the news, and, as she explains the new turn of events to Alyosha, she impulsively kisses and fondles Grushenka, calling her endearing names. She asks Grushenka to affirm what she has just said, but Grushenka surprises them all. She becomes capricious and says that she just might change her mind. She also informs Katerina that she does not return the embraces Katerina has bestowed upon her. Katerina fumes. She has humbled herself in gratitude before Grushenka and is furious at the girl's flippancy. She lashes out with stinging, angry insults, but Grushenka merely laughs and walks out, leaving Katerina in hysterics. Alyosha also leaves the house, but on the way out he is stopped by a maid, who gives him a letter. She tells him that it is from Lise. Alyosha continues on his way back to the monastery but is stopped once more, this time by Dmitri. His brother is lighthearted and seems wholly unconcerned about the earlier events of the evening. He listens now to Alyosha explain what has happened between Katerina and Grushenka and seems delighted. He laughs at Grushenka's actions and calls her affectionately his "she-devil." But suddenly his face darkens and he moans that he is a scoundrel. Nothing, he swears to Alyosha, "can compare in baseness with the dishonor which I bear now at this very minute on my breast." The events of the night have been unnerving. Back at the monastery, Alyosha receives more bad news: Zossima's condition has worsened; he has only a short time to live. Deeply saddened by his family's sorrows, Alyosha nevertheless decides to remain close to the elder, for this man is also his father. Having made his decision, he begins to prepare for bed, and then remembers Lise's letter and reads it. It is a love letter; she says that she loves Alyosha very much and hopes to marry him when she is old enough. She apologizes sincerely for making fun of the young priest and implores him to come visit her.
Dostoevsky carefully details in this book the special sort of characterization needed for the enigmatic Smerdyakov, the son who will murder Karamazov. We learn, for example, that he "seemed to despise everybody," including his real father and also his foster father. It is clear that he could conceivably murder either one, and in cold blood. Furthermore, we learn that in childhood "he was very fond of hanging cats," certainly a sadistic and perverse pastime. As a complement to his psychological ills, he is physically sick; epilepsy, a disease he inherited from his idiot mother, overtakes him on occasion. Of late, nervous fits have attacked him increasingly, and it is one of these attacks that he later shams as his alibi when his innocence is questioned. In his argument with Grigory, put forward to impress the intellectual Ivan, Smerdyakov uses the most basic semantic logic to prove his point. But the argument shows that he is interested in questions similar to those that disturb Ivan. In this way, Dostoevsky sets up conflicting emotions within Ivan. Because of their like interests, he is drawn to his half-brother, but at the same time, with a Dostoevskian duality of emotion, he is repulsed and sees him as a "mean soul." The vulgarity of old Karamazov is once more emphasized in this section. This time, in the presence of Alyosha, he crudely ridicules his son's mother. This is a particularly painful scene because we have been told that Alyosha remembers his mother with deep love and respect. The father's attack, then, believably brings on Alyosha's convulsions. Karamazov commits a verbal murder on Alyosha's memories, and it is significant, following Alyosha's collapse, that Karamazov does not realize that the same woman gave birth to both Ivan and Alyosha. In other words, the two sons are so different that the old man has completely forgotten that they had the same mother. In Chapter 9, when Dmitri unleashes an uncontrollable fit of anguish and knocks down first Grigory and later his father, Dostoevsky is tempering our credence in Dmitri's being a potential murderer. Both father and son are victims of powerful emotions, and both are passionate sensualists; their antagonism and hatred has collided over the same woman. It is likely that such viciousness as we witness might result in murder. Even Alyosha realizes the possibility of parricide within his family when he questions Ivan as to a man's right to assess another man and decide whether or not he is worthy to live. Ivan too realizes the potential of parricide as it smolders, for he answers Alyosha that "one reptile will devour the other." In Chapter 10, we are introduced finally to the beautiful and paradoxical Katerina Ivanovna. Several times we have heard of this lovely and haughty woman, willing to devote herself to Dmitri in spite of his barbarous forays. Now we see her. She refuses to accept Dmitri's breaking of their engagement. And her resolve is so extreme that she even humbles herself before Grushenka. As for Grushenka, she turns out to be far more interesting than gossip suggests. She may or may not be waiting for a scoundrel who deserted her five years earlier. His return, incidentally, precipitates the pivotal action of the novel. Grushenka's mercurial qualities are quite thorough; she is whimsical and mischievous and does seem as though she might be, as Dmitri laughingly tags her, a "she-devil." She is more than a tease, however, and immediately after the murder she realizes that she, in large part, is to blame for keeping both Dmitri and his father in suspense as to what she actually intends for them. Dmitri's confession of baseness to Alyosha is in reference to his retention of the 1,500 rubles that he saved from the night of the Grushenka orgy; this money he has not yet returned to Katerina. And his keeping it burdens his scheme of values with far greater dishonor than the fact that he spent the other half of the sum. Later, this anguish of Dmitri's over the money he did not spend convinces many people that such a man could not commit a murder. At the monastery, Alyosha still does not know why Zossima has ordered him to go into the world. "Here was peace. Here was holiness"; one can easily lose one's way in the world, Alyosha realizes, and go astray. It is exactly for these reasons, though, that the elder has asked him to go into the world. Alyosha is the one person who will be able to walk through confusion and darkness and not lose his footing. At this moment, his father, Katerina, Lise, Dmitri, and Grushenka are all waiting to talk with him again; his life's work is among the people of the world, who need his quiet example of love and respect.