finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_9_part_1.txt
The Brothers Karamazov.book 7.chapter 1
book 7, chapter 1
{"name": "book 7, Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section10/", "summary": "The Odor of Corruption Most people within the monastery share Alyosha's feeling that a great miracle will follow Zosima's death. After Zosima's body is prepared for burial, a large crowd gathers around it in anticipation of witnessing this hoped-for divine display. But rather than dazzling onlookers with a miracle, Zosima's corpse merely exudes a putrid stench as it quickly begins to decay. The monks are aghast, and many believe the stench to be an evil omen for the monastery. Zosima's enemies within the monastery rudely insist that this omen indicates that Zosima was morally flawed, not a saint but an evildoer in disguise. The people in the town who had breathlessly awaited a miracle are disgruntled and confused by this disparaging talk about the widely adored Zosima. Alyosha is frightened and disgusted, and he cannot understand why God would allow this humiliation to happen. Zosima's greatest enemy, the harsh and pious Ferapont, madly attempts to exorcise Zosima's cell of demons. He is ordered to leave the monastery, but unease reigns among the monks. Alyosha leaves as well, hoping to think things through in a quieter place", "analysis": ""}
PART III  Book VII. Alyosha Chapter I. The Breath Of Corruption


The body of Father Zossima was prepared for burial according to the
established ritual. As is well known, the bodies of dead monks and hermits
are not washed. In the words of the Church Ritual: "If any one of the
monks depart in the Lord, the monk designated (that is, whose office it
is) shall wipe the body with warm water, making first the sign of the
cross with a sponge on the forehead of the deceased, on the breast, on the
hands and feet and on the knees, and that is enough." All this was done by
Father Paissy, who then clothed the deceased in his monastic garb and
wrapped him in his cloak, which was, according to custom, somewhat slit to
allow of its being folded about him in the form of a cross. On his head he
put a hood with an eight-cornered cross. The hood was left open and the
dead man's face was covered with black gauze. In his hands was put an ikon
of the Saviour. Towards morning he was put in the coffin which had been
made ready long before. It was decided to leave the coffin all day in the
cell, in the larger room in which the elder used to receive his visitors
and fellow monks. As the deceased was a priest and monk of the strictest
rule, the Gospel, not the Psalter, had to be read over his body by monks
in holy orders. The reading was begun by Father Iosif immediately after
the requiem service. Father Paissy desired later on to read the Gospel all
day and night over his dead friend, but for the present he, as well as the
Father Superintendent of the Hermitage, was very busy and occupied, for
something extraordinary, an unheard-of, even "unseemly" excitement and
impatient expectation began to be apparent in the monks, and the visitors
from the monastery hostels, and the crowds of people flocking from the
town. And as time went on, this grew more and more marked. Both the
Superintendent and Father Paissy did their utmost to calm the general
bustle and agitation.

When it was fully daylight, some people began bringing their sick, in most
cases children, with them from the town--as though they had been waiting
expressly for this moment to do so, evidently persuaded that the dead
elder's remains had a power of healing, which would be immediately made
manifest in accordance with their faith. It was only then apparent how
unquestionably every one in our town had accepted Father Zossima during
his lifetime as a great saint. And those who came were far from being all
of the humbler classes.

This intense expectation on the part of believers displayed with such
haste, such openness, even with impatience and almost insistence,
impressed Father Paissy as unseemly. Though he had long foreseen something
of the sort, the actual manifestation of the feeling was beyond anything
he had looked for. When he came across any of the monks who displayed this
excitement, Father Paissy began to reprove them. "Such immediate
expectation of something extraordinary," he said, "shows a levity,
possible to worldly people but unseemly in us."

But little attention was paid him and Father Paissy noticed it uneasily.
Yet he himself (if the whole truth must be told), secretly at the bottom
of his heart, cherished almost the same hopes and could not but be aware
of it, though he was indignant at the too impatient expectation around
him, and saw in it light-mindedness and vanity. Nevertheless, it was
particularly unpleasant to him to meet certain persons, whose presence
aroused in him great misgivings. In the crowd in the dead man's cell he
noticed with inward aversion (for which he immediately reproached himself)
the presence of Rakitin and of the monk from Obdorsk, who was still
staying in the monastery. Of both of them Father Paissy felt for some
reason suddenly suspicious--though, indeed, he might well have felt the
same about others.

The monk from Obdorsk was conspicuous as the most fussy in the excited
crowd. He was to be seen everywhere; everywhere he was asking questions,
everywhere he was listening, on all sides he was whispering with a
peculiar, mysterious air. His expression showed the greatest impatience
and even a sort of irritation.

As for Rakitin, he, as appeared later, had come so early to the hermitage
at the special request of Madame Hohlakov. As soon as that good-hearted
but weak-minded woman, who could not herself have been admitted to the
hermitage, waked and heard of the death of Father Zossima, she was
overtaken with such intense curiosity that she promptly dispatched Rakitin
to the hermitage, to keep a careful look out and report to her by letter
every half-hour or so "_everything that takes place_." She regarded
Rakitin as a most religious and devout young man. He was particularly
clever in getting round people and assuming whatever part he thought most
to their taste, if he detected the slightest advantage to himself from
doing so.

It was a bright, clear day, and many of the visitors were thronging about
the tombs, which were particularly numerous round the church and scattered
here and there about the hermitage. As he walked round the hermitage,
Father Paissy remembered Alyosha and that he had not seen him for some
time, not since the night. And he had no sooner thought of him than he at
once noticed him in the farthest corner of the hermitage garden, sitting
on the tombstone of a monk who had been famous long ago for his
saintliness. He sat with his back to the hermitage and his face to the
wall, and seemed to be hiding behind the tombstone. Going up to him,
Father Paissy saw that he was weeping quietly but bitterly, with his face
hidden in his hands, and that his whole frame was shaking with sobs.
Father Paissy stood over him for a little.

"Enough, dear son, enough, dear," he pronounced with feeling at last. "Why
do you weep? Rejoice and weep not. Don't you know that this is the
greatest of his days? Think only where he is now, at this moment!"

Alyosha glanced at him, uncovering his face, which was swollen with crying
like a child's, but turned away at once without uttering a word and hid
his face in his hands again.

"Maybe it is well," said Father Paissy thoughtfully; "weep if you must,
Christ has sent you those tears."

"Your touching tears are but a relief to your spirit and will serve to
gladden your dear heart," he added to himself, walking away from Alyosha,
and thinking lovingly of him. He moved away quickly, however, for he felt
that he too might weep looking at him.

Meanwhile the time was passing; the monastery services and the requiems
for the dead followed in their due course. Father Paissy again took Father
Iosif's place by the coffin and began reading the Gospel. But before three
o'clock in the afternoon that something took place to which I alluded at
the end of the last book, something so unexpected by all of us and so
contrary to the general hope, that, I repeat, this trivial incident has
been minutely remembered to this day in our town and all the surrounding
neighborhood. I may add here, for myself personally, that I feel it almost
repulsive to recall that event which caused such frivolous agitation and
was such a stumbling-block to many, though in reality it was the most
natural and trivial matter. I should, of course, have omitted all mention
of it in my story, if it had not exerted a very strong influence on the
heart and soul of the chief, though future, hero of my story, Alyosha,
forming a crisis and turning-point in his spiritual development, giving a
shock to his intellect, which finally strengthened it for the rest of his
life and gave it a definite aim.

And so, to return to our story. When before dawn they laid Father
Zossima's body in the coffin and brought it into the front room, the
question of opening the windows was raised among those who were around the
coffin. But this suggestion made casually by some one was unanswered and
almost unnoticed. Some of those present may perhaps have inwardly noticed
it, only to reflect that the anticipation of decay and corruption from the
body of such a saint was an actual absurdity, calling for compassion (if
not a smile) for the lack of faith and the frivolity it implied. For they
expected something quite different.

And, behold, soon after midday there were signs of something, at first
only observed in silence by those who came in and out and were evidently
each afraid to communicate the thought in his mind. But by three o'clock
those signs had become so clear and unmistakable, that the news swiftly
reached all the monks and visitors in the hermitage, promptly penetrated
to the monastery, throwing all the monks into amazement, and finally, in
the shortest possible time, spread to the town, exciting every one in it,
believers and unbelievers alike. The unbelievers rejoiced, and as for the
believers some of them rejoiced even more than the unbelievers, for "men
love the downfall and disgrace of the righteous," as the deceased elder
had said in one of his exhortations.

The fact is that a smell of decomposition began to come from the coffin,
growing gradually more marked, and by three o'clock it was quite
unmistakable. In all the past history of our monastery, no such scandal
could be recalled, and in no other circumstances could such a scandal have
been possible, as showed itself in unseemly disorder immediately after
this discovery among the very monks themselves. Afterwards, even many
years afterwards, some sensible monks were amazed and horrified, when they
recalled that day, that the scandal could have reached such proportions.
For in the past, monks of very holy life had died, God-fearing old men,
whose saintliness was acknowledged by all, yet from their humble coffins,
too, the breath of corruption had come, naturally, as from all dead
bodies, but that had caused no scandal nor even the slightest excitement.
Of course there had been, in former times, saints in the monastery whose
memory was carefully preserved and whose relics, according to tradition,
showed no signs of corruption. This fact was regarded by the monks as
touching and mysterious, and the tradition of it was cherished as
something blessed and miraculous, and as a promise, by God's grace, of
still greater glory from their tombs in the future.

One such, whose memory was particularly cherished, was an old monk, Job,
who had died seventy years before at the age of a hundred and five. He had
been a celebrated ascetic, rigid in fasting and silence, and his tomb was
pointed out to all visitors on their arrival with peculiar respect and
mysterious hints of great hopes connected with it. (That was the very tomb
on which Father Paissy had found Alyosha sitting in the morning.) Another
memory cherished in the monastery was that of the famous Father Varsonofy,
who was only recently dead and had preceded Father Zossima in the
eldership. He was reverenced during his lifetime as a crazy saint by all
the pilgrims to the monastery. There was a tradition that both of these
had lain in their coffins as though alive, that they had shown no signs of
decomposition when they were buried and that there had been a holy light
in their faces. And some people even insisted that a sweet fragrance came
from their bodies.

Yet, in spite of these edifying memories, it would be difficult to explain
the frivolity, absurdity and malice that were manifested beside the coffin
of Father Zossima. It is my private opinion that several different causes
were simultaneously at work, one of which was the deeply-rooted hostility
to the institution of elders as a pernicious innovation, an antipathy
hidden deep in the hearts of many of the monks. Even more powerful was
jealousy of the dead man's saintliness, so firmly established during his
lifetime that it was almost a forbidden thing to question it. For though
the late elder had won over many hearts, more by love than by miracles,
and had gathered round him a mass of loving adherents, none the less, in
fact, rather the more on that account he had awakened jealousy and so had
come to have bitter enemies, secret and open, not only in the monastery
but in the world outside it. He did no one any harm, but "Why do they
think him so saintly?" And that question alone, gradually repeated, gave
rise at last to an intense, insatiable hatred of him. That, I believe, was
why many people were extremely delighted at the smell of decomposition
which came so quickly, for not a day had passed since his death. At the
same time there were some among those who had been hitherto reverently
devoted to the elder, who were almost mortified and personally affronted
by this incident. This was how the thing happened.

As soon as signs of decomposition had begun to appear, the whole aspect of
the monks betrayed their secret motives in entering the cell. They went
in, stayed a little while and hastened out to confirm the news to the
crowd of other monks waiting outside. Some of the latter shook their heads
mournfully, but others did not even care to conceal the delight which
gleamed unmistakably in their malignant eyes. And now no one reproached
them for it, no one raised his voice in protest, which was strange, for
the majority of the monks had been devoted to the dead elder. But it
seemed as though God had in this case let the minority get the upper hand
for a time.

Visitors from outside, particularly of the educated class, soon went into
the cell, too, with the same spying intent. Of the peasantry few went into
the cell, though there were crowds of them at the gates of the hermitage.
After three o'clock the rush of worldly visitors was greatly increased and
this was no doubt owing to the shocking news. People were attracted who
would not otherwise have come on that day and had not intended to come,
and among them were some personages of high standing. But external decorum
was still preserved and Father Paissy, with a stern face, continued firmly
and distinctly reading aloud the Gospel, apparently not noticing what was
taking place around him, though he had, in fact, observed something
unusual long before. But at last the murmurs, first subdued but gradually
louder and more confident, reached even him. "It shows God's judgment is
not as man's," Father Paissy heard suddenly. The first to give utterance
to this sentiment was a layman, an elderly official from the town, known
to be a man of great piety. But he only repeated aloud what the monks had
long been whispering. They had long before formulated this damning
conclusion, and the worst of it was that a sort of triumphant satisfaction
at that conclusion became more and more apparent every moment. Soon they
began to lay aside even external decorum and almost seemed to feel they
had a sort of right to discard it.

"And for what reason can _this_ have happened," some of the monks said, at
first with a show of regret; "he had a small frame and his flesh was dried
up on his bones, what was there to decay?"

"It must be a sign from heaven," others hastened to add, and their opinion
was adopted at once without protest. For it was pointed out, too, that if
the decomposition had been natural, as in the case of every dead sinner,
it would have been apparent later, after a lapse of at least twenty-four
hours, but this premature corruption "was in excess of nature," and so the
finger of God was evident. It was meant for a sign. This conclusion seemed
irresistible.

Gentle Father Iosif, the librarian, a great favorite of the dead man's,
tried to reply to some of the evil speakers that "this is not held
everywhere alike," and that the incorruptibility of the bodies of the just
was not a dogma of the Orthodox Church, but only an opinion, and that even
in the most Orthodox regions, at Athos for instance, they were not greatly
confounded by the smell of corruption, and there the chief sign of the
glorification of the saved was not bodily incorruptibility, but the color
of the bones when the bodies have lain many years in the earth and have
decayed in it. "And if the bones are yellow as wax, that is the great sign
that the Lord has glorified the dead saint, if they are not yellow but
black, it shows that God has not deemed him worthy of such glory--that is
the belief in Athos, a great place, where the Orthodox doctrine has been
preserved from of old, unbroken and in its greatest purity," said Father
Iosif in conclusion.

But the meek Father's words had little effect and even provoked a mocking
retort. "That's all pedantry and innovation, no use listening to it," the
monks decided. "We stick to the old doctrine, there are all sorts of
innovations nowadays, are we to follow them all?" added others.

"We have had as many holy fathers as they had. There they are among the
Turks, they have forgotten everything. Their doctrine has long been impure
and they have no bells even," the most sneering added.

Father Iosif walked away, grieving the more since he had put forward his
own opinion with little confidence as though scarcely believing in it
himself. He foresaw with distress that something very unseemly was
beginning and that there were positive signs of disobedience. Little by
little, all the sensible monks were reduced to silence like Father Iosif.
And so it came to pass that all who loved the elder and had accepted with
devout obedience the institution of the eldership were all at once
terribly cast down and glanced timidly in one another's faces, when they
met. Those who were hostile to the institution of elders, as a novelty,
held up their heads proudly. "There was no smell of corruption from the
late elder Varsonofy, but a sweet fragrance," they recalled malignantly.
"But he gained that glory not because he was an elder, but because he was
a holy man."

And this was followed by a shower of criticism and even blame of Father
Zossima. "His teaching was false; he taught that life is a great joy and
not a vale of tears," said some of the more unreasonable. "He followed the
fashionable belief, he did not recognize material fire in hell," others,
still more unreasonable, added. "He was not strict in fasting, allowed
himself sweet things, ate cherry jam with his tea, ladies used to send it
to him. Is it for a monk of strict rule to drink tea?" could be heard
among some of the envious. "He sat in pride," the most malignant declared
vindictively; "he considered himself a saint and he took it as his due
when people knelt before him." "He abused the sacrament of confession,"
the fiercest opponents of the institution of elders added in a malicious
whisper. And among these were some of the oldest monks, strictest in their
devotion, genuine ascetics, who had kept silent during the life of the
deceased elder, but now suddenly unsealed their lips. And this was
terrible, for their words had great influence on young monks who were not
yet firm in their convictions. The monk from Obdorsk heard all this
attentively, heaving deep sighs and nodding his head. "Yes, clearly Father
Ferapont was right in his judgment yesterday," and at that moment Father
Ferapont himself made his appearance, as though on purpose to increase the
confusion.

I have mentioned already that he rarely left his wooden cell by the
apiary. He was seldom even seen at church and they overlooked this neglect
on the ground of his craziness, and did not keep him to the rules binding
on all the rest. But if the whole truth is to be told, they hardly had a
choice about it. For it would have been discreditable to insist on
burdening with the common regulations so great an ascetic, who prayed day
and night (he even dropped asleep on his knees). If they had insisted, the
monks would have said, "He is holier than all of us and he follows a rule
harder than ours. And if he does not go to church, it's because he knows
when he ought to; he has his own rule." It was to avoid the chance of
these sinful murmurs that Father Ferapont was left in peace.

As every one was aware, Father Ferapont particularly disliked Father
Zossima. And now the news had reached him in his hut that "God's judgment
is not the same as man's," and that something had happened which was "in
excess of nature." It may well be supposed that among the first to run to
him with the news was the monk from Obdorsk, who had visited him the
evening before and left his cell terror-stricken.

I have mentioned above, that though Father Paissy, standing firm and
immovable reading the Gospel over the coffin, could not hear nor see what
was passing outside the cell, he gauged most of it correctly in his heart,
for he knew the men surrounding him, well. He was not shaken by it, but
awaited what would come next without fear, watching with penetration and
insight for the outcome of the general excitement.

Suddenly an extraordinary uproar in the passage in open defiance of
decorum burst on his ears. The door was flung open and Father Ferapont
appeared in the doorway. Behind him there could be seen accompanying him a
crowd of monks, together with many people from the town. They did not,
however, enter the cell, but stood at the bottom of the steps, waiting to
see what Father Ferapont would say or do. For they felt with a certain
awe, in spite of their audacity, that he had not come for nothing.
Standing in the doorway, Father Ferapont raised his arms, and under his
right arm the keen inquisitive little eyes of the monk from Obdorsk peeped
in. He alone, in his intense curiosity, could not resist running up the
steps after Father Ferapont. The others, on the contrary, pressed farther
back in sudden alarm when the door was noisily flung open. Holding his
hands aloft, Father Ferapont suddenly roared:

"Casting out I cast out!" and, turning in all directions, he began at once
making the sign of the cross at each of the four walls and four corners of
the cell in succession. All who accompanied Father Ferapont immediately
understood his action. For they knew he always did this wherever he went,
and that he would not sit down or say a word, till he had driven out the
evil spirits.

"Satan, go hence! Satan, go hence!" he repeated at each sign of the cross.
"Casting out I cast out," he roared again.

He was wearing his coarse gown girt with a rope. His bare chest, covered
with gray hair, could be seen under his hempen shirt. His feet were bare.
As soon as he began waving his arms, the cruel irons he wore under his
gown could be heard clanking.

Father Paissy paused in his reading, stepped forward and stood before him
waiting.

"What have you come for, worthy Father? Why do you offend against good
order? Why do you disturb the peace of the flock?" he said at last,
looking sternly at him.

"What have I come for? You ask why? What is your faith?" shouted Father
Ferapont crazily. "I've come here to drive out your visitors, the unclean
devils. I've come to see how many have gathered here while I have been
away. I want to sweep them out with a birch broom."

"You cast out the evil spirit, but perhaps you are serving him yourself,"
Father Paissy went on fearlessly. "And who can say of himself 'I am holy'?
Can you, Father?"

"I am unclean, not holy. I would not sit in an arm-chair and would not
have them bow down to me as an idol," thundered Father Ferapont. "Nowadays
folk destroy the true faith. The dead man, your saint," he turned to the
crowd, pointing with his finger to the coffin, "did not believe in devils.
He gave medicine to keep off the devils. And so they have become as common
as spiders in the corners. And now he has begun to stink himself. In that
we see a great sign from God."

The incident he referred to was this. One of the monks was haunted in his
dreams and, later on, in waking moments, by visions of evil spirits. When
in the utmost terror he confided this to Father Zossima, the elder had
advised continual prayer and rigid fasting. But when that was of no use,
he advised him, while persisting in prayer and fasting, to take a special
medicine. Many persons were shocked at the time and wagged their heads as
they talked over it--and most of all Father Ferapont, to whom some of the
censorious had hastened to report this "extraordinary" counsel on the part
of the elder.

"Go away, Father!" said Father Paissy, in a commanding voice, "it's not
for man to judge but for God. Perhaps we see here a 'sign' which neither
you, nor I, nor any one of us is able to comprehend. Go, Father, and do
not trouble the flock!" he repeated impressively.

"He did not keep the fasts according to the rule and therefore the sign
has come. That is clear and it's a sin to hide it," the fanatic, carried
away by a zeal that outstripped his reason, would not be quieted. "He was
seduced by sweetmeats, ladies brought them to him in their pockets, he
sipped tea, he worshiped his belly, filling it with sweet things and his
mind with haughty thoughts.... And for this he is put to shame...."

"You speak lightly, Father." Father Paissy, too, raised his voice. "I
admire your fasting and severities, but you speak lightly like some
frivolous youth, fickle and childish. Go away, Father, I command you!"
Father Paissy thundered in conclusion.

"I will go," said Ferapont, seeming somewhat taken aback, but still as
bitter. "You learned men! You are so clever you look down upon my
humbleness. I came hither with little learning and here I have forgotten
what I did know, God Himself has preserved me in my weakness from your
subtlety."

Father Paissy stood over him, waiting resolutely. Father Ferapont paused
and, suddenly leaning his cheek on his hand despondently, pronounced in a
sing-song voice, looking at the coffin of the dead elder:

"To-morrow they will sing over him 'Our Helper and Defender'--a splendid
anthem--and over me when I die all they'll sing will be 'What earthly
joy'--a little canticle,"(6) he added with tearful regret. "You are proud
and puffed up, this is a vain place!" he shouted suddenly like a madman,
and with a wave of his hand he turned quickly and quickly descended the
steps. The crowd awaiting him below wavered; some followed him at once and
some lingered, for the cell was still open, and Father Paissy, following
Father Ferapont on to the steps, stood watching him. But the excited old
fanatic was not completely silenced. Walking twenty steps away, he
suddenly turned towards the setting sun, raised both his arms and, as
though some one had cut him down, fell to the ground with a loud scream.

"My God has conquered! Christ has conquered the setting sun!" he shouted
frantically, stretching up his hands to the sun, and falling face
downwards on the ground, he sobbed like a little child, shaken by his
tears and spreading out his arms on the ground. Then all rushed up to him;
there were exclamations and sympathetic sobs ... a kind of frenzy seemed
to take possession of them all.

"This is the one who is a saint! This is the one who is a holy man!" some
cried aloud, losing their fear. "This is he who should be an elder,"
others added malignantly.

"He wouldn't be an elder ... he would refuse ... he wouldn't serve a
cursed innovation ... he wouldn't imitate their foolery," other voices
chimed in at once. And it is hard to say how far they might have gone, but
at that moment the bell rang summoning them to service. All began crossing
themselves at once. Father Ferapont, too, got up and crossing himself went
back to his cell without looking round, still uttering exclamations which
were utterly incoherent. A few followed him, but the greater number
dispersed, hastening to service. Father Paissy let Father Iosif read in
his place and went down. The frantic outcries of bigots could not shake
him, but his heart was suddenly filled with melancholy for some special
reason and he felt that. He stood still and suddenly wondered, "Why am I
sad even to dejection?" and immediately grasped with surprise that his
sudden sadness was due to a very small and special cause. In the crowd
thronging at the entrance to the cell, he had noticed Alyosha and he
remembered that he had felt at once a pang at heart on seeing him. "Can
that boy mean so much to my heart now?" he asked himself, wondering.

At that moment Alyosha passed him, hurrying away, but not in the direction
of the church. Their eyes met. Alyosha quickly turned away his eyes and
dropped them to the ground, and from the boy's look alone, Father Paissy
guessed what a great change was taking place in him at that moment.

"Have you, too, fallen into temptation?" cried Father Paissy. "Can you be
with those of little faith?" he added mournfully.

Alyosha stood still and gazed vaguely at Father Paissy, but quickly turned
his eyes away again and again looked on the ground. He stood sideways and
did not turn his face to Father Paissy, who watched him attentively.

"Where are you hastening? The bell calls to service," he asked again, but
again Alyosha gave no answer.

"Are you leaving the hermitage? What, without asking leave, without asking
a blessing?"

Alyosha suddenly gave a wry smile, cast a strange, very strange, look at
the Father to whom his former guide, the former sovereign of his heart and
mind, his beloved elder, had confided him as he lay dying. And suddenly,
still without speaking, waved his hand, as though not caring even to be
respectful, and with rapid steps walked towards the gates away from the
hermitage.

"You will come back again!" murmured Father Paissy, looking after him with
sorrowful surprise.





book 7, Chapter 1
The Odor of Corruption Most people within the monastery share Alyosha's feeling that a great miracle will follow Zosima's death. After Zosima's body is prepared for burial, a large crowd gathers around it in anticipation of witnessing this hoped-for divine display. But rather than dazzling onlookers with a miracle, Zosima's corpse merely exudes a putrid stench as it quickly begins to decay. The monks are aghast, and many believe the stench to be an evil omen for the monastery. Zosima's enemies within the monastery rudely insist that this omen indicates that Zosima was morally flawed, not a saint but an evildoer in disguise. The people in the town who had breathlessly awaited a miracle are disgruntled and confused by this disparaging talk about the widely adored Zosima. Alyosha is frightened and disgusted, and he cannot understand why God would allow this humiliation to happen. Zosima's greatest enemy, the harsh and pious Ferapont, madly attempts to exorcise Zosima's cell of demons. He is ordered to leave the monastery, but unease reigns among the monks. Alyosha leaves as well, hoping to think things through in a quieter place