Chapter V. So Be It! So Be It!

The elder's absence from his cell had lasted for about twenty-five
minutes. It was more than half-past twelve, but Dmitri, on whose account
they had all met there, had still not appeared. But he seemed almost to be
forgotten, and when the elder entered the cell again, he found his guests
engaged in eager conversation. Ivan and the two monks took the leading
share in it. Miuesov, too, was trying to take a part, and apparently very
eagerly, in the conversation. But he was unsuccessful in this also. He was
evidently in the background, and his remarks were treated with neglect,
which increased his irritability. He had had intellectual encounters with
Ivan before and he could not endure a certain carelessness Ivan showed
him.

"Hitherto at least I have stood in the front ranks of all that is
progressive in Europe, and here the new generation positively ignores us,"
he thought.

Fyodor Pavlovitch, who had given his word to sit still and be quiet, had
actually been quiet for some time, but he watched his neighbor Miuesov with
an ironical little smile, obviously enjoying his discomfiture. He had been
waiting for some time to pay off old scores, and now he could not let the
opportunity slip. Bending over his shoulder he began teasing him again in
a whisper.

"Why didn't you go away just now, after the 'courteously kissing'? Why did
you consent to remain in such unseemly company? It was because you felt
insulted and aggrieved, and you remained to vindicate yourself by showing
off your intelligence. Now you won't go till you've displayed your
intellect to them."

"You again?... On the contrary, I'm just going."

"You'll be the last, the last of all to go!" Fyodor Pavlovitch delivered
him another thrust, almost at the moment of Father Zossima's return.

The discussion died down for a moment, but the elder, seating himself in
his former place, looked at them all as though cordially inviting them to
go on. Alyosha, who knew every expression of his face, saw that he was
fearfully exhausted and making a great effort. Of late he had been liable
to fainting fits from exhaustion. His face had the pallor that was common
before such attacks, and his lips were white. But he evidently did not
want to break up the party. He seemed to have some special object of his
own in keeping them. What object? Alyosha watched him intently.

"We are discussing this gentleman's most interesting article," said Father
Iosif, the librarian, addressing the elder, and indicating Ivan. "He
brings forward much that is new, but I think the argument cuts both ways.
It is an article written in answer to a book by an ecclesiastical
authority on the question of the ecclesiastical court, and the scope of
its jurisdiction."

"I'm sorry I have not read your article, but I've heard of it," said the
elder, looking keenly and intently at Ivan.

"He takes up a most interesting position," continued the Father Librarian.
"As far as Church jurisdiction is concerned he is apparently quite opposed
to the separation of Church from State."

"That's interesting. But in what sense?" Father Zossima asked Ivan.

The latter, at last, answered him, not condescendingly, as Alyosha had
feared, but with modesty and reserve, with evident goodwill and apparently
without the slightest _arriere-pensee_.

"I start from the position that this confusion of elements, that is, of
the essential principles of Church and State, will, of course, go on for
ever, in spite of the fact that it is impossible for them to mingle, and
that the confusion of these elements cannot lead to any consistent or even
normal results, for there is falsity at the very foundation of it.
Compromise between the Church and State in such questions as, for
instance, jurisdiction, is, to my thinking, impossible in any real sense.
My clerical opponent maintains that the Church holds a precise and defined
position in the State. I maintain, on the contrary, that the Church ought
to include the whole State, and not simply to occupy a corner in it, and,
if this is, for some reason, impossible at present, then it ought, in
reality, to be set up as the direct and chief aim of the future
development of Christian society!"

"Perfectly true," Father Paissy, the silent and learned monk, assented
with fervor and decision.

"The purest Ultramontanism!" cried Miuesov impatiently, crossing and
recrossing his legs.

"Oh, well, we have no mountains," cried Father Iosif, and turning to the
elder he continued: "Observe the answer he makes to the following
'fundamental and essential' propositions of his opponent, who is, you must
note, an ecclesiastic. First, that 'no social organization can or ought to
arrogate to itself power to dispose of the civic and political rights of
its members.' Secondly, that 'criminal and civil jurisdiction ought not to
belong to the Church, and is inconsistent with its nature, both as a
divine institution and as an organization of men for religious objects,'
and, finally, in the third place, 'the Church is a kingdom not of this
world.' "

"A most unworthy play upon words for an ecclesiastic!" Father Paissy could
not refrain from breaking in again. "I have read the book which you have
answered," he added, addressing Ivan, "and was astounded at the words 'the
Church is a kingdom not of this world.' If it is not of this world, then
it cannot exist on earth at all. In the Gospel, the words 'not of this
world' are not used in that sense. To play with such words is
indefensible. Our Lord Jesus Christ came to set up the Church upon earth.
The Kingdom of Heaven, of course, is not of this world, but in Heaven; but
it is only entered through the Church which has been founded and
established upon earth. And so a frivolous play upon words in such a
connection is unpardonable and improper. The Church is, in truth, a
kingdom and ordained to rule, and in the end must undoubtedly become the
kingdom ruling over all the earth. For that we have the divine promise."

He ceased speaking suddenly, as though checking himself. After listening
attentively and respectfully Ivan went on, addressing the elder with
perfect composure and as before with ready cordiality:

"The whole point of my article lies in the fact that during the first
three centuries Christianity only existed on earth in the Church and was
nothing but the Church. When the pagan Roman Empire desired to become
Christian, it inevitably happened that, by becoming Christian, it included
the Church but remained a pagan State in very many of its departments. In
reality this was bound to happen. But Rome as a State retained too much of
the pagan civilization and culture, as, for example, in the very objects
and fundamental principles of the State. The Christian Church entering
into the State could, of course, surrender no part of its fundamental
principles--the rock on which it stands--and could pursue no other aims than
those which have been ordained and revealed by God Himself, and among them
that of drawing the whole world, and therefore the ancient pagan State
itself, into the Church. In that way (that is, with a view to the future)
it is not the Church that should seek a definite position in the State,
like 'every social organization,' or as 'an organization of men for
religious purposes' (as my opponent calls the Church), but, on the
contrary, every earthly State should be, in the end, completely
transformed into the Church and should become nothing else but a Church,
rejecting every purpose incongruous with the aims of the Church. All this
will not degrade it in any way or take from its honor and glory as a great
State, nor from the glory of its rulers, but only turns it from a false,
still pagan, and mistaken path to the true and rightful path, which alone
leads to the eternal goal. This is why the author of the book _On the
Foundations of Church Jurisdiction_ would have judged correctly if, in
seeking and laying down those foundations, he had looked upon them as a
temporary compromise inevitable in our sinful and imperfect days. But as
soon as the author ventures to declare that the foundations which he
predicates now, part of which Father Iosif just enumerated, are the
permanent, essential, and eternal foundations, he is going directly
against the Church and its sacred and eternal vocation. That is the gist
of my article."

"That is, in brief," Father Paissy began again, laying stress on each
word, "according to certain theories only too clearly formulated in the
nineteenth century, the Church ought to be transformed into the State, as
though this would be an advance from a lower to a higher form, so as to
disappear into it, making way for science, for the spirit of the age, and
civilization. And if the Church resists and is unwilling, some corner will
be set apart for her in the State, and even that under control--and this
will be so everywhere in all modern European countries. But Russian hopes
and conceptions demand not that the Church should pass as from a lower
into a higher type into the State, but, on the contrary, that the State
should end by being worthy to become only the Church and nothing else. So
be it! So be it!"

"Well, I confess you've reassured me somewhat," Miuesov said smiling, again
crossing his legs. "So far as I understand, then, the realization of such
an ideal is infinitely remote, at the second coming of Christ. That's as
you please. It's a beautiful Utopian dream of the abolition of war,
diplomacy, banks, and so on--something after the fashion of socialism,
indeed. But I imagined that it was all meant seriously, and that the
Church might be _now_ going to try criminals, and sentence them to
beating, prison, and even death."

"But if there were none but the ecclesiastical court, the Church would not
even now sentence a criminal to prison or to death. Crime and the way of
regarding it would inevitably change, not all at once of course, but
fairly soon," Ivan replied calmly, without flinching.

"Are you serious?" Miuesov glanced keenly at him.

"If everything became the Church, the Church would exclude all the
criminal and disobedient, and would not cut off their heads," Ivan went
on. "I ask you, what would become of the excluded? He would be cut off
then not only from men, as now, but from Christ. By his crime he would
have transgressed not only against men but against the Church of Christ.
This is so even now, of course, strictly speaking, but it is not clearly
enunciated, and very, very often the criminal of to-day compromises with
his conscience: 'I steal,' he says, 'but I don't go against the Church.
I'm not an enemy of Christ.' That's what the criminal of to-day is
continually saying to himself, but when the Church takes the place of the
State it will be difficult for him, in opposition to the Church all over
the world, to say: 'All men are mistaken, all in error, all mankind are
the false Church. I, a thief and murderer, am the only true Christian
Church.' It will be very difficult to say this to himself; it requires a
rare combination of unusual circumstances. Now, on the other side, take
the Church's own view of crime: is it not bound to renounce the present
almost pagan attitude, and to change from a mechanical cutting off of its
tainted member for the preservation of society, as at present, into
completely and honestly adopting the idea of the regeneration of the man,
of his reformation and salvation?"

"What do you mean? I fail to understand again," Miuesov interrupted. "Some
sort of dream again. Something shapeless and even incomprehensible. What
is excommunication? What sort of exclusion? I suspect you are simply
amusing yourself, Ivan Fyodorovitch."

"Yes, but you know, in reality it is so now," said the elder suddenly, and
all turned to him at once. "If it were not for the Church of Christ there
would be nothing to restrain the criminal from evil-doing, no real
chastisement for it afterwards; none, that is, but the mechanical
punishment spoken of just now, which in the majority of cases only
embitters the heart; and not the real punishment, the only effectual one,
the only deterrent and softening one, which lies in the recognition of sin
by conscience."

"How is that, may one inquire?" asked Miuesov, with lively curiosity.

"Why," began the elder, "all these sentences to exile with hard labor, and
formerly with flogging also, reform no one, and what's more, deter hardly
a single criminal, and the number of crimes does not diminish but is
continually on the increase. You must admit that. Consequently the
security of society is not preserved, for, although the obnoxious member
is mechanically cut off and sent far away out of sight, another criminal
always comes to take his place at once, and often two of them. If anything
does preserve society, even in our time, and does regenerate and transform
the criminal, it is only the law of Christ speaking in his conscience. It
is only by recognizing his wrong-doing as a son of a Christian
society--that is, of the Church--that he recognizes his sin against
society--that is, against the Church. So that it is only against the
Church, and not against the State, that the criminal of to-day can
recognize that he has sinned. If society, as a Church, had jurisdiction,
then it would know when to bring back from exclusion and to reunite to
itself. Now the Church having no real jurisdiction, but only the power of
moral condemnation, withdraws of her own accord from punishing the
criminal actively. She does not excommunicate him but simply persists in
motherly exhortation of him. What is more, the Church even tries to
preserve all Christian communion with the criminal. She admits him to
church services, to the holy sacrament, gives him alms, and treats him
more as a captive than as a convict. And what would become of the
criminal, O Lord, if even the Christian society--that is, the Church--were
to reject him even as the civil law rejects him and cuts him off? What
would become of him if the Church punished him with her excommunication as
the direct consequence of the secular law? There could be no more terrible
despair, at least for a Russian criminal, for Russian criminals still have
faith. Though, who knows, perhaps then a fearful thing would happen,
perhaps the despairing heart of the criminal would lose its faith and then
what would become of him? But the Church, like a tender, loving mother,
holds aloof from active punishment herself, as the sinner is too severely
punished already by the civil law, and there must be at least some one to
have pity on him. The Church holds aloof, above all, because its judgment
is the only one that contains the truth, and therefore cannot practically
and morally be united to any other judgment even as a temporary
compromise. She can enter into no compact about that. The foreign
criminal, they say, rarely repents, for the very doctrines of to-day
confirm him in the idea that his crime is not a crime, but only a reaction
against an unjustly oppressive force. Society cuts him off completely by a
force that triumphs over him mechanically and (so at least they say of
themselves in Europe) accompanies this exclusion with hatred,
forgetfulness, and the most profound indifference as to the ultimate fate
of the erring brother. In this way, it all takes place without the
compassionate intervention of the Church, for in many cases there are no
churches there at all, for though ecclesiastics and splendid church
buildings remain, the churches themselves have long ago striven to pass
from Church into State and to disappear in it completely. So it seems at
least in Lutheran countries. As for Rome, it was proclaimed a State
instead of a Church a thousand years ago. And so the criminal is no longer
conscious of being a member of the Church and sinks into despair. If he
returns to society, often it is with such hatred that society itself
instinctively cuts him off. You can judge for yourself how it must end. In
many cases it would seem to be the same with us, but the difference is
that besides the established law courts we have the Church too, which
always keeps up relations with the criminal as a dear and still precious
son. And besides that, there is still preserved, though only in thought,
the judgment of the Church, which though no longer existing in practice is
still living as a dream for the future, and is, no doubt, instinctively
recognized by the criminal in his soul. What was said here just now is
true too, that is, that if the jurisdiction of the Church were introduced
in practice in its full force, that is, if the whole of the society were
changed into the Church, not only the judgment of the Church would have
influence on the reformation of the criminal such as it never has now, but
possibly also the crimes themselves would be incredibly diminished. And
there can be no doubt that the Church would look upon the criminal and the
crime of the future in many cases quite differently and would succeed in
restoring the excluded, in restraining those who plan evil, and in
regenerating the fallen. It is true," said Father Zossima, with a smile,
"the Christian society now is not ready and is only resting on some seven
righteous men, but as they are never lacking, it will continue still
unshaken in expectation of its complete transformation from a society
almost heathen in character into a single universal and all-powerful
Church. So be it, so be it! Even though at the end of the ages, for it is
ordained to come to pass! And there is no need to be troubled about times
and seasons, for the secret of the times and seasons is in the wisdom of
God, in His foresight, and His love. And what in human reckoning seems
still afar off, may by the Divine ordinance be close at hand, on the eve
of its appearance. And so be it, so be it!"

"So be it, so be it!" Father Paissy repeated austerely and reverently.

"Strange, extremely strange!" Miuesov pronounced, not so much with heat as
with latent indignation.

"What strikes you as so strange?" Father Iosif inquired cautiously.

"Why, it's beyond anything!" cried Miuesov, suddenly breaking out; "the
State is eliminated and the Church is raised to the position of the State.
It's not simply Ultramontanism, it's arch-Ultramontanism! It's beyond the
dreams of Pope Gregory the Seventh!"

"You are completely misunderstanding it," said Father Paissy sternly.
"Understand, the Church is not to be transformed into the State. That is
Rome and its dream. That is the third temptation of the devil. On the
contrary, the State is transformed into the Church, will ascend and become
a Church over the whole world--which is the complete opposite of
Ultramontanism and Rome, and your interpretation, and is only the glorious
destiny ordained for the Orthodox Church. This star will arise in the
east!"

Miuesov was significantly silent. His whole figure expressed extraordinary
personal dignity. A supercilious and condescending smile played on his
lips. Alyosha watched it all with a throbbing heart. The whole
conversation stirred him profoundly. He glanced casually at Rakitin, who
was standing immovable in his place by the door listening and watching
intently though with downcast eyes. But from the color in his cheeks
Alyosha guessed that Rakitin was probably no less excited, and he knew
what caused his excitement.

"Allow me to tell you one little anecdote, gentlemen," Miuesov said
impressively, with a peculiarly majestic air. "Some years ago, soon after
the _coup d'etat_ of December, I happened to be calling in Paris on an
extremely influential personage in the Government, and I met a very
interesting man in his house. This individual was not precisely a
detective but was a sort of superintendent of a whole regiment of
political detectives--a rather powerful position in its own way. I was
prompted by curiosity to seize the opportunity of conversation with him.
And as he had not come as a visitor but as a subordinate official bringing
a special report, and as he saw the reception given me by his chief, he
deigned to speak with some openness, to a certain extent only, of course.
He was rather courteous than open, as Frenchmen know how to be courteous,
especially to a foreigner. But I thoroughly understood him. The subject
was the socialist revolutionaries who were at that time persecuted. I will
quote only one most curious remark dropped by this person. 'We are not
particularly afraid,' said he, 'of all these socialists, anarchists,
infidels, and revolutionists; we keep watch on them and know all their
goings on. But there are a few peculiar men among them who believe in God
and are Christians, but at the same time are socialists. These are the
people we are most afraid of. They are dreadful people! The socialist who
is a Christian is more to be dreaded than a socialist who is an atheist.'
The words struck me at the time, and now they have suddenly come back to
me here, gentlemen."

"You apply them to us, and look upon us as socialists?" Father Paissy
asked directly, without beating about the bush.

But before Pyotr Alexandrovitch could think what to answer, the door
opened, and the guest so long expected, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, came in. They
had, in fact, given up expecting him, and his sudden appearance caused
some surprise for a moment.

Chapter VI. Why Is Such A Man Alive?

Dmitri Fyodorovitch, a young man of eight and twenty, of medium height and
agreeable countenance, looked older than his years. He was muscular, and
showed signs of considerable physical strength. Yet there was something
not healthy in his face. It was rather thin, his cheeks were hollow, and
there was an unhealthy sallowness in their color. His rather large,
prominent, dark eyes had an expression of firm determination, and yet
there was a vague look in them, too. Even when he was excited and talking
irritably, his eyes somehow did not follow his mood, but betrayed
something else, sometimes quite incongruous with what was passing. "It's
hard to tell what he's thinking," those who talked to him sometimes
declared. People who saw something pensive and sullen in his eyes were
startled by his sudden laugh, which bore witness to mirthful and light-
hearted thoughts at the very time when his eyes were so gloomy. A certain
strained look in his face was easy to understand at this moment. Every one
knew, or had heard of, the extremely restless and dissipated life which he
had been leading of late, as well as of the violent anger to which he had
been roused in his quarrels with his father. There were several stories
current in the town about it. It is true that he was irascible by nature,
"of an unstable and unbalanced mind," as our justice of the peace,
Katchalnikov, happily described him.

He was stylishly and irreproachably dressed in a carefully buttoned frock-
coat. He wore black gloves and carried a top-hat. Having only lately left
the army, he still had mustaches and no beard. His dark brown hair was
cropped short, and combed forward on his temples. He had the long,
determined stride of a military man. He stood still for a moment on the
threshold, and glancing at the whole party went straight up to the elder,
guessing him to be their host. He made him a low bow, and asked his
blessing. Father Zossima, rising in his chair, blessed him. Dmitri kissed
his hand respectfully, and with intense feeling, almost anger, he said:

"Be so generous as to forgive me for having kept you waiting so long, but
Smerdyakov, the valet sent me by my father, in reply to my inquiries, told
me twice over that the appointment was for one. Now I suddenly learn--"

"Don't disturb yourself," interposed the elder. "No matter. You are a
little late. It's of no consequence...."

"I'm extremely obliged to you, and expected no less from your goodness."

Saying this, Dmitri bowed once more. Then, turning suddenly towards his
father, made him, too, a similarly low and respectful bow. He had
evidently considered it beforehand, and made this bow in all seriousness,
thinking it his duty to show his respect and good intentions.

Although Fyodor Pavlovitch was taken unawares, he was equal to the
occasion. In response to Dmitri's bow he jumped up from his chair and made
his son a bow as low in return. His face was suddenly solemn and
impressive, which gave him a positively malignant look. Dmitri bowed
generally to all present, and without a word walked to the window with his
long, resolute stride, sat down on the only empty chair, near Father
Paissy, and, bending forward, prepared to listen to the conversation he
had interrupted.

Dmitri's entrance had taken no more than two minutes, and the conversation
was resumed. But this time Miuesov thought it unnecessary to reply to
Father Paissy's persistent and almost irritable question.

"Allow me to withdraw from this discussion," he observed with a certain
well-bred nonchalance. "It's a subtle question, too. Here Ivan
Fyodorovitch is smiling at us. He must have something interesting to say
about that also. Ask him."

"Nothing special, except one little remark," Ivan replied at once.
"European Liberals in general, and even our liberal dilettanti, often mix
up the final results of socialism with those of Christianity. This wild
notion is, of course, a characteristic feature. But it's not only Liberals
and dilettanti who mix up socialism and Christianity, but, in many cases,
it appears, the police--the foreign police, of course--do the same. Your
Paris anecdote is rather to the point, Pyotr Alexandrovitch."

"I ask your permission to drop this subject altogether," Miuesov repeated.
"I will tell you instead, gentlemen, another interesting and rather
characteristic anecdote of Ivan Fyodorovitch himself. Only five days ago,
in a gathering here, principally of ladies, he solemnly declared in
argument that there was nothing in the whole world to make men love their
neighbors. That there was no law of nature that man should love mankind,
and that, if there had been any love on earth hitherto, it was not owing
to a natural law, but simply because men have believed in immortality.
Ivan Fyodorovitch added in parenthesis that the whole natural law lies in
that faith, and that if you were to destroy in mankind the belief in
immortality, not only love but every living force maintaining the life of
the world would at once be dried up. Moreover, nothing then would be
immoral, everything would be lawful, even cannibalism. That's not all. He
ended by asserting that for every individual, like ourselves, who does not
believe in God or immortality, the moral law of nature must immediately be
changed into the exact contrary of the former religious law, and that
egoism, even to crime, must become not only lawful but even recognized as
the inevitable, the most rational, even honorable outcome of his position.
From this paradox, gentlemen, you can judge of the rest of our eccentric
and paradoxical friend Ivan Fyodorovitch's theories."

"Excuse me," Dmitri cried suddenly; "if I've heard aright, crime must not
only be permitted but even recognized as the inevitable and the most
rational outcome of his position for every infidel! Is that so or not?"

"Quite so," said Father Paissy.

"I'll remember it."

Having uttered these words Dmitri ceased speaking as suddenly as he had
begun. Every one looked at him with curiosity.

"Is that really your conviction as to the consequences of the
disappearance of the faith in immortality?" the elder asked Ivan suddenly.

"Yes. That was my contention. There is no virtue if there is no
immortality."

"You are blessed in believing that, or else most unhappy."

"Why unhappy?" Ivan asked smiling.

"Because, in all probability you don't believe yourself in the immortality
of your soul, nor in what you have written yourself in your article on
Church jurisdiction."

"Perhaps you are right! ... But I wasn't altogether joking," Ivan suddenly
and strangely confessed, flushing quickly.

"You were not altogether joking. That's true. The question is still
fretting your heart, and not answered. But the martyr likes sometimes to
divert himself with his despair, as it were driven to it by despair
itself. Meanwhile, in your despair, you, too, divert yourself with
magazine articles, and discussions in society, though you don't believe
your own arguments, and with an aching heart mock at them inwardly....
That question you have not answered, and it is your great grief, for it
clamors for an answer."

"But can it be answered by me? Answered in the affirmative?" Ivan went on
asking strangely, still looking at the elder with the same inexplicable
smile.

"If it can't be decided in the affirmative, it will never be decided in
the negative. You know that that is the peculiarity of your heart, and all
its suffering is due to it. But thank the Creator who has given you a
lofty heart capable of such suffering; of thinking and seeking higher
things, for our dwelling is in the heavens. God grant that your heart will
attain the answer on earth, and may God bless your path."

The elder raised his hand and would have made the sign of the cross over
Ivan from where he stood. But the latter rose from his seat, went up to
him, received his blessing, and kissing his hand went back to his place in
silence. His face looked firm and earnest. This action and all the
preceding conversation, which was so surprising from Ivan, impressed every
one by its strangeness and a certain solemnity, so that all were silent
for a moment, and there was a look almost of apprehension in Alyosha's
face. But Miuesov suddenly shrugged his shoulders. And at the same moment
Fyodor Pavlovitch jumped up from his seat.

"Most pious and holy elder," he cried, pointing to Ivan, "that is my son,
flesh of my flesh, the dearest of my flesh! He is my most dutiful Karl
Moor, so to speak, while this son who has just come in, Dmitri, against
whom I am seeking justice from you, is the undutiful Franz Moor--they are
both out of Schiller's _Robbers_, and so I am the reigning Count von Moor!
Judge and save us! We need not only your prayers but your prophecies!"

"Speak without buffoonery, and don't begin by insulting the members of
your family," answered the elder, in a faint, exhausted voice. He was
obviously getting more and more fatigued, and his strength was failing.

"An unseemly farce which I foresaw when I came here!" cried Dmitri
indignantly. He too leapt up. "Forgive it, reverend Father," he added,
addressing the elder. "I am not a cultivated man, and I don't even know
how to address you properly, but you have been deceived and you have been
too good-natured in letting us meet here. All my father wants is a
scandal. Why he wants it only he can tell. He always has some motive. But
I believe I know why--"

"They all blame me, all of them!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch in his turn.
"Pyotr Alexandrovitch here blames me too. You have been blaming me, Pyotr
Alexandrovitch, you have!" he turned suddenly to Miuesov, although the
latter was not dreaming of interrupting him. "They all accuse me of having
hidden the children's money in my boots, and cheated them, but isn't there
a court of law? There they will reckon out for you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,
from your notes, your letters, and your agreements, how much money you
had, how much you have spent, and how much you have left. Why does Pyotr
Alexandrovitch refuse to pass judgment? Dmitri is not a stranger to him.
Because they are all against me, while Dmitri Fyodorovitch is in debt to
me, and not a little, but some thousands of which I have documentary
proof. The whole town is echoing with his debaucheries. And where he was
stationed before, he several times spent a thousand or two for the
seduction of some respectable girl; we know all about that, Dmitri
Fyodorovitch, in its most secret details. I'll prove it.... Would you
believe it, holy Father, he has captivated the heart of the most honorable
of young ladies of good family and fortune, daughter of a gallant colonel,
formerly his superior officer, who had received many honors and had the
Anna Order on his breast. He compromised the girl by his promise of
marriage, now she is an orphan and here; she is betrothed to him, yet
before her very eyes he is dancing attendance on a certain enchantress.
And although this enchantress has lived in, so to speak, civil marriage
with a respectable man, yet she is of an independent character, an
unapproachable fortress for everybody, just like a legal wife--for she is
virtuous, yes, holy Fathers, she is virtuous. Dmitri Fyodorovitch wants to
open this fortress with a golden key, and that's why he is insolent to me
now, trying to get money from me, though he has wasted thousands on this
enchantress already. He's continually borrowing money for the purpose.
From whom do you think? Shall I say, Mitya?"

"Be silent!" cried Dmitri, "wait till I'm gone. Don't dare in my presence
to asperse the good name of an honorable girl! That you should utter a
word about her is an outrage, and I won't permit it!"

He was breathless.

"Mitya! Mitya!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch hysterically, squeezing out a
tear. "And is your father's blessing nothing to you? If I curse you, what
then?"

"Shameless hypocrite!" exclaimed Dmitri furiously.

"He says that to his father! his father! What would he be with others?
Gentlemen, only fancy; there's a poor but honorable man living here,
burdened with a numerous family, a captain who got into trouble and was
discharged from the army, but not publicly, not by court-martial, with no
slur on his honor. And three weeks ago, Dmitri seized him by the beard in
a tavern, dragged him out into the street and beat him publicly, and all
because he is an agent in a little business of mine."

"It's all a lie! Outwardly it's the truth, but inwardly a lie!" Dmitri was
trembling with rage. "Father, I don't justify my action. Yes, I confess it
publicly, I behaved like a brute to that captain, and I regret it now, and
I'm disgusted with myself for my brutal rage. But this captain, this agent
of yours, went to that lady whom you call an enchantress, and suggested to
her from you, that she should take I.O.U.'s of mine which were in your
possession, and should sue me for the money so as to get me into prison by
means of them, if I persisted in claiming an account from you of my
property. Now you reproach me for having a weakness for that lady when you
yourself incited her to captivate me! She told me so to my face.... She
told me the story and laughed at you.... You wanted to put me in prison
because you are jealous of me with her, because you'd begun to force your
attentions upon her; and I know all about that, too; she laughed at you
for that as well--you hear--she laughed at you as she described it. So here
you have this man, this father who reproaches his profligate son!
Gentlemen, forgive my anger, but I foresaw that this crafty old man would
only bring you together to create a scandal. I had come to forgive him if
he held out his hand; to forgive him, and ask forgiveness! But as he has
just this minute insulted not only me, but an honorable young lady, for
whom I feel such reverence that I dare not take her name in vain, I have
made up my mind to show up his game, though he is my father...."

He could not go on. His eyes were glittering and he breathed with
difficulty. But every one in the cell was stirred. All except Father
Zossima got up from their seats uneasily. The monks looked austere but
waited for guidance from the elder. He sat still, pale, not from
excitement but from the weakness of disease. An imploring smile lighted up
his face; from time to time he raised his hand, as though to check the
storm, and, of course, a gesture from him would have been enough to end
the scene; but he seemed to be waiting for something and watched them
intently as though trying to make out something which was not perfectly
clear to him. At last Miuesov felt completely humiliated and disgraced.

"We are all to blame for this scandalous scene," he said hotly. "But I did
not foresee it when I came, though I knew with whom I had to deal. This
must be stopped at once! Believe me, your reverence, I had no precise
knowledge of the details that have just come to light, I was unwilling to
believe them, and I learn for the first time.... A father is jealous of
his son's relations with a woman of loose behavior and intrigues with the
creature to get his son into prison! This is the company in which I have
been forced to be present! I was deceived. I declare to you all that I was
as much deceived as any one."

"Dmitri Fyodorovitch," yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch suddenly, in an unnatural
voice, "if you were not my son I would challenge you this instant to a
duel ... with pistols, at three paces ... across a handkerchief," he
ended, stamping with both feet.

With old liars who have been acting all their lives there are moments when
they enter so completely into their part that they tremble or shed tears
of emotion in earnest, although at that very moment, or a second later,
they are able to whisper to themselves, "You know you are lying, you
shameless old sinner! You're acting now, in spite of your 'holy' wrath."

Dmitri frowned painfully, and looked with unutterable contempt at his
father.

"I thought ... I thought," he said, in a soft and, as it were, controlled
voice, "that I was coming to my native place with the angel of my heart,
my betrothed, to cherish his old age, and I find nothing but a depraved
profligate, a despicable clown!"

"A duel!" yelled the old wretch again, breathless and spluttering at each
syllable. "And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, let me tell you that
there has never been in all your family a loftier, and more honest--you
hear--more honest woman than this 'creature,' as you have dared to call
her! And you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, have abandoned your betrothed for that
'creature,' so you must yourself have thought that your betrothed couldn't
hold a candle to her. That's the woman called a 'creature'!"

"Shameful!" broke from Father Iosif.

"Shameful and disgraceful!" Kalganov, flushing crimson, cried in a boyish
voice, trembling with emotion. He had been silent till that moment.

"Why is such a man alive?" Dmitri, beside himself with rage, growled in a
hollow voice, hunching up his shoulders till he looked almost deformed.
"Tell me, can he be allowed to go on defiling the earth?" He looked round
at every one and pointed at the old man. He spoke evenly and deliberately.

"Listen, listen, monks, to the parricide!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch,
rushing up to Father Iosif. "That's the answer to your 'shameful!' What is
shameful? That 'creature,' that 'woman of loose behavior' is perhaps
holier than you are yourselves, you monks who are seeking salvation! She
fell perhaps in her youth, ruined by her environment. But she loved much,
and Christ himself forgave the woman 'who loved much.' "

"It was not for such love Christ forgave her," broke impatiently from the
gentle Father Iosif.

"Yes, it was for such, monks, it was! You save your souls here, eating
cabbage, and think you are the righteous. You eat a gudgeon a day, and you
think you bribe God with gudgeon."

"This is unendurable!" was heard on all sides in the cell.

But this unseemly scene was cut short in a most unexpected way. Father
Zossima rose suddenly from his seat. Almost distracted with anxiety for
the elder and every one else, Alyosha succeeded, however, in supporting
him by the arm. Father Zossima moved towards Dmitri and reaching him sank
on his knees before him. Alyosha thought that he had fallen from weakness,
but this was not so. The elder distinctly and deliberately bowed down at
Dmitri's feet till his forehead touched the floor. Alyosha was so
astounded that he failed to assist him when he got up again. There was a
faint smile on his lips.

"Good-by! Forgive me, all of you!" he said, bowing on all sides to his
guests.

Dmitri stood for a few moments in amazement. Bowing down to him--what did
it mean? Suddenly he cried aloud, "Oh, God!" hid his face in his hands,
and rushed out of the room. All the guests flocked out after him, in their
confusion not saying good-by, or bowing to their host. Only the monks went
up to him again for a blessing.

"What did it mean, falling at his feet like that? Was it symbolic or
what?" said Fyodor Pavlovitch, suddenly quieted and trying to reopen
conversation without venturing to address anybody in particular. They were
all passing out of the precincts of the hermitage at the moment.

"I can't answer for a madhouse and for madmen," Miuesov answered at once
ill-humoredly, "but I will spare myself your company, Fyodor Pavlovitch,
and, trust me, for ever. Where's that monk?"

"That monk," that is, the monk who had invited them to dine with the
Superior, did not keep them waiting. He met them as soon as they came down
the steps from the elder's cell, as though he had been waiting for them
all the time.

"Reverend Father, kindly do me a favor. Convey my deepest respect to the
Father Superior, apologize for me, personally, Miuesov, to his reverence,
telling him that I deeply regret that owing to unforeseen circumstances I
am unable to have the honor of being present at his table, greatly as I
should desire to do so," Miuesov said irritably to the monk.

"And that unforeseen circumstance, of course, is myself," Fyodor
Pavlovitch cut in immediately. "Do you hear, Father; this gentleman
doesn't want to remain in my company or else he'd come at once. And you
shall go, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, pray go to the Father Superior and good
appetite to you. I will decline, and not you. Home, home, I'll eat at
home, I don't feel equal to it here, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, my amiable
relative."

"I am not your relative and never have been, you contemptible man!"

"I said it on purpose to madden you, because you always disclaim the
relationship, though you really are a relation in spite of your shuffling.
I'll prove it by the church calendar. As for you, Ivan, stay if you like.
I'll send the horses for you later. Propriety requires you to go to the
Father Superior, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to apologize for the disturbance
we've been making...."

"Is it true that you are going home? Aren't you lying?"

"Pyotr Alexandrovitch! How could I dare after what's happened! Forgive me,
gentlemen, I was carried away! And upset besides! And, indeed, I am
ashamed. Gentlemen, one man has the heart of Alexander of Macedon and
another the heart of the little dog Fido. Mine is that of the little dog
Fido. I am ashamed! After such an escapade how can I go to dinner, to
gobble up the monastery's sauces? I am ashamed, I can't. You must excuse
me!"

"The devil only knows, what if he deceives us?" thought Miuesov, still
hesitating, and watching the retreating buffoon with distrustful eyes. The
latter turned round, and noticing that Miuesov was watching him, waved him
a kiss.

"Well, are you coming to the Superior?" Miuesov asked Ivan abruptly.

"Why not? I was especially invited yesterday."

"Unfortunately I feel myself compelled to go to this confounded dinner,"
said Miuesov with the same irritability, regardless of the fact that the
monk was listening. "We ought, at least, to apologize for the disturbance,
and explain that it was not our doing. What do you think?"

"Yes, we must explain that it wasn't our doing. Besides, father won't be
there," observed Ivan.

"Well, I should hope not! Confound this dinner!"

They all walked on, however. The monk listened in silence. On the road
through the copse he made one observation however--that the Father Superior
had been waiting a long time, and that they were more than half an hour
late. He received no answer. Miuesov looked with hatred at Ivan.

"Here he is, going to the dinner as though nothing had happened," he
thought. "A brazen face, and the conscience of a Karamazov!"

Chapter VII. A Young Man Bent On A Career

Alyosha helped Father Zossima to his bedroom and seated him on his bed. It
was a little room furnished with the bare necessities. There was a narrow
iron bedstead, with a strip of felt for a mattress. In the corner, under
the ikons, was a reading-desk with a cross and the Gospel lying on it. The
elder sank exhausted on the bed. His eyes glittered and he breathed hard.
He looked intently at Alyosha, as though considering something.

"Go, my dear boy, go. Porfiry is enough for me. Make haste, you are needed
there, go and wait at the Father Superior's table."

"Let me stay here," Alyosha entreated.

"You are more needed there. There is no peace there. You will wait, and be
of service. If evil spirits rise up, repeat a prayer. And remember, my
son"--the elder liked to call him that--"this is not the place for you in
the future. When it is God's will to call me, leave the monastery. Go away
for good."

Alyosha started.

"What is it? This is not your place for the time. I bless you for great
service in the world. Yours will be a long pilgrimage. And you will have
to take a wife, too. You will have to bear _all_ before you come back.
There will be much to do. But I don't doubt of you, and so I send you
forth. Christ is with you. Do not abandon Him and He will not abandon you.
You will see great sorrow, and in that sorrow you will be happy. This is
my last message to you: in sorrow seek happiness. Work, work unceasingly.
Remember my words, for although I shall talk with you again, not only my
days but my hours are numbered."

Alyosha's face again betrayed strong emotion. The corners of his mouth
quivered.

"What is it again?" Father Zossima asked, smiling gently. "The worldly may
follow the dead with tears, but here we rejoice over the father who is
departing. We rejoice and pray for him. Leave me, I must pray. Go, and
make haste. Be near your brothers. And not near one only, but near both."

Father Zossima raised his hand to bless him. Alyosha could make no
protest, though he had a great longing to remain. He longed, moreover, to
ask the significance of his bowing to Dmitri, the question was on the tip
of his tongue, but he dared not ask it. He knew that the elder would have
explained it unasked if he had thought fit. But evidently it was not his
will. That action had made a terrible impression on Alyosha; he believed
blindly in its mysterious significance. Mysterious, and perhaps awful.

As he hastened out of the hermitage precincts to reach the monastery in
time to serve at the Father Superior's dinner, he felt a sudden pang at
his heart, and stopped short. He seemed to hear again Father Zossima's
words, foretelling his approaching end. What he had foretold so exactly
must infallibly come to pass. Alyosha believed that implicitly. But how
could he be left without him? How could he live without seeing and hearing
him? Where should he go? He had told him not to weep, and to leave the
monastery. Good God! It was long since Alyosha had known such anguish. He
hurried through the copse that divided the monastery from the hermitage,
and unable to bear the burden of his thoughts, he gazed at the ancient
pines beside the path. He had not far to go--about five hundred paces. He
expected to meet no one at that hour, but at the first turn of the path he
noticed Rakitin. He was waiting for some one.

"Are you waiting for me?" asked Alyosha, overtaking him.

"Yes," grinned Rakitin. "You are hurrying to the Father Superior, I know;
he has a banquet. There's not been such a banquet since the Superior
entertained the Bishop and General Pahatov, do you remember? I shan't be
there, but you go and hand the sauces. Tell me one thing, Alexey, what
does that vision mean? That's what I want to ask you."

"What vision?"

"That bowing to your brother, Dmitri. And didn't he tap the ground with
his forehead, too!"

"You speak of Father Zossima?"

"Yes, of Father Zossima."

"Tapped the ground?"

"Ah, an irreverent expression! Well, what of it? Anyway, what does that
vision mean?"

"I don't know what it means, Misha."

"I knew he wouldn't explain it to you! There's nothing wonderful about it,
of course, only the usual holy mummery. But there was an object in the
performance. All the pious people in the town will talk about it and
spread the story through the province, wondering what it meant. To my
thinking the old man really has a keen nose; he sniffed a crime. Your
house stinks of it."

"What crime?"

Rakitin evidently had something he was eager to speak of.

"It'll be in your family, this crime. Between your brothers and your rich
old father. So Father Zossima flopped down to be ready for what may turn
up. If something happens later on, it'll be: 'Ah, the holy man foresaw it,
prophesied it!' though it's a poor sort of prophecy, flopping like that.
'Ah, but it was symbolic,' they'll say, 'an allegory,' and the devil knows
what all! It'll be remembered to his glory: 'He predicted the crime and
marked the criminal!' That's always the way with these crazy fanatics;
they cross themselves at the tavern and throw stones at the temple. Like
your elder, he takes a stick to a just man and falls at the feet of a
murderer."

"What crime? What murderer? What do you mean?"

Alyosha stopped dead. Rakitin stopped, too.

"What murderer? As though you didn't know! I'll bet you've thought of it
before. That's interesting, too, by the way. Listen, Alyosha, you always
speak the truth, though you're always between two stools. Have you thought
of it or not? Answer."

"I have," answered Alyosha in a low voice. Even Rakitin was taken aback.

"What? Have you really?" he cried.

"I ... I've not exactly thought it," muttered Alyosha, "but directly you
began speaking so strangely, I fancied I had thought of it myself."

"You see? (And how well you expressed it!) Looking at your father and your
brother Mitya to-day you thought of a crime. Then I'm not mistaken?"

"But wait, wait a minute," Alyosha broke in uneasily. "What has led you to
see all this? Why does it interest you? That's the first question."

"Two questions, disconnected, but natural. I'll deal with them separately.
What led me to see it? I shouldn't have seen it, if I hadn't suddenly
understood your brother Dmitri, seen right into the very heart of him all
at once. I caught the whole man from one trait. These very honest but
passionate people have a line which mustn't be crossed. If it were, he'd
run at your father with a knife. But your father's a drunken and abandoned
old sinner, who can never draw the line--if they both let themselves go,
they'll both come to grief."

"No, Misha, no. If that's all, you've reassured me. It won't come to
that."

"But why are you trembling? Let me tell you; he may be honest, our Mitya
(he is stupid, but honest), but he's--a sensualist. That's the very
definition and inner essence of him. It's your father has handed him on
his low sensuality. Do you know, I simply wonder at you, Alyosha, how you
can have kept your purity. You're a Karamazov too, you know! In your
family sensuality is carried to a disease. But now, these three
sensualists are watching one another, with their knives in their belts.
The three of them are knocking their heads together, and you may be the
fourth."

"You are mistaken about that woman. Dmitri--despises her," said Alyosha,
with a sort of shudder.

"Grushenka? No, brother, he doesn't despise her. Since he has openly
abandoned his betrothed for her, he doesn't despise her. There's something
here, my dear boy, that you don't understand yet. A man will fall in love
with some beauty, with a woman's body, or even with a part of a woman's
body (a sensualist can understand that), and he'll abandon his own
children for her, sell his father and mother, and his country, Russia,
too. If he's honest, he'll steal; if he's humane, he'll murder; if he's
faithful, he'll deceive. Pushkin, the poet of women's feet, sung of their
feet in his verse. Others don't sing their praises, but they can't look at
their feet without a thrill--and it's not only their feet. Contempt's no
help here, brother, even if he did despise Grushenka. He does, but he
can't tear himself away."

"I understand that," Alyosha jerked out suddenly.

"Really? Well, I dare say you do understand, since you blurt it out at the
first word," said Rakitin, malignantly. "That escaped you unawares, and
the confession's the more precious. So it's a familiar subject; you've
thought about it already, about sensuality, I mean! Oh, you virgin soul!
You're a quiet one, Alyosha, you're a saint, I know, but the devil only
knows what you've thought about, and what you know already! You are pure,
but you've been down into the depths.... I've been watching you a long
time. You're a Karamazov yourself; you're a thorough Karamazov--no doubt
birth and selection have something to answer for. You're a sensualist from
your father, a crazy saint from your mother. Why do you tremble? Is it
true, then? Do you know, Grushenka has been begging me to bring you along.
'I'll pull off his cassock,' she says. You can't think how she keeps
begging me to bring you. I wondered why she took such an interest in you.
Do you know, she's an extraordinary woman, too!"

"Thank her and say I'm not coming," said Alyosha, with a strained smile.
"Finish what you were saying, Misha. I'll tell you my idea after."

"There's nothing to finish. It's all clear. It's the same old tune,
brother. If even you are a sensualist at heart, what of your brother,
Ivan? He's a Karamazov, too. What is at the root of all you Karamazovs is
that you're all sensual, grasping and crazy! Your brother Ivan writes
theological articles in joke, for some idiotic, unknown motive of his own,
though he's an atheist, and he admits it's a fraud himself--that's your
brother Ivan. He's trying to get Mitya's betrothed for himself, and I
fancy he'll succeed, too. And what's more, it's with Mitya's consent. For
Mitya will surrender his betrothed to him to be rid of her, and escape to
Grushenka. And he's ready to do that in spite of all his nobility and
disinterestedness. Observe that. Those are the most fatal people! Who the
devil can make you out? He recognizes his vileness and goes on with it!
Let me tell you, too, the old man, your father, is standing in Mitya's way
now. He has suddenly gone crazy over Grushenka. His mouth waters at the
sight of her. It's simply on her account he made that scene in the cell
just now, simply because Miuesov called her an 'abandoned creature.' He's
worse than a tom-cat in love. At first she was only employed by him in
connection with his taverns and in some other shady business, but now he
has suddenly realized all she is and has gone wild about her. He keeps
pestering her with his offers, not honorable ones, of course. And they'll
come into collision, the precious father and son, on that path! But
Grushenka favors neither of them, she's still playing with them, and
teasing them both, considering which she can get most out of. For though
she could filch a lot of money from the papa he wouldn't marry her, and
maybe he'll turn stingy in the end, and keep his purse shut. That's where
Mitya's value comes in; he has no money, but he's ready to marry her. Yes,
ready to marry her! to abandon his betrothed, a rare beauty, Katerina
Ivanovna, who's rich, and the daughter of a colonel, and to marry
Grushenka, who has been the mistress of a dissolute old merchant,
Samsonov, a coarse, uneducated, provincial mayor. Some murderous conflict
may well come to pass from all this, and that's what your brother Ivan is
waiting for. It would suit him down to the ground. He'll carry off
Katerina Ivanovna, for whom he is languishing, and pocket her dowry of
sixty thousand. That's very alluring to start with, for a man of no
consequence and a beggar. And, take note, he won't be wronging Mitya, but
doing him the greatest service. For I know as a fact that Mitya only last
week, when he was with some gypsy girls drunk in a tavern, cried out aloud
that he was unworthy of his betrothed, Katya, but that his brother Ivan,
he was the man who deserved her. And Katerina Ivanovna will not in the end
refuse such a fascinating man as Ivan. She's hesitating between the two of
them already. And how has that Ivan won you all, so that you all worship
him? He is laughing at you, and enjoying himself at your expense."

"How do you know? How can you speak so confidently?" Alyosha asked
sharply, frowning.

"Why do you ask, and are frightened at my answer? It shows that you know
I'm speaking the truth."

"You don't like Ivan. Ivan wouldn't be tempted by money."

"Really? And the beauty of Katerina Ivanovna? It's not only the money,
though a fortune of sixty thousand is an attraction."

"Ivan is above that. He wouldn't make up to any one for thousands. It is
not money, it's not comfort Ivan is seeking. Perhaps it's suffering he is
seeking."

"What wild dream now? Oh, you--aristocrats!"

"Ah, Misha, he has a stormy spirit. His mind is in bondage. He is haunted
by a great, unsolved doubt. He is one of those who don't want millions,
but an answer to their questions."

"That's plagiarism, Alyosha. You're quoting your elder's phrases. Ah, Ivan
has set you a problem!" cried Rakitin, with undisguised malice. His face
changed, and his lips twitched. "And the problem's a stupid one. It is no
good guessing it. Rack your brains--you'll understand it. His article is
absurd and ridiculous. And did you hear his stupid theory just now: if
there's no immortality of the soul, then there's no virtue, and everything
is lawful. (And by the way, do you remember how your brother Mitya cried
out: 'I will remember!') An attractive theory for scoundrels!--(I'm being
abusive, that's stupid.) Not for scoundrels, but for pedantic _poseurs_,
'haunted by profound, unsolved doubts.' He's showing off, and what it all
comes to is, 'on the one hand we cannot but admit' and 'on the other it
must be confessed!' His whole theory is a fraud! Humanity will find in
itself the power to live for virtue even without believing in immortality.
It will find it in love for freedom, for equality, for fraternity."

Rakitin could hardly restrain himself in his heat, but, suddenly, as
though remembering something, he stopped short.

"Well, that's enough," he said, with a still more crooked smile. "Why are
you laughing? Do you think I'm a vulgar fool?"

"No, I never dreamed of thinking you a vulgar fool. You are clever but ...
never mind, I was silly to smile. I understand your getting hot about it,
Misha. I guess from your warmth that you are not indifferent to Katerina
Ivanovna yourself; I've suspected that for a long time, brother, that's
why you don't like my brother Ivan. Are you jealous of him?"

"And jealous of her money, too? Won't you add that?"

"I'll say nothing about money. I am not going to insult you."

"I believe it, since you say so, but confound you, and your brother Ivan
with you. Don't you understand that one might very well dislike him, apart
from Katerina Ivanovna. And why the devil should I like him? He
condescends to abuse me, you know. Why haven't I a right to abuse him?"

"I never heard of his saying anything about you, good or bad. He doesn't
speak of you at all."

"But I heard that the day before yesterday at Katerina Ivanovna's he was
abusing me for all he was worth--you see what an interest he takes in your
humble servant. And which is the jealous one after that, brother, I can't
say. He was so good as to express the opinion that, if I don't go in for
the career of an archimandrite in the immediate future and don't become a
monk, I shall be sure to go to Petersburg and get on to some solid
magazine as a reviewer, that I shall write for the next ten years, and in
the end become the owner of the magazine, and bring it out on the liberal
and atheistic side, with a socialistic tinge, with a tiny gloss of
socialism, but keeping a sharp look out all the time, that is, keeping in
with both sides and hoodwinking the fools. According to your brother's
account, the tinge of socialism won't hinder me from laying by the
proceeds and investing them under the guidance of some Jew, till at the
end of my career I build a great house in Petersburg and move my
publishing offices to it, and let out the upper stories to lodgers. He has
even chosen the place for it, near the new stone bridge across the Neva,
which they say is to be built in Petersburg."

"Ah, Misha, that's just what will really happen, every word of it," cried
Alyosha, unable to restrain a good-humored smile.

"You are pleased to be sarcastic, too, Alexey Fyodorovitch."

"No, no, I'm joking, forgive me. I've something quite different in my
mind. But, excuse me, who can have told you all this? You can't have been
at Katerina Ivanovna's yourself when he was talking about you?"

"I wasn't there, but Dmitri Fyodorovitch was; and I heard him tell it with
my own ears; if you want to know, he didn't tell me, but I overheard him,
unintentionally, of course, for I was sitting in Grushenka's bedroom and I
couldn't go away because Dmitri Fyodorovitch was in the next room."

"Oh, yes, I'd forgotten she was a relation of yours."

"A relation! That Grushenka a relation of mine!" cried Rakitin, turning
crimson. "Are you mad? You're out of your mind!"

"Why, isn't she a relation of yours? I heard so."

"Where can you have heard it? You Karamazovs brag of being an ancient,
noble family, though your father used to run about playing the buffoon at
other men's tables, and was only admitted to the kitchen as a favor. I may
be only a priest's son, and dirt in the eyes of noblemen like you, but
don't insult me so lightly and wantonly. I have a sense of honor, too,
Alexey Fyodorovitch, I couldn't be a relation of Grushenka, a common
harlot. I beg you to understand that!"

Rakitin was intensely irritated.

"Forgive me, for goodness' sake, I had no idea ... besides ... how can you
call her a harlot? Is she ... that sort of woman?" Alyosha flushed
suddenly. "I tell you again, I heard that she was a relation of yours. You
often go to see her, and you told me yourself you're not her lover. I
never dreamed that you of all people had such contempt for her! Does she
really deserve it?"

"I may have reasons of my own for visiting her. That's not your business.
But as for relationship, your brother, or even your father, is more likely
to make her yours than mine. Well, here we are. You'd better go to the
kitchen. Hullo! what's wrong, what is it? Are we late? They can't have
finished dinner so soon! Have the Karamazovs been making trouble again? No
doubt they have. Here's your father and your brother Ivan after him.
They've broken out from the Father Superior's. And look, Father Isidor's
shouting out something after them from the steps. And your father's
shouting and waving his arms. I expect he's swearing. Bah, and there goes
Miuesov driving away in his carriage. You see, he's going. And there's old
Maximov running!--there must have been a row. There can't have been any
dinner. Surely they've not been beating the Father Superior! Or have they,
perhaps, been beaten? It would serve them right!"

There was reason for Rakitin's exclamations. There had been a scandalous,
an unprecedented scene. It had all come from the impulse of a moment.

Chapter VIII. The Scandalous Scene

Miuesov, as a man of breeding and delicacy, could not but feel some inward
qualms, when he reached the Father Superior's with Ivan: he felt ashamed
of having lost his temper. He felt that he ought to have disdained that
despicable wretch, Fyodor Pavlovitch, too much to have been upset by him
in Father Zossima's cell, and so to have forgotten himself. "The monks
were not to blame, in any case," he reflected, on the steps. "And if
they're decent people here (and the Father Superior, I understand, is a
nobleman) why not be friendly and courteous with them? I won't argue, I'll
fall in with everything, I'll win them by politeness, and ... and ... show
them that I've nothing to do with that AEsop, that buffoon, that Pierrot,
and have merely been taken in over this affair, just as they have."

He determined to drop his litigation with the monastery, and relinquish
his claims to the wood-cutting and fishery rights at once. He was the more
ready to do this because the rights had become much less valuable, and he
had indeed the vaguest idea where the wood and river in question were.

These excellent intentions were strengthened when he entered the Father
Superior's dining-room, though, strictly speaking, it was not a dining-
room, for the Father Superior had only two rooms altogether; they were,
however, much larger and more comfortable than Father Zossima's. But there
was no great luxury about the furnishing of these rooms either. The
furniture was of mahogany, covered with leather, in the old-fashioned
style of 1820; the floor was not even stained, but everything was shining
with cleanliness, and there were many choice flowers in the windows; the
most sumptuous thing in the room at the moment was, of course, the
beautifully decorated table. The cloth was clean, the service shone; there
were three kinds of well-baked bread, two bottles of wine, two of
excellent mead, and a large glass jug of kvas--both the latter made in the
monastery, and famous in the neighborhood. There was no vodka. Rakitin
related afterwards that there were five dishes: fish-soup made of
sterlets, served with little fish patties; then boiled fish served in a
special way; then salmon cutlets, ice pudding and compote, and finally,
blanc-mange. Rakitin found out about all these good things, for he could
not resist peeping into the kitchen, where he already had a footing. He
had a footing everywhere, and got information about everything. He was of
an uneasy and envious temper. He was well aware of his own considerable
abilities, and nervously exaggerated them in his self-conceit. He knew he
would play a prominent part of some sort, but Alyosha, who was attached to
him, was distressed to see that his friend Rakitin was dishonorable, and
quite unconscious of being so himself, considering, on the contrary, that
because he would not steal money left on the table he was a man of the
highest integrity. Neither Alyosha nor any one else could have influenced
him in that.

Rakitin, of course, was a person of too little consequence to be invited
to the dinner, to which Father Iosif, Father Paissy, and one other monk
were the only inmates of the monastery invited. They were already waiting
when Miuesov, Kalganov, and Ivan arrived. The other guest, Maximov, stood a
little aside, waiting also. The Father Superior stepped into the middle of
the room to receive his guests. He was a tall, thin, but still vigorous
old man, with black hair streaked with gray, and a long, grave, ascetic
face. He bowed to his guests in silence. But this time they approached to
receive his blessing. Miuesov even tried to kiss his hand, but the Father
Superior drew it back in time to avoid the salute. But Ivan and Kalganov
went through the ceremony in the most simple-hearted and complete manner,
kissing his hand as peasants do.

"We must apologize most humbly, your reverence," began Miuesov, simpering
affably, and speaking in a dignified and respectful tone. "Pardon us for
having come alone without the gentleman you invited, Fyodor Pavlovitch. He
felt obliged to decline the honor of your hospitality, and not without
reason. In the reverend Father Zossima's cell he was carried away by the
unhappy dissension with his son, and let fall words which were quite out
of keeping ... in fact, quite unseemly ... as"--he glanced at the
monks--"your reverence is, no doubt, already aware. And therefore,
recognizing that he had been to blame, he felt sincere regret and shame,
and begged me, and his son Ivan Fyodorovitch, to convey to you his
apologies and regrets. In brief, he hopes and desires to make amends
later. He asks your blessing, and begs you to forget what has taken
place."

As he uttered the last word of his tirade, Miuesov completely recovered his
self-complacency, and all traces of his former irritation disappeared. He
fully and sincerely loved humanity again.

The Father Superior listened to him with dignity, and, with a slight bend
of the head, replied:

"I sincerely deplore his absence. Perhaps at our table he might have
learnt to like us, and we him. Pray be seated, gentlemen."

He stood before the holy image, and began to say grace, aloud. All bent
their heads reverently, and Maximov clasped his hands before him, with
peculiar fervor.

It was at this moment that Fyodor Pavlovitch played his last prank. It
must be noted that he really had meant to go home, and really had felt the
impossibility of going to dine with the Father Superior as though nothing
had happened, after his disgraceful behavior in the elder's cell. Not that
he was so very much ashamed of himself--quite the contrary perhaps. But
still he felt it would be unseemly to go to dinner. Yet his creaking
carriage had hardly been brought to the steps of the hotel, and he had
hardly got into it, when he suddenly stopped short. He remembered his own
words at the elder's: "I always feel when I meet people that I am lower
than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon; so I say let me play
the buffoon, for you are, every one of you, stupider and lower than I." He
longed to revenge himself on every one for his own unseemliness. He
suddenly recalled how he had once in the past been asked, "Why do you hate
so and so, so much?" And he had answered them, with his shameless
impudence, "I'll tell you. He has done me no harm. But I played him a
dirty trick, and ever since I have hated him."

Remembering that now, he smiled quietly and malignantly, hesitating for a
moment. His eyes gleamed, and his lips positively quivered. "Well, since I
have begun, I may as well go on," he decided. His predominant sensation at
that moment might be expressed in the following words, "Well, there is no
rehabilitating myself now. So let me shame them for all I am worth. I will
show them I don't care what they think--that's all!"

He told the coachman to wait, while with rapid steps he returned to the
monastery and straight to the Father Superior's. He had no clear idea what
he would do, but he knew that he could not control himself, and that a
touch might drive him to the utmost limits of obscenity, but only to
obscenity, to nothing criminal, nothing for which he could be legally
punished. In the last resort, he could always restrain himself, and had
marveled indeed at himself, on that score, sometimes. He appeared in the
Father Superior's dining-room, at the moment when the prayer was over, and
all were moving to the table. Standing in the doorway, he scanned the
company, and laughing his prolonged, impudent, malicious chuckle, looked
them all boldly in the face. "They thought I had gone, and here I am
again," he cried to the whole room.

For one moment every one stared at him without a word; and at once every
one felt that something revolting, grotesque, positively scandalous, was
about to happen. Miuesov passed immediately from the most benevolent frame
of mind to the most savage. All the feelings that had subsided and died
down in his heart revived instantly.

"No! this I cannot endure!" he cried. "I absolutely cannot! and ... I
certainly cannot!"

The blood rushed to his head. He positively stammered; but he was beyond
thinking of style, and he seized his hat.

"What is it he cannot?" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, "that he absolutely
cannot and certainly cannot? Your reverence, am I to come in or not? Will
you receive me as your guest?"

"You are welcome with all my heart," answered the Superior. "Gentlemen!"
he added, "I venture to beg you most earnestly to lay aside your
dissensions, and to be united in love and family harmony--with prayer to
the Lord at our humble table."

"No, no, it is impossible!" cried Miuesov, beside himself.

"Well, if it is impossible for Pyotr Alexandrovitch, it is impossible for
me, and I won't stop. That is why I came. I will keep with Pyotr
Alexandrovitch everywhere now. If you will go away, Pyotr Alexandrovitch,
I will go away too, if you remain, I will remain. You stung him by what
you said about family harmony, Father Superior, he does not admit he is my
relation. That's right, isn't it, von Sohn? Here's von Sohn. How are you,
von Sohn?"

"Do you mean me?" muttered Maximov, puzzled.

"Of course I mean you," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. "Who else? The Father
Superior could not be von Sohn."

"But I am not von Sohn either. I am Maximov."

"No, you are von Sohn. Your reverence, do you know who von Sohn was? It
was a famous murder case. He was killed in a house of harlotry--I believe
that is what such places are called among you--he was killed and robbed,
and in spite of his venerable age, he was nailed up in a box and sent from
Petersburg to Moscow in the luggage van, and while they were nailing him
up, the harlots sang songs and played the harp, that is to say, the piano.
So this is that very von Sohn. He has risen from the dead, hasn't he, von
Sohn?"

"What is happening? What's this?" voices were heard in the group of monks.

"Let us go," cried Miuesov, addressing Kalganov.

"No, excuse me," Fyodor Pavlovitch broke in shrilly, taking another step
into the room. "Allow me to finish. There in the cell you blamed me for
behaving disrespectfully just because I spoke of eating gudgeon, Pyotr
Alexandrovitch. Miuesov, my relation, prefers to have _plus de noblesse que
de sincerite_ in his words, but I prefer in mine _plus de sincerite que de
noblesse_, and--damn the _noblesse_! That's right, isn't it, von Sohn?
Allow me, Father Superior, though I am a buffoon and play the buffoon, yet
I am the soul of honor, and I want to speak my mind. Yes, I am the soul of
honor, while in Pyotr Alexandrovitch there is wounded vanity and nothing
else. I came here perhaps to have a look and speak my mind. My son,
Alexey, is here, being saved. I am his father; I care for his welfare, and
it is my duty to care. While I've been playing the fool, I have been
listening and having a look on the sly; and now I want to give you the
last act of the performance. You know how things are with us? As a thing
falls, so it lies. As a thing once has fallen, so it must lie for ever.
Not a bit of it! I want to get up again. Holy Father, I am indignant with
you. Confession is a great sacrament, before which I am ready to bow down
reverently; but there in the cell, they all kneel down and confess aloud.
Can it be right to confess aloud? It was ordained by the holy Fathers to
confess in secret: then only your confession will be a mystery, and so it
was of old. But how can I explain to him before every one that I did this
and that ... well, you understand what--sometimes it would not be proper to
talk about it--so it is really a scandal! No, Fathers, one might be carried
along with you to the Flagellants, I dare say ... at the first opportunity
I shall write to the Synod, and I shall take my son, Alexey, home."

We must note here that Fyodor Pavlovitch knew where to look for the weak
spot. There had been at one time malicious rumors which had even reached
the Archbishop (not only regarding our monastery, but in others where the
institution of elders existed) that too much respect was paid to the
elders, even to the detriment of the authority of the Superior, that the
elders abused the sacrament of confession and so on and so on--absurd
charges which had died away of themselves everywhere. But the spirit of
folly, which had caught up Fyodor Pavlovitch, and was bearing him on the
current of his own nerves into lower and lower depths of ignominy,
prompted him with this old slander. Fyodor Pavlovitch did not understand a
word of it, and he could not even put it sensibly, for on this occasion no
one had been kneeling and confessing aloud in the elder's cell, so that he
could not have seen anything of the kind. He was only speaking from
confused memory of old slanders. But as soon as he had uttered his foolish
tirade, he felt he had been talking absurd nonsense, and at once longed to
prove to his audience, and above all to himself, that he had not been
talking nonsense. And, though he knew perfectly well that with each word
he would be adding more and more absurdity, he could not restrain himself,
and plunged forward blindly.

"How disgraceful!" cried Pyotr Alexandrovitch.

"Pardon me!" said the Father Superior. "It was said of old, 'Many have
begun to speak against me and have uttered evil sayings about me. And
hearing it I have said to myself: it is the correction of the Lord and He
has sent it to heal my vain soul.' And so we humbly thank you, honored
guest!" and he made Fyodor Pavlovitch a low bow.

"Tut--tut--tut--sanctimoniousness and stock phrases! Old phrases and old
gestures. The old lies and formal prostrations. We know all about them. A
kiss on the lips and a dagger in the heart, as in Schiller's _Robbers_. I
don't like falsehood, Fathers, I want the truth. But the truth is not to
be found in eating gudgeon and that I proclaim aloud! Father monks, why do
you fast? Why do you expect reward in heaven for that? Why, for reward
like that I will come and fast too! No, saintly monk, you try being
virtuous in the world, do good to society, without shutting yourself up in
a monastery at other people's expense, and without expecting a reward up
aloft for it--you'll find that a bit harder. I can talk sense, too, Father
Superior. What have they got here?" He went up to the table. "Old port
wine, mead brewed by the Eliseyev Brothers. Fie, fie, fathers! That is
something beyond gudgeon. Look at the bottles the fathers have brought
out, he he he! And who has provided it all? The Russian peasant, the
laborer, brings here the farthing earned by his horny hand, wringing it
from his family and the tax-gatherer! You bleed the people, you know, holy
fathers."

"This is too disgraceful!" said Father Iosif.

Father Paissy kept obstinately silent. Miuesov rushed from the room, and
Kalganov after him.

"Well, Father, I will follow Pyotr Alexandrovitch! I am not coming to see
you again. You may beg me on your knees, I shan't come. I sent you a
thousand roubles, so you have begun to keep your eye on me. He he he! No,
I'll say no more. I am taking my revenge for my youth, for all the
humiliation I endured." He thumped the table with his fist in a paroxysm
of simulated feeling. "This monastery has played a great part in my life!
It has cost me many bitter tears. You used to set my wife, the crazy one,
against me. You cursed me with bell and book, you spread stories about me
all over the place. Enough, fathers! This is the age of Liberalism, the
age of steamers and railways. Neither a thousand, nor a hundred roubles,
no, nor a hundred farthings will you get out of me!"

It must be noted again that our monastery never had played any great part
in his life, and he never had shed a bitter tear owing to it. But he was
so carried away by his simulated emotion, that he was for one moment
almost believing it himself. He was so touched he was almost weeping. But
at that very instant, he felt that it was time to draw back.

The Father Superior bowed his head at his malicious lie, and again spoke
impressively:

"It is written again, 'Bear circumspectly and gladly dishonor that cometh
upon thee by no act of thine own, be not confounded and hate not him who
hath dishonored thee.' And so will we."

"Tut, tut, tut! Bethinking thyself and the rest of the rigmarole. Bethink
yourselves, Fathers, I will go. But I will take my son, Alexey, away from
here for ever, on my parental authority. Ivan Fyodorovitch, my most
dutiful son, permit me to order you to follow me. Von Sohn, what have you
to stay for? Come and see me now in the town. It is fun there. It is only
one short verst; instead of lenten oil, I will give you sucking-pig and
kasha. We will have dinner with some brandy and liqueur to it.... I've
cloudberry wine. Hey, von Sohn, don't lose your chance." He went out,
shouting and gesticulating.

It was at that moment Rakitin saw him and pointed him out to Alyosha.

"Alexey!" his father shouted, from far off, catching sight of him. "You
come home to me to-day, for good, and bring your pillow and mattress, and
leave no trace behind."

Alyosha stood rooted to the spot, watching the scene in silence.
Meanwhile, Fyodor Pavlovitch had got into the carriage, and Ivan was about
to follow him in grim silence without even turning to say good-by to
Alyosha. But at this point another almost incredible scene of grotesque
buffoonery gave the finishing touch to the episode. Maximov suddenly
appeared by the side of the carriage. He ran up, panting, afraid of being
too late. Rakitin and Alyosha saw him running. He was in such a hurry that
in his impatience he put his foot on the step on which Ivan's left foot
was still resting, and clutching the carriage he kept trying to jump in.
"I am going with you!" he kept shouting, laughing a thin mirthful laugh
with a look of reckless glee in his face. "Take me, too."

"There!" cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, delighted. "Did I not say he was von
Sohn. It is von Sohn himself, risen from the dead. Why, how did you tear
yourself away? What did you _vonsohn_ there? And how could you get away
from the dinner? You must be a brazen-faced fellow! I am that myself, but
I am surprised at you, brother! Jump in, jump in! Let him pass, Ivan. It
will be fun. He can lie somewhere at our feet. Will you lie at our feet,
von Sohn? Or perch on the box with the coachman. Skip on to the box, von
Sohn!"

But Ivan, who had by now taken his seat, without a word gave Maximov a
violent punch in the breast and sent him flying. It was quite by chance he
did not fall.

"Drive on!" Ivan shouted angrily to the coachman.

"Why, what are you doing, what are you about? Why did you do that?" Fyodor
Pavlovitch protested.

But the carriage had already driven away. Ivan made no reply.

"Well, you are a fellow," Fyodor Pavlovitch said again.

After a pause of two minutes, looking askance at his son, "Why, it was you
got up all this monastery business. You urged it, you approved of it. Why
are you angry now?"

"You've talked rot enough. You might rest a bit now," Ivan snapped
sullenly.

Fyodor Pavlovitch was silent again for two minutes.

"A drop of brandy would be nice now," he observed sententiously, but Ivan
made no response.

"You shall have some, too, when we get home."

Ivan was still silent.

Fyodor Pavlovitch waited another two minutes.

"But I shall take Alyosha away from the monastery, though you will dislike
it so much, most honored Karl von Moor."

Ivan shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and turning away stared at the
road. And they did not speak again all the way home.

When Father Zossima and Alyosha return to the elder's cell, Ivan is discussing with two of the monks his article on the position of the ecclesiastical courts. He explains that he opposes the separation of church and state primarily because when a criminal needs to be punished, the public should not have to rely on the state to administer such punishment. Ivan states that if the church had the authority to punish and also to excommunicate the criminal, then a vast number of crimes would be diminished. To a degree, Father Zossima agrees, but he points out that the only effective punishment "lies in the recognition of sin by conscience." According to the elder, the church has no real authority to punish the criminal and, therefore, withdraws "of her own accord" and relies upon "the power of moral condemnation." The discussion continues but is interrupted as Dmitri bursts into the cell unexpectedly. Breathless, the overwrought Karamazov apologizes for being late, explaining that he was incorrectly informed of the time. He then goes forward, receives Father Zossima's blessing, and sits quietly in the background. As the discussion resumes, Ivan begins to detail his views on immortality and virtue but is interrupted by Miusov, who scoffs at Ivan's hypothesis that if immortality does not exist then there can be no reason for virtue in the world. Dmitri is deeply disturbed by his brother's theory, especially by his suggesting that without immortality any crime could be committed without fear. When Ivan and the monks grow quiet, Fyodor nervously resumes his crude verbal antics, then begins to insult Dmitri. In particular, he accuses him of duplicity in his relationships with Katerina Ivanovna and also with Grushenka, an unconventional young woman. Dmitri snaps that Fyodor is only being nasty because he is jealous; he too is infatuated with Grushenka! As the argument mounts and everyone grows more dreadfully embarrassed, Father Zossima suddenly rises from his place and kneels at Dmitri's feet. Then, without uttering a word, he retires to his cell. Everyone is confused as to the meaning of this mysterious act, and they comment upon it as they leave the elder's cell to join the Father Superior for lunch. But there is one who cannot remain with the party. Fyodor explains that he is far too embarrassed to accompany them; he says that he is going home. Alyosha accompanies Father Zossima to his cell and is told by the Father that he must leave the monastery. It is the elder's wish that the young Karamazov rejoin the world. Alyosha does not understand Zossima's request; he desires especially to remain in the monastery -- most of all because he knows that Zossima is seriously ill. He desires, as long as possible, to be near the elder. On the way to the Father Superior's house, Alyosha and Rakitin discuss Zossima's reverent bow before Dmitri. The seminarist says that the bow means the elder has sensed that the Karamazov house will soon be bathed in blood. The bow, he says, will be remembered, and people will say that Zossima foresaw the tragedy for the family. Rakitin continues, tossing out disparaging remarks about the Karamazovs and teasing Alyosha about Grushenka's designs on him. Alyosha, unaware of Rakitin's motives, innocently refers to Grushenka as one of Rakitin's relatives and is surprised when the young seminarist becomes highly indignant and loudly denies such relationship. Meanwhile, Fyodor has changed his mind about attending the luncheon. He returns and unleashes his vicious temper on all present. He delivers a vulgar tirade about the immorality and hypocrisy of the monks and elders, making the most absurd and ridiculous charges he can conjure up. Ivan finally manages to get the old man in a carriage, but the father is not yet subdued. As they are leaving, he shouts to Alyosha and orders him to leave the monastery.

In a novel of ideas, the views of a certain character often indicate the deep, essential quality of the personality far more thoroughly than any other device that an author might use. In these chapters, for instance, Ivan's character is revealed through his ideas, especially his views concerning the ecclesiastical courts and the relationship between church and state. Ivan, unlike many people, does not believe in the separation of church and state on the grounds that the church has no business dealing with criminals. Ivan is, in fact, an unbeliever in the Christian sense, but, as a practical matter, he believes that the vast amount of crime in Russia can be curbed by a simple solution. He believes that the state should use the church as a tool in all criminal procedures. Criminals have altogether too easy a lot, he believes. The criminal who steals, for instance, does not feel that he is committing a crime against the church when he steals because the church does not punish him. But, were the church incorporated into the state, any crime would be, besides against the state, automatically against the church. If a potential criminal were threatened with excommunication, then crime would be virtually nonexistent. Besides his views on church and state, Ivan also greatly stresses the power of immortality; without it, there would be no need for man to behave virtuously. Without the matter of immortality, man could commit any crime with no fear of eternal punishment. A belief in immortality, consequently, acts as a deterrent for the potential criminal and restrains him from committing crimes against society that otherwise he would have no compunction about committing. Such extreme views are central to many of Ivan's later struggles, and they will have to be reconciled with new concepts following the death of old Karamazov. After Ivan finishes, Father Zossima, who does not argue with him, penetrates Ivan's inner self and senses that Ivan is indeed troubled about the problem of faith. The elder is aware that perhaps Ivan does not even know whether or not he actually disbelieves in immortality; perhaps he is only being ironic. This penetrating insight on the part of Father Zossima again attests to his unusual understanding of human nature. Later, of course, it develops that Ivan's madness results from his dilemma over belief and disbelief. Earlier in the novel, Father Zossima's humanity and his simple faith in the healing power of love were stressed. Now, another dimension is added. In these chapters we see that he can easily maintain an intellectual argument. He is no simple mystic; he has an active, alert mind that proves to be a deft opponent for Ivan's parryings. Also, Father Zossima's view of the criminal buttresses his earlier concepts of the power of love. He feels that the worst punishment for a criminal lies in what he calls the "recognition of sin by conscience." The state, according to him, can punish the criminal, but physical punishment does not reform a man, nor does it deter future crime. A criminal must realize that crime is a wrongdoing by a son of a Christian society. Only in this realization can a criminal be deterred. Ivan recognizes Father Zossima's deep understanding of human nature, for after their discussion, he goes forward to receive the elder's blessings. When he came to the cell, remember, he did not go forward either to greet the elder or to receive a blessing. The much-discussed bow of Zossima can be explained as being a part of his instinctive understanding of Dmitri's nature. He knows that Dmitri will suffer immeasurably but that his basic nature is honorable. Also, remember that unlike the others, Dmitri arrived and immediately went forward to receive a blessing from the Father. Zossima noted the act and later was keenly aware of Dmitri's dismay when he heard Ivan's theory on immortality and its relation to crime. In Dmitri, Zossima sees great love, great suffering, and ultimately a great redemption. Karamazov's flagrantly vulgar behavior is best explained in terms of Dostoevsky's purpose. The author is creating a portrait of a repulsive profligate for whom one can feel no sympathy. In this way, Dostoevsky alleviates much of the horror that might otherwise accompany the murder. In this book, we are given our first reports about Grushenka. We hear, for example, that she is brazen enough to say openly that she hopes to devour young Alyosha. These reports, however, are hearsay; they vary from the character whom we eventually meet.