Chapter VI. For Awhile A Very Obscure One

And Ivan, on parting from Alyosha, went home to Fyodor Pavlovitch's house.
But, strange to say, he was overcome by insufferable depression, which
grew greater at every step he took towards the house. There was nothing
strange in his being depressed; what was strange was that Ivan could not
have said what was the cause of it. He had often been depressed before,
and there was nothing surprising at his feeling so at such a moment, when
he had broken off with everything that had brought him here, and was
preparing that day to make a new start and enter upon a new, unknown
future. He would again be as solitary as ever, and though he had great
hopes, and great--too great--expectations from life, he could not have given
any definite account of his hopes, his expectations, or even his desires.

Yet at that moment, though the apprehension of the new and unknown
certainly found place in his heart, what was worrying him was something
quite different. "Is it loathing for my father's house?" he wondered.
"Quite likely; I am so sick of it; and though it's the last time I shall
cross its hateful threshold, still I loathe it.... No, it's not that
either. Is it the parting with Alyosha and the conversation I had with
him? For so many years I've been silent with the whole world and not
deigned to speak, and all of a sudden I reel off a rigmarole like that."
It certainly might have been the youthful vexation of youthful
inexperience and vanity--vexation at having failed to express himself,
especially with such a being as Alyosha, on whom his heart had certainly
been reckoning. No doubt that came in, that vexation, it must have done
indeed; but yet that was not it, that was not it either. "I feel sick with
depression and yet I can't tell what I want. Better not think, perhaps."

Ivan tried "not to think," but that, too, was no use. What made his
depression so vexatious and irritating was that it had a kind of casual,
external character--he felt that. Some person or thing seemed to be
standing out somewhere, just as something will sometimes obtrude itself
upon the eye, and though one may be so busy with work or conversation that
for a long time one does not notice it, yet it irritates and almost
torments one till at last one realizes, and removes the offending object,
often quite a trifling and ridiculous one--some article left about in the
wrong place, a handkerchief on the floor, a book not replaced on the
shelf, and so on.

At last, feeling very cross and ill-humored, Ivan arrived home, and
suddenly, about fifteen paces from the garden gate, he guessed what was
fretting and worrying him.

On a bench in the gateway the valet Smerdyakov was sitting enjoying the
coolness of the evening, and at the first glance at him Ivan knew that the
valet Smerdyakov was on his mind, and that it was this man that his soul
loathed. It all dawned upon him suddenly and became clear. Just before,
when Alyosha had been telling him of his meeting with Smerdyakov, he had
felt a sudden twinge of gloom and loathing, which had immediately stirred
responsive anger in his heart. Afterwards, as he talked, Smerdyakov had
been forgotten for the time; but still he had been in his mind, and as
soon as Ivan parted with Alyosha and was walking home, the forgotten
sensation began to obtrude itself again. "Is it possible that a miserable,
contemptible creature like that can worry me so much?" he wondered, with
insufferable irritation.

It was true that Ivan had come of late to feel an intense dislike for the
man, especially during the last few days. He had even begun to notice in
himself a growing feeling that was almost of hatred for the creature.
Perhaps this hatred was accentuated by the fact that when Ivan first came
to the neighborhood he had felt quite differently. Then he had taken a
marked interest in Smerdyakov, and had even thought him very original. He
had encouraged him to talk to him, although he had always wondered at a
certain incoherence, or rather restlessness, in his mind, and could not
understand what it was that so continually and insistently worked upon the
brain of "the contemplative." They discussed philosophical questions and
even how there could have been light on the first day when the sun, moon,
and stars were only created on the fourth day, and how that was to be
understood. But Ivan soon saw that, though the sun, moon, and stars might
be an interesting subject, yet that it was quite secondary to Smerdyakov,
and that he was looking for something altogether different. In one way and
another, he began to betray a boundless vanity, and a wounded vanity, too,
and that Ivan disliked. It had first given rise to his aversion. Later on,
there had been trouble in the house. Grushenka had come on the scene, and
there had been the scandals with his brother Dmitri--they discussed that,
too. But though Smerdyakov always talked of that with great excitement, it
was impossible to discover what he desired to come of it. There was, in
fact, something surprising in the illogicality and incoherence of some of
his desires, accidentally betrayed and always vaguely expressed.
Smerdyakov was always inquiring, putting certain indirect but obviously
premeditated questions, but what his object was he did not explain, and
usually at the most important moment he would break off and relapse into
silence or pass to another subject. But what finally irritated Ivan most
and confirmed his dislike for him was the peculiar, revolting familiarity
which Smerdyakov began to show more and more markedly. Not that he forgot
himself and was rude; on the contrary, he always spoke very respectfully,
yet he had obviously begun to consider--goodness knows why!--that there was
some sort of understanding between him and Ivan Fyodorovitch. He always
spoke in a tone that suggested that those two had some kind of compact,
some secret between them, that had at some time been expressed on both
sides, only known to them and beyond the comprehension of those around
them. But for a long while Ivan did not recognize the real cause of his
growing dislike and he had only lately realized what was at the root of
it.

With a feeling of disgust and irritation he tried to pass in at the gate
without speaking or looking at Smerdyakov. But Smerdyakov rose from the
bench, and from that action alone, Ivan knew instantly that he wanted
particularly to talk to him. Ivan looked at him and stopped, and the fact
that he did stop, instead of passing by, as he meant to the minute before,
drove him to fury. With anger and repulsion he looked at Smerdyakov's
emasculate, sickly face, with the little curls combed forward on his
forehead. His left eye winked and he grinned as if to say, "Where are you
going? You won't pass by; you see that we two clever people have something
to say to each other."

Ivan shook. "Get away, miserable idiot. What have I to do with you?" was
on the tip of his tongue, but to his profound astonishment he heard
himself say, "Is my father still asleep, or has he waked?"

He asked the question softly and meekly, to his own surprise, and at once,
again to his own surprise, sat down on the bench. For an instant he felt
almost frightened; he remembered it afterwards. Smerdyakov stood facing
him, his hands behind his back, looking at him with assurance and almost
severity.

"His honor is still asleep," he articulated deliberately ("You were the
first to speak, not I," he seemed to say). "I am surprised at you, sir,"
he added, after a pause, dropping his eyes affectedly, setting his right
foot forward, and playing with the tip of his polished boot.

"Why are you surprised at me?" Ivan asked abruptly and sullenly, doing his
utmost to restrain himself, and suddenly realizing, with disgust, that he
was feeling intense curiosity and would not, on any account, have gone
away without satisfying it.

"Why don't you go to Tchermashnya, sir?" Smerdyakov suddenly raised his
eyes and smiled familiarly. "Why I smile you must understand of yourself,
if you are a clever man," his screwed-up left eye seemed to say.

"Why should I go to Tchermashnya?" Ivan asked in surprise.

Smerdyakov was silent again.

"Fyodor Pavlovitch himself has so begged you to," he said at last, slowly
and apparently attaching no significance to his answer. "I put you off
with a secondary reason," he seemed to suggest, "simply to say something."

"Damn you! Speak out what you want!" Ivan cried angrily at last, passing
from meekness to violence.

Smerdyakov drew his right foot up to his left, pulled himself up, but
still looked at him with the same serenity and the same little smile.

"Substantially nothing--but just by way of conversation."

Another silence followed. They did not speak for nearly a minute. Ivan
knew that he ought to get up and show anger, and Smerdyakov stood before
him and seemed to be waiting as though to see whether he would be angry or
not. So at least it seemed to Ivan. At last he moved to get up. Smerdyakov
seemed to seize the moment.

"I'm in an awful position, Ivan Fyodorovitch. I don't know how to help
myself," he said resolutely and distinctly, and at his last word he
sighed. Ivan Fyodorovitch sat down again.

"They are both utterly crazy, they are no better than little children,"
Smerdyakov went on. "I am speaking of your parent and your brother Dmitri
Fyodorovitch. Here Fyodor Pavlovitch will get up directly and begin
worrying me every minute, 'Has she come? Why hasn't she come?' and so on
up till midnight and even after midnight. And if Agrafena Alexandrovna
doesn't come (for very likely she does not mean to come at all) then he
will be at me again to-morrow morning, 'Why hasn't she come? When will she
come?'--as though I were to blame for it. On the other side it's no better.
As soon as it gets dark, or even before, your brother will appear with his
gun in his hands: 'Look out, you rogue, you soup-maker. If you miss her
and don't let me know she's been--I'll kill you before any one.' When the
night's over, in the morning, he, too, like Fyodor Pavlovitch, begins
worrying me to death. 'Why hasn't she come? Will she come soon?' And he,
too, thinks me to blame because his lady hasn't come. And every day and
every hour they get angrier and angrier, so that I sometimes think I shall
kill myself in a fright. I can't depend upon them, sir."

"And why have you meddled? Why did you begin to spy for Dmitri
Fyodorovitch?" said Ivan irritably.

"How could I help meddling? Though, indeed, I haven't meddled at all, if
you want to know the truth of the matter. I kept quiet from the very
beginning, not daring to answer; but he pitched on me to be his servant.
He has had only one thing to say since: 'I'll kill you, you scoundrel, if
you miss her,' I feel certain, sir, that I shall have a long fit to-
morrow."

"What do you mean by 'a long fit'?"

"A long fit, lasting a long time--several hours, or perhaps a day or two.
Once it went on for three days. I fell from the garret that time. The
struggling ceased and then began again, and for three days I couldn't come
back to my senses. Fyodor Pavlovitch sent for Herzenstube, the doctor
here, and he put ice on my head and tried another remedy, too.... I might
have died."

"But they say one can't tell with epilepsy when a fit is coming. What
makes you say you will have one to-morrow?" Ivan inquired, with a
peculiar, irritable curiosity.

"That's just so. You can't tell beforehand."

"Besides, you fell from the garret then."

"I climb up to the garret every day. I might fall from the garret again
to-morrow. And, if not, I might fall down the cellar steps. I have to go
into the cellar every day, too."

Ivan took a long look at him.

"You are talking nonsense, I see, and I don't quite understand you," he
said softly, but with a sort of menace. "Do you mean to pretend to be ill
to-morrow for three days, eh?"

Smerdyakov, who was looking at the ground again, and playing with the toe
of his right foot, set the foot down, moved the left one forward, and,
grinning, articulated:

"If I were able to play such a trick, that is, pretend to have a fit--and
it would not be difficult for a man accustomed to them--I should have a
perfect right to use such a means to save myself from death. For even if
Agrafena Alexandrovna comes to see his father while I am ill, his honor
can't blame a sick man for not telling him. He'd be ashamed to."

"Hang it all!" Ivan cried, his face working with anger, "why are you
always in such a funk for your life? All my brother Dmitri's threats are
only hasty words and mean nothing. He won't kill you; it's not you he'll
kill!"

"He'd kill me first of all, like a fly. But even more than that, I am
afraid I shall be taken for an accomplice of his when he does something
crazy to his father."

"Why should you be taken for an accomplice?"

"They'll think I am an accomplice, because I let him know the signals as a
great secret."

"What signals? Whom did you tell? Confound you, speak more plainly."

"I'm bound to admit the fact," Smerdyakov drawled with pedantic composure,
"that I have a secret with Fyodor Pavlovitch in this business. As you know
yourself (if only you do know it) he has for several days past locked
himself in as soon as night or even evening comes on. Of late you've been
going upstairs to your room early every evening, and yesterday you did not
come down at all, and so perhaps you don't know how carefully he has begun
to lock himself in at night, and even if Grigory Vassilyevitch comes to
the door he won't open to him till he hears his voice. But Grigory
Vassilyevitch does not come, because I wait upon him alone in his room
now. That's the arrangement he made himself ever since this to-do with
Agrafena Alexandrovna began. But at night, by his orders, I go away to the
lodge so that I don't get to sleep till midnight, but am on the watch,
getting up and walking about the yard, waiting for Agrafena Alexandrovna
to come. For the last few days he's been perfectly frantic expecting her.
What he argues is, she is afraid of him, Dmitri Fyodorovitch (Mitya, as he
calls him), 'and so,' says he, 'she'll come the back-way, late at night,
to me. You look out for her,' says he, 'till midnight and later; and if
she does come, you run up and knock at my door or at the window from the
garden. Knock at first twice, rather gently, and then three times more
quickly, then,' says he, 'I shall understand at once that she has come,
and will open the door to you quietly.' Another signal he gave me in case
anything unexpected happens. At first, two knocks, and then, after an
interval, another much louder. Then he will understand that something has
happened suddenly and that I must see him, and he will open to me so that
I can go and speak to him. That's all in case Agrafena Alexandrovna can't
come herself, but sends a message. Besides, Dmitri Fyodorovitch might
come, too, so I must let him know he is near. His honor is awfully afraid
of Dmitri Fyodorovitch, so that even if Agrafena Alexandrovna had come and
were locked in with him, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch were to turn up anywhere
near at the time, I should be bound to let him know at once, knocking
three times. So that the first signal of five knocks means Agrafena
Alexandrovna has come, while the second signal of three knocks means
'something important to tell you.' His honor has shown me them several
times and explained them. And as in the whole universe no one knows of
these signals but myself and his honor, so he'd open the door without the
slightest hesitation and without calling out (he is awfully afraid of
calling out aloud). Well, those signals are known to Dmitri Fyodorovitch
too, now."

"How are they known? Did you tell him? How dared you tell him?"

"It was through fright I did it. How could I dare to keep it back from
him? Dmitri Fyodorovitch kept persisting every day, 'You are deceiving me,
you are hiding something from me! I'll break both your legs for you.' So I
told him those secret signals that he might see my slavish devotion, and
might be satisfied that I was not deceiving him, but was telling him all I
could."

"If you think that he'll make use of those signals and try to get in,
don't let him in."

"But if I should be laid up with a fit, how can I prevent him coming in
then, even if I dared prevent him, knowing how desperate he is?"

"Hang it! How can you be so sure you are going to have a fit, confound
you? Are you laughing at me?"

"How could I dare laugh at you? I am in no laughing humor with this fear
on me. I feel I am going to have a fit. I have a presentiment. Fright
alone will bring it on."

"Confound it! If you are laid up, Grigory will be on the watch. Let
Grigory know beforehand; he will be sure not to let him in."

"I should never dare to tell Grigory Vassilyevitch about the signals
without orders from my master. And as for Grigory Vassilyevitch hearing
him and not admitting him, he has been ill ever since yesterday, and Marfa
Ignatyevna intends to give him medicine to-morrow. They've just arranged
it. It's a very strange remedy of hers. Marfa Ignatyevna knows of a
preparation and always keeps it. It's a strong thing made from some herb.
She has the secret of it, and she always gives it to Grigory Vassilyevitch
three times a year when his lumbago's so bad he is almost paralyzed by it.
Then she takes a towel, wets it with the stuff, and rubs his whole back
for half an hour till it's quite red and swollen, and what's left in the
bottle she gives him to drink with a special prayer; but not quite all,
for on such occasions she leaves some for herself, and drinks it herself.
And as they never take strong drink, I assure you they both drop asleep at
once and sleep sound a very long time. And when Grigory Vassilyevitch
wakes up he is perfectly well after it, but Marfa Ignatyevna always has a
headache from it. So, if Marfa Ignatyevna carries out her intention to-
morrow, they won't hear anything and hinder Dmitri Fyodorovitch. They'll
be asleep."

"What a rigmarole! And it all seems to happen at once, as though it were
planned. You'll have a fit and they'll both be unconscious," cried Ivan.
"But aren't you trying to arrange it so?" broke from him suddenly, and he
frowned threateningly.

"How could I?... And why should I, when it all depends on Dmitri
Fyodorovitch and his plans?... If he means to do anything, he'll do it;
but if not, I shan't be thrusting him upon his father."

"And why should he go to father, especially on the sly, if, as you say
yourself, Agrafena Alexandrovna won't come at all?" Ivan went on, turning
white with anger. "You say that yourself, and all the while I've been
here, I've felt sure it was all the old man's fancy, and the creature
won't come to him. Why should Dmitri break in on him if she doesn't come?
Speak, I want to know what you are thinking!"

"You know yourself why he'll come. What's the use of what I think? His
honor will come simply because he is in a rage or suspicious on account of
my illness perhaps, and he'll dash in, as he did yesterday through
impatience to search the rooms, to see whether she hasn't escaped him on
the sly. He is perfectly well aware, too, that Fyodor Pavlovitch has a big
envelope with three thousand roubles in it, tied up with ribbon and sealed
with three seals. On it is written in his own hand, 'To my angel
Grushenka, if she will come,' to which he added three days later, 'for my
little chicken.' There's no knowing what that might do."

"Nonsense!" cried Ivan, almost beside himself. "Dmitri won't come to steal
money and kill my father to do it. He might have killed him yesterday on
account of Grushenka, like the frantic, savage fool he is, but he won't
steal."

"He is in very great need of money now--the greatest need, Ivan
Fyodorovitch. You don't know in what need he is," Smerdyakov explained,
with perfect composure and remarkable distinctness. "He looks on that
three thousand as his own, too. He said so to me himself. 'My father still
owes me just three thousand,' he said. And besides that, consider, Ivan
Fyodorovitch, there is something else perfectly true. It's as good as
certain, so to say, that Agrafena Alexandrovna will force him, if only she
cares to, to marry her--the master himself, I mean, Fyodor Pavlovitch--if
only she cares to, and of course she may care to. All I've said is that
she won't come, but maybe she's looking for more than that--I mean to be
mistress here. I know myself that Samsonov, her merchant, was laughing
with her about it, telling her quite openly that it would not be at all a
stupid thing to do. And she's got plenty of sense. She wouldn't marry a
beggar like Dmitri Fyodorovitch. So, taking that into consideration, Ivan
Fyodorovitch, reflect that then neither Dmitri Fyodorovitch nor yourself
and your brother, Alexey Fyodorovitch, would have anything after the
master's death, not a rouble, for Agrafena Alexandrovna would marry him
simply to get hold of the whole, all the money there is. But if your
father were to die now, there'd be some forty thousand for sure, even for
Dmitri Fyodorovitch whom he hates so, for he's made no will.... Dmitri
Fyodorovitch knows all that very well."

A sort of shudder passed over Ivan's face. He suddenly flushed.

"Then why on earth," he suddenly interrupted Smerdyakov, "do you advise me
to go to Tchermashnya? What did you mean by that? If I go away, you see
what will happen here." Ivan drew his breath with difficulty.

"Precisely so," said Smerdyakov, softly and reasonably, watching Ivan
intently, however.

"What do you mean by 'precisely so'?" Ivan questioned him, with a menacing
light in his eyes, restraining himself with difficulty.

"I spoke because I felt sorry for you. If I were in your place I should
simply throw it all up ... rather than stay on in such a position,"
answered Smerdyakov, with the most candid air looking at Ivan's flashing
eyes. They were both silent.

"You seem to be a perfect idiot, and what's more ... an awful scoundrel,
too." Ivan rose suddenly from the bench. He was about to pass straight
through the gate, but he stopped short and turned to Smerdyakov. Something
strange followed. Ivan, in a sudden paroxysm, bit his lip, clenched his
fists, and, in another minute, would have flung himself on Smerdyakov. The
latter, anyway, noticed it at the same moment, started, and shrank back.
But the moment passed without mischief to Smerdyakov, and Ivan turned in
silence, as it seemed in perplexity, to the gate.

"I am going away to Moscow to-morrow, if you care to know--early to-morrow
morning. That's all!" he suddenly said aloud angrily, and wondered himself
afterwards what need there was to say this then to Smerdyakov.

"That's the best thing you can do," he responded, as though he had
expected to hear it; "except that you can always be telegraphed for from
Moscow, if anything should happen here."

Ivan stopped again, and again turned quickly to Smerdyakov. But a change
had passed over him, too. All his familiarity and carelessness had
completely disappeared. His face expressed attention and expectation,
intent but timid and cringing.

"Haven't you something more to say--something to add?" could be read in the
intent gaze he fixed on Ivan.

"And couldn't I be sent for from Tchermashnya, too--in case anything
happened?" Ivan shouted suddenly, for some unknown reason raising his
voice.

"From Tchermashnya, too ... you could be sent for," Smerdyakov muttered,
almost in a whisper, looking disconcerted, but gazing intently into Ivan's
eyes.

"Only Moscow is farther and Tchermashnya is nearer. Is it to save my
spending money on the fare, or to save my going so far out of my way, that
you insist on Tchermashnya?"

"Precisely so ..." muttered Smerdyakov, with a breaking voice. He looked
at Ivan with a revolting smile, and again made ready to draw back. But to
his astonishment Ivan broke into a laugh, and went through the gate still
laughing. Any one who had seen his face at that moment would have known
that he was not laughing from lightness of heart, and he could not have
explained himself what he was feeling at that instant. He moved and walked
as though in a nervous frenzy.

As Ivan heads back to his father's house, he feels increasingly troubled. When he arrives, he sees Smerdyakov sitting on a bench outside and is suddenly overwhelmed by his intense loathing for him. But despite this, he finds himself sitting down on the bench to talk with Smerdyakov. Smerdyakov asks Ivan why he doesn't go to Chermashnya, and Ivan is confused by his question. Smerdyakov then babbles a bit about how concerned he is by the trouble between Dmitri and Fyodor, and how worried he is that Dmitri will kill him for conspiring with Fyodor. He wonders whether he'll get an attack of "falling sickness" the next day. Ivan thinks Smerdyakov is being absurd because he isn't supposed to be able to predict when his epileptic fits will come on. Smerdyakov then worries that he'll be considered Dmitri's accomplice just in case Dmitri does end up killing Fyodor, because he's told Dmitri about the secret signals. If Grushenka arrives to accept Fyodor's money, Smerdyakov and Fyodor have agreed on a special knock to announce her arrival. Ivan gets even more irritated, but Smerdyakov continues on to tell him that Grigory, Fyodor's faithful servant, is knocked out from the tonic he takes for his back troubles, and his wife Marfa has taken a sip too. If Smerdyakov does have a fit, there will be no one to prevent Dmitri from attacking Fyodor and stealing his money. Ivan wants to know why Smerdyakov is so convinced that Dmitri will kill Fyodor. Smerdyakov says if Grushenka were to seduce Fyodor, she would convince him to sign over their inheritance to her. Ivan asks whether that's the real reason Smerdyakov wants Ivan to go to Chermashnya instead of Moscow - Chermashnya is closer just in case Dmitri does commit the murder. Smerdyakov is so irritating at this point that Ivan is about to punch him, but instead he walks away laughing.

A Rather Obscure One for the Moment Since arriving at his father's house, Ivan has spent a great deal of time discussing religion and philosophy with Smerdyakov. But Ivan dislikes Smerdyakov, and when he returns home at night, he dreads the possibility of seeing him. At Fyodor Pavlovich's house, Ivan sees Smerdyakov sitting in the yard. Ivan intends to walk by Smerdyakov, or even insult him, but to his own surprise he finds himself stopping and asking about their father. Smerdyakov says that he is worried about Fyodor Pavlovich because Dmitri now knows the secret signs that Grushenka and Fyodor Pavlovich have agreed upon if Grushenka ever decides to be Fyodor Pavlovich's lover. If Grushenka comes to Fyodor Pavlovich, Dmitri will know about it, and Smerdyakov worries that there would be no one to defend Fyodor Pavlovich from Dmitri's rage. Smerdyakov says that Grigory and his wife have begun to take a medicine that makes them sleep deeply, and he is afraid that his own nervousness will cause him to have an epileptic seizure


Chapter VII. "It's Always Worth While Speaking To A Clever Man"

And in the same nervous frenzy, too, he spoke. Meeting Fyodor Pavlovitch
in the drawing-room directly he went in, he shouted to him, waving his
hands, "I am going upstairs to my room, not in to you. Good-by!" and
passed by, trying not even to look at his father. Very possibly the old
man was too hateful to him at that moment; but such an unceremonious
display of hostility was a surprise even to Fyodor Pavlovitch. And the old
man evidently wanted to tell him something at once and had come to meet
him in the drawing-room on purpose. Receiving this amiable greeting, he
stood still in silence and with an ironical air watched his son going
upstairs, till he passed out of sight.

"What's the matter with him?" he promptly asked Smerdyakov, who had
followed Ivan.

"Angry about something. Who can tell?" the valet muttered evasively.

"Confound him! Let him be angry then. Bring in the samovar, and get along
with you. Look sharp! No news?"

Then followed a series of questions such as Smerdyakov had just complained
of to Ivan, all relating to his expected visitor, and these questions we
will omit. Half an hour later the house was locked, and the crazy old man
was wandering along through the rooms in excited expectation of hearing
every minute the five knocks agreed upon. Now and then he peered out into
the darkness, seeing nothing.

It was very late, but Ivan was still awake and reflecting. He sat up late
that night, till two o'clock. But we will not give an account of his
thoughts, and this is not the place to look into that soul--its turn will
come. And even if one tried, it would be very hard to give an account of
them, for there were no thoughts in his brain, but something very vague,
and, above all, intense excitement. He felt himself that he had lost his
bearings. He was fretted, too, by all sorts of strange and almost
surprising desires; for instance, after midnight he suddenly had an
intense irresistible inclination to go down, open the door, go to the
lodge and beat Smerdyakov. But if he had been asked why, he could not have
given any exact reason, except perhaps that he loathed the valet as one
who had insulted him more gravely than any one in the world. On the other
hand, he was more than once that night overcome by a sort of inexplicable
humiliating terror, which he felt positively paralyzed his physical
powers. His head ached and he was giddy. A feeling of hatred was rankling
in his heart, as though he meant to avenge himself on some one. He even
hated Alyosha, recalling the conversation he had just had with him. At
moments he hated himself intensely. Of Katerina Ivanovna he almost forgot
to think, and wondered greatly at this afterwards, especially as he
remembered perfectly that when he had protested so valiantly to Katerina
Ivanovna that he would go away next day to Moscow, something had whispered
in his heart, "That's nonsense, you are not going, and it won't be so easy
to tear yourself away as you are boasting now."

Remembering that night long afterwards, Ivan recalled with peculiar
repulsion how he had suddenly got up from the sofa and had stealthily, as
though he were afraid of being watched, opened the door, gone out on the
staircase and listened to Fyodor Pavlovitch stirring down below, had
listened a long while--some five minutes--with a sort of strange curiosity,
holding his breath while his heart throbbed. And why he had done all this,
why he was listening, he could not have said. That "action" all his life
afterwards he called "infamous," and at the bottom of his heart, he
thought of it as the basest action of his life. For Fyodor Pavlovitch
himself he felt no hatred at that moment, but was simply intensely curious
to know how he was walking down there below and what he must be doing now.
He wondered and imagined how he must be peeping out of the dark windows
and stopping in the middle of the room, listening, listening--for some one
to knock. Ivan went out on to the stairs twice to listen like this.

About two o'clock when everything was quiet, and even Fyodor Pavlovitch
had gone to bed, Ivan had got into bed, firmly resolved to fall asleep at
once, as he felt fearfully exhausted. And he did fall asleep at once, and
slept soundly without dreams, but waked early, at seven o'clock, when it
was broad daylight. Opening his eyes, he was surprised to feel himself
extraordinarily vigorous. He jumped up at once and dressed quickly; then
dragged out his trunk and began packing immediately. His linen had come
back from the laundress the previous morning. Ivan positively smiled at
the thought that everything was helping his sudden departure. And his
departure certainly was sudden. Though Ivan had said the day before (to
Katerina Ivanovna, Alyosha, and Smerdyakov) that he was leaving next day,
yet he remembered that he had no thought of departure when he went to bed,
or, at least, had not dreamed that his first act in the morning would be
to pack his trunk. At last his trunk and bag were ready. It was about nine
o'clock when Marfa Ignatyevna came in with her usual inquiry, "Where will
your honor take your tea, in your own room or downstairs?" He looked
almost cheerful, but there was about him, about his words and gestures,
something hurried and scattered. Greeting his father affably, and even
inquiring specially after his health, though he did not wait to hear his
answer to the end, he announced that he was starting off in an hour to
return to Moscow for good, and begged him to send for the horses. His
father heard this announcement with no sign of surprise, and forgot in an
unmannerly way to show regret at losing him. Instead of doing so, he flew
into a great flutter at the recollection of some important business of his
own.

"What a fellow you are! Not to tell me yesterday! Never mind; we'll manage
it all the same. Do me a great service, my dear boy. Go to Tchermashnya on
the way. It's only to turn to the left from the station at Volovya, only
another twelve versts and you come to Tchermashnya."

"I'm sorry, I can't. It's eighty versts to the railway and the train
starts for Moscow at seven o'clock to-night. I can only just catch it."

"You'll catch it to-morrow or the day after, but to-day turn off to
Tchermashnya. It won't put you out much to humor your father! If I hadn't
had something to keep me here, I would have run over myself long ago, for
I've some business there in a hurry. But here I ... it's not the time for
me to go now.... You see, I've two pieces of copse land there. The
Maslovs, an old merchant and his son, will give eight thousand for the
timber. But last year I just missed a purchaser who would have given
twelve. There's no getting any one about here to buy it. The Maslovs have
it all their own way. One has to take what they'll give, for no one here
dare bid against them. The priest at Ilyinskoe wrote to me last Thursday
that a merchant called Gorstkin, a man I know, had turned up. What makes
him valuable is that he is not from these parts, so he is not afraid of
the Maslovs. He says he will give me eleven thousand for the copse. Do you
hear? But he'll only be here, the priest writes, for a week altogether, so
you must go at once and make a bargain with him."

"Well, you write to the priest; he'll make the bargain."

"He can't do it. He has no eye for business. He is a perfect treasure, I'd
give him twenty thousand to take care of for me without a receipt; but he
has no eye for business, he is a perfect child, a crow could deceive him.
And yet he is a learned man, would you believe it? This Gorstkin looks
like a peasant, he wears a blue kaftan, but he is a regular rogue. That's
the common complaint. He is a liar. Sometimes he tells such lies that you
wonder why he is doing it. He told me the year before last that his wife
was dead and that he had married another, and would you believe it, there
was not a word of truth in it? His wife has never died at all, she is
alive to this day and gives him a beating twice a week. So what you have
to find out is whether he is lying or speaking the truth, when he says he
wants to buy it and would give eleven thousand."

"I shall be no use in such a business. I have no eye either."

"Stay, wait a bit! You will be of use, for I will tell you the signs by
which you can judge about Gorstkin. I've done business with him a long
time. You see, you must watch his beard; he has a nasty, thin, red beard.
If his beard shakes when he talks and he gets cross, it's all right, he is
saying what he means, he wants to do business. But if he strokes his beard
with his left hand and grins--he is trying to cheat you. Don't watch his
eyes, you won't find out anything from his eyes, he is a deep one, a
rogue--but watch his beard! I'll give you a note and you show it to him.
He's called Gorstkin, though his real name is Lyagavy(4); but don't call
him so, he will be offended. If you come to an understanding with him, and
see it's all right, write here at once. You need only write: 'He's not
lying.' Stand out for eleven thousand; one thousand you can knock off, but
not more. Just think! there's a difference between eight thousand and
eleven thousand. It's as good as picking up three thousand; it's not so
easy to find a purchaser, and I'm in desperate need of money. Only let me
know it's serious, and I'll run over and fix it up. I'll snatch the time
somehow. But what's the good of my galloping over, if it's all a notion of
the priest's? Come, will you go?"

"Oh, I can't spare the time. You must excuse me."

"Come, you might oblige your father. I shan't forget it. You've no heart,
any of you--that's what it is? What's a day or two to you? Where are you
going now--to Venice? Your Venice will keep another two days. I would have
sent Alyosha, but what use is Alyosha in a thing like that? I send you
just because you are a clever fellow. Do you suppose I don't see that? You
know nothing about timber, but you've got an eye. All that is wanted is to
see whether the man is in earnest. I tell you, watch his beard--if his
beard shakes you know he is in earnest."

"You force me to go to that damned Tchermashnya yourself, then?" cried
Ivan, with a malignant smile.

Fyodor Pavlovitch did not catch, or would not catch, the malignancy, but
he caught the smile.

"Then you'll go, you'll go? I'll scribble the note for you at once."

"I don't know whether I shall go. I don't know. I'll decide on the way."

"Nonsense! Decide at once. My dear fellow, decide! If you settle the
matter, write me a line; give it to the priest and he'll send it on to me
at once. And I won't delay you more than that. You can go to Venice. The
priest will give you horses back to Volovya station."

The old man was quite delighted. He wrote the note, and sent for the
horses. A light lunch was brought in, with brandy. When Fyodor Pavlovitch
was pleased, he usually became expansive, but to-day he seemed to restrain
himself. Of Dmitri, for instance, he did not say a word. He was quite
unmoved by the parting, and seemed, in fact, at a loss for something to
say. Ivan noticed this particularly. "He must be bored with me," he
thought. Only when accompanying his son out on to the steps, the old man
began to fuss about. He would have kissed him, but Ivan made haste to hold
out his hand, obviously avoiding the kiss. His father saw it at once, and
instantly pulled himself up.

"Well, good luck to you, good luck to you!" he repeated from the steps.
"You'll come again some time or other? Mind you do come. I shall always be
glad to see you. Well, Christ be with you!"

Ivan got into the carriage.

"Good-by, Ivan! Don't be too hard on me!" the father called for the last
time.

The whole household came out to take leave--Smerdyakov, Marfa and Grigory.
Ivan gave them ten roubles each. When he had seated himself in the
carriage, Smerdyakov jumped up to arrange the rug.

"You see ... I am going to Tchermashnya," broke suddenly from Ivan. Again,
as the day before, the words seemed to drop of themselves, and he laughed,
too, a peculiar, nervous laugh. He remembered it long after.

"It's a true saying then, that 'it's always worth while speaking to a
clever man,' " answered Smerdyakov firmly, looking significantly at Ivan.

The carriage rolled away. Nothing was clear in Ivan's soul, but he looked
eagerly around him at the fields, at the hills, at the trees, at a flock
of geese flying high overhead in the bright sky. And all of a sudden he
felt very happy. He tried to talk to the driver, and he felt intensely
interested in an answer the peasant made him; but a minute later he
realized that he was not catching anything, and that he had not really
even taken in the peasant's answer. He was silent, and it was pleasant
even so. The air was fresh, pure and cool, the sky bright. The images of
Alyosha and Katerina Ivanovna floated into his mind. But he softly smiled,
blew softly on the friendly phantoms, and they flew away. "There's plenty
of time for them," he thought. They reached the station quickly, changed
horses, and galloped to Volovya. "Why is it worth while speaking to a
clever man? What did he mean by that?" The thought seemed suddenly to
clutch at his breathing. "And why did I tell him I was going to
Tchermashnya?" They reached Volovya station. Ivan got out of the carriage,
and the drivers stood round him bargaining over the journey of twelve
versts to Tchermashnya. He told them to harness the horses. He went into
the station house, looked round, glanced at the overseer's wife, and
suddenly went back to the entrance.

"I won't go to Tchermashnya. Am I too late to reach the railway by seven,
brothers?"

"We shall just do it. Shall we get the carriage out?"

"At once. Will any one of you be going to the town to-morrow?"

"To be sure. Mitri here will."

"Can you do me a service, Mitri? Go to my father's, to Fyodor Pavlovitch
Karamazov, and tell him I haven't gone to Tchermashnya. Can you?"

"Of course I can. I've known Fyodor Pavlovitch a long time."

"And here's something for you, for I dare say he won't give you anything,"
said Ivan, laughing gayly.

"You may depend on it he won't." Mitya laughed too. "Thank you, sir. I'll
be sure to do it."

At seven o'clock Ivan got into the train and set off to Moscow "Away with
the past. I've done with the old world for ever, and may I have no news,
no echo, from it. To a new life, new places and no looking back!" But
instead of delight his soul was filled with such gloom, and his heart
ached with such anguish, as he had never known in his life before. He was
thinking all the night. The train flew on, and only at daybreak, when he
was approaching Moscow, he suddenly roused himself from his meditation.

"I am a scoundrel," he whispered to himself.

Fyodor Pavlovitch remained well satisfied at having seen his son off. For
two hours afterwards he felt almost happy, and sat drinking brandy. But
suddenly something happened which was very annoying and unpleasant for
every one in the house, and completely upset Fyodor Pavlovitch's
equanimity at once. Smerdyakov went to the cellar for something and fell
down from the top of the steps. Fortunately, Marfa Ignatyevna was in the
yard and heard him in time. She did not see the fall, but heard his
scream--the strange, peculiar scream, long familiar to her--the scream of
the epileptic falling in a fit. They could not tell whether the fit had
come on him at the moment he was descending the steps, so that he must
have fallen unconscious, or whether it was the fall and the shock that had
caused the fit in Smerdyakov, who was known to be liable to them. They
found him at the bottom of the cellar steps, writhing in convulsions and
foaming at the mouth. It was thought at first that he must have broken
something--an arm or a leg--and hurt himself, but "God had preserved him,"
as Marfa Ignatyevna expressed it--nothing of the kind had happened. But it
was difficult to get him out of the cellar. They asked the neighbors to
help and managed it somehow. Fyodor Pavlovitch himself was present at the
whole ceremony. He helped, evidently alarmed and upset. The sick man did
not regain consciousness; the convulsions ceased for a time, but then
began again, and every one concluded that the same thing would happen, as
had happened a year before, when he accidentally fell from the garret.
They remembered that ice had been put on his head then. There was still
ice in the cellar, and Marfa Ignatyevna had some brought up. In the
evening, Fyodor Pavlovitch sent for Doctor Herzenstube, who arrived at
once. He was a most estimable old man, and the most careful and
conscientious doctor in the province. After careful examination, he
concluded that the fit was a very violent one and might have serious
consequences; that meanwhile he, Herzenstube, did not fully understand it,
but that by to-morrow morning, if the present remedies were unavailing, he
would venture to try something else. The invalid was taken to the lodge,
to a room next to Grigory's and Marfa Ignatyevna's.

Then Fyodor Pavlovitch had one misfortune after another to put up with
that day. Marfa Ignatyevna cooked the dinner, and the soup, compared with
Smerdyakov's, was "no better than dish-water," and the fowl was so dried
up that it was impossible to masticate it. To her master's bitter, though
deserved, reproaches, Marfa Ignatyevna replied that the fowl was a very
old one to begin with, and that she had never been trained as a cook. In
the evening there was another trouble in store for Fyodor Pavlovitch; he
was informed that Grigory, who had not been well for the last three days,
was completely laid up by his lumbago. Fyodor Pavlovitch finished his tea
as early as possible and locked himself up alone in the house. He was in
terrible excitement and suspense. That evening he reckoned on Grushenka's
coming almost as a certainty. He had received from Smerdyakov that morning
an assurance "that she had promised to come without fail." The
incorrigible old man's heart throbbed with excitement; he paced up and
down his empty rooms listening. He had to be on the alert. Dmitri might be
on the watch for her somewhere, and when she knocked on the window
(Smerdyakov had informed him two days before that he had told her where
and how to knock) the door must be opened at once. She must not be a
second in the passage, for fear--which God forbid!--that she should be
frightened and run away. Fyodor Pavlovitch had much to think of, but never
had his heart been steeped in such voluptuous hopes. This time he could
say almost certainly that she would come!

When Ivan enters the house, he is too irritated to bother speaking with his father. But during the night, he finds himself oddly compelled to get up and check up on him, and he's not sure why. When morning comes, he announces to his father that he is off to Moscow. Fyodor begs Ivan to go to Chermashnya to take care of a business deal. Wondering why everyone wants him to go to Chermashnya, Ivan tells his father he'll consider it. On his way out, he blurts out to Smerdyakov that he's off to Chermashnya. Smerdyakov's reply is that it's "always interesting to talk with an intelligent man." On his way to the train station, Ivan's not sure what Smerdyakov meant by that phrase, but he's really bothered by it. He decides not to go to Chermashnya and to go straight to Moscow instead. A couple hours after Ivan leaves, Smerdyakov has a fall and goes into an epileptic fit. Fyodor is concerned because Smerdyakov's been his lookout for both Grushenka and for Dmitri, but he's somewhat reassured because, before his epileptic fit, Smerdyakov had told him that Grushenka would almost certainly arrive that night.

"It's Always Interesting to Talk with an Intelligent Man"  Ivan suspects that Smerdyakov has told Dmitri about Grushenka's secret signs specifically to place Fyodor Pavlovich in danger. But Ivan is determined to leave for Moscow as planned the following morning, even though Smerdyakov asks him to go to a city that is not so far away. The next morning, Fyodor Pavlovich too asks Ivan not to leave for Moscow. Instead, he wants Ivan to go to a nearby village to sell a plot of wood on Fyodor Pavlovich's behalf. Ivan reluctantly agrees. After he leaves, Smerdyakov falls down a staircase and has the epileptic seizure he has feared. He is confined to his bed, leaving Fyodor Pavlovich alone. The old man waits gleefully for Grushenka, whom he is certain will come to him tonight.

These chapters foreshadow Smerdyakov's eventual murder of Fyodor Pavlovich. Although Smerdyakov appears to be worried about Fyodor Pavlovich, his concern only serves to mask his deeper malice, and everything he does in this chapter lays the groundwork for killing his father the next night. He tells Ivan that Dmitri knows Grushenka's secret knock purportedly because he is worried about Fyodor Pavlovich, but really because he wants suspicion to be cast on Dmitri so that Dmitri will be blamed when Fyodor Pavlovich's body is found. He warns Ivan about his fear of an impending epileptic seizure ostensibly as proof of his fear for Fyodor Pavlovich, but really because he wants to prepare his own alibi for the night of the murder. After all, if he is a bedridden epileptic incapacitated in the aftermath of a seizure, he is hardly capable of a murder. But as we see in Chapter 7, Smerdyakov is capable of faking a seizure so convincingly that everyone around him is fooled. These chapters are thus full of foreshadowing, as every detail--from Grigory's habit of taking a narcotic medicine to Ivan's impending departure for Moscow--sets the scene for, and builds tension toward, Fyodor Pavlovich's death. The complex combination of disgust and attraction that characterizes Ivan's relationship with Smerdyakov manifests both Ivan's hatred of human nature and his dissatisfaction with his own philosophy. When Ivan discusses philosophy with Smerdyakov, the conflicting forces in his character become clear. Ivan is excited at Smerdyakov's interest, disgusted with Smerdyakov's manner, and unhappy with himself for providing a hostile figure like Smerdyakov with an amoral philosophy that might justify anything Smerdyakov wants to do. Smerdyakov's ingratiating behavior toward Ivan results from his realization that Ivan loathes Fyodor Pavlovich. He believes that Ivan is, on an unconscious level, using him to kill Fyodor Pavlovich. He thinks Ivan is preparing him by giving him a new moral outlook in which, because God does not play a role, there is no good or evil, and taking a life is not morally different from saving one. Ivan's influence on Smerdyakov presents the philosophical difficulty in determining guilt for a crime. Ivan's repeated insistence that people are not responsible for one another suggests that he is morally and psychologically free of guilt for Smerdyakov's actions, no matter how much influence he may have exerted. On the one hand, if Ivan really believes everything he says about the absence of good and evil and the meaninglessness of responsibility, then he should have no cause to feel guilty about Fyodor Pavlovich's death. On the other hand, if he does not really believe in his own argument, then the complicity he exhibits here will force him to confront the fact that he is partially to blame for the murder of his hated father. Dostoevsky does not show us the outcome of this philosophical question in these chapters, but Zosima has insisted that all people are responsible for the sins of all other people, and Ivan has insisted just the opposite


Book VI. The Russian Monk Chapter I. Father Zossima And His Visitors

When with an anxious and aching heart Alyosha went into his elder's cell,
he stood still almost astonished. Instead of a sick man at his last gasp,
perhaps unconscious, as he had feared to find him, he saw him sitting up
in his chair and, though weak and exhausted, his face was bright and
cheerful, he was surrounded by visitors and engaged in a quiet and joyful
conversation. But he had only got up from his bed a quarter of an hour
before Alyosha's arrival; his visitors had gathered together in his cell
earlier, waiting for him to wake, having received a most confident
assurance from Father Paissy that "the teacher would get up, and as he had
himself promised in the morning, converse once more with those dear to his
heart." This promise and indeed every word of the dying elder Father
Paissy put implicit trust in. If he had seen him unconscious, if he had
seen him breathe his last, and yet had his promise that he would rise up
and say good-by to him, he would not have believed perhaps even in death,
but would still have expected the dead man to recover and fulfill his
promise. In the morning as he lay down to sleep, Father Zossima had told
him positively: "I shall not die without the delight of another
conversation with you, beloved of my heart. I shall look once more on your
dear face and pour out my heart to you once again." The monks, who had
gathered for this probably last conversation with Father Zossima, had all
been his devoted friends for many years. There were four of them: Father
Iosif and Father Paissy, Father Mihail, the warden of the hermitage, a man
not very old and far from being learned. He was of humble origin, of
strong will and steadfast faith, of austere appearance, but of deep
tenderness, though he obviously concealed it as though he were almost
ashamed of it. The fourth, Father Anfim, was a very old and humble little
monk of the poorest peasant class. He was almost illiterate, and very
quiet, scarcely speaking to any one. He was the humblest of the humble,
and looked as though he had been frightened by something great and awful
beyond the scope of his intelligence. Father Zossima had a great affection
for this timorous man, and always treated him with marked respect, though
perhaps there was no one he had known to whom he had said less, in spite
of the fact that he had spent years wandering about holy Russia with him.
That was very long ago, forty years before, when Father Zossima first
began his life as a monk in a poor and little monastery at Kostroma, and
when, shortly after, he had accompanied Father Anfim on his pilgrimage to
collect alms for their poor monastery.

The whole party were in the bedroom which, as we mentioned before, was
very small, so that there was scarcely room for the four of them (in
addition to Porfiry, the novice, who stood) to sit round Father Zossima on
chairs brought from the sitting-room. It was already beginning to get
dark, the room was lighted up by the lamps and the candles before the
ikons.

Seeing Alyosha standing embarrassed in the doorway, Father Zossima smiled
at him joyfully and held out his hand.

"Welcome, my quiet one, welcome, my dear, here you are too. I knew you
would come."

Alyosha went up to him, bowed down before him to the ground and wept.
Something surged up from his heart, his soul was quivering, he wanted to
sob.

"Come, don't weep over me yet," Father Zossima smiled, laying his right
hand on his head. "You see I am sitting up talking; maybe I shall live
another twenty years yet, as that dear good woman from Vishegorye, with
her little Lizaveta in her arms, wished me yesterday. God bless the mother
and the little girl Lizaveta," he crossed himself. "Porfiry, did you take
her offering where I told you?"

He meant the sixty copecks brought him the day before by the good-humored
woman to be given "to some one poorer than me." Such offerings, always of
money gained by personal toil, are made by way of penance voluntarily
undertaken. The elder had sent Porfiry the evening before to a widow,
whose house had been burnt down lately, and who after the fire had gone
with her children begging alms. Porfiry hastened to reply that he had
given the money, as he had been instructed, "from an unknown
benefactress."

"Get up, my dear boy," the elder went on to Alyosha. "Let me look at you.
Have you been home and seen your brother?" It seemed strange to Alyosha
that he asked so confidently and precisely, about one of his brothers
only--but which one? Then perhaps he had sent him out both yesterday and
to-day for the sake of that brother.

"I have seen one of my brothers," answered Alyosha.

"I mean the elder one, to whom I bowed down."

"I only saw him yesterday and could not find him to-day," said Alyosha.

"Make haste to find him, go again to-morrow and make haste, leave
everything and make haste. Perhaps you may still have time to prevent
something terrible. I bowed down yesterday to the great suffering in store
for him."

He was suddenly silent and seemed to be pondering. The words were strange.
Father Iosif, who had witnessed the scene yesterday, exchanged glances
with Father Paissy. Alyosha could not resist asking:

"Father and teacher," he began with extreme emotion, "your words are too
obscure.... What is this suffering in store for him?"

"Don't inquire. I seemed to see something terrible yesterday ... as though
his whole future were expressed in his eyes. A look came into his eyes--so
that I was instantly horror-stricken at what that man is preparing for
himself. Once or twice in my life I've seen such a look in a man's face
... reflecting as it were his future fate, and that fate, alas, came to
pass. I sent you to him, Alexey, for I thought your brotherly face would
help him. But everything and all our fates are from the Lord. 'Except a
corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it
die, it bringeth forth much fruit.' Remember that. You, Alexey, I've many
times silently blessed for your face, know that," added the elder with a
gentle smile. "This is what I think of you, you will go forth from these
walls, but will live like a monk in the world. You will have many enemies,
but even your foes will love you. Life will bring you many misfortunes,
but you will find your happiness in them, and will bless life and will
make others bless it--which is what matters most. Well, that is your
character. Fathers and teachers," he addressed his friends with a tender
smile, "I have never till to-day told even him why the face of this youth
is so dear to me. Now I will tell you. His face has been as it were a
remembrance and a prophecy for me. At the dawn of my life when I was a
child I had an elder brother who died before my eyes at seventeen. And
later on in the course of my life I gradually became convinced that that
brother had been for a guidance and a sign from on high for me. For had he
not come into my life, I should never perhaps, so I fancy at least, have
become a monk and entered on this precious path. He appeared first to me
in my childhood, and here, at the end of my pilgrimage, he seems to have
come to me over again. It is marvelous, fathers and teachers, that Alexey,
who has some, though not a great, resemblance in face, seems to me so like
him spiritually, that many times I have taken him for that young man, my
brother, mysteriously come back to me at the end of my pilgrimage, as a
reminder and an inspiration. So that I positively wondered at so strange a
dream in myself. Do you hear this, Porfiry?" he turned to the novice who
waited on him. "Many times I've seen in your face as it were a look of
mortification that I love Alexey more than you. Now you know why that was
so, but I love you too, know that, and many times I grieved at your
mortification. I should like to tell you, dear friends, of that youth, my
brother, for there has been no presence in my life more precious, more
significant and touching. My heart is full of tenderness, and I look at my
whole life at this moment as though living through it again."

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

Here I must observe that this last conversation of Father Zossima with the
friends who visited him on the last day of his life has been partly
preserved in writing. Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov wrote it down from
memory, some time after his elder's death. But whether this was only the
conversation that took place then, or whether he added to it his notes of
parts of former conversations with his teacher, I cannot determine. In his
account, Father Zossima's talk goes on without interruption, as though he
told his life to his friends in the form of a story, though there is no
doubt, from other accounts of it, that the conversation that evening was
general. Though the guests did not interrupt Father Zossima much, yet they
too talked, perhaps even told something themselves. Besides, Father
Zossima could not have carried on an uninterrupted narrative, for he was
sometimes gasping for breath, his voice failed him, and he even lay down
to rest on his bed, though he did not fall asleep and his visitors did not
leave their seats. Once or twice the conversation was interrupted by
Father Paissy's reading the Gospel. It is worthy of note, too, that no one
of them supposed that he would die that night, for on that evening of his
life after his deep sleep in the day he seemed suddenly to have found new
strength, which kept him up through this long conversation. It was like a
last effort of love which gave him marvelous energy; only for a little
time, however, for his life was cut short immediately.... But of that
later. I will only add now that I have preferred to confine myself to the
account given by Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov. It will be shorter and not
so fatiguing, though of course, as I must repeat, Alyosha took a great
deal from previous conversations and added them to it.

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

Notes of the Life of the deceased Priest and Monk, the Elder Zossima,
taken from his own words by Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

_(a)_ _Father Zossima's Brother_

Beloved fathers and teachers, I was born in a distant province in the
north, in the town of V. My father was a gentleman by birth, but of no
great consequence or position. He died when I was only two years old, and
I don't remember him at all. He left my mother a small house built of
wood, and a fortune, not large, but sufficient to keep her and her
children in comfort. There were two of us, my elder brother Markel and I.
He was eight years older than I was, of hasty irritable temperament, but
kind-hearted and never ironical. He was remarkably silent, especially at
home with me, his mother, and the servants. He did well at school, but did
not get on with his schoolfellows, though he never quarreled, at least so
my mother has told me. Six months before his death, when he was seventeen,
he made friends with a political exile who had been banished from Moscow
to our town for freethinking, and led a solitary existence there. He was a
good scholar who had gained distinction in philosophy in the university.
Something made him take a fancy to Markel, and he used to ask him to see
him. The young man would spend whole evenings with him during that winter,
till the exile was summoned to Petersburg to take up his post again at his
own request, as he had powerful friends.

It was the beginning of Lent, and Markel would not fast, he was rude and
laughed at it. "That's all silly twaddle, and there is no God," he said,
horrifying my mother, the servants, and me too. For though I was only
nine, I too was aghast at hearing such words. We had four servants, all
serfs. I remember my mother selling one of the four, the cook Afimya, who
was lame and elderly, for sixty paper roubles, and hiring a free servant
to take her place.

In the sixth week in Lent, my brother, who was never strong and had a
tendency to consumption, was taken ill. He was tall but thin and delicate-
looking, and of very pleasing countenance. I suppose he caught cold,
anyway the doctor, who came, soon whispered to my mother that it was
galloping consumption, that he would not live through the spring. My
mother began weeping, and, careful not to alarm my brother, she entreated
him to go to church, to confess and take the sacrament, as he was still
able to move about. This made him angry, and he said something profane
about the church. He grew thoughtful, however; he guessed at once that he
was seriously ill, and that that was why his mother was begging him to
confess and take the sacrament. He had been aware, indeed, for a long time
past, that he was far from well, and had a year before coolly observed at
dinner to our mother and me, "My life won't be long among you, I may not
live another year," which seemed now like a prophecy.

Three days passed and Holy Week had come. And on Tuesday morning my
brother began going to church. "I am doing this simply for your sake,
mother, to please and comfort you," he said. My mother wept with joy and
grief. "His end must be near," she thought, "if there's such a change in
him." But he was not able to go to church long, he took to his bed, so he
had to confess and take the sacrament at home.

It was a late Easter, and the days were bright, fine, and full of
fragrance. I remember he used to cough all night and sleep badly, but in
the morning he dressed and tried to sit up in an arm-chair. That's how I
remember him sitting, sweet and gentle, smiling, his face bright and
joyous, in spite of his illness. A marvelous change passed over him, his
spirit seemed transformed. The old nurse would come in and say, "Let me
light the lamp before the holy image, my dear." And once he would not have
allowed it and would have blown it out.

"Light it, light it, dear, I was a wretch to have prevented you doing it.
You are praying when you light the lamp, and I am praying when I rejoice
seeing you. So we are praying to the same God."

Those words seemed strange to us, and mother would go to her room and
weep, but when she went in to him she wiped her eyes and looked cheerful.
"Mother, don't weep, darling," he would say, "I've long to live yet, long
to rejoice with you, and life is glad and joyful."

"Ah, dear boy, how can you talk of joy when you lie feverish at night,
coughing as though you would tear yourself to pieces."

"Don't cry, mother," he would answer, "life is paradise, and we are all in
paradise, but we won't see it, if we would, we should have heaven on earth
the next day."

Every one wondered at his words, he spoke so strangely and positively; we
were all touched and wept. Friends came to see us. "Dear ones," he would
say to them, "what have I done that you should love me so, how can you
love any one like me, and how was it I did not know, I did not appreciate
it before?"

When the servants came in to him he would say continually, "Dear, kind
people, why are you doing so much for me, do I deserve to be waited on? If
it were God's will for me to live, I would wait on you, for all men should
wait on one another."

Mother shook her head as she listened. "My darling, it's your illness
makes you talk like that."

"Mother, darling," he would say, "there must be servants and masters, but
if so I will be the servant of my servants, the same as they are to me.
And another thing, mother, every one of us has sinned against all men, and
I more than any."

Mother positively smiled at that, smiled through her tears. "Why, how
could you have sinned against all men, more than all? Robbers and
murderers have done that, but what sin have you committed yet, that you
hold yourself more guilty than all?"

"Mother, little heart of mine," he said (he had begun using such strange
caressing words at that time), "little heart of mine, my joy, believe me,
every one is really responsible to all men for all men and for everything.
I don't know how to explain it to you, but I feel it is so, painfully
even. And how is it we went on then living, getting angry and not
knowing?"

So he would get up every day, more and more sweet and joyous and full of
love. When the doctor, an old German called Eisenschmidt, came:

"Well, doctor, have I another day in this world?" he would ask, joking.

"You'll live many days yet," the doctor would answer, "and months and
years too."

"Months and years!" he would exclaim. "Why reckon the days? One day is
enough for a man to know all happiness. My dear ones, why do we quarrel,
try to outshine each other and keep grudges against each other? Let's go
straight into the garden, walk and play there, love, appreciate, and kiss
each other, and glorify life."

"Your son cannot last long," the doctor told my mother, as she accompanied
him to the door. "The disease is affecting his brain."

The windows of his room looked out into the garden, and our garden was a
shady one, with old trees in it which were coming into bud. The first
birds of spring were flitting in the branches, chirruping and singing at
the windows. And looking at them and admiring them, he began suddenly
begging their forgiveness too: "Birds of heaven, happy birds, forgive me,
for I have sinned against you too." None of us could understand that at
the time, but he shed tears of joy. "Yes," he said, "there was such a
glory of God all about me: birds, trees, meadows, sky; only I lived in
shame and dishonored it all and did not notice the beauty and glory."

"You take too many sins on yourself," mother used to say, weeping.

"Mother, darling, it's for joy, not for grief I am crying. Though I can't
explain it to you, I like to humble myself before them, for I don't know
how to love them enough. If I have sinned against every one, yet all
forgive me, too, and that's heaven. Am I not in heaven now?"

And there was a great deal more I don't remember. I remember I went once
into his room when there was no one else there. It was a bright evening,
the sun was setting, and the whole room was lighted up. He beckoned me,
and I went up to him. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my
face tenderly, lovingly; he said nothing for a minute, only looked at me
like that.

"Well," he said, "run and play now, enjoy life for me too."

I went out then and ran to play. And many times in my life afterwards I
remembered even with tears how he told me to enjoy life for him too. There
were many other marvelous and beautiful sayings of his, though we did not
understand them at the time. He died the third week after Easter. He was
fully conscious though he could not talk; up to his last hour he did not
change. He looked happy, his eyes beamed and sought us, he smiled at us,
beckoned us. There was a great deal of talk even in the town about his
death. I was impressed by all this at the time, but not too much so,
though I cried a good deal at his funeral. I was young then, a child, but
a lasting impression, a hidden feeling of it all, remained in my heart,
ready to rise up and respond when the time came. So indeed it happened.

_(b) Of the Holy Scriptures in the Life of Father Zossima_

I was left alone with my mother. Her friends began advising her to send me
to Petersburg as other parents did. "You have only one son now," they
said, "and have a fair income, and you will be depriving him perhaps of a
brilliant career if you keep him here." They suggested I should be sent to
Petersburg to the Cadet Corps, that I might afterwards enter the Imperial
Guard. My mother hesitated for a long time, it was awful to part with her
only child, but she made up her mind to it at last, though not without
many tears, believing she was acting for my happiness. She brought me to
Petersburg and put me into the Cadet Corps, and I never saw her again. For
she too died three years afterwards. She spent those three years mourning
and grieving for both of us.

From the house of my childhood I have brought nothing but precious
memories, for there are no memories more precious than those of early
childhood in one's first home. And that is almost always so if there is
any love and harmony in the family at all. Indeed, precious memories may
remain even of a bad home, if only the heart knows how to find what is
precious. With my memories of home I count, too, my memories of the Bible,
which, child as I was, I was very eager to read at home. I had a book of
Scripture history then with excellent pictures, called _A Hundred and Four
Stories from the Old and New Testament_, and I learned to read from it. I
have it lying on my shelf now, I keep it as a precious relic of the past.
But even before I learned to read, I remember first being moved to
devotional feeling at eight years old. My mother took me alone to mass (I
don't remember where my brother was at the time) on the Monday before
Easter. It was a fine day, and I remember to-day, as though I saw it now,
how the incense rose from the censer and softly floated upwards and,
overhead in the cupola, mingled in rising waves with the sunlight that
streamed in at the little window. I was stirred by the sight, and for the
first time in my life I consciously received the seed of God's word in my
heart. A youth came out into the middle of the church carrying a big book,
so large that at the time I fancied he could scarcely carry it. He laid it
on the reading desk, opened it, and began reading, and suddenly for the
first time I understood something read in the church of God. In the land
of Uz, there lived a man, righteous and God-fearing, and he had great
wealth, so many camels, so many sheep and asses, and his children feasted,
and he loved them very much and prayed for them. "It may be that my sons
have sinned in their feasting." Now the devil came before the Lord
together with the sons of God, and said to the Lord that he had gone up
and down the earth and under the earth. "And hast thou considered my
servant Job?" God asked of him. And God boasted to the devil, pointing to
his great and holy servant. And the devil laughed at God's words. "Give
him over to me and Thou wilt see that Thy servant will murmur against Thee
and curse Thy name." And God gave up the just man He loved so, to the
devil. And the devil smote his children and his cattle and scattered his
wealth, all of a sudden like a thunderbolt from heaven. And Job rent his
mantle and fell down upon the ground and cried aloud, "Naked came I out of
my mother's womb, and naked shall I return into the earth; the Lord gave
and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord for ever and
ever."

Fathers and teachers, forgive my tears now, for all my childhood rises up
again before me, and I breathe now as I breathed then, with the breast of
a little child of eight, and I feel as I did then, awe and wonder and
gladness. The camels at that time caught my imagination, and Satan, who
talked like that with God, and God who gave His servant up to destruction,
and His servant crying out: "Blessed be Thy name although Thou dost punish
me," and then the soft and sweet singing in the church: "Let my prayer
rise up before Thee," and again incense from the priest's censer and the
kneeling and the prayer. Ever since then--only yesterday I took it up--I've
never been able to read that sacred tale without tears. And how much that
is great, mysterious and unfathomable there is in it! Afterwards I heard
the words of mockery and blame, proud words, "How could God give up the
most loved of His saints for the diversion of the devil, take from him his
children, smite him with sore boils so that he cleansed the corruption
from his sores with a pot-sherd--and for no object except to boast to the
devil! 'See what My saint can suffer for My sake.' " But the greatness of
it lies just in the fact that it is a mystery--that the passing earthly
show and the eternal verity are brought together in it. In the face of the
earthly truth, the eternal truth is accomplished. The Creator, just as on
the first days of creation He ended each day with praise: "That is good
that I have created," looks upon Job and again praises His creation. And
Job, praising the Lord, serves not only Him but all His creation for
generations and generations, and for ever and ever, since for that he was
ordained. Good heavens, what a book it is, and what lessons there are in
it! What a book the Bible is, what a miracle, what strength is given with
it to man! It is like a mold cast of the world and man and human nature,
everything is there, and a law for everything for all the ages. And what
mysteries are solved and revealed! God raises Job again, gives him wealth
again. Many years pass by, and he has other children and loves them. But
how could he love those new ones when those first children are no more,
when he has lost them? Remembering them, how could he be fully happy with
those new ones, however dear the new ones might be? But he could, he
could. It's the great mystery of human life that old grief passes
gradually into quiet, tender joy. The mild serenity of age takes the place
of the riotous blood of youth. I bless the rising sun each day, and, as
before, my hearts sings to meet it, but now I love even more its setting,
its long slanting rays and the soft, tender, gentle memories that come
with them, the dear images from the whole of my long, happy life--and over
all the Divine Truth, softening, reconciling, forgiving! My life is
ending, I know that well, but every day that is left me I feel how my
earthly life is in touch with a new infinite, unknown, that approaching
life, the nearness of which sets my soul quivering with rapture, my mind
glowing and my heart weeping with joy.

Friends and teachers, I have heard more than once, and of late one may
hear it more often, that the priests, and above all the village priests,
are complaining on all sides of their miserable income and their
humiliating lot. They plainly state, even in print--I've read it
myself--that they are unable to teach the Scriptures to the people because
of the smallness of their means, and if Lutherans and heretics come and
lead the flock astray, they let them lead them astray because they have so
little to live upon. May the Lord increase the sustenance that is so
precious to them, for their complaint is just, too. But of a truth I say,
if any one is to blame in the matter, half the fault is ours. For he may
be short of time, he may say truly that he is overwhelmed all the while
with work and services, but still it's not all the time, even he has an
hour a week to remember God. And he does not work the whole year round.
Let him gather round him once a week, some hour in the evening, if only
the children at first--the fathers will hear of it and they too will begin
to come. There's no need to build halls for this, let him take them into
his own cottage. They won't spoil his cottage, they would only be there
one hour. Let him open that book and begin reading it without grand words
or superciliousness, without condescension to them, but gently and kindly,
being glad that he is reading to them and that they are listening with
attention, loving the words himself, only stopping from time to time to
explain words that are not understood by the peasants. Don't be anxious,
they will understand everything, the orthodox heart will understand all!
Let him read them about Abraham and Sarah, about Isaac and Rebecca, of how
Jacob went to Laban and wrestled with the Lord in his dream and said,
"This place is holy"--and he will impress the devout mind of the peasant.
Let him read, especially to the children, how the brothers sold Joseph,
the tender boy, the dreamer and prophet, into bondage, and told their
father that a wild beast had devoured him, and showed him his blood-
stained clothes. Let him read them how the brothers afterwards journeyed
into Egypt for corn, and Joseph, already a great ruler, unrecognized by
them, tormented them, accused them, kept his brother Benjamin, and all
through love: "I love you, and loving you I torment you." For he
remembered all his life how they had sold him to the merchants in the
burning desert by the well, and how, wringing his hands, he had wept and
besought his brothers not to sell him as a slave in a strange land. And
how, seeing them again after many years, he loved them beyond measure, but
he harassed and tormented them in love. He left them at last not able to
bear the suffering of his heart, flung himself on his bed and wept. Then,
wiping his tears away, he went out to them joyful and told them,
"Brothers, I am your brother Joseph!" Let him read them further how happy
old Jacob was on learning that his darling boy was still alive, and how he
went to Egypt leaving his own country, and died in a foreign land,
bequeathing his great prophecy that had lain mysteriously hidden in his
meek and timid heart all his life, that from his offspring, from Judah,
will come the great hope of the world, the Messiah and Saviour.

Fathers and teachers, forgive me and don't be angry, that like a little
child I've been babbling of what you know long ago, and can teach me a
hundred times more skillfully. I only speak from rapture, and forgive my
tears, for I love the Bible. Let him too weep, the priest of God, and be
sure that the hearts of his listeners will throb in response. Only a
little tiny seed is needed--drop it into the heart of the peasant and it
won't die, it will live in his soul all his life, it will be hidden in the
midst of his darkness and sin, like a bright spot, like a great reminder.
And there's no need of much teaching or explanation, he will understand it
all simply. Do you suppose that the peasants don't understand? Try reading
them the touching story of the fair Esther and the haughty Vashti; or the
miraculous story of Jonah in the whale. Don't forget either the parables
of Our Lord, choose especially from the Gospel of St. Luke (that is what I
did), and then from the Acts of the Apostles the conversion of St. Paul
(that you mustn't leave out on any account), and from the _Lives of the
Saints_, for instance, the life of Alexey, the man of God and, greatest of
all, the happy martyr and the seer of God, Mary of Egypt--and you will
penetrate their hearts with these simple tales. Give one hour a week to it
in spite of your poverty, only one little hour. And you will see for
yourselves that our people is gracious and grateful, and will repay you a
hundred-fold. Mindful of the kindness of their priest and the moving words
they have heard from him, they will of their own accord help him in his
fields and in his house, and will treat him with more respect than
before--so that it will even increase his worldly well-being too. The thing
is so simple that sometimes one is even afraid to put it into words, for
fear of being laughed at, and yet how true it is! One who does not believe
in God will not believe in God's people. He who believes in God's people
will see His Holiness too, even though he had not believed in it till
then. Only the people and their future spiritual power will convert our
atheists, who have torn themselves away from their native soil.

And what is the use of Christ's words, unless we set an example? The
people is lost without the Word of God, for its soul is athirst for the
Word and for all that is good.

In my youth, long ago, nearly forty years ago, I traveled all over Russia
with Father Anfim, collecting funds for our monastery, and we stayed one
night on the bank of a great navigable river with some fishermen. A good-
looking peasant lad, about eighteen, joined us; he had to hurry back next
morning to pull a merchant's barge along the bank. I noticed him looking
straight before him with clear and tender eyes. It was a bright, warm,
still, July night, a cool mist rose from the broad river, we could hear
the plash of a fish, the birds were still, all was hushed and beautiful,
everything praying to God. Only we two were not sleeping, the lad and I,
and we talked of the beauty of this world of God's and of the great
mystery of it. Every blade of grass, every insect, ant, and golden bee,
all so marvelously know their path, though they have not intelligence,
they bear witness to the mystery of God and continually accomplish it
themselves. I saw the dear lad's heart was moved. He told me that he loved
the forest and the forest birds. He was a bird-catcher, knew the note of
each of them, could call each bird. "I know nothing better than to be in
the forest," said he, "though all things are good."

"Truly," I answered him, "all things are good and fair, because all is
truth. Look," said I, "at the horse, that great beast that is so near to
man; or the lowly, pensive ox, which feeds him and works for him; look at
their faces, what meekness, what devotion to man, who often beats them
mercilessly. What gentleness, what confidence and what beauty! It's
touching to know that there's no sin in them, for all, all except man, is
sinless, and Christ has been with them before us."

"Why," asked the boy, "is Christ with them too?"

"It cannot but be so," said I, "since the Word is for all. All creation
and all creatures, every leaf is striving to the Word, singing glory to
God, weeping to Christ, unconsciously accomplishing this by the mystery of
their sinless life. Yonder," said I, "in the forest wanders the dreadful
bear, fierce and menacing, and yet innocent in it." And I told him how
once a bear came to a great saint who had taken refuge in a tiny cell in
the wood. And the great saint pitied him, went up to him without fear and
gave him a piece of bread. "Go along," said he, "Christ be with you," and
the savage beast walked away meekly and obediently, doing no harm. And the
lad was delighted that the bear had walked away without hurting the saint,
and that Christ was with him too. "Ah," said he, "how good that is, how
good and beautiful is all God's work!" He sat musing softly and sweetly. I
saw he understood. And he slept beside me a light and sinless sleep. May
God bless youth! And I prayed for him as I went to sleep. Lord, send peace
and light to Thy people!

When Alyosha arrives at the elder Zosima's quarters, he is sitting up looking relatively well, surrounded by four other monks: Father Iosif, Father Paissy, Father Mikhail , and Brother Anfim. Zosima asks Alyosha if he has seen his brother, but Alyosha isn't sure which brother he is referring to at first. Zosima explains that he had seen a fate of terrible suffering in the face of his brother Dmitri and had hoped that Alyosha could save him. He tells Alyosha to find Dmitri at all costs after their conversation. Zosima then says how much Alyosha reminds him of his own dead brother. The narrator intervenes at this point to tell the reader that what follows in the next chapter is a narrative of Zosima's life written by Alyosha, who wrote down what he remembered of that night much later.

The Elder Zosima and His Visitors When Alyosha returns to the monastery, he finds Zosima sitting in bed with a group of his students and followers around him. Zosima asks how Dmitri is doing and tells Alyosha that he bowed to Dmitri as he did because he foresees that Dmitri will soon undergo a great trial of pain and suffering. Zosima says that Dmitri's destiny is not Alyosha's, and encourages Alyosha again to leave the monastery and do good in the world