PART III  Book VII. Alyosha Chapter I. The Breath Of Corruption

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter II. A Critical Moment

Father Paissy, of course, was not wrong when he decided that his "dear
boy" would come back again. Perhaps indeed, to some extent, he penetrated
with insight into the true meaning of Alyosha's spiritual condition. Yet I
must frankly own that it would be very difficult for me to give a clear
account of that strange, vague moment in the life of the young hero I love
so much. To Father Paissy's sorrowful question, "Are you too with those of
little faith?" I could of course confidently answer for Alyosha, "No, he
is not with those of little faith. Quite the contrary." Indeed, all his
trouble came from the fact that he was of great faith. But still the
trouble was there and was so agonizing that even long afterwards Alyosha
thought of that sorrowful day as one of the bitterest and most fatal days
of his life. If the question is asked: "Could all his grief and
disturbance have been only due to the fact that his elder's body had shown
signs of premature decomposition instead of at once performing miracles?"
I must answer without beating about the bush, "Yes, it certainly was." I
would only beg the reader not to be in too great a hurry to laugh at my
young hero's pure heart. I am far from intending to apologize for him or
to justify his innocent faith on the ground of his youth, or the little
progress he had made in his studies, or any such reason. I must declare,
on the contrary, that I have genuine respect for the qualities of his
heart. No doubt a youth who received impressions cautiously, whose love
was lukewarm, and whose mind was too prudent for his age and so of little
value, such a young man might, I admit, have avoided what happened to my
hero. But in some cases it is really more creditable to be carried away by
an emotion, however unreasonable, which springs from a great love, than to
be unmoved. And this is even truer in youth, for a young man who is always
sensible is to be suspected and is of little worth--that's my opinion!

"But," reasonable people will exclaim perhaps, "every young man cannot
believe in such a superstition and your hero is no model for others."

To this I reply again, "Yes! my hero had faith, a faith holy and
steadfast, but still I am not going to apologize for him."

Though I declared above, and perhaps too hastily, that I should not
explain or justify my hero, I see that some explanation is necessary for
the understanding of the rest of my story. Let me say then, it was not a
question of miracles. There was no frivolous and impatient expectation of
miracles in his mind. And Alyosha needed no miracles at the time, for the
triumph of some preconceived idea--oh, no, not at all--what he saw before
all was one figure--the figure of his beloved elder, the figure of that
holy man whom he revered with such adoration. The fact is that all the
love that lay concealed in his pure young heart for every one and
everything had, for the past year, been concentrated--and perhaps wrongly
so--on one being, his beloved elder. It is true that being had for so long
been accepted by him as his ideal, that all his young strength and energy
could not but turn towards that ideal, even to the forgetting at the
moment "of every one and everything." He remembered afterwards how, on
that terrible day, he had entirely forgotten his brother Dmitri, about
whom he had been so anxious and troubled the day before; he had forgotten,
too, to take the two hundred roubles to Ilusha's father, though he had so
warmly intended to do so the preceding evening. But again it was not
miracles he needed but only "the higher justice" which had been in his
belief outraged by the blow that had so suddenly and cruelly wounded his
heart. And what does it signify that this "justice" looked for by Alyosha
inevitably took the shape of miracles to be wrought immediately by the
ashes of his adored teacher? Why, every one in the monastery cherished the
same thought and the same hope, even those whose intellects Alyosha
revered, Father Paissy himself, for instance. And so Alyosha, untroubled
by doubts, clothed his dreams too in the same form as all the rest. And a
whole year of life in the monastery had formed the habit of this
expectation in his heart. But it was justice, justice, he thirsted for,
not simply miracles.

And now the man who should, he believed, have been exalted above every one
in the whole world, that man, instead of receiving the glory that was his
due, was suddenly degraded and dishonored! What for? Who had judged him?
Who could have decreed this? Those were the questions that wrung his
inexperienced and virginal heart. He could not endure without
mortification, without resentment even, that the holiest of holy men
should have been exposed to the jeering and spiteful mockery of the
frivolous crowd so inferior to him. Even had there been no miracles, had
there been nothing marvelous to justify his hopes, why this indignity, why
this humiliation, why this premature decay, "in excess of nature," as the
spiteful monks said? Why this "sign from heaven," which they so
triumphantly acclaimed in company with Father Ferapont, and why did they
believe they had gained the right to acclaim it? Where is the finger of
Providence? Why did Providence hide its face "at the most critical moment"
(so Alyosha thought it), as though voluntarily submitting to the blind,
dumb, pitiless laws of nature?

That was why Alyosha's heart was bleeding, and, of course, as I have said
already, the sting of it all was that the man he loved above everything on
earth should be put to shame and humiliated! This murmuring may have been
shallow and unreasonable in my hero, but I repeat again for the third
time--and am prepared to admit that it might be difficult to defend my
feeling--I am glad that my hero showed himself not too reasonable at that
moment, for any man of sense will always come back to reason in time, but,
if love does not gain the upper hand in a boy's heart at such an
exceptional moment, when will it? I will not, however, omit to mention
something strange, which came for a time to the surface of Alyosha's mind
at this fatal and obscure moment. This new something was the harassing
impression left by the conversation with Ivan, which now persistently
haunted Alyosha's mind. At this moment it haunted him. Oh, it was not that
something of the fundamental, elemental, so to speak, faith of his soul
had been shaken. He loved his God and believed in Him steadfastly, though
he was suddenly murmuring against Him. Yet a vague but tormenting and evil
impression left by his conversation with Ivan the day before, suddenly
revived again now in his soul and seemed forcing its way to the surface of
his consciousness.

It had begun to get dusk when Rakitin, crossing the pine copse from the
hermitage to the monastery, suddenly noticed Alyosha, lying face downwards
on the ground under a tree, not moving and apparently asleep. He went up
and called him by his name.

"You here, Alexey? Can you have--" he began wondering but broke off. He had
meant to say, "Can you have come to this?"

Alyosha did not look at him, but from a slight movement Rakitin at once
saw that he heard and understood him.

"What's the matter?" he went on; but the surprise in his face gradually
passed into a smile that became more and more ironical.

"I say, I've been looking for you for the last two hours. You suddenly
disappeared. What are you about? What foolery is this? You might just look
at me..."

Alyosha raised his head, sat up and leaned his back against the tree. He
was not crying, but there was a look of suffering and irritability in his
face. He did not look at Rakitin, however, but looked away to one side of
him.

"Do you know your face is quite changed? There's none of your famous
mildness to be seen in it. Are you angry with some one? Have they been
ill-treating you?"

"Let me alone," said Alyosha suddenly, with a weary gesture of his hand,
still looking away from him.

"Oho! So that's how we are feeling! So you can shout at people like other
mortals. That is a come-down from the angels. I say, Alyosha, you have
surprised me, do you hear? I mean it. It's long since I've been surprised
at anything here. I always took you for an educated man...."

Alyosha at last looked at him, but vaguely, as though scarcely
understanding what he said.

"Can you really be so upset simply because your old man has begun to
stink? You don't mean to say you seriously believed that he was going to
work miracles?" exclaimed Rakitin, genuinely surprised again.

"I believed, I believe, I want to believe, and I will believe, what more
do you want?" cried Alyosha irritably.

"Nothing at all, my boy. Damn it all! why, no schoolboy of thirteen
believes in that now. But there.... So now you are in a temper with your
God, you are rebelling against Him; He hasn't given promotion, He hasn't
bestowed the order of merit! Eh, you are a set!"

Alyosha gazed a long while with his eyes half closed at Rakitin, and there
was a sudden gleam in his eyes ... but not of anger with Rakitin.

"I am not rebelling against my God; I simply 'don't accept His world.' "
Alyosha suddenly smiled a forced smile.

"How do you mean, you don't accept the world?" Rakitin thought a moment
over his answer. "What idiocy is this?"

Alyosha did not answer.

"Come, enough nonsense, now to business. Have you had anything to eat to-
day?"

"I don't remember.... I think I have."

"You need keeping up, to judge by your face. It makes one sorry to look at
you. You didn't sleep all night either, I hear, you had a meeting in
there. And then all this bobbery afterwards. Most likely you've had
nothing to eat but a mouthful of holy bread. I've got some sausage in my
pocket; I've brought it from the town in case of need, only you won't eat
sausage...."

"Give me some."

"I say! You are going it! Why, it's a regular mutiny, with barricades!
Well, my boy, we must make the most of it. Come to my place.... I
shouldn't mind a drop of vodka myself, I am tired to death. Vodka is going
too far for you, I suppose ... or would you like some?"

"Give me some vodka too."

"Hullo! You surprise me, brother!" Rakitin looked at him in amazement.
"Well, one way or another, vodka or sausage, this is a jolly fine chance
and mustn't be missed. Come along."

Alyosha got up in silence and followed Rakitin.

"If your little brother Ivan could see this--wouldn't he be surprised! By
the way, your brother Ivan set off to Moscow this morning, did you know?"

"Yes," answered Alyosha listlessly, and suddenly the image of his brother
Dmitri rose before his mind. But only for a minute, and though it reminded
him of something that must not be put off for a moment, some duty, some
terrible obligation, even that reminder made no impression on him, did not
reach his heart and instantly faded out of his mind and was forgotten.
But, a long while afterwards, Alyosha remembered this.

"Your brother Ivan declared once that I was a 'liberal booby with no
talents whatsoever.' Once you, too, could not resist letting me know I was
'dishonorable.' Well! I should like to see what your talents and sense of
honor will do for you now." This phrase Rakitin finished to himself in a
whisper.

"Listen!" he said aloud, "let's go by the path beyond the monastery
straight to the town. Hm! I ought to go to Madame Hohlakov's by the way.
Only fancy, I've written to tell her everything that happened, and would
you believe it, she answered me instantly in pencil (the lady has a
passion for writing notes) that 'she would never have expected _such
conduct_ from a man of such a reverend character as Father Zossima.' That
was her very word: 'conduct.' She is angry too. Eh, you are a set! Stay!"
he cried suddenly again. He suddenly stopped and taking Alyosha by the
shoulder made him stop too.

"Do you know, Alyosha," he peeped inquisitively into his eyes, absorbed in
a sudden new thought which had dawned on him, and though he was laughing
outwardly he was evidently afraid to utter that new idea aloud, so
difficult he still found it to believe in the strange and unexpected mood
in which he now saw Alyosha. "Alyosha, do you know where we had better
go?" he brought out at last timidly, and insinuatingly.

"I don't care ... where you like."

"Let's go to Grushenka, eh? Will you come?" pronounced Rakitin at last,
trembling with timid suspense.

"Let's go to Grushenka," Alyosha answered calmly, at once, and this prompt
and calm agreement was such a surprise to Rakitin that he almost started
back.

"Well! I say!" he cried in amazement, but seizing Alyosha firmly by the
arm he led him along the path, still dreading that he would change his
mind.

They walked along in silence, Rakitin was positively afraid to talk.

"And how glad she will be, how delighted!" he muttered, but lapsed into
silence again. And indeed it was not to please Grushenka he was taking
Alyosha to her. He was a practical person and never undertook anything
without a prospect of gain for himself. His object in this case was
twofold, first a revengeful desire to see "the downfall of the righteous,"
and Alyosha's fall "from the saints to the sinners," over which he was
already gloating in his imagination, and in the second place he had in
view a certain material gain for himself, of which more will be said
later.

"So the critical moment has come," he thought to himself with spiteful
glee, "and we shall catch it on the hop, for it's just what we want."

Chapter III. An Onion

Grushenka lived in the busiest part of the town, near the cathedral
square, in a small wooden lodge in the courtyard belonging to the house of
the widow Morozov. The house was a large stone building of two stories,
old and very ugly. The widow led a secluded life with her two unmarried
nieces, who were also elderly women. She had no need to let her lodge, but
every one knew that she had taken in Grushenka as a lodger, four years
before, solely to please her kinsman, the merchant Samsonov, who was known
to be the girl's protector. It was said that the jealous old man's object
in placing his "favorite" with the widow Morozov was that the old woman
should keep a sharp eye on her new lodger's conduct. But this sharp eye
soon proved to be unnecessary, and in the end the widow Morozov seldom met
Grushenka and did not worry her by looking after her in any way. It is
true that four years had passed since the old man had brought the slim,
delicate, shy, timid, dreamy, and sad girl of eighteen from the chief town
of the province, and much had happened since then. Little was known of the
girl's history in the town and that little was vague. Nothing more had
been learnt during the last four years, even after many persons had become
interested in the beautiful young woman into whom Agrafena Alexandrovna
had meanwhile developed. There were rumors that she had been at seventeen
betrayed by some one, some sort of officer, and immediately afterwards
abandoned by him. The officer had gone away and afterwards married, while
Grushenka had been left in poverty and disgrace. It was said, however,
that though Grushenka had been raised from destitution by the old man,
Samsonov, she came of a respectable family belonging to the clerical
class, that she was the daughter of a deacon or something of the sort.

And now after four years the sensitive, injured and pathetic little orphan
had become a plump, rosy beauty of the Russian type, a woman of bold and
determined character, proud and insolent. She had a good head for
business, was acquisitive, saving and careful, and by fair means or foul
had succeeded, it was said, in amassing a little fortune. There was only
one point on which all were agreed. Grushenka was not easily to be
approached and except her aged protector there had not been one man who
could boast of her favors during those four years. It was a positive fact,
for there had been a good many, especially during the last two years, who
had attempted to obtain those favors. But all their efforts had been in
vain and some of these suitors had been forced to beat an undignified and
even comic retreat, owing to the firm and ironical resistance they met
from the strong-willed young person. It was known, too, that the young
person had, especially of late, been given to what is called
"speculation," and that she had shown marked abilities in that direction,
so that many people began to say that she was no better than a Jew. It was
not that she lent money on interest, but it was known, for instance, that
she had for some time past, in partnership with old Karamazov, actually
invested in the purchase of bad debts for a trifle, a tenth of their
nominal value, and afterwards had made out of them ten times their value.

The old widower Samsonov, a man of large fortune, was stingy and
merciless. He tyrannized over his grown-up sons, but, for the last year
during which he had been ill and lost the use of his swollen legs, he had
fallen greatly under the influence of his protegee, whom he had at first
kept strictly and in humble surroundings, "on Lenten fare," as the wits
said at the time. But Grushenka had succeeded in emancipating herself,
while she established in him a boundless belief in her fidelity. The old
man, now long since dead, had had a large business in his day and was also
a noteworthy character, miserly and hard as flint. Though Grushenka's hold
upon him was so strong that he could not live without her (it had been so
especially for the last two years), he did not settle any considerable
fortune on her and would not have been moved to do so, if she had
threatened to leave him. But he had presented her with a small sum, and
even that was a surprise to every one when it became known.

"You are a wench with brains," he said to her, when he gave her eight
thousand roubles, "and you must look after yourself, but let me tell you
that except your yearly allowance as before, you'll get nothing more from
me to the day of my death, and I'll leave you nothing in my will either."

And he kept his word; he died and left everything to his sons, whom, with
their wives and children, he had treated all his life as servants.
Grushenka was not even mentioned in his will. All this became known
afterwards. He helped Grushenka with his advice to increase her capital
and put business in her way.

When Fyodor Pavlovitch, who first came into contact with Grushenka over a
piece of speculation, ended to his own surprise by falling madly in love
with her, old Samsonov, gravely ill as he was, was immensely amused. It is
remarkable that throughout their whole acquaintance Grushenka was
absolutely and spontaneously open with the old man, and he seems to have
been the only person in the world with whom she was so. Of late, when
Dmitri too had come on the scene with his love, the old man left off
laughing. On the contrary, he once gave Grushenka a stern and earnest
piece of advice.

"If you have to choose between the two, father or son, you'd better choose
the old man, if only you make sure the old scoundrel will marry you and
settle some fortune on you beforehand. But don't keep on with the captain,
you'll get no good out of that."

These were the very words of the old profligate, who felt already that his
death was not far off and who actually died five months later.

I will note, too, in passing, that although many in our town knew of the
grotesque and monstrous rivalry of the Karamazovs, father and son, the
object of which was Grushenka, scarcely any one understood what really
underlay her attitude to both of them. Even Grushenka's two servants
(after the catastrophe of which we will speak later) testified in court
that she received Dmitri Fyodorovitch simply from fear because "he
threatened to murder her." These servants were an old cook, invalidish and
almost deaf, who came from Grushenka's old home, and her granddaughter, a
smart young girl of twenty, who performed the duties of a maid. Grushenka
lived very economically and her surroundings were anything but luxurious.
Her lodge consisted of three rooms furnished with mahogany furniture in
the fashion of 1820, belonging to her landlady.

It was quite dark when Rakitin and Alyosha entered her rooms, yet they
were not lighted up. Grushenka was lying down in her drawing-room on the
big, hard, clumsy sofa, with a mahogany back. The sofa was covered with
shabby and ragged leather. Under her head she had two white down pillows
taken from her bed. She was lying stretched out motionless on her back
with her hands behind her head. She was dressed as though expecting some
one, in a black silk dress, with a dainty lace fichu on her head, which
was very becoming. Over her shoulders was thrown a lace shawl pinned with
a massive gold brooch. She certainly was expecting some one. She lay as
though impatient and weary, her face rather pale and her lips and eyes
hot, restlessly tapping the arm of the sofa with the tip of her right
foot. The appearance of Rakitin and Alyosha caused a slight excitement.
From the hall they could hear Grushenka leap up from the sofa and cry out
in a frightened voice, "Who's there?" But the maid met the visitors and at
once called back to her mistress.

"It's not he, it's nothing, only other visitors."

"What can be the matter?" muttered Rakitin, leading Alyosha into the
drawing-room.

Grushenka was standing by the sofa as though still alarmed. A thick coil
of her dark brown hair escaped from its lace covering and fell on her
right shoulder, but she did not notice it and did not put it back till she
had gazed at her visitors and recognized them.

"Ah, it's you, Rakitin? You quite frightened me. Whom have you brought?
Who is this with you? Good heavens, you have brought him!" she exclaimed,
recognizing Alyosha.

"Do send for candles!" said Rakitin, with the free-and-easy air of a most
intimate friend, who is privileged to give orders in the house.

"Candles ... of course, candles.... Fenya, fetch him a candle.... Well,
you have chosen a moment to bring him!" she exclaimed again, nodding
towards Alyosha, and turning to the looking-glass she began quickly
fastening up her hair with both hands. She seemed displeased.

"Haven't I managed to please you?" asked Rakitin, instantly almost
offended.

"You frightened me, Rakitin, that's what it is." Grushenka turned with a
smile to Alyosha. "Don't be afraid of me, my dear Alyosha, you cannot
think how glad I am to see you, my unexpected visitor. But you frightened
me, Rakitin, I thought it was Mitya breaking in. You see, I deceived him
just now, I made him promise to believe me and I told him a lie. I told
him that I was going to spend the evening with my old man, Kuzma Kuzmitch,
and should be there till late counting up his money. I always spend one
whole evening a week with him making up his accounts. We lock ourselves in
and he counts on the reckoning beads while I sit and put things down in
the book. I am the only person he trusts. Mitya believes that I am there,
but I came back and have been sitting locked in here, expecting some news.
How was it Fenya let you in? Fenya, Fenya, run out to the gate, open it
and look about whether the captain is to be seen! Perhaps he is hiding and
spying, I am dreadfully frightened."

"There's no one there, Agrafena Alexandrovna, I've just looked out, I keep
running to peep through the crack, I am in fear and trembling myself."

"Are the shutters fastened, Fenya? And we must draw the curtains--that's
better!" She drew the heavy curtains herself. "He'd rush in at once if he
saw a light. I am afraid of your brother Mitya to-day, Alyosha."

Grushenka spoke aloud, and, though she was alarmed, she seemed very happy
about something.

"Why are you so afraid of Mitya to-day?" inquired Rakitin. "I should have
thought you were not timid with him, you'd twist him round your little
finger."

"I tell you, I am expecting news, priceless news, so I don't want Mitya at
all. And he didn't believe, I feel he didn't, that I should stay at Kuzma
Kuzmitch's. He must be in his ambush now, behind Fyodor Pavlovitch's, in
the garden, watching for me. And if he's there, he won't come here, so
much the better! But I really have been to Kuzma Kuzmitch's, Mitya
escorted me there. I told him I should stay there till midnight, and I
asked him to be sure to come at midnight to fetch me home. He went away
and I sat ten minutes with Kuzma Kuzmitch and came back here again. Ugh, I
was afraid, I ran for fear of meeting him."

"And why are you so dressed up? What a curious cap you've got on!"

"How curious you are yourself, Rakitin! I tell you, I am expecting a
message. If the message comes, I shall fly, I shall gallop away and you
will see no more of me. That's why I am dressed up, so as to be ready."

"And where are you flying to?"

"If you know too much, you'll get old too soon."

"Upon my word! You are highly delighted ... I've never seen you like this
before. You are dressed up as if you were going to a ball." Rakitin looked
her up and down.

"Much you know about balls."

"And do you know much about them?"

"I have seen a ball. The year before last, Kuzma Kuzmitch's son was
married and I looked on from the gallery. Do you suppose I want to be
talking to you, Rakitin, while a prince like this is standing here. Such a
visitor! Alyosha, my dear boy, I gaze at you and can't believe my eyes.
Good heavens, can you have come here to see me! To tell you the truth, I
never had a thought of seeing you and I didn't think that you would ever
come and see me. Though this is not the moment now, I am awfully glad to
see you. Sit down on the sofa, here, that's right, my bright young moon. I
really can't take it in even now.... Eh, Rakitin, if only you had brought
him yesterday or the day before! But I am glad as it is! Perhaps it's
better he has come now, at such a moment, and not the day before
yesterday."

She gayly sat down beside Alyosha on the sofa, looking at him with
positive delight. And she really was glad, she was not lying when she said
so. Her eyes glowed, her lips laughed, but it was a good-hearted merry
laugh. Alyosha had not expected to see such a kind expression in her
face.... He had hardly met her till the day before, he had formed an
alarming idea of her, and had been horribly distressed the day before by
the spiteful and treacherous trick she had played on Katerina Ivanovna. He
was greatly surprised to find her now altogether different from what he
had expected. And, crushed as he was by his own sorrow, his eyes
involuntarily rested on her with attention. Her whole manner seemed
changed for the better since yesterday, there was scarcely any trace of
that mawkish sweetness in her speech, of that voluptuous softness in her
movements. Everything was simple and good-natured, her gestures were
rapid, direct, confiding, but she was greatly excited.

"Dear me, how everything comes together to-day!" she chattered on again.
"And why I am so glad to see you, Alyosha, I couldn't say myself! If you
ask me, I couldn't tell you."

"Come, don't you know why you're glad?" said Rakitin, grinning. "You used
to be always pestering me to bring him, you'd some object, I suppose."

"I had a different object once, but now that's over, this is not the
moment. I say, I want you to have something nice. I am so good-natured
now. You sit down, too, Rakitin; why are you standing? You've sat down
already? There's no fear of Rakitin's forgetting to look after himself.
Look, Alyosha, he's sitting there opposite us, so offended that I didn't
ask him to sit down before you. Ugh, Rakitin is such a one to take
offense!" laughed Grushenka. "Don't be angry, Rakitin, I'm kind to-day.
Why are you so depressed, Alyosha? Are you afraid of me?" She peeped into
his eyes with merry mockery"

"He's sad. The promotion has not been given," boomed Rakitin.

"What promotion?"

"His elder stinks."

"What? You are talking some nonsense, you want to say something nasty. Be
quiet, you stupid! Let me sit on your knee, Alyosha, like this." She
suddenly skipped forward and jumped, laughing, on his knee, like a
nestling kitten, with her right arm about his neck. "I'll cheer you up, my
pious boy. Yes, really, will you let me sit on your knee? You won't be
angry? If you tell me, I'll get off?"

Alyosha did not speak. He sat afraid to move, he heard her words, "If you
tell me, I'll get off," but he did not answer. But there was nothing in
his heart such as Rakitin, for instance, watching him malignantly from his
corner, might have expected or fancied. The great grief in his heart
swallowed up every sensation that might have been aroused, and, if only he
could have thought clearly at that moment, he would have realized that he
had now the strongest armor to protect him from every lust and temptation.
Yet in spite of the vague irresponsiveness of his spiritual condition and
the sorrow that overwhelmed him, he could not help wondering at a new and
strange sensation in his heart. This woman, this "dreadful" woman, had no
terror for him now, none of that terror that had stirred in his soul at
any passing thought of woman. On the contrary, this woman, dreaded above
all women, sitting now on his knee, holding him in her arms, aroused in
him now a quite different, unexpected, peculiar feeling, a feeling of the
intensest and purest interest without a trace of fear, of his former
terror. That was what instinctively surprised him.

"You've talked nonsense enough," cried Rakitin, "you'd much better give us
some champagne. You owe it me, you know you do!"

"Yes, I really do. Do you know, Alyosha, I promised him champagne on the
top of everything, if he'd bring you? I'll have some too! Fenya, Fenya,
bring us the bottle Mitya left! Look sharp! Though I am so stingy, I'll
stand a bottle, not for you, Rakitin, you're a toadstool, but he is a
falcon! And though my heart is full of something very different, so be it,
I'll drink with you. I long for some dissipation."

"But what is the matter with you? And what is this message, may I ask, or
is it a secret?" Rakitin put in inquisitively, doing his best to pretend
not to notice the snubs that were being continually aimed at him.

"Ech, it's not a secret, and you know it, too," Grushenka said, in a voice
suddenly anxious, turning her head towards Rakitin, and drawing a little
away from Alyosha, though she still sat on his knee with her arm round his
neck. "My officer is coming, Rakitin, my officer is coming."

"I heard he was coming, but is he so near?"

"He is at Mokroe now; he'll send a messenger from there, so he wrote; I
got a letter from him to-day. I am expecting the messenger every minute."

"You don't say so! Why at Mokroe?"

"That's a long story, I've told you enough."

"Mitya'll be up to something now--I say! Does he know or doesn't he?"

"He know! Of course he doesn't. If he knew, there would be murder. But I
am not afraid of that now, I am not afraid of his knife. Be quiet,
Rakitin, don't remind me of Dmitri Fyodorovitch, he has bruised my heart.
And I don't want to think of that at this moment. I can think of Alyosha
here, I can look at Alyosha ... smile at me, dear, cheer up, smile at my
foolishness, at my pleasure.... Ah, he's smiling, he's smiling! How kindly
he looks at me! And you know, Alyosha, I've been thinking all this time
you were angry with me, because of the day before yesterday, because of
that young lady. I was a cur, that's the truth.... But it's a good thing
it happened so. It was a horrid thing, but a good thing too." Grushenka
smiled dreamily and a little cruel line showed in her smile. "Mitya told
me that she screamed out that I 'ought to be flogged.' I did insult her
dreadfully. She sent for me, she wanted to make a conquest of me, to win
me over with her chocolate.... No, it's a good thing it did end like
that." She smiled again. "But I am still afraid of your being angry."

"Yes, that's really true," Rakitin put in suddenly with genuine surprise.
"Alyosha, she is really afraid of a chicken like you."

"He is a chicken to you, Rakitin ... because you've no conscience, that's
what it is! You see, I love him with all my soul, that's how it is!
Alyosha, do you believe I love you with all my soul?"

"Ah, you shameless woman! She is making you a declaration, Alexey!"

"Well, what of it, I love him!"

"And what about your officer? And the priceless message from Mokroe?"

"That is quite different."

"That's a woman's way of looking at it!"

"Don't you make me angry, Rakitin." Grushenka caught him up hotly. "This
is quite different. I love Alyosha in a different way. It's true, Alyosha,
I had sly designs on you before. For I am a horrid, violent creature. But
at other times I've looked upon you, Alyosha, as my conscience. I've kept
thinking 'how any one like that must despise a nasty thing like me.' I
thought that the day before yesterday, as I ran home from the young
lady's. I have thought of you a long time in that way, Alyosha, and Mitya
knows, I've talked to him about it. Mitya understands. Would you believe
it, I sometimes look at you and feel ashamed, utterly ashamed of
myself.... And how, and since when, I began to think about you like that,
I can't say, I don't remember...."

Fenya came in and put a tray with an uncorked bottle and three glasses of
champagne on the table.

"Here's the champagne!" cried Rakitin. "You're excited, Agrafena
Alexandrovna, and not yourself. When you've had a glass of champagne,
you'll be ready to dance. Eh, they can't even do that properly," he added,
looking at the bottle. "The old woman's poured it out in the kitchen and
the bottle's been brought in warm and without a cork. Well, let me have
some, anyway."

He went up to the table, took a glass, emptied it at one gulp and poured
himself out another.

"One doesn't often stumble upon champagne," he said, licking his lips.
"Now, Alyosha, take a glass, show what you can do! What shall we drink to?
The gates of paradise? Take a glass, Grushenka, you drink to the gates of
paradise, too."

"What gates of paradise?"

She took a glass, Alyosha took his, tasted it and put it back.

"No, I'd better not," he smiled gently.

"And you bragged!" cried Rakitin.

"Well, if so, I won't either," chimed in Grushenka, "I really don't want
any. You can drink the whole bottle alone, Rakitin. If Alyosha has some, I
will."

"What touching sentimentality!" said Rakitin tauntingly; "and she's
sitting on his knee, too! He's got something to grieve over, but what's
the matter with you? He is rebelling against his God and ready to eat
sausage...."

"How so?"

"His elder died to-day, Father Zossima, the saint."

"So Father Zossima is dead," cried Grushenka. "Good God, I did not know!"
She crossed herself devoutly. "Goodness, what have I been doing, sitting
on his knee like this at such a moment!" She started up as though in
dismay, instantly slipped off his knee and sat down on the sofa.

Alyosha bent a long wondering look upon her and a light seemed to dawn in
his face.

"Rakitin," he said suddenly, in a firm and loud voice; "don't taunt me
with having rebelled against God. I don't want to feel angry with you, so
you must be kinder, too, I've lost a treasure such as you have never had,
and you cannot judge me now. You had much better look at her--do you see
how she has pity on me? I came here to find a wicked soul--I felt drawn to
evil because I was base and evil myself, and I've found a true sister, I
have found a treasure--a loving heart. She had pity on me just now....
Agrafena Alexandrovna, I am speaking of you. You've raised my soul from
the depths."

Alyosha's lips were quivering and he caught his breath.

"She has saved you, it seems," laughed Rakitin spitefully. "And she meant
to get you in her clutches, do you realize that?"

"Stay, Rakitin." Grushenka jumped up. "Hush, both of you. Now I'll tell
you all about it. Hush, Alyosha, your words make me ashamed, for I am bad
and not good--that's what I am. And you hush, Rakitin, because you are
telling lies. I had the low idea of trying to get him in my clutches, but
now you are lying, now it's all different. And don't let me hear anything
more from you, Rakitin."

All this Grushenka said with extreme emotion.

"They are both crazy," said Rakitin, looking at them with amazement. "I
feel as though I were in a madhouse. They're both getting so feeble
they'll begin crying in a minute."

"I shall begin to cry, I shall," repeated Grushenka. "He called me his
sister and I shall never forget that. Only let me tell you, Rakitin,
though I am bad, I did give away an onion."

"An onion? Hang it all, you really are crazy."

Rakitin wondered at their enthusiasm. He was aggrieved and annoyed, though
he might have reflected that each of them was just passing through a
spiritual crisis such as does not come often in a lifetime. But though
Rakitin was very sensitive about everything that concerned himself, he was
very obtuse as regards the feelings and sensations of others--partly from
his youth and inexperience, partly from his intense egoism.

"You see, Alyosha," Grushenka turned to him with a nervous laugh. "I was
boasting when I told Rakitin I had given away an onion, but it's not to
boast I tell you about it. It's only a story, but it's a nice story. I
used to hear it when I was a child from Matryona, my cook, who is still
with me. It's like this. Once upon a time there was a peasant woman and a
very wicked woman she was. And she died and did not leave a single good
deed behind. The devils caught her and plunged her into the lake of fire.
So her guardian angel stood and wondered what good deed of hers he could
remember to tell to God; 'She once pulled up an onion in her garden,' said
he, 'and gave it to a beggar woman.' And God answered: 'You take that
onion then, hold it out to her in the lake, and let her take hold and be
pulled out. And if you can pull her out of the lake, let her come to
Paradise, but if the onion breaks, then the woman must stay where she is.'
The angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her. 'Come,' said he,
'catch hold and I'll pull you out.' And he began cautiously pulling her
out. He had just pulled her right out, when the other sinners in the lake,
seeing how she was being drawn out, began catching hold of her so as to be
pulled out with her. But she was a very wicked woman and she began kicking
them. 'I'm to be pulled out, not you. It's my onion, not yours.' As soon
as she said that, the onion broke. And the woman fell into the lake and
she is burning there to this day. So the angel wept and went away. So
that's the story, Alyosha; I know it by heart, for I am that wicked woman
myself. I boasted to Rakitin that I had given away an onion, but to you
I'll say: 'I've done nothing but give away one onion all my life, that's
the only good deed I've done.' So don't praise me, Alyosha, don't think me
good, I am bad, I am a wicked woman and you make me ashamed if you praise
me. Eh, I must confess everything. Listen, Alyosha. I was so anxious to
get hold of you that I promised Rakitin twenty-five roubles if he would
bring you to me. Stay, Rakitin, wait!"

She went with rapid steps to the table, opened a drawer, pulled out a
purse and took from it a twenty-five rouble note.

"What nonsense! What nonsense!" cried Rakitin, disconcerted.

"Take it. Rakitin, I owe it you, there's no fear of your refusing it, you
asked for it yourself." And she threw the note to him.

"Likely I should refuse it," boomed Rakitin, obviously abashed, but
carrying off his confusion with a swagger. "That will come in very handy;
fools are made for wise men's profit."

"And now hold your tongue, Rakitin, what I am going to say now is not for
your ears. Sit down in that corner and keep quiet. You don't like us, so
hold your tongue."

"What should I like you for?" Rakitin snarled, not concealing his ill-
humor. He put the twenty-five rouble note in his pocket and he felt
ashamed at Alyosha's seeing it. He had reckoned on receiving his payment
later, without Alyosha's knowing of it, and now, feeling ashamed, he lost
his temper. Till that moment he had thought it discreet not to contradict
Grushenka too flatly in spite of her snubbing, since he had something to
get out of her. But now he, too, was angry:

"One loves people for some reason, but what have either of you done for
me?"

"You should love people without a reason, as Alyosha does."

"How does he love you? How has he shown it, that you make such a fuss
about it?"

Grushenka was standing in the middle of the room; she spoke with heat and
there were hysterical notes in her voice.

"Hush, Rakitin, you know nothing about us! And don't dare to speak to me
like that again. How dare you be so familiar! Sit in that corner and be
quiet, as though you were my footman! And now, Alyosha, I'll tell you the
whole truth, that you may see what a wretch I am! I am not talking to
Rakitin, but to you. I wanted to ruin you, Alyosha, that's the holy truth;
I quite meant to. I wanted to so much, that I bribed Rakitin to bring you.
And why did I want to do such a thing? You knew nothing about it, Alyosha,
you turned away from me; if you passed me, you dropped your eyes. And I've
looked at you a hundred times before to-day; I began asking every one
about you. Your face haunted my heart. 'He despises me,' I thought; 'he
won't even look at me.' And I felt it so much at last that I wondered at
myself for being so frightened of a boy. I'll get him in my clutches and
laugh at him. I was full of spite and anger. Would you believe it, nobody
here dares talk or think of coming to Agrafena Alexandrovna with any evil
purpose. Old Kuzma is the only man I have anything to do with here; I was
bound and sold to him; Satan brought us together, but there has been no
one else. But looking at you, I thought, I'll get him in my clutches and
laugh at him. You see what a spiteful cur I am, and you called me your
sister! And now that man who wronged me has come; I sit here waiting for a
message from him. And do you know what that man has been to me? Five years
ago, when Kuzma brought me here, I used to shut myself up, that no one
might have sight or sound of me. I was a silly slip of a girl; I used to
sit here sobbing; I used to lie awake all night, thinking: 'Where is he
now, the man who wronged me? He is laughing at me with another woman, most
likely. If only I could see him, if I could meet him again, I'd pay him
out, I'd pay him out!' At night I used to lie sobbing into my pillow in
the dark, and I used to brood over it; I used to tear my heart on purpose
and gloat over my anger. 'I'll pay him out, I'll pay him out!' That's what
I used to cry out in the dark. And when I suddenly thought that I should
really do nothing to him, and that he was laughing at me then, or perhaps
had utterly forgotten me, I would fling myself on the floor, melt into
helpless tears, and lie there shaking till dawn. In the morning I would
get up more spiteful than a dog, ready to tear the whole world to pieces.
And then what do you think? I began saving money, I became hard-hearted,
grew stout--grew wiser, would you say? No, no one in the whole world sees
it, no one knows it, but when night comes on, I sometimes lie as I did
five years ago, when I was a silly girl, clenching my teeth and crying all
night, thinking, 'I'll pay him out, I'll pay him out!' Do you hear? Well
then, now you understand me. A month ago a letter came to me--he was
coming, he was a widower, he wanted to see me. It took my breath away;
then I suddenly thought: 'If he comes and whistles to call me, I shall
creep back to him like a beaten dog.' I couldn't believe myself. Am I so
abject? Shall I run to him or not? And I've been in such a rage with
myself all this month that I am worse than I was five years ago. Do you
see now, Alyosha, what a violent, vindictive creature I am? I have shown
you the whole truth! I played with Mitya to keep me from running to that
other. Hush, Rakitin, it's not for you to judge me, I am not speaking to
you. Before you came in, I was lying here waiting, brooding, deciding my
whole future life, and you can never know what was in my heart. Yes,
Alyosha, tell your young lady not to be angry with me for what happened
the day before yesterday.... Nobody in the whole world knows what I am
going through now, and no one ever can know.... For perhaps I shall take a
knife with me to-day, I can't make up my mind ..."

And at this "tragic" phrase Grushenka broke down, hid her face in her
hands, flung herself on the sofa pillows, and sobbed like a little child.

Alyosha got up and went to Rakitin.

"Misha," he said, "don't be angry. She wounded you, but don't be angry.
You heard what she said just now? You mustn't ask too much of human
endurance, one must be merciful."

Alyosha said this at the instinctive prompting of his heart. He felt
obliged to speak and he turned to Rakitin. If Rakitin had not been there,
he would have spoken to the air. But Rakitin looked at him ironically and
Alyosha stopped short.

"You were so primed up with your elder's teaching last night that now you
have to let it off on me, Alexey, man of God!" said Rakitin, with a smile
of hatred.

"Don't laugh, Rakitin, don't smile, don't talk of the dead--he was better
than any one in the world!" cried Alyosha, with tears in his voice. "I
didn't speak to you as a judge but as the lowest of the judged. What am I
beside her? I came here seeking my ruin, and said to myself, 'What does it
matter?' in my cowardliness, but she, after five years in torment, as soon
as any one says a word from the heart to her--it makes her forget
everything, forgive everything, in her tears! The man who has wronged her
has come back, he sends for her and she forgives him everything, and
hastens joyfully to meet him and she won't take a knife with her. She
won't! No, I am not like that. I don't know whether you are, Misha, but I
am not like that. It's a lesson to me.... She is more loving than we....
Have you heard her speak before of what she has just told us? No, you
haven't; if you had, you'd have understood her long ago ... and the person
insulted the day before yesterday must forgive her, too! She will, when
she knows ... and she shall know.... This soul is not yet at peace with
itself, one must be tender with it ... there may be a treasure in that
soul...."

Alyosha stopped, because he caught his breath. In spite of his ill-humor
Rakitin looked at him with astonishment. He had never expected such a
tirade from the gentle Alyosha.

"She's found some one to plead her cause! Why, are you in love with her?
Agrafena Alexandrovna, our monk's really in love with you, you've made a
conquest!" he cried, with a coarse laugh.

Grushenka lifted her head from the pillow and looked at Alyosha with a
tender smile shining on her tear-stained face.

"Let him alone, Alyosha, my cherub; you see what he is, he is not a person
for you to speak to. Mihail Osipovitch," she turned to Rakitin, "I meant
to beg your pardon for being rude to you, but now I don't want to.
Alyosha, come to me, sit down here." She beckoned to him with a happy
smile. "That's right, sit here. Tell me," she shook him by the hand and
peeped into his face, smiling, "tell me, do I love that man or not? the
man who wronged me, do I love him or not? Before you came, I lay here in
the dark, asking my heart whether I loved him. Decide for me, Alyosha, the
time has come, it shall be as you say. Am I to forgive him or not?"

"But you have forgiven him already," said Alyosha, smiling.

"Yes, I really have forgiven him," Grushenka murmured thoughtfully. "What
an abject heart! To my abject heart!" She snatched up a glass from the
table, emptied it at a gulp, lifted it in the air and flung it on the
floor. The glass broke with a crash. A little cruel line came into her
smile.

"Perhaps I haven't forgiven him, though," she said, with a sort of menace
in her voice, and she dropped her eyes to the ground as though she were
talking to herself. "Perhaps my heart is only getting ready to forgive. I
shall struggle with my heart. You see, Alyosha, I've grown to love my
tears in these five years.... Perhaps I only love my resentment, not him
..."

"Well, I shouldn't care to be in his shoes," hissed Rakitin.

"Well, you won't be, Rakitin, you'll never be in his shoes. You shall
black my shoes, Rakitin, that's the place you are fit for. You'll never
get a woman like me ... and he won't either, perhaps ..."

"Won't he? Then why are you dressed up like that?" said Rakitin, with a
venomous sneer.

"Don't taunt me with dressing up, Rakitin, you don't know all that is in
my heart! If I choose to tear off my finery, I'll tear it off at once,
this minute," she cried in a resonant voice. "You don't know what that
finery is for, Rakitin! Perhaps I shall see him and say: 'Have you ever
seen me look like this before?' He left me a thin, consumptive cry-baby of
seventeen. I'll sit by him, fascinate him and work him up. 'Do you see
what I am like now?' I'll say to him; 'well, and that's enough for you, my
dear sir, there's many a slip twixt the cup and the lip!' That may be what
the finery is for, Rakitin." Grushenka finished with a malicious laugh.
"I'm violent and resentful, Alyosha, I'll tear off my finery, I'll destroy
my beauty, I'll scorch my face, slash it with a knife, and turn beggar. If
I choose, I won't go anywhere now to see any one. If I choose, I'll send
Kuzma back all he has ever given me, to-morrow, and all his money and I'll
go out charing for the rest of my life. You think I wouldn't do it,
Rakitin, that I would not dare to do it? I would, I would, I could do it
directly, only don't exasperate me ... and I'll send him about his
business, I'll snap my fingers in his face, he shall never see me again!"

She uttered the last words in an hysterical scream, but broke down again,
hid her face in her hands, buried it in the pillow and shook with sobs.

Rakitin got up.

"It's time we were off," he said, "it's late, we shall be shut out of the
monastery."

Grushenka leapt up from her place.

"Surely you don't want to go, Alyosha!" she cried, in mournful surprise.
"What are you doing to me? You've stirred up my feeling, tortured me, and
now you'll leave me to face this night alone!"

"He can hardly spend the night with you! Though if he wants to, let him!
I'll go alone," Rakitin scoffed jeeringly.

"Hush, evil tongue!" Grushenka cried angrily at him; "you never said such
words to me as he has come to say."

"What has he said to you so special?" asked Rakitin irritably.

"I can't say, I don't know. I don't know what he said to me, it went
straight to my heart; he has wrung my heart.... He is the first, the only
one who has pitied me, that's what it is. Why did you not come before, you
angel?" She fell on her knees before him as though in a sudden frenzy.
"I've been waiting all my life for some one like you, I knew that some one
like you would come and forgive me. I believed that, nasty as I am, some
one would really love me, not only with a shameful love!"

"What have I done to you?" answered Alyosha, bending over her with a
tender smile, and gently taking her by the hands; "I only gave you an
onion, nothing but a tiny little onion, that was all!"

He was moved to tears himself as he said it. At that moment there was a
sudden noise in the passage, some one came into the hall. Grushenka jumped
up, seeming greatly alarmed. Fenya ran noisily into the room, crying out:

"Mistress, mistress darling, a messenger has galloped up," she cried,
breathless and joyful. "A carriage from Mokroe for you, Timofey the
driver, with three horses, they are just putting in fresh horses.... A
letter, here's the letter, mistress."

A letter was in her hand and she waved it in the air all the while she
talked. Grushenka snatched the letter from her and carried it to the
candle. It was only a note, a few lines. She read it in one instant.

"He has sent for me," she cried, her face white and distorted, with a wan
smile; "he whistles! Crawl back, little dog!"

But only for one instant she stood as though hesitating; suddenly the
blood rushed to her head and sent a glow to her cheeks.

"I will go," she cried; "five years of my life! Good-by! Good-by, Alyosha,
my fate is sealed. Go, go, leave me all of you, don't let me see you
again! Grushenka is flying to a new life.... Don't you remember evil
against me either, Rakitin. I may be going to my death! Ugh! I feel as
though I were drunk!"

She suddenly left them and ran into her bedroom.

"Well, she has no thoughts for us now!" grumbled Rakitin. "Let's go, or we
may hear that feminine shriek again. I am sick of all these tears and
cries."

Alyosha mechanically let himself be led out. In the yard stood a covered
cart. Horses were being taken out of the shafts, men were running to and
fro with a lantern. Three fresh horses were being led in at the open gate.
But when Alyosha and Rakitin reached the bottom of the steps, Grushenka's
bedroom window was suddenly opened and she called in a ringing voice after
Alyosha:

"Alyosha, give my greetings to your brother Mitya and tell him not to
remember evil against me, though I have brought him misery. And tell him,
too, in my words: 'Grushenka has fallen to a scoundrel, and not to you,
noble heart.' And add, too, that Grushenka loved him only one hour, only
one short hour she loved him--so let him remember that hour all his
life--say, 'Grushenka tells you to!' "

She ended in a voice full of sobs. The window was shut with a slam.

"H'm, h'm!" growled Rakitin, laughing, "she murders your brother Mitya and
then tells him to remember it all his life! What ferocity!"

Alyosha made no reply, he seemed not to have heard. He walked fast beside
Rakitin as though in a terrible hurry. He was lost in thought and moved
mechanically. Rakitin felt a sudden twinge as though he had been touched
on an open wound. He had expected something quite different by bringing
Grushenka and Alyosha together. Something very different from what he had
hoped for had happened.

"He is a Pole, that officer of hers," he began again, restraining himself;
"and indeed he is not an officer at all now. He served in the customs in
Siberia, somewhere on the Chinese frontier, some puny little beggar of a
Pole, I expect. Lost his job, they say. He's heard now that Grushenka's
saved a little money, so he's turned up again--that's the explanation of
the mystery."

Again Alyosha seemed not to hear. Rakitin could not control himself.

"Well, so you've saved the sinner?" he laughed spitefully. "Have you
turned the Magdalene into the true path? Driven out the seven devils, eh?
So you see the miracles you were looking out for just now have come to
pass!"

"Hush, Rakitin," Alyosha answered with an aching heart.

"So you despise me now for those twenty-five roubles? I've sold my friend,
you think. But you are not Christ, you know, and I am not Judas."

"Oh, Rakitin, I assure you I'd forgotten about it," cried Alyosha, "you
remind me of it yourself...."

But this was the last straw for Rakitin.

"Damnation take you all and each of you!" he cried suddenly, "why the
devil did I take you up? I don't want to know you from this time forward.
Go alone, there's your road!"

And he turned abruptly into another street, leaving Alyosha alone in the
dark. Alyosha came out of the town and walked across the fields to the
monastery.

Chapter IV. Cana Of Galilee

It was very late, according to the monastery ideas, when Alyosha returned
to the hermitage; the door-keeper let him in by a special entrance. It had
struck nine o'clock--the hour of rest and repose after a day of such
agitation for all. Alyosha timidly opened the door and went into the
elder's cell where his coffin was now standing. There was no one in the
cell but Father Paissy, reading the Gospel in solitude over the coffin,
and the young novice Porfiry, who, exhausted by the previous night's
conversation and the disturbing incidents of the day, was sleeping the
deep sound sleep of youth on the floor of the other room. Though Father
Paissy heard Alyosha come in, he did not even look in his direction.
Alyosha turned to the right from the door to the corner, fell on his knees
and began to pray.

His soul was overflowing but with mingled feelings; no single sensation
stood out distinctly; on the contrary, one drove out another in a slow,
continual rotation. But there was a sweetness in his heart and, strange to
say, Alyosha was not surprised at it. Again he saw that coffin before him,
the hidden dead figure so precious to him, but the weeping and poignant
grief of the morning was no longer aching in his soul. As soon as he came
in, he fell down before the coffin as before a holy shrine, but joy, joy
was glowing in his mind and in his heart. The one window of the cell was
open, the air was fresh and cool. "So the smell must have become stronger,
if they opened the window," thought Alyosha. But even this thought of the
smell of corruption, which had seemed to him so awful and humiliating a
few hours before, no longer made him feel miserable or indignant. He began
quietly praying, but he soon felt that he was praying almost mechanically.
Fragments of thought floated through his soul, flashed like stars and went
out again at once, to be succeeded by others. But yet there was reigning
in his soul a sense of the wholeness of things--something steadfast and
comforting--and he was aware of it himself. Sometimes he began praying
ardently, he longed to pour out his thankfulness and love....

But when he had begun to pray, he passed suddenly to something else, and
sank into thought, forgetting both the prayer and what had interrupted it.
He began listening to what Father Paissy was reading, but worn out with
exhaustion he gradually began to doze.

"_And the third day there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee;_" read Father
Paissy. "_And the mother of Jesus was there; And both Jesus was called,
and his disciples, to the marriage._"

"Marriage? What's that?... A marriage!" floated whirling through Alyosha's
mind. "There is happiness for her, too.... She has gone to the feast....
No, she has not taken the knife.... That was only a tragic phrase.... Well
... tragic phrases should be forgiven, they must be. Tragic phrases
comfort the heart.... Without them, sorrow would be too heavy for men to
bear. Rakitin has gone off to the back alley. As long as Rakitin broods
over his wrongs, he will always go off to the back alley.... But the high
road ... The road is wide and straight and bright as crystal, and the sun
is at the end of it.... Ah!... What's being read?"...

"_And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, They have
no wine_" ... Alyosha heard.

"Ah, yes, I was missing that, and I didn't want to miss it, I love that
passage: it's Cana of Galilee, the first miracle.... Ah, that miracle! Ah,
that sweet miracle! It was not men's grief, but their joy Christ visited,
He worked His first miracle to help men's gladness.... 'He who loves men
loves their gladness, too' ... He was always repeating that, it was one of
his leading ideas.... 'There's no living without joy,' Mitya says.... Yes,
Mitya.... 'Everything that is true and good is always full of
forgiveness,' he used to say that, too" ...

"_Jesus saith unto her, Woman, what has it to do with thee or me? Mine
hour is not yet come._

"_His mother saith unto the servants, Whatsoever he saith unto you, do
it_" ...

"Do it.... Gladness, the gladness of some poor, very poor, people.... Of
course they were poor, since they hadn't wine enough even at a wedding....
The historians write that, in those days, the people living about the Lake
of Gennesaret were the poorest that can possibly be imagined ... and
another great heart, that other great being, His Mother, knew that He had
come not only to make His great terrible sacrifice. She knew that His
heart was open even to the simple, artless merrymaking of some obscure and
unlearned people, who had warmly bidden Him to their poor wedding. 'Mine
hour is not yet come,' He said, with a soft smile (He must have smiled
gently to her). And, indeed, was it to make wine abundant at poor weddings
He had come down to earth? And yet He went and did as she asked Him....
Ah, he is reading again"....

"_Jesus saith unto them, Fill the waterpots with water. And they filled
them up to the brim._

"_And he saith unto them, Draw out now and bear unto the governor of the
feast. And they bare it._

"_When the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made wine, and
knew not whence it was; (but the servants which drew the water knew;) the
governor of the feast called the bridegroom,_

"_And saith unto him, Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine;
and when men have well drunk, that which is worse; but thou hast kept the
good wine until now._"

"But what's this, what's this? Why is the room growing wider?... Ah, yes
... It's the marriage, the wedding ... yes, of course. Here are the
guests, here are the young couple sitting, and the merry crowd and ...
Where is the wise governor of the feast? But who is this? Who? Again the
walls are receding.... Who is getting up there from the great table?
What!... He here, too? But he's in the coffin ... but he's here, too. He
has stood up, he sees me, he is coming here.... God!"...

Yes, he came up to him, to him, he, the little, thin old man, with tiny
wrinkles on his face, joyful and laughing softly. There was no coffin now,
and he was in the same dress as he had worn yesterday sitting with them,
when the visitors had gathered about him. His face was uncovered, his eyes
were shining. How was this, then? He, too, had been called to the feast.
He, too, at the marriage of Cana in Galilee....

"Yes, my dear, I am called, too, called and bidden," he heard a soft voice
saying over him. "Why have you hidden yourself here, out of sight? You
come and join us too."

It was his voice, the voice of Father Zossima. And it must be he, since he
called him!

The elder raised Alyosha by the hand and he rose from his knees.

"We are rejoicing," the little, thin old man went on. "We are drinking the
new wine, the wine of new, great gladness; do you see how many guests?
Here are the bride and bridegroom, here is the wise governor of the feast,
he is tasting the new wine. Why do you wonder at me? I gave an onion to a
beggar, so I, too, am here. And many here have given only an onion
each--only one little onion.... What are all our deeds? And you, my gentle
one, you, my kind boy, you too have known how to give a famished woman an
onion to-day. Begin your work, dear one, begin it, gentle one!... Do you
see our Sun, do you see Him?"

"I am afraid ... I dare not look," whispered Alyosha.

"Do not fear Him. He is terrible in His greatness, awful in His sublimity,
but infinitely merciful. He has made Himself like unto us from love and
rejoices with us. He is changing the water into wine that the gladness of
the guests may not be cut short. He is expecting new guests, He is calling
new ones unceasingly for ever and ever.... There they are bringing new
wine. Do you see they are bringing the vessels...."

Something glowed in Alyosha's heart, something filled it till it ached,
tears of rapture rose from his soul.... He stretched out his hands,
uttered a cry and waked up.

Again the coffin, the open window, and the soft, solemn, distinct reading
of the Gospel. But Alyosha did not listen to the reading. It was strange,
he had fallen asleep on his knees, but now he was on his feet, and
suddenly, as though thrown forward, with three firm rapid steps he went
right up to the coffin. His shoulder brushed against Father Paissy without
his noticing it. Father Paissy raised his eyes for an instant from his
book, but looked away again at once, seeing that something strange was
happening to the boy. Alyosha gazed for half a minute at the coffin, at
the covered, motionless dead man that lay in the coffin, with the ikon on
his breast and the peaked cap with the octangular cross, on his head. He
had only just been hearing his voice, and that voice was still ringing in
his ears. He was listening, still expecting other words, but suddenly he
turned sharply and went out of the cell.

He did not stop on the steps either, but went quickly down; his soul,
overflowing with rapture, yearned for freedom, space, openness. The vault
of heaven, full of soft, shining stars, stretched vast and fathomless
above him. The Milky Way ran in two pale streams from the zenith to the
horizon. The fresh, motionless, still night enfolded the earth. The white
towers and golden domes of the cathedral gleamed out against the sapphire
sky. The gorgeous autumn flowers, in the beds round the house, were
slumbering till morning. The silence of earth seemed to melt into the
silence of the heavens. The mystery of earth was one with the mystery of
the stars....

Alyosha stood, gazed, and suddenly threw himself down on the earth. He did
not know why he embraced it. He could not have told why he longed so
irresistibly to kiss it, to kiss it all. But he kissed it weeping, sobbing
and watering it with his tears, and vowed passionately to love it, to love
it for ever and ever. "Water the earth with the tears of your joy and love
those tears," echoed in his soul.

What was he weeping over?

Oh! in his rapture he was weeping even over those stars, which were
shining to him from the abyss of space, and "he was not ashamed of that
ecstasy." There seemed to be threads from all those innumerable worlds of
God, linking his soul to them, and it was trembling all over "in contact
with other worlds." He longed to forgive every one and for everything, and
to beg forgiveness. Oh, not for himself, but for all men, for all and for
everything. "And others are praying for me too," echoed again in his soul.
But with every instant he felt clearly and, as it were, tangibly, that
something firm and unshakable as that vault of heaven had entered into his
soul. It was as though some idea had seized the sovereignty of his
mind--and it was for all his life and for ever and ever. He had fallen on
the earth a weak boy, but he rose up a resolute champion, and he knew and
felt it suddenly at the very moment of his ecstasy. And never, never, all
his life long, could Alyosha forget that minute.

"Some one visited my soul in that hour," he used to say afterwards, with
implicit faith in his words.

Within three days he left the monastery in accordance with the words of
his elder, who had bidden him "sojourn in the world."

As soon as Father Zossima's body is prepared for burial, it is placed in a large room. News traveling fast, the room is quickly filled. As soon as they hear of the elder's death, large numbers of people gather, expecting a miracle. There is no miracle, however, only this: Zossima's corpse begins to putrefy almost immediately, and the odor of decay is soon sickening to all of the mourners. All present become nauseated and begin to grow fearful because they believe that the decay of a body is related to its spiritual character. It seems an evil omen that Zossima's corpse would rot so soon after death, for the elder was popularly believed to be on the verge of sainthood. Discontented monks and enemies of Father Zossima are not long to act. Quickly they announce that the decaying body is proof that the elder was no saint; at last the doctrine he preached is proved to be incorrect. The townspeople are confused. Tradition and superstition are embedded in their nerves. They have expected something awesome but certainly not a portent that points to Zossima's being a possible disciple of Satan. Not even Alyosha escapes the fear that grips the community. He cannot understand why God has allowed such disgrace to accompany the elder's death. Father Ferapont, the fanatical ascetic, rushes to Zossima's cell and begins to exorcise devils out of all the corners. Elsewhere there is also madness -- the entire monastery is torn by confused loyalties and uncertainties. Finally, the extreme Ferapont is ordered to leave. But shortly thereafter, there is another departure from the monastery. Alyosha leaves also; he wishes to find solitude to grieve and ponder. Alone, he again questions the justice of all that has happened. Instead of receiving the glory that Alyosha believed was Zossima's due, his mentor is now "degraded and dishonored." Alyosha cannot doubt God, but he must question why He has allowed such a dreadful thing to occur. Alyosha is interrupted in his thoughts as the seminarian, Rakitin, who earlier mocked Alyosha, ridicules his grief and makes contemptuous remarks about Zossima's decaying body. He tempts Alyosha with sausage and vodka, both of which are denied a monk during Lent, and Alyosha suddenly accepts both. Rakitin then goes a step further and suggests that they visit Grushenka, and again Alyosha agrees. Grushenka is astonished at her visitors but regains her composure and explains that she is waiting for an important message to arrive. They are curious about the message, and she tells them that it comes from an army officer whom she loved five years ago and who deserted her. Now he has returned to the province and is sending for her. Grushenka notices Alyosha's dejection and tries to cheer him by sitting on his knee and teasing him, but when she learns that Father Zossima died only a few hours earlier, she too becomes remorseful. She upbraids herself and denounces her life as that of a wicked sinner. Alyosha stops her, speaking with great kindness and understanding, and the two suddenly exchange glimpses into each other's souls. Love and trust are given, one to the other, and Grushenka unabashedly speaks to Alyosha of her problems; she no longer feels ashamed of her life. As for Alyosha, Grushenka's genuine expressions of sympathy lift him out of the deep depression he has felt since Zossima's death. Rakitin cannot understand this sudden compassion between them and is spiteful and vindictive, especially after Grushenka confesses that she had paid Rakitin to bring Alyosha to her. The message arrives from Grushenka's lover, and she excuses herself and leaves, asking Alyosha to tell Dmitri that she did love him -- once, for an hour. Very late, Alyosha returns to the monastery and goes to Zossima's cell. He kneels and prays, still troubled by many things, and then hears Father Paissy reading the account of the wedding at Cana in the Gospel of St. John. Because he is exhausted and because of the sweet lull of the Father's voice, Alyosha dozes. He dreams that he is at the marriage in Cana, along with Christ and the other guests. Zossima appears and calls to Alyosha; he tells him to come forth and join the crowd, reminding him that man should be joyful. Even today, he says, Alyosha has helped Grushenka find her path toward salvation. Alyosha wakes, and his eyes are filled with tears of joy. He goes outside and flings himself on the earth, kissing and embracing it. His heart is filled with ecstasy over his new knowledge and his new understanding of the joy of life.

Dostoevsky has been preparing the reader throughout the novel for this single crisis in Alyosha's life. There have been many hints that a miracle is expected to accompany Zossima's death, but one of the central points of Ivan's Grand Inquisitor tale is that man must believe freely in the teachings of a person without the benefit of either divine manifestations or miracles. A person's beliefs, furthermore, can be greatly strengthened by emerging triumphantly from a period of great doubt. In this chapter, Dostoevsky presents Alyosha's tests -- corollaries of Christ's tests in the wilderness. If Alyosha emerges successfully, then he will be qualified to move within society and to influence it. Alyosha, of course, does not need miracles for himself. But he recognizes the need of others for them, and with no miracle and because the body is decaying, he knows that spiteful rumors will rise around Zossima's memory. He cannot endure the holiest of holy men being exposed to jeering and mockery. Such indignity and humiliation of premature decay are unnecessary. Alyosha's questionings align him closely with his brother Ivan. Ivan also asked about God's justice, and, like his brother, Alyosha does not question God; he is concerned only about His justice. When the seminarian appears, Alyosha even echoes Ivan's arguments by saying, "I am not rebelling against my God; I simply don't accept His world." But Karamazovs are concerned with justice, not God Himself. Alyosha, of course, realizes that Christ went through such jeering and mockery. But for a moment, he gives way to temptation, and in this way he becomes human and not semi-divine; he becomes believably mortal. He can later be more deeply admired for his courage in resisting temptation. Alyosha questions, and by his questions one realizes the value of doubting. A serene acceptance of all -- with no questioning -- is neither courageous nor admirable; it is merely shallow, immature. Alyosha, when he defies his vows, accepts the sausage and vodka, and goes to see Grushenka, has a temporary spiritual revolt but emerges a much stronger adherent of faith. In terms of a larger perspective within the action of the novel, one should remember that Ivan leaves town on the day that Zossima dies. Ivan catches the train at about the same time that Alyosha arrives at Grushenka's. Also, it is later this evening that Fyodor's murder takes place, and it is also later this evening that Alyosha rediscovers his faith and rededicates himself to the principles advocated by Father Zossima. Ironically, Alyosha's transformation initially results from his encounter with Grushenka. He goes there in defiance of his monastic orders. Grushenka, for her part, hopes to seduce Alyosha's innocence; his purity is threatening. But when they meet, Alyosha sees in Grushenka a woman he cannot condemn; he sees "a loving heart" that can compassionately respond to the suffering that Alyosha is undergoing. In his confession to her, he admits that he came hoping only to find an evil woman. Such honesty is infectious and transforming. Grushenka says, "He is the first, the only one who has pitied me . . . I've been waiting all my life for some one like you. I knew that someone like you would come and forgive me." And, unlikely as it seems, perhaps in a way like the miracle that all expected, carnality and purity create new love and compassion. The explanation, however, is far from being that of a miracle. Alyosha has only followed Zossima's teachings. He has loved Grushenka; he has not damned her; and he, and she, suddenly rediscover themselves. At the end of this scene, Rakitin, who could not understand the attraction between Alyosha and Grushenka, feels that Alyosha dislikes him for taking twenty-five rubles from Grushenka. But the point is this: Alyosha does not judge him; Rakitin leaves because he judges himself and finds himself guilty. When Alyosha returns to the monastery, he feels such mixed emotions that there is a "sweetness in his heart." By this single experience with Grushenka, he has found the value of much that Zossima preached. He has seen how responding to even such a person as Grushenka has changed his entire view of life. Suddenly, he feels himself at peace with the entire world. Alyosha listens to the monk read of the marriage in Cana and realizes that Christ came to give people pleasure in this world; he came to preach a message of joy and love. This is exactly what Father Zossima advocated. In his dream, he sees his beloved elder in the presence of Christ and knows that the message they both preached is far more important than any "miracle." With love, he embraces the earth and is quietly filled with new understanding of all that Zossima said. He leaves the monastery with new conviction. He is ready at last to take his place in the world as Zossima said that he must.