Chapter X. Both Together

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

Katerina Ivanovna flushed hotly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I never expected--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grushenka too got up, but without haste.

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

"Vile slut! Go away!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alyosha withdrew towards the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Troubled by what has just transpired at his father's home, Alyosha heads off to Katerina's, but it's already dusk. When he arrives there is some commotion in the drawing room before he is at last shown in. The room is empty, with a tea service set for two, and Alyosha realizes he must have interrupted some company. Katerina comes in and greets him warmly. Alyosha gives her Dmitri's message, which Katerina doesn't take as a rejection. Instead, she tells Alyosha that she's convinced that she can save Dmitri from himself by showing what a true friend she can be, even forgiving him for stealing the money that was meant for her sister and spending it on his mistress, Grushenka. For who should be visiting Katerina at that moment but...Grushenka! She walks in to the room and greets Alyosha. Katerina gushes that Grushenka is an angel, takes her hand and kisses it. Katerina informs Alyosha that Grushenka has agreed to break it off with Dmitri. Grushenka denies that she ever promised any such thing. Katerina is confused, but seems reassured when Grushenka takes her hand to return her kisses. But, laughing, Grushenka changes her mind and refuses to kiss Katerina's hand. Realizing that Grushenka has just been toying with her, Katerina almost attacks her but is restrained by Alyosha. She begs Alyosha to leave, and as he does, the maid hands him a note from Madame Khokhlakov.

The Two Together Alyosha visits Katerina at Madame Khokhlakov's house and is surprised to find that Grushenka is also there. Grushenka has just promised Katerina that she is going to leave Dmitri for a former lover, and Katerina will have him back soon. Katerina is grateful and overjoyed, but when she tells Alyosha what has happened, Grushenka insults her and says that she may decide to stay with Dmitri after all. On his way out of the house, Alyosha is stopped by a maid, who gives him a letter from Lise


Chapter XI. Another Reputation Ruined

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

"Your money or your life!"

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

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

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

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

"No--I only--"

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

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

"Both? Whom?"

"Grushenka at Katerina Ivanovna's."

Dmitri was struck dumb.

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

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

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

"But Katerina Ivanovna!" exclaimed Alyosha sorrowfully.

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

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

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

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

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

He looked down and sank into thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As night falls, Alyosha hurries back to the monastery. On the road he is suddenly accosted by a man who shouts, "Your money or your life!" Fortunately it's just Dmitri, who's decided to play a prank on Alyosha. Alyosha chastises him for being so light-hearted, especially given Dmitri's attack on their father earlier that day. Dmitri apologizes and tells his brother he loves him. Alyosha then tells Dmitri about Katerina's quarrel with Grushenka. At first Dmitri seems almost enraged, but as soon as he hears about Grushenka's joke on Katerina, he laughs heartily. Alyosha chides Dmitri for taking Katerina's insult so lightly. Chagrined, Dmitri remembers telling Grushenka how moved he was by Katerina's sacrifice for her father, and he thought Grushenka had sympathized with him. Realizing that Grushenka may have been mocking him the entire time, Dmitri denounces himself as a "scoundrel." Dmitri then tells Alyosha that a "horrible dishonor is being prepared," beating his chest with his fist. Then he runs off without telling Alyosha what the "horrible dishonor" is. Mystified by his brother's words, Alyosha continues on to the monastery, where the elder Zosima has already gone to bed. Father Paissy greets Alyosha at Zosima's chambers and reminds Alyosha that, despite being out in the world, he is still a novice monk under Zosima's orders and must remember his vows. After waiting by Zosima's bed as the elder sleeps, Alyosha returns to the outer chamber, where he takes off his boots to go to bed. He prays before his simple cot. He doesn't ask God for anything ; he only desires for the "tenderness" that comes with prayer. In the middle of his prayer, he happens to feel the envelope that Katerina's maid had left in his pocket. After finishing his prayer, he opens the envelope. It's a letter from Lise, the young daughter of Madame Khokhlakov. She professes her love for him but worries that her reputation will be ruined because of her letter. Alyosha laughs with joy as he finishes the letter and passes into a peaceful sleep.

One More Ruined Reputation  As he returns to the monastery, Alyosha is again stopped by Dmitri, who laughs at the report of Grushenka's behavior. Suddenly remorseful, Dmitri then tells Alyosha that he is consumed by self-disgust. At the monastery that night, Alyosha learns that Zosima's health is rapidly deteriorating, and Zosima is near death. Alyosha decides to remain with Zosima, whom he loves like a father, instead of returning to help with his family's conflict. He reads Lise's letter, which contains a confession of her love for him. She writes that she hopes to marry Alyosha one day. Alyosha laughs happily, says a prayer for all his troubled loved ones, and, after such an eventful day, falls into a deep sleep.

Book III: The Sensualists, Chapters 1-11 The Brothers Karamazov is a systematically ordered novel. Each of the story's twelve books chronicles a specific phase of its development and approaches its narrative from a specific angle


PART II Book IV. Lacerations Chapter I. Father Ferapont

Alyosha was roused early, before daybreak. Father Zossima woke up feeling
very weak, though he wanted to get out of bed and sit up in a chair. His
mind was quite clear; his face looked very tired, yet bright and almost
joyful. It wore an expression of gayety, kindness and cordiality. "Maybe I
shall not live through the coming day," he said to Alyosha. Then he
desired to confess and take the sacrament at once. He always confessed to
Father Paissy. After taking the communion, the service of extreme unction
followed. The monks assembled and the cell was gradually filled up by the
inmates of the hermitage. Meantime it was daylight. People began coming
from the monastery. After the service was over the elder desired to kiss
and take leave of every one. As the cell was so small the earlier visitors
withdrew to make room for others. Alyosha stood beside the elder, who was
seated again in his arm-chair. He talked as much as he could. Though his
voice was weak, it was fairly steady.

"I've been teaching you so many years, and therefore I've been talking
aloud so many years, that I've got into the habit of talking, and so much
so that it's almost more difficult for me to hold my tongue than to talk,
even now, in spite of my weakness, dear Fathers and brothers," he jested,
looking with emotion at the group round him.

Alyosha remembered afterwards something of what he said to them. But
though he spoke out distinctly and his voice was fairly steady, his speech
was somewhat disconnected. He spoke of many things, he seemed anxious
before the moment of death to say everything he had not said in his life,
and not simply for the sake of instructing them, but as though thirsting
to share with all men and all creation his joy and ecstasy, and once more
in his life to open his whole heart.

"Love one another, Fathers," said Father Zossima, as far as Alyosha could
remember afterwards. "Love God's people. Because we have come here and
shut ourselves within these walls, we are no holier than those that are
outside, but on the contrary, from the very fact of coming here, each of
us has confessed to himself that he is worse than others, than all men on
earth.... And the longer the monk lives in his seclusion, the more keenly
he must recognize that. Else he would have had no reason to come here.
When he realizes that he is not only worse than others, but that he is
responsible to all men for all and everything, for all human sins,
national and individual, only then the aim of our seclusion is attained.
For know, dear ones, that every one of us is undoubtedly responsible for
all men and everything on earth, not merely through the general sinfulness
of creation, but each one personally for all mankind and every individual
man. This knowledge is the crown of life for the monk and for every man.
For monks are not a special sort of men, but only what all men ought to
be. Only through that knowledge, our heart grows soft with infinite,
universal, inexhaustible love. Then every one of you will have the power
to win over the whole world by love and to wash away the sins of the world
with your tears.... Each of you keep watch over your heart and confess
your sins to yourself unceasingly. Be not afraid of your sins, even when
perceiving them, if only there be penitence, but make no conditions with
God. Again I say, Be not proud. Be proud neither to the little nor to the
great. Hate not those who reject you, who insult you, who abuse and
slander you. Hate not the atheists, the teachers of evil, the
materialists--and I mean not only the good ones--for there are many good
ones among them, especially in our day--hate not even the wicked ones.
Remember them in your prayers thus: Save, O Lord, all those who have none
to pray for them, save too all those who will not pray. And add: it is not
in pride that I make this prayer, O Lord, for I am lower than all men....
Love God's people, let not strangers draw away the flock, for if you
slumber in your slothfulness and disdainful pride, or worse still, in
covetousness, they will come from all sides and draw away your flock.
Expound the Gospel to the people unceasingly ... be not extortionate....
Do not love gold and silver, do not hoard them.... Have faith. Cling to
the banner and raise it on high."

But the elder spoke more disconnectedly than Alyosha reported his words
afterwards. Sometimes he broke off altogether, as though to take breath,
and recover his strength, but he was in a sort of ecstasy. They heard him
with emotion, though many wondered at his words and found them obscure....
Afterwards all remembered those words.

When Alyosha happened for a moment to leave the cell, he was struck by the
general excitement and suspense in the monks who were crowding about it.
This anticipation showed itself in some by anxiety, in others by devout
solemnity. All were expecting that some marvel would happen immediately
after the elder's death. Their suspense was, from one point of view,
almost frivolous, but even the most austere of the monks were affected by
it. Father Paissy's face looked the gravest of all.

Alyosha was mysteriously summoned by a monk to see Rakitin, who had
arrived from town with a singular letter for him from Madame Hohlakov. In
it she informed Alyosha of a strange and very opportune incident. It
appeared that among the women who had come on the previous day to receive
Father Zossima's blessing, there had been an old woman from the town, a
sergeant's widow, called Prohorovna. She had inquired whether she might
pray for the rest of the soul of her son, Vassenka, who had gone to
Irkutsk, and had sent her no news for over a year. To which Father Zossima
had answered sternly, forbidding her to do so, and saying that to pray for
the living as though they were dead was a kind of sorcery. He afterwards
forgave her on account of her ignorance, and added, "as though reading the
book of the future" (this was Madame Hohlakov's expression), words of
comfort: "that her son Vassya was certainly alive and he would either come
himself very shortly or send a letter, and that she was to go home and
expect him." And "Would you believe it?" exclaimed Madame Hohlakov
enthusiastically, "the prophecy has been fulfilled literally indeed, and
more than that." Scarcely had the old woman reached home when they gave
her a letter from Siberia which had been awaiting her. But that was not
all; in the letter written on the road from Ekaterinenburg, Vassya
informed his mother that he was returning to Russia with an official, and
that three weeks after her receiving the letter he hoped "to embrace his
mother."

Madame Hohlakov warmly entreated Alyosha to report this new "miracle of
prediction" to the Superior and all the brotherhood. "All, all, ought to
know of it!" she concluded. The letter had been written in haste, the
excitement of the writer was apparent in every line of it. But Alyosha had
no need to tell the monks, for all knew of it already. Rakitin had
commissioned the monk who brought his message "to inform most respectfully
his reverence Father Paissy, that he, Rakitin, has a matter to speak of
with him, of such gravity that he dare not defer it for a moment, and
humbly begs forgiveness for his presumption." As the monk had given the
message to Father Paissy before that to Alyosha, the latter found after
reading the letter, there was nothing left for him to do but to hand it to
Father Paissy in confirmation of the story.

And even that austere and cautious man, though he frowned as he read the
news of the "miracle," could not completely restrain some inner emotion.
His eyes gleamed, and a grave and solemn smile came into his lips.

"We shall see greater things!" broke from him.

"We shall see greater things, greater things yet!" the monks around
repeated.

But Father Paissy, frowning again, begged all of them, at least for a
time, not to speak of the matter "till it be more fully confirmed, seeing
there is so much credulity among those of this world, and indeed this
might well have chanced naturally," he added, prudently, as it were to
satisfy his conscience, though scarcely believing his own disavowal, a
fact his listeners very clearly perceived.

Within the hour the "miracle" was of course known to the whole monastery,
and many visitors who had come for the mass. No one seemed more impressed
by it than the monk who had come the day before from St. Sylvester, from
the little monastery of Obdorsk in the far North. It was he who had been
standing near Madame Hohlakov the previous day and had asked Father
Zossima earnestly, referring to the "healing" of the lady's daughter, "How
can you presume to do such things?"

He was now somewhat puzzled and did not know whom to believe. The evening
before he had visited Father Ferapont in his cell apart, behind the
apiary, and had been greatly impressed and overawed by the visit. This
Father Ferapont was that aged monk so devout in fasting and observing
silence who has been mentioned already, as antagonistic to Father Zossima
and the whole institution of "elders," which he regarded as a pernicious
and frivolous innovation. He was a very formidable opponent, although from
his practice of silence he scarcely spoke a word to any one. What made him
formidable was that a number of monks fully shared his feeling, and many
of the visitors looked upon him as a great saint and ascetic, although
they had no doubt that he was crazy. But it was just his craziness
attracted them.

Father Ferapont never went to see the elder. Though he lived in the
hermitage they did not worry him to keep its regulations, and this too
because he behaved as though he were crazy. He was seventy-five or more,
and he lived in a corner beyond the apiary in an old decaying wooden cell
which had been built long ago for another great ascetic, Father Iona, who
had lived to be a hundred and five, and of whose saintly doings many
curious stories were still extant in the monastery and the neighborhood.

Father Ferapont had succeeded in getting himself installed in this same
solitary cell seven years previously. It was simply a peasant's hut,
though it looked like a chapel, for it contained an extraordinary number
of ikons with lamps perpetually burning before them--which men brought to
the monastery as offerings to God. Father Ferapont had been appointed to
look after them and keep the lamps burning. It was said (and indeed it was
true) that he ate only two pounds of bread in three days. The beekeeper,
who lived close by the apiary, used to bring him the bread every three
days, and even to this man who waited upon him, Father Ferapont rarely
uttered a word. The four pounds of bread, together with the sacrament
bread, regularly sent him on Sundays after the late mass by the Father
Superior, made up his weekly rations. The water in his jug was changed
every day. He rarely appeared at mass. Visitors who came to do him homage
saw him sometimes kneeling all day long at prayer without looking round.
If he addressed them, he was brief, abrupt, strange, and almost always
rude. On very rare occasions, however, he would talk to visitors, but for
the most part he would utter some one strange saying which was a complete
riddle, and no entreaties would induce him to pronounce a word in
explanation. He was not a priest, but a simple monk. There was a strange
belief, chiefly however among the most ignorant, that Father Ferapont had
communication with heavenly spirits and would only converse with them, and
so was silent with men.

The monk from Obdorsk, having been directed to the apiary by the
beekeeper, who was also a very silent and surly monk, went to the corner
where Father Ferapont's cell stood. "Maybe he will speak as you are a
stranger and maybe you'll get nothing out of him," the beekeeper had
warned him. The monk, as he related afterwards, approached in the utmost
apprehension. It was rather late in the evening. Father Ferapont was
sitting at the door of his cell on a low bench. A huge old elm was lightly
rustling overhead. There was an evening freshness in the air. The monk
from Obdorsk bowed down before the saint and asked his blessing.

"Do you want me to bow down to you, monk?" said Father Ferapont. "Get up!"

The monk got up.

"Blessing, be blessed! Sit beside me. Where have you come from?"

What most struck the poor monk was the fact that in spite of his strict
fasting and great age, Father Ferapont still looked a vigorous old man. He
was tall, held himself erect, and had a thin, but fresh and healthy face.
There was no doubt he still had considerable strength. He was of athletic
build. In spite of his great age he was not even quite gray, and still had
very thick hair and a full beard, both of which had once been black. His
eyes were gray, large and luminous, but strikingly prominent. He spoke
with a broad accent. He was dressed in a peasant's long reddish coat of
coarse convict cloth (as it used to be called) and had a stout rope round
his waist. His throat and chest were bare. Beneath his coat, his shirt of
the coarsest linen showed almost black with dirt, not having been changed
for months. They said that he wore irons weighing thirty pounds under his
coat. His stockingless feet were thrust in old slippers almost dropping to
pieces.

"From the little Obdorsk monastery, from St. Sylvester," the monk answered
humbly, whilst his keen and inquisitive, but rather frightened little eyes
kept watch on the hermit.

"I have been at your Sylvester's. I used to stay there. Is Sylvester
well?"

The monk hesitated.

"You are a senseless lot! How do you keep the fasts?"

"Our dietary is according to the ancient conventual rules. During Lent
there are no meals provided for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. For Tuesday
and Thursday we have white bread, stewed fruit with honey, wild berries,
or salt cabbage and wholemeal stirabout. On Saturday white cabbage soup,
noodles with peas, kasha, all with hemp oil. On weekdays we have dried
fish and kasha with the cabbage soup. From Monday till Saturday evening,
six whole days in Holy Week, nothing is cooked, and we have only bread and
water, and that sparingly; if possible not taking food every day, just the
same as is ordered for first week in Lent. On Good Friday nothing is
eaten. In the same way on the Saturday we have to fast till three o'clock,
and then take a little bread and water and drink a single cup of wine. On
Holy Thursday we drink wine and have something cooked without oil or not
cooked at all, inasmuch as the Laodicean council lays down for Holy
Thursday: 'It is unseemly by remitting the fast on the Holy Thursday to
dishonor the whole of Lent!' This is how we keep the fast. But what is
that compared with you, holy Father," added the monk, growing more
confident, "for all the year round, even at Easter, you take nothing but
bread and water, and what we should eat in two days lasts you full seven.
It's truly marvelous--your great abstinence."

"And mushrooms?" asked Father Ferapont, suddenly.

"Mushrooms?" repeated the surprised monk.

"Yes. I can give up their bread, not needing it at all, and go away into
the forest and live there on the mushrooms or the berries, but they can't
give up their bread here, wherefore they are in bondage to the devil.
Nowadays the unclean deny that there is need of such fasting. Haughty and
unclean is their judgment."

"Och, true," sighed the monk.

"And have you seen devils among them?" asked Ferapont.

"Among them? Among whom?" asked the monk, timidly.

"I went to the Father Superior on Trinity Sunday last year, I haven't been
since. I saw a devil sitting on one man's chest hiding under his cassock,
only his horns poked out; another had one peeping out of his pocket with
such sharp eyes, he was afraid of me; another settled in the unclean belly
of one, another was hanging round a man's neck, and so he was carrying him
about without seeing him."

"You--can see spirits?" the monk inquired.

"I tell you I can see, I can see through them. When I was coming out from
the Superior's I saw one hiding from me behind the door, and a big one, a
yard and a half or more high, with a thick long gray tail, and the tip of
his tail was in the crack of the door and I was quick and slammed the
door, pinching his tail in it. He squealed and began to struggle, and I
made the sign of the cross over him three times. And he died on the spot
like a crushed spider. He must have rotted there in the corner and be
stinking, but they don't see, they don't smell it. It's a year since I
have been there. I reveal it to you, as you are a stranger."

"Your words are terrible! But, holy and blessed Father," said the monk,
growing bolder and bolder, "is it true, as they noise abroad even to
distant lands about you, that you are in continual communication with the
Holy Ghost?"

"He does fly down at times."

"How does he fly down? In what form?"

"As a bird."

"The Holy Ghost in the form of a dove?"

"There's the Holy Ghost and there's the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit can
appear as other birds--sometimes as a swallow, sometimes a goldfinch and
sometimes as a blue-tit."

"How do you know him from an ordinary tit?"

"He speaks."

"How does he speak, in what language?"

"Human language."

"And what does he tell you?"

"Why, to-day he told me that a fool would visit me and would ask me
unseemly questions. You want to know too much, monk."

"Terrible are your words, most holy and blessed Father," the monk shook
his head. But there was a doubtful look in his frightened little eyes.

"Do you see this tree?" asked Father Ferapont, after a pause.

"I do, blessed Father."

"You think it's an elm, but for me it has another shape."

"What sort of shape?" inquired the monk, after a pause of vain
expectation.

"It happens at night. You see those two branches? In the night it is
Christ holding out His arms to me and seeking me with those arms, I see it
clearly and tremble. It's terrible, terrible!"

"What is there terrible if it's Christ Himself?"

"Why, He'll snatch me up and carry me away."

"Alive?"

"In the spirit and glory of Elijah, haven't you heard? He will take me in
His arms and bear me away."

Though the monk returned to the cell he was sharing with one of the
brothers, in considerable perplexity of mind, he still cherished at heart
a greater reverence for Father Ferapont than for Father Zossima. He was
strongly in favor of fasting, and it was not strange that one who kept so
rigid a fast as Father Ferapont should "see marvels." His words seemed
certainly queer, but God only could tell what was hidden in those words,
and were not worse words and acts commonly seen in those who have
sacrificed their intellects for the glory of God? The pinching of the
devil's tail he was ready and eager to believe, and not only in the
figurative sense. Besides he had, before visiting the monastery, a strong
prejudice against the institution of "elders," which he only knew of by
hearsay and believed to be a pernicious innovation. Before he had been
long at the monastery, he had detected the secret murmurings of some
shallow brothers who disliked the institution. He was, besides, a
meddlesome, inquisitive man, who poked his nose into everything. This was
why the news of the fresh "miracle" performed by Father Zossima reduced
him to extreme perplexity. Alyosha remembered afterwards how their
inquisitive guest from Obdorsk had been continually flitting to and fro
from one group to another, listening and asking questions among the monks
that were crowding within and without the elder's cell. But he did not pay
much attention to him at the time, and only recollected it afterwards.

He had no thought to spare for it indeed, for when Father Zossima, feeling
tired again, had gone back to bed, he thought of Alyosha as he was closing
his eyes, and sent for him. Alyosha ran at once. There was no one else in
the cell but Father Paissy, Father Iosif, and the novice Porfiry. The
elder, opening his weary eyes and looking intently at Alyosha, asked him
suddenly:

"Are your people expecting you, my son?"

Alyosha hesitated.

"Haven't they need of you? Didn't you promise some one yesterday to see
them to-day?"

"I did promise--to my father--my brothers--others too."

"You see, you must go. Don't grieve. Be sure I shall not die without your
being by to hear my last word. To you I will say that word, my son, it
will be my last gift to you. To you, dear son, because you love me. But
now go to keep your promise."

Alyosha immediately obeyed, though it was hard to go. But the promise that
he should hear his last word on earth, that it should be the last gift to
him, Alyosha, sent a thrill of rapture through his soul. He made haste
that he might finish what he had to do in the town and return quickly.
Father Paissy, too, uttered some words of exhortation which moved and
surprised him greatly. He spoke as they left the cell together.

"Remember, young man, unceasingly," Father Paissy began, without preface,
"that the science of this world, which has become a great power, has,
especially in the last century, analyzed everything divine handed down to
us in the holy books. After this cruel analysis the learned of this world
have nothing left of all that was sacred of old. But they have only
analyzed the parts and overlooked the whole, and indeed their blindness is
marvelous. Yet the whole still stands steadfast before their eyes, and the
gates of hell shall not prevail against it. Has it not lasted nineteen
centuries, is it not still a living, a moving power in the individual soul
and in the masses of people? It is still as strong and living even in the
souls of atheists, who have destroyed everything! For even those who have
renounced Christianity and attack it, in their inmost being still follow
the Christian ideal, for hitherto neither their subtlety nor the ardor of
their hearts has been able to create a higher ideal of man and of virtue
than the ideal given by Christ of old. When it has been attempted, the
result has been only grotesque. Remember this especially, young man, since
you are being sent into the world by your departing elder. Maybe,
remembering this great day, you will not forget my words, uttered from the
heart for your guidance, seeing you are young, and the temptations of the
world are great and beyond your strength to endure. Well, now go, my
orphan."

With these words Father Paissy blessed him. As Alyosha left the monastery
and thought them over, he suddenly realized that he had met a new and
unexpected friend, a warmly loving teacher, in this austere monk who had
hitherto treated him sternly. It was as though Father Zossima had
bequeathed him to him at his death, and "perhaps that's just what had
passed between them," Alyosha thought suddenly. The philosophic
reflections he had just heard so unexpectedly testified to the warmth of
Father Paissy's heart. He was in haste to arm the boy's mind for conflict
with temptation and to guard the young soul left in his charge with the
strongest defense he could imagine.

Early the next morning, Alyosha is awakened by the elder Zosima. Although Zosima is quite frail, he's eager to speak to the monks who have gathered around him. He speaks in fragments that are scarcely coherent, but his general message seems to be that the monks should seek to love all mankind, they bear the guilt of all mankind, and it is only through love that they can fulfill their religious duty. The whole monastery is in a general state of excitement, although the monks scarcely dare to admit to themselves their hope that on his death, Zosima will perform extraordinary miracles. Their hopes are fueled when they learn that the woman Zosima had admonished for praying for her son as if he were dead has actually received a letter from her son announcing that he is returning home soon. Alyosha learns of this news through a letter from Madame Khokhlakov, sent to him through Rakitin, and everyone else somehow learns of it too. A visiting monk from Obdorsk is confused by these events. The night before, he had visited Father Ferapont, Zosima's primary rival at the monastery. Unlike Zosima, Ferapont is, well, a grouch. Generally curt because of his vow of silence, Ferapont fasts a lot and hangs out alone having visions beyond the monastery's beehives. When he does speak, Ferapont is generally rude or just confused. To the Obdorsk monk, Ferapont talks about his visions, including one where the Holy Spirit announced that someone would visit him today to ask him stupid questions - hint hint. Meanwhile, back in Zosima's cell, he is ready for bed, and only a few monks and Alyosha remain with him. Zosima reminds Alyosha of his obligations out in the world, to his family. While Alyosha leaves reluctantly, he is heartened by Zosima's promise to entrust him with his last words. Before Alyosha leaves, Father Paissy pulls him aside to remind him that science has yet to come up with a superior vision of humanity than Christianity. As he leaves, Alyosha realizes that Father Paissy has probably been entrusted with his spiritual well-being once Zosima has passed away, and he's grateful for his spiritual guidance.

Father Ferapont Zosima, realizing that he will soon die, summons a group of students and friends to his side to have one last conversation about faith, love, and goodness. As he speaks, he emphasizes the importance of actively loving mankind, and of carrying universal love into all dealings with other people. He also discourages his listeners from being judgmental, saying that every person on Earth shares the blame for the sins of every other person. As Alyosha leaves Zosima's bedside, he reflects on his elder's impending death, and thinks that surely God would not let such a wise man die without marking his death with a spectacular miracle of some sort. Alyosha is certain that everyone in the monastery feels the same way, with the possible exception of the dour Father Ferapont, Zosima's enemy and an advocate of a harsh and ascetic form of piety that bears little resemblance to Zosima's warmhearted doctrine of love and forgiveness. Zosima calls Alyosha back to his cell. He asks him again to leave the monastery in order to help his family and to do good in the town. This time, Alyosha agrees to do so


Chapter II. At His Father's

First of all, Alyosha went to his father. On the way he remembered that
his father had insisted the day before that he should come without his
brother Ivan seeing him. "Why so?" Alyosha wondered suddenly. "Even if my
father has something to say to me alone, why should I go in unseen? Most
likely in his excitement yesterday he meant to say something different,"
he decided. Yet he was very glad when Marfa Ignatyevna, who opened the
garden gate to him (Grigory, it appeared, was ill in bed in the lodge),
told him in answer to his question that Ivan Fyodorovitch had gone out two
hours ago.

"And my father?"

"He is up, taking his coffee," Marfa answered somewhat dryly.

Alyosha went in. The old man was sitting alone at the table wearing
slippers and a little old overcoat. He was amusing himself by looking
through some accounts, rather inattentively however. He was quite alone in
the house, for Smerdyakov too had gone out marketing. Though he had got up
early and was trying to put a bold face on it, he looked tired and weak.
His forehead, upon which huge purple bruises had come out during the
night, was bandaged with a red handkerchief; his nose too had swollen
terribly in the night, and some smaller bruises covered it in patches,
giving his whole face a peculiarly spiteful and irritable look. The old
man was aware of this, and turned a hostile glance on Alyosha as he came
in.

"The coffee is cold," he cried harshly; "I won't offer you any. I've
ordered nothing but a Lenten fish soup to-day, and I don't invite any one
to share it. Why have you come?"

"To find out how you are," said Alyosha.

"Yes. Besides, I told you to come yesterday. It's all of no consequence.
You need not have troubled. But I knew you'd come poking in directly."

He said this with almost hostile feeling. At the same time he got up and
looked anxiously in the looking-glass (perhaps for the fortieth time that
morning) at his nose. He began, too, binding his red handkerchief more
becomingly on his forehead.

"Red's better. It's just like the hospital in a white one," he observed
sententiously. "Well, how are things over there? How is your elder?"

"He is very bad; he may die to-day," answered Alyosha. But his father had
not listened, and had forgotten his own question at once.

"Ivan's gone out," he said suddenly. "He is doing his utmost to carry off
Mitya's betrothed. That's what he is staying here for," he added
maliciously, and, twisting his mouth, looked at Alyosha.

"Surely he did not tell you so?" asked Alyosha.

"Yes, he did, long ago. Would you believe it, he told me three weeks ago?
You don't suppose he too came to murder me, do you? He must have had some
object in coming."

"What do you mean? Why do you say such things?" said Alyosha, troubled.

"He doesn't ask for money, it's true, but yet he won't get a farthing from
me. I intend living as long as possible, you may as well know, my dear
Alexey Fyodorovitch, and so I need every farthing, and the longer I live,
the more I shall need it," he continued, pacing from one corner of the
room to the other, keeping his hands in the pockets of his loose greasy
overcoat made of yellow cotton material. "I can still pass for a man at
five and fifty, but I want to pass for one for another twenty years. As I
get older, you know, I shan't be a pretty object. The wenches won't come
to me of their own accord, so I shall want my money. So I am saving up
more and more, simply for myself, my dear son Alexey Fyodorovitch. You may
as well know. For I mean to go on in my sins to the end, let me tell you.
For sin is sweet; all abuse it, but all men live in it, only others do it
on the sly, and I openly. And so all the other sinners fall upon me for
being so simple. And your paradise, Alexey Fyodorovitch, is not to my
taste, let me tell you that; and it's not the proper place for a
gentleman, your paradise, even if it exists. I believe that I fall asleep
and don't wake up again, and that's all. You can pray for my soul if you
like. And if you don't want to, don't, damn you! That's my philosophy.
Ivan talked well here yesterday, though we were all drunk. Ivan is a
conceited coxcomb, but he has no particular learning ... nor education
either. He sits silent and smiles at one without speaking--that's what
pulls him through."

Alyosha listened to him in silence.

"Why won't he talk to me? If he does speak, he gives himself airs. Your
Ivan is a scoundrel! And I'll marry Grushenka in a minute if I want to.
For if you've money, Alexey Fyodorovitch, you have only to want a thing
and you can have it. That's what Ivan is afraid of, he is on the watch to
prevent me getting married and that's why he is egging on Mitya to marry
Grushenka himself. He hopes to keep me from Grushenka by that (as though I
should leave him my money if I don't marry her!). Besides if Mitya marries
Grushenka, Ivan will carry off his rich betrothed, that's what he's
reckoning on! He is a scoundrel, your Ivan!"

"How cross you are! It's because of yesterday; you had better lie down,"
said Alyosha.

"There! you say that," the old man observed suddenly, as though it had
struck him for the first time, "and I am not angry with you. But if Ivan
said it, I should be angry with him. It is only with you I have good
moments, else you know I am an ill-natured man."

"You are not ill-natured, but distorted," said Alyosha with a smile.

"Listen. I meant this morning to get that ruffian Mitya locked up and I
don't know now what I shall decide about it. Of course in these
fashionable days fathers and mothers are looked upon as a prejudice, but
even now the law does not allow you to drag your old father about by the
hair, to kick him in the face in his own house, and brag of murdering him
outright--all in the presence of witnesses. If I liked, I could crush him
and could have him locked up at once for what he did yesterday."

"Then you don't mean to take proceedings?"

"Ivan has dissuaded me. I shouldn't care about Ivan, but there's another
thing."

And bending down to Alyosha, he went on in a confidential half-whisper.

"If I send the ruffian to prison, she'll hear of it and run to see him at
once. But if she hears that he has beaten me, a weak old man, within an
inch of my life, she may give him up and come to me.... For that's her
way, everything by contraries. I know her through and through! Won't you
have a drop of brandy? Take some cold coffee and I'll pour a quarter of a
glass of brandy into it, it's delicious, my boy."

"No, thank you. I'll take that roll with me if I may," said Alyosha, and
taking a halfpenny French roll he put it in the pocket of his cassock.
"And you'd better not have brandy, either," he suggested apprehensively,
looking into the old man's face.

"You are quite right, it irritates my nerves instead of soothing them.
Only one little glass. I'll get it out of the cupboard."

He unlocked the cupboard, poured out a glass, drank it, then locked the
cupboard and put the key back in his pocket.

"That's enough. One glass won't kill me."

"You see you are in a better humor now," said Alyosha, smiling.

"Um! I love you even without the brandy, but with scoundrels I am a
scoundrel. Ivan is not going to Tchermashnya--why is that? He wants to spy
how much I give Grushenka if she comes. They are all scoundrels! But I
don't recognize Ivan, I don't know him at all. Where does he come from? He
is not one of us in soul. As though I'd leave him anything! I shan't leave
a will at all, you may as well know. And I'll crush Mitya like a beetle. I
squash black-beetles at night with my slipper; they squelch when you tread
on them. And your Mitya will squelch too. _Your_ Mitya, for you love him.
Yes, you love him and I am not afraid of your loving him. But if Ivan
loved him I should be afraid for myself at his loving him. But Ivan loves
nobody. Ivan is not one of us. People like Ivan are not our sort, my boy.
They are like a cloud of dust. When the wind blows, the dust will be
gone.... I had a silly idea in my head when I told you to come to-day; I
wanted to find out from you about Mitya. If I were to hand him over a
thousand or maybe two now, would the beggarly wretch agree to take himself
off altogether for five years or, better still, thirty-five, and without
Grushenka, and give her up once for all, eh?"

"I--I'll ask him," muttered Alyosha. "If you would give him three thousand,
perhaps he--"

"That's nonsense! You needn't ask him now, no need! I've changed my mind.
It was a nonsensical idea of mine. I won't give him anything, not a penny,
I want my money myself," cried the old man, waving his hand. "I'll crush
him like a beetle without it. Don't say anything to him or else he will
begin hoping. There's nothing for you to do here, you needn't stay. Is
that betrothed of his, Katerina Ivanovna, whom he has kept so carefully
hidden from me all this time, going to marry him or not? You went to see
her yesterday, I believe?"

"Nothing will induce her to abandon him."

"There you see how dearly these fine young ladies love a rake and a
scoundrel. They are poor creatures I tell you, those pale young ladies,
very different from--Ah, if I had his youth and the looks I had then (for I
was better-looking than he at eight and twenty) I'd have been a conquering
hero just as he is. He is a low cad! But he shan't have Grushenka, anyway,
he shan't! I'll crush him!"

His anger had returned with the last words.

"You can go. There's nothing for you to do here to-day," he snapped
harshly.

Alyosha went up to say good-by to him, and kissed him on the shoulder.

"What's that for?" The old man was a little surprised. "We shall see each
other again, or do you think we shan't?"

"Not at all, I didn't mean anything."

"Nor did I, I did not mean anything," said the old man, looking at him.
"Listen, listen," he shouted after him, "make haste and come again and
I'll have a fish soup for you, a fine one, not like to-day. Be sure to
come! Come to-morrow, do you hear, to-morrow!"

And as soon as Alyosha had gone out of the door, he went to the cupboard
again and poured out another half-glass.

"I won't have more!" he muttered, clearing his throat, and again he locked
the cupboard and put the key in his pocket. Then he went into his bedroom,
lay down on the bed, exhausted, and in one minute he was asleep.

After leaving the monastery that morning, Alyosha heads straight to his father's, who's in a grumpy mood. Fyodor goes off on a tirade about how everyone is evil; it's just that he lives his evil openly. Fyodor then explains to Alyosha that the reason that he won't press charges against Dmitri is because he knows that would make Dmitri sympathetic in Grushenka's eyes. Fyodor then remarks that Ivan's a cold fish who loves no one. He asks Alyosha to ask Dmitri if Dmitri would leave Grushenka alone for one or two thousand rubles. Alyosha hesitatingly agrees, but Fyodor quickly takes the offer back spitefully. Alyosha gets up to leave and kisses his father goodbye. Fyodor is surprised by the gesture and wonders if he'll see Alyosha again, but Alyosha reassures him that it's just a simple goodbye. After Alyosha leaves, Fyodor goes to his bedroom to sleep.

At His Father's Alyosha returns home, where he encounters Fyodor Pavlovich scheming about the future. Fyodor Pavlovich tells Alyosha that he plans to live for many years and intends to remain a sensualist until he dies, when his only lover will be death. He says that he will eventually be too old to attract young women, however, and so he will need a great deal of money to lure them into his bed. He also insinuates that Ivan is trying to seduce Katerina in order to make Dmitri marry Grushenka. Should Ivan be successful, Fyodor Pavlovich says, Fyodor Pavlovich himself would be unable to marry Grushenka, and Ivan would ensure that his part of the Karamazov fortune would not be left to Fyodor Pavlovich's new wife. Fyodor Pavlovich recognizes his own wickedness, and Alyosha replies that he is not evil; he is just twisted


Chapter III. A Meeting With The Schoolboys

"Thank goodness he did not ask me about Grushenka," thought Alyosha, as he
left his father's house and turned towards Madame Hohlakov's, "or I might
have to tell him of my meeting with Grushenka yesterday."

Alyosha felt painfully that since yesterday both combatants had renewed
their energies, and that their hearts had grown hard again. "Father is
spiteful and angry, he's made some plan and will stick to it. And what of
Dmitri? He too will be harder than yesterday, he too must be spiteful and
angry, and he too, no doubt, has made some plan. Oh, I must succeed in
finding him to-day, whatever happens."

But Alyosha had not long to meditate. An incident occurred on the road,
which, though apparently of little consequence, made a great impression on
him. Just after he had crossed the square and turned the corner coming out
into Mihailovsky Street, which is divided by a small ditch from the High
Street (our whole town is intersected by ditches), he saw a group of
schoolboys between the ages of nine and twelve, at the bridge. They were
going home from school, some with their bags on their shoulders, others
with leather satchels slung across them, some in short jackets, others in
little overcoats. Some even had those high boots with creases round the
ankles, such as little boys spoilt by rich fathers love to wear. The whole
group was talking eagerly about something, apparently holding a council.
Alyosha had never from his Moscow days been able to pass children without
taking notice of them, and although he was particularly fond of children
of three or thereabout, he liked schoolboys of ten and eleven too. And so,
anxious as he was to-day, he wanted at once to turn aside to talk to them.
He looked into their excited rosy faces, and noticed at once that all the
boys had stones in their hands. Behind the ditch some thirty paces away,
there was another schoolboy standing by a fence. He too had a satchel at
his side. He was about ten years old, pale, delicate-looking and with
sparkling black eyes. He kept an attentive and anxious watch on the other
six, obviously his schoolfellows with whom he had just come out of school,
but with whom he had evidently had a feud.

Alyosha went up and, addressing a fair, curly-headed, rosy boy in a black
jacket, observed:

"When I used to wear a satchel like yours, I always used to carry it on my
left side, so as to have my right hand free, but you've got yours on your
right side. So it will be awkward for you to get at it."

Alyosha had no art or premeditation in beginning with this practical
remark. But it is the only way for a grown-up person to get at once into
confidential relations with a child, or still more with a group of
children. One must begin in a serious, businesslike way so as to be on a
perfectly equal footing. Alyosha understood it by instinct.

"But he is left-handed," another, a fine healthy-looking boy of eleven,
answered promptly. All the others stared at Alyosha.

"He even throws stones with his left hand," observed a third.

At that instant a stone flew into the group, but only just grazed the
left-handed boy, though it was well and vigorously thrown by the boy
standing the other side of the ditch.

"Give it him, hit him back, Smurov," they all shouted. But Smurov, the
left-handed boy, needed no telling, and at once revenged himself; he threw
a stone, but it missed the boy and hit the ground. The boy the other side
of the ditch, the pocket of whose coat was visibly bulging with stones,
flung another stone at the group; this time it flew straight at Alyosha
and hit him painfully on the shoulder.

"He aimed it at you, he meant it for you. You are Karamazov, Karamazov!"
the boys shouted, laughing. "Come, all throw at him at once!" and six
stones flew at the boy. One struck the boy on the head and he fell down,
but at once leapt up and began ferociously returning their fire. Both
sides threw stones incessantly. Many of the group had their pockets full
too.

"What are you about! Aren't you ashamed? Six against one! Why, you'll kill
him," cried Alyosha.

He ran forward and met the flying stones to screen the solitary boy. Three
or four ceased throwing for a minute.

"He began first!" cried a boy in a red shirt in an angry childish voice.
"He is a beast, he stabbed Krassotkin in class the other day with a
penknife. It bled. Krassotkin wouldn't tell tales, but he must be
thrashed."

"But what for? I suppose you tease him."

"There, he sent a stone in your back again, he knows you," cried the
children. "It's you he is throwing at now, not us. Come, all of you, at
him again, don't miss, Smurov!" and again a fire of stones, and a very
vicious one, began. The boy the other side of the ditch was hit in the
chest; he screamed, began to cry and ran away uphill towards Mihailovsky
Street. They all shouted: "Aha, he is funking, he is running away. Wisp of
tow!"

"You don't know what a beast he is, Karamazov, killing is too good for
him," said the boy in the jacket, with flashing eyes. He seemed to be the
eldest.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Alyosha, "is he a tell-tale or what?"

The boys looked at one another as though derisively.

"Are you going that way, to Mihailovsky?" the same boy went on. "Catch him
up.... You see he's stopped again, he is waiting and looking at you."

"He is looking at you," the other boys chimed in.

"You ask him, does he like a disheveled wisp of tow. Do you hear, ask him
that!"

There was a general burst of laughter. Alyosha looked at them, and they at
him.

"Don't go near him, he'll hurt you," cried Smurov in a warning voice.

"I shan't ask him about the wisp of tow, for I expect you tease him with
that question somehow. But I'll find out from him why you hate him so."

"Find out then, find out," cried the boys, laughing.

Alyosha crossed the bridge and walked uphill by the fence, straight
towards the boy.

"You'd better look out," the boys called after him; "he won't be afraid of
you. He will stab you in a minute, on the sly, as he did Krassotkin."

The boy waited for him without budging. Coming up to him, Alyosha saw
facing him a child of about nine years old. He was an undersized weakly
boy with a thin pale face, with large dark eyes that gazed at him
vindictively. He was dressed in a rather shabby old overcoat, which he had
monstrously outgrown. His bare arms stuck out beyond his sleeves. There
was a large patch on the right knee of his trousers, and in his right boot
just at the toe there was a big hole in the leather, carefully blackened
with ink. Both the pockets of his great-coat were weighed down with
stones. Alyosha stopped two steps in front of him, looking inquiringly at
him. The boy, seeing at once from Alyosha's eyes that he wouldn't beat
him, became less defiant, and addressed him first.

"I am alone, and there are six of them. I'll beat them all, alone!" he
said suddenly, with flashing eyes.

"I think one of the stones must have hurt you badly," observed Alyosha.

"But I hit Smurov on the head!" cried the boy.

"They told me that you know me, and that you threw a stone at me on
purpose," said Alyosha.

The boy looked darkly at him.

"I don't know you. Do you know me?" Alyosha continued.

"Let me alone!" the boy cried irritably; but he did not move, as though he
were expecting something, and again there was a vindictive light in his
eyes.

"Very well, I am going," said Alyosha; "only I don't know you and I don't
tease you. They told me how they tease you, but I don't want to tease you.
Good-by!"

"Monk in silk trousers!" cried the boy, following Alyosha with the same
vindictive and defiant expression, and he threw himself into an attitude
of defense, feeling sure that now Alyosha would fall upon him; but Alyosha
turned, looked at him, and walked away. He had not gone three steps before
the biggest stone the boy had in his pocket hit him a painful blow in the
back.

"So you'll hit a man from behind! They tell the truth, then, when they say
that you attack on the sly," said Alyosha, turning round again. This time
the boy threw a stone savagely right into Alyosha's face; but Alyosha just
had time to guard himself, and the stone struck him on the elbow.

"Aren't you ashamed? What have I done to you?" he cried.

The boy waited in silent defiance, certain that now Alyosha would attack
him. Seeing that even now he would not, his rage was like a little wild
beast's; he flew at Alyosha himself, and before Alyosha had time to move,
the spiteful child had seized his left hand with both of his and bit his
middle finger. He fixed his teeth in it and it was ten seconds before he
let go. Alyosha cried out with pain and pulled his finger away with all
his might. The child let go at last and retreated to his former distance.
Alyosha's finger had been badly bitten to the bone, close to the nail; it
began to bleed. Alyosha took out his handkerchief and bound it tightly
round his injured hand. He was a full minute bandaging it. The boy stood
waiting all the time. At last Alyosha raised his gentle eyes and looked at
him.

"Very well," he said, "you see how badly you've bitten me. That's enough,
isn't it? Now tell me, what have I done to you?"

The boy stared in amazement.

"Though I don't know you and it's the first time I've seen you," Alyosha
went on with the same serenity, "yet I must have done something to you--you
wouldn't have hurt me like this for nothing. So what have I done? How have
I wronged you, tell me?"

Instead of answering, the boy broke into a loud tearful wail and ran away.
Alyosha walked slowly after him towards Mihailovsky Street, and for a long
time he saw the child running in the distance as fast as ever, not turning
his head, and no doubt still keeping up his tearful wail. He made up his
mind to find him out as soon as he had time, and to solve this mystery.
Just now he had not the time.

Alyosha then heads off to Madame Khokhlakov's. On a lane to Mikhailovsky Street he encounters a group of boys, all of whom have stones in their hands. He then notices a sickly boy a few feet from them. All of a sudden the sickly boy throws a stone at one of the boys. Before he knows it, Alyosha is also hit on the shoulder by a rock. The boys start hurling stones at the sickly boy and Alyosha pleads with them to stop. They insist that the sickly boy attacked one of them first, stabbing a boy with a pen-knife earlier that day. Alyosha asks the sickly boy why he's throwing stones. The boy yells at him to leave him alone. As Alyosha turns back, the boy throws another stone at him. Alyosha asks the boy why he did that and the boy promptly bites him on the finger. Alyosha calmly wraps his bleeding finger in a kerchief and persists in trying to get the boy to talk to him. But the boy breaks out into tears and runs away.

He Gets Involved with Schoolboys Alyosha sets off for Madame Khokhlakov's house. On the way, he sees a group of young bullies throwing rocks at a frail boy, who, despite his disadvantages, ferociously hurls rocks back. When the boy runs away, Alyosha runs after him, hoping to talk with him, but when Alyosha catches him, the boy hits him with a rock and bites his finger. The boy runs away again, leaving Alyosha confused and troubled, wondering what could cause such savage behavior in such a young boy