Chapter VII. A Young Man Bent On A Career

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

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

"Let me stay here," Alyosha entreated.

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

Alyosha started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What vision?"

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

"You speak of Father Zossima?"

"Yes, of Father Zossima."

"Tapped the ground?"

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

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

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

"What crime?"

Rakitin evidently had something he was eager to speak of.

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

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

Alyosha stopped dead. Rakitin stopped, too.

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

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

"What? Have you really?" he cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I understand that," Alyosha jerked out suddenly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rakitin was intensely irritated.

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

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

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

After the guests leave, Alyosha accompanies the feeble Zosima to his cell. There, Zosima tells Alyosha that he will have to leave the monastery and endure life out in the real world before he returns to the monastery. Zosima tells Alyosha to "seek happiness in sorrow" and then to leave his cell to join his brothers. Outside Alyosha encounters Rakitin, another novice. Rakitin is a cynical type, and interprets Zosima's bow to Dmitri as a fake prediction of a crime that's about to be committed in the Karamazov family. Alyosha is shocked, but Rakitin thinks it's obvious that the Karamazovs are all headed toward some awful deed. According to Rakitin, Dmitri will do anything for Grushenka, the woman he's having an affair with. But Fyodor also has the hots for Grushenka. Meanwhile, Ivan is circling over Katerina, Dmitri's wealthy and dignified fiancee. Rakitin has the inside scoop because he's Grushenka's confidante, but Alyosha suggests that Rakitin is also in love with Katerina. Just then, Rakitin points out that Fyodor is running out of the Father Superior's quarters, followed by Ivan, Miusov, and the landowner Maximov. Fyodor and Father Isidore are shouting at each other.

A Seminarist-Careerist When Zosima leaves the room after kneeling before Dmitri, Alyosha follows close behind him. When Alyosha catches up, Zosima tells him that he wants Alyosha to leave the monastery, rejoin the world, and even find a wife. Alyosha is upset, but Zosima, smiling, tells Alyosha that his path lies outside the monastery. Zosima says that he has great faith in Alyosha, and then sends him away. Alyosha walks with Rakitin to meet the Father Superior, and they discuss the meaning of Zosima's strange departure. Rakitin says that the Karamazov dynasty is coming to a violent end, for the Karamazovs are all "sensualists" who only love women and money. He says that Dmitri has indeed abandoned his fiancee for Grushenka, and that Ivan is now trying to steal Dmitri's cast-off fiancee, with Dmitri's consent, while Fyodor Pavlovich chases after Dmitri's mistress. Rakitin says that Zosima understands that this drama can only end in bloodshed, and that he bowed to Dmitri so that, after the tragedy occurs, people will think Zosima had foreseen it. Rakitin goes on insulting the Karamazovs and Grushenka, even saying that Grushenka wishes to seduce Alyosha, until Alyosha asks whether Grushenka is not one of Rakitin's relatives. Rakitin, angry and embarrassed, denies this claim


Chapter VIII. The Scandalous Scene

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How disgraceful!" cried Pyotr Alexandrovitch.

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

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

"This is too disgraceful!" said Father Iosif.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fyodor Pavlovitch was silent again for two minutes.

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

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

Ivan was still silent.

Fyodor Pavlovitch waited another two minutes.

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

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

While Alyosha was helping Zosima in his cell, Miusov, Kalganov, and Ivan proceeded on to the Father Superior's. Miusov had just finished apologizing for Fyodor's behavior when Fyodor popped in. Fyodor had been planning on skipping the lunch, having caused enough commotion already, but in his carriage he had changed his mind and decided he had a couple more tricks up his sleeve. Fyodor at first accuses Maximov the landowner of being somebody else - some dude named von Sohn who, according to Fyodor, had died a grotesque death in a brothel. Next, Fyodor attacks the Father Superior and the monastery in general. He accuses them of stealing the peasants' money and spending it on lavish spreads like the dinner they're about to enjoy. He also accuses them of turning his second wife, the "shrieker" against him. During these tirades, the Father Superior's only reaction is to thank Fyodor for giving them all a dose of humility, which Fyodor ignores. Miusov can't stand Fyodor's behavior anymore and leaves, followed by Kalganov. Fyodor also leaves, demanding that Alyosha leave the monastery as well. Ivan follows Fyodor. As they get into their carriage, the landowner Maximov comes running after, thinking that the real party's with Fyodor. But Ivan pushes him away from the carriage and orders the driver to leave. In their carriage, Fyodor tries to get Ivan to talk, but Ivan coldly ignores him.

Scandal  Fyodor Pavlovich creates another scene before leaving the monastery. He angrily bursts in on the luncheon at the Father Superior's and launches into a long, vulgar tirade about the idiocy and hypocrisy of monastic life. Fyodor finally leaves, and as Ivan unhappily loads him into a carriage, he shouts back at Alyosha to leave the monastery and come home at once. The carriage drives away, and Fyodor begins contemplating the cognac he will have when they return home.

Book II: An Inappropriate Gathering, Chapters 5-8 Ivan's argument with the monks in Chapters 5 and 6 provides an approach to the world's problems that contrasts with the active love promoted by Zosima in the previous section. Unlike Zosima, who emphasizes the role of the individual conscience, Ivan proposes sweeping social changes designed to promote a specific outcome. While Zosima believes that every person should strive to do good, Ivan argues that civilization should erase the distinction between church and state in order to reduce criminality. Ivan's position differs from Zosima's in three specific ways. First, Ivan is interested in abstract conceptions of society and large groups of people, while Zosima is interested in the experience of the individual. Zosima proposes a way of life that, if everyone were to follow it, would make a better world, and Ivan proposes a change in the order of the world that, if enacted, would possibly make a better life for individuals. This difference is understandable given Ivan's and Zosima's own characteristics. Zosima is capable of loving human beings on an individual level, while Ivan is only capable of loving humanity in the abstract. Second, Zosima conceives of religion as a positive force, but Ivan believes it is negative. Zosima's approach to religion is to suggest ways that the individual can act to do good, while Ivan's is to suggest ways that religion can prevent the individual from doing evil. Because Zosima believes people are naturally loving and positive, he emphasizes the good that people can do for one another. Because Ivan believes people are naturally suspicious and negative, he emphasizes the evil that people must be prevented from doing to one another. The third difference between Zosima's and Ivan's arguments is their level of sincerity. Zosima wholeheartedly believes what he says, whereas Ivan argues from a detached, academic standpoint. Ivan does believe that powerful ecclesiastical courts would improve society. But he does not believe in God, making his desire for a religious society seem perplexingly out of line with his real beliefs. Nonetheless, Ivan thinks that religious courts would be most effective in controlling the masses, even if religion itself is false. The fact that Zosima is able to see Ivan's religious doubt even as Ivan argues for increased religious authority shows Zosima's penetrating understanding of human nature. These chapters represent the conflict between faith and doubt as a struggle between simple love for humanity and complicated theorizing about humanity. Zosima and Ivan both argue convincingly for their ideas, but Zosima's simple faith is more impressive than Ivan's highly complex doubt. Dostoevsky's treatment of philosophical concepts in this chapter is similar to his treatment of them in the rest of the novel. Dostoevsky frequently makes compelling abstract cases for two sides of an argument, and then, through the example of the characters' behavior, indicates the superiority of love, faith, and goodness. Zosima's enigmatic action when he kneels before Dmitri is open to a variety of interpretations. Zosima is able to understand other people's minds because his faith is logical and clearheaded. His kneeling before Dmitri indicates his understanding of something that no other character can see yet: that Dmitri, deep down, is a good man who will be forced to suffer before he can be redeemed. The narrative suggests that Zosima's insight is vastly superior to the sly theorizing of Rakitin in Chapter 7--Zosima is able to predict Dmitri's real future, whereas the rational Rakitin predicts that Dmitri will come to a violent end. In this way, Zosima's bow fore-shadows Dmitri's eventual fate. It also foreshadows a number of similarly enigmatic gestures made throughout the novel in moments of moral conflict, including Christ kissing the Grand Inquisitor and Alyosha kissing Ivan in Book V. Ivan's argument that the entire notion of morality is dependent on the idea that the soul is immortal has a direct bearing on Fyodor Pavlovich's character. If, as Ivan proposes, the idea of good and evil is dependent upon the existence of God, then Fyodor Pavlovich's gross sensuality is a perfectly logical way for him to behave, as he does not believe in God. All of Fyodor Pavlovich's morally questionable actions are irrelevant if morality is only a tool for securing a comfortable afterlife. Ivan himself seems to understand that Fyodor Pavlovich lives the logical extension of Ivan's own beliefs. This relationship between the two characters explains the simultaneous love and hatred Ivan feels toward his father. Ivan hates Fyodor Pavlovich because Ivan dislikes the idea that his argument about morality could justify such an abhorrent figure as Fyodor. But Ivan must tolerate Fyodor Pavlovich, because criticizing him would undermine his argument


Book III. The Sensualists Chapter I. In The Servants' Quarters

The Karamazovs' house was far from being in the center of the town, but it
was not quite outside it. It was a pleasant-looking old house of two
stories, painted gray, with a red iron roof. It was roomy and snug, and
might still last many years. There were all sorts of unexpected little
cupboards and closets and staircases. There were rats in it, but Fyodor
Pavlovitch did not altogether dislike them. "One doesn't feel so solitary
when one's left alone in the evening," he used to say. It was his habit to
send the servants away to the lodge for the night and to lock himself up
alone. The lodge was a roomy and solid building in the yard. Fyodor
Pavlovitch used to have the cooking done there, although there was a
kitchen in the house; he did not like the smell of cooking, and, winter
and summer alike, the dishes were carried in across the courtyard. The
house was built for a large family; there was room for five times as many,
with their servants. But at the time of our story there was no one living
in the house but Fyodor Pavlovitch and his son Ivan. And in the lodge
there were only three servants: old Grigory, and his old wife Marfa, and a
young man called Smerdyakov. Of these three we must say a few words. Of
old Grigory we have said something already. He was firm and determined and
went blindly and obstinately for his object, if once he had been brought
by any reasons (and they were often very illogical ones) to believe that
it was immutably right. He was honest and incorruptible. His wife, Marfa
Ignatyevna, had obeyed her husband's will implicitly all her life, yet she
had pestered him terribly after the emancipation of the serfs. She was set
on leaving Fyodor Pavlovitch and opening a little shop in Moscow with
their small savings. But Grigory decided then, once for all, that "the
woman's talking nonsense, for every woman is dishonest," and that they
ought not to leave their old master, whatever he might be, for "that was
now their duty."

"Do you understand what duty is?" he asked Marfa Ignatyevna.

"I understand what duty means, Grigory Vassilyevitch, but why it's our
duty to stay here I never shall understand," Marfa answered firmly.

"Well, don't understand then. But so it shall be. And you hold your
tongue."

And so it was. They did not go away, and Fyodor Pavlovitch promised them a
small sum for wages, and paid it regularly. Grigory knew, too, that he had
an indisputable influence over his master. It was true, and he was aware
of it. Fyodor Pavlovitch was an obstinate and cunning buffoon, yet, though
his will was strong enough "in some of the affairs of life," as he
expressed it, he found himself, to his surprise, extremely feeble in
facing certain other emergencies. He knew his weaknesses and was afraid of
them. There are positions in which one has to keep a sharp look out. And
that's not easy without a trustworthy man, and Grigory was a most
trustworthy man. Many times in the course of his life Fyodor Pavlovitch
had only just escaped a sound thrashing through Grigory's intervention,
and on each occasion the old servant gave him a good lecture. But it
wasn't only thrashings that Fyodor Pavlovitch was afraid of. There were
graver occasions, and very subtle and complicated ones, when Fyodor
Pavlovitch could not have explained the extraordinary craving for some one
faithful and devoted, which sometimes unaccountably came upon him all in a
moment. It was almost a morbid condition. Corrupt and often cruel in his
lust, like some noxious insect, Fyodor Pavlovitch was sometimes, in
moments of drunkenness, overcome by superstitious terror and a moral
convulsion which took an almost physical form. "My soul's simply quaking
in my throat at those times," he used to say. At such moments he liked to
feel that there was near at hand, in the lodge if not in the room, a
strong, faithful man, virtuous and unlike himself, who had seen all his
debauchery and knew all his secrets, but was ready in his devotion to
overlook all that, not to oppose him, above all, not to reproach him or
threaten him with anything, either in this world or in the next, and, in
case of need, to defend him--from whom? From somebody unknown, but terrible
and dangerous. What he needed was to feel that there was _another_ man, an
old and tried friend, that he might call him in his sick moments merely to
look at his face, or, perhaps, exchange some quite irrelevant words with
him. And if the old servant were not angry, he felt comforted, and if he
were angry, he was more dejected. It happened even (very rarely however)
that Fyodor Pavlovitch went at night to the lodge to wake Grigory and
fetch him for a moment. When the old man came, Fyodor Pavlovitch would
begin talking about the most trivial matters, and would soon let him go
again, sometimes even with a jest. And after he had gone, Fyodor
Pavlovitch would get into bed with a curse and sleep the sleep of the
just. Something of the same sort had happened to Fyodor Pavlovitch on
Alyosha's arrival. Alyosha "pierced his heart" by "living with him, seeing
everything and blaming nothing." Moreover, Alyosha brought with him
something his father had never known before: a complete absence of
contempt for him and an invariable kindness, a perfectly natural
unaffected devotion to the old man who deserved it so little. All this was
a complete surprise to the old profligate, who had dropped all family
ties. It was a new and surprising experience for him, who had till then
loved nothing but "evil." When Alyosha had left him, he confessed to
himself that he had learnt something he had not till then been willing to
learn.

I have mentioned already that Grigory had detested Adelaida Ivanovna, the
first wife of Fyodor Pavlovitch and the mother of Dmitri, and that he had,
on the contrary, protected Sofya Ivanovna, the poor "crazy woman," against
his master and any one who chanced to speak ill or lightly of her. His
sympathy for the unhappy wife had become something sacred to him, so that
even now, twenty years after, he could not bear a slighting allusion to
her from any one, and would at once check the offender. Externally,
Grigory was cold, dignified and taciturn, and spoke, weighing his words,
without frivolity. It was impossible to tell at first sight whether he
loved his meek, obedient wife; but he really did love her, and she knew
it.

Marfa Ignatyevna was by no means foolish; she was probably, indeed,
cleverer than her husband, or, at least, more prudent than he in worldly
affairs, and yet she had given in to him in everything without question or
complaint ever since her marriage, and respected him for his spiritual
superiority. It was remarkable how little they spoke to one another in the
course of their lives, and only of the most necessary daily affairs. The
grave and dignified Grigory thought over all his cares and duties alone,
so that Marfa Ignatyevna had long grown used to knowing that he did not
need her advice. She felt that her husband respected her silence, and took
it as a sign of her good sense. He had never beaten her but once, and then
only slightly. Once during the year after Fyodor Pavlovitch's marriage
with Adelaida Ivanovna, the village girls and women--at that time
serfs--were called together before the house to sing and dance. They were
beginning "In the Green Meadows," when Marfa, at that time a young woman,
skipped forward and danced "the Russian Dance," not in the village
fashion, but as she had danced it when she was a servant in the service of
the rich Miuesov family, in their private theater, where the actors were
taught to dance by a dancing master from Moscow. Grigory saw how his wife
danced, and, an hour later, at home in their cottage he gave her a lesson,
pulling her hair a little. But there it ended: the beating was never
repeated, and Marfa Ignatyevna gave up dancing.

God had not blessed them with children. One child was born but it died.
Grigory was fond of children, and was not ashamed of showing it. When
Adelaida Ivanovna had run away, Grigory took Dmitri, then a child of three
years old, combed his hair and washed him in a tub with his own hands, and
looked after him for almost a year. Afterwards he had looked after Ivan
and Alyosha, for which the general's widow had rewarded him with a slap in
the face; but I have already related all that. The only happiness his own
child had brought him had been in the anticipation of its birth. When it
was born, he was overwhelmed with grief and horror. The baby had six
fingers. Grigory was so crushed by this, that he was not only silent till
the day of the christening, but kept away in the garden. It was spring,
and he spent three days digging the kitchen garden. The third day was
fixed for christening the baby: mean-time Grigory had reached a
conclusion. Going into the cottage where the clergy were assembled and the
visitors had arrived, including Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was to stand god-
father, he suddenly announced that the baby "ought not to be christened at
all." He announced this quietly, briefly, forcing out his words, and
gazing with dull intentness at the priest.

"Why not?" asked the priest with good-humored surprise.

"Because it's a dragon," muttered Grigory.

"A dragon? What dragon?"

Grigory did not speak for some time. "It's a confusion of nature," he
muttered vaguely, but firmly, and obviously unwilling to say more.

They laughed, and of course christened the poor baby. Grigory prayed
earnestly at the font, but his opinion of the new-born child remained
unchanged. Yet he did not interfere in any way. As long as the sickly
infant lived he scarcely looked at it, tried indeed not to notice it, and
for the most part kept out of the cottage. But when, at the end of a
fortnight, the baby died of thrush, he himself laid the child in its
little coffin, looked at it in profound grief, and when they were filling
up the shallow little grave he fell on his knees and bowed down to the
earth. He did not for years afterwards mention his child, nor did Marfa
speak of the baby before him, and, even if Grigory were not present, she
never spoke of it above a whisper. Marfa observed that, from the day of
the burial, he devoted himself to "religion," and took to reading the
_Lives of the Saints_, for the most part sitting alone and in silence, and
always putting on his big, round, silver-rimmed spectacles. He rarely read
aloud, only perhaps in Lent. He was fond of the Book of Job, and had
somehow got hold of a copy of the sayings and sermons of "the God-fearing
Father Isaac the Syrian," which he read persistently for years together,
understanding very little of it, but perhaps prizing and loving it the
more for that. Of late he had begun to listen to the doctrines of the sect
of Flagellants settled in the neighborhood. He was evidently shaken by
them, but judged it unfitting to go over to the new faith. His habit of
theological reading gave him an expression of still greater gravity.

He was perhaps predisposed to mysticism. And the birth of his deformed
child, and its death, had, as though by special design, been accompanied
by another strange and marvelous event, which, as he said later, had left
a "stamp" upon his soul. It happened that, on the very night after the
burial of his child, Marfa was awakened by the wail of a new-born baby.
She was frightened and waked her husband. He listened and said he thought
it was more like some one groaning, "it might be a woman." He got up and
dressed. It was a rather warm night in May. As he went down the steps, he
distinctly heard groans coming from the garden. But the gate from the yard
into the garden was locked at night, and there was no other way of
entering it, for it was enclosed all round by a strong, high fence. Going
back into the house, Grigory lighted a lantern, took the garden key, and
taking no notice of the hysterical fears of his wife, who was still
persuaded that she heard a child crying, and that it was her own baby
crying and calling for her, went into the garden in silence. There he
heard at once that the groans came from the bath-house that stood near the
garden gate, and that they were the groans of a woman. Opening the door of
the bath-house, he saw a sight which petrified him. An idiot girl, who
wandered about the streets and was known to the whole town by the nickname
of Lizaveta Smerdyastchaya (Stinking Lizaveta), had got into the bath-
house and had just given birth to a child. She lay dying with the baby
beside her. She said nothing, for she had never been able to speak. But
her story needs a chapter to itself.

The novel shifts back in time and spends a few pages with Grigory Vasilievich and his wife Marfa, Fyodor's servants. Grigory is a pious man who, as was mentioned before, took care of Fyodor's sons when his wives died. Grigory's one child with Marfa was a great disappointment because the child was born with six fingers. Grigory thought the child must be a dragon and only reluctantly had the child baptized. The child died a couple of weeks later, but on the night they buried their child, Marfa woke to hear the cries of a newborn. The two of them went out to the bathhouse in the garden, where they discovered the village holy fool, Stinking Lizaveta, who had just given birth to a son.

In the Servant's Quarters The narrator tells the story of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov's servant Grigory, who briefly cares for each of the three Karamazov brothers when they are young. Grigory's wife gives birth to a child with six fingers. The child dies two weeks after it is born. The night Grigory buries it, his wife hears a baby crying in the distance. When Grigory goes to investigate, he discovers a newborn child lying next to a young girl, who has just given birth and is dying


Chapter II. Lizaveta

There was one circumstance which struck Grigory particularly, and
confirmed a very unpleasant and revolting suspicion. This Lizaveta was a
dwarfish creature, "not five foot within a wee bit," as many of the pious
old women said pathetically about her, after her death. Her broad,
healthy, red face had a look of blank idiocy and the fixed stare in her
eyes was unpleasant, in spite of their meek expression. She wandered
about, summer and winter alike, barefooted, wearing nothing but a hempen
smock. Her coarse, almost black hair curled like lamb's wool, and formed a
sort of huge cap on her head. It was always crusted with mud, and had
leaves, bits of stick, and shavings clinging to it, as she always slept on
the ground and in the dirt. Her father, a homeless, sickly drunkard,
called Ilya, had lost everything and lived many years as a workman with
some well-to-do tradespeople. Her mother had long been dead. Spiteful and
diseased, Ilya used to beat Lizaveta inhumanly whenever she returned to
him. But she rarely did so, for every one in the town was ready to look
after her as being an idiot, and so specially dear to God. Ilya's
employers, and many others in the town, especially of the tradespeople,
tried to clothe her better, and always rigged her out with high boots and
sheepskin coat for the winter. But, although she allowed them to dress her
up without resisting, she usually went away, preferably to the cathedral
porch, and taking off all that had been given her--kerchief, sheepskin,
skirt or boots--she left them there and walked away barefoot in her smock
as before. It happened on one occasion that a new governor of the
province, making a tour of inspection in our town, saw Lizaveta, and was
wounded in his tenderest susceptibilities. And though he was told she was
an idiot, he pronounced that for a young woman of twenty to wander about
in nothing but a smock was a breach of the proprieties, and must not occur
again. But the governor went his way, and Lizaveta was left as she was. At
last her father died, which made her even more acceptable in the eyes of
the religious persons of the town, as an orphan. In fact, every one seemed
to like her; even the boys did not tease her, and the boys of our town,
especially the schoolboys, are a mischievous set. She would walk into
strange houses, and no one drove her away. Every one was kind to her and
gave her something. If she were given a copper, she would take it, and at
once drop it in the alms-jug of the church or prison. If she were given a
roll or bun in the market, she would hand it to the first child she met.
Sometimes she would stop one of the richest ladies in the town and give it
to her, and the lady would be pleased to take it. She herself never tasted
anything but black bread and water. If she went into an expensive shop,
where there were costly goods or money lying about, no one kept watch on
her, for they knew that if she saw thousands of roubles overlooked by
them, she would not have touched a farthing. She scarcely ever went to
church. She slept either in the church porch or climbed over a hurdle
(there are many hurdles instead of fences to this day in our town) into a
kitchen garden. She used at least once a week to turn up "at home," that
is at the house of her father's former employers, and in the winter went
there every night, and slept either in the passage or the cowhouse. People
were amazed that she could stand such a life, but she was accustomed to
it, and, although she was so tiny, she was of a robust constitution. Some
of the townspeople declared that she did all this only from pride, but
that is hardly credible. She could hardly speak, and only from time to
time uttered an inarticulate grunt. How could she have been proud?

It happened one clear, warm, moonlight night in September (many years ago)
five or six drunken revelers were returning from the club at a very late
hour, according to our provincial notions. They passed through the "back-
way," which led between the back gardens of the houses, with hurdles on
either side. This way leads out on to the bridge over the long, stinking
pool which we were accustomed to call a river. Among the nettles and
burdocks under the hurdle our revelers saw Lizaveta asleep. They stopped
to look at her, laughing, and began jesting with unbridled licentiousness.
It occurred to one young gentleman to make the whimsical inquiry whether
any one could possibly look upon such an animal as a woman, and so
forth.... They all pronounced with lofty repugnance that it was
impossible. But Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was among them, sprang forward and
declared that it was by no means impossible, and that, indeed, there was a
certain piquancy about it, and so on.... It is true that at that time he
was overdoing his part as a buffoon. He liked to put himself forward and
entertain the company, ostensibly on equal terms, of course, though in
reality he was on a servile footing with them. It was just at the time
when he had received the news of his first wife's death in Petersburg,
and, with crape upon his hat, was drinking and behaving so shamelessly
that even the most reckless among us were shocked at the sight of him. The
revelers, of course, laughed at this unexpected opinion; and one of them
even began challenging him to act upon it. The others repelled the idea
even more emphatically, although still with the utmost hilarity, and at
last they went on their way. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch swore that he had
gone with them, and perhaps it was so, no one knows for certain, and no
one ever knew. But five or six months later, all the town was talking,
with intense and sincere indignation, of Lizaveta's condition, and trying
to find out who was the miscreant who had wronged her. Then suddenly a
terrible rumor was all over the town that this miscreant was no other than
Fyodor Pavlovitch. Who set the rumor going? Of that drunken band five had
left the town and the only one still among us was an elderly and much
respected civil councilor, the father of grown-up daughters, who could
hardly have spread the tale, even if there had been any foundation for it.
But rumor pointed straight at Fyodor Pavlovitch, and persisted in pointing
at him. Of course this was no great grievance to him: he would not have
troubled to contradict a set of tradespeople. In those days he was proud,
and did not condescend to talk except in his own circle of the officials
and nobles, whom he entertained so well.

At the time, Grigory stood up for his master vigorously. He provoked
quarrels and altercations in defense of him and succeeded in bringing some
people round to his side. "It's the wench's own fault," he asserted, and
the culprit was Karp, a dangerous convict, who had escaped from prison and
whose name was well known to us, as he had hidden in our town. This
conjecture sounded plausible, for it was remembered that Karp had been in
the neighborhood just at that time in the autumn, and had robbed three
people. But this affair and all the talk about it did not estrange popular
sympathy from the poor idiot. She was better looked after than ever. A
well-to-do merchant's widow named Kondratyev arranged to take her into her
house at the end of April, meaning not to let her go out until after the
confinement. They kept a constant watch over her, but in spite of their
vigilance she escaped on the very last day, and made her way into Fyodor
Pavlovitch's garden. How, in her condition, she managed to climb over the
high, strong fence remained a mystery. Some maintained that she must have
been lifted over by somebody; others hinted at something more uncanny. The
most likely explanation is that it happened naturally--that Lizaveta,
accustomed to clambering over hurdles to sleep in gardens, had somehow
managed to climb this fence, in spite of her condition, and had leapt
down, injuring herself.

Grigory rushed to Marfa and sent her to Lizaveta, while he ran to fetch an
old midwife who lived close by. They saved the baby, but Lizaveta died at
dawn. Grigory took the baby, brought it home, and making his wife sit
down, put it on her lap. "A child of God--an orphan is akin to all," he
said, "and to us above others. Our little lost one has sent us this, who
has come from the devil's son and a holy innocent. Nurse him and weep no
more."

So Marfa brought up the child. He was christened Pavel, to which people
were not slow in adding Fyodorovitch (son of Fyodor). Fyodor Pavlovitch
did not object to any of this, and thought it amusing, though he persisted
vigorously in denying his responsibility. The townspeople were pleased at
his adopting the foundling. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch invented a surname
for the child, calling him Smerdyakov, after his mother's nickname.

So this Smerdyakov became Fyodor Pavlovitch's second servant, and was
living in the lodge with Grigory and Marfa at the time our story begins.
He was employed as cook. I ought to say something of this Smerdyakov, but
I am ashamed of keeping my readers' attention so long occupied with these
common menials, and I will go back to my story, hoping to say more of
Smerdyakov in the course of it.

Stinking Lizaveta was just 20 years old when she gave birth to her son. Her father was an unemployed drunkard who beat her whenever she came home, but generally Stinking Lizaveta wandered around town dressed only in a simple shift, despite the best efforts of the townspeople to clothe her. Simple-minded and mute, Stinking Lizaveta would often sleep outside in random gardens. One night, or so the rumors went, Fyodor and some other drunken gentlemen were headed home from the club and found Stinking Lizaveta. One of them asked whether she could ever be considered a woman, and they all laughed, except for Fyodor. The gentlemen encouraged Fyodor to have sex with her, but he refused. A few months after this incident, everyone noticed to their shock that Lizaveta was pregnant. While Fyodor denied it, everyone assumed he was the father, a rumor that only seemed confirmed with Lizaveta gave birth in his kitchen garden. Grigory and Marfa raised the child as their own, and Fyodor even took a liking to him, naming him Smerdyakov, after his mother's last name. Smerdyakov grew to be a cook in Fyodor's household.

Stinking Lizaveta The girl whom Grigory sees giving birth is Lizaveta, often called "stinking Lizaveta. Lizaveta is extremely slow-witted and cannot talk. The people of the town are appalled that someone has seduced this helpless young girl, and they agree that the only man vile enough to do so is Fyodor Pavlovich. Grigory and his wife adopt the baby, and Fyodor Pavlovich names him Smerdyakov


Chapter III. The Confession Of A Passionate Heart--In Verse

Alyosha remained for some time irresolute after hearing the command his
father shouted to him from the carriage. But in spite of his uneasiness he
did not stand still. That was not his way. He went at once to the kitchen
to find out what his father had been doing above. Then he set off,
trusting that on the way he would find some answer to the doubt tormenting
him. I hasten to add that his father's shouts, commanding him to return
home "with his mattress and pillow" did not frighten him in the least. He
understood perfectly that those peremptory shouts were merely "a flourish"
to produce an effect. In the same way a tradesman in our town who was
celebrating his name-day with a party of friends, getting angry at being
refused more vodka, smashed up his own crockery and furniture and tore his
own and his wife's clothes, and finally broke his windows, all for the
sake of effect. Next day, of course, when he was sober, he regretted the
broken cups and saucers. Alyosha knew that his father would let him go
back to the monastery next day, possibly even that evening. Moreover, he
was fully persuaded that his father might hurt any one else, but would not
hurt him. Alyosha was certain that no one in the whole world ever would
want to hurt him, and, what is more, he knew that no one could hurt him.
This was for him an axiom, assumed once for all without question, and he
went his way without hesitation, relying on it.

But at that moment an anxiety of a different sort disturbed him, and
worried him the more because he could not formulate it. It was the fear of
a woman, of Katerina Ivanovna, who had so urgently entreated him in the
note handed to him by Madame Hohlakov to come and see her about something.
This request and the necessity of going had at once aroused an uneasy
feeling in his heart, and this feeling had grown more and more painful all
the morning in spite of the scenes at the hermitage and at the Father
Superior's. He was not uneasy because he did not know what she would speak
of and what he must answer. And he was not afraid of her simply as a
woman. Though he knew little of women, he had spent his life, from early
childhood till he entered the monastery, entirely with women. He was
afraid of that woman, Katerina Ivanovna. He had been afraid of her from
the first time he saw her. He had only seen her two or three times, and
had only chanced to say a few words to her. He thought of her as a
beautiful, proud, imperious girl. It was not her beauty which troubled
him, but something else. And the vagueness of his apprehension increased
the apprehension itself. The girl's aims were of the noblest, he knew
that. She was trying to save his brother Dmitri simply through generosity,
though he had already behaved badly to her. Yet, although Alyosha
recognized and did justice to all these fine and generous sentiments, a
shiver began to run down his back as soon as he drew near her house.

He reflected that he would not find Ivan, who was so intimate a friend,
with her, for Ivan was certainly now with his father. Dmitri he was even
more certain not to find there, and he had a foreboding of the reason. And
so his conversation would be with her alone. He had a great longing to run
and see his brother Dmitri before that fateful interview. Without showing
him the letter, he could talk to him about it. But Dmitri lived a long way
off, and he was sure to be away from home too. Standing still for a
minute, he reached a final decision. Crossing himself with a rapid and
accustomed gesture, and at once smiling, he turned resolutely in the
direction of his terrible lady.

He knew her house. If he went by the High Street and then across the
market-place, it was a long way round. Though our town is small, it is
scattered, and the houses are far apart. And meanwhile his father was
expecting him, and perhaps had not yet forgotten his command. He might be
unreasonable, and so he had to make haste to get there and back. So he
decided to take a short cut by the back-way, for he knew every inch of the
ground. This meant skirting fences, climbing over hurdles, and crossing
other people's back-yards, where every one he met knew him and greeted
him. In this way he could reach the High Street in half the time.

He had to pass the garden adjoining his father's, and belonging to a
little tumbledown house with four windows. The owner of this house, as
Alyosha knew, was a bedridden old woman, living with her daughter, who had
been a genteel maid-servant in generals' families in Petersburg. Now she
had been at home a year, looking after her sick mother. She always dressed
up in fine clothes, though her old mother and she had sunk into such
poverty that they went every day to Fyodor Pavlovitch's kitchen for soup
and bread, which Marfa gave readily. Yet, though the young woman came up
for soup, she had never sold any of her dresses, and one of these even had
a long train--a fact which Alyosha had learned from Rakitin, who always
knew everything that was going on in the town. He had forgotten it as soon
as he heard it, but now, on reaching the garden, he remembered the dress
with the train, raised his head, which had been bowed in thought, and came
upon something quite unexpected.

Over the hurdle in the garden, Dmitri, mounted on something, was leaning
forward, gesticulating violently, beckoning to him, obviously afraid to
utter a word for fear of being overheard. Alyosha ran up to the hurdle.

"It's a good thing you looked up. I was nearly shouting to you," Mitya
said in a joyful, hurried whisper. "Climb in here quickly! How splendid
that you've come! I was just thinking of you!"

Alyosha was delighted too, but he did not know how to get over the hurdle.
Mitya put his powerful hand under his elbow to help him jump. Tucking up
his cassock, Alyosha leapt over the hurdle with the agility of a bare-
legged street urchin.

"Well done! Now come along," said Mitya in an enthusiastic whisper.

"Where?" whispered Alyosha, looking about him and finding himself in a
deserted garden with no one near but themselves. The garden was small, but
the house was at least fifty paces away.

"There's no one here. Why do you whisper?" asked Alyosha.

"Why do I whisper? Deuce take it!" cried Dmitri at the top of his voice.
"You see what silly tricks nature plays one. I am here in secret, and on
the watch. I'll explain later on, but, knowing it's a secret, I began
whispering like a fool, when there's no need. Let us go. Over there. Till
then be quiet. I want to kiss you.

    Glory to God in the world,
    Glory to God in me ...

I was just repeating that, sitting here, before you came."

The garden was about three acres in extent, and planted with trees only
along the fence at the four sides. There were apple-trees, maples, limes
and birch-trees. The middle of the garden was an empty grass space, from
which several hundredweight of hay was carried in the summer. The garden
was let out for a few roubles for the summer. There were also plantations
of raspberries and currants and gooseberries laid out along the sides; a
kitchen garden had been planted lately near the house.

Dmitri led his brother to the most secluded corner of the garden. There,
in a thicket of lime-trees and old bushes of black currant, elder,
snowball-tree, and lilac, there stood a tumble-down green summer-house,
blackened with age. Its walls were of lattice-work, but there was still a
roof which could give shelter. God knows when this summer-house was built.
There was a tradition that it had been put up some fifty years before by a
retired colonel called von Schmidt, who owned the house at that time. It
was all in decay, the floor was rotting, the planks were loose, the
woodwork smelled musty. In the summer-house there was a green wooden table
fixed in the ground, and round it were some green benches upon which it
was still possible to sit. Alyosha had at once observed his brother's
exhilarated condition, and on entering the arbor he saw half a bottle of
brandy and a wineglass on the table.

"That's brandy," Mitya laughed. "I see your look: 'He's drinking again!'
Distrust the apparition.

    Distrust the worthless, lying crowd,
    And lay aside thy doubts.

I'm not drinking, I'm only 'indulging,' as that pig, your Rakitin, says.
He'll be a civil councilor one day, but he'll always talk about
'indulging.' Sit down. I could take you in my arms, Alyosha, and press you
to my bosom till I crush you, for in the whole world--in reality--in re-al-
i-ty--(can you take it in?) I love no one but you!"

He uttered the last words in a sort of exaltation.

"No one but you and one 'jade' I have fallen in love with, to my ruin. But
being in love doesn't mean loving. You may be in love with a woman and yet
hate her. Remember that! I can talk about it gayly still. Sit down here by
the table and I'll sit beside you and look at you, and go on talking. You
shall keep quiet and I'll go on talking, for the time has come. But on
reflection, you know, I'd better speak quietly, for here--here--you can
never tell what ears are listening. I will explain everything; as they
say, 'the story will be continued.' Why have I been longing for you? Why
have I been thirsting for you all these days, and just now? (It's five
days since I've cast anchor here.) Because it's only to you I can tell
everything; because I must, because I need you, because to-morrow I shall
fly from the clouds, because to-morrow life is ending and beginning. Have
you ever felt, have you ever dreamt of falling down a precipice into a
pit? That's just how I'm falling, but not in a dream. And I'm not afraid,
and don't you be afraid. At least, I am afraid, but I enjoy it. It's not
enjoyment though, but ecstasy. Damn it all, whatever it is! A strong
spirit, a weak spirit, a womanish spirit--whatever it is! Let us praise
nature: you see what sunshine, how clear the sky is, the leaves are all
green, it's still summer; four o'clock in the afternoon and the stillness!
Where were you going?"

"I was going to father's, but I meant to go to Katerina Ivanovna's first."

"To her, and to father! Oo! what a coincidence! Why was I waiting for you?
Hungering and thirsting for you in every cranny of my soul and even in my
ribs? Why, to send you to father and to her, Katerina Ivanovna, so as to
have done with her and with father. To send an angel. I might have sent
any one, but I wanted to send an angel. And here you are on your way to
see father and her."

"Did you really mean to send me?" cried Alyosha with a distressed
expression.

"Stay! You knew it! And I see you understand it all at once. But be quiet,
be quiet for a time. Don't be sorry, and don't cry."

Dmitri stood up, thought a moment, and put his finger to his forehead.

"She's asked you, written to you a letter or something, that's why you're
going to her? You wouldn't be going except for that?"

"Here is her note." Alyosha took it out of his pocket. Mitya looked
through it quickly.

"And you were going the back-way! Oh, gods, I thank you for sending him by
the back-way, and he came to me like the golden fish to the silly old
fishermen in the fable! Listen, Alyosha, listen, brother! Now I mean to
tell you everything, for I must tell some one. An angel in heaven I've
told already; but I want to tell an angel on earth. You are an angel on
earth. You will hear and judge and forgive. And that's what I need, that
some one above me should forgive. Listen! If two people break away from
everything on earth and fly off into the unknown, or at least one of them,
and before flying off or going to ruin he comes to some one else and says,
'Do this for me'--some favor never asked before that could only be asked on
one's deathbed--would that other refuse, if he were a friend or a brother?"

"I will do it, but tell me what it is, and make haste," said Alyosha.

"Make haste! H'm!... Don't be in a hurry, Alyosha, you hurry and worry
yourself. There's no need to hurry now. Now the world has taken a new
turning. Ah, Alyosha, what a pity you can't understand ecstasy. But what
am I saying to him? As though you didn't understand it. What an ass I am!
What am I saying? 'Be noble, O man!'--who says that?"

Alyosha made up his mind to wait. He felt that, perhaps, indeed, his work
lay here. Mitya sank into thought for a moment, with his elbow on the
table and his head in his hand. Both were silent.

"Alyosha," said Mitya, "you're the only one who won't laugh. I should like
to begin--my confession--with Schiller's _Hymn to Joy_, _An die Freude_! I
don't know German, I only know it's called that. Don't think I'm talking
nonsense because I'm drunk. I'm not a bit drunk. Brandy's all very well,
but I need two bottles to make me drunk:

    Silenus with his rosy phiz
    Upon his stumbling ass.

But I've not drunk a quarter of a bottle, and I'm not Silenus. I'm not
Silenus, though I am strong,(1) for I've made a decision once for all.
Forgive me the pun; you'll have to forgive me a lot more than puns to-day.
Don't be uneasy. I'm not spinning it out. I'm talking sense, and I'll come
to the point in a minute. I won't keep you in suspense. Stay, how does it
go?"

He raised his head, thought a minute, and began with enthusiasm:

    "Wild and fearful in his cavern
     Hid the naked troglodyte,
     And the homeless nomad wandered
     Laying waste the fertile plain.
     Menacing with spear and arrow
     In the woods the hunter strayed....
     Woe to all poor wretches stranded
     On those cruel and hostile shores!

    "From the peak of high Olympus
     Came the mother Ceres down,
     Seeking in those savage regions
     Her lost daughter Proserpine.
     But the Goddess found no refuge,
     Found no kindly welcome there,
     And no temple bearing witness
     To the worship of the gods.

    "From the fields and from the vineyards
     Came no fruits to deck the feasts,
     Only flesh of bloodstained victims
     Smoldered on the altar-fires,
     And where'er the grieving goddess
     Turns her melancholy gaze,
     Sunk in vilest degradation
     Man his loathsomeness displays."

Mitya broke into sobs and seized Alyosha's hand.

"My dear, my dear, in degradation, in degradation now, too. There's a
terrible amount of suffering for man on earth, a terrible lot of trouble.
Don't think I'm only a brute in an officer's uniform, wallowing in dirt
and drink. I hardly think of anything but of that degraded man--if only I'm
not lying. I pray God I'm not lying and showing off. I think about that
man because I am that man myself.

    Would he purge his soul from vileness
    And attain to light and worth,
    He must turn and cling for ever
    To his ancient Mother Earth.

But the difficulty is how am I to cling for ever to Mother Earth. I don't
kiss her. I don't cleave to her bosom. Am I to become a peasant or a
shepherd? I go on and I don't know whether I'm going to shame or to light
and joy. That's the trouble, for everything in the world is a riddle! And
whenever I've happened to sink into the vilest degradation (and it's
always been happening) I always read that poem about Ceres and man. Has it
reformed me? Never! For I'm a Karamazov. For when I do leap into the pit,
I go headlong with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that
degrading attitude, and pride myself upon it. And in the very depths of
that degradation I begin a hymn of praise. Let me be accursed. Let me be
vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is
shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I
love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand.

    Joy everlasting fostereth
    The soul of all creation,
    It is her secret ferment fires
    The cup of life with flame.
    'Tis at her beck the grass hath turned
    Each blade towards the light
    And solar systems have evolved
    From chaos and dark night,
    Filling the realms of boundless space
    Beyond the sage's sight.
    At bounteous Nature's kindly breast,
    All things that breathe drink Joy,
    And birds and beasts and creeping things
    All follow where She leads.
    Her gifts to man are friends in need,
    The wreath, the foaming must,
    To angels--vision of God's throne,
    To insects--sensual lust.

But enough poetry! I am in tears; let me cry. It may be foolishness that
every one would laugh at. But you won't laugh. Your eyes are shining, too.
Enough poetry. I want to tell you now about the insects to whom God gave
"sensual lust."

    To insects--sensual lust.

I am that insect, brother, and it is said of me specially. All we
Karamazovs are such insects, and, angel as you are, that insect lives in
you, too, and will stir up a tempest in your blood. Tempests, because
sensual lust is a tempest--worse than a tempest! Beauty is a terrible and
awful thing! It is terrible because it has not been fathomed and never can
be fathomed, for God sets us nothing but riddles. Here the boundaries meet
and all contradictions exist side by side. I am not a cultivated man,
brother, but I've thought a lot about this. It's terrible what mysteries
there are! Too many riddles weigh men down on earth. We must solve them as
we can, and try to keep a dry skin in the water. Beauty! I can't endure
the thought that a man of lofty mind and heart begins with the ideal of
the Madonna and ends with the ideal of Sodom. What's still more awful is
that a man with the ideal of Sodom in his soul does not renounce the ideal
of the Madonna, and his heart may be on fire with that ideal, genuinely on
fire, just as in his days of youth and innocence. Yes, man is broad, too
broad, indeed. I'd have him narrower. The devil only knows what to make of
it! What to the mind is shameful is beauty and nothing else to the heart.
Is there beauty in Sodom? Believe me, that for the immense mass of mankind
beauty is found in Sodom. Did you know that secret? The awful thing is
that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are
fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man. But a man always
talks of his own ache. Listen, now to come to facts."

Alyosha decides to take a shortcut over to Katerina Ivanovna's even though she intimidates him. To get to Katerina's, he has to cut through his father's neighbors' garden. These neighbors are an old woman and her daughter, a former chambermaid used to working in grand homes. As Alyosha gets to the garden, he's astonished to see his brother Dmitri inside. Dmitri waves him over. Alyosha asks him why he's whispering, and Dmitri shouts out that he's got a secret. But Dmitri's voice quickly goes down to a whisper again as he asks Alyosha to follow him to a gazebo in the center of the garden. In the gazebo, Alyosha notices that Dmitri has been hitting the cognac pretty hard. Dmitri starts to ramble, spouting off a mixture of German and Russian poetry and proclaiming himself to be the lowest, basest sensualist - as only a Karamazov could be.

The Confession of an Ardent Heart. In Verse Alyosha leaves the monastery, as he has been ordered to do by both Zosima and his father. A wealthy gentlewoman friend of the Karamazovs, Madame Khokhlakov, has given Alyosha a note from Katerina, Dmitri's abandoned fiancee, asking him to visit her. Somewhat nervous about the prospect, Alyosha sets off for Katerina's house before returning to his father's. Alyosha assumes that he will not see Ivan or Dmitri at Katerina's house, though he thinks he would like to talk to Dmitri before he sees Katerina. Taking a shortcut to Katerina's house, he is surprised by Dmitri, who intercepts him on the path