The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  ‘I really don’t know why you’re so upset,’ Fyodor Pavlovich observed mockingly. ‘Is it your sins that are troubling you? They say he can tell by your eyes what you’ve been up to. But I’m surprised that a progressive man like you, a Parisian, should value his opinion so highly, really I am!’

  But Miusov had no time to reply to this sarcasm; they were bidden to enter. He experienced a sense of irritation as he went in…

  ‘Well, I know what’s going to happen,’ the thought flashed through his mind, ‘I’m annoyed, I’ll start an argument… I’ll get excited—and disgrace myself and everything I stand for.’

  2

  THE OLD BUFFOON

  THEY entered the room at almost the same time as Starets Zosima, who emerged from his tiny bedroom as soon as they made their appearance. Two hieromonks* attached to the hermitage were already waiting in the cell for the starets: one was the father librarian and the other was Father Païsy, a sick man, though not old, who was said to be a great scholar. Besides these two, there stood in a corner, where he remained throughout, a youth of about twenty-two wearing a layman’s frock-coat, a seminarian and student theologian, who for some reason enjoyed the patronage of the monastery and the monks. He was rather tall, with a fresh complexion, high cheek-bones, and intelligent, alert, narrow, light-brown eyes. His expression was one of total deference, but dignified and unobsequious; being in statu pupillari* and socially inferior to the visitors, he did not even presume to bow as they entered.

  Starets Zosima entered accompanied by a novice and Alyosha. The two hieromonks rose and greeted him with a deep bow, their fingers touching the floor, and then, after being blessed, kissed his hand. After blessing them, the starets responded to each in turn with an equally deep bow, also touching the floor with his fingers, and asking for a blessing from each of them. The whole ceremony was conducted with the utmost solemnity, sincerity even, and not at all in a perfunctory manner, like a commonplace rite. To Miusov, however, it all appeared to be done for sheer effect. On entering, he found himself standing at the head of the visiting party. Strictly speaking, he should, out of common courtesy—never mind all his ideas—have approached the starets, as was the custom there, and received his blessing, even if he did not kiss his hand (as a matter of fact, he had pondered the matter the night before and was of a mind to do just that). But on seeing the two hieromonks perform all this bowing and kissing of hands, he reversed his decision instantly, made a dignified, restrained bow, as was customary in society, and withdrew to a chair. Fyodor Pavlovich did exactly the same, imitating Miusov like a monkey. Ivan Fyodorovich, though also keeping his arms at his sides, bowed in a very polite and dignified manner, whereas Kalganov was so embarrassed that he did not even bow at all. The starets made as if to deliver his blessing, but lowered his arm prematurely and, bowing to them all once more, bade them be seated. Blood rushed to Alyosha’s cheeks; he was ashamed. His worst premonitions were coming true.

  The starets sat on a very old-fashioned leather-covered mahogany settee, and motioned all four visitors, except the two hieromonks, to a row of four mahogany chairs with extremely worn black leather seats, ranged along the wall opposite. The hieromonks sat on either side of the guests, one by the door, the other by the window. The seminarian, Alyosha, and the novice remained standing. The cell was not very spacious and was of a drab appearance. The furniture and everything in it was of coarse workmanship and poor quality, and limited to bare essentials. There were two flower-pots on the window-sill and a number of icons in one corner, including a very large one of the Mother of God, probably painted long before the Schism.* In front of it burned an icon-lamp; nearby were two other icons in shining rizas,* and carved cherubim, porcelain eggs, an ivory Catholic crucifix in the embrace of a Mater Dolorosa, and some foreign engravings of the great Italian masters of the past. In addition to these exquisite and expensive engravings there were several of the most popular kind of Russian lithographs of saints, martyrs, and holy men, such as can be bought for a few kopecks at any fair. On the walls were some lithographs of contemporary and former patriarchs. Miusov glanced quickly at all this ecclesiastical bric-à-brac and fixed his gaze on the starets. He prided himself on his ability to judge by appearances, a pardonable weakness in one who was already fifty—an age when an intelligent, well-to-do man of the world always starts to take himself seriously, sometimes even against his better judgement.

  He took an instant dislike to the starets. And indeed, there was something about the face of the starets that could have aroused dislike in others besides Miusov. He was a short, bent-backed little man, very unsteady on his legs, and although no more than sixty-five years of age seemed at least ten years older because of illness. His whole face was wizened and creased with wrinkles, especially around the eyes. Those eyes were small, pale-coloured, darting and shining, like two shining points of light. Grey wisps around the temples were all that was left of his hair, his tiny, wedge-shaped beard was thin and sparse, and his lips, which often puckered into a smile, were as thin as two pieces of string. His nose was not so much long as sharp and beak-like.

  ‘By all appearances, a nasty, petty, stuck-up little man,’ was the thought that flashed through Miusov’s mind. He was altogether in a very querulous mood.

  The small, cheap, pendulum wall-clock struck twelve in rapid succession, which served to break the ice. ‘Dead on the appointed hour,’ exclaimed Fyodor Pavlovich, ‘but still no sign of my son Dmitry Fyodorovich. I apologize for him, blessed starets!’ (Alyosha shuddered from head to toe at ‘blessed starets’.) ‘Myself, I’m always punctual to the minute, seeing that punctuality is the politeness of kings…’*

  ‘But then, you’re no king, are you?’ muttered Miusov, already unable to contain himself at the very start of proceedings.

  ‘No, exactly, I’m not a king. And for your information, Pyotr Aleksandrovich, I’m quite well aware of that myself, God’s truth. There I go, saying the wrong thing again! Your Reverence!’ he exclaimed with a sudden flight of fancy, ‘You see before you a clown, a veritable clown! Thus I present myself to you. An old habit, alas! And if I say the wrong thing and speak untruths occasionally, it’s all done deliberately, in order to raise a smile, to be nice to people. You’ve got to be nice, haven’t you? About seven years ago I found myself in some God-forsaken hole of a town, on some petty matter or other—setting up a company with a bunch of merchants. Off we went to see the chief of police, the local ispravnik,* to make some enquiries and to invite him to have dinner with us. Out comes the ispravnik, a tall, fat, fair-haired, morose fellow—they’re the most dangerous type in my opinion, it’s their livers that let them down. Straight up to him I went, with all the confidence of a man of the world. “Mister Ispravnik,” I said to him, “you wouldn’t care, as it were, to be our Napravnik,* would you?” “What do you mean, ‘Napravnik’?” he says. I could see from the very first instant that our business had got off on the wrong foot; he stood there, all serious and stubborn. “No hard feelings, I was only trying to make a joke, just to amuse the company. I was only thinking of Mr Napravnik, our famous Russian conductor, and seeing as we need, so to speak, a conductor to ensure the harmony of our undertaking…” You’d say that was a reasonable explanation and a suitable metaphor, wouldn’t you? “I beg your pardon,” he says, “I’m the ispravnik here and I don’t care much for people who make puns on my profession.” And he turned round and stalked off. I went after him, calling out, “Yes, of course, you’re the ispravnik, and not Napravnik!” “No,” he says, “seeing as you’ve called me that, there’s nothing for it, I am Napravnik.” And would you believe it, our deal never got off the ground! I’m always getting up to things like that, always. I’m my own worst enemy, what with my gentlemanly approach! For instance, many years ago I said to a rather influential person, “Your wife’s a ticklish woman.” I was referring to his wife’s sense of honour, her high moral qualities, you understand, but he immediately retorted, “Have you been tickling her?” I cou
ldn’t stop myself; I suddenly thought: why not be gentlemanly? “Yes sir, I have!” My word, what a tickling he gave me…! The only reason I’m not ashamed to tell the story now is that it all happened so damn long ago; I’m my own worst enemy.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ Miusov muttered in disgust.

  The starets scrutinized each in turn without a word.

  ‘Quite so!’ said Fyodor Pavlovich. ‘As a matter of fact, that didn’t escape me either, Pyotr Aleksandrovich, and, you know, I realized beforehand from the moment I started to speak that that’s what would happen, and, think of it, I even anticipated that you’d be the first to point it out to me. During those first moments when I realize that my joke is going to fall flat, my tongue, Your Reverence, begins to stick to my cheek as though I was having a blockage; it goes back to my young days, when I lived with the gentry and learnt to survive by scrounging off them. I’m an out-and-out clown, have been since birth, a buffoon if ever there was one, Your Reverence; quite likely I’ve got the devil in me too,* one of those small-calibre ones, you know, a more important one would have picked a different abode—not you though, Pyotr Aleksandrovich, you’re certainly not much of an abode. But then, I’m a believer, I believe in God. Never had any doubts except recently, but now I’m ready to imbibe your great words of wisdom. I’m like the philosopher Diderot,* Your Reverence. Do you know, Reverend Father, what happened when Diderot, the philosopher, paid a visit to Archbishop Platon* during the time of the Empress Catherine? He went up to him and blurted out, “There is no God!” Whereupon the great patriarch raised his finger and replied, “The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God.”* Diderot at once fell to the ground at his feet. “I believe,” he cried out, “and let me be baptized.”* He was baptized on the spot. Princess Dashkova* was godmother and Field Marshal Potemkin* godfather.’

  ‘Fyodor Pavlovich, this is beyond a joke!’ said Miusov in a quivering voice, totally unable to control himself. ‘Why do you go on so? You know very well you’re lying and that silly story isn’t true.’

  ‘Funny thing, that’s just what I suspected all my life!’ exclaimed Fyodor Pavlovich with elation. ‘But now, gentlemen, let me tell you the whole truth. Reverend starets, forgive that last bit about Diderot’s baptism, I made it up myself just now, even as I was telling it to you, it had never entered my head before. I made it up just to please you. I carry on like that, Pyotr Aleksandrovich, so that people’ll like me all the more. But then sometimes I don’t know myself why I do it. As for Diderot, I must have heard those words “The fool hath said in his heart” scores of times from the landowners of these parts when I was a youngster rubbing shoulders with them, and, incidentally, Pyotr Aleksandrovich, I heard it from your aunt too, from your aunt, Mavra Fominishna. They’re all convinced to this day that the infidel Diderot went to the Metropolitan Platon to argue about God…’

  Miusov rose to his feet; he was beside himself, his patience completely exhausted. He was in a fury and realized that he too appeared ridiculous. And in fact, what was unfolding in the cell was quite unbelievable. Visitors had assembled in this cell for the past forty, perhaps fifty years in the times of previous startsy, but always in a spirit of deepest reverence, never otherwise. Almost all who were admitted to the cell were conscious of being accorded a great privilege. Many would go down on their knees and not stand up again for the duration of the entire audience. Even the highest in the land, many of the most learned, even some freethinkers, who came either out of curiosity or for some other reason, on entering the cell either in a group or for a private audience, all to a man felt an overriding obligation to show the most profound respect and tact during their entire visit, and all the more so since money had no place here, but only love and kindness on the one hand, or repentance and a longing to resolve some profound spiritual problem or come to terms with a critical moment in the life of the soul on the other hand. Hence the buffoonery suddenly exhibited by Fyodor Pavlovich, in total disrespect of his surroundings, provoked consternation and dismay in those who witnessed it, or at least in some of them. The two hieromonks, their features quite impassive, regarded the starets with rapt attention as they awaited his response, though they, too, must have been on the point of rising to their feet as Miusov had just done. Alyosha was on the verge of tears and stood with bowed head. What astounded him most of all was that his brother Ivan Fyodorovich, the only person on whom he felt able to rely and who alone had sufficient influence over their father to be able to restrain him, remained seated, quite motionless, on his chair, his eyes lowered, apparently waiting with a kind of eager curiosity to see how it would all end, as though he himself were a mere spectator here. Neither could Alyosha look at Rakitin, the seminarian, whom he knew well and with whom he was on almost intimate terms; Alyosha knew Rakitin’s thoughts, and he was the only one in the whole monastery who did.

  ‘Forgive me…’, Miusov began, turning to the starets, ‘if I too appear to be participating in this disgraceful charade. My mistake lay in believing that even a man like Fyodor Pavlovich would realize his obligations when visiting so revered a person… I never imagined that I should have to make an apology just for coming with him…’

  Pyotr Aleksandrovich broke off and, in acute embarrassment, was on the point of leaving the room.

  ‘Please do not distress yourself.’ The starets stood up shakily on his feeble legs and, taking Pyotr Aleksandrovich by both hands, led him back to his seat. ‘Please be at peace. You are my guest here,’ and with a bow he turned and sat down again on his settee.

  ‘Noble starets, tell me, are my high spirits offensive to you or not?’ Fyodor Pavlovich suddenly exclaimed, gripping the arms of his chair with both hands and appearing ready to leap out of it, depending upon the reply.

  ‘I sincerely beg you too not to be distressed and not to be embarrassed,’ the starets replied reassuringly. ‘You must feel completely at ease. Above all, do not be so ashamed of yourself, because that is the root of your trouble.’

  ‘Feel completely at ease! You mean, be my natural self! Oh, that’s too much, that’s too much to expect, but—I accept, deeply touched! You know, holy father, I’d rather you didn’t ask me to be my natural self, you shouldn’t take such a risk… I wouldn’t go so far myself. I’m saying this for your own protection, to warn you. Well, sir, as to what’s going to happen, that’s all still shrouded in mystery, though there are some who would dearly like to see me discredited. That’s right, Pyotr Aleksandrovich, you’re the one I mean, but as for you, holiest of beings—to you I will pour out my heart in ecstasy.’ He rose to his feet and, lifting up his arms, pronounced: ‘Blessed is the womb that bare thee, and the paps which gave thee suck*—especially the paps! You said just now, “Don’t be so ashamed of yourself, because that’s the root of your trouble”—with those words, you seem to have reached right into my innermost soul. What I mean is, when I visit people, I always feel that I’m really the lowest of the low, that everybody takes me for a buffoon, so I say to myself, why shouldn’t I act the fool, I’m not afraid of what any of you might think, because every single one of you is even worse than me. That’s why I’m a buffoon, I’m a buffoon born of shame, great starets, of shame. It’s anxiety pure and simple that makes me so unruly. Now, if only I could be sure when I’m in company that everyone would immediately take me for the kindest and cleverest of men—Lord, what a good man I would then turn out to be! Master!,’ and he suddenly fell to his knees, ‘what shall I do that I may inherit eternal life?’* Even now it was difficult to tell whether he was speaking in jest or whether he really was moved.

  The starets looked up and said with a smile, ‘You yourself have long known what to do, you are intelligent enough; do not indulge in drunkenness and verbal intemperance, do not indulge in sensual excess, beware especially of worshipping money, and close your taverns—if not all of them, then at least two or three. But, first and foremost—do not lie.’

  ‘You mean, what I said about Diderot?’

  ‘N
o, I do not. The important thing is not to lie to yourself. He who lies to himself and listens to his own lies reaches a state in which he no longer recognizes truth either in himself or in others, and so he ceases to respect both himself and others. Having ceased to respect everyone, he stops loving, and then, in the absence of love, in order to occupy and divert himself, he abandons himself to passions and the gratification of coarse pleasures until his vices bring him down to the level of bestiality, and all on account of his being constantly false both to himself and to others. He who is false to himself is also the most likely to feel offended. After all, it is sometimes very gratifying to feel offended, is it not? A man may be perfectly well aware that no one has offended him, that he has imagined it all and put about a lie just for the sake of it, blown it out of all proportion so as to attract attention, deliberately picked on a word and made a mountain out of a molehill—he may very well realize all this, and yet be the very first to take offence, to the point of deriving enjoyment and pleasure from it, and so fall into a state of real animosity… Please get up off your knees and sit down, I beg you, these are all such false gestures…’

  ‘Blessed father! Let me kiss your hand.’ Fyodor Pavlovich rapidly approached the starets and planted a brief kiss on his emaciated hand. ‘Exactly, just so, it is gratifying to take offence. You’ve expressed it better than I ever heard it before. Exactly, all my life I’ve been taking offence and enjoying it, taking aesthetic pleasure from it, because it isn’t only gratifying, at times it can be sheer joy to be offended—that’s what you’ve forgotten, Most Reverend Father, sheer joy! I’ll write that down! And I have been lying, I’ve been lying all my life long, every day, every hour. Verily, I am a liar, the father of lies!* No, perhaps it isn’t “father” of lies—I’m getting my texts muddled—perhaps just the son of lies, that’ll have to do… Only… merciful one… surely it’s all right to mention Diderot from time to time? Diderot can’t do any harm, unlike some other stories. Gracious father, now we’re talking about it, and before I forget, seeing as I’ve meant to ask about it these past three years, yes, to come here specially to ask and find out, only for heaven’s sake don’t let Pyotr Aleksandrovich interrupt me. Well, this is what I wanted to ask: is it true, great father, what is recounted in the Chety-Miney* about a holy miracle-worker* who was tortured for his faith, and when in the end they struck off his head, he rose, picked up his own head and, “kissing it lovingly”, kept on walking for a good while, carrying it in his hands and “kissing it lovingly”? Is that true or not, Reverend Father?’