The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  The lady was weeping.

  ‘Please bless my Lise, please bless her!’ she said with a start.

  ‘She doesn’t deserve to be loved. I saw her playing the fool all the while I was speaking,’ the starets said teasingly. ‘Why have you been giggling at Aleksei all the time?’

  Lise really had been giggling at him. She had been aware ever since their last meeting that Alyosha was embarrassed by her and was trying not to look at her, and this had begun to amuse her no end. She had been trying hard to catch his eye. Unable to withstand her steadfast gaze, which attracted him like an irresistible force, Alyosha would suddenly weaken and look up at her, and encounter her beaming, triumphant smile. This would embarrass and irritate him even more. At last he turned away from her completely and hid himself behind the starets. After a few minutes, drawn by the same irresistible force, he again turned round to see if she was still looking at him, and caught sight of her leaning almost completely out of her invalid chair as she peered round at him, willing him with all her might to look at her. When she caught his eye, she burst into such a fit of laughter that even the starets could not resist remarking:

  ‘Why are you embarrassing him so, you naughty young lady?’

  Quite unexpectedly, Lise suddenly blushed, her eyes flashed, her face became deadly serious, and, her voice quivering with indignation and recrimination, she exclaimed:

  ‘Why has he forgotten everything? He used to carry me in his arms when I was small, we used to play together. He used to give me reading lessons, do you realize that? Two years ago, when he was saying goodbye to me, he said he’d never forget that we’d be friends for ever and ever! And now he’s suddenly afraid of me, as though I was going to eat him or something! Why doesn’t he ever come near me, why doesn’t he talk to me? Why doesn’t he ever come to see us? Surely you don’t stop him, do you? We know very well he goes everywhere. It wouldn’t be proper for me to invite him; he ought to act on his own initiative, unless he just doesn’t want to know. Oh, I suppose he’s a monk now! Why have you dressed him in that flapping cassock?… If he runs he’ll trip over it…’

  And suddenly, unable to bear it any longer, she covered her face with her hands and was convulsed with laughter, terrible, uncontrollable, protracted, hysterical, silent laughter that made her shake all over. The starets listened to her with a smile and then blessed her tenderly. But when she started to kiss his hand, she suddenly pressed it to her eyes and burst out crying.

  ‘Don’t be angry with me, I’m such a fool, I’m worthless… and perhaps Alyosha is right after all, quite right not to want to come and see someone who’s so ridiculous.’

  ‘I shall make sure he visits you,’ the starets promised.

  5

  AMEN, AMEN!

  THE starets was absent from the cell for about twenty-five minutes. It had already gone half past twelve, but still there was no sign of Dmitry Fyodorovich, on whose account everybody had assembled. It looked almost as though they had forgotten about him, and when the starets returned to the cell, he found his guests engaged in the liveliest of conversations. Ivan Fyodorovich and the two hieromonks dominated the conversation. Miusov kept on trying to join in, clearly very agitated, but once again he was out of luck; he was obviously being ignored, and the others hardly even bothered to reply to him, which only served to exacerbate his increasing irritation. He had in fact crossed swords with Ivan Fyodorovich before on learned matters, and had found his supercilious attitude intolerable. ‘At least I’ve kept abreast of all the latest developments in Europe up to now, but this new generation completely ignores us,’ he thought to himself. Fyodor Pavlovich, who had promised to remain seated and keep quiet, did indeed stay silent for some time, although he went on looking at Pyotr Aleksandrovich with a derisive smile, and appeared to be enjoying the spectacle of his discomfiture. He had been intending to settle old scores with him for some time and did not want to miss the opportunity now. Finally, unable to resist, he leaned towards his neighbour and, in a low voice, had another go at him:

  ‘Why didn’t you leave just now, after I said “kissing it lovingly”? Why did you agree to stay in such disreputable company? I’ll tell you why, you felt insulted and hurt to the quick, so you stayed behind to get your own back by showing off your intelligence. Now you’re definitely not going to leave until you’ve demonstrated your intelligence to them.’

  ‘Don’t you start again! You’re quite wrong, I’m leaving now.’

  ‘You’ll be the last, the very last to leave!’ Fyodor Pavlovich goaded him. Just at that moment the starets returned.

  The argument subsided briefly, but the starets, having resumed his seat, looked round at his visitors amicably as though inviting them to continue. Alyosha, who was familiar with every expression on the starets’s face, could see plainly that he was desperately tired but was trying not to show it. Lately during his sickness he had been suffering from fainting fits due to exhaustion. A pallor such as usually preceded a fainting fit now spread over his face and his lips turned white. But he evidently did not wish to break up the gathering, probably for some special reason—but what? Alyosha watched him intently.

  ‘We are discussing this gentleman’s very interesting article,’ said Father Yosif, the librarian, turning to the starets and motioning to Ivan Fyodorovich. ‘It contains many new ideas, but I think the main idea could be interpreted in two ways. It’s an article on the question of ecclesiastical courts and the limits of their jurisdiction, written in reply to a member of the clergy who wrote a whole book on the subject…’

  ‘Unfortunately I’ve not read your article, but I’ve heard about it,’ the starets interrupted, looking at Ivan Fyodorovich with a sharp, penetrating gaze.

  ‘It is written from a very interesting standpoint,’ continued the librarian. ‘It would seem that he completely rejects the separation of Church and state as far as the ecclesiastical courts are concerned.’

  ‘That is very interesting, but in what sense do you mean?’ the starets asked Ivan Fyodorovich.

  After a brief pause the latter replied, not with an air of supercilious politeness as Alyosha had previously feared, but modestly and discreetly, with an obviously obliging air and clearly without any ulterior motive.

  ‘I start from the proposition that this mingling of elements, that is, of the essence of Church and state, taken separately, may very well go on for ever, in spite of the fact that it’s impossible and cannot be brought into any normal, let alone reconcilable relationship, because it’s based on a fallacy. To my mind a compromise between Church and state in such matters as, for instance, administration of the law is, in the very essence and nature of things, quite impossible. The churchman with whom I took issue maintains that the Church occupies a precisely defined position within the state. However, I argued that, on the contrary, the Church should incorporate the whole of the state within itself rather than occupy a mere niche within it, and that if this is not possible at present for some reason, it should undoubtedly be made the principal and most urgent task throughout the future development of Christian society.’

  ‘Quite correct!’ the taciturn and learned Father Païsy remarked with terse authority.

  ‘That’s purest ultramontanism!’ exclaimed Miusov, impatiently crossing one leg over the other.

  ‘But we haven’t got any mountains here!’ retorted Father Yosif, and, turning to the starets, continued: ‘Anyway, the gentleman replies as follows to the “basic and essential” tenets of his opponent, a churchman, mark you: firstly, that no social institution can or should assume the power to administer the civil or political rights of its members; secondly, that the power of the criminal and civil law should not be vested in the Church, for such power is incompatible with the very nature of the Church, both as a divine institution and as a community of people pursuing religious goals; and thirdly and finally, that the Church is a kingdom not of this world…’

  ‘Playing with words,’ Father Païsy again interrupted, unable t
o contain himself. ‘Most unworthy of a member of the clergy. I have read the book with which you take issue,’ he said, turning to Ivan Fyodorovich, ‘and am astounded that a churchman could claim that “the Church is a kingdom not of this world”. If it is not of this world,* then it follows that there is no room for it on earth at all. In the Holy Scriptures the words “not of this world” are used in a different sense. One ought not to juggle with such words. Our Lord Jesus Christ came specifically to establish the Church on earth. The Kingdom of Heaven is, of course, not on earth, but in heaven, which cannot be entered except through the Church which has been founded and established on earth. Therefore, worldly play on words here is inadmissible and unworthy. The Church truly is a kingdom, and is destined to reign, and in the end will without doubt be established upon the whole earth as a kingdom, for so it has been promised…’*

  He suddenly checked himself and stopped dead. Ivan Fyodorovich, having respectfully and attentively heard him out, continued to address the starets with extreme composure but as eagerly and ingenuously as before.

  ‘The main argument of my article is that in ancient times, during the first three centuries of the Christian era, Christianity on earth was the Church and nothing but the Church. When, however, the pagan Roman state chose to embrace Christianity,* it inevitably happened that, on becoming Christian, it merely absorbed the Church into itself, while remaining in very many respects a pagan state. Indeed, that is the only thing that could have happened. But too much of the pagan civilization and wisdom had been retained in the state of Rome, such as, for instance, the very aims and foundations of the state. The Church of Christ, having joined with the state, obviously could not relinquish any of its principles however, or any of the rocks on which it stood, nor could it pursue any other goals except its own, which had been firmly established and revealed by Our Lord Himself, namely, the transformation of the whole world, including the whole of the ancient pagan state, into the Church. Thus (looking ahead to the future) it is not the Church that must seek a well-defined place within the state, just like “any other social institution” or “association of people pursuing religious aims” (as the Church is described by the author with whom I am in dispute), but, on the contrary, all states on earth must eventually transform themselves wholly into the Church and nothing but the Church, having first renounced all aims that are incompatible with those of the Church. This would in no way demean the state, in no way detract from its honour or glory as a great power, nor from the glory of its leaders, but would merely lead it from its false, pagan, and erroneous path to the correct and true path, which alone leads to eternal goals. This is why the author of The Principles of the Ecclesiastical Court would have judged correctly if, while investigating and putting forward these principles, he had regarded them as a temporary and unavoidable compromise necessary in our sinful and imperfect times, and nothing more. But the moment the author of these principles presumes to declare that the theses he is now advancing, some of which Father Yosif has just enumerated, are immutable, elemental, and eternal, then he is in direct conflict with the Church and its holy, eternal, and immutable destiny. There you have my article in a nutshell.’

  ‘In short,’ said Father Païsy, stressing every word, ‘according to some theories which have gained altogether too much currency in this nineteenth century of ours, the Church must be transformed into the state, from a lower into a higher order, as it were, be subsumed into it, making way for science, the spirit of the age, and civilization. Should it be unwilling to do this however, should it resist, it will become a mere appendage of the state, and, what’s more, under its supervision—and this is how it is nowadays in all modern European countries. According to the Russian way of thinking,* however, it is not for the Church to be transformed into the state, as from a lower to a higher order, but, on the contrary, the state must eventually make itself worthy of becoming the Church and nothing but the Church. Amen, amen!’

  ‘Well, sir, I must admit you have rather gladdened my heart,’ Miusov said with a smile, recrossing his legs. ‘As I understand it, it is a question of realizing some kind of ideal in the infinitely distant future, at the Second Coming perhaps. I suppose you know best. A splendid utopian dream of no more wars, diplomats, banks, and so forth. Sounds remarkably like socialism. And there was I thinking that you were in earnest and that the Church would now, for instance, sit in judgement on criminals and sentence them to the birch and hard labour, and, come to that, to death.’

  ‘Well, even if there were only ecclesiastical courts nowadays,’ said Ivan Fyodorovich calmly and without batting an eyelid, ‘even then the Church would not be sentencing people to hard labour or death. Crime and people’s attitudes to it would undoubtedly have had time to change by then, little by little, of course—not suddenly and immediately—but soon enough…’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Miusov looked hard at him.

  ‘If the Church were to take over everything, then, rather than strike off their heads, it would excommunicate the guilty and the disobedient,’ continued Ivan Fyodorovich. ‘Where would the excommunicated criminal go, I ask you? Just think, he would have to leave not only his people, as now, but he would have to leave Christ. By his crime, he would have rebelled not only against men, but against Christ’s Church. Strictly speaking, of course, this is how it is now, too, though it is not spelled out, and the modern criminal is very often able to come to an accommodation with his own conscience: “All right, so I’ve committed theft, but I’m not attacking the Church. I’m not an enemy of Christ.” That’s what the present-day criminal keeps saying to himself, but were the Church to take the place of the state, he’d find it difficult to say that without defying the whole Church throughout the world. “Everybody is mistaken,” he would then have to say, “everybody is in error, the whole Church is false. I alone, murderer and thief, am the true Christian Church.” That would be very difficult for anyone to say to himself; it would require extraordinary conditions and circumstances which seldom obtain. Now, conversely, take the attitude of the Church itself to crime: would it not have to change its present, almost pagan attitude, and rather than technically sever the diseased limb, as is done nowadays for the protection of society, transform itself totally and truly in order to strive for the regeneration of man, for his resurrection and salvation…?’

  ‘What’s all this? You’ve lost me again,’ interrupted Miusov. ‘Is this another of your dreams? It doesn’t make sense, I don’t follow you. What do you mean—excommunication? What excommunication? I suspect you’re just making fun of us, Ivan Fyodorovich.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, that’s just how it is nowadays.’ The starets suddenly spoke, and everyone turned to him. ‘If the Church of Christ did not exist now, there would be nothing to deter the criminal from evil, nor would there even be any punishment later, genuine punishment, that is, as opposed to the technical kind that has just been mentioned, and which in the majority of cases only embitters the heart, whereas real punishment, the only kind that is effective, the only kind that deters and reconciles, is that which is conveyed through the awareness of conscience.’

  ‘Well, I never, please explain!’ said Miusov, full of the most lively curiosity.

  ‘It is like this,’ the starets began. ‘All this sentencing to hard labour, and in the past flogging too, has reformed no one, and, what’s more, it has done little to deter the criminal, and the number of crimes has not only not decreased, but with the passage of time even continues to increase. Surely you must agree with this. Hence it turns out that society is not protected at all, for even though the criminal element may be technically outlawed and exiled somewhere far out of sight, his place is immediately filled by another criminal, perhaps even two. If there is anything, even in our time, that can protect society and reform the criminal, make a new person of him, then it is Christ’s law alone, operating through his own conscience. Only by recognizing his own guilt as a son of Christ’s society, that is, of the Church, can the crim
inal recognize his guilt before society itself, that is, before the Church. Thus it is only before the Church, rather than the state, that the modern criminal can recognize his guilt. Now, if passing judgement were the prerogative of society acting as the Church, society would know whom to pardon and restore to the fold. As things stand, however, the Church, not having any actual judicial power and being capable only of passing moral censure, seeks to refrain from actually imposing punishment upon the criminal. It does not excommunicate him, but nor does it withhold wise counsel. Furthermore, the Church even attempts to preserve its full pastoral role with respect to the criminal; it allows him to attend Church services, to receive Holy Communion, gives him alms, and treats him more as a victim than an offender. And now, what would happen to the criminal if, God forbid, Christian society too, that is, the Church, were to reject him as the law of the state rejects him and cuts him off? What would happen if, after punishment by the law of the state, the Church were immediately to inflict its own punishment of excommunication? There could be no greater despair, at least for the Russian criminal, because Russian criminals are still believers. Who knows, perhaps something terrible would then ensue—perhaps the despairing criminal would suffer a loss of faith. What then? But the Church, like a gentle and loving mother, shrinks from actual punishment, believing that the wrongdoer is sufficiently chastised by the law of the state alone, and that someone at least ought to take pity on him. The main reason that it shrinks from actual punishment, however, is that the judgement of the Church is the only one to incorporate truth, and therefore it cannot in substance or in spirit coexist with any other judgement, even as a temporary expedient. There can be no question of striking any bargains here. The foreign criminal, they say, seldom repents, because all the most modern teachings confirm him in the belief that his crime is not a crime, but merely a rebellion against the injustice of an oppressive force. Society cuts him off from itself in a triumph of temporal power over him, and compounds the severance with hatred (at least, that is what they proclaim in Europe)—with hatred, being totally indifferent to and oblivious of his subsequent fate as a fellow human being. Thus everything takes place without the slightest sympathy from the Church, because in many places now there is no Church at all, only churchmen and splendid church buildings, the Church itself having long striven to make the transition from the lower ecclesiastical order to the higher temporal order, in order to be absorbed completely into the state. This would appear to be the case in the Lutheran countries, anyway. As for Rome, it was pronounced a state* instead of a Church a thousand years ago. Therefore the criminal no longer considers himself a member of the Church, and when he is excommunicated he falls into despair. Should he return to society, however, then he is often so bitter that he cuts himself off from it. What the outcome of this will be, you may judge for yourselves. In many respects it would seem that the same applies to our country too, but the point is that, besides the established civil courts, we also have above all the Church, which never loses touch with the criminal, who is still a dear and precious son, and the important thing is that the judgement of the Church exists and is maintained, if only in thought; the Church does not actually punish at present, but it reserves its judgement as a vision for the future, and the criminal instinctively recognizes this. What was said here a moment ago is perfectly true; if the judgement of the Church really were to be established in all its power, that is, if the whole of society were to become the Church, then not only would the judgement of the Church have a more reforming effect on the criminal than ever before, but indeed crime itself would perhaps be drastically reduced. And in many instances the Church of the future would have a quite different attitude to the criminal and to crime; it would be in a position to return the outcast to the fold, to warn the prospective transgressor and to succour the fallen. Granted,’ the starets smiled, ‘Christian society itself is not yet ready for this, and rests merely on seven righteous men;* but, as they are always sufficient, it stands fast and awaits its total transformation from a more or less pagan society into the one universal and omnipotent Church. And this shall be, this shall be, though it may take to the end of time before it shall come to pass, for this, and only this, is ordained! It is not for you to know the times or the seasons,* for the mystery of the times and the seasons is in the wisdom of God, in His providence and in His love. And what by man’s reckoning may yet be very distant, by God’s preordaining may already be on the eve of its manifestation, even at the doors.* Amen!’