The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  ‘His head?’

  ‘Oh, I’m being disrespectful! Well, too bad if I am. So, what was that performance supposed to mean?’

  ‘I don’t know, Misha.’

  ‘Ah, I knew he wouldn’t explain it to you. Of course, there was nothing out of the ordinary, it seemed to be just the usual holy nonsense. Still, the gesture was quite deliberate. It will get all the sanctimonious hypocrites in town talking, and soon the whole province will want to know: “What was all that performance about?” I think the old man’s really pretty shrewd: he’s smelt a crime in the air. Your family reeks of it.’

  ‘What crime?’

  Rakitin was evidently anxious to have his say.

  ‘Someone’s going to get hurt in your family. It will be something between your brothers and your wealthy father. So, in anticipation of what might happen, Zosima struck the ground with his forehead. Next thing it’ll be: “After all, the holy man predicted it, his prophecy has come true”—some prophecy, just because he struck the ground with his forehead! They’ll say it was a sign, a portent, and heaven knows what else! He’ll be celebrated, he’ll be remembered: he’ll have predicted a crime, they’ll say, identified the criminal. That’s always the way with these holy fools: they insist on making the sign of the cross in front of a tavern and will hurl stones at a church. Just the same with your starets: he drives the righteous away with a stick, and grovels at the feet of a murderer.’

  ‘What crime? What murderer? What are you talking about?’ Both Alyosha and Rakitin stopped dead in their tracks.

  ‘What murderer? As though you didn’t know! I bet it had already occurred to you too. Come to think of it, I’m intrigued: listen, Alyosha, you’re forever telling the truth, even though you always end up sitting on the fence: had it occurred to you, or not? Come now.’

  ‘Yes, it had,’ Alyosha replied softly. Even Rakitin was taken aback.

  ‘What was that? You mean, it really had occurred to you too?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I… I hadn’t exactly thought about it,’ Alyosha mumbled, ‘but when you began to talk about it so strangely just now, it seemed to me that it had already occurred to me.’

  ‘You see, I couldn’t have put it clearer myself, you see? Today you looked at your father and your brother Mitya, and you thought, there’s going to be a crime. So I’m not mistaken after all?’

  ‘Wait, just a minute!’ Alyosha interrupted him in alarm. ‘What makes you say all that?… And anyway, why should you be so concerned, that’s the first thing?’

  ‘Two separate but quite understandable questions. I’ll deal with them in turn. What makes me say all that? I wouldn’t have spoken if I hadn’t suddenly understood your brother Dmitry Fyodorovich today, the way he really is, all of him, through and through. Just one single thing told me immediately all there is to know about him. These wholly honest but all too passionate people have a limit which they mustn’t overstep. If they do… they’re liable to stick a knife in someone, even their own father. And if the father’s a drunken, intemperate libertine who never had the sense to set a limit to anything, neither will know where to draw the line, both will end up rolling headlong into the ditch…’

  ‘No, Misha, no, if it’s only that, you’ve reassured me. It won’t come to that.’

  ‘And why are you shaking all over? Do you know something? He might be an honest man—Mitya, I mean (he’s stupid, but honest)—but he’s a sensualist. That defines the man, that’s him in a nutshell. He’s inherited his debased sensuality from his father. But Alyosha, it’s you who surprise me: how is it you’re still a virgin, you—a Karamazov? You must admit, in your family sensuality is a disease. So there you have the three sensualists stalking one another… knives at the ready. All three of them have bashed their heads together, you might turn out to be the fourth.’

  ‘You’re wrong about that woman. Dmitry… despises her,’ Alyosha exclaimed with a shudder.

  ‘You mean Grushenka? No, my friend, he doesn’t despise her. Seeing as he’s openly swapped his fiancée for her, he doesn’t despise her. Here… here’s something that’s way beyond your understanding at the moment, my friend. Here we have a man who’s fallen in love with beauty, with a woman’s body, or even with just one part of a woman’s body (a sensualist would understand that), and for her sake he’s ready to desert his children, sell his father and mother, sell Russia, sell his motherland down the river: for all his honesty, he’ll go and steal; for all his meekness, he’ll kill; for all his loyalty, he’ll betray. Pushkin, the bard of women’s feet,* glorified feet in poetry; others don’t glorify, but they go weak at the knees at the mere sight of them. But it’s not just feet… Despising doesn’t apply in this case, my dear fellow, even assuming that he did despise Grushenka. He might well despise her and still be unable to tear himself away from her.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Alyosha suddenly blurted out.

  ‘Really? Yes, I suppose you do understand, if you can admit to it so readily,’ Rakitin said with malevolence. ‘You couldn’t help admitting it, it simply tripped off the tongue, isn’t that it? That makes the admission more valuable: that means the subject’s already familiar to you, you’ve thought about it, about the sins of the flesh, I mean. Oh, you virgin! Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth… you’re a saint, I agree, but, docile as you are, the devil only knows what you haven’t thought about already, what goes on inside that head of yours! A virgin, yet the depths you’ve already plumbed! You know, I’ve been observing you for a long time. You’re a Karamazov, you’re a Karamazov through and through—so there must be something in the idea of breeding and natural selection. On your father’s side, you’re a sensualist; on your mother’s, a holy fool. Why are you shaking? Am I not telling the truth? Do you know—Grushenka kept telling me: “Bring him to me (meaning you), I’ll tear that cassock off him.” You should have heard her pleading: “Bring him to me, bring him to me!” Fancy her getting so worked up about you? You know, women are strange, but she takes the biscuit.’

  ‘Give her my regards, tell her I shan’t come,’ Alyosha said with a wry smile. ‘Finish what you were going to say Mikhail, I’ll tell you what I think later.’

  ‘What more is there? Everything’s pretty clear. It’s the same old story, my dear fellow. But if there’s a sensualist in you too, then what about your brother Ivan? He’s a Karamazov. The whole of the Karamazov family problem boils down to this: you’re sensualists, money-grubbers, and holy fools! For some unknown stupid reason your brother Ivan, never mind being an atheist, keeps publishing theological articles as a practical joke, and he’s not at all embarrassed about his shamelessness—that’s your brother Ivan for you. Besides, he’s after his brother Mitya’s fiancée, and he’ll probably get what he wants. And can you imagine, with Mitya’s willingness too, because Mitya’s ready to hand over his fiancée on a plate to Ivan just to be shot of her and run off to Grushenka as quickly as possible. And this without sacrificing any of his honour and integrity—you understand? What do you do with people like that? The devil only knows what to make of you all—the man’s aware of his own depravity, and just wallows in it! And that’s not all: his own father is even now trying to queer his pitch. The old man has gone mad over Grushenka, he slobbers every time he looks at her. Do you know, it was all because of her that he started that row in the cell, all because Miusov dared to call her a dissolute creature. He’s worse than a lovesick tom-cat. She used to be in his pay, helped him in his shady business deals and in his drinking-dens, but now that she’s really caught his eye he’s head over heels about her and keeps running to her with all sorts of propositions, none of them honourable of course. So father and son are going to collide on that slippery path. And Grushenka won’t choose one or the other; she keeps playing hard to get and teasing both of them, trying to make up her mind which is the better deal, for though there’s lots of money to be extracted from the father, he’s not the marrying kind and in the end he’ll probably turn Jew and become tight-fisted. In
that case, Mitenka’s value goes up; he hasn’t any money, but he’s available. Capable, that is, of abandoning his fiancée, that peerless beauty Katerina Ivanovna, wealthy, noble, a colonel’s daughter, and marrying Grushenka, the former mistress of the head of the town council—old Samsonov, that trumped-up petty merchant and debauched muzhik. All this could easily lead to a clash and end in a crime. And that’s just what your brother Ivan is waiting for, he’ll be over the moon: he’ll have Katerina Ivanovna, whom he’s pining for, and he’ll lay his hands on a dowry of sixty thousand roubles. Just what a little runt like him needs in order to get his foot on the ladder. And, what’s more, not only will he not offend Mitya, he’ll be doing him a lifelong favour. I happen to know that last week, when he was drunk in a tavern with some gypsy girls, Mitya was shouting that he wasn’t worthy of his fiancée Katerina, but that his brother Ivan was. And as for Katerina Ivanovna—of course in the end she’s not going to turn down such a charmer as Ivan Fyodorovich, but for the time being she doesn’t know which one to go for. I just wonder what it is about Ivan that’s made you all worship him so? He’s laughing at you: “I’m sitting pretty,” he’s saying to himself, “what a time I’m having at your expense!”’

  ‘How do you know all this? What makes you so sure?’ Alyosha enquired sharply, frowning.

  ‘Why are you asking me that, and why are you so scared of what my answer will be? It can only mean that you admit I’m telling the truth.’

  ‘You don’t like Ivan. Ivan will never be tempted by money.’

  ‘Really? And what about Katerina Ivanovna’s beauty? It’s not just a question of money, though sixty thousand is not to be scoffed at.’

  ‘No, Ivan has set his sights higher. Even thousands of roubles wouldn’t tempt him. It’s not money he’s after, nor peace of mind. Perhaps it’s suffering he’s seeking.’

  ‘Pull the other leg! You make me laugh… you gentlefolk!’

  ‘Misha, he has a restless soul. His mind’s trapped. He has great, unresolved thoughts. It isn’t millions he needs—his need is to resolve his own ideas.’

  ‘That’s plagiarism, Alyosha. You’ve just paraphrased your starets. What a riddle Ivan has set you all!’ Rakitin exclaimed in unconcealed anger. His whole expression changed and his lips contorted. ‘And a pretty stupid riddle too, not difficult to unravel. Use your common sense and you’ll see what I mean. His newspaper article was ridiculous and grotesque. And did you hear that stupid theory of his: “Immortality of the soul does not exist, therefore there is no virtue, therefore everything is permitted.” (By the way, you remember your brother Mitya shouting out: “I’ll remember that!”) Scoundrels would be attracted by a theory like that!… I’m being abusive, that’s stupid of me… no, not scoundrels, but schoolboy show-offs, for all their “profound, unfathomable ideas”. He’s all talk, all he’s saying is: “On the one hand, one can’t deny… and on the other, one must admit!” His whole theory’s a sham! Mankind can find the strength within itself to live virtuously without believing in the immortality of the soul! Mankind will find the strength in love of freedom, equality, and fraternity…’

  Rakitin had worked himself up into such a passion that he was scarcely able to control himself. But suddenly he stopped, as though remembering something.

  ‘Well, that’ll do,’ he said, smiling even more wryly than before. ‘Why are you laughing? Do you think I’m a vulgar idiot?’

  ‘No, the thought never crossed my mind. You’re clever, but… let it pass, it was silly of me to laugh! I know why you’ve got so heated, Misha. From your attitude I take it you’re not indifferent to Katerina Ivanovna yourself; I’ve suspected as much for a long time, my friend, and that’s the reason you don’t like my brother Ivan. Are you jealous of him?’

  ‘And jealous of her money? Go on, say it!’

  ‘No, I’m not going to say anything about money, I’ve no wish to insult you.’

  ‘I believe that, because you say so, but to hell with you and your brother Ivan! None of you seems to realize that he’s an extremely disagreeable person per se, and that Katerina Ivanovna has nothing to do with it. And why ever should I like him, damn him! He hasn’t hesitated to revile me! Why should I hesitate to revile him?’

  ‘I’ve never heard him say anything at all about you, either good or bad; he doesn’t mention you at all.’

  ‘And yet I heard that a couple of days ago he was running me down at Katerina Ivanovna’s for all he was worth—that’s how disinterested he is in yours truly. Now, my friend, after that, who’s jealous of whom—you tell me! He went so far as to suggest that if I didn’t settle for a career as an archimandrite and didn’t decide to become a monk soon, then without a doubt I would go to St Petersburg and join the staff of an intellectual journal, where I would almost certainly work for the literary section, write for about ten years, and finally run the journal myself. I’d continue to publish it, certainly with a liberal and atheist tendency, with a hint of socialism, just a tinge of socialism, but all the time keeping my ear close to the ground and being all things to all men, and leading fools by the nose. The high point of my career, according to your brother, would be reached when, in spite of my socialist tendencies, I’d start diverting the subscription money into my current account, letting it work for me profitably on the investment market under the management of some little Jew, till I was able to afford to build a grand house in St Petersburg to which I’d transfer the editorial office and cram the remaining floors with lodgers. He even selected the site for the house: next to the new stone bridge which they say is being planned in St Petersburg across the Neva, to link up the Liteiny with the Vyborg…’

  ‘Oh Misha, it’ll probably all come true, down to the last word!’ Alyosha cried out, unable to contain himself and beaming joyfully.

  ‘So, you’re trying to be sarcastic too, Aleksei Fyodorovich?’

  ‘No, no, I was only joking, forgive me. I’ve got something else on my mind. Just a moment, though: who could have told you all that—where could you have heard it? After all, you couldn’t have been at Katerina Ivanovna’s yourself when he was talking about you, could you?’

  ‘I wasn’t, but Dmitry Fyodorovich was, I heard it all with my own ears from Dmitry Fyodorovich—that is, he didn’t exactly tell me, I happened to overhear—unintentionally, of course—because I was at Grushenka’s at the time, closeted in her bedroom, and couldn’t very well leave while Dmitry Fyodorovich was in the next room.’

  ‘Oh yes, I quite forgot, she’s a relative of yours, isn’t she?…’

  ‘A relative? Grushenka, a relative of mine?’ Rakitin exclaimed, going red in the face. ‘Are you out of your mind, or what? You’re crazy.’

  ‘Well? Isn’t she? That’s what I heard…’

  ‘Where could you have heard that? I know you Karamazovs like to make out that you’re from some illustrious and ancient noble line, whereas in fact your father used to run from table to table as a jester, and used to be allowed into the kitchen out of kindness. Granted, I’m just the son of a village priest and am nothing compared to you gentlefolk, but don’t insult me quite so freely and gratuitously. I too have a sense of honour, Aleksei Fyodorovich. Grushenka couldn’t be a relative of mine—she’s a loose woman, I’ll have you know!’

  Rakitin was beside himself with fury.

  ‘Forgive me, for pity’s sake, I had no idea, and anyway, what do you mean, “loose woman”? Surely she isn’t… that sort?’ Alyosha suddenly blushed. ‘I repeat, I heard she was a relative of yours. You often go to see her, and you told me yourself there’s nothing between you two… Well, I’d never have thought that you of all people despised her so much! Does she really deserve it?’

  ‘If I do go to see her, that’s my business, and that should be good enough for you. As for kinship, it’s your brother or even your father you have to watch, otherwise before you know where you are it’ll be you who’ll end up as one of her in-laws. Well, here we are. You’d better make for the kitchen now. Good hea
vens! What’s going on, what’s all that? We can’t be late, surely? They can’t have finished eating so soon! Or have you Karamazovs been up to some tricks again? It looks like it. There’s your father with Ivan Fyodorovich hot on his tail—look, they’ve just come running out of the abbot’s quarters. There’s Father Isidore calling out something to them from the porch. And your father’s shouting and waving his arms about too, he’s probably swearing. There’s Miusov in his carriage, off he goes, there, see? Maksimov’s taken to his heels too—there’s been a scene; so, no lunch! I wonder if they’ve given the abbot a bloody nose? Or perhaps he’s given them one? That’d serve them right!…’

  Rakitin’s surmise proved to be correct. There really had been a scene, unexpected and unprecedented. Everything had occurred ‘spontaneously’.

  8

  ASCANDALOUS SCENE

  As Miusov and Ivan Fyodorovich were entering the abbot’s quarters, Pyotr Aleksandrovich, being the truly decent and sensitive person he was, immediately experienced a feeling of regret—he felt ashamed of himself for losing his temper. He considered the worthless Fyodor Pavlovich to be so far beneath contempt that he regretted having been provoked by him into losing his composure and self-control in the starets’s cell. ‘At least it’s not the monks’ fault,’ he suddenly concluded, as he stood in the abbot’s porch, ‘and if the people here are decent (and this Father Nikolai, the abbot, appears to belong to the gentry), why shouldn’t one be pleasant, considerate, and polite to them?… I shan’t argue, I’ll agree with everything they say, I’ll win them over with politeness, and… and… I’ll show them I’ve nothing in common with that Aesop, that buffoon, that Pierrot, and that I’ve simply been deceived along with the rest of them…’

  As for the disputed tree-felling and fishing-rights (he did not even know where the areas in question were located), he decided to drop the matter once and for all that very day, especially as the sums involved were paltry, and to end all litigation against the monastery.