The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  ‘Why is it your fits are becoming more frequent these days?’ he would ask him from time to time, peering into his face. ‘What about getting married? Would you like me to find you a wife…?’

  But Smerdyakov paled with resentment at these remarks, and refused to answer. Fyodor Pavlovich would walk away, shrugging his shoulders. The most important thing was that he was convinced of his honesty; without a shadow of doubt he knew that he would never take anything, never steal. Once Fyodor Pavlovich, when somewhat drunk, dropped three hundredrouble notes that he had just got in the dust in his own courtyard, and did not realize his loss till the following day. Hardly had he begun to turn out his pockets when suddenly there they were, all three of them, lying on the table. Where had they come from? Smerdyakov had picked them up and placed them there the night before. ‘Well, old chap, I’ve never met anyone else like you,’ he said, and gave him ten roubles. It must be added here that not only did he have complete trust in him, but also, for some reason, was fond of him, even though the youth looked askance at him just as he did at everyone else, and maintained a stubborn silence. He rarely spoke. Had anyone thought to wonder at that time what he was interested in and what he really had on his mind, it would have been impossible to say by looking at him. Nevertheless, he would sometimes stop dead in the house or the courtyard or the street and stand there, as if lost in thought, for ten minutes at a time. A physiognomist, seeing him thus, would have said that he had no thoughts or ideas in his head at such times, but that he was simply deep in contemplation. There is a remarkable picture by the painter Kramskoy* entitled Contemplative: it depicts a forest in winter, and in the forest, on a track, stands the lone, diminutive figure of a peasant dressed in a ragged kaftan and bast sandals. Standing there in utter solitude, he seems lost in thought, but in reality he is not thinking at all but merely ‘contemplating’. If you were to nudge him, he would start and look at you as if he had just woken up, oblivious of his surroundings. True, he would soon snap out of his reverie, but if you were to ask him what he had been thinking about as he stood there, he would probably remember nothing, although that would not stop him from locking away, deep inside him, a memory of the sensations that he had experienced during his contemplation. Those sensations are dear to him, and he probably stores them away instinctively and without conscious thought—why and for what purpose, of course, he does not know: perhaps, after many years of hoarding them, he might unexpectedly throw up everything and go off to Jerusalem as a wandering pilgrim, or perhaps he might suddenly set fire to his native village, or perhaps both. There are any number of contemplatives among the peasantry. Very likely Smerdyakov was one such, and he too, no doubt, was avidly accumulating his impressions, scarcely knowing what for.

  7

  CONTROVERSY

  BUT then, suddenly, Balaam’s ass started to speak. And the subject was a strange one: that morning, while shopping at the stall of the merchant Lukyanov, Grigory had heard from him about a Russian soldier* who had been captured in some far-off place by Asiatics, who threatened him with a slow and agonizing death unless he renounced Christianity and adopted Islam. He refused to abandon his faith and accepted martyrdom, submitted to being flayed alive, and died praising and glorifying Christ—which heroic sacrifice was announced in the newspaper that had arrived that very day. Grigory had begun to talk about this at table. After dinner, after the dessert, Fyodor Pavlovich always loved to have a laugh and a chat, even with Grigory. On this occasion he was in an amiable and expansive mood. Having listened to this piece of news as he sipped his brandy, he commented that the soldier should be promptly canonized and his flayed skin sent to a monastery: ‘That’d bring in people and money.’ Grigory frowned, seeing that Fyodor Pavlovich was not only unmoved, but, as was his wont, was beginning to mock. Smerdyakov, who was standing by the door, suddenly grinned. He had often before been allowed to come and stand near the table, though not till dinner was nearly over. Since Ivan Fyodorovich’s arrival in the town, he had appeared at dinner nearly every night.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Fyodor Pavlovich, immediately noticing the grin, and fully aware, of course, that it was aimed at Grigory.

  ‘Well, sir, I was just thinking,’ began Smerdyakov loudly and unexpectedly, ‘commendable though the sacrifice of this good soldier was, sir, it would on the other hand have been no sin in my opinion, if, under the circumstances, he had for instance renounced Christ’s holy name and his own baptism to boot in order to save his life so as to be able to perform such good deeds as would in the course of years have atoned for his cowardice.’

  ‘What do you mean, it would have been no sin? What damn cheek; you’ll go straight to hell for that, where you’ll be roasted like a piece of mutton,’ rejoined Fyodor Pavlovich.

  It was at this moment that Alyosha entered. As we have seen, Fyodor Pavlovich was delighted to see him.

  ‘Come and join us, this’ll interest you!’ he chuckled delightedly, gesturing to Alyosha to sit down and listen.

  ‘As for the mutton, sir, there wouldn’t be anything like that, no, not if there’s any justice left, there wouldn’t,’ Smerdyakov announced with dignity.

  ‘Any justice left? Well, I never!’ cried Fyodor Pavlovich, even more delighted, and nudged Alyosha with his knee.

  ‘A scoundrel, that’s what he is!’ Grigory could not contain himself. He glared angrily at Smerdyakov.

  ‘As for scoundrels, you needn’t be so hasty, Grigory Vasilyevich,’ said Smerdyakov coolly and calmly. ‘What I want to put to you is this: if I was captured by enemies of Christendom who demanded that I curse the name of God and abjure holy baptism, I think I’d be fully authorized by my own reason to submit, for really there’d be no sin attached to it whatsoever.’

  ‘Well, you’ve already said that. Don’t elaborate, prove it!’ cried Fyodor Pavlovich.

  ‘Soup-stirrer!’ muttered Grigory under his breath.

  ‘Begging your pardon sir, that’s you being too hasty again with your “soup-stirrer”. Let’s be reasonable about it, Grigory Vasilyevich, let’s not resort to insults. You see, the instant I’d have said to my torturers, “No, I am not a Christian and I curse my true God,” I should promptly have been declared anathema by God’s supreme judgement and excommunicated from the Holy Church; I would have been exactly the same as any heathen, not only from the moment that I’d said the words, but from the moment that I’d even thought of saying them, so that not a quarter of a second would have passed but I’d have been excommunicated; isn’t that so, Grigory Vasilyevich?’

  He was addressing Grigory with obvious relish, actually answering only Fyodor Pavlovich’s questions, while being perfectly aware of this, but deliberately giving the impression that it was Grigory who was putting the questions.

  ‘Ivan!’ said Fyodor Pavlovich suddenly, ‘a word in your ear. He’s dreamt all this up for your benefit, to win your admiration. Say something nice to him.’

  Ivan Fyodorovich listened with the utmost seriousness to his father’s enthusiastic remark.

  ‘Smerdyakov, be quiet for a moment,’ Fyodor Pavlovich exclaimed. ‘Ivan, another word in your ear.’

  Ivan Fyodorovich again leaned towards him with a perfectly serious air.

  ‘I love you every bit as much as Alyosha. Don’t you ever forget that. Some brandy?’

  ‘Please…’, said Ivan. ‘You’ve already had one too many, old boy,’ thought Ivan, darting a quizzical glance at his father. As for Smerdyakov, Ivan continued to regard him with the utmost fascination.

  ‘You’re already damned as it is, confound you,’ burst out Grigory, ‘how dare you even speak after that, if…!’

  ‘Don’t be abusive, Grigory. No need to be abusive!’ interrupted Fyodor Pavlovich.

  ‘Bear with me, Grigory Vasilyevich, don’t charge like a bull at a gate, and hear me out, because I haven’t finished yet. You see, as soon as I am damned by God, at that very moment, sir, at that supreme moment, I would become the same as a heathen, and my ba
ptism would be expunged and become null and void—are you with me, sir?’

  ‘Get to the point, old chap. Hurry up and get to the point,’ Fyodor Pavlovich egged him on, slurping his brandy with relish.

  ‘And if I’m no longer a Christian, then that means I haven’t lied to the torturers when they asked me: “Are you a Christian or not?” for I’ve already been deprived of my Christianity by God Himself by reason of the thought alone, before I could even say a word to my torturers. And if I’ve already been stripped of my faith, then how, and according to what justice, could I be held responsible in the other world as a Christian for having renounced Christ, when just because of the thought alone, before the renunciation, my baptism had already been revoked? If I am no longer a Christian I cannot renounce Christ, because I have nothing to renounce. Who, Grigory Vasilyevich, would hold a heathen Tatar responsible, even in heaven, for not having been born a Christian, and who would punish him for this, since as the saying goes one doesn’t take two hides from one ox? And if God the Almighty himself holds the Tatar responsible when he dies (admittedly he couldn’t be let off scot-free altogether), then He’ll inflict only the very slightest of punishments on the grounds that, after all, it’s not his fault that he came into this world a heathen, born of heathen parents. One couldn’t very well expect the Lord God to grab hold of a Tatar and say to him that he too was a Christian? Well, that would mean that God Almighty was telling a downright lie. And surely the Almighty Ruler of heaven and earth couldn’t very well utter a lie, even if it was only contained in just one little word, sir.’

  Grigory was struck dumb and stared open-mouthed at the orator. Even though he had not properly understood what had been said, he had nevertheless managed to extract something from all that drivel, and he stood stock-still, with the expression of someone who has suddenly hit his head against a wall. Fyodor Pavlovich emptied his glass and let out a shrill laugh.

  ‘Alyosha, Alyosha, what about that! Oh, the casuist! He must have been mixing with some Jesuits somewhere, Ivan. Oh, you stinking Jesuit, you! Whoever taught you all that? But you realize you’re talking absolute rubbish, you casuist, rubbish, rubbish, and yet more rubbish. Don’t cry, Grigory; we’ll knock him into a cocked hat in a moment. You just tell me this, you ass: you may be right in the eyes of your tormentors, but all the same, in your heart of hearts you had renounced your faith, and didn’t you yourself say that from the moment you became anathema and had been pronounced anathema, as a result you’d immediately be accursed and damned? Don’t tell me that when you get to hell you’re going to get patted on your head for that anathema! So, what do you say to that, my fine Jesuit?’

  ‘There’s no doubt, sir, that in my heart I’d have renounced my faith, but there’s no particular sin in that, sir, or if there is, then it’s a very small venial sin, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean—venial?’

  ‘That’s not true, d-damn you!’ spluttered Grigory.

  ‘Judge for yourself, Grigory Vasilyevich,’ Smerdyakov continued calmly and steadily, sensing his victory, but as if wanting to show generosity to his defeated adversary. ‘Judge for yourself, Grigory Vasilyevich: it is written in the Scriptures* that if you have but the smallest grain of faith, and you command a mountain to move into the sea, it will do so without hesitation at your first command. Well, Grigory Vasilyevich, if I’m an unbeliever and you’re such a believer that you can keep on abusing me, why don’t you command that mountain to move not to the sea (because the sea is a long way from here, sir), but even just down to our smelly little river, the one that flows past our garden, and you’ll see at once that nothing will budge, and that everything will remain just as it was, sir, no matter how much you might shout, sir. And that means that you too, Grigory Vasilyevich, do not believe in the proper manner, and that you abuse others just because of your own lack of faith. And then again, considering that no one in our times, not just you, sir, but absolutely no one, from the highest in the land to the lowliest peasant, sir, can move mountains into the sea, except perhaps one man on all the earth, or at most two, and they’re probably saving their souls in secret somewhere out in the Egyptian desert, so that you’d never find them—so, if that is the case, sir, if all the others turn out to be unbelievers too, is it possible that all those others, that is the whole population of the earth, sir, except the two desert-dwellers, would be damned by God and that, in spite of His bountiful mercy, none of them would be forgiven? That’s why I trust that, if I’m assailed by doubt, I shall be forgiven when I shed tears of repentance.’

  ‘Just a moment!’ squealed Fyodor Pavlovich in excitement. ‘So you really think they exist, those two who can move mountains—you think they actually exist? Ivan, remember that one, make a note of it: that’s the real voice of Russia for you.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right that it’s a characteristic expression of popular faith,’ agreed Ivan Fyodorovich with an approving smile.

  ‘You agree, do you? That means I’m right if you agree! Alyosha, what do you say? That is the real faith of Russia, am I right or am I right?’

  ‘No, Smerdyakov’s faith is not at all the Russian faith,’ said Alyosha firmly and seriously.

  ‘I’m not talking about his faith; I mean that point about those two desert-dwellers, just that little point; that really smacks of Russia, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ Alyosha replied with a smile.

  ‘Your words deserve a gold coin, you ass, you, and I’ll let you have it before the day’s out, but as for the rest of what you said, it’s rubbish—rubbish, rubbish, and again rubbish; remember this, you fool, in Russia we’ve lost our faith purely on account of our own frivolity, and because we simply don’t have enough time; to begin with, we’re overloaded with work, and, secondly, God’s given us so little time, just twenty-four hours in a day, which is hardly enough to have a good sleep, let alone make a confession. But you, with nothing else to do but concentrate on your faith, went and renounced it in front of your tormentors, and precisely when you were most expected to demonstrate that faith! That’s the situation, my friend, isn’t it? I think it is.’

  ‘It may very well be the situation, but just work it out for yourself, Grigory Vasilyevich, that’s where the rub is. After all, if I really had believed as one should believe at that time, then, true enough, it would have been sinful to go over to the heathen religion of Muhammad rather than accept martyrdom for my faith. But the point is that there wouldn’t have been any martyrdom in that case because, sir, all I’d have needed to do at that moment would have been to say to the mountain: “Move and crush my persecutors,” and at that instant it would have moved and crushed them like cockroaches, and I’d have gone off as if nothing had happened, chanting and glorifying God. But then again, what if at that very moment I had put all this to the test and deliberately cried out to the mountain, “Crush these torturers!” and it hadn’t crushed them? Well then, tell me, how could I have stopped myself being assailed by doubt, especially with me being in such a state of mortal terror? And so, knowing full well that I wouldn’t enter the Kingdom of Heaven (for the mountain hadn’t moved at my command, which means they’ve precious little confidence in my faith up there and that no great reward awaits me in the next world), why should I then, on top of everything, have let them flay me alive for no useful purpose? For even if they had torn half the skin off my back, even then, neither my command nor my screaming would have made the mountain budge. At a moment like that not only might one have been assailed by doubt, but one might easily have become petrified from sheer terror and taken leave of one’s senses to the point where one wouldn’t have been able to reason at all. And so, why should I have been deemed at all guilty if, seeing as there was no benefit or reward for me either down here or up there, I’d at least saved my skin? That’s why, sir, in the expectation of God’s eternal mercy, I go on harbouring the hope that I’d have been granted complete forgiveness…’

  8

  OVER A GLASS OF BRAN
DY

  THE argument was over, but, strangely enough, Fyodor Pavlovich, who had been in such high spirits, suddenly became sullen towards the end. He scowled and downed another brandy, and this was certainly one too many.

  ‘Clear out, you Jesuits! Out!’ he yelled at the servants. ‘Get out, Smerdyakov! I’ll see you get the ten roubles I promised today, now go! Cheer up, Grigory, go to Marfa, she’ll comfort you and put you to bed. The scoundrels won’t even let one sit in peace after dinner,’ he snapped irritably as soon as he had dismissed the servants. ‘Smerdyakov worms his way in every time we have dinner. It’s you he’s so curious about—what have you done to charm him?’ he asked Ivan Fyodorovich.