The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  (d) The mysterious visitor

  He had been working in our town for a long time, occupied an important position in the civil service, and was respected by everyone. He was wealthy and renowned for his charity, had donated a considerable sum of money towards an almshouse and an orphanage, and moreover, as was revealed later after his death, had performed many anonymous acts of charity. He was about fifty, almost severe in appearance, and a man of few words; he had been married for not more than ten years to a young wife by whom he had three small children. There I was, sitting at home the next evening, when all of a sudden the door opened and this very same gentleman entered.

  I should point out that I was by this time no longer living at my former lodgings, for immediately after submitting my resignation I moved to other rooms, which I rented from an old woman—the widow of a clerk—who lived there herself with her maid. The move to these rooms took place only because, when I returned from the duel, I sent Afanasy back to the regiment the very same day, being too ashamed to look him in the eye after what had occurred between us, such is the embarrassment of an unprepared, worldly man concerning even his most noble deed.

  ‘I have been listening to you’, said the gentleman, ‘with great curiosity for several days in various people’s homes, and at last I decided to get to know you personally and to have a more detailed conversation with you. Would you be so good as to do me a really great service, my dear sir?’ ‘Certainly,’ I replied, ‘with the greatest of pleasure; I’d consider it a particular honour.’ That’s what I said, but such was my initial surprise on meeting him that I nearly took fright. For although people had listened to me and expressed curiosity, until then no one had approached me with such a serious and solemn appeal. And he had actually come to my rooms. He sat down. ‘I see a great strength of character in you,’ he went on, ‘for you were not afraid to bear witness to the truth in a matter in which, for doing what you thought was right, you risked bringing universal scorn upon yourself.’ ‘You are too generous, perhaps, in your praise of me,’ I said. ‘No, not at all,’ he replied, ‘believe me, to do such a thing is far more difficult than you think. As a matter of fact,’ he continued, ‘that was precisely what astonished me, and why I have come to see you. Would you, if my curiosity is not too unseemly, describe to me precisely what you felt as you forced yourself to ask forgiveness at the duel—if you still remember, that is. Do not regard my question as an idle one; it is anything but, and in posing it I have my own secret motive, which I shall probably reveal to you in good time if it be God’s will to bring us closer together.’

  All the time he was saying this I had been looking him straight in the face, and suddenly I was overcome by a feeling of great trust towards him, and I too began to experience an extraordinary curiosity, because I felt that he was indeed harbouring a particular secret in his heart.

  ‘You ask me’, I replied, ‘exactly what I felt when I asked my adversary for forgiveness, but it would be better if I told you what happened from the very beginning, which is something I haven’t told anyone yet,’ and I related to him everything that had happened with Afanasy, right down to how I had bowed down to the ground in front of him. ‘From this, you can see for yourself’, I concluded, ‘that it was easier for me at the duel, because I had already taken the first step before I left the house, and once having taken that course everything else followed not only easily, but almost cheerfully and joyfully.’

  Having heard me out, he regarded me warmly: ‘All this is extremely curious and I shall certainly call on you again.’ And from then on he began to visit me nearly every night. And we would have become great friends if he had only told me something about himself. However, he hardly said a word about himself, but instead questioned me incessantly about myself. In spite of this I became very fond of him and soon confided all my feelings in him, for it occurred to me: why do I need to know his secrets; I can see plainly that he’s a righteous man. Besides, he’s such a serious person and so much older than I, and yet he visits me, a mere youth, and does not spurn my company. And I learned a great deal that was useful from him, because he was a man of great wisdom. ‘That life is paradise’, he said suddenly, ‘is something I’ve thought about for a long time,’ and then he added immediately: ‘That’s all I think about.’ He looked at me and smiled. ‘I’m more convinced of it than you are,’ he said, ‘and you’ll find out why later.’ I listened to him, thinking to myself: ‘This is probably because he wants to reveal something to me.’ ‘Paradise’, he said, ‘is concealed within each one of us, it is hidden in me too at this moment, and I need only to wish it, and it will come about the very next day and remain with me for the rest of my life.’ I gazed at him. He spoke with feeling and looked at me mysteriously, as though he were probing me. ‘As to every man being guilty for everyone and everything, quite apart from his own sins,’ he continued, ‘you did indeed judge correctly, and it is surprising how you managed to get so completely to the heart of the matter straight away. Indeed, it is true that as soon as people start to understand this concept it will be the beginning of the kingdom of heaven for them, not merely in their dreams but in reality too.’ ‘And when’, I exclaimed with bitterness, ‘is this likely to come about, if at all? Is it not just a dream?’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’re still a sceptic, you preach, and yet you yourself don’t believe. Don’t forget though that this dream, as you put it, will come to pass—you must believe, but it will not happen yet, for there is an appointed time for everything. It is a spiritual and a psychological matter. In order to refashion the world, it is necessary for people themselves to adopt a different mental attitude. Until man becomes brother unto man, there shall be no brotherhood of men. No kind of science or material advantage will ever induce people to share their property or their rights equitably. No one will ever have enough, people will always grumble, they will always envy and destroy one another. You ask when will all this come about. It will come about, but first there must be an end to the habit of self-imposed isolation of man.’ ‘What isolation?’ I asked him. ‘The kind that is prevalent everywhere now, especially in our age, and which has not yet come to an end, has not yet run its course. For everyone nowadays strives to dissociate himself as much as possible from others, everyone wants to savour the fullness of life for himself, but all his best efforts lead not to fullness of life but to total self-destruction, and instead of ending with a comprehensive evaluation of his being, he rushes headlong into complete isolation. For everyone has dissociated himself from everyone else in our age, everyone has disappeared into his own burrow, distanced himself from the next man, hidden himself and his possessions, the result being that he has abandoned people and has, in his turn, been abandoned. He piles up riches in solitude and thinks: ‘How powerful I am now, and how secure,’ and it never occurs to the poor devil that the more he accumulates, the further he sinks into suicidal impotence. For man has become used to relying on himself alone, and has dissociated himself from the whole; he has accustomed his soul to believe neither in human aid, nor in people, nor in humanity; he trembles only at the thought of losing his money* and the privileges he has acquired. Everywhere the human mind is beginning arrogantly to ignore the fact that man’s true security is to be attained not through the isolated efforts of the individual, but in a corporate human identity. But it is certain that this terrible isolation will come to an end, and everyone will realize at a stroke how unnatural it is for one man to cut himself off from another. This will indeed be the spirit of the times, and people will be surprised how long they have remained in darkness and not seen the light. It is then that the sign of the Son of man will appear in heaven…* But, nevertheless, until then man should hold the banner aloft and should from time to time, quite alone if necessary, set an example and rescue his soul from isolation in order to champion the bond of fraternal love, though he be taken for a holy fool. And he should do this in order that the great Idea should not die…’