The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  As soon as the putrefaction began to be noticeable, one could tell just by looking at the monks who entered the cell of the deceased what had brought them there. They would come in, stay for a while, and then hurry out to confirm the news to the others waiting in a crowd outside. Some of those who were waiting shook their heads sadly, while others made no attempt at all to conceal the pleasure that was clearly evident in their hate-filled eyes. And no one reproached them, no one spoke in praise of the starets, which was most strange, as his supporters in the monastery were after all in the majority; apparently it was the Lord Himself who had decreed that, on this occasion, the minority should be triumphant. Soon the lay people too, mainly the more educated ones, started coming to the cell to discover the situation for themselves; of the common people, few actually entered the cell, although many had gathered at the gates of the hermitage. It remains beyond dispute that just after three o’clock, purely as a result of the scandalous news, the number of lay visitors increased appreciably. Those who might not have come at all that day, perhaps, and had had no intention of coming, now made a point of coming; amongst these were some personages of considerable standing. It must be said that at that stage a semblance of decorum was still being observed, and Father Païsy continued to read the Gospels with a stern face and in a firm and clear voice, as if unaware anything was amiss, although it was some time now since he had noticed that something unusual was happening. Soon, however, he too began to hear the voices, low at first, but gradually becoming more strident and insistent. Suddenly he heard someone say, ‘God’s judgement is not man’s judgement!’ It was a layman who was the first to say this, the town clerk, a man well advanced in years and, as far as was known, very pious, but in saying this out loud he was only repeating what the monks had already been whispering to one another for a long time anyway. They had already uttered this ominous pronouncement, and what made matters worse was the fact that, with every passing minute, this seemed to heighten the atmosphere of gloating. Soon even the last vestiges of decorum began to evaporate, and there came a point when no one felt constrained any longer. ‘And why should this have happened,’ some of the monks said, initially with a note of regret, ‘after all, his body was only small, shrivelled, nothing but skin and bones, where could the smell have come from?’ ‘In that case, it is a deliberate sign from God,’ others were quick to add, and their opinion was accepted immediately and unquestioningly, for again they pointed out that even if the odour had been natural, as from any deceased sinner, it would have been emitted somewhat later rather than so soon after the event—at least a whole day would have elapsed. As things stood, however, ‘this one had transgressed the laws of nature’, and it follows, therefore, that this is a deliberate sign from God, verily it is His finger.* A portent from on high. Such judgement was irrefutable. The gentle hieromonk Father Yosif, the librarian, of whom the deceased had been particularly fond, was about to remonstrate with some of the detractors, saying that ‘it is not like that everywhere’, and that, in any case, the requirement that the body of the righteous should not suffer decomposition was not a matter of Church dogma, but merely an opinion, and that even in the most Orthodox communities, Mount Athos for instance, no one was unduly concerned about the odour of putrefaction, and that it was not the incorruptibility of the flesh which was to be regarded as the main sign of glorification of the hallowed, but the colour of their bones after their bodies had lain in the ground for several years and had even decayed, for ‘if the bones are found to be yellow as wax, then that is the main indication that the Lord has hallowed the righteous deceased; but if they are not yellow, but appear black, it means that the Lord has not vouchsafed him glory—so it is on Mount Athos, a renowned place where, from antiquity, the Orthodox faith has been preserved intact in all its purity,’ concluded Father Yosif. But the words of the humble Father Yosif remained unheeded, and even provoked a derisive rebuttal. ‘This is all unseemly, newfangled speculation,’ the monks concluded among themselves. ‘We observe the old traditions; there are too many new ideas about for us to keep up with,’ added others. ‘If it comes to it,’ joined in those who were the most scornful, ‘we’ve had at least as many holy fathers as they have. They’ve been sat under the Turks for so long down there, they’ve forgotten everything. Their very Orthodoxy has been corrupted, why, they’ve even given up church bells!’ Father Yosif insisted with bitterness, the more so as he himself had not been entirely convinced of the veracity of his own opinion, as though he were more than a little dubious himself. He noted with alarm that something very unseemly was about to happen, and that outright disobedience was beginning to rear its head. Following Father Yosif’s example, all the other prudent voices fell silent one by one. And so it came about that all those who had loved the deceased starets and had hitherto accepted the cult of startsy in obedient humility, suddenly appeared to take fright and, on meeting one another, would simply exchange diffident glances. On the other hand, those who opposed the cult of startsy, regarding it as an innovation, were emboldened. ‘Not only was there no odour of putrefaction from the late Starets Varsophony,’ they remarked sarcastically, ‘but he exuded the sweet odour of sanctity, not by virtue of his being a starets, but because he was righteous.’ Soon not only reproaches but even accusations began to be heaped upon the recently deceased starets. ‘His teaching was false; he taught that life was not a vale of tears, but a garden of joy,’ said some of the least intelligent. ‘He practised his faith the modern way, he wouldn’t accept there was real fire in hell,’ joined in those who were even more stupid. ‘He was not strict in his fasting, and he loved to indulge himself in sweet things, to sip tea with cherry preserve and the like; ladies kept him stocked up with it. A recluse drinking tea, whoever heard such a thing?’ said those who were consumed with envy. ‘He was puffed up with pride,’ asserted the most malevolent of his denigrators, ‘he considered himself to be a saint, people knelt in front of him, and he took it as his due.’ ‘He abused the sacrament of confession,’ added in a malicious whisper the most inveterate opponents of the cult of startsy, amongst whom numbered the most senior monks, those strictly dedicated to worship, true observers of the vows of silence and of fasting, who had not spoken out during the lifetime of the deceased but who now suddenly gave vent to their jealousy, which was all the more shocking as their words had a strong effect on the minds of the young and still impressionable monks. The little monk who had come from St Silvester’s in Obdorsk listened avidly to all this, sighing deeply and nodding his head in agreement. ‘No, it seems Father Therapon was quite right in his judgement yesterday,’ he thought to himself, and just at that moment who should appear, as though to add fuel to the flames, but Father Therapon himself.

  As I already mentioned earlier, he seldom used to leave his timber cabin in the apiary, missing even church services for long periods of time, which meant that he did not observe a ruling which was applicable to all but from which he was exempt by virtue of being regarded as one of God’s holy fools. However, if the truth be known, he was excused out of sheer necessity. It would have been almost pointless to impose general monastic rules on one who observed the laws of fasting and silence as rigidly as he did (he spent days and nights in prayer and would even fall asleep on his knees), if he himself did not wish to abide by them. ‘By rights,’ said some of the monks, ‘he’s holier than any of us and is more conscientious than the rules require anyway, and as for not attending services, he himself knows best whether to go or not, for he’s got his own set of rules.’ It was to avoid these likely rumblings of discontent and scandal that Father Therapon was left in peace. As was common knowledge, he disliked Starets Zosima intensely; and now, suddenly, the news reached him in his little cabin that ‘God’s judgement is different from that of people, and the law of nature has been transgressed.’ One must assume that one of the first to rush to him with the news was the visitor from Obdorsk, who had been to see him the day before and had come away in terror. I have also mentioned tha
t though Father Païsy, who had been keeping a strict, constant vigil over the coffin, was not aware of events outside the cell, he had in his heart, knowing his community through and through as he did, unerringly predicted the main course of events. He remained calm, however, and fearlessly awaited whatever was still to come, prophetically considering the future outcome of the unrest as it already presented itself to his mind’s eye. And then, from the ante-room, his ears were suddenly assailed by a strange noise that rudely disturbed the sanctity of the surroundings. The door burst open and Father Therapon appeared on the threshold. Behind him, crowding around the porch and clearly visible from within the cell, were many monks who had accompanied him, amongst them some laity. His followers did not enter however, nor did they mount the steps, but instead stood waiting to see what Father Therapon would say and do next, for they anticipated and, despite all their boldness, feared that it was not for nothing that he had come. Pausing on the threshold, Father Therapon raised his arms—and from under his right arm there peered the sharp, curious little eyes of the visitor from Obdorsk, who alone had been unable to contain his curiosity and had dashed up the steps behind Father Therapon. The others, on the other hand, as soon as the door was flung open, were overcome with sudden fear and even backed away slightly. His arms uplifted menacingly, Father Therapon thundered:

  ‘In the name of God, I cast thee out!’ whereupon, turning successively to all four directions, he began to make the sign of the cross on the walls and four corners of the room. Father Therapon’s followers immediately understood the significance of this behaviour, for they knew that he always did this wherever he entered, and that he would not sit down or say a word before he had expelled the powers of darkness.

  ‘Get thee gone, Satan! Get thee gone, Satan!’ he repeated with each sign of the cross. ‘In the name of God, I cast thee out!’ he declaimed again. He was wearing his coarse cassock with a rope round his waist. The open sackcloth shirt revealed his bare, grey, hairy chest. He was barefoot. As soon as he started to wave his arms about, the chains he wore under his cassock began to clink and rattle. Father Païsy interrupted his reading, stepped forward, and stood facing him expectantly. Finally, looking at him sternly, he spoke.

  ‘Wherefore hast thou come, worshipful father? Why disturbest thou the peace? Why seekest thou to disturb a peaceful flock?’

  ‘Wherefore have I come? Wherefore? What thinkest thou?’ shouted Father Therapon, defiantly. ‘I am come to cast out thy house guests, the foul devils. I can see thou hast gathered a goodly number of them in my absence; I shall sweep this place clean with a birch besom.’

  ‘Thou art casting out the devil, but perchance it is him thou servest,’ Father Païsy continued fearlessly, ‘and who can say of himself: “I am holy”? Canst thou, father?’

  ‘Not holy, but foul and sinful am I. I shall not sit upon my chair and desire that people bow down to me as to an idol!’ thundered Father Therapon. ‘Today, people are destroying the holy faith. Your deceased saint’, he turned towards the crowd, pointing his finger at the coffin, ‘denied the existence of devils. He prescribed purges to exorcise devils. Therefore have ye so many of them now, like unto spiders in every corner. Now has he himself begun to reek. Therein we see a glorious sign from the Lord.’

  And such a thing really had happened in Father Zosima’s lifetime. One of the monks had begun to dream of devils, and later they began to appear to him in his waking hours. When, in utter terror, he revealed this to the starets, the latter had recommended unremitting prayer and constant fasting. When this too had no effect, he advised him to take a certain medicine while continuing to pray and fast. Many were scandalized by this, shaking their heads when they talked about it—and the most vociferous was Father Therapon, who had immediately been informed by certain detractors of the starets that it was he who had advocated this ‘unusual’ remedy for such a peculiar case.

  ‘Get thee hence, father!’ said Father Païsy authoritatively. ‘It is for God, not for man, to judge. Well may we see a “sign” here beyond our understanding—thine or mine or any man’s. Get thee hence, father, and cease disturbing the peaceful flock!’ he repeated firmly.

  ‘He did not observe the days of fasting as befits a monk of his monastic title, hence this sign from on high. It is there for all to see, and to deny it is a sin!’ The zealot could restrain himself no longer and, in his fervour, overstepped all bounds of reason. ‘He was tempted by sweets brought to him by ladies in their pockets, he sipped tea for pleasure, he indulged his stomach with sweet things, and his mind with arrogant notions… Therefore hath this ignominy befallen him…’

  ‘Thou speakest empty words, father!’ Father Païsy, too, raised his voice. ‘I can only marvel at thy abstinence and at the zeal of thy devotion, but thy words are empty, like unto the utterings of a worldly youth, ephemeral and asinine. So get thee hence, father, I adjure thee!’ Father Païsy again thundered in conclusion.

  ‘I shall depart!’ said Father Therapon, a little nonplussed, but still as furious as ever. ‘Ye are the learned ones! With your superior science, ye have exalted yourselves above an insignificant wretch such as I. I came here lacking instruction, and here I forgot the little I knew, for it is the good Lord Himself who hath guarded me, insignificant as I am, from your excess of wisdom…’

  Father Païsy stood his ground firmly, and waited. Father Therapon paused a moment and then, in a sudden access of melancholy as he regarded the coffin of the deceased starets, pressed the palm of his right hand against his cheek and said in a singsong voice:

  ‘Tomorrow they will sing “Succour and Guardian” over him, a glorious hymn, and when I shall give up my ghost it will only be “What Earthly Bliss”, an insignificant little canticle,’1 he said plaintively with tears in his eyes. ‘Ye have elevated and exalted yourselves. Cursed be this place!’ he wailed suddenly, as though demented, and, shaking his fist, turned abruptly and quickly descended the steps of the porch. The crowd below hesitated; some followed him immediately, while others stayed behind, for the door of the cell was still open and Father Païsy, who had followed Father Therapon to the porch, was standing there expectantly. But the enraged old man had not finished: having walked about twenty paces he suddenly turned towards the setting sun, raised both his arms, and fell to the ground as if struck dead, shouting loudly.

  ‘My Lord hath vanquished! Christ hath vanquished the setting sun!’ he cried, beside himself with woe, and, raising his arms towards the sun and then falling flat on his face, he began to weep like a small child, his whole body convulsed with sobs and his arms outstretched on the ground. This time everyone rushed towards him immediately, some shouted, some sobbed in sympathy… Everyone was seized with ecstasy.

  ‘There’s a holy man for you! There’s a righteous man!’ came voices from all sides, fearlessly this time. ‘It is he who should be a starets,’ others added angrily.

  ‘He’ll not agree to be a starets… He is certain to refuse… He’ll not follow the accursed modern ways… He won’t be beguiled by their foolishness,’ echoed voices from everywhere, and it is difficult to imagine how it would all have ended had not the bell sounded, summoning the faithful to prayer. Everybody suddenly started crossing themselves. Father Therapon too rose from the ground and, making the sign of the cross, headed for his cell, not looking back and continuing to hold forth, but now quite incoherently. Some people, only a few, made as if to follow him, but the majority began to disperse, hurrying off to attend the service. Father Païsy let Father Yosif continue the reading, and came down the steps. He refused to be swayed by the frantic cries of the fanatics, but for some reason he suddenly felt his heart gripped by a peculiar sorrow and remorse. He stopped suddenly, asking himself: ‘Where does this sorrow come from, to crush my spirit like this?’ and to his surprise he realized immediately that the most trivial and peculiar reason apparently lay at the root of this sudden sorrow, for amongst the frenzied crowd round the entrance to the cell he had noticed Alyosha, and he recalle
d that as soon as he spotted him he immediately felt a stab of pain in his heart. ‘Is it really true that this youth is now so dear to my heart?’ he asked himself with astonishment. Just then Alyosha happened to approach, apparently hurrying somewhere, though not in the direction of the church. Their eyes met. Alyosha quickly averted his eyes and lowered his gaze to the ground, and just by looking at the youth Father Païsy understood what an enormous struggle was raging in his heart.

  ‘Have you too been led astray?’ Father Païsy exclaimed. ‘Are you too with those of little faith?’ he added sorrowfully.

  Alyosha stopped and looked at Father Païsy somewhat vaguely, but again averted his eyes and once more lowered his gaze. He stood half facing away, and refused to turn to look at his interlocutor. Father Païsy observed him closely.

  ‘Where are you hurrying to? The bell is summoning us to prayer,’ he continued, but Alyosha did not respond.

  ‘Or is it that you are leaving the hermitage? Just like that, without leave, without a blessing?’

  Suddenly Alyosha smiled wryly, glanced strangely, very strangely at this priest, to whom he had been entrusted by his former mentor, the custodian of his heart and mind, his beloved starets, on his deathbed; then suddenly, and still without replying, he made a gesture of resignation and, as though neglecting to observe even common courtesy, walked with quick strides towards the gate and out of the hermitage.