The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  ‘You will return!’ Father Païsy whispered, gazing after him in sad wonderment.

  2

  HERE’S AN OPPORTUNITY

  FATHER PAÏSY, of course, was not mistaken in concluding that his ‘young friend’ would return again, and he had even (perhaps not fully, but shrewdly for all that) discerned Alyosha’s true state of mind. Nevertheless, I admit candidly that I myself would find it difficult to convey clearly the precise significance of such a strange and indefinable moment in the life of my all too young, but dearly beloved hero. In reply to Father Païsy’s pained question to Alyosha: ‘Are you too with those of little faith?’, I could of course reply firmly on Alyosha’s behalf: ‘No, I am not.’ Rather, quite the reverse was true; his whole confusion was precisely the result of too much faith. All the same, he was confused, and the events were so distressing that even later, after much time had elapsed, Alyosha was to recall this sad day as one of the most painful and fateful in his whole life. If, however, I were asked outright: ‘Could his anguish and alarm have arisen merely because the starets’s body, instead of immediately manifesting healing powers, had started to putrefy prematurely?’ I would reply without hesitation: ‘Yes, this was indeed so.’ However, I would merely beg the reader not to be too hasty in ridiculing unduly my young hero’s purity of heart. As for myself, not only am I not prepared, for example, to ask forgiveness on his behalf, to make excuses for him, or to justify his naïve faith on account of either his tender age or his hitherto scant progress in his studies, and so on and so forth, but on the contrary I will declare unhesitatingly that I have the utmost respect for the nature of his soul. No doubt some other young man, cautious in his response to spiritual influences, lukewarm and detached in his affections, and possessing an astute but, for his years, altogether too calculating and therefore meretricious mind, such a young man, I maintain, would have avoided the situation that confronted my hero, but in certain cases it is truly nobler to succumb to one’s emotions, even imprudent ones, than not to give in to them at all. This is especially true in our youth, for the young man who is too dispassionate cannot be relied upon with certainty, and in my opinion is pretty worthless. ‘But,’ level-headed people would probably exclaim, ‘surely not every youth can be expected to believe so uncritically, and your young friend ought not to be held up as an example to others.’ To this I shall again reply: ‘Yes, my young friend believed, he believed fervently and unquestioningly; all the same, I am not going to make excuses on his behalf.’

  You see, even though I stated earlier (all too hastily, perhaps) that I would not offer any explanations, excuses, or justifications on behalf of my hero, nevertheless I realize that some clarification is called for in order to understand properly the story that is to follow. Let me put it this way: it was not just a question of miracles. It was by no means a case of frivolous expectation of the miraculous. Alyosha needed miracles neither to confirm any particular convictions of his (that least of all) nor to bolster the triumph of any deep-seated, preconceived theory over other theories—not that either; in his case it was first and foremost a question of love and veneration for one individual person, that and nothing else—the person of his beloved starets, his mentor. The point to bear in mind is that at that particular time and throughout the whole of the preceding year, all the love that he had borne in his pure young heart towards ‘all and sundry’ had appeared on occasion and particularly at times of spiritual crisis to be concentrated, however mistakenly, on one single individual, that is on his beloved starets, who was now dead. In fact, this being had been an unquestionable paragon for him for so long that all his youthful energy and all his aspirations were channelled perforce towards that same paragon, on occasion even to the exclusion of ‘all and sundry’. He later recalled how, on this trying day, he had totally forgotten about his brother Dmitry, about whom he had been so concerned and worried the previous day; also, he had forgotten to take the two hundred roubles to Ilyushechka’s father, something that he had also been very anxious to do the previous day. But again it was not miracles he needed; rather, some ‘supreme justice’ that he believed had been violated, and as a consequence of which violation his heart had been so cruelly and unexpectedly wounded. Is it any wonder, therefore, that by the very nature of things Alyosha should expect this ‘justice’ to take the form of the instant miracle expected from the bodily remains of his beloved erstwhile teacher? After all, this was just what everyone at the monastery thought and expected, even those whose intellect Alyosha venerated—Father Païsy, for instance—and hence Alyosha, untroubled by the least doubt, had begun to nurture the same dreams. He had long since accepted this in his heart, a year’s life at the monastery had accustomed him to such expectations. But it was justice he yearned for, justice, and not just miracles! And now the one who, by rights, ought to have been elevated above everyone else in the whole world—that one, instead of being glorified as was his due, was suddenly cast down and disgraced! For what? By whose judgement? By whose decree? These were the questions which at once began to torment his immature and innocent heart. His heart was offended—indeed, incensed beyond endurance—that the most righteous amongst men had been subjected to such ignominious and vituperative scorn at the hands of such an ignorant and vulgar crowd. Well then, so what if there was no miracle at all, so what if there were to be no miraculous manifestations, if the imminently awaited event had not occurred; but why this ignominy instead, why this scandal, why this premature putrefaction which ‘violated nature’, as the vindictive monks had expressed it? Why this ‘sign’ over which they were now gloating together with Father Therapon, and why did they imagine that they were entitled to gloat? Where was providence and where was its hand? Why, thought Alyosha, had it withdrawn its hand at ‘the most vital moment’, as though wishing to submit to the blind, insensate, and pitiless laws of nature?

  That is why Alyosha’s heart bled, and, of course, as I said before, this was above all the one person whom he cherished more than anyone in the world, and this person was now ‘disgraced’, was now ‘defiled’! It may well be that this resentment on the part of my young hero was frivolous and wrong-headed, but, on the other hand, let me repeat for the third time (and I admit in advance that this also may be frivolous) that I am glad my young hero did not turn out to be too rational at such a moment, since there will always be plenty of opportunity for an intelligent person to employ his intellect, but if love did not hold sway in his heart at such an exceptional moment, would it ever do so? Nor, incidentally, would I wish to pass over something rather odd which, however fleetingly, nevertheless made Alyosha stop and think at this fateful and confusing moment in his life. This new and unexpected something consisted of a certain agonizing impression which had been left by yesterday’s discussion with his brother Ivan, and which now haunted his mind incessantly. Especially now. Oh, it was not that any of his basic, as it were elemental beliefs had been undermined; despite his momentary rebellion, he continued to love his God and to believe in Him implicitly. Nevertheless, some vague though painful and sinister impression evoked by the memory of yesterday’s discussion with his brother Ivan began to stir again in his soul now, trying ever more insistently to assert itself.

  It was already well after dusk when Rakitin, walking through the pine wood on his way from the hermitage to the monastery, suddenly spotted Alyosha lying under a tree, his face to the ground, motionless and seemingly asleep. He approached and called out to him.

  ‘What are you doing here, Aleksei? Has it…’, he said in surprise, but did not finish and stopped. He had meant to say: ‘Has it really come to this?’ Alyosha did not look up at him, but Rakitin realized by some movement of his body that he had heard and understood him.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he continued in surprise, though the surprise on his face was beginning to give way to a derisive smile.

  ‘Listen, I’ve been looking for you for over two hours already. You suddenly vanished. What are you doing here? What sanctimoniou
s foolery is this? Look at me…’

  Alyosha raised his head, sat up, and leant back against the tree. He was not crying, but there was suffering on his face and annoyance in his eyes. He did not look directly at Rakitin, but beyond him, to one side.

  ‘You know, your face has changed completely. You don’t look your usual meek and mild self. Are you angry with somebody, or what? Has someone upset you?’

  ‘Go away!’ Alyosha said suddenly, with a weary gesture, still refusing to look at Rakitin.

  ‘My word! So we’re capable of raising our voice just like any other mortal. An angel, eh? Well, Alyosha, to be quite frank with you, you know, you really astonish me. I’ve long ceased to be surprised at anything that goes on here. Still, I always considered you to be an educated fellow…’

  Alyosha looked at him at last, but absent-mindedly somehow, as though still unable to follow his meaning.

  ‘Is it really just because your old boy has started to stink?’ Rakitin asked again, in tones of the most genuine amazement. ‘Did you really seriously expect him to start working miracles?’

  ‘I did believe, I do believe, and I want to believe and I shall believe, so what else do you want!’ Alyosha shouted in annoyance.

  ‘Nothing whatsoever, my dear fellow. Dammit, not even a twelve-year-old schoolboy would believe any of this now. But what the hell… So you’ve fallen out with your God, you’ve rebelled against Him: it appears the old man’s been done out of an honour, he’s not had his decoration on the big occasion! You’re pathetic!’

  Alyosha fixed Rakitin with a long look through half-closed eyelids, and something flashed in his eyes… but it was not anger at Rakitin.

  ‘I’m not rebelling against my God, I merely “refuse to accept His world”’, Alyosha suddenly said with a wry smile.

  Rakitin thought for a moment before replying. ‘What do you mean, “you refuse to accept His world”? What rubbish!’

  Alyosha did not reply.

  ‘Well, enough of these trifles, let’s get down to business… have you eaten today?’

  ‘I don’t remember… I probably have.’

  ‘You look hungry, you need something to keep body and soul together. You’re a sorry sight. It’s obvious you haven’t slept all night, either. I hear you’ve had a powwow back there. And then there was all that carry-on… I bet all you’ve had is a bit of consecrated bread. I’ve got some smoked sausage in my pocket. I grabbed some just in case, when I was on my way from town, only I don’t suppose you’ll eat sausage…’

  ‘Let me have some of your sausage.’

  ‘Aha! So that’s how it is! So we’ve got an out-and-out rebellion on our hands. To the barricades! Well, my good fellow, I wouldn’t miss this for anything. Let’s go to my place… I wouldn’t mind a glass of vodka right now, I’m dog-tired. Now I don’t suppose you’d join me in a glass of vodka, would you… or would you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t believe it! You’re joking, my good fellow!’ Rakitin looked at him aghast. ‘Well, one way or another, sausage or vodka, the world’s gone mad. Splendid! I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Let’s go!’

  Alyosha got up from the ground in silence and followed Rakitin.

  ‘If your brother Vanechka was to see this, it’d give him a turn! Your dear brother Ivan Fyodorovich, by the way, left for Moscow this morning, did you know that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alyosha listlessly, and suddenly a vision of his brother Dmitry flashed through his mind, but only momentarily, and even though it reminded him of something, of some urgent matter which ought not to be put off for an instant, of some duty, some terrible obligation, this recollection did not make any impression on him either, it failed to move his heart, and was gone and forgotten in a trice. And yet the memory of it kept haunting him for a long while afterwards.

  ‘Your dear brother Vanechka once categorized me as a “tiresome liberal clot”. There was one occasion when you too didn’t refrain from informing me that I was “dishonourable”… Fair enough! Now I’m going to see how sensible and honourable you both are,’ Rakitin concluded to himself in a whisper. ‘Listen!’ he continued in a normal voice, ‘let’s give the monastery a miss and take this footpath straight to the town… Hm, by the way, I wouldn’t mind dropping in on Khokhlakova. Imagine! I informed her about all that had happened and, would you believe it, she replied immediately with a pencil-written note (that lady will write a note at the drop of a hat), saying that “she never expected such a venerable starets as Father Zosima to behave in this way!” That’s exactly what she wrote, “behave in this way”! She was really angry too; honestly, what a lot you all are! Wait!’ he suddenly exclaimed again, stopped dead, and, putting his hand on Alyosha’s shoulder, made him stop too.

  ‘Do you know, Alyoshka,’ he looked him straight in the eyes, completely taken by the new idea which had suddenly struck him; though aware of the funny side of it, he was reluctant to spell out this new idea which had come to him out of the blue, such was his wonderment at the unexpected mood in which he now found Alyosha. ‘Alyoshka, do you know where the best place to go would be?’ he said finally, tentatively feeling his way.

  ‘Doesn’t matter… wherever you wish.’

  ‘Let’s go to Grushenka, eh? Will you come?’ Rakitin said finally after a pause, quivering with nervous expectation.

  ‘Yes, let’s go to Grushenka,’ replied Alyosha calmly and without hesitation. That Alyosha could agree so calmly and readily came as such a surprise to Rakitin that he nearly fell over backwards.

  ‘W-well!… Yes!’ he exclaimed in surprise, and suddenly seizing Alyosha by the elbow, he quickly led him along the footpath, still fearful lest the latter’s resolve might evaporate. They walked in silence, Rakitin not daring even to start a conversation.

  ‘She’ll be delighted, really delighted…’, he started to mumble, but cut himself short. And it was certainly not to please Grushenka that he was taking Alyosha to her; he was a calculating person, and would not undertake anything that was not in his own interest. His intentions on this occasion, however, were twofold: firstly, a spiteful one, namely, to witness ‘the shame of the righteous man’ and the probable ‘fall’ of Alyosha ‘from saint to sinner’, something that he had been relishing in advance; and, secondly, he also had in mind a certain material advantage, of which I shall speak later.

  ‘Well now, here’s an opportunity and no mistake,’ he thought cheerfully and maliciously, ‘I must take the bull by the horns—it’ll suit my purpose right down to the ground.’

  3

  A SPRING ONION

  GRUSHENKA lived in the busiest quarter of the town, near Cathedral Square, in the house of one Mrs Morozova, a merchant’s widow, from whom she rented a small timber annexe facing the courtyard. Morozova’s house was large, stone-built, two-storeyed, old, and most unprepossessing; it was occupied by the owner, an elderly woman who led a solitary existence, and her two nieces, both of them confirmed old maids. There was no necessity for her to rent out the annexe, and everyone knew that she had taken on Grushenka as a tenant (about four years ago) solely as a favour to the merchant Samsonov, who was a relative of hers and, as was an open secret in the town, Grushenka’s lover. It was said that the jealous old man had initially installed his ‘pet’ at Morozova’s so that the old woman would be able to keep a watchful eye on her. But the watchful eye had soon become unnecessary and, in the end, Morozova rarely encountered Grushenka and made no attempt to spy on her at all. True, four years had passed since the old man had installed the eighteen-year-old girl from the county town, meek, shy, thin, skinny, pensive, and sad, in the house, and a lot of water had passed under the bridge since then. However, the people of our town knew little of her past, and what they did know was fragmentary and contradictory; even now that Agrafena Aleksandrovna had blossomed into a beauty and aroused the interest of many, they were still none the wiser. It was rumoured that she had been seduced at the age of seventeen by some army officer o
r other, and immediately abandoned. The officer, it was said, then went away and got married somewhere, leaving Grushenka in disgrace and poverty. It was also said, however, that though Grushenka had indeed been rescued from poverty by the old man, she came from a decent family with a clerical background, the daughter of a supernumerary deacon or something of that sort. And so, in the space of four years she had changed from a sensitive, deprived, pitiful orphan into a rosy-cheeked, shapely, Russian beauty, a woman of firm, decisive character, proud and impudent, acquisitive, knowing how to handle money, mean and calculating, who had already managed by hook or by crook, as people said, to put by a nice little pile for herself. On one thing, however, everyone was agreed: it was not easy to gain access to Grushenka, and apart from the old man, her benefactor, no man could boast of enjoying her favours during those four years. This fact was beyond dispute because, in the last two years especially, there had been many eager bidders for her favours. But all their attempts had come to nought, and because of the firm and scornful rejection they received from that spirited young lady, some of the suitors had been obliged to withdraw in comical and bizarre circumstances. People also knew that the young lady had taken to what is known as ‘speculating’, especially during the last year, and that she had demonstrated extraordinary talent in this respect, so much so that in the end she had come to be called a veritable Jewess by many. It was not that she lent money on interest, but it was known, for instance, that for some time, together with Fyodor Pavlovich, she used to buy up bills of exchange for a song, ten kopecks for a rouble, and on some of them later make a rouble for every ten kopecks. Although he was a tight-fisted millionaire and a tyrant to his grown-up sons, the ailing widower Samsonov, who for a year now had lost the use of his badly swollen legs, had nevertheless fallen under the spell of his protégée, whom, as some used to remark with a snigger, he had previously kept in complete subjugation and under his heel. But Grushenka had managed to emancipate herself, at the same time inspiring in him unlimited trust as regards her loyalty. This old man, a highly successful merchant (now long deceased), was also a remarkable character, an out-and-out miser and hard as flint, and though Grushenka had captivated him to the extent that he could hardly survive without her (that was how it had been for the past two years for example), he nevertheless would not hand over to her any significant sum of money, and even had she threatened to leave him altogether, he would still have remained adamant. Nevertheless, he did give her a small amount of capital, and when this became known it too astonished everyone. ‘You’ve got your head screwed on, young lady,’ he said to her, as he parted with about eight thousand, ‘make the most of it, and remember this, apart from your usual annual maintenance you won’t get any more from me, and I’m not going to leave you anything in my will, either.’ And he was true to his word: on his death he left everything to his sons, whom, together with their wives and children, he had treated no better than his servants throughout his life, and as for Grushenka, she was not even mentioned in the will. All this came to light subsequently. But advice was another matter—when it came to managing her own private capital he helped Grushenka a great deal and guided her in business. When Fyodor Pavlovich made his initial contact with Grushenka in connection with a routine business deal and, to his own astonishment, finished by falling head over heels in love with her, almost to the point of losing his sanity, old Samsonov, who by that time was already knocking on death’s door, had chuckled derisively. It is remarkable that throughout her acquaintance with the old man she was totally and, one could say, obsessively frank with him, and he was probably the only person in the world with whom she was so frank. Just recently, when Dmitry Fyodorovich turned up and declared his love for her, the old man had stopped laughing. In fact, on one occasion he had turned to Grushenka with a piece of blunt and serious advice: ‘If you have to choose between the two, father or son, go for the old man, but whatever you do, see to it that the old rogue marries you and settles at least some capital on you beforehand, and mind you get it in writing. And steer clear of the Captain, there’s no future with him.’ These were the very words of Grushenka’s old lecher, who was already anticipating his own impending demise and who did indeed die five months after giving this advice. I shall just add in passing that, although many people in the town knew of the bizarre and grotesque rivalry between old Karamazov and his son for Grushenka’s favours, very few at the time fully understood her true attitude towards the two of them. Even Grushenka’s two servants testified in court (after the events of which we shall speak later) that Agrafena Aleksandrovna had admitted Dmitry Fyodorovich only out of fear, since it would appear he had ‘threatened murder’. She had two servants, one, a very old woman, the cook, who originally came from her parents’ household and was in poor health and wellnigh deaf, and her granddaughter, a young energetic girl of about twenty, who was Grushenka’s maid. Grushenka herself lived very frugally, in unostentatious surroundings. The annexe that she occupied comprised only three rooms, furnished by her landlady with mahogany furniture in the style of the 1820s. When Rakitin and Alyosha entered it was well after dusk, but the rooms were still not lit. Grushenka herself was in her drawing-room, reclining on her large, hard, ugly sofa with its mahogany-veneered backrest and badly worn leather seat full of holes. Under her head were two white, down pillows taken from her bed. She was lying motionless on her back, with her arms behind her head. She was dressed to the nines as though expecting someone, in a black silk frock and a fine lace head-dress which suited her admirably, and draped over her shoulders was a lace shawl fastened with a massive gold brooch. She was indeed expecting someone, and as she lay there she seemed tense and impatient, her face rather pale, her eyes and lips glowing, and her right foot restlessly tapping on the armrest of the sofa. A certain commotion ensued following Rakitin and Alyosha’s admittance: from the hall they heard Grushenka call out in alarm as she jumped up from the sofa, ‘Who’s there?’ But the servant girl greeted the visitors and immediately called back to her mistress.