VII. A Seminarian on the Make

Alyosha led his elder into the little bedroom and sat him down on the bed. It was a very small room with only the furniture that was needed; the bed was narrow and made of iron, and instead of a mattress it had only a piece of felt. In the corner, by the icons, stood a lectern, and on it lay a cross and the Gospels. The elder sank down on the bed, his strength gone; his eyes were shining, and he was breathing with difficulty. Once seated, he looked intently at Alyosha, as though thinking something over.

“Go, my dear, go; Porfiry is enough for me, and you must hurry. You are needed there; go to the Father Abbot and wait at his table.”

“Give me your blessing to stay here,” Alyosha brought out in a pleading voice.

“You are needed more there. There is no peace there. You will wait at table and you will be of use. If the demons rise up, say a prayer. And know, my son” (the elder liked to call him that), “that from now on, too, your place is not here. Remember this, young man. As soon as God grants me to depart, leave the monastery. Leave it for good.”

Alyosha gave a start.

“What is it? Your place is not here, for now. I bless you for a great obedience in the world. You have much wandering still before you. And you will have to marry, you will have to. You will have to bear everything before you come back again. And there will be much work. But I have no doubt of you, and that is why I am sending you. Christ is with you. Keep him, and he will keep you. Great sorrow you will see, and in that sorrow you will be happy. This is my charge to you: in sorrow, seek happiness. Work, work without tiring. Remember my word from this day on, for though I shall still talk with you, not only my days but my hours are numbered.”

Again strong emotion showed in Alyosha’s face. The corners of his mouth were trembling.

“What, again?” The elder smiled quietly. “Let worldly people see their dead off with tears; here we rejoice over a father who is departing. We rejoice and we pray for him. Leave me now. I must pray. Go, and hurry. Be near your brothers. And not near one of them only, but near both.”

The elder raised his hand to bless him. To object was impossible, though Alyosha wanted terribly to stay. He wanted, too, to ask something, and the question was even on the tip of his tongue: “What did that bow to the ground before brother Dmitri foreshadow?” But he did not dare to ask. He knew that the elder would have explained it to him himself, without being asked, if that had been possible. So it was not his will. And that bow had struck Alyosha terribly; he believed blindly that there was a secret meaning in it. A secret meaning, and perhaps a terrible one. When he went out through the hermitage gate so as to reach the monastery in time for the beginning of the abbot’s dinner (only to wait at table, of course), his heart suddenly contracted painfully, and he stopped where he stood: it was as though the words of the elder foretelling his own so near end sounded before him again. Whatever the elder had foretold, and foretold with such exactness besides, would undoubtedly come to pass; Alyosha believed that devoutly. But how would he be left without him, how would he go on not seeing him, not hearing him? And where would he go? He was telling him not to weep and to leave the monastery, Lord! It was long since Alyosha had felt such anguish. He walked on quickly through the wood that separated the hermitage from the monastery, and, unable even to bear his own thoughts, so heavily did they press on him, he began to look at the ancient pines on both sides of the forest path. The way was not long, some five hundred paces, no more; at that hour no one could have been met on it, but suddenly, at the first bend of the path, he noticed Rakitin. Rakitin was waiting for someone.

“Is it me you’re waiting for?” Alyosha asked when he came up to him.

“You exactly,” Rakitin grinned. “You’re hurrying to the Father Abbot. I know; he’s giving a dinner. There hasn’t been such a spread since the time he entertained the bishop and General Pakhatov, remember? I won’t be there, but you go on, hand round the sauces. Tell me just one thing, Alexei: what does this dream signify? That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

“What dream?”

“Why, that bow to the ground to your brother Dmitri Fyodorovich. And how he banged his forehead, too!”

“You mean Father Zosima?”

“Yes, Father Zosima.”

“His forehead?”

“Ah, I put it disrespectfully! Well, let it be disrespectful. So then, what does this dream signify?”

“I don’t know, Misha, what it means.”

“I knew he wouldn’t explain it to you. There’s nothing deep in it, of course; just the usual pious silliness, it would seem. But the trick was played on purpose. Now all the holy hypocrites in town will start talking and carry it all over the province: ‘What, they’ll say, does this dream signify?’ In my opinion the old man really is clairvoyant: he’s sniffed out a crime. It stinks in your house.”

“What crime?”

Rakitin evidently wanted to come out with something.

“It will happen in your little family, this crime. It will happen between your dear brothers and your rich papa. So Father Zosima banged his forehead against the floor in case of whatever may come. Then, when something happens: ‘Ah, the holy elder foretold it, he prophesied it,’ though what sort of prophecy is it to bang your forehead on the floor? No, they’ll say, it was an emblem, an allegory, and devil knows what! They’ll trumpet it, they’ll remember it: he foresaw the crime, they’ll say, he marked out the criminal. That’s how it always is with holy fools: he crosses himself at the pothouse and throws stones at the church. And so with your elder: the righteous man he drives out with a stick, and to the murderer he bows down at his feet.”

“What crime? What murderer? What are you saying?” Alyosha stopped dead, as if rooted to the spot; Rakitin stopped too.

“What murderer? As if you didn’t know! I’ll bet you’ve already thought about it yourself. That’s curious, by the way: listen, Alyosha, you always tell the truth, though you always sit between two stools: have you thought about it or haven’t you? Answer me.”

“I have,” Alyosha answered quietly. Even Rakitin was taken aback.

“What? You don’t mean you’ve already thought about it too?” he cried.

“I… it isn’t that I’ve thought about it,” Alyosha muttered, “but when you started talking about it so strangely just now, it seemed to me that I had thought about it myself.”

“You see (and how clearly you put it), you see? Today, looking at your papa and your dear brother Mitenka, you thought of a crime? So I’m not mistaken, then?”

“Wait, wait,” Alyosha interrupted anxiously, “what makes you of all people see all this?… Why does it interest you so much, that’s the first thing?”

“Two separate questions, but natural ones. I’ll answer each of them in turn. Why do I see it? I wouldn’t have seen anything here if I hadn’t suddenly understood your brother Dmitri Fyodorovich today, all of him just as he is, all at once and suddenly, the whole of him as he is. By one single trait I caught hold of the whole of him at once. These most honest but lustful people have a line that you mustn’t cross. Or else, or else he’ll stick a knife into his dear papa. And his papa is a drunken and unbridled rake who has never known measure in anything—neither of them will hold back, and plop, both of them into the ditch…”

“No, Misha, no, if that’s all it is, you’ve cheered me up. It won’t come to that.”

“Then why are you trembling all over? Do you know the thing of it? He may be an honest man, our Mitenka (he’s stupid but honest); but he’s a sensualist. That’s his definition and his whole inner essence. It’s his father who passed on to him his vile sensuality. Really, it’s only you I wonder at, Alyosha: how is it you’re a virgin? You’re a Karamazov too, after all! In your family sensuality has been carried to the point of inflammation. Well, now these three sensualists are watching each other… with knives in their boots. The three of them have knocked their foreheads together, and you, I dare say, are the fourth.”

“You’re wrong about that woman. Dmitri despises her,” Alyosha said, with a sort of shudder.

“Grushenka? No, my friend, he doesn’t despise her. When he has openly traded his own fiancée for her, he doesn’t despise her. There’s… there’s something here, my friend, that you won’t understand now. A man falls for some beauty here, for a woman’s body, or even for just one part of a woman’s body (a sensualist can understand that), and for her sake he’ll give up his own children, sell his father and mother, Russia and his fatherland; being honest, he’ll go and steal; being meek, he’ll cut someone’s throat; being faithful, he’ll betray. Pushkin, the singer of women’s little feet, sang of little feet in his verses; others don’t sing of them, but they can’t look at little feet without going into convulsions. But it isn’t only little feet… Here, my friend, contempt is no help, even if he did despise Grushenka. He does despise her, and he can’t tear himself away.”

“I understand that,” Alyosha suddenly blurted out.

“Really? Then you really do understand it, if you blurted out at the first word that you understand,” Rakitin said with malicious glee. “You blurted it out by accident; it slipped out. That makes the admission all the more precious: so it’s a familiar subject to you, you’ve already thought about it, about sensuality. Oh, you virgin! You’re a quiet one, Alyoshka, you’re a saint, I agree, but you’re a quiet one, and devil knows what you haven’t thought about already, devil knows what you don’t know already! A virgin, and you’ve already gone down to such depths. I’ve been watching you for a long time. You’re a Karamazov yourself, a Karamazov through and through, so breed and selection must mean something after all. A sensualist on your father’s side, a holy fool on your mother’s. Why are you shaking? Am I telling the truth? You know what: Grushenka asked me, ‘Bring him’ (you, that is), ‘and I’ll pull that little cassock off him.’ And how she asked: bring him, bring him! I only wondered: what makes you so interesting to her? You know, she’s an extraordinary woman too!”

“Give her my regards and say I won’t come,” Alyosha said with a crooked smile. “Finish what you began, Mikhail, and I’ll tell you my thought afterward.”

“What is there to finish, it’s all clear. It’s all an old tune, my friend. If even you have a sensualist shut up inside you, then what about your brother Ivan, born of the same mother? He’s a Karamazov too, after all. That’s the whole of your Karamazov question: sensualists, money-grubbers, and holy fools! Your brother Ivan is printing little theological articles for the time being, as a joke, from some most stupid calculation nobody knows, while he himself is an atheist, and he admits the baseness of it himself, that brother of yours, Ivan. On top of that, he’s carrying off his brother Mitya’s fiancée, and it seems he’ll get there, too. And how: with the consent of Mitenka himself, because Mitenka himself is handing his fiancée over to him, just to be rid of her and go off to Grushenka the sooner. And all this with all his nobility and disinterestedness, mark that. Those are just the people who are the most fatal! The devil himself couldn’t make you out after this: a man knows his own baseness and climbs into it all the same! Listen further: now the old geezer, his father, is crossing Mitenka’s path. He’s suddenly gone mad over Grushenka, you know; his mouth waters when he only looks at her. It was only because of her that he made such a scandal in the cell just now, only because Miusov dared to call her a dissolute creature. He’s fallen in love worse than a tomcat. Before, she only did him some service for wages in certain shady little dealings and pothouse affairs, and now he’s suddenly woken up and taken a good look at her, he’s gone wild, he keeps pestering her with proposals, not honorable ones, of course. Well, they’ll collide on that little road, the papa and his darling son. And Grushenka is for neither of them; for now she’s still wriggling and teasing them both, looking to see which one is more profitable, because though you can grab a lot of money from the papa, he won’t marry her for that, and maybe in the end he’ll turn tight as a Yid and lock up his purse. In that case Mitenka has his value too; he has no money, but on the other hand he’s capable of marrying. Yes, sir, capable of marrying! Of throwing over his fiancée, an incomparable beauty, Katerina Ivanovna, rich, a noblewoman, and a colonel’s daughter, and marrying Grushenka, the former kept woman of an old merchant, a debauched peasant and the town mayor, Samsonov. Out of all this a criminal collision really may come about. And that is just what your brother Ivan is waiting for; then he’ll be in clover: he’ll get Katerina Ivanovna, whom he’s pining for, and grab her dowry of sixty thousand into the bargain. For a little man and a pauper like him, that’s very tempting for a start. And mark this: he won’t only not wrong Mitya, he’ll even put him in his debt to the grave. Because I know for certain that Mitenka himself, just last week, was shouting out loud, drunk, in a tavern with some gypsy girls, that he isn’t worthy of his fiancée Katenka, but his brother Ivan, now, he is worthy. And Katerina Ivanovna herself, of course, won’t reject such a charmer as Ivan Fyodorovich in the end; she’s already wavering between the two of them even now. And what is it about this Ivan that has charmed all of you, so that you all stand in awe of him? And he laughs at you: here I sit in clover, he says, treating myself to sweets at your expense.”

“How do you know all this? Why are you speaking so positively?” Alyosha suddenly asked sharply, frowning.

“And why are you asking now and afraid of my answer in advance? That means you agree yourself that I’ve told the truth.”

“You don’t like Ivan. Ivan won’t be tempted by money.”

“Really? And Katerina Ivanovna’s beauty? It isn’t only money here, though sixty thousand is a tempting thing.”

“Ivan looks higher. Ivan won’t be tempted even by thousands. It isn’t money or peace that Ivan is seeking. Perhaps he’s seeking torment.”

“What sort of dream is that now? Oh, you… noblemen!”

“Ah, Misha, his soul is stormy. His mind is held captive. There is a great thought in him, and an unresolved one. He is one of those who don’t need millions, but need to resolve a thought.”

“Literary theft, Alyoshka. You’ve paraphrased your elder. A fine riddle Ivan has set you all!” Rakitin cried with evident spite. His very face changed, and his lips twisted. “And it’s a stupid riddle, too, there’s nothing to guess. Use your brains and you’ll understand. His article is ridiculous and absurd. And did you hear his stupid theory just now: ‘If there is no immortality of the soul, then there is no virtue either, and so everything is permitted’? (And your dear brother Mitenka, by the way, remember how he shouted: ‘I’ll remember that!’) A tempting theory for scoundrels… I’m swearing, that’s stupid… not for scoundrels, but for schoolboy braggarts with ‘the insoluble depth of their thoughts.’ A little show-off, and the whole gist of it is: ‘On the one hand, one cannot but confess, and on the other, one cannot but admit!’ His whole theory is baseness! Mankind will find the strength in itself to live for virtue even without believing in the immortality of the soul! It will find it in the love of liberty, of equality, of fraternity…”

Rakitin had grown heated and could hardly control himself. But suddenly, as though remembering something, he stopped.

“Well, enough,” he smiled, still more crookedly than before. “Why are you laughing? Do you think I’m a vulgarian?”

“No, it never even entered my head to think you a vulgarian. You’re intelligent, but… never mind, I smiled out of foolishness. I understand that you can get heated, Misha. From your passion I guessed that you yourself are not indifferent to Katerina Ivanovna; I’ve suspected it a long time, my friend, and that is why you don’t like brother Ivan. Are you jealous of him?”

“And jealous of her money too? Why not add that?”

“No, I won’t add anything about money; I won’t insult you.”

“I believe it, because you’ve said it, but the devil take you, all the same, you and your brother Ivan! None of you will understand that one can dislike him very much even without Katerina Ivanovna. And why on earth should I love him, devil take it! He does, after all, condescend to abuse me himself. Why haven’t I the right to abuse him?”

“I’ve never heard him say anything at all about you, good or bad; he doesn’t talk about you at all.”

“Well, I’ve heard that the day before yesterday, at Katerina Ivanovna’s, he was tearing me to pieces for all he was worth—that’s how interested he was in your humble servant. And who is jealous of whom after this, my friend, I don’t know! He was pleased to express the idea that if I don’t agree to the career of an archimandrite in the very near future and don’t decide to take the tonsure, then I’ll certainly go off to Petersburg and join some thick journal, the critical section, certainly, and write for a dozen years or so, and in the end take the journal over for myself. Then I’ll publish it again, and certainly with a liberal and atheistic slant, with a socialist tinge, even with a little gloss of socialism, but keeping my ears open, that is, in essence, running with the hare and hunting with the hounds and pulling the wool over the fools’ eyes. The end of my career, according to your dear brother’s interpretation, is that the socialist tinge won’t prevent me from putting the subscription money into a current account and turning it over when the chance comes, under the guidance of some little Yid, until I build a big apartment house in Petersburg, so as to move the editorial office into it and let out the remaining floors to tenants. He even picked the spot for the house: by the New Stone Bridge over the Neva, which they say is being planned in Petersburg, from Liteinaya to the Vyborg side…”

“Ah, Misha, why, that may very likely all come true, every bit of it, to the very last word!” Alyosha suddenly exclaimed, unable to restrain himself and laughing merrily.

“So you go in for sarcasm too, Alexei Fyodorovich.”

“No, no, I’m joking, forgive me. I have something quite different on my mind. But wait: who could have told you such details, and from whom could you have heard about them? You couldn’t have been at Katerina Ivanovna’s yourself when he was talking about you?”

“I wasn’t there, but Dmitri Fyodorovich was, and I heard it with my own ears from Dmitri Fyodorovich, that is, if you like, he wasn’t telling it to me, but I overheard it, against my will, of course, because I was sitting in Grushenka’s bedroom and couldn’t come out the whole time Dmitri Fyodorovich was in the next room.”

“Ah, yes, I forgot, she’s a relative of yours…”

“A relative? Grushenka a relative of mine?” Rakitin suddenly cried, turning red all over. “Have you gone out of your mind, or what? Your brains are out of order.”

“Why? Isn’t she a relative? That’s what I heard…”

“Where could you have heard it? No, you gentlemen Karamazovs pose as some great and ancient nobility, when your father ran around playing the buffoon at other people’s tables and was kept in the kitchen on charity. Granted, I’m only a priest’s son and a louse beside you noblemen, but don’t insult me so gaily and so shamelessly. I have my honor too, Alexei Fyodorovich. I can’t be a relative of Grushenka’s, a public woman, kindly understand that, sir!”

Rakitin was in a state of violent irritation.

“Forgive me, for God’s sake, I could never have supposed, and besides, how is she a public woman? Is she really… that kind?” Alyosha suddenly blushed. “I tell you again, I heard she was a relative. You go to see her often, and you told me yourself that you have no love affair with her… I never thought that you of all people despised her so! Does she really deserve it?”

“If I visit her, I may have my own reasons for it, and that’s enough for you. As for being related, it’s more likely your dear brother or even your papa himself will saddle you with her as a relative, not me. Well, here we are. You’d better go to the kitchen. Ah! What’s going on here, what is this? Are we late? But they couldn’t have finished dinner so soon? Or have the Karamazovs been up to mischief again? Sure enough. There’s your papa, and Ivan Fyodorovich behind him. They’ve broken away from the abbot. There’s Father Isidor shouting something after them from the porch. And your papa is shouting too, and waving his arms; he must be swearing. Ha, and there goes Miusov, driving off in his carriage, see him going. And there’s Maximov the landowner running—why, there’s been a scandal here; so there was no dinner! You don’t suppose they’ve beaten the abbot? Or maybe they got a beating themselves? That would be worth it!…”

Rakitin was not exclaiming in vain. A scandal really had taken place, unheard-of and unexpected. It had all come about “by inspiration.”