الفصل الفصل 6 · Why Is Such A Man Alive?

. Why Is Such A Man Alive?

Dmitri Fyodorovitch, a young man of eight and twenty, of medium height

and agreeable countenance, looked older than his years. He was

muscular, and showed signs of considerable physical strength. Yet there

was something not healthy in his face. It was rather thin, his cheeks

were hollow, and there was an unhealthy sallowness in their color. His

rather large, prominent, dark eyes had an expression of firm

determination, and yet there was a vague look in them, too. Even when

he was excited and talking irritably, his eyes somehow did not follow

his mood, but betrayed something else, sometimes quite incongruous with

what was passing. “It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking,” those who

talked to him sometimes declared. People who saw something pensive and

sullen in his eyes were startled by his sudden laugh, which bore

witness to mirthful and light-hearted thoughts at the very time when

his eyes were so gloomy. A certain strained look in his face was easy

to understand at this moment. Every one knew, or had heard of, the

extremely restless and dissipated life which he had been leading of

late, as well as of the violent anger to which he had been roused in

his quarrels with his father. There were several stories current in the

town about it. It is true that he was irascible by nature, “of an

unstable and unbalanced mind,” as our justice of the peace,

Katchalnikov, happily described him.

He was stylishly and irreproachably dressed in a carefully buttoned

frock-coat. He wore black gloves and carried a top-hat. Having only

lately left the army, he still had mustaches and no beard. His dark

brown hair was cropped short, and combed forward on his temples. He had

the long, determined stride of a military man. He stood still for a

moment on the threshold, and glancing at the whole party went straight

up to the elder, guessing him to be their host. He made him a low bow,

and asked his blessing. Father Zossima, rising in his chair, blessed

him. Dmitri kissed his hand respectfully, and with intense feeling,

almost anger, he said:

“Be so generous as to forgive me for having kept you waiting so long,

but Smerdyakov, the valet sent me by my father, in reply to my

inquiries, told me twice over that the appointment was for one. Now I

suddenly learn—”

“Don’t disturb yourself,” interposed the elder. “No matter. You are a

little late. It’s of no consequence....”

“I’m extremely obliged to you, and expected no less from your

goodness.”

Saying this, Dmitri bowed once more. Then, turning suddenly towards his

father, made him, too, a similarly low and respectful bow. He had

evidently considered it beforehand, and made this bow in all

seriousness, thinking it his duty to show his respect and good

intentions.

Although Fyodor Pavlovitch was taken unawares, he was equal to the

occasion. In response to Dmitri’s bow he jumped up from his chair and

made his son a bow as low in return. His face was suddenly solemn and

impressive, which gave him a positively malignant look. Dmitri bowed

generally to all present, and without a word walked to the window with

his long, resolute stride, sat down on the only empty chair, near

Father Païssy, and, bending forward, prepared to listen to the

conversation he had interrupted.

Dmitri’s entrance had taken no more than two minutes, and the

conversation was resumed. But this time Miüsov thought it unnecessary

to reply to Father Païssy’s persistent and almost irritable question.

“Allow me to withdraw from this discussion,” he observed with a certain

well-bred nonchalance. “It’s a subtle question, too. Here Ivan

Fyodorovitch is smiling at us. He must have something interesting to

say about that also. Ask him.”

“Nothing special, except one little remark,” Ivan replied at once.

“European Liberals in general, and even our liberal dilettanti, often

mix up the final results of socialism with those of Christianity. This

wild notion is, of course, a characteristic feature. But it’s not only

Liberals and dilettanti who mix up socialism and Christianity, but, in

many cases, it appears, the police—the foreign police, of course—do the

same. Your Paris anecdote is rather to the point, Pyotr

Alexandrovitch.”

“I ask your permission to drop this subject altogether,” Miüsov

repeated. “I will tell you instead, gentlemen, another interesting and

rather characteristic anecdote of Ivan Fyodorovitch himself. Only five

days ago, in a gathering here, principally of ladies, he solemnly

declared in argument that there was nothing in the whole world to make

men love their neighbors. That there was no law of nature that man

should love mankind, and that, if there had been any love on earth

hitherto, it was not owing to a natural law, but simply because men

have believed in immortality. Ivan Fyodorovitch added in parenthesis

that the whole natural law lies in that faith, and that if you were to

destroy in mankind the belief in immortality, not only love but every

living force maintaining the life of the world would at once be dried

up. Moreover, nothing then would be immoral, everything would be

lawful, even cannibalism. That’s not all. He ended by asserting that

for every individual, like ourselves, who does not believe in God or

immortality, the moral law of nature must immediately be changed into

the exact contrary of the former religious law, and that egoism, even

to crime, must become not only lawful but even recognized as the

inevitable, the most rational, even honorable outcome of his position.

From this paradox, gentlemen, you can judge of the rest of our

eccentric and paradoxical friend Ivan Fyodorovitch’s theories.”

“Excuse me,” Dmitri cried suddenly; “if I’ve heard aright, crime must

not only be permitted but even recognized as the inevitable and the

most rational outcome of his position for every infidel! Is that so or

not?”

“Quite so,” said Father Païssy.

“I’ll remember it.”

Having uttered these words Dmitri ceased speaking as suddenly as he had

begun. Every one looked at him with curiosity.

“Is that really your conviction as to the consequences of the

disappearance of the faith in immortality?” the elder asked Ivan

suddenly.

“Yes. That was my contention. There is no virtue if there is no

immortality.”

“You are blessed in believing that, or else most unhappy.”

“Why unhappy?” Ivan asked smiling.

“Because, in all probability you don’t believe yourself in the

immortality of your soul, nor in what you have written yourself in your

article on Church jurisdiction.”

“Perhaps you are right! ... But I wasn’t altogether joking,” Ivan

suddenly and strangely confessed, flushing quickly.

“You were not altogether joking. That’s true. The question is still

fretting your heart, and not answered. But the martyr likes sometimes

to divert himself with his despair, as it were driven to it by despair

itself. Meanwhile, in your despair, you, too, divert yourself with

magazine articles, and discussions in society, though you don’t believe

your own arguments, and with an aching heart mock at them inwardly....

That question you have not answered, and it is your great grief, for it

clamors for an answer.”

“But can it be answered by me? Answered in the affirmative?” Ivan went

on asking strangely, still looking at the elder with the same

inexplicable smile.

“If it can’t be decided in the affirmative, it will never be decided in

the negative. You know that that is the peculiarity of your heart, and

all its suffering is due to it. But thank the Creator who has given you

a lofty heart capable of such suffering; of thinking and seeking higher

things, for our dwelling is in the heavens. God grant that your heart

will attain the answer on earth, and may God bless your path.”

The elder raised his hand and would have made the sign of the cross

over Ivan from where he stood. But the latter rose from his seat, went

up to him, received his blessing, and kissing his hand went back to his

place in silence. His face looked firm and earnest. This action and all

the preceding conversation, which was so surprising from Ivan,

impressed every one by its strangeness and a certain solemnity, so that

all were silent for a moment, and there was a look almost of

apprehension in Alyosha’s face. But Miüsov suddenly shrugged his

shoulders. And at the same moment Fyodor Pavlovitch jumped up from his

seat.

“Most pious and holy elder,” he cried, pointing to Ivan, “that is my

son, flesh of my flesh, the dearest of my flesh! He is my most dutiful

Karl Moor, so to speak, while this son who has just come in, Dmitri,

against whom I am seeking justice from you, is the undutiful Franz

Moor—they are both out of Schiller’s _Robbers_, and so I am the

reigning Count von Moor! Judge and save us! We need not only your

prayers but your prophecies!”

“Speak without buffoonery, and don’t begin by insulting the members of

your family,” answered the elder, in a faint, exhausted voice. He was

obviously getting more and more fatigued, and his strength was failing.

“An unseemly farce which I foresaw when I came here!” cried Dmitri

indignantly. He too leapt up. “Forgive it, reverend Father,” he added,

addressing the elder. “I am not a cultivated man, and I don’t even know

how to address you properly, but you have been deceived and you have

been too good-natured in letting us meet here. All my father wants is a

scandal. Why he wants it only he can tell. He always has some motive.

But I believe I know why—”

“They all blame me, all of them!” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch in his turn.

“Pyotr Alexandrovitch here blames me too. You have been blaming me,

Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you have!” he turned suddenly to Miüsov, although

the latter was not dreaming of interrupting him. “They all accuse me of

having hidden the children’s money in my boots, and cheated them, but

isn’t there a court of law? There they will reckon out for you, Dmitri

Fyodorovitch, from your notes, your letters, and your agreements, how

much money you had, how much you have spent, and how much you have

left. Why does Pyotr Alexandrovitch refuse to pass judgment? Dmitri is

not a stranger to him. Because they are all against me, while Dmitri

Fyodorovitch is in debt to me, and not a little, but some thousands of

which I have documentary proof. The whole town is echoing with his

debaucheries. And where he was stationed before, he several times spent

a thousand or two for the seduction of some respectable girl; we know

all about that, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, in its most secret details. I’ll

prove it.... Would you believe it, holy Father, he has captivated the

heart of the most honorable of young ladies of good family and fortune,

daughter of a gallant colonel, formerly his superior officer, who had

received many honors and had the Anna Order on his breast. He

compromised the girl by his promise of marriage, now she is an orphan

and here; she is betrothed to him, yet before her very eyes he is

dancing attendance on a certain enchantress. And although this

enchantress has lived in, so to speak, civil marriage with a

respectable man, yet she is of an independent character, an

unapproachable fortress for everybody, just like a legal wife—for she

is virtuous, yes, holy Fathers, she is virtuous. Dmitri Fyodorovitch

wants to open this fortress with a golden key, and that’s why he is

insolent to me now, trying to get money from me, though he has wasted

thousands on this enchantress already. He’s continually borrowing money

for the purpose. From whom do you think? Shall I say, Mitya?”

“Be silent!” cried Dmitri, “wait till I’m gone. Don’t dare in my

presence to asperse the good name of an honorable girl! That you should

utter a word about her is an outrage, and I won’t permit it!”

He was breathless.

“Mitya! Mitya!” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch hysterically, squeezing out a

tear. “And is your father’s blessing nothing to you? If I curse you,

what then?”

“Shameless hypocrite!” exclaimed Dmitri furiously.

“He says that to his father! his father! What would he be with others?

Gentlemen, only fancy; there’s a poor but honorable man living here,

burdened with a numerous family, a captain who got into trouble and was

discharged from the army, but not publicly, not by court-martial, with

no slur on his honor. And three weeks ago, Dmitri seized him by the

beard in a tavern, dragged him out into the street and beat him

publicly, and all because he is an agent in a little business of mine.”

“It’s all a lie! Outwardly it’s the truth, but inwardly a lie!” Dmitri

was trembling with rage. “Father, I don’t justify my action. Yes, I

confess it publicly, I behaved like a brute to that captain, and I

regret it now, and I’m disgusted with myself for my brutal rage. But

this captain, this agent of yours, went to that lady whom you call an

enchantress, and suggested to her from you, that she should take

I.O.U.’s of mine which were in your possession, and should sue me for

the money so as to get me into prison by means of them, if I persisted

in claiming an account from you of my property. Now you reproach me for

having a weakness for that lady when you yourself incited her to

captivate me! She told me so to my face.... She told me the story and

laughed at you.... You wanted to put me in prison because you are

jealous of me with her, because you’d begun to force your attentions

upon her; and I know all about that, too; she laughed at you for that

as well—you hear—she laughed at you as she described it. So here you

have this man, this father who reproaches his profligate son!

Gentlemen, forgive my anger, but I foresaw that this crafty old man

would only bring you together to create a scandal. I had come to

forgive him if he held out his hand; to forgive him, and ask

forgiveness! But as he has just this minute insulted not only me, but

an honorable young lady, for whom I feel such reverence that I dare not

take her name in vain, I have made up my mind to show up his game,

though he is my father....”

He could not go on. His eyes were glittering and he breathed with

difficulty. But every one in the cell was stirred. All except Father

Zossima got up from their seats uneasily. The monks looked austere but

waited for guidance from the elder. He sat still, pale, not from

excitement but from the weakness of disease. An imploring smile lighted

up his face; from time to time he raised his hand, as though to check

the storm, and, of course, a gesture from him would have been enough to

end the scene; but he seemed to be waiting for something and watched

them intently as though trying to make out something which was not

perfectly clear to him. At last Miüsov felt completely humiliated and

disgraced.

“We are all to blame for this scandalous scene,” he said hotly. “But I

did not foresee it when I came, though I knew with whom I had to deal.

This must be stopped at once! Believe me, your reverence, I had no

precise knowledge of the details that have just come to light, I was

unwilling to believe them, and I learn for the first time.... A father

is jealous of his son’s relations with a woman of loose behavior and

intrigues with the creature to get his son into prison! This is the

company in which I have been forced to be present! I was deceived. I

declare to you all that I was as much deceived as any one.”

“Dmitri Fyodorovitch,” yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch suddenly, in an

unnatural voice, “if you were not my son I would challenge you this

instant to a duel ... with pistols, at three paces ... across a

handkerchief,” he ended, stamping with both feet.

With old liars who have been acting all their lives there are moments

when they enter so completely into their part that they tremble or shed

tears of emotion in earnest, although at that very moment, or a second

later, they are able to whisper to themselves, “You know you are lying,

you shameless old sinner! You’re acting now, in spite of your ‘holy’

wrath.”

Dmitri frowned painfully, and looked with unutterable contempt at his

father.

“I thought ... I thought,” he said, in a soft and, as it were,

controlled voice, “that I was coming to my native place with the angel

of my heart, my betrothed, to cherish his old age, and I find nothing

but a depraved profligate, a despicable clown!”

“A duel!” yelled the old wretch again, breathless and spluttering at

each syllable. “And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miüsov, let me tell you

that there has never been in all your family a loftier, and more

honest—you hear—more honest woman than this ‘creature,’ as you have

dared to call her! And you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, have abandoned your

betrothed for that ‘creature,’ so you must yourself have thought that

your betrothed couldn’t hold a candle to her. That’s the woman called a

‘creature’!”

“Shameful!” broke from Father Iosif.

“Shameful and disgraceful!” Kalganov, flushing crimson, cried in a

boyish voice, trembling with emotion. He had been silent till that

moment.

“Why is such a man alive?” Dmitri, beside himself with rage, growled in

a hollow voice, hunching up his shoulders till he looked almost

deformed. “Tell me, can he be allowed to go on defiling the earth?” He

looked round at every one and pointed at the old man. He spoke evenly

and deliberately.

“Listen, listen, monks, to the parricide!” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch,

rushing up to Father Iosif. “That’s the answer to your ‘shameful!’ What

is shameful? That ‘creature,’ that ‘woman of loose behavior’ is perhaps

holier than you are yourselves, you monks who are seeking salvation!

She fell perhaps in her youth, ruined by her environment. But she loved

much, and Christ himself forgave the woman ‘who loved much.’”

“It was not for such love Christ forgave her,” broke impatiently from

the gentle Father Iosif.

“Yes, it was for such, monks, it was! You save your souls here, eating

cabbage, and think you are the righteous. You eat a gudgeon a day, and

you think you bribe God with gudgeon.”

“This is unendurable!” was heard on all sides in the cell.

But this unseemly scene was cut short in a most unexpected way. Father

Zossima rose suddenly from his seat. Almost distracted with anxiety for

the elder and every one else, Alyosha succeeded, however, in supporting

him by the arm. Father Zossima moved towards Dmitri and reaching him

sank on his knees before him. Alyosha thought that he had fallen from

weakness, but this was not so. The elder distinctly and deliberately

bowed down at Dmitri’s feet till his forehead touched the floor.

Alyosha was so astounded that he failed to assist him when he got up

again. There was a faint smile on his lips.

“Good-by! Forgive me, all of you!” he said, bowing on all sides to his

guests.

Dmitri stood for a few moments in amazement. Bowing down to him—what

did it mean? Suddenly he cried aloud, “Oh, God!” hid his face in his

hands, and rushed out of the room. All the guests flocked out after

him, in their confusion not saying good-by, or bowing to their host.

Only the monks went up to him again for a blessing.

“What did it mean, falling at his feet like that? Was it symbolic or

what?” said Fyodor Pavlovitch, suddenly quieted and trying to reopen

conversation without venturing to address anybody in particular. They

were all passing out of the precincts of the hermitage at the moment.

“I can’t answer for a madhouse and for madmen,” Miüsov answered at once

ill-humoredly, “but I will spare myself your company, Fyodor

Pavlovitch, and, trust me, for ever. Where’s that monk?”

“That monk,” that is, the monk who had invited them to dine with the

Superior, did not keep them waiting. He met them as soon as they came

down the steps from the elder’s cell, as though he had been waiting for

them all the time.

“Reverend Father, kindly do me a favor. Convey my deepest respect to

the Father Superior, apologize for me, personally, Miüsov, to his

reverence, telling him that I deeply regret that owing to unforeseen

circumstances I am unable to have the honor of being present at his

table, greatly as I should desire to do so,” Miüsov said irritably to

the monk.

“And that unforeseen circumstance, of course, is myself,” Fyodor

Pavlovitch cut in immediately. “Do you hear, Father; this gentleman

doesn’t want to remain in my company or else he’d come at once. And you

shall go, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, pray go to the Father Superior and good

appetite to you. I will decline, and not you. Home, home, I’ll eat at

home, I don’t feel equal to it here, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, my amiable

relative.”

“I am not your relative and never have been, you contemptible man!”

“I said it on purpose to madden you, because you always disclaim the

relationship, though you really are a relation in spite of your

shuffling. I’ll prove it by the church calendar. As for you, Ivan, stay

if you like. I’ll send the horses for you later. Propriety requires you

to go to the Father Superior, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to apologize for

the disturbance we’ve been making....”

“Is it true that you are going home? Aren’t you lying?”

“Pyotr Alexandrovitch! How could I dare after what’s happened! Forgive

me, gentlemen, I was carried away! And upset besides! And, indeed, I am

ashamed. Gentlemen, one man has the heart of Alexander of Macedon and

another the heart of the little dog Fido. Mine is that of the little

dog Fido. I am ashamed! After such an escapade how can I go to dinner,

to gobble up the monastery’s sauces? I am ashamed, I can’t. You must

excuse me!”

“The devil only knows, what if he deceives us?” thought Miüsov, still

hesitating, and watching the retreating buffoon with distrustful eyes.

The latter turned round, and noticing that Miüsov was watching him,

waved him a kiss.

“Well, are you coming to the Superior?” Miüsov asked Ivan abruptly.

“Why not? I was especially invited yesterday.”

“Unfortunately I feel myself compelled to go to this confounded

dinner,” said Miüsov with the same irritability, regardless of the fact

that the monk was listening. “We ought, at least, to apologize for the

disturbance, and explain that it was not our doing. What do you think?”

“Yes, we must explain that it wasn’t our doing. Besides, father won’t

be there,” observed Ivan.

“Well, I should hope not! Confound this dinner!”

They all walked on, however. The monk listened in silence. On the road

through the copse he made one observation however—that the Father

Superior had been waiting a long time, and that they were more than

half an hour late. He received no answer. Miüsov looked with hatred at

Ivan.

“Here he is, going to the dinner as though nothing had happened,” he

thought. “A brazen face, and the conscience of a Karamazov!”