THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV. Федор Достоевский
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future and don’t become a monk, I shall be sure to go to Petersburg and get on to some solid magazine as a reviewer, that I shall write for the next ten years, and in the end become the owner of the magazine, and bring it out on the liberal and atheistic side, with a socialistic tinge, with a tiny gloss of socialism, but keeping a sharp lookout all the time, that is, keeping in with both sides and hoodwinking the fools. According to your brother’s account, the tinge of socialism won’t hinder me from laying by the proceeds and investing them under the guidance of some Jew, till at the end of my career I build a great house in Petersburg and move my publishing offices to it, and let out the upper stories to lodgers. He has even chosen the place for it, near the new stone bridge across the Neva, which they say is to be built in Petersburg.”
“Ah, Misha, that’s just what will really happen, every word of it,” cried Alyosha, unable to restrain a good-humoured smile.
“You are pleased to be sarcastic, too, Alexey Fyodorovitch.”
“No, no, I’m joking, forgive me. I’ve something quite different in my mind. But, excuse me, who can have told you all this? You can’t have been at Katerina Ivanovna’s yourself when he was talking about you?”
“I wasn’t there, but Dmitri Fyodorovitch was; and I heard him tell it with my own ears; if you want to know, he didn’t tell me, but I overheard him, unintentionally, of course, for I was sitting in Grushenka’s bedroom and I couldn’t go away because Dmitri Fyodorovitch was in the next room.”
“Oh yes, I’d forgotten she was a relation of yours.”
“A relation! That Grushenka a relation of mine!” cried Rakitin, turning crimson. “Are you mad? You’re out of your mind!”
“Why, isn’t she a relation of yours? I heard so.”
“Where can you have heard it? You Karamazovs brag of being an ancient, noble family, though your father used to run about playing the buffoon at other men’s tables, and was only admitted to the kitchen as a favour. I may be only a priest’s son, and dirt in the eyes of noblemen like you, but don’t insult me so lightly and wantonly. I have a sense of honour, too, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I couldn’t be a relation of Grushenka, a common harlot. I beg you to understand that!”
Rakitin was intensely irritated.
“Forgive me, for goodness’ sake, I had no idea . . . besides . . . how can you call her a harlot? Is she . . . that sort of woman?” Alyosha flushed suddenly. “I tell you again, I heard that she was a relation of yours. You often go to see her, and you told me yourself you’re not her lover. I never dreamed that you of all people had such contempt for her! Does she really deserve it?”
“I may have reasons of my own for visiting her. That’s not your business. But as for relationship, your brother, or even your father, is more likely to make her yours than mine. Well, here we are. You’d better go to the kitchen. Hullo! what’s wrong, what is it? Are we late? They can’t have finished dinner so soon! Have the Karamazovs been making trouble again? No doubt they have. Here’s your father and your brother Ivan after him. They’ve broken out from the Father Superior’s. And look, Father Isidor’s shouting out something after them from the steps. And your father’s shouting and waving his arms. I expect he’s swearing. Bah, and there goes Miusov driving away in his carriage. You see, he’s going. And there’s old Maximov running! — there must have been a row. There can’t have been any dinner. Surely they’ve not been beating the Father Superior! Or have they, perhaps, been beaten? It would serve them right!”
There was reason for Rakitin’s exclamations. There had been a scandalous, an unprecedented scene. It had all come from the impulse of a moment.
Chapter 8
The Scandalous Scene
MIUSOV, as a man of breeding and delicacy, could not but feel some inward qualms, when he reached the Father Superior’s with Ivan: he felt ashamed of having lost his temper. He felt that he ought to have disdained that despicable wretch, Fyodor Pavlovitch, too much to have been upset by him in Father Zossima’s cell, and so to have forgotten himself. “The monks were not to blame, in any case,” he reflected, on the steps. “And if they’re decent people here (and the Father Superior, I understand, is a nobleman) why not be friendly and courteous with them? I won’t argue, I’ll fall in with everything, I’ll win them by politeness, and . . . and . . . show them that I’ve nothing to do with that Aesop, that buffoon, that Pierrot, and have merely been taken in over this affair, just as they have.”
He determined to drop his litigation with the monastery, and relinquish his claims to the wood-cutting and fishery rights at once. He was the more ready to do this because the rights had become much less valuable, and he had indeed the vaguest idea where the wood and river in question were.
These excellent intentions were strengthened when he entered the Father Superior’s dining-room, though, strictly speaking, it was not a dining-room, for the Father Superior had only two rooms altogether; they were, however, much larger and more comfortable than Father Zossima’s. But there was no great luxury about the furnishing of these rooms either. The furniture was of mahogany, covered with leather, in the old-fashioned style of 1820 the floor was not even stained, but everything was shining with cleanliness, and there were many choice flowers in the windows; the most sumptuous thing in the room at the moment was, of course, the beautifully decorated table. The cloth was clean, the service shone; there were three kinds of well-baked bread, two bottles of wine, two of excellent mead, and a large glass jug of kvas — both the latter made in the monastery, and famous in the neighbourhood. There was no vodka. Rakitin related afterwards that there were five dishes: fish-soup made of sterlets, served with little fish patties; then boiled fish served in a special way; then salmon cutlets, ice pudding and compote, and finally, blanc-mange. Rakitin found out about all these good things, for he could not resist peeping into the kitchen, where he already had a footing. He had a footing everywhere, and got information about everything. He was of an uneasy and envious temper. He was well aware of his own considerable abilities, and nervously exaggerated them in his self-conceit. He knew he would play a prominent part of some sort, but Alyosha, who was attached to him, was distressed to see that his friend Rakitin was dishonourable, and quite unconscious of being so himself, considering, on the contrary, that because he would not steal money left on the table he was a man of the highest integrity. Neither Alyosha nor anyone else could have influenced him in that.
Rakitin, of course, was a person of too little consequence to be invited to the dinner, to which Father Iosif, Father Paissy, and one other monk were the only inmates of the monastery invited. They were already waiting when Miusov, Kalganov, and Ivan arrived. The other guest, Maximov, stood a little aside, waiting also. The Father Superior stepped into the middle of the room to receive his guests. He was a tall, thin, but still vigorous old man, with black hair streaked with grey, and a long, grave, ascetic face. He bowed to his guests in silence. But this time they approached to receive his blessing. Miusov even tried to kiss his hand, but the Father Superior drew it back in time to avoid the salute. But Ivan and Kalganov went through the ceremony in the most simple-hearted and complete manner, kissing his hand as peasants do.
“We must apologise most humbly, your reverence,” began Miusov, simpering affably, and speaking in a dignified and respectful tone. “Pardon us for having come alone without the gentleman you invited, Fyodor Pavlovitch. He felt obliged to decline the honour of your hospitality, and not without reason. In the reverend Father Zossima’s cell he was carried away by the unhappy dissension with his son, and let fall words which were quite out of keeping . . . in fact, quite unseemly . . . as” — he glanced at the monks — “your reverence is, no doubt, already aware. And therefore, recognising that he had been to blame, he felt sincere regret and shame, and begged me, and his son Ivan Fyodorovitch, to convey to you his apologies and regrets. In brief, he hopes and desires to make amends later. He asks your blessing, and begs you to forget what has taken place.”
As he uttered the last word of