THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV. Fyodor Dostoyevsky
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and gravely.
“I’m not talking about his faith. I mean those two in the desert, only that idea. Surely that’s Russian, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s purely Russian,” said Alyosha smiling.
“Your words are worth a gold piece, O ass, and I’ll give it to you to-day. But as to the rest you talk nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. Let me tell you, stupid, that we here are all of little faith, only from carelessness, because we haven’t time; things are too much for us, and, in the second place, the Lord God has given us so little time, only twenty-four hours in the day, so that one hasn’t even time to get sleep enough, much less to repent of one’s sins. While you have denied your faith to your enemies when you’d nothing else to think about but to show your faith! So I consider, brother, that it constitutes a sin.”
“Constitute a sin it may, but consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch, that it only extenuates it, if it does constitute. If I had believed then in very truth, as I ought to have believed, then it really would have been sinful if I had not faced tortures for my faith, and had gone over to the pagan Mohammedan faith. But, of course, it wouldn’t have come to torture then, because I should only have had to say at that instant to the mountain, ‘Move and crush the tormentor,’ and it would have moved and at the very instant have crushed him like a blackbeetle, and I should have walked away as though nothing had happened, praising and glorifying God. But, suppose at that very moment I had tried all that, and cried to that mountain, ‘Crush these tormentors,’ and it hadn’t crushed them, how could I have helped doubting, pray, at such a time, and at such a dread hour of mortal terror? And apart from that, I should know already that I could not attain to the fullness of the Kingdom of Heaven (for since the mountain had not moved at my word, they could not think very much of my faith up aloft, and there could be no very great reward awaiting me in the world to come). So why should I let them flay the skin off me as well, and to no good purpose? For, even though they had flayed my skin half off my back, even then the mountain would not have moved at my word or at my cry. And at such a moment not only doubt might come over one but one might lose one’s reason from fear, so that one would not be able to think at all. And, therefore, how should I be particularly to blame if not seeing my advantage or reward there or here, I should, at least, save my skin. And so trusting fully in the grace of the Lord I should cherish the hope that I might be altogether forgiven.”
CHAPTER 8
Over the Brandy
THE controversy was over. But, strange to say, Fyodor Pavlovitch, who had been so gay, suddenly began frowning. He frowned and gulped brandy, and it was already a glass too much.
“Get along with you, Jesuits!” he cried to the servants. “Go away, Smerdyakov. I’ll send you the gold piece I promised you to-day, but be off! Don’t cry, Grigory. Go to Marfa. She’ll comfort you and put you to bed. The rascals won’t let us sit in peace after dinner,” he snapped peevishly, as the servants promptly withdrew at his word.
“Smerdyakov always pokes himself in now, after dinner. It’s you he’s so interested in. What have you done to fascinate him?” he added to Ivan.
“Nothing whatever,” answered Ivan. “He’s pleased to have a high opinion of me; he’s a lackey and a mean soul. Raw material for revolution, however, when the time comes.”
“There will be others and better ones. But there will be some like him as well. His kind will come first, and better ones after.”
“And when will the time come?”
“The rocket will go off and fizzle out, perhaps. The peasants are not very fond of listening to these soup-makers, so far.”
“Ah, brother, but a Balaam’s ass like that thinks and thinks, and the devil knows where he gets to.”
“He’s storing up ideas,” said Ivan, smiling.
“You see, I know he can’t bear me, nor anyone else, even you, though you fancy that he has a high opinion of you. Worse still with Alyosha, he despises Alyosha. But he doesn’t steal, that’s one thing, and he’s not a gossip, he holds his tongue, and doesn’t wash our dirty linen in public. He makes capital fish pasties too. But, damn him, is he worth talking about so much?”
“Of course he isn’t.”
“And as for the ideas he may be hatching, the Russian peasant, generally speaking, needs thrashing. That I’ve always maintained. Our peasants are swindlers, and don’t deserve to be pitied, and it’s a good thing they’re still flogged sometimes. Russia is rich in birches. If they destroyed the forests, it would be the ruin of Russia. I stand up for the clever people. We’ve left off thrashing the peasants, we’ve grown so clever, but they go on thrashing themselves. And a good thing too. ‘For with what measure ye mete it shall be measured to you again,’ or how does it go? Anyhow, it will be measured. But Russia’s all swinishness. My dear, if you only knew how I hate Russia…. That is, not Russia, but all this vice! But maybe I mean Russia. Tout cela c’est de la cochonnerie….* Do you know what I like? I like wit.”
* All this is filthiness.
“You’ve had another glass. That’s enough.”
“Wait a bit. I’ll have one more, and then another, and then I’ll stop. No, stay, you interrupted me. At Mokroe I was talking to an old man, and he told me: ‘There’s nothing we like so much as sentencing girls to be thrashed, and we always give the lads the job of thrashing them. And the girl he has thrashed to-day, the young man will ask in marriage tomorrow. So it quite suits the girls, too,’ he said. There’s a set of de Sades for you! But it’s clever, anyway. Shall we go over and have a look at it, eh? Alyosha, are you blushing? Don’t be bashful, child. I’m sorry I didn’t stay to dinner at the Superior’s and tell the monks about the girls at Mokroe. Alyosha, don’t be angry that I offended your Superior this morning. I lost my temper. If there is a God, if He exists, then, of course, I’m to blame, and I shall have to answer for it. But if there isn’t a God at all, what do they deserve, your fathers? It’s not enough to cut their heads off, for they keep back progress. Would you believe it, Ivan, that that lacerates my sentiments? No, you don’t believe it as I see from your eyes. You believe what people say, that I’m nothing but a buffoon. Alyosha, do you believe that I’m nothing but a buffoon?”
“No, I don’t believe it.”
“And I believe you don’t, and that you speak the truth. You look sincere and you speak sincerely. But not Ivan. Ivan’s supercilious…. I’d make an end of your monks, though, all the same. I’d take all that mystic stuff and suppress it, once for all, all over Russia, so as to bring all the fools to reason. And the gold and the silver that would flow into the mint!”
“But why suppress it?” asked Ivan.
“That Truth may prevail. That’s why.”
“Well, if Truth were to prevail, you know, you’d be the first to be robbed and suppressed.”
“Ah! I dare say you’re right. Ah, I’m an ass!” burst out Fyodor Pavlovitch, striking himself lightly on the forehead. “Well, your monastery may stand then, Alyosha, if that’s how it is. And we clever people will sit snug and enjoy our brandy. You know, Ivan, it must have been so ordained by the Almighty Himself. Ivan, speak, is there a God or not? Stay, speak the truth, speak seriously. Why are you laughing again?”
“I’m laughing that you should have made a clever remark just now about Smerdyakov’s belief in the existence of two saints who could move mountains.”
“Why, am I like him now, then?”
“Very much.”
“Well, that shows I’m a Russian, too, and I have a Russian characteristic. And you may be caught in the same way, though you are a philosopher. Shall I catch you? What do