The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky [children's books read aloud TXT] 📗

Chapter 2

The Old Buffoon

 

THEY entered the room almost at the same moment that the elder

came in from his bedroom. There were already in the cell, awaiting the

elder, two monks of the hermitage, one the Father Librarian, and the

other Father Paissy, a very learned man, so they said, in delicate

health, though not old. There was also a tall young man, who looked

about two and twenty, standing in the corner throughout the interview.

He had a broad, fresh face, and clever, observant, narrow brown

eyes, and was wearing ordinary dress. He was a divinity student,

living under the protection of the monastery. His expression was one

of unquestioning, but self-respecting, reverence. Being in a

subordinate and dependent position, and so not on an equality with the

guests, he did not greet them with a bow.

 

Father Zossima was accompanied by a novice, and by Alyosha. The

two monks rose and greeted him with a very deep bow, touching the

ground with their fingers; then kissed his hand. Blessing them, the

elder replied with as deep a reverence to them, and asked their

blessing. The whole ceremony was performed very seriously and with

an appearance of feeling, not like an everyday rite. But Miusov

fancied that it was all done with intentional impressiveness. He stood

in front of the other visitors. He ought-he had reflected upon it the

evening before-from simple politeness, since it was the custom

here, to have gone up to receive the elder’s blessing, even if he

did not kiss his hand. But when he saw all this bowing and kissing

on the part of the monks he instantly changed his mind. With dignified

gravity he made a rather deep, conventional bow, and moved away to a

chair. Fyodor Pavlovitch did the same, mimicking Miusov like an ape.

Ivan bowed with great dignity and courtesy, but he too kept his

hands at his sides, while Kalganov was so confused that he did not bow

at all. The elder let fall the hand raised to bless them, and bowing

to them again, asked them all to sit down. The blood rushed to

Alyosha’s cheeks. He was ashamed. His forebodings were coming true.

 

Father Zossima sat down on a very old-fashioned mahogany sofa,

covered with leather, and made his visitors sit down in a row along

the opposite wall on four mahogany chairs, covered with shabby black

leather. The monks sat, one at the door and the other at the window.

The divinity student, the novice, and Alyosha remained standing. The

cell was not very large and had a faded look. It contained nothing but

the most necessary furniture, of coarse and poor quality. There were

two pots of flowers in the window, and a number of holy pictures in

the corner. Before one huge ancient ikon of the virgin a lamp was

burning. Near it were two other holy pictures in shining settings,

and, next them, carved cherubim, china eggs, a Catholic cross of

ivory, with a Mater Dolorosa embracing it, and several foreign

engravings from the great Italian artists of past centuries. Next to

these costly and artistic engravings were several of the roughest

Russian prints of saints and martyrs, such as are sold for a few

farthings at all the fairs. On the other walls were portraits of

Russian bishops, past and present.

 

Miusov took a cursory glance at all these “conventional”

surroundings and bent an intent look upon the elder. He had a high

opinion of his own insight a weakness excusable in him as he was

fifty, an age at which a clever man of the world of established

position can hardly help taking himself rather seriously. At the first

moment he did not like Zossima. There was, indeed, something in the

elder’s face which many people besides Miusov might not have liked. He

was a short, bent, little man, with very weak legs, and though he

was only sixty-five, he looked at least ten years older. His face

was very thin and covered with a network of fine wrinkles,

particularly numerous about his eyes, which were small,

light-coloured, quick, and shining like two bright points. He had a

sprinkling of grey hair about his temples. His pointed beard was small

and scanty, and his lips, which smiled frequently, were as thin as two

threads. His nose was not long, but sharp, like a bird’s beak.

 

“To all appearances a malicious soul, full of petty pride,”

thought Miusov. He felt altogether dissatisfied with his position.

 

A cheap little clock on the wall struck twelve hurriedly, and

served to begin the conversation.

 

“Precisely to our time,” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, “but no sign

of my son, Dmitri. I apologise for him, sacred elder!” (Alyosha

shuddered all over at “sacred elder”.) “I am always punctual myself,

minute for minute, remembering that punctuality is the courtesy of

kings….

 

“But you are not a king, anyway,” Miusov muttered, losing his

self-restraint at once.

 

“Yes; that’s true. I’m not a king, and, would you believe it,

Pyotr Alexandrovitch, I was aware of that myself. But, there! I always

say the wrong thing. Your reverence,” he cried, with sudden pathos,

“you behold before you a buffoon in earnest! I introduce myself as

such. It’s an old habit, alas! And if I sometimes talk nonsense out of

place it’s with an object, with the object of amusing people and

making myself agreeable. One must be agreeable, mustn’t one? I was

seven years ago in a little town where I had business, and I made

friends with some merchants there. We went to the captain of police

because we had to see him about something, and to ask him to dine with

us. He was a tall, fat, fair, sulky man, the most dangerous type in

such cases. It’s their liver. I went straight up to him, and with

the ease of a man of the world, you know, ‘Mr. Ispravnik,’ said I, ‘be

our Napravnik.’ ‘What do you mean by Napravnik?’ said he. I saw, at

the first half-second, that it had missed fire. He stood there so

glum. ‘I wanted to make a joke,’ said I, ‘for the general diversion,

as Mr. Napravnik is our well-known Russian orchestra conductor and

what we need for the harmony of our undertaking is someone of that

sort.’ And I explained my comparison very reasonably, didn’t I?

‘Excuse me,’ said he, ‘I am an Ispravnik, and I do not allow puns to

be made on my calling.’ He turned and walked away. I followed him,

shouting, ‘Yes, yes, you are an Ispravnik, not a Napravnik.’ ‘No,’

he said, ‘since you called me a Napravnik I am one.’ And would you

believe it, it ruined our business! And I’m always like that, always

like that. Always injuring myself with my politeness. Once, many years

ago, I said to an influential person: ‘Your wife is a ticklish

lady,’ in an honourable sense, of the moral qualities, so to speak.

But he asked me, ‘Why, have you tickled her?’ I thought I’d be polite,

so I couldn’t help saying, ‘Yes,’ and he gave me a fine tickling on

the spot. Only that happened long ago, so I’m not ashamed to tell

the story. I’m always injuring myself like that.”

 

“You’re doing it now,” muttered Miusov, with disgust.

 

Father Zossima scrutinised them both in silence.

 

“Am I? Would you believe it, I was aware of that, too, Pyotr

Alexandrovitch, and let tell you, indeed, I foresaw I should as soon

as I began to speak. And do you know I foresaw, too, that you’d be the

first to remark on it. The minute I see my joke isn’t coming off, your

reverence, both my cheeks feel as though they were drawn down to the

lower jaw and there is almost a spasm in them. That’s been so since

I was young, when I had to make jokes for my living in noblemen’s

families. I am an inveterate buffoon, and have been from birth up,

your reverence, it’s as though it were a craze in me. I dare say

it’s a devil within me. But only a little one. A more serious one

would have chosen another lodging. But not your soul, Pyotr

Alexandrovitch; you’re not a lodging worth having either. But I do

believe-I believe in God, though I have had doubts of late. But now I

sit and await words of wisdom. I’m like the philosopher, Diderot, your

reverence. Did you ever hear, most Holy Father, how Diderot went to

see the Metropolitan Platon, in the time of the Empress Catherine?

He went in and said straight out, ‘There is no God.’ To which the

great bishop lifted up his finger and answered, ‘The fool has said

in his heart there is no God and he fell down at his feet on the spot.

‘I believe,’ he cried, ‘and will be christened.’ And so he was.

Princess Dashkov was his godmother, and Potyomkin his godfather.”

 

“Fyodor Pavlovitch, this is unbearable! You know you’re telling

lies and that that stupid anecdote isn’t true. Why are you playing the

fool?” cried Miusov in a shaking voice.

 

“I suspected all my life that it wasn’t true,” Fyodor Pavlovitch

cried with conviction. “But I’ll tell you the whole truth,

gentlemen. Great elder! Forgive me, the last thing about Diderot’s

christening I made up just now. I never thought