The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky [children's books read aloud TXT] 📗
- Author: Fyodor Dostoyevsky
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it up to add piquancy. I play the fool, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to
make myself agreeable. Though I really don’t know myself, sometimes,
what I do it for. And as for Diderot, I heard as far as ‘the fool hath
said in his heart’ twenty times from the gentry about here when I
was young. I heard your aunt, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, tell the story.
They all believe to this day that the infidel Diderot came to
dispute about God with the Metropolitan Platon….”
Miusov got up, forgetting himself in his impatience. He was
furious, and conscious of being ridiculous.
What was taking place in the cell was really incredible. For forty
or fifty years past, from the times of former elders, no visitors
had entered that cell without feelings of the profoundest
veneration. Almost everyone admitted to the cell felt that a great
favour was being shown him. Many remained kneeling during the whole
visit. Of those visitors, many had been men of high rank and learning,
some even free thinkers, attracted by curiosity, but all without
exception had shown the profoundest reverence and delicacy, for here
there was no question of money, but only, on the one side love and
kindness, and on the other penitence and eager desire to decide some
spiritual problem or crisis. So that such buffoonery amazed and
bewildered the spectators, or at least some of them. The monks, with
unchanged countenances, waited, with earnest attention, to hear what
the elder would say, but seemed on the point of standing up, like
Miusov. Alyosha stood, with hanging head, on the verge of tears.
What seemed to him strangest of all was that his brother Ivan, on whom
alone he had rested his hopes, and who alone had such influence on his
father that he could have stopped him, sat now quite unmoved, with
downcast eyes, apparently waiting with interest to see how it would
end, as though he had nothing to do with it. Alyosha did not dare to
look at Rakitin, the divinity student, whom he knew almost intimately.
He alone in the monastery knew Rakitin’s thoughts.
“Forgive me,” began Miusov, addressing Father Zossima, “for
perhaps I seem to be taking part in this shameful foolery. I made a
mistake in believing that even a man like Fyodor Pavlovitch would
understand what was due on a visit to so honoured a personage. I did
not suppose I should have to apologise simply for having come with
him….”
Pyotr Alexandrovitch could say no more, and was about to leave the
room, overwhelmed with confusion.
“Don’t distress yourself, I beg.” The elder got on to his feeble
legs, and taking Pyotr Alexandrovitch by both hands, made him sit down
again. “I beg you not to disturb yourself. I particularly beg you to
be my guest.” And with a bow he went back and sat down again on his
little sofa.
“Great elder, speak! Do I annoy you by my vivacity?” Fyodor
Pavlovitch cried suddenly, clutching the arms of his chair in both
hands, as though ready to leap up from it if the answer were
unfavourable.
“I earnestly beg you, too, not to disturb yourself, and not to
be uneasy,” the elder said impressively. “Do not trouble. Make
yourself quite at home. And, above all, do not be so ashamed of
yourself, for that is at the root of it all.”
“Quite at home? To be my natural self? Oh, that is much too
much, but I accept it with grateful joy. Do you know, blessed
father, you’d better not invite me to be my natural self. Don’t risk
it…. I will not go so far as that myself. I warn you for your own
sake. Well, the rest is still plunged in the mists of uncertainty,
though there are people who’d be pleased to describe me for you. I
mean that for you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. But as for you, holy being,
let me tell you, I am brimming over with ecstasy.”
He got up, and throwing up his hands, declaimed, “Blessed be the
womb that bare thee, and the paps that gave thee suck-the paps
especially. When you said just now, ‘Don’t be so ashamed of
yourself, for that is at the root of it all,’ you pierced right
through me by that remark, and read me to the core. Indeed, I always
feel when I meet people that I am lower than all, and that they all
take me for a buffoon. So I say, ‘Let me really play the buffoon. I am
not afraid of your opinion, for you are every one of you worse than
I am.’ That is why I am a buffoon. It is from shame, great elder, from
shame; it’s simply over-sensitiveness that makes me rowdy. If I had
only been sure that everyone would accept me as the kindest and wisest
of men, oh, Lord, what a good man I should have been then! Teacher!”
he fell suddenly on his knees, “what must I do to gain eternal life?”
It was difficult even now to decide whether he was joking or
really moved.
Father Zossima, lifting his eyes, looked at him, and said with a
smile:
“You have known for a long time what you must do. You have sense
enough: don’t give way to drunkenness and incontinence of speech;
don’t give way to sensual lust; and, above all, to the love of
money. And close your taverns. If you can’t close all, at least two or
three. And, above all-don’t lie.”
“You mean about Diderot?”
“No, not about Diderot. Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The
man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a
pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him,
and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no
respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself
without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and
sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other
men and to himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily
offended than anyone. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take
offence, isn’t it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but
that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and
exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a
mountain out of a molehill-he knows that himself, yet he will be
the first to take offence, and will revel in his resentment till he
feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness. But
get up, sit down, I beg you. All this, too, is deceitful
posturing….”
“Blessed man! Give me your hand to kiss.”
Fyodor Pavlovitch skipped up, and imprinted a rapid kiss on the
elder’s thin hand. “It is, it is pleasant to take offence. You said
that so well, as I never heard it before. Yes, I have been all my life
taking offence, to please myself, taking offence on aesthetic grounds,
for it is not so much pleasant as distinguished sometimes to be
insulted-that you had forgotten, great elder, it is distinguished!
I shall make a note of that. But I have been lying, lying positively
my whole life long, every day and hour of it. Of a truth, I am a
lie, and the father of lies. Though I believe I am not the father of
lies. I am getting mixed in my texts. Say, the son of lies, and that
will be enough. Only… my angel… may sometimes talk about
Diderot! Diderot will do no harm, though sometimes a word will do
harm. Great elder, by the way, I was forgetting, though I had been
meaning for the last two years to come here on purpose to ask and to
find out something. Only do tell Pyotr Alexandrovitch not to interrupt
me. Here is my question: Is it true, great Father, that the story is
told somewhere in the Lives of the Saints of a holy saint martyred for
his faith who, when his head was cut off at last, stood up, picked
up his head, and, ‘courteously kissing it,’ walked a long way,
carrying it in his hands. Is that true or not, honoured Father?”
“No, it is untrue,” said the elder.
“There is nothing of the kind in all the lives of the saints. What
saint do you say the story is told of?” asked the Father Librarian.
“I do not know what saint. I do not know, and can’t tell. I was
deceived. I was told the story. I had heard it, and do you know who
told it? Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miusov here, was so angry just now about
Diderot. He it was who told the story.”
“I have never told it you, I never speak to you at all.”
“It is true you did not tell me, but you told it when I was
present. It was three years ago. I mentioned it because by that
ridiculous story you shook my faith, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You knew
nothing of it, but I went home with my faith shaken, and I have been
getting more and more shaken ever since. Yes, Pyotr Alexandrovitch,
you were the cause of a great fall. That was not a Diderot!
Fyodor Pavlovitch got excited and pathetic, though it was
perfectly clear to everyone by now that he was playing a part again.
Yet Miusov was stung by his words.
“What nonsense, and it is all nonsense,” he muttered. “I may
really have told it, some time or other… but not to you. I was
told it myself. I heard it in Paris from a Frenchman. He told me it
was read at our mass from the Lives of the Saints… he was a very
learned man who had made a special study of Russian statistics and had
lived a long time in Russia…. I have not read the Lives of the
Saints myself, and I am not going to read them… all sorts of
things are said at dinner-we were dining then.”
“Yes, you were dining then, and so I lost my faith!” said Fyodor
Pavlovitch, mimicking him.
“What do I care for your faith?” Miusov was on the point of
shouting, but he suddenly checked himself, and said with contempt,
“You defile everything you touch.”
The elder suddenly rose from his seat. “Excuse me, gentlemen,
for leaving you a few minutes,” he said, addressing all his guests. “I
have visitors awaiting me who arrived before you. But don’t you tell
lies all the same,” he added, turning to Fyodor Pavlovitch with a
good-humoured face. He went out of the cell. Alyosha and the novice
flew to escort him down the steps. Alyosha was breathless: he was glad
to get away, but he was glad, too, that the elder was good-humoured
and not offended. Father Zossima was going towards the portico to
bless the people waiting for him there. But Fyodor Pavlovitch
persisted, in stopping him at the door of the cell.
“Blessed man!” he cried, with feeling. “Allow me to kiss your hand
once more. Yes, with you I could still talk, I could still get on.
Do you think I always lie and play the fool like this? Believe me, I
have been acting like this all the time on purpose to try you. I
have been testing you all the time to see whether I could get on
with you. Is there room for my humility beside your pride? I am
ready to give you a testimonial that one can get on with you! But now,
I’ll be quiet; I will keep quiet all the time. I’ll sit in a chair
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