The Karamazov Brothers Page 16

  All these charitable intentions were strengthened as they entered the abbot’s dining-room. Actually, the abbot did not have a dining-room; he had only two rooms, though admittedly they were much more spacious and comfortable than those of the starets. Not that the rooms were particularly smart or comfortable: the leather and mahogany furniture was in an oldfashioned style dating back to the ’twenties, and the floorboards were bare; but everything was spotlessly clean, with a large number of exotic flowers arranged on the window-sills; the most luxurious feature (relatively speaking, of course) was the sumptuously laid table; the tablecloth was spotless, the china gleamed; there were three different kinds of beautifully baked bread, two bottles of wine, two bottles of excellent monastery mead, and a large glass jug of monastery kvass, which was renowned throughout the neighbourhood. There was no vodka at all. Rakitin later recounted that this dinner consisted of five courses: sterlet soup with fish pirozhki;* then boiled fish exquisitely prepared in a special way; this was followed by salmon rissoles, ice cream and fruit compote, and, finally, a delicate blancmange. Rakitin had sniffed all this out, unable to resist having a peep into the abbot’s kitchen, where he had his connections. He had connections, eyes and ears everywhere. He was not content with his lot and was consumed with envy. He was well aware of his considerable abilities, but exaggerated them in his excessive self-esteem. He knew for certain that he would become an influential figure of some sort, but Alyosha, who was very attached to him, was tortured by the fact that his friend was dishonourable—and that not only was he totally unaware of this, but just because he knew he would not steal money lying on a table he considered himself unquestionably to be a man of the highest integrity. No one, not even Alyosha, could convince him otherwise.

  Rakitin, being a person of no social standing, could not be invited to the lunch party, but Father Yosif, Father Païsy, and one of the hieromonks were. They were already in the diningroom waiting for the abbot when Pyotr Aleksandrovich, Kalganov, and Ivan Fyodorovich entered. The landowner Maksimov was there too, inconspicuous in a corner. The abbot strode into the middle of the room to welcome his guests. He was a tall, lean old man, still vigorous, with dark, greying hair and a long, pious, grave face. He bowed silently to everyone, and they all came forward to receive his blessing. Miusov even went so far as to try to kiss his hand, but the abbot withdrew it just in time, thwarting the attempt. Ivan Fyodorovich and Kalganov, on the other hand, each received a full blessing, which they reciprocated with an open-hearted, smacking kiss on the hand, in peasant style.

  ‘We must offer you our most sincere apologies, Your Reverence,’ Pyotr Aleksandrovich began with a broad grin, but maintaining a dignified and respectful tone, ‘that we have come without our companion Fyodor Pavlovich, whom you also invited; he has been obliged to decline your kind invitation to dine, and not without good reason. In the Reverend Father Zosima’s cell he got carried away somewhat by the unfortunate family feud with his son, and said one or two highly inappropriate things… to be honest, his comments were downright indecent… of which matter,’ he stole a glance at the two hieromonks, ‘Your Reverence, I think, may already have been informed. And so, deeply conscious of his own guilt and full of sincere remorse, he was unable to overcome his shame, and asked us, myself and his son Ivan Fyodorovich, to convey to you his sincere regrets, his remorse, and contrition… In a word, he hopes and expects to make amends for everything later, but for the moment he seeks your blessing and begs you to forget what has happened…’

  Miusov fell silent. As he uttered the closing words of his speech, he experienced a feeling of complete self-satisfaction, so that not a trace of his earlier vexation remained in his heart. He was again full of sincere love for humanity. The abbot, having listened to him gravely, inclined his head slightly and said in reply:

  ‘I very much regret that our guest is unable to be here. Perhaps at our table he would have grown to like us, as we would have grown to like him. Please accept our hospitality, gentlemen.’

  He stood in front of the icon and began to say grace. All bowed their heads reverently, and the landowner Maksimov even leaned forward perceptibly, with his hands together in an attitude of extreme devotion.

  It was at this moment that Fyodor Pavlovich played his last trick. It should be noted that he really had intended to leave, and had indeed felt unable, after his disgraceful behaviour in the starets’s cell, to lunch at the abbot’s as though nothing had happened. Not that he was particularly ashamed or self-reproachful— perhaps, in fact, quite the reverse—nevertheless, he felt that to dine there would be somehow inappropriate. But just as he was about to get into his rickety calash which had drawn up at the entrance to the inn to take him away, he suddenly hesitated. He recalled his own words in the starets’s cell: ‘When I meet people, I always feel I’m the lowest of the low and everyone takes me for a buffoon, so I say to myself, why shouldn’t I act the fool, seeing that you’re all more stupid and vile than I am.’ He wanted to take revenge on everyone for his own tricks. He remembered too how he had once been asked long ago: ‘Why do you hate so-and-so so much?’ And he had replied in a fit of clownish impudence: ‘How shall I put it to you? It’s true he hasn’t done me any harm, whereas I played one of the dirtiest tricks imaginable on him, and the moment I had done so, I suddenly couldn’t stand the sight of him.’ Recalling this, he smiled to himself maliciously in a moment of reflection. His eyes gleamed and his lips even began to quiver. ‘Now I’ve started, I won’t stop,’ he decided suddenly. His innermost feeling at this moment could perhaps have been expressed as follows: ‘I can’t hope to rehabilitate myself now, so I’ll spit in their faces and be damned! I’ll not be ashamed of myself in front of them and that’s that!’ He told his driver to wait, retraced his steps quickly to the monastery, and went straight to the abbot’s quarters. He still had no clear idea what he was going to do, but he knew he no longer had any control over himself—just one tiny pretext, and he would commit the ultimate outrage—but simply an outrage, mark you, and by no means any sort of crime or act for which he could be punished in law. When it came to the crunch, he was always able to restrain himself, and on occasion he marvelled at this capacity in himself. He appeared in the abbot’s dining-room just when grace had finished and everyone was moving to the dining-table. He stopped in the doorway, cast his eyes around the room, and burst into prolonged, insolent, wicked laughter, brazenly staring everyone in the face.

  ‘They thought I’d left, but here I am!’ he shouted at the top of his voice.

  For a moment the whole company stared at him in dead silence, and suddenly everyone realized that something indecent and abominable was going to happen, that there was undoubtedly going to be a scandalous scene. Pyotr Aleksandrovich immediately passed from a mood of extreme good humour to one of utter fury. Everything that had died down and grown calm in his heart immediately revived and rose up again.

  ‘No, this is too much!’ he exclaimed, ‘I won’t… No, I won’t tolerate this!’

  Blood rushed to his face. His speech became confused, but this was not the moment for concern over decorum, and he grabbed his hat.

  ‘What is it he won’t tolerate?’ exclaimed Fyodor Pavlovich. ‘“This is too much, I won’t tolerate this?” What’s he talking about? Your Reverence, can I come in or not? Will you let me join you at your table?’

  ‘I welcome you with all my heart,’ replied the abbot. ‘Gentlemen,’ he added suddenly, ‘let me beseech you in all sincerity to set aside all your incidental quarrels and to come together in kindred love and harmony and in prayer to God at our humble repast…’

  ‘No, no, impossible,’ shouted Pyotr Aleksandrovich, who was quite beside himself.

  ‘And if it’s impossible for Pyotr Aleksandrovich, it’s impossible for me, and I shan’t stay either. That’s why I came. From now on, I’ll always be with Pyotr Aleksandrovich: if Pyotr Aleksandrovich goes, I go, if he stays, I stay. But you really annoyed him with that kindred love of yours, Your
Reverence: he doesn’t accept me as a relation! Isn’t that so, von Sohn?* Look at von Sohn standing there. How do you do, von Sohn?’

  ‘You… mean me, sir?’ mumbled the astonished landowner Maksimov.

  ‘Yes, you, of course,’ cried Fyodor Pavlovich. ‘Who else? You don’t imagine that the abbot is von Sohn, do you!’

  ‘Well I’m not von Sohn either, I’m Maksimov.’

  ‘Oh no you’re not, you’re von Sohn. Your Reverence, do you know who von Sohn was? There was a murder case: he was murdered in a whore-house—that’s what those places are called here, am I right?—they murdered and robbed him and, in spite of the fact that he was an old man, boxed him up and dispatched him from St Petersburg to Moscow in a freight wagon with a label attached. And as they were nailing him in, the dancing whores sang songs and played the psaltery, the pianoforte, I mean. And he really is that same von Sohn. You’ve risen from the dead, haven’t you, von Sohn?’

  ‘What’s all this? What’s he talking about!’ the hieromonks were heard to say.

  ‘Let’s go!’ cried Pyotr Aleksandrovich to Kalganov.

  ‘No sir, permit me!’ Fyodor Pavlovich interrupted shrilly, taking another step into the room. ‘Allow me to have my say. In the starets’s cell I was criticized for behaving disrespectfully, because I shouted about gudgeon. Pyotr Aleksandrovich Miusov, a relative of mine, likes to speak with plus de noblesse que de sincérité,* but I’m just the reverse, I like plus de sincérité que de noblesse—and damn your noblesse! Isn’t that right, von Sohn? Begging your pardon, Your Reverence, I may be a clown and I may act the clown, but I’m a “veray parfit gentil knight”,* and I will have my say. Yes sir, a “parfit gentil knight”, whereas Pyotr Aleksandrovich is a man with a chip on his shoulder and that’s all there is to it. I came here today, perhaps, to try and find out what was what and to express my opinion. My son Aleksei is seeking salvation here; I’m his father, I care for his fate, and so I should. All the while I’ve been here I’ve been listening and acting dumb, keeping my eyes open and not saying a word, but now I want to present the final act of the performance to you. What usually happens in this town? In this town, once you’re down, you’re down. You trip once, and you stay down for good. How else could it be! But I want to get up. Holy fathers, you infuriate me. Confession is a great sacrament, which I too venerate, and I’m prepared to bow down myself, but in that cell they’re all suddenly down on their knees, confessing out loud. Now, is it proper to confess out loud? The Church fathers instituted auricular confession,* which goes back to ancient times, and only in that form is confession a sacrament. Otherwise how could I, for instance, explain to him (he glanced at one of the monks) in front of everybody that I did such and such… I mean, such and such… you understand? Sometimes it might even be downright improper to mention certain things. Scandalous, in fact! No, holy fathers, you lot are enough to drive anyone to self-flagellation…* I’m going to write to the Synod at the first opportunity and I’m taking my son Aleksei home…’

  Nota bene: Fyodor Pavlovich was au fait with the situation. Malicious rumours had circulated at one time (not only in our monastery but in others too, where the cult of startsy had become established), and had even reached the bishop, that the startsy were being held in excessive reverence, to the detriment of the abbatial office, and that, among other things, the startsy were abusing the sacrament of confession, and so on and so forth. Absurd accusations, which eventually died without trace, of their own accord, both in our monastery and elsewhere. But the demon of stupidity, which had taken possession of Fyodor Pavlovich and was driving him further and further into the depths of irrationality, had reminded him of these past accusations, though he did not understand the first thing about them. He was quite unable to be specific on the matter, not least because on this occasion no one had knelt in the starets’s cell or confessed out loud, so that Fyodor Pavlovich could not have seen anything of the sort himself and was merely repeating old rumours and gossip which he had somehow remembered. But, having uttered such nonsense, he realized that he had blurted out an absurdity and was immediately anxious to convince his listeners, but most of all himself, that what he had said was not nonsense at all. And though he knew perfectly well that with each successive word he would only be adding more and more to the nonsense that he had already uttered, he was no longer able to restrain himself and gave full vent to his emotions.

  ‘Despicable!’ exclaimed Pyotr Aleksandrovich.

  ‘If you will allow me,’ the abbot said suddenly. ‘It was said of old:* “And they began talking about me much, even saying such things as gave offence. On hearing it all I said to myself: It is a remedy sent to me by Jesus to cure my soul of vanity.” And therefore we thank you in all humility, dear guest!’

  And he bowed from the waist to Fyodor Pavlovich.

  ‘Bah-bah-bah! Humbug and antiquated phrases! Antiquated phrases and antiquated gestures! Antiquated lies and the empty formality of all this bowing to the ground! We know all about this bowing! “A kiss on the lips and a dagger through the heart,” as in Schiller’s The Robbers. I don’t like falsehood, Reverend Fathers, I want the truth! But truth will not be revealed in eating gudgeon—take my word for it! Reverend Fathers, why do you fast? Why do you expect a reward for it in heaven? I too would fast for a reward like that! No, holy monk, be thou virtuous in this life, make a contribution to society, that would be more of a challenge, rather than shut yourself up in a monastery on full board in expectation of reward in heaven. You see, Your Reverence, I’ve a way of putting things too. So, what have we here?’ He approached the table. ‘Vintage Factory Port, Médoc bottled by Yeliseyev Bros.,* you’ve done yourselves proud, holy fathers! Not a gudgeon in sight. Just look at the bottles the fathers have displayed, he-he-he! And who has provided you with all this? The Russian peasant, the worker, who has deprived his family and disregarded the pressing needs of the state to hand over to you the few kopecks he earned with his calloused hands! Holy fathers, you suck the blood of the people!’

  ‘That is quite unworthy of you,’ said Father Yosif. Father Païsy maintained a stubborn silence. Miusov made a dash for the door, followed by Kalganov.

  ‘Well, holy fathers, I’ll follow Pyotr Aleksandrovich! I’ll never come here again, you can implore me on your knees, I won’t come! I sent you a thousand roubles, so now your greedy eyes are popping out for more, he-he-he! No, I’m not going to give you another kopeck. I’m taking vengeance for my lost youth, for all my humiliation!’ And he slammed his fist on the table in a fit of false indignation. ‘This monastery has meant a lot in my life! I’ve shed many bitter tears over it! You turned my wife, the klikusha, against me. You’ve damned me at all the seven Councils,* you’ve slandered me all over the district! Enough, fathers, today we live in the age of liberalism, the age of ocean liners and railways. Not a thousand, not a hundred roubles, not even a hundred kopecks, you’ll get nothing from me!’

  Once again, nota bene: our monastery had never meant anything at all in his life, nor had he ever shed any bitter tears over it. But he had got so carried away by his crocodile tears that for a brief moment he was on the point of believing in them himself; he was so touched that indeed he very nearly did burst into tears, but at the same instant he felt it was time to restrain himself. In response to his malicious lies, the abbot inclined his head and once more spoke solemnly:

  ‘And again it is written:* “Suffer with joy the dishonour that befalleth thee, and be not confounded, and bear no hatred against him who dishonoureth thee.” And we shall do likewise.’

  ‘Tut-tut-tut, confounded nonsense! You confound yourselves, fathers, I’m off. As for my son Aleksei, I’m taking him away from here for good, on my authority as his father. Ivan Fyodorovich, my most obedient son, kindly follow me, and that’s an order! Von Sohn, why should you stay here? Come home with me now. We’ll enjoy ourselves. It’s only a verst from here. Instead of lenten pies, I’ll serve you a suckling-pig with stuffing. We’ll have a feast; I’ll s
erve you cognac, with liqueur to follow; there’ll be raspberry brandy… Now, von Sohn, don’t miss this opportunity!’

  He left, waving his arms and shouting. This was the moment at which Rakitin caught sight of him and pointed him out to Alyosha.

  ‘Aleksei!’ his father called out, catching sight of him in the distance. ‘You’re coming home with me today for good, and bring your pillow and mattress—the lot, all your personal possessions.’

  Alyosha stood perfectly still; he surveyed the scene in silent concentration. In the meantime Fyodor Pavlovich had settled himself in the calash, followed by the grim-faced Ivan Fyodorovich, who sat down beside him without exchanging a single word and not even turning to say goodbye to Alyosha. But then there followed another farcical and almost incredible scene to crown the proceedings. The landowner Maksimov suddenly appeared alongside the tread-board of the calash. He ran up panting, anxious not to be left behind. Rakitin and Alyosha watched him approach. In his haste, he had already placed one foot on the tread-board, where Ivan Fyodorovich’s left foot was still resting, and, clutching hold of the frame of the calash, he prepared to jump in.

  ‘Me too, I’m coming with you!’ he cried, bobbing up and down, laughing his happy little laugh, his face beaming, and eager to the point of recklessness. ‘Take me with you!’

  ‘Well, what did I say,’ Fyodor Pavlovich cried triumphantly. ‘It is von Sohn! It’s the real von Sohn risen from the dead! But how did you get away? What sort of von-Sohnish tricks did you get up to in there, and how did you manage to leave the lunch? Talk about being brazen! I’m pretty brazen myself, but you, my friend, you take the biscuit! Hop in, hop in quick! Let him get in, Vanya, it’ll be fun. He can sit down at our feet somewhere. Will you sit down, von Sohn? Or shall we put you up on the box with the driver?… Hop up on the box, von Sohn!…’

  But Ivan Fyodorovich, who was already seated, without saying a word struck Maksimov a heavy blow in the chest which sent him flying back two or three paces. He was lucky that he did not fall.