II. Старый шут

Two monks of the hermitage were already in the cell, awaiting the elder's coming: one was the father librarian, the other Father Païsy, a man in poor health, though not old, and, as they said of him, very learned.

Besides them, standing in a corner (and he remained standing the whole time afterward), there waited a young fellow, about twenty-two by the look of him, in an ordinary frock coat, a seminarian and future theologian who for some reason enjoyed the protection of the monastery and its brotherhood.

He was rather tall, with a fresh face, broad cheekbones, and narrow brown eyes that were intelligent and attentive.

His face expressed perfect deference, but a decorous one, without any visible fawning.

He did not even greet the entering guests with a bow, as one whose standing was not equal to theirs but, on the contrary, subordinate and dependent.

The elder Zossima came out accompanied by the novice and Alyosha.

The monks rose and greeted him with a most profound bow, touching the ground with their fingers, then, having received his blessing, kissed his hand.

Having blessed them, the elder answered each with just as deep a bow, touching the ground with his fingers, and from every one of them asked a blessing for himself as well.

The whole ceremony was carried out very seriously, not at all like some everyday rite, but almost with a kind of feeling.

To Miusov, however, it seemed that all of this was done with deliberate suggestiveness.

He stood at the front of all the companions who had come in with him.

He ought to have — and he had even turned it over in his mind the evening before — in spite of any ideas whatever, purely out of common courtesy (since such were the customs here), to step up and be blessed by the elder, at least be blessed, even if he did not kiss the hand.

But now, seeing all these bows and kisses of the monks, in a single second he changed his decision: gravely and seriously he made a fairly deep, worldly sort of bow and withdrew to a chair.

Fyodor Pavlovitch did exactly the same, this time aping Miusov completely, like a monkey.

Ivan Fyodorovitch bowed very gravely and politely, but also kept his arms stiff at his sides, while Kalganov was so abashed that he did not bow at all.

The elder lowered the hand he had begun to raise for a blessing and, bowing to them a second time, asked them all to sit down.

The blood rushed into Alyosha's cheeks; he was ashamed.

His evil forebodings were coming true.

The elder seated himself on a little leather sofa of red wood, of very old-fashioned make, and placed the guests — except for the two monks — along the opposite wall, all four side by side, on four red-wood chairs upholstered in black, badly worn leather.

The monks settled themselves at the sides, one by the door, the other by the window.

The seminarian, Alyosha, and the novice remained standing.

The whole cell was very cramped and of a somewhat faded appearance.

The objects and furniture were coarse, poor, and only the barest necessities.

Two pots of flowers on the windowsill, and in the corner many ikons — one of them of the Mother of God, of enormous size and painted, in all likelihood, long before the schism.

Before it a little lamp was burning.

Beside it stood two other ikons in gleaming settings, then near them molded little cherubs, porcelain eggs, an ivory Catholic crucifix with a Mater dolorosa embracing it, and several foreign engravings after the great Italian painters of past centuries.

Alongside these elegant and costly engraved images were displayed several sheets of the most common Russian popular lithographs of saints, martyrs, prelates, and so on — the kind sold for a few kopecks at every fair.

There were several lithographed portraits of Russian bishops, both present-day and former, but these hung on the other walls.

Miusov ran a fleeting glance over all this "officialdom" and fixed his eyes intently on the elder.

He set great store by his own judgment of people — he had this weakness, pardonable enough in him, considering that he was already fifty: the age at which an intelligent man of the world, well provided for, always grows more respectful toward himself, sometimes even against his will.

From the very first instant he did not like the elder.

And in truth there was something in the elder's face that many besides Miusov would not have liked.

He was a short, stooped little man with very weak legs, only sixty-five years old, yet looking, because of his illness, a good deal older — by at least ten years.

His whole face, which was, for that matter, very thin and dry, was strewn with fine little wrinkles, especially many of them about the eyes.

His eyes were small, of a light color, quick and shining, like two glittering points.

A few grayish hairs were left only at his temples, his little beard was tiny and sparse, tapering to a point, and his lips, which often smiled, were thin as two threads of string.

His nose was not exactly long, but sharp-pointed, just like a little bird's.

"By every sign, a spiteful and pettily arrogant little soul," flashed through Miusov's mind.

On the whole he was very displeased with himself.

The striking of a clock helped to start the conversation.

A cheap little wall clock with weights chimed twelve in a quick, hurried beat.

"Exactly on the hour," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, "and my son Dmitri Fyodorovitch is still not here.

I apologize for him, holy elder!

(Alyosha winced all over at the words 'holy elder.')

As for me, I am always punctual, to the very minute, remembering that punctuality is the courtesy of kings…

"But you, at any rate, are no king," muttered Miusov, unable to restrain himself at once.

"Yes, that's true, no king.

And just imagine, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, I knew that myself, by God I did!

And there — it's always like this, I always blurt something out at the wrong moment!

Your Reverence!" he exclaimed with a sudden flush of pathos. "You see before you a buffoon, a buffoon in very truth!

That's how I introduce myself.

An old habit, alas!

And if I sometimes tell lies out of place, why, I even do it on purpose, on purpose to make people laugh and to be agreeable.

One has to be agreeable, doesn't one?

Some seven years ago I turned up in a little town where I had some bits of business, and I'd got up a sort of paltry partnership with a few petty merchants.

We go to the district police captain, because we needed to ask him about something and to invite him to dine with us.

Out comes the police captain — a tall, fat, fair-haired, sullen man, the most dangerous sort in such cases: the liver, you know, it's their liver.

I go straight up to him, and you know, with the easy air of a man of the world: 'Mr. Police Captain,' says I, 'be our, so to speak, Napravnik!' — 'What do you mean,' says he, 'Napravnik?'

Within the first half-second I see the thing's gone flat: he stands there grave and immovable. 'I meant,' says I, 'to make a little joke, for the general good cheer, since Mr. Napravnik is our well-known Russian conductor, and what we need, precisely, for the harmony of our enterprise, is something of a conductor too…'

And I explained and drew the comparison quite reasonably, didn't I?

'Excuse me,' says he, 'I am a police captain, and I will not allow puns to be made out of my rank.'

He turned and walked off.

I went after him, calling out: 'Yes, yes, you are a police captain and not a Napravnik!' — 'No,' says he, 'now that it's been said, I am a Napravnik.'

And just imagine, the whole business of ours fell through!

And it's always so with me, always so.

I'm bound to do myself harm by my very own amiability!

Once, many years ago now, I said to a person of some influence: 'Your wife is a ticklish woman, sir' — meaning, of course, in the sense of honor, of moral qualities, so to speak — and he suddenly comes back at me: 'And did you tickle her?'

I couldn't hold back; all of a sudden, I think, let me be charming.

'Yes,' says I, 'I tickled her, sir' — well, then he gave me a tickling.

Only it happened so long ago that I'm not even ashamed to tell it now — I'm forever doing myself harm like that!

"You are doing it this very minute," muttered Miusov with disgust.

The elder silently studied the one and the other.

"You don't say! Imagine, I knew that too, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, and what's more, you know, I even had a presentiment I was doing it the moment I began to speak, and even, you know, a presentiment that you would be the first to point it out to me.

In those seconds when I see that my joke isn't coming off, Your Reverence, both my cheeks start sticking to my lower gums, almost as if a cramp were setting in; that's been with me since my youth, from when I was a hanger-on among the gentry and earned my bread by sponging.

I am a buffoon to the marrow, from birth — just the same, Your Reverence, as a holy fool; I won't deny that maybe an unclean spirit lodges in me too, though of no great caliber — anything more important would have chosen better lodgings, only not yours, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, for you are poor lodging yourself.

But for all that I believe — I believe in God.

Only lately I've fallen into doubt, but now, to make up for it, I sit and wait for great words.

I, Your Reverence, am like the philosopher Diderot.