VII. Семинарист-карьерист

It was a very small room with only the barest furniture; the bed was narrow and made of iron, and on it, in place of a mattress, lay nothing but a strip of felt.

In the corner, by the icons, stood a lectern, and on it lay a cross and the Gospel.

The elder sank onto the bed in exhaustion; his eyes glittered, and he breathed with difficulty.

Once seated, he looked at Alyosha intently, as though turning something over in his mind.

"Go now, my dear, go; Porfiry is enough for me, and you must hurry.

You are needed there; go to the Father Superior and wait at table for the dinner."

"Bless me to stay here," Alyosha brought out in a pleading voice.

"You are needed there more.

There is no peace there.

You will wait at table and make yourself useful.

If demons rise up, recite a prayer.

And know, my son" (the elder loved to call him so), "that henceforth, too, this is not your place.

Remember this, young man.

As soon as God grants me to depart this life — leave the monastery.

Leave it for good."

Alyosha gave a start.

"What is the matter with you?

Your place is not here for the time being.

I bless you for a great obedience out in the world.

You have much wandering still ahead of you.

And you will have to marry — you must.

You will have to endure everything before you come back again.

And there will be a great deal of work to do.

But I have no doubt of you, and that is why I am sending you out.

Christ is with you.

Keep Him, and He will keep you.

You will behold great sorrow, and in that sorrow you will be happy.

Here is my charge to you: in sorrow, seek happiness.

Work, work without ceasing.

Remember my words from this day on, for though I shall yet speak with you, not only my days but my very hours are numbered."

A strong emotion passed once more over Alyosha's face.

The corners of his lips trembled.

"What is it now?" the elder smiled gently. "Let the worldly see off their dead with tears; here we rejoice over a departing father.

We rejoice and pray for him.

Now leave me.

I must pray.

Go, and make haste.

Stay close to your brothers.

And not to one only, but to both."

The elder raised his hand to bless him.

There was no arguing, though Alyosha longed intensely to stay.

He longed, too, to ask one thing more, and the question all but broke from his tongue: "What did that earthly bow to his brother Dmitri foretell?" — but he did not dare to ask.

He knew that the elder would have explained it to him of his own accord, without being asked, if it had been possible.

But it meant, then, that it was not his will to do so.

And that bow had struck Alyosha to the core; he believed blindly that there was a mysterious meaning in it.

Mysterious, and perhaps terrible as well.

When he came out beyond the fence of the hermitage, to reach the monastery in time for the start of the dinner at the Father Superior's (only to wait at table, of course), his heart suddenly contracted with pain, and he stopped where he stood: the elder's words seemed to ring out before him anew, foretelling his own end, so very near.

What the elder foretold, and with such precision at that, was bound to come to pass beyond all doubt — Alyosha held that as an article of faith.

But how was he to be left without him, how was he to live without seeing him, without hearing him?

And where was he to go?

He bids me not to weep and to leave the monastery — Lord!

It was long since Alyosha had felt such anguish.

He walked quickly through the wood that divided the hermitage from the monastery, and, unable even to bear his own thoughts, so heavily did they press upon him, he began to gaze at the ancient pines on either side of the forest path.

The walk was not long, no more than five hundred paces; at such an hour no one could possibly cross his path, yet suddenly, at the first bend in the path, he caught sight of Rakitin.

He was waiting for someone.

"Is it me you're waiting for?" Alyosha asked, drawing level with him.

"You, precisely," Rakitin smirked. "You're hurrying to the Father Superior.

I know; he's giving a dinner.

There's been no spread like it since he received the bishop and General Pakhatov, you remember.

I shan't be there, but you go along and hand round the sauces.

Tell me one thing, Alexei: what does this vision mean?

That's just what I wanted to ask."

"What vision?"

"Why, that earthly bow to your dear brother Dmitri Fyodorovich.

And how he cracked his forehead on the floor, too!"

"You mean about Father Zosima?"

"Yes, about Father Zosima."

"His forehead?"

"Ah, I put it disrespectfully!

Well, disrespectfully, then.

So — what does this vision signify?"

"I don't know, Misha, what it means."

"I knew it — that he wouldn't explain it to you.

There's nothing clever in it, of course; just the usual pious twaddle, it would seem.

But the trick was done on purpose.

Now all the sanctimonious folk in town will start chattering and carry it about the province: 'What, you know, does this vision signify?'

If you ask me, the old man really is far-sighted: he's sniffed out a crime.

There's a stench about your lot."

"What crime?"

Rakitin was plainly itching to come out with something.

"It'll be in your nice little family, this crime.

It'll happen between your dear brothers and your rich little papa.

And so Father Zosima cracked his forehead against the floor, just in case of what's to come.

Then, when something happens: 'Ah, you know, the holy elder foretold it, he prophesied it' — though what sort of prophecy is there in his banging his forehead on the floor?

No, they'll say, it was an emblem, an allegory, and the devil knows what else!

They'll trumpet it, they'll remember it: he foresaw the crime, they'll say, he marked out the criminal.

It's always so with the holy fools: he crosses himself at the tavern and hurls stones at the church.

And so it is with your elder: he drives the righteous man out with a stick, but bows to the ground before a murderer."

"What crime?

What murderer?

What do you mean?" Alyosha stood rooted to the spot, and Rakitin stopped as well.

"What murderer?

As though you didn't know!

I'll wager you've thought about it yourself already.

By the way, this is interesting: listen, Alyosha, you always tell the truth, even though you always seat yourself between two stools — did you think about it or not, answer me?"

"I did," Alyosha answered quietly.

Even Rakitin was disconcerted.

"What's this?

Can it be that you, too, have already thought of it?" he cried.

"I... it isn't that I exactly thought it," Alyosha mumbled, "but just now, when you suddenly began talking about it so strangely, it seemed to me that I had been thinking it myself."

"You see (and how clearly you put it), you see?

Today, looking at your papa and at your dear brother Mitenka, you thought of a crime?

So I'm not mistaken, am I?"

"But wait, wait," Alyosha broke in uneasily, "what is it that lets you see all this?..

Why does it interest you so much — that's the first thing?"

"Two separate questions, but natural ones.

I'll answer each in turn.

Why do I see it?

I'd have seen nothing here, if I hadn't suddenly understood your brother Dmitri Fyodorovich today, the whole of him exactly as he is, all at once and in a flash, the whole of him just as he is.

By some single trait I seized hold of him entire, all at once.

These thoroughly honest but voluptuous men have a line that must not be crossed.

Otherwise — otherwise he'll even put a knife into his papa.

And the papa is a drunken, unbridled debauchee who never in anything knew any measure — the two of them won't hold back, and into the ditch they'll both go, plop..."

"No, Misha, no; if that's all it is, then you've reassured me.

It won't come to that."

"Then why are you trembling all over?

Do you know the thing of it?

Granted he's an honest man, Mitenka (he's stupid, but honest); but he's — a sensualist.

There's the whole definition of him, and his entire inner essence."

It was the father who handed down to him that vile sensuality.

You know, Alyosha, you're the one thing I marvel at: how is it that you're a virgin?

You're a Karamazov too, after all!

In your family, you know, sensuality is worked up to the point of fever.

Well, so these three sensualists are watching one another now... with knives tucked in their boots.

The three of them have already locked horns, and you, very likely, make a fourth.

— You're mistaken about that woman.

Dmitri despises her, — Alyosha said, with a kind of shudder.

— Grushenka, you mean?

No, brother, he does not despise her.

Once a man openly throws over his own betrothed for her, he doesn't despise her.

There's... there's something here, brother, that you can't grasp yet.

When a man falls in love with some beauty, with a woman's body, or even with no more than a single part of a woman's body (a sensualist can understand this), then he'll give up his own children for her sake, he'll sell his father and mother, sell Russia and his fatherland; an honest man, he'll go and steal; a meek man, he'll cut a throat; a faithful man, he'll betray.