The Brothers Karamazov 1732 Studios

Russian · Book VI — The Russian Monk

II. Из жития в бозе преставившегося иеросхимонаха старца Зосимы, составлено с собственных слов его Алексеем Фёдоровичем Карамазовым

Notes on the Life of the Deceased Priest and Monk, the Elder Zossima, Taken from His Own Words by Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov

312 sentences · 707 notes

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  1. 1

    In Petersburg, in the cadet corps, I remained a long while, nearly eight years, and under that new schooling I smothered much of what my childhood had left in me, though I forgot nothing of it.

    ВInв · prepositionpreposition marking Петербурге
    ПетербургеPetersburgпетербург · proper noun, locative, masculine, singularoblique complement of пробыл
    вinв · prepositionpreposition marking корпусе
    кадетскомcadetкадетский · adjective, locative, masculine, singularmodifies корпусе
    корпусеcorpsкорпус · noun, locative, masculine, singularoblique complement of пробыл
    пробылI remainedпробыть · verb, past, indicative, active, singular, perfectivemain verb of the sentence
    яIя · pronoun, nominative, singularsubject of пробыл
    долгоa long whileдолго · adverbmodifies пробыл
    почтиnearlyпочти · adverbmodifies восемь
    восемьeightвосемь · numeral, accusativedepends on лет
    летyearsгод · noun, genitive, masculine, pluralin apposition to долго
    иandи · conjunctionlinks the coordination
    сunderс · prepositionpreposition marking воспитанием
    новымnewновый · adjective, instrumental, neuter, singularmodifies воспитанием
    воспитаниемschoolingвоспитание · noun, instrumental, neuter, singularoblique complement of заглушил
    многоеmuchмногое · noun, accusative, neuter, singulardirect object of заглушил
    заглушилI smotheredзаглушить · verb, past, indicative, active, singular, perfectivecoordinated with пробыл
    изofиз · prepositionpreposition marking впечатлений
    впечатленийimpressionsвпечатление · noun, genitive, neuter, pluraloblique complement of заглушил
    детскихchildhoodдетский · adjective, genitive, pluralmodifies впечатлений
    хотяthoughхотя · subordinating conjunctionintroduces the clause of забыл
    иevenи · particlemodifies забыл
    неnotне · particlemodifies забыл
    забылI forgotзабыть · verb, past, indicative, active, singular, perfectiveadverbial clause on заглушил
    ничегоnothingничто · pronoun, genitivedirect object of забыл
  2. 2

    In exchange I took on so many new habits, and even new opinions, that I was made over into a creature almost savage, cruel, and absurd.

  3. 3

    I acquired a veneer of courtesy and polished manners, together with the French tongue, yet the soldiers who served us in the corps we all reckoned no better than perfect brutes — and I no less than the rest.

  4. 4

    I most of all, perhaps, for of all my comrades I was the most susceptible to every influence.

  5. 5

    When we came out as officers, we stood ready to spill our blood for the wounded honor of our regiment, while of honor in its true sense scarcely one of us so much as knew what the thing was — and had he learned it, he would have been the first to jeer at it on the spot.

  6. 6

    Of our drinking, our debauchery, our swagger we were all but proud.

  7. 7

    I will not say we were wicked; all these young men were good fellows, only they carried themselves wickedly, and I worst of all.

  8. 8

    The chief thing was that a capital of my own had fallen to me, and so I set about living for my own pleasure, with all the headlong eagerness of youth, without rein, and went sailing on at full sail.

  9. 9

    But here is the strange part: I read books in those days too, and with great pleasure at that; yet the Bible alone I almost never opened in that time, though I never parted from it either, but carried it everywhere about with me — verily I kept that book, without myself knowing it, "against the day and the hour, against the month and the year".

  10. 10

    Having served in this fashion some four years, I came at last to the town of K., where our regiment was then quartered.

  11. 11

    The town society was varied, crowded, and gay, hospitable and rich, and I was well received everywhere, for I was of a cheerful nature from my birth, and besides was reputed not to be poor — which counts for no little thing in the world.

  12. 12

    And then a certain circumstance befell that became the beginning of everything.

  13. 13

    I grew attached to a young and lovely girl, clever and worthy, of a bright and noble character, the daughter of respectable parents.

  14. 14

    They were people of consequence, possessed of wealth, influence, and power, and they received me kindly and warmly.

  15. 15

    And it now seemed to me that the girl was tenderly disposed toward me — and my heart took fire at such a fancy.

  16. 16

    Afterward I came to grasp for myself, and saw quite plainly, that perhaps I had not loved her with such force at all, but only honored her mind and her lofty character — as indeed I could not but do.

  17. 17

    Self-love, however, held me back from making her an offer of my hand at that time: it seemed hard and frightening to part with the temptations of a dissolute, single, and unfettered life in years so young, and with money in the bargain.

  18. 18

    Hints, though, I did let drop. In any case, I put off any decisive step for a little while.

  19. 19

    And just then a posting fell to me, all at once, to another district for two months.

  20. 20

    I return after the two months and learn of a sudden that the girl is already married — to a wealthy landowner from the outskirts, a man somewhat older than I in years, yet still young, with connections in the capital and in the best society, which I had not, a most amiable man and, beyond that, an educated one, while of education I had none whatever.

  21. 21

    I was so stunned by this unlooked-for turn that my very mind grew clouded.

  22. 22

    And the chief of it lay in this — that, as I then learned, this young landowner had been her betrothed already for a long while, and that I myself had met him countless times in their house and noticed nothing, blinded as I was by my own merits.

  23. 23

    But this above all was what wounded me: how could it be that nearly everyone knew, and I alone knew nothing?

  24. 24

    And of a sudden I felt an unbearable spite.

  25. 25

    With the color rising in my face I began to recall how many times I had all but declared my love to her, and since she had neither stopped me nor warned me off, then — so I concluded — she had been laughing at me.

  26. 26

    Later, of course, I worked it out and remembered that she had not laughed in the least, but on the contrary had broken off such talk with a jest and turned it to other subjects — yet at the time I could not work this out, and burned with the thirst for revenge.

  27. 27

    I recall with wonder that this revenge of mine and this anger were to my own self burdensome and loathsome in the extreme, for, being of an easy temper, I could not stay angry at anyone for long, and so I went on as it were artificially stoking myself up, until in the end I grew monstrous and absurd.

  28. 28

    I bided my time, and once, in a large company, I managed of a sudden to insult my "rival" on a wholly extraneous pretext, mocking some opinion of his about a matter then of importance — it was in the year twenty-six that this happened — and the mockery, people said, came off cleverly and adroitly.

  29. 29

    Then I wrung an explanation from him and, in the giving of it, behaved so coarsely that he accepted my challenge in spite of the vast difference between us, for I was both younger than he, of small consequence, and of a low rank.

  30. 30

    Afterward I learned for certain that he had accepted my challenge partly out of a jealous feeling toward me as well: he had been jealous of me even before, a little, on account of his wife, then still his betrothed; and now he reasoned that, should she learn he had borne an insult from me without resolving to call me out, she might come unwillingly to despise him, and her love might be shaken.

  31. 31

    A second I procured quickly — a comrade, a lieutenant of our own regiment.

  32. 32

    Though duels were then prosecuted harshly, there was nonetheless something almost of a fashion in them among the military — to such a pitch do savage prejudices sometimes grow up and take firm root.

  33. 33

    It was the close of June, and our meeting was set for the morrow, outside the town, at seven in the morning — and verily there befell me then something as it were fated.

  34. 34

    Coming home in the evening, savage and ugly of mood, I flew into a rage at my orderly Afanasy and struck him twice across the face with all my strength, so that I bloodied his face.

  35. 35

    He had served me only a short while, and it had happened before too that I struck him, but never with such brutish cruelty.

  36. 36

    And will you believe it, my dear ones, forty years have gone by since then, yet even now I recall it with shame and torment.

  37. 37

    I lay down to sleep, slept some three hours, get up — the day is already breaking.

  38. 38

    I rose all at once, wanted no more sleep, went to the window, opened it — mine looked out upon the garden — and I see the sun coming up, warm, lovely, the little birds breaking into song.

  39. 39

    What is this, I think — why do I feel in my soul something shameful and base?

  40. 40

    Is it because I am going to spill blood?

  41. 41

    No, I think, it seems not on that account.

  42. 42

    Is it because I fear death, fear being killed?

  43. 43

    No, not that at all, not that in the least…

  44. 44

    And of a sudden, that very instant, I guessed what the matter was: it was that the evening before I had beaten Afanasy!

  45. 45

    It all rose up before me again of a sudden, as though it were happening anew: he stands before me, and I strike him full across the face with all my swing, while he holds his arms straight at the seams, his head erect, his eyes bulging as if on parade, flinching at every blow and not daring even to lift a hand to shield himself — and this is a man brought to such a pass, and this is a man beating a man!

  46. 46

    What a crime!

  47. 47

    It was as though a sharp needle had passed clean through my whole soul.

  48. 48

    I stand there as one dazed, while the sun is shining, the little leaves rejoicing and glittering, and the little birds — the little birds are praising God…

  49. 49

    I covered my face with both my palms, threw myself down on the bed, and wept aloud, sobbing.

  50. 50

    And I remembered then my brother Markel, and his words before his death to the servants: "My dear ones, my darlings, why do you serve me, why do you love me — and am I even worthy that anyone should serve me?"

  51. 51

    — "Yes, am I worthy" — it leapt of a sudden into my head.

  52. 52

    Truly, by what do I so deserve that another man, just such as I, the image and likeness of God, should serve me?

  53. 53

    Thus did this question pierce into my mind for the first time in my life.

  54. 54

    "Little mother, blood of my blood, verily each one is guilty before all and for all — only people do not know it, and were they to know it, paradise would be here at once!"

  55. 55

    "Lord, can this too be untrue" — I weep and think — "verily I am perhaps more guilty than all, and worse than all the people on earth!"

  56. 56

    And all the truth rose up before me of a sudden, in its full enlightenment: what am I going to do?

  57. 57

    I am going to kill a man, a good man, clever and noble, in no way guilty before me, and by that I shall rob his wife of happiness forever, torment her and kill her too.

  58. 58

    I lay thus face down on the bed, my face in the pillow, and never noticed at all how the time went by.

  59. 59

    Of a sudden my comrade the lieutenant comes in for me, with the pistols: "Ah," says he, "that's good, that you're already up — it's time, let's go."

  60. 60

    I grew flustered then, lost myself altogether; we went out, all the same, to take our seats in the carriage. "Wait here a moment," I say to him, "I'll run back in a flash — I've forgotten my purse."

  61. 61

    And I ran back alone into the lodging, straight to the little closet where Afanasy was: "Afanasy," I say, "yesterday I struck you twice across the face — forgive me," I say.

  62. 62

    He started so, as though taking fright, and stares — and I see that this is not enough, not enough, and of a sudden, just as I was, in my epaulets, I went down at his feet, my forehead to the ground: "Forgive me!" I say.

  63. 63

    At that he was utterly overcome: "Your honor, little father, my master, how can you… and am I even worthy…" — and of a sudden he burst into tears himself, just as I had a moment before, covered his face with both his palms, turned to the window, and shook all over with weeping, while I rushed out to my comrade, sprang into the carriage, and shouted "Drive on!"

  64. 64

    "Have you seen," I shout to him, "a conqueror? Here he is before you!"

  65. 65

    Such rapture is in me that I laugh, and talk the whole way, talk and talk — I no longer recall what it was I said.

  66. 66

    He looks at me: "Well, brother, you're a fine fellow — I see you'll uphold the uniform."

  67. 67

    So we arrived at the place, and they were already there, waiting for us.

  68. 68

    They set us up twelve paces apart, his the first shot — I stand before him cheerful, full face to him, not so much as blinking an eye, gazing at him with love, for I know what I shall do.

  69. 69

    He fired, and only just grazed my cheek with it and nicked my ear.

  70. 70

    "Thank God," I shout, "no man has been killed!" — and I snatched up my own pistol, turned about, and with a fling sent it up and into the wood: "Off you go," I shout, "and good riddance to you!"

  71. 71

    I turned to my opponent: "My dear sir," I say, "forgive me, a foolish young man, that through my own fault I have given you offense, and now have forced you to fire upon me.

  72. 72

    I myself am ten times worse than you — and likely more than that besides.

  73. 73

    Convey this to the person you honor above all others on earth."

  74. 74

    No sooner had I uttered this than all three of them cried out together: "For pity's sake," says my opponent, growing even angry, "if you did not wish to fight, why did you trouble us?"

  75. 75

    — "Yesterday," I say to him, "I was still a fool, but today I have grown wiser," — I answer him so merrily.

  76. 76

    "As to yesterday I believe you," says he, "but as to today it is hard to judge by your opinion."

  77. 77

    — "Bravo," I shout to him, clapping my hands, "in that too I agree with you — I've earned it!"

  78. 78

    — "Will you fire, my dear sir, or will you not?"

  79. 79

    — "I will not," I say, "and you, if you wish, may fire once more, only it would be better for you not to fire."

  80. 80

    The seconds too are shouting, mine especially: "What is this — to disgrace the regiment, standing at the barrier and begging pardon! Had I but known of this!"

  81. 81

    Then I stood before them, before them all, and was laughing no longer: "My good gentlemen," I say, "is it really so strange for our age to meet a man who would himself repent of his folly and own publicly the wrong of which he is guilty?"

  82. 82

    — "But not at the barrier!" shouts my second again.

  83. 83

    "That is just it," I answer them, "that is just what is strange, for I ought to have owned my fault the moment I arrived here, before they had fired their shot, and not led them into a great and mortal sin; but we have so monstrously," I say, "arranged ourselves in the world that to have acted so was almost impossible, since only after I have withstood their shot at twelve paces can my words mean anything now to them — whereas had I spoken before the shot, the moment I arrived here, they would simply have said: a coward, he took fright at the pistol, there's no need to listen to him.

  84. 84

    Gentlemen," I exclaimed of a sudden from the depths of my heart, "look around you at the gifts of God: the sky clear, the air pure, the tender grass, the little birds, nature lovely and sinless, while we — we alone are godless and foolish, and do not understand that life is paradise, for we need only wish to understand it, and at once it will appear in all its beauty, and we shall embrace one another and weep…"

  85. 85

    I wished to go on still further, but could not — my very breath was taken from me, so sweet it was, so youthful, and in my heart was such happiness as I had never felt in all my life.

  86. 86

    "All this is sensible and devout," my opponent says to me, "and in any case you are an original sort of man."

  87. 87

    — "Laugh," I say to him, laughing too, "but afterward you yourselves will praise me."

  88. 88

    — "Why, I am ready to praise you even now," says he; "if you please, I'll hold out my hand to you, for it seems you are truly a sincere man."

  89. 89

    — "No," I say, "not just now, but later, when I have made myself better and earned your respect — then hold it out, and you'll do well by it."

  90. 90

    We returned home, my second grumbling the whole way, while I kissed him.

  91. 91

    Straightway my comrades got wind of it and gathered to sit in judgment on me that very day: "He has fouled the uniform," they said, "let him send in his resignation."

  92. 92

    Defenders appeared too: "After all," they say, "he did withstand the shot."

  93. 93

    — "Yes, but he took fright at the other shots and begged pardon at the barrier."

  94. 94

    — "But had he taken fright at the shots," the defenders retort, "he would have fired his own pistol first, before begging pardon, whereas he flung it still loaded into the wood — no, there's something else in this, something original."

  95. 95

    I listen, and it is a joy to me to look upon them.

  96. 96

    "My dearest ones," I say, "my friends and comrades, do not trouble yourselves over my resigning, for that I have already done — I have already sent it in, this very morning at the office, and once my discharge comes through, I shall straightway enter a monastery; it is for that that I am resigning."

  97. 97

    The moment I said this, every last one of them burst out laughing: "Why, you should have told us from the very start — now it's all explained; you can't sit in judgment on a monk," — they laugh, they cannot stop, and not mockingly at all, but tenderly so they laugh, merrily; all at once they came to love me, even the most fervent of my accusers, and then that whole month, until my discharge came through, they fairly carried me about in their arms: "Ah, you monk," they say.

  98. 98

    And everyone has a kind word for me, they began to talk me out of it, even to pity me: "What are you doing to yourself?"

  99. 99

    — "No," they say, "he's a brave one with us — he withstood the shot and could have fired his own pistol, but a dream came to him the night before that he should go among the monks, and that's the whole of it."

  100. 100

    Much the same thing came to pass in the town society too.

  101. 101

    Before, they had taken no particular notice of me, only receiving me cordially, but now of a sudden everyone vied to make my acquaintance and began inviting me to their homes: they laugh at me themselves, yet they love me.

  102. 102

    I will remark here that, although everyone then spoke aloud of our duel, the authorities hushed the matter up, for my opponent was a close kinsman of our general, and since the affair had passed off without blood, and as if in jest, and since I, after all, had sent in my resignation, they turned it into a jest indeed.

  103. 103

    And so I then began to speak aloud and without fear, in spite of their laughter, since the laughter, after all, was not malicious but kindly.

  104. 104

    All these conversations took place chiefly of an evening in the ladies' company, for the women came then to love listening to me, and made the men listen too.

  105. 105

    "But how can it be that I should be guilty for everyone," each one laughs in my face, "why, how can I be guilty for you, for instance?"

  106. 106

    — "But how," I answer them, "are you to know this, when the whole world has long since gone off upon another road, and when we take downright lies for truth and demand the like lies from others as well.

  107. 107

    Here, for once in my life, I up and acted sincerely, and what then — I have become to all of you like a holy fool: though you've come to love me, still you laugh at me," I say.

  108. 108

    — "But how is one not to love a man like you?" the hostess laughs aloud at me — and the gathering at her house was a crowded one.

  109. 109

    Of a sudden, I look, and there rises from among the ladies that very young person on whose account I had then called my man out to the duel, and whom so lately I had marked for my own bride — and I had not even noticed how she had now come to the evening.

  110. 110

    She rose, came up to me, held out her hand: "Permit me," she says, "to make plain to you that I am the first not to laugh at you, but, on the contrary, I thank you with tears and declare my respect for you on account of your conduct that day."

  111. 111

    Then her husband too came up, and after that all of a sudden everyone pressed toward me, all but kissing me.

  112. 112

    Such gladness came over me; but above all I suddenly noticed then a certain gentleman, a man already getting on in years, who was likewise coming up to me — one whom, though I had known him before by name, I had never been acquainted with, and to whom up to that evening I had not spoken so much as a word.

  113. 113

    He had long been in the service in our town, held a prominent post, was a man respected by all, wealthy, renowned for his charity, who had given a considerable sum to the almshouse and the orphanage, and had besides done much good in secret, without publicity — all of which afterward, upon his death, came to light.

  114. 114

    He was about fifty, and had an almost stern look, and was a man of few words; he had been married not more than ten years to a wife still young, by whom he had three children, all still of tender age.

  115. 115

    Now the next evening I am sitting at home, when of a sudden my door opens and this very gentleman comes in to me.

  116. 116

    And it must be noted that I was then no longer living in my former quarters, but had, the moment I sent in my resignation, moved to another lodging, which I took from an old woman, the widow of a clerk, together with her servant — for my very move to this lodging came about only because, on the same day I returned from the duel, I had Afanasy sent back to his company, since I was ashamed to look him in the eye after my recent conduct toward him — to such a degree is the unprepared, worldly man inclined to feel ashamed even of his own most righteous deeds.

  117. 117

    "I," the gentleman who had come in says to me, "have been listening to you for several days now in various houses with great curiosity, and have at last wished to make your acquaintance in person, in order to speak with you in still greater detail.

  118. 118

    Can you do me, my dear sir, so great a service?"

  119. 119

    — "I can," I say, "with the greatest of pleasure, and shall count it a peculiar honor," — I say this to him, while I myself was almost taken with fright, so greatly had he struck me at the very first sight of him.

  120. 120

    For though others had listened to me and been curious, no one yet had come up to me with such a grave and severe inward air.

  121. 121

    And this one came to my lodgings of his own accord.

  122. 122

    He sat down.

  123. 123

    "I see in you," he went on, "a great strength of character, for you were not afraid to serve the truth in a matter where, for the sake of your own honesty, you risked drawing the contempt of everyone upon yourself."

  124. 124

    "Perhaps you praise me far too much," I said to him.

  125. 125

    "No, not too much," he answered me. "Believe me, to carry out such an act is far harder than you think.

  126. 126

    It was that, in fact," he went on, "that astonished me, and that is why I have come to you.

  127. 127

    Describe to me, if you do not find my curiosity too unseemly, what precisely you felt in that moment, when at the duel you resolved to ask forgiveness — if indeed you remember it."

  128. 128

    Do not take my question for idle frivolity; on the contrary, in asking it I have a secret aim of my own, which I shall probably explain to you later, if it pleases God to bring us closer still."

  129. 129

    The whole time he was saying this I looked him straight in the face, and suddenly I felt toward him the strongest trust, and besides that an extraordinary curiosity of my own, for I sensed that there was some secret of his own locked away in his soul.

  130. 130

    "You ask what exactly I felt in that moment, when I begged my opponent's forgiveness," I answered him, "but I had better tell you from the very beginning what I have told no one else" — and I told him everything that had passed between me and Afanasy, and how I had bowed down to the ground before him.

  131. 131

    "From this you can see for yourself," I concluded to him, "that by the time of the duel it was already easier for me, for I had begun back at home, and once I had set out on that road, all that followed was not only not hard, but even joyful and glad."

  132. 132

    He heard me out, looking at me so kindly: "All of this," he said, "is extraordinarily interesting; I shall come to you again and again."

  133. 133

    And from that time on he began to come to me almost every evening.

  134. 134

    And we should have grown very close, if only he had spoken to me about himself as well.

  135. 135

    But about himself he said hardly a word, and kept questioning me only about myself.

  136. 136

    In spite of that, I came to love him greatly and confided to him completely in all my feelings, for I reasoned: what need have I of his secrets, when I can see even without them that the man is righteous.

  137. 137

    And on top of that, a man so serious, and so unequal to me in years, yet he comes to me, a youth, and does not look down on me.

  138. 138

    And I learned much that was useful from him, for he was a man of lofty mind.

  139. 139

    "That life is paradise," he said to me suddenly, "I have long been thinking — " and suddenly he added: "It is the only thing I think about."

  140. 140

    He looked at me and smiled.

  141. 141

    "I am more convinced of this than you are," he said; "later you will learn why."

  142. 142

    I listened to this and thought to myself: "He surely means to reveal something to me."

  143. 143

    "Paradise," he said, "is hidden within each of us; here it lies concealed within me even now, and if I will it, tomorrow it will dawn for me in reality, and for the whole of my life thereafter."

  144. 144

    I looked: he spoke with deep feeling and gazed at me mysteriously, as if he were questioning me.

  145. 145

    "And as for the truth," he went on, "that every man is guilty before all and for all, over and above his own sins — about that you judged entirely rightly, and it is astonishing how you could suddenly grasp that thought in such fullness.

  146. 146

    And it is truly the case that when people understand this thought, then the kingdom of heaven will dawn for them no longer in dream, but in reality."

  147. 147

    "And when," I cried out to him then, with grief, "will this come to pass, and will it ever come to pass at all? Is it not, perhaps, only a dream?"

  148. 148

    "There now, you yourself do not believe it," he said; "you preach it and you yourself do not believe it.

  149. 149

    Know, then, that this dream, as you call it, will undoubtedly come to pass — believe that — but not now, for every action has its own law.

  150. 150

    This is a matter of the soul, a psychological matter.

  151. 151

    To remake the world anew, people themselves must first turn psychically onto another road.

  152. 152

    Until you have truly become a brother to everyone, brotherhood will not come.

  153. 153

    Never, by any science or any self-interest, will people manage to divide their property and their rights among themselves without offense.

  154. 154

    Each will find his share too small, and all will murmur, envy, and destroy one another.

  155. 155

    You ask when this will come to pass.

  156. 156

    It will come to pass, but first the period of human isolation must run its course."

  157. 157

    "What isolation is that?" I asked him.

  158. 158

    "The kind that now reigns everywhere, and especially in our age — but it has not yet fully run its course, and its term has not yet come.

  159. 159

    For everyone now strives to set his own person as far apart as possible, wishing to experience the fullness of life within himself alone; yet from all his efforts there comes, instead of the fullness of life, only complete self-destruction, for instead of the full realization of his own being he sinks into utter isolation.

  160. 160

    For everyone in our age has split off into separate units, each withdraws into his own burrow, each draws away from the next, hides himself and hides what he has, and ends by thrusting himself away from people and thrusting people away from himself.

  161. 161

    In isolation he hoards wealth and thinks: how strong I am now, and how secure — and the madman does not know that the more he hoards, the deeper he sinks into a suicidal impotence.

  162. 162

    For he has grown used to relying on himself alone and has cut himself off from the whole as a single unit; he has trained his soul not to believe in human help, in people, in mankind, and trembles only at the thought that his money and the rights he has acquired might be lost.

  163. 163

    Everywhere the human mind nowadays begins, mockingly, to fail to understand that a person's true security lies not in his own isolated, solitary effort, but in the common wholeness of mankind.

  164. 164

    But it will surely come to pass that the term will arrive even for this dreadful isolation, and all at once people will understand how unnaturally they have set themselves apart from one another.

  165. 165

    Such will be the spirit of the times by then, and they will marvel that they sat so long in darkness and did not see the light.

  166. 166

    Then the sign of the Son of Man will appear in the heavens…

  167. 167

    But until then we must keep the banner all the same, and now and again, even singly, a man must suddenly set an example and lead his soul out of isolation toward the great work of brotherly communion, even if it be in the guise of a holy fool.

  168. 168

    This, so that the great thought shall not die…"

  169. 169

    It was in such fervent and exhilarating talks as these that our evenings passed, one after another.

  170. 170

    I even gave up society and began to appear far more rarely as a guest, quite apart from the fact that the fashion for me was beginning to fade.

  171. 171

    I say this not in reproach, for they went on loving me and treating me cheerfully; but that fashion really is no small queen in the world of society — that, at least, one must admit.

  172. 172

    As for my mysterious visitor, I came at last to regard him with admiration, for besides the delight I took in his mind, I began to sense that he was nursing some design within himself and was preparing for some great deed, perhaps.

  173. 173

    Perhaps he was also pleased that outwardly I showed no curiosity about his secret, and did not probe him, neither directly nor by hint.

  174. 174

    But at last I noticed that he himself had begun, as it were, to be tormented by a longing to reveal something to me.

  175. 175

    At any rate this had grown very plain to see about a month after he first began visiting me.

  176. 176

    "Do you know," he asked me one day, "that there is great curiosity in town about the two of us, and people wonder that I come to you so often? But let them, for soon all will be explained."

  177. 177

    Sometimes an extraordinary agitation would suddenly fall upon him, and in almost every such case he would rise and leave.

  178. 178

    Sometimes he would look at me long and, as it were, piercingly — I would think: "Surely now he will say something" — and then he would suddenly break off and start talking about something familiar and ordinary.

  179. 179

    He also began to complain often of headaches.

  180. 180

    And then one day, quite unexpectedly, after he had been speaking long and fervently, I saw him suddenly turn pale, his face contorting completely, while he stared at me point-blank.

  181. 181

    "What is the matter with you," I said; "are you not feeling unwell?" For he had in fact been complaining of a headache.

  182. 182

    "I… do you know… I… I have killed a man."

  183. 183

    He brought it out and then smiled, though he himself had gone white as chalk.

  184. 184

    "Why is he smiling?" — the thought pierced my heart all at once, before I had managed to grasp anything else.

  185. 185

    I myself turned pale.

  186. 186

    "What is this you are saying?" I cried out to him.

  187. 187

    "You see," he answered me, still with that wan smile, "how dearly it cost me to say that first word. Now I have said it, and it seems I have set out on the road. I shall go on."

  188. 188

    For a long time I would not believe him, nor did I believe him at once, but only after he had come to me for three days and told me everything in detail.

  189. 189

    I took him for a madman, but in the end I was finally convinced, plainly and with the greatest grief and amazement.

  190. 190

    A great and terrible crime had been committed by him, fourteen years before, against a certain wealthy lady, young and very beautiful, a landowning widow, who kept a house of her own in our town for her visits there.

  191. 191

    Having conceived a great love for her, he declared his love to her and began urging her to marry him.

  192. 192

    But she had already given her heart to another — to a certain man of rank, an officer of no small standing who was at that time away on campaign, and whom she was expecting back to her, however, before long.

  193. 193

    She rejected his proposal and asked him not to come to her again.

  194. 194

    Having stopped coming, he, knowing the layout of her house, made his way in to her by night from the garden across the roof, with the utmost audacity, at the risk of being discovered.

  195. 195

    But, as very often happens, all crimes committed with extraordinary audacity succeed more often than the rest.

  196. 196

    Entering the attic of the house through a dormer window, he made his way down to her, into the living quarters below, by the little stair from the attic, knowing that the door at the foot of the stair was not always locked, owing to the carelessness of the servants.

  197. 197

    He counted on this same oversight this time too, and found it so.

  198. 198

    Having made his way into the living quarters, he passed in the darkness into her bedroom, in which a lamp was burning before the icons.

  199. 199

    And, as if on purpose, both her maidservants had slipped off without leave, next door, to a name-day party that happened to be held on the same street.

  200. 200

    The rest of the servants and serving-women were asleep in the servants' quarters and in the kitchen, on the lower floor.

  201. 201

    At the sight of her sleeping, passion flared up in him, and then a vengeful, jealous rage gripped his heart, and, beside himself, like a drunken man, he went up and plunged a knife straight into her heart, so that she did not even cry out.

  202. 202

    Then, with hellish and most criminal calculation, he arranged things so that the servants would be suspected: he did not scruple to take her purse, opened her chest with the keys he had drawn out from under her pillow, and seized certain things from it, exactly as an ignorant servant would have done — that is, he left the valuable papers and took only the money, took a few of the larger gold articles, but neglected the small ones, which were ten times more precious.

  203. 203

    He also took something else, a keepsake for himself, but of that later.

  204. 204

    Having done this terrible deed, he went out the way he had come.

  205. 205

    Neither the next day, when the alarm was raised, nor ever afterward in his whole life, did it occur to anyone to suspect the real villain!

  206. 206

    And no one knew of his love for her either, for he had always been a man of silent and unsociable character, and had no friend to whom he might confide his soul.

  207. 207

    He was reckoned simply an acquaintance of the murdered woman, and not even an especially close one, since over the last two weeks he had not even called on her.

  208. 208

    Suspicion fell at once on her serf, the servant Pyotr, and as it happened all the circumstances came together to confirm this suspicion, for this servant knew — and the dead woman herself had not concealed it — that she meant to send him off to be a soldier, in fulfillment of the levy due from her peasants, since he was unmarried and of bad conduct besides.

  209. 209

    People had heard how, in anger, drunk, he had threatened in the tavern to kill her.

  210. 210

    Two days before her death he had run off and was living somewhere in town in places unknown.

  211. 211

    And the day after the murder he was found on the road, at the edge of town, dead drunk, with a knife in his pocket, and, for some reason, with his right palm stained with blood.

  212. 212

    He claimed the blood had come from his nose, but no one believed him.

  213. 213

    The maids confessed that they had been at the party and that the entrance doors from the porch had stood unlocked until their return.

  214. 214

    And besides these, a multitude of similar signs came to light, on the strength of which the innocent servant was seized.

  215. 215

    They arrested him and began the trial, but just a week later the arrested man fell ill with a fever and died in the hospital, unconscious.

  216. 216

    And there the matter ended; they left it to God's will, and everyone — the judges, the authorities, and the whole of society — remained convinced that the crime had been committed by none other than the dead servant.

  217. 217

    And after that, the punishment began.

  218. 218

    The mysterious guest, and by now already my friend, confided to me that at first he was not tormented by pangs of conscience at all.

  219. 219

    He suffered long, but not over that — only with regret that he had killed the woman he loved, that she was no more, that in killing her he had killed his own love, while the fire of passion still remained in his blood.

  220. 220

    But of the innocent blood he had shed, of the murder of a human being, he hardly thought at all in those days.

  221. 221

    And the thought that his victim might have become another man's wife seemed impossible to him, and so for a long time he was convinced in his conscience that he could not have acted otherwise.

  222. 222

    At first the servant's arrest tormented him somewhat, but the man's swift illness, and then his death, set his mind at ease, for the prisoner died, by all evidence (so he reasoned then), not from the arrest or from fright, but from a chill caught precisely during the days of his flight, when, dead drunk, he had lain a whole night on the damp ground.

  223. 223

    The stolen things and money troubled him little, for (so again he reasoned) the theft had been committed not out of greed, but to turn suspicion in another direction.

  224. 224

    The sum stolen was insignificant, and he soon donated the whole of it, and even a far larger amount, to an almshouse that had just been established in our town.

  225. 225

    He did this deliberately, to set his conscience at ease regarding the theft, and, remarkably, for a time, and even a long one, he really was set at ease — he told me this himself.

  226. 226

    He then threw himself into great official activity, sought out for himself a troublesome and difficult assignment that occupied him for some two years, and, being of strong character, almost forgot what had happened; when he did recall it, he tried not to think of it at all.

  227. 227

    He threw himself into charity as well, did and donated much in our town, made a name for himself in the capitals too, and was elected in Moscow and in Petersburg a member of the charitable societies there.

  228. 228

    But all the same he began at last to fall into anguished brooding, beyond what his strength could bear.

  229. 229

    Then a certain beautiful and sensible young woman took his fancy, and he soon married her, dreaming that by marriage he would drive off his solitary anguish, and that, setting out on a new road and zealously fulfilling his duty toward his wife and children, he would put the old memories behind him altogether.

  230. 230

    But the very opposite of this expectation came to pass.

  231. 231

    In the very first month of marriage an incessant thought began to torment him: "Here my wife loves me — but what if she knew?"

  232. 232

    When she became pregnant with their first child and told him of it, he was suddenly thrown into confusion: "I am giving life, when I myself took life away."

  233. 233

    The children came: "How dare I love them, teach and bring them up, how shall I speak to them of virtue: I have shed blood."

  234. 234

    The children grow up beautiful, one longs to caress them: "But I cannot look at their innocent, clear faces; I am unworthy of it."

  235. 235

    At last the blood of his murdered victim began to rise before him, grimly and bitterly, the ruined young life of her, blood crying out for vengeance.

  236. 236

    He began to have terrible dreams.

  237. 237

    But being firm of heart, he bore the torment a long while: "I shall atone for it all by this secret torment of mine."

  238. 238

    But this hope, too, was in vain: the further it went, the stronger the suffering grew.

  239. 239

    In society they came to respect him for his charitable activity, though all were afraid of his stern and gloomy character; but the more they came to respect him, the more unbearable it became to him.

  240. 240

    He confessed to me that he had thought of killing himself.

  241. 241

    But instead, another dream began to haunt him — a dream he had at first thought impossible and mad, yet which fastened itself to his heart at last so firmly that it could not be torn away.

  242. 242

    What he dreamed was this: to rise up, to step forth before the people, and to declare to them all that he had killed a human being.

  243. 243

    For some three years he walked about with this dream, and it kept appearing to him in ever-changing shapes.

  244. 244

    At last he came to believe with his whole heart that, by declaring his crime, he would surely heal his soul and find peace once and for all.

  245. 245

    But, having come to believe it, he felt a terror in his heart, for: how was it to be carried out?

  246. 246

    And then suddenly there came that incident at my duel.

  247. 247

    "Looking at you, I have now resolved."

  248. 248

    I look at him.

  249. 249

    — And can it truly be, — I cried out to him, throwing up my hands, — that so slight an occasion could give birth in you to so great a resolve?

  250. 250

    — My resolve was three years in the making, — he answers me, — and your occasion only gave it a push. Looking at you, I reproached myself and envied you, — he said this to me, even with a kind of sternness.

  251. 251

    — But they will not even believe you, — I remarked to him, — fourteen years have gone by.

  252. 252

    — I have proofs, great ones. I shall produce them.

  253. 253

    And I wept then, and kissed him.

  254. 254

    — Decide one thing for me, just one! — he said to me (as though everything now depended on me), — my wife, my children! My wife may die, perhaps, of grief, and though the children will not lose their nobility or their estate, — still they will be a convict's children, and forever. And the memory, the memory I shall leave behind me in their hearts!

  255. 255

    I keep silent.

  256. 256

    — And to part from them, to leave them forever? For it is forever, forever!

  257. 257

    I sit there, silently whispering a prayer to myself. At last I rose; a dread had come over me.

  258. 258

    — Well, then? — he looks at me.

  259. 259

    — Go, — I say, — and declare it to the people. Everything will pass; the truth alone will remain. The children will understand, when they have grown up, how much greatness of soul there was in your great resolve.

  260. 260

    He left me then, as though he had truly resolved upon it. And yet for more than two weeks afterward he came to me, every single evening in a row, forever preparing himself, forever unable to bring himself to it. He wore my heart out.

  261. 261

    Now he would come in firm, and speak with tenderness:

  262. 262

    — I know that paradise will come for me, that it will come the very moment I make my declaration. For fourteen years I have been in hell. I want to suffer. I will accept the suffering and begin to live. By falsehood you may walk through the world, but you cannot turn back again. Now I dare not love even my neighbor, let alone my own children. Lord, surely the children will understand, perhaps, what my suffering cost me, and they will not condemn me! God is not in might, but in truth.

  263. 263

    — All will understand your great deed, — I say to him, — if not now, then later they will understand, for you have served the truth, a higher truth, not of this earth…

  264. 264

    And he would leave me as though comforted, yet the next day he would suddenly come again, spiteful, pale, and say with a sneer:

  265. 265

    — Every time I come to you, you look at me with such curiosity: "Still, is it," you seem to say, "he hasn't declared it?" Wait, do not despise me too much. It is not so easy a thing to do as it seems to you. Perhaps I shall not do it at all. You won't go and inform on me then, will you, eh?

  266. 266

    And as for me — far from looking at him with any senseless curiosity, I was afraid even to glance at him. I was worn down to the point of illness, and my soul was full of tears. I even lost my sleep at night.

  267. 267

    — I have just now come, — he goes on, — from my wife. Do you understand what a wife is? My little ones, as I was leaving, called out to me: "Goodbye, papa, come back soon and read „Children's Reading“ with us." No, you cannot understand this! Another man's trouble teaches no wisdom.

  268. 268

    His own eyes flashed, his lips began to tremble. Suddenly he struck the table with his fist, so that the things upon it jumped — such a gentle man, and it was the first time it had ever happened to him.

  269. 269

    — But is it needful? — he cried out, — is it really necessary? After all, no one was condemned, no one was sent to penal servitude on my account; the servant died of an illness. And for the blood I shed I was punished by my torments. And they will not believe me at all; they will believe none of my proofs. Is there any need to declare it, is there? For the blood I spilled I am ready to torment myself my whole life long, only so as not to strike down my wife and children. Would it be just to destroy them along with myself? Are we not mistaken? Where is the truth here? And will people even recognize this truth, will they value it, will they honor it?

  270. 270

    "Lord!" I think to myself, "at such a moment he thinks of the regard of men!" And such pity for him came over me then that, it seemed, I would have shared his fate myself, if only to ease him. I see that he is like a man beside himself. I grew aghast, understanding now not with my mind alone but with my living soul what such a resolve costs.

  271. 271

    — Decide my fate, then! — he cried out again.

  272. 272

    — Go and declare it, — I whispered to him. My voice failed me, but I whispered it firmly. I took up the Gospel there from the table, the Russian translation, and showed him from John, chapter XII, verse 24:

  273. 273

    "Verily, verily, I say unto you, except a grain of wheat, having fallen into the ground, die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit." I had read this verse only just before he came.

  274. 274

    He read it.

  275. 275

    — True, — he says, but he smiled bitterly. — Yes, in these books, — he says, after a pause, — you come upon dreadful things. It's easy enough to shove them under a man's nose. And who was it that wrote them — can it really have been men?

  276. 276

    — The Holy Spirit wrote them, — I say.

  277. 277

    — It's easy enough for you to prattle, — he sneered again, but now almost with hatred. I took up the book once more, opened it at another place, and showed him the Epistle to the Hebrews, chapter X, verse 31. He read: "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God."

  278. 278

    He read it and then flung the book away. He even fell to trembling all over.

  279. 279

    — A fearful verse, — he says, — there's no denying, you've chosen well. — He rose from the chair. — Well, — he says, — goodbye, perhaps I shall not come again… we shall meet in paradise. So then, fourteen years it has been since I "fell into the hands of the living God" — that, it seems, is what these fourteen years are to be called. Tomorrow I shall ask those hands to let me go…

  280. 280

    I had meant to embrace him and kiss him, but I did not dare — so contorted was his face, and he looked at me heavily. He went out.

  281. 281

    "Lord," I thought, "where has the man gone!" I threw myself down then on my knees before the icon and wept for him to the most holy Mother of God, the swift defender and helper.

  282. 282

    Half an hour had passed while I stood in tears at my prayers, and it was already late at night, somewhere about twelve o'clock. Suddenly, I look up: the door opens, and he comes in again. I was astonished.

  283. 283

    — Where have you been? — I ask him.

  284. 284

    — I, — he says, — it seems I forgot something… my handkerchief, I think… Well, even if I forgot nothing, let me sit down a while…

  285. 285

    He sat down on a chair. I stand over him. "Sit down yourself too," he says. I sat down. We sat for a couple of minutes; he looks at me intently and suddenly smiled — I remembered that — then he rose, embraced me hard, and kissed me…

  286. 286

    — Remember, — he says, — how I came to you this second time. Do you hear, remember it!

  287. 287

    For the first time he addressed me as “thou.” And he went out. "Tomorrow," I thought.

  288. 288

    And so it came to pass. And I did not know that very evening that the next day happened to fall on his birthday. I myself had gone nowhere in those last days, and so I could not have learned it from anyone.

  289. 289

    On that day, every year, he held a large gathering, and the whole town would assemble at his house. They assembled this time too.

  290. 290

    And so, after the dinner banquet, he steps out into the middle of the room, a paper in his hands — a formal report to the authorities. And since his own superior was right there, he read the paper aloud then and there to all who had gathered, and in it was the full account of the whole crime in all its detail: "As a monster I cast myself out from among men; God has visited me," he concluded the paper, "I want to suffer!"

  291. 291

    There and then he brought out and laid upon the table everything by which he meant to prove his crime, and which he had kept for fourteen years: the gold things of the murdered woman, which he had stolen, thinking to turn suspicion from himself; her medallion and her cross, taken from her neck — in the medallion the portrait of her betrothed — her notebook, and, finally, two letters: a letter from her betrothed announcing his speedy arrival, and her reply to that letter, which she had begun and not finished, leaving it on the table to be sent to the post the next day.

  292. 292

    Both letters he had carried off with him — to what end? Why had he afterward kept them for fourteen years instead of destroying them as evidence?

  293. 293

    And here is what then happened: everyone fell into amazement and horror, and no one was willing to believe him, though all listened with extraordinary curiosity — but as one listens to a sick man; and a few days later it was already quite settled and decreed in every house that the unhappy man had lost his mind.

  294. 294

    The authorities and the court could not but set the matter in motion, yet they too held back: although the objects and letters produced did give them cause to ponder, it was decided here as well that even if these documents should prove genuine, a final accusation could still not be pronounced on the strength of these documents alone.

  295. 295

    And besides, he might have had all the things from the woman herself, as an acquaintance of hers and on her trust.

  296. 296

    I heard, however, that the authenticity of the things was afterward verified through many acquaintances and relatives of the murdered woman, and that there was no doubt of it.

  297. 297

    But this matter, too, was once again not destined to be brought to a conclusion.

  298. 298

    Some five days later everyone learned that the sufferer had fallen ill and that there were fears for his life.

  299. 299

    What illness it was that he fell ill of, I cannot explain; people said it was a disorder of the heartbeat, but it became known that a council of doctors, at the insistence of his wife, examined his mental state as well, and that they reached the conclusion that madness was already present.

  300. 300

    I let nothing out, though they rushed to question me; but when I wished to visit him, they long forbade it me, his wife above all: "It is you," she says to me, "you who upset him; he was gloomy before this too, and in the last year everyone noticed in him an unusual agitation and strange behavior, and then you, just at that point, were his ruin; it is you who read him out of his senses — he did not leave your house for a whole month."

  301. 301

    And what do you think — not only his wife, but everyone in the town fell upon me and laid the blame on me: "It's all your doing," they say. I keep silent, and am glad at heart, indeed, for I beheld the unmistakable mercy of God toward one who had risen up against himself and passed sentence on himself. And in his madness I could not believe.

  302. 302

    At last they let me too come to him, for he himself had insistently demanded it, that he might take his leave of me. I went in and saw at once that not only his days but his very hours were numbered. He was weak, sallow, his hands trembling, gasping for breath, yet he looked at me with tenderness and with joy.

  303. 303

    — It is accomplished! — he said to me, — long have I thirsted to see you; why did you not come?

  304. 304

    I did not tell him that I had not been allowed to come to him.

  305. 305

    — God has had mercy on me and is calling me to Himself. I know that I am dying, yet I feel joy, and peace, for the first time after so many years. The moment I had done what had to be done, I felt paradise in my soul. Now at last I dare to love my children and to kiss them. They do not believe me, and no one has believed me, neither my wife nor my judges; nor will my children ever believe. In this too I see God's mercy toward my children. I shall die, and my name will be unstained for them. And now I have a foretaste of God; my heart rejoices as if in paradise… I have done my duty…

  306. 306

    He cannot speak, he is gasping; he presses my hand warmly and gazes at me ardently. But we did not talk long, for his wife kept looking in on us without cease. Still, he managed to whisper to me:

  307. 307

    — And do you remember how I came to you that other time, at midnight! Did I not bid you remember it? Do you know why I came in? I came to kill you!

  308. 308

    I gave a shudder.

  309. 309

    — I had gone out from you then into the dark; I wandered the streets and struggled with myself. And suddenly I came to hate you so much that my heart could scarcely bear it. "Now," I think, "he alone has bound me, and he is my judge; I can no longer draw back from my coming execution, for he knows everything." And it was not that I feared you would inform on me (there was not even a thought of that), but I think: "How shall I look at him, if I do not inform on myself?" And though you were at the world's end, yet alive, it would be all the same — the thought is unbearable that you are alive and know everything, and judge me. I came to hate you, as though you were the cause of it all and the guilty one in everything. I went back to you then, remembering that there was a dagger lying on your table. I sat down and asked you to sit, and for a whole minute I thought it over. Had I killed you, I would have perished all the same for that murder, even had I not declared the earlier crime. But of that I did not think at all, nor did I wish to think, in that minute. I only hated you and longed with all my strength to avenge myself on you for everything. But my Lord overcame the devil in my heart. Know, however, that you were never nearer to death.

  310. 310

    A week later he died. The whole town followed his coffin to the grave. The archpriest spoke a heartfelt word. They mourned the dreadful illness that had cut short his days.

  311. 311

    But the whole town rose up against me when they had buried him, and they even ceased to receive me. True, some — at first only a few, and then more and more — began to believe in the truth of his confession, and they took to visiting me often and questioning me with great curiosity and gladness: for man loves the fall of the righteous and his disgrace.

  312. 312

    But I fell silent, and soon after left the town altogether, and five months later I was granted by the Lord God to set out upon a firm and seemly path, blessing the unseen finger that had so plainly pointed me to this way. And the much-suffering servant of God, Mikhail, I remember in my prayers to this very day, every single day.

The particulars

The text
Братья Карамазовы, Fyodor Dostoevsky. Book VI — The Russian Monk.
Translation
Public-domain Russian (Dostoevsky, d. 1881). Translation © 2026 1732 Studios.
Words
Every word of the text, by letter.
Data
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Two whoopie pies and a pine. An inside joke.