Текст книги "The Brothers Karamazov"
Автор книги: Федор Достоевский
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 70 страниц)
“What is it?” asked Grigory, looking at him sternly from under his spectacles.
“Nothing, sir. The Lord God created light on the first day, and the sun, moon, and stars on the fourth day. [92]Where did the light shine from on the first day?”
Grigory was dumbfounded. The boy looked derisively at his teacher; there was even something supercilious in his look. Grigory could not help himself. “I’ll show you where!” he shouted, and gave his pupil a violent blow on the cheek. The boy suffered the slap without a word, but again hid in the corner for a few days. A week later, as it happened, they discovered for the first time that he had the falling sickness, which never left him for the rest of his life. [93] Having learned of it, Fyodor Pavlovich seemed to change his view of the boy. Formerly he had looked on him somehow indifferently, though he never scolded him and always gave him a kopeck when they met. If he was in a benevolent mood, he sometimes sent the boy some sweets from the table. But now, when he learned of the illness, he decidedly began to worry about him, called in a doctor, began treating him, but a cure turned out to be impossible. The attacks came on the average of once a month, and at various times. They were also of various strength—some were slight, others were extremely severe. Fyodor Pavlovich strictly forbade Grigory any corporal punishment of the boy, and began allowing him upstairs. He also forbade teaching him anything at all for the time being. But once, when the boy was already about fifteen years old, Fyodor Pavlovich noticed him loitering by the bookcase and reading the titles through the glass. There were a fair number of books in the house, more than a hundred volumes, but no one had ever seen Fyodor Pavlovich with a book in his hands. He immediately gave Smerdyakov the key to the bookcase: “Well, read then, you can be my librarian; sit and read, it’s better than loafing around the yard. Here, try this one,” and Fyodor Pavlovich handed him Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka. [94]
The lad read it but with displeasure; he never once smiled, and, on the contrary, finished it with a frown.
“What? Not funny?” asked Fyodor Pavlovich.
Smerdyakov was silent.
“Answer, fool!”
“It’s all about lies,” Smerdyakov drawled, grinning.
“Well, then, go to the devil with your lackey soul! Wait, here’s Smaragdov’s Universal History, [95] it’s all true, read it!”
But Smerdyakov did not get through even ten pages of Smaragdov. He found it boring. So the bookcase was locked again. Soon Marfa and Grigory reported to Fyodor Pavlovich that Smerdyakov suddenly was beginning to show signs of some terrible squeamishness: at supper, he would take his spoon and explore the soup, bend over it, examine it, lift up a spoonful and hold it to the light.
“What is it, a cockroach?” Grigory would ask.
“Maybe a fly,” Marfa would suggest. The fastidious boy never answered, but it was the same with the bread, the meat, every dish: he would hold a piece up to the light on his fork, and study it as if through a microscope, sometimes taking a long time to decide, and, finally, would decide to send it into his mouth. “A fine young sir we’ve got here,” Grigory muttered, looking at him. Fyodor Pavlovich, when he heard about this new quality in Smerdyakov, immediately decided that he should be a cook, and sent him to Moscow for training. He spent a few years in training, and came back much changed in appearance . He suddenly became somehow remarkably old, with wrinkles even quite disproportionate to his age, turned sallow, and began to look like a eunuch. But morally he was almost the same when he returned as he had been before his departure for Moscow, was still just as unsociable, and felt not the slightest need for anyone’s company. In Moscow, too, as was afterwards reported, he was silent all the time; Moscow itself interested him somehow very little, so that he learned only a few things about it and paid no attention to all the rest. He even went to the theater once, but came home silent and displeased. On the other hand, he returned to us from Moscow very well dressed, in a clean frock coat and linen, scrupulously brushed his clothes twice a day without fail, and was terribly fond of waxing his smart calfskin boots with a special English polish so that they shone like mirrors. He turned out to be a superb cook. Fyodor Pavlovich appointed him a salary, and Smerdyakov spent almost the whole of this salary on clothes, pomade, perfume, and so on. Yet he seemed to despise the female sex as much as the male, and behaved solemnly, almost inaccessibly, with it. Fyodor Pavlovich also began glancing at him from a somewhat different point of view. The thing was that the attacks of his falling sickness became more frequent, and on those days Marfa Ignatievna prepared the meals, which did not suit him at all.
“How come you’re having more attacks now?” he sometimes looked askance at the new cook, peering into his face. “I wish you’d marry somebody, do you want me to get you married ... ?”
But Smerdyakov only turned pale with vexation at such talk, without making any reply. Fyodor Pavlovich would walk off, waving his hand. Above all he was convinced of his honesty, convinced once and for all that he would not take or steal anything. It once happened that Fyodor Pavlovich, being a little drunk, dropped in the mud of his own yard three hundred-rouble bank notes he had just received, and did not notice it until the next day: just as he was rushing to search through all his pockets for them, he suddenly discovered all three bank notes lying on the table. How did they get there? Smerdyakov had picked them up and brought them in the evening before. “Well, my lad, I’ve never seen the likes of you,” Fyodor Pavlovich said brusquely, and gave him ten roubles. It should be added that he was not only convinced of his honesty, but for some reason even loved him, though the fellow looked as askance at him as at others and was always silent. Only rarely did he speak. If at that time it had occurred to someone to ask, looking at him, what this fellow was interested in, and what was most often on his mind, it would really have been impossible to tell from looking at him. Yet he would sometimes stop in the house, or else in the yard or the street, fall into thought, and stand like that even for ten minutes. A physiognomist, studying him, would have said that his face showed neither thought nor reflection, but just some sort of contemplation. The painter Kramskoy has a remarkable painting entitled The Contemplator: [96] it depicts a forest in winter, and in the forest, standing all by himself on the road, in deepest solitude, a stray little peasant in a ragged caftan and bast shoes; he stands as if he were lost in thought, but he is not thinking, he is “contemplating” something. If you nudged him, he would give a start and look at you as if he had just woken up, but without understanding anything. It’s true that he would come to himself at once, and yet, if he were asked what he had been thinking about while standing there, he would most likely not remember, but would most likely keep hidden away in himself the impression he had been under while contemplating. These impressions are dear to him, and he is most likely storing them up imperceptibly and even without realizing it—why and what for, of course, he does not know either; perhaps suddenly, having stored up his impressions over many years, he will drop everything and wander off to Jerusalem to save his soul, or perhaps he will suddenly burn down his native village, or perhaps he will do both. There are plenty of contemplators among the people. Most likely Smerdyakov, too, was such a contemplator, and most likely he, too, was greedily storing up his impressions, almost without knowing why himself.
Chapter 7: Disputation
But Balaam’s ass suddenly spoke. The topic happened to be a strange one: Grigory, while picking up goods that morning at the shop of the merchant Lukyanov, had heard from him about a Russian soldier stationed somewhere far away at the border who was captured by Asians and, being forced by them on pain of agonizing and immediate death to renounce Christianity and convert to Islam, would not agree to change his faith, and endured torture, was flayed alive, and died glorifying and praising Christ—a report of which deed was printed in the newspaper received that day. [97]And this Grigory began speaking about at the table. Fyodor Pavlovich always liked to laugh and talk after dinner, over dessert, even if only with Grigory. This time he was in a light and pleasantly expansive mood. Sipping cognac, he listened to the reported news and remarked that such a soldier ought at once to be promoted to saint, and his flayed skin dispatched to some monastery: “You’ll see how people will come pouring in, and money, too.” Grigory scowled, seeing that Fyodor Pavlovich was not at all moved but, as usual, was beginning to blaspheme. Then Smerdyakov, who was standing at the door, suddenly grinned. Even before then, Smerdyakov was quite often allowed to stand by the table—that is, at the end of dinner. And since Ivan Fyodorovich arrived in our town, he began appearing at dinner almost every day.
“What is it?” asked Fyodor Pavlovich, noticing his grin at once and understanding, of course, that it referred to Grigory. “What you’re talking about,” Smerdyakov suddenly spoke loudly and unexpectedly, “that if the deed of this laudable soldier was so great, sir, there would also have been no sin, in my opinion, if on such an occasion he had even renounced Christ’s name and his own baptism in order thereby to save his life for good deeds with which to atone in the course of the years for his faintheartedness.”
“How could there be no sin in it? What nonsense! For that you’ll go straight to hell and be roasted there like mutton,” Fyodor Pavlovich took him up.
And it was here that Alyosha entered. Fyodor Pavlovich, as we have seen, was terribly glad he had come.
“We’re on your subject, your subject!” he chuckled gleefully, sitting Alyosha down to listen.
“Concerning mutton, it isn’t so, sir, and there will be nothing there for that, sir, and there shouldn’t be any such thing, if it’s in all fairness,” Smerdyakov solemnly observed.
“How do you mean—in all fairness?” Fyodor Pavlovich cried even more merrily, nudging Alyosha with his knee.
“He’s a scoundrel, that’s who he is!” Grigory suddenly burst out. Angrily he looked Smerdyakov straight in the eye.
“Wait a little with your ‘scoundrel,’ Grigory Vasilievich, sir,” Smerdyakov retorted quietly and with restraint, “and you’d better consider for yourself, that if I am taken captive by the tormentors of Christian people, and they demand that I curse God’s name and renounce my holy baptism, then I’m quite authorized to do it by my own reason, because there wouldn’t be any sin in it.”
“You’ve already said all that. Don’t embroider on it, but prove it!” cried Fyodor Pavlovich.
“Broth-maker!” Grigory whispered scornfully.
“Wait a little with your ‘broth-maker,’ too, Grigory Vasilievich, and consider for yourself without scolding. Because as soon as I say to my tormentors: ‘No, I’m not a Christian and I curse my true God,’ then at once, by the highest divine judgment, I immediately and specifically become anathema, I’m cursed and completely excommunicated from the Holy Church like a heathener, as it were, so that even at that very moment, sir, not as soon as I say it, but as soon as I just think of saying it, not even a quarter of a second goes by and I’m excommunicated—is that so or not, Grigory Vasilievich?”
He addressed Grigory with obvious pleasure, though essentially he was answering Fyodor Pavlovich’s questions, and was well aware of it, but deliberately pretending that it was Grigory who had asked them.
“Ivan!” Fyodor Pavlovich suddenly shouted, “give me your ear. He arranged all this for you, he wants you to praise him. Go on, praise him!” Ivan Fyodorovich listened quite seriously to his papa’s rapturous communication.
“Wait, Smerdyakov, be still for a minute,” Fyodor Pavlovich shouted again. “Ivan, your ear again.”
Ivan Fyodorovich leaned over once more with a most serious expression.
“I love you as much as Alyoshka. Don’t think that I don’t love you. A little cognac?”
“Yes.” Ivan Fyodorovich looked intently at his father, thinking, “You’re pretty well loaded yourself.” As for Smerdyakov, he was watching him with great curiosity.
“You’re anathema and cursed even now,” Grigory suddenly broke out, “and how dare you reason after that, you scoundrel, if...”
“No abuse, Grigory, no abuse!” Fyodor Pavlovich interrupted.
“You wait, Grigory Vasilievich, at least for a very short time, sir, and keep listening, because I haven’t finished yet. Because at the very time when I immediately become cursed by God, at that moment, at that highest moment, sir, I become a heathener, as it were, and my baptism is taken off me and counts for nothing—is that so, at least?”
“Come on, lad, get to the point,” Fyodor Pavlovich hurried him, sipping with pleasure from his glass.
“And since I’m no longer a Christian, it follows that I’m not lying to my tormentors when they ask am I a Christian or not, since God himself has already deprived me of my Christianity, for the sole reason of my intention and before I even had time to say a word to my tormentors. And if I’m already demoted, then in what way, with what sort of justice can they call me to account in the other world, as if I were a Christian, about my renunciation of Christ, when for the intention alone, even before the renunciation, I was deprived of my baptism? If I’m not a Christian, then I can’t renunciate Christ, because I’ll have nothing to renounce. Who, even in heaven, Grigory Vasilievich, will ask an unclean Tartar to answer for not being born a Christian, and who is going to punish him for that, considering that you can’t skin the same ox twice? And God Almighty himself, even if he does hold the Tartar to account when he dies, I suppose will only give him the smallest punishment (because it’s not possible not to punish him at all), considering that it’s surely not his fault that he came into the world unclean, and from unclean parents. The Lord God can’t take some Tartar by the neck and claim that he, too, was a Christian? That would mean that the Lord Almighty was saying a real untruth. And how can the Almighty Lord of heaven and earth tell a lie, even if it’s only one word, sir?”
Grigory was dumbfounded and stared wide-eyed at the orator. Though he did not understand very well what was being said, he did suddenly understand some of all this gibberish, and stood looking like a man who had just run his head into a wall. Fyodor Pavlovich emptied his glass and burst into shrill laughter.
“Alyoshka, Alyoshka, did you hear that? Ah, you casuist! He must have spent some time with the Jesuits, Ivan. [98]Ah, you stinking Jesuit, who taught you all that? But it’s lies, casuist, lies, lies, lies. Don’t cry, Grigory, we’ll grind him to dust and ashes this very minute. Tell me something, ass: before your tormentors you may be right, but you yourself have still renounced your faith within yourself, and you yourself say that in that very hour you became anathema and cursed, and since you’re anathema, you won’t be patted on the back for that in hell. What do you say to that, my fine young Jesuit?” [99]
“There’s no doubt, sir, that I renounced it within myself, but still there wasn’t any sin especially, and if there was a little sin, it was a rather ordinary one, sir.”
“What do you mean—rather ordinary, sir!”
“You’re lying, curssse you!” Grigory hissed.
“Consider for yourself, Grigory Vasilievich,” Smerdyakov went on gravely and evenly, conscious of his victory but being magnanimous, as it were, with the vanquished enemy, “consider for yourself: in the Scriptures it is said that if you have faith even as little as the smallest seed and then say unto this mountain that it should go down into the sea, it would go, without the slightest delay, at your first order. [100]Well, then, Grigory Vasilievich, if I’m an unbeliever, and you are such a believer that you’re even constantly scolding me, then you, sir, try telling this mountain to go down, not into the sea (because it’s far from here to the sea, sir), but even just into our stinking stream, the one beyond our garden, and you’ll see for yourself right then that nothing will go down, sir, but everything will remain in its former order and security, no matter how much you shout, sir. And that means that you, too, Grigory Vasilievich, do not believe in a proper manner, and merely scold others for it in every possible way. And then, again, taken also the fact that no one in our time, not only you, sir, but decidedly no one, starting even from the highest persons down to the very last peasant, sir, can shove a mountain into the sea, except maybe one person on the whole earth, two at the most, and even they could be secretly saving their souls somewhere in the Egyptian desert, so they can’t even be found—and if that’s so, if all the rest come out as unbelievers, can it be that all the rest, that is, the population of the whole earth, sir, except those two desert hermits, will be cursed by the Lord, and in his mercy, which is so famous, he won’t forgive a one of them? So I, too, have hopes that though I doubted once, I’ll be forgiven if I shed tears of repentance.”
“Stop!” shrieked Fyodor Pavlovich in an apotheosis of delight. “So you still suppose that those two, the kind that can move mountains, really exist? Ivan, cut a notch, write it down: here you have the whole Russian man!”
“You are quite right in observing that this is a feature of popular faith,” Ivan concurred with an approving smile.
“So you agree! Well, it must be so if even you agree! Alyoshka, it’s true, isn’t it? Completely Russian faith is like that?”
“No, Smerdyakov’s faith is not Russian at all,” Alyosha spoke seriously and firmly.
“I don’t mean his faith, I mean that feature, those two desert dwellers, just that little detail alone: that is certainly Russian, Russian.”
“Yes, that detail is quite Russian,” Alyosha smiled.
“Your word, ass, is worth a gold piece, and I’ll see that you get it today, but for the rest, it’s all still lies, lies, lies; let it be known to you, fool, that we here are unbelievers only out of carelessness, because we don’t have time: first, we’re too beset with business, and second, God gave us too little time, he only allotted twenty-four hours to a day, so that there isn’t even time enough to sleep, let alone repent. And you went and renounced your faith before your tormentors when you had nothing else to think about, and when it was precisely the time to show your faith! And so, my lad, isn’t that tantamount?”
“Tantamount, it may be tantamount, but consider for yourself, Grigory Vasilievich, that if it is tantamount, it makes things easier. Because if I then believed in very truth, as one ought to believe, then it would really be sinful if I did not endure torments for my faith but converted to the unclean Mohammedan faith. But then it wouldn’t even come to torments, sir, for if at that moment I were to say unto that mountain: ‘Move and crush my tormentor,’ it would move and in that same moment crush him like a cockroach, and I would go off as if nothing had happened, praising and glorifying God. But if precisely at that moment I tried all that, and deliberately cried unto that mountain: ‘Crush my tormentors’—and it didn’t crush them, then how, tell me, should I not doubt then, in such a terrible hour of great mortal fear? I’d know even without that that I wasn’t going to reach the fullness of the Kingdom of Heaven (because the mountain didn’t move at my word, so they must not trust much in my faith there, and no very great reward awaits me in the other world), so why, on top of that, should I let myself be flayed to no purpose? Because even if my back were already half flayed, that mountain still wouldn’t move at my word or cry. In such moments, you can not only get overcome by doubt, you can even lose your mind itself from fear, so it would be quite impossible to reason. And so, why should I come out looking so specially to blame, if, seeing no profit or reward either here or there, I at least keep my skin on? And therefore, trusting greatly in the mercy of God, I live in hopes that I’ll be completely forgiven, sir.”
Chapter 8: Over the Cognac
The dispute was over, but, strangely, Fyodor Pavlovich, who had been laughing so much, in the end suddenly frowned. He frowned and tossed off a glass of cognac, which was quite superfluous.
“Clear out, Jesuits, out!” he shouted at the servants. “Go, Smerdyakov. That gold piece I promised, I’ll send you today, but go now. Don’t cry, Gri-gory, go to Marfa, she’ll comfort you, she’ll put you to bed. Canaille!They won’t let one sit quietly after dinner,” he suddenly snapped in vexation, as the servants at once withdrew on his orders. “Smerdyakov sticks his nose in every time we have dinner now—is it you he’s so interested in? What have you done to endear yourself to him?” he added, turning to Ivan Fyodorovich.
“Nothing whatever,” the latter replied. “He has taken to respecting me; he’s a lackey and a boor. Prime cannon fodder, however, when the time comes.”
“Prime?”
“There will be others and better ones, but there will be his kind as well. First his kind, and then the better ones.”
“And when will the time come?”
“The rocket will go off, but it may fizzle out. So far the people do not much like listening to these broth-makers.”
“That’s just it, my friend, a Balaam’s ass like him thinks and thinks, and the devil knows what he’s going to think up for himself.”
“He’s storing up his thoughts,” Ivan smirked.
“You see, I for one know that he can’t stand me, or anybody else, including you, though you imagine he’s ‘taken to respecting you.’ Still less Alyoshka, he despises Alyoshka. Yet he doesn’t steal, that’s the thing, he’s not a gossip, he keeps his mouth shut, he won’t wash our dirty linen in public, he makes great cabbage pies, and furthermore to hell with him, really, is he worth talking about?”
“Of course not.”
“As to what he’s going to think up for himself, generally speaking, the Russian peasant should be whipped. I have always maintained that. Our peasants are cheats, they’re not worth our pity, and it’s good that they’re still sometimes given a birching. The strength of the Russian land is in its birches. If the forests were destroyed, it would be the end of the Russian land. I stand with the men of intelligence. In our great intelligence, we’ve stopped flogging our peasants, but they go on whipping themselves. And right they are. For as you measure, so it will be measured, or however it goes . . . [101]In short, it will be measured. And Russia is all swinishness. My friend, if only you knew how I hate Russia ... that is, not Russia, but all this vice ... and maybe Russia, too. Tout cela c’est de la cochonnerie. [102] Do you know what I love? I love wit.”
“You’ve had another glass. That’s enough, now.”
“Wait, I’ll have one more, and then another, and then I’ll stop. No, wait, you interrupted me. I was passing through Mokroye, and I asked an old man, and he told me: ‘Best of all,’ he said, ‘we like sentencing the girls to be whipped, and we let the young lads do the whipping. [103]Next day the young lad takes the girl he’s whipped for his bride, so you see, our girls themselves go for it.’ There’s some Marquis de Sades for you, eh? Say what you like, but it’s witty. Why don’t we go and have a look, eh? Alyoshka, are you blushing? Don’t be bashful, child. It’s a pity I didn’t sit down to the Superior’s dinner this afternoon and tell the monks about the Mokroye girls. Alyoshka, don’t be angry that I got your Superior all offended this afternoon. It really makes me mad, my friend. Because if there’s a God, if he exists, well, then of course I’m guilty and I’ll answer for it, but if there’s no God at all, then what do those fathers of yours deserve? It’s not enough just to cut off their heads—because they hold up progress. Will you believe, Ivan, that it torments me in my feelings? No, you don’t believe it, I can see by your eyes. You believe I’m just a buffoon like they say. Alyosha, do you believe that I’m not just a buffoon?”
“I believe that you are not just a buffoon.”
“And I believe that you believe it and speak sincerely. You look sincerely and speak sincerely. Not so Ivan. Ivan is haughty ... But still I’d put an end to that little monastery of yours. Take all this mysticism and abolish it at once all over the Russian land, and finally bring all the fools to reason. And think how much silver, how much gold would come into the mint!”
“But why abolish it?” asked Ivan.
“To let the truth shine forth sooner, that’s why.”
“But if this truth shines forth, you will be the first to be robbed and then ... abolished.”
“Bah! You’re probably right. Ah, what an ass I am!” Fyodor Pavlovich suddenly cried, slapping himself lightly on the forehead. “Well, then, Alyoshka, in that case let your little monastery stand. And we intelligent people will keep warm and sip cognac. You know, Ivan, God himself surely must have set it up this way on purpose. Speak, Ivan: is there a God, or not? Wait: tell me for certain, tell me seriously! Why are you laughing again?”
“I’m laughing at the witty remark you made about Smerdyakov’s belief in the existence of two hermits who can move mountains.”
“Do I sound like him now?” “Very much so.”
“Well, then I, too, am a Russian man, and have the Russian feature, and you, a philosopher, can also be caught with the same sort of feature yourself. Want me to catch you? I bet you I’ll catch you tomorrow. But still, tell me: is there a God or not? But seriously. I want to be serious now.”
“No, there is no God.”
“Alyoshka, is there a God?”
“There is.”
“And is there immortality, Ivan? At least some kind, at least a little, a teeny-tiny one?”
“There is no immortality either.”
“Not of any kind?”
“Not of any kind.”
“Complete zero? Or is there something? Maybe there’s some kind of something? At least not nothing!”
“Complete zero.”
“Alyoshka, is there immortality?”
“There is.”
“Both God and immortality?”
“Both God and immortality. Immortality is in God.”
“Hm. More likely Ivan is right. Lord, just think how much faith, how much energy of all kinds man has spent on this dream, and for so many thousands of years! Who could be laughing at man like that? Ivan? For the last time, definitely: is there a God or not? It’s the last time I’ll ask.”
“For the last time—no.”
“Then who is laughing at mankind, Ivan?”
“Must be the devil,” Ivan smirked.
“And is there a devil?”
“No, there is no devil, either.”
“Too bad. Devil knows, then, what I wouldn’t do to the man who first invented God! Hanging from the bitter aspen tree would be too good for him.”
“There would be no civilization at all if God had not been invented.”
“There wouldn’t? Without God?”
“Right. And there would be no cognac either. But even so, we’ll have to take your cognac away from you.”
“Wait, wait, wait, my dear, one more little glass. I offended Alyosha. You’re not angry with me, Alexei? My dear Alexeichik, my Alexeichik!”
“No, I’m not angry. I know your thoughts. Your heart is better than your head.”
“My heart is better than my head? Lord, and it’s you who say so? Ivan, do you love Alyoshka?” “I love him.”
“Do love him!” (Fyodor Pavlovich was getting very drunk.) “Listen, Alyosha, I committed a rudeness with your elder this afternoon. But I was excited. Say, there’s wit in that elder, don’t you think so, Ivan?”
“Perhaps so.”
“There is, there is, il y a du Piron là-dedans. [104] He’s a Jesuit, a Russian one, that is. As a noble person, he has this hidden indignation seething in him because he has to pretend ... to put on all this holiness.”
“But he does believe in God.”
“Not for a minute. Didn’t you know? But he himself says so to everyone, that is, not to everyone, but to all the intelligent people who visit him. With Governor Schultz he came right out and said: credo,but I don’t know in what.”
“He said that?”
“Precisely that. But I respect him. There’s something Mephistophelean in him, or, better, from the Hero of Our Time ...Arbenin, or what’s his name? [105]... you see, I mean, he’s a sensualist, he’s such a sensualist that even now I’d be afraid for my daughter or my wife if she went to him for confession. You know, when he gets to telling stories ... The year before last he invited us to tea, with liqueur, too (the ladies send him liqueurs), and he began painting such pictures of the old days that we almost split our sides laughing ... Especially about how he healed one paralyzed woman. ‘If my legs were still good, I’d show you a step or two.’ Eh? You see? ‘I’ve done some holy fooling in my day,’ he said. He filched sixty thousand from the merchant Demidov.”
“What, stole it?”
“Demidov brought it to him as to a decent man: ‘Keep it for me, brother, they’re going to search my place tomorrow.’ Keep it he did. ‘You donated it to the Church, didn’t you?’ he said. I said to him: ‘You’re a scoundrel,’ I said. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m not a scoundrel, I’m broad-natured . . .’ It wasn’t him, though ... It was someone else. I confused him with someone else ... and didn’t notice. Just one more glass and that’s it; take the bottle away, Ivan. I was lying, why didn’t you stop me, Ivan ... why didn’t you tell me I was lying?”
“I knew you’d stop by yourself.”
“That’s a lie! It was out of malice towards me, out of sheer malice. You despise me. You came to me and you despise me in my own house.”
“And I’ll leave; the drink is acting up in you.”
“I asked you for Christ’s sake to go to Chermashnya ... for a day or two, and you don’t go.”
“I’ll go tomorrow, if you’re so insistent.”
“You won’t go. You want to spy on me here, that’s what you want, you wicked soul, that’s why you won’t go.” The old man would not be still. He had reached that level of drunkenness at which some drunkards, who until then have been peaceable, suddenly want to get angry and make a show of themselves.
