Текст книги "The Brothers Karamazov"
Автор книги: Федор Достоевский
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(c) Recollections of the Adolescence and Youth of the Elder Zosima While Still in the World. The Duel
I was in the Cadet Corps in Petersburg for a long time, almost eight years, and with my new education I stifled many of my childhood impressions, though I did not forget anything. Instead I took up so many new habits and even opinions that I transformed into an almost wild, cruel, and absurd creature. I acquired the polish of courtesy and worldly manners, together with the French language, but we all regarded the soldiers who served us in the Corps as perfect brutes, and I did the same. I most of all, perhaps, because of all my comrades I was the most susceptible to everything. When we graduated as officers, we were ready to shed our blood for the injured honor of our regiment, but hardly one of us knew what real honor is, and if anyone had found out, he would have been the first to laugh at it at once. We were all but proud of our drunkenness, debauchery, and bravado. I would not say we were wicked; they were all good young men, but they behaved wickedly, and I most of all. The chief thing was that I had come into my own money, and with that I threw myself into a life of pleasure, with all the impetuousness of youth, without restraint, under full sail. The wonder is that I also read books then, and even with great pleasure; the one book I almost never opened at that time was the Bible; though I never parted with it either, but carried it everywhere with me; I truly kept this book, without knowing it myself, “for the day and the hour, and the month and the year.” [203]Having thus been in the service for about four years, I eventually found myself in the town of N–, where our regiment was stationed at the time. The local society was diverse, numerous, and fun-loving, hospitable and wealthy, and I was well received everywhere, for I was always of a fun-loving nature, and had the reputation, besides, of being far from poor, which is not unimportant in society. And then a circumstance occurred that was the start of everything. I formed an attachment to a young and wonderful girl, intelligent and worthy, of noble and shining character, the daughter of reputable parents. They were people of high standing, wealthy, influential, powerful, and they received me with affection and cordiality. And so I fancied that the girl favored me in her heart—my own heart was set aflame by this dream. Later I perceived and realized fully that I was perhaps not so greatly in love with her at all, but simply respected her intelligence and lofty character, as one could not fail to do. Selfishness, however, prevented me from offering her my hand at the time: it seemed a hard and fearful thing to part with the temptations of a depraved and free bachelor’s life at such an early age, and with money in my pocket besides. Yet I did drop some hints. In all events, I postponed any decisive step for a short while. Then suddenly I happened to be ordered to another district for two months. I came back two months later and suddenly discovered that the girl had already married a local landowner, a wealthy man, older than I but still young, who had connections in the capital and with the best society, which I did not have, a very amiable man, and, moreover, an educated one, while, as for education, I had none at all. I was so struck by this unexpected event that my mind even became clouded. And the chief thing was, as I learned only then, that this young landowner had long been her fiancé, and that I myself had met him many times in their house but had noticed nothing, being blinded by my own merits. And that was what offended me most of all: how was it possible that almost everyone knew, and I alone knew nothing? And suddenly I felt an unbearable anger. Red-faced, I began to recall how many times I had almost declared my love to her, and as she had not stopped me or warned me then, I therefore concluded that she had been laughing at me. Later, of course, I realized and remembered that she had not been laughing in the least, but, on the contrary, had broken off such conversations with a jest and turned to other topics instead—but at the time I could not realize that and began to burn with revenge. I am astonished to recall how extremely heavy and loathsome this revenge and wrath were for me, because, having an easy character, I could not stay angry with anyone for long, and therefore had to incite myself artificially, as it were, and in the end became ugly and absurd. I waited for the right moment, and once at a big gathering I suddenly managed to insult my “rival,” seemingly for a quite unrelated reason, jeering at his opinion about an important event of that time—it was 1826 [204]—and I managed, so people said, to do it wittily and cleverly. After which I forced him to a talk, and in that talk treated him so rudely that he accepted my challenge despite the enormous differences between us, for I was younger than he, insignificant, and of low rank. Afterwards I learned with certainty that he had accepted my challenge also from a feeling of jealousy, as it were: he had been a little jealous of me on account of his wife even before, when she was still his fiancée, and now he thought that if she learned he had suffered an insult from me and had not dared to challenge me, she might unwillingly despise him and her love might be shaken. I quickly found a second, a comrade of mine, a lieutenant in our regiment. At that time, though duels were strictly forbidden, there was even a fashion for them, as it were, among the military—thus do barbaric prejudices sometimes spring up and thrive. It was the end of June, and our meeting was appointed for the next day, outside town, at seven o’clock in the morning—and here truly something fateful, as it were, happened to me. Having returned home in the evening, ferocious and ugly, I got angry with my orderly Afanasy and struck him twice in the face with all my might, so that his face was all bloody. He had not been long in my service, and I had had occasion to strike him before, yet never with such beastly cruelty. And believe me, my dears, though it was forty years ago, I still remember it with shame and anguish. I went to bed, slept for about three hours, woke up, day was breaking. Suddenly I got up, I did not want to sleep any longer, I went to the window, opened it, it looked onto the garden—I watched the sun rising, the weather was warm, beautiful, the birds began to chime. Why is it, I thought, that I feel something, as it were, mean and shameful in my soul? Is it because I am going to shed blood? No, I thought, it doesn’t seem to be that. Is it because I am afraid of death, afraid to be killed? No, not that, not that at all ... And suddenly I understood at once what it was: it was because I had beaten Afanasy the night before! I suddenly pictured it all as if it were happening over again: he is standing before me, and I strike him in the face with all my might, and he keeps his arms at his sides, head erect, eyes staring straight ahead as if he were at attention; he winces at each blow, and does not even dare raise a hand to shield himself—this is what a man can be brought to, a man beating his fellow man! What a crime! It was as if a sharp needle went through my soul. I stood as if dazed, and the sun was shining, the leaves were rejoicing, glistening, and the birds, the birds were praising God ... I covered my face with my hands, fell on my bed, and burst into sobs. And then I remembered my brother Market, and his words to the servants before his death: “My good ones, my dears, why are you serving me, why do you love me, and am I worthy of being served?” “Yes, am I worthy?” suddenly leaped into my mind. Indeed, how did I deserve that another man, just like me, the image and likeness of God, should serve me? This question then pierced my mind for the first time in my life. “Mother, heart of my heart, truly each of us is guilty before everyone and for everyone, only people do not know it, and if they knew it, the world would at once become paradise.” “Lord,” I wept and thought, “can that possibly not be true? Indeed, I am perhaps the most guilty of all, and the worst of all men in the world as well!” And suddenly the whole truth appeared to me in its full enlightenment: what was I setting out to do? I was setting out to kill a kind, intelligent, noble man, who was not at fault before me in any way, thereby depriving his wife of happiness forever, tormenting and killing her. I lay there flat on my bed, my face pressed into the pillow, not noticing how the time passed. Suddenly my comrade, the lieutenant, came in with the pistols to fetch me: “Ah,” he said, “it’s good you’re up already, let’s be off, it’s time.” I began rushing about, quite at a loss, but still we went out to the carriage. “Wait a bit,” I said to him, “I must run back in for a moment, I’ve forgotten my purse.” I ran back into the house alone, straight to Afanasy’s room: “Afanasy,” I said, “yesterday I struck you twice in the face. Forgive me,” I said. He started as if he were afraid, and I saw that it was not enough, not enough; and suddenly, just as I was, epaulettes and all, I threw myself at his feet with my forehead to the ground: “Forgive me!” I said. At that he was completely astounded: “Your honor, my dear master, but how can you ... I’m not worthy ... ,” and he suddenly began weeping himself, just as I had done shortly before, covered his face with both hands, turned to the window, and began shaking all over with tears. And I ran back out to my comrade, jumped into the carriage, and shouted. “Drive!” “Have you ever seen a winner?” I cried to him. “Here is one, right in front of you!” Such rapture was in me, I was laughing, talking, talking all the way, I don’t remember what I was talking about. He looked at me: “Hey, you’re a good man, brother, I can see you won’t dishonor the regiment.” So we came to the place, and they were already there waiting for us. They set us twelve paces apart, the first shot was his—I stood cheerfully before him, face to face, without batting an eye, looking at him lovingly, because I knew what I was going to do. He fired. The shot just grazed my cheek a little, and nicked my ear. “Thank God,” I shouted, “you didn’t kill a man!” And I seized my pistol, turned around, and sent it hurtling up into the trees: “That’s where you belong!” I shouted. I turned to my adversary: “My dear sir,” I said, “forgive a foolish young man, for it is my own fault that I offended you and have now made you shoot at me. I am ten times worse than you, if not more. Tell that to the person you honor most in the world.” As soon as I said it, all three of them started yelling at me: “I beg your pardon,” my adversary said, even getting angry, “if you did not want to fight, why did you trouble me?” “Yesterday I was still a fool, but today I’ve grown wiser,” I answered him cheerfully. “As for yesterday, I believe you,” he said, “but about today, from your opinion, it is hard to believe you.” “Bravo,” I cried to him, clapping my hands, “I agree with that, too, I deserved it!” “My dear sir, will you shoot or not?” “I will not, and you may shoot again if you wish, only it would be better if you didn’t.” The seconds were also shouting, especially mine: “What? Disgracing the regiment? Asking forgiveness in the middle of a duel? If only I’d known!” Then I stood before them all, no longer laughing: “My gentlemen,” I said, “is it so surprising now, in our time, to meet a man who has repented of his foolishness and confesses his guilt publicly?” “But not in the middle of a duel!” my second shouted again. “But that’s just it,” I replied, “that is just what is so surprising, because I ought to have confessed as soon as we arrived here, even before his shot, without leading him into great and mortal sin, but we have arranged everything in the world so repugnantly that to do so was nearly impossible, for only now that I have stood up to his shot from twelve paces can my words mean something for him, but had I done it before his shot, as soon as we arrived, then people would simply say: he’s a coward, he’s afraid of a pistol, there’s no point in listening to him. Gentlemen,” I cried suddenly from the bottom of my heart, “look at the divine gifts around us: the clear sky, the fresh air, the tender grass, the birds, nature is beautiful and sinless, and we, we alone, are godless and foolish, and do not understand that life is paradise, for we need only wish to understand, and it will come at once in all its beauty, and we shall embrace each other and weep ...” I wanted to go on but I could not, so much sweetness, so much youngness even took my breath away, and in my heart there was such happiness as I had never felt before in all my life. “That is all very sensible and pious,” my adversary said to me, “and you’re an original man, in any case.” “Laugh,” I said to him, laughing myself, “but later you will praise me.” “But,” he said, “I am ready to praise you even now. I will give you my hand, if you wish, for it seems you are indeed a sincere man.” “No,” I said, “not now, but later when I’ve become better and deserve your respect, then give me your hand and you will do well.” We returned home, my second scolding me all the way, while I kept kissing him. My comrades all heard about it at once and met to pass judgment on me that same day: “He has dishonored the regiment,” they said, “he must resign his commission.” I had my defenders as well: “He did stand up to the shot,” they said. “Yes, but he was afraid of the other shots and asked forgiveness in the middle of the duel.” “But if he was afraid of the other shots,” my defenders objected, “he would have fired his own pistol first, before asking forgiveness, but he threw it into the trees still loaded—no, there’s something else here, something original.” I listened and looked at them cheerfully. “My dearest friends and comrades,” I said, “do not worry about whether or not I should resign my commission, because I have already done so, I turned in my papers today, at the office, this morning, and when my discharge comes through, I shall go into a monastery at once, for that is why I resigned my commission.” No sooner had I said this than all of them, to a man, burst out laughing: “But you should have told us so in the first place, that explains everything, we can’t pass judgment on a monk,” they laughed, they could not stop, yet they laughed not at all derisively, but tenderly, cheerfully, they all loved me suddenly, even my most fervent accusers, and for the rest of that month, until my discharge came through, they kept making much of me: “Here comes our monk!” they would say. And each of them had a kind word for me, they tried to talk me out of it, they even pitied me: “What are you doing to yourself?” “No,” they would say, “he is brave, he stood up to the shot, and he could have fired his own pistol, but he had a dream the night before that he should become a monk, that’s why he did it.” Almost exactly the same thing happened with the local society. They had paid no particular attention to me before, though they received me cordially, but now they suddenly found out and began vying with each other to invite me: they laughed at me, and yet they loved me. I will note here that though everyone was talking openly about our duel, the authorities dismissed the case, because my adversary was a close relative of our general, and since the thing had ended bloodlessly, more like a joke, and, finally, as I had also resigned my commission, they chose to consider it indeed as a joke. And I then began to speak out quite fearlessly, despite their laughter, for their laughter was kindly after all, not malicious. All these conversations generally took place on social evenings, in the company of ladies; it was the women who liked to listen to me then, and who made the men listen. “But how is it possible that I am guilty for everyone,” they would all laugh in my face, “well, for instance, can I be guilty for you?” “But how can you even understand it,” I would answer, “if the whole world has long since gone off on a different path, and if we consider what is a veritable lie to be the truth, and demand the same lie from others? Here for once in my life I have acted sincerely, and what then? I’ve become a sort of holy fool for you all, and though you’ve come to love me, you still laugh at me.” “But how can we help loving someone like you?” the mistress of the house said to me, laughing, and there was a large crowd there. Suddenly I saw, standing up among the ladies, that same young woman over whom I had started the duel and whom until so recently I had intended as my fiancée. And I had not noticed that she had just arrived at the party. She stood up, came over to me, and held out her hand: “Allow me to tell you,” she said, “that I will be the first not to laugh at you, and that, on the contrary, it is with tears that I thank you and declare my respect for you for what you did.” Then her husband came over, and then suddenly everyone drifted towards me and all but kissed me. I was filled with joy, but most of all I suddenly noticed one gentleman, an elderly man, who also came up to me, and whom I already knew by name, though I had not made his acquaintance and had never even exchanged a word with him until that evening.
(d) The Mysterious Visitor
He had been an official in our town for a long time, held a prominent position, was universally respected, wealthy, well known for his philanthropy, had donated considerable sums for an almshouse and an orphanage, and besides that did many good deeds in private, without publicity, all of which became known later, after his death. He was about fifty years old and of almost stern appearance; he was taciturn; he had been married for no more than ten years to a wife who was still young and who had borne him three still-small children. And so I was sitting at home the next evening when suddenly my door opened and this very gentleman walked in.
It should be noted that I was no longer living in my old quarters then, but had moved, as soon as I turned in my resignation, to different rooms, rented out by the old widow of an official, and including her servant, for I had moved to these lodgings for one reason only, that on the same day that I returned from the duel I had sent Afanasy back to his company, being ashamed to look him in the face after the way I had behaved with him that morning—so far is an unprepared man of the world inclined to be ashamed even of the most righteous act.
“For several days now,” the gentleman said upon entering, “I have been listening to you in various houses with great curiosity, and wanted finally to make your personal acquaintance, in order to talk with you in more detail. Can you do me such a great service, my dear sir?” “I can,” I said, “with the greatest pleasure, and I would even consider it a special honor.” I said this, and yet I was almost frightened, so strong was the impression he made on me that first time. For though people listened to me and were curious, no one had yet come up to me with such a serious and stern inner look. And this man had even come to my own rooms. He sat down. “I see there is great strength of character in you,” he went on, “for you were not afraid to serve the truth in such an affair, though for the sake of your truth you risked suffering general contempt.” “Your praise of me is perhaps rather exaggerated,” I said to him. “No, it is not exaggerated,” he replied. “Believe me, to accomplish such an act is far more difficult than you think. As a matter of fact,” he went on, “I was struck precisely by that, and because of that I have come to see you. Describe for me, if you do not disdain my perhaps quite indecent curiosity, exactly what you felt at that moment, when you decided to ask forgiveness during the duel—can you remember? Do not regard my question as frivolous; on the contrary, I have my own secret purpose in asking such a question, which I shall probably explain to you in the future, if God wills that we become more closely acquainted.”
All the while he was speaking, I looked him straight in the face and suddenly felt the greatest trust in him, and, besides that, an extraordinary curiosity on my own part, for I sensed that he had some sort of special secret in his soul.
“You ask exactly what I felt at that moment when I asked forgiveness of my adversary,” I replied, “but I had better tell you from the beginning what I have not yet told to anyone else,” and I told him all that had happened between Afanasy and me, and how I had bowed to the ground before him. “From that you can see for yourself,” I concluded, “that it was easier for me during the duel, for I had already started at home, and once I set out on that path, the rest went not only without difficulty but even joyfully and happily.”
He listened and looked kindly at me: “That is all extremely interesting,” he said. “I shall come and see you again and again.” And after that he took to visiting me almost every evening. And we should have become very close friends if he had spoken to me about himself as well. But he said hardly a word about himself, but only kept asking me about myself. In spite of that, I came to love him very much, and trusted him completely with all my feelings, for I thought: why do I need his secrets, when I can see even without that that he is a righteous man? Besides, he is such a serious man, and we are not the same age, yet he keeps coming to me and does not disdain my youth. And I learned much that was useful from him, for he was a man of lofty mind. “That life is paradise,” he said to me suddenly, “I have been thinking about for a long time”—and suddenly added, “that is all I think about.” He looked at me, smiling. “I am convinced of it,” he said, “more than you are; you shall find out why later on.” I listened and thought to myself: “Surely he wants to reveal something to me.” “Paradise,” he said, “is hidden in each one of us, it is concealed within me, too, right now, and if I wish, it will come for me in reality, tomorrow even, and for the rest of my life.” I looked at him: he was speaking with tenderness and looking at me mysteriously, as if questioning me. “And,” he went on, “as for each man being guilty before all and for all, besides his own sins, your reasoning about that is quite correct, and it is surprising that you could suddenly embrace this thought so fully. And indeed it is true that when people understand this thought, the Kingdom of Heaven will come to them, no longer in a dream but in reality.” “But when will this come true?” I exclaimed to him ruefully. “And will it ever come true? Is it not just a dream?” “Ah,” he said, “now you do not believe it, you preach it and do not believe it yourself. Know, then, that this dream, as you call it, will undoubtedly come true, believe it, though not now, for every action has its law. This is a matter of the soul, a psychological matter. In order to make the world over anew, people themselves must turn onto a different path psychically. Until one has indeed become the brother of all, there will be no brotherhood. No science or self-interest will ever enable people to share their property and their rights among themselves without offense. Each will always think his share too small, and they will keep murmuring, they will envy and destroy one another. You ask when it will come true. It will come true, but first the period of human isolationmust conclude.” “What isolation?” I asked him. “That which is now reigning everywhere, especially in our age, but it is not all concluded yet, its term has not come. For everyone now strives most of all to separate his person, wishing to experience the fullness of life within himself, and yet what comes of all his efforts is not the fullness of life but full suicide, for instead of the fullness of self-definition, they fall into complete isolation. For all men in our age are separated into units, each seeks seclusion in his own hole, each withdraws from the others, hides himself, and hides what he has, and ends by pushing himself away from people and pushing people away from himself. He accumulates wealth in solitude, thinking: how strong, how secure I am now; and does not see, madman as he is, that the more he accumulates, the more he sinks into suicidal impotence. For he is accustomed to relying only on himself, he has separated his unit from the whole, he has accustomed his soul to not believing in people’s help, in people or in mankind, and now only trembles lest his money and his acquired privileges perish. Everywhere now the human mind has begun laughably not to understand that a man’s true security lies not in his own solitary effort, but in the general wholeness of humanity. But there must needs come a term to this horrible isolation, and everyone will all at once realize how unnaturally they have separated themselves one from another. Such will be the spirit of the time, and they will be astonished that they sat in darkness for so long, and did not see the light. Then the sign of the Son of Man will appear in the heavens [205]... But until then we must keep hold of the banner, and every once in a while, if only individually, a man must suddenly set an example, and draw the soul from its isolation for an act of brotherly communion, though it be with the rank of holy fool. So that the great thought does not die ...”
In such fervent and rapturous conversations we spent one evening after another. I even abandoned society and began visiting people much less frequently; besides, I was beginning to go out of fashion. I say that not in condemnation, for people went on loving me and receiving me cheerfully, but still one must admit that fashion is indeed the great queen of society. As for my mysterious visitor, I came finally to regard him with admiration, for, besides enjoying his intelligence, I began to feel that he was nursing some sort of design in himself, and was perhaps preparing for a great deed. Perhaps he liked it, too, that I did not express any curiosity about his secret, and did not question him either directly or through hints. But at last I noticed that he himself seemed to be longing to reveal something to me. In any case this became quite apparent about a month after the start of his visits. “Do you know,” he once asked me, “that there is great curiosity in town about the two of us? People marvel that I come to see you so often; but let them marvel, for soon everything will be explained.” Sometimes a great agitation suddenly came over him, and on such occasions he almost always would get up and leave. And sometimes he would look at me long and piercingly, as it were—I would think, “Now he is going to say something,” but suddenly he would catch himself and start talking about something familiar and ordinary. He also began to complain frequently of headaches. And then one day, even quite unexpectedly, after talking long and fervently, I saw him suddenly grow pale, his face became quite twisted, and he stared straight at me.
“What’s the matter?” I said, “are you ill?”
He had been complaining precisely of a headache.
“I ... do you know ... I killed a person.”
He said it and smiled, and his face was white as chalk. “Why is he smiling?” the thought suddenly pierced my heart even before I had understood anything. I turned pale myself.
“What are you saying?” I cried to him.
“You see,” he replied, still with a pale smile, “how much it cost me to say the first word. Now I have said it, and, it seems, have set out on the path. I shall keep on.”
For a while I did 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. I thought he was mad, but ended finally by being convinced clearly, to my great grief and astonishment. He had committed a great and terrible crime fourteen years earlier, over a wealthy lady, young and beautiful, a landowner’s widow, who kept her own house in our town. Feeling great love for her, he made her a declaration of his love, and tried to persuade her to marry him. But she had already given her heart to another man, an officer of noble birth and high rank, who was then away on campaign, but whom she expected soon to return to her. She rejected his proposal and asked him to stop visiting her. He did stop visiting her, but knowing the layout of her house, he came to her by stealth one night from the garden, over the roof, with great boldness, risking discovery. But, as so often happens, crimes committed with extraordinary boldness are more likely to succeed than any others. Having entered the attic through a dormer window, he went down to her apartments by the little attic stairway, knowing that, because of the servants’ negligence, the door at the foot of the stairway was not always locked. He hoped for such carelessness this time, and was not disappointed. Stealing into her apartments, he made his way through the darkness to her bedroom, where an icon lamp was burning. Her two maids, as if on purpose, had gone secretly, without asking permission, to a birthday party at a neighbor’s house on the same street. The other menservants and maids slept in the servants’ quarters or in the kitchen on the ground floor. At the sight of the sleeping woman, passion flared up in him, and then his heart was seized by vengeful, jealous anger, and forgetting himself, like a drunk man, he went up to her and plunged a knife straight into her heart, so that she did not even cry out. Then, with infernal and criminal calculation, he arranged things so that the blame would fall on the servants: he did not scruple to take her purse; with her keys, taken from under her pillow, he opened her bureau and took certain things from it, precisely as an ignorant servant would have done, leaving the valuable papers and taking only money; he took some of the larger gold objects and neglected smaller objects that were ten times more valuable. He also took something for himself as a keepsake, but of that later. Having carried out this horrible deed, he left by the same way he had come. Neither the next day, when the alarm was raised, nor ever in his whole life afterwards, did it occur to anyone to suspect the real culprit! Besides, no one knew of his love for her, for he had always been of taciturn and unsociable character and had no friend to whom he confided his soul. He was considered merely an acquaintance of the murdered woman, and not a very close one at that, for he had not even called on her for the past two weeks. Her serf Pyotr was the immediate suspect, and circumstances all came together just then to confirm the suspicion, for this servant knew, and the dead woman had made no secret of it, that she intended to send him to the army, to fulfill her quota of peasant recruits, because he had no family and, besides, was badly behaved. He had been heard, angry and drunk, in a tavern, threatening to kill her. And two days before her death he had run away and lived somewhere in town, no one knew where. The very day after the murder, he was found on the road just outside town, dead drunk, with a knife in his pocket and, what’s more, with his right palm for some reason stained with blood. He insisted that his nose had been bleeding, but no one believed him. The maids confessed that they had gone to a party, and that the front door had been left unlocked until their return. And on top of that there were many similar indications, on the basis of which they seized the innocent servant. He was arrested, and proceedings were started, but just a week later the arrested man came down with a fever and died unconscious in the hospital. Thus the case was closed, handed over to the will of God, and everyone—the judges, the authorities, and society at large—remained convinced that the crime had been committed by no one other than the dead servant. And after that the punishment began.
