feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_6_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: The Brothers Karamazov.book 2.chapter 2
feat_summary_id: book 2, chapter 2
feat_summary: {"name": "Book 2, Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-2-chapter-2", "summary": "When they enter Zosima's cell, they are joined by two hieromonks , the Father Librarian and Father Paissy, as well as another young seminarian. Alyosha walks in at the same time with a novice and Zosima. Zosima blesses the hieromonks, but Pyotr Miusov, who considers himself too advanced to believe in religion, politely refuses the blessing. Fyodor mockingly imitates Pyotr. Ivan also bows and refuses the blessing. Alyosha blushes, ashamed of their behavior. Fyodor goes off on a tangent and tells a silly and untrue story about Diderot. He then asks Zosima how to \"inherit eternal life,\" and Zosima calmly tells him by not lying. Fyodor seems to take this advice with good humor, then accuses Miusov of telling him the false story about Diderot. Miusov is confused and wonders whether he did tell the story, but then gets annoyed with Fyodor for mocking him. Zosima excuses himself from the gathering to bless the faithful outside, but before he leaves, Fyodor manages to kiss his hand, claiming that he was fooling around just to test him.", "analysis": ""}
text: Chapter II. The Old Buffoon
  
  
  They entered the room almost at the same moment that the elder came in
  from his bedroom. There were already in the cell, awaiting the elder, two
  monks of the hermitage, one the Father Librarian, and the other Father
  Paissy, a very learned man, so they said, in delicate health, though not
  old. There was also a tall young man, who looked about two and twenty,
  standing in the corner throughout the interview. He had a broad, fresh
  face, and clever, observant, narrow brown eyes, and was wearing ordinary
  dress. He was a divinity student, living under the protection of the
  monastery. His expression was one of unquestioning, but self-respecting,
  reverence. Being in a subordinate and dependent position, and so not on an
  equality with the guests, he did not greet them with a bow.
  
  Father Zossima was accompanied by a novice, and by Alyosha. The two monks
  rose and greeted him with a very deep bow, touching the ground with their
  fingers; then kissed his hand. Blessing them, the elder replied with as
  deep a reverence to them, and asked their blessing. The whole ceremony was
  performed very seriously and with an appearance of feeling, not like an
  everyday rite. But Miuesov fancied that it was all done with intentional
  impressiveness. He stood in front of the other visitors. He ought--he had
  reflected upon it the evening before--from simple politeness, since it was
  the custom here, to have gone up to receive the elder's blessing, even if
  he did not kiss his hand. But when he saw all this bowing and kissing on
  the part of the monks he instantly changed his mind. With dignified
  gravity he made a rather deep, conventional bow, and moved away to a
  chair. Fyodor Pavlovitch did the same, mimicking Miuesov like an ape. Ivan
  bowed with great dignity and courtesy, but he too kept his hands at his
  sides, while Kalganov was so confused that he did not bow at all. The
  elder let fall the hand raised to bless them, and bowing to them again,
  asked them all to sit down. The blood rushed to Alyosha's cheeks. He was
  ashamed. His forebodings were coming true.
  
  Father Zossima sat down on a very old-fashioned mahogany sofa, covered
  with leather, and made his visitors sit down in a row along the opposite
  wall on four mahogany chairs, covered with shabby black leather. The monks
  sat, one at the door and the other at the window. The divinity student,
  the novice, and Alyosha remained standing. The cell was not very large and
  had a faded look. It contained nothing but the most necessary furniture,
  of coarse and poor quality. There were two pots of flowers in the window,
  and a number of holy pictures in the corner. Before one huge ancient ikon
  of the Virgin a lamp was burning. Near it were two other holy pictures in
  shining settings, and, next them, carved cherubims, china eggs, a Catholic
  cross of ivory, with a Mater Dolorosa embracing it, and several foreign
  engravings from the great Italian artists of past centuries. Next to these
  costly and artistic engravings were several of the roughest Russian prints
  of saints and martyrs, such as are sold for a few farthings at all the
  fairs. On the other walls were portraits of Russian bishops, past and
  present.
  
  Miuesov took a cursory glance at all these "conventional" surroundings and
  bent an intent look upon the elder. He had a high opinion of his own
  insight, a weakness excusable in him as he was fifty, an age at which a
  clever man of the world of established position can hardly help taking
  himself rather seriously. At the first moment he did not like Zossima.
  There was, indeed, something in the elder's face which many people besides
  Miuesov might not have liked. He was a short, bent, little man, with very
  weak legs, and though he was only sixty-five, he looked at least ten years
  older. His face was very thin and covered with a network of fine wrinkles,
  particularly numerous about his eyes, which were small, light-colored,
  quick, and shining like two bright points. He had a sprinkling of gray
  hair about his temples. His pointed beard was small and scanty, and his
  lips, which smiled frequently, were as thin as two threads. His nose was
  not long, but sharp, like a bird's beak.
  
  "To all appearances a malicious soul, full of petty pride," thought
  Miuesov. He felt altogether dissatisfied with his position.
  
  A cheap little clock on the wall struck twelve hurriedly, and served to
  begin the conversation.
  
  "Precisely to our time," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, "but no sign of my son,
  Dmitri. I apologize for him, sacred elder!" (Alyosha shuddered all over at
  "sacred elder.") "I am always punctual myself, minute for minute,
  remembering that punctuality is the courtesy of kings...."
  
  "But you are not a king, anyway," Miuesov muttered, losing his self-
  restraint at once.
  
  "Yes; that's true. I'm not a king, and, would you believe it, Pyotr
  Alexandrovitch, I was aware of that myself. But, there! I always say the
  wrong thing. Your reverence," he cried, with sudden pathos, "you behold
  before you a buffoon in earnest! I introduce myself as such. It's an old
  habit, alas! And if I sometimes talk nonsense out of place it's with an
  object, with the object of amusing people and making myself agreeable. One
  must be agreeable, mustn't one? I was seven years ago in a little town
  where I had business, and I made friends with some merchants there. We
  went to the captain of police because we had to see him about something,
  and to ask him to dine with us. He was a tall, fat, fair, sulky man, the
  most dangerous type in such cases. It's their liver. I went straight up to
  him, and with the ease of a man of the world, you know, 'Mr. Ispravnik,'
  said I, 'be our Napravnik.' 'What do you mean by Napravnik?' said he. I
  saw, at the first half-second, that it had missed fire. He stood there so
  glum. 'I wanted to make a joke,' said I, 'for the general diversion, as
  Mr. Napravnik is our well-known Russian orchestra conductor and what we
  need for the harmony of our undertaking is some one of that sort.' And I
  explained my comparison very reasonably, didn't I? 'Excuse me,' said he,
  'I am an Ispravnik, and I do not allow puns to be made on my calling.' He
  turned and walked away. I followed him, shouting, 'Yes, yes, you are an
  Ispravnik, not a Napravnik.' 'No,' he said, 'since you called me a
  Napravnik I am one.' And would you believe it, it ruined our business! And
  I'm always like that, always like that. Always injuring myself with my
  politeness. Once, many years ago, I said to an influential person: 'Your
  wife is a ticklish lady,' in an honorable sense, of the moral qualities,
  so to speak. But he asked me, 'Why, have you tickled her?' I thought I'd
  be polite, so I couldn't help saying, 'Yes,' and he gave me a fine
  tickling on the spot. Only that happened long ago, so I'm not ashamed to
  tell the story. I'm always injuring myself like that."
  
  "You're doing it now," muttered Miuesov, with disgust.
  
  Father Zossima scrutinized them both in silence.
  
  "Am I? Would you believe it, I was aware of that, too, Pyotr
  Alexandrovitch, and let me tell you, indeed, I foresaw I should as soon as
  I began to speak. And do you know I foresaw, too, that you'd be the first
  to remark on it. The minute I see my joke isn't coming off, your
  reverence, both my cheeks feel as though they were drawn down to the lower
  jaw and there is almost a spasm in them. That's been so since I was young,
  when I had to make jokes for my living in noblemen's families. I am an
  inveterate buffoon, and have been from birth up, your reverence, it's as
  though it were a craze in me. I dare say it's a devil within me. But only
  a little one. A more serious one would have chosen another lodging. But
  not your soul, Pyotr Alexandrovitch; you're not a lodging worth having
  either. But I do believe--I believe in God, though I have had doubts of
  late. But now I sit and await words of wisdom. I'm like the philosopher,
  Diderot, your reverence. Did you ever hear, most Holy Father, how Diderot
  went to see the Metropolitan Platon, in the time of the Empress Catherine?
  He went in and said straight out, 'There is no God.' To which the great
  bishop lifted up his finger and answered, 'The fool hath said in his heart
  there is no God.' And he fell down at his feet on the spot. 'I believe,'
  he cried, 'and will be christened.' And so he was. Princess Dashkov was
  his godmother, and Potyomkin his godfather."
  
  "Fyodor Pavlovitch, this is unbearable! You know you're telling lies and
  that that stupid anecdote isn't true. Why are you playing the fool?" cried
  Miuesov in a shaking voice.
  
  "I suspected all my life that it wasn't true," Fyodor Pavlovitch cried
  with conviction. "But I'll tell you the whole truth, gentlemen. Great
  elder! Forgive me, the last thing about Diderot's christening I made up
  just now. I never thought of it before. I made it up to add piquancy. I
  play the fool, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to make myself agreeable. Though I
  really don't know myself, sometimes, what I do it for. And as for Diderot,
  I heard as far as 'the fool hath said in his heart' twenty times from the
  gentry about here when I was young. I heard your aunt, Pyotr
  Alexandrovitch, tell the story. They all believe to this day that the
  infidel Diderot came to dispute about God with the Metropolitan
  Platon...."
  
  Miuesov got up, forgetting himself in his impatience. He was furious, and
  conscious of being ridiculous.
  
  What was taking place in the cell was really incredible. For forty or
  fifty years past, from the times of former elders, no visitors had entered
  that cell without feelings of the profoundest veneration. Almost every one
  admitted to the cell felt that a great favor was being shown him. Many
  remained kneeling during the whole visit. Of those visitors, many had been
  men of high rank and learning, some even freethinkers, attracted by
  curiosity, but all without exception had shown the profoundest reverence
  and delicacy, for here there was no question of money, but only, on the
  one side love and kindness, and on the other penitence and eager desire to
  decide some spiritual problem or crisis. So that such buffoonery amazed
  and bewildered the spectators, or at least some of them. The monks, with
  unchanged countenances, waited, with earnest attention, to hear what the
  elder would say, but seemed on the point of standing up, like Miuesov.
  Alyosha stood, with hanging head, on the verge of tears. What seemed to
  him strangest of all was that his brother Ivan, on whom alone he had
  rested his hopes, and who alone had such influence on his father that he
  could have stopped him, sat now quite unmoved, with downcast eyes,
  apparently waiting with interest to see how it would end, as though he had
  nothing to do with it. Alyosha did not dare to look at Rakitin, the
  divinity student, whom he knew almost intimately. He alone in the
  monastery knew Rakitin's thoughts.
  
  "Forgive me," began Miuesov, addressing Father Zossima, "for perhaps I seem
  to be taking part in this shameful foolery. I made a mistake in believing
  that even a man like Fyodor Pavlovitch would understand what was due on a
  visit to so honored a personage. I did not suppose I should have to
  apologize simply for having come with him...."
  
  Pyotr Alexandrovitch could say no more, and was about to leave the room,
  overwhelmed with confusion.
  
  "Don't distress yourself, I beg." The elder got on to his feeble legs, and
  taking Pyotr Alexandrovitch by both hands, made him sit down again. "I beg
  you not to disturb yourself. I particularly beg you to be my guest." And
  with a bow he went back and sat down again on his little sofa.
  
  "Great elder, speak! Do I annoy you by my vivacity?" Fyodor Pavlovitch
  cried suddenly, clutching the arms of his chair in both hands, as though
  ready to leap up from it if the answer were unfavorable.
  
  "I earnestly beg you, too, not to disturb yourself, and not to be uneasy,"
  the elder said impressively. "Do not trouble. Make yourself quite at home.
  And, above all, do not be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root
  of it all."
  
  "Quite at home? To be my natural self? Oh, that is much too much, but I
  accept it with grateful joy. Do you know, blessed Father, you'd better not
  invite me to be my natural self. Don't risk it.... I will not go so far as
  that myself. I warn you for your own sake. Well, the rest is still plunged
  in the mists of uncertainty, though there are people who'd be pleased to
  describe me for you. I mean that for you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. But as for
  you, holy being, let me tell you, I am brimming over with ecstasy."
  
  He got up, and throwing up his hands, declaimed, "Blessed be the womb that
  bare thee, and the paps that gave thee suck--the paps especially. When you
  said just now, 'Don't be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root
  of it all,' you pierced right through me by that remark, and read me to
  the core. Indeed, I always feel when I meet people that I am lower than
  all, and that they all take me for a buffoon. So I say, 'Let me really
  play the buffoon. I am not afraid of your opinion, for you are every one
  of you worse than I am.' That is why I am a buffoon. It is from shame,
  great elder, from shame; it's simply over-sensitiveness that makes me
  rowdy. If I had only been sure that every one would accept me as the
  kindest and wisest of men, oh, Lord, what a good man I should have been
  then! Teacher!" he fell suddenly on his knees, "what must I do to gain
  eternal life?"
  
  It was difficult even now to decide whether he was joking or really moved.
  
  Father Zossima, lifting his eyes, looked at him, and said with a smile:
  
  "You have known for a long time what you must do. You have sense enough:
  don't give way to drunkenness and incontinence of speech; don't give way
  to sensual lust; and, above all, to the love of money. And close your
  taverns. If you can't close all, at least two or three. And, above
  all--don't lie."
  
  "You mean about Diderot?"
  
  "No, not about Diderot. Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies
  to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot
  distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect
  for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and
  in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to
  passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all
  from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to
  himself can be more easily offended than any one. You know it is sometimes
  very pleasant to take offense, isn't it? A man may know that nobody has
  insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied
  and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a
  mountain out of a molehill--he knows that himself, yet he will be the first
  to take offense, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great
  pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness. But get up, sit
  down, I beg you. All this, too, is deceitful posturing...."
  
  "Blessed man! Give me your hand to kiss."
  
  Fyodor Pavlovitch skipped up, and imprinted a rapid kiss on the elder's
  thin hand. "It is, it is pleasant to take offense. You said that so well,
  as I never heard it before. Yes, I have been all my life taking offense,
  to please myself, taking offense on esthetic grounds, for it is not so
  much pleasant as distinguished sometimes to be insulted--that you had
  forgotten, great elder, it is distinguished! I shall make a note of that.
  But I have been lying, lying positively my whole life long, every day and
  hour of it. Of a truth, I am a lie, and the father of lies. Though I
  believe I am not the father of lies. I am getting mixed in my texts. Say,
  the son of lies, and that will be enough. Only ... my angel ... I may
  sometimes talk about Diderot! Diderot will do no harm, though sometimes a
  word will do harm. Great elder, by the way, I was forgetting, though I had
  been meaning for the last two years to come here on purpose to ask and to
  find out something. Only do tell Pyotr Alexandrovitch not to interrupt me.
  Here is my question: Is it true, great Father, that the story is told
  somewhere in the _Lives of the Saints_ of a holy saint martyred for his
  faith who, when his head was cut off at last, stood up, picked up his
  head, and, 'courteously kissing it,' walked a long way, carrying it in his
  hands. Is that true or not, honored Father?"
  
  "No, it is untrue," said the elder.
  
  "There is nothing of the kind in all the lives of the saints. What saint
  do you say the story is told of?" asked the Father Librarian.
  
  "I do not know what saint. I do not know, and can't tell. I was deceived.
  I was told the story. I had heard it, and do you know who told it? Pyotr
  Alexandrovitch Miuesov here, who was so angry just now about Diderot. He it
  was who told the story."
  
  "I have never told it you, I never speak to you at all."
  
  "It is true you did not tell me, but you told it when I was present. It
  was three years ago. I mentioned it because by that ridiculous story you
  shook my faith, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You knew nothing of it, but I went
  home with my faith shaken, and I have been getting more and more shaken
  ever since. Yes, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you were the cause of a great fall.
  That was not a Diderot!"
  
  Fyodor Pavlovitch got excited and pathetic, though it was perfectly clear
  to every one by now that he was playing a part again. Yet Miuesov was stung
  by his words.
  
  "What nonsense, and it is all nonsense," he muttered. "I may really have
  told it, some time or other ... but not to you. I was told it myself. I
  heard it in Paris from a Frenchman. He told me it was read at our mass
  from the _Lives of the Saints_ ... he was a very learned man who had made
  a special study of Russian statistics and had lived a long time in
  Russia.... I have not read the _Lives of the Saints_ myself, and I am not
  going to read them ... all sorts of things are said at dinner--we were
  dining then."
  
  "Yes, you were dining then, and so I lost my faith!" said Fyodor
  Pavlovitch, mimicking him.
  
  "What do I care for your faith?" Miuesov was on the point of shouting, but
  he suddenly checked himself, and said with contempt, "You defile
  everything you touch."
  
  The elder suddenly rose from his seat. "Excuse me, gentlemen, for leaving
  you a few minutes," he said, addressing all his guests. "I have visitors
  awaiting me who arrived before you. But don't you tell lies all the same,"
  he added, turning to Fyodor Pavlovitch with a good-humored face. He went
  out of the cell. Alyosha and the novice flew to escort him down the steps.
  Alyosha was breathless: he was glad to get away, but he was glad, too,
  that the elder was good-humored and not offended. Father Zossima was going
  towards the portico to bless the people waiting for him there. But Fyodor
  Pavlovitch persisted in stopping him at the door of the cell.
  
  "Blessed man!" he cried, with feeling. "Allow me to kiss your hand once
  more. Yes, with you I could still talk, I could still get on. Do you think
  I always lie and play the fool like this? Believe me, I have been acting
  like this all the time on purpose to try you. I have been testing you all
  the time to see whether I could get on with you. Is there room for my
  humility beside your pride? I am ready to give you a testimonial that one
  can get on with you! But now, I'll be quiet; I will keep quiet all the
  time. I'll sit in a chair and hold my tongue. Now it is for you to speak,
  Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You are the principal person left now--for ten
  minutes."
  
  
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Book 2, Chapter 2
target: When they enter Zosima's cell, they are joined by two hieromonks , the Father Librarian and Father Paissy, as well as another young seminarian. Alyosha walks in at the same time with a novice and Zosima. Zosima blesses the hieromonks, but Pyotr Miusov, who considers himself too advanced to believe in religion, politely refuses the blessing. Fyodor mockingly imitates Pyotr. Ivan also bows and refuses the blessing. Alyosha blushes, ashamed of their behavior. Fyodor goes off on a tangent and tells a silly and untrue story about Diderot. He then asks Zosima how to "inherit eternal life," and Zosima calmly tells him by not lying. Fyodor seems to take this advice with good humor, then accuses Miusov of telling him the false story about Diderot. Miusov is confused and wonders whether he did tell the story, but then gets annoyed with Fyodor for mocking him. Zosima excuses himself from the gathering to bless the faithful outside, but before he leaves, Fyodor manages to kiss his hand, claiming that he was fooling around just to test him.