feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_1_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: The Brothers Karamazov.book 2.chapters 1-4
feat_summary_id: book 2 chapters 1-4
feat_summary: {"name": "Book II: Chapters 1-4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219142226/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/b/the-brothers-karamazov/summary-and-analysis/part-1-book-ii-chapters-14", "summary": "On the day scheduled for the meeting between the Karamazovs and the elder, Zossima, Fyodor and Ivan arrive accompanied by a former guardian of Dmitri, Miusov, and a relative of Miusov, Kalganov. Dmitri Karamazov, however, is not at the monastery, and all wonder, naturally, whether he will come; he was certainly notified only the previous day. The meeting takes on an air of mystery. A very old monk emerges, greets the guests, and then leads them to Father Zossima's cell. All are invited to have lunch with the Father Superior following the interview, he says. First, however, they must wait for Zossima. The wait, though not long, seems interminable to Miusov. Uncontrollably, he finds himself growing increasingly irritated at the crude jokes that Fyodor Karamazov unleashes concerning the monastic life. Father Zossima at last arrives, accompanied by Alyosha, two other monks, and Rakitin, a divinity student living under the protection of the monastery. The monks bow and kiss Zossima's hand and receive his blessings; the guests, however, merely bow politely to the elder. Deeply embarrassed by his family's austerity, Alyosha trembles. Now, more than ever, he fears that the meeting will be calamitous. Karamazov apologizes for Dmitri's absence, and then nervously begins a nonstop monolog of coarse anecdotes. At this, Alyosha is even more deeply embarrassed; in fact, everyone except the elder is distressed. The tension mounts, and when Karamazov falls climactically to his knees and begs the elder, \"What must I do to gain eternal life?\" it is difficult to tell whether or not he is still playing the loudmouth clown. No one but Zossima dares to speak. The elder tells Karamazov that he must cease lying and, above all, he must cease lying to himself. At first, Fyodor is impressed by the advice but then resumes his joking and clowning until Zossima excuses himself. He must meet with an assembly of people outside the monastery. The group outside are all peasant women -- all but two. At one side, in a section reserved for the wealthy, are Madame Hohlakov and her partially paralyzed daughter, Lise, waiting to be blessed by the elder and to receive his advice on their problems. Zossima moves among the peasant women listening to their problems and offering them advice, emphasizing always the healing effect of the love of God. \"Love is such a priceless treasure,\" he says, \"that you can redeem the world by it and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others.\" Madame Hohlakov confesses to Zossima that, for her part, she suffers from a lack of faith; she can grasp neither the Christian idea of immortality nor any type of life beyond the grave. She says furthermore that if she does a charitable act, she wants to receive thanks and praise for it. Zossima tells her that if she practices active, honest love, she will grow to understand the reality of God and the immortality of her soul. \"Attain to perfect self-forgetfulness in the love of your neighbor,\" he counsels her, \"then you will believe without doubt.\" Ending the interview, he promises her that he will send Alyosha to visit Lise.", "analysis": "Book II is largely devoted to a study of Zossima and his teachings. This saintly ascetic influences all of Alyosha's actions, and to thoroughly understand this youngest member of the Karamazov clan, one must understand the man to whom he zealously attaches himself. Zossima seems to have come to terms with life; he lives with perfect contentment and understanding -- basically, a quiet and reserved man. He is not, for instance, visibly disturbed by Fyodor Karamazov's buffoonery; his quiet mien allows him to see deeply into the personality of Karamazov -- of any person with whom he speaks. With Karamazov, he knows that the old man is intentionally trying to overact, to clown, and, later, with Madame Hohlakov, he knows that she makes her confession in order to gain his personal approbation for her frankness. A large part of Father Zossima's greatness, therefore, is this perceptive understanding of mankind, his comprehension of the psychological factors and motivations that prompt human actions; his advice is therefore unusually sound. Zossima's dignity is unique and, coupled with his extreme humility, most readily impresses a visitor. Alyosha, in contrast, is embarrassed when the Karamazovs do not ask for the elder's blessing, but Zossima shows no outward concern. He merely asks his guests to conduct themselves naturally and to be comfortable; their lack of reverence and discretion in no way offends him. His wisdom encompasses all aspects of life. In general, Zossima's philosophy is based on the positive rather than on the negative. This is not immediately evident, however, for he tells Karamazov, in terms of negatives, to avoid drunkenness and incontinence, to defy sensual lust, and to realistically value the ruble. But Zossima also offers Karamazov a thoroughly positive view of living, the very simplicity of which should not mislead the reader into thinking that Dostoevsky is being oversimple. Extreme simplicity, in fact, is the key to Zossima's way of life. His is a philosophy founded on a simplicity so basic that it consists of only two concepts: the value of loving and the value of being honest and respecting oneself. Zossima tells Fyodor, \"Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie eventually comes to such a pass that he neither distinguishes the truth within him nor around him and so loses all respect for himself and for others.\" Later, he tells Madame Hohlakov that she cannot be helped so long as she speaks only to impress. \"Above all,\" he says to her, \"avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood, especially to yourself.\" Zossima is convinced that if man is completely honest with himself, he can evaluate the evils within himself and overcome all such propensities, but when a person is dishonest, he is unable to detect good and righteous impulses; as a consequence, such a man ceases to have any respect for himself and begins, like Karamazov, to play the part of a ridiculous clown. In time, such a man will lose all dignity. He will be of no value to himself or to others. The high premium Zossima places on love is at the heart of this philosophy concerning honesty. When a person ceases to respect himself, he also ceases to love; he \"sinks to bestiality in passions and coarse pleasures.\" Only through love, Zossima believes, can man gain the much-sought-after peace that makes life vibrant. This is essentially Zossima's message to the peasant women. He sends them home with the admonition that \"love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole world by it and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others.\" To Madame Hohlakov, who has trouble understanding the concept of immortality, he says, \"by the experience of active love\" man can be convinced of an afterlife -- \"strive to love your neighbor actively and indefatigably. In as far as you advance in love you will grow surer of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul.\" If a person, he concludes, devotes himself completely to love -- love of God, love of the individual -- then that man can learn to believe in immortality without doubts. While such summary statements of Zossima's views seem, on the surface, to be simple, they echo in large degree the teachings of Jesus and the concepts by which Alyosha tries to live. Throughout the remainder of the novel, Alyosha attempts to practice Zossima's concept of love; he responds lovingly to every character and possesses no animosity for any -- not for the small children who ridicule him or even for Lise, who delights in tormenting him. Moreover, Zossima knows that Alyosha is the one person who can put into practice all of his teachings. And, as the elder sees that Katerina has sent a note for Alyosha and that Lise needs him to come visit her, it is such requests as these that support his decision to send Alyosha to live in the world rather than in the cloister."}
text: Book II. An Unfortunate Gathering Chapter I. They Arrive At The Monastery
  
  
  It was a warm, bright day at the end of August. The interview with the
  elder had been fixed for half-past eleven, immediately after late mass.
  Our visitors did not take part in the service, but arrived just as it was
  over. First an elegant open carriage, drawn by two valuable horses, drove
  up with Miuesov and a distant relative of his, a young man of twenty,
  called Pyotr Fomitch Kalganov. This young man was preparing to enter the
  university. Miuesov, with whom he was staying for the time, was trying to
  persuade him to go abroad to the university of Zurich or Jena. The young
  man was still undecided. He was thoughtful and absent-minded. He was nice-
  looking, strongly built, and rather tall. There was a strange fixity in
  his gaze at times. Like all very absent-minded people he would sometimes
  stare at a person without seeing him. He was silent and rather awkward,
  but sometimes, when he was alone with any one, he became talkative and
  effusive, and would laugh at anything or nothing. But his animation
  vanished as quickly as it appeared. He was always well and even
  elaborately dressed; he had already some independent fortune and
  expectations of much more. He was a friend of Alyosha's.
  
  In an ancient, jolting, but roomy, hired carriage, with a pair of old
  pinkish-gray horses, a long way behind Miuesov's carriage, came Fyodor
  Pavlovitch, with his son Ivan. Dmitri was late, though he had been
  informed of the time the evening before. The visitors left their carriage
  at the hotel, outside the precincts, and went to the gates of the
  monastery on foot. Except Fyodor Pavlovitch, none of the party had ever
  seen the monastery, and Miuesov had probably not even been to church for
  thirty years. He looked about him with curiosity, together with assumed
  ease. But, except the church and the domestic buildings, though these too
  were ordinary enough, he found nothing of interest in the interior of the
  monastery. The last of the worshippers were coming out of the church,
  bareheaded and crossing themselves. Among the humbler people were a few of
  higher rank--two or three ladies and a very old general. They were all
  staying at the hotel. Our visitors were at once surrounded by beggars, but
  none of them gave them anything, except young Kalganov, who took a ten-
  copeck piece out of his purse, and, nervous and embarrassed--God knows
  why!--hurriedly gave it to an old woman, saying: "Divide it equally." None
  of his companions made any remark upon it, so that he had no reason to be
  embarrassed; but, perceiving this, he was even more overcome.
  
  It was strange that their arrival did not seem expected, and that they
  were not received with special honor, though one of them had recently made
  a donation of a thousand roubles, while another was a very wealthy and
  highly cultured landowner, upon whom all in the monastery were in a sense
  dependent, as a decision of the lawsuit might at any moment put their
  fishing rights in his hands. Yet no official personage met them.
  
  Miuesov looked absent-mindedly at the tombstones round the church, and was
  on the point of saying that the dead buried here must have paid a pretty
  penny for the right of lying in this "holy place," but refrained. His
  liberal irony was rapidly changing almost into anger.
  
  "Who the devil is there to ask in this imbecile place? We must find out,
  for time is passing," he observed suddenly, as though speaking to himself.
  
  All at once there came up a bald-headed, elderly man with ingratiating
  little eyes, wearing a full, summer overcoat. Lifting his hat, he
  introduced himself with a honeyed lisp as Maximov, a landowner of Tula. He
  at once entered into our visitors' difficulty.
  
  "Father Zossima lives in the hermitage, apart, four hundred paces from the
  monastery, the other side of the copse."
  
  "I know it's the other side of the copse," observed Fyodor Pavlovitch,
  "but we don't remember the way. It is a long time since we've been here."
  
  "This way, by this gate, and straight across the copse ... the copse. Come
  with me, won't you? I'll show you. I have to go.... I am going myself.
  This way, this way."
  
  They came out of the gate and turned towards the copse. Maximov, a man of
  sixty, ran rather than walked, turning sideways to stare at them all, with
  an incredible degree of nervous curiosity. His eyes looked starting out of
  his head.
  
  "You see, we have come to the elder upon business of our own," observed
  Miuesov severely. "That personage has granted us an audience, so to speak,
  and so, though we thank you for showing us the way, we cannot ask you to
  accompany us."
  
  "I've been there. I've been already; _un chevalier parfait_," and Maximov
  snapped his fingers in the air.
  
  "Who is a _chevalier_?" asked Miuesov.
  
  "The elder, the splendid elder, the elder! The honor and glory of the
  monastery, Zossima. Such an elder!"
  
  But his incoherent talk was cut short by a very pale, wan-looking monk of
  medium height, wearing a monk's cap, who overtook them. Fyodor Pavlovitch
  and Miuesov stopped.
  
  The monk, with an extremely courteous, profound bow, announced:
  
  "The Father Superior invites all of you gentlemen to dine with him after
  your visit to the hermitage. At one o'clock, not later. And you also," he
  added, addressing Maximov.
  
  "That I certainly will, without fail," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, hugely
  delighted at the invitation. "And, believe me, we've all given our word to
  behave properly here.... And you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, will you go, too?"
  
  "Yes, of course. What have I come for but to study all the customs here?
  The only obstacle to me is your company...."
  
  "Yes, Dmitri Fyodorovitch is non-existent as yet."
  
  "It would be a capital thing if he didn't turn up. Do you suppose I like
  all this business, and in your company, too? So we will come to dinner.
  Thank the Father Superior," he said to the monk.
  
  "No, it is my duty now to conduct you to the elder," answered the monk.
  
  "If so I'll go straight to the Father Superior--to the Father Superior,"
  babbled Maximov.
  
  "The Father Superior is engaged just now. But as you please--" the monk
  hesitated.
  
  "Impertinent old man!" Miuesov observed aloud, while Maximov ran back to
  the monastery.
  
  "He's like von Sohn," Fyodor Pavlovitch said suddenly.
  
  "Is that all you can think of?... In what way is he like von Sohn? Have
  you ever seen von Sohn?"
  
  "I've seen his portrait. It's not the features, but something indefinable.
  He's a second von Sohn. I can always tell from the physiognomy."
  
  "Ah, I dare say you are a connoisseur in that. But, look here, Fyodor
  Pavlovitch, you said just now that we had given our word to behave
  properly. Remember it. I advise you to control yourself. But, if you begin
  to play the fool I don't intend to be associated with you here.... You see
  what a man he is"--he turned to the monk--"I'm afraid to go among decent
  people with him." A fine smile, not without a certain slyness, came on to
  the pale, bloodless lips of the monk, but he made no reply, and was
  evidently silent from a sense of his own dignity. Miuesov frowned more than
  ever.
  
  "Oh, devil take them all! An outer show elaborated through centuries, and
  nothing but charlatanism and nonsense underneath," flashed through
  Miuesov's mind.
  
  "Here's the hermitage. We've arrived," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch. "The gates
  are shut."
  
  And he repeatedly made the sign of the cross to the saints painted above
  and on the sides of the gates.
  
  "When you go to Rome you must do as the Romans do. Here in this hermitage
  there are twenty-five saints being saved. They look at one another, and
  eat cabbages. And not one woman goes in at this gate. That's what is
  remarkable. And that really is so. But I did hear that the elder receives
  ladies," he remarked suddenly to the monk.
  
  "Women of the people are here too now, lying in the portico there waiting.
  But for ladies of higher rank two rooms have been built adjoining the
  portico, but outside the precincts--you can see the windows--and the elder
  goes out to them by an inner passage when he is well enough. They are
  always outside the precincts. There is a Harkov lady, Madame Hohlakov,
  waiting there now with her sick daughter. Probably he has promised to come
  out to her, though of late he has been so weak that he has hardly shown
  himself even to the people."
  
  "So then there are loopholes, after all, to creep out of the hermitage to
  the ladies. Don't suppose, holy father, that I mean any harm. But do you
  know that at Athos not only the visits of women are not allowed, but no
  creature of the female sex--no hens, nor turkey-hens, nor cows."
  
  "Fyodor Pavlovitch, I warn you I shall go back and leave you here. They'll
  turn you out when I'm gone."
  
  "But I'm not interfering with you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. Look," he cried
  suddenly, stepping within the precincts, "what a vale of roses they live
  in!"
  
  Though there were no roses now, there were numbers of rare and beautiful
  autumn flowers growing wherever there was space for them, and evidently
  tended by a skillful hand; there were flower-beds round the church, and
  between the tombs; and the one-storied wooden house where the elder lived
  was also surrounded with flowers.
  
  "And was it like this in the time of the last elder, Varsonofy? He didn't
  care for such elegance. They say he used to jump up and thrash even ladies
  with a stick," observed Fyodor Pavlovitch, as he went up the steps.
  
  "The elder Varsonofy did sometimes seem rather strange, but a great deal
  that's told is foolishness. He never thrashed any one," answered the monk.
  "Now, gentlemen, if you will wait a minute I will announce you."
  
  "Fyodor Pavlovitch, for the last time, your compact, do you hear? Behave
  properly or I will pay you out!" Miuesov had time to mutter again.
  
  "I can't think why you are so agitated," Fyodor Pavlovitch observed
  sarcastically. "Are you uneasy about your sins? They say he can tell by
  one's eyes what one has come about. And what a lot you think of their
  opinion! you, a Parisian, and so advanced. I'm surprised at you."
  
  But Miuesov had no time to reply to this sarcasm. They were asked to come
  in. He walked in, somewhat irritated.
  
  "Now, I know myself, I am annoyed, I shall lose my temper and begin to
  quarrel--and lower myself and my ideas," he reflected.
  
  
  
  
  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."
  
  
  
  
  Chapter III. Peasant Women Who Have Faith
  
  
  Near the wooden portico below, built on to the outer wall of the precinct,
  there was a crowd of about twenty peasant women. They had been told that
  the elder was at last coming out, and they had gathered together in
  anticipation. Two ladies, Madame Hohlakov and her daughter, had also come
  out into the portico to wait for the elder, but in a separate part of it
  set aside for women of rank.
  
  Madame Hohlakov was a wealthy lady, still young and attractive, and always
  dressed with taste. She was rather pale, and had lively black eyes. She
  was not more than thirty-three, and had been five years a widow. Her
  daughter, a girl of fourteen, was partially paralyzed. The poor child had
  not been able to walk for the last six months, and was wheeled about in a
  long reclining chair. She had a charming little face, rather thin from
  illness, but full of gayety. There was a gleam of mischief in her big dark
  eyes with their long lashes. Her mother had been intending to take her
  abroad ever since the spring, but they had been detained all the summer by
  business connected with their estate. They had been staying a week in our
  town, where they had come more for purposes of business than devotion, but
  had visited Father Zossima once already, three days before. Though they
  knew that the elder scarcely saw any one, they had now suddenly turned up
  again, and urgently entreated "the happiness of looking once again on the
  great healer."
  
  The mother was sitting on a chair by the side of her daughter's invalid
  carriage, and two paces from her stood an old monk, not one of our
  monastery, but a visitor from an obscure religious house in the far north.
  He too sought the elder's blessing.
  
  But Father Zossima, on entering the portico, went first straight to the
  peasants who were crowded at the foot of the three steps that led up into
  the portico. Father Zossima stood on the top step, put on his stole, and
  began blessing the women who thronged about him. One crazy woman was led
  up to him. As soon as she caught sight of the elder she began shrieking
  and writhing as though in the pains of childbirth. Laying the stole on her
  forehead, he read a short prayer over her, and she was at once soothed and
  quieted.
  
  I do not know how it may be now, but in my childhood I often happened to
  see and hear these "possessed" women in the villages and monasteries. They
  used to be brought to mass; they would squeal and bark like a dog so that
  they were heard all over the church. But when the sacrament was carried in
  and they were led up to it, at once the "possession" ceased, and the sick
  women were always soothed for a time. I was greatly impressed and amazed
  at this as a child; but then I heard from country neighbors and from my
  town teachers that the whole illness was simulated to avoid work, and that
  it could always be cured by suitable severity; various anecdotes were told
  to confirm this. But later on I learnt with astonishment from medical
  specialists that there is no pretense about it, that it is a terrible
  illness to which women are subject, specially prevalent among us in
  Russia, and that it is due to the hard lot of the peasant women. It is a
  disease, I was told, arising from exhausting toil too soon after hard,
  abnormal and unassisted labor in childbirth, and from the hopeless misery,
  from beatings, and so on, which some women were not able to endure like
  others. The strange and instant healing of the frantic and struggling
  woman as soon as she was led up to the holy sacrament, which had been
  explained to me as due to malingering and the trickery of the "clericals,"
  arose probably in the most natural manner. Both the women who supported
  her and the invalid herself fully believed as a truth beyond question that
  the evil spirit in possession of her could not hold out if the sick woman
  were brought to the sacrament and made to bow down before it. And so, with
  a nervous and psychically deranged woman, a sort of convulsion of the
  whole organism always took place, and was bound to take place, at the
  moment of bowing down to the sacrament, aroused by the expectation of the
  miracle of healing and the implicit belief that it would come to pass; and
  it did come to pass, though only for a moment. It was exactly the same now
  as soon as the elder touched the sick woman with the stole.
  
  Many of the women in the crowd were moved to tears of ecstasy by the
  effect of the moment: some strove to kiss the hem of his garment, others
  cried out in sing-song voices.
  
  He blessed them all and talked with some of them. The "possessed" woman he
  knew already. She came from a village only six versts from the monastery,
  and had been brought to him before.
  
  "But here is one from afar." He pointed to a woman by no means old but
  very thin and wasted, with a face not merely sunburnt but almost blackened
  by exposure. She was kneeling and gazing with a fixed stare at the elder;
  there was something almost frenzied in her eyes.
  
  "From afar off, Father, from afar off! From two hundred miles from here.
  From afar off, Father, from afar off!" the woman began in a sing-song
  voice as though she were chanting a dirge, swaying her head from side to
  side with her cheek resting in her hand.
  
  There is silent and long-suffering sorrow to be met with among the
  peasantry. It withdraws into itself and is still. But there is a grief
  that breaks out, and from that minute it bursts into tears and finds vent
  in wailing. This is particularly common with women. But it is no lighter a
  grief than the silent. Lamentations comfort only by lacerating the heart
  still more. Such grief does not desire consolation. It feeds on the sense
  of its hopelessness. Lamentations spring only from the constant craving to
  reopen the wound.
  
  "You are of the tradesman class?" said Father Zossima, looking curiously
  at her.
  
  "Townfolk we are, Father, townfolk. Yet we are peasants though we live in
  the town. I have come to see you, O Father! We heard of you, Father, we
  heard of you. I have buried my little son, and I have come on a
  pilgrimage. I have been in three monasteries, but they told me, 'Go,
  Nastasya, go to them'--that is to you. I have come; I was yesterday at the
  service, and to-day I have come to you."
  
  "What are you weeping for?"
  
  "It's my little son I'm grieving for, Father. He was three years old--three
  years all but three months. For my little boy, Father, I'm in anguish, for
  my little boy. He was the last one left. We had four, my Nikita and I, and
  now we've no children, our dear ones have all gone. I buried the first
  three without grieving overmuch, and now I have buried the last I can't
  forget him. He seems always standing before me. He never leaves me. He has
  withered my heart. I look at his little clothes, his little shirt, his
  little boots, and I wail. I lay out all that is left of him, all his
  little things. I look at them and wail. I say to Nikita, my husband, 'Let
  me go on a pilgrimage, master.' He is a driver. We're not poor people,
  Father, not poor; he drives our own horse. It's all our own, the horse and
  the carriage. And what good is it all to us now? My Nikita has begun
  drinking while I am away. He's sure to. It used to be so before. As soon
  as I turn my back he gives way to it. But now I don't think about him.
  It's three months since I left home. I've forgotten him. I've forgotten
  everything. I don't want to remember. And what would our life be now
  together? I've done with him, I've done. I've done with them all. I don't
  care to look upon my house and my goods. I don't care to see anything at
  all!"
  
  "Listen, mother," said the elder. "Once in olden times a holy saint saw in
  the Temple a mother like you weeping for her little one, her only one,
  whom God had taken. 'Knowest thou not,' said the saint to her, 'how bold
  these little ones are before the throne of God? Verily there are none
  bolder than they in the Kingdom of Heaven. "Thou didst give us life, O
  Lord," they say, "and scarcely had we looked upon it when Thou didst take
  it back again." And so boldly they ask and ask again that God gives them
  at once the rank of angels. Therefore,' said the saint, 'thou, too, O
  mother, rejoice and weep not, for thy little son is with the Lord in the
  fellowship of the angels.' That's what the saint said to the weeping
  mother of old. He was a great saint and he could not have spoken falsely.
  Therefore you too, mother, know that your little one is surely before the
  throne of God, is rejoicing and happy, and praying to God for you, and
  therefore weep not, but rejoice."
  
  The woman listened to him, looking down with her cheek in her hand. She
  sighed deeply.
  
  "My Nikita tried to comfort me with the same words as you. 'Foolish one,'
  he said, 'why weep? Our son is no doubt singing with the angels before
  God.' He says that to me, but he weeps himself. I see that he cries like
  me. 'I know, Nikita,' said I. 'Where could he be if not with the Lord God?
  Only, here with us now he is not as he used to sit beside us before.' And
  if only I could look upon him one little time, if only I could peep at him
  one little time, without going up to him, without speaking, if I could be
  hidden in a corner and only see him for one little minute, hear him
  playing in the yard, calling in his little voice, 'Mammy, where are you?'
  If only I could hear him pattering with his little feet about the room
  just once, only once; for so often, so often I remember how he used to run
  to me and shout and laugh, if only I could hear his little feet I should
  know him! But he's gone, Father, he's gone, and I shall never hear him
  again. Here's his little sash, but him I shall never see or hear now."
  
  She drew out of her bosom her boy's little embroidered sash, and as soon
  as she looked at it she began shaking with sobs, hiding her eyes with her
  fingers through which the tears flowed in a sudden stream.
  
  "It is Rachel of old," said the elder, "weeping for her children, and will
  not be comforted because they are not. Such is the lot set on earth for
  you mothers. Be not comforted. Consolation is not what you need. Weep and
  be not consoled, but weep. Only every time that you weep be sure to
  remember that your little son is one of the angels of God, that he looks
  down from there at you and sees you, and rejoices at your tears, and
  points at them to the Lord God; and a long while yet will you keep that
  great mother's grief. But it will turn in the end into quiet joy, and your
  bitter tears will be only tears of tender sorrow that purifies the heart
  and delivers it from sin. And I shall pray for the peace of your child's
  soul. What was his name?"
  
  "Alexey, Father."
  
  "A sweet name. After Alexey, the man of God?"
  
  "Yes, Father."
  
  "What a saint he was! I will remember him, mother, and your grief in my
  prayers, and I will pray for your husband's health. It is a sin for you to
  leave him. Your little one will see from heaven that you have forsaken his
  father, and will weep over you. Why do you trouble his happiness? He is
  living, for the soul lives for ever, and though he is not in the house he
  is near you, unseen. How can he go into the house when you say that the
  house is hateful to you? To whom is he to go if he find you not together,
  his father and mother? He comes to you in dreams now, and you grieve. But
  then he will send you gentle dreams. Go to your husband, mother; go this
  very day."
  
  "I will go, Father, at your word. I will go. You've gone straight to my
  heart. My Nikita, my Nikita, you are waiting for me," the woman began in a
  sing-song voice; but the elder had already turned away to a very old
  woman, dressed like a dweller in the town, not like a pilgrim. Her eyes
  showed that she had come with an object, and in order to say something.
  She said she was the widow of a non-commissioned officer, and lived close
  by in the town. Her son Vasenka was in the commissariat service, and had
  gone to Irkutsk in Siberia. He had written twice from there, but now a
  year had passed since he had written. She did inquire about him, but she
  did not know the proper place to inquire.
  
  "Only the other day Stepanida Ilyinishna--she's a rich merchant's wife--said
  to me, 'You go, Prohorovna, and put your son's name down for prayer in the
  church, and pray for the peace of his soul as though he were dead. His
  soul will be troubled,' she said, 'and he will write you a letter.' And
  Stepanida Ilyinishna told me it was a certain thing which had been many
  times tried. Only I am in doubt.... Oh, you light of ours! is it true or
  false, and would it be right?"
  
  "Don't think of it. It's shameful to ask the question. How is it possible
  to pray for the peace of a living soul? And his own mother too! It's a
  great sin, akin to sorcery. Only for your ignorance it is forgiven you.
  Better pray to the Queen of Heaven, our swift defense and help, for his
  good health, and that she may forgive you for your error. And another
  thing I will tell you, Prohorovna. Either he will soon come back to you,
  your son, or he will be sure to send a letter. Go, and henceforward be in
  peace. Your son is alive, I tell you."
  
  "Dear Father, God reward you, our benefactor, who prays for all of us and
  for our sins!"
  
  But the elder had already noticed in the crowd two glowing eyes fixed upon
  him. An exhausted, consumptive-looking, though young peasant woman was
  gazing at him in silence. Her eyes besought him, but she seemed afraid to
  approach.
  
  "What is it, my child?"
  
  "Absolve my soul, Father," she articulated softly, and slowly sank on her
  knees and bowed down at his feet. "I have sinned, Father. I am afraid of
  my sin."
  
  The elder sat down on the lower step. The woman crept closer to him, still
  on her knees.
  
  "I am a widow these three years," she began in a half-whisper, with a sort
  of shudder. "I had a hard life with my husband. He was an old man. He used
  to beat me cruelly. He lay ill; I thought looking at him, if he were to
  get well, if he were to get up again, what then? And then the thought came
  to me--"
  
  "Stay!" said the elder, and he put his ear close to her lips.
  
  The woman went on in a low whisper, so that it was almost impossible to
  catch anything. She had soon done.
  
  "Three years ago?" asked the elder.
  
  "Three years. At first I didn't think about it, but now I've begun to be
  ill, and the thought never leaves me."
  
  "Have you come from far?"
  
  "Over three hundred miles away."
  
  "Have you told it in confession?"
  
  "I have confessed it. Twice I have confessed it."
  
  "Have you been admitted to Communion?"
  
  "Yes. I am afraid. I am afraid to die."
  
  "Fear nothing and never be afraid; and don't fret. If only your penitence
  fail not, God will forgive all. There is no sin, and there can be no sin
  on all the earth, which the Lord will not forgive to the truly repentant!
  Man cannot commit a sin so great as to exhaust the infinite love of God.
  Can there be a sin which could exceed the love of God? Think only of
  repentance, continual repentance, but dismiss fear altogether. Believe
  that God loves you as you cannot conceive; that He loves you with your
  sin, in your sin. It has been said of old that over one repentant sinner
  there is more joy in heaven than over ten righteous men. Go, and fear not.
  Be not bitter against men. Be not angry if you are wronged. Forgive the
  dead man in your heart what wrong he did you. Be reconciled with him in
  truth. If you are penitent, you love. And if you love you are of God. All
  things are atoned for, all things are saved by love. If I, a sinner, even
  as you are, am tender with you and have pity on you, how much more will
  God. Love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole world
  by it, and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others."
  
  He signed her three times with the cross, took from his own neck a little
  ikon and put it upon her. She bowed down to the earth without speaking.
  
  He got up and looked cheerfully at a healthy peasant woman with a tiny
  baby in her arms.
  
  "From Vyshegorye, dear Father."
  
  "Five miles you have dragged yourself with the baby. What do you want?"
  
  "I've come to look at you. I have been to you before--or have you
  forgotten? You've no great memory if you've forgotten me. They told us you
  were ill. Thinks I, I'll go and see him for myself. Now I see you, and
  you're not ill! You'll live another twenty years. God bless you! There are
  plenty to pray for you; how should you be ill?"
  
  "I thank you for all, daughter."
  
  "By the way, I have a thing to ask, not a great one. Here are sixty
  copecks. Give them, dear Father, to some one poorer than me. I thought as
  I came along, better give through him. He'll know whom to give to."
  
  "Thanks, my dear, thanks! You are a good woman. I love you. I will do so
  certainly. Is that your little girl?"
  
  "My little girl, Father, Lizaveta."
  
  "May the Lord bless you both, you and your babe Lizaveta! You have
  gladdened my heart, mother. Farewell, dear children, farewell, dear ones."
  
  He blessed them all and bowed low to them.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter IV. A Lady Of Little Faith
  
  
  A visitor looking on the scene of his conversation with the peasants and
  his blessing them shed silent tears and wiped them away with her
  handkerchief. She was a sentimental society lady of genuinely good
  disposition in many respects. When the elder went up to her at last she
  met him enthusiastically.
  
  "Ah, what I have been feeling, looking on at this touching scene!..." She
  could not go on for emotion. "Oh, I understand the people's love for you.
  I love the people myself. I want to love them. And who could help loving
  them, our splendid Russian people, so simple in their greatness!"
  
  "How is your daughter's health? You wanted to talk to me again?"
  
  "Oh, I have been urgently begging for it, I have prayed for it! I was
  ready to fall on my knees and kneel for three days at your windows until
  you let me in. We have come, great healer, to express our ardent
  gratitude. You have healed my Lise, healed her completely, merely by
  praying over her last Thursday and laying your hands upon her. We have
  hastened here to kiss those hands, to pour out our feelings and our
  homage."
  
  "What do you mean by healed? But she is still lying down in her chair."
  
  "But her night fevers have entirely ceased ever since Thursday," said the
  lady with nervous haste. "And that's not all. Her legs are stronger. This
  morning she got up well; she had slept all night. Look at her rosy cheeks,
  her bright eyes! She used to be always crying, but now she laughs and is
  gay and happy. This morning she insisted on my letting her stand up, and
  she stood up for a whole minute without any support. She wagers that in a
  fortnight she'll be dancing a quadrille. I've called in Doctor
  Herzenstube. He shrugged his shoulders and said, 'I am amazed; I can make
  nothing of it.' And would you have us not come here to disturb you, not
  fly here to thank you? Lise, thank him--thank him!"
  
  Lise's pretty little laughing face became suddenly serious. She rose in
  her chair as far as she could and, looking at the elder, clasped her hands
  before him, but could not restrain herself and broke into laughter.
  
  "It's at him," she said, pointing to Alyosha, with childish vexation at
  herself for not being able to repress her mirth.
  
  If any one had looked at Alyosha standing a step behind the elder, he
  would have caught a quick flush crimsoning his cheeks in an instant. His
  eyes shone and he looked down.
  
  "She has a message for you, Alexey Fyodorovitch. How are you?" the mother
  went on, holding out her exquisitely gloved hand to Alyosha.
  
  The elder turned round and all at once looked attentively at Alyosha. The
  latter went nearer to Lise and, smiling in a strangely awkward way, held
  out his hand to her too. Lise assumed an important air.
  
  "Katerina Ivanovna has sent you this through me." She handed him a little
  note. "She particularly begs you to go and see her as soon as possible;
  that you will not fail her, but will be sure to come."
  
  "She asks me to go and see her? Me? What for?" Alyosha muttered in great
  astonishment. His face at once looked anxious. "Oh, it's all to do with
  Dmitri Fyodorovitch and--what has happened lately," the mother explained
  hurriedly. "Katerina Ivanovna has made up her mind, but she must see you
  about it.... Why, of course, I can't say. But she wants to see you at
  once. And you will go to her, of course. It is a Christian duty."
  
  "I have only seen her once," Alyosha protested with the same perplexity.
  
  "Oh, she is such a lofty, incomparable creature! If only for her
  suffering.... Think what she has gone through, what she is enduring now!
  Think what awaits her! It's all terrible, terrible!"
  
  "Very well, I will come," Alyosha decided, after rapidly scanning the
  brief, enigmatic note, which consisted of an urgent entreaty that he would
  come, without any sort of explanation.
  
  "Oh, how sweet and generous that would be of you!" cried Lise with sudden
  animation. "I told mamma you'd be sure not to go. I said you were saving
  your soul. How splendid you are! I've always thought you were splendid.
  How glad I am to tell you so!"
  
  "Lise!" said her mother impressively, though she smiled after she had said
  it.
  
  "You have quite forgotten us, Alexey Fyodorovitch," she said; "you never
  come to see us. Yet Lise has told me twice that she is never happy except
  with you."
  
  Alyosha raised his downcast eyes and again flushed, and again smiled
  without knowing why. But the elder was no longer watching him. He had
  begun talking to a monk who, as mentioned before, had been awaiting his
  entrance by Lise's chair. He was evidently a monk of the humblest, that is
  of the peasant, class, of a narrow outlook, but a true believer, and, in
  his own way, a stubborn one. He announced that he had come from the far
  north, from Obdorsk, from Saint Sylvester, and was a member of a poor
  monastery, consisting of only ten monks. The elder gave him his blessing
  and invited him to come to his cell whenever he liked.
  
  "How can you presume to do such deeds?" the monk asked suddenly, pointing
  solemnly and significantly at Lise. He was referring to her "healing."
  
  "It's too early, of course, to speak of that. Relief is not complete cure,
  and may proceed from different causes. But if there has been any healing,
  it is by no power but God's will. It's all from God. Visit me, Father," he
  added to the monk. "It's not often I can see visitors. I am ill, and I
  know that my days are numbered."
  
  "Oh, no, no! God will not take you from us. You will live a long, long
  time yet," cried the lady. "And in what way are you ill? You look so well,
  so gay and happy."
  
  "I am extraordinarily better to-day. But I know that it's only for a
  moment. I understand my disease now thoroughly. If I seem so happy to you,
  you could never say anything that would please me so much. For men are
  made for happiness, and any one who is completely happy has a right to say
  to himself, 'I am doing God's will on earth.' All the righteous, all the
  saints, all the holy martyrs were happy."
  
  "Oh, how you speak! What bold and lofty words!" cried the lady. "You seem
  to pierce with your words. And yet--happiness, happiness--where is it? Who
  can say of himself that he is happy? Oh, since you have been so good as to
  let us see you once more to-day, let me tell you what I could not utter
  last time, what I dared not say, all I am suffering and have been for so
  long! I am suffering! Forgive me! I am suffering!"
  
  And in a rush of fervent feeling she clasped her hands before him.
  
  "From what specially?"
  
  "I suffer ... from lack of faith."
  
  "Lack of faith in God?"
  
  "Oh, no, no! I dare not even think of that. But the future life--it is such
  an enigma! And no one, no one can solve it. Listen! You are a healer, you
  are deeply versed in the human soul, and of course I dare not expect you
  to believe me entirely, but I assure you on my word of honor that I am not
  speaking lightly now. The thought of the life beyond the grave distracts
  me to anguish, to terror. And I don't know to whom to appeal, and have not
  dared to all my life. And now I am so bold as to ask you. Oh, God! What
  will you think of me now?"
  
  She clasped her hands.
  
  "Don't distress yourself about my opinion of you," said the elder. "I
  quite believe in the sincerity of your suffering."
  
  "Oh, how thankful I am to you! You see, I shut my eyes and ask myself if
  every one has faith, where did it come from? And then they do say that it
  all comes from terror at the menacing phenomena of nature, and that none
  of it's real. And I say to myself, 'What if I've been believing all my
  life, and when I come to die there's nothing but the burdocks growing on
  my grave?' as I read in some author. It's awful! How--how can I get back my
  faith? But I only believed when I was a little child, mechanically,
  without thinking of anything. How, how is one to prove it? I have come now
  to lay my soul before you and to ask you about it. If I let this chance
  slip, no one all my life will answer me. How can I prove it? How can I
  convince myself? Oh, how unhappy I am! I stand and look about me and see
  that scarcely any one else cares; no one troubles his head about it, and
  I'm the only one who can't stand it. It's deadly--deadly!"
  
  "No doubt. But there's no proving it, though you can be convinced of it."
  
  "How?"
  
  "By the experience of active love. Strive to love your neighbor actively
  and indefatigably. In as far as you advance in love you will grow surer of
  the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul. If you attain to
  perfect self-forgetfulness in the love of your neighbor, then you will
  believe without doubt, and no doubt can possibly enter your soul. This has
  been tried. This is certain."
  
  "In active love? There's another question--and such a question! You see, I
  so love humanity that--would you believe it?--I often dream of forsaking all
  that I have, leaving Lise, and becoming a sister of mercy. I close my eyes
  and think and dream, and at that moment I feel full of strength to
  overcome all obstacles. No wounds, no festering sores could at that moment
  frighten me. I would bind them up and wash them with my own hands. I would
  nurse the afflicted. I would be ready to kiss such wounds."
  
  "It is much, and well that your mind is full of such dreams and not
  others. Sometime, unawares, you may do a good deed in reality."
  
  "Yes. But could I endure such a life for long?" the lady went on
  fervently, almost frantically. "That's the chief question--that's my most
  agonizing question. I shut my eyes and ask myself, 'Would you persevere
  long on that path? And if the patient whose wounds you are washing did not
  meet you with gratitude, but worried you with his whims, without valuing
  or remarking your charitable services, began abusing you and rudely
  commanding you, and complaining to the superior authorities of you (which
  often happens when people are in great suffering)--what then? Would you
  persevere in your love, or not?' And do you know, I came with horror to
  the conclusion that, if anything could dissipate my love to humanity, it
  would be ingratitude. In short, I am a hired servant, I expect my payment
  at once--that is, praise, and the repayment of love with love. Otherwise I
  am incapable of loving any one."
  
  She was in a very paroxysm of self-castigation, and, concluding, she
  looked with defiant resolution at the elder.
  
  "It's just the same story as a doctor once told me," observed the elder.
  "He was a man getting on in years, and undoubtedly clever. He spoke as
  frankly as you, though in jest, in bitter jest. 'I love humanity,' he
  said, 'but I wonder at myself. The more I love humanity in general, the
  less I love man in particular. In my dreams,' he said, 'I have often come
  to making enthusiastic schemes for the service of humanity, and perhaps I
  might actually have faced crucifixion if it had been suddenly necessary;
  and yet I am incapable of living in the same room with any one for two
  days together, as I know by experience. As soon as any one is near me, his
  personality disturbs my self-complacency and restricts my freedom. In
  twenty-four hours I begin to hate the best of men: one because he's too
  long over his dinner; another because he has a cold and keeps on blowing
  his nose. I become hostile to people the moment they come close to me. But
  it has always happened that the more I detest men individually the more
  ardent becomes my love for humanity.' "
  
  "But what's to be done? What can one do in such a case? Must one despair?"
  
  "No. It is enough that you are distressed at it. Do what you can, and it
  will be reckoned unto you. Much is done already in you since you can so
  deeply and sincerely know yourself. If you have been talking to me so
  sincerely, simply to gain approbation for your frankness, as you did from
  me just now, then of course you will not attain to anything in the
  achievement of real love; it will all get no further than dreams, and your
  whole life will slip away like a phantom. In that case you will naturally
  cease to think of the future life too, and will of yourself grow calmer
  after a fashion in the end."
  
  "You have crushed me! Only now, as you speak, I understand that I was
  really only seeking your approbation for my sincerity when I told you I
  could not endure ingratitude. You have revealed me to myself. You have
  seen through me and explained me to myself!"
  
  "Are you speaking the truth? Well, now, after such a confession, I believe
  that you are sincere and good at heart. If you do not attain happiness,
  always remember that you are on the right road, and try not to leave it.
  Above all, avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood, especially falseness
  to yourself. Watch over your own deceitfulness and look into it every
  hour, every minute. Avoid being scornful, both to others and to yourself.
  What seems to you bad within you will grow purer from the very fact of
  your observing it in yourself. Avoid fear, too, though fear is only the
  consequence of every sort of falsehood. Never be frightened at your own
  faint-heartedness in attaining love. Don't be frightened overmuch even at
  your evil actions. I am sorry I can say nothing more consoling to you, for
  love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams.
  Love in dreams is greedy for immediate action, rapidly performed and in
  the sight of all. Men will even give their lives if only the ordeal does
  not last long but is soon over, with all looking on and applauding as
  though on the stage. But active love is labor and fortitude, and for some
  people too, perhaps, a complete science. But I predict that just when you
  see with horror that in spite of all your efforts you are getting farther
  from your goal instead of nearer to it--at that very moment I predict that
  you will reach it and behold clearly the miraculous power of the Lord who
  has been all the time loving and mysteriously guiding you. Forgive me for
  not being able to stay longer with you. They are waiting for me. Good-by."
  
  The lady was weeping.
  
  "Lise, Lise! Bless her--bless her!" she cried, starting up suddenly.
  
  "She does not deserve to be loved. I have seen her naughtiness all along,"
  the elder said jestingly. "Why have you been laughing at Alexey?"
  
  Lise had in fact been occupied in mocking at him all the time. She had
  noticed before that Alyosha was shy and tried not to look at her, and she
  found this extremely amusing. She waited intently to catch his eye.
  Alyosha, unable to endure her persistent stare, was irresistibly and
  suddenly drawn to glance at her, and at once she smiled triumphantly in
  his face. Alyosha was even more disconcerted and vexed. At last he turned
  away from her altogether and hid behind the elder's back. After a few
  minutes, drawn by the same irresistible force, he turned again to see
  whether he was being looked at or not, and found Lise almost hanging out
  of her chair to peep sideways at him, eagerly waiting for him to look.
  Catching his eye, she laughed so that the elder could not help saying,
  "Why do you make fun of him like that, naughty girl?"
  
  Lise suddenly and quite unexpectedly blushed. Her eyes flashed and her
  face became quite serious. She began speaking quickly and nervously in a
  warm and resentful voice:
  
  "Why has he forgotten everything, then? He used to carry me about when I
  was little. We used to play together. He used to come to teach me to read,
  do you know. Two years ago, when he went away, he said that he would never
  forget me, that we were friends for ever, for ever, for ever! And now he's
  afraid of me all at once. Am I going to eat him? Why doesn't he want to
  come near me? Why doesn't he talk? Why won't he come and see us? It's not
  that you won't let him. We know that he goes everywhere. It's not good
  manners for me to invite him. He ought to have thought of it first, if he
  hasn't forgotten me. No, now he's saving his soul! Why have you put that
  long gown on him? If he runs he'll fall."
  
  And suddenly she hid her face in her hand and went off into irresistible,
  prolonged, nervous, inaudible laughter. The elder listened to her with a
  smile, and blessed her tenderly. As she kissed his hand she suddenly
  pressed it to her eyes and began crying.
  
  "Don't be angry with me. I'm silly and good for nothing ... and perhaps
  Alyosha's right, quite right, in not wanting to come and see such a
  ridiculous girl."
  
  "I will certainly send him," said the elder.
  
  
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Book II: Chapters 1-4
target: On the day scheduled for the meeting between the Karamazovs and the elder, Zossima, Fyodor and Ivan arrive accompanied by a former guardian of Dmitri, Miusov, and a relative of Miusov, Kalganov. Dmitri Karamazov, however, is not at the monastery, and all wonder, naturally, whether he will come; he was certainly notified only the previous day. The meeting takes on an air of mystery. A very old monk emerges, greets the guests, and then leads them to Father Zossima's cell. All are invited to have lunch with the Father Superior following the interview, he says. First, however, they must wait for Zossima. The wait, though not long, seems interminable to Miusov. Uncontrollably, he finds himself growing increasingly irritated at the crude jokes that Fyodor Karamazov unleashes concerning the monastic life. Father Zossima at last arrives, accompanied by Alyosha, two other monks, and Rakitin, a divinity student living under the protection of the monastery. The monks bow and kiss Zossima's hand and receive his blessings; the guests, however, merely bow politely to the elder. Deeply embarrassed by his family's austerity, Alyosha trembles. Now, more than ever, he fears that the meeting will be calamitous. Karamazov apologizes for Dmitri's absence, and then nervously begins a nonstop monolog of coarse anecdotes. At this, Alyosha is even more deeply embarrassed; in fact, everyone except the elder is distressed. The tension mounts, and when Karamazov falls climactically to his knees and begs the elder, "What must I do to gain eternal life?" it is difficult to tell whether or not he is still playing the loudmouth clown. No one but Zossima dares to speak. The elder tells Karamazov that he must cease lying and, above all, he must cease lying to himself. At first, Fyodor is impressed by the advice but then resumes his joking and clowning until Zossima excuses himself. He must meet with an assembly of people outside the monastery. The group outside are all peasant women -- all but two. At one side, in a section reserved for the wealthy, are Madame Hohlakov and her partially paralyzed daughter, Lise, waiting to be blessed by the elder and to receive his advice on their problems. Zossima moves among the peasant women listening to their problems and offering them advice, emphasizing always the healing effect of the love of God. "Love is such a priceless treasure," he says, "that you can redeem the world by it and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others." Madame Hohlakov confesses to Zossima that, for her part, she suffers from a lack of faith; she can grasp neither the Christian idea of immortality nor any type of life beyond the grave. She says furthermore that if she does a charitable act, she wants to receive thanks and praise for it. Zossima tells her that if she practices active, honest love, she will grow to understand the reality of God and the immortality of her soul. "Attain to perfect self-forgetfulness in the love of your neighbor," he counsels her, "then you will believe without doubt." Ending the interview, he promises her that he will send Alyosha to visit Lise.
feat_summary_analysis: Book II is largely devoted to a study of Zossima and his teachings. This saintly ascetic influences all of Alyosha's actions, and to thoroughly understand this youngest member of the Karamazov clan, one must understand the man to whom he zealously attaches himself. Zossima seems to have come to terms with life; he lives with perfect contentment and understanding -- basically, a quiet and reserved man. He is not, for instance, visibly disturbed by Fyodor Karamazov's buffoonery; his quiet mien allows him to see deeply into the personality of Karamazov -- of any person with whom he speaks. With Karamazov, he knows that the old man is intentionally trying to overact, to clown, and, later, with Madame Hohlakov, he knows that she makes her confession in order to gain his personal approbation for her frankness. A large part of Father Zossima's greatness, therefore, is this perceptive understanding of mankind, his comprehension of the psychological factors and motivations that prompt human actions; his advice is therefore unusually sound. Zossima's dignity is unique and, coupled with his extreme humility, most readily impresses a visitor. Alyosha, in contrast, is embarrassed when the Karamazovs do not ask for the elder's blessing, but Zossima shows no outward concern. He merely asks his guests to conduct themselves naturally and to be comfortable; their lack of reverence and discretion in no way offends him. His wisdom encompasses all aspects of life. In general, Zossima's philosophy is based on the positive rather than on the negative. This is not immediately evident, however, for he tells Karamazov, in terms of negatives, to avoid drunkenness and incontinence, to defy sensual lust, and to realistically value the ruble. But Zossima also offers Karamazov a thoroughly positive view of living, the very simplicity of which should not mislead the reader into thinking that Dostoevsky is being oversimple. Extreme simplicity, in fact, is the key to Zossima's way of life. His is a philosophy founded on a simplicity so basic that it consists of only two concepts: the value of loving and the value of being honest and respecting oneself. Zossima tells Fyodor, "Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie eventually comes to such a pass that he neither distinguishes the truth within him nor around him and so loses all respect for himself and for others." Later, he tells Madame Hohlakov that she cannot be helped so long as she speaks only to impress. "Above all," he says to her, "avoid falsehood, every kind of falsehood, especially to yourself." Zossima is convinced that if man is completely honest with himself, he can evaluate the evils within himself and overcome all such propensities, but when a person is dishonest, he is unable to detect good and righteous impulses; as a consequence, such a man ceases to have any respect for himself and begins, like Karamazov, to play the part of a ridiculous clown. In time, such a man will lose all dignity. He will be of no value to himself or to others. The high premium Zossima places on love is at the heart of this philosophy concerning honesty. When a person ceases to respect himself, he also ceases to love; he "sinks to bestiality in passions and coarse pleasures." Only through love, Zossima believes, can man gain the much-sought-after peace that makes life vibrant. This is essentially Zossima's message to the peasant women. He sends them home with the admonition that "love is such a priceless treasure that you can redeem the whole world by it and expiate not only your own sins but the sins of others." To Madame Hohlakov, who has trouble understanding the concept of immortality, he says, "by the experience of active love" man can be convinced of an afterlife -- "strive to love your neighbor actively and indefatigably. In as far as you advance in love you will grow surer of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul." If a person, he concludes, devotes himself completely to love -- love of God, love of the individual -- then that man can learn to believe in immortality without doubts. While such summary statements of Zossima's views seem, on the surface, to be simple, they echo in large degree the teachings of Jesus and the concepts by which Alyosha tries to live. Throughout the remainder of the novel, Alyosha attempts to practice Zossima's concept of love; he responds lovingly to every character and possesses no animosity for any -- not for the small children who ridicule him or even for Lise, who delights in tormenting him. Moreover, Zossima knows that Alyosha is the one person who can put into practice all of his teachings. And, as the elder sees that Katerina has sent a note for Alyosha and that Lise needs him to come visit her, it is such requests as these that support his decision to send Alyosha to live in the world rather than in the cloister.