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双语小说
【分类】双语小说
-[作者: 陀思妥耶夫斯基]
阅读：[7389]
PART I:Book II. An Unfortunate Gathering:Chapter II. The Old Buffoon
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他们几乎是跟长老同时走进房间的。长老一看见他们就立即从自己那个小小的卧室里走了出来。在修道室里，两位比他们早到的隐修司祭已经在等候长老了，其中一位是管理图书的神甫，另一位是有病的巴伊西神甫，他年纪不大，但据说很有学问。此外，还有一位年轻小伙子站在角落里等候（后来他一直站在那儿）。这小伙子看上去二十一岁光景，穿一件文职人员的常礼服，是神学校学生，未来的神学家，不知什么原因受到修道院和修士团的照顾。他个子很高，脸色红润，颧骨高突，一对细小的栗色眼睛聪明而专注，脸上露出谦恭的表情，但很得体，并无唯唯诺诺的样子。客人进门时他甚至没有鞠躬致意，尽管他的身份跟他们并不平等，相反，他还处于从属依附的地位。
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佐西马长老在阿廖沙和一名见习修士的陪同下走了出来。两位司祭站起来，深深地向他鞠躬致意，手指触到地面，接受长老祝福，并吻了吻他的手。长老为他们表示祝福之后也手指触到地面，向他们同样报以深深的鞠躬，并且请他们每人都为自己祝福。整个仪式自始至终都相当认真，几乎带着感情，完全不像日常的例行公事。不过米乌索夫觉得这一切都是故意装出来的。他站在和他一起走进房间的几位同伴的最前面。按理说，尽管信仰不同，但即使出于最一般的礼貌（这里的习惯就是这样），也应该走上前去求长老祝福，如果不吻他的手，那至少应该接受祝福。这一点，昨天晚上他已经考虑过了。但是现在见到两位司祭这样鞠躬，吻他的手，他立即改变了主意：他郑重其事地按世俗方式深深鞠了个躬，然后走到椅子跟前。费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇像猴子似的完全模仿米乌索夫，也这样做了。伊凡·费奥多罗维奇也郑重其事彬彬有礼地鞠了个躬，双手贴着裤缝，并没有触地。而卡尔加诺夫慌张得忘了鞠躬。长老放下已经举起准备向他们祝福的手，再一次向他们鞠了个躬，然后请大家坐下。阿廖沙双颊通红。他感到惭愧，他原来的种种不祥的预感应验了。
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长老在一张款式非常古老的红木皮沙发上坐下，请客人们，除了两位司祭，都坐到对面靠墙的四把黑色包皮已经磨损的红木椅子上，四个人互相紧紧挨着。两位司祭分坐两侧，一位靠门，另一位挨窗。神学校学生、阿廖沙和见习修士依然站着。整个修道室十分狭小，透着颓败的气息。家具陈设相当粗糙、寒碜，都是些必不可少的东西。窗台上放着两盆花，墙角里挂着许多圣像，其中有一幅很大的圣母像，大约画于教派分裂之前。圣母像前点着长明灯，旁边还有另外两幅身穿鲜亮长袍的圣像，再旁边是雕刻的小天使、瓷蛋、象牙制成的天主教十字架和怀抱十字架的悲伤的圣母像以及几幅临摹前几个世纪意大利艺术大师的外国版画。这些精巧珍贵的版画旁边还有几幅色彩鲜艳的圣徒、殉道者、大主教之类的画像，这些极其普通的俄国画像在任何一个市场上只要花几个戈比都能买到。还有几张俄国现任和历任大主教的画像，不过挂在另外几面墙上。米乌索夫迅速地浏览了一遍这些“千篇一律”的东西，然后用专注的目光打量着长老。他非常相信自己的眼力。如果考虑到他已年过半百，那么他这个弱点至少是可以原谅的，因为到了这种年龄，一般富裕而聪明的上流人物总是会变得越来越自以为是，有时候甚至是身不由己的。
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从一开始他就不喜欢长老。确实，长老的脸上有一种不仅使米乌索夫而且也使许多人不喜欢的东西。他身材矮小，佝偻着腰，两条细腿，虽然才六十五岁，可是因为有病，看上去要苍老得多，至少比实际年龄大十岁。他那干瘦的脸上布满了细密的皱纹，眼睛周围特别多。他的眼睛不大，但眼珠很明亮灵活，炯炯有神，就像两个熠熠发亮的光点。只有两鬓还剩几根白发，一撮稀疏细小、呈楔子状的胡子，两片时常露着微笑的嘴唇薄得像两条线。鼻子不算长，可是尖得像小鸟的嘴。
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“从各种迹象来看，这是个凶狠、傲慢而渺小的灵魂。”米乌索夫的脑海中掠过这样的想法。总之，他心里很不痛快。
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报时的钟声帮助他们开始了这场谈话。墙上那只廉价的带悬锤的小挂钟很快敲了整整十二下。
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“约定的时间到了。”费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇大声喊道。“可我的儿子德米特里·费奥多罗维奇还没有来。我替他向您道歉，神圣的长老！（阿廖沙听到他说‘神圣的长老’，不由得浑身哆嗦了一下）我本人向来都是遵守时间的，一分钟也不差，我牢记准时是国王的礼貌……”
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“不过，您总还不是国王吧。”米乌索夫忍不住说道。
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“对，是的，我不是国王。但您知道，彼得·亚历山德罗维奇，这我自己也清楚，真的！您瞧，我说话总是说不到点子上！我尊敬的导师！”他一下子激昂慷慨起来。“您看，站在您面前的是一个名副其实的小丑！我就是这样自我介绍的。唉，是老习惯了！有时候不合时宜地乱说一通，那是故意的，想逗大家发笑，让大家开心。应该讨人喜欢，对吗？七八年前我到一个小城市去办点事情，在那儿结识了几位商人，我们一起去见警察局长，我们有事求他，想请他跟我们一起吃饭。警察局长出来了，他是个又高又胖、浅黄头发、脸色阴沉的人。在这些事情上，碰到这种家伙往往最难对付，他们肝火很旺，脾气暴躁。我径直走到他面前，您知道吗，用上流人士那种满不在乎的口气对他说：‘警察局长先生，请您做我们的纳普拉甫尼克！’他问：‘什么纳普拉甫尼克？’我一看事情糟了。他板着脸站在那儿。于是我就说：‘我只是想开个玩笑罢了，让大家乐一乐，纳普拉甫尼克先生是我们俄国著名的乐队指挥，为了使我们的事情协调起见，我们似乎也需要这样一位指挥……’我这样解释和比喻是很有道理的，对吗？他说：‘我是警察局长，决不允许把我的职务编成俏皮话。’说完他就转身走了。我追上去大声喊道：‘是的，是的，您是警察局长。您不是纳普拉甫尼克！’他说：‘不，既然这么说了，那我就是纳普拉甫尼克。’您瞧，我们这笔生意就这么黄了！我老是这样，永远是这样。好心永远不得好报。有一次，那是很多年以前的事了，我对一位很有势力的人说：‘大人，您太太是个非常敏感的女性。’我的意思是指她在名誉方面，也就是在贞操方面不允许别人碰一碰。他马上反问我：‘那您碰过她吗？’我忍不住突然想说句俏皮话：‘是的，大人，我碰过她。’于是他马上狠狠揍了我一顿……不过，这件事发生在很久以前，所以说出来也不怕大家见笑。我老是自讨没趣！”
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“您现在也是这样。”米乌索夫厌恶地低声说。长老默默地注视着他们俩。
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“好像是的。您瞧，彼得·亚历山德罗维奇，这一点我自己也明白。您知道吗，我一开始说话就预感到自己会这样，您知道吗，我甚至预感到您会第一个向我指出来。当我发现我的笑话不成功的一刹那，尊敬的长老，我的两颊会紧紧贴住下面的牙床，就像抽筋似的，这种情况我年轻时在贵族人家吃闲饭混日子的时候就开始了。尊敬的长老，我生来就是个地道的小丑，就跟那种生来就是疯疯癫癫的人一样。我不否认，我身上附着魔鬼，但只不过是个小鬼而已，大鬼会附到别人身上，但决不会附到您身上，彼得·亚历山德罗维奇，您也不是什么大人物。但我有信仰，我相信上帝。我只是近来才开始怀疑，但现在还坐在这里等待着重要的训导。尊敬的神甫，我就像哲学家狄德罗。神甫，您知不知道哲学家狄德罗是怎样去见叶卡捷琳娜时代的大主教普拉东的？他一进去就开门见山地说：‘没有上帝。’大主教举起手指回答说：‘连疯子心里也装着上帝。’狄德罗听了叭的一声跪下来，大声说道：‘我信上帝，我愿意接受洗礼。’他马上受了洗。达什科娃公爵夫人是他的教母，波将金是他的教父……”
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“费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇，这简直无法容忍！您自己也明明知道这是胡扯，您那个愚蠢的笑话也纯属无稽之谈，那为什么还要装疯卖傻？”米乌索夫已经完全无法控制自己，连说话的声音都在发抖。
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“我早知道这都是无稽之谈！”费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇兴致勃勃地喊道。“不过先生们，我要对你们说句真话：长老是伟人！请原谅，最后那件事，狄德罗受洗那件事是我刚才临时编出来的，信口胡诌，在这之前脑子里从来没有想到过。是为了逗乐才编出来的。彼得·亚历山德罗维奇，我是为了讨人喜欢才装疯卖傻。不过，有时候我自己也不知道究竟为什么这样做。至于狄德罗的事，那么我不止二十次地听本地的地主们说他是‘十足的疯子’，我年轻时就在那些地主家当食客。彼得·亚历山德罗维奇，我从您姑妈玛芙拉·福米尼什娜那儿也听到过类似的话。他们直到如今还坚信，不信上帝的狄德罗去见普拉东大主教就是为了跟他辩论有没有上帝……”
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米乌索夫站了起来，他不但失去了耐心，甚至失去了理智。他气得发抖，而且也意识到自己的样子一定显得十分可笑。事实也是如此，眼前修道室里发生的事情简直令人难以置信。四五十年来，早在原先几位长老在世的时候，四面八方的来客聚集到这间修道室里，他们始终怀着深深的敬仰，决无其他想法。那些受到接见的人进入这间修道室的时候几乎全都明白这是给予他们的一种极大的恩典。许多人自始至终匍匐在地上不肯起来。许多“上层”人物，连那些学问高深的人，甚至一些自由思想分子，他们出于好奇或其他原因而随着大家进入修道室或者获得单独接见时，无一例外地把表示崇敬和礼貌自始至终当做自己的首要任务，更何况这里规定不收费用，一方只是出于仁爱和慈悲，另一方是为了忏悔和急于解决灵魂方面的某个难题或者消解内心生活的危机。因此，费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇突然表现出来的那种与他所处环境截然不相适应的小丑作风使在场的目击者，至少使他们中间的一部分人感到困惑和惊讶。但是两位司祭依然不动声色，神情严肃地注视着长老会有什么反应，不过他们似乎也像米乌索夫那样准备站起来了。阿廖沙低着脑袋站在那儿，几乎要哭出来。最令他奇怪的是，他唯一指望的能对父亲施加影响并制止其胡闹的二哥伊凡·费奥多罗维奇现在居然低着头，几乎一动不动地坐在椅子上，显然怀着一种想看个究竟的好奇心在等待着这一切将如何结束，好像他在这儿完全是个局外人。至于拉基京，阿廖沙非常熟悉甚至非常亲近的那个神学校学生，阿廖沙连看都不敢看一眼；拉基京的所有想法他都知道——全修道院也只有阿廖沙知道他的想法。
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“请原谅……”米乌索夫对长老说，“也许您认为我也参与了这个不成体统的玩笑。我的错误在于，我相信即使像费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇这样的人，在拜访令人肃然起敬的人物时总会明白自己的责任……我真没有想到，只是因为自己跟他同来而不得不向您表示歉意……”
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彼得·亚历山德罗维奇没把话说完就已经惭愧得想离开了。
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“请您别担心，”长老突然支着两条无力的细腿站起来，他拉住彼得·亚历山德罗维奇的双手，让他重新坐到原来的位置上。“您放心好了，我特别希望您做我的客人。”说完他鞠了个躬，转过身重新回到自己那张小沙发上。
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“伟大的长老，请您说一句话，我这样随便是不是玷污了您的身份？”费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇突然大声问道，双手紧紧抓住椅子的扶把，那架势好像要根据长老的回答随时准备从椅子里跳起来似的。
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“我恳请您别担心，也别感到拘束。”长老庄重地对他说。“您不要拘束，就像在家里一样随便，主要是您不要自惭形秽，因为一切皆由此而来。”
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“完全像在家里一样？也就是保持本色吗？啊，这未免过分了，太过分了——不过我还是非常乐意听您的劝告！您要知道，崇高的神甫，请您别让我保持本色，您别冒这个险，连我自己也不敢完全恢复原貌。这一点我要事先告诉您，也是为了您好，而其余的一切，暂时还不得而知，尽管有些人想尽量丑化我。这话我是对您说的，彼得·亚历山德罗维奇，至于您，神圣的长老，那我要说：我非常非常地高兴。”他欠起身，举着双手说道。“‘怀你胎的肚皮，喂你奶的奶头都是有福气的，特别是喂你奶的奶头更加有福气！’您刚才对我说：‘不要自惭形秽，因为一切皆由此而来！’您这句话击中了要害，触到了我的痛处。我跟别人交往的时候，我就有这样的感觉，总觉得自己比谁都卑鄙，大家都把我当做小丑，于是我想：‘那就让我真的扮演一个小丑的角色吧，反正我不怕你们说三道四，因为你们全都比我更卑鄙！’这样，我就成了一名小丑，因为自惭形秽而成了小丑，伟大的长老，完全因为自惭形秽，我这样胡闹也是因为多疑。假如我跟别人交往时确信大家会立即把我当做一个极其可爱、极其聪明的人，天哪，那我肯定成了一个非常善良的人！师父！”说着他突然跪到地上。“我怎样才能得到永生呢？”
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这时候仍然很难断定：他究竟是在开玩笑呢，还是真的深受感动？
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长老抬头望着他，微笑说：
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“您早就知道该做些什么，您是相当聪明的，您不要酗酒，不要信口开河，不要迷恋女色，尤其不要贪图钱财，您要关闭您那些酒馆，如果不能关闭全部，那至少也得关闭两三家。主要的，最主要的是别撒谎。”
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“是不是指狄德罗的事？”
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“不，不是指狄德罗那件事。主要的，最主要的是不要对自己撒谎。凡是对自己撒谎并且相信自己谎言的人，往往会落到不分是非的地步，既分不清自己的是非，也分不清外界的是非，因而不尊重自己，也不尊重别人，由于不尊重任何人，因而就不再有爱。既然缺乏爱心，为了消遣取乐便放纵淫欲，作恶多端，最后沦为畜生，这一切都是因为对人对己撒谎的缘故。对自己撒谎的人比任何人更容易受委屈，有时候也乐意受委屈，对吗？他知道没有人欺负他，凭空想象自己受了天大的委屈，为了面子谎话连篇，为了哗众取宠又夸大其词，喋喋不休，小题大做，把一粒豌豆说成一座大山——这些他都知道，可还是动辄就要装出饱受委屈的样子，这样心里就舒服了，甚至感到莫大的满足，最后真的会产生怨恨。您起来吧，坐到椅子上，我求您了，要知道这一切同样都是虚伪的做作……”
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“我的好人！让我吻您的手。”费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇一跃而起，迅速地吻了吻长老消瘦的手。“确实这样，受了欺负确实觉得舒服。您说得真好，我还从来没有听别人这样说过。确实这样，我一辈子都觉得自己受委屈，可心里又感到很舒服，我是为了快感才受委屈的，因为受人欺负不但心里感到舒坦，有时候会觉得很光彩。伟大的长老，您忘了说：很光彩！我要把这句话记在本子上！是的，我撒谎，一辈子都在撒谎，天天在撒谎，每时每刻在撒谎。我本身就是谎言，是谎言之父！不过也许不是谎言之父，我老是用词不当，我是谎言之子，那也足够了！只不过……我的天使……关于狄德罗的那些话有时候还是可以说的！说狄德罗不会有什么害处，可别的话就有害处。伟大的长老，我差点给忘了，从前年起我就一直想打听一下，就是想到这里问清楚一件事。不过请您别让彼得·亚历山德罗维奇打断我。伟大的长老，我要问的是有没有这回事：《日课经文月书》里说有一位显灵的圣徒因为信仰而受难，最后被砍去了脑袋，这时候他站起来，捡起脑袋‘亲吻’。他走了很久，一边走还一边捧着脑袋‘亲吻’。究竟有没有这回事，诸位诚实的神甫？”
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“没有这回事。”长老说。
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“《日课经文月书》里根本没有这类内容，您说的是哪一位圣徒？”管理图书的司祭问。
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“我自己也不知道是哪一位。我不知道也不清楚。是人家说的，我受骗了。我听别人说过。你们知道是谁说的吗？就是这个彼得·亚历山德罗维奇·米乌索夫，他刚才还为狄德罗而生气，可这件事就是他说的。”
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“我从来没有跟您说过这样的事，而且我从来不跟您说话。”
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“对，您没有单独对我说，而是当着许多人的面说的，当时我也在场，那还是三年前的事。我之所以提起这件事，彼得·亚历山德罗维奇，是因为您这个令人发笑的故事动摇了我的信仰。这个情况您不知道，您不了解，我是怀着被动摇的信仰回到了家里，从此以后我就越来越动摇了。是的，彼得·亚历山德罗维奇，您是促使我堕落的根源！这跟狄德罗没有关系！”
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费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇说得慷慨激昂，虽然大家都明白他又在演戏了。不过米乌索夫还是被他这番话深深地刺痛了。
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“真是胡说八道，”他嘟囔着说，“也许我以前确实说过这样的话……但不是对您说的。我自己也是听别人说的。我这是在巴黎听一位法国人说的，似乎我们这儿做弥撒的时候都要读《日课经文月书》中的这个故事……那个法国人很有学问，专门研究俄国的统计……在俄罗斯住了很长时间……我自己没有读过《日课经文月书》……也不想读……饭桌上闲聊的话题还嫌少吗？当时我们在吃饭……”
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“是啊，当时您在吃饭，可我却丧失了信仰！”费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇挖苦说。
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“您的信仰关我什么事！”米乌索夫本想冲着他大喊，突然又控制住自己，只是轻蔑地说道：“什么事给您一搅和，就变得一团糟。”
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长老突然站起来。
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“请原谅，先生们，我暂时离开一会儿。”他对所有来访的客人说。
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“比你们早来的人还在等着我呢。您还是别撒谎吧。”他对费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇说，脸上露着笑容。
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他走出修道室。阿廖沙和一名见习修士跑过去扶他走下台阶。阿廖沙喘着粗气。他为自己能离开而感到高兴，他也为长老没有生气，反而心情愉快而高兴。长老朝回廊走去，他要为等候他的人祝福。可是费奥多尔·巴夫洛维奇还是在修道室的门口拦住了他。
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“大善人哪！”他充满感情地喊道。“请允许我再一次吻您的手！是的，跟您还可以说话，可以相处！您以为我一直在撒谎，一直在充当小丑吗？您该知道，我这样做是故意的，为了试探您才这样装疯卖傻。我一直在试探您，看是不是可以跟您相处？您的高傲是否允许我的恭顺占有一席之地？现在我要给您颁发一份奖状：跟您是可以相处的！现在我要保持沉默，始终不说话。我这就坐到椅子上，不再开口。彼得·亚历山德罗维奇，现在该您说话了，现在您是这儿最主要的角色……时间是十分钟。”
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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 Païssy, 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.
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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 Miüsov 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 Miüsov 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.
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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.
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Miüsov 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 Miüsov 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.
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“To all appearances a malicious soul, full of petty pride,” thought Miüsov. He felt altogether dissatisfied with his position.
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A cheap little clock on the wall struck twelve hurriedly, and served to begin the conversation.
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“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....”
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“But you are not a king, anyway,” Miüsov muttered, losing his self‐ restraint at once.
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“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.”
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“You’re doing it now,” muttered Miüsov, with disgust.
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Father Zossima scrutinized them both in silence.
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“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.”
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“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 Miüsov in a shaking voice.
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“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....”
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Miüsov got up, forgetting himself in his impatience. He was furious, and conscious of being ridiculous.
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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 Miüsov. 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.
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“Forgive me,” began Miüsov, 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....”
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Pyotr Alexandrovitch could say no more, and was about to leave the room, overwhelmed with confusion.
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“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.
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“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.
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“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.”
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“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.”
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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?”
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It was difficult even now to decide whether he was joking or really moved.
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Father Zossima, lifting his eyes, looked at him, and said with a smile:
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“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.”
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“You mean about Diderot?”
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“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....”
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“Blessed man! Give me your hand to kiss.”
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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?”
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“No, it is untrue,” said the elder.
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“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.
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“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 Miüsov here, who was so angry just now about Diderot. He it was who told the story.”
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“I have never told it you, I never speak to you at all.”
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“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!”
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Fyodor Pavlovitch got excited and pathetic, though it was perfectly clear to every one by now that he was playing a part again. Yet Miüsov was stung by his words.
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“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.”
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“Yes, you were dining then, and so I lost my faith!” said Fyodor Pavlovitch, mimicking him.
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“What do I care for your faith?” Miüsov was on the point of shouting, but he suddenly checked himself, and said with contempt, “You defile everything you touch.”
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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.
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“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.”
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