The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (easy to read books for adults list .txt) 📕

Why Is Such a Man Alive?

DMITRI FYODOROVITCH, a young man of eight and twenty, of medium

height and agreeable countenance, looked older than his years. He

was muscular, and showed signs of considerable physical strength.

Yet there was something not healthy in his face. It was rather thin,

his cheeks were hollow, and there was an unhealthy sallowness in their

colour. His rather large, prominent, dark eyes had an expression of

firm determination, and yet there was a vague look in them, too.

Even when he was excited and talking irritably, his eyes somehow did

not follow his mood, but betrayed something else, sometimes quite

incongruous with what was passing. “It’s hard to tell what he’s

thinking,” those who talked to him sometimes declared. People who

saw something pensive and sullen in his eyes were startled by his

sudden laugh, which bore witness to mirthful and lighthearted

thoughts at the very time when his eyes were so gloomy. A certain

strained look in his face was easy to understand at this moment.

Everyone knew, or had heard of, the extremely restless and

dissipated life which he had been leading of late, as well as of the

violent anger to which he had been roused in his quarrels with his

father. There were several stories current in the town about it. It is

true that he was irascible by nature, “of an unstable and unbalanced

mind,” as our justice of the peace, Katchalnikov, happily described

him.

He was stylishly and irreproachably dressed in a carefully

buttoned frock-coat. He wore black gloves and carried a top hat.

Having only lately left the army, he still had moustaches and no

beard. His dark brown hair was cropped short, and combed forward on

his temples. He had the long, determined stride of a military man.

He stood still for a moment on the threshold, and glancing at the

whole party went straight up to the elder, guessing him to be their

host. He made him a low bow, and asked his blessing. Father Zossima,

rising in his chair, blessed him. Dmitri kissed his hand respectfully,

and with intense feeling, almost anger, he said:

“Be so generous as to forgive me for having kept you waiting so

long, but Smerdyakov, the valet sent me by my father, in reply to my

inquiries, told me twice over that the appointment was for one. Now

I suddenly learn- “

“Don’t disturb yourself,” interposed the elder. “No matter. You

are a little late. It’s of no consequence…. “

“I’m extremely obliged to you, and expected no less from your

goodness.”

Saying this, Dmitri bowed once more. Then, turning suddenly

towards his father, made him, too, a similarly low and respectful bow.

He had evidently considered it beforehand, and made this bow in all

seriousness, thinking it his duty to show his respect and good

intentions.

Although Fyodor Pavlovitch was taken unawares, he was equal to the

occasion. In response to Dmitri’s bow he jumped up from his chair

and made his son a bow as low in return. His face was suddenly

solemn and impressive, which gave him a positively malignant look.

Dmitri bowed generally to all present, and without a word walked to

the window with his long, resolute stride, sat down on the only

empty chair, near Father Paissy, and, bending forward, prepared to

listen to the conversation he had interrupted.

Dmitri’s entrance had taken no more than two minutes, and the

conversation was resumed. But this time Miusov thought it

unnecessary to reply to Father Paissy’s persistent and almost

irritable question.

“Allow me to withdraw from this discussion,” he observed with a

certain well-bred nonchalance. “It’s a subtle question, too. Here Ivan

Fyodorovitch is smiling at us. He must have something interesting to

say about that also. Ask him.”

“Nothing special, except one little remark,” Ivan replied at once.

“European Liberals in general, and even our liberal dilettanti,

often mix up the final results of socialism with those of

Christianity. This wild notion is, of course, a characteristic

feature. But it’s not only Liberals and dilettanti who mix up

socialism and Christianity, but, in many cases, it appears, the

police-the foreign police, of course-do the same. Your Paris

anecdote is rather to the point, Pyotr Alexandrovitch.”

“I ask your permission to drop this subject altogether,” Miusov

repeated. “I will tell you instead, gentlemen, another interesting and

rather characteristic anecdote of Ivan Fyodorovitch himself. Only five

days ago, in a gathering here, principally of ladies, he solemnly

declared in argument that there was nothing in the whole world to make

men love their neighbours. That there was no law of nature that man

should love mankind, and that, if there had been any love on earth

hitherto, it was not owing to a natural law, but simply because men

have believed in immortality. Ivan Fyodorovitch added in parenthesis

that the whole natural law lies in that faith, and that if you were to

destroy in mankind the belief in immortality, not only love but

every living force maintaining the life of the world would at once

be dried up. Moreover, nothing then would be immoral, everything would

be lawful, even cannibalism. That’s not all. He ended by asserting

that for every individual, like ourselves, who does not believe in God

or immortality, the moral law of nature must immediately be changed

into the exact contrary of the former religious law, and that

egoism, even to crime, must become not only lawful but even recognised

as the inevitable, the most rational, even honourable outcome of his

position. From this paradox, gentlemen, you can judge of the rest of

our eccentric and paradoxical friend Ivan Fyodorovitch’s theories.”

“Excuse me,” Dmitri cried suddenly; “if I’ve heard aright, crime

must not only be permitted but even recognised as the inevitable and

the most rational outcome of his position for every infidel! Is that

so or not?”

“Quite so,” said Father Paissy.

“I’ll remember it.”

Having uttered these words Dmitri ceased speaking as suddenly as

he had begun. Everyone looked at him with curiosity.

“Is that really your conviction as to the consequences of the

disappearance of the faith in immortality?” the elder asked Ivan

suddenly.

“Yes. That was my contention. There is no virtue if there is no

immortality.”

“You are blessed in believing that, or else most unhappy.”

“Why unhappy?” Ivan asked smiling.

“Because, in all probability you don’t believe yourself in the

immortality of your soul, nor in what you have written yourself in

your article on Church Jurisdiction.”

“Perhaps you are right!… But I wasn’t altogether joking,” Ivan

suddenly and strangely confessed, flushing quickly.

“You were not altogether joking. That’s true. The question is

still fretting your heart, and not answered. But the martyr likes

sometimes to divert himself with his despair, as it were driven to

it by despair itself. Meanwhile, in your despair, you, too, divert

yourself with magazine articles, and discussions in society, though

you don’t believe your own arguments, and with an aching heart mock at

them inwardly…. That question you have not answered, and it is

your great grief, for it clamours for an answer.”

“But can it be answered by me? Answered in the affirmative?”

Ivan went on asking strangely, still looking at the elder with the

same inexplicable smile.

“If it can’t be decided in the affirmative, it will never be

decided in the negative. You know that that is the peculiarity of your

heart, and all its suffering is due to it. But thank the Creator who

has given you a lofty heart capable of such suffering; of thinking and

seeking higher things, for our dwelling is in the heavens. God grant

that your heart will attain the answer on earth, and may God bless

your path.”

The elder raised his hand and would have made the sign of the

cross over Ivan from where he stood. But the latter rose from his

seat, went up to him, received his blessing, and kissing his hand went

back to his place in silence. His face looked firm and earnest. This

action and all the preceding conversation, which was so surprising

from Ivan, impressed everyone by its strangeness and a certain

solemnity, so that all were silent for a moment, and there was a

look almost of apprehension in Alyosha’s face. But Miusov suddenly

shrugged his shoulders. And at the same moment Fyodor Pavlovitch

jumped up from his seat.

“Most pious and holy elder,” he cried pointing to Ivan, “that is

my son, flesh of my flesh, the dearest of my flesh! He is my most

dutiful Karl Moor, so to speak, while this son who has just come in,

Dmitri, against whom I am seeking justice from you, is the undutiful

Franz Moor-they are both out of Schiller’s Robbers, and so I am the

reigning Count von Moor! Judge and save us! We need not only your

prayers but your prophecies!”

“Speak without buffoonery, and don’t begin by insulting the

members of your family,” answered the elder, in a faint, exhausted

voice. He was obviously getting more and more fatigued, and his

strength was failing.

“An unseemly farce which I foresaw when I came here!” cried Dmitri

indignantly. He too leapt up. “Forgive it, reverend Father,” he added,

addressing the elder. “I am not a cultivated man, and I don’t even

know how to address you properly, but you have been deceived and you

have been too good-natured in letting us meet here. All my father

wants is a scandal. Why he wants it only he can tell. He always has

some motive. But I believe I know why- “

“They all blame me, all of them!” cried Fyodor Pavlovitch in his

turn. “Pyotr Alexandrovitch here blames me too. You have been

blaming me, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you have!” he turned suddenly to

Miusov, although the latter was not dreaming of interrupting him.

“They all accuse me of having hidden the children’s money in my boots,

and cheated them, but isn’t there a court of law? There they will

reckon out for you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, from your notes, your

letters, and your agreements, how much money you had, how much you

have spent, and how much you have left. Why does Pyotr

Alexandrovitch refuse to pass judgment? Dmitri is not a stranger to

him. Because they are all against me, while Dmitri Fyodorovitch is

in debt to me, and not a little, but some thousands of which I have

documentary proof. The whole town is echoing with his debaucheries.

And where he was stationed before, he several times spent a thousand

or two for the seduction of some respectable girl; we know all about

that, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, in its most secret details. I’ll prove

it…. Would you believe it, holy Father, he has captivated the

heart of the most honourable of young ladies of good family and

fortune, daughter of a gallant colonel, formerly his superior officer,

who had received many honours and had the Anna Order on his breast. He

compromised the girl by his promise of