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

monastery but in the world outside it. He did no one any harm, but

“Why do they think him so saintly?” And that question alone, gradually

repeated, gave rise at last to an intense, insatiable hatred of him.

That, I believe, was why many people were extremely delighted at the

smell of decomposition which came so quickly, for not a day had passed

since his death. At the same time there were some among those who

had been hitherto reverently devoted to the elder, who were almost

mortified and personally affronted by this incident. This was how

the thing happened.

As soon as signs of decomposition had begun to appear, the whole

aspect of the monks betrayed their secret motives in entering the

cell. They went in, stayed a little while and hastened out to

confirm the news to the crowd of other monks waiting outside. Some

of the latter shook their heads mournfully, but others did not even

care to conceal the delight which gleamed unmistakably in their

malignant eyes. And now no one reproached them for it, no one raised

his voice in protest, which was strange, for the majority of the monks

had been devoted to the dead elder. But it seemed as though God had in

this case let the minority get the upper hand for a time.

Visitors from outside, particularly of the educated class, soon

went into the cell, too, with the same spying intent. Of the peasantry

few went into the cell, though there were crowds of them at the

gates of the hermitage. After three o’clock the rush of worldly

visitors was greatly increased and this was no doubt owing to the

shocking news. People were attracted who would not otherwise have come

on that day and had not intended to come, and among them were some

personages of high standing. But external decorum was still

preserved and Father Paissy, with a stern face, continued firmly and

distinctly reading aloud the Gospel, apparently not noticing what

was taking place around him, though he had, in fact, observed

something unusual long before. But at last the murmurs, first

subdued but gradually louder and more confident, reached even him. “It

shows God’s judgment is not as man’s,” Father Paissy heard suddenly.

The first to give utterance to this sentiment was a layman, an elderly

official from the town, known to be a man of great piety. But he

only repeated aloud what the monks had long been whispering. They

had long before formulated this damning conclusion, and the worst of

it was that a sort of triumphant satisfaction at that conclusion

became more and more apparent every moment. Soon they began to lay

aside even external decorum and almost seemed to feel they had a

sort of right to discard it.

“And for what reason can this have happened,” some of the monks

said, at first with a show of regret; “he had a small frame and his

flesh was dried up on his bones, what was there to decay?”

“It must be a sign from heaven,” others hastened to add, and their

opinion was adopted at once without protest. For it was pointed out,

too, that if the decomposition had been natural, as in the case of

every dead sinner, it would have been apparent later, after a lapse of

at least twenty-four hours, but this premature corruption “was in

excess of nature,” and so the finger of God was evident. It was

meant for a sign. This conclusion seemed irresistible.

Gentle Father Iosif, the librarian, a great favourite of the

dead man’s, tried to reply to some of the evil speakers that “this

is not held everywhere alike,” and that the incorruptibility of the

bodies of the just was not a dogma of the Orthodox Church, but only an

opinion, and that even in the most Orthodox regions, at Athos for

instance, they were not greatly confounded by the smell of corruption,

and there the chief sign of the glorification of the saved was not

bodily incorruptibility, but the colour of the bones when the bodies

have lain many years in the earth and have decayed in it. “And if

the bones are yellow as wax, that is the great sign that the Lord

has glorified the dead saint, if they are not yellow but black, it

shows that God has not deemed him worthy of such glory-that is the

belief in Athos, a great place, which the Orthodox doctrine has been

preserved from of old, unbroken and in its greatest purity,” said

Father Iosif in conclusion.

But the meek Father’s words had little effect and even provoked

a mocking retort. “That’s all pedantry and innovation, no use

listening to it,” the monks decided. “We stick to the old doctrine;

there are all sorts of innovations nowadays, are we to follow them

all?” added others.

“We have had as many holy fathers as they had. There they are

among the Turks, they have forgotten everything. Their doctrine has

long been impure and they have no bells even, the most sneering added.

Father Iosif walked away, grieving the more since he had put

forward his own opinion with little confidence as though scarcely

believing in it himself. He foresaw with distress that something

very unseemly was beginning and that there were positive signs of

disobedience. Little by little, all the sensible monks were reduced to

silence like Father Iosif. And so it came to pass that all who loved

the elder and had accepted with devout obedience the institution of

the eldership were all at once terribly cast down and glanced

timidly in one another’s faces, when they met. Those who were

hostile to the institution of elders, as a novelty, held up their

heads proudly. “There was no smell of corruption from the late elder

Varsonofy, but a sweet fragrance,” they recalled malignantly. “But

he gained that glory not because he was an elder, but because he was a

holy man.”

And this was followed by a shower of criticism and even blame of

Father Zossima. “His teaching was false; he taught that life is a

great joy and not a vale of tears,” said some of the more

unreasonable. “He followed the fashionable belief, he did not

recognise material fire in hell,” others, still more unreasonable,

added. “He was not strict in fasting, allowed himself sweet things,

ate cherry jam with his tea, ladies used to send it to him. Is it

for a monk of strict rule to drink tea?” could be heard among some

of the envious. “He sat in pride,” the most malignant declared

vindictively; “he considered himself a saint and he took it as his due

when people knelt before him.” “He abused the sacrament of

confession,” the fiercest opponents of the institution of elders added

in a malicious whisper. And among these were some of the oldest monks,

strictest in their devotion, genuine ascetics, who had kept silent

during the life of the deceased elder, but now suddenly unsealed their

lips. And this was terrible, for their words had great influence on

young monks who were not yet firm in their convictions. The monk

from Obdorsk heard all this attentively, heaving deep sighs and

nodding his head. “Yes, clearly Father Ferapont was right in his

judgment yesterday,” and at that moment Father Ferapont himself made

his appearance, as though on purpose to increase the confusion.

I have mentioned already that he rarely left his wooden cell by

the apiary. He was seldom even seen at church and they overlooked this

neglect on the ground of his craziness, and did not keep him to the

rules binding on all the rest. But if the whole truth is to be told,

they hardly had a choice about it. For it would have been

discreditable to insist on burdening with the common regulations so

great an ascetic, who prayed day and night (he even dropped asleep

on his knees). If they had insisted, the monks would have said, “He is

holier than all of us and he follows a rule harder than ours. And if

he does not go to church, it’s because he knows when he ought to; he

has his own rule.” It was to avoid the chance of these sinful

murmurs that Father Ferapont was left in peace.

As everyone was aware, Father Ferapont particularly disliked

Father Zossima. And now the news had reached him in his hut that

“God’s judgment is not the same as man’s,” and that something had

happened which was “in excess of nature.” It may well be supposed that

among the first to run to him with the news was the monk from Obdorsk,

who had visited him the evening before and left his cell

terror-stricken.

I have mentioned above, that though Father Paissy standing firm

and immovable reading the Gospel over the coffin, could not hear nor

see what was passing outside the cell, he gauged most of it

correctly in his heart, for he knew the men surrounding him well. He

was not shaken by it, but awaited what would come next without fear,

watching with penetration and insight for the outcome of the general

excitement.

Suddenly an extraordinary uproar in the passage in open defiance

of decorum burst on his ears. The door was flung open and Father

Ferapont appeared in the doorway. Behind him there could be seen

accompanying him a crowd of monks, together with many people from

the town. They did not, however, enter the cell, but stood at the

bottom of the steps, waiting to see what Father Ferapont would say

or do. For they felt with a certain awe, in spite of their audacity,

that he had not come for nothing. Standing in the doorway, Father

Ferapont raised his arms, and under his right arm the keen inquisitive

little eyes of the monk from Obdorsk peeped in. He alone, in his

intense curiosity, could not resist running up the steps after

Father Ferapont. The others, on the contrary, pressed farther back

in sudden alarm when the door was noisily flung open. Holding his

hands aloft, Father Ferapont suddenly roared:

“Casting out I cast out!” and, turning in all directions, he began

at once making the sign of the cross at each of the four walls and

four corners of the cell in succession. All who accompanied Father

Ferapont immediately understood his action. For they knew he always

did this wherever he went, and that he would not sit down or say a

word, till he had driven out the evil spirits.

“Satan, go hence! Satan, go hence!” he repeated at each sign of

the cross. “Casting out I cast out,” he roared again.

He was wearing his coarse gown girt with a rope. His bare chest,

covered with grey hair, could be seen under his hempen shirt. His feet

were bare. As soon as he began waving his arms, the cruel irons he

wore under his gown could be heard clanking.

Father Paissy paused in his reading, stepped forward and stood

before him waiting

“What have you come for, worthy Father? Why do you offend

against good order? Why do you disturb the peace of the flock?” he

said at last, looking sternly at him.

“What have I come for? You ask why? What is your faith?” shouted

Father Ferapont crazily. “I’ve come here to drive out your visitors,

the unclean devils. I’ve come to see how many have gathered here while

I have been away. I want to sweep them out with a birch broom.”

“You cast out the evil spirit, but perhaps you are serving him

yourself,” Father Paissy went on fearlessly. “And who can say of

himself ‘I am holy’? Can you, Father?”

“I am unclean, not holy.