THE controversy was over. But, strange to say, Fyodor

Pavlovitch, who had been so gay, suddenly began frowning. He frowned

and gulped brandy, and it was already a glass too much.

    "Get along with you, Jesuits!" he cried to the servants. "Go away,

Smerdyakov. I'll send you the gold piece I promised you to-day, but be

off! Don't cry, Grigory. Go to Marfa. She'll comfort you and put you

to bed. The rascals won't let us sit in peace after dinner," he

snapped peevishly, as the servants promptly withdrew at his word.

    "Smerdyakov always pokes himself in now, after dinner. It's you

he's so interested in. What have you done to fascinate him?" he

added to Ivan.

    "Nothing whatever," answered Ivan. "He's pleased to have a high

opinion of me; he's a lackey and a mean soul. Raw material for

revolution, however, when the time comes."

    "There will be others and better ones. But there will be some like

him as well. His kind will come first, and better ones after."

    "And when will the time come?"

    "The rocket will go off and fizzle out, perhaps. The peasants

are not very fond of listening to these soup-makers, so far."

    "Ah, brother, but a Balaam's ass like that thinks and thinks,

and the devil knows where he gets to."

    "He's storing up ideas," said Ivan, smiling.

    "You see, I know he can't bear me, nor anyone else, even you,

though you fancy that he has a high opinion of you. Worse still with

Alyosha, he despises Alyosha. But he doesn't steal, that's one

thing, and he's not a gossip, he holds his tongue, and doesn't wash

our dirty linen in public. He makes capital fish pasties too. But,

damn him, is he worth talking about so much?"

    "Of course he isn't."

    "And as for the ideas he may be hatching, the Russian peasant,

generally speaking, needs thrashing. That I've always maintained.

Our peasants are swindlers, and don't deserve to be pitied, and it's a

good thing they're still flogged sometimes. Russia is rich in birches.

If they destroyed the forests, it would be the ruin of Russia. I stand

up for the clever people. We've left off thrashing the peasants, we've

grown so clever, but they go on thrashing themselves. And a good thing

too. 'For with what measure ye mete it shall be measured to you

again,' or how does it go? Anyhow, it will be measured. But Russia's

all swinishness. My dear, if you only knew how I hate Russia....

That is, not Russia, but all this vice! But maybe I mean Russia.

Tout cela c'est de la cochonnerie....* Do you know what I like? I like

wit."



    * All this is filthiness.



    "You've had another glass. That's enough."

    "Wait a bit. I'll have one more, and then another, and then I'll

stop. No, stay, you interrupted me. At Mokroe I was talking to an

old man, and he told me: 'There's nothing we like so much as

sentencing girls to be thrashed, and we always give the lads the job

of thrashing them. And the girl he has thrashed to-day, the young

man will ask in marriage to-morrow. So it quite suits the girls, too,'

he said. There's a set of de Sades for you! But it's clever, anyway.

Shall we go over and have a look at it, eh? Alyosha, are you blushing?

Don't be bashful, child. I'm sorry I didn't stay to dinner at the

Superior's and tell the monks about the girls at Mokroe. Alyosha,

don't be angry that I offended your Superior this morning. I lost my

temper. If there is a God, if He exists, then, of course, I'm to

blame, and I shall have to answer for it. But if there isn't a God

at all, what do they deserve, your fathers? It's not enough to cut

their heads off, for they keep back progress. Would you believe it,

Ivan, that that lacerates my sentiments? No, you don't believe it as I

see from your eyes. You believe what people say, that I'm nothing

but a buffoon. Alyosha, do you believe that I'm nothing but a

buffoon?"

    "No, I don't believe it."

    "And I believe you don't, and that you speak the truth. You look

sincere and you speak sincerely. But not Ivan. Ivan's supercilious....

I'd make an end of your monks, though, all the same. I'd take all that

mystic stuff and suppress it, once for all, all over Russia, so as

to bring all the fools to reason. And the gold and the silver that

would flow into the mint!"

    "But why suppress it?" asked Ivan.

    "That Truth may prevail. That's why."

    "Well, if Truth were to prevail, you know, you'd be the first to

be robbed and suppressed."

    "Ah! I dare say you're right. Ah, I'm an ass!" burst out Fyodor

Pavlovitch, striking himself lightly on the forehead. "Well, your

monastery may stand then, Alyosha, if that's how it is. And we

clever people will sit snug and enjoy our brandy. You know, Ivan, it

must have been so ordained by the Almighty Himself. Ivan, speak, is

there a God or not? Stay, speak the truth, speak seriously. Why are

you laughing again?"

    "I'm laughing that you should have made a clever remark just now

about Smerdyakov's belief in the existence of two saints who could

move mountains."

    "Why, am I like him now, then?"

    "Very much."

    "Well, that shows I'm a Russian, too, and I have a Russian

characteristic. And you may be caught in the same way, though you

are a philosopher. Shall I catch you? What do you bet that I'll

catch you to-morrow? Speak, all the same, is there a God, or not?

Only, be serious. I want you to be serious now."

    "No, there is no God."

    "Alyosha, is there a God?"

    "There is."

    "Ivan, and is there immortality of some sort, just a little,

just a tiny bit?"

    "There is no immortality either."

    "None at all?"

    "None at all."

    "There's absolute nothingness then. Perhaps there is just

something? Anything is better than nothing!"

    "Alyosha, is there immortality?"

    "God and immortality?"

    "God and immortality. In God is immortality."

    "H'm! It's more likely Ivan's right. Good Lord! to think what

faith, what force of all kinds, man has lavished for nothing, on

that dream, and for how many thousand years. Who is it laughing at

man? Ivan For the last time, once for all, is there a God or not? I

ask for the last time!"

    "And for the last time there is not."

    "Who is laughing at mankind, Ivan?"

    "It must be the devil," said Ivan, smiling.

    "And the devil? Does he exist?"

    "No, there's no devil either."

    "It's a pity. Damn it all, what wouldn't I do to the man who first

invented God! Hanging on a bitter aspen tree would be too good for,

him."

    "There would have been no civilisation if they hadn't invented

God."

    "Wouldn't there have been? Without God?"

    "No. And there would have been no brandy either. But I must take

your brandy away from you, anyway."

    "Stop, stop, stop, dear boy, one more little glass. I've hurt

Alyosha's feelings. You're not angry with me, Alyosha? My dear

little Alexey!"

    "No, I am not angry. I know your thoughts. Your heart is better

than your head."

    "My heart better than my head, is it? Oh Lord! And that from

you. Ivan, do you love Alyosha?"

    "You must love him" (Fyodor Pavlovitch was by this time very

drunk). "Listen, Alyosha, I was rude to your elder this morning. But I

was excited. But there's wit in that elder, don't you think, Ivan?"

    "Very likely."

    "There is, there is. Il y a du Piron la-dedans.* He's a Jesuit,

a Russian one, that is. As he's an honourable person there's a

hidden indignation boiling within him at having to pretend and

affect holiness."



    * There's something of Piron inside of him.



    "But, of course, he believes in God."

    "Not a bit of it. Didn't you know? Why, he tells everyone so,

himself. That is, not everyone, but all the clever people who come

to him. He said straight out to Governor Schultz not long ago: 'Credo,

but I don't know in what.'"

    "Really?"

    "He really did. But I respect him. There's something of

Mephistopheles about him, or rather of 'The hero of our time'...

Arbenin, or what's his name?... You see, he's a sensualist. He's

such a sensualist that I should be afraid for my daughter or my wife

if she went to confess to him. You know, when he begins telling

stories... The year before last he invited us to tea, tea with liqueur

(the ladies send him liqueur), and began telling us about old times

till we nearly split our sides.... Especially how he once cured a

paralysed woman. 'If my legs were not bad I know a dance I could dance

you,' he said. What do you say to that? 'I've plenty of tricks in my

time,' said he. He did Demidov, the merchant, out of sixty thousand."

    "What, he stole it?"

    "He brought him the money as a man he could trust, saying, 'Take

care of it for me, friend, there'll be a police search at my place

to-morrow.' And he kept it. 'You have given it to the Church,' he

declared. I said to him: 'You're a scoundrel,' I said. 'No,' said

he, 'I'm not a scoundrel, but I'm broadminded.' But that wasn't he,

that was someone else. I've muddled him with someone else... without

noticing it. Come, another glass and that's enough. Take away the

bottle, Ivan. I've been telling lies. Why didn't you stop me, Ivan,

and tell me I was lying?"

    "I knew you'd stop of yourself."

    "That's a lie. You did it from spite, from simple spite against

me. You despise me. You have come to me and despised me in my own

house."

    "Well, I'm going away. You've had too much brandy."

    "I've begged you for Christ's sake to go to Tchermashnya for a day

or two, and you don't go."

    "I'll go to-morrow if you're so set upon it."

    "You won't go. You want to keep an eye on me. That's what you

want, spiteful fellow. That's why you won't go."

    The old man persisted. He had reached that state of drunkenness

when the drunkard who has till then been inoffensive tries to pick a

quarrel and to assert himself.

    "Why are you looking at me? Why do you look like that? Your eyes

look at me and say, 'You ugly drunkard!' Your eyes are mistrustful.

They're contemptuous.... You've come here with some design. Alyosha,

here, looks at me and his eyes shine. Alyosha doesn't despise me.

Alexey, you mustn't love Ivan."

    "Don't be ill-tempered with my brother. Leave off attacking

him," Alyosha said emphatically.

    "Oh, all right. Ugh, my head aches. Take away the brandy, Ivan.

It's the third time I've told you."

    He mused, and suddenly a slow, cunning grin spread over his face.

    "Don't be angry with a feeble old man, Ivan. I know you don't love

me, but don't be angry all the same. You've nothing to love me for.

You go to Tchermashnya. I'll come to you myself and bring you a

present. I'll show you a little wench there. I've had my eye on her

a long time. She's still running about bare-foot. Don't be afraid of

bare-footed wenches- don't despise them- they're pearls!"

    And he kissed his hand with a smack.

    "To my thinking," he revived at once, seeming to grow sober the

instant he touched on his favourite topic. "To my thinking... Ah,

you boys! You children, little sucking-pigs, to my thinking... I never

thought a woman ugly in my life- that's been my rule! Can you

understand that? How could you understand it? You've milk in your

veins, not blood. You're not out of your shells yet. My rule has

been that you can always find something devilishly interesting in

every woman that you wouldn't find in any other. Only, one must know

how to find it, that's the point! That's a talent! To my mind there

are no ugly women. The very fact that she is a woman is half the

battle... but how could you understand that? Even in vieilles

filles, even in them you may discover something that makes you

simply wonder that men have been such fools as to let them grow old

without noticing them. Bare-footed girls or unattractive ones, you

must take by surprise. Didn't you know that? You must astound them

till they're fascinated, upset, ashamed that such a gentleman should

fall in love with such a little slut. It's a jolly good thing that

there always are and will be masters and slaves in the world, so there

always will be a little maid-of-all-work and her master, and you know,

that's all that's needed for happiness. Stay... listen, Alyosha, I

always used to surprise your mother, but in a different way. I paid no

attention to her at all, but all at once, when the minute came, I'd be

all devotion to her, crawl on my knees, kiss her feet, and I always,

always- I remember it as though it were to-day- reduced her to that

tinkling, quiet, nervous, queer little laugh. It was peculiar to

her. I knew her attacks always used to begin like that. The next day

she would begin shrieking hysterically, and this little laugh was

not a sign of delight, though it made a very good counterfeit.

That's the great thing, to know how to take everyone. Once

Belyavsky- he was a handsome fellow, and rich- used to like to come

here and hang about her- suddenly gave me a slap in the face in her

presence. And she- such a mild sheep- why, I thought she would have

knocked me down for that blow. How she set on me! 'You're beaten,

beaten now,' she said, 'You've taken a blow from him. You have been

trying to sell me to him,' she said... 'And how dared he strike you in

my presence! Don't dare come near me again, never, never! Run at once,

challenge him to a duel!'... I took her to the monastery then to bring

her to her senses. The holy Fathers prayed her back to reason. But I

swear, by God, Alyosha, I never insulted the poor crazy girl! Only

once, perhaps, in the first year; then she was very fond of praying.

She used to keep the feasts of Our Lady particularly and used to

turn me out of her room then. I'll knock that mysticism out of her,

thought I! 'Here,' said I, 'you see your holy image. Here it is.

Here I take it down. You believe it's miraculous, but here, I'll

spit on it directly and nothing will happen to me for it!'... When she

saw it, good Lord! I thought she would kill me. But she only jumped

up, wrung her hands, then suddenly hid her face in them, began

trembling all over and fell on the floor... fell all of a heap.

Alyosha, Alyosha, what's the matter?"

    The old man jumped up in alarm. From the time he had begun

speaking about his mother, a change had gradually come over

Alyosha's face. He flushed crimson, his eyes glowed, his lips

quivered. The old sot had gone spluttering on, noticing nothing,

till the moment when something very strange happened to Alyosha.

Precisely what he was describing in the crazy woman was suddenly

repeated with Alyosha. He jumped up from his seat exactly as his

mother was said to have done, wrung his hands, hid his face in them,

and fell back in his chair, shaking all over in an hysterical paroxysm

of sudden violent, silent weeping. His extraordinary resemblance to

his mother particularly impressed the old man.

    "Ivan, Ivan! Water, quickly! It's like her, exactly as she used to

be then, his mother. Spurt some water on him from your mouth, that's

what I used to do to her. He's upset about his mother, his mother," he

muttered to Ivan.

    "But she was my mother, too, I believe, his mother. Was she

not?" said Ivan, with uncontrolled anger and contempt. The old man

shrank before his flashing eyes. But something very strange had

happened, though only for a second; it seemed really to have escaped

the old man's mind that Alyosha's mother actually was the mother of

Ivan too.

    "Your mother?" he muttered, not understanding. "What do you

mean? What mother are you talking about? Was she?... Why, damn it!

of course she was yours too! Damn it! My mind has never been so

darkened before. Excuse me, why, I was thinking Ivan... He he he!"

He stopped. A broad, drunken, half senseless grin overspread his face.

    At that moment a fearful noise, and clamour was heard in the hall,

there were violent shouts, the door was flung open, and Dmitri burst

into the room. The old man rushed to Ivan in terror.

    "He'll kill me! He'll kill me! Don't let him get at me!" he

screamed, clinging to the skirt of Ivan's coat.