feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/cliffnotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_6_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: The Brothers Karamazov.book 5.chapters 1-4
feat_summary_id: book 5 chapters 1-4
feat_summary: {"name": "Book V: Chapters 1-4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201219142226/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/b/the-brothers-karamazov/summary-and-analysis/part-2-book-v-chapters-14", "summary": "When Alyosha returns to Madame Hohlakov's to report his failure with the captain, he learns that Katerina has developed a fever following her hysterical outburst and is now upstairs, unconscious. To Lise, Alyosha explains the nature of his mission and his failure and analyzes the captain's character for her. As he talks, Lise becomes very impressed with such deep insight and such warmth and love of humanity. She confesses that she indeed meant what she wrote in the letter. The revelation is startling, and she and Alyosha discuss their feelings for each other and begin to make plans for marriage. For his part, Alyosha admits that he has told a white lie concerning the letter. He did not return it, not because he did not have it but because he valued it too much. Meanwhile, Madame Hohlakov, who has eavesdropped on the conversation, stops Alyosha as he is leaving and expresses deep disapproval of the match. Alyosha assures her that the marriage is yet far in the future, that Lise is much too young to marry presently. Alyosha, then, puzzling over Dmitri's actions of the previous night, decides to try to find his brother. It is more important, he believes, to \"have saved something\" of Dmitri's honor than to flee back to the monastery. The summerhouse seems a likely place to find his brother; this is where he often watches for Grushenka and dreams of her. As Alyosha waits, he overhears Smerdyakov singing and playing the guitar for the housekeeper's daughter. Alyosha interrupts, with apologies, and asks Smerdyakov if he has seen Dmitri. The cook is able to help Alyosha and says that Ivan has made an appointment to meet Dmitri at the Metropolis restaurant. Alyosha rushes there but Dmitri is not to be found. Instead, Ivan is dining alone. Ivan beckons to his brother, and Alyosha accepts his brother's invitation to talk. Ivan admits, first off, that he is eager to know Alyosha better; he has come to respect and admire the boy. Ivan also admits that he has an intense longing for life even though he constantly encounters only disorder and injustice. Alyosha, however, is more concerned about Dmitri and what will happen to him and what will happen to Fyodor if Ivan leaves the family. To this, Ivan insists that he is absolutely not his brother's keeper, nor his father's keeper, and confesses finally that he is dining at the restaurant for only one reason: he cannot bear the presence of his loathsome father. That settled, Ivan begins to tell Alyosha of his views on \"the existence of God and immortality.\" He says that he does not reject God but cannot accept Him. If God does exist and if He indeed created the world, the human mind should be able to fathom the deed and understand the purpose of creation. Ivan cannot and therefore rejects the world God created. If, he adds, this means that he must reject God, then that is another problem. Alyosha queries more closely, asking Ivan to be more specific as to why he cannot accept the world. Ivan answers by saying that he can love man at a distance but that he is unable to love his next-door neighbor. For him, \"Christ-like love for men is a miracle impossible on earth.\" That which makes it especially difficult to accept the world, as it is, is the vast suffering and brutality in the world. If God exists, says Ivan, how can this horror be accounted for? He singles out the suffering of children as prime evidence of the world's indifferent cruelty. Children have had no time to sin, but they suffer. Why? Certainly not because of sin, supposedly the cause of suffering. He then recites several horrible examples of atrocities inflicted upon children by other human beings. Because such injustice is allowed to happen, Ivan simply cannot accept the mythical \"harmony of God\" or accept a universe in which one who is tortured embraces his torturer. Such \"harmony,\" says Ivan, \"is not worth the tears of one tortured child.\" He concludes that if truth must be bought at the price of the suffering of children, then such truth is not worth the price. He tells Alyosha: \"It's not God that I don't accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return Him the ticket.\" Alyosha is horrified and tells Ivan that these thoughts constitute rebellion. Ivan offers Alyosha a further example: suppose, he says, one could create a perfect world for man but it could survive only by torturing to death \"one tiny creature.\" Would Alyosha be the architect of such a world? As an answer, Ivan is reminded that there is One who can forgive everything \"because He gave His innocent blood for all and everything.\" Ivan assures his brother that he has not forgotten \"the One without sin\" and recites a prose poem that he wrote several years ago. He calls his poem \"The Grand Inquisitor.\"", "analysis": "As Alyosha tells Lise of his encounter with the captain, we see that he, like Zossima, has a deeply penetrating mind and understands the inner workings of those whom he is trying to help. This understanding of human nature proves Alyosha much more than a simple person of simple faith. Zossima, remember, has commanded Alyosha to marry. Because of the elder, Alyosha has chosen Lise; no one, he believes, will make him a better wife. But for all of Zossima's influence, he is not a puppet-master. Alyosha is objective about the wisdom of his mentor's teachings, and although he knows that Zossima is dying, he feels that it is a higher duty to find Dmitri than to go to the elder's deathbed. Thus Alyosha matures into a man of worldly responsibility and makes other men much more than only of spiritual concern. In Chapter 3, Dostoevsky makes clear the earlier ambiguities of Ivan's character. Previously, the brother maintained a distance from Alyosha because he had been evaluating him to see if he is merely an empty-minded religious fanatic. Now, however, Ivan has learned to respect and admire Alyosha because \"you do stand firm and I like people who are firm like that, whatever it is that they stand by.\" Ivan is now ready to thoroughly discuss his beliefs with his brother. In addition, Ivan also feels that his impending departure makes it imperative to explain himself to Alyosha. But if he is concerned for Alyosha, he is certainly not concerned for Dmitri; he refuses to be either his brother's keeper or the \"keeper\" of Fyodor. He is quite adamant concerning this, and his vehemence is easily recalled when the idea of Fyodor's being vulnerable for murder is discussed. Preluding his views on religion, Ivan announces that he has a strong desire to live. He loves life even though he finds it illogical. Such an acknowledgement of a love of living is important because Ivan, with a philosophy seemingly nihilistic, might too easily be categorized as a suicidal cynic. Ivan is morally much stronger and is deeply committed to the business of living. Both brothers, Ivan and Alyosha, agree that \"for real Russians the questions of God's existence and of immortality . . . come first and foremost and so they should.\" In its largest context, this is the subject of the novel. These ideas are central not just to the characters but to an understanding of Dostoevsky's entire point of view. Ivan surprises Alyosha by announcing, \"perhaps I too accept God,\" reminding his brother of the saying, \"If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent Him.\" For Ivan, the astonishing factor of Christianity is that man is basically such a \"savage, vicious beast\" that it is illogical that he could conceive of an idea so noble and magnificent as \"God.\" Ivan is, of course, leading into his views about the baseness of most humans and the difficulty of believing man sufficiently noble to conceive of something so totally transcending his own vicious nature. Most of all, Ivan desires a world in which his human intellect can fully comprehend the logic and purpose of life. He uses the analogy of two parallel lines, which, according to Euclid, can never meet. Ivan's mind can comprehend this concept because he has a \"Euclidian earthly mind.\" But if someone tells him that two parallel lines might meet somewhere in infinity, and even if he sees it himself, he still cannot accept the theory. Therefore, even though he is willing to accept God, His Wisdom, and His purpose, he cannot accept \"this world of God's . . . it's the world created by Him that I don't and can't accept.\" To explain further why he does not accept the world, Ivan examines the brutality found in the world, saying that he cannot love his neighbor. It is easy to love man in the abstract sense, certainly, but when one looks into the face of a man, it is impossible to love him. For Christ, to love men was easy because He was God; but for ordinary men to love one's neighbor -- the idea is ridiculously impossible. Later, Ivan will elaborate upon this in his poem \"The Grand Inquisitor.\" Ivan uses the suffering of innocent children as his principal grounds for the world's unacceptability. The idea of the suffering innocent has plagued philosophers since time's beginning; it is the subject of such great works as the Book of Job. But Ivan does not concern himself with the sufferings of adults. For them, a philosophical justification is possible: the adult has sinned, and his suffering is a punishment for his sins. Children, however, have not yet sinned, and therefore Ivan cannot understand a world created by God that justifies their suffering. And regardless of whether one agrees or disagrees with Ivan, one must recognize the logic at work in this system of thinking. Life, for Ivan, must be rational -- it must especially be rational if one is to appreciate God's wonder and love Him as one should. So well has Ivan considered his philosophy that he is even amused by the term \"bestial cruelty,\" for this, he believes, is an insult to beasts. An animal kills only for food and kills rapidly, but man kills slowly, deliberately, and often only for the sadistic pleasure of watching his victim suffer. As Ivan speaks, he is quite aware that he is causing Alyosha to suffer; he knows well of Alyosha's fondness for children. But, although he is not his \"brother's keeper,\" he is far from heartless; for him, children are revered. He can find no logic that justifies their suffering. He asks Alyosha what would be the basis of an eternal harmony if a victim would \"rise up and embrace his murderer.\" If this higher harmony would, even in part, be based on such suffering, then Ivan must renounce it. Truth is not worth such a price. In reference to the story of the general who had his dogs kill a peasant boy, Ivan states, \"I don't want the mother to embrace the oppressor who threw her son to the dogs! She dare not forgive him! Let her forgive him for herself, if she will, let her forgive the torturer for the immeasurable suffering of her mother's heart. But the sufferings of her tortured child she has no right to forgive; she dare not forgive the torturer, even if the child were to forgive him!\" Ivan rejects such monstrous injustice; he would rather remain with his \"unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation.\" When Alyosha tells Ivan that his view is that of rebellion, Ivan presents Alyosha with the following hypothesis: \"Imagine you are creating a fabric of human destiny with the object of making men happy in the end, giving them peace and rest at last, but that it was essential and inevitable to torture to death only one tiny creature . . . to found that edifice on its unavenged tears, would you consent to be the architect on those conditions?\" This analogy of Ivan's offers the same view as that expressed throughout the chapter -- that a world created for men should not be founded on innocent suffering. As a humanist, Ivan cannot accept happiness or eternal harmony at the expense of any \"unexpiated blood.\" Alyosha reminds Ivan that he has forgotten the one Being Who \"gave His innocent blood for all.\" Because of Alyosha's objection, Ivan is provoked to narrate his prose poem, \"The Grand Inquisitor.\""}
text: Book V. Pro And Contra Chapter I. The Engagement
  
  
  Madame Hohlakov was again the first to meet Alyosha. She was flustered;
  something important had happened. Katerina Ivanovna's hysterics had ended
  in a fainting fit, and then "a terrible, awful weakness had followed, she
  lay with her eyes turned up and was delirious. Now she was in a fever.
  They had sent for Herzenstube; they had sent for the aunts. The aunts were
  already here, but Herzenstube had not yet come. They were all sitting in
  her room, waiting. She was unconscious now, and what if it turned to brain
  fever!"
  
  Madame Hohlakov looked gravely alarmed. "This is serious, serious," she
  added at every word, as though nothing that had happened to her before had
  been serious. Alyosha listened with distress, and was beginning to
  describe his adventures, but she interrupted him at the first words. She
  had not time to listen. She begged him to sit with Lise and wait for her
  there.
  
  "Lise," she whispered almost in his ear, "Lise has greatly surprised me
  just now, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch. She touched me, too, and so my heart
  forgives her everything. Only fancy, as soon as you had gone, she began to
  be truly remorseful for having laughed at you to-day and yesterday, though
  she was not laughing at you, but only joking. But she was seriously sorry
  for it, almost ready to cry, so that I was quite surprised. She has never
  been really sorry for laughing at me, but has only made a joke of it. And
  you know she is laughing at me every minute. But this time she was in
  earnest. She thinks a great deal of your opinion, Alexey Fyodorovitch, and
  don't take offense or be wounded by her if you can help it. I am never
  hard upon her, for she's such a clever little thing. Would you believe it?
  She said just now that you were a friend of her childhood, 'the greatest
  friend of her childhood'--just think of that--'greatest friend'--and what
  about me? She has very strong feelings and memories, and, what's more, she
  uses these phrases, most unexpected words, which come out all of a sudden
  when you least expect them. She spoke lately about a pine-tree, for
  instance: there used to be a pine-tree standing in our garden in her early
  childhood. Very likely it's standing there still; so there's no need to
  speak in the past tense. Pine-trees are not like people, Alexey
  Fyodorovitch, they don't change quickly. 'Mamma,' she said, 'I remember
  this pine-tree as in a dream,' only she said something so original about
  it that I can't repeat it. Besides, I've forgotten it. Well, good-by! I am
  so worried I feel I shall go out of my mind. Ah! Alexey Fyodorovitch, I've
  been out of my mind twice in my life. Go to Lise, cheer her up, as you
  always can so charmingly. Lise," she cried, going to her door, "here I've
  brought you Alexey Fyodorovitch, whom you insulted so. He is not at all
  angry, I assure you; on the contrary, he is surprised that you could
  suppose so."
  
  "_Merci, maman._ Come in, Alexey Fyodorovitch."
  
  Alyosha went in. Lise looked rather embarrassed, and at once flushed
  crimson. She was evidently ashamed of something, and, as people always do
  in such cases, she began immediately talking of other things, as though
  they were of absorbing interest to her at the moment.
  
  "Mamma has just told me all about the two hundred roubles, Alexey
  Fyodorovitch, and your taking them to that poor officer ... and she told
  me all the awful story of how he had been insulted ... and you know,
  although mamma muddles things ... she always rushes from one thing to
  another ... I cried when I heard. Well, did you give him the money and how
  is that poor man getting on?"
  
  "The fact is I didn't give it to him, and it's a long story," answered
  Alyosha, as though he, too, could think of nothing but his regret at
  having failed, yet Lise saw perfectly well that he, too, looked away, and
  that he, too, was trying to talk of other things.
  
  Alyosha sat down to the table and began to tell his story, but at the
  first words he lost his embarrassment and gained the whole of Lise's
  attention as well. He spoke with deep feeling, under the influence of the
  strong impression he had just received, and he succeeded in telling his
  story well and circumstantially. In old days in Moscow he had been fond of
  coming to Lise and describing to her what had just happened to him, what
  he had read, or what he remembered of his childhood. Sometimes they had
  made day-dreams and woven whole romances together--generally cheerful and
  amusing ones. Now they both felt suddenly transported to the old days in
  Moscow, two years before. Lise was extremely touched by his story. Alyosha
  described Ilusha with warm feeling. When he finished describing how the
  luckless man trampled on the money, Lise could not help clasping her hands
  and crying out:
  
  "So you didn't give him the money! So you let him run away! Oh, dear, you
  ought to have run after him!"
  
  "No, Lise; it's better I didn't run after him," said Alyosha, getting up
  from his chair and walking thoughtfully across the room.
  
  "How so? How is it better? Now they are without food and their case is
  hopeless?"
  
  "Not hopeless, for the two hundred roubles will still come to them. He'll
  take the money to-morrow. To-morrow he will be sure to take it," said
  Alyosha, pacing up and down, pondering. "You see, Lise," he went on,
  stopping suddenly before her, "I made one blunder, but that, even that, is
  all for the best."
  
  "What blunder, and why is it for the best?"
  
  "I'll tell you. He is a man of weak and timorous character; he has
  suffered so much and is very good-natured. I keep wondering why he took
  offense so suddenly, for I assure you, up to the last minute, he did not
  know that he was going to trample on the notes. And I think now that there
  was a great deal to offend him ... and it could not have been otherwise in
  his position.... To begin with, he was sore at having been so glad of the
  money in my presence and not having concealed it from me. If he had been
  pleased, but not so much; if he had not shown it; if he had begun
  affecting scruples and difficulties, as other people do when they take
  money, he might still endure to take it. But he was too genuinely
  delighted, and that was mortifying. Ah, Lise, he is a good and truthful
  man--that's the worst of the whole business. All the while he talked, his
  voice was so weak, so broken, he talked so fast, so fast, he kept laughing
  such a laugh, or perhaps he was crying--yes, I am sure he was crying, he
  was so delighted--and he talked about his daughters--and about the situation
  he could get in another town.... And when he had poured out his heart, he
  felt ashamed at having shown me his inmost soul like that. So he began to
  hate me at once. He is one of those awfully sensitive poor people. What
  had made him feel most ashamed was that he had given in too soon and
  accepted me as a friend, you see. At first he almost flew at me and tried
  to intimidate me, but as soon as he saw the money he had begun embracing
  me; he kept touching me with his hands. This must have been how he came to
  feel it all so humiliating, and then I made that blunder, a very important
  one. I suddenly said to him that if he had not money enough to move to
  another town, we would give it to him, and, indeed, I myself would give
  him as much as he wanted out of my own money. That struck him all at once.
  Why, he thought, did I put myself forward to help him? You know, Lise,
  it's awfully hard for a man who has been injured, when other people look
  at him as though they were his benefactors.... I've heard that; Father
  Zossima told me so. I don't know how to put it, but I have often seen it
  myself. And I feel like that myself, too. And the worst of it was that
  though he did not know, up to the very last minute, that he would trample
  on the notes, he had a kind of presentiment of it, I am sure of that.
  That's just what made him so ecstatic, that he had that presentiment....
  And though it's so dreadful, it's all for the best. In fact, I believe
  nothing better could have happened."
  
  "Why, why could nothing better have happened?" cried Lise, looking with
  great surprise at Alyosha.
  
  "Because if he had taken the money, in an hour after getting home, he
  would be crying with mortification, that's just what would have happened.
  And most likely he would have come to me early to-morrow, and perhaps have
  flung the notes at me and trampled upon them as he did just now. But now
  he has gone home awfully proud and triumphant, though he knows he has
  'ruined himself.' So now nothing could be easier than to make him accept
  the two hundred roubles by to-morrow, for he has already vindicated his
  honor, tossed away the money, and trampled it under foot.... He couldn't
  know when he did it that I should bring it to him again to-morrow, and yet
  he is in terrible need of that money. Though he is proud of himself now,
  yet even to-day he'll be thinking what a help he has lost. He will think
  of it more than ever at night, will dream of it, and by to-morrow morning
  he may be ready to run to me to ask forgiveness. It's just then that I'll
  appear. 'Here, you are a proud man,' I shall say: 'you have shown it; but
  now take the money and forgive us!' And then he will take it!"
  
  Alyosha was carried away with joy as he uttered his last words, "And then
  he will take it!" Lise clapped her hands.
  
  "Ah, that's true! I understand that perfectly now. Ah, Alyosha, how do you
  know all this? So young and yet he knows what's in the heart.... I should
  never have worked it out."
  
  "The great thing now is to persuade him that he is on an equal footing
  with us, in spite of his taking money from us," Alyosha went on in his
  excitement, "and not only on an equal, but even on a higher footing."
  
  " 'On a higher footing' is charming, Alexey Fyodorovitch; but go on, go
  on!"
  
  "You mean there isn't such an expression as 'on a higher footing'; but
  that doesn't matter because--"
  
  "Oh, no, of course it doesn't matter. Forgive me, Alyosha, dear.... You
  know, I scarcely respected you till now--that is I respected you but on an
  equal footing; but now I shall begin to respect you on a higher footing.
  Don't be angry, dear, at my joking," she put in at once, with strong
  feeling. "I am absurd and small, but you, you! Listen, Alexey
  Fyodorovitch. Isn't there in all our analysis--I mean your analysis ... no,
  better call it ours--aren't we showing contempt for him, for that poor
  man--in analyzing his soul like this, as it were, from above, eh? In
  deciding so certainly that he will take the money?"
  
  "No, Lise, it's not contempt," Alyosha answered, as though he had prepared
  himself for the question. "I was thinking of that on the way here. How can
  it be contempt when we are all like him, when we are all just the same as
  he is? For you know we are just the same, no better. If we are better, we
  should have been just the same in his place.... I don't know about you,
  Lise, but I consider that I have a sordid soul in many ways, and his soul
  is not sordid; on the contrary, full of fine feeling.... No, Lise, I have
  no contempt for him. Do you know, Lise, my elder told me once to care for
  most people exactly as one would for children, and for some of them as one
  would for the sick in hospitals."
  
  "Ah, Alexey Fyodorovitch, dear, let us care for people as we would for the
  sick!"
  
  "Let us, Lise; I am ready. Though I am not altogether ready in myself. I
  am sometimes very impatient and at other times I don't see things. It's
  different with you."
  
  "Ah, I don't believe it! Alexey Fyodorovitch, how happy I am!"
  
  "I am so glad you say so, Lise."
  
  "Alexey Fyodorovitch, you are wonderfully good, but you are sometimes sort
  of formal.... And yet you are not a bit formal really. Go to the door,
  open it gently, and see whether mamma is listening," said Lise, in a
  nervous, hurried whisper.
  
  Alyosha went, opened the door, and reported that no one was listening.
  
  "Come here, Alexey Fyodorovitch," Lise went on, flushing redder and
  redder. "Give me your hand--that's right. I have to make a great
  confession, I didn't write to you yesterday in joke, but in earnest," and
  she hid her eyes with her hand. It was evident that she was greatly
  ashamed of the confession.
  
  Suddenly she snatched his hand and impulsively kissed it three times.
  
  "Ah, Lise, what a good thing!" cried Alyosha joyfully. "You know, I was
  perfectly sure you were in earnest."
  
  "Sure? Upon my word!" She put aside his hand, but did not leave go of it,
  blushing hotly, and laughing a little happy laugh. "I kiss his hand and he
  says, 'What a good thing!' "
  
  But her reproach was undeserved. Alyosha, too, was greatly overcome.
  
  "I should like to please you always, Lise, but I don't know how to do it,"
  he muttered, blushing too.
  
  "Alyosha, dear, you are cold and rude. Do you see? He has chosen me as his
  wife and is quite settled about it. He is sure I was in earnest. What a
  thing to say! Why, that's impertinence--that's what it is."
  
  "Why, was it wrong of me to feel sure?" Alyosha asked, laughing suddenly.
  
  "Ah, Alyosha, on the contrary, it was delightfully right," cried Lise,
  looking tenderly and happily at him.
  
  Alyosha stood still, holding her hand in his. Suddenly he stooped down and
  kissed her on her lips.
  
  "Oh, what are you doing?" cried Lise. Alyosha was terribly abashed.
  
  "Oh, forgive me if I shouldn't.... Perhaps I'm awfully stupid.... You said
  I was cold, so I kissed you.... But I see it was stupid."
  
  Lise laughed, and hid her face in her hands. "And in that dress!" she
  ejaculated in the midst of her mirth. But she suddenly ceased laughing and
  became serious, almost stern.
  
  "Alyosha, we must put off kissing. We are not ready for that yet, and we
  shall have a long time to wait," she ended suddenly. "Tell me rather why
  you who are so clever, so intellectual, so observant, choose a little
  idiot, an invalid like me? Ah, Alyosha, I am awfully happy, for I don't
  deserve you a bit."
  
  "You do, Lise. I shall be leaving the monastery altogether in a few days.
  If I go into the world, I must marry. I know that. _He_ told me to marry,
  too. Whom could I marry better than you--and who would have me except you?
  I have been thinking it over. In the first place, you've known me from a
  child and you've a great many qualities I haven't. You are more light-
  hearted than I am; above all, you are more innocent than I am. I have been
  brought into contact with many, many things already.... Ah, you don't
  know, but I, too, am a Karamazov. What does it matter if you do laugh and
  make jokes, and at me, too? Go on laughing. I am so glad you do. You laugh
  like a little child, but you think like a martyr."
  
  "Like a martyr? How?"
  
  "Yes, Lise, your question just now: whether we weren't showing contempt
  for that poor man by dissecting his soul--that was the question of a
  sufferer.... You see, I don't know how to express it, but any one who
  thinks of such questions is capable of suffering. Sitting in your invalid
  chair you must have thought over many things already."
  
  "Alyosha, give me your hand. Why are you taking it away?" murmured Lise in
  a failing voice, weak with happiness. "Listen, Alyosha. What will you wear
  when you come out of the monastery? What sort of suit? Don't laugh, don't
  be angry, it's very, very important to me."
  
  "I haven't thought about the suit, Lise; but I'll wear whatever you like."
  
  "I should like you to have a dark blue velvet coat, a white pique
  waistcoat, and a soft gray felt hat.... Tell me, did you believe that I
  didn't care for you when I said I didn't mean what I wrote?"
  
  "No, I didn't believe it."
  
  "Oh, you insupportable person, you are incorrigible."
  
  "You see, I knew that you--seemed to care for me, but I pretended to
  believe that you didn't care for me to make it--easier for you."
  
  "That makes it worse! Worse and better than all! Alyosha, I am awfully
  fond of you. Just before you came this morning, I tried my fortune. I
  decided I would ask you for my letter, and if you brought it out calmly
  and gave it to me (as might have been expected from you) it would mean
  that you did not love me at all, that you felt nothing, and were simply a
  stupid boy, good for nothing, and that I am ruined. But you left the
  letter at home and that cheered me. You left it behind on purpose, so as
  not to give it back, because you knew I would ask for it? That was it,
  wasn't it?"
  
  "Ah, Lise, it was not so a bit. The letter is with me now, and it was this
  morning, in this pocket. Here it is."
  
  Alyosha pulled the letter out laughing, and showed it her at a distance.
  
  "But I am not going to give it to you. Look at it from here."
  
  "Why, then you told a lie? You, a monk, told a lie!"
  
  "I told a lie if you like," Alyosha laughed, too. "I told a lie so as not
  to give you back the letter. It's very precious to me," he added suddenly,
  with strong feeling, and again he flushed. "It always will be, and I won't
  give it up to any one!"
  
  Lise looked at him joyfully. "Alyosha," she murmured again, "look at the
  door. Isn't mamma listening?"
  
  "Very well, Lise, I'll look; but wouldn't it be better not to look? Why
  suspect your mother of such meanness?"
  
  "What meanness? As for her spying on her daughter, it's her right, it's
  not meanness!" cried Lise, firing up. "You may be sure, Alexey
  Fyodorovitch, that when I am a mother, if I have a daughter like myself I
  shall certainly spy on her!"
  
  "Really, Lise? That's not right."
  
  "Oh, my goodness! What has meanness to do with it? If she were listening
  to some ordinary worldly conversation, it would be meanness, but when her
  own daughter is shut up with a young man.... Listen, Alyosha, do you know
  I shall spy upon you as soon as we are married, and let me tell you I
  shall open all your letters and read them, so you may as well be
  prepared."
  
  "Yes, of course, if so--" muttered Alyosha, "only it's not right."
  
  "Ah, how contemptuous! Alyosha, dear, we won't quarrel the very first day.
  I'd better tell you the whole truth. Of course, it's very wrong to spy on
  people, and, of course, I am not right and you are, only I shall spy on
  you all the same."
  
  "Do, then; you won't find out anything," laughed Alyosha.
  
  "And, Alyosha, will you give in to me? We must decide that too."
  
  "I shall be delighted to, Lise, and certain to, only not in the most
  important things. Even if you don't agree with me, I shall do my duty in
  the most important things."
  
  "That's right; but let me tell you I am ready to give in to you not only
  in the most important matters, but in everything. And I am ready to vow to
  do so now--in everything, and for all my life!" cried Lise fervently, "and
  I'll do it gladly, gladly! What's more, I'll swear never to spy on you,
  never once, never to read one of your letters. For you are right and I am
  not. And though I shall be awfully tempted to spy, I know that I won't do
  it since you consider it dishonorable. You are my conscience now....
  Listen, Alexey Fyodorovitch, why have you been so sad lately--both
  yesterday and to-day? I know you have a lot of anxiety and trouble, but I
  see you have some special grief besides, some secret one, perhaps?"
  
  "Yes, Lise, I have a secret one, too," answered Alyosha mournfully. "I see
  you love me, since you guessed that."
  
  "What grief? What about? Can you tell me?" asked Lise with timid entreaty.
  
  "I'll tell you later, Lise--afterwards," said Alyosha, confused. "Now you
  wouldn't understand it perhaps--and perhaps I couldn't explain it."
  
  "I know your brothers and your father are worrying you, too."
  
  "Yes, my brothers too," murmured Alyosha, pondering.
  
  "I don't like your brother Ivan, Alyosha," said Lise suddenly.
  
  He noticed this remark with some surprise, but did not answer it.
  
  "My brothers are destroying themselves," he went on, "my father, too. And
  they are destroying others with them. It's 'the primitive force of the
  Karamazovs,' as Father Paissy said the other day, a crude, unbridled,
  earthly force. Does the spirit of God move above that force? Even that I
  don't know. I only know that I, too, am a Karamazov.... Me a monk, a monk!
  Am I a monk, Lise? You said just now that I was."
  
  "Yes, I did."
  
  "And perhaps I don't even believe in God."
  
  "You don't believe? What is the matter?" said Lise quietly and gently. But
  Alyosha did not answer. There was something too mysterious, too subjective
  in these last words of his, perhaps obscure to himself, but yet torturing
  him.
  
  "And now on the top of it all, my friend, the best man in the world, is
  going, is leaving the earth! If you knew, Lise, how bound up in soul I am
  with him! And then I shall be left alone.... I shall come to you, Lise....
  For the future we will be together."
  
  "Yes, together, together! Henceforward we shall be always together, all
  our lives! Listen, kiss me, I allow you."
  
  Alyosha kissed her.
  
  "Come, now go. Christ be with you!" and she made the sign of the cross
  over him. "Make haste back to _him_ while he is alive. I see I've kept you
  cruelly. I'll pray to-day for him and you. Alyosha, we shall be happy!
  Shall we be happy, shall we?"
  
  "I believe we shall, Lise."
  
  Alyosha thought it better not to go in to Madame Hohlakov and was going
  out of the house without saying good-by to her. But no sooner had he
  opened the door than he found Madame Hohlakov standing before him. From
  the first word Alyosha guessed that she had been waiting on purpose to
  meet him.
  
  "Alexey Fyodorovitch, this is awful. This is all childish nonsense and
  ridiculous. I trust you won't dream--It's foolishness, nothing but
  foolishness!" she said, attacking him at once.
  
  "Only don't tell her that," said Alyosha, "or she will be upset, and
  that's bad for her now."
  
  "Sensible advice from a sensible young man. Am I to understand that you
  only agreed with her from compassion for her invalid state, because you
  didn't want to irritate her by contradiction?"
  
  "Oh, no, not at all. I was quite serious in what I said," Alyosha declared
  stoutly.
  
  "To be serious about it is impossible, unthinkable, and in the first place
  I shall never be at home to you again, and I shall take her away, you may
  be sure of that."
  
  "But why?" asked Alyosha. "It's all so far off. We may have to wait
  another year and a half."
  
  "Ah, Alexey Fyodorovitch, that's true, of course, and you'll have time to
  quarrel and separate a thousand times in a year and a half. But I am so
  unhappy! Though it's such nonsense, it's a great blow to me. I feel like
  Famusov in the last scene of _Sorrow from Wit_. You are Tchatsky and she
  is Sofya, and, only fancy, I've run down to meet you on the stairs, and in
  the play the fatal scene takes place on the staircase. I heard it all; I
  almost dropped. So this is the explanation of her dreadful night and her
  hysterics of late! It means love to the daughter but death to the mother.
  I might as well be in my grave at once. And a more serious matter still,
  what is this letter she has written? Show it me at once, at once!"
  
  "No, there's no need. Tell me, how is Katerina Ivanovna now? I must know."
  
  "She still lies in delirium; she has not regained consciousness. Her aunts
  are here; but they do nothing but sigh and give themselves airs.
  Herzenstube came, and he was so alarmed that I didn't know what to do for
  him. I nearly sent for a doctor to look after him. He was driven home in
  my carriage. And on the top of it all, you and this letter! It's true
  nothing can happen for a year and a half. In the name of all that's holy,
  in the name of your dying elder, show me that letter, Alexey Fyodorovitch.
  I'm her mother. Hold it in your hand, if you like, and I will read it so."
  
  "No, I won't show it to you. Even if she sanctioned it, I wouldn't. I am
  coming to-morrow, and if you like, we can talk over many things, but now
  good-by!"
  
  And Alyosha ran downstairs and into the street.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter II. Smerdyakov With A Guitar
  
  
  He had no time to lose indeed. Even while he was saying good-by to Lise,
  the thought had struck him that he must attempt some stratagem to find his
  brother Dmitri, who was evidently keeping out of his way. It was getting
  late, nearly three o'clock. Alyosha's whole soul turned to the monastery,
  to his dying saint, but the necessity of seeing Dmitri outweighed
  everything. The conviction that a great inevitable catastrophe was about
  to happen grew stronger in Alyosha's mind with every hour. What that
  catastrophe was, and what he would say at that moment to his brother, he
  could perhaps not have said definitely. "Even if my benefactor must die
  without me, anyway I won't have to reproach myself all my life with the
  thought that I might have saved something and did not, but passed by and
  hastened home. If I do as I intend, I shall be following his great
  precept."
  
  His plan was to catch his brother Dmitri unawares, to climb over the
  fence, as he had the day before, get into the garden and sit in the
  summer-house. If Dmitri were not there, thought Alyosha, he would not
  announce himself to Foma or the women of the house, but would remain
  hidden in the summer-house, even if he had to wait there till evening. If,
  as before, Dmitri were lying in wait for Grushenka to come, he would be
  very likely to come to the summer-house. Alyosha did not, however, give
  much thought to the details of his plan, but resolved to act upon it, even
  if it meant not getting back to the monastery that day.
  
  Everything happened without hindrance, he climbed over the hurdle almost
  in the same spot as the day before, and stole into the summer-house
  unseen. He did not want to be noticed. The woman of the house and Foma
  too, if he were here, might be loyal to his brother and obey his
  instructions, and so refuse to let Alyosha come into the garden, or might
  warn Dmitri that he was being sought and inquired for.
  
  There was no one in the summer-house. Alyosha sat down and began to wait.
  He looked round the summer-house, which somehow struck him as a great deal
  more ancient than before. Though the day was just as fine as yesterday, it
  seemed a wretched little place this time. There was a circle on the table,
  left no doubt from the glass of brandy having been spilt the day before.
  Foolish and irrelevant ideas strayed about his mind, as they always do in
  a time of tedious waiting. He wondered, for instance, why he had sat down
  precisely in the same place as before, why not in the other seat. At last
  he felt very depressed--depressed by suspense and uncertainty. But he had
  not sat there more than a quarter of an hour, when he suddenly heard the
  thrum of a guitar somewhere quite close. People were sitting, or had only
  just sat down, somewhere in the bushes not more than twenty paces away.
  Alyosha suddenly recollected that on coming out of the summer-house the
  day before, he had caught a glimpse of an old green low garden-seat among
  the bushes on the left, by the fence. The people must be sitting on it
  now. Who were they?
  
  A man's voice suddenly began singing in a sugary falsetto, accompanying
  himself on the guitar:
  
  
      With invincible force
      I am bound to my dear.
      O Lord, have mercy
      On her and on me!
      On her and on me!
      On her and on me!
  
  
  The voice ceased. It was a lackey's tenor and a lackey's song. Another
  voice, a woman's, suddenly asked insinuatingly and bashfully, though with
  mincing affectation:
  
  "Why haven't you been to see us for so long, Pavel Fyodorovitch? Why do
  you always look down upon us?"
  
  "Not at all," answered a man's voice politely, but with emphatic dignity.
  It was clear that the man had the best of the position, and that the woman
  was making advances. "I believe the man must be Smerdyakov," thought
  Alyosha, "from his voice. And the lady must be the daughter of the house
  here, who has come from Moscow, the one who wears the dress with a tail
  and goes to Marfa for soup."
  
  "I am awfully fond of verses of all kinds, if they rhyme," the woman's
  voice continued. "Why don't you go on?"
  
  The man sang again:
  
  
      What do I care for royal wealth
      If but my dear one be in health?
      Lord have mercy
      On her and on me!
      On her and on me!
      On her and on me!
  
  
  "It was even better last time," observed the woman's voice. "You sang 'If
  my darling be in health'; it sounded more tender. I suppose you've
  forgotten to-day."
  
  "Poetry is rubbish!" said Smerdyakov curtly.
  
  "Oh, no! I am very fond of poetry."
  
  "So far as it's poetry, it's essential rubbish. Consider yourself, who
  ever talks in rhyme? And if we were all to talk in rhyme, even though it
  were decreed by government, we shouldn't say much, should we? Poetry is no
  good, Marya Kondratyevna."
  
  "How clever you are! How is it you've gone so deep into everything?" The
  woman's voice was more and more insinuating.
  
  "I could have done better than that. I could have known more than that, if
  it had not been for my destiny from my childhood up. I would have shot a
  man in a duel if he called me names because I am descended from a filthy
  beggar and have no father. And they used to throw it in my teeth in
  Moscow. It had reached them from here, thanks to Grigory Vassilyevitch.
  Grigory Vassilyevitch blames me for rebelling against my birth, but I
  would have sanctioned their killing me before I was born that I might not
  have come into the world at all. They used to say in the market, and your
  mamma too, with great lack of delicacy, set off telling me that her hair
  was like a mat on her head, and that she was short of five foot by a wee
  bit. Why talk of a wee bit while she might have said 'a little bit,' like
  every one else? She wanted to make it touching, a regular peasant's
  feeling. Can a Russian peasant be said to feel, in comparison with an
  educated man? He can't be said to have feeling at all, in his ignorance.
  From my childhood up when I hear 'a wee bit,' I am ready to burst with
  rage. I hate all Russia, Marya Kondratyevna."
  
  "If you'd been a cadet in the army, or a young hussar, you wouldn't have
  talked like that, but would have drawn your saber to defend all Russia."
  
  "I don't want to be a hussar, Marya Kondratyevna, and, what's more, I
  should like to abolish all soldiers."
  
  "And when an enemy comes, who is going to defend us?"
  
  "There's no need of defense. In 1812 there was a great invasion of Russia
  by Napoleon, first Emperor of the French, father of the present one, and
  it would have been a good thing if they had conquered us. A clever nation
  would have conquered a very stupid one and annexed it. We should have had
  quite different institutions."
  
  "Are they so much better in their own country than we are? I wouldn't
  change a dandy I know of for three young Englishmen," observed Marya
  Kondratyevna tenderly, doubtless accompanying her words with a most
  languishing glance.
  
  "That's as one prefers."
  
  "But you are just like a foreigner--just like a most gentlemanly foreigner.
  I tell you that, though it makes me bashful."
  
  "If you care to know, the folks there and ours here are just alike in
  their vice. They are swindlers, only there the scoundrel wears polished
  boots and here he grovels in filth and sees no harm in it. The Russian
  people want thrashing, as Fyodor Pavlovitch said very truly yesterday,
  though he is mad, and all his children."
  
  "You said yourself you had such a respect for Ivan Fyodorovitch."
  
  "But he said I was a stinking lackey. He thinks that I might be unruly. He
  is mistaken there. If I had a certain sum in my pocket, I would have left
  here long ago. Dmitri Fyodorovitch is lower than any lackey in his
  behavior, in his mind, and in his poverty. He doesn't know how to do
  anything, and yet he is respected by every one. I may be only a soup-
  maker, but with luck I could open a cafe restaurant in Petrovka, in
  Moscow, for my cookery is something special, and there's no one in Moscow,
  except the foreigners, whose cookery is anything special. Dmitri
  Fyodorovitch is a beggar, but if he were to challenge the son of the first
  count in the country, he'd fight him. Though in what way is he better than
  I am? For he is ever so much stupider than I am. Look at the money he has
  wasted without any need!"
  
  "It must be lovely, a duel," Marya Kondratyevna observed suddenly.
  
  "How so?"
  
  "It must be so dreadful and so brave, especially when young officers with
  pistols in their hands pop at one another for the sake of some lady. A
  perfect picture! Ah, if only girls were allowed to look on, I'd give
  anything to see one!"
  
  "It's all very well when you are firing at some one, but when he is firing
  straight in your mug, you must feel pretty silly. You'd be glad to run
  away, Marya Kondratyevna."
  
  "You don't mean you would run away?" But Smerdyakov did not deign to
  reply. After a moment's silence the guitar tinkled again, and he sang
  again in the same falsetto:
  
  
      Whatever you may say,
      I shall go far away.
      Life will be bright and gay
      In the city far away.
      I shall not grieve,
      I shall not grieve at all,
      I don't intend to grieve at all.
  
  
  Then something unexpected happened. Alyosha suddenly sneezed. They were
  silent. Alyosha got up and walked towards them. He found Smerdyakov
  dressed up and wearing polished boots, his hair pomaded, and perhaps
  curled. The guitar lay on the garden-seat. His companion was the daughter
  of the house, wearing a light-blue dress with a train two yards long. She
  was young and would not have been bad-looking, but that her face was so
  round and terribly freckled.
  
  "Will my brother Dmitri soon be back?" asked Alyosha with as much
  composure as he could.
  
  Smerdyakov got up slowly; Marya Kondratyevna rose too.
  
  "How am I to know about Dmitri Fyodorovitch? It's not as if I were his
  keeper," answered Smerdyakov quietly, distinctly, and superciliously.
  
  "But I simply asked whether you do know?" Alyosha explained.
  
  "I know nothing of his whereabouts and don't want to."
  
  "But my brother told me that you let him know all that goes on in the
  house, and promised to let him know when Agrafena Alexandrovna comes."
  
  Smerdyakov turned a deliberate, unmoved glance upon him.
  
  "And how did you get in this time, since the gate was bolted an hour ago?"
  he asked, looking at Alyosha.
  
  "I came in from the back-alley, over the fence, and went straight to the
  summer-house. I hope you'll forgive me," he added, addressing Marya
  Kondratyevna. "I was in a hurry to find my brother."
  
  "Ach, as though we could take it amiss in you!" drawled Marya
  Kondratyevna, flattered by Alyosha's apology. "For Dmitri Fyodorovitch
  often goes to the summer-house in that way. We don't know he is here and
  he is sitting in the summer-house."
  
  "I am very anxious to find him, or to learn from you where he is now.
  Believe me, it's on business of great importance to him."
  
  "He never tells us," lisped Marya Kondratyevna.
  
  "Though I used to come here as a friend," Smerdyakov began again, "Dmitri
  Fyodorovitch has pestered me in a merciless way even here by his incessant
  questions about the master. 'What news?' he'll ask. 'What's going on in
  there now? Who's coming and going?' and can't I tell him something more.
  Twice already he's threatened me with death."
  
  "With death?" Alyosha exclaimed in surprise.
  
  "Do you suppose he'd think much of that, with his temper, which you had a
  chance of observing yourself yesterday? He says if I let Agrafena
  Alexandrovna in and she passes the night there, I'll be the first to
  suffer for it. I am terribly afraid of him, and if I were not even more
  afraid of doing so, I ought to let the police know. God only knows what he
  might not do!"
  
  "His honor said to him the other day, 'I'll pound you in a mortar!' "
  added Marya Kondratyevna.
  
  "Oh, if it's pounding in a mortar, it may be only talk," observed Alyosha.
  "If I could meet him, I might speak to him about that too."
  
  "Well, the only thing I can tell you is this," said Smerdyakov, as though
  thinking better of it; "I am here as an old friend and neighbor, and it
  would be odd if I didn't come. On the other hand, Ivan Fyodorovitch sent
  me first thing this morning to your brother's lodging in Lake Street,
  without a letter, but with a message to Dmitri Fyodorovitch to go to dine
  with him at the restaurant here, in the market-place. I went, but didn't
  find Dmitri Fyodorovitch at home, though it was eight o'clock. 'He's been
  here, but he is quite gone,' those were the very words of his landlady.
  It's as though there was an understanding between them. Perhaps at this
  moment he is in the restaurant with Ivan Fyodorovitch, for Ivan
  Fyodorovitch has not been home to dinner and Fyodor Pavlovitch dined alone
  an hour ago, and is gone to lie down. But I beg you most particularly not
  to speak of me and of what I have told you, for he'd kill me for nothing
  at all."
  
  "Brother Ivan invited Dmitri to the restaurant to-day?" repeated Alyosha
  quickly.
  
  "That's so."
  
  "The Metropolis tavern in the market-place?"
  
  "The very same."
  
  "That's quite likely," cried Alyosha, much excited. "Thank you,
  Smerdyakov; that's important. I'll go there at once."
  
  "Don't betray me," Smerdyakov called after him.
  
  "Oh, no, I'll go to the tavern as though by chance. Don't be anxious."
  
  "But wait a minute, I'll open the gate to you," cried Marya Kondratyevna.
  
  "No; it's a short cut, I'll get over the fence again."
  
  What he had heard threw Alyosha into great agitation. He ran to the
  tavern. It was impossible for him to go into the tavern in his monastic
  dress, but he could inquire at the entrance for his brothers and call them
  down. But just as he reached the tavern, a window was flung open, and his
  brother Ivan called down to him from it.
  
  "Alyosha, can't you come up here to me? I shall be awfully grateful."
  
  "To be sure I can, only I don't quite know whether in this dress--"
  
  "But I am in a room apart. Come up the steps; I'll run down to meet you."
  
  A minute later Alyosha was sitting beside his brother. Ivan was alone
  dining.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter III. The Brothers Make Friends
  
  
  Ivan was not, however, in a separate room, but only in a place shut off by
  a screen, so that it was unseen by other people in the room. It was the
  first room from the entrance with a buffet along the wall. Waiters were
  continually darting to and fro in it. The only customer in the room was an
  old retired military man drinking tea in a corner. But there was the usual
  bustle going on in the other rooms of the tavern; there were shouts for
  the waiters, the sound of popping corks, the click of billiard balls, the
  drone of the organ. Alyosha knew that Ivan did not usually visit this
  tavern and disliked taverns in general. So he must have come here, he
  reflected, simply to meet Dmitri by arrangement. Yet Dmitri was not there.
  
  "Shall I order you fish, soup or anything. You don't live on tea alone, I
  suppose," cried Ivan, apparently delighted at having got hold of Alyosha.
  He had finished dinner and was drinking tea.
  
  "Let me have soup, and tea afterwards, I am hungry," said Alyosha gayly.
  
  "And cherry jam? They have it here. You remember how you used to love
  cherry jam when you were little?"
  
  "You remember that? Let me have jam too, I like it still."
  
  Ivan rang for the waiter and ordered soup, jam and tea.
  
  "I remember everything, Alyosha, I remember you till you were eleven, I
  was nearly fifteen. There's such a difference between fifteen and eleven
  that brothers are never companions at those ages. I don't know whether I
  was fond of you even. When I went away to Moscow for the first few years I
  never thought of you at all. Then, when you came to Moscow yourself, we
  only met once somewhere, I believe. And now I've been here more than three
  months, and so far we have scarcely said a word to each other. To-morrow I
  am going away, and I was just thinking as I sat here how I could see you
  to say good-by and just then you passed."
  
  "Were you very anxious to see me, then?"
  
  "Very. I want to get to know you once for all, and I want you to know me.
  And then to say good-by. I believe it's always best to get to know people
  just before leaving them. I've noticed how you've been looking at me these
  three months. There has been a continual look of expectation in your eyes,
  and I can't endure that. That's how it is I've kept away from you. But in
  the end I have learned to respect you. The little man stands firm, I
  thought. Though I am laughing, I am serious. You do stand firm, don't you?
  I like people who are firm like that whatever it is they stand by, even if
  they are such little fellows as you. Your expectant eyes ceased to annoy
  me, I grew fond of them in the end, those expectant eyes. You seem to love
  me for some reason, Alyosha?"
  
  "I do love you, Ivan. Dmitri says of you--Ivan is a tomb! I say of you,
  Ivan is a riddle. You are a riddle to me even now. But I understand
  something in you, and I did not understand it till this morning."
  
  "What's that?" laughed Ivan.
  
  "You won't be angry?" Alyosha laughed too.
  
  "Well?"
  
  "That you are just as young as other young men of three and twenty, that
  you are just a young and fresh and nice boy, green in fact! Now, have I
  insulted you dreadfully?"
  
  "On the contrary, I am struck by a coincidence," cried Ivan, warmly and
  good-humoredly. "Would you believe it that ever since that scene with her,
  I have thought of nothing else but my youthful greenness, and just as
  though you guessed that, you begin about it. Do you know I've been sitting
  here thinking to myself: that if I didn't believe in life, if I lost faith
  in the woman I love, lost faith in the order of things, were convinced in
  fact that everything is a disorderly, damnable, and perhaps devil-ridden
  chaos, if I were struck by every horror of man's disillusionment--still I
  should want to live and, having once tasted of the cup, I would not turn
  away from it till I had drained it! At thirty, though, I shall be sure to
  leave the cup, even if I've not emptied it, and turn away--where I don't
  know. But till I am thirty, I know that my youth will triumph over
  everything--every disillusionment, every disgust with life. I've asked
  myself many times whether there is in the world any despair that would
  overcome this frantic and perhaps unseemly thirst for life in me, and I've
  come to the conclusion that there isn't, that is till I am thirty, and
  then I shall lose it of myself, I fancy. Some driveling consumptive
  moralists--and poets especially--often call that thirst for life base. It's
  a feature of the Karamazovs, it's true, that thirst for life regardless of
  everything; you have it no doubt too, but why is it base? The centripetal
  force on our planet is still fearfully strong, Alyosha. I have a longing
  for life, and I go on living in spite of logic. Though I may not believe
  in the order of the universe, yet I love the sticky little leaves as they
  open in spring. I love the blue sky, I love some people, whom one loves
  you know sometimes without knowing why. I love some great deeds done by
  men, though I've long ceased perhaps to have faith in them, yet from old
  habit one's heart prizes them. Here they have brought the soup for you,
  eat it, it will do you good. It's first-rate soup, they know how to make
  it here. I want to travel in Europe, Alyosha, I shall set off from here.
  And yet I know that I am only going to a graveyard, but it's a most
  precious graveyard, that's what it is! Precious are the dead that lie
  there, every stone over them speaks of such burning life in the past, of
  such passionate faith in their work, their truth, their struggle and their
  science, that I know I shall fall on the ground and kiss those stones and
  weep over them; though I'm convinced in my heart that it's long been
  nothing but a graveyard. And I shall not weep from despair, but simply
  because I shall be happy in my tears, I shall steep my soul in my emotion.
  I love the sticky leaves in spring, the blue sky--that's all it is. It's
  not a matter of intellect or logic, it's loving with one's inside, with
  one's stomach. One loves the first strength of one's youth. Do you
  understand anything of my tirade, Alyosha?" Ivan laughed suddenly.
  
  "I understand too well, Ivan. One longs to love with one's inside, with
  one's stomach. You said that so well and I am awfully glad that you have
  such a longing for life," cried Alyosha. "I think every one should love
  life above everything in the world."
  
  "Love life more than the meaning of it?"
  
  "Certainly, love it, regardless of logic as you say, it must be regardless
  of logic, and it's only then one will understand the meaning of it. I have
  thought so a long time. Half your work is done, Ivan, you love life, now
  you've only to try to do the second half and you are saved."
  
  "You are trying to save me, but perhaps I am not lost! And what does your
  second half mean?"
  
  "Why, one has to raise up your dead, who perhaps have not died after all.
  Come, let me have tea. I am so glad of our talk, Ivan."
  
  "I see you are feeling inspired. I am awfully fond of such _professions de
  foi_ from such--novices. You are a steadfast person, Alexey. Is it true
  that you mean to leave the monastery?"
  
  "Yes, my elder sends me out into the world."
  
  "We shall see each other then in the world. We shall meet before I am
  thirty, when I shall begin to turn aside from the cup. Father doesn't want
  to turn aside from his cup till he is seventy, he dreams of hanging on to
  eighty in fact, so he says. He means it only too seriously, though he is a
  buffoon. He stands on a firm rock, too, he stands on his sensuality--though
  after we are thirty, indeed, there may be nothing else to stand on.... But
  to hang on to seventy is nasty, better only to thirty; one might retain 'a
  shadow of nobility' by deceiving oneself. Have you seen Dmitri to-day?"
  
  "No, but I saw Smerdyakov," and Alyosha rapidly, though minutely,
  described his meeting with Smerdyakov. Ivan began listening anxiously and
  questioned him.
  
  "But he begged me not to tell Dmitri that he had told me about him," added
  Alyosha. Ivan frowned and pondered.
  
  "Are you frowning on Smerdyakov's account?" asked Alyosha.
  
  "Yes, on his account. Damn him, I certainly did want to see Dmitri, but
  now there's no need," said Ivan reluctantly.
  
  "But are you really going so soon, brother?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "What of Dmitri and father? how will it end?" asked Alyosha anxiously.
  
  "You are always harping upon it! What have I to do with it? Am I my
  brother Dmitri's keeper?" Ivan snapped irritably, but then he suddenly
  smiled bitterly. "Cain's answer about his murdered brother, wasn't it?
  Perhaps that's what you're thinking at this moment? Well, damn it all, I
  can't stay here to be their keeper, can I? I've finished what I had to do,
  and I am going. Do you imagine I am jealous of Dmitri, that I've been
  trying to steal his beautiful Katerina Ivanovna for the last three months?
  Nonsense, I had business of my own. I finished it. I am going. I finished
  it just now, you were witness."
  
  "At Katerina Ivanovna's?"
  
  "Yes, and I've released myself once for all. And after all, what have I to
  do with Dmitri? Dmitri doesn't come in. I had my own business to settle
  with Katerina Ivanovna. You know, on the contrary, that Dmitri behaved as
  though there was an understanding between us. I didn't ask him to do it,
  but he solemnly handed her over to me and gave us his blessing. It's all
  too funny. Ah, Alyosha, if you only knew how light my heart is now! Would
  you believe, it, I sat here eating my dinner and was nearly ordering
  champagne to celebrate my first hour of freedom. Tfoo! It's been going on
  nearly six months, and all at once I've thrown it off. I could never have
  guessed even yesterday, how easy it would be to put an end to it if I
  wanted."
  
  "You are speaking of your love, Ivan?"
  
  "Of my love, if you like. I fell in love with the young lady, I worried
  myself over her and she worried me. I sat watching over her ... and all at
  once it's collapsed! I spoke this morning with inspiration, but I went
  away and roared with laughter. Would you believe it? Yes, it's the literal
  truth."
  
  "You seem very merry about it now," observed Alyosha, looking into his
  face, which had suddenly grown brighter.
  
  "But how could I tell that I didn't care for her a bit! Ha ha! It appears
  after all I didn't. And yet how she attracted me! How attractive she was
  just now when I made my speech! And do you know she attracts me awfully
  even now, yet how easy it is to leave her. Do you think I am boasting?"
  
  "No, only perhaps it wasn't love."
  
  "Alyosha," laughed Ivan, "don't make reflections about love, it's unseemly
  for you. How you rushed into the discussion this morning! I've forgotten
  to kiss you for it.... But how she tormented me! It certainly was sitting
  by a 'laceration.' Ah, she knew how I loved her! She loved me and not
  Dmitri," Ivan insisted gayly. "Her feeling for Dmitri was simply a self-
  laceration. All I told her just now was perfectly true, but the worst of
  it is, it may take her fifteen or twenty years to find out that she
  doesn't care for Dmitri, and loves me whom she torments, and perhaps she
  may never find it out at all, in spite of her lesson to-day. Well, it's
  better so; I can simply go away for good. By the way, how is she now? What
  happened after I departed?"
  
  Alyosha told him she had been hysterical, and that she was now, he heard,
  unconscious and delirious.
  
  "Isn't Madame Hohlakov laying it on?"
  
  "I think not."
  
  "I must find out. Nobody dies of hysterics, though. They don't matter. God
  gave woman hysterics as a relief. I won't go to her at all. Why push
  myself forward again?"
  
  "But you told her that she had never cared for you."
  
  "I did that on purpose. Alyosha, shall I call for some champagne? Let us
  drink to my freedom. Ah, if only you knew how glad I am!"
  
  "No, brother, we had better not drink," said Alyosha suddenly. "Besides I
  feel somehow depressed."
  
  "Yes, you've been depressed a long time, I've noticed it."
  
  "Have you settled to go to-morrow morning, then?"
  
  "Morning? I didn't say I should go in the morning.... But perhaps it may
  be the morning. Would you believe it, I dined here to-day only to avoid
  dining with the old man, I loathe him so. I should have left long ago, so
  far as he is concerned. But why are you so worried about my going away?
  We've plenty of time before I go, an eternity!"
  
  "If you are going away to-morrow, what do you mean by an eternity?"
  
  "But what does it matter to us?" laughed Ivan. "We've time enough for our
  talk, for what brought us here. Why do you look so surprised? Answer: why
  have we met here? To talk of my love for Katerina Ivanovna, of the old man
  and Dmitri? of foreign travel? of the fatal position of Russia? Of the
  Emperor Napoleon? Is that it?"
  
  "No."
  
  "Then you know what for. It's different for other people; but we in our
  green youth have to settle the eternal questions first of all. That's what
  we care about. Young Russia is talking about nothing but the eternal
  questions now. Just when the old folks are all taken up with practical
  questions. Why have you been looking at me in expectation for the last
  three months? To ask me, 'What do you believe, or don't you believe at
  all?' That's what your eyes have been meaning for these three months,
  haven't they?"
  
  "Perhaps so," smiled Alyosha. "You are not laughing at me, now, Ivan?"
  
  "Me laughing! I don't want to wound my little brother who has been
  watching me with such expectation for three months. Alyosha, look straight
  at me! Of course I am just such a little boy as you are, only not a
  novice. And what have Russian boys been doing up till now, some of them, I
  mean? In this stinking tavern, for instance, here, they meet and sit down
  in a corner. They've never met in their lives before and, when they go out
  of the tavern, they won't meet again for forty years. And what do they
  talk about in that momentary halt in the tavern? Of the eternal questions,
  of the existence of God and immortality. And those who do not believe in
  God talk of socialism or anarchism, of the transformation of all humanity
  on a new pattern, so that it all comes to the same, they're the same
  questions turned inside out. And masses, masses of the most original
  Russian boys do nothing but talk of the eternal questions! Isn't it so?"
  
  "Yes, for real Russians the questions of God's existence and of
  immortality, or, as you say, the same questions turned inside out, come
  first and foremost, of course, and so they should," said Alyosha, still
  watching his brother with the same gentle and inquiring smile.
  
  "Well, Alyosha, it's sometimes very unwise to be a Russian at all, but
  anything stupider than the way Russian boys spend their time one can
  hardly imagine. But there's one Russian boy called Alyosha I am awfully
  fond of."
  
  "How nicely you put that in!" Alyosha laughed suddenly.
  
  "Well, tell me where to begin, give your orders. The existence of God,
  eh?"
  
  "Begin where you like. You declared yesterday at father's that there was
  no God." Alyosha looked searchingly at his brother.
  
  "I said that yesterday at dinner on purpose to tease you and I saw your
  eyes glow. But now I've no objection to discussing with you, and I say so
  very seriously. I want to be friends with you, Alyosha, for I have no
  friends and want to try it. Well, only fancy, perhaps I too accept God,"
  laughed Ivan; "that's a surprise for you, isn't it?"
  
  "Yes, of course, if you are not joking now."
  
  "Joking? I was told at the elder's yesterday that I was joking. You know,
  dear boy, there was an old sinner in the eighteenth century who declared
  that, if there were no God, he would have to be invented. _S'il n'existait
  pas Dieu, il faudrait l'inventer._ And man has actually invented God. And
  what's strange, what would be marvelous, is not that God should really
  exist; the marvel is that such an idea, the idea of the necessity of God,
  could enter the head of such a savage, vicious beast as man. So holy it
  is, so touching, so wise and so great a credit it does to man. As for me,
  I've long resolved not to think whether man created God or God man. And I
  won't go through all the axioms laid down by Russian boys on that subject,
  all derived from European hypotheses; for what's a hypothesis there, is an
  axiom with the Russian boy, and not only with the boys but with their
  teachers too, for our Russian professors are often just the same boys
  themselves. And so I omit all the hypotheses. For what are we aiming at
  now? I am trying to explain as quickly as possible my essential nature,
  that is what manner of man I am, what I believe in, and for what I hope,
  that's it, isn't it? And therefore I tell you that I accept God simply.
  But you must note this: if God exists and if He really did create the
  world, then, as we all know, He created it according to the geometry of
  Euclid and the human mind with the conception of only three dimensions in
  space. Yet there have been and still are geometricians and philosophers,
  and even some of the most distinguished, who doubt whether the whole
  universe, or to speak more widely the whole of being, was only created in
  Euclid's geometry; they even dare to dream that two parallel lines, which
  according to Euclid can never meet on earth, may meet somewhere in
  infinity. I have come to the conclusion that, since I can't understand
  even that, I can't expect to understand about God. I acknowledge humbly
  that I have no faculty for settling such questions, I have a Euclidian
  earthly mind, and how could I solve problems that are not of this world?
  And I advise you never to think about it either, my dear Alyosha,
  especially about God, whether He exists or not. All such questions are
  utterly inappropriate for a mind created with an idea of only three
  dimensions. And so I accept God and am glad to, and what's more, I accept
  His wisdom, His purpose--which are utterly beyond our ken; I believe in the
  underlying order and the meaning of life; I believe in the eternal harmony
  in which they say we shall one day be blended. I believe in the Word to
  Which the universe is striving, and Which Itself was 'with God,' and Which
  Itself is God and so on, and so on, to infinity. There are all sorts of
  phrases for it. I seem to be on the right path, don't I? Yet would you
  believe it, in the final result I don't accept this world of God's, and,
  although I know it exists, I don't accept it at all. It's not that I don't
  accept God, you must understand, it's the world created by Him I don't and
  cannot accept. Let me make it plain. I believe like a child that suffering
  will be healed and made up for, that all the humiliating absurdity of
  human contradictions will vanish like a pitiful mirage, like the
  despicable fabrication of the impotent and infinitely small Euclidian mind
  of man, that in the world's finale, at the moment of eternal harmony,
  something so precious will come to pass that it will suffice for all
  hearts, for the comforting of all resentments, for the atonement of all
  the crimes of humanity, of all the blood they've shed; that it will make
  it not only possible to forgive but to justify all that has happened with
  men--but though all that may come to pass, I don't accept it. I won't
  accept it. Even if parallel lines do meet and I see it myself, I shall see
  it and say that they've met, but still I won't accept it. That's what's at
  the root of me, Alyosha; that's my creed. I am in earnest in what I say. I
  began our talk as stupidly as I could on purpose, but I've led up to my
  confession, for that's all you want. You didn't want to hear about God,
  but only to know what the brother you love lives by. And so I've told
  you."
  
  Ivan concluded his long tirade with marked and unexpected feeling.
  
  "And why did you begin 'as stupidly as you could'?" asked Alyosha, looking
  dreamily at him.
  
  "To begin with, for the sake of being Russian. Russian conversations on
  such subjects are always carried on inconceivably stupidly. And secondly,
  the stupider one is, the closer one is to reality. The stupider one is,
  the clearer one is. Stupidity is brief and artless, while intelligence
  wriggles and hides itself. Intelligence is a knave, but stupidity is
  honest and straightforward. I've led the conversation to my despair, and
  the more stupidly I have presented it, the better for me."
  
  "You will explain why you don't accept the world?" said Alyosha.
  
  "To be sure I will, it's not a secret, that's what I've been leading up
  to. Dear little brother, I don't want to corrupt you or to turn you from
  your stronghold, perhaps I want to be healed by you." Ivan smiled suddenly
  quite like a little gentle child. Alyosha had never seen such a smile on
  his face before.
  
  
  
  
  Chapter IV. Rebellion
  
  
  "I must make you one confession," Ivan began. "I could never understand
  how one can love one's neighbors. It's just one's neighbors, to my mind,
  that one can't love, though one might love those at a distance. I once
  read somewhere of John the Merciful, a saint, that when a hungry, frozen
  beggar came to him, he took him into his bed, held him in his arms, and
  began breathing into his mouth, which was putrid and loathsome from some
  awful disease. I am convinced that he did that from 'self-laceration,'
  from the self-laceration of falsity, for the sake of the charity imposed
  by duty, as a penance laid on him. For any one to love a man, he must be
  hidden, for as soon as he shows his face, love is gone."
  
  "Father Zossima has talked of that more than once," observed Alyosha; "he,
  too, said that the face of a man often hinders many people not practiced
  in love, from loving him. But yet there's a great deal of love in mankind,
  and almost Christ-like love. I know that myself, Ivan."
  
  "Well, I know nothing of it so far, and can't understand it, and the
  innumerable mass of mankind are with me there. The question is, whether
  that's due to men's bad qualities or whether it's inherent in their
  nature. To my thinking, Christ-like love for men is a miracle impossible
  on earth. He was God. But we are not gods. Suppose I, for instance, suffer
  intensely. Another can never know how much I suffer, because he is another
  and not I. And what's more, a man is rarely ready to admit another's
  suffering (as though it were a distinction). Why won't he admit it, do you
  think? Because I smell unpleasant, because I have a stupid face, because I
  once trod on his foot. Besides, there is suffering and suffering;
  degrading, humiliating suffering such as humbles me--hunger, for
  instance--my benefactor will perhaps allow me; but when you come to higher
  suffering--for an idea, for instance--he will very rarely admit that,
  perhaps because my face strikes him as not at all what he fancies a man
  should have who suffers for an idea. And so he deprives me instantly of
  his favor, and not at all from badness of heart. Beggars, especially
  genteel beggars, ought never to show themselves, but to ask for charity
  through the newspapers. One can love one's neighbors in the abstract, or
  even at a distance, but at close quarters it's almost impossible. If it
  were as on the stage, in the ballet, where if beggars come in, they wear
  silken rags and tattered lace and beg for alms dancing gracefully, then
  one might like looking at them. But even then we should not love them. But
  enough of that. I simply wanted to show you my point of view. I meant to
  speak of the suffering of mankind generally, but we had better confine
  ourselves to the sufferings of the children. That reduces the scope of my
  argument to a tenth of what it would be. Still we'd better keep to the
  children, though it does weaken my case. But, in the first place, children
  can be loved even at close quarters, even when they are dirty, even when
  they are ugly (I fancy, though, children never are ugly). The second
  reason why I won't speak of grown-up people is that, besides being
  disgusting and unworthy of love, they have a compensation--they've eaten
  the apple and know good and evil, and they have become 'like gods.' They
  go on eating it still. But the children haven't eaten anything, and are so
  far innocent. Are you fond of children, Alyosha? I know you are, and you
  will understand why I prefer to speak of them. If they, too, suffer
  horribly on earth, they must suffer for their fathers' sins, they must be
  punished for their fathers, who have eaten the apple; but that reasoning
  is of the other world and is incomprehensible for the heart of man here on
  earth. The innocent must not suffer for another's sins, and especially
  such innocents! You may be surprised at me, Alyosha, but I am awfully fond
  of children, too. And observe, cruel people, the violent, the rapacious,
  the Karamazovs are sometimes very fond of children. Children while they
  are quite little--up to seven, for instance--are so remote from grown-up
  people; they are different creatures, as it were, of a different species.
  I knew a criminal in prison who had, in the course of his career as a
  burglar, murdered whole families, including several children. But when he
  was in prison, he had a strange affection for them. He spent all his time
  at his window, watching the children playing in the prison yard. He
  trained one little boy to come up to his window and made great friends
  with him.... You don't know why I am telling you all this, Alyosha? My
  head aches and I am sad."
  
  "You speak with a strange air," observed Alyosha uneasily, "as though you
  were not quite yourself."
  
  "By the way, a Bulgarian I met lately in Moscow," Ivan went on, seeming
  not to hear his brother's words, "told me about the crimes committed by
  Turks and Circassians in all parts of Bulgaria through fear of a general
  rising of the Slavs. They burn villages, murder, outrage women and
  children, they nail their prisoners by the ears to the fences, leave them
  so till morning, and in the morning they hang them--all sorts of things you
  can't imagine. People talk sometimes of bestial cruelty, but that's a
  great injustice and insult to the beasts; a beast can never be so cruel as
  a man, so artistically cruel. The tiger only tears and gnaws, that's all
  he can do. He would never think of nailing people by the ears, even if he
  were able to do it. These Turks took a pleasure in torturing children,
  too; cutting the unborn child from the mother's womb, and tossing babies
  up in the air and catching them on the points of their bayonets before
  their mothers' eyes. Doing it before the mothers' eyes was what gave zest
  to the amusement. Here is another scene that I thought very interesting.
  Imagine a trembling mother with her baby in her arms, a circle of invading
  Turks around her. They've planned a diversion: they pet the baby, laugh to
  make it laugh. They succeed, the baby laughs. At that moment a Turk points
  a pistol four inches from the baby's face. The baby laughs with glee,
  holds out its little hands to the pistol, and he pulls the trigger in the
  baby's face and blows out its brains. Artistic, wasn't it? By the way,
  Turks are particularly fond of sweet things, they say."
  
  "Brother, what are you driving at?" asked Alyosha.
  
  "I think if the devil doesn't exist, but man has created him, he has
  created him in his own image and likeness."
  
  "Just as he did God, then?" observed Alyosha.
  
  " 'It's wonderful how you can turn words,' as Polonius says in _Hamlet_,"
  laughed Ivan. "You turn my words against me. Well, I am glad. Yours must
  be a fine God, if man created Him in his image and likeness. You asked
  just now what I was driving at. You see, I am fond of collecting certain
  facts, and, would you believe, I even copy anecdotes of a certain sort
  from newspapers and books, and I've already got a fine collection. The
  Turks, of course, have gone into it, but they are foreigners. I have
  specimens from home that are even better than the Turks. You know we
  prefer beating--rods and scourges--that's our national institution. Nailing
  ears is unthinkable for us, for we are, after all, Europeans. But the rod
  and the scourge we have always with us and they cannot be taken from us.
  Abroad now they scarcely do any beating. Manners are more humane, or laws
  have been passed, so that they don't dare to flog men now. But they make
  up for it in another way just as national as ours. And so national that it
  would be practically impossible among us, though I believe we are being
  inoculated with it, since the religious movement began in our aristocracy.
  I have a charming pamphlet, translated from the French, describing how,
  quite recently, five years ago, a murderer, Richard, was executed--a young
  man, I believe, of three and twenty, who repented and was converted to the
  Christian faith at the very scaffold. This Richard was an illegitimate
  child who was given as a child of six by his parents to some shepherds on
  the Swiss mountains. They brought him up to work for them. He grew up like
  a little wild beast among them. The shepherds taught him nothing, and
  scarcely fed or clothed him, but sent him out at seven to herd the flock
  in cold and wet, and no one hesitated or scrupled to treat him so. Quite
  the contrary, they thought they had every right, for Richard had been
  given to them as a chattel, and they did not even see the necessity of
  feeding him. Richard himself describes how in those years, like the
  Prodigal Son in the Gospel, he longed to eat of the mash given to the
  pigs, which were fattened for sale. But they wouldn't even give him that,
  and beat him when he stole from the pigs. And that was how he spent all
  his childhood and his youth, till he grew up and was strong enough to go
  away and be a thief. The savage began to earn his living as a day laborer
  in Geneva. He drank what he earned, he lived like a brute, and finished by
  killing and robbing an old man. He was caught, tried, and condemned to
  death. They are not sentimentalists there. And in prison he was
  immediately surrounded by pastors, members of Christian brotherhoods,
  philanthropic ladies, and the like. They taught him to read and write in
  prison, and expounded the Gospel to him. They exhorted him, worked upon
  him, drummed at him incessantly, till at last he solemnly confessed his
  crime. He was converted. He wrote to the court himself that he was a
  monster, but that in the end God had vouchsafed him light and shown grace.
  All Geneva was in excitement about him--all philanthropic and religious
  Geneva. All the aristocratic and well-bred society of the town rushed to
  the prison, kissed Richard and embraced him; 'You are our brother, you
  have found grace.' And Richard does nothing but weep with emotion, 'Yes,
  I've found grace! All my youth and childhood I was glad of pigs' food, but
  now even I have found grace. I am dying in the Lord.' 'Yes, Richard, die
  in the Lord; you have shed blood and must die. Though it's not your fault
  that you knew not the Lord, when you coveted the pigs' food and were
  beaten for stealing it (which was very wrong of you, for stealing is
  forbidden); but you've shed blood and you must die.' And on the last day,
  Richard, perfectly limp, did nothing but cry and repeat every minute:
  'This is my happiest day. I am going to the Lord.' 'Yes,' cry the pastors
  and the judges and philanthropic ladies. 'This is the happiest day of your
  life, for you are going to the Lord!' They all walk or drive to the
  scaffold in procession behind the prison van. At the scaffold they call to
  Richard: 'Die, brother, die in the Lord, for even thou hast found grace!'
  And so, covered with his brothers' kisses, Richard is dragged on to the
  scaffold, and led to the guillotine. And they chopped off his head in
  brotherly fashion, because he had found grace. Yes, that's characteristic.
  That pamphlet is translated into Russian by some Russian philanthropists
  of aristocratic rank and evangelical aspirations, and has been distributed
  gratis for the enlightenment of the people. The case of Richard is
  interesting because it's national. Though to us it's absurd to cut off a
  man's head, because he has become our brother and has found grace, yet we
  have our own speciality, which is all but worse. Our historical pastime is
  the direct satisfaction of inflicting pain. There are lines in Nekrassov
  describing how a peasant lashes a horse on the eyes, 'on its meek eyes,'
  every one must have seen it. It's peculiarly Russian. He describes how a
  feeble little nag has foundered under too heavy a load and cannot move.
  The peasant beats it, beats it savagely, beats it at last not knowing what
  he is doing in the intoxication of cruelty, thrashes it mercilessly over
  and over again. 'However weak you are, you must pull, if you die for it.'
  The nag strains, and then he begins lashing the poor defenseless creature
  on its weeping, on its 'meek eyes.' The frantic beast tugs and draws the
  load, trembling all over, gasping for breath, moving sideways, with a sort
  of unnatural spasmodic action--it's awful in Nekrassov. But that's only a
  horse, and God has given horses to be beaten. So the Tatars have taught
  us, and they left us the knout as a remembrance of it. But men, too, can
  be beaten. A well-educated, cultured gentleman and his wife beat their own
  child with a birch-rod, a girl of seven. I have an exact account of it.
  The papa was glad that the birch was covered with twigs. 'It stings more,'
  said he, and so he began stinging his daughter. I know for a fact there
  are people who at every blow are worked up to sensuality, to literal
  sensuality, which increases progressively at every blow they inflict. They
  beat for a minute, for five minutes, for ten minutes, more often and more
  savagely. The child screams. At last the child cannot scream, it gasps,
  'Daddy! daddy!' By some diabolical unseemly chance the case was brought
  into court. A counsel is engaged. The Russian people have long called a
  barrister 'a conscience for hire.' The counsel protests in his client's
  defense. 'It's such a simple thing,' he says, 'an everyday domestic event.
  A father corrects his child. To our shame be it said, it is brought into
  court.' The jury, convinced by him, give a favorable verdict. The public
  roars with delight that the torturer is acquitted. Ah, pity I wasn't
  there! I would have proposed to raise a subscription in his honor!
  Charming pictures.
  
  "But I've still better things about children. I've collected a great,
  great deal about Russian children, Alyosha. There was a little girl of
  five who was hated by her father and mother, 'most worthy and respectable
  people, of good education and breeding.' You see, I must repeat again, it
  is a peculiar characteristic of many people, this love of torturing
  children, and children only. To all other types of humanity these
  torturers behave mildly and benevolently, like cultivated and humane
  Europeans; but they are very fond of tormenting children, even fond of
  children themselves in that sense. It's just their defenselessness that
  tempts the tormentor, just the angelic confidence of the child who has no
  refuge and no appeal, that sets his vile blood on fire. In every man, of
  course, a demon lies hidden--the demon of rage, the demon of lustful heat
  at the screams of the tortured victim, the demon of lawlessness let off
  the chain, the demon of diseases that follow on vice, gout, kidney
  disease, and so on.
  
  "This poor child of five was subjected to every possible torture by those
  cultivated parents. They beat her, thrashed her, kicked her for no reason
  till her body was one bruise. Then, they went to greater refinements of
  cruelty--shut her up all night in the cold and frost in a privy, and
  because she didn't ask to be taken up at night (as though a child of five
  sleeping its angelic, sound sleep could be trained to wake and ask), they
  smeared her face and filled her mouth with excrement, and it was her
  mother, her mother did this. And that mother could sleep, hearing the poor
  child's groans! Can you understand why a little creature, who can't even
  understand what's done to her, should beat her little aching heart with
  her tiny fist in the dark and the cold, and weep her meek unresentful
  tears to dear, kind God to protect her? Do you understand that, friend and
  brother, you pious and humble novice? Do you understand why this infamy
  must be and is permitted? Without it, I am told, man could not have
  existed on earth, for he could not have known good and evil. Why should he
  know that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much? Why, the whole
  world of knowledge is not worth that child's prayer to 'dear, kind God'! I
  say nothing of the sufferings of grown-up people, they have eaten the
  apple, damn them, and the devil take them all! But these little ones! I am
  making you suffer, Alyosha, you are not yourself. I'll leave off if you
  like."
  
  "Never mind. I want to suffer too," muttered Alyosha.
  
  "One picture, only one more, because it's so curious, so characteristic,
  and I have only just read it in some collection of Russian antiquities.
  I've forgotten the name. I must look it up. It was in the darkest days of
  serfdom at the beginning of the century, and long live the Liberator of
  the People! There was in those days a general of aristocratic connections,
  the owner of great estates, one of those men--somewhat exceptional, I
  believe, even then--who, retiring from the service into a life of leisure,
  are convinced that they've earned absolute power over the lives of their
  subjects. There were such men then. So our general, settled on his
  property of two thousand souls, lives in pomp, and domineers over his poor
  neighbors as though they were dependents and buffoons. He has kennels of
  hundreds of hounds and nearly a hundred dog-boys--all mounted, and in
  uniform. One day a serf-boy, a little child of eight, threw a stone in
  play and hurt the paw of the general's favorite hound. 'Why is my favorite
  dog lame?' He is told that the boy threw a stone that hurt the dog's paw.
  'So you did it.' The general looked the child up and down. 'Take him.' He
  was taken--taken from his mother and kept shut up all night. Early that
  morning the general comes out on horseback, with the hounds, his
  dependents, dog-boys, and huntsmen, all mounted around him in full hunting
  parade. The servants are summoned for their edification, and in front of
  them all stands the mother of the child. The child is brought from the
  lock-up. It's a gloomy, cold, foggy autumn day, a capital day for hunting.
  The general orders the child to be undressed; the child is stripped naked.
  He shivers, numb with terror, not daring to cry.... 'Make him run,'
  commands the general. 'Run! run!' shout the dog-boys. The boy runs.... 'At
  him!' yells the general, and he sets the whole pack of hounds on the
  child. The hounds catch him, and tear him to pieces before his mother's
  eyes!... I believe the general was afterwards declared incapable of
  administering his estates. Well--what did he deserve? To be shot? To be
  shot for the satisfaction of our moral feelings? Speak, Alyosha!"
  
  "To be shot," murmured Alyosha, lifting his eyes to Ivan with a pale,
  twisted smile.
  
  "Bravo!" cried Ivan, delighted. "If even you say so.... You're a pretty
  monk! So there is a little devil sitting in your heart, Alyosha
  Karamazov!"
  
  "What I said was absurd, but--"
  
  "That's just the point, that 'but'!" cried Ivan. "Let me tell you, novice,
  that the absurd is only too necessary on earth. The world stands on
  absurdities, and perhaps nothing would have come to pass in it without
  them. We know what we know!"
  
  "What do you know?"
  
  "I understand nothing," Ivan went on, as though in delirium. "I don't want
  to understand anything now. I want to stick to the fact. I made up my mind
  long ago not to understand. If I try to understand anything, I shall be
  false to the fact, and I have determined to stick to the fact."
  
  "Why are you trying me?" Alyosha cried, with sudden distress. "Will you
  say what you mean at last?"
  
  "Of course, I will; that's what I've been leading up to. You are dear to
  me, I don't want to let you go, and I won't give you up to your Zossima."
  
  Ivan for a minute was silent, his face became all at once very sad.
  
  "Listen! I took the case of children only to make my case clearer. Of the
  other tears of humanity with which the earth is soaked from its crust to
  its center, I will say nothing. I have narrowed my subject on purpose. I
  am a bug, and I recognize in all humility that I cannot understand why the
  world is arranged as it is. Men are themselves to blame, I suppose; they
  were given paradise, they wanted freedom, and stole fire from heaven,
  though they knew they would become unhappy, so there is no need to pity
  them. With my pitiful, earthly, Euclidian understanding, all I know is
  that there is suffering and that there are none guilty; that cause follows
  effect, simply and directly; that everything flows and finds its level--but
  that's only Euclidian nonsense, I know that, and I can't consent to live
  by it! What comfort is it to me that there are none guilty and that cause
  follows effect simply and directly, and that I know it?--I must have
  justice, or I will destroy myself. And not justice in some remote infinite
  time and space, but here on earth, and that I could see myself. I have
  believed in it. I want to see it, and if I am dead by then, let me rise
  again, for if it all happens without me, it will be too unfair. Surely I
  haven't suffered, simply that I, my crimes and my sufferings, may manure
  the soil of the future harmony for somebody else. I want to see with my
  own eyes the hind lie down with the lion and the victim rise up and
  embrace his murderer. I want to be there when every one suddenly
  understands what it has all been for. All the religions of the world are
  built on this longing, and I am a believer. But then there are the
  children, and what am I to do about them? That's a question I can't
  answer. For the hundredth time I repeat, there are numbers of questions,
  but I've only taken the children, because in their case what I mean is so
  unanswerably clear. Listen! If all must suffer to pay for the eternal
  harmony, what have children to do with it, tell me, please? It's beyond
  all comprehension why they should suffer, and why they should pay for the
  harmony. Why should they, too, furnish material to enrich the soil for the
  harmony of the future? I understand solidarity in sin among men. I
  understand solidarity in retribution, too; but there can be no such
  solidarity with children. And if it is really true that they must share
  responsibility for all their fathers' crimes, such a truth is not of this
  world and is beyond my comprehension. Some jester will say, perhaps, that
  the child would have grown up and have sinned, but you see he didn't grow
  up, he was torn to pieces by the dogs, at eight years old. Oh, Alyosha, I
  am not blaspheming! I understand, of course, what an upheaval of the
  universe it will be, when everything in heaven and earth blends in one
  hymn of praise and everything that lives and has lived cries aloud: 'Thou
  art just, O Lord, for Thy ways are revealed.' When the mother embraces the
  fiend who threw her child to the dogs, and all three cry aloud with tears,
  'Thou art just, O Lord!' then, of course, the crown of knowledge will be
  reached and all will be made clear. But what pulls me up here is that I
  can't accept that harmony. And while I am on earth, I make haste to take
  my own measures. You see, Alyosha, perhaps it really may happen that if I
  live to that moment, or rise again to see it, I, too, perhaps, may cry
  aloud with the rest, looking at the mother embracing the child's torturer,
  'Thou art just, O Lord!' but I don't want to cry aloud then. While there
  is still time, I hasten to protect myself, and so I renounce the higher
  harmony altogether. It's not worth the tears of that one tortured child
  who beat itself on the breast with its little fist and prayed in its
  stinking outhouse, with its unexpiated tears to 'dear, kind God'! It's not
  worth it, because those tears are unatoned for. They must be atoned for,
  or there can be no harmony. But how? How are you going to atone for them?
  Is it possible? By their being avenged? But what do I care for avenging
  them? What do I care for a hell for oppressors? What good can hell do,
  since those children have already been tortured? And what becomes of
  harmony, if there is hell? I want to forgive. I want to embrace. I don't
  want more suffering. And if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum
  of sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that
  the truth is not worth such a price. I don't want the mother to embrace
  the oppressor who threw her son to the dogs! She dare not forgive him! Let
  her forgive him for herself, if she will, let her forgive the torturer for
  the immeasurable suffering of her mother's heart. But the sufferings of
  her tortured child she has no right to forgive; she dare not forgive the
  torturer, even if the child were to forgive him! And if that is so, if
  they dare not forgive, what becomes of harmony? Is there in the whole
  world a being who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? I
  don't want harmony. From love for humanity I don't want it. I would rather
  be left with the unavenged suffering. I would rather remain with my
  unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation, _even if I were wrong_.
  Besides, too high a price is asked for harmony; it's beyond our means to
  pay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance
  ticket, and if I am an honest man I am bound to give it back as soon as
  possible. And that I am doing. It's not God that I don't accept, Alyosha,
  only I most respectfully return Him the ticket."
  
  "That's rebellion," murmured Alyosha, looking down.
  
  "Rebellion? I am sorry you call it that," said Ivan earnestly. "One can
  hardly live in rebellion, and I want to live. Tell me yourself, I
  challenge you--answer. Imagine that you are creating a fabric of human
  destiny with the object of making men happy in the end, giving them peace
  and rest at last, but that it was essential and inevitable to torture to
  death only one tiny creature--that baby beating its breast with its fist,
  for instance--and to found that edifice on its unavenged tears, would you
  consent to be the architect on those conditions? Tell me, and tell the
  truth."
  
  "No, I wouldn't consent," said Alyosha softly.
  
  "And can you admit the idea that men for whom you are building it would
  agree to accept their happiness on the foundation of the unexpiated blood
  of a little victim? And accepting it would remain happy for ever?"
  
  "No, I can't admit it. Brother," said Alyosha suddenly, with flashing
  eyes, "you said just now, is there a being in the whole world who would
  have the right to forgive and could forgive? But there is a Being and He
  can forgive everything, all and for all, because He gave His innocent
  blood for all and everything. You have forgotten Him, and on Him is built
  the edifice, and it is to Him they cry aloud, 'Thou art just, O Lord, for
  Thy ways are revealed!' "
  
  "Ah! the One without sin and His blood! No, I have not forgotten Him; on
  the contrary I've been wondering all the time how it was you did not bring
  Him in before, for usually all arguments on your side put Him in the
  foreground. Do you know, Alyosha--don't laugh! I made a poem about a year
  ago. If you can waste another ten minutes on me, I'll tell it to you."
  
  "You wrote a poem?"
  
  "Oh, no, I didn't write it," laughed Ivan, "and I've never written two
  lines of poetry in my life. But I made up this poem in prose and I
  remembered it. I was carried away when I made it up. You will be my first
  reader--that is listener. Why should an author forego even one listener?"
  smiled Ivan. "Shall I tell it to you?"
  
  "I am all attention," said Alyosha.
  
  "My poem is called 'The Grand Inquisitor'; it's a ridiculous thing, but I
  want to tell it to you."
  
  
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Book V: Chapters 1-4
target: When Alyosha returns to Madame Hohlakov's to report his failure with the captain, he learns that Katerina has developed a fever following her hysterical outburst and is now upstairs, unconscious. To Lise, Alyosha explains the nature of his mission and his failure and analyzes the captain's character for her. As he talks, Lise becomes very impressed with such deep insight and such warmth and love of humanity. She confesses that she indeed meant what she wrote in the letter. The revelation is startling, and she and Alyosha discuss their feelings for each other and begin to make plans for marriage. For his part, Alyosha admits that he has told a white lie concerning the letter. He did not return it, not because he did not have it but because he valued it too much. Meanwhile, Madame Hohlakov, who has eavesdropped on the conversation, stops Alyosha as he is leaving and expresses deep disapproval of the match. Alyosha assures her that the marriage is yet far in the future, that Lise is much too young to marry presently. Alyosha, then, puzzling over Dmitri's actions of the previous night, decides to try to find his brother. It is more important, he believes, to "have saved something" of Dmitri's honor than to flee back to the monastery. The summerhouse seems a likely place to find his brother; this is where he often watches for Grushenka and dreams of her. As Alyosha waits, he overhears Smerdyakov singing and playing the guitar for the housekeeper's daughter. Alyosha interrupts, with apologies, and asks Smerdyakov if he has seen Dmitri. The cook is able to help Alyosha and says that Ivan has made an appointment to meet Dmitri at the Metropolis restaurant. Alyosha rushes there but Dmitri is not to be found. Instead, Ivan is dining alone. Ivan beckons to his brother, and Alyosha accepts his brother's invitation to talk. Ivan admits, first off, that he is eager to know Alyosha better; he has come to respect and admire the boy. Ivan also admits that he has an intense longing for life even though he constantly encounters only disorder and injustice. Alyosha, however, is more concerned about Dmitri and what will happen to him and what will happen to Fyodor if Ivan leaves the family. To this, Ivan insists that he is absolutely not his brother's keeper, nor his father's keeper, and confesses finally that he is dining at the restaurant for only one reason: he cannot bear the presence of his loathsome father. That settled, Ivan begins to tell Alyosha of his views on "the existence of God and immortality." He says that he does not reject God but cannot accept Him. If God does exist and if He indeed created the world, the human mind should be able to fathom the deed and understand the purpose of creation. Ivan cannot and therefore rejects the world God created. If, he adds, this means that he must reject God, then that is another problem. Alyosha queries more closely, asking Ivan to be more specific as to why he cannot accept the world. Ivan answers by saying that he can love man at a distance but that he is unable to love his next-door neighbor. For him, "Christ-like love for men is a miracle impossible on earth." That which makes it especially difficult to accept the world, as it is, is the vast suffering and brutality in the world. If God exists, says Ivan, how can this horror be accounted for? He singles out the suffering of children as prime evidence of the world's indifferent cruelty. Children have had no time to sin, but they suffer. Why? Certainly not because of sin, supposedly the cause of suffering. He then recites several horrible examples of atrocities inflicted upon children by other human beings. Because such injustice is allowed to happen, Ivan simply cannot accept the mythical "harmony of God" or accept a universe in which one who is tortured embraces his torturer. Such "harmony," says Ivan, "is not worth the tears of one tortured child." He concludes that if truth must be bought at the price of the suffering of children, then such truth is not worth the price. He tells Alyosha: "It's not God that I don't accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return Him the ticket." Alyosha is horrified and tells Ivan that these thoughts constitute rebellion. Ivan offers Alyosha a further example: suppose, he says, one could create a perfect world for man but it could survive only by torturing to death "one tiny creature." Would Alyosha be the architect of such a world? As an answer, Ivan is reminded that there is One who can forgive everything "because He gave His innocent blood for all and everything." Ivan assures his brother that he has not forgotten "the One without sin" and recites a prose poem that he wrote several years ago. He calls his poem "The Grand Inquisitor."
feat_summary_analysis: As Alyosha tells Lise of his encounter with the captain, we see that he, like Zossima, has a deeply penetrating mind and understands the inner workings of those whom he is trying to help. This understanding of human nature proves Alyosha much more than a simple person of simple faith. Zossima, remember, has commanded Alyosha to marry. Because of the elder, Alyosha has chosen Lise; no one, he believes, will make him a better wife. But for all of Zossima's influence, he is not a puppet-master. Alyosha is objective about the wisdom of his mentor's teachings, and although he knows that Zossima is dying, he feels that it is a higher duty to find Dmitri than to go to the elder's deathbed. Thus Alyosha matures into a man of worldly responsibility and makes other men much more than only of spiritual concern. In Chapter 3, Dostoevsky makes clear the earlier ambiguities of Ivan's character. Previously, the brother maintained a distance from Alyosha because he had been evaluating him to see if he is merely an empty-minded religious fanatic. Now, however, Ivan has learned to respect and admire Alyosha because "you do stand firm and I like people who are firm like that, whatever it is that they stand by." Ivan is now ready to thoroughly discuss his beliefs with his brother. In addition, Ivan also feels that his impending departure makes it imperative to explain himself to Alyosha. But if he is concerned for Alyosha, he is certainly not concerned for Dmitri; he refuses to be either his brother's keeper or the "keeper" of Fyodor. He is quite adamant concerning this, and his vehemence is easily recalled when the idea of Fyodor's being vulnerable for murder is discussed. Preluding his views on religion, Ivan announces that he has a strong desire to live. He loves life even though he finds it illogical. Such an acknowledgement of a love of living is important because Ivan, with a philosophy seemingly nihilistic, might too easily be categorized as a suicidal cynic. Ivan is morally much stronger and is deeply committed to the business of living. Both brothers, Ivan and Alyosha, agree that "for real Russians the questions of God's existence and of immortality . . . come first and foremost and so they should." In its largest context, this is the subject of the novel. These ideas are central not just to the characters but to an understanding of Dostoevsky's entire point of view. Ivan surprises Alyosha by announcing, "perhaps I too accept God," reminding his brother of the saying, "If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent Him." For Ivan, the astonishing factor of Christianity is that man is basically such a "savage, vicious beast" that it is illogical that he could conceive of an idea so noble and magnificent as "God." Ivan is, of course, leading into his views about the baseness of most humans and the difficulty of believing man sufficiently noble to conceive of something so totally transcending his own vicious nature. Most of all, Ivan desires a world in which his human intellect can fully comprehend the logic and purpose of life. He uses the analogy of two parallel lines, which, according to Euclid, can never meet. Ivan's mind can comprehend this concept because he has a "Euclidian earthly mind." But if someone tells him that two parallel lines might meet somewhere in infinity, and even if he sees it himself, he still cannot accept the theory. Therefore, even though he is willing to accept God, His Wisdom, and His purpose, he cannot accept "this world of God's . . . it's the world created by Him that I don't and can't accept." To explain further why he does not accept the world, Ivan examines the brutality found in the world, saying that he cannot love his neighbor. It is easy to love man in the abstract sense, certainly, but when one looks into the face of a man, it is impossible to love him. For Christ, to love men was easy because He was God; but for ordinary men to love one's neighbor -- the idea is ridiculously impossible. Later, Ivan will elaborate upon this in his poem "The Grand Inquisitor." Ivan uses the suffering of innocent children as his principal grounds for the world's unacceptability. The idea of the suffering innocent has plagued philosophers since time's beginning; it is the subject of such great works as the Book of Job. But Ivan does not concern himself with the sufferings of adults. For them, a philosophical justification is possible: the adult has sinned, and his suffering is a punishment for his sins. Children, however, have not yet sinned, and therefore Ivan cannot understand a world created by God that justifies their suffering. And regardless of whether one agrees or disagrees with Ivan, one must recognize the logic at work in this system of thinking. Life, for Ivan, must be rational -- it must especially be rational if one is to appreciate God's wonder and love Him as one should. So well has Ivan considered his philosophy that he is even amused by the term "bestial cruelty," for this, he believes, is an insult to beasts. An animal kills only for food and kills rapidly, but man kills slowly, deliberately, and often only for the sadistic pleasure of watching his victim suffer. As Ivan speaks, he is quite aware that he is causing Alyosha to suffer; he knows well of Alyosha's fondness for children. But, although he is not his "brother's keeper," he is far from heartless; for him, children are revered. He can find no logic that justifies their suffering. He asks Alyosha what would be the basis of an eternal harmony if a victim would "rise up and embrace his murderer." If this higher harmony would, even in part, be based on such suffering, then Ivan must renounce it. Truth is not worth such a price. In reference to the story of the general who had his dogs kill a peasant boy, Ivan states, "I don't want the mother to embrace the oppressor who threw her son to the dogs! She dare not forgive him! Let her forgive him for herself, if she will, let her forgive the torturer for the immeasurable suffering of her mother's heart. But the sufferings of her tortured child she has no right to forgive; she dare not forgive the torturer, even if the child were to forgive him!" Ivan rejects such monstrous injustice; he would rather remain with his "unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation." When Alyosha tells Ivan that his view is that of rebellion, Ivan presents Alyosha with the following hypothesis: "Imagine you are creating a fabric of human destiny with the object of making men happy in the end, giving them peace and rest at last, but that it was essential and inevitable to torture to death only one tiny creature . . . to found that edifice on its unavenged tears, would you consent to be the architect on those conditions?" This analogy of Ivan's offers the same view as that expressed throughout the chapter -- that a world created for men should not be founded on innocent suffering. As a humanist, Ivan cannot accept happiness or eternal harmony at the expense of any "unexpiated blood." Alyosha reminds Ivan that he has forgotten the one Being Who "gave His innocent blood for all." Because of Alyosha's objection, Ivan is provoked to narrate his prose poem, "The Grand Inquisitor."