Fyodor Pavlovitch, this is unbearable! You know youre telling lies and that that stupid anecdote isnt true. Why are you playing the fool? cried Miüsov in a shaking voice.
I suspected all my life that it wasnt true, Fyodor Pavlovitch cried with conviction. But Ill tell you the whole truth, gentlemen. Great elder! Forgive me, the last thing about Diderots christening I made up just now. I never thought of it before. I made it up to add piquancy. I play the fool, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to make myself agreeable. Though I really dont know myself, sometimes, what I do it for. And as for Diderot, I heard as far as the fool hath said in his heart twenty times from the gentry about here when I was young. I heard your aunt, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, tell the story. They all believe to this day that the infidel Diderot came to dispute about God with the Metropolitan Platon.
Miüsov got up, forgetting himself in his impatience. He was furious, and conscious of being ridiculous.
What was taking place in the cell was really incredible. For forty or fifty years past, from the times of former elders, no visitors had entered that cell without feelings of the profoundest veneration. Almost every one admitted to the cell felt that a great favor was being shown him. Many remained kneeling during the whole visit. Of those visitors, many had been men of high rank and learning, some even freethinkers, attracted by curiosity, but all without exception had shown the profoundest reverence and delicacy, for here there was no question of money, but only, on the one side love and kindness, and on the other penitence and eager desire to decide some spiritual problem or crisis. So that such buffoonery amazed and bewildered the spectators, or at least some of them. The monks, with unchanged countenances, waited, with earnest attention, to hear what the elder would say, but seemed on the point of standing up, like Miüsov. Alyosha stood, with hanging head, on the verge of tears. What seemed to him strangest of all was that his brother Ivan, on whom alone he had rested his hopes, and who alone had such influence on his father that he could have stopped him, sat now quite unmoved, with downcast eyes, apparently waiting with interest to see how it would end, as though he had nothing to do with it. Alyosha did not dare to look at Rakitin, the divinity student, whom he knew almost intimately. He alone in the monastery knew Rakitins thoughts.
Forgive me, began Miüsov, addressing Father Zossima, for perhaps I seem to be taking part in this shameful foolery. I made a mistake in believing that even a man like Fyodor Pavlovitch would understand what was due on a visit to so honored a personage. I did not suppose I should have to apologize simply for having come with him.
Pyotr Alexandrovitch could say no more, and was about to leave the room, overwhelmed with confusion.
Dont distress yourself, I beg. The elder got on to his feeble legs, and taking Pyotr Alexandrovitch by both hands, made him sit down again. I beg you not to disturb yourself. I particularly beg you to be my guest. And with a bow he went back and sat down again on his little sofa.
Great elder, speak! Do I annoy you by my vivacity? Fyodor Pavlovitch cried suddenly, clutching the arms of his chair in both hands, as though ready to leap up from it if the answer were unfavorable.
I earnestly beg you, too, not to disturb yourself, and not to be uneasy, the elder said impressively. Do not trouble. Make yourself quite at home. And, above all, do not be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root of it all.
Quite at home? To be my natural self? Oh, that is much too much, but I accept it with grateful joy. Do you know, blessed Father, youd better not invite me to be my natural self. Dont risk it. I will not go so far as that myself. I warn you for your own sake. Well, the rest is still plunged in the mists of uncertainty, though there are people whod be pleased to describe me for you. I mean that for you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. But as for you, holy being, let me tell you, I am brimming over with ecstasy.
He got up, and throwing up his hands, declaimed, Blessed be the womb that bare thee, and the paps that gave thee suckthe paps especially. When you said just now, Dont be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root of it all, you pierced right through me by that remark, and read me to the core. Indeed, I always feel when I meet people that I am lower than all, and that they all take me for a buffoon. So I say, Let me really play the buffoon. I am not afraid of your opinion, for you are every one of you worse than I am. That is why I am a buffoon. It is from shame, great elder, from shame; its simply oversensitiveness that makes me rowdy. If I had only been sure that every one would accept me as the kindest and wisest of men, oh, Lord, what a good man I should have been then! Teacher! he fell suddenly on his knees, what must I do to gain eternal life?
It was difficult even now to decide whether he was joking or really moved.
Father Zossima, lifting his eyes, looked at him, and said with a smile:
You have known for a long time what you must do. You have sense enough: dont give way to drunkenness and incontinence of speech; dont give way to sensual lust; and, above all, to the love of money. And close your taverns. If you cant close all, at least two or three. And, above alldont lie.
You mean about Diderot?
No, not about Diderot. Above all, dont lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than any one. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offense, isnt it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehillhe knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offense, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness. But get up, sit down, I beg you. All this, too, is deceitful posturing.
It was difficult even now to decide whether he was joking or really moved.
Father Zossima, lifting his eyes, looked at him, and said with a smile:
You have known for a long time what you must do. You have sense enough: dont give way to drunkenness and incontinence of speech; dont give way to sensual lust; and, above all, to the love of money. And close your taverns. If you cant close all, at least two or three. And, above alldont lie.
You mean about Diderot?
No, not about Diderot. Above all, dont lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than any one. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offense, isnt it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehillhe knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offense, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness. But get up, sit down, I beg you. All this, too, is deceitful posturing.
Blessed man! Give me your hand to kiss.
Fyodor Pavlovitch skipped up, and imprinted a rapid kiss on the elders thin hand. It is, it is pleasant to take offense. You said that so well, as I never heard it before. Yes, I have been all my life taking offense, to please myself, taking offense on esthetic grounds, for it is not so much pleasant as distinguished sometimes to be insultedthat you had forgotten, great elder, it is distinguished! I shall make a note of that. But I have been lying, lying positively my whole life long, every day and hour of it. Of a truth, I am a lie, and the father of lies. Though I believe I am not the father of lies. I am getting mixed in my texts. Say, the son of lies, and that will be enough. Only my angel I may sometimes talk about Diderot! Diderot will do no harm, though sometimes a word will do harm. Great elder, by the way, I was forgetting, though I had been meaning for the last two years to come here on purpose to ask and to find out something. Only do tell Pyotr Alexandrovitch not to interrupt me. Here is my question: Is it true, great Father, that the story is told somewhere in the Lives of the Saints of a holy saint martyred for his faith who, when his head was cut off at last, stood up, picked up his head, and, courteously kissing it, walked a long way, carrying it in his hands. Is that true or not, honored Father?
No, it is untrue, said the elder.
There is nothing of the kind in all the lives of the saints. What saint do you say the story is told of? asked the Father Librarian.
I do not know what saint. I do not know, and cant tell. I was deceived. I was told the story. I had heard it, and do you know who told it? Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miüsov here, who was so angry just now about Diderot. He it was who told the story.
I have never told it you, I never speak to you at all.
It is true you did not tell me, but you told it when I was present. It was three years ago. I mentioned it because by that ridiculous story you shook my faith, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You knew nothing of it, but I went home with my faith shaken, and I have been getting more and more shaken ever since. Yes, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you were the cause of a great fall. That was not a Diderot!