Book 5, Chapter 6 of the Brothers Karamazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Timothy Pinkham. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Book 5, Chapter 6. For a while a very obscure one. And Yvon, on parting from Alyosha, went home to Fyodor Pavlovich's house. But strange to say, he was overcome by insufferable depression, which grew greater at every step he took towards the house. There was nothing strange in his being depressed. What was strange was that Yvon could not have said what was the cause of it. He had often been depressed before, and there was nothing surprising at his feeling so at such a moment when he had broken off with everything had brought him here, and was preparing that day to make a new start and enter upon a new, unknown future. He would again be as solitary as ever, and though he had great hopes and great, too great, expectations from life, he could not have given any definite account of his hopes, his expectations, or even his desires. Yet at that moment, though the apprehension of the new and unknown certainly found a place in his heart, what was worrying him was something quite different. Is it loathing for my father's house? He wondered. Quite likely, I am so sick of it. And though it's the last time I shall cross its hateful threshold, still I loathe it. No, it's not that either. Is it the parting with Alyosha, and the conversation I had with him? For so many years I've been silent with the whole world and not deigned to speak. And all of a sudden I reel off a rigmarole like that, certainly might have been the youthful vexation of youthful inexperience and vanity, vexation at having failed to express himself, especially with such a being as Alyosha, on whom his heart had certainly been reckoning. No doubt that came in, that vexation, it must have done indeed. But yet that was not it. That was not it either. I feel sick with depression, and yet I can't tell what I want. Better not think, perhaps. Yvonne tried not to think. But that, too, was no use. What made his depression so vexatious and irritating was that it had a kind of casual external character. He felt that. Some person or thing seemed to be standing out somewhere, just as something will sometimes obtrude itself upon the eye. And though one may be so busy with work or conversation, that for a long time one does not notice it, yet it irritates and almost torments one till at last one realizes and removes the offending object, often quite a trifling and ridiculous one. Some article left about in the wrong place, a handkerchief on the floor, a book not replaced on the shelf, and so on. At last, feeling very cross and ill-humored, Yvonne arrived home, and suddenly, about fifteen paces from the garden gate, he guessed what was fretting and worrying him. On a bench in the gateway the valet Smerdyukov was sitting enjoying the coolness of the evening, and at the first glance at him Yvonne knew that the valet Smerdyukov was on his mind, and that it was this man that his soul loathed. It all dawned upon him suddenly, and became clear, just before when Alyosha had been telling him of his meeting with Smerdyukov, he had felt a sudden twinge of gloom and loathing, which had immediately stirred response of anger in his heart. Afterwards, as he talked, Smerdyukov had been forgotten for the time, but still he had been in his mind, and as soon as Yvonne parted with Alyosha and was walking home, the forgotten sensation began to obtrude itself again. Is it possible that a miserable contemptible creature like that can worry me so much? He wondered, with insufferable irritation. It was true that Yvonne had come of late to feel an intense dislike for the man, especially during the last few days. He had even begun to notice in himself a growing feeling that was almost a hatred for the creature. Perhaps this hatred was accentuated by the fact that when Yvonne first came to the neighborhood he had felt quite differently. Then he had taken a marked interest in Smerdyukov, and had even thought him very original. He had encouraged him to talk to him, although he had always wondered at a certain incoherence or rather restlessness in his mind, and could not understand what it was that so continually and insistently worked upon the brain of the contemplative. They discussed philosophical questions and even how there could have been light on the first day when the sun, moon, and stars were only created on the fourth day, and how that was to be understood. But Yvonne soon saw that though the sun, moon, and stars might be an interesting subject, yet that it was quite secondary to Smerdyukov, and that he was looking for something altogether different. In one way and another he began to betray a boundless vanity and a wounded vanity too, and that Yvonne disliked. It had first given rise to his aversion. Later on there had been trouble in the house. Grushenko had come on the scene, and there had been the scandals with his brother Dmitry. They discussed that too. But though Smerdyukov always talked of that with great excitement, it was impossible to discover what he desired to come of it. There was in fact something surprising in the illogicality and incoherence of some of his desires accidentally betrayed and always vaguely expressed. Smerdyukov was always inquiring, putting certain indirect but obviously premeditated questions, but what his object was he did not explain, and usually at the most important moment he would break off and relapse into silence or pass to another subject. But what finally irritated Yvonne most and confirmed his dislike for him was the peculiar revolting familiarity which Smerdyukov began to show more and more markedly. Not that he forgot himself and was rude, on the contrary, he always spoke very respectfully, yet he had obviously begun to consider goodness, knows why, that there was some sort of understanding between him and Yvonne Fyodorovich. He always spoke in a tone that suggested that those two had some kind of compact, some secret between them that had at some time been expressed on both sides, only known to them and beyond the comprehension of those around them. But for a long while Yvonne did not recognize the real cause of his growing dislike, and he had only lately realized what was at the root of it. With a feeling of disgust and irritation he tried to pass in at the gate without speaking or looking at Smerdyukov. But Smerdyukov rose from the bench, and from that action alone Yvonne knew instantly that he wanted particularly to talk to him. Yvonne looked at him and stopped, and the fact that he did stop instead of passing by as he meant to the minute before drove him to fury.  His left eye winked, and he grinned as if to say, Where are you going? You won't pass by. You see that we two clever people have something to say to each other. Yvonne shook.  What have I to do with you? Was on the tip of his tongue, but to his profound astonishment he heard himself say, Is my father still asleep or has he waked? He asked the question softly and meekly to his own surprise, and at once, again to his own surprise, sat down on the bench. For an instant he felt almost frightened. He remembered it afterwards. Smerdyukov stood facing him, his hands behind his back, looking at him with assurance and almost severity. His honour is still asleep. He articulated deliberately. You were the first to speak, not I, he seemed to say. I'm surprised at you, sir, he added, after a pause, dropping his eyes effectively, setting his right foot forward and playing with the tip of his polished boot. Why, are you surprised at me? Yvonne asked abruptly and suddenly, doing his utmost to restrain himself, and suddenly realizing with disgust that he was feeling intense curiosity and would not on any account have gone away without satisfying it. Why don't you go to Chermashnya, sir? Smerdyukov suddenly raised his eyes and smiled familiarly. Why I smile, you must understand of yourself. If you are a clever man, his screwed-up left eye seemed to say. Why should I go to Chermashnya? Yvonne asked in surprise. Smerdyukov was silent again. Fyodor Pavlovich himself has begged you to, he said at last slowly and apparently attaching no significance to his answer. I put you off with a secondary reason, he seemed to suggest, simply to say something.  Yvonne cried angrily at last, passing from meekness to violence. Smerdyukov drew his right foot up to his left, pulled himself up, but still looked at him with the same serenity and the same little smile. Substantially nothing, but just by way of conversation. Another silence followed. They did not speak for nearly a minute. Yvonne knew that he ought to get up and show anger, and Smerdyukov stood before him and seemed to be waiting as though to see whether he would be angry or not. So at least it seemed to Yvonne. At last he moved to get up. Smerdyukov seemed to seize the moment. I'm in an awful position, Yvonne Fyodorovich, I don't know how to help myself. He said resolutely and distinctly, and at his last word he sighed. Yvonne Fyodorovich sat down again. They are both utterly crazy. They are no better than little children, Smerdyukov went on. I am speaking of your parent and your brother Dmitry Fyodorovich. Here Fyodorovich will get up directly and begin worrying me every minute. Has she come? Why hasn't she come? And so on, up till midnight and even after midnight. And if Agrafena Alexandrovna doesn't come, for very likely she does not mean to come at all, then he will be at me again tomorrow morning. Why hasn't she come? When will she come? As though I were to blame for it. On the other side it's no better. As soon as it gets dark, or even before, your brother will appear with his gun in his hands.   When the night's over, in the morning, he too, like Fyodorovich, begins worrying me to death. Why hasn't she come? Will she come soon? And he too thinks me to blame because his lady hasn't come.  I can't depend them, sir. And why have you meddled? Why did you begin to spy for Dmitry Fyodorovich? Said Yvon irritably. How could I help meddling? Though indeed I haven't meddled at all, if you want to know the truth of the matter. I kept quiet from the very beginning, not daring to answer, but he pitched on me to be his servant. He has had only one thing to say since.  I feel certain, sir, that I shall have a long fit tomorrow. What do you mean by a long fit? A long fit, lasting a long time, several hours or perhaps a day or two. Once it went on for three days, I fell from the garret that time. The struggling ceased and then began again, and for three days I couldn't come back to my senses. Fyodor Pavlovich sent for a hersen stube, the doctor here, and he put ice on my head and tried another remedy, too. I might have died. But they say one can't tell with epilepsy when a fit is coming. What makes you say you will have one tomorrow? Yvon inquired with a peculiar irritable curiosity. That's just so! You can't tell beforehand. Besides, you fell from the garret, then. I climb up to the garret every day. I might fall from the garret again tomorrow, and if not, I might fall down the cellar steps. I have to go into the cellar every day, too. Yvon took a long look at him. You are talking nonsense, I see, and I don't quite understand you. He said softly, but with a sort of menace. Do you mean to pretend to be ill tomorrow for three days, eh? Smerodikov, who was looking at the ground again and playing with the toe of his right foot, set the foot down, moved the left one forward, and grinning, articulated, if I were able to play such a trick that is, pretend to have a fit, and it would not be difficult for a man accustomed to them, I should have a perfect right to use such a means to save myself from death. For even if Agrafena Alexandrovna comes to see his father while I am ill, his honour can't blame a sick man for not telling him. He'd be ashamed to. Hang it all! Yvon cried, his face working with anger. Why are you always in such a funk for your life? All my brother Dmitri's threats are only hasty words and mean nothing.  It's not you he'll kill.  But even more than that, I'm afraid I shall be taken for an accomplice of his when he does something crazy to his father. Why should you be taken for an accomplice? They'll think I'm an accomplice because I let him know the signals as a great secret. What signals? Whom did you tell? Confound you, speak more plainly. I'm bound to admit the fact, Smerdykov drawled with pedantic composure, that I have a secret with Fyodor Pavlovich in this business. As you know yourself, if only you do know it, he has for several days passed locked himself in as soon as night or even evening comes on. Of late you've been going upstairs to your room early every evening, and yesterday you did not come down at all, and so perhaps you don't know how carefully he has begun to lock himself in at night, and even if Grigory Vasilievich comes to the door, he won't open to him till he hears his voice. But Grigory Vasilievich does not come because I wait upon him alone in his room now. That's the arrangement he made himself ever since this to-do with Agrafein Alexandrovna began. But at night, by his orders, I go away to the lodge so that I don't get to sleep till midnight. But I'm on the watch, getting up and walking about the yard, waiting for Agrafein Alexandrovna to come. For the last few days, he's been perfectly frantic expecting her. What he argues is, she is afraid of him, to meet three Fyodorovitch, Mitya, as he calls him. And so says he, she'll come the back way late at night to me. You look out for her, says he, till midnight and later, and if she does come you run up and knock at my door or at the window from the garden, knock at first twice rather gently, and then three times more quickly. Then, says he, I shall understand at once that she has come, and will open the door to you quietly. Another signal he gave me in case anything unexpected happens, at first two knocks, and then after an interval another much louder. Then he will understand that something has happened suddenly, and that I must see him. And he will open to me so that I can go and speak to him. That's all in case Agrafein Alexandrovna can't come herself, but sends a message. Besides, Dmitri Fyodorovitch might come too, so I must let him know he is near. His honor is awfully afraid of Dmitri Fyodorovitch, so that even if Agrafein Alexandrovna had come and were locked in with him, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch were to turn up anywhere near at the time, I should be bound to let him know at once knocking three times, so that the first signal of five knocks means Agrafein Alexandrovna has come, Now the second signal of three knocks means something important to tell you. His honor has shown me them several times and explained to them. And as in the whole universe no one knows of these signals but myself and his honor, so he'd open the door without the slightest hesitation, and without calling out. He is awfully afraid of calling out aloud. Well, those signals are known to Dmitri Fyodorovitch too now. How are they known? Did you tell him? How dared you tell him? Was through fright I did it? How could I dare to keep it back from him? Dmitri Fyodorovitch kept persisting every day. You were deceiving me, you are hiding something from me, I'll break both your legs for you. So I told him those secret signals that he might see my slavish devotion, and might be satisfied that I was not deceiving him, but was telling him all I could. If you think that he'll make use of those signals and try to get in, don't let him in. But if I should be laid up with a fit, how can I prevent him coming in then, even if I dared prevent him knowing how desperate he is? Hang it! How can you be so sure you are going to have a fit confound you? Are you laughing at me? How could I dare laugh at you? I am in no laughing humor with this fear on me. I feel I am going to have a fit. I have a presentiment. Fright alone will bring it on. Confound it! If you are laid up, Grigori will be on the watch. Let Grigori know beforehand. He will be sure not to let him in. I should never dare to tell Grigori Vasilievich about the signals without orders from my master. And as for Grigori Vasilievich hearing him and not admitting him, he has been ill ever since yesterday, and Marfa Ignatievna intends to give him medicine tomorrow. They just arranged it. It's a very strange remedy of hers. Marfa Ignatievna knows of a preparation and always keeps it. It's a strong thing made from some herb. She has the secret of it, and she always gives it to Grigori Vasilievich three times a year when his lumbago is so bad he is almost paralyzed by it. Then she takes a towel, wets it with the stuff, and rubs his whole back for half an hour till it's quite red and swollen. And what's left in the bottle she gives him to drink with a special prayer. But not quite all, for on such occasions she leaves some for herself, and drinks it herself. And as they never take strong drink, I assure you they both drop asleep at once and sleep sound a very long time. And when Grigori Vasilievich wakes up he is perfectly well after it, but Marfa Ignatievna always has a headache from it. So if Marfa Ignatievna carries out her intention tomorrow, they won't hear anything and hinder Dmitry Fyodorovich. They'll be asleep. What a rigmarole, and it all seems to happen at once, as though it were planned. You will have a fit and they'll both be unconscious, cried Yvon. But aren't you trying to arrange it so? He spoke from him suddenly, and he frowned threateningly. How could I? And why should I, when it all depends on Dmitry Fyodorovich and his plans? If he means to do anything he'll do it, but if not I shan't be thrusting him upon his father. And why should he go to father, especially on the sly, if, as you say yourself, Agrifena Alexandrovna won't come at all? Yvon went on, turning white with anger. You say that yourself, and all the while I've been here, I've felt sure it was all the old man's fancy, and the creature won't come to him. Why should Dmitry break in on him, if she doesn't come? Speak I want to know what you are thinking. You know yourself why he'll come? What's the use of what I think? His honour will come simply because he is in a rage or suspicious on account of my illness, perhaps, and he'll dash in, as he did yesterday through impatience to search the rooms to see whether she hasn't escaped him on the sly. He is perfectly well aware, too, that Fyodor Pavlovich has a big envelope with three thousand rubles in it, tied up with ribbon and sealed with three seals. On it is written in his own hand, To my angel Grušenka, if she will come, To which he added three days later, For my little chicken. There's no knowing what that might do. On sense, cried Iván, almost beside himself.   He is in very great need of money now, the greatest need, Iván Fyodorovich. You don't know in what need he is, Smerdykov explained with perfect composure and remarkable distinctness. He looks on that three thousand as his own, too. He said so to him himself. My father still owes me just three thousand, he said. And besides that consider, Iván Fyodorovich, there is something else perfectly true. It's as good as certain, so to say, that Agrafeina Alexandrovna will force him, if only she cares to, to marry her, the master himself, I mean, Fyodor Pavlovich, if only she cares to, and of course she may care to. All I've said is that she won't come, but maybe she's looking for more than that. I mean to be mistress here.  She wouldn't marry a beggar like Dmitry Fyodorovich, so taking that into consideration, Iván Fyodorovich, reflect that then neither Dmitry Fyodorovich nor yourself and your brother Alexey Fyodorovich would have anything after the master's death, not a ruble for Agrafeina Alexandrovna would marry him simply to get hold of the whole, all the money there is.  A sort of shudder passed over Iván's face, he suddenly flushed. Then why on earth, he suddenly interrupted Smerdyukov, do you advise me to go to Chermashnya? What did you mean by that? If I go away, you see what will happen here? Iván drew his breath with difficulty. Precisely so, said Smerdyukov softly and reasonably, watching Iván intently, however. What do you mean by precisely so? Iván questioned him with a menacing light in his eyes, restraining himself with difficulty. I spoke because I felt sorry for you. If I were in your place, I should simply throw it all up, rather than stay on in such a position. Answered Smerdyukov with the most candid air, looking at Iván's flashing eyes. They were both silent.  Iván rose suddenly from the bench. He was about to pass straight through the gate, but he stopped short and turned to Smerdyukov. Something strange followed. Iván, in a sudden paroxysm, bit his lip, clenched his fists, and in another minute would have flung himself on Smerdyukov. The latter, anyway, noticed it at the same moment, started and shrank back. But the moment passed without mischief to Smerdyukov, and Iván turned in silence as it seemed in perplexity to the gate. I'm going away to Moscow tomorrow, if you care to know. Early tomorrow morning. That's all. Iván suddenly said a loud angrily and wondered himself afterwards what need there was to say this then to Smerdyukov. That's the best thing you can do, he responded as though he had expected to hear it, except that you can always be telegraphed for from Moscow, if anything should happen here. Iván stopped again, and again turned quickly to Smerdyukov, but a change had passed over him, too. All his familiarity and carelessness had completely disappeared. His face expressed attention and expectation, intent but timid and cringing. Haven't you something more to say? Something to add? Could be read in the intent gaze he fixed on Iván. And couldn't I be sent for from Cermashnya, too, in case anything happened? Iván shouted suddenly for some unknown reason raising his voice. From Cermashnya, too, you could be sent for, Smerdyukov muttered almost in a whisper, making disconcerted but gazing intently into Iván's eyes. Only Moscow's father and Cermashnya is nearer. Is it to save my spending money on the fare, or to save my going so far out of my way that you insist on Cermashnya? Precisely so, muttered Smerdyukov with a breaking voice. He looked at Iván with a revolting smile and again made ready to draw back, but to his astonishment Iván broke into a laugh and went through the gate still laughing. Anyone who had seen his face at that moment would have known that he was not laughing from lightness of heart, and he could not have explained himself what he was feeling at that instant. He moved and walked as though in a nervous frenzy. End of Chapter 6 of Book 5, Recording by Timothy Pinkham, Timothy P-I-N-K-H-A-M-dot-com, La Palma, California, May 2009. Book 5, Chapter 7 of the Brothers Karmazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Timothy Pinkham. The Brothers Karmazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Konstantz Garnet. Book 5, Chapter 7. It's always worth while speaking to a clever man. And in the same nervous frenzy too he spoke. Meeting Fyodor Pavlovich in the drawing room directly he went in, he shouted to him waving his hands. I'm going upstairs to my room, not into you. Goodbye! And passed by, trying not even to look at his father. Very possibly the old man was too hateful to him at that moment, but such an unceremonious display of hostility was a surprise even to Fyodor Pavlovich. And the old man evidently wanted to tell him something at once and had come to meet him in the drawing room on purpose. Receiving this amiable greeting he stood still in silence and with an ironical air watched his son going upstairs till he passed out of sight. What's the matter with him? He promptly asked Smerdyakov, who had followed Ivan. Angry about something who can tell, the valet muttered evasively. Confound him, let him be angry then, bring in the Samovar and get along with you. Look sharp! No news? Then followed a series of questions such as Smerdyakov had just complained of to Ivan, all relating to his expected visitor and these questions we will omit. Half an hour later the house was locked and the crazy old man was wandering along through the rooms an excited expectation of hearing every minute the five knocks agreed upon. Now and then he peered out into the darkness, seeing nothing. It was very late, but Ivan was still awake and reflecting. He sat up late that night till two o'clock. But we will not give an account of his thoughts, and this is not the place to look into that soul, its turn will come. And even if one tried it would be very hard to give an account of them, for there were no thoughts in his brain, but something very vague and above all intense excitement. He felt himself that he had lost his bearings. He was fretted too by all sorts of strange and almost surprising desires. For instance, after midnight he suddenly had an intense irresistible inclination to go down, open the door, go to the lodge, and beat Smerdyakov. But if he had been asked why he could not have given any exact reason, except perhaps that he loathed the valet as one who had insulted him more gravely than anyone in the world. On the other hand he was more than once that night overcome by a sort of inexplicable humiliating terror, which he felt positively paralyzed his physical powers. His head ached and he was giddy. A feeling of hatred was rankling in his heart, as though he meant to avenge himself on someone. He even hated Alyosha, recalling the conversation he had just had with him. At moments he hated himself intensely. Of Katarina Ivanovna, he almost forgot to think, and wondered greatly at this afterwards, especially as he remembered perfectly that when he had protested so valiantly to Katarina Ivanovna that he would go away next day to Moscow, something had whispered in his heart, that's nonsense. You are not going and it won't be so easy to tear yourself away as you are boasting now. Remembering that night long afterwards, Ivan recalled with peculiar repulsion how he had suddenly got up from the sofa and had stealthily, as though he were afraid of being watched, opened the door, gone out on the staircase and listened to Fyodor Pavlovich, stirring down below. Had listened a long while, some five minutes, with a sort of strange curiosity holding his breath while his heart throbbed. And why he had done all this, why he was listening he could not have said. That action all his life afterwards he called infamous, and at the bottom of his heart he thought of it as the basest action of his life. For Fyodor Pavlovich himself he felt no hatred at that moment, but was simply intensely curious to know how he was walking down there below and what he must be doing now. He wondered and imagined how he must be peeping out of the dark windows and stopping in the middle of the room listening, listening, or someone to knock. Ivan went out on the stairs twice to listen like this. About two o'clock when everything was quiet and even Fyodor Pavlovich had gone to bed, Ivan had gotten to bed firmly resolved to fall asleep at once, as he felt fearfully exhausted. And he did fall asleep at once and slept soundly without dreams, but waked early at seven o'clock, when it was broad daylight. Opening his eyes he was surprised to feel himself extraordinary and narrowly vigorous. He jumped up at once and dressed quickly, then dragged out his trunk and began packing immediately. His linen had come back from the laundress that previous morning. Ivan positively smiled at the thought that everything was helping his sudden departure. And his departure certainly was sudden, though Ivan had said the day before to Katerina Ivanovna, Alyosha, and Smerdyukov, that he was leaving next day, yet he remembered that he had no thought of departure when he went to bed, or at least had not dreamed that his first act in the morning would be to pack his trunk. At last his trunk and bag were ready. It was about nine o'clock when Marfa Ignatievna came in with her usual inquiry. Where will your honour take your tea in your own room or downstairs? He looked almost cheerful, but there was about him, about his words and gestures, something hurried and scattered. Taking his father affably, and even inquiring specially after his health, though he did not wait to hear his answer to the end, he announced that he was starting off in an hour to return to Moscow for good, and begged him to send for the horses. His father heard this announcement with no sign of surprise, and forgot in an unmanorly way to show regret at losing him. Instead of doing so, he flew into a great flutter at the recollection of some important business of his own.  Never mind, we'll manage it all the same. Do me a great service, my dear boy. Go to Chermashnya on the way. It's only to turn to the left from the station at Volovya. Only another twelve bursts, and you come to Chermashnya. I'm sorry, I can't. It's eighty bursts to the railway, and the train starts for Moscow at seven o'clock tonight. I can only just catch it. You'll catch it tomorrow or the day after, but today turn off to Chermashnya. It won't put you out much to humor your father. If I hadn't had something to keep me here, I would have run over myself long ago, for I have some business there in a hurry. But here I—it's not the time for me to go now. You see, I've two pieces of Cops' land there. The Moslovs. An old merchant and his son will give eight thousand for the timber. But last year I just missed a purchaser who would have given twelve. There's no getting anyone about here to buy it. The Moslovs have it all their own way. One has to take what they'll give, for no one here dare bid against them. The priest at Ilyinsko wrote to me last Thursday that a merchant called Gorstkin, a man I know, had turned up. What makes him valuable is that he is not from these parts, so he is not afraid of the Moslovs. He says he will give me eleven thousand for the Cops. Do you hear? But he'll only be here, the priest writes, for a week altogether, so you must go at once and make a bargain with him. Well, you write to the priest, he'll make the bargain. He can't do it. He has no eye for business. He is a perfect treasure. I'd give him twenty thousand to take care of for me without a receipt. But he has no eye for business. He is a perfect child. A crow could deceive him. And yet he is a learned man, would you believe it? This Gorstkin looks like a peasant. He was a bluecafton. But he is a regular rogue. That's the common complaint.  Sometimes he tells such lies that you would wonder why he is doing it.  And would you believe it? There is not a word of truth in it. His wife had never died at all. She is alive to this day and gives him a beating twice a week. So what you have to find out is whether he is lying or speaking the truth when he says he wants to buy it, and would give eleven thousand. I shall be no use in such a business. I have no eye either. Stay, wait a bit. You will be of use for I will tell you the signs by which you can judge about Gorstkin. I've done business with him a long time. You see, you must watch his beard. He has a nasty, thin red beard. If his beard shakes when he talks, and he gets cross, it's all right. He is saying what he means. He wants to do business. But if he strokes his beard with his left hand and grins, he is trying to cheat you. Don't watch his eyes. You won't find out anything from his eyes. He is a deep one. A rogue but watch his beard. I'll give you a note, and you show it to him. He's called Gorstkin, though his real name is Ljagavij. Translators note, Cetardog. But don't call him so. He will be offended. If you come to an understanding with him, and see it's all right, right here at once, you need only right. He's not lying. Stound out for eleven thousand. One thousand you can knock off, but not more. Just think. There's a difference between eight thousand and eleven thousand. It's as good as picking up three thousand. It's not so easy to find a purchaser, and I'm in desperate need of money. Only let me know it's serious, and I'll run over and fix it up. I'll snatch the time somehow. But what's the good of my galloping over, if it's all a notion of the priests? Come, will you go? Oh, I can't spare the time. You must excuse me. Come, you might oblige your father. I shan't forget it. You've no heart. Any of you, that's what it is. What's a day or two to you? Where are you going now, to Venice? Your Venice will keep another two days. I would have sent Al-Yoshua. But what use is Al-Yoshua in a thing like that?  Do you suppose I don't see that? You know nothing about Timber, but you've got an eye. All that I wanted is to see whether the man is in earnest. I tell you what his beard, if his beard shakes, you know he is in earnest. You force me to go to that damned Chermashnya yourself, then? cried Yvonne with a malignant smile. Fyodor Pavlovich did not catch or would not catch the malignancy, but he caught the smile. Then you'll go. You'll go. I'll scribble the note for you at once. I don't know whether I shall go. I don't know. I'll decide on the way. Nonsense! Decide at once. My dear fellow, decide. If you settle the matter, write me a line. Give it to the priest, and he'll send it on to me at once. And I won't delay you more than that. You can go to Venice. The priest will give you horses back to Volovia Station. The old man was quite delighted. He wrote the note and sent for the horses. A light lunch was brought in with brandy. When Fyodor Pavlovich was pleased, he usually became expansive, but today he seemed to restrain himself. Of Dmitri, for instance, he did not say a word. He was quite unmoved by the parting and seemed, in fact, at a loss for something to say. Yvonne noticed this particularly. He must be bored with me, he thought. Only when accompanying his son out onto the steps, the old man began to fuss about. He would have kissed him, but Yvonne made haste to hold out his hand, obviously avoiding the kiss. His father saw it at once, and instantly pulled himself up. Well, good luck to you. Good luck to you. He repeated from the steps. You'll come again sometime or other. Mind you do come. I shall always be glad to see you. Well, Christ be with you. Yvonne got into the carriage. Good-bye, Yvonne. Don't be too hard on me. The father called for the last time. The whole household came out to take leave, Smerdiukov, Marfa, and Grigori. Yvonne gave them ten rubles each. When he had seated himself in the carriage, Smerdiukov jumped up to arrange the rug. You see, I am going to Chermashnya. Broke suddenly from Yvonne. Again as the day before, the words seemed to drop of themselves, and he laughed, too, a peculiar nervous laugh. He remembered it long after. It's a true saying, then, that it's always worth while speaking to a clever man, answered Smerdiukov firmly, looking significantly at Yvonne. The carriage rolled away. Nothing was clear in Yvonne's soul, but he looked eagerly around him at the fields, at the hills, at the trees, at a flock of geese flying high overhead in the bright sky. And all of a sudden he felt very happy. He tried to talk to the driver, and he felt intensely interested in an answer the peasant made him, but a minute later he realized that he was not catching anything, and that he had not really even taken in the peasant's answer. He was silent, and it was pleasant even so. The air was pure and cool, sky bright. The images of Alyosha and Katharina Ivanovna floated into his mind, but he softly smiled, blew softly on the friendly phantoms, and they flew away. There's plenty of time for them, he thought. They reached the station quickly, changed horses, and galloped to Volovia. Why is it worth while speaking to a clever man? What did he mean by that? The thought seemed suddenly to clutch at his breathing. And why did I tell him I was going to Chermashnya? They reached Volovia Station, Ivan got out of the carriage, and the driver stood round him, bargaining over the journey of twelve bursts to Chermashnya. He told them to harness the horses, he went into the station house, looked round, glanced at the overseer's wife, and suddenly went back to the entrance. I won't go to Chermashnya. Am I too late to reach the railway by seven, brothers? We shall just do it. Shall we get the carriage out? At once. Will any one of you be going to the town tomorrow? To be sure, Mitri here will. Can you do me a service, Mitri? Go to my father's, to Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, and tell him I haven't gone to Chermashnya. Can you? Of course I can. I've known Fyodor Pavlovich a long time. And here's something for you, for I dare say he won't give you anything, said Ivan, laughing gaily. You may depend on it, he won't, Mitri left too. Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to do it. At seven o'clock Ivan got into the train and set off to Moscow. Away with the past, I've done with the old world forever, and may I have no news, no echo from it, to a new life, new places, and no looking back. But instead of delight his soul was filled with such gloom and his heart ached with such anguish as he had never known in his life before. He was thinking all the night, the train flew on, and only at daybreak, when he was approaching Moscow, he suddenly roused himself from his meditation. I am a scoundrel, he whispered to himself. Fyodor Pavlovich remained well satisfied at having seen his son off. For two hours afterwards he felt almost happy, and sat drinking brandy. But suddenly something happened which was very annoying and unpleasant for everyone in the house, and completely upset Fyodor Pavlovich's equanimity at once. Smerudyukov went to the cello for something and fell down from the top of the steps. Fortunately Marfa Ignatyevna was in the yard and heard him in time. She did not see the fall, but heard his scream, the strange peculiar scream, long familiar to her, the scream of the epileptic falling in a fit. They could not tell whether the fit had come on him at the moment he was descending the steps, so that he must have fallen unconscious, or whether it was the fall and the shock that had caused the fit in Smerudyukov, who was known to be liable to them. They found him at the bottom of the cellar steps, writhing in convulsions and foaming at the mouth. It was thought at first that he must have broken something, an arm or a leg, and hurt himself. But God had preserved him, as Marfa Ignatyevna expressed it. Nothing of the kind had happened. But it was difficult to get him out of the cellar. They asked the neighbors to help and managed it somehow. Fyodor Pavlovich himself was present at the whole ceremony. He helped, evidently alarmed and upset. The sick man did not regain consciousness. The convulsions ceased for a time, but then began again, and everyone concluded that the same thing would happen, as had happened a year before, when he accidentally fell from the garret. They remembered that ice had been put on his head then. There was still ice in the cellar, and Marfa Ignatyevna had some brought up. In the evening, Fyodor Pavlovich sent for Dr. Herzenstube, who arrived at once. He was a most estimable old man, and the most careful and conscientious doctor in the province. After careful examination, he concluded that the fit was a very violent one and might have serious consequences. That, meanwhile, he, Herzenstube, did not fully understand it. But that by tomorrow morning, if the present remedies were unavailing, he would venture to try something else. The invalid was taken to the lodge, to a room next to Grigoris, and Marfa Ignatyevna's. Then Fyodor Pavlovich had one misfortune after another to put up with that day. Marfa Ignatyevna cooked the dinner, and the soup, compared with Smerdjukov's, was no better than dish-water. And the fowl was so dried up that it was impossible to masticate it. To her master's bitter, though deserved reproaches, Marfa Ignatyevna replied that the fowl was a very old one to begin with, and that she had never been trained as a cook. In the evening there was another trouble in store for Fyodor Pavlovich. He was informed that Grigori, who had not been well for the last three days, was completely laid up by his lumbago. Fyodor Pavlovich finished his tea as early as possible and locked himself up alone in the house. He was in terrible excitement and suspense. That evening he reckoned on Grushenko's coming almost as a certainty. He had received from Smerdjukov that morning an assurance that she had promised to come without fail. The incorrigible old man's heart throbbed with excitement. He paced up and down his empty rooms, listening. He had to be on the alert. Dimitri might be on the watch for her somewhere, and when she knocked on the window, Smerdjukov had informed him two days before that he had told her where and how to knock. The door must be opened at once. She must not be a second in the passage for fear which God forbid that she should be frightened and run away. Fyodor Pavlovich had much to think of, but never had his heart been steeped in such voluptuous hopes. This time he could say almost certainly that she would come. 6 The Russian Monk CHAPTER I When with an anxious and aching heart Alyosha went into his elder's cell he stood still, almost astonished.  He was surrounded by visitors and engaged in quiet and joyful conversation. But he had only got up from his bed a quarter of an hour before Alyosha's arrival. His visitors had gathered together in his cell earlier, waiting for him to wake, having received a most confident assurance from Father Paesi that the teacher would get up, and as he had himself promised in the morning, converse once more with those dear to his heart. This promise, and indeed every word of the dying elder, Father Paesi put implicit trust in. If he had seen him unconscious, if he had seen him breathe his last, and yet had his promise that he would rise up and say goodbye to him, he would have not believed perhaps even in death, but would still have expected the dead man to recover and fulfill his promise. In the morning, as he lay down to sleep, Father Zosima had told him positively, I shall not die without the delight of another conversation with you, beloved of my heart. I shall look once more on your dear face and pour out my heart to you once again. The monks who had gathered for this probably last conversation with Father Zosima had all been his devoted friends for many years. There were four of them, Father Yosef and Father Paesi, Father Mihail, the warden of the Hermitage, a man not very old and far from being learned. He was of humble origin, of strong will and steadfast faith, of austere appearance, but of deep tenderness, though he obviously concealed it as though he were almost ashamed of it. The fourth, Father Anfim, was a very old and humble little monk of the poorest peasant class. He was almost illiterate and very quiet, scarcely speaking to anyone. He was the humblest of the humble and looked as though he had been frightened by something great and awful beyond the scope of his intelligence. Father Zosima had a great affection for this timorous man and always treated him with marked respect, though perhaps there was no one he had known to whom he had said less, in spite of the fact that he had spent years wandering about Holy Russia with him. That was very long ago, forty years before. When Father Zosima first began his life as a monk in a poor and little monastery at Kostroma, and when, shortly after, he had accompanied Father Anfim on his pilgrimage to collect alms for their poor monastery. The whole party were in the bedroom which, as we mentioned before, was very small, so there was scarcely room for the four of them, in addition to poor Firi the novice who stood, to sit round Father Zosima on chairs brought from the sitting-room. It was already beginning to get dark. The room was lighted up by the lamps and the candles before the icons. Seeing Alyosha standing embarrassed in the doorway, Father Zosima smiled at him joyfully and held out his hand. Welcome, my quiet one! Welcome, my dear! Here you are too! I knew you would come. Alyosha went up to him, bowed down before him to the ground and wept. Something surged up from his heart, his soul was quivering. He wanted to sob. Come, don't weep over me yet! Father Zosima smiled, laying his right hand on his head. You see, I am sitting up, talking. Maybe I shall live another twenty years yet.  Por Firi, did you take her offering where I told you? He meant the sixty copex brought him the day before by the good-humoured woman to be given to someone poorer than me. Such offerings, always of money gained by personal toil, are made by way of penance, voluntarily undertaken. The elder had sent Por Firi the evening before to a widow, whose house had been burnt down lately, and who after the fire had gone with her children, begging alms. Por Firi hastened to reply that he had given the money, as he had been instructed, from an unknown benefactress. Oh, get up, my dear boy! The elder went on to Alyosha. Let me look at you. Have you been home and seen your brother? It seemed strange to Alyosha that he asked so confidently and precisely about one of his brothers only. But which one? Then perhaps he had sent him out both yesterday and today for the sake of that brother. I have seen one of my brothers, answered Alyosha. I mean the elder one, to whom I bowed down. I only saw him yesterday and could not find him today, said Alyosha. Make haste to find him. Go ahead. Make haste to find him. Go again tomorrow and make haste. Leave everything, and make haste. Perhaps you may still have time to prevent something terrible. I bowed down yesterday to the great suffering in store for him. He was suddenly silent and seemed to be pondering. The words were strange. Father Yosef, who had witnessed the scene yesterday, exchanged glances with Father Paesi. Alyosha could not resist asking, Father, teacher, he began with extreme emotion.  What is this suffering in store for him? Don't inquire. I seem to see something terrible yesterday, as though his whole future were expressed in his eyes. A look came into his eyes, so that I was instantly horror-stricken at what that man is preparing for himself. Once or twice in my life I've seen such a look in a man's face, reflecting as it were his future fate, and that fate, alas, came to pass. I sent you to him, Alexier, for I thought your brotherly face would help him. But everything and all our fates are from the Lord. Except the corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone, but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit. Remember that. You, Alexier, I've many times silently blessed for your face. Know that. Out of the altar with a gentle smile. This is what I think of you. You will go forth from these walls, but will live like a monk in the world. You will have many enemies, but even your foes will love you.  Well, that is your character. Fathers and teachers, he addressed his friends with a tender smile. I have never till today told even him why the face of this youth is so dear to me. Now I will tell you. His face has been as it were a remembrance and a prophecy for me. At the dawn of my life when I was a child, I had an elder brother who died before my eyes at 17. And later on, in the course of my life, I gradually became convinced that that brother had been a guidance and a sign from on high for me. For had he not come into my life, I should never perhaps, so I fancy at least, have become a monk and entered on this precious path. He appeared first to me in my childhood, and here, at the end of my pilgrimage, he seems to have come to me over again. It is marvellous, fathers and teachers, that Alexei, who has some, though not a great resemblance in face, seems to me so like him spiritually, that many times I have taken him for that young man my brother, mysteriously come back to me at the end of my pilgrimage as a reminder and an inspiration, so that I positively wondered at so strange a dream in myself. Do you hear this, Porfiry? He turned to the novice who waited on him. Many times I have seen in your face as it were a look of mortification that I love Alexei more than you. Now you know why that was so, but I love you too, know that, and many times I grieve at your mortification. I should like to tell you, dear friends, of that youth my brother, for there has been no presence in my life more precious, more significant and touching. My heart is full of tenderness, and I look at my whole life at this moment as though living through it again. Here I must observe that this last conversation of Father Zosima, with the friends who visited him on the last day of his life, has been partly preserved in writing. Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov wrote it down from memory, some time after his elder's death. But whether this was the only conversation that took place then, or whether he added to it his notes of parts of former conversations with his teacher, I cannot determine. In his account, Father Zosima's talk goes on without interruption, as though he told his life to his friends in the form of a story, though there is no doubt from other accounts of it that the conversation that evening was general. Though the guests did not interrupt Father Zosima much, yet they too talked, perhaps even told something themselves. Besides, Father Zosima could not have carried on in an interrupted narrative, for he was sometimes gasping for breath, his voice failed him, and he even laid down to rest on his bed, though he did not fall asleep, and his visitors did not leave their seats. Once or twice the conversation was interrupted by Father Paese's reading of the Gospel. It is worthy too that no one of them supposed that he would die that night, for on that evening of his life, after his deep sleep in the day, he seemed suddenly to have found new strength which kept him up through this long conversation. It was like a last effort of love which gave him marvelous energy, only for a little time, however, for his life was cut short immediately. But of that later, I will only add now that I have preferred to confine myself to the account given by Alexei Fyodorovich Karmazov. It will be shorter, and not so fatiguing though, of course as I must repeat, Alyosha took a great deal from previous conversations and added them to it. Notes of the life of the deceased priest and monk, the elder Zosima, taken from his own words by Alexei Fyodorovich Karmazov. Biographical notes, Section A, Father Zosima's brother, beloved fathers and teachers. I was born in a distant province in the north, in the town of V. My father was a gentleman by birth, but of no great consequence or position. He died when I was only two years old, and I don't remember him at all. He left my mother a small house built of wood, and a fortune, not large, but sufficient to keep her and her children in comfort. There were two of us, my elder brother Markle and I. He was eight years older than I was, of hasty, irritable temperament, but kind-hearted, and never ironical. He was remarkably silent, especially at home with me, his mother, and the servants. He did well at school, but did not get on with his school fellows, though he never quarreled. At least so my mother had told me. Six months before his death, when he was seventeen, he made friends with a political exile who had been banished from Moscow to our town for free thinking, and led a solitary existence there. He was a good scholar who had gained distinction in philosophy in the university. Something made him take a fancy to Markle, and he used to ask to see him. The young man would spend whole evenings with him during that winter, till the exile was summoned to Petersburg to take up his post again at his own request, as he had powerful friend. It was the beginning of Lent, and Markle would not fast. He was rude and laughed about it. That's all silly twaddle! And there is no God, he said, horrifying my mother, the servants, and me too, for though I was only nine, I too was aghast at hearing such words. We had four servants, all serfs. I remember my mother selling one of the four, the Cook of Emia, who was lame and elderly, for sixty paper-rubles, and hiring a free servant to take her place. In the sixth week of Lent, my brother, who was never strong and had a tendency to consumption, was taken ill. He was tall, but thin and delicate looking, and a very pleasing countenance. I suppose he caught cold, any way the doctor, who came, soon whispered to my mother that it was galloping consumption, that he would not live through the spring. My mother began weeping, and careful not to alarm my brother she entreated him to go to church, and to confess, and take the sacrament, as he was still able to move about. This made him angry, and he said something profane about the church. He grew thoughtful, however. He guessed at once that he was seriously ill, and had a year before Cooley observed that dinner to my mother and me. My life won't be long among you. I may not live another year. Which seemed now like a prophecy. Three days passed, and holy week had come, and on Tuesday morning my brother began going to church. I am doing this simply for your sake, mother, to please and comfort you. He said. My mother wept with joy and grief. His end must be near, she thought, if there's such a change in him. But he was not able to go to church long. He took to his bed, so he had to confess and take the sacrament at home. It was a late Easter, and the days were bright and fine and full of fragrance. I remember he used to cough all night and sleep badly, but in the morning he dressed and tried to sit up in an armchair. That's how I remember him. Sitting, sweet and gentle, smiling, his face bright and joyous, in spite of his illness. A marvelous change passed over him. His spirit seemed to transform. The old nurse would come in and say, Let me light the lamp before the holy image, my dear. And once he would not have allowed it, and would have blown it out, light it, light it, dear. I was a wretch to have prevented you doing it. You are praying when you light the lamp, and I am praying when I rejoice seeing you. So we are praying to the same God.  But when she went into him she wiped her eyes and looked cheerful. Mother, don't weep, darling, you would say. I've longed to live yet, longed to rejoice with you, and life is glad and joyful. Oh, dear boy, how can you talk of joy when you lie feverish at night, coughing as though you would tear yourself to pieces? Don't cry, mother, he would answer. Life is paradise, and we are all in paradise, but we don't see it. If we would, we should have heaven on earth the next day. Everyone wondered at his words. He spoke so strangely and positively. We were all touched and wept. Friends came to see us. Dear ones, you would say to them, What have I done that you should love me so? How can you love anyone like me? And how was it I did not know? I did not appreciate it before. Oh, when the servants came into him he would say continually, Dear kind people, why are you doing so much for me? Do I deserve to be waited on? If it were God's will for me to live, I would wait on you, for all men should wait on one another.  Mother darling, he would say, there must be servants and masters, but if so, I will be the servant of my servants, the same as they are to me. And another thing, mother, every one of us has sinned against all men, and I more than any. Mother positively smiled at that, smiled through her tears. Why, how could you have sinned against all men, more than all? Robbers and murderers have done that, but what sin have you committed yet that you hold yourself more guilty than all? Mother, little heart of mine, he said, he had begun using such strange caressing words at that time. Little heart of mine, my joy, believe me, everyone is really responsible to all men, for all men and for everything. I don't know how to explain it to you, but I feel it so, painfully even. And how is it we went on then living, getting angry and not knowing?  When the doctor, an old German named Eisenschmidt, came, Well, doctor, have I another day in this world? he would ask, joking. You'll live many days yet, the doctor would answer. And months and years, too. Months and years, he would exclaim. Why reckon the days? One day is enough for a man to know all happiness? My dear ones, why do we quarrel, try to outshine each other and keep grudges against each other? Let's go straight into the garden, walk and play there, love, appreciate and kiss each other, and glorify life. Your son cannot last long, the doctor told my mother, as she accompanied him to the door. The disease is affecting his brain. The windows of his room looked out into the garden, and our garden was a shady one, with old trees in it which were coming into bud. The first birds of spring were flitting in the branches, cheer uping and singing at the windows. And looking at them and admiring them, he began suddenly begging their forgiveness, too. Birds of heaven, happy birds, forgive me, for I have sinned against you, too. None of us could understand at that time, but he shed tears of joy. Yes, he said, there was such a glory of God all about me, birds, trees, meadows, sky. Only I lived in shame and dishonored it all, and did not notice the beauty and glory. You take too many sins on yourself, mother used to say, weeping. Mother, darling, it's for joy, not for grief, I am crying. Though I can't explain it to you, I like to humble myself before them, for I don't know how to love them enough. If I have sinned against everyone, let all forgive me, too. And that's heaven. Am I not in heaven now? And there was a great deal more I don't remember. I remember I went once into his room when there was no one else there. It was a bright evening, the sun was setting, and the whole room was lighted up. He beckoned me and I went up to him. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my face tenderly, lovingly. He said nothing for a minute. Only looked at me like that. Oh, he said, run and play now. Enjoy life for me, too. I went out then and ran to play, and many times in my life afterwards I remembered, even with tears, how he told me to enjoy life for him, too. There were many other marvelous and beautiful sayings of his, though we did not understand them at the time. He died the third week after Easter. He was fully conscious, though he could not talk. Up to his last hour he did not change. He looked happy. His eyes beamed and sought us. He smiled at us. Beckoned us. There was a great deal of talk even in the town about his death. I was surprised by all this at the time, but not too much so, though I cried a good deal at his funeral. I was young then, a child, but a lasting impression, a hidden feeling of it all, remained in my heart, ready to rise up and respond when the time came. So, indeed, it happened. Section B of the Holy Scriptures in the life of Fr. Zosima. I was left alone with my mother. Her friends began advising her to send me to Petersburg, as other parents did. You only have one son now, they said, and have a fair income, and you will be depriving him perhaps of a brilliant career if you keep him here. They suggested that I should be sent to Petersburg to the Cadet Corps, that I might afterwards enter the Imperial Guard. My mother hesitated for a long time. It was awful to part with her only child, but she made up her mind to it at last, though not without many tears, believing she was acting for my happiness. She brought me to Petersburg and put me into the Cadet Corps. And I never saw her again, for she too died three years afterward. She spent those three years mourning and grieving for both of us. From the house of my childhood I have brought nothing but precious memories, for there are no memories more precious than those of early childhood in one's own home, and that is almost always so if there is any love and harmony in the family at all. Indeed, precious memories may remain even of a bad home, if only the heart knows how to find what is precious. With my memories of home I count to my memories of the Bible, which, child as I was, I was very eager to read at home. I had a book of Scripture history then with excellent pictures, called A Hundred and Four Stories from the Old and New Testament, and I learned to read from it. I have it lying on my shelf now, I keep it as a precious relic of the past. But even before I learned to read, I remember first being moved to a devotional feeling at eight years old. My mother took me alone to Mass, I don't remember where my brother was at the time, on the morning before Easter. It was a fine day, and I remember today as though I saw it now, how the incense rose from the censor and softly floated upwards and overhead in the cupola mingled in rising waves with the sunlight that streamed in at the little window. I was stirred by the sight, and for the first time in my life I consciously received the seed of God's word in my heart. A youth came out into the middle of the church carrying a big book, so large that at the time I fancied he could scarcely carry it. He laid it on the reading desk, opened it, and began reading, and suddenly, for the first time, I understood something read in the church of God. In the land of ours there lived a man righteous and God-fearing, and he had great wealth, so many camels, so many sheep and asses, and his children feasted, and he loved them very much and prayed for them. It may be that my sons have sinned in their feasting. Now the devil came before the Lord together with the sons of God, and said to the Lord that he had gone up and down the earth, and under the earth. And Hastal considered my servant Job, God asked of him, and God boasted to the devil, pointing to his great and holy servant. And the devil laughed at God's words, and gave him over to me, and thou wilt see that thy servant will murmur against thee and curse thy name. And God gave up the just man he loved so, to the devil.  The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord for ever and ever. Fathers and teachers, forgive my tears now, for all my childhood rises up again before me, and I breathe now as I breathe then, with the breast of a little child of eight. And I feel, as I did then, awe and wonder and gladness. The camels at that time caught my imagination, and Satan, who talked like that with God, and God, who gave his servant up to destruction, and his servant crying out, Blessed be thy name, although thou dost punish me. And then the soft and sweet singing in the church, that my prayer rise up before thee, and again incense from the priest's censer, and the kneeling and the prayer. Ever since then, only yesterday I took it up, I have never been able to read that sacred tale without tear. And how much that is great, mysterious, and unfathomable there is in it. Afterwards, I heard the words of mockery and blame, proud words. How could God give up the most loved of his saints for the diversion of the devil, take him from his children, smite him with sore boil so that he cleansed the corruption from his swords with a potchard, and for no object except to boast to the devil, see what my saint can suffer for my sake? But the greatness of it lies just in the fact that it is a mystery, that the passing earthly show and the eternal verity are brought together in it. In the face of the earthly truth, the eternal truth is accomplished. The creator, just as on the first days of creation he ended the day with praise, that is good that I have created, looks upon Job and again praises his creation. And Job, praising the Lord, serves not only him, but all his creation for generations and generations and for ever and ever, since for that he was ordained. What a book the Bible is, what a miracle, what strength is given with it to man. It is like a mole cast of the world and man and human nature. Everything is there, and a law for everything for all the ages. And what mysteries are solved and revealed. God raises Job again, gives him wealth again, many years pass by and he has other children and loves them. But how could he love those new ones when those first children are no more, when he has lost them? Remembering them, how could he be fully happy with those new ones, however dear the new ones might be? But he could. He could. It's the great mystery of human life that old grief passes gradually into quiet, tender joy. The mild serenity of age takes the place of the riotous blood of youth. I bless the rising sun each day, and as before my heart sings to meet it. But now I love even more its setting, its long-slanting rays, and the soft, tender, gentle memories that come with them, the dear images from the whole of my long happy life, and over all the divine truth, softening, reconciling, forgiving. My life is ending. I know that well. But every day that has left me, I feel how earthly life is in touch with a new, infinite, unknown, but approaching life, the nearness of which sets my soul quivering with rapture, my mind glowing, and my heart weeping with joy. Ah, friends and teachers, I have heard more than once, and of late one may hear it more often, that the priests and above all the village priests are complaining on all sides of their miserable income and their humiliating lot. They plainly state, even in print, I've read it myself, that they are unable to teach the scriptures to the people because of the smallness of their means, and if Lutherans and heretics come and lead the flock astray, they let them lead them astray because they have so little to live upon. May the Lord increase the sustenance that is so precious to them, for their complaint is just too. But of a truth, I say, if anyone is to blame in the matter, half the fault is ours. For he may be short of time. He may say truly that he is overwhelmed all the while with work and services, but it's still not all the time, even if he has an hour a week to remember God. And he does not work the whole year round. Let him gather round him once a week, some hour in the evening, if only the children at first. The fathers will hear of it, and they too will begin to come. There's no need to build halls for this, let them take them into his own cottage. They won't spoil his cottage, they would only be there one hour. Let him open that book and begin reading it without grand words or superciliousness, without condescension to them, but gently and kindly, being glad that he is reading to them and that they are listening with attention, loving the words himself, only stopping from time to time to explain words that are not understood by the peasants. Don't be anxious, they will understand everything. The Orthodox heart will understand all. Let him read them about Abraham and Sarah, about Isaac and Rebecca, of how Jacob went to Laban and wrestled with the Lord in his dream and said, This place is holy. And he will impress the devout mind of the peasant. Let him read especially to the children how the brothers sold Joseph, the tender boy, the dreamer and prophet, into bondage, and told their father that a wild beast had devoured him and showed him his bloodstained clothes. Let him read them how the brothers afterwards journeyed into Egypt for corn, and Joseph, already a great ruler, unrecognized by them, tormented them, accused them, kept his brother Benjamin, and all through love.  For he remembered all his life how they had sold him to the merchants in the burning desert by the well, and how, ringing his hands, he had wept and besought his brothers not to sell him as a slave in a strange land, and how seeing them again after many years he loved them beyond measure, but he harassed and tormented them in love. He left them at last not able to bear the suffering of his heart, flung himself on his bed, and wept. Then, wiping his tears away, he went out to them joyful and told them, Brothers, I am your brother Joseph. Let him read them further how happy old Jacob was on learning that his dawning boy was still alive, and how he went to Egypt, leaving his own country, and died in a foreign land, bequeathing the great prophecy that had lain mysteriously hidden in his meek and timid heart all his life, that from his offspring, from Judah, will come the great hope of the world, the Messiah, and the Saviour. Fathers and teachers, forgive me, and don't be angry, that like a little child I've been babbling of what you know long ago, and can teach me a hundred times more skillfully. I only speak from rapture, and forgive my tears, for I love the Bible. Let him too weep, the priest of God, and be sure that the hearts of his listers will throb in response. Only a little tiny seed is needed, drop it into the heart of the peasant, and it won't die. It will live in his soul all his life. It will be hidden in the midst of his darkness and sin like a bright spot, like a great reminder. And there's no need of much teaching or explanation. He will understand it all simply. Do you suppose that the peasants don't understand? Try reading them the touching story of the fair Esther and the hearty Vashti, or the miraculous story of Jonah in the whale. Don't forget either the parables of our Lord, choose especially from the Gospel of St. Luke, that's what I did, and then from the Acts of the Apostles the conversion of St. Paul, that you mustn't leave out on any account. And from the lives of the saints, for instance, the life of Alexei, the man of God, and greatest of all the happy martyr and the seer of God, Mary of Egypt, and you will penetrate their hearts with these simple tales. Give one hour a week to it in spite of your poverty, only one little hour, and you will see for yourselves that our people are gracious and grateful, and will repay you a hundredfold. Mindful of the kindness of their priests and the moving words they have heard from him, they will of their own accord help him in his fields and in his house, and will treat him with more respect than before, so that he will even increase his worldly well-being too. The thing is so simple, sometimes one is even afraid to put it into words for fear of being laughed at, and yet how true it is. One who does not believe in God will not believe in God's people. He who believes in God's people will see his holiness too, even though he had not believed in it till then. Only the people and their future spiritual power will convert our atheists who have torn themselves away from their native soil. And what is the use of Christ's words unless we set an example? The people are lost without the word of God, for their soul is a thirst for the word and for all that is good. In my youth, long ago, nearly forty years ago, I travelled all over Russia with Father Anfim, collecting funds for our monastery, and we stayed one night on the bank of a great navigable river with some fishermen. A good-looking peasant lad about eighteen joined us. He had to hurry back next morning to pull a merchant's barge along the bank. I noticed him looking straight before him with clear and tender eyes. It was a bright warm still July night, a cool mist rose from the broad river. We could hear the splash of a fish. The birds were still, all was hushed and beautiful, everything praying to God. Only we too were not sleeping, the lad and I, and we talked of the beauty of this world of God's and of the great mystery of it. Every blade of grass, every insect, ant, and golden bee also marvelously know their path. Though they have not intelligence, they bear witness to the mystery of God and continually accomplish it themselves. I saw the dear lad's heart was moved. He told me that he loved the forest and the forest birds. He was a bird catcher, knew the note of each of them, could call each bird. I know nothing better than to be in the forest, said he. Though all things are good. Truly, I answered him, all things are good and fair because all is truth. Look, said I, at the horse, that great beast that is so near to man, or the lowly pensive ox which feeds him and works for him, look at their faces, what meekness, what devotion to man who often beats them mercilessly, what gentleness, what confidence, and what beauty. It's touching to know that there is no sin in them. For all, all except man, is sinless, and Christ has been with them before us. Why, asked the boy, is Christ with them too? I cannot but be so, said I, since the word is for all. All creation and all creatures, every leaf is striving to the word, singing glory to God, weeping to Christ, unconsciously accomplishing this by the mystery of their sinless life. Yonder, said I, in the forest, wanders the dreadful bear, fierce and menacing, and yet innocent in it. And I told him how once a bear came to a great saint who had taken refuge in a tiny cell in the wood, and the great saint pitted him, went up to him without fear, and gave him a piece of bread. Go along, said he, Christ be with you. And the savage beast walked away meekly, and obediently, doing no harm. And the lad was delighted that the bear had walked away without hurting the saint, and that Christ was with him too. Ah! he said, how good that is! How good and beautiful is all God's work! He sat musing softly and sweetly. I saw he understood. And he slept beside me, a light and sinless sleep. May God bless youth. And I prayed for him as I went to sleep. Lord, send peace and light to thy people.


Welcome back to our channel. Today we are talking about top 15 highest paying jobs in finance in India. In any job search, you have to sift through several postings and identify the roles that match your profile and aspirations. When you are interested in entering a specific field, you may want to know about the lucrative career opportunities in that particular domain. In this article, we would cover the highest paying finance jobs in India. Job responsibilities here for financial analysts look after company finances, poring over data, and supporting financial management decisions. They also evaluate the possible outcomes of business and investment recommendations. Typically, they are hired in junior and senior capacities in banks, insurance companies, funds, and other financial institutions. Apart from basic financial literacy and accounting skills, these practitioners must possess critical thinking and communication skills. Average salary around 4.10 lakh rupees per annum. Number 14, senior accountant. Job responsibilities here for like any accounting job, this role involves recording entries related to assets, liabilities, revenue, and expenditure of a firm. Senior accountants are at the top of the rung, overseeing and analyzing the financial information and statements, maintaining balances, and resolving discrepancies. Average salary around 4.12 lakh rupees per annum. Number 13, loan officer. Job responsibilities here for loan officers approve, authorize, and process applications of real estate, business, or credit loans. They assess candidates financial status or credit worthiness and subsequently interview them. Setting up plans for debt payment and evaluating applicable metrics and ratios are some of their other duties. You can work as a loan officer in a mortgage company, a commercial bank, or a credit union. Average salary around 4.60 lakh rupees per annum. Starting. Number 12, management analyst. Job responsibilities here for management consultants and analysts work to improve business performance. They examine specific issues and develop solutions to boost efficiency. To work as a management analyst, you should be able to interpret data and information and use your findings to create proposals for the company. Professional certification in business analytics can help you become more job ready for management analyst positions. Alternatively, you can consider applying for a specialized MBA program. Average salary around 4.65 lakh rupees per annum. Number 11, personal finance advisor. Job responsibilities here for personal financial advisors provide their services in diverse areas, ranging from life insurance, estate planning, investments, taxes, retirement planning to personal budgeting assistance. You can also start a practice or consulting firm for this purpose. It would be ideal to have a background in accounting or finance, followed by an MBA or MSC. In finance, average salary around 4.90 lakh rupees per annum. Number 10, compliance officer. Job responsibilities here for compliance officers or analysts work in public or private companies, and sometimes in established nonprofit organizations, to ensure that all activities are carried out as per the guidelines set by the governance agencies. Since the long-term financial growth depends upon the established standards and regulations, these professionals play a crucial role in the finance industry. Their work involves aspects of data analysis and reviewing processes and related infrastructure to achieve compliance. Average salary around 5.40 lakh rupees per annum. Number 09, financial advisor. Job responsibilities here for these professionals identify short-term and long-term financial goals for their clients and recommend the most suitable products and services to achieve them. For example, the primary duty of an insurance advisor is to research and suggest insurance offerings and interact with underwritings and risk managers for implementing their various job-related tasks. They are also responsible for providing direction to individual customers regarding the purchase of appropriate life, automobile, housing, and other insurance types. Average salary around 6 lakh rupees per annum. Number 08, financial software developer. Job responsibilities here for us the finance industry embraces technology and the internet. The demand for software developers has experienced a sharp rise. These employees design, develop, test, and maintain software in other programs that align with the company and end-users needs. FinTech is an emerging space for software developers as it envisions efficient delivery of financial services and associated activities. Some examples include mobile payments, stock trading applications, budgeting apps, and cryptocurrencies. Average salary around 7 lakh rupees per annum. Number 07, investment banker. Job responsibilities here for as an investment banker you are responsible for managing and investing entities investment portfolio. In other words, you keep track of the money invested by your client in different businesses to optimize the return and achieve the predetermined financial goals. Investment bankers handle stock and bond issues and also arrange for debt financing. Additionally, they are well-worse in managing merger and acquisition deals that bring in the most financial gains for investment banks. Investment banking is among the highest paying finance jobs in India, where candidates with significant experience can earn a total remuneration of 16.5 lakh rupees a year. Average salary around 8.70 lakh rupees per annum. Number 06, information technology auditor. Job responsibilities here for IT auditors work in government departments or private companies to attain synchrony between the technology infrastructure and enterprise needs. They also look after IT compliance and digital security to enable smooth functioning of all organizational processes. So, the audit review procedures can extend to software programs, computer networks, communication systems, and security setup. This job necessitates an adequate understanding of physical IT controls within the company and requires knowledge about the business operations and financial practices. Average salary around 10.74 lakh rupees per annum. Number 05, chief financial officer. Job responsibilities here for the chief financial officer OS4 has the duties of managing a company's capital structure and cash flow and planning for its future growth. Therefore, this four must have in-depth knowledge of accounting and financial modeling, among other skill sets. These executives also oversee the work of analysts, manage financial teams, and make decisions related to costing and technology infrastructure. This four title is particularly prominent in the retail and commercial banking sector in India. Average salary around 15.50 lakh rupees, mid-career, 37 lakh rupees, senior per annum. Number 04, chief compliance officer. Job responsibilities here for as the title suggests, this job is a top-notch role in compliance monitoring and policy management. CCOs apply their education and experience to eliminate non-compliance fees for the firms. Before landing this coveted spot, they may work as analysts, managing directors, and other positions to master the ropes and legal standards. Average salary around 15.75 lakh rupees per annum. Number 03, hedge fund manager. Job responsibilities here for high-net-worth individuals who are enthusiastic about investing often hire hedge fund managers to monitor markets and maximize their earnings. The job functions are similar to that of investment banking, except for the higher-risk reward portfolios of hedge fund managers. Investors pool their capital to make investments, and the fund manager protects them. Due to the intense working hours and technical nature, this career comes with a high entry-level salary of 7.5 lakh rupees a year. Average salary around 24 lakh rupees per annum. Number 02, private equity associate. Job responsibilities here for private equity and venture capital funds provide finance to early-stage ventures and growing businesses. This funding comes in exchange for profit participation or equity stake in the invest company. Like hedge fund managers, private equity associates liaise with the investor firms, individuals and apply their capital to business ventures having growth potential. Average salary around 32.34 lakh rupees per annum. Number 01, chief risk officer. Job responsibilities here for chief risk officers or cross-work in financial firms, looking out for any events that may threaten the company's profitability or financial solvency. They monitor investments, interact with the CCO, and assess risks by applying their superior analytical and problem-solving skills. Average salary around 13 lakh rupees, mid-senior, 50 lakh Indian rupees, senior, per annum.


Two goals apiece in the 90th minute between Derby and Peterborough and we're gonna get this ball that just goes off everybody's heads all the time and then drops in right into the goal after a kick save and the celebration. What is this? What is this hand? Cobra, posh, I tried to Google it, I couldn't figure it out but everyone's doing it and they're just doing it and it's fun. It hit six heads before touching the ground. One, two, three, four, five, six, and then kicks it past the keeper. Pretty incredible goal. Before it drops, just bam, through the legs, back of the net and the celebration again. What is this? You guys tell me. Please, need to know. Leave in the comments.


This video is brought to you by CuriosityStream. Go to curiositystream.com slash polyphonic and enter the offer code polyphonic to get 30 days for free. What is it that gives a place meaning? You might say the history, the culture, or even the geography, but I think it's something more than that. I think that places become meaningful because of how people experience all of these things. And I think that's the power of Sufjan Stevens Illinois. That double album is an ambitious project linked together by one concept, the state of Illinois. In it, Sufjan Stevens weaves beautiful stories about the culture, history, and geography of the region. But what makes the album really stand out is how he relates these subjects to his own experience and the human experience as a whole. Let's take a closer look. Illinois is a massive strange album of 22 songs ranging in length from six seconds to seven minutes. And honestly, analyzing them all would be an exercise in futility given their depth and breadth. So in this video, I'm going to look at four songs that have rung most true to me and that help contextualize how to listen to the entire album. The first I want to look at might be the darkest song on the album, John Wayne Gacy Jr. That song is a take on one of the darkest chapters in Illinois history, the titular serial killer John Wayne Gacy. Gacy sexually assaulted and murdered at least 33 young boys and men between 1972 and 1978 and became one of America's most notorious serial killers. The first half of the song tells this story over a haunting melody. And while Stevens could have simply sung of what a tragedy this was and ended there, he didn't. Stevens wanted to find more meaning in John Wayne Gacy. He wanted it to be more than just a tragedy and a waste of lives. So at the end of the song, Stevens does something few would feel comfortable doing on such a public stage. He reaches out and empathizes with John Wayne Gacy Jr. Stevens asks himself the question, how different is he from Gacy? In doing so, Stevens is forcing all of us to confront ourselves and to ask if we really are who we think we are, good people free of sin. He suggests that with some reflection, you'll realize that you have your own ghosts that you've buried. With this song, Stevens shifts your experience of a modern tragedy and forces you to question and learn from it. And this helps give direction to the rest of the album. When Sufjan sings about the people, places and events of Illinois, he doesn't want you just to take them at face value. He wants you to ask what they mean to you. And five songs after John Wayne Gacy, we get a song about one of the places in the state that is most meaningful to Stevens, Chicago. When Stevens was growing up in Detroit, Chicago was a beacon for him. It was a sign of escape of a bigger world. It was the place where he and his friends would drive to see concerts and seek out beauty. And that's what the song is about, the quest for beauty and truth and the mistakes you might make along the way. The lyrics are met with optimistic strings, the feeling of being young and being part of something. And as much as the song is about the destination of Chicago, it's about the journey too. The land helped Stevens find freedom from himself and his baggage, helped him grow and learn. Chicago is a distillation of youth and hope and change. And while we may not all feel this way about Chicago as a city, we all feel this way about somewhere, about some time. By showing us what Chicago means to him, Stevens is helping us reflect on our own personal history and the mistakes we've made that have come to pass. It's a beautiful song that teaches us to appreciate the cities that we visit for the meaning they provide to people, for the symbol that a big city can be. But this song about the optimism of youth is followed by a melancholic take on youth, Casimir Pulaski Day. The title of that song is a reference to a state holiday in Illinois, a day that holds special meaning to Stevens. It is on that holiday that Stevens lost one of his best friends as a teenager to bone cancer. This song details her death and the ensuing crisis of faith that it brought on for Stevens. Stevens' Christian faith can be seen all over his music, especially in Illinois, but in this song it's cast into doubt. A young Stevens has to face mortality as we all do at some point in life and has to ask why these things happen. It's a challenge to his belief in a benevolent loving God, and so Stevens gives new context to something unique to Illinois, Casimir Pulaski Day. These small moments are what make Illinois such a raw album. They're autobiographical snippets that can often hurt to hear, and by telling these stories, Sufian forces you to think about your surroundings. At any given time, in any given place, there are a thousand small stories going on, like the ones that Stevens sings. And that brings us to the last song we'll look at in this video, The Tallest Man, The Broadest Shoulders. The third last song on the album, this song is an echo of the third track, Come and Feel the Illinois. Like that track, it's split into two parts, and is also filled with references to Carl Sandberg. Sandberg was a poet from Illinois who, much like Stevens, captured life in Chicago in his art. The first half of the song looks at Chicago as a starting point of the American frontier. It looks at how Illinois provided a new start for many people, but struggles with the realization that this came at the expense of the indigenous population. As the song grows, it pushes forward in time, and the second half of the song is a slew of Illinois references. These are the dozens of small stories and icons, the things that the people of Illinois use to define themselves and find meanings in their life. This song are two instrumental pieces, so this song ends with the last word spoken on the album, O Great Illinois. Behind a chorus powerfully sings, it can only start with you. Illinois shows us that one state can mean a lot of different things to a lot of different people, and that's what makes it so powerful. And this video is only really brushing the surface.  Pick out the small nuances and the dozens of threads that run through, giving us new perspectives and new thoughts on life. In Illinois, Sufjan Stevens shows us why this place is so important to him, and in doing so, he helps us find meaning in our own lives and in the places surrounding us. One of the major threads throughout Illinois is the role that it served as a gateway to the American frontier. That's an important historical era that I never really appreciated until doing a deep dive on Sufjan Stevens, so after finishing this video, I went over to CuriosityStream to see if I could learn more, and sure enough, I found Howard Means Short Documentary pioneering the American frontier, which showed the challenges of frontier life and how it created the American identity. And that's just one of a number of great documentaries that CuriosityStream has on American history. From there, I went to Lincoln's Last Night, a documentary about another great figure in Illinois history. More than just history though, CuriosityStream offers 2,000 documentary titles on all kinds of different subjects. CuriosityStream is a subscription streaming service that addresses our lifelong quest to learn, explore, and understand. It's honestly such a great platform. Lately, I've been using it to watch documentaries at the gym and increase my productivity. You can try it out for yourself if you go to curiositystream.com slash polyphonic and enter the coupon code polyphonic. By using that code, you'll get 30 days of membership for free, and you'll show them that I sent you. And after that first 30 days, CuriosityStream is just $2.99 a month. There's so much knowledge waiting for you, so please go check it out, and remember to use the link in the description and the offer code polyphonic to let them know that I sent you and support my channel.