“Do not upset yourself, I beg you,” the elder suddenly rose on his feeble legs, took Pyotr Alexandrovich by both hands, and sat him down again on the chair. “Do not worry, I beg you. I ask you particularly to be my guest.” And with a bow, he turned and sat down again on his settee.
“Great elder, speak and tell me whether I offend you with my liveliness or not?” Fyodor Pavlovich suddenly cried, gripping the arms of his chair as if he were about to leap out of it, depending on the answer.
“I earnestly beg you, too, not to worry and not to be uncomfortable,” the elder said to him imposingly. “Be at ease, and feel completely at home. And above all do not be so ashamed of yourself, for that is the cause of everything.”
“Completely at home? You mean in my natural state? Oh, that is much, too much—but I’m touched, and I accept! You know, blessed father, you shouldn’t challenge me to be in my natural state, you shouldn’t risk it ... I myself will not go so far as to be in my natural state. I’m warning you in order to protect you. Well, and the rest is wrapped in the mists of uncertainty; though there are some who would like to paint me in broad strokes. I’m referring to you, Pyotr Alexandrovich; and you, most holy being, here is what I have for you: I pour out my rapture!” He rose slightly and, lifting up his hands, said; “ ‘Blessed is the womb that bare thee and the paps which thou hast sucked”—the paps especially! That remark you just made: ‘Not to be so ashamed of myself, for that is the cause of everything’—it’s as if you pierced me right through and read inside me. That is exactly how it all seems to me, when I walk into a room, that I’m lower than anyone else, and that everyone takes me for a buffoon, so ‘Why not, indeed, play the buffoon, I’m not afraid of your opinions, because you’re all, to a man, lower than me! ‘ That’s why I’m a buffoon, I’m a buffoon out of shame, great elder, out of shame. I act up just because I’m insecure. If only I were sure, when I came in, that everyone would take me at once for the most pleasant and intelligent of men—oh, Lord! what a good man I’d be! Teacher!” he suddenly threw himself on his knees, “what should I do to inherit eternal life?”[35]It was hard even now to tell whether he was joking or was indeed greatly moved.
The elder looked up at him and said with a smile:
“You’ve known for a long time what you should do; you have sense enough: do not give yourself up to drunkenness and verbal incontinence, do not give yourself up to sensuality, and especially to the adoration of money, and close your taverns; if you cannot close all of them then at least two or three. And above all, above everything else—do not lie.”
“About Diderot, you mean?”
“No, not exactly about Diderot. Above all, do not lie to yourself. A man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point where he does not discern any truth either in himself or anywhere around him, and thus falls into disrespect towards himself and others. Not respecting anyone, he ceases to love, and having no love, he gives himself up to passions and coarse pleasures, in order to occupy and amuse himself, and in his vices reaches complete bestiality, and it all comes from lying continually to others and to himself. A man who lies to himself is often the first to take offense. It sometimes feels very good to take offense, doesn’t it? And surely he knows that no one has offended him, and that he himself has invented the offense and told lies just for the beauty of it, that he has exaggerated for the sake of effect, that he has picked on a word and made a mountain out of a pea—he knows all of that, and still he is the first to take offense, he likes feeling offended, it gives him great pleasure, and thus he reaches the point of real hostility ... Do get up from your knees and sit down, I beg you, these posturings are false, too...”
“Blessed man! Let me kiss your hand,” Fyodor Pavlovich rushed up to the elder and quickly gave him a smack on his thin hand. “Precisely, precisely, it feels good to be offended. You put it so well, I’ve never heard it before. Precisely, precisely, all my life I’ve been getting offended for the pleasure of it, for the aesthetics of it, because it’s not only a pleasure, sometimes it’s beautiful to be offended—you forgot that, great elder: beautiful! I’ll make a note of that! And I’ve lied, I’ve lied decidedly all my life, every day and every hour. Verily, I am a lie and the father of a lie! Or maybe not the father of a lie, I always get my texts mixed up; let’s say the son of a lie,[36] that will do just as well! Only ... my angel ... sometimes Diderot is all right! Diderot won’t do any harm, it’s some little word that does the harm. Great elder, by the way, I almost forgot, though I did intend, as long as two years ago, to inquire here, to stop by on purpose and insistently make inquiries and to ask—only please tell Pyotr Alexandrovich not to interrupt. This I ask you: is it true, great father, that somewhere in the Lives of the Saints there is a story about some holy wonder-worker who was martyred for his faith, and when they finally cut his head off, he got up, took his head, ‘kissed it belovingly,’ and walked on for a long time carrying it in his hands and ‘kissing it belovingly’?[37] Is this true or not, honored fathers?”
“No, it is not true,” said the elder.
“There is nothing like that anywhere in the Lives of the Saints. Which saint did you say the story was about?” asked the Father Librarian.
“I don’t know which. I don’t know, I have no idea. I was led to believe, I was told. I heard it, and do you know who I heard it from? This same Pyotr Alexandrovich Miusov who just got so angry about Diderot, he told me.”
“I never told you that, I never even speak to you at all.”
“True, you didn’t tell it to me; but you told it in company when I was present; it was three years ago. I mention it because you, Pyotr Alexandrovich, shook my faith with this funny story. You didn’t know it, you had no idea, but I went home with my faith shaken, and since then I’ve been shaking more and more. Yes, Pyotr Alexandrovich, you were the cause of a great fall! Diderot nothing, sir!”
Fyodor Pavlovich was flushed with pathos, though by now it was quite clear to everyone that he was acting again. Even so, Miusov was painfully hurt.
“What nonsense, it’s all nonsense,” he muttered. “I may actually have told it once ... but not to you. It was told to me. I heard it in Paris, from a Frenchman. That it is supposedly read from the Lives of the Saints in our liturgy.[38] He was a very learned man, he made a special study of statistics about Russia . . lived in Russia for a long time ... I myself have not read the Lives of the Saints ... and do not intend to read them ... It was just table talk . . .! We were having dinner then ...”
“So you were having dinner then, and I just lost my faith!” Fyodor Pavlovich went on teasing him.
“What do I care about your faith!” Miusov almost shouted, but suddenly checked himself and said with contempt: “You literally befoul everything you touch.”
The elder suddenly rose from his seat:
“Excuse me, gentlemen, if I leave you now for just a few minutes,” he said, addressing all of his visitors, “but there are people awaiting me who came belore you. And you, all the same, do not lie,” he added, turning to Fyodor Pavlovich with a cheerful face.
He started to leave the cell. Alyosha and the novice rushed after him to help him down the stairs. Alyosha was breathless, he was glad to get away, but he was also glad that the elder was cheerful and not offended. The elder turned towards the porch in order to bless those who were awaiting him. But Fyodor Pavlovich managed to stop him at the door of the cell.
“Most blessed man!” he cried out with feeling, “let me kiss your dear hand once more. No, still you’re a man one can talk to, a man one can get along with. Do you think I always lie like this and play the buffoon? I want you to know that all the while I’ve been acting on purpose in order to test you. I’ve been getting the feel of you, seeing whether one can get along with you. Whether there’s room for my humility next to your pride. I present you with a certificate of honor: one can get along with you! And now, I am silent, from here on I’ll be silent. I’ll sit on my chair and be silent. Now it’s your turn to speak, Pyotr Alexandrovich, you are the most important man left—for the next ten minutes.”