“Allow me,” Dmitri Fyodorovich suddenly cried unexpectedly, “to be sure I’ve heard correctly: ‘Evildoing should not only be permitted but even should be acknowledged as the most necessary and most intelligent solution for the situation of every godless person’! Is that it, or not?”
“Exactly that,” said Father Paissy. “I’ll remember.”
Having said which, Dmitri Fyodorovich fell silent as unexpectedly as he had unexpectedly flown into the conversation. They all looked at him with curiosity.
“Can it be that you really hold this conviction about the consequences of the exhaustion of men’s faith in the immortality of their souls?” the elder suddenly asked Ivan Fyodorovich.
“Yes, it was my contention. There is no virtue if there is no immortality.”
“You are blessed if you believe so, or else most unhappy!”
“Why unhappy?” Ivan Fyodorovich smiled.
“Because in all likelihood you yourself do not believe either in the immortality of your soul or even in what you have written about the Church and the Church question.”
“Maybe you’re right . . .! But still, I wasn’t quite joking either . . .” Ivan Fyodorovich suddenly and strangely confessed—by the way, with a quick blush.
“You weren’t quite joking, that is true. This idea is not yet resolved in your heart and torments it. But a martyr, too, sometimes likes to toy with his despair, also from despair, as it were. For the time being you, too, are toying, out of despair, with your magazine articles and drawing-room discussions, without believing in your own dialectics and smirking at them with your heart aching inside you ... The question is not resolved in you, and there lies your great grief, for it urgently demands resolution...”
“But can it be resolved in myself? Resolved in a positive way?” Ivan Fyodorovich continued asking strangely, still looking at the elder with a certain inexplicable smile.
“Even if it cannot be resolved in a positive way, it will never be resolved in the negative way either—you yourself know this property of your heart, and therein lies the whole of its torment. But thank the Creator that he has given you a lofty heart, capable of being tormented by such a torment, ‘to set your mind on things that are above, for our true homeland is in heaven.[53] May God grant that your heart’s decision overtake you still on earth, and may God bless your path!”
The elder raised his hand and was about to give his blessing to Ivan Fyodorovich from where he sat. But the latter suddenly rose from his chair, went over to him, received his blessing, and, having kissed his hand, returned silently to his place. He looked firm and serious. This action, as well as the whole preceding conversation with the elder, so unexpected from Ivan Fyodorovich, somehow struck everyone with its mysteriousness and even a certain solemnity, so that for a moment they all fell silent, and Alyosha looked almost frightened. But Miusov suddenly heaved his shoulders, and at the same moment Fyodor Pavlovich jumped up from his chair.
“Divine and most holy elder!” he cried, pointing at Ivan Fyodorovich, “this is my son, the flesh of my flesh, my own dear flesh! This is my most respectful Karl Moor, so to speak, and this son, the one who just came in, Dmitri Fyodorovich, against whom I am seeking justice from you, is the most disrespectful Franz Moor, both from Schiller’s Robbers, and I, I myself in that case am the regierender Graf von Moor![54] Judge and save us! It’s not just your prayers we need, but your prophecies!”
“Speak without foolery, and do not begin by insulting your relations,” the elder replied in a weak, exhausted voice. He was clearly getting more and more tired and was visibly losing his strength.
“An unworthy comedy, just as I anticipated on my way here!” Dmitri Fyodorovich exclaimed indignantly, also jumping up from his seat. “Forgive me, reverend father,” he turned to the elder, “I am an uneducated man and do not even know how to address you, but you have been deceived, and were too kind in letting us come together here. Papa is only looking for a scandal— who knows for what reason. He always has his reasons. But I think I see now...”
“All of them accuse me, all of them!” Fyodor Pavlovich shouted in his turn, “and Pyotr Alexandrovich, here, he accuses me, too. You did accuse me, Pyotr Alexandrovich, you did!” he suddenly turned to Miusov, though the latter had no thought of interrupting him. “They accuse me of pocketing children’s money and turning a profit on it, but, I beg your pardon, don’t we have courts of law? They’ll reckon it up for you, Dmitri Fyodorovich, according to your own receipts, letters, and contracts, how much you had, how much you’ve destroyed, and how much you’ve got left! Why does Pyotr Alexandrovich not give us his judgment? Dmitri Fyodorovich is no stranger to him. It’s because they’re all against me, and Dmitri Fyodorovich in the end owes me money, and not just a trifle but several thousand, sir, I’ve got it all on paper. The whole town is rattling and banging from his wild parties. And where he used to serve, he paid a thousand if not two thousand for the seduction of honest girls—we know about that, Dmitri Fyodorovich, sir, in all its secret details, and I can prove it, sir ... Most holy father, would you believe that he got one of the noblest of girls to fall in love with him, a girl from a good family, with a fortune, the daughter of his former superior, a brave colonel, decorated, the Anna with swords on his neck,[55] and then compromised the girl by offering her his hand, and now she’s here, now she’s an orphan, his fiancée, and he, before her very eyes, keeps visiting one of the local seductresses. But although this seductress has lived, so to speak, in civil marriage with a respected man, yet she is of independent character, an impregnable fortress to all, the same as a. lawful wife, for she is virtuous—yes, sir, holy fathers, she is virtuous! And Dmitri Fyodorovich wants to unlock this fortress with a golden key, and that’s why he’s trying to bully me even now, he wants to get some money out of me, and meanwhile he’s already thrown away thousands on this seductress, which is why he’s continually borrowing money from me, and, incidentally, from whom else, whom do you think? Shall I tell them, Mitya?”
“Silence!” Dmitri Fyodorovich shouted. “Wait until I’m gone. Do not dare in my presence to sully the noblest of girls ... That you are even so bold as to mention her is shameful enough ... I will not allow it!”
He was gasping for breath.
“Mitya! Mitya!” Fyodor Pavlovich cried tremulously, trying to squeeze out a tear. “Don’t you care about a father’s blessing? And what if I should curse you?”
“Shameless impostor!” Dmitri Fyodorovich roared in fury.
“He says that to his father! His father! Think how he must treat others! Imagine, gentlemen: there’s a poor but honorable man living here, a retired captain, fell into misfortune and was retired from service, but not publicly, not by court-martial, he preserved his honor. He’s burdened with a large family. And three weeks ago our Dmitri Fyodorovich seized him by the beard in a tavern, dragged him by that same beard into the street, and there in the street publicly thrashed him, and all because he’s acted as my agent in a little business of mine.”