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class="calibre1">were more indebted for their education and bringing up than to anyone.

He kept the two thousand roubles left to them by the general’s widow

intact, so that by the time they came of age their portions had been

doubled by the accumulation of interest. He educated them both at

his own expense, and certainly spent far more than a thousand

roubles upon each of them. I won’t enter into a detailed account of

their boyhood and youth, but will only mention a few of the most

important events. Of the elder, Ivan, I will only say that he grew

into a somewhat morose and reserved, though far from timid boy. At ten

years old he had realised that they were living not in their own

home but on other people’s charity, and that their father was a man of

whom it was disgraceful to speak. This boy began very early, almost in

his infancy (so they say at least), to show a brilliant and unusual

aptitude for learning. I don’t know precisely why, but he left the

family of Yefim Petrovitch when he was hardly thirteen, entering a

Moscow gymnasium and boarding with an experienced and celebrated

teacher, an old friend of Yefim Petrovitch. Ivan used to declare

afterwards that this was all due to the “ardour for good works” of

Yefim Petrovitch, who was captivated by the idea that the boy’s genius

should be trained by a teacher of genius. But neither Yefim Petrovitch

nor this teacher was living when the young man finished at the

gymnasium and entered the university. As Yefim Petrovitch had made

no provision for the payment of the tyrannical old lady’s legacy,

which had grown from one thousand to two, it was delayed, owing to

formalities inevitable in Russia, and the young man was in great

straits for the first two years at the university, as he was forced to

keep himself all the time he was studying. It must be noted that he

did not even attempt to communicate with his father, perhaps from

pride, from contempt for him, or perhaps from his cool common sense,

which told him that from such a father he would get no real

assistance. However that may have been, the young man was by no

means despondent and succeeded in getting work, at first giving

sixpenny lessons and afterwards getting paragraphs on street incidents

into the newspapers under the signature of “Eye-Witness.” These

paragraphs, it was said, were so interesting and piquant that they

were soon taken. This alone showed the young man’s practical and

intellectual superiority over the masses of needy and unfortunate

students of both sexes who hang about the offices of the newspapers

and journals, unable to think of anything better than everlasting

entreaties for copying and translations from the French. Having once

got into touch with the editors Ivan Fyodorovitch always kept up his

connection with them, and in his latter years at the university he

published brilliant reviews of books upon various special subjects, so

that he became well known in literary circles. But only in his last

year he suddenly succeeded in attracting the attention of a far

wider circle of readers, so that a great many people noticed and

remembered him. It was rather a curious incident. When he had just

left the university and was preparing to go abroad upon his two

thousand roubles, Ivan Fyodorovitch published in one of the more

important journals a strange article, which attracted general

notice, on a subject of which he might have been supposed to know

nothing, as he was a student of natural science. The article dealt

with a subject which was being debated everywhere at the time-the

position of the ecclesiastical courts. After discussing several

opinions on the subject he went on to explain his own view. What was

most striking about the article was its tone, and its unexpected

conclusion. Many of the Church party regarded him unquestioningly as

on their side. And yet not only the secularists but even atheists

joined them in their applause. Finally some sagacious persons opined

that the article was nothing but an impudent satirical burlesque. I

mention this incident particularly because this article penetrated

into the famous monastery in our neighbourhood, where the inmates,

being particularly interested in question of the ecclesiastical

courts, were completely bewildered by it. Learning the author’s

name, they were interested in his being a native of the town and the

son of “that Fyodor Pavlovitch.” And just then it was that the

author himself made his appearance among us.

 

Why Ivan Fyodorovitch had come amongst us I remember asking myself

at the time with a certain uneasiness. This fateful visit, which was

the first step leading to so many consequences, I never fully

explained to myself. It seemed strange on the face of it that a

young man so learned, so proud, and apparently so cautious, should

suddenly visit such an infamous house and a father who had ignored him

all his life, hardly knew him, never thought of him, and would not

under any circumstances have given him money, though he was always

afraid that his sons Ivan and Alexey would also come to ask him for

it. And here the young man was staying in the house of such a

father, had been living with him for two months, and they were on

the best possible terms. This last fact was a special cause of

wonder to many others as well as to me. Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miusov,

of whom we have spoken already, the cousin of Fyodor Pavlovitch’s

first wife, happened to be in the neighbourhood again on a visit to

his estate. He had come from Paris, which was his permanent home. I

remember that he was more surprised than anyone when he made the

acquaintance of the young man, who interested him extremely, and

with whom he sometimes argued and not without inner pang compared

himself in acquirements.

 

“He is proud,” he used to say, “he will never be in want of pence;

he has got money enough to go abroad now. What does he want here?

Everyone can see that he hasn’t come for money, for his father would

never give him any. He has no taste for drink and dissipation, and yet

his father can’t do without him. They get on so well together!”

 

That was the truth; the young man had an unmistakable influence

over his father, who positively appeared to be behaving more

decently and even seemed at times ready to obey his son, though

often extremely and even spitefully perverse.

 

It was only later that we learned that Ivan had come partly at the

request of, and in the interests of, his elder brother, Dmitri, whom

he saw for the first time on this very visit, though he had before

leaving Moscow been in correspondence with him about an important

matter of more concern to Dmitri than himself. What that business

was the reader will learn fully in due time. Yet even when I did

know of this special circumstance I still felt Ivan Fyodorovitch to be

an enigmatic figure, and thought his visit rather mysterious.

 

I may add that Ivan appeared at the time in the light of a

mediator between his father and his elder brother Dmitri, who was in

open quarrel with his father and even planning to bring an action

against him.

 

The family, I repeat, was now united for the first time, and

some of its members met for the first time in their lives. The younger

brother, Alexey, had been a year already among us, having been the

first of the three to arrive. It is of that brother Alexey I find it

most difficult to speak in this introduction. Yet I must give some

preliminary account of him, if only to explain one queer fact, which

is that I have to introduce my hero to the reader wearing the

cassock of a novice. Yes, he had been for the last year in our

monastery, and seemed willing to be cloistered there for the rest of

his life.

Chapter 4

The Third Son, Alyosha

 

HE was only twenty, his brother Ivan was in his twenty-fourth year

at the time, while their elder brother Dmitri was twenty-seven.

First of all, I must explain that this young man, Alyosha, was not a

fanatic, and, in my opinion at least, was not even a mystic. I may

as well give my full opinion from the beginning. He was simply an

early lover of humanity, and that he adopted the monastic life was

simply because at that time it struck him, so to say, as the ideal

escape for his soul struggling from the darkness of worldly wickedness

to the light of love. And the reason this life struck him in this

way was that he found in it at that time, as he thought an

extrordinary being, our celebrated elder, Zossima, to whom he became

attached with all the warm first love of his ardent heart. But I do

not dispute that he was very strange even at that time, and had been

so indeed from his cradle. I have mentioned already, by the way,

that though he lost his mother in his fourth year he remembered her

all his life her face, her caresses, “as though she stood living

before me.” Such memories may persist, as everyone knows, from an even

earlier age, even from two years old, but scarcely standing out

through a whole lifetime like spots of light out of darkness, like a

corner torn out of a huge picture, which has all faded and disappeared

except that fragment. That is how it was with him. He remembered one

still summer evening, an open window, the slanting rays of the setting

sun (that he recalled most vividly of all); in a corner of the room

the holy image, before it a lighted lamp, and on her knees before

the image his mother, sobbing hysterically with cries and moans,

snatching him up in both arms, squeezing him close till it hurt, and

praying for him to the Mother of God, holding him out in both arms

to the image as though to put him under the Mother’s protection… and

suddenly a nurse runs in and snatches him from her in terror. That was

the picture! And Alyosha remembered his mother’s face at that

minute. He used to say that it was frenzied but beautiful as he

remembered. But he rarely cared to speak of this memory to anyone.

In his childhood and youth he was by no means expansive, and talked

little indeed, but not from shyness or a sullen unsociability; quite

the contrary, from something different, from a sort of inner

preoccupation entirely personal and unconcerned with other people, but

so important to him that he seemed, as it were, to forget others on

account of it. But he was fond of people: he seemed throughout his

life to put implicit trust in people: yet no one ever looked on him as

a simpleton or naive person. There was something about him which

made one feel at once (and it was so all his life afterwards) that

he did not care to be a judge of others that he would never take it

upon himself to criticise and would never condemn anyone for anything.

He seemed, indeed, to accept everything without the least condemnation

though often grieving bitterly: and this was so much so that no one

could surprise or frighten him even in his earliest youth. Coming at

twenty to his father’s house, which was a very sink of filthy

debauchery, he, chaste and pure as he was, simply withdrew in

silence when to look on was unbearable, but without the slightest sign

of contempt or condemnation. His father, who had once been in a

dependent position, and so was sensitive

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