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When it was fully daylight, some people began bringing their sick,
in most cases children, with them from the town- as though they had
been waiting expressly for this moment to do so, evidently persuaded
that the dead elder's remains had a power of healing, which would be
immediately made manifest in accordance with their faith. It was
only then apparent how unquestionably everyone in our town had
accepted Father Zossima during his lifetime as a great saint. And
those who came were far from being all of the humbler classes.
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THE body of Father Zossima was prepared for burial according to
the established Ritual. As is well known, the bodies of dead monks and
hermits are not washed. In the words of the Church Ritual: "If any one
of the monks depart in the Lord, the monk designated (that is, whose
office it is) shall wipe the body with warm water, making first the
sign of the cross with a sponge on the forehead of the deceased, on
the breast, on the hands and feet and on the knees, and that is
enough." All this was done by Father Paissy, who then clothed the
deceased in his monastic garb and wrapped him in his cloak, which was,
according to custom, somewhat slit to allow of its being folded
about him in the form of a cross. On his head he put a hood with an
eight-cornered cross. The hood was left open and the dead man's face
was covered with black gauze. In his hands was put an ikon of the
Saviour. Towards morning he was put in the coffin which had been
made ready long before. It was decided to leave the coffin all day
in the cell, in the larger room in which the elder used to receive his
visitors and fellow monks. As the deceased was a priest and monk of
the strictest rule, the Gospel, not the Psalter, had to be read over
his body by monks in holy orders. The reading was begun by Father
Iosif immediately after the requiem service. Father Paissy desired
later on to read the Gospel all day and night over his dead friend,
but for the present he, as well as the Father Superintendent of the
Hermitage, was very busy and occupied, for something extraordinary, an
unheard-of, even "unseemly" excitement and impatient expectation began
to be apparent in the monks, and the visitors from the monastery
hostels, and the crowds of people flocking from the town. And as
time went on, this grew more and more marked. Both the
Superintendent and Father Paissy did their utmost to calm the
general bustle and agitation.
This intense expectation on the part of believers displayed with
such haste, such openness, even with impatience and almost insistence,
impressed Father Paissy as unseemly. Though he had long foreseen
something of the sort, the actual manifestation of the feeling was
beyond anything he had looked for. When he came across any of the
monks who displayed this excitement, Father Paissy began to reprove
them. "Such immediate expectation of something extraordinary," he
said, "shows a levity, possible to worldly people but unseemly in us."
But little attention was paid him and Father Paissy noticed it
uneasily. Yet he himself (if the whole truth must be told), secretly
at the bottom of his heart, cherished almost the same hopes and
could not but be aware of it, though he was indignant at the too
impatient expectation around him, and saw in it light-mindedness and
vanity. Nevertheless, it was particularly unpleasant to him to meet
certain persons, whose presence aroused in him great misgivings. In
the crowd in the dead man's cell he noticed with inward aversion
(for which he immediately reproached himself) the presence of
Rakitin and of the monk from Obdorsk, who was still staying in the
monastery. Of both of them Father Paissy felt for some reason suddenly
suspicious- though, indeed, he might well have felt the same about
others.
The monk from Obdorsk was conspicuous as the most fussy in the
excited crowd. He was to be seen everywhere; everywhere he was
asking questions, everywhere he was listening, on all sides he was
whispering with a peculiar, mysterious air. His expression showed
the greatest impatience and even a sort of irritation.
As for Rakitin, he, as appeared later, had come so early to the
hermitage at the special request of Madame Hohlakov. As soon as that
good-hearted but weak-minded woman, who could not herself have been
admitted to the hermitage, waked and heard of the death of Father
Zossima, she was overtaken with such intense curiosity that she
promptly despatched Rakitin to the hermitage, to keep a careful look
out and report to her by letter ever half hour or so "everything
that takes place." She regarded Rakitin as a most religious and devout
young man. He was particularly clever in getting round people and
assuming whatever part he thought most to their taste, if he
detected the slightest advantage to himself from doing so.
It was a bright, clear day, and many of the visitors were
thronging about the tombs, which were particularly numerous round
the church and scattered here and there about the hermitage. As he
walked round the hermitage, Father Paissy remembered Alyosha and
that he had not seen him for some time, not since the night. And he
had no sooner thought of him than he at once noticed him in the
farthest corner of the hermitage garden, sitting on the tombstone of a
monk who had been famous long ago for his saintliness. He sat with his
back to the hermitage and his face to the wall, and seemed to be
hiding behind the tombstone. Going up to him, Father Paissy saw that
he was weeping quietly but bitterly, with his face hidden in his
hands, and that his whole frame was shaking with sobs. Father Paissy
stood over him for a little.
"Enough, dear son, enough, dear," he pronounced with feeling at
last. "Why do you weep? Rejoice and weep not. Don't you know that this
is the greatest of his days? Think only where he is now, at this
moment!"
Alyosha glanced at him, uncovering his face, which was swollen
with crying like a child's, but turned away at once without uttering a
word and hid his face in his hands again.
"Maybe it is well," said Father Paissy thoughtfully; "weep if
you must; Christ has sent you those tears."
"Your touching tears are but a relief to your spirit and will
serve to gladden your dear heart," he added to himself, walking away
from Alyosha, and thinking lovingly of him. He moved away quickly,
however, for he felt that he too might weep looking at him.
Meanwhile the time was passing; the monastery services and the
requiems for the dead followed in their due course. Father Paissy
again took Father Iosif's place by the coffin and began reading the
Gospel. But before three o'clock in the afternoon that something
took place to which I alluded at the end of the last book, something
so unexpected by all of us and so contrary to the general hope,
that, I repeat, this trivial incident has been minutely remembered
to this day in our town and all the surrounding neighbourhood. I may
add here, for myself personally, that I feel it almost repulsive
that event which caused such frivolous agitation and was such a
stumbling-block to many, though in reality it was the most natural and
trivial matter. I should, of course, have omitted all mention of it in
my story, if it had not exerted a very strong influence on the heart
and soul of the chief, though future, hero of my story, Alyosha,
forming a crisis and turning-point in his spiritual development,
giving a shock to his intellect, which finally strengthened it for the
rest of his life and gave it a definite aim.
And so, to return to our story. When before dawn they laid
Father Zossima's body in the coffin and brought it into the front
room, the question of opening the windows was raised among those who
were around the coffin. But this suggestion made casually by someone
was unanswered and almost unnoticed. Some of those present may perhaps
have inwardly noticed it, only to reflect that the anticipation of
decay and corruption from the body of such a saint was an actual
absurdity, calling for compassion (if not a smile) for the lack of
faith and the frivolity it implied. For they expected something
quite different.
And, behold, soon after midday there were signs of something, at
first only observed in silence by those who came in and out and were
evidently each afraid to communicate the thought in his mind. But by
three o'clock those signs had become so clear and unmistakable, that
the news swiftly reached all the monks and visitors in the
hermitage, promptly penetrated to the monastery, throwing all the
monks into amazement, and finally, in the shortest possible time,
spread to the town, exciting everyone in it, believers and unbelievers
alike. The unbelievers rejoiced, and as for the believers some of them
rejoiced even more than the unbelievers, for "men love the downfall
and disgrace of the righteous," as the deceased elder had said in
one of his exhortations.
The fact is that a smell of decomposition began to come from the
coffin, growing gradually more marked, and by three o'clock it was
quite unmistakable. In all the past history of our monastery, no
such scandal could be recalled, and in no other circumstances could
such a scandal have been possible, as showed itself in unseemly
disorder immediately after this discovery among the very monks
themselves. Afterwards, even many years afterwards, some sensible
monks were amazed and horrified, when they recalled that day, that the
scandal could have reached such proportions. For in the past, monks of
very holy life had died, God-fearing old men, whose saintliness was
acknowledged by all, yet from their humble coffins, too, the breath of
corruption had come, naturally, as from all dead bodies, but that
had caused no scandal nor even the slightest excitement. Of course,
there had been, in former times, saints in the monastery whose
memory was carefully preserved and whose relics, according to
tradition, showed no signs of corruption. This fact was regarded by
the monks as touching and mysterious, and the tradition of it was
cherished as something blessed and miraculous, and as a promise, by
God's grace, of still greater glory from their tombs in the future.
One such, whose memory was particularly cherished, was an old
monk, Job, who had died seventy years before at the age of a hundred
and five. He had been a celebrated ascetic, rigid in fasting and
silence, and his tomb was pointed out to all visitors on their arrival
with peculiar respect and mysterious hints of great hopes connected
with it. (That was the very tomb on which Father Paissy had found
Alyosha sitting in the morning.) Another memory cherished in the
monastery was that of the famous Father Varsonofy, who was only
recently dead and had preceded Father Zossima in the eldership. He was
reverenced during his lifetime as a crazy saint by all the pilgrims to
the monastery. There was a tradition that both of these had lain in
their coffins as though alive, that they had shown no signs of
decomposition when they were buried and that there had been a holy
light in their faces. And some people even insisted that a sweet
fragrance came from their bodies.
Yet, in spite of these edifying memories, it would be difficult to
explain the frivolity, absurdity and malice that were manifested
beside the coffin of Father Zossima. It is my private opinion that
several different causes were simultaneously at work, one of which was
the deeply rooted hostility to the institution of elders as a
pernicious innovation, an antipathy hidden deep in the hearts of
many of the monks. Even more powerful was jealousy of the dead man's
saintliness, so firmly established during lifetime that it was
almost a forbidden thing to question it. For though the late elder had
won over many hearts, more by love than by miracles, and had
gathered round him a mass of loving adherents, none the less, in fact,
rather the more on that account he had awakened jealousy and so had
come to have bitter enemies, secret and open, not only in the
monastery but in the world outside it. He did no one any harm, but
"Why do they think him so saintly?" And that question alone, gradually
repeated, gave rise at last to an intense, insatiable hatred of him.
That, I believe, was why many people were extremely delighted at the
smell of decomposition which came so quickly, for not a day had passed
since his death. At the same time there were some among those who
had been hitherto reverently devoted to the elder, who were almost
mortified and personally affronted by this incident. This was how
the thing happened.
As soon as signs of decomposition had begun to appear, the whole
aspect of the monks betrayed their secret motives in entering the
cell. They went in, stayed a little while and hastened out to
confirm the news to the crowd of other monks waiting outside. Some
of the latter shook their heads mournfully, but others did not even
care to conceal the delight which gleamed unmistakably in their
malignant eyes. And now no one reproached them for it, no one raised
his voice in protest, which was strange, for the majority of the monks
had been devoted to the dead elder. But it seemed as though God had in
this case let the minority get the upper hand for a time.
Visitors from outside, particularly of the educated class, soon
went into the cell, too, with the same spying intent. Of the peasantry
few went into the cell, though there were crowds of them at the
gates of the hermitage. After three o'clock the rush of worldly
visitors was greatly increased and this was no doubt owing to the
shocking news. People were attracted who would not otherwise have come
on that day and had not intended to come, and among them were some
personages of high standing. But external decorum was still
preserved and Father Paissy, with a stern face, continued firmly and
distinctly reading aloud the Gospel, apparently not noticing what
was taking place around him, though he had, in fact, observed
something unusual long before. But at last the murmurs, first
subdued but gradually louder and more confident, reached even him. "It
shows God's judgment is not as man's," Father Paissy heard suddenly.
The first to give utterance to this sentiment was a layman, an elderly
official from the town, known to be a man of great piety. But he
only repeated aloud what the monks had long been whispering. They
had long before formulated this damning conclusion, and the worst of
it was that a sort of triumphant satisfaction at that conclusion
became more and more apparent every moment. Soon they began to lay
aside even external decorum and almost seemed to feel they had a
sort of right to discard it.
"And for what reason can this have happened," some of the monks
said, at first with a show of regret; "he had a small frame and his
flesh was dried up on his bones, what was there to decay?"
"It must be a sign from heaven," others hastened to add, and their
opinion was adopted at once without protest. For it was pointed out,
too, that if the decomposition had been natural, as in the case of
every dead sinner, it would have been apparent later, after a lapse of
at least twenty-four hours, but this premature corruption "was in
excess of nature," and so the finger of God was evident. It was
meant for a sign. This conclusion seemed irresistible.
Gentle Father Iosif, the librarian, a great favourite of the
dead man's, tried to reply to some of the evil speakers that "this
is not held everywhere alike," and that the incorruptibility of the
bodies of the just was not a dogma of the Orthodox Church, but only an
opinion, and that even in the most Orthodox regions, at Athos for
instance, they were not greatly confounded by the smell of corruption,
and there the chief sign of the glorification of the saved was not
bodily incorruptibility, but the colour of the bones when the bodies
have lain many years in the earth and have decayed in it. "And if
the bones are yellow as wax, that is the great sign that the Lord
has glorified the dead saint, if they are not yellow but black, it
shows that God has not deemed him worthy of such glory- that is the
belief in Athos, a great place, which the Orthodox doctrine has been
preserved from of old, unbroken and in its greatest purity," said
Father Iosif in conclusion.
But the meek Father's words had little effect and even provoked
a mocking retort. "That's all pedantry and innovation, no use
listening to it," the monks decided. "We stick to the old doctrine;
there are all sorts of innovations nowadays, are we to follow them
all?" added others.
"We have had as many holy fathers as they had. There they are
among the Turks, they have forgotten everything. Their doctrine has
long been impure and they have no bells even, the most sneering added.
Father Iosif walked away, grieving the more since he had put
forward his own opinion with little confidence as though scarcely
believing in it himself. He foresaw with distress that something
very unseemly was beginning and that there were positive signs of
disobedience. Little by little, all the sensible monks were reduced to
silence like Father Iosif. And so it came to pass that all who loved
the elder and had accepted with devout obedience the institution of
the eldership were all at once terribly cast down and glanced
timidly in one another's faces, when they met. Those who were
hostile to the institution of elders, as a novelty, held up their
heads proudly. "There was no smell of corruption from the late elder
Varsonofy, but a sweet fragrance," they recalled malignantly. "But
he gained that glory not because he was an elder, but because he was a
holy man."
And this was followed by a shower of criticism and even blame of
Father Zossima. "His teaching was false; he taught that life is a
great joy and not a vale of tears," said some of the more
unreasonable. "He followed the fashionable belief, he did not
recognise material fire in hell," others, still more unreasonable,
added. "He was not strict in fasting, allowed himself sweet things,
ate cherry jam with his tea, ladies used to send it to him. Is it
for a monk of strict rule to drink tea?" could be heard among some
of the envious. "He sat in pride," the most malignant declared
vindictively; "he considered himself a saint and he took it as his due
when people knelt before him." "He abused the sacrament of
confession," the fiercest opponents of the institution of elders added
in a malicious whisper. And among these were some of the oldest monks,
strictest in their devotion, genuine ascetics, who had kept silent
during the life of the deceased elder, but now suddenly unsealed their
lips. And this was terrible, for their words had great influence on
young monks who were not yet firm in their convictions. The monk
from Obdorsk heard all this attentively, heaving deep sighs and
nodding his head. "Yes, clearly Father Ferapont was right in his
judgment yesterday," and at that moment Father Ferapont himself made
his appearance, as though on purpose to increase the confusion.
I have mentioned already that he rarely left his wooden cell by
the apiary. He was seldom even seen at church and they overlooked this
neglect on the ground of his craziness, and did not keep him to the
rules binding on all the rest. But if the whole truth is to be told,
they hardly had a choice about it. For it would have been
discreditable to insist on burdening with the common regulations so
great an ascetic, who prayed day and night (he even dropped asleep
on his knees). If they had insisted, the monks would have said, "He is
holier than all of us and he follows a rule harder than ours. And if
he does not go to church, it's because he knows when he ought to; he
has his own rule." It was to avoid the chance of these sinful
murmurs that Father Ferapont was left in peace.
As everyone was aware, Father Ferapont particularly disliked
Father Zossima. And now the news had reached him in his hut that
"God's judgment is not the same as man's," and that something had
happened which was "in excess of nature." It may well be supposed that
among the first to run to him with the news was the monk from Obdorsk,
who had visited him the evening before and left his cell
terror-stricken.
I have mentioned above, that though Father Paissy standing firm
and immovable reading the Gospel over the coffin, could not hear nor
see what was passing outside the cell, he gauged most of it
correctly in his heart, for he knew the men surrounding him well. He
was not shaken by it, but awaited what would come next without fear,
watching with penetration and insight for the outcome of the general
excitement.
Suddenly an extraordinary uproar in the passage in open defiance
of decorum burst on his ears. The door was flung open and Father
Ferapont appeared in the doorway. Behind him there could be seen
accompanying him a crowd of monks, together with many people from
the town. They did not, however, enter the cell, but stood at the
bottom of the steps, waiting to see what Father Ferapont would say
or do. For they felt with a certain awe, in spite of their audacity,
that he had not come for nothing. Standing in the doorway, Father
Ferapont raised his arms, and under his right arm the keen inquisitive
little eyes of the monk from Obdorsk peeped in. He alone, in his
intense curiosity, could not resist running up the steps after
Father Ferapont. The others, on the contrary, pressed farther back
in sudden alarm when the door was noisily flung open. Holding his
hands aloft, Father Ferapont suddenly roared:
"Casting out I cast out!" and, turning in all directions, he began
at once making the sign of the cross at each of the four walls and
four corners of the cell in succession. All who accompanied Father
Ferapont immediately understood his action. For they knew he always
did this wherever he went, and that he would not sit down or say a
word, till he had driven out the evil spirits.
"Satan, go hence! Satan, go hence!" he repeated at each sign of
the cross. "Casting out I cast out," he roared again.
He was wearing his coarse gown girt with a rope. His bare chest,
covered with grey hair, could be seen under his hempen shirt. His feet
were bare. As soon as he began waving his arms, the cruel irons he
wore under his gown could be heard clanking.
Father Paissy paused in his reading, stepped forward and stood
before him waiting
"What have you come for, worthy Father? Why do you offend
against good order? Why do you disturb the peace of the flock?" he
said at last, looking sternly at him.
"What have I come for? You ask why? What is your faith?" shouted
Father Ferapont crazily. "I've come here to drive out your visitors,
the unclean devils. I've come to see how many have gathered here while
I have been away. I want to sweep them out with a birch broom."
"You cast out the evil spirit, but perhaps you are serving him
yourself," Father Paissy went on fearlessly. "And who can say of
himself 'I am holy'? Can you, Father?"
"I am unclean, not holy. I would not sit in an arm-chair and would
not have them bow down to me as an idol," thundered Father Ferapont.
"Nowadays folk destroy the true faith. The dead man, your saint," he
turned to the crowd, pointing with his finger to the coffin, "did
not believe in devils. He gave medicine to keep off the devils. And so
they have become as common as spiders in the corners. And now he has
begun to stink himself. In that we see a great sign from God."
The incident he referred to was this. One of the monks was haunted
in his dreams and, later on, in waking moments, by visions of evil
spirits. When in the utmost terror he confided this to Father Zossima,
the elder had advised continual prayer and rigid fasting. But when
that was of no use, he advised him while persisting in prayer and
fasting, to take a special medicine. Many persons were shocked at
the time and wagged their heads as they talked over it- and most of
all Father Ferapont, to whom some of the censorious had hastened to
report this "extraordinary" counsel on the part of the elder.
"Go away, Father!" said Father Paissy, in a commanding voice,
"it's not for man to judge but for God. Perhaps we see here a 'sign'
which neither you, nor I, nor anyone of us is able to comprehend.
Go, Father, and do not trouble the flock!" he repeated impressively.
"He did not keep the fasts according to the rule and therefore the
sign has come. That is clear and it's a sin to hide it," the
fanatic, carried away by a zeal that outstripped his reason, would not
be quieted. "He was seduced by sweetmeats, ladies brought them to
him in their pockets, he sipped tea, he worshipped his belly,
filling it with sweet things and his mind with haughty thoughts....
And for this he is put to shame..."
"You speak lightly, Father." Father Paissy, too, raised his voice.
"I admire your fasting and severities, but you speak lightly like some
frivolous youth, fickle and childish. Go away, Father, I command you!"
Father Paissy thundered in conclusion.
"I will go," said Ferapont, seeming somewhat taken aback, but
still as bitter. "You learned men! You are so clever you look down
upon my humbleness. I came hither with little learning and here I have
forgotten what I did know; God Himself has preserved me in my weakness
from your subtlety."
Father Paissy stood over him, waiting resolutely. Father
Ferapont paused and, suddenly leaning his cheek on his hand
despondently, pronounced in a sing-song, voice, looking at the
coffin of the dead elder:
"To-morrow they will sing over him 'Our Helper and Defender'- a
splendid anthem- and over me when I die all they'll sing will be 'What
Earthly Joy'- a little cantical,"* he added with tearful regret.
"You are proud and puffed up, this is a vain place!" he shouted
suddenly like a madman, and with a wave of his hand he turned
quickly and quickly descended the steps. The crowd awaiting him
below wavered; some followed him at once and some lingered, for the
cell was still open, and Father Paissy, following Father Ferapont on
to the steps, stood watching him. the excited old fanatic was not
completely silenced. Walking twenty steps away, he suddenly turned
towards the setting sun, raised both his arms and, as though someone
had cut him down, fell to the ground with a loud scream.
* When a monk's body is carried out from the cell to the church
and from the church to the graveyard, the canticle "What Earthly
Joy..." is sung. If the deceased was a priest as well as a monk the
canticle "Our Helper and Defender" is sung instead.
"My God has conquered! Christ has conquered the setting sun!" he
shouted frantically, stretching up his hands to the sun, and falling
face downwards on the ground, he sobbed like a little child, shaken by
his tears and spreading out his arms on the ground. Then all rushed up
to him; there were exclamations and sympathetic sobs... a kind of
frenzy seemed to take possession of them all.
"This is the one who is a saint! This is the one who is a holy
man!" some cried aloud, losing their fear. "This is he who should be
an elder," others added malignantly.
"He wouldn't be an elder... he would refuse... he wouldn't serve a
cursed innovation... he wouldn't imitate their foolery," other
voices chimed in at once. And it is hard to say how far they might
have gone, but at that moment the bell rang summoning them to service.
All began crossing themselves at once. Father Ferapont, too, got up
and crossing himself went back to his cell without looking round,
still uttering exclamations which were utterly incoherent. A few
followed him, but the greater number dispersed, hastening to
service. Father Paissy let Father Iosif read in his place and went
down. The frantic outcries of bigots could not shake him, but his
heart was suddenly filled with melancholy for some special reason
and he felt that. He stood still and suddenly wondered, "Why am I
sad even to dejection?" and immediately grasped with surprise that his
sudden sadness was due to a very small and special cause. In the crowd
thronging at the entrance to the cell, he had noticed Alyosha and he
remembered that he had felt at once a pang at heart on seeing him.
"Can that boy mean so much to my heart now?" he asked himself,
wondering.
At that moment Alyosha passed him, hurrying away, but not in the
direction of the church. Their eyes met. Alyosha quickly turned away
his eyes and dropped them to the ground, and from the boy's look
alone, Father Paissy guessed what a great change was taking place in
him at that moment.
"Have you, too, fallen into temptation?" cried Father Paissy. "Can
you be with those of little faith?" he added mournfully.
Alyosha stood still and gazed vaguely at Father Paissy, but
quickly turned his eyes away again and again looked on the ground.
He stood sideways and did not turn his face to Father Paissy, who
watched him attentively.
"Where are you hastening? The bell calls to service," he asked
again, but again Alyosha gave no answer.
"Are you leaving the hermitage? What, without asking leave,
without asking a blessing?"
Alyosha suddenly gave a wry smile, cast a strange, very strange,
look at the Father to whom his former guide, the former sovereign of
his heart and mind, his beloved elder, had confided him as he lay
dying. And suddenly, still without speaking, waved his hand, as though
not caring even to be respectful, and with rapid steps walked
towards the gates away from the hermitage.
"You will come back again!" murmured Father Paissy, looking
after him with sorrowful surprise.
