The Brothers Karamazov

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

But Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was among them, sprang forward and declared that it was by no means impossible, and that, indeed, there was a certain piquancy about it, and so on . . . It is true that at that time he was overdoing his part as a buffoon.

Then suddenly a terrible rumour was all over the town that this miscreant was no other than Fyodor Pavlovitch. Who set the rumour going? Of that drunken band five had left the town and the only one still among us was an elderly and much respected civil councillor, the father of grown-up daughters, who could hardly have spread the tale, even if there had been any foundation for it. But rumour pointed straight at Fyodor Pavlovitch, and persisted in pointing at him.

Most likely Fyodor started the rumor himself.

Some maintained that she must have been lifted over by somebody; others hinted at something more uncanny. The most likely explanation is that it happened naturally—that Lizaveta, accustomed to clambering over hurdles to sleep in gardens, had somehow managed to climb this fence, in spite of her condition, and had leapt down, injuring herself.

They saved the baby, but Lizaveta died at dawn. Grigory took the baby, brought it home, and making his wife sit down, put it on her lap. “A child of God—an orphan is akin to all,” he said, “and to us above others. Our little lost one has sent us this, who has come from the devil’s son and a holy innocent. Nurse him and weep no more.”

But at that moment an anxiety of a different sort disturbed him, and worried him the more because he could not formulate it. It was the fear of a woman, of Katerina Ivanovna, who had so urgently entreated him in the note handed to him by Madame Hohlakov to come and see her about something. This request and the necessity of going had at once aroused an uneasy feeling in his heart, and this feeling had grown more and more painful all the morning in spite of the scenes at the hermitage and at the Father Superior’s. He was not uneasy because he did not know what she would speak of and what he must answer. And he was not afraid of her simply as a woman. Though he knew little of women, he had spent his life, from early childhood till he entered the monastery, entirely with women. He was afraid of that woman, Katerina Ivanovna. He had been afraid of her from the first time he saw her. He had only seen her two or three times, and had only chanced to say a few words to her. He thought of her as a beautiful, proud, imperious girl. It was not her beauty which troubled him, but something else. And the vagueness of his apprehension increased the apprehension itself. The girl’s aims were of the noblest, he knew that. She was trying to save his brother Dmitri simply through generosity, though he had already behaved badly to her. Yet, although Alyosha recognised and did justice to all these fine and generous sentiments, a shiver began to run down his back as soon as he drew near her house.

He had to pass the garden adjoining his father’s, and belonging to a little tumbledown house with four windows. The owner of this house, as Alyosha knew, was a bedridden old woman, living with her daughter, who had been a genteel maid-servant in generals’ families in Petersburg. Now she had been at home a year, looking after her sick mother. She always dressed up in fine clothes, though her old mother and she had sunk into such poverty that they went every day to Fyodor Pavlovitch’s kitchen for soup and bread, which Marfa gave readily. Yet, though the young woman came up for soup, she had never sold any of her dresses, and one of these even had a long train—a fact which Alyosha had learned from Rakitin,

The garden was about three acres in extent, and planted with trees only along the fence at the four sides. There were apple-trees, maples, limes, and birch-trees. The middle of the garden was an empty grass space, from which several hundredweight of hay was carried in the summer. The garden was let out for a few roubles for the summer. There were also plantations of raspberries and currants and gooseberries laid out along the sides; a kitchen garden had been planted lately near the house.

Distrust the worthless, lying crowd, And lay aside thy doubts.

But being in love doesn’t mean loving. You may be in love with a woman and yet hate her. Remember that!

“Wild and fearful in his cavern Hid the naked troglodyte, And the homeless nomad wandered Laying waste the fertile plain. Menacing with spear and arrow In the woods the hunter strayed . . . Woe to all poor wretches stranded On those cruel and hostile shores! “From the peak of high Olympus Came the mother Ceres down, Seeking in those savage regions Her lost daughter Proserpine. But the Goddess found no refuge, Found no kindly welcome there, And no temple bearing witness To the worship of the gods. “From the fields and from the vineyards Came no fruits to deck the feasts, Only flesh of blood-stained victims Smoldered on the altar-fires, And where’er the grieving goddess Turns her melancholy gaze, Sunk in vilest degradation Man his loathsomeness displays.”

Would he purge his soul from vileness And attain to light and worth, He must turn and cling for ever To his ancient Mother Earth.

Has it reformed me? Never! For I’m a Karamazov. For when I do leap into the pit, I go headlong with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that degrading attitude, and pride myself upon it.

Joy everlasting fostereth The soul of all creation, It is her secret ferment fires The cup of life with flame. ‘Tis at her beck the grass hath turned Each blade towards the light And solar systems have evolved From chaos and dark night, Filling the realms of boundless space Beyond the sage’s sight. At bounteous Nature’s kindly breast, All things that breathe drink Joy, And birds and beasts and creeping things All follow where She leads. Her gifts to man are friends in need, The wreath, the foaming must, To angels—vision of God’s throne, To insects—sensual lust.

“The ladder’s the same. I’m at the bottom step, and you’re above, somewhere about the thirteenth. That’s how I see it. But it’s all the same. Absolutely the same in kind. Any one on the bottom step is bound to go up to the top one.” “Then one ought not to step on at all.” “Any one who can help it had better not.” “But can you?” “I think not.”

From this field of corruption fouled by flies, let’s pass to my tragedy, also befouled by flies, that is by every sort of vileness.

You’re the first, except Ivan, of course—Ivan knows everything. He knew about it long before you. But Ivan’s a tomb.” “Ivan’s a tomb?” “Yes.”

But, on my oath, I looked at her for three seconds, or five perhaps, with fearful hatred—that hate which is only a hair’s-breadth from love, from the maddest love!

“Now,” said Alyosha, “I understand the first half.” “You understand the first half. That half is a drama, and it was played out there. The second half is a tragedy, and it is being acted here.”

He’d no sooner paid it than he fell ill, took to his bed, and, three weeks later, softening of the brain set in, and he died five days afterwards.

(Gemini) You're right, considering the context of stress and the rapid progression of the illness leading to death, a stroke (or multiple strokes) is a plausible interpretation of "softening of the brain" in that particular case. Here's why: * Stress as a Factor: Significant stress can be a contributing factor to strokes. Elevated blood pressure and other physiological changes associated with stress can increase the risk of cerebrovascular events. * Rapid Decline: The description of a rapid decline in health, followed by neurological deterioration and death within a few weeks, aligns with the potential consequences of a stroke or a series of strokes. * Neurological Symptoms: The "softening of the brain" implies a deterioration of brain function, which is a hallmark of stroke. Strokes disrupt blood flow to the brain, leading to cell damage and neurological deficits. * Age as a Factor: In the 19th century, when "The Brothers Karamazov" was written, medical understanding of stroke was limited, and the term "softening of the brain" could have been used to describe the observable consequences of a stroke. While other conditions could have contributed to the described symptoms, the rapid onset and progression, coupled with the context of stress, make a stroke a strong possibility.

“I’ll explain the rest now, in two words. In Moscow their fortunes changed with the swiftness of lightning and the unexpectedness of an Arabian fairy-tale.

That ain't two words, Dimitri.

But that concerned the future. Meanwhile she gave her, for present use, eighty thousand roubles, as a marriage portion, to do what she liked with. She was an hysterical woman. I saw something of her in Moscow, later. “Well, suddenly I received by post four thousand five hundred roubles. I was speechless with surprise, as you may suppose.

It is easy to miss or forget that she repaid him..

There was sweet confusion, There were tender words.

The boy took the slap without a word, but withdrew into his corner again for some days. A week later he had his first attack of the disease to which he was subject all the rest of his life—epilepsy. When Fyodor Pavlovitch heard of it, his attitude to the boy seemed changed at once. Till then he had taken no notice of him, though he never scolded him, and always gave him a kopeck when he met him.

Fyodor seems to have a soft spot for epilepsy. I also noticed that Fyodor has the same first name as the author. Self insert Mr Hyde? Aside: the author was epileptic.

you can’t take two skins off one ox?

And if once you’re anathema they won’t pat you on the head for it in hell.

Well, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if I’m without faith and you have so great a faith that you are continually swearing at me, you try yourself telling this mountain, not to move into the sea for that’s a long way off, but even to our stinking little river which runs at the bottom of the garden. You’ll see for yourself that it won’t budge, but will remain just where it is however much you shout at it, and that shows, Grigory Vassilyevitch, that you haven’t faith in the proper manner, and only abuse others about it.

the Lord God has given us so little time, only twenty-four hours in the day, so that one hasn’t even time to get sleep enough, much less to repent of one’s sins.

And apart from that, I should know already that I could not attain to the fullness of the Kingdom of Heaven (for since the mountain had not moved at my word, they could not think very much of my faith up aloft, and there could be no very great reward awaiting me in the world to come). So why should I let them flay the skin off me as well, and to no good purpose? For, even though they had flayed my skin half off my back, even then the mountain would not have moved at my word or at my cry.

Our peasants are swindlers, and don’t deserve to be pitied, and it’s a good thing they’re still flogged sometimes. Russia is rich in birches. If they destroyed the forests, it would be the ruin of Russia.

Even in vieilles filles, even in them you may discover something that makes you simply wonder that men have been such fools as to let them grow old without noticing them.

Bare-footed girls or unattractive ones, you must take by surprise.

He is talking about Lizaveta.

Stay . . . listen, Alyosha, I always used to surprise your mother, but in a different way. I paid no attention to her at all, but all at once, when the minute came, I’d be all devotion to her, crawl on my knees, kiss her feet, and I always, always—I remember it as though it were to-day—reduced her to that tinkling, quiet, nervous, queer little laugh. It was peculiar to her. I knew her attacks always used to begin like that.

Sounds sadistic. He liked to trigger her seizures.

“One reptile will devour the other. And serve them both right, too.”

“Of course I won’t let him be murdered as I didn’t just now. Stay here, Alyosha, I’ll go for a turn in the yard. My head’s begun to ache.”

“You make so much of me, dear young lady, and perhaps I am not at all worthy of your kindness.”

“Yes, and you too perhaps quite misunderstand me, dear young lady. Maybe I’m not so good as I seem to you. I’ve a bad heart; I will have my own way. I fascinated poor Dmitri Fyodorovitch that day simply for fun.” “But now you’ll save him. You’ve given me your word. You’ll explain it all to him. You’ll break to him that you have long loved another man, who is now offering you his hand.” “Oh, no! I didn’t give you my word to do that. It was you kept talking about that. I didn’t give you my word.”

“You see at once, dear young lady, what a willful wretch I am compared with you. If I want to do a thing I do it. I may have made you some promise just now. But now again I’m thinking: I may take to Mitya again. I liked him very much once—liked him for almost a whole hour. Now maybe I shall go and tell him to stay with me from this day forward. You see, I’m so changeable.”

“So that you may be left to remember that you kissed my hand, but I didn’t kiss yours.”

Paper, they say, does not blush, but I assure you it’s not true and that it’s blushing just as I am now, all over.

“Here I’ve written you a love-letter. Oh, dear, what have I done? Alyosha, don’t despise me, and if I’ve done something very horrid and wounded you, forgive me. Now the secret of my reputation, ruined perhaps for ever, is in your hands.

“God, have mercy upon all of them, have all these unhappy and turbulent souls in Thy keeping, and set them in the right path. All ways are Thine. Save them according to Thy wisdom. Thou art love. Thou wilt send joy to all!”

Save, O Lord, all those who have none to pray for them, save too all those who will not pray. And add: it is not in pride that I make this prayer, O Lord, for I am lower than all men

Visitors who came to do him homage saw him sometimes kneeling all day long at prayer without looking round. If he addressed them, he was brief, abrupt, strange, and almost always rude.

When I was coming out from the Superior’s I saw one hiding from me behind the door, and a big one, a yard and a half or more high, with a thick long grey tail, and the tip of his tail was in the crack of the door and I was quick and slammed the door, pinching his tail in it. He squealed and began to struggle, and I made the sign of the cross over him three times. And he died on the spot like a crushed spider. He must have rotted there in the corner and be stinking, but they don’t see, they don’t smell it.

Though the monk returned to the cell he was sharing with one of the brothers, in considerable perplexity of mind, he still cherished at heart a greater reverence for Father Ferapont than for Father Zossima. He was strongly in favour of fasting, and it was not strange that one who kept so rigid a fast as Father Ferapont should “see marvels.”

You may as well know. For I mean to go on in my sins to the end, let me tell you. For sin is sweet; all abuse it, but all men live in it, only others do it on the sly, and I openly.

If you could only imagine what’s passing between them now—it’s awful, I tell you it’s lacerating, it’s like some incredible tale of horror.

He might go quite astray in this maze, and Alyosha’s heart could not endure uncertainty, because his love was always of an active character. He was incapable of passive love. If he loved any one, he set to work at once to help him.

I don’t even know whether I still love him. I feel pity for him, and that is a poor sign of love. If I loved him, if I still loved him, perhaps I shouldn’t be sorry for him now, but should hate him.”

I am going now; but, believe me, Katerina Ivanovna, you really love him. And the more he insults you, the more you love him—that’s your ‘laceration.’ You love him just as he is; you love him for insulting you. If he reformed, you’d give him up at once and cease to love him.