“How come you’re having more attacks now?” he sometimes looked askance at the new cook, peering into his face. “I wish you’d marry somebody, do you want me to get you married ... ?”

But Smerdyakov only turned pale with vexation at such talk, without making any reply. Fyodor Pavlovich would walk off, waving his hand. Above all he was convinced of his honesty, convinced once and for all that he would not take or steal anything. It once happened that Fyodor Pavlovich, being a little drunk, dropped in the mud of his own yard three hundred-rouble bank notes he had just received, and did not notice it until the next day: just as he was rushing to search through all his pockets for them, he suddenly discovered all three bank notes lying on the table. How did they get there? Smerdyakov had picked them up and brought them in the evening before. “Well, my lad, I’ve never seen the likes of you,” Fyodor Pavlovich said brusquely, and gave him ten roubles. It should be added that he was not only convinced of his honesty, but for some reason even loved him, though the fellow looked as askance at him as at others and was always silent. Only rarely did he speak. If at that time it had occurred to someone to ask, looking at him, what this fellow was interested in, and what was most often on his mind, it would really have been impossible to tell from looking at him. Yet he would sometimes stop in the house, or else in the yard or the street, fall into thought, and stand like that even for ten minutes. A physiognomist, studying him, would have said that his face showed neither thought nor reflection, but just some sort of contemplation. The painter Kramskoy has a remarkable painting entitled The Contemplator:^[96]it depicts a forest in winter, and in the forest, standing all by himself on the road, in deepest solitude, a stray little peasant in a ragged caftan and bast shoes; he stands as if he were lost in thought, but he is not thinking, he is “contemplating” something. If you nudged him, he would give a start and look at you as if he had just woken up, but without understanding anything. It’s true that he would come to himself at once, and yet, if he were asked what he had been thinking about while standing there, he would most likely not remember, but would most likely keep hidden away in himself the impression he had been under while contemplating. These impressions are dear to him, and he is most likely storing them up imperceptibly and even without realizing it—why and what for, of course, he does not know either; perhaps suddenly, having stored up his impressions over many years, he will drop everything and wander off to Jerusalem to save his soul, or perhaps he will suddenly burn down his native village, or perhaps he will do both. There are plenty of contemplators among the people. Most likely Smerdyakov, too, was such a contemplator, and most likely he, too, was greedily storing up his impressions, almost without knowing why himself.

Chapter 7: Disputation

But Balaam’s ass suddenly spoke. The topic happened to be a strange one: Grigory, while picking up goods that morning at the shop of the merchant Lukyanov, had heard from him about a Russian soldier stationed somewhere far away at the border who was captured by Asians and, being forced by them on pain of agonizing and immediate death to renounce Christianity and convert to Islam, would not agree to change his faith, and endured torture, was flayed alive, and died glorifying and praising Christ—a report of which deed was printed in the newspaper received that day.^[97] And this Grigory began speaking about at the table. Fyodor Pavlovich always liked to laugh and talk after dinner, over dessert, even if only with Grigory. This time he was in a light and pleasantly expansive mood. Sipping cognac, he listened to the reported news and remarked that such a soldier ought at once to be promoted to saint, and his flayed skin dispatched to some monastery: “You’ll see how people will come pouring in, and money, too.” Grigory scowled, seeing that Fyodor Pavlovich was not at all moved but, as usual, was beginning to blaspheme. Then Smerdyakov, who was standing at the door, suddenly grinned. Even before then, Smerdyakov was quite often allowed to stand by the table—that is, at the end of dinner. And since Ivan Fyodorovich arrived in our town, he began appearing at dinner almost every day.

“What is it?” asked Fyodor Pavlovich, noticing his grin at once and understanding, of course, that it referred to Grigory. “What you’re talking about,” Smerdyakov suddenly spoke loudly and unexpectedly, “that if the deed of this laudable soldier was so great, sir, there would also have been no sin, in my opinion, if on such an occasion he had even renounced Christ’s name and his own baptism in order thereby to save his life for good deeds with which to atone in the course of the years for his faintheartedness.”

“How could there be no sin in it? What nonsense! For that you’ll go straight to hell and be roasted there like mutton,” Fyodor Pavlovich took him up.

And it was here that Alyosha entered. Fyodor Pavlovich, as we have seen, was terribly glad he had come.

“We’re on your subject, your subject!” he chuckled gleefully, sitting Alyosha down to listen.

“Concerning mutton, it isn’t so, sir, and there will be nothing there for that, sir, and there shouldn’t be any such thing, if it’s in all fairness,” Smerdyakov solemnly observed.

“How do you mean—in all fairness?” Fyodor Pavlovich cried even more merrily, nudging Alyosha with his knee.

“He’s a scoundrel, that’s who he is!” Grigory suddenly burst out. Angrily he looked Smerdyakov straight in the eye.

“Wait a little with your ‘scoundrel,’ Grigory Vasilievich, sir,” Smerdyakov retorted quietly and with restraint, “and you’d better consider for yourself, that if I am taken captive by the tormentors of Christian people, and they demand that I curse God’s name and renounce my holy baptism, then I’m quite authorized to do it by my own reason, because there wouldn’t be any sin in it.”

“You’ve already said all that. Don’t embroider on it, but prove it!” cried Fyodor Pavlovich.

“Broth-maker!” Grigory whispered scornfully.

“Wait a little with your ‘broth-maker,’ too, Grigory Vasilievich, and consider for yourself without scolding. Because as soon as I say to my tormentors: ‘No, I’m not a Christian and I curse my true God,’ then at once, by the highest divine judgment, I immediately and specifically become anathema, I’m cursed and completely excommunicated from the Holy Church like a heathener, as it were, so that even at that very moment, sir, not as soon as I say it, but as soon as I just think of saying it, not even a quarter of a second goes by and I’m excommunicated—is that so or not, Grigory Vasilievich?”

He addressed Grigory with obvious pleasure, though essentially he was answering Fyodor Pavlovich’s questions, and was well aware of it, but deliberately pretending that it was Grigory who had asked them.

“Ivan!” Fyodor Pavlovich suddenly shouted, “give me your ear. He arranged all this for you, he wants you to praise him. Go on, praise him!” Ivan Fyodorovich listened quite seriously to his papa’s rapturous communication.

“Wait, Smerdyakov, be still for a minute,” Fyodor Pavlovich shouted again. “Ivan, your ear again.”

Ivan Fyodorovich leaned over once more with a most serious expression.

“I love you as much as Alyoshka. Don’t think that I don’t love you. A little cognac?”

“Yes.” Ivan Fyodorovich looked intently at his father, thinking, “You’re pretty well loaded yourself.” As for Smerdyakov, he was watching him with great curiosity.

“You’re anathema and cursed even now,” Grigory suddenly broke out, “and how dare you reason after that, you scoundrel, if...”