Chapter 8: Over the Cognac

The dispute was over, but, strangely, Fyodor Pavlovich, who had been laughing so much, in the end suddenly frowned. He frowned and tossed off a glass of cognac, which was quite superfluous.

“Clear out, Jesuits, out!” he shouted at the servants. “Go, Smerdyakov. That gold piece I promised, I’ll send you today, but go now. Don’t cry, Gri-gory, go to Marfa, she’ll comfort you, she’ll put you to bed. Canaille! They won’t let one sit quietly after dinner,” he suddenly snapped in vexation, as the servants at once withdrew on his orders. “Smerdyakov sticks his nose in every time we have dinner now—is it you he’s so interested in? What have you done to endear yourself to him?” he added, turning to Ivan Fyodorovich.

“Nothing whatever,” the latter replied. “He has taken to respecting me; he’s a lackey and a boor. Prime cannon fodder, however, when the time comes.”

“Prime?”

“There will be others and better ones, but there will be his kind as well. First his kind, and then the better ones.”

“And when will the time come?”

“The rocket will go off, but it may fizzle out. So far the people do not much like listening to these broth-makers.”

“That’s just it, my friend, a Balaam’s ass like him thinks and thinks, and the devil knows what he’s going to think up for himself.”

“He’s storing up his thoughts,” Ivan smirked.

“You see, I for one know that he can’t stand me, or anybody else, including you, though you imagine he’s ‘taken to respecting you.’ Still less Alyoshka, he despises Alyoshka. Yet he doesn’t steal, that’s the thing, he’s not a gossip, he keeps his mouth shut, he won’t wash our dirty linen in public, he makes great cabbage pies, and furthermore to hell with him, really, is he worth talking about?”

“Of course not.”

“As to what he’s going to think up for himself, generally speaking, the Russian peasant should be whipped. I have always maintained that. Our peasants are cheats, they’re not worth our pity, and it’s good that they’re still sometimes given a birching. The strength of the Russian land is in its birches. If the forests were destroyed, it would be the end of the Russian land. I stand with the men of intelligence. In our great intelligence, we’ve stopped flogging our peasants, but they go on whipping themselves. And right they are. For as you measure, so it will be measured, or however it goes . . .^[101] In short, it will be measured. And Russia is all swinishness. My friend, if only you knew how I hate Russia ... that is, not Russia, but all this vice ... and maybe Russia, too. Tout cela c’est de la cochonnerie.^[102]Do you know what I love? I love wit.”

“You’ve had another glass. That’s enough, now.”

“Wait, I’ll have one more, and then another, and then I’ll stop. No, wait, you interrupted me. I was passing through Mokroye, and I asked an old man, and he told me: ‘Best of all,’ he said, ‘we like sentencing the girls to be whipped, and we let the young lads do the whipping.^[103] Next day the young lad takes the girl he’s whipped for his bride, so you see, our girls themselves go for it.’ There’s some Marquis de Sades for you, eh? Say what you like, but it’s witty. Why don’t we go and have a look, eh? Alyoshka, are you blushing? Don’t be bashful, child. It’s a pity I didn’t sit down to the Superior’s dinner this afternoon and tell the monks about the Mokroye girls. Alyoshka, don’t be angry that I got your Superior all offended this afternoon. It really makes me mad, my friend. Because if there’s a God, if he exists, well, then of course I’m guilty and I’ll answer for it, but if there’s no God at all, then what do those fathers of yours deserve? It’s not enough just to cut off their heads—because they hold up progress. Will you believe, Ivan, that it torments me in my feelings? No, you don’t believe it, I can see by your eyes. You believe I’m just a buffoon like they say. Alyosha, do you believe that I’m not just a buffoon?”

“I believe that you are not just a buffoon.”

“And I believe that you believe it and speak sincerely. You look sincerely and speak sincerely. Not so Ivan. Ivan is haughty ... But still I’d put an end to that little monastery of yours. Take all this mysticism and abolish it at once all over the Russian land, and finally bring all the fools to reason. And think how much silver, how much gold would come into the mint!”

“But why abolish it?” asked Ivan.

“To let the truth shine forth sooner, that’s why.”

“But if this truth shines forth, you will be the first to be robbed and then ... abolished.”

“Bah! You’re probably right. Ah, what an ass I am!” Fyodor Pavlovich suddenly cried, slapping himself lightly on the forehead. “Well, then, Alyoshka, in that case let your little monastery stand. And we intelligent people will keep warm and sip cognac. You know, Ivan, God himself surely must have set it up this way on purpose. Speak, Ivan: is there a God, or not? Wait: tell me for certain, tell me seriously! Why are you laughing again?”

“I’m laughing at the witty remark you made about Smerdyakov’s belief in the existence of two hermits who can move mountains.”

“Do I sound like him now?” “Very much so.”

“Well, then I, too, am a Russian man, and have the Russian feature, and you, a philosopher, can also be caught with the same sort of feature yourself. Want me to catch you? I bet you I’ll catch you tomorrow. But still, tell me: is there a God or not? But seriously. I want to be serious now.”

“No, there is no God.”

“Alyoshka, is there a God?”

“There is.”

“And is there immortality, Ivan? At least some kind, at least a little, a teeny-tiny one?”

“There is no immortality either.”

“Not of any kind?”

“Not of any kind.”

“Complete zero? Or is there something? Maybe there’s some kind of something? At least not nothing!”

“Complete zero.”

“Alyoshka, is there immortality?”

“There is.”

“Both God and immortality?”

“Both God and immortality. Immortality is in God.”

“Hm. More likely Ivan is right. Lord, just think how much faith, how much energy of all kinds man has spent on this dream, and for so many thousands of years! Who could be laughing at man like that? Ivan? For the last time, definitely: is there a God or not? It’s the last time I’ll ask.”

“For the last time—no.”

“Then who is laughing at mankind, Ivan?”

“Must be the devil,” Ivan smirked.

“And is there a devil?”

“No, there is no devil, either.”

“Too bad. Devil knows, then, what I wouldn’t do to the man who first invented God! Hanging from the bitter aspen tree would be too good for him.”

“There would be no civilization at all if God had not been invented.”

“There wouldn’t? Without God?”

“Right. And there would be no cognac either. But even so, we’ll have to take your cognac away from you.”

“Wait, wait, wait, my dear, one more little glass. I offended Alyosha. You’re not angry with me, Alexei? My dear Alexeichik, my Alexeichik!”

“No, I’m not angry. I know your thoughts. Your heart is better than your head.”

“My heart is better than my head? Lord, and it’s you who say so? Ivan, do you love Alyoshka?” “I love him.”

“Do love him!” (Fyodor Pavlovich was getting very drunk.) “Listen, Alyosha, I committed a rudeness with your elder this afternoon. But I was excited. Say, there’s wit in that elder, don’t you think so, Ivan?”

“Perhaps so.”

“There is, there is, il y a du Piron là-dedans.^[104]He’s a Jesuit, a Russian one, that is. As a noble person, he has this hidden indignation seething in him because he has to pretend ... to put on all this holiness.”

“But he does believe in God.”