“Ah, true,” sighed the little monk.

“Did you see all the devils around there?” asked Father Ferapont.

“Around where?” the monk timidly inquired.

“I was up at the Superior’s last year, at Pentecost,^[115] and haven’t been back since. I saw one sitting on one monk’s chest, hiding under his cassock, with only his little horns sticking out; another monk had one peeking out of his pocket, looking shifty-eyed, because he was afraid of me; another had one living in his stomach, his unclean belly; and there was one who had one hanging on his neck, clinging to him, and he was carrying him around without even seeing him.”

“And you ... could see?” the monk inquired. “I’m telling you—I see, I see throughout. As I was leaving the Superior’s, I looked—there was one hiding from me behind the door, a real beefy one, a yard and a half tall or more, with a thick tail, brown, long, and he happened to stick the tip of it into the doorjamb, and me being no fool, I suddenly slammed the door shut and pinched his tail. He started squealing, struggling, and I crossed him to death with the sign of the Cross, the triple one. He dropped dead on the spot, like a squashed spider. He must be rotten and stinking in that corner now, and they don’t see, they don’t smell a thing. I haven’t gone back for a year. I reveal it to you only because you’re a foreigner. “

“Terrible are your words! And tell me, great and blessed father,” the monk took more and more heart, “is it true, this great fame that has spread even to faraway lands, that you are in constant communication with the Holy Spirit? “

“He flies down. He does.”

“How does he fly down? In what form?”

“As a bird.”

“The Holy Spirit in the form of a dove?”^[116]

“There is the Holy Spirit, and there is the Holispirit. The Holispirit is different, he can descend as some other bird—a swallow, a goldfinch, a tomtit.”

“And how can you tell him from a tomtit?”

“He speaks.”

“How does he speak? In what language?”

“Human language.”

“And what does he tell you?”

“Well, today he announced that a fool would visit me and ask improper questions. You want to know too much, monk.”

“Dreadful are your words, most blessed and holy father,” the monk shook his head. In his fearful little eyes, however, there seemed to be some doubt.

“And do you see this tree?” asked Father Ferapont, after a short silence.

“I see it, most blessed father.”

“For you it’s an elm, but for me the picture is different.”

“What is it for you?” the little monk asked after pausing in vain expectation.

“It happens during the night. Do you see those two branches? In the night, behold, Christ stretches forth his arms to me, searching for me with those arms, I see it clearly and tremble. Fearsome, oh, fearsome!”

“Why is it fearsome, if it’s Christ himself?”

“He may grab hold of me and ascend me.”

“Alive?”

“What, haven’t you heard of the spirit and power of Elijah?^[117] He may seize me and carry me off ...” Though following this conversation the Obdorsk monk returned to the cell assigned him with one of the brothers in a state of considerable perplexity, his heart was still undoubtedly inclined more towards Father Ferapont than towards Father Zosima. The Obdorsk monk was above all in favor of fasting, and it was no wonder that such a great faster as Father Ferapont should “behold marvels.” Of course, his words were absurd, as it were, but the Lord knew what was hidden in those words, and Father Ferapont’s words and even his deeds were no stranger than those of other holy fools. The devil’s pinched tail he was ready to believe, sincerely and with pleasure, not only figuratively but literally as well. Besides, even earlier, before coming to the monastery, he had been strongly biased against the institution of elders, which until then he had known only from hearsay, and, along with many others, regarded it as a decidedly harmful innovation. Having spent one day in the monastery, he had already managed to take note of the secret murmuring of some light-minded brothers who were not accepting of elders. Besides, this monk was meddlesome and adroit by nature, and extremely curious about everything. That was why the great news of the new “miracle” performed by the elder Zosima threw him into such perplexity. Alyosha recalled later that among the monks crowding near the elder and around his cell, the little figure of the inquisitive Obdorsk visitor, darting everywhere from group to group, listening to everything, and questioning everyone, kept flashing before him. But at the time he paid little attention to him and only later remembered it all ... And indeed he could not be bothered with that: the elder Zosima, who felt tired again and went back to bed, suddenly, as he was closing his eyes, remembered him and called him to his side. Alyosha came running at once. Only Father Paissy, Father Iosif, and the novice Porfiry were with the elder then. The elder, opening his tired eyes and glancing attentively at Alyosha, suddenly asked him:

“Are your people expecting you, my son?”

Alyosha hesitated.

“Do they need you? Did you promise anyone yesterday that you would come today?”

“I promised ... my father ... my brothers ... others, too.”

“You see, you must go. Do not be sad. I assure you I will not die without saying my last word on earth in your presence. I will say this word to you, my son, to you I will bequeath it. To you, my dear son, because you love me. But for now, go to those you have promised to see.”

Alyosha obeyed at once, though it was hard for him to go. But the promise of hearing his last word on earth, and above all that it would be a bequest, as it were, to him, Alyosha, shook his soul with rapture. He hurried so that he could finish everything intown and come back the sooner. And just then Father Paissy, too, spoke some parting words to him, which made a rather strong and unexpected impression on him. They had both just left the elder’s cell.

“Remember, young man, unceasingly,” Father Paissy began directly, without any preamble, “that the science of this world, having united itself into a great force, has, especially in the past century, examined everything heavenly that has been bequeathed to us in sacred books, and, after hard analysis, the learned ones of this world have absolutely nothing left of what was once holy. But they have examined parts and missed the whole, and their blindness is even worthy of wonder. Meanwhile the whole stands before their eyes as immovably as ever, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.” Did it not live for nineteen centuries, does it not live even now in the movements of individual souls and in the movements of the popular masses? Even in the movements of the souls of those same all-destroying atheists, it lives, as before, immovably! For those who renounce Christianity and rebel against it are in their essence of the same image of the same Christ, and such they remain, for until now neither their wisdom nor the ardor of their hearts has been able to create another, higher image of man and his dignity than the image shown of old by Christ. And whatever their attempts, the results have been only monstrosities. Remember this especially, young man, since you are being assigned to the world by your departing elder. Perhaps, remembering this great day, you will not forget my words either, given as cordial words of parting for you, because you are young and the temptations of the world are heavy and your strength will not endure them. Well, go now, my orphan.”

With these words Father Paissy gave him a blessing. As he was leaving the monastery, thinking over all these unexpected words, Alyosha suddenly understood that in this monk, who had hitherto been stern and severe with him, he had now met a new and unlooked-for friend, a new director who ardently loved him—as if the elder Zosima, in dying, had bequeathed him Paissy. “And perhaps that is indeed what happened between them,” Alyosha suddenly thought. The unexpected learned discourse he had just heard, precisely that and not some other sort, testified to the ardor of Father Paissy’s heart: he had hastened to arm the young mind as quickly as possible for its struggle with temptations, to surround the young soul bequeathed to him with a wall stronger than any other he could imagine.