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“Here he is, going to the dinner as though nothing had happened,” he thought. “A brazen face, and the conscience of a Karamazov!” Alyosha helped Father Zossima to his bedroom and seated him on his bed. It was a little room furnished with the bare necessities. There was a narrow iron bedstead, with a strip of felt for a mattress.
And the reason this life struck him in this way was that he found in it at that time, as he thought, an extraordinary being, our celebrated elder, Zossima, to whom he became attached with all the warm first love of his ardent heart. But I do not dispute that he was very strange even at that time, and had been so indeed from his cradle.
It was he who had been standing near Madame Hohlakov the previous day and had asked Father Zossima earnestly, referring to the “healing” of the lady’s daughter, “How can you presume to do such things?” He was now somewhat puzzled and did not know whom to believe.
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.
After all this business with Father Zossima, which has so upset me, from this very day I’m a realist and I want to devote myself to practical usefulness. I’m cured. ‘Enough!’ as Turgenev says.” “But, madam, the three thousand you so generously promised to lend me—”
The old man knew that the elder Zossima, who was living in the monastery hermitage, had made a special impression upon his “gentle boy.” “That is the most honest monk among them, of course,” he observed, after listening in thoughtful silence to Alyosha, and seeming scarcely surprised at his request. “H’m!... So that’s where you want to be, my gentle boy?”
“I’m sorry I have not read your article, but I’ve heard of it,” said the elder, looking keenly and intently at Ivan. “He takes up a most interesting position,” continued the Father Librarian. “As far as Church jurisdiction is concerned he is apparently quite opposed to the separation of Church from State.” “That’s interesting. But in what sense?” Father Zossima asked Ivan.
And didn’t he tap the ground with his forehead, too!” “You speak of Father Zossima?” “Yes, of Father Zossima.” “Tapped the ground?” “Ah, an irreverent expression! Well, what of it? Anyway, what does that vision mean?” “I don’t know what it means, Misha.” “I knew he wouldn’t explain it to you! There’s nothing wonderful about it, of course, only the usual holy mummery.
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 every one was aware, Father Ferapont particularly disliked Father Zossima.
Before he had been long at the monastery, he had detected the secret murmurings of some shallow brothers who disliked the institution. He was, besides, a meddlesome, inquisitive man, who poked his nose into everything. This was why the news of the fresh “miracle” performed by Father Zossima reduced him to extreme perplexity.
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