Great elder, by the way, I was forgetting, though I had been meaning for the last two years to come here on purpose to ask and to find out something. Only do tell Pyotr Alexandrovitch not to interrupt me.
Here is my question: Is it true, great Father, that the story is told somewhere in the Lives of the Saints of a holy saint martyred for his faith who, when his head was cut off at last, stood up, picked up his head, and, 'courteously kissing it,' walked a long way, carrying it in his hands.
Is that true or not, honoured Father?"
"No, it is untrue," said the elder.
"There is nothing of the kind in all the lives of the saints.
What saint do you say the story is told of?" asked the Father Librarian.
"I do not know what saint.
I do not know, and can't tell.
I was deceived. I was told the story.
I had heard it, and do you know who told it?
Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miusov here, was so angry just now about Diderot. He it was who told the story."
"I have never told it you, I never speak to you at all."
"It is true you did not tell me, but you told it when I was present. It was three years ago.
I mentioned it because by that ridiculous story you shook my faith, Pyotr Alexandrovitch.
You knew nothing of it, but I went home with my faith shaken, and I have been getting more and more shaken ever since.
Yes, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you were the cause of a great fall.
That was not a Diderot!
Fyodor Pavlovitch got excited and pathetic, though it was perfectly clear to everyone by now that he was playing a part again.
Yet Miusov was stung by his words.
"What nonsense, and it is all nonsense," he muttered. "I may really have told it, some time or other... but not to you.
I was told it myself.
I heard it in Paris from a Frenchman. He told me it was read at our mass from the Lives of the Saints... he was a very learned man who had made a special study of Russian statistics and had lived a long time in Russia.... I have not read the Lives of the Saints myself, and I am not going to read them... all sorts of things are said at dinner- we were dining then."
"Yes, you were dining then, and so I lost my faith!" said Fyodor Pavlovitch, mimicking him.
"What do I care for your faith?" Miusov was on the point of shouting, but he suddenly checked himself, and said with contempt, "You defile everything you touch."
The elder suddenly rose from his seat.
"Excuse me, gentlemen, for leaving you a few minutes," he said, addressing all his guests. "I have visitors awaiting me who arrived before you.
But don't you tell lies all the same," he added, turning to Fyodor Pavlovitch with a good-humoured face.
He went out of the cell. Alyosha and the novice flew to escort him down the steps.
Alyosha was breathless: he was glad to get away, but he was glad, too, that the elder was good-humoured and not offended.
Father Zossima was going towards the portico to bless the people waiting for him there.
But Fyodor Pavlovitch persisted, in stopping him at the door of the cell.
"Blessed man!" he cried, with feeling. "Allow me to kiss your hand once more.
Yes, with you I could still talk, I could still get on.
Do you think I always lie and play the fool like this?
Believe me, I have been acting like this all the time on purpose to try you.
I have been testing you all the time to see whether I could get on with you.
Is there room for my humility beside your pride?
I am ready to give you a testimonial that one can get on with you!
But now, I'll be quiet; I will keep quiet all the time.
I'll sit in a chair and hold my tongue.
Now it is for you to speak, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You are the principal person left now- for ten minutes."
Chapter 3.
Peasant Women Who Have Faith
NEAR the wooden portico below, built on to the outer wall of the precinct, there was a crowd of about twenty peasant women.
They had been told that the elder was at last coming out, and they had gathered together in anticipation.
Two ladies, Madame Hohlakov and her daughter, had also come out into the portico to wait for the elder, but in a separate part of it set aside for women of rank.
Madame Hohlakov was a wealthy lady, still young and attractive, and always dressed with taste. She was rather pale, and had lively black eyes.
She was not more than thirty-three, and had been five years a widow.
Her daughter, a girl of fourteen, was partially paralysed.
The poor child had not been able to walk for the last six months, and was wheeled about in a long reclining chair.