Free The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky; Andrew R. MacAndrew Page B

of them had just recently donated a thousand rubles to the monastery and another was one of the wealthiest landowners in the district; he was considered one of the best-educated of men, and his decision about the fishing rights on the river could determine the whole course of the litigation. But none of the monastery officials came out to meet them. Miusov gazed abstractedly at the graves in the churchyard and was about to remark that the dead had to pay a very high price for the privilege of being buried in this “holy place,” but he let it pass, for his usual ironic “liberal” tone was turning into something like anger.
    “Damn it, isn’t there anyone to direct us in this chaos?” he muttered as if talking to himself. “We must find out because it will soon be time for us to go back . . .”
    Then, all of a sudden a middle-aged, balding gentleman in a loose summer coat walked up to them. He raised his hat and, looking at them ingratiatingly, introduced himself to the whole party in a mellifluous voice. He was a landowner named Maximov from near Tula. He immediately did his best to be helpful to them:
    “The elder Zosima lives in the hermitage,” he lisped. “He lives in complete seclusion, you know . . . It’s about four hundred yards from the monastery on the other side of that little wood over there . . .”
    “I know it’s on the other side of the wood,” Mr. Karamazov told him. “The only trouble is, we don’t quite remember the way—we haven’t been here for a long time.”
    “Well, you can go through that gate over there and then straight through the wood, straight through. Wouldn’t you like me . . . I’ll be glad to show you. You see, I myself have to . . . It’s this way, please . . .”
    They went through the gate and crossed the little wood with Maximov, a man of about sixty, trotting along beside them and examining them with an almost morbid curiosity, his eyes almost starting from his head.
    “You see, we’ve come here on private business,” Miusov said sternly. “We have been granted what we may call ‘an audience’ by the person in question and, therefore, grateful though we are to you for showing us the way, we won’t be able to invite you to come in with us.”
    “I’ve already been there, seen him . . .  un chevalier parfait! ” Maximov said, raising his hand and snapping his fingers.
    “Who is a  chevalier? ” Miusov asked.
    “The elder . . . He is admirable . . . That elder is the pride and glory of the monastery. An elder such as Zosima . . .”
    But his incoherent speech was cut short by a small, cowled monk, pale and haggard, who just then caught up with them. As Mr. Karamazov and Mr. Miusov stopped, the monk bowed almost from the waist and said in a most courteous tone:
    “After your visit to the hermitage, gentlemen, the Father Superior invites you to dinner, if possible no later than one o’clock.” And then, turning to Maximov, he added: “And you too, sir.”
    “I will certainly be there!” exclaimed Mr. Karamazov, delighted at the invitation. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. And let me say, we have all promised to behave properly while we’re here . . . What about you, Mr. Miusov, are you coming too?”
    “Of course I will come. I came here primarily to study monastery customs, after all. The only thing that troubles me is that I’m here with you, Mr. Karamazov . . .”
    “But where’s Dmitry? He hasn’t shown up yet,” Mr. Karamazov remarked.
    “I wouldn’t mind if he didn’t come at all,” Miusov said. “Do you really think I relish all these squabbles between you two? Your presence alone is bad enough. Please thank the Father Superior for his invitation, then,” he said to the monk. “We will be there for dinner.”
    “Yes, sir, but first I have been told to take you to the elder,” the monk said.
    “And I,” Maximov lisped, “will go straight to the Father Superior’s since we’ve been invited.”
    “The Father Superior