The Brothers Karamazov

“How is your daughter’s health? Did you want to talk with me again?” “Oh, I begged insistently, I pleaded, I was ready to go down on my knees and stay kneeling even for three days under your window until you let me in. We have come to you, great healer, to express all our rapturous gratitude. You have surely healed my Liza, healed her completely. And how? By praying over her on Thursday, by laying your hands on her. We have hastened here to kiss those hands, to pour out our feelings and our reverence!”

“What do you mean—healed? Isn’t she still lying in her chair?” “But her night fevers have completely disappeared, for two days now, since Thursday,” the lady nervously hurried on. “Besides, her legs have grown stronger. This morning she woke up healthy, she slept through the night, look at her color, at her bright eyes. She used to cry all the time, and now she’s laughing, gay, joyful. Today she insisted on being helped to her feet, and she stood for a whole minute by herself, without any support. She wants to make a wager with me that in two weeks she’ll be dancing the quadrille. I summoned the local doctor, Herzenstube, and he shrugged and said: amazing, baffling. And you want us not to trouble you, not to fly here and thank you? Thank him, Lise,^[43] thank him!” Lise’s pretty, laughing little face suddenly became serious for a moment. She rose from her chair as much as she could, and, looking at the elder, clasped her hands before him, but she couldn’t help herself and suddenly burst out laughing . . .

“It’s at him, at him!” she pointed to Alyosha, childishly annoyed with herself because she could not keep from laughing. If anyone had looked at Alyosha, who was standing a step behind the elder, he would have noticed a quick blush momentarily coloring his cheeks. His eyes flashed and he looked down.

“She has a message for you, Alexei Fyodorovich ... How are you?” the mama continued, suddenly addressing Alyosha and holding out to him an exquisitely gloved hand. The elder turned and suddenly looked at Alyosha attentively. The latter approached Liza and, grinning somehow strangely and awkwardly, held out his hand. Lise put on an important face.

“Katerina Ivanovna sends you this by me.” She handed him a small letter. “She especially asks that you come to her soon, soon, and not to disappoint her but to be sure to come.”

“She asks me to come? Me ... to her ... but why?” Alyosha muttered, deeply astonished. His face suddenly became quite worried.

“Oh, it’s all about Dmitri Fyodorovich and ... all these recent events,” her mama explained briefly. “Katerina Ivanovna has now come to a decision ... but for that she must see you ... why, of course, I don’t know, but she asked that you come as soon as possible. And you will do it, surely you will, even Christian feeling must tell you to do it.”

“I’ve met her only once,” Alyosha continued, still puzzled.

“Oh, she is such a lofty, such an unattainable creature...! Only think of her sufferings ... Consider what she’s endured, what she’s enduring now, consider what lies ahead of her ... it’s all terrible, terrible!”

“Very well, I’ll go,” Alyosha decided, glancing through the short and mysterious note, which, apart from an urgent request to come, contained no explanations.

“Ah, how nice and splendid it will be of you,” Lise cried with sudden animation. “And I just said to mother: he won’t go for anything, he is saving his soul. You’re so wonderful, so wonderful! I always did think you were wonderful, and it’s so nice to say it to you now!”

“Lise!” her mama said imposingly, though she immediately smiled.

“You’ve forgotten us, too, Alexei Fyodorovich, you don’t care to visit us at all: and yet twice Lise has told me that she feels good only with you.” Alyosha raised his downcast eyes, suddenly blushed again, and suddenly grinned again, not knowing why himself. The elder, however, was no longer watching him. He had gotten into conversation with the visiting monk, who, as we have already said, was waiting by Lise’s chair for him to come out. He was apparently one of those monks of the humblest sort, that is, from the common people, with a short, unshakable world view, but a believer and, in his own way, a tenacious one. He introduced himself as coming from somewhere in the far north, from Obdorsk, from St. Sylvester’s, a poor monastery with only nine monks. The elder gave him his blessing and invited him to visit his cell when he liked.

“How are you so bold as to do such deeds?” the monk suddenly asked, pointing solemnly and imposingly at Lise. He was alluding to her “healing.”

“It is, of course, too early to speak of that. Improvement is not yet a complete healing, and might also occur for other reasons. Still, if there was anything, it came about by no one else’s power save the divine will. Everything is from God. Visit me, father,” he added, addressing the monk, “while I’m still able: I’m ill, and I know that my days are numbered.”