The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky; Andrew R. MacAndrew

I’ve been determined to come here to consult you about something special . . . But first, perhaps you’d better warn Mr. Miusov not to interrupt me. Here’s what I wanted to ask you: is it true, Holy Father, as it says somewhere in the  Lives of the Saints , that one holy miracle worker who suffered martyrdom for his faith stood up, after they had beheaded him, picked up his head, ‘kissed it affectionately,’ and walked for a long time, carrying it in his hands and ‘kissing it affectionately.’ Is that story true? I’m addressing the question to all of you, reverend fathers!”
    “No, it isn’t true,” the elder said.
    “There’s nothing of the sort in the  Lives of the Saints ,” said the Father Librarian. “About which saint is it supposed to be written?”
    “I don’t know myself. Haven’t the slightest idea. I was just told the story, misled. And shall I tell you who told me? All right—it was Mr. Miusov here, who just now was so furious about Diderot. It was he who told it to me.”
    “I never told you anything of the sort. To begin with, I never speak to you at all.”
    “Right, you didn’t tell it to me, but you did tell it to others in my presence, about three years ago. I bring it up now because, by telling that ridiculous story, you undermined my faith. Although you didn’t know it, Mr. Miusov, I returned home that day with my faith shaken, and it has been getting shakier and shakier ever since. Yes, Mr. Miusov, you were the cause of my terrible fall. And that’s much worse than my telling the Diderot story.”
    Karamazov’s tone was brimming with pathos, although it was perfectly clear to everyone that he was acting again. Yet Miusov was still stung to the quick:
    “Nonsense, utter nonsense . . .” he muttered angrily. “I may have said something of the sort, but I didn’t tell it to you, I’m sure of that. I was also told the story. When I was in Paris, a Frenchman told me it was from the  Lives of the Saints  and that they read it in Russia in the mass . . . He was a very learned man who was making a statistical study of Russia. He had spent a long time in this country. As for me, I’ve never read the  Lives of the Saints , nor do I intend to . . . Anyway, one says all sorts of things at a dinner party and it was at one that I told the story.”
    “So you ate your dinner and, as a result, I lost my faith that day,” Karamazov said, still taunting him.
    “Much I care about your faith!” Miusov was ready to shout at him but then, containing himself, he said scornfully: “You defile everything you touch.”
    The elder rose abruptly from his sofa:
    “I hope you will excuse me, gentlemen, if I leave you—just for a few minutes,” he said, addressing everyone present. “Some people who were here even before you arrived are waiting for me. And you,” he said, looking cheerfully at Karamazov, “see if you can manage without lying.”
    As he started out of the cell, Alyosha and the novice hurried over to help him down the steps. Alyosha, who had been standing holding his breath, was very glad to be out of there, but he was also relieved that the elder didn’t seem at all offended and was cheerful as usual. The elder was about to leave the cell to bless those who were waiting for him, but Karamazov stopped him in the doorway:
    “Blessed man!” he cried out emotionally. “Allow me to kiss your hand once more! I see I can talk to you, I can get along with you. Perhaps you think I always lie like this and play the clown? Well, I want you to know that I was deliberately testing you—I wanted to find out if it was possible to get along with you, whether there was room for my humility next to your pride. So let me give you a certificate of good character: it is indeed possible to get along with you! And now I’ll remain silent the rest of the time. I’ll sit in my chair and I won’t say one word. It’s your turn to have the floor now, Mr. Miusov. You will be the most