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Every family with many sons always has
A Lawyer
A Mirror
An Angel
It was an old saying his mother used to repeat from the vantage point of someone who only had a single child. Grigory never did pay much attention to such things—or to most things his mother said, if we are being honest—but it was hard not to recall that old prognosis at the moment. And what a moment that was. The house had never been so full. And neither had his heart.
It had been a singular feeling, the one that had made its home in his chest when Ivan Karamazov had come in through the door that one afternoon in May. From all the little Karamazov boys he had taken under his wing, the second son of Fyodor was the only one who could actually recall his time with him, and it had been a warm and fuzzy sort of joy to see that little boy, now fully grown, smile at him and address him by name. But there had been something else there as well that had had him quite disappointed and his self-love quite hurt (and had motivated some not-so-quiet murmurs about ungratefulness and "the youth these days…"). Ivan had not greeted him as his almost-son—instead, like a polite businessman coming by to assess a certain deal.
Grigory would later find out that that was exactly what Ivan was there for, but that is not what is important right now.
The Lawyer
🪶📜⏳✒️
It was consensus among the servants in the Karamazov household: no one understood how the relationship between Ivan and Fyodor even worked.
Ivan, reserved, intellectual Ivan, and Fyodor, lousy and clown Fyodor. How Ivan could look poised and elegant, a picture-perfect gentleman while standing right next to his low-life father was a mystery. And how he managed to face his father with grace and courtesy as if nothing was amiss, that was the mystery. No one understood that relationship.
No one truly understood Ivan.
Even Smerdyakov, who seemed to derive some sort of smug pleasure from the fact that Ivan would waste some of his time with him, even that wretched boy knew nothing about their intellectual (although Smerdyakov seemed convinced he did). From his seat in the servant’s kitchen, on a stool munching some dry and hard bread while Smerdyakov prepared dinner, Grigory could see Ivan in one of the love seats in the garden writing something on that black notebook he always seemed to carry with him. Grigory watched the elegant strokes of his pen, the furrow of his stern but earnest brows, the gentle sway of his well-kept brown hair in the wind, and the old man tried to line up what few pieces he had. Grigory watched Ivan, the man, and tried to fill in the sixteen-year gap to understand where in that noetic scholar could he find the child who had been afraid of thunderstorms and dogs and who could only fall asleep with his younger brother next to him.
Ivan had always been a quiet kid, but Grigory felt in that twenty-three-year-old none of the timidity that, he suspected, had been the force keeping the seven-year-old's mouth shut. His silence now spoke of contemplation, reflection, machinations—perhaps he never stopped writing inside that prodigious mind of his. Perhaps his gatherings about the world around him were much too important to be interrupted in the name of small talk.
Perhaps that mind of his was a prison, and that child was still in there somewhere, silent and confused like it had always been. Grigory never stopped to consider that possibility.
But there was one thing Grigory soon learned about his boy-turned-man—that love, innocent and abundant before, quiet and discreet now, the love he felt for his brothers was still very much alive in that heart of his, the underused organ in the presence of so big a brain. Yes, Grigory was certain when he learned of Ivan's true intentions in coming back home that it was the same love moving him now as the love that had him caring for Alyosha like a doll when they were little, hugging the poor child as if he were a teddy bear and peppering his light brown fluff of hair with little kisses. Grigory was sure, when he learned that Ivan had come back to support his older brother Dmitri and mediate a certain impasse between the firstborn and their father, he was sure that it was that same love driving his actions.
"Ivan is this family's lawyer," he said, brushing bread crumbs off of his face, "He will lend us his intelligence. This house will be more peaceful now that he is here."
Smerdyakov turned his head to him with a snoot on his face, something between confusion and contempt at the old man's sudden declaration. The lad rolled his eyes and fixed his attention back to his cooking.
"This house could, indeed, use a little bit of intelligence. Imagine that!" he muttered, sardonic, and had the dignity to only flinch a tiny bit when Grigory gave him a slap on the ear.
Dmitri had arrived two days later than he had been supposed to, but still merely a few days after Ivan's own arrival. Where Ivan was quiet and contemplative, Dmitri was loud. And bright. He had come in through that door in the evening, throwing it open when he found it was unlocked, announcing himself loudly and happily to all that cared to hear. He had greeted every single person in the house then, with hugs to Grigory—oh, the satisfaction! the stroke to his self-love!—and all the other servants (even Smerdyakov, who went almost catatonic with the affected display of affection) and an added kiss to brother Ivan (his face then had been very funny). On his first night there, Dmitri had regaled all of them with anecdotes about his time with the army and had continued willing to do so for many days, as long as one lent him an ear and a drink. There had been an euphoria, an ecstasy to the young man. Such joy just for being back home, for being reunited with his family; it had warmed Grigory's heart.
No one aside from Dmitri and Ivan knew that that happiness was specific to Dmitri's certainty that that visit would yield him the fortune he believed was his due. Grigory had no way of knowing that. And Grigory had no way of knowing of the disaster that would follow once Dmitri realized that that would not happen. But that is not important right now.
The Mirror
♠️🔦🏴🪞
Dmitri never spent much time at home, favoring outings to the pub and strolls around town and visits to friends' houses. But it was a quiet evening, and Dmitri was home, and, as Grigory brought in logs to keep the fireplace lit, the old man stole a glance at the eldest Karamazov brother.
He laid sprawled on one of the sofas in the sitting room, long legs, housing all the height he had inherited from his mother's side of the family, propped up on one of the sofa's arms, his head resting on the other one. He was not reading, nor drawing, nor writing, nor doing anything, really. Instead, his blue eyes watched the ceiling, seeing something there no one else did, his fingers drumming an incessant beat against his abdomen—blowing off the exuberant energy inside him that could not be contained for long. From what it seemed, Dmitri was in the process of holding an one-sided conversation with his brother Ivan, who sat on an armchair nearby, very much immersed in reading the novel open on his lap while still allowing his brother monosyllabic answers. Grigory could not contain the fond smile that curved his lips at the sight. It brought about memories of the blond little thing Dmitri had been as a toddler. It was almost ridiculous, now, to look at that six and a half feet tall army man and remember how very tiny he had been.
But that never-ending energy was indeed familiar. The tiny Mitya burned in Grigory's memory, preserved unchanged in amber, was one that climbed trees and perched himself onto windows and burned his little hand on the stove because he had been oh so eager to help with dinner (despite all the commands to stay out of the kitchen). The tiny Mitya who had the most charming little crooked smile that aided him in getting away with every single one of his mischiefs, but who cried himself to sleep almost every night and could never explain why.
Dmitri was not entirely the same, though. There was a resolve burning behind those sharp eyes, a determination that had never existed in the scattered child he had been. But there was also an uncertainty clouding his smile, and that had never been present in the child either. Little Mitya had been a two-faced creature—happy and carefree under the sun, hopeless and anguished under the moon. But this Dmitri, the man—there was no such division. The walls in his heart had broken down somewhere along the line and his two tides mingled in each other. Dmitri the man experienced every emotion at once, with all their intensity—a bright fire.
And was not that fire the very spirit of this weird little family Grigory had clung to? Was emotion, intensity, passion not the very marks of a Karamazov?
Fire—could Grigory really not realize that fire was passion, but also destruction? Could he really not see the fine line separating a bonfire from a wildfire?
He had told Marfa that, later that night, as they prepared to sleep. He said, "Dmitri really is like a mirror, in that sense, reflecting the spirit of his family," and had not understood the unhappy frown on his wife's face in response to his words.
Alexei Karamazov had arrived a whole month after his two older brothers. He had knocked on the door politely that morning, and Marfa had been the one to answer it. Grigory had witnessed how Alyosha happily accepted the hug his wife offered him in the midst of her sentiment, the way he chuckled good-heartedly as she patted his head and told him how much he had grown, and the smile he had offered her; the single warmest smile Grigory had ever had the pleasure of seeing. Alexei had noticed his presence, then, and came forward to greet him, and, when Grigory realized that, unlike Ivan, Alyosha's lack of physical affection when greeting him was less because of coldness and more out of respect for his elder, Grigory himself pulled the boy into his arms and messed those curls that were a darker shade of brown now.
If Dmitri was a fire, Grigory decided, then Alyosha was a candle. Warm, gentle, and comforting. There was not a single person in that family who did not adore Alyosha—even Ivan, who mostly kept to himself, Grigory was certain that even he adored their little angel.
Because that was what Alyosha was in their eyes—an angel. He would play with the little children on the streets whenever he took walks downtown—he was very fond of walking, Grigory noticed, and of children as well—and would make no objection to sitting down and having a very big long conversation with some old grandma who had decided to share her life's story with him—he was very fond of the elders too, or of people in general, Grigory had decided. He would greet brother Ivan with affection every single morning and every single night—and deflate a little bit whenever Ivan's response did not, at all, correspond to his enthusiasm (Grigory felt undeniably bad for the kid). But the sweetest thing had been Alyosha's almost immediate friendship with his older—and, up until now, unknown—brother Dmitri. That was a memory Grigory loved to think of: the two brothers sitting together on the sofa, leaning on each other's shoulder, Dmitri recounting his adventures and misadventures in the army, and Alyosha listening intently, sometimes interrupting with a laugh, sometimes with a small reprimand—the latter Dmitri would respond with a laugh of his own. The bond formed between the passionate fire of the Karamazov and the gentle candle of their angel had been an unlikely one, but one so genuine no one bothered to question.
Another unlikely happening concerning the youngest Karamazov: the effect Alyosha had had on his father, which had been palpable since the first time he had stepped in through that door. Fyodor had begun changing before their very eyes, more moderate, less vulgar. Who was that affectionate family man who had replaced Fyodor for a few wonderful days? No one knew, but, during those days, some had dared to believe Fyodor could, in fact, become a good man, as long as their little angel remained by his side.
Smerdyakov had muttered to himself about how ridiculous the notion was. Someone could argue that the morality of one's parents is too heavy of a burden for a child to carry, that no son, no brother, no person should have the responsibility of carrying another's life in their bare hands. But that was what the Karamazov family was headed towards doing with Alyosha, and only Heavens can know what it would take for them to realize that, to keep others warm, candles had to burn. But no one made that argument, not Smerdyakov, and certainly not Grigory, who did not even think about it.
The Angel
🌿☁️💫🌱
That morning, Grigory was surprised by a knock on the door to the servant’s wing. He opened it and there Alyosha was, lovely, sweet angel Alyosha. That warm smile was not on his face, but his grey eyes were still kind.
Alyosha asked him about his Mother. Grigory's shocked silence lasted only a moment, only enough for him to find his voice and, as soon as he did, he eagerly filled the boy in on everything he knew about Sofia Ivanovna—eager both because of his affection for Alyosha and also because of his consideration for his late Mother, the poor girl. Alyosha asked to be shown where she had been buried (of course Fyodor would not remember—Grigory maintained a certain sort of weird bond with his master that no one understood, but even he could be driven absolutely mad by Fyodor's actions sometimes), and of course he complied.
It was a long walk, and, throughout its whole duration, the old man persisted in lending Alyosha any and all facts about Sofia that sprung to mind—the boy listened, but never spoke. When they arrived at the graveyard, and Grigory showed him to her grave, the crude, precarious tombstone that had been the best he had managed to provide for her, Alyosha fell to his knees in front of it. The boy did not cry, no, he did not. But there was such sorrow in those loving eyes—the gentle grey became cloudy, heavy skies.
Grigory watched for a few seconds and then excused himself and went back to the entrance of the graveyard to allow the boy a moment alone with his Mother, if belated.
Out of Fyodor's—his—sons, Alyosha was the one Grigory had looked forward to meeting again the most (he had looked forward to meeting all of his precious Karamazov boys again), as he had been the littlest one by the time he had been taken from him (when Sofia Ivanovna's patroness, that terrible woman, had taken both boys away). Not the littlest in terms of age—Dmitri had been even younger when he went with his Mother’s relatives—but in terms of identity. Maybe because, unlike Dmitri, who had been by himself and had had only himself to define his being, Alyosha had the role of Ivan's little brother to play, on top of the role of being his own person.
Alyosha had been a darling child: chubby, rosy cheeks, sweet and intelligent grey eyes, and a messy mop of light brown curls. But as far as personality went, the youngest Karamazov had been leagues behind his older brothers. The little toddler would spend most of his time either napping or sitting on a stool by the wall observing others in absolute silence. A plain, vanilla child with little that distinguished him from all the other children in the world other than the fact that Alyosha was his and that he loved him.
The only notorious aspect about tiny Alyoshka that Grigory could recall was that the little kid was a bit of a scaredy cat, somehow even more so than Ivan. Ivan had been terrified of thunderstorms and dogs, but Alyosha had been afraid of those, and of bugs, and of the dark, and of ghosts, and he would not let anyone in this whole world give him a bath inside a bathtub for fear that he would go down the drain together with the water. Alyosha had also hated loud noises─the poor child, born into a family where shouting was routine. Grigory remembered, the memory clear in his mind as if it had been yesterday: he had been berating Smerdyakov for something or another that foundling had up and done, and little Alyosha, two years old, ran away from home. Grigory had been worried sick, looking for him up and down the neighborhood, and had finally found him curled up into a little ball, little hands covering his ears, tears streaming down his face, toes buried in the patch of grass he was sitting on. Grigory had been ready to give him the scolding of a century for nearly giving him a heart attack but found he could not do it when the child was already so… whatever he had been at that moment. As he took Alyosha home, Grigory noticed with no small amount of confusion that the boy seemed calm despite the fact that he was crying, not nearly as sad as those tears suggested. Grigory had tried his best to ignore the clenching in his heart─Alyosha is not a dragon, Alyosha is not like him─and had held his little one’s hand a little tighter.
And now Grigory watched nineteen-year-old Alyosha’s back as the boy kneeled before his Mother’s grave and he did not know what to make of him─so many years had been lost, at what point had the scaredy cat given place to the guardian angel he had become?
As a toddler, Alyosha made sure to fall asleep next to Ivan, because he knew it made him feel safer. After an afternoon of sitting on that stool silent and observant, he would fetch flowers in the garden and place them in a jar in the kitchen when no one was looking, if his observations had told him Marfa had been sad, or he would gather pine cones for the fire so Grigory did not have to, in days when Grigory seemed tired, or he would leave some of his candies on Smerdyakov’s pillow when Grigory scolded him very much. The caring "angel", as he put it, had always been there. Grigory never noticed.
They went back home side by side, and Alyosha was silent. Grigory could not ignore how that moment reminded him of that incident, all those years ago. Even the calmness in his face remained as extraordinary now, leaving the graveyard, as it had seventeen years before. But instead of comparing Alyosha to him, this time Grigory was certain of exactly what the youngest Karamazov was─and he called him as such.
“You’re an angel, young one. You’ll do good to this family and this family will do good to you,” he had said with confidence.
Alyosha smiled fully and brightly at that, but there was something fragile about it.
Grigory had always loved children, even when he himself had been one. As an only child, he would beg his Mother to let him come with her to her master’s house to help her take care of his little kids. Grigory had always loved children, but he and Marfa had never had any success in that department (it secretly tore him apart), so when Fyodor had gotten married, out of the many things that went through his mind,─and many things did, same as everyone; every single person in town had something to say about that─one thought was that it meant children would probably arrive the Karamazov household, and Grigory treasured that hope in his heart. To be able to care for a little one, even if they were not his, would be a great joy.
Adelaida’s pregnancy and Dmitri’s subsequent birth had been a joyous time to Grigory, until the moment he began to realize he was probably the only person who was happy about Mitya’s existence. It had been an odd, uncomfortable feeling to realize that. He knew his master, he knew Fyodor way too well by this point, but he had genuinely believed a wife and a child could do wonders for that man’s character─is it not what is always expected? But it had not, apparently. And Adelaida always seemed sulky every single hour of the day since she had come to this house. Why she had even agreed to marry Fyodor was a question maybe not even she knew the answer to, but it was clear she was not happy─with anything. And that included the infant who depended on them for all. Grigory grumbled to himself about how he would have been a way better parent to little Mitya had the boy been his.
And then it became true.
Adelaida finally had enough of her sulky life with the Karamazov and ran away with a seminarian to Heaven knows where. Fyodor─Grigory still wanted to hope, but Fyodor never gave him the chance─all but forgot about the fact he had a child once she was gone (and that is assuming he had ever even acknowledged the fact in the first place), and the little boy was promptly cast aside. Grigory did not believe it an exaggeration to say Mitya would have died had he not made the decision to bring him home. Marfa was skeptical at first, but she knew Mitya would not survive if they did not do it (and, had she not agreed, Grigory would have done it anyway). And Dmitri stayed with them, and Grigory considered him his in every way that mattered.
At age three, they took Dmitri away.
Sofia Ivanovna. Grigory could only sigh when he thought about her.
It did not help that she had been just young enough that she could have been his daughter. He had seen so much sorrow in that girl’s eyes the day Fyodor brought her home, so much dread. For as long as he lived, Grigory would never forget the look in her eyes then.
Sofia got pregnant two months after her marriage with Fyodor and, as discreetly as he could, as it was not safe to come in between a Karamazov and his woman, Grigory tried to treat the girl in any way he possibly could: convincing Marfa to cook her favorite meals as best as she could (which was not much, Marfa was not a great cook), buying muffins from the bakery for her when he went to town to run errands, reminding his wife to put new flowers in Sofia’s bedroom every day. Ivan was born, and the already frail girl fell sick. She barely had any strength to get out of bed, but with the love and the selflessness that only mothers know─and with help, of course─Sofia dedicated every ounce of energy she had left in her to loving her baby boy the best she could. Grigory would have helped her more, but then Marfa accused him of neglecting his own child and throwing all the heavy lifting of raising Pavel at her, though, in his opinion, Grigory was nothing but an amorous father.
In reality, he had, indeed, thrown Pavel at Marfa—who had not fully agreed to raise him—and went on to live his life, making Pavel not only an unplanned child, but an unwanted one. But Grigory did not realize that.
Three years later, Sofia got pregnant again. Her pregnancy this time around carried all the complications of her sickness and the poor girl could seldom leave the bed during those nine months, the attacks of hysteria getting hold of her more and more frequently. At the end of that arduous but, somehow, joyous time, Alyosha was born, and she cared for him with the same tenderness she had Ivan, even if now she was officially ill and no amount of motherly love and selflessness would manage to get her to stand on her own two feet.
One year later, that angel left the Earth. Fyodor had been either too drunk or too depressed to do anything about it, so Grigory himself made all the preparations for a proper burial and gravestone. Like their older brother before them, Ivan and Alyosha were cast into oblivion by their father's mind and, just like before, Grigory took them in.
When Alyosha was four and Ivan was seven, they took them away too.
Every family with many sons always has
A Lawyer
A Mirror
An Angel
It was an old saying his mother used to repeat from the vantage point of someone who only had a single child. Grigory never did pay much attention to such things—or to most things his mother said, if we are being honest—but it was hard not to recall that old prognosis at the moment. And what a moment that was. The house had never been so full. And neither had his heart.
His boys—his boys—were back home, grown, reunited.
But Fyodor remained a terrible Father, and no council Grigory tried to give him would change that fact. Fyodor's clownery and Dmitri's fire mingled terribly, oh so terribly. Ivan's patience wore thinner and thinner every day and Grigory did not know how much more the second son was willing to take before getting up and leaving. Grigory had been so proud of Alyosha for joining the monastery, but now the boy ran left and right trying to help as best as he could, but all seemed in vain, and that too wore him thin gradually. Grigory would never be able to explain the horror he felt when he perceived some of Sofia's sadness in Alyosha's eyes—just a fraction of it, but still.
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Dmitri had assaulted Fyodor. And had hit him, Grigory. Him. Him, of all people. How dare he?! After all he had done?!
Perhaps someone could have told Grigory that much of his love towards those grown-up "sons of his” was actually ego and arrogance, that what he actually wanted was to be rewarded for taking those children in. It was easy to love helpless babies; it was hard to love troubled adults. It was way too easy to love oneself too much.
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Grigory stood over the ashes of the Karamazov family and part of him could not believe it had come to this.
The other part of him kept saying, "I should have noticed I should have noticed I should have noticed I shou—"
Grigory had not realized that lawyers did not always defend—lawyers accused, lawyers convicted. Grigory had not realized that mirrors could break and that broken mirrors produced shards—his heart bled angrily, the family would bleed red. Grigory had not realized a human could not be an angel and that they could not demand such things from mortal men—they did not have that power, they did not have that nature.
Grigory had not realized.
The Karamazov family has many sons
A Prosecutor
A Shard
A Human
This is the story of how they fell.