The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  ‘Don’t explain, there’s no need for that at the moment. As for help, you won’t be the first one I’ve helped, Dmitry Fyodorovich. I’m sure you’ve heard of my cousin Belmesova, her husband was on the verge of ruin, everything collapsing around his ears, as you so vividly put it, Dmitry Fyodorovich, and guess what, I suggested stud-farming to him, and now he’s doing fine. Do you know anything at all about stud-farming, Dmitry Fyodorovich?’

  ‘Nothing, my dear lady—oh, my dear lady, nothing at all!’ exclaimed Mitya with nervous impatience, ready to rise from his chair. ‘I do implore you, my dear lady, hear me out, just let me speak for two minutes so that I can explain everything, all about my project. Besides, I don’t have any time, I’m in a dreadful hurry!…’ He shouted hysterically, sensing that she was about to start speaking again, and hoping to shout her down. ‘I’ve come to you in desperation… in the final throes of desperation, to ask you to lend me some money, three thousand roubles, a secured loan, you understand, the surest possible guarantee, my dear lady, a really cast-iron guarantee! Only allow me to explain…’

  ‘Later, we can talk about that later!’ Mrs Khokhlakova waved aside his explanation. ‘In any case, you don’t have to explain, I already know all about it, I’ve said so already. You’re asking me for a certain sum of money, three thousand, but I shall give you more, immeasurably more, I shall save you, Dmitry Fyodorovich, but you must do as I tell you!’

  Mitya fairly leapt out of his seat.

  ‘My dear lady, how can you be so kind!’ he exclaimed, deeply moved. ‘God, you’ve saved me. You’re saving a man from violent death, my dear lady, from a bullet… I’ll be eternally grateful to you…’

  ‘I shall give you more, infinitely more than three thousand!’ cried Mrs Khokhlakova with a beaming smile as she looked at the ecstatic Mitya.

  ‘Infinitely? But I don’t need that much. All I need is just this damned three thousand, and in return I’ll give you a guarantee for this sum, I’m infinitely grateful, and what’s more, I’m proposing to you a plan, which…’

  ‘Enough, Dmitry Fyodorovich, it’s a deal,’ Mrs Khokhlakova cut him short with the morally triumphant air of a benefactress. ‘I promised to save you, and I shall save you. I shall save you as I saved Belmesov. Have you ever thought about prospecting for gold, Dmitry Fyodorovich?’

  ‘Prospecting for gold, my dear lady! I must admit I have never thought about it.’

  ‘Well then, I have, on your behalf! I’ve thought it over and over! I’ve had my eye on you for the best part of a month with that in mind. I’ve watched you going about your business a hundred times if I’ve watched you once, and I said to myself, “Now there’s an energetic young man if ever there was one, he should go prospecting for gold.” I even made a point of observing the way you walk, and came to the conclusion, “This man is sure to find many seams of gold.”’

  ‘The way I walk, my dear lady?’ Mitya smiled.

  ‘And what’s wrong with that? You don’t mean to deny that one can tell a person’s character by the way he walks, do you, Dmitry Fyodorovich? The natural sciences all support this. Oh, I’m a realist now, Dmitry Fyodorovich. As from today, after all those goings-on at the monastery, which have upset me so much, I’ve become a complete realist and I want to immerse myself in practical activity. I have been cured. “Enough!” as Turgenev* said.’

  ‘But, my dear lady, that three thousand which you so generously promised to advance me…’

  ‘You’ll get it, Dmitry Fyodorovich,’ interjected Mrs Khokhlakova immediately, ‘that three thousand roubles is as good as in your pocket, not three thousand but three million, Dmitry Fyodorovich, and all in less than no time at all! Let me tell you what I have in mind for you; you will find plenty of gold, you will make millions, you will come back and become a man of affairs, you will be our driving force, leading us towards a common good. Are we to leave it all to the Jews? You will erect buildings and you will establish various enterprises. You will help the poor, and they will all bless you. This is the age of the railway, Dmitry Fyodorovich. You will become famous and indispensable to the Ministry of Finances, which is now in such dire straits. I lose sleep over the way the rouble has fallen, Dmitry Fyodorovich, this is a side of me that is all too little known…’

  ‘My dear lady, my dear lady!’ Dmitry Fyodorovich interrupted again, overcome by a distressing presentiment, ‘it is highly, highly likely I shall follow your counsel, my dear lady, your very wise counsel, my dear lady, and perhaps I shall go… prospecting for gold… and I’ll return and tell you about it… not just once, but many many times… but now, that three thousand which you have so generously… Oh, it would get me out of this mess… and if I could have it today… that is to say, you see, I can’t afford to waste any time, not even a single hour…’

  ‘Enough, Dmitry Fyodorovich, that’s enough!’ Mrs Khokhlakova interrupted him firmly. ‘I’m asking you: will you go prospecting for gold or not, are you fully determined, I need a straight answer, yes or no.’

  ‘I will, my dear lady, later… I’ll go wherever you like, my dear lady… but as for now…’

  ‘Wait!’ cried out Mrs Khokhlakova, and she jumped to her feet, dashed over to her magnificent bureau with its innumerable drawers, and began to pull them out one by one, frantically looking for something.

  ‘Three thousand!’ thought Mitya in astonishment, ‘just like that, without any bits of paper, without any formalities… oh, that’s really splendid of her! An amazing woman, if only she didn’t chatter so much…’

  ‘Here we are!’ Mrs Khokhlakova exclaimed joyfully. ‘This is what I was looking for!’

  It was a tiny silver icon on a ribbon, the kind that is sometimes worn round the neck, together with a crucifix.

  ‘This is from Kiev, Dmitry Fyodorovich,’ she said reverently, ‘from the relics of the holy martyr Varvara.* Permit me to hang it round your neck and thereby to bless you on the eve of your new life and new endeavours.’

  And she proceeded to loop the ribbon over his head and began to tuck the icon under his shirt. Much embarrassed, Mitya leant forward slightly and began to help her, finally tucking the icon under his necktie and shirt-collar so that it lay against his chest.

  ‘Now you may go!’ said Mrs Khokhlakova, solemnly resuming her seat.

  ‘My dear lady, I am so touched… I hardly know how to thank you… for such sentiments, but… if only you knew how precious time is for me now!… This sum of money which I was so expecting you’d lend me in your generosity… Oh, dear lady, as you’re so kind, so touchingly generous towards me,’ exclaimed Mitya with sudden inspiration, ‘allow me to reveal something to you… something that you have indeed known for a long time… I’m in love with a certain young woman here… I’ve been unfaithful to Katya… I mean, to Katerina Ivanovna. Oh, I’ve been cruel and dishonourable towards her, but I’ve fallen in love with someone else here… a certain young woman whom you perhaps despise, because you already know everything, my dear lady, but I cannot possibly abandon her, and therefore that three thousand…’

  ‘Abandon everything, Dmitry Fyodorovich!’ Mrs Khokhlakova interrupted him in the most decisive of tones. ‘Abandon everything, especially women. Your sights should be set on the goldmines, and that’s no place for women. Later, after you return famous and rich, you’ll find yourself a sweetheart from the best of circles. She’ll be a thoroughly modern girl, knowledgeable and without any prejudices. The feminist question, which is so topical nowadays, will have been resolved by then, and a new type of woman will have emerged…’

  ‘My dear lady, you don’t understand, you really don’t…’, said Dmitry Fyodorovich, his hands folded in supplication.

  ‘Oh, but I do, Dmitry Fyodorovich, I understand just what you need, what you yearn for without being aware of it yourself. I’m not at all indifferent to the present-day feminist point of view. The advancement of women, even a role in politics for women in the very near future, too, to be sure—that is my ideal. That’
s a side of me that’s all too little known, Dmitry Fyodorovich, I’ve got a daughter myself, you know. I’ve written to the author Shchedrin* about this matter. He’s been such an inspiration to me on the question of women’s place in society; I wrote him an anonymous letter last year, just a couple of lines: “I hug you and kiss you, my mentor, here’s to the modern woman, carry on with the good work,” signed, “A mother”. I thought of signing “A modern mother”, but hesitated and settled on simply “A mother”—morally more uplifting, you know, Dmitry Fyodorovich, in any case the word “modern” would have reminded him too much of The Modernist*—a bitter reminder, I’m sure, considering our present-day censorship… Oh, my God, what’s the matter with you?’

  ‘My dear lady,’ Mitya finally leapt to his feet, his hands folded in helpless supplication, ‘you’ll make me cry, my dear lady, if you keep putting off what you so generously…’

  ‘Do have a good cry, Dmitry Fyodorovich, do! These are splendid sentiments… you have such a journey before you! Tears will lighten your burden and will give you joy. You will hurry back from Siberia especially to see me, to let me share your happiness…’

  ‘Please let me get a word in,’ Mitya implored suddenly, ‘I beg you for the last time, tell me, may I have the sum of money you promised me today? If not, when precisely can I receive it?’

  ‘What sum, Dmitry Fyodorovich?’

  ‘The three thousand you promised… which you so magnanimously…’

  ‘Three thousand? You mean roubles? Oh no, I haven’t got three thousand,’ said Mrs Khokhlakova in understated surprise. Mitya was thunderstruck.

  ‘What… just now… you said… you even said they were as good as in my pocket…’

  ‘Oh no, you misunderstood me, Dmitry Fyodorovich. If you thought that, you really did misunderstand me. I meant prospecting for gold… True, I promised you more, infinitely more than three thousand, I do recall, but I simply meant prospecting for gold.’

  ‘And what about the money? What about the three thousand roubles?’ Dmitry Fyodorovich stammered.

  ‘Oh, if it was actually money you had in mind, I haven’t got any. I don’t have any money at all at the moment, Dmitry Fyodorovich, right now I’m waging a running battle with my business manager, and only the other day I myself had to borrow five hundred roubles from Miusov. No, no, I have no money. And if you want to know, Dmitry Fyodorovich, even if I had, I wouldn’t give it to you. Firstly, I never lend to anybody. If you lend, you lose a friend. But I wouldn’t lend to you of all people. Because of my love for you I wouldn’t lend you anything, because of my wish to save you I wouldn’t lend you anything. Take it from me, the only place for you is the gold-mines, the goldmines, and I’ll repeat it again and again…!’

  ‘What the hell…!’ roared Mitya, and with his full might he crashed his fist on to the table.

  ‘A-ah!’ Mrs Khokhlakova cried out, and ran to the other end of the room.

  Mitya spat, turned on his heels, and with quick strides marched out of the room, out of the house, and into the street and the darkness! He walked as though demented, striking his chest in the same place as he had struck it two days ago in front of Alyosha, when they met that dark evening on the road. The significance of striking his chest in the same place, and what he wanted to prove thereby—that, for the moment, remained a secret from the whole world, and one which he had not revealed even to Alyosha, but there was more than just ignominy for him in that secret, there was downfall and suicide too, for he had decided that if he could not obtain the three thousand to pay Katerina Ivanovna and thereby expunge from his chest, from ‘that place on his chest’, the ignominy with which he was burdened and which so oppressed his conscience, he would commit suicide. All this will be explained to the reader subsequently, but now that his last hope had failed to materialize, this man, who was possessed of such physical strength, had no sooner covered a few steps from Mrs Khokhlakova’s house than he suddenly burst into tears like a small child. He walked on in a daze, wiping away the tears with his hand. In this state he reached the town square, and there he suddenly bumped straight into someone. An old woman, whom he had nearly sent flying, let out a piercing shriek.

  ‘My God, you nearly killed me! Why don’t you look where you’re going, you brute!’

  ‘Who is it, is that you?’ exclaimed Mitya, staring at the old woman in the darkness. She turned out to be the old servant woman who worked for Kuzma Samsonov and whom Mitya remembered only too clearly from the previous day.

  ‘And who might you be, dearie?’ enquired the old woman in a totally different tone of voice. ‘Can’t quite make you out in the dark.’

  ‘You live at Kuzma Samsonov’s, you work for him, don’t you?’

  ‘I do indeed, dearie, just nipped over to see Prokhorych… I still can’t quite place you, you know.’

  ‘Tell me, granny, is Agrafena Aleksandrovna at your place now?’ asked Mitya, bursting with impatience. ‘I took her there myself earlier.’

  ‘She was, dearie; she came, stayed for a bit, and then left.’

  ‘What? Left?’ exclaimed Mitya. ‘When did she leave?’

  ‘Just after she arrived, only stayed a minute, that’s all. Told Kuzma Kuzmich a story that made him laugh, and off she went.’

  ‘You’re lying, damn you!’ yelled Mitya.

  ‘A-ah!’ the old woman cried out, but Mitya was already gone, running as fast as his legs would carry him to Morozova’s house. It was just at this very moment that Grushenka was setting off for Mokroye, and he reached the house no more than a quarter of an hour after she had left it. Fenya was sitting in the kitchen with her grandmother, the cook Matryona, when the ‘Captain’ suddenly burst in. At the sight of him, Fenya screamed at the top of her voice.

  ‘Shut up!’ yelled Mitya. ‘Where is she?’ But before Fenya, petrified with terror, had a chance to utter a word, he had fallen at her feet.

  ‘Fenya, for Christ our Lord’s sake, tell me where she is!’

  ‘My dearest sir, I don’t know anything, dear Dmitry Fyodorov ich, I don’t know a thing, you can kill me if you want, I don’t know anything,’ Fenya swore by everything holy, ‘she left with you…’

  ‘She came back!…’

  ‘Dearest sir, I never saw her come back, by all that’s holy, I never saw her come back!’

  ‘You’re lying,’ yelled Mitya, ‘I can guess where she is from the look in your eyes!…’

  He turned towards the door. The frightened Fenya was glad that she had escaped his wrath so lightly, but she was well aware that had he not been in such a tearing hurry, there would have been all hell to pay. But as he dashed out, Mitya astonished both Fenya and Matroyna by doing something completely unexpected: on the table stood a brass mortar containing a pestle, about seven inches long, also made of brass. As he was leaving the room, having already opened the door with one hand, he suddenly reached out with his other hand and, without pausing, snatched the pestle from the mortar, stuck it in his side pocket, and was gone.

  ‘Oh Lord, he’s going to kill someone!’ Fenya clasped her hands in horror.

  4

  IN THE DARKNESS

  WHERE did he run to? It was quite obvious; where else could she be, if not at Fyodor Pavlovich’s? She must have run straight to him from Samsonov’s, that was quite clear now. The whole intrigue, the whole deception was now as plain as a pikestaff… All these thoughts were whirling round madly in his head. He did not call at Marya Kondratyevna’s, ‘No need to go there, no need at all… mustn’t give the slightest cause for alarm… they’ll only alert her straight away and betray me… There’s a plot, and Marya Kondratyevna’s probably involved, Smerdyakov too, they’re all in it up to their necks!’ He had another idea: he ran up a side-street, past Fyodor Pavlovich’s house, making a wide detour, then to the bottom of Dmitrovskaya Street, crossed the little bridge, and found himself in a lonely alley behind the houses; it was deserted and devoid of any sign of life, bordered on one side by the wattle fence of the nei
ghbouring kitchen garden and on the other side by the high solid fence enclosing Fyodor Pavlovich’s garden. Here he chose a place, probably that same spot where, according to the old local story, Lizaveta Smerdyashchaya had scaled the fence. ‘If she could climb over it,’ the thought flashed through his mind, God knows why, ‘surely I can?’ Whereupon he jumped up and immediately managed to grab hold of the top of the fence, then pulled himself up with all his strength, swung one leg across, and ended up astride the fence. Close by, in the garden, there was a little bathhouse; from the top of the fence he could also see the lighted windows of the house. ‘Just as I thought, there’s a light in the old man’s bedroom. She’s there!’ and he jumped down from the fence into the garden. Even though he knew that Grigory was sick and that perhaps Smerdyakov too really was ill, which meant that no one would hear him, he nevertheless ducked down instinctively and listened, remaining absolutely still. But all around was deathly silence and, to make matters worse, there was not a breath of wind.

  ‘And just the hushed breath of silence,’* the line suddenly came into his head. ‘I only hope no one heard me—doesn’t look like it.’ After standing still for about a minute, he tiptoed for some distance through the garden, silently and stealthily, over the grass, skirting the trees and bushes, straining to listen after each step. It took him about five minutes to reach the lighted window. He knew that, right under the windows, there were several large, tall, thick guelder rose and elder bushes. The garden door on the left of the house was shut, and he noted this particularly as he passed. Finally he reached the bushes and hid himself behind them. He held his breath. ‘Now I must wait’, he thought, ‘until they think there’s no one there, in case they heard me coming and are listening… mustn’t cough or sneeze.’

  He waited a minute or two, but his heart was pounding frantically, and every so often he gasped for breath. ‘My heart won’t stop thumping,’ he thought, ‘I can’t wait any longer.’ He stood in the shadow of the bushes, the far side of which was lit by the light from the window. ‘Guelder rose berries, aren’t they red!’ he whispered for no reason at all. Quietly, a step at a time, he approached the window and raised himself on tiptoe. The whole of Fyodor Pavlovich’s bedroom was plainly visible in front of him. It was a smallish room, partitioned by a line of red screens, ‘Chinese,’ as Fyodor Pavlovich used to say. ‘Chinese,’ went through Mitya’s mind, ‘and Grushenka’s on the other side.’ He began to scrutinize Fyodor Pavlovich. He was wearing his new, striped, silk dressing-gown, which Mitya had not seen him wear before, fastened with a tasselled silk belt. From under the collar protruded a clean, elegant shirt of fine Dutch linen, the sleeves fastened with gold cuff-links. His head was bandaged with the same red kerchief that Alyosha had seen on him. ‘Dressed up to the nines,’ thought Mitya. Fyodor Pavlovich was standing near the window, apparently immersed in thought; suddenly he started and listened, but, hearing nothing, went over to the table, poured himself half a glass of brandy, and gulped it down. Then he took a deep breath, stood awhile again, absent-mindedly approached a pier-glass, lifted one edge of the kerchief on his head with his right hand, and began to examine his cuts and bruises, which had not yet healed. ‘He’s on his own,’ thought Mitya, ‘more than likely on his own.’ Fyodor Pavlovich walked away from the mirror and suddenly turned towards the window and peered out. Mitya immediately stepped back into the shadow.