‘Perhaps she’s behind the screen,’ the thought pierced his heart, ‘perhaps she’s already asleep.’ Fyodor Pavlovich moved away from the window. ‘Though, if he was looking out of the window for her, it means she’s not there: why else would he be peering out into the darkness?… He’s dying of impatience…’ Mitya crept up to the window again and peered in. The old man was already seated at the table, visibly crestfallen. Finally he leaned on his elbows and rested his cheek in the palm of his right hand. Mitya watched him intently.
‘He’s alone, quite alone!’ he kept repeating. ‘If she was there, he’d behave differently.’ Strangely enough, a kind of absurd, bitter-sweet anguish welled up in his heart that she was not there. ‘It’s not because she’s not here,’ he realized at once, ‘but because I’ve no means of finding out whether she’s here or not.’ Mitya recalled later that his mind was extraordinarily lucid at that moment, that nothing escaped him, and that he observed everything down to the last detail. He felt his heart quickly consumed with anguish, the anguish of being in a state of ignorance and indecision. ‘Is she there, or isn’t she, for God’s sake?’ Anger raged in his heart. And suddenly he made up his mind; he raised his hand and tapped lightly on the window frame. He tapped as agreed between the old man and Smerdyakov: two slow taps, followed by three taps in quick succession: tap-tap-tap—a sign indicating ‘Grushenka’s here’. The old man started, looked up quickly, sprang to his feet, and rushed over to the window. Mitya jumped back into the shadow. Fyodor Pavlovich opened the window and poked his head out.
‘Grushenka, is that you? Who’s there?’ he uttered in a kind of tremulous whisper. ‘Where are you, my pet, my little angel, where are you?’ He was terribly agitated and breathless.
‘He’s on his own!’ concluded Mitya.
‘Where on earth are you?’ the old man called out again, peering right and left and leaning fully out of the window. ‘Come here; I’ve got a little present for you, come along, I’ll show it to you!…’
‘He means the envelope with the three thousand,’ Mitya realized in a flash.
‘Where are you then?… At the door? I’ll go and open it…’
The old man was half out of the window as he looked to the right, in the direction of the garden door, and peered into the darkness. A second later he would surely have run to unlock the door, without waiting for Grushenka to reply. Mitya looked on from the side, motionless. The whole of the old man’s profile which he hated so intensely, the pendulous Adam’s apple, the hooked nose, the lips smiling in voluptuous expectation, all this was brightly illuminated from the left by the slanting beam of light from the lamp in the room. A terrible, savage rage suddenly welled up in Mitya’s heart: ‘Here he is, my rival, the bane of my life!’ This was an outburst of that same sudden, vindictive, and savage rage which, as though with foresight, he had told Alyosha about some four days previously in the summer-house, when the latter had asked him, ‘How can you say you’ll kill father!’
‘I really don’t know, I don’t know,’ he had said at the time. ‘Perhaps I won’t kill him or perhaps I will. I’m afraid that the moment I set eyes on him, his face will suddenly become just too loathsome for me… I hate his bulging gizzard, his nose, his eyes, the way he sneers. I feel a physical revulsion. I’m scared stiff I won’t be able to control myself…’
This physical revulsion was welling up within him. Mitya, no longer conscious of his actions, suddenly pulled the pestle out of his pocket…
‘It was God’, Mitya himself said later, ‘who saved me then.’ Just at that very moment Grigory Vasilyevich woke up on his sickbed. That same evening he had performed the special treatment that Smerdyakov had described to Ivan Fyodorovich—that is, aided by his wife, he had rubbed himself all over with a mixture of vodka and some kind of extra-strong secret infusion, and had then drunk the rest to the accompaniment of ‘a certain prayer’ whispered by his wife, after which he had lain down to sleep. Marfa Ignatyevna had also drunk some of the mixture and, being teetotal, had fallen into a deep sleep next to her husband. But, quite unexpectedly, when Grigory woke up at that instant, took a moment or two to come to his senses and, although this immediately brought on a searing pain in his back, sat up in bed. Then he thought awhile, got up, and dressed hurriedly. Perhaps he felt a pang of conscience that he had been sleeping and the house had been left unattended ‘at such a dangerous time’. Smerdyakov, disabled by his attack of epilepsy, was lying motionless in the next room. Marfa Ignatyevna did not stir. ‘The old girl’s completely exhausted,’ thought Grigory Vasilyevich, glancing at her, and, wheezing, walked out on to the steps of the porch. Of course, he merely wanted to glance round from the porch, since he could hardly walk due to the excruciating pain in his back and his right leg. But just then he suddenly remembered that he had left the garden gate unlocked that evening. Being quite the most careful and meticulous of men, set in his ways and with habits ingrained over many years, he descended the steps and, hobbling and grimacing with pain, made for the garden gate. As he expected, the gate was wide open. Automatically, he stepped into the garden: perhaps he thought he saw something, perhaps he heard some sound, but as he glanced to the left, he noticed his master’s window wide open, empty, no one looking out of it. ‘Why’s it open? It’s not summer now!’ thought Grigory, and suddenly, at that very instant, a figure flitted across the garden in front of him. Someone was running away in the darkness, about forty paces away, shadowy, and moving very fast. ‘Lord!’ said Grigory, and without thinking, oblivious of the pain in his back, he dashed forward to intercept the intruder. He chose a shorter route, for he knew the garden better than the intruder; the latter, however, headed for the bathhouse and, running past it, made a dash for the fence… Grigory followed him without letting him out of his sight, and ran for all he was worth. He reached the fence just as the runaway was about to scale it. Letting out an almighty shout, Grigory hurled himself forward and clung on to the intruder’s leg with both hands.
So that was it, his premonition had been correct; he recognized him, it was him all right, ‘the monster-patricide’!
‘You’ve killed your father!’ the old man shouted at the top of his voice, but that was all he managed to shout out; he fell suddenly, as though struck by lightning. Mitya jumped back down into the garden and bent over the injured man. The brass pestle was still in his hand and, quite unconsciously, he flung it aside towards the grass. In fact, the pestle fell only a couple of paces away from Grigory, not in the grass but on the footpath, the most conspicuous place of all. For a few seconds Mitya scrutinized the man lying in front of him. There was blood all over the old man’s face; Mitya ran his hand over his head. Later he recalled clearly that, at that instant, he was terribly anxious ‘to find out for certain’ whether he had fractured the old man’s skull or had merely ‘knocked him out’ by hitting him on the temple with the pestle. But the blood was pouring, flowing copiously from the wound, and in no time at all a warm stream of it had soaked Mitya’s trembling fingers. He remembered later that he pulled a clean white handkerchief, which he had taken with him when going to see Mrs Khokhlakova, out of his pocket and pressed it to the old man’s temple. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he tried to wipe the blood away from the old man’s face and forehead, but the handkerchief too immediately became soaked with blood. ‘Lord, why am I doing all this?’ the thought suddenly struck Mitya. ‘I might have fractured his skull, but how can I tell?… And what difference does it all make anyway!’ he added suddenly, hopelessly, ‘if I’ve killed him, I’ve killed him… that’s what comes of interfering, you stupid old man, I can’t help you now!’ he said loudly, and ran towards the fence, scaled it, jumped down into the alley-way, and ran off. Crumpled in his right fist was the blood-soaked handkerchief, which he thrust into his back coat-pocket as he ran. He ran flat out, and the few lone people whom he passed in the dark on the streets of the town recalled later that, on that night, they had encountered a man running for all he was worth. He flew bac
k to Morozova’s house. When he had left earlier Fenya had immediately rushed to the janitor, Nazar Ivanovich, begging him, for the love of Christ, not to let the Captain in, either that day or the next. Nazar Ivanovich had listened and agreed but, as ill luck would have it, he had gone upstairs briefly to attend to the lady of the house, who had summoned him unexpectedly, and, meeting his twenty-year-old nephew, newly arrived from the country, he had told him to stay in the yard but had forgotten to mention about the Captain. Mitya came rushing up to the gate and banged on it. The lad recognized him immediately; Mitya had often given him drinking-money in the past. He opened the gate at once, let him in and, smiling cheerfully, immediately informed him that ‘Agrafena Aleksandrovna, as it happens, isn’t in, you know, sir.’
‘Where is she then, Prokhor?’ Mitya suddenly stopped dead.
‘She’s gone to Mokroye, must be about two hours ago, Timofei took her.’
‘What for?’ cried Mitya.
‘That I wouldn’t know, sir, she’s gone to some officer, someone sent her a message from there, and sent horses for her…’
Mitya left the lad and, half out of his mind, ran to Fenya.
5
A SUDDEN DECISION
FENYA and her grandmother were sitting in the kitchen together, and were about to go to bed. Relying on Nazar Ivanovich, they had not bothered to lock the door on the inside. Mitya burst in, ran towards Fenya, and grabbed her tightly by the throat.
‘Tell me this instant! Where is she, who’s she gone to Mokroye with?’ he yelled, quite beside himself.
Both women let out a shriek.
‘Oh, I will, oh, Dmitry Fyodorovich dear, I’ll tell you everything, I won’t keep anything back from you,’ spluttered Fenya, in fear for her life. ‘She’s gone to Mokroye, to the officer.’
‘What officer?’ yelled Mitya.
‘The one she used to know, that same officer of hers she knew five years ago, the one that left her and went away,’ Fenya spluttered on.
Dmitry Fyodorovich released his grip on her throat. He stood before her, pale as death, without saying a word, but from his eyes one could tell that he had understood everything in a flash, absolutely everything, down to the last detail; as soon as she opened her mouth, he had guessed everything. Of course, poor Fenya was in no state at that moment to notice whether he had guessed or not. She remained petrified, sitting on the wooden chest, as she had been when he had just burst in, and was trembling all over, both her arms outstretched as if to protect herself. She stared at him motionless, her pupils dilated in terror. To make matters worse, both his hands were covered in blood. And while running, he must have kept touching his forehead and wiping the sweat off his face, with the result that both his forehead and his right cheek were smeared with blood. Fenya was close to hysterics. The old cook had leapt to her feet and was looking at him as though stupefied, almost out of her mind. Dmitry Fyodorovich stood still for about a minute, and then suddenly slumped down into the chair next to Fenya.
He sat, not like one lost in thought, but as though terrified out of his wits. Now everything was as clear as daylight: this officer—he knew about him, he knew absolutely everything, for Grushenka herself had told him that he had sent her a letter a month ago. And so for a month, a whole month, this affair had been conducted completely on the quiet, right up to the arrival of the officer, and he had not even given him a moment’s thought! But how, how was it possible that he had not even considered him? Why had he simply disregarded this officer, forgotten him as soon as he had found out about him? This was the question that confronted him now in all its enormity. And, as he contemplated the awesome nature of the question, he grew cold from fear.
But suddenly he addressed Fenya softly, patiently, like a gentle, friendly child, as though he had completely forgotten that he had frightened and insulted her and caused her so much distress just a moment ago. He began to question her with a clarity and precision altogether astounding under the circumstances. And though Fenya kept staring wild-eyed at his bloodstained hands, she answered each of his questions with astonishing readiness and urgency, as though impatient to tell him the whole ‘gospel truth’. Little by little, even with a certain eagerness, she began to recount all the details, not at all in order to hurt him but merely because she was anxious, out of the goodness of her heart, to be of assistance. She also gave the most detailed account of the day’s events—Rakitin and Alyosha’s visit, how she, Fenya, had kept a lookout, how, before driving off, the mistress had shouted out of the window to Alyosha that he should tell him, Mitenka, that ‘he must always remember that I loved him for one short hour’. When he heard about the message, Mitya suddenly smiled and his pale cheeks flushed. Just at that moment Fenya remarked, without the least fear of seeming too inquisitive:
‘Your hands, Dmitry Fyodorovich, they’re covered in blood!’
‘Yes,’ Mitya replied mechanically, glancing at his hands absent-mindedly, and then immediately forgot about them and about Fenya’s remark. He fell silent again. About twenty minutes had elapsed since his arrival. His initial fear had receded, and now he was apparently gripped by a new, resolute determination. Suddenly he got up and smiled pensively.
‘What’s happened to you, sir?’ Fenya asked, again pointing to his hands—she spoke with compassion, as though she were now the closest of all to him in his grief.
Mitya glanced at his hands once more.
‘That’s blood, Fenya,’ he said, looking at her strangely, ‘human blood and, my God, why ever should it have been spilt! But… Fenya… there’s a fence hereabouts (he was looking at her as though talking riddles), a very high one and rather daunting to look at, but… tomorrow at dawn, when “the sun leaps into the sky”, Mitya will jump over that fence… You don’t understand, Fenya, which fence I mean… doesn’t matter, you’ll hear about it tomorrow and then you’ll understand everything… and now, goodbye! I won’t bother you any more, I’ll take my leave, my mind’s made up. Never say die… she loved me for an hour, long may she remember Mitenka Karamazov… She always called me Mitenka, you know.’
With these words, he abruptly left the kitchen. However, his departure seemed to strike even more fear into Fenya than when he had run in just before and accosted her.
Precisely ten minutes later Dmitry Fyodorovich called on the young clerk, Pyotr Ilyich Perkhotin, to whom he had previously pawned his pistols. It was already half past eight and Pyotr Ilyich, having drunk several cups of tea, had just put on his coat to go to The Stolichny Gorod for a game of billiards. Mitya caught him as he was about to leave. The latter, seeing his bloodstained face, let out a gasp.
‘Good Lord! What’s happened to you?’
‘Here you are,’ Mitya said hurriedly, ‘I’ve come to reclaim my pistols and I’ve brought you the money. I’m ever so grateful to you. I’m in a hurry, Pyotr Ilyich, so please be as quick as you can.’
Pyotr Ilyich was becoming more and more surprised—he had suddenly noticed the wad of banknotes in Mitya’s hand and, most surprising of all, the strange way he held this money and the fact that he walked into the room displaying the notes in his outstretched right hand for all to see, which no one in his right mind would ever normally think of doing. The clerk’s servant, a young boy who had met Mitya in the entrance hall, testified later that he had come into the entrance hall holding the money in his hand like that, which meant that even as he was walking along the street he must have been holding the money in his out-stretched right hand. It was all in hundred-rouble notes, which he grasped tightly in his bloodstained fingers. Subsequently, when questioned by official investigators as to how much money there actually was, Pyotr Ilyich replied that it was difficult to estimate at the time, perhaps two thousand, perhaps three, but that the wad had been a big one, ‘pretty thick’. As for Dmitry Fyodorovich himself, Perkhotin also testified later that he was ‘not quite himself—not drunk, mind, but sort of excited’, he had been very absent-minded, yet at the same time also strangely circumspect, as thou
gh he were pondering something deeply but was unable to resolve it. He was in a tearing hurry, and his responses were brusque and very odd. Some of the time, however, he did not seem to be weighed down with grief at all; he even appeared cheerful.
‘What’s the matter with you, what’s happened?’ Pyotr Ilyich exclaimed once more, looking at his visitor in bewilderment. ‘How did you get so much blood on you? Did you fall or something? Just look at yourself!’
The Karamazov Brothers Page 61
