The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  ‘Mitya, darling, wait, don’t go away, I’ve a little something to tell you,’ she whispered, and suddenly raised her face towards him. ‘Listen, tell me, who do I love? There’s one person here I love. Who is it? That’s what I want you to tell me.’ A smile began to glimmer on her tear-stained face, her eyes shone in the half-light. ‘A falcon entered the room, and my heart leapt with joy. “You fool,” my heart whispered to me, “that’s the one you love.” You entered, and everything was sweetness and light. “Well, what’s he afraid of?” I thought to myself. And you were afraid, really afraid, you couldn’t say a thing. “Surely,” I thought to myself, “it’s not those two he’s afraid of!” Can you be frightened of anyone? “It’s me he’s afraid of,” I thought, “just me.” Fenya must have told you, you silly fool, how I shouted to Alyosha from the window that I’d loved my Mitenka for one short hour, and that I was off to love… someone else. Mitya, Mitya, fool that I was, how could I have imagined I loved someone else after you! Do you forgive me, Mitya? Do you forgive me or not? Do you love me? Do you?’

  She leapt to her feet and grabbed him by the shoulders. Mitya, struck dumb with ecstasy, gazed into her eyes, her face, her smile, and suddenly clasped her tightly and began to kiss her.

  ‘Will you forgive me for torturing you? I made you all suffer out of spite. I even drove that pathetic old man out of his mind through sheer spite… Do you recall the time you had a drink in my room and dashed your glass to the ground? Today I remembered it and broke a glass myself, I drank “to my treacherous heart”. Mitya, my falcon, why aren’t you kissing me? He kisses me once and draws back, just stares at me and listens… Don’t just stand there! Kiss me… harder, that’s better. Love me, love me more! From now on I’m your slave, your slave for life! It’s lovely being a slave!… Kiss me! Hurt me, torture me, do something to me… Oh, I really deserve to be tortured… Don’t! Wait, later, I don’t want it like that…’, she pushed him away suddenly. ‘Go away, Mitka, I want plenty of wine, I want to get drunk; I want to get drunk and I want to dance, I do, I do!’

  She struggled free and dashed out through the curtains. Mitya followed her as though drunk himself. ‘So what, so what, who cares what happens next,’ flashed through his head, ‘one single minute of this, and the world can go to hell.’ Grushenka did gulp down another glass of champagne, in fact, and promptly became very tipsy. She slumped down in the armchair in which she had sat before, smiling beatifically. Her cheeks were glowing, her lips burning, her bright eyes grew languorous, and her glances passionate and seductive. Even Kalganov felt his heart flutter, and he went up to her.

  ‘Did you feel me kiss you just then, when you were asleep?’ she whispered to him. ‘I’m drunk now, that’s what it is… Aren’t you drunk? Why isn’t Mitya drinking? Why aren’t you drinking, Mitya, I’m drinking and you’re not…’

  ‘I am drunk! I’m drunk as it is… because of you, and now I want to get even more drunk with wine.’ He drank another glass, and—this struck him as being odd—it was this last glass which made him groggy, quite unexpectedly groggy, he was sober one minute and drunk the next, he remembered this clearly. From that moment, everything began to spin, as if in delirium. He walked around, he laughed, he spoke to everyone, and all as if in a trance. But all the time, one stubborn, searing thought recurred relentlessly, ‘like a red-hot brand in my soul’, as he recalled later. He would approach her, sit down next to her, look at her, listen to her… She herself grew very garrulous and kept beckoning people over; every now and then, a dancer from the troupe would approach her, and she would either kiss the girl and let her go or make the sign of the cross over her. She was liable to burst into tears at any moment. Maksimov, ‘the little old chap’, as she used to call him, amused her no end. He was constantly rushing up to plant a kiss on her hand, on ‘her every little finger’, and in the end he even performed a dance to an old ditty which he himself sang. His cavortings grew particularly sprightly when it came to the refrain:

  Little piglet went grunt-grunt-grunt,

  And the calf went moo-moo-moo,

  But the duckling quack-quack-quacked,

  And the gosling pee-pee-peeped.

  While the chicken clucked-clucked-clucked

  As it in the farmyard paced,

  As it in the farmyard paced!

  ‘Give him something, Mitya,’ said Grushenka, ‘let him have a present, he’s poor. Woe to the poor, woe to the wretched ones!… You know, Mitya, I’m joining a nunnery. Yes, I really shall one of these days. There was something Alyosha said to me today that I’ll never forget as long as I live… Yes… Let’s dance today, though. Tomorrow to the nunnery, but today we’ll dance our hearts out. I want to be mischievous, my good people, so what, God will forgive. If I were God, I’d pardon all people: “My dear little sinners, from now on, you’re all pardoned.” But I’m off to seek forgiveness: “Look you kind people, why not forgive a silly woman?” I’m an animal, you know. But I want to pray. I did offer someone an onion once. I’m so evil, but I want to pray! Mitya, let them dance, don’t interfere. All people on this earth are good, without exception. It’s good on this earth. Even though we’re rotten, it’s still nice on this earth. We’re rotten and we’re nice, both rotten and nice… Yes, really, tell me, I want to ask you, come closer all of you, I want to ask you; do tell me this, all of you: why am I so nice? I am nice, I’m very nice… Well then: why am I so nice?’ Grushenka prattled on, steadily becoming more and more drunk, and finally announced decisively that she intended to dance herself. She rose from her chair, and swayed. ‘Mitya, don’t let me have any more wine, even if I ask for it—don’t give me any. Wine brings no peace. Everything’s spinning, the stove and everything. I want to dance. Let them all watch me dance… let them see how well, how wonderfully well I dance…’

  And she really meant to: she pulled out a white cambric kerchief from her pocket and held it by one corner in her right hand, so as to wave it about during the dance. Mitya started fussing about, the girls fell silent, ready to break into a dancetune as soon as the signal was given. On realizing that Grushenka herself was going to dance, Maksimov squealed with delight and started prancing around her, singing:

  Shapely-legged,

  Slender-waisted,

  Bushy-tailed she goes.

  But Grushenka waved her kerchief and shooed him off.

  ‘Sh-shush! Mitya, why don’t they come and watch? Let them all see me… let them watch. Get the ones that have been locked up to come too… Why did you lock them up? Tell them I’m going to dance, let them watch me dance and watch too…’

  Mitya, unsteady from the wine, staggered over to the locked door and banged on it with his fist.

  ‘Hey, you… Polsky-podvisolsky! Come out, she wants to dance, she wants you to watch her.’

  ‘Blackguard!’ cried one of the Poles.

  ‘Same to you! You’re a puny, insignificant little blackguard, too, that’s what you are.’

  ‘I wish you’d stop mocking Poland,’ Kalganov, also the worse for drink, observed irritably.

  ‘Keep quiet, boy! Calling him a blackguard doesn’t mean I want to malign the whole of Poland. One blackguard doesn’t make up the whole of Poland. So you keep quiet, pretty boy, and carry on sucking your sweets.’

  ‘Just listen to them! You’d think they weren’t civilized. Why don’t they just kiss and be friends?’ Grushenka said, and stepped forward to dance. The chorus broke into song: ‘Fly, falcon, fly.’ Grushenka threw back her head, parted her lips, smiled, gave one wave of her kerchief, and suddenly swayed helplessly, standing there in the middle of the room, bewildered.

  ‘I don’t feel well…’, she said in an exhausted voice, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t feel very well, I can’t… It’s my fault…’

  She bowed to the chorus, and then four more times in all directions, ‘It’s all my fault… I’m sorry…’

  ‘The young lady’s had one too many, she’s really had one too many, the pretty young lady,’ voices echo
ed all around.

  ‘She’s drunk,’ Maksimov giggled, offering his explanation to the girls.

  ‘Mitya, take me away… take me, Mitya,’ Grushenka said, utterly exhausted. Mitya rushed towards her, snatched her in his arms, and bundled his precious burden behind the curtains. ‘Well, it’s time I was off,’ thought Kalganov, and, stepping out of the blue room, closed both panels of the double doors behind him. But the party in the big room continued unabated. Mitya laid Grushenka on the bed and pressed his lips to hers in a deep kiss.

  ‘Don’t touch me…’, she whispered in a suppliant voice, ‘don’t touch me just yet… I told you I was yours, so don’t touch me… have pity… Not with them there, we mustn’t while they’re still around. And him. It’s horrible here…’

  ‘Just as you say! I wouldn’t think of it… I adore you…’, mumbled Mitya. ‘Yes, it’s horrible here, oh, it’s vile.’ And, without releasing his hold on her, he sank down on his knees beside the bed.

  ‘I know you’re a wild one, but you’re noble with it,’ Grushenka said with effort, ‘we mustn’t spoil it… from now on, everything will be decent… we too must be decent, we too must be good, not like animals, but good… Take me away, take me far away, do you hear me?… I want you to take me away from here, far, far away…’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, of course!’ Mitya clutched her in his arms. ‘I’ll take you away, we’ll fly away… Oh, I’d give my whole life for just one year with you, if only I knew what to do about the blood!’

  ‘What blood?’ Grushenka echoed in consternation.

  ‘Never mind!’ said Mitya through clenched teeth. ‘Grusha, you’re asking for decency, but I’m a thief. I’ve stolen money from Katka… I’m so ashamed, so ashamed!’

  ‘From Katka? You mean from the young lady? No, of course you haven’t stolen it. Give it back to her, I’ll give you the money… What are you on about! All that’s mine is yours now. What’s money to us? We’d blow it anyway… that’s for sure! We can always go and work on the land. I want to work the soil with these bare hands of mine. We must toil away, do you hear me? Those were Alyosha’s orders. I shan’t just be your mistress, I’ll be faithful to you, I’ll be your slave, I’ll work for you. We’ll go to the young lady and we’ll both beg forgiveness, and then we’ll go away. And if she won’t forgive us, we’ll go away all the same. So you just return the money to her, and give your love to me… Don’t you give it to her. You mustn’t love her any more. If you fall in love with her, I’ll strangle her… I’ll poke both her eyes out with a needle…’

  ‘I love you, no one but you, I’ll love you even in Siberia…’

  ‘Why Siberia? All right, in Siberia too if you wish, it makes no difference… we’ll work… there’s snow in Siberia… I love riding in the snow… and there must be a bell… Listen, can you hear a bell tinkling?… Where’s that tinkling coming from? Someone’s coming… there, the tinkling’s stopped.’

  She shut her eyes in exhaustion, and seemed suddenly to drop off to sleep for a second. A bell really did tinkle somewhere in the distance, and then suddenly stopped. Mitya rested his head on her bosom. He did not notice when the sound of the bell stopped, nor did he notice that the singing too had ceased abruptly, and that instead of the drunken shouting a deathly silence had suddenly descended upon the whole house. Grushenka opened her eyes.

  ‘What’s going on, I must have fallen asleep? Yes… the bell… I slept and had a dream: I was riding in the snow… the bell kept tinkling, but I was asleep. I was with my beloved, I was with you. And a long way away… I had my arms around you, I was hugging and kissing you, but still I was cold, in the glittering snow… Do you know, when the snow glitters at night, and the moon is shining, and it feels like you’re no longer on this earth… I woke up, and there was my beloved close by, how lovely…’

  ‘Close by,’ mumbled Mitya, kissing her dress, her bosom, her hands. And suddenly he felt something strange: he had the impression that she was looking straight past him—not at him, not into his face—but over his shoulder, fixedly and with a strange immobility. Her face suddenly registered surprise, almost fear.

  ‘Mitya,’ she whispered, ‘who’s that over there, looking at us?’ Mitya turned and saw that someone had indeed pulled the curtains aside and appeared to be staring at them. And there seemed to be others there, too. He leapt to his feet and strode quickly towards the onlooker.

  ‘This way, if you please, over here,’ the voice spoke softly, but firmly and insistently.

  Mitya stepped out from behind the curtain and stood stock-still. The whole room was full of people, not those who had been there before, but newcomers, people he had not seen there earlier. A momentary shiver ran down his spine, and he shuddered. He recognized them all in a flash. That tall, pale-looking old man in the coat with the cockade on his cap was Mikhail Makarych, the chief of police. And that consumptive-looking, fastidious dandy—‘his boots are always polished to a deep shine’—was the assistant public prosecutor. ‘He’s got a watch worth four hundred roubles, he showed it to me once.’ And that young fellow in the spectacles… His name was on the tip of Mitya’s tongue, he knew him, he had seen him before: it was the investigative magistrate, just out of law school. That one over there, that was the district police officer, Mavriky Mavrikych, there was no mistaking him, Mitya knew him well. And what about those men with the badges, what were they doing here? And the two strangers, they were just a couple of peasants… And over in the doorway stood Kalganov and Trifon Borisych…

  ‘Gentlemen… What is it, gentlemen?’ began Mitya and, beside himself with panic, he suddenly yelled out at the top of his voice:

  ‘I understand!’

  The bespectacled young man pressed forward and, stepping up to Mitya, began in a dignified, though not altogether steady voice:

  ‘We are charged… in a word, would you step this way, that’s right, to the settee… We must seek an explanation from you urgently.’

  ‘The old man!’ yelled Mitya in a frenzy. ‘The old man’s blood!… I understand!’

  And he collapsed, as if poleaxed, on a nearby chair.

  ‘You understand? So he understands!’ yelled the old chief of police, confronting Mitya. ‘Murderer, fiend, your father’s blood cries out against you!’ He was beside himself, shaking all over, his face crimson.

  ‘That’s out of order!’ interjected the short-statured young man. ‘Mikhail Makarych, Mikhail Makarych! That’s out of order, you shouldn’t!… If you don’t mind, I’ll do the speaking, no one else… You realize this is highly irregular…’

  ‘But gentlemen, this is unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable!’ the chief of police persisted, ‘just look at him: blind drunk, with a loose woman, in the middle of the night, and all the while his own father’s blood is on his hands… Absolutely unbelievable!’

  ‘I insist, my dear Mikhail Makarych, that you control yourself at once,’ the assistant prosecutor hissed, ‘or I shall be forced to take…’

  But the little examining magistrate did not allow him to finish; he turned to Mitya and addressed him in a firm, loud, and grave voice:

  ‘Ex-Lieutenant Karamazov, I must inform you, sir, that you are hereby charged with the murder of your father Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, last night…’

  He went on to say something else, the prosecutor also appeared to add something, but, though Mitya was listening, he no longer understood anything. He was staring at everyone in wild-eyed consternation…

  BOOK NINE

  Judicial Investigation*

  1

  THE BEGINNING OF CIVIL SERVANT PERKHOTIN’S CAREER

  PYOTR ILYICH PERKHOTIN, whom we left banging with all his might on the stout, firmly locked gate of the house of merchant Morozov’s widow was, needless to say, finally admitted. On hearing such frantic banging at the gate, Fenya, who had been so frightened some two hours before and who was still too upset and bewildered to go to bed, found herself scared out of her wits once more, imagining (in spite of the
fact that she herself had seen him leave) that it was Dmitry Fyodorovich again, for he alone was capable of raising such a din. She rushed to the janitor, who had now woken up and was already on his way to the gate to investigate the noise, and begged him not to let him in. But the janitor, after questioning the visitor and discovering who he was and that he wished to see Fedosya Markovna on a very urgent matter, finally agreed to open up. On entering Fedosya Markovna’s kitchen, Pyotr Ilyich, followed by the janitor, whom Fenya, with Pyotr Ilyich’s permission, had requested to be present ‘just in case’, began to question her and in no time at all established the salient facts, which were that Dmitry Fyodorovich, rushing out to look for Grushenka, had picked up the pestle from the mortar and had returned without it, his hands covered in blood: ‘His hands were simply dripping with blood,’ Fenya kept exclaiming, ‘just dripping!’ her disturbed imagination having apparently furnished this horrific detail. Pyotr Ilyich himself had seen those hands, bloodstained though not actually dripping with blood, and had helped to wash them, but the point was not how quickly the blood had dried, but where Dmitry Fyodorovich had rushed off to with the pestle, that is, whether he really had gone to Fyodor Pavlovich’s, and why everyone had leapt to that conclusion with such certainty. Pyotr Ilyich kept insisting doggedly on this point, and though he found out nothing definite, he was nevertheless forced to admit that the only place Dmitry Fyodorovich could have run to was his father’s house, and that it was precisely there that something must surely have occurred. ‘And when he came back’, Fenya added excitedly, ‘he made me tell him everything, and then I asked him: my dear Dmitry Fyodorovich, why are your hands covered in blood?’ Apparently he then came straight out with it, that it was blood—human blood—and that he had just killed a man; that’s right, he admitted it, he confessed everything to me on the spot, and after that he suddenly ran off, like he was demented. So I sat myself down and I thought, where could he have run off to in that state? He’ll go to Mokroye, I thought to myself, and he’ll kill my young lady. So I dashed out and went straight to his lodgings to beg him not to kill her, but on my way past Plotnikov’s store, I saw him drive off, and there wasn’t any blood on his hands then.’ (Fenya had noticed this fact and remembered it.) As far as she could, her old grandmother supported her statements. After questioning her a little further, Pyotr Ilyich left the house even more disturbed and puzzled than when he had entered it.