The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  When he entered the house of the chief of police, Pyotr Ilyich was simply astounded: he realized immediately that everyone already knew what had happened. And, true enough, no one was playing cards any more, everyone was standing around busily conferring, and even Nikolai Parfenovich had left the ladies in a hurry and looked full of energy and resolve. Pyotr Ilyich was greeted by the astonishing news that the elderly Fyodor Pavlovich really had been murdered that very evening—murdered and robbed. It had all come to light just a little while before and in the following manner.

  Marfa Ignatyevna, whose husband Grigory had been struck down by the garden fence, was sleeping soundly in her bed and would have continued thus till morning had not something suddenly woken her up. What had woken her was the terrible epileptic scream emitted by Smerdyakov, who was lying unconscious in the adjacent room—that scream with which Smerdyakov’s fits always began and which always wrought such terror in Marfa Ignatyevna and had such a frightening effect upon her. She could never get used to it. Still half asleep, she rushed headlong into Smerdyakov’s cubby-hole. But it was dark there, and all she could hear was the sick man thrashing about violently and groaning. Marfa Ignatyevna herself let out a cry and was about to call her husband, but she suddenly realized that when she had stumbled out of bed Grigory had not seemed to be there. She rushed back to the bed and felt all over it, but it was completely empty. He must have gone out, but where? She ran out on to the steps and called him softly. Needless to say there was no reply, but in the silence of the night she heard some groans coming from the depths of the garden. She pricked up her ears; the groans were repeated, and it was clear now that they really were coming from the garden. The thought flashed through her poor head, ‘Lord, this is just like the other time with Lizaveta Smerdyashchaya!’ She descended the steps gingerly, and discovered that the garden gate was open. ‘The poor dear must be there,’ she thought. She approached the gate, and suddenly she distinctly heard Grigory calling her: ‘Marfa, Marfa!’ came his voice, weak, groaning, and terrible. ‘Lord, have mercy on us,’ whispered Marfa Ignatyevna, and rushed towards the beckoning voice, and that was how she found Grigory. She discovered him not by the fence, not where he had been struck down, but about twenty paces from the fence. Later it transpired that, having regained consciousness, he had begun to crawl and in all probability had crawled for a long time, fainting several times along the way. Noticing immediately that he was covered in blood, she let out an almighty cry. Grigory kept on mumbling softly and incoherently: ‘He’s killed him… he’s killed his father, stop yelling, you stupid woman… hurry, call…’ But Marfa Ignatyevna would not calm down and went on shrieking, then suddenly, noticing that her master’s window was open and that there was a light in the window, she ran towards it and began to call Fyodor Pavlovich. But when she peered through the window, she beheld a ghastly sight; her master was lying flat on his back, motionless. His light-coloured dressing-gown and shirt-front were stained with blood. The candle on the table shone brightly on the blood and on Fyodor Pavlovich’s lifeless face. In a state of absolute panic Marfa Ignatyevna recoiled from the window, dashed through the garden, unbolted the main gate and, like one possessed, ran along the back alleys to her neighbour, Marya Kondratyevna. The two neighbours, mother and daughter, had already retired for the night, but on hearing Marfa Ignatyevna’s cries and her relentless, frenzied banging on the shutters they woke up and rushed to the window. Marfa Ignatyevna, screaming and crying, managed to convey incoherently the gist of what had happened and to ask for help. It so happened that the vagrant Foma was staying with them that very night. They woke him up in a trice, and all three of them dashed back to the scene of the crime. On the way Marya Kondratyevna recalled that earlier on, between eight and nine, she had heard a terrible, ear-splitting shriek coming from their garden, loud enough to wake the dead—that was the howl that Grigory had let out when Dmitry Fyodorovich was already astride the fence and he had clung to his foot and shouted, ‘Murderer!’ ‘Someone yelled out and then it stopped,’ recounted Marya Kondratyevna as they hurried along. When they reached the spot where Grigory was lying, the women, with Foma’s help, carried him into the outhouse. They struck a light and noticed that Smerdyakov’s fit was not yet over, that he was still flailing about in his cubbyhole, his eyes rolling, and foaming at the mouth. They sponged Grigory’s head with water and vinegar; this revived him, and he immediately asked: ‘Has the master been killed?’ The two women and Foma then rushed to the master and, on entering the garden, they now noticed that not only the window, but also the door to the garden was wide open, despite the fact that the master himself had locked it regularly every night for the past week, and that not even Grigory had been allowed to knock on it under any circumstances after that. Seeing the open door, they all, the two women and Foma, were afraid to enter the house, ‘just in case there are complications later’. When they returned, Grigory urged them to hurry immediately to the chief of police. That was when Marya Kondratyevna ran to the house of the chief of police and caused general consternation. She arrived only five minutes before Pyotr Ilyich, so the latter came as a corroborative witness, whose account, far from being a mere collection of assumptions and conclusions, confirmed all the more strongly the general opinion as to the identity of the criminal (something that he himself, in his heart of hearts, right up to this very last moment, had steadfastly refused to believe).

  It was decided to take prompt action. The assistant chief of the local police was immediately instructed to summon four independent observers.* This he did, and then, in accordance with all the prescribed regulations, which I shall not describe here, they gained access to Fyodor Pavlovich’s house and carried out an investigation on the spot. The keen, newly qualified doctor insisted on accompanying the chief of police, the prosecutor, and the investigative magistrate. I shall be brief: Fyodor Pavlovich had been killed outright, his skull had been fractured, but with what? Very likely the same weapon with which Grigory had subsequently been struck down. And it was not long before they found the weapon, for Grigory, who had been given all possible medical treatment, had given a faltering but fairly rational account of how he had been struck down. They went out with a lighted lantern to look for it near the fence, and discovered the brass pestle lying right there, on the garden footpath, for all to see. There were no particular signs of disturbance in the room where Fyodor Pavlovich’s body was lying, although behind the curtains, by his bed, they picked up a large, stiff, business envelope with the inscription: ‘A little present of three thousand roubles for my angel Grushenka, if she feels inclined to come to me,’ and underneath it had been added, probably subsequently by Fyodor Pavlovich himself: ‘for my chicky-bird’. The envelope bore three large red seals, but it had been torn open and was empty: the money had gone. They also found on the floor the thin, pink ribbon that had been used to tie the envelope. One thing struck the prosecutor and the investigative magistrate as particularly significant in Pyotr Ilyich’s statements, namely that the latter believed Dmitry Fyodorovich would shoot himself before dawn—that he had resolved to do so, had said as much to Pyotr Ilyich himself, had loaded the gun in his presence, had written a note, had stuck it in his pocket, and so on and so forth. And when Pyotr Ilyich, unwilling to believe him, had nevertheless threatened to go and tell someone in order to prevent him committing suicide, Mitya had rounded on him and said: ‘You won’t have time.’ Consequently, it was necessary to hurry to Mokroye to apprehend the criminal before he really did decide to shoot himself. ‘It’s obvious, it’s clear what happened!’ the prosecutor reiterated in a pitch of excitement, ‘that’s just what you’d expect of a hothead like him: I’ll kill myself tomorrow, but before I die, I’m going to paint the town red.’ The account of how Mitya had stocked up with wine and provisions at the store only reinforced the prosecutor’s conviction. ‘You remember, gentlemen, that fellow who killed the merchant Olsufyev, robbed him of fifteen hundred roubles, went straight off to have his hair curled and then,
not even attempting to conceal the money, holding it almost brazenly in his hands, set off for the brothel.’ What delayed them, however, was the search of Fyodor Pavlovich’s house, the routine formalities, and so on. All this took time, which is why, about two hours before their own departure for Mokroye, they sent on ahead the district police officer, Mavriky Mavrikyevich Schmerzov, who, as it transpired, had arrived in the town that very morning to collect his salary. Mavriky Mavrikyevich was instructed that when he arrived in Mokroye, he should, without raising any suspicion, keep a constant surveillance on ‘the criminal’ until the arrival of the appropriate authorities, and also assemble some independent observers, alert the local police, and so on and so forth. Mavriky Mavrikyevich did in fact do just that; he kept the purpose of his arrival secret, and only partially confided in Trifon Borisych, who was an old acquaintance of his. This was shortly before Mitya had encountered the landlord in the dark of the gallery and had immediately noticed a sudden change in his voice and face. Consequently, neither Mitya nor anyone else realized that he was being observed, and as for the case containing the pistols, Trifon Borisych had removed it well before and hidden it in a safe place. It was not until four o’clock in the morning, nearly dawn, that the chief of police, the prosecutor, and the investigative magistrate arrived in two separate carriages pulled by two troikas. The doctor had stayed behind at Fyodor Pavlovich’s in order to carry out a post-mortem on the body of the murdered man the next morning; what particularly interested him was the condition of the sick servant Smerdyakov: ‘Such severe and prolonged attacks of epilepsy, occurring repeatedly over some forty-eight hours, are seldom encountered and are a clinical rarity,’ he said in great excitement to his departing colleagues, who laughed and congratulated him on his findings. The prosecutor and investigative magistrate, incidentally, took note of the fact that the doctor was sure that Smerdyakov would not live to see the morning.

  Now, after a long but seemingly necessary explanation, we shall return to that point in our story where we left off at the end of the preceding book.

  3

  A SOUL’S JOURNEY THROUGH TORMENTS.* FIRST TORMENT

  AND so Mitya sat and stared at them wild-eyed, without comprehending what was being said to him. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, raised his arms, and cried out loudly:

  ‘Not guilty! I’m not guilty of shedding his blood! I didn’t kill him… I wanted to, but I didn’t! It wasn’t me!’

  But no sooner had he finished than Grushenka dashed out from behind the curtain and collapsed in a heap at the feet of the chief of police.

  ‘It was me, it was me, miserable wretch that I am, I’m the guilty one!’ she cried with a heart-rending wail, tears streaming down her face, her arms outstretched to them all, ‘it was because of me he killed him!… I was the one who tortured him and drove him to it! I tormented the poor old man as well, God rest his soul, out of spite. I’m the one who’s responsible! I’m the guilty one, I started it, I’m the culprit, I’m to blame!’

  ‘Yes, you are the guilty one!’ yelled the chief of police, shaking his fist at her. ‘You’re the real criminal! You’re the evil woman, you’re a harlot, you’re the principal culprit,’ but he was promptly and unceremoniously silenced. The prosecutor even had to restrain him physically.

  ‘This is totally out of order, Mikhail Makarovich,’ he shouted, almost out of breath. ‘You’re deliberately interfering in the investigation… you’ll disrupt everything…’

  ‘We must go by the book, we really must, we must stick to the rules!’ Nikolai Parfenovich too began to fuss, ‘otherwise it’s just impossible!…’

  ‘Put us both on trial!’ Grushenka continued frantically, still on her knees. ‘Sentence us together, I’ll go with him even to the scaffold!’

  ‘Grusha, my dear heart, my darling, my precious one!’ Mitya fell to his knees beside her, and clasped her tightly in his arms. ‘Don’t believe her,’ he cried, ‘she’s not guilty of anything, neither of anyone’s blood nor of anything at all!’

  Later he recalled that several people dragged him forcibly away from her, that she was immediately escorted from the room, and that he then found himself seated at the table. Beside and behind him stood men in uniform with brass badges. The investigative magistrate, Nikolai Parfenovich, was sitting on a divan across the table from him and was trying to persuade him to have a drink of water from a glass that stood on the table. ‘It’ll refresh you, it’ll calm you down, don’t be afraid, don’t worry,’ he kept repeating with the utmost courtesy. Mitya, however, as he himself recalled later, was totally fascinated by his large rings, one of which contained an amethyst, and the other a bright yellow, very clear stone, which sparkled brilliantly. A long time thereafter he remembered with astonishment how irresistibly his gaze had been drawn to these rings throughout the dreadful hours of the interrogation, and that for some reason he had been quite unable to tear his eyes away from them and ignore them, objects which had no connection whatever with his present plight. The prosecutor now sat down on Mitya’s left where Maksimov had sat the night before, while the place to Mitya’s right, where Grushenka had been sitting then, was occupied by a rosy-cheeked young man wearing a kind of hunter’s jacket that had seen better days, and before whom an inkstand and paper had suddenly materialized. It turned out that he was the magistrate’s official clerk, whom the latter had brought with him. The chief of police was standing by the window at the far end of the room now, next to Kalganov, who had settled himself down on a chair by the same window.

  ‘Have a drink of water!’ repeated the investigator softly, for the umpteenth time.

  ‘I’ve had some, gentlemen… but… well then, gentlemen, get on with it, sentence me, decide my fate!’ burst out Mitya, staring at the magistrate with a blank, eerily immobile gaze.

  ‘So you positively maintain that you are not guilty of your father’s, Fyodor Pavlovich’s, death?’ asked the magistrate softly, but firmly.

  ‘No! I’m guilty of shedding someone else’s blood, the blood of another old man, but not my father’s. And I’m full of remorse! I killed him, I killed the old man, I struck him down and killed him… But it’s unjust that I should have to pay for his blood with someone else’s blood, with the dreadful blood I didn’t shed… It’s a preposterous accusation, gentlemen, like a bolt from the blue! But who on earth could have murdered my father, who did it? Who could have murdered him, if I didn’t? It’s a mystery, it’s preposterous, it’s inconceivable!…’

  ‘Yes, I wonder who could have murdered him…’, began the magistrate, but the prosecutor, Ippolit Kyrillovich (he was the assistant prosecutor, but for brevity we shall refer to him as the prosecutor), having exchanged glances with the magistrate, observed, turning to Mitya:

  ‘You needn’t worry yourself about the old servant Grigory Vasilyev. For your information he’s alive and has regained consciousness in spite of the heavy blows which, according to his and your own testimony, you inflicted upon him, and it looks as if he’s going to survive, or so the doctor says anyway.’

  ‘He’s alive? So he’s alive!’ Mitya cried out suddenly, clasping his hands. His whole face lit up. ‘God, I thank You for this, the greatest of miracles, which You have performed for me, an evildoer and a sinner, in answer to my prayers!… Yes, yes, in answer to my prayers, I prayed all night!…’ and he crossed himself three times. He was quite breathless.

  ‘Well, Grigory has supplied us with evidence about you which is so significant that…’, began the prosecutor, but Mitya suddenly leapt up from his chair.

  ‘Just a second, gentlemen, for God’s sake, just a second, let me quickly run out and see her…’

  ‘Certainly not! At this present moment it’s simply out of the question!’ Nikolai Parfenovich, also leaping to his feet, almost shrieked. Mitya was seized by the men wearing the badges, but sat down again of his own accord…

  ‘What a pity, gentlemen! I just wanted to see her for an instant… I wanted to let her know that it’s been washed
off, the blood that’s been tormenting my heart the whole night through has gone, I’m no longer a murderer! Gentlemen, do you realize, she’s my fiancée!’ he said exultantly and reverentially, looking at everyone in turn. ‘Oh, I thank you, gentlemen! You’ve given me a new lease of life, you’ve resurrected me just like that!… That old man—do you realize he carried me in his arms, gentlemen, he bathed me in a trough, after everyone had abandoned me at the age of three, he was like a true father to me!…’