The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  ‘And so you…’, the magistrate began.

  ‘Allow me, gentlemen, one more minute,’ interrupted Mitya, resting both his elbows on the table and burying his face in his hands, ‘let me gather my thoughts, let me get my breath back, gentlemen. All this has come as such a dreadful shock, dreadful; a man isn’t a drum that you can beat regardless, gentlemen!’

  ‘Why don’t you have another drink of water…?’ mumbled Nikolai Parfenovich.

  Mitya took his hands away from his face and burst out laughing. There was a gleam in his eyes; suddenly he seemed a changed man. His whole demeanour was different; here was a man who was facing all these people, these former acquaintances of his, as their equal once again, just as if they had all gathered together for an evening of social intercourse and nothing had happened yet. Let me add here, in passing, that when Mitya first arrived in our town the chief of police had welcomed him to his home very warmly, but lately, especially during the last month, Mitya had virtually stopped visiting him, and if they happened to meet in the street, for example, the chief of police would frown angrily and barely acknowledge his greeting, a point which Mitya had been quick to observe. He was even less well acquainted with the prosecutor, but had occasionally paid his wife, a nervous and eccentric woman, the most courteous of visits and, although he could not explain exactly why he went to see her, she had always made him most welcome and for some reason had continued to manifest an interest in him right up to the last. As for the magistrate, he had not been formally introduced to him, but he had run into him and had even spoken to him once or twice, on both occasions on the subject of women.

  ‘You, Nikolai Parfenovich, I can tell, are a very smart investigator,’ began Mitya, and burst into a cheerful peel of laughter, ‘but I’m going to make it easy for you. Gentlemen, I’ve been given a new lease of life… and don’t hold it against me that I’m addressing you so bluntly and directly. Besides, let me be frank, I’m slightly tipsy. I seem to recall I had the honour… the honour of meeting you, Nikolai Parfenovich, at the house of my relative Miusov… Gentlemen, gentlemen, I know I’m at your mercy, don’t imagine I don’t understand the position in which I now find myself. I am under… if it was indeed Grigory who made the allegation against me… then I’m under—oh, of course, I’m obviously under suspicion! I understand the enormity of the situation—don’t get me wrong! But to business, gentlemen, I’m ready, and we’ll settle it in no time at all, because, look here, you see, gentlemen… Let’s face it, if I know I’m not guilty, then of course we’ll get it over and done with in no time at all! Isn’t that so? Isn’t it?’

  Mitya, nervously voluble, spoke quickly and expansively, treating his listeners as if they were his best friends.

  ‘So, we shall record for the time being that you deny outright the charge that has been laid against you,’ said Nikolai Parfenovich weightily and, turning to his secretary, he dictated in a low voice what was to be written.

  ‘Record it? You want to write that down? All right, go ahead, I agree, you have my full agreement, gentlemen… Only, look here… Wait, wait, put it down like this: “He’s guilty of violence, of causing grievous bodily harm to the poor old man, that’s what he’s guilty of.” Well, I am guilty deep down, in my heart of hearts, I am guilty—but there’s no need to put that down,’ he turned suddenly to the clerk, ‘that belongs to my personal life, gentlemen, that has nothing to do with you, these profundities of the heart, I mean… But as regards my father’s murder—I’m not guilty! It’s a preposterous idea! It’s absolutely preposterous!… I’ll prove it to you, and you’ll see it in no time. You’ll laugh, gentlemen, you’ll be roaring with laughter at your own suspicion!…’

  ‘Calm down, Dmitry Fyodorovich,’ exhorted the magistrate, as though attempting by his cool and collected manner to impose his authority upon the distraught man. ‘Before we continue with the interrogation, I’d like, provided you agree to reply, of course, to hear you confirm the fact that apparently there was no love lost between you and the deceased, and that you were engaged in some kind of a permanent dispute with him… As a matter of fact, it is alleged that you stated here, just quarter of an hour ago, that you even wished to kill him: “I didn’t kill him, but I wanted to,” you shouted.’

  ‘Is that what I shouted out? Oh, that may well be so, gentlemen! Yes, unfortunately, I did want to kill him, many times… unfortunately that’s true!’

  ‘You did, did you? Would you care to explain what precise grounds you had for hating your father?’

  ‘What is there to explain, gentlemen?’ Mitya bowed his head and shrugged his shoulders disconsolately. ‘After all, I’ve never concealed the way I feel, the whole town knows about it—everyone in the tavern knows. I blurted it out only recently at the monastery, in Starets Zosima’s cell… That same evening I hit my father and almost killed him, and I swore I’d return and kill him, I said it in front of witnesses… oh, a thousand witnesses! I never stopped shouting about it for a month, everyone’s a witness!… The fact is beyond dispute, there’s not the slightest doubt, but as for feelings, gentlemen, my feelings are quite another matter. You see, gentlemen,’ Mitya frowned, ‘it seems to me, you’ve no right to ask me about my feelings. You have your duty to perform, I understand that, but this is my own affair, a personal matter of no concern to anyone, but… since I did not conceal my feelings before… in the tavern, for instance, and told all and sundry, I… I shan’t make a secret of it now, either. You see, gentlemen, I quite understand that the evidence against me in this case is overwhelming: I’ve been telling everyone I was going to kill him, and now, all of a sudden, someone’s gone and killed him: so who else could it be but me? Ha-ha! I don’t hold it against you, gentlemen, honestly I don’t. I’m absolutely mystified, because who on earth could have killed him if it wasn’t me? Isn’t that right? If it wasn’t me, who was it then, who? Gentlemen,’ he exclaimed suddenly, ‘I want to know, in fact, I demand to know from you, gentlemen: where was he killed? How was he killed, what with? Tell me,’ he asked quickly, turning his gaze from the prosecutor to the magistrate.

  ‘We found him lying on the floor in his study, face up, with a broken skull,’ said the prosecutor.

  ‘It’s dreadful, gentlemen!’ Mitya suddenly shuddered, leaned his elbows on the table, and buried his face in his right hand.

  ‘Let us continue,’ interrupted Nikolai Parfenovich. ‘What gave rise to your feelings of hatred? You stated publicly, I believe, that it was jealousy?’

  ‘Well, yes, jealousy, but not only jealousy.’

  ‘Disputes over money?’

  ‘Well, yes, over money, too.’

  ‘I believe there was a dispute over three thousand roubles which had allegedly been withheld from your inheritance.’

  ‘Three thousand, my foot! More, much more,’ exploded Mitya, ‘more than six, perhaps more than ten. I told everybody about it, everybody’s heard me going on about it! But I made up my mind to cut my losses and call it three thousand. I desperately needed the three thousand… therefore, the envelope with the three thousand that I knew he kept under his pillow to give to Grushenka—I regarded it as having been virtually stolen from me, that’s right, gentlemen, I considered it as belonging to me by right…’

  The prosecutor cast a meaningful glance at the magistrate, and gave him a furtive wink.

  ‘We shall return to this point,’ said the magistrate promptly, ‘with your permission, however, we shall record this specific detail: that you regarded the money in that envelope virtually as yours by right.’

  ‘Go ahead, gentlemen, I fully realize it’s just one more piece of evidence against me, but I’m not afraid of evidence or of testifying against myself. You heard me—against myself! You see, gentlemen, it looks as though you’re under a misapprehension as to what I’m really like,’ he suddenly added dejectedly. ‘You’re talking to a man of honour, to a man of the highest honour, and above all—don’t you ever forget this—to a man who, though he’s committed a myriad
of misdeeds, is and always has been by nature a most honourable being inside, deep down—well, in a word, I don’t know how to put it… That’s precisely why I’ve suffered all my life, because I longed to be honourable; I was, so to speak, a martyr to honour and sought it with a lantern, like Diogenes with his lantern,* and yet at the same time I’ve done nothing but wallow in filth all my life, like all of us, gentlemen… I beg your pardon, I don’t mean everyone—I alone wallowed, only I, it was a slip of the tongue, only I, I alone!… Gentlemen, I’ve got a splitting headache,’ he winced painfully, ‘you see, gentlemen, I hated his appearance, there was something underhand about him, his bragging and his disregard for all that’s sacred, his mockery and godlessness, it was foul, just foul! But now that he’s dead, I think differently.’

  ‘How do you mean “differently”?’

  ‘Not differently, but I regret having detested him so much.’

  ‘You feel remorse?

  ‘No, not quite remorse, don’t put that down. I’m no angel myself, gentlemen, I’m not particularly good-looking and therefore I had no right to find him repugnant, that’s what it amounts to! You can put that down, if you wish.’

  Having said this, Mitya suddenly became very dejected. He had been getting steadily more morose as the magistrate’s questioning progressed. And, just at that moment, another unexpected incident occurred. Though Grushenka had been taken away, they had not taken her very far, only to the next room but one from the blue room, where the interrogation was taking place. That other room was small, with only one window, immediately adjacent to the large room where there had been dancing and carousing fit to bring the roof down the night before. She sat there alone except for the devastated Maksimov, who, scared out of his wits, now clung to her as though seeking salvation from her presence. At the door of their room stood a man with a brass badge on his chest. Grushenka was weeping, and suddenly, no longer able to contain the grief which was choking her, she flung out her arms, leapt to her feet with a loud cry of distress: ‘Woe is me, woe!’ and rushed out of the room to him, to her Mitya, so unexpectedly that no one had time to stop her. Mitya, hearing her scream, simply shuddered, jumped up, let out a cry and, oblivious of everything, rushed headlong towards her. But once again they were prevented from touching one another, even though they were already so close. He was seized firmly by the arms: he fought back and struggled, and it took three or four men to restrain him. She too was seized, and he saw her stretch out her arms towards him, screaming as she was dragged away. When the scene was over he found himself sitting in his former place at the table again, and pleading with them.

  ‘What do you want from her? Why don’t you leave her alone? She’s innocent, innocent!…’

  The magistrate and prosecutor tried to pacify him. This continued for about ten minutes; finally, Mikhail Makarovich hurried back into the room and spoke to the prosecutor in a loud, agitated voice.

  ‘She’s out of the way, she’s downstairs. Would you mind, gentlemen, if I said just a few words to the unfortunate man? In your presence, gentlemen, of course!’

  ‘You’re welcome, Mikhail Makarovich,’ the magistrate replied, ‘under the circumstances we have no objection.’

  ‘Dmitry Fyodorovich, listen to me, my dear fellow,’ Mikhail Makarovich turned to Mitya, the whole of his agitated face expressing a warm, almost fatherly compassion towards the unfortunate man, ‘I’ve taken your Agrafena Aleksandrovna downstairs and left her in the care of the proprietor’s daughters, and that old man Maksimov never leaves her side. I’ve had a word with her—are you listening?—I’ve spoken to her and calmed her down, I’ve explained to her that you’ve got to prove your innocence and that she mustn’t make things difficult for you, she mustn’t upset you, or you’ll get flustered and incriminate yourself, do you see? Anyway, I’ve spoken to her, and she understands. She’s no fool, my friend, and her heart’s in the right place, she was pleading for you, and she wanted to kiss my hands, old man that I am. She asked me to tell you not to worry yourself on her behalf, and now, my good friend, I really should go and tell her that you’re all right and that you aren’t going to worry yourself to death about her. So calm down, you’ve got to understand how things are. I feel guilty about it, she’s a Christian soul, yes, gentlemen, she’s a meek soul and quite innocent. So what shall I tell her, Dmitry Fyodorovich, are you going to behave yourself or not?’

  The kind old fellow had said more than he need have, but Grushenka’s grief, her human grief, had touched his compassionate heart, and there were even tears in his eyes. Mitya sprang to his feet and rushed up to him.

  ‘Pardon me, gentlemen, I beg your pardon, oh, I really do!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve the soul of a saint, you have, Mikhail Makarovich, I thank you on her behalf! I shan’t worry, really I shan’t, I shall be cheerful, tell her in your infinite kindness that I’m quite happy, really happy, I’ll even start laughing soon, seeing that she’s got a guardian angel such as you with her. I’ll be done with this in a moment, and as soon as I’m free I’ll go straight to her, she can be sure of that, ask her to wait! Gentlemen,’ he suddenly turned to the prosecutor and the magistrate, ‘now I’m going to bare my soul to you, I’ll pour out my heart to you, we’ll be done with all this in no time, it’ll be fun—we’ll laugh about it in the end, won’t we? That woman, gentlemen, is the queen of my heart! Oh, I wish you’d listen, I won’t hide a thing… Look, I realize I’m amongst gentlemen… She’s my guiding light, my holy of holies, if only you knew! You heard her cry: “I’ll go with him even to the scaffold!” And what have I given her, I, a pauper, a tramp! Why such love for me; how have I, a clumsy, disgraceful, ugly-faced brute, deserved such love that she’d go to the scaffold with me? Just now she was grovelling at your feet because of me, she who’s so proud and guilty of nothing! How could I not help but adore her, how could I not cry out, not try to get to her, as I did just now? Oh gentlemen, forgive me! But now, now I’m all right!’

  He collapsed in his chair and, burying his face in his hands, started to cry uncontrollably. But these were tears of happiness now. He immediately recovered his composure. The old chief of police was well pleased, so apparently were the lawyers; they sensed that the interrogation was about to enter a new phase. When the chief of police had departed, Mitya quite cheered up.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, now I’m completely in your hands. And… if it hadn’t been for these minor details, we’d have come to an understanding at once. I’m on about trifles again. I’m in your hands, gentlemen, but I swear, the trust must be mutual—you’ve got to believe me and I’ve got to believe you—otherwise we’ll never see the end of this. I’m saying this for your sakes. To business, gentlemen, let’s get down to business, but above all don’t go probing into my soul like you were doing, don’t torment me with irrelevancies, just stick to the point and to the facts, and I’ll tell you all you need to know. And to hell with all that’s irrelevant!’

  So said Mitya. The interrogation resumed.

  4

  SECOND TORMENT

  NIKOLAI PARFENOVICH took off his glasses. ‘You’ve no idea how heartened we are, Dmitry Fyodorovich, by your willingness to co-operate…’, he began enthusiastically, real pleasure gleaming in his large, protruding, light-grey, and, incidentally, very short-sighted eyes. ‘And you’re so right about the need for mutual trust, without which it’s often quite impossible to proceed, and even in cases of such gravity it’s always possible to establish such trust provided that the person under suspicion can prove his innocence and really co-operates. As far as we’re concerned, we shall make every effort, and you can see for yourself how we’re conducting the hearing… Would you not agree, Ippolit Kyrillovich?’ he turned suddenly to the prosecutor.

  ‘Oh, without any doubt,’ the prosecutor acquiesced, though compared to Nikolai Parfenovich’s exuberance, he sounded less optimistic.

  I shall mention here once and for all that Nikolai Parfenovich, who was a newcomer to our town, had from the very moment of h
is appointment here been unusually respectful towards Ippolit Kyrillovich, our state prosecutor, with whom he felt a deep affinity. He was perhaps the only person who believed unreservedly in the unusual psychological and oratorical skills of our Ippolit Kyrillovich, and was also the only person who really believed that the latter had been, as he felt, ‘passed over’ in his profession. He had heard about him while he was still in St Petersburg. Moreover, the young Nikolai Parfenovich also turned out to be the only person in the whole world for whom our ‘unacknowledged’ prosecutor felt a genuine fondness. On their way here they had managed to agree and to see eye to eye on a few points relating to the matter in hand, and now, as they sat at the table, Nikolai Parfenovich’s sharp eye caught every movement on the face of his senior colleague, and from a barely uttered word, a look, even the slightest facial movement, understood every nuance.

  ‘Gentlemen, let me tell you everything myself and don’t interrupt me with irrelevancies, and I’ll give you the whole story,’ persisted Mitya.

  ‘Excellent. Much obliged. But before we hear what you’ve got to say, perhaps you’d allow me to establish one minor detail which is of great interest to us, namely that at about five o’clock yesterday you borrowed ten roubles from your friend Pyotr Ilyich Perkhotin against the security of your pistols.’

  ‘Yes, I did borrow the money, gentlemen, I did, ten roubles, so what? That’s all there is to it; I pawned the pistols as soon as I got back from my journey.’