‘Why are they crying? What’s wrong?’ asked Mitya, dashing past them at a sprightly pace.
‘The bairn,’ replied the driver, ‘the bairn’s weeping.’ And what amazed Mitya was the fact that he had said it in dialect, the way they said it in the country—‘bairn’ rather than ‘child’. He was glad the muzhik had said ‘bairn’; it was as though this was more compassionate.
‘But why is it crying?’ Mitya kept insisting fatuously. ‘Why are its arms bare, why doesn’t someone wrap it up?’
‘The bairn’s frozen, the cold’s gone right through its clothes, there’s no warmth in them.’
‘But why should that be so? Why?’ persisted Mitya, like a fool.
‘They’re poor, there’s been a fire, now they’ve no bread, they’re asking for aid for the burned-out village.’
‘No, no,’ Mitya still appeared not to understand, ‘tell me, why are those homeless mothers just standing there, why are the people so poor, why is the bairn so distressed, why are the steppes so bare, why don’t they hug one another, why don’t they kiss one another, why don’t they sing joyful songs, why are they so ashen-faced and laden with so much despair and grief, why don’t they feed the bairn?’
And he felt that although his questions were devoid of rhyme or reason, that was precisely how he wanted to pose them, and that was in fact how they should be posed. And he also felt a totally unprecedented wave of emotion well up in his soul which brought him to the verge of tears and made him want to do something for everyone, something that would make the bairn stop crying, that would make its ashen-faced mother stop crying too, something that, from that moment on, would put an end to all tears once and for all, and he wanted to do it then, immediately, without brooking the least delay and with truly Karamazovian impetuosity.
‘And I’m with you, I shan’t leave you now, I’ll stay with you for life,’ he heard Grushenka’s dear voice, suffused with emotion, ring out beside him. And suddenly his whole heart began to glow and to surge towards some kind of light, and he wanted to live and go on living, to go and to continue on some kind of a journey to a new and beckoning light, and to do it faster and faster, now, at once!
‘What? Where?’ he exclaimed, opening his eyes and sitting up on the chest as if he had just recovered from a faint, and smiling brightly. Nikolai Parfenovich was standing over him, asking him to hear the record read out and sign it. Mitya realized that he had been asleep for an hour or more, but he did not listen to what Nikolai Parfenovich was saying. His attention was suddenly attracted by the fact that under his head there was a pillow which had not been there when he had slumped down, exhausted, on top of the chest.
‘Who brought the pillow and put it under my head?’ he exclaimed with gratitude and elation, his voice shaking with emotion, as though some overwhelming kindness had been performed. It was never established who the kind person was—probably one of the witnesses, or perhaps it was Nikolai Parfenovich’s secretary who had compassionately instructed that a pillow be placed under his head—but it stirred his soul and brought tears to his eyes. He went to the table and announced that he would sign anything that was required.
‘I’ve had a good dream, gentlemen,’ he said in a strangely altered voice, his face radiating with new-found happiness.
9
MITYA IS TAKEN AWAY
AFTER the record had been signed, Nikolai Parfenovich turned solemnly to the accused and read out the charge, which stated that ‘having, in such-and-such a year and on such-and-such a day, in the place indicated, examined the suspect (namely Mitya), accused of such-and-such crimes (all accusations had been meticulously listed), and taking into consideration the fact that the accused, having pleaded “not guilty” in respect of the crimes with which he has been charged, has not advanced anything in his own defence, whereas the witnesses (names appended) and evidence (detailed herewith) incriminate him totally, the regional investigative magistrate has decreed, under such-and-such sections of the Penal Code etc., that, in order to prevent him evading investigation and trial, so-and-so (Mitya) be confined in such-and-such a prison, the accused to be duly informed thereof, and a copy of this document to be lodged with the assistant prosecutor etc., etc.’ In a word, Mitya was informed that, as from that moment, he was a prisoner and was about to be taken to the town, where he would be confined in some very disagreeable quarters. Mitya listened attentively and merely shrugged his shoulders.
‘All right, gentlemen, I don’t blame you, I’m ready… I understand, you’ve no alternative.’
Nikolai Parfenovich explained to him gently that he would be taken to his place of confinement immediately by the district police officer, Mavriky Mavrikyevich, who happened to be available…
‘Wait!’ Mitya suddenly interrupted him, and turning to all the occupants of the room he began to speak with an outburst of emotion. ‘Gentlemen, we are all cruel, we are all monsters, we all cause suffering to people—to mothers and their infants—but, have it your way, I’m worse than anyone! So be it! Every day of my life, beating my breast, I’ve promised to mend my ways, and every day I’ve continued to wallow in the same vileness. I see now that my kind needs to be taught a lesson by fate, to be caught in a trap and made to submit to some brute, external force. Never, never in my life would I have reformed of my own accord! But the thunder has crashed.* I accept the suffering that will result from the charges laid against me and from my public disgrace, I want to suffer and to seek absolution through suffering! Perhaps I will be absolved, gentlemen, eh? But take note: for the last time, I am innocent of my father’s blood! I accept my punishment, not because I killed him, but because I wanted to kill him and, perhaps, really would have killed him… All the same, however, I intend to fight and I give you notice of it here and now. I shall fight you to the bitter end, and let God be the judge! Farewell, gentlemen, don’t be angry with me for shouting at you during the interrogation, oh, I was still so naïve then… Soon I shall be a convict, and now Dmitry Karamazov proffers you his hand for the last time as a free man. Farewell to you and farewell to everyone!…’
His voice shook and he was just about to offer his hand, but Nikolai Parfenovich, who was nearest to him, quickly withdrew his hand. Seeing this, Mitya shuddered. He immediately let drop the hand which he had already half extended.
‘The examination is not over yet,’ mumbled Nikolai Parfenovich, somewhat embarrassed, ‘we shall continue the proceedings in town, and I for my part of course wish you the best of luck… and hope that things will go your way… As a matter of fact, Dmitry Fyodorovich, I’ve always been inclined to regard you as a man rather more sinned against, so to speak, than sinning… We are all, if I may be so bold as to speak on behalf of the company here present, only too ready to regard you as a basically honourable young man, though alas rather too prone to certain passions…’
Nikolai Parfenovich’s diminutive figure assumed a posture of the utmost dignity. For a moment Mitya thought that this young ‘boy’ was suddenly going to take him by his elbow, lead him to the far corner of the room, and there resume their recent conversation about ‘girls’. It is amazing what incongruous and inappropriate thoughts can sometimes flash through the mind, even of that of a criminal being led to his execution.
‘Gentlemen, you’re kind, you’re humane—could I see her, say goodbye to her for the last time?’ asked Mitya.
‘Certainly, but in view of… in short, we’ll also have to be present…’
‘Well, I don’t mind if you stay!’
Grushenka was brought in, but the farewell that took place was brief, few words were exchanged, and Nikolai Parfenovich was left rather dissatisfied. Grushenka made a deep bow towards Mitya.
‘I’ve told you that I’m yours and always shall be, I’ll go with you for ever, wherever they send you. Farewell, you are a poor innocent who’s brought ruin upon himself!’
Her lips trembled and tears streamed down her face.
‘Forgive me, Grusha, for my love, my love that has
brought about your downfall too!’
Mitya was going to say something else, but he suddenly broke off and left the room. He was immediately surrounded by people who would not let him out of their sight. At the bottom of the steps, to which he had driven up with such brio in Andrei’s troika only yesterday, two peasant carts stood ready and waiting. Mavriky Mavrikyevich, a short, stocky man with sagging features, was irritated by some unexpected hitch, and stamped about fuming and shouting. The manner in which he motioned Mitya to get into the cart was scarcely polite. ‘You’d never think it was the same man I used to buy drinks for at the tavern,’ Mitya thought, as he clambered up into the cart. Trifon Borisych also came down the steps. People had gathered at the gate, peasants, women, drivers—all eyes were turned on Mitya.
‘Farewell, my good people!’ Mitya suddenly called out to them from the cart.
‘And to you,’ resounded several voices.
‘Farewell to you, too, Trifon Borisych!’
But Trifon Borisych did not even turn round, perhaps he was just very preoccupied. He was shouting for some reason, and busying himself. It turned out that something was not in order with the second cart, which was to follow with two policemen. The peasant who was to drive the second cart was taking his time putting on his coat, a shabby, ragged garment, and arguing for all he was worth that it was not his turn but Akim’s. But Akim was nowhere to be seen, and someone ran to look for him; the peasant continued to object, and argued that they should wait.
‘These people, Mavriky Mavrikyevich,’ Trifon Borisych kept exclaiming, ‘haven’t got an ounce of shame! You had twenty-five kopecks from Akim the other day and you blew it all on drink, and now you’re making all this fuss. You’re astonishingly kind to our good-for-nothing peasants, Mavriky Mavrikyevich, that’s all I can say.’
‘What do you need a second cart for?’ Mitya butted in. ‘Why don’t we take just one, Mavriky Mavrikyevich; I’m not going to cause trouble or try to escape, so what’s the escort for?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t be so familiar, and I wish you’d learn to address me properly, sir,’ Mavriky Mavrikyevich snapped back viciously, as though glad of an opportunity to vent his anger, ‘and you know what you can do with your advice…’
Mitya flushed and did not reply. The very next moment, he began to feel terribly cold. The rain had stopped, but the murky sky was full of clouds and a sharp wind was blowing straight into his face. ‘Am I getting a chill?’ thought Mitya, and shuddered. At long last Mavriky Mavrikyevich got up into the cart, sat down heavily, and spread himself out on the seat, as though unaware that he was cramping Mitya. There was no doubt that he was in a very foul mood and that the mission with which he was charged was not at all to his liking.
‘Farewell, Trifon Borisych!’ Mitya called out again, and he knew that it was not out of the goodness of his heart that he did so, but in anger and belying his true feelings. But Trifon Borisych remained standing haughtily, his hands behind his back, staring straight at Mitya with a cold angry stare, and did not utter a word.
‘Farewell, Dmitry Fyodorovich, farewell!’ the words rang out, and Kalganov suddenly appeared from nowhere. He ran up to the cart and held out his hand to Mitya. He was bareheaded. Mitya managed to grab hold of his hand and shake it.
‘Farewell, you’re a good man, I shan’t forget your kindness!’ he said warmly. But the cart moved off and their hands drew apart. The harness-bell began to tinkle—Mitya was taken away.
Kalganov rushed back into the entrance hall, sat down in a corner, lowered his head, buried his face in his hands, and began to cry; he sat there and cried for a long time, as though he were a small boy, rather than a twenty-year-old man. He was almost convinced of Mitya’s guilt! ‘That’s people for you, that’s what people are really like!’ he kept repeating to himself in bitter distress, almost in despair. He was quite sick of life at that moment. ‘Is it worth it, is it really all worth it?’ the young man repeated bitterly.
PART FOUR
BOOK TEN
Schoolboys
1
KOLYA KRASOTKIN
THE beginning of November; the temperature in our parts dropped to minus eleven degrees, and the roads became icy. A little dry snow fell on the frozen earth in the night, a wind, ‘dry and sharp’,* picked it up and whirled it in flurries around the mean streets of our little town, and particularly around the market square. A murky morning, but the snow had stopped. Not far from the square, near the Plotnikovs’ shop, stands the small house, neat and tidy both inside and out, of the widow of the civil servant Krasotkin. Krasotkin himself, a provincial secretary, had died a long time before, about fourteen years ago, but his widow, thirty years old and still quite an attractive little woman, is still with us, living ‘on her capital’ in her neat little house. She leads an honest and humble life, and has a gentle but cheerful character. She was only about eighteen when, after barely a year of marriage and just after the birth of their son, her husband died. From that time, from the moment of his death, she had devoted herself to bringing up her beloved little Kolya, and although she had loved him to distraction all his fourteen years, she had nevertheless, of course, experienced far more suffering than joy on his account, trembling and dying of fear almost every day, afraid that he might fall ill, catch cold, do something naughty, climb on a chair and fall off, and so on and so forth. When Kolya started elementary school and then entered our high school, his mother enthusiastically set about studying all the subjects so that she could help him and revise all his lessons with him; she made it her business to get to know the teachers and their wives, she even fussed over Kolya’s schoolmates, flattering them, so that they would not pick on Kolya or tease him or hit him. She carried this so far, in fact, that the boys began to make fun of him because of her, and they mocked him, calling him ‘mummy’s little boy’. But the boy knew how to stand up for himself. He was a brave lad; a rumour that he was ‘terribly strong’ grew and spread amongst his classmates; he was sharp, determined in character, and daring and enterprising in spirit. He studied well, and it was even said that in arithmetic and world history he was a match for the schoolmaster Dardanelov himself. But although he was aware of his own abilities, he was a good friend and did not show off. He accepted the boys’ respect as his due, but behaved in a friendly manner. Most importantly, he knew where to draw the line, showed discretion when the occasion required and, in his dealings with the authorities, never overstepped that final and inviolable limit beyond which it is forbidden to go, for this would lead to disorder, rebellion, and contempt for rules and regulations. Nevertheless, he was not in the least averse to a bit of mischiefmaking and, whenever a suitable opportunity presented itself, he could be as unruly as the next boy, not so much indulging in pranks, as being good at inventing things, inventing and imparting a touch of spice, adding zest to events, and putting on a bit of an act. Above all, he had considerable self-esteem. He had even managed to manipulate his own mother into an attitude of submission to himself, behaving almost despotically towards her. And she had submitted; indeed she had submitted long ago, and now she just could not bear to think for a moment that her boy ‘did not have much love for her’. It always seemed to her that Kolya was aloof towards her, and on occasion she would weep hysterically and begin to reproach him for his aloofness. The boy did not like this, and the more anyone tried to elicit expressions of sentiment from him the more stubborn he became, as if on purpose. However, he behaved thus not deliberately but involuntarily—such was his nature. His mother was mistaken; he loved her dearly, what he hated was ‘all this soppiness’, as he used to say in his schoolboy language. His father had left a bookcase in which were kept some books; Kolya loved reading, and he had already read several of them. His mother found this incomprehensible, and was sometimes simply astonished to see the boy standing by the bookcase for hours on end, poring over some book instead of going out to play. And so it was that Kolya had read some things that he should not have been allowed to read at his a
ge. Incidentally, although the boy did not like to take his pranks too far, there had been some escapades recently which had seriously frightened his mother—true, they were nothing immoral, but they were daring, even reckless. In July that very summer, during the school holidays, it happened that mother and son had set off to spend a week in another district seventy versts away, staying with a distant relative whose husband worked at the railway station (that same station, the nearest one to our town, where a month later Ivan Fyodorovich Karamazov was to take the train for Moscow). There Kolya began by exploring the railway line and learning all about trains, expecting that, when he returned home, his new-found knowledge would enable him to cut a dash among the boys at school. However, there happened to be several other boys there at just the same time—some were living next to the station, the others nearby—about six or seven youngsters in all, their ages ranging from twelve to fifteen, and two of these were from our town. The boys played together, got up to mischief, and on the fourth or fifth day of their stay those foolhardy boys made a silly bet of two roubles with one another: Kolya, almost the youngest and, therefore, rather patronized by the older boys, suggested out of sheer bravado that that evening, when the eleven o’clock train was due, he should lie face down between the rails and remain there, without moving, while the train passed over him at full speed. It was true that he had carried out a preliminary investigation, which had demonstrated that it was indeed possible to lie prostrate between the rails, and that the train would, of course, pass over and not touch anyone lying thus, but actually to bring oneself to do it was quite another matter! Kolya insisted that he would lie there. At first they laughed at him and called him a liar and a braggart, but this only heightened his resolve. The point was that those fifteen-year-olds had turned their noses up at him once too often, and had even refused to let him join the gang at first, considering him ‘too young’, which had been unbearably humiliating. And so it was decided that they would go that evening to a spot a verst from the station, so that the train, having pulled out of the station, would have had time to reach full speed. The boys met. It was a moonless night, not just dark, but almost black. At the appointed hour Kolya lay down between the rails. The other five who had laid bets waited in the bushes under the embankment by the road, with sinking hearts and, in the end, in a state of terror and repentance. At last the train chugged in the distance, pulling out of the station. Two red headlights winked in the dark, the approaching monster began to rumble. ‘Run, get off the track!’ the boys, dying from terror, shouted to Kolya from the bushes, but it was already too late; the train leapt upon him and tore past. The boys rushed to Kolya; he lay motionless. They started to tug him and tried to lift him. Suddenly he got up and, without a word, walked down the embankment. At the bottom of the embankment he declared that he had deliberately lain there as if unconscious in order to frighten them, but the truth was, as he admitted much later to his mother, that he really had lost consciousness. Thus he acquired for ever a reputation as a ‘desperado’. He came back to the station as white as a sheet. The next day he developed a slight nervous rash, but in spirit he was terribly cheerful, happy, and content. News of the incident did not spread at once, and it was only after they returned to our town that it reached the high school and came to the attention of the teachers. But Kolya’s mother lost no time in pleading for her son, and the upshot of it was that the respected and influential master Dardanelov interceded on his behalf and the matter was dropped. This Dardanelov, a bachelor and still quite young, had been passionately in love with Mrs Krasotkina for many years, and had already once, the previous year, plucked up courage and, most respectfully and almost dying from terror and shyness, proposed to her, but she had refused point-blank, considering that to accept would have been to betray her son; nevertheless, due to certain mysterious intimations, Dardanelov was maybe justified in believing that he was not altogether unattractive to the charming but all too chaste and vulnerable widow. Kolya’s mad escapade seemed to break the ice, and as a result of his intercession Dardanelov saw a glimmer of hope, faint hope, certainly, but being a paragon of chastity and delicacy himself, this was enough for the time being to render him deliriously happy. He loved the boy, although he would have considered it improper to try to ingratiate himself, and in class he treated him strictly and without favouritism. But Kolya too maintained a respectful distance, did his lessons well, was second in the class, showed due deference to Dardanelov, and the whole class firmly believed that Kolya was so good at world history that he could beat Dardanelov himself at it. And, in fact, one day Kolya asked the question: ‘Who founded Troy?’ in answer to which Dardanelov offered only generalities about peoples, their migration and resettlement, about how long ago it was, and about myths; but as to who had actually founded Troy, exactly which persons, he could not answer, and he even found the question somewhat flippant and irrelevant. The boys remained convinced that Dardanelov did not know who founded Troy. Kolya looked up the founders of Troy in Smaragdov,* a copy of which had been among the books in the bookcase left by his father. In the end, all the boys began to take an interest: who had, in fact, founded Troy? But Krasotkin did not reveal his secret, and his awesome reputation for erudition remained unchallenged.
The Karamazov Brothers Page 78
