The Brothers Karamazov

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  And beginning to help him off with his coat, he cried out again:

  "Look, your coat's covered with blood, too!"

  "That ... it's not the coat. It's only a little here on the sleeve.... And that's only here where the handkerchief lay. It must have soaked through. I must have sat on the handkerchief at Fenya's, and the blood's come through," Mitya explained at once with a childlike unconsciousness that was astounding. Pyotr Ilyitch listened, frowning.

  "Well, you must have been up to something; you must have been fighting with some one," he muttered.

  They began to wash. Pyotr Ilyitch held the jug and poured out the water. Mitya, in desperate haste, scarcely soaped his hands (they were trembling, and Pyotr Ilyitch remembered it afterwards). But the young official insisted on his soaping them thoroughly and rubbing them more. He seemed to exercise more and more sway over Mitya, as time went on. It may be noted in passing that he was a young man of sturdy character.

  "Look, you haven't got your nails clean. Now rub your face; [pg 448] here, on your temples, by your ear.... Will you go in that shirt? Where are you going? Look, all the cuff of your right sleeve is covered with blood."

  "Yes, it's all bloody," observed Mitya, looking at the cuff of his shirt.

  "Then change your shirt."

  "I haven't time. You see I'll ..." Mitya went on with the same confiding ingenuousness, drying his face and hands on the towel, and putting on his coat. "I'll turn it up at the wrist. It won't be seen under the coat.... You see!"

  "Tell me now, what game have you been up to? Have you been fighting with some one? In the tavern again, as before? Have you been beating that captain again?" Pyotr Ilyitch asked him reproachfully. "Whom have you been beating now ... or killing, perhaps?"

  "Nonsense!" said Mitya.

  "Why 'nonsense'?"

  "Don't worry," said Mitya, and he suddenly laughed. "I smashed an old woman in the market-place just now."

  "Smashed? An old woman?"

  "An old man!" cried Mitya, looking Pyotr Ilyitch straight in the face, laughing, and shouting at him as though he were deaf.

  "Confound it! An old woman, an old man.... Have you killed some one?"

  "We made it up. We had a row--and made it up. In a place I know of. We parted friends. A fool.... He's forgiven me.... He's sure to have forgiven me by now ... if he had got up, he wouldn't have forgiven me"--Mitya suddenly winked--"only damn him, you know, I say, Pyotr Ilyitch, damn him! Don't worry about him! I don't want to just now!" Mitya snapped out, resolutely.

  "Whatever do you want to go picking quarrels with every one for? ... Just as you did with that captain over some nonsense.... You've been fighting and now you're rushing off on the spree--that's you all over! Three dozen champagne--what do you want all that for?"

  "Bravo! Now give me the pistols. Upon my honor I've no time now. I should like to have a chat with you, my dear boy, but I haven't the time. And there's no need, it's too late for talking. [pg 449] Where's my money? Where have I put it?" he cried, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

  "You put it on the table ... yourself.... Here it is. Had you forgotten? Money's like dirt or water to you, it seems. Here are your pistols. It's an odd thing, at six o'clock you pledged them for ten roubles, and now you've got thousands. Two or three I should say."

  "Three, you bet," laughed Mitya, stuffing the notes into the side-pocket of his trousers.

  "You'll lose it like that. Have you found a gold-mine?"

  "The mines? The gold-mines?" Mitya shouted at the top of his voice and went off into a roar of laughter. "Would you like to go to the mines, Perhotin? There's a lady here who'll stump up three thousand for you, if only you'll go. She did it for me, she's so awfully fond of gold-mines. Do you know Madame Hohlakov?"

  "I don't know her, but I've heard of her and seen her. Did she really give you three thousand? Did she really?" said Pyotr Ilyitch, eyeing him dubiously.

  "As soon as the sun rises to-morrow, as soon as Phoebus, ever young, flies upwards, praising and glorifying God, you go to her, this Madame Hohlakov, and ask her whether she did stump up that three thousand or not. Try and find out."

  "I don't know on what terms you are ... since you say it so positively, I suppose she did give it to you. You've got the money in your hand, but instead of going to Siberia you're spending it all.... Where are you really off to now, eh?"

  "To Mokroe."

  "To Mokroe? But it's night!"

  "Once the lad had all, now the lad has naught," cried Mitya suddenly.

  "How 'naught'? You say that with all those thousands!"

  "I'm not talking about thousands. Damn thousands! I'm talking of the female character.

  Fickle is the heart of woman

  Treacherous and full of vice;

  I agree with Ulysses. That's what he says."

  "I don't understand you!"

  [pg 450] "Am I drunk?"

  "Not drunk, but worse."

  "I'm drunk in spirit, Pyotr Ilyitch, drunk in spirit! But that's enough!"

  "What are you doing, loading the pistol?"

  "I'm loading the pistol."

  Unfastening the pistol-case, Mitya actually opened the powder horn, and carefully sprinkled and rammed in the charge. Then he took the bullet and, before inserting it, held it in two fingers in front of the candle.

  "Why are you looking at the bullet?" asked Pyotr Ilyitch, watching him with uneasy curiosity.

  "Oh, a fancy. Why, if you meant to put that bullet in your brain, would you look at it or not?"

  "Why look at it?"

  "It's going into my brain, so it's interesting to look and see what it's like. But that's foolishness, a moment's foolishness. Now that's done," he added, putting in the bullet and driving it home with the ramrod. "Pyotr Ilyitch, my dear fellow, that's nonsense, all nonsense, and if only you knew what nonsense! Give me a little piece of paper now."

  "Here's some paper."

  "No, a clean new piece, writing-paper. That's right."

  And taking a pen from the table, Mitya rapidly wrote two lines, folded the paper in four, and thrust it in his waistcoat pocket. He put the pistols in the case, locked it up, and kept it in his hand. Then he looked at Pyotr Ilyitch with a slow, thoughtful smile.

  "Now, let's go."

  "Where are we going? No, wait a minute.... Are you thinking of putting that bullet in your brain, perhaps?" Pyotr Ilyitch asked uneasily.

  "I was fooling about the bullet! I want to live. I love life! You may be sure of that. I love golden-haired Phoebus and his warm light.... Dear Pyotr Ilyitch, do you know how to step aside?"

  "What do you mean by 'stepping aside'?"

  "Making way. Making way for a dear creature, and for one I hate. And to let the one I hate become dear--that's what making [pg 451] way means! And to say to them: God bless you, go your way, pass on, while I--"

  "While you--?"

  "That's enough, let's go."

  "Upon my word. I'll tell some one to prevent your going there," said Pyotr Ilyitch, looking at him. "What are you going to Mokroe for, now?"

  "There's a woman there, a woman. That's enough for you. You shut up."

  "Listen, though you're such a savage I've always liked you.... I feel anxious."

  "Thanks, old fellow. I'm a savage you say. Savages, savages! That's what I am always saying. Savages! Why, here's Misha! I was forgetting him."

  Misha ran in, post-haste, with a handful of notes in change, and reported that every one was in a bustle at the Plotnikovs'; "They're carrying down the bottles, and the fish, and the tea; it will all be ready directly." Mitya seized ten roubles and handed it to Pyotr Ilyitch, then tossed another ten-rouble note to Misha.

  "Don't dare to do such a thing!" cried Pyotr Ilyitch. "I won't have it in my house, it's a bad, demoralizing habit. Put your money away. Here, put it here, why waste it? It would come in handy to-morrow, and I dare say you'll be coming to me to borrow ten roubles again. Why do you keep putting the notes in your side-pocket? Ah, you'll l
ose them!"

  "I say, my dear fellow, let's go to Mokroe together."

  "What should I go for?"

  "I say, let's open a bottle at once, and drink to life! I want to drink, and especially to drink with you. I've never drunk with you, have I?"

  "Very well, we can go to the 'Metropolis.' I was just going there."

  "I haven't time for that. Let's drink at the Plotnikovs', in the back room. Shall I ask you a riddle?"

  "Ask away."

  Mitya took the piece of paper out of his waistcoat pocket, unfolded it and showed it. In a large, distinct hand was written: "I punish myself for my whole life, my whole life I punish!"

  [pg 452] "I will certainly speak to some one, I'll go at once," said Pyotr Ilyitch, after reading the paper.

  "You won't have time, dear boy, come and have a drink. March!"

  Plotnikov's shop was at the corner of the street, next door but one to Pyotr Ilyitch's. It was the largest grocery shop in our town, and by no means a bad one, belonging to some rich merchants. They kept everything that could be got in a Petersburg shop, grocery of all sort, wines "bottled by the brothers Eliseyev," fruits, cigars, tea, coffee, sugar, and so on. There were three shop-assistants and two errand boys always employed. Though our part of the country had grown poorer, the landowners had gone away, and trade had got worse, yet the grocery stores flourished as before, every year with increasing prosperity; there were plenty of purchasers for their goods.

  They were awaiting Mitya with impatience in the shop. They had vivid recollections of how he had bought, three or four weeks ago, wine and goods of all sorts to the value of several hundred roubles, paid for in cash (they would never have let him have anything on credit, of course). They remembered that then, as now, he had had a bundle of hundred-rouble notes in his hand, and had scattered them at random, without bargaining, without reflecting, or caring to reflect what use so much wine and provisions would be to him. The story was told all over the town that, driving off then with Grushenka to Mokroe, he had "spent three thousand in one night and the following day, and had come back from the spree without a penny." He had picked up a whole troop of gypsies (encamped in our neighborhood at the time), who for two days got money without stint out of him while he was drunk, and drank expensive wine without stint. People used to tell, laughing at Mitya, how he had given champagne to grimy-handed peasants, and feasted the village women and girls on sweets and Strasburg pies. Though to laugh at Mitya to his face was rather a risky proceeding, there was much laughter behind his back, especially in the tavern, at his own ingenuous public avowal that all he had got out of Grushenka by this "escapade" was "permission to kiss her foot, and that was the utmost she had allowed him."

  By the time Mitya and Pyotr Ilyitch reached the shop, they found a cart with three horses harnessed abreast with bells, and [pg 453] with Andrey, the driver, ready waiting for Mitya at the entrance. In the shop they had almost entirely finished packing one box of provisions, and were only waiting for Mitya's arrival to nail it down and put it in the cart. Pyotr Ilyitch was astounded.

  "Where did this cart come from in such a hurry?" he asked Mitya.

  "I met Andrey as I ran to you, and told him to drive straight here to the shop. There's no time to lose. Last time I drove with Timofey, but Timofey now has gone on before me with the witch. Shall we be very late, Andrey?"

  "They'll only get there an hour at most before us, not even that maybe. I got Timofey ready to start. I know how he'll go. Their pace won't be ours, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. How could it be? They won't get there an hour earlier!" Andrey, a lanky, red-haired, middle-aged driver, wearing a full-skirted coat, and with a kaftan on his arm, replied warmly.

  "Fifty roubles for vodka if we're only an hour behind them."

  "I warrant the time, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. Ech, they won't be half an hour before us, let alone an hour."

  Though Mitya bustled about seeing after things, he gave his orders strangely, as it were disconnectedly, and inconsecutively. He began a sentence and forgot the end of it. Pyotr Ilyitch found himself obliged to come to the rescue.

  "Four hundred roubles' worth, not less than four hundred roubles' worth, just as it was then," commanded Mitya. "Four dozen champagne, not a bottle less."

  "What do you want with so much? What's it for? Stay!" cried Pyotr Ilyitch. "What's this box? What's in it? Surely there isn't four hundred roubles' worth here?"

  The officious shopmen began explaining with oily politeness that the first box contained only half a dozen bottles of champagne, and only "the most indispensable articles," such as savories, sweets, toffee, etc. But the main part of the goods ordered would be packed and sent off, as on the previous occasion, in a special cart also with three horses traveling at full speed, so that it would arrive not more than an hour later than Dmitri Fyodorovitch himself.

  "Not more than an hour! Not more than an hour! And put in more toffee and fondants. The girls there are so fond of it," Mitya insisted hotly.

  [pg 454] "The fondants are all right. But what do you want with four dozen of champagne? One would be enough," said Pyotr Ilyitch, almost angry. He began bargaining, asking for a bill of the goods, and refused to be satisfied. But he only succeeded in saving a hundred roubles. In the end it was agreed that only three hundred roubles' worth should be sent.

  "Well, you may go to the devil!" cried Pyotr Ilyitch, on second thoughts. "What's it to do with me? Throw away your money, since it's cost you nothing."

  "This way, my economist, this way, don't be angry." Mitya drew him into a room at the back of the shop. "They'll give us a bottle here directly. We'll taste it. Ech, Pyotr Ilyitch, come along with me, for you're a nice fellow, the sort I like."

  Mitya sat down on a wicker chair, before a little table, covered with a dirty dinner-napkin. Pyotr Ilyitch sat down opposite, and the champagne soon appeared, and oysters were suggested to the gentlemen. "First-class oysters, the last lot in."

  "Hang the oysters. I don't eat them. And we don't need anything," cried Pyotr Ilyitch, almost angrily.

  "There's no time for oysters," said Mitya. "And I'm not hungry. Do you know, friend," he said suddenly, with feeling, "I never have liked all this disorder."

  "Who does like it? Three dozen of champagne for peasants, upon my word, that's enough to make any one angry!"

  "That's not what I mean. I'm talking of a higher order. There's no order in me, no higher order. But ... that's all over. There's no need to grieve about it. It's too late, damn it! My whole life has been disorder, and one must set it in order. Is that a pun, eh?"

  "You're raving, not making puns!"

  "Glory be to God in Heaven,

  Glory be to God in me....

  "That verse came from my heart once, it's not a verse, but a tear.... I made it myself ... not while I was pulling the captain's beard, though...."

  "Why do you bring him in all of a sudden?"

  [pg 455] "Why do I bring him in? Foolery! All things come to an end; all things are made equal. That's the long and short of it."

  "You know, I keep thinking of your pistols."

  "That's all foolery, too! Drink, and don't be fanciful. I love life. I've loved life too much, shamefully much. Enough! Let's drink to life, dear boy, I propose the toast. Why am I pleased with myself? I'm a scoundrel, but I'm satisfied with myself. And yet I'm tortured by the thought that I'm a scoundrel, but satisfied with myself. I bless the creation. I'm ready to bless God and His creation directly, but ... I must kill one noxious insect for fear it should crawl and spoil life for others.... Let us drink to life, dear brother. What can be more precious than life? Nothing! To life, and to one queen of queens!"

  "Let's drink to life and to your queen, too, if you like."

  They drank a glass each. Although Mitya was excited and expansive, yet he was melancholy, too. It was as though some heavy, overwhelming anxiety were weighing upon him.

  "Misha ... here's your Misha come! Misha, come here, my boy, drink this glass to Phoebus, the golden-
haired, of to-morrow morn...."

  "What are you giving it him for?" cried Pyotr Ilyitch, irritably.

  "Yes, yes, yes, let me! I want to!"

  "E--ech!"

  Misha emptied the glass, bowed, and ran out.

  "He'll remember it afterwards," Mitya remarked. "Woman, I love woman! What is woman? The queen of creation! My heart is sad, my heart is sad, Pyotr Ilyitch. Do you remember Hamlet? 'I am very sorry, good Horatio! Alas, poor Yorick!' Perhaps that's me, Yorick? Yes, I'm Yorick now, and a skull afterwards."

  Pyotr Ilyitch listened in silence. Mitya, too, was silent for a while.

  "What dog's that you've got here?" he asked the shopman, casually, noticing a pretty little lap-dog with dark eyes, sitting in the corner.

  "It belongs to Varvara Alexyevna, the mistress," answered the clerk. "She brought it and forgot it here. It must be taken back to her."

  "I saw one like it ... in the regiment ..." murmured Mitya [pg 456] dreamily, "only that one had its hind leg broken.... By the way, Pyotr Ilyitch, I wanted to ask you: have you ever stolen anything in your life?"

  "What a question!"

  "Oh, I didn't mean anything. From somebody's pocket, you know. I don't mean government money, every one steals that, and no doubt you do, too...."

  "You go to the devil."

  "I'm talking of other people's money. Stealing straight out of a pocket? Out of a purse, eh?"

  "I stole twenty copecks from my mother when I was nine years old. I took it off the table on the sly, and held it tight in my hand."

  "Well, and what happened?"

  "Oh, nothing. I kept it three days, then I felt ashamed, confessed, and gave it back."

  "And what then?"

  "Naturally I was whipped. But why do you ask? Have you stolen something?"

  "I have," said Mitya, winking slyly.

  "What have you stolen?" inquired Pyotr Ilyitch curiously.

  "I stole twenty copecks from my mother when I was nine years old, and gave it back three days after."

  As he said this, Mitya suddenly got up.

  "Dmitri Fyodorovitch, won't you come now?" called Andrey from the door of the shop.

  "Are you ready? We'll come!" Mitya started. "A few more last words and--Andrey, a glass of vodka at starting. Give him some brandy as well! That box" (the one with the pistols) "put under my seat. Good-by, Pyotr Ilyitch, don't remember evil against me."