The Brothers Karamazov
suddenly, in a supplicating voice.
“I’ll always come to see you, all my life,” answered Alyosha firmly.
“You are the only person I can talk to, you know,” Lise began again. “I
talk to no one but myself and you. Only you in the whole world. And to
you more readily than to myself. And I am not a bit ashamed with you,
not a bit. Alyosha, why am I not ashamed with you, not a bit? Alyosha,
is it true that at Easter the Jews steal a child and kill it?”
“I don’t know.”
“There’s a book here in which I read about the trial of a Jew, who took
a child of four years old and cut off the fingers from both hands, and
then crucified him on the wall, hammered nails into him and crucified
him, and afterwards, when he was tried, he said that the child died
soon, within four hours. That was ‘soon’! He said the child moaned,
kept on moaning and he stood admiring it. That’s nice!”
“Nice?”
“Nice; I sometimes imagine that it was I who crucified him. He would
hang there moaning and I would sit opposite him eating pineapple
_compote_. I am awfully fond of pineapple _compote_. Do you like it?”
Alyosha looked at her in silence. Her pale, sallow face was suddenly
contorted, her eyes burned.
“You know, when I read about that Jew I shook with sobs all night. I
kept fancying how the little thing cried and moaned (a child of four
years old understands, you know), and all the while the thought of
pineapple _compote_ haunted me. In the morning I wrote a letter to a
certain person, begging him _particularly_ to come and see me. He came
and I suddenly told him all about the child and the pineapple
_compote_. _All_ about it, _all_, and said that it was nice. He laughed
and said it really was nice. Then he got up and went away. He was only
here five minutes. Did he despise me? Did he despise me? Tell me, tell
me, Alyosha, did he despise me or not?” She sat up on the couch, with
flashing eyes.
“Tell me,” Alyosha asked anxiously, “did you send for that person?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you send him a letter?”
“Yes.”
“Simply to ask about that, about that child?”
“No, not about that at all. But when he came, I asked him about that at
once. He answered, laughed, got up and went away.”
“That person behaved honorably,” Alyosha murmured.
“And did he despise me? Did he laugh at me?”
“No, for perhaps he believes in the pineapple _compote_ himself. He is
very ill now, too, Lise.”
“Yes, he does believe in it,” said Lise, with flashing eyes.
“He doesn’t despise any one,” Alyosha went on. “Only he does not
believe any one. If he doesn’t believe in people, of course, he does
despise them.”
“Then he despises me, me?”
“You, too.”
“Good,” Lise seemed to grind her teeth. “When he went out laughing, I
felt that it was nice to be despised. The child with fingers cut off is
nice, and to be despised is nice....”
And she laughed in Alyosha’s face, a feverish malicious laugh.
“Do you know, Alyosha, do you know, I should like—Alyosha, save me!”
She suddenly jumped from the couch, rushed to him and seized him with
both hands. “Save me!” she almost groaned. “Is there any one in the
world I could tell what I’ve told you? I’ve told you the truth, the
truth. I shall kill myself, because I loathe everything! I don’t want
to live, because I loathe everything! I loathe everything, everything.
Alyosha, why don’t you love me in the least?” she finished in a frenzy.
“But I do love you!” answered Alyosha warmly.
“And will you weep over me, will you?”
“Yes.”
“Not because I won’t be your wife, but simply weep for me?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you! It’s only your tears I want. Every one else may punish me
and trample me under foot, every one, every one, not excepting _any
one_. For I don’t love any one. Do you hear, not any one! On the
contrary, I hate him! Go, Alyosha; it’s time you went to your brother”;
she tore herself away from him suddenly.
“How can I leave you like this?” said Alyosha, almost in alarm.
“Go to your brother, the prison will be shut; go, here’s your hat. Give
my love to Mitya, go, go!”
And she almost forcibly pushed Alyosha out of the door. He looked at
her with pained surprise, when he was suddenly aware of a letter in his
right hand, a tiny letter folded up tight and sealed. He glanced at it
and instantly read the address, “To Ivan Fyodorovitch Karamazov.” He
looked quickly at Lise. Her face had become almost menacing.
“Give it to him, you must give it to him!” she ordered him, trembling
and beside herself. “To-day, at once, or I’ll poison myself! That’s why
I sent for you.”
And she slammed the door quickly. The bolt clicked. Alyosha put the
note in his pocket and went straight downstairs, without going back to
Madame Hohlakov; forgetting her, in fact. As soon as Alyosha had gone,
Lise unbolted the door, opened it a little, put her finger in the crack
and slammed the door with all her might, pinching her finger. Ten
seconds after, releasing her finger, she walked softly, slowly to her
chair, sat up straight in it and looked intently at her blackened
finger and at the blood that oozed from under the nail. Her lips were
quivering and she kept whispering rapidly to herself:
“I am a wretch, wretch, wretch, wretch!”
Chapter IV.
A Hymn And A Secret
It was quite late (days are short in November) when Alyosha rang at the
prison gate. It was beginning to get dusk. But Alyosha knew that he
would be admitted without difficulty. Things were managed in our little
town, as everywhere else. At first, of course, on the conclusion of the
preliminary inquiry, relations and a few other persons could only
obtain interviews with Mitya by going through certain inevitable
formalities. But later, though the formalities were not relaxed,
exceptions were made for some, at least, of Mitya’s visitors. So much
so, that sometimes the interviews with the prisoner in the room set
aside for the purpose were practically _tête-à-tête_.
These exceptions, however, were few in number; only Grushenka, Alyosha
and Rakitin were treated like this. But the captain of the police,
Mihail Mihailovitch, was very favorably disposed to Grushenka. His
abuse of her at Mokroe weighed on the old man’s conscience, and when he
learned the whole story, he completely changed his view of her. And
strange to say, though he was firmly persuaded of his guilt, yet after
Mitya was once in prison, the old man came to take a more and more
lenient view of him. “He was a man of good heart, perhaps,” he thought,
“who had come to grief from drinking and dissipation.” His first horror
had been succeeded by pity. As for Alyosha, the police captain was very
fond of him and had known him for a long time. Rakitin, who had of late
taken to coming very often to see the prisoner, was one of the most
intimate acquaintances of the “police captain’s young ladies,” as he
called them, and was always hanging about their house. He gave lessons
in the house of the prison superintendent, too, who, though scrupulous
in the performance of his duties, was a kind-hearted old man. Alyosha,
again, had an intimate acquaintance of long standing with the
superintendent, who was fond of talking to him, generally on sacred
subjects. He respected Ivan Fyodorovitch, and stood in awe of his
opinion, though he was a great philosopher himself; “self-taught,” of
course. But Alyosha had an irresistible attraction for him. During the
last year the old man had taken to studying the Apocryphal Gospels, and
constantly talked over his impressions with his young friend. He used
to come and see him in the monastery and discussed for hours together
with him and with the monks. So even if Alyosha were late at the
prison, he had only to go to the superintendent and everything was made
easy. Besides, every one in the prison, down to the humblest warder,
had grown used to Alyosha. The sentry, of course, did not trouble him
so long as the authorities were satisfied.
When Mitya was summoned from his cell, he always went downstairs, to
the place set aside for interviews. As Alyosha entered the room he came
upon Rakitin, who was just taking leave of Mitya. They were both
talking loudly. Mitya was laughing heartily as he saw him out, while
Rakitin seemed grumbling. Rakitin did not like meeting Alyosha,
especially of late. He scarcely spoke to him, and bowed to him stiffly.
Seeing Alyosha enter now, he frowned and looked away, as though he were
entirely absorbed in buttoning his big, warm, fur-trimmed overcoat.
Then he began looking at once for his umbrella.
“I must mind not to forget my belongings,” he muttered, simply to say
something.
“Mind you don’t forget other people’s belongings,” said Mitya, as a
joke, and laughed at once at his own wit. Rakitin fired up instantly.
“You’d better give that advice to your own family, who’ve always been a
slave-driving lot, and not to Rakitin,” he cried, suddenly trembling
with anger.
“What’s the matter? I was joking,” cried Mitya. “Damn it all! They are
all like that,” he turned to Alyosha, nodding towards Rakitin’s
hurriedly retreating figure. “He was sitting here, laughing and
cheerful, and all at once he boils up like that. He didn’t even nod to
you. Have you broken with him completely? Why are you so late? I’ve not
been simply waiting, but thirsting for you the whole morning. But never
mind. We’ll make up for it now.”
“Why does he come here so often? Surely you are not such great
friends?” asked Alyosha. He, too, nodded at the door through which
Rakitin had disappeared.
“Great friends with Rakitin? No, not as much as that. Is it likely—a
pig like that? He considers I am ... a blackguard. They can’t
understand a joke either, that’s the worst of such people. They never
understand a joke, and their souls are dry, dry and flat; they remind
me of prison walls when I was first brought here. But he is a clever
fellow, very clever. Well, Alexey, it’s all over with me now.”
He sat down on the bench and made Alyosha sit down beside him.
“Yes, the trial’s to-morrow. Are you so hopeless, brother?” Alyosha
said, with an apprehensive feeling.
“What are you talking about?” said Mitya, looking at him rather
uncertainly. “Oh, you mean the trial! Damn it all! Till now we’ve been
talking of things that don’t matter, about this trial, but I haven’t
said a word to you about the chief thing. Yes, the trial is to-morrow;
but it wasn’t the trial I meant, when I said it was all over with me.
Why do you look at me so critically?”
“What do you mean, Mitya?”
“Ideas, ideas, that’s all! Ethics! What is ethics?”
“Ethics?” asked Alyosha, wondering.
“Yes; is it a science?”
“Yes, there is such a science ... but ... I confess I can’t explain to
you what sort of science it is.”
“Rakitin knows. Rakitin knows a lot, damn him! He’s not going to be a
monk. He means to go to Petersburg. There he’ll go in for criticism of
an elevating tendency. Who knows, he may be of use and make his own
career, too. Ough! they are first-rate, these people, at making a
career! Damn ethics, I am done for, Alexey, I am, you man of God! I
love you more than any one. It makes my heart yearn to look at you. Who
was Karl Bernard?”
“Karl Bernard?” Alyosha was surprised again.
“No, not Karl. Stay, I made a mistake. Claude Bernard. What was he?
Chemist or what?”
“He must be a savant,” answered Alyosha; “but I confess I can’t tell
you much about him, either. I’ve heard of him as a savant, but what
sort I don’t know.”
“Well, damn him, then! I don’t know either,” swore Mitya. “A scoundrel
of some sort, most likely. They are all scoundrels. And Rakitin will
make his way. Rakitin will get on anywhere; he is another Bernard. Ugh,
these Bernards! They are all over the place.”
“But what is the matter?” Alyosha asked insistently.