The Brothers Karamazov
God, I swear that though I smiled at her lofty sentiments just now, I
know that I am a million times baser in soul than she, and that these
lofty sentiments of hers are as sincere as a heavenly angel’s. That’s
the tragedy of it—that I know that for certain. What if any one does
show off a bit? Don’t I do it myself? And yet I’m sincere, I’m sincere.
As for Ivan, I can understand how he must be cursing nature now—with
his intellect, too! To see the preference given—to whom, to what? To a
monster who, though he is betrothed and all eyes are fixed on him,
can’t restrain his debaucheries—and before the very eyes of his
betrothed! And a man like me is preferred, while he is rejected. And
why? Because a girl wants to sacrifice her life and destiny out of
gratitude. It’s ridiculous! I’ve never said a word of this to Ivan, and
Ivan of course has never dropped a hint of the sort to me. But destiny
will be accomplished, and the best man will hold his ground while the
undeserving one will vanish into his back-alley for ever—his filthy
back-alley, his beloved back-alley, where he is at home and where he
will sink in filth and stench at his own free will and with enjoyment.
I’ve been talking foolishly. I’ve no words left. I use them at random,
but it will be as I have said. I shall drown in the back-alley, and
she will marry Ivan.”
“Stop, Dmitri,” Alyosha interrupted again with great anxiety. “There’s
one thing you haven’t made clear yet: you are still betrothed all the
same, aren’t you? How can you break off the engagement if she, your
betrothed, doesn’t want to?”
“Yes, formally and solemnly betrothed. It was all done on my arrival in
Moscow, with great ceremony, with ikons, all in fine style. The
general’s wife blessed us, and—would you believe it?—congratulated
Katya. ‘You’ve made a good choice,’ she said, ‘I see right through
him.’ And—would you believe it?—she didn’t like Ivan, and hardly
greeted him. I had a lot of talk with Katya in Moscow. I told her about
myself—sincerely, honorably. She listened to everything.
There was sweet confusion,
There were tender words.
Though there were proud words, too. She wrung out of me a mighty
promise to reform. I gave my promise, and here—”
“What?”
“Why, I called to you and brought you out here to-day, this very
day—remember it—to send you—this very day again—to Katerina Ivanovna,
and—”
“What?”
“To tell her that I shall never come to see her again. Say, ‘He sends
you his compliments.’”
“But is that possible?”
“That’s just the reason I’m sending you, in my place, because it’s
impossible. And, how could I tell her myself?”
“And where are you going?”
“To the back-alley.”
“To Grushenka, then!” Alyosha exclaimed mournfully, clasping his hands.
“Can Rakitin really have told the truth? I thought that you had just
visited her, and that was all.”
“Can a betrothed man pay such visits? Is such a thing possible and with
such a betrothed, and before the eyes of all the world? Confound it, I
have some honor! As soon as I began visiting Grushenka, I ceased to be
betrothed, and to be an honest man. I understand that. Why do you look
at me? You see, I went in the first place to beat her. I had heard, and
I know for a fact now, that that captain, father’s agent, had given
Grushenka an I.O.U. of mine for her to sue me for payment, so as to put
an end to me. They wanted to scare me. I went to beat her. I had had a
glimpse of her before. She doesn’t strike one at first sight. I knew
about her old merchant, who’s lying ill now, paralyzed; but he’s
leaving her a decent little sum. I knew, too, that she was fond of
money, that she hoarded it, and lent it at a wicked rate of interest,
that she’s a merciless cheat and swindler. I went to beat her, and I
stayed. The storm broke—it struck me down like the plague. I’m
plague-stricken still, and I know that everything is over, that there
will never be anything more for me. The cycle of the ages is
accomplished. That’s my position. And though I’m a beggar, as fate
would have it, I had three thousand just then in my pocket. I drove
with Grushenka to Mokroe, a place twenty-five versts from here. I got
gypsies there and champagne and made all the peasants there drunk on
it, and all the women and girls. I sent the thousands flying. In three
days’ time I was stripped bare, but a hero. Do you suppose the hero had
gained his end? Not a sign of it from her. I tell you that rogue,
Grushenka, has a supple curve all over her body. You can see it in her
little foot, even in her little toe. I saw it, and kissed it, but that
was all, I swear! ‘I’ll marry you if you like,’ she said, ‘you’re a
beggar, you know. Say that you won’t beat me, and will let me do
anything I choose, and perhaps I will marry you.’ She laughed, and
she’s laughing still!”
Dmitri leapt up with a sort of fury. He seemed all at once as though he
were drunk. His eyes became suddenly bloodshot.
“And do you really mean to marry her?”
“At once, if she will. And if she won’t, I shall stay all the same.
I’ll be the porter at her gate. Alyosha!” he cried. He stopped short
before him, and taking him by the shoulders began shaking him
violently. “Do you know, you innocent boy, that this is all delirium,
senseless delirium, for there’s a tragedy here. Let me tell you,
Alexey, that I may be a low man, with low and degraded passions, but a
thief and a pickpocket Dmitri Karamazov never can be. Well, then; let
me tell you that I am a thief and a pickpocket. That very morning, just
before I went to beat Grushenka, Katerina Ivanovna sent for me, and in
strict secrecy (why I don’t know, I suppose she had some reason) asked
me to go to the chief town of the province and to post three thousand
roubles to Agafya Ivanovna in Moscow, so that nothing should be known
of it in the town here. So I had that three thousand roubles in my
pocket when I went to see Grushenka, and it was that money we spent at
Mokroe. Afterwards I pretended I had been to the town, but did not show
her the post office receipt. I said I had sent the money and would
bring the receipt, and so far I haven’t brought it. I’ve forgotten it.
Now what do you think you’re going to her to-day to say? ‘He sends his
compliments,’ and she’ll ask you, ‘What about the money?’ You might
still have said to her, ‘He’s a degraded sensualist, and a low
creature, with uncontrolled passions. He didn’t send your money then,
but wasted it, because, like a low brute, he couldn’t control himself.’
But still you might have added, ‘He isn’t a thief though. Here is your
three thousand; he sends it back. Send it yourself to Agafya Ivanovna.
But he told me to say “he sends his compliments.”’ But, as it is, she
will ask, ‘But where is the money?’”
“Mitya, you are unhappy, yes! But not as unhappy as you think. Don’t
worry yourself to death with despair.”
“What, do you suppose I’d shoot myself because I can’t get three
thousand to pay back? That’s just it. I shan’t shoot myself. I haven’t
the strength now. Afterwards, perhaps. But now I’m going to Grushenka.
I don’t care what happens.”
“And what then?”
“I’ll be her husband if she deigns to have me, and when lovers come,
I’ll go into the next room. I’ll clean her friends’ goloshes, blow up
their samovar, run their errands.”
“Katerina Ivanovna will understand it all,” Alyosha said solemnly.
“She’ll understand how great this trouble is and will forgive. She has
a lofty mind, and no one could be more unhappy than you. She’ll see
that for herself.”
“She won’t forgive everything,” said Dmitri, with a grin. “There’s
something in it, brother, that no woman could forgive. Do you know what
would be the best thing to do?”
“What?”
“Pay back the three thousand.”
“Where can we get it from? I say, I have two thousand. Ivan will give
you another thousand—that makes three. Take it and pay it back.”
“And when would you get it, your three thousand? You’re not of age,
besides, and you must—you absolutely must—take my farewell to her
to-day, with the money or without it, for I can’t drag on any longer,
things have come to such a pass. To-morrow is too late. I shall send
you to father.”
“To father?”
“Yes, to father first. Ask him for three thousand.”
“But, Mitya, he won’t give it.”
“As though he would! I know he won’t. Do you know the meaning of
despair, Alexey?”
“Yes.”
“Listen. Legally he owes me nothing. I’ve had it all from him, I know
that. But morally he owes me something, doesn’t he? You know he started
with twenty-eight thousand of my mother’s money and made a hundred
thousand with it. Let him give me back only three out of the
twenty-eight thousand, and he’ll draw my soul out of hell, and it will
atone for many of his sins. For that three thousand—I give you my
solemn word—I’ll make an end of everything, and he shall hear nothing
more of me. For the last time I give him the chance to be a father.
Tell him God Himself sends him this chance.”
“Mitya, he won’t give it for anything.”
“I know he won’t. I know it perfectly well. Now, especially. That’s not
all. I know something more. Now, only a few days ago, perhaps only
yesterday he found out for the first time _in earnest_ (underline _in
earnest_) that Grushenka is really perhaps not joking, and really means
to marry me. He knows her nature; he knows the cat. And do you suppose
he’s going to give me money to help to bring that about when he’s crazy
about her himself? And that’s not all, either. I can tell you more than
that. I know that for the last five days he has had three thousand
drawn out of the bank, changed into notes of a hundred roubles, packed
into a large envelope, sealed with five seals, and tied across with red
tape. You see how well I know all about it! On the envelope is written:
‘To my angel, Grushenka, when she will come to me.’ He scrawled it
himself in silence and in secret, and no one knows that the money’s
there except the valet, Smerdyakov, whom he trusts like himself. So now
he has been expecting Grushenka for the last three or four days; he
hopes she’ll come for the money. He has sent her word of it, and she
has sent him word that perhaps she’ll come. And if she does go to the
old man, can I marry her after that? You understand now why I’m here in
secret and what I’m on the watch for.”
“For her?”
“Yes, for her. Foma has a room in the house of these sluts here. Foma
comes from our parts; he was a soldier in our regiment. He does jobs
for them. He’s watchman at night and goes grouse-shooting in the
day-time; and that’s how he lives. I’ve established myself in his room.
Neither he nor the women of the house know the secret—that is, that I
am on the watch here.”
“No one but Smerdyakov knows, then?”
“No one else. He will let me know if she goes to the old man.”
“It was he told you about the money, then?”
“Yes. It’s a dead secret. Even Ivan doesn’t know about the money, or
anything. The old man is sending Ivan to Tchermashnya on a two or three
days’ journey. A purchaser has turned up for the copse: he’ll give
eight thousand for the timber. So the old man keeps asking Ivan to help
him by going to arrange it. It will take him two or three days. That’s
what the old man wants, so that Grushenka can come while he’s away.”
“Then he’s expecting Grushenka to-day?”
“No, she won’t come to-day; there are signs. She’s certain not to
come,” cried Mitya suddenly. “Smerdyakov thinks so, too. Father’s
drinking now. He’s sitting at table with Ivan. Go to him, Alyosha, and
ask for the three thousand.”
“Mitya, dear, what’s the matter with you?” cried Alyosha, jumping up
from his place, and looking keenly at his brother’s frenzied face. For
one moment the thought struck him that Dmitri was mad.
“What is it? I’m not insane,” said Dmitri, looking intently and