The Brothers Karamazov
“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?”
“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 Phœbus, 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 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.”
“But you’re coming back to-morrow?”
“Of course.”
“Will you settle the little bill now?” cried the clerk, springing
forward.
“Oh, yes, the bill. Of course.”
He pulled the bundle of notes out of his pocket again, picked out three
hundred roubles, threw them on the counter, and ran hurriedly out of
the shop. Every one followed him out, bowing and wishing him good luck.
Andrey, coughing from the brandy he had just swallowed, jumped up on
the box. But Mitya was only just taking his seat when suddenly to his
surprise he saw Fenya before him. She ran up panting, clasped her hands
before him with a cry, and plumped down at his feet.
“Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear good Dmitri Fyodorovitch, don’t harm my
mistress. And it was I told you all about it.... And don’t murder him,
he came first, he’s hers! He’ll marry Agrafena Alexandrovna now. That’s
why he’s come back from Siberia. Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear, don’t take
a fellow creature’s life!”
“Tut—tut—tut! That’s it, is it? So you’re off there to make trouble!”
muttered Pyotr Ilyitch. “Now, it’s all clear, as clear as daylight.
Dmitri Fyodorovitch, give me your pistols at once if you mean to behave
like a man,” he shouted aloud to Mitya. “Do you hear, Dmitri?”
“The pistols? Wait a bit, brother, I’ll throw them into the pool on the
road,” answered Mitya. “Fenya, get up, don’t kneel to me. Mitya won’t
hurt any one, the silly fool won’t hurt any one again. But I say,
Fenya,” he shouted, after having taken his seat. “I hurt you just now,
so forgive me and have pity on me, forgive a scoundrel.... But it
doesn’t matter if you don’t. It’s all the same now. Now then, Andrey,
look alive, fly along full speed!”
Andrey whipped up the horses, and the bells began ringing.
“Good-by, Pyotr Ilyitch! My last tear is for you!...”
“He’s not drunk, but he keeps babbling like a lunatic,” Pyotr Ilyitch
thought as he watched him go. He had half a mind to stay and see the
cart packed with the remaining wines and provisions, knowing that they
would deceive and defraud Mitya. But, suddenly feeling vexed with
himself, he turned away with a curse and went to the tavern to play
billiards.
“He’s a fool, though he’s a good fellow,” he muttered as he went. “I’ve
heard of that officer, Grushenka’s former flame. Well, if he has turned
up.... Ech, those pistols! Damn it all! I’m not his nurse! Let them do
what they like! Besides, it’ll all come to nothing. They’re a set of
brawlers, that’s all. They’ll drink and fight, fight and make friends
again. They are not men who do anything real. What does he mean by ‘I’m
stepping aside, I’m punishing myself?’ It’ll come to nothing! He’s
shouted such phrases a thousand times, drunk, in the taverns. But now
he’s not drunk. ‘Drunk in spirit’—they’re fond of fine phrases, the
villains. Am I his nurse? He must have been fighting, his face was all
over blood. With whom? I shall find out at the ‘Metropolis.’ And his
handkerchief was soaked in blood.... It’s still lying on my floor....
Hang it!”
He reached the tavern in a bad humor and at once made up a game. The
game cheered him. He played a second game, and suddenly began telling
one of his partners that Dmitri Karamazov had come in for some cash
again—something like three thousand roubles, and had gone to Mokroe
again to spend it with Grushenka.... This news roused singular interest
in his listeners. They all spoke of it, not laughing, but with a
strange gravity. They left off playing.
“Three thousand? But where can he have got three thousand?”
Questions were asked. The story of Madame Hohlakov’s present was
received with skepticism.
“Hasn’t he robbed his old father?—that’s the question.”
“Three thousand! There’s something odd about it.”
“He boasted aloud that he would kill his father; we all heard him,
here. And it was three thousand he talked about ...”
Pyotr Ilyitch listened. All at once he became short and dry in his
answers. He said not a word about the blood on Mitya’s face and hands,
though he had meant to speak of it at first.
They began a third game, and by degrees the talk about Mitya died away.
But by the end of the third game, Pyotr Ilyitch felt no more desire for
billiards; he laid down the cue, and without having supper as he had
intended, he walked out of the tavern. When he reached the market-place
he stood still in perplexity, wondering at himself. He realized that
what he wanted was to go to Fyodor Pavlovitch’s and find out if
anything had happened there. “On account of some stupid nonsense—as
it’s sure to turn out—am I going to wake up the household and make a
scandal? Fooh! damn it, is it my business to look after them?”
In a very bad humor he went straight home, and suddenly remembered
Fenya. “Damn it all! I ought to have questioned her just now,” he
thought with vexation, “I should have heard everything.” And the desire
to speak to her, and so find out, became so pressing and importunate
that when he was half-way home he turned abruptly and went towards the
house where Grushenka lodged. Going up to the gate he knocked. The
sound of the knock in the silence of the night sobered him and made him
feel annoyed. And no one answered him; every one in the house was
asleep.
“And I shall be making a fuss!” he thought, with a feeling of positive
discomfort. But instead of going away altogether, he fell to knocking
again with all his might, filling the street with clamor.
“Not coming? Well, I will knock them up, I will!” he muttered at each
knock, fuming at himself, but at the same time he redoubled his knocks
on the gate.
Chapter VI.
“I Am Coming, Too!”
But Dmitri Fyodorovitch was speeding along the road. It was a little
more than twenty versts to Mokroe, but Andrey’s three horses galloped
at such a pace that the distance might be covered in an hour and a
quarter. The swift motion revived Mitya. The air was fresh and cool,
there were big stars shining in the sky. It was the very night, and
perhaps the very hour, in which Alyosha fell on the earth, and
rapturously swore to love it for ever and ever.
All was confusion, confusion, in Mitya’s soul, but although many things
were goading his heart, at that moment his whole being was yearning for
her, his queen, to whom he was flying to look on her for the last time.
One thing I can say for certain; his heart did not waver for one
instant. I shall perhaps not be believed when I say that this jealous
lover felt not the slightest jealousy of this new rival, who seemed to
have sprung out of the earth. If any other had appeared on the scene,
he would have been jealous at once, and would perhaps have stained his
fierce hands with blood again. But as he flew through the night, he
felt no envy, no hostility even, for the man who had been her first
lover.... It is true he had not yet seen him.
“Here there was no room for dispute: it was her right and his; this was
her first love which, after five years, she had not forgotten; so she