The Brothers Karamazov
had loved him only for those five years, and I, how do I come in? What
right have I? Step aside, Mitya, and make way! What am I now? Now
everything is over apart from the officer—even if he had not appeared,
everything would be over ...”
These words would roughly have expressed his feelings, if he had been
capable of reasoning. But he could not reason at that moment. His
present plan of action had arisen without reasoning. At Fenya’s first
words, it had sprung from feeling, and been adopted in a flash, with
all its consequences. And yet, in spite of his resolution, there was
confusion in his soul, an agonizing confusion: his resolution did not
give him peace. There was so much behind that tortured him. And it
seemed strange to him, at moments, to think that he had written his own
sentence of death with pen and paper: “I punish myself,” and the paper
was lying there in his pocket, ready; the pistol was loaded; he had
already resolved how, next morning, he would meet the first warm ray of
“golden-haired Phœbus.”
And yet he could not be quit of the past, of all that he had left
behind and that tortured him. He felt that miserably, and the thought
of it sank into his heart with despair. There was one moment when he
felt an impulse to stop Andrey, to jump out of the cart, to pull out
his loaded pistol, and to make an end of everything without waiting for
the dawn. But that moment flew by like a spark. The horses galloped on,
“devouring space,” and as he drew near his goal, again the thought of
her, of her alone, took more and more complete possession of his soul,
chasing away the fearful images that had been haunting it. Oh, how he
longed to look upon her, if only for a moment, if only from a distance!
“She’s now with _him_,” he thought, “now I shall see what she looks
like with him, her first love, and that’s all I want.” Never had this
woman, who was such a fateful influence in his life, aroused such love
in his breast, such new and unknown feeling, surprising even to
himself, a feeling tender to devoutness, to self-effacement before her!
“I will efface myself!” he said, in a rush of almost hysterical
ecstasy.
They had been galloping nearly an hour. Mitya was silent, and though
Andrey was, as a rule, a talkative peasant, he did not utter a word,
either. He seemed afraid to talk, he only whipped up smartly his three
lean, but mettlesome, bay horses. Suddenly Mitya cried out in horrible
anxiety:
“Andrey! What if they’re asleep?”
This thought fell upon him like a blow. It had not occurred to him
before.
“It may well be that they’re gone to bed, by now, Dmitri Fyodorovitch.”
Mitya frowned as though in pain. Yes, indeed ... he was rushing there
... with such feelings ... while they were asleep ... she was asleep,
perhaps, there too.... An angry feeling surged up in his heart.
“Drive on, Andrey! Whip them up! Look alive!” he cried, beside himself.
“But maybe they’re not in bed!” Andrey went on after a pause. “Timofey
said they were a lot of them there—”
“At the station?”
“Not at the posting-station, but at Plastunov’s, at the inn, where they
let out horses, too.”
“I know. So you say there are a lot of them? How’s that? Who are they?”
cried Mitya, greatly dismayed at this unexpected news.
“Well, Timofey was saying they’re all gentlefolk. Two from our town—who
they are I can’t say—and there are two others, strangers, maybe more
besides. I didn’t ask particularly. They’ve set to playing cards, so
Timofey said.”
“Cards?”
“So, maybe they’re not in bed if they’re at cards. It’s most likely not
more than eleven.”
“Quicker, Andrey! Quicker!” Mitya cried again, nervously.
“May I ask you something, sir?” said Andrey, after a pause. “Only I’m
afraid of angering you, sir.”
“What is it?”
“Why, Fenya threw herself at your feet just now, and begged you not to
harm her mistress, and some one else, too ... so you see, sir— It’s I
am taking you there ... forgive me, sir, it’s my conscience ... maybe
it’s stupid of me to speak of it—”
Mitya suddenly seized him by the shoulders from behind.
“Are you a driver?” he asked frantically.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you know that one has to make way. What would you say to a driver
who wouldn’t make way for any one, but would just drive on and crush
people? No, a driver mustn’t run over people. One can’t run over a man.
One can’t spoil people’s lives. And if you have spoilt a life—punish
yourself.... If only you’ve spoilt, if only you’ve ruined any one’s
life—punish yourself and go away.”
These phrases burst from Mitya almost hysterically. Though Andrey was
surprised at him, he kept up the conversation.
“That’s right, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, you’re quite right, one mustn’t
crush or torment a man, or any kind of creature, for every creature is
created by God. Take a horse, for instance, for some folks, even among
us drivers, drive anyhow. Nothing will restrain them, they just force
it along.”
“To hell?” Mitya interrupted, and went off into his abrupt, short
laugh. “Andrey, simple soul,” he seized him by the shoulders again,
“tell me, will Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov go to hell, or not, what
do you think?”
“I don’t know, darling, it depends on you, for you are ... you see,
sir, when the Son of God was nailed on the Cross and died, He went
straight down to hell from the Cross, and set free all sinners that
were in agony. And the devil groaned, because he thought that he would
get no more sinners in hell. And God said to him, then, ‘Don’t groan,
for you shall have all the mighty of the earth, the rulers, the chief
judges, and the rich men, and shall be filled up as you have been in
all the ages till I come again.’ Those were His very words ...”
“A peasant legend! Capital! Whip up the left, Andrey!”
“So you see, sir, who it is hell’s for,” said Andrey, whipping up the
left horse, “but you’re like a little child ... that’s how we look on
you ... and though you’re hasty-tempered, sir, yet God will forgive you
for your kind heart.”
“And you, do you forgive me, Andrey?”
“What should I forgive you for, sir? You’ve never done me any harm.”
“No, for every one, for every one, you here alone, on the road, will
you forgive me for every one? Speak, simple peasant heart!”
“Oh, sir! I feel afraid of driving you, your talk is so strange.”
But Mitya did not hear. He was frantically praying and muttering to
himself.
“Lord, receive me, with all my lawlessness, and do not condemn me. Let
me pass by Thy judgment ... do not condemn me, for I have condemned
myself, do not condemn me, for I love Thee, O Lord. I am a wretch, but
I love Thee. If Thou sendest me to hell, I shall love Thee there, and
from there I shall cry out that I love Thee for ever and ever.... But
let me love to the end.... Here and now for just five hours ... till
the first light of Thy day ... for I love the queen of my soul ... I
love her and I cannot help loving her. Thou seest my whole heart.... I
shall gallop up, I shall fall before her and say, ‘You are right to
pass on and leave me. Farewell and forget your victim ... never fret
yourself about me!’”
“Mokroe!” cried Andrey, pointing ahead with his whip.
Through the pale darkness of the night loomed a solid black mass of
buildings, flung down, as it were, in the vast plain. The village of
Mokroe numbered two thousand inhabitants, but at that hour all were
asleep, and only here and there a few lights still twinkled.
“Drive on, Andrey, I come!” Mitya exclaimed, feverishly.
“They’re not asleep,” said Andrey again, pointing with his whip to the
Plastunovs’ inn, which was at the entrance to the village. The six
windows, looking on the street, were all brightly lighted up.
“They’re not asleep,” Mitya repeated joyously. “Quicker, Andrey!
Gallop! Drive up with a dash! Set the bells ringing! Let all know that
I have come. I’m coming! I’m coming, too!”
Andrey lashed his exhausted team into a gallop, drove with a dash and
pulled up his steaming, panting horses at the high flight of steps.
Mitya jumped out of the cart just as the innkeeper, on his way to bed,
peeped out from the steps curious to see who had arrived.
“Trifon Borissovitch, is that you?”
The innkeeper bent down, looked intently, ran down the steps, and
rushed up to the guest with obsequious delight.
“Dmitri Fyodorovitch, your honor! Do I see you again?”
Trifon Borissovitch was a thick-set, healthy peasant, of middle height,
with a rather fat face. His expression was severe and uncompromising,
especially with the peasants of Mokroe, but he had the power of
assuming the most obsequious countenance, when he had an inkling that
it was to his interest. He dressed in Russian style, with a shirt
buttoning down on one side, and a full-skirted coat. He had saved a
good sum of money, but was for ever dreaming of improving his position.
More than half the peasants were in his clutches, every one in the
neighborhood was in debt to him. From the neighboring landowners he
bought and rented lands which were worked by the peasants, in payment
of debts which they could never shake off. He was a widower, with four
grown-up daughters. One of them was already a widow and lived in the
inn with her two children, his grandchildren, and worked for him like a
charwoman. Another of his daughters was married to a petty official,
and in one of the rooms of the inn, on the wall could be seen, among
the family photographs, a miniature photograph of this official in
uniform and official epaulettes. The two younger daughters used to wear
fashionable blue or green dresses, fitting tight at the back, and with
trains a yard long, on Church holidays or when they went to pay visits.
But next morning they would get up at dawn, as usual, sweep out the
rooms with a birch-broom, empty the slops, and clean up after lodgers.
In spite of the thousands of roubles he had saved, Trifon Borissovitch
was very fond of emptying the pockets of a drunken guest, and
remembering that not a month ago he had, in twenty-four hours, made two
if not three hundred roubles out of Dmitri, when he had come on his
escapade with Grushenka, he met him now with eager welcome, scenting
his prey the moment Mitya drove up to the steps.
“Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear sir, we see you once more!”
“Stay, Trifon Borissovitch,” began Mitya, “first and foremost, where is
she?”
“Agrafena Alexandrovna?” The inn-keeper understood at once, looking
sharply into Mitya’s face. “She’s here, too ...”
“With whom? With whom?”
“Some strangers. One is an official gentleman, a Pole, to judge from
his speech. He sent the horses for her from here; and there’s another
with him, a friend of his, or a fellow traveler, there’s no telling.
They’re dressed like civilians.”
“Well, are they feasting? Have they money?”
“Poor sort of a feast! Nothing to boast of, Dmitri Fyodorovitch.”
“Nothing to boast of? And who are the others?”
“They’re two gentlemen from the town.... They’ve come back from
Tcherny, and are putting up here. One’s quite a young gentleman, a
relative of Mr. Miüsov, he must be, but I’ve forgotten his name ... and
I expect you know the other, too, a gentleman called Maximov. He’s been
on a pilgrimage, so he says, to the monastery in the town. He’s
traveling with this young relation of Mr. Miüsov.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“Stay, listen, Trifon Borissovitch. Tell me the chief thing: What of
her? How is she?”
“Oh, she’s only just come. She’s sitting with them.”
“Is she cheerful? Is she laughing?”
“No, I think she’s not laughing much. She’s sitting quite dull. She’s
combing the young gentleman’s hair.”
“The Pole—the officer?”
“He’s not young, and he’s not an officer, either. Not him, sir. It’s
the young gentleman that’s Mr. Miüsov’s relation ... I’ve forgotten his
name.”
“Kalganov.”