The Brothers Karamazov
put the holy ikon from the relics of the holy martyr, Saint Varvara, on
his neck.... And to think how near I was to death at that minute, I
went close up to him and he stretched out his neck to me!... Do you
know, Pyotr Ilyitch (I think you said your name was Pyotr Ilyitch), I
don’t believe in miracles, but that ikon and this unmistakable miracle
with me now—that shakes me, and I’m ready to believe in anything you
like. Have you heard about Father Zossima?... But I don’t know what I’m
saying ... and only fancy, with the ikon on his neck he spat at me....
He only spat, it’s true, he didn’t murder me and ... he dashed away!
But what shall we do, what must we do now? What do you think?”
Pyotr Ilyitch got up, and announced that he was going straight to the
police captain, to tell him all about it, and leave him to do what he
thought fit.
“Oh, he’s an excellent man, excellent! Mihail Makarovitch, I know him.
Of course, he’s the person to go to. How practical you are, Pyotr
Ilyitch! How well you’ve thought of everything! I should never have
thought of it in your place!”
“Especially as I know the police captain very well, too,” observed
Pyotr Ilyitch, who still continued to stand, and was obviously anxious
to escape as quickly as possible from the impulsive lady, who would not
let him say good-by and go away.
“And be sure, be sure,” she prattled on, “to come back and tell me what
you see there, and what you find out ... what comes to light ... how
they’ll try him ... and what he’s condemned to.... Tell me, we have no
capital punishment, have we? But be sure to come, even if it’s at three
o’clock at night, at four, at half-past four.... Tell them to wake me,
to wake me, to shake me, if I don’t get up.... But, good heavens, I
shan’t sleep! But wait, hadn’t I better come with you?”
“N—no. But if you would write three lines with your own hand, stating
that you did not give Dmitri Fyodorovitch money, it might, perhaps, be
of use ... in case it’s needed....”
“To be sure!” Madame Hohlakov skipped, delighted, to her bureau. “And
you know I’m simply struck, amazed at your resourcefulness, your good
sense in such affairs. Are you in the service here? I’m delighted to
think that you’re in the service here!”
And still speaking, she scribbled on half a sheet of notepaper the
following lines:
I’ve never in my life lent to that unhappy man, Dmitri Fyodorovitch
Karamazov (for, in spite of all, he is unhappy), three thousand roubles
to-day. I’ve never given him money, never: That I swear by all that’s
holy!
K. HOHLAKOV.
“Here’s the note!” she turned quickly to Pyotr Ilyitch. “Go, save him.
It’s a noble deed on your part!”
And she made the sign of the cross three times over him. She ran out to
accompany him to the passage.
“How grateful I am to you! You can’t think how grateful I am to you for
having come to me, first. How is it I haven’t met you before? I shall
feel flattered at seeing you at my house in the future. How delightful
it is that you are living here!... Such precision! Such practical
ability!... They must appreciate you, they must understand you. If
there’s anything I can do, believe me ... oh, I love young people! I’m
in love with young people! The younger generation are the one prop of
our suffering country. Her one hope.... Oh, go, go!...”
But Pyotr Ilyitch had already run away or she would not have let him go
so soon. Yet Madame Hohlakov had made a rather agreeable impression on
him, which had somewhat softened his anxiety at being drawn into such
an unpleasant affair. Tastes differ, as we all know. “She’s by no means
so elderly,” he thought, feeling pleased, “on the contrary I should
have taken her for her daughter.”
As for Madame Hohlakov, she was simply enchanted by the young man.
“Such sense! such exactness! in so young a man! in our day! and all
that with such manners and appearance! People say the young people of
to-day are no good for anything, but here’s an example!” etc. So she
simply forgot this “dreadful affair,” and it was only as she was
getting into bed, that, suddenly recalling “how near death she had
been,” she exclaimed: “Ah, it is awful, awful!”
But she fell at once into a sound, sweet sleep.
I would not, however, have dwelt on such trivial and irrelevant
details, if this eccentric meeting of the young official with the by no
means elderly widow had not subsequently turned out to be the
foundation of the whole career of that practical and precise young man.
His story is remembered to this day with amazement in our town, and I
shall perhaps have something to say about it, when I have finished my
long history of the Brothers Karamazov.
Chapter II.
The Alarm
Our police captain, Mihail Makarovitch Makarov, a retired lieutenant-colonel,
was a widower and an excellent man. He had only come to us
three years previously, but had won general esteem, chiefly because he
“knew how to keep society together.” He was never without visitors, and
could not have got on without them. Some one or other was always dining
with him; he never sat down to table without guests. He gave regular
dinners, too, on all sorts of occasions, sometimes most surprising
ones. Though the fare was not _recherché_, it was abundant. The
fish-pies were excellent, and the wine made up in quantity for what it
lacked in quality.
The first room his guests entered was a well-fitted billiard-room, with
pictures of English race-horses, in black frames on the walls, an
essential decoration, as we all know, for a bachelor’s billiard-room.
There was card-playing every evening at his house, if only at one
table. But at frequent intervals, all the society of our town, with the
mammas and young ladies, assembled at his house to dance. Though Mihail
Makarovitch was a widower, he did not live alone. His widowed daughter
lived with him, with her two unmarried daughters, grown-up girls, who
had finished their education. They were of agreeable appearance and
lively character, and though every one knew they would have no dowry,
they attracted all the young men of fashion to their grandfather’s
house.
Mihail Makarovitch was by no means very efficient in his work, though
he performed his duties no worse than many others. To speak plainly, he
was a man of rather narrow education. His understanding of the limits
of his administrative power could not always be relied upon. It was not
so much that he failed to grasp certain reforms enacted during the
present reign, as that he made conspicuous blunders in his
interpretation of them. This was not from any special lack of
intelligence, but from carelessness, for he was always in too great a
hurry to go into the subject.
“I have the heart of a soldier rather than of a civilian,” he used to
say of himself. He had not even formed a definite idea of the
fundamental principles of the reforms connected with the emancipation
of the serfs, and only picked it up, so to speak, from year to year,
involuntarily increasing his knowledge by practice. And yet he was
himself a landowner. Pyotr Ilyitch knew for certain that he would meet
some of Mihail Makarovitch’s visitors there that evening, but he didn’t
know which. As it happened, at that moment the prosecutor, and
Varvinsky, our district doctor, a young man, who had only just come to
us from Petersburg after taking a brilliant degree at the Academy of
Medicine, were playing whist at the police captain’s. Ippolit
Kirillovitch, the prosecutor (he was really the deputy prosecutor, but
we always called him the prosecutor), was rather a peculiar man, of
about five and thirty, inclined to be consumptive, and married to a fat
and childless woman. He was vain and irritable, though he had a good
intellect, and even a kind heart. It seemed that all that was wrong
with him was that he had a better opinion of himself than his ability
warranted. And that made him seem constantly uneasy. He had, moreover,
certain higher, even artistic, leanings, towards psychology, for
instance, a special study of the human heart, a special knowledge of
the criminal and his crime. He cherished a grievance on this ground,
considering that he had been passed over in the service, and being
firmly persuaded that in higher spheres he had not been properly
appreciated, and had enemies. In gloomy moments he even threatened to
give up his post, and practice as a barrister in criminal cases. The
unexpected Karamazov case agitated him profoundly: “It was a case that
might well be talked about all over Russia.” But I am anticipating.
Nikolay Parfenovitch Nelyudov, the young investigating lawyer, who had
only come from Petersburg two months before, was sitting in the next
room with the young ladies. People talked about it afterwards and
wondered that all the gentlemen should, as though intentionally, on the
evening of “the crime” have been gathered together at the house of the
executive authority. Yet it was perfectly simple and happened quite
naturally.
Ippolit Kirillovitch’s wife had had toothache for the last two days,
and he was obliged to go out to escape from her groans. The doctor,
from the very nature of his being, could not spend an evening except at
cards. Nikolay Parfenovitch Nelyudov had been intending for three days
past to drop in that evening at Mihail Makarovitch’s, so to speak
casually, so as slyly to startle the eldest granddaughter, Olga
Mihailovna, by showing that he knew her secret, that he knew it was her
birthday, and that she was trying to conceal it on purpose, so as not
to be obliged to give a dance. He anticipated a great deal of
merriment, many playful jests about her age, and her being afraid to
reveal it, about his knowing her secret and telling everybody, and so
on. The charming young man was a great adept at such teasing; the
ladies had christened him “the naughty man,” and he seemed to be
delighted at the name. He was extremely well-bred, however, of good
family, education and feelings, and, though leading a life of pleasure,
his sallies were always innocent and in good taste. He was short, and
delicate-looking. On his white, slender, little fingers he always wore
a number of big, glittering rings. When he was engaged in his official
duties, he always became extraordinarily grave, as though realizing his
position and the sanctity of the obligations laid upon him. He had a
special gift for mystifying murderers and other criminals of the
peasant class during interrogation, and if he did not win their
respect, he certainly succeeded in arousing their wonder.
Pyotr Ilyitch was simply dumbfounded when he went into the police
captain’s. He saw instantly that every one knew. They had positively
thrown down their cards, all were standing up and talking. Even Nikolay
Parfenovitch had left the young ladies and run in, looking strenuous
and ready for action. Pyotr Ilyitch was met with the astounding news
that old Fyodor Pavlovitch really had been murdered that evening in his
own house, murdered and robbed. The news had only just reached them in
the following manner.
Marfa Ignatyevna, the wife of old Grigory, who had been knocked
senseless near the fence, was sleeping soundly in her bed and might
well have slept till morning after the draught she had taken. But, all
of a sudden she waked up, no doubt roused by a fearful epileptic scream
from Smerdyakov, who was lying in the next room unconscious. That
scream always preceded his fits, and always terrified and upset Marfa
Ignatyevna. She could never get accustomed to it. She jumped up and ran
half-awake to Smerdyakov’s room. But it was dark there, and she could
only hear the invalid beginning to gasp and struggle. Then Marfa
Ignatyevna herself screamed out and was going to call her husband, but
suddenly realized that when she had got up, he was not beside her in