The Brothers Karamazov

The Brothers Karamazov_Part_3

http://www.adfreebooks.com - 1000+ audiobooks, all ad free!

Broadcast on:: 11 Oct 2024
Audio Format:: other

Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. Hey, it's Ryan Seacrest. Life comes at you fast, which is why it's important to find some time to relax a little you time. Enter Chumba Casino with no download required. You can jump on any time, anywhere for the chance to redeem some serious prizes. So treat yourself with Chumba Casino and play over 100 online casino style games all for free. Go to ChumbaCasino.com to collect your free welcome bonus. Sponsored by Chumba Casino, no purchase necessary, VGW Group, void where prohibited by law, 18 plus terms and conditions apply. When I saw your lovers, Panetia offered me 3,000 in the other room to depart. I spat in the Pan's face. What he offered you money for me, Kripe Resheka hysterically. Is it true meet yet? How dare you? And my perseil, Panie, Panie, yelled meet yet. She's pure and shiny and I had never been her lover. That's a lie. How dare you defend me to him, Kripe Resheka. It wasn't Burch who kept me pure and it wasn't that I was afraid of Kuzma but that I might hold up my head when I met him and tell him he's a scoundrel and he did actually refuse the money, right? He took it, he took it, cried meet yet. Only wanted to get the whole 3,000 at once and I could only give him 700 straight off. I see. He heard I had money and came here to narrate me. Panie Agrippina cried the little hole, I'm a knight, I'm a nobleman and not a large duck. I came here to make you my wife and I find you a different woman, perverse and shameless. Oh, go back where you came from. I'll tell them to turn you out and you'll be turned out, Kripe Resheka, furiously. I've been a fool, a fool to have been miserable these 5 years and it wasn't for his sake, it was my anger made me miserable and this isn't he at all, was he like this? It might be his father, where did you get your wig from? He was a falcon but this is a gander. He used to laugh and sing to me and I've been crying for 5 years, damn fool, abject, shameless I was, she sank back in her little chair and hid her face in her hands, at that instant the chorus of Makro began singing in the room on the left, a rollicking dance song. A regular Sodom, very blebsk, each roared suddenly. Landlord, send the shameless huzzy away. The landlord, who had been for some time inquisitively peeping in at the door, hearing shouts and guessing that his guests were quarreling at once and turned the room. "What are you shouting for? Do you want to split your throat?" He said, addressing Beriblowski with surprising rudeness. Animal, bellowed pound Beriblowski. Animal? And what sort of cards were you playing with just now? I gave you a pack and you hid it. You played with marked cards. I could sing you to Siberia for playing with false cards, do you know that, for it's just the same as false bank notes. And going up to the sofa he thrust his fingers between the sofa back and cushions and pulled out an open pack of cards. Here's my pack, an open. He held it up and showed it to all the room. From where I stood I saw him slip my pack away and put his in place of it. You're a cheat and not a gentleman. And I twice saw the pawn chain to cart cried cow then all. "How shameful, how shameful!" explained Gruschanka, clasping her hands and blushing for genuine shame. "Good Lord, he's come to that?" "I thought so too!" said Meat yet, but before he had uttered the words, Beriblowski with a confused and infuriated face shook his fist at Gruschanka, shouting, "You low harlot!" Meat get flew at him at once, clutched him in both hands. Lifted him in the air and in one instant had carried him into the room on the right from which they had just come. "I've laid him on the floor there," he announced, returning at once, gasping with excitement. He's struggling, the scoundrel, but he won't come back. No fear that. He closed one half of the folding doors and holding the other ajar called out to the little pole. "Most illustrious, will you please to retire as well?" "My dear Tamichi from the older Rovitch," said Trifon Borsovitch, "make them give you back the money you lost, it's as good as stolen from you. I don't want my fifty ripples back," Calvin often declared suddenly. "I don't want my two hundred either," cried Meat yet. "I wouldn't take it for anything, let him keep it as a consolation." "Bravo, Meat yet, you're a Trump Meat yet," cried Gruschanka, and there was a note of fierce anger in the exclamation. The little pan crimsoned with fury, but still mindful of his dignity, was making for the door, but he stopped short and said suddenly, addressing Gruschanka, "Pani, if you want to come with me, come, if not, goodbye." And swelling within dignity and importance, he went to the door. This was a man of character. He had so good an opinion of himself that after all that had passed, he still expected that she would marry him. "Meet you, slam the door after him." "Lock it," said Calvin off, but the key click on the other side, they had locked it from within. "That's capital," cried Gruschanka, where it went, "let's leave, serves them right." End of chapter 7 of book 8. Book 8, chapter 8, delirium. What followed was almost an orgy, a feast to which all were welcome. Gruschanka was the first to call for wine. I want to drink. I want to be quite drunk as we were before. Do you remember Mitchya? Do you remember how he made friends here last time? Mitchya himself was almost delirious, feeling that his happiness was at hand. But Gruschanka was continually sending him away from her. Go and enjoy yourself, tell them to dance, to make merry, let the stove and cottage dance as we had at last time, she kept exclaiming. She was tremendously excited, and Mitchya hastened to obey her. The chorus were in the next room. The room in which they had been sitting till that moment was too small, and was divided into by cotton curtains, behind which was a huge bed with a puffy feather mattress and a pyramid of cotton pillows. In the four rooms for visitors there were beds. Gruschanka settled herself just at the door. Mitchya set an easy chair for her. She had sat in the same place to watch the dancing and singing the time before, when they had made merry there. All the girls who had come had been there then. The Jewish band with fiddles and zithers had come too, and at last the long expected cart had arrived with the wines and provisions. Mitchya bustled about; all sorts of people began coming into the room to look on, peasants and their women, who had been roused from sleep and attracted by the hopes of another marvelous entertainment such as they had enjoyed a month before. Mitchya remembered their faces, greeting and embracing everyone he knew. He uncorked bottles and poured out wine for everyone who presented himself. Only the girls were very eager for the champagne. The men preferred rum, brandy, and above all, hot punch. Mitchya had chocolate maid for all the girls, and ordered that three samovars should be kept boiling all night to provide tea and punch for everyone to help himself. An absurd chaotic confusion followed, but Mitchya was in his natural element, and the more foolish it became, the more his spirit throws. If the peasants had asked him for money at that moment, he would have pulled out his notes and given them away right and left. This was probably why the landlord, Troofen Barisovich, kept hovering about Mitchya to protect him. He seemed to have given up all idea of going to bed that night, but he drank little, only one glass of punch, and kept a sharp look out on Mitchy's interests after his own fashion. He intervened in the nick of time, civilly and obsequiously persuading Mitchya not to give away cigars and ry and wine, and above all, money to the peasants as he had done before. He was very indignant, too, at the peasant girls drinking liqueur and eating sweets. There a lousy lot, Demetri, if you adore of it, she said, "I'd give them a kick, every one of them, and they'd take it as an honour, that's all their worth." Mitchya remembered Andrea again, and ordered punch to be sent out to him. I was rude to him just now, he repeated with his stinking, softened voice. Kalganoff did to drink, and at first did not care for the girls singing, but after he had drunk a couple of glasses of champagne he became extraordinarily lively, strolling about the room, laughing and praising the music and the songs, and miring everyone and everything. Maximoff blissfully drunk, never left his side. Gruschenka, too, was beginning to get drunk, pointing to Kalganoff, she said to Mitchya, "What a dear, charming boy he is," and Mitchya, delighted, ran to kiss Kalganoff and Maximoff. Oh, great were his hopes, she had said nothing yet, and seemed indeed purposely to refrain from speaking, but she looked at him from time to time with caressing and passionate eyes. At last she suddenly gripped his hand and drew him vigorously to her. She was sitting at the moment in the low chair by the door. How was it you came just now, eh? Have you walked in? I was frightened, so you wanted to give me up to him, did you? Did you really want to? I didn't want to spoil your happiness, Mitchya faltered blissfully, but she did not need his answer. Well, go and enjoy yourself, she sent him away once more. Don't cry, I'll call you back again. He would run away and she listened to the singing and looked at the dancing, though her eyes followed him wherever he went. But in another quarter of an hour she would call him once more, and again he would run back to her. "Come, sit beside me, tell me, how did you hear about me, and my coming here yesterday? From whom did you first hear it?" And Mitchya began telling her all about it, disconnectedly, incoherently, feverishly. He spoke strangely, often frowning, and stopping abruptly. "What are you frowning at?" she asked. "Nothing. I left a man ill there. I'd give ten years of my life for him to get well, to know he was all right." "Well, never mind him if he's ill. So you met to shoot yourself to-morrow. What a silly boy! What for?" "I'd like such reckless fellows as you," she lisped, with a rather halting tongue. "So you would go any length for me, eh? Did you really mean to shoot yourself to-morrow, you stupid?" "No, wait a little. Tomorrow I may have something to say to you. I won't say it to-day, but to-morrow. You'd like it to be to-day?" "No, I don't want to to-day. Come, go along now. Go and amuse yourself." Once, however, she called him as it were puzzled and uneasy. "Why are you sad? I see you're sad. Yes, I see it," she added, looking intently into his eyes. "Though you keep kissing the peasants and shouting, I see something. No, be merry. I'm merry, you be merry, too. I love somebody here. Guess who it is?" "Ah, look. My boy has fallen asleep, poor dear. He's drunk." She met Kalganoff. He was, in fact, drunk, and had dropped asleep for a moment, sitting on the sofa. But he was not merely drowsy from drink. He felt suddenly dejected, or as he said, bored. He was intensely depressed by the girl's songs, which, as the drinking went on, gradually became coarse and more reckless. And the dances were as bad. Two girls dressed up as bears, and a lively girl called Stepanada, with a stick in her hand, acted the part of Keeper, and began to show them. Look alive, Maria, or you'll get the stick. The bears rolled on the ground at last in the most unseemly fashion, amid roars of laughter from the closely packed crowd of men and women. "Well, let them. Let them," said Grushenk, as intensely, with an ecstatic expression on her face. When they do get a day to enjoy themselves, "Why shouldn't folks be happy?" Kalganoff looked as though he had been besmirched with dirt. "It's swinish, all this peasant foolery," he murmured, moving away. "It's the game they play when it's light, all night and summer." He particularly disliked one new song to a jaunty dance tune. It described how a gentleman came and tried his luck with the girls to see whether they would love him. The master came to try the girls, would they love him, would they not? But the girls could not love the master. He would beat me cruelly, and such love won't do for me. Then a gypsy comes along, and he too tries. The gypsy came to try the girls, would they love him, would they not? But they couldn't love the gypsy either. He would be a thief, I fear, and would cause me many a tear. And many more men came to try their luck, among them a soldier. The soldier came to try the girls, would they love him, would they not? But the soldier is rejected with contempt, and too in decent lines, sung with absolute frankness and producing a fur in the audience. The song ends with a merchant. The merchant came to try the girls, would they love him, would they not? And it appears that he wins their love, because the merchant will make gold for me, and his queen I'll gladly be. Pelganoff was positively indignant. "That's just a song of yesterday," he said aloud, "who writes such things for them? They might just as well have had a railway man, or a Jew come to try his luck with the girls that have carried all before them. And almost as though it were a personal affront, he declared on the spot that he was bored, sat down on the sofa and immediately fell asleep. His pretty little face looked rather pale, as it fell back on the sofa cushion. Look how pretty he is, said Gruxenka, taking Mity up to him. I was combing his hair just now, his hair's like flax and so thick. And bending over him tenderly, she kissed his forehead. Pelganoff instantly opened his eyes, looked at her, stood up, and with the most anxious air inquired, "Where was Maximoff?" "So that's who it is you want, Gruxenka laughed. Stay with me a minute, Mitya, run and find his Maximoff. Maximoff, it appeared, could not tear himself away from the girls, only running away from time to time to pour himself out a glass of liquor. He had drunk two cups of chocolate. His face was red, and his nose was crimson, his eyes were moist and mockishly sweet. He ran up and announced that he was going to dance the saboteer. They taught me all those well-bred aristocratic dances when I was little. "Go, go with him, Mitya, and I'll watch from here how he dances," said Gruxenka. "No, no, I'm coming to look on too," exclaimed Pelganoff. Brushing aside in the most naive way, Gruxenka's offered to sit with him. They all went to look on. Maximoff danced his dance, but it roused no great admiration in anyone but Mitya. It consisted of nothing but skipping and hopping, kicking the feet, and at every step Maximoff slapped the upturned soul of his boot. Calganoff did not like it at all, but Mitya kissed the dancer. "Thanks. You're tired, perhaps? What are you looking for here? Would you like some sweets, a cigar, perhaps? A cigarette. Don't you want a drink? I'll just have a liquor. Have you any chocolates?" "Yes, there's a heap of them on the table there. Choose one, my dear soul. I like one with vanilla, for old people, hehe. No brother, we've none of that special sort. I say, the old man bent down to whisper in Mitya's ear. That girl there, little Maria, hehe. How would it be if you were to help me make friends with her? So that's what you're after. No brother, that won't do. I do no harm to anyone," Maximoff muttered, disconsolately. "Oh, I'll write, I'll write. They only come here to dance and sing you no brother. But damn it all, wait a bit. Eat and drink and be merry, meanwhile. Don't you want money?" Later on, perhaps smiled Maximoff. "All right, all right." Mitya's head was burning. He went outside to the wooden balcony, which ran around the whole building on the inner side, overlooking the courtyard. The fresh air revived him. He stood alone in a dark corner, and suddenly clutched his head in both hands. His scattered thoughts came together. His sensations blended into a hole and threw a sudden light into his mind. A fearful and terrible light. If I am to shoot myself, why not now pass through his mind? Why not go for the pistols, bring them here and here, in this dark, dirty corner, make an end? Almost a minute he stood undecided. A few hours earlier, when he had been dashing here, he was pursued by disgrace, by the theft he had committed, and that blood, that blood, but yet it was easier for him then. When everything was over, he had lost her, given her up. She was gone for him. Oh, then his death sentence had been easier for him. At least it had seemed necessary, inevitable, for what had he to stay on earth for. But now, was it the same as then? Now one phantom, one terror at least, was at an end. That first rightful lover, that fateful figure, had vanished, leaving no trace. The terrible phantom had turned into something so small, so comic, it had been carried into the bedroom and locked in. It would never return. She was ashamed, and from her eyes he could see now whom she loved. Now he had everything to make life happy. But he could not go on living, he could not. Oh, damnation! Oh, God, restore to life the man I knocked down at the fence. Let this fearful cut pass from me. Lord, thou hast wrought miracles for such sinners as me. But what, what if the old man's alive? Oh, then the shame of the other disgrace I would wipe away. I would restore the stolen money, I'd give it back, I'd get it somehow. No trace of that shame will remain except in my heart, forever. But no, no, oh, impossible, cowardly dreams, oh, damnation. Yet there was a ray of light and hope in his darkness. He jumped up and ran back to the room, to her, to her, his queen forever. Was not one moment of her love worth all the rest of life, even in the agonies of disgraced? This wild question clutched at his heart. To her, to her alone, to see her, to hear her, to think of nothing, to forget everything, if only for that night for an hour for a moment. Just as he turned from the balcony into the passage, he came upon the landlord, chief in barisovich. He thought he looked gloomy and worried, and fancied he had come to find him. What is it, chief in barisovich? Are you looking for me? No, sir, the landlord seemed disconcerted. Why should I be looking for you? Where have you been? Why do you look so glum? You're not angry, are you? Wait a bit, you shall soon get to bed. What's the time? It'll be three o'clock, past three it must be. We'll leave off soon, we'll leave off. Don't mention it, it doesn't matter. Keep it up as long as you like. What's the matter with him? Mitchie wondered for an instant, and he ran back to the room where the girls were dancing. But she was not there. She was not in the blue room, either. There was no one but Kalgonoff asleep on the sofa. Mitchie peeped behind the curtain. She was there. She was sitting in the corner on a trunk, bent forward with her head and arms on the bed close by, she was crying bitterly, doing her utmost to stifle her stobs that she might not be heard. Seeing Mitchie, she beckoned him to her, and when he ran to her, she grasped his hand tightly. Mitchie, Mitchie, I loved him, you know. How I have loved him these five years, all that time. Did I love him or only my own anger? No, him, him. It's a lie that it was my anger I loved and not him. Mitchie, I was only seventeen then. He was so kind to me, so merry. He used to sing to me, or so it seemed to a silly girl like me. And now, oh Lord, it's not the same man. Even his face is not the same, he's different altogether. I shouldn't have known him. I drove here with Timothy, and all the way I was thinking how I should meet him, what I should say to him, how we should look at one another. My soul was faint, and all of a sudden it was just as though he had emptied a pail of dirty water over me. He talked to me like a schoolmaster, also grave and learned. He met me so solemnly that I was struck dumb. I couldn't get a word in. At first I thought he was ashamed to talk before his great big pole. I sat staring at him and wondering why I couldn't say a word to him now. It must have been his wife that ruined him. You know he threw me up to get married. He must have changed him like that. Mitya, how shameful it is, oh Mitya, I'm ashamed, I'm ashamed for all my life. Curse it, curse it, curse those five years. And again she burst into tears, but clung tight to Mitya's hand and did not let it go. Mitya, darling, stay, don't go away. I want to say one word to you, she whispered, and suddenly raised her face to him. Listen, tell me who it is I love. I love one man here. Who is that man? That's what you must tell me. A smile lighted up her face that was swollen with weeping, and her eyes shone in the half darkness. A falcon flew in and my heart sank. Fool, that's the man you love. That was what my heart whispered to me at once. You came in and all grew bright. "What's he afraid of?" I wondered. "For you were frightened, you couldn't speak. It's not them he's afraid of. Would you be frightened of anyone?" "It's me he's afraid of, I thought. Only me." "So fenya told you, you little stupid, how I called Dualeosha out of the window that I'd loved Mityanka for one hour, and that I was going now to love another." "Mitya, Mitya, how could I be such a fool as to think I could love anyone after you? Do you forgive me, Mitya? Do you forgive me or not? Do you love me? Do you love me?" She jumped up and held him with both hands on his shoulders. Mitya, dumb with rapture, gazed into her eyes at her face, at her smile, and suddenly clasped her tightly in his arms and kissed her passionately. "You will forgive me for having tormented you? It was through spite I tormented you all. It was for spite I drove the old man out of his mind. Do you remember how you drank at my house one day and broke the wine glass? I remember that, and I broke a glass day and drank to my vile heart. Mitya, my falcon, why don't you kiss me?" He kissed me once, and now he draws back and looks and listens. "Why listen to me? Kiss me, kiss me hard, that's right. If you love, well then love, I'll be your slave now, your slave for the rest of my life. It's sweet to be a slave. Kiss me, beat me, ill treat me, do what you will with me, and I do deserve to suffer. Stay wait afterwards, I won't have that." She suddenly thrust him away. "Go along, Matteo, come and have some wine, I want to be drunk. I'm going to get drunk and dance, I must, I must." She tore herself away from him and disappeared behind the curtain. Mitya followed like a drunken man. "Yes, come what may. Whatever may happen now, for one minute I'd give the whole world," he thought. Bruce Inka did, in fact, toss off a whole glass of champagne at one gulp and became at once very tipsy. She sat down in the same chair as before, with a blissful smile on her face. Her cheeks were glowing, her lips were burning, her flashing eyes were moist, there was passionate appeal in her eyes. Even Kaganov felt a stir at the heart and went up to her. "Did you feel how I kissed you when you were asleep just now?" she said thickly. "I'm drunk now, that's what it is. And aren't you drunk? And why isn't Mitya drinking? Why don't you drink, Mitya? I'm drunk, and you don't drink. I am drunk, and drunk as it is, drunk with you. And now I'll be drunk with wine, too." He drank off another glass, and he thought it strange himself. That glass made him completely drunk. He was suddenly drunk, although till that moment he had been quite sober. He remembered that. From that moment everything rolled about him, as though he were delirious. He walked, laughed, talked to everybody, without knowing what he was doing. Only one persistent burning sensation made itself felt continually, like a red hot coal in his heart, he said afterwards. He went up to her, sat beside her, gazed at her, listened to her. She became very talkative, kept calling everyone to her, and beckoned to different girls out of the chorus. When the girl came up, she either kissed her, or made the sign of the cross over her. In another minute she might have cried. She was greatly amused by the little old man, as she called Maximoff. He ran up every minute to kiss her hands, each little finger, and finally he danced another dance to an old song, which he sang himself. He danced with special vigor to the refrain. The little pig says, "Oof, oof, oof, oof," the little calf says, "Moo, moo, moo." The little duck says, "Quack, quack, quack," the little goose says, "Gah, gah, gah." The hen goes strutting through the porch, "Tru-ru-ru-ru-ru-ru-ru-ru," she'll say, "Tru-ru-ru-ru-ru-ru," she'll say, "Give him something, Mitchia," said Grusinka, "Give him a present. He's poor, you know." "Ah, the poor, the insulted." "Do you know, Mitchia? I shall go into a nunnery." "No, I really shall one day." "Al-Yosha said something to me today that I shall remember all my life." "Yes." "But today let us dance, tomorrow to the nunnery, but today we'll dance." "I want to play today, good people, and what of it? God will forgive us. If I were God, I'd forgive everyone. My dear sinners, from this day forth I forgive you. I'm going to beg forgiveness. Forgive me good people, us silly wench, I'm a beast. That's what I am. That I want to pray. I gave a little onion, wicked as I've been, I want to pray. Mitchia, let them dance, don't stop them. Everyone in the world is good, everyone, even the worst of them. The world's a nice place. The weird bad, the world's all right. We're good and bad, good and bad. Come, tell me, I've something to ask you. Come here, everyone, and I'll ask you. Why am I so good? You know I am good, I'm very good. Come, why am I so good? So Groshenko babbled on, getting more and more drunk. At last she announced that she was going to dance, too. She got up from her chair, staggering. Mitchia, don't give me any more wine. If I ask you, don't give it to me. Wine doesn't give peace. Everything is going around, the stove and everything. I want to dance. Let everyone see how I dance. Let them see how beautifully I dance. She really meant it. She pulled a white cambric handkerchief out of her pocket and took it by one corner in her right hand to wave it in the dance. Mitchia ran to and fro. The girls were quiet and got ready to break into a dancing song at the first signal. Maximov, hearing that Groshenko wanted to dance, squealed with delight, and ran skipping about in front of her humming, with legs so slim and side so trim and its little tail crawled tight. But Groshenko waved her handkerchief at him and drove him away. Shh. Mitchia, why don't they come? Let everyone come to look on. Call them in too that we're locked in. Why did you lock them in? Tell them I'm going to dance. Let them look on too. Mitchia walked with a drunken swagger to the locked door and began knocking to the poles with his fist. Hi, you. (speaking in foreign language) Come, she's going to dance. She calls you. (speaking in foreign language) One of the poles shouted in reply. You're a large duck yourself. You're a little scoundrel. That's what you are. Leave off laughing at Poland, said Kugenov, sententiously. He too was drunk. Be quiet, boy. If I call him a scoundrel, it doesn't mean that I called all Poland. So, one large duck doesn't make a Poland. Be quiet, my pretty boy. Eat a sweet meat. I have quite fellows. As though they were not men. Why won't they make friends, said Groshenko, and went forward to dance. The chorus broke into my porch, my new porch. Groshenko flung back her head. Half opened her lips, smiled, waved her handkerchief, and suddenly, with a violent lurch, stood still in the middle of the room, looking bewildered. "I'm weak," she said in an exhausted voice. "Forgive me. "I'm weak, I can't. "I'm sorry." She bowed to the chorus and then began bowing in all directions. "I'm sorry. "Forgive me." The lady's been drinking. The pretty lady has been drinking. Voices were heard, saying. The lady's drunk too much. Maximoff explained to the girls, giggling. "Nithya, lead me away. "Take me," said Groshenko hopelessly. Nithya pounced on her, snatched her up in his arms and carried the precious burden through the curtains. "Well, now I'll go," thought Kalganoff, and walking out of the blue room, he closed the two halves of the door after him. But the orgy in the larger room went on and grew louder and louder. "Nithya, lead Groshenko on the bed "and kissed her on the lips. "Don't touch me," she faltered, an imploring voice. "Don't touch me till I'm yours. "I've told you I'm yours, but don't touch me, spare me. "With them here, with them close, you mustn't. "He's here, it's nasty here. "I'll obey you, I won't think of it. "I worship you," muttered Nithya. Yes, it's nasty here, it's abominable. And still holding her in his arms, he sank on his knees by the bedside. I know, though you're a brute, your generous Groshenko articulated with difficulty. It must be honorable, it shall be honorable for the future and let us be honest. Let us be good, not brute, but good. Take me away, take me far away, do you hear? I don't want it to be here, but far, far away. Oh yes, yes, it must be, said Nithya, pressing her in his arms. I'll take you and we'll fly away. Oh, I'd give my whole life for one year, only to know about that blood. What blood, asked Groshenko bewildered? Nothing, muttered Nithya through his teeth. Grosha, you want it to be honest, but I'm a thief. I've stolen money from Katya, disgrace, disgrace. From Katya, from that young lady? No, you didn't steal it, give it back to her, take it from me, why make a fuss? Now everything of mine is yours. What does money matter? We shall waste it anyway. Folks like us are bound to waste money, but we'd better go and work the land. I want to date the earth with my own hands. We must work, do you hear? Alyosha said so. I won't be your mistress, I'll be faithful to you. I'll be your slave, I'll work for you. We'll go to the young lady and bow down to her together so that she may forgive us, and then we'll go away. And if she won't forgive us, we'll go anyway. Take her money and love me, don't love her. Don't love her anymore. If you love her, I shall strangle her. I'll put out both her eyes with a needle. I love you. I love only you. I'll love you in Siberia. Why Siberia? Never mind, Siberia, if you like, I don't care. We'll work. There's snow in Siberia. I love driving in the snow, and must have bells. Do you hear there's a bell ringing? Where is that bell ringing? There are people coming, and now it's stopped. She closed her eyes, exhausted, and suddenly fell asleep for an instant. There had certainly been the sound of a bell in the distance, but the ringing had ceased. Metia let his head sink on her breast. He did not notice that the bell had ceased ringing, nor did he notice that the song had ceased, and that instead of singing and drunken clamor, there was absolute stillness in the house. Grishenko opened her eyes. What's the matter? Was I asleep? Yes, a bell. I've been asleep and dreamt I was driving over the snow with bells, and I dozed. I was with someone I loved with you. And far, far away, I was holding you and kissing you, nestling close to you. I was cold in the snow glistened. You know how the snow glistened at night when the moon shines. It was as though I was not on earth. I woke up, and my dear one is close to me. How sweet that is. Close to you. I remember Mitya kissing her dress, her boson, her hands, and suddenly he had a strange fancy. It seemed to him that she was looking straight before her, not at him, not into his face, but over his head, with an intent almost uncanny fixity, an expression of wonder almost of alarm came suddenly into her face. Mitya, who is that looking at us, she whispered. Mitya turned and saw that someone had, in fact, parted the curtains and seemed to be watching them, and not one person alone, it seemed. He jumped up and walked quickly to the intruder. "Here, come to us, come here," said a voice, speaking not loudly, but firmly and preemptorily. Mitya passed to the other side of the curtain and stood stock still. The room was filled with people, but not those who had been there before. An instantaneous shiver ran down his back, and he shuttered. He recognized all those people instantly. That tall, stout old man in the overcoat and forage cap with a cockade was the police captain. Mihail Makarovic, and that consumptive looking trim Dandy, who always had such polished boots, that was the deputy prosecutor. He has a chronometer worth 400 rubles, he showed it to me. And that small young man in spectacles, Mitya forgot his surname, though he knew him, had seen him. He was the investigating lawyer from the school of jurisprudence, who had only lately come to the town. And this man, the inspector of police, Mavrikin Mavrikkyevich, a man he knew well. And those fellows with the brass plates on, why are they here? And those other two, peasants. And there at the door, Kaganoff, with Trufon Brodersevich. Gentlemen, what's this for, gentlemen? I began Mitya. But suddenly, as though beside himself, not knowing what he was doing, he cried aloud at the top of his voice. I understand the young man in spectacles move forward suddenly. And stepping up to Mitya began with dignity, though hurriedly. We have to make, in brief, I beg you to come this way, this way to the sofa. It's absolutely imperative that you should give an explanation. The old man cried Mitya frantically. The old man and his blood, I understand. And he sank, almost fell on a chair close by, as though he had been mown down by a scythe. You understand? He understands it. Monster and parasite, your father's blood cries out against you. The old captain of police roared, suddenly stepping up to Mitya. He was beside himself, crimson in the face, and quivering all over. This is impossible, cried the small young man. Mahal Makarovich, Mahal Makarovich, this won't do. I beg you'll allow me to speak. I should never have expected such behavior from you. This is delirium, gentlemen, raving delirium, cried the captain of police. Look at him. Drunk at this time of night in the company of a disreputable woman with the blood of his father on his hands, it's delirium. I beg you, most earnestly, dear Mahal Makarovich, to restrain your feelings. The prosecutor said in a rapid whisper to the old police captain, or I shall be forced to resort to. But the little lawyer did not allow him to finish. He turned to Mitya and delivered himself in a loud, firm, dignified voice. Exlutenet Karamatsov, it is my duty to inform you that you are charged with the murder of your father. Theodore Pavlovitch Karamatsov perpetrated this night. He said something more, and the prosecutor, too, didn't put in something. But though Mitya heard them, he did not understand them. He stared at them all with wild eyes. End of book eight. Book nine, the preliminary investigation. Chapter one, the beginning of Pahotan's official career. Pahotan elir Pahotan, whom he left knocking at the strong, locked gates of the widow Marsov's house, ended, of course, by making himself heard. Fania, who was still excited by the fright she had had two hours before, and too much upset to go to bed, was almost frightened into hysterics on hearing the furious knocking at the gate. Though she had herself seen him drive away, she fancied that it must be Mitya Fioravitch knocking again. No one else could knock so savagely. She ran to the house-porter who had already waked up and gone out to the gate, and began imploring him not to open it. But, having questioned Pahotan elir, and learned that he wanted to see Fania on a very important business, the man made up his mind at last to open. Pahotan elir was admitted into Fania's kitchen, but the girl begged him to allow the house-porter to be present because of her misgivings. He began questioning her, and at once, learned the most vital fact, that is, that when Mitya Fioravitch had run out to look for Koshanka, he had snatched up a pestle from the mortar, and that when he returned, the pestle was not with him, and his hands were smeared with blood. And the blood was simply flowing, dripping from him, dripping, Fania kept exclaiming. This horrible detail was simply the product of her disordered imagination. But, although not dripping, Pahotan elir had himself seen those hands stained with blood, and had helped to wash them. Moreover, the question he had to decide was, not how soon the blood had dried, but where Mitya Fioravitch had run with the pestle, or rather, whether it really was to Fiorav Pavlovitch's, and how he could satisfactorily ascertain. Pahotan elir persisted in return to this point, and though he found out nothing conclusive, yet he carried away a conviction that Mitya Fioravitch could have gone nowhere but to his father's house, and that, therefore, something must have happened there. And when he came back, Fania added with excitement, I told him the whole story, and then I began asking him, "Why, if you got blood on your hands, Mitya Fioravitch?" And he answered that that was human blood, and that he had just killed someone. He confessed it all to me, and suddenly ran off like a madman. I sat down and began thinking, "Where is he run off to now, like a madman?" He'd go to McCoy, I thought, and kill my mistress there. I ran out to beg him not to kill her. I was running to his lodgings, but I looked at Plotnikov's shop, and saw him just setting off, and there was no blood on his hands then. Fania had noticed this, and remembered it. Fania's old grandmother confirmed her evidence as far as she was capable. After asking some further questions, Piotr Ilyich left the house, even more upset and uneasy, than he had been when he entered it. The most direct and the easiest thing for him to do would have been to go straight to Piotr Poflovich's, to find out whether anything had happened there, and if so, what? And only to go to the police captain at Piotr Ilyich firmly intended doing when he had satisfied himself of the fact. But, the night was dark. Fiotr Poflovich's gates were strong, and he would have to knock again. His acquaintance with Fiotr Poflovich was of the slightest, and what if, after he'd been knocking, they opened to him, and nothing had happened. Fiotr Poflovich, in his jeering way, would go telling the story all over the town, how a stranger called Perhoton had broken in upon him at midnight to ask if anyone had killed him. It would make a scandal, and scandal was what Piotr Ilyich dreaded more than anything in the world. Yet, the feeling that possessed him was so strong, that though he stamped his foot angrily, and swore at himself, he set off again, not to Fiotr Poflovich's, but to Madam Hachlakov's. He decided that if she denied having just given Nimitri Fiotrovich 3,000 rubles, he would go straight to the police captain. But if she admitted to having given him the money, he would go home and let the matter rest till next morning. - Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals, and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands. Like our new brand, Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a Plenty, and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. (upbeat music) Looking for excitement? Chumba Casino is here. Play anytime, play anywhere. Play on the train, play at the store, play at home, play when you're bored. Play today for your chance to win, and get daily bonuses when you log in. So what are you waiting for? Don't delay. Chumba Casino is free to play. Experience social gameplay like never before. Go to Chumba Casino right now to play hundreds of games, including online slots, Bingo, Slingo, and more. Live the Chumba Life at ChumbaCustino.com. Bgw group, no purchase necessary. Bgw group, prohibited by law, see terms and conditions, 18 plus. It is, of course, perfectly evident that there was even more likelihood of causing scandal by going at 11 o'clock at night to a fashionable lady, a complete stranger, and perhaps rousing her from her bed to ask her an amazing question. Then by going to Furopavlovitch. But that is just how it is, sometimes, especially in cases like the present one with the decisions of the most precise and phlegmatic people. Bgw to Ilic was by no means phlegmatic at that moment. He remembered all his life how a haunting uneasiness gradually gained possession of him, growing more and more painful, and driving him on against his will. Yet he kept cursing himself, of course, all the way for going to this lady. But, I'll get to the bottom of it, I will! He repeated for the tenth time, grinding his teeth, and he carried out his intention. It was exactly 11 o'clock when he entered Madame Chachlakov's house. He was admitted into the yard pretty quickly, but, in response to his inquiry, whether the lady was still up, the porter could give no answer, except that she was usually imbed by that time. I'll take the top of the stairs. If the lady wants to receive you, she'll receive you. If she won't, she won't. Pjuta Ilic went up, but did not find things so easy here. The footman was unwilling to take in his name, but finally called a maid. Pjuta Iliche politely, but insistently begged her to inform her lady that an official, living in the town, called Parhatan, had called on particular business, and that if it were not of the greatest importance, he would not have ventured to come. "Tower in those words, in those words exactly," he asked the girl. She went away. He remained waiting in the entry. Madame Chachlakov herself was already in her bedroom, though not yet asleep. She had felt upset ever since Mitya's visit, and had a presentment that she would not get through the night without a sick headache, which always, with her, followed such excitement. She was surprised on hearing the announcement from the maid. She irritably declined to see him, however, though the unexpected visit at such an hour of an official living in the town, who was a total stranger, roused her feminine curiosity intensely. But this time, Pjuta Iliche was as obstinate as a mule. He begged the maid, most earnestly, to take another message in these very words; that he had come on business of the greatest importance, and that Madame Chachlakov might have caused a regretted later if she refused to see him now. "I blunged headlong," he described it afterwards. The maid, gazing at him in amazement, went to take his message again. Madame Chachlakov was impressed. She thought a little, asked what he looked like, and learned that he was very well dressed, young, and so polite. We may note, parenthetically, that Pjuta Iliche was a rather good-looking young man, and well aware of the fact. Madame Chachlakov made up her mind to see him. She was in her dressing gown, and slippers, but she flung a black shawl over her shoulders. The official was asked to walk into the drawing room, the very room in which Mitja had been received shortly before. The lady came to meet her visitor, with a sternly inquiring countenance, and, without asking him to sit down, began at once with the question, "What do you want?" "I ventured to disturb you, madam, on a matter concerning our common acquaintance, d'mitry fierra vich tarmazov," Pjuta began. But he had hardly uttered the name, when the lady's face showed signs of acute irritation. She almost shrieked and interrupted him in a fury. "How much longer am I to be worried by that awful man?" she cried hysterically. "How dare you, sir! How could you venture to disturb a lady who is a stranger to you, in her own house, at such an hour, and to force yourself upon her to talk of a man who came here to this very drawing room, only three hours ago, to murder me, and went stamping out of the room, as no one would go out of a decent house? Let me tell you, sir, that I shall lodge a complaint against you, that I will not let it pass. Kindly leave me at once. I am a mother! I--I--" Murder? Then he tried to murder you, too? "Oh, I--has he killed somebody else?" When I'm hard, like I've asked impulsively. "If you would kindly listen, madam, for half a moment, I'll explain it all in a couple of words," answered Perhot and firmly. At five o'clock this afternoon, Dmitry Fjordovitch borrowed ten rubles from me, and I know for a fact he had no money. Yet at nine o'clock he came to see me with a bundle of hundred ruble notes in his hand, about two or three thousand rubles. His hands and face were all covered with blood, and he looked like a madman. When I asked him, where he had got so much money, he answered that he had just received it from you, and that you had given him a sum of three thousand to go to the gold mines. Madam Hachlakov's face assumed an expression of intense and painful excitement. "Good God! He must have killed his old father," she cried, clasping her hands. "I've never given him money, never! Oh! Run! Run! Don't say another word! Save the old man! Run to his father! Run!" Hey, Amazon Prime members! Why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to fifty percent on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save ten percent on Amazon brands. Like our new brand, Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, A Plenty, and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. Hey guys, it is Ryan. I'm not sure if you know this about me, but I'm a bit of a fun fanatic when I can. I like to work, but I like fun too. And now, I can tell you about my favorite place to have fun. Chumba Casino. They have hundreds of social casino style games to choose from. With new games released each week, you can play for free, and each day it brings a new chance to collect daily bonuses. So join me and the fun. Sign up now at ChumbaCassino.com. Sponsored by Chumba Casino, no purchase necessary. W Group. Ford were prohibited by law. Eighteen plus. Terms and conditions apply. Excuse me, madam. Then you did not give him money? You remember for a fact that you did not give him any money? No, I didn't. I didn't. I refused to give it him, for he could not appreciate it. He ran out in a fury, stamping. He rushed at me, but I slipped away. And let me tell you, as I wish to hide nothing from you now, that he positively spat at me. Can you fancy that? But why are we standing? Ah, sit down. Excuse me, I... or better... run! Run! You must run and save the poor old man from an awful death. But if he has killed him already. Ah, good heavens, yes. Then what are we to do now? What do you think we must do now? Meantime, she had made Piotr Ilyich sit down, and sat down herself, facing him. Briefly, but fairly clearly, Piotr Ilyich told her the history of the affair, that part of it at least, which he had himself witnessed. He described to his visit to Fenya, and told her about the pestle. All these details produce an overwhelming effect on the distracted lady, who kept uttering shrieks, and covering her face with her hands. Would you believe it? I foresaw this! I've had special faculty, whatever I imagined comes to pass, and how often I've looked at that awful man, and always thought that man will end by murdering me, and now it's happened, that is, if he hasn't murdered me, but only his own father, it's only because the finger of God preserved me. And what's more, he was ashamed to murder me, because in his very place I put the holy icon, from the relics of the holy martyr, St. Vava 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 Piotr Ilyich? I think you said your name was Piotr Ilyich? I don't believe in miracles, but that icon, and this unmistakable miracle with me now, that shakes me, and a reddit to believe in anything you like. Have you heard about Father Sosima? But I don't know what I'm saying, and only fancy with the icon 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? Piotr Ilyich 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! Mikhail Makarovich! I know him. Of course, he's the person to go to! How practical you are, Piotr Ilyich! 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 Piotr Ilyich, 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 goodbye 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 the 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 could heavens I shan't sleep? But wait, and I'd better come with you. No, but if you would write three lines with your own hand, stating that you did not give me three feet of each money, it might perhaps be of use, in case it's needed. To be sure, Madam Kharkov, skipped the lightet 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's scribbled on half a sheet of no paper, the following lines. "I've never in my life lent to that unhappy man, nuitrifuravitch karmazov, for, in spite of all years, unhappy, three thousand rubles, today, I've never given him money. Never let I swear by all that's holy, Kharkarkov." "Here's the note," Shitha and quickly took your village. "Go, save him, it's a noble deed on your part." 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 I haven't come to me first. How is it I haven't met you before? I shall be flattered at seeing you at my house in the future. How delightful are these that you're 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 Piazza Iliage had already run away, or she would not have let him go so soon. Yet Madam Kharkarkov 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 country I should have taken her for her daughter. As for Madam Kharkarkov, she was simply enchanted by the young man. Such sense, such exactness, and so young a man. In our day, and all that with such manners and appearance, people say the young people of today 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 felt at once into a sound, sweet sleep. I would not, however, have dwelled 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 Kharmazov. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. Hey it's Ryan Seacrest, life comes at you fast, which is why it's important to find some time to relax a little you time. Enter Chumba Casino with no download required you can jump on anytime, anywhere for the chance to redeem some serious prizes. So treat yourself with Chumba Casino and play over 100 online casino style games all for free. Go to ChumbaCasino.com to collect your free welcome bonus. Sponsored by Chumba Casino, no purchase necessary, VGW group, void where prohibited by law, 18 plus terms and conditions apply. End of chapter one of book nine. Book nine chapter two, the alarm. Our police captain, Mikhail Makarovich Makarov, a retired lieutenant colonel, was a widower and an excellent man. He had only come to us three years previously, but at one general esteem, chiefly because he knew how to keep society together. He was never without visitors and could not have got on without them. Someone or other was always dining with him. He never sat down to table without guests. He gave regular dinners to on all sorts of occasions, sometimes most surprising ones. Though the fair was not Russia, 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 guest entered was a well fitted billiardrum with pictures of English racehorses in black frames on the walls, an essential decoration as we all know for a bachelor's billiardrum. 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 Mamas and young ladies assembled at his house to dance. Mikhail Makarovich was a widower. He did not live alone. His widow 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 everyone knew they would have no dowry, they attracted all the young men of fashion to their grandfather's house. Mikhail Makarovich 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, where he was always in too great a hurry to go into the subject. I had 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. Piotr Ilyich knew for certain that he would meet some of Mikhail Makarovich's visitors there that evening, but he did not know which. As it happened, at that moment, the prosecutor and Varavinsky, 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 wist at the police captains. He bullied Kirilovich, 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 more over 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. Nikolai Parfenebich Nelludov, 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 showed us so intentionally on the evening of the crime have been gathered together at the house of the executive authority. But it was perfectly simple, and happened quite naturally. Eepolid Kirilovich'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. Nikolai Parfenebich Nelludov had been intending for three days past to drop in that evening at Mihail Makarovich'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. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon Saver, 365 by Whole Foods Market, A Plenty, and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh, select varieties. Hello, it is Ryan, and I was on a flight the other day playing one of my favorite social spin slot games on Chumbakasino.com. I looked over the person sitting next to me, and you know what they were doing. They were also playing Chumbakasino. Everybody's loving having fun with it. Chumbakasino's home to hundreds of casino style games that you can play for free anytime anywhere. So sign up now at Chumbakasino.com to claim your free welcome bonus at Chumbakasino.com and live the Chumbalites. He anticipated a great deal of merriment when he 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 salads 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 realising 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. Pioppriyitch was simply dumbfounded when he went into the police captains. He saw instantly that everyone knew. They had positively thrown down their cards, always standing up and talking. Even Nikolai Parfenebitch had left the young ladies and run in looking strenuous and ready for action. Pioppriyitch was met with the astounding news that old Fjordor Parvalovich 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 Ignatjevna, the wife of old Krigori, who had been not senseless near the fence, was sleeping soundly in her bed and might well have slept till morning after the draft she had taken. But all of a sudden she waked up, no doubt roused by a fearful epileptic scream from Smeratiarkov who was lying in an extra moment conscious. That scream always preceded his fits and always terrified and upset Marfa Ignatjevna. She could never get accustomed to it. She jumped up and ran half awake to Smeratiarkov's room. But it was dark there and she could only hear the invalid beginning to gasp and struggle. Then Marfa Ignatjevna 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 bed. She ran back to the bedstead and began groping with her hands, but the bed was really empty. He must have gone out, where? She ran to the steps and timidly called him. She got no answer, of course, but she caught the sound of groans far away in the garden in the darkness. She listened. The groans were repeated and it was evident they came from the garden. Good Lord, just as it was with Liza Vieta Smerjastya, she thought distractedly. She went timidly down the steps and saw that the gate into the garden was open. He must be out there, poor dear, she thought. She went up to the gate and all at once she distinctly heard Grigori calling her by name. Marfa, Marfa, in a weak, moaning, dreadful voice. Lord preserve us from harm, Marfa Ignatjevna murmured and ran towards the voice, and that was how she found Grigori. She found him not by the fence where he had been knocked down, but about 20 paces off. It appeared later that he had crawled away on coming to himself and probably had been a long time getting so far losing consciousness several times. She noticed at once that he was covered with blood and screamed at the top of her voice. Grigori was muttering incoherently. And he has murdered his father, murdered. Why scream, silly, run, fetch someone. But Marfa continued screaming and seeing that her master's window was open and that there was a candle, a light in the window, she ran there and began calling Fyodor Pavlovitch. But peeping in at the window, she saw a fearful sight. Her master was lying on his back, motionless on the floor. His light-colored dressing-gown and white shirt were soaked with blood. The candle on the table brightly lighted up the blood and the motionless dead face of Fyodor Pavlovitch. Terror-stricken Marfa rushed away from the window, ran out of the garden, drew the bolt of the big gate, and rang headlong by the back-way to the neighbor Maria Ignatjevna. His mother and daughter were asleep, but they waked up at Marfa's desperate and persistent screaming and knocking at the shutter. Marfa, shrieking and screaming incoherently, managed to tell them the main fact and to beg for assistance. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon Saver, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. It is Ryan C. Krez here. People always say it's good to unwind, but that's easier said than done. The exception? Chumba Casino. They actually make it easier done than said, or at least the same. Chumba Casino is an online social casino with hundreds of casino-style games like Slots and Blackjack. Play for fun. Play for free for your chance to redeem some serious prizes. Sign up now and collect your free welcome bonus at ChumbaCasino.com. Sponsored by Chumba Casino. No purchase necessary. VGW Group. Void, where prohibited by law, 18 plus terms and conditions apply. It happened that former had come back from his wanderings and was staying the night with them. They got him up immediately, and all three ran to the scene of the crime. On the way, Maria Condraachivna remembered that at about eight o'clock she heard a dreadful scream from their garden, and this was no doubt Gregorri's scream, "Pary side!" uttered when he caught hold of Mecia's leg. Some one person screamed out and then was silent. Maria Condraachivna explained as she ran. According to the place where Gregorri lay, the two women with the help of former carried him to the lodge. They lighted a candle and saw that Smurtyakov was no better, but he was writhing in convulsions, his eyes fixed in a squint and that foam was flowing from his lips. They moistened Gregorri's forehead with water mixed with vinegar, and the water revived him at once. He asked immediately, "Is the master murdered?" And former, and both the women ran to the house, and saw this time that not only the window, but also the door into the garden was wide open, though Fyodor Pavlovitch had for the last week locked himself in every night, and did not allow even Gregorri to come in on any pretext. Seeing that door open, they were afraid to go into Fyodor Pavlovitch, for fear anything should happen afterwards. And when they returned to Gregorri, the old man told them to go straight to the police captain. Maria Kondrajevna ran there and gave the alarm to the whole party at the police captains. She arrived only five minutes before Piotrielitch, so that his story came not as his own surmise and theory, but as the direct confirmation by a witness of the theory held by all as to the identity of the criminal. A theory he had in the bottom of his heart refused to believe till that moment. It was resolved to act with energy. The deputy police inspector of the town was commissioned to take four witnesses to enter Fyodor Pavlovitch's house, and there to open an inquiry on the spot, according to the regular forms, which I will not go into here. The district doctor, as Dallas Mann, knew to his work, almost insisted on accompanying the police captain, the prosecutor, and the investigating lawyer. I will note briefly that Fyodor Pavlovitch was found to be quite dead, with his skull battered in, but with what, most likely with the same weapon with which Gregorri had been attacked, and immediately that weapon was found, Gregorri, to whom all possible medical assistance was at once given, described in a weak and breaking voice how he had been knocked down. They began looking with a lantern by the fence, and found the brass pestle dropped in a most conspicuous place on the garden path. There were no signs of disturbance in the room where Fyodor Pavlovitch was lying, but by the bed behind the screen they picked up from the floor a big and thick envelope with the inscription, "A present of three thousand rubles for my angel Grushenka if she is willing to come," and below that had been added by Fyodor Pavlovitch for my little chicken. There were three seals of red sealing-racks on the envelope, but it had been torn open and was empty. The money had been removed. They found also on the floor a piece of narrow pink ribbon with which the envelope had been tied up. One piece of peyotra elich's evidence made a great impression on the prosecutor and the investigating magistrate, namely his idea that Fyodor Pavlovitch would shoot himself before daybreak, but he had resolved to do so and spoken of it to elich, had taken the pistols, loaded them before him, written a letter, put it in his pocket, etc. When peyotra elich, though still unwilling to believe in it, threatened to tell someone so as to prevent the suicide, meteor had answered grinning, "You'll be too late," so they must make Haster Macroyer to find the criminal before he really did shoot himself. "That's clear, that's clear," repeated the prosecutor in great excitement, "That's just the way with mad fellows like that. I shall kill myself tomorrow, so I'll make merry till I die." The story of how he had bought the wine and provisions excited the prosecutor more than ever. Do you remember the fellow that murdered a merchant called Olsulfiev, gentlemen? He stole fifteen hundred, went at once to have his hair curled, and then, without even hiding the money, carried it almost in his hand in the same way he went off to the girls. All were delayed, however, by the inquiry, the search and the formalities, etc., in the house of Fyodor Pavlovitch. It all took time, and so, two hours before starting, they sent on ahead to Macroyer, the officer of the rural police, Mavericki Maverickiewicz Schmerzof, who had arrived in the town the morning before to get his pay. He was instructed to avoid raising the alarm when he reached Macroyer, but to keep constant watch over the criminal till the arrival of the proper authorities, to procure also witnesses for the arrest, police constables, and so on. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon Saver, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. I'm Victoria Cash, thanks for calling the Lucky Land Hotline. If you feel like you do the same thing every day, press 1. If you're ready to have some serious fun, for the chance to redeem some serious prizes, press 2. We heard you loud and clear, so go to luckylandslots.com right now and play over a hundred social casino style games for free. Get lucky today. Get luckylandslots.com. Mavriki Mavrikievich did as he was told, preserving his incognito and giving no one but his old acquaintance, Thrifon Barisovich, the slightest hint of his secret business. He had spoken to him just before Meetia met the landlord in the balcony, looking for him in the dark, and noticed at once a change in Thrifon Barisovich's face and voice. So neither Meetia nor anyone else knew that he was being watched. The box with the pistols had been carried off by Thrifon Barisovich and put in a suitable place. Only after 4 o'clock, almost at sunrise, all the officials, the police captain, the prosecutor, the investigating lawyer drove up in two carriages, each drawn by three horses. The doctor remained at Thrifon Barisovich's to make a post-mortem next day on the body, but he was particularly interested in the condition of the servant Smurtyakov. Such violent and protracted epileptic fits, recurring continually for 24 hours, are rarely to be met with and are of interest to science. He declared enthusiastically to his companions, and as they left they laughingly congratulated him on his fine. The prosecutor and the investigating lawyer distinctly remembered the doctor saying that Smurtyakov could not outlive the night. After these long but I think necessary explanations, we will return to that moment of our tale at which we broke off. "End of chapter 2 of book 9" Book 9, chapter 3, the sufferings of a soul, the first ordeal. And so Mitea sat looking wildly at the people around him, not understanding what was said to him. Suddenly he got up, flung up his hands, and shouted aloud, "I'm not guilty, I'm not guilty of that blood, I'm not guilty of my father's blood, I'm meant to kill him, but I'm not guilty, not I." But he had hardly said this, before Grushenko rushed from behind the curtain, and flung herself at the police captain's feet. It was my fault, mine, my wickedness she cried in a heart-rending voice, bathed in tears, stretching out her clasped hands towards them. He did it through me, I tortured him and drove him to it, I tortured that poor old man that's dead, too, in my wickedness, and brought him to this, it's my fault, mine first, my most, my fault! "Yes, it's your fault, you're the chief criminal, you fury, you harlot, you're the most ablamed," shouted the police captain, threatening her with his hand. But he was quickly and resolutely suppressed. The prosecutor positively seized hold of him. This is absolutely irregular, Mikhail Makarovich he cried, "You are positively hindering the inquiry, you're ruining the case," he almost gasped. "Follow the regular course, follow the regular course," cried Mikhail Makarovich, fearfully excited, too, otherwise it's absolutely impossible. "Just together," Grushenko cried frantically, still kneeling, "panish us together, I will go with him now if it's to death!" "Grushenko, my life, my blood, my holy one," Mitya fell on his knees beside her and held her tight in his arms. "Don't believe her," he cried, "she's not guilty of anything, of any blood, of anything!" He remembered afterwards that he was forcibly dragged away from her by several men, and that she was led out, and that when he recovered himself he was sitting at the table. Beside him and behind him stood the men with metal plates. Facing him on the other side of the table sat Nikolai Parfenevich, the investigating lawyer. He kept persuading him to drink a little water out of a glass that stood on the table. "That will refresh you, that will calm you, be calm, don't be frightened," he added extremely politely. Mitya, he remembered it afterwards, became suddenly intensely interested in his big rings, one with an amethyst and another with a transparent bright yellow stone of great brilliance. And long afterwards he remembered with wonder how those rings had riveted his attention through all those terrible hours of interrogation, so that he was utterly unable to tear himself away from them and dismiss them, as things that had nothing to do with his position. On Mitya's left side, in the place where Maximov had been sitting at the beginning of the evening, the prosecutor was now seated, and on Mitya's right hand where Grushenko had been, was a rosy, cheeked young man in a sort of shabby hunting jacket, with ink and paper before him. This was the secretary of the investigating lawyer who had brought him with him. The police captain was now standing by the window at the other end of the room beside Kalkanov, who was sitting there. "Drink some water," said the investigating lawyer softly, "for the tenth time. "I have drunk a gentleman I have, but come gentlemen, crush me, punish me, decide my fate!" cried Mitya, staring with terribly fixed, wide open eyes at the investigating lawyer. "So you positively declare that you are not guilty of the death of your father, Fyodor Pavlovitch, as the investigating lawyer, softly but insistently? "I am not guilty. I am guilty of the blood of another, old man, but not of my fathers, and I weep for it, I killed. I killed the old man and knocked him down. "But it's hard to have to answer for that murder with another, a terrible murder, of which I am not guilty. "It's a terrible accusation, gentleman, and knock down blow. "But who has killed my father, who has killed him, who can have killed him if I didn't? "It's marvellous, extraordinary, impossible." "Yes, who can have killed him," the investigating lawyer was beginning, "but Ipolite Kirilovich, the prosecutor, glancing at him, addressed Mitya. "You need not worry yourself about the old servant Grigori Vasilievitch. He is alive, he has recovered, and in spite of the terrible blows inflicted according to his own and your evidence, by you, there seems no doubt that he will live, so the doctor says at least." "Alive! He's alive!" cried Mitya, flinging up his hands, his face beamed. "Lord, I thank thee for the miracle thou hast wrought for me, a sinner and evildoer. That's an answer to my prayer, I've been praying all night." And he crossed himself three times, he was almost breathless. "So from this Grigori, we have received such important evidence concerning you that," the prosecutor would have continued, "but Mitya suddenly jumped up from his chair. One minute, gentlemen, for God's sake, one minute, I will run to her! Excuse me, at this moment it's quite impossible," Nikolai Vasilovich almost shrieked. He too leaped to his feet. Mitya was seized by the men with the metal plates, but he sat down of his own accord. "Gentlemen, what a pity! I wanted to see her for one minute only, I wanted to tell her that it has been washed away. It is gone, that blood that was weighing on my heart all night, and that I am not a murderer now. Gentlemen, she is my betrothed!" He said ecstatically and reverently, looking round at them all. "Oh, thank you, gentlemen, oh, in one minute you have given me new life, new heart! That old man used to carry me in his arms, gentlemen. He used to wash me in the tub when I was a baby three years old, abandoned by everyone. He was like a father to me. And so you," the investigating lawyer began, "allow me, gentlemen, allow me one minute more," interposed Mitya, putting his elbows on the table and covering his face with his hands. "Let me have a moment to think. Let me breathe, gentlemen. Oh, this is horribly upsetting, horribly! A man is not a drum, gentlemen." "Trink a little more water," murmured Nikolai Parfenovich. Mitya took his hands from his face and laughed. His eyes were confident. He seemed completely transformed in a moment. His whole bearing was changed. He was once more the equal of these men, with all of whom he was acquainted, as though they had all met the day before, when nothing had happened, at some social gathering. We may note in passing that on his first arrival Mitya had been made very welcome at the police captains. But later, during the last month especially, Mitya had hardly called at all, and when the police captain met him in the street, for instance, Mitya noticed that he frowned and only bowed out of politeness. His acquaintance with the prosecutor was less intimate, though he sometimes paid his wife a nervous and fanciful lady, visits of politeness, without quite knowing why, and she always received him graciously, and had for some reason taken an interest in him up to the last. He had not had time to get to know the investigating lawyer, though he had met him and talked to him twice, each time about the fair sex. "You're a most skillful lawyer, I see, Nikolai Parfenovich cried Mitya laughing gaily. But I can help you now, oh gentlemen, I feel like a new man! And don't be offended at my addressing you so simply and directly. I'm rather drunk too, I'll tell you that frankly. I believe I've had the honour and pleasure of meeting you, Nikolai Parfenovich, at my kinsman news-offs. Gentlemen, gentlemen, I don't pretend to be on equal terms with you. I understand, of course, in what character I am sitting before you. Of course there's a horrible suspicion hanging over me. If Krigori has given evidence a horrible suspicion, it's awful, awful, I understand that. But to business, gentlemen, I am ready, and we will make an end of it in one moment for listen, listen, gentlemen. Since I know I'm innocent, we can put an end to it in a minute. And we—can't we? Mitya spoke much and quickly, nervously and effusively as though he positively took his listeners to be his best friends. So for the present we will write that you absolutely deny the charge brought against you, said Nikolai Parfenovich, impressively, and bending down to the secretary, he dictated to him in an undertone what to write. Write it down? You want to write that down? Well write it. I consent, I give my full consent, gentlemen. Only—do you see? Stay, stay, write this. Of disorderly conduct, I am guilty. Of violence, on a poor old man, I am guilty. And there is something else at the bottom of my heart, of which I am guilty too. But that you need not write down. He turns suddenly to the secretary. That's my personal life, gentlemen, that doesn't concern you. The bottom of my heart, that's to say. But of the murder of my old father, I am not guilty. That's a wild idea. It's quite a wild idea. I will prove you that, and you'll be convinced directly. You will laugh, gentlemen. You'll laugh yourselves at your suspicion. Be calmed, Metri Fiodorovitch, said the investigating lawyer, evidently trying to allow Metri's excitement by his own composure. Before we go on with our inquiry, I should like, if you will, consent to answer. To hear you confirm the statement that you disliked your father, Fiodorovitch, that you were involved in continual disputes with him. Here at least, a quarter of an hour ago, you explained that you wanted to kill him. I didn't kill him, you said, but I wanted to kill him. Did I explain that? That may be so, gentlemen, yes, unhappily, I did want to kill him. Many times I wanted to, unhappily, unhappily. You wanted to. Would you consent to explain what motives precisely led you to such a sentiment of hatred for your parent? What is there to explain, gentlemen? Metri shrugged his shoulders sullenly, looking down. I have never concealed my feelings. All the town knows about it. Everyone knows in the tavern. Only lately I declared him a father's ocema's cell. And the very same day, in the evening, I beat my father. I nearly killed him, and I swore I'd come again and killed him. For witnesses. Oh, a thousand witnesses. I've been shouting it aloud. For the last month, anyone can tell you that. The fact stares you in the face. It speaks for itself. It cries aloud. But feelings, gentlemen. Feelings are another matter. You see, gentlemen, meet your frown. It seemed to me that about feelings you've no right to question me. I know that you are bound by your office. I quite understand that. But that's my affair, my private, intimate affair. But, since I haven't concealed my feelings in the past, in the tavern, for instance, I've talked to everyone, so I won't make a secret of it now. You see, I understand, gentlemen, that there are terrible facts against me in this business. I told everyone that I'd kill him, and now, all of a sudden, he's been killed. So it must have been me. I can make allowances for you, gentlemen. I can quite make allowances; I'm struck all over heap myself. For who can have murdered him if not I? That's what it comes to, isn't it? If not I, who can it be? Who? A gentleman I want to know. I insist on knowing, he exclaims suddenly. Where was he wordered? How was he murdered? How, and with what, tell me, he asked quickly, looking at the two lawyers. We found him in his study, lying on his back on the floor with his head battered in, said the prosecutor. 'That's horrible,' meet ya shuddered, and putting his elbows on the table, hit his face in his right hand. We will continue, interposed Nikolai Parfenovich. So what was it that impaled you to this sentiment of hatred? You have asserted in public, I believe, that it was based upon jealousy. 'Well, yes, jealousy. Not only jealousy. Disputes about money? Yes, about money, too.' There was a dispute about three thousand rubles, I think, which you claimed as part of your inheritance. Three thousand? More, more, cried meet ya, hotly. More than six thousand, more than ten, perhaps. I told everyone so, shouted it at them. But I made up my mind to let it go at three thousand. I was desperately in need of that three thousand. So the bundle of notes for three thousand that I knew he kept under his pillow, ready for Gruschenka. I considered a simply stolen for me. Yes, gentlemen, I looked upon it as mine as my own property. The prosecutor looked significantly at the investigating lawyer, and had time to wink at him on the sly. 'We will return to that subject later,' said the lawyer promptly. 'You will allow us to note that point and write it down. Did you look upon that money as your own property?' Write it down, by all means. I know that's another fact that tells against me, but I'm not afraid of facts, and I tell them against myself. Do you hear? Do you know, gentlemen, you take me for a different sort of man from what I am,' he added, suddenly gloomy and dejected. 'You have to deal with a man of honour, a man of the highest honour. Above all, don't lose sight of it, a man who's done a lot of nasty things, but has always been and still is honourable at bottom in his inner being. I don't know how to express it. That's just what made me wretched all my life that I yearned to be honourable, that I was, so to say, a martyr to a sense of honour, seeking for it with a lantern, with a lantern of diogenies, and yet all my life I've been doing filthy things, like all of us, gentlemen.' 'That is like me alone. That was a mistake, like me alone, me alone.' 'Gentlemen, my head aches,' his brows contracted with pain. 'You see, gentlemen, I couldn't bear the look at him. There was something in him ignoble, impudent, trampling on everything sacred, something sneering in irreverent, loathsome, loathsome. But now that he's dead, I feel differently. How do you mean? I don't feel differently, but I wish I hadn't hated him so. You feel penitent? No, not penitent, don't write that, I'm not much good myself, I'm not very beautiful, I had no right to consider him repulsive. That's what I mean. Write that down, if you like.' Saying this, Metia became very mournful. He had grown more and more gloomy as the inquiry continued. At that moment another unexpected scene followed. The Gruschenka had been removed, she had not been taken far away, only into the room next but one from the blue room, in which the examination was proceeding. It was a little room with one window, next beyond the large room in which they had danced and feasted so lavishly. She was sitting there with no one by her but Maximoff, who was terribly depressed, terribly scared, and clung to her side as though for security. At their door stood one of the peasants with a metal plate on his breast. Gruschenka was crying, and suddenly her grief was too much for her. She jumped up, flung up her arms, and with a loud whale of sorrow rushed out of the room to him, to her Metia, and so unexpectedly that they had not time to stop her. Metia, hearing her cry, trembled, jumped up, and with a yell rushed impetuously to meet her, not knowing what he was doing. But they were not allowed to come together, though they saw one another. He was seized by the arms, he struggled, and tried to tear himself away. It took three or four men to hold him. She was seized too, and he saw her stretching out her arms to him, crying aloud as they carried her away. When the scene was over he came to himself again, sitting in the same place as before, opposite the investigating lawyer and crying out to them, "What do you want with her? Why do you torment her? She's done nothing, nothing!" The lawyers tried to soothe him. About ten minutes passed like this. At last Mikhail Makarovich, who had been absent, came hurriedly into the room, and said in a loud and excited voice to the prosecutor, "She's been removed. She's downstairs. Will you allow me to say one word to this unhappy man, gentlemen, in your presence, gentlemen, in your presence?" "By all means, Mikhail Makarovich answered the investigating lawyer. In the present case we have nothing against it." Listen to me to Rifiyodorovich, my dear fellow, began the police captain, and there was a look of warm, almost fatherly feeling for the luckless prisoner on his excited face. I took your agraphena Alexandrovna downstairs myself, and confided her to the care of the landlord's daughters, and that old fellow Maximov is with her all the time. And I soothed her, do you hear? I soothed and calmed her. I impressed on her that you have to clear yourself, so she mustn't hinder you, must not depress you, or you may lose your head and say the wrong thing in your evidence. In fact I talked to her, and she understood. She's a sensible girl, my boy, a good-hearted girl. She would have kissed my old hands, begging help for you. She sent me herself to tell you not to worry about her. And I must go, my dear fellow, I must go and tell her that you are calm and comforted about her, and so you must be calmed, you understand? I was unfair to her. She is a Christian soul, gentlemen, yes, I tell you she's a gentle soul and not to blame for anything. So what am I to tell her to me treat for your daughter, which, would you sit quiet or not? The good-natured police captain said a great deal that was irregular, but Grishenko's suffering, a fellow creature's suffering, touched his good-natured heart, and tears stood in his eyes. Meteor jumped up and rushed towards him, "Forgive me, gentlemen, allow me, allow me," he cried. "You've the heart of an angel, an angel, Mikhail Makarovich, I thank you for her. I will, I will be calm, cheerful, in fact. Tell her in the kindness of your heart that I am cheerful, quite cheerful, that I shall be laughing in a minute, knowing that she has a guardian angel like you. I shall have done with all this directly, and as soon as I am free I'll be with her. She'll see. Let her wait." "Gentlemen," he said, turning to the two lawyers, "now I'll open my whole soul to you. I'll pour out everything. We'll finish this off directly. Finish it off, Gailie! We shall laugh at it in the end, shain't we? The gentleman, that woman, is the queen of my heart, or let me tell you that. That one thing I'll tell you now. I see I'm with honourable men. She is my light. She is my holy one. And if only you knew. Did you hear her cry, I'll go to death with you. And what have I, a penniless beggar, done for her? Why such love for me? How can a clumsy ugly brute like me with my ugly face deserve such love that she is ready to go to exile with me? And how she fell down at your feet for my sake just now? And yet she's proud and has done nothing. How can I help adoring her? How can I help crying out and rushing to her as I did just now? "Gentlemen forgive me. But now, now I am comforted, and he sank back in his chair, and covering his face with his hands burst into tears. But they were happy tears. He recovered himself instantly. The old police captain seemed much pleased, and the lawyers also. They felt that the examination was passing into a new phase. When the police captain went out, Mithya was positively gay. Now, gentlemen, I am at your disposal, entirely at your disposal. And if it were not for all these trivial details, we should understand one another in a minute. I'm at those details again. I'm at your disposal, gentlemen. But I declare that we must have mutual confidence. You win me and I in you, or there'll be no end to it. I speak in your interests. To business, gentlemen. To business, and don't rummage in my soul, don't tease me with trifles, but only ask me about facts and what matters, and I will satisfy you at once, and damn the details. So spoke Mithya. The interrogation began again. End of chapter 3 of book 9. Book 9, chapter 4, the second ordeal. "You don't know how you encourage us, Dimitri Fiedorovich, by your readiness to answer," said Nikolai Parfinoovich with an animated air, "an obvious satisfaction beaming and his very prominent, short-sighted, light-gray eyes, from which he had removed his spectacles a moment before. And you have made a very just remark about the mutual confidence, without which it is sometimes positively impossible to get on in cases of such importance if the suspected party really hopes and desires to defend himself and is in the position to do so. We on our side will do everything in our power, and you can see for yourself how we are conducting the case. To approve Eppelit-Kurlavitch, he turned to the prosecutor. "Oh, undoubtedly," replied the prosecutor, "his tone was somewhat cold compared with Nikolai Parfinoovich's impulsiveness. I will note once for all that Nikolai Parfinoovich, who had but lately arrived among us, had from the first felt marked respect for Eppelit-Kurlavitch, our prosecutor, and had become almost his bosom friend. He was almost the only person who put implicit faith in Eppelit-Kurlavitch's extraordinary talents as a psychologist and orator, and in the justice of his grievance. He had heard of him in Petersburg. On the other hand, young Nikolai Parfinoovich was the only person in the whole world whom our unappreciated prosecutor genuinely liked. On their way to Makro, they had time to come to an understanding about the present case, and now, as they sat at the table, the sharp-witted junior caught and interpreted every indication of his senior colleagues' face—half a word, a glance, or a wink. "Gentlemen, only let me tell my own story, and don't interrupt me with trivial questions, and I'll tell you everything in a moment," said Mitchi excitedly. "Excellent. Thank you. But before we proceed to listen to your communication, will you allow me to inquire as to another little fact of great interest to us?" "I mean, the ten rubles you borrowed yesterday, at about five o'clock, on the security of your pistols, from your friend, Piotre Iliach Perhotin." "I pledge them, gentlemen. I pledge them for ten rubles. What more? That's all about it. As soon as I got back to town, I pledged them." "You got back to town? Then you had been out of town?" "Yes. I went on a journey of four vests into the country. Didn't you know?" The prosecutor and Nikolai Profanovich exchanged glances. "Well, how would it be if you began your story with a systematic description of all you did yesterday, from the morning onwards, allow us, for instance, to inquire why you were absent from the town, and just when you left, and when you came back. All those facts." "You should have asked me like that from the beginning," cried Mitchi, laughing aloud. "And if you like, we won't begin from yesterday, but from the morning of the day before, then you'll understand how, why, and where I went." I went the day before yesterday, gentlemen, to a merchant of the town called Samsonov to borrow three thousand rubles from him on safe security. And it was a pressing matter, gentlemen. It was a sudden necessity, allowing me to interrupt you, the prosecutor put in politely. "Why were you in such pressing need for just that sum, three thousand?" "Oh, gentlemen, you don't need to go into details how, when, and why, and why just so much money, and not so much money, and all that rigmarole. Why, it'll run to three volumes, and then you'll win an epilogue," Mitchi said all this, with "the good-natured, but impatient, familiarity of a man who is anxious to tell the whole truth, and is full of the best intentions." "A gentleman," he corrected himself hurriedly. "Don't be vexed with me for my restiveness; I beg you again; believe me once more; I feel the greatest respect for you, and understand the true position of affairs. Don't think I'm drunk; I'm quite sober now. And besides, being drunk would be of no hindrance. It's with me, you know, like the saying. When he is sober, he is a fool; when he is drunk, he is a wise man. But I see, gentlemen, it's not the proper thing to make jokes to you. So we've had our explanation, I mean, and I've my own dignity to keep up, too. I quite understand the difference, for the moment. I am, after all, in the position of a criminal, and so, far from being on equal terms with you, and it's your business to watch me. I can't expect you to pat me on the head for what I did to Grigori, for one can't break old men's heads with impunity. I suppose you'll put me away for him for six months, or a year perhaps, in a house of correction. I don't know what the punishment is, but it will be, without loss of my rank, won't it? So you see, gentlemen, I understand the distinction between us. But you must see that you could puzzle God Himself with such questions. How did you step? Where did you step? When did you step? And on what did you step? I shall get mixed up, if you go on like this. And you will put it all down against me. And what will that lead to? To nothing. And even if it's nonsense I'm talking now, let me finish. And you, gentlemen, being man of honor and refinement, will forgive me. I'll finish by asking you, gentlemen, to drop that conventional method of questioning. I mean, beginning from some miserable trifle, how I got up, what I had for breakfast, how I spat, and where I spat, and so distracting the attention of the criminal, suddenly stun him with an overwhelming question. Whom did you murder? Whom did you rob? Ha, that's the regulation method, that's where all the cunning comes in. You can put peasants off their guard like that, but not me. I know the tricks. I've been in this service, too. You're not angry, gentlemen, you'll forgive my impertinence. He cried, looking at them, with a good nature that was almost surprising. It's only mitcha karmatsav, you know, so you can overlook it. It would be inexcusable in a sensible man, but you can forgive it in mitcha. Nikolai Parfanoevich listened and laughed, too, though the prosecutor did not laugh. He kept his eyes fixed keenly on mitcha as though anxious not to miss the least syllable, the slightest movement, the smallest twitch of any feature of his face. "That's how we've treated you from the beginning," said Nikolai Parfanoevich, still laughing. I haven't tried to put you out by asking how you got up in the morning and what you had for breakfast. We began, indeed, with questions of the greatest importance. I understand, I saw it and appreciated it, and I appreciate still more your present kindness to me, and unprecedented kindness worthy of your noble hearts. We three here are, gentlemen, and let everything be on the footing of mutual confidence between educated, well-bred people who have the common bond of noble birth and honor. In any case, allow me to look upon you as my best friend at this moment of my life, at this moment when my honor is assailed. "That's no offense to you, gentlemen, is it?" On the contrary, you've expressed all that so well to meet your fieodorovich, Nikolai Parfanoevich answered with dignified approbation. "And enough of those trivial questions, gentlemen, all those tricky questions," cried Mitchia enthusiastically. "Or they're simply no knowing where we shall get to. Is there?" "I will follow your sensible advice entirely," the prosecutor interposed, addressing Mitchia. "I don't withdraw my question, however. It is now of vital importance to us to know exactly why you needed that sum. I mean, precisely, three thousand." "Why, I needed it?" "Oh, for one thing and another. Well, it was to pay a debt—a debt to whom—that I absolutely refuse to answer, gentlemen. And not because I couldn't, or because I shouldn't dare, or because it would be damaging. For it's all a paltry matter, and absolutely trifling, but I won't, because it's a matter of principle. That's my private life, and I won't allow any intrusion into my private life. That's my principle. Your question has no bearing on the case, and whatever has nothing to do with the case is my private affair. I wanted to pay a debt—I wanted to pay a debt of honor—but to whom—I won't say. Allow me to make a note of that," said the prosecutor. "By all means, write down that I won't say, that I won't write, that I should think it dishonorable to say. You can write it—even nothing else to do with your time. Allow me to caution you, sir, and to remind you once more, if you are unaware of it," the prosecutor began, with a peculiar and stern impressiveness, "that you have a perfect right not to answer the questions put to you now. And we on our side have no right to extort any answer from you if you decline to give it for one reason or another. That is entirely a matter of your personal decision. But it is our duty, on the other hand, in such cases as the present, to explain and set before you the degree of injury you will be doing to yourself by refusing to give this or that piece of evidence, after which I will beg you to continue. Gentlemen, I am not angry. I micha muttered in a rather disconcerted tone. "Well, gentlemen, you see, that Samson off to whom I went then. We will, of course, not reproduce his account of what is known to the reader already. Micha was impatiently anxious not to emit this slightest detail. At the same time he was in a hurry to get it over. But as he gave his evidence, it was written down, and therefore they had continually to pull him up. Micha disliked this, but submitted, got angry, though still good-humoredly. He did, it is true, exclaim from time to time, "Gentlemen, that is enough to make an angel out of patience." Or, "Gentlemen, it is no good you are irritating me." But even though he exclaimed, he still preserved for a time his genial, expansive mood. So he told them how Samson off had made a fool of him two days before. He had completely realized by now that he had been fooled. The sale of his watch for six rubles to obtain money for the journey was something new to the lawyers. They were at once greatly interested and even to Micha's intense indignation thought it necessary to write the fact down as a secondary confirmation of the circumstance that he had hardly a farthing in his pocket at the time. Little by little Micha began to grow surly. Then after describing his journey to see legave, the night spent in the stifling hut and so on, he came to his return to the town. Here he began, without being particularly urged, to give a minute account of the agonies of jealousy he endured on Grushenko's account. He was heard with silent attention. They inquired particularly into the circumstance of his having a place of ambush in Maria-Kondratayevna's house at the back of Feudor Pelovnavitch's garden to keep watch on Grushenko and of Smirjikov's bringing him information. They laid particular stress on this and noted it down. Of his jealousy he spoke warmly and at length, and though inwardly ashamed at exposing his most intimate feelings to public ignominy, so to speak, he evidently overcame his shame in order to tell the truth. The frigid severity with which the investigating lawyer, and still more, the prosecutor, stared intently at him as he told his story, disconcerted him, at last, considerably. That boy, Nikolay Parfenovitch, to whom I was talking nonsense about women only a few days ago, and that sickly prosecutor are not worth my telling this to, he reflected mournfully. It's ignominious. Be patient, humble, hold thy peace. He wound up his reflections with that line, but he pulled himself together to go on again again. When he came to telling of his visit to Madame Holakov, he regained his spirits and even wished to tell a little anecdote of that lady which had nothing to do with the case. But the investigating lawyer stopped him and civilly suggested that he should pass on to more essential matters. At last, when he described his despair and told them how, when he left Madame Holakov, he thought that he'd get three thousand if he had to murder someone to do it. They stopped him again and noted down that he had "ammit to murder someone." Micha let them write it without protest. At last, he reached the point in his story when he learned that Grushenko had deceived him and had returned from Samsonovs as soon as he left her there, though she had said that she would stay there till midnight. If I didn't kill Fenya then, gentlemen, it was only because I hadn't time broke from him suddenly at that point in his story. That too was carefully written down. Micha waited gloomily and was beginning to tell how he ran into his father's garden when the investigating lawyer suddenly stopped him and, opening the big portfolio that lay on the sofa beside him, he brought out the brass pestle. "Do you recognize this object?" he asked, showing it to Micha. "Oh, yes," he laughed gloomily. "Of course I recognize it. Let me have a look at it. Damn it, never mind. You have forgotten to mention it," observed the investigating lawyer. "Hang it all, I shouldn't have concealed it from you. Do you suppose I could have managed without it? It simply escaped my memory." "Be so good as to tell us precisely how you came to arm yourself with it? Certainly I will be so good, gentlemen." And Micha described how he took the pestle and ran, "But what object had you in view in arming yourself with such a weapon? What object? No object. I just picked it up and ran off. What for if you had no object?" Micha's wrath flared up. He looked intently at the boy and smiled gloomily and malignantly. He was feeling more and more ashamed at having told such people. The story of his jealousy so sincerely and spontaneously. "Bother the pestle," broke from him suddenly. "But still, oh, to keep off dogs, oh, because it was dark, in case of anything turned up. But have you ever, on previous occasions, taken a weapon with you when you went out, since you're afraid of the dark?" "Oh, damn it, all, gentlemen. There's positively no talking to you," cried Micha, exasperated beyond endurance. And turning to the secretary, crimson with anger, he said quickly, with a note of fury in his voice, right down at once, at once, that I snatched up the pestle to go and kill my father, Fyodor Pavlovitch. They're hitting him on the head with it. "Well, now are you satisfied, gentlemen? Are your minds relieved?" he said, glaring defiantly at the lawyers. "We quite understand that you made that statement just now, through exasperation with us, and the questions we put to you. Would you consider Trivio, though they are, in fact, essential, the prosecutor remarked, dryly, and reply?" "Well, upon my word, gentlemen, I took the pestle. What does one pick things up for in such moments? I don't know what for. I snatched it up and ran. That's all. For to me, gentlemen, pestle, or I declare I won't tell you any more." He sat with his elbows on the table and his head in his hand. He sat sideways to them, and gazed at the wall, struggling against a feeling of nausea. He had, in fact, an awful inclination to get up, and declare that he wouldn't say another word, not if you hang me for it. You see, gentlemen," he said at last, "with difficulty controlling himself. You see, I listen to you, and am haunted by a dream. It's a dream I have sometimes, you know. I often dream it. It's always the same, that someone is hunting me, someone I am awfully afraid of, that he's hunting me in the dark, in the night, tracking me, and I hide somewhere from him, behind a door or a cupboard, hide in a degrading way. And the worst of it is, he always knows where I am, but he pretends not to know where I am, on purpose, to prolong my agony, to enjoy my terror. That's just what you are doing now. It's just like that. Is that the sort of thing you dream about?" inquired the prosecutor. "Yes it is. Don't you want to write it down?" said Mitcha, with a distorted smile. "No, no need to write it down. But still, you do have curious dreams." "It's not a question of dreams now, gentlemen. This is realism. This is real life. I am a wolf, and you are the hunters." "Well, hunt him down. You are wrong to make such comparisons," began Nikolai Preffinovich, with extraordinary softness. "No, I am not wrong at all," Mitcha flared up again. Although his outburst of wrath had obviously relieved his heart. He grew more good-humoured at every word. You may not trust a criminal or a man on trial tortured by your questions, but an honorable man, the honorable impulses of the heart. I say that boldly. No, that you must believe you have no right, indeed. But be silent heart, be patient, humble, hold thy peace. "Well, shall I go on?" he broke off gloomily. "If you'll be so kind," answered Nikolai Preffinovich. End of chapter 4 of book 9. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. Hey, it's Ryan Seacrest. Life comes at you fast, which is why it's important to find some time to relax a little you time. Enter Chumba Casino with no download required. You can jump on anytime, anywhere for the chance to redeem some serious prizes. So treat yourself with Chumba Casino and play over 100 online casino style games all for free. Go to ChumbaCocino.com to collect your free welcome bonus. Sponsored by Chumba Casino, no purchase necessary, VGW Group, void where prohibited by law, 18 plus terms and conditions apply. Though Metia spoke sullenly, it was evident that he was trying more than ever not to forget or miss a single detail of his story. He told them how he had leapt over the fence into his father's garden, how he had gone up to the window, told them all that had passed under the window. Clearly, precisely, distinctly, he described the feelings that troubled him during those moments in the garden, when he longed so terribly to know whether Grushanka was with his father or not. But strange to say, both the lawyers listened now with a sort of awful reserve, looked coldly at him, asked few questions. Metia could gather nothing from their faces. They were angry and defended, he thought, "Well, bother them." When he described how he made up his mind at last to make the signal to his father that the Grushanka had come so that he should open the window, the lawyers paid no attention to the word "signal," as though they had entirely failed to grasp the meaning of the word in this connection. So much so that Metia noticed it. Looking at last of the moment when seeing his father peering out of the window, his hatred flared up, and he pulled the pestle out of his pocket. He suddenly, as though of design, stopped short. He sat gazing at the wall and was aware that their eyes were fixed upon him. "Well," said the investigating lawyer, "you pulled out the weapon, and what happened then?" "Then, why, when I murdered him, hit him on the head and cracked his skull. I suppose that's your story, that's it," his eyes suddenly flashed. All his smothered wrath suddenly flamed up with extraordinary violence in his soul. Our story, repeated Nikolai Parfenovich, Metia dropped his eyes and was a long time silent. My story, gentlemen, well, it was like this. He began softly. Whether it was someone's tears or my mother prayed to God or a good angel kissed me at that instant, I don't know, but the devil was conquered. I rushed from the window and ran to the fence. My father was alarmed, and for the first time he saw me then, cried out and sprang back from the window. I remember that very well, I ran across the garden to the fence, and their gregory caught me when I was sitting on the fence. At that point he raised his eyes at last and looked at his listeners. They seemed to be staring at him with perfectly unruffled attention, a sort of paroxysm of indignation seized on Metia's soul. "Well, you're laughing at me at this moment, gentlemen," he broke off suddenly. "What makes you think that?" observed Nikolai Parafenovich. "You don't believe one word, that's why. I understand, of course, that I've come to the vital point. The old man's lying there now with his skull broken, while I, after dramatically describing how I wanted to kill him and how I snatched up the pestle, I suddenly run away from the window. A remandence, poetry, as though one could believe a fellow on his word. Ah-ha, you are scoffers, gentlemen." And he swung round on his chair so that it creaked. "And did you notice," asked the prosecutor, suddenly as though not observing Metia's excitement, "did you notice when you ran away from the window, whether the door into the garden was open?" "No, it was not open. It was not. It was shut. But who could open it?" "Ah, the door. Wait a bit," he seemed suddenly to be think himself, "and almost with the start. Why did you find the door open?" "Yes, it was open." "Why, who could have opened it if you did not open it to yourselves?" cried Metia, greatly astonished. The door stood open, and your father's murderer undoubtedly went in at that door, and having accomplished the crime went out again by the same door. The prosecutor pronounced deliberately as though chiseling out each word separately. That is perfectly clear. The murder was committed in the room and not through the window. At it absolutely certain from the examination that has been made, from the position of the body and everything, there can be no doubt of that circumstance. Metia was absolutely dumbfounded. But that's utterly impossible," he cried, completely at a loss. "I didn't go in. I tell you positively, definitely the door was shut the whole time I was in the garden, and when I ran out of the garden, I only stood at the window and saw him through the window. That's all. That's all." "I remember to the last minute, and if I didn't remember, it would be just the same. I know it, for no one knew the signals except Smurtyarkov and me, and the dead man. And he wouldn't have opened the door to anyone in the world without the signals." "Signals? What signals?" asked the prosecutor with greedy, almost hysterical curiosity. He instantly lost all trace of his reserve and dignity. He asked the question with a sort of cringing timidity. He sent it an important fact of which he had known nothing, and was already filled with dread that Metia might be unwilling to disclose it. "So, you didn't know," Metia winked at him with a malicious and mocking smile, "what if I won't tell you? From whom could you find out? No one knew about the signals except my father, Smurtyarkov and me, that was all. Heaven knew too, but it won't tell you. But it's an interesting fact, there's no knowing what you might build on it. Ha ha! Take comfort, gentlemen, I'll reveal it. You've some foolish idea in your hearts. You don't know the man you have to deal with. You have to do with the prisoner who gives evidence against himself to his own damage. "Yes, for I am a man of honor, and you are not." The prosecutor swallowed this without a murmur. He was trembling with impatience to hear the new fact. Manutely and diffusely, Metia told them everything about the signals invented by Fjordor Pavlovich for Smurtyarkov. He told them exactly what every tap on the window meant, tap the signals on the table, and when Nikolai Parfenevich said that he supposed he, Metia, had tapped the signal, "Groushanka has come," when he tapped to his father, he answered precisely that he had tapped that signal that Groushanka had come. So now you can build up your tower, Metia broke off and again turned away from them contemptuously. So no one knew of the signals but your dead father, you and the valet Smurtyarkov, and no one else, Nikolai Parfenevich inquired once more. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands. Like our new brand, Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. Step into the world of power, loyalty, and luck. I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse. With family, canollies, and spins mean everything. Now, you wanna get mixed up in the family business. Introducing the Godfather at ChampaCasino.com, test your luck in the shadowy world of the Godfather slots. Someday, I will call upon you to do a service for me. Play the Godfather. Now at ChampaCasino.com, welcome to the family. No purchase necessary. VTW Group. Boy, we're prohibited by law. Eighteen plus. Terms and conditions apply. Yes. The Valley, Spiritiaakov, and Heaven. Write down about Heaven. That may be of use. Besides, you will need God yourselves. And they had already, of course, begun writing it down. But while they wrote, the prosecutor said suddenly, as though pitching on a new idea. But if Mr. Jyakov also knew of these signals, and you absolutely deny all responsibility for the death of your father, was it not he perhaps who knocked the signal agreed upon, induced your father to open to him, and then committed the crime? Mica turned upon him a look of profound irony and intense hatred. His silent stare lasted so long that it made the prosecutor blink. You've caught the fox again, commented Mica at last. You've got the beast by the tail. Ha ha! I see through you, Mr. Prosecutor. You thought, of course, that I should jump at that, catch at your prompting, and shout with all my might. Aye, it's Spiritiaakov, he is the murderer. Confess that that's what you thought. Confess, and I'll go on. But the prosecutor did not confess. He held his tongue and waited. Your mistake? And I'm not going to shout. It's Mr. Jyakov said, Mica, and you don't even suspect him. Why do you suspect him? He is suspected, too. Mica fixed his eyes on the floor. Joking apart, he brought out gloomily. Listen. From the very beginning, almost from the moment when I ran out to you from behind the curtain, I've had the thought of Mr. Jyakov in my mind. I've been sitting here, shouting that I'm innocent, and thinking all the time, "Smerdieakov." I can't get "Smerdieakov" out of my head. In fact, I, too, thought of "Smerdieakov" just now, but only for a second. Almost at once, I thought, "No, it's not Smerdieakov, it's not his doing, gentlemen." In that case, is there anybody else you suspect, Nikolai Parfenovich inquired cautiously? I don't know anyone it could be, whether it's the hand of heaven or of Satan, but not Smerdieakov, Mica jerked out for the decision. But what makes you affirmed so confidently and emphatically that it's not he? From my conviction, my impression, because Smerdieakov is a man of the most abject character and a coward, he's not a coward, he's the epitome of all the cowardice in the world walking on two legs. He has the heart of a chicken. When he talked to me, he was always trembling for fear I should kill him, though I never raised my hand against him. He fell at my feet and blubbered. He has kissed these very boots, literally, beseeching me not to frighten him. Do you hear not to frighten him? What a thing to say! Why, I offered him money, he's a peeling chicken, sickly, epileptic, weak-minded, a child of eight could thrash him. He has no character worth talking about, it's not Smerdieakov, gentlemen, he doesn't care for money, he wouldn't take my presence. Besides what motive had he for murdering the old man, why he's very likely his son, you know, his natural son, do you know that? We have heard that legend, but you are your father's son, too, you know, yet you yourself told everyone you meant to murder him. That's a thrust and a nasty mean one, too. I'm not afraid. Oh, gentlemen, isn't it too base of you to say that to my face? It's base, because I told you that myself I not only wanted to murder him, but I might have done it, and once more I went out of my way to tell you of my own accord that I nearly murdered him, but you see, I didn't murder him. You see, my guardian angel saved me, that's what you've not taken into account, and that's why it's so base of you, for if I didn't kill him, I didn't kill him. Do you hear I did not kill him? He was almost choking. He had not been so moved before during the whole interrogation. And what has he told you, gentlemen, smart Jacob, I mean? He asked suddenly after a cause. May I ask that question? You may ask any question, the prosecutor replied with frigid severity, any question relating to the facts of the case, and we are, I repeat, bound to answer every inquiry you make. We found the servants, Smart Jacob, concerning whom you inquire, lying unconscious in his bed in an epileptic fit of extreme severity that had recurred possibly 10 times. The doctor who was with us told us after seeing him that he may possibly not outlive the night. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Stop prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. Hey guys, it is Ryan, I'm not sure if you know this about me, but I'm a bit of a fun fanatic when I can. I like to work, but I like fun too. And now, I can tell you about my favorite place to have fun. Shumbah Casino. They have hundreds of social casino style games to choose from, with new games released each week. You can play for free, and each day brings a new chance to collect daily bonuses. So join me in the fun. Sign up now at chumbahcassino.com. Sponsored by Shumbah Casino, no purchase necessary. VGW Group. Voidware prohibited by law. 18 plus terms and conditions apply. Well, if that's so, the devil must have killed him. Broke suddenly from Mecia, as though until that moment he had been asking himself, "Was it Smerejakov or not?" We will come back to this later, Nikolai Parfenevich decided, "Now, wouldn't you like to continue your statement?" Mecia asked for a rest, as request was courteously granted. After resting, he went on with his story, but he was evidently depressed. And he was exhausted, mortified, and morally shaken. To make things worse, the prosecutor exasperated him, as though intentionally by vexatious interruptions about trifling points. Scecely had Mecia described how, sitting on the wall, he had struck Gregori on the head with the pestle, while the old man had hold of his left leg, and how he then jumped down to look at him, when the prosecutor stopped him to ask him to describe exactly how he was sitting on the wall. "I was sitting like this, a stride, one leg on one side of the wall and one on the other, and the pestle. The pestle was in my hand, not in your pocket. Do you remember that precisely? Was it a violent blow you gave him? It must have been a violent one, but why do you ask? Would you mind sitting on the chair, just as you sat on the wall then, and showing us just how you moved your arm, and in what direction? "You're making fun of me, aren't you?" asked Mecia, looking haughtily at the speaker. But the latter did not flinch. Mecia turned abruptly, sat astried on his chair, and swung his arm. This was how I struck him. That's how I knocked him down. What more do you want?" "Thank you. May I trouble you now to explain why you jumped down with what object and what you had in view?" "Oh, hang it. I jumped down to look at the man I'd hurt. I don't know what for." "So you were so excited and were running away?" "Yes, though I was excited and running away. You wanted to help him. Help. Yes, perhaps I did want to help him. I don't remember. You don't remember. And you didn't quite know what you were doing. Not at all. I remember everything. Every detail. I jumped down to look at him and wiped his face with my handkerchief. We have seen your handkerchief. Did you hope to restore him to consciousness? I don't know whether I hoped it. I simply wanted to make sure whether he was alive or not. "Ah, you wanted to be sure. Well, what then?" "I'm not a doctor. I couldn't decide." I ran away thinking I'd killed him, and now he's recovered. "Excellent," commented the prosecutor. "Thank you. That's all I wanted. Kindly proceed." Alas, it never entered Nietzsche's head to tell them, though he remembered it, that he had jumped back from pity and standing over the prostrate figure and even uttered some words of regret. "You've come to grief, old man. There's no help for it. Well, there you must lie." The prosecutor could only draw one conclusion that the man had jumped back at such a moment and in such excitement simply with the object of ascertaining whether the only witness of his crime were dead, that he must therefore have been a man of great strength, coolness, decision, and foresight even at such a moment, and so on. The prosecutor was satisfied. "I've provoked the nervous fellow by trifles, and he has said more than he meant. With painful effort, Nietzsche went on. But this time he was pulled up immediately by Nikolai Parfenovitch. How came you to run to the servant, Fedocia Markovna, with your hands so covered with blood, and as it appears your face, too?" "Why, I didn't notice the blood at all at the time," answered Nietzsche. "That's quite likely it does happen sometimes," the prosecutor exchanged glances with Nikolai Parfenovitch. "I simply didn't notice. You're right there, prosecutor," Nietzsche ascended suddenly. Next came the account of Nietzsche's sudden determination to step aside and make way for their happiness. But he could not make up his mind to open his heart to them as before and tell them about the queen of his soul. He disliked speaking of her before these chilly persons who were fastening on him like bugs. And so in response to their reiterated questions, he answered briefly and abruptly, "Well, I made up my mind to kill myself. What did I left to live for?" That question stared me in the face. Her first rightful lover had come back, the man who had wronged her, but who'd hurried back to offer his love after five years, and atone for the wrong with marriage. So I knew it was all over for me. And behind me, disgrace, and that blood, gregories, what did I to live for? So I went to redeem the pistols I had pledged to load them and put a bullet in my brain tomorrow. And a grand feast the night before. "Yes, a grand feast the night before. Down it all, gentlemen, do make haste and finish it. I meant to shoot myself, not far from here and beyond the village, and I'd planned to do it at five o'clock in the morning. And I had a note in my pocket already. I wrote it at pecottins when I loaded my pistols. Here's the letter. Read it." "It's not for you, I tell it," he added contemptuously. He took it from his wesker's pocket and flung it on the table. The lawyers read it with curiosity, and as his usual added it to the papers connected with the case. And you didn't even think of washing your hands at pecottins. You were not afraid then of arousing suspicion. "Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Stop prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites." Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. I'm Victoria Cash, and I want to invite you to a place called Lucky Land, where you can play over a hundred social casino style games for free for your chance to redeem some serious prizes. So what are you waiting for? The best way to discover your luck is to spin. So go to luckylandslots.com, that's luckylandslots.com, and get lucky today. What's suspicion? Suspicion or not, I should have galloped there just the same and shot myself at five o'clock. And you wouldn't have been in time to do anything. If it hadn't been for what's happened to my father, you would have known nothing about it and wouldn't have come here. God, it's the devil's doing. It was the devil murdered father. It was through the devil that you've found it out so soon. How did you manage to get here so quick? It's marvellous, a dream. Mr. Perhotin informed us that when you came to him, you held in your hands, your blood stained hands, your money, a lot of money, a bundle of hundred ruble notes, and that his servant boy saw it too. That's true, gentlemen, and I remember it was so. Now, there's one little point presents itself. When you inform us, Nikolai Parafenovich began with extreme gentleness. Where did you get so much money all of a sudden when it appears from the facts, from the reckoning of time, that you had not been home? The prosecutor's brows contracted at the question being asked so plainly, but he did not interrupt Nikolai Parafenovich. "No, I didn't go home," answered Meteor, apparently perfectly composed, but looking at the floor. "Alame then to repeat my question," Nikolai Parafenovich went on, as though creeping up to the subject, "where were you able to procure such a sum all at once when, by your own confession, at five o'clock the same day you?" I was in one of ten rubles and pledged my pistols with Perhotin, and then went to Madam Hochlarkov to borrow three thousand, which she wouldn't give me and so on and all the rest of it. Meteor interrupted sharply. "Yes, gentlemen, I was in one of it, and suddenly thousands turned up there. Do you know, gentlemen, you're both afraid now, what if he won't tell us where he got it? That's just how it is. I am not going to tell you, gentlemen. You've guessed right. You'll never know," said Meteor, chipping out each word with extraordinary determination. The lawyers were silent for a moment. "You must understand, Mr. Karamazov, that it is of vital importance for us to know," said Nikolai Parafenovich, softly and swavely. "I understand, but I still won't tell you." The prosecutor too intervened, and again reminded the prisoner that he was at liberty to refuse to answer questions, if he thought it to his interest, and so on. But in view of the damage he might do himself by his silence, especially in the case of such importances, and so on, gentlemen, and so on, enough I've heard that rigmarole before. Meteor interrupted again. I can see for myself how important it is, and that this is the vital point, and still I won't say. What is it to us? It's not our business, but it's yours. You are doing yourself harm," observed Nikolai Parafenovich nervously. "You see, gentlemen, joking apart," Meteor lifted his eyes and looked firmly at them both. "I had an inkling from the first that we should come to loggerheads at this point. But at first, when I began to give my evidence, it was all still far away and misty. It was all floating, and I was so simple that I began with the supposition of mutual confidence existing between us. Now I can see for myself that such confidence is out of the question; for in any case we were bound to come to this cursed, stumbling block, and now we've come to it. It's impossible, and there's an end of it. But I don't blame you. You can't believe it all simply on my word. I understand that, of course." He relapsed into gloomy silence. "Couldn't you, without abandoning your resolution, to be silent about the chief point, could you not at the same time give us some slight hint as to the nature of the motives which are strong enough to induce you to refuse to answer at a crisis so full of danger to you?" Meteor smiled mournfully, almost dreamily. "I'm much more good-natured than you think, gentlemen. I'll tell you the reason why, and give you that hint, though you don't deserve it. I won't speak of that, gentlemen, because it would be a stain on my honour. The answer to the question where I got the money would expose me to far greater disgrace than the murder and robbing of my father, if I had murdered and robbed him. That's why I can't tell you. I can't, for fear of disgrace. What, gentlemen, are you going to write that down?" "Yes, we'll write it down," lisped Nikolai Parafenovich. "You ought not to write that down about disgrace. I only told you that in the goodness of my heart, I needn't have told you. I made you a present of it, so to speak, and you pounce upon it at once." "Oh, well, write what you like," he concluded with scornful disgust. "I'm not afraid of you, and I can still hold up my head before you." Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favourites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon Brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a Plenty, and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. Hello, it is Ryan, and we could all use an extra bright spot in our day, couldn't we? Just to make up for things like sitting in traffic, doing the dishes, counting your steps, you know, all the mundane stuff, that is why I'm such a big fan of Chumba Casino. Chumba Casino has all your favourite social casino style games that you can play for free anytime, anywhere, with daily bonuses. So sign up now at Chumba Casino.com. Sponsored by Chumba Casino? No purchase necessary. V-G-W Group, void word prohibited by law. 18-plus terms and conditions apply. And can't you tell us the nature of that disgrace? Nikolai Parfenevich has ited? The prosecutor frowned darkly. No, no, Sefini. Don't trouble yourselves. It's not worthwhile soiling one's hands. I have sold enough, even through you, as it is. You're not worth it. No one is. You're not. Enough, gentlemen. I'm not going on. This was said too, perempturally. Nikolai Parfenevich did not insist further, but for me, Polite Kirilovich's eyes, he saw that he had not given up hope. Can you not at least tell us what some you had in your hands when you went into Mr. Perhotins? How many rubles, exactly? I can't tell you that. You spoke to Mr. Perhotin, I believe, of having received 3,000 from Madam Hochlarkov? Perhaps I did. Enough, gentlemen. I won't say how much I had. Will you be so good, then, as to tell us how you came here and what you have done since you arrived? Oh, you might ask the people here about that, but I'll tell you if you like. He proceeded to do so, but we won't repeat his story. He told it drily and curtly. Of the raptures of his love, he said nothing, but told them that he abandoned his determination to shoot himself owing to new factors in the case. He told the story without going into motives or details, and this time the lawyers did not worry him much. It was obvious that there was no essential point of interest to them here. We shall verify all that. We will come back to it during the examination of the witnesses, which will, of course, take place in your presence," said Nikolai Parafenovitch, in conclusion. And now allow me to request you to lay on the table everything in your possession, especially all the money you still have about you. My money, gentlemen, certainly, I understand that that is necessary. I'm surprised, indeed, that you haven't inquired about it before. That's true, I couldn't get away anywhere. I'm sitting here where I can be seen. But here's my money. Count it. Take it. That's all I think. He turned it all out of his pockets, even the small change to pieces of 20 copacs. He pulled out of his waistcoat pocket. They counted the money, which amounted to 836 rubles and 40 copacs. It is that all, as the investigating lawyer. You stated just now in your evidence that you spent 300 rubles at Plutnikovs. You gave Parhot in 10, your driver 20. Here, you lost 200, then Nikolai Parafenovitch reckoned it all up. Meet your helped him readily. They recollected every farthing and included it in the reckoning. Nikolai Parafenovitch hurriedly added up the total. With this 800, you must have had about 1500 at first. I suppose so. Snapped to meet you. How is it they all assert there was much more. Let them assert it, but you asserted it yourself. Yes, I did too. We will compare all this with the evidence of other persons not yet examined. Don't be anxious about your money. It will be properly taken care of, and be at your disposal at the conclusion of what is beginning. If it appears, or so to speak, it's proved that you have undisputed right to it. Well, and now, Nikolai Parafenovitch suddenly got up and informed meet your firmly that it was his duty and obligation to conduct a minute and thorough search of your clothes and everything else. By all means, gentlemen, I'll turn out all my pockets, if you like. And he did, in fact, begin turning out his pockets. It will be necessary to take off your clothes, too. What? Undress. Oh, damn it. Won't you search me as I am, can't you? It's utterly impossible to meet you, Pyodorovitch. You must take off your clothes. As you like, meet your submitted gloomily, only please not hear, but behind the curtains. Who will search them? Behind the curtains, of course. Nikolai Parafenovitch bent his head in ascent. His small face wore an expression of peculiar solemnity. End of chapter 5 of book 9. Book 9, chapter 6, the prosecutor catches Mitja. Something utterly unexpected and amazing to Mitja followed. He could never, even a minute before, have conceived that anyone could behave like that to him, Mitja Karmatsov. What was worst of all, there was something humiliating in it, and on their side, something super-soious and scornful. It was nothing to take off his coat, but he was asked to undress further, or rather, not asked, but commanded; he quite understood that. From pride and contempt, he submitted without a word. Several peasants accompanied the lawyers and remained on the same side of the curtain. To be ready, if force is required, thought Mitja, and perhaps, for some other reason, too. "Well, must I take off my shirt, too?" he asked shortly, but Nikolai Parafenovitch did not answer. He was busily engaged with the prosecutor in examining the coat, the trousers, the waistcoat, and the cap, and it was evident that they were both much interested in the scrutiny. "They make no bones about it," thought Mitja. "They don't keep up the most elementary politeness." "I ask you for the second time, need I take off my shirt, or not?" he said, still more sharply and irritably. "Don't trouble yourself. We will tell you what to do," Nikolai Parafenovitch said, and his voice was positively peremptory, or so it seemed to Mitja. Meantime, a consultation was going on in the undertones between the lawyers. There turned out to be on the coat, especially on the left side at the back, a huge patch of blood, dry and still stiff. There were blood stains on the trousers, too. Nikolai Parafenovitch, moreover, in the presence of the peasant witnesses, passed his fingers along the collar, the cuffs, and all the seams of the coat and trousers, obviously looking for something—money, of course. He didn't even hide from Mitja his suspicion that he was capable of sowing money up in his clothes. He treats me not as an officer, but as a thief Mitja muttered to himself. They communicated their ideas to one another with amazing frankness. The secretary, for instance, who was also behind the curtain fussing about and listening, called Nikolai Parafenovitch's attention to the cap, which they were also fingering. "You remember Gradyenko, the copying clerk, observed the secretary? Last summer he received the wages of the whole office, and pretended to have lost the money when he was drunk. Where was it found? Why just such pipings in his cap, the hundred ruble notes were screwed up in whittle rolls and sowed in the piping. Both the lawyers remembered Gradyenko's case perfectly, and so laid aside Mitja's cap, and decided that all his clothes must be more thoroughly examined later. "Excuse me," cried Nikolai Parafenovitch, suddenly noticing that the right cuff of Mitja's shirt was turned in and covered with blood. "Excuse me, what's that? Blood? Yes," Mitja jerked out, "that is, what blood. And why is the cuff turned in?" Mitja told him how he had got the sleeve stained with blood, looking after Gagori, and had turned it inside when he was washing his hands at Perhotence. "You must take off your shirt, too. That's very important as material evidence." Mitja flushed red and flew into a rage. "What? Am I to stay naked?" He shouted. "Don't disturb yourself. We will arrange something. And meanwhile, take off your socks. You're not joking. Is that really necessary?" Mitja's eyes flashed. "We're in no mood for joking," entered Nikolai Parafenovitch sternly. "Well, if I must," muttered Mitja, and sitting down on the bed, he took off his socks. He felt unbearably awkward. All were clothed while he was naked and strange to say, when he was undressed he felt somehow guilty in their presence, and was almost ready to believe himself that he was inferior to them, and that now they had a perfect right to despise him. When all are undressed, one is somehow not ashamed. But when one's the only one undressed and everyone is looking, it's degrading. He kept repeating to himself again and again. It's like a dream, I've somehow dreamed of being in such degrading positions. It was a misery to him to take off his socks. They were very dirty, and so were his underclothes, and now everybody could see it. And what was worse, he disliked his feet. All his life he had thought both his big toes hideous. He particularly loathed his coarse, flat, crooked nail on the right one, and now they would all see it. Feeling and tolerably ashamed made him at once and intentionally rougher, he pulled off his shirt himself. "Would you like to look anywhere else if you're not ashamed to?" "No, there's no need to," at present. "Well, am I to stay naked like this?" he added savagely. "Yes, that can't be helped for the time. Kindly sit down here for a while. You can wrap yourself in a quilt from the bed, and I'll see to all this." All the things were shown to the witnesses. The report of the search were drawn up, and at last Nikolai Parfanoevich went out, and the clothes were carried out after him. A bullet Karelovich went out, too. Mitea was left alone with the peasants, who stood in silence, never taking their eyes off him. Mitea wrapped himself up in the quilt. He felt cold. His bare feet stuck out, and he couldn't pull the quilt over so as to cover them. Nikolai Parfanoevich seemed to be gone a long time, an insufferable time. He thinks of me as a puppy, thought Mitea gnashing his teeth. That rotten prosecutor has gone to, contemptuous no doubt, it disgusts him to see me naked. Mitea imagined, however, that his clothes would be examined and returned to him. But what was his indignation, when Nikolai Parfanoevich came back with quite different clothes, brought in behind him by a peasant. Here are clothes for you, he observed airingly, seemingly well-satisfied with the success of his mission. Mr. Kaganov has kindly provided these for this unusual emergency, as well as a clean shirt. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon Saver, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. You slept through your alarm, missed the train, and your breakfast sandwich. Cool. Sounds like you could use some luck. I'm Victoria Cash, and Luckyland is where people go every day to get lucky. At Luckyland, you can play over a hundred casino-style games for free for your chance to redeem some serious prizes. Go to Luckylandslots.com and get lucky today. Luckily, he had them all in his trunk. You can keep your own socks and underclothes. Mitt ya flew into a passion. "I won't have other people's clothes," he shouted menacingly. "Give me my own. It's impossible. Give me my own damn Kalganov and his clothes, too." It was a long time before they could persuade him, but they succeeded somehow in quieting him down. They impressed upon him that his clothes, being stained with blood, must be included with the other material evidence. And that they had not even the right to let him have them now, taking into consideration the possible outcome of the case. Mitt ya at last understood this. He subsided into gloomy silence and hurriedly dressed himself. He merely observed, as he put them on, that the clothes were much better than his old ones, and that he disliked gaining by the change. The coat was, besides, ridiculously narrow, and might it be dressed up like a fool for your amusement? They urged upon him again that he was exaggerating, that Kalganov was only a little taller, so that only the trousers might be a little too long. But the coat turned out to be really tight in the shoulders. "Damn it all. I can hardly button it," Mitt ya grumbled. "Be so good as to tell Mr. Kalganov from me that I didn't ask for his clothes, and it's not my doing that they've dressed me up like a clown." He quite understands that, and is sorry. I mean, not sorry to lend you his clothes. But sorry about all this business, mumbled Nikolai Parfanoevich. Confound his sorrow. "Well, where now, or am I to go on sitting here?" He was asked to go back to the other room. Mitt ya went in, scowling with anger, and trying to avoid looking at anyone. Dressed in another man's clothes, he felt himself disgraced, even in the eyes of the peasants, and of Trifun Borosovich, whose face appeared for some reason in the doorway, and vanished immediately. "He's come to look at me dressed up," thought Mitt ya. He sat down on the same chair as before. He had an absurd nightmare's feeling as though he were out of his mind. "Well, what now? Are you going to flog me?" "That's all that's left for you," he said, clenching his teeth, and addressing the prosecutor. He would not turn to Nikolai Parfanoevich as though he'd disdain to speak to him. He looked too closely at my socks, and turned the mint sound out on purpose to show everyone how dirty they were to scoundrel. "Well, now we must proceed to the examination of witnesses," observed Nikolai Parfanoevich, as though he replied to Mitch's question. "Yes," said the prosecutor thoughtfully, as though reflecting on something. "We've done what we could in your interest, me tree-feuduroevich," Nikolai Parfanoevich went on. But having received from you such an uncompromising refusal to explain to us the source from which you obtained the money found upon you, we are, at the present moment, "What is the stone in your ring?" Mitchie interrupted, suddenly as though awakening from a reverie, pointed to one of the three rings adorning Nikolai Parfanoevich's right hand. "Ring?" Repeated Nikolai Parfanoevich, with surprise. "Yes, that one, on your middle finger, with the little veins in it. What stone is that?" Mitchie persisted, like a peevish child. "That's a smoky toe-pass," said Nikolai Parfanoevich, smiling. "Would you like to look at it? I'll take it off." "No, don't take it off," cried Mitchie fiercely, suddenly waking up and angry with himself. "Don't take it off. There's no need. Damn it. Gentlemen, you've sullied my heart. Can you suppose that I would conceal it from you, if I really had killed my father, that I would shuffle, lie, and hide myself? No, that's not like Dmitri Karmatsov that he couldn't do. And if I were guilty, I swear I shouldn't have waited for your coming, or for the sunrise as I meant it first, but should have killed myself before this, without waiting for the dawn. I know that about myself now. I couldn't have learned so much in twenty years as I found out in the accursed night. I've been like this on this night, and at this moment sitting with you, could I have talked like this, could I have moved like this, could I have looked at you, and at the world like this, if I had really been the murder of my father, when the very thought of having accidentally killed Gregorri gave me no peace all night, not from fear, oh not simply from fear of your punishment, the disgrace of it. Can you expect me to be open with such scoffers as you, who see nothing and believe in nothing, blind moles and scoffers, and to tell you another nasty thing I've done, another disgrace, even that would save me from your accusation? No, better Siberia, the man who opened the door to my father, and went in at that door, he killed him, he robbed him. Who was he? I'm racking my brains and can't think who, but I can tell you it was not Dmitri Karmatsov, and that's all I can tell you. And that's enough, enough, leave me alone, exile me, punish me, but don't bother me anymore, I'll say no more, call your witnesses. Mitya uttered his sudden monologue as though he were determined to be absolutely silent for the future. The prosecutor watched him the whole time, and only when he had ceased speaking, observed, as though it were the most ordinary thing with the most frigid and composed air. Oh, about the door of which you spoke just now, we may as well inform you, by the way, now, of a very interesting piece of evidence of the greatest importance, both to you, and to us, been given us by Grigori, the old man you wounded. On his recovery he clearly and emphatically stated, in reply to our questions, that when, on coming out to the steps and hearing a noise in the garden, he made up his mind to go into it through the little gate which stood open, before he noticed you running, as you have told us already, in the dark from the open window where you saw your father, he, Grigori, glance to the left, and, while noticing the open window, observed at the same time, much nearer to him, the door, standing wide open, that door which you have stated to have been shut the whole time you were in the garden. I will not conceal from you that Grigori himself confidently affirms and bears witness, that you must have run from that door, though of course he did not see you do so with his own eyes, since he only noticed you first some distance away in the garden, running towards the fence. Mitya hadn't leapt up from his chair half way through his speech, nonsense, he yelled in a sudden frenzy, it's a bare-faced lie, he couldn't have seen the door open because it was shut, he's lying, I consider it my duty to repeat that he is firm in his statement, he does not waver, he adheres to it, we've cross-examined him several times, precisely, I've cross-examined him several times, and Nikolai Parfenovich confirmed warmly, it's false, false, it's either an attempt to slander me or the hallucination of a madman, Mitya still shouted, he's simply raving from loss of blood from the wound, he must have fancied it when he came to, he's raving, yes, but he noticed the open door not when he came to after his injuries, but before that as soon as he went into the garden from the lodge, but it's false, it's false, it can't be so, he's slandering me for spite, he couldn't have seen it, I didn't come from the door, gas-mitnya, the prosecutor turned to Nikolai Parfenovich and said to him impressively, confront him with it, do you recognize this object, Nikolai Parfenovich laid upon the table, a large and thick official envelope, on which three seals still remained intact, the envelope was empty and slid open at one end, Mitya stared at it with open eyes, it, it must be that envelope of my father's, the envelope that contained the 3,000 rubles, and if there is inscribed on it, allow me for my little chicken, yes, 3,000 he shouted, do you see, 3,000, do you see, of course we see, but we didn't find the money in it, it was empty and lying on the floor by the bed behind the screen, for some seconds Mitya stood as the thunder struck, gentleman it's Murdieakov, he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice, it's he who's murdered him, he's robbed him, no one else knew where the old man hid the envelope, it's Murdieakov, that's clear now, but you too knew of the envelope and that it was under the pillow, I never knew it, I've never seen it, this is the first time I've looked at it, I've only heard of it from Murdieakov, he was the only one who knew where the old man kept it hidden, I didn't know, Mitya was completely breathless, but you told us yourself that the envelope was under your deceased father's pillow, you especially stated that it was under the pillow, so you must have known it, we've got it written down, confirmed to Nikolai Parfinovich, nonsense, it's absurd, I had no idea it was under the pillow, and perhaps it wasn't under the pillow at all, it was just a chance guess that it was under the pillow, what does Murdieakov say, have you asked him where it was, what does Murdieakov say, that's the chief point, and I went out of my way to tell lies against myself, I told you without thinking that it was under the pillow, and now you, oh you know how one says the wrong thing without meaning it, no one knew but Murdieakov, only Murdieakov and no one else, he didn't even tell me where it was, but it's his doing, his doing, there's no doubt about it, he murdered him, that's as clear as day like now, Murdieakov explained more and more frantically repeating himself incoherently, and growing more and more exasperated and excited, you must understand that and arrest him at once, he must have killed him while I was running away and while Gregori was unconscious, that's clear now, he gave the signal and father opened to him for no one but he knew the signal, and without the signal, father would never have opened the door, but you're again forgetting the circumstances the prosecutor observed, still speaking with the same restraint, though with the note of triumph, that there was no need to give the signal if the door already stood open when you were there, while you were in the garden, the door, the door, Murdieakov as he stared speechless at the prosecutor, he sank back helpless in his chair, all were silent, yes the door, it's a nightmare, God is against me, he exclaimed, staring before him in complete stupefaction, come, you see, the prosecutor went on with dignity, and you can judge for yourself to meet refeed a door or a rovech, on the one hand we have the evidence of the open door from which you ran out, a fact which overwhelms you and us, on the other side you're incomprehensible, persistent, and so to speak, obdurate silence, with regard to the source from which you obtained the money, which was so sudden we seen in your hands, when only three hours earlier, on your own showing, you pledged your pistols for the sake of ten rubles, and view of these facts, judge for yourself, what are we to believe, what can we depend on, and don't accuse us of being frigid, cynical, scoffing people, who are incapable of believing in the generous impulses of your heart, try to enter into our position, Mitya was indescribably agitated, he turned pale, very well, he exclaimed suddenly, I will tell you my secret, I will tell you where I got the money, I'll reveal my shame that I may not have to blame myself or you hereafter, and believe me to meet refeed a rovech, put a nickel-eyed parfinovitch and a voice of almost pathetic delight, that every sincere and complete confession on your part at this moment may, later on, have an immense influence in your favor, and may indeed moreover, let the prosecutor give him a slight shove under the table, and he checked himself in time, Mitya, it is true, had not heard him. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites, plus save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week, don't miss out on savings, shop prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh, select varieties. I'm Victoria Cash, thanks for calling the Lucky Land Hotline, if you feel like you do the same thing every day, press 1. If you're ready to have some serious fun, for the chance to redeem some serious prizes, press 2. We heard you loud and clear, so go to Lucky Land Slots.com right now and play over 100 social casino style games for free, get lucky today, at LuckyLandslots.com. End of chapter 6 of book 9, book 9, chapter 7, Mitya's great secret received with hisses. Gentlemen, he began, still in the same agitation, I want to make a full confession, that money was my own. The lawyer's face is lengthened, that was not at all what they expected. How do you mean, faltered Nikolay Parfanoevich, when at 5 o'clock on the same day, from your own confession, damn 5 o'clock on the same day in my own confession, that's nothing to do with it now. That money was my own, my own, that is, stolen by me, not mine, I mean, but stolen by me, and it was 1500 rubles, and I had it on me all the time, all the time. So where did you get it? I took it off my neck, gentlemen, off this very neck. It was here, round my neck, sewn up in a rag, and I had it round my neck a long time. It's a month since I put it round my neck, to my shame and disgrace. And from whom did you appropriate it? You mean steal it? Speak out plainly now. Yes, I consider that I practically stole it, but if you prefer, I appropriated it. I consider I stole it, and last night, I stole it, finally. Last night, but you said that it's a month since you obtained it. Yes, but not from my father, not from my father, don't be uneasy. I didn't steal it from my father, but from her. Let me tell you, without interrupting, it's hard to do, you know. You see, a month ago, I was sent for by Katarina Ivanova, formally my betrothed. Do you know her? Yes, of course. I know you know her, she's a noble creature, noblest of the noble. She has hated me ever so long, oh, ever so long, and hated me with good reason, good reason. Katarina Ivanovna, Nikoi Parfnovich, exclaimed with wonder, the prosecutor, too, stared. Oh, don't take her name in vain, I'm a scoundrel to bring her into it. Yes, I've seen that she hated me, a long while, from the very first, even that evening at my lodging. But enough, enough. You're unworthy even to know of that. No need of that all. I need only tell you that she sent for me a month ago, gave me three thousand rubles to send to her sister and another relation in Moscow, as though she couldn't have sent it off herself. And I, it was just at that fatal moment in my life when I, well, in fact, when I just come to love another, her, she's sitting down below now, Grishenko. I carried her off to Machrow then, and wasted here in two days, half that damn three thousand. But the other half I kept on me. Well, I've kept that other half, about fifteen hundred, like a locket round my neck. But yesterday, I undid it and spent it. What's left of it, eight hundred rubles, is in your hands now, Nikoi Parfnovich. That's the change out of the fifteen hundred I had yesterday. Excuse me? How's that? Why, when you were here a month ago, you spent three thousand, not fifteen hundred. Everybody knows that. Who knows it? Who counted the money? Did I let anyone count it? Why, you told everyone yourself that you'd spent exactly three thousand. It's true I did. I told the whole town so, and the whole town said so. And here at Machrow too, everyone reckoned it was three thousand. Yet I didn't spend three thousand, but fifteen hundred. And the other fifteen hundred I sewed into a little bag. That's how it was, gentlemen. That's where I got that money yesterday. This is almost miraculous, remember, Nikoi Parfnovich. I'll need to inquire, observe the prosecutor at last. Have you informed anyone whatever of this circumstance before? I mean, that you had fifteen hundred left about you a month ago? I told no one. That's strange. Do you mean absolutely no one? Absolutely no one. No one and nobody. What was your reason for this reticence? What was your motive for making such a secret of it? To be more precise, you have told us that last year's secret, in your words, so disgraceful, though in reality, is, of course, comparingly speaking. This action, that is, the appropriation of three thousand rubles belonging to someone else. And of course, only for a time is, in my view at least, only an act of the greatest recklessness, and not so disgraceful, when one takes into consideration your character. Even admitting that it was an action in the highest degree, discreditable. Still, discreditable is not disgraceful. Many people have already guessed during this last month, about the three thousand of katerina even oveness, that you have spent. And I have heard the legend myself, apart from your confession. Michaela Macarovich, for instance, had heard it, too, so that indeed it was scarcely a legend, but the gossip of the whole town. There are indications, too, if I'm not mistaken, that you confess this yourself to someone. I mean that the money was katerina even oveness, and so, it's extremely surprising to me that hitherto, that is, up to the present moment, you have made such an extraordinary secret of the fifteen hundred, you say you put by, apparently, connecting a feeling of positive horror with that secret. It's not easy to believe that it could cost you such distress to confess such a secret. You cried out, just now, that Siberia would be better than confessing it. The prosecutor ceased speaking. He was provoked. He did not conceal his vexation, which was almost anger, and gave vent to all his accumulated spleen, without choosing words, disconnectedly and incoherently. It's not the fifteen hundred that's the disgrace, but that I put it apart from the rest of the three thousand, submit you firmly. Why, smile the prosecutor irritably, what is there disgraceful to your thinking, and your having set aside half of the three thousand you have discreditably, if you prefer, disgracefully, appropriated. You're taking the three thousand is more important than what you did with it. And by the way, why did you do that? Why did you set apart that half? For what purpose? For what object did you do it? Can you explain that to us? Oh, gentlemen, the purpose is the whole point, cried midya. I put it aside, because I was vile, that is, because I was calculating, and to be calculating in such a case is vile, and that vileness has been going on a whole month. It's incomprehensible. I wonder at you, but I'll make it clearer. Perhaps it really is incomprehensible. You see, attend to what I say. I appropriate three thousand entrusted to my honor. I spent it on a spree. Say, I spent it all. And next morning, I go to her and say, Katya, I've done wrong. I've squandered your three thousand. Well, is that right? No, it's not right. It's dishonest and cowardly. I'm a beast, with no more self-control than a beast. That's so, isn't it? But still, I'm not a thief. Not a downright thief, you'll admit. I squandered it, but I didn't steal it. Now, a second, rather more favorable alternative. Follow me carefully, or I may get confused again. My head's going round. And so, for the second alternative, I spent here only fifteen hundred out of the three thousand, that is only half. Next day, I go and take that half to her. Katya, take this fifteen hundred from me. I'm a low beast and an untrustworthy scoundrel, for I've wasted half the money, and I shall waste this, too. So keep me from temptation. Well, what of that alternative? I should be a beast and a scoundrel in whatever you like, but not a thief, not altogether a thief, or I should not have brought back what was left, but have kept that, too. She would see at once that since I brought back half, I should pay back what I'd spent, that I should never give up trying to, that I should work to get it and pay it back. So, in that case, I should be a scoundrel, but not a thief. You may stay with you, Ike, not a thief. I admit that there is certain distinctions, said the prosecutor with a cold smile, but it's strange that you see such a vital difference. Yes, I see a vital difference. Every man may be a scoundrel, and perhaps every man is a scoundrel, but not everyone can be a thief. It takes an arch scoundrel to be that. Oh, of course, I don't know how to make these fine distinctions. But a thief is lower than a scoundrel. That's my conviction. Listen, I carry the money about me a whole month. I may make up my mind to give it back tomorrow, and I must scoundrel no longer. But I cannot make up my mind, you see, though I'm making up my mind every day, and every day, spurring myself on to do it. And yet, for a whole month, I can't bring myself to it. You see, is that right to your thinking? Is that right? Certainly, that's not right, that I can quite understand, and that I don't dispute, enter the prosecutor with reserve, and let us give up all discussions of these subtleties and distinctions. And if you will be so kind, get back to the point. And the point is that you have still not told us, although we've asked you why, in the first place, you've have the money, squandering one half and hiding the other. For what purpose exactly did you hide it? What did you mean to do with that 1500? I insist upon that question Demetri Fiedor Rovitch. Yes, of course, cried Mitchus, striking himself on the forehead. Forgive me, I'm worrying you, and I'm not explaining the chief point, or you'd understand in a minute, for it's just the motive of it, that's the disgrace. You see, it was all to do with the old man, my dear father. He was always pestering, Agrofina, Elksand Rovna, and I was jealous. I thought then she was hesitating between me and him. So I kept thinking every day. Suppose she were to make up her mind all of a sudden. Suppose she were to leave off tormenting me, and were suddenly to say to me, I love you, not him. Take me to the other end of the world, and I'd only forty copacs. How could I take her away? What could I do? Well, I'd be lost. You see, I didn't know her then. I didn't understand her. I thought she wanted money, and that she would forgive my poverty. And so I fiendishly counted out the half of that three thousand, sewed it up, calculating on it, sewed it up before I was drunk, and after I'd sewn it up, I went off to get drunk on the rest. Yes, that was base. Do you understand them? Both the lawyers laughed out loud. I should have called it sensible and morrow in your part not to have squandered at all. Shuckled Nikolai Parfinaubitch, for after all, what does it amount to? Why that I stole it? That's what it amounts to. Oh, God, you horrify me by not understanding. Every day that I have that fifteen hundred sewn up round my neck. Every day and every hour I said to myself, you're a thief. You're a thief. Yes, that's why I've been so savage all this month. That's why I fought in the tavern. That's why I attacked my father. It was because I felt I was a thief. I couldn't make up my mind. I didn't dare even to tell Aoyosha, my brother, about that fifteen hundred. I felt I was such a scoundrel and such a pickpocket. But do you know, while I carried it inside, to myself at that same time, every hour, no Dimitri Fionurvitch, you may not yet be a thief. Why? Because I might go next day and pay back that fifteen hundred to cut it. And only yesterday I made up my mind to tear my amulet off my neck, on my way from venues to Perhotin. I hadn't been able till that morning to bring myself to it. And it was only when I tore it off that I became a downright thief, a thief, and a dishonest man for the rest of my life. Why? Because with that I destroyed, too, my dream of going to Katya and saying, "I'm a scoundrel, but not a thief." Do you understand now? Do you understand? What was it made you decide to do it yesterday, in Nikolai Perfino-Bitch interrupted? Why, it's absurd to ask, because I had condemned myself to die at five o'clock this morning, or at dawn. I thought it made no difference whether I died a thief or a man of honor. But I see it's not so. It turns out it does make a difference. Believe me, gentlemen, what has tortured me most during this night has not been the thought that I'd killed the old server, and that I was in danger of Siberia, just when my love was being rewarded, and heaven was open to me again. Oh, that did torture me, but not in the same way. Not so much as the damned consciousness that I had torn that damn money off my breast at last, and spent it, and had become a downright thief. Oh, gentlemen, I tell you again, with a bleeding heart, I have learned a great deal this night. I have learned that it's not only impossible to live a scoundrel, but impossible to die a scoundrel. No, gentlemen, one must die, honest. Mitya was pale. His face had a haggard and exhausted look, in spite of his being intensely excited. I'm beginning to understand you to meet your feet, or which the prosecutor said slowly, and a soft and almost compassionate tone. But all this, if you'll excuse my saying so, is a matter of nerves, in my opinion, your overwrought nerves. That's what it is. And why, for instance, should you not have saved yourself such misery for almost a month by going and returning that 1500 to the lady who had entrusted it to you? Why could you not have explained things to her and in view of your position, which you describe as being so awful? Why could you not have had recourse to the plan, which would so naturally have occurred to one's mind? That is, after honorably confessing your errors to her, why could you not have asked her to lend you the sum needed for your expenses? Which, with her generous heart, she would certainly not have refused you in your distress, especially if it had been with some guarantee, or even on the security you offered to the merchant, Sam Sanov, and to Madam Holkelov. I suppose you still regard that security as of value, midya suddenly crimsoned. Surely you don't think me such an out-and-out scoundrel as that. You can't be speaking an earnest, he said, with indignation, looking the prosecutor straight in the face, and seeming unable to believe his ears. I assure you I'm an earnest. Why do you imagine I'm not serious? It was the prosecutor's turn to be surprised. Oh, how base that would have been, gentlemen, do you know you are torturing me? Let me tell you everything, so be it. I'll confess all my infernal wickedness. But to put you to shame, and you'll be surprised yourself at the depth of ignomy to which a medway of human passions can sink. You must know that I already had that plan myself, that plan you spoke of just now, prosecutor. Yes, gentlemen, I too have had that thought in my mind all this current month, so that I was on the point of deciding to go to my cottia, being enough for that, but to go to her, to tell her of my treachery, and for that very treachery to carry it out, for the expenses of that treachery, to beg for money from her, cottia, to beg do you hear to beg, and to go straight from her to run away with the other, the rival, who hated, and insulted her. To think of it, you must be mad, prosecutor. Mad I am not, but I did speak and haste without thinking of that feminine jealousy. If there could be jealousy in this case as you assert. Yes, perhaps there is something of the kind, said the prosecutor smiling. But that would have been so infamous, that you brought his fist down on the table fiercely. That would have been filthy beyond everything. Yes, do you know that she might have given me that money? Yes, and she would have given it to, she'd have given it to satisfy her vengeance, to show her contempt for me, for hers is an infernal nature too, and she's a woman of great wrath. I'd have taken the money too, oh, I should have taken it, I should have taken it, and then for the rest of my life, oh God, give me gentlemen, I'm making such an outcry, because I've had that thought in my mind so lately, only the day before yesterday, that night, when I was having all that bother with Laya Gavi, and afterwards yesterday, all day yesterday, I remember till that happened, till what happened, putting Nikolay Parfanoevich inquisitively, but Mitny did not hear it. "I've made you an awful confession," Mitny said, coimally in conclusion. "You must appreciate it, and what's more, you must respect it, for if not, that leaves your souls untouched, then you simply know respect for me, gentlemen. Oh, I shall shoot myself. Yes, I see, I see already that you don't believe me. What, you want to write that down too?" he cried in dismay. "Yes, what you said just now," said Nikolay Parfanoevich, looking at him surprised. "That is, that up to that last hour, you were still contemplating going to Katarina Ivanovna to beg that son from her. I assure you, that's a very important piece of evidence for us to meet Rifida Rovich. I mean, for the whole case, and particularly for you, particularly important for you. I have mercy, gentlemen," Mitny flung up his hands. "Don't write that anyway. Have some shame. Here, I've torn my heart asunder before you, and you seize the opportunity and are fingering the wounds in both halves. Oh, my God," in despair he hid his face in his hands. "Don't worry yourself, so, it may treat Rifida Rovich, observe the prosecutor. Everything that is written down will be read over to you afterwards, and what you don't agree with, too, will alter as you like. But now, I'll ask you one little question for the second time. Has no one, absolutely no one, heard from you of that money you've sewed up? That, I must tell you, is almost impossible to believe. No one. No one, I told you so before, or you've not understood anything. Let me alone. Very well, this matter is bound to be explained, and there's plenty of time for it. But meantime, consider we have perhaps a dozen witnesses that you, yourself, spread it abroad, and even shouted almost everywhere about the three thousand you'd spent here, three thousand, not fifteen hundred. And now, too, when you've got a hold of the money you had yesterday, you gave many people to understand that you had bought three thousand with you. You've got not dozens, but hundreds of witnesses, two hundred witnesses, two hundred, I've heard it, thousands have heard it, tried it to you. Well, you see, all bear witness to it, and the world all means something. It means nothing. I talked rot, and everyone began repeating it. But what need had you to talk rot, as you called it, the devil knows, from bravado, perhaps, at having wasted so much money to try and forget that money I had sewn up, perhaps. Yes, that was why, dammit, how often will you ask me that question? Well, I told a fib, and that was the end of it. Once I'd said it, I didn't care to correct it. What does a man tell lies for sometimes? That's very difficult to decide to me treat a feeder of it. What makes a man tell lies? Observe the prosecutor impressively. Tell me, though, was that amulet, as you called it, on your neck? A big thing? No, not big. How big, for instance, if you fold a hundred group, I'll note in half, that would be the size. You'd better show us the remains of it. You must have them somewhere. Damnation, what nonsense? I don't know where they are. But excuse me, where and when did you take it off your neck? According to your own evidence, you didn't go home. When I was going from fenya's to protons on the way, I tore it off my neck and took out the money. In the dark? What should I want a life for? I did it with my fingers in one minute, without scissors in the street. In the marketplace, I think it was. Why scissors? It was an old rag. It was torn in a minute. Where did you put it afterwards? I dropped it there. Where was it exactly? In the marketplace, in the marketplace, the devil knows where abouts. What do you want to know for? That's extremely important to me treat feeder of it. It would be material evidence in your favor. How is it you don't understand that? Who helped you to sew it up a month ago? No one helped me. I did it myself. Can you sew? A soldier has to know to sew. No knowledge was needed to do that. Where did you get the materials? That is, the rag in which you sewed the money. Are you laughing at me? No, not at all. Are we in no mood for laughing to me treat feeder of it? I don't know where I got the rag from somewhere, I suppose. I should have thought you couldn't have forgotten it. Upon my word, I don't remember. I might have torn a bit off my linen. That's very interesting. We might find in your lodgings tomorrow, the shirt, or whatever it is from which you tore your rag. What sort of rag was it? Cloth or linen? Couldn't has only knows what it was. Wait a bit. I believe I didn't tear it off anything. It was a bit of Coleco. I believe I sewed it up in a cap of my land weighties. In your land weighties cap? Yes, I took it from her. How did you get it? You see, I remember once taking a cap for a rag, perhaps to wipe my pen on it. I took it without asking because it was a worthless rag. I tore it up and it took the notes and sewed them up in it. I believe it was in that very rag I sewed it. An old piece of Coleco washed a thousand times. And you remember that for certain now? I don't know whether for certain. I think it was in the cap, but hang it. What does that matter? In that case, your land lady will remember that the thing was lost. No, she won't. She didn't miss it. It was an old rag, I tell you, an old rag not worth a farthing. And where did you get the needle and thread? "I'll stop now. I won't say any more. Enough of it!" said Mintio, losing his temporal last. "It's strange that you should have so completely forgotten where you threw the pieces in the marketplace. Give orders for the marketplace to be swept tomorrow, and perhaps you'll find it," said Mintio sneering. "Enough, gentlemen. Enough," he decided in an exhausted voice. "I see you don't believe me. Not for a moment. It's my fault, not yours. I ought not to have been so ready. Why? Why did I degrade myself by confessing my secret to you? It's a joke to you. I see that from your eyes. You led me on to it, prosecutor. Sing a hymn of triumph if you can. Damn you, you tortures." He bent his head and hit his face in his hands. The lawyers were silent. A minute later, he raced his head and looked at them almost vacantly. His face expressed now complete, hopeless despair, and he sat mute, passive, as though hardly conscious of what was happening. In the meantime, they had to finish what they were about. They had immediately to begin examining the witnesses. It was by now eight o'clock in the morning. The lights had been extinguished long ago. Biqueo Macarovich and Koganoff, who had been continually in and out of the room, all the while the interrogation had been going on, had now both gone out again. The lawyers, too, looked very tired. It was a wretched morning. The whole sky was overcast, and the rain streamed down and bucket-fulls. Micah gazed blankly out of the window. "May I look out of the window?" he asked Nikolay Parfanovich suddenly. "Oh, as much as you like," the latter replied. Micah got up and went to the window. The rain lashed against the little greenish pains of the window. He could see the muddy road just below the window and further away, and the rainy mist. A row of poor, black, dismal huts, looking even blacker and poorer in the rain. Micah thought of Phoebus, the golden haired, and how he had meant to shoot himself at his first ray. Perhaps it would be even better on a morning like this, he thought with a smile, and suddenly, flinging his hands downwards, he turned to his torturers. "Gentlemen," he cried, "I see that I am lost." "But she—tell me about her. I beseech you. Surely she needs not be ruined with me. She's innocent, you know. She was out of her mind when she cried last night. It's all my fault. She's done nothing. Nothing. I've been grieving over her all night as I sat with you. Can't you—won't you tell me what you're going to do with her? You can set your mind quite at rest on that score. Dimitri Fiederowge, the prosecutor, answered at once with evident alacrity. "We have so far no grounds for interfering with the lady in whom you are so interested. I trust that it may be the same in the latter development of the case. On the contrary, we'll do everything that lies in our power in that matter. Set your mind completely at rest. Gentlemen, I thank you. I knew that you were honest, straightforward people in spite of everything. You've taken a load off my heart. Well, what are we to do now? I'm ready. Well, we ought to make haste. We must pass to examining the witnesses without delay. That must be done in your presence, and therefore, shouldn't we have some tea first into your post?" Hang Amazon Prime members. Why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, A Plenty, and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. It is Ryan Seacrest here. Everybody needs some variety in life. That's why I love about Chumba Casino. They know how to keep things fresh and exciting. All their games are free to play. Like Spin Slots, Bingo, and Solitaire. You can claim free daily login bonuses, too. And they release new games every week. So spice things up with Chumba Casino.com now for your chance to redeem some serious prizes. Sponsor by Chumba Casino. No purchase necessary. VGW Group. Void, we're prohibited by law. 18 plus terms and conditions apply. Nikolai Parfanovich. I think we've deserved it. They decided that if T were ready downstairs, Mikhail Makarovich had no doubt gone down to get some. They would have a glass and then go on and on, putting off their proper breakfast until a more favorable opportunity. T really was ready now, and was soon brought up. Mid yet first refused the glass that Nikolai Parfanovich politely offered him, but afterwards he asked for himself and drank it greedily. He looked surprisingly exhausted. It might have been supposed from his Herculean strength that one night of carousing, even accompanied by the most violent emotions could have had little effect on him. But he felt that he could hardly hold his head up, and from time to time, all the objects about him seemed heaving and dancing before his eyes. A little more, and I shall begin raving, he said to himself. End of chapter 7 of book 9. Book 9, chapter 8. The Evidences of the Witnesses, the Babe. The examination of the Witnesses began, but we will not continue our story in such detail as before, and so we will not dwell on how Nikolai Parfanovich impressed on every witness called that he must give his evidence in accordance with truth and conscience, and that he would afterwards have to repeat his evidence on oath. However, every witness was called upon to sign the protocol of his evidence, and so on. We will only note that the point principally insisted upon in the examination was the question of the three thousand rubles. That is, was the sum spent here at Milkrai by Mitya on the first occasion amongst the four, three thousand or fifteen hundred, and again had he spent three thousand or fifteen hundred yesterday. Alas, all the evidence given by everyone turned out to be against Mitya. There was not one in his favor, and some witnesses introduced new, almost crushing facts in contradiction of his Mitya's story. The first witness examined was Truth and Barisovich. He was not in the least abashed as he stood before the lawyers. He had, on the contrary, an air of stern and severe indignation with the accused, which gave him an appearance of truthfulness and personal dignity. He spoke little and with reserve, waited to be questioned, answered precisely and deliberately. Firmly and unhesitatingly he bore witness that the sum spent a month before could not have been less than three thousand, that all the peasants about here would testify that they had heard the sum of three thousand mentioned by Demetri Fiederovich himself. What a lot of money he flung away on the gypsy girls alone, he wasted a thousand, I dare say, on them alone. I don't believe I gave them five hundred was Mitya's gloomy comment on this. It's a pity I didn't count the money at the time, but I was drunk. Mitya was sitting sideways with his back to the curtains. He listened to gloomily with a melancholy and exhausted air, as though he would say, "Oh, say what you like, it makes no difference now." More than a thousand went on them, Demetri Fiederovich, retorted Truth on Barisovich, firmly. You flung it about at random and they picked it up. They were a rascally, thievish lot, horse-stealers. They've been driven away from here, or maybe they'd bear witness themselves how much they got from you. I saw the sum in your hands myself. Counted I didn't. You didn't let me. That's true enough. But by the look of it, I should say it was far more than fifteen hundred. Fifteen hundred indeed. We've seen money, too. We can judge of amounts. As for the sum spent yesterday, he asserted that Demetri Fiederovich had told him, as soon as he arrived, that he had brought three thousand with him. "Come now, is that so, Truth on Barisovich?" replied Mitya. "Surely I didn't declare so positively that I'd brought three thousand." "You did say so, Demetri Fiederovich. You said it before André. André himself is still here, send for him. And in the hall, when you were treating the chorus, you shouted straight out that you would leave your six thousand here. That is, with what you spent before we must understand." Stape on and semion heard it, and Peter for much Koganoff, too, was standing beside you at the time. Maybe he'd remember it. The evidence as the six thousand made an extraordinary impression on the two lawyers. They were delighted with this new mode of reckoning. Three and three made six. Three thousand then, and three now made six. That was clear. They questioned all the peasants suggested by Trifen Barisovich. Step on and semion, the driver André and Koganoff. The peasants and the driver unhesitantly confirmed Trifen Barisovich's evidence. They noted down, with particular care, André's account of the conversation he had had with Mitchia on the road. Where, says he, am I, Demetri Fiederovich, going, to heaven or to hell? And shall I be forgiven in the next world or not? The psychological, ipelit, carillevitch heard this with a subtle smile, and ended by recommending that these remarks as to where Demetri Fiederovich would go, should be included in the case. Koganoff, when called, came in reluctantly, frowning, and ill-humoured, and he spoke to the lawyers as though he had never met them before in his life, though they were acquaintances whom he had been meeting every day for a long time past. He began by saying that he knew nothing about it and didn't want to, but it appeared that he had heard of the six thousand, and he admitted that he had been standing close by at the moment. As far as he could see, he didn't know how much money Mitchia had in his hands. He affirmed that the polls had cheated at cards. In reply to reiterated questions, he stated that after the polls had been turned out, Mitchia's position with Agrofina Alexandrovna had certainly improved, and that she had said that she loved him. He spoke of Agrofina Alexandrovna with reserve and respect, as though she had been a lady of the best society. It did not once allow himself to call her Grushenka. In spite of the young man's obvious repugnance at giving evidence, Ifillic Krilovich examined him at great length, and only from him learned all the details of what made up Mitchia's romance, so to say, on that night. Mitchia did not once pull Koganoff up. At last they let the young man go, and he left the room with unconcealed indignation. The polls, too, were examined, though they had gone to bed in their room they had not slept all night, and on the arrival of the police officers they hastily dressed and got ready, realizing that they would certainly be sent for. They gave their evidence with dignity, though not without some uneasiness. The little poll turned out to be a retired official of the twelfth class who had served in Siberia as a veterinary surgeon. His name was Moosealovitch. Pan Rivelsky turned out to be an uncertified dentist. Although Nikolai Parfenovitch asked them questions on entering the room, they both addressed their answers to Mikhail McArvitch, who was standing on one side, taking him in their ignorance for the most important person, and in command, and addressed him at every word as "Pan Colonel." Only after several reproofs from Mikhail McArvitch himself, they grasped that they had to address their answers to Nikolai Parfenovitch only. It turned out that they could speak Russian quite correctly except for their accident in some words. Of his relations with Grushenko, past and present, Pan Moosealovitch spoke proudly and warmly so that Miti was roused at once and declared that he would not allow the scoundrel to speak like that in his presence. Pan Moosealovitch at once called attention to the word scoundrel and begged that it should be put down in the protocol. Miti fumed with rage. He's a scoundrel, a scoundrel. You can put that down, and put down to, then in spite of the protocol, I still declare that he's a scoundrel," he cried. Though Nikolai Parfenovitch did insert this in the protocol, he showed the most praiseworthy tact and management. After sternly reprimanding Mitiya, he cut short all further inquiry into the romantic aspect of the case and hastened to pass to what was essential. One piece of evidence given by the polls roused special interest in the lawyers. That was how, in that very room, Miti had tried to buy off Pan Moosealovitch and had offered him three thousand rubles to resign his claims. Seven hundred rubles down, and the remaining two thousand three hundred, till he paid next day in the town. He had sworn at the time that he had not the wholesome with him at McCoy, but that his money was in the town. Mitiya observed hotly that he had not said that he would be sure to pay him the remainder next day in the town. But Pan Roblowski confirmed the statement, and Mitiya, after thinking for a moment, admitted frowning, that it must have been as the poll stated, that he had been excited at the time and might indeed have said so. The prosecutor positively pounced on this piece of evidence. It seemed to establish for the prosecution, and they did in fact face this deduction on it, that half or a part of the three thousand that had come into Mitiya's hands might really have been left somewhere hidden in the town, or even perhaps somewhere here in McCoy. This would explain the circumstance so baffling for the prosecution, that only eight hundred rubles were to be found in Mitiya's hands. The circumstance had been the one piece of evidence which, insignificant as it was, had hitherto told to some extent in Mitiya's favor. Now this one piece of evidence in his favor had broken down. In answer to the prosecutor's inquiry, where he would have got the remaining two thousand three hundred rubles, since he himself had denied having more than fifteen hundred, Mitiya confidently replied that he had meant to offer the little chap, not money, but a formal deed of conveyance of his rights to the village of Chermashnya, those rights which he had already offered a stance enough in Madam Holikoff, the prosecutor positively smiled at the innocence of this subterfuge. And do you imagine he would have accepted such a deed as a substitute for two thousand three hundred rubles in cash? He certainly would have accepted it, Mitiya declared warmly. Why, look here, he might have grabbed not two thousand but four or six for it. He would have put his lawyers, Poles, and Jews onto the job and might have got not three thousand but the whole property out of the old man. The evidence of Panmashyalovich was, of course, entered into the protocol in the fullest detail. Then they let the Poles go. The instant of the cheating at cards was hardly touched upon. Nikolai Parfenevich was too well pleased with them, as it was, and did not want to worry them with trifles. Moreover, it was nothing but a foolish drunken quarrel over cards. There had been drinking in disorder enough that night. So the two hundred rubles remained in the pockets of the Poles. Then old Maximoff was summoned. He came in timidly, approached with little steps, looking very disheveled and depressed. He had, all this time, taken refuge below with Grushenko, sitting dumbly beside her, and now and then he began blubbering over her and wiping his eyes with blue-check handkerchief, as Mahal Macarovich described afterwards, so that she herself began trying to pacify and comfort him. The old man at once confessed that he had done wrong, that he had borrowed ten rubles in my poverty from Dimitri Feodorovich, and that he was ready to pay it back. To Nikolai Parfenevich's direct question, had he noticed how much money Dimitri Feodorovich held in his hand, as he must have been able to see the sum better than anyone when he took the note from him, Maximoff, in the most positive manner, declared that there was twenty thousand. Have you ever seen so much as twenty thousand before then, inquire Nikolai Parfenevich with a smile? To be sure I have, not twenty, but seven, when my wife mortgages my little property, she'd only let me look at it from a distance, boasting of it to me. It was a very thick bundle, all rainbow-colored notes, and Dimitri Feodorovich's were all rainbow-colored. He was not kept long. At last it was Grushenko's turn. Nikolai Parfenevich was obviously apprehensive of the effect her appearance might have on Mitya, and he muttered a few words of admonition to him, but Mitya bowed his head in silence, giving him to understand that he would not make a scene. Mahal Makarovich himself led Grushenko in. She entered with a stern and gloomy face that looked almost composed, and sat down quietly on the chair offered her by Nikolai Parfenevich. She was very pale, she seemed to be cold and wrapped herself closely in her magnificent black shawl. She was suffering from a slight feverish chill, the first symptom of the long illness which followed that night. Her grave air, her direct earnest look, and quiet manner made a very favorable impression on everyone. Nikolai Parfenevich was even a little bit fascinated. He admitted himself, when talking about it afterwards, and only then had he seen how handsome the woman was. For, though he had seen her several times, he had always looked upon her as something of a provincial hitaira. "She has the manners the best society," he said enthusiastically, gossiping about her in a circle of ladies, "but this was received with positive indignation by the ladies, who immediately called him a naughty man, to his great satisfaction." As she entered the room, Khrushinq only glanced for an instant at Mitya, who looked at her uneasily. But her face reassured him at once. After the first inevitable inquiries and warnings, Nikolai Parfenevich asked her, hesitating a little, but preserving the most courteous manner, on what term she was with a retired lieutenant, the matri, feared orbit to Karamotsoff. To this, Khrushinqah firmly and quietly replied, "He was an acquaintance. He came to see me as an acquaintance during the last month." To further inquisitive questions, she answered plainly and with complete frankness, that though, at times, she had thought him attractive, she had not loved him, but had won his heart as well as his old father's, in my nasty spite; that she had seen that Mitya was very jealous of Fiedor Parfenevich and everyone else; but that had only amused her. She had never meant to go to Fiedor Parfenevich; she had simply been laughing at him. I had no thoughts for either of them all this last month. I was expecting another man who had wronged me. But I think, she said in conclusion, that there's no need for you to inquire about that, nor for me to answer you, for that's my own affair. Nikolai Parfenevich immediately acted upon his hint. He again dismissed the romantic aspect of the case and passed the serious one, that is, to the question of most importance concerning the three thousand rubles. Gruscheka confirmed the statement that three thousand rubles has certainly been spent on the first carousel at McCoy; and though she had not counted the money herself, she had heard that it was three thousand from Dometri Fiedor Parfenevich's own lips. Did he tell you that alone or before someone else, or did you only hear him speak of it to others in your presence, the prosecutor inquired immediately? To which Gruscheka replied that she had heard him say so before other people and had heard him say so when they were alone? Did he say it to you alone once or several times, inquired the prosecutor, and learned that he had told Gruscheka so several times? Ippelik Karilovich was very well satisfied with his piece of evidence. Further examination elicited that Gruscheka knew, too, where that money had come from, and that Dometri Fiedorovich had got it from Katarina Ivanovna. And did you never once hear that the money spent a month ago was not three thousand but less, and that Dometri Fiedorovich has saved half that sum for his own use? No, I never heard that, answered Gruscheka. It was explained further that Midjia had on the contrary often told her that he hadn't a farthing. He was always expecting to get some from his father, said Gruscheka in conclusion. Did he never say before you casually, or in a moment of irritation, Nikolai Parfenevich put in suddenly, that he intended to make an attempt on his father's life? Ah, he did say so, side Gruscheka. Once or several times? He mentioned it several times, always in anger. And did you believe he would do it? No, I never believed it, she answered firmly. I had faith in his noble heart. "Gentlemen, allow me," cried Midjia suddenly, "allow me to say one word to Agrofene Alexandrovna in your presence. You can speak, Nikolai Parfenevich assented. Abrofene Alexandrovna, Midjia got up from his chair. Have faith in God and in me. I am not guilty of my father's murder." Having uttered these words, Midjia sat down again on his chair. Gruscheka stood up and crossed herself devoutly before the icon. "Thanks be to thee, O Lord," she said, in a voice thrilled with emotion. And still standing, she turned to Nikolai Parfenevich and added, "As he has spoken now, believe it, I know him. He'll say anything as a joke or from obstinacy, but he'll never deceive you against his conscience. He's telling the whole truth, you may believe it." "Thanks, Agrofene Alexandrovna. You've given me fresh courage," Midjia responded in a quivering voice. As to the money spent the previous day, she declared that she did not know what summit was, but it had heard him tell several people that he had three thousand with him. And to the question where he got the money, she said that he had told her that he had stolen it from Katarina Ivanovna, and that she had replied to that that he hadn't stolen it, and that he must pay the money back next day. On the prosecutors asking her emphatically whether the money he said he had stolen from Katarina Ivanovna was what he had spent yesterday, or what he had squandered here a month ago, she declared that he meant the money spent a month ago, and that that was how she understood him. Grishenko was at last released, and Nikolai Parfenevich informed her impulsively that she might at once return to the town, and that if he could be of any assistance to her, with horses, for example, or if she would care for an escort, he would be, "I think you sincerely," said Grishenko, bowing to him, "I'm going with this old gentleman. I am driving him back to town with me, and meanwhile, if you'll allow me, I'll wait below to hear what you decide about Demetri Feodorovich." She went out. Mete was calm, and even looked more cheerful, but only for a moment. He felt more and more oppressed by a strange physical weakness. His eyes were closing with fatigue. The examination of the witnesses was, at last, over. They proceeded to a revision of the protocol. Mete got up, moved from his chair to the corner by the curtain, lay down on a large chest covered with a rug, and instantly fell asleep. He had a strange dream, utterly out of keeping with the place and the time. He was driving somewhere in the steps where he had been stationed long ago, and a peasant was driving him in a cart with a pair of horses through snow and sleet. He was cold. It was early in November, and the snow was falling in big, wet flakes, melting as soon as it touched the earth. And the peasant drove him smartly. He had a fair long beard. He was not an old man, somewhere about fifty, and he had on a grey peasant's smock. Not far off was a village. He could see the black huts, and half the huts were burnt down. There were only the charred beams sticking up, and as they drove in, there were peasant women drawn up along the road, a lot of women, a whole row, all thin and worn, with their faces a sort of brownish color, especially one at the edge, a tall bony woman who looked forty, but might have been only twenty, with a long thin face, and in her arms was a little baby crying, and her breasts seemed so dried up that there was not a drop of milk in them, and the child cried and cried, and held out its little bear arms, with its little fists blue from cold. "Why are they crying? Why are they crying?" midya asked, as they dashed gaily by. "It's the babe," answered the driver, the babe weeping. And midya was struck by his saying, in his present way, the babe, and he liked the peasant's calling it a babe. There seemed more pity in it. "But why is it weeping?" midya persisted stupidly. "Why are its little arms bare? Why don't they wrap it up?" The babe's cold, its little clothes are frozen and don't warm it. "But why is it--why?" foolish midya still persisted. "Why, their poor people burnt out. They've no bread. They're begging because they've been burnt out." "No, no," midya, as it were, still did not understand. "Tell me why it is those poor mothers stand there. Why are people poor? Why is the babe poor? Why is the step barren? Why don't they hug each other and kiss? Why don't they sing songs with joy? Why are they so dark from black misery? Why don't they feed the babe?" And he felt that those questions were unreasonable and senseless, yet he wanted to ask just that, and he had to ask it just in that way. And he felt that a passion of pity, such as he had never known before, was rising in his heart, that he wanted to cry, that he wanted to do something for them all so that the babe should weep no more, so that the dark-faced, dried-up mother should not weep, that no one should shed tears again from that moment. And he wanted to do it at once, at once, regardless of all obstacles, with all the recklessness of the karamatsas. "And I'm coming with you. I won't leave you now for the rest of my life. I'm coming with you," he heard close beside him, Grusinka's tender voice, thrilling with emotion, and his heart glowed, and he struggled forward towards the light, and he longed to live, to live, to go on and on towards the new beckoning light, and to hasten hasten now at once. "What where?" he exclaimed, opening his eyes, and sitting up on the chest as though he had revived from a swoon, smiling brightly. Nikolai Parfenovich was standing over him, suggesting that he should hear the protocol read aloud and sign it. Mitchi guessed that he had been asleep for an hour or more, but he did not hear Nikolai Parfenovich. He was suddenly struck by the fact that there was a pillow under his head, which hadn't been there when he had linked back, exhausted on the chest. "Who put that pillow under my head?" "Who was so kind," he cried, with a sort of ecstatic gratitude, and tears in his voice, as though some great kindness had been shown him. He'd never found out who this kind man was. Perhaps one of the peasant witnesses, or Nikolai Parfenovich's little secretary, had compassionately thought to put a pillow under his head, but his whole soul was quivering with tears. He went to the table and said that he would sign whatever they liked. "I've had a good dream, gentlemen," he said in a strange voice, with a new light as of joy in his face. "Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh. Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. Looking for excitement? Chumba Casino is here. Play anytime, play anywhere. Play on the train, play at the store, play at home, play when you're bored. Play today for your chance to win and get daily bonuses when you log in. So what are you waiting for? Don't delay. Chumba Casino is free to play. Experience social gameplay like never before. Go to Chumba Casino right now to play hundreds of games, including online slots, Bingo, Slingo, and more. Live the Chumba Life at ChumbaCustino.com. BTW Group, no purchase necessary, bored, prohibited by law. See terms and conditions, 18 plus. End of chapter eight of book nine. Book nine, chapter nine. When the protocol had been signed, Nikolai Parfenevich turned solemnly to the prisoner and read him the committal, setting forth that in such a year, on such a day, in such a place, the investigating lawyer of such and such a district court, having examined so and so, to it, Mika, accused of this and of that, all the charges were carefully written out, and having considered that they accused, not pleading guilty to the charges made against him, had brought forward nothing in his defense. While the witnesses, so and so and so, and the circumstances such and such testify against him, acting in accordance with such and such articles of the statute book, and so on, has ruled that, in order to preclude so and so, Mika, from all means of evading pursuit and judgment, he be detained in such and such a prison, which he hereby notifies to the accused, and communicates a copy of this same committal, to the deputy prosecutor, and so on and so on. In brief, Mika was informed that he was, from that moment, a prisoner, and that he would be driven at once to the tone, and there shut up in a very unpleasant place. Meet yet listened attentively, and only shrugged his shoulders. "Well, gentlemen, I don't blame you, I'm ready. I understand that there's nothing else for you to do." Nikolai Parfenevich informed him gently that he would be escorted at once by the rural police officer, Mavriki Mavrikievich, who happened to be on the spot. "Stay," Mika interrupted suddenly, and impelled by an uncontrollable feeling he pronounced, addressing all in the room. "Gentlemen, we're all cruel, we're all monsters, we all make men weep, and mothers, and babes at the breast, but of all, let it be settled here now, of all I am the lowest reptile. I've sworn to amend, and every day I've done the same filthy things. I understand now that such men as I need a blow, a blow of destiny to catch them as with a noose, and bind them by force from without. Never, never should I have risen of myself, but the thunderbolt has fallen, I accept the torture of accusation, and my public shame. I want to suffer, and by suffering I shall be purified. Perhaps I shall be purified, gentlemen? But listen, for the last time, I am not guilty of my father's blood. I accept my punishment, not because I killed him, but because I meant to kill him, and perhaps I really might have killed him. Still, I mean to fight it out with you. I warn you of that. I'll fight it out with you to the end, and then God will decide. Goodbye, gentlemen. Don't be vexed with me for having shouted at you during the examination. Oh, I was still such a fool, then. In another minute I shall be a prisoner, but for now, for the last time, as a free man. Demetri Karamazov offers you his hand. Saying goodbye to you, I say it to all men. His voice quivered, and he stretched out his hand, but Nikolai Perfenevich, who happened to stand nearest to him, with a sudden, almost nervous movement. Hit his hands behind his back. Mika instantly noticed this, and started. He let his outstretched hand fall at once. "The preliminary inquiry is not yet over," Nikolai Perfenevich faltered, somewhat embarrassed. "We will continue it in the town, and I, for my part, of course, am ready to wish you all success in your defense. As a matter of fact, Demetri Fiedorovich, I have always been disposed to regard you as, so to speak, more unfortunate than guilty. All of us here, if I may make bold to speak for all, we are all ready to recognize that you are, at bottom, a young man of honor, but alas, one who has been carried away by certain passions, to a somewhat excessive degree." Nikolai Perfenevich's little figure was positively majestic by the time he had finished speaking. It struck Mika then in another minute this boy would take his arm, lead him to another corner, and renew their conversation about girls. But many quite irrelevant and inappropriate thoughts sometimes occur even to a prisoner when he is being led out to execution. "Gentlemen, you are good, you are humane. May I see her to say goodbye for the last time?" asked Mika. "Certainly, but considering, in fact, now it's impossible except in the presence of, oh well, if it must be so it must." Grushenko was brought in, but the farewell was brief, in a few words and did not at all satisfy Nikolai Perfenevich. Grushenko made a deep bow to Mika. "Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh. Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, A Plenty, and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties." "It can get lonely climbing Mount McKinley, so to entertain myself, I go to Chumbagastino.com. At Chumbagastino, I give lay hundreds of online casino-style games for free, like online slots, bingo, slingo, and more. Plus, I get a daily login bonus. It's just too bad that up here, I don't have anyone to share my excitement with. Whoo-hoo! Ch-ch-ch-chumba." Live the temple life anytime, anywhere. Play for free now at Chumbagastino.com. "PW room no purchases are avoided by law. See terms of conditions, 18 plus." "I have told you I am yours, and I will be yours. I will follow you forever, wherever they may send you. Farewell, you are guiltless, though you've been your own undoing." Her lips quivered, tears flowed from her eyes. "Forgive me, Grusia. For my love. For ruining you, too, with my love." Meteah would have said something more, but he broke off and went out. He was at once surrounded by men who kept a constant watch on him. At the bottom of the steps, to which he had been driven up with such a dash the day before with Andree's three horses, two carts stood in readiness. Mavriki maverkevich, a sturdy, thick-set man with a wrinkled face, was annoyed about something, some sudden irregularity. He was shouting angrily. He asked Meteah to get into the cart with somewhat excessive surliness. "When I stood him drinks in a tavern, the man had quite a different face," thought Meteah as he got in. At the gates there was a crowd of people, peasants, women, and drivers. Trefund barisovich came down from the steps, too. All stared at Meteah. "Forgive me at parting, good people," Meteah shouted suddenly from the cart. "Forgive us, too," he heard two or three voices. "Goodbye to you, too, Trefund barisovich." But Trefund barisovich did not even turn round. He was, perhaps, too busy. He, too, was shouting and fussing about something. It appeared that everything was not yet ready in the second cart, in which two constables were to accompany Maverkei maverkevich. The peasant, who had been ordered to drive the second cart, was pulling on his smock, stoutly maintaining that it was not his turn to go, but achums. But achum was not to be seen. They ran to look for him. The peasant persisted and besought them to wait. "You see what our peasants are," Maverkei maverkeivitch. "They've no shame," exclaimed Trefund barisovich. "Achum gave you twenty-five copics the day before yesterday. You've drunk it all, and now you cry out. I'm simply surprised at your good nature, with our low peasants, Maverkei maverkeivitch. That's all I can say." "But what do we want a second cart for?" Meteah put in. "Let's start with the one, Maverkei maverkeivitch." "I won't be unruly. I won't run away from you, old fellow. What do we want an escort for? I'll trouble you, sir, to learn how to speak to me if you've never been taught. I'm not old fellow to you. And you can keep your advice for another time." Maverkei maverkeivitch snapped out savagely, as though glad to vent his wrath. Meteah was reduced to silence. He flushed all over. A moment later he felt suddenly very cold. The rain had ceased, but the dull sky was still overcast with clouds. And a keen wind was blowing straight in his face. "I've taken a chill," thought Meteah, twitching his shoulders. At last, Maverkei maverkeivitch, too, got into the cart, sat down heavily, and as though without noticing it, squeezed Meteah into the corner. It is true that he was out of humor and greatly disliked the task that had been laid upon him. "Good-bye, Trifon Barisovich," Meteah shouted again, and felt himself, that he had not called out this time from good nature, but involuntarily, from resentment. But Trifon Barisovich stood proudly, with both hands behind his back, and staring straight at Meteah with a stern and angry face, he made no reply. "Good-bye, Dimitri Fiedorvitch. Good-bye!" He heard all at once the voice of Kalganov, who had suddenly darted out. Running up to the cart, he held out his hand to Meteah. He had no cap on. Meteah had time to seize and press his hand. "Good-bye, dear fellow. I shan't forget your generosity," he cried warmly. But the cart moved, and their hands parted. The bell began ringing, and Meteah was driven off. Kalganov ran back, sat down in a corner, bent his head, hit his face in his hands, and burst out crying. For a long while he sat like that, crying as though he were a little boy instead of a young man of twenty. Oh, he believed almost without doubt in Meteah's guilt. "What are these people? What can men be after this?" he exclaimed incoherently, in bitter despondency, almost despair. At that moment he had no desire to live. "Is it worth it? Is it worth it?" exclaimed the boy in his grief. End of Book Nine Book Ten. The Boys. Chapter One. Kalia Krasatkin. It was the beginning of November. There had been a heart frost, eleven degrees rimmer, without snow, but the little dry snow had fallen on the frozen ground during the night, and a keen dry wind was lifting and blowing it along the dreary streets of our town. Especially about the marketplace. It was a dull morning, but the snow had seized. Not far from the marketplace, close to Plotnikov's shop, they stood a small house, very clean both without and within. It belonged to Madame Krasatkin, the widow of a former provincial secretary, who had been dead for fourteen years. His widow, still a nice-looking woman of thirty-two, was living in her neat little house on her private means. She lived in respectable seclusion. She was of a soft but fairly cheerful disposition. She was about eighteen at the time of her husband's death. She had been married only a year, and had just borne him a son. From a day of his death, she had diverted herself, heart and soul, to the bringing up of her precious treasure, her boy Kalia. Though she had loved him passionately those fourteen years, he had caused her far more suffering than happiness. She had been trembling and fainting with terror almost every day. Afraid he would fall ill, would catch cold, do something naughty, climb on a chair and fall off it, and so on and so on. When Kalia began going to school, the mother diverted herself to studying all the sciences with him, so as to help him and go through his lessons with him. She hastened to make the acquaintance of the teachers and their wives, either made up to Kalia's schoolfellows and fallen upon them in the hope of thus saving Kalia from being teased, laughed at, or beaten by them. She went so far that the boys actually began to mock at him on her account and taunt him with being a mother's darling. But the boy could take his own part. He was a resolute boy, tremendously strong as was rumored in his class, and soon proved to be the fact. He was agile, strong-willed, and of an audacious and enterprising temper. He was good at lessons, and there was a rumour in the school that he could beat the teacher, d'Artagnolove, at arithmetic and universal history. Though he looked down upon everyone, he was a good comrade and not super-cilious. He accepted his schoolfellows' respect as his dew, but was friendly with them. Above all, he knew where to draw their line. He could restrain himself on occasion, and in his relations with the teachers he never overstepped that last mystic limit beyond which a prank becomes an unpardonable breach of discipline. But he was as fond of mischief on every possible occasion as the smallest boy in the school, and not so much for the sake of mischief as her creating a sensation, inventing something, something effective and conspicuous. He was extremely vain. He knew how to make even his mother give weight to him. He was almost despotic in his control of her. She gave weight to him—oh, she'd given weight to him for years. The one thought unendurable to her was that her boy had no great love for her. She was always fancying that Collier was unfeeling to her, and at times, dissolving into hysterical tears, she used to reproach him with his coldness. The boy disliked this, and the more demonstrations of feeling were demanded of him, the more he seemed intentionally to avoid them. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, A Plenty, and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. It is Ryan here, and I have a question for you. What do you do when you win? Like, are you a fist-pumper? A woohoo! A hand clap or a high-fiver? If you want to hone in on those winning moves, check out Chumba Casino. Choose from hundreds of social casino-style games for your chance to redeem serious cash prizes. There are new game releases weekly, plus free daily bonuses, so don't wait. Start having the most fun ever at Chumba Casino.com. Sponsored by Chumba Casino, no purchase necessary, VGW Group, voidware prohibited by law, 18-plus terms and conditions apply. Yet it was not intentional on his part, but instinctive. It was his character. His mother was mistaken. He was very fond of her. He only disliked sheepish sentimentality as he expressed it in his schoolboy language. There was a bookcase in the house containing a few books that had been his father's. Collier was fond of reading and had read several of them by himself. His mother did not mind that and only wanted sometimes at seeing the boy stand for hours by the bookcase, pouring over a book instead of going to play. And in that way, Collier read some things unsuitable for his age. Though the boy, as a rule, knew where to draw the line in his mischief, he had of late, begun to play pranks that caused his mother serious alarm. It is true, there was nothing vicious in what he did, but a wild mad recklessness. It happened that July, during the summer holidays, that the mother and son went to another district forty-five miles away to spend a week with a distant relation whose husband was an official at the railway station. The very station, the nearest one to our town, from which a month later, Ivan Fjorovic Carmazov, set off for Moscow. There, Collier began by carefully investigating every detail connected with the railways, knowing that he could impress his schoolfellows when he got home with his newly acquired knowledge. But there happened to be some other boys in the place with whom he soon made friends. Some of them were living at the station, others in the neighbourhood. There were six or seven of them, all between twelve and fifteen, and two of them came from our town. The boys played together, and on the fourth or fifth day of Collier's stay at the station, a mad bet was made by the foolish boys. Collier, who was almost the youngest of the party, and rather looked down upon by the others in consequence, was moved by vanity, or by reckless bravado, to bet them two rubles that he would lie down between the rails at night when the eleven o'clock train was due, and would lie there without moving, while the train rolled over him at full speed. It is true they made a preliminary investigation from which it appeared that it was possible to lie so flat between the rails that the train could pass over without touching, but to lie there was no joke. Collier maintained stoutly that he would. At first they laughed at him, called him a little liar, a bracket, but that only egged him on. What piqued him most was that these boys of fifteen turned up their noses at him too supercelliously, and were at first disposed to treat him as a small boy, not fit to associate with them, and that was an uninsurable insult. And so it was resolved to go in the evening, half a mile from the station, so that the train might have time to get up full speed after leaving the station. The boys assembled. It was a pitch dark night without a moon. At the time fixed, Collier lay down between the rails. The five others, who had taken the bet, waited among the bushes below the embankment, their hearts beating with suspense, which is followed by alarm and remorse. At last they heard in the distance the rumble of the train leaving the station. Two red lights gleamed out of the darkness, the monster roared as it approached. "Run! Run away from the rails!" the boys cried to Collier from the bushes, breathless with terror. But it was too late. The train darted up and flew past. The boys rushed to Collier. He lay without moving. They began pulling at him, lifting him up. He suddenly got up and walked away without a word. Then he explained that he had lain there as though he were insensible to frighten them. But the fact was that he really had lost consciousness as he confessed long after to his mother. In this way his reputation as a desperate character was established forever. He returned home to the station as white as a sheet. Next day he had a slight attack of nervous fever, but he was in high spirits and well pleased with himself. The incident did not become known at once, but when they came back to the town it penetrated to the school and even reached the ears of the masters. But then Collier's mother hastened to entreat the masters on our boys' behalf, and in the end Dardagnolove, a respected and influential teacher, exerted himself in his favor, and the affair was ignored. Dardagnolove was a middle-aged bachelor who had been passionately in love with Madame Casotkin for many years past, and at once already, about a year previously, ventured, trembling with fear and the delicacy of his sentiments to offer her most respectfully his hand in marriage. But she refused him resolutely, feeling that to accept him would be an act of treachery to her son. Though Dardagnolove had to judge from certain mysterious symptoms reason for believing that he was not an object of aversion to the charming but too chased and tenderhearted widow. Collier's mad prank seemed to have broken the ice, and Dardagnolove was rewarded for his intercession by a suggestion of hope. The suggestion, it is true, was a faint one. But then Dardagnolove was such a paragon of purity and delicacy that it was enough for the time being to make him perfectly happy. He was fond of the boy, though he would have felt it beneath him to try and win him over, and was severe and strict with him in class. Collier too kept him at a respectful distance. He learned his lessons perfectly, he was second in his class, was reserved with Dardagnolove, and the whole class firmly believed that Collier was so good at universal history that he could beat even Dardagnolove. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon Saver, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. IT is Ryan C. Chris here. People always say it's good to unwind, but that's easier said than done. The exception, Champa Casino. They actually make it easier done than said, or at least the same. Champa Casino is an online social casino with hundreds of casino-style games like Slots and Blackjack. Play for fun, play for free, for your chance to redeem some serious prizes. Sign up now to collect your free welcome bonus at ChampaCasino.com. Sponsored by Champa Casino. No purchase necessary. VGW Group. Void were prohibited by law. 18+ terms and conditions apply. Collier did indeed ask him the question, "Who found that Troy, to which Dardagnolove, had made a very vague reply referring to the movements and migrations of races, to the remoteness of the period, to the mythical legends?" But the question, "Who had found that Troy, that is, what individuals he could not answer, and even for some reason, regarded the question as idle and frivolous?" But the boys remained convinced that Dardagnolove did not know who found that Troy. Collier had read of the founders of Troy in Smartove, whose history was among the books in his father's bookcase. In the end, all the boys became interested in the question who it was that had found that Troy, but Casodkin would not tell his secret, and his reputation for knowledge remained unshaken. After the incident on the railway, a certain change came over Collier's attitude to his mother. When Anna Fioravna, Madame Casodkin, heard of her son's exploit, she almost went out of her mind with horror. She had such terrible text of hysterics, lasting with intervals for several days, that Collier, seriously alarmed at last, promised on his honour that such pranks should never be repeated. He swore on his knees before the holy image, and swore by the memory of his father, at Madame Casodkin's instance, and the manly Collier burst into tears like a boy of six. And all that day the mother and son were constantly rushing into each other's arms sobbing. Next day, Collier woke up as unfeeling as before, but he had become more silent, more modest, stern and more thoughtful. Six weeks later it is true he got into another scrape, which even brought his name to the ears of our justice of the peace, but it was a scrape of quite another kind, amusing, foolish, and it did not, as it turned out, take the leading part in it, who was only implicated in it. But of this laser. His mother still fretted and trembled, but the more uneasy she became, the greater were the hopes of Dardagnolove. It must be noted that Collier understood and defined what was in Dardagnolove's heart, and, of course, despised him profoundly for his feelings. He had in the past been so techless as to show this contempt before his mother, hinting vaguely that he knew what Dardagnolove was after. But from the time of the railway incident, his behaviour in disrespect also was changed. He did not allow himself the remotest allusion to the subject and began to speak more respectfully of Dardagnolove before his mother, which the sensitive woman at once appreciated with boundless gratitude. But at the slightest mention of Dardagnolove by a visitor in Collier's presence she would flush as pink as a rose. At such moments Collier would either stare out of the window scowling, or would investigate the state of his boots, or would shout angrily for parishion, the big, shaggy, mangy dog which had picked up a month before, brought home, and kept for some reason secretly indoors, not showing him to any of his school fellows. He bullied him frightfully, teaching him all sorts of tricks, so that the poor dog howled for him whenever he was absent at school, and when he came in, whined with the light, rushed about as if you were crazy, begged, lay down on the ground pretending to be dead, and so on. In fact, showed all the tricks he had taught him, not at the word of command, but simply from the zeal of his excited and grateful heart. I have forgotten, by the way, to mention that Collier Cosopkin was the boy stabbed with a pen-knife by the boy already known to the reader as the son of Captain Snagayov. Elucia had been defending his father when the school boys jeered at him, shouting the nickname "Whisworth II." End of chapter one of book ten. Book ten, chapter two, children. And so on that frosty, snowy, and windy day in November, Collier Cosopkin was sitting at home. It was Sunday, and there was no school. It had just struck eleven, and he particularly wanted to go out on very urgent business, but he was left alone in charge of the house, for it so happened that all its elder inmates were absent, owing to a sudden and singular event. Madame Cosopkin had let two little rooms separated from the rest of the house by a passage to a doctor's wife with her two small children. This lady was the same age as Anna Fjorovna and a great friend of hers. Her husband, the doctor, had taken his departure twelve months before, going first to Orenburg and then to Tashkent, and for the last six months she had not heard a word from him. Had it not been for her friendship with Madame Cosopkin, which was some consolation to the forsaken lady, she would certainly have completely dissolved away in tears. And now, to add to her misfortunes, Catarina, her only servant, was suddenly moved the evening before to announce to her mistress's amazement that she proposed to bring a child into the world before mourning. It seemed almost miraculous to everyone that no one had noticed the probability of it before. The astounded doctor's wife decided to move Catarina while there was still time to an establishment in the town kept by a midwife for such emergencies. As she set great store by her servant, she promptly carried out this plan and remained there, looking after her. By the morning, all Madame Cosopkin's friendly sympathy and energy were called upon to render assistance and appeal to someone for help in the case. So, both ladies were absent from home. The Cosopkin's servant, Agafia, had gone out in the market and Collia was thus left for a time to protect and look after the kids, that is, the son and daughter of the doctor's wife, who were left alone. Collia was not afraid of taking care of the house. Besides, he had perish fun, who had been told to lie flat without moving under the bench in the hall. Every time Collia, walking to and fro through the rooms, came into the hall, the dog shook his head and gave too loud at insinuating taps on the floor with his tail. But, alas, the whistle did not sound to release him. Collia looked sternly at a luckless dog, who relapsed again into obedient rigidity. The one thing that troubled Collia was the kids. He looked, of course, with the utmost scorn on Katarina's unexpected adventure, but he was very fond of the bereaved kitties and had already taken them a picture book. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, A Plenty, and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. It can get lonely climbing Mount McKinley, so to entertain myself, I go to Chumbah Casino.com. At Chumbah Casino, I can play hundreds of online casino-style games for free, like online slots, bingo, slingo, and more. Plus, I get a daily login bonus. It's just too bad that up here, I don't have anyone to share my excitement with. Woo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo! Live the Chumbalife anytime, anywhere. Play for free now at Chumbah Casino.com. B.W. Room. No purchases are avoided by law. See terms and conditions, 18 plus. Nastya, the elder, a girl of eight, could read, and Kostya, the boy, eight-seven, was very fond of being read to by her. Kossatkin could, of course, have provided more diverting at attainment for them. He could have made them stand side by side and played soldiers with them, or sent them hiding all over the house. He had done so more than once before, I was not above doing it. So much so that a report once spread at school that Kossatkin played horses with a little lodgers at home, prancing with his head on one side like a trace horse. But Kossatkin heartily paired this thrust, pointing out that to play horses with boys of one's own age, boys of thirteen would certainly be disgraceful at this date, but that he did it for the sake of the kids, because they liked them, and no one had a right to call him to account for his feelings. The two kids adored him. But on this occasion he was in no mood for games. He had very important business of his own before him, something almost mysterious. Meanwhile time was passing, and Agafia, with whom he could have left the children, would not come back from market. He had several times already crossed the passage, opened the door of the lodgers' room, and looked anxiously at the kids, who were sitting over the book as he had bitten them. Every time he opened the door they grinned at him, hoping he would come in, and would do something delightful and amusing. But Koya was bothered and not go in. At last it struck eleven, and he made up his mind once for all, that if that damned Agafia did not come back within ten minutes he should go out without waiting for her, making the kids promise, of course, to be brave when he was away, not to be naughty, not to cry from fright. With this idea he put on his wetted winter overcoat with its cat-skin fur collar, slung his satchel around his shoulder, and, regardless of his mother's constantly reiterated entreaties, that he would always put on galoshes in such cold weather, he looked at them contemptuously, as he crossed the hall, and went out with only his boots on. Perich von, seeing him in his outdoor clothes, began tapping nervously, yet vigorously, on the floor with his tail. Twitching all over he even uttered a plaintiff wine. But Koya, seeing his dog's passionate excitement, decided that it was a breach of discipline, kept him for another minute under the bench, and only when he had opened the door into the passage, whistled for him. The dog leapt up like a mad creature, and rushed, bounding before him raptorously. Koya opened the door to peep at the kids. They were both sitting as before at the table, not reading, but warmly disputing about something. The children often argued together about various exciting problems of life, and Nastya, being the elder, always got the best of it. If Kostya did not agree with her, he almost always appealed to Koya Kasotkin, and his verdict was regarded as infallible by both of them. This time the kid's discussion rather interested Kasotkin, and he stood still in the passage to listen. The children saw he was listening, and that made them dispute with even greater energy. "I shall never, never believe," Nastya praddled, "that the old women find babies among the cabbages in the kitchen garden. It's winter now, and there are no cabbages, and so the old woman couldn't have taken Katerina a daughter." Koya whistled to himself. "Or perhaps they do bring babies from somewhere, but only do those who are married." Kostya stared Nastya, and listened, pondering profoundly. "Nastya, how silly you are," he said at last, firmly and calmly. "How can Katerina have a baby when she isn't married?" Nastya was exasperated. "You know nothing about it," she snapped irritably. "Perhaps she has a husband, only is in prison, so now she's got a baby." "But is her husband in prison?" The matter of fact Kostya inquired gravely. "Or, I tell you what," Nastya interrupted impulsively, completely rejecting and forgetting her first hypothesis. "She hasn't the husband, you're right there, but she wants to be married, and so she's been thinking of getting married, and thinking and thinking of it, till now she's got it, that is, not a husband, but a baby." "Well, perhaps so," Kostya agreed, entirely vanquished. "But she didn't say so before, so how could I tell?" "Come, kitties," said Kalia, stepping into the room. "You're a terrible people, I see." "And bearish one with you," grinned Kostya, and began snapping his fingers and calling Parish one. "I'm in a difficulty, kids," Kostotkin began solemnly. "And you must help me. Agafia must have broken her leg, since she has not turned up till now. That's certain. I must go out. Will you let me go?" The children looked anxiously at one another. Their smiling faces showed signs of uneasiness, but they did not yet fully grasp what was expected of them. "Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon Saver, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. "Hello, it is Ryan, and we could all use an extra bright spot in our day, couldn't we? Just to make up for things like sitting in traffic, doing the dishes, counting your steps, you know, all the mundane stuff. That is why I'm such a big fan of Chumba Casino. Chumba Casino has all your favorite social casino style games that you can play for free anytime, anywhere, with daily bonuses. So sign up now at Chumba Casino dot com. That's Chumba Casino dot com. "sponsored by Chumba Casino, no purchase necessary, vgw group. Avoid where prohibited by law, 18 plus terms and conditions apply." "You won't be naughty while I'm gone. You won't climb on the cupboard and break your legs. You won't be frightened, alone, and cry. A look of profound despondency came into the children's faces. And I could show you something as a reward, a little copper cannon which can be fired with real gun powder." The children's faces instantly brightened. "Show us the cannon," said Gostia, beaming all over. Cusothkin put his hand in his satchel and pulling out a little bronze cannon, stood it on the table. "Ah, you're bound to ask that. Look, it's on wheels. He rolled the toy on along the table. And it can be fired off, too. It can be loaded with shot and fired off. And it could kill anyone. It can kill anyone. You've only got to aim at anybody." Cusothkin explained why the power had to be put, where the shot should be rolled in, showing a tiny hole like a touch hole, and told them that it kicked when it was fired. The children listened with intense interest. What particularly struck their imagination was that the cannon kicked. "And have you got any powder?" Lostia inquired. "Yes." "Show us the power, too," she drawled with a smile of entreaty. Cusothkin dived again into his satchel and pulled out a small flask containing a little real gun powder. He had some shot, too, in a screw of paper. He even uncorked the flask and shook a little powder into the palm of his hand. "One has to be careful. There's no fire about, or it will blow up and kill us all," Cusothkin warned them sensationally. The children gazed at the powder with an awe-stricken alarm that only intensify their enjoyment, but Cusothkin liked the shot better. "And does the shot burn?" he inquired. "No, it doesn't." "Give me a little shot?" he asked in an imploring voice. "I'll give you a little shot. Here, take it. But don't show it to your mother till I come back, or she'll be sure to think it's gun powder, and will die of fright and give you a thrashing." "What a never does we, buzz," Nastia observed at once. "I know. I only set it to finish the sentence. And don't you ever deceive your mother, except just this once, until I come back. And so, kiddies, can I go out? You won't be frightened and cry when I'm gone?" "We shall cry," drolled Cuschia, on the verge of tears already. "We shall cry. We shall be sure to cry," Nastia chimed in with timid haste. "How children, children! How fraught with peril are your years. There's no help for it, chickens. I shall have to stay with you. I don't know how long. And time is passing. Time is passing. Tell Perich von to pretend to be dead!" Cuschia begged. "There's no help for it. We must have recalls to Perich von. Easy Perich von." And Collier began giving orders to the dog, who performed all his tricks. He was a rough-haired dog, of medium size, with a coat of a sort of lilac gray color. He was blind in his right eye, and his left ear was toned. He whined and jumped, stood and walked on his hind legs, lay on his back with his paws in the air, rigid as though he were dead. While this last performance was going on, the door opened, and Agafia, Madam Cuschikin's servant, a stout woman of forty, marked with smallpox, appeared in the doorway. She had come back from market, and had a bag full of provisions in her hand. Holding out the bag of provisions in her left hand, she stood still to watch the dog. Though Collier had been so anxious for her return, he did not cut short the performance, and, after keeping Perich von dead for the usual time, at last, he whistled to him. The dog jumped up, and began bowing about in his joy at having done his duty. "Only think, a dog!" Agafia observed scintentiously. "Why are you late, female?" asked Cuschikin sternly. "Femill, indeed! Come on with you, you brat!" "Brat?" "Yes, a brat! What is it to you, if I'm late? If I'm late, you may be sure I have good reason," Madam Cuschikin, busying herself about the stove, without a trace of anger or displeasure in her voice. She seemed quite pleased, in fact, to enjoy his skirmish with her merry young master. "Listen, you frivolous young woman," Cuschikin began, getting up from the sofa. "Can you swear, by all you hold sacred in the world, and something else besides, that you'll watch vigilantly over the kids in my absence? I'm going out." "And what am I going to swear for?" laughed Agafia. "I shall look after them without that." "No, you must swear on your eternal salvation. Else I shan't go." "Well, don't then, what does it matter to me? Pitts called out, stay at home." "Kitts," Colia turned to the children. "This woman will stay with you till I come back, or till your mother comes, for she ought to have been back long ago. She will give you some lunch, too. You'll give them something, Agafia, won't you? For that I can do." "Goodbye, chickens. I go with my heart at rest. And you, granny," he added gravely in an undertone, as he passed Agafia. "I hope you'll spare their tender years, and not tell them any of your old woman's nonsense about Catarina. Is he, Pauswan?" "Get along with you!" retorted Agafia, really angry this time. Ridiculous boy, you want the whipping for saying such things, that's what you want." "And of Chapter Two of Book Ten." Book Ten, Chapter Three, the school boy. But Colia did not hear her. At last, he could go out. As he went out at the gate, he looked round him, shrugged up his shoulders, and saying, "It's freezing!" went straight along the street, and turned off to the right, towards the marketplace. When he reached the last house but won before the marketplace, he stopped at the gate, pulled a whistle out of his pocket, and whistled with all his might as though giving a signal. Yet not to wait more than a minute, before a rosy-chicked boy of about eleven, wearing a warm, neat, and even stylish coat, darted out to meet him. This was Smurov, a boy in the preparatory class, two classes below Colia Kasodkin, son of a well-to-do official. Apparently, he was forbidden by his parents to associate with Kasodkin, who was well known to be a desperately naughty boy, so Smurov was obviously slipping out on the sly. He was, if there either has not forgotten, one of the group of boys who two months before had thrown stones at Illusia. He was the one who told Allysha about Illusia. "I've been waiting for you for the last hour of Kasodkin," said Smurov stolidly, "and the boys strode towards the marketplace." "I'm late," answered Kasodkin. "I was detained by circumstances. You won't be thrashed for coming with me." "Come," I say, "I'm never thrashed, and you've got Parachvan with you?" "Yes." "You're taking him, too?" "Yes." "Ah, if it were only Zhuzka." "That's impossible. Zhuzka's non-existent. Zhuzka is lost in the mists of obscurity." "Ah, couldn't we do this?" Smurv suddenly stood still. "You see, Illusia says that Zhuzka was a shaggy, greyish, smoky-looking dog like Parachvan. Couldn't you tell him this is Zhuzka, and he might believe you?" "Bye, shine a lie. That's one thing. Even with a good object. That's another. Above all, I hope you've not told them anything about my coming." "Heaven forbid. I know what I am about, but he won't comfort him with Parachvan. Such morph with a sigh." "You know his father, the captain, the wisp of two, told us that it was going to bring him a real mast of pup with a black nose today. He thinks that would comfort Illusia, but I doubt it." "And how is Illusia?" "Ah, he's bad, very bad. I believe he's in consumption. He's quite conscious, but his breathing. His breathing's gone wrong. The other day, he asked to have his boots on to be led around the room. He tried to walk, but he couldn't stand. "Ah, I told you before, father," he said, "that those boots were no good. I could never walk properly in them." He fancied it was his boots that made him stagger, but it was simply weakness, really. "He won't live another week. Hudson's stoop is looking after him. Now they're rich again. They've got heaps of money." "They're rogues." "Who are rogues?" "Ductors, and the whole crew of quacks collectively, and also, of course, individually. I don't believe in medicine. It's a useless institution. I mean to go into all that. But what's that sentimentality you've got up there? The whole class seems to be there every day." "Not the whole class. It's only ten of our fellows who go to see him every day. There's nothing in that." "What I don't understand in all this is the part that Alexei Karmazov is taking in it. His brother's going to be tried tomorrow or next day for such a crime, and yet he has so much time to spend on sentimentality with boys." "There's no sentimentality about it. You're going yourself now to make it up with Elucia." "Make it up with him. What an absurd expression. But I allow no one to analyze my actions. And how pleased Elucia will be to see you. He has no idea that you're coming. Why was it? Why was it you wouldn't come all this time?" Smooth cried with sudden warmth. "My dear boy, that's my business. Not yours. I'm going of myself because I choose to. But you've all been hauled there by Alexei Karmazov. There's a difference, you know. And how do you know? I may not be going to make it up at all. It's a stupid expression." "It's not Karmazov at all. It's not his doing. Our fellows began going there of themselves. Of course, they went with Karmazov at first. And there's been nothing of that sort of silliness. First one went, and then another. His father was awfully pleased to see us. You know, he will simply go out of his mind if Elucia dies. He sees that Elucia's dying, and he seems so glad we've made it up with Elucia. Elucia asked after you. That was all. He just asks and says no more. His father will go out of his mind, or hang himself. He behaved like a madman before. You know he's a very decent man. We made a mistake then. It's all the fault of that murder who beat him then. Karmazov's a riddle to me all the same. I might have made his acquaintance long ago, but I like to have a proper pride in some cases. Besides, I have a theory about him which I must work out and verify." Koliya subsided into dignified silence. Smaller of two was silent. Smaller, of course, worshipped Cassotkin and never dreamt of putting himself on a level with him. Now he was tremendously interested at Koliya's saying that he was going off himself to see Elucia. He felt that there must be some mystery in Koliya's suddenly taking it into his head to go to him that day. They crossed the marketplace in which at that hour were many loaded wagons from the country and a great number of life falls. The marked women were selling rolls, cottons and threats etc. in their boots. These Sunday markets were naively cold fairs in the town, and there were many such fairs in the year. Peresven ran about in the wildest spirits, sniffing about first one side than the other. When he met other dogs they zealously smelled each other over according to the rules of canine etiquette. "I like to watch such realistic scenes, Smorov," said Koliya suddenly. "Have you noticed how dogs sniff at one another when they meet? It seems to be a law of their nature." "Yeah, it's a funny habit." "No, it's not funny. You're wrong there. There's nothing funny in nature. However funny it may seem to man with his prejudices. If dogs could reason and criticize us, they'd be sure to find just as much that would be funny to them. If not far more, in the special relations of man, their masters. Far more indeed. I repeat that because I'm convinced that there is far more foolishness among us." "That's our kitten's idea. A remarkable idea." "I'm a socialist, Smorov." "And what is a socialist?" asked Smorov. "That's when all are equal, and all have property in common. There are no marriages, and everyone has any religion and laws he likes best, and all the rest of it. You are not old enough to understand that yet." "It's cold, though." "Yes, 12 degrees of frost, farther than the momenter just now." "Have you noticed, Smorov, that in the middle of winter we don't feel so cold even when there are fifteen or eighteen degrees of frost as we do now, in the beginning of winter, when there is a sudden frost of twelve degrees, especially when there is not much snow?" "It's because people are not used to it. Everything is habit with man, everything even in their social and political relations. Habit is the great mode of power." "What a funny-looking peasant!" Collier pointed to a tall peasant with a good-natured countenance in a long sheepskin coat, he was standing by his wagon, clapping together his hands in their shapeless leather gloves to warm them. His long, fair beard was all white with frost. "That peasant's beard's frozen!" Collier cried in a loud, provocative voice as he passed him. "Lots of people's beards are frozen," the peasant replied calmly and sententiously. "Don't provoke him," observed Smorov. "It's all right. He won't be cross. He's a nice fellow." "Good-bye, Madve." "Good-bye." "Is your name, Madve?" "Yes, didn't you know?" "No, I didn't. It was a guess." "You don't say so. You're a schoolboy, I suppose." "Yes." "You get whipped, I expect." "Nothing to speak of, sometimes." "Does it hurt?" "Well, yes, it does." "Ah, what a life." The peasant heaved his sigh from the bottom of his heart. "Good-bye, Madve." "Good-bye." "You are a nice chap that you are." The boys went on. "That was a nice peasant," Collier observed to Smorv. "I like talking to the peasants, and I'm always glad to do them justice." "Why did you tell a lie, pretending we are thrashed?" asked Smorv. "I had to say that to please him." "How do you mean?" "You know, Smorv, I don't like being asked the same thing twice. I like people to understand that the first word. Some things can't be explained. According to a peasant's notions, schoolboys are whipped and must be whipped. What would a schoolboy be if he were not whipped? And if I were to tell him we are not, he'd be disappointed." "But you don't understand that. One has to know how to talk to the peasants." "Only don't tease them, please, or you'll get into another scrape as you did about that goose." "So you're afraid?" "Don't laugh, Collier. Of course I'm afraid. My father would be awfully cross. I'm strictly forbidden to go out with you." "Don't be uneasy. Nothing will happen this time." "Hello, Natasha," he shouted to a marketwoman in one of the booths. "Call me, Natasha. What next? My name is Maya," the middle-aged marketwoman shouted at him. "I'm so glad it's Maya. Goodbye." "Ah, you young rascal. A brat like you to carry on so." "I'm in a hurry. I can't stay now. You shall tell me next Sunday." Collier waved his hand at her, as though she had attacked him and not he/her. "I've nothing to tell you next Sunday. You said upon me, you impudent young monkey. I didn't say anything," bald Maria. "You want a whipping? That's what you want. You saucy jack-a-napes." There was a roar of laughter among the other marketwomen around her. Suddenly a man in a violent rage darted out from the arcade of shops close by. He was a young man, not a native of the town, with dark curly hair and a long pale face marked with smallpox. He wore a long blue coat and a peaked cap and looked like a merchant's clerk. He was in a state of stupid excitement and branched as fisted Collier. "I know you," he cried angrily. "I know you." Collier stared at him. He could not recall when he could have had a row with the man, but he'd been in so many rows in the street that he could hardly remember them all. "Do you," he asked sarcastically. "I know you. I know you," the man repeated idiotically. "So much the better for you. Well, it's time I was going. Goodbye." "You're at your saucy pranks again?" cried the man. "You're at your saucy pranks again?" "I know. You're at it again." "It's not your business, brother. If I am at my saucy pranks again," said Collier, standing still and scanning him. "Not my business." "No, it's not your business." "Who's then?" "Who's then?" "Who's then?" "It's Trifon Nikitich business, not yours." "What Trifon Nikitich?" asked the youth, staring with a loudish amazement at Collier, but still as angry as ever. "Collier's can't him gravely." "Have you been to the Church of the Ascension?" he suddenly asked him, with stern emphasis. "What Church of the Ascension?" "What for?" "No, I haven't," said the young man, somewhat taken aback. "Do you know Sabanyev?" Collier went on, even more emphatically and even more severely. "What's Sabanyev?" "No, I don't know him." "Well then, you can go to the devil," said Collier, cutting short the conversation. And turning sharply to the right, he strode quickly on his way, as though he disdained further conversation with a dwarf who did not even know Sabanyev. "Stop, eh, what's Sabanyev?" The young man recovered from his momentary to perfection and was as excited as before. "What did he say?" He turned to the marked woman with a silly stare. The women laughed. "You can never tell what he's after," said one of them. "What's Sabanyev is it he's talking about," the young man repeated, still furious and brandishing his right arm. "It must be a Sabanyev who worked for the Kuzmajovs, that's who it must be," one of the women suggested. The young man stared at her wildly. "For the Kuzmajovs," repeated another woman, "but his name wasn't Rifon, his name's Kuzma, not Rifon, but the boy said Rifon Nikitich, so it can't be the same." "His name's not Rifon, and not Sabanyev, it's Chishov," put in suddenly a third woman who had hitherto been silent, listening gravely. "Alexaivanic is his name." "Chishov, Alexaivanic." "Now that I doubt about it, it's Chishov," a fourth woman emphatically confirmed the statement. The bewildered youth gazed from one to another. "But what did he ask for? What did he ask for, good people?" he cried almost in desperation. "Do you know Sabanyev says he, and who the devils to know who is Sabanyev?" "You're a senseless fellow. I tell you it's not Sabanyev, but Chishov. Alexaivanic, Chishov. That's who it is," one of the women shouted at him impressively. "What, Chishov? Who is he? Tell me, if you know." "That tall, sniveling fellow who used to sit in the market in the summer." "And what you're Chishov to do with me, good people are." "How can I tell what he to do with you?" put in another. "You ought to know yourself what you want with him, if you make such a clamor about him. He spoke to you, he did not speak to us, you stupid. Don't you really know him?" "No whom?" "Chishov. The devil takes Chishov and you with him. I'll give him a hiding that I will. He was laughing at me." "We'll give Chishov a hiding. More likely he will give you one. You're a fool, that's what you are." "Not Chishov. Not Chishov, he's spiteful mischievous woman. I'll give the boy a hiding. Catch him. Catch him. He was laughing at me." The woman, Guffant, but Collia was by now a long way off, marching along with a triumphant air. Smurf walked beside him, looking round at the shouting group far behind. He too was in high spirits, though he was still afraid of getting into some scrape in Collia's company. "What's so many of, did you mean?" he asked Collia, for seeing what his answer would be. "How do I know? Now there'll be a habit among them all day. I like the stirrup fools in every class of society. There's another blockhead, that peasant there. You know, they say there's no one stupider than its stupid Frenchman, but a stupid Russian shows it in his face just as much. Can't you see it all over his face that he's a fool that peasant there?" "Let him alone, Collia. Let's go on. Nothing could stop me now, I'm once off. Hey, good morning, peasant." A sturdy-looking peasant, with a round, simple face and grizzled beard who was walking by, raised his head and looked at the boy. "You seem not quite sober." "Good morning, if you're not laughing at me," you said deliberately in reply. "And if I am?" laughed Collia. "Well, a joke's a joke. Laugh away. I don't mind. There's no harm in a joke." "I beg your pardon, brother. It was a joke." "Well, God forgive you." "Do you forgive me too?" "I quite forgive you. Go along." "I say, you seem a clever peasant." "Clever than you," the peasant answered unexpectedly, with the same gravity. "I doubt it," said Collia, somewhat taken aback. "It's true, though." "Perhaps it is." "It is, brother." "Goodbye, peasant." "Goodbye." "There are all sorts of peasants," Collia observed a smore of after a brief silence. "How could I tell I'd hit on a clever one? I'm always ready to recognize intelligence in the peasantry." In the distance, the cathedral clock struck half past 11. The boys made haste, and they walked as far as Captain Snagiloff's lodging, a considerable distance, quickly and almost in silence. Twenty paces from the house, Collia stopped and told Smurf to go on ahead and asked Karamazov to come out to him. "One must sniff round a bit first," he observed a smore of. "Why ask him to come out?" Smurf protested. "You go in. They'll be awfully glad to see you. What's the sense of making friends in the frost out here?" "I know why I want to see him out here in the frost," Collia cut him short, in a despotic tone he was fond of adopting with small boys, and Smurf ran to do his bidding. End of chapter three of book ten. Book ten, chapter four, The Lost Dog. Collia, lent against the fence with an air of dignity, waiting for Elia Shatter to appear. Yes, he had long wanted to meet him. He had heard a great deal about him from the boys, but here there too, he had always maintained an appearance of disdainful indifference when he was mentioned, and he had even criticized what he heard about Elia Shatter. But secretly, he had a great longing to make his acquaintance. There was something sympathetic and attractive in all he was told about Elia Shatter. So the present moment was important. To begin with, he had to show himself at his best to show his independence. Oral, think of me as thirteen and take me for a boy, like the rest of them. How bad are these boys to him? I shall ask him when I get to know him. It's a pity I am so short, though. Toosikov is younger than I am, yet he is half ahead taller. But I have a clever face. I'm not good-looking. I know I'm hideous, but I have a clever face. I mustn't talk too freely. If I fall into his arms all at once, he may think, how horrible if he should think. Such were the thoughts that excited Collier, while he was doing his utmost to assume the most independent air. What distressed him most was his being so short. He did not mind so much his hideous face as being so short. On the wall in a corner at home, he had the year before made a pencil mark to show his height, and every two months since, he anxiously measured himself against it to see how much he had gained. But alas, he grew very slowly, and this sometimes reduced him almost to despair. His face was in reality by no means hideous. On the contrary, it was rather attractive, with a fair pale skin, freckled. His small, lively grey eyes had a fearless look, and often glowed with feeling. He had rather high cheekbones, small, very red, but not very thick lips. His nose was small and unmistakably turned up. "I have a regular pug nose. A regular pug nose," Collier used to mutter to himself, when he looked in a looking-glass, and he always left it with indignation. "But perhaps I haven't got a clever face," he sometimes thought, doubtful even of that. But it must not be supposed that his mind was preoccupied with his face and his height. On the contrary, however bitter the moments before the looking-glass were to him, he quickly forgot them, and forgotten them for a long time, abandoning himself entirely to ideas and to real life, as he formulated it to himself. Ayesha came out quickly and hastened up to Collier. Before he reached him, Collier could see that he looked delighted. "Can he be so glad to see me?" Collier wondered, feeling pleased. "We may not hear in passing that Ayesha's appearance had undergone a complete change since we saw him last. He had abandoned his cassock and was wearing now a well-cut coat, a soft round head, and his hair had been cropped short. All this was very becoming to him, and he looked quite handsome. His charming face always had a good humour expression, but there was a gentleness and serenity in his good humour. To Collier's surprise Ayesha came out to him just as he was, without an overcoat. He had evidently come in haste. He held out his hand to Collier at once. "Here you are, at last. How anxious we've been to see you." "There are reasons which you shall know it directly. Anyway, I'm glad to make your acquaintance. I've long been hoping for an opportunity, and have heard a great deal about you," Collier muttered, little breathless. "We should have met anyway. I've heard a great deal about you, too, but you've been a long time coming here." "Tell me, how are things going?" Ayesha is very ill. He is certainly dying. "How awful! You must admit that medicine is a fraud, Carmazov," cried Collier warmly. "Elucia has mentioned you often, very often, even in his sleep, in the leery, you know. One can see that you used to be very, very dear to him, before the incident, with the knife." "Then there's another reason. Tell me, is that your dog?" "Yes, Perichvan." "Not Schuchka?" Ayesha looked at Collier with eyes full of pity. "If she lost forever?" "I know you would all like it to be Schuchka. I've heard all about it," Collier smiled mysteriously. "Listen, Carmazov. I'll tell you all about it. That's what I came for. That's what I asked you to come out here for, to explain the whole episode to you before we go in." He began with animation. "You see, Carmazov. Elucia came into the preparatory class last spring. Well, you know what our preparatory class is. A lot of small boys." They began teasing Elucia at once. "I am two classes higher up, and, of course, I only look on at them for a distance. I saw the boy was weak and small, but he wouldn't give into them. He fought with them. I saw he was proud, and his eyes were full of fire. I like children like that. And they teased him all the more. The worst of it was, he was horribly dressed at the time. His breeches were too small for him, and there were holes in his boots. They worried him about it. They deared at him. "That, I can't stand. I stood up for him at once, and gave it to them hot. I beat them. But they adore me. Do you know, Carmazov?" Collier boasted impossibly. "But I'm always fond of children. I've two chickens in my hands at home now. That's what detained me today. So they left off beating Elucia, and I took him under my protection. I saw the boy was proud. I tell you that, the boy was proud. But in the end, he became slavishly devoted to me. He did my slightest bidding, obeyed me as though I were God, tried to copy me. In the intervals between the classes, he used to run to me at once, and I'd go about with him. On Sundays, too. They always laugh when an older boy makes friends with a younger one like that. But that's a prejudice. If it's my fancy, that's enough. I'm teaching him, developing him. Why shouldn't I develop him, if I like him?" "Here you, Carmazov, have taken up with all these nestlings. I see you want to influence the younger generation, to develop them, to be of use to them. And I assure you this trade in your character which I knew by hearsay attracted me more than anything. Let us get to the point, though. I noticed that there was a sort of softness and sentimentality coming over the boy. And you know, I have a positive hatred of this sheepish sentimentality, and I've had it from a baby. There were contradictions in him, too. He was proud, but he was slavishly devoted to me, and yet all at once his eyes would flash, and it refused to agree with me. He'd argue, fly into a rage. I used sometimes to propound certain ideas. I could see that it was not so much that he disagreed with the ideas, but that he was simply rebelling against me, because I was cool in responding to his endearments. And so, in order to train him properly, the tenor he was, the colder I became. I did it on purpose. That was my idea. My object was to form his character, to lick up into shape, to make a man of him. And besides, no doubt, you understand me had a word. Suddenly I noticed, for three days in succession, he was downcast and ejected, not because of my coldness, but for something else, something more important. I wondered what the tragedy was. I've pumped him, and found out that he had somehow got to know Smagikov, who was footman to your late father. It was before his death, of course, and he taught a little fool a silly trick, that is, a brutal, nasty trick. He told him to take a piece of bread, to stick a pin in it, and to throw it to one of those hungry dogs who snap up anything without biting it, and then to watch and see what would happen. So they prepared a piece of bread like that, and threw it to Zhuzka, that shaggy dog there's been such a fuss about. The people of the house it belonged to never fed it at all, though it barked all day. Do you like that stupid bargain, Karamazov? I can't stand it. So it rushed that the bread, soldered it, and began to squeal. It turned round and round, and ran away, squealing as it ran out of sight. That was Elisha's own account of it. He confessed it to me, and cried bitterly. He hugged me, shaking all over. He kept on repeating, he ran away, squealing. The sight of that haunted him. He was tormented by remorse, I could see that. I took it seriously. I determined to give him a lesson for other things as well. So I must confess, I wasn't quite straightforward, and pretended to be more indignant perhaps than I was. "You've done a nasty thing," I said. "You're a scoundrel. I won't tell of it, of course, but I shall have nothing more to do with you for a time. I'll think it over, and let you know through smore of. That's the boy who's just come with me. He's always ready to do anything for me. Whether I will have anything to do with you in the future, or whether I give you up for good as a scoundrel." He was tremendously upset. I must own. I felt I'd gone too far as I spoke, but there was no help for it. I did what I thought best at the time. A day or two after, I sensed more of, to tell him that I would not speak to him again. That's what we call it, when two schoolfellas refused to have anything more to do with one another. Secretly I only meant to send him to Coventry for a few days, and then, if I saw signs of repentance, to hold up my hand to him again. That was my intention. But what do you think happened? He heard Smore's message. His eyes flashed. "Tell Kosotkin for me," he cried, "that I will throw Brett with pins to all the dogs. All, all of them." So he's gone in for a little temper. "We must smoke it out of him." And I began to treat him with contempt. Whenever I met him, I turned away or smiled sarcastically. And just then, that affair with his father happened. You remember? You must realize that he was fearfully worked up by what had happened already. The boys, seeing I'd given him up, sat on him, and taunted him, shouting, "Whispoth two! Whispoth two!" And he had soon regular skirmishes with them, which I am very sorry for. They seemed to have given him one very bad beating. One day he flew at them all as they were coming out of school. I stood a few yards off, looking on. And I swear I don't remember that I loved. It was quite the other way. I felt awfully sorry for him. In another minute, I would have run up to take his part. But he suddenly met my eyes. I don't know what he fancied. But he pulled out a pen-knife, rushed at me, and struck at my thigh. Here on my right leg. I didn't move. I don't mind owning. I am plucky sometimes, Karamazov. I simply look at him contemptuously, as though to say, "This is how you repay all my kindness. Do it again if you like. I'm at your service." But he didn't stab me again. He broke down. He was frightened at what he had done. He threw away the knife, burst out crying, and ran away. I did not sneak on him, of course, and I made them all keep quiet, so it shouldn't come to the ears of the masters. I didn't even tell my mother till I did healed up, and the wound was in me a scratch. And then I heard that the same day he'd been throwing stones and a bit in your finger. But you understand, now what a state he was in. Well, it can't be helped. It was stupid of me not to come and forgive him. That is, to make it up with him, when he was taken ill. I'm sorry for it now. But I had a special reason. So now I've told you all about it. But I'm afraid it was stupid of me. Oh, what a pity, exclaimed Allysha, with feeling. That I didn't know before what terms you were on with him, or I'd have come to you long ago to beg you to go to him with me. Would you believe it when he was feverish he talked about you in delirium? I didn't know how much you were to him. And you've really not succeeded in finding that dog. His father and the boys have been hunting all over the town for it. Would you believe it since he's been ill? I three times heard him repeat with tears. It's because I killed Jurzka, father, that I'm ill now. God is punishing me for it. He can't get that idea out of his head. And if the dog were found and proved to be alive, one might almost fancy that Joy would cure him. We have all rested our hopes on you. "Tell me, what made you hope that I should be the one to find him?" Koya asked, with great curiosity. "Why did you reckon on me rather than anyone else?" There was a report that you were looking for the dog, and that you would bring it when you found it. Smurf said something of the sword. We've all been trying to persuade El Yusha that the dog is alive and that it's been seen. The boys brought him a life hair. He just looked at it with a faint smile and asked them to set it free in the fields. And so we did. His father is just this moment come back, bringing him a massive pup, hoping to comfort him with that. But I think it only makes it worse. "Tell me, Kamazov. What sort of man is the father? I know him. But what do you make of him? A mountain bank? A buffoon?" "Oh, no. There are people of deep feeling who have been somehow crushed. Buffoonery in them is a form of resentful irony against those to whom they dare and speak the truth. From having been, for years, humiliated and intimidated by them." "Believe me, Chris Otkin. That sort of buffoonery is sometimes tragic in the extreme." His whole life now is centered in El Yusha, and if El Yusha dies, he will either go mad with grief or kill himself. I feel almost certain of that when I look at him now." "I understand you, Kamazov. I see you understand human nature," Koya added, with feeling. "And as soon as I saw you with the dog, I thought it was Rutska you were bringing." "Wait a bit, Kamazov. Perhaps we shall find it yet. But this is parish fun. I'll let him go in now, and perhaps it will amuse El Yusha more than the massive pup. Wait a bit, Kamazov. You'll know something in a minute. But I say, I'm keeping you here," Koya cried suddenly. "You've no overcoat on. In this bitter cold, you see what an egoist I am. We're all egoists, Kamazov." "Don't trouble. It is cold, but I don't often catch cold. Let us go in, though. And, by the way, what is your name? I know you are called Koya, but what else?" "Nicolei. Nicolei Ivanovich Krasotkin. Or as they say in official documents, Krasotkin's son." Koya laughed for some reason, but added suddenly. "Of course, I hate my name, Nicolei. Why so?" "It's so trivial, so ordinary." "You are thirteen?" asked El Yusha. "No, fourteen. That is, I shall be fourteen very soon in a fortnight. I'll confess one weakness of mine, Kamazov, just to you, since it's our first meeting, so that you may understand my character at once. I hate being asked my age. More than that. And, in fact, there is a libelous story going about me that last week I played robbers with the preparatory boys. It's a fact that I did play with them, but it's perfectly liable to say I did it for my own amusement. I have reasons for believing that you've heard the story. But I wasn't playing for my own amusement. It was for the sake of the children, because they couldn't think of anything to do by themselves. But they've always got some silly tale. This is an awful town for gossip I can tell you." "But what if you had been playing for your own amusement? What's the harm?" "Come," I say, "for my own amusement. You don't play horses, do you?" "But you must look at it like this," said El Yusha, smiling. "Grown up people go to the theatre, and they're the adventures of all sorts of heroes I represented. Sometimes there are robbers and battles, too, and isn't that just the same thing in a different form, of course? Had young people's games of soldiers or robbers in their play time are also art in its first stage? You know, they spring from the growing artistic instincts of the young. And sometimes these games are much better than performances in the theatre. The only difference is that people go there to look at the actors, while in these games the young people are the actors themselves. But that's only natural." "You think so? Is that your idea?" Koya looked at him intently. "Oh, you know, that's rather an interesting view. When I go home, I'll think it over. I'll admit I thought I might learn something from you. I've come to learn of you, Karamazov," Koya concluded, in a voice full of spontaneous feeling. "And I of you," said El Yusha, smiling and pressing his hand. Koya was much pleased with El Yusha. What struck him most was that he treated him exactly like an equal, and that he talked to him, just as if he were quite grown up. "I'll show you something directly, Karamazov. It's a theatrical performance, too," he said, laughed nervously. "That's why I've come." "Let us go first to the people of the house, on the left. All the boys leave their coats in there, because the room is small and hot." "Oh, I'm only coming in for a minute. I'll keep on my overcoat. Peritron, stay here in the passage and be dead. You see, Peritron, lie down and be dead. You see how he's dead? I'll go in first and explore. Then I'll whistle to him when I think fit, and you'll see he'll dash in like mad. Only Smurf must not forget to open the door at the moment. I'll arrange it all, and you'll see something." End of chapter 4 of book 10. Book 10, chapter 5, by Lucius Betside. The room inhabited by the family of the retired captain Snegayov is already familiar to the reader. It was close and crowded at that moment, with a number of visitors. Several boys were sitting with Illusia, and though all of them, likes Smurf, were prepared to deny that it was Al-Yosha who had brought them and reconciled them with Illusia, it was really the fact. All the art he had used had been to take them, one by one, to Illusia, without sheepish sentimentality, appearing to do so casually, and without design. It was a great consolation to Illusia in his suffering. He was greatly touched by seeing the almost tender affection and sympathy shown in him by these boys who had been his enemies. Kazatkin was the only one missing, and his absence was a heavy load on Illusia's heart. Perhaps the bitterest of all his bitter memories was his stabbing Kazatkin who had been his one friend and protector. Clever little Smurf, who was the first to make it up with Illusia, thought it was so. But once Smurf hinted to Kazatkin that Illusia wanted to come and see him about something, the letter cut him short, bidding Smurf, tell Karamazov at once that he knew best what to do, that he wanted no one's advice, and that if he went to see Illusia, he would choose his own time, for he had his own reasons. That was a fortnight before this Sunday. That was why Illusia had not been to see him, as he had meant to. But though he waited, he sent Smurf to him twice again. Both times, Kazatkin met him with a curd, impatient refusal, sending Illusia a message not to bother him any more, that if he came himself, he, Kazatkin, would not go to Illusia at all. Up to the very last day, Smurf did not know that Koya meant to go to Illusia that morning, and only the evening before, as he parted from Smurf, Koya abruptly told him to wait at home for him next morning, for he would go with him to the snareofs. But wanted him on no account to say he was coming, as he wanted to drop in casually. Smurf obeyed. Smurf was fancy that Koya would bring back the lost dog, was based on the words Koya had dropped that they must be asses not to find the dog if it was alive. And Smurf, waiting for an opportunity, timidly hinted at his guess about the dog, Kazatkin flew into a violent rage. I am not such an ass as to go hunting about the town for other people's dogs when I have got a dog of my own, and how can you imagine a dog could be alive after swallowing a pin? Shippish sentimentality, that's what it is. For the last fortnight, Illusia had not left his little bed under the icons in the corner. He had not been to school since the day he met Illusia and bit his finger. He was taken ill the same day, though for a month afterwards he was sometimes able to get up and walk about the room and passage. But laterally, he had become so weak that he could not move without help from his father. His father was terribly concerned about him. He even gave up drinking and was almost crazy with terror that his boy would die. And often, especially after leading him around the room, on his arm, and putting him back to bed, he would run to a dark corner in a passage, and, leaning his head against the wall, who would break into paroxysms of violent weeping, stifling his subs that they might not be hurt by Illusia. Returning to the room, he would usually begin doing something to amuse and comfort his precious boy. He would tell him stories, funny anecdotes, or would mimic comic people he had happened to meet, even imitate the howls and cries of animals. But Illusia could not bear to see his father fooling and playing the buffoon. Though the boy tried not to show how he disliked it, he saw with an aching heart that his father was an object of contempt, and he was continually haunted by the memory of the wisp of tow and that terrible day. Nina, Illusia's gentle, crippled sister, did not like her father's buffoonery either. Fava had been gone for some time past the Petersburg to study at the university but a half imbecile mother was greatly diverted and laughed heartily when her husband began capering about or performing something. It was the only way she could be amused. All the rest of the time she was grumbling and complaining that now everyone had forgotten her, that no one treated her with respect, that she was slighted and so on. But during the last few days she had completely changed, she began looking constantly at Illusia's bed in the corner and seemed lost in thought. She was more silent, quieter, and if she cried, she cried quietly so as not to be heard. The captain noticed the change in her with mournful propensity. The boy's visits at first only angered her, but later on their merry shouts and stories began to divert her. And at last she liked them so much that if the boy's given up coming she would have felt dreary without them. When the children told some story or played a game, she laughed and clapped her hands. She called some of them to her and kissed them. She was particularly fond of Smurov. As for the captain, the presence in his room of the children who came to cheer up Illusia filled his heart from the first with ecstatic joy. He even hoped that Illusia would now get over his depression and that that would hasten his recovery. In spite of his alarm about Illusia, he had not till lately felt one minute's doubt of his boy's ultimate recovery. He met as little visitors without much, waited upon them hand and foot. He was ready to be their horse and even began letting them ride on his back. But Illusia did not like the game and it was given up. He began buying little things for them, gingerbread and nuts, gave them tea and cut them sandwiches. It must be noted that all this time he had plenty of money. He had taken the 200 rubles from Katarina Ivanovna just as Illosia had predicted he would. And afterwards, Katarina Ivanovna, learning more about their circumstances and Illusia's illness, visited them herself, made the acquaintance of the family and succeeded in fascinating the half-imbecile mother. Since then, she had been lavish in helping them, and the captain, terror-stricken, at the thought that his boy might be dying, forgot his pride and humbly accepted her assistance. All this time, Dr. Hudson Stuber, who was called in by Katarina Ivanovna, came punctually every other day, but little was gained by his visit, and he dozed the invalid mercilessly. But on that Sunday morning, a new doctor was expected, who had come from Moscow, where he had a great reputation. Katarina Ivanovna had sent for him, from Moscow, at great expense, not expressly for Illusia, but for another object, of which more will be said in his place hereafter. But, as he had come, she had asked him to see Illusia as well, and the captain had been told to expect him. He hadn't the slightest idea that Kalya Kasotkin was coming, though he had long wished for a visit from the boy, for whom Illusia was fretting. At the moment when Kasotkin opened the door and came into the room, the captain and all the boys were around Illusia's bed, looking at a tiny, massive pup, who had only been born the day before, though the captain had been spoken it a week ago, to comfort and abuse Illusia, who was still fretting of the lost and probably dead Ritska. Illusia, who had heard three days before that he was to be presented with a puppy, not an ordinary puppy, but a pedigree mastiff, a very important point of course, tried from delicacy of feeling to pretend that he was pleased. But his father and the boys could not help seeing that the puppy only served to recall to his little heart the thought of the unhappy dog he had killed. The puppy laid beside him, feebly moving, and he, smiling sadly, stroked it with a thin, pale, wasted hand. Clearly he liked the puppy, but it wasn't Shuchka. If he could have had Shuchka in the puppy too, then he would have been completely happy. "Kasotkin!" cried one of the boys suddenly. He was the first to see him come in. Kasotkin's entrance made a general sensation. The boys moved away and stood on each side of the bed so that he could get a full view of Illusia. The captain ran eagerly to meet Collier. "Please come in, you're welcome," he said hurriedly. "Illusia, Mr. Kasotkin has come to see you." But Kasotkin, shaking hands with him hurriedly, instantly showed his complete knowledge of the manners of good society. He turned first to the captain's wife, sitting in her armchair, who was very ill-humoured at the moment, and was grumbling that the boys took between her and Lusia's bed, and it let her see the new puppy. With the greatest curtsy, he made her a bow, scraping his foot, and turning to Nina, he made her, as the only other lady present, a similar bow. This polite behaviour made an extremely favourable impression on the deranged lady. "There! You can see at once he's a young man that it's been well brought up," she commented aloud, throwing up her hands. "But as for our other visitors, they come in, one on the top of another." "How do you mean, Mama, one on the top of another? How is that?" muttered the captain affectionately, there were little anxious on her account. "That's how they ride in. They get on each other's shoulder, in the passage, and prance in like that, on a respectable family. Strange sort of visitors." "Pat, who's come in like that, Mama?" "Why, that boy came in, riding on that one's back, and this one on that one's." Collier was already by Illusha's bedside. The sick boy turned visibly pay there. He raised himself in the bed and looked intently at Collier. Collier had not seen his little friend for two months, and he was overwhelmed at the side of him. He had never imagined that he would see such a wasted yellow face, such enormous, feverishly glowing eyes, and such thin little hands. He saw, with grieved surprise, Illusha's rapid heart-breathing and dry lips. He sat close to him, held out his hand, and, almost overwhelmed, he said, "Well, old man, how are you?" But his voice filled him. He couldn't achieve an appearance of ease. His face suddenly twitched, and the corners of his mouth quivered. Illusha smiled a pitiful little smile, still unable to answer a word. Something moved, Collier, to raise his hand and pass it over Illusha's hair. "Never mind," he murmured softly to him, to cheer him up, or perhaps not knowing why he said it. For a minute, they were silent again. "Hello, so you've got a new puppy," Collier said suddenly, in a most callous voice. "Yes," answered Illusha, in a long whisper, gasping for breath. "A black nose! That means he'll be fierce. A good house-dog," Collier observed gravely and stolidly, as if the only thing he cared about was the puppy and his black nose. But, in reality, he still had to do his utmost to control his feelings, not to burst out crying like a child, and do what he would he could not control it. "When it grows up, you'll have to keep it on the chain, I'm sure." "He'll be a huge dog," cried one of the boys. "Of course he will. A massive, large, like this, as big as a calf," shouted several voices. "As big as the calf, as a real calf," chimed in the captain. "I got one like that on purpose, one of the fiercest breed, and his parents are huge and very fierce. They stand as high as this from the floor." "Sit down here on Illusha's bed, or here on the bench. You're welcome. We've been hoping to see you a long time. You are so kind as to come with a Lexai Fyodorovic." Cosopkin sat on the edge of the bed at Illusha's feet. Though he had perhaps prepared a free and easy opening for the conversation on his way, now he completely lost the threat of it. "No, I came with Perazvan. I've got a dog now called Perazvan, a Slavonic name. He's out there. If I whistle, he'll run in. I've brought a dog, too," he said, addressing Illusha all at once. "Do you remember Illusha?" "Oh, man," he suddenly fired the question at him. Illusha's little face quivered. He looked with an agonized expression at Koya. Illusha, standing at the door, frowned, and signed to Koya not to speak of Šižka, but he did not or would not notice. "Where?" "Is Šižka?" Illusha asked in a broken voice. "Oh, well, my boy, your Šižka's lost and done-full." Illusha did not speak, but he fixed an intent gaze once more on Koya. Illusha, catching Koya's eye, signed to him vigorously again, but he turned away his eyes, pretending not to have noticed. "It must have run away and died somewhere. It must have died after me like that," Koya pronounced pitilessly, now he seemed a little breathless. "But I've got a dog, Perazvan, a Slavonic name. I've brought him to show you." "I don't want him," said Illusha suddenly. "No, you really must see him. It will amuse you. I brought him on purpose. He's the same sort of shaky dog. You allow me to call in my dog, madam?" He suddenly addressed madam's negative, with an inexplicable excitement in his manner. "I don't want him. I don't want him," cried Illusha, with a mournful break in his voice. There was a reproachful light in his eyes. "You'd better," the captain started up from the chest by the wall on which he had just sat down. "You'd better—another time," he muttered. "But Koya could not be restrained." He hurriedly shouted to smooth. "Open the door!" And as soon as it was open, he blew his whistle. Perazvan dashed headlong into the room. "Jump, Perazvan. Bag! Bag!" shouted Koya, jumping up, and the dog stood erect on its heightened legs by Illusha's bedside. What followed was a surprise to everyone. Illusha started, lurched violently forward, bent over Perazvan, and gazed at him, feigned with suspense. "It's—shoochka!" He cried suddenly, in a voice breaking with joy and suffering. "And who did you think it was?" Cassotkin shouted, with always might, in a ringing, happy voice, and bending down, he seized the dog, and lifted him up to Illusha. "Look, old man. You see, blind of one eye, and the left ear is torn, just the marks you described to me. It was by that I found him. I found him directly. He did not belong to anyone," he explained to the captain, to his wife, to Illusha, and then again to Illusha. He used to live in the pheratose backyard. Though he made his home there, they did not feed him. He was a stray dog that had run away from the village. I found him. You see, old man, he couldn't have swallowed what he gave him. If he had, he must have died. He must have. So he must have spat it out, since he is alive. He did not see him do it. But the pin pricked his tongue. That's why he squealed. He ran away squealing, and you thought he'd swallowed it. He might well squeal, because the skin of dogs' mouths is so tender. Tender than a man. Much tender!" Collier cried impenselessly, his face glowing and radiant with the light. Illusha could not speak. White as a sheet, he gazed open-mouthed at Collier, with his great eyes almost starting out of his head. And if Cassotkin, who had no suspicion of it, had known what a disastrous and fatal effect such a moment might have on the sick child's health, nothing would have induced him to play such a trick on him. But Allysha was perhaps the only person in the room who realized it. As for the captain, he behaved like a small child. "Zhuzka! It's Zhuzka!" he cried in a blissful voice. "Illusha! This is Zhuzka! You are Zhuzka! Momma! This is Zhuzka!" He was almost weeping. "And I never guessed!" cried Smurf, who regretfully. "Brevor Krasotkin! I said he'd find a dog, and here he's found him!" "Here he's found him!" Another boy repeated gleefully. "Krasotkin's a brick!" cried a third voice. "He's a brick! He's a brick!" cried the other boys, and they began clapping. "Wait! Wait!" Cassotkin did its utmost to shout above them all. "I'll tell you how it happened. That's the whole point. I found him. I took him home, and hid him at once. I kept him locked up at home, and did not show him to anyone till today. Only Smurf has known for the last fortnight, but I assured him this dog was called Perjvan, and he did not guess. And meanwhile, I taught the dog all sorts of tricks. You should only see all the things he can do. I trained him, so as to bring you a well-trained dog in good condition, old man, so as to be able to say to you, "See, old man! What a fine dog your shushka is now!" "Haven't you a bit of meat? He'll show you a trick that will make you die with laughing. A piece of meat! Haven't you got any?" The captain ran across the passage to the landlady, where their cooking was done. Not to lose precious time. Kalya, in desperate haste, shouted to Perjvan. "Dead!" And the dog immediately turned round and lay on his back, with its full paws in the air. The boy's laughed. Ilusia looked on with the same suffering smile, but the person most delighted with the dog's performance was Mama. She laughed at the dog and began snapping her fingers and calling it, "Perjvan! Perjvan!" "Nothing will make him get up. Nothing!" Kalya cried triumphantly, proud of his success. "He won't move for all the shouting in the world, but if I call to him, he'll jump up in a minute." "E.C. Perjvan!" The dog leapt up and bounded about, whining with the light. The captain ran back with a piece of beef. "Is it hot?" Kalya inquired hurriedly, with a business like air, taking the meat. Dogs don't like hot things. "No, it's all right. Look, everybody. Look, Ilusia. Look, old man. Why aren't you looking? He does not look at him. Now I've brought him." The new trick consisted in making the dog stand motionless with his nose out and putting a tempting morsel of meat just on his nose. The luckless dog had to stand without moving with the meat on his nose as long as his monster chose to keep him, without a movement, perhaps for half an hour. But he kept Perjvan only for a brief moment. "Paintful!" cried Kalya, and the meat passed in a flash from the dog's nose to his mouth. The audience, of course, expressed enthusiasm and surprise. "Can you really have put off coming all this time simply to train the dog?" exclaimed Ilia, with an involuntary note of reproach in his voice. "Simply for that," answered Kalya, with perfect simplicity. "I wanted to show him in all his glory." "Perjvan! Perjvan!" called Ilusia suddenly, snapping his thin fingers and beckoning to the dog. "What is it? Let him jump up on the bed. Is he Perjvan?" Kalya slapped the bed, and Perjvan darted up by Ilusia. The boy threw both arms round his head, and Perjvan instantly licked his cheek. Ilusia crept close to him, stretched himself out in bed, and hit his face in the dog's shaggy coat. "Dear, dear," kept exclaiming the captain. Kalya sat down again, on the edge of the bed. "Ilusia, I can show you another trick. I've brought you a little cannon. You remember, I told you about it before, and you said how much it liked to see it. Well, here, I've brought it to you." And Kalya hurriedly pulled out of his sexual, the little bronze cannon. He hurried, because he was happy himself. Another time, he would have waited till the sensation made by Perjvan had passed off. Now he hurried on, regardless of all consideration. "You're all happy now," he felt. "So here's something to make you happier." He was perfectly enchanted himself. "I've been coveting this thing for a long while. It's for you, old man. It's for you. It belonged to Marsov. It was no use to him. He had it from his brother. I swapped the book from Father's Bookcase for it. A kinsman of Muhammad, or solitary folly. A scandalous book published in Moscow a hundred years ago, before they had any censorship. And Marsov has a taste for such things. He was grateful to me, too." Kalya helped the cannon in his hand so that all could see and admire it. Elucia raised himself, and, with his right arm still around the dog, he gazed and chanted at the toy. The sensation was even greater when Kalya announced that he had gunpowder, too, and that it could be fired off at once. If it won't alarm the ladies. Bama immediately asked to look at the toy closer, and her request was granted. She was much pleased with a little bronze cannon on wheels, and began rolling it to and fro on a lap. She readily gave permission for the cannon to be fired, without any idea of what she had been asked. Kalya showed the powder and the shot. The captain, as a military man, undertook to load it, putting in a minute quantity of powder. He asked that the shot might be put off till another time. The cannon was put on the floor, aiming towards an empty part of the room. Three grains of powder were thrust into the touch hole, and a match was put to it. A magnificent explosion followed. Bama was startled, but it once laughed at the light. The boys gazed in speechless triumph, but the captain, looking at Elucia, was more uncharted than any of them. Kalya picked up the cannon and immediately presented it to Elucia, together with the powder and the shot. "I got it for you, for you! I've been keeping it, for you a long time," he repeated once more in his delight. "Oh, give it to me! No, give me the cannon!" Momma began begging, like a little child. Her face showed a pitious fear that she would not get it. Kalya was disconcerted. The captain fitted it uneasily. "Momma, momma!" he ran to her. "The cannon's yours, of course, but let Elucia have it, because it's present to him, but it's just as good as yours. Elucia will always let you play with it. It shall belong to both of you, both of you." "No, I don't want it to belong to both of us. I want it to be mine altogether, not Elucia's," persisted Momma, on the point of tears. "Take it, mother. Here, keep it," Elucia cried. "Hosotkin, may I give it to my mother?" He turned to Kosotkin with an imploring face, as though he were afraid he might be offended at his giving his present to someone else. "Of course, you may," Kosotkin ascended heartily, and, taking the cannon from Elucia, he handed himself to Momma with a polite bow. She was so touched that she cried. "Elucia darling, he's the one who loves his Momma," she said tenderly, and at once began wheeling the cannon to and fro on her lap again. "Momma, let me kiss your hand," the captain darced up to her at once and did so. "And I never saw such a charming fellow as this nice boy," said the grateful lady, pointing to Kosotkin. "And I'll bring you as much powder as you like, Elucia. We make the powder ourselves, you know. Barovikov found out how it's made, twenty-four parts of Selpita, ten of Selpita, and six of Bertrut charcoal. It's all pounded together, mixed into a paste with water, and rubbed through a tummy sieve. That's how it's done." "Smowoff told me about your powder. Only father says it's not real gun powder," responded Elucia. "Not real," Koya flushed. "It burns. I don't know, of course." "No, I didn't mean that," put in the captain with a guilty face. "I only said that real powder is not made like that, but that's nothing. It can be made so." "I don't know. You know best. We light it some in a pomentant pot. It burns splendidly. It all burned away, leaving only a tiny ash. But that was only the paste, and if you rub it through. But, of course, you know best. I don't know." And Belkin's father thrashed him on account of our powder. "Did you hear?" he turned to Elucia. "We had prepared a whole bottle of it, and he used to keep it under his bed. His father saw it. He said it might explode and thrashed him on the spot. He was going to make a complaint against me to the masters. He's not allowed to go about with me now. No one is allowed to go about with me now. Smaller is not allowed to, either. I've got a bad name with everyone. They say I'm a desperate character." Collier smiled scornfully. "It all began from what happened on the railway." "Ah, we've heard of that exploit of yours, too," cried the captain. "How could you it lies still on the line? Is it possible you weren't the least afraid, lying there under the train? Weren't you frightened?" The captain was abtacked in his flattery of Collier. "Not particularly," answered Collier carelessly. "What's blasted my reputation more than anything here was that cursed goose," he said, turning again to Elucia. But though he assumed an unconcerned heir as he talked, he still could not control himself and was continually missing the note he tried to keep up. "Ah, I heard about the goose," Elucia laughed, beaming all over. "They told me, but I didn't understand. Did they really take you to the court?" "The most stupid, trivial affair. They made a mountain of a molehill, as they always do," Collier began carelessly. "I was walking through the marketplace here one day, just when they'd driven in the geese. I stopped and looked at them. All at once a fellow, who is an errand boy at Plotnikov's now, looked at me and said, 'What are you looking at the geese for?' I looked at him. He was a stupid moon-faced fellow of twenty. I'm always on the side of the peasantry, you know. I like talking to the peasants. We've dropped behind the peasants. That's an axiom. I believe you're laughing, Karamazov." "No, heaven forbid I'm listening," said Elucia, with a most good-natured heir, and the sensitive Collier was immediately reassured. "My theory, Karamazov, is clear and simple," he hurried on again, looking pleased. "I believe in the people, and I'm always glad to give them their dew. But I'm not for spoiling them. That is a cine quenum. But I was telling you about the goose. So I turned to the fool and answered, 'I'm wondering what the goose thinks about.' He looked at me quite stupidly. "And what does the goose think about?" he asked. "Do you see that cart full of oats?" I said. "The oats are dropping out of the sack, and the goose has put its neck right under the wheel to gobble them up. Do you see?" "I see that quite well," he said. "Well," said I, "if that cart were to move on a little, will it break the goose's neck or not?" "They'd be sure to break it, and he grinned all over his face, highly delighted." "Come on then," said I, "let's try." "Let's," he said. And it did not take us long to arrange. He stood at the bridle without being noticed, and I stood on one side to direct the goose. And the owner wasn't looking. He was talking to someone, so had nothing to do. The goose thrust its head in after the oats of itself under the cart, just under the wheel. I winged that little lad. He tucked at the bridle, and cracked. The goose's neck was broken in half. And, as luck would have it, all the peasants saw us at that moment, and they kicked up a shindy at once. "You did that on purpose." "No, not on purpose." "Yes, you did, on purpose." "Well, they shouted. Take him to the Justice of the Peace." "They took me, too." "You were there, too," they said. "You helped. You were known all over the market." "And, for some reason, I really am known all over the market," Koya added, concededly. "We all went off to the justices. They brought the goose, too. The fella was crying in a great funk, simply blubbering like a woman, and the farmer kept shouting that he could kill any number of geese like that. Well, of course, there were witnesses. The justices of the peace settled it in a minute, that the farmer was to be paid a ruble for the goose, and the fella to have the goose. And he was warned not to play such pranks again. And the fellow kept blubbering like a woman. "It wasn't me," he said. "It was he eked me on. And he pointed to me." I answered, with the utmost composure, that I hadn't eked him on, that I simply stated that general proposition had spoken hypothetically. The justices of the peace smiled and was vexed with himself once for having smiled. "I'll complain to your masters of you, so that for the future you mayn't waste your time on such general propositions, instead of sitting at your books and learning your lessons." He didn't complain to the masters. That was a joke. But the matter of noise brought and came to the ears of the masters. Their ears are long, you know. The classical master Kolbasnikov was particularly shocked about it, but Dardanilov got me off again. But Kolbasnikov is severed with everyone now, like a green ass. Did you know Aleutia? He's just married, got a dowry of a thousand rubles, and his brides are regular fright at the first rank and the last degree. The third class fellows wrote an epigram on it. Astounding news has reached the class. Kolbasnikov has been an ass. And so on, awfully funny, I'll bring it to you later on. I say nothing against Dardanilov. He's a learned man. There's no doubt about it. I respect man like that, and it's not because he stood up for me. "But you took him down about the founders of Troy," Smurf put in, suddenly, proud of Kosotkin at such a moment. He was particularly pleased with the story of the goose. "Did you really take him down?" The captain inquired in a flattering way. "On the question who found it, Troy?" "We heard of it," Aleutia told me about it at the time. "He knows everything, Father. He knows more than any of us," put in Aleutia. "He only pretends to be like that, but really, he is top in every subject." Aleutia looked at Collia with infinite happiness. "Oh, that's all nonsense about Troy, a trivial matter. I consider this an unimportant question," said Collia, with haughty humility. He had by now completely recovered his dignity, though he was still a little uneasy. He felt that he was greatly excited and that he had talked about the goose, for instance, with too little reserve, while Aleutia had looked serious and had not said a word all the time. And the vain boy began by degrees to have a wrinkling fear that Aleutia was silent because it despised him and thought he was showing off before him. If he dared to think anything like that, Collia would... "I regard the question as quite a trivial one," he wrapped out again, proudly. "And I know who found it Troy," a boy who had not spoken before, said suddenly, "to the surprise of everyone." He was silent and seemed to be shy. He was a pretty boy of about eleven, called Karthashov. He was sitting near the door. Collia looked at him with dignified amazement. The fact was that the identity of the founders of Troy had become a secret for the whole school, a secret which could only be discovered by reading Smagdov, and no one had Smagdov, but Collia. One day, when Collia's back was turned, Karthashov hastily opened Smagdov, with lay among Collia's books and immediately lighted on the passage relating to the foundation of Troy. This was a good time ago, but he felt uneasy and could not bring himself to announce publicly that he, too, knew who had found it Troy, afraid of what might happen, and of Kosotkins somehow putting him to shame over it. But now he couldn't resist saying it, for weeks he had been longing to. "Well, who did found it?" Collia turned into him with hearted super silliness. He saw from his face that he really did know, and at once made up his mind how to take it. There was, so to speak, a discordant note in the general harmony. "Troy was founded by Dusar, Dardenus, Ilius, and Tros. The boy wrapped out at once, and in the same instant he blushed, blushed so, that it was painful to look at him. But the boys stared at him, stared at him for a whole minute, and then all the staring eyes turned at once, and were fastened upon Collia, who was still scanning the audacious boy with disdainful composure. In what sense did they found it? He dained to comment at last. And what is meant by founding a city or a state? What do they do? Did they go in each layer brick, do you suppose?" There was laughter. The offending boy turned from pink to crimson. He was silent, and on the point of tears Collia held him so for a minute. "Before you talk of a historical event, like the foundation of a nationality, you must first understand what you mean by it." He admonished him in stern, in size of tones. "But I attach no consequence to these old wives' tales, and I don't think much of universal history in general," he added carelessly, addressing the company generally. "Universal history?" the captain inquired, looking almost scared. "Yes, universal history. It's the study of the successive follies of mankind, and nothing more. The only subjects I respect are mathematics and natural science," said Collia. He was showing off, and he stole a glance at Al-Yasha. His was the only opinion he was afraid of there. But Al-Yasha was still silent, and still serious as before. If Al-Yasha had said a word, it would have stopped him. But Al-Yasha was silent, and it might be the silence of contempt, and that finally irritated Collia. "The classical languages, too. They are simply madness. Nothing more." "You seem to disagree with me again, Karamazov?" "I don't agree," said Al-Yasha, with a faint smile. "The study of the classics, if you ask my opinion, is simply a police measure. That's simply why it has been introduced into our schools." By degrees, Collia began to get breathless again. Latin and Greek were introduced because they are boar, and because they stupefied the intellect. It was still before, so what could they do to make things duller? It was senseless enough before, so what could they do to make it more senseless? So they thought of Greek and Latin. "That's my opinion. I hope I shall never change it," Collia finished abruptly. His cheeks were flushed. "That's true," ascended Smurov suddenly, in a ringing tone of conviction. He had listened attentively. "And yet he is first in Latin himself," cried one of a group of boys, suddenly. "Yes, father. He says that, and yet he is first in Latin," echoed Collia. "What of it?" Collia thought fit to defend himself, though the praise was very sweet to him. "I'm fagging away at Latin because I have to, because I promised my mother to pass my examination, and I think that whatever you do, it's worth doing it well. But am I so? I have a profound contempt for the classics, and all that fraud. You don't agree, Karamazov?" "Why fraud?" Al-Yasha smiled again. "Well, all the classical authors have been translated into all languages, so it was not for the sake of studying the classics they introduced Latin, but solely as a police measure, to stupefy the intelligence. So what can one call it but a fraud?" "Why, who taught you all this?" cried Al-Osha, surprised at last. "In the first place I'm capable of thinking for myself without being taught. Besides, what I said just now about the classics being translated, our teacher, Kolbasnikov, has set to the whole of the third class." "The doctor has come," cried Nina, who'd been silent till then. A carriage, belonging to Madame Holakov, drove up to the gate. The captain, who'd been expecting the doctor all the morning, rushed headlong out to meet him. Mama pulled herself together and assumed a dignified air. Al-Yasha went up to Al-Osha and began setting his pillows straight. Nina, from her invalid chair, anxiously watched him putting the bed tidy. The boys hurriedly took leave. Some of them promised to come again in the evening. Koya, called Parijwan, and the dog jumped off the bed. "I won't go away. I won't go away," Koya said hastily to Al-Osha. "I'll wait in the passage and come back when the doctor's gone. I'll come back with Parijwan." But by now the doctor had entered, an important-looking person, with long, dark whiskers and a shiny, shaven chin, wearing a bear'skin coat. As he crossed the threshold, he stopped, taken aback. He probably fancied he had come to the wrong place. "How's this? Where am I?" he muttered, not removing his coat, nor his peaked seal-skin cap. The crowd, the poverty of the room, the washing hanging on a line in the corner, puzzled him. The captain, bent double, was burning low before him. "It's here, sir, here, sir," he muttered cringingly. "It's here, you've come right, you were coming to us." "Sneggarayof," the doctor said loudly and pompously. "Mrs. Snagarayof, is that you?" "That's me, sir," ah. The doctor looked around the room with a squeamish air, once more, and threw off his coat, displaying to all eyes the grand decoration of his neck. The captain caught the fur coat in the air, and the doctor took off his cap. "Where is the patient?" he asked emphatically. End of chapter five of book ten. Book ten, chapter six, precocity. "What do you think the doctor will say to him?" Collier asked quickly. "What a repulsive mug, though, hasn't he? I can't endure a medicine." "Elucia is dying. I think that's certain," answered Allysha, mournfully. "There are rogues. Medicines are fraud. I'm glad I've made your acquaintance, though, Kamazov. I wanted to know you for a long time. I'm only sorry we meet in such sad circumstances." Collier had a great inclination to say something even warmer and more demonstrative, but he felt ill at ease. Allysha knows this, smiled, and pressed his hand. "I've long learned to respect you as a rare person," Collier muttered again, faltering and uncertain. "I've heard you're a mystic, and I've been in the monastery. I know you're a mystic, but that hasn't put me off. Contact with real life will cure you. It's always so with characters like yours." "What do you mean, my mystic? Cure me of what?" Collier was rather astonished. "Oh, God, and all the rest of it." "What, don't you believe in God?" "Oh, I have nothing against God. Of course, God is only a hypothesis, but I admit that he is needed for the order of the universe and all that, and that, if there were no God, he would have to be invented," added Collier, beginning to blush. He suddenly fancied that Allysha might think he was trying to show off his knowledge and approved that he was grown up. "I haven't the slightest desire to show of my knowledge to him," Collier thought indignantly, and all of a sudden he felt horribly annoyed. "I must confess I can't endure entering on such discussions," he said with a final air. "It's possible for one who doesn't believe in God to love mankind, don't you think so?" Voltaire didn't believe in God and loved mankind. "I'm at it again," he thought to himself. Voltaire believed in God, though not very much, I think, and I don't think he loved mankind very much either," said Allysha, quietly, gently, and quite naturally, as though he were talking to someone of his own age, or even older. Collier was particularly struck by Allysha's apparent diffidence about his opinion of Voltaire. He seemed to be leaving the question for him, little Collier, to settle. "Have you read Voltaire? Allysha finished?" "No, not to say read, but I've read, indeed, in that Russian translation, in an absurd, grotesque, oval translation." "At it again, again," and did you understand it? "Oh, yes, everything. That is... why do you suppose I shouldn't understand it? There's a lot of nastiness in it, of course. Of course I can understand that it's a philosophical novel, and written to advocate an idea." Collier was getting mixed by now. "I'm a socialist, Caramazov. I'm an incurable socialist," he announced, suddenly, upper-po of nothing. "A socialist?" laughed Allysha. "But when have you had time to become one?" "Why, I thought you were only thirteen." Collier winced. "In the first place, I'm not thirteen, but fourteen, fourteen in a fortnight," he flushed angrily. "And in the second place, I'm at a complete loss to understand what my age has to do with it. The question is, what are my convictions? Not what is my age, isn't it?" "When you are older, you'll understand for yourself the influence of age on convictions. I fancy, too, that you are not expressing your own ideas." Allysha answered serenely and modestly, but Collier interrupted him hotly. "Come, you want obedience and mysticism. You must admit that the Christian religion, for instance, has only been of use to the rich and the powerful to keep the lower classes in slavery. That's so, isn't it?" "Ah, I know where you read that, and I'm sure someone told you so," cried Allysha. "I say, what makes you think I read it? And certainly no one told so. I can think for myself. I'm not opposed to Christ, if you like. He was a most humane person, and if he were alive today, he would be found in the ranks of the revolutionists, and would perhaps play in conspicuous part. There's no doubt about that." "Oh, where, where did you get that from? What fool have you made friends with?" exclaimed Allysha. "Come, the truth will out. It has so chanced that I've often talked to Mr. Raquitin, of course, but Old Bielinsky said that too." So they say, "Bielinsky? I don't remember. He hasn't written that anywhere." "If he didn't write it, they say he said it. I heard that from her. But never mind." "And have you read Bielinsky?" "Well, no. I haven't read all of him, but I read the passage about Tatiana, why she didn't go off with Onyegen." "Didn't go off with Onyegen?" "Surely you don't. Understand that already." "Why, you seem to take me for a little smore of," said Collier, with a grin of irritation. "But please don't suppose I'm such a revolutionist. I often disagree with Mr. Raquitin. Though I mention Tatiana, I'm not at all full of the emancipation of women. I acknowledge that women are a subject-race and must obey." "Le form Trigoton," Napoleon said. Translator's note, "Let the women knit." Collier, for some reason, smiled. "And on that question, at least, I'm quite of one mind with a pseudo-great man. I think, too, that to leave one's own country and fly to America is mean, worth a mean, silly. Why go to America when one may be of great service to humanity here? Now especially, there's a perfect mass of fruitful activity open to us. That's what I answered." "What do you mean?" answered whom. "Has someone suggested you're going to America already?" "I must own, they've been at me to go, but I declined. That's between ourselves, of course, Garamazof. Do you hear? Not a word to anyone. I say this only to you. I'm not at all anxious to fall into the clutches of the secret police and take lessons at the chain bridge. Long will you remember the house of the chain bridge. Do you remember? It's splendid. Why are you laughing? You don't suppose I'm fipping, do you?" "What if you should find out that I've only that one number of the bell and father's bookcase and haven't read any more of it?" Collier thought with a shudder. "Oh, no. I'm not laughing, and don't suppose for a moment that you're lying." "No, indeed. I can't suppose so. For all this, alas, is perfectly true. But tell me, have you read Pushkin? On Yeon, for instance? You spoke just now of Tachana." "No, I haven't read it yet, but I want to read it. I have no prejudices, Garamazof. I want to hear both sides. What makes you ask?" "Oh, nothing." "Tell me, Garamazof. Have you an awful contempt for me?" Collier leapt out suddenly, and drew himself up before Elisha, as though he were on drill. "Be so kind as to tell me, without beating about the bush." "I have a contempt for you?" Elisha looked at him, wondering. "What for? I'm only sad that charming nature, such as yours, should be perverted by all these crude nonsense before you have begun life." "Don't be anxious about my nature," Collier interrupted, not without complacency. "But it's true that I'm stupidly sensitive, crudely sensitive. You're smart just now, and I fancy it, you seem to—" "Oh, my smile went something quite different. I'll tell you why I smiled. Not long ago, I read the criticism made by a German who had lived in Russia on our students and schoolboys of today. Show a Russian schoolboy," he writes, "a map of the stars, which he knows nothing about, and it will give you back the map next day with corrections on it." "No knowledge, and unbounded conceit. That's what the German meant to say about the Russian schoolboy." "Yes, that's perfectly right," Collier laughed suddenly. "Exactly so! Bravo, the German! But it did not see the good side, what do you think? Conceit may be, that comes from youth, that will be corrected if need be. But, on the other hand, there is an independent spirit almost from childhood, boldness of thought and conviction, and not the spirit of these sausage makers, groveling up before authority. But the German was right all the same, bravo the German. But Germans once strangling all the same. Though they are so good at signs and learning, they must be strangled." "Strangled? What fool?" smiled Ayesha. "Well, perhaps I'm talking nonsense. I agree. I'm awfully childish sometimes, and when I'm pleased about anything, I can't restrain myself, and am ready to talk any stuff. But I say, we're jettering away here about nothing, and that doctor has been a long time in there. But perhaps he's examining the mama, and that poor crippled Nina. I like that Nina, you know. She whispered to me suddenly as I was coming away. "Why didn't you come before? And it's such a voice, so reproachfully. I think she's awfully nice and pathetic." "Yes, yes. Well, you'll be coming often, you will see what she's like. It would do you a great deal of good to know people like that, to learn to value a great deal which you will find out from knowing these people." Ayesha observed warmly. "That would have more effect on you than anything." "Oh, how I'd ret and blame myself for not having come sooner," Koya exclaimed, with bitter feeling. "Yes, it's a great pity. You saw for yourself how delighted the poor child was to see you, and how he fretted for you to come." "Don't tell me. You make it worse. But it serves me right. What kept me from coming was my conceit, my egoistic vanity, and the beastly wilfulness, which I never can get rid of, though I've been struggling with it all my life. I see that now. I'm a beast in lots of ways, Karmazov." "No, you have a charming nature, though it's been distorted, and I quite understand why you've had such an influence on this generous, morbidly sensitive boy," Ayesha answered warmly. "And you say that to me?" cried Koya. "And would you believe it? I thought several times since I've been here, that you despised me, if only you knew how I prize your opinion." "But are you really so sensitive? At your age? Would you believe it just now, when you were telling your story, I thought, as I watched you, that you must be very sensitive?" "You thought so? What I've got, I say. I bet that was when I was talking about the goose. That was just when I was fencing. You had a great contempt for me for being in such a hurry to show off. And for a moment I quite hated you for it, and began talking like a fool. Then I fancied, just now, here, when I said that if there were no God, he would have to be invented, that I was in too great a hurry to display my knowledge, especially as I got that phrase out of a book. But I swear I wasn't showing off out of vanity, though I really don't know why. Because I was so pleased?" "Yes. I believe it was because I was so pleased. Though it's perfectly disgraceful for anyone to be gushing directly there, please. I know that. But I'm convinced now that you don't despise me. It was all my imagination. Hoka, Madsof, I'm profoundly unhappy. I sometimes fancy all sorts of things, that everyone is laughing at me, the whole world, and then I feel ready to overturn the whole order of things. And you worry everyone about you, smiled Ayesha. "Yes, I worry everyone about me, especially my mother. "Kha, Madsof, tell me, am I very ridiculous now?" "Don't think about that. Don't think of it at all," cried Ayesha. "And what does the ridiculous mean? Isn't everyone constantly being or seeming ridiculous? Besides, nearly all clever people now are fearfully afraid of being ridiculous, and that makes them unhappy. All I am surprised at is that you should be feeling that so early, though I've observed it for some time past, not only in you. Nowadays, the very children have begun to suffer from it. It's almost a sort of insanity. The devil has taken the form of that vanity and entered into the whole generation. It's simply the devil, added Ayesha, without a trace of the smile that Koya, staring at him, expected to see. "You are like everyone else," said Ayesha, in conclusion. "That is, like very many others. Only you must not be like everybody else, that's all." "Even if everyone is like that?" "Yes, even if everyone is like that. You be the only one not like it. You really are not like everyone else. Here you are not ashamed to confess to something bad and even ridiculous, and who will admit so much in these days?" "No one, and people that even cease to feel the impulse to self-criticism. Don't be like everyone else, even if you are the only one." "Splendid! I was not mistaken in you. You know how to console one." "Oh, how I've longed to know you, Garamazof. I've long been eager for this meeting. Can you really have thought about me too? You said just now that you thought of me too." "Yes, I'd heard of you, and I'd thought of you too, and if it's partly vanity that makes you ask, it doesn't matter." "Do you know, Garamazof? Our talk has been like a declaration of love," said Koya, in a bashful and melting voice. "That's not really goes, is it?" "Not at all, ridiculous, and if it were, it wouldn't matter, because it's been a good thing, Al Yasha smiled brightly." "But do you know, Garamazof, you must admit that you are a little ashamed yourself now. I see it by your eyes," Koya smiled with a sort of sly happiness. "Why ashamed?" "Well, why are you blushing?" "It was you, you made me blush, laughter Yasha, and he really did blush." "How well, I am a little, goodness knows why. I don't know," he muttered, almost embarrassed. "Oh, how I love you, and admire you at this moment, just because you are rather ashamed. Because you aren't just like me," Koya, in positive ecstasy. His cheeks glowed, his eyes beamed. "You know, Koya, you'll be very unhappy in your life," something made Al Yasha say suddenly. "I know, I know, how you know it all beforehand," Koya agreed at once. "But you'll bless life on the whole all the same." "Just so, hurrah, your prophet, how we shall get on together, Garamazof. Do you know, what the lights mean most, is that you treat me quite like an equal. But we are not equals. No, we are not. You are better. But we shall get on. Do you know, all this last month I've been saying to myself, either we shall be friends at once, forever, or we shall part enemies to the grave." "And saying that, of course, you loved me, Al Yasha laughed gaily. I did. I loved you awfully. I've been loving and dreaming of you. And how do you know it all beforehand?" "Ah, here's the doctor. Goodness, what will he tell us? Look at his face." End of Chapter Six of Book Ten. Book Ten, Chapter Seven, Illusha. The doctor came out of the room again, muffled in his fur coat, and with his cap on his head. His face looked almost angry and disgusted, as though he were afraid of getting dirty. He cast a cursory glance round the passage, looking sternly at Al Yasha and Koya as he did so. Al Yasha waved from the door to the coachman, and the carriage that had brought the doctor drove up. The captain doubted out after the doctor, and, Boeing apologetically, stopped him to get the last word. The poor fellow looked utterly crushed, there was a scared look in his eyes. "You're excellency. You're excellency. Is it possible?" he began, but could not go on, and clasped his hands in despair. Yet he still gazed imploringly at the doctor, as though word from him might still change the poor boy's fate. "I can't help it. I'm not God," the doctor answered offhand, though with the customary impressiveness. "Doctor, you're excellency. And will it be soon? Soon?" "You must be prepared for anything," said the doctor, in emphatic and incisive tones, and, dropping his eyes, he was about to step out to the coach. "You're excellency, for Christ's sake!" the terrorist trickened captain stopped him again. "You're excellency. But can nothing, absolutely nothing, save him now?" "It's not in my hands now," said the doctor, impatiently. "But, hmm," he stopped suddenly. "If you could, for instance, send your patient at once, without delay," the words at once, without delay, the doctor uttered with an almost wrathful sternus that made the captain start, to Syracuse, that changed the new beneficial climatic conditions might possibly affect. "To Syracuse?" cried the captain, unable to grasp what was said. "Sarocues is insistly," Coria said suddenly, in explanation, the doctor looked at him. "Sistally, you're excellency," said the captain. "But you've seen," he spread out his hands, indicating his surroundings. "Mamaa, and my family." "No, sisly is not the place for the family. The family should go to the Caucasus in the early spring. Your daughter must go to the Caucasus, and your wife, after a course with the waters in the Caucasus for her rheumatism, must be sent straight to Paris, to the mental specialist Le Peletie. I could give you a note to him, and then there might be a change." "Doctor, doctor, but you see," the captain flung wide his hands again despairingly, indicating the bare wooden walls of the passage. "Well, that's not my business," grinned the doctor. "I've only told you the answer of medical signs to your question, as to possible." "Don't be afraid, apothecary. My dog won't bite you," Collier wrapped out loudly, noticing the doctor's rather uneasy glance at Paris von who was standing in the doorway. There was a wrathful note in Collier's voice. He used the word apothecary instead of doctor on purpose, and, as he explained afterwards, used it to insult him. "What's that?" the doctor flung up his head, staring with surprise at Collier. "Who's this?" he addressed Oyosha, as though asking him to explain. "It's Paris von's master. Don't worry about me," Collier said incisively again. "Paris von?" Translate his note, a chime of bells, repeated the doctor perplexed. "He hears the bell, but where it is he cannot tell. Goodbye, we shall meet in Syracuse." "Who's this? Who is this?" the doctor flew into a terrible rage. "He's a schoolboy, doctor. He's a mischievous boy. Take no notice of him," said Oyosha, frowning and speaking quickly. "Collier, hold your tongue," he cried to Krosodkin. "Take no notice of him, doctor," he repeated rather impatiently. "He wants a threshing, a good threshing," the doctor stamped in a perfect fury. "And you know, apothecary, my Paris von might bite," said Collier, turning pale, with quivering voice and flashing eyes. "Ese, Paris von!" "Collier, if you see another word, I have nothing more to do with you," Oyosha cried preemptorily. "There's only one man in the world who can command Nikolai Krosodkin. This is the man," Collier pointed to Oyosha. "I obey him. Goodbye." He stepped forward, opened the door, and quickly went into the inner room. Paris von flew after him. The doctor stood still for five seconds in amazement, looking at Oyosha. Then, with a curse, he went out quickly to the carriage, repeating aloud, "This is... this is... I don't know what it is!" The captain darted forward to help him into the carriage. Oyosha followed Collier into the room. He was already by Eluia's bedside. The sick boy was holding his hand and calling for his father. A minute later, the captain, too, came back. "Father! Father!" "Come!" "We," Eluia folded in violent excitement, but apparently unable to go on, he flung his wasted arms, found his father in Collier, uniting them in one embrace, and hugging them as tightly as he could. The captain suddenly began to shake with dumb sobs, and Collier's lips and chin twitched. "Father! Father! How sorry I am for you!" Eluia moaned bitterly. "Eluia, darling!" The doctor said, "You would be all right. We shall be happy." "The doctor?" The captain began. "Our father! I know what the new doctor said to you about me." "I saw!" cried Eluia, and again he hugged them both with all his strength, hiding his face on his father's shoulder. "Father! Don't cry! And when I die, get a good boy, another one. Choose one of them, a good one. Call him Eluia, and love him instead of me." "Her shold man, you'll get well," Collier suddenly cried in a voice that sounded angry. "But don't ever forget me, Father," Eluia went on. "Come to my grave." "And, Father, marry me by our big stone, where we used to go for our walk, and come to me there with Kosotkin in the evening. And perish one. I shall expect you." "Father! Father!" His voice broke. They were all three silent, still embracing. Nina was crying, quietly in her chair, and at last seeing them all crying, "Mama! Two! Birth into tears." "Eluia! Eluia!" She exclaimed. Kosotkin suddenly released himself from Eluia's embrace. "Good-bye, old man. Mother expects me back to dinner," he said quickly. "What a pity I did not tell her. She'll be dreadfully anxious. But after dinner I'll come back to you for the whole day, for the whole evening, and I'll tell you all sorts of things, all sorts of things, and I'll bring perge one. But now I'll take him with me, because he will begin to howl when I'm away and bother you. Goodbye." And he ran out into the passage. He didn't want to cry, but in the passage he burst into tears. Eluia she found him crying. "Eluia! You must be sure to keep your word and come, or he'll be terribly disappointed," Eluia said emphatically. "I will. Oh, how I curse myself for not having come before," muttered Kolya, crying, and no longer ashamed of it. At that moment the captain flew out of the room, and at once closed the door behind him. His face looked frenzied, his lips were trembling. He stood before the two and flung up his arms. "I don't want a good boy. I don't want another boy," he muttered in a wild whisper, clenching his teeth. "If I forget me, Jerusalem, may my tongue," he broke off with a sob, and sank on his knees before the wooden bench, pressing his fists against his head. He began sobbing with absurd, whimpering cries, doing his utmost that his cries should not be heard in the room. Kolya ran out into the street. "Good-bye, Garamazov. Will you come yourself?" He cried sharply and angrily to Eluia. "I will certainly come in the evening." "What was that?" he said about Jerusalem. "What did you mean by that?" "It's from the Bible. If I forget the Jerusalem, that is, if I forget all that is most precious to me, if I let anything take its place, then may I understand that's enough. Mind you come." Isipazvan? He cried with positive ferocity to the dog, and with rapid strides he went home. End of Book 10 Book 11, Yvonne, Chapter 1 at Greshenchas. Aayosha went towards the Cathedral Square to the widow Marazov's house to see Greshencha, who had sent Fenya to him early in the morning with an urgent message begging him to come. Questioning Fenya, Aayosha learned that her mistress have been particularly distressed since the previous day. During the two months that had passed, since Michia's arrest, Aayosha had called frequently at the widow Marazov's house, both from his own inclination and to take messages from Michia. Three days after Michia's arrest, Greshencha was taken very ill and was ill for nearly five weeks. For one whole week she was unconscious. She was very much changed, thinner and a little sallow, though she had, for the past fortnight, been well enough to go out. But to Aayosha, her face was even more attractive than before, and he liked to meet her eyes when he went into her. A look of firmness and intelligent purpose had developed in her face. There were signs of a spiritual transformation in her, and a steadfast, fine and humble determination that nothing could shake could be discerned in her. There was a small vertical line between her brows, which gave her charming face a look of concentrated thought, almost austere, at the first glance. There was scarcely a trace of her former frivolity. It seemed strange to Aayosha, too, that in spite of the calamity that had overtaken the poor girl, betrothed to a man who had been arrested for a terrible crime, almost at the instant of their betrable. In spite of her illness and the most inevitable sentence hanging over Mitya, Rachanka had not yet lost her youthful cheerfulness. There was a soft light in the once proud eyes; though at times they gleamed with the old vindictive fire when she was visited by one disturbing thought, stronger than ever in her heart. The object of that uneasiness was the same as ever. Katarina Ivanova, of whom Rachanka had even raved when she lay in delirium. Aayosha knew that she was fearfully jealous of her; yet Katarina Ivanova had not once visited Mitya in his prison, though she might have done it whenever she liked. All this made it a difficult problem for Aayosha, for he was the only person to whom Rachanka opened her heart, and from whom she was continually asking advice. Sometimes he was unable to say anything. Full of anxiety he entered her lodging. She was at home. She had returned from seeing Mitya half an hour before, and from the rapid movement with which she leapt up from her chair to meet him, he saw that she had been expecting him with great impatience. A pack of cards dealt for a game of fools lay on the table. A bed had been made up, on the leather sofa, on the other side, and maximum lay, half reclining on it. He wore a dressing gown and a cotton nightcap, and was evidently ill and weak, though he was smiling blissfully. When the homeless old man returned with Rachanka from Makro two months before, he had simply stayed on and was still staying with her. He arrived with her in rain and sleet, sat down on the sofa, drenched and scared, and gazed mutly at her with a timid, appealing smile. Rachanka, who was in terrible grief and in the first stage of fever, almost forgot his existence in all she had to do, the first half hour after her arrival. Suddenly she chanced to look at him intently. He laughed at pitiful, helpless little laugh. She called Fanya and told her to give him something to eat. All that day he sat in the same place, almost without stirring. When it got dark and the shutters were closed, Fanya asked her mistress, "Is the gentleman going to stay the night, mistress?" "Yes, make him a bed on the sofa," answered Rachanka. Questioning him in more detail, Rachanka learned from him that he had literally nowhere to go. And that Mr. Kalkinov, my benefactor, told me straight that he wouldn't receive me again and gave me five rubles. "Well, God bless you, you'd better stay than," Rachanka decided in her grief, smiling compassionately at him. Her smile rang the old man's heart and his lips twitched with grateful tears, and so the destitute wanderer had stayed with her ever since. He did not leave the house even when she was ill. Fanya and her grandmother, the cook, did not turn him out, but went on serving him meals and making up his bed on the sofa. Rachanka had grown used to him, and, coming back from seeing Mitya, whom she had begun to visit in prison before she was really well, she would sit down and begin talking to "Maximushka" about trifling matters, to keep her from thinking of her sorrow. The old man turned out to be a good storyteller on occasions, so that, at last, he became necessary to her. Rachanka saw scarcely anyone else beside Al-Yosha, who did not come every day and never stayed long. Her old merchant lay seriously ill at this time, at his last gasp, as they said in the town, and he did, in fact, die a week after Mitya's trial. Three weeks before his death, feeling the end approaching, he made his sons, their wives and children, come upstairs to him at last, and bathe them not, leave him again. From that moment, he gave strict orders to his servants, not to admit Rachanka, and to tell her if she came. The master wishes you long life and happiness, and tells you to forget him, but Rachanka sent almost every day to inquire after him. "You've come at last," she cried, flinging down the cards and joyfully greeting Al-Yosha, and Maximushka's been scaring me that perhaps she wouldn't come. "Ah, how I need you! Sit down to the table! What will you have coffee?" "Yes, please," said Al-Yosha, sitting down at the table. "I am very hungry." "That's right, fenya, fenya coffee," cried Rachanka. "It's been made a long time ready for you, and bring some little pies, and mine they are hot. Do you know we've had a storm over those pies today? I took them to the prison for him, and, would you believe it? He threw them back to me, he would not eat them. He flung one of them on the floor, and stamped on it. So I said to him, "I shall leave them with the water. If you don't eat them before evening, it will be that your venomous spite is enough for you. With that I went away. We quarreled again, would you believe it? Whenever I go, we quarrel." Rachanka said all this in one breath in her agitation. Maximov, feeling nervous, at once smiled and looked on the floor. "What did you quarrele about this time?" asked Al-Yosha. "I didn't expect it in the least. Only fancy, he is jealous of the pole." "Why are you keeping him?" he said. "So you've begun keeping him?" "He is jealous. Jealous of me all the time. Jealous eating and sleeping." He even took into his head to be jealous of Kuzma last week. But he knew about the pole before. "Yes, there it is. He has known about him from the very beginning, but today he suddenly got up and began scolding about him. I am ashamed to repeat what he said. Silly fellow, Rakeetian went in as I came out. Perhaps Rakeetian is egging him on." "What do you think?" she added carelessly. "He loves you. That's what it is. He loves you so much. And now he is particularly worried." "I should think you might be with the trial tomorrow. And I went to him to say something about tomorrow. For I dread to think what's going to happen then." "You say that he is worried. But how worried I am, and he talks about the pole. He is too silly. He is not jealous of Maximushka yet, anyway." "My wife was dreadfully jealous over me too," Maximov put in his word. "Jealous of you," Grishanka laughed in spite of herself. "Of whom could she have been jealous?" "Of the servant girls." "Hold your tongue, Maximushka. I am in no laughing mood now. I feel angry. Don't oakle the pies. I shan't give you any. They are not good for you. And I won't give you any vodka either. I have to look after him, too, just as though I kept in all his house," she laughed. "I don't deserve your kindness. I am a worthless creature," said Maximov, with tears in his voice. "You would do better to spend your kindness on people of more use than me." "Eck, everyone is of use, Maximushka. And how can we tell who's of most use? If only that pole didn't exist, Ayeosha. He's taken it into his head to fall ill, too, today. I've been to see him also." "And I shall send him some pies, too, on purpose. I hadn't sent him any. But Mity accused me of it, so now I shall send some." "Ah, here's Fenya with a letter. Yes, it's from the pole's begging again." "Pan Moosulovich had, indeed, sent an extremely long and characteristically eloquent letter, in which he begged her to lend him three rubles. In the letter was enclosed a receipt for the sum, with a promise to repay it within three months, signed by Pan for Blevsky as well. Krashenka had received many such letters, accompanied by such receipts, from her former lover, during the fortnight of her convalescence. But she knew that the two poles had been to ask after her health during her illness. The first letter Grashenka got, from them was a long one, written on large note paper, and with a big family crest on the seal. It was so obscure and rhetorical that Grashenka put it down before she had read half, unable to make it or tail of it. She could not attend to letters then. The first letter was followed next day, by another in which Pan Moosulovich begged her for a loan of two thousand rubles for a very short period. Krashenka left that letter too unanswered. A whole series of letters had followed, one every day, all as pompous and rhetorical, but the loan asked for, gradually diminishing, drop to a hundred rubles, then to twenty-five, to ten, and finally Grashenka received a letter in which both the poles begged her for only one ruble and included a receipt signed by both. Then Grashenka suddenly felt sorry for them, and at dusk she went round herself to their lodging. She found the two poles in great poverty, almost destitution, without food or fuel, without cigarettes, in debt to their land-lady. The two hundred rubles they had carried off from Metia at Makro had soon disappeared, but Grashenka was surprised at their meeting with her arrogant dignity and self-assertion, with the greatest punctilio and pompous species. Grashenka simply laughed and gave her former admirer ten rubles. Then, laughing, she told Metia of it, and he was not in the least jealous. But ever since, the poles had attached themselves to Grashenka and bombarded her daily with requests for money, and she had always sent them small sums. And now that day, Metia had taken it into his head to be fearfully jealous. Like a fool, I went round to him just for a minute on the way to see Metia, for he is ill too, my pole. Grashenka began again with nervous haste. I was laughing, telling Metia about it. "Fancy," I said. My pole had the happy thought to sing his old songs to me to the guitar. He thought I would be touched and marry him. Metia leapt up swearing. So, there, I'll send them the pies. Fenya, is it that little girl they've sent? Here, give her three rubles and pack up a dozen pies in a paper, and tell her to take them. And you, Al-Yosha, be sure to tell Metia that I did send them the pies. "I wouldn't tell him for anything," said Al-Yosha, smiling. "Nec, you think he is unhappy about it? Why, he's jealous on purpose. He doesn't care," said Grashenka bitterly. "On purpose," queried Al-Yosha. "I tell you, you are silly, Al-Yosha. You know nothing about it, with all your cleverness. I am not offended that he is jealous of a girl like me. I would be offended if he were not jealous. I am like that. I am not offended at jealousy. I have a fierce heart, too. I can be jealous myself. Only what offends me is that he doesn't love me at all. I tell you, he is jealous now on purpose. Am I blind? Don't I see?" He began talking to me just now of that woman, of Catarina, saying she was this and that. And she had ordered a doctor from Moscow, for him to try and save him, how she had ordered the best counsel, the most learned one, too. So he loves her, if he'll praise her, to my face, more shame to him. "He's treated me badly himself, so he attacked me, to make out I am in fault first, and to throw it on me. You were with your pole before me, so I can't be blamed for Catarina. That's what it amounts to. He wants to throw the whole blame on me. He attacked me on purpose. On purpose, I tell you, but Al-Gershenka could not finish saying what she would. She hit her eyes in her handkerchief, and sobbed violently. "He doesn't love Catarina evenova," said Al-Oyosha firmly. "Well, whether he loves her or not, I'll soon find out for myself," said Gershenka, with a menacing note in her voice, ticking the handkerchief from her eyes. Her face was distorted. Al-Oyosha saw sorrowfully, that from being mild and serene, it had become solemn and spiteful. "Enough of this foolishness," she said suddenly, "it's not for that I sent you. Al-Oyosha darling, to-morrow, what will happen to-morrow? That's what worries me, and it's only me it worries. I look at everything, and no one is thinking of it. No one cares about it. Are you thinking about it then? To-morrow he'll be tried, you know. Tell me, how will he be tried? You know it's the valet, the valet killed him. Good heavens, can they condemn him in place of the valet, and will no one stand up for him? They haven't troubled the valet at all, have they?" "He's been severely cross-examined," observed Al-Oyosha thoughtfully. "But everyone came to the conclusion, it was not he. Now he is lying very ill. He has been ill ever since the attack." "Really ill," added Al-Oyosha. "Oh, dear, couldn't you go to that council yourself, and tell him the whole thing by yourself?" "He's been brought from Petersburg, for three thousand rubles, they say." "We gave these three thousand together, even, Katarina, Ivanova, and Dye. But she paid two thousand for the doctor from Moscow herself." The council, Fechi Kavich, would have charged me more, but the case has become known all over Russia, it's talked of, in the papers and journals. Fechi Kavich agreed to come more for the glory of the thing, because the case became so notorious. "I saw him yesterday." "Well, did you talk to him?" Greshenka put in eagerly. "He listened and said nothing. He told me that he had already formed his opinion, but he promised to give my words consideration." "Consideration? Ah, they're swindlers, they'll ruin him. And why did she send for the doctor?" As an expert, they want to prove that Mete's mad and committed the murder when he didn't know what he was doing. Al-Oyosha smiled gently. "But Meteo won't agree to that." "Yes, but that would be the truth, if he had killed him," cried Greshenka. "He was mad then, perfectly mad. And that was my fault, Rich, that I am. But, of course, he didn't do it. He didn't do it. And they are all against him, the whole town. Even Fenya's evidence went to prove he had done it. And the people at the shop, and that official, and at the tavern too, before, people had heard him say so. "They are all, all, against him, all crying out against him." "Yes, there's a fearful accumulation of evidence," Al-Oyosha observed girmly. "And Grigory? Grigory, Vazlyevitch?" Sticks to his story, the door was open, for sis, that he saw it, there's no shaking him. I went and talked to him myself. He's rude about it too." "Yes, that's perhaps the strongest evidence against him," said Al-Oyosha. "And as for me to as being mad, he certainly seems like it now," Greshenka began, with a peculiarly anxious and mysterious error. "Do you know, Al-Oyosha, I've been wanting to talk to you about it, for a long time. I go to him every day and simply wonder about him. Tell me now, what do you suppose he's always talking about? He talks and talks, and I can make nothing of it." "I fancied he was talking of something intellectual that I couldn't understand in my foolishness." "Only he suddenly began talking to me about a babe, that is, about some child." "Why is the babe poor?" he said. "It's for the babe I am going to Siberia now. I am not a murderer, but I must go to Siberia." "What that meant, what babe, I couldn't tell for the life of me. Only I cried when he said it, because he said it so nicely. He cried himself, and I cried too. He suddenly kissed me and made the sign of the cross over me." "What did it mean, Al-Oyosha? Tell me. What is this, babe?" "It must be Raketian. He's been going to see him lately," smiled Al-Oyosha. "Though, that's not Raketian's doing. I didn't see me to yesterday. I'll see him today." "No, it's not Raketian. It's his brother, even Fia de Rovitch, upsetting him." "It's his going to see him. That's what it is, Grashanki began, and suddenly broke off. Al-Oyosha gazed at her in amazement. Even's going? Has he been to see him? Media told me himself that even hasn't been once." "There, there. What a girl I am, blirting things out," exclaimed Grashanki, confused and suddenly blushing. "Stay, Al-Oyosha, hush. Since I've said so much, I'll tell the whole truth. He's been to see him twice." The first, directly he arrived. He galloped here from Moscow at once, of course before it was taken ill, and the second time was a week ago. He told me to not to tell you about it, under any circumstances, and not to tell anyone, in fact. He came secretly. Al-Oyosha sat plunged in thought, considering something. The news evidently impressed him. "Even doesn't talk to me of media's case," he said slowly. "He's said very little to me these last two months. And whenever I go to see him, he seems vexed at my coming, so I've not been to him for the last three weeks." "Hmm. If he was there a week ago, there certainly has been a change in Meachia this week." "There has been a change," Grashanki ascended quickly. "They have a secret. They have a secret. Meachia told me herself. There was a secret, and such a secret that Meachia can't rest." Before then, he was cheerful, and indeed he is cheerful now, but when he shakes his head like that, you know, and strides about the room and keeps pulling at the hair on his right temple with his right hand. I know there is something on his mind worrying him. I know. He was cheerful before, though indeed he is cheerful today. "But," you said, he was worried. "Yes. He is worried, and yet cheerful. He keeps going on being irritable for a minute, and then cheerful, and then irritable again." "And you know, Al-Oyosha, I am constantly wondering at him." With this awful thing hanging over him, he sometimes laughs at such trifles as though he were a baby himself. "And did he really tell you not to tell me about even? Did he say, 'Don't tell him?'" "Yes. He told me, 'Don't tell him.' It's you that Meachia is most afraid of. Because it's a secret, he said himself it was a secret. Al-Oyosha darling, go to him, and find out what the secret is, and come and tell Me." Greshenkebbe sought him with sudden eagerness. "Set my mind at rest, that I may know the worst that's in store for Me. That's why I sent for you." "You think it's something to do with you?" "If it were, he wouldn't have told you, there was a secret." "I don't know. Perhaps he wants to tell me, but doesn't dare to. He warns me. There's a secret he tells me, but he won't tell me what it is." "What do you think yourself?" "What do I think? It's the end for me. That's what I think. They all three have been plotting my end, for Katarina's in it. It's all Katarina. It all comes from her. She is this and that, and that means that I am not." "He tells me that beforehand, warns me. He is planning to throw me over. That's the whole secret." "They've planted together the three of them, Meteor, Katarina, and even Theodore Rovitch. Al-Yosha, I've been wanting to ask you a long time. A week ago he suddenly told me that even was in love with Katarina, because he often goes to see her." "Did he tell me the truth or not? Tell me on your conscious. Tell me the worst." "I won't tell you a lie. Even is not in love with Katarina, even Ova, I think." "Oh, that is what I thought. He is lying to me, shameless deceiver. That's what it is. And he was jealous of me just now. So as to put the blame on me afterwards. He is stupid. He can't disguise what he is doing. He is so open, you know. But I'll give it to him. I'll give it to him. You believe I did it?" he said. "He said that to me. To me. He reproached me with that. God forgive him. You wait. I'll make it hot for Katarina at the trial. I'll just say a word then. I'll tell everything then." "And again," she cried bitterly. "This, I can tell you for certain Grishanka," Al-Yosha said, getting up. "First, that he loves you, loves you more than anyone in the world. And you only, believe me, I know. I do know. The second thing is, I don't want to worm his secret out of him. But if he'll tell me of himself today, I shall tell him straight out that I have promised to tell you. Then I'll come to you today and tell you. Only, I fancy, Katarina even Ova has nothing to do with it. And that the secret is about something else. That's certain. It isn't likely. It's about Katarina even Ova. It seems to me. "Good-bye for now." Al-Yosha shook hands with her. Grishanka was still crying. He saw that she put little faith in his consolation. But she was better for having had her sorrow out, for having spoken of it. He was sorry to leave her in such a state of mind, but he was in haste. He had a great many things to do still. End of chapter 1 of book 11. Book 11, chapter 2, The Injured Foot. The first of these things was at the house of Madame Holocaust. And he hurried there to get it over as quickly as possible, and not be too late for Meetia. Madame Holocaust had been slightly ailing for the last three weeks. Her foot had, for some reason, swollen up, and, though she was not in bed, she lay all day, half reclining on the couch in her boudoir, in a fascinating but decorous dishabill. Al-Yosha had once noted with innocent amusement that, in spite of her illness, Madame Holocaust had begun to be rather dressy. Topknots, ribbons, loose wrappers had made their appearance, and he had an inkling of the reason, though he dismissed such ideas from his mind as frivolous. During the last two months, the young official, Peritin, had become a regular visitor at the house. Al-Yosha had not called for four days, and he was in haste to go straight to lies. As it was with her, he had to speak. For lies had sent a maid to him the previous day, especially asking him to come up to her about something very important. A request which, for certain reasons, had interest for Al-Yosha. But while the maid went to take his name in to lies, Madame Holocaust heard of his arrival from someone, and immediately sent to beg him to come to her just for one minute. Al-Yosha reflected that it was better to accede to the Mama's request, or else she would be sending down to Liza's room every minute that he was there. Madame Holocaust was lying on a couch. She was particularly smartly dressed, and was evidently in a state of extreme, nervous excitement. She greeted Al-Yosha with cries of rapture. "It's ages, ages, perfect ages since I've seen you. It's a whole week, only think of it. But you were here only four days ago, on Wednesday. You have come to see lies. I'm sure you met to slip into her room on tiptoe without my hearing you. My dear, dear, Alexey Fiedorovitch, if you only knew how worried I am about her. But of that later, though that's the most important thing of that later, dear Alexey Fiedorovitch, I trust you implicitly with my lies. Since the death of Father Zosima got dressed his soul, she crossed herself, I look upon you as a monk, though you look charming in your suit. Where did you find such a tailor in these parts? No, no, that's not the chief thing of that later. Forgive me for sometimes calling you Al-Yosha. An old woman like me may take liberties, she smiled coquettishly. But that will do later, too. The important thing is that I shouldn't forget what is important. Please remind me of it yourself. As soon as my tongue runs away with me, you just say, "The important thing?" "Ah, how do I know now what is of most importance?" Ever since lies took back her promise, her childish promise, Alexey Fiedorovitch, to marry you, you've realized, of course, that it was only the playful fancy of a sick child who had been so long confined to her chair. Thank God, she can walk now. That new doctor, Katia sent for from Moscow, for your unhappy brother, who will tomorrow? But my speak of tomorrow. I am ready to die the very thought of tomorrow." Ready to die of curiosity. That doctor was with us yesterday and saw lies. I paid him fifty rubles for the visit. But that's not the point. That's not the point again. You see, I'm mixing everything up. I am in such a hurry. Why am I in a hurry? I don't understand. It's awful how I seem unable to understand anything. Everything seems mixed up in a sort of tango. I am afraid, you are being so bored, you will jump up and run away. And that will be all I shall see of you. Goodness, why are we sitting here in no coffee? Yulia Glafyura, coffee. Aayusha made haste to thank her, and said that he had only just had coffee. "Where?" "At Arfina, Alex and Rovna's." "At that woman's?" "Ah, it's she has brought ruin on everyone. I know nothing about it, though." "They say she has become a saint, though it's rather late in the day." "She had better had done it before." "What use is it now?" "Hush hush, Alexy Fiedrovitch. But I have so much to say to you that I am afraid I shall tell you nothing. This awful trial. I shall certainly go. I am making arrangements. I shall be carried there in my chair. Besides, I can sit up." "I shall have people with me. And, you know, I am a witness." "How shall I speak? How shall I speak? I don't know what to say. One has to take an oath, hasn't one?" "Yes, but I don't think you will be able to go. I can sit up. Ah, you put me out. Ah, this trial, this savage act, and then they are all going to Siberia. Some are getting married, and all this so quickly, so quickly everything is changing, and at last, nothing. All grow old and have death to look forward to. Well, so be it. I am weary." "This catea," said Charmanta Persona, "has disappointed all my hopes. Now she is going to follow one of your brothers to Siberia, and your other brother is going to follow her, and will live in the nearest town. And they will all torment one another. It drives me out of my mind. Worst of all, the publicity. The story has been told a million times over in all the papers in Moscow and Petersburg." "Ah, yes. Would you believe it? There's a paragraph that I was a dear friend of your brothers. I can't repeat the hard word." "Just fancy. Just fancy." "Impossible. Where was the paragraph? What did it say?" "I'll show you directly. I got the paper, and read it yesterday. Here, in the Petersburg paper gossip, the paper began coming out this year. I am awfully fond of gossip, and I take it in, and now it pays me out. This is what gossip comes to. Here it is. Here, this passage, read it." She handed Al-Yosha a sheet of newspaper, which had been under her pillow. It was not exactly that she was upset. She seemed overwhelmed, and perhaps everything really was mixed up in a tangle in her head. The paragraph was very typical, and must have been a great shock to her. But, fortunately, perhaps, she was unable to keep her mind fixed on any one subject at that moment, and so might race off in a minute to something else and quite forget the newspaper. Al-Yosha was well aware that the story of the terrible case had spread all over Russia, and, good heavens, what wild rumors about his brother about the Karamazovs, and about himself he had read in the course over these two months, among other equally credible items. One paper had even stated that he had gone into a monastery and become a monk in horror at his brother's crime. Another contradicted this, and stated that he, and his elder, Father Zosima, had broken into a monastery chest and made tracks from the monastery. The present paragraph in the paper gossip was under the heading, the Karamazov case, at Skotopreganjevsk. That, alas, was the name of our little town I had hitherto kept it concealed. It was brief, and Madam Holocaust was not directly mentioned in it. No names appeared, in fact. It was merely stated that the criminal, whose approaching trial was making such a sensation, retired army captain, an idle swagger, and reactionary bully, was continually involved in amorous intrigues, and particularly popular with certain ladies, who were pining in solitude. One such lady, a pining widow, who tried to seem young, though she had a grown-up daughter, was so fascinated by him that only two hours before the crime she offered him three thousand rubles, on condition that he would elope with her to the gold mines. But the criminal, counting on escaping punishment, had preferred to murder his father, to get the three thousand, rather than go off to Siberia with the middle-aged charms of his pining-lady. This playful paragraph finished, of course, with an outburst of Jenner's indignation at the wickedness of parasite, and at the lately abolished institution of serfdom. Reading it with curiosity, Al-Yosha folds it up the paper and handed it back to Madam Holocaust. "Well, that must be me," she hurried on again. "Of course I am meant, scarcely more than an hour before, I suggested gold mines to him, and here they talk of middle-aged charms, as though they were my motive." He writes that out of spite. "God almighty forgive him for the middle-aged charms, as I forgive him. You know it's—do you know who it is? It's your friend, Rakeedian." "Perhaps," said Al-Yosha, "though I've heard nothing about it." "It's he! It's he! No, perhaps about it! You know I turned him out of the house. You know all that story, don't you?" "I know that you asked him not to visit you for the future, but why it was I haven't heard, from you at least." "Ah, then you've heard it from him. He abuses me, I suppose. It abuses me dreadfully." "Yes, he does. But then he abuses everyone. But why you've given him up?" "I haven't heard from him either. I meet him very seldom now, indeed. We are not friends." "Well, then I'll tell you all about it. There's no help for it. I'll confess, for there is one point in which I was perhaps to blame." "Only a little, little point, so little that perhaps it doesn't count." "You see, my dear boy." "Madam Holocaust suddenly looked arch, and a charming, though enigmatic, smile played about her lips." "You see, I suspect... you must forgive me, Al-Yosha. I am like a mother to you." "No, no, quite the contrary. I speak to you now as though you were my father." "Mother's quite out of place." "Well, it's as though I were confessing to Father Zosima." "That's just it. I called you a monk just now." "Well, that poor young man, your friends, Raikitian." "Mercy upon us, I can't be angry with him. I feel cross, but not very." "That frivolous young man, would you believe it, seems to have taken it into his head to fall in love with me. I only noticed it later. At first, a month ago, he only began to come oftener to see me, almost every day, though, of course, we were acquainted before. I knew nothing about it, and suddenly it dawned upon me, and I began to notice things with surprise." "You know, two months ago, that modest, charming, excellent young man, Ilyich Perratin, who's in the service here, began to be a regular visitor at the house. You met him here ever so many times yourself." "And he is an excellent, earnest young man, isn't he?" "He comes once every three days." "Not every day, though I should be glad to see him every day, and always so well-dressed." "All together, I love young people, Alyosha, talented, modest like you, and he has almost the mind of a statesman. He talks so charmingly, and I shall certainly, certainly, try and get promotion for him. He is a future diplomat." "On that awful day he almost saved me from death, by coming in the night." "And your friend Rakedian comes in such boots, and always stretches them out on the carpet." He began hinting at his feelings, in fact, and one day, as he was going, he squeezed my hand terribly hard. My foot began as well directly, after he pressed my hand like that. "He had met Peter, Ilyich, here before, and, would you believe it, he is always guiding at him, growling at him for some reason. I simply looked at the way they went on together, and laughed inwardly. So I was sitting here alone. No, I was laid up then. Well, I was lying here alone, and suddenly, Rakedian comes in. And, only fancy, brought me some verses of his own composition. A short poem, on my bad foot. That is, he described my foot in a poem. Wait a minute. How did it go? A captivating little foot. It began somehow like that. I can never remember poetry. I've got it here. I'll show it to you later. But it's a charming thing. Charming. And, you know, it's not only about the foot. It had a good moral, too. A charming idea. Only I've forgotten it. In fact, it was just the thing for an album. So, of course, I thanked him, and he was evidently flattered. I'd hardly had time to thank him. One income's Peter Iliage, and Rakedian suddenly looked as black as night. I could see that Peter Iliage was in the way. Her Rakedian certainly wanted to say something after giving me the verses. I had a presentiment of it, but Peter Iliage came in. I showed Peter Iliage the verses, and didn't say who was the author. But I am convinced that he guessed, though he won't own it to this day. And declares he had no idea. But he says that on purpose. Peter Iliage began to laugh at once, and felt accreticizing it. "Wretched dogroll," he said they were. Some divinity student must have written them, and with such vehemence, such vehemence. Then, instead of laughing, your friend flew into a rage. "Good gracious," I thought, "they'll fly at each other." "It was I who wrote them," said he. "I wrote them as a joke," he said, "for I think it's degrading to right verses. But they are good poetry." "They want to put a monument to your pushkin for writing about woman's feet, while I wrote with a moral purpose, and you," said he, "are an advocate of serfdom. You've no humane ideas," said he. "You have no modern enlightened feelings. You are uninfluenced by progress. You are a mere official," he said, "and you take bribes." Then I began screaming and employing them. And, you know, Peter Iliage is anything but a coward. He at once took up the most gentlemanly tone, looked at him sarcastically, listened and apologized. "I'd no idea," said he, "I shouldn't have said it if I had known. I should have praised it. Poets are all so irritable," he said. In short, he laughed at him, under cover of the most gentlemanly tone. He explained to me afterwards that it was all sarcastic. I thought he was in earnest. Only as I lay there, just as before, you know, I thought, "Would it or would it not be the proper thing for me to turn rakedian out for shouting so rudely at a visitor in my house?" "And, would you believe it?" I lay here, shut my eyes, and wondered, "Would it be the proper thing or not?" I kept worrying and worrying, and my heart began to beat, and I couldn't make up my mind whether to make an outcry or not. One voice seemed to be telling me, "Speak," and the other, "No, don't speak." And no sooner had a second voice said that then I cried out and fainted. Of course there was a fuss. I got up suddenly and said to rakedian, "It is painful for me to say it, but I don't wish to see you in my house again." So I turned him out. "Ah, a Lexi Fiederovich. I know myself. I did wrong." I was putting it on. I wasn't angry with him at all, really, but I suddenly fancied. That was what did it, that it would be such a fine scene. And yet, believe me, it was quite natural, for I really shed tears and cried for several days afterwards, and then suddenly, one afternoon, I forgot all about it. So it's a fortnight since he's been here, and I kept wondering whether he would come again. I wondered even yesterday, then suddenly last night, came discossip. I read it and gasped. Who could have written it? He must have written it. He went home, sat down, wrote it on the spot, sent it, and they put it in. It was a fortnight ago, you see, but Aliyosha, it's awful how I keep talking and don't say what I want to say. The words come of themselves. "It's very important for me to be in time to see my brother today," Aliyosha faltered. "To be sure, to be sure, you bring it all back to me. Listen, what is an aberration?" "What aberration," asked Aliyosha, wondering, "in the legal sense, an aberration in which everything is pardonable. Whatever you do, you will be acquitted at once." "What do you mean?" "I'll tell you. This Katya, she is a charming, charming creature. Only I never can make out who it is she is in love with." She was with me some time ago, and I couldn't get anything out of her. "Especially as she won't talk to me except on the surface now." She is always talking about my health and nothing else, and she takes up such a turn with me too. I simply said to myself, "Well, so be it. I don't care." "Oh yes, I was talking about aberration. This doctor has come. You know a doctor has come." "Of course you know it, the one who discovers Mad Men." He wrote for him. "No, it wasn't you, but Katya. It's all Katya's doing." "Well, you see, a man may be sitting perfectly sane and suddenly have an aberration. He may be conscious and know what he is doing, and yet be in a state of aberration." "And there's no doubt that Demetri Fugerovich was suffering from aberration." They found out about aberration as soon as the law courts were reformed. "It's all the good effect of the reformed law courts. The doctor has been here and questioned me about that evening, about the gold mines." "How did he seem then?" he asked me. "He must have been in a state of aberration." He came in shouting, "Money! Money! Money! 3000! Give me 3000!" And then went away and immediately did the murder. "I don't want to murder him," he said, and he suddenly went and murdered him. "That's why they'll acquit him, because he struggled against it, and yet he murdered him." But he didn't murder him. Al-Yosha interrupted rather sharply. He felt more and more sick with anxiety and impatience. "Yes, I know, it was that old man Grigory murdered him." "Grigory!" cried Al-Yosha. "Yes, yes, it was Grigory. He left Demetri Fugerovich, struck him down, and then got up, saw the door open, went in, and killed Fiejor Pavlovitch." "But why? Why?" Suffering from aberration? When he recovered from the blood Demetri Fugerovich gave him on the head, he was suffering from aberration. He went and committed the murder. As for his saying he didn't, he very likely doesn't remember. "Only you know, it'll be better, ever so much better, if Demetri Fugerovich murdered him." "And that's how it must have been, though I say it was Grigory. It certainly was Demetri Fugerovich. And that's better, ever so much better. Oh, not better that a son should have killed his father, I don't defend that. Children ought to honor their parents, and yet it would be better if it were he, as you'd have nothing to cry over then, for he did it when he was unconscious, rather than when he was conscious, but did not know what he was doing. Let them acquit him. That's so humane, and would show what a blessing Reformed Lawcords are. I knew nothing about it, but they say they have been so a long time. And when I heard it yesterday, I was so struck by it that I wanted to send for you at once. And if he is acquitted, make him come straight from the Lawcords to dinner with me, and I'll have a party of friends, and will drink to the Reformed Lawcords. I don't believe he'd be dangerous. Besides, I'll invite a great many friends, so that he could always be let out if he did anything. And then he might be made a justice of the peace or something in another town. For those who have been in trouble themselves make the best judges. And besides, who isn't suffering from an aberration nowadays, you, I, all of us, are in a state of aberration, and there are ever so many examples of it. A man sits singing a song, suddenly something annoys him. He takes the pistol and shoots the first person he comes across, and no one blames him for it. I read that lately, and all the doctors confirm it. The doctors are always confirming. They confirm anything. Why, my lies, is in a state of aberration. She made me cry again yesterday, and the day before, too. And today, I suddenly realized that it's all due to aberration. Oh, lies grieves me so. I believe she's quite mad. Why did she send for you? Did she send for you, or did you come of yourself? Yes, she sent for me, and I am just going to her. Al-Yosha got up, resolutely. Oh, my dear, dear, Alexey Fidier-Rovitch. Perhaps that's what's most important. My damn holocaust cried, suddenly bursting into tears. God knows I trust lies to you with all my heart, and it's no matter, her sending for you on the sly without telling her mother. But forgive me, I can't trust my daughter so easily to your brother even Fidier-Rovitch, though I still consider him the most chivalrous young man. But only fancy he's been to see lies, and I know nothing about it. How? What? When? Al-Yosha was exceedingly surprised. He had not set down again, and listened to standing. I will tell you, that's perhaps why I asked you to come, for I don't know now why I did ask you to come. Well, even Fidier-Rovitch has been to see me twice, since he came back from Moscow. First time he came as a friend to call on me, and the second time K.T. was here, and he came because he heard she was here. I didn't, of course, expect him to come often, knowing what a lot he has to do as it is. Vukom friends, set afier, et la mourte terrible, de vult papa. You know, this affair and your father's terrible death. But I suddenly heard that he's been here again, not to see me, but to see lies. That's six days ago now. He came, stayed for five minutes, and went away. And I didn't hear of it, till three days afterwards. From Glefira, so it was a great shock to me. I sent for lies directly. She laughed. He thought you were asleep, she said, and came into me to ask after your health. Of course that's how it happened, but lies, lies, mercy on us, how she distresses me. Would you believe it, one night, four days ago, just after you saw her last time, and had gone away, she suddenly had a fit, screaming, shrieking, hysterics. Why is it I never have hysterics? Then, next day, another fit, and the same thing on the third, and yesterday, too, and then yesterday, that aberration. She suddenly screamed out, "I hate even Fieder Ravage!" "I insist on you never letting him come to the house again." I was struck dumb at these amazing words, and answered, "On what grounds could I refuse to see such an excellent young man, a young man of such learning, too, and so unfortunate, for all this business is a misfortune, isn't it?" She suddenly burst out, laughing at my words, and so rudely you know. Well, I was pleased. I thought I had amused her and the fits would pass off, especially as I wanted to refuse to see even Fieder Ravage anyway on account of his strange visits without my knowledge. It meant to ask him for an explanation. But early this morning, lies waked up and flew into a passion with Yulia, and, would you believe it, slapped her in the face. "That's monstrous. I am always polite to my servants." And an hour later, she was hugging Yulia's feet and kissing them. She sent a message to me that she wasn't coming to me at all, and would never come and see me again. And when I dragged myself down to her, she rushed to kiss me, crying, and as she kissed me, she pushed me out of the room without saying a word. So I couldn't find out what was the matter. Now, dear Alexi Fieder Ravage, I rest all my hopes on you, and, of course, my whole life is in your hands. I simply beg you to go to lies and find out everything from her. As you alone can, and come back and tell me, me, her mother, for you understand it will be the death of me, simply the death of me, if this goes on, or else I shall run away. I can stand no more. I have patience, but I may lose patience. And then, then something awful will happen. Ah, dear me, at last, P.T.R. Eliotch!" cried Madame Holocaust, beaming all over as she saw. Peroutine enter the room. "You are late. You are late. Well, sit down. Speak. Put us out of suspense. What does the council say?" "Where are you off to, Alexi Fieder Ravage?" "To lies." "Oh, yes, you won't forget. You won't forget what I asked you. It's a question of life and death." "Of course I won't forget. If I can, but I am so late, modern Al-Yosha, beating a hasty retreat." "No, be sure, but to come in. Don't say, if I can. I shall die if you don't," Madame Holocaust called after him, but Al-Yosha had already left the room. End of Chapter 2 of Book 11 Book 11 Chapter 3 A Little Demon Going into Liz, he found her half reclining in the invalid chair in which she had been wheeled when she was unable to walk. She did not move to meet him, but her sharp, keen eyes were simply riveted on his face. There was a feverish look in her eyes. Her face was pale and yellow. Al-Yosha was amazed at the change that had taken place in her in three days. She was positively thinner. She did not hold out her hands to him. He touched the thin, long fingers which lay motionless on her dress, then he sat down facing her without a word. "I know you are in a hurry to get to the prison," Liz said currently. "And mama's kept you there for hours. She's just been telling you about me and Ulya." "How do you know?" asked Al-Yosha. "I've been listening. Why do you stare at me? I want to listen and I do listen. There's no harm in that. I don't apologize. You are upset about something? On the contrary, I am very happy. I've only just been reflecting for the thirtieth time what a good thing it is I refused you and shall not be your wife. You're not fit to be husband. If I were to marry you and give you a note to take to the man I loved after you, you'd take it and be sure to give it to him and bring an answer back too. If you were forty, you would still go on taking my love letters for me." She suddenly laughed. "There is something spiteful and yet openhearted about you," Al-Yosha smiled to her. "The open heartiness consists in my not being ashamed of myself with you. What's more, I don't want to feel ashamed with you, just with you. Al-Yosha, why is it that I don't respect you? I am very fond of you, but I don't respect you. If I respected you, I shouldn't talk to you without shame, should I?" "No." "But do you believe that I am not ashamed with you?" "No, I don't believe it." Liz laughed nervously again. She spoke rapidly. "I send your brother to Mitrae Fielderov each some sweets in prison. Al-Yosha, you know, you are quite pretty. I shall love you awfully for having so quickly allowed me not to love you." "Where did you send for me today, Liz?" "I wanted to tell you of a longing I have. I should like someone to torture me, marry me, and then torture me, deceive me and go away. I don't want to be happy." "You are in love with disorder?" "Yes, I want disorder. I keep wanting to set fire to the house. I keep imagining how I'll creep up and set fire to the house on the sly. It must be on the sly. Don't try to put it out, but I'll go on burning, and I shall know and say nothing. What silliness, and how bored I am." She weighed her hand with a look of repulsion. "It is your luxurious life," said Al-Yosha softly. "Is it better than to be poor?" "Yes, it is better." "That's what your monk taught you. That's not true. Let me be rich and all the rest poor. I'll eat sweets and drink cream and not give any to anyone else. But don't speak. Don't say anything." She shook her hand at him, though Al-Yosha had not opened his mouth. "You've told me all that before. I know it all by heart. It bores me. If I am ever poor, I shall murder somebody, and even if I'm rich, I may murder someone, perhaps. Why do nothing? But do you know I should like to reap, cut the rye? I'll marry you, and you shall become a peasant, a real peasant. We'll keep a cold, shall we? Do you know Kalganov?" "Yes." "He's always wondering about dreaming," he says. "Why live in real life? It's better to dream. One can dream the most delightful things, but real life is a bore. But he'll be married soon for all that. He's been making love to me already." "Can you spin tops?" "Yes." "Well, he's just like a top. He wants to be wound up and set spinning and then to be lashed, lashed, lashed with a whip. If I marry him, I'll keep him spinning all his life. You're not ashamed to be with me." "No." "You are awfully cross because I don't talk about holy things. I don't want to be holy." "What will they do to one, in the next world, for the greatest sin? You must know all about that. God will censure you." Alosha was watching her steadily. "That's just what I should like. I would go up and they would censure me and I would burst out laughing in their faces. I should dreadfully like to set fire to the house, Alosha, to our house. You still don't believe me." "Why, there are children of twelve years old who have a longing to set fire to something and they do set things on fire too. It's a sort of disease." "That's not true. That's not true. There may be children, but that's not what I mean." "You take evil for good. It's a passing crisis. It's the result of your illness, perhaps." "You do despise me, though. It's simply that I don't want to do good. I want to do evil and it has nothing to do with illness. Why do evil so that everything might be destroyed?" "How nice it would be if everything were destroyed. You know, Alosha, I sometimes think of doing a fearful lot of harm and everything bad and I should do it for a long while on the sly and suddenly everyone would find out. Everyone will stand round and point their fingers at me and I would look at them all. That would be awfully nice. Why would it be so nice, Alosha?" "I don't know. It's a craving to destroy something good or, as you say, to set fire to something. It happens sometimes. I not only say it, I shall do it. I believe you. How I love you for saying you believe me, and you are not lying one little bit. But perhaps you think that I am saying all this on purpose to annoy you. No, I don't think that. Though perhaps there is a little desire to do that in it, too. There is a little. I never can tell lies to you," she declared with a strange fire in her eyes. "What struck Alosha above everything was her earnestness. There was not a trace of humor or jesting in her face now, though in old days fun and gaiety never deserted her even at her most earnest moments. "There are moments when people love crime," said Alosha thoughtfully. "Yes, yes. You have uttered my thought. They love crime. Everyone loves crime. They love it always, not at some moments. You know, it's as though people have made an agreement to lie about it and have lied about it ever since. They all declare that they hate evil, but secretly they all love it. And are you still reading nasty books?" "Yes, I am." Mama reads them and hides them under her pillow, and I steal them. "Aren't you ashamed to destroy yourself? I want to destroy myself." "There is a boy here who laid down between the railway lines when the train was passing." "Lucky fellow." "Listen, your brother is being tried now for murdering his father, and everyone loves his having killed his father." "Loves? He's having killed his father?" "Yes, loves it. Everyone loves it. Everybody says it so awful, but secretly they simply love it. I, for one, love it." "There is some truth in what you say about everyone," said Alosha softly. "Oh, what ideas you have," Lee streaked in the light, "and you among too. You wouldn't believe how I respect you, Alosha, for never telling lies. Oh, I must tell you a funny dream of mine. I sometimes dream of devils. It's night. I am in my room with a candle, and suddenly there are devils all over the place, in all the corners, under the table, and they all open the doors. There's a crowd of them behind the doors, and they want to come and seize me, and they're just coming, just seizing me, but I suddenly cross myself, and they all draw back. Though they don't go away altogether, they stand at the doors and in the corners, waiting. And suddenly, I have a frightful longing to revile God aloud, and so I begin, and then they come crowding back to me, delighted, and seize me again, and I cross myself again, and they all draw back again. It's awful fun. It takes one's breath away. "I've had the same dream too," said Alosha suddenly. "Really?" cried Lee's surprised. "I say Alosha don't laugh. That's awfully important. Could two different people have the same dream?" "It seems they can." "Alosha, I tell you, it's awfully important," Lee's went on with really excessive amazement. "It's not to dream that's important, but you having the same dream as me. You never lie to me. Don't lie now. Is it true? You're not laughing." "It's true." Lee seemed extraordinarily impressed, and for half a minute, she was silent. "Alosha, come and see me. Come and see me more often," she said suddenly in a supplicating voice. "I'll always come to see you. All my life," answered Alosha firmly. "You are the only person I can talk to, you know," Lee's 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." "Alosha, why am I not ashamed with you, not a bit?" "Alosha, 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 comfort. I am awfully fond of pineapple comfort. Do you like it?" Alosha looked at her in silence. Her pale, shallow face was suddenly contorted. Her eyes burned. "You know, when I read about that Jew, I shook with sobs all night. I kept fencing how the little thing cried and moaned. A child of four years old understands, you know, and all the while the thought of pineapple comfort 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 comfort, 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, Alosha, did he despise me or not?" She set up on the couch with flashing eyes. "Tell me," Alosha asked anxiously. "Did you stand for that person?" "Yes, I did." "Did you sand him a letter?" "Yes." "Simply to ask about that, about the 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." "Oh, that person behaved honorably," Alosha 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, Liz." "Yes, he does believe in it," said Liz, with flushing eyes. "He doesn't despise anyone," Alosha went on. "Only he does not believe anyone." "If he doesn't believe in people, of course, he does despise them. Then he despises me. Me? You, too. Good. Liz 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 his eyes, and to be despised is nice. And she laughed in Alosha's face, a feverish, malicious laugh. "Do you know, Alosha? Do you know, I should like... Alosha, save me." She suddenly jumped from the couch, rushed to him, and seized him with both hands. "Save me," she almost groaned. "Is there anyone 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. Alosha, why don't you love me in the least?" she finished in the frenzy. "But I do love you," answered Alosha 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 that I want. Everyone else may punish me and trample me under food. Everyone. Everyone. Not accepting anyone." "For I don't love anyone. Do you hear? Not anyone. On the contrary, I hate him." "Go, Alosha. It's time you went to your brother." She tore herself away from him suddenly. "How can I leave you like this?" said Alosha, almost in alarm. "Go to your brother. The prison will be shut. Go. Here's your hat. Give my loft to Mica. Go. Go." And she almost forcibly pushed Alosha out of the door. He looked at her with pain and 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 fielderovich Karamazov." He looked quickly at Liz. Her face had become almost menacing. "Give it to him. You must give it to him." She ordered him trembling and beside herself. "Today, at once, or I'll poison myself. That's why I sent for you." And she slammed the door quickly. The bolt clicked. Alosha put the note in his pocket and went straight downstairs without going back to Madam Hohlaku for getting her in fact. As soon as Alosha had gone, Liz unbolted the door, opened it a little, put her finger in the crack and slammed the door with all her might, pinching her finger. 10 seconds after, releasing her finger, she walked softly, slowly to her chair, set up straight in it and looked intently at her black and finger and at the blood that oozed from under the nail. Her lips were quivering and she kept whispering rapidly to herself. "I am wretch, wretch, wretch, wretch." End of chapter 3 of Book 11 Book 11, chapter 4, a hymn and a secret. It was quite late, days are short in November, when Alosha rang at the prison gate. It was beginning to get dusk, but Alosha 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 rooms set aside for the purpose were practically te-t-t-t. These exceptions, however, were few in number. Only Grushenka, Al-Yosha, and Raketin were treated like this. But the captain of the police, Mikhail Mikhailovich, was very favorably disposed to Grushenka. His abuse of her at Mokroy 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 Al-Yosha, the police captain was very fond of him, and had known him for a long time. Raketin, who had of late taken to coming very often to see the prisoner, was one of the most intimate acquaintances of the police captains 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 kindhearted old man. Al-Yosha, 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 Feodorovich, and stood in awe of his opinion, though he was a great philosopher himself, self-taught, of course. But Al-Yosha 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 Al-Yosha were late at the prison, he had only to go to the superintendent, and everything was made easy. Besides, everyone in the prison, down to the humblest warder, had grown used to Al-Yosha. The century, of course, did not trouble him so long as the authorities were satisfied. When Mitea was summoned from his cell, he always went downstairs to the place set aside for interviews. As Al-Yosha entered the room, he came upon Raketan, who was just taken leave of Mitea. They were both talking loudly. Mitea was laughing heartily as he saw him out, while Raketan seemed grumbling. Raketan did not like meeting Al-Yosha, especially of late. He scarcely spoke to him, and bowed to him stiffly. Seeing Al-Yosha 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 mine not to forget my belongings," he muttered, simply to say something. "Mind you don't forget other people's belonging," said Mitea, as a joke, and laughed at once at his own wit. Raketan fired up instantly. "You'd better give that advice to your own family, who've always been a slave driving lot, and not to Raketan," he cried, suddenly trembling with anger. "What's the matter? I was joking," cried Mitea. "Damn it all, they're all like that." He turned to Al-Yosha, nodding towards Raketan'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 were not such great friends?" asked Al-Yosha. "He too nodded at the door through which Raketan had disappeared." "Great friends with Raketan? No, not as much as that. Is it likely a pig like that?" "He considers I am a blaggard. 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 I'll say it's all over with me now." He sat down on the bench and made Al-Yosha sit down beside him. "Yes, the trial's tomorrow. Are you so hopeless, brother?" Al-Yosha said with an apprehensive feeling. "What are you talking about?" said Mita, 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 tomorrow, 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, Mita? Ideas, ideas, that's all. Ethics, what is ethics?" "Ethics?" Al-Yosha 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." "Rakeetin knows. Rakeetin 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. Ugh, their first rate these people at making a career. Damn ethics, I am done for Alexei. I am you man of God. I love you more than anyone. It makes my heart yearn to look at you. Who was Carl Bernard?" "Carl Bernard?" Al-Yosha was surprised again. "No, not Carl. Stay. I made a mistake." "Claud Bernard. What was he? Chemist or what?" "He must be a savant," answered Al-Yosha. "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, Swarmita. A scoundrel of some sort, most likely. They're all scoundrels. And Rakeetin will make his way. Rakeetin will get on anywhere. He's another Bernard. Ah, these Bernard's. They're all over the place." "But what is the matter, Al-Yosha?" asked insistently. He wants to write an article about me, about my case, and so begin his literary career. That's what he comes for. He said so himself. He wants to prove some theory. He wants to say he couldn't help murdering his father. He was corrupted by his environment and so on. He explained it all to me. "He's going to put in a tinge of socialism," he says. "But there, damn the fellow. He can put in a tinge if he likes. I don't care." "He can't bury von. He hates him. He's not fond of you either. But I don't turn him out for he is a clever fellow." Awfully conceited, though. "I said to him just now. The Karamazovs are not blagards, but philosophers. For all true Russians are philosophers. And though you've studied, you are not a philosopher. You are a low fellow." He laughed so maliciously. And I said to him, "De idea bus non es disputandum. Isn't that rather good? I can set up for being a classic, you see, meet you laughed suddenly." "Why is it all over with you? You said so just now," Al-Yosha interposed. "Why is it all over with me?" "The fact of it is, if you take it as a whole, I am sorry to lose God. That's why it is." "What do you mean by sorry to lose God?" "Imagine, inside, in the nerves, in the head. That is, these nerves are there in the brain, damn them. There are sort of little tails, the little tails of those nerves, and as soon as they begin quivering, that is, you see, I look at something with my eyes, and then they begin quivering those little tails, and when they quiver, then an image appears. It doesn't appear at once, but an instant, a second passes, and then something like a moment appears. That is not a moment, then will take the moment, but an image that is an object or an action. Damn it! That's why I see and then think, because of those tails, not at all because I've got a soul and that I am some sort of image and likeness. All that is nonsense. Rakeetan explained it all to me yesterday, brother, and it simply bold me over. It's magnificent Al-Yosha, this science, a new man's arising, that I understand, and yet I am sorry to lose God. Well, that's a good thing anyway, said Al-Yosha, that I am sorry to lose God. It's chemistry, brother, chemistry. There's no help for it, your reverence. You must make way for chemistry, and Rakeetan does this like God. Oh, doesn't he dislike him. That's the sore point with all of them, but they can seal it, they tell lies, they pretend. "Will you preach this in your reviews?" I asked him. "Oh, well, if I did it openly, they won't let it through," he said. He laughed. "But what will become of men, then?" I asked him, "Without God and immortal life. All things are lawful, then, they can do what they like." "Didn't you know?" he said, laughing. "A clever man can do what he likes," he said. "A clever man knows his way about, but you've put your foot in it, committing a murder, and now you are rotting in prison." He says that to my face, a regular pig. I used to kick such people out, but now I listen to them. He talks a lot of sense, too, writes well. He began reading me an article last week. I copied out three lines of it. Wait a minute. Here it is. Mika hurriedly pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and read, "In order to determine this question, it is above all essential to put one's personality in contradiction to one's reality." "Do you understand that?" "No, I don't," said Al-Yosha. He looked at Mika and listened to him with curiosity. "I don't understand either. It's dark and obscure, but intellectual. Everyone writes like that now," he says. "It's the effect of their environment." They're afraid of the environment. He writes poetry to the rascal. He's written in honor of Madame Holakov's foot. "I've heard about it," said Al-Yosha. "Have you? And have you heard the poem?" "No. I've got it. Here it is. I'll read it to you. You don't know. I haven't told you. There's quite a story about it. He's a rascal. Three weeks ago, he began to tease me. You've got yourself into a mess like a fool for the sake of three thousand, but I am going to call her a hundred and fifty thousand. I am going to marry a widow and buy a house in Petersburg." And he told me he was courting Madame Holakov. She had much brains in her youth, and now at forty she has lost what she had. "But she's awfully sentimental," he says. "That's how I shall get hold of her. When I marry her, I shall take her to Petersburg, and there I shall start a newspaper. And his mouth was simply watering the beast, not for the widow, but for the hundred and fifty thousand. And he made me believe it. He came to see me every day. She's coming round," he declared. He was beaming with delight. "And then all of a sudden he was turned out of the house. Perhotians carrying everything before him. Bravo! I could kiss the silly old noodle for turning him out of the house." And he had written this dog girl. "It's the first time I've soiled my hands with writing poetry," he said. "It's to win her heart, so it's in a good cause. When I get hold of the silly woman's fortune, I can be of great social utility. They have this social justification for every nasty thing they do. Anyway, it's better than your Pushkin's poetry," he said, "for I've managed to advocate enlightenment even in that." "My understanding, what he means about Pushkin, I quite see that. If he really was a man of talent and only wrote about women's feet, but wasn't Rakeetan stuck up about his dog girl, the vanity of these fellows. On the convalescence of the swollen foot of the object of my affections, he thought of that for a title. He's a waggish fellow." A captivating little foot, though swollen and red and tender, the doctors come in plaster's put, but still they cannot mend her. Yet 'tis not for her foot, I dread, a theme for Pushkin's muse more fit. It's not her foot, it is her head, I tremble for her loss of wit. For as her footswells strange to say, her intellect is on the wane. Oh, for some remedy, I pray, that may restore both foot and brain. He's a pig, a regular pig, but he's very arched the rascal, and he really has put in a progressive idea. And wasn't he angry when she kicked him out. He was gnashing his teeth. "He's taken his revenge already," said Al-Yosha. "He's written a paragraph about Madam Holakov." And Al-Yosha told him briefly about the paragraph in gossip. "That's his doing, that's his doing," Mitya scented frowning. "That's him." "These paragraphs, I know, the insulting things that have been written about Grushenko, for instance, and about Kachia too." "He walked across the room with a harassed air." "Brother, I cannot stay long," Al-Yosha said, after a pause. "Tomorrow will be a great and awful day for you. The judgment of God will be accomplished. I am amazed at you. You walk about here, talking of I don't know what." "No, don't be amazed at me," Mitya broke in warmly. "I might have talked of that stinking dog. Of the murderer, we've talked enough of him. I don't want to say more of the stinking son of stinking, Lisa Veta. God will kill him. You will see. Hush!" He went up to Al-Yosha excitedly and kissed him. His eyes glowed. Rakeetin wouldn't understand it. He began in a sort of exaltation. "But you, you will understand it all. That's why I was thirsting for you. You see, there's so much I've been wanting to tell you forever so long, here within these peeling walls. But I haven't said a word about what matters most. The moment never seems to have come. Now I can wait no longer. I must pour out my heart to you." "Brother, these last two months I've found in myself a new man. A new man has risen up in me. He was hidden in me, but would never have come to the surface if it hadn't been for this blow from heaven. I am afraid. And what do I care if I spend twenty years in the mind's breaking ore with a hammer? I'm not a bit afraid of that. It's something else I'm afraid of now, that that new man may leave me. Even there, in the mind's underground, I may find a human heart in another convict and murderer by my side, and I may make friends with him, for even there one may live and love and suffer. One may thaw and revive a frozen heart in that convict. One may wait upon him for years, and at last bring up from the dark depths a lofty soul, a feeling, suffering creature. One may bring forth an angel, create a hero. There are so many of them, hundreds of them, and we are all to blame for them. Why was it I dreamed of that babe at such a moment? Why is the babe so poor? That was assigned to me at that moment. It's for the babe I'm going, because we are all responsible for all, for all the babes, for there are big children as well as little children, all are babes. I go for all, because someone must go for all. I didn't kill Father, but I've got to go, I accept it. It's all come to me here, here within these peeling walls. There are numbers of them, there hundreds of them underground, with hammers in their hands. Oh yes, we shall be in chains, and there will be no freedom, but then in our great sorrow we shall rise again to joy, without which man cannot live nor God exists, for God gives joy. It's his privilege, a grand one. A man should be dissolved in prayer. What should I be underground there without God? Raketans laughing. If they drive God from the earth, we shall shelter him underground. One cannot exist in prison without God. It's even more impossible than out of prison, and then we men underground will sing from the bowels of the earth, a glorious hymn to God, with whom is joy, hail to God and his joy. I love him. Mika was almost gasping for breath, as he uttered his wild speech. He turned pale, his lips quivered, and tears rolled down his cheeks. Yes, life is full, there is life even underground, he began again. You wouldn't believe, like say, how I want to live now. What a thirst for existence and consciousness has sprung up in me, within these peeling walls. Raketan doesn't understand that. All he cares about is building a house and letting flats, but I've been longing for you. And what is suffering? I'm not afraid of it, even if it were beyond reckoning. I'm not afraid of it now. I was afraid of it before. Do you know? Perhaps I won't answer at the trial at all. And I seem to have such strength in me now that I think I could stand anything, any suffering, only to be able to say and to repeat to myself every moment, I exist in thousands of agonies. I exist. I'm tormented on the rack, but I exist. Though I sit alone on a pillar, I exist. I see the sun, and if I don't see the sun, I know it's there. And there's a whole life in that, knowing that the sun is there. Al-Yosham, my angel. All these philosophies are the death of me. Danden. Brother Ivan. What have Brother Ivan interrupted Al-Yosham? But Mita did not hear. You see, I've never had any of these doubts before, but it was all hidden away in me. It was perhaps just because ideas I did not understand were surging up in me that I used to drink and fight and rage. It was to stifle them in myself, distill them, to smother them. Ivan is not Rakeetan. There is an idea in him. Ivan is his finks and his silent. He's always silent. It's God that's worrying me. That's the only thing that's worrying me. What if he doesn't exist? What if Rakeetan's right? That it's an idea made up by men? Then if he doesn't exist, man is the chief of the earth, of the universe. Magnificent. Only how is he going to be good without God? That's the question. I always come back to that. For whom is man going to love then? To whom will he be thankful? To whom will he sing the hymn? Rakeetan laughs. Rakeetan says that one can love humanity without God. Well, only a sniveling idiot can maintain that. I can't understand it. Life's easy for Rakeetan. You'd better think about the extension of civic rights or even of keeping down the price of meat. You will show your love for humanity more simply and directly by that than by philosophy. I answered him, "Well, but you, without a God, are more likely to raise the price of meat if it suits you and make a ruble on every copec." He lost his temper. But after all, what is goodness? Answer me that, Alexei. Goodness is one thing with me and another with a Chinaman, so it's a relative thing. Or isn't it? Is it not relative? A treacherous question. You won't laugh if I tell you it's kept me awake two nights. I only wonder now how people can live and think nothing about it. Vanity. Yvonne has no God. He has an idea. It's beyond me, but he is silent. I believe he is a Freemason. I asked him, but he is silent. I wanted a drink from the springs of his soul. He was silent. But once he did drop a word. What did he say? Al-Yosha took it up quickly. I said to him, then everything is lawful if it is so. He frowned. Fyodor Pavlovich, our papa, he said, was a pig, but his ideas were right enough. That was what he dropped. That was all he said. That was going one better than Raqitin. Yes, Al-Yosha ascended bitterly. When was he with you? Of that later. Now I must speak of something else. I have said nothing about Yvonne to you before. I put it off to the last. When my business here is over and the verdict has been given, then I'll tell you something. I'll tell you everything. We've something tremendous on hand, and you shall be my judge in it. But don't begin about that now. Be silent. You talk of tomorrow, of the trial. But would you believe it? I know nothing about it. Have you talked to the council? What's the use of the council? I told him all about it. He's a soft, city-bred rogue, a Bernard. But he doesn't believe me, not a bit of it. Only imagine he believes I did it. I see it. In that case I asked him, why have you come to defend me? Hang them all. They've got a doctor down too. What a prove I'm mad. I won't have that. Katarina Ivanovna wants to do her duty to the end. Whatever the strain. Mitya smiled bitterly. The cat, hard-hearted creature. She knows that I said of her at McCoy that she was a woman of great wrath. They repeated it. Yes, the facts against me have grown numerous as the sands of the sea. Grigori sticks to his point. Grigori's honest, but a fool. Many people are honest because they are fools. That's for Keating's idea. Grigori's my enemy. And there are some people who are better as foes than friends. I mean Katarina Ivanovna. I am afraid. Oh, I am afraid she will tell how she bowed to the ground after that four thousand. She'll pay it back to the last farthing. I don't want her sacrifice. They'll put me to shame at the trial. I wonder how I can stand it. Go to her al-Yosha. Ask her not to speak of that in the court, can't you? But damn it all, it doesn't matter. I shall get through somehow. I don't pity her. It's her own doing. She deserves what she gets. I shall have my own story to tell Alexei. He smiled bitterly again. Only. Only Grusha. Grusha. Good lord. Why should she have such suffering to bear, he exclaimed suddenly with tears. Grusha's killing me. The thought of her is killing me. Killing me. She was with me just now. She told me she was very much grieved by you today. I know, confound my temper. It was jealousy. I was sorry. I kissed her as she was going. I didn't ask her forgiveness. Why didn't you, exclaimed al-Yosha? Suddenly Mitya laughed almost mirthfully. God preserve you, my dear boy, from ever asking forgiveness for a fault from a woman you love. From one you love, especially, however greatly you may have been at fault. For a woman, devil only knows what to make of a woman. I know something about them anyway. But try acknowledging you were in fault to a woman. Say, I am sorry. Forgive me, and a shower of reproaches will follow. Nothing will make her forgive you simply and directly. She'll humble you to the dust, bring forward things that have never happened, recall everything, forget nothing, add something of her own, and only then forgive you. And even the best, the best of them do it. She'll scrape up all the scrapings and loathe them on your head. They're ready to flay you alive, I tell you every one of them, all these angels without whom we cannot live. I tell you plainly and openly, dear boy, every decent man ought to be under some woman's thumb. That's my conviction. Not conviction, but feeling. A man ought to be magnanimous, and it's no disgrace to a man. No disgrace to a hero, not even a Caesar. But don't ever beg her pardon all the same for anything. Remember that rule given you by your brother, Mecia, who's come to ruin through women. No, I'd better make it up to Grusia somehow, without begging pardon. I worship her, Alexei. Worship her. Only she doesn't see it. No, she still thinks I don't love her enough. And she tortures me, tortures me with her love. The past was nothing. In the past, it was only those infernal curves of hers that tortured me. But now I've taken all her soul into my soul, and through her I've become a man myself. Will they marry us? If they don't, I shall die of jealousy. I imagine something every day. What did she say to you about me? Al-Yosha repeated, Al-Grushanka had said to him that day. Mecia listened, made him repeat things, and seemed pleased. "Then she is not angry at my being jealous," he exclaimed. "She is a regular woman. I have a fierce heart myself. I love such fierce hearts, though I can't bear anyone's being jealous of me. I can't endure it. We shall fight. But I shall love her. I shall love her infinitely. Will they marry us? Do they let convicts marry? That's the question. And without her I can't exist." Mecia walked frowning across the room. It was almost dark. He suddenly seemed terribly worried. "So there's a secret," she says. "A secret? We have got up a plot against her, and Katya has mixed up in it," she thinks. "No, my good Grushanka. That's not it. You are very wide of the mark in your foolish, feminine way." Al-Yosha, darling. "Well, here goes. I'll tell you our secret." He looked round, went close up quickly to Al-Yosha, who was standing before him, and whispered to him with an air of mystery, though in reality no one could hear them. The old water was dozing in the corner, and not a word could reach the ears of the soldiers on guard. "I will tell you all our secret," Mecia whispered hurriedly. "I meant to tell you later, for how could I decide on anything without you? You are everything to me." Though I say that Ivan is superior to us, you are my angel. It's your decision we'll decide it. Perhaps it's you that is superior and not Ivan. You see, it's a question of conscience, question of the higher conscience. The secret is so important that I can't settle it myself, and I've put it off till I could speak to you. But anyway, it's too early to decide now, for we must wait for the verdict. As soon as the verdict is given, you shall decide my fate. Don't decide it now. I'll tell you now. You listen, but don't decide. Stand and keep quiet. I won't tell you everything. I'll only tell you the idea, without details, and you keep quiet. Not a question, not a movement, you agree? But goodness, what shall I do with your eyes? I'm afraid your eyes will tell me your decision, even if you don't speak. Oh, I'm afraid. Al-Yasha, listen. Ivan suggests my escaping. I won't tell you the details. It's all been thought out. It can all be arranged. Hush, don't decide. I should go to America with Grusha. You know, I can't live without Grusha. What if they won't let her follow me to Siberia? Do they let convicts get married? Ivan thinks not. And without Grusha, what should I do there underground with a hammer? I should only smash my skull with the hammer. But on the other hand, my conscience, I should have run away from suffering. A sign has come. I reject the sign. I have a way of salvation, and I turn my back on it. Ivan says that in America, with the good will, I can be of more use than underground. But what becomes of our hymn from underground? What's America? America's vanity again, and there's a lot of swindling in America, too, I expect. I should have run away from crucifixion. I tell you, you know, Alexei, because you are the only person who can understand this. There's no one else. It's folly, madness to others. All I've told you of the hymn. They'll say, "I am out of my mind, or a fool. I am not out of my mind, and I am not a fool." Ivan understands about the hymn, too. He understands. Only he doesn't answer. He doesn't speak. He doesn't believe in the hymn. Don't speak. Don't speak. I see how you'll look. You've already decided. Don't decide. Spare me. I can't live without Grusia, wait till after the trial. Meteor ended beside himself. He held Al-Yosha with both hands on his shoulders, and his yearning feverish eyes were fixed on his brothers. They don't let convicts marry, do they? He repeated for the third time in a supplicating voice. Al-Yosha listened with extreme surprise, and was deeply moved. "Tell me one thing," he said, "is Ivan very keen on it, and whose idea was it?" "His, his, and his very keen on it. He didn't come to see me at first, then he suddenly came a week ago, and he began about it straight away. He is awfully keen on it. He doesn't ask me, but orders me to escape. He doesn't doubt of my obeying him, though I showed him all my heart as I have to you, and told him about the him, too." He told me he'd arrange it. He's found out about everything. But of that later, he simply set on it. It's all a matter of money. He'll pay 10,000 for escape, and give me 20,000 for America, and he says, "We can arrange a magnificent escape for 10,000." And he told you on no account to tell me Al-Yosha asked again? "To tell no one, and especially not you, on no account to tell you. He's afraid, no doubt, that you'll stand before me as my conscience. Don't tell him I told you, don't tell him for anything." "You are right, Al-Yosha pronounced. It's impossible to decide anything before the trial is over. After the trial you'll decide of yourself, then you'll find that new man and yourself, and he will decide. A new man or a Bernard who'll decide, Ella Bernard, for I believe I'm a contemptible Bernard myself," said Mita, with a bitter grin. "But, brother, have you no hope then of being acquitted?" Mita shrugged his shoulders nervously, and shook his head. "Al-Yosha, darling, it's time you were going," he said, with a sudden haste. "There's a superintendent shouting in the yard. He'll be here directly. We are late. It's irregular. Embrace me quickly. Kiss me. Sign me with the cross, darling. For the cross I have to bear tomorrow." They embraced and kissed. Yvonne said Mita suddenly suggests my escaping, but of course he believes I did it. A mournful smile came onto his lips. "Have you asked him whether he believes it?" asked Al-Yosha. "No, I haven't. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I hadn't the courage, but I saw it from his eyes. Well, goodbye." Once more they kissed hurriedly, and Al-Yosha was just going out when Mita suddenly called him back. "Stand facing me. That's right." And again he seized Al-Yosha, putting both hands on his shoulders. His face became suddenly quite pale so that it was dreadfully apparent, even through the gathering darkness. His lips twitched, his eyes fastened upon Al-Yosha. Al-Yosha, tell me the whole truth as you would before God. "Do you believe I did it? Do you, do you in yourself believe it? The whole truth! Don't lie!" he cried desperately. Everything seemed heaving before Al-Yosha, and he felt something like a stab at his heart. "Hush, what do you mean?" he faltered helplessly. "The whole truth! The whole! Don't lie!" repeated Mita. "I've never for one instant believed that you were the murderer," broke in a shaking voice from Al-Yosha's breast, and he raised his right hand in the air as though calling God to witness his words. Mita's whole face was lighted up with bliss. "Thank you," he articulated slowly, as though letting a sigh escape him after fainting. "Now you have given me new life. Would you believe it till this moment I've been afraid to ask you? You! Even you!" "Well, go! You've given me strength for tomorrow! God bless you! Come, go along!" "Lavivan!" was Mita's last word. Al-Yosha went out in tears. Such distrustfulness in Mita, such lack of confidence, even to him, to Al-Yosha. All this suddenly opened before Al-Yosha, an unsuspected depth of hopeless grief and despair in the soul of his unhappy brother. Intense, infinite compassion overwhelmed him instantly. There was a poignant ache in his torn heart. "Lavivan!" he suddenly recalled Mita's words, and he was going to Ivan. He badly wanted to see Ivan all day. He was as much worried about Ivan as about Mita, and more than ever now. End of chapter 4 of Book 11. Book 11, chapter 5, not you, not you. On the way to Ivan, he had to pass the house where Carterina Ivan Novna was living. There was light in the windows. He suddenly stopped and resolved to go in. He had not seen Carterina Ivan Novna for more than a week, but now it struck him that Ivan might be with her, especially on the eve of the terrible day. Ringing and mounting the staircase, which was dimly lighted by a Chinese lantern, he saw a man coming down. And as they met, he recognized him as his brother, so he was just coming from Carterina Ivan Novna. "Huh. It's only you," said Ivan dryly. "Well, goodbye. Are you going to her?" "Yes. I don't advise you to. She's upset, and you upset her more." A dog was instantly flung open above, and the voice cried suddenly. "No. No. Alexei Fyodorovic. Have you come from him?" "Yes. I have been with him." "Has he sent me any message? Come up, Al-Yosha, and do you, Ivan Fyodorovic, you must come back. You must. Do you hear?" There was such a parametery note in Cartier's voice that Ivan, after a moment's hesitation, made of his mind to go back with Al-Yosha. "She was listening," he murmured angrily to himself, but Al-Yosha heard it. "Excuse my keeping my great coat on," said Ivan, going into the drawing room. "I want to sit down. I want to stay more than a minute." "Sit down, Alexei Fyodorovic," said Cartierina Ivanovna. Though she remained standing, she had changed very little during this time, but there was such an ominous gleam in her dark eyes, Al-Yosha remembered afterwards that she had struck him as particularly handsome at that moment. "What did he ask you to tell me?" "Only one thing," said Al-Yosha, looking her straight in the face, that you would spare yourself and say nothing at the trial of what he was a little confused, passed between you at the time of your first acquaintance in that town. "Ah, that I bow down to the ground for that money," she broke into a bitter laugh. "Why, is he a threat for me or for himself?" He asks me to spare whom, him or myself, "Tell me, Alexei Fyodorovic." Al-Yosha watched her intently, trying to understand her. "Both yourself and him?" he answered softly. "I'm glad to hear it," she snapped out maliciously, and she subtly blushed. "You don't know me yet, Alexei Fyodorovic," she said menacingly. "And I don't know myself yet. Perhaps you'll want to trample me underfoot after my examination tomorrow." "You'll give your evidence honorably," said Al-Yosha. "That's all that's wanted." "Women are often dishonorable," she snout. "Only an hour ago, I was thinking I found the way to touch that monster as though he were erectile. But no, he is still a human being to me. But did he do it? Is he the murderer?" she cried, all of a sudden, hysterically turning quickly to Ivan. Al-Yosha saw at once that she had asked Ivan that question before, perhaps only a moment before he came in, and not for the first time, but for the hundredth, and that they had dented by quarrelling. "I've been to see Smerdia Koff. It was you, you who persuaded me that he murdered his father. It's only you, I believe." She continued, still addressing Ivan. He gave her a sort of strained smile. Al-Yosha stadoned at her tone. He had not suspected such family or intimacy between them. "Well, does enough anyway?" Ivan cut shot the conversation. "I'm going. I'll come tomorrow." And turning at once, he walked out of the room and went straight downstairs. With an imperious gesture, Katarina Ivanovna sees the Al-Yosha by both hands. "Follow him. Overtake him. Don't leave him alone for a minute," she said in a hurried whisper. "He's mad. Don't you know that he's mad?" He is in a fever, nervous fever. The doctor told me so. "Go. Run after him." Al-Yosha jumped up and ran after Ivan, who was not fifty paces ahead of him. "What do you want?" He turned quickly on Al-Yosha, seeing that he was running after him. "She told me to catch me up because I'm mad. I know it all by heart," he added irritably. "She's mistaken, of course, but she's right that you are ill," said the Al-Yosha. "I am looking at your face just now. You look very ill, Ivan." Ivan walked on without stopping. "Al-Yosha, follow him." "And do you know, Alexey Fyodorovich? How do people go out of their minds?" Ivan asked in a voice, suddenly quiet, without the trace of irritation, with a knot of the simplest curiosity. "No, I don't. I suppose they are all kinds of insanity." "And can one observe that once going mad oneself?" "I imagine one can't see oneself clearly in such circumstances," Al-Yosha answered with a surprise. Ivan paused for half a minute. "If you want to talk to me, please change the subject," he said suddenly. "Oh, while I think of it, I have a letter for you," said Al-Yosha, timidly. And he took Lucy's knot from his pockets and handed out to Ivan. They were just under a lamppost. Ivan recognized the handwriting at once. "Ah, from that little demon," he laughed maliciously, and, without opening the envelope, he tore it into bits and threw it in the air. The bits were scattered by the wind. "She's not sixteen yet, I believe, and already offering herself," he said contemptuously, striding along the street again. "How do you mean offering herself?" exclaimed Al-Yosha. "As wonton women offer themselves to be sure." "How can you, Ivan? How can you?" Al-Yosha cried warmly, in a great voice. "She is a child. You are insulting a child. She is ill. She is very ill, too. She is on the verge of insanity, too. Perhaps I had hoped to hear something from you that would serve her. You'll hear nothing from me. If she is a child, I am not her nurse. Be quiet, Alexei. Don't go on about her. I am not even thinking about it." They were silent again for a moment. "She'll be praying all night now, to the Mother of God, to show her how to act more out of the trial," he said, sharply and angrily again. "You, I mean, her terina Ivanovna?" "Yes. Whether she is to self-michia or ruin him, she will pray for light from above. She can't make up her mind for herself, you see? She has not had time to decide it. She takes me for her nurse, too. She wants me to sing lullabies to her." "A terina Ivanovna loves you, brother," said Al-Yosha, sadly. "Perhaps, but I am not very keen on her. She is suffering. Why do you sometimes say things to her that give her hope?" Al-Yosha went on with timid reproach. "I know that you've given her hope. Forgive me for speaking to you like this," he added. "I can't behave to her as I ought. Break off all together and tell her so straight out," said Ivan irritably. "I must wait till sentence is passed on the murder. If I break off with her now, she will prevent herself on me by ruining that scandal tomorrow of the trial. For she heads him, and now she heads him. It's all a lie. Lie upon lie. As long as I don't break off with her, she goes on hoping, and she won't ruin that monster, knowing how I want to get him out of trouble. If only that damn verdict would come." The word smurderer and monster ached out painfully in Al-Yosha's heart. "But how can she ruin Mitya?" he asked, pondering on Ivan's words. "What evidence can she give that would ruin Mitya?" "You don't know that it." She scored a document in her hands in Mitya's own writing that proves conclusively that he did murder Theodore Pavlovitch. "That's impossible," cried Al-Yosha. "Why is it impossible? I've fretted myself." "There can't be such a document," Al-Yosha repeated warmly. "There can't be, because he's not the murderer. It's not he murdered father, not he." Ivan suddenly stopped. "Who is the murderer then, according to you?" he asked, with the parent coldness. There was even a super-cilious knot in his voice. "You know who?" Al-Yosha pronounced in a low, penetrating voice. "Who?" "You mean the myth about that crazy idiot, the epileptics Mandyakov?" Al-Yosha suddenly felt himself troubling all over. "You know who?" broke helplessly from him. He could scare him breath. "Who?" "Who?" Ivan cried almost fiercely. All his restraint suddenly vanished. "I only know one thing," Al-Yosha went on, still almost in a whisper. "It wasn't you, killed father." "Not you? What do you mean by not you?" Ivan was thunderstruck. "It was not you, killed father, not you," Al-Yosha repeated firmly. The silence lasted for half a minute. "I know I didn't. Are you raving?" said Ivan, with a pale, distorted smile. His eyes were riveted on Al-Yosha. They were standing again under a lamppost. "No, Ivan. You've told yourself several times that you are the murderer. When did I say so? I was in Moscow. When have I said so?" Ivan faunters helplessly. "You've said so to yourself many times. When you have been alone during these two dreadful months, Al-Yosha went on softly and distinctly as before. Yet he was speaking now. As it were, not of himself, not of his own will, but obeying some irresistible command. You have accused yourself and have confessed to yourself that you are the murderer and no one else. But you didn't do it. You are mistaken. You're not the murderer. Do you hear? It was not you. God has sent me to tell you so." They were both silent. The silence lasted a whole long minute. They were both standing still, grazing into each other's eyes. They were both pale. Suddenly, Ivan began troubling all over and clutched Al-Yosha's shoulder. "You've been in my room," he whispered hoarsely. "You've been there at night when he came. Confessed, have you seen him? Have you seen him? Whom do you mean Mitya?" Al-Yosha asked. We will do. "Not him. Damn the monster," Ivan shouted in a frenzy. "Do you know that he visits me? How did you find out? Speak. Who is he? I don't know whom you're talking about," Al-Yosha wanted, beginning to be alarmed. "Yes. You do know. Or how could you? It's impossible that you don't know." Suddenly, he seemed to shake himself. He stood still and seemed to reflect. A strange green contorted his lips. "Brother, Al-Yosha began again in a shaking voice. I have said this to you, because you'll believe my words. I know that. I tell you once and for all. It's not you. You hear? Once for all. God has put it into my heart to say this to you, even though it may make you hate me from this hour. But by now, Ivan had apparently regained his self-control. "Alexa of Yudurovich," he said, with a cold smile. "I can't endure prophets and epileptics, messengers from God, especially. And do you know that only too well? I break off all relations with you from this moment and probably forever. I beg you to leave me at this turning. It's the way to your lodgings, too. You'd better be particularly careful not to come to me today. Do you hear? He turned and walked on with a firm step, not looking back. "Brother, Al-Yosha called up to him. If anything happens to you today, turn to me before anyone. But Ivan made no reply. Al-Yosha stood under the lamppost at the crossroads till Ivan had vanished into the darkness. Then he turned and walked slowly homewards. Both Al-Yosha and Ivan were living in lodgings. Neither of them was willing to live in Fido, Publovich's empty house. Al-Yosha had a furnished room in the house of some walking people. Ivan lived some distance from him. He had taken a roomie and fairly comfortable lodge attached to a fine house that belonged to a well-to-do lady, the widow of an officer. But his only attendant was a deaf and rheumatic old crone who went to bed at six o'clock every evening and got up at six in the morning. Ivan had become remarkably indifferent to his converse of late and very fond of being alone. He did everything for himself in the one room he lived in and rarely entered any of the other rooms in his abode. He reached the gate of the house and had his hand on the bell. When he suddenly stopped he felt that he was troubling all over worth anger. Suddenly he let go of the bell turn back with a curse and walked with rapid steps in the opposite direction. He walked a mile and a half to a tiny, slanting wooden house, almost the huts, when Maria Condra Gefna, the neighbor, who used to come to Fido, Publovich's kitchen for soup and to whom Smirdyakov had won some of his songs and play on the guitar, was now lodging. She had sold their little house and was now living here with her mother. Smirdyakov, who was ill, almost dying, had been with them ever since Fido, Publovich's death. It was to him Ivan was going now, drawn by a sudden and de-resitable prompting. And of chapter 5 of Book 11. Book 11 chapter 6, the first interview with Smirdyakov. This was the third time that Ivan had been to see Smirdyakov since his return from Moscow. The first time he had seen him and talked to him was on the first day of his arrival. Then he had visited him once more a fortnight later. But his visits had ended with that second one. So that it was now over a month since he had seen him, and he had scarcely heard anything of him. Ivan had only returned five days after his father's death. So that he was not present at the funeral, which took place the day before he came back. The cause of his delay was that Aliyosha, not knowing his Moscow address, had to apply to Katharina Ivanovna to telegraph to him. And she, not knowing his address either, telegraph to her sister and aunt, reckoning on Ivan's going to see them as soon as he arrived in Moscow. But he did not go to them until four days after his arrival. When he got the telegram, he had of course set off post-haste to our town. The first to meet him was Aliyosha, and Ivan was greatly surprised to find that in opposition to the general opinion of the town. He refused to entertain a suspicion against Mithya and spoke openly of Smurtyakov as the murderer. Later on, after seeing the police captain and the prosecutor and hearing the details of the charge and the arrest, he was still more surprised at Aliyosha and described his opinion only to his exaggerated brotherly feeling and sympathy with Mithya. Of whom Aliyosha, as Ivan knew, was very fond. By the way, let us say a word or two of Ivan's feeling to his brother Dimitri. He positively disliked him. At most felt sometimes a compassion for him, and even that was mixed with great contempt, almost repugnance. Mithya's whole personality, even his appearance, was extremely unattractive to him. Ivan looked with indignation on Katharina Ivanovna's love for his brother. Yet he went to see Mithya on the first day of his arrival, and that interview far from shaking Ivan's belief in his guilt positively strengthened it. He found his brother agitated, nervously excited. Mithya had been talkative, but very absent-minded and incoherent. He used violent language, accused Smurtyakov, and was fearfully muddled. He talked principally about the 3,000 rubles, which he said had been stolen from him by his father. The money was mine. It was my money, Mithya kept repeating. Even if I had stolen it, I should have had the right. He hardly contested the evidence against him, and if he tried to turn a fact to his advantage, it was in an absurd and incoherent way. He hardly seemed to wish to defend himself to Ivan or to anyone else. Quite the contrary, he was angry and proudly scornful of the charges against him. He was continually firing up and abusing everyone. He only laughed contemptuously at Grigori's evidence about the open door, and declared that it was the devil that opened it. But he could not bring forward any coherent explanation of the fact. He even succeeded in insulting Ivan during their first interview, telling him sharply that it was not for people who declared that everything was lawful to suspect and question him. All together he was anything but friendly with Ivan on that occasion. Immediately after that interview with Mithya, Ivan went for the first time to see Smurtyakov. In the railway train on his way from Moscow, he kept thinking of Smurtyakov and of his last conversation with him on the evening before he went away. Many things seemed to him puzzling and suspicious. When he gave his evidence to the investigating lawyer, Ivan said nothing for the time of that conversation. He put that off till he had seen Smurtyakov, who was at that time in the hospital. Dr. Herzon Shtuba and Varvinsky, the doctor he met in the hospital, confidently asserted in reply to Ivan's persistent questions that Smurtyakov's epileptic attack was unmistakably genuine and were surprised indeed at Ivan asking whether he might not have been shaming on the day of the catastrophe. They gave him to understand that the attack was an exceptional one, the fits persisting and recurring several times so that the patient's life was positively in danger. And it was only now after they had applied remedies that they could assert with confidence that the patient would survive. Though it might well be, added Dr. Herzon Shtuba, that his reason would be impaired for a considerable period, if not permanently. On Ivan's asking impatiently whether that meant that he was now mad, they told him that this was not yet the case in the full sense of the word, but that certain abnormalities were perceptible. Ivan decided to find out for himself what those abnormalities were. At the hospital he was at once allowed to see the patient. Smurtyakov was lying on a chuckle bed in a separate ward. There was only one other bed in the room and in its layer, tradesmen of the town swollen with dropsy, who was obviously almost dying. He could be of no hindrance to their conversation. Smurtyakov grinned uncertainly on seeing Ivan and for the first instance seemed nervous, so at least Ivan fancied, but that was only momentary. For the rest of the time he was struck on the contrary by Smurtyakov's composure. From the first glance, Ivan had no doubt that he was very ill. He was very weak, he spoke slowly, seeming to move his tongue with difficulty. He was much thinner and sour. Throughout the interview which lasted 20 minutes, he kept complaining of headache and of pain in all his limbs. His thinly masculine face seemed to have become so tiny, his hair was ruffled, and his crest of curls in front stood up in a thin tuft. But in the left eye, which was screwed up and seemed to be insinuating something, Smurtyakov showed himself unchanged. It's always worthwhile speaking to a clever man. Ivan was reminded of that at once. He sat down on the stool at his feet. Smurtyakov with painful effort shifted his position in bed. But he was not the first to speak. He remained dumb and did not even look much interested. "Can you talk to me?" asked Ivan. "I won't tie you much." "Certainly I can," mumbled Smurtyakov in a faint voice. "As your honor been back long," he added patronizingly as though encouraging a nervous visitor. "I only arrived today to see the mess you are in here," Smurtyakov sighed. "Why do you sigh? You knew a bit all along," Ivan blurted out. Smurtyakov was solidly silent for a while. "How could I help knowing?" was clear beforehand. "But how could I tell it would turn out like that?" What would turn out? "Don't pre-varicate. You foretold you'd have a fit on the way down to the cellar. You know, you mentioned the very spot. Have you said so at the examination yet?" Smurtyakov queried with composure. Ivan felt suddenly angry. "No, I haven't yet, but I certainly shall. You must explain a great deal to me, my man, and let me tell you I'm not going to let you play with me. Why should I play with you when I put my whole trust in you as in God Almighty?" said Smurtyakov with the same composure, only for a moment closing his eyes. "In the first place," began Ivan, "I know that epileptic fits, can't be told beforehand. I've inquired. Don't try and take me in. You can't foretell the day and the hour. How was it you told me the day and the hour beforehand, and about the cellar, too? How could you tell that you would fall down the cellar stairs in a fit if you didn't sham a fit on purpose?" "I had to go to the cellar anyway. Several times a day, indeed," Smurtyakov drawled deliberately. "I fell from the garret just in the same way a year ago. It's quite true you can't tell the day and hour of a fit beforehand, but you can always have a presentiment of it. But you did foretell the day and the hour. In regard to my epilepsy, sir, you had much better inquire of the doctors here. You can ask them if it was a real fit or a sham. It's no use my thing anymore about it. And the cellar, how could you know beforehand of the cellar? You don't seem able to get over that cellar. As I was going down to the cellar, I was in terrible dread and doubt. What frightened me most was losing you and being left without defense in all the world. So I went down into the cellar thinking, "Here, it will come on directly. It will strike me down directly. Shall I fall?" And it was through this fear that I suddenly felt the spasm that always comes. And so I went flying. All that and all my previous conversation with you at the gate, the evening before, when I told you how frightened I was and spoke of the cellar, I told all that to Dr. Helpsen Stuber and Nikolai Parafenovich, the investigating lawyer, and it's all been written down in the protocol, and the doctor here, Mr. Varvinsky, maintained to all of them that it was just the thought of it brought it on, the apprehension that I might fall. It was just then that the fit seized me, and so they've written it down that it's just how it must have happened simply from my fear. As he finished, Smardiacov drew a deep breath as though exhausted. "Then have you said all that in your evidence?" said Ivan, somewhat taken aback. He had meant to frighten him with the threat of repeating their conversation, and it appeared that Smardiacov had already reported it all himself. "What have I to be afraid of? Let them write down the whole truth?" Smardiacov pronounced firmly. "And have you told them every word about conversation at the gate?" "No, not to say every word, and did you tell them that you can sham fits as you boasted then?" "No, I didn't tell them that either. Tell me now, why did you send me then to Chermashnya?" "I was afraid you'd go away to Moscow. Chermashnya is nearer anyway." "You are lying. You suggested my going away yourself. You told me to get out of the way of trouble." "That was simply out of affection, and my sincere devotion to you, foreseeing trouble in the house to spare you. Only I wanted to spare myself even more. That's why I told you to get out of harm's way that you might understand that there would be trouble in the house and would remain at home to protect your father. You might have said it more directly, you blockhead." Nevan suddenly fired up. "How could I have said it more directly then? It was simply my fear that made me speak, and you might have been angry too. I might well have been apprehensive that Demetri Fyodorovitch would make a scene, carry away that money, for he considered it as good as his own, but who could tell that it would end in a murder like this? I thought that he would only carry off the three thousand that lay under the master's mattress in the envelope, and you see he's murdered him. But how could you guess it either, sir? But if you say yourself that it couldn't be guessed, how could I have guessed and stayed at home? You contradict to yourself," said Nevan, pondering. "You might have guessed from my sending you to Cherimashnia and not to Moscow. How could I guess it from that?" Smirtyakov seemed much exhausted, and again he was silent for a minute. "You might have guessed from the fact of my asking you not to go to Moscow, but Cherimashnia that I wanted to have you nearer for Moscow's a long way off, and Demetri Fyodorovitch knowing you were not far off would not be so bold. And if anything had happened, you might have come to protect me too, for I warned you of Grigori Vasilyevitch's illness, and that I was afraid of having a fit. And when I explained those knocks to you, by means of which one could go into the deceased, and that Demetri Fyodorovitch knew them all through me, I thought that you would guess yourself that you would be sure to do something, and so wouldn't go to Cherimashnia even but would stay." He talks very coherently, thought Yvonne, though he does mumble. "What's the derangement of his faculties that Sir Helton Shtuba talked of? You are cunning with me, damn you," he exclaimed, getting angry. "But I thought at the time that you quite guessed," Smirtyakov parried with the simplest air. "If I'd guessed I should have stayed," cried Yvonne. "Why, I thought that it was because you guessed that you went away in such a hurry, only to get out of trouble, only to run away and save yourself in your fright. You think that everyone is as great a coward as yourself?" "Forgive me, I thought you were like me." "Of course I ought to have guessed," Yvonne said in agitation. "And I did guess that there was some mischief brewing on your part. Only you are lying, you are lying again," he cried, suddenly recollecting. "Do you remember how you went up to the carriage and said to me, 'It's always worthwhile speaking to a clever man.' So you were glad I went away, since you praised me." Smirtyakov sighed again and again. A trace of colour came into his face. "If I was pleased," he articulated rather breathlessly, "it was simply because you agreed not to go to Moscow but to Chermashnya. But it was nearer anyway. Only when I said these words to you, it was not by way of praise, but of reproach you didn't understand it. What reproach? Why, therefore seeing such a calamity, you deserted your own father and would not protect us, for I might have been taken up at any time for stealing that three thousand." "Damn you," Ivan swore again. "Stay. Did you tell the prosecutor and the investigating lawyer about those knocks?" "I told them everything just as it was," Ivan wondered inwardly again. "If I thought of anything then," he began again, "it was solely of some wickedness on your part. The Meetri might kill him, but that he would steal. I did not believe that then, but I was prepared for any wickedness from you. You told me yourself you could sham a fit. What did you say that for?" "It was just through my simplicity, and I have never have shammed a fit on purpose in my life. And I only said so then to boast to you, it was just foolishness. I liked you so much then, and was open-hearted with you. My brother directly accuses you of the murder and theft. "What else is left for him to do?" said Smudyarkov with a bitter grin. "And he will believe him with all the proofs against him. Gregori Vasilyovich saw the door open. What can he say after that?" "But never mind him. He is trembling to save himself." He slowly ceased speaking. Then suddenly, as though on reflection added, "And look here again, he wants to throw it on me and make out that it is the work of my hands. I have heard that already. But as to my being clever at shaming a fit, should I have told you beforehand that I could sham one, if I really had had such a design against your father? If I had been planning such a murder, could I have been such a fool as to give such evidence against myself beforehand? And to his son to, upon my word, is that likely? As if that could be, such a thing has never happened. No one hears this talk of ours now except Providence itself. And if you were to tell of it to the prosecutor, then Nikolai Parafenovich, you might defend me completely by doing so. But who would be likely to be such a criminal if he is so open-hearted beforehand? Anyone can see that. Well, and Ivan got up to cut short the conversation, struck by Smritiakov's last argument. "I don't suspect you at all, and I think it's absurd indeed to suspect you. On the contrary, I'm grateful to you for setting my mind at rest. Now I'm going, but I'll come again." Meanwhile, goodbye, gets well. Is there anything you want? "I am very thankful for everything. Marfa Ignativna does not forget me, and provides me anything I want, according to her kindness. Good people visit me every day." "Goodbye, but I shan't say anything if you're being able to sham a fit, and I don't advise you to either," something may Ivan say suddenly. "I quite understand, and if you don't speak of that, I shall say nothing of that conversation of ours at the gate." Then it happened that Ivan went out, and only when he had gone a dozen steps along the corridor, he suddenly felt that there was an insulting significance since Smritiakov's last words. He was almost on the point of turning back, but it was only a passing impulse, and muttering nonsense he went out of the hospital. His chief feeling was one of relief at the fact that it was not Smritiakov, but Meteor, who had committed the murder, though he might have been expected to feel the opposite. He did not want to analyze the reason for this feeling, and even felt a positive repugnance at prying into his sensations. He felt as though he wanted to make haste to forget something. In the following days he became convinced of Meteor's guilt, as he got to know all the weight of evidence against him. There was evidence of people of no importance, Benya and her mother, for instance, but the effect of it was almost overpowering. As to Perhotin, the people at the tavern and at Ploknikov's shop, as well as the witnesses at McCroyer, their evidence seemed conclusive. It was the details that were so damning. The secret of the knocks impressed the lawyers almost as much as Grigori's evidence as to the open door. Grigori's wife, Marfia, in answer to Ivan's questions, declared that Smritiakov had been lying all night, the other side of the partition wall. He was not three paces from our bed, and that although she was a sound sleeper, she waked several times and heard him moaning. He was moaning the whole time, moaning continually. Talking to Harrison Schduber and giving it out his opinion that Smritiakov was not mad but only rather weak, Ivan only evoked from the old man a subtle smile. "Do you know how he spends his time now?" he asked. Learning lists of French words by heart. He has an exercise book under his pillow with the French words written out in Russian letters for him by someone. Ivan ended by dismissing all doubts. He could not think of Dmitri without repulsion. Only one thing was strange, however. Alyosha persisted that Dmitri was not the murderer, and that in all probability Smritiakov was. Ivan always felt that Alyosha's opinion meant a great deal to him, and so he was astonished at it now. Another thing that was strange was that Alyosha did not make any attempt to talk about meteor with Ivan, but he never began on the subject and only answered his questions. This too struck Ivan, particularly. But he was very much preoccupied at that time with something quite apart from that. On his return from Moscow, he abandoned himself hopelessly to his mad and consuming passion for Katerina Ivanov now. This is not the time to begin to speak of this new passion of Ivan's, which left its mark on all the rest of his life. This would furnish the subject for another novel, which I may perhaps never write. But I cannot admit to mention here that when Ivan on leaving Katerina Ivanov now with Alyosha, as I've related already, told him I am not keen on her, it was an absolute lie. He loved her madly, though at times he hated her so that he might have murdered her. Many causes helped to bring about this feeling. Shattered by what had happened with meteor, she roughed on Ivan's return to meet him as her one salvation. She was hurt, insulted, and humiliated in her feelings. And here the man had come back to her who had loved her so ardently before. Oh, she knew that very well. And whose heart and intellect she considered so superior to her own. But the sternly virtuous girl did not abandon herself altogether to the man she loved, in spite of the caramazov violence of his passions and the great fascination he had for her. She was continually tormented at the same time by remorse for having deserted meteor, and in moments of discord and violent anger, and they were numerous, she told Ivan so plainly. This is what he had called to Alyosha lies upon lies. There was, of course, much that was false in it, and that angered Ivan more than anything. But of all this later. He did, in fact, for a time almost forgets Mediacos' existence. And yet, a fortnight after his first visit to him, he began to be haunted by the same strange thoughts as before. It's enough to say that he was continually asking himself, "Why was it that on that last night in Fyodor Pavlovitch's house he had crept out onto the stairs like a thief and listened to hear what his father was doing below? Why had he recalled that afterwards with repulsion? Why, next morning, had he been suddenly so depressed on the journey? Why, as he reached Moscow, had he said to himself, "I am a scoundrel." And now he almost fancied that these tormenting thoughts would make him even forget Katharina Ivanovna, so completely did they take possession of him again. It was just after fancying this that he met Alyosha in the street. He stopped him at once and put a question to him. Do you remember when Demetri burst in after dinner and beat father, and afterwards I told you in the yard that I reserved the right to desire? Tell me, did you think then that I desired father's death or not? I did think so, answered Alyosha softly. It was so too. It was not a matter of guessing. But didn't you fancy then that what I wished was just that one reptile should devour another, that is just that Demetri should kill father and as soon as possible, and that I myself was even prepared to help bring that about? Alyosha turned rather pale, and looked silently into his brother's face. "Speak!" cried Ivan. "I want above everything to know what you thought. Then I want the truth, the truth." He drew a deep breath, looking angrily at Alyosha before his answer came. "Forgive me, I did think that too at the time." We spit Alyosha, and he did not add one softening phrase. "Thanks!" snapped Ivan, and leaving Alyosha he went quickly on his way. From that time, Alyosha noticed that Ivan began obviously to avoid him, and seemed even to have taken this like to him, so much so that Alyosha gave up going to see him. Immediately after that meeting with him, Ivan had not gone home, but went straight to Smurdyakov again. End of chapter 6 of book 11. Book 11, chapter 7, the second visit to Smurdyakov. By that time Smurdyakov had been discharged from the hospital. Ivan knew his new lodging, a dilapidated little wooden house, divided in two by a passage, and one side of which lived Maria Condrativna and her mother, and on the other Smurdyakov. No one knew on what terms he lived with them, whether it was a friend or as a lodger. It was supposed afterwards that he had come to stay with them as Maria Condrativna's betrothed, and was living there for a time without paying for board or lodging. Both mother and daughter had the greatest respect for him, and looked upon him as greatly superior to themselves. Ivan knocked, and on the door being opened went straight into the passage. By Maria Condrativna's directions he went straight to the better room on the left, occupied by Smurdyakov. There was a tiled stove in the room, and it was extremely hot. The walls were gay with blue paper, which was a good deal used, however, and in the cracks under it cockroaches swarmed in amazing numbers, so that there was a continual rustling from them. The furniture was very scanty, two benches against each wall, and two chairs by the table. The table of plain wood was covered with a cloth with pink patterns on it. There was a pot of geranium on each of the two little windows. In the corner there was a case of icons. On the table stood a little copper samovar with many dents in it, and a tray with two cups, but Smurdyakov had finished tea, and the samovar was out. He was sitting at the table on a bench. He was looking at an exercise book and slowly writing with a pen. There was a bottle of ink by him and a flat iron candlestick, but with a composite candle. Ivan saw at once from Smurdyakov's face that he had completely recovered from his illness. His face was fresher, fuller, his hair stood up jauntily in front and was plastered down at the sides. He was sitting in a party-coloured wadded dressing gown, rather dirty and frayed, however. He had spectacles on his nose, which Ivan had never seen him wearing before. This trifling circumstance suddenly redoubled Ivan's anger. A creature like that and wearing spectacles. Smurdyakov slowly raised his head and looked intently at his visitor through his spectacles. Then he slowly took them off and rose from the bench, but by no means respectfully, almost lazily, doing the least possible required by common civility. All this struck Ivan instantly. He took it all in and noted it at once. Most of all the look in Smurdyakov's eyes, positively malicious, churlish and haughty. "What do you want to intrude for?" seemed to say. We settled everything then. Why have you come again?" Ivan could scarcely control himself. "It's hot here," he said, still standing and unbuttoned his overcoat. "Take off your coat," Smurdyakov conceded. Ivan took off his coat and threw it on a bench with trembling hands. He took a chair, moved it quickly to the table and sat down. Smurdyakov managed to sit down on his bench before him. "To begin with, are we alone?" Ivan asked sternly and impulsively. "Can they overhear us in there?" "No one can hear anything. You've seen for yourself. There's a passage." "Listen, my good fellow. What was that you babbled as I was leaving the hospital? That if I said nothing about your faculty of shaming fits, you wouldn't tell the investigating lawyer or our conversation at the gate. What do you mean by all? What could you mean by it? Were you threatening me? Have I entered into some sort of compact with you? Do you suppose I'm afraid of you?" Ivan said this in a perfect fury, giving him to understand with obvious intention that he scorned any subterfuge or indirectness and meant to show his cards. Smurdyakov's eyes gleamed resentfully, his left eye winked and he at once gave his answer with habitual composure and deliberation. "You want to have everything above board very well, you shall have it," he seemed to say. "This is what I meant then and this is why I said that, that you, knowing beforehand of this murder of your own parent, left him to his fate and that people mightn't after that conclude any evil about your feelings and perhaps of something else, too. That's what I promise not to tell the authorities." Though Smurdyakov spoke without haste and obviously controlling himself, yet there was something in his voice determined and emphatic, resentful and insolently defiant. He stared impudently at Ivan, a mist passed before Ivan's eyes for the first moment. "How, what? Are you out of your mind?" "I'm perfectly in possession of all my faculties." "Do you suppose I knew of the murder?" Ivan cried out at last, and he brought his fist violently on the table. "What do you mean by something else, too?" "Speak, scoundrel." Smurdyakov was silent and still scanned Ivan with the same insulin stare. "Speak, you stinking rogue. What is that, something else, too?" The something else I meant was that you probably, too, were very desirous of your parent's death. Ivan jumped up and struck him with all his might on the shoulder so that he fell back against the wall. In an instant his face was bathed in tears, saying, "It's a shame, sir, to strike a sick man." He dried his eyes with a very dirty blue-check handkerchief and sunk into quiet weeping. A minute passed. "That's enough. Leave off," Ivan said, perempturally, sitting down again. "Don't put me out of all patience." Smurdyakov took the rag from his eyes. Every line of his puckered face reflected the insult he had just received. So you thought, then, you scoundrel, that together with Dimitri, I meant to kill my father. "I didn't know what thoughts were in your mind, then," said Smurdyakov, resentfully. "And so I stopped you, then, at the gate, to sound you, on that very point." "To sound what? What? Why that very circumstance, whether you wanted your father to be murdered or not?" What infuriated Ivan more than anything was the aggressive, insolent tone to which Smurdyakov persistently adhered. "It was you," murdered him, he cried suddenly. Smurdyakov smiled contemptuously. "You know of yourself for a fact that it wasn't I murdered him, and I should have thought that there was no need for a sensible man to speak of it again. But why? Why had you such a suspicion about me at the time?" As you know already, it was simply from fear. But I was in such a position, shaking with fear, that I suspected everyone. I resolved to sound you, too, for I thought if you wanted the same as your brother, then the business was as good as settled, and I should be crushed like a fly, too. "Okay, you didn't say that a fortnight ago. I meant the same when I thought you in the hospital, only I thought you'd understand without wasting words, and that being such a sensible man, you wouldn't care to talk of it openly. What next? Come answer, answer, I insist. What was it? What could I have done to put such a degrading suspicion into your mean soul?" As for the murder, you couldn't have done that, and didn't want to, but as for wanting someone else to do it, that was just what you did want. "And how coolly, how coolly," he speaks, "but why should I have wanted it? What grounds had I for wanting it? What grounds had you? What about the inheritance?" said Smurdyakov sarcastically, and as it were vindictively, "Why, after your parents' death, there was at least 40,000 to come to each of you, and very likely more. But if Yodor Pavlovitch had got married then to that lady, Agrofena Alexandrovna, she would have had all his capital made over to her directly after the wedding, for she's plenty of sense, so that your parent would not have left you two rubles between the three of you. And were they far from a wedding either, not a hair's breath? That lady had only to lift her little finger, and he would have run after her to church with this tongue out." Ivan restrained himself with painful effort. "Very good," he commented at last, "you see, I haven't jumped up, I haven't knocked you down, I haven't killed you. Speak on, so according to you, I had fixed on Demetri to do it. I was reckoning on him. How could you help reckoning on him? If he killed him, then he would lose all the rights of a nobleman, his rank and property, and would go off to exile. So his share of the inheritance would come to you and your brother, Alexey Fiedorovitch, in equal parts. So you'd each have not 40, but 60,000 each. There's not a doubt you did reckon on Demetri Fiedorovitch. What I put up with from you listened scoundrel. If I had reckoned on anyone then, it would have been on you, not on Demetri, and I swear I did expect some wickedness from you at the time. I remember my impression. "I thought too, for a minute, at the time, that you were reckoning on me as well," said Smartiakov, with a sarcastic grin, "so that it was just by that, more than anything, you showed me what was in your mind. For if you had a foreboding about me, and yet went away, you as good as said to me, you can murder my parent, I won't hinder you. You scoundrel, so that's how you understood it. It was all that going to Chermashnya, why you were meaning to go to Moscow and refused all your fathers in treaties to go to Chermashnya, and simply at a foolish word from me you consented at once. What reason I did to consent to Chermashnya? Since you entered Chermashnya with no reason, simply at my word, it shows that you must have expected something from me. "No, I swear I didn't," shouted Ivan, grinding his teeth. "You didn't? Then you ought, as your father's son, to have had me taken to the lock-up and thrashed at once for my words, then, or at least to have given me a punch in the face on the spot, that you were not a bit angry, near few, please, and at once in a friendly way acted on my foolish word and went away, which was utterly absurd, for you ought to have stayed to save your parents' life. How could I help draw in my conclusions?" Ivan sat scowling, both his fists convulsively pressed on his knees. "Yes, I am sorry I didn't punch you in the face," he said with a bitter smile. "I could have taken you to the lock-up just then. Who would have believed me, and on what charge could I bring against you?" But the punch in the face, "Oh, I'm sorry I didn't think of it," though blows of forbidden, "I should have pounded your ugly face to a jelly." Smurtyakov looked at him almost with relish. "In the ordinary occasions of life," he said, in the same complacent and contentious tone in which he had taunted Grigori and argued with him about your legion at Fyodor Pavlovitch's table. "In the ordinary occasions of life, blows on the face of forbidden nowadays by law, and people have given them up. But in exceptional occasions of life, people still fly to blows, not only among us, but all over the world. Be it even the fullest Republic of France, just as in the time of Adam and Eve, and they never will leave off that you, even in an exceptional case, did not dare." "What are you learning French words for?" Ivan nodded towards the exercise book lying on the table. "Why shouldn't I learn them so as to improve my education, supposing that I may myself chance to go someday to those happy parts of Europe?" "Listen, monster," Ivan's eyes flushed and he trembled all over. "I am not afraid of your accusations. You can say what you like about me, and if I don't beat you to death, it's simply because I suspect you of that crime, and I'll drag you to justice. I'll unmask you. To my thinking, you better keep quiet. But what can you accuse me of considering my absolute innocence? And who would believe you? Only if you begin, I shall tell everything, too, for I must defend myself. Do you think I am afraid of you now? If the court doesn't believe all I've said to you just now, the public will, and you will be ashamed, that's as much as to say it's always worth while speaking to a sensible man, eh?" sniled Ivan. "You hit the mark, indeed, and you better be sensible." Ivan got up shaking all over with indignation, put on his coat, and without replying further to Smirtyakov, without even looking at him, walked quickly out of the cottage. The cool evening air refreshed him. There was a bright moon in the sky. A nightmare of ideas and sensations filled his soul. "Shall I go at once and give information against Smirtyakov? But what information can I give? He is not guilty anyway. On the contrary, he'll accuse me. And in fact, why did I set off for Chormashnya then? What for? What for?" Ivan asked him so. "Yes, of course I was expecting something, and he is right." And he remembered for the hundredth time how on the last night in his father's house he had listened on the stairs. But he remembered it now with such anguish that he stood still on the spot as though he had been stabbed. "Yes, I expected it then, that's true. I wanted the murder. I did want the murder. Did I want the murder? Did I want it? I must kill Smirtyakov. If I don't dare kill Smirtyakov now, life is not worth living." Ivan did not go home but went straight to Katarina Ivanovna and alarmed her by his appearance. He was like a madman. He repeated all his conversation with Smirtyakov every syllable of it. He couldn't be calmed, however much he tried to soothe him. He kept walking about the room, speaking strangely, disconnectedly. At last he sat down, put his elbows on the table, leaned his head on his hands, and pronounced this strange sentence. If it's not Dimitri but Smirtyakov, who's the murderer, I share his guilt, for I put him up to it. Whether I did, I don't know yet. But if he is the murderer and not Dimitri, then of course I am the murderer too. When Katarina Ivanovna heard that she got up from her seat without a word, went to her writing table, opened a box, standing on it, took out a sheet of paper and laid it before Ivan. This was the document of which Ivan spoke to Al Yasha later on as a conclusive proof that Dimitri had killed his father. It was the letter written by Metia to Katarina Ivanovna when he was drunk. On the very evening he met Al Yasha at the crossroads on the way to the monastery, after the scene at Katarina Ivanovna's when Grushenko had insulted her. Then, parting from Al Yasha, Metia had rushed to Grushenko. I don't know whether he saw her, but in the evening he was at the metropolis where he got thoroughly drunk. Then he asked for pen and paper and wrote a document of weighty consequences to himself. It was a wordy, disconnected, frantic letter, a drunken letter in fact. It was like the talk of a drunken man who won his return home begins with extraordinary heat telling his wife or one of his household how he has just been insulted, what a rascal has just insulted him, what a fine fellow he is on the other hand and how he will pay that scandal out, and all that at great length, with great excitement and incoherence, with drunken tears and blows on the table. The letter was written on a dirty piece of ordinary paper of the cheapest kind. It had been provided by the tavern and there were figures scrawled on the back of it. There was evidently not enough space for his drunken verbosity, and Metia not only filled the margins but had written the last line right across the rest. The letter ran as follows, fatal katya. Tomorrow I will get the money and repay your three thousand and farewell woman of great wrath, but farewell to my love. Let us make an end. Tomorrow I shall try and get it from everyone, and if I can't borrow it, I give you my word of honor. I shall go to my father and break his skull and take the money from under the pillow, if only Yvonne has gone. If I have to go to Siberia for it, I will give you back your three thousand, and farewell I bow down to the ground before you, for I've been a scoundrel to you. Forgive me. No better not forgive me. You'll be happier and so shall I. Better Siberia than your love, for I love another woman, and you've got to know her too well today, so how can you forgive. I will murder the man who's robbed me. I'll leave you all and go to the east so as to see no one again. Not her either, for you are not my only tormentress. She is too farewell. P.S. I write my curse, but I adore you. I hear it in my heart. One string is left and it vibrates. Better tear my heart in two. I shall kill myself, but first of all that curve. I shall tear three thousand from him and fling it to you. Though I've been a scoundrel to you, I am not a thief. You can expect three thousand. The Kerr keeps it under his mattress and pink ribbon. I'm not a thief, but I'll murder my thief. Katya, don't look disdainful. Dimitri is not a thief, but a murderer. He has murdered his father and ruined himself to hold his ground rather than endure your pride, and he doesn't love you. P.P.S. I kiss your feet farewell. P.P.P.S. Katya, pray to God that someone will give me the money. Then I shall not be steeped in gore, and if no one does, I shall kill me. Your slave and enemy, D. Karamazov. When Ivan read this document, he was convinced, so then it was his brother, Notsmurdiakov, and if Notsmurdiakov, then not he, Ivan. This letter at once assumed in his eyes the aspect of a logical proof. They could no longer be the slightest doubt of Mecia's guilt. The suspicion never occurred to Ivan by the way that Mecia might have committed the murder in conjunction with Meciaakov, and indeed such a theory did not fit in with the facts. Ivan was completely reassured. The next morning he only thought of Meciaakov on his jibes with contempt. A few days later, he positively wondered how he could have been so horribly distressed at his suspicions. He resolved to dismiss him with contempt and forget him, so passed a month. He made no further inquiry about Snerdyakov, but twice he happened to hear that he was very ill and out of his mind. He leaned in madness, the young Dr. Varavinsky observed about him, and Ivan remembered this. During the last week of that month, Ivan himself began to feel very ill. He went to consult the Moscow doctor who had been sent for by Katarina Ivanovna just before the trial. And just at that time, his relations with Katarina Ivanovna became acutely strained. They were like two enemies in love with one another. Katarina Ivanovna's returns to Mecia, that is her brief but violent revulsions of feeling in his favor, drove Ivan to perfect frenzy. Strange to say, until that last scene described above when Al-Yosha came from Mecia to Katarina Ivanovna, Ivan had never once, during that month, heard her express a doubt of Mecia's guilt, in spite of those returns that were so hateful to him. It is remarkable too that while he felt that he hated Mecia more and more every day, he realized that it was not on account of Katar's returns that he hated him, but just because he was the murderer of his father, he was conscious of this and fully recognized it to himself. Nevertheless, he went to see Mecia 10 days before the trial, and proposed to him a plan of escape, a plan he had obviously thought over a long time. He was partly compelled to do this by a sore place still left in his heart from a phrase of smudgyakos, that it was to his Yvonne's advantage that his brother should be convicted, as that would increase his inheritance and Al-Yosha from 40 to 60,000 rubles. He determined to sacrifice 30,000 on arranging Mecia's escape. On his return from seeing him he was very mournful and dispirited. He suddenly began to feel that he was anxious for Mecia's escape, not only to heal that sore place by sacrificing 30,000, but for another reason. "Is it because I am as much a murderer at heart?" he asked himself. Something very deep down seemed burning and wrinkling in his soul. His pride above all suffered cruelly all that month, but of that later. When, after his conversation with Al-Yosha, Yvonne suddenly decided, with his hand on the bell of his lodging, to go to smudgyakos, he obeyed a sudden and peculiar impulse of indignation. He suddenly remembered how Catalina Yvonne had only just cried out to him in Al-Yosha's presence. "It was you, you persuaded me of his, that is Mecia's guilt." Yvonne was thunderstruck when he recalled it. He had never once tried to persuade her that Mecia was the murderer. On the contrary, he had suspected himself in her presence, that time when he came back from smudgyakos. It was she, she who had produced that document and proved his brother's guilt. And now she suddenly exclaimed, "I've been at smudgyakos myself." When had she been there, Yvonne had known nothing of it, so she was not at all so sure of Mecia's guilt. And what could smudgyakos have told her? What, what, and he said to her? His heart burned with violent anger. He could not understand how he could, half an hour before, have let those words pass and not have cried out at the moment. He let go of the bell and rushed off to smudgyakos. "I shall kill him, perhaps, this time," he thought on the way. End of chapter 7 of book 11. Book 11, chapter 8, the third and last interview with smudgyakos. When he was halfway there, the keen dry wind that had been blowing early that morning rose again, and a fine dry snow began falling thickly. It did not lie on the ground, but was whirled about by the wind, and soon there was a regular snowstorm. There were scarcely any lamp posts in the part of the town where smudgyakos lived. Yvonne strode alone in the darkness, unconscious of the storm, instinctively picking out his way. His head ached, and there was a painful throbbing in his temples. He felt that his hands were twitching convulsively. Not far from Mario Condratioven's cottage, Yvonne suddenly came upon a solitary drunken little peasant. He was wearing a coarse and patched coat and was walking in zigzags, grumbling and swearing to himself. Then suddenly he would begin singing in a husky drunken voice. "Ah, Vank has gone to Petersburg. I won't wait till he comes back." But he broke off every time at the second line and began swearing again. Then he would begin the same song again. Yvonne felt an intense hatred for him before he had thought about him at all. Suddenly he realized his presence and felt an irresistible impulse to knock him down. At that moment they met, and the peasant with a violent lurch fell full tilt against Yvonne, who pushed him back furiously. The peasant went flying backwards and fell like a log on the frozen ground. He uttered one plaintive, "Ah!" and then was silent. Yvonne stepped up to him. He was lying on his back without movement or consciousness. "He will be frozen," thought Yvonne, and he went on his way to Smurtyakov's. In the passage, Mario Condratiovena, who ran out to open the door with a candle in her hand, whispered that Smurtyakov was very ill. "It's not that he's laid up, but he seems not himself, and he even told us to take the tea away he wouldn't have any." "Why does he make a row?" asked Yvonne coarsely. "Oh, dear, no, quite the contrary, he's very quiet, and he please don't talk to him too long," Mario Condratiovena begged him. Yvonne opened the door and stepped into the room. It was overheated as before, but there were changes in the room. One of the benches at the side had been removed, and in its place had been put a large old mahogany leather sofa, on which a bed had been made up with fairly clean white pillows. Smurtyakov was sitting on the sofa wearing the same dressing gown. The table had been brought out in front of the sofa, so that there was hardly room to move. On the table lay a thick book in a yellow cover, but Smurtyakov was not reading it. He seemed to be sitting doing nothing. He met Yvonne with a slow, silent gaze and was apparently not at all surprised at his coming. There was a great change in his face. He was much thinner and slower. His eyes were sunken, and there were blue marks under them. "Why, you really are ill," Yvonne stopped short. "I won't keep you long. I won't even take off my coat. Where can one sit down?" He went to the other end of the table, moved up a chair, and sat down on it. "Why do you look at me without speaking? We only come with one question, and I swear I won't go without an answer. Has the young lady Katarina Yvonne have been with you?" Smurtyakov still remained silent, looking quiet at Yvonne as before. Suddenly, with the motion of his hand, he turned his face away. "What's the matter with you?" cried Yvonne. "Nothing. What do you mean by nothing?" "Yes, she has. It's no matter to you. Let me alone. No, I won't let you alone. Tell me, when was she here?" "Why, I'd quite forgotten about her," said Smurtyakov with a scornful smile, and turning his face to Yvonne again, he stared at him with a look of frenzied hatred, the same look he had fixed on him at their last interview a month before. "You seem that ill yourself. Your face is sunken. You don't look like yourself," he said to Yvonne. "Never mind my health. Tell me what I ask you. But why, your eyes so yellow, the whites are quite yellow. Are you so worried?" He smiled contemptuously and suddenly laughed out right. "Listen, I've told you I won't go away without an answer," Yvonne cried, intensely irritated. "Why do you keep pestering me? Why do you torment me?" said Smurtyakov with a look of suffering. "Damn it. I have nothing to do with you. Just answer my question and I'll go away." "I've no answer to give you," said Smurtyakov looking down again. "You may be sure I'll make you answer." "Why are you so uneasy?" Smurtyakov stared at him, not simply with contempt, but almost with repulsion. "Is this because the trial begins tomorrow? Nothing will happen to you. Can't you believe that at last? Go home, go to bed and sleep in peace. Don't be afraid of anything. I don't understand you. What have I to be afraid of tomorrow?" Yvonne articulated in astonishment and suddenly a chill breath of fear did in fact pass over his soul. Smurtyakov measured him with his eyes. "You don't understand," he drawled reproachfully, "the strange thing a sensible man should care to play such a fast." Yvonne looked at him speechless. The startling, incredibly super-cilious tone of this man, who had once been his valet, was extraordinary in itself. He had not taken such a tone even at their last interview. "I tell you, you've nothing to be afraid of. I won't say anything about you. There's no proof against you. I say how your hands are trembling. Why are your fingers moving like that? Go home. You did not murder him." Yvonne started. He remembered Alyosha. "I know it was not I," he faltered. "Do you?" Smurtyakov caught him up again. Yvonne jumped up and seized him by the shoulder. "Tell me everything, you viper. Tell me everything." Smurtyakov was not in the least scared. He only riveted his eyes on Yvonne with insane hatred. "Well, it was you who murdered him if that's it," he whispered furiously. Yvonne sank back on his chair as though pondering something. He laughed malignantly. "You mean my going away, what you talked about last time?" "You stood before me last time and understood it all and you understand it now." "All I understand is that you are mad. I want you tired of it. Here we are face to face. What's the use of going on keeping up a fast to each other? Are you still trying to throw it all on me to my face? You murdered him. You are the real murderer. I was only your instrument, your faithful servant, and it was following your words. I did it." "Did it? Why did you murder him?" Yvonne turned cold. Something seemed to give way in his brain and he shuddered all over with a cold shiver. Then Smurtyakov himself looked at him wonderingly. Probably the genuineness of Yvonne's horror struck him. "You don't mean to say you really did not know," he faltered mistrustfully, looking with a forced smile into his eyes. Yvonne still gazed at him and seemed unable to speak. "Ah, Frank has gone to a Peter's board. I won't wait till he comes back," suddenly echoed in his head. "Do you know, I'm afraid that you are a dream, a phantom sitting before me," he muttered. "There's no phantom here but only us two and one other." No doubt he is here, that third between us. "Who is he? Who is here? What third person?" Yvonne cried an alarm looking about him, his eyes hastily searching in every corner. "That third is God himself, providence. He is the third beside us now. Only don't look for him. You won't find him." "It's a lie that you killed him," Yvonne cried madly. "You are mad or teasing me again," Smurtyakov as before watched him curiously, with no sign of fear. He could still scarcely get over his incredulity. He still fancied that Yvonne knew everything and was trying to throw it all on him to his face. "Wait a minute," he said at last in a weak voice, and suddenly bringing up his left leg from under the table, he began turning up his trouser leg. He was wearing long white stockings and slippers. Slowly he took off his garter and fumbled to the bottom of his stocking. Yvonne gazed at him and suddenly shuddered in a paroxysm of terror. "He's mad," he cried, and rapidly jumping up he drew back, so that he knocked his back against the wall and stood up against it stiff and straight. He looked with insane terror at Smurtyakov, who entirely unaffected by his terror continued fumbling in his stocking, as though he were making an effort to get hold of something with his fingers and pull it out. At last he got hold of it and began pulling it out. Yvonne saw that it was a piece of paper or perhaps a roll of papers, but Adyakov pulled it out and laid it on the table. "Here," he said quietly, "what is it?" asked Yvonne, trembling. "Kindly look at it," Smurtyakov said, still in the same low tone. Yvonne stepped up to the table, took up the roll of paper and began unfolding it, but suddenly drew back his fingers as though from contact with the loathsome reptile. "Your hands keep twitching," observed Smurtyakov, and he deliberately unfolded the bundle himself, under the wrapper with three packets of hundred ruble notes. "They're all here, all the three thousand rubles. You need not count them. Take them," Smurtyakov suggested to Yvonne, nodding at the notes. Yvonne thanked back in his chair, he was as white as a handkerchief. "You've frightened me with your stocking," he said with a strange grin. "Can you really not have known till now," Smurtyakov asked once more. "No, I did not know. I kept thinking of Demetri. Brother, brother, ah!" He suddenly clutched his head in both hands. "Listen, did you kill him alone, with my brother's help or without?" "It was only with you, with your help," I killed him, and Demetri for your daughter, which is quite innocent. "All right, all right, talk about me later. Why do I keep on trembling? I can't speak properly." He were bold enough then. You said everything was lawful, and how frightened you are now, Smurtyakov muttered in surprise. "Why don't you have some lemonade? I'll ask for some at once. It's very refreshing. Only I must hide this first." And again, he motioned at the notes. He was just going to get up and call at the door to Maria Conradivna to make some lemonade and bring it them, but looking for something to cover up the notes that she might not see them, he first took out his handkerchief, and as it turned out to be very dirty, took up the big yellow book that Ivan had noticed at first lying on the table and put it over the notes. The book was "The Sayings of the Holy Father Isaac the Syrian" Ivan read it mechanically. "I won't have any lemonade," he said. "Talk of me later. Sit down and tell me how you did it. Tell me all about it." You'd better take off your great coat or you'll be too hot. Ivan, as though he'd only just thought of it, took off his coat, and without getting up from his chair through it on the bench. "Speak, please, speak," he seemed calmer. He waited, feeling sure that Smurtyarkov would tell him all about it. "How was it done?" sighed Smurtyarkov. "It was done in a most natural way following your very words." "Of my words later," Ivan broke in again, apparently with complete self-possession, firmly uttering his words and not shouting as before. "Only tell me in detail how you did it. Everything as it happened. Don't forget anything. The details above everything the details I beg you." You'd gone away, then I fell into the cellar, in a fit or in a sham one. A sham one, naturally, I shammed it all. I went quietly down the steps to the very bottom and lay down quietly, and as I lay down I gave a scream and struggle till they carried me out. "Stay, and were you shaming all along afterwards and in the hospital?" "No, not at all. Next day in the morning before they took me to the hospital I had a real attack, and a more violent one than I've had for years. For two days I was quite unconscious. All right, all right, go on." They laid me on the bed. I knew I'd be the other side of the partition, for whenever I was ill, Martha Ignativna used to put me there near them. She's always been very kind to me from my birth up. At night I moaned, but quietly I kept expecting Dimitri Fiedorovich to come, expecting him to come to you. Not to me. I expected him to come into the house where I'd no doubt he'd come that night for being without me and getting no news. He'd be sure to come and climb over the fence as he used to and do something. And if he hadn't come, then nothing would have happened. I should never have brought myself to it without him. All right, all right, speak more intelligibly. Don't hurry. Above all, don't leave anything out. I expected him to kill Fiedor Fiedorovich. I thought that was certain, for I'd prepared him for it during the last few days. In you about the knocks, that was the chief thing. With his suspiciousness and the fury which had been growing in him all those days, he was bound to get into the house by means of those taps. That was inevitable, so I was expecting him. Stay, if uninterrupted. If he had killed him, he would have taken the money and carried it away. You must have considered that. What would you have got by it afterwards? I don't see. But he would never have found the money. That was only what I told him that the money was under the mattress. But that wasn't true. It had been lying in a box. And afterwards, I suggested to Fiedor Fiedor Fiedorovich, as I was the only person he trusted, to hide the envelope with the notes in the corner behind the icons, for no one would have guessed that place, especially if they came in a hurry. So that's where the envelope lay in the corner behind the icons. It would have been absurd to keep it under the mattress. The box, anyway, could be locked. But all believed it was under the mattress, a stupid thing to believe. So if Fiedor Fiedor Fiedorovich had committed the murder, finding nothing, he would have either run away in a hurry, afraid of every sound, as always happens with murderers, or he would have been arrested. So I could always have clambered up to the icons and have taken the money next morning or even that night. And it would have all been put down to Fiedor Fiedor Fiedorovich. I could reckon upon that. But what if he did not kill him but only knocked him down? If he did not kill him, of course, I would not have ventured to take the money, and nothing would have happened. But I calculated that he would beat him senseless, and I should have time to take it then. And then I'd make out to Fiedor Fiedor Fiedor Fiedor Fiedorovich that it was no one but Demetri Fiedorovich had taken the money after beating him. Stop, I'm getting mixed. And it was Demetri after all who killed him. You only took the money. No, he didn't kill him. Well, I might as well have told you now that he was the murderer, but I don't want to lie to you now because if you really haven't understood till now, as I see for myself and are not pretending, so as to throw your guilt on me to my belly face, you are still responsible for it all, since you knew of the murder and charged me to do it, and went away knowing all about it. And so I want to prove to your face this evening that you are the only real murderer in the whole affair, and I am not the real murderer that I did kill him. You are the rightful murderer. Why? Why am I a murderer? Oh, God! Yvonne cried, unable to restrain himself at last, and forgetting that he had put off discussing himself till the end of the conversation. You still mean that Chermashnya? Stay, tell me, why did you want my consent if you really took Chermashnya for consent? How will you explain that now? Assured of your consent, I should have known that you wouldn't have made an outcry over those 3000 being lost, even if I had been suspected instead of Demetri for your daughter, which or else is accomplished. On the contrary, you would have protected me from others, and when you got your inheritance, you would have rewarded me when you were able, all the rest of your life, for you would have received your inheritance through me, seeing that if he had married Agra Fena Alexandrovna, you wouldn't have had a farthing. Ah, then you intended to worry me all my life afterwards, snarled Yvonne. And what if I hadn't gone away then but had informed against you? What could you have informed that I persuaded you to go to Chermashnya? That's all nonsense. Besides, after our conversation, you would either have gone away or have stayed. If you had stayed, nothing would have happened. I should have known that you didn't want it done and should have attempted nothing. As you went away, it meant you assured me that you wouldn't dare to inform against me at the trial and that you would overlook my having the 3000. And indeed, you couldn't have prosecuted me afterwards because then I should have told it all in the court. That is not that I'd stolen the money or killed him. I shouldn't have said that, but that you'd put me up to the theft and the murder, though I didn't consent to it. That's why I needed your consent so that you couldn't have cornered me afterwards for what proof could you have had? I could always have cornered you, revealing your eagerness for your father's death. And I tell you, the public would have believed it all and you would have been ashamed for the rest of your life. Was I then so eager? Was I, Yvonne snarled again? To be sure you were, and by your consent, you silent this sanction by doing it. It's not as dark off looked resolutely at Yvonne. He was very weak and spoke slowly and wearily, but some hidden inner force urged him on. He evidently had some design. Yvonne felt that. "Go on," he said. "Tell me what's happened that night." "What more is there to tell?" I lay there and I thought I heard the master shout. And before that, Grigori Vasilievich had suddenly got up and came out, and he suddenly gave a scream, and then all was silence and darkness. I lay there waiting my heart beating. I couldn't bear it. I got up at last, went out. I saw the window open on the left into the garden, and I stepped to the left to listen whether he was sitting there alive. And I heard the master moving about, sighing, so I knew he was alive. "Ah," I thought. I went to the window and shouted to the master. "It's I," and he shouted to me, "he's been, he's been, he's run away." He meant to me to leave your daughter, which had been, he's killed Grigori. "Wow," I whispered. "They're in the corner," he pointed. He was whispering too. "Wait a bit," I said. I went to the corner of the garden to look, and there I came upon Grigori Vasilievich, lying by the wall, covered with blood, senseless. So it's true that Dimitri Fiedadovich has been here, who was the thought that came into my head. And I determined on the spot to make an end of it, as Grigori Vasilievich, even if he were alive, would see nothing of it, as he lay there senseless. The only risk was that Marfa Ignatjevna might wake up. I felt that at the moment, but the longing to get it done came over me till I could scarcely breathe. I went back to the window to the master and said, "She's here, she's come." Agra Fena Alexandrovna has come, wants to be let in. And he started like a baby. "Where is she?" he fairly gasped, but couldn't believe it. "She's standing there," said I, "open." He looked out of the window at me, half believing, and half distrustful, but afraid to open. "Why, he's afraid of me now," I thought, and it was funny. I bethought me to knock on the window frame, those taps we'd agreed upon as a signal that Gruschanker had come, in his presence before his eyes. He didn't seem to believe my word, but as soon as he had the taps, he ran at once to open the door. He opened it. I would have gone in, but he stood in the way to prevent me passing. "Where is she? Where is she?" He looked at me all of a tremble. "Well," thought I, "he's so frightened of me as all that. It's a bad lookout." My legs went weak with fright that he wouldn't let me in, or would call out, or Marfa Ignatrovna would run up or something else might happen. I don't remember now, but I must have stood pale facing him. I whispered to him, "Why, she's there under the window. How is it you don't see her?" I said. "Bring her, then. Bring her. She's afraid," said I. She was frightened. At the noise, she's hidden in the bushes. Go and call to her yourself from the study. He ran to the window, put the candle in the window. "Gruschanker," he cried. "Gruschanker, are you here?" Though he cried that he didn't want to lean out of the window. He didn't want to move away from me, for he was panic-stricken. He was so frightened he didn't dare to turn his back on me. "Why, here she is," said I. I went up to the window and leaned right out of it. "Here she is. She's in the bush, laughing at you. Don't you see her?" He suddenly believed it. He was all of a shake. He was awfully crazy about her, and he leaned right out of the window. I snatched up that iron paperweight from his table. Do you remember, weighing about three pounds, I swung it and hit him on the top of the skull with the corner of it. He didn't even cry out. He only sank down suddenly, and I hit him again, and a third time. And the third time I knew I'd broken his skull. He suddenly rolled on his back, face upwards, covered with blood. I looked round. There was no blood on me, not a spot. I wiped the paperweight, put it back, went up to the icons, took the money out of the envelope, and flung the envelope on the floor, and the pink ribbon decided. I went out into the garden, all of a tremble, straight to the apple tree with a hollow in it. You know that hollow. I'd marked it long before, and put a rag and a piece of paper ready in it. I wrapped all the notes in the rag, and stuffed it deep down in the hole, and there it stayed for over a fortnight. I took it out later when I came out to the hospital. I went back to my bed, laid down, and thought, "If Grigori Vasilyavitch has been killed outright, it may be a bad job for me, but if he is not killed and recovers, it will be first-rate, for then he'll bear witness that the meat of your daughter which has been here, and so he must have killed him and taken the money." Then I began groaning with suspense and impatience, so as to wake Marafek Nachi of no sooner as possible. At last she got up and she rushed to me, but when she saw Grigori Vasilyavitch was not there, she ran out, and I heard her scream in the garden, and that set it all going and set my mind at rest. He stopped. Yvonne had listened all the time in dead silence without stirring or taking his eyes off him. As he told his story, Smirtyakov glanced at him from time to time, but for the most part kept his eyes averted. When he had finished, he was evidently agitated and was breathing hard. The perspiration stood out on his face, but it was impossible to tell whether it was remorse he was feeling or what. "Stay!" cried Yvonne, pondering, "What about the door? If he only opened the door to you, how could Grigori have seen it open before? For Grigori saw it before you went?" It was remarkable that Yvonne spoke quite amicably in a different tone, not angry as before, so if anyone had opened the door at that moment and peeped in at them, he would certainly have concluded that they were talking peaceably about some ordinary, though interesting, subject. As for that door, and having seen it open, that's only his fancy, said Smirtyakov, with a wry smile. "He's not a man, I assure you, but an obstinate mule. He didn't see it, but fancy he'd seen it, and there's no shaking him. It's just our luck that he took that notion into his head, for they can't fail to convict me three for your daughter, which after that." "Listen," said Yvonne, beginning to seem bewildered again, and making an effort to grasp something. "Listen, there are a lot of questions I want to ask you, but I forget them. I keep forgetting and getting mixed up." "Yes, tell me this at least. Why did you open the envelope and leave it there on the floor? Why didn't you simply carry off the envelope?" When you were telling me, I thought you spoke about it as though it was the right thing to do. But why? I can't understand. I did that for a good reason. For if a man had known all about it, as I did, for instance, if he'd seen those notes before, and perhaps had put them in that envelope himself, and had seen the envelope sealed up and addressed with his own eyes, if such a man had done the murder, what should have made him tear open the envelope afterwards, especially in such desperate haste, since he'd know for certain the notes must be in the envelope? No, if the robber had been someone like me, he'd simply have put the envelope straight in his pocket and got away with it as fast as he could. But it'd be quite different with the meetry for your daughter, which he only knew about the envelope by hearsay. He'd never seen it, and if he'd found it, for instance, under the mattress, he'd have torn it open as quickly as possible to make sure the notes were in it, and he'd have thrown the envelope down without having time to think that it would be evidence against him, because he was not an habitual thief, and had never directly stolen anything before. For he is a gentleman born, and if he did bring himself to steal, it would not be a regular stealing, but simply taking what was his own. For he'd told the whole town he meant to before, and had even bragged aloud before everyone that he'd go and take his property from Fyodor Pavlovitch. I didn't say that openly to the prosecutor when I was being examined, but quite the contrary, I brought him to it by a hint, as though I didn't see it myself, and as though he'd thought of it himself, and I hadn't prompted him, so that Mr. Prosecutor's mouth positively watered at my suggestion. "But can you possibly have thought of all that on the spot?" cried Ivan overcome with astonishment. He looked at Smodlyarkov again with alarm. "Mercy, honest, could anyone think of it all in such a desperate hurry? It was all thought out beforehand." "Well, well, it was the devil helped you," Ivan cried again. "No, you are not a fool. You are far cleverer than I thought." He got up, obviously intending to walk across the room. He was in terrible distress. But as the table blocked his way and there was hardly room to pass between the table and the wall, he only turned round where he stood and sat down again. Perhaps the impossibility of moving irritated him as he suddenly cried out almost as furiously as before. "Listen, you miserable, contemptible creature! Don't you understand that if I haven't killed you, it's simply because I'm keeping you to answer tomorrow at the trial. God sees," Ivan raised his hand. "Perhaps I, too, was guilty. Perhaps I really had a secret desire for my father's death. But I swear I was not as guilty as you think. And perhaps I didn't urge you on at all. No, no, I didn't urge you on. But no matter, I will give evidence against myself tomorrow at the trial. I'm determined to. I shall tell everything, everything. But we'll make our appearance together. Whatever you may say against me at the trial, whatever evidence you give, I'll face it. I'm not afraid of you. I'll confirm it all myself. But you must confess, too. You must. You must. We'll go together. That's how it shall be." Ivan said this solemnly and resolutely, and from his flashing eyes alone, it could be seen that it would be so. "You are ill, I see. You are quite ill. Your eyes are yellow," said Adyakov, commented without the least irony, with apparent sympathy, in fact. "We'll go together," Ivan repeated, "and if you won't go, no matter, I'll go alone." Adyakov paused, as though pondering. "There'll be nothing of the sort, and you won't go," he concluded at last, positively. "You don't understand me," Ivan exclaimed, reproachfully. "You'll be much too ashamed if you confess it all, and what's more, it'll be no use at all, for I shall say straight out that I never said anything of the sort to you, and that you are either ill, and it looks like it, too, or that you're so sorry for your brother, that you're sacrificing yourself to save him, and have invented it all against me, for you've always thought no more of me than if I'd been a fly, and it will believe you, and what single proof of you got." "Listen, you showed me those notes just now to convince me," Adyakov lifted the book off the notes and laid it on one side. "Take that money away with you," Adyakov sighed. "Of course I shall take it, but why do you give it to me if you committed the murder for the sake of it?" Ivan looked at him with great surprise. "I don't want it," said Adyakov articulated in a shaking voice, with a gesture of refusal. "I did have an idea of beginning a new life with that money in Moscow, or better still abroad. I did dream of it, chiefly because all things are lawful." That was quite right what you taught me, for you talked a lot to me about that. "For if there's no everlasting God, there's no such thing as virtue, and there's no need of it. You were right there. That's how I looked at it." "Did you come to that of yourself?" asked Ivan with a rise smile. "With your guidance, and now I suppose you believe in God since you are giving me back the money." "No, I don't believe," whispered Smirdiyakov. "Then why are you giving it back?" "Leave off, that's enough," Smirdiyakov waved his hand again. "You used to say yourself that everything was lawful. So now why are you so upset, too? You even want to go and give evidence against yourself, only there'll be nothing of the sort. You won't go to give evidence," Smirdiyakov decided with conviction. "You will see," said Ivan, "it isn't possible. You're very clever. You're fond of money. I know that. You like to be respected, too, for you're very proud. You're far too fond of female charms, too, and you mind most of all about living in undisturbed comfort without having to depend on anyone. That's what you care most about. You won't want to spoil your life forever by taking such a disgrace on yourself. You're like Fyodor Pavlovitch. You're more like him than any of his children. You've the same soul as he had. "You're not a fool," said Ivan, seeming struck. The blood rushed to his face. "You are serious now," he observed, looking suddenly at Smirdiyakov for the different expression. "It was your pride that made you think I was a fool. Take the money." Ivan took the three rolls of notes and put them in his pocket without wrapping them in anything. "I shall show them at the court tomorrow," he said. "Nobody will believe you as you plenty of money of your own. You may simply have taken it out of your cash box and brought it to the court." Ivan rose from his seat. "I repeat," he said, "the only reason I haven't killed you is that I need you for tomorrow. Remember that. Don't forget it." "Well, kill me. Kill me now," Smirdiyakov said, all at once looking strangely at Ivan. "You won't dare do that even," he added, with a bitter smile. "You won't dare to do anything. You who used to be so bold till tomorrow," cried Ivan and moved to go out. "Stay a moment. Show me those notes again." Ivan took out the notes and showed them to him. Smirdiyakov looked at them for 10 seconds. "Well, you can go," he said, with a wave of his hand. "Ivan Fyodorovic," he called after him again. "What do you want?" Ivan turned without stopping. "Goodbye." "Till tomorrow," Ivan cried again, and he walked out of the cottage. The snowstorm was still raging. He walked the first few steps boldly, but suddenly began staggering. "It's something physical," he thought with a grin. "Something like joy was springing up in his heart. He was conscious of unbounded resolution. He would make an end of the wavering that had so tortured him of late. His determination was taken, and now it will not be changed," he thought with relief. At that moment he stumbled against something and almost fell down. Stopping short, he made out at his feet the peasant he had knocked down, still lying senseless and motionless. The snow had almost covered his face. Ivan seized him and lifted him in his arms. Seeing a light in the little house to the right, he went up, knocked at the shutters, and asked the man to whom the house belonged to help him carry the peasant to the police station, promising him three rubles. The man got ready and came out. I won't describe in detail how Ivan succeeded in his object, bringing the peasant to the police station and arranging for a doctor to see him at once, providing with a liberal hand for the expenses. I would only say that the business took a whole hour, but Ivan was well content with it. His mind wandered and worked incessantly. If I had not taken my decision so firmly for tomorrow he reflected the satisfaction, I should not have stayed a whole hour to look after the peasant, but should have passed by without caring about his being frozen. I am quite capable of watching myself, by the way, he thought at the same instant that still greater satisfaction. Although they have decided that I am going out of my mind, just as he reached his own house, he stopped short, asking himself suddenly, hadn't he better go at once to the prosecutor and tell him everything. He decided the question by turning back to the house. "Everything together tomorrow," he whispered to himself, "and strange to say, almost all his gladness and self-satisfaction passed in one instant." As he entered his own room, he felt something like a touch of ice on his heart, like a recollection or more exactly a reminder of something agonizing and revolting that was in that room now, at that moment, and had been there before. He sank wearily on his sofa. The old woman brought him a samovar, he made tea, but did not touch it. He sat on the sofa and felt giddy. He felt that he was ill and helpless, was beginning to drop asleep, but got up uneasily and walked across the room to shake off his drowsiness. At moments he fancied he was delirious, but it was not illness that he thought of most. Sitting down again, he began looking round, as though searching for something, this happened several times. At last, his eyes were fastened intently on one point. He have unsmiled, but an angry flush suffused his face. He sat a long time in his place, his head propped on both arms, though he looked sideways at the same point of the sofa that stood against the opposite wall. There was evidently something, some object, that irritated him there, worried him, and tormented him. End of chapter 8 of book 11. Book 11, chapter 9, the devil, Yvonne's nightmare. I am not a doctor, but yet I feel that the moment has come when I must inevitably give the reader some account of the nature of Yvonne's illness. Anticipating events, I can say at least one thing. He was at that moment on the very eve of an attack of brain fever. Though his health had long been affected, it had offered a stubborn resistance to the fever, which in the end gained complete mastery over it. Though I know nothing of medicine, I ventured to hazard the suggestion that he really had perhaps, by a terrible effort of will, succeeded in delaying the attack for a time, hoping of course to check it completely. He knew that he was unwell, but he loathed the thought of being ill at that fatal time at the approaching crisis in his life, when he needed to have all his wits about him, to say what he had to say boldly and resolutely, and to justify himself to himself. He had, however, consulted the new doctor, who had been brought from Moscow by a fantastic notion of Katerina Yvonne's illness, to which I have referred already. After listening to him and examining him, the doctor came to the conclusion that he was actually suffering from some disorder of the brain, and was not at all surprised by an admission which Yvonne had reluctantly made him. Hallucinations are quite likely in your condition, the doctor opined, though it would be better to verify them. You must take steps at once without a moment's delay, or things will go badly with you. But Yvonne did not follow this judicious advice, and did not take to his bed to be nursed. I am walking about, though I am strong enough, if I drop it will be different then, anyone may nurse me who likes. He decided dismissing the subject. And so he was sitting almost conscious himself of his delirium, and as I have said already, looking persistently at some object on the sofa against the opposite wall. Someone appeared to be sitting there, though Godness knows how he had come in, for he had not been in the room when Yvonne came into it on his return from Smirdjakov. This was a person, or more accurately speaking, a Russian gentleman of a particular kind, no longer young, kifazela sank on ten, translators note fifty-ish, as the French say, with rather long still thick dark hair, slightly streaked with grey, and a small pointed beard. He was wearing a brownish reefer jacket, rather shabby, evidently made by a good tailor, though, and of a fashion at least three years old that had been discarded by smart and well-to-do people for the last two years. His linen and his long scarf-like necktie were all such as a worn by people who aim at being stylish, but on closer inspection his linen was not over-clean, and his wide scarf was very thread-bear. The visitors' check trousers were of excellent cut, but were too light in colour and too tight for the present fashion, his soft, fluffy white hat without of keeping with the season. In brief, there was every appearance of gentility on straightened means. It looked as though the gentleman belonged to that class of idle landowners who used to flourish in the times of serfdom. He had unmistakably been at some time in good and fashionable society, had once had good connections, had possibly preserved them indeed, but after a gay youth becoming gradually impoverished on the abolition of serfdom, he had sunk into the position of a poor relation of the best class, wandering from one good old friend to another, and received by them for his a companionable and accommodating disposition, and as being after all the gentleman who could be asked to sit down with anyone, though of course not in the place of honour. Such gentlemen of accommodating temper and dependent position who can tell a story, take a hand at cards, and who have a distinctive version for any duties that may be forced upon them, are usually solitary creatures, either bachelors or widowers. Sometimes they have children, but if so, the children are always being brought up at a distance, at some aunts, to whom these gentlemen never elude in good society, seeming ashamed of the relationship. They gradually lose sight of their children altogether, though at intervals they receive a birthday or Christmas letter from them, and sometimes even answer it. The countenance of the unexpected visitor was not so much good-natured as accommodating and ready to assume any amiable expression as occasion might arise. He had no watch, but he had a tortoise shell lawn yet on a black ribbon. On the middle finger of his right hand was a massive gold ring with a cheap opal stone in it. Yvonne was angrily silent and would not begin the conversation. The visitor waited and sat exactly like a poor relation who had come down from his room to keep his host company at tea and was discreetly silent, seeing that his host was frowning and preoccupied. But he was ready for any affable conversation as soon as his host should begin it. All at once his face expressed a sudden solicitude. "I say," he began to Yvonne. "Excuse me, I only mention it to remind you. You went to Smirtyarkovs to find out about Katarina Yvonne of now, but you came away without finding out anything about her. You probably forgot." "Ah, yes," broke from Yvonne, and his face grew gloomy with uneasiness. "Yes, I'd forgotten, but it doesn't matter now, never mind, till tomorrow," he muttered to himself. "And you," he added, addressing his visitor, "I should have remembered that myself in a minute, but that was just what was tormenting me. Why do you interfere as if I should believe that you prompted me that I didn't remember it of myself?" "Don't believe it then," said the gentleman, smiling amicably. "What's the good believing against your will?" Besides, proofs are no help to believing, especially material proofs. Thomas believed, not because he saw Christ risen, but because he wanted to believe before he saw. Look at the spiritualists, for instance, and very fond of them. Only fancy, they imagine that they are serving the cause of religion, because the devils show them their horns from the other world. That, they say, is a material proof, so to speak, of the existence of another world. The other world and material proofs, what next? And if you come to that, does proving there's a devil, prove that there's a god? I want to join an idealist society. I'll lead the opposition in it. I'll say I am a realist, but not a materialist. Listen, Yvonne suddenly got up from the table. I seem to be delirious. I am delirious, in fact. Talk any nonsense you like. I don't care. You won't drive me to fury as you did last time, but I feel somehow ashamed. I want to walk about the room. I sometimes don't see you and don't even hear your voice as I did last time, but I always guess what you are prating, but it's I, I myself, speaking, not you. Only I don't know whether I was dreaming last time or whether I really saw you. I'll wet a towel and put it on my head, and perhaps you'll vanish into air. Yvonne went into the corner, took a towel, and it, as he said, and with a wet towel on his head, began walking up and down the room. I am so glad you treat me so familiarly the visitor began. Fool, laughed Yvonne, do you suppose I should stand on ceremony with you? I'm in good spirits now, though I have a pain in my forehead. And in the top of my head, only please don't talk philosophy as you did last time. If you can't take yourself off, talk of something amusing, talk gossip. You are a poor relation. You ought to talk gossip. What a nightmare to have. But I'm not afraid of you. I'll get the better of you. I won't be taken to a madhouse. This shall mark poor relation. Yes, I am in my natural shape. For what am I on earth but a poor relation? By the way, I'm listening to you and I'm rather surprised to find you're actually beginning to take me for something real, not simply your fancy as you persisted in declaring last time. Never for one minute have I taken you for reality. Yvonne cried with a sort of fury. You are a lie. You are my illness. You are a phantom. It's only that I don't know how to destroy you, and I see I must suffer for a time. You are my hallucination. You are the incarnation of myself, but only of one side of me, of my thoughts and feelings, but only the nastiest and stupidest of them. From that point of view, you might be of interest to me if only I had time to waste on you. Excuse me. Excuse me. I will catch you. When you flew out at Al Yasha under the lamppost this evening and shouted to him, you learnt it from him. How do you know that he visits me? You were thinking of me then. So for one brief moment, you did believe that I really exist. The gentleman laughed blandly. Yes, that was a moment of weakness, but I couldn't believe in you. I don't know whether I was asleep or awake last time. Perhaps I was only dreaming then and didn't see you really at all. And why were you so surly with Al Yasha just now? He is a deer. I've treated him badly over father's ocema. Don't talk of Al Yasha. How dare you, you flunky, Yvonne laughed again. You scold me, but you laugh. That's a good sign. But you are ever so much more polite than you were last time, and I know why. That great resolution of yours. Don't speak of my resolution, and cried Yvonne savagely. I understand. I understand. Say no, bless Yasha. You are going to defend your brother and to sacrifice yourself. Say shivala resk. Hold your tongue. I'll kick you. I shan't be altogether sorry for then my object will be attained. If you kick me, you must believe in my reality. The people don't kick ghosts. Joking apart, it doesn't matter to me. Scold if you like, though it's better to be a trifle more polite, even to me. Fool, flunky. What words? Scolding you, I scold myself, Yvonne laughed again. You are myself, only with a different face. You just say what I'm thinking, and are incapable of saying anything new. If I am like you in my way of thinking, it's all to my credit. The gentleman declared with delicacy and dignity. You choose out only my worst thoughts, and what's more the stupid ones. You are stupid and vulgar. You are awfully stupid. No, I can't put up with you. What am I to do? What am I to do? Yvonne said through his clenched teeth. My dear friend, above all things I want to behave like a gentleman, and to be recognized as such, the visitor began in an access of deprecating and simple-hearted pride, typical of a poor relation. I am poor, but I won't say very honest, but it's an axiom generally accepted in society that I am a fallen angel. I certainly can't conceive how I can never have been an angel. If I ever was, it must have been so long ago that there's no harm in forgetting it. Now, I only prize the reputation of being a gentlemanly person and live as I can, trying to make myself agreeable. I love men genuinely. I've been greatly columbinated. Here, when I stay with you from time to time, my life gains a kind of reality, and that's what I like most of all. You see, like you, I suffer from the fantastic, and so I love the realism of earth. Here, with you, everything is circumscribed. Here, all is formulated and geometrical, while we have nothing but indeterminate equations. I wonder about here dreaming. I like dreaming. Besides, on earth, I become superstitious. Please don't laugh. That's just what I like to become superstitious. I adopt all your habits here. I've grown fond of going to the public baths. Would you believe it? And I go and steam myself with merchants and priests. What I dream of is becoming incarnate once for all, and irrevocably, in the form of some merchant's wife weighing 18 stone, and of believing all she believes. My ideal is to go to church and offer a candle in simple, hearted faith upon my word it is. Then there would be an end to my sufferings. I like being doctored, too, in the spring there was an outbreak of smallpox, and I went and was vaccinated in a foundling hospital. If only you knew how I enjoyed myself that day. I subscribed ten rubles in the course of the Slavs. But you're not listening. Do you know you're not at all well this evening? I know you went yesterday to that doctor. Well, what about your health? What did the doctor say? "Fool," Yvonne snapped out. "But you are clever, anyway. You are scolding again. I didn't ask out of sympathy. You needn't answer. Now rheumatism has come in again. Fool!" repeated Yvonne. "You keep saying the same thing, but I had such an attack of rheumatism last year that I remember it to this day. The devil have rheumatism. Why not? If I sometimes put on fleshly form, I put on fleshly form and I take the consequences. Satan sum et nihil humanum ame allieenum puto." Translator's note, "I am satan and deem nothing human alien to me." "What? What? Satan sum et nihil humanum? That's not bad for the devil. I'm glad I've pleased you at last." "But you didn't get that from me," Yvonne stopped suddenly, seeming struck. "That never entered my head. That's strange," said Yvonne Sper. Translator's note. "It's new, isn't it?" "This time I'll act honestly and explain to you. Listen, in dreams and especially in nightmares, from indigestion or anything, a man sees sometimes such artistic visions, such complex and real actuality, such events, even a whole world of events, woven into such a plot with unexpected details, from the most exalted matters to the last button on a cuff, as I swear Leo Tolstoy never yet invented. Yet such dreams are sometimes seen not by writers, but by the most ordinary people, officials, journalists, priests. The subject is a complete enigma. A statesman confessed to me, indeed, that all his best ideas came to him when he was asleep. "Well, that's how it is now, though I am your hallucination. Yet, just as in a nightmare, I say original things which had not entered your head before. So I don't repeat your ideas, yet I am only your nightmare, nothing more." "You are lying. Your aim is to convince me you exist apart and are not my nightmare, and now you're asserting you're a dream." "My dear fellow, I've adopted a special method today. I'll explain it to you afterwards." "Stay, where did I break off?" "Oh, yes. I caught cold then, only not here, but yonder." "Where is yonder? Tell me, will you be here long? Can't you go away?" Yvonne exclaimed, almost in despair. He ceased walking to and fro, sat down on the sofa, leaned his elbows on the table again, and held his head tight in both hands. He pulled the wet towel off and flung it away in vexation. It was evidently of no use. "Your nerves are out of order," observed the gentleman, with a carelessly easy, though perfectly polite air. "You are angry with me even for being able to catch cold, though it happened in a most natural way. I was hurrying then to a diplomatic suire at the house of a lady of high rank in Petersburg who was aiming at influence in the ministry." "Well, an evening suit, white tie, gloves, though I was god-knows-where, and had to fly through space to reach your earth. Of course, it only took an instance, but you know a ray of light from the sun takes for full eight minutes, and fantasy in an evening suit and open waistcoat. Spirits don't freeze, but when ones in fleshly form, well, in brief I didn't think, and set off, and you know in those ethereal spaces, in the water that is above the firmament there's such a frost. At least one can't call it frost, you fancy 150 degrees below zero." "You know the game the village girls play. They invite the unwary to lick an axe in 30 degrees of frost. The tongue instantly freezes to it, and the dupe tears the skin off so it bleeds. But that's only in 30 degrees. In 150 degrees, I imagine it would be enough to put your finger on the axe, and it would be the end of it. If only there could be an axe there." "And can there be an axe there?" he even interrupted carelessly and disdainfully. He was exerting himself to the utmost not to believe in the delusion, and not to sink into complete insanity. "An axe?" the guest interrupted in surprise. "Yes, what would become of an axe there?" he ran cried suddenly with a sort of savage and insistent obstinacy. "What would become of an axe in space?" "Can he dare?" "If it were to fall to any distance, it would begin, I think, flying around the earth without knowing why, like a satellite. The astronomers would calculate the rising and the setting of the axe. Gatsuk would put it in his calendar, that's all. "You are stupid, awfully stupid," said Ivan P. Vishely. "Fib more cleverly, or I won't listen. You want to get the better of me by realism, to convince me that you exist. But I don't want to believe you exist. I won't believe it. But I am not fibbing, it's all the truth. The truth is unhappily, hardly ever amusing. I see you persist in expecting something big of me, and perhaps something fine. That's a great pity, for I only give what I can. Don't talk philosophy, you ass!" Philosophy, indeed, when all my right side is numb and I'm moaning and groaning. I've tried all the medical faculty. They can diagnose beautifully. They have the whole of your disease at their fingertips, but they've no idea how to cure you. There was an enthusiastic little student here. "You may die," said he, "but you'll know perfectly what disease you're dying of." And then what a way they have of sending people to specialists. "We only diagnose," they say, "but go to such and such a specialist, he'll cure you." The old doctor who used to cure all sorts of diseases has completely disappeared, I assure you. Now there are only specialists, and they all advertise in the newspapers. If anything is wrong with your nose, they send you to Paris. There, they say, is a European specialist who cures noses. If you go to Paris, he'll look at your nose. "I can only cure your right nostril," he'll tell you, "but I don't cure the left nostril. That's not my specialty." But go to Vienna. There, there's a specialist who will cure your left nostril. "What are you to do?" I fell back on popular remedies. A German doctor advised me to rub myself with honey and salt in the bathhouse. Slowly to get an extra bath, I went, smeared myself all over, and it did me no good at all. In despair, I wrote to Count Matei in Milan. He sent me a book and some drops, bless him. And only fancy, half-smold extract cured me. I bought it by accident, drank a bottle and a half of it, and I was ready to dance. It took it away completely. I made up my mind to write to the papers to thank him. I was prompted by a feeling of gratitude, and only fancy, it led to no end of a bother. Not a single paper would take my letter. "It would be very reactionary," they said. "None will believe it. La diablin exists the pun." Translators note, the devil does not exist. "You'd better remain anonymous," they advised me. "What uses a letter of thanks if it's anonymous?" I laughed with the men at the newspaper office. "It's reactionary to believe in God in our day," I said, "but I am the devil, so I may be believed in." "We quite understand that," they said, "who doesn't believe in the devil. Yet it won't do. It might injure our reputation." As a joke, if you like. But I thought as a joke it wouldn't be very witty, so it wasn't printed. And you know, I've felt sore about it to this day. My best feelings, gratitude for instance, are literally denied me simply from my social position. Philosophical reflections again, even snarled malignantly. God preserved me from it, but one can't help complaining sometimes. I am a slandered man. You upbraid me every moment with being stupid. One can see you are young. My dear fellow, intelligence isn't the only thing. I have naturally a kind and merry heart. I also write vaudevils of all sorts. You seem to take me for less dark off grown old, but my fate is a far more serious one. Before time was, by some decree which I could never make out, I was predestined to deny. And yet I am genuinely good-hearted and not at all inclined to negation. No, you must go and deny. Without denial there's no criticism. And what would a journal be without a column of criticism? Without criticism it would be nothing but one hosanna. But nothing but hosanna is not enough for life. The hosanna must be tried in the crucible of doubt and so on in the same style. But I don't meddle in that. I didn't create it. I am not answerable for it. Well, they've chosen their scapegoat. They've made me write the column of criticism, and so life was made possible. We understand that comedy. I, for instance, simply ask for annihilation. No, live, I am told, for there'd be nothing without you. If everything in the universe was sensible, nothing would happen. There would be no events without you, and there must be events. So against the grain I serve to produce events, and do what's irrational because I am commanded to. For all their indisputable intelligence men take this farce as something serious, and that is their tragedy. They suffer, of course, but then they live, they live a real life, not a fantastic one, for suffering is life. Without suffering, what would be the pleasure of it? It would be transformed into an endless church service. It would be holy, but tedious. But what about me? I suffer, but still I don't live. I am ex in an indeterminate equation. I'm a sort of phantom in life who has lost all beginning and end, and who has even forgotten his own name. You are laughing. No, you are not laughing. You are angry again. You are forever angry. All you care about is intelligence. But I repeat again that I would give away all this super stellar life, all the ranks and honors, simply to be transformed into the soul of a merchant's wife, weighing 18 stone, and set candles at God's shrine. "Then even you don't believe in God," said Yvonne, with a smile of hatred. "What can I say? That is if you're in earnest. Is there a God or not?" Yvonne cried with the same savage intensity. "Ah, then you are in earnest. My dear fellow, upon my word I don't know. There I've said it now. You don't know, but you see God. No, you are not someone apart. You are myself. You are I and nothing more. You are rubbish. You are my fancy." Well, if you like, I have the same philosophy as you. That would be true. "Is your past, don't you see?" Translator's note, "I think, therefore I am." I know that for a fact. All the rest, all these worlds, God, and even Satan, all that is not proved to my mind. Does all that exist of itself, or is it only an emanation of myself, a logical development of my ego, which alone has existed forever? But I make haste to stop, for I believe you will be jumping up to beat me directly." "You'd better tell me some anecdote," said Yvonne miserably. "There is an anecdote precisely on our subject, or rather a legend, not an anecdote. You reproach me with unbelief. You see, you say, yet you don't believe. But my dear fellow, I'm not the only one like that. We're all in a muddle over there now, and all through your science. Once there used to be atoms, five senses, four elements, and then everything hung together somehow. There were atoms in the ancient world, even, but since we've learned that you've discovered the chemical molecule and protoplasm, and the devil knows what, we had to lower our crest. There's a regular muddle, an above all, superstition, scandal. There's as much scandal among us as among you, you know, a little more, in fact, and spying, indeed, for we have our secret police department, where private information is received. Well, this wild legend belongs to our middle ages, not yours, but ours, and no one believes it, even among us, except the old ladies of 18 stone, not your old ladies, I mean, but ours. We've everything you have. I'm revealing one of our secrets out of friendship for you, though it's forbidden. This legend is about paradise. There was, they say, here on earth, a thinker and philosopher. He rejected everything, laws, conscience, faith, and above all the future life. He died. He expected to go straight to darkness and death, and he found a future life before him. He was astounded and indignant. "This is against my principles," he said, and he was punished for that. "That is, you must excuse me. I'm just repeating what I heard myself. It's only a legend." He was sentenced to walk a quadrillion kilometers in the dark. We've adopted the metric system, you know, and when he has finished that quadrillion, the gates of heaven would be open to him, and he'll be forgiven. "And what tortures have you in the other world besides the quadrillion kilometers?" asked Ivan, with a strange eagerness. "What tortures? Don't ask. In old days we had all sorts, but now they've taken chiefly to moral punishments, the stings of conscience and all that nonsense. We got that, too, from you, from the softening of your manners. And who's the better for it, only those who've got no conscience, for how can they be tortured by conscience when they have none? But decent people who have conscience and a sense of honor suffer for it. Reforms when the ground has not been prepared for them, especially if they are institutions copied from abroad, do nothing but mischief. The ancient fire was better. Well, this man who was condemned to the quadrillion kilometers stood still, looked round, and lay down across the road. I won't go. I refuse on principle. Take the soul of an enlightened Russian atheist and mix it with the soul of the prophet Jonah, who sulked for three days and nights in the belly of the whale, and you get the character of that thinker who lay across the road. "What did he lie on there?" "Well, I suppose there was something to lie on. You're not laughing." "Pravo!" cried Ivan, still with the same strange eagerness. Now he was listening with an unexpected curiosity. "Well, is he lying there now?" That's the point that he isn't. He lay there almost a thousand years, and then he got up and went on. "What an af!" cried Ivan, laughing nervously, and still seeming to be pondering something intently. "Does it make any difference whether he lies thereforever or walks the quadrillion kilometers? It would take a billion years to walk it." Much more than that. I haven't got a pencil and paper or I could work it out. But he got there long ago, and that's where the story begins. "What he got there? But how did he get the billion years to do it? Why, you keep thinking of our present earth, but our present earth may have been repeated a billion times. Why, it's become extinct, been frozen, cracked, broken to bits, disintegrated into its elements. Again, the water above the firmament, then again a comet, again a sun. Again from the sun, it becomes earth, and the same sequence may have been repeated endlessly and exactly the same to every detail, most unseemly and insufferably tedious. Well, well, what happened when he arrived? Quite the moment the gates of Paradise were open and he walked in, before he had been there two seconds by his watch, though to my thinking his watch must have long dissolved into his elements on the way. He cried out that those two seconds were worth walking not a quadrillion kilometers, but a quadrillion of quadrillions raised to the quadrillionth power. In fact, he sang Hosanna, and over did it so, that some persons there of lofty ideas wouldn't shake hands with him at first. He'd become too rapidly reactionary, they said. The Russian temperament. I repeat it's a legend, I give it for what it's worth, so that's the sort of ideas we have on such subjects even now. I've caught you, Ivan cried, with an almost childish delight, as though he'd succeeded in remembering something at last. That anecdote about the quadrillion years I made up myself. I was seventeen then, I was at the high school. I made up that anecdote and told it to a school fellow called Korovkin. It was at Moscow. The anecdote is so characteristic that I couldn't have taken it from anywhere. I thought I'd forgotten it, but I've unconsciously recalled it. I recalled it myself. It was not you telling it. Thousands of things are unconsciously remembered like that, even when people are being taken to execution. It's come back to me in a dream. You are that dream. You are a dream, not a living creature. From them veerments with which you deny my existence, laughed the gentleman, I am convinced that you believe in me. Not in the slightest, I haven't a hundredth part of a grain of faith in you. But you have the thousandth of a grain, homeopathic doses perhaps are the strongest. Confess that you have faith even to the ten thousandth of a grain. Not for one minute, cried Ivan furiously. But I should like to believe in you, he added strangely. Aha, there's an admission, but I am good-natured. I'll come to your assistance again. Listen, it was I caught you, not you, me. I told you your anecdote you'd forgotten on purpose so as to destroy your faith in me completely. You are lying. The object of your visit is to convince me of your existence. Just so. But hesitation, suspense, conflict between belief and disbelief is sometimes such torture to a conscientious man such as you are, but it's better to hang oneself at once. Knowing that you're inclined to believe in me, I administered some disbelief by telling you that anecdote. I lead you to belief and disbelief by turns, and I have my motive in it. It's the new method. As soon as you disbelieve in me completely, you'll begin assuring me to my faith that I'm not a dream, but a reality. I know you. Then I shall have attained my object, which is an honourable one. I shall sow in you only a tiny grain of faith, and it will grow into an oak tree, and such an oak tree that's sitting on it you will long to enter the ranks of the hermits in the wilderness and the saintly women. But that is what you are secretly longing for. You'll dine on locusts. You'll wander into the wilderness to save your soul. Then it's for the salvation of my soul. You are working, is it? You scoundrel. One must do a good work sometimes. How ill-humoured you are? Who? Did you ever tempt these holy men who ate locusts and prayed seventeen years in the wilderness till they were overgrown with moss? My dear fellow, I've done nothing else. One forgets the whole world and all the worlds and sticks to one such saint, because he is a very precious diamond. One such soul, you know, is sometimes worth a whole constellation. We have our system of reckoning, you know, the conquest is priceless, and some of them on my word are not inferior to you in culture, though you won't believe it. They can contemplate such depths of belief and disbelief at the same moment that sometimes it really seems that there within a hairs breadth of being turned upside down, as the actor Garbonoff says. "Well, did you get your nose pulled?" "My dear fellow," observed the visitor, scintentiously, "it's better to get off with your nose pulled than without a nose at all." As an afflicted Marquis observed not long ago, he must have been treated by a specialist in confession to his spiritual father, a Jesuit. I was present, it was simply charming. "Give me back my nose," he said, and he beat his breast. "My son," said the priest evasively, "all things are accomplished in accordance with the inscrutable decrees of providence, and what seems a misfortune sometimes leads to extraordinary, though, unapparent benefits. If stern destiny has deprived you of your nose, it's to your advantage that no one can ever pull you by your nose." "Holy Father, that's no comfort," cried the despairing Marquis. "I'd be delighted to have my nose pulled every day of my life if it were only in its proper place." "My son," sighs the priest, "you can't expect every blessing at once. This is murmuring against providence, who even in this has not forgotten you, for if you repine, as you repine just now, declaring you'd be glad to have your nose pulled for the rest of your life, your desire has already been fulfilled indirectly, for when you've lost your nose, you were led by the nose." "For all how stupid!" cried Ivan. "My dear friend, I only wanted to amuse you, but I swear that's the genuine Jesuit Kazuistry, and I swear that it all happened word for word, as I've told you. It happened lately and gave me a great deal of trouble. The unhappy young man shot himself that very night when he got home. I was by his side till the very last moment. Those Jesuit confessionals are really my most delightful diversion at melancholy moments. Here's another incident that happened only the other day. A little blonde, Norman girl of twenty, a buck some unsophisticated beauty that would make your mouth water, comes to an old priest. She bends down and whispers her sin into the grating. "Why, my daughter, have you fallen again already?" cries the priest. "O sancta Maria, what do I hear?" "Not the same man this time, how long is this going on?" "Aren't you ashamed?" "I'm compare," answers the sinner, with tears of penitence. "So lui fétain de plaisir, l'amois s'ipur de pen," translators note. "Oh, my father, this gives him so much pleasure, and me so little pain." Fancy such an answer, I drew back. It was the cry of nature, better than innocence itself, if you like. I absolved her sin on the spot, and was turning to go, but I was forced to turn back. I heard the priest at the grating, making an appointment with her for the evening. Though he was an old man, hard as flint, he fell in an instant. It was nature. The truth of nature asserted its rights. "What, are you turning up your nose again?" "Angry again. I don't know how to please you." "Leave me alone. You are beating on my brain, like a haunting nightmare," Ivan moaned miserably, helpless before his apparition. "I am bored with you, agonizingly and insufferably. I would give anything to be able to shake you off." "I repeat, moderate your expectations. Don't demand of me everything great and noble, and you'll see how well we should get on." Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon Saver, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. It can get lonely climbing Mount McKinley, so to entertain myself, I go to ChumbaCasino.com. At ChumbaCasino, I can play hundreds of online casino-style games for free, like online slots, bingo, slingo and more. Plus, I get a daily login bonus. It's just too bad that up here, I don't have anyone to share my excitement with. Live the Chumba Life anytime, anywhere. Play for free now at ChumbaCasino.com. B.W. Room. No purchases are avoided. We're prohibited by law. See terms and conditions, 18 plus.