 Book VIII. A sudden resolution. She was sitting in the kitchen with her grandmother. They were both just going to bed. Relying on Nazar Ivanovich, they had not locked themselves in. Mitya ran in, pounced on Fenya, and seized her by the throat. "'Speak at once! Where is she? With whom is she now at Mokkoe?' he roared furiously. Both the women squealed. "'Ah! I'll tell you. Ah! Dimitri Fyorovitch, darling. I'll tell you everything directly. I won't hide anything,' gabbled Fenya, frightened to death. She had gone to Mokkoe, to her officer. "'What officer?' roared Mitya. "'To officer, the same one she used to know, the one who threw her over five years ago,' cackled Fenya as fast as she could speak. Mitya withdrew the hands with which she was squeezing her throat. He stood facing her, pale as death, unable to utter a word, but his eyes showed that he realized it all, all from the first word and guessed the whole position. Poor Fenya was not in a condition at that moment to observe whether he understood or not. She remained sitting on the trunk as she had been when he ran into the room, trembling all over, holding her hands out before her as though trying to defend herself. She seemed to have grown rigid in that position. Her wide-opened, scared eyes were fixed immovably upon him, and to make matters worse both his hands were smeared with blood. On the way, as he ran, he must have touched his forehead with them, wiping off the perspiration, so that on his forehead and his right cheek were blood-stained patches. Fenya was on the verge of hysterics. The old cook had jumped up and was staring at him like a mad woman, almost unconscious with terror. Mitya stood for a moment, then mechanically sank onto a chair next to Fenya. He said, not reflecting, but as it were, terror-stricken, benant. Yet everything was clear as day. That officer, he knew about him, he knew everything perfectly. He had known it from Kurashenko herself, had known that a letter had come from him a month before, so that for a month, for a whole month, this had been going on, a secret from him, till the very arrival of this new man, and he had never thought of him. But how could he? How could he not have thought of him? Why was it he had forgotten this officer, like that, forgotten him, as soon as he heard of him? That was the question that phased him like some monstrous thing, and he looked at this monstrous thing with horror, growing cold with horror. But suddenly, as gently and mildly as a gentle and affectionate child, he began speaking to Fenya as though he had utterly forgotten how he had scared and hurt her just now. He felt a questioning Fenya with an extreme preciseness, astonishing in his position, and though the girl looked wildly at his blood-stained hands, she too, with wonderful readiness and rapidity, answered every question as though eager to put the whole truth and nothing but the truth before him. Little by little, even with a sort of enjoyment, she began explaining every detail, not wanting to mend him, but, as it were, eager to be of the utmost service to him. She described the whole of that day in great detail, the visit of Rakitin and Alyosha, how she Fenya had stood on the watch, how the mistress had set off, and how she had called out of the window to Alyosha to give him, Mitya, her greetings, and to tell him to remember for ever how she had loved him for an hour. Hearing of the message, Mitya suddenly smiled, and there was a flush of colour on his pale cheeks. At the same moment, Fenya said to him, not a bit afraid now to be inquisitive, �Look at your hands, Dimitri Fjordovic! They're all over blood!� �Yes� answered Mitya mechanically. He looked carelessly at his hands, and that once forgot them, and Fenya's question. He sank into silence again. Twenty minutes had passed since he had run in. His first horror was over, but evidently some new fixed determination had taken possession of him. He suddenly stood up, smiling dreamily. �What has happened to you, sir?� said Fenya, pointing to his hands again. She spoke compassionately, as though she felt very near to him now, in his grief. Mitya looked at his hands again. �That's blocked Fenya� he said, looking at her with a strange expression. �That's human blood!� �And my God! Why was it shed?� But Fenya, there's a fence here. He looked at her as though setting her riddle. A high fence, and terrible to look at. But at dawn to-morrow, when the sun rises, Mitya will leap over that fence. �You don't understand what fence Fenya, and never mind. You'll hear to-morrow, and understand. And now, goodbye. I won't stand in her way. I'll step aside. I know how to step aside. Live, my joy. You loved me for an hour. Remember Mityanka Karamazov so forever. She always used to call me Mityanka. Do you remember?� And with those words he went suddenly out of the kitchen. Fenya was almost more frightened at this sudden departure than she had been when he ran in and attacked her. Just ten minutes later Dimitri went in to Pyotr Ilyich Partin, the young official with whom he had pawned his pistols. It was by now half-past eight, and Pyotr Ilyich had finished his evening tea, and had just put his coat on again to go to the Metropolis to play billiards. Mitya caught him coming out. Seeing him with his face all smeared with blood, the young man uttered a cry of surprise. �Good heavens! What's the matter? I've come for my pistols,� said Mitya, �and brought you the money. And thanks very much. I'm in a hurry, Pyotr Ilyich. Please make haste.� Pyotr Ilyich grew more and more surprised. He suddenly caught sight of a bundle of banknotes in Mitya's hand, and, what was more, he had walked in holding the notes as no one walks in, and no one carries money. He had them in his right hand, and held them out stretched as if to show them. Perhotin's servant boy, who met Mitya in the passage, said afterwards that he walked into the passage in the same way, with the money outstretched in his hand, so he must have been carrying them like that even in the streets. They were all rainbow-colored, hundred rubal notes, and the fingers holding them were covered with blood. When Pyotr Ilyich was questioned later on, as to the sum of money, he said that it was difficult to judge at a glance, but that it might have been two thousand, or perhaps three, but it was a big, fat bundle. Pyotr Ilyich, so he testified afterwards, seemed unlike himself, too. Not drunk, but as it were, exalted, lost to everything, but at the same time as it were, absolved, as though pondering and searching for something, and unable to come to a decision. He was in a great haste, answered abruptly and very strangely, and at moments seemed not at all dejected, but quite cheerful. �But what is the matter with you? What's wrong?� cried Pyotr Ilyich, looking wildly at his guest. �How is it that you're all covered with blood? Have you had a foal? Look at yourself!� He took a body elbow and led him to the glass. Seeing his blood-stained face, Mitya started and scowled wrathfully. �Damnation! That's the last straw!� he muttered angrily, hurriedly changing the notes from his right hand to the left, and impulsively jerked the handkerchief out of his pocket. But the handkerchief turned out to be soaked with blood, too. It was the handkerchief he had used to wipe Grigory's face. There was scarcely a white spot on it, and it had not merely begun to dry, but had stiffened into a crumpled wall and could not be pulled apart. Mitya threw it angrily on the floor. �Oh, damn it!� he said. �Haven't you a rag of some sort to wipe my face?� �Sir, you're only stained. Not wounded. You'd better wash,� said Pyotr Ilyich. �Here's a wash-stand. I'll pour you out some water.� �A wash-stand? That's all right. But where am I to put this?� With the strangest proplexity he indicated his bundle of hundred ruble notes, looking inquirily at Pyotr Ilyich, as though it were for him to decide what he, Mitya, was to do with his own money. �In your pocket or on the table here, they won't be lost.� �In my pocket?� �Yes, in my pocket. All right. But I say that's all nonsense� he cried, as though suddenly coming out of his absorption. �Look here. That's first saddle the business of the pistols. Give them back to me. Here's your money, because I'm in great need of them, and I haven't a minute, a minute to spare.� And taking the topmost note from the bundle he held it out to Pyotr Ilyich. �But I shan't have changed enough, haven't you less?� �No,� said Mitya, looking again at the bundle, and as though not trusting his own words he turned over two or three of the topmost ones. �No, they're all alike� he added, and again he looked inquirily at Pyotr Ilyich. �How have you grown so rich?� the latter asked. �Wait, I'll send my boy to Plotnikov's. They close late, to see if they won't change it.� �Here, Misha� he called into the passage. �To Plotnikov's shop, first raid� cried Mitya, as though struck by an idea. �Misha� he turned to the boy as he came in. �Look here. Run to Plotnikov's, and tell them that Dmitry Fyodorovich sends his greetings, and will be there directly. �But listen, listen, tell them to have champagne, three dozen bottles, ready before I come, and packed as it was to take to Mokhoi. �I took four dozen with me then� he added, suddenly addressing Pyotr Ilyich. �They know all about it. Don't you trouble, Misha� he turned again to the boy. �Stay, listen, tell them to put in cheese, stress work pies, smoked fish, ham, caviar and everything, everything they've got, up to a hundred rubles, or a hundred and twenty as before. But wait, don't let them forget dessert, sweets, pears, watermelons, two or three or four, no, one melon's enough, and chocolate, candy, toffee, fondants, in fact, everything I took to Mokhoi before, three hundred rubles worth with the champagne, let it be just the same again. �And remember, Misha, if you're called Misha, his name is Misha, isn't it?� he turned to Pyotr Ilyich again. �Wait a minute� Pyotr Ilyich intervened, listening and watching him uneasily. �You'd better go yourself and tell them, he'll muddle it.� �He will, I see he will. Misha, why I was going to kiss you for the commission. If you don't make a mistake, there's ten rubles for you. Run along, make haste. Champagne's the chief thing. Let them bring up champagne, and brandy too, and red and white wine, and all I had done. They know what I had done. �But listen� Pyotr Ilyich interrupted with some impatience. �I say, let him simply run and change the money, and tell them not to close, and you go and tell them� �Give him your note. Be off, Misha. Put your best leg forward.� Pyotr Ilyich seemed to hurry Misha off on purpose, because the boy remained standing with his mouth and eyes wide open, apparently understanding little of Misha's orders, gazing up with amazement and terror at his bloodstained face, and the trembling bloodstained fingers that held them notes. �Well, now come and wash� said Pyotr Ilyich sternly. �Put the money on the table, or else in your pocket. That's right. Come along. But take off your coat.� And beginning to help him off with his coat, he cried out again. �Look, your coat's covered with blood, too.� �That's� �It's not the coat. It's only a little here on the sleeve, and that's only here where the handkerchief lay. It must have soaked through. I must have sat on the handkerchief at Fenyes, and the blood's come through.� Misha explained at once, with a childlike unconsciousness that was astounding. Pyotr Ilyich listened, frowning. �Well, you must have been up to something. You must have been fighting with someone.� He muttered. They began to wash. Pyotr Ilyich held the jug, and poured out the water. Misha, in desperate haste, scarcely soaked his hands. They were trembling, and Pyotr Ilyich remembered it afterwards. But the young official insisted on his soaping them thoroughly, and rubbing them more. He seemed to exercise more and more sway over Misha, as time went on. It may be noted in passing that he was a young man of sturdy character. �Look, you haven't got your nails clean. Now, rip your face, here, on your temples, by your ear. Will you go in that shirt? Where are you going? Look, all the cuff of your right sleeve is covered with blood.� �Yes, it's all bloody,� observed Misha, looking at the cuff of his shirt. �Then change your shirt.� �I haven't time. You see, I'll� Misha went on with the same confiding ingeniousness, drying his face and hands on the towel, and putting on his coat. �I'll turn it up at the wrist. It won't be seen under the coat. You see.� �Tell me now, what game have you been up to? Have you been fighting with someone? In the tavern again, as before? Have you been beating that captain again?� Pyotr Ilyich asked him reproachfully. �Whom have you been beating now? Or killing, perhaps.� �Nonsense,� said Misha. �Don't worry,� said Misha, and he suddenly laughed. �I smashed an old woman in the marketplace just now.� �Smashed an old woman? �An old man,� cried Misha, looking Pyotr Ilyich straight in the face, laughing and shouting at him as though he were deaf. �Confounded an old woman, an old man? Have you killed someone? We made it up. We had a row and made it up. In a place I know of, we parted friends. A fool. He's forgiven me. He should have forgiven me by now. If he got up, he wouldn't have forgiven me.� Misha suddenly winked. �Only damn him! You know,� I say, Pyotr Ilyich. �Dam him! Don't worry about him. I don't want to just now.� Misha snapped out, resolutely. �Whatever do you want to go picking crawls with everyone for? Just as you did with that captain over some nonsense. You've been fighting, and now you're rushing off on the spree. That's you all over. Three dozen champagne? What do you want all that for? �Bravo. Now give me the pistols. Upon my honour I have no time now. I should like to have a chat with you, my dear boy, but I haven't the time. And there's no need. It's too late for talking. Where's my money? Where have I put it?� He cried, thrusting his hands into his pockets. �You put it on the table, yourself. Here it is. Had you forgotten? Money's like dirt or water to you, it seems. Here are your pistols. It's an odd thing. At six o'clock you pledged them for ten roubles, and now you've got thousands. Two or three, I should say. Three, you bet!� laughed Misha, stuffing the note into the side pocket of his trousers. �You'll lose it like that. Have you found a goldmine? �The mines? The goldmines?� Misha shouted at the top of his voice, and went off into a roar of laughter. �Would you like to go to the mines, Poharten? As a lady here, he'll stump up three thousand for you if only you'll go. She did it for me. She's so awfully fond of goldmines. Do you know Madame Chaklakov? �I don't know her, but I've heard of her and seen her. Did she really give you three thousand? Did she really?� said Piotr Ilyich, eyeing him dubiously. �As soon as the sun rises tomorrow, as soon as Phoebus, ever young, flies upwards, praising and glorifying God, you go to her, this Madame Chaklakov, and ask her whether she did stump up that three thousand or not. Try and find out.� �I don't know what terms you are. Since you say it so positively, I suppose she did give it to you. You've got the money in your hand. But instead of going to Siberia, you're spending it all. Where are you really off to now, huh? �To Makhre. To Makhre. But it's night.� �Once the lad at all, now the lad has not� cried Misha suddenly. �How not? You say that with all those thousands. �How not talking about thousands? Damn thousands! I'm talking of female character. Fickle is the heart of woman, treacherous and full of vice. I agree with Ulysses. That's what he says. �I don't understand you. Am I drunk?� �Not drunk, but worse. �I'm drunk in spirit, Piotr Ilyich. Drunk in spirit. But that's enough.� �What are you doing, loading the pistol?� �And loading the pistol. �Unfastening the pistol case, Misha actually opened the powder horn and carefully sprinkled and rammed in the charge. Then he took the bullet, and, before inserting it, held it in two fingers in front of the candle. �Why are you looking at the bullet?� asked Piotr Ilyich, watching him with uneasy curiosity. �Ah, fancy. Why, if you meant to put that bullet in your brain, would you look at it or not? �Why look at it?� �It's going into my brain, so it's interesting to look and see what it's like. �Ah, but that's foolishness. A moment's foolishness. � �Now, that's done.� he added, putting on the bullet, and driving it home with the ramrod. �Piotr Ilyich, my dear fellow, that's nonsense. All nonsense. And if only you knew what nonsense. Give me a little piece of paper now.� �Here's some paper.� �No, a clean new piece. Writing paper. That's right.� �And taking a pen from the table, Misha rapidly wrote two lines, folded the paper in four, and thrust it in his waistcoat pocket. He put the pistols in the case, locked it up, and kept it in his hand. Then he looked at Piotr Ilyich with a slow, thoughtful smile. �Now, let's go.� �Where are we going? No, wait a minute. Are you thinking of putting that bullet in your brain, perhaps?� Piotr Ilyich asked, uneasily. �I was fooling about the bullet. I want to live. I love life. You may be sure of that. I love golden-haired furbests and its warm light.� �Dear Piotr Ilyich, do you know how to step aside? What do you mean by stepping aside? �Making way. Making way for a dear creature, and for one I hate. And let the one I hate become dear. That's what making way means. And to say to them, �God bless you. Go your way. Pass on. While I� �While you? That's enough. Let's go. Up on my word. I'll tell someone to prevent your going there.� Said Piotr Ilyich, looking at him. �What are you going to mockray for now?� �As a woman there. A woman. That's enough for you. You shut up. Listen. Though you're such a savage, I've always liked you. I feel anxious. �Thanks, old fellow. I'm a savage, you say. Savages. Savages. That's what I am always saying. Savages. Why, here's Misha. I was forgetting him.� Misha ran in, post-haste, with a handful of notes and change, and reported that everyone was in a bustle at the Plotnikovs. They were carrying down the bottles, and the fish, and the tea. It would all be ready directly. Misha seized ten rubles and handed it to Piotr Ilyich, then tossed another ten rubles note to Misha. �Don't dare to do such a thing,� cried Piotr Ilyich. �I won't have it in my house. It's a bad, demoralizing habit. Put your money away. Here, put it here. Why waste it? Who would come in handy tomorrow? I dare say you'll be coming to me to borrow ten rubles again. Why do you keep putting the notes in your side pocket? You'll lose them.� �I say, my dear fellow, let's go to Mokkoe together.� �What should I go for?� �I say, let's open a bottle at once and drink to life. I want to drink, and especially to drink with you. I've never drunk with you, have I?� �Very well. We can go to the Metropolis. I was just going there.� �I haven't time for that. Let's drink at the Plotnikovs, in the back room. Shall I ask you a riddle?� �Ask away.� �My chair took the piece of paper out of his waist-cooked pocket, unfolded it, and showed it. In a large, distinct hand was written. �I punish myself for my whole life. My whole life I punish.� �I will certainly speak to someone. I'll go at once,� said Piotr Ilyich, after reading the paper. �You won't have time, dear boy. Come and have a drink. March.� �Plotnikovs shop was at the corner of the street, next door but one to Piotr Ilyich's. It was the largest grocery shop in our town, and by no means a bad one, belonging to some rich merchants. They kept everything that could be got in a Petersburg shop, grocery of all sort, wines bottled by the brothers Elisave, fruits, cigars, tea, coffee, sugar, and so on. There were three shop assistants, and two errand boys always employed. Though our part of the country had grown poorer, the landowners had gone away, and trade had got worse, yet the grocery stores flourished as before, every year with increasing prosperity. There were plenty of purchases for their goods. They were waiting, Mitcha, with impatience in the shop. They had vivid recollections of how it bought, three or four weeks ago, wine and goods of all sorts, to the value of several hundred rubles, paid for in cash. They would never have let him have anything on credit, of course. They remembered that then, as now, he had had a bundle of hundred rubles notes in his hand, and had scattered them at random, without bargaining, without reflecting, or caring to reflect, what use so much wine and provisions would be to him. The story was told all over the town that, driving off then with Groschenka to Mokhoi, he had spent three thousand in one night, and the following day, and had come back from the spree without a penny. He had picked up a whole troop of gypsies, and camped in our neighborhood at the time, who for two days got money without stint out of him, while he was drunk, and drank expensive wine without stint. People used to tell, laughing at Mitcha, how he had given champagne to grimy-handed peasants, and feasted the village women and girls on sweets and Strasburg pies. Though to laugh at Mitcha to his face was rather a risky proceeding, there was much laughter behind his back, especially in the tavern, at his own ingenious public avowal that all he had got out of Groschenka by this escapade was permission to kiss her foot, and that was the utmost she had allowed him. By the time Mitcha and Petr Ilyich reached the shop, they found a cart with three horses harnessed abreast with bells, and with André, the driver, ready waiting for Mitcha at the entrance. In the shop they had almost entirely finished packing one box of provisions, and were only waiting for Mitcha's arrival to nail it down and put it in the cart. Petr Ilyich was astounded. Where did this cart come from in such a hurry? he asked Mitcha. I met André as I ran to you, and told him to drive straight here to the shop. There's no time to lose. Last time I drove with Timofé, but Timofé now has gone on before me with the witch. Shall we be very late, André? They'll only get there an hour at most before us, not even that maybe. I got Timofé ready to start. I know how it'll go. Their pace won't be ours, Dimitri Fjordavic. How could it be? They won't get there an hour earlier. André, a lanky, red-haired, middle-aged driver, wearing a full-skirted coat, and with a caftan on his arm, replied warmly. Fifty rubles for vodka, if we're only an hour behind them. I warrant the time, Dimitri Fjordavic. Eh, they won't be half an hour before us, let alone an hour. Though Mitcha bustled about seeing after things, he gave his odours strangely, as it were, disconnectedly, and inconsecutively. He began a sentence and forgot the end of it. Piotr Ilyich found himself obliged to come to the rescue. Four hundred rubles worth, not less than four hundred rubles worth, just as it was then, commanded Mitcha. Four dozen champagne, not a bottle less. What do you want with so much? What's it for? Stay, cried Piotr Ilyich. What's this box? What's in it? Surely there isn't four hundred rubles worth here. The officious shopman began explaining with oily politeness that the first box contained only half a dozen bottles of champagne, and only the most indispensable articles, such as savouries, sweets, toffee, etc. But the main part of the goods ordered would be packed and send off, as on the previous occasion, in a special cart also with three horses, travelling at full speed, so that it would arrive not more than an hour later than Dimitri Fjordavic himself. Not more than an hour. Not more than an hour. And put in more toffee and fondants. The girls there are so fond of it, Mitcha insisted, hotly. The fondants are all right. But what do you want with four dozen of champagne? One would be enough, said Piotr Ilyich, almost angry. He began bargaining, asking for a bill of goods, and refused to be satisfied. But he only succeeded in saving a hundred rubles. In the end it was agreed that only three hundred rubles worth should be sent. Well, you may go to the devil, cried Piotr Ilyich, on second thought. What's it to do with me? Throw away your money, since it costs you nothing. This way, my economist, this way, don't be angry. Mitcha drew him into a room at the back of the shop. They'll give us a bottle here directly. We'll taste it. Ah, Piotr Ilyich, come along with me, for you're a nice fellow, the sort I like. Mitcha sat down on a wicker chair, before a little table, covered with a dirty dinner napkin. Piotr Ilyich sat down opposite, and the champagne soon appeared, and oysters were suggested to the gentleman. First-class oysters, the last lolien. Hang the oysters, I don't eat them, and we don't need anything, cried Piotr Ilyich, almost angrily. There's no time for oysters, said Mitcha, and I'm not hungry. Do you know a friend? He sat suddenly, with feeling. I never have liked all this disorder. Who does like it? Three dozen of champagne for peasants, upon my word, that's enough to make anyone angry. That's not what I mean. I'm talking of a higher order. There's no order in me, no higher order. But that's all over. There's no need to grieve about it. It's too late, damn it. My whole life has been disorder, and one must set it in order. Is that a punner? You're raving, not making puns. Glory be to God in heaven. Glory be to God in me. That verse came from my heart once. It's not a verse, but a tear. I made it myself. Not while I was pulling the captain's beard, though. Why do you bring him in, all of a sudden? Why do I bring him in? Foolery. All things come to an end. All things are made equal. That's the long and short of it. You know, I keep thinking of your pistols. That's all foolery, too. Drink and don't be fanciful. I love life. I've loved life too much. Shamefully much. Enough. Let's drink to life, dear boy. I propose the toast. Why am I pleased with myself? I'm a scoundrel, but I'm satisfied with myself. And yet I'm tortured by the thought that I'm a scoundrel, but satisfied with myself. I bless the creation. I'm ready to bless God and his creation directly, but I must kill one noxious insect for fear it should crawl and spoil life for others. Let us drink to life, dear brother. What can be more precious than life? Nothing. To life. Add to one queen of queens. Let's drink to life and to your queen, too, if you like. They drank a glass each. Although Misha was excited and expensive, yet he was melancholy, too. It was as though some heavy, overwhelming anxiety were weighing upon him. Misha, here's your Misha, come. Misha, come here, my boy. Drink this glass to Phoebus, the golden head, of tomorrow morn. What are you giving it him for? cried Piotr Ilyich, irritably. Yes, yes, yes, let me. I want to. Misha emptied the glass, bowed, and ran out. He'll remember it afterwards, Mitya remarked. Woman, I love woman. What is woman? The queen of creation. My heart is sad. My heart is sad, Piotr Ilyich. Do you remember Hamlet? I'm very sorry, good Horatio. A less poor Yorick. Perhaps that's me, Yorick. Yes, I'm Yorick now, and a skull afterwards. Piotr Ilyich listened in silence. Mitya, too, was silent for a while. What dog's that you've got here? He asked the shopman, casually, noticing a pretty little lapdog, with dark eyes, sitting in the corner. It belongs to her work, Alexeyevna. The mistress, answered the clerk. She brought it, and forgot it here. It must be taken back to her. I saw one like it. In the regiment, moment, Mitya, dreamily. Only that one had its hind leg broken. By the way, Piotr Ilyich, I wanted to ask you. Have you ever stolen anything in your life? What a question. Oh, I didn't mean anything. From somebody's pocket, you know. I don't mean government money. Everyone steals that. And no doubt you do, too. You go to the devil. I'm talking of other people's money. Stealing straight out of a pocket, out of a purse. I stole twenty copies from my mother when I was nine years old. I took it off the table on the sly, and held it tight in my hand. Well, and what happened? Oh, nothing. I kept it three days. Then I felt ashamed, confessed, and gave it back. And what then? Naturally I was whipped. But why do you ask? Have you stolen something? I have, said Mitya, winking slighly. What have you stolen? inquired Piotr Ilyich, curiously. I stole twenty copies from my mother when I was nine years old, and gave it back three days later. As he said this, Mitya suddenly got up. Dmitry Fyodorovich, won't you come now? called André from the door of the shop. Are you ready? Well, come. Mitya started. A few more last words, and André, a glass of vodka at starting. Give him some brandy as well. That box, the one with the pistols, put under my seat. Goodbye, Piotr Ilyich. Don't remember evil against me. But you're coming back tomorrow. Will you settle the little bill now? Quite a clerk, springing forward. Oh yes, the bill, of course. He pulled the bundle of notes out of his pocket again, picked out three hundred rubles, threw them on the counter, and ran hurriedly out of the shop. Everyone followed him out, bowing and wishing him good luck. André, cuffing from the brandy, had just swallowed, jumped up on the box. But Mitya was only just taking his seat, when suddenly, to his surprise, he saw Fenya before him. She ran up, panting, clasped her hands before him with a cry, and plumbed down at his feet. Dmitry Fyodorovich, dear good Dmitry Fyodorovich, don't harm my mistress. And it was I told you all about it. And don't murder him. He came first. He's hers. He'll marry a caffeine Alexandrovna now. That's why he's come back from Siberia. Dmitry Fyodorovich, dear, don't take a fellow creature's life. T-t-t-that's it, is it? So you're off there to make trouble, mother Piotr Iriec. Now it's all clear, as clear as daylight. Dmitry Fyodorovich, give me your pistols at once, if you mean to behave like a man. He shouted aloud to Mitya. D'you hear Dmitry? The pistols. Wait a bit, brother. I'll throw them into the pool on the road. Answered Mitya. Fenya, get up. Don't kneel to me. Mitya won't hurt anyone. The silly fool won't hurt anyone again. But I say Fenya. He shouted, after having taken his seat. I hurt you just now, so forgive me and have pity on me. Forgive a scoundrel. But it doesn't matter if you don't. It's all the same now. Now then, André, look alive. Fly along, full speed. André whipped up the horses, and the bells began ringing. Goodbye, Piotr Iriec. My last tear is for you. He's not drunk, but he keeps burbling like a lunatic, Piotr Iriec thought, as he watched him go. He had half a mind to stay and see the cart packed with the remaining wines and provisions, knowing that they would deceive and defraud Mitya. But, suddenly feeling vexed with himself, he turned away with a curse and went to the tavern to play billiards. He's a fool. Though he's a good fellow, he muttered as he went. I've heard of that officer, Gurchenka's former flame. Well, if he has turned up. Ah, those pistols. Damn it all. I'm not a nurse. Let them do what they like. Besides, it all couldn't turn nothing. There are a set of brawlers, that's all. They'll drink and fight, fight and make friends again. They're not men who do anything real. What does he mean by, I'm stepping aside, I'm punishing myself? It'll come to nothing. He shouted such phrases a thousand times, drunk in the taverns. But now he's not drunk. Drunk in spirit. They're fond of frying phrases, the villains. Am I his nurse? He must have been fighting. His face was all over blood. With whom? I shall find out at the Metropolis. And his handkerchief was soaked in blood. It's still lying on my floor. Hang it. He reached the tavern in a bad humour, and it once made up a game. The game cheered him. He played a second game, and suddenly began telling one of his partners, that Dmitry Karamazov had come in for some cash again. Something like three thousand rubles, and had gone to Mokre again to spend it with Gurchenka. This news roused singular interest in his listeners. They all spoke of it, not laughing, but with a strange gravity. They left off playing. Three thousand? But where can he have got three thousand? Questions were asked. The story of Madame Kharkov's present was received with scepticism. Hasn't he robbed his old father? That's the question. Three thousand? There's something odd about it. He both allowed that he would kill his father. We all heard him here. And it was the three thousand he talked about. Piotr Ilyich listened. All at once, he became short and dry in his answers. He said not a word about the blood on Mitcha's face and hands, though it meant to speak of it at first. They began a third game, and by degrees the talk about Mitcha died away. But by the end of the third game Piotr Ilyich felt no more desire for billiards. He laid down the cue, and without having supper as he had intended, he walked out of the tavern. When he reached the marketplace he stood still in perplexity. Wondering at himself, he realized that what he wanted was to go to Fyotr Pavlovich's and find out if anything had happened there. On account of some stupid nonsense, it's sure to turn out. Am I going to wake up the household and make a scandal? Foo! Damn it! Is it my business to look after them? In a very bad humour he went straight home, and suddenly remembered Fenya. Damn it all! I ought to have questioned her just now, he thought with vexation. I should have heard everything. And the desire to speak to her and so find out became so pressing and unfortunate that when he was half-way home he turned abruptly and went towards the house where Grzhenka lodged. Going up to the gate he knocked. The sound of the knock and the silence of the night sobered him and made him feel annoyed. And no one answered him. Everyone in the house was asleep. And I shall be making a fuss, he thought, with a feeling of positive discomfort. But instead of going away altogether, he felt a knocking again, with all his might, filling the street with clamour. Not coming? Well, I will knock them up, I will! He muttered at each knock, fuming at himself, but at the same time he redoubled his knocks on the gate. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. But Dmitry Fyodorovich was speeding along the road. It was a little more than twenty-verse to Makro. But Andrei's three horses galloped at such a pace that the distance might be covered in an hour and a quarter. The swift motion revived Mitya. The air was fresh and cool. There were big stars shining in the sky. It was the very night, and perhaps the very hour, in which Aloysia fell on the earth and rapturously swore to love it forever and ever. All was confusion, confusion in Mitya's soul. But although many things were goading his heart, at that moment his whole being was yearning for her, his queen, to whom he was flying to look on her for the last time. One thing I can say for certain, his heart did not waver for one instant. I shall perhaps not be believed when I say that this jealous lover felt not the slightest jealousy of this new rival, who seemed to have sprung out of the earth. If any other had appeared on the scene, he would have been jealous at once, and would perhaps have stained his fierce hands with blood again. But as he flew through the night, he felt no envy, no hostility even, for the man who had been her first lover. It is true that he had not yet seen him. Here there was no room for dispute. It was her right and his. This was her first love, which after five years she had not forgotten. So she had loved him only for those five years, and I, how do I come in? What right have I? Step aside, Mitya, and make way. What am I now? Now everything is over apart from the officer, even if he had not appeared. Everything would be over. These words would roughly have expressed his feelings if he had been capable of reasoning, but he could not reason at that moment. His present plan of action had arisen without reasoning. At Fenya's first words it had sprung from feeling, and been adopted in a flash with all its consequences. And yet in spite of his resolution there was confusion in his soul and agonizing confusion. His resolution did not give him peace. There was so much behind that tortured him. And it seemed strange to him at moments to think that he had written his own sentence of death with pen and paper. I punished myself, and the paper was lying there in his pocket ready. The pistol was loaded. He had already resolved how, next morning, he would meet the first warm ray of golden-haired Phoebus. And yet he could not be quit of the past, of all that he had left behind and that tortured him. He felt that miserably, and the thought of it sank into his heart with despair. There was one moment when he felt an impulse to stop Andrei, to jump out of the cart, to pull out his loaded pistol, and to make an end of everything without waiting for the dawn. But that moment flew by like a spark. The horses galloped on, devouring space, and as he drew near his goal, again the thought of her, of her alone, took more and more complete possession of his soul, chasing away the fearful images that had been haunting it. O how he longed to look upon her, if only for a moment, if only from a distance. She's now with him, he thought. Now I shall see what she looks like with him, her first love, and that's all I want. Never had this woman, who was such a fateful influence in his life, aroused such love in his breast, such new and unknown feeling, surprising even to himself, a feeling of tender devoutness, to self-effacement before her. I will efface myself, he said, in a rush of almost hysterical ecstasy. They had been galloping nearly an hour. Mittiel was silent, and though Andrei was, as a rule, a talkative peasant, he did not utter a word either. He seemed afraid to talk. He only whipped up smartly his three lean but meddlesome bay horses. Suddenly Mittiel cried out in horrible anxiety. Andrei, what if they're asleep? This thought fell upon him like a blow. It had not occurred to him before. It may well be that they are gone to bed by now, Dimitri Fyodorovich. Mittiel frowned as though in pain. Yes, indeed. He was rushing there, with such feelings, while they were asleep. She was asleep. Perhaps there, too. An angry feeling surged up in his heart. Drive on, Andrei. Whip them up. Look alive, he cried, beside himself. But maybe they're not in bed, Andrei went on after a pause. Timothy said they were a lot of them there. At the station? Not at the posting station, but at Plastinov's, at the inn where they let out horses, too. I know. So you say there are a lot of them. How's that? Who are they? cried Mittiel greatly dismayed at this unexpected news. Well, Timothy was saying they are all gentlefolk. Two from our town, who they are, I can't say, and there are two other strangers. Maybe more besides. I didn't ask particularly. They've set to play in cards, so Timothy said. Cards? So maybe they're not in bed, if they're at cards. It's most likely not more than eleven. Quicker, Andrei, quicker. Mittiel cried again nervously. May I ask you something, sir? Said Andrei after a pause. Only I'm afraid of angering you, sir. What is it? Why, fenya threw herself at your feet just now, and begged you not to harm her mistress, and someone else, too. So you see, sir, it's I am taking you there. Forgive me, sir. It's my conscience. Maybe it's stupid of me to speak of it. Mittiel suddenly seized him by the shoulders from behind. Are you a driver, he asked frantically? Yes, sir. Then you know that one has to make way. What would you say to a driver who wouldn't make way for anyone, but who would just drive on and crush people? No, a driver mustn't run over people. One can't run over a man. One can't spoil people's lives. And if you have spoiled a life, punish yourself. If only you've spoiled. If only you've ruined anyone's life, punish yourself and go away. These phrases burst from Mittiel almost hysterically. Though Andrei was surprised at him, he kept up the conversation. That's right, Dmitry Fyodorovich. You're quite right. One mustn't crush or torment a man, or any kind of creature, for every creature is created by God. Take a horse, for instance. For some folks, even among us drivers, drive anyhow. Nothing will restrain them. They just force it along. To hell, Mitch interrupted, and went off into his abrupt short laugh. Andrei's simple soul, he seized him by the shoulders again. Tell me, will Dmitry Fyodorovich Karamazov go to hell or not? What do you think? I don't know, darling. It depends on you. For you are, you see, sir, when the Son of God was nailed on the cross and died, he went straight down to hell from the cross, and set free all sinners that were in agony, and the devil groaned, because he thought that he would get no more sinners in hell. And God said to him then, Don't groan, for you shall have all the mighty of the earth, the rulers, the chief judges, and the rich men, and shall be filled up as you have been in all the ages till I come again. Those were his very words. A peasant legend. Capital. Whip up the left, Andrei. So you see, sir, who it is hell's force in Andrei whipping up the left horse, but you're like a little child. That's how we look on you. And though you're hasty tempered, sir, yet God will forgive you for your kind heart. And you, do you forgive me, Andrei? What should I forgive you for, sir? You've never done me any harm. No, for everyone, for everyone. You here alone on the road. Will you forgive me for everyone? Speak, simple peasant heart. Oh, sir, I feel afraid of driving you. Your talk is so strange. But Mitya did not hear. He was frantically praying and muttering to himself. Lord, receive me, with all my lawlessness, and do not condemn me. Let me pass by thy judgment. Do not condemn me, for I have condemned myself. Do not condemn me, for I love thee, O Lord. I am a wretch, but I love thee. If thou sendest me to hell, I shall love thee there. And from there I shall cry out that I love thee forever and ever. But let me love to the end, here and now for just five hours, till the first light of thy day, for I love the queen of my soul. I love her, and I cannot help loving her. Thou seest my whole heart. I shall gallop up. I shall fall before her and say, You are right to pass on and leave me. Farewell, and forget your victim. Never fret yourself about me. Makro cried to Andrei, pointing ahead with his whip. Through the pale darkness of the night loomed a solid black mass of buildings, flung down, as it were, in the vast plain. The village of Makro, number two thousand inhabitants, but at that hour all were asleep, and only here and there a few lights still twinkled. Drive on, Andrei, I come, Mitya exclaimed feverishly. There not asleep said Andrei again, pointing with his whip to the Plostanov's inn, which was at the entrance to the village. The six windows, looking on the street, were all brightly lighted up. There not asleep, Mitya repeated joyously. Quicker, Andrei, gallop. Drive up with the dash. Set the bells ringing. Let all know that I have come. I'm coming. I'm coming, too. Andrei lashed his exhausted team into a gallop, drove with the dash, and pulled up his steaming panting horses at the high flight of steps. Mitya jumped out of the cart just as the innkeeper on his way to bed peeped out from the steps, curious to see who had arrived. Trifon Borisovich, is that you? The innkeeper bent down, looking intently, ran down the steps, and rushed up to the guest with obsequious delight. Dmitry Fyodorovich, your honor, do I see you again? Trifon Borisovich was a thick-set, healthy peasant of middle height, with a rather fat face. His expression was severe and uncompromising, especially with the peasants of Makro. But he had the power of assuming the most obsequious countenance, when he had an inkling that it was to his interest. He dressed in Russian style, with a shirt buttoning down on one side, and a full-skirted coat. He had saved a good sum of money, but was forever dreaming of improving his position. More than half the peasants were in his clutches. Everyone in the neighborhood was in debt to him. From the neighboring landowners, he bought and rented lands which were worked by the peasants, in payments of debts which they could never shake off. He was a widower with four grown-up daughters. One of them was already a widow and lived in the inn with her two children, his grandchildren, and worked for him like a charwoman. Another of his daughters was married to a petty official, and in one of the rooms of the inn on the wall could be seen, among the family photographs, a miniature photograph of this official in uniform and official epaulettes. The two younger daughters used to wear fashionable blue or green dresses, fitting tight at the back, and with trains a yard long on church holidays or when they went to pay visits. But next morning they would get up at dawn, as usual, sweep out the rooms with a birch broom, empty the slops, and clean up after lodgers. In spite of the thousands of rubles he had saved, Trifon Borisovich was very fond of empty in the pockets of a drunken guest, and remembering that not a month ago he had, in 24 hours, made two, if not 300, rubles out of Dmitri, when he had come on his escapade with Krushenka, he met him now with eager welcome, sending his prey the moment Mitya drove up to the steps. Dmitri Fyodorovich, dear sir, we see you once more. Stay, Trifon Borisovich, began Mitya, first and foremost, where is she? Agrafenna Alexandrovna? The innkeeper understood at once, looking sharply into Mitya's face, she's here too, with whom, with whom? Some strangers. One is an official gentleman, a pole to judge from his speech. He sent the horses for her from here, and there's another with him, a friend of his, or a fellow traveler. There's no telling they're dressed like civilians. Well, are they feasting? Have they money? Poor sort of a feast, nothing to boast of, to meet Dmitri Fyodorovich. Nothing to boast of, and who are the others? They're two gentlemen from the town, they've come back from Churny, and are putting up here. One's quite a young gentleman, a relative of Mr. Musov, he must be, but I've forgotten his name, and I expect you know the other two, a gentleman named Maximov. He's been on a pilgrimage, so he says to the monastery in the town. He's traveling with this young relation of Mr. Musov. Is that all? Stay, listen, Trifon Borisovich, tell me the chief thing, what of her, how is she? Oh, she's only just come, she's sitting with them. Is she cheerful? Is she laughing? No, I think she's not laughing much, she's sitting quite dull. She's combing the young gentleman's hair. The pole, the officer? He's not young, and he's not an officer either, not him, sir. It's the young gentleman that's Mr. Musov's relation, I've forgotten his name. Kalganov? That's it, Kalganov. All right, I'll see for myself, are they playing cards? They have been playing, but they've left off. They've been drinking tea, the official gentleman asked for liqueurs. Stay, Trifon Borisovich, stay, my good soul. I'll see for myself. Now answer one more question, are the gypsies here? You can't have the gypsies now, Dmitry Fyodorovich. The authorities have sent them away, but we've Jews that play the cymbals and the fiddle in the village, so one might send for them, they'd come. Send for them, certainly send for them, cried Mitya, and you can get the girls together as you did then, Maria especially, Stepanita too, and Arena. Two hundred rubles for a chorus. Oh, for a sum like that I can get all the village together, though by now they're asleep. Are the peasants here worth such kindness, Dmitry Fyodorovich, or the girls either? To spend a sum like that on such coarseness and rudeness. What's the good of giving a peasant a cigar to smoke, the stinking ruffian, and the girls are all lousy? Besides, I'll get my daughters up for nothing, let alone a sum like that. They've only just gone to bed, I'll give them a kick and set them singing for you. You gave the peasants champagne to drink the other day, for all his pretended compassion for Mitya, Trifon Borisovich had hidden half a dozen bottles of champagne on that last occasion, and had picked up a hundred ruble note under the table, and it had remained in his clutches. Trifon Borisovich, I sent more than one thousand flying last time I was here, do you remember? You did send it flying, I may well remember. You must have left three thousand behind you. Well, I've come to do the same again, do you see? And he pulled out his roll of notes and held them up before the innkeeper's nose. Now listen and remember, in an hour's time the wine will arrive, savories, pies, and sweets. Bring them all up at once. That box Andrei has got is to be brought up at once, too. Open it and hand champagne immediately. And the girls, we must have the girls, Maria especially. He turned to the cart and pulled out the box of pistols. Here, Andrei, let's settle. Here's fifteen rubles for the drive and fifty for vodka. For your readiness, for your love. Remember Karamazov. I'm afraid, sir, Andrei. Give me five rubles extra, but more I won't take. Trifon Borisovich, bear witness, forgive my foolish words. What are you afraid of, asked Mitya, scanning him? Well, go to the devil, if that's it. He cried, flinging him five rubles. Now, Trifon Borisovich, take me up quietly and let me first get a look at them so that they don't see me. Where are they, in the blue room? Trifon Borisovich looked apprehensively at Mitya. But at once, obediently did his bidding. Leading him into the passage, he went himself into the first large room, adjoining that in which the visitors were sitting and took the light away. Then he stealthily led Mitya in and put him in a corner in the dark, once he could freely watch the company without being seen. But Mitya did not look long, and indeed he could not see them. He saw her, his heart throbbed violently, and all was dark before his eyes. She was sitting sideways to the table in a low chair, and beside her on the sofa was the pretty youth, Kal Ganov. She was holding his hand and seemed to be laughing, while he, seeming vexed, and not looking at her, was saying something in a loud voice to Maximov, who sat on the other side of the table, facing Grushenko. Maximov was laughing violently at something. On the sofa sat he, and on a chair by the sofa there was another stranger. The one on the sofa was lolling backwards, smoking a pipe, and Mitya had an impression of a stoutish, broad-faced, short little man who was apparently angry about something. His friend, the other stranger, struck Mitya as extraordinarily tall, but he could make out nothing more. He caught his breath. He could not bear it for a minute. He put the pistol case on a chest, and with a throbbing heart he walked, feeling cold all over, straight into the blue room to face the company. Ie! shrieked Grushenko the first to notice him. End of Chapter 6 of Book 8. Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Book 8, Chapter 7. The First and Rightful Lover. With his long, rapid strides, Mitya walked straight up to the table. Gentlemen, he said in a loud voice, almost shouting, yet scammering at every word. I—I'm alright, don't be afraid, he exclaimed. There's nothing to the matter. He turned suddenly to Grushenko, put shrunk back in her chair towards Kalganov, and clasped his hand tightly. I—I'm coming, too. I'm here till morning. Gentlemen, may I stay with you till morning? Only till morning, for the last time in the same room. So he finished, turning to the fat little man with a pipe, sitting on the sofa. The latter removed his pipe from his lips with dignity, and observed severely. Panie, we're here in private. There are other rooms. Translators note. Pan and Panie mean Mr. in Polish. Panie means Mrs. Panowie, gentlemen. Why it's you, Dmitry Fyodorovich? What do you mean? Answered Kalganov suddenly. Sit down with us. How are you? Delighted to see you, dear and precious fellow, I always thought a lot of you, Mitya responded joyfully and eagerly, at once holding out his hand across the table. I—how tight you squeeze! You've quite broken my finger's laugh, Kalganov. He always squeezes like that, always Grushenko put in gaily with a timid smile, seeming suddenly convinced from Mitya's face that he was not going to make a scene. She was watching him with intense curiosity and stills in the neasiness. She was impressed by something about him, and indeed the last thing she expected of him was that he would come in and speak like this at such a moment. Good evening, Maximov ventured blandly on the left. Mitya rushed up to him, too. Good evening, you're here, too. How glad I am to find you here, too. Gentlemen, gentlemen, I— he addressed the Polish gentleman with the pipe again, evidently taking him for the most important person present. I flew here. I wanted to spend my last day, my last hour in this room, in this very room where I, too, adored my queen. Forgive me, Kanye, he cried wildly. I flew here and vowed, oh, don't be afraid, it's my last night. Let's drink to our good understanding. They'll bring the wine at once. I brought this with me. Something made him pull out his bundle of notes. Allow me, Kanye. I want to have music, singing, a rebel, as we had before, but the worm, the unnecessary worm, will crawl away and there'll be no more of him. I will commemorate my day of joy on my last night. He was almost choking. There was so much, so much he wanted to say, but strange exclamations were all that came from his lips. The pole gazed fixedly at him, at the bundle of notes in his hand, looked at Grushanka and was in evident perplexity. If my sovereign lady is permitting, he was beginning. What does sovereign mean? Sovereign, I suppose, interrupted Grushanka. I can't help laughing at you the way you talk. Sit down, Nitya. What are you talking about? Don't frighten us, please. You won't frighten us, will you? If you won't, I am glad to see you. Me, me, frighten you? Cried Nitya, flinging up his hands. Oh, pass me by. Go your way. I won't hinder you. And suddenly he surprised them all, and no doubt himself, as well, by flinging himself on a chair and bursting into tears, turning his head away to the opposite wall while his arms clasped the back of the chair tight as though embracing it. Come, come. What a fellow you are, cried Grushanka reproachfully. That's just how he comes to see me. He begins talking, and I can't make out what he means. He cried like that once before, and now he's crying again. It's shameful. Why are you crying? As though you had anything to cry for. She added enigmatically, emphasizing each word with some irritability. I'm, I'm not crying. Well, good evening. He instantly turned around in his chair and suddenly laughed. Not his abrupt wooden laugh, but a long quivering, inaudible, nervous laugh. Well, there you are again. Come, cheer up, cheer up, Grushanka said to him persuasively. I'm very glad you've come. Very glad to meet you. Do you hear? I'm very glad. I wanted to stay here with us, she said, preemptorily, addressing the whole company. Though her words were obviously meant for the man sitting on the sofa. I wish it. I wish it. And if he goes away, I shall go too, she added with flashing eyes. What my queen commands is law, pronounced the pole, gallantly kissing Grushanka's hand. I beg you, Paniye, to join our company. He added politely, addressing Mitya. Mitya was jumping up with the obvious intention of delivering another tirade, but the words did not come. Let's treat Paniye, he blurted out, instead of making a speech. Everyone laughed. Good heavens, I thought he was going to begin again, Grushanka exclaimed, nervously. Do you hear, Mitya? She went on insistently. Don't prance about, but it's nice you've brought the champagne. I want some myself. And I can't bear the coors. And best of all, you've come yourself. We were fearfully dull here. You've come for a spree again, I suppose. But put your money in your pocket. Where did you get such a lot? Mitya had been all this time holding in his hand the crumpled bundle of notes on which the eyes of all, especially of the poles, were fixed. In confusion he thrust them hurriedly in his pocket. He flushed. At that moment the innkeeper brought in an uncorked bottle of champagne and glasses on a tray. Mitya snatched up the bottle, but he was so bewildered that he did not know what to do with it. Kalganov took it from him and poured out the champagne. Another, another bottle, Mitya cried to the innkeeper, and forgetting to clink glasses with the pole whom he had solemnly invited to drink to their good understanding, he drank off his glass without waiting for anyone else. His whole countenance suddenly changed. The solemn and tragic expression with which he had entered vanished completely, and a look of something childlike came into his face. He seemed to have become suddenly gentle and subdued. He looked shyly and happily at everyone, with a continual, nervous little laugh, and the blissful expression of a dog who has done wrong. He seemed to have forgotten everything and was looking around at everyone with a childlike smile of delight. He looked at Grushenko, laughing continually and bringing his chair close up to her. By degrees he had gained some idea of the two poles, though he had formed no definite conception of them yet. The pole on the sofa struck him by his dignified demeanor and his polished accent, and above all by his pipe. Well, what of it? It's a good thing he's smoking a pipe, he reflected. The pole's puffy middle-aged face, with its tiny nose and two very thin, pointed, dyed, and imputed-looking mustaches, had not so far roused the faintest doubts and meet yet. He was not even particularly struck by the pole's absurd wig made in Siberia, with love locks foolishly combed forward over the temples. I suppose it's all right, since he wears a wig, he went on musing blissfully. The other younger pole, who was staring insolently and defiantly at the company and listening to the conversation with silent content, still only impressed meet yet by his great height, which was in striking contrast to the pole on the sofa. If he stood up, he'd be six foot three, the thought flitted through meet his mind. It occurred to him too that this pole must be the friend of the other, as it were, a bodyguard, and no doubt the big pole was at the disposal of the little pole with the pipe. But this all seemed to meet you perfectly right and not to be questioned. In his mood of dog-like submissiveness, all feeling of rivalry had died away. Grishanka's mood and the enigmatic tone of some of her words he completely failed to grasp. All he understood with thrilling heart was that she was kind to him, but she had forgiven him and made him sit by her. He was beside himself with delight, watching her sip her glass of champagne. The silence of the company seemed somehow to strike him, however, and he looked around at everyone with expectant eyes. Why are we sitting here, though, gentlemen? Why don't you begin doing something, his smiling eyes seemed to ask. He keeps talking nonsense, and we were all laughing, Kalganov's began suddenly, as though dividing his thoughts and pointing to Maximov. Immediately stared at Kalganov and then at Maximov. He's talking nonsense, he laughed, the short wooden laugh, seeming suddenly delighted at something. Ha ha! Yes, would you believe it? He will have it that all our cavalry officers in the 20s married Polish women. That's awful rot, isn't it? Polish women repeated Mitya perfectly ecstatic. Kalganov was well aware of Mitya's attitude to Grishanka, and he guessed about the poll too, but that did not so much interest him. Perhaps did not interest him at all. What he was interested in was Maximov. He had come here with Maximov by chance, and he met the polls here at the end for the first time in his life. Grishanka he knew before, and had once been with someone to see her, but she had not taken to him. But here she looked at him very affectionately before Mitya's arrival. She had been making much of him, but he seemed somehow to be unmoved by it. He was a boy, not over 20, dressed like a dandy with a very charming, fair-skinned face and splendid thick, fair hair. From his fair face looked out beautiful pale blue eyes with an intelligent and sometimes even deep expression beyond his age indeed. Although the young man sometimes looked and talked quite like a child, and was not at all ashamed of it, even when he was aware of it himself, as a rule he was very willful, even capricious, though always friendly. Sometimes there was something fixed and obstinate in his expression. He would look at you and listen, seeming all the while to be persistently dreaming over something else. Often he was listless and lazy. Other times he would grow excited, sometimes apparently, over the most trivial matters. Only imagine I've been taking him about with me for the last four days, he went on indolently drawing his words quite naturally, though without the slightest affectation. Ever since your brother, do you remember, shoved him off the carriage and sent him flying, that made me take an interest in him at that time. And I took him into the country, but he keeps talking such rot I'm ashamed to be with him. I'm taking him back. The gentleman has not seen Polish ladies and says what is impossible, the poll with the pipe observed to Maximov. He spoke Russian fairly well, much better anyway than he pretended. If he used Russian words he always distorted them into a Polish form. But I was married to a Polish lady, myself tittered Maximov. But did you serve in the cavalry? Were you talking about the cavalry? Were you a cavalry officer put in Calgonel at once? Was he a cavalry officer indeed? Ha, ha, cried media listening eagerly. And turning his inquiring eyes to each as he spoke, as though there were no knowing what he might hear from each. No, you see Maximov turn to him. What I mean is that those pretty Polish ladies, when they danced the Mazurka with our ulons, when one of them dances the Mazurka with an ulon, she jumps on his knee like a kitten. A little white one. And the pond father and pond mother look on and allow it. They allow it. And next day the ulon comes and offers her his hand. That's how it is. Officer's hand. Ha, ha. Maximov ended tittering. The pond is a wajduk, transliter's note, scoundrel. The tall pole in the chair growls suddenly and crossed one leg over the other. Media's eye was caught by his huge grease boot with its thick dirty sole. The dress of both the poles looked rather greasy. Well now it's wajduk. What's he scolding about? Said Grushenko, suddenly vexed. Honey Agrippina, what the gentlemen saw in Poland were serving girls and not ladies of good birth. The pole with the pipe observed to Grushenko. You can reckon on that. The tall pole snapped contentiously. What next? Let them talk. People talk. Why hinder them? It makes it cheerful. Grushenko said crossly. I'm not hindering them, honey. Said the pole in the wig with a long look at Grushenko and relapsing into dignified silence. He sucked his pipe again. No, no. The Polish gentlemen spoke the truth. Kagonov got excited again. As though it were a question of vast import. He's never been in Poland, so how can he talk about it? I suppose you weren't married in Poland, were you? No, in the province of Smolensk. Only Ulan had brought her to Russia before that. My future wife with her mama and her aunt. And another female relation with a grown-up son. He brought her straight from Poland and gave her up to me. He was a lieutenant in our regiment. A very nice young man. At first he meant to marry her himself, but he didn't marry her because she turned out to be lame. So you married a lame woman, cried Kagonov? Yes, they both deceived me a little bit at the time and concealed it. I thought she was hopping. She kept hopping. I thought it was for fun. So please she was going to marry you, yelled Kagonov in a ringing childish voice. Yes, so please, but it turned out to be quite a different cause. Afterwards when we were married, after the wedding, that very evening, she confessed and very touchingly asked forgiveness. I once jumped over a puddle when I was a child, she said, and injured my leg. Hehehe. Kagonov went off into the most childish laughter, almost falling on the sofa. Gushenko too laughed. Mitya was at the pinnacle of happiness. Do you know? That's the truth. He's not lying now, exclaimed Kagonov, turning to Mitya. And do you know if he's been married twice? It's his first wife he's talking about. But his second wife, Dino, ran away and is alive now. Is it possible, said Mitya, turning quickly to Maximov with an expression of the utmost astonishment. Yes, she did run away. I've had the unpleasant experience Maximov modestly assented with a monsure. And what was worse, she'd had all my little property transferred to her beforehand. You're an educated man, she said to me. You can always get your living. She settled my business with that. A venerable bishop once said to me, one of your wives was lame, but the other was too light-footed. Hehehe. Listen, listen, Craig Kagonov bubbling over. If he's telling lies and he often is, he's only doing it to amuse us all. There's no harm in that, is there? You know, I sometimes like him. He's awfully low, but it's natural to him, eh? Don't you think so? Some people are low from self-interest, but he's simply so from nature. Only fancy, he claims. He was arguing about it all the way yesterday, that Golgul wrote dead souls about him. Do you remember? There's a landowner called Maximov in it, who nauseous thrashed. He was charged, do you remember, for inflicting bodily injury with rods on the landowner Maximov in a drunken condition? Would you believe it? He claims that he was that Maximov and that he was beaten. Now, can it be so? Chikchikov made his journey at the very latest, at the beginning of the 20s, so that the dates don't fit. He couldn't have been thrashed then. He couldn't, could he? It was difficult to imagine what Kagonov was excited about, but his excitement was genuine. Media followed his lead without protest. Well, but if they did thrash him, he cried, laughing. It's not that they thrashed me exactly, but what I mean is, put in Maximov, what do you mean? Either they thrashed you or they didn't. What a clock is it, Panier? The pole with the pirate-assist's tall friend with a bored expression. The other shrugged his shoulders in reply. Neither of them had a watch. Why not talk? Let other people talk. Must another people talk because you're bored? Kreshenko flew at him with evident intention of finding fault. Something seen for the first time to flash upon me is mine. This time the pole answered with unmistakable irritability. Pani, I didn't oppose it. I didn't say anything. All right then. Come, tell us your story, Kreshenko cried to Maximov. Why are you all silent? There's nothing to tell. It's also foolish answering Maximov at once with evident satisfaction, mincing a little. Besides, all that's by way of allegory and gogol, for he's made all the names have a meaning. Nasryov was really called Nassav, and Kushenikov had quite a different name. He was called Shikvornith. Vanarty really was called Vanarty. Only he wasn't an Italian, but a Russian. And Mamzell Vanarty was a pretty girl with pretty little legs and tights, and she had a little short skirt with spangles. And she kept turning round and round, only not for four hours, but for four minutes only. And she bewitched everyone. But what were you beaten for, cried Kalganov? For Piron, answered Maximov. What Piron? cried Mitya. The famous French writer Piron, we were all drinking then, a big party of us, in a tavern at that very fair. They'd invited me, and first of all, I began quoting Evrograms. Is that you, Boilo? What a funny get-up. And Boilo answers that he's going to a masquerade, that is, to the bass, he-he. And they took it to themselves, so I made haste to repeat another. Very sarcastic, well-known to all educated people. Yes, Saphon faded on our way, but one grief is weighing on me. You don't know your way to the sea. They were still more offended, and began abusing me in the most unseemly way for it. And as ill luck would have it, to set things right, I began telling a very cultivated antidote about Piron. How he was not accepted into the French Academy, and to revenge himself wrote his own epitaph. Siege Piron, qui ne fait rien, passement academicien. Translators note, here lies Piron, who was nothing, not even an academician. They seized me, and thrashed me. But what for? For my education, people can thrash a man for anything, Maximal concluded briefly and senticiously. That's enough. That's all stupid. I don't want to listen. I thought it would be amusing. Grishanka cut them short suddenly. Meat just started, and at once left off laughing. The tall pole rose upon his feet, and with the haughty air of a man poured out of his element, began pacing from corner to corner of the room, his hands behind his back. Ah, he can't sit still, said Grishanka. Looking at him contemptuously, Meatya began to feel anxious. He noticed, besides, that the pole on his sofa was looking at him with an irritable expression. Pah-de-ye, Kretnitya, let's drink. And the other pawn, too, let us drink. In a flash he had pulled three glasses towards him and filled them with champagne. To Poland, Panovie, I drink to your Poland, Kretnitya. I shall be delighted, Paniye, said the pole on my sofa with dignity and affable condescension. And he took his glass. And the other pawn, what's his name? Drink most illustrious, take your glass, Meatya urged. Pan-veribleski put in the pole on the sofa. Pan-veribleski came up to the table, swaying as he walked. To Poland, Panovie, cried Meatya, raising his glass. All three drank. Meatya seized the bottle and again poured out three glasses. Now to Russia, Panovie, and let us be brothers. Pour out some for us, said Grishanka. I'll drink to Russia, too. So will I, said Koundanov. And I would, too. To Russia, the old grandmother, titted Maximal. All, all, cried Meatya. Trifonborosovitch, some more bottles. The other three bottles Meatya had brought within were put on the table. Meatya filled the glasses. To Russia, hurrah! he shouted again. All drank the toast except the poles, and Grishanka tossed off her whole glass at once. The poles did not touch theirs. How's this, Panovie, cried Meatya. Won't you drink it? Pan-veribleski took the glass, raised it, and said with the resonant voice, To Russia, as she was before 1772. Come, that's better, cried the other pole, and they both emptied their glasses at once. Your fools, you, Panovie, broke suddenly from Meatya. Panie, shouted both the poles menacingly, sitting on Meatya like a couple of cocks. Pan-veribleski was especially furious. Can one help loving one's own country, he shouted? Be silent! Don't quarrel! I won't have any quarreling, cried Grishanka imperiously. And she stamped her foot on the floor. Her face glowed, her eyes were shining. The effects of the glass she had just drunk were apparent. Meatya was terribly alarmed. Panovie, forgive me. It was my fault. I'm sorry. Veribleski. Panie. Veribleski. I'm sorry. Hold your tongue, you. Anyway. Sit down, you stupid Grishanka, scolded with angry annoyance. Everyone sat down. All were silent, looking at one another. Gentlemen, I was the cause of it all. Meatya began again, unable to make anything of Grishanka's words. Come, why are we sitting here? What shall we do to amuse ourselves again? Ach! It's certainly anything but amusing, Kalkanov muffled lazily. Let's play Ferro again. As we did just now, Maximob tittered suddenly. Ferro? Splendid, cried Meatya. If only the Panovie. It's like Panovie. The pole on the soap responded, as it were, unwillingly. That's true, assented Pan Veribleski. Light. What do you mean, light? said Grishanka. Late, Panie. A late hour, I mean, the pole on the soap explained. It's always late with them. They can never do anything. Grishanka almost shrieked in her anger. They're dull themselves, so they want others to be dull. Before came Meatya, they were just as silent and kept turning up their noses at me. My goodness, cried the pole on the soap. I see you're not well disposed to meet. That's why I'm gloomy. I'm ready, Panie, added he, addressing Meatya. Begin, Panie, Meatya, scented. Pulling his notes out of his pocket and laying 200 ruble notes on the table. I want to lose a lot to you. Take your cards. Make the bank. We'll have cards for the landlord, Panie. Said the little pole gravely and emphatically. That's much the best way, chimed in Pan Veribleski. From the landlord. Very good. I understand. Let's get them from him. Cards! Meatya shouted to the landlord. The landlord brought in a new and open pack and informed Meatya that the girls were getting ready and that the Jews with the symbols would most likely be here soon. But the cart with the provisions had not yet arrived. Meatya jumped up from the table and ran into the next room to give orders. But only three girls had arrived, and Maria was not there yet, and he did not know himself what orders to give and why he had run out. He only told them to take out of the box the present for the girls, the sweets, the toffee, and the fondants. And vodka for Andrei. Vodka for Andrei, he cried in haste. I was rude to Andrei. Suddenly Maximov, who had fallen out, touched him on the shoulder. Give me five rubles, he whispered to me. Yeah, I'll stake something at Pharaoh, too. Capital! Splendid! Take ten here. Again he took all the notes out of his pocket and picked out one for ten rubles. And if you lose that, come again. Come again. Very good. Maximov whispered joyfully, and he ran back again. Meatya, too, returned apologizing for having kept them waiting. The Poles had already sat down and opened the pack. They looked much more amiable. Almost cordial. The Pole and the Sofa had lighted another pipe and was preparing to throw. He wore an air of solemnity. To your places, gentlemen, cried Pan Varablesky. No, I'm not going to play anymore, observed Kalganov. I've lost fifty rubles to them just now. The Paan had no luck. Perhaps he'll be lucky this time the Pole and the Sofa observed in his direction. How much in the bank, to correspond, asked Meatya. That's, according Panier, maybe a hundred, maybe two hundred, as much as you will stake. A million, laughed Meatya. The Paan captain has heard of the Paan. Pod Vysotsky, perhaps? What Pod Vysotsky? In Warsaw, there was a bank, and anyone comes and stakes against it. Pod Vysotsky comes, sees a thousand gold pieces, stakes against the bank, and banker says Paanier Pod Vysotsky, are you laying down the gold or must we trust to your honor? To my honor, Paanier says Pod Vysotsky, so much the better. The banker grows the dice. Pod Vysotsky wins, take it Paanier says the banker, and pulling out the drawer he gives him a million. Take it Paanier, this is your game. There was a million in the bank. I didn't know that, says Pod Vysotsky. Paanier Pod Vysotsky, said the banker, you pledged your honor and we pledged ours. Pod Vysotsky took the million. That's not true, said Kalganov. Paanier Kalganov, in gentlemanly society, one doesn't say such things. As if a Polish gambler would give away a million, cried Meatya, but checked himself at once. Forgive me Paanier, it's my fault again. He would, he would give away a million. For honor, for Polish honor. You see how I talk Polish? Here, I stick ten rubles, the naïve leads. And I put a rubble on the queen, the queen of hearts, the pretty little Paanier Nauska. Translators note, little miss. Hee hee, laughed Maximov, pulling out his queen, and as though trying to conceal it from everyone, he moved right up and crossed himself hurriedly under the table. Meatya won, the rubble won too. A corner cried Meatya, I'll bet another rubble, a single steak, Maximov muttered gleefully, hugely delighted at having won a rubble. Lost, shouted Meatya, a double on the seven. The seven too was trumped. Stop, cried Kalganov suddenly. Double, double, Meatya doubled his steaks, and each time he doubled the steak, the card he doubled was trumped by the polls. The rubble steaks kept winning. On the double, shouted Meatya, spuriously. You've lost two hundred, Paanier, will you stake another hundred? The poll in the sofa inquired. What, lost two hundred already, then another two hundred? All doubles. And pulling his money out of his pocket, Meatya was about to fling two hundred rubles on the queen, but Kalganov covered it with his hand. That's enough, he shouted in his ringing voice. What's the matter, Meatya stared at him. That's enough, I don't want you to play anymore. Don't. Why? Because I don't. Hang it, come away. That's why I won't let you go on playing. Meatya gazed at him in astonishment. Give it up, Meatya, he may be right. You've lost a lot, as it is, said Grushanka, with a curious note in her voice. Both the polls rose from their seats with a deeply offended air. Are you joking, Paanier, said the short man, looking severely at Kalganov? How dare you, Paan Vareblevsky, to growl at Kalganov. Don't dare to shout like that, cried Grushanka. Are you turkey cocks? Meatya looked at each of them in turn, but something in Grushanka's face suddenly struck him, and at the same instant something new flashed into his mind. A strange new thought. Pani Agrippina, the little pole was beginning to crimson with anger, when Meatya suddenly went up to him and slapped him on the shoulder. Most illustrious, two words with you, cried Meatya. What do you want? In the next room, I have two words to say to you, something pleasant, very pleasant. You will be glad to hear it. The little Paan was taken aback and looked apprehensively at Meatya. He agreed at once, however, on condition that Paan Vareblevsky went with him. The bodyguard let him come, and I want him to. I must have him, cried Meatya. March, Paanovie. Where are you going, cried Grushanka anxiously? We'll be back in one moment, answered Meatya. There was a sort of boldness, a sudden confidence shining in his eyes. His face had looked very different when he entered the room an hour before. He led the poles, not into the large room where the chorus of girls was assembling, and the table was being laid, but into the bedroom on the right, where the trunks and packages were kept. And there were two large beds with pyramids of cotton pillows on each. There was a lighted candle on a small deal table in the corner. The small man and Meatya sat down to this table, facing each other, while the huge Vareblevsky stood beside them. His hands behind his back. The poles looked severe, but were evidently inquisitive. What can I do for you, Paanier, lisp, little pole? Well, look here, Paanier. I won't keep you long. There's money for you. He pulled out his note. Would you like $3,000? Take it, and go your way. The pole gazed open-eyed at Meatya with a searching look. $3,000, Paanier? He exchanged glances with Paan Vareblevsky. $3, Paanovie? $3,000, listen, Paanier. I see you're a sensible man. Take $3,000, and go to the devil. And Vareblevsky with you. Do you hear? But at once, this very minute, and forever. You understand that, Paanier? Forever. Here's the door. You go out of it. What have you got there? A gray coat? A fur coat? I'll bring it out to you. They'll get the horses out directly. And then goodbye, Paanier. Meatya waited and answered with assurance. He had no doubts. An expression of extraordinary resolution passed over the pole's face. And the money, Paanier? The money, Paanier. $5,000, I'll give you this moment for the journey. And as a first installment in $2,500 tomorrow in the town, I swear on my honor, I'll get it. I'll get it at any cost, cried Meatya. The pole's exchanged glances again. The short man's face looked more forbidding. $700, $700, not $500 at once this minute. Cashed down, Meatya added, feeling something wrong. What's the matter, Paanier? Don't you trust me? I can't give you the whole $3,000 straight off. If I give it, you may come back to her tomorrow. Besides, I haven't the $3,000 with me. I've got it at home in the town, faltered Meatya. His spirit's sinking at every word he uttered. Upon my word, the money's there, hidden. In an instant, an extraordinary sense of personal dignity showed itself in the little man's face. What next, he asked ironically, for shame. And he spat on the floor. Pen-bear-blesky spat, too. You do that, Paanier, said Meatya, recognizing the spare that all was over because you hoped to make more out of Grushanka. You're a couple of capons. That's what you are. This is a mortal insult. The little pole turned as red as a crab. And he went out of the room briskly, as though unwilling to hear another word. Bear-blesky swung out after him and Meatya followed, confused and crestfallen. He was afraid of Grushanka, afraid that the Paan would at once raise and outcry. And so indeed he did. The pole walked into the room and threw himself in a theatrical attitude before Grushanka. Pani Agrippina. I have received a mortal insult, he exclaimed. But Grushanka suddenly lost all patience, as though they had wounded her in the tenderest spot. Speak Russian, speak Russian, she cried. Not another word of Polish. You used to talk Russian. You can't have forgotten it in five years. She was red with passion. Pani Agrippina. My name's Agrippina Grushanka. Speak Russian, or I won't listen. The pole gasped with offended dignity and quickly and pompously delivered himself in a broken Russian. Pani Agrippina. I came here to forget the past and forgive it, to forget all that has happened till today. Forgive? Came here to forgive me? Grushanka cut him short, jumping up from her seat. Just sell Pani. I'm not crystallanimous. I'm magnanimous. But I was astounded when I saw your lovers. Pan Mitya offered me three thousand in the other room to depart. I spat it in the pan's face. What? He offered you money for me? Cried Grushanka hysterically. Is it true, Mitya? How dare you? And my presale? Pani Agrippina. Pani Agrippina. She's pure and shining, and I had never been her lover. That's a lie. How dare you defend me to him? Cried Grushanka. It wasn't virtue 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 Mitya. Only wanted to get the whole three thousand at once, and I could only give him seven hundred straight off. I see he heard I had money, and came here to marry me. Pani Agrippina cried the little poll. I'm a knight. I'm a nobleman, and not a lodge 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, cried Grushanka furiously. I've been a fool, a fool, to have been miserable these five 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'd been crying for five years. Damn fool, abject, shameless I was. She sank back in her low chair and hid her face in her hands. At that instant, the chorus of the macro began singing in the room on the left, a rollicking dance song. A regular sodom, Vareblevsky, roared suddenly. Landlords in the shameless, huzzy way. 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 entered the room. What are you shouting for? Do you want to split your throat? He said, addressing Vareblevsky, with surprising rudeness. Animal, bellowed pound Vareblevsky. 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 send you to Siberia for playing with false cards. Do you know that? For it's just the same as false banknotes. And going up to the sofa, he thrust his fingers between the sofa back in cushions and pulled out an unopened pack of cards. Here's my pack. Unopened. 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 change a card, cried Kalganoff. How shameful! How shameful! exclaimed Grushenka, clasping her hands and blushing for genuine shame. Good Lord! He's come to that? I thought so too, said Mitya. But before he had uttered the words, Vareblevsky, with a confused and infuriated face, shook his fist at Grushenka, shouting, You low harlot! Meet your flu 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 of that. He closed one half of the folding doors and, holding the other, a jar called out to the little pole. Most illustrious, will you please to retire as well? My dear Dmitry Fyodorovitch, said Trifon Borisovitch, Make them give you back the money you lost. It's as good as stolen from you. I don't want my fifty-rubles back, Calvin opt-declared suddenly. I don't want my two hundred either, cried Mitya. I wouldn't take it for anything. Let him keep it as a consolation. Bravo, Mitya! You're a Trump, Mitya! cried Grushenka. And there was a note of fierce anger in the exclamation. The little pan crimson with fury but still mindful of his dignity was making for the door. But he stopped short and said suddenly, addressing Grushenka, Pani, if you want to come with me, come. If not, goodbye. And swelling within indignation 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. Mitya slammed the door after him. Lock it, said Galganov. But the key clicked on the other side. They had locked it from within. That's capital, cried Grushenka relentlessly. Serves them right. End of Chapter Seven of Book Eight Recording by Perpetual Dream, Marietta Georgia