 Section 44 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Book VII. CHAPTER III. An Onion. Grushanka lived in the busiest part of the town, near the Cathedral Square, in a small wooden lodge in the courtyard belonging to the house of the Woodl-Morosev. The house was a large stone building of two stories, old and very ugly. The widow led a secluded life with her two unmarried nieces, who were also elderly women. She had no need to let her lodge, but everyone knew that she had taken in Grushanka as a lodger, four years before, solely to please her kinsman, the merchant Semsonov, who was known to be the girl's protector. It was said that the jealous old man's object in placing his favorite with the Woodl-Morosev was that the old woman should keep a sharp eye on her new lodger's conduct. But this sharp eye soon proved to be unnecessary, and in the end the Woodl-Morosev seldom met Grushanka, and did not worry her by looking after her in any way. It is true that four years had passed since the old man had brought the slim, delicate, shy, timid, dreamy and sad girl of eighteen from the chief town of the province, and much had happened since then. Little was known of the girl's history in the town, and that little was vague. Nothing more had been learnt during the last four years, even after many persons had become interested in the beautiful young woman into whom Agrafenna Alexandrovna had meanwhile developed. There were rumors that she had been at seventeen betrayed by someone, some sort of officer, and immediately afterwards abandoned by him. The officer had gone away and afterwards married, while Grushanka had been left in poverty and disgrace. It was said, however, that though Grushanka had been raised from destitution by the old man, Samsonov, she came of a respectable family belonging to the clerical class, that she was the daughter of a deacon or something of the sort. And now, after four years, the sensitive, injured and pathetic little orphan had become a plump, rosy beauty of the Russian type, a woman of bold and determined character, proud and insolent. She had a good head for business, was acquisitive, saving and careful, and by fair means or foul had succeeded, it was said, in amassing a little fortune. There was only one point on which all were agreed. Grushanka was not easily to be approached, and, except her aged protector, there had not been one man who could boast of her favours during those four years. It was a positive fact, for there had been a good many, especially during the last two years, who had attempted to obtain those favours. But all the efforts had been in vain, and some of these sutures had been forced to beat an undignified and even comic retreat, owing to the firm and ironical resistance they met from the strong-willed young person. It was known, too, that the young person had, especially of late, been given to what is called speculation, and that she had shown marked abilities in that direction, so that many people began to say that she was no better than a Jew. It was not that she lent money on interest, but it was known, for instance, that she had for some time passed in partnership with old Karamazov actually invested in the purchase of bad debts for a trifle, a tenth of their nominal value, and afterwards had made out of them ten times their value. The old Woodover Samsonov, a man of large fortune, was stingy and merciless. He tyrannized over his grown-up sons, but for the last year, during which he had been ill and lost the use of his swollen legs, he had fallen greatly under the influence of his protégé, whom he had at first kept strictly and in humble surroundings on lent and fair, as the wits said at the time. But Rushanka had succeeded in emancipating herself, while she established in him a boundless belief in her fidelity. The old man, now long since dead, had had a large business in his day and was also a noteworthy character, miserly and hard as Flint. Though Rushanka's hold upon him was so strong that he could not live without her, yet had been so especially for the last two years, he did not settle any considerable fortune on her and would not have been moved to do so if she had threatened to leave him. But he had presented her with a small sum, and even that was a surprise to everyone when it became known. "'You are a wench with brains,' he said to her, when he gave her eight thousand rubles, and you must look after yourself, but let me tell you that except your yearly allowance as before, you'll get nothing more from me to the day of my death, and I'll leave you nothing in my will, either.' And he kept his word. He died and left everything to his sons, whom, with their wives and children, he had treated all his life as servants. Rushanka was not even mentioned in his will. All this became known afterwards. He helped Rushanka with his advice to increase her capital and put business in her way. When Piotr Pavlovich, who first came into contact with Rushanka over a piece of speculation, ended to his own surprise by falling madly in love with her, old Sampsonov, gravely ill as he was, was immensely amused. It is remarkable that throughout their whole acquaintance Rushanka was absolutely and spontaneously open with the old man, and he seems to have been the only person in the world with whom she was so. Of late, when Dmitri too had come on the scene with his love, the old man left off laughing. On the contrary, he once gave Rushanka a stern and earnest piece of advice. If you have to choose between the two, father or son, you'd better choose the old man, if only you make sure the old scoundrel will marry you and settle some fortune on you beforehand. But don't keep on with the captain, you'll get no good out of that. These were the very words of the old profligate, who felt already that his death was not far off and too actually died five months later. I will note, too, in passing, that although many in our town knew of the grotesque and monstrous rivalry of the Karamazov's father and son, the object of which was Rushanka, scarcely anyone understood what really underlay her attitude to both of them. Even Rushanka's two servants, after the catastrophe of which we will speak later, testified in court that she received Dmitry Fyodorovich simply from fear because he threatened to murder her. These servants were an old cook, invalidish and almost deaf, who came from Rushanka's old home, and her granddaughter, a smart young girl of twenty, who performed the duties of a maid. Rushanka lived very economically, and her surroundings were anything but luxurious. Her lodge consisted of three rooms furnished with mahogany furniture in the fashion of 1820, belonging to her landlady. It was quite dark when Rakitan and Alyosha entered her rooms, yet they were not lighted up. Rushanka was lying down in her drawing-room on the big hard clumsy sofa with a mahogany back. The sofa was covered with shabby and ragged leather. Under her head she had two white down pillows taken from her bed. She was lying stretched out motionless on her back with her hands behind her head. She was dressed as though expecting someone in a black silk dress with a dainty lace fissue on her head, which was very becoming. Over her shoulders was thrown a lace shawl pinned with a massive gold brooch. She certainly was expecting someone. She lay as though impatient and weary, her face rather pale, and her lips and eyes hot, restlessly tapping the arm of the sofa with the tip of her right foot. The appearance of Rakitan and Alyosha caused a slight excitement. From the hall they could hear Rushanka leap up from the sofa and cry out in a frightened voice, who's there? But the maid met the visitors and at once called back to her mistress. It's not he, it's nothing but only other visitors. What can be the matter? muttered Rakitan, leading Alyosha into the drawing-room. Rushanka was standing by the sofa as though still alarmed. A thick coil of her dark brown hair escaped from its lace covering and fell on her right shoulder, but she did not notice it and did not put it back till she had gazed at her visitors and recognized them. Ah, it's you, Rakitan, you quite frightened me. Whom have you brought? Who is this with you? Good heavens, you have brought him?" She exclaimed, recognizing Alyosha. Do send for candles, said Rakitan, with the free and easy air of a most intimate friend who is privileged to give orders in the house. Candles, of course, candles. Fenya fetch him a candle. Well, you have chosen a moment to bring him. She exclaimed again, nodding towards Alyosha and, turning to the looking-glass, she began quickly fastening up her hair with both hands. She seemed displeased. Haven't I managed to please you? asked Rakitan, instantly almost offended. You frightened me, Rakitan, that's what it is. Rushanka turned with a smile to Alyosha. Don't be afraid of me, my dear Alyosha. You cannot think how glad I am to see you, my unexpected visitor. But you frightened me, Rakitan. I thought it was Mitcha breaking in. You see, I deceived him just now. I made him promise to believe me, and I told him a lie. I told him that I was going to spend the evening with my old man, Kuzmakuzmich, and should be there till late, counting up his money. I always spend one whole evening a week with him making up his accounts. We lock ourselves in and he counts on the reckoning beads while I sit and put things down in the book. I am the only person he trusts. Mitcha believes that I am there, but I came back, and have been sitting locked in here, expecting some news. How was it Fenya let you in? Fenya, Fenya, run out to the gate, open it, and look about whether the captain is to be seen. Perhaps he is hiding and spying. I am dreadfully frightened. There's no one there, Agrafena Alexandrovna. I've just looked out. I keep running to peep through the crack. I am in fear and trembling myself. Are the shutters fastened, Fenya? And we must draw the curtains. That's better. She drew the heavy curtains herself. He'd rush in at once if he saw a light. I am afraid of your brother Mitcha today, Alyosha. Rushanka spoke aloud, and, though she was alarmed, she seemed very happy about something. Why are you so afraid of Mitcha today? inquired Raketen. I should have thought you were not timid with him. You'd twist him round your little finger. I tell you I am expecting news, priceless news, so I don't want Mitcha at all. And he didn't believe, I feel he didn't, that I should stay at Kuzma Kuzmitcha's. He must be in his ambush now behind Fyodor Pavlovitch's, in the garden, watching for me. And if he's there, he won't come here, so much the better. But I really have been to Kuzma Kuzmitcha's. Mitcha escorted me there. I told him I should stay there till midnight, and I asked him to be sure to come at midnight to fetch me home. He went away, and I sat ten minutes with Kuzma Kuzmitch and came back here again. I was afraid I ran for fear of meeting him. And why are you so dressed up? What a curious cap you've got on! How curious you are yourself, Raketan! I tell you I am expecting a message. If the message comes, I shall fly, I shall gallop away, and you will see no more of me. That's why I am dressed up, so as to be ready. And where are you flying to? If you know too much, you'll get old too soon. In my word, you are highly delighted. I've never seen you like this before. You are dressed up as if you were going to a ball. Raketan looked her up and down. Much you know about balls. And do you know much about them? I have seen a ball. The year before last Kuzma Kuzmitcha's son was married, and I looked on from the gallery. Do you suppose I want to be talking to you, Raketan, while a prince like this is standing here? Such a visitor! Al-Yasha, my dear boy, I gaze at you and can't believe my eyes. Good heavens, can you have come here to see me? To tell you the truth, I never had a thought of seeing you, and I didn't think that you would ever come and see me. Though this is not the moment now, I am awfully glad to see you. Sit down on the sofa here, that's right, my bright young moon. I really can't take it in even now. Raketan, if only you had brought him yesterday or the day before. But I am glad as it is. Perhaps it's better he has come now at such a moment and not the day before yesterday. She gaily sat down beside Al-Yasha on the sofa, looking at him with positive delight, and she really was glad she was not lying when she said so. Her eyes glowed, her lips laughed, but it was a good hearted, merry laugh. Al-Yasha had not expected to see such a kind expression in her face. He had hardly met her till the day before. He had formed an alarming idea of her, and had been horribly distressed the day before by the spiteful and treacherous trick she had played on Katerina Ivanovna. He was greatly surprised to find her now altogether different from what he had expected. And, crushed as he was by his own sorrow, his eyes involuntarily rested on her with attention. Her whole manner seemed changed for the better since yesterday. There was scarcely any trace of that mockish sweetness in her speech, of that voluptuous softness in her movements. Everything was simple and good-natured. Her gestures were rapid, direct, confiding, but she was greatly excited. Dear me, how everything comes together today! she chattered on again. And why I am so glad to see you, Al-Yasha, I couldn't say myself. If you ask me, I couldn't tell you. Come, don't you know why you're glad? said Raketan grinning. You used to be always pestering me to bring him, you'd some object, I suppose. I had a different object once, but now that's over. This is not the moment. I say I want you to have something nice. I am so good-natured now. You sit down, too, Raketan. Why are you standing? You've sat down already. There's no fear of Raketan's forgetting to look after himself. Look, Al-Yasha, he's sitting there opposite us, so offended that I didn't ask him to sit down before you. Ugh! Raketan is such a one to take offense! laughed Grushanka. Don't be angry, Raketan. I'm kind today. Why are you so depressed, Al-Yasha? Are you afraid of me? She peeped into his eyes with merry mockery. He said the promotion has not been given, boomed Raketan. What promotion? His elder stinks. What? You're talking some nonsense. You want to say something nasty. Be quiet, you stupid. Let me sit on your knee, Al-Yasha, like this. She suddenly skipped forward and jumped, laughing on his knee, like a nestling kitten with her right arm around his neck. I'll cheer you up, my pious boy. Yes, really. Will you let me sit on your knee? You won't be angry? If you tell me, I'll get off. Al-Yasha did not speak. He sat afraid to move. He heard her words, if you tell me, I'll get off. But he did not answer. But there was nothing in his heart such as Raketan, for instance, watching him malignantly from his corner, might have expected or fancied. The great grief in his heart swallowed up every sensation that might have been aroused, and if only he could have thought clearly at that moment, he would have realized that he had now the strongest armour to protect him from every lust and temptation. Yet in spite of the vague irresponsiveness of his spiritual condition and the sorrow that overwhelmed him, he could not help wondering at a new and strange sensation in his heart. This woman, this dreadful woman, had no terror for him now, none of that terror that had stirred in his soul at any passing thought of woman. On the contrary, this woman, dreaded above all women, sitting now on his knee, holding him in her arms, aroused in him now quite a different unexpected, peculiar feeling, a feeling of the intensest and purest interest without a trace of fear of his former terror. That was what instinctively surprised him. You've talked nonsense enough, cried Raketan. You'd much better give us some champagne. You owe it me, you know you do. Yes, I really do. Do you know, Al Yasha, I promised him champagne on the top of everything if he'd bring you. I'll have some, too. Fenya, Fenya, bring us the bottle, Mitcher, left. Look sharp. Though I am so stingy, I'll stand a bottle, not for you, Raketan, you're a toadstool, but he is a falcon. And though my heart is full of something very different, so be it. I'll drink with you. I long for some dissipation. But what is the matter with you, and what is this message, may I ask, or is it a secret? Raketan put in inquisitively, doing his best to pretend not to notice the snubs that were being continually aimed at him. It's not a secret, and you know it, too, Grushika said, in a voice suddenly anxious, turning her head towards Raketan, and drawing a little away from Al Yasha, though she still sat on his knee with her arm round his neck. My officer is coming, Raketan. My officer is coming. I heard he was coming, but is he so near? He is at Makro now. He'll send a messenger from there. So he wrote, I got a letter from him today. I am expecting the messenger every minute. You don't say so. Why at Makro? That's a long story. I've told you enough. Mitchell will be up to something now, I say. Does he know, or doesn't he? He know. Of course he doesn't. If he knew there would be murder. But I am not afraid of that now. I am not afraid of his knife. Be quiet, Raketan. Don't remind me of Dmitry Fyodorovich. He has bruised my heart, and I don't want to think of that at this moment. I can think of Al Yasha here. I can look at Al Yasha. Smile at me, dear. Cheer up. Smile at my foolishness, at my pleasure. Ah, he's smiling. He's smiling. How kindly he looks at me. And you know, Al Yasha, I've been thinking all this time you were angry with me because of the day before yesterday, because of that young lady. I was a cur. That's the truth. But it's a good thing it happened so. It was a horrid thing, but a good thing, too. Rushenka smiled dreamily, and a little cruel line showed in her smile. Mitchell told me that she screamed out that I ought to be flogged. I did insult her dreadfully. She sent for me she wanted to make a conquest of me to win me over with her chocolate. No, it's a good thing it did end like that. She smiled again. But I am still afraid of your being angry. Yes, that's really true, Raketan put in suddenly with genuine surprise. Al Yasha, she is really afraid of a chicken like you. He is a chicken to you, Raketan, because you've no conscience. That's what it is. You see, I love him with all my soul. That's how it is. Al Yasha, do you believe I love you with all my soul? Ah, you shameless woman, she is making you a declaration, Alexei. Well, what of it? I love him. And what about your officer and the priceless message from Makro? That is quite different. That is a woman's way of looking at it. Don't you make me angry, Raketan? Grushanka caught him up hotly. This is quite different. I love Al Yasha in a different way. It's true, Al Yasha. I had sly designs on you before, for I am a horrid, violent creature. But at other times I've looked upon you, Al Yasha, as my conscience. I've kept thinking how anyone like that must despise a nasty thing like me. I thought that the day before yesterday, as I ran home from the young ladies. I have thought of you a long time in that way, Al Yasha, and Mitcha knows. I've talked to him about it. Mitcha understands. Would you believe it? I sometimes look at you and feel ashamed, utterly ashamed of myself. And how, and since when, I began to think about you like that? I can't say. I don't remember. Fenya came in and put a tray with an uncorked bottle and three glasses of champagne on the table. Here's the champagne, cried Raketan. You're excited, Agrafena Alexanderovna, and not yourself. When you've had a glass of champagne you'll be ready to dance. They can't even do that properly, he added, looking at the bottle. The old woman's poured it out in the kitchen, and the bottle's been brought in warm and without a cork. Well, let me have some, anyway. He went up to the table, took a glass, emptied it at one gulp, and poured himself out another. One doesn't often stumble upon champagne, he said, licking his lips. Now, Al Yasha, take a glass, show what you can do. What shall we drink to? The Gates of Paradise? Take a glass, Krushanka, you drink to the Gates of Paradise, too. What Gates of Paradise? She took a glass, Al Yasha took his, tasted it, and put it back. No, I'd better not, he smiled gently. And you bragged, cried Raketan. Well, if so, I won't either, chimed in Krushanka. I really don't want any. You can drink the whole bottle alone, Raketan. If Al Yasha has some, I will. What touching sentimentality, said Raketan tauntingly, and she's sitting on his knee, too. He's got something to grieve over, but what's the matter with you? He is rebelling against his God and ready to eat sausage. How so? His elder died today, Father Zasima, the saint. So Father Zasima is dead, cried Krushanka. Good God, I did not know! She crossed herself devoutly. Goodness, what have I been doing sitting on his knee like this at such a moment? She started up as though in dismay, instantly slipped off his knee and sat down on the sofa. Al Yasha bent a long, wondering look upon her, and a light seemed to dawn in his face. Raketan, he said suddenly, in a firm and loud voice, Don't taunt me with having rebelled against God. I don't want to feel angry with you, so you must be kinder, too. I've lost a treasure, such as you have never had, and you cannot judge me now. You had much better look at her. Do you see how she has pity on me? I came here to find a wicked soul. I felt drawn to evil because I was base and evil myself, and I've found a true sister. I have found a treasure, a loving heart. She had pity on me just now. I, Grafana Alexandrovna, I am speaking of you. You've raised my soul from the depths. Al Yasha's lips were quivering, and he caught his breath. She has saved you, it seems, laughed Raketan spitefully, and she meant to get you in her clutches. Do you realize that? Stay, Raketan, Krushanka had jumped up. Hush, both of you! Now I'll tell you all about it. Hush, Al Yasha, your words make me ashamed, for I am bad and not good. That's what I am. And you, Hush, Raketan, because you are telling lies. I had the low idea of trying to get him in my clutches, but now you are lying. Now it's all different, and don't let me hear anything more from you, Raketan. All this Krushanka said with extreme emotion. They are both crazy, said Raketan, looking at them with amazement. I feel as though I were in a madhouse. They're both getting so feeble they'll begin crying in a minute. I shall begin to cry. I shall, repeated Krushanka. He called me his sister, and I shall never forget that. Only let me tell you, Raketan, though I am bad, I did give away an onion. An onion? Hang it all, you really are crazy. Raketan wondered at their enthusiasm. He was aggrieved and annoyed, though he might have reflected that each of them was just passing through a spiritual crisis such as does not come often in a lifetime. But though Raketan was very sensitive about everything that concerned himself, he was very obtuse as regards the feelings and sensations of others, partly from his youth and inexperience, partly from his intense egoism. You see Al-Yasha, Krushanka turned to him with a nervous laugh. I was boasting when I told Raketan I had given away an onion, but it's not to boast, I tell you about it. It's only a story, but it's a nice story. I used to hear it when I was a child from Atriana, my cook, who is still with me. It's like this. Once upon a time there was a peasant woman and a very wicked woman she was, and she died and did not leave a single good deed behind. The devils caught her and plunged her into the lake of fire, so her guardian angel stood and wondered what good deed of hers he could remember to tell to God. She once pulled up an onion in her garden, said he, and gave it to a beggar woman. And God answered, You take that onion, then, hold it out to her in the lake and let her take hold and be pulled out, and if you can pull her out of the lake, let her come to paradise, but if the onion breaks, then the woman must stay where she is. The angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her. Come, said he, catch hold and I'll pull you out. And he began cautiously pulling her out. He had just pulled her right out when the other sinners in the lake, seeing how she was being drawn out, began catching hold of her so as to be pulled out with her. But she was a very wicked woman, and she began kicking them. I'm to be pulled out, not you. It's my onion, not yours. As soon as she said that, the onion broke, and the woman fell into the lake, and she is burning there to this day. So the angel wept and went away. So that's the story, Al-Yasha. I know it by heart, for I am that wicked woman myself. I boasted to Raketan that I had given away an onion, but to you, I'll say, I've done nothing but give away one onion all my life. That's the only good deed I've done. So don't praise me, Al-Yasha. Don't think me good. I am bad. I am a wicked woman, and you make me ashamed if you praise me. I must confess everything. Listen, Al-Yasha, I was so anxious to get hold of you that I promised Raketan twenty-five rubles if he would bring you to me. Stay, Raketan, wait. She went with rapid steps to the table, opened a drawer, pulled out a purse, and took from it a twenty-five rubal note. What nonsense, what nonsense! cried Raketan, disconcerted. Take it, Raketan, I owe it to you, and there's no fear of your refusing it. You asked for it yourself, and she threw the note to him. Likely I should refuse it, boomed Raketan, obviously abashed, but carrying off his confusion with a swagger. That will come in very handy. Fools are made for wise men's profit. And now hold your tongue, Raketan. What I am going to say now is not for your ears. Sit down in that corner and keep quiet. You don't like us, so hold your tongue. What should I like you for? Raketan snarled, not concealing his ill humour. He put the twenty-five rubal note in his pocket, and he felt ashamed at Alyosh's seeing it. He had reckoned on receiving his payment later, without Alyosh's knowing of it, and now, feeling ashamed, he lost his temper. Till that moment he had thought it discrete not to contradict Grushanka too flatly in spite of her snubbing, since he had something to get out of her, but now he too was angry. One loves people for some reason, but what have either of you done for me? You should love people without a reason, as Alyosh does. How does he love you? How has he shown it, that you make such a fuss about it? Grushanka was standing in the middle of the room. She spoke with heat, and there were hysterical notes in her voice. Hush, Raketan! You know nothing about us, and don't dare to speak to me like that again. How dare you be so familiar? Sit in that corner and be quiet, as though you were my footman. And now, Alyosh, I'll tell you the whole truth, that you may see what a wretch I am. I am not talking to Raketan, but to you. I wanted to ruin you, Alyosh, that's the holy truth I quite meant to. I wanted to so much that I bribed Raketan to bring you. And why did I want to do such a thing? You knew nothing about it, Alyosh, you turned away from me. If you passed me, you dropped your eyes, and I've looked at you a hundred times before today. I began asking everyone about you. Your face haunted my heart. He despises me, I thought, he won't even look at me, and I felt at so much at last that I wondered at myself for being so frightened of a boy. I'll get him in my clutches and laugh at him. I was full of spite and anger. Would you believe it? Nobody here dares talk or think of coming to Agrivena Alexandrovna with any evil purpose. Old Kuzma is the only man I have anything to do with here. I was bound and sold to him. Satan brought us together, but there has been no one else. But, looking at you, I thought, I'll get him in my clutches and laugh at him. You see what a spiteful cur I am, and you called me your sister. And now that man who wronged me has come. I sit here waiting for a message from him. And do you know what that man has been to me? Five years ago, when Kuzma brought me here, I used to shut myself up that no one might have sight or sound of me. I was a silly slip of a girl. I used to sit here sobbing. I used to lie awake all night, thinking, Where is he now, the man who wronged me? He is laughing at me with another woman, most likely. If only I could see him, if I could meet him again. I'd pay him out, I'd pay him out. At night I used to lie sobbing into my pillow in the dark, and I used to brood over it. I used to tear my heart on purpose and gloat over my anger. I'll pay him out, I'll pay him out. That's what I used to cry out in the dark. And when I suddenly thought that I should really do nothing to him, and that he was laughing at me then, or perhaps had utterly forgotten me, I would fling myself on the floor, melting to helpless tears, and lie there shaking till dawn. In the morning I would get up more spiteful than a dog, ready to tear the whole world to pieces. And then what do you think? I began saving money. I became hard-hearted. Grew stout. Grew wiser, would you say? No. No one in the whole world sees it. No one knows it. But when night comes on, I sometimes lie as I did five years ago when I was a silly girl, clenching my teeth and crying all night, thinking, I'll pay him out, I'll pay him out. Do you hear? Well then, now you understand me. A month ago a letter came to me. He was coming. He was a widower. He wanted to see me. It took my breath away. Then I suddenly thought, if he comes and whistles to call me, I shall creep back to him like a beaten dog. I couldn't believe myself. Am I so abject? Shall I run to him or not? And I've been in such a rage with myself all this month that I am worse than I was five years ago. Do you see now, Al-Yasha, what a violent, vindictive creature I am. I have shown you the whole truth. I played with Misha to keep me from running to that other. Hush, Raketan, it's not for you to judge me. I am not speaking to you. Before you came in I was lying here waiting, brooding, deciding my whole future life, and you can never know what was in my heart. Yes, Al-Yasha, tell your young lady not to be angry with me for what happened the day before yesterday. Nobody in the whole world knows what I am going through now, and no one ever can know. For perhaps I shall take a knife with me today. I can't make up my mind. And at this tragic phrase Grushanka broke down, hit her face in her hands, flung herself on the sofa pillows, and sobbed like a little child. Al-Yasha got up and went to Raketan. Misha, he said, don't be angry. She wounded you, but don't be angry. You heard what she said just now. You mustn't ask too much of human endurance. One must be merciful. Al-Yasha said this at the instinctive prompting of his heart. He felt obliged to speak, and he turned to Raketan. If Raketan had not been there he would have spoken to the air. But Raketan looked at him ironically, and Al-Yasha stopped short. You were so primed up with your elders teaching last night that now you have to let it off on me, Alexei, man of God! said Raketan with a smile of hatred. Don't laugh, Raketan. Don't smile. Don't talk of the dead. He was better than any one in the world, cried Al-Yasha with tears in his voice. I don't speak to you as a judge, but as the lowest of the judged. What am I beside her? I came here seeking my ruin, and said to myself what does it matter in my cowardliness? But she, after five years in torment, as soon as anyone says a word from the heart to her, it makes her forget everything, forgive everything, in her tears. The man who has wronged her has come back. He sends for her, and she forgives him everything, and hastens joyfully to meet him, and she won't take a knife with her. She won't. No, I am not like that. I don't know whether you are Misha, but I am not like that. It's a lesson to me. She is more loving than we. Have you heard her speak before of what she has just told us? No, you haven't. If you had, you'd have understood her long ago. And the person insulted the day before yesterday must forgive her, too. She will, when she knows, and she shall know. This soul is not yet at peace with itself. One must be tender with it. There may be a treasure in that soul. Alyosha stopped, because he caught his breath. In spite of his ill-humour, Raketen looked at him with astonishment. He had never expected such a tirade from the gentle Alyosha. She's found someone to plead her cause. Why, are you in love with her? Agrafenna Alexandrovna, our monk's really in love with you. You've made a conquest. He cried with a coarse laugh. Grushanka lifted her head from the pillow and looked at Alyosha with a tender smile shining on her tear-stained face. Let him alone, Alyosha, my cherub. You see what he is. He is not a person for you to speak to. Mihail Asapovich, she turned to Raketen. I meant to beg your pardon for being rude to you. But now I don't want to. Alyosha, come to me. Sit down here. She beckoned to him with a happy smile. That's right. Sit here. Tell me. She took him by the hand and peeped into his face, smiling. Tell me. Do I love that man or not? The man who wronged me. Do I love him or not? Before you came I lay here in the dark, asking my heart whether I loved him. Decide for me, Alyosha. The time has come. It shall be as you say. Am I to forgive him or not? But you have forgiven him already, said Alyosha, smiling. Yes, I really have forgiven him, Grushinka murmured thoughtfully. What an abject heart! To my abject heart! She snatched up a glass from the table, emptied it at a gulp, lifted it in the air, and flung it on the floor. The glass broke with a crash. A little cruel line came into her smile. Perhaps I haven't forgiven him, though, she said, with a sort of menace in her voice, and she dropped her eyes to the ground as though she were talking to herself. Perhaps my heart is only getting ready to forgive. I shall struggle with my heart. You see, Alyosha, I've grown to love my tears in these five years. Perhaps I only love my resentment, not him. Well, I shouldn't care to be in his shoes, hissed Raketen. Well, you won't be, Raketen. You'll never be in his shoes. You shall black my shoes, Raketen. That's the place you are fit for. You'll never get a woman like me. And he won't, either, perhaps. Won't he? Then why are you dressed up like that? said Raketen, with a venomous sneer. Don't taunt me with dressing up, Raketen. You don't know all that is in my heart. If I choose to tear off my finery, I'll tear it off at once, this minute. She cried in a resonant voice. You don't know what that finery is for, Raketen. Perhaps I shall see him and say, Have you ever seen me look like this before? He left me a thin, consumptive crybaby of seventeen. I'll sit by him, fascinate him, and work him up. Do you see what I am like now, I'll say to him. Well, and that's enough for you, my dear sir. There's many a slip-twixed the cup and the lip. That may be what the finery is for, Raketen. Grushanka finished with a malicious laugh. I'm violent and resentful of Yasha. I'll tear off my finery. I'll destroy my beauty. I'll scorch my face. Slash it with a knife and turn beggar. If I choose, I won't go anywhere now to see any one. If I choose, I'll send Kuzma back, all he has ever given me, to-morrow, and all his money, and I'll go out charring for the rest of my life. You think I wouldn't do it, Raketen? That I would not dare to do it? I would. I would. I could do it directly. Only don't exasperate me. And I'll send him about his business. I'll snap my fingers in his face. He shall never see me again. She uttered the last words in an hysterical scream, but broke down again, hit her face in her hands, buried it in the pillow, and shook with sobs. Raketen got up. It's time we were off, he said. It's late. We shall be shut out of the monastery. Grushanka leapt up from her place. Surely you don't want to go, Alyosha, she cried in mournful surprise. What are you doing to me? You stirred up my feeling, tortured me, and now you'll leave me to face this night alone. He can hardly spend the night with you, though if he wants to let him, I'll go alone. Raketen scoffed cheeringly. Hush, evil tongue! Grushanka cried angrily at him. You never said such words to me as he has come to say. What has he said to you so special? asked Raketen irritably. I can't say. I don't know. I don't know what he said to me. It went straight to my heart. He has wrung my heart. He is the first, the only one who has pitied me. That's what it is. Why did you not come before, you angel? She fell on her knees before him as though in a sudden frenzy. I've been waiting all my life for someone like you. I knew that someone like you would come and forgive me. I believed that, nasty as I am, someone would really love me, not only with a shameful love. What have I done to you? answered Alyosha, bending over her with a tender smile, and gently taking her by the hands. I only gave you an onion. Nothing but a tiny little onion. That was all. He was moved to tears himself as he said it. At that moment there was a sudden noise in the passage. Someone came into the hall. Grushanka jumped up, seeming greatly alarmed. Fenya ran noisily into the room, crying out, Mistress, Mistress Sterling, a messenger has galloped up. She cried, breathless and joyful. A carriage from Mock Row for you. Timel Faye, the driver, with three horses, they're just putting in fresh horses. A letter. Here's the letter, Mistress. A letter was in her hand, and she waved it in the air all the while she talked. Grushanka snatched the letter from her and carried it to the candle. It was only a note, a few lines. She read it in one instant. He has sent for me. She cried, her face white and distorted, with a wan smile. He whistles, crawl back, little dog. But only for one instant she stood as though hesitating. Suddenly the blood rushed to her head and set a glow to her cheeks. I will go, she cried, five years of my life. Good-bye, good-bye, Alyosha. My fate is sealed. Go, go, leave me, all of you. Don't let me see you again. Grushanka is flying to a new life. Don't you remember evil against me, either, Raketen? I may be going to my death. I feel as though I were drunk. She suddenly left them and ran into her bedroom. Well, she has no thoughts for us now, grumbled Raketen. Let's go, or we may hear that feminine shriek again. I am sick of all these tears and cries. Alyosha mechanically let himself be led out. In the yard stood a covered cart. Horses were being taken out of the shafts, men were running to and fro with a lantern. Three fresh horses were being led in at the open gate. But when Alyosha and Raketen reached the bottom of the steps, Grushanka's bedroom window was suddenly opened and she called in a ringing voice after Alyosha. Alyosha, give my greetings to your brother Misha, and tell him not to remember evil against me, though I have brought him misery. And tell him, too, in my words, Grushanka has fallen to a scoundrel and not to you, noble heart. And add, too, that Grushanka loved him only one hour, only one short hour she loved him. So let him remember that hour all his life, say Grushanka tells you, too. She ended in a voice full of sobs. The window was shut with a slam. Hmm-hmm, growled Raketen, laughing. She murders your brother Misha and then tells him to remember it all his life. What ferocity! Alyosha made no reply. He seemed not to have heard. He walked fast beside Raketen as though in a terrible hurry. He was lost in thought and moved mechanically. Raketen felt a sudden twinge as though he had been touched on an open wound. He had expected something quite different by bringing Grushanka and Alyosha together, something very different from what he had hoped for had happened. He is a poal, that officer of hers. He began again, restraining himself, and indeed he is not an officer at all now. He served in the customs in Siberia, somewhere on the Chinese frontier, some puny little beggar of a poal, I expect. Lost his job, they say. He's heard now that Grushanka's saved a little money, so he's turned up again. That's the explanation of the mystery. Again Alyosha seemed not to hear. Raketen could not control himself. Well, so you've saved the sinner. He laughed spatefully. Have you turned the Magdalene into the true path, driven out the seven devils, eh? So you see the miracles you were looking out for just now have come to pass. Hush, Raketen! Alyosha answered with an aching heart. So you despise me now for those twenty-five rubles. I've sold my friend, you think, but you are not Christ, you know, and I am not Judas. Oh, Raketen, I assure you I'd forgotten about it, cried Alyosha. You remind me of it yourself. But this was the last straw for Raketen. Damn nation take you all and each of you, he cried suddenly. Why, the devil, could I take you up? I don't want to know you from this time forward. Go alone, there's your road. And he turned abruptly into another street, leaving Alyosha alone in the dark. Alyosha came out of the town and walked across the fields to the monastery. End of Section 44. Section 45 of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary. Book 7, Chapter 4. Kena of Galilee. It was very late, according to the monastery ideas, when Alyosha returned to the hermitage, the doorkeeper let him in by a special entrance. It had struck nine o'clock, the hour of rest and repose, after a day of such agitation for all. Alyosha timidly opened the door and went into the elder cell where his coffin was now standing. There was no one in the cell but Father Paisi, reading the Gospel in solitude over the coffin, and the young novice Porfiry, who, exhausted by the previous night's conversation and the disturbing incidents of the day, was sleeping, the deep sound sleep of youth, on the floor of the other room. Though Father Paisi heard Alyosha come in, he did not even look in his direction. Alyosha turned to the right from the door to the corner, fell on his knees, and began to pray. His soul was overflowing but with mingled feelings, no single sensation stood out distinctly. On the contrary, one drove out another in a slow continual rotation. But there was a sweetness in his heart and, strange to say, Alyosha was not surprised at it. Again he saw that coffin before him, the hidden dead figure so precious to him, but the weeping and poignant grief of the morning was no longer aching in his soul. As soon as he came in, he fell down before the coffin, as before a holy shrine, but joy, joy was glowing in his mind and in his heart. The one window of the cell was open, the air was fresh and cool, so the smell must have become stronger if they opened the window, thought Alyosha. But even this thought of the smell of corruption, which had seemed to him so awful and humiliating a few hours before, no longer made him feel miserable or indignant. He began quietly praying, but he soon felt that he was praying almost mechanically. Fragments of thought floated through his soul, flashed like stars and went out again at once to be succeeded by others. But yet there was raining in his soul a sense of the wholeness of things, something steadfast and comforting, and he was aware of it himself. Sometimes he began praying ardently, he longed to pour out his thankfulness and love, but when he had begun to pray he passed suddenly to something else and sank into thought, forgetting both the prayer and what had interrupted it. He began listening to what Father Paesi was reading, but worn out with exhaustion, he gradually began to doze. And the third day there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee, read Father Paesi, and the mother of Jesus was there, and both Jesus was called and his disciples to the marriage. Marriage, what's that, a marriage, floated whirling through Al-Yash's mind. There is happiness for her too, she has gone to the feast. No, she has not taken the knife, that was only a tragic phrase. Well, tragic phrases should be forgiven, they must be. Tragic phrases comfort the heart, without them sorrow would be too heavy for men to bear. Raketan has gone off to the back alley, as long as Raketan broods over his wrongs he will always go off to the back alley. But the high road, the road is wide and straight and bright as crystal, and the sun is at the end of it. Ah, what's being read? And when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus saith unto him, they have no wine, Al-Yasha heard. Ah, yes, I was missing that, and I didn't want to miss it. I love that passage. It's Cana of Galilee, the first miracle. Ah, that miracle. Ah, that sweet miracle. It was not men's grief, but their joy Christ visited. He worked his first miracle to help men's gladness. He who loves men loves their gladness too. He was always repeating that. It was one of his leading ideas. There's no living without joy, Mitcha says. Yes, Mitcha. Everything that is true and good is always full of forgiveness. He used to say that too. Jesus saith unto her, Woman, what has it to do with thee or me? Mine hour is not yet come. His mother saith unto the servants, whatsoever he saith unto you, Do it. Do it. Gladness, the gladness of some poor, very poor people. Of course, they were poor since they hadn't wine enough even at a wedding. The historians write that, in those days, the people living about the Lake of Geneserat were the poorest that can possibly be imagined, and another great heart, that other great being, his mother, knew that he had come not only to make his great terrible sacrifice, she knew that his heart was open even to the simple artless merry-making of some obscure and unlearned people, who had warmly bidden him to their poor wedding. Mine hour is not yet come, he said, with a soft smile he must have smiled gently to her. And indeed, was it to make wine abundant at poor weddings he had come down to earth? And yet he went and did as she asked him. Ah, he's reading again. Jesus saith unto them, Fill the water-pots with water, and they filled them up to the brim, and he saith unto them, Draw out now and bear unto the governor of the feast, and they bear it, when the ruler of the feast had tasted the water that was made wine, and knew not whence it was, but the servants which drew the water knew, the governor of the feast called the bridegroom, and saith unto him, every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine, and when men have well drunk, that which is worse, but thou hast kept the good wine until now. But what's this? What's this? Why is the room growing wider? Ah, yes, it's the marriage, the wedding, yes, of course. Here are the guests, here are the young couple sitting, and the merry crowd, and where is the wise governor of the feast? But who is this? Who? Again the walls are receding. Who is getting up there from the great table? What? He here, too? But he's in the coffin. But he's here, too. He has stood up. He sees me. He is coming here. God! Yes, he came up to him, to him, he, the little thin old man with tiny wrinkles on his face, joyful and laughing softly. There was no coffin now, and he was in the same dress as he had worn yesterday sitting with them when the visitors had gathered about him. His face was uncovered, his eyes were shining. How was this then? He, too, had been called to the feast, he, too, at the marriage of Cana in Galilee. Yes, my dear, I am called, too, called and bidden. He heard a soft voice saying over him, Why have you hidden yourself here out of sight? You come and join us, too. It was his voice, the voice of Father Sassima, and it must be he since he called him. The elder raised Al-Yasha by the hand, and he rose from his knees. We are rejoicing, the little thin old man went on. We are drinking the new wine, the wine of new great gladness. Do you see how many guests? Here are the bride and bridegroom. Here is the wise governor of the feast. He is tasting the new wine. Why do you wonder at me? I gave an onion to a beggar, so I, too, am here, and many here have given only an onion each, only one little onion. What are all our deeds? And you, my gentle one, you, my kind boy, you, too, have known how to give a famished woman an onion today. Begin your work, dear one. Begin it, gentle one. Do you see our son? Do you see him? I am afraid, I dare not look, whispered Al-Yasha. Do not fear him. He is terrible in his greatness, awful in his sublimity, but infinitely merciful. He has made himself like unto us from love and rejoices with us. He is changing the water into wine that the gladness of the guests may not be cut short. He is expecting new guests. He is calling new ones unceasingly forever and ever. There they are, bringing new wine. Do you see they are bringing the vessels? Something glowed in Al-Yasha's heart. Something filled it till it ached. Tears of rapture rose from his soul. He stretched out his hands, uttered a cry, and waked up. Again the coffin, the open window, and the soft, solemn, distinct reading of the Gospel. But Al-Yasha did not listen to the reading. It was strange. He had fallen asleep on his knees, but now he was on his feet, and suddenly, as though thrown forward with three firm rapid steps, he went right up to the coffin. His shoulder brushed against Father Paisi without his noticing it. Father Paisi raised his eyes for an instant from his book, but looked away again at once, seeing that something strange was happening to the boy. Al-Yasha gazed for half a minute at the coffin, at the covered motionless dead man that lay in the coffin, with the icon on his breast, and the peaked cap with the octangular cross on his head. He had only just been hearing his voice, and that voice was still ringing in his ears. He was listening, still expecting other words, but suddenly he turned sharply and went out of the cell. He did not stop on the steps either, but went quickly down. His soul, overflowing with rapture, yearned for freedom, space, openness. The vault of heaven, full of soft, shining stars, stretched fast and fathomless above him. The Milky Way ran in two pale streams, from the zenith to the horizon. The fresh, motionless, still night enfolded the earth. The white towers and golden domes of the cathedral gleamed out against the sapphire sky. The gorgeous autumn flowers in the beds round the house were slumbering till morning. The silence of earth seemed to melt into the silence of the heavens. The mystery of earth was one with the mystery of the stars. Al-Yasha stood, gazed, and suddenly threw himself down on the earth. He did not know why he embraced it. He could not have told why he longed so irresistibly to kiss it, to kiss it all. But he kissed it, weeping, sobbing, and watering it with his tears, and vowed passionately to love it, to love it for ever and ever. Water the earth with the tears of your joy and love those tears echoed in his soul. What was he weeping over? Oh, in his rapture he was weeping even over those stars, which were shining to him from the abyss of space, and he was not ashamed of that ecstasy. There seemed to be threads from all those innumerable worlds of God, linking his soul to them, and it was trembling all over, in contact with other worlds. He longed to forgive everyone, and for everything, and to beg forgiveness. Oh, not for himself, but for all men, for all, and for everything. And others are praying for me too, echoed again in his soul. But with every instant he felt clearly and as it were tangibly that something firm and unshakable as that vault of heaven had entered into his soul. It was as though some idea had seized the sovereignty of his mind, and it was for all his life, and for ever and ever. He had fallen on the earth a weak boy, but he rose up, a resolute champion, and he knew and felt it suddenly at the very moment of his ecstasy. And never, never all his life long could Al Yasha forget that minute. Someone visited my soul in that hour, he used to say afterwards, with implicit faith in his words. Within three days he left the monastery in accordance with the words of his elder, who had bidden him sojourn in the world. But Dmitry, to whom Grushenka, flying away to a new life, had left her last greetings, bidding him remember the hour of her love for ever, knew nothing of what had happened to her, and was at that moment in the condition of feverish agitation and activity. For the last two days he had been in such an inconceivable state of mind that he might easily have fallen ill with brain fever as he said himself afterwards. Al Yasha had not been able to find him the morning before, and Yvonne had not succeeded in meeting him at the tavern on the same day. The people at his lodgings, by his orders, concealed his movements. He had spent those two days literally rushing in all directions, struggling with his destiny and trying to save himself as he expressed it himself afterwards, and for some hours he even made a dash out of the town on urgent business, terrible as it was to him to lose sight of Grushenka for a moment. All this was explained afterwards in detail, and confirmed by documentary evidence, but for the present we will only note the most essential incidents of those two terrible days immediately preceding the awful catastrophe that broke so suddenly upon him. Though Grushenka had, it is true, loved him for an hour, genuinely and sincerely, yet she tortured him sometimes cruelly and mercilessly. The worst of it was that he could never tell what she meant to do. To prevail upon her by force or kindness was also impossible. She would yield to nothing. She would only have become angry and turned away from him altogether. He knew that well already. He suspected, quite correctly, that she too was passing through an inward struggle, and was in a state of extraordinary indecision, that she was making up her mind to something and unable to determine upon it. And so, not without good reason, he designed, with a thinking heart, that at moments she must simply hate him and his passion, and so perhaps it was. But what was distressing Grushenka he did not understand. For him the whole tormenting question lay between him and Fyodor Pavlovich. Here we must note, by the way, one certain fact. He was firmly persuaded that Fyodor Pavlovich would offer, or perhaps had offered, Grushenka lawful wedlock, and did not for a moment believe that the old voluptuary hoped to gain his object for three thousand rubles. Misha had reached this conclusion from his knowledge of Grushenka and her character. That was how it was that he could believe at times that all Grushenka's uneasiness rose from not knowing which of them to choose, which was most to her advantage. Strange to say, during those days it never occurred to him to think of the approaching return of the officer, that is, of the man who had been such a fatal influence in Grushenka's life, and whose arrival she was expecting with such emotion and dread. It is true that of late Grushenka had been very silent about it. Yet he was perfectly aware of a letter she had received a month ago from her seducer and had heard of it from her own lips. He partly knew too what the letter contained. In the moment of spite Grushenka had shown him that letter, but to her astonishment he attached hardly any consequence to it. It would be hard to say why this was. Perhaps weighed down by all the hideous horror of his struggle with his own father for this woman, he was incapable of imagining any danger more terrible at any rate for the time. He simply did not believe in a suitor who suddenly turned up again after five years' disappearance, still less in his speedy arrival. Moreover, in the officer's first letter which had been shown to Mitcha, the possibility of his new rival's visit was very vaguely suggested. The letter was very indefinite, high-flown, and full of sentimentality. It must be noted that Grushenka had concealed from him the last lines of the letter, in which his return was alluded to more definitely. He had, besides noticed at that moment, he remembered afterwards a certain involuntary proud contempt for this missive from Siberia on Grushenka's face. Grushenka told him nothing of what had passed later between her and this rival, so that by degrees he had completely forgotten the officer's existence. He felt that whatever might come later, whatever turn things might take, his final conflict with Fyodor Pavlovich was close upon him and must be decided before anything else. With a sinking heart he was expecting every moment, Grushenka's decision, always believing that it would come suddenly on the impulse of the moment. All of a sudden she would say to him, take me, I'm yours forever, and it would all be over. He would seize her and bear her away at once to the ends of the earth. Oh, then he would bear her away at once as far, far away as possible, to the farthest end of Russia, if not of the earth. Then he would marry her and settle down with her incognito, so that no one would know anything about them, there, here, or anywhere. Then, oh, then a new life would begin at once. Of this different, reformed, and virtuous life, yet must it must be virtuous, he dreamed feverishly at every moment. He thirsted for that reformation and renewal. The filthy morass in which he had sunk of his own free will was too revolting to him, and, like very many men in such cases, he put faith above all in change of place. If only it were not for these people, if only it were not for these circumstances, if only he could fly away from this accursed place, he would be altogether regenerated, would enter on a new path. That was what he believed in and what he was yearning for. But all this could only be on condition of the first, the happy solution of the question. There was another possibility, a different and awful ending. Suddenly she might say to him, go away, I have just come to terms with Fyodor Pavlovich, I am going to marry him, and don't want you. And then, but then, but Misha did not know what would happen then. Up to the last hour he didn't know. That must be said to his credit. He had no definite intentions, had planned no crime. He was simply watching and spying in agony while he prepared himself for the first happy solution of his destiny. He drove away any other idea, in fact. But for that ending a quite different anxiety arose, a new, incidental, but yet fatal and insoluble difficulty presented itself. If she were to say to him, I am yours, take me away, how could he take her away? Where had he the means, the money, to do it? It was just at this time that all sources of revenue from Fyodor Pavlovich, doles which had gone on without interruption for so many years, ceased. Rushanka had money, of course, but with regard to this Misha suddenly evened extraordinary pride. He wanted to carry her away and begin the new life with her himself, at his own expense, not at hers. He could not conceive of taking her money, and the very idea caused him a pang of intense repulsion. I won't enlarge on this fact or analyze it here, but confine myself to remarking that this was his attitude at the moment. All this may have arisen indirectly and unconsciously from the secret stings of his conscience for the money of Katerina Ivanovna that he had dishonestly appropriated. I've been a scoundrel to one of them, and I shall be a scoundrel again to the other directly, was his feeling then, as he explained after. And when Rushanka knows, she won't care for such a scoundrel. Where, then, was he to get the means, where was he to get the fateful money? Without it all would be lost and nothing could be done. And only because I hadn't the money. Oh, the shame of it! To anticipate things, he did perhaps know where to get the money, knew perhaps where it lay at that moment. I will say no more of this here, as it will all be clear later. But his chief trouble, I must explain, however, obscurely, lay in the fact that to have that sum he knew of, to have the right to take it, he must first restore Katerina Ivanovna's three thousand. If not, I am a common pickpocket, I am a scoundrel, and I don't want to begin a new life as a scoundrel, Mitchell decided. And so he made up his mind to move heaven and earth to return Katerina Ivanovna that three thousand, and that first of all. The final stage of this decision, so to say, had been reached only during the last hours, that is, after his last interview with Alyosha two days before, on the high road, on the evening when Grushanka had insulted Katerina Ivanovna, and Mitchell, after hearing Alyosha's account of it, had admitted that he was a scoundrel, and told him to tell Katerina Ivanovna so, if it could be any comfort to her. After parting from his brother on that night, he had felt in his frenzy that it would be better to murder and rob someone than fail to pay my debt to Katcha. I'd rather everyone thought me a robber and a murderer, I'd rather go to Siberia than that Katcha should have the right to say that I deceived her and stole her money and used her money to run away with Grushanka and begin a new life, that I can't do. So Mitchell decided, grinding his teeth, and he might well fancy at times that his brain would give way, but meanwhile he went on struggling. Strange to say, though one would have supposed there was nothing left for him but despair, for what chance had he with nothing in the world to raise such as some, yet to the very end he would have been hoping that he would get that three thousand, that the money would somehow come to him of itself, as though it might drop from heaven. That is just how it is with people who, like Dimitri, have never had anything to do with money except to squander what has come to them by inheritance without any effort of their own, and have no notion how money is obtained. A whirl of the most fantastic notions took possession of his brain immediately after he had parted with Alyosha two days before, and threw his thoughts into a tangle of confusion. This is how it was, he pitched first on a perfectly wild enterprise, and perhaps to many of that kind in such circumstances, the most impossible fantastic schemes occur first, and seem most practical. He suddenly determined to go to Samsonov, the merchant who was Grushenko's protector, and to propose a scheme to him, and by means of it to obtain from him at once the whole of the sum required. Of the commercial value of his scheme he had no doubt, not the slightest, and was only uncertain how Samsonov would look upon his freak, supposing he were to consider it from any but the commercial point of view. Though Mitchin knew the merchant by sight, he was not acquainted with him, and had never spoken a word to him. But for some unknown reason he had long entertained the conviction that the old reprobate, who was lying at death's door, would perhaps not at all object now to Grushenko's securing a respectable position and marrying a man to be depended upon. And he believed, not only that he would not object, but that this was what he desired, and if opportunity arose that he would be ready to help. From some rumour, or perhaps from some stray word of Grushenko's, he had gathered further that the old man would perhaps prefer him to Theodor Pavlovich for Grushenko. Possibly many of the readers of my novel will feel that in reckoning on such assistance, and being ready to take his bride, so to speak, from the hands of her protector, Dmitry showed great coarseness and want of delicacy. I will only observe that Mitcher looked upon Grushenko's past as something completely over. He looked on that past with infinite pity, and resolved with all the fervour of his passion that when once Grushenko told him she loved him and would marry him, it would mean the beginning of a new Grushenko and a new Dmitry, free from every vice. They would forgive one another, and would begin their lives afresh. As for Kuzma Samsonov, Dmitry looked upon him as a man who had exercised a fateful influence in that remote past of Grushenko's, though she had never loved him, and who was now himself, a thing of the past, completely done with, and so to say, non-existent. Besides, Mitcher hardly looked upon him as a man at all, for it was known to everyone in the town that he was only a shattered wreck, whose relations with Grushenko had changed their character, and were now simply paternal, and that this had been so for a long time. In any case, there was much simplicity on Mitcher's part in all this, for in spite of all his vices, he was a very simple-hearted man. It was an instance of this simplicity, that Mitcher was seriously persuaded that, being on the eve of his departure for the next world, old Kuzma must sincerely repent of his past relations with Grushenko, and that she had no more devoted friend and protector in the world than this now harmless old man. After his conversation with Alyosha at the crossroads, he hardly slept all night, and at ten o'clock next morning he was at the house of Samsonov and telling the servant to announce him. It was a very large and gloomy old house of two stories with a lodge and outhouses. In the lower story lived Samsonov's two married sons with their families, his old sister, and his unmarried daughter. In the lodge lived two of his clerks, one of whom also had a large family. Both the lodge and the lower story were overcrowded, but the old man kept the upper floor to himself, and would not even let the daughter live there with him, though she waited upon him, and in spite of her asthma was obliged at certain fixed hours and at any time he might call her to run upstairs to him from below. The upper floor contained a number of large rooms kept purely for show, furnished in the old-fashioned merchant style, with long monotonous rows of clumsy mahogany chairs along the walls, with glass chandeliers under shades and gloomy mirrors on the walls. All these rooms were entirely empty and unused, for the old man kept to one room, a small remote bedroom, where he was waited upon by an old servant with the kerchief on her head, and by a lad who used to sit on the locker in the passage. Owing to his swollen legs, the old man could hardly walk at all, and was only rarely lifted from his leather armchair, when the old woman, supporting him, led him up and down the room once or twice. He was murmurous and taciturn, even with this old woman. When he was informed of the arrival of the captain, he had once refused to see him, but Mitchell persisted and sent his name up again. Samson of question the lad minutely. What he looked like, whether he was drunk, was he going to make a row? The answer he received was that he was sober, but wouldn't go away. The old man again refused to see him. Then Mitchell, who had foreseen this and purposely brought pencil and paper with him, wrote clearly on the piece of paper the words, on most important business closely concerning Agrafenna Alexandrovna, and sent it up to the old man. After thinking a little, Samsonov told the lad to take the visitor to the drawing-room, and sent the old woman downstairs with the summons to his younger son to come upstairs to him at once. This younger son, a man over six-foot-tent of exceptional physical strength, who was closely shaven and dressed in the European style, though his father still wore a caftan and a beard, came at once without a comment. All the family trembled before the father. The old man had sent for this giant, not because he was afraid of the captain, he was by no means of a timorous temper, but in order to have a witness, in case of any emergency. Supported by his son and the servant lad, he waddled at last into the drawing-room. It may be assumed that he felt considerable curiosity. The drawing-room, in which Mitchell was awaiting him, was a vast dreary room that laid a weight of depression on the heart. It had a double row of windows, a gallery, marbled walls, and three immense chandeliers with glass lusters covered with shades. Mitchell was sitting on a little chair at the entrance, awaiting his fate with nervous impatience. When the old man appeared at the opposite door, seventy feet away, Mitchell jumped up at once, and with his long military stride, walked to meet him. Mitchell was well dressed, in a frock coat, buttoned up, with a round hat and black gloves in his hands, just as he had been three days before at the elders, at the family meeting with his father and brothers. The old man waited for him, standing dignified and unbending, and Mitchell felt at once that he had looked him through and through as he advanced. Mitchell was greatly impressed, too, with Samsonov's immensely swollen face. His lower lip, which had always been thick, hung down now, looking like a bun. He bowed to his guest in dignified silence, motioned him to a low chair by the sofa, and, leaning on his son's arm, he began lowering himself onto the sofa opposite, groaning painfully, so that Mitchell, seeing his painful exertions, immediately felt remorseful and sensitively conscious of his insignificance in the presence of the dignified person he had ventured to disturb. What is it you want of me, sir? said the old man, deliberately, distinctly, severely, but courteously, when he was at last seated. Mitchell started, leapt up, but sat down again. Then he began at once speaking with loud, nervous haste, gesticulating and in a positive frenzy. He was unmistakably a man driven into a corner, on the brink of ruin, catching at the last straw, ready to sink if he failed. Old Samsonov probably grasped all this, in an instant, though his face remained cold and immovable as a statue's. Most honoured, sir, Kuzma Kuzmich, you have no doubt heard more than once of my disputes with my father, Theodor Pavlovich Karamazov, who robbed me of my inheritance from my mother. Seeing the whole town is gossiping about it, for here everyone's gossiping of what they shouldn't, and besides, it might have reached you through Grushanka, by beg-your-pardon, through Agrafenna Alexandrovna, the lady for whom I have the highest respect and esteem. So Mitchell began and broke down at the first sentence. We will not reproduce his speech word for word, but will only summarise the gist of it. Three months ago, he said, he had of express intention, Mitchell purposely used these words instead of intentionally, consulted a lawyer in the chief town of the province, a distinguished lawyer, Kuzma Kuzmich, Pavel Pavlovich Kornepladov. You have perhaps heard of him, a man of vast intellect, the mind of a statesman. He knows you too, spoke of you in the highest terms. Mitchell broke down again, but these breaks did not deter him. He leapt instantly over the gaps and struggled on and on. This Kornepladov, after questioning him minutely and inspecting the documents he was able to bring him, Mitchell alluded somewhat vaguely to these documents and slurred over the subject with special haste. Reported that they certainly might take proceedings concerning the village of Chermashnya, which ought, he said, to have come to him, Mitchell, from his mother, and so checkmate the old villain his father. Because every door was not closed and justice might still find a loophole. In fact, he might reckon on an additional sum of six or even seven thousand rubles from Fyodor Pavlovich, as Chermashnya was worth at least twenty-five thousand, he might say twenty-eight thousand. In fact, thirty, thirty kuzma kuzmich, and would you believe it, I didn't get seventeen from that heartless man. So he, Mitchell, had thrown the business up for the time, knowing nothing about the law, but uncoming here was struck dumb by a cross-claim made upon him. Here Mitchell went adrift again, and the gain took a flying leap forward. So will not you, excellent and honoured kuzma kuzmich, be willing to take up all my claims against that unnatural monster and pay me a sum down of only three thousand? You see, you cannot in any case lose over it. On my honour, my honour, I swear that. Quite the contrary, you may make six or seven thousand instead of three. Above all, he wanted this concluded that very day. I have do the business with you at a notaries or whatever it is. In fact, I'm ready to do anything. I'll hand over all the deeds, whatever you want, sign anything, and we could draw up the agreement at once, and if it were possible, if it were only possible that very morning, you could pay me that three thousand, for there isn't a capitalist in this town to compare with you, and so would save me from—would save me, in fact, for a good, I might say, an honourable action, for I cherish the most honourable feelings for a certain person whom you know well, and care for as a father. I would not have come, indeed, if it had not been as a father. And indeed it's a struggle of three in this business, for its fate, that's a fearful thing, kuzmikuzmich. A tragedy, kuzmikuzmich, a tragedy. And as you've dropped out long ago, it's a tug of war between two. I'm expressing it awkwardly, perhaps, but I'm not a literary man. You see, I'm on the one side and that monster on the other, so you must choose. It's either I or the monster. It all lies in your hands, the fate of three lives and the happiness of two. Excuse me, I'm making a mess of it, but you understand, I see, from your venerable eyes, that you understand, and if you don't understand, I'm done for, so you see. Mitcher broke off his clumsy speech with that so you see, and jumping up from his seat awaited the answer to his foolish proposal. At the last phrase he had suddenly become hopelessly aware that it had all fallen flat, above all that he had been talking utter nonsense. How strange it is! On the way here it seemed all right, and now it's nothing but nonsense. The idea suddenly dawned on his despairing mind. All the while he had been talking, the old man sat motionless, watching him with an icy expression in his eyes. After keeping him for a moment in suspense, Kuzma Kuzmich pronounced at last in the most positive and chilling tone. Excuse me, we don't undertake such business. Mitches suddenly felt his legs growing weak under him. What am I to do now, Kuzma Kuzmich? He muttered with a pale smile. I suppose it's all up with me. What do you think? Excuse me. Mitcher remained standing, staring, motionless. He suddenly noticed a movement in the old man's face. He started. You see, sir, business of that sort's not in our line, said the old man slowly. There's the court and the lawyers. It's a perfect misery. But if you like, there is a man here you might apply to. Good heavens! Who is it? You're my salvation, Kuzma Kuzmich, faltered Mitcher. He doesn't live here, and he's not here just now. He is a peasant, he does business in timber. His name is Liagavi. He's been haggling with Fyodor Pavlovich for the last year over your cops at Chermashnya. They can't agree on the price. Maybe you've heard? Now he's come back again and is staying with the priest at Ilyinsko, about twelve bursts from the Volavia station. He wrote to me too about the business of the cops, asking my advice. Fyodor Pavlovich means to go and see him himself, so if you were to be beforehand with Fyodor Pavlovich and to make Liagavi the offer you've made me, he might possibly. A brilliant idea! Mitcher interrupted ecstatically. He's the very man, it would just suit him. He's haggling with him for it, being asked too much, and here he would have all the documents entitling him to the property itself. And Mitcher suddenly went off into his short wooden laugh, startling Samsonov. How can I thank you, Kuzma Kuzmich? cried Mitcher effusively. Don't mention it, said Samsonov, inclining his head. But you don't know, you've saved me! Oh, it was a true presentiment brought me to you. So now to this priest. No need of thanks. I'll make haste and fly there. I'm afraid I've overtaxed your strength. I shall never forget it. It's a Russian, says that Kuzma Kuzmich, a Russian, to be sure. Mitcher seized his hand to press it, but there was a malignant gleam in the old man's eye. Mitcher drew back his hand, but Ed once blamed himself for his mistrustfulness. It's because he's tired, he thought. For her sake, for her sake, Kuzma Kuzmich, you understand that it's for her. He cried, his voice ringing through the room. He bowed, turned sharply round, and with the same long stride walked to the door without looking back. He was trembling with delight. Everything was on the verge of ruin, and my guardian angel saved me, was the thought in his mind. And if such a businessman as Samsonov, a most worthy old man and what dignity had suggested this course, then success was assured. He would fly off immediately. I will be back before night. I shall be back at night, and the thing is done. Could the old man have been laughing at me? exclaimed Mitcher as he strode towards his lodging. He could, of course, imagine nothing but that the advice was practical from such a businessman with an understanding of the business, with an understanding of this liagavy. Curious surname. Or the old man was laughing at him? Alas, the second alternative was the correct one. Long afterwards, when the catastrophe had happened, would Samsonov himself confessed, laughing, that he had made a fool of the captain. He was a cold, spiteful, and sarcastic man, liable to violent antipathies. Whether it was the captain's excited face, or the foolish conviction of the rake and spendthrift that he, Samsonov, could be taken in by such a cock-and-bull story as his scheme, or his jealousy of Grushanka, in whose name this scapegrace had rushed in on him with such a tale to get money, which worked on the old man, I can't tell. But at the instant when Mitcher stood before him, feeling his legs grow weak under him, and frantically exclaiming that he was ruined, at that moment the old man looked at him with intense spite, and resolved to make a laughing-stock of him. When Mitcher had gone, Kuzma Kuzmich, white with rage, turned to his son, and bade him see to it that that beggar be never seen again, and never admitted even into the yard, or else he'd—he did not utter his threat. But even his son, who often saw him enraged, trembled with fear. For a whole hour afterwards the old man was shaking with anger, and by evening he was worse, and sent for the doctor. Section forty-seven of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Book eight, chapter two. Liagavi. So he must drive at full speed, and he had not the money for horses. He had forty copaxes, and that was all, all that was left after so many years of prosperity. But he had at home an old silver watch which had long ceased to go. He snatched it up, and carried it to a Jewish watchmaker who had a shop in the market place. The Jew gave him six rubles for it. And I didn't expect that. Quite Mitcher, ecstatically. He was still in a state of ecstasy. He seized his six rubles and ran home. At home he borrowed three rubles from the people of the house, who loved him so much that they were pleased to give it him, though it was all they had. Mitcher, in his excitement, told them, on the spot, that his fate would be decided that day, and he described in desperate haste the whole scheme he had put before Samsonov, the latter's decision, his own hopes for the future, and so on. These people had been told many of their lodger's secrets before, and so looked upon him as a gentleman who was not at all proud, and almost one of themselves. Having thus collected nine rubles, Mitcher sent for posting horses to take him to the Velavia station. This was how the fact came to be remembered and established that, at midday on the day before the event, Mitcher had not a farthing, and that he had sold his watch to get money, and had borrowed three rubles from his landlord all in the presence of witnesses. I note this fact. Later on it will be apparent why I do so. Though he was radiant with the joyful anticipation that he would at last solve all his difficulties, yet, as he drew near Velavia station, he trembled at the thought of what Grushanka might be doing in his absence. What if she made up her mind to-day to go to Fyodor Pavlovich? This was why he had gone off without telling her, and why he left orders with his landlady not to let out where he had gone if anyone came to inquire for him. I must, I must get back to-night, he repeated, as he was jolted along in the cart, and I dare say I shall have to bring this leagofy back here to draw up the deed. So mused Mitcher with a throbbing heart, but, alas, his dreams were not fated to be carried out. To begin with, he was late, taking a short cut from Velavia station which turned out to be eighteen verse instead of twelve. Secondly, he did not find the priest at home in Iljinsko. He had gone off to a neighbouring village. While Mitcher, setting off there with the same exhausted horses, was looking for him, it was almost dark. The priest, a shy and amiable-looking little man, informed him at once that though leagofy had been staying with him at first, he was now at Suhoi Pasiolok, that he was staying the night in the forester's cottage as he was buying timber there, too. At Mitcher's urgent request that he would take him to leagofy at once, and by so doing save him, so to speak, the priest agreed, after some demur, to conduct him to Suhoi Pasiolok. His curiosity was obviously aroused. But, unluckily, he advised there going on foot, as it would not be much over a-versed. Mitcher, of course, agreed and marched off with his yard-long strides, so that the poor priest almost ran after him. He was a very cautious man, though not old. Mitcher at once began talking to him, too, of his plans, nervously and excitedly asking advice in regard to leagofy, and talking all the way. The priest listened attentively, but gave little advice. He turned off Mitcher's questions with, I don't know, ah, I can't say, how can I tell, and so on. When Mitcher began to speak of his quarrel with his father over his inheritance, the priest was positively alarmed, as he was in some way dependent on Fyodor Pavlovich. He inquired, however, with surprise, why he called the peasant trader Gorshtkin leagofy, and obligingly explained to Mitcher that though the man's name really was leagofy, he was never called so, as he would be grievously offended at the name, and that he must be sure to call him Gorshtkin, or you'll do nothing with him, he won't even listen to you, said the priest in conclusion. Mitcher was somewhat surprised for a moment, and explained that that was what Samsonov had called him. On hearing this fact the priest dropped the subject, though he would have done well to put into words his doubt whether, if Samsonov had sent him to that peasant calling him leagofy, there was not something wrong about it, and he was turning him into ridicule. But Mitcher had no time to pause over such trifles. He hurried, striding along, and only when he reached Suhoi Pasiolek did he realize that they had come not one versed nor one and a half, but at least three. This annoyed him, but he controlled himself. They went into the hut. The forester lived in one half of the hut, and Gorshtkin was lodging in the other, the better room the other side of the passage. They went into that room and lighted a tallow candle. The hut was extremely overheated. On the table there was a samovar that had gone out, a tray with cups, an empty rum bottle, a bottle of vodka partly full, and some half-eaten crusts of wheat and bread. The visitor himself lay stretched at full length on the bench, with his coat crushed up under his head for a pillow, snoring heavily. Mitcher stood in perplexity. Of course I must wake him. My business is too important. I've come in such haste. I'm in a hurry to get back to-day," he said in great agitation, but the priest and the forester stood in silence, not giving their opinion. Mitcher went up and began trying to wake him himself. He tried vigorously, but the sleeper did not wake. He's drunk, Mitcher decided. Good Lord, what am I to do? What am I to do? And terribly impatient he began pulling him by the arms, by the legs, shaking his head, lifting him up and making him sit on the bench. Yet after prolonged exertions he could only succeed in getting the drunken man to utter absurd grunts and violent but inarticulate oaths. No, you better wait a little, the priest pronounced at last, for he's obviously not in a fit state. He's been drinking the whole day. The forester chimed in. Good heavens! cried Mitcher, if only you knew how important it is to me and how desperate I am. No, you'd better wait till morning, the priest repeated. Till morning! Mercy, that's impossible! And in his despair he was on the point of attacking the sleeping man again, but stopped short at once, realizing the uselessness of his efforts. The priest said nothing. The sleepy forester looked gloomy. Yet terrible tragedies real life contrives for people, said Mitcher, incomplete despair. The perspiration was streaming down his face. The priest seized the moment to put before him very reasonably, that even if he succeeded in wakening the man he would still be drunk and incapable of conversation. And your business is important, he said, so you'd certainly better put it off till morning. With a gesture of despair, Mitcher agreed. Father, I will stay here with a light and seize the favorable moment. As soon as he wakes I'll begin. I'll pay you for the light, he said to the forester, for the night's lodging, too. You'll remember Dmitry Karamazov. Only, Father, I don't know what were to do with you. Where will you sleep? No, I'm going home. I'll take his horse and get home, he said, indicating the forester. As now I'll say good-bye. I wish you all success. So it was settled. The priest rode off on the forester's horse, delighted to escape, though he shook his head uneasily, wondering whether he ought not next day to inform his benefactor Fyodor Pavlovich of this curious incident, or he may in an unlucky hour hear of it be angry and withdraw his favour. The forester, scratching himself, went back to his room without a word, and Mitcher sat on the bench to catch the favourable moment, as he expressed it. Profound dejection, calling about his soul like a heavy mist, a profound intense dejection. He sat thinking, but could reach no conclusion. The candle burnt dimly, a cricket chirped. It became insufferably close in the overheated room. He suddenly pictured the garden, the path behind the garden, the door of his father's house mysteriously opening and Grushanka running in. He leapt up from the bench. It's a tragedy, he said, grinding his teeth. Mechanically he went up to the sleeping man and looked in his face. He was a lean middle-aged peasant with a very long face, flaxen curls and a long thin reddish beard, wearing a blue cotton shirt and a black waistcoat from the pocket of which peeped the chain of a silver watch. Mitcher looked at his face with intense hatred, and for some unknown reason his curly hair particularly irritated him. What was insufferably humiliating was that after leaving things of such importance and making such sacrifices he, Mitcher, utterly worn out, should with business of such urgency be standing over this dolt on whom his whole fate depended, while he snored as though there were nothing the matter as though he'd dropped from another planet. Oh, the irony of fate! cried Mitcher, and quite losing his head he fell again to rousing the tipsy peasant. He roused him with a sort of ferocity, pulled at him, pushed him, even beat him, but after five minutes of vain exertions he returned to his bench in helpless despair and sat down. Stupid, stupid! cried Mitcher, and how dishonorable it all is! Something made him add. His head began to ache horribly. Should he fling it up and go away altogether? he wondered. No, wait till tomorrow now, I'll stay on purpose. What else did I come for? Besides, I've no means of going. How am I to get away from here now? Oh, the idiocy of it! But his head ached more and more. He sat without moving and unconsciously dozed off and fell asleep as he sat. He seemed to have slept for two hours or more. He was waked up by his head aching so unbearably that he could have screamed there was a hammering in his temples in the top of his head ached. It was a long time before he could wake up fully and understand what had happened to him. At last he realized that the room was full of charcoal fumes from the stove and that he might die of suffocation, and the drunken peasant still lay snoring. The candle guttered and was about to go out. Mitcher cried out and ran staggering across the passage into the forester's room. The forester waked up at once, but hearing that the other room was full of fumes, to Mitcher's surprise and annoyance, accepted the fact with strange unconcern, though he did go to see to it. But he's dead, he's dead, and what am I to do then? cried Mitcher frantically. They threw open the doors, opened a window, and the chimney. Mitcher brought a pail of water from the passage. First he wetted his own head, then finding a rag of some sort dipped it into the water and put it on Liagavi's head. The forester still treated the matter contemptuously, and when he opened the window said, grumpily, it'll be all right now. He went back to sleep, leaving Mitcher a lighted lantern. Mitcher fussed about the drunken peasant for half an hour, wetting his head, and gravely resolved not to sleep all night. But he was so worn out that when he sat down for a moment to take breath he closed his eyes, unconsciously stretched himself full length on the bench, and slept like the dead. It was dreadfully late when he waked. It was somewhere about nine o'clock. The sun was shining brightly in the two little windows of the hut. The curly-headed peasant was sitting on the bench and had his coton. He had another samovar and another bottle in front of him. Yesterday's bottle had already been finished, and this new one was more than half empty. Mitcher jumped up and saw at once that the cursed peasant was drunk again, hopelessly and incurably. He stared at him for a moment with wide-opened eyes. The peasant was silently and slyly watching him, with insulting composure, and even a sort of contemptuous condescension so Mitcher fancied. He rushed up to him. Excuse me, you see, I—you've most likely heard from the forester here in the hut. I'm Lieutenant Dmitry Karamazov, the son of the old Karamazov, whose cops you are buying. That's a lie, said the peasant, calmly and confidently. A lie? You know Fyodor Pavlovich. I don't know any of your Fyodor Pavloviches, said the peasant, speaking thickly. You're bargaining with him for the cops, for the cops. You wake up and collect yourself. Father Pavlov Yolinsko brought me here. You wrote to Samsonov, and he has sent me to you. Mitcher gasped, breathlessly. You're lying, theography blurted out again. Mitcher's legs went cold. For mercy's sake, it isn't a joke. You're drunk, perhaps, yet you can speak and understand, or else I understand nothing. You're a painter. For mercy's sake, I'm Karamazov, Dmitry Karamazov. I have an offer to make you, an advantageous offer, very advantageous offer concerning the cops. The peasant stroked his beard, importantly. No, you've contracted for the job and turned out a scamp. You're a scoundrel. I assure you you're mistaken, cried Mitcher, bringing his hands in despair. The peasant still stroked his beard and suddenly screwed up his eyes, cunningly. No, you show me this. You tell me the law that allows roguery. Do you hear? You're a scoundrel. Do you understand that? Mitcher stepped back gloomily, and suddenly something seemed to hit him on the head, as he said afterwards. In an instant a light seemed to dawn in his mind. A light was kindled and I grasped it all. He stood, stupefied, wondering how he, after all a man of intelligence, could have yielded to such folly, have been led into such an adventure, and have kept it up for almost twenty-four hours, fussing round this liagavy, wetting his head. Why the man's drunk, dead drunk, and he'll go on drinking now for a week. What's the use of waiting here? And what if Samsonov sent me here on purpose? What if she—oh, God, what have I done? The peasant sat watching him and grinning. Another time Mitcher might have killed the fool in a fury, but now he felt as weak as a child. He went quietly to the bench, took up his overcoat, put it on without a word, and went out of the hut. He did not find the forester in the next room. There was no one there. He took fifty co-pecs in small change out of his pocket and put them on the table for his night's lodging, the candle and the trouble he had given. Coming out of the hut he saw nothing but forest all around. He walked at hazard, not knowing which way to turn out of the hut, to the right or to the left. Hurrying there the evening before with the priest he had not noticed the road. He had no revengeful feeling for anybody, even for Samsonov, in his heart. He strode along a narrow forest path, aimless, dazed, without heeding where he was going, a child could have knocked him down, so weak was he in body and soul. He got out of the forest somehow, however, and a vista of fields, bare after the harvest, stretched as far as the eye could see. At despair, at death all round, he repeated, striding on and on. He was saved by meeting an old merchant who was being driven across country in a hired trap. When he overtook him, Bicha asked the way, and it turned out that the old merchant too was going to Velovia. After some discussion Bicha got into the trap. Three hours later they arrived. At Velovia, Bicha at once ordered posting horses to drive to the town, and suddenly realized that he was appallingly hungry. While the horses were being harnessed, an amulet was prepared for him. He ate it all in an instant, ate a huge hunk of bread, ate a sausage, and swallowed three glasses of vodka. After eating his spirits and his heart grew lighter. He flew towards the town, urged on the driver, and suddenly made a new and unalterable plan to procure that accursed money before evening. And to think, only to think that a man's life should be ruined for the sake of that paltry three thousand, he cried contemptuously, I'll settle it to-day. And if it had not been for the thought of Drushanka, and of what might have happened to her, which never left him, he would perhaps have become quite cheerful again. But the thought of her was stabbing him to the heart every moment, like a sharp knife. At last they arrived, and Bicha at once ran to Drushanka. End of Section 47