 Section 52 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary. Book 8, Chapter 7. The First and Rightful Lover With his long, rapid strides, Mitchell walked straight up to the table. Gentlemen, he said in a loud voice, almost shouting, yet stammering at every word. I'm—I'm all right. Don't be afraid," he exclaimed. I—there's nothing the matter. He turned suddenly to Grushanka, who had shrunk back in her chair towards Kalganov, and clasped his hand tightly. I'm—I'm coming too. I'm here till morning. Gentlemen, may I stay with you till morning? Only till morning, for the last time, in this same room. So he finished, turning to the fat little man with the pipe sitting on the sofa. The latter removed his pipe from his lips with dignity, and observed severely. Tanya, we're here in private. There are other rooms. Why, it's you, Dmitry Fyodorovich. What do you mean? answered Kalganov, suddenly. Sit down with us. How are you? Delighted to see you, dear, and, precious fellow, I've always thought a lot of you. Mitchell responded joyfully and eagerly, at once holding out his hand across the table. I—how tight you squeeze! You've quite broken my fingers! laughed Kalganov. He always squeezes like that, always, Grushanka put in gaily, with a timid smile, seeming suddenly convinced from Mitchell's face that he was not going to make a scene. She was watching him with intense curiosity and still some uneasiness. She was impressed by something about him, and indeed the last thing she expected of him was that he would come in and speak like this at such a moment. Good evening, Maximov ventured blandly on the left. Mitchell rushed up to him, too. Good evening, you're here, too. How glad I am to find you here, too. Gentlemen, gentlemen, I— He addressed the Polish gentleman with the pipe again, evidently taking him for the most important person present. I flew here. I wanted to spend my last day, my last hour, in this room, in this very room, where I, too, adored my queen. Forgive me, Pania, he cried wildly. I flew here and vowed, oh, don't be afraid, it's my last night. Let's drink to our good understanding. They'll bring the wine at once. I brought this with me. Something made him pull out his bundle of notes. Allow me, Pania, I want to have music, singing, a revel, as we had before, but the worm, the unnecessary worm, will crawl away, and there'll be no more of him. I will commemorate my day of joy on my last night. He was almost choking. There was so much, so much, he wanted to say, but strange exclamations were all that came from his lips. The pole gazed fixedly at him, at the bundle of notes in his hand, looked at Gruschenka, and was in evident perplexity. If my Suvorin lady is permitting, he was beginning. What does Suvorin mean, Sovereign, I suppose, interrupted Gruschenka? I can't help laughing at you the way you talk. Sit down, Mitcha. What are you talking about? Don't frighten us, please. He won't frighten us, will you? If you won't, I am glad to see you. Me, me frighten you, cried Mitcha, flinging up his hands. Oh, pass me by. Go your way. I won't hinder you. And suddenly he surprised them all, and no doubt himself as well, by flinging himself on a chair and bursting into tears, turning his head away to the opposite wall, while his arms clasped, the back of the chair, tight, as though embracing it. Come, come. What a fellow you are, cried Gruschenka reproachfully. That's just how he comes to see me. He begins talking, and I can't make out what he means. He cried like that once before, and now he's crying again. It's shameful. Why are you crying? As though you had anything to cry for, she added enigmatically, emphasizing each word with some irritability. I am not crying. Well, good evening. He instantly turned round in his chair, and suddenly laughed, not his abrupt wooden laugh, but a long, quivering, inaudible, nervous laugh. Well, there you are again. Come cheer up, cheer up. Gruschenka said to him persuasively, I'm very glad you've come. Very glad, Mitcha. Do you hear? I'm very glad. I want him to stay here with us, she said peremptorily, addressing the whole company, though her words were obviously meant for the man sitting on the sofa. I wish it, I wish it, and if he goes away I shall go too. She added with flashing eyes. What my queen commands is law, pronounced the Paul, gallantly kissing Gruschenka's hand. I beg you, Pania, to join our company, he added politely, addressing Mitcha. Mitcha was jumping up with the obvious intention of delivering another tirade, but the words did not come. Let's drink, Pania. He blurted out instead of making a speech. Everyone laughed. Good heavens! I thought he was going to begin again, Gruschenka exclaimed nervously. Do you hear, Mitcha? She went on insistently. Don't prance about. But it's nice you've brought the champagne. I want some myself, and I can't bear the cures. And best of all, you've come yourself. We were fearfully dull here. You've come for a spree again, I suppose? But put your money in your pocket. Where did you get such a lot? Mitcha had been all this time holding in his hand the crumpled bundle of notes on which the eyes of all, especially of the poles, were fixed. In confusion he thrust them hurriedly into his pocket. He flushed. At that moment the innkeeper brought in an uncorked bottle of champagne and glasses on a tray. Mitcha snatched up the bottle, but he was so bewildered that he did not know what to do with it. Kalganov took it from him and poured out the champagne. Another, another bottle, Mitcha cried to the innkeeper, and, forgetting to clink glasses with the pole whom he had so solemnly invited to drink to their good understanding, he drank off his glass without waiting for anyone else. His whole countenance suddenly changed. The solemn and tragic expression with which he had entered vanished completely, and a look of something childlike came into his face. He seemed to have become suddenly gentle and subdued. He looked shyly and happily at everyone with the continual nervous little laugh and the blissful expression of a dog who has done wrong been punished and forgiven. He seemed to have forgotten everything, and was looking round at everyone with a childlike smile of delight. He looked at Grushanka, laughing continually, and bringing his chair close up to her. By degrees he had gained some idea of the two poles, though he had formed no definite conception of them yet. The pole on the sofa struck him by his dignified demeanor and his Polish accent, and above all by his pipe. Well, what of it? It's a good thing he's smoking a pipe, he reflected. The pole's puffy middle-aged face, with its tiny nose and two very thin pointed, dyed, and impudent-looking moustaches, had not so far roused the faintest doubts in Metsha. He was not even particularly struck by the pole's absurd wig made in Siberia, with love-locks foolishly combed forward over the temples. I suppose it's all right since he wears a wig. He went on musing blissfully. The other, younger pole, who was staring insolently and defiantly at the company and listening to the conversation with silent contempt, still only impressed Metsha by his great height, which was in striking contrast to the pole on the sofa. If he stood up he'd be six foot three, the thought flitted through Metsha's mind. It occurred to him, too, that this pole must be the friend of the other, as it were a bodyguard, and no doubt the big pole was at the disposal of the little pole with the pipe. But this all seemed to Metsha perfectly right and not to be questioned. In his mood of dog-like submissiveness, all feeling of rivalry had died away. Grushanka's mood and the enigmatic tone of some of her words he completely failed to grasp. All he understood with thrilling heart was that she was kind to him, that she had forgiven him and made him sit by her. He was beside himself with delight, watching her sip her glass of champagne. The silence of the company seemed somehow to strike him, however, and he looked round at everyone with expectant eyes. Why are we sitting here, though, gentlemen? Why don't you begin doing something? His smiling eyes seemed to ask. He keeps talking nonsense, and we were all laughing. Kalganov began suddenly, as though divining his thought and pointing to Maximov. Metsha immediately stared at Kalganov and then at Maximov. He's talking nonsense? He laughed, his short wooden laugh, seeming suddenly delighted at something. Ha-ha! Yes, would you believe it? He will have it that all our cavalry officers in the twenties married Polish women. That's awful rot, isn't it? Polish women, repeated Metsha, perfectly ecstatic. Kalganov was well aware of Metsha's attitude to Grushanka and he guessed about the Pole, too, but that did not so much interest him, perhaps did not interest him at all. What he was interested in was Maximov. He had come here with Maximov by chance, and he met the Poles here at the Inn for the first time in his life. Grushanka he knew before and had once been with someone to see her, but she had not taken to him. But here she looked at him very affectionately. Before Metsha's arrival she had been making much of him, but he seemed somehow to be unmoved by it. He was a boy, not over twenty, dressed like a dandy, with a very charming fair-skinned face and splendid thick fair hair. From his fair face looked out beautiful pale blue eyes, with an intelligent and sometimes even deep expression beyond his age indeed, although the young man sometimes looked and talked quite like a child, and was not at all ashamed of it, even when he was aware of it himself. As a rural he was very willful, even capricious, though always friendly. Sometimes there was something fixed and obstinate in his expression. He would look at you and listen, seeming all the while to be persistently dreaming over something else. Often he was listless and lazy. At other times he would grow excited, sometimes apparently over the most trivial matters. Only imagine I've been taking him about with me for the last four days. He went on, indolently drawing his words, quite naturally though without the slightest affectation. Ever since your brother, do you remember, shoved him off the carriage and sent him flying. That made me take an interest in him at the time, and I took him into the country, but he keeps talking such rot I'm ashamed to be with him. I'm taking him back. The gentleman has not seen Polish ladies and says what is impossible. The Paul with the pipe observed to Maximov. He spoke Russian fairly well, much better anyway than he pretended. If he used Russian words he always distorted them into a Polish form. But I was married to a Polish lady myself, tittered Maximov. But did you serve in the cavalry? You were talking about the cavalry. Were you a cavalry officer? Put in Kalganov at once. Was he a cavalry officer indeed? Ha-ha! cried Mitcha, listening eagerly and turning his inquiring eyes to each as he spoke, as though there were no knowing what he might hear from each. No, you see, Maximov turned to him. What I mean is that those pretty Polish ladies, when they danced the Mazurka with our Yulans, when one of them dances a Mazurka with the Yulans, she jumps on his knee like a kitten, a little white one, and the pan father and pan mother look on and allow it. They allow it, and next day the Yuland comes and offers her his hand. That's how it is, offers her his hand. Ha-ha! Maximov ended, tittering. The pan is a wideock. The tall pole on the chair growled suddenly and crossed one leg over the other. Mitcha's eye was caught by his huge, greased boot with its thick, dirty sole. The dress of both the poles looked rather greasy. Well, now it's wideock. What's he scolding about? said Grushanka, suddenly vexed. Pani Agropina, what the gentlemen saw in Poland were servant girls and not ladies of good birth, the pole with the pipe observed to Grushanka. You can reckon on that, the tall pole snapped contemptuously. What next? Let him talk. People talk why hinder them. It makes it cheerful, Grushanka said crossly. I am not hindering them, Pani, said the pole in the wig, with a long look at Grushanka, and relapsing into dignified silence he sucked his pipe again. No, no, the Polish gentleman spoke the truth. Karganov got excited again as though it were a question of vast import. He's never been in Poland, so how can he talk about it? I suppose you weren't married in Poland, were you? No, in the province of Smolensk. Only a Ulan had brought her to Russia before that, my future wife, with her mama and her aunt, and another female relation with the grown-up son. He brought her straight from Poland and gave her up to me. He was a lieutenant in our regiment, a very nice young man. At first he meant to marry her himself, but he didn't marry her, because she turned out to be lame. So you married a lame woman, cried Karganov. Yes, they both deceived me a little bit at the time and concealed it. I thought she was hopping. She kept hopping. I thought it was for fun. So pleased she was going to marry you, yelled Karganov in a ringing childish voice. Yes, so pleased, but it turned out to be quite a different cause. Afterwards, when we were married after the wedding, that very evening, she confessed and very touchingly asked forgiveness. I once jumped over a puddle when I was a child, she said, and injured my leg. Heh-heh! Karganov went off into the most childish laughter, almost falling on the sofa. Grushenka too laughed. Mitya was at the pinnacle of happiness. Do you know, that's the truth. He's not lying now, exclaimed Karganov, turning to Mitya. And do you know, he's been married twice. It's his first wife he's talking about. But his second wife, do you know, ran away and is alive now. Is it possible, said Mitya, turning quickly to Maximoth with an expression of the utmost astonishment? Yes, she did run away. I've had that unpleasant experience, Maximoth modestly assented, with a Monsieur. And what was worse, she'd had all my little property transferred to her beforehand. You're an educated man, she said to me, you can always get your living. She settled my business with that. A venerable bishop once said to me, One of your wives was lame, but the other was too late-footed. Heh-heh! Listen, listen, cried Karganov, bubbling over. If he's telling lies, and he often is, he's only doing it to amuse us all. There's no harm in that, is there? You know, I sometimes like him. He's awfully low, but it's natural to him, eh? Don't you think so? Some people are low from self-interest, but he's simply so from nature. Only fancy. He claims, he was arguing about it all the way yesterday, that Gogol wrote dead souls about him. Do you remember, there's a land-owner called Maximov Inet, whom Nasryov thrashed. He was charged, do you remember, for inflicting bodily injury with rods on the land-owner Maximov in a drunken condition. Would you believe it? He claims that he was that Maximov, and that he was beaten. Now, can it be so? Tchikov made his journey at the very latest at the beginning of the twenties, so that the dates don't fit. He couldn't have been thrashed then. He couldn't, could he? It was difficult to imagine what Kalganov was excited about, but his excitement was genuine. Mitcher followed his lead without protest. Well, but if they did thrash him, he cried, laughing. It's not that they thrashed me exactly, but what I mean is, put in Maximov. What do you mean? Either they thrashed you or they didn't. What o'clock is it, Panya? The pole with the pipe asked his tall friend with a bored expression. The other shrugged his shoulders in reply. Neither of them had a watch. Why not talk? Let other people talk. Mustn't other people talk because you're bored? Grushanka flew at him with evident intention of finding fault. Something seemed for the first time to flash upon Mitcher's mind. This time the pole answered with unmistakable irritability. Pani, I didn't oppose it. I didn't say anything. All right then. Come, tell us your story, Grushanka cried to Maximov. Why are you all silent? There's nothing to tell. It's all so foolish. Answered Maximov at once, with evident satisfaction, mincing a little. Besides, all that's by way of allegory in Gogol, for he's made all the names have a meaning. Nasdriyov was really called Nosov, and Kuvshinikov had quite a different name. He was called Shkvornev. Finardi really was called Finardi. Only he wasn't an Italian, but a Russian, and Mamzell Finardi was a pretty girl with her pretty little legs in tights, and she had a little short skirt with spangles, and she kept turning round and round, only not for four hours, but for four minutes only, and she bewitched everyone. But what were you beaten for? cried Kalganov. For Pyrrhon, answered Maximov. What Pyrrhon? cried Mitcha. The famous French writer Pyrrhon. We were all drinking, then, a big party of us in a tavern at that very fair. They'd invited me, and first of all I began quoting epigrams. Is that you Boileau? What a funny get-up, and Boileau answers that he's going to a masquerade that is to the bath, and they took it to themselves, so I made haste to repeat another very sarcastic, well-known, to all educated people. Yes, Sappho and Theon are we, but one grief is weighing on me, you don't know your way to the sea. They were still more offended and began abusing me in the most unseemly way for it, and as ill luck would have it, to set things right, I began telling a very cultivated anecdote about Pyrrhon, how he was not accepted into the French Academy, and who, revenge himself, wrote his own epitaph. Siji Pyrrhon, qui ne fout rien, pas même à cadémicier. They seized me and thrashed me. But what for? What for? For my education, people can thrash a man for anything, Maximov concluded, briefly and sententiously. Eh, that's enough. That's all stupid. I don't want to listen. I thought it would be amusing. Grushenko cut them short, suddenly. Mitches started, and at once left off, laughing. The tall pole rose upon his feet, and with the haughty air of a man bored and out of his element began pacing from corner to corner of the room, his hands behind his back. Ah, he can't sit still, said Grushenko, looking at him contemptuously. Mitches began to feel anxious. He noticed besides that the pole on the sofa was looking at him with an irritable expression. Pania, cried Mitches, let's drink, and the other pan too, let us drink. In a flash he had pulled three glasses towards him and filled them with champagne. To Poland, Panovia, I drink to your Poland, cried Mitches. I shall be delighted, Pania, said the pole on the sofa, with dignity and affable condescension, and he took his glass. And the other pan, what's his name? Drink, most illustrious, take your glass, Mitches urged. Pan Wróblewski put in the pole on the sofa. Pan Wróblewski came up to the table, swaying as he walked. To Poland, Panovia, cried Mitches, raising his glass. Hurrah! All three drank. Mitches seized the bottle and the gain poured out three glasses. Now to Russia, Panovia, and let us be brothers. Pour out some for us, said Grushenko. I'll drink to Russia too. So will I, said Kalganov. And I would too, to Russia, the old grandmother, tittered Maximov. All, all, cried Mitches. Trifon Borisovich, some more bottles. The other three bottles Mitches had brought with him were put on the table. Mitches filled the glasses. To Russia, hurrah! he shouted again. All drank the toast except the poles, and Grushenko tossed off her whole glass at once. The poles did not touch theirs. How's this Panovia, cried Mitches, won't you drink it? Pan Wróblewski took the glass, raised it, and said with a resonant voice, to Russia as she was before 1772. Come, that's better, cried the other pole, and they both emptied their glasses at once. Your fools, you Panovia, broke suddenly from Mitches. Pania shouted both the poles menacingly, setting on Mitche like a couple of cocks. Pan Wróblewski was specially furious. Can one help loving one's own country? he shouted. Be silent, don't quarrel. I won't have any quarrelling, cried Grushenko imperiously, and she stamped her foot on the floor. Her face glowed, her eyes were shining, the effects of the glass she had just drunk were apparent. Mitche was terribly alarmed. Panovia, forgive me, it was my fault, I'm sorry, Wróblewski, Pania Wróblewski, I'm sorry. Hold your tongue, you anyway. Sit down, you stupid, Grushenko scolded with angry annoyance. Everyone sat down, all were silent, looking at one another. Gentlemen, I was the cause of it all. Mitche began again unable to make anything of Grushenko's words. Come, why are we sitting here? What shall we do to amuse ourselves again? Certainly anything but amusing, Kalganov mumbled lazily. Let's play Fero again, as we did just now, Maximov tittered suddenly. Fero splendid, cried Mitche, if only the Panovia. It's light, Panovia, the pole on the sofa responded as it were unwillingly. That's true, assented Pan Wróblewski. Light? What do you mean by light? asked Grushenko. Late, Pania, a late hour, I mean, the pole on the sofa explained. It's always late with them, they can never do anything. Grushenko almost shrieked in her anger. They're dull themselves, so they want others to be dull. Before you came, Mitche, they were just as silent and kept turning up their noses at me. My goddess! cried the pole on the sofa. I see you're not well disposed to me. That's why I'm gloomy. I'm ready, Pania, added he, addressing Mitche. Begin, Pania! Mitche assented, pulling his notes out of his pocket and laying two hundred ruble notes on the table. I want to lose a lot to you. Take your cards, make the bank. We'll have cards from the landlord, Pania, said the little pole, gravely and emphatically. That's much the best way, chimed in Pan Wróblewski. From the landlord? Very good, I understand. Let's get them from him. Cards! Mitche shouted to the landlord. The landlord brought in a new, unopened pack and informed Mitche that the girls were getting ready and that the Jews with the symbols would most likely be here soon, but the cart with the provisions had not yet arrived. Mitche jumped up from the table and ran into the next room to give orders, but only three girls had arrived and Maria was not there yet. And he did not know himself what orders to give and why he had run out. He only told them to take out of the box the presents for the girls, the sweets, the toffee, and the fondants, and Vodka for André. Vodka for André. He cried in haste. I was rude to André. Suddenly Maximov, who had followed him out, touched him on the shoulder. Give me five rubles, he whispered to Mitche. I'll stake something at Pharaoh, too. Capital! Splendid! Take ten! Here! Again he took all the notes out of his pocket and picked out one for ten rubles. And if you lose that, come again, come again. Very good! Maximov whispered joyfully and he ran back again. Mitche, too, returned apologizing for having kept them waiting. The poles had already sat down and opened the pack. They looked much more amiable, almost cord-show. The pole on the sofa had lighted another pipe and was preparing to throw. He wore an air of solemnity. To your places, gentlemen, cried Pan Rublewski. No, I'm not going to play any more, observed Kalganov. I've lost fifty rubles to them just now. The pan had no luck. Perhaps he'll be lucky this time. The pole on the sofa observed in his direction. How much in the bank, too, correspond, asked Mitche. That's according, Pania, maybe a hundred, maybe two hundred, as much as you will stake. A million, laughed Mitche. The pan-captain has heard of Pan Podvizatsky, perhaps. What Podvizatsky? In Warsaw there was a bank and anyone comes and stakes against it. Podvizatsky comes, sees a thousand gold pieces, stakes against the bank. The banker says, Pania Podvizatsky, are you laying down the gold, or must we trust to your honour? To my honour, Pania, says Podvizatsky. So much the better. The banker throws the dice. Podvizatsky wins. Take it, Pania, says the banker, and pulling out the drawer, he gives him a million. Take it, Pania, this is your gain. There was a million in the bank. I didn't know that, says Podvizatsky. Pania Podvizatsky, said the banker, you pledged your honour and we pledged ours. Podvizatsky took the million. That's not true, said Kalganov. Pania Kalganov, in gentlemanly society, one doesn't say such things. As if a Polish gambler would give away a million, cried Mitcha, but checked himself at once. Forgive me, Pania, it's my fault again. He would, he would give away a million. For honour, for Polish honour. You see how I talk Polish. Here, I stake ten rubles, the knave leads. And I put a ruble on the queen, the queen of hearts, the pretty little Pania Nachka. Laughed Maximov, pulling out his queen, and as though trying to conceal it from everyone, he moved right up and crossed himself hurriedly under the table. Mitcha won. The ruble won, too. A corner, cried Mitcha. I'll bet another ruble, a single stake, Maximov muttered gleefully, hugely delighted at having won a ruble. Lost, shouted Mitcha, a double on the seven. The seven, too, was trumped. Stop! cried Kalganov suddenly. Double, double! Mitcha doubled his stakes, and each time he doubled the stake, the card he doubled was trumped by the polls. The ruble stakes kept winning. On the double, shouted Mitcha furiously. You've lost two hundred, Pania. Will you stake another hundred? The poll on the sofa inquired. What, lost two hundred already? Then another two hundred, all doubles. And pulling his money out of his pocket, Mitcha was about to fling two hundred rubles on the queen, but Kalganov covered it with his hand. That's enough, he shouted in his ringing voice. What's the matter? Mitcha stared at him. That's enough. I don't want you to play any more. Don't. Why? Because I don't. Hang it. Come away. That's why. I won't let you go on playing. Mitcha gazed at him in astonishment. Give it up, Mitcha. He may be right. You've lost a lot as it is, said Grushenko, with a curious note in her voice. Both the polls rose from their seats with a deeply offended air. Are you joking, Pania? said the short man, looking severely at Kalganov. How dare you? Pankrublotsky, too, growled at Kalganov. Don't dare to shout like that, cried Grushenko. Ha, you turkey-cocks! Mitcha looked at each of them in turn, but something in Grushenko's face suddenly struck him, and at the same instant something new flashed into his mind a strange new thought. Penny Agrapina, the little poll was beginning, crimson with anger, when Mitcha suddenly went up to him and slapped him on the shoulder. Most illustrious, two words with you. What do you want? In the next room I have two words to say to you, something pleasant, very pleasant, you'll be glad to hear it. The little pan was taken aback and looked apprehensively at Mitcha. He agreed at once, however, on condition that Pangrublotsky went with them. The bodyguard let him come, and I want him, too. I must have him, cried Mitcha. March, Panuvia! Where are you going? asked Grushenko anxiously. We'll be back in one moment, answered Mitcha. There was a sort of boldness, a sudden confidence, shining in his eyes. His face had looked very different when he entered the room an hour before. He led the polls not into the large room where the chorus of girls was assembling and the table was being laid, but into the bedroom on the right, where the trunks and packages were kept, and there were two large beds with pyramids of cotton pillows on each. There was a lighted candle on a small deal table in the corner. The small man and Mitcha sat down to this table, facing each other, while the huge Vrublotsky stood beside them, his hands behind his back. The polls looked severe, but were evidently inquisitive. What can I do for you, Pania? lisped the little poll. Well, look here, Pania. I won't keep you long. There's money for you. He pulled out his notes. Would you like three thousand? Take it, and go your way. The poll gazed open-eyed at Mitcha with a searching look. Three thousand, Pania? He exchanged glances with Vrublotsky. Three, Panovia, three. Listen, Pania, I see you're a sensible man. Take three thousand, and go to the devil, and Vrublotsky with you. Do you hear? But at once, this very minute, and forever. You understand that, Pania? Forever. Here's the door. You go out of it. What have you got there, a great coat, a fur coat? I'll bring it out to you. They'll get the horses out directly, and then good-bye, Pania. Mitcha awaited an answer with assurance. He had no doubts. An expression of extraordinary resolution passed over the poll's face. And the money, Pania? The money, Pania? Five hundred rubles I'll give you this moment for the journey, and as a first installment. And two thousand five hundred tomorrow, in the town. I swear on my honour. I'll get it. I'll get it at any cost, cried Mitcha. The poll's exchanged glances again. The short man's face looked more forbidding. Seven hundred. Seven hundred, not five hundred, at once. This minute, cashed down, Mitcha added, feeling something wrong. What's the matter, Pania? Don't you trust me? I can't give you the whole three thousand straight off. If I give it, you may come back to her tomorrow. Besides, I haven't the three thousand with me. I've got it at home, in the town, faltered Mitcha, his spirit sinking at every word he uttered. Upon my word, the money's there, hidden. In an instant an extraordinary sense of personal dignity showed itself in the little man's face. What next, he asked ironically, for shame, and he spat on the floor. Panfrublevsky spat, too. You do that, Pania, said Mitcha, recognizing with despair that all was over, because you hoped to make more out of Grushinka? You're a couple of capons, that's what you are. This is a mortal insult. The little pole turned as red as a crab, and he went out of the room, briskly, as though unwilling to hear another word. Frublevsky swung out after him, and Mitcha followed, confused, and crestfallen. He was afraid of Grushinka, afraid that the pan would at once raise an outcry, and so indeed he did. The pole walked into the room and threw himself in a theatrical attitude before Grushinka. Pania Agropina, I have received a mortal insult, he exclaimed. But Grushinka suddenly lost all patience as though they had wounded her in the tenderest spot. Speak Russian, speak Russian, she cried, not another word of Polish. You used to talk Russian, you can't have forgotten it in five years. She was red with passion. Pania Agropina, my name's Agropina, Grushinka, speak Russian or I won't listen. The pole gasped with offended dignity, and quickly and pompously delivered himself in broken Russian. Pania Agropina, I came here to forget the past and forgive it, to forget all that has happened till to-day. Forgive! Came here to forgive me? Grushinka cut him short, jumping up from her seat. Just so pan-y, I'm not pusillanimous, I'm magnanimous, but I was astounded when I saw your lovers. Pan-Mitcha offered me three thousand in the other room to depart. I spat in the pan's face. What? He offered you money for me? cried Grushinka hysterically. Is it true, Mitcha? How dare you? Am I for sale? Pania, Pania, yelled Mitcha, she's pure and shining, and I have never been her lover. That's a lie. How dare you defend me to him? shrieked Grushinka. It wasn't virtue kept me pure, and it wasn't that I was afraid of kuzma, but that I might hold up my head when I met him, and tell him he's a scoundrel. And he did actually refuse the money? He took it, he took it, cried Mitcha, only he wanted to get the whole three thousand at once, and I could only give him seven hundred straight off. I see, he heard I had money, and came here to marry me. Pania, Grupina, cried the little Paul. I'm a knight, I'm a nobleman, and not a widoc. I came here to make you my wife, and I find you a different woman, perverse and shameless. I'll go back where you came from, I'll tell them to turn you out and you'll be turned out, cried Grushinka, furious. I've been a fool, a fool, to have been miserable these five years. And it wasn't for his sake, it was my anger made me miserable. And this isn't he at all. Was he like this? It might be his father. Where did you get your wig from? He was a falcon, but this is a gander. He used to laugh and sing to me, and I've been crying for five years, damned fool, abject shameless I was. She sank back in her low chair and hid her face in her hands. At that instant the chorus of macro began singing in the room on the left, a rollicking, dense song. A regular sodom, Rubilevsky roared suddenly. Landlord, send the shameless hussies away. The landlord, who had been for some time passed inquisitively peeping in at the door, hearing shouts and guessing that his guests were quarrelling, at once entered the room. What are you shouting for? Do you want to split your throat? He said, addressing Rubilevsky with surprising rudeness. Animal, bellowed pan Rubilevsky. Animal! And what sort of cards were you playing with just now? I gave you a pack and you hid it. You played with marked cards. I could send you to Siberia for playing with false cards. Do you know that? For it's just the same as false bank notes. And, going up to the sofa, he thrust his fingers between the sofa back and the cushion and pulled out an unopened pack of cards. Here's my pack unopened. He held it up and showed it to all in the room. From where I stood I saw him slip my pack away and put his in place of it. You're a cheat and not a gentleman. And I twice saw the pan change a card, cried Kalganov. How shameful! How shameful! exclaimed Grushanka, clasping her hands and blushing for genuine shame. Good Lord, he's come to that! I thought so too, said Mitcher, but before he had uttered the words, Frublevsky, with a confused and infuriated face, shook his fist at Grushanka, shouting, You low harlot! Mitcher flew at him at once, clutched him in both hands, lifted him in the air, and in one instant had carried him into the room on the right from which they had just come. I've laid him on the floor there, he announced, returning at once, gasping with excitement. He's struggling the scoundrel, but he won't come back, no fear of that. He closed one half of the folding doors, and, holding the other ajar, called out to the little pole. Most illustrious, will you be pleased to retire as well? My dear Dmitry Fyodorovich, said Trifon Borisovich, make them give you back the money you lost. It's as good as stolen from you. I don't want my fifty rubles back, Kalganov declared suddenly. I don't want my two hundred either, cried Mitcher. I wouldn't take it for anything. Let him keep it as a consolation. Bravo, Mitcher! You're a Trump, Mitcher! cried Grushanka, and there was a note of fierce anger in the exclamation. The little pan, crimson with fury, but still mindful of his dignity, was making for the door, but he stopped short, and said suddenly, addressing Grushanka, Penny, if you want to come with me, come. If not, goodbye. And swelling with indignation and importance, he went to the door. This was a man of character. He had so good an opinion of himself, that after all that had passed, he still expected that she would marry him. Mitcher slammed the door after him. Lock it, said Kalganov. But the key clicked on the other side. They had locked it from within. That's capital, exclaimed Grushanka relentlessly. Serve them right. End of Section 52 Section 53 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Book 8, Chapter 8, Delirium What followed was almost an orgy, a feast to which all were welcome. Grushanka was the first to call for wine. I want to drink, I want to be quite drunk, as we were before. Do you remember, Mitcher, do you remember how we made friends here last time? Mitcher himself was almost delirious, feeling that his happiness was at hand. But Grushanka was continually sending him away from her. Go and enjoy yourself. Tell them to dance, to make merry. Let the stove and cottage dance, as we had it last time. She kept exclaiming. She was tremendously excited, and Mitcher hastened to obey her. The chorus were in the next room. The room in which they had been sitting till that moment was too small, and was divided into by cotton curtains, behind which was a huge bed with a puffy feather mattress and a pyramid of cotton pillows. In the four rooms for visitors there were beds. Grushanka settled herself just at the door. Mitcher sat in the easy chair for her. She had sat in the same place to watch the dancing and singing the time before when they had made merry there. All the girls who had come had been there then. The Jewish band with fiddles and sithers had come too, and at last the long-expected cart had arrived with the wines and provisions. Mitcher bustled about. All sorts of people began coming into the room to look on, peasants and their women, who had been roused from sleep and attracted by the hopes of another marvellous entertainment such as they had enjoyed a month before. Mitcher remembered their faces, greeting and embracing everyone he knew. He uncorked bottles and poured out wine for everyone who presented himself. Only the girls were very eager for the champagne. The men preferred rum, brandy, and above all hot punch. Mitcher had chocolate made for all the girls, and ordered that three samovars should be kept boiling all night to provide tea and punch for everyone to help himself. An absurd chaotic confusion followed, but Mitcher was in his natural element, and the more foolish it became the more his spirits rose. If the peasants had asked him for money at that moment, he would have pulled out his notes and given them away right and left. This was probably why the landlard Triforn Borisovich kept hovering about Mitcher to protect him. He seemed to have given up all idea of going to bed that night, but he drank little, only one glass of punch, and kept a sharp look out on Mitcher's interests after his own fashion. He intervened in the nick of time, civilly and obsequiously persuading Mitcher not to give away cigars and rind wine, and above all money to the peasants as he had done before. He was very indignant, too, at the peasant girl's drinking liqueur and eating sweets. They were lousy lot, Dmitri Fyodorovich, he said. I'd give them a kick every one of them, and they'd take it as an honour. That's all they're worth. Mitcher remembered Andrei again and ordered punch to be sent out to him. I was rude to him just now. He repeated with a sinking, softened voice. Kalganov did not want to drink, and at first did not care for the girl's singing, but after he had drunk a couple of glasses of champagne he became extraordinarily lively, strolling about the room, laughing and praising the music and the songs, admiring everyone and everything. Maksimov, blissfully drunk, never left his side. Grushenko, too, was beginning to get drunk. Pointing to Kalganov, she said to Mitcher, What a dear charming boy he is! And Mitcher, delighted, ran to kiss Kalganov and Maksimov. Oh, great were his hopes! She had said nothing yet, and seemed indeed purposely to refrain from speaking, but she looked at him from time to time with caressing and passionate eyes. At last she suddenly gripped his hand and drew him vigorously to her. She was sitting at the moment in the low chair by the door. How was it you came just now, eh? How you walked in! I was frightened. So you wanted to give me up to him, did you? Did you really want to? I didn't want to spoil your happiness, Mitcher faltered blissfully, but she did not need his answer. Well, go and enjoy yourself. She sent him away once more. Don't cry, I'll call you back again. He would run away, and she listened to the singing and looked at the dancing, though her eyes followed him wherever he went. But in another quarter of an hour she would call him once more, and again he would run back to her. Come, sit beside me. Tell me, how did you hear about me and my coming here yesterday? From whom did you first hear it? And Mitcher began telling her all about it, disconnectedly, incoherently, feverishly. He spoke strangely, often frowning, and stopping abruptly. What are you frowning at? she asked. Nothing. I left a man ill there. I'd give ten years of my life for him to get well, to know he was all right. Well, never mind him if he's ill. So you meant to shoot yourself tomorrow? What a silly boy. What for? I like such reckless fellows as you, she lisped, with a rather halting tongue. So you would go any length for me, eh? Did you really mean to shoot yourself tomorrow? You stupid? No, wait a little. Tomorrow I may have something to say to you. I won't say it to-day, but to-morrow. You'd like it to be to-day? No, I don't want to, to-day. Come, go along now. Go and amuse yourself. Once, however, she called him as it were puzzled and uneasy. Why are you sad? I see you're sad. Yes, I see it, she added, looking intently into his eyes. Though you keep kissing the peasants and shouting, I see something. No, be merry. I'm merry. You be merry, too. I love somebody here. Guess who it is. Look, my boy has fallen asleep, poor dear. He's drunk. She meant Kalganav. He was, in fact, drunk and had dropped asleep for a moment sitting on the sofa. But he was not merely drowsy from drink. He felt suddenly dejected or, as he said, bored. He was intensely depressed by the girl's songs, which, as the drinking went on, gradually became coarse and more reckless, and the dances were as bad. Two girls dressed up as bears and a lively girl, called Stapanida, with a stick in her hand, acted the part of keeper, and began to show them. Look alive, Maria, or you'll get the stick. The bears rolled on the ground at last in the most unseemly fashion amid roars of laughter from the closely packed crowd of men and women. Well, let them, let them, said Grushinka sententiously, with an ecstatic expression on her face. When they do get a day to enjoy themselves, why shouldn't folks be happy? Kalganav looked as though he had been besmirched with dirt. It's swinish all this peasant foolery. He murmured, moving away. It's the game they play when it's light all night in summer. He particularly disliked one new song to a jaunty dance tune. It described how a gentleman came and tried his luck with the girls to see whether they would love him. The master came to try the girls, would they love him, would they not? But the girls could not love the master. He would beat me cruelly, and such love won't do for me. Then a gypsy comes along, and he too tries. The gypsy came to try the girls, would they love him, would they not? But they couldn't love the gypsy either. He would be a thief I fear, and would cause me many a tear. And many more men came to try their luck, among them a soldier. The soldier came to try the girls, would they love him, would they not? But the soldier is rejected with contempt in two indecent lines, sung with absolute frankness and producing a furor in the audience. The song ends with a merchant. The merchant came to try the girls, would they love him, would they not? And it appears that he wins their love, because the merchant will make gold for me, and his queen I'll gladly be. Calgana was positively indignant. That's just a song of yesterday, he said aloud. Who writes such things for them? They might just as well have had a railwayman or a Jew come to try his luck with the girls, they'd have carried all before them. And almost as though it were a personal affront, he declared on the spot that he was bored, sat down on the sofa, and immediately fell asleep. His pretty little face looked rather pale as it fell back on the sofa cushion. Look how pretty he is, said Grushanka, taking Mitcha up to him. I was combing his hair just now. His hair is like flax, and so thick. And bending over him tenderly, she kissed his forehead. Calgana instantly opened his eyes, looked at her, stood up, and with the most anxious air inquired, where was Maximov? So that's who it is you want, Grushanka laughed. Stay with me a minute. Mitcha, run and find his Maximov. Maximov, it appeared, could not tear himself away from the girls, only running away from time to time to pour himself out a glass of liqueur. He had drunk two cups of chocolate. His face was red, and his nose was crimson. His eyes were moist and mockishly sweet. He ran up and announced that he was going to dance the saboteer. They taught me all those well-bred aristocratic dances when I was little. Go, go with him, Mitcha, and I'll watch from here how he dances, said Grushanka. No, no, I'm coming to look on too, exclaimed Calganov, brushing aside in the most naive way Grushanka's offered to sit with him. They all went to look on. Maximov danced his dance, but it roused no great admiration in anyone but Mitcha. It consisted of nothing but skipping and hopping, kicking up the feet, and at every skip Maximov slapped the upturned soul of his foot. Calganov did not like it at all, but Mitcha kissed the dancer. Thanks, you're tired perhaps. What are you looking for here? Would you like some sweets, a cigar perhaps? A cigarette. Don't you want a drink? I'll just have a liqueur. Have you any chocolates? Yes, there's a heap of them on the table there. Choose one, my dear soul. I like one with vanilla for old people. No, brother, we've none of that special sort. I say, the old man bent down to whisper in Mitcha's ear, that girl there, little Maria, how would it be if you were to help me make friends with her? So that's what you're after. No, brother, that won't do. I do no harm to any one, Maximov muttered disconsolently. Oh, all right, all right. They only come here to dance and sing, you know, brother. But damn it all, wait a bit. Eat and drink and be merry, meanwhile. Don't you want money? Later on, perhaps, smiled Maximov. All right, all right. Mitcha's head was burning. He went outside to the wooden balcony, which ran round the whole building on the inner side overlooking the courtyard. The fresh air revived him. He stood alone in a dark corner and suddenly clutched his head in both hands. His scattered thoughts came together, his sensations blended into a hole and threw a sudden light into his mind. A fearful and terrible light. If I'm to shoot myself, why not now? passed through his mind. Why not go for the pistols, bring them here, and here in this dark dirty corner make an end? Almost a minute he stood, undecided. A few hours earlier, when he had been dashing here, he was pursued by disgrace, by the theft he had committed and that blood, that blood. But yet it was easier for him then. Then everything was over. He had lost her, given her up. She was gone for him. Oh, then his death sentence had been easier for him. At least it had seemed necessary, inevitable, for what had he to stay on earth for. But now? Was it the same as then? Now one phantom, one terror at least, was at an end. That first rightful lover, that fateful figure, had vanished, leaving no trace. The terrible phantom had turned into something so small, so comic. It had been carried into the bedroom and locked in. It would never return. She was ashamed, and from her eyes he could see now whom she loved. Now he had everything to make life happy. But he could not go on living. He could not. Oh, damnation. Oh, God, restore to life the man I knocked down at the fence. Let this fearful cup pass from me. Lord, thou hast wrought miracles for such sinners as me. But what if the old man's alive? Oh, then the shame of the other disgrace I would wipe away. I would restore the stolen money. I'd give it back. I'd get it somehow. No trace of that shame will remain, except in my heart, forever. But no, no, oh, impossible cowardly dreams. Oh, damnation. Yet there was a ray of light and hope in his darkness. He jumped up and ran back to the room, to her, to her, his queen, forever. Was not one moment of her love worth all the rest of life, even in the agonies of disgrace? This wild question clutched at his heart. To her, to her alone, to see her, to hear her, to think of nothing, to forget everything, if only for that night, for an hour, for a moment. Just as he turned from the balcony into the passage, he came upon the landlord, Trifon Borisovich. He thought he looked gloomy and worried and fancied he had come to find him. What is it, Trifon Borisovich? Are you looking for me? No, sir. The landlord seemed disconcerted. Why should I be looking for you? Where have you been? Why do you look so glum? You're not angry, are you? Wait a bit. You shall soon get to bed. What's the time? It'll be three o'clock. Past three, it must be. We'll leave off soon. We'll leave off. Don't mention it. It doesn't matter. Keep it up as long as you like. What's the matter with him? Mitchell wondered for an instant, and he ran back to the room where the girls were dancing. But she was not there. She was not in the blue room, either. There was no one but Kalganov asleep on the sofa. Mitchell peeped behind the curtain. She was there. She was sitting in the corner on a trunk, bent forward with her head and arms on the bed close by. She was crying bitterly, doing her utmost to stifle her sobs that she might not be heard. Seeing Mitchell, she beckoned him to her, and when he ran to her, she grasped his hand tightly. Mitchell, Mitchell, I loved him, you know. How I have loved him these five years, all that time. Did I love him or only my own anger? No. Him. Him. It's a lie that it was my anger I loved, and not him. Mitchell, I was only seventeen then. He was so kind to me, so merry. He used to sing to me. Or so it seemed to a silly girl like me. And now, oh Lord, it's not the same man. Even his face is not the same. He's different altogether. I shouldn't have known him. I drove here with Timothy, and all the way I was thinking how I should meet him, what I should say to him, how we should look at one another. My soul was faint, and all of a sudden it was just as though he had emptied a pail of dirty water over me. He talked to me like a schoolmaster, all so grave and learned. He met me so solemnly that I was struck dumb. I couldn't get a word in. At first I thought he was ashamed to talk before his great big poll. I sat staring at him and wondering why I couldn't say a word to him now. It must have been his wife that ruined him. You know, he threw me up to get married. She must have changed him like that. Mitchell, how shameful it is. Oh, Mitchell, I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed for all my life. Curse it, curse it, curse those five years. And again she burst into tears, but clung tight to Mitchell's hand and did not let it go. Mitchell, darling, stay, don't go away. I want to say one word to you, she whispered, and suddenly raised her face to him. Listen, tell me, who is it I love? I love one man here. Who is that man? That's what you must tell me. A smile lighted up her face that was swollen with weeping, and her eyes shone in the half darkness. A falcon flew in, and my heart sank. Fool, that's the man you love. That was what my heart whispered to me at once. You came in, and all grew bright. What's he afraid of, I wondered, for you were frightened. You couldn't speak. It's not them he's afraid of. Could you be frightened of anyone? It's me he's afraid of, I thought, only me. So Fenya told you, you little stupid, how I called to Al Yasha out of the window that I'd loved Michenka for one hour, and that I was going now to love another. Mitchell, Mitchell, how could I be such a fool as to think I could love anyone after you? Do you forgive me, Mitchell? Do you forgive me or not? Do you love me? Do you love me? She jumped up and held him with both hands on his shoulders. Mitchell, dumb with rapture, gazed into her eyes, at her face, at her smile, and suddenly clasped her tightly in his arms, and kissed her passionately. You will forgive me for having tormented you? It was through spite I tormented you all. It was through spite I drove the old man out of his mind. Do you remember how you drank at my house one day and broke the wine glass? I remembered that, and I broke a glass today and drank to my vile heart. Mitchell, my falcon, why don't you kiss me? He kissed me once, and now he draws back and looks and listens. Why listen to me? Kiss me, kiss me hard, that's right. If you love, well, then love! I'll be your slave now, your slave for the rest of my life. It's sweet to be a slave. Kiss me, beat me, ill-treat me, do what you will with me, and I do deserve to suffer. Stay, wait, afterwards. I won't have that. She suddenly thrust him away. Go along, Mitchell. I'll come and have some wine. I want to be drunk. I'm going to get drunk and dance. I must. I must. She tore herself away from him and disappeared behind the curtain. Mitchell followed like a drunken man. Yes, come what may. Whatever may happen now. For one minute I'd give the whole world, he thought. Rushanka did, in fact, toss off a whole glass of champagne at one gulp and became at once very tipsy. She sat down in the same chair as before with a blissful smile on her face. Her cheeks were glowing, her lips were burning, her flashing eyes were moist. There was passionate appeal in her eyes. Even Kalgana felt a stir at the heart and went up to her. Did you feel how I kissed you when you were asleep just now? She said thickly, I'm drunk now, that's what it is. And aren't you drunk? And why isn't Mitchell drinking? Why don't you drink, Mitchell? I'm drunk, and you don't drink? I am drunk. I'm drunk as it is. Drunk with you. But now I'll be drunk with wine, too. He drank off another glass, and he thought it strange himself. That glass made him completely drunk. He was suddenly drunk, though till that moment he had been quite sober. He remembered that. From that moment everything whirled about him as though he were delirious. He walked, laughed, talked to everybody without knowing what he was doing. Only one persistent burning sensation made itself felt continually like a red hot coal in his heart, he said afterwards. He went up to her, sat beside her, gazed at her, listened to her. She became very talkative, kept calling everyone to her, and beckoned to different girls out of the chorus. When the girl came up she either kissed her or made the sign of the cross over her. In another minute she might have cried. She was greatly amused by the little old man, as she called Maximov. He ran up every minute to kiss her hands, each little finger, and finally he danced another dance to an old song, which he sang himself. He danced with special vigor to the refrain. The little pig says oomph, oomph, oomph. The little calf says moo, moo, moo. The little duck says quack, quack, quack. The little goose says ga, ga, ga. The hen goes strutting through the porch. To roo, roo, roo, roo. She'll say. To roo, roo, roo, roo. She'll say. Give him something, Misha, said Grushanka. Give him a present. He's poor, you know. The poor, the insulted. Do you know, Misha, I shall go into a nunnery. No, I really shall one day. Alyosha said something to me today that I shall remember all my life. Yes, but today let us dance. Tomorrow to the nunnery, but today we'll dance. I want to play today, good people, and what of it? God will forgive us. If I were God I'd forgive everyone. My dear sinners, from this day forth I forgive you. I'm going to beg forgiveness. Forgive me, good people, a silly wench. I'm a beast. That's what I am. But I want to pray. I gave a little onion. Wicked as I've been. I want to pray. Misha, let them dance. Don't stop them. Everyone in the world is good. Everyone, even the worst of them. The world's a nice place. The we're bad. The world's all right. We're good and bad, good and bad. Come, tell me, have something to ask you. Come here, everyone, and I'll ask you. Why am I so good? You know I am good. I'm very good. Come, why am I so good? So Grushanka babbled on, getting more and more drunk. At last she announced that she was going to dance, too. She got up from her chair, staggering. Misha, don't give me any more wine. If I ask you, don't give it to me. Wine doesn't give peace. Everything's going round. The stove and everything. I want to dance. Let everyone see how I dance. Let them see how beautifully I dance. She really meant it. She pulled a white cambrick handkerchief out of her pocket and took it by one corner in her right hand to wave it in the dance. Misha ran to and fro. The girls were quiet and got ready to break into a dancing song at the first signal. Maximov, hearing that Grushanka wanted to dance, squealed with delight and ran, skipping about in front of her, humming, with legs so slim and sides so trim and its little tail curled tight. But Grushanka waved her handkerchief at him and drove him away. Sh! Misha, why don't they come? Let everyone come to look on. Call them in, too, that we're locked in. Why did you lock them in? Tell them I'm going to dance. Let them look on, too. Misha walked with a drunken swagger to the locked door and began knocking to the poles with his fist. Hi, you, Pudzysotsky's. Come, she's going to dance. She calls you. Why duck, one of the poles shouted in reply. You're a why duck yourself. You're a little scoundrel. That's what you are. Leave off laughing at Poland, said Kalganov sententiously. He, too, was drunk. Be quiet, boy. If I call him a scoundrel, it doesn't mean that I called all Poland so, when why duck doesn't make a Poland. Be quiet, my pretty boy. Eat a sweet meat. Ah, what fellows, as though they were not men. Why won't they make friends, said Grushinka, and went forward to dance. The chorus broke into, ah, my porch, my new porch. Grushinka flung back her head, half opened her lips, smiled, waved her handkerchief, and suddenly, with a violent lurch, stood still, in the middle of the room, looking bewildered. I'm weak, she said, in an exhausted voice. Forgive me. I'm weak. I can't. I'm sorry. She bowed to the chorus, and then began bowing in all directions. I'm sorry. Forgive me. The lady's been drinking. The pretty lady has been drinking, voices were heard saying. The lady's drunk too much, Maximoth explained to the girls, giggling. Misha, lead me away. Take me, said Grushinka, helplessly. Misha pounced on her, snatched her up in his arms, and carried the precious burden through the curtains. Well, now I'll go, thought Kalganov, and walking out of the blue room, he closed the two halves of the door after him. But the orgy in the larger room went on, and grew louder and louder. Misha laid Grushinka on the bed, and kissed her on the lips. Don't touch me, she faltered, in an imploring voice. Don't touch me till I'm yours. I've told you I'm yours, but don't touch me. Spare me. With them here, with them close, you mustn't. He's here. It's nasty here. I'll obey you. I won't think of it. I worship you, muttered Misha. Yes, it's nasty here. It's abominable. And still holding her in his arms, he sank on his knees by the bedside. I know, though you're a brute, you're a generous Grushinka, articulated with difficulty. It must be honourable. It shall be honourable for the future. And let us be honest, let us be good, not brutes, but good. Take me away. Take me far away. Do you hear? I don't want it to be here, but far, far away. Oh, yes, yes, it must be, said Misha, pressing her in his arms. I'll take you, and we'll fly away. Oh, I'd give my whole life for one year only to know about that blood. What blood? asked Grushinka, bewildered. Nothing, muttered Misha, through his teeth. Grusha, you wanted to be honest, but I'm a thief, but I've stolen money from Katcha. Disgrace, a disgrace. From Katcha, from that young lady. No, you didn't steal it. Give it her back. Take it from me. Why make a fuss? Now everything of mine is yours. What does money matter? We shall waste it anyway. Folks like us are bound to waste money. But we'd better go and work the land. I want to dig the earth with my own hands. We must work. Do you hear? Ayasha said so. I won't be your mistress. I'll be faithful to you. I'll be your slave. I'll work for you. We'll go to the young lady and bow down to her together, so that she may forgive us, and then we'll go away. And if she won't forgive us, we'll go anyway. Take her her money and love me. Don't love her. Don't love her any more. If you love her, I shall strangle her. I'll put out both her eyes with a needle. I love you. I love only you. I'll love you in Siberia. Why Siberia? Never mind. Siberia, if you like. I don't care. We'll work. The snow in Siberia, I love driving in the snow, and must have bells. Do you hear? There's a bell ringing. Where is that bell ringing? There are people coming. Now it's stopped. She closed her eyes, exhausted, and suddenly felt asleep for an instant. There had certainly been the sound of the bell in the distance, but the ringing had ceased. Mitchell at his head sink on her breast. He did not notice that the bell had ceased ringing, nor did he notice that the songs had ceased, and that instead of singing and drunken clamour there was absolute stillness in the house. Grushanka opened her eyes. What's the matter? Was I asleep? Yes, a bell. I've been asleep and dreamt I was driving over the snow with bells, and I dozed. I was with someone I loved, with you, and far, far away. I was holding you and kissing you, nestling close to you. I was cold and the snow glistened. You know how the snow glistens at night when the moon shines. It was as though I was not on earth. I woke up, and my dear one is close to me. How sweet that is! Close to you, murmured Mitchell, kissing her dress, her bosom, her hands. And suddenly he had a strange fancy. It seemed to him that she was looking straight before her, not at him, not into his face, but over his head, with an intent almost uncanny fixity. An expression of wonder, almost of alarm, came suddenly into her face. Mitchell, who is that looking at us? She whispered. Mitchell turned and saw that someone had, in fact, parted the curtains and seemed to be watching them, and not one person alone, it seemed. He jumped up and walked quickly to the intruder. Here come to us, come here, said a voice, speaking not loudly but firmly and peremptorily. Mitchell passed to the other side of the curtain and stood stock still. The room was filled with people, but not those who had been there before. An instantaneous shiver ran down his back, and he shuddered. He recognized all those people instantly. That tall, stout old man in the overcoat and forage cap with the cockade was the police captain, Mihail Makanovic. And that consumptive-looking trim dandy who always has such polished boots, that was the deputy prosecutor. He has a chronometer worth four hundred rubles, he showed it to me. And that small young man in spectacles, Mitchell forgot his surname, though he knew him, had seen him. He was the investigating lawyer from the School of Jurisprudence, who had only lately come to the town. And this man, the inspector of police, Mavriki Mavrikevich, a man he knew well, and those fellows with the brass plates on, why are they here? And those other two peasants, and here at the door Kalganov with Trafon Borisovich. Gentlemen, what's this for, gentlemen? began Mitchell. But suddenly, as though beside himself, not knowing what he was doing, he cried aloud at the top of his voice. I understand. The young man in spectacles moved forward suddenly and stepping up to Mitchell began with dignity, though hurriedly. We have to make, in brief, I beg you to come this way, this way to the sofa. It is absolutely imperative that you should give an explanation. The old man cried Mitchell frantically. The old man and his blood, I understand. And he sank, almost fell, on that chair close by, as though he had been moaned down by a scythe. You understand. He understands it, monster and parasite. Your father's blood cries out against you. The old captain of police roared suddenly, stepping up to Mitchell. He was beside himself, crimson in the face and quivering all over. This is impossible, cried the small young man. Mikhail Makarevich, Mikhail Makarevich, this won't do. I beg you'll allow me to speak. I should never have expected such behaviour from you. This is delirium, gentlemen, raving delirium, cried the captain of police. Look at him, drunk, at this time of night, in the company of a disreputable woman, with the blood of his father on his hands. It's delirium. I beg you most earnestly, dear Mikhail Makarevich, to restrain your feelings, the prosecutor said in a rapid whisper to the old police captain, or I shall be forced to resort due. But the little lawyer did not allow him to finish. He turned to Mitchell, and delivered himself in a loud, firm, dignified voice. Ex-Latenant Karamazov, it is my duty to inform you that you are charged with the murder of your father. Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, perpetrated this night. He said something more, and the prosecutor, too, put in something. But though Mitchell heard them, he did not understand them. He stared at them all with wild eyes. Section 54 Of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Book 9 The Preliminary Investigation Chapter 1 The Beginning of Perhotin's Official Career Piotr Ilyich Perhotin, whom we left knocking at the strong locked gates of the widow Morozov's house, ended, of course, by making himself heard. Fenya, who was still excited by the fright she had had two hours before, and too much upset to go to bed, was almost frightened into hysterics on hearing the furious knocking at the gate. Though she had herself seen him drive away, she fancied that it must be Dmitri Fyodorovich knocking again, no one else could knock so savagely. She ran to the house-porter, who had already waked up and gone out to the gate, and began imploring him not to open it. But having questioned Piotr Ilyich and learned that he wanted to see Fenya on very important business, the man made up his mind at last to open. Piotr Ilyich was admitted into Fenya's kitchen, but the girl begged him to allow the house-porter to be present because of her misgivings. He began questioning her and at once learned the most vital fact, that is, that when Dmitri Fyodorovich had run out to look for Grushanka, he had snatched up a pestle from the mortar, and that when he returned the pestle was not with him, and his hands were smeared with blood. And the blood was simply flowing, dripping from him, dripping, Fenya kept exclaiming. This horrible detail was simply the product of her disordered imagination, but although not dripping, Piotr Ilyich had himself seen those hands stained with blood and had helped to wash them. Moreover, the question he had to decide was not how soon the blood had dried, but where Dmitri Fyodorovich had run with the pestle, or rather whether it really was to Fyodor Pavlovich's, and how he could satisfactorily ascertain. Piotr Ilyich persisted in returning to this point, and though he found out nothing conclusive, yet he carried away a conviction that Dmitri Fyodorovich could have gone nowhere but to his father's house, and that therefore something must have happened there. And when he came back, Fenya added with excitement, I told him the whole story, and then I began asking him, Why have you got blood on your hands, Dmitri Fyodorovich? And he answered that that was human blood, and that he had just killed someone. He confessed it all to me, and suddenly ran off like a madman. I sat down and began thinking, Where's he run off to now like a madman? He'll go to Makro, I thought, and kill my mistress there. I ran out to beg him not to kill her. I was running to his lodgings, but I looked at Plotnikov's shop and saw him just setting off, and there was no blood on his hands then. Fenya had noticed this and remembered it. Fenya's old grandmother confirmed her evidence as far as she was capable. After asking some further questions, Pyotr Ilyich left the house even more upset and uneasy than he had been when he entered it. The most direct and the easiest thing for him to do would have been to go straight to Fyodor Pavlovitch's to find out whether anything had happened there, and if so, what, and only to go to the police captain as Pyotr Ilyich firmly intended doing when he had satisfied himself of the fact. But the night was dark, Fyodor Pavlovitch's gates were strong, and he would have to knock again. His acquaintance with Fyodor Pavlovitch was of the slightest, and what if after he had been knocking they opened to him and nothing had happened? Then Fyodor Pavlovitch in his jeering way would go telling the story all over the town how a stranger called Perhotin had broken in upon him at midnight to ask if anyone had killed him. It would make a scandal, and scandal was what Pyotr Ilyich treaded more than anything in the world. Yet the feeling that possessed him was so strong that, though he stamped his foot angrily and swore at himself, he set off again, not to Fyodor Pavlovitch's but to Madame Holokov's. He decided that if she denied having just given Dmitry Fyodorovich three thousand rubles he would go straight to the police captain, but if she admitted having given him the money he would go home and let the matter rest till next morning. It is of course perfectly evident that there was even more likelihood of causing scandal by going at eleven o'clock at night to a fashionable lady, a complete stranger, and perhaps rousing her from her bed to ask her an amazing question, than by going to Fyodor Pavlovitch. But that is just how it is, sometimes, especially in cases like the present one, with the decisions of the most precise and phlegmatic people. Pyotr Ilyich was by no means phlegmatic at that moment. He remembered all his life, how a haunting uneasiness gradually gained possession of him, growing more and more painful and driving him on against his will. Yet he kept cursing himself, of course, all the way for going to this lady, but I will get to the bottom of it, I will. He repeated for the tenth time, grinding his teeth, and he carried out his intention. It was exactly eleven o'clock when he entered Madame Holakoff's house. He was admitted into the yard pretty quickly, but in response to his inquiry whether the lady was still up, the porter could give no answer, except that she was usually in bed by that time. Ask at the top of the stairs, if the lady wants to receive you, she'll receive you. If she won't, she won't. Pyotr Ilyich went up, but did not sign things so easy here. The footman was unwilling to take in his name, but finally called a maid. Pyotr Ilyich politely but insistently begged her to inform her lady that an official living in the town, called Perhotin, had called on particular business, and that if it were not of the greatest importance he would not have ventured to come. Tell her in those words, in those words exactly, he asked the girl. She went away. He remained waiting in the entry. Madame Holakoff herself was already in her bedroom, though not yet asleep. She had felt upset ever since Mitch's visit, and had a presentiment that she would not get through the night without the sick headache which always with her followed such excitement. She was surprised on hearing the announcement from the maid. She irritably declined to see him, however, though the unexpected visit at such an hour of an official living in the town, who was a total stranger, roused her feminine curiosity intensely. But this time Pyotr Ilyich was as obstinate as a mule. He begged the maid most earnestly to take another message in these very words, that he had come on business of the greatest importance and that Madame Holakoff might have caused to regret it later if she refused to see him now. I plunged headlong, he described it afterwards. The maid, gazing at him in amazement, went to take his message again. Madame Holakoff was impressed. She thought a little, asked what he looked like, and learned that he was very well dressed, young, and so polite. We may note, parenthetically, that Pyotr Ilyich was a rather good-looking young man and well aware of the fact. Madame Holakoff made up her mind to see him. She was in her dressing gown and slippers, but she flung a black shawl over her shoulders. The official was asked to walk into the drawing-room, the very room in which Mitche had been received shortly before. The lady came to meet her visitor with a sternly inquiring countenance, and, without asking him to sit down, began at once with the question, What do you want? I have ventured to disturb you, Madame, on a matter concerning our common acquaintance, Dmitry Fyodorovich Karamazov, Perhotin began. But he had hardly uttered the name, when the lady's face showed signs of acute irritation. She almost shrieked and interrupted him in a fury. How much longer am I to be worried by that awful man? She cried hysterically. How dare you, sir? How could you venture to disturb a lady who is a stranger to you, in her own house at such an hour, and to force yourself upon her to talk of a man who came here to this very drawing-room only three hours ago to murder me, and went stamping out of the room as no one would go out of it decent house? Let me tell you, sir, that I shall lodge a complaint against you, that I will not let it pass. Kindly leave me at once. I am a mother. I—I— Murdered. Then he tried to murder you, too? Why? Has he killed somebody else? Madam Holakoff asked impulsively. If you would kindly listen, madam, for half the moment I'll explain it all in a couple of words, answered Perhotin firmly. At five o'clock this afternoon Dmitry Fyodorovich borrowed ten rubles from me, and I know for a fact he had no money. Yet at nine o'clock he came to see me with a bundle of hundred rubles notes in his hand, about two or three thousand rubles. His hands and face were all covered with blood, and he looked like a madman. When I asked him where he had got so much money, he answered that he had just received it from you, that you had given him a sum of three thousand to go to the gold mines. Madam Holakoff's face assumed an expression of intense and painful excitement. Good God! he must have killed his old father! she cried, clasping her hands. I have never given him money, never. Oh, run, run, don't say another word, save the old man, run to his father, run! Excuse me, madam, then you did not give him money? You remember for a fact that you did not give him any money? No, I didn't, I didn't. I refused to give it him, for he could not appreciate it. He ran out in a fury, stamping. He rushed at me, but I slipped away, and let me tell you, as I wish to hide nothing from you now, that he positively spat at me. Can you fancy that? But why are we standing? Ah, sit down. Excuse me, I—or better, run, run, you must run and save the poor old man from an awful death. But if he has killed him already—ah, good heavens, yes! Then what are we to do now? What do you think we must do now? Meantime she had made Piotr Ilyich sit down and sat down herself, facing him. Briefly, but fairly clearly, Piotr Ilyich told her the history of the affair, that part of it at least which he had himself witnessed. He described to his visit to Fenya and told her about the pestle. All these details produced an overwhelming effect on the distracted lady who kept uttering shrieks and covering her face with her hands. Would you believe that I foresaw all this? I have that special faculty, whatever I imagine comes to pass, and how often I've looked at that awful man, and always thought that man will end by murdering me, and now it's happened. That is, if he hasn't murdered me but only his own father, it's only because the finger of God preserved me, and what's more, he was ashamed to murder me, because in this very place I put the holy icon from the relics of the holy martyr, Saint Varvara, on his neck, and to think how near I was to death at that minute, I went close up to him, and he stretched out his neck to me. Do you know, Piotr Ilyich? I think you said your name was Piotr Ilyich. I don't believe in miracles, but that icon, and this unmistakable miracle with me now, that shakes me, and I'm ready to believe in anything you like. Have you heard about Father Sassima? But I don't know what I'm saying, and only fancy with the icon on his neck he spat at me. He only spat, it's true, he didn't murder me, and he dashed away. But what shall we do? What must we do now? What do you think? Piotr Ilyich got up and announced that he was going straight to the police captain to tell him all about it, and leave him to do what he thought fit. Oh, he's an excellent man, excellent! Mihail Makarevich, I know him. Of course he's the person to go to. How practical you are, Piotr Ilyich! How well you've thought of everything! I should never have thought of it in your place. Especially as I know the police captain very well, too, observed Piotr Ilyich, who still continued to stand, and was obviously anxious to escape as quickly as possible from the impulsive lady who would not let him say good-bye and go away. And be sure, be sure, she prattled on, to come back and tell me what you see there, and what you find out, what comes to light, how they'll try him, and what he's condemned to. Tell me, we have no capital punishment, have we? But be sure to come, even if it's at three o'clock at night, at four, at half past four. Tell them to wake me, to wake me, to shake me if I don't get up. But, good heavens, I shan't sleep. But wait, hadn't I better come with you? No, but if you would write three lines with your own hand, stating that you did not give Dmitri Fyodorovich money, it might perhaps be of use, in case it's needed. To be sure, Madame Holokov skipped, delighted, to her bureau. And, you know, I'm simply struck, amazed at your resourcefulness, your good sense in such affairs. Are you in the service here? I'm delighted to think that you're in the service here. And, still speaking, she scribbled, on half a sheet of note-paper, the following lines. I've never in my life lent to that unhappy man, Dmitri Fyodorovich Karamazov, for in spite of all he is unhappy, three thousand rubles, today. I've never given him money, never, that I swear by all that's holy. K. Holokov. Here's the note. She turned quickly to Pyotr Ilyich. Go, save him. It's a noble deed on your part. And she made the sign of the cross three times over him. She ran out to accompany him to the passage. How grateful I am to you! You can't think how grateful I am to you for having come to me first. How is it I haven't met you before? I shall feel flattered at seeing you at my house in the future. How delightful it is that you are living here. Such precision, such practical ability. They must appreciate you, they must understand you. If there's anything I can do, believe me. Oh, I love young people. I'm in love with young people. The younger generation are the one prop of our suffering country, her one hope. Oh, go, go! But Pyotr Ilyich had already run away or she would not have let him go so soon. Yet Madame Holokov had made a rather agreeable impression on him, which had somewhat softened his anxiety at being drawn into such an unpleasant affair. Tastes differ, as we all know. She's by no means so elderly, he thought, feeling pleased. On the contrary, I should have taken her for her daughter. As for Madame Holokov, she was simply enchanted by the young man. Such sense, such exactness, in so young a man, in our day, and all that with such manners and appearance. People say the young people of today are no good for anything, but here's an example, etc. So she simply forgot this dreadful affair and it was only as she was getting into bed that, suddenly recalling how near death she had been, she exclaimed, Ah, it is awful, awful. But she fell at once into a sound, sweet sleep. I would not, however, have dwelt on such trivial and irrelevant details if this eccentric meeting of the young official with the by no means elderly widow had not subsequently turned out to be the foundation of the whole career of that practical and precise young man. His story is remembered to this day with amazement in our town, and I shall perhaps have something to say about it when I have finished my long history of the Brothers Karamazov. End of Section 54. Section 55 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary, Book 9, Chapter 2, The Alarm. Our police captain, Mikhail Makarovitch Makarov, a retired lieutenant colonel, was a widower and an excellent man. He had only come to us three years previously, but had one general esteem, chiefly because he knew how to keep society together. He was never without visitors, and could not have got on without them. Someone or other was always dining with him. He never sat down to table without guests. He gave regular dinners, too, on all sorts of occasions, sometimes most surprising ones. Though the fair was not reschercher, it was abundant. The fish pies were excellent, and the wine made up in quantity for what it lacked in quality. The first room his guests entered was a well-fitted billiard room, with pictures of English race-horses in black frames on the walls, and essential decoration, as we all know, for a bachelor's billiard room. There was card-playing every evening at his house, if only at one table, but at frequent intervals all the society of our town, with the mamas and young ladies, assembled at his house to dance. Though Mihail Makarovitch was a widower, he did not live alone. His widowed daughter lived with him, with her two unmarried daughters, grown-up girls, who had finished their education. They were of agreeable appearance and lively character, and though everyone knew they would have no dowry, they attracted all the young men of fashion to their grandfather's house. Mihail Makarovitch was by no means very efficient in his work, though he performed his duties no worse than many others. To speak plainly he was a man of rather narrow education. His understanding of the limits of his administrative power could not always be relied upon. It was not so much that he failed to grasp certain reforms enacted during the present reign, as that he made conspicuous blunders in his interpretation of them. This was not from any special lack of intelligence, but from carelessness, for he was always in too great a hurry to go into the subject. I have the heart of a soldier rather than of a civilian, he used to say of himself. He had not even formed a definite idea of the fundamental principles of the reforms connected with the emancipation of the serfs, and only picked it up, so to speak, from year to year, involuntarily increasing his knowledge by practice, and yet he was himself a landowner. Pyotr Ilyich knew for certain that he would meet some of Mihail Makarovitch's visitors there that evening, but he didn't know which. As it happened, at that moment, the prosecutor, and Varvinsky, our district doctor, a young man who had only just come to us from Petersburg after taking a brilliant degree at the Academy of Medicine, were playing wist at the police captains. Ipolit Karelievitch, the prosecutor, he was really the deputy prosecutor, but we always called him the prosecutor, was rather a peculiar man of about five and thirty, inclined to be consumptive and married to a fat and childless woman. He was vain and irritable, though he had a good intellect, and even a kind heart. It seemed that all that was wrong with him was that he had a better opinion of himself than his ability warranted, and that made him seem constantly uneasy. He had, moreover, certain higher, even artistic, leanings towards psychology, for instance, a special study of the human heart, a special knowledge of the criminal and his crime. He cherished a grievance on this ground, considering that he had been passed over in the service, and being firmly persuaded that in higher spheres he had not been properly appreciated and had enemies. In gloomy moments he even threatened to give up his post and practice as a barrister in criminal cases. The unexpected Karamazov case agitated him profoundly. It was a case that might well be talked about all over Russia. But I am anticipating. Nikolai Parfenovich Nelyudov, the young investigating lawyer, who had only come from Petersburg two months before, was sitting in the next room with the young ladies. People talked about it afterwards and wondered that all the gentlemen should, as though intentionally, on the evening of the crime have been gathered together at the house of the executive authority. Yet it was perfectly simple and happened quite naturally. Ipolit Kareelovich's wife had had toothache for the last two days, and he was obliged to go out to escape from her groans. The doctor, from the very nature of his being, could not spend an evening except at cards. Nikolai Parfenovich Nelyudov had been intending for three days past to drop in that evening at Mikhail Makarevich's, so to speak, casually, so as slyly to startle the eldest granddaughter, Olga Mikhailovna, by showing that he knew her secret, that he knew it was her birthday, and that she was trying to conceal it on purpose, so as not to be obliged to give a dance. He anticipated a great deal of merriment, many playful jests about her age, and her being afraid to reveal it, about his knowing her secret, and telling everybody, and so on. The charming young man was a great adept at such teasing, the ladies had christened him, the naughty man, and he seemed to be delighted at the name. He was extremely well bred, however, of good family, education, and feelings, and, though leading a life of pleasure, his sallies were always innocent and in good taste. He was short and delicate looking. On his white, slender little fingers he always wore a number of big, glittering rings. When he was engaged in his official duties he always became extraordinarily grave, as though realizing his position and the sanctity of the obligations laid upon him. He had a special gift for mystifying murderers and other criminals of the peasant class during interrogation, and if he did not win their respect he certainly succeeded in arousing their wonder. Piotr Ilych was simply dumbfounded when he went into the police captains. He saw instantly that everyone knew. They had positively thrown down their cards, all standing up and talking. Even Nikolai Parfenovich had left the young ladies and runny in, looking strenuous and ready for action. Piotr Ilych was met with the astounding news that old Fyodor Pavlovich really had been murdered that evening in his own house, murdered and robbed. The news had only just reached them in the following manner. Martha Ignačevna, the wife of old Grigori, who had been knocked senseless near the fence, was sleeping, soundly in her bed, and might well have slept till morning after the draught she had taken. But all of a sudden she waked up, no doubt roused by a fearful epileptic scream from Smerchikov, who was lying in the next room unconscious. That scream always preceded his fits, and always terrified and upset Martha Ignačevna. She could never get accustomed to it. She jumped up and ran half-away to Smerchikov's room, but it was dark there, and she could only hear the invalid beginning to gasp and struggle. Then Martha Ignačevna herself screamed out and was going to call her husband, but suddenly realized that when she had got up he was not beside her in bed. She ran back to the bedstead and began groping with her hands, but the bed was really empty. Then he must have gone out. Where? She ran to the steps and timidly called him. She got no answer, of course, but she caught the sound of groans far away in the garden, in the darkness. She listened. The groans were repeated, and it was evident they came from the garden. Good Lord, just as it was with Lizaveta Smerjaseya, she thought distractedly. She went timidly down the steps and saw that the gate into the garden was open. He must be out there, poor dear, she thought. She went up to the gate, and all at once she distinctly heard Grigori calling her by name, Martha, Martha, in a weak, moaning, dreadful voice. Lord preserve us from harm, Martha Ignačevna murmured, and ran towards the voice, and that was how she found Grigori. But she found him not by the fence where he had been knocked down, but about twenty paces off. It appeared later that he had crawled away on coming to himself and probably had been a long time getting so far, losing consciousness several times. She noticed at once that he was covered with blood, and screamed at the top of her voice. Grigori was muttering incoherently. He has murdered. His father murdered. Why scream, silly! Run! Fetch some one! But Martha continued screaming, and seeing that her master's window was open and that there was a candle, a light in the window, she ran there and began calling Fyodor Pavlovich. But peeping in at the window she saw a fearful sight. Her master was lying on his back, motionless on the floor. His light-coloured dressing gown and white shirt were soaked with blood. The candle on the table brightly lighted up the blood and the motionless, dead face of Fyodor Pavlovich. Terror-stricken, Martha rushed away from the window, ran out of the garden, drew the bolt of the big gate, and ran headlong by the back way to the neighbour, Maria Kontrachevna. Both mother and daughter were asleep, but they waked up at Martha's desperate and persistent screaming and knocking at the shutter. Martha, shrieking and screaming incoherently, managed to tell them the main fact and to beg for assistance. It happened that Foma had come back from his wanderings and was staying the night with them. They got him up immediately, and all three ran to the scene of the crime. On the way, Maria Kontrachevna remembered that at about eight o'clock she heard a dreadful scream from their garden, and this was no doubt Grigory's scream, parricide, uttered when he caught hold of Mitch's leg. Someone screamed out and then was silent, Maria Kontrachevna explained as she ran. Running to the place where Grigory lay, the two women, with the help of Foma, carried him to the lodge. They lighted the candle and saw that Smirjukov was no better, that he was writhing in convulsions, his eyes fixed in a squint, and that Fome was flowing from his lips. They moistened Grigory's forehead with water mixed with vinegar, and the water revived him at once. He asked immediately, Is the master murdered? Then Foma and both the women ran to the house and saw this time that not only the window, but also the door into the garden was wide open, though Fyodor Pavlovich had for the last week locked himself in every night and did not allow even Grigory to come in on any pretext. Seeing that door open, they were afraid to go into Fyodor Pavlovich for fear anything should happen afterwards, and when they returned to Grigory the old man told them to go straight to the police captain. Maria Kontrachevna ran there and gave the alarm to the whole party at the police captains. She arrived only five minutes before Piotr Ilyich, so that his story came not as his own surmise and theory, but as the direct confirmation by a witness of the theory held by all as to the identity of the criminal, a theory he had in the bottom of his heart refused to believe till that moment. It was resolved to act with energy. The deputy police inspector of the town was commissioned to take four witnesses to enter Fyodor Pavlovich's house and there to open an inquiry on the spot according to the regular forms, which I will not go into here. The district doctor, a zealous man, knew to his work almost insisted on accompanying the police captain, the prosecutor and the investigating lawyer. I will note briefly that Fyodor Pavlovich was found to be quite dead with his skull battered in, but with what? Most likely with the same weapon with which Grigory had been attacked. And immediately that weapon was found. Grigory, to whom all possible medical assistance was at once given, described in a weak and breaking voice how he had been knocked down. They began looking with a lantern by the fence and found the brass pestle dropped in a most conspicuous place on the garden path. There were no signs of disturbance in the room where Fyodor Pavlovich was lying. But by the bed, behind the screen, they picked up from the floor a big and thick envelope with the inscription, a present of three thousand rubles for my angel Grushanka if she is willing to come. And below had been added by Fyodor Pavlovich for my little chicken. There were three seals of red sealing wax on the envelope, but it had been torn open and was empty. The money had been removed. They found also on the floor a piece of narrow pink ribbon with which the envelope had been tied up. One piece of Piotr Ilyich's evidence made a great impression on the prosecutor and the investigating magistrate, namely his idea that Dmitry Fyodorovich would shoot himself before daybreak, that he had resolved to do so, had spoken of it to Ilyich, had taken the pistols, loaded them before him, written a letter, put it in his pocket, etc. When Piotr Ilyich, though still unwilling to believe it, threatened to tell someone so as to prevent the suicide, Misha had answered, grinning, you'll be too late. So they must make haste to makro to find the criminal before he really did shoot himself. That's clear, that's clear! repeated the prosecutor in great excitement. That's just the way with mad fellows like that. I shall kill myself tomorrow, so I'll make merry till I die. The story of how he had bought the wine and provisions excited the prosecutor more than ever. Do you remember the fellow that murdered a merchant called Olsufyev, gentlemen? He stole fifteen hundred, went at once to have his hair curled, and then, without even hiding the money, carrying it almost in his hand in the same way he went off to the girls. All were delayed, however, by the inquiry, the search, and the formalities, etc., in the house of Fyodor Pavlovich. It all took time. And so, two hours before starting, they sent on ahead to makro the officer of the rural police, Mevriky Mevrikyvich Shmyrtsov, who had arrived in the town the morning before to get his pay. He was instructed to avoid raising the alarm when he reached makro, but to keep constant watch over the criminal till the arrival of the proper authorities, to procure also witnesses for the arrest, police constables, and so on. Mevriky Mevrikyvich did, as he was told, preserving his incognito and giving no one but his old acquaintance Trifon Borisovich the slightest hint of his secret business. He had spoken to him just before Misha met the landlord in the balcony, looking for him in the dark, and noticed at once a change in Trifon Borisovich's face and voice. So neither Misha nor anyone else knew that he was being watched. The box with the pistols had been carried off by Trifon Borisovich and put in a suitable place. Only after four o'clock, almost at sunrise, all the officials, the police captain, the prosecutor, the investigating lawyer, drove up in two carriages, each drawn by three horses. The doctor remained at Fyodor Pavlovich's to make a post-mortem next day on the body. But he was particularly interested in the condition of the servant Smirjakov. Such violent and protracted epileptic fits, recurring continually for twenty-four hours, are rarely to be met with and are of interest to science, he declared enthusiastically to his companions, and as they left, they laughingly congratulated him on his find. The prosecutor and the investigating lawyer distinctly remembered the doctor's saying that Smirjakov could not outlive the night. After these long, but I think necessary explanations, we will return to that moment of our tale at which we broke off. End of section 55