 Section 48 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 III. GOLD MINDS This was the visit of Mitcha, which Grushanka had spoken to Raketan with such horror. She was just then expecting the message, and was much relieved that Mitcha had not been to see her that day or the day before. She hoped that please God he won't come till I'm gone away, and he suddenly burst in on her. The rest we know already. To get him off her hands she suggested at once that he should walk with her to Samsonovs, where she said she absolutely must go to settle his accounts, and when Mitcha accompanied her at once she said good-bye to him at the gate, making him promise to come at twelve o'clock to take her home again. Mitcha too was delighted at this arrangement. If she was sitting at Samsonovs she could not be going to Fyodor Pavlovitch's. If only she's not lying, he added at once. But he thought she was not lying from what he saw. He was that sort of jealous man who, in the absence of the beloved woman, at once invents all sorts of awful fancies of what may be happening to her, and how she may be betraying him, but when shaken, heartbroken, convinced of her faithlessness he runs back to her. At the first glance at her face, her gay, laughing, affectionate face, he revives at once, lays aside all suspicion and with joyful shame abuses himself for his jealousy. After leaving Grushanka at the gate he rushed home. Oh, he had so much still to do that day, but a load had been lifted from his heart anyway. Now I must only make haste and find out from Smachikov whether anything happened there last night, whether by any chance she went to Fyodor Pavlovitch, ugh, floated through his mind. Before he had time to reach his lodging, jealousy had surged up again in his restless heart. Jealousy. A fellow was not jealous, he was trustful, observed Pushkin, and that remark alone is enough to show the deep insight of our great poet. A fellow's soul was shattered and his whole outlook clouded simply because his ideal was destroyed, but a fellow did not begin hiding, spying, peeping. He was trustful on the contrary. He had to be led up, pushed on, excited with great difficulty before he could entertain the idea of deceit. The truly jealous man is not like that. It is impossible to picture to oneself the shame and moral degradation to which the jealous man can descend without a qualm of conscience. Yet it's not as though the jealous were all vulgar and base souls. On the contrary, a man of lofty feelings whose love is pure and full of self-sacrifice may yet hide under tables bribe the vilest people and be familiar with the lowest ignominy of spying and eavesdropping. A fellow was incapable of making up his mind to faithlessness, not incapable of forgiving it, but of making up his mind to it, though his soul was as innocent and free from malice as a babes. It is not so with the really jealous man. It is hard to imagine what some jealous men can make up their mind to and overlook and what they can forgive. The jealous are the readiest of all to forgive, and all women know it. The jealous man can forgive extraordinarily quickly, though of course after a violent scene, and he is able to forgive infidelity almost conclusively proved the very kisses and embraces he has seen, if only he can somehow be convinced that it has all been for the last time and that his rival will vanish from that day forward, will depart to the ends of the earth, or that he himself will carry her away somewhere where that dreaded rival will not get near her. Of course the reconciliation is only for an hour, for even if the rival did disappear next day he would invent another one and would be jealous of him. And one might wonder what there was in a love that had to be so watched over, what a love could be worth that needed such strenuous guarding. But that the jealous will never understand, and yet among them are men of noble hearts. It is remarkable too that those very men of noble hearts, standing hidden in some cupboard, listening and spying, never feel the stings of conscience at that moment anyway, though they understand clearly enough with their noble hearts the shameful depths to which they have voluntarily sunk. At the sight of Grushanka, Mitch's jealousy vanished, and for an instant he became trustful and generous and positively despised himself for his evil feelings. But it only proved that, in his love for the woman, there was an element of something far higher than he himself imagined, that it was not only a sensual passion, not only the curve of her body of which he had talked to Alyosha. But as soon as Grushanka had gone, Mitchell began to suspect her of all the low cunning of faithlessness, and he felt no sting of conscience at it. And so jealousy surged up in him again. He had in any case to make haste. The first thing to be done was to get hold of at least a small temporary loan of money. The nine rubles had almost all gone on his expedition. And, as we all know, one can't take a step without money. But he had thought over in the cart where he could get a loan. He had a brace of fine dueling pistols in a case which he had not pond till then because he prized them above all his possessions. In the metropolis tavern he had sometimes since made acquaintance with a young official and had learned that this very opulent bachelor was passionately fond of weapons. He used to buy pistols, revolvers, daggers, hang them on his wall, and show them to acquaintances. He prided himself on them and was quite a specialist on the mechanism of the revolver. Mitchell, without stopping to think, went straight to him and offered to pawn his pistols to him for ten rubles. The official, delighted, began trying to persuade him to sell them outright. But Mitchell would not consent, so the young man gave him ten rubles, protesting that nothing would induce him to take interest. They parted friends. Mitchell was in haste. He rushed towards Fyodor Pavlovitch's by the back way to his arbor to get hold of Smirjakov as soon as possible. In this way the fact was established that three or four hours before a certain event of which I shall speak later on, Mitchell had not a farthing and pawned for ten rubles a possession he valued, though three hours later he was in possession of thousands. But I am anticipating. From Maria Kondrachevna, the woman living near Fyodor Pavlovitch's, he learned the very disturbing fact of Smirjakov's illness. He heard the story of his fall in the cellar, his fit, the doctor's visit, Fyodor Pavlovitch's anxiety. He heard with interest too that his brother Ivan had set off that morning for Moscow. Then he must have driven through Volavia before me, thought Dmitry, but he was terribly distressed about Smirjakov. What will happen now? Who will keep watch for me? Who will bring me word, he thought. He began greedily questioning the women whether they had seen anything the evening before. They quite understood what he was trying to find out and completely reassured him. No one had been there. Ivan Fyodorovitch had been there the night. Everything had been perfectly as usual. Maria grew thoughtful. He would certainly have to keep watch today, but where, here, or at Samsonov's gate. He decided that he must be on the lookout both here and there, and meanwhile, meanwhile, the difficulty was that he had to carry out the new plan that he had made on the journey back. He was sure of its success, but he must not delay acting upon it. Mitcher resolved to sacrifice an hour to it. In an hour I shall know everything, I shall settle everything, and then, then, first of all to Samsonov's, I'll inquire whether Grushenko's there and instantly be back here again, stay till eleven, and then to Samsonov's again to bring her home. This was what he decided. He flew home, washed, combed his hair, brushed his clothes, dressed, and went to Madame Holakoff's. Alas! he had built his hopes on her. He had resolved to borrow three thousand from that lady, and what was more, he felt suddenly convinced that she would not refuse to lend it to him. It may be wondered why, if he felt so certain he had not gone to her at first, one of his own sort, so to speak, instead of to Samsonov, a man he did not know, who was not of his own class, and to whom he hardly knew how to speak. But the fact was that he had never known Madame Holakoff well, and had seen nothing of her for the last month, and that he knew she could not endure him. She had detested him from the first, because he was engaged to Katerina Ivanovna, while she had, for some reason, suddenly conceived the desire that Katerina Ivanovna should throw him over, and marry the charming, chivalrously refined Ivan, who had such excellent manners. Mitcha's manners she detested. Mitcha positively laughed at her, and had once said about her that she was just as lively and at her ease as she was uncultivated. But that morning, in the cart, a brilliant idea had struck him. If she is so anxious I should not marry Katerina Ivanovna, and he knew she was positively hysterical upon the subject, why should she refuse me now that three thousand just to enable me to leave Katcha and get away from her forever? These spoiled fine ladies, if they set their hearts on anything, will spare no expense to satisfy their caprice. Besides, she's so rich, Mitcha argued. As for his plan it was just the same as before. It consisted of the offer of his rights to Chermashnya, but not with a commercial object, as it had been with Samsonov, not trying to allure the lady with the possibility of making a profit of six or seven thousand, but simply as a security for the debt. As he worked out this new idea, Mitcha was enchanted with it, but so it always was with him in all his undertakings, in all his sudden decisions. He gave himself up to every new idea with passionate enthusiasm. Yet, when he mounted the steps of Madame Holakoff's house, he felt a shiver of fear run down his spine. At that moment he saw fully, as a mathematical certainty, that this was his last hope, that if this broke down nothing else was left him in the world but to rob and murder someone for the three thousand. It was half past seven when he rang at the bell. At first fortune seemed to smile upon him. As soon as he was announced he was received with extraordinary rapidity, as though she were waiting for me, thought Mitcha, and as soon as he had been led to the drawing-room the lady of the house herself ran in and declared at once that she was expecting him. I was expecting you, I was expecting you, though I had no reason to suppose you would come to see me, as you will admit yourself. Yet I did expect you. You may marvel at my instinct, Dmitri Fyodorovich, but I was convinced all the morning that you would come. That is certainly wonderful, Madame, observed Mitcha sitting down limply, but I have come to you on a matter of great importance, on a matter of supreme importance, for me, that is, Madame, for me alone, and I hasten. I know you've come on most important business, Dmitri Fyodorovich. It's not a case of presentiment, no reactionary harking back to the miraculous. Have you heard about Father Sassima? This is a case of mathematics. You couldn't help coming after all that has passed with Katerina Ivanovna. You couldn't. You couldn't. That's a mathematical certainty. The realism of actual life, Madame, that's what it is. But allow me to explain. Realism indeed, Dmitri Fyodorovich, I'm all for realism now. I've seen too much of miracles. You've heard that Father Sassima is dead? No, Madame, it's the first I've heard of it. Mitcha was a little surprised. The image of Al-Rashe rose to his mind. Last night, and only imagine. Madame, said Mitcha, I can imagine nothing except that I'm in a desperate position and that if you don't help me, everything will come to grief, and I, first of all, excuse me for the triviality of the expression, but I'm in a fever. I know, I know that you're in a fever. You could hardly fail to be, and whatever you may say to me, I know beforehand. I have long been thinking over your destiny, Dmitri Fyodorovich. I am watching over it and studying it. Oh, believe me, I'm an experienced doctor of the soul, Dmitri Fyodorovich. Madame, if you are an experienced doctor, I'm certainly an experienced patient, said Mitcha, with an effort to be polite, and I feel that if you are watching over my destiny in this way, you will come to my help in my ruin, and so allow me, at least, to explain to you the plan with which I have ventured to come to you, and what I am hoping of you. I have come, Madame. Don't explain it. It's of secondary importance. But as for help, you're not the first I have helped, Dmitri Fyodorovich. You have most likely heard of my cousin, Madame Balmaisov. Her husband was ruined, had come to grief as you characteristically express it, Dmitri Fyodorovich. I recommended him to take to horse breeding, and now he's doing well. Have you any idea of horse breeding, Dmitri Fyodorovich? Not the faintest, Madame. Madame, not the faintest! cried Mitcha in nervous impatience, positively starting from his seat. I simply implore you, Madame, to listen to me. Only give me two minutes of free speech that I may just explain to you everything, the whole plan with which I have come. Besides, I am short of time. I am in a fearful hurry. Mitcha cried hysterically, feeling that she was just going to begin talking again and hoping to cut her short. I have come in despair, in the last gasp of despair, to beg you to lend me the sum of three thousand, alone but on safe, most safe security, Madame, with the most trustworthy guarantees. Only let me explain. You must tell me all that afterwards, afterwards. Madame Holikov with a gesture demanded silence in her turn. And whatever you may tell me, I know it all beforehand. I've told you so already. You ask for a certain sum for three thousand, but I can give you more, immeasurably more. I will save you, Dmitri Fyodorovich, but you must listen to me. Madame, will you really be so good? He cried with strong feeling. Good God, you've saved me. You have saved a man from a violent death, from a bullet, my eternal gratitude. I will give you more, infinitely more than three thousand, cried Madame Holikov, looking with a radiant smile at Mitch's ecstasy. Infinitely, but I don't need so much, I only need that fatal three thousand, and on my part I can give security for that sum with infinite gratitude, and I propose a plan which, enough, Dmitri Fyodorovich, it's said and done. Madame Holikov cut him short with the modest triumph of beneficence. I have promised to save you, but I will save you, I will save you, as I did Balmaisov. What do you think of the gold mines, Dmitri Fyodorovich? Of the gold mines, Madame? I have never thought anything about them. But I have thought of them for you, thought of them over and over again. I have been watching you for the last month. I've watched you a hundred times as you've walked past, saying to myself, that's a man of energy who ought to be at the gold mines. I've studied your gate, and come to the conclusion, that's a man who would find gold. From my gate, Madame, said Mitcha, smiling. Yes, from your gate, you surely don't deny that character can be told from the gate, Dmitri Fyodorovich. Science supports the idea. I'm all for science and realism now. After all this business with Father Zasima, which has so upset me, from this very day I'm a realist, and I want to devote myself to practical usefulness, I'm cured, enough, as Turgenev says. But Madame, the three thousand you so generously promised to lend me? It is yours, Dmitri Fyodorovich. Madame Holokov, cut in at once. The money is as good as in your pocket, not three thousand, but three million, Dmitri Fyodorovich, in less than no time. I'll make you a present of the idea. You shall find gold mines, make millions, return and become a leading man, and wake us up, and lead us to better things. Are we to leave it all to the Jews? You will found institutions and enterprises of all sorts. You will help the poor, and they will bless you. This is the age of railways, Dmitri Fyodorovich. You'll become famous and indispensable to the Department of Finance, which is so badly off at present. The depreciation of the ruble keeps me awake at night, Dmitri Fyodorovich. People don't know that side of me. Madame, Madame, Dmitri interrupted, within uneasy presentiment. I shall indeed perhaps follow your advice, your wise advice, Madame. I shall perhaps set off to the gold mines. I'll come and see you again about it, many times, indeed. But now, that three thousand you so generously, oh, that would set me free, and if you could, today, you see I haven't a minute, a minute to lose today. Enough, Dmitri Fyodorovich, enough, Madame Holakoff interrupted emphatically. The question is, will you go to the gold mines or not? Have you quite made up your mind? Answer, yes or no? I will go, Madame. Afterwards I'll go where you like, but now. Wait! cried Madame Holakoff. And jumping up and running to a handsome bureau with numerous little drawers, she began pulling out one drawer after another, looking for something with desperate haste. The three thousand thought Mitcha his heart almost stopping, and at the instant, without any papers or formalities, that's doing things in gentlemanly style. She's a splendid woman, if only she didn't talk so much. Here, cried Madame Holakoff, running back joyfully to Mitcha, here is what I was looking for. It was a tiny silver icon on a cord, such as is sometimes worn next to the skin with a cross. This is from Kiev, Dmitri Fyodorovich, she went on reverently, from the relics of the Holy Martyr Varvara. Let me put it on your neck myself, and with it dedicate you to a new life, to a new career. And she actually put the cord round his neck and began arranging it. In extreme embarrassment Mitcha bent down and helped her, and at last he got it under his necktie and collar through his shirt to his chest. Now you can set off, Madame Holakoff pronounced, sitting down triumphantly in her place again. Madame, I am so touched. I don't know how to thank you, indeed, for such kindness, but if only you knew how precious time is to me. That sum of money for which I shall be indebted to your generosity. Oh, Madame, since you are so kind, so touchingly generous to me, Mitcha exclaimed impulsively, then let me reveal to you, though of course you've known it a long time, that I love somebody here. I have been false to Katya, Katarina Ivanovna, I should say. Oh, I've behaved inhumanly dishonorably to her, but I fell in love here with another woman, a woman whom you, Madame, perhaps despise, for you know everything already, but whom I cannot leave on any account, and therefore that three thousand now. Leave everything, Dmitrii Fyodorovich, Madame Holakoff interrupted in the most decisive tone. Leave everything, especially women. Gold mines are your goal, and there's no place for women there. Afterwards, when you come back, rich and famous, you will find the girl of your heart in the highest society. That will be a modern girl, a girl of education and advanced ideas. By that time the dawning woman question will have gained ground, and the new woman will have appeared. Madame, that's not the point, not at all. Mitcha clasped his hands in entreaty. Yes, it is, Dmitrii Fyodorovich, just what you need, the very thing you're yearning for, though you don't realize it yourself. I am not at all opposed to the present woman movement, Dmitrii Fyodorovich. The development of woman, and even the political emancipation of woman in the near future, that's my ideal. I've got a daughter myself, Dmitrii Fyodorovich. People don't know that side of me. I wrote a letter to the author, Shchedrin, on that subject. He has taught me so much, so much, about the vocation of woman. So last year I sent him an anonymous letter of two lines. I kiss and embrace you, my teacher, for the modern woman, persevere, and I signed myself a mother. I thought of signing myself a contemporary mother, and hesitated, but I stuck to the simple mother. There's more moral beauty in that, Dmitrii Fyodorovich. And the word contemporary might have reminded him of the contemporary, a painful recollection owing to the censorship. Good heavens, what is the matter? Madam, cried Mitcha, jumping up at last, clasping his hands before her in helpless entreaty. You will make me weep if you delay what you have so generously. Oh, do weep, Dmitrii Fyodorovich. Do weep. That's a noble feeling. Such a path lies open before you. Tears will ease your heart, and later on you will return rejoicing. You will hasten to me from Siberia on purpose to share your joy with me. But allow me, too, Mitcha cried suddenly, for the last time I entreat you. Tell me, can I have the sum you promised me to-day, if not when may I come for it? What sum, Dmitrii Fyodorovich? The three thousand you promised me, that you so generously. Three thousand? Rubles? Oh, no, I haven't got three thousand. Madam Holokov announced with serene amazement. Mitcha was stupefied. Why, you said just now, you said, you said it was as good as in my hands. Oh, no, you misunderstood me, Dmitrii Fyodorovich. In that case, you misunderstood me. I was talking of the gold mines. It's true I promised you more infinitely more than three thousand, I remember it all now, but I was referring to the gold mines. But the money, the three thousand, Mitcha exclaimed awkwardly. Oh, if you meant money, I haven't any. I haven't a penny, Dmitrii Fyodorovich. I'm quarreling with my steward about it, and I've just borrowed five hundred rubles from Yousav myself. No, no, I've no money. And do you know, Dmitrii Fyodorovich, if I had, I wouldn't give it to you. In the first place, I never lend money. Lending money means losing friends. And I wouldn't give it to you, particularly. I wouldn't give it to you, because I like you, and want to save you. For all you need is the gold mines, the gold mines, the gold mines. Oh, the devil! roared Mitcha, and with all his might brought his fist down on the table. Aye, aye! cried Madame Holokov, alarmed, and she flew to the other end of the drawing-room. Mitcha spat on the ground, and strode rapidly out of the room, out of the house, into the street, into the darkness. He walked like one possessed, and beating himself on the breast, on the spot where he had struck himself two days previously, before Alyosha, the last time he saw him in the dark on the road. What those blows upon his breast signified on that spot, and what he meant by it, that was, for the time, a secret which was known to no one in the world, and had not been told even to Alyosha. But that secret meant for him more than disgrace, it meant ruin, suicide, so he had determined, if he did not get hold of the three thousand, that would pay his debt to Caterina Ivanovna, and so remove from his breast, from that spot on his breast, the shame he carried upon it that weighed on his conscience. All this will be fully explained to the reader later on, but now that his last hope had vanished, this man, so strong in appearance, burst out crying like a little child a few steps from the Holocaust's house. He walked on, and not knowing what he was doing, wiped away his tears with his fist. In this way he reached the square, and suddenly became aware that he had stumbled against something. He heard a piercing wail from an old woman whom he had almost knocked down. Good Lord, you've nearly killed me. Why don't you look where you're going, scape-grace? Why, it's you, cried Mitcha, recognizing the old woman in the dark. It was the old servant who waited on Samsonov, whom Mitcha had particularly noticed the day before. And who are you, my good sir? said the old woman, in quite a different voice. I don't know you in the dark. You live at Kuzma Kuzmitcha's. You're the servant there. Just so, sir, I was only running out to Prohoraches. But I don't know you now. Tell me, my good woman, is Agra Fena Alexandrovna there now? said Mitcha, beside himself with suspense. I saw her to the house some time ago. She has been there, sir. She stayed a little while and went off again. What? Went away? cried Mitcha. When did she go? Why, as soon as she came, she only stayed a minute. She only told Kuzma Kuzmitcha tale that made him laugh, and then she ran away. You're lying, damn you! roared Mitcha. Ay, ay! shweet the old woman! But Mitcha had vanished. He ran with all his might to the house where Grushanka lived. At the moment he reached it Grushanka was on her way to Makro. It was not more than a quarter of an hour after her departure. Fena was sitting with her grandmother, the old cook Matriona, in the kitchen when the captain ran in. Fena uttered a piercing shriek on seeing him. You scream? roared Mitcha. Where is she? But without giving the terror-strick in Fenya time to utter a word, he fell, all of the heap, at her feet. Fenya, for Christ's sake, tell me where is she? I don't know. Dmitri Fyodorovich, my dear, I don't know. You may kill me, but I can't tell you. Fenya swore and protested. You went out with her yourself not long ago. She came back. Indeed she didn't. By God, I swear she didn't come back. You're lying, shouted Mitcha, from your terror. I know where she is. He rushed away. Fenya in her fright was glad she had got off so easily, but she knew very well that it was only that he was in such haste or she might not have fared so well. But as he ran he surprised both Fenya and old Matriona by an unexpected action. On the table stood a brass mortar with a pestle in it, a small brass pestle, not much more than six inches long. Mitcha already had opened the door with one hand when, with the other, he snatched up the pestle and thrust it in his side pocket. Oh Lord, he's going to murder someone, cried Fenya, flinging up her hands. Where could she be except at Fyodor Pavlovich's? She must have run straight to him from Samsonov's, that was clear now. The whole intrigue, the whole deceit was evident. It all rushed whirling through his mind. He did not run to Maria Kondrachevna's. There was no need to go there, not the slightest need. He must raise no alarm. They would run and tell directly. Maria Kondrachevna was clearly in the plot. Smerjakov too, he too, all had been bought over. He formed another plan of action. He ran a long way round Fyodor Pavlovich's house, crossing the lane, running down Dmitrovsky Street. Then over the little bridge, and so came straight to the deserted alley at the back, which was empty and uninhabited, with, on one side, the hurdle fence of a neighbor's kitchen garden, on the other the strong high fence that ran all round Fyodor Pavlovich's garden. Here he chose a spot, apparently the very place where, according to the tradition, he knew Liza Veta had once climbed over it. If she could climb over it, the thought God knows why occurred to him, surely I can. He did, in fact, jump up and instantly contrived to catch hold of the top of the fence, then he vigorously pulled himself up and sat astride on it. Close by in the garden stood the bath-house, but from the fence he could see the lighted windows of the house too. Yes, the old man's bedroom is lighted up, she's there. And he leapt from the fence into the garden. Though he knew Grigori was ill and very likely Smerjakov too, and that there was no one to hear him, he instinctively hid himself, stood still, and began to listen. But there was dead silence on all sides, and, as though of design, complete stillness, not the slightest breath of wind. And not but the whispering silence, the line for some reason rose to his mind. If only no one heard me jump over the fence, I think not. Standing still for a moment he walked softly over the grass in the garden, avoiding the trees and shrubs. He walked slowly, creeping stealthily at every step, listening to his own footsteps. It took him five minutes to reach the lighted window. He remembered that just under the window there were several thick and high bushes of elder and whitebeam. The door from the house into the garden on the left-hand side was shut. He had carefully looked on purpose to see in passing. At last he reached the bushes and hid behind them. He held his breath. I must wait now, he thought, to reassure them in case they heard my footsteps and are listening, if only I don't cough or sneeze. He waited two minutes. His heart was beating violently, and at moments he could scarcely breathe. No, this throbbing at my heart won't stop, he thought, I can't wait any longer. He was standing behind a bush in the shadow. The light of the window fell on the front part of the bush. How red the whitebeam berries are! He murmured, not knowing why. Softly and noiselessly, step by step, he approached the window and raised himself on tiptoe. All Fyodor Pavlovitch's bedroom lay open before him. It was not a large room, and was divided in two parts by a red screen, Chinese, as Fyodor Pavlovitch used to call it. The word, Chinese, flashed into Mitch's mind, and behind the screen is Grushanka, thought Mitcha. He began watching Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was wearing his new striped silk dressing gown, which Mitcha had never seen, and a silk cord with tassels round the waist. A clean, dendified shirt of fine linen with gold studs peeped out under the collar of the dressing gown. On his head Fyodor Pavlovitch had the same red bandage which Alyosha had seen. He has got himself up, thought Mitcha. His father was standing near the window, apparently lost in thought. Suddenly he jerked up his head, listened a moment, and hearing nothing went up to the table, poured out half a glass of brandy from a decanter, and drank it off. Then he uttered a deep sigh. A gain stood still a moment, walked carelessly up to the looking glass on the wall, with his right hand raised the red bandage on his forehead a little, and began examining his bruises and scars which had not yet disappeared. He's alone, thought Mitcha, in all probability he's alone. Fyodor Pavlovitch moved away from the looking glass, turned suddenly to the window and looked out, Mitcha instantly slipped away into the shadow. She may be there behind the screen, perhaps she's asleep by now, he thought, with a pang at his heart. Fyodor Pavlovitch moved away from the window. He's looking for her out of the window, so she's not there. Why should he stare out into the dark? He's wild with impatience. Mitcha slipped back at once and fell to gazing in at the window again. The old man was sitting down at the table, apparently disappointed. At last he put his elbow on the table and laid his right cheek against his hand. Mitcha watched him eagerly. He's alone, he's alone, he repeated again. If she were here, his face would be different. Strange to say a queer irrational vexation rose up in his heart that she was not here. It's not that she's not here, he explained to himself immediately, but that I can't tell for certain whether she is or not. Mitcha remembered afterwards that his mind was at that point exceptionally clear, that he took in everything to the slightest detail and missed no point. But a feeling of misery, the misery of uncertainty and indecision, was growing in his heart with every instant. Is she here or not? The angry doubt filled his heart, and suddenly, making up his mind, he put out his hand and softly knocked on the window frame. He knocked the signal the old man had agreed upon with Smirjakov. Twice slowly, and then three times more quickly, the signal that meant Grushanka is here. The old man started, jerked up his head, and jumping up quickly ran to the window. Mitcha slipped away into the shadow. Fyodor Pavlovich opened the window and thrust his whole head out. Grushanka, is it you? Is it you? he said in a sort of trembling half whisper. Where are you, my angel? Where are you? He was fearfully agitated and breathless. He's alone, Mitcha decided. Where are you? cried the old man again, and he thrust his head out farther, thrust it out to the shoulders, gazing in all directions, right and left. Come here, I have a little present for you. Come, I'll show you. He means the three thousand, thought Mitcha. But where are you? Are you at the door? I'll open it directly. And the old man almost climbed out of the window, peering out to the right, where there was a door into the garden, trying to see into the darkness. In another second he would certainly have run out to open the door without waiting for Grushanka's answer. Mitcha looked at him, from the side, without stirring. The old man's profile that he loathed so, his pendant Adam's apple, his hooked nose, his lips that smiled in greedy expectation, were all brightly lighted up by the slanting lamp-light falling on the left from the room. A horrible fury of hatred suddenly surged up in Mitcha's heart. There he was, his rival, the man who had tormented him, had ruined his life. It was a rush of that sudden, furious, revengeful anger of which he had spoken, as though foreseeing it, to Alyosha four days ago in the Arbor, when, in answer to Alyosha's question, how can you say you'll kill our father? I don't know, I don't know, he had said then. Perhaps I shall not kill him, perhaps I shall. I'm afraid he'll suddenly be so loathsome to me at that moment. I hate his double chin, his nose, his eyes, his shameless grin. I feel a personal repulsion. That's what I'm afraid of. That's what may be too much for me. This personal repulsion was growing unendurable. Mitcha was beside himself. He suddenly pulled the brass pestle out of his pocket. God was watching over me then, Mitcha himself said afterwards. At that very moment Grigori waked up on his bed of sickness. Earlier in the evening he had undergone the treatment which Smirchikov had described to Ivan. He had rubbed himself all over with vodka mixed with a secret very strong decoction, had drunk what was left of the mixture while his wife repeated a certain prayer over him, after which he had gone to bed. Marfa Ignachivna had tasted the stuff too, and being unused to strong drink, slept like the dead beside her husband. But Grigori waked up in the night quite suddenly, and after a moment's reflection, though he immediately felt a sharp pain in his back, he sat up in bed. Then he deliberated again, got up and dressed hurriedly. Perhaps his conscience was uneasy at the thought of sleeping while the house was unguarded in such perilous times. Smirchikov, exhausted by his fit, lay motionless in the next room. Marfa Ignachivna did not stir. The stuff's been too much for the woman, Grigori thought, glancing at her, and, groaning, he went out on the steps. No doubt he only intended to look out from the steps, for he was hardly able to walk, the pain in his back and his right leg was intolerable. But he suddenly remembered that he had not locked the little gate into the garden that evening. He was the most punctual and precise of men, a man who adhered to an unchangeable routine and habits that lasted for years. Limping and writhing with pain, he went down the steps and towards the garden. Yes, the gate stood wide open. Mechanically, he stepped into the garden. Perhaps he fancied something, perhaps caught some sound, and glancing to the left he saw his master's window open. No one was looking out of it then. What's it open for? It's not summer now, thought Grigori, and suddenly, at that very instant he caught a glimpse of something extraordinary before him in the garden. Forty paces in front of him a man seemed to be running in the dark. A sort of shadow was moving very fast. Good Lord! cried Grigori beside himself, and, forgetting the pain in his back, he hurried to intercept the running figure. He took a shortcut. Evidently, he knew the garden better. The flying figure went towards the bath house, ran behind it, and rushed to the garden fence. Grigori followed not losing sight of him, and ran, forgetting everything. He reached the fence at the very moment the man was climbing over it. Grigori cried out beside himself, pounced on him, and clutched his leg in his two hands. Yes, his foreboding had not deceived him. He recognized him. It was he, the monster, the parasite. Paraside! The old man shouted so that the whole neighbourhood could hear, but he had not time to shout more. He fell, at once, as though struck by lightning. Miche jumped back into the garden and bent over the fallen man. In Miche's hands was a brass pestle, and he flung it mechanically in the grass. The pestle fell two paces from Grigori, not in the grass, but on the path, in a most conspicuous place. For some seconds he examined the prostrate figure before him. The old man's head was covered with blood. Miche put out his hand and began feeling it. He remembered, afterwards, clearly, that he had been awfully anxious to make sure whether he had broken the old man's skull or simply stunned him with the pestle. But the blood was flowing horribly, and in a moment Miche's fingers were drenched with the hot stream. He remembered taking out of his pocket the clean white handkerchief with which he had provided himself for his visit to Madame Holakoff, and putting it to the old man's head, senselessly trying to wipe the blood from his face and temples. But the handkerchief was instantly soaked with blood. Good heavens, what am I doing it for? thought Miche, suddenly pulling himself together. If I have broken his skull, how can I find out now? And what difference does it make now? he added hopelessly. If I've killed him, I've killed him. You've come to grief, old man, so there you must lie, he said aloud. And suddenly turning to the fence, he vaulted over it into the lane and fell to running. The handkerchief soaked with blood he held, crushed up in his right fist, and as he ran he thrust it into the back pocket of his coat. He ran headlong, and the few passes by who met him in the dark, in the streets, remembered afterwards that they had met a man running that night. He flew back again to the widow Morozov's house. Immediately after he had left it that evening, Fenya had rushed to the chief porter, Nazar Ivanovich, and besought him for Christ's sake not to let the captain in again today or tomorrow. Nazar Ivanovich promised, but went upstairs to his mistress who had suddenly sent for him, and, meeting his nephew, a boy of twenty who had recently come from the country, on the way up, told him to take his place, but forgot to mention the captain. Mitsha, running up to the gate, knocked. The lad instantly recognized him, for Mitsha had more than once tipped him. Opening the gate at once he let him in, and hastened to inform him with a good-humored smile that Agrafenna Alexandrovna is not at home now, you know. Where is she then, Prohor? asked Mitsha, stopping short. She set off this evening some two hours ago with Timofey to Makro. What for? cried Mitsha. That I can't say. To see some officer, someone invited her, and horses were sent to fetch her. Mitsha left him and ran, like a madman, to Fenya. End of Section 49 Section 50 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 5 A Sudden Resolution She was sitting in the kitchen with her grandmother. They were both just going to bed. Relying on Nazar Ivanovich, they had not locked themselves in. Mitsha ran in, pounced on Fenya, and seized her by the throat. Speak at once. Where is she? With whom is she now at Makro? He roared furiously. Both the women squealed. Hi, I'll tell you. Hi. To Mitri Fyodorovitch, darling, I'll tell you everything directly. I won't hide anything, gabbled Fenya, frightened to death. She's gone to Makro, to her officer. What officer? roared Mitsha. To her officer, the same one she used to know, the one who threw her over five years ago, cackled Fenya as fast as she could speak. Mitsha withdrew the hands with which she was squeezing her throat. He stood facing her, pale as death, unable to utter a word, but his eyes showed that he realized it all, all from the first word, and guessed the whole position. Poor Fenya was not in a condition at that moment to observe whether he understood or not. She remained sitting on the trunk as she had been when he ran into the room, trembling all over, holding her hands out before her as though trying to defend herself. She seemed to have grown rigid in that position. Her wide-open, scared eyes were fixed immovably upon him, and, to make matters worse, both his hands were smeared with blood. On the way as he ran he must have touched his forehead with them, wiping off the perspiration, so that on his forehead and his right cheek were blood-stained patches. Fenya was on the verge of hysterics. The old cook had jumped up and was staring at him like a madwoman, almost unconscious with terror. Mitch's stood for a moment, then mechanically sank onto a chair next to Fenya. He sat, not reflecting, but as it were, terror-stricken, benumbed. Yet everything was clear as day. That officer, he knew about him, he knew everything perfectly, he had known it from Grushenka herself, had known that a letter had come from him a month before, so that for a month, for a whole month, this had been going on a secret from him, till the very arrival of this new man, and he had never thought of him. But how could he, how could he not have thought of him? Why was it he had forgotten this officer, like that, forgotten him as soon as he heard of him? That was the question that faced him like some monstrous thing. And he looked at this monstrous thing with horror, growing cold with horror. But suddenly, as gently and mildly as a gentle and affectionate child, he began speaking to Fenya as though he had utterly forgotten how he had scared and hurt her just now. He fell to questioning Fenya with an extreme preciseness, astonishing in his position, and though the girl looked wildly at his blood-stained hands, she too, with wonderful readiness and rapidity, answered every question as though eager to put the whole truth and nothing but the truth before him. Little by little, even with a sort of enjoyment, she began explaining every detail, not wanting to torment him, but as it were, eager to be of the yet most service to him. She described the whole of that day in great detail, the visit of Raketen and Alyasha, how she Fenya had stood on the watch, how the mistress had set off, and how she had called out of the window to Alyasha to give him, Mitcha, her greetings, and to tell him to remember forever how she had loved him for an hour. Hearing of the message, Mitcha suddenly smiled, and there was a flush of color on his pale cheeks. At the same moment Fenya said to him, not a bit afraid now to be inquisitive, Look at your hands, Dimitri Fyodorovich, they're all over blood. Yes, answered Mitcha mechanically. He looked carelessly at his hands and at once forgot them and Fenya's question. He sank into silence again. Twenty minutes had passed since he had run in. His first horror was over, but evidently some new fixed determination had taken possession of him. He suddenly stood up, smiling dreamily. What has happened to you, sir? said Fenya, pointing to his hands again. She spoke compassionately as though she felt very near to him now in his grief. Mitcha looked at his hands again. That's blood, Fenya, he said, looking at her with a strange expression. That's human blood, and my God, why was it shed? But Fenya, there's a fence here. He looked at her as though setting her a riddle, a high fence and terrible to look at, but at dawn to-morrow when the sun rises, Mitcha will leap over that fence. You don't understand what fence, Fenya, and never mind, you'll hear to-morrow and understand. And now, good-bye, I won't stand in her way, I'll step aside. I know how to step aside. Live, my joy, you loved me for an hour. Remember Mitchenko Karamazov so forever. She always used to call me Mitchenko, do you remember? And with those words he went suddenly out of the kitchen. Fenya was almost more frightened at this sudden departure than she had been when he ran in and attacked her. Just ten minutes later Dmitry went into Pyotr Ilyich Perhotin, the young official with whom he had pawned his pistols. It was by now half past eight, and Pyotr Ilyich had finished his evening tea and had just put his coat on again to go to the metropolis to play billiards. Mitcha caught him coming out. Seeing him, with his face all smeared with blood, the young man uttered a cry of surprise. Good heavens! What is the matter? I've come for my pistols, said Mitcha, and brought you the money, and thanks very much. I'm in a hurry, Pyotr Ilyich. Please make haste. Pyotr Ilyich grew more and more surprised. He suddenly caught sight of a bundle of bank notes in Mitcha's hand. And what was more? He had walked in holding the notes as no one walks in and no one carries money. He had them in his right hand, and held them outstretched as if to show them. Perhotin's servant boy, who met Mitcha in the passage, said afterwards that he walked into the passage in the same way, with the money outstretched in his hand, so he must have been carrying them like that even in the streets. They were all rainbow-coloured, hundred-ruble notes, and the fingers holding them were covered with blood. When Pyotr Ilyich was questioned, later on, as to the sum of money, he said that it was difficult to judge at a glance, but that it might have been two thousand or perhaps three, but it was a big fat bundle. Dmitry Pyotr Ilyich, so he testified afterwards, seemed unlike himself too, not drunk, but as it were exalted, lost to everything, but at the same time as it were absorbed, as though pondering and searching for something and unable to come to a decision. He was in great haste, answered abruptly and very strangely, and at moments seemed not at all dejected, but quite cheerful. But what is the matter with you? What's wrong? cried Pyotr Ilyich, looking wildly at his guest. How is it that you're all covered with blood? Have you had a fall? Look at yourself! He took him by the elbow and led him to the glass. Seeing his blood-stained face, Mitcha started and scowled wrathfully. Damnation! That's the last straw! he muttered angrily, hurriedly changing the notes from his right hand to the left, and impulsively jerked the handkerchief out of his pocket. But the handkerchief turned out to be soaked with blood too. It was the handkerchief he had used to wipe Grigori's face. There was scarcely a white spot on it, and it had not merely begun to dry, but had stiffened into a crumpled ball and could not be pulled apart. Mitcha threw it angrily on the floor. Oh, damn it! he said. Haven't you a rag of some sort to wipe my face? So you're only stained, not wounded. You'd better wash, said Pyotr Ilyich. Here's a wash-stand. I'll pour you out some water. A wash-stand? That's all right. But where am I to put this? With the strangest perplexity he indicated his bundle of hundred rubal notes, looking inquiringly at Pyotr Ilyich, as though it were for him to decide what he, Mitcha, was to do with his own money. In your pocket, or on the table here, they won't be lost. In my pocket? Yes, in my pocket. All right. But I say that's all nonsense, he cried, as though suddenly coming out of his absorption. Look here, let's first settle that business of the pistols. Give them back to me. Here's your money, because I am in great need of them, and I haven't a minute, a minute to spare. And taking the topmost note from the bundle, he held it out to Pyotr Ilyich. But I shan't have changed enough, haven't you, less? No, said Mitcha, looking again at the bundle, and as though not trusting his own words, he turned over two or three of the topmost ones. No, they're all alike, he added, and again he looked inquiringly at Pyotr Ilyich. How have you grown so rich? the latter asked. Wait, I'll send my boy to Plotnikov's. They close late, to see if they won't change it. Here, Mitcha, he called into the passage. To Plotnikov's shop, first rate, cried Mitcha, as though struck by an idea. Mitcha, he turned to the boy as he came in. Look here, run to Plotnikov's, and tell them that Dmitry Fyodorovich sends his greetings, and will be there directly. But, listen, listen, tell them to have champagne, three dozen bottles, ready before I come, and packed as it was to take to Macro. I took four dozen with me then, he added, suddenly addressing Pyotr Ilyich. They know all about it, don't you trouble, Mitcha? He turned again to the boy. Stay, listen, tell them to put in cheese, Strasbourg pies, smoked fish, ham, caviar, and everything, everything they've got, up to a hundred rubles, or a hundred and twenty as before. But wait, don't let them forget dessert. Sweets, pears, watermelons, two or three or four, no, one melons enough, and chocolate, candy, toffee, fondants. In fact, everything I took to Macro before, three hundred rubles worth with the champagne, let it be just the same again. And remember, Mitcha, if you are called Mitcha, his name is Mitcha, isn't it? He turned to Pyotr Ilyich again. Wait a minute, Pyotr Ilyich intervened, listening and watching him uneasily. You'd better go yourself and tell them. He'll muddle it. He will. I see he will. Mitcha, why I was going to kiss you for the commission. If you don't make a mistake, there's ten rubles for you. Run along, make haste. Champagnes, the chief thing, let them bring up champagne. And brandy, too, and red and white wine, and all I had then. They know what I had then. But listen, Pyotr Ilyich interrupted with some impatience. I say let him simply run and change the money, and tell them not to close, and you go and tell them. Give him your note. Be off, Mitcha. Put your best leg forward. Pyotr Ilyich seemed to hurry Mitcha off on purpose, because the boy remained standing with his mouth and eyes wide open, apparently understanding little of Mitcha's orders, gazing up with amazement and terror at his blood-stained face, and the trembling blood-stained fingers that held the notes. Well now come and wash, said Pyotr Ilyich sternly. Put the money on the table or else in your pocket. That's right, come along, but take off your coat. And beginning to help him off with his coat, he cried out again. Look, your coat's covered with blood, too. That—it's not the coat, it's only a little here on the sleeve, and that's only here where the hankerchief lay. It must have soaked through. I must have sat on the hankerchief at Fenyus, and the bloods come through. Mitcha explained it once with the childlike unconsciousness that was astounding. Pyotr Ilyich listened, frowning. Well, you must have been up to something. You must have been fighting with someone. He muttered. They began to wash. Pyotr Ilyich held the jug and poured out the water. Mitcha, in desperate haste, scarcely soaked his hands. They were trembling, and Pyotr Ilyich remembered it afterwards. But the young official insisted on his sopping them thoroughly and rubbing them more. He seemed to exercise more and more sway over Mitcha as time went on. It may be noted in passing that he was a young man of sturdy character. Look, you haven't got your nails clean. Now rub your face here on your temples by your ear. Will you go in that shirt? Where are you going? Look, all the cuff of your right sleeve is covered with blood. Yes, it's all bloody, observed Mitcha, looking at the cuff of his shirt. Then change your shirt. I haven't time. You see, I'll— Mitcha went on with the same confiding ingenuousness, drying his face and hands on the towel and putting on his coat. I'll turn it up at the wrist. It won't be seen under the coat. You see? Tell me now, what game have you been up to? Have you been fighting with someone in the tavern again as before? Have you been beating that captain again? Pyotr Ilyich asked him reproachfully. Whom have you been beating now? Or killing, perhaps? Nonsense, said Mitcha. Why nonsense? Don't worry, said Mitcha, and he suddenly left. I smashed an old woman in the marketplace just now. Smashed an old woman? An old man, cried Mitcha, looking Pyotr Ilyich, straight in the face, laughing and shouting at him as though he were deaf. Con found it, an old woman, an old man. Have you killed someone? We made it up. We had a row and made it up, in a place I know of. We parted friends, a fool. He's forgiven me. He's sure to have forgiven me by now. If he had got up, he wouldn't have forgiven me. Mitcha suddenly winked. Only, damn him, you know, I say, Pyotr Ilyich. Damn him. Don't worry about him. I don't want to, just now. Mitcha snapped out, resolutely. Whatever do you want to go picking quarrels with everyone for? Just as you did with that captain over some nonsense. You've been fighting, and now you're rushing off on the spree. That's you all over. Three dozen champagne? What do you want all that for? Bravo! Now give me the pistols. Upon my honour, I've no time now. I should like to have a chat with you, my dear boy, but I haven't the time. And there's no need. It's too late for talking. Where's my money? Where have I put it? He cried, thrusting his hands into his pockets. You put it on the table, yourself. Here it is. Had you forgotten? Money's like dirt or water to you, it seems. Here are your pistols. It's an odd thing at six o'clock you pledged them for ten rubles, and now you've got thousands. Two or three, I should say. Three, you bet! Laughed Mitcha, stuffing the notes into the side pocket of his trousers. You'll lose it like that. Have you found a gold mine? The mines! The gold mines! Mitcha shouted at the top of his voice and went off into a roar of laughter. Would you like to go to the mines, Perotin? There's a lady here who'll stump up three thousand for you if only you'll go. She did it for me. She's so awfully fond of gold mines. Do you know Madame Holikov? I don't know her, but I've heard of her and seen her. Did she really give you three thousand? Did she, really? Said Pyotr Ilyich, eyeing him dubiously. As soon as the sun rises tomorrow, as soon as Phoebus ever young flies upwards praising and glorifying God, you go to her, this Madame Holikov, and ask her whether she did stump up that three thousand or not. Try and find out. I don't know on what terms you are. Since you say it so positively, I suppose she did give it to you. You've got the money in your hand, but instead of going to Siberia, you're spending it all. Where are you really off to now, eh? To Makro. To Makro, but it's night. Once the lad had all, now the lad has not, cried Mitche suddenly. How not? You say that with all those thousands? I'm not talking about thousands, damn thousands. I'm talking of the female character. Fickle is the heart of woman treacherous and full of vice. I agree with Ulysses. That's what he says. I don't understand you. Am I drunk? Not drunk, but worse. I'm drunk in spirit, Pyotr Ilyich, drunk in spirit, but that's enough. What are you doing, loading the pistol? I'm loading the pistol. Unfascining the pistol case, Mitche actually opened the powder horn and carefully sprinkled and rammed in the charge. Then he took the bullet, and, before inserting it, held it in two fingers in front of the candle. Why are you looking at the bullet? asked Pyotr Ilyich, watching him with uneasy curiosity. Oh, how fancy! Why, if you meant to put that bullet in your brain, would you look at it or not? Why look at it? It's going into my brain, so it's interesting to look and see what it's like, but that's foolishness, a moment's foolishness. Now that's done. He added, putting in the bullet and driving it home with the ramrod. Pyotr Ilyich, my dear fellow, that's nonsense, all nonsense, and if only you knew what nonsense. Give me a little piece of paper now. Here's some paper. No, a clean, new piece, writing paper, that's right. And taking a pen from the table, Mitche rapidly wrote two lines, folded the paper in four, and thrust it in his waistcoat pocket. He put the pistols in the case, locked it up, and kept it in his hand. Then he looked at Pyotr Ilyich with a slow, thoughtful smile. Now, let's go. Where are we going? No, wait a minute. Are you thinking of putting that bullet in your brain, perhaps? Pyotr Ilyich asked uneasily. I was fooling about the bullet. I want to live. I love life. You may be sure of that. I love golden-haired Phoebus and his warm light. Dear Pyotr Ilyich, do you know how to step aside? What do you mean by stepping aside? Making way, making way for a deer creature and for when I hate, and to let the one I hate become deer. That's what making way means, and to say to them, God bless you, go your way, pass on, will I? While you, that's enough, let's go. Upon my word, I'll tell someone to prevent your going there, said Pyotr Ilyich, looking at him. What are you going to macro for now? There's a woman there, a woman. That's enough for you. You shut up. Listen, though you're such a savage, I've always liked you. I feel anxious. Thanks, old fellow. I'm a savage, you say. Savages, savages. That's what I am always saying. Savages. Why, here's Misha. I was forgetting him. Misha ran in post-haste with a handful of notes in change, and reported that everyone was in a bustle at the Plotnikovs. They're carrying down the bottles and the fish and the tea, and it will all be ready directly. Misha seized ten rubles and handed it to Pyotr Ilyich, then tossed another ten rubles note to Misha. Don't dare to do such a thing, cried Pyotr Ilyich. I won't have it in my house. It's a bad demoralizing habit. Put your money away. Here, put it here. Why waste it? It would come in handy to-morrow, and I dare say you'll be coming to me to borrow ten rubles again. Why do you keep putting the notes in your side pocket? Ah, you'll lose them. I say, my dear fellow, let's go to Makro together. What should I go for? I say let's open a bottle at once and drink to life. I want to drink, and especially to drink with you. I've never drunk with you, have I? Very well, we can go to the metropolis. I was just going there. I haven't time for that. Let's drink at the Plotnikovs in the back room. Shall I ask you a riddle? Ask away. Misha took the piece of paper out of his waistcoat pocket, unfolded it, and showed it. In a large, distinct hand was written, I punish myself for my whole life, my whole life I punish. I will certainly speak to someone. I'll go at once, said Piotr Ilyich, after reading the paper. You won't have time, dear boy, come and have a drink, much. Plotnikov's shop was at the corner of the street, next door but one to Piotr Ilyich's. It was the largest grocery shop in our town, and by no means a bad one, belonging to some rich merchants. They kept everything that could be got in a Petersburg shop— grocery of all sort, wines bottled by the brothers Eliseev, fruits, cigars, tea, coffee, sugar, and so on. There were three shop assistants and two errand boys always employed. Though our part of the country had grown poorer, the landowners had gone away, and trade had got worse, yet the grocery stores flourished as before. Every year, with increasing prosperity, there were plenty of purchasers for their goods. They were awaiting Mitcha with impatience in the shop. They had vivid recollections of how he had bought three or four weeks ago, wine and goods of all sorts, to the value of several hundred rubles, paid for in cash. They would never have let him have anything on credit, of course. They remembered that then, as now, he had had a bundle of hundred rubles notes in his hand, and had scattered them at random, without bargaining, without reflecting, or caring to reflect what use so much wine and provisions would be to him. The story was told all over the town that, driving off then with Grushanka to Makro, he had spent three thousand in one night and the following day, and had come back from the spree without a penny. He had picked up a whole troupe of gypsies and camped in our neighbourhood at the time, who for two days got money without stint out of him while he was drunk, and drank expensive wine without stint. People used to tell, laughing at Mitcha, how he had given champagne to grimy-handed peasants, and feasted the village women and girls on sweets and Strasbourg pies. Though to laugh at Mitcha to his face was rather a risky proceeding, there was much laughter behind his back, especially in the tavern, at his own ingenuous public avowal that all he had got out of Grushanka by this escapade was permission to kiss her foot, and that was the utmost she had allowed him. By the time Mitcha and Piotr Ilyich reached the shop, they found a cart with three horses harnessed abreast with bells, and with André, the driver, ready waiting for Mitcha at the entrance. In the shop they had almost entirely finished packing one box of provisions, and were only waiting for Mitcha's arrival to nail it down and put it in the cart. Piotr Ilyich was astounded. Where did this cart come from in such a hurry? he asked Mitcha. I met André as I ran to you, and told him to drive straight here to the shop. There's no time to lose. Last time I drove with Timofé, but Timofé now has gone on before me with the witch. Shall we be very late, André? They'll only get there an hour at most before us, not even that, maybe. I got Timofé ready to start. I know how he'll go. Their pace won't be ours, Dmitry Piotr Ilyich. How could it be? They won't get there an hour earlier. André, a lanky red-haired, middle-aged driver, wearing a full-skirted coat and with a calf-ten on his arm, replied warmly. Fifty rubles for Vodka if we're only an hour behind them. I warrant the time, Dmitry Piotr Ilyich. They won't be half an hour before us, let alone an hour. Though Mitcha bustled about seeing after things, he gave his orders strangely, as it were, disconnectedly and inconsecutively. He began a sentence and forgot the end of it. Piotr Ilyich found himself obliged to come to the rescue. Four hundred rubles worth, not less than four hundred rubles worth, just as it was then, commanded Mitcha. Four dozen champagne, not a bottle less. What do you want with so much? What's it for? Stay, cried Piotr Ilyich. What's this box? What's in it? Surely there isn't four hundred rubles worth here. The officious shopmen began explaining, with oily politeness, that the first box contained only half a dozen bottles of champagne and only the most indispensable articles, such as savories, sweets, toffee, etc. But the main part of the goods ordered would be packed and sent off as on the previous occasion in a special cart, and with three horses travelling at full speed, so that it would arrive not more than an hour later than Dmitri Piotrovich himself. Not more than an hour, not more than an hour, and put in more toffee and fondance, the girls there are so fond of it. Mitcha insisted hotly. The fondance are all right, but what do you want with four dozen of champagne? One would be enough, said Piotr Ilyich, almost angry. He began bargaining, asking for a bill of the goods, and refused to be satisfied, but he only succeeded in saving a hundred rubles. In the end it was agreed that only three hundred rubles worth should be sent. Well, you may go to the devil, cried Piotr Ilyich on second thoughts. What's it to do with me? Throw away your money, since it's cost you nothing. This way, my economist, this way, don't be angry. Mitcha drew him into a room at the back of the shop. They'll give us a bottle here directly. We'll taste it. Piotr Ilyich, come along with me, for you're a nice fellow, the sort I like. Mitcha sat down on a wicked chair before a little table covered with a dirty dinner napkin. Piotr Ilyich sat down opposite, and the champagne soon appeared, and oysters were suggested to the gentlemen. First-class oysters, the last lot in. Hang the oysters, I don't eat them, and we don't need anything, cried Piotr Ilyich, almost angrily. There's no time for oysters, said Mitcha, and I'm not hungry. Do you know, friend? he said, suddenly, with feeling, I never have liked all this disorder. Who does like it? Three dozen of champagne for peasants upon my word. That's enough to make anyone angry. That's not what I mean. I'm talking of a higher order. There's no order in me, no higher order. But that's all over. There's no need to grieve about it. It's too late, dammit. My whole life has been disorder, and one must set it in order. Is that a pun, eh? You're raving, not making puns. Glory be to God in heaven, glory be to God in me. That verse came from my heart once. It's not a verse, but a tear. I made it myself, not while I was pulling the captain's beard, though. Why do you bring him in, all of a sudden? Why do I bring him in? Foolery. All things come to an end. All things are made equal. That's the long and short of it. You know, I keep thinking of your pistols. That's all foolery, too. Drink and don't be fanciful. I love life. I've loved life too much, shamefully much. Enough. Let's drink to life, dear boy. I propose the toast. Why am I pleased with myself? I'm a scoundrel, but I'm satisfied with myself, and yet I'm tortured by the thought that I'm a scoundrel but satisfied with myself. I bless the creation. I'm ready to bless God and His creation directly. But I must kill one noxious insect for fear it should crawl and spoil life for others. Let us drink to life, dear brother. What can be more precious than life? Nothing. To life and to one queen of queens. Let's drink to life and to your queen, too, if you like. They drank a glass each. Although Misha was excited and expansive, yet he was melancholy, too. It was as though some heavy, overwhelming anxiety were weighing upon him. Misha, here's your Misha, come. Misha, come here, my boy. Drink this glass to Phoebus the golden-haired of tomorrow morning. What are you giving it him for? cried Pyotr Ilyich irritably. Yes, yes, yes, let me. I want to. Misha emptied the glass, bowed, and ran out. He'll remember it afterwards, Misha remarked. Woman, I love woman. What is woman? The queen of creation. My heart is sad. My heart is sad, Pyotr Ilyich. Do you remember Hamlet? I am very sorry, Good Horatio, alas, poor Yorick. Perhaps that's me, Yorick. Yes, I'm Yorick now, and a skull afterwards. Pyotr Ilyich listened in silence. Misha, too, was silent for a while. What dog's that you've got here? he asked the shopman casually, noticing a pretty little lap dog with dark eyes sitting in the corner. It belongs to Vavara Alexyevna, the mistress, answered the clerk. She brought it and forgot it here. It must be taken back to her. I saw one like it in the regiment, murmured Misha dreamily. Only that one had its hind leg broken. By the way, Pyotr Ilyich, I wanted to ask you, have you ever stolen anything in your life? What a question! Oh, I didn't mean anything. From somebody's pocket, you know, I don't mean government money, everyone steals that, and no doubt you do, too. You go to the devil. I'm talking of other people's money, stealing straight out of a pocket, out of a purse, eh? I stole twenty co-packs from my mother when I was nine years old. I took it off the table on the sly and held it tight in my hand. Well, and what happened? Oh, nothing. I kept it three days, then I felt ashamed, confessed, and gave it back. And what then? Naturally I was whipped. But why do you ask? Have you stolen something? I have, said Misha, winking, slyly. What have you stolen? inquired Pyotr Ilyich curiously. I stole twenty co-packs from my mother when I was nine years old and gave it back three days after. As he said this, Misha suddenly got up. Dmitry Fyodorovich, won't you come now? called Andrei from the door of the shop. Are you ready? We'll come. Misha started. A few more last words, and Andrei a glass of vodka at starting. Give him some brandy as well. That box, the one with the pistols, put under my seat. Goodbye, Pyotr Ilyich. Don't remember evil against me. But you're coming back tomorrow? Of course. Will you settle the little bill now? cried the clerk, springing forward. Oh yes, the bill, of course. He pulled the bundle of notes out of his pocket again, picked out three hundred rubles, threw them on the counter, and ran hurriedly out of the shop. Everyone followed him out, bowing and wishing him good luck. Andrei, coughing from the brandy he had just swallowed, jumped up on the box. But Misha was only just taking his seat when, suddenly, to his surprise, he saw Fenya before him. She ran up panting, clasped her hands before him with a cry, and plumped down at his feet. Dmitry Fyodorovich, dear good Dmitry Fyodorovich, don't harm my mistress, and it was I who told you all about it. And don't murder him. He came first, he's hers. He'll marry Agrivena Alexandrovna now. That's why he's come back from Siberia. Dmitry Fyodorovich, dear, don't take a fellow creature's life. That's it, is it? So you're off there to make trouble, muttered Pyotr Ilyich. Now it's all clear, as clear as daylight. Dmitry Fyodorovich, give me your pistols at once if you mean to behave like a man. He shouted aloud to Misha. Do you hear, Dmitry? The pistols? Wait a bit, brother. I'll throw them into the pool on the road, answered Misha. Fenya, get up. Don't kneel to me. Misha won't hurt anyone. The silly fool won't hurt anyone again. But I say Fenya, he shouted after having taken his seat. I hurt you just now, so forgive me and have pity on me. Forgive a scoundrel. But it doesn't matter if you don't. It's all the same now. Now then, Andrei, look alive. Fly along, full speed. Andrei whipped up the horses, and the bells began ringing. Goodbye, Pyotr Ilyich. My last tear is for you. He's not drunk, but he keeps babbling like a lunatic, Pyotr Ilyich thought as he watched him go. He had half a mind to stay and see the cart packed with the remaining wines and provisions, knowing that they would deceive and defraud Misha. But, suddenly feeling vexed with himself, he turned away with the curse, and went to the tavern to play billiards. He's a fool, though he's a good fellow, he muttered as he went. I've heard of that officer, Grushenko's former flame. Well, if he has turned up. Eh, those pistols. Damn it all. I'm not his nurse. Let them do what they like. Besides, it'll all come to nothing. They're a set of brawlers, that's all. They'll drink and fight, fight and make friends again. They are not men who do anything real. What does he mean by I'm stepping aside? I'm punishing myself. It'll come to nothing. He's shouted such phrases a thousand times drunk in the taverns. But now he's not drunk. Drunk in spirit? They're fond of fine phrases, the villains. Am I his nurse? He must have been fighting. His face was all over blood. With whom? I shall find out at the metropolis, and his handkerchief was soaked in blood, it's still lying on my floor. Hang it. He reached the tavern in a bad humor and had once made up a game. The game cheered him. He played a second game, and suddenly began telling one of his partners that Dmitry Karamazov had come in for some cash again, something like three thousand rubles, and had gone to Makro again to spend it with Grushenko. This news roused singular interest in his listeners. They all spoke of it, not laughing, but with the strange gravity. They left off playing. Three thousand? But where can he have got three thousand? Questions were asked. The story of Madame Holokov's present was received with skepticism. Hasn't he robbed his old father? That's the question. Three thousand? There's something odd about it. He boasted aloud that he would kill his father, we all heard him here, and it was three thousand he talked about. Pyotr Ilyich listened. All at once he became short and dry in his answers. He said not a word about the blood on Mitch's face and hands, though he had meant to speak of it at first. They began a third game, and by degrees the talk about Mitche died away. But by the end of the third game Pyotr Ilyich felt no more desire for billiards. He laid down the queue, and without having supper as he had intended, he walked out of the tavern. When he reached the marketplace he stood still in perplexity, wondering at himself. He realized that what he wanted was to go to Fyodor Pavlovitch's and find out if anything had happened there. On account of some stupid nonsense as it's sure to turn out, am I going to wake up the household and make a scandal? Damn it! Is it my business to look after them? In a very bad humor he went straight home, and suddenly remembered Fenya. Damn it all! I ought to have questioned her just now. He thought with vexation, I should have heard everything. And the desire to speak to her, and so find out, became so pressing and importunate that when he was half way home he turned abruptly and went towards the house where Grushinka lodged, going up to the gate he knocked. The sound of the knock in the silence of the night sobered him and made him feel annoyed. And no one answered him. Everyone in the house was asleep. And I shall be making a fuss, he thought, with a feeling of positive discomfort. But instead of going away altogether, he fell to knocking again with all his might, filling the street with clamour. Not coming? Well, I will knock them up, I will. He muttered at each knock, fuming at himself, but at the same time he redoubled his knocks on the gate. CHAPTER VI. I AM COMING TOO. But Dimitri Fyodorovich was speeding along the road. It was a little more than twenty bursts to macro, but Andrei's three horses galloped at such a pace that the distance might be covered in an hour and a quarter. The swift motion revived Mitcha. The air was fresh and cool. There were big stars shining in the sky. It was the very night, and perhaps the very hour, in which Alyosha fell on the earth and rupturously swore to love it for ever and ever. All was confusion, confusion in Mitcha's soul, but although many things were goading his heart, at that moment his whole being was yearning for her, his queen, to whom he was flying to look on her for the last time. One thing I can say for certain, his heart did not waver for one instant. I shall perhaps not be believed when I say that this jealous lover felt not the slightest jealousy of this new rival who seemed to have sprung out of the earth. If any other had appeared on the scene he would have been jealous at once, and would perhaps have stained his fierce hands with blood again. But as he flew through the night he felt no envy, no hostility even for the man who had been her first lover. It is true he had not yet seen him. Here there was no room for dispute. It was her right and his. This was her first love, which after five years she had not forgotten. So she had loved him only for those five years, and I, how do I come in? What right have I? Step aside, Mitcha, and make way. What am I now? Now everything is over, apart from the officer. Even if he had not appeared everything would be over. These words would roughly have expressed his feelings if he had been capable of reasoning, but he could not reason at that moment. His present plan of action had arisen without reasoning. At Fenya's first words it had sprung from feeling and been adopted in a flash with all its consequences. And yet, in spite of his resolution, there was confusion in his soul, an agonizing confusion. His resolution did not give him peace. There was so much behind that tortured him. And it seemed strange to him at moments to think that he had written his own sentence of death with pen and paper. I punish myself. And the paper was lying there in his pocket, ready. The pistol was loaded. He had already resolved how, next morning, he would meet the first warm ray of golden-haired Phoebus. And yet he could not be quit of the past, of all that he had left behind and that tortured him. He felt that miserably, and the thought of it sank into his heart with despair. There was one moment when he felt an impulse to stop Andre, to jump out of the cart, to pull out his loaded pistol, and to make an end of everything without waiting for the dawn. But that moment flew by like a spark. The horses galloped on, devouring space, and as he drew near his goal, again the thought of her, of her alone, took more and more complete possession of his soul, chasing away the fearful images that had been haunting it. Oh, how he longed to look upon her, if only for a moment, if only from a distance. She's now with him, he thought. Now I shall see what she looks like with him, her first love. And that's all I want. Never had this woman, who was such a fateful influence in his life, aroused such love in his breast, such new and unknown feeling, surprising even to himself, a feeling tender to devoutness, to self-effacement before her. I will if face myself, he said, in a rush of almost hysterical ecstasy. They had been galloping nearly an hour. Mitchell was silent, and though Andre was, as a rule, a talkative peasant, he did not utter a word either. He seemed afraid to talk. He only whipped up smartly his three lean but metal-sum bay horses. Suddenly Mitchell cried out in horrible anxiety. Andre, what if they're asleep? This thought fell upon him like a blow. It had not occurred to him before. It may well be that they're gone to bed by now, Dmitri Fyodorovich. Mitchell frowned as though in pain. Yes indeed, he was rushing there, with such feelings, while they were asleep. She was asleep perhaps there too. An angry feeling surged up in his heart. Drive on, Andre, whip them up, look alive, he cried beside himself. But maybe they're not in bed, Andre went on after a pause. Timofey said there were a lot of them there. At the station? Not at the posting station, but at Plastinov's, at the inn, where they let out horses too. I know, so you say there are a lot of them? How's that? Who are they? cried Mitchell, greatly dismayed at this unexpected news. Well, Timofey was saying they're all gentle folk, two from our town, who they are, I can't say, and there are two others, strangers, maybe more besides. I didn't ask particularly. They set to playing cards, so Timofey said. Cards? So maybe they're not in bed if they're at cards. It's most likely not more than eleven. Quicker, Andre, quicker! Mitchell cried again nervously. May I ask you something, sir? said Andre after a pause, only I'm afraid of angering you, sir. What is it? Why, Fenya threw herself at your feet just now, and begged you not to harm her mistress and someone else too. So you see, sir, it's I am taking you there. Forgive me, sir, it's my conscience. Maybe it's stupid of me to speak of it. Mitchell suddenly seized him by the shoulders from behind. Are you a driver? he asked frantically. Yes, sir. Then you know that one has to make way. What would you say to a driver who wouldn't make way for anyone but would just drive on and crush people? No, a driver mustn't run over people. One can't run over a man. One can't spoil people's lives. And if you have spoiled a life, punish yourself. If only you've spoiled, if only you've ruined anyone's life, punish yourself and go away. These phrases burst from Mitchell almost hysterically. Though Andre was surprised at him, he kept up the conversation. That's right, Dmitri Fyodorovich, you're quite right. One mustn't crush or torment a man or any sort of creature, for every creature is created by God. Take a horse, for instance, for some folks, even among us drivers, drive anyhow. Nothing will restrain them, they just force it along. To hell, Mitchell interrupted and went off into his abrupt, short laugh. Andre, simple soul, he seized him by the shoulders again. Tell me, will Dmitri Fyodorovich Karamazov go to hell or not? What do you think? I don't know, darling, it depends on you. For you are—you see, sir, when the Son of God was nailed on the cross and died, he went straight down to hell from the cross and set free all sinners that were in agony. And the devil groaned, because he thought that he would get no more sinners in hell. And God said to him, then, don't groan, for you shall have all the mighty of the earth, the rulers, the chief judges, and the rich men, and shall be filled up as you have been in all the ages, till I come again. Those were his very words. A peasant legend, capital, whip up the left Andre. So you see, sir, who it is hell's fore, said Andre, whipping up the left horse. But you're like a little child, that's how we look on you. And though you're hasty tempered, sir, yet God will forgive you for your kind heart. And you? Do you forgive me, Andre? What should I forgive you for, sir? You've never done me any harm. No, for everyone, for everyone, you here alone, on the road, will you forgive me for everyone? Speak, simple peasant heart. Oh, sir, I feel afraid of driving you. Your talk is so strange. But Mitchell did not hear. He was frantically praying and muttering to himself. Lord, receive me with all my lawlessness, and do not condemn me. Let me pass by thy judgment. Do not condemn me, for I have condemned myself. Do not condemn me, for I love thee, O Lord. I am a wretch, but I love thee. If thou sendest me to hell, I shall love thee there, and from there I shall cry out that I love thee for ever and ever. But let me love to the end, here and now, for just five hours, till the first light of thy day, for I love the queen of my soul, I love her, and I cannot help loving her. Thou seeest my whole heart. I shall gallop up, I shall fall before her, and say, You are right to pass on and leave me. Farewell, and forget your victim. Never fret yourself about me. MacRoe cried Andre, pointing ahead with his whip. Through the pale darkness of the night loomed a solid black mass of buildings, flung down, as it were, in the vast plain. The village of MacRoe numbered two thousand inhabitants, but at that hour all were asleep, and only here and there a few lates still twinkled. Drive on, Andre, I come! Mitcha exclaimed feverishly. They're not asleep, said Andre again, pointing with his whip to the Plastinoff's inn, which was at the entrance to the village. The six windows, looking on the street, were all brightly lighted up. They're not asleep, Mitcha repeated joyously. Quicker, Andre, gallop, drive up with a dash, set the bells ringing. Let all know that I have come, I'm coming, I'm coming, too. Andre lashed his exhausted team into a gallop, drove with a dash, and pulled up his steaming, panting horses at the high flight of steps. Mitcha jumped out of the cart, just as the innkeeper, on his way to bed, peeped out from the steps, curious to see who had arrived. Trifon Borisovich, is that you? The innkeeper bent down, looked intently, ran down the steps, and rushed up to the guest with obsequious delight. Dmitry Fyodorovich, your honour, do I see you again? Trifon Borisovich was a thick-set, healthy peasant of middle height with a rather fat face. His expression was severe and uncompromising, especially with the peasants of Macro, but he had the power of assuming the most obsequious countenance, when he had an inkling that it was to his interest. He dressed in Russian style, with a shirt buttoning down on one side and a full-skirted coat. He had saved a good sum of money, but was forever dreaming of improving his position. More than half the peasants were in his clutches. Everyone in the neighbourhood was in debt to him. From the neighbouring landowners he bought and rented lands which were worked by the peasants in payment of debts which they could never shake off. He was a widower, with four grown-up daughters. One of them was already a widow and lived in the inn with her two children, his grand-children, and worked for him like a charwoman. Another of his daughters was married to a petty official, and in one of the rooms of the inn on the wall could be seen among the family photographs a miniature photograph of this official in uniform and official epaulettes. The two younger daughters used to wear fashionable blue or green dresses, fitting tight at the back, and with trains a yard long on church holidays, or when they went to pay visits, but next morning they would get up at dawn, as usual, sweep out the rooms with the birch broom, empty the slops, and clean up after lodgers. In spite of the thousands of rubles he had saved, Trifon Borisovich was very fond of emptying the pockets of a drunken guest, and remembering that not a month ago he had in twenty-four hours made two, if not three hundred, rubles out of Dmitry, when he had come on his escapade with Grushanka, he met him now with eager welcome, senting his prey the moment Mitcha drove up to the steps. Dmitry Fyodorovich, dear sir, we see you once more. Stay, Trifon Borisovich, began Mitcha, first and foremost, where is she? Agrifena Alexandrovna? The innkeeper understood at once, looking sharply into Mitcha's face. She's here, too. With whom? With whom? Some strangers. One is an official gentleman, a poll to judge from his speech. He sent the horses for her from here, and there's another with him, a friend of his, or a fellow traveller, there's no telling. They're dressed like civilians. Well, are they feasting? Have they money? Poor sort of a feast, nothing to boast of, Dmitry Fyodorovich. Nothing to boast of? And who are the others? They're two gentlemen from the town. They've come back from Cherny, and are putting up here. One's quite a young gentleman, a relative of Mr. Musov, he must be, but I've forgotten his name, and I expect you know the other, too, a gentleman called Maximov. He's been on a pilgrimage, so he says, to the monastery in the town. He's travelling with this young relation of Mr. Musov. Is that all? Yes. Stay, listen, Trifon Borisovich, tell me the chief thing. What of her? How is she? Oh, she's only just come. She's sitting with them. Is she cheerful? Is she laughing? No, I think she's not laughing much. She's sitting quite dull. She's combing the young gentleman's hair. The pole, the officer? He's not young, and he's not an officer, either, not him, sir. It's the young gentleman that's Mr. Musov's relation. I've forgotten his name. Kalganov. That's it, Kalganov. All right, I'll see for myself. Are they playing cards? They have been playing, but they've left off. They've been drinking tea, the official gentleman asked for liqueurs. Stay, Trifon Borisovich, stay, my good soul. I'll see for myself. Now, answer one more question. Are the gypsies here? You can't have the gypsies now, Dmitry Fyodorovich, the authorities that sent them away. But we've jues that play the cymbals and the fiddle in the village, so one might send for them. They'd come. Send for them. Certainly, send for them, quite mitche. And you can get the girls together, as you did then, Maria especially, Stepaneda too, and Arena, two hundred rubles for a chorus. Oh, for a sum like that I can get the whole village together, though by now very asleep. Are the peasants here worth such kindness, Dmitry Fyodorovich, or the girls, either? To spend a sum like that on such coarseness and rudeness. What's the good of giving a peasant a cigar to smoke, the stinking ruffian? And the girls are all lousy. Besides, I'll get my daughters up for nothing, let alone a sum like that. They've only just gone to bed. I'll give them a kick and set them singing for you. You gave the peasants champagne to drink the other day. Eh! For all his pretended compassion for mitche, Trifon Borisovich had hidden half a dozen bottles of champagne on that last occasion, and had picked up a hundred rubles note under the table, and it had remained in his clutches. Trifon Borisovich, I sent more than one thousand flying last time I was here. Do you remember? You did send it flying, I may well remember. You must have left three thousand behind you. Well, I've come to do the same again, do you see? And he pulled out his roll of notes, and held them up before the innkeeper's nose. Now, listen and remember, in an hour's time the wine will arrive. Savories, pies, and sweets, bring them all up at once. That box Andrei has got is to be brought up at once, too. Open it, and hand champagne immediately, and the girls. We must have the girls, Maria especially. He turned to the cart, and pulled out the box of pistols. Here, Andrei, let's settle. Here's fifteen rubles for the drive, and fifty for vodka, for your readiness, for your love. Remember Karamazov. I'm afraid, sir, faltered Andrei. Give me five rubles extra, but more I won't take. Trifon Borisovich, bear witness, forgive my foolish words. What are you afraid of? asked Mitchev, scanning him. Well, go to the devil if that's it. He cried, flinging him five rubles. Now, Trifon Borisovich, take me up quietly, and let me first get a look at them, so that they don't see me. Where are they, in the blue room? Trifon Borisovich looked apprehensively at Mitchev, but at once obediently did his bidding. Leading him into the passage, he went himself into the first large room, adjoining that in which the visitors were sitting, and took the light away. Then he stealthily led Mitchev in, and put him in a corner in the dark, whence he could freely watch the company without being seen. But Mitchev did not look long, and indeed he could not see them. He saw her, his heart throbbed violently, and all was dark before his eyes. She was sitting sideways to the table in a low chair, and beside her, on the sofa, was the pretty youth Kalganov. She was holding his hand, and seemed to be laughing, while he, seeming vexed and not looking at her, was saying something in a loud voice to Maximov, who sat the other side of the table, facing Grushanka. Maximov was laughing violently at something. On the sofa sat he, and on a chair by the sofa there was another stranger. The one on the sofa was lauling backwards, smoking a pipe, and Mitchev had an impression of a stoutish, broad-faced, short little man, who was apparently angry about something. His friend, the other stranger, struck Mitchev as extraordinarily tall, but he could make out nothing more. He caught his breath. He could not bear it for a minute. He put the pistol case on a chest, and with a throbbing heart he walked, feeling cold all over, straight into the blue room to face the company. I, sweet Grushanka, the first to notice him.