 CHENTLEMAN He began, still in the same agitation, I want to make a full confession. That money was my own. The lawyer's faces lengthened. That was not at all what they expected. How do you mean, faltered Nikolai Parvenovitch, when at five o'clock on the same day from your own confession? Damn five o'clock on the same day and my own confession! That's nothing to do with it now. That money was my own, my own, that is, stolen by me. Not mine, I mean, but stolen by me, and it was fifteen hundred rubles, and I had it on me all the time, all the time. But where did you get it? I took it off my neck, gentlemen, off this very neck. It was here, round my neck, sewn up in a rag, and I'd had it round my neck a long time. It's a month, since I put it round my neck, to my shame and disgrace. And from whom did you appropriate it? You mean steal it? Speak out plainly now. Yes I consider that I practically stole it, but if you prefer I appropriated it. I consider I stole it, and last night I stole it finally. Last night. But you said that it's a month since you obtained it. Yes, but not from my father, not from my father, don't be uneasy. I didn't steal it from my father, but from her. Let me tell you, without interrupting, it's hard to do, you know. You see, a month ago I was sent for by Katarina Ivanovna, formerly might be troathed. Do you know her? Yes, of course. I know you know her. She's a noble creature, noblest of the noble, but she has hated me ever so long. Oh, ever so long, and hated me with good reason, good reason. Katarina Ivanovna, Nikolai Parfenovich exclaimed with wonder. The prosecutor, too, stared. Oh, don't take her name in vain. I'm a scoundrel to bring her into it. Yes, I've seen that she hated me a long while, from the very first, even that evening at my lodging. But enough, enough, you're unworthy even to know of that, no need of that at all. I need only tell you that she sent for me a month ago, gave me three thousand rubles to send off to her sister and another relation in Moscow, as though she couldn't have sent it off herself. And I—it was just at that fatal moment in my life when I—well, in fact, when I'd just come to love another, her, she's sitting down below now, Grushenka. I carried her off here to Makrow then, and wasted here, in two days, half that damned three thousand, but the other half I kept on me. Well, I've kept that other half, that fifteen hundred, like a locket round my neck, but yesterday I undid it, and spent it. What's left of it, eight hundred rubles, is in your hands now, Nikolai Parfenevich. That's the change out of the fifteen hundred I had yesterday. Excuse me, how's that? Why, when you were here a month ago, you spent three thousand, not fifteen hundred. Everybody knows that. Who knows it? Who counted the money? Did I let any one count it? Why, you told everyone yourself that you'd spent exactly three thousand. It's true, I did, I told the whole town so, and the whole town said so, and here, at Makrow too, everyone reckoned it was three thousand, yet I didn't spend three thousand, but fifteen hundred, and the other fifteen hundred I sewed into a little bag. That's how it was, gentlemen, that's where I got that money yesterday. This is almost miraculous, murmured Nikolai Parfenevich. Allow me to inquire, observed the prosecutor at last, have you informed anyone whatever of this circumstance before I mean that you had fifteen hundred left about you a month ago? I told no one. That's strange, do you mean absolutely no one? No one and nobody. What was your reason for this reticence? What was your motive for making such a secret of it? To be more precise, you have told us at last your secret, in your words so disgraceful, though in reality, that is of course comparatively speaking, this action, that is the appropriation of three thousand rubles belonging to someone else, and of course only for a time, is, in my view at least, only an act of the greatest recklessness and not so disgraceful when one takes into consideration your character. Even admitting that it was an action in the highest degree discreditable, still discreditable is not disgraceful. Many people have already guessed during this last month about the three thousand of Catarina Ivanovna's that you have spent, and I heard the legend myself, apart from your confession. Mihail Makarevich, for instance, had heard it too, so that indeed it was scarcely a legend, but the gossip of the whole town. There are indications too, if I am not mistaken, that you confessed this yourself to someone, I mean that the money was Catarina Ivanovna's, and so it's extremely surprising to me that hitherto, that is up to the present moment, you have made such an extraordinary secret of the fifteen hundred you say you put by, apparently connecting a feeling of positive horror with that secret. It's not easy to believe that it could cost you such distress to confess such a secret. You cried out just now that Siberia would be better than confessing it. The prosecutor ceased speaking. He was provoked. He did not conceal his vexation, which was almost anger, and gave vent to all his accumulated spleen, disconnectedly and incoherently without choosing words. It's not the fifteen hundred that's the disgrace, but that I put it apart from the rest of the three thousand, said Mitcha firmly. Why, smiled the prosecutor irritably, what is there disgraceful to your thinking in your having set aside half of the three thousand you had discreditably, if you prefer disgracefully appropriated? Your caking the three thousand is more important than what you did with it. And by the way, why did you do that? Why did you set apart that half? For what purpose? For what object did you do it? Can you explain that to us? Oh, gentlemen, the purpose is the whole point, cried Mitcha. I put it aside because I was vile, that is, because I was calculating, and to be calculating in such a case is vile, and that vileness has been going on a whole month. It's incomprehensible. I wonder at you, but I'll make it clearer. Perhaps it really is incomprehensible. You see, attend to what I say. I appropriate three thousand entrusted to my honour. I spend it on a spree. Say I spend it all, and next morning I go to her and say, Cacha, I've done wrong. I've squandered your three thousand. Well, is that right? No, it's not right. It's dishonest and cowardly. I'm a beast with no more self-control than a beast. That's so, isn't it? But still, I'm not a thief. Not a downright thief, you'll admit. I squandered it, but I didn't steal it. Now a second rather more favourable alternative. Follow me carefully, or I may get confused again, my head's going round. And so for the second alternative. I spend here only fifteen hundred out of the three thousand. That is only half. Next day I go and take that half to her. Cacha, take this fifteen hundred from me. I'm a low beast and an untrustworthy scoundrel, for I've wasted half the money, and I shall waste this too, so keep me from temptation. Well, what of that alternative? I should be a beast and a scoundrel, and whatever you like, but not a thief. Not altogether a thief, or I should not have brought back what was left, but have kept that too. She would see at once that since I brought back half I should pay back what I'd spent, that I should never give up trying to, that I should work to get it and pay it back. So in that case I should be a scoundrel, but not a thief. You may say what you like, not a thief. I admit that there is a certain distinction, said the prosecutor, with a cold smile, but it's strange that you see such a vital difference. Yes, I see a vital difference. Every man may be a scoundrel, and perhaps every man is a scoundrel, but not everyone can be a thief. It takes an arch-scoundrel to be that. Oh, of course I don't know how to make these fine distinctions, but a thief is lower than a scoundrel. That's my conviction. Listen, I carry the money about me a whole month. I may make up my mind to give it back to Moral, and I'm a scoundrel no longer, but I cannot make up my mind, you see, though I'm making up my mind every day, and every day spurring myself on to do it, and yet for a whole month I can't bring myself to it, you see. Is that right to your thinking? Is that right? Certainly it's not right. That I can quite understand, and that I don't dispute, answered the prosecutor with reserve. And let us give up all discussion of these subtleties and distinctions, and if you will be so kind, get back to the point. And the point is that you have still not told us, although we've asked you why, in the first place, you halved the money, squandering one half and hiding the other. For what purpose exactly did you hide it? What did you mean to do with that fifteen hundred? I insist upon that question, Dmitry Fyodorovich. Yes, of course, cried Mitche, striking himself on the forehead. Forgive me, I'm worrying you, and I'm not explaining the chief point, or you'd understand in a minute, for it's just the motive of it that's the disgrace. You see, it was all to do with the old man, my dead father. He was always pestering Agrifenna Alexanderovna, and I was jealous. I thought then that she was hesitating between me and him. So I kept thinking every day, suppose she were to make up her mind all of a sudden, suppose she were to leave off tormenting me, and were suddenly to say to me, I love you, not him. Take me to the other end of the world. And I'd only forty copax. How could I take her away? What could I do? Why, I'd be lost. You see, I didn't know her then, I didn't understand her. I thought she wanted money, and that she wouldn't forgive my poverty, and so I fiendishly counted out the half of that three thousand, sewed it up, calculating on it, sewed it up before I was drunk, and after I had sewn it up I went off to get drunk on the rest. Yes, that was base. Do you understand now? Both the lawyers laughed aloud. I should have called it sensible and moral on your part not to have squandered it all, chuckled Nikolai Parfenovich, for after all, what does it amount to? Why that I stole it, that's what it amounts to—oh, God, you horrify me by not understanding. Every day that I had that fifteen hundred sewn up round my neck, every day and every hour I said to myself, you're a thief, you're a thief. Yes, that's why I've been so savage all this month. That's why I fought in the tavern, that's why I attacked my father. It was because I felt I was a thief. I couldn't make up my mind, I didn't dare even to tell Alyosha, my brother, about that fifteen hundred. I felt I was such a scoundrel and such a pickpocket. But do you know, while I carried it, I said to myself at the same time, every hour, no, Dmitri Fyodorovich, you may yet not be a thief. Why? Because I might go next day and pay back that fifteen hundred to catch her. And only yesterday I made up my mind to tear my amulet off my neck on my way from Fanyus to Perhotin. I hadn't been able till that moment to bring myself to it, and it was only when I tore it off that I became a downright thief, a thief and a dishonest man for the rest of my life. Why? Because with that I destroyed too my dream of going to catch her and saying, I'm a scoundrel but not a thief. Do you understand now? Do you understand? What was it made you decide to do it yesterday, Nikolai Parfenovich interrupted? Why? It's absurd to ask, because I had condemned myself to die at five o'clock this morning here at dawn. I thought it made no difference whether I died a thief or a man of honour. But I see it's not so. It turns out that it does make a difference. Believe me, gentlemen, what has tortured me most during this night has not been the thought that I'd killed the old servant and that I was in danger of Siberia just when my love was being rewarded and heaven was open to me again. Oh, that did torture me, but not in the same way. Not so much as the damned consciousness that I had torn that damned money off my breast at last and spent it, and had become a downright thief. Oh, gentlemen, I tell you again, with a bleeding heart, I have learnt a great deal this night. I have learnt that it's not only impossible to live a scoundrel, but impossible to die a scoundrel. No, gentlemen, one must die honest. Mitchell was pale. His face had a haggard and exhausted look in spite of his being intensely excited. I am beginning to understand you, Dmitry Fyodorovich, the prosecutor said slowly in a soft and almost compassionate tone. But all this, if you'll excuse my saying so, is a matter of nerves, in my opinion, your overwrought nerves, that's what it is. And why, for instance, should you not have saved yourself such misery for almost a month by going and returning that fifteen hundred to the lady who had entrusted it to you? And why could you not have explained things to her, and in view of your position which you describe as being so awful, why could you not have had recourse to the plan which would so naturally have occurred to one's mind, that is, after honourably confessing your errors to her, why could you not have asked her to lend you the sum needed for your expenses, which, with her generous heart, she would certainly not have refused you in your distress, especially if it had been with some guarantee, or even on the security you offered to the merchant Samsonov, and to Madame Holakoff. I suppose you still regard that security as of value. Mitchell suddenly crimsoned. Surely you don't think me such an out-and-out scoundrel as that. You can't be speaking in earnest, he said, with indignation, looking the prosecutor straight in the face and seeming unable to believe his ears. I assure you I am in earnest. Why do you imagine I am not serious? It was the prosecutor's turn to be surprised. Oh, how base that would have been! Gentlemen, do you know you are torturing me? Let me tell you everything, so be it. I'll confess all my infernal wickedness, but to put you to shame, and you'll be surprised yourselves at the depth of ignominy to which a medley of human passions can sink. You must know that I already had that plan myself, that plan you spoke of just now, prosecutor. Yes, gentlemen, I too have had that thought in my mind all this current month, so that I was on the point of deciding to go to catch her. I was mean enough for that, but to go to her, to tell her of my treachery, and for that very treachery, to carry it out for the expenses of that treachery, to beg for money from her, catch her, to beg, do you hear, to beg, and go straight from her to run away with the other, the rival, who hated and insulted her? To think of it. You must be mad, prosecutor. Mad I am not, but I did speak in haste without thinking of that feminine jealousy. If there could be jealousy in this case as you assert, yes, perhaps there is something of the kind, said the prosecutor, smiling. But that would have been so infamous, Mitch had brought his fist down on the table fiercely. That would have been filthy beyond everything. Yes, do you know that she might have given me that money, yes, and she would have given it, too. She'd have been certain to give it, to be revenged on me. She'd have given it to satisfy her vengeance, to show her contempt for me. For hers is an infernal nature, too, and she's a woman of great wrath. I'd have taken the money, too. Oh, I should have taken it. I should have taken it, and then for the rest of my life—oh, God! Forgive me, gentlemen. I'm making such an outcry because I've had that thought in my mind so lately, only the day before yesterday, that night when I was having all that bother with liagavie, and afterwards yesterday, all day yesterday, I remember, till that happened. Till what happened? Put in Nikolai Parfenovich inquisitively, but Mitch did not hear it. I've made you an awful confession, Mitch has said gloomily in conclusion. You must appreciate it, and what's more, you must respect it. For if not, if that leaves your souls untouched, then you've simply no respect for me, gentlemen, I tell you that, and I shall die of shame at having confessed it to men like you. Oh, I shall shoot myself. Yes, I see, I see already, that you don't believe me. What, you want to write that down, too? He cried in dismay. Yes, what you said just now, said Nikolai Parfenovich, looking at him in surprise. That is, that up to the last hour you were still contemplating going to Katarina Ivanovna to beg that sum from her. I assure you that's a very important piece of evidence for us, Dmitry Fyodorovich, I mean, for the whole case, and particularly for you, particularly important for you. Have mercy, gentlemen! Dmitry Fyodorovich flung up his hands. Don't write that, anyway. Have some shame. Here I've torn my heart asunder before you, and you seize the opportunity and are fingering the wounds in both halves. Oh, my God! In despair he hid his face in his hands. Don't worry yourself so, Dmitry Fyodorovich, observed the prosecutor. Everything that is written down will be read over to you afterwards, and what you don't agree to will alter as you like. But now I'll ask you one little question for the second time. Has no one, absolutely no one, heard from you of that money you sewed up? That, I must tell you, is almost impossible to believe. No one! No one! I told you so before, or you've not understood anything. Leave me alone. Very well this matter is bound to be explained, and there's plenty of time for it, but meantime consider. We have, perhaps, a dozen witnesses that you yourself spread it abroad and even shouted almost everywhere about the three thousand you'd spent here, three thousand, not fifteen hundred. And now, too, when you got hold of the money you had yesterday, you gave many people to understand that you had brought three thousand with you. You've got not dozens, but hundreds of witnesses, two hundred witnesses, two hundred have heard it, thousands have heard it, cried Mitcha. Well, you see, all bear witness to it, and the word all means something. It means nothing. I talked rot, and everyone began repeating it. But what need had you to talk rot, as you call it? The devil knows, from bravado, perhaps, at having wasted so much money. To try and forget that money I had sewn up, perhaps? Yes, that was why. Damn it. How often will you ask me that question? Well, I told a fib, and that was the end of it. Once I'd said it, I didn't care to correct it. What does a man tell lies for, sometimes? That's very difficult to decide, Dmitry Fyodorovich. What makes a man tell lies? Observed the prosecutor impressively. Tell me, though, was that amulet, as you call it, on your neck, a big thing? No, not big. How big, for instance? If you fold a hundred rubles note in half, that would be the size. You'd better show us the remains of it. You must have them, somewhere. Termination? What nonsense? I don't know where they are. But excuse me, where and when did you take it off your neck, according to your own evidence you didn't go home? When I was going from Fenyus to Berhotin's on the way I tore it off my neck and took out the money. In the dark. What should I want a light for? I did it with my fingers in one minute. Without scissors, in the street? In the marketplace, I think it was. Why, scissors, it was an old rag, it was torn in a minute. Where did you put it, afterwards? I dropped it there. Where was it, exactly? In the marketplace, in the marketplace, the devil knows whereabouts, what do you want to know for? That's extremely important, Dmitry Fyodorovich. It would be material evidence in your favour. How is it you don't understand that? Who helped you to sew it up a month ago? No one helped me. I did it myself. Can you sew? A soldier has to know how to sew. No knowledge was needed to do that. Where did you get the material, that is, the rag in which you sewed the money? Are you laughing at me? Not at all, and we are in no mood for laughing, Dmitry Fyodorovich. I don't know where I got the rag from—somewhere, I suppose. I should have thought you couldn't have forgotten it. Upon my word I don't remember. I may have torn a bit off my linen. That's very interesting. We may find in your lodging's to-morrow the shirt, or whatever it is, from which you tore the rag. What sort of rag was it—cloth or linen? Goodness only knows what it was—wait a bit—I believe I didn't tear it off anything. It was a bit of calico—I believe I sewed it up in a cap of my landlady's. In your landlady's cap? Yes, I took it from her. How did you get it? You see, I remember once taking a cap for a rag, perhaps to wipe my pen on. I took it without asking, because it was a worthless rag. I tore it up, and I took the notes and sewed them up in it. I believe it was in that very rag I sewed them—an old piece of calico, washed a thousand times. And you remember that for certain, now? I don't know whether for certain. I think it was in the cap. Hang it! What does it matter? In that case your landlady will remember that the thing was lost. No, she won't. She didn't miss it. It was an old rag, I tell you—an old rag not worth a farthing. And where did you get the needle and thread? I'll stop now. I won't say any more—enough of it, said Mitcha, losing his temper at last. It's strange that you should have so completely forgotten where you threw the pieces in the marketplace. "'Dev orders for the marketplace to be swept to-morrow, and perhaps you will find it,' said Mitcha, sneering. "'Enough, gentlemen—enough,' he decided, in an exhausted voice. "'I see you don't believe me, not for a moment. It's my fault, not yours. I ought not to have been so ready. Why? Why did I degrade myself by confessing my secret to you? It's a joke to you. I see that from your eyes. You led me on to it, prosecutor? Sing a hymn of triumph, if you can. Damn you! You torturers!' He bent his head and hid his face in his hands. The lawyers were silent. A minute later he raised his head and looked at them almost vacantly. His face now expressed complete, hopeless despair, and he sat mute and passive as though hardly conscious of what was happening. In the meantime they had to finish what they were about. They had immediately to begin examining the witnesses. It was by now eight o'clock in the morning. The lights had been extinguished long ago. Mikhail Makarevich and Kalganov, who had been continually in and out of the room all the while the interrogation had been going on, had now both gone out again. The lawyers, too, looked very tired. It was a wretched morning. The whole sky was overcast and the rain streamed down in bucket-falls. Misha gazed blankly out of the window. "'May I look out of the window?' he asked Nikolai Parfenovich suddenly. "'Oh, as much as you like,' the latter replied. Misha got up and went to the window. The rain lashed against its little greenish panes. He could see the muddy road just below the house and farther away in the rain and missed a row of poor black dismal huts, looking even blacker and poorer in the rain. Misha thought of Phoebus the Golden-haired and how he had meant to shoot himself at his first ray. Perhaps it would be even better on a morning like this. He thought with a smile, and suddenly, flinging his hand downwards, he turned to his torturers. "'Gentlemen,' he cried, "'I see that I am lost. But she—tell me about her, I beseech you. Surely she need not be ruined with me. She's innocent, you know. She was out of her mind when she cried last night. It's all my fault. She's done nothing—nothing. I've been grieving over her all night as I sat with you. Can't you—won't you tell me what you are going to do with her now?' "'You can set your mind quite at rest on that score, Demetri Fyodorovitch.' The prosecutor answered at once, with evident alacrity. We have, so far, no grounds for interfering with the lady in whom you are so interested. I trust that it may be the same in the later development of the case. On the contrary, we'll do everything that lies in our power in that matter. Set your mind completely at rest.' "'Gentlemen, I thank you. I knew that you were honest, straightforward people, in spite of everything. You've taken a load off my heart. Well, what are we to do now? I'm ready.' "'Well, we ought to make haste. We must pass to examining the witnesses without delay. That must be done in your presence, and, therefore, shouldn't we have some tea first?' interposed Nikolai Parfenovich. I think we've deserved it.' They decided that if tea were ready downstairs, Mikhail Makarovitch had no doubt gone down to get some. They would have a glass, and then go on and on, putting off their proper breakfast until a more favourable opportunity. Tea really was ready below, and was soon brought up. Mitcha at first refused the glass that Nikolai Parfenovich politely offered him, but afterwards he asked for it himself, and drank it greedily. He looked surprisingly exhausted. It might have been supposed from his herculean strength that one night of carousing, even accompanied by the most violent emotions, could have had little effect on him. But he felt that he could hardly hold his head up, and from time to time all the objects about him seemed heaving and dancing before his eyes. A little more, and I shall begin raving, he said to himself. End of Section Sixty. Section Sixty-one of the Brothers Karamazov by Theodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Book Nine, Chapter Eight. The Evidence of the Witnesses. The Babe. The examination of the witnesses began, but we will not continue our story in such detail as before, and so we will not dwell on how Nikolai Parfenovich impressed on every witness called that he must give his evidence in accordance with truth and conscience, and that he would afterwards have to repeat his evidence on oath, how every witness was called upon to sign the protocol of his evidence, and so on. We will only note that the point principally insisted upon in the examination was the question of the three thousand rubles, that is, was the sum spent here at Macron by Mitche on the first occasion, a month before, three thousand or fifteen hundred, and again had he spent three thousand or fifteen hundred yesterday. Alas! all the evidence given by everyone turned out to be against Mitche. There was not one in his favour, and some witnesses introduced new, almost crushing facts in contradiction of his Mitche's story. The first witness examined was Trifon Borisovich. He was not in the least abashed as he stood before the lawyers. He had, on the contrary, an air of stern and severe indignation with the accused, which gave him an appearance of truthfulness and personal dignity. He spoke little, and with reserve, waited to be questioned, answered precisely and deliberately. Firmly and unhesitatingly he bore witness that the sum spent a month before could not have been less than three thousand, that all the peasants about here would testify that they had heard the sum of three thousand mentioned by Dmitry Fyodorovich himself. What a lot of money he flung away on the gypsy girls alone! He wasted a thousand, I dare say, on them alone. I don't believe I gave them five hundred, was Mitche's gloomy comment on this. It's a pity I didn't count the money at the time, but I was drunk. Mitche was sitting sideways with his back to the curtains. He listened gloomily, with a melancholy and exhausted air, as though he would say, Oh, say what you like, it makes no difference now. More than a thousand went on them, Dmitry Fyodorovich, retorted Trifon Borisovich firmly. You flung it about at random, and they picked it up. They were a rascally, thievish lot, horse-dealers. They'd been driven away from here, or maybe they'd bear witness themselves how much they got from you. I saw the sum in my hands myself. Count it, I didn't. You didn't let me, that's true enough, but by the look of it I should say it was far more than fifteen hundred—fifteen hundred, indeed. We've seen money, too. We can judge of amounts. As for the sum spent yesterday, he asserted that Dmitry Fyodorovich had told him as soon as he arrived, that he had brought three thousand with him. Come now, is that so, Trifon Borisovich? replied Mitcha. Surely I didn't declare so positively that I'd brought three thousand. You did say so, Dmitry Fyodorovich. You said it before Andrei. Andrei himself is still here, sent for him. And in the hall, when you were treating the chorus, you shouted straight out that you would leave your sixth thousand here—that is, with what you spent before, we must understand. Step on and Semyon heard it, and Pyotr Fomich Kalganov, too, was standing beside you at the time. Maybe he'd remember it. The evidence as to the sixth thousand made an extraordinary impression on the two lawyers. They were delighted with this new mode of reckoning. Three and three made six. Three thousand then and three now made six. That was clear. They questioned all the peasants suggested by Trifon Borisovich, Stepan and Semyon, the driver Andrei and Kalganov. The peasants and the driver unhesitatingly confirmed Trifon Borisovich's evidence. They noted down, with particular care, Andrei's account of the conversation he had had with Mitcha on the road. Where, says he, am I, Dmitriy Fyodorovich, going, to heaven or to hell, and shall I be forgiven in the next world or not? The psychological Ipolit Karilevich heard this with a subtle smile, and ended by recommending that these remarks as to where Dmitriy Fyodorovich would go should be included in the case. Kalganov, when called, came in reluctantly, frowning and ill-humoured, and he spoke to the lawyers as though he had never met them before in his life, though they were acquaintances whom he had been meeting every day for a long time past. He began by saying that he knew nothing about it and didn't want to, but it appeared that he had heard of the sixth thousand, and he admitted that he had been standing close by at the moment. As far as he could see he didn't know how much money Mitcha had in his hands. He affirmed that the Poles had cheated at cards. In reply to re-iterated questions he stated that, after the Poles had been turned out, Mitcha's position with Agrifena Alexandrovna had certainly improved, and that she had said that she loved him. He spoke of Agrifena Alexandrovna with reserve and respect as though she had been a lady of the best society, and did not once allow himself to call her Grushanka. In spite of the young man's obvious repugnance at giving evidence, Ipolit Kirelevich examined him at great length, and only from him learned all the details of what made up Mitcha's romance, so to say, on that night. Mitcha did not once pull Kalganov up. And last they let the young man go, and he left the room with unconcealed indignation. The Poles, too, were examined. Though they had gone to bed in their room they had not slept all night, and on the arrival of the police officers they hastily dressed and got ready, realizing that they would certainly be sent for. They gave their evidence with dignity, though not without some uneasiness. The little pole turned out to be a retired official of the twelfth class who had served in Siberia as a veterinary surgeon. His name was Musilovich. Panvrublevsky turned out to be an uncertificated dentist. Although Nikolai Parfenovich asked them questions, on entering the room they both addressed their answers to Mihail Makarovich, who was standing on one side, taking him in their ignorance for the most important person and in command, and addressed him at every word as pan-kernel. Only after several reproofs from Mihail Makarovich himself they grasped that they had to address their answers to Nikolai Parfenovich only. It turned out that they could speak Russian quite correctly except for their accent in some words. With his relations with Grushanka, past and present, Panmusilovich spoke proudly and warmly so that Micho was roused at once and declared that he would not allow the scoundrel to speak like that in his presence. Panmusilovich at once called attention to the word scoundrel and begged that it should be put down in the protocol. Micho fumed with rage. He's a scoundrel, a scoundrel, you can put that down, and put down too that in spite of the protocol I still declare that he's a scoundrel, he cried. Though Nikolai Parfenovich did insert this in the protocol, he showed the most praiseworthy tact and management. After sternly reprimanding Micho he cut short all further inquiry into the romantic aspect of the case and hastened to pass to what was essential. One piece of evidence given by the polls roused special interest in the lawyers. That was how, in that very room, Micho had tried to buy off Panmusilovich and had offered him three thousand rubles to resign his claims, seven hundred rubles down, and the remaining two thousand three hundred to be paid next day in the town. He had sworn at the time that he had not the wholesome with him at macro, but that his money was in the town. Micho observed hotly that he had not said that he would be sure to pay him the remainder next day in the town, but Pangrubliewski confirmed the statement, and Micho, after thinking for a moment, admitted, frowning, that it must have been as the polls stated, that he had been excited at the time, and might indeed have said so. The prosecutor positively pounced on this piece of evidence. It seemed to establish for the prosecution, and they did, in fact, base this deduction on it, that half, or a part of, the three thousand that had come into Micho's hands, might really have been left somewhere, hidden in the town, or even perhaps somewhere here in macro. This would explain the circumstance so baffling for the prosecution that only eight hundred rubles were to be found in Micho's hands. This circumstance had been the one piece of evidence which, insignificant as it was, had hitherto told, to some extent, in Micho's favour. Now this one piece of evidence in his favour had broken down. In answer to the prosecutor's inquiry where he would have got the remaining two thousand three hundred rubles, since he himself had denied having more than fifteen hundred, Micho confidently replied that he had meant to offer the little chap not money, but a formal deed of conveyance of his rights to the village of Cermashnia, those rights which he had already offered to Samsonov and Madame Holikov. The prosecutor positively smiled at the innocence of this subterfuge. Can you imagine he would have accepted such a deed as a substitute for two thousand three hundred rubles in cash? He certainly would have accepted it, Micho declared warmly. I look here he might have grabbed not two thousand but four or six for it. He would have put his lawyers, Poles, and Jews onto the job, and might have got not three thousand but the whole property out of the old man. The evidence of Pan Muselovich was, of course, entered in the protocol in the fullest detail. Then they let the Poles go. The incident of the cheating at cards was hardly touched upon. Nikolai Parfenovich was too well pleased with them as it was, and he did not want to worry them with trifles. Moreover it was nothing but a foolish drunken quarrel over cards. There had been drinking and disorder enough that night, so the two hundred rubles remained in the pockets of the Poles. Then Old Maximov was summoned. He came intimately, approached with little steps, looking very dishevelled and depressed. He had, all this time, taken refuge below with Grushanka, sitting dumbly beside her, and now and then he'd begin blubbering over her and waping his eyes with a blue-check handkerchief, as Mihail Makarevich described afterwards, so that she herself began trying to pacify and comfort him. The old man at once confessed that he had done wrong, that he had borrowed ten rubles in my poverty from Dmitri Fyodorovich, and that he was ready to pay it back. To Nikolai Parfenovich's direct question, had he noticed how much money Dmitri Fyodorovich held in his hand, as he must have been able to see the sum better than anyone when he took the note from him, Maximov, in the most positive manner, declared that there was twenty thousand. Have you ever seen so much as twenty thousand before, then? inquired Nikolai Parfenovich with a smile. To be sure I have, not twenty, but seven, when my wife mortgaged my little property. She'd only let me look at it from a distance, boasting of it to me. It was a very thick bundle, all rainbow-coloured notes, and Dmitri Fyodorovich's were all rainbow-coloured. He was not kept long. At last it was Grushenko's turn. Nikolai Parfenovich was obviously apprehensive of the effect her appearance might have on Misha, and he muttered a few words of admonition to him, but Misha bowed his head in silence, giving him to understand that he would not make a scene. Nikolai Parfenovich himself led Grushenko in. She entered with a stern and gloomy face that looked almost composed and sat down quietly on the chair offered her by Nikolai Parfenovich. She was very pale. She seemed to be cold and wrapped herself closely in her magnificent black shawl. She was suffering from a slight feverish chill, the first symptom of the long illness which followed that night. Her grave air, her direct earnest look and quiet manner made a very favourable impression on everyone. Nikolai Parfenovich was even a little bit fascinated. He admitted himself, when talking about it afterwards, that only then had he seen how handsome the woman was. For though he had seen her several times before, he had always looked upon her as something of a provincial hetera. She has the manners of the best society, he said enthusiastically, gossiping about her in a circle of ladies, but this was received with positive indignation by the ladies who immediately called him a naughty man to his great satisfaction. As she entered the room, Grushenko only glanced for an instant at Misha, who looked at her uneasily, but her face reassured him at once. After the first inevitable inquiries and warnings, Nikolai Parfenovich asked her, hesitating a little but preserving the most courteous manner, on what terms she was with the retired Lieutenant Dmitry Fyodorovich Karamazov. To this Grushenko firmly and quietly replied, He was an acquaintance. He came to see me as an acquaintance during the last month. To further inquisitive questions she answered plainly and with complete frankness, that though at times she had thought him attractive, she had not loved him, but had won his heart as well as his old father's, in my nasty spite. That she had seen that Misha was very jealous of Fyodor Pavlovich and everyone else, but that had only amused her. She had never meant to go to Fyodor Pavlovich, she had simply been laughing at him. I had no thoughts for either of them all this last month. I was expecting another man, who had wronged me. But I think, she said in conclusion, that there's no need for you to inquire about that, nor for me to answer you, for that's my own affair. Nikolai Parfenovich immediately acted upon this hint. He again dismissed the romantic aspect of the case, and passed to the serious one, that is, to the question of most importance, concerning the three thousand rubles. Grushanka confirmed the statement that three thousand rubles had certainly been spent on the first carousel at Makro, and, though she had not counted the money herself, she had heard that it was three thousand from Dmitry Fyodorovich's own lips. Did he tell you that alone, or before someone else, or did you only hear him speak of it to others in your presence? The prosecutor inquired immediately, to which Grushanka replied that she had heard him say so before other people, and had heard him say so when they were alone. Did he say it to you alone once, or several times, inquired the prosecutor, and learned that he had told Grushanka so several times? Ipolit Kareelovich was very well satisfied with this piece of evidence. Further examination elicited that Grushanka knew, too, where that money had come from, and that Dmitry Fyodorovich had got it from Katarina Ivanovna. And did you never once hear that the money spent a month ago was not three thousand but less, and that Dmitry Fyodorovich had saved half that sum for his own use? No, I never heard that, answered Grushanka. It was explained further that Misha had, on the contrary, often told her that he hadn't a farthing. He was always expecting to get some from his father, said Grushanka, in conclusion. He never say before you, casually or in a moment of irritation, Nikolai Parfenovich put in suddenly, that he intended to make an attempt on his father's life? He did say so, sighed Grushanka, once or several times. He mentioned it several times, always in anger. And did you believe he would do it? No, I never believed it, she answered firmly. I had faith in his noble heart. Gentlemen, allow me, cried Misha, suddenly, allow me to say one word to Agrifena Alexandrovna in your presence. You can speak, Nikolai Parfenovich assented. Agrifena Alexandrovna, Misha got up from his chair, have faith in God and in me. I am not guilty of my father's murder. Having uttered these words, Misha sat down again on his chair. Grushanka stood up and crossed herself devoutly before the icon. Thanks be to thee, O Lord, she said, in a voice thrilled with emotion, and still standing, she turned to Nikolai Parfenovich and added, As he has spoken now, believe it, I know him. He'll say anything as a joke or from obstinacy, but he'll never deceive you against his conscience. He's telling the whole truth, you may believe it. Thanks, Agrifena Alexandrovna, you've given me fresh courage, Misha responded, in a quivering voice. As to the money spent the previous day, she declared that she did not know what some it was, but had heard him tell several people that he had three thousand with him. According to the question where he got the money, she said that he had told her that he had stolen it from Katarina Ivanovna and that she had replied to that that he hadn't stolen it and that he must pay the money back next day. On the prosecutors asking her emphatically whether the money he said he had stolen from Katarina Ivanovna was what he had spent yesterday or what he had squandered here a month ago, she declared that he meant the money spent a month ago and that that was how she understood him. Grushanka was at last released and Nikolai Parfenovich informed her impulsively that she might at once return to the town and that if he could be of any assistance to her with horses, for example, or if she would care for an escort, he would be, I thank you sincerely, said Grushanka, bowing to him, I'm going with this old gentleman, I am driving him back to town with me, and meanwhile if you allow me I'll wait below to hear what you decide about Dmitry Fyodorovich. She went out. Mitchell was calm and even looked more cheerful, but only for a moment. He felt more and more oppressed by a strange physical weakness. His eyes were closing with fatigue. The examination of the witnesses was at last over. They proceeded to a final revision of the protocol. Mitchell got up, moved from his chair to the corner by the curtain, lay down on a large chest covered with a rug, and instantly fell asleep. He had a strange dream, a truly out of keeping with the place and the time. He was driving somewhere in the steps where he had been stationed long ago, and a peasant was driving him in a cart with a pair of horses through snow and sleet. He was cold, it was early in November, and the snow was falling in big wet flakes, melting as soon as it touched the earth. And the peasant drove him smartly. He had a fair long beard. He was not an old man, somewhere about fifty, and he had on a grey peasant's smock. Not far off was a village. He could see the black huts, and half the huts were burnt down. There were only the charred beams sticking up. And as they drove in there were peasant women drawing up along the road, a lot of women, a whole row, all thin and wan, with their faces a sort of brownish colour, especially one at the edge, a tall bony woman who looked forty but might have been only twenty, with a long thin face, and in her arms was a little baby crying, and her breasts seemed so dried up that there was not a drop of milk in them, and the child cried and cried and held out its little bare arms with its little fists blue from cold. Why are they crying? Why are they crying? Mitcha asked as they dashed galey by. It's the babe, answered the driver, the babe weeping. And Mitcha was struck by his saying in his peasant way, the babe, and he liked the peasant's calling it a babe. There seemed more pity in it. But why is it weeping? Mitcha persisted stupidly. Why are its little arms bare? Why don't they wrap it up? The babe's cold, its little clothes, are frozen and don't warm it. But why is it? Why? Foolish Mitcha still persisted. Why their poor people, burnt out, they've no bread, they're begging because they've been burnt out. No, no, Mitcha as it were still did not understand. Tell me, why is it those poor mothers stand there? Why are people poor? Why is the babe poor? Why is the step barren? Why don't they hug each other and kiss? Why don't they sing songs of joy? Why are they so dark from black misery? Why don't they feed the babe? And he felt that, though his questions were unreasonable and senseless, yet he wanted to ask just that, and he had to ask it just in that way. And he felt that a passion of pity, such as he had never known before, was rising in his heart, that he wanted to cry, that he wanted to do something for them all, so that the babe should weep no more, so that the dark-faced dried-up mother should not weep, that no one should shed tears again from that moment, and he wanted to do it at once, at once, regardless of all obstacles, with all the recklessness of the Karamazovs. And I'm coming with you. I won't leave you now for the rest of my life. I'm coming with you. He heard, close beside him, Grushenko's tender voice, thrilling with emotion, and his heart glowed, and he struggled forward towards the light, and he longed to live, to live, to go on and on, towards the new, beckoning light, and to hasten, hasten now, at once. What, where? he exclaimed, opening his eyes, and sitting up on the chest, as though he had revived from a swoon, smiling brightly. Nikolai Parfenovitch was standing over him, suggesting that he should hear the protocol read aloud and sign it. Mitchell guessed that he had been asleep an hour or more, but he did not hear Nikolai Parfenovitch. He was suddenly struck by the fact that there was a pillow under his head, which hadn't been there when he had lent back, exhausted on the chest. Who put that pillow under my head? Who was so kind? he cried, with a sort of ecstatic gratitude, and tears in his voice, as though some great kindness had been shown him. He never found out who this kind man was. Perhaps one of the peasant witnesses, or Nikolai Parfenovitch's little secretary, had compassionately thought to put a pillow under his head. But his whole soul was quivering with tears. He went to the table and said that he would sign whatever they liked. I've had a good dream, gentlemen, he said in a strange voice, with a new light, as of joy, in his face. End of Section 61 Section 62 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 9. They Carry Mitcha Away When the protocol had been signed, Nikolai Parfenovitch turned solemnly to the prisoner, and read him the committal, setting forth that in such a year on such a day in such a place, the investigating lawyer of such and such a district court, having examined so and so, to wit, Mitcha, accused of this and of that, all the charges were carefully written out, and having considered that the accused, not pleading guilty to the charges made against him, had brought forward nothing in his defence, while the witnesses, so and so and so and so, and the circumstances, such and such, testify against him, acting in accordance with such and such articles of the statute book and so on, has ruled that in order to preclude, so and so, Mitcha, from all means of evading pursuit and judgment, he be detained in such and such a prison, which he hereby notifies to the accused and communicates a copy of this same committal to the deputy prosecutor, and so on and so on. In brief Mitcha was informed that he was, from that moment, a prisoner, and that he would be driven at once to the town and there shut up in a very unpleasant place. Mitcha listened attentively and only shrugged his shoulders. Well, gentlemen, I don't blame you. I'm ready. I understand that there's nothing else for you to do. Nikolai Parfenovich informed him gently that he would be escorted at once by the rural police officer, Mavriki Mavrikivich, who happened to be on the spot. Stay! Mitcha interrupted suddenly, and impelled by uncontrollable feeling, he pronounced, addressing all in the room. Gentlemen, we're all cruel. We're all monsters. We all make men weep and mothers and babes at the breast. But, of all, let it be settled here now. Of all, I am the lowest reptile. I've sworn to amend, and every day I've done the same filthy things. I understand now that such men as I need a blow, a blow of destiny to catch them as with a noose, and bind them by a force from without. Never, never should I have risen of myself. But the thunderbolt has fallen. I accept the torture of accusation and my public shame. I want to suffer, and by suffering I shall be purified. Perhaps I shall be purified, gentlemen? But listen, for the last time, I am not guilty of my father's blood. I accept my punishment not because I killed him, but because I meant to kill him, and perhaps I really might have killed him. Still, I mean to fight it out with you. I warn you of that. I'll fight it out with you to the end, and then God will decide. Good-bye, gentlemen. Don't be vexed with me for having shouted at you during the examination. Oh, I was still such a fool, then. In another minute I shall be a prisoner, but now, for the last time, as a free man, Dmitry Kamazov offers you his hand, saying good-bye to you, I say it to all men. His voice quivered, and he stretched out his hand, but Nikolai Parfenovich, who happened to stand nearest to him, with a sudden almost nervous movement, hid his hands behind his back. Mitcha instantly noticed this and started. He let his outstretched hand fall at once. The preliminary inquiry is not yet over. Nikolai Parfenovich faltered, somewhat embarrassed. We will continue it in the town, and I, for my part, of course, am ready to wish you all success in your defence. As a matter of fact, Dmitry Fyodorovich, I've always been disposed to regard you as, so to speak, more unfortunate than guilty. All of us here, if I may make bold to speak for all, we are all ready to recognise that you are, at bottom, a young man of honour, but alas, one who has been carried away by certain passions, to a somewhat excessive degree. Nikolai Parfenovich's little figure was positively majestic by the time he had finished speaking. It struck Mitcha that in another minute this boy would take his arm, lead him to another corner, and renew their conversation about girls. But many quite irrelevant and inappropriate thoughts sometimes occur, even to a prisoner when he is being led out to execution. Gentlemen, you are good, you are humane. May I see her to say good-bye for the last time? asked Mitcha. Certainly, but considering, in fact, now it's impossible except in the presence of—oh, well, if it must be so, it must. Grushenko was brought in, but the farewell was brief and a few words, and did not at all satisfy Nikolai Parfenovich. Grushenko made a deep bow to Mitcha. I have told you I am yours, and I will be yours. I will follow you forever, wherever they may send you. Farewell, you are guiltless, though you've been your own undoing. Her lips quivered, tears flowed from her eyes. Forgive me, Grusha, for my love, for ruining you, too, with my love. Mitcha would have said something more, but he broke off and went out. He was at once surrounded by men who kept a constant watch on him. At the bottom of the steps, to which he had driven up with such a dash the day before, with Andrei's three horses, two carts stood in readiness. Mavriky Mavrikyvich, a sturdy, thick-set man with a wrinkled face, was annoyed about something, some sudden irregularity. He was shouting angrily. He asked Mitcha to get into the cart with somewhat excessive surliness. When I stood him drinks in the tavern the man had quite a different face, thought Mitcha, as he got in. At the gates there was a crowd of people, peasants, women and drivers. Trifon Borisovich came down the steps, too, all stared at Mitcha. Forgive me at parting, good people. Mitcha shouted suddenly from the cart. Forgive us, too, he heard two or three voices. Goodbye to you, too, Trifon Borisovich. But Trifon Borisovich did not even turn round. He was perhaps too busy. He, too, was shouting and fussing about something. It appeared that everything was not yet ready in the second cart, in which two constables were to accompany Mavriky Mavrikyvich. The peasant who had been ordered to drive the second cart was pulling on his smock, stoutly maintaining that it was not his turn to go, but Akim's. But Akim was not to be seen. They ran to look for him. The peasant persisted and besought them to wait. You see what our peasants are, Mavriky Mavrikyvich? They've no shame, exclaimed Trifon Borisovich. Akim gave you twenty-five co-packs the day before yesterday. You've drunk it all and now you cry out. I'm simply surprised at your good nature with our low peasants, Mavriky Mavrikyvich. That's all I can say. But what do we want a second cart for, Mitcha put in? Let's start with the one, Mavriky Mavrikyvich. I won't be unruly. I won't run away from you, old fellow. What do we want an escort for? I'll trouble you, sir, to learn how to speak to me if you've never been taught. I'm not old fellow to you, and you can keep your advice for another time, Mavriky Mavrikyvich snapped out savagely, as though glad to vent his wrath. Mitcha was reduced to silence. He flushed all over. A moment later he felt suddenly very cold. The rain had ceased, but the dull sky was still overcast with clouds, and the keen wind was blowing straight in his face. I've taken a chill, thought Mitcha, twitching his shoulders. At last Mavriky Mavrikyvich, too, got into the cart, sat down heavily, and, as though without noticing it, squeezed Mitcha into the corner. It is true that he was out of humour, and greatly disliked the task that had been laid upon him. Good-bye, Trifon Borisovich, Mitcha shouted again, and felt himself that he had not called out this time from good nature, but involuntarily from resentment. But Trifon Borisovich stood proudly, with both hands behind his back, and staring straight at Mitcha with a stern and angry face, he made no reply. Good-bye, Dmitry Fyodorovich, good-bye! He heard all at once the voice of Kalganov, who had suddenly darted out. Running up to the cart, he held out his hand to Mitcha. He had no cap on. Mitcha had time to seize and press his hand. Good-bye, dear fellow, I shan't forget your generosity. He cried warmly. But the cart moved and their hands parted. The bell began ringing, and Mitcha was driven off. Kalganov ran back, sat down in a corner, bent his head, hid his face in his hands, and burst out crying. For a long while he sat like that, crying as though he were a little boy, instead of a young man of twenty. Oh, he believed, almost without doubt, in Mitcha's guilt. What are these people? What can men be after this? He exclaimed incoherently, in bitter despondency, almost despair. At that moment he had no desire to live. Is it worth it? Is it worth it? exclaimed the boy, in his grief. It was the beginning of November. There had been a hard frost, eleven degrees real mure, without snow, but a little dry snow had fallen on the frozen ground during the night, and the keen dry wind was lifting and blowing it along the dreary streets of our town, especially about the market place. It was the beginning of November. It was the beginning of November. It was the beginning of November. It was the beginning of November. It was a dull morning, but the snow had ceased. Not far from the market place, close to Plutnikov's shop, there stood a small house, very clean, both without and within. It belonged to Madame Krasotkin, the widow of a former provincial secretary, who had been dead for fourteen years. His widow, still a nice-looking woman of thirty- two, was living in her neat little house on her private means. She lived in respectable seclusion, she was of a soft but fairly cheerful disposition. She was about eighteen at the time of her husband's death, she had been married only a year, and had just borne him a son. From the day of his death she had devoted herself heart and soul to the bringing up of her precious treasure, her boy, Kulia. Though she had loved him passionately those fourteen years, he had caused her far more suffering than happiness. She had been trembling and fainting with terror almost every day, afraid he would fall ill, would catch cold, do something naughty, climb on a chair and fall off it, and so on and so on. When Kulia began going to school, the mother devoted herself to studying all the sciences with him so as to help him, and go through his lessons with him. She hastened to make the acquaintance of the teachers and their wives even made up to Kulia's school fellows and fawned upon them in the hope of thus saving Kulia from being teased, laughed at, or beaten by them. She went so far that the boys actually began to mock at him on her account and taunt him with being a mother's darling. But the boy could take his own part. He was a resolute boy, tremendously strong as was rumoured in his class, and soon proved to be the fact. He was agile, strong-willed, and of an audacious and enterprising temper. He was good at lessons, and there was a rumour in the school that he could beat the teacher Dardanilov at arithmetic and universal history. Though he looked down upon everyone, he was a good comrade and not supercilious. He accepted his school fellows' respect as his due, but was friendly with them. Above all, he knew where to draw the line. He could restrain himself on occasion, and in his relations with the teachers he never overstepped that last mystic limit beyond which a prank becomes an unpardonable breach of discipline. But he was as fond of mischief on every possible occasion as the smallest boy in the school, and not so much for the sake of mischief as for creating a sensation, inventing something, something effective and conspicuous. He was extremely vain. He knew how to make even his mother give way to him. He was almost despotic in his control of her. She gave way to him, oh, she had given way to him for years. The one thought unendurable to her was that her boy had no great love for her. She was always fancying that Kulia was unfeeling to her, and at times dissolving into hysterical tears she used to reproach him with his coldness. The boy disliked this, and the more demonstrations of feeling were demanded of him, the more he seemed intentionally to avoid them. Yet it was not intentional on his part, but instinctive. It was his character. His mother was mistaken. He was very fond of her. He only disliked sheepish sentimentality as he expressed it in his schoolboy language. There was a bookcase in the house containing a few books that had been his father's. Kulia was fond of reading and had read several of them by himself. His mother did not mind that, and only wondered sometimes at seeing the boy stand for hours by the bookcase pouring over a book instead of going to play. And in that way Kulia read some things unsuitable for his age. Though the boy as a rule knew where to draw the line in his mischief, he had of late begun to play pranks that caused his mother's serious alarm. It is true there was nothing vicious in what he did, but a wild, mad recklessness. It happened that July, during the summer holidays, that the mother and son went to another district, forty-five miles away, to spend a week with a distant relation whose husband was an official at the railway station, the very station, the nearest one to our town, from which a month later Ivan Fyodorovich Karamazov set off for Moscow. There Kulia began by carefully investigating every detail connected with the railways, knowing that he could impress his school fellows when he got home with his newly acquired knowledge. But there happened to be some other boys in the place with whom he soon made friends. Some of them were living at the station, others in the neighborhood. There were six or seven of them, all between twelve and fifteen, and two of them came from our town. The boys played together, and on the fourth or fifth day of Kulia's stay at the station, mad bet was made by the foolish boys. Kulia, who was almost the youngest of the party and rather looked down upon by the others in consequence, was moved by vanity or by reckless bravado to bet them two rubles that he would lie down between the rails at night when the eleven o'clock train was due, and would lie there without moving while the train rolled over him at full speed. It is true they made a preliminary investigation from which it appeared that it was possible to lie so flat between the rails that the train could pass over without touching, but to lie there was no joke. Kulia maintained stoutly that he would. At first they laughed at him, called him a little liar, a braggart, but that only egged him on. What peaked him most was that these boys of fifteen turned up their noses at him too super-ciliously, and were at first disposed to treat him as a small boy, not fit to associate with them, and that was an unendurable insult. And so it was resolved to go in the evening half a mile from the station so that the train might have time to get up full speed after leaving the station. The boys assembled. It was a pitch-dark night without a moon. At the time fixed Kulia lay down between the rails. The five others who had taken the bet waited among the bushes below the embankment, their hearts beating with suspense, which was followed by alarm and remorse. At last they heard in the distance the rumble of the train leaving the station. Two red lights gleamed out of the darkness, the monster roared as it approached. Run ran away from the rails! The boys cried to Kulia from the bushes, breathless with terror. But it was too late. The train darted up and flew past. The boys rushed to Kulia. He lay without moving. They began pulling at him, lifting him up. He suddenly got up and walked away without a word. Then he explained that he had lain there as though he were insensible to frighten them. But the fact was he really had lost consciousness as he confessed long after to his mother. In this way his reputation as a desperate character was established forever. He returned home to the station as white as a sheet. Next day he had a slight attack of nervous fever, but he was in high spirits and well pleased with himself. The incident did not become known at once, but when they came back to the town it penetrated to the school and even reached the ears of the masters. But then Kulia's mother hastened to entreat the masters on her boy's behalf, and in the end Dardanalov, a respected and influential teacher, exerted himself in his favour and the affair was ignored. Dardanalov was a middle-aged bachelor who had been passionately in love with Madame Krasotkin for many years past, and had once already about a year previously ventured, trembling with fear and the delicacy of his sentiments, to offer her most respectfully his hand in marriage. But she refused him resolutely, feeling that to accept him would be an act of treachery to her son, though Dardanalov had, to judge from certain mysterious symptoms, reason for believing that he was not an object of aversion to the charming but too chaste and tender-hearted widow. Kulia's mad prank seemed to have broken the ice, and Dardanalov was rewarded for his intercession by a suggestion of hope. The suggestion, it is true, was a faint one, but then Dardanalov was such a paragon of purity and delicacy that it was enough for the time being to make him perfectly happy. He was fond of the boy, though he would have felt it beneath him to try and win him over, and was severe and strict with him in class. Kulia too kept him at a respectful distance. He learned his lessons perfectly. He was second in his class, was reserved with Dardanalov, and the whole class firmly believed that Kulia was so good at universal history that he could beat even Dardanalov. Kulia did indeed ask him the question, who founded Troy, to which Dardanalov had made a very vague reply, referring to the movements and migrations of races, to the remoteness of the period, to the mythical legends. But the question, who had founded Troy, that is what individuals, he could not answer, and even for some reason did the question as idle and frivolous. But the boys remained convinced that Dardanalov did not know who founded Troy. Kulia had read of the founders of Troy in Smaragdav, whose history was among the books in his father's bookcase. In the end all the boys became interested in the question who it was that had founded Troy, but Krasotkin would not tell his secret, and his reputation for knowledge remained unshaken. After the incident on the railway, a certain change came over Kulia's attitude to his mother. When Anna Fyodorovna, Madame Krasotkin, heard of her son's exploit, she almost went out of her mind with horror. She had such terrible attacks of hysterics, lasting with intervals for several days, that Kulia, seriously alarmed at last, promised on his honour that such pranks should never be repeated. He swore on his knees before the holy image, and swore by the memory of his father, at Madame Krasotkin's instance, and the manly Kulia burst into tears like a boy of six. And all that day the mother and son were constantly rushing into each other's arms, sobbing. Next day Kulia woke up as unfeeling as before, but he had become more silent, more modest, sterner, and more thoughtful. Six weeks later, it is true, he got into another scrape, which even brought his name to the ears of our justice of the peace, but it was a scrape of quite another kind, amusing, foolish, and he did not, as it turned out, take the leading part in it, but was only implicated in it. But of this later. His mother still stood and trembled, but the more uneasy she became, the greater were the hopes of Dardanolov. It must be noted that Kulia understood and devined what was in Dardanolov's heart, and of course despised him profoundly for his feelings. He had in the past been so tactless as to show this contempt before his mother, hinting vaguely that he knew what Dardanolov was after. But from the time of the railway incident, his behavior in this respect also was changed. He did not allow himself the remotest illusion to the subject, and began to speak more respectfully of Dardanolov before his mother, which the sensitive woman at once appreciated with boundless gratitude. But at the slightest mention of Dardanolov by a visitor in Kulia's presence, she would flush as pink as a rose. At such moments Kulia would either stare out of the window scowling, or would investigate the state of his boots, or would shout angrily for Peresvon, the big shaggy, mangy dog which he had picked up a month before, brought home, and kept for some reason secretly indoors, not showing him to any of his school fellows. He bullied him frightfully, teaching him all sorts of tricks, so that the poor dog howled for him whenever he was absent at school, and when he came in, whined with delight, rushed about as if he were crazy, begged, lay down on the ground, pretending to be dead, and so on. In fact, showed all the tricks he had taught him, not at the word of command, but simply from the zeal of his excited and grateful heart. I have forgotten, by the way, to mention that Kulia Krasotkin was the boy stabbed with a pen knife by the boy already known to the reader as the son of Captain Snagyuriov. Ilyusha had been defending his father when the school boys jeered at him, shouting the nickname Wisp of Toe. CHILDREN And so, on that frosty, snowy and windy day in November, Kulia Krasotkin was sitting at home. It was Sunday, and there was no school. It had just struck eleven, and he particularly wanted to go out on very urgent business, but he was left alone in charge of the house, for it so happened that all its elder Korean mates were absent owing to a sudden and singular event. But Am Krasotkin had let two little rooms, separated from the rest of the house by a passage, to a doctor's wife with her two small children. This lady was the same age as Anna Fyodorovna and a great friend of hers. Her husband, the doctor, had taken his departure twelve months before, going first to Heinberg and then to Tashkent, and for the last six months she had not heard a word from him. Had it not been for her friendship with Madame Krasotkin, which was some consolation to the forsaken lady, she would certainly have completely dissolved away in tears. And now, to add to her misfortunes, Katerina, her only servant, was suddenly moved the evening before to announce to her mistress's amazement that she proposed to bring a child into the world before morning. It seemed almost miraculous to everyone that no one had noticed the probability of it before. The astounded doctor's wife decided to move, Katerina, while there was still time, to an establishment in the town kept by a midwife for such emergencies. As she set great store by her servant, she promptly carried out this plan and remained there looking after her. By the morning all Madame Krasotkin's friendly sympathy and energy were called upon to render assistance and appeal to someone for help in the case. So both the ladies were absent from home. The Krasotkin's servant, Agafia, had gone out to the market and Kolia was thus left for a time to protect and look after the kids, that is the son and daughter of the doctor's wife, who were left alone. Kolia was not afraid of taking care of the house, besides he had Paris fawn, who had been told to lie flat without moving under the bench in the hall. Every time Kolia, walking to and fro through the rooms, came into the hall, the dog shook his head and gave two loud and insinuating taps on the floor with his tail, but alas the whistle did not sound to release him. Kolia looked sternly at the luckless dog, who relapsed again into obedient rigidity. The one thing that troubled Kolia was the kids. He looked, of course, with the utmost scorn on Katarina's unexpected adventure, but he was very fond of the bereaved kitties and had already taken them a picture-book. Nastya, the elder, a girl of eight, could read and Kostya, the boy aged seven, was very fond of being read to by her. Krasotkin could, of course, have provided more diverting entertainment for them. He could have made them stand side by side and played soldiers with them or sent them hiding all over the house. He had done so more than once before and was not above doing it. So much so that a report once spread at school that Krasotkin played horses with the little lodgers at home, prancing with his head on one side like a trace-horse. But Krasotkin hotly parried this thrust, pointing out that to play horses with boys of one's own age, boys of thirteen, would certainly be disgraceful at this date, but that he did it for the sake of the kids, because he liked them and no one had a right to call him to account for his feelings. The two kids adored him. But on this occasion he was in no mood for games. He had very important business of his own before him, something almost mysterious. Meanwhile, time was passing and Agafia, with whom he could have left the children, would not come back from market. He had several times already crossed the passage, opened the door of the lodger's room and looked anxiously at the kids who were sitting over the book as he had bidden them. Every time he opened the door they grinned at him, hoping he would come in and would do something delightful and amusing. But Kolya was bothered and did not go in. At last it struck eleven, and he made up his mind once for all that if that damned Agafia did not come back within ten minutes he should go out without waiting for her, making the kids promise, of course, to be brave while he was away, not to be naughty, not to cry from fright. With this idea he put on his wadded winter overcoat with its cat-skin fur collar, slung his satchel round his shoulder, and, regardless of his mother's constantly reiterated entreaties that he would always put on galoshes in such cold weather, he looked at them contemptuously as he crossed the hall and went out with only his boots on. Peresvon, seeing him in his outdoor clothes, began tapping nervously yet vigorously on the floor with his tail. Twitching all over he even uttered a plaintive whine. But Kolya, seeing his dog's passionate excitement, decided that it was a breach of discipline, kept him for another minute under the bench, and only when he had opened the door into the passage whistled for him. The dog leapt up like a mad creature and rushed bounding before him rapturously. Kolya opened the door to peep at the kids. They were both sitting as before at the table, not reading but warmly disputing about something. The children often argued together about various exciting problems of life, and Nastya, being the elder, always got the best of it. If Kostya did not agree with her he almost always appealed to Kolya Krasatkin, and his verdict was regarded as infallible by both of them. This time the kids' discussion rather interested Krasatkin, and he stood still in the passage to listen. The children saw he was listening, and that made them dispute with even greater energy. I shall never, never believe, Nastya prattled, that the old women find babies among the cabbages in the kitchen garden. It's winter now and there are no cabbages, and so the old women couldn't have taken Katarina a daughter. Kolya whistled to himself. Or perhaps they do bring babies from somewhere, but only to those who are married. Kostya stared at Nastya and listened, pondering profoundly. Nastya, how silly you are! he said at last, firmly and calmly. How can Katarina have a baby when she isn't married? Nastya was exasperated. You know nothing about it, she snapped irritably. Perhaps she has a husband, only he is in prison, so now she's got a baby. But is her husband in prison? The matter of fact Kostya inquired gravely. Or I tell you what, Nastya interrupted impulsively, completely acting and forgetting her first hypothesis. She hasn't a husband, you are right there, but she wants to be married, and so she's been thinking of getting married, and thinking, and thinking of it, till now she's got it. That is, not a husband, but a baby. Well, perhaps so, Kostya agreed, entirely vanquished. But you didn't say so before, so how could I tell? Come, kitties, said Kulia, stepping into the room. You're terrible people, I see. And Peresvon with you, grinned Kostya, and began snapping his fingers and calling Peresvon. I am in a difficulty, kids. Krasotkin began solemnly, and you must help me. Agafya must have broken her legs, since she has not turned up till now, that's certain. I must go out. Will you let me go? The children looked anxiously at one another. Their smiling faces showed signs of uneasiness, but they did not yet fully grasp what was expected of them. You won't be naughty while I am gone. You won't climb on the cupboard and break your legs. You won't be frightened alone and cry. A look of profound despondency came into the children's faces. And I could show you something as a reward, a little copper cannon which can be fired with real gunpowder. The children's faces instantly brightened. Show us the cannon, said Kostya, beaming all over. Krasotkin put his hand in his satchel and pulling out a little bronze cannon, stood it on the table. Ah, you are bound to ask that. Look, it's on wheels. He rolled the toy on along the table, and it can be fired off too. It can be loaded with shot and fired off. And it could kill anyone? It can kill anyone. You've only got to aim at anybody. And Krasotkin explained where the powder had to be put, where the shot could be rolled in, showing a tiny hole like a touch-hole, and told them that it kicked when it was fired. The children listened with intense interest, what particularly struck their imagination was that the cannon kicked. And have you got any powder? Nastya inquired. Yes. Show us the powder, too, she drawled with a smile of entreaty. Krasotkin dived again into his satchel and pulled out a small flask containing a little real gunpowder. He had some shot, too, in a screw of paper. He even uncorked the flask and shook a little powder to the palm of his hand. One has to be careful there's no fire about, or it would blow up and kill us all, Krasotkin warned them, sensationally. The children gazed at the powder with an awe-stricken alarm that only intensified their enjoyment. But Kastya liked the shot better. And does the shot burn? He inquired. No, it doesn't. Give me a little shot? He asked, in an imploring voice. I'll give you a little shot. Here, take it, but don't show it to your mother till I come back, or she'll be sure to think it's gunpowder and will die of fright and give you a thrashing. Mother never does whip us, Nastya observed at once. I know, I only said it to finish the sentence. And don't you ever deceive your mother except just this once, until I come back. And so, kitties, can I go out? You won't be frightened and cry when I'm gone? We shall cry, draught Kastya, on the verge of tears already. We shall cry, we shall be sure to cry, Nastya chimed in with timid haste. Oh, children, children, how fraught with peril are your years. There's no help for it, chickens. I shall have to stay with you, I don't know how long. And time is passing, time is passing. Tell Peresvon to pretend to be dead, Kastya begged. There's no help for it, we must have recourse to Peresvon, E.C. Peresvon. And Kolja began giving orders to the dog who performed all his tricks. He was a rough-haired dog, of medium size, with a coat of a sort of lilac grey colour. He was blind in his right eye, and his left ear was torn. He whined and jumped, stood and walked on his hind legs, lay on his back with his paws in the air rigid as though he were dead. While this last performance was going on, the door opened, and Agathya, Madame Crissot-Conservant, a stout woman of forty, marked with smallpox, appeared in the doorway. She had come back from market and had a bag full of provisions in her hand. Holding up the bag of provisions in her left hand, she stood still to watch the dog. Though Kolja had been so anxious for her return, he did not cut short the performance, and after keeping Peresvon dead for the usual time, at last he whistled to him. The dog jumped up and began bounding about in his joy at having done his duty. Only think, a dog, Agathya observed sententiously. Why are you late, female? asked Crissot-Consternly. Female indeed! Go on with you, you brat. Brat? Yes, a brat. What is it to you if I'm late? If I'm late you may be sure I have good reason, muttered Agathya, busying herself about the stove, without a trace of anger or displeasure in her voice. She seemed quite pleased, in fact, to enjoy a skirmish with her merry young master. Listen, you frivolous young woman! Crissot-Constern began getting up from the sofa. Can you swear by all you hold sacred in the world and something else besides that you will watch vigilantly over the kids in my absence? I am going out. And what am I going to swear for? laughed Agathya. I shall look after them without that. No, you must swear on your eternal salvation, else I shan't go. Well, don't then, what does it matter to me? It's cold out, stay at home. Kids, Kolia turned to the children, this woman will stay with you till I come back or till your mother comes, for she ought to have been back long ago. She will give you some lunch, too. You'll give them something, Agathya, won't you? That I can do. Good-bye, chickens, I go with my heart at rest. And you, Granny, he added griefly in an undertone as he passed Agathya, I hope you'll spare their tender years and not tell them any of your old woman's nonsense about Katerina. Isi Peresvan. Get along with you, retorted Agathya, really angry this time. Ridiculous boy, you want a whipping for saying such things as what you want. End of Section 64 Section 65 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky Translated by Constance Garnet This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Recording by Bruce Peary Book X. CHAPTER III The School Boy But Kolia did not hear her. At last he could go out. As he went out at the gate he looked round him, shrugged up his shoulders and saying it his freezing, went straight along the street and turned off to the right towards the marketplace. When he reached the last house but one before the marketplace he stopped at the gate, pulled a whistle out of his pocket and whistled with all his might as though giving a signal. He had not to wait more than a minute before a rosy-cheeked boy of about eleven wearing a warm, neat and even stylish coat darted out to meet him. This was Smirov, a boy in the preparatory class, two classes below Kolia Krasotkin, son of a well-to-do official. Apparently he was forbidden by his parents to associate with Krasotkin, who was well known to be a desperately naughty boy. So Smirov was obviously slipping out on the sly. He was, if the reader has not forgotten, one of the group of boys who two months before had thrown stones at Ilyusha. He was the one who told Al-Yasha Karamazov about Ilyusha. I've been waiting for you for the last hour, Krasotkin, said Smirov stolidly, and the boys strode towards the marketplace. I am late, answered Krasotkin. I was detained by circumstances. You won't be thrashed for coming with me? Come, I say, I'm never thrashed. And you've got Peresvon with you? Yes. You're taking him, too? Yes. Ah, if it were only Zhuchka. That's impossible, Zhuchka's non-existent. Zhuchka is lost in the mists of obscurity. Ah, couldn't we do this? Smirov suddenly stood still. You see, Ilyusha says that Zhuchka was a shaggy, grayish, smoky-looking dog, like Peresvon. Couldn't you tell him this is Zhuchka, and he might believe you? Boy, shun a lie. That's one thing. Even with a good object, that's another. Above all, I hope you've not told them anything about my coming. Heaven forbid, I know what I am about. But you won't comfort him with Peresvon, said Smirov, with a sigh. You know, his father, the captain, the wisp of tow, told us that he was going to bring him a real, massive pup with a black nose today. He thinks that would comfort Ilyusha, but I doubt it. And how is Ilyusha? Ah, he is bad, very bad. I believe he's in consumption. He's quite conscious, but his breathing, his breathing's gone wrong. The other day he asked to have his boots on to be led round the room. He tried to walk, but he couldn't stand. Ah, I told you before, father, he said that those boots were no good. I could never walk properly in them. He fancied it was his boots that made him stagger, but it was simply weakness, really. He won't live another week. Herzenstuba is looking after him. Now they are rich again. They've got heaps of money. They are rogues. Who are rogues? Doctors and the whole crew of quacks collectively, and also, of course, individually. I don't believe in medicine. It's a useless institution. I mean to go into all that. But what's that sentimentality you've got up there? The whole class seems to be there every day. Not the whole class. It's only ten of our fellows who go to see him every day. There's nothing in that. What I don't understand in all this is the part that Alexey Karamazov is taking in it. His brother's going to be tried for the crime, and yet he has so much time to spend on sentimentality with boys. There's no sentimentality about it. You are going yourself now to make it up with Ilyusha. Make it up with him. What an absurd expression. But I allow no one to analyze my actions. And how pleased Ilyusha will be to see you. He has no idea that you are coming. Why was it, why was it you come all this time? Smyroth cried with sudden warmth. My dear boy, that's my business, not yours. I am going of myself because I choose to. But you've all been hauled there by Alexey Karamazov. There's a difference, you know. And how do you know? I may not be going to make it up at all. It's a stupid expression. It's not Karamazov at all. It's not his doing. He began going there of themselves. Of course they went with Karamazov at first, and there's been nothing of that sort, no silliness. First one went and then another. His father was awfully pleased to see us. You know he will simply go out of his mind if Ilyusha dies. He sees that Ilyusha is dying and he seems so glad we've made it up with Ilyusha. Ilyusha asked after you, that was all. He just asks no more. His father will go out of his mind or hang himself. He behaved like a madman before. You know, he is a very decent man. We made a mistake then. It's all the fault of that murderer who beat him then. Karamazov's are riddled to me all the same. I might have made his acquaintance long ago, but I like to have a proper pride in some cases. Besides, I have a theory about him which I must work out and verify. Kolya subsided into dignified silence. Smirov, too, was silent. Smirov, of course, worshipped Krasotkin and never dreamed of putting himself on a level with him. Now he was tremendously interested at Kolya's saying that he was going of himself to see Ilyusha. He felt that there must be some mystery in Kolya's suddenly taking it into his head to him that day. They crossed the marketplace in which at that hour were many loaded wagons from the country and a great number of live fowls. The market women were selling rolls, cottons, and threads, etc. in their booths. These Sunday markets were naively called fares in the town and there were many such fares in the year. Peresvon ran about in the wildest spirits, sniffing about one side then the other. When he met other dogs, they zealously smelt each other over according to the rules of canine etiquette. I like to watch such realistic scenes smirov, said Kolya, suddenly. Have you noticed how dogs sniff at one another when they meet? It seems to be a law of their nature. Yes, it's a funny habit. No, it's not funny. You are wrong there. There's nothing funny in nature. However funny it may seem to man with his prejudices. If dogs could reason and criticize us, they'd be sure to find just as much that would be funny to them if not far more in the social relations of men, their masters. Far more indeed. I repeat that because I am convinced that there is far more foolishness among us. That's Rakitin's idea, a remarkable idea. I am a socialist smirov. And what is a socialist? asked smirov. That's when all are equal and all have property in common. There are no marriages, and everyone has any religion and laws he likes best and all the rest of it. You are not old enough to understand that yet. It's cold, though. Yes, twelve degrees of frost fathered looked at the thermometer just now. Have you noticed, smirov, that in the middle of winter we don't feel so cold even when there are fifteen or eighteen degrees of frost as we do now in the beginning of winter when there is a sudden frost of twelve degrees, especially when there is not much snow. It's because people are not used to it. Everything is habit with men. Everything even in their social and political relations. Habit is the great motive power. What a funny-looking peasant. Kolja pointed to a tall peasant with the good-natured countenance in a long sheepskin coat who was standing by his wagon clapping to gather his hands in their shapeless leather gloves to warm them. His long, fair beard was all white with frost. That peasant's beard's frozen, Kolja cried in a loud, provocative voice as he passed him. Lots of people's beards are frozen, the peasant replied calmly and sententiously. Don't provoke him, observed Smuroff. It's all right, he won't be cross. He's a nice fellow. Goodbye, Matve. Goodbye. Is your name Matve? Yes, didn't you know? No, I didn't. It was a guess. You don't say so. You are a schoolboy, I suppose. Yes. You get whipped, I expect. Nothing to speak of, sometimes. Does it hurt? Well, yes it does. What a life! The peasant heaved a sigh from the bottom of his heart. Goodbye, Matve. Goodbye, you are a nice chap that you are. The boys went on. That was a nice peasant, deserved to Smuroff. I like talking to the peasant and am always glad to do them justice. Why did you tell a lie pretending we are thrashed? asked Smuroff. I had to say that to please him. How do you mean? You know, Smuroff, I don't like being asked the same thing twice. I like people to understand at the first word. Some things can't be explained. According to a peasant's notions boys are whipped and must be whipped. What would a schoolboy be if he were not whipped? And if I were to tell him we are not he'd be disappointed. But you don't understand that. One has to know how to talk to the peasants. Only don't tease them please or you'll get into another scrape as you did about that goose. So you're afraid. Don't laugh, Kolya. Of course I'm afraid. My father would be awfully cross. I am strictly forbidden to go out with you. Don't be uneasy. Nothing will happen this time. Hello Natasha," he shouted to a market woman in one of the booths. Call me Natasha. What next? My name is Maria." The middle-aged market woman shouted at him. I am so glad it's Maria. Goodbye. Ah, you young rascal. A brat like you to carry on so. I'm in a hurry. I can't stay now. You shall tell me next Sunday. Kolya waved his hand at her as though she had attacked him and not he, her. I've nothing to tell you next Sunday. You set upon me, you impudent young monkey. I didn't say anything. Bald Maria, you want a whipping. That's what you want. You saucy jacka-napes. There was a roar of laughter among the other market women round her. Suddenly a man in a violent rage darted out from the arcade of shops close by. He was a young man, not a native of the town, with dark curly hair and a long pale face marked with smallpox. He wore a long blue coat and a peaked cap and looked like a merchant's clerk. He was in a state of stupid excitement and brandished his fist at Kolya. I know you," he cried angrily. I know you." Kolya stared at him. He could not recall when he could have had a row with the man, but he had been in so many rows in the street that he could hardly remember them all. Do you?" he asked sarcastically. I know you. I know you," the man repeated idiotically. So much the better for you. Well, it's time I was going. Goodbye. You are at your saucy pranks again," cried the man. You are at your saucy pranks again? I know you are at it again. It's not your business, brother, if I am at my saucy pranks again," said Kolya, standing still and scanning him. Not my business? No, it's not your business. Who's then? Who's then? Who's then? It's Trifon Nikitich's business, not yours. What Trifon Nikitich? asked the youth, staring with lautish amazement at Kolya, but still as angry as ever. Kolya scanned him gravely. Have you been to the church of the ascension? He suddenly asked him with stern emphasis. What church of ascension? What for? No, I haven't," said the young man, somewhat taken aback. Do you know Sabaneyev? Kolya went on even more emphatically and even more severely. What Sabaneyev? No, I don't know him. Well then, you can go to the devil, said Kolya, cutting short the conversation, and turning sharply to the right he strode quickly on his way as though he disdained further conversation with the dolt who did not even know Sabaneyev. Stop, hey! What Sabaneyev? The young man recovered from his momentary stupefaction and was as excited as before. What did he say? He turned to the market women with a silly stare. The women laughed. You can never tell what he's after, said one of them. What Sabaneyev is it he's talking about? The young man repeated, still furious and brandishing his right arm. It must be a Sabaneyev who worked for the Kuzmachovs. That's who it must be, one of the women suggested. The young man stared at her wildly. For the Kuzmachovs repeated another woman but his name wasn't Trifon. His name's Kuzma, not Trifon, but the boy said Trifon Nikitech so it can't be the same. His name is not Trifon and not Sabaneyev. It's Chichov, put in suddenly a third woman who had hitherto been silent listening gravely. Alexei Ivanech is his name. It's Chichov, Alexei Ivanech. No doubt about it, it's Chichov, a fourth woman emphatically confirmed the statement. The bewildered youth gazed from one to another. But what did he ask for? What did he ask for, good people? He cried almost in desperation. Do you know Sabaneyev, says he, and who the devil's to know who is Sabaneyev? You're a senseless fellow. But Chichov, Alexei Ivanech, Chichov, that's who it is one of the women shouted at him impressively. What Chichov? Who is he? Tell me if you know. That tall, snivelling fellow who used to sit in the market in the summer. And what's your Chichov to do with me, good people, eh? How can I tell what he's to do with you? Put in another. Tell yourself what you want with him if you make such a clamour about him. He spoke to you, he did not speak to us, you stupid. Don't you really know him? Know whom? Chichov. The devil take Chichov and you with him. I'll give him a hiding, that I will. He was laughing at me. We'll give Chichov a hiding. More likely he will give you one. You are a fool. That's what you are. Chichov, not Chichov. You spiteful mischievous woman. I'll give the boy a hiding. Catch him, catch him. He was laughing at me. The woman got thawed. But Kulia was by now a long way off, marching along with the triumphant air. Smirov walked beside him, looking round at the shouting group far behind. He too was in high spirits, though he was still afraid of getting into some scrape in Kulia's company. What Sabaneyev did you mean? He asked Kulia, foreseeing what his answer would be. How do I know? Now there'll be a hubbub among them all day. I like to stir up fools in every class of society. There's another blockhead, that peasant there. You know, they say there's no one stupider than a stupid Frenchman, but a stupid Russian shows it in his face just as much. Can't you see it all over his face that he is a fool, that peasant, eh? Let him alone, Kulia. Let's go on. Nothing could stop me now I am once off. Hey, good morning, peasant! A sturdy looking peasant with a round, simple face and grizzled beard who was walking by raised his head and looked at the boy. He seemed not quite sober. Good morning, if you are not laughing at me, he said deliberately in reply. And if I am, laughed, Kulia. Well, a joke's a joke. Laugh away. I don't mind. There's no harm in a joke. I beg your pardon, brother, it was a joke. Well, God forgive you. Do you forgive me too? I quite forgive you. Go along. I say you seem a clever peasant. Cleverer than you, the peasant answered unexpectedly with the same gravity. I doubt it, said Kulia, somewhat taken aback. It's true, though. Perhaps it is. It is, brother. Good-bye, peasant. Good-bye. There are all sorts of peasants Kulia observed to smear off after a brief silence. How could I tell I had hit on a clever one? I am always ready to recognize intelligence in the peasantry. In the distance the cathedral clock struck half past eleven. The boys made haste, and they walked as far as Captain Sniguryev's lodging, a considerable distance, quickly and almost in silence. Twenty paces from the house Kulia stopped and told Smirov to go on ahead and ask Karamazov to come out to him. One must sniff round a bit first. He observed to Smirov. Why ask him to come out? Smirov protested. You go in, they will be awfully glad to see you. What's the sense of making friends in the frost out here? I know why I want to see him out here in the frost. Kulia cut him short. In the despotic tone he was fond of adopting with small boys. And Smirov ran to do his bidding. End of section 65.