That’s brandy. I see your look: ‘He’s drinking again!’ Distrust the apparition. Distrust the worthless, lying crowd, And lay aside thy doubts. I’m not drinking, I’m only ‘indulging,’ as that pig, your Rakitin, says. He’ll be a civil councilor one day, but he’ll always talk about ‘indulging.’ Sit down. I could take you in my arms, Alyosha, and press you to my bosom till I crush you, for in the whole world—in reality—in re‐al‐ i‐ty—(can you take it in?) I love no one but you! No one but you and one ‘jade’ I have fallen in love with, to my ruin. But being in love doesn’t mean loving. You may be in love with a woman and yet hate her. Remember that! I can talk about it gayly still. Sit down here by the table and I’ll sit beside you and look at you, and go on talking. You shall keep quiet and I’ll go on talking, for the time has come. But on reflection, you know, I’d better speak quietly, for here—here—you can never tell what ears are listening. I will explain everything; as they say, ‘the story will be continued.’ Why have I been longing for you? Why have I been thirsting for you all these days, and just now? (It’s five days since I’ve cast anchor here.) Because it’s only to you I can tell everything; because I must, because I need you, because to‐morrow I shall fly from the clouds, because to‐morrow life is ending and beginning. Have you ever felt, have you ever dreamt of falling down a precipice into a pit? That’s just how I’m falling, but not in a dream. And I’m not afraid, and don’t you be afraid. At least, I am afraid, but I enjoy it. It’s not enjoyment though, but ecstasy. Damn it all, whatever it is! A strong spirit, a weak spirit, a womanish spirit—whatever it is! Let us praise nature: you see what sunshine, how clear the sky is, the leaves are all green, it’s still summer; four o’clock in the afternoon and the stillness! Where were you going?


I was going to father’s, but I meant to go to Katerina Ivanovna’s first.


To her, and to father! Oo! what a coincidence! Why was I waiting for you? Hungering and thirsting for you in every cranny of my soul and even in my ribs? Why, to send you to father and to her, Katerina Ivanovna, so as to have done with her and with father. To send an angel. I might have sent any one, but I wanted to send an angel. And here you are on your way to see father and her.


Did you really mean to send me?


Stay! You knew it! And I see you understand it all at once. But be quiet, be quiet for a time. Don’t be sorry, and don’t cry. She’s asked you, written to you a letter or something, that’s why you’re going to her? You wouldn’t be going except for that?


Here is her note.


And you were going the back‐way! Oh, gods, I thank you for sending him by the back‐way, and he came to me like the golden fish to the silly old fishermen in the fable! Listen, Alyosha, listen, brother! Now I mean to tell you everything, for I must tell some one. An angel in heaven I’ve told already; but I want to tell an angel on earth. You are an angel on earth. You will hear and judge and forgive. And that’s what I need, that some one above me should forgive. Listen! If two people break away from everything on earth and fly off into the unknown, or at least one of them, and before flying off or going to ruin he comes to some one else and says, ‘Do this for me’—some favor never asked before that could only be asked on one’s deathbed—would that other refuse, if he were a friend or a brother?


I will do it, but tell me what it is, and make haste,


Make haste! H’m!... Don’t be in a hurry, Alyosha, you hurry and worry yourself. There’s no need to hurry now. Now the world has taken a new turning. Ah, Alyosha, what a pity you can’t understand ecstasy. But what am I saying to him? As though you didn’t understand it. What an ass I am! What am I saying? ‘Be noble, O man!’—who says that? Alyosha, you’re the only one who won’t laugh. I should like to begin—my confession—with Schiller’s Hymn to Joy, An die Freude! I don’t know German, I only know it’s called that. Don’t think I’m talking nonsense because I’m drunk. I’m not a bit drunk. Brandy’s all very well, but I need two bottles to make me drunk: Silenus with his rosy phiz Upon his stumbling ass. But I’ve not drunk a quarter of a bottle, and I’m not Silenus. I’m not Silenus, though I am strong, for I’ve made a decision once for all. Forgive me the pun; you’ll have to forgive me a lot more than puns to‐day. Don’t be uneasy. I’m not spinning it out. I’m talking sense, and I’ll come to the point in a minute. I won’t keep you in suspense. Stay, how does it go? Wild and fearful in his cavern Hid the naked troglodyte, And the homeless nomad wandered Laying waste the fertile plain. Menacing with spear and arrow In the woods the hunter strayed.... Woe to all poor wretches stranded On those cruel and hostile shores! From the peak of high Olympus Came the mother Ceres down, Seeking in those savage regions Her lost daughter Proserpine. But the Goddess found no refuge, Found no kindly welcome there, And no temple bearing witness To the worship of the gods. From the fields and from the vineyards Came no fruits to deck the feasts, Only flesh of bloodstained victims Smoldered on the altar‐fires, And where’er the grieving goddess Turns her melancholy gaze, Sunk in vilest degradation Man his loathomeness displays. My dear, my dear, in degradation, in degradation now, too. There’s a terrible amount of suffering for man on earth, a terrible lot of trouble. Don’t think I’m only a brute in an officer’s uniform, wallowing in dirt and drink. I hardly think of anything but of that degraded man—if only I’m not lying. I pray God I’m not lying and showing off. I think about that man because I am that man myself. Would he purge his soul from vileness And attain to light and worth, He must turn and cling for ever To his ancient Mother Earth. But the difficulty is how am I to cling for ever to Mother Earth. I don’t kiss her. I don’t cleave to her bosom. Am I to become a peasant or a shepherd? I go on and I don’t know whether I’m going to shame or to light and joy. That’s the trouble, for everything in the world is a riddle! And whenever I’ve happened to sink into the vilest degradation (and it’s always been happening) I always read that poem about Ceres and man. Has it reformed me? Never! For I’m a Karamazov. For when I do leap into the pit, I go headlong with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that degrading attitude, and pride myself upon it. And in the very depths of that degradation I begin a hymn of praise. Let me be accursed. Let me be vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand. Joy everlasting fostereth The soul of all creation, It is her secret ferment fires The cup of life with flame. ’Tis at her beck the grass hath turned Each blade towards the light And solar systems have evolved From chaos and dark night, Filling the realms of boundless space Beyond the sage’s sight. At bounteous Nature’s kindly breast, All things that breathe drink Joy, And birds and beasts and creeping things All follow where She leads. Her gifts to man are friends in need, The wreath, the foaming must, To angels—vision of God’s throne, To insects—sensual lust. But enough poetry! I am in tears; let me cry. It may be foolishness that every one would laugh at. But you won’t laugh. Your eyes are shining, too. Enough poetry. I want to tell you now about the insects to whom God gave “sensual lust.” To insects—sensual lust. I am that insect, brother, and it is said of me specially. All we Karamazovs are such insects, and, angel as you are, that insect lives in you, too, and will stir up a tempest in your blood. Tempests, because sensual lust is a tempest—worse than a tempest! Beauty is a terrible and awful thing! It is terrible because it has not been fathomed and never can be fathomed, for God sets us nothing but riddles. Here the boundaries meet and all contradictions exist side by side. I am not a cultivated man, brother, but I’ve thought a lot about this. It’s terrible what mysteries there are! Too many riddles weigh men down on earth. We must solve them as we can, and try to keep a dry skin in the water. Beauty! I can’t endure the thought that a man of lofty mind and heart begins with the ideal of the Madonna and ends with the ideal of Sodom. What’s still more awful is that a man with the ideal of Sodom in his soul does not renounce the ideal of the Madonna, and his heart may be on fire with that ideal, genuinely on fire, just as in his days of youth and innocence. Yes, man is broad, too broad, indeed. I’d have him narrower. The devil only knows what to make of it! What to the mind is shameful is beauty and nothing else to the heart. Is there beauty in Sodom? Believe me, that for the immense mass of mankind beauty is found in Sodom. Did you know that secret? The awful thing is that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man. But a man always talks of his own ache. Listen, now to come to facts. I was leading a wild life then. Father said just now that I spent several thousand roubles in seducing young girls. That’s a swinish invention, and there was nothing of the sort. And if there was, I didn’t need money simply for that. With me money is an accessory, the overflow of my heart, the framework. To‐day she would be my lady, to‐morrow a wench out of the streets in her place. I entertained them both. I threw away money by the handful on music, rioting, and gypsies. Sometimes I gave it to the ladies, too, for they’ll take it greedily, that must be admitted, and be pleased and thankful for it. Ladies used to be fond of me: not all of them, but it happened, it happened. But I always liked side‐paths, little dark back‐alleys behind the main road—there one finds adventures and surprises, and precious metal in the dirt. I am speaking figuratively, brother. In the town I was in, there were no such back‐alleys in the literal sense, but morally there were. If you were like me, you’d know what that means. I loved vice, I loved the ignominy of vice. I loved cruelty; am I not a bug, am I not a noxious insect? In fact a Karamazov! Once we went, a whole lot of us, for a picnic, in seven sledges. It was dark, it was winter, and I began squeezing a girl’s hand, and forced her to kiss me. She was the daughter of an official, a sweet, gentle, submissive creature. She allowed me, she allowed me much in the dark. She thought, poor thing, that I should come next day to make her an offer (I was looked upon as a good match, too). But I didn’t say a word to her for five months. I used to see her in a corner at dances (we were always having dances), her eyes watching me. I saw how they glowed with fire—a fire of gentle indignation. This game only tickled that insect lust I cherished in my soul. Five months later she married an official and left the town, still angry, and still, perhaps, in love with me. Now they live happily. Observe that I told no one. I didn’t boast of it. Though I’m full of low desires, and love what’s low, I’m not dishonorable. You’re blushing; your eyes flashed. Enough of this filth with you. And all this was nothing much—wayside blossoms à la Paul de Kock—though the cruel insect had already grown strong in my soul. I’ve a perfect album of reminiscences, brother. God bless them, the darlings. I tried to break it off without quarreling. And I never gave them away. I never bragged of one of them. But that’s enough. You can’t suppose I brought you here simply to talk of such nonsense. No, I’m going to tell you something more curious; and don’t be surprised that I’m glad to tell you, instead of being ashamed.


You say that because I blushed. I wasn’t blushing at what you were saying or at what you’ve done. I blushed because I am the same as you are.


You? Come, that’s going a little too far!


No, it’s not too far. The ladder’s the same. I’m at the bottom step, and you’re above, somewhere about the thirteenth. That’s how I see it. But it’s all the same. Absolutely the same in kind. Any one on the bottom step is bound to go up to the top one.


Then one ought not to step on at all.


Any one who can help it had better not.


But can you?


I think not.


Hush, Alyosha, hush, darling! I could kiss your hand, you touch me so. That rogue Grushenka has an eye for men. She told me once that she’d devour you one day. There, there, I won’t! From this field of corruption fouled by flies, let’s pass to my tragedy, also befouled by flies, that is by every sort of vileness. Although the old man told lies about my seducing innocence, there really was something of the sort in my tragedy, though it was only once, and then it did not come off. The old man who has reproached me with what never happened does not even know of this fact; I never told any one about it. You’re the first, except Ivan, of course—Ivan knows everything. He knew about it long before you. But Ivan’s a tomb.


Ivan’s a tomb?


Yes. I was lieutenant in a line regiment, but still I was under supervision, like a kind of convict. Yet I was awfully well received in the little town. I spent money right and left. I was thought to be rich; I thought so myself. But I must have pleased them in other ways as well. Although they shook their heads over me, they liked me. My colonel, who was an old man, took a sudden dislike to me. He was always down upon me, but I had powerful friends, and, moreover, all the town was on my side, so he couldn’t do me much harm. I was in fault myself for refusing to treat him with proper respect. I was proud. This obstinate old fellow, who was really a very good sort, kind‐hearted and hospitable, had had two wives, both dead. His first wife, who was of a humble family, left a daughter as unpretentious as herself. She was a young woman of four and twenty when I was there, and was living with her father and an aunt, her mother’s sister. The aunt was simple and illiterate; the niece was simple but lively. I like to say nice things about people. I never knew a woman of more charming character than Agafya—fancy, her name was Agafya Ivanovna! And she wasn’t bad‐looking either, in the Russian style: tall, stout, with a full figure, and beautiful eyes, though a rather coarse face. She had not married, although she had had two suitors. She refused them, but was as cheerful as ever. I was intimate with her, not in ‘that’ way, it was pure friendship. I have often been friendly with women quite innocently. I used to talk to her with shocking frankness, and she only laughed. Many women like such freedom, and she was a girl too, which made it very amusing. Another thing, one could never think of her as a young lady. She and her aunt lived in her father’s house with a sort of voluntary humility, not putting themselves on an equality with other people. She was a general favorite, and of use to every one, for she was a clever dressmaker. She had a talent for it. She gave her services freely without asking for payment, but if any one offered her payment, she didn’t refuse. The colonel, of course, was a very different matter. He was one of the chief personages in the district. He kept open house, entertained the whole town, gave suppers and dances. At the time I arrived and joined the battalion, all the town was talking of the expected return of the colonel’s second daughter, a great beauty, who had just left a fashionable school in the capital. This second daughter is Katerina Ivanovna, and she was the child of the second wife, who belonged to a distinguished general’s family; although, as I learnt on good authority, she too brought the colonel no money. She had connections, and that was all. There may have been expectations, but they had come to nothing. Yet, when the young lady came from boarding‐school on a visit, the whole town revived. Our most distinguished ladies—two ‘Excellencies’ and a colonel’s wife—and all the rest following their lead, at once took her up and gave entertainments in her honor. She was the belle of the balls and picnics, and they got up tableaux vivants in aid of distressed governesses. I took no notice, I went on as wildly as before, and one of my exploits at the time set all the town talking. I saw her eyes taking my measure one evening at the battery commander’s, but I didn’t go up to her, as though I disdained her acquaintance. I did go up and speak to her at an evening party not long after. She scarcely looked at me, and compressed her lips scornfully. ‘Wait a bit. I’ll have my revenge,’ thought I. I behaved like an awful fool on many occasions at that time, and I was conscious of it myself. What made it worse was that I felt that ‘Katenka’ was not an innocent boarding‐school miss, but a person of character, proud and really high‐principled; above all, she had education and intellect, and I had neither. You think I meant to make her an offer? No, I simply wanted to revenge myself, because I was such a hero and she didn’t seem to feel it.


Do you know there’s a deficit of 4,500 roubles of government money in your father’s accounts?


What do you mean? What makes you say so? The general was here not long ago, and everything was all right.


Then it was, but now it isn’t.


Don’t frighten me! Who told you so?


Don’t be uneasy. I won’t tell any one. You know I’m as silent as the tomb. I only wanted, in view of “possibilities,” to add, that when they demand that 4,500 roubles from your father, and he can’t produce it, he’ll be tried, and made to serve as a common soldier in his old age, unless you like to send me your young lady secretly. I’ve just had money paid me. I’ll give her four thousand, if you like, and keep the secret religiously.


Ah, you scoundrel! You wicked scoundrel! How dare you!


I’ve never received any money from you, and couldn’t possibly have received any.


My sister told me, that you would give me 4,500 roubles if I came to you for it—myself. I have come ... give me the money!


Alyosha, are you listening, or are you asleep?


Mitya, I know you will tell the whole truth,


I am telling it. If I tell the whole truth just as it happened I shan’t spare myself. My first idea was a—Karamazov one. Once I was bitten by a centipede, brother, and laid up a fortnight with fever from it. Well, I felt a centipede biting at my heart then—a noxious insect, you understand? I looked her up and down. You’ve seen her? She’s a beauty. But she was beautiful in another way then. At that moment she was beautiful because she was noble, and I was a scoundrel; she in all the grandeur of her generosity and sacrifice for her father, and I—a bug! And, scoundrel as I was, she was altogether at my mercy, body and soul. She was hemmed in. I tell you frankly, that thought, that venomous thought, so possessed my heart that it almost swooned with suspense. It seemed as if there could be no resisting it; as though I should act like a bug, like a venomous spider, without a spark of pity. I could scarcely breathe. Understand, I should have gone next day to ask for her hand, so that it might end honorably, so to speak, and that nobody would or could know. For though I’m a man of base desires, I’m honest. And at that very second some voice seemed to whisper in my ear, ‘But when you come to‐morrow to make your proposal, that girl won’t even see you; she’ll order her coachman to kick you out of the yard. “Publish it through all the town,” she would say, “I’m not afraid of you.” ’ I looked at the young lady, my voice had not deceived me. That is how it would be, not a doubt of it. I could see from her face now that I should be turned out of the house. My spite was roused. I longed to play her the nastiest swinish cad’s trick: to look at her with a sneer, and on the spot where she stood before me to stun her with a tone of voice that only a shopman could use. But when you come to‐morrow to make your proposal, that girl won’t even see you; she’ll order her coachman to kick you out of the yard. Publish it through all the town. I’m not afraid of you. Four thousand! What do you mean? I was joking. You’ve been counting your chickens too easily, madam. Two hundred, if you like, with all my heart. But four thousand is not a sum to throw away on such frivolity. You’ve put yourself out to no purpose.


Now. I understand the first half.


You understand the first half. That half is a drama, and it was played out there. The second half is a tragedy, and it is being acted here.


And I understand nothing of that second half so far,


And I? Do you suppose I understand it?


Stop, Dmitri. There’s one important question. Tell me, you were betrothed, you are betrothed still?


We weren’t betrothed at once, not for three months after that adventure. The next day I told myself that the incident was closed, concluded, that there would be no sequel. It seemed to me caddish to make her an offer. On her side she gave no sign of life for the six weeks that she remained in the town; except, indeed, for one action. The day after her visit the maid‐servant slipped round with an envelope addressed to me. I tore it open: it contained the change out of the banknote. Only four thousand five hundred roubles was needed, but there was a discount of about two hundred on changing it. She only sent me about two hundred and sixty. I don’t remember exactly, but not a note, not a word of explanation. I searched the packet for a pencil mark—n‐nothing! Well, I spent the rest of the money on such an orgy that the new major was obliged to reprimand me.


I will write to you. Wait. K.


I’ll explain the rest now, in two words. In Moscow their fortunes changed with the swiftness of lightning and the unexpectedness of an Arabian fairy‐tale. That general’s widow, their nearest relation, suddenly lost the two nieces who were her heiresses and next‐of‐kin—both died in the same week of small‐pox. The old lady, prostrated with grief, welcomed Katya as a daughter, as her one hope, clutched at her, altered her will in Katya’s favor. But that concerned the future. Meanwhile she gave her, for present use, eighty thousand roubles, as a marriage portion, to do what she liked with. She was an hysterical woman. I saw something of her in Moscow, later.


I love you madly, even if you don’t love me, never mind. Be my husband. Don’t be afraid. I won’t hamper you in any way. I will be your chattel. I will be the carpet under your feet. I want to love you for ever. I want to save you from yourself.


But I am convinced that she does love a man like you, and not a man like him.


She loves her own virtue, not me. I swear, Alyosha, you may not believe me, but as God is holy, and as Christ is God, I swear that though I smiled at her lofty sentiments just now, I know that I am a million times baser in soul than she, and that these lofty sentiments of hers are as sincere as a heavenly angel’s. That’s the tragedy of it—that I know that for certain. What if any one does show off a bit? Don’t I do it myself? And yet I’m sincere, I’m sincere. As for Ivan, I can understand how he must be cursing nature now—with his intellect, too! To see the preference given—to whom, to what? To a monster who, though he is betrothed and all eyes are fixed on him, can’t restrain his debaucheries—and before the very eyes of his betrothed! And a man like me is preferred, while he is rejected. And why? Because a girl wants to sacrifice her life and destiny out of gratitude. It’s ridiculous! I’ve never said a word of this to Ivan, and Ivan of course has never dropped a hint of the sort to me. But destiny will be accomplished, and the best man will hold his ground while the undeserving one will vanish into his back‐ alley for ever—his filthy back‐alley, his beloved back‐alley, where he is at home and where he will sink in filth and stench at his own free will and with enjoyment. I’ve been talking foolishly. I’ve no words left. I use them at random, but it will be as I have said. I shall drown in the back‐ alley, and she will marry Ivan. Why?


Stop, Dmitri. There’s one thing you haven’t made clear yet: you are still betrothed all the same, aren’t you? How can you break off the engagement if she, your betrothed, doesn’t want to?


You’ve made a good choice. I see right through him.


What?


Why, I called to you and brought you out here to‐day, this very day—remember it—to send you—this very day again—to Katerina Ivanovna, and—


To tell her that I shall never come to see her again. Say. He sends you his compliments.


But is that possible?


That’s just the reason I’m sending you, in my place, because it’s impossible. And, how could I tell her myself?


And where are you going?


To the back‐alley.


To Grushenka, then! Can Rakitin really have told the truth? I thought that you had just visited her, and that was all.


Can a betrothed man pay such visits? Is such a thing possible and with such a betrothed, and before the eyes of all the world? Confound it, I have some honor! As soon as I began visiting Grushenka, I ceased to be betrothed, and to be an honest man. I understand that. Why do you look at me? You see, I went in the first place to beat her. I had heard, and I know for a fact now, that that captain, father’s agent, had given Grushenka an I.O.U. of mine for her to sue me for payment, so as to put an end to me. They wanted to scare me. I went to beat her. I had had a glimpse of her before. She doesn’t strike one at first sight. I knew about her old merchant, who’s lying ill now, paralyzed; but he’s leaving her a decent little sum. I knew, too, that she was fond of money, that she hoarded it, and lent it at a wicked rate of interest, that she’s a merciless cheat and swindler. I went to beat her, and I stayed. The storm broke—it struck me down like the plague. I’m plague‐stricken still, and I know that everything is over, that there will never be anything more for me. The cycle of the ages is accomplished. That’s my position. And though I’m a beggar, as fate would have it, I had three thousand just then in my pocket. I drove with Grushenka to Mokroe, a place twenty‐five versts from here. I got gypsies there and champagne and made all the peasants there drunk on it, and all the women and girls. I sent the thousands flying. In three days’ time I was stripped bare, but a hero. Do you suppose the hero had gained his end? Not a sign of it from her. I tell you that rogue, Grushenka, has a supple curve all over her body. You can see it in her little foot, even in her little toe. I saw it, and kissed it, but that was all, I swear! ‘I’ll marry you if you like,’ she said, ‘you’re a beggar, you know. Say that you won’t beat me, and will let me do anything I choose, and perhaps I will marry you.’ She laughed, and she’s laughing still!


And do you really mean to marry her?


At once, if she will. And if she won’t, I shall stay all the same. I’ll be the porter at her gate. Alyosha!


Do you know, you innocent boy, that this is all delirium, senseless delirium, for there’s a tragedy here. Let me tell you, Alexey, that I may be a low man, with low and degraded passions, but a thief and a pickpocket Dmitri Karamazov never can be. Well, then; let me tell you that I am a thief and a pickpocket. That very morning, just before I went to beat Grushenka, Katerina Ivanovna sent for me, and in strict secrecy (why I don’t know, I suppose she had some reason) asked me to go to the chief town of the province and to post three thousand roubles to Agafya Ivanovna in Moscow, so that nothing should be known of it in the town here. So I had that three thousand roubles in my pocket when I went to see Grushenka, and it was that money we spent at Mokroe. Afterwards I pretended I had been to the town, but did not show her the post office receipt. I said I had sent the money and would bring the receipt, and so far I haven’t brought it. I’ve forgotten it. Now what do you think you’re going to her to‐day to say? ‘He sends his compliments,’ and she’ll ask you, ‘What about the money?’ You might still have said to her, ‘He’s a degraded sensualist, and a low creature, with uncontrolled passions. He didn’t send your money then, but wasted it, because, like a low brute, he couldn’t control himself.’ But still you might have added, ‘He isn’t a thief though. Here is your three thousand; he sends it back. Send it yourself to Agafya Ivanovna. But he told me to say “he sends his compliments.” ’ But, as it is, she will ask, ‘But where is the money?’


Mitya, you are unhappy, yes! But not as unhappy as you think. Don’t worry yourself to death with despair.


What, do you suppose I’d shoot myself because I can’t get three thousand to pay back? That’s just it. I shan’t shoot myself. I haven’t the strength now. Afterwards, perhaps. But now I’m going to Grushenka. I don’t care what happens.


And what then?


I’ll be her husband if she deigns to have me, and when lovers come, I’ll go into the next room. I’ll clean her friends’ goloshes, blow up their samovar, run their errands.


Katerina Ivanovna will understand it all. She’ll understand how great this trouble is and will forgive. She has a lofty mind, and no one could be more unhappy than you. She’ll see that for herself.


She won’t forgive everything,


There’s something in it, brother, that no woman could forgive. Do you know what would be the best thing to do?


What?


Pay back the three thousand.


Where can we get it from? I say, I have two thousand. Ivan will give you another thousand—that makes three. Take it and pay it back.


And when would you get it, your three thousand? You’re not of age, besides, and you must—you absolutely must—take my farewell to her to‐day, with the money or without it, for I can’t drag on any longer, things have come to such a pass. To‐morrow is too late. I shall send you to father.


To father?


Yes, to father first. Ask him for three thousand.


But, Mitya, he won’t give it.


As though he would! I know he won’t. Do you know the meaning of despair, Alexey?


Yes.


Listen. Legally he owes me nothing. I’ve had it all from him, I know that. But morally he owes me something, doesn’t he? You know he started with twenty‐eight thousand of my mother’s money and made a hundred thousand with it. Let him give me back only three out of the twenty‐eight thousand, and he’ll draw my soul out of hell, and it will atone for many of his sins. For that three thousand—I give you my solemn word—I’ll make an end of everything, and he shall hear nothing more of me. For the last time I give him the chance to be a father. Tell him God Himself sends him this chance.


Mitya, he won’t give it for anything.


I know he won’t. I know it perfectly well. Now, especially. That’s not all. I know something more. Now, only a few days ago, perhaps only yesterday he found out for the first time in earnest (underline in earnest) that Grushenka is really perhaps not joking, and really means to marry me. He knows her nature; he knows the cat. And do you suppose he’s going to give me money to help to bring that about when he’s crazy about her himself? And that’s not all, either. I can tell you more than that. I know that for the last five days he has had three thousand drawn out of the bank, changed into notes of a hundred roubles, packed into a large envelope, sealed with five seals, and tied across with red tape. You see how well I know all about it! On the envelope is written: ‘To my angel, Grushenka, when she will come to me.’ He scrawled it himself in silence and in secret, and no one knows that the money’s there except the valet, Smerdyakov, whom he trusts like himself. So now he has been expecting Grushenka for the last three or four days; he hopes she’ll come for the money. He has sent her word of it, and she has sent him word that perhaps she’ll come. And if she does go to the old man, can I marry her after that? You understand now why I’m here in secret and what I’m on the watch for.


For her?


Yes, for her. Foma has a room in the house of these sluts here. Foma comes from our parts; he was a soldier in our regiment. He does jobs for them. He’s watchman at night and goes grouse‐shooting in the day‐time; and that’s how he lives. I’ve established myself in his room. Neither he nor the women of the house know the secret—that is, that I am on the watch here.


No one but Smerdyakov knows, then?


No one else. He will let me know if she goes to the old man.


It was he told you about the money, then?


Yes. It’s a dead secret. Even Ivan doesn’t know about the money, or anything. The old man is sending Ivan to Tchermashnya on a two or three days’ journey. A purchaser has turned up for the copse: he’ll give eight thousand for the timber. So the old man keeps asking Ivan to help him by going to arrange it. It will take him two or three days. That’s what the old man wants, so that Grushenka can come while he’s away.


Then he’s expecting Grushenka to‐day?


No, she won’t come to‐day; there are signs. She’s certain not to come,


Smerdyakov thinks so, too. Father’s drinking now. He’s sitting at table with Ivan. Go to him, Alyosha, and ask for the three thousand.


Mitya, dear, what’s the matter with you?


What is it? I’m not insane,


No fear. I am sending you to father, and I know what I’m saying. I believe in miracles.


In miracles?


In a miracle of Divine Providence. God knows my heart. He sees my despair. He sees the whole picture. Surely He won’t let something awful happen. Alyosha, I believe in miracles. Go!


I am going. Tell me, will you wait for me here?


Yes. I know it will take some time. You can’t go at him point blank. He’s drunk now. I’ll wait three hours—four, five, six, seven. Only remember you must go to Katerina Ivanovna to‐day, if it has to be at midnight, with the money or without the money, and say, ‘He sends his compliments to you.’ I want you to say that verse to her: ‘He sends his compliments to you.’


Mitya! And what if Grushenka comes to‐day—if not to‐day, to‐morrow, or the next day?


Grushenka? I shall see her. I shall rush out and prevent it.


And if—


If there’s an if, it will be murder. I couldn’t endure it.


Who will be murdered?


The old man. I shan’t kill her.


Brother, what are you saying?


Oh, I don’t know.... I don’t know. Perhaps I shan’t kill, and perhaps I shall. I’m afraid that he will suddenly become so loathsome to me with his face at that moment. I hate his ugly throat, his nose, his eyes, his shameless snigger. I feel a physical repulsion. That’s what I’m afraid of. That’s what may be too much for me.


I’ll go, Mitya. I believe that God will order things for the best, that nothing awful may happen.


And I will sit and wait for the miracle. And if it doesn’t come to pass—


Alyosha went thoughtfully towards his father’s house.


Why? Isn’t it funny? Answer, stupid!


It’s all untrue,


Then go to the devil! You have the soul of a lackey. Stay, here’s Smaragdov’s Universal History. That’s all true. Read that.


What is it? A beetle?


A fly, perhaps,


Ach! What fine gentlemen’s airs!


Why are your fits getting worse? Would you like to get married? Shall I find you a wife?


Well, my lad, I’ve never met any one like you,


That would make the people flock, and bring the money in. What are you grinning at?


Well, my opinion is, that if that laudable soldier’s exploit was so very great there would have been, to my thinking, no sin in it if he had on such an emergency renounced, so to speak, the name of Christ and his own christening, to save by that same his life, for good deeds, by which, in the course of years to expiate his cowardice.


How could it not be a sin? You’re talking nonsense. For that you’ll go straight to hell and be roasted there like mutton. We’re on your subject, your subject,


As for mutton, that’s not so, and there’ll be nothing there for this, and there shouldn’t be either, if it’s according to justice,


He’s a rascal, that’s what he is!


You’d better consider yourself that, once I am taken prisoner by the enemies of the Christian race, and they demand from me to curse the name of God and to renounce my holy christening, I am fully entitled to act by my own reason, since there would be no sin in it.


But you’ve said that before. Don’t waste words. Prove it,


Soup‐maker!


As for being a soup‐maker, wait a bit, too, and consider for yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch, without abusing me. For as soon as I say to those enemies, ‘No, I’m not a Christian, and I curse my true God,’ then at once, by God’s high judgment, I become immediately and specially anathema accursed, and am cut off from the Holy Church, exactly as though I were a heathen, so that at that very instant, not only when I say it aloud, but when I think of saying it, before a quarter of a second has passed, I am cut off. Is that so or not, Grigory Vassilyevitch?


Ivan, stoop down for me to whisper. He’s got this all up for your benefit. He wants you to praise him. Praise him. Stay, Smerdyakov, be quiet a minute. Ivan, your ear again. I love you as I do Alyosha. Don’t think I don’t love you. Some brandy?


Don’t scold him, Grigory, don’t scold him,


You should wait, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if only a short time, and listen, for I haven’t finished all I had to say. For at the very moment I become accursed, at that same highest moment, I become exactly like a heathen, and my christening is taken off me and becomes of no avail. Isn’t that so? Make haste and finish, my boy,


Consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch, it is said in the Scripture that if you have faith, even as a mustard seed, and bid a mountain move into the sea, it will move without the least delay at your bidding. Well, Grigory Vassilyevitch, if I’m without faith and you have so great a faith that you are continually swearing at me, you try yourself telling this mountain, not to move into the sea for that’s a long way off, but even to our stinking little river which runs at the bottom of the garden. You’ll see for yourself that it won’t budge, but will remain just where it is however much you shout at it, and that shows, Grigory Vassilyevitch, that you haven’t faith in the proper manner, and only abuse others about it. Again, taking into consideration that no one in our day, not only you, but actually no one, from the highest person to the lowest peasant, can shove mountains into the sea—except perhaps some one man in the world, or, at most, two, and they most likely are saving their souls in secret somewhere in the Egyptian desert, so you wouldn’t find them—if so it be, if all the rest have no faith, will God curse all the rest? that is, the population of the whole earth, except about two hermits in the desert, and in His well‐known mercy will He not forgive one of them? And so I’m persuaded that though I may once have doubted I shall be forgiven if I shed tears of repentance.


So you do suppose there are two who can move mountains? Ivan, make a note of it, write it down. There you have the Russian all over!


You’re quite right in saying it’s characteristic of the people’s faith,


You agree. Then it must be so, if you agree. It’s true, isn’t it, Alyosha? That’s the Russian faith all over, isn’t it?


No, Smerdyakov has not the Russian faith at all,


I’m not talking about his faith. I mean those two in the desert, only that idea. Surely that’s Russian, isn’t it?


Yes, that’s purely Russian,


Your words are worth a gold piece, O ass, and I’ll give it to you to‐day. But as to the rest you talk nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. Let me tell you, stupid, that we here are all of little faith, only from carelessness, because we haven’t time; things are too much for us, and, in the second place, the Lord God has given us so little time, only twenty‐four hours in the day, so that one hasn’t even time to get sleep enough, much less to repent of one’s sins. While you have denied your faith to your enemies when you’d nothing else to think about but to show your faith! So I consider, brother, that it constitutes a sin.


Constitute a sin it may, but consider yourself, Grigory Vassilyevitch, that it only extenuates it, if it does constitute. If I had believed then in very truth, as I ought to have believed, then it really would have been sinful if I had not faced tortures for my faith, and had gone over to the pagan Mohammedan faith. But, of course, it wouldn’t have come to torture then, because I should only have had to say at that instant to the mountain, ‘Move and crush the tormentor,’ and it would have moved and at the very instant have crushed him like a black‐beetle, and I should have walked away as though nothing had happened, praising and glorifying God. But, suppose at that very moment I had tried all that, and cried to that mountain, ‘Crush these tormentors,’ and it hadn’t crushed them, how could I have helped doubting, pray, at such a time, and at such a dread hour of mortal terror? And apart from that, I should know already that I could not attain to the fullness of the Kingdom of Heaven (for since the mountain had not moved at my word, they could not think very much of my faith up aloft, and there could be no very great reward awaiting me in the world to come). So why should I let them flay the skin off me as well, and to no good purpose? For, even though they had flayed my skin half off my back, even then the mountain would not have moved at my word or at my cry. And at such a moment not only doubt might come over one but one might lose one’s reason from fear, so that one would not be able to think at all. And, therefore, how should I be particularly to blame if not seeing my advantage or reward there or here, I should, at least, save my skin. And so trusting fully in the grace of the Lord I should cherish the hope that I might be altogether forgiven.


Get along with you, Jesuits! Go away, Smerdyakov. I’ll send you the gold piece I promised you to‐day, but be off! Don’t cry, Grigory. Go to Marfa. She’ll comfort you and put you to bed. The rascals won’t let us sit in peace after dinner. Smerdyakov always pokes himself in now, after dinner. It’s you he’s so interested in. What have you done to fascinate him?


Nothing whatever. He’s pleased to have a high opinion of me; he’s a lackey and a mean soul. Raw material for revolution, however, when the time comes.


For revolution?


There will be others and better ones. But there will be some like him as well. His kind will come first, and better ones after.


And when will the time come?


The rocket will go off and fizzle out, perhaps. The peasants are not very fond of listening to these soup‐makers, so far.


Ah, brother, but a Balaam’s ass like that thinks and thinks, and the devil knows where he gets to.


He’s storing up ideas,


You see, I know he can’t bear me, nor any one else, even you, though you fancy that he has a high opinion of you. Worse still with Alyosha, he despises Alyosha. But he doesn’t steal, that’s one thing, and he’s not a gossip, he holds his tongue, and doesn’t wash our dirty linen in public. He makes capital fish pasties too. But, damn him, is he worth talking about so much?


Of course he isn’t.


And as for the ideas he may be hatching, the Russian peasant, generally speaking, needs thrashing. That I’ve always maintained. Our peasants are swindlers, and don’t deserve to be pitied, and it’s a good thing they’re still flogged sometimes. Russia is rich in birches. If they destroyed the forests, it would be the ruin of Russia. I stand up for the clever people. We’ve left off thrashing the peasants, we’ve grown so clever, but they go on thrashing themselves. And a good thing too. For with what measure ye mete it shall be measured to you again, or how does it go? Anyhow, it will be measured. But Russia’s all swinishness. My dear, if you only knew how I hate Russia.... That is, not Russia, but all this vice! But maybe I mean Russia. Tout cela c’est de la cochonnerie.... Do you know what I like? I like wit.


You’ve had another glass. That’s enough.


Wait a bit. I’ll have one more, and then another, and then I’ll stop. No, stay, you interrupted me. At Mokroe I was talking to an old man, and he told me: ‘There’s nothing we like so much as sentencing girls to be thrashed, and we always give the lads the job of thrashing them. And the girl he has thrashed to‐day, the young man will ask in marriage to‐morrow. So it quite suits the girls, too,’ he said. There’s a set of de Sades for you! But it’s clever, anyway. Shall we go over and have a look at it, eh? Alyosha, are you blushing? Don’t be bashful, child. I’m sorry I didn’t stay to dinner at the Superior’s and tell the monks about the girls at Mokroe. Alyosha, don’t be angry that I offended your Superior this morning. I lost my temper. If there is a God, if He exists, then, of course, I’m to blame, and I shall have to answer for it. But if there isn’t a God at all, what do they deserve, your fathers? It’s not enough to cut their heads off, for they keep back progress. Would you believe it, Ivan, that that lacerates my sentiments? No, you don’t believe it as I see from your eyes. You believe what people say, that I’m nothing but a buffoon. Alyosha, do you believe that I’m nothing but a buffoon?


No, I don’t believe it.


And I believe you don’t, and that you speak the truth. You look sincere and you speak sincerely. But not Ivan. Ivan’s supercilious.... I’d make an end of your monks, though, all the same. I’d take all that mystic stuff and suppress it, once for all, all over Russia, so as to bring all the fools to reason. And the gold and the silver that would flow into the mint!


But why suppress it?


That Truth may prevail. That’s why.


Well, if Truth were to prevail, you know, you’d be the first to be robbed and suppressed.


Ah! I dare say you’re right. Ah, I’m an ass! Well, your monastery may stand then, Alyosha, if that’s how it is. And we clever people will sit snug and enjoy our brandy. You know, Ivan, it must have been so ordained by the Almighty Himself. Ivan, speak, is there a God or not? Stay, speak the truth, speak seriously. Why are you laughing again?


I’m laughing that you should have made a clever remark just now about Smerdyakov’s belief in the existence of two saints who could move mountains.


Why, am I like him now, then?


Very much.


Well, that shows I’m a Russian, too, and I have a Russian characteristic. And you may be caught in the same way, though you are a philosopher. Shall I catch you? What do you bet that I’ll catch you to‐morrow. Speak, all the same, is there a God, or not? Only, be serious. I want you to be serious now.


No, there is no God.


Alyosha, is there a God?


There is.


Ivan, and is there immortality of some sort, just a little, just a tiny bit?


There is no immortality either.


None at all?


None at all.


There’s absolute nothingness then. Perhaps there is just something? Anything is better than nothing!


Absolute nothingness.


Alyosha, is there immortality?


God and immortality?


God and immortality. In God is immortality.


H’m! It’s more likely Ivan’s right. Good Lord! to think what faith, what force of all kinds, man has lavished for nothing, on that dream, and for how many thousand years. Who is it laughing at man? Ivan! For the last time, once for all, is there a God or not? I ask for the last time!


And for the last time there is not.


Who is laughing at mankind, Ivan?


It must be the devil,


And the devil? Does he exist?


No, there’s no devil either.


It’s a pity. Damn it all, what wouldn’t I do to the man who first invented God! Hanging on a bitter aspen tree would be too good for him.


There would have been no civilization if they hadn’t invented God.


Wouldn’t there have been? Without God?


No. And there would have been no brandy either. But I must take your brandy away from you, anyway.


Stop, stop, stop, dear boy, one more little glass. I’ve hurt Alyosha’s feelings. You’re not angry with me, Alyosha? My dear little Alexey!


No, I am not angry. I know your thoughts. Your heart is better than your head.


My heart better than my head, is it? Oh, Lord! And that from you. Ivan, do you love Alyosha?


Yes.


You must love him Listen, Alyosha, I was rude to your elder this morning. But I was excited. But there’s wit in that elder, don’t you think, Ivan?


Very likely.


There is, there is. Il y a du Piron là‐dedans. He’s a Jesuit, a Russian one, that is. As he’s an honorable person there’s a hidden indignation boiling within him at having to pretend and affect holiness.


But, of course, he believes in God.


Not a bit of it. Didn’t you know? Why, he tells every one so, himself. That is, not every one, but all the clever people who come to him. He said straight out to Governor Schultz not long ago: ‘Credo, but I don’t know in what.’


Really?


He really did. But I respect him. There’s something of Mephistopheles about him, or rather of ‘The hero of our time’ ... Arbenin, or what’s his name?... You see, he’s a sensualist. He’s such a sensualist that I should be afraid for my daughter or my wife if she went to confess to him. You know, when he begins telling stories.... The year before last he invited us to tea, tea with liqueur (the ladies send him liqueur), and began telling us about old times till we nearly split our sides.... Especially how he once cured a paralyzed woman. If my legs were not bad I know a dance I could dance you. What do you say to that? I’ve plenty of tricks in my time. He did Dernidov, the merchant, out of sixty thousand.


What, he stole it?


He brought him the money as a man he could trust, saying, ‘Take care of it for me, friend, there’ll be a police search at my place to‐morrow.’ And he kept it. You have given it to the Church. I said to him: ‘You’re a scoundrel,’ I said. No,’ said he, ‘I’m not a scoundrel, but I’m broad‐minded.’ But that wasn’t he, that was some one else. I’ve muddled him with some one else ... without noticing it. Come, another glass and that’s enough. Take away the bottle, Ivan. I’ve been telling lies. Why didn’t you stop me, Ivan, and tell me I was lying?


I knew you’d stop of yourself.


That’s a lie. You did it from spite, from simple spite against me. You despise me. You have come to me and despised me in my own house.


Well, I’m going away. You’ve had too much brandy.


I’ve begged you for Christ’s sake to go to Tchermashnya for a day or two, and you don’t go.


I’ll go to‐morrow if you’re so set upon it.


You won’t go. You want to keep an eye on me. That’s what you want, spiteful fellow. That’s why you won’t go. Why are you looking at me? Why do you look like that? Your eyes look at me and say, ‘You ugly drunkard!’ Your eyes are mistrustful. They’re contemptuous.... You’ve come here with some design. Alyosha, here, looks at me and his eyes shine. Alyosha doesn’t despise me. Alexey, you mustn’t love Ivan.


Don’t be ill‐tempered with my brother. Leave off attacking him,


Oh, all right. Ugh, my head aches. Take away the brandy, Ivan. It’s the third time I’ve told you. Don’t be angry with a feeble old man, Ivan. I know you don’t love me, but don’t be angry all the same. You’ve nothing to love me for. You go to Tchermashnya. I’ll come to you myself and bring you a present. I’ll show you a little wench there. I’ve had my eye on her a long time. She’s still running about bare‐foot. Don’t be afraid of bare‐footed wenches—don’t despise them—they’re pearls! To my thinking. To my thinking ... Ah, you boys! You children, little sucking‐pigs, to my thinking ... I never thought a woman ugly in my life—that’s been my rule! Can you understand that? How could you understand it? You’ve milk in your veins, not blood. You’re not out of your shells yet. My rule has been that you can always find something devilishly interesting in every woman that you wouldn’t find in any other. Only, one must know how to find it, that’s the point! That’s a talent! To my mind there are no ugly women. The very fact that she is a woman is half the battle ... but how could you understand that? Even in vieilles filles, even in them you may discover something that makes you simply wonder that men have been such fools as to let them grow old without noticing them. Bare‐footed girls or unattractive ones, you must take by surprise. Didn’t you know that? You must astound them till they’re fascinated, upset, ashamed that such a gentleman should fall in love with such a little slut. It’s a jolly good thing that there always are and will be masters and slaves in the world, so there always will be a little maid‐ of‐all‐work and her master, and you know, that’s all that’s needed for happiness. Stay ... listen, Alyosha, I always used to surprise your mother, but in a different way. I paid no attention to her at all, but all at once, when the minute came, I’d be all devotion to her, crawl on my knees, kiss her feet, and I always, always—I remember it as though it were to‐day—reduced her to that tinkling, quiet, nervous, queer little laugh. It was peculiar to her. I knew her attacks always used to begin like that. The next day she would begin shrieking hysterically, and this little laugh was not a sign of delight, though it made a very good counterfeit. That’s the great thing, to know how to take every one. Once Belyavsky—he was a handsome fellow, and rich—used to like to come here and hang about her—suddenly gave me a slap in the face in her presence. And she—such a mild sheep—why, I thought she would have knocked me down for that blow. How she set on me! You’re beaten, beaten now. You’ve taken a blow from him. You have been trying to sell me to him. And how dared he strike you in my presence! Don’t dare come near me again, never, never! Run at once, challenge him to a duel! I took her to the monastery then to bring her to her senses. The holy Fathers prayed her back to reason. But I swear, by God, Alyosha, I never insulted the poor crazy girl! Only once, perhaps, in the first year; then she was very fond of praying. She used to keep the feasts of Our Lady particularly and used to turn me out of her room then. I’ll knock that mysticism out of her, thought I! Here,’ said I, ‘you see your holy image. Here it is. Here I take it down. You believe it’s miraculous, but here, I’ll spit on it directly and nothing will happen to me for it!’ When she saw it, good Lord! I thought she would kill me. But she only jumped up, wrung her hands, then suddenly hid her face in them, began trembling all over and fell on the floor ... fell all of a heap. Alyosha, Alyosha, what’s the matter?


Ivan, Ivan! Water, quickly! It’s like her, exactly as she used to be then, his mother. Spurt some water on him from your mouth, that’s what I used to do to her. He’s upset about his mother, his mother,


But she was my mother, too, I believe, his mother. Was she not? Was she not?


Your mother? What do you mean? What mother are you talking about? Was she?... Why, damn it! of course she was yours too! Damn it! My mind has never been so darkened before. Excuse me, why, I was thinking, Ivan.... He he he! He’ll kill me! Don’t let him get at me!


Then she’s there! She’s hidden there! Out of the way, scoundrel! She’s here! I saw her turn towards the house just now, but I couldn’t catch her. Where is she?


Hold him! At him! Help!


Why do you run after him? He’ll murder you outright,


Ivan! Alyosha! She must be here. Grushenka’s here. He said he saw her himself, running.


But you’ve seen for yourself that she hasn’t come,


But she may have come by that other entrance.


You know that entrance is locked, and you have the key.


Hold him! He’s been stealing money in my bedroom.


Madman! You’ve killed him!


Serve him right! If I haven’t killed him, I’ll come again and kill him. You can’t protect him!


Dmitri! Go away at once!


Alexey! You tell me. It’s only you I can believe; was she here just now, or not? I saw her myself creeping this way by the fence from the lane. I shouted, she ran away.


I swear she’s not been here, and no one expected her.


But I saw her.... So she must ... I’ll find out at once where she is.... Good‐by, Alexey! Not a word to Æsop about the money now. But go to Katerina Ivanovna at once and be sure to say, ‘He sends his compliments to you!’ Compliments, his compliments! Just compliments and farewell! Describe the scene to her. I don’t repent shedding your blood! Beware, old man, beware of your dream, for I have my dream, too. I curse you, and disown you altogether.


She’s here. She must be here. Smerdyakov! Smerdyakov!


No, she’s not here, you old lunatic! Here, he’s fainting! Water! A towel! Make haste, Smerdyakov!


Shouldn’t you put a wet bandage on your head and go to bed, too? We’ll look after him. My brother gave you a terrible blow—on the head.


He’s insulted me!


He’s ‘insulted’ his father, not only you,


I used to wash him in his tub. He’s insulted me,


Damn it all, if I hadn’t pulled him away perhaps he’d have murdered him. It wouldn’t take much to do for Æsop, would it?


God forbid!


Why should He forbid? One reptile will devour the other. And serve them both right, too. Of course I won’t let him be murdered as I didn’t just now. Stay here, Alyosha, I’ll go for a turn in the yard. My head’s begun to ache.


Alyosha, where’s Ivan?


In the yard. He’s got a headache. He’s on the watch.


Give me that looking‐glass. It stands over there. Give it me. What does Ivan say? Alyosha, my dear, my only son, I’m afraid of Ivan. I’m more afraid of Ivan than the other. You’re the only one I’m not afraid of....


Don’t be afraid of Ivan either. He is angry, but he’ll defend you.


Alyosha, and what of the other? He’s run to Grushenka. My angel, tell me the truth, was she here just now or not?


No one has seen her. It was a mistake. She has not been here.


You know Mitya wants to marry her, to marry her.


She won’t marry him.


She won’t. She won’t. She won’t. She won’t on any account! That image of the Mother of God of which I was telling you just now. Take it home and keep it for yourself. And I’ll let you go back to the monastery.... I was joking this morning, don’t be angry with me. My head aches, Alyosha.... Alyosha, comfort my heart. Be an angel and tell me the truth!


You’re still asking whether she has been here or not?


No, no, no. I believe you. I’ll tell you what it is: you go to Grushenka yourself, or see her somehow; make haste and ask her; see for yourself, which she means to choose, him or me. Eh? What? Can you?


If I see her I’ll ask her,


No, she won’t tell you, she’s a rogue. She’ll begin kissing you and say that it’s you she wants. She’s a deceitful, shameless hussy. You mustn’t go to her, you mustn’t!


No, father, and it wouldn’t be suitable, it wouldn’t be right at all.


Where was he sending you just now? He shouted ‘Go’ as he ran away.


To Katerina Ivanovna.


For money? To ask her for money?


No. Not for money.


He’s no money; not a farthing. I’ll settle down for the night, and think things over, and you can go. Perhaps you’ll meet her.... Only be sure to come to me to‐morrow in the morning. Be sure to. I have a word to say to you to‐morrow. Will you come?


Yes.


When you come, pretend you’ve come of your own accord to ask after me. Don’t tell any one I told you to. Don’t say a word to Ivan.


Very well.


Good‐by, my angel. You stood up for me, just now. I shall never forget it. I’ve a word to say to you to‐morrow—but I must think about it.


And how do you feel now?


I shall get up to‐morrow and go out, perfectly well, perfectly well!


Alyosha, I should be very glad to meet you to‐morrow morning,


I shall be at the Hohlakovs’ to‐morrow. I may be at Katerina Ivanovna’s, too, if I don’t find her now.


But you’re going to her now, anyway? For that ‘compliments and farewell,’ I think I quite understand his exclamations just now, and part of what went before. Dmitri has asked you to go to her and say that he—well, in fact—takes his leave of her?


Brother, how will all this horror end between father and Dmitri?


One can’t tell for certain. Perhaps in nothing: it may all fizzle out. That woman is a beast. In any case we must keep the old man indoors and not let Dmitri in the house.


Brother, let me ask one thing more: has any man a right to look at other men and decide which is worthy to live?


Why bring in the question of worth? The matter is most often decided in men’s hearts on other grounds much more natural. And as for rights—who has not the right to wish?


Not for another man’s death?


What even if for another man’s death? Why lie to oneself since all men live so and perhaps cannot help living so. Are you referring to what I said just now—that one reptile will devour the other? In that case let me ask you, do you think me like Dmitri capable of shedding Æsop’s blood, murdering him, eh?


What are you saying, Ivan? Such an idea never crossed my mind. I don’t think Dmitri is capable of it, either.


Thanks, if only for that. Be sure, I should always defend him. But in my wishes I reserve myself full latitude in this case. Good‐by till to‐morrow. Don’t condemn me, and don’t look on me as a villain,


Thank God! At last you have come too! I’ve been simply praying for you all day! Sit down.


You’ll be happy with her, but perhaps—not tranquilly happy. Quite so, brother. Such people remain always the same. They don’t yield to fate. So you think I shan’t love her for ever.


No; perhaps you will love her for ever. But perhaps you won’t always be happy with her.


I was so eager to see you, because I can learn from you the whole truth—from you and no one else.


I have come. I—he sent me.


Ah, he sent you! I foresaw that. Now I know everything—everything! Wait a moment, Alexey Fyodorovitch, I’ll tell you why I’ve been so longing to see you. You see, I know perhaps far more than you do yourself, and there’s no need for you to tell me anything. I’ll tell you what I want from you. I want to know your own last impression of him. I want you to tell me most directly, plainly, coarsely even (oh, as coarsely as you like!), what you thought of him just now and of his position after your meeting with him to‐day. That will perhaps be better than if I had a personal explanation with him, as he does not want to come to me. Do you understand what I want from you? Now, tell me simply, tell me every word of the message he sent you with (I knew he would send you).


He told me to give you his compliments—and to say that he would never come again—but to give you his compliments.


His compliments? Was that what he said—his own expression?


Yes.


Accidentally perhaps he made a mistake in the word, perhaps he did not use the right word?


No; he told me precisely to repeat that word. He begged me two or three times not to forget to say so.


Help me now, Alexey Fyodorovitch. Now I really need your help. I’ll tell you what I think, and you must simply say whether it’s right or not. Listen! If he had sent me his compliments in passing, without insisting on your repeating the words, without emphasizing them, that would be the end of everything! But if he particularly insisted on those words, if he particularly told you not to forget to repeat them to me, then perhaps he was in excitement, beside himself. He had made his decision and was frightened at it. He wasn’t walking away from me with a resolute step, but leaping headlong. The emphasis on that phrase may have been simply bravado.


Yes, yes! I believe that is it.


And, if so, he’s not altogether lost. I can still save him. Stay! Did he not tell you anything about money—about three thousand roubles?


He did speak about it, and it’s that more than anything that’s crushing him. He said he had lost his honor and that nothing matters now. But do you know about the money?


I’ve known of it a long time; I telegraphed to Moscow to inquire, and heard long ago that the money had not arrived. He hadn’t sent the money, but I said nothing. Last week I learnt that he was still in need of money. My only object in all this was that he should know to whom to turn, and who was his true friend. No, he won’t recognize that I am his truest friend; he won’t know me, and looks on me merely as a woman. I’ve been tormented all the week, trying to think how to prevent him from being ashamed to face me because he spent that three thousand. Let him feel ashamed of himself, let him be ashamed of other people’s knowing, but not of my knowing. He can tell God everything without shame. Why is it he still does not understand how much I am ready to bear for his sake? Why, why doesn’t he know me? How dare he not know me after all that has happened? I want to save him for ever. Let him forget me as his betrothed. And here he fears that he is dishonored in my eyes. Why, he wasn’t afraid to be open with you, Alexey Fyodorovitch. How is it that I don’t deserve the same?


I must tell you,


what happened just now between him and my father. He went to that woman,


And do you suppose that I can’t put up with that woman? Does he think I can’t? But he won’t marry her,


Could such a passion last for ever in a Karamazov? It’s passion, not love. He won’t marry her because she won’t marry him.


He may marry her,


He won’t marry her, I tell you. That girl is an angel. Do you know that? Do you know that?


She is one of the most fantastic of fantastic creatures. I know how bewitching she is, but I know too that she is kind, firm and noble. Why do you look at me like that, Alexey Fyodorovitch? Perhaps you are wondering at my words, perhaps you don’t believe me? Agrafena Alexandrovna, my angel!


come in to us. This is a friend. This is Alyosha. He knows all about our affairs. Show yourself to him.


I’ve only been waiting behind the curtain for you to call me,


This is the first time we’ve met, Alexey Fyodorovitch,


I wanted to know her, to see her. I wanted to go to her, but I’d no sooner expressed the wish than she came to me. I knew we should settle everything together—everything. My heart told me so—I was begged not to take the step, but I foresaw it would be a way out of the difficulty, and I was not mistaken. Grushenka has explained everything to me, told me all she means to do. She flew here like an angel of goodness and brought us peace and joy.


You did not disdain me, sweet, excellent young lady,


Don’t dare to speak to me like that, you sorceress, you witch! Disdain you! Here, I must kiss your lower lip once more. It looks as though it were swollen, and now it will be more so, and more and more. Look how she laughs, Alexey Fyodorovitch! It does one’s heart good to see the angel.


You make so much of me, dear young lady, and perhaps I am not at all worthy of your kindness.


Not worthy! She’s not worthy of it!


You know, Alexey Fyodorovitch, we’re fanciful, we’re self-willed, but proudest of the proud in our little heart. We’re noble, we’re generous, Alexey Fyodorovitch, let me tell you. We have only been unfortunate. We were too ready to make every sacrifice for an unworthy, perhaps, or fickle man. There was one man—one, an officer too, we loved him, we sacrificed everything to him. That was long ago, five years ago, and he has forgotten us, he has married. Now he is a widower, he has written, he is coming here, and, do you know, we’ve loved him, none but him, all this time, and we’ve loved him all our life! He will come, and Grushenka will be happy again. For the last five years she’s been wretched. But who can reproach her, who can boast of her favor? Only that bedridden old merchant, but he is more like her father, her friend, her protector. He found her then in despair, in agony, deserted by the man she loved. She was ready to drown herself then, but the old merchant saved her—saved her!


You defend me very kindly, dear young lady. You are in a great hurry about everything,


Defend you! Is it for me to defend you? Should I dare to defend you? Grushenka, angel, give me your hand. Look at that charming soft little hand, Alexey Fyodorovitch! Look at it! It has brought me happiness and has lifted me up, and I’m going to kiss it, outside and inside, here, here, here!


Perhaps there’s rather too much rapture,


You won’t make me blush, dear young lady, kissing my hand like this before Alexey Fyodorovitch.


Do you think I meant to make you blush?


Yes, and you too perhaps quite misunderstand me, dear young lady. Maybe I’m not so good as I seem to you. I’ve a bad heart; I will have my own way. I fascinated poor Dmitri Fyodorovitch that day simply for fun.


But now you’ll save him. You’ve given me your word. You’ll explain it all to him. You’ll break to him that you have long loved another man, who is now offering you his hand.


Oh, no! I didn’t give you my word to do that. It was you kept talking about that. I didn’t give you my word.


Then I didn’t quite understand you,


Oh, no, angel lady, I’ve promised nothing. You see at once, dear young lady, what a willful wretch I am compared with you. If I want to do a thing I do it. I may have made you some promise just now. But now again I’m thinking: I may take to Mitya again. I liked him very much once—liked him for almost a whole hour. Now maybe I shall go and tell him to stay with me from this day forward. You see, I’m so changeable.


Just now you said—something quite different,


Ah, just now! But, you know. I’m such a soft-hearted, silly creature. Only think what he’s gone through on my account! What if when I go home I feel sorry for him? What then?


I never expected—


Ah, young lady, how good and generous you are compared with me! Now perhaps you won’t care for a silly creature like me, now you know my character. Give me your sweet little hand, angelic lady. Here, dear young lady, I’ll take your hand and kiss it as you did mine. You kissed mine three times, but I ought to kiss yours three hundred times to be even with you. Well, but let that pass. And then it shall be as God wills. Perhaps I shall be your slave entirely and want to do your bidding like a slave. Let it be as God wills, without any agreements and promises. What a sweet hand—what a sweet hand you have! You sweet young lady, you incredible beauty!


Do you know, angel lady, do you know, after all, I think I won’t kiss your hand?


As you please. What’s the matter with you?


So that you may be left to remember that you kissed my hand, but I didn’t kiss yours.


Insolent creature!


Vile slut! Go away!


Go away! You’re a creature for sale!


For sale indeed! You used to visit gentlemen in the dusk for money once; you brought your beauty for sale. You see, I know.


Not a step, not a word! Don’t speak, don’t answer her. She’ll go away—she’ll go at once.


I will go away,


Alyosha, darling, see me home!


Go away—go away, make haste!


Dear little Alyosha, see me home! I’ve got a pretty little story to tell you on the way. I got up this scene for your benefit, Alyosha. See me home, dear, you’ll be glad of it afterwards.


I warned you,


I tried to prevent your doing this. You’re too impulsive. How could you do such a thing? You don’t know these creatures, and they say she’s worse than any of them. You are too self-willed.


She’s a tigress!


Why did you hold me, Alexey Fyodorovitch? I’d have beaten her—beaten her!


She ought to be flogged in public on a scaffold!


But, my God!


He! He! He could be so dishonorable, so inhuman! Why, he told that creature what happened on that fatal, accursed day! ‘You brought your beauty for sale, dear young lady.’ She knows it! Your brother’s a scoundrel, Alexey Fyodorovitch.


Go away, Alexey Fyodorovitch! It’s shameful, it’s awful for me! To-morrow, I beg you on my knees, come to-morrow. Don’t condemn me. Forgive me. I don’t know what I shall do with myself now!


The young lady forgot to give you this letter from Madame Hohlakov; it’s been left with us since dinner-time.


Your money or your life! So it’s you, Mitya,


Ha ha ha! You didn’t expect me? I wondered where to wait for you. By her house? There are three ways from it, and I might have missed you. At last I thought of waiting here, for you had to pass here, there’s no other way to the monastery. Come, tell me the truth. Crush me like a beetle. But what’s the matter?


Nothing, brother—it’s the fright you gave me. Oh, Dmitri! Father’s blood just now. You almost killed him—cursed him—and now—here—you’re making jokes—‘Your money or your life!’


Well, what of that? It’s not seemly—is that it? Not suitable in my position?


No—I only—


Stay. Look at the night. You see what a dark night, what clouds, what a wind has risen. I hid here under the willow waiting for you. And as God’s above, I suddenly thought, why go on in misery any longer, what is there to wait for? Here I have a willow, a handkerchief, a shirt, I can twist them into a rope in a minute, and braces besides, and why go on burdening the earth, dishonoring it with my vile presence? And then I heard you coming—Heavens, it was as though something flew down to me suddenly. So there is a man, then, whom I love. Here he is, that man, my dear little brother, whom I love more than any one in the world, the only one I love in the world. And I loved you so much, so much at that moment that I thought, ‘I’ll fall on his neck at once.’ Then a stupid idea struck me, to have a joke with you and scare you. I shouted, like a fool, ‘Your money!’ Forgive my foolery—it was only nonsense, and there’s nothing unseemly in my soul.... Damn it all, tell me what’s happened. What did she say? Strike me, crush me, don’t spare me! Was she furious?”


No, not that.... There was nothing like that, Mitya. There—I found them both there.


Both? Whom?


Grushenka at Katerina Ivanovna’s.


Impossible!


You’re raving! Grushenka with her?


So she wouldn’t kiss her hand! So she didn’t kiss it; so she ran away!


So the other one called her tigress! And a tigress she is! So she ought to be flogged on a scaffold? Yes, yes, so she ought. That’s just what I think; she ought to have been long ago. It’s like this, brother, let her be punished, but I must get better first. I understand the queen of impudence. That’s her all over! You saw her all over in that hand‐kissing, the she‐devil! She’s magnificent in her own line! So she ran home? I’ll go—ah—I’ll run to her! Alyosha, don’t blame me, I agree that hanging is too good for her.


But Katerina Ivanovna!


I see her, too! I see right through her, as I’ve never done before! It’s a regular discovery of the four continents of the world, that is, of the five! What a thing to do! That’s just like Katya, who was not afraid to face a coarse, unmannerly officer and risk a deadly insult on a generous impulse to save her father! But the pride, the recklessness, the defiance of fate, the unbounded defiance! You say that aunt tried to stop her? That aunt, you know, is overbearing, herself. She’s the sister of the general’s widow in Moscow, and even more stuck‐up than she. But her husband was caught stealing government money. He lost everything, his estate and all, and the proud wife had to lower her colors, and hasn’t raised them since. So she tried to prevent Katya, but she wouldn’t listen to her! She thinks she can overcome everything, that everything will give way to her. She thought she could bewitch Grushenka if she liked, and she believed it herself: she plays a part to herself, and whose fault is it? Do you think she kissed Grushenka’s hand first, on purpose, with a motive? No, she really was fascinated by Grushenka, that’s to say, not by Grushenka, but by her own dream, her own delusion—because it was her dream, her delusion! Alyosha, darling, how did you escape from them, those women? Did you pick up your cassock and run? Ha ha ha!


Brother, you don’t seem to have noticed how you’ve insulted Katerina Ivanovna by telling Grushenka about that day. And she flung it in her face just now that she had gone to gentlemen in secret to sell her beauty! Brother, what could be worse than that insult?


Bah!


Yes, perhaps, I really did tell Grushenka about that ‘fatal day,’ as Katya calls it. Yes, I did tell her, I remember! It was that time at Mokroe. I was drunk, the gypsies were singing.... But I was sobbing. I was sobbing then, kneeling and praying to Katya’s image, and Grushenka understood it. She understood it all then. I remember, she cried herself.... Damn it all! But it’s bound to be so now.... Then she cried, but now ‘the dagger in the heart’! That’s how women are.


Yes, I am a scoundrel, a thorough scoundrel!


It doesn’t matter whether I cried or not, I’m a scoundrel! Tell her I accept the name, if that’s any comfort. Come, that’s enough. Good‐by. It’s no use talking! It’s not amusing. You go your way and I mine. And I don’t want to see you again except as a last resource. Good‐ by, Alexey!


Stay, Alexey, one more confession to you alone!


Look at me. Look at me well. You see here, here—there’s terrible disgrace in store for me.


You know me now, a scoundrel, an avowed scoundrel, but let me tell you that I’ve never done anything before and never shall again, anything that can compare in baseness with the dishonor which I bear now at this very minute on my breast, here, here, which will come to pass, though I’m perfectly free to stop it. I can stop it or carry it through, note that. Well, let me tell you, I shall carry it through. I shan’t stop it. I told you everything just now, but I didn’t tell you this, because even I had not brass enough for it. I can still pull up; if I do, I can give back the full half of my lost honor to‐morrow. But I shan’t pull up. I shall carry out my base plan, and you can bear witness that I told you so beforehand. Darkness and destruction! No need to explain. You’ll find out in due time. The filthy back‐alley and the she‐ devil. Good‐by. Don’t pray for me, I’m not worth it. And there’s no need, no need at all.... I don’t need it! Away!


He is weaker, a drowsiness has come over him,


It’s difficult to rouse him. And he must not be roused. He waked up for five minutes, sent his blessing to the brothers, and begged their prayers for him at night. He intends to take the sacrament again in the morning. He remembered you, Alexey. He asked whether you had gone away, and was told that you were in the town. ‘I blessed him for that work,’ he said, ‘his place is there, not here, for awhile.’ Those were his words about you. He remembered you lovingly, with anxiety; do you understand how he honored you? But how is it that he has decided that you shall spend some time in the world? He must have foreseen something in your destiny! Understand, Alexey, that if you return to the world, it must be to do the duty laid upon you by your elder, and not for frivolous vanity and worldly pleasures.


Alexey Fyodorovitch,


I am writing to you without any one’s knowledge, even mamma’s, and I know how wrong it is. But I cannot live without telling you the feeling that has sprung up in my heart, and this no one but us two must know for a time. But how am I to say what I want so much to tell you? Paper, they say, does not blush, but I assure you it’s not true and that it’s blushing just as I am now, all over. Dear Alyosha, I love you, I’ve loved you from my childhood, since our Moscow days, when you were very different from what you are now, and I shall love you all my life. My heart has chosen you, to unite our lives, and pass them together till our old age. Of course, on condition that you will leave the monastery. As for our age we will wait for the time fixed by the law. By that time I shall certainly be quite strong, I shall be walking and dancing. There can be no doubt of that.


You see how I’ve thought of everything. There’s only one thing I can’t imagine: what you’ll think of me when you read this. I’m always laughing and being naughty. I made you angry this morning, but I assure you before I took up my pen, I prayed before the Image of the Mother of God, and now I’m praying, and almost crying.


My secret is in your hands. When you come to‐morrow, I don’t know how I shall look at you. Ah, Alexey Fyodorovitch, what if I can’t restrain myself like a silly and laugh when I look at you as I did to‐day. You’ll think I’m a nasty girl making fun of you, and you won’t believe my letter. And so I beg you, dear one, if you’ve any pity for me, when you come to‐ morrow, don’t look me straight in the face, for if I meet your eyes, it will be sure to make me laugh, especially as you’ll be in that long gown. I feel cold all over when I think of it, so when you come, don’t look at me at all for a time, look at mamma or at the window....


Here I’ve written you a love‐letter. Oh, dear, what have I done? Alyosha, don’t despise me, and if I’ve done something very horrid and wounded you, forgive me. Now the secret of my reputation, ruined perhaps for ever, is in your hands.


I shall certainly cry to‐day. Good‐by till our meeting, our awful meeting.—LISE.


P.S.—Alyosha! You must, must, must come!—LISE.


Maybe I shall not live through the coming day,


I’ve been teaching you so many years, and therefore I’ve been talking aloud so many years, that I’ve got into the habit of talking, and so much so that it’s almost more difficult for me to hold my tongue than to talk, even now, in spite of my weakness, dear Fathers and brothers,


Love one another, Fathers. Love God’s people. Because we have come here and shut ourselves within these walls, we are no holier than those that are outside, but on the contrary, from the very fact of coming here, each of us has confessed to himself that he is worse than others, than all men on earth.... And the longer the monk lives in his seclusion, the more keenly he must recognize that. Else he would have had no reason to come here. When he realizes that he is not only worse than others, but that he is responsible to all men for all and everything, for all human sins, national and individual, only then the aim of our seclusion is attained. For know, dear ones, that every one of us is undoubtedly responsible for all men and everything on earth, not merely through the general sinfulness of creation, but each one personally for all mankind and every individual man. This knowledge is the crown of life for the monk and for every man. For monks are not a special sort of men, but only what all men ought to be. Only through that knowledge, our heart grows soft with infinite, universal, inexhaustible love. Then every one of you will have the power to win over the whole world by love and to wash away the sins of the world with your tears.... Each of you keep watch over your heart and confess your sins to yourself unceasingly. Be not afraid of your sins, even when perceiving them, if only there be penitence, but make no conditions with God. Again I say, Be not proud. Be proud neither to the little nor to the great. Hate not those who reject you, who insult you, who abuse and slander you. Hate not the atheists, the teachers of evil, the materialists—and I mean not only the good ones—for there are many good ones among them, especially in our day—hate not even the wicked ones. Remember them in your prayers thus: Save, O Lord, all those who have none to pray for them, save too all those who will not pray. And add: it is not in pride that I make this prayer, O Lord, for I am lower than all men.... Love God’s people, let not strangers draw away the flock, for if you slumber in your slothfulness and disdainful pride, or worse still, in covetousness, they will come from all sides and draw away your flock. Expound the Gospel to the people unceasingly ... be not extortionate.... Do not love gold and silver, do not hoard them.... Have faith. Cling to the banner and raise it on high.


that her son Vassya was certainly alive and he would either come himself very shortly or send a letter, and that she was to go home and expect him.


Would you believe it? the prophecy has been fulfilled literally indeed, and more than that.


to embrace his mother.


miracle of prediction All, all, ought to know of it!


to inform most respectfully his reverence Father Païssy, that he, Rakitin, has a matter to speak of with him, of such gravity that he dare not defer it for a moment, and humbly begs forgiveness for his presumption.


We shall see greater things!


We shall see greater things, greater things yet!


till it be more fully confirmed, seeing there is so much credulity among those of this world, and indeed this might well have chanced naturally,


How can you presume to do such things?


Maybe he will speak as you are a stranger and maybe you’ll get nothing out of him,


Do you want me to bow down to you, monk? Get up! Blessing, be blessed! Sit beside me. Where have you come from?


From the little Obdorsk monastery, from St. Sylvester,


I have been at your Sylvester’s. I used to stay there. Is Sylvester well? You are a senseless lot! How do you keep the fasts?


Our dietary is according to the ancient conventual rules. During Lent there are no meals provided for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. For Tuesday and Thursday we have white bread, stewed fruit with honey, wild berries, or salt cabbage and wholemeal stirabout. On Saturday white cabbage soup, noodles with peas, kasha, all with hemp oil. On weekdays we have dried fish and kasha with the cabbage soup. From Monday till Saturday evening, six whole days in Holy Week, nothing is cooked, and we have only bread and water, and that sparingly; if possible not taking food every day, just the same as is ordered for first week in Lent. On Good Friday nothing is eaten. In the same way on the Saturday we have to fast till three o’clock, and then take a little bread and water and drink a single cup of wine. On Holy Thursday we drink wine and have something cooked without oil or not cooked at all, inasmuch as the Laodicean council lays down for Holy Thursday: ‘It is unseemly by remitting the fast on the Holy Thursday to dishonor the whole of Lent!’ This is how we keep the fast. But what is that compared with you, holy Father. It is unseemly by remitting the fast on the Holy Thursday to dishonor the whole of Lent! for all the year round, even at Easter, you take nothing but bread and water, and what we should eat in two days lasts you full seven. It’s truly marvelous—your great abstinence.


And mushrooms?


Mushrooms?


Yes. I can give up their bread, not needing it at all, and go away into the forest and live there on the mushrooms or the berries, but they can’t give up their bread here, wherefore they are in bondage to the devil. Nowadays the unclean deny that there is need of such fasting. Haughty and unclean is their judgment.


Och, true,


And have you seen devils among them?


Among them? Among whom?


I went to the Father Superior on Trinity Sunday last year, I haven’t been since. I saw a devil sitting on one man’s chest hiding under his cassock, only his horns poked out; another had one peeping out of his pocket with such sharp eyes, he was afraid of me; another settled in the unclean belly of one, another was hanging round a man’s neck, and so he was carrying him about without seeing him.


You—can see spirits?


I tell you I can see, I can see through them. When I was coming out from the Superior’s I saw one hiding from me behind the door, and a big one, a yard and a half or more high, with a thick long gray tail, and the tip of his tail was in the crack of the door and I was quick and slammed the door, pinching his tail in it. He squealed and began to struggle, and I made the sign of the cross over him three times. And he died on the spot like a crushed spider. He must have rotted there in the corner and be stinking, but they don’t see, they don’t smell it. It’s a year since I have been there. I reveal it to you, as you are a stranger.


Your words are terrible! But, holy and blessed Father, is it true, as they noise abroad even to distant lands about you, that you are in continual communication with the Holy Ghost?


He does fly down at times.


How does he fly down? In what form?


As a bird.


The Holy Ghost in the form of a dove?


There’s the Holy Ghost and there’s the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit can appear as other birds—sometimes as a swallow, sometimes a goldfinch and sometimes as a blue‐tit.


How do you know him from an ordinary tit?


He speaks.


How does he speak, in what language?


Human language.


And what does he tell you?


Why, to‐day he told me that a fool would visit me and would ask me unseemly questions. You want to know too much, monk.


Terrible are your words, most holy and blessed Father,


Do you see this tree?


I do, blessed Father.


You think it’s an elm, but for me it has another shape.


What sort of shape?


It happens at night. You see those two branches? In the night it is Christ holding out His arms to me and seeking me with those arms, I see it clearly and tremble. It’s terrible, terrible!


What is there terrible if it’s Christ Himself?


Why, He’ll snatch me up and carry me away.


Alive?


In the spirit and glory of Elijah, haven’t you heard? He will take me in His arms and bear me away.


Are your people expecting you, my son? Haven’t they need of you? Didn’t you promise some one yesterday to see them to‐day?


I did promise—to my father—my brothers—others too.


You see, you must go. Don’t grieve. Be sure I shall not die without your being by to hear my last word. To you I will say that word, my son, it will be my last gift to you. To you, dear son, because you love me. But now go to keep your promise.


Remember, young man, unceasingly, that the science of this world, which has become a great power, has, especially in the last century, analyzed everything divine handed down to us in the holy books. After this cruel analysis the learned of this world have nothing left of all that was sacred of old. But they have only analyzed the parts and overlooked the whole, and indeed their blindness is marvelous. Yet the whole still stands steadfast before their eyes, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. Has it not lasted nineteen centuries, is it not still a living, a moving power in the individual soul and in the masses of people? It is still as strong and living even in the souls of atheists, who have destroyed everything! For even those who have renounced Christianity and attack it, in their inmost being still follow the Christian ideal, for hitherto neither their subtlety nor the ardor of their hearts has been able to create a higher ideal of man and of virtue than the ideal given by Christ of old. When it has been attempted, the result has been only grotesque. Remember this especially, young man, since you are being sent into the world by your departing elder. Maybe, remembering this great day, you will not forget my words, uttered from the heart for your guidance, seeing you are young, and the temptations of the world are great and beyond your strength to endure. Well, now go, my orphan.


perhaps that’s just what had passed between them. Why so? Even if my father has something to say to me alone, why should I go in unseen? Most likely in his excitement yesterday he meant to say something different. And my father?


He is up, taking his coffee,


The coffee is cold. I won’t offer you any. I’ve ordered nothing but a Lenten fish soup to‐day, and I don’t invite any one to share it. Why have you come?


To find out how you are,


Yes. Besides, I told you to come yesterday. It’s all of no consequence. You need not have troubled. But I knew you’d come poking in directly. Red’s better. It’s just like the hospital in a white one. Well, how are things over there? How is your elder?


He is very bad; he may die to‐day,


Ivan’s gone out. He is doing his utmost to carry off Mitya’s betrothed. That’s what he is staying here for,


Surely he did not tell you so?


Yes, he did, long ago. Would you believe it, he told me three weeks ago? You don’t suppose he too came to murder me, do you? He must have had some object in coming.


What do you mean? Why do you say such things?


He doesn’t ask for money, it’s true, but yet he won’t get a farthing from me. I intend living as long as possible, you may as well know, my dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, and so I need every farthing, and the longer I live, the more I shall need it,


I can still pass for a man at five and fifty, but I want to pass for one for another twenty years. As I get older, you know, I shan’t be a pretty object. The wenches won’t come to me of their own accord, so I shall want my money. So I am saving up more and more, simply for myself, my dear son Alexey Fyodorovitch. You may as well know. For I mean to go on in my sins to the end, let me tell you. For sin is sweet; all abuse it, but all men live in it, only others do it on the sly, and I openly. And so all the other sinners fall upon me for being so simple. And your paradise, Alexey Fyodorovitch, is not to my taste, let me tell you that; and it’s not the proper place for a gentleman, your paradise, even if it exists. I believe that I fall asleep and don’t wake up again, and that’s all. You can pray for my soul if you like. And if you don’t want to, don’t, damn you! That’s my philosophy. Ivan talked well here yesterday, though we were all drunk. Ivan is a conceited coxcomb, but he has no particular learning ... nor education either. He sits silent and smiles at one without speaking—that’s what pulls him through. Why won’t he talk to me? If he does speak, he gives himself airs. Your Ivan is a scoundrel! And I’ll marry Grushenka in a minute if I want to. For if you’ve money, Alexey Fyodorovitch, you have only to want a thing and you can have it. That’s what Ivan is afraid of, he is on the watch to prevent me getting married and that’s why he is egging on Mitya to marry Grushenka himself. He hopes to keep me from Grushenka by that (as though I should leave him my money if I don’t marry her!). Besides if Mitya marries Grushenka, Ivan will carry off his rich betrothed, that’s what he’s reckoning on! He is a scoundrel, your Ivan!


How cross you are! It’s because of yesterday; you had better lie down,


There! you say that, and I am not angry with you. But if Ivan said it, I should be angry with him. It is only with you I have good moments, else you know I am an ill‐natured man.


You are not ill‐natured, but distorted,


Listen. I meant this morning to get that ruffian Mitya locked up and I don’t know now what I shall decide about it. Of course in these fashionable days fathers and mothers are looked upon as a prejudice, but even now the law does not allow you to drag your old father about by the hair, to kick him in the face in his own house, and brag of murdering him outright—all in the presence of witnesses. If I liked, I could crush him and could have him locked up at once for what he did yesterday. Ivan has dissuaded me. I shouldn’t care about Ivan, but there’s another thing. If I send the ruffian to prison, she’ll hear of it and run to see him at once. But if she hears that he has beaten me, a weak old man, within an inch of my life, she may give him up and come to me.... For that’s her way, everything by contraries. I know her through and through! Won’t you have a drop of brandy? Take some cold coffee and I’ll pour a quarter of a glass of brandy into it, it’s delicious, my boy.


No, thank you. I’ll take that roll with me if I may. And you’d better not have brandy, either,


You are quite right, it irritates my nerves instead of soothing them. Only one little glass. I’ll get it out of the cupboard. That’s enough. One glass won’t kill me.


In a better humor now,


Um! I love you even without the brandy, but with scoundrels I am a scoundrel. Ivan is not going to Tchermashnya—why is that? He wants to spy how much I give Grushenka if she comes. They are all scoundrels! But I don’t recognize Ivan, I don’t know him at all. Where does he come from? He is not one of us in soul. As though I’d leave him anything! I shan’t leave a will at all, you may as well know. And I’ll crush Mitya like a beetle. I squash black‐beetles at night with my slipper; they squelch when you tread on them. And your Mitya will squelch too. Your Mitya, for you love him. Yes, you love him and I am not afraid of your loving him. But if Ivan loved him I should be afraid for myself at his loving him. But Ivan loves nobody. Ivan is not one of us. People like Ivan are not our sort, my boy. They are like a cloud of dust. When the wind blows, the dust will be gone.... I had a silly idea in my head when I told you to come to‐day; I wanted to find out from you about Mitya. If I were to hand him over a thousand or maybe two now, would the beggarly wretch agree to take himself off altogether for five years or, better still, thirty‐five, and without Grushenka, and give her up once for all, eh?


I—I’ll ask him,


That’s nonsense! You needn’t ask him now, no need! I’ve changed my mind. It was a nonsensical idea of mine. I won’t give him anything, not a penny, I want my money myself. There you see how dearly these fine young ladies love a rake and a scoundrel. They are poor creatures I tell you, those pale young ladies, very different from—Ah, if I had his youth and the looks I had then (for I was better‐looking than he at eight and twenty) I’d have been a conquering hero just as he is. He is a low cad! But he shan’t have Grushenka, anyway, he shan’t! I’ll crush him! You can go. There’s nothing for you to do here to‐day. What’s that for? We shall see each other again, or do you think we shan’t?


Not at all, I didn’t mean anything.


Nor did I, I did not mean anything. Listen, listen, make haste and come again and I’ll have a fish soup for you, a fine one, not like to‐day. Be sure to come! Come to‐morrow, do you hear, to‐morrow! I won’t have more!


When I used to wear a satchel like yours, I always used to carry it on my left side, so as to have my right hand free, but you’ve got yours on your right side. So it will be awkward for you to get at it.


But he is left‐handed,


He even throws stones with his left hand,


Give it him, hit him back, Smurov,


He aimed it at you, he meant it for you. You are Karamazov, Karamazov! Come, all throw at him at once!


What are you about! Aren’t you ashamed? Six against one! Why, you’ll kill him,


He began first! He is a beast, he stabbed Krassotkin in class the other day with a penknife. It bled. Krassotkin wouldn’t tell tales, but he must be thrashed.


But what for? I suppose you tease him.


There, he sent a stone in your back again, he knows you. It’s you he is throwing at now, not us. Come, all of you, at him again, don’t miss, Smurov!


You don’t know what a beast he is, Karamazov, killing is too good for him,


What’s wrong with him? is he a tell‐tale or what?


Are you going that way, to Mihailovsky? Catch him up.... You see he’s stopped again, he is waiting and looking at you.


He is looking at you. Don’t go near him, he’ll hurt you,


I shan’t ask him about the wisp of tow, for I expect you tease him with that question somehow. But I’ll find out from him why you hate him so.


Find out then, find out, he won’t be afraid of you. He will stab you in a minute, on the sly, as he did Krassotkin.


I am alone, and there are six of them. I’ll beat them all, alone!


I think one of the stones must have hurt you badly,


But I hit Smurov on the head!


They told me that you know me, and that you threw a stone at me on purpose. I don’t know you. Do you know me?


Let me alone!


Very well, I am going; only I don’t know you and I don’t tease you. They told me how they tease you, but I don’t want to tease you. Good‐by!


Monk in silk trousers!