Текст книги "The Brothers Karamazov"

Three days later he left the monastery, which was also in accordance with the words of his late elder, who had bidden him to “sojourn in the world.”

BOOK VIII: MITYA

Chapter 1: Kuzma Samsonov

But Dmitri Fyodorovich, to whom Grushenka, flying to her new life, had “ordered” her last farewell sent and whom she bade remember forever the one hour of her love, unaware as he was of what had happened with her, was at that moment also running around in terrible disarray. For the past two days he had been in such an unimaginable state that, as he himself said afterwards, he might well have come down with brain fever. Alyosha had been unable to find him the morning before, and that same day his brother Ivan had been unable to arrange a meeting with him in the tavern. The owners of the little apartment he lived in covered his traces, as he had ordered them to do. And he, in those two days, had literally been rushing in all directions, “struggling with his fate and trying to save himself,” as he put it afterwards, and had even flown out of town for a few hours on some urgent business, though he was afraid to leave Grushenka unwatched even for a moment. All of this was found out later in the most detailed and documented form, but here we shall outline only the most necessary facts from the history of those two terrible days of his life, which preceded the horrible catastrophe that broke so suddenly upon his fate.

Grushenka, though it was true that she had loved him genuinely and sincerely for one little hour, at the same time would torment him quite cruelly and mercilessly. The worst thing was that he could make out nothing of her intentions; it was impossible to coax them out of her either with tenderness or by force: she would not give in, and would only become angry and turn her back on him altogether—that he understood clearly at the time. He then suspected, quite correctly, that she herself was caught in some sort of struggle, in some sort of extraordinary indecision, trying to make up her mind and unable to make it up, and he therefore supposed with a sinking heart, and not groundlessly, that at moments she must simply hate him and his passion. Perhaps that was the case, but what precisely Grushenka was anguished about, he still did not understand. So far as he was concerned, the whole tormenting question formed itself into just two definitions: “Either him, Mitya, or Fyodor Pavlovich.” Here, incidentally, one firm fact must be noted: he was quite certain that Fyodor Pavlovich would be sure to offer Grushenka (if he had not offered her already) a lawful marriage, and did not believe for a moment that the old voluptuary hoped to get off for a mere three thousand. This Mitya deduced from his knowledge of Grushenka and her character. Which was why it could sometimes seem to him that all of Grushenka’s torment, and all her indecision, came simply from the fact that she did not know which of them to choose, and which of them would be the more profitable for her. Strangely enough, in those days he did not even think of thinking about the imminent return of “the officer”—that is, the fatal man in Grushenka’s life, whose arrival she awaited with such fear and agitation. True, in the past few days Grushenka had been quite silent with him on the subject. Nevertheless, he had been fully informed by her of the letter she had received a month earlier from her former seducer, and he had also been partly informed of the content of the letter. In a wicked moment, Grushenka had shown him the letter, but, to her surprise, he placed very little value on this letter. And it would be quite difficult to explain why: perhaps simply because he was so oppressed by all the ugliness and horror of his struggle with his own father for this woman that he could not even imagine anything more terrible or dangerous for himself, at least not at that time. He simply did not believe in this fiancé who had suddenly sprung from somewhere after a five-year disappearance, much less that he would soon arrive. And this first letter from “the officer,” which was shown to Mitenka, itself spoke quite uncertainly about the coming of this new rival: it was a very vague letter, very grandiloquent, and full of nothing but sentimentality. It should be noted that at the time Grushenka concealed from him the last lines of the letter, which spoke with more certainty about his return. Besides, Mitenka later recalled that at that moment he had detected, as it were, some involuntary and proud contempt for this missive from Siberia on the part of Grushenka herself. After that, Grushenka told Mitenka nothing about any of her subsequent dealings with this new rival. So it happened that little by little he even quite forgot about the officer. He thought only that whatever the outcome and whatever turn the affair might take, his impending final clash with Fyodor Pavlovich was too near and must be resolved before anything else. With a sinking soul he waited every moment for Grushenka’s decision and kept thinking that it would occur as if unexpectedly, by inspiration. Suddenly she would tell him: “Take me, I’m yours forever,” and it would all be over: he would snatch her up and take her to the end of the world at once. Oh, at once, take her far away, as far as possible, if not to the end of the world, then somewhere to the end of Russia, marry her there, and settle down with her incognito, so that no one would know anything about them, not here, not there, not anywhere. Then, oh, then a totally new life would begin at once! He dreamed of this other, this renewed and now “virtuous” life (“it must, it must be virtuous”) ceaselessly and feverishly. He thirsted for this resurrection and renewal. The vile bog he had gotten stuck in of his own will burdened him too much, and, like a great many men in such cases, he believed most of all in a change of place: if only it weren’t for these people, if only it weren’t for these circumstances, if only one could fly away from this cursed place—then everything would be reborn! That was what he believed in and what he longed for.

But that would only be in the case of the first, happysolution to the question. There was another solution; he imagined a different and terrible ending. She suddenly says to him: “Go, I’ve just reached an agreement with Fyodor Pavlovich and shall marry him, you’re no longer needed”—and then ... but then ... Incidentally, Mitya did not know what would happen then, until the very last hour he did not know, we must clear him of that. He had no definite intentions, the crime had not been thought out. He just watched, spied, and suffered, while preparing himself only for the first, happy ending to his fate. He even drove away all other thoughts. But here quite a different torment began, here arose a quite new and unrelated, but equally fatal and insoluble, circumstance.

Namely, if she should say to him: “I’m yours, take me away,” how was he to take her away? Where would he get the means, the money to do it? Just at that time he had exhausted all his income from Fyodor Pavlovich’s handouts, which until then had continued nonstop for so many years. Of course Grushenka had money, but on this point Mitya suddenly turned out to be terribly proud: he wanted to take her away himself, to start the new life with her on his own money, not on hers; he could not even imagine himself taking money from her and suffered at the thought to the point of painful revulsion. I will not enlarge upon this fact, or analyze it, I will only note that such was the cast of his soul at the moment. All of this might well have proceeded indirectly and unwittingly, as it were, from the secret suffering of his conscience over Katerina Ivanovna’s money, which he had thievishly appropriated: “I am a scoundrel before one woman, and I’ll prove at once to be a scoundrel before the other,” he thought then, as he himself confessed later, “and Grushenka, if she finds out, will not want such a scoundrel.” And so, where to find the means, where to find this fatal money? Otherwise all was lost, and nothing would happen, “for the sole reason that there wasn’t enough money—oh, shame!”

To anticipate: the thing was that he perhaps knew where to get the money, he perhaps knew where it lay. I will not go into details just now, as it will all become clear later; but what his main trouble consisted of, I will say, albeit vaguely: in order to take this money that was lying somewhere, in order to have the rightto take it, it was necessary beforehand to return the three thousand to Katerina Ivanovna—otherwise, “I am a pickpocket, I am a scoundrel, and I do not want to begin a new life as a scoundrel,” Mitya decided, and therefore he decided to turn the whole world upside down, if need be, but to be sure to return the three thousand to Katerina Ivanovna at all costs and before all else.The final working out of this decision took place in him, so to speak, in the last hours of his life—that is, starting from his last meeting with Alyosha, two days before, in the evening, on the road, after Grushenka had insulted Katerina Ivanovna, and Mitya, having listened to Alyosha’s account of it, admitted that he was a scoundrel and asked that Katerina Ivanovna be told so “if it’s any comfort to her.” Right then, that night, after parting with his brother, he had felt in his frenzy that it would be better even “to kill and rob someone, but repay his debt to Katya.” “Better to stand as a murderer and a thief before that robbed and murdered man and before everyone, and go to Siberia, than that Katya should have the right to say I betrayed her and then stole money from her, and with that money ran away with Grushenka to start a virtuous life! That I cannot do!” Thus spoke Mitya, gnashing his teeth, and he might well have imagined at times that he would end up with brain fever. But meanwhile he went on struggling . . .

Strangely enough, it would seem that after such a decision nothing was left for him but despair; for how could one suddenly come up with so much money, especially such a pauper as he? Nevertheless, to the very end he kept hoping that he would get the three thousand, that the money would come to him, that it would somehow fly down to him by itself, from the sky no less. But that is precisely how things happen with people like Dmitri Fyodorovich, who all their lives know only how to spend and squander inherited money that they got without any effort, but have no idea of how money is earned. The most fantastic whirlwind arose in his head just after he had parted with Alyosha two days before, and confused all his thoughts. Thus it came about that he started with the wildest enterprise. Yes, perhaps with such people, precisely in such situations, it is the most impossible and fantastic enterprises that seem to offer the best possibilities. He suddenly decided to go to the merchant Samsonov, Grushenka’s patron, to offer him a “plan,” to obtain from him for this “plan” the entire sum he needed at once; he had not the slightest doubt about the commercial aspects of his plan, but doubted only how Samsonov himself might view his escapade if he chose to look beyond its commercial aspects. Though Mitya knew the merchant by sight, he was not acquainted with him and had never once spoken to him. But for some reason the conviction had settled in him, even much earlier, that this old profligate, now with one foot in the grave, might not be at all averse at the moment to Grushenka somehow arranging her life honorably and marrying “a trustworthy man.” And that he not only would not resist, but even wished it himself, and would further it if the occasion should arise. He also concluded, either from rumors or from something Grushenka had said, that the old man might prefer him for Grushenka over Fyodor Pavlovich. Perhaps to many readers of our story the expectation of such help and the intention of taking his fiancée from the hand of her patron, so to speak, were much too crude and unscrupulous on Dmitri Fyodorovich’s part. I can only note that Mitya thought of Grushenka’s past as definitively passed. He looked upon that past with infinite compassion, and decided with all the fire of his passion that once Grushenka told him she loved him and would marry him, a completely new Grushenka would begin at once, and together with her a completely new Dmitri Fyodorovich, with no vices now, but with virtues only: they would forgive each other and start their life quite anew. As for Kuzma Samsonov, he considered him a fatal man in Grushenka’s life, in that former, swallowed-up past, whom, however, she had never loved, and who—this above all—was now also “passed,” done with, so that he was no longer there at all. And besides, Mitya could not even regard him as a man now, because it was known to all and sundry in town that he was an ailing wreck, who maintained only fatherly relations, so to speak, with Grushenka, and not at all on the same terms as before, and that it had been so for a long time, almost a year. In any case, there was much simple-heartedness here on Mitya’s part, for with all his vices this was a very simple-hearted man. Because of his simple-heartedness, by the way, he was seriously convinced that old Kuzma, preparing to depart to another world, felt sincerely repentant for his past with Grushenka, and that she had no more faithful patron and friend than this already-harmless old man.

The day after his conversation with Alyosha in the fields, following which he had hardly slept the whole night, Mitya appeared at Samsonov’s house at about ten o’clock in the morning and asked to be announced. The house was old, gloomy, spacious, two-storied, with outbuildings and a cottage in the yard. On the ground floor lived Samsonov’s two married sons with their families, his elderly sister, and one unmarried daughter. The cottage housed his two clerks, one of whom also had a large family. Both his children and his clerks were cramped in their quarters, but the old man occupied the upper floor by himself and would not share it even with his daughter, who looked after him and at regular hours or at his irregular summons had each time to run up to him from downstairs, despite her chronic shortness of breath. This “upstairs” consisted of a number of large formal rooms, furnished in the merchant style of old, with long, dull rows of clumsy mahogany armchairs and sidechairs along the walls, with crystal chandeliers in dust covers, and sullen mirrors between the windows. All these rooms stood completely empty and uninhabited, because the sick old man huddled himself in one little room, his remote and tiny bedroom, where he was waited on by an old woman in a kerchief and a “lad” who resided on a bench in the front hall. Because of his swollen legs, the old man was almost entirely unable to walk, and only rarely got up from his leather chair, when the old woman, holding him under the arms, would take him once or twice around the room. He was severe and taciturn even with this old woman. When the arrival of “the captain” was announced to him, he at once gave orders not to admit him. But Mitya insisted and asked to be announced a second time. Kuzma Kuzmich questioned the lad in detail: how did he look, was he drunk, was he making trouble? The answer was “sober, but won’t go away.” The old man again refused to admit him. Then Mitya, who had foreseen as much, and therefore had purposely brought paper and pencil with him, wrote clearly on the piece of paper the words: “On most important business closely concerning Agrafena Alexandrovna,” and sent it to the old man. Having thought a little, the old man told the lad to show the visitor to the drawing room, and sent the old woman downstairs with an order for his younger son to report upstairs at once. This younger son, a man over six feet tall and of enormous strength, who shaved his beard and dressed in German fashion (Samsonov himself wore a caftan and had a beard), came immediately and without a word. They all trembled before their father. The father sent for this stalwart not so much from fear of the captain (he was no coward) as simply to have him there, just in case, if he should need a witness. Accompanied by his son, who supported him under the arm, and by the lad, he finally came sailing into the drawing room. One may suppose he felt a certain rather strong curiosity. This drawing room where Mitya was waiting was a huge, dreary, killingly depressing room, with windows on both sides, a gallery, “marbled” walls, and three huge crystal chandeliers in dust covers. Mitya was sitting on a little chair by the entrance, awaiting his fate with nervous impatience. When the old man appeared at the opposite door, about twenty yards away from Mitya’s chair, he jumped up suddenly and went to meet him with his long, firm, military stride. Mitya was respectably dressed in a buttoned frock coat, was holding a round hat, and wearing black leather gloves, exactly as three days before in the monastery, at the elder’s, at the family meeting with Fyodor Pavlovich and his brothers. The old man stood solemnly and sternly waiting for him, and Mitya felt at once that he was examining him thoroughly as he approached. Mitya was also struck by the face of Kuzma Kuzmich, which had become extremely swollen recently: his lower lip, which had always been thick, now looked like a kind of drooping pancake. He bowed solemnly and silently to his guest, motioned him to an armchair near the sofa, and, leaning on his son’s arm, with painful groans began slowly lowering himself onto the sofa facing Mitya, who, seeing his painful exertions, immediately felt remorse in his heart, sensible of his present insignificance before this so solemn personage whom he had ventured to disturb.

“What do you want of me, sir?” the old man, having finally seated himself, said slowly, distinctly, sternly, but courteously.

Mitya gave a start, jumped up, and sat down again. Then all at once he began speaking loudly, quickly, nervously, gesticulating and decidedly in a frenzy. Here obviously was a man at the end of his rope, facing ruin and looking for a last way out, and if he did not find it, he might just go and drown himself. All this old Samsonov probably understood instantly, though his face remained unchanged and cold as an idol’s.

“The most honorable Kuzma Kuzmich has doubtless already heard more than once of my disputes with my father, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, who robbed me of my inheritance after my own mother ... because the whole town is chattering about it ... because here everyone chatters about things they shouldn’t ... And besides, it might also have come to you from Grushenka ... I beg your pardon: from Agrafena Alexandrovna ... from Agrafena Alexandrovna who is so greatly respected and so greatly honored by me . . .” Thus Mitya began, and broke off at the first sentence. However, we will not quote his whole speech word for word, but will only give a summary of it. The thing was, he said, that three months ago, he, Mitya, had purposefully consulted (he precisely said “purposefully,” not “purposely”) a lawyer in the provincial capital, “a famous lawyer, Kuzma Kuzmich, Pavel Pavlovich Korneplodov, perhaps you’ve heard of him, sir? A vast brain, almost the mind of a statesman ... he knows you, too ... he has the highest opinion ... ,” Mitya broke off again. But these gaps did not deter Mitya, he immediately leaped over them and rushed ahead. This same Korneplodov, after questioning him in detail and examining all the documents Mitya could present to him (about the documents Mitya spoke vaguely, and became particularly hurried at this point), opined that with regard to the village of Chermashnya, which should, he said, belong to him, Mitya, from his mother, it would indeed be possible to start a court action and knock the pins out from under the old hooligan ... “because it’s impossible that all doors are locked, and the law knows all the loopholes.” In a word, he might hope for as much as an additional six thousand from Fyodor Pavlovich, maybe even seven, because after all Chermashnya is worth not less than twenty-five thousand—that is, certainly twenty-eight, “thirty, in fact, thirty, Kuzma Kuzmich, and just imagine, I never got even seventeen out of that cruel man...!” And then, he said, I, Mitya, dropped the whole business, because I can’t deal with the law, and when I came here, I was dumbstruck by a countersuit (here Mitya became confused again, and again leaped abruptly ahead): and so, most honorable Kuzma Kuzmich, he said, how would you like to take over all my claims against that monster, and give me just three thousand ... You can’t lose in any case, I swear it on my honor, and quite the opposite, you could make six or seven thousand instead of three ... And above all it must be settled “this same day.” “I’ll ... at the notary, is it, or whatever ... In a word, I’m ready for anything, I’ll supply all the documents you want, I’ll sign anything ... and we could draw up the paper right now, and if possible, if only it were possible, this morning ... You could let me have the three thousand ... because who else is a capitalist in this little town if not you ... and you would save me from ... in a word, you would save my poor head for a most honorable deed, for a most lofty deed, one might say ... for I cherish the most honorable feelings for a certain person, whom you know only too well, sir, and for whom you have a fatherly concern. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come, if it wasn’t fatherly. And here three men are at loggerheads, if you like, because fate is a grisly thing, Kuzma Kuzmich! Realism, Kuzma Kuzmich, realism! And since you should have been counted out long ago, there are two heads left, as I put it, awkwardly perhaps, but I’m not a literary man. That is, one of the heads is mine, and the other—that monster’s. So choose: me or the monster? Everything is in your hands now—three fates and two lots ... Forgive me, I’ve gotten confused, but you understand ... I can see by your venerable eyes that you understand ... And if you don’t understand, I’ll drown myself today, that’s it!”