Текст книги "The Brothers Karamazov"
Автор книги: Федор Достоевский
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“Probably not even five hundred,” Mitya observed gloomily in response, “only I wasn’t counting at the time, I was drunk, more’s the pity ...”
Mitya was now sitting to one side, his back to the curtains, listening gloomily, with a sad and tired look, as if to say: “Eh, tell them whatever you like, it makes no difference now!”
“Over a thousand went to them, Mitri Fyodorovich,” Trifon Borisovich countered firmly. “You were throwing it away for nothing, and they were picking it up. They’re pilfering folk, cheats, horse thieves, they were driven away from here, otherwise they’d testify themselves to how much they profited from you. I saw the amount you had in your hands myself—I didn’t count it, you didn’t let me, that’s true, but I could tell by eye, and I remember it was much more than fifteen hundred ... Fifteen hundred, hah! I’ve seen money enough, I can tell ...”
As for the amount yesterday, Trifon Borisich testified outright that Dmitri Fyodorovich himself had announced to him, as soon as he dismounted, that he had brought three thousand.
“Come now, did I say that, Trifon Borisich,” Mitya objected, “did I really announce so positively that I had brought three thousand?”
“You did, Mitri Fyodorovich. You said it in front of Andrei. Andrei’s still here, he hasn’t gone yet, call him in. And in the main room there, when you were giving treats to the chorus, you shouted right out that you were leaving your sixth thousand here—including the ones before, that’s what it means. Stepan and Semyon heard it, and Pyotr Fomich Kalganov was standing next to you then, maybe the gentleman also remembers...”
The evidence concerning the sixth thousand was received with remarkable impression by the interrogators. They liked the new version: three and three makes six, meaning that three thousand then and three thousand now would take care of all six, the result was clear.
All the peasants pointed out by Trifon Borisovich were interrogated, Stepan and Semyon, the coachman Andrei, and Pyotr Fomich Kalganov. The peasants and the coachman confirmed without hesitation the evidence of Trifon Borisich. Besides that, special note was taken, in his own words, of Andrei’s conversation with Mitya on the way there, about “where do you think I, Dmitri Fyodorovich, will go: to heaven or hell? And will I be forgiven in that world or not?” The “psychologist” Ippolit Kirillovich listened to it all with a subtle smile, and in the end recommended that this evidence about where Dmitri Fyodorovich would go should be “filed with the case.”
The summoned Kalganov came in reluctantly, sullen and peevish, and spoke with the prosecutor and Nikolai Parfenovich as if he were seeing them for the first time in his life, whereas they were long-standing and everyday acquaintances. He began by saying that he “knows nothing of it and does not want to know.” But it turned out that he, too, had heard about the sixth thousand, and admitted that he had been standing nearby at that moment. In his view, Mitya had “I don’t know how much money” in his hands. With regard to the Poles cheating at cards, he testified in the affirmative. He also explained in reply to repeated questions, that once the Poles were banished, Mitya’s affairs with Agrafena Alexandrovna changed for the better, and that she herself had said she loved him. About Agrafena Alexandrovna he expressed himself with reserve and respect, as if she were a lady of the best society, and did not once allow himself to call her “Grushenka.” Despite the repugnance the young man obviously felt at giving evidence, Ippolit Kirillovich interrogated him for a long time, and from him alone learned all the details of what constituted Mitya’s “romance,” so to speak, that night. Mitya did not once stop Kalganov. At last the young man was dismissed, and he withdrew with unconcealed indignation.
The Poles were interrogated as well. Though they had tried to go to sleep in their little room, they had not slept all night, and, with the arrival of the authorities, had hastened to get dressed and put themselves in order, realizing that they would certainly be sent for. They made their appearance with dignity, though not without a certain fear. The chief one—that is, the little pan– turned out to be a retired official of the twelfth grade, [274]had served in Siberia as a veterinarian, and his last name was Pan Mussyalovich. And Pan Vrublevsky turned out to be a free-lance dentist—in Russian, a tooth doctor. Both of them, upon entering the room, despite the questions put to them by Nikolai Parfenovich, at once began addressing their answers to Mikhail Makarovich, who was standing to one side, through ignorance taking him to be the person of highest rank and authority there, and addressing him at every word as “Panie Colonel.” And only after several times, and on instructions from Mikhail Makarovich himself, did they realize that they ought to address their answers only to Nikolai Parfenovich. It turned out that they could speak Russian quite correctly, except perhaps for the pronunciation of some words. About his relations with Grushenka, past and present, Pan Mussyalovich began declaiming hotly and proudly, so that Mitya lost his temper at once and shouted that he would not allow “the scoundrel” to talk like that in his presence. Pan Mussyalovich instantly called attention to the word “scoundrel” and asked that it be put in the record. Mitya flew into a rage.
“And a scoundrel he is! A scoundrel! Put it down, and put down that in spite of the record I’m still shouting that he’s a scoundrel!” he shouted.
Nikolai Parfenovich, though he did put it in the record, also displayed, on this unpleasant occasion, a most praiseworthy efficiency and administrative skill: after severely reprimanding Mitya, he at once put an end to all further inquiry into the romantic side of the case and quickly moved on to the essential. And there emerged as essential a particular piece of evidence from the pans,which aroused unusual curiosity in the investigators: namely, how Mitya, in that little room, had been trying to bribe Pan Mussyalovich and had offered to buy him out for three thousand, with the understanding that he would give him seven hundred roubles on the spot and the remaining twenty-three hundred “tomorrow morning, in town,” swearing on his word of honor, and declaring that he did not have so much money with him there, in Mokroye, but that the money was in town. Mitya remarked, in the heat of the moment, that he had not said he would certainly pay it in town tomorrow morning, but Pan Vrublevsky confirmed the evidence, and Mitya himself, after thinking for a minute, glumly agreed that it must have been as the panssaid, that he was excited then and might well have said it. The prosecutor simply fastened on this evidence: it was becoming clear to the investigation (as was indeed concluded afterwards) that half or a part of the three thousand that had come into Mitya’s hands might indeed have been hidden somewhere in town, or perhaps even somewhere there, in Mokroye, thus clarifying the circumstance, so ticklish for the investigation, that only eight hundred roubles had been found in Mitya’s possession—the one circumstance, though the only one and rather negligible at that, that so far had been some sort of evidence in Mitya’s favor. But now this only evidence in his favor was breaking down. To the prosecutor’s question as to where he would have found the remaining twenty-three hundred to give to the panthe next day, if he himself asserted that he had only fifteen hundred, though he had assured the panon his word of honor, Mitya firmly replied that he intended to offer the “little Polack” not the money, but a formal deed for his rights to the Chermashnya estate, the very same rights he had offered to Samsonov and Madame Khokhlakov. The prosecutor even smiled at the “innocence of the ruse.”
“And you think he would have agreed to take these ‘rights’ instead of twenty-three hundred roubles in cash?”
“Certainly he would have agreed,” Mitya snapped hotly. “My God, he might have got not just two, but four, even six thousand out of it! He’d immediately gather his little lawyers together, little Polacks and Yids, and they’d take the old man not just for three thousand but for the whole of Chermashnya.”
Naturally, the evidence of Pan Mussyalovich was entered into the record in the fullest detail. With that, the panswere dismissed. As for the fact of their cheating at cards, it was barely mentioned; Nikolai Parfenovich was grateful enough to them as it was, and did not want to bother them with trifles, especially since it was all just an idle, drunken quarrel over cards, and nothing more. All sorts of carousing and scandalousness had gone on that night ... So the money, two hundred roubles, simply stayed in the Poles’ pockets.
Then the little old man, Maximov, was called. He came in timidly, approached with small steps, looked disheveled and very sad. He had been downstairs all the while, huddled next to Grushenka, sitting silently with her, and “every now and then he’d start whimpering over her, wiping his eyes with a blue-checkered handkerchief,” as Mikhail Makarovich reported afterwards. So that she herself had to quiet and comfort him. The old man confessed at once, and with tears, that he was sorry but he had borrowed “ten roubles, sirs, on account of my poverty, sirs,” from Dmitri Fyodorovich, and that he was ready to return it ... To the direct question of Nikolai Parfenovich, whether he had noticed exactly how much money Dmitri Fyodorovich had in his hands, since he had had a close view of the money in his hands when he was borrowing from him, Maximov answered in the most decisive manner that it was “twenty thousand, sir.”
“Have you ever seen twenty thousand anywhere before?” Nikolai Parfenovich asked, smiling.
“Of course I have, sir, when my wife mortgaged my little village, only it wasn’t twenty thousand, it was seven, sir. And she only let me see it from far off, she was boasting to me. It was a very big bundle, sir, all hundred-rouble bills. And Dmitri Fyodorovich, too, had all hundred-rouble bills...”
He was soon dismissed. Finally it came to be Grushenka’s turn. The investigators were obviously apprehensive of the impression her appearance would make on Dmitri Fyodorovich, and Nikolai Parfenovich even muttered a few words of admonition to him, but Mitya silently bent his head in reply, letting him know that “there would be no disturbance. “ Grushenka was led in by Mikhail Makarovich himself. She entered with a stern and sullen face, looking almost calm, and quietly sat down on the chair offered her facing Nikolai Parfenovich. She was very pale, she seemed to be cold, and kept wrapping herself tightly in her beautiful black shawl. In fact, she was then beginning to have a slight feverish chill—the start of a long illness that first came over her that night. Her stem look, her direct and serious eyes and calm manner produced quite a favorable impression on everyone. Nikolai Parfenovich even got somewhat “carried away” at once. He himself admitted, talking about it afterwards in one place or another, that he had only then perceived how “good-looking” this woman was, and that before, the few times he had seen her, he had always regarded her as something of a “provincial hetaera.” “She has the manners of the highest society,” he once blurted out rapturously in some ladies’ circle. But this was received with the utmost indignation, and he was at once dubbed “a naughty boy” for it, which pleased him no end. As she entered the room, Grushenka seemed to give only a passing glance to Mitya, who in turn looked at her anxiously, but her appearance immediately reassured him. After the first obligatory questions and admonitions, Nikolai Parfenovich, hesitating a little, but nonetheless maintaining a most courteous air, asked her: “What had been her relations with the retired lieutenant Dmitri Fyodorovich Karamazov?” To which Grushenka quietly and firmly replied: “He was my acquaintance, I received him during the past month as an acquaintance.”
To further inquisitive questions she declared directly and with complete frankness, that though she had liked him “at times,” she had not been in love with him, but had been enticing him “in my vile wickedness,” as well as the “old man,” that she had seen how jealous Mitya was of Fyodor Pavlovich and of everyone, but it only amused her. And she had never meant to go to Fyodor Pavlovich, but was just laughing at him. “All that month I couldn’t be bothered with either of them; I was expecting another man, one who was guilty before me ... But I think,” she concluded, “that there is no need for you to ask about that, or for me to answer you, because that is my particular business.”
And Nikolai Parfenovich immediately did just that: once again he stopped insisting on “romantic” points, and moved directly on to the serious one– that is, to the same and chief question concerning the three thousand. Grushenka confirmed that three thousand roubles had indeed been spent in Mokroye a month before, and that though she had not counted the money herself, she had heard from Dmitri Fyodorovich that it was three thousand roubles.
“Did he say it to you privately, or in someone else’s presence, or did you only hear him say it to others around you?” the prosecutor inquired at once.
To which Grushenka replied that she had heard it in other people’s presence, had heard him say it to others, and had also heard it privately from Mitya himself.
“Did he say it to you once or many times in private?” the prosecutor inquired again, and learned that Grushenka had heard it many times.
Ippolit Kirillovich was very pleased with this evidence. Further questioning revealed that Grushenka knew where the money had come from and that Dmitri Fyodorovich had taken it from Katerina Ivanovna.
“And did you ever once hear that the money squandered a month ago was not three thousand but less, and that Dmitri Fyodorovich had kept fully half of it for himself?”
“No, I never heard that,” Grushenka testified.
It was further discovered that Mitya, on the contrary, had often told her during that month that he did not have a kopeck. “He kept waiting for what he would get from his father,” Grushenka concluded.
“And did he ever say before you ... somehow in passing, or in irritation,” Nikolai Parfenovich suddenly struck, “that he intended to make an attempt on his father’s life?” “Ah, yes, he did!” sighed Grushenka.
“Once or several times?”
“He mentioned it several times, always in a fit of anger.”
“And did you believe he would go through with it?”
“No, I never believed it!” she replied firmly. “I trusted in his nobility.”
“Gentlemen, allow me,” Mitya suddenly cried, “allow me to say just one word to Agrafena Alexandrovna in your presence.”
“Say it,” Nikolai Parfenovich consented.
“Agrafena Alexandrovna,” Mitya rose a little from his chair, “believe God and me: I am not guilty of the blood of my father who was killed last night!”
Having said this, Mitya again sat down on his chair. Grushenka rose a little, looked towards the icon, and piously crossed herself.
“Glory be to God!” she said in an ardent, emotional voice, and turning to Nikolai Parfenovich before sitting down, she added: “What he has just said, you must believe! I know him: when he babbles, he babbles, whether it’s for fun or out of stubbornness, but if it’s something against his conscience, he will never deceive you. He will speak the truth directly, you must believe that!”
“Thank you, Agrafena Alexandrovna, you have given my soul new courage!” Mitya responded in a trembling voice.
To the questions about yesterday’s money she replied that she did not know how much there was, but had heard him say to many people yesterday that he had brought three thousand with him. And with regard to where he had got the money, he had told her privately that he had “stolen” it from Katerina Ivanovna, to which she had replied that he had not stolen it and that the money must be given back tomorrow. To the prosecutor’s insistent question as to which money he said he had stolen from Katerina Ivanovna—yesterday’s, or the three thousand spent there a month ago—she stated that he was speaking of the money from a month ago, that that was how she had understood him.
Grushenka was finally dismissed, Nikolai Parfenovich impetuously announcing to her that she could even return to town at once, and that if he, for his part, could be of any assistance to her, for example, in connection with the horses, or if, for example, she wished to be accompanied, then he ... for his part . . .
“I humbly thank you,” Grushenka bowed to him, “I’ll go with that little old man, the landowner, I’ll take him back with me, but meanwhile I’ll wait downstairs, with your permission, until you decide here about Dmitri Fyodorovich.”
She went out. Mitya was calm and even looked quite encouraged, but only for a moment. Some strange physical powerlessness was gradually overwhelming him. His eyes kept closing with fatigue. The interrogation of the witnesses finally came to an end. They moved on to the final editing of the transcript. Mitya got up, went from his chair to the corner, near the curtain, lay down on a large chest covered with a rug, and was asleep in a second. He had a strange sort of dream, somehow entirely out of place and out of time. It seemed he was driving somewhere in the steppe, in a place where he had served once long ago; he is being driven through the slush by a peasant, in a cart with a pair of horses. And it seems to Mitya that he is cold, it is the beginning of November, and snow is pouring down in big, wet flakes that melt as soon as they touch the ground. And the peasant is driving briskly, waving his whip nicely, he has a long, fair beard, and he is not an old man, maybe around fifty, dressed in a gray peasant coat. And there is a village nearby– black, black huts, and half of the huts are burnt, just charred beams sticking up. And at the edge of the village there are peasant women standing along the road, many women, a long line of them, all of them thin, wasted, their faces a sort of brown color. Especially that one at the end—such a bony one, tall, looking as if she were forty, but she may be only twenty, with a long, thin face, and in her arms a baby is crying, and her breasts must be all dried up, not a drop of milk in them. And the baby is crying, crying, reaching out its bare little arms, its little fists somehow all blue from the cold.
“Why are they crying? Why are they crying?” Mitya asks, flying past them at a great clip.
“The wee one,” the driver answers, “it’s the wee one crying.” And Mitya is struck that he has said it in his own peasant way: “the wee one,” and not “the baby.” And he likes it that the peasant has said “wee one”: there seems to be more pity in it.
“But why is it crying?” Mitya insists, as if he were foolish, “why are its little arms bare, why don’t they wrap it up?”
“The wee one’s cold, its clothes are frozen, they don’t keep it warm.”
“But why is it so? Why?” foolish Mitya will not leave off.
“They’re poor, burnt out, they’ve got no bread, they’re begging for their burnt-down place.”
“No, no,” Mitya still seems not to understand, “tell me: why are these burnt-out mothers standing here, why are the people poor, why is the wee one poor, why is the steppe bare, why don’t they embrace and kiss, why don’t they sing joyful songs, why are they blackened with such black misery, why don’t they feed the wee one?”
And he feels within himself that, though his questions have no reason or sense, he still certainly wants to ask in just that way, and he should ask in just that way. And he also feels a tenderness such as he has never known before surging up in his heart, he wants to weep, he wants to do something for them all, so that the wee one will no longer cry, so that the blackened, dried-up mother of the wee one will not cry either, so that there will be no more tears in anyone from that moment on, and it must be done at once, at once, without delay and despite everything, with all his Karamazov unrestraint.
“And I am with you, too, I won’t leave you now, I will go with you for the rest of my life,” the dear, deeply felt words of Grushenka came from somewhere near him. And his whole heart blazed up and turned towards some sort of light, and he wanted to live and live, to go on and on along some path, towards the new, beckoning light, and to hurry, hurry, right now, at once!
“What? Where?” he exclaims, opening his eyes and sitting up on the chest, as if he were just coming out of a faint, and smiling brightly. Over him stands Nikolai Parfenovich, inviting him to listen to the transcript and sign it. Mitya guessed that he had slept for an hour or more, but he did not listen to Nikolai Parfenovich. It suddenly struck him that there was a pillow under his head, which, however, had not been there when he had sunk down powerlessly on the chest.
“Who put that pillow under my head? What good person did it?” he exclaimed with a sort of rapturous gratitude, in a sort of tear-filled voice, as though God knows what kindness had been shown him. The good man remained unidentified even later—perhaps one of the witnesses, or even Nikolai Parfenovich’s clerk, had arranged that a pillow be put under his head, out of compassion—but his whole soul was as if shaken with tears. He went up to the table and declared that he would sign whatever they wanted.
“I had a good dream, gentlemen,” he said somehow strangely, with a sort of new face, as if lit up with joy.
Chapter 9: Mitya Is Taken Away
When the transcript had been signed, Nikolai Parfenovich solemnly addressed the accused and read to him a “Resolution,” setting forth that on such and such a day, of such and such a year, in such and such a place, having interrogated so and so (that is, Mitya), accused of such and such (all the charges were carefully enumerated), and insofar as the accused, while declaring himself not guilty of any of the crimes imputed to him, has brought forth nothing to vindicate himself, whereas the witnesses (so and so) and the circumstances (such and such) show him to be guilty in the highest degree, the district attorney of such and such district court, in accordance with such and such paragraphs of the Criminal Code,etc., hereby resolves: to commit so and so (Mitya) to such and such prison, in order to deprive him of all means of evading investigation and trial; to inform the accused of this fact; to forward a copy of this resolution to the deputy prosecutor, etc., etc. In short, Mitya was informed that from that moment on he was a prisoner, and that he would now be driven to town, where he would be locked up in a very unpleasant place. Mitya, having listened attentively, merely shrugged.
“Well, gentlemen, I don’t blame you, I’m ready ... I understand that you have no other choice.”
Nikolai Parfenovich gently explained to him that he would be taken away at once by the deputy commissioner, Mavriky Mavrikievich, who happened to be there at the moment . . .
“Wait,” Mitya interrupted suddenly, and with some irrepressible feeling he spoke, addressing everyone in the room. “Gentlemen, we are all cruel, we are all monsters, we all make people weep, mothers and nursing babies, but of all—let it be settled here and now—of all, I am the lowest vermin! So be it! Every day of my life I’ve been beating my breast and promising to reform, and every day I’ve done the same vile things. I understand now that for men such as I a blow is needed, a blow of fate, to catch them as with a noose and bind them by an external force. Never, never would I have risen by myself! But the thunder has struck. [275] I accept the torment of accusation and of my disgrace before all, I want to suffer and be purified by suffering! And perhaps I will be purified, eh, gentlemen? But hear me, all the same, for the last time: I am not guilty of my father’s blood! I accept punishment not because I killed him, but because I wanted to kill him, and might well have killed him ... But even so I intend to fight you, and I am letting you know it. I will fight you to the very end, and then let God decide! Farewell, gentlemen, do not be angry that I shouted at you during the interrogation—oh, I was still so foolish then ... Another moment and I’ll be a prisoner, but now, for the last time, while he is still a free man, Dmitri Karamazov offers you his hand. Saying farewell to you, I say it to all men...!”
His voice trembled and he did, indeed, offer his hand, but Nikolai Parfenovich, who was nearest to him, somehow suddenly, with an almost convulsive sort of movement, hid his hands behind him. Mitya noticed it at once and was startled. He immediately let fall his proffered hand.
“The investigation is not over yet,” Nikolai Parfenovich muttered, somewhat embarrassed. “We shall continue it in town, and I, of course, for my part, am prepared to wish you all luck ... in your acquittal ... And you personally, Dmitri Fyodorovich, I have always been inclined to regard as a man, so to speak, more unfortunate than guilty ... All of us here, if I may be so bold as to express myself on behalf of all, all of us are prepared to recognize you as a young man who is noble in principle, though one, alas, carried away by certain passions to a somewhat inordinate degree ...”
Nikolai Parfenovich’s little figure became, towards the end of his speech, a most perfect embodiment of stateliness. It flashed through Mitya’s mind that this “boy” was now going to take him by the arm, lead him to the other corner, and start up their recent conversation about “girls” again. But all sorts of extraneous and unrelated thoughts sometimes flash even through the mind of a criminal who is being led out to execution.
“Gentlemen, you are kind, you are humane—may I see her, to say farewell for the last time?” asked Mitya.
“Certainly, but in view ... in short, it is impossible now except in the presence ...”
“Please do be present!”
Grushenka was brought in, but the farewell was brief, just a few words, hardly satisfying to Nikolai Parfenovich. Grushenka made a low bow to Mitya.
“I’ve told you that I am yours, and I will be yours, I will go with you forever, wherever they doom you to go. Farewell, guiltless man, who have been your own ruin.”
Her lips trembled, tears flowed from her eyes.
“Forgive me, Grusha, for my love, that I’ve ruined you, too, with my love!”
Mitya wanted to say something more, but suddenly stopped himself short and walked out. He was immediately surrounded by people who kept a close eye on him. At the foot of the porch, where he had driven up with such a clatter in Andrei’s troika the day before, two carts already stood waiting. Mavriky Mavrikievich, a squat, thickset man with a flabby face, was annoyed with something, some sudden new disorder, and was shouting angrily. He invited Mitya somehow too sternly to get into the cart. “He had quite a different face before, when I used to stand him drinks in the tavern,” Mitya thought as he was getting in. Trifon Borisovich also came down from the porch. People, peasants, women, coachmen crowded at the gates; everyone stared at Mitya.
“Farewell and forgive, God’s people!” Mitya suddenly cried to them from the cart.
“And you forgive us,” two or three voices were heard.
“You, too, Trifon Borisich, farewell and forgive!” But Trifon Borisich did not even turn his head, perhaps he was too busy. He, too, was bustling about and shouting for some reason. It turned out that things were not quite in order yet with the second cart, in which two deputies were to accompany Mavriky Mavrikievich. The little peasant who had been hired to drive the second troika was pulling on his coat and stoutly protesting that it was not him but Akim who had to drive. But Akim was not there; they ran to get him; the little peasant insisted and begged them to wait.
“Look what kind of people we’ve got, Mavriky Mavrikievich, no shame at all!” Trifon Borisich exclaimed. “Akim gave you twenty-five kopecks the day before yesterday, you spent it on drink, and now you’re shouting. I’m really surprised you’re so good-natured with our base peasants, Mavriky Mavrikievich, I can tell you that!”
“But what do we need a second troika for?” Mitya intervened. “Let’s go in one, Mavriky Mavrikievich, I assure you I won’t make trouble, I won’t run away from you, old fellow—why the escort?”
“Kindly learn how to address me, sir, if you don’t know already; I’m not your ‘old fellow,’ kindly do not be so familiar, and save your advice for some other time . . .,” Mavriky Mavrikievich snapped fiercely at Mitya all of a sudden, as if glad to vent his heart.
Mitya said no more. He blushed all over. A moment later he suddenly felt very cold. It had stopped raining, but the dull sky was still overcast, and a sharp wind was blowing straight in his face. “Have I caught a chill or something? “ Mitya thought, twitching his shoulders. At last Mavriky Mavrikievich also got into the cart, sat down heavily, broadly, and, as if without noticing it, gave Mitya a strong shove with his body. True, he was out of sorts and intensely disliked the task entrusted to him.
“Farewell, Trifon Borisich!” Mitya called out again, and felt himself that this time he had called out not from good-naturedness but from spite, against his will. But Trifon Borisich stood proudly, both hands behind his back, staring straight at Mitya with a stern and angry look, and made no reply.
“Farewell, Dmitri Fyodorovich, farewell!” the voice of Kalganov, who popped up from somewhere, was suddenly heard. Running over to the cart, he offered his hand to Mitya. He had no cap on. Mitya just managed to seize and shake his hand.
“Farewell, you dear man, I won’t forget this magnanimity!” he exclaimed ardently. But the cart started, and their hands were parted. The bell jingled– Mitya was taken away.
Kalganov ran back into the front hall, sat down in a corner, bent his head, covered his face with his hands, and began to cry. He sat like that and cried for a long time—cried as though he were still a little boy and not a man of twenty. Oh, he believed almost completely in Mitya’s guilt!”What are these people, what sort of people can there be after this!” he kept exclaiming incoherently, in bitter dejection, almost in despair. At that moment he did not even want to live in the world. “Is it worth it, is it worth it!” the grieved young man kept exclaiming.
