finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_10_part_8.txt
The Brothers Karamazov.book 8.chapter 8
book 8, chapter 8
{"name": "book 8, Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section11/", "summary": "Delirium  As Grushenka watches her Polish lover cheat at the games, and listens to the coarse and degrading things that he says, she realizes she does not love him. Instead, she loves Dmitri. When the officer insults her, Dmitri attacks him and locks him in another room. Dmitri and Grushenka begin to plan their future together. Through his joy at winning Grushenka, Dmitri is troubled by the thought of the wound he dealt Grigory and the fortune he owes Katerina. Just then, a group of officers bursts into the room. They seize Dmitri and place him under arrest. Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov has been murdered, and Dmitri is the prime suspect.", "analysis": "Book VIII: Mitya, Chapters 1-8  Dostoevsky uses a variety of literary techniques to suggest that Dmitri is responsible for his father's murder. Before Dmitri appears with a large amount of money, the narrator continually makes statements implying that Dmitri will steal Fyodor Pavlovich's 3,000 rubles: \"Only three or four hours before a certain incident, of which I will speak below, Mitya did not have a kopeck, and pawned his dearest possession for ten roubles, whereas three hours later he suddenly had thousands in his hands. but I anticipate. Dmitri's inner monologue is similarly misleading, as when Dmitri thinks about going to Madame Khokhlakov's and realizes \"fully and now with mathematical clarity that this was his last hope, that if this should fall through, there was nothing left in the world but 'to kill and rob someone for the three thousand, and that's all. Dostoevsky also uses a technique called ellipsis, skipping over a moment of action in order to play on our expectations: he implies Dmitri's guilt by leaving out the crucial stretch of action in Chapter 5, in between Dmitri's discovery of Grushenka's whereabouts and his arrival at Perkhotin's office. This strategy leads us to suspect that Dmitri has killed his father in that time. Finally, the events we do see suggest Dmitri's guilt. Dmitri is desperate, impassioned, and antagonistic toward Grigory. The combination of these factors makes Dmitri seem eminently capable of committing murder. The narrative throughout this book lays the groundwork for a surprise plot twist: the revelation in Book XI that Smerdyakov, and not Dmitri, is the murderer. Dostoevsky goes to such lengths to imply that an innocent man is guilty of such a crime for several reasons. First, making Dmitri guilty and then innocent in our mind is a way of enacting the spiritual rebirth that Dmitri experiences after his arrest. Second, making us learn that our judgment about Dmitri is wrong is a way of emphasizing Zosima's advice never to judge anyone because all people are responsible for one another's sins. Third, making Dmitri appear guilty is a way of emphasizing the extraordinary scope of his passion. Dmitri may not have committed murder, but he is clearly capable of such a crime, and possesses a tormented and sinful soul. The redemption of such a passionate person is all the more dramatic. Fourth, making Dmitri appear guilty is a way of making us feel the way most of the other characters do when they learn about the arrest. The whole town believes him to be guilty. Making Dmitri appear guilty is also a way for Dostoevsky to put human nature itself on trial. Throughout the novel we have seen various conceptions of human nature, ranging from Alyosha's faith that people are essentially good, like Zosima, to Ivan's belief that people are essentially bad, like Fyodor Pavlovich. But Dmitri combines the qualities of Fyodor Pavlovich and Zosima: he is a lustful and sinful man who nevertheless powerfully loves God. He commits bad deeds and longs to redeem them. He believes that he is bound for hell but pledges to love God even from the depths of hell. After spending a large amount of his fiancee's money on a lavish vacation with another woman, he is now greedily desperate for even more money, but only so that he can salvage his honor with Katerina, and thus make up for his sin. By putting Dmitri on trial through circumstantial evidence, Dostoevsky essentially poses the question of whether Dmitri's sinfulness or his goodness is the more fundamental aspect of his nature. This query in turn should make us question which of the two aspects is more fundamentally a characteristic of humanity. Dostoevsky wants us to consider whether humanity, burdened as it is with free will, is capable of overcoming its sinful nature and choosing to live within its good nature. When Dmitri is proved to be innocent shortly after he undergoes his powerful spiritual conversion, the question is answered in favor of human goodness--though not without a thorough understanding of the reality of evil in human life. Although a great deal of the novel's thematic development relies on the events in these chapters, the chapters are so devoted to narrative action that there is comparatively little thematic development within Book VIII itself. Apart from the insight it offers into Dmitri's tormented inner conflict, the most interesting psychological aspect of this section is its look at Grushenka's growth since her encounter with Alyosha. Before, Grushenka is too proud and suspicious to acknowledge her love for Dmitri, but through Alyosha she discovers real goodness. As a result, she is at last capable of admitting to herself that the Polish officer is just a vulgar man who betrayed her in her youth, and that Dmitri is the man she really loves. Alyosha does not appear at all in the action of this book, but his presence is strongly felt in Grushenka's positive acquiescence to her love for Dmitri--a lovely moment of goodness that is interrupted sharply by evil, with the arrival of the police and the announcement of the murder of Fyodor Pavlovich"}
Chapter VIII. Delirium


What followed was almost an orgy, a feast to which all were welcome.
Grushenka was the first to call for wine.

"I want to drink. I want to be quite drunk, as we were before. Do you
remember, Mitya, do you remember how we made friends here last time!"

Mitya himself was almost delirious, feeling that his happiness was at
hand. But Grushenka was continually sending him away from her.

"Go and enjoy yourself. Tell them to dance, to make merry, 'let the stove
and cottage dance'; as we had it last time," she kept exclaiming. She was
tremendously excited. And Mitya hastened to obey her. The chorus were in
the next room. The room in which they had been sitting till that moment
was too small, and was divided in two by cotton curtains, behind which was
a huge bed with a puffy feather mattress and a pyramid of cotton pillows.
In the four rooms for visitors there were beds. Grushenka settled herself
just at the door. Mitya set an easy chair for her. She had sat in the same
place to watch the dancing and singing "the time before," when they had
made merry there. All the girls who had come had been there then; the
Jewish band with fiddles and zithers had come, too, and at last the long
expected cart had arrived with the wines and provisions.

Mitya bustled about. All sorts of people began coming into the room to
look on, peasants and their women, who had been roused from sleep and
attracted by the hopes of another marvelous entertainment such as they had
enjoyed a month before. Mitya remembered their faces, greeting and
embracing every one he knew. He uncorked bottles and poured out wine for
every one who presented himself. Only the girls were very eager for the
champagne. The men preferred rum, brandy, and, above all, hot punch. Mitya
had chocolate made for all the girls, and ordered that three samovars
should be kept boiling all night to provide tea and punch for everyone to
help himself.

An absurd chaotic confusion followed, but Mitya was in his natural
element, and the more foolish it became, the more his spirits rose. If the
peasants had asked him for money at that moment, he would have pulled out
his notes and given them away right and left. This was probably why the
landlord, Trifon Borissovitch, kept hovering about Mitya to protect him.
He seemed to have given up all idea of going to bed that night; but he
drank little, only one glass of punch, and kept a sharp look-out on
Mitya's interests after his own fashion. He intervened in the nick of
time, civilly and obsequiously persuading Mitya not to give away "cigars
and Rhine wine," and, above all, money to the peasants as he had done
before. He was very indignant, too, at the peasant girls drinking liqueur,
and eating sweets.

"They're a lousy lot, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," he said. "I'd give them a
kick, every one of them, and they'd take it as an honor--that's all they're
worth!"

Mitya remembered Andrey again, and ordered punch to be sent out to him. "I
was rude to him just now," he repeated with a sinking, softened voice.
Kalganov did not want to drink, and at first did not care for the girls'
singing; but after he had drunk a couple of glasses of champagne he became
extraordinarily lively, strolling about the room, laughing and praising
the music and the songs, admiring every one and everything. Maximov,
blissfully drunk, never left his side. Grushenka, too, was beginning to
get drunk. Pointing to Kalganov, she said to Mitya:

"What a dear, charming boy he is!"

And Mitya, delighted, ran to kiss Kalganov and Maximov. Oh, great were his
hopes! She had said nothing yet, and seemed, indeed, purposely to refrain
from speaking. But she looked at him from time to time with caressing and
passionate eyes. At last she suddenly gripped his hand and drew him
vigorously to her. She was sitting at the moment in the low chair by the
door.

"How was it you came just now, eh? Have you walked in!... I was
frightened. So you wanted to give me up to him, did you? Did you really
want to?"

"I didn't want to spoil your happiness!" Mitya faltered blissfully. But
she did not need his answer.

"Well, go and enjoy yourself ..." she sent him away once more. "Don't cry,
I'll call you back again."

He would run away, and she listened to the singing and looked at the
dancing, though her eyes followed him wherever he went. But in another
quarter of an hour she would call him once more and again he would run
back to her.

"Come, sit beside me, tell me, how did you hear about me, and my coming
here yesterday? From whom did you first hear it?"

And Mitya began telling her all about it, disconnectedly, incoherently,
feverishly. He spoke strangely, often frowning, and stopping abruptly.

"What are you frowning at?" she asked.

"Nothing.... I left a man ill there. I'd give ten years of my life for him
to get well, to know he was all right!"

"Well, never mind him, if he's ill. So you meant to shoot yourself to-
morrow! What a silly boy! What for? I like such reckless fellows as you,"
she lisped, with a rather halting tongue. "So you would go any length for
me, eh? Did you really mean to shoot yourself to-morrow, you stupid? No,
wait a little. To-morrow I may have something to say to you.... I won't
say it to-day, but to-morrow. You'd like it to be to-day? No, I don't want
to to-day. Come, go along now, go and amuse yourself."

Once, however, she called him, as it were, puzzled and uneasy.

"Why are you sad? I see you're sad.... Yes, I see it," she added, looking
intently into his eyes. "Though you keep kissing the peasants and
shouting, I see something. No, be merry. I'm merry; you be merry, too....
I love somebody here. Guess who it is. Ah, look, my boy has fallen asleep,
poor dear, he's drunk."

She meant Kalganov. He was, in fact, drunk, and had dropped asleep for a
moment, sitting on the sofa. But he was not merely drowsy from drink; he
felt suddenly dejected, or, as he said, "bored." He was intensely
depressed by the girls' songs, which, as the drinking went on, gradually
became coarse and more reckless. And the dances were as bad. Two girls
dressed up as bears, and a lively girl, called Stepanida, with a stick in
her hand, acted the part of keeper, and began to "show them."

"Look alive, Marya, or you'll get the stick!"

The bears rolled on the ground at last in the most unseemly fashion, amid
roars of laughter from the closely-packed crowd of men and women.

"Well, let them! Let them!" said Grushenka sententiously, with an ecstatic
expression on her face. "When they do get a day to enjoy themselves, why
shouldn't folks be happy?"

Kalganov looked as though he had been besmirched with dirt.

"It's swinish, all this peasant foolery," he murmured, moving away; "it's
the game they play when it's light all night in summer."

He particularly disliked one "new" song to a jaunty dance-tune. It
described how a gentleman came and tried his luck with the girls, to see
whether they would love him:


    The master came to try the girls:
    Would they love him, would they not?


But the girls could not love the master:


    He would beat me cruelly
    And such love won't do for me.


Then a gypsy comes along and he, too, tries:


    The gypsy came to try the girls:
    Would they love him, would they not?


But they couldn't love the gypsy either:


    He would be a thief, I fear,
    And would cause me many a tear.


And many more men come to try their luck, among them a soldier:


    The soldier came to try the girls:
    Would they love him, would they not?


But the soldier is rejected with contempt, in two indecent lines, sung
with absolute frankness and producing a furore in the audience. The song
ends with a merchant:


    The merchant came to try the girls:
    Would they love him, would they not?


And it appears that he wins their love because:


    The merchant will make gold for me
    And his queen I'll gladly be.


Kalvanov was positively indignant.

"That's just a song of yesterday," he said aloud. "Who writes such things
for them? They might just as well have had a railwayman or a Jew come to
try his luck with the girls; they'd have carried all before them."

And, almost as though it were a personal affront, he declared, on the
spot, that he was bored, sat down on the sofa and immediately fell asleep.
His pretty little face looked rather pale, as it fell back on the sofa
cushion.

"Look how pretty he is," said Grushenka, taking Mitya up to him. "I was
combing his hair just now; his hair's like flax, and so thick...."

And, bending over him tenderly, she kissed his forehead. Kalganov
instantly opened his eyes, looked at her, stood up, and with the most
anxious air inquired where was Maximov?

"So that's who it is you want." Grushenka laughed. "Stay with me a minute.
Mitya, run and find his Maximov."

Maximov, it appeared, could not tear himself away from the girls, only
running away from time to time to pour himself out a glass of liqueur. He
had drunk two cups of chocolate. His face was red, and his nose was
crimson; his eyes were moist and mawkishly sweet. He ran up and announced
that he was going to dance the "sabotiere."

"They taught me all those well-bred, aristocratic dances when I was
little...."

"Go, go with him, Mitya, and I'll watch from here how he dances," said
Grushenka.

"No, no, I'm coming to look on, too," exclaimed Kalganov, brushing aside
in the most naive way Grushenka's offer to sit with him. They all went to
look on. Maximov danced his dance. But it roused no great admiration in
any one but Mitya. It consisted of nothing but skipping and hopping,
kicking up the feet, and at every skip Maximov slapped the upturned sole
of his foot. Kalganov did not like it at all, but Mitya kissed the dancer.

"Thanks. You're tired perhaps? What are you looking for here? Would you
like some sweets? A cigar, perhaps?"

"A cigarette."

"Don't you want a drink?"

"I'll just have a liqueur.... Have you any chocolates?"

"Yes, there's a heap of them on the table there. Choose one, my dear
soul!"

"I like one with vanilla ... for old people. He he!"

"No, brother, we've none of that special sort."

"I say," the old man bent down to whisper in Mitya's ear. "That girl
there, little Marya, he he! How would it be if you were to help me make
friends with her?"

"So that's what you're after! No, brother, that won't do!"

"I'd do no harm to any one," Maximov muttered disconsolately.

"Oh, all right, all right. They only come here to dance and sing, you
know, brother. But damn it all, wait a bit!... Eat and drink and be merry,
meanwhile. Don't you want money?"

"Later on, perhaps," smiled Maximov.

"All right, all right...."

Mitya's head was burning. He went outside to the wooden balcony which ran
round the whole building on the inner side, overlooking the courtyard. The
fresh air revived him. He stood alone in a dark corner, and suddenly
clutched his head in both hands. His scattered thoughts came together; his
sensations blended into a whole and threw a sudden light into his mind. A
fearful and terrible light! "If I'm to shoot myself, why not now?" passed
through his mind. "Why not go for the pistols, bring them here, and here,
in this dark dirty corner, make an end?" Almost a minute he stood,
undecided. A few hours earlier, when he had been dashing here, he was
pursued by disgrace, by the theft he had committed, and that blood, that
blood!... But yet it was easier for him then. Then everything was over: he
had lost her, given her up. She was gone, for him--oh, then his death
sentence had been easier for him; at least it had seemed necessary,
inevitable, for what had he to stay on earth for?

But now? Was it the same as then? Now one phantom, one terror at least was
at an end: that first, rightful lover, that fateful figure had vanished,
leaving no trace. The terrible phantom had turned into something so small,
so comic; it had been carried into the bedroom and locked in. It would
never return. She was ashamed, and from her eyes he could see now whom she
loved. Now he had everything to make life happy ... but he could not go on
living, he could not; oh, damnation! "O God! restore to life the man I
knocked down at the fence! Let this fearful cup pass from me! Lord, thou
hast wrought miracles for such sinners as me! But what, what if the old
man's alive? Oh, then the shame of the other disgrace I would wipe away. I
would restore the stolen money. I'd give it back; I'd get it somehow....
No trace of that shame will remain except in my heart for ever! But no,
no; oh, impossible cowardly dreams! Oh, damnation!"

Yet there was a ray of light and hope in his darkness. He jumped up and
ran back to the room--to her, to her, his queen for ever! Was not one
moment of her love worth all the rest of life, even in the agonies of
disgrace? This wild question clutched at his heart. "To her, to her alone,
to see her, to hear her, to think of nothing, to forget everything, if
only for that night, for an hour, for a moment!" Just as he turned from
the balcony into the passage, he came upon the landlord, Trifon
Borissovitch. He thought he looked gloomy and worried, and fancied he had
come to find him.

"What is it, Trifon Borissovitch? are you looking for me?"

"No, sir." The landlord seemed disconcerted. "Why should I be looking for
you? Where have you been?"

"Why do you look so glum? You're not angry, are you? Wait a bit, you shall
soon get to bed.... What's the time?"

"It'll be three o'clock. Past three, it must be."

"We'll leave off soon. We'll leave off."

"Don't mention it; it doesn't matter. Keep it up as long as you like...."

"What's the matter with him?" Mitya wondered for an instant, and he ran
back to the room where the girls were dancing. But she was not there. She
was not in the blue room either; there was no one but Kalganov asleep on
the sofa. Mitya peeped behind the curtain--she was there. She was sitting
in the corner, on a trunk. Bent forward, with her head and arms on the bed
close by, she was crying bitterly, doing her utmost to stifle her sobs
that she might not be heard. Seeing Mitya, she beckoned him to her, and
when he ran to her, she grasped his hand tightly.

"Mitya, Mitya, I loved him, you know. How I have loved him these five
years, all that time! Did I love him or only my own anger? No, him, him!
It's a lie that it was my anger I loved and not him. Mitya, I was only
seventeen then; he was so kind to me, so merry; he used to sing to me....
Or so it seemed to a silly girl like me.... And now, O Lord, it's not the
same man. Even his face is not the same; he's different altogether. I
shouldn't have known him. I drove here with Timofey, and all the way I was
thinking how I should meet him, what I should say to him, how we should
look at one another. My soul was faint, and all of a sudden it was just as
though he had emptied a pail of dirty water over me. He talked to me like
a schoolmaster, all so grave and learned; he met me so solemnly that I was
struck dumb. I couldn't get a word in. At first I thought he was ashamed
to talk before his great big Pole. I sat staring at him and wondering why
I couldn't say a word to him now. It must have been his wife that ruined
him; you know he threw me up to get married. She must have changed him
like that. Mitya, how shameful it is! Oh, Mitya, I'm ashamed, I'm ashamed
for all my life. Curse it, curse it, curse those five years!"

And again she burst into tears, but clung tight to Mitya's hand and did
not let it go.

"Mitya, darling, stay, don't go away. I want to say one word to you," she
whispered, and suddenly raised her face to him. "Listen, tell me who it is
I love? I love one man here. Who is that man? That's what you must tell
me."

A smile lighted up her face that was swollen with weeping, and her eyes
shone in the half darkness.

"A falcon flew in, and my heart sank. 'Fool! that's the man you love!'
That was what my heart whispered to me at once. You came in and all grew
bright. What's he afraid of? I wondered. For you were frightened; you
couldn't speak. It's not them he's afraid of--could you be frightened of
any one? It's me he's afraid of, I thought, only me. So Fenya told you,
you little stupid, how I called to Alyosha out of the window that I'd
loved Mityenka for one hour, and that I was going now to love ... another.
Mitya, Mitya, how could I be such a fool as to think I could love any one
after you? Do you forgive me, Mitya? Do you forgive me or not? Do you love
me? Do you love me?" She jumped up and held him with both hands on his
shoulders. Mitya, dumb with rapture, gazed into her eyes, at her face, at
her smile, and suddenly clasped her tightly in his arms and kissed her
passionately.

"You will forgive me for having tormented you? It was through spite I
tormented you all. It was for spite I drove the old man out of his
mind.... Do you remember how you drank at my house one day and broke the
wine-glass? I remembered that and I broke a glass to-day and drank 'to my
vile heart.' Mitya, my falcon, why don't you kiss me? He kissed me once,
and now he draws back and looks and listens. Why listen to me? Kiss me,
kiss me hard, that's right. If you love, well, then, love! I'll be your
slave now, your slave for the rest of my life. It's sweet to be a slave.
Kiss me! Beat me, ill-treat me, do what you will with me.... And I do
deserve to suffer. Stay, wait, afterwards, I won't have that...." she
suddenly thrust him away. "Go along, Mitya, I'll come and have some wine,
I want to be drunk, I'm going to get drunk and dance; I must, I must!" She
tore herself away from him and disappeared behind the curtain. Mitya
followed like a drunken man.

"Yes, come what may--whatever may happen now, for one minute I'd give the
whole world," he thought. Grushenka did, in fact, toss off a whole glass
of champagne at one gulp, and became at once very tipsy. She sat down in
the same chair as before, with a blissful smile on her face. Her cheeks
were glowing, her lips were burning, her flashing eyes were moist; there
was passionate appeal in her eyes. Even Kalganov felt a stir at the heart
and went up to her.

"Did you feel how I kissed you when you were asleep just now?" she said
thickly. "I'm drunk now, that's what it is.... And aren't you drunk? And
why isn't Mitya drinking? Why don't you drink, Mitya? I'm drunk, and you
don't drink...."

"I am drunk! I'm drunk as it is ... drunk with you ... and now I'll be
drunk with wine, too."

He drank off another glass, and--he thought it strange himself--that glass
made him completely drunk. He was suddenly drunk, although till that
moment he had been quite sober, he remembered that. From that moment
everything whirled about him, as though he were delirious. He walked,
laughed, talked to everybody, without knowing what he was doing. Only one
persistent burning sensation made itself felt continually, "like a red-hot
coal in his heart," he said afterwards. He went up to her, sat beside her,
gazed at her, listened to her.... She became very talkative, kept calling
every one to her, and beckoned to different girls out of the chorus. When
the girl came up, she either kissed her, or made the sign of the cross
over her. In another minute she might have cried. She was greatly amused
by the "little old man," as she called Maximov. He ran up every minute to
kiss her hands, "each little finger," and finally he danced another dance
to an old song, which he sang himself. He danced with special vigor to the
refrain:


    The little pig says--umph! umph! umph!
    The little calf says--moo, moo, moo,
    The little duck says--quack, quack, quack,
    The little goose says--ga, ga, ga.
    The hen goes strutting through the porch;
    Troo-roo-roo-roo-roo, she'll say,
    Troo-roo-roo-roo-roo, she'll say!


"Give him something, Mitya," said Grushenka. "Give him a present, he's
poor, you know. Ah, the poor, the insulted!... Do you know, Mitya, I shall
go into a nunnery. No, I really shall one day, Alyosha said something to
me to-day that I shall remember all my life.... Yes.... But to-day let us
dance. To-morrow to the nunnery, but to-day we'll dance. I want to play
to-day, good people, and what of it? God will forgive us. If I were God,
I'd forgive every one: 'My dear sinners, from this day forth I forgive
you.' I'm going to beg forgiveness: 'Forgive me, good people, a silly
wench.' I'm a beast, that's what I am. But I want to pray. I gave a little
onion. Wicked as I've been, I want to pray. Mitya, let them dance, don't
stop them. Every one in the world is good. Every one--even the worst of
them. The world's a nice place. Though we're bad the world's all right.
We're good and bad, good and bad.... Come, tell me, I've something to ask
you: come here every one, and I'll ask you: Why am I so good? You know I
am good. I'm very good.... Come, why am I so good?"

So Grushenka babbled on, getting more and more drunk. At last she
announced that she was going to dance, too. She got up from her chair,
staggering. "Mitya, don't give me any more wine--if I ask you, don't give
it to me. Wine doesn't give peace. Everything's going round, the stove,
and everything. I want to dance. Let every one see how I dance ... let
them see how beautifully I dance...."

She really meant it. She pulled a white cambric handkerchief out of her
pocket, and took it by one corner in her right hand, to wave it in the
dance. Mitya ran to and fro, the girls were quiet, and got ready to break
into a dancing song at the first signal. Maximov, hearing that Grushenka
wanted to dance, squealed with delight, and ran skipping about in front of
her, humming:


    With legs so slim and sides so trim
    And its little tail curled tight.


But Grushenka waved her handkerchief at him and drove him away.

"Sh-h! Mitya, why don't they come? Let every one come ... to look on. Call
them in, too, that were locked in.... Why did you lock them in? Tell them
I'm going to dance. Let them look on, too...."

Mitya walked with a drunken swagger to the locked door, and began knocking
to the Poles with his fist.

"Hi, you ... Podvysotskys! Come, she's going to dance. She calls you."

"_Lajdak!_" one of the Poles shouted in reply.

"You're a _lajdak_ yourself! You're a little scoundrel, that's what you
are."

"Leave off laughing at Poland," said Kalganov sententiously. He too was
drunk.

"Be quiet, boy! If I call him a scoundrel, it doesn't mean that I called
all Poland so. One _lajdak_ doesn't make a Poland. Be quiet, my pretty
boy, eat a sweetmeat."

"Ach, what fellows! As though they were not men. Why won't they make
friends?" said Grushenka, and went forward to dance. The chorus broke into
"Ah, my porch, my new porch!" Grushenka flung back her head, half opened
her lips, smiled, waved her handkerchief, and suddenly, with a violent
lurch, stood still in the middle of the room, looking bewildered.

"I'm weak...." she said in an exhausted voice. "Forgive me.... I'm weak, I
can't.... I'm sorry."

She bowed to the chorus, and then began bowing in all directions.

"I'm sorry.... Forgive me...."

"The lady's been drinking. The pretty lady has been drinking," voices were
heard saying.

"The lady's drunk too much," Maximov explained to the girls, giggling.

"Mitya, lead me away ... take me," said Grushenka helplessly. Mitya
pounced on her, snatched her up in his arms, and carried the precious
burden through the curtains.

"Well, now I'll go," thought Kalganov, and walking out of the blue room,
he closed the two halves of the door after him. But the orgy in the larger
room went on and grew louder and louder. Mitya laid Grushenka on the bed
and kissed her on the lips.

"Don't touch me...." she faltered, in an imploring voice. "Don't touch me,
till I'm yours.... I've told you I'm yours, but don't touch me ... spare
me.... With them here, with them close, you mustn't. He's here. It's nasty
here...."

"I'll obey you! I won't think of it ... I worship you!" muttered Mitya.
"Yes, it's nasty here, it's abominable."

And still holding her in his arms, he sank on his knees by the bedside.

"I know, though you're a brute, you're generous," Grushenka articulated
with difficulty. "It must be honorable ... it shall be honorable for the
future ... and let us be honest, let us be good, not brutes, but good ...
take me away, take me far away, do you hear? I don't want it to be here,
but far, far away...."

"Oh, yes, yes, it must be!" said Mitya, pressing her in his arms. "I'll
take you and we'll fly away.... Oh, I'd give my whole life for one year
only to know about that blood!"

"What blood?" asked Grushenka, bewildered.

"Nothing," muttered Mitya, through his teeth. "Grusha, you wanted to be
honest, but I'm a thief. But I've stolen money from Katya.... Disgrace, a
disgrace!"

"From Katya, from that young lady? No, you didn't steal it. Give it her
back, take it from me.... Why make a fuss? Now everything of mine is
yours. What does money matter? We shall waste it anyway.... Folks like us
are bound to waste money. But we'd better go and work the land. I want to
dig the earth with my own hands. We must work, do you hear? Alyosha said
so. I won't be your mistress, I'll be faithful to you, I'll be your slave,
I'll work for you. We'll go to the young lady and bow down to her
together, so that she may forgive us, and then we'll go away. And if she
won't forgive us, we'll go, anyway. Take her her money and love me....
Don't love her.... Don't love her any more. If you love her, I shall
strangle her.... I'll put out both her eyes with a needle...."

"I love you. I love only you. I'll love you in Siberia...."

"Why Siberia? Never mind, Siberia, if you like. I don't care ... we'll
work ... there's snow in Siberia.... I love driving in the snow ... and
must have bells.... Do you hear, there's a bell ringing? Where is that
bell ringing? There are people coming.... Now it's stopped."

She closed her eyes, exhausted, and suddenly fell asleep for an instant.
There had certainly been the sound of a bell in the distance, but the
ringing had ceased. Mitya let his head sink on her breast. He did not
notice that the bell had ceased ringing, nor did he notice that the songs
had ceased, and that instead of singing and drunken clamor there was
absolute stillness in the house. Grushenka opened her eyes.

"What's the matter? Was I asleep? Yes ... a bell ... I've been asleep and
dreamt I was driving over the snow with bells, and I dozed. I was with
some one I loved, with you. And far, far away. I was holding you and
kissing you, nestling close to you. I was cold, and the snow glistened....
You know how the snow glistens at night when the moon shines. It was as
though I was not on earth. I woke up, and my dear one is close to me. How
sweet that is!..."

"Close to you," murmured Mitya, kissing her dress, her bosom, her hands.
And suddenly he had a strange fancy: it seemed to him that she was looking
straight before her, not at him, not into his face, but over his head,
with an intent, almost uncanny fixity. An expression of wonder, almost of
alarm, came suddenly into her face.

"Mitya, who is that looking at us?" she whispered.

Mitya turned, and saw that some one had, in fact, parted the curtains and
seemed to be watching them. And not one person alone, it seemed.

He jumped up and walked quickly to the intruder.

"Here, come to us, come here," said a voice, speaking not loudly, but
firmly and peremptorily.

Mitya passed to the other side of the curtain and stood stock still. The
room was filled with people, but not those who had been there before. An
instantaneous shiver ran down his back, and he shuddered. He recognized
all those people instantly. That tall, stout old man in the overcoat and
forage-cap with a cockade--was the police captain, Mihail Makarovitch. And
that "consumptive-looking" trim dandy, "who always has such polished
boots"--that was the deputy prosecutor. "He has a chronometer worth four
hundred roubles; he showed it to me." And that small young man in
spectacles.... Mitya forgot his surname though he knew him, had seen him:
he was the "investigating lawyer," from the "school of jurisprudence," who
had only lately come to the town. And this man--the inspector of police,
Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, a man he knew well. And those fellows with the
brass plates on, why are they here? And those other two ... peasants....
And there at the door Kalganov with Trifon Borissovitch....

"Gentlemen! What's this for, gentlemen?" began Mitya, but suddenly, as
though beside himself, not knowing what he was doing, he cried aloud, at
the top of his voice:

"I un--der--stand!"

The young man in spectacles moved forward suddenly, and stepping up to
Mitya, began with dignity, though hurriedly:

"We have to make ... in brief, I beg you to come this way, this way to the
sofa.... It is absolutely imperative that you should give an explanation."

"The old man!" cried Mitya frantically. "The old man and his blood!... I
understand."

And he sank, almost fell, on a chair close by, as though he had been mown
down by a scythe.

"You understand? He understands it! Monster and parricide! Your father's
blood cries out against you!" the old captain of police roared suddenly,
stepping up to Mitya.

He was beside himself, crimson in the face and quivering all over.

"This is impossible!" cried the small young man. "Mihail Makarovitch,
Mihail Makarovitch, this won't do!... I beg you'll allow me to speak. I
should never have expected such behavior from you...."

"This is delirium, gentlemen, raving delirium," cried the captain of
police; "look at him: drunk, at this time of night, in the company of a
disreputable woman, with the blood of his father on his hands.... It's
delirium!..."

"I beg you most earnestly, dear Mihail Makarovitch, to restrain your
feelings," the prosecutor said in a rapid whisper to the old police
captain, "or I shall be forced to resort to--"

But the little lawyer did not allow him to finish. He turned to Mitya, and
delivered himself in a loud, firm, dignified voice:

"Ex-Lieutenant Karamazov, it is my duty to inform you that you are charged
with the murder of your father, Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, perpetrated
this night...."

He said something more, and the prosecutor, too, put in something, but
though Mitya heard them he did not understand them. He stared at them all
with wild eyes.







book 8, Chapter 8
Delirium  As Grushenka watches her Polish lover cheat at the games, and listens to the coarse and degrading things that he says, she realizes she does not love him. Instead, she loves Dmitri. When the officer insults her, Dmitri attacks him and locks him in another room. Dmitri and Grushenka begin to plan their future together. Through his joy at winning Grushenka, Dmitri is troubled by the thought of the wound he dealt Grigory and the fortune he owes Katerina. Just then, a group of officers bursts into the room. They seize Dmitri and place him under arrest. Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov has been murdered, and Dmitri is the prime suspect.
Book VIII: Mitya, Chapters 1-8  Dostoevsky uses a variety of literary techniques to suggest that Dmitri is responsible for his father's murder. Before Dmitri appears with a large amount of money, the narrator continually makes statements implying that Dmitri will steal Fyodor Pavlovich's 3,000 rubles: "Only three or four hours before a certain incident, of which I will speak below, Mitya did not have a kopeck, and pawned his dearest possession for ten roubles, whereas three hours later he suddenly had thousands in his hands. but I anticipate. Dmitri's inner monologue is similarly misleading, as when Dmitri thinks about going to Madame Khokhlakov's and realizes "fully and now with mathematical clarity that this was his last hope, that if this should fall through, there was nothing left in the world but 'to kill and rob someone for the three thousand, and that's all. Dostoevsky also uses a technique called ellipsis, skipping over a moment of action in order to play on our expectations: he implies Dmitri's guilt by leaving out the crucial stretch of action in Chapter 5, in between Dmitri's discovery of Grushenka's whereabouts and his arrival at Perkhotin's office. This strategy leads us to suspect that Dmitri has killed his father in that time. Finally, the events we do see suggest Dmitri's guilt. Dmitri is desperate, impassioned, and antagonistic toward Grigory. The combination of these factors makes Dmitri seem eminently capable of committing murder. The narrative throughout this book lays the groundwork for a surprise plot twist: the revelation in Book XI that Smerdyakov, and not Dmitri, is the murderer. Dostoevsky goes to such lengths to imply that an innocent man is guilty of such a crime for several reasons. First, making Dmitri guilty and then innocent in our mind is a way of enacting the spiritual rebirth that Dmitri experiences after his arrest. Second, making us learn that our judgment about Dmitri is wrong is a way of emphasizing Zosima's advice never to judge anyone because all people are responsible for one another's sins. Third, making Dmitri appear guilty is a way of emphasizing the extraordinary scope of his passion. Dmitri may not have committed murder, but he is clearly capable of such a crime, and possesses a tormented and sinful soul. The redemption of such a passionate person is all the more dramatic. Fourth, making Dmitri appear guilty is a way of making us feel the way most of the other characters do when they learn about the arrest. The whole town believes him to be guilty. Making Dmitri appear guilty is also a way for Dostoevsky to put human nature itself on trial. Throughout the novel we have seen various conceptions of human nature, ranging from Alyosha's faith that people are essentially good, like Zosima, to Ivan's belief that people are essentially bad, like Fyodor Pavlovich. But Dmitri combines the qualities of Fyodor Pavlovich and Zosima: he is a lustful and sinful man who nevertheless powerfully loves God. He commits bad deeds and longs to redeem them. He believes that he is bound for hell but pledges to love God even from the depths of hell. After spending a large amount of his fiancee's money on a lavish vacation with another woman, he is now greedily desperate for even more money, but only so that he can salvage his honor with Katerina, and thus make up for his sin. By putting Dmitri on trial through circumstantial evidence, Dostoevsky essentially poses the question of whether Dmitri's sinfulness or his goodness is the more fundamental aspect of his nature. This query in turn should make us question which of the two aspects is more fundamentally a characteristic of humanity. Dostoevsky wants us to consider whether humanity, burdened as it is with free will, is capable of overcoming its sinful nature and choosing to live within its good nature. When Dmitri is proved to be innocent shortly after he undergoes his powerful spiritual conversion, the question is answered in favor of human goodness--though not without a thorough understanding of the reality of evil in human life. Although a great deal of the novel's thematic development relies on the events in these chapters, the chapters are so devoted to narrative action that there is comparatively little thematic development within Book VIII itself. Apart from the insight it offers into Dmitri's tormented inner conflict, the most interesting psychological aspect of this section is its look at Grushenka's growth since her encounter with Alyosha. Before, Grushenka is too proud and suspicious to acknowledge her love for Dmitri, but through Alyosha she discovers real goodness. As a result, she is at last capable of admitting to herself that the Polish officer is just a vulgar man who betrayed her in her youth, and that Dmitri is the man she really loves. Alyosha does not appear at all in the action of this book, but his presence is strongly felt in Grushenka's positive acquiescence to her love for Dmitri--a lovely moment of goodness that is interrupted sharply by evil, with the arrival of the police and the announcement of the murder of Fyodor Pavlovich