finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_10_part_6.txt
The Brothers Karamazov.book 8.chapter 6
book 8, chapter 6
{"name": "book 8, Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section11/", "summary": "Here I Come. Dmitri leaves Perkhotin and travels to the place where Grushenka and her lover, a Polish officer, are staying. Dmitri is in a frenzy, and raves to the coachman who drives him that he knows he will go to hell, but that, from the depths of hell, he will continue to love and praise God", "analysis": ""}
Chapter VI. "I Am Coming, Too!"


But Dmitri Fyodorovitch was speeding along the road. It was a little more
than twenty versts to Mokroe, but Andrey's three horses galloped at such a
pace that the distance might be covered in an hour and a quarter. The
swift motion revived Mitya. The air was fresh and cool, there were big
stars shining in the sky. It was the very night, and perhaps the very
hour, in which Alyosha fell on the earth, and rapturously swore to love it
for ever and ever.

All was confusion, confusion, in Mitya's soul, but although many things
were goading his heart, at that moment his whole being was yearning for
her, his queen, to whom he was flying to look on her for the last time.
One thing I can say for certain; his heart did not waver for one instant.
I shall perhaps not be believed when I say that this jealous lover felt
not the slightest jealousy of this new rival, who seemed to have sprung
out of the earth. If any other had appeared on the scene, he would have
been jealous at once, and would perhaps have stained his fierce hands with
blood again. But as he flew through the night, he felt no envy, no
hostility even, for the man who had been her first lover.... It is true he
had not yet seen him.

"Here there was no room for dispute: it was her right and his; this was
her first love which, after five years, she had not forgotten; so she had
loved him only for those five years, and I, how do I come in? What right
have I? Step aside, Mitya, and make way! What am I now? Now everything is
over apart from the officer--even if he had not appeared, everything would
be over ..."

These words would roughly have expressed his feelings, if he had been
capable of reasoning. But he could not reason at that moment. His present
plan of action had arisen without reasoning. At Fenya's first words, it
had sprung from feeling, and been adopted in a flash, with all its
consequences. And yet, in spite of his resolution, there was confusion in
his soul, an agonizing confusion: his resolution did not give him peace.
There was so much behind that tortured him. And it seemed strange to him,
at moments, to think that he had written his own sentence of death with
pen and paper: "I punish myself," and the paper was lying there in his
pocket, ready; the pistol was loaded; he had already resolved how, next
morning, he would meet the first warm ray of "golden-haired Phoebus."

And yet he could not be quit of the past, of all that he had left behind
and that tortured him. He felt that miserably, and the thought of it sank
into his heart with despair. There was one moment when he felt an impulse
to stop Andrey, to jump out of the cart, to pull out his loaded pistol,
and to make an end of everything without waiting for the dawn. But that
moment flew by like a spark. The horses galloped on, "devouring space,"
and as he drew near his goal, again the thought of her, of her alone, took
more and more complete possession of his soul, chasing away the fearful
images that had been haunting it. Oh, how he longed to look upon her, if
only for a moment, if only from a distance!

"She's now with _him_," he thought, "now I shall see what she looks like
with him, her first love, and that's all I want." Never had this woman,
who was such a fateful influence in his life, aroused such love in his
breast, such new and unknown feeling, surprising even to himself, a
feeling tender to devoutness, to self-effacement before her! "I will
efface myself!" he said, in a rush of almost hysterical ecstasy.

They had been galloping nearly an hour. Mitya was silent, and though
Andrey was, as a rule, a talkative peasant, he did not utter a word,
either. He seemed afraid to talk, he only whipped up smartly his three
lean, but mettlesome, bay horses. Suddenly Mitya cried out in horrible
anxiety:

"Andrey! What if they're asleep?"

This thought fell upon him like a blow. It had not occurred to him before.

"It may well be that they're gone to bed, by now, Dmitri Fyodorovitch."

Mitya frowned as though in pain. Yes, indeed ... he was rushing there ...
with such feelings ... while they were asleep ... she was asleep, perhaps,
there too.... An angry feeling surged up in his heart.

"Drive on, Andrey! Whip them up! Look alive!" he cried, beside himself.

"But maybe they're not in bed!" Andrey went on after a pause. "Timofey
said they were a lot of them there--"

"At the station?"

"Not at the posting-station, but at Plastunov's, at the inn, where they
let out horses, too."

"I know. So you say there are a lot of them? How's that? Who are they?"
cried Mitya, greatly dismayed at this unexpected news.

"Well, Timofey was saying they're all gentlefolk. Two from our town--who
they are I can't say--and there are two others, strangers, maybe more
besides. I didn't ask particularly. They've set to playing cards, so
Timofey said."

"Cards?"

"So, maybe they're not in bed if they're at cards. It's most likely not
more than eleven."

"Quicker, Andrey! Quicker!" Mitya cried again, nervously.

"May I ask you something, sir?" said Andrey, after a pause. "Only I'm
afraid of angering you, sir."

"What is it?"

"Why, Fenya threw herself at your feet just now, and begged you not to
harm her mistress, and some one else, too ... so you see, sir-- It's I am
taking you there ... forgive me, sir, it's my conscience ... maybe it's
stupid of me to speak of it--"

Mitya suddenly seized him by the shoulders from behind.

"Are you a driver?" he asked frantically.

"Yes, sir."

"Then you know that one has to make way. What would you say to a driver
who wouldn't make way for any one, but would just drive on and crush
people? No, a driver mustn't run over people. One can't run over a man.
One can't spoil people's lives. And if you have spoilt a life--punish
yourself.... If only you've spoilt, if only you've ruined any one's
life--punish yourself and go away."

These phrases burst from Mitya almost hysterically. Though Andrey was
surprised at him, he kept up the conversation.

"That's right, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, you're quite right, one mustn't crush
or torment a man, or any kind of creature, for every creature is created
by God. Take a horse, for instance, for some folks, even among us drivers,
drive anyhow. Nothing will restrain them, they just force it along."

"To hell?" Mitya interrupted, and went off into his abrupt, short laugh.
"Andrey, simple soul," he seized him by the shoulders again, "tell me,
will Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov go to hell, or not, what do you think?"

"I don't know, darling, it depends on you, for you are ... you see, sir,
when the Son of God was nailed on the Cross and died, He went straight
down to hell from the Cross, and set free all sinners that were in agony.
And the devil groaned, because he thought that he would get no more
sinners in hell. And God said to him, then, 'Don't groan, for you shall
have all the mighty of the earth, the rulers, the chief judges, and the
rich men, and shall be filled up as you have been in all the ages till I
come again.' Those were His very words ..."

"A peasant legend! Capital! Whip up the left, Andrey!"

"So you see, sir, who it is hell's for," said Andrey, whipping up the left
horse, "but you're like a little child ... that's how we look on you ...
and though you're hasty-tempered, sir, yet God will forgive you for your
kind heart."

"And you, do you forgive me, Andrey?"

"What should I forgive you for, sir? You've never done me any harm."

"No, for every one, for every one, you here alone, on the road, will you
forgive me for every one? Speak, simple peasant heart!"

"Oh, sir! I feel afraid of driving you, your talk is so strange."

But Mitya did not hear. He was frantically praying and muttering to
himself.

"Lord, receive me, with all my lawlessness, and do not condemn me. Let me
pass by Thy judgment ... do not condemn me, for I have condemned myself,
do not condemn me, for I love Thee, O Lord. I am a wretch, but I love
Thee. If Thou sendest me to hell, I shall love Thee there, and from there
I shall cry out that I love Thee for ever and ever.... But let me love to
the end.... Here and now for just five hours ... till the first light of
Thy day ... for I love the queen of my soul ... I love her and I cannot
help loving her. Thou seest my whole heart.... I shall gallop up, I shall
fall before her and say, 'You are right to pass on and leave me. Farewell
and forget your victim ... never fret yourself about me!' "

"Mokroe!" cried Andrey, pointing ahead with his whip.

Through the pale darkness of the night loomed a solid black mass of
buildings, flung down, as it were, in the vast plain. The village of
Mokroe numbered two thousand inhabitants, but at that hour all were
asleep, and only here and there a few lights still twinkled.

"Drive on, Andrey, I come!" Mitya exclaimed, feverishly.

"They're not asleep," said Andrey again, pointing with his whip to the
Plastunovs' inn, which was at the entrance to the village. The six
windows, looking on the street, were all brightly lighted up.

"They're not asleep," Mitya repeated joyously. "Quicker, Andrey! Gallop!
Drive up with a dash! Set the bells ringing! Let all know that I have
come. I'm coming! I'm coming, too!"

Andrey lashed his exhausted team into a gallop, drove with a dash and
pulled up his steaming, panting horses at the high flight of steps.

Mitya jumped out of the cart just as the innkeeper, on his way to bed,
peeped out from the steps curious to see who had arrived.

"Trifon Borissovitch, is that you?"

The innkeeper bent down, looked intently, ran down the steps, and rushed
up to the guest with obsequious delight.

"Dmitri Fyodorovitch, your honor! Do I see you again?"

Trifon Borissovitch was a thick-set, healthy peasant, of middle height,
with a rather fat face. His expression was severe and uncompromising,
especially with the peasants of Mokroe, but he had the power of assuming
the most obsequious countenance, when he had an inkling that it was to his
interest. He dressed in Russian style, with a shirt buttoning down on one
side, and a full-skirted coat. He had saved a good sum of money, but was
for ever dreaming of improving his position. More than half the peasants
were in his clutches, every one in the neighborhood was in debt to him.
From the neighboring landowners he bought and rented lands which were
worked by the peasants, in payment of debts which they could never shake
off. He was a widower, with four grown-up daughters. One of them was
already a widow and lived in the inn with her two children, his
grandchildren, and worked for him like a charwoman. Another of his
daughters was married to a petty official, and in one of the rooms of the
inn, on the wall could be seen, among the family photographs, a miniature
photograph of this official in uniform and official epaulettes. The two
younger daughters used to wear fashionable blue or green dresses, fitting
tight at the back, and with trains a yard long, on Church holidays or when
they went to pay visits. But next morning they would get up at dawn, as
usual, sweep out the rooms with a birch-broom, empty the slops, and clean
up after lodgers.

In spite of the thousands of roubles he had saved, Trifon Borissovitch was
very fond of emptying the pockets of a drunken guest, and remembering that
not a month ago he had, in twenty-four hours, made two if not three
hundred roubles out of Dmitri, when he had come on his escapade with
Grushenka, he met him now with eager welcome, scenting his prey the moment
Mitya drove up to the steps.

"Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear sir, we see you once more!"

"Stay, Trifon Borissovitch," began Mitya, "first and foremost, where is
she?"

"Agrafena Alexandrovna?" The inn-keeper understood at once, looking
sharply into Mitya's face. "She's here, too ..."

"With whom? With whom?"

"Some strangers. One is an official gentleman, a Pole, to judge from his
speech. He sent the horses for her from here; and there's another with
him, a friend of his, or a fellow traveler, there's no telling. They're
dressed like civilians."

"Well, are they feasting? Have they money?"

"Poor sort of a feast! Nothing to boast of, Dmitri Fyodorovitch."

"Nothing to boast of? And who are the others?"

"They're two gentlemen from the town.... They've come back from Tcherny,
and are putting up here. One's quite a young gentleman, a relative of Mr.
Miuesov, he must be, but I've forgotten his name ... and I expect you know
the other, too, a gentleman called Maximov. He's been on a pilgrimage, so
he says, to the monastery in the town. He's traveling with this young
relation of Mr. Miuesov."

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Stay, listen, Trifon Borissovitch. Tell me the chief thing: What of her?
How is she?"

"Oh, she's only just come. She's sitting with them."

"Is she cheerful? Is she laughing?"

"No, I think she's not laughing much. She's sitting quite dull. She's
combing the young gentleman's hair."

"The Pole--the officer?"

"He's not young, and he's not an officer, either. Not him, sir. It's the
young gentleman that's Mr. Miuesov's relation ... I've forgotten his name."

"Kalganov."

"That's it, Kalganov!"

"All right. I'll see for myself. Are they playing cards?"

"They have been playing, but they've left off. They've been drinking tea,
the official gentleman asked for liqueurs."

"Stay, Trifon Borissovitch, stay, my good soul, I'll see for myself. Now
answer one more question: are the gypsies here?"

"You can't have the gypsies now, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. The authorities have
sent them away. But we've Jews that play the cymbals and the fiddle in the
village, so one might send for them. They'd come."

"Send for them. Certainly send for them!" cried Mitya. "And you can get
the girls together as you did then, Marya especially, Stepanida, too, and
Arina. Two hundred roubles for a chorus!"

"Oh, for a sum like that I can get all the village together, though by now
they're asleep. Are the peasants here worth such kindness, Dmitri
Fyodorovitch, or the girls either? To spend a sum like that on such
coarseness and rudeness! What's the good of giving a peasant a cigar to
smoke, the stinking ruffian! And the girls are all lousy. Besides, I'll
get my daughters up for nothing, let alone a sum like that. They've only
just gone to bed, I'll give them a kick and set them singing for you. You
gave the peasants champagne to drink the other day, e--ech!"

For all his pretended compassion for Mitya, Trifon Borissovitch had hidden
half a dozen bottles of champagne on that last occasion, and had picked up
a hundred-rouble note under the table, and it had remained in his
clutches.

"Trifon Borissovitch, I sent more than one thousand flying last time I was
here. Do you remember?"

"You did send it flying. I may well remember. You must have left three
thousand behind you."

"Well, I've come to do the same again, do you see?"

And he pulled out his roll of notes, and held them up before the
innkeeper's nose.

"Now, listen and remember. In an hour's time the wine will arrive,
savories, pies, and sweets--bring them all up at once. That box Andrey has
got is to be brought up at once, too. Open it, and hand champagne
immediately. And the girls, we must have the girls, Marya especially."

He turned to the cart and pulled out the box of pistols.

"Here, Andrey, let's settle. Here's fifteen roubles for the drive, and
fifty for vodka ... for your readiness, for your love.... Remember
Karamazov!"

"I'm afraid, sir," faltered Andrey. "Give me five roubles extra, but more
I won't take. Trifon Borissovitch, bear witness. Forgive my foolish words
..."

"What are you afraid of?" asked Mitya, scanning him. "Well, go to the
devil, if that's it!" he cried, flinging him five roubles. "Now, Trifon
Borissovitch, take me up quietly and let me first get a look at them, so
that they don't see me. Where are they? In the blue room?"

Trifon Borissovitch looked apprehensively at Mitya, but at once obediently
did his bidding. Leading him into the passage, he went himself into the
first large room, adjoining that in which the visitors were sitting, and
took the light away. Then he stealthily led Mitya in, and put him in a
corner in the dark, whence he could freely watch the company without being
seen. But Mitya did not look long, and, indeed, he could not see them, he
saw her, his heart throbbed violently, and all was dark before his eyes.

She was sitting sideways to the table in a low chair, and beside her, on
the sofa, was the pretty youth, Kalganov. She was holding his hand and
seemed to be laughing, while he, seeming vexed and not looking at her, was
saying something in a loud voice to Maximov, who sat the other side of the
table, facing Grushenka. Maximov was laughing violently at something. On
the sofa sat _he_, and on a chair by the sofa there was another stranger.
The one on the sofa was lolling backwards, smoking a pipe, and Mitya had
an impression of a stoutish, broad-faced, short little man, who was
apparently angry about something. His friend, the other stranger, struck
Mitya as extraordinarily tall, but he could make out nothing more. He
caught his breath. He could not bear it for a minute, he put the pistol-
case on a chest, and with a throbbing heart he walked, feeling cold all
over, straight into the blue room to face the company.

"Aie!" shrieked Grushenka, the first to notice him.





book 8, Chapter 6
Here I Come. Dmitri leaves Perkhotin and travels to the place where Grushenka and her lover, a Polish officer, are staying. Dmitri is in a frenzy, and raves to the coachman who drives him that he knows he will go to hell, but that, from the depths of hell, he will continue to love and praise God