finished_summaries/sparknotes/The Brothers Karamazov/section_10_part_4.txt
The Brothers Karamazov.book 8.chapter 4
book 8, chapter 4
{"name": "book 8, Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210305110438/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/brothersk/section11/", "summary": "In the Dark Enraged, Dmitri takes a brass pestle--a small club-shaped tool used for grinding powder--to use as a weapon and hurries to Fyodor Pavlovich's house, certain that Grushenka has gone to be with his father. But when he spies through the window, he sees that Fyodor Pavlovich is alone, and when he taps out Grushenka's secret signal, Fyodor Pavlovich rushes to the window. Dmitri concludes that Grushenka is not with his father. Grigory happens by at this moment and sees Dmitri sneaking around in the garden. He accosts him, and the men scuffle. Dmitri hits Grigory with the pestle, and Grigory falls to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Dmitri, in a panic, tries to tend the wound, staining his clothes in the process. But then he throws the pestle into the darkness and flees the scene", "analysis": ""}
Chapter IV. In The Dark


Where was he running? "Where could she be except at Fyodor Pavlovitch's?
She must have run straight to him from Samsonov's, that was clear now. The
whole intrigue, the whole deceit was evident." ... It all rushed whirling
through his mind. He did not run to Marya Kondratyevna's. "There was no
need to go there ... not the slightest need ... he must raise no alarm ...
they would run and tell directly.... Marya Kondratyevna was clearly in the
plot, Smerdyakov too, he too, all had been bought over!"

He formed another plan of action: he ran a long way round Fyodor
Pavlovitch's house, crossing the lane, running down Dmitrovsky Street,
then over the little bridge, and so came straight to the deserted alley at
the back, which was empty and uninhabited, with, on one side the hurdle
fence of a neighbor's kitchen-garden, on the other the strong high fence,
that ran all round Fyodor Pavlovitch's garden. Here he chose a spot,
apparently the very place, where according to the tradition, he knew
Lizaveta had once climbed over it: "If she could climb over it," the
thought, God knows why, occurred to him, "surely I can." He did in fact
jump up, and instantly contrived to catch hold of the top of the fence.
Then he vigorously pulled himself up and sat astride on it. Close by, in
the garden stood the bath-house, but from the fence he could see the
lighted windows of the house too.

"Yes, the old man's bedroom is lighted up. She's there!" and he leapt from
the fence into the garden. Though he knew Grigory was ill and very likely
Smerdyakov, too, and that there was no one to hear him, he instinctively
hid himself, stood still, and began to listen. But there was dead silence
on all sides and, as though of design, complete stillness, not the
slightest breath of wind.

"And naught but the whispering silence," the line for some reason rose to
his mind. "If only no one heard me jump over the fence! I think not."
Standing still for a minute, he walked softly over the grass in the
garden, avoiding the trees and shrubs. He walked slowly, creeping
stealthily at every step, listening to his own footsteps. It took him five
minutes to reach the lighted window. He remembered that just under the
window there were several thick and high bushes of elder and whitebeam.
The door from the house into the garden on the left-hand side, was shut;
he had carefully looked on purpose to see, in passing. At last he reached
the bushes and hid behind them. He held his breath. "I must wait now," he
thought, "to reassure them, in case they heard my footsteps and are
listening ... if only I don't cough or sneeze."

He waited two minutes. His heart was beating violently, and, at moments,
he could scarcely breathe. "No, this throbbing at my heart won't stop," he
thought. "I can't wait any longer." He was standing behind a bush in the
shadow. The light of the window fell on the front part of the bush.

"How red the whitebeam berries are!" he murmured, not knowing why. Softly
and noiselessly, step by step, he approached the window, and raised
himself on tiptoe. All Fyodor Pavlovitch's bedroom lay open before him. It
was not a large room, and was divided in two parts by a red screen,
"Chinese," as Fyodor Pavlovitch used to call it. The word "Chinese"
flashed into Mitya's mind, "and behind the screen, is Grushenka," thought
Mitya. He began watching Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was wearing his new
striped-silk dressing-gown, which Mitya had never seen, and a silk cord
with tassels round the waist. A clean, dandified shirt of fine linen with
gold studs peeped out under the collar of the dressing-gown. On his head
Fyodor Pavlovitch had the same red bandage which Alyosha had seen.

"He has got himself up," thought Mitya.

His father was standing near the window, apparently lost in thought.
Suddenly he jerked up his head, listened a moment, and hearing nothing
went up to the table, poured out half a glass of brandy from a decanter
and drank it off. Then he uttered a deep sigh, again stood still a moment,
walked carelessly up to the looking-glass on the wall, with his right hand
raised the red bandage on his forehead a little, and began examining his
bruises and scars, which had not yet disappeared.

"He's alone," thought Mitya, "in all probability he's alone."

Fyodor Pavlovitch moved away from the looking-glass, turned suddenly to
the window and looked out. Mitya instantly slipped away into the shadow.

"She may be there behind the screen. Perhaps she's asleep by now," he
thought, with a pang at his heart. Fyodor Pavlovitch moved away from the
window. "He's looking for her out of the window, so she's not there. Why
should he stare out into the dark? He's wild with impatience." ... Mitya
slipped back at once, and fell to gazing in at the window again. The old
man was sitting down at the table, apparently disappointed. At last he put
his elbow on the table, and laid his right cheek against his hand. Mitya
watched him eagerly.

"He's alone, he's alone!" he repeated again. "If she were here, his face
would be different."

Strange to say, a queer, irrational vexation rose up in his heart that she
was not here. "It's not that she's not here," he explained to himself,
immediately, "but that I can't tell for certain whether she is or not."
Mitya remembered afterwards that his mind was at that moment exceptionally
clear, that he took in everything to the slightest detail, and missed no
point. But a feeling of misery, the misery of uncertainty and indecision,
was growing in his heart with every instant. "Is she here or not?" The
angry doubt filled his heart, and suddenly, making up his mind, he put out
his hand and softly knocked on the window frame. He knocked the signal the
old man had agreed upon with Smerdyakov, twice slowly and then three times
more quickly, the signal that meant "Grushenka is here!"

The old man started, jerked up his head, and, jumping up quickly, ran to
the window. Mitya slipped away into the shadow. Fyodor Pavlovitch opened
the window and thrust his whole head out.

"Grushenka, is it you? Is it you?" he said, in a sort of trembling half-
whisper. "Where are you, my angel, where are you?" He was fearfully
agitated and breathless.

"He's alone." Mitya decided.

"Where are you?" cried the old man again; and he thrust his head out
farther, thrust it out to the shoulders, gazing in all directions, right
and left. "Come here, I've a little present for you. Come, I'll show
you...."

"He means the three thousand," thought Mitya.

"But where are you? Are you at the door? I'll open it directly."

And the old man almost climbed out of the window, peering out to the
right, where there was a door into the garden, trying to see into the
darkness. In another second he would certainly have run out to open the
door without waiting for Grushenka's answer.

Mitya looked at him from the side without stirring. The old man's profile
that he loathed so, his pendent Adam's apple, his hooked nose, his lips
that smiled in greedy expectation, were all brightly lighted up by the
slanting lamplight falling on the left from the room. A horrible fury of
hatred suddenly surged up in Mitya's heart: "There he was, his rival, the
man who had tormented him, had ruined his life!" It was a rush of that
sudden, furious, revengeful anger of which he had spoken, as though
foreseeing it, to Alyosha, four days ago in the arbor, when, in answer to
Alyosha's question, "How can you say you'll kill our father?" "I don't
know, I don't know," he had said then. "Perhaps I shall not kill him,
perhaps I shall. I'm afraid he'll suddenly be so loathsome to me at that
moment. I hate his double chin, his nose, his eyes, his shameless grin. I
feel a personal repulsion. That's what I'm afraid of, that's what may be
too much for me." ... This personal repulsion was growing unendurable.
Mitya was beside himself, he suddenly pulled the brass pestle out of his
pocket.

                  -------------------------------------

"God was watching over me then," Mitya himself said afterwards. At that
very moment Grigory waked up on his bed of sickness. Earlier in the
evening he had undergone the treatment which Smerdyakov had described to
Ivan. He had rubbed himself all over with vodka mixed with a secret, very
strong decoction, had drunk what was left of the mixture while his wife
repeated a "certain prayer" over him, after which he had gone to bed.
Marfa Ignatyevna had tasted the stuff, too, and, being unused to strong
drink, slept like the dead beside her husband.

But Grigory waked up in the night, quite suddenly, and, after a moment's
reflection, though he immediately felt a sharp pain in his back, he sat up
in bed. Then he deliberated again, got up and dressed hurriedly. Perhaps
his conscience was uneasy at the thought of sleeping while the house was
unguarded "in such perilous times." Smerdyakov, exhausted by his fit, lay
motionless in the next room. Marfa Ignatyevna did not stir. "The stuff's
been too much for the woman," Grigory thought, glancing at her, and
groaning, he went out on the steps. No doubt he only intended to look out
from the steps, for he was hardly able to walk, the pain in his back and
his right leg was intolerable. But he suddenly remembered that he had not
locked the little gate into the garden that evening. He was the most
punctual and precise of men, a man who adhered to an unchangeable routine,
and habits that lasted for years. Limping and writhing with pain he went
down the steps and towards the garden. Yes, the gate stood wide open.
Mechanically he stepped into the garden. Perhaps he fancied something,
perhaps caught some sound, and, glancing to the left he saw his master's
window open. No one was looking out of it then.

"What's it open for? It's not summer now," thought Grigory, and suddenly,
at that very instant he caught a glimpse of something extraordinary before
him in the garden. Forty paces in front of him a man seemed to be running
in the dark, a sort of shadow was moving very fast.

"Good Lord!" cried Grigory beside himself, and forgetting the pain in his
back, he hurried to intercept the running figure. He took a short cut,
evidently he knew the garden better; the flying figure went towards the
bath-house, ran behind it and rushed to the garden fence. Grigory
followed, not losing sight of him, and ran, forgetting everything. He
reached the fence at the very moment the man was climbing over it. Grigory
cried out, beside himself, pounced on him, and clutched his leg in his two
hands.

Yes, his foreboding had not deceived him. He recognized him, it was he,
the "monster," the "parricide."

"Parricide!" the old man shouted so that the whole neighborhood could
hear, but he had not time to shout more, he fell at once, as though struck
by lightning.

Mitya jumped back into the garden and bent over the fallen man. In Mitya's
hands was a brass pestle, and he flung it mechanically in the grass. The
pestle fell two paces from Grigory, not in the grass but on the path, in a
most conspicuous place. For some seconds he examined the prostrate figure
before him. The old man's head was covered with blood. Mitya put out his
hand and began feeling it. He remembered afterwards clearly, that he had
been awfully anxious to make sure whether he had broken the old man's
skull, or simply stunned him with the pestle. But the blood was flowing
horribly; and in a moment Mitya's fingers were drenched with the hot
stream. He remembered taking out of his pocket the clean white
handkerchief with which he had provided himself for his visit to Madame
Hohlakov, and putting it to the old man's head, senselessly trying to wipe
the blood from his face and temples. But the handkerchief was instantly
soaked with blood.

"Good heavens! what am I doing it for?" thought Mitya, suddenly pulling
himself together. "If I have broken his skull, how can I find out now? And
what difference does it make now?" he added, hopelessly. "If I've killed
him, I've killed him.... You've come to grief, old man, so there you must
lie!" he said aloud. And suddenly turning to the fence, he vaulted over it
into the lane and fell to running--the handkerchief soaked with blood he
held, crushed up in his right fist, and as he ran he thrust it into the
back pocket of his coat. He ran headlong, and the few passers-by who met
him in the dark, in the streets, remembered afterwards that they had met a
man running that night. He flew back again to the widow Morozov's house.

Immediately after he had left it that evening, Fenya had rushed to the
chief porter, Nazar Ivanovitch, and besought him, for Christ's sake, "not
to let the captain in again to-day or to-morrow." Nazar Ivanovitch
promised, but went upstairs to his mistress who had suddenly sent for him,
and meeting his nephew, a boy of twenty, who had recently come from the
country, on the way up told him to take his place, but forgot to mention
"the captain." Mitya, running up to the gate, knocked. The lad instantly
recognized him, for Mitya had more than once tipped him. Opening the gate
at once, he let him in, and hastened to inform him with a good-humored
smile that "Agrafena Alexandrovna is not at home now, you know."

"Where is she then, Prohor?" asked Mitya, stopping short.

"She set off this evening, some two hours ago, with Timofey, to Mokroe."

"What for?" cried Mitya.

"That I can't say. To see some officer. Some one invited her and horses
were sent to fetch her."

Mitya left him, and ran like a madman to Fenya.





book 8, Chapter 4
In the Dark Enraged, Dmitri takes a brass pestle--a small club-shaped tool used for grinding powder--to use as a weapon and hurries to Fyodor Pavlovich's house, certain that Grushenka has gone to be with his father. But when he spies through the window, he sees that Fyodor Pavlovich is alone, and when he taps out Grushenka's secret signal, Fyodor Pavlovich rushes to the window. Dmitri concludes that Grushenka is not with his father. Grigory happens by at this moment and sees Dmitri sneaking around in the garden. He accosts him, and the men scuffle. Dmitri hits Grigory with the pestle, and Grigory falls to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Dmitri, in a panic, tries to tend the wound, staining his clothes in the process. But then he throws the pestle into the darkness and flees the scene