Chapter VI. Precocity

"What do you think the doctor will say to him?" Kolya asked quickly. "What
a repulsive mug, though, hasn't he? I can't endure medicine!"

"Ilusha is dying. I think that's certain," answered Alyosha, mournfully.

"They are rogues! Medicine's a fraud! I am glad to have made your
acquaintance, though, Karamazov. I wanted to know you for a long time. I
am only sorry we meet in such sad circumstances."

Kolya had a great inclination to say something even warmer and more
demonstrative, but he felt ill at ease. Alyosha noticed this, smiled, and
pressed his hand.

"I've long learned to respect you as a rare person," Kolya muttered again,
faltering and uncertain. "I have heard you are a mystic and have been in
the monastery. I know you are a mystic, but ... that hasn't put me off.
Contact with real life will cure you.... It's always so with characters
like yours."

"What do you mean by mystic? Cure me of what?" Alyosha was rather
astonished.

"Oh, God and all the rest of it."

"What, don't you believe in God?"

"Oh, I've nothing against God. Of course, God is only a hypothesis, but
... I admit that He is needed ... for the order of the universe and all
that ... and that if there were no God He would have to be invented,"
added Kolya, beginning to blush. He suddenly fancied that Alyosha might
think he was trying to show off his knowledge and to prove that he was
"grown up." "I haven't the slightest desire to show off my knowledge to
him," Kolya thought indignantly. And all of a sudden he felt horribly
annoyed.

"I must confess I can't endure entering on such discussions," he said with
a final air. "It's possible for one who doesn't believe in God to love
mankind, don't you think so? Voltaire didn't believe in God and loved
mankind?" ("I am at it again," he thought to himself.)

"Voltaire believed in God, though not very much, I think, and I don't
think he loved mankind very much either," said Alyosha quietly, gently,
and quite naturally, as though he were talking to some one of his own age,
or even older. Kolya was particularly struck by Alyosha's apparent
diffidence about his opinion of Voltaire. He seemed to be leaving the
question for him, little Kolya, to settle.

"Have you read Voltaire?" Alyosha finished.

"No, not to say read.... But I've read _Candide_ in the Russian
translation ... in an absurd, grotesque, old translation ... (At it again!
again!)"

"And did you understand it?"

"Oh, yes, everything.... That is ... Why do you suppose I shouldn't
understand it? There's a lot of nastiness in it, of course.... Of course I
can understand that it's a philosophical novel and written to advocate an
idea...." Kolya was getting mixed by now. "I am a Socialist, Karamazov, I
am an incurable Socialist," he announced suddenly, apropos of nothing.

"A Socialist?" laughed Alyosha. "But when have you had time to become one?
Why, I thought you were only thirteen?"

Kolya winced.

"In the first place I am not thirteen, but fourteen, fourteen in a
fortnight," he flushed angrily, "and in the second place I am at a
complete loss to understand what my age has to do with it? The question is
what are my convictions, not what is my age, isn't it?"

"When you are older, you'll understand for yourself the influence of age
on convictions. I fancied, too, that you were not expressing your own
ideas," Alyosha answered serenely and modestly, but Kolya interrupted him
hotly:

"Come, you want obedience and mysticism. You must admit that the Christian
religion, for instance, has only been of use to the rich and the powerful
to keep the lower classes in slavery. That's so, isn't it?"

"Ah, I know where you read that, and I am sure some one told you so!"
cried Alyosha.

"I say, what makes you think I read it? And certainly no one told me so. I
can think for myself.... I am not opposed to Christ, if you like. He was a
most humane person, and if He were alive to-day, He would be found in the
ranks of the revolutionists, and would perhaps play a conspicuous part....
There's no doubt about that."

"Oh, where, where did you get that from? What fool have you made friends
with?" exclaimed Alyosha.

"Come, the truth will out! It has so chanced that I have often talked to
Mr. Rakitin, of course, but ... old Byelinsky said that, too, so they
say."

"Byelinsky? I don't remember. He hasn't written that anywhere."

"If he didn't write it, they say he said it. I heard that from a ... but
never mind."

"And have you read Byelinsky?"

"Well, no ... I haven't read all of him, but ... I read the passage about
Tatyana, why she didn't go off with Onyegin."

"Didn't go off with Onyegin? Surely you don't ... understand that
already?"

"Why, you seem to take me for little Smurov," said Kolya, with a grin of
irritation. "But please don't suppose I am such a revolutionist. I often
disagree with Mr. Rakitin. Though I mention Tatyana, I am not at all for
the emancipation of women. I acknowledge that women are a subject race and
must obey. _Les femmes tricottent_, as Napoleon said." Kolya, for some
reason, smiled, "And on that question at least I am quite of one mind with
that pseudo-great man. I think, too, that to leave one's own country and
fly to America is mean, worse than mean--silly. Why go to America when one
may be of great service to humanity here? Now especially. There's a
perfect mass of fruitful activity open to us. That's what I answered."

"What do you mean? Answered whom? Has some one suggested your going to
America already?"

"I must own, they've been at me to go, but I declined. That's between
ourselves, of course, Karamazov; do you hear, not a word to any one. I say
this only to you. I am not at all anxious to fall into the clutches of the
secret police and take lessons at the Chain bridge.

    _Long will you remember_
    _The house at the Chain bridge._

Do you remember? It's splendid. Why are you laughing? You don't suppose I
am fibbing, do you?" ("What if he should find out that I've only that one
number of _The Bell_ in father's bookcase, and haven't read any more of
it?" Kolya thought with a shudder.)

"Oh, no, I am not laughing and don't suppose for a moment that you are
lying. No, indeed, I can't suppose so, for all this, alas! is perfectly
true. But tell me, have you read Pushkin--_Onyegin_, for instance?... You
spoke just now of Tatyana."

"No, I haven't read it yet, but I want to read it. I have no prejudices,
Karamazov; I want to hear both sides. What makes you ask?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Tell me, Karamazov, have you an awful contempt for me?" Kolya rapped out
suddenly and drew himself up before Alyosha, as though he were on drill.
"Be so kind as to tell me, without beating about the bush."

"I have a contempt for you?" Alyosha looked at him wondering. "What for? I
am only sad that a charming nature such as yours should be perverted by
all this crude nonsense before you have begun life."

"Don't be anxious about my nature," Kolya interrupted, not without
complacency. "But it's true that I am stupidly sensitive, crudely
sensitive. You smiled just now, and I fancied you seemed to--"

"Oh, my smile meant something quite different. I'll tell you why I smiled.
Not long ago I read the criticism made by a German who had lived in
Russia, on our students and schoolboys of to-day. 'Show a Russian
schoolboy,' he writes, 'a map of the stars, which he knows nothing about,
and he will give you back the map next day with corrections on it.' No
knowledge and unbounded conceit--that's what the German meant to say about
the Russian schoolboy."

"Yes, that's perfectly right," Kolya laughed suddenly, "exactly so! Bravo
the German! But he did not see the good side, what do you think? Conceit
may be, that comes from youth, that will be corrected if need be, but, on
the other hand, there is an independent spirit almost from childhood,
boldness of thought and conviction, and not the spirit of these sausage
makers, groveling before authority.... But the German was right all the
same. Bravo the German! But Germans want strangling all the same. Though
they are so good at science and learning they must be strangled."

"Strangled, what for?" smiled Alyosha.

"Well, perhaps I am talking nonsense, I agree. I am awfully childish
sometimes, and when I am pleased about anything I can't restrain myself
and am ready to talk any stuff. But, I say, we are chattering away here
about nothing, and that doctor has been a long time in there. But perhaps
he's examining the mamma and that poor crippled Nina. I liked that Nina,
you know. She whispered to me suddenly as I was coming away, 'Why didn't
you come before?' And in such a voice, so reproachfully! I think she is
awfully nice and pathetic."

"Yes, yes! Well, you'll be coming often, you will see what she is like. It
would do you a great deal of good to know people like that, to learn to
value a great deal which you will find out from knowing these people,"
Alyosha observed warmly. "That would have more effect on you than
anything."

"Oh, how I regret and blame myself for not having come sooner!" Kolya
exclaimed, with bitter feeling.

"Yes, it's a great pity. You saw for yourself how delighted the poor child
was to see you. And how he fretted for you to come!"

"Don't tell me! You make it worse! But it serves me right. What kept me
from coming was my conceit, my egoistic vanity, and the beastly
wilfullness, which I never can get rid of, though I've been struggling
with it all my life. I see that now. I am a beast in lots of ways,
Karamazov!"

"No, you have a charming nature, though it's been distorted, and I quite
understand why you have had such an influence on this generous, morbidly
sensitive boy," Alyosha answered warmly.

"And you say that to me!" cried Kolya; "and would you believe it, I
thought--I've thought several times since I've been here--that you despised
me! If only you knew how I prize your opinion!"

"But are you really so sensitive? At your age! Would you believe it, just
now, when you were telling your story, I thought, as I watched you, that
you must be very sensitive!"

"You thought so? What an eye you've got, I say! I bet that was when I was
talking about the goose. That was just when I was fancying you had a great
contempt for me for being in such a hurry to show off, and for a moment I
quite hated you for it, and began talking like a fool. Then I fancied--just
now, here--when I said that if there were no God He would have to be
invented, that I was in too great a hurry to display my knowledge,
especially as I got that phrase out of a book. But I swear I wasn't
showing off out of vanity, though I really don't know why. Because I was
so pleased? Yes, I believe it was because I was so pleased ... though it's
perfectly disgraceful for any one to be gushing directly they are pleased,
I know that. But I am convinced now that you don't despise me; it was all
my imagination. Oh, Karamazov, I am profoundly unhappy. I sometimes fancy
all sorts of things, that every one is laughing at me, the whole world,
and then I feel ready to overturn the whole order of things."

"And you worry every one about you," smiled Alyosha.

"Yes, I worry every one about me, especially my mother. Karamazov, tell
me, am I very ridiculous now?"

"Don't think about that, don't think of it at all!" cried Alyosha. "And
what does ridiculous mean? Isn't every one constantly being or seeming
ridiculous? Besides, nearly all clever people now are fearfully afraid of
being ridiculous, and that makes them unhappy. All I am surprised at is
that you should be feeling that so early, though I've observed it for some
time past, and not only in you. Nowadays the very children have begun to
suffer from it. It's almost a sort of insanity. The devil has taken the
form of that vanity and entered into the whole generation; it's simply the
devil," added Alyosha, without a trace of the smile that Kolya, staring at
him, expected to see. "You are like every one else," said Alyosha, in
conclusion, "that is, like very many others. Only you must not be like
everybody else, that's all."

"Even if every one is like that?"

"Yes, even if every one is like that. You be the only one not like it. You
really are not like every one else, here you are not ashamed to confess to
something bad and even ridiculous. And who will admit so much in these
days? No one. And people have even ceased to feel the impulse to self-
criticism. Don't be like every one else, even if you are the only one."

"Splendid! I was not mistaken in you. You know how to console one. Oh, how
I have longed to know you, Karamazov! I've long been eager for this
meeting. Can you really have thought about me, too? You said just now that
you thought of me, too?"

"Yes, I'd heard of you and had thought of you, too ... and if it's partly
vanity that makes you ask, it doesn't matter."

"Do you know, Karamazov, our talk has been like a declaration of love,"
said Kolya, in a bashful and melting voice. "That's not ridiculous, is
it?"

"Not at all ridiculous, and if it were, it wouldn't matter, because it's
been a good thing." Alyosha smiled brightly.

"But do you know, Karamazov, you must admit that you are a little ashamed
yourself, now.... I see it by your eyes." Kolya smiled with a sort of sly
happiness.

"Why ashamed?"

"Well, why are you blushing?"

"It was you made me blush," laughed Alyosha, and he really did blush. "Oh,
well, I am a little, goodness knows why, I don't know..." he muttered,
almost embarrassed.

"Oh, how I love you and admire you at this moment just because you are
rather ashamed! Because you are just like me," cried Kolya, in positive
ecstasy. His cheeks glowed, his eyes beamed.

"You know, Kolya, you will be very unhappy in your life," something made
Alyosha say suddenly.

"I know, I know. How you know it all beforehand!" Kolya agreed at once.

"But you will bless life on the whole, all the same."

"Just so, hurrah! You are a prophet. Oh, we shall get on together,
Karamazov! Do you know, what delights me most, is that you treat me quite
like an equal. But we are not equals, no, we are not, you are better! But
we shall get on. Do you know, all this last month, I've been saying to
myself, 'Either we shall be friends at once, for ever, or we shall part
enemies to the grave!' "

"And saying that, of course, you loved me," Alyosha laughed gayly.

"I did. I loved you awfully. I've been loving and dreaming of you. And how
do you know it all beforehand? Ah, here's the doctor. Goodness! What will
he tell us? Look at his face!"

Outside, Kolya and Alyosha get to know each other. At first Kolya tries to impress Alyosha with his knowledge - disparaging religion and championing socialism, among other things. Frustrated, he asks Alyosha if he despises him, a question that surprises Alyosha. Alyosha quickly reassures Kolya. Kolya is won over by his frankness and lack of condescension. He opens up to Alyosha and confesses that he knows he suffers from vanity. Alyosha tells Kolya that he shouldn't be so worried about appearing ridiculous, and they both declare their friendship. Their conversation is cut short when the famous doctor emerges from the room.

Precocity Outside the house, Alyosha and Kolya talk, and Kolya tells Alyosha his views on life, which he is certain are both profound and final despite the fact that he is only thirteen years old. Alyosha sees at once that Kolya's "philosophy" is merely a batch of phrases and modern ideas he has heard from Rakitin. But he listens respectfully, and when he disagrees with what Kolya says, he says so, and says why. Even though Alyosha says Kolya's sweet nature has been perverted by Rakitin, Kolya is still so drawn to Alyosha that he feels they have become close friends. Alyosha agrees and inwardly hopes that Rakitin's influence will not have a permanent effect on this young self-proclaimed socialist


Chapter VII. Ilusha

The doctor came out of the room again, muffled in his fur coat and with
his cap on his head. His face looked almost angry and disgusted, as though
he were afraid of getting dirty. He cast a cursory glance round the
passage, looking sternly at Alyosha and Kolya as he did so. Alyosha waved
from the door to the coachman, and the carriage that had brought the
doctor drove up. The captain darted out after the doctor, and, bowing
apologetically, stopped him to get the last word. The poor fellow looked
utterly crushed; there was a scared look in his eyes.

"Your Excellency, your Excellency ... is it possible?" he began, but could
not go on and clasped his hands in despair. Yet he still gazed imploringly
at the doctor, as though a word from him might still change the poor boy's
fate.

"I can't help it, I am not God!" the doctor answered offhand, though with
the customary impressiveness.

"Doctor ... your Excellency ... and will it be soon, soon?"

"You must be prepared for anything," said the doctor in emphatic and
incisive tones, and dropping his eyes, he was about to step out to the
coach.

"Your Excellency, for Christ's sake!" the terror-stricken captain stopped
him again. "Your Excellency! but can nothing, absolutely nothing save him
now?"

"It's not in my hands now," said the doctor impatiently, "but h'm!..." he
stopped suddenly. "If you could, for instance ... send ... your patient
... at once, without delay" (the words "at once, without delay," the
doctor uttered with an almost wrathful sternness that made the captain
start) "to Syracuse, the change to the new be-ne-ficial climatic
conditions might possibly effect--"

"To Syracuse!" cried the captain, unable to grasp what was said.

"Syracuse is in Sicily," Kolya jerked out suddenly in explanation. The
doctor looked at him.

"Sicily! your Excellency," faltered the captain, "but you've seen"--he
spread out his hands, indicating his surroundings--"mamma and my family?"

"N--no, Sicily is not the place for the family, the family should go to
Caucasus in the early spring ... your daughter must go to the Caucasus,
and your wife ... after a course of the waters in the Caucasus for her
rheumatism ... must be sent straight to Paris to the mental specialist
Lepelletier; I could give you a note to him, and then ... there might be a
change--"

"Doctor, doctor! But you see!" The captain flung wide his hands again
despairingly, indicating the bare wooden walls of the passage.

"Well, that's not my business," grinned the doctor. "I have only told you
the answer of medical science to your question as to possible treatment.
As for the rest, to my regret--"

"Don't be afraid, apothecary, my dog won't bite you," Kolya rapped out
loudly, noticing the doctor's rather uneasy glance at Perezvon, who was
standing in the doorway. There was a wrathful note in Kolya's voice. He
used the word apothecary instead of doctor on purpose, and, as he
explained afterwards, used it "to insult him."

"What's that?" The doctor flung up his head, staring with surprise at
Kolya. "Who's this?" he addressed Alyosha, as though asking him to
explain.

"It's Perezvon's master, don't worry about me," Kolya said incisively
again.

"Perezvon?"(7) repeated the doctor, perplexed.

"He hears the bell, but where it is he cannot tell. Good-by, we shall meet
in Syracuse."

"Who's this? Who's this?" The doctor flew into a terrible rage.

"He is a schoolboy, doctor, he is a mischievous boy; take no notice of
him," said Alyosha, frowning and speaking quickly. "Kolya, hold your
tongue!" he cried to Krassotkin. "Take no notice of him, doctor," he
repeated, rather impatiently.

"He wants a thrashing, a good thrashing!" The doctor stamped in a perfect
fury.

"And you know, apothecary, my Perezvon might bite!" said Kolya, turning
pale, with quivering voice and flashing eyes. "_Ici_, Perezvon!"

"Kolya, if you say another word, I'll have nothing more to do with you,"
Alyosha cried peremptorily.

"There is only one man in the world who can command Nikolay
Krassotkin--this is the man"; Kolya pointed to Alyosha. "I obey him, good-
by!"

He stepped forward, opened the door, and quickly went into the inner room.
Perezvon flew after him. The doctor stood still for five seconds in
amazement, looking at Alyosha; then, with a curse, he went out quickly to
the carriage, repeating aloud, "This is ... this is ... I don't know what
it is!" The captain darted forward to help him into the carriage. Alyosha
followed Kolya into the room. He was already by Ilusha's bedside. The sick
boy was holding his hand and calling for his father. A minute later the
captain, too, came back.

"Father, father, come ... we ..." Ilusha faltered in violent excitement,
but apparently unable to go on, he flung his wasted arms round his father
and Kolya, uniting them in one embrace, and hugging them as tightly as he
could. The captain suddenly began to shake with dumb sobs, and Kolya's
lips and chin twitched.

"Father, father! How sorry I am for you!" Ilusha moaned bitterly.

"Ilusha ... darling ... the doctor said ... you would be all right ... we
shall be happy ... the doctor ..." the captain began.

"Ah, father! I know what the new doctor said to you about me.... I saw!"
cried Ilusha, and again he hugged them both with all his strength, hiding
his face on his father's shoulder.

"Father, don't cry, and when I die get a good boy, another one ... choose
one of them all, a good one, call him Ilusha and love him instead of
me...."

"Hush, old man, you'll get well," Krassotkin cried suddenly, in a voice
that sounded angry.

"But don't ever forget me, father," Ilusha went on, "come to my grave ...
and, father, bury me by our big stone, where we used to go for our walk,
and come to me there with Krassotkin in the evening ... and Perezvon ... I
shall expect you.... Father, father!"

His voice broke. They were all three silent, still embracing. Nina was
crying quietly in her chair, and at last seeing them all crying, "mamma,"
too, burst into tears.

"Ilusha! Ilusha!" she exclaimed.

Krassotkin suddenly released himself from Ilusha's embrace.

"Good-by, old man, mother expects me back to dinner," he said quickly.
"What a pity I did not tell her! She will be dreadfully anxious.... But
after dinner I'll come back to you for the whole day, for the whole
evening, and I'll tell you all sorts of things, all sorts of things. And
I'll bring Perezvon, but now I will take him with me, because he will
begin to howl when I am away and bother you. Good-by!"

And he ran out into the passage. He didn't want to cry, but in the passage
he burst into tears. Alyosha found him crying.

"Kolya, you must be sure to keep your word and come, or he will be
terribly disappointed," Alyosha said emphatically.

"I will! Oh, how I curse myself for not having come before!" muttered
Kolya, crying, and no longer ashamed of it.

At that moment the captain flew out of the room, and at once closed the
door behind him. His face looked frenzied, his lips were trembling. He
stood before the two and flung up his arms.

"I don't want a good boy! I don't want another boy!" he muttered in a wild
whisper, clenching his teeth. "If I forget thee, Jerusalem, may my
tongue--" He broke off with a sob and sank on his knees before the wooden
bench. Pressing his fists against his head, he began sobbing with absurd
whimpering cries, doing his utmost that his cries should not be heard in
the room.

Kolya ran out into the street.

"Good-by, Karamazov? Will you come yourself?" he cried sharply and angrily
to Alyosha.

"I will certainly come in the evening."

"What was that he said about Jerusalem?... What did he mean by that?"

"It's from the Bible. 'If I forget thee, Jerusalem,' that is, if I forget
all that is most precious to me, if I let anything take its place, then
may--"

"I understand, that's enough! Mind you come! _Ici_, Perezvon!" he cried
with positive ferocity to the dog, and with rapid strides he went home.

OK, this is maybe the saddest part of the whole book, so get your Kleenex ready. The famous doctor, who obviously thinks he is way too important to visit a poor family like the Snegiryovs, condescendingly states that the only way the family can be saved is if they move - Ilyusha to Sicily, the daughter and the mother to the Caucasus, and the mother to Paris. His contempt angers Kolya, who threatens the doctor with an attack from Perezvon, but Alyosha calms Kolya down. Kolya returns to the room and the doctor leaves in a huff. Snegiryov tries to reassure Ilyusha, but Ilyusha already knows that nothing can be done and that there's no cure. He pulls both Kolya and Snegiryov to his tiny, consumptive body in a hug. Everybody is crying at this point. He tells Snegiryov that when he dies - sniff - Snegiryov should find another boy to be friends with - sniff - and just please don't ever forget him - sniff - just visit his grave once in a while. Sob. Kolya can't fight the tears, so he leaves the room. Kolya heads home, and Alyosha leaves as well.

Ilyusha The doctor leaves, and Alyosha and Kolya both realize that Ilyusha will soon die. Ilyusha speaks softly to his father about his death, and Kolya, who has been choking back tears at the sight of his sick friend, at last begins to weep openly. He tells Alyosha that he will come to visit Ilyusha as often as he can, and Alyosha admonishes him to keep his word.

The stories of Alyosha's influence on Kolya, Ilyusha, and the other boys develop a motif of the novel: the idea that faith and virtue can be taught and handed down as a legacy from one faithful man to the next. This legacy begins with Zosima's brother, who teaches Zosima about loving God's creation and forgiving mankind. Zosima passes the lessons on to Alyosha, and Alyosha now actively passes them on to the young boys he has befriended since his initial encounter with Ilyusha, keeping the chain of faith alive. Dostoevsky dramatizes the receptivity of children to moral teachings throughout this section of the novel. If Alyosha's example is only partly successful in improving the lives of the adults to whom he is close, it is more successful among the children here in Book X. The boys look at Alyosha with unmitigated respect and adoration because he treats them with respect--as equals--as we see in his extended conversations with the wayward Kolya. The Brothers Karamazov ends on a note of optimism and encouragement, and a great deal of its positive tone seems to stem from the idea that Alyosha's role as a teacher of the young will improve the faith of the next generation. This part of the novel shows Alyosha's reaction to Ivan's indictment of God. In these chapters, Alyosha encounters the very injustice that makes Ivan reject God--the suffering of children--and shows his response to it. Rather than recoiling in intellectual horror, as Ivan does, Alyosha devotes himself to doing what he can to make the suffering child happier, bringing Ilyusha's schoolmates to see him every day, helping to heal the rift between Ilyusha and Kolya, and generally providing Ilyusha and his family with friendship and support. Just as Zosima's argument with Ivan in Book I stems from their opposite perspectives, with Zosima treating other people on an individual basis and Ivan looking at mankind as a whole, the contrast between Alyosha and Ivan in this situation stems from the same opposition. Ivan looks at the abstract idea of suffering children and is unable to reconcile the idea with his rational precepts about how God ought to be. His solution is to reject God. Alyosha, on the other hand, sees an actual suffering child and believes that it is God's will for him to try to alleviate the child's suffering to whatever degree he can. His solution is to help Ilyusha. Again, Dostoevsky shows how the psychology of skepticism walls itself off, in elaborate proofs and theorems, from having a positive effect on the world, while the psychology of faith, simplistic though it may be, concerns itself with doing good for others. This very subtle response to the indictment of God presented by Ivan in Book V brings the philosophical debate of the novel onto a plane of real human action, and shows the inadequacy of Ivan's philosophy--which Ivan himself would readily acknowledge--to do good in the real world


Book XI. Ivan  Chapter I. At Grushenka's

Alyosha went towards the cathedral square to the widow Morozov's house to
see Grushenka, who had sent Fenya to him early in the morning with an
urgent message begging him to come. Questioning Fenya, Alyosha learned
that her mistress had been particularly distressed since the previous day.
During the two months that had passed since Mitya's arrest, Alyosha had
called frequently at the widow Morozov's house, both from his own
inclination and to take messages for Mitya. Three days after Mitya's
arrest, Grushenka was taken very ill and was ill for nearly five weeks.
For one whole week she was unconscious. She was very much changed--thinner
and a little sallow, though she had for the past fortnight been well
enough to go out. But to Alyosha her face was even more attractive than
before, and he liked to meet her eyes when he went in to her. A look of
firmness and intelligent purpose had developed in her face. There were
signs of a spiritual transformation in her, and a steadfast, fine and
humble determination that nothing could shake could be discerned in her.
There was a small vertical line between her brows which gave her charming
face a look of concentrated thought, almost austere at the first glance.
There was scarcely a trace of her former frivolity.

It seemed strange to Alyosha, too, that in spite of the calamity that had
overtaken the poor girl, betrothed to a man who had been arrested for a
terrible crime, almost at the instant of their betrothal, in spite of her
illness and the almost inevitable sentence hanging over Mitya, Grushenka
had not yet lost her youthful cheerfulness. There was a soft light in the
once proud eyes, though at times they gleamed with the old vindictive fire
when she was visited by one disturbing thought stronger than ever in her
heart. The object of that uneasiness was the same as ever--Katerina
Ivanovna, of whom Grushenka had even raved when she lay in delirium.
Alyosha knew that she was fearfully jealous of her. Yet Katerina Ivanovna
had not once visited Mitya in his prison, though she might have done it
whenever she liked. All this made a difficult problem for Alyosha, for he
was the only person to whom Grushenka opened her heart and from whom she
was continually asking advice. Sometimes he was unable to say anything.

Full of anxiety he entered her lodging. She was at home. She had returned
from seeing Mitya half an hour before, and from the rapid movement with
which she leapt up from her chair to meet him he saw that she had been
expecting him with great impatience. A pack of cards dealt for a game of
"fools" lay on the table. A bed had been made up on the leather sofa on
the other side and Maximov lay, half-reclining, on it. He wore a dressing-
gown and a cotton nightcap, and was evidently ill and weak, though he was
smiling blissfully. When the homeless old man returned with Grushenka from
Mokroe two months before, he had simply stayed on and was still staying
with her. He arrived with her in rain and sleet, sat down on the sofa,
drenched and scared, and gazed mutely at her with a timid, appealing
smile. Grushenka, who was in terrible grief and in the first stage of
fever, almost forgot his existence in all she had to do the first half-
hour after her arrival. Suddenly she chanced to look at him intently: he
laughed a pitiful, helpless little laugh. She called Fenya and told her to
give him something to eat. All that day he sat in the same place, almost
without stirring. When it got dark and the shutters were closed, Fenya
asked her mistress:

"Is the gentleman going to stay the night, mistress?"

"Yes; make him a bed on the sofa," answered Grushenka.

Questioning him more in detail, Grushenka learned from him that he had
literally nowhere to go, and that "Mr. Kalganov, my benefactor, told me
straight that he wouldn't receive me again and gave me five roubles."

"Well, God bless you, you'd better stay, then," Grushenka decided in her
grief, smiling compassionately at him. Her smile wrung the old man's heart
and his lips twitched with grateful tears. And so the destitute wanderer
had stayed with her ever since. He did not leave the house even when she
was ill. Fenya and her grandmother, the cook, did not turn him out, but
went on serving him meals and making up his bed on the sofa. Grushenka had
grown used to him, and coming back from seeing Mitya (whom she had begun
to visit in prison before she was really well) she would sit down and
begin talking to "Maximushka" about trifling matters, to keep her from
thinking of her sorrow. The old man turned out to be a good story-teller
on occasions, so that at last he became necessary to her. Grushenka saw
scarcely any one else beside Alyosha, who did not come every day and never
stayed long. Her old merchant lay seriously ill at this time, "at his last
gasp" as they said in the town, and he did, in fact, die a week after
Mitya's trial. Three weeks before his death, feeling the end approaching,
he made his sons, their wives and children, come upstairs to him at last
and bade them not leave him again. From that moment he gave strict orders
to his servants not to admit Grushenka and to tell her if she came, "The
master wishes you long life and happiness and tells you to forget him."
But Grushenka sent almost every day to inquire after him.

"You've come at last!" she cried, flinging down the cards and joyfully
greeting Alyosha, "and Maximushka's been scaring me that perhaps you
wouldn't come. Ah, how I need you! Sit down to the table. What will you
have--coffee?"

"Yes, please," said Alyosha, sitting down at the table. "I am very
hungry."

"That's right. Fenya, Fenya, coffee," cried Grushenka. "It's been made a
long time ready for you. And bring some little pies, and mind they are
hot. Do you know, we've had a storm over those pies to-day. I took them to
the prison for him, and would you believe it, he threw them back to me: he
would not eat them. He flung one of them on the floor and stamped on it.
So I said to him: 'I shall leave them with the warder; if you don't eat
them before evening, it will be that your venomous spite is enough for
you!' With that I went away. We quarreled again, would you believe it?
Whenever I go we quarrel."

Grushenka said all this in one breath in her agitation. Maximov, feeling
nervous, at once smiled and looked on the floor.

"What did you quarrel about this time?" asked Alyosha.

"I didn't expect it in the least. Only fancy, he is jealous of the Pole.
'Why are you keeping him?' he said. 'So you've begun keeping him.' He is
jealous, jealous of me all the time, jealous eating and sleeping! He even
took it into his head to be jealous of Kuzma last week."

"But he knew about the Pole before?"

"Yes, but there it is. He has known about him from the very beginning, but
to-day he suddenly got up and began scolding about him. I am ashamed to
repeat what he said. Silly fellow! Rakitin went in as I came out. Perhaps
Rakitin is egging him on. What do you think?" she added carelessly.

"He loves you, that's what it is: he loves you so much. And now he is
particularly worried."

"I should think he might be, with the trial to-morrow. And I went to him
to say something about to-morrow, for I dread to think what's going to
happen then. You say that he is worried, but how worried I am! And he
talks about the Pole! He's too silly! He is not jealous of Maximushka yet,
anyway."

"My wife was dreadfully jealous over me, too," Maximov put in his word.

"Jealous of you?" Grushenka laughed in spite of herself. "Of whom could
she have been jealous?"

"Of the servant girls."

"Hold your tongue, Maximushka, I am in no laughing mood now; I feel angry.
Don't ogle the pies. I shan't give you any; they are not good for you, and
I won't give you any vodka either. I have to look after him, too, just as
though I kept an almshouse," she laughed.

"I don't deserve your kindness. I am a worthless creature," said Maximov,
with tears in his voice. "You would do better to spend your kindness on
people of more use than me."

"Ech, every one is of use, Maximushka, and how can we tell who's of most
use? If only that Pole didn't exist, Alyosha. He's taken it into his head
to fall ill, too, to-day. I've been to see him also. And I shall send him
some pies, too, on purpose. I hadn't sent him any, but Mitya accused me of
it, so now I shall send some! Ah, here's Fenya with a letter! Yes, it's
from the Poles--begging again!"

Pan Mussyalovitch had indeed sent an extremely long and characteristically
eloquent letter in which he begged her to lend him three roubles. In the
letter was enclosed a receipt for the sum, with a promise to repay it
within three months, signed by Pan Vrublevsky as well. Grushenka had
received many such letters, accompanied by such receipts, from her former
lover during the fortnight of her convalescence. But she knew that the two
Poles had been to ask after her health during her illness. The first
letter Grushenka got from them was a long one, written on large notepaper
and with a big family crest on the seal. It was so obscure and rhetorical
that Grushenka put it down before she had read half, unable to make head
or tail of it. She could not attend to letters then. The first letter was
followed next day by another in which Pan Mussyalovitch begged her for a
loan of two thousand roubles for a very short period. Grushenka left that
letter, too, unanswered. A whole series of letters had followed--one every
day--all as pompous and rhetorical, but the loan asked for, gradually
diminishing, dropped to a hundred roubles, then to twenty-five, to ten,
and finally Grushenka received a letter in which both the Poles begged her
for only one rouble and included a receipt signed by both.

Then Grushenka suddenly felt sorry for them, and at dusk she went round
herself to their lodging. She found the two Poles in great poverty, almost
destitution, without food or fuel, without cigarettes, in debt to their
landlady. The two hundred roubles they had carried off from Mitya at
Mokroe had soon disappeared. But Grushenka was surprised at their meeting
her with arrogant dignity and self-assertion, with the greatest punctilio
and pompous speeches. Grushenka simply laughed, and gave her former
admirer ten roubles. Then, laughing, she told Mitya of it and he was not
in the least jealous. But ever since, the Poles had attached themselves to
Grushenka and bombarded her daily with requests for money and she had
always sent them small sums. And now that day Mitya had taken it into his
head to be fearfully jealous.

"Like a fool, I went round to him just for a minute, on the way to see
Mitya, for he is ill, too, my Pole," Grushenka began again with nervous
haste. "I was laughing, telling Mitya about it. 'Fancy,' I said, 'my Pole
had the happy thought to sing his old songs to me to the guitar. He
thought I would be touched and marry him!' Mitya leapt up swearing.... So,
there, I'll send them the pies! Fenya, is it that little girl they've
sent? Here, give her three roubles and pack a dozen pies up in a paper and
tell her to take them. And you, Alyosha, be sure to tell Mitya that I did
send them the pies."

"I wouldn't tell him for anything," said Alyosha, smiling.

"Ech! You think he is unhappy about it. Why, he's jealous on purpose. He
doesn't care," said Grushenka bitterly.

"On purpose?" queried Alyosha.

"I tell you you are silly, Alyosha. You know nothing about it, with all
your cleverness. I am not offended that he is jealous of a girl like me. I
would be offended if he were not jealous. I am like that. I am not
offended at jealousy. I have a fierce heart, too. I can be jealous myself.
Only what offends me is that he doesn't love me at all. I tell you he is
jealous now _on purpose_. Am I blind? Don't I see? He began talking to me
just now of that woman, of Katerina, saying she was this and that, how she
had ordered a doctor from Moscow for him, to try and save him; how she had
ordered the best counsel, the most learned one, too. So he loves her, if
he'll praise her to my face, more shame to him! He's treated me badly
himself, so he attacked me, to make out I am in fault first and to throw
it all on me. 'You were with your Pole before me, so I can't be blamed for
Katerina,' that's what it amounts to. He wants to throw the whole blame on
me. He attacked me on purpose, on purpose, I tell you, but I'll--"

Grushenka could not finish saying what she would do. She hid her eyes in
her handkerchief and sobbed violently.

"He doesn't love Katerina Ivanovna," said Alyosha firmly.

"Well, whether he loves her or not, I'll soon find out for myself," said
Grushenka, with a menacing note in her voice, taking the handkerchief from
her eyes. Her face was distorted. Alyosha saw sorrowfully that from being
mild and serene, it had become sullen and spiteful.

"Enough of this foolishness," she said suddenly; "it's not for that I sent
for you. Alyosha, darling, to-morrow--what will happen to-morrow? That's
what worries me! And it's only me it worries! I look at every one and no
one is thinking of it. No one cares about it. Are you thinking about it
even? To-morrow he'll be tried, you know. Tell me, how will he be tried?
You know it's the valet, the valet killed him! Good heavens! Can they
condemn him in place of the valet and will no one stand up for him? They
haven't troubled the valet at all, have they?"

"He's been severely cross-examined," observed Alyosha thoughtfully; "but
every one came to the conclusion it was not he. Now he is lying very ill.
He has been ill ever since that attack. Really ill," added Alyosha.

"Oh, dear! couldn't you go to that counsel yourself and tell him the whole
thing by yourself? He's been brought from Petersburg for three thousand
roubles, they say."

"We gave these three thousand together--Ivan, Katerina Ivanovna and I--but
she paid two thousand for the doctor from Moscow herself. The counsel
Fetyukovitch would have charged more, but the case has become known all
over Russia; it's talked of in all the papers and journals. Fetyukovitch
agreed to come more for the glory of the thing, because the case has
become so notorious. I saw him yesterday."

"Well? Did you talk to him?" Grushenka put in eagerly.

"He listened and said nothing. He told me that he had already formed his
opinion. But he promised to give my words consideration."

"Consideration! Ah, they are swindlers! They'll ruin him. And why did she
send for the doctor?"

"As an expert. They want to prove that Mitya's mad and committed the
murder when he didn't know what he was doing"; Alyosha smiled gently; "but
Mitya won't agree to that."

"Yes; but that would be the truth if he had killed him!" cried Grushenka.
"He was mad then, perfectly mad, and that was my fault, wretch that I am!
But, of course, he didn't do it, he didn't do it! And they are all against
him, the whole town. Even Fenya's evidence went to prove he had done it.
And the people at the shop, and that official, and at the tavern, too,
before, people had heard him say so! They are all, all against him, all
crying out against him."

"Yes, there's a fearful accumulation of evidence," Alyosha observed
grimly.

"And Grigory--Grigory Vassilyevitch--sticks to his story that the door was
open, persists that he saw it--there's no shaking him. I went and talked to
him myself. He's rude about it, too."

"Yes, that's perhaps the strongest evidence against him," said Alyosha.

"And as for Mitya's being mad, he certainly seems like it now," Grushenka
began with a peculiarly anxious and mysterious air. "Do you know, Alyosha,
I've been wanting to talk to you about it for a long time. I go to him
every day and simply wonder at him. Tell me, now, what do you suppose he's
always talking about? He talks and talks and I can make nothing of it. I
fancied he was talking of something intellectual that I couldn't
understand in my foolishness. Only he suddenly began talking to me about a
babe--that is, about some child. 'Why is the babe poor?' he said. 'It's for
that babe I am going to Siberia now. I am not a murderer, but I must go to
Siberia!' What that meant, what babe, I couldn't tell for the life of me.
Only I cried when he said it, because he said it so nicely. He cried
himself, and I cried, too. He suddenly kissed me and made the sign of the
cross over me. What did it mean, Alyosha, tell me? What is this babe?"

"It must be Rakitin, who's been going to see him lately," smiled Alyosha,
"though ... that's not Rakitin's doing. I didn't see Mitya yesterday. I'll
see him to-day."

"No, it's not Rakitin; it's his brother Ivan Fyodorovitch upsetting him.
It's his going to see him, that's what it is," Grushenka began, and
suddenly broke off. Alyosha gazed at her in amazement.

"Ivan's going? Has he been to see him? Mitya told me himself that Ivan
hasn't been once."

"There ... there! What a girl I am! Blurting things out!" exclaimed
Grushenka, confused and suddenly blushing. "Stay, Alyosha, hush! Since
I've said so much I'll tell the whole truth--he's been to see him twice,
the first directly he arrived. He galloped here from Moscow at once, of
course, before I was taken ill; and the second time was a week ago. He
told Mitya not to tell you about it, under any circumstances; and not to
tell any one, in fact. He came secretly."

Alyosha sat plunged in thought, considering something. The news evidently
impressed him.

"Ivan doesn't talk to me of Mitya's case," he said slowly. "He's said very
little to me these last two months. And whenever I go to see him, he seems
vexed at my coming, so I've not been to him for the last three weeks.
H'm!... if he was there a week ago ... there certainly has been a change
in Mitya this week."

"There has been a change," Grushenka assented quickly. "They have a
secret, they have a secret! Mitya told me himself there was a secret, and
such a secret that Mitya can't rest. Before then, he was cheerful--and,
indeed, he is cheerful now--but when he shakes his head like that, you
know, and strides about the room and keeps pulling at the hair on his
right temple with his right hand, I know there is something on his mind
worrying him.... I know! He was cheerful before, though, indeed, he is
cheerful to-day."

"But you said he was worried."

"Yes, he is worried and yet cheerful. He keeps on being irritable for a
minute and then cheerful and then irritable again. And you know, Alyosha,
I am constantly wondering at him--with this awful thing hanging over him,
he sometimes laughs at such trifles as though he were a baby himself."

"And did he really tell you not to tell me about Ivan? Did he say, 'Don't
tell him'?"

"Yes, he told me, 'Don't tell him.' It's you that Mitya's most afraid of.
Because it's a secret: he said himself it was a secret. Alyosha, darling,
go to him and find out what their secret is and come and tell me,"
Grushenka besought him with sudden eagerness. "Set my mind at rest that I
may know the worst that's in store for me. That's why I sent for you."

"You think it's something to do with you? If it were, he wouldn't have
told you there was a secret."

"I don't know. Perhaps he wants to tell me, but doesn't dare to. He warns
me. There is a secret, he tells me, but he won't tell me what it is."

"What do you think yourself?"

"What do I think? It's the end for me, that's what I think. They all three
have been plotting my end, for Katerina's in it. It's all Katerina, it all
comes from her. She is this and that, and that means that I am not. He
tells me that beforehand--warns me. He is planning to throw me over, that's
the whole secret. They've planned it together, the three of them--Mitya,
Katerina, and Ivan Fyodorovitch. Alyosha, I've been wanting to ask you a
long time. A week ago he suddenly told me that Ivan was in love with
Katerina, because he often goes to see her. Did he tell me the truth or
not? Tell me, on your conscience, tell me the worst."

"I won't tell you a lie. Ivan is not in love with Katerina Ivanovna, I
think."

"Oh, that's what I thought! He is lying to me, shameless deceiver, that's
what it is! And he was jealous of me just now, so as to put the blame on
me afterwards. He is stupid, he can't disguise what he is doing; he is so
open, you know.... But I'll give it to him, I'll give it to him! 'You
believe I did it,' he said. He said that to me, to me. He reproached me
with that! God forgive him! You wait, I'll make it hot for Katerina at the
trial! I'll just say a word then ... I'll tell everything then!"

And again she cried bitterly.

"This I can tell you for certain, Grushenka," Alyosha said, getting up.
"First, that he loves you, loves you more than any one in the world, and
you only, believe me. I know. I do know. The second thing is that I don't
want to worm his secret out of him, but if he'll tell me of himself to-
day, I shall tell him straight out that I have promised to tell you. Then
I'll come to you to-day, and tell you. Only ... I fancy ... Katerina
Ivanovna has nothing to do with it, and that the secret is about something
else. That's certain. It isn't likely it's about Katerina Ivanovna, it
seems to me. Good-by for now."

Alyosha shook hands with her. Grushenka was still crying. He saw that she
put little faith in his consolation, but she was better for having had her
sorrow out, for having spoken of it. He was sorry to leave her in such a
state of mind, but he was in haste. He had a great many things to do
still.

Alyosha heads off to visit Grushenka, who is in quite a state. After Mitya's arrest, Grushenka was sick for almost five weeks. Now, two months later, she's doing better, although she's lost some weight. Incidentally, she has let the old man Maximov stay on with her out of charity, and he entertains her with funny stories. We learn that the trial is the next day. Grushenka has just returned from a visit to Mitya, where they had a terrible argument over Grushenka's former Polish lover. It seems that now the Poles are living in incredible poverty, and Grushenka sends them small sums of money from time to time out of pity. Right before she went to visit Mitya that day, she had stopped by the Poles', where her former lover had tried to seduce her with music. Grushenka thought it was funny; Mitya did not. Grushenka has her own cause for jealousy. She believes Mitya is back in love with Katerina, who's hired a fancy Moscow doctor to diagnose Mitya as insane. The thinking here is that since the whole town thinks Mitya is guilty, it might be better to argue that he's insane. Ivan, to Alyosha's surprise, has also visited Dmitri, who has told Grushenka that he and Ivan have a secret. Alyosha promises to find out their secret for Grushenka, and leaves.

At Grushenka's On a wintry day almost two months after Dmitri's arrest, Alyosha travels to visit Grushenka. Alyosha and Grushenka have grown closer since Dmitri's arrest, and are now close friends. Grushenka fell ill three days after the arrest, but is now almost fully recovered. As her friendship with Alyosha has deepened, Grushenka has begun to show signs of spiritual redemption as well. Her fiery temper and her pride are still intact, but her eyes now shine with a new light of gentleness. She tells Alyosha that she and Dmitri have had an argument, and that she fears that Dmitri is in love with Katerina again, even though Katerina has not once visited him in prison. Grushenka also believes that Dmitri and Ivan are hiding something from her. She asks Alyosha to find out what it is, and Alyosha agrees to do so


Chapter II. The Injured Foot

The first of these things was at the house of Madame Hohlakov, and he
hurried there to get it over as quickly as possible and not be too late
for Mitya. Madame Hohlakov had been slightly ailing for the last three
weeks: her foot had for some reason swollen up, and though she was not in
bed, she lay all day half-reclining on the couch in her boudoir, in a
fascinating but decorous _deshabille_. Alyosha had once noted with
innocent amusement that, in spite of her illness, Madame Hohlakov had
begun to be rather dressy--top-knots, ribbons, loose wrappers, had made
their appearance, and he had an inkling of the reason, though he dismissed
such ideas from his mind as frivolous. During the last two months the
young official, Perhotin, had become a regular visitor at the house.

Alyosha had not called for four days and he was in haste to go straight to
Lise, as it was with her he had to speak, for Lise had sent a maid to him
the previous day, specially asking him to come to her "about something
very important," a request which, for certain reasons, had interest for
Alyosha. But while the maid went to take his name in to Lise, Madame
Hohlakov heard of his arrival from some one, and immediately sent to beg
him to come to her "just for one minute." Alyosha reflected that it was
better to accede to the mamma's request, or else she would be sending down
to Lise's room every minute that he was there. Madame Hohlakov was lying
on a couch. She was particularly smartly dressed and was evidently in a
state of extreme nervous excitement. She greeted Alyosha with cries of
rapture.

"It's ages, ages, perfect ages since I've seen you! It's a whole week--only
think of it! Ah, but you were here only four days ago, on Wednesday. You
have come to see Lise. I'm sure you meant to slip into her room on tiptoe,
without my hearing you. My dear, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, if you only
knew how worried I am about her! But of that later, though that's the most
important thing, of that later. Dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, I trust you
implicitly with my Lise. Since the death of Father Zossima--God rest his
soul!" (she crossed herself)--"I look upon you as a monk, though you look
charming in your new suit. Where did you find such a tailor in these
parts? No, no, that's not the chief thing--of that later. Forgive me for
sometimes calling you Alyosha; an old woman like me may take liberties,"
she smiled coquettishly; "but that will do later, too. The important thing
is that I shouldn't forget what is important. Please remind me of it
yourself. As soon as my tongue runs away with me, you just say 'the
important thing?' Ach! how do I know now what is of most importance? Ever
since Lise took back her promise--her childish promise, Alexey
Fyodorovitch--to marry you, you've realized, of course, that it was only
the playful fancy of a sick child who had been so long confined to her
chair--thank God, she can walk now!... that new doctor Katya sent for from
Moscow for your unhappy brother, who will to-morrow--But why speak of to-
morrow? I am ready to die at the very thought of to-morrow. Ready to die
of curiosity.... That doctor was with us yesterday and saw Lise.... I paid
him fifty roubles for the visit. But that's not the point, that's not the
point again. You see, I'm mixing everything up. I am in such a hurry. Why
am I in a hurry? I don't understand. It's awful how I seem growing unable
to understand anything. Everything seems mixed up in a sort of tangle. I
am afraid you are so bored you will jump up and run away, and that will be
all I shall see of you. Goodness! Why are we sitting here and no coffee?
Yulia, Glafira, coffee!"

Alyosha made haste to thank her, and said that he had only just had
coffee.

"Where?"

"At Agrafena Alexandrovna's."

"At ... at that woman's? Ah, it's she has brought ruin on every one. I
know nothing about it though. They say she has become a saint, though it's
rather late in the day. She had better have done it before. What use is it
now? Hush, hush, Alexey Fyodorovitch, for I have so much to say to you
that I am afraid I shall tell you nothing. This awful trial ... I shall
certainly go, I am making arrangements. I shall be carried there in my
chair; besides I can sit up. I shall have people with me. And, you know, I
am a witness. How shall I speak, how shall I speak? I don't know what I
shall say. One has to take an oath, hasn't one?"

"Yes; but I don't think you will be able to go."

"I can sit up. Ah, you put me out! Ah! this trial, this savage act, and
then they are all going to Siberia, some are getting married, and all this
so quickly, so quickly, everything's changing, and at last--nothing. All
grow old and have death to look forward to. Well, so be it! I am weary.
This Katya, _cette charmante personne_, has disappointed all my hopes. Now
she is going to follow one of your brothers to Siberia, and your other
brother is going to follow her, and will live in the nearest town, and
they will all torment one another. It drives me out of my mind. Worst of
all--the publicity. The story has been told a million times over in all the
papers in Moscow and Petersburg. Ah! yes, would you believe it, there's a
paragraph that I was 'a dear friend' of your brother's ----, I can't repeat
the horrid word. Just fancy, just fancy!"

"Impossible! Where was the paragraph? What did it say?"

"I'll show you directly. I got the paper and read it yesterday. Here, in
the Petersburg paper _Gossip_. The paper began coming out this year. I am
awfully fond of gossip, and I take it in, and now it pays me out--this is
what gossip comes to! Here it is, here, this passage. Read it."

And she handed Alyosha a sheet of newspaper which had been under her
pillow.

It was not exactly that she was upset, she seemed overwhelmed and perhaps
everything really was mixed up in a tangle in her head. The paragraph was
very typical, and must have been a great shock to her, but, fortunately
perhaps, she was unable to keep her mind fixed on any one subject at that
moment, and so might race off in a minute to something else and quite
forget the newspaper.

Alyosha was well aware that the story of the terrible case had spread all
over Russia. And, good heavens! what wild rumors about his brother, about
the Karamazovs, and about himself he had read in the course of those two
months, among other equally credible items! One paper had even stated that
he had gone into a monastery and become a monk, in horror at his brother's
crime. Another contradicted this, and stated that he and his elder, Father
Zossima, had broken into the monastery chest and "made tracks from the
monastery." The present paragraph in the paper _Gossip_ was under the
heading, "The Karamazov Case at Skotoprigonyevsk." (That, alas! was the
name of our little town. I had hitherto kept it concealed.) It was brief,
and Madame Hohlakov was not directly mentioned in it. No names appeared,
in fact. It was merely stated that the criminal, whose approaching trial
was making such a sensation--retired army captain, an idle swaggerer, and
reactionary bully--was continually involved in amorous intrigues, and
particularly popular with certain ladies "who were pining in solitude."
One such lady, a pining widow, who tried to seem young though she had a
grown-up daughter, was so fascinated by him that only two hours before the
crime she offered him three thousand roubles, on condition that he would
elope with her to the gold mines. But the criminal, counting on escaping
punishment, had preferred to murder his father to get the three thousand
rather than go off to Siberia with the middle-aged charms of his pining
lady. This playful paragraph finished, of course, with an outburst of
generous indignation at the wickedness of parricide and at the lately
abolished institution of serfdom. Reading it with curiosity, Alyosha
folded up the paper and handed it back to Madame Hohlakov.

"Well, that must be me," she hurried on again. "Of course I am meant.
Scarcely more than an hour before, I suggested gold mines to him, and here
they talk of 'middle-aged charms' as though that were my motive! He writes
that out of spite! God Almighty forgive him for the middle-aged charms, as
I forgive him! You know it's-- Do you know who it is? It's your friend
Rakitin."

"Perhaps," said Alyosha, "though I've heard nothing about it."

"It's he, it's he! No 'perhaps' about it. You know I turned him out of the
house.... You know all that story, don't you?"

"I know that you asked him not to visit you for the future, but why it
was, I haven't heard ... from you, at least."

"Ah, then you've heard it from him! He abuses me, I suppose, abuses me
dreadfully?"

"Yes, he does; but then he abuses every one. But why you've given him up I
haven't heard from him either. I meet him very seldom now, indeed. We are
not friends."

"Well, then, I'll tell you all about it. There's no help for it, I'll
confess, for there is one point in which I was perhaps to blame. Only a
little, little point, so little that perhaps it doesn't count. You see, my
dear boy"--Madame Hohlakov suddenly looked arch and a charming, though
enigmatic, smile played about her lips--"you see, I suspect ... You must
forgive me, Alyosha. I am like a mother to you.... No, no; quite the
contrary. I speak to you now as though you were my father--mother's quite
out of place. Well, it's as though I were confessing to Father Zossima,
that's just it. I called you a monk just now. Well, that poor young man,
your friend, Rakitin (Mercy on us! I can't be angry with him. I feel
cross, but not very), that frivolous young man, would you believe it,
seems to have taken it into his head to fall in love with me. I only
noticed it later. At first--a month ago--he only began to come oftener to
see me, almost every day; though, of course, we were acquainted before. I
knew nothing about it ... and suddenly it dawned upon me, and I began to
notice things with surprise. You know, two months ago, that modest,
charming, excellent young man, Pyotr Ilyitch Perhotin, who's in the
service here, began to be a regular visitor at the house. You met him here
ever so many times yourself. And he is an excellent, earnest young man,
isn't he? He comes once every three days, not every day (though I should
be glad to see him every day), and always so well dressed. Altogether, I
love young people, Alyosha, talented, modest, like you, and he has almost
the mind of a statesman, he talks so charmingly, and I shall certainly,
certainly try and get promotion for him. He is a future diplomat. On that
awful day he almost saved me from death by coming in the night. And your
friend Rakitin comes in such boots, and always stretches them out on the
carpet.... He began hinting at his feelings, in fact, and one day, as he
was going, he squeezed my hand terribly hard. My foot began to swell
directly after he pressed my hand like that. He had met Pyotr Ilyitch here
before, and would you believe it, he is always gibing at him, growling at
him, for some reason. I simply looked at the way they went on together and
laughed inwardly. So I was sitting here alone--no, I was laid up then.
Well, I was lying here alone and suddenly Rakitin comes in, and only
fancy! brought me some verses of his own composition--a short poem, on my
bad foot: that is, he described my foot in a poem. Wait a minute--how did
it go?

    A captivating little foot.

It began somehow like that. I can never remember poetry. I've got it here.
I'll show it to you later. But it's a charming thing--charming; and, you
know, it's not only about the foot, it had a good moral, too, a charming
idea, only I've forgotten it; in fact, it was just the thing for an album.
So, of course, I thanked him, and he was evidently flattered. I'd hardly
had time to thank him when in comes Pyotr Ilyitch, and Rakitin suddenly
looked as black as night. I could see that Pyotr Ilyitch was in the way,
for Rakitin certainly wanted to say something after giving me the verses.
I had a presentiment of it; but Pyotr Ilyitch came in. I showed Pyotr
Ilyitch the verses and didn't say who was the author. But I am convinced
that he guessed, though he won't own it to this day, and declares he had
no idea. But he says that on purpose. Pyotr Ilyitch began to laugh at
once, and fell to criticizing it. 'Wretched doggerel,' he said they were,
'some divinity student must have written them,' and with such vehemence,
such vehemence! Then, instead of laughing, your friend flew into a rage.
'Good gracious!' I thought, 'they'll fly at each other.' 'It was I who
wrote them,' said he. 'I wrote them as a joke,' he said, 'for I think it
degrading to write verses.... But they are good poetry. They want to put a
monument to your Pushkin for writing about women's feet, while I wrote
with a moral purpose, and you,' said he, 'are an advocate of serfdom.
You've no humane ideas,' said he. 'You have no modern enlightened
feelings, you are uninfluenced by progress, you are a mere official,' he
said, 'and you take bribes.' Then I began screaming and imploring them.
And, you know, Pyotr Ilyitch is anything but a coward. He at once took up
the most gentlemanly tone, looked at him sarcastically, listened, and
apologized. 'I'd no idea,' said he. 'I shouldn't have said it, if I had
known. I should have praised it. Poets are all so irritable,' he said. In
short, he laughed at him under cover of the most gentlemanly tone. He
explained to me afterwards that it was all sarcastic. I thought he was in
earnest. Only as I lay there, just as before you now, I thought, 'Would
it, or would it not, be the proper thing for me to turn Rakitin out for
shouting so rudely at a visitor in my house?' And, would you believe it, I
lay here, shut my eyes, and wondered, would it be the proper thing or not.
I kept worrying and worrying, and my heart began to beat, and I couldn't
make up my mind whether to make an outcry or not. One voice seemed to be
telling me, 'Speak,' and the other 'No, don't speak.' And no sooner had
the second voice said that than I cried out, and fainted. Of course, there
was a fuss. I got up suddenly and said to Rakitin, 'It's painful for me to
say it, but I don't wish to see you in my house again.' So I turned him
out. Ah! Alexey Fyodorovitch, I know myself I did wrong. I was putting it
on. I wasn't angry with him at all, really; but I suddenly fancied--that
was what did it--that it would be such a fine scene.... And yet, believe
me, it was quite natural, for I really shed tears and cried for several
days afterwards, and then suddenly, one afternoon, I forgot all about it.
So it's a fortnight since he's been here, and I kept wondering whether he
would come again. I wondered even yesterday, then suddenly last night came
this _Gossip_. I read it and gasped. Who could have written it? He must
have written it. He went home, sat down, wrote it on the spot, sent it,
and they put it in. It was a fortnight ago, you see. But, Alyosha, it's
awful how I keep talking and don't say what I want to say. Ah! the words
come of themselves!"

"It's very important for me to be in time to see my brother to-day,"
Alyosha faltered.

"To be sure, to be sure! You bring it all back to me. Listen, what is an
aberration?"

"What aberration?" asked Alyosha, wondering.

"In the legal sense. An aberration in which everything is pardonable.
Whatever you do, you will be acquitted at once."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you. This Katya ... Ah! she is a charming, charming creature,
only I never can make out who it is she is in love with. She was with me
some time ago and I couldn't get anything out of her. Especially as she
won't talk to me except on the surface now. She is always talking about my
health and nothing else, and she takes up such a tone with me, too. I
simply said to myself, 'Well, so be it. I don't care'... Oh, yes. I was
talking of aberration. This doctor has come. You know a doctor has come?
Of course, you know it--the one who discovers madmen. You wrote for him.
No, it wasn't you, but Katya. It's all Katya's doing. Well, you see, a man
may be sitting perfectly sane and suddenly have an aberration. He may be
conscious and know what he is doing and yet be in a state of aberration.
And there's no doubt that Dmitri Fyodorovitch was suffering from
aberration. They found out about aberration as soon as the law courts were
reformed. It's all the good effect of the reformed law courts. The doctor
has been here and questioned me about that evening, about the gold mines.
'How did he seem then?' he asked me. He must have been in a state of
aberration. He came in shouting, 'Money, money, three thousand! Give me
three thousand!' and then went away and immediately did the murder. 'I
don't want to murder him,' he said, and he suddenly went and murdered him.
That's why they'll acquit him, because he struggled against it and yet he
murdered him."

"But he didn't murder him," Alyosha interrupted rather sharply. He felt
more and more sick with anxiety and impatience.

"Yes, I know it was that old man Grigory murdered him."

"Grigory?" cried Alyosha.

"Yes, yes; it was Grigory. He lay as Dmitri Fyodorovitch struck him down,
and then got up, saw the door open, went in and killed Fyodor Pavlovitch."

"But why, why?"

"Suffering from aberration. When he recovered from the blow Dmitri
Fyodorovitch gave him on the head, he was suffering from aberration; he
went and committed the murder. As for his saying he didn't, he very likely
doesn't remember. Only, you know, it'll be better, ever so much better, if
Dmitri Fyodorovitch murdered him. And that's how it must have been, though
I say it was Grigory. It certainly was Dmitri Fyodorovitch, and that's
better, ever so much better! Oh! not better that a son should have killed
his father, I don't defend that. Children ought to honor their parents,
and yet it would be better if it were he, as you'd have nothing to cry
over then, for he did it when he was unconscious or rather when he was
conscious, but did not know what he was doing. Let them acquit him--that's
so humane, and would show what a blessing reformed law courts are. I knew
nothing about it, but they say they have been so a long time. And when I
heard it yesterday, I was so struck by it that I wanted to send for you at
once. And if he is acquitted, make him come straight from the law courts
to dinner with me, and I'll have a party of friends, and we'll drink to
the reformed law courts. I don't believe he'd be dangerous; besides, I'll
invite a great many friends, so that he could always be led out if he did
anything. And then he might be made a justice of the peace or something in
another town, for those who have been in trouble themselves make the best
judges. And, besides, who isn't suffering from aberration nowadays?--you,
I, all of us are in a state of aberration, and there are ever so many
examples of it: a man sits singing a song, suddenly something annoys him,
he takes a pistol and shoots the first person he comes across, and no one
blames him for it. I read that lately, and all the doctors confirm it. The
doctors are always confirming; they confirm anything. Why, my Lise is in a
state of aberration. She made me cry again yesterday, and the day before,
too, and to-day I suddenly realized that it's all due to aberration. Oh,
Lise grieves me so! I believe she's quite mad. Why did she send for you?
Did she send for you or did you come of yourself?"

"Yes, she sent for me, and I am just going to her." Alyosha got up
resolutely.

"Oh, my dear, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, perhaps that's what's most
important," Madame Hohlakov cried, suddenly bursting into tears. "God
knows I trust Lise to you with all my heart, and it's no matter her
sending for you on the sly, without telling her mother. But forgive me, I
can't trust my daughter so easily to your brother Ivan Fyodorovitch,
though I still consider him the most chivalrous young man. But only fancy,
he's been to see Lise and I knew nothing about it!"

"How? What? When?" Alyosha was exceedingly surprised. He had not sat down
again and listened standing.

"I will tell you; that's perhaps why I asked you to come, for I don't know
now why I did ask you to come. Well, Ivan Fyodorovitch has been to see me
twice, since he came back from Moscow. First time he came as a friend to
call on me, and the second time Katya was here and he came because he
heard she was here. I didn't, of course, expect him to come often, knowing
what a lot he has to do as it is, _vous comprenez, cette affaire et la
mort terrible de votre papa_. But I suddenly heard he'd been here again,
not to see me but to see Lise. That's six days ago now. He came, stayed
five minutes, and went away. And I didn't hear of it till three days
afterwards, from Glafira, so it was a great shock to me. I sent for Lise
directly. She laughed. 'He thought you were asleep,' she said, 'and came
in to me to ask after your health.' Of course, that's how it happened. But
Lise, Lise, mercy on us, how she distresses me! Would you believe it, one
night, four days ago, just after you saw her last time, and had gone away,
she suddenly had a fit, screaming, shrieking, hysterics! Why is it I never
have hysterics? Then, next day another fit, and the same thing on the
third, and yesterday too, and then yesterday that aberration. She suddenly
screamed out, 'I hate Ivan Fyodorovitch. I insist on your never letting
him come to the house again.' I was struck dumb at these amazing words,
and answered, 'On what grounds could I refuse to see such an excellent
young man, a young man of such learning too, and so unfortunate?'--for all
this business is a misfortune, isn't it? She suddenly burst out laughing
at my words, and so rudely, you know. Well, I was pleased; I thought I had
amused her and the fits would pass off, especially as I wanted to refuse
to see Ivan Fyodorovitch anyway on account of his strange visits without
my knowledge, and meant to ask him for an explanation. But early this
morning Lise waked up and flew into a passion with Yulia and, would you
believe it, slapped her in the face. That's monstrous; I am always polite
to my servants. And an hour later she was hugging Yulia's feet and kissing
them. She sent a message to me that she wasn't coming to me at all, and
would never come and see me again, and when I dragged myself down to her,
she rushed to kiss me, crying, and as she kissed me, she pushed me out of
the room without saying a word, so I couldn't find out what was the
matter. Now, dear Alexey Fyodorovitch, I rest all my hopes on you, and, of
course, my whole life is in your hands. I simply beg you to go to Lise and
find out everything from her, as you alone can, and come back and tell
me--me, her mother, for you understand it will be the death of me, simply
the death of me, if this goes on, or else I shall run away. I can stand no
more. I have patience; but I may lose patience, and then ... then
something awful will happen. Ah, dear me! At last, Pyotr Ilyitch!" cried
Madame Hohlakov, beaming all over as she saw Perhotin enter the room. "You
are late, you are late! Well, sit down, speak, put us out of suspense.
What does the counsel say. Where are you off to, Alexey Fyodorovitch?"

"To Lise."

"Oh, yes. You won't forget, you won't forget what I asked you? It's a
question of life and death!"

"Of course, I won't forget, if I can ... but I am so late," muttered
Alyosha, beating a hasty retreat.

"No, be sure, be sure to come in; don't say 'If you can.' I shall die if
you don't," Madame Hohlakov called after him, but Alyosha had already left
the room.

When Alyosha arrives at Madame Khokhlakov's at Lise's urgent request, Madame Khokhlakov is a nervous wreck. She's been immobilized by swollen foot for the past three weeks, but that hasn't stopped her from getting all dressed up. Madame Khokhlakov's latest tizzy is over an anonymous article that's appeared in a newspaper called Rumors, which sounds a bit like a 19th-century version of PeopleUS Weekly. or Someone has written horrible things about events in their town - which the narrator finally names as Skotoprigonyevsk. This anonymous author has claimed that Dmitri has flirted with a certain unnamed society lady - i.e., Madame Khokhlakov - who has gone so far as to offer him 3,000 roubles two hours before the murder to run away with her. He spurned her, however, and it is implied that he preferred to kill his father rather than spend his life in Siberia with this unnamed society lady. Madame Khokhlakov is convinced that it's about her, and that it's by Rakitin. Rakitin is jealous because she rejected him and is pursuing a flirtation with Perkhotin, the young official to whom Dmitri pawned his pistols. Rakitin had written a silly little poem about her foot, and she and Perkhotin had laughed over it. Madame Khokhlakov also informs Alyosha, to his surprise, that Ivan has visited Lise. After Ivan's visit, Lise has been terribly upset. Their conversation is interrupted when Perkhotin enters, and Alyosha leaves for Lise's room.

An Ailing Little Foot Before Alyosha speaks to Dmitri, he must pay a visit to Madame Khokhlakov and Lise. Madame Khokhlakov speaks to him before he sees Lise, and tells him something very curious: Ivan has recently paid a visit to Lise, after which Lise's already erratic moods have become even more unbalanced. Madame Khokhlakov asks Alyosha to find out what is troubling Lise and to tell her after he has found out


Chapter III. A Little Demon

Going in to Lise, he found her half reclining in the invalid-chair, in
which she had been wheeled when she was unable to walk. She did not move
to meet him, but her sharp, keen eyes were simply riveted on his face.
There was a feverish look in her eyes, her face was pale and yellow.
Alyosha was amazed at the change that had taken place in her in three
days. She was positively thinner. She did not hold out her hand to him. He
touched the thin, long fingers which lay motionless on her dress, then he
sat down facing her, without a word.

"I know you are in a hurry to get to the prison," Lise said curtly, "and
mamma's kept you there for hours; she's just been telling you about me and
Yulia."

"How do you know?" asked Alyosha.

"I've been listening. Why do you stare at me? I want to listen and I do
listen, there's no harm in that. I don't apologize."

"You are upset about something?"

"On the contrary, I am very happy. I've only just been reflecting for the
thirtieth time what a good thing it is I refused you and shall not be your
wife. You are not fit to be a husband. If I were to marry you and give you
a note to take to the man I loved after you, you'd take it and be sure to
give it to him and bring an answer back, too. If you were forty, you would
still go on taking my love-letters for me."

She suddenly laughed.

"There is something spiteful and yet open-hearted about you," Alyosha
smiled to her.

"The open-heartedness consists in my not being ashamed of myself with you.
What's more, I don't want to feel ashamed with you, just with you.
Alyosha, why is it I don't respect you? I am very fond of you, but I don't
respect you. If I respected you, I shouldn't talk to you without shame,
should I?"

"No."

"But do you believe that I am not ashamed with you?"

"No, I don't believe it."

Lise laughed nervously again; she spoke rapidly.

"I sent your brother, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, some sweets in prison. Alyosha,
you know, you are quite pretty! I shall love you awfully for having so
quickly allowed me not to love you."

"Why did you send for me to-day, Lise?"

"I wanted to tell you of a longing I have. I should like some one to
torture me, marry me and then torture me, deceive me and go away. I don't
want to be happy."

"You are in love with disorder?"

"Yes, I want disorder. I keep wanting to set fire to the house. I keep
imagining how I'll creep up and set fire to the house on the sly; it must
be on the sly. They'll try to put it out, but it'll go on burning. And I
shall know and say nothing. Ah, what silliness! And how bored I am!"

She waved her hand with a look of repulsion.

"It's your luxurious life," said Alyosha, softly.

"Is it better, then, to be poor?"

"Yes, it is better."

"That's what your monk taught you. That's not true. Let me be rich and all
the rest poor, I'll eat sweets and drink cream and not give any to any one
else. Ach, don't speak, don't say anything," she shook her hand at him,
though Alyosha had not opened his mouth. "You've told me all that before,
I know it all by heart. It bores me. If I am ever poor, I shall murder
somebody, and even if I am rich, I may murder some one, perhaps--why do
nothing! But do you know, I should like to reap, cut the rye? I'll marry
you, and you shall become a peasant, a real peasant; we'll keep a colt,
shall we? Do you know Kalganov?"

"Yes."

"He is always wandering about, dreaming. He says, 'Why live in real life?
It's better to dream. One can dream the most delightful things, but real
life is a bore.' But he'll be married soon for all that; he's been making
love to me already. Can you spin tops?"

"Yes."

"Well, he's just like a top: he wants to be wound up and set spinning and
then to be lashed, lashed, lashed with a whip. If I marry him, I'll keep
him spinning all his life. You are not ashamed to be with me?"

"No."

"You are awfully cross, because I don't talk about holy things. I don't
want to be holy. What will they do to one in the next world for the
greatest sin? You must know all about that."

"God will censure you." Alyosha was watching her steadily.

"That's just what I should like. I would go up and they would censure me,
and I would burst out laughing in their faces. I should dreadfully like to
set fire to the house, Alyosha, to our house; you still don't believe me?"

"Why? There are children of twelve years old, who have a longing to set
fire to something and they do set things on fire, too. It's a sort of
disease."

"That's not true, that's not true; there may be children, but that's not
what I mean."

"You take evil for good; it's a passing crisis, it's the result of your
illness, perhaps."

"You do despise me, though! It's simply that I don't want to do good, I
want to do evil, and it has nothing to do with illness."

"Why do evil?"

"So that everything might be destroyed. Ah, how nice it would be if
everything were destroyed! You know, Alyosha, I sometimes think of doing a
fearful lot of harm and everything bad, and I should do it for a long
while on the sly and suddenly every one would find it out. Every one will
stand round and point their fingers at me and I would look at them all.
That would be awfully nice. Why would it be so nice, Alyosha?"

"I don't know. It's a craving to destroy something good or, as you say, to
set fire to something. It happens sometimes."

"I not only say it, I shall do it."

"I believe you."

"Ah, how I love you for saying you believe me. And you are not lying one
little bit. But perhaps you think that I am saying all this on purpose to
annoy you?"

"No, I don't think that ... though perhaps there is a little desire to do
that in it, too."

"There is a little. I never can tell lies to you," she declared, with a
strange fire in her eyes.

What struck Alyosha above everything was her earnestness. There was not a
trace of humor or jesting in her face now, though, in old days, fun and
gayety never deserted her even at her most "earnest" moments.

"There are moments when people love crime," said Alyosha thoughtfully.

"Yes, yes! You have uttered my thought; they love crime, every one loves
crime, they love it always, not at some 'moments.' You know, it's as
though people have made an agreement to lie about it and have lied about
it ever since. They all declare that they hate evil, but secretly they all
love it."

"And are you still reading nasty books?"

"Yes, I am. Mamma reads them and hides them under her pillow and I steal
them."

"Aren't you ashamed to destroy yourself?"

"I want to destroy myself. There's a boy here, who lay down between the
railway lines when the train was passing. Lucky fellow! Listen, your
brother is being tried now for murdering his father and every one loves
his having killed his father."

"Loves his having killed his father?"

"Yes, loves it; every one loves it! Everybody says it's so awful, but
secretly they simply love it. I for one love it."

"There is some truth in what you say about every one," said Alyosha
softly.

"Oh, what ideas you have!" Lise shrieked in delight. "And you a monk, too!
You wouldn't believe how I respect you, Alyosha, for never telling lies.
Oh, I must tell you a funny dream of mine. I sometimes dream of devils.
It's night; I am in my room with a candle and suddenly there are devils
all over the place, in all the corners, under the table, and they open the
doors; there's a crowd of them behind the doors and they want to come and
seize me. And they are just coming, just seizing me. But I suddenly cross
myself and they all draw back, though they don't go away altogether, they
stand at the doors and in the corners, waiting. And suddenly I have a
frightful longing to revile God aloud, and so I begin, and then they come
crowding back to me, delighted, and seize me again and I cross myself
again and they all draw back. It's awful fun. it takes one's breath away."

"I've had the same dream, too," said Alyosha suddenly.

"Really?" cried Lise, surprised. "I say, Alyosha, don't laugh, that's
awfully important. Could two different people have the same dream?"

"It seems they can."

"Alyosha, I tell you, it's awfully important," Lise went on, with really
excessive amazement. "It's not the dream that's important, but your having
the same dream as me. You never lie to me, don't lie now: is it true? You
are not laughing?"

"It's true."

Lise seemed extraordinarily impressed and for half a minute she was
silent.

"Alyosha, come and see me, come and see me more often," she said suddenly,
in a supplicating voice.

"I'll always come to see you, all my life," answered Alyosha firmly.

"You are the only person I can talk to, you know," Lise began again. "I
talk to no one but myself and you. Only you in the whole world. And to you
more readily than to myself. And I am not a bit ashamed with you, not a
bit. Alyosha, why am I not ashamed with you, not a bit? Alyosha, is it
true that at Easter the Jews steal a child and kill it?"

"I don't know."

"There's a book here in which I read about the trial of a Jew, who took a
child of four years old and cut off the fingers from both hands, and then
crucified him on the wall, hammered nails into him and crucified him, and
afterwards, when he was tried, he said that the child died soon, within
four hours. That was 'soon'! He said the child moaned, kept on moaning and
he stood admiring it. That's nice!"

"Nice?"

"Nice; I sometimes imagine that it was I who crucified him. He would hang
there moaning and I would sit opposite him eating pineapple _compote_. I
am awfully fond of pineapple _compote_. Do you like it?"

Alyosha looked at her in silence. Her pale, sallow face was suddenly
contorted, her eyes burned.

"You know, when I read about that Jew I shook with sobs all night. I kept
fancying how the little thing cried and moaned (a child of four years old
understands, you know), and all the while the thought of pineapple
_compote_ haunted me. In the morning I wrote a letter to a certain person,
begging him _particularly_ to come and see me. He came and I suddenly told
him all about the child and the pineapple _compote_. _All_ about it,
_all_, and said that it was nice. He laughed and said it really was nice.
Then he got up and went away. He was only here five minutes. Did he
despise me? Did he despise me? Tell me, tell me, Alyosha, did he despise
me or not?" She sat up on the couch, with flashing eyes.

"Tell me," Alyosha asked anxiously, "did you send for that person?"

"Yes, I did."

"Did you send him a letter?"

"Yes."

"Simply to ask about that, about that child?"

"No, not about that at all. But when he came, I asked him about that at
once. He answered, laughed, got up and went away."

"That person behaved honorably," Alyosha murmured.

"And did he despise me? Did he laugh at me?"

"No, for perhaps he believes in the pineapple _compote_ himself. He is
very ill now, too, Lise."

"Yes, he does believe in it," said Lise, with flashing eyes.

"He doesn't despise any one," Alyosha went on. "Only he does not believe
any one. If he doesn't believe in people, of course, he does despise
them."

"Then he despises me, me?"

"You, too."

"Good," Lise seemed to grind her teeth. "When he went out laughing, I felt
that it was nice to be despised. The child with fingers cut off is nice,
and to be despised is nice...."

And she laughed in Alyosha's face, a feverish malicious laugh.

"Do you know, Alyosha, do you know, I should like--Alyosha, save me!" She
suddenly jumped from the couch, rushed to him and seized him with both
hands. "Save me!" she almost groaned. "Is there any one in the world I
could tell what I've told you? I've told you the truth, the truth. I shall
kill myself, because I loathe everything! I don't want to live, because I
loathe everything! I loathe everything, everything. Alyosha, why don't you
love me in the least?" she finished in a frenzy.

"But I do love you!" answered Alyosha warmly.

"And will you weep over me, will you?"

"Yes."

"Not because I won't be your wife, but simply weep for me?"

"Yes."

"Thank you! It's only your tears I want. Every one else may punish me and
trample me under foot, every one, every one, not excepting _any one_. For
I don't love any one. Do you hear, not any one! On the contrary, I hate
him! Go, Alyosha; it's time you went to your brother"; she tore herself
away from him suddenly.

"How can I leave you like this?" said Alyosha, almost in alarm.

"Go to your brother, the prison will be shut; go, here's your hat. Give my
love to Mitya, go, go!"

And she almost forcibly pushed Alyosha out of the door. He looked at her
with pained surprise, when he was suddenly aware of a letter in his right
hand, a tiny letter folded up tight and sealed. He glanced at it and
instantly read the address, "To Ivan Fyodorovitch Karamazov." He looked
quickly at Lise. Her face had become almost menacing.

"Give it to him, you must give it to him!" she ordered him, trembling and
beside herself. "To-day, at once, or I'll poison myself! That's why I sent
for you."

And she slammed the door quickly. The bolt clicked. Alyosha put the note
in his pocket and went straight downstairs, without going back to Madame
Hohlakov; forgetting her, in fact. As soon as Alyosha had gone, Lise
unbolted the door, opened it a little, put her finger in the crack and
slammed the door with all her might, pinching her finger. Ten seconds
after, releasing her finger, she walked softly, slowly to her chair, sat
up straight in it and looked intently at her blackened finger and at the
blood that oozed from under the nail. Her lips were quivering and she kept
whispering rapidly to herself:

"I am a wretch, wretch, wretch, wretch!"

When Alyosha arrives, Lise is also a nervous wreck. She tells him that she craves "disorder," that she wants to suffer. She also tells him that Kalganov has even proposed to her. Lise tells him that she has horrible dreams involving tiny devils infesting her closets. Alyosha admits that he has had the same dream. She also dreams that a - prepare yourself for ugly anti-Semitism here - Jew is torturing a small child while she eats pineapple compote. Alyosha is surprised to learn that Lise actually invited Ivan and talked to him about her dream. Ivan had laughed at her and left. Lise passes Alyosha a note to give to Ivan. When he leaves, she slams the door on her own finger.

A Little Demon Lise is nearly hysterical when Alyosha goes in to see her. After they decided to become engaged, she changed her mind and broke off the engagement, and now, she says, she does not even respect Alyosha, because she cannot respect anyone or anything. She says that she wants to die because the world is so loathsome. She describes speaking to a "certain man" about this subject and says that the man laughed at her and left. She asks if the man despised her, and Alyosha says that he did not. As Alyosha rises to leave, Lise gives him a note for Ivan. When Alyosha is gone, she slams her finger in the door, crushing her fingernail. As she looks down at the blackened, bloody nail, she whispers to herself that she is mean