Book III. The Sensualists Chapter I. In The Servants' Quarters

The Karamazovs' house was far from being in the center of the town, but it
was not quite outside it. It was a pleasant-looking old house of two
stories, painted gray, with a red iron roof. It was roomy and snug, and
might still last many years. There were all sorts of unexpected little
cupboards and closets and staircases. There were rats in it, but Fyodor
Pavlovitch did not altogether dislike them. "One doesn't feel so solitary
when one's left alone in the evening," he used to say. It was his habit to
send the servants away to the lodge for the night and to lock himself up
alone. The lodge was a roomy and solid building in the yard. Fyodor
Pavlovitch used to have the cooking done there, although there was a
kitchen in the house; he did not like the smell of cooking, and, winter
and summer alike, the dishes were carried in across the courtyard. The
house was built for a large family; there was room for five times as many,
with their servants. But at the time of our story there was no one living
in the house but Fyodor Pavlovitch and his son Ivan. And in the lodge
there were only three servants: old Grigory, and his old wife Marfa, and a
young man called Smerdyakov. Of these three we must say a few words. Of
old Grigory we have said something already. He was firm and determined and
went blindly and obstinately for his object, if once he had been brought
by any reasons (and they were often very illogical ones) to believe that
it was immutably right. He was honest and incorruptible. His wife, Marfa
Ignatyevna, had obeyed her husband's will implicitly all her life, yet she
had pestered him terribly after the emancipation of the serfs. She was set
on leaving Fyodor Pavlovitch and opening a little shop in Moscow with
their small savings. But Grigory decided then, once for all, that "the
woman's talking nonsense, for every woman is dishonest," and that they
ought not to leave their old master, whatever he might be, for "that was
now their duty."

"Do you understand what duty is?" he asked Marfa Ignatyevna.

"I understand what duty means, Grigory Vassilyevitch, but why it's our
duty to stay here I never shall understand," Marfa answered firmly.

"Well, don't understand then. But so it shall be. And you hold your
tongue."

And so it was. They did not go away, and Fyodor Pavlovitch promised them a
small sum for wages, and paid it regularly. Grigory knew, too, that he had
an indisputable influence over his master. It was true, and he was aware
of it. Fyodor Pavlovitch was an obstinate and cunning buffoon, yet, though
his will was strong enough "in some of the affairs of life," as he
expressed it, he found himself, to his surprise, extremely feeble in
facing certain other emergencies. He knew his weaknesses and was afraid of
them. There are positions in which one has to keep a sharp look out. And
that's not easy without a trustworthy man, and Grigory was a most
trustworthy man. Many times in the course of his life Fyodor Pavlovitch
had only just escaped a sound thrashing through Grigory's intervention,
and on each occasion the old servant gave him a good lecture. But it
wasn't only thrashings that Fyodor Pavlovitch was afraid of. There were
graver occasions, and very subtle and complicated ones, when Fyodor
Pavlovitch could not have explained the extraordinary craving for some one
faithful and devoted, which sometimes unaccountably came upon him all in a
moment. It was almost a morbid condition. Corrupt and often cruel in his
lust, like some noxious insect, Fyodor Pavlovitch was sometimes, in
moments of drunkenness, overcome by superstitious terror and a moral
convulsion which took an almost physical form. "My soul's simply quaking
in my throat at those times," he used to say. At such moments he liked to
feel that there was near at hand, in the lodge if not in the room, a
strong, faithful man, virtuous and unlike himself, who had seen all his
debauchery and knew all his secrets, but was ready in his devotion to
overlook all that, not to oppose him, above all, not to reproach him or
threaten him with anything, either in this world or in the next, and, in
case of need, to defend him--from whom? From somebody unknown, but terrible
and dangerous. What he needed was to feel that there was _another_ man, an
old and tried friend, that he might call him in his sick moments merely to
look at his face, or, perhaps, exchange some quite irrelevant words with
him. And if the old servant were not angry, he felt comforted, and if he
were angry, he was more dejected. It happened even (very rarely however)
that Fyodor Pavlovitch went at night to the lodge to wake Grigory and
fetch him for a moment. When the old man came, Fyodor Pavlovitch would
begin talking about the most trivial matters, and would soon let him go
again, sometimes even with a jest. And after he had gone, Fyodor
Pavlovitch would get into bed with a curse and sleep the sleep of the
just. Something of the same sort had happened to Fyodor Pavlovitch on
Alyosha's arrival. Alyosha "pierced his heart" by "living with him, seeing
everything and blaming nothing." Moreover, Alyosha brought with him
something his father had never known before: a complete absence of
contempt for him and an invariable kindness, a perfectly natural
unaffected devotion to the old man who deserved it so little. All this was
a complete surprise to the old profligate, who had dropped all family
ties. It was a new and surprising experience for him, who had till then
loved nothing but "evil." When Alyosha had left him, he confessed to
himself that he had learnt something he had not till then been willing to
learn.

I have mentioned already that Grigory had detested Adelaida Ivanovna, the
first wife of Fyodor Pavlovitch and the mother of Dmitri, and that he had,
on the contrary, protected Sofya Ivanovna, the poor "crazy woman," against
his master and any one who chanced to speak ill or lightly of her. His
sympathy for the unhappy wife had become something sacred to him, so that
even now, twenty years after, he could not bear a slighting allusion to
her from any one, and would at once check the offender. Externally,
Grigory was cold, dignified and taciturn, and spoke, weighing his words,
without frivolity. It was impossible to tell at first sight whether he
loved his meek, obedient wife; but he really did love her, and she knew
it.

Marfa Ignatyevna was by no means foolish; she was probably, indeed,
cleverer than her husband, or, at least, more prudent than he in worldly
affairs, and yet she had given in to him in everything without question or
complaint ever since her marriage, and respected him for his spiritual
superiority. It was remarkable how little they spoke to one another in the
course of their lives, and only of the most necessary daily affairs. The
grave and dignified Grigory thought over all his cares and duties alone,
so that Marfa Ignatyevna had long grown used to knowing that he did not
need her advice. She felt that her husband respected her silence, and took
it as a sign of her good sense. He had never beaten her but once, and then
only slightly. Once during the year after Fyodor Pavlovitch's marriage
with Adelaida Ivanovna, the village girls and women--at that time
serfs--were called together before the house to sing and dance. They were
beginning "In the Green Meadows," when Marfa, at that time a young woman,
skipped forward and danced "the Russian Dance," not in the village
fashion, but as she had danced it when she was a servant in the service of
the rich Miuesov family, in their private theater, where the actors were
taught to dance by a dancing master from Moscow. Grigory saw how his wife
danced, and, an hour later, at home in their cottage he gave her a lesson,
pulling her hair a little. But there it ended: the beating was never
repeated, and Marfa Ignatyevna gave up dancing.

God had not blessed them with children. One child was born but it died.
Grigory was fond of children, and was not ashamed of showing it. When
Adelaida Ivanovna had run away, Grigory took Dmitri, then a child of three
years old, combed his hair and washed him in a tub with his own hands, and
looked after him for almost a year. Afterwards he had looked after Ivan
and Alyosha, for which the general's widow had rewarded him with a slap in
the face; but I have already related all that. The only happiness his own
child had brought him had been in the anticipation of its birth. When it
was born, he was overwhelmed with grief and horror. The baby had six
fingers. Grigory was so crushed by this, that he was not only silent till
the day of the christening, but kept away in the garden. It was spring,
and he spent three days digging the kitchen garden. The third day was
fixed for christening the baby: mean-time Grigory had reached a
conclusion. Going into the cottage where the clergy were assembled and the
visitors had arrived, including Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was to stand god-
father, he suddenly announced that the baby "ought not to be christened at
all." He announced this quietly, briefly, forcing out his words, and
gazing with dull intentness at the priest.

"Why not?" asked the priest with good-humored surprise.

"Because it's a dragon," muttered Grigory.

"A dragon? What dragon?"

Grigory did not speak for some time. "It's a confusion of nature," he
muttered vaguely, but firmly, and obviously unwilling to say more.

They laughed, and of course christened the poor baby. Grigory prayed
earnestly at the font, but his opinion of the new-born child remained
unchanged. Yet he did not interfere in any way. As long as the sickly
infant lived he scarcely looked at it, tried indeed not to notice it, and
for the most part kept out of the cottage. But when, at the end of a
fortnight, the baby died of thrush, he himself laid the child in its
little coffin, looked at it in profound grief, and when they were filling
up the shallow little grave he fell on his knees and bowed down to the
earth. He did not for years afterwards mention his child, nor did Marfa
speak of the baby before him, and, even if Grigory were not present, she
never spoke of it above a whisper. Marfa observed that, from the day of
the burial, he devoted himself to "religion," and took to reading the
_Lives of the Saints_, for the most part sitting alone and in silence, and
always putting on his big, round, silver-rimmed spectacles. He rarely read
aloud, only perhaps in Lent. He was fond of the Book of Job, and had
somehow got hold of a copy of the sayings and sermons of "the God-fearing
Father Isaac the Syrian," which he read persistently for years together,
understanding very little of it, but perhaps prizing and loving it the
more for that. Of late he had begun to listen to the doctrines of the sect
of Flagellants settled in the neighborhood. He was evidently shaken by
them, but judged it unfitting to go over to the new faith. His habit of
theological reading gave him an expression of still greater gravity.

He was perhaps predisposed to mysticism. And the birth of his deformed
child, and its death, had, as though by special design, been accompanied
by another strange and marvelous event, which, as he said later, had left
a "stamp" upon his soul. It happened that, on the very night after the
burial of his child, Marfa was awakened by the wail of a new-born baby.
She was frightened and waked her husband. He listened and said he thought
it was more like some one groaning, "it might be a woman." He got up and
dressed. It was a rather warm night in May. As he went down the steps, he
distinctly heard groans coming from the garden. But the gate from the yard
into the garden was locked at night, and there was no other way of
entering it, for it was enclosed all round by a strong, high fence. Going
back into the house, Grigory lighted a lantern, took the garden key, and
taking no notice of the hysterical fears of his wife, who was still
persuaded that she heard a child crying, and that it was her own baby
crying and calling for her, went into the garden in silence. There he
heard at once that the groans came from the bath-house that stood near the
garden gate, and that they were the groans of a woman. Opening the door of
the bath-house, he saw a sight which petrified him. An idiot girl, who
wandered about the streets and was known to the whole town by the nickname
of Lizaveta Smerdyastchaya (Stinking Lizaveta), had got into the bath-
house and had just given birth to a child. She lay dying with the baby
beside her. She said nothing, for she had never been able to speak. But
her story needs a chapter to itself.

Chapter II. Lizaveta

There was one circumstance which struck Grigory particularly, and
confirmed a very unpleasant and revolting suspicion. This Lizaveta was a
dwarfish creature, "not five foot within a wee bit," as many of the pious
old women said pathetically about her, after her death. Her broad,
healthy, red face had a look of blank idiocy and the fixed stare in her
eyes was unpleasant, in spite of their meek expression. She wandered
about, summer and winter alike, barefooted, wearing nothing but a hempen
smock. Her coarse, almost black hair curled like lamb's wool, and formed a
sort of huge cap on her head. It was always crusted with mud, and had
leaves, bits of stick, and shavings clinging to it, as she always slept on
the ground and in the dirt. Her father, a homeless, sickly drunkard,
called Ilya, had lost everything and lived many years as a workman with
some well-to-do tradespeople. Her mother had long been dead. Spiteful and
diseased, Ilya used to beat Lizaveta inhumanly whenever she returned to
him. But she rarely did so, for every one in the town was ready to look
after her as being an idiot, and so specially dear to God. Ilya's
employers, and many others in the town, especially of the tradespeople,
tried to clothe her better, and always rigged her out with high boots and
sheepskin coat for the winter. But, although she allowed them to dress her
up without resisting, she usually went away, preferably to the cathedral
porch, and taking off all that had been given her--kerchief, sheepskin,
skirt or boots--she left them there and walked away barefoot in her smock
as before. It happened on one occasion that a new governor of the
province, making a tour of inspection in our town, saw Lizaveta, and was
wounded in his tenderest susceptibilities. And though he was told she was
an idiot, he pronounced that for a young woman of twenty to wander about
in nothing but a smock was a breach of the proprieties, and must not occur
again. But the governor went his way, and Lizaveta was left as she was. At
last her father died, which made her even more acceptable in the eyes of
the religious persons of the town, as an orphan. In fact, every one seemed
to like her; even the boys did not tease her, and the boys of our town,
especially the schoolboys, are a mischievous set. She would walk into
strange houses, and no one drove her away. Every one was kind to her and
gave her something. If she were given a copper, she would take it, and at
once drop it in the alms-jug of the church or prison. If she were given a
roll or bun in the market, she would hand it to the first child she met.
Sometimes she would stop one of the richest ladies in the town and give it
to her, and the lady would be pleased to take it. She herself never tasted
anything but black bread and water. If she went into an expensive shop,
where there were costly goods or money lying about, no one kept watch on
her, for they knew that if she saw thousands of roubles overlooked by
them, she would not have touched a farthing. She scarcely ever went to
church. She slept either in the church porch or climbed over a hurdle
(there are many hurdles instead of fences to this day in our town) into a
kitchen garden. She used at least once a week to turn up "at home," that
is at the house of her father's former employers, and in the winter went
there every night, and slept either in the passage or the cowhouse. People
were amazed that she could stand such a life, but she was accustomed to
it, and, although she was so tiny, she was of a robust constitution. Some
of the townspeople declared that she did all this only from pride, but
that is hardly credible. She could hardly speak, and only from time to
time uttered an inarticulate grunt. How could she have been proud?

It happened one clear, warm, moonlight night in September (many years ago)
five or six drunken revelers were returning from the club at a very late
hour, according to our provincial notions. They passed through the "back-
way," which led between the back gardens of the houses, with hurdles on
either side. This way leads out on to the bridge over the long, stinking
pool which we were accustomed to call a river. Among the nettles and
burdocks under the hurdle our revelers saw Lizaveta asleep. They stopped
to look at her, laughing, and began jesting with unbridled licentiousness.
It occurred to one young gentleman to make the whimsical inquiry whether
any one could possibly look upon such an animal as a woman, and so
forth.... They all pronounced with lofty repugnance that it was
impossible. But Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was among them, sprang forward and
declared that it was by no means impossible, and that, indeed, there was a
certain piquancy about it, and so on.... It is true that at that time he
was overdoing his part as a buffoon. He liked to put himself forward and
entertain the company, ostensibly on equal terms, of course, though in
reality he was on a servile footing with them. It was just at the time
when he had received the news of his first wife's death in Petersburg,
and, with crape upon his hat, was drinking and behaving so shamelessly
that even the most reckless among us were shocked at the sight of him. The
revelers, of course, laughed at this unexpected opinion; and one of them
even began challenging him to act upon it. The others repelled the idea
even more emphatically, although still with the utmost hilarity, and at
last they went on their way. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch swore that he had
gone with them, and perhaps it was so, no one knows for certain, and no
one ever knew. But five or six months later, all the town was talking,
with intense and sincere indignation, of Lizaveta's condition, and trying
to find out who was the miscreant who had wronged her. Then suddenly a
terrible rumor was all over the town that this miscreant was no other than
Fyodor Pavlovitch. Who set the rumor going? Of that drunken band five had
left the town and the only one still among us was an elderly and much
respected civil councilor, the father of grown-up daughters, who could
hardly have spread the tale, even if there had been any foundation for it.
But rumor pointed straight at Fyodor Pavlovitch, and persisted in pointing
at him. Of course this was no great grievance to him: he would not have
troubled to contradict a set of tradespeople. In those days he was proud,
and did not condescend to talk except in his own circle of the officials
and nobles, whom he entertained so well.

At the time, Grigory stood up for his master vigorously. He provoked
quarrels and altercations in defense of him and succeeded in bringing some
people round to his side. "It's the wench's own fault," he asserted, and
the culprit was Karp, a dangerous convict, who had escaped from prison and
whose name was well known to us, as he had hidden in our town. This
conjecture sounded plausible, for it was remembered that Karp had been in
the neighborhood just at that time in the autumn, and had robbed three
people. But this affair and all the talk about it did not estrange popular
sympathy from the poor idiot. She was better looked after than ever. A
well-to-do merchant's widow named Kondratyev arranged to take her into her
house at the end of April, meaning not to let her go out until after the
confinement. They kept a constant watch over her, but in spite of their
vigilance she escaped on the very last day, and made her way into Fyodor
Pavlovitch's garden. How, in her condition, she managed to climb over the
high, strong fence remained a mystery. Some maintained that she must have
been lifted over by somebody; others hinted at something more uncanny. The
most likely explanation is that it happened naturally--that Lizaveta,
accustomed to clambering over hurdles to sleep in gardens, had somehow
managed to climb this fence, in spite of her condition, and had leapt
down, injuring herself.

Grigory rushed to Marfa and sent her to Lizaveta, while he ran to fetch an
old midwife who lived close by. They saved the baby, but Lizaveta died at
dawn. Grigory took the baby, brought it home, and making his wife sit
down, put it on her lap. "A child of God--an orphan is akin to all," he
said, "and to us above others. Our little lost one has sent us this, who
has come from the devil's son and a holy innocent. Nurse him and weep no
more."

So Marfa brought up the child. He was christened Pavel, to which people
were not slow in adding Fyodorovitch (son of Fyodor). Fyodor Pavlovitch
did not object to any of this, and thought it amusing, though he persisted
vigorously in denying his responsibility. The townspeople were pleased at
his adopting the foundling. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch invented a surname
for the child, calling him Smerdyakov, after his mother's nickname.

So this Smerdyakov became Fyodor Pavlovitch's second servant, and was
living in the lodge with Grigory and Marfa at the time our story begins.
He was employed as cook. I ought to say something of this Smerdyakov, but
I am ashamed of keeping my readers' attention so long occupied with these
common menials, and I will go back to my story, hoping to say more of
Smerdyakov in the course of it.

Chapter III. The Confession Of A Passionate Heart--In Verse

Alyosha remained for some time irresolute after hearing the command his
father shouted to him from the carriage. But in spite of his uneasiness he
did not stand still. That was not his way. He went at once to the kitchen
to find out what his father had been doing above. Then he set off,
trusting that on the way he would find some answer to the doubt tormenting
him. I hasten to add that his father's shouts, commanding him to return
home "with his mattress and pillow" did not frighten him in the least. He
understood perfectly that those peremptory shouts were merely "a flourish"
to produce an effect. In the same way a tradesman in our town who was
celebrating his name-day with a party of friends, getting angry at being
refused more vodka, smashed up his own crockery and furniture and tore his
own and his wife's clothes, and finally broke his windows, all for the
sake of effect. Next day, of course, when he was sober, he regretted the
broken cups and saucers. Alyosha knew that his father would let him go
back to the monastery next day, possibly even that evening. Moreover, he
was fully persuaded that his father might hurt any one else, but would not
hurt him. Alyosha was certain that no one in the whole world ever would
want to hurt him, and, what is more, he knew that no one could hurt him.
This was for him an axiom, assumed once for all without question, and he
went his way without hesitation, relying on it.

But at that moment an anxiety of a different sort disturbed him, and
worried him the more because he could not formulate it. It was the fear of
a woman, of Katerina Ivanovna, who had so urgently entreated him in the
note handed to him by Madame Hohlakov to come and see her about something.
This request and the necessity of going had at once aroused an uneasy
feeling in his heart, and this feeling had grown more and more painful all
the morning in spite of the scenes at the hermitage and at the Father
Superior's. He was not uneasy because he did not know what she would speak
of and what he must answer. And he was not afraid of her simply as a
woman. Though he knew little of women, he had spent his life, from early
childhood till he entered the monastery, entirely with women. He was
afraid of that woman, Katerina Ivanovna. He had been afraid of her from
the first time he saw her. He had only seen her two or three times, and
had only chanced to say a few words to her. He thought of her as a
beautiful, proud, imperious girl. It was not her beauty which troubled
him, but something else. And the vagueness of his apprehension increased
the apprehension itself. The girl's aims were of the noblest, he knew
that. She was trying to save his brother Dmitri simply through generosity,
though he had already behaved badly to her. Yet, although Alyosha
recognized and did justice to all these fine and generous sentiments, a
shiver began to run down his back as soon as he drew near her house.

He reflected that he would not find Ivan, who was so intimate a friend,
with her, for Ivan was certainly now with his father. Dmitri he was even
more certain not to find there, and he had a foreboding of the reason. And
so his conversation would be with her alone. He had a great longing to run
and see his brother Dmitri before that fateful interview. Without showing
him the letter, he could talk to him about it. But Dmitri lived a long way
off, and he was sure to be away from home too. Standing still for a
minute, he reached a final decision. Crossing himself with a rapid and
accustomed gesture, and at once smiling, he turned resolutely in the
direction of his terrible lady.

He knew her house. If he went by the High Street and then across the
market-place, it was a long way round. Though our town is small, it is
scattered, and the houses are far apart. And meanwhile his father was
expecting him, and perhaps had not yet forgotten his command. He might be
unreasonable, and so he had to make haste to get there and back. So he
decided to take a short cut by the back-way, for he knew every inch of the
ground. This meant skirting fences, climbing over hurdles, and crossing
other people's back-yards, where every one he met knew him and greeted
him. In this way he could reach the High Street in half the time.

He had to pass the garden adjoining his father's, and belonging to a
little tumbledown house with four windows. The owner of this house, as
Alyosha knew, was a bedridden old woman, living with her daughter, who had
been a genteel maid-servant in generals' families in Petersburg. Now she
had been at home a year, looking after her sick mother. She always dressed
up in fine clothes, though her old mother and she had sunk into such
poverty that they went every day to Fyodor Pavlovitch's kitchen for soup
and bread, which Marfa gave readily. Yet, though the young woman came up
for soup, she had never sold any of her dresses, and one of these even had
a long train--a fact which Alyosha had learned from Rakitin, who always
knew everything that was going on in the town. He had forgotten it as soon
as he heard it, but now, on reaching the garden, he remembered the dress
with the train, raised his head, which had been bowed in thought, and came
upon something quite unexpected.

Over the hurdle in the garden, Dmitri, mounted on something, was leaning
forward, gesticulating violently, beckoning to him, obviously afraid to
utter a word for fear of being overheard. Alyosha ran up to the hurdle.

"It's a good thing you looked up. I was nearly shouting to you," Mitya
said in a joyful, hurried whisper. "Climb in here quickly! How splendid
that you've come! I was just thinking of you!"

Alyosha was delighted too, but he did not know how to get over the hurdle.
Mitya put his powerful hand under his elbow to help him jump. Tucking up
his cassock, Alyosha leapt over the hurdle with the agility of a bare-
legged street urchin.

"Well done! Now come along," said Mitya in an enthusiastic whisper.

"Where?" whispered Alyosha, looking about him and finding himself in a
deserted garden with no one near but themselves. The garden was small, but
the house was at least fifty paces away.

"There's no one here. Why do you whisper?" asked Alyosha.

"Why do I whisper? Deuce take it!" cried Dmitri at the top of his voice.
"You see what silly tricks nature plays one. I am here in secret, and on
the watch. I'll explain later on, but, knowing it's a secret, I began
whispering like a fool, when there's no need. Let us go. Over there. Till
then be quiet. I want to kiss you.

    Glory to God in the world,
    Glory to God in me ...

I was just repeating that, sitting here, before you came."

The garden was about three acres in extent, and planted with trees only
along the fence at the four sides. There were apple-trees, maples, limes
and birch-trees. The middle of the garden was an empty grass space, from
which several hundredweight of hay was carried in the summer. The garden
was let out for a few roubles for the summer. There were also plantations
of raspberries and currants and gooseberries laid out along the sides; a
kitchen garden had been planted lately near the house.

Dmitri led his brother to the most secluded corner of the garden. There,
in a thicket of lime-trees and old bushes of black currant, elder,
snowball-tree, and lilac, there stood a tumble-down green summer-house,
blackened with age. Its walls were of lattice-work, but there was still a
roof which could give shelter. God knows when this summer-house was built.
There was a tradition that it had been put up some fifty years before by a
retired colonel called von Schmidt, who owned the house at that time. It
was all in decay, the floor was rotting, the planks were loose, the
woodwork smelled musty. In the summer-house there was a green wooden table
fixed in the ground, and round it were some green benches upon which it
was still possible to sit. Alyosha had at once observed his brother's
exhilarated condition, and on entering the arbor he saw half a bottle of
brandy and a wineglass on the table.

"That's brandy," Mitya laughed. "I see your look: 'He's drinking again!'
Distrust the apparition.

    Distrust the worthless, lying crowd,
    And lay aside thy doubts.

I'm not drinking, I'm only 'indulging,' as that pig, your Rakitin, says.
He'll be a civil councilor one day, but he'll always talk about
'indulging.' Sit down. I could take you in my arms, Alyosha, and press you
to my bosom till I crush you, for in the whole world--in reality--in re-al-
i-ty--(can you take it in?) I love no one but you!"

He uttered the last words in a sort of exaltation.

"No one but you and one 'jade' I have fallen in love with, to my ruin. But
being in love doesn't mean loving. You may be in love with a woman and yet
hate her. Remember that! I can talk about it gayly still. Sit down here by
the table and I'll sit beside you and look at you, and go on talking. You
shall keep quiet and I'll go on talking, for the time has come. But on
reflection, you know, I'd better speak quietly, for here--here--you can
never tell what ears are listening. I will explain everything; as they
say, 'the story will be continued.' Why have I been longing for you? Why
have I been thirsting for you all these days, and just now? (It's five
days since I've cast anchor here.) Because it's only to you I can tell
everything; because I must, because I need you, because to-morrow I shall
fly from the clouds, because to-morrow life is ending and beginning. Have
you ever felt, have you ever dreamt of falling down a precipice into a
pit? That's just how I'm falling, but not in a dream. And I'm not afraid,
and don't you be afraid. At least, I am afraid, but I enjoy it. It's not
enjoyment though, but ecstasy. Damn it all, whatever it is! A strong
spirit, a weak spirit, a womanish spirit--whatever it is! Let us praise
nature: you see what sunshine, how clear the sky is, the leaves are all
green, it's still summer; four o'clock in the afternoon and the stillness!
Where were you going?"

"I was going to father's, but I meant to go to Katerina Ivanovna's first."

"To her, and to father! Oo! what a coincidence! Why was I waiting for you?
Hungering and thirsting for you in every cranny of my soul and even in my
ribs? Why, to send you to father and to her, Katerina Ivanovna, so as to
have done with her and with father. To send an angel. I might have sent
any one, but I wanted to send an angel. And here you are on your way to
see father and her."

"Did you really mean to send me?" cried Alyosha with a distressed
expression.

"Stay! You knew it! And I see you understand it all at once. But be quiet,
be quiet for a time. Don't be sorry, and don't cry."

Dmitri stood up, thought a moment, and put his finger to his forehead.

"She's asked you, written to you a letter or something, that's why you're
going to her? You wouldn't be going except for that?"

"Here is her note." Alyosha took it out of his pocket. Mitya looked
through it quickly.

"And you were going the back-way! Oh, gods, I thank you for sending him by
the back-way, and he came to me like the golden fish to the silly old
fishermen in the fable! Listen, Alyosha, listen, brother! Now I mean to
tell you everything, for I must tell some one. An angel in heaven I've
told already; but I want to tell an angel on earth. You are an angel on
earth. You will hear and judge and forgive. And that's what I need, that
some one above me should forgive. Listen! If two people break away from
everything on earth and fly off into the unknown, or at least one of them,
and before flying off or going to ruin he comes to some one else and says,
'Do this for me'--some favor never asked before that could only be asked on
one's deathbed--would that other refuse, if he were a friend or a brother?"

"I will do it, but tell me what it is, and make haste," said Alyosha.

"Make haste! H'm!... Don't be in a hurry, Alyosha, you hurry and worry
yourself. There's no need to hurry now. Now the world has taken a new
turning. Ah, Alyosha, what a pity you can't understand ecstasy. But what
am I saying to him? As though you didn't understand it. What an ass I am!
What am I saying? 'Be noble, O man!'--who says that?"

Alyosha made up his mind to wait. He felt that, perhaps, indeed, his work
lay here. Mitya sank into thought for a moment, with his elbow on the
table and his head in his hand. Both were silent.

"Alyosha," said Mitya, "you're the only one who won't laugh. I should like
to begin--my confession--with Schiller's _Hymn to Joy_, _An die Freude_! I
don't know German, I only know it's called that. Don't think I'm talking
nonsense because I'm drunk. I'm not a bit drunk. Brandy's all very well,
but I need two bottles to make me drunk:

    Silenus with his rosy phiz
    Upon his stumbling ass.

But I've not drunk a quarter of a bottle, and I'm not Silenus. I'm not
Silenus, though I am strong,(1) for I've made a decision once for all.
Forgive me the pun; you'll have to forgive me a lot more than puns to-day.
Don't be uneasy. I'm not spinning it out. I'm talking sense, and I'll come
to the point in a minute. I won't keep you in suspense. Stay, how does it
go?"

He raised his head, thought a minute, and began with enthusiasm:

    "Wild and fearful in his cavern
     Hid the naked troglodyte,
     And the homeless nomad wandered
     Laying waste the fertile plain.
     Menacing with spear and arrow
     In the woods the hunter strayed....
     Woe to all poor wretches stranded
     On those cruel and hostile shores!

    "From the peak of high Olympus
     Came the mother Ceres down,
     Seeking in those savage regions
     Her lost daughter Proserpine.
     But the Goddess found no refuge,
     Found no kindly welcome there,
     And no temple bearing witness
     To the worship of the gods.

    "From the fields and from the vineyards
     Came no fruits to deck the feasts,
     Only flesh of bloodstained victims
     Smoldered on the altar-fires,
     And where'er the grieving goddess
     Turns her melancholy gaze,
     Sunk in vilest degradation
     Man his loathsomeness displays."

Mitya broke into sobs and seized Alyosha's hand.

"My dear, my dear, in degradation, in degradation now, too. There's a
terrible amount of suffering for man on earth, a terrible lot of trouble.
Don't think I'm only a brute in an officer's uniform, wallowing in dirt
and drink. I hardly think of anything but of that degraded man--if only I'm
not lying. I pray God I'm not lying and showing off. I think about that
man because I am that man myself.

    Would he purge his soul from vileness
    And attain to light and worth,
    He must turn and cling for ever
    To his ancient Mother Earth.

But the difficulty is how am I to cling for ever to Mother Earth. I don't
kiss her. I don't cleave to her bosom. Am I to become a peasant or a
shepherd? I go on and I don't know whether I'm going to shame or to light
and joy. That's the trouble, for everything in the world is a riddle! And
whenever I've happened to sink into the vilest degradation (and it's
always been happening) I always read that poem about Ceres and man. Has it
reformed me? Never! For I'm a Karamazov. For when I do leap into the pit,
I go headlong with my heels up, and am pleased to be falling in that
degrading attitude, and pride myself upon it. And in the very depths of
that degradation I begin a hymn of praise. Let me be accursed. Let me be
vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is
shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I
love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand.

    Joy everlasting fostereth
    The soul of all creation,
    It is her secret ferment fires
    The cup of life with flame.
    'Tis at her beck the grass hath turned
    Each blade towards the light
    And solar systems have evolved
    From chaos and dark night,
    Filling the realms of boundless space
    Beyond the sage's sight.
    At bounteous Nature's kindly breast,
    All things that breathe drink Joy,
    And birds and beasts and creeping things
    All follow where She leads.
    Her gifts to man are friends in need,
    The wreath, the foaming must,
    To angels--vision of God's throne,
    To insects--sensual lust.

But enough poetry! I am in tears; let me cry. It may be foolishness that
every one would laugh at. But you won't laugh. Your eyes are shining, too.
Enough poetry. I want to tell you now about the insects to whom God gave
"sensual lust."

    To insects--sensual lust.

I am that insect, brother, and it is said of me specially. All we
Karamazovs are such insects, and, angel as you are, that insect lives in
you, too, and will stir up a tempest in your blood. Tempests, because
sensual lust is a tempest--worse than a tempest! Beauty is a terrible and
awful thing! It is terrible because it has not been fathomed and never can
be fathomed, for God sets us nothing but riddles. Here the boundaries meet
and all contradictions exist side by side. I am not a cultivated man,
brother, but I've thought a lot about this. It's terrible what mysteries
there are! Too many riddles weigh men down on earth. We must solve them as
we can, and try to keep a dry skin in the water. Beauty! I can't endure
the thought that a man of lofty mind and heart begins with the ideal of
the Madonna and ends with the ideal of Sodom. What's still more awful is
that a man with the ideal of Sodom in his soul does not renounce the ideal
of the Madonna, and his heart may be on fire with that ideal, genuinely on
fire, just as in his days of youth and innocence. Yes, man is broad, too
broad, indeed. I'd have him narrower. The devil only knows what to make of
it! What to the mind is shameful is beauty and nothing else to the heart.
Is there beauty in Sodom? Believe me, that for the immense mass of mankind
beauty is found in Sodom. Did you know that secret? The awful thing is
that beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and the devil are
fighting there and the battlefield is the heart of man. But a man always
talks of his own ache. Listen, now to come to facts."

Chapter IV. The Confession Of A Passionate Heart--In Anecdote

"I was leading a wild life then. Father said just now that I spent several
thousand roubles in seducing young girls. That's a swinish invention, and
there was nothing of the sort. And if there was, I didn't need money
simply for _that_. With me money is an accessory, the overflow of my
heart, the framework. To-day she would be my lady, to-morrow a wench out
of the streets in her place. I entertained them both. I threw away money
by the handful on music, rioting, and gypsies. Sometimes I gave it to the
ladies, too, for they'll take it greedily, that must be admitted, and be
pleased and thankful for it. Ladies used to be fond of me: not all of
them, but it happened, it happened. But I always liked side-paths, little
dark back-alleys behind the main road--there one finds adventures and
surprises, and precious metal in the dirt. I am speaking figuratively,
brother. In the town I was in, there were no such back-alleys in the
literal sense, but morally there were. If you were like me, you'd know
what that means. I loved vice, I loved the ignominy of vice. I loved
cruelty; am I not a bug, am I not a noxious insect? In fact a Karamazov!
Once we went, a whole lot of us, for a picnic, in seven sledges. It was
dark, it was winter, and I began squeezing a girl's hand, and forced her
to kiss me. She was the daughter of an official, a sweet, gentle,
submissive creature. She allowed me, she allowed me much in the dark. She
thought, poor thing, that I should come next day to make her an offer (I
was looked upon as a good match, too). But I didn't say a word to her for
five months. I used to see her in a corner at dances (we were always
having dances), her eyes watching me. I saw how they glowed with fire--a
fire of gentle indignation. This game only tickled that insect lust I
cherished in my soul. Five months later she married an official and left
the town, still angry, and still, perhaps, in love with me. Now they live
happily. Observe that I told no one. I didn't boast of it. Though I'm full
of low desires, and love what's low, I'm not dishonorable. You're
blushing; your eyes flashed. Enough of this filth with you. And all this
was nothing much--wayside blossoms _a la_ Paul de Kock--though the cruel
insect had already grown strong in my soul. I've a perfect album of
reminiscences, brother. God bless them, the darlings. I tried to break it
off without quarreling. And I never gave them away. I never bragged of one
of them. But that's enough. You can't suppose I brought you here simply to
talk of such nonsense. No, I'm going to tell you something more curious;
and don't be surprised that I'm glad to tell you, instead of being
ashamed."

"You say that because I blushed," Alyosha said suddenly. "I wasn't
blushing at what you were saying or at what you've done. I blushed because
I am the same as you are."

"You? Come, that's going a little too far!"

"No, it's not too far," said Alyosha warmly (obviously the idea was not a
new one). "The ladder's the same. I'm at the bottom step, and you're
above, somewhere about the thirteenth. That's how I see it. But it's all
the same. Absolutely the same in kind. Any one on the bottom step is bound
to go up to the top one."

"Then one ought not to step on at all."

"Any one who can help it had better not."

"But can you?"

"I think not."

"Hush, Alyosha, hush, darling! I could kiss your hand, you touch me so.
That rogue Grushenka has an eye for men. She told me once that she'd
devour you one day. There, there, I won't! From this field of corruption
fouled by flies, let's pass to my tragedy, also befouled by flies, that is
by every sort of vileness. Although the old man told lies about my
seducing innocence, there really was something of the sort in my tragedy,
though it was only once, and then it did not come off. The old man who has
reproached me with what never happened does not even know of this fact; I
never told any one about it. You're the first, except Ivan, of course--Ivan
knows everything. He knew about it long before you. But Ivan's a tomb."

"Ivan's a tomb?"

"Yes."

Alyosha listened with great attention.

"I was lieutenant in a line regiment, but still I was under supervision,
like a kind of convict. Yet I was awfully well received in the little
town. I spent money right and left. I was thought to be rich; I thought so
myself. But I must have pleased them in other ways as well. Although they
shook their heads over me, they liked me. My colonel, who was an old man,
took a sudden dislike to me. He was always down upon me, but I had
powerful friends, and, moreover, all the town was on my side, so he
couldn't do me much harm. I was in fault myself for refusing to treat him
with proper respect. I was proud. This obstinate old fellow, who was
really a very good sort, kind-hearted and hospitable, had had two wives,
both dead. His first wife, who was of a humble family, left a daughter as
unpretentious as herself. She was a young woman of four and twenty when I
was there, and was living with her father and an aunt, her mother's
sister. The aunt was simple and illiterate; the niece was simple but
lively. I like to say nice things about people. I never knew a woman of
more charming character than Agafya--fancy, her name was Agafya Ivanovna!
And she wasn't bad-looking either, in the Russian style: tall, stout, with
a full figure, and beautiful eyes, though a rather coarse face. She had
not married, although she had had two suitors. She refused them, but was
as cheerful as ever. I was intimate with her, not in 'that' way, it was
pure friendship. I have often been friendly with women quite innocently. I
used to talk to her with shocking frankness, and she only laughed. Many
women like such freedom, and she was a girl too, which made it very
amusing. Another thing, one could never think of her as a young lady. She
and her aunt lived in her father's house with a sort of voluntary
humility, not putting themselves on an equality with other people. She was
a general favorite, and of use to every one, for she was a clever
dressmaker. She had a talent for it. She gave her services freely without
asking for payment, but if any one offered her payment, she didn't refuse.
The colonel, of course, was a very different matter. He was one of the
chief personages in the district. He kept open house, entertained the
whole town, gave suppers and dances. At the time I arrived and joined the
battalion, all the town was talking of the expected return of the
colonel's second daughter, a great beauty, who had just left a fashionable
school in the capital. This second daughter is Katerina Ivanovna, and she
was the child of the second wife, who belonged to a distinguished
general's family; although, as I learnt on good authority, she too brought
the colonel no money. She had connections, and that was all. There may
have been expectations, but they had come to nothing.

"Yet, when the young lady came from boarding-school on a visit, the whole
town revived. Our most distinguished ladies--two 'Excellencies' and a
colonel's wife--and all the rest following their lead, at once took her up
and gave entertainments in her honor. She was the belle of the balls and
picnics, and they got up _tableaux vivants_ in aid of distressed
governesses. I took no notice, I went on as wildly as before, and one of
my exploits at the time set all the town talking. I saw her eyes taking my
measure one evening at the battery commander's, but I didn't go up to her,
as though I disdained her acquaintance. I did go up and speak to her at an
evening party not long after. She scarcely looked at me, and compressed
her lips scornfully. 'Wait a bit. I'll have my revenge,' thought I. I
behaved like an awful fool on many occasions at that time, and I was
conscious of it myself. What made it worse was that I felt that 'Katenka'
was not an innocent boarding-school miss, but a person of character, proud
and really high-principled; above all, she had education and intellect,
and I had neither. You think I meant to make her an offer? No, I simply
wanted to revenge myself, because I was such a hero and she didn't seem to
feel it.

"Meanwhile, I spent my time in drink and riot, till the lieutenant-colonel
put me under arrest for three days. Just at that time father sent me six
thousand roubles in return for my sending him a deed giving up all claims
upon him--settling our accounts, so to speak, and saying that I wouldn't
expect anything more. I didn't understand a word of it at the time. Until
I came here, Alyosha, till the last few days, indeed, perhaps even now, I
haven't been able to make head or tail of my money affairs with father.
But never mind that, we'll talk of it later.

"Just as I received the money, I got a letter from a friend telling me
something that interested me immensely. The authorities, I learnt, were
dissatisfied with our lieutenant-colonel. He was suspected of
irregularities; in fact, his enemies were preparing a surprise for him.
And then the commander of the division arrived, and kicked up the devil of
a shindy. Shortly afterwards he was ordered to retire. I won't tell you
how it all happened. He had enemies certainly. Suddenly there was a marked
coolness in the town towards him and all his family. His friends all
turned their backs on him. Then I took my first step. I met Agafya
Ivanovna, with whom I'd always kept up a friendship, and said, 'Do you
know there's a deficit of 4,500 roubles of government money in your
father's accounts?'

" 'What do you mean? What makes you say so? The general was here not long
ago, and everything was all right.'

" 'Then it was, but now it isn't.'

"She was terribly scared.

" 'Don't frighten me!' she said. 'Who told you so?'

" 'Don't be uneasy,' I said, 'I won't tell any one. You know I'm as silent
as the tomb. I only wanted, in view of "possibilities," to add, that when
they demand that 4,500 roubles from your father, and he can't produce it,
he'll be tried, and made to serve as a common soldier in his old age,
unless you like to send me your young lady secretly. I've just had money
paid me. I'll give her four thousand, if you like, and keep the secret
religiously.'

" 'Ah, you scoundrel!'--that's what she said. 'You wicked scoundrel! How
dare you!'

"She went away furiously indignant, while I shouted after her once more
that the secret should be kept sacred. Those two simple creatures, Agafya
and her aunt, I may as well say at once, behaved like perfect angels all
through this business. They genuinely adored their 'Katya,' thought her
far above them, and waited on her, hand and foot. But Agafya told her of
our conversation. I found that out afterwards. She didn't keep it back,
and of course that was all I wanted.

"Suddenly the new major arrived to take command of the battalion. The old
lieutenant-colonel was taken ill at once, couldn't leave his room for two
days, and didn't hand over the government money. Dr. Kravchenko declared
that he really was ill. But I knew for a fact, and had known for a long
time, that for the last four years the money had never been in his hands
except when the Commander made his visits of inspection. He used to lend
it to a trustworthy person, a merchant of our town called Trifonov, an old
widower, with a big beard and gold-rimmed spectacles. He used to go to the
fair, do a profitable business with the money, and return the whole sum to
the colonel, bringing with it a present from the fair, as well as interest
on the loan. But this time (I heard all about it quite by chance from
Trifonov's son and heir, a driveling youth and one of the most vicious in
the world)--this time, I say, Trifonov brought nothing back from the fair.
The lieutenant-colonel flew to him. 'I've never received any money from
you, and couldn't possibly have received any.' That was all the answer he
got. So now our lieutenant-colonel is confined to the house, with a towel
round his head, while they're all three busy putting ice on it. All at
once an orderly arrives on the scene with the book and the order to 'hand
over the battalion money immediately, within two hours.' He signed the
book (I saw the signature in the book afterwards), stood up, saying he
would put on his uniform, ran to his bedroom, loaded his double-barreled
gun with a service bullet, took the boot off his right foot, fixed the gun
against his chest, and began feeling for the trigger with his foot. But
Agafya, remembering what I had told her, had her suspicions. She stole up
and peeped into the room just in time. She rushed in, flung herself upon
him from behind, threw her arms round him, and the gun went off, hit the
ceiling, but hurt no one. The others ran in, took away the gun, and held
him by the arms. I heard all about this afterwards. I was at home, it was
getting dusk, and I was just preparing to go out. I had dressed, brushed
my hair, scented my handkerchief, and taken up my cap, when suddenly the
door opened, and facing me in the room stood Katerina Ivanovna.

"It's strange how things happen sometimes. No one had seen her in the
street, so that no one knew of it in the town. I lodged with two decrepit
old ladies, who looked after me. They were most obliging old things, ready
to do anything for me, and at my request were as silent afterwards as two
cast-iron posts. Of course I grasped the position at once. She walked in
and looked straight at me, her dark eyes determined, even defiant, but on
her lips and round her mouth I saw uncertainty.

" 'My sister told me,' she began, 'that you would give me 4,500 roubles if
I came to you for it--myself. I have come ... give me the money!'

"She couldn't keep it up. She was breathless, frightened, her voice failed
her, and the corners of her mouth and the lines round it quivered.
Alyosha, are you listening, or are you asleep?"

"Mitya, I know you will tell the whole truth," said Alyosha in agitation.

"I am telling it. If I tell the whole truth just as it happened I shan't
spare myself. My first idea was a--Karamazov one. Once I was bitten by a
centipede, brother, and laid up a fortnight with fever from it. Well, I
felt a centipede biting at my heart then--a noxious insect, you understand?
I looked her up and down. You've seen her? She's a beauty. But she was
beautiful in another way then. At that moment she was beautiful because
she was noble, and I was a scoundrel; she in all the grandeur of her
generosity and sacrifice for her father, and I--a bug! And, scoundrel as I
was, she was altogether at my mercy, body and soul. She was hemmed in. I
tell you frankly, that thought, that venomous thought, so possessed my
heart that it almost swooned with suspense. It seemed as if there could be
no resisting it; as though I should act like a bug, like a venomous
spider, without a spark of pity. I could scarcely breathe. Understand, I
should have gone next day to ask for her hand, so that it might end
honorably, so to speak, and that nobody would or could know. For though
I'm a man of base desires, I'm honest. And at that very second some voice
seemed to whisper in my ear, 'But when you come to-morrow to make your
proposal, that girl won't even see you; she'll order her coachman to kick
you out of the yard. "Publish it through all the town," she would say,
"I'm not afraid of you." ' I looked at the young lady, my voice had not
deceived me. That is how it would be, not a doubt of it. I could see from
her face now that I should be turned out of the house. My spite was
roused. I longed to play her the nastiest swinish cad's trick: to look at
her with a sneer, and on the spot where she stood before me to stun her
with a tone of voice that only a shopman could use.

" 'Four thousand! What do you mean? I was joking. You've been counting
your chickens too easily, madam. Two hundred, if you like, with all my
heart. But four thousand is not a sum to throw away on such frivolity.
You've put yourself out to no purpose.'

"I should have lost the game, of course. She'd have run away. But it would
have been an infernal revenge. It would have been worth it all. I'd have
howled with regret all the rest of my life, only to have played that
trick. Would you believe it, it has never happened to me with any other
woman, not one, to look at her at such a moment with hatred. But, on my
oath, I looked at her for three seconds, or five perhaps, with fearful
hatred--that hate which is only a hair's-breadth from love, from the
maddest love!

"I went to the window, put my forehead against the frozen pane, and I
remember the ice burnt my forehead like fire. I did not keep her long,
don't be afraid. I turned round, went up to the table, opened the drawer
and took out a banknote for five thousand roubles (it was lying in a
French dictionary). Then I showed it her in silence, folded it, handed it
to her, opened the door into the passage, and, stepping back, made her a
deep bow, a most respectful, a most impressive bow, believe me! She
shuddered all over, gazed at me for a second, turned horribly pale--white
as a sheet, in fact--and all at once, not impetuously but softly, gently,
bowed down to my feet--not a boarding-school curtsey, but a Russian bow,
with her forehead to the floor. She jumped up and ran away. I was wearing
my sword. I drew it and nearly stabbed myself with it on the spot; why, I
don't know. It would have been frightfully stupid, of course. I suppose it
was from delight. Can you understand that one might kill oneself from
delight? But I didn't stab myself. I only kissed my sword and put it back
in the scabbard--which there was no need to have told you, by the way. And
I fancy that in telling you about my inner conflict I have laid it on
rather thick to glorify myself. But let it pass, and to hell with all who
pry into the human heart! Well, so much for that 'adventure' with Katerina
Ivanovna. So now Ivan knows of it, and you--no one else."

Dmitri got up, took a step or two in his excitement, pulled out his
handkerchief and mopped his forehead, then sat down again, not in the same
place as before, but on the opposite side, so that Alyosha had to turn
quite round to face him.

Chapter V. The Confession Of A Passionate Heart--"Heels Up"

"Now," said Alyosha, "I understand the first half."

"You understand the first half. That half is a drama, and it was played
out there. The second half is a tragedy, and it is being acted here."

"And I understand nothing of that second half so far," said Alyosha.

"And I? Do you suppose I understand it?"

"Stop, Dmitri. There's one important question. Tell me, you were
betrothed, you are betrothed still?"

"We weren't betrothed at once, not for three months after that adventure.
The next day I told myself that the incident was closed, concluded, that
there would be no sequel. It seemed to me caddish to make her an offer. On
her side she gave no sign of life for the six weeks that she remained in
the town; except, indeed, for one action. The day after her visit the
maid-servant slipped round with an envelope addressed to me. I tore it
open: it contained the change out of the banknote. Only four thousand five
hundred roubles was needed, but there was a discount of about two hundred
on changing it. She only sent me about two hundred and sixty. I don't
remember exactly, but not a note, not a word of explanation. I searched
the packet for a pencil mark--n-nothing! Well, I spent the rest of the
money on such an orgy that the new major was obliged to reprimand me.

"Well, the lieutenant-colonel produced the battalion money, to the
astonishment of every one, for nobody believed that he had the money
untouched. He'd no sooner paid it than he fell ill, took to his bed, and,
three weeks later, softening of the brain set in, and he died five days
afterwards. He was buried with military honors, for he had not had time to
receive his discharge. Ten days after his funeral, Katerina Ivanovna, with
her aunt and sister, went to Moscow. And, behold, on the very day they
went away (I hadn't seen them, didn't see them off or take leave) I
received a tiny note, a sheet of thin blue paper, and on it only one line
in pencil: 'I will write to you. Wait. K.' And that was all.

"I'll explain the rest now, in two words. In Moscow their fortunes changed
with the swiftness of lightning and the unexpectedness of an Arabian
fairy-tale. That general's widow, their nearest relation, suddenly lost
the two nieces who were her heiresses and next-of-kin--both died in the
same week of small-pox. The old lady, prostrated with grief, welcomed
Katya as a daughter, as her one hope, clutched at her, altered her will in
Katya's favor. But that concerned the future. Meanwhile she gave her, for
present use, eighty thousand roubles, as a marriage portion, to do what
she liked with. She was an hysterical woman. I saw something of her in
Moscow, later.

"Well, suddenly I received by post four thousand five hundred roubles. I
was speechless with surprise, as you may suppose. Three days later came
the promised letter. I have it with me now. You must read it. She offers
to be my wife, offers herself to me. 'I love you madly,' she says, 'even
if you don't love me, never mind. Be my husband. Don't be afraid. I won't
hamper you in any way. I will be your chattel. I will be the carpet under
your feet. I want to love you for ever. I want to save you from yourself.'
Alyosha, I am not worthy to repeat those lines in my vulgar words and in
my vulgar tone, my everlastingly vulgar tone, that I can never cure myself
of. That letter stabs me even now. Do you think I don't mind--that I don't
mind still? I wrote her an answer at once, as it was impossible for me to
go to Moscow. I wrote to her with tears. One thing I shall be ashamed of
for ever. I referred to her being rich and having a dowry while I was only
a stuck-up beggar! I mentioned money! I ought to have borne it in silence,
but it slipped from my pen. Then I wrote at once to Ivan, and told him all
I could about it in a letter of six pages, and sent him to her. Why do you
look like that? Why are you staring at me? Yes, Ivan fell in love with
her; he's in love with her still. I know that. I did a stupid thing, in
the world's opinion; but perhaps that one stupid thing may be the saving
of us all now. Oo! Don't you see what a lot she thinks of Ivan, how she
respects him? When she compares us, do you suppose she can love a man like
me, especially after all that has happened here?"

"But I am convinced that she does love a man like you, and not a man like
him."

"She loves her own _virtue_, not me." The words broke involuntarily, and
almost malignantly, from Dmitri. He laughed, but a minute later his eyes
gleamed, he flushed crimson and struck the table violently with his fist.

"I swear, Alyosha," he cried, with intense and genuine anger at himself;
"you may not believe me, but as God is holy, and as Christ is God, I swear
that though I smiled at her lofty sentiments just now, I know that I am a
million times baser in soul than she, and that these lofty sentiments of
hers are as sincere as a heavenly angel's. That's the tragedy of it--that I
know that for certain. What if any one does show off a bit? Don't I do it
myself? And yet I'm sincere, I'm sincere. As for Ivan, I can understand
how he must be cursing nature now--with his intellect, too! To see the
preference given--to whom, to what? To a monster who, though he is
betrothed and all eyes are fixed on him, can't restrain his
debaucheries--and before the very eyes of his betrothed! And a man like me
is preferred, while he is rejected. And why? Because a girl wants to
sacrifice her life and destiny out of gratitude. It's ridiculous! I've
never said a word of this to Ivan, and Ivan of course has never dropped a
hint of the sort to me. But destiny will be accomplished, and the best man
will hold his ground while the undeserving one will vanish into his back-
alley for ever--his filthy back-alley, his beloved back-alley, where he is
at home and where he will sink in filth and stench at his own free will
and with enjoyment. I've been talking foolishly. I've no words left. I use
them at random, but it will be as I have said. I shall drown in the back-
alley, and she will marry Ivan."

"Stop, Dmitri," Alyosha interrupted again with great anxiety. "There's one
thing you haven't made clear yet: you are still betrothed all the same,
aren't you? How can you break off the engagement if she, your betrothed,
doesn't want to?"

"Yes, formally and solemnly betrothed. It was all done on my arrival in
Moscow, with great ceremony, with ikons, all in fine style. The general's
wife blessed us, and--would you believe it?--congratulated Katya. 'You've
made a good choice,' she said, 'I see right through him.' And--would you
believe it?--she didn't like Ivan, and hardly greeted him. I had a lot of
talk with Katya in Moscow. I told her about myself--sincerely, honorably.
She listened to everything.

    There was sweet confusion,
    There were tender words.

Though there were proud words, too. She wrung out of me a mighty promise
to reform. I gave my promise, and here--"

"What?"

"Why, I called to you and brought you out here to-day, this very
day--remember it--to send you--this very day again--to Katerina Ivanovna,
and--"

"What?"

"To tell her that I shall never come to see her again. Say, 'He sends you
his compliments.' "

"But is that possible?"

"That's just the reason I'm sending you, in my place, because it's
impossible. And, how could I tell her myself?"

"And where are you going?"

"To the back-alley."

"To Grushenka, then!" Alyosha exclaimed mournfully, clasping his hands.
"Can Rakitin really have told the truth? I thought that you had just
visited her, and that was all."

"Can a betrothed man pay such visits? Is such a thing possible and with
such a betrothed, and before the eyes of all the world? Confound it, I
have some honor! As soon as I began visiting Grushenka, I ceased to be
betrothed, and to be an honest man. I understand that. Why do you look at
me? You see, I went in the first place to beat her. I had heard, and I
know for a fact now, that that captain, father's agent, had given
Grushenka an I.O.U. of mine for her to sue me for payment, so as to put an
end to me. They wanted to scare me. I went to beat her. I had had a
glimpse of her before. She doesn't strike one at first sight. I knew about
her old merchant, who's lying ill now, paralyzed; but he's leaving her a
decent little sum. I knew, too, that she was fond of money, that she
hoarded it, and lent it at a wicked rate of interest, that she's a
merciless cheat and swindler. I went to beat her, and I stayed. The storm
broke--it struck me down like the plague. I'm plague-stricken still, and I
know that everything is over, that there will never be anything more for
me. The cycle of the ages is accomplished. That's my position. And though
I'm a beggar, as fate would have it, I had three thousand just then in my
pocket. I drove with Grushenka to Mokroe, a place twenty-five versts from
here. I got gypsies there and champagne and made all the peasants there
drunk on it, and all the women and girls. I sent the thousands flying. In
three days' time I was stripped bare, but a hero. Do you suppose the hero
had gained his end? Not a sign of it from her. I tell you that rogue,
Grushenka, has a supple curve all over her body. You can see it in her
little foot, even in her little toe. I saw it, and kissed it, but that was
all, I swear! 'I'll marry you if you like,' she said, 'you're a beggar,
you know. Say that you won't beat me, and will let me do anything I
choose, and perhaps I will marry you.' She laughed, and she's laughing
still!"

Dmitri leapt up with a sort of fury. He seemed all at once as though he
were drunk. His eyes became suddenly bloodshot.

"And do you really mean to marry her?"

"At once, if she will. And if she won't, I shall stay all the same. I'll
be the porter at her gate. Alyosha!" he cried. He stopped short before
him, and taking him by the shoulders began shaking him violently. "Do you
know, you innocent boy, that this is all delirium, senseless delirium, for
there's a tragedy here. Let me tell you, Alexey, that I may be a low man,
with low and degraded passions, but a thief and a pickpocket Dmitri
Karamazov never can be. Well, then; let me tell you that I am a thief and
a pickpocket. That very morning, just before I went to beat Grushenka,
Katerina Ivanovna sent for me, and in strict secrecy (why I don't know, I
suppose she had some reason) asked me to go to the chief town of the
province and to post three thousand roubles to Agafya Ivanovna in Moscow,
so that nothing should be known of it in the town here. So I had that
three thousand roubles in my pocket when I went to see Grushenka, and it
was that money we spent at Mokroe. Afterwards I pretended I had been to
the town, but did not show her the post office receipt. I said I had sent
the money and would bring the receipt, and so far I haven't brought it.
I've forgotten it. Now what do you think you're going to her to-day to
say? 'He sends his compliments,' and she'll ask you, 'What about the
money?' You might still have said to her, 'He's a degraded sensualist, and
a low creature, with uncontrolled passions. He didn't send your money
then, but wasted it, because, like a low brute, he couldn't control
himself.' But still you might have added, 'He isn't a thief though. Here
is your three thousand; he sends it back. Send it yourself to Agafya
Ivanovna. But he told me to say "he sends his compliments." ' But, as it
is, she will ask, 'But where is the money?' "

"Mitya, you are unhappy, yes! But not as unhappy as you think. Don't worry
yourself to death with despair."

"What, do you suppose I'd shoot myself because I can't get three thousand
to pay back? That's just it. I shan't shoot myself. I haven't the strength
now. Afterwards, perhaps. But now I'm going to Grushenka. I don't care
what happens."

"And what then?"

"I'll be her husband if she deigns to have me, and when lovers come, I'll
go into the next room. I'll clean her friends' goloshes, blow up their
samovar, run their errands."

"Katerina Ivanovna will understand it all," Alyosha said solemnly. "She'll
understand how great this trouble is and will forgive. She has a lofty
mind, and no one could be more unhappy than you. She'll see that for
herself."

"She won't forgive everything," said Dmitri, with a grin. "There's
something in it, brother, that no woman could forgive. Do you know what
would be the best thing to do?"

"What?"

"Pay back the three thousand."

"Where can we get it from? I say, I have two thousand. Ivan will give you
another thousand--that makes three. Take it and pay it back."

"And when would you get it, your three thousand? You're not of age,
besides, and you must--you absolutely must--take my farewell to her to-day,
with the money or without it, for I can't drag on any longer, things have
come to such a pass. To-morrow is too late. I shall send you to father."

"To father?"

"Yes, to father first. Ask him for three thousand."

"But, Mitya, he won't give it."

"As though he would! I know he won't. Do you know the meaning of despair,
Alexey?"

"Yes."

"Listen. Legally he owes me nothing. I've had it all from him, I know
that. But morally he owes me something, doesn't he? You know he started
with twenty-eight thousand of my mother's money and made a hundred
thousand with it. Let him give me back only three out of the twenty-eight
thousand, and he'll draw my soul out of hell, and it will atone for many
of his sins. For that three thousand--I give you my solemn word--I'll make
an end of everything, and he shall hear nothing more of me. For the last
time I give him the chance to be a father. Tell him God Himself sends him
this chance."

"Mitya, he won't give it for anything."

"I know he won't. I know it perfectly well. Now, especially. That's not
all. I know something more. Now, only a few days ago, perhaps only
yesterday he found out for the first time _in earnest_ (underline _in
earnest_) that Grushenka is really perhaps not joking, and really means to
marry me. He knows her nature; he knows the cat. And do you suppose he's
going to give me money to help to bring that about when he's crazy about
her himself? And that's not all, either. I can tell you more than that. I
know that for the last five days he has had three thousand drawn out of
the bank, changed into notes of a hundred roubles, packed into a large
envelope, sealed with five seals, and tied across with red tape. You see
how well I know all about it! On the envelope is written: 'To my angel,
Grushenka, when she will come to me.' He scrawled it himself in silence
and in secret, and no one knows that the money's there except the valet,
Smerdyakov, whom he trusts like himself. So now he has been expecting
Grushenka for the last three or four days; he hopes she'll come for the
money. He has sent her word of it, and she has sent him word that perhaps
she'll come. And if she does go to the old man, can I marry her after
that? You understand now why I'm here in secret and what I'm on the watch
for."

"For her?"

"Yes, for her. Foma has a room in the house of these sluts here. Foma
comes from our parts; he was a soldier in our regiment. He does jobs for
them. He's watchman at night and goes grouse-shooting in the day-time; and
that's how he lives. I've established myself in his room. Neither he nor
the women of the house know the secret--that is, that I am on the watch
here."

"No one but Smerdyakov knows, then?"

"No one else. He will let me know if she goes to the old man."

"It was he told you about the money, then?"

"Yes. It's a dead secret. Even Ivan doesn't know about the money, or
anything. The old man is sending Ivan to Tchermashnya on a two or three
days' journey. A purchaser has turned up for the copse: he'll give eight
thousand for the timber. So the old man keeps asking Ivan to help him by
going to arrange it. It will take him two or three days. That's what the
old man wants, so that Grushenka can come while he's away."

"Then he's expecting Grushenka to-day?"

"No, she won't come to-day; there are signs. She's certain not to come,"
cried Mitya suddenly. "Smerdyakov thinks so, too. Father's drinking now.
He's sitting at table with Ivan. Go to him, Alyosha, and ask for the three
thousand."

"Mitya, dear, what's the matter with you?" cried Alyosha, jumping up from
his place, and looking keenly at his brother's frenzied face. For one
moment the thought struck him that Dmitri was mad.

"What is it? I'm not insane," said Dmitri, looking intently and earnestly
at him. "No fear. I am sending you to father, and I know what I'm saying.
I believe in miracles."

"In miracles?"

"In a miracle of Divine Providence. God knows my heart. He sees my
despair. He sees the whole picture. Surely He won't let something awful
happen. Alyosha, I believe in miracles. Go!"

"I am going. Tell me, will you wait for me here?"

"Yes. I know it will take some time. You can't go at him point blank. He's
drunk now. I'll wait three hours--four, five, six, seven. Only remember you
must go to Katerina Ivanovna to-day, if it has to be at midnight, _with
the money or without the money_, and say, 'He sends his compliments to
you.' I want you to say that verse to her: 'He sends his compliments to
you.' "

"Mitya! And what if Grushenka comes to-day--if not to-day, to-morrow, or
the next day?"

"Grushenka? I shall see her. I shall rush out and prevent it."

"And if--"

"If there's an if, it will be murder. I couldn't endure it."

"Who will be murdered?"

"The old man. I shan't kill her."

"Brother, what are you saying?"

"Oh, I don't know.... I don't know. Perhaps I shan't kill, and perhaps I
shall. I'm afraid that he will suddenly become so loathsome to me with his
face at that moment. I hate his ugly throat, his nose, his eyes, his
shameless snigger. I feel a physical repulsion. That's what I'm afraid of.
That's what may be too much for me."

"I'll go, Mitya. I believe that God will order things for the best, that
nothing awful may happen."

"And I will sit and wait for the miracle. And if it doesn't come to pass--"

Alyosha went thoughtfully towards his father's house.

Long ago, a child with six fingers was born to Grigory and Marfa, Karamazov's servants; it lived only two weeks but was immediately replaced by a foundling, discovered under rather curious circumstances. On the night of his baby's burial, Grigory thought that he heard an infant crying in the yard. He investigated and found a dying young girl and, lying beside her, a newborn child. The mother was an idiot girl, commonly known as "stinking Lizaveta." But in spite of her abominable appellation, almost everyone liked the harmless feebleminded waif; many even provided her with food and clothing. Lizaveta grew up like the town's stray pet, and, naturally, the townspeople were outraged when it was discovered that she was pregnant. It was unthinkable that someone would molest a helpless idiot, a girl who could not even talk -- could not even identify her seducer. Rumors as to the father's identity, however, finally agreed on a culprit: old Karamazov. The baby, meanwhile, was adopted by Grigory and Marfa, and they called it by the name Karamazov assigned to it: Smerdyakov. After Alyosha leaves the monastery, he finds himself growing increasingly fearful of his interview with Katerina Ivanovna, even though he knows that the girl is trying to save Dmitri from disgrace. But he has promised to see her, so he departs. He takes a shortcut to Katerina's house and is stopped by Dmitri. His brother insists on talking, explaining that he can tell only Alyosha everything that troubles him. Immediately he begins an anguished confession of his baseness and sensuality. Painfully he recounts his history, and he particularly ponders over this quirk in his sordidness: whenever he is in the very depths of degradation, he says, he likes to sing Schiller's "Hymn to Joy." He tells Alyosha of his irresponsible life as an army officer and describes his first encounter with Katerina Ivanovna. Then, she was the proud and beautiful daughter of the commanding officer of the camp, and, for some time, she ignored Dmitri's presence and remained at a proper distance. But when Dmitri secretly discovered that her father had lent 4,500 rubles to a scoundrel who refused to pay them back, he sent a message saying that her father was about to be arrested. He would, though, lend her the money if she would come to his room as payment. He hoped to use the promise of a loan to seduce the proud and beautiful Katerina. When Katerina arrived, Dmitri suddenly changed. He felt like such a blackguard before the frightened and beautiful girl that he gave her the money without trying to take advantage of her. She bowed down to the floor and then ran away. And, sometime later, after her father died, she came into a large inheritance from a distant relative. She returned the money and offered to marry Dmitri. He agreed, and such were, he explains to Alyosha, the circumstances of the engagement. Following his engagement, Dmitri returned to his father's town and became madly infatuated with Grushenka. But, though she heard much of the gossip about Dmitri, Katerina remained faithful and devoted to him. On one occasion, she even trusted him with 3,000 rubles to send to her half-sister; characteristically, Dmitri squandered the money on an all-night revel. His companion that night was Grushenka. Now, Dmitri can no longer endure the burden of Katerina's love. He asks Alyosha to be understanding and to go to Katerina and break the engagement. He also has one other request of his brother: he asks him to go to their father and ask for enough money to repay Katerina the 3,000 rubles. The money exists, Dmitri assures Alyosha; he knows for a fact that Fyodor has 3,000 rubles in an envelope intended for Grushenka if ever she spends one night with him. If Alyosha will do this, Dmitri swears that he will repay Katerina and never again ask for money.

In the opening chapter of this section, we receive much information about the Karamazov servants. Dostoevsky is not being needlessly thorough; these servants will play a significant role in the murder of old Karamazov, and it is well that we become acquainted with them early in the novel. We learn that Grigory was a determined and an obstinate man, for example. "If once he had been brought by any reasons to believe that it  was immutably right," Dostoevsky tells us, "then nothing can make him change his mind." Consequently, some of the damaging evidence at Dmitri's trial is given by this old servant, a man who would never change his story even though the reader knows that the servant's evidence is false. Besides the character of Grigory, Dostoevsky also deals with the relationship between Alyosha and his father. "Alyosha," he says, "brought with him something his father had never known before: a complete absence of contempt for him and an invariable kindness, a perfectly natural unaffected devotion to the old man who deserved it so little." We, of course, understand that Alyosha is only following the dictates of Father Zossima, who advocates that we must love indiscriminately, even those who do evil to us. Also dealt with in this section is one more highly individual character in this Karamazov tangle of personalities -- the village idiot, "stinking Lizaveta," whose depiction grandly displays Dostoevsky's greatness in capturing the essentials that round out and animate his cast of minor characters. Here, in a few sure strokes, he creates a grotesque creature to whom we respond as a human being. Lizaveta is strikingly real; we believe in this creature who sleeps in barns and in passageways and whose appearance is so repulsive that some people are actually appalled. And we learn that it was Karamazov who fathered her child; now all of his noxious qualities suddenly become putrescent. To dare think that anyone might embrace her is shocking, but to think that Karamazov satisfied his lust upon her is to equate him with a barbaric and sordid savage; the man is bestial. He later tells Ivan and Alyosha that "there are no ugly women. The fact that she is a woman is half the battle." Smerdyakov, then, the fourth son of Fyodor Karamazov, is the offspring of an idiot and a sensualist -- little wonder that he is one of the most disagreeable persons in the novel, resenting even the kindness of his foster parents. In addition to his introduction of Smerdyakov and the boy's background, Dostoevsky also presents the first lengthy, analytical description of Dmitri. And with this Karamazov son, Dostoevsky elaborates upon one of his favorite themes: the contradictory impulses within a personality. Often this idea is referred to as the "Madonna-Sodom" opposition, meaning that radical and diametrically opposed feelings exist at the same time within a person. Dmitri uses this concept to help explain his position, saying, "I can't endure the thought that a man of lofty mind and heart begins with the ideal of the Madonna and ends with the ideal of Sodom. What's still more awful is that a man with the ideal of Sodom in his soul does not renounce the ideal of the Madonna." Dmitri wallows in his emotional mud and mire but, at the same time, longs to imbue his life with utmost purity. He is especially attracted to purity as represented by the Madonna image but finds himself helplessly trapped in a life of orgies; these he equates with the city of Sodom, destroyed by God because of its corruptness. He says further that when he sinks "into the vilest degradation," he always reads Schiller's "Hymn to Joy," and "in the very depths of that degradation I begin a hymn of praise. Let me be accursed. Let me be vile and base, only let me kiss the hem of the veil in which my God is shrouded. Though I may be following the devil, I am Thy son, O Lord, and I love Thee, and I feel the joy without which the world cannot stand." The poem Dmitri refers to tells of the Goddess Ceres' visit to earth as she looked for her daughter. She found man instead, "sunk in vilest degradation" and displaying total "loathsomeness." In the chorus of the poem, Schiller suggests a remedy: "if man," he says, "wants to purge his soul from vileness," he must "cling forever to his ancient Mother Earth." It is to this poem that Dmitri's soul is attracted; the poem is his credo as he seeks the good and beautiful as a refuge from his periods of degradation. But Dmitri seems damned; there is no ready haven for him. He finds that "beauty is a terrible and awful thing." Beauty, for Dmitri, is especially trying when it is embodied in a woman; it evokes his most saintly emotions and simultaneously arouses his most sensual desires. He cannot reconcile this polar madness; he feels washed with purity and, at the same time, sloshed with torrents of base and vile emotions; his sanity is shielded by only a single thought: he is not totally dishonorable. And it is for this reason, to prove to Alyosha that he is honorable though at times low and base, that he narrates the story of his relations with Katerina Ivanovna. He tempted her to his apartment when she was desperate for money. He planned to use her poverty to satisfy his own needs; he failed. A dramatic reversal occurred, and he gave her the money and made not a single demand upon her body. Dmitri's confusion is compounded by the fact that he knows that his father has offered Grushenka 3,000 rubles for one night of pleasure. He will not allow this to happen. If Grushenka ever accepts the invitation, for whatever reason, Dmitri tells Alyosha that he is forever doomed because he cannot accept the "leavings" from his father. If she does come to the old man, Dmitri warns his brother, he will be forced to kill their father. In fact, he confides, he hates old Karamazov so much that he is afraid "he will suddenly become so loathsome to me" that he will provoke his own murder. Such statements naturally forewarn us that Dmitri is ripe for murder. He is sensually frustrated, financially troubled, and romantically threatened; all these, coupled with his explosive nature, are ample reasons for us to realize that Dmitri is indeed capable of spilling his father's blood. Throughout Dmitri's narration and throughout many other scenes of this type, Alyosha functions as a so-called father confessor figure. Dmitri is only one of many characters who will confess to Alyosha. His dress, his priest-like attitude, and his willingness to listen without condemnation make him an ideal person to receive such confidence. But he is much more than a Dostoevskian device for the reader. His personality evokes confession. He has an intense need to listen and learn and understand mankind, and it is this that matches the other characters' powerful urge to talk, to confess, and to be understood.