The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  He fell into a sullen silence.

  ‘But what if, without breaking your resolve to remain silent on this crucial point, you were at the same time to give us a clue, be it only the most tenuous clue, as to the motives that could induce you to remain silent at such a critical juncture in this investigation?’

  Mitya smiled sadly and thoughtfully.

  ‘I’m a much nicer person than you think, gentlemen; I’ll tell you why, and I’ll give you the clue you want, even though you don’t deserve it. I’m refusing to say anything, gentlemen, because I feel a sense of shame. The question of where I got the money from is such a shameful matter for me that not even the robbery and my father’s death could compare with it—even if I had robbed or killed him. That’s why I can’t say anything. My sense of shame won’t let me. You’re not going to write that down, gentlemen, are you?’

  ‘Yes, we are,’ mumbled Nikolai Parfenovich.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t, at least, not all that about the sense of shame. I only told you about it out of the goodness of my heart, though I needn’t have, it was like a present, and you’re making such a meal of it. Well, go ahead, put down anything you want,’ he concluded with disdain and contempt, ‘I’m not afraid of you… I face you with pride.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to tell us what this shame was all about?’ said Nikolai Parfenovich.

  The prosecutor winced dreadfully.

  ‘Never, c’est fini,* don’t even bother. It’s not worth putting myself out for. I’ve put myself out enough for you, as it is. You’re not worth it, neither you nor anyone… Enough, gentlemen, this is where I draw the line.’

  This was said most peremptorily. Nikolai Parfenovich stopped insisting, but from the look in Ippolit Kyrillovich’s eyes he concluded that the latter had still not given up hope.

  ‘Could you not at least inform us as to exactly how much money you had in your hands when you arrived at Mr Perkhotin’s, that is, precisely how many roubles?’

  ‘No, I can’t tell you that either.’

  ‘Did you not tell Mr Perkhotin about the three thousand you were supposed to have received from Mrs Khokhlakova?’

  ‘Maybe I did. That’s enough, gentlemen, I shan’t tell you how much.’

  ‘In that case, would you mind describing how you got here and all your actions since then.’

  ‘Oh, you can ask anybody here about that. On second thoughts, though, I suppose I could tell you.’

  And he did, but we shall not repeat his story. He spoke quickly and drily. Concerning the raptures of his love, he said nothing. He did explain, however, how his determination to shoot himself had passed, ‘in view of the changed circumstances’. He spoke without whys or wherefores, without going into details. But his interrogators did not interrupt him unduly at this stage: it was evident that, for them, this was not the main issue now.

  ‘We’ll investigate all this, we’ll raise the matter when we come to question the witnesses, which will be done in your presence, of course,’ said Nikolai Parfenovich, bringing the interrogation to a close. ‘Now, would you mind very much putting on the table everything you have on you—most important of all, any money which is now in your possession.’

  ‘Money, gentlemen? Certainly. I quite understand. I’m only surprised you didn’t show any curiosity on this score earlier. Mind you, I wasn’t intending to go anywhere, I’m here for all to see. Well, here it is, my money, go ahead, count it, take it, it’s all here, I think.’

  He took everything, even the small change, out of his pockets, including two twenty-kopeck coins from his waistcoat-pocket. The money was counted and it came to eight hundred and thirty six roubles, forty kopecks.

  ‘And is that all?’ asked the magistrate.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In your statement just now you mentioned that you spent three hundred roubles in Plotnikov’s shop, you gave ten roubles to Perkhotin, twenty to the driver, you lost two hundred roubles here, at cards, then…’

  Nikolai Parfenovich counted up everything. Mitya was completely co-operative. Every kopeck was included and accounted for. Nikolai Parfenovich quickly arrived at a total.

  ‘Including the eight hundred here, it would appear you had fifteen hundred in all to start with.’

  ‘It would indeed,’ Mitya snapped back.

  ‘But, with respect, everyone maintains there was far more.’

  ‘Let them.’

  ‘And you yourself did, too.’

  ‘I did indeed.’

  ‘We shall verify all this from the statements of people who haven’t been questioned yet; don’t worry about your money, it’ll be kept safe and it’ll be returned to you at the conclusion of all… proceedings… provided it transpires or, as it were, is established that you have a rightful claim to it. Well, as for now…’

  Nikolai Parfenovich stood up and informed Mitya tersely that he was ‘obliged and duty-bound’ to make a most detailed and thorough search both of his ‘clothes and everything…’

  ‘Here you are, gentlemen, I’ll turn out all my pockets, if you wish.’

  And he really did start to turn out his pockets.

  ‘You’ll have to take your clothes off as well.’

  ‘What? Undress? To hell with you! Why can’t you search me as I am! Why not?’

  ‘Certainly not, Dmitry Fyodorovich. You must take your clothes off.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Mitya agreed resignedly, ‘only, if you don’t mind, behind the curtains, not here. Who’s going to search me?’

  ‘Of course, behind the curtains,’ Nikolai Parfenovich inclined his head in acquiescence. His boyish face had assumed an air of extreme gravity.

  6

  THE PROSECUTOR CATCHES MITYA OUT

  A QUITE astonishing and unexpected ritual then began for Mitya. He could never have believed, even just a minute before, that anyone could have treated him, Mitya Karamazov, quite like that! The worst thing was the degradation, and their arrogance and contempt for him. It was bad enough having to take off his jacket, but Mitya was asked to undress even further. And not so much asked—rather, ordered; he understood the situation perfectly. Glowering with indignation and defiance, he submitted without a word. Both Nikolai Parfenovich and the prosecutor had followed him behind the curtain; there were also a few muzhiks present, ‘obviously to apply force if necessary,’ thought Mitya, ‘or perhaps for some other reason.’

  ‘Surely I don’t have to take my shirt off too?’ he asked resentfully, but Nikolai Parfenovich did not answer. He and the prosecutor were engrossed in examining his coat, trousers, waistcoat, and cap, and it was evident that the examination was a source of great fascination to them. ‘They don’t stand on ceremony much,’ the thought flashed through Mitya’s mind, ‘even basic courtesies have gone by the board.’

  ‘For the second time, do I take off my shirt or not?’ he asked impatiently and even more resentfully.

  ‘Not to worry, we’ll tell you,’ Nikolai Parfenovich responded rather peremptorily; at least, that was how it struck Mitya.

  All this time, the prosecutor and the magistrate were busily consulting together in a low voice. It turned out there were some large, dry, caked bloodstains on the frock-coat, in particular on the left side at the back. The same on the trousers. Moreover, Nikolai Parfenovich personally, and in the presence of the witnesses, ran his fingers along the collar, the cuffs, and all the seams of the frock-coat and the trousers, evidently looking for something—money, no doubt. The striking thing was that they made not the slightest attempt to hide from Mitya their suspicion that he could have sewn the money into his garments, that he was actually capable of such a thing. ‘This is how one would treat a thief, not an officer,’ he said to himself. Also, they kept voicing their opinions quite openly to each other in his presence, making no attempt to be discreet. For instance, the secretary, who had also appeared behind the curtain, busy and ready to oblige, drew Nikolai Parfenovich’s attention to Mitya’s cap, which they also felt all the way round with thei
r fingers. ‘Remember’, observed the secretary, ‘how the copy-clerk Gridenko went one day in the summer to pick up the wages for the whole office and, on returning, announced that he’d lost it all when he was drunk—and where did it turn up in the end? It was here, in the piping of his cap; the hundred-rouble notes were rolled up tightly and sewn into the piping.’ Both the magistrate and the prosecutor remembered the Gridenko case only too well, and so they put Mitya’s cap aside to be inspected thoroughly later, along with the rest of his clothes.

  ‘Just a moment,’ Nikolai Parfenovich suddenly called out, noticing the bloodstained right cuff of Mitya’s shirt, which was tucked inside the sleeve, ‘just a moment, what’s this—blood?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mitya snapped back.

  ‘I’d like to know whose… and why the cuff’s tucked in like that.’

  Mitya described how he had got blood on it when he was busying himself with Grigory, and that he had tucked it in when he was washing his hands at Perkhotin’s.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to take your shirt, too, it is most important… as material evidence.’ Mitya flushed and exploded with anger.

  ‘You want me to appear naked?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Don’t worry… We’ll deal with that somehow; in the meantime, would you mind taking off your socks?’

  ‘You’re joking! Is that really necessary?’ Mitya’s eyes flashed.

  ‘We haven’t come here to joke,’ Nikolai Parfenovich retorted sharply.

  ‘Well, if that’s what you want… I’m…’, mumbled Mitya and, sitting down on the bed, he started pulling off his socks. He felt acutely embarrassed—while everyone else was fully clothed, he was undressed; and, strangely enough, in his state of undress he began to feel vaguely guilty in front of them and, most important of all, was himself almost ready to accept that he really had become inferior to them all of a sudden and that they now had every right to despise him. ‘If everybody were undressed,’ the thought flashed through his mind again and again, ‘I wouldn’t mind so much, but I’m the only one who’s undressed, while everybody else has his clothes on and is looking at me—it’s shameful! It’s like a bad dream, I’ve experienced this kind of shame in a dream.’ But it was almost painful for him to take his socks off—they were not very clean, nor was his underwear, and this was now evident to everyone. Moreover, he himself hated his feet; for some reason he had all his life found his big toes unsightly, especially one thick, flat toenail on his right foot that curved down awkwardly like a hook and would now be exposed for all to see. Utterly ashamed, he became even more arrogant and intentionally provocative. He ripped off his shirt.

  ‘You wouldn’t like to search somewhere else, too, if you have the nerve?’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary for the time being.’

  ‘What, you want me to stay naked, as I am?’ he said viciously.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so, for the time being… Would you mind sitting here for a while, you can take the blanket off the bed to wrap yourself in, and I’ll… I’ll see to everything.’

  All his belongings were shown to the independent observers, an inventory was made, and at last Nikolai Parfenovich left the room, and the clothes were then removed too. Ippolit Kyrillovich also went out. Mitya was left alone with just the muzhiks, who watched him in silence without taking their eyes off him. He tucked himself into the blanket, he was beginning to feel cold. His bare feet were sticking out, and the blanket was not long enough to cover them. Nikolai Parfenovich was a long time returning, ‘an agonizingly long time’. ‘He’s treating me just like a dog,’ Mitya ground his teeth. ‘That scoundrel of a prosecutor has gone away too, probably out of contempt, couldn’t stand the sight of my naked body any more.’ Mitya nevertheless assumed that his clothes would be inspected outside the room and then returned. But imagine his indignation when Nikolai Parfenovich suddenly returned, followed by a muzhik carrying a totally different set of clothes.

  ‘Here’s some clothes for you,’ he said cheerfully, apparently well pleased with the result of his effort. ‘Courtesy of Mr Kalganov, who’s kindly let us have them in view of the peculiar circumstances, and a clean shirt to boot. Fortunately, he happened to have them all in his suitcase. You may keep your own underwear and socks.’

  Mitya was furious.

  ‘I’m not having other people’s clothes!’ he shouted angrily. ‘Give me back my own!’

  ‘That’s out of the question.’

  ‘I said, give me back my own, to hell with Kalganov and his clothes, to hell with him!’

  They reasoned with him for a long time. They finally managed to pacify him somehow. They persuaded him that his clothes, stained as they were with blood, had to be treated ‘as part and parcel of the material evidence’, and even that they were not entitled to let him keep them… ‘in view of the possible eventual outcome of the case’. One way or another, they eventually managed to convince him. He fell sulkily silent and began to dress hurriedly. While doing so, he noticed that the clothes were of a better quality than his old ones, and he felt that he did not want to ‘take advantage’. ‘They’re ridiculously tight,’ he added. ‘Do you want me to look like a clown in them… for your amusement!’

  They managed to persuade him once more that he was making a mountain out of a molehill again, that even though Mr Kalganov was taller than him, he was only slightly so, and that it was only the trousers which were, perhaps, on the long side. However, the frock-coat really was too narrow across the shoulders.

  ‘Dammit, it won’t even button up properly,’ Mitya growled again. ‘Do me a favour, tell Mr Kalganov forthwith that I never asked him for his clothes and that I was forced to dress up like a clown.’

  ‘He’s well aware of that and is most concerned… not about his clothes, that is, but regarding this whole incident, so to speak…’, mumbled Nikolai Parfenovich.

  ‘To hell with his concern! Well, what next? Or am I to go on sitting here?’

  They asked him to go back into ‘that room’. Mitya obeyed grudgingly, trying to avoid looking people in the eye. Wearing someone else’s clothes, he felt himself to be totally disgraced, especially in front of these peasants and Trifon Borisych, whose face had suddenly appeared briefly in the doorway for some reason. ‘He couldn’t resist having a peep at the fairy prince,’ thought Mitya. He sat down on his former chair. His imagination conjured up weird, nightmarish thoughts, and it seemed to him that he was going out of his mind.

  ‘Well, I suppose all it needs now is for you to start birching me,’ he growled at the prosecutor. As for Nikolai Parfenovich, Mitya did not turn towards him, as though he could not even bring himself to speak to him. ‘Didn’t much care for the way he inspected my socks; the bastard even had them turned inside out, just so that everybody could see how dirty they were!’

  ‘Yes, we’ll have to start questioning the witnesses now,’ said Nikolai Parfenovich, as though reading Dmitry Fyodorovich’s thoughts.

  ‘Yes,’ the prosecutor observed thoughtfully, as if he too was turning something over in his mind.

  ‘Dmitry Fyodorovich, we’ve done our best to help you,’ continued Nikolai Parfenovich, ‘but having met with such a categorical refusal on your part to explain to us the origin of the money which you had in your possession, we are at this moment…’

  ‘What’s that ring on your finger?’ Mitya interrupted him suddenly, as though snapping out of a reverie, and he pointed at one of the three large rings adorning Nikolai Parfenovich’s right hand.

  ‘Ring?’ Nikolai Parfenovich repeated, taken aback.

  ‘Yes, that one there… the veiny one on your middle finger, what stone is it?’ insisted Mitya like an irritated, stubborn child.

  ‘It’s a smoky topaz,’ smiled Nikolai Parfenovich, ‘do you want to have a look, I’ll take it off…’

  ‘No don’t, don’t take it off!’ Mitya cried fiercely, realizing where he was and furious with himself, ‘don’t take it off, no need… Hell… Gentlemen, you’ve besmirched my so
ul! Do you honestly suppose that I would have concealed it from you if I had really killed my father, that I would have been evasive, lied, and equivocated? No, Dmitry Karamazov is not like that, he couldn’t have tolerated that, and if I’d been guilty, I swear, I wouldn’t have waited for you to arrive here or for the sun to rise, as was my intention earlier, I’d have put an end to myself before that, long before sunrise! I’m convinced of that now. I couldn’t have learned in twenty years what I’ve learned this accursed night!… And I ask you, would I have carried on as I have tonight, as I am now, at this very instant, sitting here in front of you—would I have spoken to you as I did or behaved as I did, wouldn’t I have regarded you and the world about me differently if I’d really killed my father, when even the thought that I had accidentally killed Grigory tortured me all night? Not from fear—oh, no!—it wasn’t just fear of your punishment, it was the ignominy! And you want me to reveal to such cynics, such purblind moles as you, who see nothing and believe in nothing, yet another infamy of mine, yet more disgrace, even if it would shift the blame from me! I tell you, I’d rather be sent to the saltmines! Whoever opened the door to my father’s room and entered, he was the one who killed him. Who was he? That’s what continues to torture me, that’s where I’m at a loss, but it wasn’t Dmitry Karamazov, that’s for sure—and that’s all I can tell you. Enough, stop persecuting me… Send me away, execute me, but don’t keep on at me any more. I shan’t say another word. Call your witnesses!’

  Mitya came to the end of his sudden monologue, and appeared determined to hold his peace thenceforth. The prosecutor had been watching him all the while, and, immediately he stopped, added suddenly, with a most relaxed and indifferent expression, as though referring to something quite matter-of-fact:

  ‘Talking about the open door that you mentioned just now, we can as it happens reveal to you an extremely curious and, for both of us, highly significant piece of evidence given by old Grigory Vasilyev, whom you injured. When he came to, he clearly and positively stated the following in reply to our questions: hearing a noise outside, he went out on to the steps and decided to enter the garden by the wicket-gate, which was wide open; then, on entering the garden and before spotting you running away in the dark from the open window, through which, as you have already told us, you saw your father, he happened to glance to his left and saw that selfsame open window, but he also noticed that the door, which was much nearer to him, was wide open—that same door which you assured us was shut the whole time you were in the garden. You may as well know that Vasilyev is firmly convinced that you must have run out through that door—although, of course, he didn’t see you run out with his own eyes—since, when he first spotted you, you were already some distance away from him in the garden and making for the fence…’