The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  Alyosha hastened to thank her, and informed her that he had just had coffee.

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Agrafena Aleksandrovna.’

  ‘What?… With that woman! She’s the one who’s destroyed everybody, but then again I don’t know, they say she’s turned into a saint, though a bit late, I fear. She should have thought of it earlier, when there was a need for it, but what’s the use now? Don’t say a word, not a word, Aleksei Fyodorovich, because there’s so much I want to say that I’m afraid I’ll end up saying nothing at all. This awful trial… I’ll definitely go, even if they have to carry me there, my mind’s made up, anyway, I can sit and I’ll have people to look after me, and you do know, don’t you, that I’m a witness? I shall have plenty to say, indeed I shall! No, really, I don’t know what I’m going to say. You have to take an oath, don’t you.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think you’re in a fit state to attend.’

  ‘I can sit. Oh, you’re interrupting me! This trial, that abominable crime, and then everybody going off to Siberia, others getting married in such haste, such haste, and everything changing, till nothing’s left in the end and everyone’s old, with one foot in the grave. But what do I care? I’m tired. This Katya—cette charmante personne,* she’s dashed all my hopes; now she’s going to Siberia with one of your brothers, and the other one’s going to follow her and live in the neighbouring town, and they’re all going to torture one another. It’s driving me crazy, but the main thing is the publicity; it’s been in all the papers in St Petersburg and Moscow a million times. And, just imagine, they described me as your brother’s “dear friend”—I can’t bring myself to say the actual words, but just imagine it, just imagine it!’

  ‘That’s impossible! Where did you read it?’

  ‘Look, I’ll show you. It came yesterday and I read it straight away. Here it is, in The St Petersburg Tattler. It’s new, it only started up this year, there’s nothing I love more than gossip, so I subscribed to it and look where it’s got me! A fine tittle-tattle, I must say! Take a look, just here, read this.’

  And, from under her cushion, she pulled out a page from a newspaper and handed it to Alyosha.

  She was not merely upset, she appeared to be completely shattered, and perhaps everything really had got all confused in her mind. The newspaper report was typical and, of course, must have had a rather disconcerting effect upon her, but luckily for her she was unable to concentrate on anything in particular at this point, and at any moment was liable to forget even about the newspaper and to go off at a complete tangent. Alyosha had been aware for a long time that news of the dreadful trial had spread throughout Russia, and, my God, what wild conjectures and reports he had read these last two months (some accurate ones too, of course) concerning his brother, the Karamazovs in general, and even himself. It even said in one newspaper that, frightened to death by his brother’s crime, he had taken the tonsure and entered a monastery; this was denied in another, and it was stated that, on the contrary, he and Starets Zosima had forced open the monastery strongbox and had both ‘done a flit’ from the monastery. The story that he now read in The St Petersburg Tattler was entitled ‘From Skotoprigonyevsk* (that alas is the name, which I have long hesitated to reveal, of our little town)—the background of the Karamazov case’. It was very short, and there was no direct reference to Mrs Khokhlakova, nor were any other names mentioned. It merely stated that the accused in the sensational trial which was about to begin was a retired army captain, an arrogant type, an idler, and an advocate of serfdom, who had spent all his time womanizing and had exercised a particular influence on some ‘ladies of the bored and lonely sort’. One such lady, a ‘frustrated widow’ still not reconciled to her lost youth, although the mother of an adult daughter, had become so infatuated with him that not two hours before the crime she had offered him three thousand roubles on the spot to go prospecting for gold with her. But the fiend had preferred to murder his father, which he hoped to do with impunity, and steal the said sum rather than traipse all the way to Siberia with his frustrated admirer and her ageing charms of a forty-year-old. This damning article finished, as was to be expected, with righteous indignation about the immorality of patricide and of the now-abolished feudal system. Having read it with interest, Alyosha folded the page and handed it back to Mrs Khokhlakova.

  ‘That’s me they’re writing about, it’s got to be me?’ she prattled. ‘I did indeed suggest gold-mining to him almost an hour before, and now suddenly it’s “ageing charms of a forty-year-old”! I never heard the like of it! It’s a plot! May the almighty judge in heaven forgive him for that “charms of a forty-year-old”, as I forgive him, but do you realize… do you realize who’s behind all this? It’s your friend Rakitin.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Alyosha, ‘although I haven’t heard anything about that.’

  ‘It was him, it was, no “perhaps” about it! I threw him out… You do know the whole story, don’t you?’

  ‘I know that you asked him not to call on you in future, but precisely why… that I haven’t heard—at least, not from you.’

  ‘You mean, you’ve heard it from him! Well then, is he furious with me, is he very furious?’

  ‘Yes, he is, but he’s like that with everyone. But why you turned him away—that he didn’t tell me! In any case, I see very little of him. We’re no longer friends.’

  ‘Well, in that case I’ll tell you everything—it can’t be helped—I’ll make a clean breast of it, because perhaps I myself may have been guilty of some little indiscretion. Only a tiny, tiny little indiscretion, so infinitely tiny you could almost say it wasn’t there. You see, my dear Alyosha,’ Mrs Khokhlakova suddenly assumed a very playful air, and a sweet though mysterious smile began to flutter about her lips, ‘you see, I suspect… you will forgive me, Alyosha, I’m talking to you as a mother… oh no, no, quite the contrary, as I would talk to my father… because “mother” is hardly appropriate… Well then, as I would talk to Starets Zosima in the confessional, and that’s the most apt comparison of all, because I did refer to you just now as a member of the strictest order of monks—well then, that poor young man, your friend Rakitin—my God, I just cannot bring myself to be angry with him! That’s to say, I am angry, I’m furious, but never mind—to cut a long story short, that frivolous young man, would you believe it, suddenly took it into his head, it seems, to fall in love with me. It was only subsequently, only later that I suddenly realized it; to begin with, that is, a month ago, he just started calling on me rather more frequently, nearly every day in fact, although we were of course already acquainted. There I was, quite unsuspecting… and suddenly it hit me, and to my surprise I began to notice things. You know that some two months ago I started to receive that nice, cultured, gentlemanly young man, Pyotr Ilyich Perkhotin, who works for the council. You’ve met him hundreds of times yourself. You must agree, he is worthy and serious-minded, isn’t he? He calls on me every third day, not every day (but even if it were every day, so what?). And he’s always so well turned out, young people are such a delight, Alyosha, the gifted, the unpretentious, like yourself for example, and he has an almost statesmanlike mind, he is so well spoken, and I’m definitely, I’m definitely going to put in a word for him. He’s a diplomat in the making. On that dreadful day he practically saved my life, coming to me late that evening. As for your friend Rakitin, he always comes in those boots of his and scuffs them on the carpet… to cut a long story short, he began to drop certain hints, and once, when he was leaving, he shook my hand terribly hard. And no sooner had he shaken my hand than I felt a pain in my foot. He’d met Pyotr Ilyich at my place before and, would you believe it, he always used to needle him and provoke him, and always gave him such black looks for some reason. I used to watch the two of them to see how they were getting on and, deep down, I was laughing really. So there I was, sitting alone—or rather, I was already lying down at the time—anyway, you can picture it, I’m lying there alone, and suddenly in comes Mik
hail Ivanovich and, would you believe it, he brings me his poem, just a couple of lines—dedicated to my painful foot—he had actually described my painful foot in verse. Wait, how did it go:

  Dainty little foot in pain*

  Yet again, yet again…

  or something of the sort—I can never remember poetry—it was here somewhere—well, I’ll show it to you later, it’s simply divine, simply divine, and do you know there’s more to it than just the foot, there’s a moral to it, a divine idea, only I’ve forgotten it; anyway, it’s good enough to go straight into a lady’s album. Well, I thanked him, of course, and he was clearly flattered. I’d hardly had time to thank him when suddenly in came Pyotr Ilyich, and Mikhail Ivanovich immediately began to sulk. I could see that Mikhail Ivanovich was annoyed about something, because he was just about to say something after the poem—I could feel it—but Pyotr Ilyich had to come in just at that very moment. I showed it to Pyotr Ilyich straight away, but without revealing who the author was. I’m sure, however, I’m absolutely certain that he guessed at once, although to this day he won’t admit it and claims he didn’t guess; but he does that on purpose. He immediately burst out laughing and began to criticize the poem: “Rubbish,” he said, “doggerel, written by some seminarian,” and with such conviction, you know, such conviction! At this your friend, instead of laughing, suddenly flew into a rage… Lord, I thought to myself, they’re going to start fighting. “I wrote it,” he says, “I wrote it as a joke, because I actually consider it rather shabby to write verses… Only there’s nothing wrong with my poem. They want to erect a monument to your Pushkin for his ‘women’s feet’,* whereas mine has something to say, and as for you,” he says, “you’re just a reactionary. You”, he says, “haven’t got an ounce of humanity in you, you haven’t the faintest idea about today’s enlightened thinking, progress hasn’t even touched you. You”, he says, “are a clerk and you take bribes!” That’s when I started shouting and begging them to stop. And Pyotr Ilyich, you know, not being the shy type, listened to him with an air of derision and became terribly apologetic. “I didn’t realize,” he says, suddenly adopting a mock dignified tone of voice. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have said what I did, I’d have praised it… Poets”, he says, “are such a short-tempered lot…” In a word, such sarcasm, and all delivered in the most dignified tones. He explained to me later that he was teasing all the time, and I thought he really meant it. So there I was, reclining, just as I am now, and thinking to myself: would it be undignified if I suddenly showed Mikhail Ivanovich the door for shouting so rudely at a guest in my house? And would you believe it: I was lying there with my eyes shut and thinking to myself: would it or wouldn’t it be undignified? And I just couldn’t decide, it was all too much, such agony, my heart was thumping: should I shout at him, or shouldn’t I? One voice was telling me “shout”, while another was telling me “no, don’t shout”! And no sooner had this other voice spoken than I suddenly shouted, and immediately fainted. Well, naturally, there was commotion all around. Suddenly I stood up and said to Mikhail Ivanovich: “I find it very hard to say this to you, but you are no longer welcome in my house.” And I showed him the door, just like that. Oh, Aleksei Fyodorovich! I realize now that I behaved badly, I was deceiving myself all along and I wasn’t at all cross with him really, but suddenly, yes, that’s the point, it struck me that a scene like that would be quite appropriate… And, would you believe it, the scene turned out to be perfectly genuine, because I even burst into tears and I cried for several days afterwards, and then one fine day, after lunch, I suddenly forgot all about it. Now it’s already two weeks since he last called on me, and I was thinking: is he really never going to come back? That was yesterday, and suddenly, in the evening, the Tattler arrived. What I read took my breath away—well, who could have written it? He must have written it himself. He must have returned home that night, sat down, and—and written it; then he sent it off—and they printed it. That was two weeks ago, you know. Only, Alyosha, it’s terrible what I’m saying, and it’s not at all what I should be talking about, is it? The words just seem to come out by themselves!’

  ‘I really must hurry, or I won’t be in time to see my brother,’ mumbled Alyosha.

  ‘Of course, of course! That reminds me! Listen, what is diminished responsibility?’

  ‘What do you mean, “diminished responsibility”?’

  ‘You know, legal diminished responsibility. The sort that gets you off scot-free. No matter what you’ve done—you immediately go free.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘What I mean is that Katya… Oh, she’s so sweet, she’s such a darling creature, only I can’t for the life of me make out exactly who she’s in love with. She came to see me the other day, and I simply couldn’t get anything out of her. What’s more, our conversations are so superficial now, in a word all she wants to talk about is my health and nothing else, she’s even putting on that sort of voice… but I said to myself: well, let her get on with it, I couldn’t care less… Oh yes, as I was saying—diminished responsibility: so then this doctor arrived… You know, don’t you, they’ve engaged a doctor? I’m sure you do, the one who can tell if someone’s mad, the one that you sent for, I mean Katya, not you. That Katya, she’s behind it all! Well, you see, suppose we have a person who’s perfectly sane, and suddenly he’s suffering from diminished responsibility. He knows exactly who he is, what he does, but he’s suffering from diminished responsibility all the same. Well, take Dmitry Fyodorovich, more than likely he was suffering from diminished responsibility. It’s only since they set up the new courts* that they’ve suddenly discovered this business about diminished responsibility. It’s one of the benefits of the new courts. The doctor came and started questioning me about the circumstances of that night, well, about the goldmining, wanted to know what he was like that night. What else could it be, if not diminished responsibility—there he was, shouting: “Money, give me the money, three thousand, give me three thousand!” and then off he went and committed the murder. “I don’t want to kill him,” he says, “I don’t want to,” and then suddenly he goes and kills him. Well, that’s precisely why they’ll acquit him, because he tried to stop himself and couldn’t.’

  ‘But he didn’t do it,’ Alyosha interrupted her somewhat sharply. Anxiety and impatience were steadily getting the better of him.

  ‘I know, it was that old man Grigory who did it…’

  ‘What do you mean, “Grigory”?’ exclaimed Alyosha.

  ‘Yes, it was him, it was Grigory. After Dmitry Fyodorovich hit him he lay there for a while, staggered to his feet, saw the door was open, went in, and killed Fyodor Pavlovich.’

  ‘But why, what for?’

  ‘Diminished responsibility. When he came round after Dmitry Fyodorovich hit him on the head, he was in a state of diminished responsibility and he went and committed the murder. And if he says he didn’t do it, it’s probably because he doesn’t remember. Only, you see, it’d be better, much better, if the murderer were Dmitry Fyodorovich. Anyway, it was him, even though I said it was Grigory, but it was more than likely Dmitry Fyodorovich, and it’s better that way, much better! No, I don’t mean to say it’s better because a son killed his father—far be it from me to condone that; on the contrary, children must respect their parents—still, it’d be better if it were him, since in that case there wouldn’t even be any need for you to shed tears because he’d have killed him without realizing what he was doing, or rather, realizing perfectly well but not knowing exactly what had come over him. Yes, let them acquit him; that’d be so humane, show people how magnanimous the new courts are, I knew nothing about them, and they say it’s been like that for a long time now, so as soon as I got to know this yesterday I was so astonished I wanted to send for you straight away; and afterwards, if they acquit him, he must come straight from the courtroom and have dinner with us, I’ll invite my friends along and we’ll drink to the new courts. I don’t think he’s likely to be danger
ous—in any case, I’ll invite lots and lots of guests, so he can always be escorted out if there’s any trouble—afterwards, he can settle down in some other town as a justice of the peace or whatever, because those who’ve suffered misfortune themselves are best able to judge others. And, come to think of it, who doesn’t suffer from diminished responsibility these days? Don’t you, don’t I? We all do. There’s no end of examples: take a man sitting comfortably, humming a song, suddenly something infuriates him, he pulls out a pistol and shoots the first person he sees, and afterwards all’s forgiven. I read about a case like that not so long ago, and all the doctors came out in support of the defence. There’s nothing the doctors won’t support these days. Take my Lise now, she’s suffering from diminished responsibility too, she had me in tears only yesterday, and the day before, and only today did it suddenly dawn on me that she’s simply suffering from diminished responsibility. Oh, Lise is such a disappointment to me! I think she’s gone completely mad. Why did she send for you? Did she send for you, or did you come of your own accord?’

  ‘Yes, she sent for me, and I’m going to her now,’ and Alyosha got up resolutely.

  ‘Oh, my dear, my kind Aleksei Fyodorovich!’ exclaimed Mrs Khokhlakova, bursting into tears. ‘Now we’ve come perhaps to the most important thing of all. God will see that I’ve entrusted my Lise to you in all good faith, and what does it matter if she sent for you secretly without telling her mother? But when it comes to your brother Ivan Fyodorovich, you must forgive me, but I cannot entrust my daughter to him so readily, although I shall continue to regard him as the most chivalrous young man I know. Just imagine, he suddenly came to see Lise, and I didn’t know anything about it.’