‘I can’t leave you in this state,’ said Alyosha, almost in a panic.
‘Off you go to your brother, they’ll be closing the prison soon, go on, here’s your hat! Kiss Mitya for me, go on, off you go!’
And she almost pushed Alyosha out of the door. He looked at her in perplexed dismay. Suddenly he felt a letter being pressed into his right hand, a little note, folded tightly and sealed. He glanced momentarily at the writing and read: To Ivan Fyodorovich Karamazov. He looked at Lise quickly. Her expression had become almost stern.
‘Give it to him, make sure you give it to him!’ she commanded frantically, shaking all over. ‘Today, now! Otherwise I’ll poison myself! That was the only reason I sent for you!’
And she slammed the door quickly. The latch snapped shut. Alyosha put the letter in his pocket and went straight downstairs, without talking to Mrs Khokhlakova, whom he had quite forgotten. As soon as Alyosha had departed, Lise lifted up the latch, opened the door slightly, inserted her finger into the gap, and slammed the door shut, pulling on it with all her strength. About ten seconds later she withdrew her hand, returned slowly and without a sound to her chair, and, sitting bolt upright, stared hard at her darkly bruised finger as blood oozed from under the nail. Her lips quivered as she whispered in quick succession:
‘Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch!’
4
THE HYMN AND THE SECRET
NOVEMBER days being short, it was already beginning to get dark when Alyosha rang the prison bell. He knew that he would be allowed to see Mitya without any difficulty. Our little town is no different from anywhere else. At first, of course, after the preliminary hearing, permission for relatives and a few other persons to visit Mitya was subject to certain formalities, but subsequently, although these formalities were not officially relaxed, nevertheless, at least in the case of certain people, some relaxation of the rules came to be taken for granted, to such an extent that meetings with the prisoner in the visiting-room even took place virtually unsupervised. To be sure, the number of these persons was small: only Grushenka, Alyosha, and Rakitin. The chief of police, Mikhail Makarovich, was very favourably disposed towards Grushenka. The old man had his outburst against her in Mokroye on his conscience. Having learned all the facts he had completely changed his opinion of her. And the strange thing was that although he was firmly convinced of Mitya’s guilt, from the moment he was locked up he began to regard him with more and more leniency: ‘Perhaps the man had a kind heart, but just went to rack and ruin through drunkenness and lack of discipline!’ His former abhorrence had given way, in his soul, to a kind of pity. As for Alyosha, the chief of police liked him very much and had known him for a long time, while Rakitin, who had taken to visiting the prisoner more and more often lately, was one of the closest acquaintances of the ‘police chief’s young ladies’, as he called them, and was always in and out of their house. Moreover, he used to give private lessons in the home of the prison governor, a kindly old man, though a stickler for work. Alyosha had also known the prison governor quite well for a long time, and the governor enjoyed talking with him about the ‘wisdom’ of things in general. As regards Ivan Fyodorovich, on the other hand, the governor was not merely respectful, he was positively in awe of him, especially of his opinions, and claimed to be no mean philosopher himself—of the amateur variety, naturally. But for Alyosha he had a great deal of affection. During the past year the old man had suddenly developed a passionate interest in the Apocrypha and he regularly kept his young friend up to date with his opinions and interpretations. He even used to visit the monastery and spend hours on end in discussion with Alyosha and the hieromonks. Consequently, even on those occasions when Alyosha came to the prison late, he had only to go to the governor’s quarters and he would be admitted without difficulty. Moreover, the prison guards to a man had become used to Alyosha’s presence. And the night-duty staff, of course, gave him no trouble—all they needed was clearance from the authorities. Whenever he had a visitor, Mitya would be called from his cell to a room specially allocated for visitors. When Alyosha arrived this time, he happened to bump straight into Rakitin, who was just taking leave of Mitya. They were both talking loudly. Mitya was laughing uproariously as he ushered Rakitin out, while the latter on the other hand seemed irritated. Rakitin, especially of late, felt awkward in Alyosha’s presence; he hardly stopped to talk to him, and would barely even acknowledge his greeting. Realizing that it was Alyosha who had just entered, he frowned deeply and looked the other way, as though completely absorbed in buttoning up his large, fur-collared coat. Then he immediately began to look for his umbrella.
‘Mustn’t forget any of my things,’ he muttered, just for something to say.
‘Mind you don’t forget anybody else’s either!’ Mitya quipped, and immediately burst out laughing at his own joke. Rakitin was furious.
‘Tell that to the Karamazovs, your miserable lot, but not to me!’ he snapped back, simply seething with anger.
‘What’s the matter with you? I was only joking!’ exclaimed Mitya. ‘Oh, hell! They’re all the same,’ he said, turning to Alyosha and motioning with his head towards the departing Rakitin, ‘one minute he was sitting there, laughing, happy as a sandboy, and then he suddenly turns nasty! Didn’t even acknowledge you. Have you two fallen out completely or something? Why are you so late? I’ve been dying to see you the whole day. Well, never mind! Let’s make up for lost time.’
‘Why has he started coming so often? Have you become friends, or what?’ asked Alyosha, also motioning with his head towards the door through which Rakitin had just left.
‘Friends with Mikhail? No, not really. What a nasty piece of work he is! He reckons I’m a… scoundrel. No sense of humour either—that’s the worst thing about people like that. They never see a joke. Their souls are barren, barren and cheerless, like mine was when I was being brought here and saw the prison walls staring back at me. But he’s no fool, I can tell you. Well, Aleksei, I’ve come to the end of the line, haven’t I?’
He sat down on the bench and motioned Alyosha to sit next to him.
‘Yes, tomorrow’s the trial. But you haven’t really lost all hope, have you, Mitya?’ enquired Alyosha apprehensively.
‘What are you talking about?’ Mitya glanced at him absentmindedly. ‘Oh, you mean the trial! Hell! You and I have been talking about such trivia all the time, always about the trial, and I never got around to talking about the most important matter of all. Yes, the trial’s tomorrow, only when I said I’d come to the end of the line I wasn’t referring to the trial. They’re not going to chop my head off, it’s just that, mentally, I feel I’ve come to the end of the line. Why are you looking at me with such disapproval written all over your face?’
‘What are you talking about, Mitya?’
‘Ideas, ideas, that’s what! Ethics. What is ethics?’
‘Ethics?’ enquired Alyosha, surprised.
‘Is it a science of some kind, or what?’
‘Yes, a science… only… I must admit I couldn’t really explain to you what kind of science.’
‘Rakitin would know. Rakitin’s pretty knowledgeable, you’ve got to hand it to him! He’s not going to be a monk. He’s planning to go to St Petersburg. He’ll be a newspaper critic with a mission, he reckons. Well, perhaps he’ll make good after all, and forge a career for himself. My word, his kind are so good at feathering their own nest! To hell with ethics! I’ve reached the end of the line, Aleksei, yes I have, you man of God! I love you more than anyone else. When I look at you, my heart leaps. Who the hell was Karl Bernard?’
‘Karl Bernard?’ Alyosha was startled again.
‘No, not Karl, hang on, I got it wrong, Claude Bernard.* Who was he? A chemist, or what?’
‘I think he was a scientist of some sort,’ replied Alyosha, ‘only I have to admit I don’t know much about him either. I’ve heard he was a scientist, but what sort I wouldn’t know.’
‘Well, in that case, to hell with him, I do
n’t know either,’ cursed Mitya. ‘A scoundrel of some sort, more than likely, they’re all scoundrels. But Rakitin’s going to make it, Rakitin’ll come out on top, there’s another Bernard for you. My word, those Bernards! The world’s teeming with them!’
‘What’s got into you?’ asked Alyosha.
‘He wants to write about me, he wants to write an article about my case so as to launch himself on a literary career, that’s why he keeps visiting me, he explained it all himself. He wants to give it all a certain slant, along the lines of “The fellow couldn’t help killing, he was a victim of society,” and so on—that’s how he explained it to me. It’ll have overtones of socialism, he reckons. Well, to hell with him, if it has overtones, so what, who cares! He doesn’t like Ivan, hates him in fact, and he isn’t fond of you, either. Still, I don’t kick him out, because he’s intelligent. He does like to put on airs and graces, though. I told him just now: “The Karamazovs aren’t scoundrels, they’re philosophers, the way all true Russians are philosophers, and you may have had some learning, but you’re no philosopher, you’re nothing but a yokel.” He just laughed nastily. And I said: “De opini bus non est disputandum”* not bad, eh? And that’s as far as I go in the classics,’ Mitya burst out laughing.
‘So what’s the matter? What did you mean just now?’ Alyosha interrupted him.
‘What’s the matter? Hm! If the truth be known… all things considered—I feel sorry for God, that’s what!’
‘What are you talking about, “sorry for God”?’
‘Just imagine: in the nerves, in the head, I mean there, in the brain, are these nerves (and little devils they are, too!)… you have these wiggly little tails, the nerves have little tail-endings, well, they only have to start thrashing about… in other words, look, I focus my eyes on something, like so, and they begin to thrash about, those little tails… and as soon as they start thrashing about, that’s when the image appears, not immediately, mind, but an instant or so later, a second passes, perhaps, and then the moment comes, I don’t mean “moment”—to hell with moments—an image, an actual object or happening, dammit it all… so there you have it—first I see, and only then do I think… it’s on account of the little tail-endings, and not at all because I’ve a soul or that I’m some kind of image or likeness, that’s all rubbish. Mikhail explained it all to me yesterday, Alyosha, and you could have knocked me down with a feather. Wonderful thing, science, Alyosha! There will come a new kind of man, that much I understand… Still, I feel sorry for God!’
‘Well, that’s a start, anyway,’ said Alyosha.
‘That I feel sorry for God, you mean? It’s chemistry, my friend, it’s a matter of chemistry! Can’t be helped, Your Holiness, shove over a little, here comes Chemistry! But if you ask me, Rakitin doesn’t love God, my word, he doesn’t! That’s the one sensitive spot they all have in common! But they won’t own up to it. They lie. They pretend. “Are you going to pursue this line of thinking as a critic?” I asked him. “Well, they won’t let me do it openly, that’s for sure,” he said, and laughed. “So where does that leave man then,” I asked him, “with no God and no future life? I suppose now that everything is permitted, one can do whatever one likes?” “Didn’t you know that?” he said, and he laughed. “A clever person”, he said, “can get away with anything, a clever person knows how to play the system, whereas you”, he said, “have committed murder, have been caught red-handed, and now you’re rotting in prison!” He said that to me! The damn swine! Time was, I used to chuck the likes of him out on their ears, but now I just have to sit and listen. You know, he does talk a lot of sense. And he can put pen to paper, too. About a week ago he started reading me an article of his; I specially copied out two lines from it, wait, here they are.’
Mitya promptly produced a piece of paper from his waistcoatpocket and read:
‘“In order to resolve this question, one first has to align one’s personality in opposition to one’s actuality.” Do you understand that?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Alyosha.
He was looking at Mitya, and listening with curiosity.
‘Neither do I. Obscure and devious, but clever. “They all”, he said, “write like that nowadays, because that’s what society demands…” He’s concerned about society. The scoundrel writes poetry too. He wrote a poem to Khokhlakova’s foot, ha-ha-ha!’
‘I heard about that,’ said Alyosha.
‘You did? Have you heard the poem, though?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve got it here; listen, I’ll read it to you. You’ve no idea, I haven’t told you before, there’s more to it than meets the eye. What a rogue! Three weeks ago he decided to poke fun at me: “You, like a fool,” he said, “have got yourself into trouble, all for three thousand roubles, whereas I shall get my hands on a hundred and fifty thousand, I shall marry a widow, and buy myself a stone-built house in St Petersburg.” And he told me he’d been making advances to Khokhlakova; she’s never been particularly bright, but at forty she’s totally gaga. “She’s so sentimental it’s not true,” he said, “and that’s how I’ll get her. I’ll marry her, whisk her off to St Petersburg, and start publishing a newspaper there.” And you should have seen him licking his lustful chops at the thought—not of Khokhlakova, but of the hundred and fifty thousand. And in the end I believed him, I really did; he’s here every day without exception. “She’s giving in,” he says, slobbering all over. And suddenly he gets the brushoff, with a flea in his ear too. Pyotr Ilyich Perkhotin beat him to it, splendid fellow! You know, I could smother that idiot-woman with kisses for kicking him out! It was on the way to see me that he composed these little verses. “It’s the first time”, he says, “I’ve ever soiled my hands this way, writing love poetry, but it’s all for a good cause. When I’ve got my hands on that idiotwoman’s money, I can use it for the public good.” Some people can make any dirty trick look like the public good! “And if you want to know,” he says to me, “I’ve made a better job of it than Pushkin, because I’ve managed to express the anguish of the citizen, even in a nonsense verse.” The bit about Pushkin—I understand. After all, if he really was a talented man and only got to write about feet!… But that this fellow should be so proud of his poem! They’re so full of themselves, these people, so full of themselves! “To the healing of the painful foot of the object of my devotion.” Trust him to come up with a title like that—strange fellow!
Dainty foot a little bent,*
Swollen, twisted, and in pain.
Doctors came and doctors went,
But their efforts were in vain.
Still, ‘tis not for feet I grieve;
That to Pushkin I shall leave.
My concern is for the head
Whence all sense has fled.
Just when head was on the mend,
Came the trouble with the foot instead.
To the painful limb I shall attend
And restore some sense unto the head.
‘A swine, a real swine! But the rogue hasn’t made a bad job of it! He’s even got a bit about the “public good” in. I tell you, he was furious when she kicked him out. He was hell-bent on revenge!’
‘He’s already got his own back,’ said Alyosha. ‘He’s written an article about Khokhlakova.’
And Alyosha told him quickly about the article that had appeared in The St Petersburg Tattler.
‘That’s him, that’s him!’ Mitya agreed, frowning. ‘Without a doubt him. Those articles… yes, I know… I mean, all the muck that was raked up about Grusha for instance!… And about the other one, too, about Katya… Hm!’
He paced the room, preoccupied.
‘Mitya, I can’t stay too long,’ said Alyosha, after a pause. ‘Tomorrow’s going to be an awful, momentous day for you. God’s judgement is going to be passed upon you… and I’m amazed that you just keep walking up and down and talking about goodness knows what, instead of talking about things that matter…’
‘You needn’t be ama
zed,’ Mitya interrupted passionately. ‘You don’t want me to talk about that stinking swine, do you? About the murderer? I’ve talked about that enough with you already, I don’t want to hear any more about that stinking bastard! God will strike him down, you’ll see. No, don’t say anything!’
He approached Alyosha excitedly and kissed him suddenly. His eyes blazed.
‘Rakitin’ll never understand this,’ he began, in a kind of ecstasy, ‘but you, you’ll understand everything. That’s why I was so longing to see you. Look, there’s a lot I’ve been wanting to say to you for a long time, here within these peeling walls, but I kept quiet about the most important thing—the time just didn’t seem right. Now I can’t wait any longer to pour out my heart to you. Alyosha, for the last two months, I’ve felt there was a new man in me, a new man has been born within me! He was imprisoned within me, and he’d never have emerged if it hadn’t been for this bolt of lightning. It’s frightening! What do I care if I have to spend the next twenty years of my life chipping away at a rock-face, I’m not afraid of that at all, I’m much more afraid of something else now: I couldn’t bear the thought of this new person leaving me! There, in the mines, underground, standing right next to you, might be just such a convict and murderer as yourself, with whom you could strike up a friendship, because there too one can live, and love, and suffer! One can resurrect that convict’s hardened heart, one can succour it for years, and finally drag it out of the depths of iniquity into the light, and forge from it an ennobled soul, a suffering conscience; one can regenerate an angel, resurrect a hero! And there are many of them, there are hundreds, and we’re all guilty of their sins! Why did I dream of the “bairn” that time? “Why is the bairn poor?” It came to me at that instant as a revelation! It’s for this “bairn” that I shall go to Siberia. Because we’re all guilty of one another’s sins. For all the “bairns”, because there are small children as well as big children. We are all that “bairn”. I’ll suffer for everyone, because, when all’s said and done, there has to be someone who’ll suffer on behalf of all. I didn’t kill father, but I’ll have to suffer. I accept my cross! It all came to me here… within these peeling walls. And there are many of them, hundreds, the underground ones, wielding their picks. Oh yes, we shall be in chains and there will be no freedom, but the time will come when, from the depths of our despair, we shall rise up once again in joy, without which man cannot survive and God cannot exist, for joy comes from God, and is His greatest gift… Lord, let man be sublimated by prayer! How shall I survive there, underground, without God? Rakitin’s got it wrong. If they drive God off the face of the earth, we shall welcome Him down below! It’s impossible for a convict to be without God, even more impossible than for someone who is not a convict! And then the time will come to pass when we, the underground people, will join in a solemn hymn to God, who is the source of joy! Praise the Lord and His joy! I love Him!’
The Karamazov Brothers Page 89