The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky [children's books read aloud TXT] 📗

of the

police, Mihail Mihailovitch, was very favourably disposed to

Grushenka. His abuse of her at Mokroe weighed on the old man’s

conscience, and when he learned the whole story, he completely changed

his view of her. And strange to say, though he was firmly persuaded of

his guilt, yet after Mitya was once in prison, the old man came to

take a more and more lenient view of him. “He was a man of good heart,

perhaps,” he thought, “who had come to grief from drinking and

dissipation.” His first horror had been succeeded by pity. As for

Alyosha, the police captain was very fond of him and had known him for

a long time. Rakitin, who had of late taken to coming very often to

see the prisoner, was one of the most intimate acquaintances of the

“police captain’s young ladies,” as he called them, and was always

hanging about their house. He gave lessons in the house of the

prison superintendent, too, who, though scrupulous in the

performance of his duties, was a kindhearted old man. Alyosha,

again, had an intimate acquaintance of long standing with the

superintendent, who was fond of talking to him, generally on sacred

subjects. He respected Ivan Fyodorovitch, and stood in awe of his

opinion, though he was a great philosopher himself; “self-taught,”

of course. But Alyosha had an irresistible attraction for him.

During the last year the old man had taken to studying the

Apocryphal Gospels, and constantly talked over his impressions with

his young friend. He used to come and see him in the monastery and

discussed for hours together with him and with the monks. So even if

Alyosha were late at the prison, he had only to go to the

superintendent and everything was made easy. Besides, everyone in

the prison, down to the humblest warder, had grown used to Alyosha.

The sentry, of course, did not trouble him so long as the

authorities were satisfied.

 

When Mitya was summoned from his cell, he always went

downstairs, to the place set aside for interviews. As Alyosha

entered the room he came upon Rakitin, who was just taking leave of

Mitya. They were both talking loudly. Mitya was laughing heartily as

he saw him out, while Rakitin seemed grumbling. Rakitin did not like

meeting Alyosha, especially of late. He scarcely spoke to him, and

bowed to him stiffly. Seeing Alyosha enter now, he frowned and

looked away, as though he were entirely absorbed in buttoning his big,

warm, fur-trimmed overcoat. Then he began looking at once for his

umbrella.

 

“I must mind not to forget my belongings,” he muttered, simply

to say something.

 

“Mind you don’t forget other people’s belongings,” said Mitya,

as a joke, and laughed at once at his own wit. Rakitin fired up

instantly.

 

“You’d better give that advice to your own family, who’ve always

been a slave-driving lot, and not to Rakitin,” he cried, suddenly

trembling with anger.

 

“What’s the matter? I was joking,” cried Mitya. “Damn it all! They

are all like that.” He turned to Alyosha, nodding towards Rakitin’s

hurriedly retreating figure. “He was sitting here, laughing and

cheerful, and all at once he boils up like that. He didn’t even nod to

you. Have you broken with him completely? Why are you so late? I’ve

not been simply waiting, but thirsting for you the whole morning.

But never mind. We’ll make up for it now.”

 

“Why does he come here so often? Surely you are not such great

friends?” asked Alyosha. He, too, nodded at the door through which

Rakitin had disappeared.

 

“Great friends with Rakitin? No, not as much as that. Is it

likely-a pig like that? He considers I am… a blackguard. They can’t

understand a joke either, that’s the worst of such people. They

never understand a joke, and their souls are dry, dry and flat; they

remind me of prison walls when I was first brought here. But he is a

clever fellow, very clever. Well, Alexey, it’s all over with me now.”

 

He sat down on the bench and made Alyosha sit down beside him.

 

“Yes, the trial’s to-morrow. Are you so hopeless, brother?”

Alyosha said, with an apprehensive feeling.

 

“What are you talking about?” said Mitya, looking at him rather

uncertainly. “Oh, you mean the trial! Damn it all! Till now we’ve been

talking of things that don’t matter, about this trial, but I haven’t

said a word to you about the chief thing. Yes, the trial is to-morrow;

but it wasn’t the trial I meant, when I said it was all over with

me. Why do you look at me so critically?”

 

“What do you mean, Mitya?”

 

“Ideas, ideas, that’s all! Ethics! What is ethics?”

 

“Ethics?” asked Alyosha, wondering.

 

“Yes; is it a science?”

 

“Yes, there is such a science… but… I confess I can’t

explain to you what sort of science it is.”

 

“Rakitin knows. Rakitin knows a lot, damn him! He’s not going to

be a monk. He means to go to Petersburg. There he’ll go in for

criticism of an elevating tendency. Who knows, he may be of use and

make his own career, too. Ough! they are first-rate, these people,

at making a career! Damn ethics, I am done for, Alexey, I am, you

man of God! I love you more than anyone. It makes my heart yearn to

look at you. Who was Karl Bernard?”

 

“Karl Bernard?” Alyosha was surprised again.

 

“No, not Karl. Stay, I made a mistake. Claude Bernard. What was

he? Chemist or what?”

 

“He must be a savant,” answered Alyosha; “but I confess I can’t

tell you much about him, either. I’ve heard of him as a savant, but

what sort I don’t know.”

 

“Well, damn him, then! I don’t know either,” swore Mitya. “A

scoundrel of some sort, most likely. They are all scoundrels. And

Rakitin will make his way. Rakitin will get on anywhere; he is another

Bernard. Ugh, these Bernards! They are all over the place.”

 

“But what is the matter?” Alyosha asked insistently.

 

“He wants to write an article about me, about my case, and so

begin his literary career. That’s what he comes for; he said so

himself. He wants to prove some theory. He wants to say ‘he couldn’t

help murdering his father, he was corrupted by his environment,’ and

so on. He explained it all to me. He is going to put in a tinge of

Socialism, he says. But there, damn the fellow, he can put in a

tinge if he likes, I don’t care. He can’t bear Ivan, he hates him.

He’s not fond of you, either. But I don’t turn him out, for he is a

clever fellow. Awfully conceited, though. I said to him just now,’ The

Karamazovs are not blackguards, but philosophers; for all true

Russians are philosophers, and though you’ve studied, you are not a

philosopher-you are a low fellow.’ He laughed, so maliciously. And

I said to him, ‘De ideabus non est disputandum.’* Isn’t that rather

good? I can set up for being a classic, you see!” Mitya laughed

suddenly.

 

* There’s no disputing ideas.

 

“Why is it all over with you? You said so just now,” Alyosha

interposed.

 

“Why is it all over with me? H’m!… The fact of it is… if you

take it as a whole, I am sorry to lose God-that’s why it is.”

 

“What do you mean by ‘sorry to lose God’?”

 

“Imagine: inside, in the nerves, in the head-that is, these

nerves are there in the brain… (damn them!) there are sort of little

tails, the little tails of those nerves, and as soon as they begin

quivering… that is, you see, I look at something with my eyes and

then they begin quivering, those little tails… and when they quiver,

then an image appears… it doesn’t appear at once, but an instant,

a second, passes… and then something like a moment appears; that is,

not a moment-devil take the moment!- but an image; that is, an

object, or an action, damn it! That’s why I see and then think,

because of those tails, not at all because I’ve got a soul, and that I

am some sort of image and likeness. All that is nonsense! Rakitin

explained it all to me yesterday, brother, and it simply bowled me

over. It’s magnificent, Alyosha, this science! A new man’s arising-that I understand…. And yet I am sorry to lose God!”

 

“Well, that’s a good thing, anyway,” said Alyosha.

 

“That I am sorry to lose God? It’s chemistry, brother,

chemistry! There’s no help for it, your reverence, you must make way

for chemistry. And Rakitin does dislike God. Ough! doesn’t he

dislike Him! That’s the sore point with all of them. But they

conceal it. They tell lies. They pretend. ‘Will you preach this in

your reviews?’ I asked him. ‘Oh, well, if I did it openly, they

won’t let it through, ‘he said. He laughed. ‘But what will become of

men then?’ I asked him, ‘without God and immortal life? All things are

lawful then, they can do what they like?’ ‘Didn’t you know?’ he said

laughing, ‘a clever man can do what he likes,’ he said. ‘A clever

man knows his way about, but you’ve put your foot in it, committing

a murder, and now you are rotting in prison.’ He says that to my face!

A regular pig! I used to kick such people out, but now I listen to

them. He talks a lot of sense, too. Writes well. He began reading me

an article last week. I copied out three lines of it. Wait a minute.

Here it is.”

 

Mitya hurriedly pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and

read:

 

“‘In order to determine this question, it is above all essential

to put one’s personality in contradiction to one’s reality.’ Do you

understand that?”

 

“No, I don’t,” said Alyosha. He looked at Mitya and listened to

him with curiosity.

 

“I don’t understand either. It’s dark and obscure, but

intellectual. ‘Everyone writes like that now,’ he says, ‘it’s the

effect of their environment.’ They are afraid of the environment. He

writes poetry, too, the rascal. He’s written in honour of Madame

Hohlakov’s foot. Ha ha ha!”

 

“I’ve heard about it,” said Alyosha.

 

“Have you? And have you heard the poem?”

 

“No.”

 

“I’ve got it. Here it is. I’ll read it to you. You don’t know-I

haven’t told you-there’s quite a story about it. He’s a rascal! Three

weeks ago he began to tease me. ‘You’ve got yourself into a mess, like

a fool, for the sake of three thousand, but I’m going to collar a

hundred and fifty thousand. I am going to marry a widow and buy a

house in Petersburg.’ And he told me he was courting Madame

Hohlakov. She hadn’t much brains in her youth, and now at forty she

has lost what she had. ‘But she’s awfully sentimental,’ he says;

‘that’s how I shall get hold of her. When I marry her, I shall take

her to Petersburg and there I shall start a newspaper.’ And his

mouth was simply watering, the beast, not for the widow, but for the

hundred and fifty thousand. And he made me believe it. He came to

see me every day. ‘She is coming round,’ he declared. He was beaming

with delight. And then, all of a sudden, he was turned out of the

house. Perhotin’s carrying everything before him, bravo! I could

kiss the silly old noodle for turning him out of the house. And he had

written this doggerel. ‘It’s the first time I’ve soiled my hands

with writing poetry,’ he said. ‘It’s to win her heart, so it’s in a

good cause.