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

win that creature and carry her off. I knew then

that he had been false to me and meant to abandon me, and it was I, I,

who gave him that money, who offered it to him on the pretext of his

sending it to my sister in Moscow. And as I gave it him, I looked

him in the face and said that he could send it when he liked, ‘in a

month’s time would do.’ How, how could he have failed to understand

that I was practically telling him to his face, ‘You want money to

be false to me with your creature, so here’s the money for you. I give

it to you myself. Take it, if you have so little honour as to take

it!’ I wanted to prove what he was, and what happened? He took it,

he took it, and squandered it with that creature in one night….

But he knew, he knew that I knew all about it. I assure you he

understood, too, that I gave him that money to test him, to see

whether he was so lost to all sense of honour as to take it from me. I

looked into his eyes and he looked into mine, and he understood it all

and he took it-he carried off my money!

 

“That’s true, Katya,” Mitya roared suddenly, “I looked into your

eyes and I knew that you were dishonouring me, and yet I took your

money. Despise me as a scoundrel, despise me, all of you! I’ve

deserved it!”

 

“Prisoner,” cried the President, “another word and I will order

you to be removed.”

 

“That money was a torment to him,” Katya went on with impulsive

haste. “He wanted to repay it me. He wanted to, that’s true; but he

needed money for that creature, too. So he murdered his father, but he

didn’t repay me, and went off with her to that village where he was

arrested. There, again, he squandered the money he had stolen after

the murder of his father. And a day before the murder he wrote me this

letter. He was drunk when he wrote it. I saw it at once, at the

time. He wrote it from spite, and feeling certain, positively certain,

that I should never show it to anyone, even if he did kill him, or

else he wouldn’t have written it. For he knew I shouldn’t want to

revenge myself and ruin him! But read it, read it attentively-more

attentively, please-and you will see that he had described it all

in his letter, all beforehand, how he would kill his father and

where his money was kept. Look, please, don’t overlook that, there’s

one phrase there, ‘I shall kill him as soon as Ivan has gone away.’ he

thought it all out beforehand how he would kill him,” Katerina

Ivanovna pointed out to the court with venomous and malignant triumph.

Oh! it was clear she had studied every line of that letter and

detected every meaning underlining it. “If he hadn’t been drunk, he

wouldn’t have written to me; but, look, everything is written there

beforehand, just as he committed the murder after. A complete

programme of it!” she exclaimed frantically.

 

She was reckless now of all consequences to herself, though, no

doubt, she had foreseen them even a month ago, for even then, perhaps,

shaking with anger, she had pondered whether to show it at the trial

or not. Now she had taken the fatal plunge. I remember that the letter

was read aloud by the clerk, directly afterwards, I believe. It made

an overwhelming impression. They asked Mitya whether he admitted

having written the letter.

 

“It’s mine, mine!” cried Mitya. “I shouldn’t have written it if

I hadn’t been drunk!… We’ve hated each other for many things, Katya,

but I swear, I swear I loved you even while I hated you, and you

didn’t love me!”

 

He sank back on his seat, wringing his hands in despair. The

prosecutor and counsel for the defence began cross-examining her,

chiefly to ascertain what had induced her to conceal such a document

and to give her evidence in quite a different tone and spirit just

before.

 

“Yes, yes. I was telling lies just now. I was lying against my

honour and my conscience, but I wanted to save him, for he has hated

and despised me so!” Katya cried madly. “Oh, he has despised me

horribly, he has always despised me, and do you know, he has

despised me from the very moment that I bowed down to him for that

money. I saw that…. I felt it at once at the time, but for a long

time I wouldn’t believe it. How often I have read it in his eyes, ‘You

came of yourself, though.’ Oh, he didn’t understand, he had no idea

why I ran to him, he can suspect nothing but baseness, he judged me by

himself, he thought everyone was like himself!” Katya hissed

furiously, in a perfect frenzy. “And he only wanted to marry me,

because I’d inherited a fortune, because of that, because of that! I

always suspected it was because of that! Oh, he is a brute! He was

always convinced that I should be trembling with shame all my life

before him, because I went to him then, and that he had a right to

despise me forever for it, and so to be superior to me-that’s why

he wanted to marry me! That’s so, that’s all so! I tried to conquer

him by my love-a love that knew no bounds. I even tried to forgive

his faithlessness; but he understood nothing, nothing! How could he

understand indeed? He is a monster! I only received that letter the

next evening: it was brought me from the tavern-and only that

morning, only that morning I wanted to forgive him everything,

everything-even his treachery!”

 

The President and the prosecutor, of course, tried to calm her.

I can’t help thinking that they felt ashamed of taking advantage of

her hysteria and of listening to such avowals. I remember hearing them

say to her, “We understand how hard it is for you; be sure we are able

to feel for you,” and so on, and so on. And yet they dragged the

evidence out of the raving, hysterical woman. She described at last

with extraordinary clearness, which is so often seen, though only

for a moment, in such overwrought states, how Ivan had been nearly

driven out of his mind during the last two months trying to save

“the monster and murderer,” his brother.

 

“He tortured himself,” she exclaimed, “he was always trying to

minimise his brother’s guilt and confessing to me that he, too, had

never loved his father, and perhaps desired his death himself. Oh,

he has a tender, over-tender conscience! He tormented himself with his

conscience! He told me everything, everything! He came every day and

talked to me as his only friend. I have the honour to be his only

friend!” she cried suddenly with a sort of defiance, and her eyes

flashed. “He had been twice to see Smerdyakov. One day he came to me

and said, ‘If it was not my brother, but Smerdyakov committed the

murder’ (for the legend was circulating everywhere that Smerdyakov had

done it), ‘perhaps I too am guilty, for Smerdyakov knew I didn’t

like my father and perhaps believed that I desired my father’s death.’

Then I brought out that letter and showed it him. He was entirely

convinced that his brother had done it, and he was overwhelmed by

it. He couldn’t endure the thought that his own brother was a

parricide! Only a week ago I saw that it was making him ill. During

the last few days he has talked incoherently in my presence. I saw his

mind was giving way. He walked about, raving; he was seen muttering in

the streets. The doctor from Moscow, at my request, examined him the

day before yesterday and told me that he was on the eve of brain

fever-and all on his account, on account of this monster! And last

night he learnt that Smerdyakov was dead! It was such a shock that

it drove him out of his mind… and all through this monster, all

for the sake of saving the monster!”

 

Oh, of course, such an outpouring, such an avowal is only possible

once in a lifetime-at the hour of death, for instance, on the way

to the scaffold! But it was in Katya’s character, and it was such a

moment in her life. It was the same impetuous Katya who had thrown

herself on the mercy of a young profligate to save her father; the

same Katya who had just before, in her pride and chastity,

sacrificed herself and her maidenly modesty before all these people,

telling of Mitya’s generous conduct, in the hope of softening his fate

a little. And now, again, she sacrificed herself; but this time it was

for another, and perhaps only now-perhaps only at this moment-she

felt and knew how dear that other was to her! She had sacrificed

herself in terror for him; conceiving all of a sudden that he had

ruined himself by his confession that it was he who had committed

the murder, not his brother, she had sacrificed herself to save him,

to save his good name, his reputation!

 

And yet one terrible doubt occurred to one-was she lying in her

description of her former relations with Mitya?- that was the

question. No, she had not intentionally slandered him when she cried

that Mitya despised her for her bowing down to him! She believed it

herself. She had been firmly convinced, perhaps ever since that bow,

that the simplehearted Mitya, who even then adored her, was laughing

at her and despising her. She had loved him with an hysterical,

“lacerated” love only from pride, from wounded pride, and that love

was not like love, but more like revenge. Oh! perhaps that lacerated

love would have grown into real love, perhaps Katya longed for nothing

more than that, but Mitya’s faithlessness had wounded her to the

bottom of her heart, and her heart could not forgive him. The moment

of revenge had come upon her suddenly, and all that had been

accumulating so long and so painfully in the offended woman’s breast

burst out all at once and unexpectedly. She betrayed Mitya, but she

betrayed herself, too. And no sooner had she given full expression

to her feelings than the tension of course was over and she was

overwhelmed with shame. Hysterics began again: she fell on the

floor, sobbing and screaming. She was carried out. At that moment

Grushenka, with a wail, rushed towards Mitya before they had time to

prevent her.

 

“Mitya,” she wailed, “your serpent has destroyed you! There, she

has shown you what she is!” she shouted to the judges, shaking with

anger. At a signal from the President they seized her and tried to

remove her from the court. She wouldn’t allow it. She fought and

struggled to get back to Mitya. Mitya uttered a cry and struggled to

get to her. He was overpowered.

 

Yes, I think the ladies who came to see the spectacle must have

been satisfied-the show had been a varied one. Then I remember the

Moscow doctor appeared on the scene. I believe the President had

previously sent the court usher to arrange for medical aid for Ivan.

The doctor announced to the court that the sick man was suffering from

a dangerous attack of brain fever, and that he must be at once

removed. In answer to questions from the prosecutor and the counsel

for the defence he said that the patient had come to him of his own

accord the day before yesterday and that he had warned him that he