The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (best e book reader for android txt) 📖

his bloodstained face, Mitya started and scowled

wrathfully.

 

“Damnation! That’s the last straw,” he muttered angrily, hurriedly

changing the notes from his right hand to the left, and impulsively

jerked the handkerchief out of his pocket. But the handkerchief turned

out to be soaked with blood, too (it was the handkerchief he had

used to wipe Grigory’s face). There was scarcely a white spot on it,

and it had not merely begun to dry, but had stiffened into a

crumpled ball and could not be pulled apart. Mitya threw it angrily on

the floor.

 

“Oh, damn it!” he said. “Haven’t you a rag of some sort… to wipe

my face?”

 

“So you’re only stained, not wounded? You’d better wash,” said

Pyotr Ilyitch. “Here’s a wash-stand. I’ll pour you out some water.”

 

“A wash-stand? That’s all right… but where am I to put this?”

 

With the strangest perplexity he indicated his bundle of

hundred-rouble notes, looking inquiringly at Pyotr Ilyitch as though

it were for him to decide what he, Mitya, was to do with his own

money.

 

“In your pocket, or on the table here. They won’t be lost.”

 

“In my pocket? Yes, in my pocket. All right…. But, I say, that’s

all nonsense,” he cried, as though suddenly coming out of his

absorption. “Look here, let’s first settle that business of the

pistols. Give them back to me. Here’s your money… because I am in

great need of them… and I haven’t a minute, a minute to spare.”

 

And taking the topmost note from the bundle he held it out to

Pyotr Ilyitch.

 

“But I shan’t have change enough. Haven’t you less?”

 

“No,” said Mitya, looking again at the bundle, and as though not

trusting his own words he turned over two or three of the topmost

ones.

 

“No, they’re all alike,” he added, and again he looked inquiringly

at Pyotr Ilyitch.

 

“How have you grown so rich?” the latter asked. “Wait, I’ll send

my boy to Plotnikov’s, they close late-to see if they won’t change

it. Here, Misha!” he called into the passage.

 

“To Plotnikov’s shop-first-rate!” cried Mitya, as though struck

by an idea. “Misha,” he turned to the boy as he came in, “look here,

run to Plotnikov’s and tell them that Dmitri Fyodorovitch sends his

greetings, and will be there directly…. But listen, listen, tell

them to have champagne, three dozen bottles, ready before I come,

and packed as it was to take to Mokroe. I took four dozen with me

then,” he added (suddenly addressing Pyotr Ilyitch); “they know all

about it, don’t you trouble, Misha,” he turned again to the boy.

“Stay, listen; tell them to put in cheese, Strasburg pies, smoked

fish, ham, caviare, and everything, everything they’ve got, up to a

hundred roubles, or a hundred and twenty as before…. But wait: don’t

let them forget dessert, sweets, pears, watermelons, two or three or

four-no, one melon’s enough, and chocolate, candy, toffee,

fondants; in fact, everything I took to Mokroe before, three hundred

roubles’ worth with the champagne… let it be just the same again.

And remember, Misha, if you are called Misha-His name is Misha, isn’t

it?” He turned to Pyotr Ilyitch again.

 

“Wait a minute,” Pyotr Ilyitch intervened listening and watching

him uneasily, “you’d better go yourself and tell them. He’ll muddle

it.”

 

“He will, I see he will! Eh, Misha! Why, I was going to kiss you

for the commission…. If you don’t make a mistake, there’s ten

roubles for you, run along, make haste…. Champagne’s the chief

thing, let them bring up champagne. And brandy, too, and red and white

wine, and all I had then…. They know what I had then.”

 

“But listen!” Pyotr Ilyitch interrupted with some impatience. “I

say, let him simply run and change the money and tell them not to

close, and you go and tell them…. Give him your note. Be off, Misha!

Put your best leg forward!”

 

Pyotr Ilyitch seemed to hurry Misha off on purpose, because the

boy remained standing with his mouth and eyes wide open, apparently

understanding little of Mitya’s orders, gazing up with amazement and

terror at his bloodstained face and the trembling bloodstained

fingers that held the notes.

 

“Well, now come and wash,” said Pyotr Ilyitch sternly. “Put the

money on the table or else in your pocket…. That’s right, come

along. But take off your coat.”

 

And beginning to help him off with his coat, he cried out again:

 

“Look, your coat’s covered with blood, too!”

 

“That… it’s not the coat. It’s only a little here on the

sleeve…. And that’s only here where the handkerchief lay. It must

have soaked through. I must have sat on the handkerchief at Fenya’s,

and the blood’s come through,” Mitya explained at once with a

childlike unconsciousness that was astounding. Pyotr Ilyitch

listened, frowning.

 

“Well, you must have been up to something; you must have been

fighting with someone,” he muttered.

 

They began to wash. Pyotr Ilyitch held the jug and poured out

the water. Mitya, in desperate haste, scarcely soaped his hands

(they were trembling, and Pyotr Ilyitch remembered it afterwards). But

the young official insisted on his soaping them thoroughly and rubbing

them more. He seemed to exercise more and more sway over Mitya, as

time went on. It may be noted in passing that he was a young man of

sturdy character.

 

“Look, you haven’t got your nails clean. Now rub your face;

here, on your temples, by your ear…. Will you go in that shirt?

Where are you going? Look, all the cuff of your right sleeve is

covered with blood.”

 

“Yes, it’s all bloody,” observed Mitya, looking at the cuff of his

shirt.

 

“Then change your shirt.”

 

“I haven’t time. You see I’ll…” Mitya went on with the same

confiding ingenuousness, drying his face and hands on the towel, and

putting on his coat. “I’ll turn it up at the wrist. It won’t be seen

under the coat…. You see!”

 

“Tell me now, what game have you been up to? Have you been

fighting with someone? In the tavern again, as before? Have you been

beating that captain again?” Pyotr Ilyitch asked him reproachfully.

“Whom have you been beating now… or killing, perhaps?”

 

“Nonsense!” said Mitya.

 

“Don’t worry,” said Mitya, and he suddenly laughed. “I smashed

an old woman in the marketplace just now.”

 

“Smashed? An old woman?”

 

“An old man!” cried Mitya, looking Pyotr Ilyitch straight in the

face, laughing, and shouting at him as though he were deaf.

 

“Confound it! An old woman, an old man…. Have you killed

someone?”

 

“We made it up. We had a row-and made it up. In a place I know

of. We parted friends. A fool…. He’s forgiven me…. He’s sure to

have forgiven me by now… if he had got up, he wouldn’t have forgiven

me”- Mitya suddenly winked- “only damn him, you know, I say, Pyotr

Ilyitch, damn him! Don’t worry about him! I don’t want to just now!”

Mitya snapped out, resolutely.

 

“Whatever do you want to go picking quarrels with everyone for?…

Just as you did with that captain over some nonsense…. You’ve been

fighting and now you’re rushing off on the spree-that’s you all over!

Three dozen champagne-what do you want all that for?”

 

“Bravo! Now give me the pistols. Upon my honour I’ve no time

now. I should like to have a chat with you, my dear boy, but I haven’t

the time. And there’s no need, it’s too late for talking. Where’s my

money? Where have I put it?” he cried, thrusting his hands into his

pockets.

 

“You put it on the table… yourself…. Here it is. Had you

forgotten? Money’s like dirt or water to you, it seems. Here are

your pistols. It’s an odd thing, at six o’clock you pledged them for

ten roubles, and now you’ve got thousands. Two or three I should say.”

 

“Three, you bet,” laughed Mitya, stuffing the notes into the

side-pocket of his trousers.

 

“You’ll lose it like that. Have you found a gold mine?”

 

“The mines? The gold mines?” Mitya shouted at the top of his voice

and went off into a roar of laughter. “Would you like to go to the

mines, Perhotin? There’s a lady here who’ll stump up three thousand

for you, if only you’ll go. She did it for me, she’s so awfully fond

of gold mines. Do you know Madame Hohlakov?”

 

“I don’t know her, but I’ve heard of her and seen her. Did she

really give you three thousand? Did she really?” said Pyotr Ilyitch,

eyeing him dubiously.

 

“As soon as the sun rises to-morrow, as soon as Phoebus, ever

young, flies upwards, praising and glorifying God, you go to her, this

Madame Hohlakov, and ask her whether she did stump up that three

thousand or not. Try and find out.”

 

“I don’t know on what terms you are… since you say it so

positively, I suppose she did give it to you. You’ve got the money

in your hand, but instead of going to Siberia you’re spending it

all…. Where are you really off to now, eh?”

 

“To Mokroe.”

 

“To Mokroe? But it’s night!”

 

“Once the lad had all, now the lad has naught,” cried Mitya

suddenly.

 

“How ‘naught’? You say that with all those thousands!”

 

“I’m not talking about thousands. Damn thousands! I’m talking of

female character.

 

Fickle is the heart of woman

 

Treacherous and full of vice;

 

I agree with Ulysses. That’s what he says.”

 

“I don’t understand you!”

 

“Am I drunk?”

 

“Not drunk, but worse.”

 

“I’m drunk in spirit, Pyotr Ilyitch, drunk in spirit! But that’s

enough!”

 

“What are you doing, loading the pistol?”

 

“I’m loading the pistol.”

 

Unfastening the pistol-case, Mitya actually opened the powder

horn, and carefully sprinkled and rammed in the charge. Then he took

the bullet and, before inserting it, held it in two fingers in front

of the candle.

 

“Why are you looking at the bullet?” asked Pyotr Ilyitch, watching

him with uneasy curiosity.

 

“Oh, a fancy. Why, if you meant to put that bullet in your

brain, would you look at it or not?”

 

“Why look at it?”

 

“It’s going into my brain, so it’s interesting to look and see

what it’s like. But that’s foolishness, a moment’s foolishness. Now

that’s done,” he added, putting in the bullet and driving it home with

the ramrod. “Pyotr Ilyitch, my dear fellow, that’s nonsense, all

nonsense, and if only you knew what nonsense! Give me a little piece

of paper now.”

 

“Here’s some paper.”

 

“No, a clean new piece, writing-paper. That’s right.”

 

And taking a pen from the table, Mitya rapidly wrote two lines,

folded the paper in four, and thrust it in his waistcoat pocket. He

put the pistols in the case, locked it up, and kept it in his hand.

Then he looked at Pyotr Ilyitch with a slow, thoughtful smile.

 

“Now, let’s go.”

 

“Where are we going? No, wait a minute…. Are you thinking of

putting that bullet in your brain, perhaps?” Pyotr Ilyitch asked

uneasily.

 

“I was fooling about the bullet! I want to live. I love life,

You may be sure of that. I love golden-haired Phorbus and his warm

light…. Dear Pyotr Ilyitch, do you know how to step aside?”

 

“What do you mean by ‘stepping aside’?”

 

“Making way. Making way for a dear creature, and for one I hate.

And to let the one I hate become dear-that’s what making way means!

And to say to them: God bless you, go your way, pass on, while I-”

 

“While