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

you-?”

 

“That’s enough, let’s go.”

 

“Upon my word. I’ll tell someone to prevent your going there,”

said Pyotr Ilyitch, looking at him. “What are you going to Mokroe for,

now?”

 

“There’s a woman there, a woman. That’s enough for you. You shut

up.”

 

“Listen, though you’re such a savage I’ve always liked you…. I

feel anxious.”

 

“Thanks, old fellow. I’m a savage you say. Savages, savages!

That’s what I am always saying. Savages! Why, here’s Misha! I was

forgetting him.”

 

Misha ran in, post-haste, with a handful of notes in change, and

reported that everyone was in a bustle at the Plotnikovs’; “They’re

carrying down the bottles, and the fish, and the tea; it will all be

ready directly.” Mitya seized ten roubles and handed it to Pyotr

Ilyitch, then tossed another ten-rouble note to Misha.

 

“Don’t dare to do such a thing!” cried Pyotr Ilyitch. “I won’t

have it in my house, it’s a bad, demoralising habit. Put your money

away. Here, put it here, why waste it? It would come in handy

to-morrow, and I dare say you’ll be coming to me to borrow ten roubles

again. Why do you keep putting the notes in your side pocket? Ah,

you’ll lose them!”

 

“I say, my dear fellow, let’s go to Mokroe together.”

 

“What should I go for?”

 

“I say, let’s open a bottle at once, and drink to life! I want

to drink, and especially to drink with you. I’ve never drunk with you,

have I?”

 

“Very well, we can go to the Metropolis. I was just going there.”

 

“I haven’t time for that. Let’s drink at the Plotnikovs’, in the

back room. Shall I ask you a riddle?”

 

“Ask away.”

 

Mitya took the piece of paper out of his waistcoat pocket,

unfolded it and showed it. In a large, distinct hand was written: “I

punish myself for my whole life; my whole life I punish!”

 

“I will certainly speak to someone. I’ll go at once,” said Pyotr

Ilyitch, after reading the paper.

 

“You won’t have time, dear boy, come and have a drink. March!”

 

Plotnikov’s shop was at the corner of the street, next door but

one to Pyotr Ilyitch’s. It was the largest grocery shop in our town,

and by no means a bad one, belonging to some rich merchants. They kept

everything that could be got in a Petersburg shop, grocery of all

sort, wines “bottled by the brothers Eliseyev,” fruits, cigars, tea,

coffee, sugar, and so on. There were three shop-assistants and two

errand boys always employed. Though our part of the country had

grown poorer, the landowners had gone away, and trade had got worse,

yet the grocery stores flourished as before, every year with

increasing prosperity; there were plenty of purchasers for their

goods.

 

They were awaiting Mitya with impatience in the shop. They had

vivid recollections of how he had bought, three or four weeks ago,

wine and goods of all sorts to the value of several hundred roubles,

paid for in cash (they would never have let him have anything on

credit, of course). They remembered that then, as now, he had had a

bundle of hundred-rouble notes in his hand, and had scattered them

at random, without bargaining, without reflecting, or caring to

reflect what use so much wine and provisions would be to him. The

story was told all over the town that, driving off then with Grushenka

to Mokroe, he had “spent three thousand in one night and the following

day, and had come back from the spree without a penny.” He had

picked up a whole troop of gypsies (encamped in our neighbourhood at

the time), who for two days got money without stint out of him while

he was drunk, and drank expensive wine without stint. People used to

tell, laughing at Mitya, how he had given champagne to grimy-handed

peasants, and feasted the village women and girls on sweets and

Strasburg pies. Though to laugh at Mitya to his face was rather a

risky proceeding, there was much laughter behind his back,

especially in the tavern, at his own ingenuous public avowal that

all he had got out of Grushenka by this “escapade” was “permission

to kiss her foot, and that was the utmost she had allowed him.”

 

By the time Mitya and Pyotr Ilyitch reached the shop, they found a

cart with three horses harnessed abreast with bells, and with

Andrey, the driver, ready waiting for Mitya at the entrance. In the

shop they had almost entirely finished packing one box of

provisions, and were only waiting for Mitya’s arrival to nail it

down and put it in the cart. Pyotr Ilyitch was astounded.

 

“Where did this cart come from in such a hurry?” he asked Mitya.

 

“I met Andrey as I ran to you, and told him to drive straight here

to the shop. There’s no time to lose. Last time I drove with

Timofey, but Timofey now has gone on before me with the witch. Shall

we be very late, Andrey?”

 

“They’ll only get there an hour at most before us, not even that

maybe. I got Timofey ready to start. I know how he’ll go. Their pace

won’t be ours, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. How could it be? They won’t get

there an hour earlier!” Andrey, a lanky, red-haired, middle-aged

driver, wearing a full-skirted coat, and with a kaftan on his arm,

replied warmly.

 

“Fifty roubles for vodka if we’re only an hour behind them.”

 

“I warrant the time, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. Ech, they won’t be

half an hour before us, let alone an hour.”

 

Though Mitya bustled about seeing after things, he gave his orders

strangely, as it were, disconnectedly, and inconsecutively. He began a

sentence and forgot the end of it. Pyotr Ilyitch found himself obliged

to come to the rescue.

 

“Four hundred roubles’ worth, not less than four hundred

roubles’ worth, just as it was then,” commanded Mitya. “Four dozen

champagne, not a bottle less.”

 

“What do you want with so much? What’s it for? Stay!” cried

Pyotr Ilyitch. “What’s this box? What’s in it? Surely there isn’t four

hundred roubles’ worth here?”

 

The officious shopmen began explaining with oily politeness that

the first box contained only half a dozen bottles of champagne, and

only “the most indispensable articles,” such as savouries, sweets,

toffee, etc. But the main part of the goods ordered would be packed

and sent off, as on the previous occasion, in a special cart also with

three horses travelling at full speed, so that it would arrive not

more than an hour later than Dmitri Fyodorovitch himself.

 

“Not more than an hour! Not more than an hour! And put in more

toffee and fondants. The girls there are so fond of it,” Mitya

insisted hotly.

 

“The fondants are all right. But what do you want with four

dozen of champagne? One would be enough,” said Pyotr Ilyitch, almost

angry. He began bargaining, asking for a bill of the goods, and

refused to be satisfied. But he only succeeded in saving a hundred

roubles. In the end it was agreed that only three hundred roubles’

worth should be sent.

 

“Well, you may go to the devil!” cried Pyotr Ilyitch, on second

thoughts. “What’s it to do with me? Throw away your money, since

it’s cost you nothing.”

 

“This way, my economist, this way, don’t be angry.” Mitya drew him

into a room at the back of the shop. “They’ll give us a bottle here

directly. We’ll taste it. Ech, Pyotr Ilyitch, come along with me,

for you’re a nice fellow, the sort I like.”

 

Mitya sat down on a wicker chair, before a little table, covered

with a dirty dinner-napkin. Pyotr Ilyitch sat down opposite, and the

champagne soon appeared, and oysters were suggested to the

gentlemen. “First-class oysters, the last lot in.”

 

“Hang the oysters. I don’t eat them. And we don’t need

anything,” cried Pyotr Ilyitch, almost angrily.

 

“There’s no time for oysters,” said Mitya. “And I’m not hungry. Do

you know, friend,” he said suddenly, with feeling, “I never have liked

all this disorder.”

 

“Who does like it? Three dozen of champagne for peasants, upon

my word, that’s enough to make anyone angry!”

 

“That’s not what I mean. I’m talking of a higher order. There’s no

order in me, no higher order. But… that’s all over. There’s no

need to grieve about it. It’s too late, damn it! My whole life has

been disorder, and one must set it in order. Is that a pun, eh?”

 

“You’re raving, not making puns!

 

“Glory be to God in Heaven,

 

Glory be to God in me…

 

“That verse came from my heart once, it’s not a verse, but a

tear…. I made it myself… not while I was pulling the captain’s

beard, though…”

 

“Why do you bring him in all of a sudden?”

 

“Why do I bring him in? Foolery! All things come to an end; all

things are made equal. That’s the long and short of it.”

 

“You know, I keep thinking of your pistols.”

 

“That’s all foolery, too! Drink, and don’t be fanciful. I love

life. I’ve loved life too much, shamefully much. Enough! Let’s drink

to life, dear boy, I propose the toast. Why am I pleased with

myself? I’m a scoundrel, but I’m satisfied with myself. And yet I’m

tortured by the thought that I’m a scoundrel, but satisfied with

myself. I bless the creation. I’m ready to bless God and His

creation directly, but… I must kill one noxious insect for fear it

should crawl and spoil life for others…. Let us drink to life,

dear brother. What can be more precious than life? Nothing! To life,

and to one queen of queens!”

 

“Let’s drink to life and to your queen, too, if you like.”

 

They drank a glass each. Although Mitya was excited and expansive,

yet he was melancholy, too. It was as though some heavy,

overwhelming anxiety were weighing upon him.

 

“Misha… here’s your Misha come! Misha, come here, my boy,

drink this glass to Phoebus the golden-haired, of to-morrow morn…”

 

“What are you giving it him for?” cried Pyotr Ilyitch, irritably.

 

“Yes, yes, yes, let me! I want to!”

 

“E-ech!”

 

Misha emptied the glass, bowed, and ran out.

 

“He’ll remember it afterwards,” Mitya remarked. “Woman, I love

woman! What is woman? The queen of creation! My heart is sad, my heart

is sad, Pyotr Ilyitch. Do you remember Hamlet? ‘I am very sorry,

good Horatio! Alas, poor Yorick!’ Perhaps that’s me, Yorick? Yes,

I’m Yorick now, and a skull afterwards.”

 

Pyotr Ilyitch listened in silence. Mitya, too, was silent for a

while.

 

“What dog’s that you’ve got here?” he asked the shopman, casually,

noticing a pretty little lap-dog with dark eyes, sitting in the

corner.

 

“It belongs to Varvara Alexyevna, the mistress,” answered the

clerk. “She brought it and forgot it here. It must be taken back to

her.”

 

“I saw one like it… in the regiment… ” murmured Mitya

dreamily, “only that one had its hind leg broken…. By the way, Pyotr

Ilyitch, I wanted to ask you: have you ever stolen anything in your

life?”

 

“What a question!”

 

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything. From somebody’s pocket, you know. I

don’t mean government money, everyone steals that, and no doubt you

do, too…”

 

“You go to the devil.”

 

“I’m talking of other people’s money. Stealing straight out of a

pocket? Out of a purse, eh?”

 

“I stole twenty copecks from my mother when I was nine years

old. I took it off the table on the sly, and held it tight in my

hand.”