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

out horses, too.”

 

“I know. So you say there are a lot of them? How’s that? Who are

they?” cried Mitya, greatly dismayed at this unexpected news.

 

“Well, Timofey was saying they’re all gentlefolk. Two from our

town-who they are I can’t say-and there are two others, strangers,

maybe more besides. I didn’t ask particularly. They’ve set to

playing cards, so Timofey said.”

 

“Cards?”

 

“So, maybe they’re not in bed if they’re at cards. It’s most

likely not more than eleven.”

 

“Quicker, Andrey! Quicker!” Mitya cried again, nervously.

 

“May I ask you something, sir?” said Andrey, after a pause.

“Only I’m afraid of angering you, sir.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Why, Fenya threw herself at your feet just now, and begged you

not to harm her mistress, and someone else, too… so you see, sir-It’s I am taking you there… forgive me, sir, it’s my conscience…

maybe it’s stupid of me to speak of it-.”

 

Mitya suddenly seized him by the shoulders from behind.

 

“Are you a driver?” he asked frantically.

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“Then you know that one has to make way. What would you say to a

driver who wouldn’t make way for anyone, but would just drive on and

crush people? No, a driver mustn’t run over people. One can’t run over

a man. One can’t spoil people’s lives. And if you have spoilt a

life-punish yourself…. If only you’ve spoilt, if only you’ve ruined

anyone’s life-punish yourself and go away.”

 

These phrases burst from Mitya almost hysterically. Though

Andrey was surprised at him, he kept up the conversation.

 

“That’s right, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, you’re quite right, one

mustn’t crush or torment a man, or any kind of creature, for every

creature is created by God. Take a horse, for instance, for some

folks, even among us drivers, drive anyhow. Nothing will restrain

them, they just force it along.”

 

“To hell?” Mitya interrupted, and went off into his abrupt,

short laugh. “Andrey, simple soul,” he seized him by the shoulders

again, “tell me, will Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov go to hell, or

not, what do you think?”

 

“I don’t know, darling, it depends on you, for you are… you see,

sir, when the Son of God was nailed on the Cross and died, He went

straight down to hell from the Cross, and set free all sinners that

were in agony. And the devil groaned, because he thought that he would

get no more sinners in hell. And God said to him, then, ‘Don’t

groan, for you shall have all the mighty of the earth, the rulers, the

chief judges, and the rich men, and shall be filled up as you have

been in all the ages till I come again.’ Those were His very words…”

 

“A peasant legend! Capital! Whip up the left, Andrey!”

 

“So you see, sir, who it is hell’s for,” said Andrey, whipping

up the left horse, “but you’re like a little child… that’s how we

look on you… and though you’re hasty-tempered, sir, yet God will

forgive you for your kind heart.”

 

“And you, do you forgive me, Andrey?”

 

“What should I forgive you for, sir? You’ve never done me any

harm.”

 

“No, for everyone, for everyone, you here alone, on the road, will

you forgive me for everyone? Speak, simple peasant heart!”

 

“Oh, sir! I feel afraid of driving you, your talk is so strange.”

 

But Mitya did not hear. He was frantically praying and muttering

to himself.

 

“Lord, receive me, with all my lawlessness, and do not condemn me.

Let me pass by Thy judgment… do not condemn me, for I have condemned

myself, do not condemn me, for I love Thee, O Lord. I am a wretch, but

I love Thee. If Thou sendest me to hell, I shall love Thee there,

and from there I shall cry out that I love Thee for ever and

ever…. But let me love to the end…. Here and now for just five

hours… till the first light of Thy day… for I love the queen of my

soul… I love her and I cannot help loving her. Thou seest my whole

heart… I shall gallop up, I shall fall before her and say, ‘You

are right to pass on and leave me. Farewell and forget your

victim… never fret yourself about me!’”

 

“Mokroe!” cried Andrey, pointing ahead with his whip.

 

Through the pale darkness of the night loomed a solid black mass

of buildings, flung down, as it were, in the vast plain. The village

of Mokroe numbered two thousand inhabitants, but at that hour all were

asleep, and only here and there a few lights still twinkled.

 

“Drive on, Andrey, I come!” Mitya exclaimed, feverishly.

 

“They’re not asleep,” said Andrey again, pointing with his whip to

the Plastunovs’ inn, which was at the entrance to the village. The six

windows, looking on the street, were all brightly lighted up.

 

“They’re not asleep,” Mitya repeated joyously. “Quicker, Andrey!

Gallop! Drive up with a dash! Set the bells ringing! Let all know that

I have come. I’m coming! I’m coming, too!”

 

Andrey lashed his exhausted team into a gallop, drove with a

dash and pulled up his steaming, panting horses at the high flight

of steps.

 

Mitya jumped out of the cart just as the innkeeper, on his way

to bed, peeped out from the steps curious to see who had arrived.

 

“Trifon Borissovitch, is that you?”

 

The innkeeper bent down, looked intently, ran down the steps,

and rushed up to the guest with obsequious delight.

 

“Dmitri Fyodorovitch, your honour! Do I see you again?”

 

Trifon Borissovitch was a thick-set, healthy peasant, of middle

height, with a rather fat face. His expression was severe and

uncompromising, especially with the peasants of Mokroe, but he had the

power of assuming the most obsequious countenance, when he had an

inkling that it was to his interest. He dressed in Russian style, with

a shirt buttoning down on one side, and a full-skirted coat. He had

saved a good sum of money, but was for ever dreaming of improving

his position. More than half the peasants were in his clutches,

everyone in the neighbourhood was in debt to him. From the

neighbouring landowners he bought and rented lands which were worked

by the peasants, in payment of debts which they could never shake off.

He was a widower, with four grown-up daughters. One of them was

already a widow and lived in the inn with her two children, his

grandchildren, and worked for him like a charwoman. Another of his

daughters was married to a petty official, and in one of the rooms

of the inn, on the wall could be seen, among the family photographs, a

miniature photograph of this official in uniform and official

epaulettes. The two younger daughters used to wear fashionable blue or

green dresses, fitting tight at the back, and with trains a yard long,

on Church holidays or when they went to pay visits. But next morning

they would get up at dawn, as usual, sweep out the rooms with a

birch-broom, empty the slops, and clean up after lodgers.

 

In spite of the thousands of roubles he had saved, Trifon

Borissovitch was very fond of emptying the pockets of a drunken guest,

and remembering that not a month ago he had, in twenty-four hours,

made two if not three hundred roubles out of Dmitri, when he had

come on his escapade with Grushenka, he met him now with eager

welcome, scenting his prey the moment Mitya drove up to the steps.

 

“Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear sir, we see you once more!”

 

“Stay, Trifon Borissovitch,” began Mitya, “first and foremost,

where is she?”

 

“Agrafena Alexandrovna?” The innkeeper understood at once,

looking sharply into Mitya’s face. “She’s here, too…”

 

“With whom? With whom?”

 

“Some strangers. One is an official gentleman, a Pole, to judge

from his speech. He sent the horses for her from here; and there’s

another with him, a friend of his, or a fellow traveller, there’s no

telling. They’re dressed like civilians.”

 

“Well, are they feasting? Have they money?”

 

“Poor sort of a feast! Nothing to boast of, Dmitri Fyodorovitch.”

 

“Nothing to boast of? And who are the others?”

 

“They’re two gentlemen from the town…. They’ve come back from

Tcherny, and are putting up here. One’s quite a young gentleman, a

relative of Mr. Miusov he must be, but I’ve forgotten his name…

and I expect you know the other, too, a gentleman called Maximov. He’s

been on a pilgrimage, so he says, to the monastery in the town. He’s

travelling with this young relation of Mr. Miusov.”

 

“Is that all?”

 

“Stay, listen, Trifon Borissovitch. Tell me the chief thing:

What of her? How is she?”

 

“Oh, she’s only just come. She’s sitting with them.”

 

“Is she cheerful? Is she laughing?”

 

“No, I think she’s not laughing much. She’s sitting quite dull.

She’s combing the young gentleman’s hair.”

 

“The Pole-the officer?”

 

“He’s not young, and he’s not an officer, either. Not him, sir.

It’s the young gentleman that’s Mr. Miusov’s relation. I’ve

forgotten his name.”

 

“Kalganov?”

 

“That’s it, Kalganov!”

 

“All right. I’ll see for myself. Are they playing cards?”

 

“They have been playing, but they’ve left off. They’ve been

drinking tea, the official gentleman asked for liqueurs.”

 

“Stay, Trifon Borissovitch, stay, my good soul, I’ll see for

myself. Now answer one more question: are the gypsies here?”

 

“You can’t have the gypsies now, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. The

authorities have sent them away. But we’ve Jews that play the

cymbals and the fiddle in the village, so one might send for them.

They’d come.”

 

“Send for them. Certainly send for them!” cried Mitya. “And you

can get the girls together as you did then, Marya especially,

Stepanida, too, and Arina. Two hundred roubles for a chorus!”

 

“Oh, for a sum like that I can get all the village together,

though by now they’re asleep. Are the peasants here worth such

kindness, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, or the girls either? To spend a sum

like that on such coarseness and rudeness! What’s the good of giving a

peasant a cigar to smoke, the stinking ruffian! And the girls are

all lousy. Besides, I’ll get my daughters up for nothing, let alone

a sum like that. They’ve only just gone to bed, I’ll give them a

kick and set them singing for you. You gave the peasants champagne

to drink the other day, e-ech!”

 

For all his pretended compassion for Mitya, Trifon Borissovitch

had hidden half a dozen bottles of champagne on that last occasion,

and had picked up a hundred-rouble note under the table, and it had

remained in his clutches.

 

“Trifon Borissovitch, I sent more than one thousand flying last

time I was here. Do you remember?”

 

“You did send it flying. I may well remember. You must have left

three thousand behind you.”

 

“Well, I’ve come to do the same again, do you see?”

 

And he pulled out his roll of notes, and held them up before the

innkeeper’s nose.

 

Now, listen and remember. In an hour’s time the wine will

arrive, savouries, pies, and sweets-bring them all up at once. That

box Andrey has got is to be brought up at once, too. Open it, and hand

champagne immediately. And the girls, we must have the girls, Marya

especially.”

 

He turned to the cart and pulled out the box of pistols.

 

“Here, Andrey, let’s settle. Here’s fifteen roubles for the drive,

and fifty for vodka… for your readiness, for your love….

Remember Karamazov!”

 

“I’m afraid, sir,” Andrey. “Give me five roubles extra, but more I