“Madam, I am so touched. I don’t know how to thank you, indeed… for such kindness, but… If only you knew how precious time is to me…. That sum of money, for which I shall be indebted to your generosity… Oh, madam, since you are so kind, so touchingly generous to me,” Mitya exclaimed impulsively, “then let me reveal to you… though, of course, you’ve known it a long time… that I love somebody here…. I have been false to Katya… Katerina Ivanovna I should say…. Oh, I’ve behaved inhumanly, dishonourably to her, but I fell in love here with another woman… a woman whom you, madam, perhaps, despise, for you know everything already, but whom I cannot leave on any account, and therefore that three thousand now-”
“Leave everything, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,” Madame Hohlakov interrupted in the most decisive tone. “Leave everything, especially women. Gold mines are your goal, and there’s no place for women there. Afterwards, when you come back rich and famous, you will find the girl of your heart in the highest society. That will be a modern girl, a girl of education and advanced ideas. By that time the dawning woman question will have gained ground, and the new woman will have appeared.”
“Madam, that’s not the point, not at all…. Mitya clasped his hands in entreaty.
“Yes it is, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, just what you need; the very thing you’re yearning for, though you don’t realise it yourself. I am not at all opposed to the present woman movement, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. The development of woman, and even the political emancipation of woman in the near future — that’s my ideal. I’ve a daughter myself, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, people don’t know that side of me. I wrote a letter to the author, Shtchedrin, on that subject.
He has taught me so much, so much about the vocation of woman. So last year I sent him an anonymous letter of two lines: ‘I kiss and embrace you, my teacher, for the modern woman. Persevere.’ And I signed myself, ‘A Mother.’ I thought of signing myself ‘A contemporary Mother,’ and hesitated, but I stuck to the simple ‘Mother’; there’s more moral beauty in that, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. And the word ‘contemporary’ might have reminded him of The Contemporary — a painful recollection owing to the censorship…. Good Heavens, what is the matter!”
“Madam!” cried Mitya, jumping up at last, clasping his hands before her in helpless entreaty. “You will make me weep if you delay what you have so generously-”
“Oh, do weep, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, do weep! That’s a noble feeling… such a path lies open before you! Tears will ease your heart, and later on you will return rejoicing. You will hasten to me from Siberia on purpose to share your joy with me-”
“But allow me, too!” Mitya cried suddenly.
“For the last time I entreat you, tell me, can I have the sum you promised me to-day, if not, when may I come for it?”
“What sum, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?”
“The three thousand you promised me… that you so generously-”
“Three thousand? Roubles? Oh, no, I haven’t got three thousand,” Madame Hohlakov announced with serene amazement. Mitya was stupefied.
“Why, you said just now you said… you said it was as good as in my hands-”
“Oh, no, you misunderstood me, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. In that case you misunderstood me. I was talking of the gold mines. It’s true I promised you more, infinitely more than three thousand, I remember it all now, but I was referring to the gold mines.”
“But the money? The three thousand?” Mitya exclaimed, awkwardly.
“Oh, if you meant money, I haven’t any. I haven’t a penny, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I’m quarrelling with my steward about it, and I’ve just borrowed five hundred roubles from Miusov, myself. No, no, I’ve no money. And, do you know, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, if I had, I wouldn’t give it to you.
In the first place I never lend money. Lending money means losing friends. And I wouldn’t give it to you particularly. I wouldn’t give it you, because I like you and want to save you, for all you need is the gold mines, the gold mines, the gold mines!”
“Oh, the devil!” roared Mitya, and with all his might brought his fist down on the table.
“Aie! Aie!” cried Madame Hohlakov, alarmed, and she flew to the other end of the drawing-room.
Mitya spat on the ground, and strode rapidly out of the room, out of the house, into the street, into the darkness! He walked like one possessed, and beating himself on the breast, on the spot where he had struck himself two days previously, before Alyosha, the last time he saw him in the dark, on the road. What those blows upon his breast signified, on that spot, and what he meant by it — that was, for the time, a secret which was known to no one in the world, and had not been told even to Alyosha.
But that secret meant for him more than disgrace; it meant ruin, suicide. So he had determined, if he did not get hold of the three thousand that would pay his debt to Katerina Ivanovna, and so remove from his breast, from that spot on his breast, the shame he carried upon it, that weighed on his conscience.
All this will be fully explained to the reader later on, but now that his last hope had vanished, this man, so strong in appearance, burst out crying like a little child a few steps from the Hohlakovs’ house. He walked on, and not knowing what he was doing, wiped away his tears with his fist. In this way he reached the square, and suddenly became aware that he had stumbled against something. He heard a piercing wail from an old woman whom he had almost knocked down.
“Good Lord, you’ve nearly killed me! Why don’t you look where you’re going, scapegrace?”
“Why, it’s you!” cried Mitya, recognising the old woman in the dark. It was the old servant who waited on Samsonov, whom Mitya had particularly noticed the day before.
“And who are you, my good sir?” said the old woman in quite a different voice. “I don’t know you in the dark.”
“You live at Kuzma Kuzmitch’s. You’re the servant there?”
“Just so, sir, I was only running out to Prohoritch’s… But I don’t know you now.”
“Tell me, my good woman, is Agrafena Alexandrovna there now?” said Mitya, beside himself with suspense. “I saw her to the house some time ago.”
“She has been there, sir. She stayed a little while, and went off again.”
“What? Went away?” cried Mitya. “When did she go?”
“Why, as soon as she came. She only stayed a minute. She only told Kuzma Kuzmitch a tale that made him laugh, and then she ran away.”
“You’re lying, damn you!” roared Mitya.
“Aie! Aie!” shrieked the old woman, but Mitya had vanished.
He ran with all his might to the house where Grushenka lived. At the moment he reached it, Grushenka was on her way to Mokroe. It was not more than a quarter of an hour after her departure.
Fenya was sitting with her grandmother, the old cook, Matryona, in the kitchen when “the captain” ran in. Fenya uttered a piercing shriek on seeing him.
“You scream?” roared Mitya, “where is she?”
But without giving the terror-stricken Fenya time to utter a word, he fell all of a heap at her feet.
“Fenya, for Christ’s sake, tell me, where is she?”
“I don’t know. Dmitri Fyodorovitch, my dear, I don’t know. You may kill me but I can’t tell you.” Fenya swore and protested. “You went out with her yourself not long ago-”
“She came back!”
“Indeed she didn’t. By God I swear she didn’t come back.”
“You’re lying!” shouted Mitya. “From your terror I know where she is.”
He rushed away. Fenya in her fright was glad she had got off so easily. But she knew very well that it was only that he was in such haste, or she might not have fared so well. But as he ran, he surprised both Fenya and old Matryona by an unexpected action. On the table stood a brass mortar, with a pestle in it, a small brass pestle, not much more than six inches long. Mitya already had opened the door with one hand when, with the other, he snatched up the pestle, and thrust it in his side-pocket.
“Oh Lord! He’s going to murder someone!” cried Fenya, flinging up her hands.
Chapter 4 In the Dark
WHERE was he running? “Where could she be except at Fyodor Pavlovitch’s? She must have run straight to him from Samsonov’s, that was clear now. The whole intrigue, the whole deceit was evident.”… It all rushed whirling through his mind. He did not run to Marya Kondratyevna’s. “There was no need to go there… not the slightest need… he must raise no alarm… they would run and tell directly…. Marya Kondratyevna was clearly in the plot, Smerdyakov too, he too, all had been bought over!”
He formed another plan of action: he ran a long way round Fyodor Pavlovitch’s house, crossing the lane, running down Dmitrovsky Street, then over the little bridge, and so came straight to the deserted alley at the back, which was empty and uninhabited, with, on one side the hurdle fence of a neighbour’s kitchen-garden, on the other the strong high fence that ran all round Fyodor Pavlovitch’s garden.
Here he chose a spot, apparently the very place, where according to the tradition, he knew Lizaveta had once climbed over it: “If she could climb over it,” the thought, God knows why, occurred to him, “surely I can.” He did in fact jump up, and instantly contrived to catch
