The Brothers Karamazov (73 page)

“Where is she then?” Mitya stopped short.

“She left for Mokroye, sir. Timofei drove her there a couple of hours ago.”

“Why?” Mitya shouted.

“That I can’t say, sir, but I think she’s gone to join some officer who sent for her from there . . .”

Mitya left him and dashed upstairs like a madman to see Fenya.

Chapter 5: A Sudden Resolution

FENYA AND her grandmother were sitting in the kitchen. They were about to go to bed. Relying on the janitor’s promise, Fenya had not bothered to lock the cottage door. Mitya rushed in and seized Fenya by the throat.

“Tell me at once, where is she now and with whom is she, in Mokroye?” Mitya roared at her.

Both women squealed in terror.

“I’ll tell you, sir. I’ll tell you, Mr. Karamazov. I’ll tell you everything I know. I won’t hide anything,” Fenya muttered hurriedly, in terror. “She’s gone to Mokroye, sir, to that officer of hers . . .”

“What officer?” Mitya screamed.

“That same officer she used to know five years ago, the one who left her and went away,” Fenya rattled off as fast as she could.

Dmitry dropped the hands that had been squeezing her throat. He was pale as a corpse and speechless, but it could be seen from his eyes that he now understood everything, that the situation had suddenly become clear to him. Of course, poor Fenya was in no condition at that moment to observe whether he had grasped the facts or not. She was still sitting on the trunk, as she had been when he burst into the room. She sat there trembling, her hands still stretched out in front of her defensively, as if they were frozen in that position, and stared at Dmitry, her pupils dilated with fear. On top of everything, both his hands were caked with blood. And he must have touched his face, as he was running over there, to wipe the sweat from it perhaps, for there were spots of dried blood on his forehead and his right cheek. Fenya was on the verge of hysterics. The old cook stood there, looking around like a madwoman, almost unconscious.

Dmitry remained standing for a minute or so. Then, without knowing what he was doing, he sank into a chair next to Fenya. He was trying to think about what he had just understood, but he just sat there in a state of benumbed stupor. Everything was clear anyway: so it was that officer, and Mitya had known about him all along from Grushenka herself, who had even told Mitya that she had received a letter from him a month ago . . . So for a month, a whole month, she had been preparing all this in absolute secrecy, planning everything, even the appearance of this new man on the scene today! And he, he had never even given him a serious thought! How, how could he have just dismissed him from his mind? What had made him forget the very existence of that officer almost as soon as he had first heard about him? This question loomed before him like a monstrous ghost and he stared at that ghost, feeling his flesh freeze in terror.

Then he spoke to Fenya. He spoke to her like a gentle and affectionate little boy. He seemed to have completely forgotten that a few moments earlier he had terrified, insulted, and hurt her. He asked Fenya many questions, very precise questions which one would never have expected from a man in his state. And Fenya, although she stared wildly at his bloodstained hands, answered him with an unaccountable willingness and eagerness, as if it were very important to her personally to tell him “the whole truth.” She even seemed to enjoy providing him with all the minute details, but not because she savored his pain. No, she was simply anxious to help him. She gave him a complete account of that day, of Rakitin’s and Alyosha’s visit, of herself having to keep a look-out, of Grushenka’s departure, and of her shouting to Alyosha from the window, asking him to give her regards to him, Mitya, and to tell him that she had loved him even if “only for an hour.”

Mitya’s pale cheeks flushed and he smiled when he heard about Grushenka’s last message, and just then Fenya said to him, without the slightest fear that her curiosity might provoke his anger:

“Look, Mr. Karamazov, your hands are covered with blood!”

“Yes, that’s right,” Mitya said, glancing absentmindedly at his hands.

But the next second he had completely forgotten about them, and about Fenya’s remark. He again sank into silence. Twenty minutes had passed since he’d burst in on Fenya. His erstwhile frightened stupor was gone. Instead, he now seemed to be strangely and unshakably resolved. He stood up, smiling pensively.

“Sir . . . What happened to you, sir?” Fenya again pointed to his hands. There was sincere concern in her voice, as if she were the closest person in the world to him and was now sharing his grief.

“It’s blood, Fenya,” he said, gazing at her with a strange expression. “It’s human blood, and, God knows, there was no reason for it to be shed! But . . . you see, Fenya . . . there’s a fence, a tall fence . . .” he looked at her as if he were setting her a riddle, “terrible to look at, but . . . tomorrow at dawn, when the sun rises, Mitya Karamazov will jump over that fence . . . Never mind, Fenya, you’ll hear of it tomorrow anyway and then you’ll understand. And now, good-by! . . . I won’t stand in her way. I know how to take myself out of the way, how to stand aside . . . Since she loved me for an hour, she’ll always remember her Mitya-boy . . . Remember, Fenya, that’s what she used to call me—Mitya-boy . . .”

With these words, he abruptly walked out of the kitchen, and Fenya was almost more frightened by his departure than she had been by his earlier intrusion and attack.

Ten minutes later Dmitry entered the house of Peter Perkhotin, the young government official to whom he had pawned his dueling pistols the day before. It was eight-thirty. Perkhotin had just finished a glass of tea, had put on his coat, and was about to leave for the Capital City Inn for a game of billiards. Mitya caught him just as he was going out. Seeing Mitya’s bloodstained face, Perkhotin cried in surprise:

“My God, what’s happened to you!”

“I’ve come for my pistols,” Mitya said quickly. “I’ve brought the money. I’m very grateful to you for having lent it to me, but I’m in a terrible hurry right now, and I’d appreciate it very much if I could have my pistols right away.”

Perkhotin’s surprise grew when he saw a whole wad of bills in Dmitry’s hand. But the strangest thing of all was the way Dmitry was holding the money. No one else would hold money like that: he held all the bills in his outstretched right hand, as if exhibiting them. Perkhotin’s young valet, who had let Dmitry in, said later that this was how he had entered the house—carrying the money out in front of him—so it would seem that in the street, too, he had carried the bills in his outstretched right hand. They were all rainbow-colored hundred-ruble bills and he held them in his bloodstained fingers. Later, when asked to give an estimate of the sum Dmitry was carrying with him then, Mr. Perkhotin said that it was hard to tell at a glance but that he would not be surprised if there was as much as two or even three thousand rubles, for what he saw was certainly “a pretty thick wad of bills.” As to Dmitry, Perkhotin later also testified, “he was not quite himself. I don’t mean he was drunk, but he was in an exalted sort of state. He seemed both absentminded and, at the same time, very tense, as if he were trying hard to work something out, looking for an answer he couldn’t find. He was in a great hurry, answered abruptly and very strangely, but at certain moments did not sound at all like an unhappy man; indeed, he seemed rather gay.”

“But what’s happened to you, what’s the matter?” Perkhotin cried again, gazing wildly at Dmitry. “How did you manage to get all covered with blood like that! Did you fall, or what? Just look at yourself!” And seizing Dmitry by the elbow, he dragged him to a mirror.

Mitya saw his bloodstained face, shuddered, and frowned angrily.

“Hell, that’s all I needed now,” he muttered in annoyance.

He hurriedly transferred the money from his right hand to his left, and with his right hand nervously pulled out his handkerchief. But, since it was the handkerchief he had used to wipe the blood off Gregory’s head, it was so thoroughly soaked with blood that there wasn’t a single white spot left on it and it now had stiffened into a hard, crumpled ball, which was difficult to unfold. Mitya threw it impatiently on the floor.

“Ah, damn it! Don’t you have a rag or something, so I could wipe it off a bit?”

“You’ve just got blood on you, and you’re not wounded, then? Well, in that case you’d better wash it off,” Perkhotin said. “There’s the washbowl. I’ll go and get you some water.”

“A washbowl? Good. But what will I do with this?”

Peculiarly perplexed, Mitya indicated the wad of hundred-ruble bills. He was looking questioningly at Perkhotin, as though waiting for him to decide what Mitya was to do with his own money.

“Put it in your pocket or put it on the table. What’s the difference? It won’t get lost here.”

“In my pocket? Right, in my pocket. Good . . . No, it’s really too absurd!” he cried, as if he had suddenly come out of his daze. “Listen, I think we’d better attend to our business right away: here’s your money and you give me back my pistols . . . because I need them very badly . . . and . . . I’m in a terrible hurry. I haven’t got a minute to lose.”

Mitya peeled off the top hundred-ruble bill and handed it to Perkhotin.

“I’m afraid I don’t have change for this. Don’t you have anything smaller?”

“No,” Mitya said, glancing at the bundle and fingering the top two or three bills as if to make sure. “No, I don’t. They’re all the same,” he added, looking questioningly at Perkhotin.

“Where did you get all that?” Perkhotin asked. “Wait a second. I’ll send the boy to the Plotnikov store—they stay open late. They may give us some change. Hey, Misha!” he called to the valet out in the passage.

“The Plotnikov store? That’s great!” Mitya exclaimed, as if some brilliant idea had just occurred to him. “Misha,” he said to the young valet, who had just come in, “here, see this? Run to Plotnikov’s and tell them that Dmitry Karamazov sends them his regards and that he’ll be there soon . . . And tell them to prepare champagne for him, three dozen bottles, say, and have them pack it just the way they did the time I went to Mokroye . . . I took four dozen bottles then,” he said, turning for a second to Perkhotin. “Don’t worry, they know me. And Misha,” he said, turning to the valet again, “tell them to pack some cheese too, some Strasbourg pies, smoked whitefish, ham, caviar, and . . . well, whatever else they have, about a hundred or, say, a hundred and twenty rubles worth, just like the other time . . . Yes, and let them not forget the sweet things either: candy, pears, two, three, no, four, watermelons . . . no, I suppose one watermelon should do, but I also want chocolate, fruit-drops, toffee, caramel—well, everything they packed for me the time I went to Mokroye. It came to about three hundred rubles, including the champagne, then, so make it the same thing this time too. Can you remember all that, Misha? That is, if you are Misha . . . isn’t his name Misha?” he asked, turning to Perkhotin again.

“But wait a minute,” Perkhotin said in a worried tone, watching Dmitry uneasily. “Perhaps it would be better if you did your ordering yourself. I’m sure he won’t get everything right.”

“Yes, I can see he won’t get it right! Ah Misha, I was just going to kiss you for doing this errand for me . . . But now, if you get everything right, there’ll be ten rubles for you here. So hurry! The main thing is the champagne—see that they bring some up from the cellar . . . And while they’re at it, let them also bring up some brandy and red and white wine—just like that other time. They know what I want.”

“But listen to me, for heaven’s sake,” Perkhotin said, with marked impatience now. “Let him just run over there, get the change, and warn them that you’re coming so they won’t close the store, and when you get there you’ll tell them what you want yourself . . . Give me that bill, then. All right, off with you, Misha, and be quick about it.”

Perkhotin was probably anxious to get the young valet out of the room as quickly as possible, for the lad was staring at the visitor’s bloody face and the bloodstained hands that held all those bills between trembling fingers—gaping in fear and amazement, and apparently taking in very little of what Mitya was saying.

“And now, come and wash,” Perkhotin said sternly. “Put your money on the table or in your pocket . . . That’s right. Now take off your coat.” Perkhotin had started to help Dmitry to take his coat off, when he suddenly cried: “Look at that—your coat is soaked with blood too!”

“It’s . . . it’s not the coat . . . It’s only a little dirty here, by the sleeve . . . Yes, and here too, around the pocket where the handkerchief was. The blood soaked through when I sat on it at Fenya’s,” Mitya explained with a strange, boundless trustfulness.

Perkhotin frowned.

“You’ve really got yourself into a mess. Did you have a fight with someone, or what?” he muttered.

The washing operations began. Perkhotin held the jug and kept pouring more water. Mitya was in such a hurry that he could not manage to soap his hands properly (his hands were trembling—Perkhotin noticed that) and his host had to insist that he soap them more and wash them more energetically. He seemed to be taking command more and more; it should be noted that he was a young man who was not easily intimidated.

“Look, you didn’t get it out from under your nails properly; and now rub your face—right here . . . on the temple . . . just under your ear now . . . How can you go anywhere in this shirt? Where are you going, anyway? Can’t you see that the cuff of your right sleeve is all covered with blood?”

“Yes, that’s blood,” Mitya said, looking absentmindedly at the cuff of his shirt.

“You must change your shirt then.”

“I have no time. I know what I’ll do. I’ll turn that cuff up, like this,” Mitya said with the same trusting air. He dried his face and put on his coat. “See,” he said, “it doesn’t show at all!”

“And now tell me what happened. Did you get into a fight? Perhaps in the inn, like the other day? Was it that captain again—the one you beat up and dragged out by his beard?” Perkhotin reminded Dmitry disapprovingly. “Or did you beat up somebody else this time, or perhaps you even killed somebody?”