THIS was the visit of Mitya of which Grushenka had spoken to

Rakitin with such horror. She was just then expecting the "message,"

and was much relieved that Mitya had not been to see her that day or

the day before. She hoped that "please God he won't come till I'm gone

away," and he suddenly burst in on her. The rest we know already. To

get him off her hands she suggested at once that he should walk with

her to Samsonov's, where she said she absolutely must go "to settle

his accounts," and when Mitya accompanied her at once, she said

good-bye to him at the gate, making him promise to come at twelve

o'clock to take her home again. Mitya, too, was delighted at this

arrangement. If she was sitting at Samsonov's she could not be going

to Fyodor Pavlovitch's, "if only she's not lying," he added at once.

But he thought she was not lying from what he saw.

    He was that sort of jealous man who, in the absence of the beloved

woman, at once invents all sorts of awful fancies of what may be

happening to her, and how she may be betraying him, but, when

shaken, heartbroken, convinced of her faithlessness, he runs back to

her, at the first glance at her face, her gay, laughing,

affectionate face, he revives at once, lays aside all suspicion and

with joyful shame abuses himself for his jealousy.

    After leaving Grushenka at the gate he rushed home. Oh, he had

so much still to do that day! But a load had been lifted from his

heart, anyway.

    "Now I must only make haste and find out from Smerdyakov whether

anything happened there last night, whether, by any chance, she went

to Fyodor Pavlovitch; ough!" floated through his mind.

    Before he had time to reach his lodging, jealousy had surged up

again in his restless heart.

    Jealousy! "Othello was not jealous, he was trustful," observed

Pushkin. And that remark alone is enough to show the deep insight of

our great poet. Othello's soul was shattered and his whole outlook

clouded simply because his ideal was destroyed. But Othello did not

begin hiding, spying, peeping. He was trustful, on the contrary. He

had to be led up, pushed on, excited with great difficulty before he

could entertain the idea of deceit. The truly jealous man is not

like that. It is impossible to picture to oneself the shame and

moral degradation to which the jealous man can descend without a qualm

of conscience. And yet it's not as though the jealous were all

vulgar and base souls. On the contrary, a man of lofty feelings, whose

love is pure and full of self-sacrifice, may yet hide under tables,

bribe the vilest people, and be familiar with the lowest ignominy of

spying and eavesdropping.

    Othello was incapable of making up his mind to faithlessness-

not incapable of forgiving it, but of making up his mind to it- though

his soul was as innocent and free from malice as a babe's. It is not

so with the really jealous man. It is hard to imagine what some

jealous men can make up their mind to and overlook, and what they

can forgive! The jealous are the readiest of all to forgive, and all

women know it. The jealous man can forgive extraordinarily quickly

(though, of course, after a violent scene), and he is able to

forgive infidelity almost conclusively proved, the very kisses and

embraces he has seen, if only he can somehow be convinced that it

has all been "for the last time," and that his rival will vanish

from that day forward, will depart to the ends of the earth, or that

he himself will carry her away somewhere, where that dreaded rival

will not get near her. Of course the reconciliation is only for an

hour. For, even if the rival did disappear next day, he would invent

another one and would be jealous of him. And one might wonder what

there was in a love that had to be so watched over, what a love

could be worth that needed such strenuous guarding. But that the

jealous will never understand. And yet among them are men of noble

hearts. It is remarkable, too, that those very men of noble hearts,

standing hidden in some cupboard, listening and spying, never feel the

stings of conscience at that moment, anyway, though they understand

clearly enough with their "noble hearts" the shameful depths to

which they have voluntarily sunk.

    At the sight of Grushenka, Mitya's jealousy vanished, and, for

an instant he became trustful and generous, and positively despised

himself for his evil feelings. But it only proved that, in his love

for the woman, there was an element of something far higher than he

himself imagined, that it was not only a sensual passion, not only the

"curve of her body," of which he had talked to Alyosha. But, as soon

as Grushenka had gone, Mitya began to suspect her of all the low

cunning of faithlessness, and he felt no sting of conscience at it.

    And so jealousy surged up in him again. He had, in any case, to

make haste. The first thing to be done was to get hold of at least a

small, temporary loan of money. The nine roubles had almost all gone

on his expedition. And, as we all know, one can't take a step

without money. But he had thought over in the cart where he could

get a loan. He had a brace of fine duelling pistols in a case, which

he had not pawned till then because he prized them above all his

possessions.

    In the Metropolis tavern he had some time since made

acquaintance with a young official and had learnt that this very

opulent bachelor was passionately fond of weapons. He used to buy

pistols, revolvers, daggers, hang them on his wall and show them to

acquaintances. He prided himself on them, and was quite a specialist

on the mechanism of the revolver. Mitya, without stopping to think,

went straight to him, and offered to pawn his pistols to him for ten

roubles. The official, delighted, began trying to persuade him to sell

them outright. But Mitya would not consent, so the young man gave

him ten roubles, protesting that nothing would induce him to take

interest. They parted friends.

    Mitya was in haste; he rushed towards Fyodor Pavlovitch's by the

back way, to his arbour, to get hold of Smerdyakov as soon as

possible. In this way the fact was established that three or four

hours before a certain event, of which I shall speak later on, Mitya

had not a farthing, and pawned for ten roubles a possession he valued,

though, three hours later, he was in possession of thousands.... But I

am anticipating. From Marya Kondratyevna (the woman living near Fyodor

Pavlovitch's) he learned the very disturbing fact of Smerdyakov's

illness. He heard the story of his fall in the cellar, his fit, the

doctor's visit, Fyodor Pavlovitch's anxiety; he heard with interest,

too, that his brother Ivan had set off that morning for Moscow.

    "Then he must have driven through Volovya before me," thought

Dmitri, but he was terribly distressed about Smerdyakov. "What will

happen now? Who'll keep watch for me? Who'll bring me word?" he

thought. He began greedily questioning the women whether they had seen

anything the evening before. They quite understood what he was

trying to find out, and completely reassured him. No one had been

there. Ivan Fyodorovitch had been there that night; everything had

been perfectly as usual. Mitya grew thoughtful. He would certainly

have to keep watch to-day, but where? Here or at Samsonov's gate? He

decided that he must be on the lookout both here and there, and

meanwhile... meanwhile... The difficulty was that he had to carry

out the new plan that he had made on the journey back. He was sure

of its success, but he must not delay acting upon it. Mitya resolved

to sacrifice an hour to it: "In an hour I shall know everything, I

shall settle everything, and then, then, then, first of all to

Samsonov's. I'll inquire whether Grushenka's there and instantly be

back here again, stay till eleven, and then to Samsonov's again to

bring her home." This was what he decided.

    He flew home, washed, combed his hair, brushed his clothes,

dressed, and went to Madame Hohlakov's. Alas! he had built his hopes

on her. He had resolved to borrow three thousand from that lady. And

what was more, he felt suddenly convinced that she would not refuse to

lend it to him. It may be wondered why, if he felt so certain, he

had not gone to her at first, one of his own sort, so to speak,

instead of to Samsonov, a man he did not know, who was not of his

own class, and to whom he hardly knew how to speak.

    But the fact was that he had never known Madame Hohlakov well, and

had seen nothing of her for the last month, and that he knew she could

not endure him. She had detested him from the first because he was

engaged to Katerina Ivanovna, while she had, for some reason, suddenly

conceived the desire that Katerina Ivanovna should throw him over, and

marry the "charming, chivalrously refined Ivan, who had such excellent

manners." Mitya's manners she detested. Mitya positively laughed at

her, and had once said about her that she was just as lively and at

her ease as she was uncultivated. But that morning in the cart a

brilliant idea had struck him: "If she is so anxious I should not

marry Katerina Ivanovna" (and he knew she was positively hysterical

upon the subject) "why should she refuse me now that three thousand,

just to enable me to leave Katya and get away from her for ever. These

spoilt fine ladies, if they set their hearts on anything, will spare

no expense to satisfy their caprice. Besides, she's so rich," Mitya

argued.

    As for his "plan" it was just the same as before; it consisted

of the offer of his rights to Tchermashnya- but not with a

commercial object, as it had been with Samsonov, not trying to

allure the lady with the possibility of making a profit of six or

seven thousand- but simply as a security for the debt. As he worked

out this new idea, Mitya was enchanted with it, but so it always was

with him in all his undertakings, in all his sudden decisions. He gave

himself up to every new idea with passionate enthusiasm. Yet, when

he mounted the steps of Madame Hohlakov's house he felt a shiver of

fear run down his spine. At that moment he saw fully, as a

mathematical certainty, that this was his last hope, that if this

broke down, nothing else was left him in the world but to "rob and

murder someone for the three thousand." It was half-past seven when he

rang at the bell.

    At first fortune seemed to smile upon him. As soon as he was

announced he was received with extraordinary rapidity. "As though

she were waiting for me," thought Mitya, and as soon as he had been

led to the drawing-room, the lady of the house herself ran in, and

declared at once that she was expecting him.

    "I was expecting you! I was expecting you! Though I'd no reason to

suppose you would come to see me, as you will admit yourself. Yet, I

did expect you. You may marvel at my instinct, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,

but I was convinced all the morning that you would come."

    "That is certainly wonderful, madam," observed Mitya, sitting down

limply, "but I have come to you on a matter of great importance.... On

a matter of supreme importance for me, that is, madam... for me

alone... and I hasten- "

    "I know you've come on most important business. Dmitri

Fyodorovitch; it's not a case of presentiment, no reactionary

harking back to the miraculous (have you heard about Father Zossima?).

This is a case of mathematics: you couldn't help coming, after all

that has passed with Katerina Ivanovna; you couldn't, you couldn't,

that's a mathematical certainty."

    "The realism of actual life, madam, that's what it is. But allow

me to explain-"

    "Realism indeed, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I'm all for realism now.

I've seen too much of miracles. You've heard that Father Zossima is

dead?"

    "No, madam, it's the first time I've heard of it." Mitya was a

little surprised. The image of Alyosha rose to his mind.

    "Last night, and only imagine-"

    "Madam," said Mitya, "I can imagine nothing except that I'm in a

desperate position, and that if you don't help me, everything will

come to grief, and I first of all. Excuse me for the triviality of the

expression, but I'm in a fever-"

    "I know, I know that you're in a fever. You could hardly fail to

be, and whatever you may say to me, I know beforehand. I have long

been thinking over your destiny, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, I am watching

over it and studying it.... Oh, believe me, I'm an experienced

doctor of the soul, Dmitri Fyodorovitch."

    "Madam, if you are an experienced doctor, I'm certainly an

experienced patient," said Mitya, with an effort to be polite, "and

I feel that if you are watching over my destiny in this way, you

will come to my help in my ruin, and so allow me, at least to

explain to you the plan with which I have ventured to come to you...

and what I am hoping of you.... I have come, madam-"

    "Don't explain it. It's of secondary importance. But as for

help, you're not the first I have helped, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You

have most likely heard of my cousin, Madame Belmesov. Her husband

was ruined, 'had come to grief,' as you characteristically express it,

Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I recommended him to take to horse-breeding,

and now he's doing well. Have you any idea of horse-breeding, Dmitri

Fyodorovitch?"

    "Not the faintest, madam; ah, madam, not the faintest!" cried

Mitya, in nervous impatience, positively starting from his seat. "I

simply implore you, madam, to listen to me. Only give me two minutes

of free speech that I may just explain to you everything, the whole

plan with which I have come. Besides, I am short of time. I'm in a

fearful hurry," Mitya cried hysterically, feeling that she was just

going to begin talking again, and hoping to cut her short. "I have

come in despair... in the last gasp of despair, to beg you to lend

me the sum of three thousand, a loan, but on safe, most safe security,

madam, with the most trustworthy guarantees! Only let me explain-"

    "You must tell me all that afterwards, afterwards!" Madame

Hohlakov with a gesture demanded silence in her turn, "and whatever

you may tell me, I know it all beforehand; I've told you so already.

You ask for a certain sum, for three thousand, but I can give you

more, immeasurably more; I will save you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, but you

must listen to me."

    Mitya started from his seat again.

    "Madam, will you really be so good!" he cried, with strong

feeling. "Good God, you've saved me! You have saved a man from a

violent death, from a bullet.... My eternal gratitude "I will give you

more, infinitely more than three thousand!" cried Madame Hohlakov,

looking with a radiant smile at Mitya's ecstasy.

    "Infinitely? But I don't need so much. I only need that fatal

three thousand, and on my part I can give security for that sum with

infinite gratitude, and I propose a plan which-"

    "Enough, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, it's said and done." Madame Hohlakov

cut him short, with the modest triumph of beneficence. "I have

promised to save you, and I will save you. I will save you as I did

Belmesov. What do you think of the gold mines, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?"

    "Of the gold mines, madam? I have never thought anything about

them."

    "But I have thought of them for you. Thought of them over and over

again. I have been watching you for the last month. I've watched you a

hundred times as you've walked past, saying to myself: That's a man of

energy who ought to be at the gold mines. I've studied your gait and

come to the conclusion: that's a man who would find gold."

    "From my gait, madam?" said Mitya, smiling.

    "Yes, from your gait. You surely don't deny that character can

be told from the gait, Dmitri Fyodorovitch? Science supports the idea.

I'm all for science and realism now. After all this business with

Father Zossima, which has so upset me, from this very day I'm a

realist and I want to devote myself to practical usefulness. I'm

cured. 'Enough!' as Turgeney says."

    "But madam, the three thousand you so generously promised to

lend me-"

    "It is yours, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," Madame Hohlakov cut in at

once. "The money is as good as in your pocket, not three thousand, but

three million, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, in less than no time. I'll make

you a present of the idea: you shall find gold mines, make millions,

return and become a leading man, and wake us up and lead us to

better things. Are we to leave it all to the Jews? You will found

institutions and enterprises of all sorts. You will help the poor, and

they will bless you. This is the age of railways, Dmitri Fyodorovitch.

You'll become famous and indispensable to the Department of Finance,

which is so badly off at present. The depreciation of the rouble keeps

me awake at night, Dmitri Fyodorovitch; people don't know that side of

me-"

    "Madam, madam! Dmitri interrupted with an uneasy presentiment.

"I shall indeed, perhaps, follow your advice, your wise advice,

madam.... I shall perhaps set off... to the gold mines.... I'll come

and see you again about it... many times, indeed... but now, that

three thousand you so generously... oh, that would set me free, and if

you could to-day... you see, I haven't a minute, a minute to lose

to-day-"

    "Enough, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, enough!" Madame Hohlakov interrupted

emphatically. "The question is, will you go to the gold mines or

not; have you quite made up your mind? Answer yes or no."

    "I will go, madam, afterwards.... I'll go where you like... but

now-"

    "Wait!" cried Madame Hohlakov. And jumping up and running to a

handsome bureau with numerous little drawers, she began pulling out

one drawer after another, looking for something with desperate haste.

    "The three thousand," thought Mitya, his heart almost stopping,

"and at the instant... without any papers or formalities... that's

doing things in gentlemanly style! She's a splendid woman, if only she

didn't talk so much!"

    "Here!" cried Madame Hohlakov, running back joyfully to Mitya,

"here is what I was looking for!"

    It was a tiny silver ikon on a cord, such as is sometimes worn

next the skin with a cross.

    "This is from Kiev, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," she went on

reverently, "from the relics of the Holy Martyr, Varvara. Let me put

it on your neck myself, and with it dedicate you to a new life, to a

new career."

    And she actually put the cord round his neck, and began

arranging it. In extreme embarrassment, Mitya bent down and helped

her, and at last he got it under his neck-tie and collar through his

shirt to his chest.

    "Now you can set off," Madame Hohlakov pronounced, sitting down

triumphantly in her place again.

    "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.