WHAT followed was almost an orgy, a feast to which all were

welcome. Grushenka was the first to call for wine.

    "I want to drink. I want to be quite drunk, as we were before.

Do you remember, Mitya, do you remember how we made friends here

last time!"

    Mitya himself was almost delirious, feeling that his happiness was

at hand. But Grushenka was continually sending him away from her.

    "Go and enjoy yourself. Tell them to dance, to make merry, 'let

the stove and cottage dance'; as we had it last time," she kept

exclaiming. She was tremendously excited. And Mitya hastened to obey

her. The chorus were in the next room. The room in which they had been

sitting till that moment was too small, and was divided in two by

cotton curtains, behind which was a huge bed with a puffy feather

mattress and a pyramid of cotton pillows. In the four rooms for

visitors there were beds. Grushenka settled herself just at the

door. Mitya set an easy chair for her. She had sat in the same place

to watch the dancing and singing "the time before," when they had made

merry there. All the girls who had come had been there then; the

Jewish band with fiddles and zithers had come, too, and at last the

long expected cart had arrived with the wines and provisions.

    Mitya bustled about. All sorts of people began coming into the

room to look on, peasants and their women, who had been roused from

sleep and attracted by the hopes of another marvellous entertainment

such as they had enjoyed a month before. Mitya remembered their faces,

greeting and embracing everyone he knew. He uncorked bottles and

poured out wine for everyone who presented himself. Only the girls

were very eager for the champagne. The men preferred rum, brandy, and,

above all, hot punch. Mitya had chocolate made for all the girls,

and ordered that three samovars should be kept boiling all night to

provide tea and punch for everyone to help himself.

    An absurd chaotic confusion followed, but Mitya was in his natural

element, and the more foolish it became, the more his spirits rose. If

the peasants had asked him for money at that moment, he would have

pulled out his notes and given them away right and left. This was

probably why the landlord, Trifon Borissovitch, kept hovering about

Mitya to protect him. He seemed to have given up all idea of going

to bed that night; but he drank little, only one glass of punch, and

kept a sharp look-out on Mitya's interests after his own fashion. He

intervened in the nick of time, civilly and obsequiously persuading

Mitya not to give away "cigars and Rhine wine," and, above all,

money to the peasants as he had done before. He was very indignant,

too, at the peasant girls drinking liqueur, and eating sweets.

    "They're a lousy lot, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," he said. "I'd give

them a kick, every one of them, and they'd take it as an honour-

that's all they're worth!"

    Mitya remembered Andrey again, and ordered punch to be sent out to

him. "I was rude to him just now," he repeated with a sinking,

softened voice. Kalgonov did to drink, and at first did not care for

the girls singing; but after he had drunk a couple of glasses of

champagne he became extraordinarily lively, strolling about the

room, laughing and praising the music and the songs, admiring everyone

and everything. Maximov, blissfully drunk, never left his side.

Grushenka, too, was beginning to get drunk. Pointing to Kalganov,

she said to Mitya:

    "What a dear, charming boy he is!"

    And Mitya, delighted, ran to kiss Kalgonov and Maximov. Oh,

great were his hopes! She had said nothing yet, and seemed, indeed,

purposely to refrain from speaking. But she looked at him from time to

time with caressing and passionate eyes. At last she suddenly

gripped his hand and drew him vigorously to her. She was sitting at

the moment in the low chair by the door.

    "How was it you came just now, eh? Have you walked in!... I was

frightened. So you wanted to give me up to him, did you? Did you

really want to?"

    "I didn't want to spoil your happiness!" Mitya faltered

blissfully. But she did not need his answer.

    "Well, go and enjoy yourself..." she sent him away once more.

"Don't cry, I'll call you back again."

    He would run away and she listened to the singing and looked at

the dancing, though her eyes followed him wherever he went. But in

another quarter of an hour she would call him once more and again he

would run back to her.

    "Come, sit beside me, tell me, how did you hear about me, and my

coming here yesterday? From whom did you first hear it?"

    And Mitya began telling her all about it, disconnectedly,

incoherently, feverishly. He spoke strangely, often frowning, and

stopping abruptly.

    "What are you frowning at?" she asked.

    "Nothing.... I left a man ill there. I'd give ten years of my life

for him to get well, to know he was all right!"

    "Well, never mind him, if he's ill. So you meant to shoot yourself

to-morrow! What a silly boy! What for? I like such reckless fellows as

you," she lisped, with a rather halting tongue. "So you would go any

length for me, eh? Did you really mean to shoot yourself to-morrow,

you stupid? No, wait a little. To-morrow I may have something to say

to you.... I won't say it to-day, but to-morrow. You'd like it to be

to-day? No, I don't want to to-day. Come, go along now, go and amuse

yourself."

    Once, however, she called him, as it were, puzzled and uneasy.

    "Why are you sad? I see you're sad.... Yes, I see it," she

added, looking intently into his eyes. "Though you keep kissing the

peasants and shouting, I see something. No, be merry. I'm merry; you

be merry, too.... I love somebody here. Guess who it is. Ah, look,

my boy has fallen asleep, poor dear, he's drunk."

    She meant Kalganov. He was, in fact, drunk, and had dropped asleep

for a moment, sitting on the sofa. But he was not merely drowsy from

drink; he felt suddenly dejected, or, as he said, "bored." He was

intensely depressed by the girls' songs, which, as the drinking went

on, gradually became coarse and more reckless. And the dances were

as bad. Two girls dressed up as bears, and a lively girl, called

Stepanida, with a stick in her hand, acted the part of keeper, and

began to "show them."

    "Look alive, Marya, or you'll get the stick!

    The bears rolled on the ground at last in the most unseemly

fashion, amid roars of laughter from the closely-packed crowd of men

and women.

    "Well, let them! Let them!" said Grushenka sententiously, with

an ecstatic expression on her face. "When they do get a day to enjoy

themselves; why shouldn't folks be happy?"

    Kalgonov looked as though he had been besmirched with dirt.

    "It's swinish, all this peasant foolery," he murmured, moving

away; "it's the game they play when it's light all night in summer."

    He particularly disliked one "new" song to a jaunty dance-tune. It

described how a gentleman came and tried his luck with the girls, to

see whether they would love him:



                 The master came to try the girls:

                 Would they love him, would they not?



    But the girls could not love the master:



                 He would beat me cruelly

                 And such love won't do for me.



    Then a gypsy comes along and he, too, tries:



                 The gypsy came to try the girls:

                 Would they love him, would they not?



    But they couldn't love the gypsy either:



                 He would be a thief, I fear,

                 And would cause me many a tear.



    And many more men come to try their luck, among them a soldier:



                 The soldier came to try the girls:

                 Would they love him, would they not?



    But the soldier is rejected with contempt, in two indecent

lines, sung with absolute frankness and producing a furore in the

audience. The song ends with a merchant:



                 The merchant came to try the girls:

                 Would they love him, would they not?



    And it appears that he wins their love because:



                 The merchant will make gold for me

                 And his queen I'll gladly be.



    Kalgonov was positively indignant.

    "That's just a song of yesterday," he said aloud. "Who writes such

things for them? They might just as well have had a railwayman or a

Jew come to try his luck with the girls; they'd have carried all

before them."

    And, almost as though it were a personal affront, he declared,

on the spot, that he was bored, sat down on the sofa and immediately

fell asleep. His pretty little face looked rather pale, as it fell

back on the sofa cushion.

    "Look how pretty he is," said Grushenka, taking Mitya up to him.

"I was combing his hair just now; his hair's like flax, and so

thick..."

    And, bending over him tenderly, she kissed his forehead.

Kalgonov instantly opened his eyes, looked at her, stood up, and

with the most anxious air inquired where was Maximov?

    "So that's who it is you want." Grushenka laughed. "Stay with me a

minute. Mitya, run and find his Maximov."

    Maximov, it appeared, could not tear himself away from the

girls, only running away from time to time to pour himself out a glass

of liqueur. He had drunk two cups of chocolate. His face was red,

and his nose was crimson; his eyes were moist, and mawkishly

sweet.He ran up and announced that he was going to dance the

"sabotiere."

    "They taught me all those well-bred, aristocratic dances when I

was little..."

    "Go, go with him, Mitya, and I'll watch from here how he

dances," said Grushenka.

    "No, no, I'm coming to look on, too," exclaimed Kalganov, brushing

aside in the most naive way Grushenka's offer to sit with him. They

all went to look on. Maximov danced his dance. But it roused no

great admiration in anyone but Mitya. It consisted of nothing but

skipping and hopping, kicking the feet, and at every skip Maximov

slapped the upturned sole of his foot. Kalgonov did not like it at

all, but Mitya kissed the dancer.

    "Thanks. You're tired perhaps? What are you looking for here?

Would you like some sweets? A cigar, perhaps?"

    "A cigarette."

    "Don't you want a drink?"

    "I'll just have a liqueur.... Have you any chocolates?"

    "Yes, there's a heap of them on the table there. Choose one, my

dear soul!"

    "I like one with vanilla... for old people. He he!

    "No, brother, we've none of that special sort."

    "I say," the old man bent down to whisper in Mitya's ear. "That

girl there, little Marya, he he! How would it be if you were to help

me make friends with her?"

    "So that's what you're after! No, brother, that won't do!"

    "I'd do no harm to anyone," Maximov muttered disconsolately.

    "Oh, all right, all right. They only come here to dance and

sing, you know, brother. But damn it all, wait a bit!... Eat and drink

and be merry, meanwhile. Don't you want money?"

    "Later on, perhaps," smiled Maximov.

    "All right, all right..."

    Mitya's head was burning. He went outside to the wooden balcony

which ran round the whole building on the inner side, overlooking

the courtyard. The fresh air revived him. He stood alone in a dark

corner, and suddenly clutched his head in both hands. His scattered

thoughts came together; his sensations blended into a whole and

threw a sudden light into his mind. A fearful and terrible light!

"If I'm to shoot myself, why not now?" passed through his mind. "Why

not go for the pistols, bring them here, and here, in this dark

dirty corner, make an end?" Almost a minute he undecided. A few

hours earlier, when he had been dashing here, he was pursued by

disgrace, by the theft he had committed, and that blood, that

blood!... But yet it was easier for him then. Then everything was

over: he had lost her, given her up. She was gone, for him- oh, then

his death sentence had been easier for him; at least it had seemed

necessary, inevitable, for what had he to stay on earth for?

    But now? Was it the same as then? Now one phantom, one terror at

least was at an end: that first, rightful lover, that fateful figure

had vanished, leaving no trace. The terrible phantom had turned into

something so small, so comic; it had been carried into the bedroom and

locked in. It would never return. She was ashamed, and from her eyes

he could see now whom she loved. Now he had everything to make life

happy... but he could not go on living, he could not; oh, damnation!

"O God! restore to life the man I knocked down at the fence! Let

this fearful cup pass from me! Lord, thou hast wrought miracles for

such sinners as me! But what, what if the old man's alive? Oh, then

the shame of the other disgrace I would wipe away. I would restore the

stolen money. I'd give it back; I'd get it somehow.... No trace of

that shame will remain except in my heart for ever! But no, no; oh,

impossible cowardly dreams! Oh, damnation!"

    Yet there was a ray of light and hope in his darkness. He jumped

up and ran back to the room- to her, to her, his queen for ever! Was

not one moment of her love worth all the rest of life, even in the

agonies of disgrace? This wild question clutched at his heart. "To

her, to her alone, to see her, to hear her, to think of nothing, to

forget everything, if only for that night, for an hour, for a moment!"

Just as he turned from the balcony into the passage, he came upon

the landlord, Trifon Borissovitch. He thought he looked gloomy and

worried, and fancied he had come to find him.

    "What is it, Trifon Borissovitch? Are you looking for me?"

    "No, sir," The landlord seemed disconcerted. "Why should I be

looking for you? Where have you been?"

    "Why do you look so glum? You're not angry, are you? Wait a bit,

you shall soon get to bed.... What's the time?"

    "It'll be three o'clock. Past three, it must be."

    "We'll leave off soon. We'll leave off."

    "Don't mention it; it doesn't matter. Keep it up as long as you

like..."

    "What's the matter with him?" Mitya wondered for an instant, and

he ran back to the room where the girls were dancing. But she was

not there. She was not in the blue room either; there was no one but

Kalgonov asleep on the sofa. Mitya peeped behind the curtain- she

was there. She was sitting in the corner, on a trunk. Bent forward,

with her head and arms on the bed close by, she was crying bitterly,

doing her utmost to stifle her sobs that she might not be heard.

Seeing Mitya, she beckoned him to her, and when he ran to her, she

grasped his hand tightly.

    "Mitya, Mitya, I loved him, you know. How I have loved him these

five years, all that time! Did I love him or only my own anger? No,

him, him! It's a lie that it was my anger I loved and not him.

Mitya, I was only seventeen then; he was so kind to me, so merry; he

used to sing to me.... Or so it seemed to a silly girl like me.... And

now, O Lord, it's not the same man. Even his face is not the same;

he's different altogether. I shouldn't have known him. I drove here

with Timofey, and all the way I was thinking how I should meet him,

what I should say to him, how we should look at one another. My soul

was faint, and all of a sudden it was just as though he had emptied

a pail of dirty water over me. He talked to me like a schoolmaster,

all so grave and learned; he met me so solemnly that I was struck

dumb. I couldn't get a word in. At first I thought he was ashamed to

talk before his great big Pole. I sat staring at him and wondering why

I couldn't say a word to him now. It must have been his wife that

ruined him; you know he threw me up to get married. She must have

changed him like that. Mitya, how shameful it is! Oh, Mitya, I'm

ashamed, I'm ashamed for all my life. Curse it, curse it, curse

those five years!"

    And again she burst into tears, but clung tight to Mitya's hand

and did not let it go.

    "Mitya, darling, stay, don't go away. I want to say one word to

you," she whispered, and suddenly raised her face to him. "Listen,

tell me who it is I love? I love one man here. Who is that man? That's

what you must tell me."

    A smile lighted up her face that was swollen with weeping, and her

eyes shone in the half darkness.

    "A falcon flew in, and my heart sank. "Fool! that's the man you

love!' That was what my heart whispered to me at once. You came in and

all grew bright. What's he afraid of? I wondered. For you were

frightened; you couldn't speak. It's not them he's afraid of- could

you be frightened of anyone? It's me he's afraid of, I thought, only

me. So Fenya told you, you little stupid, how I called to Alyosha

out of the window that I'd loved Mityenka for one hour, and that I was

going now to love... another. Mitya, Mitya, how could I be such a fool

as to think I could love anyone after you? Do you forgive me, Mitya?

Do you forgive me or not? Do you love me? Do you love me?" She

jumped up and held him with both hands on his shoulders. Mitya, dumb

with rapture, gazed into her eyes, at her face, at her smile, and

suddenly clasped her tightly his arms and kissed her passionately.

    "You will forgive me for having tormented you? It was through

spite I tormented you all. It was for spite I drove the old man out of

his mind.... Do you remember how you drank at my house one day and

broke the wine-glass? I remembered that and I broke a glass to-day and

drank 'to my vile heart.' Mitya, my falcon, why don't you kiss me?

He kissed me once, and now he draws back and looks and listens. Why

listen to me? Kiss me, kiss me hard, that's right. if you love,

well, then, love! I'll be your slave now, your slave for the rest of

my life. It's sweet to be a slave. Kiss me! Beat me, ill-treat me,

do what you will with me.... And I do deserve to suffer. Stay, wait,

afterwards, I won't have that..." she suddenly thrust him away. "Go

along, Mitya, I'll come and have some wine, I want to be drunk, I'm

going to get drunk and dance; I must, I must!" She tore herself away

from him and disappeared behind the curtain. Mitya followed like a

drunken man.

    "Yes, come what may- whatever may happen now, for one minute I'd

give the whole world," he thought. Grushenka did, in fact, toss off

a whole glass of champagne at one gulp, and became at once very tipsy.

She sat down in the same chair as before, with a blissful smile on her

face. Her cheeks were glowing, her lips were burning, her flashing

eyes were moist; there was passionate appeal in her eyes. Even

Kalgonov felt a stir at the heart and went up to her.

    "Did you feel how I kissed you when you were asleep just now?" she

said thickly. "I'm drunk now, that's what it is.... And aren't you

drunk? And why isn't Mitya drinking? Why don't you drink, Mitya? I'm

drunk, and you don't drink..."

    "I am drunk! I'm drunk as it is... drunk with you... and now

I'll be drunk with wine, too."

    He drank off another glass, and- he thought it strange himself-

that glass made him completely drunk. He was suddenly drunk,

although till that moment he had been quite sober, he remembered that.

From that moment everything whirled about him, as though he were

delirious. He walked, laughed, talked to everybody, without knowing

what he was doing. Only one persistent burning sensation made itself

felt continually, "like a red-hot coal in his heart," he said

afterwards. He went up to her, sat beside her, gazed at her,

listened to her.... She became very talkative, kept calling everyone

to her, and beckoned to different girls out of the chorus. When the

girl came up, she either kissed her, or made the sign of the cross

over her. In another minute she might have cried. She was greatly

amused by the "little old man," as she called Maximov. He ran up every

minute to kiss her hands, each little finger," and finally he danced

another dance to an old song, which he sang himself. He danced with

special vigour to the refrain:



                 The little pig says- umph! umph! umph!

                 The little calf says- moo, moo, moo,

                 The little duck says- quack, quack, quack,

                 The little goose says- ga, ga, ga.

                 The hen goes strutting through the porch;

                 Troo-roo-roo-roo-roo, she'll say,

                 Troo-roo-roo-roo-roo, she'll say!



    "Give him something, Mitya," said Grushenka. "Give him a

present, he's poor, you know. Ah, the poor, the insulted!... Do you

know, Mitya, I shall go into a nunnery. No, I really shall one day.

Alyosha said something to me to-day that I shall remember all my

life.... Yes.... But to-day let us dance. To-morrow to the nunnery,

but to-day we'll dance. I want to play to-day, good people, and what

of it? God will forgive us. If I were God, I'd forgive everyone: 'My

dear sinners, from this day forth I forgive you.' I'm going to beg

forgiveness: 'Forgive me, good people, a silly wench.' I'm a beast,

that's what I am. But I want to pray. I gave a little onion. Wicked as

I've been, I want to pray. Mitya, let them dance, don't stop them.

Everyone in the world is good. Everyone- even the worst of them. The

world's a nice place. Though we're bad the world's all right. We're

good and bad, good and bad.... Come, tell me, I've something to ask

you: come here everyone, and I'll ask you: Why am I so good? You

know I am good. I'm very good.... Come, why am I so good?"

    So Grushenka babbled on, getting more and more drunk. At last

she announced that she was going to dance, too. She got up from her

chair, staggering. "Mitya, don't give me any more wine- if I ask

you, don't give it to me. Wine doesn't give peace. Everything's

going round, the stove, and everything. I want to dance. Let

everyone see how I dance... let them see how beautifully I dance..."

    She really meant it. She pulled a white cambric handkerchief out

of her pocket, and took it by one corner in her right hand, to wave it

in the dance. Mitya ran to and fro, the girls were quiet, and got

ready to break into a dancing song at the first signal. Maximov,

hearing that Grushenka wanted to dance, squealed with delight, and ran

skipping about in front of her, humming:



                  With legs so slim and sides so trim

                  And its little tail curled tight.



    But Grushenka waved her handkerchief at him and drove him away.

    "Sh-h! Mitya, why don't they come? Let everyone come... to look

on. Call them in, too, that were locked in.... Why did you lock them

in? Tell them I'm going to dance. Let them look on, too..."

    Mitya walked with a drunken swagger to the locked door, and

began knocking to the Poles with his fist.

    "Hi, you... Podvysotskis! Come, she's going to dance. She calls

you."

    "Lajdak!" one of the Poles shouted in reply.

    "You're a lajdak yourself! You're a little scoundrel, that's

what you are."

    "Leave off laughing at Poland," said Kalganov sententiously. He

too was drunk.

    "Be quiet, boy! If I call him a scoundrel, it doesn't mean that

I called all Poland so. One lajdak doesn't make a Poland. Be quiet, my

pretty boy, eat a sweetmeat."

    "Ach, what fellows! As though they were not men. Why won't they

make friends?" said Grushenka, and went forward to dance. The chorus

broke into "Ah, my porch, my new porch!" Grushenka flung back her

head, half opened her lips, smiled, waved her handkerchief, and

suddenly, with a violent lurch, stood still in the middle of the room,

looking bewildered.

    "I'm weak..." she said in an exhausted voice. "Forgive me....

I'm weak, I can't.... I'm sorry."

    She bowed to the chorus, and then began bowing in all directions.

    "I'm sorry.... Forgive me..."

    "The lady's been drinking. The pretty lady has been drinking,"

voices were heard saying.

    "The lady's drunk too much," Maximov explained to the girls,

giggling.

    "Mitya, lead me away... take me," said Grushenka helplessly. Mitya

pounced on her, snatched her up in his arms, and carried the

precious burden through the curtains.

    "Well, now I'll go," thought Kalganov, and walking out of the blue

room, he closed the two halves of the door after him. But the orgy

in the larger room went on and grew louder and louder. Mitya laid

Grushenka on the bed and kissed her on the lips.

    "Don't touch me..." she faltered, in an imploring voice. "Don't

touch me, till I'm yours.... I've told you I'm yours, but don't

touch me... spare me.... With them here, with them close, you mustn't.

He's here. It's nasty here..."

    "I'll obey you! I won't think of it... I worship you!" muttered

Mitya. "Yes, it's nasty here, it's abominable."

    And still holding her in his arms, he sank on his knees by the

bedside.

    "I know, though you're a brute, you're generous," Grushenka

articulated with difficulty. "It must be honourable... it shall be

honourable for the future... and let us be honest, let us be good, not

brutes, but good... take me away, take me far away, do you hear? I

don't want it to be here, but far, far away..."

    "Oh, yes, yes, it must be!" said Mitya, pressing her in his

arms. "I'll take you and we'll fly away.... Oh, I'd give my whole life

for one year only to know about that blood!"

    "What blood?" asked Grushenka, bewildered.

    "Nothing," muttered Mitya, through his teeth. "Grusha, you

wanted to be honest, but I'm a thief. But I've stolen money from

Katya.... Disgrace, a disgrace!"

    "From Katya, from that young lady? No, you didn't steal it. Give

it back to her, take it from me.... Why make a fuss? Now everything of

mine is yours. What does money matter? We shall waste it anyway....

Folks like us are bound to waste money. But we'd better go and work

the land. I want to dig the earth with my own hands. We must work,

do you hear? Alyosha said so. I won't be your mistress, I'll be

faithful to you, I'll be your slave, I'll work for you. We'll go to

the young lady and bow down to her together, so that she may forgive

us, and then we'll go away. And if she won't forgive us, we'll go,

anyway. Take her money and love me.... Don't love her.... Don't love

her any more. If you love her, I shall strangle her.... I'll put out

both her eyes with a needle..."

    "I love you. love only you. I'll love you in Siberia..."

    "Why Siberia? Never mind, Siberia, if you like. I don't care...

we'll work... there's snow in Siberia.... I love driving in the

snow... and must have bells.... Do you hear, there's a bell ringing?

Where is that bell ringing? There are people coming.... Now it's

stopped."

    She closed her eyes, exhausted, and suddenly fell asleep for an

instant. There had certainly been the sound of a bell in the distance,

but the ringing had ceased. Mitya let his head sink on her breast.

He did not notice that the bell had ceased ringing, nor did he

notice that the songs had ceased, and that instead of singing and

drunken clamour there was absolute stillness in the house. Grushenka

opened her eyes.

    "What's the matter? Was I asleep? Yes... a bell... I've been

asleep and dreamt I was driving over the snow with bells, and I dozed.

I was with someone I loved, with you. And far, far away. I was holding

you and kissing you, nestling close to you. I was cold, and the snow

glistened.... You know how the snow glistens at night when the moon

shines. It was as though I was not on earth. I woke up, and my dear

one is close to me. How sweet that is!..."

    "Close to you," murmured Mitya, kissing her dress, her bosom,

her hands. And suddenly he had a strange fancy: it seemed to him

that she was looking straight before her, not at him, not into his

face, but over his head, with an intent, almost uncanny fixity. An

expression of wonder, almost of alarm, came suddenly into her face.

    "Mitya, who is that looking at us?" she whispered.

    Mitya turned, and saw that someone had, in fact, parted the

curtains and seemed to be watching them. And not one person alone,

it seemed.

    He jumped up and walked quickly to the intruder.

    "Here, come to us, come here," said a voice, speaking not

loudly, but firmly and peremptorily.

    Mitya passed to the other side of the curtain and stood stock

still. The room was filled with people, but not those who had been

there before. An instantaneous shiver ran down his back, and he

shuddered. He recognised all those people instantly. That tall,

stout old man in the overcoat and forage-cap with a cockade- was the

police captain, Mihail Makarovitch. And that "consumptive-looking"

trim dandy,"who always has such polished boots"- that was the deputy

prosecutor. "He has a chronometer worth four hundred roubles; he

showed it to me." And that small young man in spectacles.... Mitya

forgot his surname though he knew him, had seen him: he was the

"investigating lawyer," from the "school of jurisprudence," who had

only lately come to the town. And this man- the inspector of police,

Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, a man he knew well. And those fellows with

the brass plates on, why are they here? And those other two...

peasants.... And there at the door Kalganov with Trifon

Borissovitch....

    "Gentlemen! What's this for, gentlemen?" began Mitya, but

suddenly, as though beside himself, not knowing what he was doing,

he cried aloud, at the top of his voice:

    "I un-der-stand!"

    The young man in spectacles moved forward suddenly, and stepping

up to Mitya, began with dignity, though hurriedly:

    "We have to make... in brief, I beg you to come this way, this way

to the sofa.... It is absolutely imperative that you should give an

explanation."

    "The old man!" cried Mitya frantically. "The old man and his

blood!... I understand."

    And he sank, almost fell, on a chair close by, as though he had

been mown down by a scythe.

    "You understand? He understands it! Monster and parricide! Your

father's blood cries out against you!" the old captain of police

roared suddenly, stepping up to Mitya.

    He was beside himself, crimson in the face and quivering all over.

    "This is impossible!" cried the small young man. "Mihail

Makarovitch, Mihail Makarovitch, this won't do!... I beg you'll

allow me to speak. I should never have expected such behaviour from

you..."

    "This is delirium, gentlemen, raving delirium," cried the

captain of police; "look at him: drunk, at this time of night, in

the company of a disreputable woman, with the blood of his father on

his hands.... It's delirium!..."

   "I beg you most earnestly, dear Mihail Makarovitch, to restrain

your feelings," the prosecutor said in a rapid whisper to the old

police captain, "or I shall be forced to resort to- "

    But the little lawyer did not allow him to finish. He turned to

Mitya, and delivered himself in a loud, firm, dignified voice:

    "Ex-Lieutenant Karamazov, it is my duty to inform you that you are

charged with the murder of your father, Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov,

perpetrated this night..."

    He said something more, and the prosecutor, too, put in something,

but though Mitya heard them he did not understand them. He stared at

them all with wild eyes.