PYOTR ILYITCH PERHOTIN, whom we left knocking at the strong locked

gates of the widow Morozov's house, ended, of course, by making

himself heard. Fenya, who was still excited by the fright she had

had two hours before, and too much "upset" to go to bed, was almost

frightened into hysterics on hearing the furious knocking at the gate.

Though she had herself seen him drive away, she fancied that it must

be Dmitri Fyodorovitch knocking again, no one else could knock so

savagely. She ran to the house-porter, who had already waked up and

gone out to the gate, and began imploring him not to open it. But

having questioned Pyotr Ilyitch, and learned that he wanted to see

Fenya on very "important business," the man made up his mind at last

to open. Pyotr Ilyitch was admitted into Fenya's kitchen, but the girl

begged him to allow the houseporter to be present, "because of her

misgivings." He began questioning her and at once learnt the most

vital fact, that is, that when Dmitri Fyodorovitch had run out to look

for Grushenka, he had snatched up a pestle from the mortar, and that

when he returned, the pestle was not with him and his hands were

smeared with blood.

    "And the blood was simply flowing, dripping from him, dripping!"

Fenya kept exclaiming. This horrible detail was simply the product

of her disordered imagination. But although not "dripping," Pyotr

Ilyitch had himself seen those hands stained with blood, and had

helped to wash them. Moreover, the question he had to decide was,

not how soon the blood had dried, but where Dmitri Fyodorovitch had

run with the pestle, or rather, whether it really was to Fyodor

Pavlovitch's, and how he could satisfactorily ascertain. Pyotr Ilyitch

persisted in returning to this point, and though he found out

nothing conclusive, yet he carried away a conviction that Dmitri

Fyodorovitch could have gone nowhere but to his father's house, and

that, therefore, something must have happened there.

    "And when he came back," Fenya added with excitement. "I told

him the whole story, and then I began asking him, 'Why have you got

blood on your hands, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?' and he answered that that

was human blood, and that he had just killed someone. He confessed

it all to me, and suddenly ran off like a madman. I sat down and began

thinking, where's he run off to now like a madman? He'll go to Mokroe,

I thought, and kill my mistress there. I ran out to beg him not to

kill her. I was running to his lodgings, but I looked at Plotnikov's

shop, and saw him just setting off, and there was no blood on his

hands then." (Fenya had noticed this and remembered it.) Fenya's old

grandmother confirmed her evidence as far as she was capable. After

asking some further questions, Pyotr Ilyitch left the house, even more

upset and uneasy than he had been when he entered it.

    The most direct and the easiest thing for him to do would have

been to go straight to Fyodor Pavlovitch's, to find out whether

anything had happened there, and if so, what; and only to go to the

police captain, as Pyotr Ilyitch firmly intended doing, when he had

satisfied himself of the fact. But the night was dark, Fyodor

Pavlovitch's gates were strong, and he would have to knock again.

His acquaintance with Fyodor Pavlovitch was of the slightest, and what

if, after he had been knocking, they opened to him, and nothing had

happened? Fyodor Pavlovitch in his jeering way would go telling the

story all over the town, how a stranger, called Perhotin, had broken

in upon him at midnight to ask if anyone had killed him. It would make

a scandal. And scandal was what Pyotr Ilyitch dreaded more than

anything in the world.

    Yet the feeling that possessed him was so strong, that though he

stamped his foot angrily and swore at himself, he set off again, not

to Fyodor Pavlovitch's but to Madame Hohlakov's. He decided that if

she denied having just given Dmitri Fyodorovitch three thousand

roubles, he would go straight to the police captain, but if she

admitted having given him the money, he would go home and let the

matter rest till next morning.

    It is, of course, perfectly evident that there was even more

likelihood of causing scandal by going at eleven o'clock at night to a

fashionable lady, a complete stranger, and perhaps rousing her from

her bed to ask her an amazing question, than by going to Fyodor

Pavlovitch. But that is just how it is, sometimes, especially in cases

like the present one, with the decisions of the most precise and

phlegmatic people. Pyotr Ilyitch was by no means phlegmatic at that

moment. He remembered all his life how a haunting uneasiness gradually

gained possession of him, growing more and more painful and driving

him on, against his will. Yet he kept cursing himself, of course,

all the way for going to this lady, but "I will get to the bottom of

it, I will!" he repeated for the tenth time, grinding his teeth, and

he carried out his intention.

    It was exactly eleven o'clock when he entered Madame Hohlakov's

house. He was admitted into the yard pretty quickly, but, in

response to his inquiry whether the lady was still up, the porter

could give no answer, except that she was usually in bed by that time.

    "Ask at the top of the stairs. If the lady wants to receive you,

she'll receive you. If she won't, she won't."

    Pyotr Ilyitch went up, but did not find things so easy here. The

footman was unwilling to take in his name, but finally called a

maid. Pyotr Ilyitch politely but insistently begged her to inform

her lady that an official, living in the town, called Perhotin, had

called on particular business, and that if it were not of the greatest

importance he would not have ventured to come. "Tell her in those

words, in those words exactly," he asked the girl.

    She went away. He remained waiting in the entry. Madame Hohlakov

herself was already in her bedroom, though not yet asleep. She had

felt upset ever since Mitya's visit, and had a presentiment that she

would not get through the night without the sick headache which

always, with her, followed such excitement. She was surprised on

hearing the announcement from the maid. She irritably declined to

see him, however, though the unexpected visit at such an hour, of an

"official living in the town," who was a total stranger, roused her

feminine curiosity intensely. But this time Pyotr Ilyitch was as

obstinate as a mule. He begged the maid most earnestly to take another

message in these very words:

    "That he had come on business of the greatest importance, and that

Madame Hohlakov might have cause to regret it later, if she refused to

see him now."

    "I plunged headlong," he described it afterwards.

    The maid, gazing at him in amazement, went to take his message

again. Madame Hohlakov was impressed. She thought a little, asked what

he looked like, and learned that he was very well dressed, young,

and so polite." We may note, parenthetically, that Pyotr Ilyitch was a

rather good-looking young man, and well aware of the fact. Madame

Hohlakov made up her mind to see him. She was in her dressing-gown and

slippers, but she flung a black shawl over her shoulders. "The

official" was asked to walk into the drawing-room, the very room in

which Mitya had been received shortly before. The lady came to meet

her visitor, with a sternly inquiring countenance, and, without asking

him to sit down, began at once with the question:

    "What do you want?"

    "I have ventured to disturb you, madam, on a matter concerning our

common acquaintance, Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov," Perhotin began.

    But he had hardly uttered the name, when the lady's face showed

signs of acute irritation. She almost shrieked, and interrupted him in

a fury:

    "How much longer am I to be worried by that awful man?" she

cried hysterically. "How dare you, sir, how could you venture to

disturb a lady who is a stranger to you, in her own house at such an

hour!... And to force yourself upon her to talk of a man who came

here, to this very drawing-room, only three hours ago, to murder me,

and went stamping out of the room, as no one would go out of a

decent house. Let me tell you, sir, that I shall lodge a complaint

against you, that I will not let it pass. Kindly leave me at once... I

am a mother.... I... I-"

    "Murder! then he tried to murder you, too?"

    "Why, has he killed somebody else?" Madame Hohlakov asked

impulsively.

    "If you would kindly listen, madam, for half a moment, I'll

explain it all in a couple of words," answered Perhotin, firmly. "At

five o'clock this afternoon Dmitri Fyodorovitch borrowed ten roubles

from me, and I know for a fact he had no money. Yet at nine o'clock,

he came to see me with a bundle of hundred-rouble notes in his hand,

about two or three thousand roubles. His hands and face were all

covered with blood, and he looked like a madman. When I asked him

where he had got so much money, he answered that he had just

received it from you, that you had given him a sum of three thousand

to go to the gold mines..."

    Madame Hohlakov's face assumed an expression of intense and

painful excitement.

    "Good God! He must have killed his old father!" she cried,

clasping her hands. "I have never given him money, never! Oh, run,

run!... Don't say another word Save the old man... run to his

father... run!"

    "Excuse me, madam, then you did not give him money? You remember

for a fact that you did not give him any money?"

    "No, I didn't, I didn't! I refused to give it him, for he could

not appreciate it. He ran out in a fury, stamping. He rushed at me,

but I slipped away.... And let me tell you, as I wish to hide

nothing from you now, that he positively spat at me. Can you fancy

that! But why are we standing? Ah, sit down."

    "Excuse me, I..."

    "Or better run, run, you must run and save the poor old man from

an awful death!"

    "But if he has killed him already?"

    "Ah, good heavens, yes! Then what are we to do now? What do you

think we must do now?"

    Meantime she had made Pyotr Ilyitch sit down and sat down herself,

facing him briefly, but fairly clearly, Pyotr Ilyitch told her the

history of the affair, that part of it at least which he had himself

witnessed. He described, too, his visit to Fenya, and told her about

the pestle. All these details produced an overwhelming effect on the

distracted lady, who kept uttering shrieks, and covering her face with

her hands...

    "Would you believe it, I foresaw all this! I have that special

faculty, whatever I imagine comes to pass. And how often I've looked

at that awful man and always thought, that man will end by murdering

me. And now it's happened... that is, if he hasn't murdered me, but

only his own father, it's only because the finger of God preserved me,

and what's more, he was ashamed to murder me because, in this very

place, I put the holy ikon from the relics of the holy martyr, Saint

Varvara, on his neck.... And to think how near I was to death at

that minute I went close up to him and he stretched out his neck to

me!... Do you know, Pyotr Ilyitch (I think you said your name was

Pyotr Ilyitch), I don't believe in miracles, but that ikon and this

unmistakable miracle with me now- that shakes me, and I'm ready to

believe in anything you like. Have you heard about Father

Zossima?... But I don't know what I'm saying... and only fancy, with

the ikon on his neck he spat at me.... He only spat, it's true, he

didn't murder me and... he dashed away! But what shall we do, what

must we do now? What do you think?"

    Pyotr Ilyitch got up, and announced that he was going straight

to the police captain, to tell him all about it, and leave him to do

what he thought fit.

    "Oh, he's an excellent man, excellent! Mihail Makarovitch, I

know him. Of course, he's the person to go to. How practical you

are, Pyotr Ilyitch! How well you've thought of everything! I should

never have thought of it in your place!"

    "Especially as I know the police captain very well, too," observed

Pyotr Ilyitch, who still continued to stand, and was obviously anxious

to escape as quickly as possible from the impulsive lady, who would

not let him say good-bye and go away.

    "And be sure, be sure," she prattled on, "to come back and tell me

what you see there, and what you find out... what comes to light...

how they'll try him... and what he's condemned to.... Tell me, we have

no capital punishment, have we? But be sure to come, even if it's at

three o'clock at night, at four, at half-past four.... Tell them to

wake me, to wake me, to shake me, if I don't get up.... But, good

heavens, I shan't sleep! But wait, hadn't I better come with you?"

    "N-no. But if you would write three lines with your own hand,

stating that you did not give Dmitri Fyodorovitch money, it might,

perhaps, be of use... in case it's needed..."

    "To be sure!" Madame Hohlakov skipped, delighted, to her bureau.

"And you know I'm simply struck, amazed at your resourcefulness,

your good sense in such affairs. Are you in the service here? I'm

delighted to think that you're in the service here!"

    And still speaking, she scribbled on half a sheet of notepaper the

following lines:



    I've never in my life lent to that unhappy man, Dmitri

Fyodorovitch Karamazov (for, in spite of all, he is unhappy), three

thousand roubles to-day. I've never given him money, never: That I

swear by all thats holy!

                                               K. Hohlakov



    "Here's the note!" she turned quickly to Pyotr Ilyitch. "Go,

save him. It's a noble deed on your part!"

    And she made the sign of the cross three times over him. She ran

out to accompany him to the passage.

    "How grateful I am to you! You can't think how grateful I am to

you for having come to me, first. How is it I haven't met you

before? I shall feel flattered at seeing you at my house in the

future. How delightful it is that you are living here!... Such

precision! Such practical ability!... They must appreciate you, they

must understand you. If there's anything I can do, believe me... oh, I

love young people! I'm in love with young people! The younger

generation are the one prop of our suffering country. Her one hope....

Oh, go, go!..."

    But Pyotr Ilyitch had already run away or she would not have let

him go so soon. Yet Madame Hohlakov had made a rather agreeable

impression on him, which had somewhat softened his anxiety at being

drawn into such an unpleasant affair. Tastes differ, as we all know.

"She's by no means so elderly," he thought, feeling pleased, "on the

contrary I should have taken her for her daughter."

    As for Madame Hohlakov, she was simply enchanted by the young man.

"Such sence such exactness! in so young a man! in our day! and all

that with such manners and appearance! People say the young people

of to-day are no good for anything, but here's an example!" etc. So

she simply forgot this "dreadful affair," and it was only as she was

getting into bed, that, suddenly recalling "how near death she had

been," she exclaimed: "Ah, it is awful, awful!"

    But she fell at once into a sound, sweet sleep.

    I would not, however, have dwelt on such trivial and irrelevant

details, if this eccentric meeting of the young official with the by

no means elderly widow had not subsequently turned out to be the

foundation of the whole career of that practical and precise young

man. His story is remembered to this day with amazement in our town,

and I shall perhaps have something to say about it, when I have

finished my long history of the Brothers Karamazov.