The Brothers Karamazov (106 page)

“Yes, there is a little of that. I can never lie to you,” she said with a strange glow in her eyes.

Alyosha was quite impressed by her seriousness: there was no trace of playfulness or flippancy in her now, although usually her gaiety and humor never left her, even in her gravest moments.

“There are moments when people love crime,” Alyosha said thoughtfully.

“Yes, yes, I was just thinking that, but everybody loves it and always, not just at some special moments. It’s one of those things that everybody seems to have agreed to lie about and, since then, has always lied about. They all pretend they detest evil, but secretly they all love it.”

“I suppose you’re still reading bad books?”

“I am. Mother reads them and hides them under her pillow, and I steal them.”

“Don’t you think it’s wrong to destroy yourself like this?”

“I want to destroy myself. There’s a boy in town who lay down on the railroad track and let the train pass over him. How I envy him! And what do you think of this: they’re about to try your brother for killing his father and everybody loves him now for having killed his father.”

“You think they love him for killing his father?”

“Yes, they do. Everybody loves him a great deal, secretly, although they all say that what he did is awful. I’m the first to love him.”

“There is a certain amount of truth in what you say about people in general,” Alyosha said in a very low voice.

“Oh, you have the right ideas about things!” Lise literally shrieked with delight. “You of all people, you, the monk! You can’t possibly imagine how much I respect you, Alyosha, for never lying. By the way, let me tell you about a funny dream I had. It’s night, I’m alone in my room, a candle is burning. Suddenly the room is full of devils, in every corner, under the table—they open the doors and outside, beyond the doors, there’s a whole crowd of them. They want to come in and seize me. And they do get to me and are about to grab me when I suddenly make the sign of the cross and they all reel back. They are frightened, but they won’t leave altogether; they wait in the corners and by the door. Suddenly I get a tremendous desire to say insulting things about God out loud and I begin to shout foul words. Immediately they are back at me. They laugh and are again about to seize me, but then I cross myself again and they reel back as before. I have a marvelous time. It takes my breath away!”

“I have that same dream sometimes, too,” Alyosha said.

“I can’t believe it! Tell me, Alyosha, and please don’t laugh—what I’m going to ask you is very important: Do you really think it’s possible for two different people to have the same dream?”

“Apparently it is.”

“But it’s so terribly important, don’t you see?” Lise exclaimed in complete amazement. “It’s not the dream that’s important. It’s the fact that you could have the same dream as I had. You never lie to me, so please don’t lie now either—is it true? You’re not making fun of me?”

“No, it’s true.”

Lise seemed dumbfounded and remained quiet for a whole minute.

“Alyosha, please come and see me again. Come more often, please,” she said in an imploring voice.

“I’ll always come and see you, as long as I live,” Alyosha said firmly.

“You’re the only person in the world to whom I can tell these things; I only admit them to myself and to you. In fact, I admit them more readily to you than to myself. And I don’t feel at all ashamed when I tell them to you. Now, Alyosha, tell me this: is it true that Jews steal Christian children and slaughter them on Passover?”

“I don’t know.”

“I read in a book about the trial of a Jew, who first cut off all the fingers on both hands of a four-year-old boy and then nailed him to the wall, sort of crucifying him. After that, at the trial, the Jew said that the little boy died very quickly—it only took four hours, he said. That’s what he called ‘very quickly.’ He said that the child moaned all the time while he stood there enjoying the spectacle. I think it must have been good!”

“Good?”

“Yes, good. Sometimes I imagine that 
I
 have crucified that child: the boy is nailed up there and moaning, while I sit facing him and eat stewed pineapple. I love stewed pineapple. Do you like it?”

Alyosha looked at her in silence. Her pale, sallow face was contorted, her eyes were afire.

“You know, when I first read about that Jew, I was shaken with sobs all night. I imagined that little boy crying and moaning, because, of course, a four-year-old would understand perfectly what was going on . . . But I still can’t get that picture with the stewed pineapple and all out of my head. In the morning I sent a note to someone, asking him to come and see me without fail. He came and I told him everything, about the boy and the pineapple, 
everything
, and I said: ‘It’s good!’ He laughed and said, ‘Yes, it’s very good,’ and left. He only stayed with me for five minutes. Do you think he despised me? Tell me, Alyosha, did he?”

She sat up and looked at Alyosha with fiery eyes.

“Tell me,” Alyosha said, “are you sure it was you who asked him to come here?”

“Yes, it was me.”

“Did you write him a letter?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Just to ask him about . . . about that child?”

“No, it really had nothing to do with that. But the second he came in, I asked him about it. He laughed, answered me, and left.”

“He acted honorably,” Alyosha said quietly.

“But didn’t he despise me and laugh at me?”

“No, because he himself believes in stewed pineapple. He’s very sick too, Lise.”

“Yes, he believes in it!” Lise said, her eyes flashing.

“He doesn’t despise anyone. He simply doesn’t believe in anyone. And it’s only inasmuch as he doesn’t believe in people that he despises them.”

“Therefore he despises me too? Me?”

“Yes, you too.”

“That’s good too,” Lise said with a strange quiver. “When he laughed and left, I enjoyed being despised. I found joy both in the little boy with his fingers cut off and in being despised myself . . .” And Lise let out a strangely shrill, wicked, unhealthy laugh, looking straight into Alyosha’s face.

“You know, you know, I’d like . . . Save me, Alyosha!” she suddenly cried, rushing toward him. She flung her arms around him desperately. “Save me,” she almost moaned, “for there is no one else in the world to whom I’d say the things I’ve just said to you. But what I said is the truth, you understand, the truth! I’ll kill myself, because I find life so disgusting! Ah, Alyosha, you aren’t in love with me at all, not in the least! Why aren’t you?” she cried in exasperation.

“I do love you,” Alyosha said with feeling.

“And will you cry for me?”

“Yes, I will.”

“I mean not because I refuse to marry you, but simply cry because you’re sorry for me.”

“Yes, I will.”

“Thank you. Yours are the only tears I want. As to the rest, let them torture me, crush me underfoot—I don’t care about any of them, not a single one of them, do you understand, no one! Indeed, I hate them all! Now you’d better go, Alyosha—you must be in time to see your brother,” she said, suddenly tearing herself away from him.

“How can I leave you like this, though?” Alyosha said in a worried tone.

“Hurry, go to the prison or it will be closed. Here, take your hat. Kiss Mitya for me. All right, go now!”

She almost pushed him out of the room. Alyosha was looking at her sadly puzzled, when he suddenly felt a letter in his hand. It was a small, folded, sealed sheet of paper. He looked at the address. It only said: “To Ivan Fyodorovich Karamazov.” He glanced quickly at Lise. But her face was almost threatening now.

“Give it to him. Give it to him without fail!” she commanded frantically, her whole body shuddering. “Give it to him today or I’ll poison myself! For this was why I sent for you!”

The door slammed and he heard the lock click. Alyosha put the letter in his pocket and went straight downstairs without stopping to see Mrs. Khokhlakov. In fact, he had completely forgotten about her.

And Lise, as soon as Alyosha had gone, unlocked the door, opened it a little, put her finger in the crack, and slammed the door as hard as she could. Ten seconds later she released her hand, went slowly to her chair, sat down, and looked intently at her blackened, swollen finger and the blood that was oozing out from under the nail. Her lips quivered.

“I’m a vile, vile, vile, despicable creature,” she whispered.

Chapter 4: A Hymn And A Secret

NOVEMBER DAYS are short, and so it was already rather dark when Alyosha rang at the prison gate. He knew that they would let him in to see Mitya without making difficulties. Our town was just like anywhere else: at first, immediately following the preliminary investigation, Mitya’s relatives and other people who wanted to visit him had to submit to certain regulations. Later, however, although the rules were not actually changed, they somehow were no longer applied to at least some of the people who went to see him. Often such visitors were allowed to spend a considerable time with him in the special room set aside for visits, for all practical purposes without supervision. There were, however, only three visitors who received this preferential treatment: Grushenka, Alyosha, and Rakitin. Grushenka stood high in the favor of Police Inspector Makarov. The old man was still trying to live down his insulting outburst against her at Mokroye, after which he had so radically changed his opinion of her. And strangely enough, although he was quite convinced that Mitya was the murderer, he had treated Mitya with ever-increasing sympathy since his imprisonment. “I’m sure that, deep down, he’s a decent fellow,” Makarov thought. “He’s just been ruined by his drinking and his disorderly life.” And his original horror of the crime was replaced by a deep pity for the criminal. As to Alyosha, the inspector had known him for a long time and had always been very fond of him. And Rakitin, who eventually became a very frequent visitor, happened to be on extremely friendly terms with “the inspector’s young ladies,” as he called them, because he gave lessons in the house of the kindly inspector, who was usually a fierce stickler for rules and regulations.

To go back to Alyosha, he was a special friend of the inspector’s and the old man liked to discuss “abstruse” subjects with him. He would never have dared discuss these matters with Alyosha’s brother Ivan, of whom he stood in great awe and in whose presence he felt himself too much of a “home-made” philosopher. Aside from his natural liking for Alyosha, in the last year Makarov had devoted much of his time to studying the Apocrypha, and he constantly discussed his ideas on this subject with his young friend. When Alyosha was still in the monastery, the old police officer used to go and visit him there and discuss various texts with him and with the monks. So, even if Alyosha arrived at the prison after visiting hours, all he had to do was to ask for the inspector and everything would be arranged. Besides, all the wardens were used to Alyosha. As to the guards outside, they did not care one way or the other as long as Alyosha had permission from their superiors.

When he had visitors, Mitya was brought downstairs from his cell to the room especially reserved for visits; now, when he entered this room, Alyosha found Rakitin there, just about to leave Mitya. They had been talking loudly and Mitya, who had come all the way to the door with Rakitin, to see him off, was roaring with laughter. Rakitin was grumbling. Lately, Rakitin had seemed to dislike meeting Alyosha; he hardly spoke to him or even acknowledged his presence. And now, when he saw Alyosha come in, he knitted his brows and looked away, pretending to be absorbed in buttoning up his big heavy overcoat with its fur collar. After that he was busy looking for his umbrella.

“I hope I’m not forgetting anything of mine,” he muttered, just to say something.

“And don’t forget anything of anybody else’s either!” Mitya said, roaring with laughter at his own witticism.

Rakitin at once flared up.

“You’d better keep that advice for one of you Karamazovs, you slave-owning breed! Don’t tell it to a Rakitin!” he said, shaking with anger.

“Come on, calm down. I was just joking!” Mitya said. “Ah hell, they’re all the same,” he said, nodding to Alyosha at the door through which Rakitin had just vanished. “The fellow sat here, seeming to enjoy himself and laughing, and now all of a sudden he loses his temper and walks out on me. And he didn’t even acknowledge your presence! Anything happen between you two? Have you quarreled or something? Why are you so late in coming, Alyosha? I can’t even say I’ve been waiting for you—I’ve been yearning for you to come all morning. But never mind, we’ll catch up.”

“Why does he come to see you so often now? Have you become such great friends all of a sudden?” Alyosha asked, indicating with his head the door through which Rakitin had left.

“Great friends with him? No, we’re no friends . . . The swine thinks I’m some kind of a scheming crook. But the worst thing about his type is that they can’t understand a joke. They never understand one. They’re all dried up inside. Everything is bare and desolate in their souls; just like inside these prison walls, as they looked to me when I was brought here. But he’s intelligent—yes, that he certainly is! Well, Alexei, looks like I’m done for, doesn’t it!”

He sat down on the bench and made Alyosha sit next to him.

“Why do you feel it’s so hopeless, Mitya?” Alyosha said apprehensively. “The trial only starts tomorrow, after all.”

“What are you talking about?” Mitya gave him a vague look. “Ah, about the trial . . . Ah hell, ever since you’ve been coming to see me here, we talked about all sorts of nonsense, nothing but that trial, and I’ve never had a chance to talk to you about the most important things. I know the trial is tomorrow, but I wasn’t thinking about it when I said I was done for . . . Hey, what is it? Why are you looking at me so disapprovingly?”

“What is it that’s bothering you, then, Mitya?”

“It’s ideas that are bothering me, ideas, ethics . . . What’s ethics, Alyosha?”

“Ethics?” Alyosha asked in surprise.

“Yes. What is it—some kind of a science or what?”