The Brothers Karamazov (80 page)

At first, Kalganov said that he did not want to drink and that he did not like the village singers. But after downing a couple of glasses of champagne, he became terribly gay, and kept making the rounds, praising everything and everybody, singers, dancers, musicians. Maximov, quietly and blissfully drunk, followed Kalganov wherever he went. Grushenka, who was also beginning to feel the effects of the champagne, kept pointing to Kalganov and saying to Mitya, “Isn’t he sweet? What a sweet boy!” And Mitya would at once rush over and hug Kalganov and Maximov. Oh, it was all just a feeling he had! Grushenka hadn’t said anything special to him and, in fact, she deliberately refrained from saying anything to him. But occasionally he saw her glancing at him, not just with warm affection, but with something like ardor.

At last she caught him by the arm and pulled him violently to her. She was sitting in her armchair by the door.

“Ah, the way you looked when you first came in! What a face you had! I was so scared, you know . . . But why were you prepared to give me up and let him have me? For that’s what you were going to do, wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t want to spoil your happiness,” Mitya mumbled blissfully, but she didn’t need him to tell her that.

“All right, go away—enjoy yourself,” she said, chasing him away. “And don’t start crying—I’ll call you back soon.”

And when he had left, she again listened to the singing and watched the dancers, though always keeping an eye on Mitya. Then, after a quarter of an hour or so, she called him back.

“Now sit down here, next to me, and tell me how you found out yesterday about my leaving. And how did you know I would come here?”

And Mitya told her, disconnectedly, incoherently, feverishly. And then, suddenly, in the middle of it, he unexpectedly stopped and knitted his brows.

“Why are you frowning like that?” she asked him.

“Nothing . . . it’s just that I left someone behind in a pretty bad state . . . I’d give ten years of my life for him to get well.”

“What can you do about it? He’s sick, so he’s sick! Tell me, am I right that you were planning to shoot yourself in the morning, you silly, you! Whatever for? Why, you know I only like the crazy ones like you!” she muttered as her tongue grew thicker. “So you’ll do anything for me, won’t you? You were going to shoot yourself, you crazy, silly man! No, you’d better wait. There’s something I’ll tell you tomorrow . . . not today, tomorrow, although I bet you’d like to hear it today . . . No, I don’t feel like telling you today . . . Now go and have a good time . . .”

At one point, however, when she called him back, she looked at him in alarm.

“Why are you so sad, Mitya? I know you’re sad . . . Don’t say no, I can see it,” she said looking into his eyes. “Yes, you may be shouting over there with the villagers and hugging them, but I can see that something is troubling you. That’s not what I want—I feel gay and I want you to be gay . . . You know, there’s someone here I love, and guess who it is? Now look at that! That sweet boy has had enough to drink and has passed out, the poor darling!”

She pointed to Kalganov, who had had quite a bit to drink and had dozed off sitting on the sofa. But it was not the wine that had put him to sleep; he had suddenly felt depressed or, as he would have put it, “bored.” In the end he felt sickened by the girls’ songs which, as they became more and more drunk, gradually became more and more outspoken and dirty. And the dances, too, displeased him. There was a dance in which two girls impersonated bears while Stepanida, a pert girl, played the part of bear trainer, making them “perform.”

“Move livelier, Maria!” she shouted, “or you’ll get a taste of my stick!”

At the end the bears rolled on the floor with no semblance of decency any longer, and this provoked delighted roars of laughter from the packed audience of villagers, men and women alike.

“So let them, let them all enjoy themselves,” Grushenka kept repeating sententiously, looking blissfully at the performers. “Why shouldn’t people have a good time when they’re given a chance!”

Kalganov, though, felt as if he had been dirtied:

“It’s filthy, disgusting!” he muttered, moving away from the crowd. “What a sickening sight, this peasant feast! These are their spring rituals, when they keep watch for the sun throughout midsummer’s night.”

But he especially disliked a certain “new” song sung to a lively dance tune. It started with a landowner trying to find out whether the girls from his village loved him:

Master’s curiosity was hot:

Do girls love me? Do they not?

The girls didn’t think they could love their master:

Master’ll beat me with a rope,

For such love I do not hope.

Then came the gypsy, who also wanted to know whether the girls loved him.

Gypsy’s curiosity was hot:

Do girls love me? Do they not?

It turned out the girls couldn’t love him either because:

Gypsy, he will always steal,

Wretched all my life I’ll feel.

And many other people wondered about the girls’ love, including the soldier:

Soldier’s curiosity was hot:

Do girls love me? Do they not?

But the soldier was rejected with contempt:

Soldier will be rough and blunt

Always chasing after——.

This unprintable verse, sung with complete frankness, created a real furor among the audience.

Finally it was the turn of the merchant:

Merchant’s curiosity was hot:

Do girls love me? Do they not?

And it turned out that they did because:

Merchant will make pots of gold,

He my love will win and hold.

Kalganov actually became angry:

“That song is already out of date,” he said aloud. “I wonder who composes these things for them? They could have completed it by adding a railwayman and a Jew—they’d certainly take the jackpot!”

He took the song almost as a personal insult, announced that he was bored, sat down on the sofa, and dozed off. His pretty face turned slightly paler and his head fell back on the cushions.

“Look how pretty he is,” Grushenka said, taking Mitya to him. “I was combing his hair earlier this evening. It’s just like flax, and so thick!”

She leaned tenderly over the boy and kissed him on the forehead. Kalganov at once opened his eyes, sat up, and, looking very worried, asked:

“Where’s Maximov?”

“So that’s who he wants!” Grushenka laughed. “But couldn’t you sit here with me for a minute while Mitya finds your Maximov? Will you, Mitya?”

It turned out that Maximov had not left the girls except to dash off a few times to refill his glass with liqueur. He had also helped himself to two cups of chocolate. His face was red, his nose was purple, his eyes were moist and amorous. He came at a trot and announced that he was going “to dance a 
sabotière
 to a certain tune,” because, he explained, “I was taught all these society dances when I was a little boy, you know.”

“All right, go ahead. Go with him, Mitya. I’ll watch him dancing from here.”

“But I want to go too,” Kalganov cried, thus most innocently spurning Grushenka’s offer to keep him company. So they all went. Maximov performed his dance but, except for Mitya, it did not gain him any admirers. His dancing consisted of leaps into the air, during which he would turn one foot sideways and slap the sole of his boot with the palm of his hand. Kalganov thought nothing of the dance, whereas Mitya was so enthusiastic that he even kissed Maximov.

“That was great, great!” Mitya said. “I see you looking over there—what would you like? Some candy? A cigar perhaps?”

“I think I’d like a little cigaret, please.”

“And what about a drink?”

“I wouldn’t mind a drop of liqueur . . . And is there some of that nice chocolate candy left?”

“You can see there’s a whole heap of it on the table, so you’d better go and pick what you like, you angel face!”

“No, but I want one with vanilla, you know—it’s specially good for little old men, he-he-he . . .”

“I’m afraid those are all gone, brother.”

“Listen!” Maximov suddenly whispered right into Mitya’s ear. “What about that girl Maria? Do you think it would be possible for me to become better acquainted with her? Through your kindness, I mean . . .”

“So that’s what you’re after! Sorry, brother, I can’t help you there.”

“I didn’t mean any harm . . .” Maximov mumbled dejectedly.

“I know, I know, but you see, these girls have only come to sing and dance . . . Although, wait . . . Ah, hell . . . Eat, drink, enjoy yourself for now . . . Tell me, do you need a little money?”

“I don’t know—maybe later.” Maximov was smiling again.

“Fine, good . . .”

Mitya’s head was burning hot. He went out into the hall and from there onto the long wooden balcony that skirted the side of the house overlooking the inside courtyard. The fresh air revived him somewhat. He stood there for a while, all alone in the darkness, and then clutched his head between his hands. Suddenly his scattered thoughts and his disconnected sensations merged into a whole that became phosphorescent . . . And in that sinister, horrible light, he saw it! “If I’m going to shoot myself, this is the best moment,” the words formed in his mind. “Shouldn’t I go and get my pistol, bring it here, and put an end to everything right here in this dark corner, facing this grimy yard?” For almost a whole minute he stood there wavering. Driving here a few hours ago, he had been a completely disgraced man—he had committed a plain, outright theft and . . . and that blood, that blood . . . Yet it was so much easier then, oh, incomparably easier! Then he had felt everything was finished: she was gone, gone with another man; he had lost her, lost her irretrievably . . . The death sentence he had passed on himself seemed much lighter then, because he had felt it was logical and inevitable—there was no reason for him to remain alive. But now it was not at all the same. Now, at least, that horrible ghost of the past had been destroyed; her “first, unchallengeable love” had dissolved into thin air; the man who had played such a fateful part in her life had turned into a wretched caricature and was now locked in a bedroom. And never again would that phantom come back to haunt her! Indeed, she was ashamed of her former illusions, and he could see in her eyes who she really loved now. So it was now that he wanted to be alive! But he was not allowed to live now, he could not stay alive, and that was the hell of it!

“O God, please bring back to life the man I struck down by the garden fence! Spare me this horrible tribulation! O Lord, have you not performed miracles to save sinners as bad as me before? . . . But even if Gregory is alive, even so . . . No, no, if he is alive, I will atone for the other disgrace. I will wipe it out. I’ll pay back the money I have stolen. Even if I must sweat it out in blood, I’ll get it! There will be no trace of my disgrace left anywhere, except in my heart, where the scars will remain forever . . . No, no, these are just impossible, cowardly dreams . . . Ah, hell!”

Nevertheless, a strange ray of hope flashed in the darkness surrounding Mitya. He rushed back inside the house. He wanted to see her now, quickly, to be with the one who was his queen forever. “Why, isn’t one hour, one minute of her love worth spending the rest of my life in torture and agony?” That wild question clutched at his heart. “To her, quickly! All I want is to be with her alone, look at her, listen to her voice, not think of anything else, forget all the rest if only for one night, one hour, one second . . .”

Just as he was about to step from the balcony into the hall, Mitya ran into Trifon. The man looked worried and concerned, and Mitya thought he was looking for him.

“What’s the matter, Trifon? Looking for me?”

“No, no, not you, Mr. Karamazov,” Trifon said, apparently taken aback. “Why should I be looking for you? But where have you been, sir?”

“Why are you looking so dismal, Trifon. Are you angry or something? Don’t worry, soon you’ll be able to go to bed and get some sleep. What time is it, by the way?”

“It must be at least three, or even later . . .”

“We’ll be ending soon, don’t worry.”

“Good Lord, sir, please . . . You just go on as long as you feel like it.”

“There’s something the matter with him, though,” Mitya thought as he went into the room where the girls were dancing. Grushenka wasn’t there. Nor was she in the blue room—Kalganov was all alone there, dozing on the sofa. Mitya glanced behind the curtain—and there she was. She was sitting in a corner on a trunk, leaning forward, her hands and her head resting on the edge of the bed. She was weeping violently, trying hard to restrain her sobs so as not to attract attention. She saw Mitya and beckoned to him. He hastened to her. She took his hand and grasped it tightly.

“Mitya, Mitya,” she whispered, “you know, I did love him. I loved him all those five years, all that time . . . Was it him I loved or was it just my own spite? Oh, it was him, all right! I’m lying to myself when I say that what I loved was just my anger. You must understand, Mitya—I was only seventeen then and he was so tender to me and he would sing me those songs . . . Or, at least, that was how he seemed to me, stupid little girl that I was. But now . . . oh, he isn’t the same. He’s a different man altogether. Even his face is completely different. As I was driving here with Timofei, I kept wondering what it would be like to see him again, what I would say to him when I saw him, how we would look at each other. It took my breath away to think about it . . . And then it was as if someone had emptied a bucket of slops on my head . . . He behaved like a schoolteacher, so pompous and important, and he spoke to me so learnedly, so slowly . . . I was completely lost, didn’t know what to say to him. At first I thought he was embarrassed for that long-legged friend of his. I sat there with them and wondered to myself why I didn’t even know how to talk to him now. You know, I think it was his wife who did that to him, the wife he married after he deserted me then. It was she, I think, who turned him into what he is today. Ah, Mitya, I feel so ashamed, so terribly ashamed, ashamed of my whole life! I loathe the thought of those five years—may they be damned, damned . . .” And tears gushed from her eyes as she clung to Mitya’s hand, never relaxing her grip.