The Brothers Karamazov (88 page)

“Oh no, I remember everything very clearly, every scrap. I jumped down, looked at him, and started wiping away the blood with a handkerchief.”

“We saw your handkerchief. What did you hope to achieve? Were you hoping to bring the man you had struck back to life?”

“I don’t know what I was hoping to do. I simply wanted to find out whether he was dead or alive.”

“So you wanted to find out, I see. Well, what did you find out?”

“I’m not a doctor. I couldn’t be sure. When I ran away, I thought I’d killed him, but now it turns out that he’s recovered.”

“Very good,” the prosecutor concluded. “I thank you very much; that is all I really wanted to know. And now, kindly proceed.”

Alas, it never even occurred to Mitya to tell them—although he remembered it very well—that he had jumped down because he was concerned about the old servant and that, while standing over the prostrate Gregory, he had even muttered something sadly about what a misfortune it was that the poor old fellow had got hurt like that. And, because Mitya passed over this in silence, the prosecutor concluded that, in jumping down “at such a moment and in such a state of agitation,” the suspect could have had only one aim—to make sure that the sole witness to his crime had been silenced—which proved the criminal’s strength of character, determination, and cool and calculating judgment, even at such a moment . . . etc., etc. The prosecutor was very pleased with himself; by taunting this nervous fellow with “irrelevancies,” he had succeeded in exasperating him, throwing him off balance, and now the man had said what he had wanted him to say.

Painful as it was to him now, Mitya went on. He was, however, interrupted almost at once, this time by Nelyudov.

“How could you go and see the maid Fenya with your hands covered with blood? Besides, as was established later, even your face was stained with it.”

“I never even noticed I was covered with blood,” Mitya said.

“That makes sense,” the prosecutor said, giving the examining magistrate a significant look; “that’s usually the case.”

“Right, I didn’t notice it at all. You hit the nail on the head, prosecutor!” Mitya said approvingly.

Then followed an account of Mitya’s sudden decision to step out of Grushenka’s life and resign himself to the idea that she would be happy with another man. But he could no longer make himself open his heart to these men, as he had done earlier, or try to explain to them how he felt about “the queen of his heart.” He felt nauseated by their “cold, fixed eyes clinging like bedbugs” to him, and he answered their repetitive questions curtly.

“So I decided to shoot myself. Why should I go on living? It was only natural that I should ask myself that question. The man who had seduced her, her first love, the one to whom she rightfully belonged, had come back after five years to repair by marriage the harm he had done her. Well, I saw that, for me, all was lost . . . And behind me there was nothing but disgrace and Gregory’s blood now . . . So what was the point of staying alive? And that was why I went to redeem the pistols I had pawned. I had to load them in order to be ready to put a bullet through my brain at dawn.”

“And in the meantime, during the night, you decided to have a good time—is that right?”

“That’s right. But what the hell, gentlemen—how long do you intend to go on with this? I had definitely decided to shoot myself. I was going to do it not far from here, as a matter of fact, just outside the village. My plan was to dispose of myself at five in the morning. I had a note ready in my pocket: I had written it at Perkhotin’s at the time I loaded the pistols. Here it is. You may read it. You know,” he said suddenly, with infinite scorn, “it’s not for your benefit that I’ve been telling you all this!” He pulled the folded note from his waistcoat pocket and tossed it on the table.

The interrogators read it with curiosity and, following the regulations, added it to the exhibits.

“But at that point it still had not occurred to you to wash your hands, not even when you went to see Mr. Perkhotin? You weren’t afraid to arouse suspicion then, were you?”

“What suspicion? Ah . . . no, I didn’t care one way or the other. I’d have come here anyway, and since I was determined to shoot myself at five in the morning, they wouldn’t have had time to do anything about me. Oh, this is all the work of the devil: he killed my father and it was he who saw to it that you should find out about me so quickly! Tell me, how did you manage to get here so quickly? It’s really amazing!”

“Mr. Perkhotin informed us that when you came to see him you were holding a bundle of money in your hands . . . your bloodstained hands . . . a lot of money, bills of high denomination—a wad of hundred-ruble bills. His young valet saw it too.”

“Yes, that’s true. I remember.”

“One question arises now,” Nelyudov said particularly softly; “could you please tell us where you suddenly got hold of all that money, because, from the facts we have established, you cannot possibly have had time even to go home.”

The prosecutor screwed up his nose slightly as if he had tasted something bitter; he obviously did not quite approve of his colleague’s putting the question so openly. But he did not intervene.

“No, I didn’t go home,” Mitya said with apparent calm, but still looking persistently at the floor.

“Well, in that case, allow me to repeat my question,” Nelyudov said, leaning forward as if trying to get closer and closer to Mitya. “Where can you have gotten such a considerable sum so quickly, since, according to your own admission, only a few hours earlier, at five in the afternoon of that same day, you . . .”

“‘Needed ten rubles and pawned your pistols to Perkhotin and then went to ask Mrs. Khokhlakov for three thousand rubles, which she did not give you,’ and so on and so forth,” Mitya interrupted him impatiently. “Yes, strange, isn’t it? “There he was, without a kopek and the next thing, lo and behold, he had thousands of rubles in his hands!’ Surprising, isn’t it? I know I’ve got you both worried now: ‘What if he refuses to tell us where he got it?’ Well, you’re damned right—I won’t tell you that!” Mitya declared emphatically.

The questioners were silent for a moment.

“I hope you appreciate, Mr. Karamazov, how essential it is that you answer this question,” Nelyudov said suavely.

“I appreciate it, but I still won’t tell you.”

The prosecutor intervened, repeating once more to Mitya that he did not have to answer any questions if he thought that not answering them would be to his advantage, etc., etc. Considering, however, the damage he could do himself by refusing to answer, especially with questions as important as this one, he should perhaps . . .

“And so on and so forth. Thank you very much for your little speech, but I believe I’ve heard it somewhere before,” Mitya cut him off again. “I do, in fact, understand perfectly well the gravity of the situation and that the point in question is absolutely crucial, but nevertheless I will not answer you.”

“You know, though, that it is not us you will harm, but yourself,” Nelyudov said a bit nervously.

“Well, let’s stop playing games now,” Mitya said, raising his eyes and looking determinedly at his interrogators. “I felt from the very outset that this would be the point where we would collide head-on. But at first, when I started making my statement, everything was sort of floating in a fog and I was even simple-minded enough to suggest to you that all the questioning should be based on mutual trust. But now I realize that there never could be any mutual trust between us because, anyway, we would have wound up in front of this damned wall! So here we are now. That’s the end. There’s no way out now. I must say, though, I can’t really blame you, for I understand very well that you can’t take my word for everything either.”

And he lapsed into gloomy silence.

“But couldn’t you, Mr. Karamazov,” Nelyudov said, “couldn’t you, without altering your determination not to answer this question, just give us an idea of what considerations are powerful enough to make you refuse to clear up a point of such absolutely vital importance?”

A strange, slightly dreamy smile appeared on Mitya’s lips.

“I’m much nicer than you think, gentlemen, and I will give you an idea of the powerful considerations I have for refusing to answer the question. I won’t answer it because the answer would dishonor me. If I told you where I had got the money, it would be a disgrace that would be even worse for me than killing and robbing my father—if I had done it, I mean. So you see, it’s shame that prevents me from talking . . . What’s that? You want that written down, too?”

“Yes, we’d better have it written down,” Nelyudov mumbled.

“I don’t think it’s fair of you to write down what I told you about its being a disgrace, you know. I told you that out of sheer kindness. I didn’t have to tell you. It was a sort of present I made you, and now you’re planning to use it as evidence against me. But go ahead, put it in writing, you can write down anything you wish,” Mitya concluded in a scornful, disgusted tone. “I’m not afraid of you and . . . I can still hold up my head before you.”

“Couldn’t you just tell us the nature of the disgrace you mentioned?” Nelyudov mumbled again.

The prosecutor frowned violently.

“Ha-ha-hee—
c’est fini!
 No, don’t waste your breath. Besides, why should I roll myself in the mud just to please you? I feel sufficiently spattered with mud as it is, after talking to you. You don’t deserve my trust, neither you two nor anyone else . . . And that’s enough now—it’s over.”

This sounded final. Nelyudov stopped insisting, although when his eyes met the prosecutor’s he understood from his colleague’s look that all hope was not yet lost.

“What about telling us exactly how much money you had on you when you went to Mr. Perkhotin’s? Would you give us a figure? How many rubles?”

“I won’t tell you that either.”

“I believe you told Mr. Perkhotin then that you had just received three thousand rubles from Mrs. Khokhlakov—is that correct?”

“I may have told him that. But why don’t you give this up? I won’t tell you anyway.”

“All right. In that case would you tell us how you came here and what you did after your arrival?”

“Why don’t you ask the people in the guest house? But, all right, I’ll tell you if you wish.”

He told them. But we shall not repeat it here. He told the story briefly and impersonally. He did not speak of his love and his feelings; he told them only that he was no longer so determined to shoot himself “in view of certain new developments.” He did not bother to explain the motives behind his actions anymore, did not go into subtleties. Besides, his interrogators did not interrupt him very often to ask him questions; it was obvious that this was not what interested them most.

“We’ll check it all, go over it all again with the other witnesses—in your presence of course,” Examining Magistrate Nelyudov said, concluding the session. “There’s only one more thing I have to ask you now: Would you please put on the table everything you have on you, particularly all the money you still have on your person.”

“Money? Most certainly, gentlemen. I understand perfectly. I was wondering why you hadn’t asked me to do so from the beginning. Although obviously I could not have left with it. So here it is: count it, take it. I guess that’s all there is . . .”

He pulled all the money he had, including the small change, out of his pockets. Then he found two more twenty-kopek pieces in his waistcoat pocket and tossed them on the table too. When they had counted it all up, there was eight hundred and thirty-six rubles and forty kopeks.

“Is that all there is?” Nelyudov asked.

“That’s all.”

“In your statement just now you said you had spent three hundred rubles at the Plotnikov store, you paid ten rubles back to Perkhotin, ten to the coachman, you lost two hundred at cards, then . . .”

Nelyudov went over everything, Mitya willingly helping him. They tried to remember and write down every kopek. The examining magistrate quickly added it all up.

“It would appear, then, that, including this eight hundred-odd rubles, you originally had around fifteen hundred, is that right?”

“So it would appear.”

“How is it, then, that everybody says there was much more than that?”

“They can say what they want.”

“But you said so yourself.”

“Did I? Well, so I did.”

“We’ll check it all against the evidence of the persons who have not yet been examined. In the meantime, please don’t worry about your money. It will be safe and will be returned to you in the end . . . that is, if it is established that you have an indisputable claim to it. Well, and now . . .”

Examining Magistrate Nelyudov abruptly got up and in a very firm voice announced to Mitya that he was “duty-bound” to have him searched, “pockets and all.”

“All right. Shall I turn out my pockets, then?” Mitya asked and started turning out one pocket after the other.

“I am afraid you will have to undress altogether.”

“What? Undress? Damn it, can’t you search me like this?”

“It is absolutely out of the question, Mr. Karamazov. I am sorry but you will just have to take everything off.”

“As you wish,” Mitya said gloomily. “Only I insist that it not be here, but behind that curtain. Who’s going to search me?”

“Certainly, behind the curtain is fine,” Nelyudov said, inclining his head in assent, his small, boyish face assuming a tremendously solemn expression.

Chapter 6: The Prosecutor Catches Mitya

MITYA HAD never expected what followed and it caught him by surprise. A minute before, he could never have imagined that he, Dmitry Karamazov, would be treated like this. The main thing about it was that it was humiliating for him, whereas they were in a position to treat him with “condescension and contempt.” He would not have minded so much if they had asked him to take off just his jacket, but they asked him to undress further. And they didn’t actually ask him, they told him—that he plainly understood. Out of pride and to show his contempt for them, he complied without a word of protest. Besides the prosecutor and the examining magistrate, some of the men also followed him behind the curtain. “To use force if necessary,” Mitya thought, “and perhaps for some other purpose too.”