THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV. Fyodor Dostoyevsky

one else. He will let me know if she goes to the old man.”

      “It was he told you about the money, then?”

      “Yes. It’s a dead secret. Even Ivan doesn’t know about the money, or anything. The old man is sending Ivan to Tchermashnya on a two or three days’ journey. A purchaser has turned up for the copse: he’ll give eight thousand for the timber. So the old man keeps asking Ivan to help him by going to arrange it. It will take him two or three days. That’s what the old man wants, so that Grushenka can come while he’s away.”

      “Then he’s expecting Grushenka to-day?”

      “No, she won’t come to-day; there are signs, She’s certain not to come,” cried Mitya suddenly. “Smerdyakov thinks so, too. Father’s drinking now. He’s sitting at table with Ivan. Go to him, Alyosha, and ask for the three thousand.”

      “Mitya, dear, what’s the matter with you?” cried Alyosha, jumping up from his place, and looking keenly at his brother’s frenzied face. For one moment the thought struck him that Dmitri was mad.

      “What is it? I’m not insane,” said Dmitri, looking intently and earnestly at him. “No fear. I am sending you to father, and I know what I’m saying. I believe in miracles.”

      “In miracles?”

      “In a miracle of Divine Providence. God knows my heart. He sees my despair. He sees the whole picture. Surely He won’t let something awful happen. Alyosha, I believe in miracles. Go!”

      “I am going. Tell me, will you wait for me here?”

      “Yes. I know it will take some time. You can’t go at him point blank. He’s drunk now. I’ll wait three hours — four, five, six, seven. Only remember you must go to Katerina Ivanovna to-day, if it has to be at midnight, with the money or without the money, and say, ‘He sends his compliments to you.’ I want you to say that verse to her: ‘He sends his compliments to you.’”

      “Mitya! And what if Grushenka comes to-day — if not to-day, or the next day?”

      “Grushenka? I shall see her. I shall rush out and prevent it.”

      “And if — ?”

      “If there’s an if, it will be murder. I couldn’t endure it.”

      “Who will be murdered?”

      “The old man. I shan’t kill her.”

      “Brother, what are you saying?”

      “Oh, I don’t know…. I don’t know. Perhaps I shan’t kill, and perhaps I shall. I’m afraid that he will suddenly become so loathsome to me with his face at that moment. I hate his ugly throat, his nose, his eyes, his shameless snigger. I feel a physical repulsion. That’s what I’m afraid of. That’s what may be too much for me.”

      “I’ll go, Mitya. I believe that God will order things for the best, that nothing awful may happen.”

      “And I will sit and wait for the miracle. And if it doesn’t come to pass—”

      Alyosha went thoughtfully towards his father’s house.

      CHAPTER 6

      Smerdyakov

       Table of Contents

       HE did in fact find his father still at table. Though there was a dining-room in the house, the table was laid as usual in the drawing room, which was the largest room, and furnished with old-fashioned ostentation. The furniture was white and very old, upholstered in old, red, silky material. In the spaces between the windows there were mirrors in elaborate white and gilt frames, of old-fashioned carving. On the walls, covered with white paper, which was torn in many places, there hung two large portraits — one of some prince who had been governor of the district thirty years before, and the other of some bishop, also long since dead. In the corner opposite the door there were several ikons, before which a lamp was lighted at nightfall… not so much for devotional purposes as to light the room. Fyodor Pavlovitch used to go to bed very late, at three or four o’clock in the morning,and would wander about the room at night or sit in an armchair, thinking. This had become a habit with him. He often slept quite alone in the house, sending his servants to the lodge; but usually Smerdyakov remained, sleeping on a bench in the hall.

      When Alyosha came in, dinner was over, but coffee and preserves had been served. Fyodor Pavlovitch liked sweet things with brandy after dinner. Ivan was also at table, sipping coffee. The servants, Grigory and Smerdyakov, were standing by. Both the gentlemen and the servants seemed in singularly good spirits. Fyodor Pavlovitch was roaring with laughter. Before he entered the room, Alyosha heard the shrill laugh he knew so well, and could tell from the sound of it that his father had only reached the goodhumoured stage, and was far from being completely drunk.

      “Here he is! Here he is!” yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch, highly delighted at seeing Alyosha. “Join us. Sit down. Coffee is a lenten dish, but it’s hot and good. I don’t offer you brandy, you’re keeping the fast. But would you like some? No; I’d better give you some of our famous liqueur. Smerdyakov, go to the cupboard, the second shelf on the right. Here are the keys. Look sharp!”

      Alyosha began refusing the liqueur.

      “Never mind. If you won’t have it, we will,” said Fyodor Pavlovitch, beaming. “But stay — have you dined?”

      “Yes,” answered Alyosha, who had in truth only eaten a piece of bread and drunk a glass of kvass in the Father Superior’s kitchen. “Though I should be pleased to have some hot coffee.”

      “Bravo, my darling! He’ll have some coffee. Does it want warming? No, it’s boiling. It’s capital coffee: Smerdyakov’s making. My Smerdyakov’s an artist at coffee and at fish patties, and at fish soup, too. You must come one day and have some fish soup. Let me know beforehand…. But, stay; didn’t I tell you this morning to come home with your mattress and pillow and all? Have you brought your mattress? He he he!”

      “No, I haven’t,” said Alyosha, smiling, too.

      “Ah, but you were frightened, you were frightened this morning, weren’t you? There, my darling, I couldn’t do anything to vex you. Do you know, Ivan, I can’t resist the way he looks one straight in the face and laughs? It makes me laugh all over. I’m so fond of him. Alyosha, let me give you my blessing — a father’s blessing.”

      Alyosha rose, but Fyodor Pavlovitch had already changed his mind.

      “No, no,” he said. “I’ll just make the sign of the cross over you, for now. Sit still. Now we’ve a treat for you, in your own line, too. It’ll make you laugh. Balaam’s ass has begun talking to us here — and how he talks! How he talks!

      Balaam’s ass, it appeared, was the valet, Smerdyakov. He was a young man of about four and twenty, remarkably unsociable and taciturn. Not that he was shy or bashful. On the contrary, he was conceited and seemed to despise everybody.

      But we must pause to say a few words about him now. He was brought up by Grigory and Marfa, but the boy grew up “with no sense of gratitude,” as Grigory expressed it; he was an unfriendly boy, and seemed to look at the world mistrustfully. In his childhood he was very fond of hanging cats, and burying them with great ceremony. He used to dress up in a sheet as though it were a surplice, and sang, and waved some object over the dead cat as though it were a censer. All this he did on the sly, with the greatest secrecy. Grigory caught him once at this diversion and gave him a sound beating. He shrank into a corner and sulked there for a week. “He doesn’t care for you or me, the monster,” Grigory used to say to Marfa, “and he doesn’t care for anyone. Are you a human being?” he said, addressing the boy directly. “You’re not a human being. You grew from the mildew in the bathhouse. That’s what you are,” Smerdyakov, it appeared afterwards, could never forgive him those words. Grigory taught him to read and write,