The Karamazov Brothers Read online

  3

  CONFESSIONS OF A PASSIONATE HEART. IN VERSE

  ALYOSHA, hearing his father’s order shouted from the coach as he left the monastery, stopped dead in his tracks for a moment in astonishment. But he did not hesitate for long, that was not his way. Instead, troubled as he was, he went straight to the abbot’s kitchen to find out what his father had been doing upstairs. Then he set off for the town, hoping that on the way he would somehow manage to solve the problem that was tormenting him. I must make it clear from the beginning that he was not in the least alarmed by his father’s shouting or by his order to return home ‘with his pillow and mattress’. He knew very well that the order to go home, shouted so publicly and demonstratively, had been delivered in a fit of pique, as a flamboyant gesture, one might say—as in the case of one of our local townsmen, who not long ago, after celebrating rather too well, lost his temper in his own home and in front of his guests, because no one would give him more vodka, suddenly began to smash his own crockery, tear his own and his wife’s clothes, break up the furniture, and, finally, smash the windows of his house, and all simply for effect; his father’s behaviour now, of course, was in much the same vein. Naturally, the following day, when he had sobered up, the overenthusiastic reveller regretted breaking the cups and plates. Alyosha knew that his father would probably let him go back to the monastery the next day or even, perhaps, that same day. What is more, he was quite sure that his father, whatever he might do to others, meant him no harm. Alyosha was certain that no one in the whole world would ever want to harm him, and not only would not want to, but could not. This was axiomatic for him, established once and for all, to be accepted without question, and in this spirit he faced the world without faltering.

  But at this moment fear of a quite different kind was stirring within him. It was all the more troubling because he could not define it—it was in fact a fear of women, and in particular of Katerina Ivanovna, who, in the note that Mrs Khokhlakova had passed to him, had so urgently implored him to see her for some reason. Her urgent request that he see her without fail had induced a sudden torment in his heart, and this sensation had been growing more and more acute all morning, despite the subsequent scenes in the monastery and then with the abbot, and so on and so forth. His fear was not occasioned by ignorance of what she wanted to talk to him about, nor of what he should say to her. And it was not womankind in general that he feared in her. He knew little of women, even though he had lived exclusively with them all his life, from infancy until he entered the monastery. It was this particular woman that he feared, this Katerina Ivanovna, and he had been afraid of her from the moment he had first set eyes on her. He had seen her only once or twice, perhaps three times in all, and had only once had occasion to exchange a few words with her. He remembered her as a beautiful girl, proud and imperious. But it was not her beauty that troubled him, it was something else. The very inexplicability of his fear increased that fear within him now. That the girl’s intentions were of the noblest kind, he accepted; she was trying to save his brother Dmitry, who had behaved badly to her, and she was trying to do so out of sheer magnanimity. And yet, in spite of his awareness of these noble and generous intentions and the legitimacy that he had to accord them, a chill ran down his spine the closer he drew to her house.

  He reasoned that his brother Ivan Fyodorovich, who was on such friendly terms with her, would not be there: Ivan was sure to be with their father now. It was even less likely that Dmitry would be with her, for reasons that Alyosha could guess. So the conversation would be just between the two of them. Before that fateful conversation he very much wanted to see his brother Dmitry and perhaps have a word with him, without showing him the letter. But Dmitry lived quite a distance away and was probably not at home now. He stood for a moment, and then made his decision. Crossing himself quickly, as was his habit, he smiled momentarily about something, and then set off with a firm step to meet the woman who instilled such fear in him.

  He knew her house, but if he went along the High Street, then crossed the square and continued on, it was quite a long way. Ours is a small, straggling town with some outlying houses separated by quite considerable distances. Besides, his father might not yet have forgotten the order he had shouted to him to leave the monastery and might start being difficult, therefore he would have to hurry to reach both places. Having considered all these factors, he decided to take a short cut round the back lanes, for he knew all the town’s byways like the back of his hand. Taking this route meant going over deserted ground, skirting fences where there were no proper roads, sometimes clambering over other people’s wattle fences and passing their yards, but where everyone knew him and would greet him. By this route he could get to the High Street in half the time. In one place he had to pass very near to his father’s house, next to his father’s neighbour’s garden, which belonged to a ramshackle little house with four windows. Alyosha knew that the owner of this house was a crippled old townswoman living with her daughter, who until recently had been a lady’s maid in the residences of various generals in the capital, but who had been at home for a year now because of her mother’s illness, and who liked to parade around in her sumptuous dresses. Now, however, the old woman and her daughter had been reduced to abject poverty and even resorted to daily visits next door to Fyodor Pavlovich’s kitchen for soup and bread. Marfa Ignatyevna gave it willingly, but the daughter who came for the soup never sold a single one of her dresses, one of which even had an extremely long train. Alyosha had heard about this quite by chance from his friend Rakitin, who knew all there was to know in our little town, and having found out, needless to say promptly forgot it. But now, as he reached the old woman’s garden, he suddenly remembered about that train, snapped out of his reverie, raised his head, and… stumbled into a most unexpected meeting.

  Behind the wattle fence of the next garden his brother Dmitry, perched on something, was leaning over the fence, gesticulating wildly and beckoning to him, obviously afraid of shouting or even speaking aloud for fear of being overheard. Alyosha at once ran up to the fence.

  ‘It’s a good thing you looked up, otherwise I’d have had to call out,’ Dmitry Fyodorovich whispered quickly and excitedly. ‘Quick. Climb over here. It’s wonderful to see you. I was just thinking about you…’

  Alyosha too was glad, only he could not fathom how to get over the fence. But Mitya, with his strong arm, supported his elbow and helped him to jump over. Hitching up his cassock, Alyosha leapt across with the agility of a barefoot street urchin.

  ‘Well done, now come here!’ said Mitya in an excited whisper.

  ‘Where?’ whispered Alyosha, peering around on all sides and finding himself in a garden completely empty except for the two of them. The garden was small, but the house to which it belonged was at least fifty paces from them. ‘There’s nobody here. What are you whispering for?’

  ‘What for?’ Dmitry Fyodorovich suddenly shouted aloud. ‘Hanged if I know! Well, you see for yourself how ridiculous one can be. I’m here in secret, and I’ve come to spy on a secret. I’ll explain later, but since it was a secret I started to talk secretively, and was whispering like an idiot when there was no need. Come on! This way! And don’t say a word. But let me give you a hug!

  Glory on earth to the Highest,*

  Glory to the Highest in me!…

  That’s what I was saying to myself, sitting here just now, before you arrived…’

  The garden was about a desyatina* or a little more, planted with trees around the edges only—apple trees, maples, limes, and birches. The middle of the garden was empty and formed a small clearing where in summer several poods* of hay were harvested. From spring the owner let the garden for a few roubles. Near the perimeter fence there were also rows of raspberry-canes and gooseberry and currant bushes, and near the house vegetable-beds had recently been dug. Dmitry Fyodorovich led Alyosha to the remotest corner of the garden. There, among a clump of lime trees and elders, old currant bushes, guelder
rose, and lilac, they came upon the ruin of some kind of old green summer-house, blackened and crooked, with trellised walls, but with a roof sufficient to keep out the rain. God only knows when the summer-house had been built; according to rumour some fifty years before by the then owner of the house, a retired lieutenant-colonel by the name of Alexander Karlovich von Schmidt. But it was already falling apart, the floor was sagging, the floorboards were loose, and all the timbers smelt of damp. In the summer-house there stood a green wooden table, its legs inserted into the ground, and around it there were benches, also painted green, on which one could still sit. Alyosha immediately noticed his brother’s state of elation, and now, on entering the summer-house, he saw on the table half a bottle of brandy and a glass.

  ‘It’s brandy,’ said Mitya with a laugh, ‘and I can tell what you’re thinking: “He’s drinking again.” But don’t jump to conclusions.

  Do not believe the false and shallow crowd,

  And doubts dismiss…*

  I’m not getting drunk, I’m just “treating myself”, as that swine Rakitin would say and will still be saying when he’s a state councillor. Sit down, Alyosha. I want to hug you, yes, that’s right, a real bear-hug, because in the whole wide world… deeeep down (listen! listen to me!), you’re the only person I love!’

  He uttered these last words almost in a kind of frenzy.

  ‘Only you, and a little slut that I’ve fallen in love with, to my undoing. But to fall in love is not the same as to love. You can be in love even while hating someone. Remember that! But just now I’m cheerful and I feel like talking. Sit down here at the table and I’ll sit near you, where I can see you, and I’ll tell you everything. Just listen, and I’ll do the talking, because now’s the time. And by the way, I think we ought to keep our voices down, because here… here… the grass can have long ears. I’ll explain everything, as I said, the rest will follow. Why have I been dying to talk to you—just now, these past few days, and particularly just now? (It’s already five days since I’ve been hanging around here.) Why all this time? Because you’re the only one to whom I can tell the whole truth, because I have to, because I need you, because tomorrow I’m going to dive out of the clouds, because tomorrow, for me, life ends and life begins. Have you ever had the feeling, have you ever dreamt that you were falling over a precipice into a deep pit? Well, that’s how I feel now, but I’m not dreaming. And I’m not afraid, and you mustn’t be afraid. Actually, I am afraid, but I’m at ease with myself, no, not at ease, in ecstasy… Oh hell, it’s all the same, what do I care! Strong in spirit, weak in spirit, fickle in spirit—doesn’t matter a jot! Let’s celebrate nature: look, everything’s drenched in sunlight, the sky, it’s so clear, the leaves are all green, it’s still high summer, four o’clock in the afternoon and it’s so peaceful everywhere! Where are you off to?’

  ‘I was going to father’s, but first I wanted to call on Katerina Ivanovna.’

  ‘You’re going to her and then to father! Splendid! What a coincidence! That’s just why I called you, why I was longing to see you with every sinew of my heart, with every fibre of my body! I wanted you to go to father on my behalf, and then to her, to Katerina Ivanovna, and so kill two birds with one stone. I wanted to send an angel. I could have sent anyone, but I needed to send an angel. And there you were, going to her and to father of your own accord.’

  ‘Surely you didn’t really want me to go on your behalf?’ Alyosha burst out, his expression pained and sorrowful.

  ‘Go on, you knew it. I can see by your face that you understood at once. But hush, don’t make a fuss now! Don’t be sorry for me, and no tears!’

  Dmitry Fyodorovich stood up looking thoughtful, and put his finger to his forehead:

  ‘She sent for you herself, she wrote you a letter or something, otherwise you wouldn’t be going to her!’