The Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoyevsky (reading an ebook TXT) 📗
- Author: Fyodor Dostoyevsky
- Performer: 0140449248
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and you will love me; do you know that? Do you hear? Love me, love
me all your life!” she cried, with a quiver almost of menace in her
voice.
“I shall love you, and… do you know, Katya,” Mitya began,
drawing a deep breath at each word, “do you know, five days ago,
that same evening, I loved you…. When you fell down and were carried
out… All my life! So it will be, so it will always be-”
So they murmured to one another frantic words, almost meaningless,
perhaps not even true, but at that moment it was all true, and they
both believed what they said implicitly.
“Katya,” cried Mitya suddenly, “do you believe I murdered him? I
know you don’t believe it now, but then… when you gave
evidence…. Surely, surely you did not believe it!”
“I did not believe it even then. I’ve never believed it. I hated
you, and for a moment I persuaded myself. While I was giving
evidence I persuaded myself and believed it, but when I’d finished
speaking I left off believing it at once. Don’t doubt that! I have
forgotten that I came here to punish myself,” she said, with a new
expression in her voice, quite unlike the loving tones of a moment
before.
“Woman, yours is a heavy burden,” broke, as it were, involuntarily
from Mitya.
“Let me go,” she whispered. “I’ll come again. It’s more than I can
bear now.”
She was getting up from her place, but suddenly uttered a loud
scream and staggered back. Grushenka walked suddenly and noiselessly
into the room. No one had expected her. Katya moved swiftly to the
door, but when she reached Grushenka, she stopped suddenly, turned
as white as chalk and moaned softly, almost in a whisper:
“Forgive me!”
Grushenka stared at her and, pausing for an instant, in a
vindictive, venomous voice, answered:
“We are full of hatred, my girl, you and I! We are both full of
hatred! As though we could forgive one another! Save him, and I’ll
worship you all my life.”
“You won’t forgive her!” cried Mitya, with frantic reproach.
“Don’t be anxious, I’ll save him for you!” Katya whispered
rapidly, and she ran out of the room.
“And you could refuse to forgive her when she begged your
forgiveness herself?’ Mitya exclaimed bitterly again.
“Mitya, don’t dare to blame her; you have no right to!” Alyosha
cried hotly.
“Her proud lips spoke, not her heart,” Grushenka brought out in
a tone of disgust. “If she saves you I’ll forgive her everything-”
She stopped speaking, as though suppressing something. She could
not yet recover herself. She had come in, as appeared afterwards,
accidentally, with no suspicion of what she would meet.
“Alyosha, run after her!” Mitya cried to his brother; “tell her…
I don’t know… don’t let her go away like this!”
“I’ll come to you again at nightfall,” said Alyosha, and he ran
after Katya. He overtook her outside the hospital grounds. She walking
fast, but as soon as Alyosha caught her up she said quickly:
“No, before that woman I can’t punish myself! I asked her
forgiveness because I wanted to punish myself to the bitter end. She
would not forgive me…. I like her for that!” she added, in an
unnatural voice, and her eyes flashed with fierce resentment.
“My brother did not expect this in the least,” muttered Alyosha.
“He was sure she would not come-”
“No doubt. Let us leave that,” she snapped. “Listen: I can’t go
with you to the funeral now. I’ve sent them flowers. I think they
still have money. If necessary, tell them I’ll never abandon
them…. Now leave me, leave me, please. You are late as it is-the
bells are ringing for the service…. Leave me, please!”
Ilusha’s Funeral. The Speech at the Stone
HE really was late. They had waited for him and had already
decided to bear the pretty flower-decked little coffin to the church
without him. It was the coffin of poor little Ilusha. He had died
two days after Mitya was sentenced. At the gate of the house Alyosha
was met by the shouts of the boys, Ilusha’s schoolfellows. They had
all been impatiently expecting him and were glad that he had come at
last. There were about twelve of them, they all had their
school-bags or satchels on their shoulders. “Father will cry, be
with father,” Ilusha had told them as he lay dying, and the boys
remembered it. Kolya Krassotkin was the foremost of them.
“How glad I am you’ve come, Karamazov!” he cried, holding out
his hand to Alyosha. “It’s awful here. It’s really horrible to see it.
Snegiryov is not drunk, we know for a fact he’s had nothing to drink
to-day, but he seems as if he were drunk… I am always manly, but
this is awful. Karamazov, if I am not keeping you, one question before
you go in?”
“What is it, Kolya?” said Alyosha.
“Is your brother innocent or guilty? Was it he killed your
father or was it the valet? As you say, so it will be. I haven’t slept
for the last four nights for thinking of it.”
“The valet killed him, my brother is innocent,” answered Alyosha.
“That’s what I said,” cried Smurov.
“So he will perish an innocent victim!” exclaimed Kolya; “though
he is ruined he is happy! I could envy him!”
“What do you mean? How can you? Why?” cried Alyosha surprised.
“Oh, if I, too, could sacrifice myself some day for truth!” said
Kolya with enthusiasm.
“But not in such a cause, not with such disgrace and such horrer!”
said Alyosha.
“Of course… I should like to die for all humanity, and as for
disgrace, I don’t care about that-our names may perish. I respect
your brother!”
“And so do I!” the boy, who had once declared that he knew who had
founded Troy, cried suddenly and unexpectedly, and he blushed up to
his ears like a peony as he had done on that occasion.
Alyosha went into the room. Ilusha lay with his hands folded and
his eyes closed in a blue coffin with a white frill round it. His thin
face was hardly changed at all, and strange to say there was no
smell of decay from the corpse. The expression of his face was serious
and, as it were, thoughtful. His hands, crossed over his breast,
looked particularly beautiful, as though chiselled in marble. There
were flowers in his hands and the coffin, with flowers, which had been
sent early in the morning by Lise Hohlakov. But there were flowers too
from Katerina Ivanovna, and when Alyosha opened the door, the
captain had a bunch in his trembling hands and was strewing them again
over his dear boy. He scarcely glanced at Alyosha when he came in, and
he would not look at anyone, even at his crazy weeping wife,
“mamma,” who kept trying to stand on her crippled legs to get a nearer
look at her dead boy. Nina had been pushed in her chair by the boys
close up to the coffin. She sat with her head pressed to it and she
too was no doubt quietly weeping. Snegiryov’s face looked eager, yet
bewildered and exasperated. There was something crazy about his
gestures and the words that broke from him. “Old man, dear old man!”
he exclaimed every minute, gazing at Ilusha. It was his habit to
call Ilusha “old man,” as a term of affection when he was alive.
“Father, give me a flower, too; take that white one out of his
hand and give it me,” the crazy mother begged, whimpering. Either
because the little white rose in Ilusha’s hand had caught her fancy or
that she wanted one from his hand to keep in memory of him, she
moved restlessly, stretching out her hands for the flower.
“I won’t give it to anyone, I won’t give you anything,”
Snegiryov cried callously. “They are his flowers, not yours!
Everything is his, nothing is yours!”
“Father, give mother a flower!” said Nina, lifting her face wet
with tears.
“I won’t give away anything and to her less than anyone! She
didn’t love Ilusha. She took away his little cannon and he gave it
to her,” the captain broke into loud sobs at the thought of how Ilusha
had given up his cannon to his mother. The poor, crazy creature was
bathed in noiseless tears, hiding her face in her hands.
The boys, seeing that the father would not leave the coffin and
that it was time to carry it out, stood round it in a close circle and
began to lift it up.
“I don’t want him to be buried in the churchyard,” Snegiryov
wailed suddenly; “I’ll bury him by the stone, by our stone! Ilusha
told me to. I won’t let him be carried out!” He had been saying for
the last three days that he would bury him by the stone, but
Alyosha, Krassotkin, the landlady, her sister and all the boys
interfered.
“What an idea, bury him by an unholy stone, as though he had
hanged himself!” the old landlady said sternly. “There in the
churchyard the ground has been crossed. He’ll be prayed for there. One
can hear the singing in church and the deacon reads so plainly and
verbally that it will reach him every time just as though it were read
over his grave.”
At last the captain made a gesture of despair as though to say,
“Take him where you will.” The boys raised the coffin, but as they
passed the mother, they stopped for a moment and lowered it that she
might say good-bye to Ilusha. But on seeing that precious little face,
which for the last three days she had only looked at from a
distance, she trembled all over and her grey head began twitching
spasmodically over the coffin.
“Mother, make the sign of the cross over him, give him your
blessing, kiss him,” Nina cried to her. But her head still twitched
like an automaton and with a face contorted with bitter grief she
began, without a word, beating her breast with her fist. They
carried the coffin past her. Nina pressed her lips to her brother’s
for the last time as they bore the coffin by her. As Alyosha went
out of the house he begged the landlady to look after those who were
left behind, but she interrupted him before he had finished.
“To be sure, I’ll stay with them, we are Christians, too.” The old
woman wept as she said it.
They had not far to carry the coffin to the church, not more
than three hundred paces. It was a still, clear day, with a slight
frost. The church bells were still ringing. Snegiryov ran fussing
and distracted after the coffin, in his short old summer overcoat,
with his head bare and his soft, old, wide-brimmed hat in his hand. He
seemed in a state of bewildered anxiety. At one minute he stretched
out his hand to support the head of the coffin and only hindered the
bearers, at another he ran alongside and tried to find a place for
himself there. A flower fell on the snow and he rushed to pick it up
as though everything in the world depended on the loss of that flower.
“And the crust of bread, we’ve forgotten the crust!” he cried
suddenly in dismay. But the boys reminded him at once that he had
taken the crust of bread already and that it was in his pocket. He
instantly pulled
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