IX. They Take Mitya Away

When the record had been signed, Nikolai Parfenovich solemnly turned to the accused and read him the “Resolution,” which stated that in such-and-such a year, on such-and-such a day, in such-and-such a place, the court investigator of such-and-such a district court, having questioned so-and-so (that is, Mitya) as the accused in such-and-such and such-and-such (all the charges were carefully written out), and taking into consideration that the accused, while not acknowledging himself guilty of the crimes imputed to him, had presented nothing in his own justification, whereas the witnesses (so-and-so) and the circumstances (such-and-such) fully convicted him, being guided by such-and-such and such-and-such articles of the “Code of Punishments,” etc., had resolved: in order to deprive so-and-so (Mitya) of the means of evading investigation and trial, to confine him in such-and-such a prison fortress, of which the accused was to be informed, and a copy of this resolution was to be communicated to the assistant prosecutor, etc., etc. In a word, Mitya was informed that from this minute on he was a prisoner and that he would now be taken to town, where he would be confined in a certain very unpleasant place. Mitya, having listened attentively, merely shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, gentlemen, I don’t blame you, I am ready… I understand that nothing else is left for you.”

Nikolai Parfenovich explained to him gently that he would be taken there at once by the rural police officer Mavriky Mavrikievich, who happened to be here just now…

“Wait,” Mitya suddenly interrupted, and with a sort of irrepressible feeling he spoke, addressing everyone in the room. “Gentlemen, we are all cruel, we are all monsters, we all make people weep, mothers and nursing babies, but of all of them—let it be settled so now—of all of them I am the vilest reptile! So be it! Every day of my life, beating my breast, I promised to reform, and every day I did the same filthy things. I understand now that for such as I am a blow is needed, a blow of fate, to catch him as with a lasso and truss him up by an outside force. Never, never would I have risen of myself! But the thunder has struck. I accept the torment of the accusation and of my public disgrace, I want to suffer and by suffering I shall be purified! Why, perhaps I shall be purified, gentlemen, eh? But hear me, all the same, one last time: my father’s blood is not on me! I accept my punishment not for having killed him, but for having wanted to kill him, and perhaps I really would have killed him… But all the same I intend to fight you, and I announce it to you. I will fight you to the very last end, and then God will decide! Farewell, gentlemen, don’t be angry that I shouted at you during the questioning; oh, I was still so stupid then… In a minute I am a prisoner, and now, for the last time, Dmitri Karamazov, as a man still free, holds out his hand to you. In bidding you farewell, I bid farewell to people!…”

His voice trembled, and he really did start to hold out his hand, but Nikolai Parfenovich, who was standing closest of all to him, somehow suddenly, with an almost convulsive sort of gesture, hid his hands behind his back. Mitya instantly noticed it and gave a start. He at once dropped the hand he had held out.

“The investigation is not yet concluded,” Nikolai Parfenovich began to babble, somewhat embarrassed. “We shall go on with it in town, and I, of course, for my part am ready to wish you every success… toward your acquittal… As for you yourself, Dmitri Fyodorovich, I have always been inclined to consider you a man, so to speak, more unfortunate than guilty… All of us here, if only I may make so bold as to speak for everyone, all of us are ready to recognize you as a young man noble at bottom, but, alas! carried away by certain passions to a somewhat excessive degree…”

By the end of the speech Nikolai Parfenovich’s small figure expressed the most complete dignity of office. It suddenly flashed through Mitya’s mind that this “boy” was about to take him by the arm, lead him off into another corner, and there resume with him their recent conversation about “girls.” But what quite irrelevant thoughts, having nothing to do with the matter, do not flash through the mind at times, even of a criminal being led to execution.

“Gentlemen, you are kind, you are humane—may I see her, to say goodbye for the last time?” Mitya asked.

“Without a doubt, but in view of… in a word, now it cannot be otherwise than in the presence of…”

“Be present, then, if you like!”

Grushenka was brought in, but the farewell was short, of few words, and did not satisfy Nikolai Parfenovich. Grushenka bowed low to Mitya.

“I told you I’m yours, and I will be yours, I’ll go with you forever, wherever they send you. Farewell, you who have ruined yourself, guiltless as you are!”

Her lips quivered, tears flowed from her eyes.

“Forgive me, Grusha, for my love, for having ruined you too with my love!”

Mitya wanted to say something else, but suddenly broke off himself and went out. People at once surrounded him, never taking their eyes off him. Down below at the little porch, to which he had rolled up with such a thunder yesterday in Andrei’s troika, two carts stood ready. Mavriky Mavrikievich, a squat, thickset man with a puffy face, was irritated by something, by some disorder that had suddenly occurred; he was angry and shouting. He invited Mitya somehow much too sternly to climb into the cart. “Back when I stood him drinks in the tavern, the fellow had a different face altogether,” thought Mitya, climbing in. Trifon Borisovich came down from the porch too. A crowd had gathered at the gates, peasants, women, coachmen, all staring at Mitya.

“Farewell, people of God!” Mitya suddenly shouted to them from the cart.

“Forgive us too,” two or three voices were heard.

“Farewell to you too, Trifon Borisych!”

But Trifon Borisych did not even turn around; perhaps he was very busy indeed. He too was shouting something and bustling about. It turned out that not everything was in order yet with the second cart, in which two village constables were to accompany Mavriky Mavrikievich. The wretched peasant who had been assigned to drive the second troika was pulling on his shabby coat and stoutly arguing that it wasn’t he who should go, but Akim. But Akim was nowhere about; someone ran for him; the wretched peasant insisted and begged them to wait.

“That’s our common folk for you, Mavriky Mavrikievich, no shame at all!” Trifon Borisych exclaimed. “The day before yesterday Akim gave you a quarter-ruble, you drank it up, and now you’re shouting. I only marvel at your kindness with our vile common folk, Mavriky Mavrikievich, that’s the one thing I’ll say!”

“But what do we need a second troika for?” Mitya started to intervene. “Let’s go with one, Mavriky Mavrikich, I won’t mutiny, don’t worry, I won’t run away from you, what’s the escort for?”

“And kindly learn, sir, how to speak to me, if you haven’t been taught yet; I am not someone you say the familiar you to, kindly don’t go using it with me, sir, and save your advice for another time…” Mavriky Mavrikievich suddenly snapped at Mitya fiercely, as if glad to vent his temper.

Mitya fell silent. He flushed all over. A moment later he suddenly felt very cold. The rain had stopped, but the murky sky was still all covered with clouds, and a sharp wind blew straight in his face. “Have I got a chill, or what?” thought Mitya, twitching his shoulders. At last Mavriky Mavrikievich too climbed into the cart, settled himself heavily, broadly, and, as if without noticing, squeezed Mitya hard. True, he was out of sorts, and he very much disliked the errand entrusted to him.

“Farewell, Trifon Borisych!” Mitya shouted again, and he felt himself that he had shouted it now not out of good nature, but out of spite, against his will. But Trifon Borisych stood proudly, both hands clasped behind his back and staring straight at Mitya; he looked sternly and angrily and gave Mitya no answer.

“Goodbye, Dmitri Fyodorovich, goodbye!” the voice of Kalganov was suddenly heard; he had suddenly popped out from somewhere. He ran up to the cart and reached out his hand to Mitya. He was without his cap. Mitya just managed to seize and shake his hand.

“Farewell, dear man, I won’t forget your generosity!” he exclaimed warmly. But the cart moved off, and their hands parted. The little bell began to ring—they took Mitya away.

And Kalganov ran into the entryway, sat down in a corner, bent his head, covered his face with his hands, and began to cry; he sat like that for a long time and cried—cried as though he were still a little boy and not already a young man of twenty. Oh, he believed in Mitya’s guilt almost completely! “What kind of people are they, then, what kind of people can there be after this!” he exclaimed incoherently, in bitter dejection, almost in despair. He did not even want to live in the world at that moment. “Is it worth it, is it worth it!” the grieved youth exclaimed.