Book 8, Chapter 1 of the Brothers Karamazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Geeson. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Tastayevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. Book 8, Mitya. Chapter 1, Kuzma Samsonov. But Dmitri, to whom Grushenko, flying away to a new life, had left her last greetings, bidding him remember the hour of her love forever, knew nothing of what had happened to her, and was at that moment in a condition of feverish agitation and activity. For the last two days he had been in such an inconceivable state of mind that he might easily have fallen ill with brain fever, as he set himself afterwards. Alyosha had not been able to find him the morning before, and Ivan had not succeeded in meeting him at the tavern on the same day. The people at his lodgings by his orders concealed his movements. He had spent those two days literally rushing in all directions, struggling with his destiny and trying to save himself, as he expressed it himself afterwards. For some hours he even made a dash out of the town on urgent business, terrible as it was to him to lose sight of Grushenko for a moment. All this was explained afterwards in detail and confirmed by documentary evidence. But for the present, we will only note the most essential incidents of those two terrible days immediately preceding the awful catastrophe that broke so suddenly upon him. Although Grushenko had, it is true, loved him for an hour, genuinely and sincerely, yet she tortured him, sometimes cruelly and mercilessly. The worst of it was that he could never tell what she meant to do. To prevail upon her by force or kindness was also impossible. She would yield to nothing.  He knew that well already. He suspected quite correctly that she too was passing through an inward struggle and was in a state of extraordinary indecision, that she was making up her mind to something and unable to determine upon it. And so not without good reason, he divined with a sinking heart that at the moment she must simply hate him and his passion. And so perhaps it was, but what was distressing Grushenko he did not understand. For him the whole tormenting question lay between him and Fyodor Pavlovich. Here we must note, by the way, one certain fact. He was firmly persuaded that Fyodor Pavlovich would offer or perhaps had offered Grushenko lawful wedlock, and did not for a moment believe that the old voluptury hoped to gain his object for three thousand rubles. Mitya had reached this conclusion from his knowledge of Grushenko and her character. That was how it was that he could believe at times that all Grushenko's uneasiness rose not from knowing which of them to choose, which was most to her advantage. Strange to say, during those days it never occurred to him to think of the approaching return of the officer, that is of the man who had been such a fatal influence in Grushenko's life and whose arrival she was expecting with such emotion and dread. It is true that of late Grushenko had been very silent about it. Yet he was perfectly aware of a letter she had received a month ago from her seducer, and had heard of it from her own lips. He partly knew too what the letter contained. In a moment of spite Grushenko had shown him that letter, but to her astonishment he attached hardly any consequence to it. It would be hard to say why this was. As swayed down by all the hideous horror of his struggle with his own father for this woman, he was incapable of imagining any danger more terrible at any rate for the time. He simply did not believe in a suitor who suddenly turned up again after five years' disappearance, still less in his speedy arrival. Moreover, in the officer's first letter which had been shown to the media, the possibility of his new rival's visit was very vaguely suggested. The letter was very indefinite, high-flown and full of sentimentality. It must be noted that Grushenko had concealed from him the last lines of the letter in which his return was alluded to more definitely. He had, besides noticed at that moment, he remembered afterwards, a certain involuntary proud contempt for this missive from Siberia on Grushenko's face. Grushenko told him nothing of what had passed later between her and this rival, so that by degrees he had completely forgotten the officer's existence. He felt that whatever might come later, whatever turn things might take, his final conflict with Fyodor Pavlovich was close upon him and must be decided before anything else. With a sinking heart, he was expecting every moment Grushenko's decision, always believing that it would come suddenly on the impulse of the moment. All of a sudden, she would say to him, take me, I'm yours forever, and it would be all over. Then he would bear her away at once, as far, far away as possible, to the farthest end of Russia, if not of the earth. Then he would marry her and settle down with her incognito, so that no one would know anything about them, there, here, or anywhere. Then, oh, then, a new life would begin at once. Of this different, reformed, and virtuous life, it must, it must be virtuous. He dreamed feverishly at every moment. He thirsted for that reformation and renewal, the filthy mirath in which he had sunk of his own free will, was too revolting to him. And like very many men in such cases, he put faith above all in change of place. If only it were not for these people, if only it were not for these circumstances, if only he could fly away from this accursed place, he would be altogether regenerated, would enter on a new path. That was what he believed in and what he was yearning for. But all this could only be on condition of the first, the happy solution of the question. There was another possibility, a different and awful ending. Suddenly, she might say to him, go away. I have just come to terms with Fyodor Pavlovich. I'm going to marry him and don't want you. And then, but then. But Mitya did not know what would happen then. Up to the last hour, he didn't know. That must be said to his credit. He had no definite intentions, had planned no crime. He was simply watching and spying in agony while he prepared himself for the first happy solution of his destiny. He drove away any other idea, in fact. But for that ending, a quite different anxiety arose, a new incidental, but yet fatal and insoluble difficulty presented itself. If she were to say to him, I'm yours, take me away. How could he take her away? Where had he the means, the money to do it? It was just at this time that all sources of revenue from Fyodor Pavlovich, dolls which had gone on without interruption for so many years, ceased. Grushanka had money, of course. But with regard to this, Mitya suddenly evinced extraordinary pride. He wanted to carry her away and begin the new life with her himself, at his own expense, not at hers. He could not conceive of taking her money, and the very idea caused him a pang of intense repulsion. I won't enlarge on this fact or analyze it here, but confine myself to remarking that this was his attitude at the moment. All this may have arisen indirectly and unconsciously from the secret stings of his conscience for the money of Katerina Ivanovna that he had dishonestly appropriated. I've been a scoundrel to one of them, and I shall be a scoundrel again to the other directly, was his feeling then, as he explained after. And when Grushanka knows she won't care for such a scoundrel, where then was he to get the means? Where was he to get the fateful money? Without it, all would be lost, and nothing could be done. And only because I hadn't the money, or the shame of it. To anticipate things, he did perhaps know where to get the money, knew perhaps where it lay at that moment. I will say no more of this here, as it will all be clear later. But his chief trouble, I must explain, however obscurely, lay in the fact that to have that sum he knew of, to have the right to take it, he must first restore Katerina Ivanovna's 3,000. If not, I'm a common pickpocket, I'm a scoundrel, and I don't want to begin a new life as a scoundrel, Mitya decided. And so he made up his mind to move heaven and earth to return Katerina Ivanovna, that 3,000, and that, first of all. The final stage of this decision, so to say, had been reached only during the last hours, that is, after his last interview with Alyosha, two days before on the High Road, on the evening when Grushenka had insulted Katerina Ivanovna. And Mitya, after hearing Alyosha's account of it, had admitted that he was a scoundrel and told him to tell Katerina Ivanovna so, if it could be of any comfort to her. After parting from his brother on that night, he had felt in his frenzy that it would be better to murder and rob someone than fail to pay my debt to Katya. I'd rather everyone thought me a robber and a murderer. I'd rather go to Siberia than that Katya should have the right to say that I deceived her and stole her money, and used her money to run away with Grushenka and begin a new life. That I can't do. So Mitya decided, grinding his teeth. And he might well fancy at times that his brain would give way. But meanwhile he went on struggling. Strange to say, though one would have supposed there was nothing left for him but despair, for what chance had he with nothing in the world to raise such a sum. Yet to the very end he persisted in hoping that he would get that 3,000, that the money would somehow come to him of itself, as though it might drop from heaven. That is just how it is with people who, like Dimitri, have never had anything to do with money, except to squander what has come to them by inheritance without any effort of their own, and have no notion how money is obtained. A whirl of the most fantastic notions took possession of his brain immediately after he had parted with Alyosha two days before, and threw his thoughts into a tangle of confusion. This is how it was he pitched first on a perfectly wild enterprise. And perhaps to men of that kind in such circumstances, the most impossible, fantastic schemes occur first and seem most practical. He suddenly determined to go to Samsonov, the merchant who was Grushenko's protector, and to propose a scheme to him, and by means of it to obtain from him at once the whole sum required. Of the commercial value of his scheme he had no doubt, not the slightest, and was only uncertain how Samsonov would look upon his freak, supposing he were to consider it from any but the commercial point of view. Though Mitya knew the merchant by sight, he was not acquainted with him, and had never spoken a word to him. But for some unknown reason, he had long entertained the conviction that the old reprobate, who was lying at death's door, would perhaps not at all object now to Grushenko's securing a respectable position, and marrying a man to be depended upon. And he believed not only that he would not object, but that this was what he desired, and if opportunity arose, that he would be ready to help. From some rumour, or perhaps from some stray word of Grushenko's, he had gathered further that the old man would perhaps prefer him to Fyodor Pavlovich for Grushenko. Possibly many of the readers of my novel will feel that in reckoning on such assistance, and being ready to take his bride, so to speak, from the hands of her protector, Dimitri showed great coarseness and want of delicacy. I will only observe that Mitya looked upon Grushenko's past as something completely over. He looked on that past with infinite pity, and resolved with all the fervour of his passion that when once Grushenko told him she loved him and would marry him, it would mean the beginning of a new Grushenko and a new Dimitri, free from every vice. They would forgive one another and would begin their lives afresh. As for Kuzma Samsonov, Dimitri looked upon him as a man who had exercised a fateful influence in that remote past of Grushenko's, though she had never loved him, and who was now himself a thing of the past completely done with, and so to say, non-existent. Besides, Mitya hardly looked upon him as a man at all, for it was known to everyone in the town that he was only a shattered wreck whose relations with Grushenko had changed their character, and were now simply paternal, and that this had been so for a long time. In any case, there was much simplicity on Mitya's part in all this, for in spite of all his vices, he was a very simple-hearted man. It was an instance of this simplicity that Mitya was seriously persuaded that, being on the eve of his departure for the next world, old Kuzma must sincerely repent of his past relations with Grushenko, and that she had no more devoted friend and protector in the world than this now harmless old man. After his conversation with Alyosha at the crossroads, he hardly slept all night, and at 10 o'clock next morning he was at the house of Samsonov and telling the servants to announce him. It was a very large and gloomy old house of two stories with a lodge and outhouses. In the lower story lived Samsonov's two married sons with their families, his old sister and his unmarried daughter. In the lodge lived two of his clerks, one of whom also had a large family. Both the lodge and the lower story were overcrowded, but the old man kept the upper floor to himself, and would not even let the daughter live there with him, though she waited upon him. And in spite of her asthma was obliged at certain fixed hours, and at any time he might call her, to run upstairs to him from below. This upper floor contained a number of large rooms kept purely for show, furnished in the old fashioned merchant's style, with long monotonous rows of clumsy mahogany chairs along the walls, with glass chandeliers and the shades and gloomy mirrors on the walls. All these rooms were entirely empty and unused, for the old man kept to one room a small, remote bedroom where he was waited upon by an old servant with a kerchief on her head, and by a lad who used to sit on the locker in the passage. Owing to his swollen legs the old man could hardly walk at all, and was only rarely lifted from his leather armchair, when the old woman supporting him led him up and down the room once or twice. He was morose and taciturn, even with this old woman. When he was informed of the arrival of the captain, he at once refused to see him, but Meteor persisted and sent his name up again. Some son off questioned the lad minutely, what he looked like, whether he was drunk, was he going to make a row. The answer he received was that he was sober but wouldn't go away. The old man again refused to see him. Then Meteor, who had foreseen this and purposely brought pencil and paper with him, wrote clearly on the piece of paper the words, on most important business closely concerning Agrafeina Alexandrovna, and sent it up to the old man. After thinking a little some son off told the lad to take the visitor to the drawing room, and sent the old woman downstairs with a summons to his younger son to come upstairs to him at once. This younger son, a man of over six forts and of exceptional physical strength, who was closely shaven and dressed in the European style, though his father still wore a captain and a beard, came at once without a comment. All the family trembled before the father. The old man had sent for this giant not because he was afraid of the captain, he was by no means of a timorous temper, but in order to have a witness in case of any emergency. Supported by his son and the servant lad, he waddled at last into the drawing room. It may be assumed that he felt considerable curiosity. The drawing room in which Meteor was awaiting him was a vast dreary room that laid a weight of depression on the heart. It had a double row of windows, a gallery, marbled walls, and three immense chandeliers with glass lusters covered with shades. Meteor was sitting on a little chair at the entrance, awaiting his fate with nervous impatience. When the old man appeared at the opposite door, seventy feet away, Meteor jumped up at once, and with his long military stride walked to meet him. Meteor was well dressed in a frock coat buttoned up with a round hat and black gloves in his hands, just as he had been three days before at the elders at the family meeting with his father and brothers. The old man waited for him, standing dignified and unbending, and Meteor felt at once that he looked him through and through as he advanced.  His lower lip, which had always been thick, hung down now, looking like a bun. He bowed to his guest in dignified silence, motioned him to a low chair by the sofa, and leaning on his son's arm, he began lowering himself onto the sofa opposite, groaning painfully, so that Meteor, seeing his painful exertions, immediately felt remorseful and sensitively conscious of his insignificance in the presence of the dignified person he had ventured to disturb. What is it you want of me, sir? said the old man, deliberately, distinctly, severely, but courteously, when he was at last seated. Meteor started, leapt up, but sat down again. Then he began at once speaking with loud, nervous haste, gesticulating and in a positive frenzy. He was unmistakably a man driven into a corner on the brink of ruin, catching at the last straw, ready to sink if he failed. Old Samsonov probably grasped all this in an instant, though his face remained cold and immovable as a statue. Most honoured, sir, Kuzma Kuzmich. You have no doubt heard more than once of my disputes with my father, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, who robbed me of my inheritance from my mother, seeing the whole town is gossiping about it, for here everyone's gossiping of what they shouldn't. And beside it might have reached you through Grushenka, I beg your pardon, through Agrafeina Alexandrovna, Agrafeina Alexandrovna, the lady of whom I have the highest respect and esteem. So Meteor began and broke down at the first sentence. We will not reproduce his speech word for word, but will only summarise the gist of it. Three months ago, he said, he had of express intention. Meteor purposely used these words instead of intentionally consulted a lawyer in the chief town of the province. A distinguished lawyer, Kuzma Kuzmich, Pavel Pavlovich Korneyplodov, you have perhaps heard of him. A man of vast intellect, the mind of a statesman. He knows you too, spoke of you in the highest terms. Meteor broke down again, but these breaks did not deter him. He leapt instantly over the gaps and struggled on and on. This Korneyplodov, after questioning him minutely and inspecting the documents he was able to bring him, Meteor alluded somewhat vaguely to these documents and slurred over the subject with special haste. Reported that they certainly might take proceedings concerning the village of Chermashnya, which ought, he said, to have come to him, Meteor, from his mother. And so Czech makes the old villain his father. Because every door was not closed and justice might still find a loophole. In fact, he might reckon on an additional sum of six or even 7,000 rubles from Fyodor Pavlovich. As Chermashnya was worth at least 25,000, he might say, 28,000, in fact. 30, 30 Kuzma Kuzmich. And would you believe it? I didn't get 17 from that heartless man. So he, Meteor, had thrown the business up for the time, knowing nothing about the law.  Here Meteor went and drift again, and again took a flying leap forward. So will not you, excellent and honoured Kuzma Kuzmich, be willing to take up all my claims against that unnatural monster and pay me a sum down of only 3,000? You see, you cannot in any case lose over it. On my honour, my honour, I swear that. Quite the contrary, you may make six or 7,000 instead of three. Above all, he wanted this concluded that very day. I'll do the business with you at a notaris or whatever it is. In fact, I'm ready to do anything. I'll hand over all the deeds, whatever you want, sign anything, and we could draw up the agreement at once. And if it were possible, if it were only possible, that very morning, you could pay me that 3,000, for there isn't a capitalist in this town to compare with you. And so would save me from, save me in fact. For a good I might say an honourable action. For I cherish the most honourable feelings for a certain person whom you know well, and care for as a father. I would not have come indeed if it had not been as a father. And indeed, it's a struggle of three in this business, for it's fate. That's a fearful thing, Kuzma Kuzmich. A tragedy, Kuzma Kuzmich, a tragedy. And as you've dropped out long ago, it's a tug of war between two. I'm expressing it awkwardly perhaps, but I'm not a literary man. You see, I'm on one side, and that monster on the other. So you must choose, it's either I or the monster. It all lies in your hands. The fate of three lives and the happiness of two. Excuse me, I'm making a mess of it, but you understand. I see from your venerable eyes that you understand. And if you don't understand, I'm done for, so you see. Meteor broke off his clumsy speech with that, so you see. And jumping up from his seat, awaited the answer to his foolish proposal.  How strange it is on the way here it seemed all right, and now it's nothing but nonsense. The idea suddenly dawned on his despairing mind. All the while he'd been talking, the old man sat motionless, watching him with an icy expression in his eyes. After keeping him for a moment in suspense, Kuzma Kuzmich pronounced at last in the most positive and chilling tone. Excuse me, we don't undertake such business. Meteor suddenly felt his legs growing weak under him. What am I to do now, Kuzma Kuzmich, he muttered with a pale smile. I suppose it's all up with me. What do you think? Excuse me. Meteor remained standing, staring motionless. He suddenly noticed a movement in the old man's face. He started. You see, sir, business of that sort's not in our line, said the old man slowly. There's the court and the lawyers. It's a perfect misery. But if you like, there is a man here you might apply to. Good heavens, who is it? You're my salvation, Kuzma Kuzmich, faltered Meteor. He doesn't live here, and he's not here just now. He is a peasant. He does business in timber. His name is Iagave. He's been haggling with Fyodor Pavlovich for the last year over your cops at Chermashnya. They can't agree on the price. Maybe you've heard. Now he's come back again and is staying with the priest at Ilyinskoye, about 12 verts from the Volovia station. He wrote to me, too, about the business of the cops asking my advice. Fyodor Pavlovich means to go and see him himself. So if you were to be beforehand with Fyodor Pavlovich and to make Iagave the offer you've made me, he might possibly. A brilliant idea, Meteor interrupted ecstatically. He's the very man. It would just suit him. He's haggling with him for it, being asked too much. And here he would have all the documents entitling him to the property itself. Ha, ha, ha! And Meteor suddenly went off into his short, and wouldn't laugh, startling Samsonov. How can I thank you, Kuzma Kuzmich, cried Meteor effusively. Don't mention it, said Samsonov, inclining his head. But you don't know, you've saved me. Oh, it was a true presentiment brought me to you. So now to this priest. No need of thanks. I'll make haste there and fly there. I'm afraid I've overtaxed your strength. I shall never forget it. It's a Russian, says that, Kuzma Kuzmich, Russian. To be sure, Meteor seized his hand to press it, but there was a malignant gleam in the old man's eye. Meteor drew back his hand, but at once blamed himself for his mistrustfulness. It's because he's tired, he thought.  You understand that it's for her, he cried, his voice ringing through the room. He bowed, turned sharply round, and with the same long stride walked to the door without looking back. He was trembling with delight. Everything was on the verge of ruin, and my guardian angel saved me, was the thought in his mind. And if such a businessman as Samsonov, the most worthy old man and what dignity, had suggested this course, then, when success was assured, he would fly off immediately. I will be back before night. I should be back at night, and the thing is done. Could the old man have been laughing at me? exclaimed Meteor as he strode towards his lodging. He could, of course, imagine nothing, but that the advice was practical from such a businessman, with an understanding of the business, with an understanding of this Ljagave. Curious, sir, name. Or the old man was laughing at him. Alas, the second alternative was the correct one. Long afterwards, when the catastrophe had happened, old Samsonov himself confessed, laughing that he had made a fool of the captain. He was a cold, spiteful, and sarcastic man, liable to violent antipathies. Whether it was the captain's excited face, or the foolish conviction of the rake and spendthrift, that he, Samsonov, could be taken in by such a cock-and-bull story as his scheme, or his jealousy of Grushenko, in whose nameless scape-grace had rushed in on him with such a tale to get money, which worked on the old man I can't tell. But at the instant when Meteor stood before him, feeling his legs grow weak under him, and frantically exclaiming that he was ruined, at that moment the old man looked at him with intense spite and resolved to make a laughingstock of him. When Meteor had gone, Kuzma Kuznich, white with rage, turned to his son and bait him sea to it that that beggar be never seen again, and never admitted even into the yard, or else he did not utter his threat. But even his son, who often saw him enraged, trembled with fear. For a whole hour afterwards the old man was shaking with anger, and by evening he was worse and sent for the doctor. End of chapter one of book eight, recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Book eight, chapter two of the Brothers Karamazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Julie Bynum. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Book eight, chapter two by Gavi. So he must drive at full speed, and he had not the money for horses. He had 40 co-pecs, and that was all, all that was left after so many years of prosperity. But he had at home an old silver watch which had long ceased to go. He snatched it up and carried it to a Jewish watchmaker who had a shop in the marketplace. The Jew gave him six rubles for it. And I didn't expect that, cried Mitya ecstatically. He was still in a state of ecstasy. He seized his six rubles and ran home. At home he borrowed three rubles from the people of the house, who loved him so much that they were pleased to give it him, though it was all they had. Mitya, in his excitement, told them on the spot that his fate would be decided that day, and he described in desperate haste the whole scene he had put before Samsonov, the latter's decision, his own hopes for the future, and so on. These people had been told many of their lodger's secrets before, and so looked upon him as a gentleman who was not at all proud, and almost one of themselves. Having thus collected nine rubles, Mitya sent for posting horses to take him to the Volovia station. This was how the fact came to be remembered and established that at midday, on the day before the event, Mitya had not a farthing, and that he had sold his watch to get money and had borrowed three rubles from his landlord, all in the presence of witnesses. I note this fact. Later on it will be apparent why I do so. Though he was radiant with the joyful anticipation that he would at last solve all his difficulties, yet, as he drew near Volovia station, he trembled at the thought of what Grushenko might be doing in his absence. This was why he had gone off without telling her, and why he left orders with his landlady not to let out where he had gone if anyone came to inquire for him. I must, I must get back tonight, he repeated as he was jolted along in the cart, and I dare say I shall have to bring this Ligavi back here to draw up the deed. So mused Mitya with a throbbing heart, but alas, his dreams were not faded to be carried out. To begin with, he was late, taking a shortcut from a Volovia station, which turned out to be 18 verses instead of 12. Secondly, he did not find the priest at home in Iliaskoi, he had gone off to a neighboring village. While Mitya setting off there with the same exhausted horses was looking for him, it was almost dark. The priest, a shy and amiable-looking little man, informed him at once that though Ligavi had been staying with him at first, he was now at Suhoi Posiolok, that he was staying the night in the Forester's Cottage as he was buying timber there too. At Mitya's urgent request that he would take him to Ligavi at once and by so doing save him, so to speak, the priest agreed after some demure to conduct him to Suhoi Posiolok. His curiosity was obviously aroused. But, unluckily, he advised there going on foot, as it would not be much over-aversed. Mitya, of course, agreed and marched off with his yardlong strides so that the poor priest almost ran after him. He was a very cautious man, though not old. Mitya at once began talking to him too of his plans, nervously and excitedly asking advice in regard to Ligavi and talking all the way. The priest listened attentively but gave little advice. He turned off Mitya's questions with, I don't know, ah, I can't say. How can I tell? And so on. When Mitya began to speak of his quarrel with his father over his inheritance, the priest was positively alarmed as he was in some way dependent on Fyodor Pavlovich. He inquired, however, with surprise why he called the peasant trader Gorskin Ligavi and obligingly explained to Mitya that though the man's name really was Ligavi, he was never called so, as he would be grueously offended at the name and that he must be sure to call him Gorskin or you'll do nothing with him. He won't even listen to you, said the priest in conclusion. Mitya was somewhat surprised for a moment and explained that that was what Samsonov had called him. On hearing this fact, the priest dropped the subject, though he would have done well to put into words his doubt whether if Samsonov had sent him to that peasant calling him Ligavi, there was not something wrong about it and he was turning him into ridicule. But Mitya had no time to pause over such trifles. He hurried, striding along and only when he reached Suhupasiala did he realize that he had come not one burst nor one and a half, but at least three. This annoyed him, but he controlled himself. They went into the hut. The forester lived in one half of the hut and Gorskin was lodging in the other, the better room the other side of the passage. They went into that room and lighted a tallow candle. The hut was extremely overheated. On the table there was a samovar that had gone out, a tray with cups, an empty rum bottle, a bottle of vodka partly full, and some half-eaten crusts of wheat and bread. The visitor himself lay stretched at full length on the bench with his coat crushed up under his head for a pillow snoring heavily. Mitya stood in perplexity. Of course I must wake him. My business is too important. I've come in such haste. I'm in a hurry to get back today, he said, in great agitation. But the priest and the forester stood in silence, not giving their opinion. Mitya went up and began trying to wake him himself. He tried vigorously, but the sleeper did not wake. He's drunk, Mitya decided. Good Lord, what am I to do? What am I to do? And terribly impatient he began pulling him by the arms by the legs, shaking his head, lifting him up and making him sit on the bench. Yet after prolonged exertions he could only succeed in getting the drunken man to utter absurd grunts and violent but inarticulate oaths. No, you'd better wait a little, the priest pronounced at last, for he's obviously not in a fit state. He's been drinking the whole day, the forester chimed in. Good heavens, cried Mitya, if only you knew how important it is to me and how desperate I am. No, you'd better wait till morning, the priest repeated. Till morning? Mercy, that's impossible. And in his despair he was on the point of attacking the sleeping man again, but stopped short at once, realizing the uselessness of his efforts. The priest said nothing. The sleepy forester looked gloomy. What terrible tragedies real life contrives for people, said Mitya in complete despair. The perspiration was streaming down his face. The priest seized the moment to put before him very reasonably that even if he succeeded in wakening the man he would still be drunk and incapable of conversation. And your business is important, he said, so you'd certainly better put it off till morning. With the gesture of despair, Mitya agreed. Father, I will stay here with the light and seize the favorable moment. As soon as he wakes, I'll begin. I'll pay you for the light, he said to the forester, for the night's lodging, too. You'll remember Dmitri Karamazov. Only, Father, I don't know what we're to do with you. Where will you sleep? No, I'm going home. I'll take his horse and get home, he said, indicating the forester. And now I'll say goodbye. I wish you all success. So it was settled. The priest rode off on the forester's horse, delighted to escape, though he shook his head uneasily, wondering whether he ought not next day to inform his benefactor, Fyodor Pavlovich, of this curious incident. Or he may, in an unlucky hour, hear of it, be angry and withdraw his favor. The forester, scratching himself, went back to his room without a word and Mitya sat on the bench to catch the favorable moment as he expressed it. Profound ejection clung about his soul like a heavy mist, a profound, intense dejection. He sat, thinking, but could reach no conclusion. The candle burnt dimly, a cricket chirped. It became insufferably close in the overheated room. He suddenly pictured the garden, the path behind the garden, the door of his father's house mysteriously opening and Grushenko running in. He leapt up from the bench. It's a tragedy, he said, grinding his teeth. Mechanically he went up to the sleeping man and looked in his face. He was a lean, middle-aged peasant with a very long face, flaxen curls and a long, thin, reddish beard, wearing a blue cotton shirt and a black waistcoat from the pocket of which peeped the chain of a silver watch. Mitya looked at his face with intense hatred, and for some unknown reason his curly hair particularly irritated him. What was insufferably humiliating was that after leaving things of such importance and making such sacrifices, he, Mitya, utterly worn out should with business of such urgency be standing over this dolt on whom his whole fate depended while he snored as though there was nothing the matter as though he'd dropped from another planet. Oh, the irony of fate, cried Mitya and quite losing his head he fell again to rousing the tipsy peasant. He roused him with a sort of ferocity, pulled at him, pushed him, even beat him, but after five minutes of vain exertions he returned to his bench in helpless despair and sat down.  Should he fling it up and go away altogether, he wondered, no, wait till tomorrow, now. I'll stay on purpose, what else did I come for? Besides, I have no means of going. How am I to get away from here now? Oh, the idiocy of it! But his head ached more and more. He sat without moving and unconsciously dozed off and fell asleep as he sat. He seemed to have slept for two hours or more. He was waked up by his head aching so unbearably that he could have screamed. There was a hammering in his temples and the top of his head ached. It was a long time before he could wake up fully and understand what had happened to him.  The candle guttered and was about to go out. Mitya cried out and ran, staggering across the passage into the forester's room. The forester waked up at once, but hearing that the other room was full of fumes, to Mitya's surprise and annoyance accepted the fact with strange unconcern, though he did go to see it. But he's dead, he's dead, and what am I to do then? cried Mitya frantically. They threw open the doors, opened a window and the chimney. Mitya brought a pail of water from the passage. First he wetted his own head, then finding a rag of some sort, dipped it into the water and put it on Leogabi's head. The forester still treated the matter contemptuously and when he opened the window said grumpily, it'll be all right now. He went back to sleep, leaving Mitya alighted lantern. Mitya fussed about the drunken peasant for half an hour, wetting his head and gravely resolved not to sleep all night. But he was so worn out that when he sat down for a moment to take breath, he closed his eyes. Unconsciously stretched himself full length on the bench and slept like the dead. It was dreadfully late when he waked. It was somewhere about nine o'clock. The sun was shining brightly in the two little windows of the hut. The curly-headed peasant was sitting on the bench and had his coat on. He had another samovar and another bottle in front of him. Yesterday's bottle had already been finished and the new one was more than half empty. Mitya jumped up and saw at once that the cursed peasant was drunk again, hopelessly and incurably. He stared at him for a moment with wide open dyes. The peasant was silently and slyly watching him with insulting composure and even a sort of contemptuous condescension so Mitya fancied. He rushed up to him. Excuse me. You see, I, you've most likely heard from the forester here in the hut.  That's a lie, said the peasant calmly and confidently. A lie? You know Fyodor Pavlovich? I don't know any of your Fyodor Pavlovich's, said the peasant speaking thickly. You're bargaining with him for the cops, for the cops. Do wake up and collect yourself. Father Pavel of Ilyansko brought me here. You wrote to Samsonov and he has sent me to you. Mitya gasped breathlessly. You're lying, Lady Gavi, blurted out again. Mitya's legs went cold. For mercy's sake, it isn't a joke. You're drunk, perhaps. Yet you can speak and understand. Or else I understand nothing.  For mercy's sake, I'm Karamazov, Dmitry Karamazov. I have an offer to make you, an advantageous offer, very advantageous offer, concerning the cops. The peasant stroked his beard, importantly. No, you've contracted for the job and turned out a scamp.    No, you show me this. You tell me the law that allows roguery. Do you hear?  Do you understand that? Mitya stepped back gloomily and suddenly. Something seemed to hit him on the head, as he said afterwards. In an instant a light seemed to dawn in his mind. A light was kindled and I grasped it all. He stood stupefied, wondering how he, after all a man of intelligence could have yielded to such folly, had been led into such an adventure and have kept it up for almost 24 hours, fussing round this legavi, wetting his head.  What's the use of waiting here? And what if Samsonov sent me here on purpose? What if she, oh God, what have I done? The peasant sat, watching him and grinning. Another time Mitya might have killed the fool in a fury, but now he felt as weak as a child. He went quietly to the bench, took up his overcoat, put it on without a word, and went out of the hut. He did not find the forester in the next room. There was no one there. He took fifty copex and small change out of his pocket and put them on the table for his night's lodging, the candle and the trouble he had given. Coming out of the hut he saw nothing but forest all round. He walked at hazard, not knowing which way to turn out of the hut, to the right or to the left. Hurrying there the evening before with the priest, he had not noticed the road. He had no revengeful feeling for anybody, even for Samsonov in his heart. He strode along a narrow forest path, aimless dazed, without heeding where he was going. A child could have knocked him down so weak was he in body and soul. He got out of the forest somehow, however, and a vista of fields bare after the harvest stretched as far as the eye could see. What despair, what death all round, he repeated, striding on and on. He was saved by meeting an old merchant who was being driven across country in a hired trap. When he overtook him, Mitya asked the way and it turned out that the old merchant too was going to Volovia. After some discussion Mitya got into the trap. Three hours later they arrived. At Volovia Mitlya at once ordered posting horses to drive to the town and suddenly realized that he was appallingly hungry. While the horses were being harnessed, an omelet was prepared for him. He ate it all in an instant, ate a huge chunk of bread, ate a sausage, and swallowed three glasses of vodka. After eating, his spirits and his heart grew lighter. He flew towards the town, urged on the driver, and suddenly made a new and unalterable plan to procure that accursed money before evening. And to think, only to think that a man's life should be ruined for the sake of that paltry 3,000, he cried contemptuously. I'll settle it to-day, and if it had not been for the thought of Grushenko, and of what might have happened to her which never left him, he would perhaps have become quite cheerful again. But the thought of her was stabbing him to the heart every moment, like a sharp knife. At last they arrived and Mitya at once ran to Grushenko. End of chapter 2 of book 8. The Brothers Karamazov, book 8, chapter 3. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Julie Bynum. The Brothers Karamazov, by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Translated by Constance Garnett. Book 8. Chapter 3. Goldmines. This was the visit of Mitya, of which Grushenko had spoken to Rakuten, with such horror. She was just then expecting the message, and was much relieved that Mitya had not been to see her that day or the day before. She hoped that, please God, he won't come till I'm gone away, and he suddenly burst in on her. The rest we know already. To get him off her hands she suggested at once that he should walk with her to Samsonov's. Where she said she absolutely must go to settle his accounts. And when Mitya accompanied her at once, she said goodbye to him at the gate, making him promise to come at twelve o'clock to take her home again. Mitya too was delighted at this arrangement. If she was sitting at Samsonov's, she could not be going to Fyodor Pavlovitch's. If only she's not lying, he added at once. But he thought she was not lying from what he saw. He was that sort of jealous man who, in the absence of the beloved woman, at once invents all sorts of awful fancies of what may be happening to her, and how she may be betraying him. But when shaken, heartbroken, convinced of her faithlessness, he runs back to her. At the first glance at her face, her gay, laughing, affectionate face he revives at once, lays aside all suspicion and with joyful shame abuses himself for his jealousy. After leaving Grashenka at the gate he rushed home. Oh, he had so much still to do that day. But a load had been lifted from his heart anyway. Now I must only make haste and find out from Smurdyakov whether anything happened there last night, whether by any chance she went to Fyodor Pavlovitch—ah!—floated through his mind. Before he had time to reach his lodging, jealousy had surged up again in his restless heart. Jealousy! Othello was not jealous. He was trustful, observed Pushkin, and that remark alone is enough to show the deep insight of our great poet. Othello's soul was shattered, and his whole outlook clouded simply because his ideal was destroyed. But Othello did not begin hiding spying, peeping. He was trustful on the contrary. He had to be led up, pushed on, excited with great difficulty before he could entertain the idea of deceit. The truly jealous man is not like that. It is impossible to picture to oneself the shame and moral degradation to which the jealous man can descend without a qualm of conscience. And yet it is not as though the jealous were all vulgar and base souls. On the contrary, a man of lofty feelings whose love is pure and full of self-sacrifice may yet hide under tables, bribe the vilest people, and be familiar with the lowest ignominy of spying and eavesdropping. Othello was incapable of making up his mind to faithlessness, not incapable of forgiving it, but of making up his mind to it. Though his soul was as innocent and free from malice as a babes. It is not so with the really jealous man. It is hard to imagine what some jealous men can make their mind up to and overlook and what they can forgive. The jealous are the readyest of all to forgive, and all women know it. The jealous man can forgive extraordinarily quickly, though of course after a violent scene, and he is able to forgive infidelity almost conclusively proved. The very kisses and embraces he has seen, if only he can somehow be convinced that it has all been for the last time, and that his rival will vanish from that day forward, will depart to the ends of the earth, or that he himself will carry her away somewhere where that dreaded rival will not get near her. Of course the reconciliation is only for an hour, for even if the rival did disappear next day he would invent another one, and would be jealous of him. And one might wonder what there it was in a love that had to be so watched over, what a love could be worth that needed such strenuous guarding, but that the jealous will never understand. And yet among them are men of noble hearts. It is remarkable, too, that those very men of noble hearts standing hidden in some cupboard, listening and spying, never feel the stings of conscience at that moment. Anyway, though they understand clearly enough, with their noble hearts the shameful depths to which they have voluntarily sunk. At the sight of Groschenka Mitya's jealousy vanished, and for an instant he became trustful and generous, and positively despised himself for his evil feelings. But it only proved that in his love for the woman there was an element of something far higher that he himself imagined, that it was not only a sensual passion, not only the curve of her body of which he had talked to Aloysia. But as soon as Groschenka had gone Mitya began to suspect her of all the low cunning of faithlessness, and he felt no sting of conscience at it. And so jealousy surged up in him again. He had in any case to make haste. The first thing to be done was to get hold of at least a small temporary loan of money. The nine rubles had almost all gone on his expedition, and as we all know one can't take a step without money. But he had thought over in the cart where he could get a loan. He had a brace of fine dueling pistols in a case, which he had not pawned till then because he prized them above all his possessions. In the metropolis tavern he had sometimes since made acquaintance with a young official, and had learned that this very opulent bachelor was passionately fond of weapons. He used to buy pistols, revolvers, daggers, hang them on his wall, and show them to acquaintances. He prided himself on them, and was quite a specialist on the mechanism of the revolver. Mitya, without stopping to think, went straight to him and offered to pawn his pistols to him for ten rubles. The official, delighted, began trying to persuade him to sell them outright, but Mitya would not consent. So the young man gave him ten rubles, protesting that nothing would induce him to take interest. They parted friends. Mitya was in haste. He rushed toward Fyodor Pavlovich's by the back way to his arbor, to get hold of Smurdyakov, as soon as possible. In this way the fact was established that three or four hours before a certain event of which I shall speak later on Mitya had not a farthing, and pawned for ten rubles of possession he valued, though three hours later he was in possession of thousands. But I am anticipating. From Maria Kondratyevna, the woman living near Fyodor Pavlovich's, he learned the very disturbing fact of Smurdyakov's illness. He heard the story of his fall in the cellar, his fit, the doctor's visit, Fyodor Pavlovich's anxiety. He heard with interest, too, that his brother Ivan had set off that morning from Moscow. Then he must have driven through Volovya before me, thought Dmitry, but he was terribly distressed about Smurdyakov. What will happen now? Who keep watch for me? Who bring me word, he thought? He began greedily questioning the women whether they had seen anything the evening before. They quite understood what he was trying to find out, and completely reassured him. No one had been there. Ivan Fyodorovich had been there that night. Everything had been perfectly as usual. Mitya grew thoughtful. He would certainly have to keep watch today. But where? Here or at Samsonov's gate. He decided that he must be on the lookout both here and there, and meanwhile, meanwhile, the difficulty was that he had to carry out the new plan that he had made on the journey back. He was sure of its success, but he must not delay in acting upon it. Mitya resolved to sacrifice an hour to it. In an hour I shall know everything, I shall settle everything, and then, then, then, first of all, to Samsonov's. I'll inquire whether Grushenko's there and instantly be back here again, stay till eleven, and then to Samsonov's again to bring her home. This was what he decided. He flew home, washed, combed his hair, brushed his clothes dressed, and went to Madame Holokov's. Alas, he had built his hopes on her. He had resolved to borrow three thousand from that lady. From what was more, he felt suddenly convinced that she would not refuse to lend it to him. It may be wondered why, if he felt so certain, he had not gone to her at first, one of his own sorts, so to speak, instead of to Samsonov, a man he did not know, who was not of his own class, and to whom he hardly knew how to speak. But the fact was that he had never known Madame Holokov well, and he had seen nothing of her for the last month, and that he knew she could not endure him. He had detested him from the first, because he was engaged to Katarina Ivanovna, while she had, for some reason, suddenly conceived the desire that Katarina Ivanovna should throw him over and marry the charming, chivalrously refined Yvonne, who had such excellent manners. Mitya's manners she detested. Mitya positively laughed at her, and had once said about her that she was just as lively in it her ease as she was uncultivated. But that morning in the cart a brilliant idea had struck him. If she is so anxious that I should not marry Katarina Ivanovna, and he knew that she was positively hysterical upon the subject, why should she refuse me now that three thousand, just to enable me to leave Katya and get away from her forever? The spoilt fine ladies, if they set their hearts on anything, will spare no expense to satisfy their caprice. Besides she is so rich, Mitya argued. As for his plan, it was just the same as before. It consisted of the offer of his right to termashnya, not with a commercial object as it had been with Samsonov, not trying to allure the lady with the possibility of making a profit of six or seven thousand, but simply as a security for the debt. As he worked out this new idea, Mitya was enchanted with it. But so it always was with him in all his undertakings, in all his sudden decisions, he gave himself up to every new idea with passionate enthusiasm. Yet when he mounted the steps of Madame Holokov's house, he felt a shiver of fear run down his spine. At that moment he saw fully as a mathematical certainty that this was his last hope, that if this broke down nothing else was left him in the world but to rob and murder someone for the three thousand. It was half past seven when he rang at the bell. At first fortune seemed to smile upon him. As soon as he was announced he was received with extraordinary rapidity. As though she were waiting for me, thought Mitya, and as soon as he had been led into the drawing-room the lady of the house herself ran in and declared at once that she was expecting him.  Yet I did expect you. You may marvel at my instinct, Dmitriy Fyerovich, but I was convinced all the morning that you would come. That is certainly wonderful, madame, observed Mitya sitting down limply, but I have come to you on a matter of great importance. On a matter of supreme importance for me, that is, madame, for me alone, and I hasten, I know you've come on the most important business, Dmitriy Fyerovich. It's not a case of presentiment, no reactionary harking back to the miraculous. Have you heard about Father's Osama? This is a case of mathematics. You couldn't help coming after all that is passed with Katerina Ivanovna. You couldn't, you couldn't, that's a mathematical certainty. The realism of actual life, madame, that's what it is. But allow me to explain. Realism and div, Dmitriy Fyerovich, I'm all for realism now. I've seen too much of miracles. You've heard that Father's Osama is dead. No, madame, it's the first time I've heard of it. Mitya was a little surprised. The image of Aloysia rose to his mind. Last night, and only imagine. Madam, said Mitya, I can imagine nothing except that I'm in a desperate position, and that if you don't help me everything will come to grief, and I, first of all, excuse me for the triviality of the expression, but I'm in a fever. I know, I know that you're in a fever. You could hardly fail to be, and whatever you may say to me I know beforehand. I have long been thinking over your destiny, Dmitriy Fyerovich. I am watching over it and studying it. O, believe me, I am an experienced doctor of the soul, Dmitriy Fyerovich. Madam, if you are an experienced doctor I'm certainly an experienced patient, said Mitya, with an effort to be polite, and I will feel that if you are watching over my destiny in this way you will come to help me in my ruin. And so allow me, at least to explain to you the plan with which I have ventured to come to you, and what I am hoping of you. I have come, madame, don't explain it. It's of secondary importance. But as for help, you're not the first I have helped, Dmitriy Fyerovich. You have most likely heard of my cousin, madame Belmasov. Her husband was ruined, had come to grief, as you characteristically express it, Dmitriy Fyerovich. I recommended him to take to horse breeding. And now he's doing well. Have you any idea of horse breeding, Dmitriy Fyerovich? Not the faintest, madame. Ah, madame. Not the faintest, cried Mitya, in nervous and patience, positively starting from his seat. I simply implore you, madame, to listen to me. Only give me two minutes of free speech that I may just explain to you everything, the whole plan with which I have come. Besides, I am short of time. I'm in a fearful hurry, Mitya cried hysterically, feeling that she was just going to begin talking again and hoping to cut her short. I have come into despair. In the last gas of despair, to beg you to lend me the sum of three thousand, alone but on safe, most safe security, madame, with the most trustworthy guarantees, only let me explain. You must tell me that afterwards, afterwards. Madam Holokov, with a gesture, demanded silence in her turn. And whatever you may tell me, I know it all beforehand. I've told you so already. You ask for a certain sum, for three thousand. But I can give you more, immeasurably more. I will save you, Demetri Fyodorovich, but you must listen to me. Mitya started from his seat again. Madam, you will really be so good, he cried, with strong feeling. Good God, you've saved me. You've saved a man from a violent death, from a bullet, my eternal gratitude. I will give you more, infinitely more than three thousand, cried Madam Holokov, looking with a radiant smile at Mitya's ecstasy. Infinitely? But I don't need so much. I only need that fatal three thousand. And on my part, I can give security for that sum with infinite gratitude, and I propose a plan which—enough, Demetri Fyodorovich. It's said and done. Madam Holokov cut him short, with modest triumph of beneficence.   What do you think of the gold mines, Demetri Fyodorovich? Of the gold mines, Madame? I have never thought anything about them. But I have thought of them for you. Thought of them over and over again. I have been watching you for the last month. I've watched you a hundred times as you walked past, saying to myself, That's a man of energy who ought to be at the gold mines. I've studied your gait, and come to the conclusion, That's a man who would find gold. From my gait, Madame, said Mitya, smiling? Yes, from your gait. You surely don't deny that character can be told from the gait, Demetri Fyodorovich. Science supports the idea. I am all for science and realism now. After all this business with Father Zossima, which has so upset me, from this very day I am a realist, and I want to devote myself to practical usefulness, I am cured. Enough, as Tregani says. But Madame, the three thousand you so generously promised to lend me, it's yours, Demetri Fyodorovich. Madame Holokov cut in at once. The money is as good as in your pocket, not three thousand, but three million, Demetri Fyodorovich, in less than no time. I'll make you a present of the idea. You shall find gold mines, make millions, return, and become a leading man, and wake us up, and lead us to better things. Are we to leave it all to the Jews? You will found institutions and enterprises of all sorts. You will help the poor, and they will bless you. This is the age of railways, Demetri Fyodorovich. You'll become famous and indispensable to the Department of Finance, which is so badly off at present. The depreciation of the ruble keeps me awake at night, Demetri Fyodorovich. People don't know that side of me. Madame, Madame, Demetri interrupted with an uneasy presentment. I shall indeed perhaps follow your advice, your wise advice, Madame. I shall perhaps set off to the gold mines. I'll come and see you again about it, many times indeed. But now that three thousand you so generously, oh, that would set me free, and if you could today, you see, I haven't a minute, a minute to lose today. Enough, Demetri Fyodorovich, enough, Madame Holikov interrupted emphatically. The question is, will you go to the gold mines or not? Have you quite made up your mind, answer yes or no? I will go, Madame, afterwards. I'll go where you like, but now— Wait! cried Madame Holikov, and jumping up and running to a handsome bureau with numerous little drawers she began pulling out one drawer after another, looking for something with desperate haste. The three thousand thought Mitya, his heart almost stopping, and at the instant, without any papers or formalities, that's doing things in gentlemanly style. She's a splendid woman if only she didn't talk so much. Here, cried Madame Holikov, running joyfully back to Mitya, here is what I was looking for. It was a tiny silver icon on a cord, such as is worn sometimes next to the skin with a cross. This is from Kiev, Demetri Fyodorovich. She went on reverently from the relics of the holy martyr Varvarya. Let me put it on your neck myself, and with it dedicate you to a new life, to a new career. And she actually put the cord round his neck and began arranging it. In extreme embarrassment Mitya bent down and helped her, and at last he got it under his neck tie and collar through his shirt to his chest. Now you can set off, Madame Holikov pronounced, sitting down triumphantly in her place again. Madame, I am so touched. I don't know how to thank you, indeed, for such kindness, but if you only knew how precious time is to me, that some of money for which I shall be indebted to your generosity.  I've been false to Katya, Katarina Ivanova, I should say. Oh, I've behaved inhumanly, dishonorably to her, but I fell in love here with another woman, a woman whom you, Madame, perhaps despise, for you know everything already, but whom I cannot leave on any account, and therefore that three thousand now. Leave everything, Dimitri Fyodorovich. Madame Holikov interrupted in the most decisive tone.  Gold mines are your goal, and there's no place for women there. Afterwards, when you come back, rich and famous, you will find the girl of your heart in the highest society. That will be a modern girl. A girl of education and advanced ideas. By that time, the dawning woman question will have gained ground, and the new woman will have appeared. Madame, that's not the point, not at all. Mitya clasped his hands in entreaty. Yes, it is, Dimitri Fyodorovich. Just what you need. The very thing you're yearning for, though you don't realize it yourself. I am not at all opposed to the present woman movement, Dimitri Fyodorovich, the development of women, and even the political emancipation of women in the near future. That's my ideal. I have a daughter myself, Dimitri Fyodorovich. People don't know that side of me. I wrote a letter to the author Shriddin on that subject. He has taught me so much, so much about the vocation of woman. So last year I sent him an anonymous letter of two lines.  Persevere. And I signed myself a mother. I thought of signing myself a contemporary mother and hesitated. But I stuck to the simple mother. There's more moral beauty in that, Dimitri Fyodorovich.  Good heavens, what is the matter? Madame, cried Mitya, jumping up at last, clasping his hands before her in helpless entreaty. You will make me weep if you delay what you have so generously. Oh, do weep, Dimitri Fyodorovich, do weep. That's a noble feeling.  Tears will ease your heart, and later on you will return rejoicing. You will hasten to me from Siberia on purpose to share your joy with me. But allow me too, Mitya cried suddenly. For the last time I entreat you tell me. Can I have the sum you promised to me today? If not, when may I come for it? That sum, Dimitri Fyodorovich, the three thousand you promised me, that you so generously, three thousand, rubles. Oh no, I haven't got three thousand, Madame Holokov announced with serene amazement. Mitya was stupefied. Why you said just now, you said, you said it was as good as in my hands. Oh no, you misunderstood me, Dimitri Fyodorovich. In that case, you misunderstood me. I was talking of the gold mines. It's true, I promised you more, infinitely more than three thousand. I remember it all now, but I was referring to the gold mines. But the money, the three thousand, Mitya exclaimed awkwardly. Oh, if you meant money, I haven't any. I haven't a penny, Dimitri Fyodorovich. I'm quarreling with my steward about it, and I've just borrowed five hundred rubles from Milosov myself. No, no, I have no money, and do you know, Dimitri Fyodorovich, if I had, I wouldn't give it to you. In the first place, I never lend money. Lending money means losing friends. And I wouldn't give it to you particularly. I wouldn't give it to you because I like you, and I want to save you, for all you need is the gold mines, the gold mines, the gold mines. Oh, the devil roared Mitya, and with all his might brought his fists down on the table. I, I, cried, Madame Holokov alarmed, and she flew to the other end of the drawing room. Mitya spat on the ground, and strode rapidly out of the room, out of the house, into the street, into the darkness. He walked like one possessed, beating himself on the breast, on the spot where he had struck himself two days previously, before Aleutia, the last time he saw him in the dark on the road. What those blows upon his breast signified on that spot, and what he meant by it, that was, for the time, a secret which was known to no one in the world, and had not been told even to Aleutia. But that secret meant for him more than disgrace. It meant ruin, suicide. So he had determined, if he did not get hold of the three thousand, that he would pay his debt to Katarina Ivanova, and so remove from his breast from that spot on his breast the shame he carried upon it, that weighed upon his conscience. All this will be fully explained to the reader later on. But now that his last hope had vanished, this man, so strong an appearance, burst out crying like little child, a few steps from the Holocaust's house. He walked on, and not knowing what he was doing, wiped away his tears with his fist. In this way he reached the square, and suddenly became aware that he had stumbled against something. He heard a piercing wail from an old woman whom he had almost knocked down. Good Lord, you've nearly killed me. Why don't you look where you're going, scape-grace? Why, it's you, cried Mitya, recognizing the old woman in the dark. It was the old servant who waited on Samsonov, whom Mitya had particularly noticed the day before. And who are you, my good sir, said the woman in quite a different voice. I don't know you in the dark. You live at Kuzma Kuzmich's. You're the servant there? Just so, sir, I was only running out to Proha Rich's. But I don't know you now. Tell me, my good woman, is Agrifena Alexandrovna there, said Mitya, beside himself with suspense? I saw her to the house some time ago. She has been there, sir. She stayed a little while and went off again. What? Went away, cried Mitya. When did she go? Why, as soon as she came, she only stayed a minute. She only told Kuzma Kuzmich a tale that made him laugh, and then she ran away.  I, I, shrieked the old woman, but Mitya had vanished. He ran with all his might to the house where Grushenko lived. At the moment he reached it, Grushenko was on her way to Makro. It was not more than a quarter of an hour after her departure. Fenya was sitting with her grandmother, the old cook, Matriona, in the kitchen when the captain ran in. Fenya uttered a piercing shriek on seeing him. You scream, roared Mitya? Where is she?  Fenya, for Christ's sake, tell me, where is she? I don't know, Dmitri Fyodorovich. My dear, I don't know. You may kill me, but I can't tell you, Fenya swore and protested. You went out with her yourself not long ago. She came back. Indeed, she didn't. By God, I swear she didn't come back. Your lying, shouted Mitya. From your terror I know where she is. He rushed away. Fenya in her fright was glad she had got off so easily. But she knew very well that it was only that he was in such haste, or she might not have fared so well. But as he ran he surprised both Fenya and old Matriona by an unexpected action. On the table stood a brass mortar with a pestle in it, a small brass pestle not much more than six inches long. Fenya already had opened the door with one hand, when with the other he snatched up the pestle and thrust it in his side pocket.  End of Book 8, Chapter 3. Book 8, Chapter 4 of the Brothers Karamazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Julie Bynum. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Book 8, Chapter 4, In the Dark. Where was he running? Where could she be except at Fyodor Pavlovitch's? She must have run straight to him from Samsonov's. That was clear now. The whole intrigue, the whole deceit, was evident. It all rushed whirling through his mind. He did not run to Maria Kondratyevna's. There was no need to go there, not the slightest need. He must raise no alarm. They would run and tell directly. Maria Kondratyevna was clearly in the plot. Smurdyakov too, he too, all had been bought over. He formed another plan of action. He ran a long way round Fyodor Pavlovitch's house, crossing the lane, running down to Mitrovsky Street, then over the little bridge, and so came straight to the deserted alley at the back, which was empty and uninhabited, with on one side the hurdle fence of the neighbor's kitchen garden, on the other side the strong high fence that ran all around Fyodor Pavlovitch's garden. Here he chose a spot, apparently the very place where, according to the tradition, he knew Lisaveta had once climbed over it. If she could climb over it, the thought, God knows why, occurred to him, surely I can. He did in fact jump up, and instantly contrived to catch hold of the top of the fence, then he vigorously pulled himself up and sat astride on it. Close by in the garden stood the bath house, but from the fence he could see the lighted windows of the house too. Yes, the old man's bedroom is lighted up. She's there. And he leapt from the fence into the garden. Though he knew Grigori was ill, and very likely Smurdyakov too, and that there was no one to hear him, he instinctively hid himself, stood still, and began to listen. But there was dead silence on all sides, and as though of design complete stillness, not the slightest breath of wind. And not but the whispering silence, the line for some reason rose to his mind, if only no one heard me jump over the fence. I think not. Standing still for a minute, he walked softly over the grass and the garden, avoiding the trees and shrubs. He walked slowly, creeping stealthily at every step, listening to his own footsteps. It took him five minutes to reach the lighted window. He remembered that just under the window there were several thick and high bushes of elder and white beam. The door from the house into the garden on the left-hand side was shut. He had carefully looked on purpose to see and passing. At last he reached the bushes and hid behind them. He held his breath. I must wait now, he thought, to reassure them in case they heard my footsteps in our listening, if only I don't cough or sneeze. He waited two minutes. His heart was beating violently, and at moments he could scarcely breathe. No, this throbbing at my heart won't stop, he thought. I can't wait any longer. He was standing behind a bush in the shadow. The light of the window fell on the front part of the bush. How red the white-beam berries are, he murmured, not knowing why. Softly and noiselessly, step by step, he approached the window and raised himself on tiptoe. All of Theodore Pavlovitch's bedroom lay open before him. It was not a large room, and was divided in two parts by a red screen. Chinese, as Theodore Pavlovitch used to call it, the word Chinese flashed into Mitya's mind, and behind the screen is Grushinka, thought Mitya. He began watching Theodore Pavlovitch, who was wearing his new striped silk dressing gown, which Mitya had never seen, and a silk cord with tassels round the waist. A clean, dandified shirt, a fine linen with gold studs peeped out under the collar of the dressing gown. On his head, Theodore Pavlovitch had the same red bandage which Alyosha had seen. He has got himself up, thought Mitya. His father was standing near the window, apparently lost in thought.  Then he uttered a deep sigh. Again stood still a moment, walked carelessly up to the looking glass on the wall, with his right hand raised the red bandage on his forehead a little, and began examining his bruises and scars, which had not yet disappeared. He's alone, thought Mitya. In all probability he's alone. Theodore Pavlovitch moved away from the looking glass, turned suddenly to the window and looked out. Mitya instantly slipped away into the shadow. She may be there behind the screen. Perhaps she's asleep by now, he thought, with a pang at his heart. Theodore Pavlovitch moved away from the window. He's looking for her out of the window, so she's not there. Why should he stare out into the dark? He's wild with impatience. Mitya slipped back at once and fell to gazing in at the window again. The old man was sitting down at the table, apparently disappointed. At last he put his elbow on the table and laid his right cheek against his hand. Mitya watched him eagerly. He's alone, he's alone, he repeated again. If she were here his face would be different. Strange to say a queer irrational vexation rose up in his heart that she was not here. It's not that she's not here, he explained to himself immediately, but that I can't tell for certain whether she is or not. Mitya remembered afterwards that his mind was at that moment exceptionally clear, that he took in everything to the slightest detail and missed no point, but a feeling of misery, the misery of uncertainty and indecision was growing in his heart with every instant. Is she here or not? The angry doubt filled his heart, and suddenly making up his mind, he put out his hand and softly knocked on the window frame. He knocked the signal the old man had agreed upon with Smeryakov. Twice slowly and then three times more quickly, the signal that meant Grushinka is here. The old man started, jerked up his head, and jumping up quickly ran to the window. Mitya slipped away into the shadow. Fyodor Pavlovich opened the window and thrust his whole head out. Grushinka, is it you? Is it you, he said, in a sort of trembling half whisper? Where are you, my angel? Where are you? He was fearfully agitated and breathless. He's alone, Mitya decided. Where are you? cried the old man again, and he thrust his head out farther, thrust it out to the shoulders, gazing in all directions right and left. Come here. I have a little present for you. Come. I'll show you. He means the three thousand thought, Mitya. But where are you? Are you at the door? I'll open it directly. And the old man almost climbed out of the window, peering out to the right where there was a door into the garden, trying to see into the darkness. In another second he would certainly have run out to open the door without waiting for Grushinka's answer. Mitya looked at him from the side without stirring. The old man's profile that he loathed so, his pendant Adam's apple, his hooked nose, his lips that smiled and greedy expectation were all brightly lighted up by the slanting lamp light falling on the left from the room. A horrible fury of hatred suddenly surged up in Mitya's heart.  It was a rush of that sudden furious, revengeful anger of which he had spoken, as though foreseeing it to Aloysia four days ago in the Arbor. When in answer to Aloysia's question, how can you say you'll kill our father? I don't know. I don't know, he had said then. Perhaps I shall not kill him, perhaps I shall. I'm afraid he'll suddenly be so loathsome to me at that moment.  I feel a personal repulsion. That's what I'm afraid of. That's what may be too much for me. This personal repulsion was growing unendurable. Mitya was beside himself. He suddenly pulled the brass pestle out of his pocket. God was watching over me then, Mitya himself said afterwards. At that very moment Grigori waked up on his bed of sickness. Earlier in the evening he had undergone the treatment which Shmirdnyakov had described to Yvon. He had rubbed himself all over with vodka mixed with a secret very strong decoction, had drunk what was left of the mixture while his wife repeated a certain prayer over him after which he had gone to bed. Marfa Igna Tevna had tasted the stuff too, and being unused to strong drink slept like the dead beside her husband. But Grigori waked up in the night, quite suddenly, and after a moment's reflection though he immediately felt a sharp pain in his back he sat up in bed. He deliberated again, got up, and dressed hurriedly. Perhaps his conscious was uneasy at the thought of sleeping while the house was unguarded in such perilous times. Shmirdnyakov, exhausted by his fit, lay motionless in the next room. Marfa Igna Tevna did not stir. The stuff's been too much for the woman Grigori thought, glancing at her and groaning. He went out on the steps. No doubt he only intended to look out from the steps, for he was hardly able to walk. The pain in his back and his right leg was intolerable. But he suddenly remembered that he had not locked the little gate into the garden that evening. He was the most punctual and precise of men, a man who adhered to an unchangeable routine and habits that lasted for years, limping and writhing with pain he went down the steps and towards the garden. Yes, the gate stood wide open. Mechanically he stepped into the garden. Perhaps he fancied something, perhaps caught some sound, and glancing to the left he saw his master's window open. No one was looking out of it then. It stood open for. It's not summer now, thought Grigori, and suddenly at that very instant he caught a glimpse of something extraordinary before him in the garden. Forty paces in front of him, a man seemed to be running in the dark. A sort of shadow was moving very fast. Good Lord, cried Grigori beside himself, and forgetting the pain in his back, he hurried to intercept the running figure. He took a shortcut. Evidently he knew the garden better. The flying figure went towards the bath house, ran behind it, and rushed to the garden fence. Grigori followed, not losing sight of him, and ran, forgetting everything. He reached the fence at the very moment the man was climbing over it. Grigori cried out beside himself, pounced on him, and clutched his leg in his two hands. Yes, his foreboding had not deceived him. He recognized him. It was he, the monster, the parasite. Parasite, the old man shouted so that the whole neighborhood could hear. But he had not time to shout more. He fell at once, as though struck by lightning. Mitya jumped back into the garden and bent over the fallen man. In Mitya's hands was a brass pestle, and he flung it mechanically in the grass. The pestle fell two paces from Grigori. Not in the grass, but on the path, in a most conspicuous place. For some seconds he examined the prostate figure before him. The old man's head was covered with blood. Mitya put out his hand and began feeling it. He remembered afterwards clearly that he had been awfully anxious to make sure whether he had broken the old man's skull or simply stunned him with the pestle. But the blood was flowing horribly, and in a moment Mitya's fingers were drenched with the hot stream. He remembered taking out of his pocket the clean white handkerchief, with which he had provided himself for his visit to Madame Holokov, and putting it to the old man's head senselessly trying to wipe the blood from his face and temples. But the handkerchief was instantly soaked with blood. Good heavens! What am I doing it for, thought Mitya, suddenly pulling himself together? If I have broken his skull, how can I find out now? And what difference does it make now, he added, hopelessly? If I've killed him, I've killed him. You've suddenly come to grief, old man, so there you must lie, he said aloud, and suddenly turning to the fence he vaulted over it into the lane and fell to running. The handkerchief soaked with blood he held, crushed up in his right fist. And as he ran he thrusted into the back pocket of his coat. He ran headlong, and the few passers-by who he met in the dark in the streets remembered afterwards that they had met a man running that night. He flew back again to the widow Morozov's house. Immediately after he had left it that evening, Fenya had rushed to the chief porter, Nazar Ivanovic, and besought him for Christ's sake not to let the captain in again today or tomorrow. Nazar Ivanovic promised, but went upstairs to his mistress who had suddenly sent for him, and meeting his nephew, a boy of twenty, who had recently come from the country on the way up, told him to take his place, but forgot to mention the captain. Mitya, running up to the gate, knocked. The lad instantly recognized him, for Mitya had more than once tipped him. Opening the gate at once he let him in, and hastened to inform him with a good, humored smile, that Agrifenya, Alexander Drovne, is not at home now, you know. Where is she, then, pro whore, as Mitya stopping short? She set off this evening some two hours ago with Timafe to Makro. What for, cried Mitya, that I can't say, to see some officer. Someone invited her, and horses were sent to fetch her. Mitya left him, and ran like a madman to Fenya.


40% of Gen Z has boycotted a brand because they didn't match their sustainable values in some way. Sustainability is the new standard, it's the future of business. Think about sustainability as an opportunity to draw in a more eco-conscious consumer base, especially when you have generations like mine, like Generation Z, who are extremely educated about these topics. They're also educating their households as well. I talk with a lot of people who are like, you know, my teenage daughter started talking to me about the impacts on the environment that the fashion industry has. Consumers are speaking with their dollars and they are supporting the brands that are really authentically tackling environmental issues. A lot of brands are coming to me and they're like, how can we make our customers get it? How can we make our customers know that we're so sustainable instead of just figuring out, okay, how can we be so sustainable? Your customers are going to know more about this topic than you will. And so it's going to be very, very, very hard in many instances to greenwash and to use these buzzwords. You really have to not find that intimidating, but actually take on this unique responsibility in a way that is more about the impact than about the aesthetic. People tend to think that sustainability is just doing one thing or the other. It's just about, oh, we're just going to lessen carbon emissions or we're just going to reduce single-use plastic use because there are so many different sectors. Figure out what really speaks to you because that makes how you handle implementing sustainability in your business that much more powerful and that much more authentic. You can just take that spark and then just delve into that topic and then figure out how you can make an impact. As a business owner, obviously you want to be realistic, but you also really have to be ambitious and know that sustainability is a top priority because it also is a matter where time is of the essence. I think that people do need to understand that everybody worries and feels like they're just going to be one drop in the bucket, but every drop creates a ripple effect. It will really be all worth it in the end if we all make these important changes.


In the context of information dynamics, SE, TE, CE and CSE were used to analyze the temporal evolution of coupled systems. Theoretical properties of these measures were discussed, including their existence and meaning. An approach was developed for computing information dynamics using the linear Gaussian approximation. These measures were then applied to cardiorespiratory dynamics data collected from healthy subjects, under different experimental conditions. By combining the measures, it was possible to identify the causal effects associated with the observed dynamics and to interpret how they changed, with varying experimental conditions. This article was authored by Luca Faiz, Alberto Porta, and Gian Domenico Nallo.


And the people stayed home, and read books, and listened, and rested, and exercised, and made art, and played games, and learned new ways of being, and were still, and listened more deeply, some meditated, some prayed, some danced, some met their shadows, and the people began to think differently, and the people healed, and in the absence of people living in ignorant, dangerous, mindless, and heartless ways, the earth began to heal, and when the danger passed, and the people joined together again, they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images, and created new ways to live, and heal the earth fully, as there had been healed, a poem by Kitty O'Meara.


And if you think penetrance is weird, then you have to look at the environment. Now, for a long time, we thought that the environment does not affect heredity, and we're learning that that is just crazy. My first example is that the environment can affect the phenotype without influencing heredity, and that is the example of the hydrangeas here. I don't know if you have hydrangeas, there's a lot of them around Humboldt County, but I can't remember which is which, but hydrangeas that are growing in acidic soil, I want to say acidic soil makes blue hydrangeas. It's the environment. It's the pH of the soil that results in blue flowers. Hydrangeas that are grown in basic soil get pink flowers, and it's the pH of the soil, it's the environment. It isn't a genetic condition, and this is going to mess things up, because you would look at the hydrangea flowers and be like, oh, clearly these are two different genetic variations of the hydrangea until you did clones and planted them in different pH soils and then realized, no, actually, this is an environmental effect on phenotype. We always thought that environmental phenotypic, what, issues, I guess, or demonstrations, we always thought that those environmental things were not heritable. We are learning that there are some environmental conditions that we expose ourselves to and that literally are changing our DNA and that those DNA changes that are happening are passed on to our babies. That is crazy talk, and that's a whole layer of research. It's called epigenetics, and the study of epigenetics, epi meaning above the genome. So we've been focusing in on the genome and these are the proteins that are coded for, but then there's this whole layering of regulating factors that affect the genome, that regulate it, that turn things on and off and our environment will, what we expose our DNA to will affect our genes and we pass those on to our kids, which, again, like I said, this is not something that we were originally comfortable with. So we have another example here of this little cutie-cute. This is a little Himalayan bunny rabbit and this bunny rabbit has a protein that's temperature sensitive and the cooler the environment, the browner the protein expresses itself. So cool areas on little bunny rabbit, the very cold nose or the tips of the ears or the tail, these areas express this brown protein pigment, whereas if the little bunny is warm, then it doesn't express that same pigment. And again, that's an environmental impact on the phenotype that in this case isn't genetic. You could actually strap an ice pack to this little buddy boy and make an imprint of the ice pack shape as the new hair grew out over time. So you could cool a part of the body down to the temperature of the ears and the nose and the feet and the tail and like you could draw pictures on your bunny rabbit. It might be kind of mean because he'd be cold. So don't do that. That's not very nice. There's something else I was going to say about my little bunny rabbit. It's gone. It's gone. This lecture is done. Wow. I feel like I'm going to give you a little pep talk really fast. This lecture was a quick lecture, but I think that there are a lot of concepts here that are easy to get confused. So please take some time to really flesh out distinction study. Take some time to study this because you will be happy if you do. Study every day. I will see you. The next lecture is the best whatever. Okay. I can't wait to get started on that one. Bye-bye.


13 Chief Petty Officers were advanced at the rank of Senior Chief onboard USS Nimitz Tuesday, July 2nd. They will earn them a day in and a day out, leading, training, guiding and mentoring the sailors who are the future of our Navy. The ceremony was held in the Hangar Bay as Senior Chiefs were pinned for both ships company and carrier Air Wing 11. I think it's a milestone. It's not a finish line. I still have a job to do, sailors to take care of and a mission to accomplish. Reporting for USS Nimitz, I'm Petty Officer Sam Sabaneson.