IX. Увезли Митю

In a word, Mitya was informed that from this minute he was a prisoner, and that he would be driven at once to the town, where he would be shut up in a very disagreeable place.

Mitya, having listened attentively, merely gave a shrug of the shoulders.

"Well, gentlemen, I do not blame you, I am ready… I understand that nothing else is left for you to do."

Nikolai Parfenovich gently explained to him that he would be conveyed at once by the district police officer Mavriky Mavrikievich, who happened to be on the spot just now…

"Stop," Mitya suddenly broke in, and with a kind of irrepressible feeling he pronounced, turning to everyone in the room.

"Gentlemen, we are all cruel, we are all monsters, we all make people weep — mothers and babes at the breast — but of all, let it be settled here and now, of all I am the basest reptile!

So be it! Every day of my life I have beaten my breast and vowed to mend my ways, and every day committed the same vile deeds.

Now I understand that men like me need a blow, a blow of fate, to catch them as in a lasso and bind them by an outward force.

Never, never would I have risen of my own accord!

But the thunder has struck.

I accept the torment of the accusation and of my public disgrace; I want to suffer, and through suffering I shall be cleansed!

For perhaps I shall be cleansed, gentlemen — eh?

But hear me, all the same, for the last time: in my father's blood I am not guilty!

I accept the punishment not because I killed him, but because I wanted to kill him and might, perhaps, have really done it…

But all the same I intend to fight you, and this I proclaim to you.

I shall fight you to the very last, and there let God decide!

Farewell, gentlemen, do not be angry that I shouted at you during the interrogation — oh, I was still so foolish then…

In a minute I shall be a prisoner, and now, for the last time, Dmitry Karamazov, as a still-free man, holds out his hand to you.

Bidding you farewell, I bid farewell to all men!.."

His voice trembled, and he did indeed stretch out his hand, but Nikolai Parfenovich, who stood nearest to him, somehow all at once, with an almost convulsive sort of gesture, tucked his own hands behind him.

Mitya noticed it in an instant and gave a start.

He at once let his outstretched hand drop.

"The investigation is not yet concluded," Nikolai Parfenovich faltered, somewhat disconcerted, "we shall continue it later in the town, and I, of course, for my part am ready to wish you every success… toward your acquittal…"

"As for you yourself, Dmitry Fyodorovich, I have always been inclined to regard you as a man, so to speak, more unfortunate than guilty…"

"All of us here — if only I may venture to speak in the name of all — all of us are ready to acknowledge you for a young man noble at bottom, but, alas, carried away by certain passions to a somewhat excessive degree…"

The little figure of Nikolai Parfenovich, by the end of his speech, expressed the very fullest dignity.

It flashed for a moment through Mitya's mind that this "boy" was about to take him by the arm, lead him off into another corner, and there resume their recent conversation about "the girls."

But what a host of utterly extraneous, irrelevant thoughts will sometimes flash even through the mind of a criminal being led to his execution.

"Gentlemen, you are kind, you are humane — may I see ''her'', say good-bye for the last time?" asked Mitya.

"Without a doubt, but in view of… in a word, now it can only be done in our presence…"

"Very well, be present, then!"

Grushenka was brought in, but the farewell was a short one, sparing of words, and one that left Nikolai Parfenovich unsatisfied.

Grushenka bowed low to Mitya.

"I told you I was yours, and I shall be yours; I will go with you for ever, wherever they decide to send you.

Farewell, man who has destroyed himself though guiltless!"

Her lips quivered, and the tears streamed from her eyes.

"Forgive me, Grusha, for my love — for having ruined you too with my love!"

Mitya wanted to say something more as well, but suddenly broke off of his own accord and went out.

At once people gathered around him, never taking their eyes off him.

Below, by the little porch up to which he had driven with such a clatter the day before on Andrei's troika, two carts already stood ready.

Mavriky Mavrikievich, a squat, thickset man with a bloated face, was put out about something — some sudden disorder that had cropped up — and was angry and shouting.

He invited Mitya to climb into the cart somehow far too sternly.

"Before, when I stood him drinks at the tavern, the man had quite a different face," thought Mitya as he climbed up.

Trifon Borisovich too came down off the little porch.

At the gates a crowd of people had gathered — peasants, peasant women, drivers — all of them staring at Mitya.

"Farewell, people of God!" Mitya suddenly called out to them from the cart.

"Forgive us too," two or three voices answered.

"Farewell to you as well, Trifon Borisych!"

But Trifon Borisych did not so much as turn around — perhaps he was simply too busy.

He too was shouting about something and bustling about.

It turned out that on the second cart, on which two village constables were to escort Mavriky Mavrikievich, not everything was yet in order.

The little peasant who had been told off to drive the second troika was pulling on his shabby coat and arguing stoutly that it was not he who ought to go, but Akim.

But Akim was not there; they had run to fetch him; the little peasant kept insisting and begged them to wait.

"You see what our folk are like, Mavriky Mavrikievich — without any shame at all!" exclaimed Trifon Borisych.

"Akim gave you a quarter-rouble the day before yesterday, you drank it away, and now you're shouting.

I only marvel at your kindness with our base folk, Mavriky Mavrikievich — that's the one thing I'll say!"

"But why do we need a second troika?" Mitya tried to put in. "Let's go on the one, Mavriky Mavrikich — I daresay I won't mutiny, I won't run off from you, what's the escort for?"

"And kindly learn how to speak to me, sir, if you haven't been taught yet — I'm not 'thou' to you, kindly don't address me familiarly, sir, and save your advice for another time…" Mavriky Mavrikievich suddenly snapped savagely at Mitya, as though glad to vent his spleen.

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 draped with clouds, and a sharp wind blew straight into his face.

"A chill coming on me, perhaps," thought Mitya, giving a twitch of his shoulders.

At last Mavriky Mavrikievich too climbed into the cart, settled himself heavily and broadly, and, as though without noticing it, pressed hard against Mitya, crowding him.

True, he was out of temper, and the errand laid upon him was sorely not to his liking.

"Farewell, Trifon Borisych!" Mitya called out again, and felt himself that he had shouted it now not out of good nature but out of spite — shouted it against his own will.

But Trifon Borisych stood proudly, both hands clasped behind his back, and, staring straight at Mitya, looked on sternly and angrily, and made Mitya no answer at all.

"Farewell, Dmitry Fyodorovich, farewell!" came the sudden voice of Kalganov, who had suddenly darted out from somewhere.

Running up to the cart, he held out his hand to Mitya.

He was without his cap.

Mitya still managed to seize and press his hand.

"Farewell, dear fellow, I'll not forget your generosity!" he exclaimed warmly.

But the cart moved off, and their hands were parted.

The little bell jingled — they carried Mitya away.

And Kalganov ran off into the entry, sat down in a corner, bowed his head, covered his face with his hands, and wept; he sat like that for a long while and wept — wept as though he were still a little boy and not a young man already twenty years old.

Oh, he believed in Mitya's guilt almost completely!

"What sort of people are these — what kind of people can there be after this!" he exclaimed incoherently, in bitter dejection, almost in despair.

He had no wish even to go on living in the world at that moment.

"Is it worth it, is it worth it!" exclaimed the grief-stricken youth.