“Go there tomorrow, when the sun soars aloft, when the ever-youthful Phoebus soars aloft,[241] praising and glorifying God, go to her, to Khokhlakov, and ask her yourself if she forked me out three thousand or not. See what she says.”
“I don’t know what terms you’re on ... since you say it so positively, I suppose she did ... And you grabbed the money, and instead of Siberia, you’re going on a spree ... But where are you really off to, eh?”
“Mokroye.”
“Mokroye? But it’s night!”
“Mastriuk had it all, Mastriuk had a fall,”[242] Mitya said suddenly.
“What do you mean, a fall? You’ve got thousands!”
“I’m not talking about thousands. To hell with thousands! I’m talking about a woman’s heart:
Gullible is the heart of woman, Ever-changing and full of vice.
I agree with Ulysses, it was he who said that.”[243]
“I don’t understand you.”
“You think I’m drunk?”
“Not drunk, worse than that.”
“I’m drunk in spirit, Pyotr Ilyich, drunk in spirit, and enough, enough...”
“What are you doing, loading the pistol?”
“Loading the pistol.”
Indeed, having opened the pistol case, Mitya uncapped the powder horn, carefully poured in some powder, and rammed the charge home. Then he took a bullet and, before dropping it in, held it up in two fingers near the candle. “What are you looking at the bullet for?” Pyotr Ilyich watched him with uneasy curiosity.
“Just a whim. Now, if you had decided to blow your brains out, would you look at the bullet before you loaded the pistol, or not?”
“Why look at it?”
“It will go into my brain, so it’s interesting to see what it’s like ... Ah, anyway, it’s all nonsense, a moment’s nonsense. There, that’s done,” he added, having dropped the bullet in and rammed the wadding in after it. “Nonsense, my dear Pyotr Ilyich, it’s all nonsense, and if you only knew what nonsense it is! Now give me a piece of paper.”
“Here’s some paper.”
“No, smooth, clean, for writing. That’s it.” And having snatched a pen from the table, Mitya quickly wrote two lines on the piece of paper, folded it in half twice, and put it in his waistcoat pocket. He put the pistols back in their case, locked it with a little key, and took the case in his hands. Then he looked at Pyotr Ilyich and gave him a long, meaning smile.
“Let’s go now,” he said.
“Go where? No, wait ... So you’re thinking about putting it into your brain, the bullet, I mean ... ?” Pyotr Ilyich asked uneasily.
“The bullet? Nonsense! I want to live, I love life! Believe me. I love golden-haired Phoebus and his hot light ... My dear Pyotr Ilyich, do you know how to remove yourself?”
“What do you mean, remove myself?”
“To make way. To make way for one you hold dear, and for one you hate. And so that the one you hate becomes dear to you—to make way like that! And to say to them: God be with you, go, pass by, while I...”
“While you ... ?”
“Enough. Let’s go.”
“By God, I’ll tell someone,” Pyotr Ilyich looked at him, “to keep you from going there. Why do you need to go to Mokroye now?”
“There’s a woman there, a woman, and let that be enough for you, Pyotr Ilyich, drop it!”
“Listen, even though you’re a savage, somehow I’ve always liked you ... That’s why I worry.”
“Thank you, brother. I’m a savage, you say. Savages, savages! That’s something I keep repeating: savages! Ah, yes, here’s Misha, I forgot about him.”
Misha came in, puffing, with a wad of small bills, and reported that “they all got a move on” at Plotnikov’s and were running around with bottles, and fish, and tea—everything would be ready shortly. Mitya snatched a ten-rouble note and gave it to Pyotr Ilyich, and he tossed another ten-rouble note to Misha.
“Don’t you dare!” Pyotr Ilyich cried. “Not in my house. Anyway, it’s a harmful indulgence. Hide your money away, put it here, why throw it around? Tomorrow you’ll need it, and it’s me you’ll come to asking for ten roubles. Why do you keep stuffing it into your side pocket? You’re going to lose it!”
“Listen, my dear fellow, let’s go to Mokroye together!”
“Why should I go?”
“Listen, let’s open a bottle now, and we’ll drink to life! I want to have a drink, and I want above all to have a drink with you. I’ve never drunk with you, have I?”
“Fine, let’s go to the tavern, I’m on my way there myself.”
“No time for the tavern, better at Plotnikov’s shop, in the back room. Now, do you want me to ask you a riddle?”
“Ask.”
Mitya took the piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket, unfolded it, and held it up. There was written on it in his large, clear hand:
“For my whole life I punish myself, I punish my whole life!”
“Really, I’m going to tell someone, I will go now and tell someone,” Pyotr Ilyich said, having read the paper.
“You won’t have time, my dear, let’s have a drink, come on!”
