The Brothers Karamazov

he Beginning Of Perhotin’s Official Career

Pyotr Ilyitch Perhotin, whom we left knocking at the strong locked
gates of the widow Morozov’s house, ended, of course, by making himself
heard. Fenya, who was still excited by the fright she had had two hours
before, and too much “upset” to go to bed, was almost frightened into
hysterics on hearing the furious knocking at the gate. Though she had
herself seen him drive away, she fancied that it must be Dmitri
Fyodorovitch knocking again, no one else could knock so savagely. She
ran to the house‐porter, who had already waked up and gone out to the
gate, and began imploring him not to open it. But having questioned
Pyotr Ilyitch, and learned that he wanted to see Fenya on very
“important business,” the man made up his mind at last to open. Pyotr
Ilyitch was admitted into Fenya’s kitchen, but the girl begged him to
allow the house‐porter to be present, “because of her misgivings.” He
began questioning her and at once learnt the most vital fact, that is,
that when Dmitri Fyodorovitch had run out to look for Grushenka, he had
snatched up a pestle from the mortar, and that when he returned, the
pestle was not with him and his hands were smeared with blood.

“And the blood was simply flowing, dripping from him, dripping!” Fenya
kept exclaiming. This horrible detail was simply the product of her
disordered imagination. But although not “dripping,” Pyotr Ilyitch had
himself seen those hands stained with blood, and had helped to wash
them. Moreover, the question he had to decide was not how soon the
blood had dried, but where Dmitri Fyodorovitch had run with the pestle,
or rather, whether it really was to Fyodor Pavlovitch’s, and how he
could satisfactorily ascertain. Pyotr Ilyitch persisted in returning to
this point, and though he found out nothing conclusive, yet he carried
away a conviction that Dmitri Fyodorovitch could have gone nowhere but
to his father’s house, and that therefore something must have happened
there.

“And when he came back,” Fenya added with excitement, “I told him the
whole story, and then I began asking him, ‘Why have you got blood on
your hands, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?’ and he answered that that was human
blood, and that he had just killed some one. He confessed it all to me,
and suddenly ran off like a madman. I sat down and began thinking,
where’s he run off to now like a madman? He’ll go to Mokroe, I thought,
and kill my mistress there. I ran out to beg him not to kill her. I was
running to his lodgings, but I looked at Plotnikov’s shop, and saw him
just setting off, and there was no blood on his hands then.” (Fenya had
noticed this and remembered it.) Fenya’s old grandmother confirmed her
evidence as far as she was capable. After asking some further
questions, Pyotr Ilyitch left the house, even more upset and uneasy
than he had been when he entered it.

The most direct and the easiest thing for him to do would have been to
go straight to Fyodor Pavlovitch’s, to find out whether anything had
happened there, and if so, what; and only to go to the police captain,
as Pyotr Ilyitch firmly intended doing, when he had satisfied himself
of the fact. But the night was dark, Fyodor Pavlovitch’s gates were
strong, and he would have to knock again. His acquaintance with Fyodor
Pavlovitch was of the slightest, and what if, after he had been
knocking, they opened to him, and nothing had happened? Then Fyodor
Pavlovitch in his jeering way would go telling the story all over the
town, how a stranger, called Perhotin, had broken in upon him at
midnight to ask if any one had killed him. It would make a scandal. And
scandal was what Pyotr Ilyitch dreaded more than anything in the world.

Yet the feeling that possessed him was so strong, that though he
stamped his foot angrily and swore at himself, he set off again, not to
Fyodor Pavlovitch’s but to Madame Hohlakov’s. He decided that if she
denied having just given Dmitri Fyodorovitch three thousand roubles, he
would go straight to the police captain, but if she admitted having
given him the money, he would go home and let the matter rest till next
morning.

It is, of course, perfectly evident that there was even more likelihood
of causing scandal by going at eleven o’clock at night to a fashionable
lady, a complete stranger, and perhaps rousing her from her bed to ask
her an amazing question, than by going to Fyodor Pavlovitch. But that
is just how it is, sometimes, especially in cases like the present one,
with the decisions of the most precise and phlegmatic people. Pyotr
Ilyitch was by no means phlegmatic at that moment. He remembered all
his life how a haunting uneasiness gradually gained possession of him,
growing more and more painful and driving him on, against his will. Yet
he kept cursing himself, of course, all the way for going to this lady,
but “I will get to the bottom of it, I will!” he repeated for the tenth
time, grinding his teeth, and he carried out his intention.

It was exactly eleven o’clock when he entered Madame Hohlakov’s house.
He was admitted into the yard pretty quickly, but, in response to his
inquiry whether the lady was still up, the porter could give no answer,
except that she was usually in bed by that time.

“Ask at the top of the stairs. If the lady wants to receive you, she’ll
receive you. If she won’t, she won’t.”

Pyotr Ilyitch went up, but did not find things so easy here. The
footman was unwilling to take in his name, but finally called a maid.
Pyotr Ilyitch politely but insistently begged her to inform her lady
that an official, living in the town, called Perhotin, had called on
particular business, and that if it were not of the greatest importance
he would not have ventured to come. “Tell her in those words, in those
words exactly,” he asked the girl.

She went away. He remained waiting in the entry. Madame Hohlakov
herself was already in her bedroom, though not yet asleep. She had felt
upset ever since Mitya’s visit, and had a presentiment that she would
not get through the night without the sick headache which always, with
her, followed such excitement. She was surprised on hearing the
announcement from the maid. She irritably declined to see him, however,
though the unexpected visit at such an hour, of an “official living in
the town,” who was a total stranger, roused her feminine curiosity
intensely. But this time Pyotr Ilyitch was as obstinate as a mule. He
begged the maid most earnestly to take another message in these very
words:

“That he had come on business of the greatest importance, and that
Madame Hohlakov might have cause to regret it later, if she refused to
see him now.”

“I plunged headlong,” he described it afterwards.

The maid, gazing at him in amazement, went to take his message again.
Madame Hohlakov was impressed. She thought a little, asked what he
looked like, and learned that he was “very well dressed, young and so
polite.” We may note, parenthetically, that Pyotr Ilyitch was a rather
good‐looking young man, and well aware of the fact. Madame Hohlakov
made up her mind to see him. She was in her dressing‐gown and slippers,
but she flung a black shawl over her shoulders. “The official” was
asked to walk into the drawing‐room, the very room in which Mitya had
been received shortly before. The lady came to meet her visitor, with a
sternly inquiring countenance, and, without asking him to sit down,
began at once with the question:

“What do you want?”

“I have ventured to disturb you, madam, on a matter concerning our
common acquaintance, Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov,” Perhotin began.

But he had hardly uttered the name, when the lady’s face showed signs
of acute irritation. She almost shrieked, and interrupted him in a
fury:

“How much longer am I to be worried by that awful man?” she cried
hysterically. “How dare you, sir, how could you venture to disturb a
lady who is a stranger to you, in her own house at such an hour!... And
to force yourself upon her to talk of a man who came here, to this very
drawing‐room, only three hours ago, to murder me, and went stamping out
of the room, as no one would go out of a decent house. Let me tell you,
sir, that I shall lodge a complaint against you, that I will not let it
pass. Kindly leave me at once.... I am a mother.... I ... I—”

“Murder! then he tried to murder you, too?”

“Why, has he killed somebody else?” Madame Hohlakov asked impulsively.

“If you would kindly listen, madam, for half a moment, I’ll explain it
all in a couple of words,” answered Perhotin, firmly. “At five o’clock
this afternoon Dmitri Fyodorovitch borrowed ten roubles from me, and I
know for a fact he had no money. Yet at nine o’clock, he came to see me
with a bundle of hundred‐rouble notes in his hand, about two or three
thousand roubles. His hands and face were all covered with blood, and
he looked like a madman. When I asked him where he had got so much
money, he answered that he had just received it from you, that you had
given him a sum of three thousand to go to the gold‐mines....”

Madame Hohlakov’s face assumed an expression of intense and painful
excitement.

“Good God! He must have killed his old father!” she cried, clasping her
hands. “I have never given him money, never! Oh, run, run!... Don’t say
another word! Save the old man ... run to his father ... run!”

“Excuse me, madam, then you did not give him money? You remember for a
fact that you did not give him any money?”

“No, I didn’t, I didn’t! I refused to give it him, for he could not
appreciate it. He ran out in a fury, stamping. He rushed at me, but I
slipped away.... And let me tell you, as I wish to hide nothing from
you now, that he positively spat at me. Can you fancy that! But why are
we standing? Ah, sit down.”

“Excuse me, I....”

“Or better run, run, you must run and save the poor old man from an
awful death!”

“But if he has killed him already?”

“Ah, good heavens, yes! Then what are we to do now? What do you think
we must do now?”

Meantime she had made Pyotr Ilyitch sit down and sat down herself,
facing him. Briefly, but fairly clearly, Pyotr Ilyitch told her the
history of the affair, that part of it at least which he had himself
witnessed. He described, too, his visit to Fenya, and told her about
the pestle. All these details produced an overwhelming effect on the
distracted lady, who kept uttering shrieks, and covering her face with
her hands....

“Would you believe it, I foresaw all this! I have that special faculty,
whatever I imagine comes to pass. And how often I’ve looked at that
awful man and always thought, that man will end by murdering me. And
now it’s happened ... that is, if he hasn’t murdered me, but only his
own father, it’s only because the finger of God preserved me, and
what’s more, he was ashamed to murder me because, in this very place, I
put the holy ikon from the relics of the holy martyr, Saint Varvara, on
his neck.... And to think how near I was to death at that minute, I
went close up to him and he stretched out his neck to me!... Do you
know, Pyotr Ilyitch (I think you said your name was Pyotr Ilyitch), I
don’t believe in miracles, but that ikon and this unmistakable miracle
with me now—that shakes me, and I’m ready to believe in anything you
like. Have you heard about Father Zossima?... But I don’t know what I’m
saying ... and only fancy, with the ikon on his neck he spat at me....
He only spat, it’s true, he didn’t murder me and ... he dashed away!
But what shall we do, what must we do now? What do you think?”

Pyotr Ilyitch got up, and announced that he was going straight to the
police captain, to tell him all about it, and leave him to do what he
thought fit.

“Oh, he’s an excellent man, excellent! Mihail Makarovitch, I know him.
Of course, he’s the person to go to. How practical you are, Pyotr
Ilyitch! How well you’ve thought of everything! I should never have
thought of it in your place!”

“Especially as I know the police captain very well, too,” observed
Pyotr Ilyitch, who still continued to stand, and was obviously anxious
to escape as quickly as possible from the impulsive lady, who would not
let him say good‐by and go away.

“And be sure, be sure,” she prattled on, “to come back and tell me what
you see there, and what you find out ... what comes to light ... how
they’ll try him ... and what he’s condemned to.... Tell me, we have no
capital punishment, have we? But be sure to come, even if it’s at three
o’clock at night, at four, at half‐past four.... Tell them to wake me,
to wake me, to shake me, if I don’t get up.... But, good heavens, I
shan’t sleep! But wait, hadn’t I better come with you?”

“N—no. But if you would write three lines with your own hand, stating
that you did not give Dmitri Fyodorovitch money, it might, perhaps, be
of use ... in case it’s needed....”

“To be sure!” Madame Hohlakov skipped, delighted, to her bureau. “And
you know I’m simply struck, amazed at your resourcefulness, your good
sense in such affairs. Are you in the service here? I’m delighted to
think that you’re in the service here!”

And still speaking, she scribbled on half a sheet of notepaper the
following lines:

I’ve never in my life lent to that unhappy man, Dmitri Fyodorovitch
Karamazov (for, in spite of all, he is unhappy), three thousand roubles
to‐day. I’ve never given him money, never: That I swear by all that’s
holy!

K. HOHLAKOV.

“Here’s the note!” she turned quickly to Pyotr Ilyitch. “Go, save him.
It’s a noble deed on your part!”

And she made the sign of the cross three times over him. She ran out to
accompany him to the passage.

“How grateful I am to you! You can’t think how grateful I am to you for
having come to me, first. How is it I haven’t met you before? I shall
feel flattered at seeing you at my house in the future. How delightful
it is that you are living here!... Such precision! Such practical
ability!... They must appreciate you, they must understand you. If
there’s anything I can do, believe me ... oh, I love young people! I’m
in love with young people! The younger generation are the one prop of
our suffering country. Her one hope.... Oh, go, go!...”

But Pyotr Ilyitch had already run away or she would not have let him go
so soon. Yet Madame Hohlakov had made a rather agreeable impression on
him, which had somewhat softened his anxiety at being drawn into such
an unpleasant affair. Tastes differ, as we all know. “She’s by no means
so elderly,” he thought, feeling pleased, “on the contrary I should
have taken her for her daughter.”

As for Madame Hohlakov, she was simply enchanted by the young man.
“Such sense! such exactness! in so young a man! in our day! and all
that with such manners and appearance! People say the young people of
to‐day are no good for anything, but here’s an example!” etc. So she
simply forgot this “dreadful affair,” and it was only as she was
getting into bed, that, suddenly recalling “how near death she had
been,” she exclaimed: “Ah, it is awful, awful!”

But she fell at once into a sound, sweet sleep.

I would not, however, have dwelt on such trivial and irrelevant
details, if this eccentric meeting of the young official with the by no
means elderly widow had not subsequently turned out to be the
foundation of the whole career of that practical and precise young man.
His story is remembered to this day with amazement in our town, and I
shall perhaps have something to say about it, when I have finished my
long history of the Brothers Karamazov.