The Brothers Karamazov

he Alarm

Our police captain, Mihail Makarovitch Makarov, a retired lieutenant‐
colonel, was a widower and an excellent man. He had only come to us
three years previously, but had won general esteem, chiefly because he
“knew how to keep society together.” He was never without visitors, and
could not have got on without them. Some one or other was always dining
with him; he never sat down to table without guests. He gave regular
dinners, too, on all sorts of occasions, sometimes most surprising
ones. Though the fare was not recherché, it was abundant. The
fish‐pies were excellent, and the wine made up in quantity for what it
lacked in quality.

The first room his guests entered was a well‐fitted billiard‐room, with
pictures of English race‐horses, in black frames on the walls, an
essential decoration, as we all know, for a bachelor’s billiard‐room.
There was card‐playing every evening at his house, if only at one
table. But at frequent intervals, all the society of our town, with the
mammas and young ladies, assembled at his house to dance. Though Mihail
Makarovitch was a widower, he did not live alone. His widowed daughter
lived with him, with her two unmarried daughters, grown‐up girls, who
had finished their education. They were of agreeable appearance and
lively character, and though every one knew they would have no dowry,
they attracted all the young men of fashion to their grandfather’s
house.

Mihail Makarovitch was by no means very efficient in his work, though
he performed his duties no worse than many others. To speak plainly, he
was a man of rather narrow education. His understanding of the limits
of his administrative power could not always be relied upon. It was not
so much that he failed to grasp certain reforms enacted during the
present reign, as that he made conspicuous blunders in his
interpretation of them. This was not from any special lack of
intelligence, but from carelessness, for he was always in too great a
hurry to go into the subject.

“I have the heart of a soldier rather than of a civilian,” he used to
say of himself. He had not even formed a definite idea of the
fundamental principles of the reforms connected with the emancipation
of the serfs, and only picked it up, so to speak, from year to year,
involuntarily increasing his knowledge by practice. And yet he was
himself a landowner. Pyotr Ilyitch knew for certain that he would meet
some of Mihail Makarovitch’s visitors there that evening, but he didn’t
know which. As it happened, at that moment the prosecutor, and
Varvinsky, our district doctor, a young man, who had only just come to
us from Petersburg after taking a brilliant degree at the Academy of
Medicine, were playing whist at the police captain’s. Ippolit
Kirillovitch, the prosecutor (he was really the deputy prosecutor, but
we always called him the prosecutor), was rather a peculiar man, of
about five and thirty, inclined to be consumptive, and married to a fat
and childless woman. He was vain and irritable, though he had a good
intellect, and even a kind heart. It seemed that all that was wrong
with him was that he had a better opinion of himself than his ability
warranted. And that made him seem constantly uneasy. He had, moreover,
certain higher, even artistic, leanings, towards psychology, for
instance, a special study of the human heart, a special knowledge of
the criminal and his crime. He cherished a grievance on this ground,
considering that he had been passed over in the service, and being
firmly persuaded that in higher spheres he had not been properly
appreciated, and had enemies. In gloomy moments he even threatened to
give up his post, and practice as a barrister in criminal cases. The
unexpected Karamazov case agitated him profoundly: “It was a case that
might well be talked about all over Russia.” But I am anticipating.

Nikolay Parfenovitch Nelyudov, the young investigating lawyer, who had
only come from Petersburg two months before, was sitting in the next
room with the young ladies. People talked about it afterwards and
wondered that all the gentlemen should, as though intentionally, on the
evening of “the crime” have been gathered together at the house of the
executive authority. Yet it was perfectly simple and happened quite
naturally.

Ippolit Kirillovitch’s wife had had toothache for the last two days,
and he was obliged to go out to escape from her groans. The doctor,
from the very nature of his being, could not spend an evening except at
cards. Nikolay Parfenovitch Nelyudov had been intending for three days
past to drop in that evening at Mihail Makarovitch’s, so to speak
casually, so as slyly to startle the eldest granddaughter, Olga
Mihailovna, by showing that he knew her secret, that he knew it was her
birthday, and that she was trying to conceal it on purpose, so as not
to be obliged to give a dance. He anticipated a great deal of
merriment, many playful jests about her age, and her being afraid to
reveal it, about his knowing her secret and telling everybody, and so
on. The charming young man was a great adept at such teasing; the
ladies had christened him “the naughty man,” and he seemed to be
delighted at the name. He was extremely well‐bred, however, of good
family, education and feelings, and, though leading a life of pleasure,
his sallies were always innocent and in good taste. He was short, and
delicate‐looking. On his white, slender, little fingers he always wore
a number of big, glittering rings. When he was engaged in his official
duties, he always became extraordinarily grave, as though realizing his
position and the sanctity of the obligations laid upon him. He had a
special gift for mystifying murderers and other criminals of the
peasant class during interrogation, and if he did not win their
respect, he certainly succeeded in arousing their wonder.

Pyotr Ilyitch was simply dumbfounded when he went into the police
captain’s. He saw instantly that every one knew. They had positively
thrown down their cards, all were standing up and talking. Even Nikolay
Parfenovitch had left the young ladies and run in, looking strenuous
and ready for action. Pyotr Ilyitch was met with the astounding news
that old Fyodor Pavlovitch really had been murdered that evening in his
own house, murdered and robbed. The news had only just reached them in
the following manner.

Marfa Ignatyevna, the wife of old Grigory, who had been knocked
senseless near the fence, was sleeping soundly in her bed and might
well have slept till morning after the draught she had taken. But, all
of a sudden she waked up, no doubt roused by a fearful epileptic scream
from Smerdyakov, who was lying in the next room unconscious. That
scream always preceded his fits, and always terrified and upset Marfa
Ignatyevna. She could never get accustomed to it. She jumped up and ran
half‐awake to Smerdyakov’s room. But it was dark there, and she could
only hear the invalid beginning to gasp and struggle. Then Marfa
Ignatyevna herself screamed out and was going to call her husband, but
suddenly realized that when she had got up, he was not beside her in
bed. She ran back to the bedstead and began groping with her hands, but
the bed was really empty. Then he must have gone out—where? She ran to
the steps and timidly called him. She got no answer, of course, but she
caught the sound of groans far away in the garden in the darkness. She
listened. The groans were repeated, and it was evident they came from
the garden.

“Good Lord! Just as it was with Lizaveta Smerdyastchaya!” she thought
distractedly. She went timidly down the steps and saw that the gate
into the garden was open.

“He must be out there, poor dear,” she thought. She went up to the gate
and all at once she distinctly heard Grigory calling her by name,
“Marfa! Marfa!” in a weak, moaning, dreadful voice.

“Lord, preserve us from harm!” Marfa Ignatyevna murmured, and ran
towards the voice, and that was how she found Grigory. But she found
him not by the fence where he had been knocked down, but about twenty
paces off. It appeared later, that he had crawled away on coming to
himself, and probably had been a long time getting so far, losing
consciousness several times. She noticed at once that he was covered
with blood, and screamed at the top of her voice. Grigory was muttering
incoherently:

“He has murdered ... his father murdered.... Why scream, silly ... run
... fetch some one....”

But Marfa continued screaming, and seeing that her master’s window was
open and that there was a candle alight in the window, she ran there
and began calling Fyodor Pavlovitch. But peeping in at the window, she
saw a fearful sight. Her master was lying on his back, motionless, on
the floor. His light‐colored dressing‐gown and white shirt were soaked
with blood. The candle on the table brightly lighted up the blood and
the motionless dead face of Fyodor Pavlovitch. Terror‐stricken, Marfa
rushed away from the window, ran out of the garden, drew the bolt of
the big gate and ran headlong by the back way to the neighbor, Marya
Kondratyevna. Both mother and daughter were asleep, but they waked up
at Marfa’s desperate and persistent screaming and knocking at the
shutter. Marfa, shrieking and screaming incoherently, managed to tell
them the main fact, and to beg for assistance. It happened that Foma
had come back from his wanderings and was staying the night with them.
They got him up immediately and all three ran to the scene of the
crime. On the way, Marya Kondratyevna remembered that at about eight
o’clock she heard a dreadful scream from their garden, and this was no
doubt Grigory’s scream, “Parricide!” uttered when he caught hold of
Mitya’s leg.

“Some one person screamed out and then was silent,” Marya Kondratyevna
explained as she ran. Running to the place where Grigory lay, the two
women with the help of Foma carried him to the lodge. They lighted a
candle and saw that Smerdyakov was no better, that he was writhing in
convulsions, his eyes fixed in a squint, and that foam was flowing from
his lips. They moistened Grigory’s forehead with water mixed with
vinegar, and the water revived him at once. He asked immediately:

“Is the master murdered?”

Then Foma and both the women ran to the house and saw this time that
not only the window, but also the door into the garden was wide open,
though Fyodor Pavlovitch had for the last week locked himself in every
night and did not allow even Grigory to come in on any pretext. Seeing
that door open, they were afraid to go in to Fyodor Pavlovitch “for
fear anything should happen afterwards.” And when they returned to
Grigory, the old man told them to go straight to the police captain.
Marya Kondratyevna ran there and gave the alarm to the whole party at
the police captain’s. She arrived only five minutes before Pyotr
Ilyitch, so that his story came, not as his own surmise and theory, but
as the direct confirmation, by a witness, of the theory held by all, as
to the identity of the criminal (a theory he had in the bottom of his
heart refused to believe till that moment).

It was resolved to act with energy. The deputy police inspector of the
town was commissioned to take four witnesses, to enter Fyodor
Pavlovitch’s house and there to open an inquiry on the spot, according
to the regular forms, which I will not go into here. The district
doctor, a zealous man, new to his work, almost insisted on accompanying
the police captain, the prosecutor, and the investigating lawyer.

I will note briefly that Fyodor Pavlovitch was found to be quite dead,
with his skull battered in. But with what? Most likely with the same
weapon with which Grigory had been attacked. And immediately that
weapon was found, Grigory, to whom all possible medical assistance was
at once given, described in a weak and breaking voice how he had been
knocked down. They began looking with a lantern by the fence and found
the brass pestle dropped in a most conspicuous place on the garden
path. There were no signs of disturbance in the room where Fyodor
Pavlovitch was lying. But by the bed, behind the screen, they picked up
from the floor a big and thick envelope with the inscription: “A
present of three thousand roubles for my angel Grushenka, if she is
willing to come.” And below had been added by Fyodor Pavlovitch, “For
my little chicken.” There were three seals of red sealing‐wax on the
envelope, but it had been torn open and was empty: the money had been
removed. They found also on the floor a piece of narrow pink ribbon,
with which the envelope had been tied up.

One piece of Pyotr Ilyitch’s evidence made a great impression on the
prosecutor and the investigating magistrate, namely, his idea that
Dmitri Fyodorovitch would shoot himself before daybreak, that he had
resolved to do so, had spoken of it to Ilyitch, had taken the pistols,
loaded them before him, written a letter, put it in his pocket, etc.
When Pyotr Ilyitch, though still unwilling to believe in it, threatened
to tell some one so as to prevent the suicide, Mitya had answered
grinning: “You’ll be too late.” So they must make haste to Mokroe to
find the criminal, before he really did shoot himself.

“That’s clear, that’s clear!” repeated the prosecutor in great
excitement. “That’s just the way with mad fellows like that: ‘I shall
kill myself to‐ morrow, so I’ll make merry till I die!’ ”

The story of how he had bought the wine and provisions excited the
prosecutor more than ever.

“Do you remember the fellow that murdered a merchant called Olsufyev,
gentlemen? He stole fifteen hundred, went at once to have his hair
curled, and then, without even hiding the money, carrying it almost in
his hand in the same way, he went off to the girls.”

All were delayed, however, by the inquiry, the search, and the
formalities, etc., in the house of Fyodor Pavlovitch. It all took time
and so, two hours before starting, they sent on ahead to Mokroe the
officer of the rural police, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch Schmertsov, who had
arrived in the town the morning before to get his pay. He was
instructed to avoid raising the alarm when he reached Mokroe, but to
keep constant watch over the “criminal” till the arrival of the proper
authorities, to procure also witnesses for the arrest, police
constables, and so on. Mavriky Mavrikyevitch did as he was told,
preserving his incognito, and giving no one but his old acquaintance,
Trifon Borissovitch, the slightest hint of his secret business. He had
spoken to him just before Mitya met the landlord in the balcony,
looking for him in the dark, and noticed at once a change in Trifon
Borissovitch’s face and voice. So neither Mitya nor any one else knew
that he was being watched. The box with the pistols had been carried
off by Trifon Borissovitch and put in a suitable place. Only after four
o’clock, almost at sunrise, all the officials, the police captain, the
prosecutor, the investigating lawyer, drove up in two carriages, each
drawn by three horses. The doctor remained at Fyodor Pavlovitch’s to
make a post‐mortem next day on the body. But he was particularly
interested in the condition of the servant, Smerdyakov.

“Such violent and protracted epileptic fits, recurring continually for
twenty‐four hours, are rarely to be met with, and are of interest to
science,” he declared enthusiastically to his companions, and as they
left they laughingly congratulated him on his find. The prosecutor and
the investigating lawyer distinctly remembered the doctor’s saying that
Smerdyakov could not outlive the night.

After these long, but I think necessary explanations, we will return to
that moment of our tale at which we broke off.