“I had a good dream, gentlemen,” he said somehow strangely, with a sort of new face, as if lit up with joy.

Chapter 9: Mitya Is Taken Away

When the transcript had been signed, Nikolai Parfenovich solemnly addressed the accused and read to him a “Resolution,” setting forth that on such and such a day, of such and such a year, in such and such a place, having interrogated so and so (that is, Mitya), accused of such and such (all the charges were carefully enumerated), and insofar as the accused, while declaring himself not guilty of any of the crimes imputed to him, has brought forth nothing to vindicate himself, whereas the witnesses (so and so) and the circumstances (such and such) show him to be guilty in the highest degree, the district attorney of such and such district court, in accordance with such and such paragraphs of the Criminal Code, etc., hereby resolves: to commit so and so (Mitya) to such and such prison, in order to deprive him of all means of evading investigation and trial; to inform the accused of this fact; to forward a copy of this resolution to the deputy prosecutor, etc., etc. In short, Mitya was informed that from that moment on he was a prisoner, and that he would now be driven to town, where he would be locked up in a very unpleasant place. Mitya, having listened attentively, merely shrugged.

“Well, gentlemen, I don’t blame you, I’m ready ... I understand that you have no other choice.”

Nikolai Parfenovich gently explained to him that he would be taken away at once by the deputy commissioner, Mavriky Mavrikievich, who happened to be there at the moment . . .

“Wait,” Mitya interrupted suddenly, and with some irrepressible feeling he spoke, addressing everyone in the room. “Gentlemen, we are all cruel, we are all monsters, we all make people weep, mothers and nursing babies, but of all—let it be settled here and now—of all, I am the lowest vermin! So be it! Every day of my life I’ve been beating my breast and promising to reform, and every day I’ve done the same vile things. I understand now that for men such as I a blow is needed, a blow of fate, to catch them as with a noose and bind them by an external force. Never, never would I have risen by myself! But the thunder has struck.^[275]I accept the torment of accusation and of my disgrace before all, I want to suffer and be purified by suffering! And perhaps I will be purified, eh, gentlemen? But hear me, all the same, for the last time: I am not guilty of my father’s blood! I accept punishment not because I killed him, but because I wanted to kill him, and might well have killed him ... But even so I intend to fight you, and I am letting you know it. I will fight you to the very end, and then let God decide! Farewell, gentlemen, do not be angry that I shouted at you during the interrogation—oh, I was still so foolish then ... Another moment and I’ll be a prisoner, but now, for the last time, while he is still a free man, Dmitri Karamazov offers you his hand. Saying farewell to you, I say it to all men...!”

His voice trembled and he did, indeed, offer his hand, but Nikolai Parfenovich, who was nearest to him, somehow suddenly, with an almost convulsive sort of movement, hid his hands behind him. Mitya noticed it at once and was startled. He immediately let fall his proffered hand.

“The investigation is not over yet,” Nikolai Parfenovich muttered, somewhat embarrassed. “We shall continue it in town, and I, of course, for my part, am prepared to wish you all luck ... in your acquittal ... And you personally, Dmitri Fyodorovich, I have always been inclined to regard as a man, so to speak, more unfortunate than guilty ... All of us here, if I may be so bold as to express myself on behalf of all, all of us are prepared to recognize you as a young man who is noble in principle, though one, alas, carried away by certain passions to a somewhat inordinate degree ...”

Nikolai Parfenovich’s little figure became, towards the end of his speech, a most perfect embodiment of stateliness. It flashed through Mitya’s mind that this “boy” was now going to take him by the arm, lead him to the other corner, and start up their recent conversation about “girls” again. But all sorts of extraneous and unrelated thoughts sometimes flash even through the mind of a criminal who is being led out to execution.

“Gentlemen, you are kind, you are humane—may I see her, to say farewell for the last time?” asked Mitya.

“Certainly, but in view ... in short, it is impossible now except in the presence ...”

“Please do be present!”

Grushenka was brought in, but the farewell was brief, just a few words, hardly satisfying to Nikolai Parfenovich. Grushenka made a low bow to Mitya.

“I’ve told you that I am yours, and I will be yours, I will go with you forever, wherever they doom you to go. Farewell, guiltless man, who have been your own ruin.”

Her lips trembled, tears flowed from her eyes.

“Forgive me, Grusha, for my love, that I’ve ruined you, too, with my love!”

Mitya wanted to say something more, but suddenly stopped himself short and walked out. He was immediately surrounded by people who kept a close eye on him. At the foot of the porch, where he had driven up with such a clatter in Andrei’s troika the day before, two carts already stood waiting. Mavriky Mavrikievich, a squat, thickset man with a flabby face, was annoyed with something, some sudden new disorder, and was shouting angrily. He invited Mitya somehow too sternly to get into the cart. “He had quite a different face before, when I used to stand him drinks in the tavern,” Mitya thought as he was getting in. Trifon Borisovich also came down from the porch. People, peasants, women, coachmen crowded at the gates; everyone stared at Mitya.

“Farewell and forgive, God’s people!” Mitya suddenly cried to them from the cart.

“And you forgive us,” two or three voices were heard.

“You, too, Trifon Borisich, farewell and forgive!” But Trifon Borisich did not even turn his head, perhaps he was too busy. He, too, was bustling about and shouting for some reason. It turned out that things were not quite in order yet with the second cart, in which two deputies were to accompany Mavriky Mavrikievich. The little peasant who had been hired to drive the second troika was pulling on his coat and stoutly protesting that it was not him but Akim who had to drive. But Akim was not there; they ran to get him; the little peasant insisted and begged them to wait.

“Look what kind of people we’ve got, Mavriky Mavrikievich, no shame at all!” Trifon Borisich exclaimed. “Akim gave you twenty-five kopecks the day before yesterday, you spent it on drink, and now you’re shouting. I’m really surprised you’re so good-natured with our base peasants, Mavriky Mavrikievich, I can tell you that!”

“But what do we need a second troika for?” Mitya intervened. “Let’s go in one, Mavriky Mavrikievich, I assure you I won’t make trouble, I won’t run away from you, old fellow—why the escort?”

“Kindly learn how to address me, sir, if you don’t know already; I’m not your ‘old fellow,’ kindly do not be so familiar, and save your advice for some other time . . .,” Mavriky Mavrikievich snapped fiercely at Mitya all of a sudden, as if glad to vent his heart.

Mitya said no more. He blushed all over. A moment later he suddenly felt very cold. It had stopped raining, but the dull sky was still overcast, and a sharp wind was blowing straight in his face. “Have I caught a chill or something? “ Mitya thought, twitching his shoulders. At last Mavriky Mavrikievich also got into the cart, sat down heavily, broadly, and, as if without noticing it, gave Mitya a strong shove with his body. True, he was out of sorts and intensely disliked the task entrusted to him.