The Brothers Karamazov
‘Enough, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, enough!’ Madame
Hohlakov interrupted emphatically. ‘The question is, will
you go to the gold mines or not; have you quite made up
your mind? Answer yes or no.’
‘I will go, madam, afterwards.... I’ll go where you like...
but now-.’
‘Wait!’ cried Madame Hohlakov. And jumping up and
running to a handsome bureau with numerous little draw-
ers, she began pulling out one drawer after another, looking
for something with desperate haste.
‘The three thousand,’ thought Mitya, his heart almost
stopping, ‘and at the instant... without any papers or for-
malities... that’s doing things in gentlemanly style! She’s a
splendid woman, if only she didn’t talk so much!’
‘Here!’ cried Madame Hohlakov, running back joyfully
to Mitya, ‘here is what I was looking for!’
It was a tiny silver ikon on a cord, such as is sometimes
worn next the skin with a cross.
‘This is from Kiev, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,’ she went on
reverently, ‘from the relics of the Holy Martyr, Varvara. Let
me put it on your neck myself, and with it dedicate you to a
new life, to a new career.’
And she actually put the cord round his neck, and began
arranging it. In extreme embarrassment, Mitya bent down
and helped her, and at last he got it under his neck-tie and
collar through his shirt to his chest.
‘Now you can set off,’ Madame Hohlakov pronounced,
sitting down triumphantly in her place again.
‘Madam, I am so touched. I don’t know how to thank you,