The Brothers Karamazov
went. ‘I’ve heard of that officer, Grushenka’s former flame.
Well, if he has turned up.... Ech, those pistols! Damn it all!
I’m not his nurse! Let them do what they like! Besides, it’ll all
come to nothing. They’re a set of brawlers, that’s all. They’ll
drink and fight, fight and make friends again. They are not
men who do anything real. What does he mean by ‘I’m step-
ping aside, I’m punishing myself ’? It’ll come to nothing!
He’s shouted such phrases a thousand times, drunk, in the
taverns. But now he’s not drunk. ‘Drunk in spirit’ — they’re
fond of fine phrases, the villains. Am I his nurse? He must
have been fighting, his face was all over blood. With whom?
I shall find out at the Metropolis. And his handkerchief was
soaked in blood.... It’s still lying on my floor.... Hang it!’
He reached the tavern in a bad humour and at once made
up a game. The game cheered him. He played a second game,
and suddenly began telling one of his partners that Dmitri
Karamazov had come in for some cash again — something
like three thousand roubles, and had gone to Mokroe again
to spend it with Grushenka.... This news roused singular in-
terest in his listeners. They all spoke of it, not laughing, but
with a strange gravity. They left off playing.
‘Three thousand? But where can he have got three thou-
sand?’
Questions were asked. The story of Madame Hohlakov’s
present was received with scepticism.
‘Hasn’t he robbed his old father? — that’s the question.’
‘Three thousand! There’s something odd about it.’
‘He boasted aloud that he would kill his father; we all
heard him, here. And it was three thousand he talked