#dmitri smerdyakov imagine

[marsmaximoff]

🎄; 25th of december ❄︎⋆˚⊹☃︎

content warning: fem!reader. pure fluff. many curses. reader is 20 and calls him “dym” as a short name, he calls her “love, darling and my love”. they’re dating. let me know if i missed something.

word count: 732 ❣️

author’s note: i wasn’t planning on posting anything for Christmas, but i got this idea and i had to write it. so, i apologize if the quality is not that good, as i usually spend days on my writings while this was all done on a matter of hours. also, english is my third language, so i’m sorry for the mistakes. constructive criticism is welcomed as always. thank you so much for the support on my last post, and merry christmas everybody! 🤍 happy hanukkah, kwanzaa, diwali or any other celebrations too 🫶🏻 and if you don’t celebrate anything, have a happy end of the year ✨ p.s.: god im in love with dmitri and almost no one is posting anything, i’ll probably post more of him. anyways, enjoy!! <3

the silk grazes my fingertips as i stretch my arm. i tentatively palm the bed looking for some warmth, for him. but the sheets and pillows are the only things left around me.

the screen of my phone clears up as i blink. 11:28 a.m. with a bit more of focus, the notifications slowly reveal themselves and my eyes travel through them searching for his name. nothing. he’d have texted me if something had requested his presence back at the office. although, he couldn’t have business to deal with on Christmas, right? not this soon, at least.

the pearly white snow greets me through the window making me stand up with a smile. how gorgeous. i make my way to the kitchen to grab something to drink while knotting my robe, and the shiny decor welcomes me effusively. i don’t realize at first, but a big and unfamiliar shadow catches my attention from the corner of my eye while i open the carton of juice.

“holy fuck. dym?”

our christmas tree, stunning as always, lays now almost drowned in presents. in fact, the stack is such, that i can’t even make out the floor for a good four-five steps. some light chuckles behind my back fill the room with the warmth i’ve been craving since i woke up. “beautiful, isn’t it?”

i turn around to dmitri sitting on the couch, staring at me with a huge grin. as if that number of gifts was the most normal sight in the world. “what the hell?” “you���ve had me waiting, darling. did you sleep good?” he asks affectionately.

“what are you, on your Santa Claus era?” i say looking at the presents again. he grants me that laugh that i adore so much as i try to give them a quick count, but after the twentieth, it starts to feel simply bonkers. they’re not even small ‘little treats’, oh no. there’s large boxes and bags everywhere.

“seriously, are you giving gifts to your whole fucking building? or is every one of your men getting one?”

“wrong. and. wrong” he says proudly, and once he’s in front of me, he just smiles. there are obvious love and joy in his eyes, which sends a cute fluttery feeling to my heart. “dmitri-“ his lips seal my words with a gentle kiss. “merry christmas, love”. a sparkle makes space on his gaze that could so easily compete with the star of the tree itself. wait. oh. oh. there’s no way.

his hands take mine and softly walk me towards the swimming pool of gifts. then, he sits close by and points at them with his head. “come on, darling. you’ve had me feeling all impatient”. he looks so excited. so cheerful. but i can’t help the slight guilt that takes over me. “dym, you’re crazy. tell me these are not only for me. you can’t- god do you even have an idea of how many there are?!” “40”. he doesn’t even take a single second to think about it. seriously, what the actual fuck? “two for every christmas i couldn’t spoil you in” this has to be a damn dream. “we’ve been friends since school!” i say grinning. “but we weren’t dating. so it doesn’t count. i wanted to make it special.” “you really didn’t have to” i refute. “i wanted to. please don’t make me wait anymore i need to see your reactions”. with a final glance, i turn around and grab the first one. “ohhh you’ll love that one!”

how can he be so cute? he wasn’t wrong, tho. it was a special edition of one of my favorite books. during the next hours, i go one by one, filling the room with gasps, yells, curses and many “oh my good”s and “thank you so much”s.

by the end of it, i’ve got clothes, books, headphones, plushies, a phone, jewelry, plane tickets, merchandising, signed stuff from famous people i love, and the cherry on top; a new car.

“you are mad. i love you so much but you’re mad” i say hugging him still shocked. “madly in love with you, you mean” he answers pulling back. “you liked them, then?” “loved them” he gives me another kiss, longer this time. “good. merry christmas, my love. i love you” he adds.

he can only hope i’ll love the ring just as much.

[killkaramazov]

This will be my worst post but fuck it. If you’re absolutely DETERMINED to take it there then Smerdy/Ivan absolutely BODIES Alyosha/Ivan in terms of narrative/characterization/dynamic/motif and theme/basically everything else that matters. But it is really not about that for the vast majority of people who are deadass about shipping yaoi from a Russian novel published in 1879. All the IvanYosha stuff seems like it’s really more about getting your rocks off on AO3 and drawing two conventionally attractive anime twinks kissing. To which I wonder why you wouldn’t pick literally any two characters from any media for that unless you’re just into incest or something. 

I really love the Grand Inquisitor kiss! And I don’t like seeing it interpreted that way! 

On the other hand something that drives me insane about my personal interpretation of the book is the juxtaposition between the Alyosha Ivan kiss vs Ivan’s general disgust for Smerdyakov. Why is Alyosha kissing Ivan a pure, innocent expression of Christian love for all humanity but Smerdyakov’s gesture of love (killing Fyodor) is something so perverse and horrifying? It shows us something about their station of life through the roles and the acts that are even allowed to them in the narrative.

As far as SmerdyIvan goes I am reminded of the JSTOR article I read (that I now cannot fucking find) where the author mentioned an idea that all of Dostoevsky’s novels center around or contain one central taboo that is so unspeakable that it is scarcely even outright mentioned, and that the central taboo in question in TBK is that Smerdyakov is the fourth brother.

Incest is already gotten into in canon and much has been written about this, especially regarding Dmitry and Fyodor’s rivalry over Grushenka, but also with Ivan falling in love with Dmitry’s ex. So even though we are going far afield from authorial intent, it is really not that much of a jump to start looking at emotional incest from other angles within the family, as we already know literally every other type of abuse was already occurring within that (entirely fractured) family unit. As far as I am concerned regarding authorial intent, any claim you want to make about a work of fiction is fair game as long as you can justify it with evidence from the text, and people have been writing academic articles and essays making wild inferences from this text for the last 150 years, so I defend my right to make this interpretation. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, if Freud can diagnose Dostoevsky as bisexual we can say whatever we want about this book.

We know from the canon indisputably that Smerdyakov is unhealthily attached to Ivan, and we know that some vague thing about Smerdyakov sets Ivan’s Geiger counter for rancid horrific disgusting vibes to 10 immediately, anytime they are on the page together. So we can infer a lot from that.

Smerdyakov was literally born of sexual violence, and is a pariah in terms of his gender expression and sexuality, so him taking on the role of someone with a warped sexuality in the narrative just sort of… follows, in terms of the novels concern with the idea of inherited sin. 

There is something compelling to me about the idea that Smerdyakov would seek entrance into the Karamazov family in another, weirder way psychologically through attaching highly inappropriate feelings to Ivan. (‘If you think of me and my feelings toward you as incestuous, then that means you have acknowledged me as a family member’) 

And regardless of what I literally just said about authorial intent, Dostoevsky outright tells us how gay Smerdyakov is like every single time he’s on page. So there is also that.

Their relationship appeals to me greatly insofar as it is utterly disgusting and that’s my jam. There is lots to explore in this dynamic but one indisputable thing baked into the text between them is that it’s literally impossible to imagine any truly romantic union between them simply because of the way they both are. They repulse each other far too much for any expression of that sort. The actualization of their inappropriate relationship is not a culmination through an even vaguely romantic or sexual encounter, instead, it is the fulfilling a murder pact. 

They are like two oppositely charged magnets or something, in turns attracting and repulsing one another, pushing and pulling on each other’s gravitational pulls. Regarding the Tchermashnya-Moscow conversation, the way that their conversations are in doublespeak, with words said out loud and then literally entire other sentences written out in thought and illustrated through description of physicality, is incredibly fascinating to me. They seem to be literally communicating telepathically.  I am reminded of another JSTOR article I read that mentions the Dostoevskian doubles “exerting influence over one other that cannot be explained in any literal sense.”  The only reason they can communicate like this is because they are doubles, and this doublism is reinforced again in the narrative by their being fake twins, the same age but born to different mothers. 

They are each other’s shadows, they share a consciousness on some level, or access each other’s consciousnesses at different times through this shared plot in a way that seems incomprehensible to both of them. And Smerdyakov, in my own interpretation and opinion, as someone who is completely starved for any kind of positive regard, takes this for love. Whether that’s familial or otherwise or both. 

They engage in this mutual seduction towards an ultimate goal or realization: Ivan presents the idea, that “all is permitted” and that perhaps it would be for the better if Fyodor were dead, and Smerdyakov takes his lead from this and in turn pulls Ivan into the murder plot. Their relationship is romantic insofar as they are seducing one another in turn towards this unspeakable and forbidden act that they both desire: the murder.

They deny it right to each others faces, only Ivan’s is an earnest denial, to himself first and foremost, and to Smerdyakov it’s just sort of… foreplay. Like, “we’re just two clever people who are only saying this because we have to, and we get it, and you’re in this with me.” 

There is something really compelling too in the fact that Ivan is on board with the murder plot in one scene on a subconscious level, but later will utterly deny that any of this ever happened or that he ever felt that way. He has expressed and betrayed a desire that is so deviant, so forbidden, and so distressing to him that he has a psychological break over denying that that could have truly been something he wanted. Ivan expresses overwhelming disgust and disdain through the entire book, mostly towards Smerdyakov, but finally towards himself when he is forced to the realization of the role he has played as the idealogical murderer. Whereas Smerdyakov, the more active pursuer in their relationship, is not ashamed of his desires and is the one who ultimately has the lack of inhibition required to carry out The Forbidden Act. 

Ivan is attracted by Smerdyakov initially, despite himself, for reasons he can’t understand, like one is drawn to a cataclysmic disaster of fate in a Greek tragedy or something, and ultimately it descends into complete loathing on both sides, kills Smerdyakov, and mocks Ivan’s entire character by undermining his self concept and his entire value system and laying utterly bare his fatal flaws as a human being. Utterly doomed and hopeless relationship in every single way! 

Alas, no one wants to match my freak about this and that is definitely for the better. If I had to see ship art of them kissing anime style I would kms. Whatever the fuck they had going on is way better. 

[sutekooooo]

how do you think ivan and alyosha's relationship would develop romantically and how would their other brothers & fiances react to it? would dimitri be horrified and try to discourage them or would he give them thumbs up and be supportive?

I think this is a difficult question to answer within a limited time. However, if we imagine romantic relationships, I believe the moment they recognized the beginning of their feelings was during the long conversation in the tavern. Neither of them seems to be the type to avoid discussing sexual desire, so it’s possible to assume that this aspect could develop further as their relationship deepens.

As for the reactions of the other brothers, I think Smerdyakov might find it uncomfortable lol, but Dmitry would probably be okay with it. He seems to enjoy seeing his brothers being close and getting along (I guess). After all, Dmitry is probably the type of person who would even support Katya and Grushenka being together :)

[thiagosrussianlitblog]

10 Interesting Russian Novels

Crime and Punishment - Raskolnikov, a destitute and desperate former student, wanders through the slums of St Petersburg and commits a random murder without remorse or regret. He imagines himself to be a great man, a Napoleon: acting for a higher purpose beyond conventional moral law. But as he embarks on a dangerous game of cat and mouse with a suspicious police investigator, Raskolnikov is pursued by the growing voice of his conscience and finds the noose of his own guilt tightening around his neck. Only Sonya, a downtrodden sex worker, can offer the chance of redemption. (GoodReads)

Anna Karenina - Acclaimed by many as the world's greatest novel, Anna Karenina provides a vast panorama of contemporary life in Russia and of humanity in general. In it Tolstoy uses his intense imaginative insight to create some of the most memorable characters in all of literature. Anna is a sophisticated woman who abandons her empty existence as the wife of Karenin and turns to Count Vronsky to fulfill her passionate nature - with tragic consequences. Levin is a reflection of Tolstoy himself, often expressing the author's own views and convictions. (GoodReads)

The Brothers Karamazov - The Brothers Karamazov tells the dramatic story of four brothers Dmitri, pleasure-seeking, impatient, unruly… Ivan, brilliant and morose… Alyosha, gentle, loving, honest… and the illegitimate Smerdyakov, sly, silent, cruel. Driven by intense passion, they become involved in the brutal murder of their own father, one of the most loathsome characters in all literature. (GoodReads)

War and Peace - War and Peace broadly focuses on Napoleon’s invasion of Russia in 1812 and follows three of the most well-known characters in literature: Pierre Bezukhov, the illegitimate son of a count who is fighting for his inheritance and yearning for spiritual fulfillment; Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, who leaves his family behind to fight in the war against Napoleon; and Natasha Rostov, the beautiful young daughter of a nobleman who intrigues both men. As Napoleon’s army invades, Tolstoy brilliantly follows characters from diverse backgrounds—peasants and nobility, civilians and soldiers—as they struggle with the problems unique to their era, their history, and their culture. And as the novel progresses, these characters transcend their specificity, becoming some of the most moving—and human—figures in world literature. (GoodReads)

Dead Souls - Dead Souls is eloquent on some occasions, lyrical on others, and pious and reverent elsewhere. Nicolai Gogol was a master of the spoof. The American students of today are not the only readers who have been confused by him. Russian literary history records more divergent interpretations of Gogol than perhaps of any other classic. In a new translation of the comic classic of Russian literature, Chichikov, an enigmatic stranger and conniving schemer, buys deceased serfs' names from their landlords' poll tax lists hoping to mortgage them for profit and to reinvent himself as a likable gentleman. (GoodReads)

The Master and Margarita - An audacious revision of the stories of Faust and Pontius Pilate, The Master and Margarita is recognized as one of the essential classics of modern Russian literature. The novel's vision of Soviet life in the 1930s is so ferociously accurate that it could not be published during its author's lifetime and appeared only in a censored edition in the 1960s. Its truths are so enduring that its language has become part of the common Russian speech. One hot spring, the devil arrives in Moscow, accompanied by a retinue that includes a beautiful naked witch and an immense talking black cat with a fondness for chess and vodka. The visitors quickly wreak havoc in a city that refuses to believe in either God or Satan. But they also bring peace to two unhappy Muscovites: one is the Master, a writer pilloried for daring to write a novel about Christ and Pontius Pilate; the other is Margarita, who loves the Master so deeply that she is willing literally to go to hell for him. What ensues is a novel of inexhaustible energy, humor, and philosophical depth, a work whose nuances emerge for the first time in Diana Burgin and Katherine Tiernan O'Connor's splendid English version. (GoodReads)

Doctor Zhivago - This epic tale about the effects of the Russian Revolution and its aftermath on a bourgeois family was not published in the Soviet Union until 1987. One of the results of its publication in the West was Pasternak's complete rejection by Soviet authorities; when he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1958 he was compelled to decline it. The book quickly became an international best-seller. Dr. Yury Zhivago, Pasternak's alter ego, is a poet, philosopher, and physician whose life is disrupted by the war and by his love for Lara, the wife of a revolutionary. His artistic nature makes him vulnerable to the brutality and harshness of the Bolsheviks. The poems he writes constitute some of the most beautiful writing featured in the novel. (GoodReads)

Fathers and Sons - Bazarov—a gifted, impatient, and caustic young man—has journeyed from school to the home of his friend Arkady Kirsanov. But soon Bazarov’s outspoken rejection of authority and social conventions touches off quarrels, misunderstandings, and romantic entanglements that will utterly transform the Kirsanov household and reflect the changes taking place across all of nineteenth-century Russia. Fathers and Sons enraged the old and the young, reactionaries, romantics, and radicals alike when it was first published. At the same time, Turgenev won the acclaim of Flaubert, Maupassant, and Henry James for his craftsmanship as a writer and his psychological insight. Fathers and Sons is now considered one of the greatest novels of the nineteenth century. A timeless depiction of generational conflict during social upheaval, it vividly portrays the clash between the older Russian aristocracy and the youthful radicalism that foreshadowed the revolution to come—and offers modern-day readers much to reflect upon as they look around at their own tumultuous, ever changing world. (GoodReads)

Notes from Underground - A collection of powerful stories by one of the masters of Russian literature, illustrating the author's thoughts on political philosophy, religion and above all, humanity: Notes from Underground, White Nights, The Dream of a Ridiculous Man, and Selections from The House of the Dead. The compelling works presented in this volume were written at distinct periods in Dostoyevsky's life, at decisive moments in his groping for a political philosophy and a religious answer. From the primitive peasant who kills without understanding that he is destroying life to the anxious antihero of Notes from Underground—who both craves and despises affection—the writer's often-tormented characters showcase his evolving outlook on our fate. Thomas Mann described Dostoyevsky as "an author whose Christian sympathy is ordinarily devoted to human misery, sin, vice, the depths of lust and crime, rather than to nobility of body and soul" and Notes from Underground as "an awe- and terror- inspiring example of this sympathy." (GoodReads)

Heart of the Dog - This satirical novel tells the story of the surgical transformation of a dog into a man, and is an obvious criticism of Soviet society, especially the new rich that arose after the Bolshevik revolution. (GoodReads)

[la-esmerqlda]

Imagine “The Brothers Karamazov” but instead of fighting it out at the monastery they go on the Dr. Phil show. Just imagine.

Dr Phil: so you left your children to the servant when they were only toddlers, neglecting them

Fyodor: yes I did

Dr Phil: and do you feel that that was the wrong thing to do

Fyodor: fuck them kids bro, I’ll do it again

[ask-octoberotto]

Had a run-in with the Chameleon earlier today. Emjay and I are still trying to travk him down, but it got me wondering. Does Earth-2 have a Dmitri Smerdyakov, as far as you're aware?

-@ask-spider-man-61610

Short answer is yes. While I only met him once, but I have heard most about him from his half-sister and fellow survivor, Sonya Kravinova. This gets a bit lengthy so I will put it in a readmore:

To establish some context about Sonya: from our short interactions, I learned she’s a former member of the BSAA (or the Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance).. which seems to be the closest equivalent to an “Avengers” we have here. Which explains her aptitude for multiple types of firearms and how she seems to already be fairly familiar with conditions brought about by an Outbreak such as this. I first met her during my brief encounter with what I would learn to be her half-brother..

Now.. she didn’t disclose much about what happened (well, to be honest, she rarely discloses anything about herself to begin with), what I understand is that Sonya and Dmitri weren’t particularly close due to their very different lives they chose to follow. According to Sonya, Dmitri was a talented impressionist, and even as a young child, he showed an incredible prowess for acting. But at one point, Sonya lost all contact with him after Dmitri began his final year at a drama school in Belgium. Last she heard from him before he disappeared was that he was approached by a talent agent who was impressed by his abilities and offered him a job shortly after seeing a performance of his. After excitedly telling his family about it over the phone, he was never heard from again.

… That is until recently. Though my interactions with Dmitri were brief, I know for a fact that he is no longer who he used to be. I hypothesize that, as the Chameleon, he was specifically developed to be an infiltrator and assassin.

Unlike most, you could be forgiven if you initially saw him as a human.. or, more accurately, as someone you know and care about. The Chameleon, unlike the others, can blend far too easily in a crowd, and he is able to take on the appearance of virtually any human so long as he’s given enough visual information to achieve accuracy and precision. And due to the acting talent he was known for, he is able to successfully impersonate them with little flaws. He may be physically weaker than most B.O.W.s, he is far more devious than them and is able to use various weapons with ease.

But the most disturbing thing about him (aside from imagining what monstrous procedures had to take place in order for Dmitri to go from a regular man to the Chameleon) is how he achieves his impersonations. He is able to physically alter his size and proportions so long as they remain in the humanoid category, change the shape of his vocal chords, and restructure his facial features to match up with who he’s impersonating. However, his true appearance looks like a pale, almost skeletal looking being. This is only seen when the flesh, hair, and skin of who he’s pretending to be starts to fall off from what looks like bone underneath.

[wretchedvulgarian]

so I was going to make a fathers day post about a good dostoevsky dad but then I was like…hey wait a minute they’re all terrible (not including roman raskolnikov). therefore I’m going to judge if different dosty characters would theoretically be good dads i guess…

Razumikhin: yes, absolutely. get him a best dad ever mug already

Raskolnikov: …don’t @ me but yes. he’s very sweet with Polenka. he would, however, let his kid do things they’re way too young to do like cut up vegetables by the time they’re 3 and watch horror movies at 4. but the kid would turn out alright anyhow

Dmitri Karamazov: i think he would. he would be super scared of ending up like his father so i feel like he would overcompensate by participating in every single fatherly activity possible with his child. i imagine him having a daughter just because i think they would have a very sweet relationship

Ivan Karamazov: hhhhhh yea even if he struggles with the emotional stuff

Alyosha Karamazov: awww of course

Smerdyakov: yea no

Stavrogin: no. i think he canonically proves that

Pyotr Verkhovensky: a hard nope

Shatov: yes of course he just didn’t get the chance *screams through tears*

Kirillov: …you know…maybe after a couple therapy sessions…

Prince Myshkin: he loves kids but i just can’t really imagine it sorry

Rogozhin: gosh no

Ganya Ivolgin: ok…y’all know i got soft spot for him…so I’ll just give a solid maybe

welp…happy father’s day

[bruisedribs]

soo if Janus is a superhero do they go up against any of the comics villains?

They are firmly a vigilante; no hero status for them. Doesn't stop villains of course.

There are few of Spiderman's villains that are likely to show up:

Chameleon (Dmitri Smerdyakov)

Kingpin (Wilson Fisk)

Rose (Phillip Hayes)

and besides those, I imagine there will be some original villains as well.

[bealight1009]

Favorite Character Post: Ivan Karamazov

Name: Ivan Fyodorvich Karamazov

Book: Brother’s Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky (Dostoevsky is one of my favorite authors)

Position: Anti-hero/Protagonist 

Age: 23/24

Family: Fyodor Karamazov (Father)

             Alyosha (younger brother –share the same mother)

             Dimitry (older brother –share a different mother)

             Smerdyakov (brother –an affair (if you could call it that) of Fyodor Karamazov)

             Katerina Ivanova (object of his affection, though she pretends to love Dmitry)

Nationality: Russian

Time Period: Mid-1900s.  

Favorite Quotes: “I am too young and loved you too much…you’ve been tormenting me so consciously that I am unable to forgive you at the moment. Later I shall forgive...” 

“And cherry preserve? They have it here.  Do you remember how you loved cherry preserve at Polenov’s when you were little? 

“No one, by the way, ever died of hysterics.”

 “Me, laughing?  I wouldn’t want to upset my little brother who has been looking at me for three months with so much expectation.”

“Though I’m terribly fond of one Russian boy named Alyoshka.” 

“My dear little brother, its not that I want to corrupt you and punish you off your foundation; perhaps I want to be healed by you.”

 “It’s not that I don’t accept God, Alyosha, I must most respectfully return him the ticket.” (245)

 “You little plagiarist!” 

Thoughts:

Ah, Ivan Karamazov, a favorite of mine. I could write a book about him, but, for your sake, readers, I will not. Ivan Karamazov is the middle brother in The Brothers Karamazov, and it seems every literary analyst has something to say about him. His epic poem “The Grand Inquisitor” is regarded as a work of geniuses, though it bears a frightening amount of totalitarianism. Throughout the book, Ivan is troubled by the suffering in the world, and a good God. Therefore, he refuses to accept God’s world. He is a great thinker, and proposes a theory that “everything is permitted,” since God does not step in for His people. However, when someone uses Ivan's ideology to commit murder, Ivan feels responsible . Ivan is racked with such guilt that he develops brain fever. He is a tortured anti-hero. He has been classified as a villain, an atheist, and a madman, yet, he is more.

Our Ivan is a middle child. His father is Fyodor Karamazov, a man who loves to give himself up to debauchery and buffoonery. Ivan lived with this man for eight years, yet his father hardly knew he existed. Having Fyodor Pavlovich would certainly not be a blessing, and I imagine that poor little Ivan suffered emotionally while watching his father bring loose women into their home and become drunk every night. As for his mother, she was abused as a young girl and married Fyodor to escape (so their relationship certainly wasn’t healthy). When Ivan was four, she had another son, Alexi (Alyosha). Around this time, she also started having mental attacks that would leave her insane and shrieking. I think the fact that both his parents would not (or could not, in the case of his mother) care for him, is often overlooked. I mean, imagine being young and watching your father humiliate your mother, who would then lose cognitive ability and shriek. This definitely impacted Ivan –he’d need to learn to be independent, which is so sad to see in young children. Perhaps he’d feel alone; there would be no one to comfort him or protect him.

Once his mother died, he and his four year old brother were taken to live with his mother’s benefactress. Though she took them in, it seemed to be not because she wanted to, but because she felt it had to be done. For example, she called them orphans, and only allotted them 1000 rubbles a piece for all their education needs –anyone who would give them more she deemed would be “wasting their money.” Ivan old enough to hear this, and being extraordinarily intelligent, would have picked up on her disinterest in him and Alyosha. I imagine this is where his “gloomy and taciturn” nature started to form, as now not only did he not have a supportive parental figure, but he was unwanted. 

However, the two brothers did have a friend, a Mr. Polenov, who, when the grouchy old woman died, took the little boys under his wing. He didn’t touch their 1,000 rubbles wanting to save it for them when they came of age. It is mentioned that Ivan realized that he would forever be indebted to this man—which might have hurt his pride a bit. One important note is, while Polenov cared for both boys, he did favor Alyosha. Ivan went off to study out of town and lived with his professors. Speaking from experience, it’s a wounding thing to know that people like your younger sibling better than you. Poor Ivan!

He did make a very successful academic career for himself at the young age of 23, which is when the Brother’s Karamazov truly starts. Ivan has returned to his father’s house to act as a mediator between the old man and Ivan’s older brother Dimitry. 

Honestly, Ivan’s relationship with his father is messy. At times, Fyodor seems to like Ivan: he calls him his Karl Moor, and at times heeds his advice. However, at other times, he despises Ivan; he insults his son going even so far as to say he hated Ivan, and encouraged Alyosha to hate Ivan as well. 

Ivan’s relationship with his younger brother, Alyosha, is precious, despite what their father may want. Alyosha obviously likes Ivan, he is willing to defend him in front of their father, and in front of the prideful Katya. Ivan tells Alyosha that “I have no friends,” but he wants to try to be friends with Alyosha. (Though brothers, the two haven’t seen each other for about nine years). Ivan and Alyosha philosophize with each other and care for one another. Ivan even remembers that his little brother likes cherry preserve, and says that while he (Ivan) doesn’t like Russian boys, he is terribly fond of one Russian boy named Alyoshka. Aww! (He uses the diminutive of Alyosha’s diminutive!!!)

This post has been a lot, but it barely scratches Ivan. He a neglected genius, overshadowed by his younger brother, and terribly lonely.  Yet, the story ends with a bit of hope; he has Alyosha, and he has Katya, who has finally admitted her love for him. Ivan’ suffering and his intelligence, not to mention the love of mankind , make him one of my favorite character.  

[incorrectlit]

A comprehensive ranking of Dostoevsky’s hottest men (by me, a lesbian)

1. Nikolai Vsevolodovich Stavrogin (Demons): this man is so fucking hot he borders on being too much. Dostoevsky dedicated an like an entire page to how hot Stavrogin is. His terribleness just makes him hotter, and everyone in the book agrees with me on this. Literally everyone wants this man. Liza fucks him. Marya Timofeevna marries him. 99% sure Verkhovensky would fuck him if given the chance. Even Shatov seems like he was once gay for Stavrogin. What can I say? Stavrogin is just Like That. 

2. Dmitri Fyodorovich Karamazov (The Brothers Karamazov): THIS ONE SEEMS TO BE CONTROVERSIAL.  Mitya is a military man, and god dammit I really like military dudes. They’re buff. Dmitri’s recklessness honestly just makes him MORE attractive, and his devotion to Grushenka gives him a sweet side too.

3. Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov (Crime and Punishment): ANOTHER CHARACTER DOSTOEVSKY DEDICATED AN ENTIRE PAGE TO. Raskolnikov is fucking beautiful, but he’s as breakable as fucking glass. He’d probably be tied with Stavrogin if only he took better care of himself. Instead, he lets himself starve, constantly faints, and makes terrible decisions every single time he’s given the chance. Not to mention he’s kind of a dick to everyone. He’s good-looking, but his sickliness gets in the way of his attractiveness.

4. Ivan Fyodorovich Karamazov (The Brothers Karamazov): Similar to Raskolnikov. Ivan is hot at the beginning of the novel, but his religious breakdown and descent into madness sends him spiraling, so by the end he just looks sick. 

5. Pyotr Stepanovich Verkhovensky (Demons): Verkhovensky is good-looking, but something about his description holds him back from peak hotness. Probably his “pinched face” (Dostoevsky’s words, not mine). I really like the idea of him having longer hair, like in the TV series (movie? help???) I found his cunning really attractive at the beginning of the book, but by the end he was more psychotic than anything. Not an awesome look.

6. Dmitri Prokofych Razumikhin (Crime and Punishment): Okay hear me out: I always imagined Raz as being kinda scruffy and disheveled. Couple that with the fact that he’s canonically tall, and you got yourself a hottie. He’s also so incredibly sweet but also very passionate, making him the ideal partner. Too bad he’s in love with the Raskolnikovs (take your pick of which sibling).

7. Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov (The Brothers Karamazov): Alyosha is a major cutie, but he's not exactly hot. He’s described as being tall and good-looking, but his chaste nature holds him back from his true potential. DON’T GET ME WRONG ALYOSHA IS THE SWEETEST CHARACTER HE IS MY BABY AND I LOVE HIM but I wouldn’t fuck him.

8. Lev Nikolaevich Myshkin (The Idiot): Myshkin is a fucking angel. He’s a beautiful ray of sunshine and the light of my life, but like Alyosha, he’s too pure to really be hot. Also, I always imagined him as looking thin and sickly due to his epilepsy, being kind of perpetually sick, which detracts from his looks.

9. Gavrila Ardalionovich Ivolgin (The Idiot): I see Ganya as reasonably attractive, but god he’s such a dick. If only he was nicer. Still, he takes care of himself, which is more than I can say for others on this list.

10. Evgeny Pavlovich Radomsky (The Idiot): A polite, smart, handsome friend. Unfortunately, he’s kinda boring, which makes him forgettable to me.

11. Parfyon Semyonovich Rogozhin (The Idiot): A dark, roguish lad. His passion is really what puts him up here, but I never saw him as particularly hot. The fact that he kills his girlfriend and tries to kill his best friend isn’t helping his case. Bonus points for having distinctive eyes though, even if you can’t escape his gaze.

12. Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin (Crime and Punishment): Luzhin is a dilf (minus being a dad) until he opens his mouth. Then he speaks and becomes the biggest dick in the book (which is saying something, because Svidrigailov is also in this book). 

13. Alexei Nilych Kirillov (Demons): I have no real thoughts on Kirillov. He’s of average looks, I guess. A bit too edgy for my taste. I also see him as being pretty disheveled and not really taking care of himself in his depressive state, but unlike Raskolnikov and Ivan Karamazov, Kirillov doesn’t have anyone to take care of him.

14. Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov (Crime and Punishment): I love to hate this guy. I see him as being reasonably attractive for his age (which goes with his canon description), but he’s such a fucking creep that he will never be truly hot. Unfortunately, he’s a pedophile/rapist, which would automatically put him at the bottom of the list if this list wasn’t based on physical appearance alone.

15. Porfiry Petrovich (Crime and Punishment): A man of average looks. I see him as being a bit paunchy and looking a little older than his age, but his cunning and sense of humor make him more attractive (he’d be near the top if this list was based on personality).

16. Ivan Pavlovich Shatov (Demons): Not particularly good-looking, but made better by the fact that he can see how ludicrous Verkhovensky’s plan is.

17. The Underground Man (Notes From Underground): A complete fucking wreck. Would look better if he was maybe a little less of a wreck.

18. Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov (The Brothers Karamazov): Disgusting old man.

19. Pavel Fyodorovich Smerdyakov (The Brothers Karamazov): get this thing away from me this instant

[illegiblewords]

5 Questions for Writers!

               5 Questions for Writers                                                        

I got tagged by @kunstpause, it looked like fun so figured I’d go for it! THANKS TO KUNST!

Tagging @wouldyouliketoseemymask, @nilim, @azwoodbomb, @peregrineroad, @frostmantle, @autumnslance, @strangefellows, @redbud-tree, @nozomikei​, and @rivenroad​. No obligation to anyone but full permission to steal granted to anyone else who might like to. I’ll literally be delighted if you pick this up spontaneously and blame me as an excuse lmao.

1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why?

2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write?

3. Share your favorite description you’ve written?

4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written?

5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?

I made long answers so have a cut!

1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why?

It depends heavily on what fandom and where I am mentally, but I’ve figured out I tend to love writing angsty lameass dudes with blonde hair who are prone to doing really silly things despite taking themselves entirely too seriously. Honestly, I have a pretty huge track record at this point. Harvey Dent, Vexen, Dmitri, Lahabrea, probably more besides. Every one of them fits the right balance of lameass to angst. I like seeing them grow and find fulfillment as people and they are very very cute while still having an edge of badassery and cleverness. Also they’re funny.

Lahabrea is my favorite at the moment, and him reaching that position is an accomplishment considering how stiff the competition is in FFXIV. Loser tricked his way to the top while I was busy laughing at him.

2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write?

I really, really, really love redemption arcs and people recovering from fucked up experiences. Latter case especially I love seeing characters in those situations successfully connect to the people and world around them, especially if they get to grow together with a partner. I also LOVE “hero saves the villain and villain takes it to heart”.

(You may be sensing a theme here haha.)

There are a few reason these concepts resonate with me, the first being I think they’re really hopeful, inspiring, and something I always wanted to see growing up but rarely did.

People fuck up in life. People get hurt in horrible ways that bring out the worst in them. Sometimes when that happens they dig themselves deeper and deeper into ugliness. The more a person’s bad side comes out, the more hopeless it can feel. And for mental illness especially I’ve found this can be a major issue.

Everyone makes mistakes and everyone has flaws, but I think there’s something really significant in seeing someone who has hit rock bottom, who can no longer imagine a way out, get offered a hand for support and take it. While recovery and redemption (not synonymous of course) ultimately need to be carried by the individual struggling, I really can’t understate how important it is to know in those situations that you’re not alone and someone believes in you.

I think a big part of why this theme is important to me is because mental illness, both genetic and due to trauma, is something unbelievably difficult and painful not only for the sufferer but those around them. The most mentally ill characters in fiction tend to be villains, and are disproportionately more likely to be suffering severe trauma. It frustrated me since I was pretty young to see over and over again cases where a mess could have been avoided if there was any support system in place.

Seeing compassion and connection given that kind of power means a lot to me, as does recognizing that villains are people before they are villains. It’s also very reassuring in the sense of “If this person fucked up that badly but still tried to better themself, I can too. And odds are I’m also worthy of love and compassion, even when my issues make things harder for others. I just have to keep working to improve.”

3. Share your favorite description you’ve written?

Eff.

Straight up I think I’ve written too much to have just one favorite description. It’s been a lot of years and I have hundreds of fics and I’m lame. So I’m going to put a few of my favs.

Anytime there’s a gap in block quotes it’s a different section within the same fic.

22 - A Batman Fanfic

He trembles beneath the weight of their expectations but his smile never fades flashes before cameras microphones under his nose crowds screaming questions bleeding together he answers like clockwork the District Attorney who must bring justice to us all paying tribute to false idols with golden hair and silver tongues we the people bow down in worship to this guardian of the law with words and deeds I believe in Harvey Dent so he swears in hallowed halls to bring prosperity to smite the wicked to damn the criminal with authority invested in him by Gotham’s dutiful children and himself.

***

On the precipice of victory we stand united our voice raised like a torch like a spear like a golden arrow against the beast of Lerna we are gods and monsters we are so much more than good and evil we are order in the court cauterizing corruption our head held high and mighty manifest in Harvey of the doubletalk Harvey who writes himself into the fabric of Gotham’s history Harvey who will not bend before the Roman we command you the unworthy we condemn you the unrighteous we will not be merciful and you will fall before our eyes.

***

I am Dionysus divided at the altar of Tyche O Fortuna O Fortuna give me guidance in the light of the moon you dance sacred silver dollar I see and obey the wax and wane your whim Wheel of Fortune the card I am dealt your servant your slave venerated puppet of flesh blessed is your wisdom bestowed upon I am your disciple wine-mad twisted chanting your word becomes law holy splendor against gavels desecrating your name defiant in denial extend your will through me and we shall strike the innocent enlighten the ignorant or spare them all for now.

Doppelganger - A Spider-Man Fanfic

She asks him to tell the story of himself, and like Scheherazade he begins anew each day.

As with many other things, this comparison is imperfect. The Ravencroft Institute is hardly a palace and neither of them could pass for royalty. She sits in a chair across from him over a carpet the color of sawdust. Her walls are lined with insects pinned on display. Not many butterflies, quite a few beetles. On a bookshelf Dmitri sees The Metamorphosis nestled between non-fiction texts more relevant to her profession. He thinks maybe it's an inside joke she has with herself, but doesn't say so.

He's received an invitation to call her Ashley instead of Dr. Kafka and doesn't know whether to accept. It might be to make him more comfortable. It might be something else. In her late fifties Kafka is built from delicate features, and he suspects the lines around her eyes mean they crinkle when she smiles. Short black hair, beige suit, only jewelry a pair of diamond stud earrings. Dmitri thinks she looks like a mother, but not his.

Her weight sinks into leather, darker than the floor. The couch he rests on matches. He finds himself leaning forward with one elbow propped on his thigh, the other locked in a cast suspended by his neck. There is something reassuringly empty in the gray fabric of his uniform, cheap and utilitarian and harmless. Dmitri’s wrists are thin, but then he's lost a lot of weight recently. He probably wouldn't be able to run as fast as he used to, but then circumstances would be the same anywhere he went so that really doesn't matter. His espionage days are over. His free arm is shedding in flakes but at least his skin is dry. Clean.

Dmitri no longer looks like anyone, unrecognizable to himself. A face without much in the way of edges, short nose. Weak chin. Mismatched eyes that shift between green and blue and brown and every other natural hue as moments pass into minutes pass into hours. Dark blotches interrupt his forehead and chin. They will peel in new patterns across a span of days. For the most part though, he is pale enough to trace veins where his body seems on the brink of spilling out.

It's been a while since he shaved his head and the hair that grows back is almost foreign. An unruly mess of black, blond, brunet, and red—strands as unlike in texture as anything else. The mask that made him Chameleon was white plastic embedded with hardware. Left deformed after trying to resemble others in flesh too many times, it allowed him to duplicate any face, any body he could remember. More than holograms, the most complete sensory illusions technology could perform.

Without it, Dmitri feels stripped.

When Kafka looks at him she’s receiving constant signals and missing none of them. The moments he needs to turn away, flat monosyllabic turns of phrase he chooses or resorts to or blankly accepts as his own. It doesn’t have to be this way. It isn’t comfortable and he doesn’t even trust it’s not calculated. But she’s going to notice no matter what he does at this point, and lying about it doesn’t do anyone much good. They both know why he’s here.

***

“We were poor. We worked hard to keep ourselves fed and clothed and less than an embarrassment. I probably could have worked harder. Mother,” he begins before stumbling over himself.

The story he’s telling isn’t hers. Whatever else she was, Sonya Smerdyakov wasn’t Mrs. Bates. He remembers her voice as the beginning of an echo, forever following someone else’s lead.

And so he followed her.

She was bright like a light going out. She was gentle without being kind. Her fingers were short and delicate and she touched him as little as possible. He found her attention in the way she avoided his name.

***

In the privacy of his room, Dmitri began talking to himself.

Celebrities. Teachers. Children. The flat, steady rhythm of his father’s voice. The words and intonations favored by mother. Sergei’s laugh. He lost himself in a fantasy of conversations, strode through space to mimic confidence he didn’t feel, flashed teeth in front of his mirror like other people.

Once, Dmitri raised his voice. And when his older brother came, eyebrows knitting in confusion, he found himself full of stammered explanations, hands fumbling at his elbows, stumbling over his tongue to make sense of it.

Just making stories for himself. A game with no ending. That was all.

***

He would have died in that town under the eyes of speechless parents. Dmitri remembers the confusion that took his peers when he found a job for people who spoke for themselves. They thought he might be growing up.

He could lie. And when he began he understood it would always be a game with no ending.

Dmitri lost himself in a fantasy of conversations with real people and a voice that didn’t belong to him.

They asked a stranger to sign their yearbooks without even realizing it.

And then he was eighteen, and he left to continue elsewhere.

He didn’t announce his departure.

From Umbra - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

It was probably a dream.

Lukewarm water crept down his throat, nearly making him choke. A skin pressed to his lips, insistent. He coughed, and for the first time there was moisture enough for resistance.

The face that obscured his vision was shrouded in white cloth. Cenric found he couldn’t focus on it. Mismatched eyes, one light and the other dark. Impossible to say if blindness caused the inconsistency.

A string of shells dangled from the figure’s neck, rattling gently. The skin pulled back for a moment. Careful. Patient.

It returned only once he'd grown quiet. Cenric drank for as long as he could. Impossibly, a great deal remained by the time he relinquished his hold.

There wasn't enough of him present to say thank you. Cenric barely registered being dragged, being carried onto a cart. Awareness was altogether gone by the time they started to move.

***

…to the blessed traders who enrich our lives we’re bound to pay with our lives in turn aether born fire-walker your will sees us to rest we entrust ourselves to your sight forged of oschon for peace and prosperity and an ending you do not weep for father azeyma lives in the earth with you her fan brings no breeze the air is hot and thick and breathless your domain a silent place that does not stir have you forgotten the sound of your own voice have you known what it is to live and fail have you been alone do you know what it is to die how can a god pass judgment without being judged nald’thal lord of departures of flame and sand whose coin purse overflows who knows not what it means to starve what it means to spoil the legacy of one who loved you nald’thal who holds shells and souls and precious stones as if their worth were equal nald’thal who cannot know mercy without knowing pain who are you to weigh mortal affairs?

***

In darkness he unwinds the black bandana, steps first from his slops and then his kurta. Yuyudana has provided robes, which rest neatly on a small rock nearby. It crosses Cenric’s mind that the bones of his knees, his hips, his wrists, even his face have all started to protrude strangely. He looks less hyuran than before, maybe less than he ever has. Closer to something priests would exorcise than anyone deserving aid.

He wonders if this idea has occurred to them.

The water, when he advances, is cold. Goosebumps raise across his skin as slowly, gingerly, he wades in to his waist.

Cenric ducks under.

His hair is a long and tangled wreck. Being wet only disguises this slightly. It drifts past his neck, comes to float near the surface. Cenric holds himself in silence, eyes open, watching the silver scatter of light over stones and plants and fish. He remains for as long as he can bear.

His vision stings afterward. Gasping, he can’t tell if the cause is exposure or something else. For a time he simply waits, breathing hard through his nose, hunched so that his lips are partially submerged.

He thinks of nothing, pretends that this time instead of no future he has no past.

Only one moon remains. Maybe the sky aches for losing Dalamud, but better that than the blow which scarred Eorzea.

Stalemate - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

He is presented with impressions of a horse, gaunt and fetid and decayed. Spreading ruin wheresoever it goes. Occasionally it sloughs off portions of its own flesh, which collect flies and blacken any land that surrounds. On its back rests a world, and alongside it does the herd struggle under their own burdens. But even beasts of such endurance have limits. Theirs are reached. When the rotten steed lags, its companions cannot afford to falter. Cannot turn. Without its ability to bear loads, this aberration has no place. Falling is inevitable.

Yet a heart still beats and lungs yet swell.

The Ascian shivers in his grasp, but does not attempt escape.

Here, something festers. Something bleeds. An old wound exacerbated over time.

Fevered, coated in a film of self-disgust, the core of Lahabrea convulses.

 Don’t…

 Don’t leave me like this…

***

Teeth and tongue. Lingering, wet, disembodied. Another finds his hip. Another his thigh, slipping beneath what clothes remain.

And another.

And another.

Warm, human, seeking. The Warrior tightens his hold, uses the moan crawling from his own chest as incentive. Barred by naught but fabric, driving close as he can manage. Lahabrea makes a strangled sound, his gasp crushed empty. A new mouth finds the dark knight’s ear in response.

These are parts of him no one dares touch, no one dares acknowledge. Slick now, attended with something like reverence. Supplication.

He resolves to fuck the Ascian senseless for this, presses his intent deep into Lahabrea’s aether. He is going to steal all his fancy words away. Make him squirm.

“I… I…” Tight, airless, like a plucked string. The Warrior feels Lahabrea’s voice reverberate against the roof of his mouth.

The feeling is difficult to describe. Cracked ice. A fraying rope. Such is Lahabrea's response, fumbling and disoriented as it is.

The Warrior lets go.

4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written?

Just imagine me weeping over here lmao. Same deal as before, I’VE DONE TOO MUCH SHIT.

Spare Change - A Batman Fanfic

"Stop," he gasps, "I wouldn’t—"

"You would Harvey. You did. It’s what makes you such a damn good instrument. You had to test yourself, prove that you’re not a real person.” He can feel fingers grinding against bone. His knees bend. Harvey kneels, shuddering, gazing up into the destruction of his own visage. Two-Face meets his eyes, blue on blue. “People are weak. People are ruled by what they want and don’t want. You’re capable of anything if the wind blows just right. You can’t even stop yourself.”

"I wouldn’t," he repeats, numbly.

"Did you," demands Two-Face, forcing him down further, "or did you not flip for their lives, Harvey Dent?"

"We…We aren’t the same people anymore."

"Of COURSE we’re the same people!" Another shove and he’s on the ground, Two-Face sitting on his chest, teeth bared, coin clenched tight between them. "Do you really think you can close your eyes and pretend you aren’t capable of these things? They’re alive," and there is something hideous in his expression, something certain, "because they were lucky. No other reason.”

"The coin is gone! Even if I wanted to listen to it—I can’t!”

"If you’re so sure," says Two-Face, "then how about you improvise?”

And with one motion the silver dollar is under his tongue, forced back so hard he feels himself gag and begin to choke before his eyes open.

The Inquisitor’s Letters - A Dragon Age: Inquisition Fanfic

To His Worship Inquisitor Mahanon Lavellan of Skyhold, My name is Isell from Amaranthine and I’m seven. My mum is helping but says I can send you all by myself. Thank you for fixing the hole in the sky and also the one by the dead man’s house. There were demons but they’re mostly gone now and people are going outside now. Da says Amaranthine has been through too much and can survive anything and he says you’re an elf like us and the Hero of Ferelden was an elf too. He says people used to think elves can’t be heroes but now they don’t. Have you met the Hero of Ferelden? Also I heard that even though you’re Dalish Andraste helped you in the Fade and that humans let you be in the Chantry because anyone Andraste likes must be a really good person. What’s Andraste like? The Chant says a lot but it’s different meeting someone I think. Also I think I saw you a little before but Mum wasn’t sure because you had a helmet on and we were far away and there were a lot of people but I bet it was you. Da wasn’t sure I should write because he says the Dalish don’t like city elves like we are but I think you must be nice and Mum agrees with me. I’ve been playing demon hunters with my brother Arrion (he’s just five still) and Da said templars are who fights demons usually and elves can’t be templars. People thought elves couldn’t be heroes and inquisitors though and we are so I bet I could too. Is it hard fighting demons? Da says they’re real scary but I’m not scared. Thank you for helping us and everyone and I hope you kill lots of demons. Sincerely, Isell U’venlan

From Umbra - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

Cenric sits on the floor, draped in a white cotton tunic. It might have been snug on a Roegadyn but anyone else would find ample room. Behind him, Memesu stands on a cot holding shears. Gold earrings dangle on either side of her face.

“I fought at Carteneau, you know,” she mentions casually. There is a soft hsssssshhhh. Click.

Hair hits the floor. Coils.

He starts to shake his head, aborts the gesture partway through. Stills. “…you saw Bahamut?”

Memesu snorts. “I’m sure everyone this side of Hydaelyn saw Bahamut.” Click.

“That’s probably true,” he concedes. The dragon is what everyone knows, everyone remembers. He can't imagine the proximity. “What about the Warriors of Light?”

“Pff.” Gentle tugging at his scalp. Cenric does not open his eyes but leans into the motion. “I wasn’t of rank to see their like. Not that I’d remember. Stop moving.” Click.

Cenric hesitates.

“What do you remember, then?”

For a time, the only sound comes from blades and a thousand strands cut short. This lasts for several minutes. Cenric resigns himself to secrets.

Then, “I used to think I was special too. As a twin. My sister was Memeni. We studied together.”

 Was.

The exhale hits him slowly, quietly.

“She died?”

He can feel the shrug in her hip against his shoulder.

“It was Carteneau,” says Memesu. “Of course she died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Click. “It had nothing too do with you. If you keep trying to claim responsibility for every misfortune you find, you’re going to get self-important.”

Cenric only grunts, quiet and non-committal.

 Click.

 Click.

 Click.

“Carteneu was so much worse than people remember. Only four years later and already we hurry to dispose of details.” There is a hard undercurrent to Memesu’s voice, but what contact she makes remains light. Careful. “I remember the arcanist from Limsa who didn’t dodge a magitek canon in time. Miqo’te. Spells come faster in that discipline, so there’s less stress on distance than thaumaturgy. Girl got careless.” Click. “The mess smelled like rotten eggs and charcoal. Her face was… melted.” Click. “I try not to look in those situations. They only make casting harder. But she was so close.”

Cenric doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word.

Memesu continues. “One of our own gladiators, an Ala Mhigan, took to mutilating any pureblooded Garleans he could catch. The man had a string of eyes hanging around his neck. I’m pretty sure one enemy officer wet himself before he started to beg. Not that it particularly mattered.”

 Click.

“Memeni… didn’t anticipate what she was getting herself into. She saw magic as a way of being useful to craftsmen. My focus has always been theoretical. Right side.” Startled, Cenric lets her guide his jaw to get a better view of his profile. Click. Click. “Meni used to think I was a priss. She preferred to develop magitek kettles alongside alchemists. See if she could find a way to capture light like the Mhachi did. She still enjoyed fishing when she could, even though it smelled awful. Never outgrew the braids she wore growing up. ” Memesu sighs. “…just understand she died afraid, in pain, and with things left undone. My sister didn’t even resemble herself at the end.”

Cenric is very still. Thinks carefully.

“…I wish it could have gone differently,” he says at last.

Memesu’s mouth slides up in a small, crooked smile. She tousles the neat, ear-length hair before her. “So do I.”

Eclipse - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

It ends at Elidibus’ untimely arrival.

“Lord Zodiark,” he says, so smoothly that were he not searching for it that the anger would be undetectable, “appreciates your attentions.”  His gaze does not waver from Lahabrea as he speaks. “But there is work to be done and I’m afraid there are words I would have with your Speaker.”

They disperse.

Nabriales, careful and curious, folds himself out of sight beyond the chamber then makes his way back to its edge.

Lahabrea, farthest from the exit, attempts to steal some small dignity. Turns to face Elidibus.

The Emissary makes him wait. Expressionless red masks matched by those who wear them.

Then, with more speed and force than typical for his demeanor, the Emissary closes distance to trap his colleague against the wall.

“It was my error,” hisses Elidibus, leaning in, “to have stayed silent upon rescuing you. A mistake I will remedy now, so we can be on no uncertain terms.”

Lahabrea lowers his eyes. Nabriales notes that despite the dread they all share of such reprimands, the man does not brace.

“You know as well as I that these words offer less succor to our Lord than action,” continues Elidibus, his fury quiet and no less sharp for that, “just as we both know your thoughtless action is the cause of repeated missteps these past centuries. Make no mistake—for all the strides you’ve made, your fixation and your impatience have cost the rest of us considerable time.”

Silence.

“Do you truly think this is your best service to Him?” asks Elidibus. “To us? Compromising your ability to fill the hours? Even Emet-Selch agrees these displays are disgraceful. You have ever borne them poorly, but being a 'paragon among paragons' naturally you continue ignoring your own better judgment with ours to continue this exercise in futility. Idiot.”

A twitch of the head. Almost a flinch.

It is one of few moments Nabriales has seen the Emissary express his anger so openly. Even after the Thirteenth fell to Igeyorhm’s error, Elidibus allowed the Angel of Truth to lead and voiced his own reproach with a more typical icy demeanor. Scathing though it was.

“I can be of use,” says Lahabrea softly. “Only three of us remain, and I—“

“You,” Elidibus snaps, “cannot follow the most simple instructions for the good of us all. Not for Him, not for Amaurot, not even for yourself. Your pride has made you not simply an embarrassment but a liability.”

Neither man speaks for several moments after that.

And then, at length, Elidibus exhales.

Says the Speaker’s name.

Receives his attention.

“What would you have me do?” the Emissary asks. His tone now is almost weary. “Clearly it would be unreasonable to trust you’d simply listen. Must I mind you like a child?” This is what breaks Lahabrea’s composure.

Knowing the man’s temper, Nabriales had expected him to lash out. Even on the back foot their orator is perfectly capable of defending himself from insults.

Instead, he embraces Elidibus fiercely—face just within the bounds of his pauldrons. Jaw locked shut firmly enough to hurt. Expression downcast.

Elidibus remains perfectly still at first. In the absence of conversation it is possible to hear the rush of Lahabrea’s breathing. Only through the nose, withheld briefly between each inhale as if that offers some means to steady himself.

As if that would make it better.

Tentatively, Elidibus holds him back. Lahabrea's fingers contract, and though he remains upright when his knees begin to give it is the Emissary who helps him kneel.

“Easy,” he murmurs, and Lahabrea removes one hand to run it reflexively over his face—coming against the mask.

Nabriales finds himself staring, searching. A puzzle with missing pieces whose image he may yet divine

“It was not,” says Lahabrea roughly, “my intention to…”

Elidibus reaches beneath the other man’s cowl, finds the hair and skin beneath. Draws him in once more.

Naught that would be shared with or among the Sundered. Nothing so personal as that.

Nabriales has worn his own share of flesh. Bedded lovers, adopted companions and families of vessels to fulfill a purpose. Passable enough, perhaps, but never for him. Not in truth.

It’s as if he looks upon two strangers.

Parched - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

The door closes behind them. Lahabrea, projecting his preferred likeness over the host, waits on a couch within.

It’s admittedly a surreal sight. Ishgardian finery with its gilded edges, its elaborate wallpapers and marble floors. A collection of creams and blues and greens, fine furniture with velvet seat cushions. All ostentatious in the extreme… and then Lahabrea. Masked and cowled. Pouring three glasses of La Noscean arrack.

Elidibus freezes, and though none of them can see his eyes the confusion is clear enough.

“What is this?”

“Your turn,” says Emet-Selch, lightly but less flippant than he might have been.

Lahabrea proffers a cup from where he sits.

Elidibus neither moves nor speaks.

Emet-Selch approaches. Takes the drink. Presses it carefully into the other man’s hand.

“Don’t think,” he says smoothly,” that I won’t let you drop it.”

Mercifully, Elidibus has a good grip.

“Sit,” says Lahabrea, gesturing with his own glass to the sofa across from him.

Elidibus sits.

Emet-Selch sits.

Takes his own glass, perhaps a bit pointedly.

Elidibus’ mouth is pressed tight. It opens briefly, as if to speak. Shuts again.

“Explain,” the Emissary manages eventually.

Lahabrea meets his co-conspirator’s eye. Downs his arrack in a single attempt.

It is a long attempt.

It lasts several moments.

The other Ascians watch.

“Elidibus,” says Emet-Selch as Lahabrea endeavors to catch his breath in the aftermath, “Lahabrea and I are concerned that you may be experiencing some difficulties in recent years.”

“I’m fine,” replies Elidibus coldly. Holding his drink. “Why did you think this necessary?”

“Because—“ wheezes Lahabrea.

“Because you’re practically a mammet,” says Emet-Selch, picking up Lahabrea’s glass. Moving it just out of reach. “Truly. It’s been what, two hundred years? Three? Neither of us can remember the last time you so much as spoke of matters unrelated to the Rejoining.”

Lahabrea reaches. Elidibus pours his arrack into the other man’s glass before nudging it back toward him.

Elidibus makes eye contact with Emet-Selch.

“I remain focused,” he says evenly. “Nothing more.”

Emet-Selch gestures to the bottle.

Elidibus sighs.

Refills his own glass.

“There are matters I must attend myself. As is the case with each of you.”

“Undoubtedly,” replies Lahabrea more evenly. “But with few exceptions, you haven’t done so.”

A hard stare from behind the mask.

“What would you have me do? I can’t very well take time off.”

Emet-Selch sips.

“A negligible amount of time,” he says, “taken sparingly, may be forgivable.”

5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?

Lmao see this is a plus side/minus side deal. Minus side, it’s being asked just before I embark on a MASSIVE ASS FANFIC. And I basically am excited for all of it. Plus side, there are things I refuse to spoil.

So... putting it vaguely, in no particular order:

- Lahabrea and Hydaelyn meet a second time after Praetorium.

- Moonfire Faire

- Thancred

- Conversations over mulled wine

- Silvertear Lake

Some of these are sex scenes. Most aren’t. But I am very hyped.

[killkaramazov]

I FORGOT ABOUT THIS SBSNDBJSBSM…. we simply must imagine Smerdyakov telling Dmitry the wrong time on purpose to fuck with him

[oleworm]

@adelukshaitan

Ivan's glasses are a child of the collective mind of fans. No one knows where it comes from, but everyone sees Ivan as a nerd, so they draw glasses ahaha. In fact, Ivan doesn't even have a description of his appearance

@enitan-does-doodles​

Someone once said that since Ivan isn't described, he could technically be bald. No. 💔

Thank you all! Guess I did adopt it through fandom osmosis. I did somewhat remember that there wasn’t much about Ivan, but at the same time I expected there to be, since we do get detailed descriptions for Dmitri, Alyosha and even Smerdyakov.

About the scene where he gets mad at Smerdyakov for using glasses to read... I think that’s the reason that I believed that he was using them. It would have made sense to me that he’d get so angry if he imagined that Smerdyakov was using them to copy him!

When I read The Brothers Karamazov earlier this year I remember very clearly that it was mentioned that Ivan had glasses, but when I tried to find a reference to his appearance a Ctrl + F of the document showed nothing of the sort. Did it ever say such a thing or did I make it up? Did my brain patch it from all the lovely fanart I've seen that gives him eyeglasses of some kind? Does anybody know?

[readbookywooks]

The Brothers Make Friends

IVAN was not, however, in a separate room, but only in a place shut off by a screen, so that it was unseen by other people in the room. It was the first room from the entrance with a buffet along the wall. Waiters were continually darting to and fro in it. The only customer in the room was an old retired military man drinking tea in a corner. But there was the usual bustle going on in the other rooms of the tavern; there were shouts for the waiters, the sound of popping corks, the click of billiard balls, the drone of the organ. Alyosha knew that Ivan did not usually visit this tavern and disliked taverns in general. So he must have come here, he reflected, simply to meet Dmitri by arrangement. Yet Dmitri was not there. "Shall I order you fish, soup, or anything. You don't live on tea alone, I suppose," cried Ivan, apparently delighted at having got hold of Alyosha. He had finished dinner and was drinking tea. "Let me have soup, and tea afterwards, I am hungry," said Alyosha gaily. "And cherry jam? They have it here. You remember how you used to love cherry jam when you were little?" "You remember that? Let me have jam too, I like it still." Ivan rang for the waiter and ordered soup, jam, and tea. "I remember everything, Alyosha, I remember you till you were eleven, I was nearly fifteen. There's such a difference between fifteen and eleven that brothers are never companions at those ages. I don't know whether I was fond of you even. When I went away to Moscow for the first few years I never thought of you at all. Then, when you came to Moscow yourself, we only met once somewhere, I believe. And now I've been here more than three months, and so far we have scarcely said a word to each other. To-morrow I am going away, and I was just thinking as I sat here how I could see you to say good-bye and just then you passed." "Were you very anxious to see me, then?" "Very. I want to get to know you once for all, and I want you to know me. And then to say good-bye. I believe it's always best to get to know people just before leaving them. I've noticed how you've been looking at me these three months. There has been a continual look of expectation in your eyes, and I can't endure that. That's how it is I've kept away from you. But in the end I have learned to respect you. The little man stands firm, I thought. Though I am laughing, I am serious. You do stand firm, don't you? I like people who are firm like that whatever it is they stand by, even if they are such little fellows as you. Your expectant eyes ceased to annoy me, I grew fond of them in the end, those expectant eyes. You seem to love me for some reason, Alyosha?" "I do love you, Ivan. Dmitri says of you - Ivan is a tomb! I say of you, Ivan is a riddle. You are a riddle to me even now. But I understand something in you, and I did not understand it till this morning." "What's that?" laughed Ivan. "You won't be angry?" Alyosha laughed too. "Well?" "That you are just as young as other young men of three and twenty, that you are just a young and fresh and nice boy, green in fact! Now, have I insulted you dreadfully?" "On the contrary, I am struck by a coincidence," cried Ivan, warmly and good-humouredly. "Would you believe it that ever since that scene with her, I have thought of nothing else but my youthful greenness, and just as though you guessed that, you begin about it. Do you know I've been sitting here thinking to myself: that if I didn't believe in life, if I lost faith in the woman I love, lost faith in the order of things, were convinced, in fact, that everything is a disorderly, damnable, and perhaps devil-ridden chaos, if I were struck by every horror of man's disillusionment - still I should want to live and, having once tasted of the cup, I would not turn away from it till I had drained it! At thirty, though, I shall be sure to leave the cup, even if I've not emptied it, and turn away - where I don't know. But till I am thirty, I know that my youth will triumph over everything - every disillusionment, every disgust with life. I've asked myself many times whether there is in the world any despair that would overcome this frantic and perhaps unseemly thirst for life in me, and I've come to the conclusion that there isn't, that is till I am thirty, and then I shall lose it of myself, I fancy. Some drivelling consumptive moralists - and poets especially - often call that thirst for life base. It's a feature of the Karamazovs, it's true, that thirst for life regardless of everything; you have it no doubt too, but why is it base? The centripetal force on our planet is still fearfully strong, Alyosha. I have a longing for life, and I go on living in spite of logic. Though I may not believe in the order of the universe, yet I love the sticky little leaves as they open in spring. I love the blue sky, I love some people, whom one loves you know sometimes without knowing why. I love some great deeds done by men, though I've long ceased perhaps to have faith in them, yet from old habit one's heart prizes them. Here they have brought the soup for you, eat it, it will do you good. It's first-rate soup, they know how to make it here. I want to travel in Europe, Alyosha, I shall set off from here. And yet I know that I am only going to a graveyard, but it's a most precious graveyard, that's what it is! Precious are the dead that lie there, every stone over them speaks of such burning life in the past, of such passionate faith in their work, their truth, their struggle and their science, that I know I shall fall on the ground and kiss those stones and weep over them; though I'm convinced in my heart that it's long been nothing but a graveyard. And I shall not weep from despair, but simply because I shall be happy in my tears, I shall steep my soul in emotion. I love the sticky leaves in spring, the blue sky - that's all it is. It's not a matter of intellect or logic, it's loving with one's inside, with one's stomach. One loves the first strength of one's youth. Do you understand anything of my tirade, Alyosha?" Ivan laughed suddenly. "I understand too well, Ivan. One longs to love with one's inside, with one's stomach. You said that so well and I am awfully glad that you have such a longing for life," cried Alyosha. "I think everyone should love life above everything in the world." "Love life more than the meaning of it?" "Certainly, love it, regardless of logic as you say, it must be regardless of logic, and it's only then one will understand the meaning of it. I have thought so a long time. Half your work is done, Ivan, you love life, now you've only to try to do the second half and you are saved." "You are trying to save me, but perhaps I am not lost! And what does your second half mean?" "Why, one has to raise up your dead, who perhaps have not died after all. Come, let me have tea. I am so glad of our talk, Ivan." "I see you are feeling inspired. I am awfully fond of such professions de foi* from such - novices. You are a steadfast person, Alexey. Is it true that you mean to leave the monastery?" * Professions of faith. "Yes, my elder sends me out into the world." "We shall see each other then in the world. We shall meet before I am thirty, when I shall begin to turn aside from the cup. Father doesn't want to turn aside from his cup till he is seventy, he dreams of hanging on to eighty in fact, so he says. He means it only too seriously, though he is a buffoon. He stands on a firm rock, too, he stands on his sensuality though after we are thirty, indeed, there may be nothing else to stand on.... But to hang on to seventy is nasty, better only to thirty; one might retain 'a shadow of nobility' by deceiving oneself. Have you seen Dmitri to-day?" "No, but I saw Smerdyakov," and Alyosha rapidly, though minutely, described his meeting with Smerdyakov. Ivan began listening anxiously and questioned him. "But he begged me not to tell Dmitri that he had told me about him," added Alyosha. Ivan frowned and pondered. "Are you frowning on Smerdyakov's account?" asked Alyosha. "Yes, on his account. Damn him, I certainly did want to see Dmitri, but now there's no need," said Ivan reluctantly. "But are you really going so soon, brother?" "What of Dmitri and father? how will it end?" asked Alyosha anxiously. "You are always harping upon it! What have I to do with it? Am I my brother Dmitri's keeper?" Ivan snapped irritably, but then he suddenly smiled bitterly. "Cain's answer about his murdered brother, wasn't it? Perhaps that's what you're thinking at this moment? Well damn it all, I can't stay here to be their keeper, can I? I've finished what I had to do, and I am going. Do you imagine I am jealous of Dmitri, that I've been trying to steal his beautiful Katerina Ivanovna for the last three months? Nonsense, I had business of my own. I finished it. I am going. I finished it just now, you were witness." "At Katerina Ivanovna's?" "Yes, and I've released myself once for all. And after all, what have I to do with Dmitri? Dmitri doesn't come in. I had my own business to settle with Katerina Ivanovna. You know, on the contrary, that Dmitri behaved as though there was an understanding between us. I didn't ask to do it, but he solemnly handed her over to me and gave us his blessing. It's all too funny. Ah, Alyosha, if you only knew how light my heart is now! Would you believe it, I sat here eating my dinner and was nearly ordering champagne to celebrate my first hour of freedom. Tfoo! It's been going on nearly six months, and all at once I've thrown it off. I could never have guessed even yesterday, how easy it would be to put an end to it if I wanted." "You are speaking of your love, Ivan?" "Of my love, if you like. I fell in love with the young lady, I worried myself over her and she worried me. I sat watching over her... and all at once it's collapsed! I spoke this morning with inspiration, but I went away and roared with laughter. Would you believe it? Yes, it's the literal truth." "You seem very merry about it now," observed Alyosha, looking into his face, which had suddenly grown brighter. "But how could I tell that I didn't care for her a bit! Ha ha! It appears after all I didn't. And yet how she attracted me! How attractive she was just now when I made my speech! And do you know she attracts me awfully even now, yet how easy it is to leave her. Do you think I am boasting?" "No, only perhaps it wasn't love." "Alyosha," laughed Ivan, "don't make reflections about love, it's unseemly for you. How you rushed into the discussion this morning! I've forgotten to kiss you for it.... But how she tormented me! It certainly was sitting by a 'laceration.' Ah, she knew how I loved her! She loved me and not Dmitri," Ivan insisted gaily. "Her feeling for Dmitri was simply a self-laceration. All I told her just now was perfectly true, but the worst of it is, it may take her fifteen or twenty years to find out that she doesn't care for Dmitri, and loves me whom she torments, and perhaps she may never find it out at all, in spite of her lesson to-day. Well, it's better so; I can simply go away for good. By the way, how is she now? What happened after I departed?" Alyosha told him she had been hysterical, and that she was now, he heard, unconscious and delirious. "Isn't Madame Hohlakov laying it on?" "I think not." "I must find out. Nobody dies of hysterics, though. They don't matter. God gave woman hysterics as a relief. I won't go to her at all. Why push myself forward again?" "But you told her that she had never cared for you." "I did that on purpose. Alyosha, shall I call for some champagne? Let us drink to my freedom. Ah, if only you knew how glad I am!" "No, brother, we had better not drink," said Alyosha suddenly. "Besides I feel somehow depressed." "Yes, you've been depressed a long time, I've noticed it." "Have you settled to go to-morrow morning, then?" "Morning? I didn't say I should go in the morning.... But perhaps it may be the morning. Would you believe it, I dined here to-day only to avoid dining with the old man, I loathe him so. I should have left long ago, so far as he is concerned. But why are you so worried about my going away? We've plenty of time before I go, an eternity!" "If you are going away to-morrow, what do you mean by an eternity?" "But what does it matter to us?" laughed Ivan. "We've time enough for our talk, for what brought us here. Why do you look so surprised? Answer: why have we met here? To talk of my love for Katerina Ivanovna, of the old man and Dmitri? of foreign travel? of the fatal position of Russia? of the Emperor Napoleon? Is that it?" "No." "Then you know what for. It's different for other people; but we in our green youth have to settle the eternal questions first of all. That's what we care about. Young Russia is talking about nothing but the eternal questions now. just when the old folks are all taken up with practical questions. Why have you been looking at me in expectation for the last three months? To ask me, 'What do you believe, or don't you believe at all?' That's what your eyes have been meaning for these three months, haven't they?" "Perhaps so," smiled Alyosha. "You are not laughing at me, now, Ivan? "Me laughing! I don't want to wound my little brother who has been watching me with such expectation for three months. Alyosha, look straight at me! Of course, I am just such a little boy as you are, only not a novice. And what have Russian boys been doing up till now, some of them, I mean? In this stinking tavern, for instance, here, they meet and sit down in a corner. They've never met in their lives before and, when they go out of the tavern, they won't meet again for forty years. And what do they talk about in that momentary halt in the tavern? Of the eternal questions, of the existence of God and immortality. And those who do not believe in God talk of socialism or anarchism, of the transformation of all humanity on a new pattern, so that it all comes to the same, they're the same questions turned inside out. And masses, masses of the most original Russian boys do nothing but talk of the eternal questions! Isn't it so?" "Yes, for real Russians the questions of God's existence and of immortality, or, as you say, the same questions turned inside out, come first and foremost, of course, and so they should," said Alyosha, still watching his brother with the same gentle and inquiring smile. "Well, Alyosha, it's sometimes very unwise to be a Russian at all, but anything stupider than the way Russian boys spend their time one can hardly imagine. But there's one Russian boy called Alyosha I am awfully fond of." "How nicely you put that in!" Alyosha laughed suddenly. "Well, tell me where to begin, give your orders. The existence of God, eh?" "Begin where you like. You declared yesterday at father's that there was no God." Alyosha looked searchingly at his brother. "I said that yesterday at dinner on purpose to tease you and I saw your eyes glow. But now I've no objection to discussing with you, and I say so very seriously. I want to be friends with you, Alyosha, for I have no friends and want to try it. Well, only fancy, perhaps I too accept God," laughed Ivan; "that's a surprise for you, isn't it?" "Yes of course, if you are not joking now." "Joking? I was told at the elder's yesterday that I was joking. You know, dear boy, there was an old sinner in the eighteenth century who declared that, if there were no God, he would have to be invented. S'il n'existait pas Dieu, il faudrait l'inventer. And man has actually invented God. And what's strange, what would be marvellous, is not that God should really exist; the marvel is that such an idea, the idea of the necessity of God, could enter the head of such a savage, vicious beast as man. So holy it is, so touching, so wise and so great a credit it does to man. As for me, I've long resolved not to think whether man created God or God man. And I won't go through all the axioms laid down by Russian boys on that subject, all derived from European hypotheses; for what's a hypothesis there is an axiom with the Russian boy, and not only with the boys but with their teachers too, for our Russian professors are often just the same boys themselves. And so I omit all the hypotheses. For what are we aiming at now? I am trying to explain as quickly as possible my essential nature, that is what manner of man I am, what I believe in, and for what I hope, that's it, isn't it? And therefore I tell you that I accept God simply. But you must note this: if God exists and if He really did create the world, then, as we all know, He created it according to the geometry of Euclid and the human mind with the conception of only three dimensions in space. Yet there have been and still are geometricians and philosophers, and even some of the most distinguished, who doubt whether the whole universe, or to speak more widely, the whole of being, was only created in Euclid's geometry; they even dare to dream that two parallel lines, which according to Euclid can never meet on earth, may meet somewhere in infinity. I have come to the conclusion that, since I can't understand even that, I can't expect to understand about God. I acknowledge humbly that I have no faculty for settling such questions, I have a Euclidian earthly mind, and how could I solve problems that are not of this world? And I advise you never to think about it either, my dear Alyosha, especially about God, whether He exists or not. All such questions are utterly inappropriate for a mind created with an idea of only three dimensions. And so I accept God and am glad to, and what's more, I accept His wisdom, His purpose which are utterly beyond our ken; I believe in the underlying order and the meaning of life; I believe in the eternal harmony in which they say we shall one day be blended. I believe in the Word to Which the universe is striving, and Which Itself was 'with God,' and Which Itself is God and so on, and so on, to infinity. There are all sorts of phrases for it. I seem to be on the right path, don't I'? Yet would you believe it, in the final result I don't accept this world of God's, and, although I know it exists, I don't accept it at all. It's not that I don't accept God, you must understand, it's the world created by Him I don't and cannot accept. Let me make it plain. I believe like a child that suffering will be healed and made up for, that all the humiliating absurdity of human contradictions will vanish like a pitiful mirage, like the despicable fabrication of the impotent and infinitely small Euclidian mind of man, that in the world's finale, at the moment of eternal harmony, something so precious will come to pass that it will suffice for all hearts, for the comforting of all resentments, for the atonement of all the crimes of humanity, of all the blood they've shed; that it will make it not only possible to forgive but to justify all that has happened with men - but thought all that may come to pass, I don't accept it. I won't accept it. Even if parallel lines do meet and I see it myself, I shall see it and say that they've met, but still I won't accept it. That's what's at the root of me, Alyosha; that's my creed. I am in earnest in what I say. I began our talk as stupidly as I could on purpose, but I've led up to my confession, for that's all you want. You didn't want to hear about God, but only to know what the brother you love lives by. And so I've told you." Ivan concluded his long tirade with marked and unexpected feeling. "And why did you begin 'as stupidly as you could'?" asked Alyosha, looking dreamily at him. "To begin with, for the sake of being Russian. Russian conversations on such subjects are always carried on inconceivably stupidly. And secondly, the stupider one is, the closer one is to reality. The stupider one is, the clearer one is. Stupidity is brief and artless, while intelligence wriggles and hides itself. Intelligence is a knave, but stupidity is honest and straight forward. I've led the conversation to my despair, and the more stupidly I have presented it, the better for me." "You will explain why you don't accept the world?" said Alyosha. "To be sure I will, it's not a secret, that's what I've been leading up to. Dear little brother, I don't want to corrupt you or to turn you from your stronghold, perhaps I want to be healed by you." Ivan smiled suddenly quite like a little gentle child. Alyosha had never seen such a smile on his face before.

[readbookywooks]

Gold Mines

THIS was the visit of Mitya of which Grushenka had spoken to Rakitin with such horror. She was just then expecting the "message," and was much relieved that Mitya had not been to see her that day or the day before. She hoped that "please God he won't come till I'm gone away," and he suddenly burst in on her. The rest we know already. To get him off her hands she suggested at once that he should walk with her to Samsonov's, where she said she absolutely must go "to settle his accounts," and when Mitya accompanied her at once, she said good-bye to him at the gate, making him promise to come at twelve o'clock to take her home again. Mitya, too, was delighted at this arrangement. If she was sitting at Samsonov's she could not be going to Fyodor Pavlovitch's, "if only she's not lying," he added at once. But he thought she was not lying from what he saw. He was that sort of jealous man who, in the absence of the beloved woman, at once invents all sorts of awful fancies of what may be happening to her, and how she may be betraying him, but, when shaken, heartbroken, convinced of her faithlessness, he runs back to her, at the first glance at her face, her gay, laughing, affectionate face, he revives at once, lays aside all suspicion and with joyful shame abuses himself for his jealousy. After leaving Grushenka at the gate he rushed home. Oh, he had so much still to do that day! But a load had been lifted from his heart, anyway. "Now I must only make haste and find out from Smerdyakov whether anything happened there last night, whether, by any chance, she went to Fyodor Pavlovitch; ough!" floated through his mind. Before he had time to reach his lodging, jealousy had surged up again in his restless heart. Jealousy! "Othello was not jealous, he was trustful," observed Pushkin. And that remark alone is enough to show the deep insight of our great poet. Othello's soul was shattered and his whole outlook clouded simply because his ideal was destroyed. But Othello did not begin hiding, spying, peeping. He was trustful, on the contrary. He had to be led up, pushed on, excited with great difficulty before he could entertain the idea of deceit. The truly jealous man is not like that. It is impossible to picture to oneself the shame and moral degradation to which the jealous man can descend without a qualm of conscience. And yet it's not as though the jealous were all vulgar and base souls. On the contrary, a man of lofty feelings, whose love is pure and full of self-sacrifice, may yet hide under tables, bribe the vilest people, and be familiar with the lowest ignominy of spying and eavesdropping. Othello was incapable of making up his mind to faithlessness- not incapable of forgiving it, but of making up his mind to it - though his soul was as innocent and free from malice as a babe's. It is not so with the really jealous man. It is hard to imagine what some jealous men can make up their mind to and overlook, and what they can forgive! The jealous are the readiest of all to forgive, and all women know it. The jealous man can forgive extraordinarily quickly (though, of course, after a violent scene), and he is able to forgive infidelity almost conclusively proved, the very kisses and embraces he has seen, if only he can somehow be convinced that it has all been "for the last time," and that his rival will vanish from that day forward, will depart to the ends of the earth, or that he himself will carry her away somewhere, where that dreaded rival will not get near her. Of course the reconciliation is only for an hour. For, even if the rival did disappear next day, he would invent another one and would be jealous of him. And one might wonder what there was in a love that had to be so watched over, what a love could be worth that needed such strenuous guarding. But that the jealous will never understand. And yet among them are men of noble hearts. It is remarkable, too, that those very men of noble hearts, standing hidden in some cupboard, listening and spying, never feel the stings of conscience at that moment, anyway, though they understand clearly enough with their "noble hearts" the shameful depths to which they have voluntarily sunk. At the sight of Grushenka, Mitya's jealousy vanished, and, for an instant he became trustful and generous, and positively despised himself for his evil feelings. But it only proved that, in his love for the woman, there was an element of something far higher than he himself imagined, that it was not only a sensual passion, not only the "curve of her body," of which he had talked to Alyosha. But, as soon as Grushenka had gone, Mitya began to suspect her of all the low cunning of faithlessness, and he felt no sting of conscience at it. And so jealousy surged up in him again. He had, in any case, to make haste. The first thing to be done was to get hold of at least a small, temporary loan of money. The nine roubles had almost all gone on his expedition. And, as we all know, one can't take a step without money. But he had thought over in the cart where he could get a loan. He had a brace of fine duelling pistols in a case, which he had not pawned till then because he prized them above all his possessions. In the Metropolis tavern he had some time since made acquaintance with a young official and had learnt that this very opulent bachelor was passionately fond of weapons. He used to buy pistols, revolvers, daggers, hang them on his wall and show them to acquaintances. He prided himself on them, and was quite a specialist on the mechanism of the revolver. Mitya, without stopping to think, went straight to him, and offered to pawn his pistols to him for ten roubles. The official, delighted, began trying to persuade him to sell them outright. But Mitya would not consent, so the young man gave him ten roubles, protesting that nothing would induce him to take interest. They parted friends. Mitya was in haste; he rushed towards Fyodor Pavlovitch's by the back way, to his arbour, to get hold of Smerdyakov as soon as possible. In this way the fact was established that three or four hours before a certain event, of which I shall speak later on, Mitya had not a farthing, and pawned for ten roubles a possession he valued, though, three hours later, he was in possession of thousands.... But I am anticipating. From Marya Kondratyevna (the woman living near Fyodor Pavlovitch's) he learned the very disturbing fact of Smerdyakov's illness. He heard the story of his fall in the cellar, his fit, the doctor's visit, Fyodor Pavlovitch's anxiety; he heard with interest, too, that his brother Ivan had set off that morning for Moscow. "Then he must have driven through Volovya before me," thought Dmitri, but he was terribly distressed about Smerdyakov. "What will happen now? Who'll keep watch for me? Who'll bring me word?" he thought. He began greedily questioning the women whether they had seen anything the evening before. They quite understood what he was trying to find out, and completely reassured him. No one had been there. Ivan Fyodorovitch had been there that night; everything had been perfectly as usual. Mitya grew thoughtful. He would certainly have to keep watch to-day, but where? Here or at Samsonov's gate? He decided that he must be on the lookout both here and there, and meanwhile... meanwhile... The difficulty was that he had to carry out the new plan that he had made on the journey back. He was sure of its success, but he must not delay acting upon it. Mitya resolved to sacrifice an hour to it: "In an hour I shall know everything, I shall settle everything, and then, then, then, first of all to Samsonov's. I'll inquire whether Grushenka's there and instantly be back here again, stay till eleven, and then to Samsonov's again to bring her home." This was what he decided. He flew home, washed, combed his hair, brushed his clothes, dressed, and went to Madame Hohlakov's. Alas! he had built his hopes on her. He had resolved to borrow three thousand from that lady. And what was more, he felt suddenly convinced that she would not refuse to lend it to him. It may be wondered why, if he felt so certain, he had not gone to her at first, one of his own sort, so to speak, instead of to Samsonov, a man he did not know, who was not of his own class, and to whom he hardly knew how to speak. But the fact was that he had never known Madame Hohlakov well, and had seen nothing of her for the last month, and that he knew she could not endure him. She had detested him from the first because he was engaged to Katerina Ivanovna, while she had, for some reason, suddenly conceived the desire that Katerina Ivanovna should throw him over, and marry the "charming, chivalrously refined Ivan, who had such excellent manners." Mitya's manners she detested. Mitya positively laughed at her, and had once said about her that she was just as lively and at her ease as she was uncultivated. But that morning in the cart a brilliant idea had struck him: "If she is so anxious I should not marry Katerina Ivanovna" (and he knew she was positively hysterical upon the subject) "why should she refuse me now that three thousand, just to enable me to leave Katya and get away from her for ever. These spoilt fine ladies, if they set their hearts on anything, will spare no expense to satisfy their caprice. Besides, she's so rich," Mitya argued. As for his "plan" it was just the same as before; it consisted of the offer of his rights to Tchermashnya - but not with a commercial object, as it had been with Samsonov, not trying to allure the lady with the possibility of making a profit of six or seven thousand - but simply as a security for the debt. As he worked out this new idea, Mitya was enchanted with it, but so it always was with him in all his undertakings, in all his sudden decisions. He gave himself up to every new idea with passionate enthusiasm. Yet, when he mounted the steps of Madame Hohlakov's house he felt a shiver of fear run down his spine. At that moment he saw fully, as a mathematical certainty, that this was his last hope, that if this broke down, nothing else was left him in the world but to "rob and murder someone for the three thousand." It was half-past seven when he rang at the bell. At first fortune seemed to smile upon him. As soon as he was announced he was received with extraordinary rapidity. "As though she were waiting for me," thought Mitya, and as soon as he had been led to the drawing-room, the lady of the house herself ran in, and declared at once that she was expecting him. "I was expecting you! I was expecting you! Though I'd no reason to suppose you would come to see me, as you will admit yourself. Yet, I did expect you. You may marvel at my instinct, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, but I was convinced all the morning that you would come." "That is certainly wonderful, madam," observed Mitya, sitting down limply, "but I have come to you on a matter of great importance.... On a matter of supreme importance for me, that is, madam... for me alone... and I hasten - " "I know you've come on most important business. Dmitri Fyodorovitch; it's not a case of presentiment, no reactionary harking back to the miraculous (have you heard about Father Zossima?). This is a case of mathematics: you couldn't help coming, after all that has passed with Katerina Ivanovna; you couldn't, you couldn't, that's a mathematical certainty." "The realism of actual life, madam, that's what it is. But allow me to explain-" "Realism indeed, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I'm all for realism now. I've seen too much of miracles. You've heard that Father Zossima is dead?" "No, madam, it's the first time I've heard of it." Mitya was a little surprised. The image of Alyosha rose to his mind. "Last night, and only imagine-" "Madam," said Mitya, "I can imagine nothing except that I'm in a desperate position, and that if you don't help me, everything will come to grief, and I first of all. Excuse me for the triviality of the expression, but I'm in a fever-" "I know, I know that you're in a fever. You could hardly fail to be, and whatever you may say to me, I know beforehand. I have long been thinking over your destiny, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, I am watching over it and studying it.... Oh, believe me, I'm an experienced doctor of the soul, Dmitri Fyodorovitch." "Madam, if you are an experienced doctor, I'm certainly an experienced patient," said Mitya, with an effort to be polite, "and I feel that if you are watching over my destiny in this way, you will come to my help in my ruin, and so allow me, at least to explain to you the plan with which I have ventured to come to you... and what I am hoping of you.... I have come, madam-" "Don't explain it. It's of secondary importance. But as for help, you're not the first I have helped, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You have most likely heard of my cousin, Madame Belmesov. Her husband was ruined, 'had come to grief,' as you characteristically express it, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I recommended him to take to horse-breeding, and now he's doing well. Have you any idea of horse-breeding, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?" "Not the faintest, madam; ah, madam, not the faintest!" cried Mitya, in nervous impatience, positively starting from his seat. "I simply implore you, madam, to listen to me. Only give me two minutes of free speech that I may just explain to you everything, the whole plan with which I have come. Besides, I am short of time. I'm in a fearful hurry," Mitya cried hysterically, feeling that she was just going to begin talking again, and hoping to cut her short. "I have come in despair... in the last gasp of despair, to beg you to lend me the sum of three thousand, a loan, but on safe, most safe security, madam, with the most trustworthy guarantees! Only let me explain-" "You must tell me all that afterwards, afterwards!" Madame Hohlakov with a gesture demanded silence in her turn, "and whatever you may tell me, I know it all beforehand; I've told you so already. You ask for a certain sum, for three thousand, but I can give you more, immeasurably more; I will save you, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, but you must listen to me." Mitya started from his seat again. "Madam, will you really be so good!" he cried, with strong feeling. "Good God, you've saved me! You have saved a man from a violent death, from a bullet.... My eternal gratitude "I will give you more, infinitely more than three thousand!" cried Madame Hohlakov, looking with a radiant smile at Mitya's ecstasy. "Infinitely? But I don't need so much. I only need that fatal three thousand, and on my part I can give security for that sum with infinite gratitude, and I propose a plan which-" "Enough, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, it's said and done." Madame Hohlakov cut him short, with the modest triumph of beneficence. "I have promised to save you, and I will save you. I will save you as I did Belmesov. What do you think of the gold mines, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?" "Of the gold mines, madam? I have never thought anything about them." "But I have thought of them for you. Thought of them over and over again. I have been watching you for the last month. I've watched you a hundred times as you've walked past, saying to myself: That's a man of energy who ought to be at the gold mines. I've studied your gait and come to the conclusion: that's a man who would find gold." "From my gait, madam?" said Mitya, smiling. "Yes, from your gait. You surely don't deny that character can be told from the gait, Dmitri Fyodorovitch? Science supports the idea. I'm all for science and realism now. After all this business with Father Zossima, which has so upset me, from this very day I'm a realist and I want to devote myself to practical usefulness. I'm cured. 'Enough!' as Turgeney says." "But madam, the three thousand you so generously promised to lend me-" "It is yours, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," Madame Hohlakov cut in at once. "The money is as good as in your pocket, not three thousand, but three million, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, in less than no time. I'll make you a present of the idea: you shall find gold mines, make millions, return and become a leading man, and wake us up and lead us to better things. Are we to leave it all to the Jews? You will found institutions and enterprises of all sorts. You will help the poor, and they will bless you. This is the age of railways, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You'll become famous and indispensable to the Department of Finance, which is so badly off at present. The depreciation of the rouble keeps me awake at night, Dmitri Fyodorovitch; people don't know that side of me-" "Madam, madam! Dmitri interrupted with an uneasy presentiment. "I shall indeed, perhaps, follow your advice, your wise advice, madam.... I shall perhaps set off... to the gold mines.... I'll come and see you again about it... many times, indeed... but now, that three thousand you so generously... oh, that would set me free, and if you could to-day... you see, I haven't a minute, a minute to lose to-day-" "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 drawers, 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 formalities... 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, indeed... for such kindness, but... If only you knew how precious time is to me.... That sum of money, for which I shall be indebted to your generosity... Oh, madam, since you are so kind, so touchingly generous to me," Mitya exclaimed impulsively, "then let me reveal to you... though, of course, you've known it a long time... that I love somebody here.... I have been false to Katya... Katerina Ivanovna I should say.... Oh, I've behaved inhumanly, dishonourably to her, but I fell in love here with another woman... a woman whom you, madam, perhaps, despise, for you know everything already, but whom I cannot leave on any account, and therefore that three thousand now-" "Leave everything, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," Madame Hohlakov interrupted in the most decisive tone. "Leave everything, especially women. Gold mines are your goal, and there's no place for women there. Afterwards, when you come back rich and famous, you will find the girl of your heart in the highest society. That will be a modern girl, a girl of education and advanced ideas. By that time the dawning woman question will have gained ground, and the new woman will have appeared." "Madam, that's not the point, not at all.... Mitya clasped his hands in entreaty. "Yes it is, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, just what you need; the very thing you're yearning for, though you don't realise it yourself. I am not at all opposed to the present woman movement, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. The development of woman, and even the political emancipation of woman in the near future - that's my ideal. I've a daughter myself, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, people don't know that side of me. I wrote a letter to the author, Shtchedrin, on that subject. He has taught me so much, so much about the vocation of woman. So last year I sent him an anonymous letter of two lines: 'I kiss and embrace you, my teacher, for the modern woman. Persevere.' And I signed myself, 'A Mother.' I thought of signing myself 'A contemporary Mother,' and hesitated, but I stuck to the simple 'Mother'; there's more moral beauty in that, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. And the word 'contemporary' might have reminded him of The Contemporary - a painful recollection owing to the censorship.... Good Heavens, what is the matter!" "Madam!" cried Mitya, jumping up at last, clasping his hands before her in helpless entreaty. "You will make me weep if you delay what you have so generously-" "Oh, do weep, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, do weep! That's a noble feeling... such a path lies open before you! Tears will ease your heart, and later on you will return rejoicing. You will hasten to me from Siberia on purpose to share your joy with me-" "But allow me, too!" Mitya cried suddenly. "For the last time I entreat you, tell me, can I have the sum you promised me to-day, if not, when may I come for it?" "What sum, Dmitri Fyodorovitch?" "The three thousand you promised me... that you so generously-" "Three thousand? Roubles? Oh, no, I haven't got three thousand," Madame Hohlakov announced with serene amazement. Mitya was stupefied. "Why, you said just now you said... you said it was as good as in my hands-" "Oh, no, you misunderstood me, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. In that case you misunderstood me. I was talking of the gold mines. It's true I promised you more, infinitely more than three thousand, I remember it all now, but I was referring to the gold mines." "But the money? The three thousand?" Mitya exclaimed, awkwardly. "Oh, if you meant money, I haven't any. I haven't a penny, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I'm quarrelling with my steward about it, and I've just borrowed five hundred roubles from Miusov, myself. No, no, I've no money. And, do you know, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, if I had, I wouldn't give it to you. In the first place I never lend money. Lending money means losing friends. And I wouldn't give it to you particularly. I wouldn't give it you, because I like you and want to save you, for all you need is the gold mines, the gold mines, the gold mines!" "Oh, the devil!" roared Mitya, and with all his might brought his fist down on the table. "Aie! Aie!" cried Madame Hohlakov, alarmed, and she flew to the other end of the drawing-room. Mitya spat on the ground, and strode rapidly out of the room, out of the house, into the street, into the darkness! He walked like one possessed, and beating himself on the breast, on the spot where he had struck himself two days previously, before Alyosha, the last time he saw him in the dark, on the road. What those blows upon his breast signified, on that spot, and what he meant by it - that was, for the time, a secret which was known to no one in the world, and had not been told even to Alyosha. But that secret meant for him more than disgrace; it meant ruin, suicide. So he had determined, if he did not get hold of the three thousand that would pay his debt to Katerina Ivanovna, and so remove from his breast, from that spot on his breast, the shame he carried upon it, that weighed on his conscience. All this will be fully explained to the reader later on, but now that his last hope had vanished, this man, so strong in appearance, burst out crying like a little child a few steps from the Hohlakovs' house. He walked on, and not knowing what he was doing, wiped away his tears with his fist. In this way he reached the square, and suddenly became aware that he had stumbled against something. He heard a piercing wail from an old woman whom he had almost knocked down. "Good Lord, you've nearly killed me! Why don't you look where you're going, scapegrace?" "Why, it's you!" cried Mitya, recognising the old woman in the dark. It was the old servant who waited on Samsonov, whom Mitya had particularly noticed the day before. "And who are you, my good sir?" said the old woman in quite a different voice. "I don't know you in the dark." "You live at Kuzma Kuzmitch's. You're the servant there?" "Just so, sir, I was only running out to Prohoritch's... But I don't know you now." "Tell me, my good woman, is Agrafena Alexandrovna there now?" said Mitya, beside himself with suspense. "I saw her to the house some time ago." "She has been there, sir. She stayed a little while, and went off again." "What? Went away?" cried Mitya. "When did she go?" "Why, as soon as she came. She only stayed a minute. She only told Kuzma Kuzmitch a tale that made him laugh, and then she ran away." "You're lying, damn you!" roared Mitya. "Aie! Aie!" shrieked the old woman, but Mitya had vanished. He ran with all his might to the house where Grushenka lived. At the moment he reached it, Grushenka was on her way to Mokroe. It was not more than a quarter of an hour after her departure. Fenya was sitting with her grandmother, the old cook, Matryona, in the kitchen when "the captain" ran in. Fenya uttered a piercing shriek on seeing him. "You scream?" roared Mitya, "where is she?" But without giving the terror-stricken Fenya time to utter a word, he fell all of a heap at her feet. "Fenya, for Christ's sake, tell me, where is she?" "I don't know. Dmitri Fyodorovitch, my dear, I don't know. You may kill me but I can't tell you." Fenya swore and protested. "You went out with her yourself not long ago-" "She came back!" "Indeed she didn't. By God I swear she didn't come back." "You're lying!" shouted Mitya. "From your terror I know where she is." He rushed away. Fenya in her fright was glad she had got off so easily. But she knew very well that it was only that he was in such haste, or she might not have fared so well. But as he ran, he surprised both Fenya and old Matryona by an unexpected action. On the table stood a brass mortar, with a pestle in it, a small brass pestle, not much more than six inches long. Mitya already had opened the door with one hand when, with the other, he snatched up the pestle, and thrust it in his side-pocket. "Oh Lord! He's going to murder someone!" cried Fenya, flinging up her hands.

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Dangerous Witnesses

I DO NOT know whether the witnesses for the defence and for the prosecution were separated into groups by the President, and whether it was arranged to call them in a certain order. But no doubt it was so. I only know that the witnesses for the prosecution were called first. I repeat I don't intend to describe all the questions step by step. Besides, my account would be to some extent superfluous, because in the speeches for the prosecution and for the defence the whole course of the evidence was brought together and set in a strong and significant light, and I took down parts of those two remarkable speeches in full, and will quote them in due course, together with one extraordinary and quite unexpected episode, which occurred before the final speeches, and undoubtedly influenced the sinister and fatal outcome of the trial. I will only observe that from the first moments of the trial one peculiar characteristic of the case was conspicuous and observed by all, that is, the overwhelming strength of the prosecution as compared with the arguments the defence had to rely upon. Everyone realised it from the first moment that the facts began to group themselves round a single point, and the whole horrible and bloody crime was gradually revealed. Everyone, perhaps, felt from the first that the case was beyond dispute, that there was no doubt about it, that there could be really no discussion, and that the defence was only a matter of form, and that the prisoner was guilty, obviously and conclusively guilty. I imagine that even the ladies, who were so impatiently longing for the acquittal of the interesting prisoner, were at the same time, without exception, convinced of his guilt. What's more, I believe they would have been mortified if his guilt had not been so firmly established, as that would have lessened the effect of the closing scene of the criminal's acquittal. That he would be acquitted, all the ladies, strange to say, were firmly persuaded up to the very last moment. "He is guilty, but he will be acquitted, from motives of humanity, in accordance with the new ideas, the new sentiments that had come into fashion," and so on, and so on. And that was why they had crowded into the court so impatiently. The men were more interested in the contest between the prosecutor and the famous Fetyukovitch. All were wondering and asking themselves what could even a talent like Fetyukovitch's make of such a desperate case; and so they followed his achievements, step by step, with concentrated attention. But Fetyukovitch remained an enigma to all up to the very end, up to his speech. Persons of experience suspected that he had some design, that he was working towards some object, but it was almost impossible to guess what it was. His confidence and self-reliance were unmistakable, however. Everyone noticed with pleasure, moreover, that he, after so short a stay, not more than three days, perhaps, among us, had so wonderfully succeeded in mastering the case and "had studied it to a nicety." People described with relish, afterwards, how cleverly he had "taken down" all the witnesses for the prosecution, and as far as possible perplexed them and, what's more, had aspersed their reputation and so depreciated the value of their evidence. But it was supposed that he did this rather by way of sport, so to speak, for professional glory, to show nothing had been omitted of the accepted methods, for all were convinced that he could do no real good by such disparagement of the witnesses, and probably was more aware of this than anyone, having some idea of his own in the background, some concealed weapon of defence, which he would suddenly reveal when the time came. But meanwhile, conscious of his strength, he seemed to be diverting himself. So, for instance, when Grigory, Fyodor Pavlovitch's old servant, who had given the most damning piece of evidence about the open door, was examined, the counsel for the defence positively fastened upon him when his turn came to question him. It must be noted that Grigory entered the trial with a composed and almost stately air, not the least disconcerted by the majesty of the court or the vast audience listening to him. He gave evidence with as much confidence as though he had been talking with his Marfa, only perhaps more respectfully. It was impossible to make him contradict himself. The prosecutor questioned him first in detail about the family life of the Karamazovs. The family picture stood out in lurid colours. It was plain to ear and eye that the witness was guileless and impartial. In spite of his profound reverence for the memory of his deceased master, he yet bore witness that he had been unjust to Mitya and "hadn't brought up his children as he should. He'd have been devoured by lice when he was little, if it hadn't been for me," he added, describing Mitya's early childhood. "It wasn't fair either of the father to wrong his son over his mother's property, which was by right his." In reply to the prosecutor's question what grounds he had for asserting that Fyodor Pavlovitch had wronged his son in their money relations, Grigory, to the surprise of everyone, had no proof at all to bring forward, but he still persisted that the arrangement with the son was "unfair," and that he ought "to have paid him several thousand roubles more." I must note, by the way, that the prosecutor asked this question (whether Fyodor Pavlovitch had really kept back part of Mitya's inheritance) with marked persistence of all the witnesses who could be asked it, not excepting Alyosha and Ivan, but he obtained no exact information from anyone; all alleged that it was so, but were unable to bring forward any distinct proof. Grigory's description of the scene at the dinner-table, when Dmitri had burst in and beaten his father, threatening to come back to kill him, made a sinister impression on the court, especially as the old servant's composure in telling it, his parsimony of words, and peculiar phraseology were as effective as eloquence. He observed that he was not angry with Mitya for having knocked him down and struck him on the face; he had forgiven him long ago, he said. Of the deceased Smerdyakov he observed, crossing himself, that he was a lad of ability, but stupid and afflicted, and, worse still, an infidel, and that it was Fyodor Pavlovitch and his elder son who had taught him to be so. But he defended Smerdyakov's honesty almost with warmth, and related how Smerdyakov had once found the master's money in the yard, and, instead of concealing it, had taken it to his master, who had rewarded him with a "gold piece" for it, and trusted him implicitly from that time forward. He maintained obstinately that the door into the garden had been open. But he was asked so many questions that I can't recall them all. At last the counsel for the defence began to cross-examine him, and the first question he asked was about the envelope in which Fyodor Pavlovitch was supposed to have put three thousand roubles for "a certain person." "Have you ever seen it, you, who were for so many years in close attendance on your master?" Grigory answered that he had not seen it and had never heard of the money from anyone "till everybody was talking about it." This question about the envelope Fetyukovitch put to everyone who could conceivably have known of it, as persistently as the prosecutor asked his question about Dmitri's inheritance, and got the same answer from all, that no one had seen the envelope, though many had heard of it. From the beginning everyone noticed Fetyukovitch's persistence on this subject. "Now, with your permission I'll ask you a question," Fetyukovitch said, suddenly and unexpectedly. "Of what was that balsam, or, rather, decoction, made, which, as we learn from the preliminary inquiry, you used on that evening to rub your lumbago, in the hope of curing it?" Grigory looked blankly at the questioner, and after a brief silence muttered, "There was saffron in it." "Nothing but saffron? Don't you remember any other ingredient?" "There was milfoil in it, too." "And pepper perhaps?" Fetyukovitch queried. "Yes, there was pepper, too." "Etcetera. And all dissolved in vodka?" "In spirit." There was a faint sound of laughter in the court. "You see, in spirit. After rubbing your back, I believe, you drank what was left in the bottle with a certain pious prayer, only known to your wife?" "I did." "Did you drink much? Roughly speaking, a wine-glass or two?" "It might have been a tumbler-full." "A tumbler-full, even. Perhaps a tumbler and a half?" Grigory did not answer. He seemed to see what was meant. "A glass and a half of neat spirit - is not at all bad, don't you think? You might see the gates of heaven open, not only the door into the garden?" Grigory remained silent. There was another laugh in the court. The President made a movement. "Do you know for a fact," Fetyukovitch persisted, "whether you were awake or not when you saw the open door?" "I was on my legs." "That's not a proof that you were awake." (There was again laughter in the court.) "Could you have answered at that moment, if anyone had asked you a question - for instance, what year it is?" "I don't know." "And what year is it, Anno Domini, do you know?" Grigory stood with a perplexed face, looking straight at his tormentor. Strange to say, it appeared he really did not know what year it was. "But perhaps you can tell me how many fingers you have on your hands?" "I am a servant," Grigory said suddenly, in a loud and distinct voice. "If my betters think fit to make game of me, it is my duty to suffer it." Fetyukovitch was a little taken aback, and the President intervened, reminding him that he must ask more relevant questions. Fetyukovitch bowed with dignity and said that he had no more questions to ask of the witness. The public and the jury, of course, were left with a grain of doubt in their minds as to the evidence of a man who might, while undergoing a certain cure, have seen "the gates of heaven," and who did not even know what year he was living in. But before Grigory left the box another episode occurred. The President, turning to the prisoner, asked him whether he had any comment to make on the evidence of the last witness. "Except about the door, all he has said is true," cried Mitya, in a loud voice. "For combing the lice off me, I thank him; for forgiving my blows, I thank him. The old man has been honest all his life and as faithful to my father as seven hundred poodles." "Prisoner, be careful in your language," the President admonished him. "I am not a poodle," Grigory muttered. "All right, it's I am a poodle myself," cried Mitya. "If it's an insult, I take it to myself and I beg his pardon. I was a beast and cruel to him. I was cruel to Aesop too." "What Aesop?" the President asked sternly again. "Oh, Pierrot... my father, Fyodor Pavlovitch." The President again and again warned Mitya impressively and very sternly to be more careful in his language. "You are injuring yourself in the opinion of your judges." The counsel for the defence was equally clever in dealing with the evidence of Rakitin. I may remark that Rakitin was one of the leading witnesses and one to whom the prosecutor attached great significance. It appeared that he knew everything; his knowledge was amazing, he had been everywhere, seen everything, talked to everybody, knew every detail of the biography of Fyodor Pavlovitch and all the Karamazovs. Of the envelope, it is true, he had only heard from Mitya himself. But he described minutely Mitya's exploits in the Metropolis, all his compromising doings and sayings, and told the story of Captain Snegiryov's "wisp of tow." But even Rakitin could say nothing positive about Mitya's inheritance, and confined himself to contemptuous generalities. "Who could tell which of them was to blame, and which was in debt to the other, with their crazy Karamazov way of muddling things so that no one could make head or tail of it?" He attributed the tragic crime to the habits that had become ingrained by ages of serfdom and the distressed condition of Russia, due to the lack of appropriate institutions. He was, in fact, allowed some latitude of speech. This was the first occasion on which Rakitin showed what he could do, and attracted notice. The prosecutor knew that the witness was preparing a magazine article on the case, and afterwards in his speech, as we shall see later, quoted some ideas from the article, showing that he had seen it already. The picture drawn by the witness was a gloomy and sinister one, and greatly strengthened the case for the prosecution. Altogether, Rakatin's discourse fascinated the public by its independence and the extraordinary nobility of its ideas. There were even two or three outbreaks of applause when he spoke of serfdom and the distressed condition of Russia. But Rakitin, in his youthful ardour, made a slight blunder, of which the counsel for the defence at once adroitly took advantage. Answering certain questions about Grushenka and carried away by the loftiness of his own sentiments and his success, of which he was, of course, conscious, he went so far as to speak somewhat contemptuously of Agrafena Alexandrovna as "the kept mistress of Samsonov." He would have given a good deal to take back his words afterwards, for Fetyukovitch caught him out over it at once. And it was all because Rakitin had not reckoned on the lawyer having been able to become so intimately acquainted with every detail in so short a time. "Allow me to ask," began the counsel for the defence, with the most affable and even respectful smile, "you are, of course, the same Mr. Rakitin whose pamphlet, The Life of the Deceased Elder, Father Zossima, published by the diocesan authorities, full of profound and religious reflections and preceded by an excellent and devout dedication to the bishop, I have just read with such pleasure?" "I did not write it for publication... it was published afterwards," muttered Rakitin, for some reason fearfully disconcerted and almost ashamed. "Oh, that's excellent! A thinker like you can, and indeed ought to, take the widest view of every social question. Your most instructive pamphlet has been widely circulated through the patronage of the bishop, and has been of appreciable service.... But this is the chief thing I should like to learn from you. You stated just now that you were very intimately acquainted with Madame Svyetlov." (It must be noted that Grushenka's surname was Svyetlov. I heard it for the first time that day, during the case.) "I cannot answer for all my acquaintances.... I am a young man... and who can be responsible for everyone he meets?" cried Rakitin, flushing all over. "I understand, I quite understand," cried Fetyukovitch; as though he, too, were embarrassed and in haste to excuse himself. "You, like any other, might well be interested in an acquaintance with a young and beautiful woman who would readily entertain the elite of the youth of the neighbourhood, but... I only wanted to know... It has come to my knowledge, that Madame Svyetlov was particularly anxious a couple of months ago to make the acquaintance of the younger Karamazov, Alexey Fyodorovitch, and promised you twenty-five roubles, if you would bring him to her in his monastic dress. And that actually took place on the evening of the day on which the terrible crime, which is the subject of the present investigation, was committed. You brought Alexey Karamazov to Madame Svyetlov, and did you receive the twenty-five roubles from Madame Svyetlov as a reward, that's what I wanted to hear from you?" "It was a joke.... I don't, see of what interest that can be to you.... I took it for a joke... meaning to give it back later..." "Then you did take - but you have not given it back yet... or have you?" "That's of no consequence," muttered Rakitin, "I refuse to answer such questions.... Of course, I shall give it back." The President intervened, but Fetyukovitch declared he had no more questions to ask of the witness. Mr. Rakitin left the witness-box not absolutely without a stain upon his character. The effect left by the lofty idealism of his speech was somewhat marred, and Fetyukovitch's expression, as he watched him walk away, seemed to suggest to the public "this is a specimen of the lofty-minded persons who accuse him." I remember that this incident, too, did not pass off without an outbreak from Mitya. Enraged by the tone in which Rakitin had referred to Grushenka, he suddenly shouted "Bernard!" When, after Rakitin's cross-examination, the President asked the prisoner if he had anything to say, Mitya cried loudly: "Since I've been arrested, he has borrowed money from me! He is a contemptible Bernard and opportunist, and he doesn't believe in God; he took the bishop in!" Mitya of course, was pulled up again for the intemperance of his language, but Rakitin was done for. Captain Snegiryov's evidence was a failure, too, but from quite a different reason. He appeared in ragged and dirty clothes, muddy boots, and in spite of the vigilance and expert observation of the police officers, he turned out to be hopelessly drunk. On being asked about Mitya's attack upon him, he refused to answer. "God bless him. Ilusha told me not to. God will make it up to me yonder." "Who told you not to tell? Of whom are you talking?" "Ilusha, my little son. 'Father, father, how he insulted you!' He said that at the stone. Now he is dying..." The captain suddenly began sobbing, and plumped down on His knees before the President. He was hurriedly led away amidst the laughter of the public. The effect prepared by the prosecutor did not come off at all. Fetyukovitch went on making the most of every opportunity, and amazed people more and more by his minute knowledge of the case. Thus, for example, Trifon Borissovitch made a great impression, of course, very prejudicial to Mitya. He calculated almost on his fingers that on his first visit to Mokroe, Mitya must have spent three thousand roubles, "or very little less. Just think what he squandered on those gypsy girls alone! And as for our lousy peasants, it wasn't a case of flinging half a rouble in the street, he made them presents of twenty-five roubles each, at least, he didn't give them less. And what a lot of money was simply stolen from him! And if anyone did steal, he did not leave a receipt. How could one catch the thief when he was flinging his money away all the time? Our peasants are robbers, you know; they have no care for their souls. And the way he went on with the girls, our village girls! They're completely set up since then, I tell you, they used to be poor." He recalled, in fact, every item of expense and added it all up. So the theory that only fifteen hundred had been spent and the rest had been put aside in a little bag seemed inconceivable. "I saw three thousand as clear as a penny in his hands, I saw it with my own eyes; I should think I ought to know how to reckon money," cried Trifon Borissovitch, doing his best to satisfy "his betters." When Fetyukovitch had to cross-examine him, he scarcely tried to refute his evidence, but began asking him about an incident at the first carousal at Mokroe, a month before the arrest, when Timofey and another peasant called Akim had picked up on the floor in the passage a hundred roubles dropped by Mitya when he was drunk, and had given them to Trifon Borissovitch and received a rouble each from him for doing so. "Well," asked the lawyer," did you give that hundred roubles back to Mr. Karamazov?" Trifon Borissovitch shuffled in vain.... He was obliged, after the peasants had been examined, to admit the finding of the hundred roubles, only adding that he had religiously returned it all to Dmitri Fyodorovitch "in perfect honesty, and it's only because his honour was in liquor at the time, he wouldn't remember it." But, as he had denied the incident of the hundred roubles till the peasants had been called to prove it, his evidence as to returning the money to Mitya was naturally regarded with great suspicion. So one of the most dangerous witnesses brought forward by the prosecution was again discredited. The same thing happened with the Poles. They took up an attitude of pride and independence; they vociferated loudly that they had both been in the service of the Crown, and that "Pan Mitya" had offered them three thousand "to buy their honour," and that they had seen a large sum of money in his hands. Pan Mussyalovitch introduced a terrible number of Polish words into his sentences, and seeing that this only increased his consequence in the eyes of the President and the prosecutor, grew more and more pompous, and ended by talking in Polish altogether. But Fetyukovitch caught them, too, in his snares. Trifon Borissovitch, recalled, was forced, in spite of his evasions, to admit that Pan Vrublevsky had substituted another pack of cards for the one he had provided, and that Pan Mussyalovitch had cheated during the game. Kalgonov confirmed this, and both the Poles left the witness-box with damaged reputations, amidst laughter from the public. Then exactly the same thing happened with almost all the most dangerous witnesses. Fetyukovitch succeeded in casting a slur on all of them, and dismissing them with a certain derision. The lawyers and experts were lost in admiration, and were only at a loss to understand what good purpose could be served by it, for all, I repeat, felt that the case for the prosecution could not be refuted, but was growing more and more tragically overwhelming. But from the confidence of the "great magician" they saw that he was serene, and they waited, feeling that "such a man" had not come from Petersburg for nothing, and that he was not a man to return unsuccessful.