The Brothers Karamazov

Karamazov, Fyodor Pavlovich

Dmitri F yodorovich (M itya, M itka, M itenka, M itri F yodorovich) I vanF yodorovich (V anya, V anka, V anechka)

Alex eiF yodorovich (Al yosha, Al yoshka, Al yoshenka, Al yoshechka, Alex eichik, L yosha, L yoshenka)

Smerdy akov, Pavel Fyodorovich

Svet lov, Agra fenO Alex androvna ( Grushenka, Grusha, Grushka)

Ver khovtsev, Kate rina I vanovna (K atya, Katka, Katenka)

Zo sima (Zinovy before he became a monk)

Snegir yov, Nikolai Ilyich A rina Pe trovna Var varaNiko laevna (V arya) Nina Niko laevna ( Ninochka) Il yusha (Il yushechka, Il yushka)

Kra sotkin, Niko laiI vanov (K olya)

Khokhla kov, Kate rina Osipovna Liza ( Lise) List of Characters

Ku tuzov, Gri gory Va silievich (also Va siliev) Marfa Ig natievna (also Ignatieva)

Ra kitin, Mikh ail Osipovich ( Misha, Ra kitka, Raki tushka)

Paissy

Fera pont

Ippo litKir illovich (no family name)

Nelyudov, Nikolai Par fenovich

Fetyufcovich

Herzenstube

Maximov (Maximushka)

Kal ganov, Pyotr Fomich (Petrusha)

Per khotin, Pyotr Ilyi ch

Mi usov, Pyotr Alexandrovich

Tri fonBorisovich (also Borisich)

Fe dosya M arkovna (Fenya, also Fedosya Markov)

Samsonov, Kuzma Kuzmich

Lizaveta Smerdyashchaya (Stinking Lizaveta; no family name)

Ma karov, Mikh ailMa karovich (also Ma karich)

Mussyalovich

Vrublevsky

Maria Kondratievna (no family name)

Varvmsky

THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV

Dedicated to Anna Grigorievna Dostoevsky

Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except a corn of

wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth

alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.

John 12:24

From the Author

Starting out on the biography of my hero, Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov, I find myself in some perplexity. Namely, that while I do call Alexei Fyodorovich my hero, still, I myself know that he is by no means a great man, so that I can foresee the inevitable questions, such as: What is notable about your Alexei Fyodorovich that you should choose him for your hero? What has he really done? To whom is he known, and for what? Why should I, the reader, spend my time studying the facts of his life?

This last question is the most fateful one, for I can only reply: perhaps you will see from the novel. But suppose they read the novel and do not see, do not agree with the noteworthiness of my Alexei Fyodorovich? I say this because, to my sorrow, I foresee it. To me he is noteworthy, but I decidedly doubt that I shall succeed in proving it to the reader. The thing is that he does, perhaps, make a figure, but a figure of an indefinite, indeterminate sort. Though it would be strange to demand clarity from people in a time like ours. One thing, perhaps, is rather doubtless: he is a strange man, even an odd one. But strangeness and oddity will sooner harm than justify any claim to attention, especially when everyone is striving to unite particulars and find at least some general sense in the general senselessness. Whereas an odd man is most often a particular and isolated case. Is that not so?

Now if you do not agree with this last point and reply: “Not so” or “Not always,” then perhaps I shall take heart concerning the significance of my hero, Alexei Fyodorovich. For not only is an odd man “not always” a particular and isolated case, but, on the contrary, it sometimes happens that it is precisely he, perhaps, who bears within himself the heart of the whole, while the other people of his epoch have all for some reason been torn away from it for a time by some kind of flooding wind.

I would not, in fact, venture into these rather vague and uninteresting explanations but would simply begin without any introduction—if they like it, they’ll read it as it is—but the trouble is that while I have just one biography, I have two novels. The main novel is the second one—about the activities of my hero in our time, that is, in our present, current moment. As for the first novel, it already took place thirteen years ago and is even almost not a novel at all but just one moment from my hero’s early youth. It is impossible for me to do without this first novel, or much in the second novel will be incomprehensible. Thus my original difficulty becomes even more complicated: for if I, that is, the biographer himself, think that even one novel may, perhaps, be unwarranted for such a humble and indefinite hero, then how will it look if I appear with two; and what can explain such presumption on my part?

Being at a loss to resolve these questions, I am resolved to leave them without any resolution. To be sure, the keen-sighted reader will already have guessed long ago that that is what I’ve been getting at from the very beginning and will only be annoyed with me for wasting fruitless words and precious time. To this I have a ready answer: I have been wasting fruitless words and precious time, first, out of politeness, and, second, out of cunning. At least I have given some warning beforehand. In fact, I am even glad that my novel broke itself into two stories “while preserving the essential unity of the whole”: having acquainted himself with the first story, the reader can decide for himself whether it is worth his while to begin the second. Of course, no one is bound by anything; he can also drop the book after two pages of the first story and never pick it up again. But still there are readers of such delicacy that they will certainly want to read to the very end so as to make no mistake in their impartial judgment. Such, for instance, are all Russian critics. Faced with these people, I feel easier in my heart: for, in spite of their care and conscientiousness, I am nonetheless providing them with the most valid pretext for dropping the story at the first episode of the novel. Well, that is the end of my introduction. I quite agree that it is superfluous, but since it is already written, let it stand.

And now to business.

PART I

BOOK I: A NICE LITTLE FAMILY

Chapter 1: Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov

Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov was the third son of a landowner from our district, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, well known in his own day (and still remembered among us) because of his dark and tragic death, which happened exactly thirteen years ago and which I shall speak of in its proper place. For the moment I will only say of this “landowner” (as we used to call him, though for all his life he hardly ever lived on his estate) that he was a strange type, yet one rather frequently met with, precisely the type of man who is not only worthless and depraved but muddleheaded as well—one of those muddleheaded people who still handle their own little business deals quite skillfully, if nothing else. Fyodor Pavlovich, for instance, started with next to nothing, he was a very small landowner, he ran around having dinner at other men’s tables, he tried to foist himself off as a sponger, and yet at his death he was discovered to have as much as a hundred thousand roubles in hard cash. At the same time he remained all his life one of the most muddleheaded madcaps in our district. Again I say it was not stupidity—most of these madcaps are rather clever and shrewd—but precisely muddleheadedness, even a special, national form of it.