Fenya was sitting in the kitchen with her grandmother. They were just going to bed. Relying on Nazar Ivanovitch, they had not locked themselves in. Dmitri ran in, pounced on Fenya, and seized her by the throat. Speak at once. Where is she? With whom is she now, at Mokroe? Both the women squealed. Fenya, frightened to death, said she would tell everything and hide nothing. She has gone to Mokroe, to her officer. What officer? The same one she used to know, the one who threw her over five years ago. The horror of the night was still on him, and then it turned. He began to question her more gently. There was a message from Alyosha. There was the hour of love. He talked, standing there with the blood still on him, of the fence, and of stepping aside.
He went to Pyotr Ilyitch Perhotin. In his hand were rainbow-coloured hundred-rouble notes, and the fingers holding them were covered with blood. Perhotin could not judge the sum at a glance. How have you grown so rich? Dmitri had the pistols to redeem, the ones he had pawned. He sent the boy to Plotnikov's, which closed late, to change a note, and then he was ordering as if the old Mokroe revel were to be done again. Champagne. Provisions. He was in a hurry and he was spending as if the money had no tomorrow. The loaded pistol was part of what he took back. He takes a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket. In a large distinct hand, he writes: I punish myself for my whole life, my whole life I punish.
Do you know how to step aside? Making way. Making way for a dear creature, and for one he hates. And to let the one he hates become dear, that is what making way means. He loves golden-haired Phœbus and his warm light. Andrey is to drive him. It is a little more than twenty versts, and he wants the horses now. On the way he keeps thinking, and he says so, that all things come to an end and all things are made equal. Perhotin keeps thinking of the pistols. That's all foolery, too. Drink, and don't be fanciful. I love life. I've loved life too much, shamefully much. Enough. Let's drink to life. Why am I pleased with myself?
Fenya is on her knees to him before he goes. She begs him not to harm her mistress, and not to take a fellow creature's life. Mitya won't hurt anyone, he shouts. The silly fool won't hurt anyone again. But Fenya, get up, don't kneel. I'll throw the pistols into the pool on the road. He takes them with him all the same, and he drives off with Andrey. Behind him the talk has already started. Three thousand? But where can he have got three thousand? The story of Madame Hohlakov's present is received with scepticism. Hasn't he robbed his old father? That's the question. He boasted aloud that he would kill his father. They all heard him. And it was three thousand he talked about. Pyotr Ilyitch listens. All at once he becomes short and dry in his answers, and he says not a word about the blood on Dmitri's face and hands, though he had meant to speak of it.
