“Mitya, you are unhappy, yes! But not as unhappy as you think. Don’t worry yourself to death with despair.”
“What, do you suppose I’d shoot myself because I can’t get three thousand to pay back? That’s just it. I shan’t shoot myself. I haven’t the strength now. Afterwards, perhaps. But now I’m going to Grushenka. I don’t care what happens.”
“And what then?”
“I’ll be her husband if she deigns to have me, and when lovers come, I’ll go into the next room. I’ll clean her friends’ goloshes, blow up their samovar, run their errands.”
“Katerina Ivanovna will understand it all,” Alyosha said solemnly. “She’ll understand how great this trouble is and will forgive. She has a lofty mind, and no one could be more unhappy than you. She’ll see that for herself.”
“She won’t forgive everything,” said Dmitri, with a grin. “There’s something in it, brother, that no woman could forgive. Do you know what would be the best thing to do?”
“What?”
“Pay back the three thousand.”
“Where can we get it from? I say, I have two thousand. Ivan will give you another thousand—that makes three. Take it and pay it back.”
“And when would you get it, your three thousand? You’re not of age, besides, and you must—you absolutely must—take my farewell to her today, with the money or without it, for I can’t drag on any longer, things have come to such a pass. Tomorrow is too late. I shall send you to father.”