Mitya ended beside himself. He held Alyosha with both hands on his shoulders, and his yearning, feverish eyes were fixed on his brother’s.
“They don’t let convicts marry, do they?” he repeated for the third time in a supplicating voice.
Alyosha listened with extreme surprise and was deeply moved.
“Tell me one thing,” he said. “Is Ivan very keen on it, and whose idea was it?”
“His, his, and he is very keen on it. He didn’t come to see me at first, then he suddenly came a week ago and he began about it straight away. He is awfully keen on it. He doesn’t ask me, but orders me to escape. He doesn’t doubt of my obeying him, though I showed him all my heart as I have to you, and told him about the hymn, too. He told me he’d arrange it; he’s found out about everything. But of that later. He’s simply set on it. It’s all a matter of money: he’ll pay ten thousand for escape and give me twenty thousand for America. And he says we can arrange a magnificent escape for ten thousand.”
“And he told you on no account to tell me?” Alyosha asked again.
“To tell no one, and especially not you; on no account to tell you. He is afraid, no doubt, that you’ll stand before me as my conscience. Don’t tell him I told you. Don’t tell him, for anything.”
“You are right,” Alyosha pronounced; “it’s impossible to decide anything before the trial is over. After the trial you’ll decide of yourself. Then you’ll find that new man in yourself and he will decide.”
“A new man, or a Bernard who’ll decide à la Bernard, for I believe I’m a contemptible Bernard myself,” said Mitya, with a bitter grin.
“But, brother, have you no hope then of being acquitted?”