Which translation of The Brothers Karamazov should you read?

Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, a land owner well known in our district in his own day, and still remembered among us owing to his gloomy and tragic death, which happened thirteen years ago, and which I shall describe in its proper place. For the present I will only say that this “landowner”—for so we used to call him, although he hardly spent a day of his life on his own estate—was a strange type, yet one pretty frequently to be met with, a type abject and vicious and at the same time senseless. But he was one of those senseless persons who are very well capable of looking after their worldly affairs, and, apparently, after nothing else.

Aleksey Fyodorovich Karamazov was the third son of a landowner in our district, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, so noted in his time (and even now still recollected among us) for his tragic and fishy death, which occurred just thirteen years ago and which I shall report in its proper context. All I shall say now about this ‘landowner’ (as he was called among us, though for most of his life he hardly ever lived on his estate at all) is that he was a strange type, one that is, however, rather often encountered, namely the type of man who is not only empty and depraved but also muddle-headed – belonging, though, to the class of muddle-headed men who are perfectly well able to handle their little property affairs, and, it would seem, these alone.

Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, a landowner in our district who became a celebrity (and is remembered to this day) because of the tragic and mysterious end he met exactly thirteen years ago, which will be described in its proper place. For the moment, I will only say of this “landowner” (as they referred to him here, although he spent hardly any time on his land) that he belonged to a peculiar though widespread human type, the sort of man who is not only wretched and depraved but also muddle-headed—muddle-headed in a way that allows him to pull off all sorts of shady little financial deals and not much else.

Alexey Fyodorovich Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, a landowner of our district, who became notorious in his own day (and is still remembered among us) because of his tragic and mysterious death, which occurred exactly thirteen years ago and which I shall relate in its proper place. For the present all I shall say about this ‘landowner’ (as we used to call him, though he hardly ever lived on his estate) is that he was a strange sort of individual, yet one that is met with pretty frequently, the sort of man who is not only worthless and depraved, but also muddle-headed—though one of those muddle-headed men who know very well how to bring off their far from honest business deals and, it would seem, nothing else.

Besides, too high a price is asked for harmony; it’s beyond our means to pay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance ticket, and if I am an honest man I am bound to give it back as soon as possible. And that I am doing. It’s not God that I don’t accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return Him the ticket.

And in any case, harmony has been overestimated in value, we really don’t have the money to pay so much to get in. And so I hasten to return my entry ticket. And if I am at all an honest man, I am obliged to return it as soon as possible. That is what I am doing. It isn’t God I don’t accept, Alyosha, it’s just his ticket that I most respectfully return to him.

I feel, moreover, that such harmony is rather overpriced. We cannot afford to pay so much for a ticket. And so I hasten to return the ticket I’ve been sent. If I’m honest, it is my duty to return it as long as possible before the show. And that’s just what I’m trying to do, Alyosha. It isn’t that I reject God; I am simply returning Him most respectfully the ticket that would entitle me to a seat.

Besides, too high a price has been placed on harmony. We cannot afford to pay so much for admission. And therefore I hasten to return my ticket of admission. And indeed, if I am an honest man, I’m bound to hand it back as soon as possible. This I am doing. It is not God that I do not accept, Alyosha. I merely most respectfully return him the ticket.

He was wearing a brownish reefer jacket, rather shabby, evidently made by a good tailor though, and of a fashion at least three years old, that had been discarded by smart and well-to-do people for the last two years. His linen and his long scarf-like necktie were all such as are worn by people who aim at being stylish, but on closer inspection his linen was not over-clean and his wide scarf was very threadbare. The visitor’s check trousers were of excellent cut, but were too light in color and too tight for the present fashion. His soft fluffy white hat was out of keeping with the season. In brief there was every appearance of gentility on straitened means.

He was dressed in a brown jacket, evidently from a good tailor, but now rather shabby, having been made the year before last and now quite out of fashion, of a kind that no man of society and means had worn for the past two years. His shirt and collar, his long, scarf-like necktie were all in the manner affected by every smartish gentleman, but if one looked closer one could see that the shirt and collar were rather dirty, and the broad scarf very threadbare. The checked trousers of the guest were of an excellent fit, but were again too light in colour and somehow tighter than anyone wore now; the soft, white goatsfelt hat which the guest had brought along with him, quite out of keeping with the season, produced the same effect. It was, in a word, one of respectability maintained on very slender pecuniary means.

He wore a brownish jacket which had obviously been made by a first-class tailor but a good three years earlier, for it was rather worn and was cut in a fashion that no wealthy man of the world would have been seen in for at least the past two years. His shirt and his wide tie were just the kind worn by elegant gentlemen, although if you looked closely you could see that the shirt was none too clean and the tie was slightly frayed. The visitor’s checkered trousers fitted him perfectly, but again they were a bit too light and somewhat narrower than the present fashion. And his fluffy white felt hat was altogether out of season. In short, he looked like a very respectable gentleman somewhat down on his luck.

He was wearing a sort of brown coat, evidently cut by a good tailor, but rather threadbare, made about three years before and quite out of fashion now, in a style that had not been worn for two years by well-to-do men about town. His linen and his long scarf-like cravat were all such as were worn by smart gentlemen, but on closer inspection his linen was rather dirty and the wide scarf very threadbare. The visitor’s check trousers were of an excellent cut, but again were a little too light in colour and a little too tight, such, in fact, as were no longer worn, and the same was true of his white fluffy felt hat, which was certainly not in season. In short, he gave the impression of a well-bred gentleman who was rather hard up.

Boys, we shall soon part. I shall be for some time with my two brothers, of whom one is going to Siberia and the other is lying at death’s door. But soon I shall leave this town, perhaps for a long time, so we shall part. Let us make a compact here, at Ilusha’s stone, that we will never forget Ilusha and one another. And whatever happens to us later in life, if we don’t meet for twenty years afterwards, let us always remember how we buried the poor boy at whom we once threw stones, do you remember, by the bridge? and afterwards we all grew so fond of him. He was a fine boy, a kindhearted, brave boy, he felt for his father’s honor and resented the cruel insult to him and stood up for him.

Gentlemen, we shall soon be parted. I am going to be for a while yet with my two brothers, of whom one is about to go into exile, and the other is lying at the point of death. But soon I am going to leave this town, possibly for a very long time. And then, gentlemen, we shall be parted. So let us here, by Ilyusha’s stone, agree that we shall never forget – in the first place, Ilyushechka, and in the second, one another. And whatever may befall us subsequently in life, even though we do not meet for twenty years hereafter – all the same let us remember how we buried the poor boy, the one at whom you formerly threw stones, do you remember, down there by the bridge? – but whom everyone came to love so later. He was a wonderful boy, a kind and brave boy, he had a sense of the honour and of the bitter insult that his father bore, and for which he rose up.

Boys, you and I will have to part quite soon. I’ll have to stay here for some time, though, with my two brothers. One of them is waiting to be sent off to Siberia. The other is very ill, and his life is in danger. But I’ll leave this town soon enough and may be gone for a very long time. And so we shall part. So let us agree, here by this stone, that we shall never forget, first, Ilyusha and, second, one another. And whatever happens to us later in life, even if we do not meet again for the next twenty years, let us always remember this day when we buried the poor little boy whom we previously pelted with stones—remember, by that bridge?—and to whom, later, we all became so attached. He was a nice, kind, brave boy, very conscious of his father’s dignity and very sensitive to the cruel insults showered on his father. And it was against those insults that he revolted.

Boys, we shall soon part. I’m staying here at present with my two brothers, one of whom is going to Siberia and the other is dangerously ill. But soon I shall leave this town, perhaps for a long time. So we may not see each other again. Let us, therefore, agree here, at Ilyusha’s stone, never to forget, first, Ilyusha, and, secondly, one another. And whatever may befall us in life afterwards, even if we do not meet again for twenty years, we shall always remember how we buried the poor boy at whom we threw stones before at that little bridge—remember?—and how we all loved him so much afterwards. He was a nice boy, a good and brave boy. He was deeply conscious of his father’s honour and the cruel insult to him, against which he had fought so stoutly.