 Part 4 Book 10, Chapter 1 of the Brothers Karamazov. It was the beginning of November. There had been a hard frost, eleven degrees rimmer, without snow, but a little dry snow had fallen on the frozen ground during the night, and a keen dry wind was lifting and blowing it along the dreary streets of our town, especially about the marketplace. It was a dull morning, but the snow had seized. Not far from the marketplace, close to Plotnikov's shop, there stood a small house, very clean both without and within. It belonged to Madame Krasotkin, the widow of a former provincial secretary who had been dead for fourteen years. His widow, still a nice-looking woman of thirty-two, was living in her neat little house on her private means. She lived in respectable seclusion. She was of a soft but fairly cheerful disposition. She was about eighteen at the time of her husband's death. She had been married only a year, and had just borne him a son. From a day of his death she had diverted herself heart and soul to the bringing up of her precious treasure, her boy Kalya. Though she had loved him passionately those fourteen years, he had caused her far more suffering than happiness. She had been trembling and fainting with terror almost every day, afraid he would fall ill, would catch cold, do something naughty, climb on a chair and fall off it, and so on and so on. When Kalya began going to school the mother diverted herself to studying all the sciences with him so as to help him and go through his lessons with him. She hastened to make the acquaintance of the teachers and their wives, even made up to Kalya's school fellows and fawned upon them in the hope of thus saving Kalya from being teased, laughed at or beaten by them. She went so far that the boys actually began to mock at him on her account and taunt him with being a mother's darling. The boy could take his own part. He was a resolute boy, tremendously strong as was rumoured in his class, and soon proved to be the fact. He was agile, strong-willed, and of an audacious and enterprising temper. He was good at lessons, and there was a rumour in the school that he could beat the teacher, Dardanielov, at arithmetic and universal history. Though he looked down upon everyone, he was a good comrade and not supercilious. He accepted his school fellows' respect as his due, but was friendly with them. Above all, he knew where to draw the line. He could restrain himself on occasion, and in his relations with the teachers, he never overstepped that last mystic limit beyond which a prank becomes an unpardonable breach of discipline. But he was as fond of mischief on every possible occasion as the smallest boy in the school, and not so much for the sake of mischief as for creating a sensation, inventing something, something effective and conspicuous. He was extremely vain. He knew how to make even his mother give way to him. He was almost a spottick in his control of her. She gave way to him. Oh! She had given way to him for years. The one thought unendurable to her was that her boy had no great love for her. She was always fancying that Collier was unfeeling to her, and at times dissolving into hysterical tears she used to reproach him with his coldness. The boy disliked this, and the more demonstrations of feeling were demanded of him, the more he seemed intentionally to avoid them. Yet it was not intentional on his part, but instinctive. It was his character. His mother was mistaken. He was very fond of her. He only disliked sheepish sentimentality as he expressed it in his schoolboy language. There was a bookcase in the house containing a few books that had been his father's. Collier was fond of reading, and had read several of them by himself. His mother did not mind that, and only wanted sometimes at seeing the boy stand for hours by the bookcase, pouring over a book instead of going to play. And in that way Collier read some things unsuitable for his age. Though the boy, as a rule, knew where to draw the line in his mischief, he had of late begun to play pranks that caused his mother serious alarm. It is true there was nothing vicious in what he did, but a wild mad recklessness. It happened that July, during the summer holidays, that the mother and son went to another district forty-five miles away to spend a week with a distant relation, whose husband was an official at the railway station. The very station, the nearest one to our town, from which a month later, Ivan Fyodorovich Karamazov set off for Moscow. There Collier began by carefully investigating every detail connected with the railways, knowing that he could impress his school-fellows when he got home with his newly acquired knowledge. But there happened to be some other boys in the place with whom he soon made friends. Some of them were living at the station, others in the neighborhood. There were six or seven of them, all between twelve and fifteen, and two of them came from our town. The boys played together, and on the fourth or fifth day of Collier's stay at the station a mad bet was made by the foolish boys. Collier, who was almost the youngest of the party and rather looked down upon by the others in consequence, was moved by vanity or by reckless bravado to bet them two rubles that he would lie down between the rails at night when the eleven o'clock train was due, and would lie there without moving while the train rolled over him at full speed. It is true they made a preliminary investigation from which it appeared that it was possible to lie so flat between the rails that the train could pass over without touching. But to lie there was no joke. Collier maintained stoutly that he would. At first they laughed at him, called him a little liar, a braggart, but that only egged him on. What peaked him most was that these boys of fifteen turned up their noses at him too superciliously, and were at first disposed to treat him as a small boy not fit to associate with them, and that was an unendurable insult. And so it was resolved to go in the evening half-a-half of the station, so that the train might have time to get up full speed after leaving the station. The boys assembled. It was a pitch-dark night without a moon. At the time fixed, Collier lay down between the rails. The five others, who had taken the bet, waited among the bushes below the embankment, their hearts beating with suspense, which was followed by alarm and remorse. At last they heard in the distance the rumble of the train leaving the station. Two red lights gleamed out of the darkness. The monster roared as it approached. Run! Run away from the rails! The boys cried to Collier from the bushes, breathless with terror. But it was too late. The train darted up and flew past. The boys rushed to Collier. He lay without moving. They began pulling at him, lifting him up. He suddenly got up and walked away without a word. Then he explained that he had lain there as though he were insensible to frighten them. But the fact was that he really had lost consciousness as he confessed long after to his mother. In this way his reputation as a desperate character was established forever. He returned home to the station as white as a sheet. Next day he had a slight attack of nervous fever, but he was in high spirits and well pleased with himself. The incident did not become known at once, but when they came back to the town it penetrated to the school and even reached the ears of the masters. But then Collier's mother hastened to entreat the masters on her boy's behalf, and in the end Dardanielov, a respected and influential teacher, exerted himself in his favour, and the affair was ignored. Dardanielov was a middle-aged bachelor who had been passionately in love with Madame Krasotkin for many years past, and at once already, about a year previously, ventured, trembling with fear and the delicacy of his sentiments, to offer her most respectfully his hand in marriage, but she refused him resolutely, feeling that to accept him would be an act of treachery to her son, though Dardanielov had, to judge from certain mysterious symptoms, reasoned for believing that he was not an object of a version to the charming but too chaste and tender-hearted widow. Collier's mad prank seemed to have broken the eyes, and Dardanielov was rewarded for his intercession by a suggestion of hope. The suggestion, it is true, was a faint one, but then Dardanielov was such a paragon of purity and delicacy that it was enough for the time being to make him perfectly happy. He was fond of the boy, though he would have felt it beneath him to try and win him over, and was severe and strict with him in class. Collier, too, kept him at a respectful distance. He learned his lessons perfectly. He was second in his class, who was reserved with Dardanielov, and the whole class firmly believed that Collier was so good at universal history that he could beat even Dardanielov. Collier did indeed ask him the question, Who Found a Troy? To which Dardanielov had made a very vague reply, referring to the movements and migrations of races, to the remoteness of the period, to the mythical legends, but the question, Who Had Found a Troy? That is, what individuals he could not answer, and even for some reason regarded the question as idle and frivolous, but the boys remained convinced that Dardanielov did not know Who Found a Troy? Collier had read of the founders of Troy in Smaragdov, whose history was among the books in his father's bookcase. In the end, all the boys became interested in the question, Who It Was That Had Found a Troy? But Krasotkin would not tell his secret, and his reputation for knowledge remained unshaken. After the incident on the railway, a certain change came over Collier's attitude to his mother. When Anna Fyodorovna, Madame Krasotkin, heard of her son's avoid, she almost went out of her mind with horror. She had such terrible tax of hysterics, lasting with intervals for several days, that Collier, seriously alarmed at last, promised on his honor that such pranks should never be repeated. He swore on his knees before the holy image, and swore by the memory of his father at Madame Krasotkin's instance, and the manly Collier burst into tears like a boy of six. At all that day the mother and son were constantly rushing into each other's arms, sobbing. Next day Collier woke up as unfeeling as before, but he had become more silent, more modest, sterner, and more thoughtful. Six weeks later it is true he got into another scrape, which even brought his name to the ears of our justice of the peace. But it was a scrape of quite another kind, amusing, foolish, and it did not, as it turned out, take the leading part in it, but was only implicated in it. But of this laser. His mother still fretted and trembled, but the more uneasy she became, the greater were the hopes of Dardanielov. It must be noted that Collier understood and devined what was in Dardanielov's heart, and, of course, despised him profoundly for his feelings. He had in the past been so techless as to show this contempt before his mother, hinting vaguely that he knew what Dardanielov was after. But from the time of the railway incident his behavior in disrespect also was changed. He did not allow himself the remotest illusion to the subject, and began to speak more respectfully of Dardanielov before his mother, which the sensitive woman at once appreciated with boundless gratitude. But that the slightest mention of Dardanielov by a visitor in Collier's presence she would flush as pink as a rose. At such moments Collier would either stare out of the window scowling, or would investigate the state of his boots, or would shout angrily for Perishvon, the big, shaggy, mangy dog which he had picked up a month before, brought home, and kept for some reason secretly indoors, not showing him to any of his school-fellows. He bullied him frightfully, teaching him all sorts of tricks, so that the poor dog howled for him whenever he was absent at school, and when he came in, whined with delight, rushed about as if he were crazy, begged, lay down on the ground pretending to be dead, and so on. In fact showed all the tricks he had taught him, not at the word of command, but simply from the zeal of his excited and grateful heart. I have forgotten, by the way, to mention that Collier Krasotkin was the boy stepped with a pen-knife by the boy already known to the reader as the son of Captain Snagriov. Illusia had been defending his father when the school-boys jeered at him, shouting the nickname Whisp of Two. CHAPTER II CHILDREN And so on that frosty, snowy and windy day in November, Collier Krasotkin was sitting at home. It was Sunday, and there was no school. It had just struck eleven, and he particularly wanted to go out on very urgent business, but he was left alone in charge of the house, for it so happened that all its elder inmates were absent owing to a sudden and singular event. Madame Krasotkin had led two little rooms separated from the rest of the house by a passage to a doctor's wife with her two small children. This lady was the same age as Anna Fyorovna, and a great friend of hers. Her husband, the doctor, had taken his departure twelve months before, going first to Ohrenburg and then to Tashkent, and for the last six months she had not heard a word from him. Had it not been for her friendship with Madame Krasotkin, which was some consolation to the forsaken lady, she would certainly have completely dissolved away in tears. And now, to add to her misfortunes, Katarina, her only servant, was suddenly moved the evening before to announce to her mistress's amazement that she proposed to bring a child into the world before morning. It seemed almost miraculous to everyone that no one had noticed the probability of it before. The astounded doctor's wife decided to move Katarina while there was still time to an establishment in the town kept by a midwife for such emergencies. As she said great store by her servant she promptly carried out this plan and remained there looking after her. By the morning all Madame Krasotkin's friendly sympathy and energy were called upon to render assistance and appeal to someone for help in the case. So both the ladies were absent from home. The Krasotkin's servant, Agafia, had gone out to the market and Kolja was thus left for a time to protect and look after the kids, that is, the son and daughter of the doctor's wife, who were left alone. Kolja was not afraid of taking care of the house. Besides he had perished fun, who had been told to lie flat without moving under the bench in the hall. Every time Kolja, walking to and fro through the rooms, came into the hall the dog shook his head and gave too loud and insinuating taps on the floor with his tail. But alas the whistle did not sound to release him. Kolja looked sternly at the luckless dog, who relapsed again into obedient rigidity. The one thing that troubled Kolja was the kids. He looked, of course, with the utmost scorn on Katarina's unexpected adventure, but he was very fond of the bereaved kitties, and had already taken them a picture-book. Nastya, the elder, a girl of eight, could read, and Kostya, the boy, aged seven, was very fond of being read to by her. Everything could, of course, have provided more diverting entertainment for them. He could have made them stand side by side and played soldiers with them, or sent them hiding all over the house. He had done so more than once before, and was not above doing it. So much so that a report once spread at school that Kasatkin played horses with the little lodgers at home, prancing with his head on one side like a trace-horse. But Kasatkin heartily paired this thrust, pointing out that to play horses with boys of one's own age, boys of thirteen would certainly be disgraceful at this date, but that he did it for the sake of the kids, because he liked them, and no one had a right to call him to account for his feelings. The two kids adored him. But on this occasion he was in no mood for games. He had very important business of his own before him, something almost mysterious. Meanwhile, time was passing, and Agafia, with whom he could have left the children, would not come back from market. He had several times already crossed the passage, opened the door of the lodger's room, and looked anxiously at the kids who were sitting over the book as he had bitten them. Every time he opened the door they grinned at him, hoping he would come in and would do something delightful and amusing. But Kalyia was bothered and did not go in. At last it struck eleven, and he made up his mind once for all that if that damned Agafia did not come back within ten minutes he should go out without waiting for her, making the kids' promise, of course, to be brave when he was away, not to be naughty, not to cry from fright. With this idea he put on his wedded winter overcoat with its catskin fur collar, slung his satchel round his shoulder, and, regardless of his mother's constantly reiterated entreaties, that he would always put on galoshes in such cold weather. He looked at them contemptuously, as he crossed the hole and went out with only his boots on. Vergevan, seeing him in his outdoor clothes, began tapping nervously, yet vigorously, on the floor with his tail. Twitching all over he even uttered a plaintive whine. But Kalyia, seeing his dog's passionate excitement, decided that it was a breach of discipline, kept him for another minute under the bench, and only when he had opened the door into the passage whistled for him. The dog leapt up like a mad creature, and rushed bounding before him raptorously. Kalyia opened the door to peep at the kids. They were both sitting as before at the table, not reading, but warmly disputing about something. The children often argued together about various exciting problems of life, and Nastya, being the elder, always got the best of it. If Kostya did not agree with her, he almost always appealed to Kalyia Krasotkin, and his verdict was regarded as infallible by both of them. This time the kids' discussion rather interested Krasotkin, and he stood still in the passage to listen. The children saw he was listening, and that made them dispute with even greater energy. I shall never, never believe, Nastya preddled, that the old women find babies among the cabbages in the kitchen garden. It's winter now, and there are no cabbages, and so the old woman couldn't have taken Katerina adolte. Kalyia whistled to himself. Or perhaps they do bring babies from somewhere, but only to those who are married. Kostya stared at Nastya, and listened, pondering profoundly. Nastya, how silly you are, he said at last, firmly and calmly. How can Katerina have a baby when she isn't married? Nastya was exasperated. You know nothing about it, she snapped irritably. Perhaps she has a husband, only is in prison, so now she's got a baby. But is her husband in prison? The matter effect Kostya inquired gravely. Or, I tell you what, Nastya interrupted impulsively, completely rejecting and forgetting her first hypothesis. She hasn't a husband, you're right there, but she wants to be married, and so she's been thinking of getting married, and thinking and thinking of it, till now she's got it, that is, not a husband, but a baby. Well, perhaps so, Kostya agreed, entirely vanquished. She didn't say so before, so how could I tell? Come, kitties, said Kalyia, stepping into the room, you're a terrible people, I see. And Perishvon with you, grinned Kostya, and began snapping his fingers and calling Perishvon. I'm in a difficulty, kids, Kasotkin began solemnly, and you must help me. Agafia must have broken her leg, since she has not turned up till now. That's certain. I must go out. Will you let me go? The children looked anxiously at one another. Their smiling faces showed signs of uneasiness, but they did not yet fully grasp what was expected of them. You won't be naughty while I'm gone. You won't climb on the cupboard and break your legs. You won't be frightened, alone, and cry. A look of profound despondency came into the children's faces, and I could show you something as a reward, a little copper cannon which can be fired with real gunpowder. The children's faces instantly brightened. Show us the cannon, said Kostya, beaming all over. Kasotkin put his hand in his satchel, and pulling out a little bronze cannon stood it on the table. Ah, you're bound to ask that. Look, it's on wheels. He rolled the toy on along the table. And it can be fired off, too. It can be loaded with shot and fired off. And it could kill anyone. It can kill anyone. You've only got to aim at anybody. And Kostotkin explained where the power had to be put, where the shot should be rolled in, showing a tiny hole like a touch-hole, and told them that it kicked when it was fired. The children listened with intense interest. What particularly struck their imagination was that the cannon kicked. And have you got any powder? Kostya inquired. Yes. Show us the powder, too! She drawled with a smile of entreaty. Kasotkin dived again into his satchel, and pulled out a small flask containing a little real gunpowder. He had some shot, too, in a screw of paper. He even uncorked the flask and shook a little powder into the palm of his hand. One has to be careful there's no fire about, or it will blow up and kill us all. Kasotkin warned them sensationally. The children gazed at the powder with an awe-stricken alarm that only intensified their enjoyment. But Kostya liked the shot better. And thus the shot burned, he inquired. No, it doesn't. Give me a little shot, he asked in an imploring voice. I'll give you a little shot, here, take it, but don't show it to your mother till I come back, or she'll be sure to think it's gunpowder and will die of fright and give you a threshing. Mother never does whip us, Nastya observed at once. I know, I only said it to finish the sentence. And don't you ever deceive your mother, except just this once, until I come back. And so, kitties, can I go out? You won't be frightened and cry when I'm gone? We shall cry, drolled Kasotya, on the verge of tears already. We shall cry, we shall be sure to cry, Nastya chimed in with timid haste. How children, children! How fraught with peril are your years? There's no help for it, chickens, I shall have to stay with you, I don't know how long. And time is passing, time is passing, tell Perishvon to pretend to be dead, Kasotya begged. There's no help for it, we must have recalls to Perishvon. Easy, Perishvon. And Kolja began giving orders to the dog, who performed all his tricks. He was a rough-haired dog, of medium size, with a coat of a sort of lilac-gray collar. He was blind in his right eye, and his left ear was torn. He whined and jumped, stood and walked on his hind legs, lay on his back with his paws in the air, rigid as though he were dead. While this last performance was going on, the door opened, and Agafya, Madame Kasotkin's servant, a stout woman of faulty, marked with smallpox, appeared in the doorway. She had come back from market, and had a bag full of provisions in her hand. Holding up the bag of provisions in her left hand, she stood still to watch the dog. Although Kolja had been so anxious for her return, he did not cut short the performance, and, after keeping Perishvon dead for the usual time, at last he whistled to him. The dog jumped up, and began bounding about in his joy at having done his duty. —Only think, a dog, Agafya observed sententiously. —Why are you late, female? asked Kasotkin sternly. —Female, indeed. Go on with you, your brat. —Brat? —Yes, a brat. —What is it to you if I'm late? —If I'm late, you may be sure I have good reason. —Madad Agafya, busying herself about the stove without a trace of anger or displeasure in her voice. She seemed quite pleased, in fact, to enjoy a skirmish with her merry young master. —Listen, you frivolous young woman, Kasotkin began, getting up from the sofa. Can you swear by all you hold sacred in the world, and something else besides, that you'll watch vigilantly over the kids in my absence, I'm going out? —And what am I going to swear for, laughed Agafya, I shall look after them without that. —Nope, you must swear on your eternal salvation, else I shan't go. —Well, don't then, what does it matter to me? It's cold out, stay at home. —Kids, call your turn to the children. This woman will stay with you till I come back, or till your mother comes, for she ought to have been back long ago. —You'll give you some lunch, too. You'll give them something, Agafya, won't you? —That I can do. —Goodbye, chickens, I go with my heart at rest. —And you, Granny, he added gravely in an undertone as he passed Agafya. I hope you'll spare their tender years and not tell them any of your old woman's nonsense about Katharina. —I see, Perzvan. —Get along with you, retorted Agafya, really angry this time. —You're a ridiculous boy. You aren't a whipping for saying such things. That's what you want. But Kalya did not hear her. At last he could go out. As he went out at the gate he looked round him, shrugged up his shoulders and saying, It's freezing. Went straight along the street and turned off to the right towards the marketplace. When he reached the last house but one before the marketplace, he stopped at the gate, pulled a whistle out of his pocket and whistled with all his might as though giving a signal. Yet not to wait more than a minute before a rosy cheeked boy of about eleven wearing a warm, neat and even stylish coat darted out to meet him. This was Smurov, a boy in the preparatory class, two classes below Kalya Krasotkin, son of a well-to-do official. Apparently he was forbidden by his parents to associate with Krasotkin, who was well known to be a desperately naughty boy, so Smurov was obviously slipping out on the sly. He was, if there either has not forgotten, one of the group of boys who two months before had thrown stones at Ilyusha. He was the one who told Ilyusha about Ilyusha. I've been waiting for you for the last hour, Krasotkin, said Smurov stoddedly, and the boys strode towards the marketplace. I am late, answered Krasotkin. I was detained by circumstances. You won't be thrashed for coming with me. Come, I say, I'm never thrashed, and you've got Peresvan with you? Yes. You're taking him, too? Yes. Ah, if it were only Jutska. It's impossible. Jutska is non-existent. Jutska is lost in the mists of obscurity. Ah, couldn't we do this? Smurov suddenly stood still. You see, Ilyusha says that Jutska was a shaggy, grayish, smoky-looking dog like Peresvan. Couldn't you tell him this is Jutska, and he might believe you? Bye, Shanalai, that's one thing, even with a good object. That's another. Above all, I hope you've not told them anything about my coming. Don't forbid. I know what I am about, but you won't comfort him with Peresvan, such Mohov with a sigh. You know his father, the captain, the wisp of two, told us that it was going to bring him a real mast of pup with a black nose today. He thinks that would comfort Ilyusha, but I doubt it. And how is Ilyusha? Ah, he's bad, very bad. I believe he's in consumption. He's quite conscious, but his breathing—his breathing's gone wrong. The other day he asked to have his boots on to be led around the room. He tried to walk, but he couldn't stand. Ah, I told you before, father, he said, that those boots were no good. I could never walk properly in them. He fancied it was his boots that made him stagger, but it was simply weakness, really. He won't live another week. Heads and stoopers looking after him. Now they're rich again. They've got heaps of money. They're rogues. Who are rogues? Doctors, and the whole crew of quacks collectively, and also, of course, individually. I don't believe in medicine. It's a useless institution. I mean to go into all that. But what's that sentimentality you've got up there? The whole class seems to be there every day. Not the whole class. It's only ten of our fellows who go to see him every day. There's nothing in that. What I don't understand in all this is the part that Alexei Karmazov is taking in it. Going to be tried tomorrow or next day for such a crime, and yet he has so much time to spend on sentimentality with boys. There's no sentimentality about it. You're going yourself now to make it up with Alusha. Make it up with him? What an absurd expression. But I allow no one to analyze my actions. And how pleased Alusha will be to see you. He has no idea that you're coming. Why was it? Why was it you wouldn't come all this time? My dear boy, that's my business, not yours. I'm going off myself because I choose to, but you've all been hauled there by Alexei Karmazov. There's a difference, you know. And how do you know? I may not be going to make it up at all. It's a stupid expression. It's not Karmazov at all. It's not his doing. Our fellows began going there of themselves. Of course they went with Karmazov at first, and there's been nothing of that sort of silliness. But one went, and then another. His father was awfully pleased to see us. You know, he will simply go out of his mind if Alusha dies. He sees that Alusha is dying. And he seems so glad we've made it up with Alusha. Alusha asked after you, that was all. He just asks, and says no more. His father will go out of his mind, or hang himself. He behaved like a madman before. You know, he's a very decent man. We made a mistake then. It's all the fault of that murderer who beat him then. Karmazov's a riddle to me all the same. I might have made his acquaintance long ago, but I like to have a proper pride in some cases. Besides, I have a theory about him, which I must work out and verify. Kolya subsided into dignified silence. Smolov, too, was silent. Smolov, of course, worshipped Krasotkin, and never dreamt of putting himself on a level with him. Now he was tremendously interested at Kolya's saying that he was going off himself to see Alusha. He felt that there must be some mystery in Kolya's suddenly taking it into his head to go to him that day. They crossed the market place in which, at that hour, were many loaded wagons from the country and a great number of live falls. The market women were selling rolls, cottons, and threads, et cetera, in their boots. These Sunday markets were naively called fairs in the town, and there were many such fairs in the year. Peresvon ran about in the wildest spirits, sniffing about first one side, then the other. When he met other dogs, they seamlessly smelled each other over, according to the rules of canine etiquette. I like to watch such realistic scenes, Smolov, said Kolya suddenly. Have you noticed how dogs sniff at one another when they meet? It seems to be a law of their nature. Yes, it's a funny habit. No, it's not funny. You're wrong there. There's nothing funny in nature, however funny it may seem to man with his prejudices. If dogs could reason and criticise us, they'd be sure to find just as much that would be funny to them, if not far more, in the special relations of men, their masters. Far more, indeed. I repeat that, because I am convinced that there is far more foolishness among us. That's Kharkitin's idea, a remarkable idea. I'm a socialist, Smolov. And what is a socialist, asked Smolov. That's when all are equal and all have property in common. There are no marriages, and everyone has any religion and laws he likes best, and all the rest of it. You are not old enough to understand that yet. It's cold, though. Yes, twelve degrees of frost. Father looked at the thermometer just now. Have you noticed, Smolov, that in the middle of winter we don't feel so cold even when there are fifteen or eighteen degrees of frost as we do now, in the beginning of winter, when there is a sudden frost of twelve degrees, especially when there is not much snow? It's because people are not used to it. Everything is habit with man. Everything even in their social and political relations. Habit is the great mode of power. What a funny-looking peasant! Kalya pointed to a tall peasant with a good-natured countenance in a long sheepskin coat, who was standing by his wagon, clapping together his hands in their shapeless leather gloves to warm them. His long, fair beard was all white with frost. That peasant's beard's frozen, Kalya cried in a loud, provocative voice as he passed him. Lots of people's beards are frozen, the peasant replied, calmly and sententiously. Don't provoke him, observed Smolov. It's all right, he won't be cross. He's a nice fellow. Goodbye, Madve. Goodbye. Is your name Madve? Yes. Didn't you know? No, I didn't. It was a guess. You don't say so. You're a schoolboy, I suppose. Yes. You get whipped, I expect. Nothing to speak of, sometimes. Does it hurt? Well, yes it does. Ah, what a life. The peasant heaved his sigh from the bottom of his heart. Goodbye, Madve. Goodbye. You are a nice chap that you are. The boys went on. That was a nice peasant, Kalya observed Smolov. I like talking to the peasants, and I'm always glad to do them justice. Why did you tell a lie, pretending we are threshed, asked Smolov. I had to say that to please him. How do you mean? You know, Smolov, I don't like being asked the same thing twice. I like people to understand that the first word, some things can't be explained. According to a peasant's notions, schoolboys are whipped and must be whipped. What would a schoolboy be if he were not whipped? And if I were to tell him we are not, he'd be disappointed. But you don't understand that. One has to know how to talk to the peasants. Only don't tease them, please, or you'll get into another scrape as you did about that goose. So you're afraid? Don't laugh, Kalya. Of course I'm afraid. My father would be awfully cross. I'm strictly forbidden to go out with you. Don't be uneasy. Nothing will happen this time. Hello, Natasha," he shouted to a market woman in one of the booths. Call me Natasha. What next? My name is Maria," the middle-aged market woman shouted at him. I'm so glad it's Maria. Goodbye. Ah, you young rascal, a brat like you to carry on so. I'm in a hurry. I can't stay now. You shall tell me next Sunday," Kalya waved his hand at her, as though she had attacked him and not he her. I've nothing to tell you next Sunday. You set upon me, you impudent young monkey. I didn't say anything, bold Maria. You want a whipping. That's what you want, you saucy jack-and-apes. There was a roar of laughter among the other market women round her. Suddenly a man in a violent rage darted out from the arcade of shops close by. He was a young man, not a native of the town, with dark curly hair and a long pale face marked with smallpox. He wore a long blue coat and a peaked cap and looked like a merchant's clerk. He was in a state of stupid excitement and brandished his fist at Kalya. I know you," he cried angrily. I know you. Kalya stared at him. He could not recall when he could have had a row with the man, but he'd been in so many rows in the street that he could hardly remember them all. Do you? he asked sarcastically. I know you. I know you. The man repeated idiotically. So much the better for you. Well, it's time I was going. Goodbye. You're at your saucy pranks again, cried the man. You're at your saucy pranks again. I know you're at it again. It's not your business, brother, if I am at my saucy pranks again," said Kalya, standing still and scanning him. Not my business. No, it's not your business. Who's then? Who's then? Who's then? It's Trifon Nikitich's business, not yours. What Trifon Nikitich? asked the youth, staring with a loudish amazement at Kalya, but still as angry as ever. Kalya scant him gravely. Have you been to the Church of the Ascension? he suddenly asked him, with stern emphasis. What Church of Ascension? What foe? No, I haven't, said the young man, somewhat taken aback. Do you know Sabaneyev? Kalya went on, even more emphatically, and even more severely. What Sabaneyev? No, I don't know him. Well, then, you can go to the devil, said Kalya, cutting short the conversation, and turning sharply to the right, he strode quickly on his way, as though he disdained further conversation with a dwarf who did not even know Sabaneyev. Stop it! What Sabaneyev? The young man recovered from his momentaries to perfection, and was as excited as before. What did he say? He turned to the market women, with a silly stare. The women laughed. You can never tell what he's after, said one of them. What Sabaneyev is it he's talking about? The young man repeated, still furious, and brandishing his right arm. It must be Sabaneyev, who worked for the Kuzmichovs, that's who it must be, one of the women suggested. The young man stared at her wildly. For the Kuzmichovs, repeated another woman. But his name wasn't Trifon, his name's Kuzma, not Trifon. But the boy said Trifon Nikitich, so it can't be the same. His name's not Trifon, and not Sabaneyev, it's Chishov, put in, suddenly, a third woman, who had hitherto been silent, listening gravely. Alexei Ivanovich is his name. Chishov, Alexei Ivanovich. Not a doubt about it, it's Chishov. A fourth woman, emphatically, confirmed the statement. The bewildered youth gazed from one to another. But what did he ask for? What did he ask for, good people? He cried almost in desperation. Do you know Sabaneyev, says he, and who the devils to know who is Sabaneyev? You're a senseless fellow. I tell you it's not Sabaneyev, but Chishov, Alexei Ivanovich Chishov, that's who it is. One of the women shouted at him impressively. What Chishov? Who is he? Tell me, if you know. That tall, snivelling fellow, who used to sit in the market in the summer. What's your Chishov to do with me, good people? How can I tell what's he to do with you? Put in another. You ought to know yourself what you want with him, if you make such a clamour about him. To you, he did not speak to us, you stupid. Don't you really know him? Know whom? Chishov. The devil takes Chishov, and you with him. I'll give him a hiding, that I will. He was laughing at me. We'll give Chishov a hiding. More likely you will give you one. You're a fool, that's what you are. Not Chishov. Not Chishov, you spiteful mischievous woman. I'll give the boy a hiding. Catch him. Catch him. He was laughing at me. The woman guffed, but Kalya was by now a long way off, marching along with a triumphant air. Smorov walked beside him, looking round at the shouting group far behind. He too was in high spirits, though he was still afraid of getting into some scrape in Kalya's company. What's so bany of did you mean? he asked Kalya, foreseeing what his answer would be. How do I know? Now there'll be a habit among them all day. I like to stir up fools in every class of society. There's another blockhead, that peasant there. You know, they say there's no one stupider than a stupid Frenchman, but a stupid Russian shows it in his face just as much. Can't you see it all over his face that he's a fool, that peasant there? Let him alone, Kalya, let's go on. Nothing could stop me now and once off. Hey, good morning, peasant. A sturdy-looking peasant with a round, simple face and grizzled beard who was walking by raised his head and looked at the boy. He seemed not quite sober. Good morning, if you're not laughing at me, he said deliberately in reply. And if I am, laughed Kalya. Well, a joke's a joke, laugh away. I don't mind, there's no harm in a joke. I beg your pardon, brother, it was a joke. Well, God forgive you. Do you forgive me too? I quite forgive you, go along. I say, you seem a clever peasant. Clever than you, the peasant answered unexpectedly with the same gravity. I doubt it, said Kalya, somewhat taken aback. It's true, though. Perhaps it is. It is, brother. Goodbye, peasant. Goodbye. There are all sorts of peasants, Kalya observed as more of after a brief silence. How could I tell I'd hit on a clever one? I'm always ready to recognize intelligence in the peasantry. In the distance the cathedral clock struck half-past eleven. The boys made haste, and they walked as far as Captain Snegarjov's lodging, a considerable distance, quickly and almost in silence. Twenty paces from the house Kalya stopped and told Smuwef to go on ahead and ask Karamazov to come out to him. One must sniff round a bit first, he observed the Smuwef. Why ask him to come out, Smuwef protested. You go in. They'll be awfully glad to see you. What's the sense of making friends in the frost out here? I know why I want to see him out here in the frost, Kalya cut him short in the despotic tone he was fond of adopting with small boys, and Smuwef ran to do his bidding. End of chapter three of book ten. Book ten, chapter four of the brother Skamazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Brothers Skamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Book ten, chapter four, The Lost Dog. Kalya lent against the fence with an air of dignity, waiting for Alyosha to appear. Yes, he had long wanted to meet him. He had heard a great deal about him from the boys, but hid there too he had always maintained an appearance of disdainful indifference when he was mentioned, and he had even criticised what he heard about Alyosha. But secretly he had a great longing to make his acquaintance. There was something sympathetic and attractive in all he was told about Alyosha. So the present moment was important. To begin with he had to show himself at his best to show his independence. Oral think of me as thirteen and take me for a boy like the rest of them. What are these boys to him? I shall ask him when I get to know him. It's a pity I'm so short though. Tuzikov is younger than I am, yet he is half a head taller. But I have a clever face. I'm not good looking. I know I'm hideous, but I have a clever face. I mustn't talk too freely. If I fall into his arms all at once, he may think—tch, how horrible, if you should think!—such were the thoughts that excited Kalya while he was doing his utmost to assume the most independent heir. What distressed him most was his being so short. He did not mind so much his hideous face as being so short. On the wall in a corner at home he had the year before made a pencil mark to show his height, and every two months since he anxiously measured himself against it to see how much he had gained. But alas, he grew very slowly, and this sometimes reduced him almost to despair. His face was in reality by no means hideous. On the contrary, it was rather attractive, with a fair pale skin, freckled. His small, lively gray eyes had a fearless look and often glowed with feeling. He had rather high cheekbones, small, very red, but not very thick lips. His nose was small and unmistakably turned up. I have a regular puck nose, a regular puck nose, Kalya used to mutter to himself when he looked in a looking glass, and he always left it with indignation. But perhaps I haven't got a clever face. He sometimes thought doubtful even of that. But it must not be supposed that his mind was preoccupied with his face and his height. On the contrary, however bitter the moments before the looking glass were to him, he quickly forgot them, and forgotten them for a long time, abandoning himself entirely to ideas and to real life as he formulated it to himself. Ayosha came out quickly and hastened up to Kalya. Before he reached him, Kalya could see that he looked delighted. Can he be so glad to see me? Kalya wondered, feeling pleased. We may note here, in passing, that Ayosha's appearance had undergone a complete change since we saw him last. He had abandoned his kassak and was wearing now a well-cut coat, a soft round head, and his hair had been cropped short. All this was very becoming to him, and he looked quite handsome. His charming face always had a good-humoured expression, but there was a gentleness and serenity in his good humour. To Kalya's surprise, Ayosha came out to him just as he was, without an overcoat. He had evidently come in haste. He held out his hand to Kalya at once. Here you are at last! How anxious we've been to see you! There were reasons which you shall know directly. Anyway, I'm glad to make your acquaintance. I've long been hoping for an opportunity, and I've heard a great deal about you, Kalya muttered, a little breathless. We should have met anyway. I've heard a great deal about you, too, but you've been a long time coming here. Tell me, how are things going? Ayosha is very ill. He is certainly dying. How awful! You must admit that medicine is a fraud, Karmazov, cried Kalya warmly. Elusia has mentioned you often, very often, even in his sleep, in delirium, you know. One can see that you used to be very, very dear to him, before the incident, with the knife. Then there's another reason. Tell me, is that your dog? Yes, Pereshvan. Not Shuchka? Ayosha looked at Kalya with eyes full of pity. Is she lost forever? I know you would all like it to be Shuchka. I've heard all about it, Kalya smiled mysteriously. Listen, Karmazov, I'll tell you all about it. That's what I came for. That's what I asked you to come out here for, to explain the whole episode to you before we go in. He began with animation. You see, Karmazov, Elusia came into the preparatory class last spring. Well, you know what our preparatory class is, a lot of small boys. They began teasing Elusia at once. I am two classes higher up, and, of course, I only look on at them from a distance. I saw the boy was weak and small, but he wouldn't give in to them. He fought with them. I saw he was proud, and his eyes were full of fire. I liked children like that, and they teased him all the more. The worst of it was he was horribly dressed at the time, his breeches were too small for him, and there were holes in his boots. They worried him about it, they dearied at him. That I can't stand. I stood up for him at once, and gave it to them hot. I beat them, but they abdore me, do you know, Karmazov? Koya boasted impulsively. But I'm always fond of children. I have two chickens in my hands at home now. That's what detained me to-day. So they left off beating Elusia, and I took him under my protection. I saw the boy was proud. I tell you that, the boy was proud. But in the end he became slavishly devoted to me. He did my slightest bidding, obeyed me as though I were God, tried to copy me. In the intervals between the classes he used to run to me at once, and I'd go about with him. On Sundays, too. They always laugh when an older boy makes friends with a younger one like that. But that's a prejudice. If it's my fancy, that's enough. I am teaching him, developing him. Why shouldn't I develop him, if I like him? Here you, Karmazov, have taken up with all these nestlings. I see you want to influence the younger generation, to develop them, to be of use to them. And I assure you, this trait in your character, which I knew by hearsay, attracted me more than anything. Let us get to the point, though. I noticed that there was a sort of softness and sentimentality coming over the boy. And you know, I have a positive hatred of this sheepish sentimentality, and I've had it from a baby. There were contradictions in him, too. He was proud, but he was slavishly devoted to me, and yet all at once his eyes would flash and it refused to agree with me. He'd arc you, fly into a rage. I used sometimes to propound certain ideas. I could see that it was not so much that he disagreed with the ideas, but that he was simply rebelling against me, because I was cool in responding to his endearments. And so, in order to train him properly, the tenderer he was, the colder I became. I did it on purpose. That was my idea. My object was to form his character, to lick him into shape, to make a man of him. And besides—no doubt—you understand me at a word. Suddenly I noticed, for three days in succession, he was downcast and ejected, not because of my coldness, but for something else, something more important. I wondered what the tragedy was. I've pumped him, and found out that he had somehow got to know Schmagikov, who was footman to your late father. It was before his death, of course. And he taught a little fool a silly trick, that is, a brutal, nasty trick. He told him to take a piece of bread, to stick a pin in it, and to throw it to one of those hungry dogs who snap up anything without biting it, and then to watch and see what would happen. So they prepared a piece of bread like that, and threw it to Zhutska, that shaggy dog there's been such a fuzz about. The people of the house he belonged to never fed it at all, though it barked all day. Do you like that stupid barking Karamazov? I can't stand it. So it rushed at the bread, solided it, and began to squeal. It turned round and round, and ran away, squealing as it ran out of sight. That was Ilyusha's own account of it. He confessed it to me, and cried bitterly. He hugged me, shaking all over. He kept on repeating, he ran away, squealing. The sight of that haunted him. He was tormented by remorse, I could see that. I took it seriously. I determined to give him a lesson for other things as well. So I must confess, I wasn't quite straightforward, and pretended to be more indignant perhaps than I was. You've done a nasty thing, I said. You're a scoundrel. I won't tell of it, of course, but I shall have nothing more to do with you for a time. I'll think it over, and let you know thrice more of. That's the boy who's just come with me. He's always ready to do anything for me. Whether I will have anything to do with you in the future, or whether I give you up for good, as a scoundrel. He was tremendously upset. I must own. I felt I'd gone too far as I spoke, but there was no help for it. I did what I thought best at the time. A day or two after, I sent Smuoweth to tell him that I would not speak to him again. That's what we call it when two school-fellows refuse to have anything more to do with one another. Secretly I only meant to send him to Coventry for a few days, and then, if I saw signs of repentance, to hold out my hand to him again. That was my intention. But what do you think happened? He heard Smuoweth's message. His eyes flashed. "'Tell Kosotkin for me,' he cried, that I will throw bread with pins to all the dogs. All. All of them.' So he's gone in for a little temper. We must smoke it out of him. And I began to treat him with contempt. Whenever I met him, I turned away, or smiled sarcastically. And just then, that affair with his father happened. You remember? You must realise that he was fearfully worked up by what had happened already. The boys, seeing I'd given him up, sat on him, and taunted him, shouting, "'Whisp of toe, wisp of toe!' And he had soon regular skirmishes with them, which I am very sorry for. They seemed to have given him one very bad beating. One day he flew at them all, as they were coming out of school. I stood a few yards off, looking on. And I swear I don't remember that I laughed. It was quite the other way. I felt awfully sorry for him. In another minute I would have run up to take his part. He suddenly met my eyes. I don't know what he fancied, but he pulled out a pen-knife, rushed at me, and struck at my thigh, here on my right leg. I didn't move. I don't mind owning. I am plucky sometimes, Karamazov. I simply looked at him contemptuously, as though to say, "'This is how you repay all my kindness. Do it again if you like. I am at your service.' But he didn't stab me again. He broke down. He was frightened of what he had done. He threw away the knife, burst out crying, and ran away. I did not sneak on him, of course, and I made them all keep quiet, so it shouldn't come to the ears of the masters. I didn't even tell my mother till it had healed up, and the wound was in me a scratch. And then I heard that the same day he'd been throwing stones and had bitten your finger. But you understand now what a state he was in. Well, it can't be helped. It was stupid of me not to come and forgive him. That is, to make it up with him, when he was taken ill. I'm sorry for it now. But I had a special reason. So now I've told you all about it. But I'm afraid it was stupid of me. "'Oh, what a pity!' exclaimed Ayosha, with feeling, that I didn't know before what terms you were on with him, or I'd have come to you long ago to beg you to go to him with me. Would you believe it when he was feverish he talked about you in delirium? I didn't know how much you were to him. But you've really not succeeded in finding that dog. His father and the boys have been hunting all over the town for it. Would you believe it since he's been ill I three times heard him repeat with tears. It's because I killed Zhuchka, father, that I'm ill now. God is punishing me for it. He can't get that idea out of his head, and if the dog were found and proved to be alive one might almost fancy that joy would cure him. We have all rested our hopes on you. Tell me, what made you hope that I should be the one to find him? Kolya asked, with great curiosity. Why did you reckon on me rather than on anyone else? There was a report that you were looking for the dog, and that you would bring it when you found it. Smurfs said something of the sort. We've all been trying to persuade Ayosha that the dog is alive and that it's been seen. The boys brought him a life here. He just looked at it with a faint smile, and asked them to set it free in the fields. And so we did. His father has just this moment come back, bringing him a massive pup, hoping to comfort him with that. But I think it only makes it worse. Tell me, Karamazov, what sort of man is the father? I know him, but what do you make of him? A mountain-bank? A buffoon? Oh no, there are people of deep feeling who have been somehow crushed. Buffoonery in them is a form of resentful irony against those to whom they dare not speak the truth. Some having been for years humiliated and intimidated by them. Believe me, Krasotkin, that sort of buffoonery is sometimes tragic in the extreme. His whole life now is centered in Alusha, and if Alusha dies he will either go mad with grief or kill himself. I feel almost certain of that when I look at him now. I understand you, Karamazov. I see you understand human nature, Koya added, with feeling. But as soon as I saw you with the dog, I thought it was Yutska you're bringing. Wait a bit, Karamazov, perhaps we shall find it yet. But this is Pereshvan. I'll let him go in now, and perhaps it will amuse Alusha more than the mast of pup. Wait a bit, Karamazov, you'll know something in a minute. But I say, I'm keeping you here, Koya cried suddenly. You've no overcoat on, in this bitter cold. You see what an egoist I am. Oh, we're all egoists, Karamazov. No trouble. It is cold, but I don't often catch cold. Let us go in, though, and, by the way, what is your name? I know you're a cold Koya, but what else? Nikolai. Nikolai Ivanovich Krasotkin. Or as they say in official documents, Krasotkin's son. Koya laughed for some reason, but added suddenly, of course I hate my name Nikolai. Why so? It's so trivial, so ordinary. You are thirteen, asked Alusha. No, fourteen. That is, I shall be fourteen very soon, in a fortnight. I'll confess one weakness of mine, Karamazov, just to you, since it's our first meeting, so that you may understand my character at once. I hate being asked my age, more than that. And in fact, there is a libelous story going about me, that last week I played robbers with the preparatory boys. It's a fact that I did play with them, but it's perfect libel to say I did it for my own amusement. I have reasons for believing that you've heard the story, but I wasn't playing for my own amusement. It was for the sake of the children, because they couldn't think of anything to do by themselves, but they've always got some silly tale. This is an awful town for gossip, I can tell you. But what if you had been playing for your own amusement? What's the harm? Come, I say, for my own amusement. You don't play horses, do you? But you must look at it like this, said Alusha, smiling. Where people go to the theatre, and there the adventures of all sorts of heroes are represented. Sometimes there are robbers in battles, too. And isn't that just the same thing, in a different form, of course? And young people's games of soldiers or robbers, in their playtime, are also art in its first stage. You know, they spring from the growing artistic instincts of the young. And sometimes these games are much better than performances in the theatre. The only difference is that people go there to look at the actors. While in these games the young people are the actors themselves. But that's only natural. You think so? Is that your idea? Kolja looked at him intently. Oh, you know, that's rather an interesting view. When I go home I'll think it over. I'll admit I thought I might learn something from you. I've come to learn of you, Karamazov, Kolja concluded, in a voice full of spontaneous feeling. And I of you, said Alyosha, smiling and pressing his hand. Kolja was much pleased with Alyosha. What struck him most was that he treated him exactly like an equal and that he talked to him just as if he were quite grown up. I'll show you something directly, Karamazov. It's a theatrical performance, too, he said, laughing nervously. That's why I've come. Let us go first to the people of the house on the left. All the boys leave their coats in there because the room is small and hot. Oh, I'm only coming in for a minute. I'll keep on my overcoat. Peresvan will stay here in the passage and be dead. You see, Peresvan, lie down and be dead. You see how he's dead? I'll go in first and explore. Then I'll whistle to him when I think fit and you'll see he'll dash in like mad. Only Smolov must not forget to open the door at the moment. I'll arrange it all and you'll see something. End of chapter four of book 10. Book 10, chapter five of the brothers Karamazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Book 10, chapter five, by Lucius Betside. The room inhabited by the family of the retired captain, Snegriov, is already familiar to the reader. It was close and crowded at that moment with a number of visitors. Several boys were sitting with Ilyusha, and though all of them, like Smolov, were prepared to deny that it was Alyosha who had brought them and reconciled them with Ilyusha, it was really the fact. All the art he had used had been to take them, one by one, to Ilyusha without sheepish sentimentality, appearing to do so casually and without design. It was a great consolation to Ilyusha in his suffering. He was greatly touched by seeing the almost tender affection and sympathy shown him by these boys who had been his enemies. Krasotkin was the only one missing, and his absence was a heavy load on Ilyusha's heart. Perhaps the bitterest of all his bitter memories was his stabbing Krasotkin, who had been his one friend and protector. Clever little Smolov, who was the first to make it up with Ilyusha, thought it was so. But when Smolov hinted to Krasotkin that Alyosha wanted to come and see him about something, the letter cut him short, bidding Smolov, to tell Karamazov at once that he knew best what to do, that he wanted no one's advice, and that if he went to see Ilyusha, he would choose his own time, for he had his own reasons. That was a fortnight before this Sunday. That was why Alyosha had not been to see him, as he had meant to. But though he waited, he sensed Smolov to him twice again. Both times Krasotkin met him with a curt, impatient refusal, sending Alyosha a message not to bother him any more, that if he came himself, he, Krasotkin, would not go to Alyosha at all. Up to the very last day, Smolov did not know that Klya meant to go to Alyosha that morning, and only the evening before, as he parted from Smolov, Klya abruptly told him to wait at home for him next morning, for he would go with him to the scenarios, but wanted him on no account to say he was coming, as he wanted to drop in casually. Smolov obeyed. Smolov's fancy that Klya would bring back the lost dog was based on the words Klya had dropped, that they must be asses not to find the dog who was alive. And Smolov, waiting for an opportunity, timidly hinted at his guess about the dog, Krasotkin flew into a violent rage. I'm not such an ass as to go hunting about the town for other people's dogs when I've got a dog of my own, and how can you imagine a dog could be alive after swallowing a pin? Sheepish sentimentality, that's what it is. For the last fortnight, Ilyusha had not left his little bed under the icons in the corner. He had not been to school since the day he met Alyusha and bit his finger. He was taken ill the same day, though for a month afterwards he was sometimes able to get up and walk about the room and passage. But laterally he had become so weak that he could not move without help from his father. His father was terribly concerned about him. He even gave up drinking and was almost crazy with terror that his boy would die. And often, especially after leading him around the room, on his arm, and putting him back to bed, he would run to a dark corner in the passage and, leaning his head against the wall, he would break into paroxysms of violent weeping, stifling his sobs that they might not be heard by Alyusha. Returning to the room, he would usually begin doing something to amuse and comfort his precious boy. He would tell him stories, funny anecdotes, or would mimic comic people he had happened to meet, even imitate the howls and cries of animals. But Alyusha could not bear to see his father fooling and playing the buffoon. Though the boy tried not to show how he disliked it, he saw with an aching heart that his father was an object of contempt, and he was continually haunted by the memory of the wisp of tow and that terrible day. Nina, Alyusha's gentle, crippled sister, did not like her father's buffoonery either. Favre had been gone for some time past at Petersburg to study at the university. But a half-Imbissar mother was greatly diverted and laughed heartily when her husband began capering about or performing something. It was the only way she could be amused. All the rest of the time she was grumbling and complaining that now everyone had forgotten her, that no one treated her with respect, that she was slighted, and so on. But during the last few days she had completely changed. She began looking constantly at Alyusha's bed in the corner and seemed lost in thought. She was more silent, quieter, and, if she cried, she cried quietly so as not to be heard. The captain noticed the change in her with more and full perplexity. The boys' visits at first only angered her, but later on their merry shouts and stories began to divert her. And at last she liked them so much that, if the boys had given up coming, she would have felt dreary without them. When the children told some story or played a game, she laughed and clapped her hands. She called some of them to her and kissed them. She was particularly fond of Smurov. As for the captain, the presence in his room of the children, who came to cheer up Alyusha, filled his heart from the first with ecstatic joy. He even hoped that Alyusha would now get over his depression, and that that would hasten his recovery. In spite of his alarm about Alyusha, he had not till lately felt one minute's doubt of his boy's ultimate recovery. He met his little visitors with homage, waited upon them hand and foot. He was ready to be their horse, and even began letting them ride on his back. But Alyusha did not like the game, and it was given up. He began buying little things for them. Gingerbread and nuts gave them tea and cut them sandwiches. It must be noted that all this time he had plenty of money. He had taken the two hundred rubles from Katarina Ivanovna, just as Alyusha had predicted he would. And afterwards Katarina Ivanovna, learning more about their circumstances and Alyusha's illness, visited them herself, made the acquaintance of the family, and succeeded in fascinating the half-imbosile mother. Since then she had been lavish in helping them, and the captain, terror-stricken at the thought that his boy might be dying, forgot his pride, and humbly accepted her assistance. All this time Dr. Herzenstuber, who was called in by Katarina Ivanovna, came punctually every other day, but little was gained by his visit, and he dosed the invulet mercilessly. But on that Sunday morning a new doctor was expected, who had come from Moscow, where he had a great reputation. Katarina Ivanovna had sent for him from Moscow at great expense, not expressly for Alyusha, but for another object, of which more will be said in his place hereafter. But, as he had come, she had asked him to see Alyusha as well, and the captain had been told to expect him. He hadn't the slightest idea that Kolja Krasotkin was coming, though he had long wished for a visit from the boy for whom Alyusha was fretting. At the moment when Krasotkin opened the door and came into the room, the captain and all the boys were round Alyusha's bed, looking at a tiny mastiff pup, who had only been born the day before, though the captain had bespoken it a week ago to comfort and amuse Alyusha. Who was still fretting over the lost and probably dead Rychka. Alyusha, who had heard three days before that he was to be presented with a puppy, not an ordinary puppy, but a pedigree mastiff, a very important point, of course, tried from delicacy of feeling to pretend that he was pleased. But his father and the boys could not help seeing that the puppy only served to recall to his little heart the thought of the unhappy dog he had killed. The puppy lay beside him, feebly moving, and he, smiling sadly, stroked it with his thin, pale, wasted hand. Clearly he liked the puppy, but it wasn't Rychka. If he could have had Rychka and the puppy too, then he would have been completely happy. Krasotkin cried one of the boys suddenly. He was the first to see him come in. Krasotkin's entrance made a general sensation. The boys moved away and stood on each side of the bed, so that he could get a full view of Alyusha. The captain ran eagerly to meet Kalya. Please come in. You're welcome, he said hurriedly. Alyusha, Mr. Krasotkin, has come to see you. But Krasotkin, shaking hands with him hurriedly, instantly showed his complete knowledge of the manners of good society. He turned first to the captain's wife, sitting in her armchair, who was very ill-humoured at the moment, and was grumbling that the boys stood between her and Alyusha's bed and did not let her see the new puppy. With the greatest courtesy, he made her a bow, scraping his foot, and turning to Nina, he made her, as the only other lady present, a similar bow. This polite behaviour made an extremely favourable impression on the deranged lady. There! You can see at once he is a young man that has been well brought up. She commented aloud, throwing up her hand. But as for our other visitors, they come in one on the top of another. How do you mean, Mama, one on the top of another? How is that? Mothered the captain affectionately, there were little anxious on her account. That's how they ride in. They get on each other's shoulder in the passage, and prance in like that on a respectable family. Strange sort of visitors. But who's come in like that, Mama? Why, that boy came in riding on that one's back, and this one on that one's. Collier was already by Alyusha's bedside. The sick boy turned visibly pay there. He raised himself in the bed, and looked intently at Collier. Collier had not seen his little friend for two months, and he was overwhelmed at the sight of him. He had never imagined that he would see such a wasted yellow face, such enormous, feverishly glowing eyes, and such thin little hands. He saw, with grieved surprise, Alyusha's rapid, hard breathing, and dry lips. He stepped close to him, held out his hand, and, almost overwhelmed, he said, Well, old man, how are you? But his voice filled him. He couldn't achieve an appearance of ease. His face suddenly twitched, and the corners of his mouth quivered. Alyusha smiled a pitiful little smile, still unable to utter a word. Something moved Collier to raise his hand, and pass it over Alyusha's hair. Never mind, he murmured softly to him to cheer him up, or perhaps not knowing why he said it. For a minute they were silent again. Hello, so you've got a new puppy, Collier said suddenly, in the most callous voice. Yes, answered Alyusha, in a long whisper, gasping for breath. A black nose, that means he'll be fierce, a good house dog, Collier observed gravely and stolidly, as if the only thing he cared about was the puppy and his black nose. But, in reality, he still had to do his utmost to control his feelings not to burst out crying like a child, and do what he would he could not control it. When it grows up, you'll have to keep it on the chain, I'm sure. He'll be a huge dog, cried one of the boys. Of course he will, a mastiff, large, like this, as big as a calf, shouted several voices. As big as a calf, as a real calf, chimed in the captain. I got one like that on purpose, one of the fiercest breed, and his parents are huge and very fierce, they stand as high as this from the floor. Sit down here on Alyusha's bed, or here on the bench. You're welcome, we've been hoping to see you a long time. You were so kind as to come with Alexei Fyodorovich? Kosotkin sat on the edge of the bed at Alyusha's feet. Though he had perhaps prepared a free and easy opening for the conversation on his way, now he completely lost the thread of it. No, I came with Peresvan. I've got a dog now called Peresvan, a Slavonic name. He's out there. If I whistle, he'll run in. I've brought a dog, too, he said, addressing Alyusha all at once. Do you remember Yurtska, old man? He suddenly fired the question at him. Alyusha's little face quivered. He looked with an agonised expression at Kolya. Alyusha, standing at the door, frowned and signed to Kolya not to speak of Yurtska. But he did not or would not notice. Where is Yurtska? Alyusha asked in a broken voice. Oh, well, my boy, Yurtska's lost and doneful. Alyusha did not speak, but he fixed an intent gaze once more on Kolya. Alyusha, catching Kolya's eye, signed to him vigorously again, but he turned away his eyes, pretending not to have noticed. It must have run away and died somewhere. It must have died after a meal like that, Kolya pronounced pitilessly, though he seemed a little breathless. But I've got a dog, Perjuvan, a Slavonic name. I've brought him to show you. I don't want him, said Alyusha suddenly. No, no, you really must see him. It will amuse you. I brought him on purpose. He's the same sort of shaggy dog. You allow me to call in my dog, madam? He suddenly addressed Madame Snegeyev with an inexplicable excitement in his manner. I don't want him! I don't want him! cried Alyusha with a mournful break in his voice. There was a reproachful light in his eyes. He would better. The captain started up from the chest by the wall on which he had just sat down. He would better. Another time, he muttered. But Kolya could not be restrained. He hurriedly shouted to Smuov, Open the door! And as soon as it was open he blew his whistle. Perjuvan dashed headlong into the room. Jump, Perjuvan! Back! Back! shouted Kolya, jumping up. And the dog stood erect on its heightened legs by Alyusha's bedside. What followed was a surprise to everyone. Alyusha started, lurched violently forward, bent over Perjuvan, and gazed at him, feigned with suspense. It's... Juchka! he cried suddenly, in a voice breaking with joy and suffering. And who did you think it was? Kosotkin shouted, with all his might, in a ringing, happy voice, and bending down he seized the dog and lifted him up to Alyusha. Look, old man! You see, blind of one eye, and a left-earest torn, just the marks you described to me. It was by that I found him. I found him directly. He did not belong to anyone, he explained, to the captain, to his wife, to Alyusha, and then again to Alyusha. He used to live in the Verotos backyard, though he made his home there. They did not feed him. He was a stray dog that had run away from the village. I found him. You see, old man, he couldn't have swallowed what you gave him. If he had, he must have died. He must have. So he must have spat it out, since he is alive. He did not see him do it. But the pin pricked his tongue. That's why he squealed. He ran away squealing, and you thought he'd swallowed it. He might well squeal, because the skin of dog's mouth is so tender. Tenderer than a man, much tenderer. Collier cried impetiously, his face glowing and radiant with the light. Alyusha could not speak. Wide as a sheet, he gazed open-mouthed at Collier, with his great eyes almost starting out of his head. And if Kosotkin, who had no suspicion of it, had known what a disastrous and fatal effect such a moment might have on the sick child's health, nothing would have induced him to play such a trick on him. But Alyusha was perhaps the only person in the room who realised it. As for the captain, he behaved like a small child. Zhuchka! It's Zhuchka! he cried in a blissful voice. Alyusha, this is Zhuchka. You're Zhuchka. Mama, this is Zhuchka. He was almost weeping. And I never guessed, cried Smuov, regretfully. Bravo, Kosotkin! I said he'd find the dog, and here he's found him. Here is found him! another boy repeated gleefully. Kosotkin's a brick! cried at third voice. He's a brick! He's a brick! cried the other boys, and they began clapping. Wait! wait! Kosotkin did his utmost to shout above them all. I'll tell you how it happened. That's the whole point. I found him. I took him home, and hid him at once. I kept him locked up at home, and did not show him to anyone till today. Only Smuov has known for the last fortnight, but I assured him this dog was called Perjavan, and he did not guess. And meanwhile I taught the dog all sorts of tricks. You should only see all the things he can do. I trained him, so as to bring you a well-trained dog in good condition, old man, so as to be able to say to you, See, old man, what a fine dog your Zhuchka is now. Haven't you a bit of meat? He'll show you a trick that will make you die with laughing. A piece of meat! Haven't you got any? The captain ran across the passage to the landlady, where their cooking was done. Not to lose precious time, Kolja, in desperate haste, shouted to Perjavan, Dead! And the dog immediately turned round, and lay on his back with its full paws in the air. The boys laughed. Ilyusha looked on with the same suffering smile, but the person most delighted with the dog's performance was Momar. She laughed at the dog, and began snapping her fingers and calling it Perjavan! Perjavan! Nothing will make him get up, nothing! Kolja cried triumphantly, proud of his success. He won't move for all the shouting in the world, but if I call to him, he'll jump up in a minute. Ici, Perjavan! The dog leapt up and bounded about, whining with delight. The captain ran back with a piece of cooked beef. Is it hot? Kolja inquired hurriedly, with a business-like air, taking the meat. Dogs don't like hot things. No, it's all right. Look, everybody. Look, Ilyusha. Look, old man. Why aren't you looking? He does not look at him. Now I've brought him. The new trick consisted in making the dog stand motionless with his nose out, and putting a tempting morsel of meat just on his nose. The luckless dog had to stand without moving with the meat on his nose, as long as his master chose to keep him, without a movement, perhaps for half an hour. But he kept Perjavan only for a brief moment. Paid for, cried Kolja, and the meat passed in a flesh from the dog's nose to his mouth. The audience, of course, expressed enthusiasm and surprise. Can you really have put off coming all this time simply to train the dog? exclaimed Ilyusha, with an involuntary note of reproach in his voice. Simply for that answered Kolja with perfect simplicity. I wanted to show him in all his glory. Perjavan! Perjavan! called Ilyusha suddenly, snapping his thin fingers and backening to the dog. What is it? Let him jump up on the bed. Is he Perjavan? Kolja slapped the bed, and Perjavan darted up by Ilyusha. The boy threw both arms round his head, and Perjavan intently licked his cheek. Ilyusha crept close to him, stretched himself out in bed, and hid his face in the dog's shaggy coat. Dear, dear, kept exclaiming the captain. Kolja sat down again on the edge of the bed. Ilyusha, I can show you another trick. I've brought you a little cannon. You remember, I told you about it before, and you said how much you'd like to see it. Well, here, I've brought it to you. And Kolja hurriedly pulled out of his satchel the little bronze cannon. He hurried, because he was happy himself. Another time he would have waited till the sensation made by Perjavan had passed off. Now he hurried on, regardless of all consideration. You're all happy now, he felt, so here's something to make you happier. He was perfectly enchanted himself. I've been coveting this thing for a long while. It's for you, old man. It's for you. It belonged to Amarazov. It was no use to him. He headed for his brother. I swapped a book from father's bookcase for it. A kinsman of Mohammed, or solitary folly, a scandalous book published in Moscow a hundred years ago, before they had any censorship. Amarazov has a taste for such things. He was grateful to me too. Kolja held the cannon in his hand so that all could see and admire it. Illusia raised himself, and, with his right arm still round the dog, he gazed and chanted at the toy. The sensation was even greater when Kolja announced that he had gunpowder too, and that it could be fired off at once. If it won't alarm the ladies. Mama immediately asked to look at the toy closer, and her request was granted. She was much pleased with the little bronze cannon on wheels, and began rolling it to and fro on a lap. She readily gave permission for the cannon to be fired, without any idea of what she had been asked. Kolja showed the powder and the shot. The captain, as a military man, undertook to load it, putting in a minute quantity of powder. He asked that the shot might be put off till another time. The cannon was put on the floor, aiming towards an empty part of the room. Three grains of powder were thrust into the touch-hole, and a match was put to it. A magnificent explosion followed. Mama was startled, but at once laughed at the light. The boys gazed in speechless triumph, but the captain, looking at Illusia, was more enchanted than any of them. Kolja picked up the cannon, and immediately presented it to Illusia, together with the powder and the shot. I got it for you! For you! I've been keeping it for you a long time! He repeated once more in his delight. Oh, give it to me! Now give me the cannon! Mama began begging, like a little child. Her face showed a pittiest fear that she would not get it. Kolja was disconcerted. The captain fitted it uneasily. Mama! Mama! he ran to her. The cannon's yours, of course, but let Illusia have it, because it's present to him. But it's just as good as yours. Illusia will always let you play with it. It shall belong to both of you. Both of you. No, I don't want it to belong to both of us. I want it to be mine altogether, not Illusia's. Persistent mama, on the point of tears. Take it, mother. Here, keep it! Illusia cried. Kosotkin, may I give it to my mother? He turned to Kosotkin with an imploring face, as though he were afraid he might be offended at his giving his present to someone else. Of course you may! Kosotkin ascended heartily, and, taking the cannon from Illusia, he handed it himself to mama with a polite bow. She was so touched that she cried. Illusia, darling, he's the one who loves his mama! She said tenderly, and at once began wheeling the cannon to and fro on her lap again. Mama, let me kiss your hand! The captain darted up to her at once and did so. And I never saw such a charming fellow as this nice boy, said the grateful lady, pointing to Kosotkin. And I'll bring you as much powder as you like, Illusia. We make the powder ourselves, you know. Borovikov found out how it's made. Twenty-four parts of salpita, ten of sulfur, and six of birchwood charcoal. It's all pounded together, mixed into a paste with water, and rubbed through a tamiseev. That's how it's done. Smov told me about your powder. Only father says it's not real gun powder, responded Illusia. Not real, Kolya flushed. It burns. I don't know, of course. No, I didn't mean that. Put in the captain with a guilty face. I only said that real powder is not made like that, but that's nothing. It can be made so. I don't know. You know best. We lighted some in a palmetine pot. It burned splendidly. It all burned away, leaving only a tiny ash. But that was only the paste, and if you rub it through. But, of course, you know best, I don't know. And Belkin's father thrashed him on account of our powder. Did you hear? He turned to Illusia. We had prepared a whole bottle of it, and he used to keep it under his bed. His father saw it. He said it might explode and thrashed him on the spot. He was going to make a complaint against me to the masters. He's not allowed to go about with me now. No one is allowed to go about with me now. Smov is not allowed to either. I've got a bad name with everyone. They say I'm a desperate character. Collier smiled scornfully. It all began from what happened on the railway. Ah, we've heard of that exploit of yours, too, cried the captain. How could you lie still on the line? Is it possible you weren't least afraid, lying there under the train? Weren't you frightened? The captain was abject in his flattery of Collier. Not particularly, answered Collier carelessly. What's blasted my reputation more than anything here was that cursed goose, he said, turning again to Illusia. But, though he assumed an unconcerned air as he talked, he still could not control himself, and was continually missing the note he tried to keep up. Ah, I heard about the goose. Illusia laughed, beaming all over. They told me, but I didn't understand. Did they really take you to the court? The most stupid, trivial affair. They made a mountain of a molehill, as they always do. Collier began carelessly. I was walking through the marketplace here one day, just when they'd driven in the geese. I stopped and looked at them. All at once a fellow, who is an errand boy at Plotnikov's now, looked at me and said, What are you looking at the geese for? I looked at him. He was a stupid, moon-faced fellow of twenty. I'm always on the side of the peasantry, you know. I like talking to the peasants. We've dropped behind the peasants. That's an axiom. I believe you're laughing, Karamazov. No, heaven forbid, I'm listening, said Illusia, with a most good natured air, and a sensitive Collier was immediately reassured. My theory, Karamazov, is clear and simple. He hurried on again, looking pleased. I believe in the people, and I'm always glad to give them their due. But I'm not for spoiling them. That is a sine qua non. But I was telling you about the goose. So I turned to the fool and answered, I'm wondering what the goose thinks about. He looked at me quite stupidly. And what does the goose think about? He asked. Do you see that cart full of oats? I said. The oats are dropping out of the sack, and the goose has put its neck right under the wheel to gubble them up. Do you see? I see that quite well, he said. Well, said I, if that cart were to move on a little, will it break the goose's neck or not? They'd be sure to break it, and he grinned all over his face, highly delighted. Come on then, said I, let's try. Let's, he said, and it did not take as long to arrange. He stood at the bridle without being noticed, and I stood on one side to direct the goose. And the owner wasn't looking. He was talking to someone, so had nothing to do. The goose thrust its head in, after the oats of itself, under the cart, just under the wheel. I winked at the lad. He tucked at the bridle, and crack, the goose's neck was broken in half. And as luck would have it, all the peasants saw us at that moment, and they kicked up a shindie at once. You did that on purpose. No, not on purpose. Yes, you did, on purpose. Well, they shouted, take him to the justice of the peace. They took me, too. You were there, too, they said. You helped. You were known all over the market. And, for some reason, I really am known all over the market, Collier added, concededly. We all went after the justices. They brought the goose, too. The fellow was crying in a great funk, simply blubbering like a woman. And the farmer kept shouting that he could kill any number of geese like that. Well, of course, there were witnesses. The justice of the peace settled it in a minute, that the farmer was to be paid a rubble for the goose, and the fellow to have the goose. And he was warned not to play such pranks again. And the fellow kept blubbering like a woman. It wasn't me, he said. It was he act me on. And he pointed to me. I answered, with the utmost composure, that I hadn't act him on, that I simply stated that general proposition had spoken hypothetically. The justice of the peace smiled and was vexed with himself once for having smiled. I'll complain to your masters of you, so that for the future you may not waste your time on such general propositions, instead of sitting at your books and learning your lessons. He didn't complain to the masters. That was a joke. But the matter annoys broad and came to the ears of the masters. Their ears are long, you know. The classical master, Kolbastnikov, was particularly shocked about it. But Dardanilov got me off again. But Kolbastnikov is savage with everyone now, like a green ass. Did you know, Alyusha, he's just married, got a dowry of a thousand rubles, and has brides a regular fright of the first rank and the last degree. The third class fellows wrote an epigram on it. Astounding news has reached the class. Kolbastnikov has been an ass. And so on. Awfully funny. I'll bring it to you later on. I say nothing against Dardanilov. He's a learned man. There's no doubt about it. I respect man like that, and it's not because he stood up for me. But you took him down about the founders of Troy. Smuov put in, suddenly, proud of Kosotkin at such a moment. He was particularly pleased with the story of the Goose. Did you really take him down? The captain inquired in a flattering way. On the question who founded Troy? We heard of it. Alyusha told me about it at the time. He knows everything, father. He knows more than any of us, put in Alyusha. He only pretends to be like that. But really, he is top in every subject. Alyusha looked at Kolya with infinite happiness. Oh, that's all nonsense about Troy. A trivial matter. I consider this an unimportant question, said Kolya, with haughty humility. He had by now completely recovered his dignity, though he was still a little uneasy. He felt that he was greatly excited, and that he had talked about the Goose, for instance, with too little reserve, while Alyusha had looked serious and had not said a word all the time. And the vain boy began by degrees to have a rankling fear that Alyusha was silent because he despised him and thought he was showing off before him. If he dared to think anything like that, Kolya would I regard the question as quite a trivial one. He repped out again, proudly. And I know who founded Troy, a boy who had not spoken before, said suddenly to the surprise of everyone. He was silent and seemed to be shy. He was a pretty boy of about eleven, called Kartashov. He was sitting near the door. Kolya looked at him with dignified amazement. The fact was that the identity of the founders of Troy had become a secret for the whole school, a secret which could only be discovered by reading Smarkdorf, and no one had Smarkdorf but Kolya. One day, when Kolya's back was turned, Kartashov hastily opened Smarkdorf, with lay among Kolya's books, and immediately lighted on the passage relating to the foundation of Troy. This was a good time ago, but he felt uneasy and could not bring himself to announce publicly that he too knew who had founded Troy, afraid of what might happen, and of Kosotkin's somehow putting him to shame over it. But now he couldn't resist saying it, for weeks he had been longing to. Well, who did found it? Kolya turning to him with hearty superciliousness. He saw from his face that he really did know, and at once made up his mind how to take it. There was, so to speak, a discordant note in the general harmony. Troy was founded by Teucer, Dardanus, Ilius, and Tross. The boy rapped out at once, and in the same instant he blushed. Blushed so that it was painful to look at him. But the boys stared at him, stared at him for a whole minute, and then all the staring eyes turned at once and were fastened upon Kolya, who was still scanning the audacious boy with this dainful composure. In what sense did they found it? he deigned to comment at last. And what is meant by founding a city or a state? What do they do? Do they go and each lay a brick, do you suppose? There was laughter. The offending boy turned from pink to crimson. He was silent and on the point of tears. Kolya held him so for a minute. Before you talk of a historical event like the foundation of a nationality, you must first understand what you mean by it. He admonished him in stern incisive tones. But I attach no consequence to these old wives' tales, and I don't think much of universal history in general, he added carelessly, addressing the company generally. Universal history? The captain inquired, looking almost scared. Yes, universal history. It's the study of the successive follies of mankind, and nothing more. The only subjects I respect are mathematics and natural science, said Kolya. He was showing off, and he stole a glance at Ayosha. His was the only opinion he was afraid of there. But Ayosha was still silent and still serious as before. If Ayosha had said a word, it would have stopped him. But Ayosha was silent, and it might be the silence of contempt, and that finally irritated Kolya. The classical languages, too. They are simply madness, nothing more. You seem to disagree with me again, Karamazov? I don't agree, said Ayosha, with a faint smile. The study of the classics, if you ask my opinion, is simply a police measure. That's simply why it has been introduced into our schools. By degrees, Kolya began to get breathless again. Latin and Greek were introduced because they are bore, and because they stupefy the intellect. It was dull before, so what could they do to make things duller? It was senseless enough before, so what could they do to make it more senseless? So they thought of Greek and Latin. That's my opinion, I hope I shall never change it. Kolya finished abruptly. His cheeks were flushed. That's true, ascended Smurov suddenly, in a ringing tone of conviction. He had listened attentively. And yet he is first in Latin himself, cried one of the group of boys suddenly. Yes, father, he says that, and yet he is first in Latin, echoed Ayosha. What of it? Kolya thought fit to defend himself, though the praise was very sweet to him. I am faking away at Latin because I have to, because I promised my mother to pass my examination, and I think that whatever you do, it's worth doing it well. But in my soul, I have a profound contempt for the classics, and all that fraud. You don't agree, Karamazov? Why fraud? Ayosha smiled again. Well, all the classical authors have been translated into all languages, so it was not for the sake of studying the classics they introduced Latin, but solely as a police measure, to stupefy the intelligence. So what can one call it but a fraud? Why, who taught you all this? Kaira Ayosha, surprised at last. In the first place, I am capable of thinking for myself, without being taught. Besides, what I said just now, about the classics being translated, our teacher Koly Vasnikov has said to the whole of the third class, the doctor has come, cried Nina, who had been silent till then. A carriage belonging to Madame Holakov drove up to the gate. The captain, who had been expecting the doctor all the morning, rushed headlong out to meet him. Mama pulled herself together, and assumed a dignified air. Ayosha went up to Ulusha, and began setting his pillows straight. Nina, from her invalid chair, anxiously watched him putting the bed tidy. The boys hurriedly took leave. Some of them promised to come again in the evening. Kolya called Perjvan, and the dog jumped off the bed. I won't go away, I won't go away, Kolya said hastily to Ulusha. I'll wait in the passage, and come back when the doctor's gone. I'll come back with Perjvan. But by now the doctor had entered, an important-looking person, with long, dark whiskers, and a shiny, shaven chin, wearing a bare-skinned coat. As he crossed the threshold, he stopped, taken aback. He probably fancied. He had come to the wrong place. How's this? Where am I? He muttered, not removing his coat, nor his peaked seal-skin cap. The crowd, the poverty of the room, the washing, hanging on a line in the corner, puzzled him. The captain, bent double, was bowing low before him. It's here, sir. Here, sir. He muttered cringingly. It's here. You've come right. You were coming to us. Snageryov, the doctor said loudly and pompously. Mrs. Snageryov, is that you? That's Misa. Ah! The doctor looked round the room, with the squeamish air, once more, and threw off his coat, displaying to all eyes the grand decoration at his neck. The captain caught the fur coat in the air, and the doctor took off his cap. Where is the patient? he asked emphatically. End of Chapter 5 of Book 10 Book 10, Chapter 6 of The Brothers Karamazov This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Book 10, Chapter 6, Precocity What do you think the doctor will say to him? Kolya asked quickly. What a repulsive mug, though, hasn't he? I can't endure medicine. Illusia is dying. I think that's certain, answered Alyosha, mournfully. There are rogues. Medicines are fraught. I'm glad I've made your acquaintance, though, Karamazov. I wanted to know you for a long time. I'm only sorry we meet in such sad circumstances. Kolya had a great inclination to say something even warmer and more demonstrative, but he felt ill at ease. Alyosha noticed this, smiled, and pressed his hand. I've long learned to respect you as a rare person, Kolya met it again, faltering and uncertain. I've heard you're a mystic and have been in a monastery. I know you're a mystic, but that hasn't put me off. Contact with real life will cure you. It's always so with characters like yours. What do you mean by mystic? Cure me of what? Alyosha was rather astonished. Oh, God and all the rest of it. What? Don't you believe in God? Oh, I have nothing against God. Of course, God is only a hypothesis, but I admit that he is needed, for the order of the universe and all that, and that if there were no God, he would have to be invented, added Kolya, beginning to blush. He suddenly fancied that Alyosha might think he was trying to show off his knowledge and to prove that he was grown up. I haven't the slightest desire to show off my knowledge to him, Kolya thought indignantly, and all of a sudden he felt horribly annoyed. I must confess I can't endure entering on such discussions, he said with a final air. It's possible for one who doesn't believe in God to love mankind, don't you think so? Voltaire didn't believe in God and loved mankind? I'm at it again, he thought to himself. Voltaire believed in God, though not very much, I think, and I don't think he loved mankind very much either, said Alyosha, quietly, gently, and quite naturally, as though he were talking to someone of his own age or even older. Kolya was particularly struck by Alyosha's apparent diffidence about his opinion of Voltaire. He seemed to be leaving the question for him, little Kolya, to settle. Have you read Voltaire? Alyosha finished. No, not to say read, but I've read Kandid in the Russian translation, in an absurd grotesque old translation. Add it again, again! And did you understand it? Oh yes, everything, that is, why do you suppose I shouldn't understand it? There's a lot of nastiness in it, of course. Of course I can understand that it's a philosophical novel and written to advocate an idea. Kolya was getting mixed by now. I am a socialist, Karamazov, I am an incurable socialist, he announced suddenly, a pro of nothing. A socialist? laughed Alyosha. But whenever you had time to become one, why, I thought you were only 13. Kolya winced. In the first place, I'm not 13, but 14, 14 in a fortnight, you flushed angrily. And in the second place, I met a complete lost to understand what my age has to do with it. The question is, what are my convictions? Not what is my age, isn't it? When you are older, you'll understand for yourself the influence of age on convictions. I fancied, too, that you were not expressing your own ideas. Alyosha answered serenely and modestly. But Kolya interrupted him hotly. Come, you want obedience and mysticism. You must admit that the Christian religion, for instance, has only been of use to the rich and the powerful to keep the lower classes in slavery. That's so, isn't it? Ah, I know where you read that, and I'm sure someone told you so, cried Alyosha. I say, what makes you think I read it? And certainly no one told so. I can think for myself. I'm not opposed to Christ, if you like. He was the most humane person, and if he were alive today, he would be found in the ranks of the revolutionists, and would perhaps play a conspicuous part. There's no doubt about that. Oh, where, where did you get that from? What fool have you made friends with? exclaimed Alyosha. Come, the truth will out. It has so chance that I've often talked to Mr. Rakitin, of course. But old Bielinski said that, too, so they say. Bielinski, I don't remember. He hasn't written that anywhere. If he didn't write it, they say he said it. I heard that from a... But never mind. And have you read Bielinski? Well, no. I haven't read all of him, but I read the passage about Tatyana, why she didn't go off with Onyegen. Didn't go off with Onyegen? Surely you don't. Understand that already. Why, you seem to take me for a little smore of, said Collier, with a grin of irritation. But please don't suppose I'm such a revolutionist. I often disagree with Mr. Rakitin. Though I mention Tatyana, I'm not at all fool the emancipation of women. I acknowledged that women are a subject race and must obey. Le forme tricotant, Napoleon said. Translators note, let the women knit. Collier, for some reason, smiled. And on that question at least, I'm quite a one-mound with that pseudo-great man. I think, too, that to leave one's own country and fly to America is mean, worth their mean, silly. Why go to America when one may be of great service to humanity here? Now especially. There's a perfect mass of fruitful activity open to us. That's what I answered. What do you mean? Answered whom? Has someone suggested you're going to America already? I must own. They've been at me to go. But I declined. That's between ourselves, of course, Karamazov. Do you hear? Not a word to anyone. I say this only to you. I'm not at all anxious to fall into the clutches of the secret police and take lessons at the chainbridge. Long will you remember the house at the chainbridge. Do you remember? It's splendid. Why are you laughing? You don't suppose I'm fibbing, do you? What if you should find out that I've only that one number of the bell in Father's bookcase and haven't read any more of it? Kulia thought with a shudder. Oh no. I'm not laughing and don't suppose for a moment that you're lying. No indeed. I can't suppose so. For all this, alas, is perfectly true. But tell me, have you read Pushkin? On Yegan, for instance? You spoke just now of Tatyana. No, I haven't read it yet. But I want to read it. I have no prejudices, Karamazov. I want to hear both sides. What makes you ask? Oh nothing. Tell me, Karamazov. Have you an awful contempt for me? Kulia wept out suddenly and drew himself up before Alyosha as though he were on drill. Be so kind as to tell me without beating about the bush. I have a contempt for you? Alyosha looked at him wondering. What for? I'm only sad that a charming nature such as yours should be perverted by all this crude nonsense before you have begun life. Don't be anxious about my nature, Kulia interrupted, not without complacency. But it's true that I am stupidly sensitive, crudely sensitive. You smiled just now, and I fancied you seem to. Oh my smile went something quite different. I'll tell you why I smiled. Not long ago I read the criticism made by a German who had lived in Russia on our students and schoolboys of today. Show a Russian schoolboy, he writes, a map of the stars, which he knows nothing about, and it will give you back the map next day with corrections on it. No knowledge and unbounded conceit. That's what the German meant to say about the Russian schoolboy. Yes, that's perfectly right. Kulia laughed suddenly. Exactly so. Bravo the German. But he did not see the good side. What do you think? Conceit may be. That comes from youth. That will be corrected if need be. But, on the other hand, there is an independent spirit almost from childhood, boldness, thought, and conviction, and not the spirit of these sausage-makers groveling up before authority. But the German was right all the same. Bravo the German. But Germans once strangling all the same. Though they are so good at science and learning, they must be strangled. Strangled? What for? smiled Ayosha. Well, perhaps I am talking nonsense. I agree. I'm awfully childish sometimes, and when I am pleased about anything, I can't restrain myself, and I'm ready to talk any stuff. But, I say, we're chattering away here about nothing, and that doctor has been a long time in there. But perhaps he's examining the mamma and that poor, crippled Nina. I like that Nina, you know. She whispered to me suddenly as I was coming away. Why didn't you come before? And in such a voice, so reproachfully, I think she is awfully nice and pathetic. Yes, yes. Well, you'll be coming often. You will see what she's like. It would do you a great deal of good to know people like that, to learn to value a great deal which you will find out from knowing these people. Ayosha observed warmly. That would have more effect on you than anything. Oh, how I regret and blame myself for not having come sooner, Koya exclaimed, with bitter feeling. Yes, it's a great pity. You saw for yourself how delighted the poor child was to see you, and how he threaded for you to come. Don't tell me. You make it worse. But it serves me right. What kept me from coming was my conceit, my egoistic vanity, and the beastly wilfulness, which I never can get rid of, though I've been struggling with it all my life. I see that now. I'm a beast in lots of ways, Karamazov. No, you have a charming nature, though it's been distorted, and I quite understand why you've had such an influence on this generous, morbidly sensitive boy, Ayosha answered warmly. And you say that to me, cried Koya, and would you believe it? I thought, I've thought several times since I've been here, that you despised me, if only you knew how I prize your opinion. But are you really so sensitive? At your age? Would you believe it just now, when you were telling your story? I thought, as I watched you, that you must be very sensitive. You thought so? What an eye of God, I say. I bet that was when I was talking about the goose. That was just when I was fencing, you had a great contempt for me for being in such a hurry to show off, and for a moment I quite hated you for it, and began talking like a fool. Then I fancied, just now here, when I said that if there were no God, you would have to be invented, that I was in too great a hurry to display my knowledge, especially as I got that phrase out of a book. But I swear I wasn't showing off out of vanity, though I really don't know why. Because I was so pleased? Yes, I believe it was because I was so pleased, though it's perfectly disgraceful for anyone to be gushing directly there pleased. I know that, but I'm convinced now that you don't despise me. It was all my imagination. Oh, calm as of, I'm profoundly unhappy. I sometimes fancy all sorts of things, that everyone is laughing at me, the whole world, and that I feel ready to overturn the whole order of things. And you worry everyone about you, smiled Ayosha. Yes, I worry everyone about me, especially my mother. Calm as of, tell me, am I very ridiculous now? Don't think about that, don't think of it at all, cried Ayosha. And what does the ridiculous mean? Isn't everyone constantly being or seeming ridiculous? Besides, nearly all clever people now are fearfully afraid of being ridiculous, and that makes them unhappy. All I am surprised at is that you should be feeling that so early, though I observed it for some time past, not only in you. Nowadays the very children have begun to suffer from it. It's almost a sort of insanity. The devil has taken the form of that vanity and entered into the whole generation. It's simply the devil, added Ayosha, without a trace of the smile that Koya, staring at him, expected to see. You are like everyone else, said Ayosha, in conclusion. That is, like very many others. Only you must not be like everybody else, that's all. Even if everyone is like that? Yes, even if everyone is like that. You be the only one not like it. You really are not like everyone else. Here you are not ashamed to confess to something bad and even ridiculous, and who will admit so much in these days? No one. And people have even seized to feel the impulse to self-criticism. Don't be like everyone else, even if you are the only one. Splendid! I was not mistaken in you. You know how to console one. Oh, how I have longed to know you, Garamazov. I have long been eager for this meeting. Can you really have thought about me too? You said just now that you thought of me too. Yes, I'd heard of you, and had thought of you too. And if it's partly vanity that makes you ask, it doesn't matter. Do you know, Garamazov, our talk has been like a declaration of love, said Koyer, in a bashful and melting voice. That's not ridiculous, is it? Not at all ridiculous, and if it were, it wouldn't matter because it's been a good thing. Alyosha smiled brightly. But do you know, Garamazov, you must admit that you are a little ashamed yourself now. I see it by your eyes. Koyer smiled with a sort of sly happiness. Why, ashamed? Well, why are you blushing? It was you who made me blush, laughed Alyosha, and he really did blush. Oh, well, I am a little. Goodness knows why. I don't know. He muttered, almost embarrassed. Oh, how I love you, and admire you at this moment, just because you are rather ashamed. Because you are just like me, cried Koyer, in positive ecstasy. His cheeks glowed, his eyes beamed. You know, Koyer, you'll be very unhappy in your life, something made Alyosha say suddenly. I know, I know, how you know it all beforehand, Koyer agreed at once. But you'll bless life on the whole, all the same. Just so, hurrah, you're a prophet. We shall get on together, Garamazov. Do you know, what delights me most, is that you treat me quite like an equal. But we are not equals. No, we are not. You are better. But we shall get on. Do you know, all this last month, I've been saying to myself, either we shall be friends at once, for ever, or we shall part enemies to the grave. And saying that, of course, you loved me, Alyosha laughed gaily. I did. I loved you awfully. I've been loving and dreaming of you. And how do you know it all beforehand? Ah, here's the doctor. Goodness, what will he tell us? Look at his face. End of chapter 6 of book 10.