The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (easy to read books for adults list .txt) 📕

quite conscious, but his breathing! His breathing’s gone wrong. The

other day he asked to have his boots on to be led round 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. Herzenstube

is looking after him. Now they are rich again-they’ve got heaps of

money.

“They are 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 Alexey

Karamazov is taking in it. His brother’s going to be tried to-morrow

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 are going yourself now to

make it up with Ilusha.”

“Make it up with him? What an absurd expression! But I allow no

one to analyse my actions.”

“And how pleased Ilusha will be to see you! He has no idea that

you are coming. Why was it, why was it you wouldn’t come all this

time?” Smurov cried with sudden warmth.

“My dear boy, that’s my business, not yours.

I am going of myself because I choose to, but you’ve all been

hauled there by Alexey Karamazov-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 Karamazov at all; it’s not his doing. Our fellows

began going there of themselves. Of course, they went with Karamazov

at first. And there’s been nothing of that sort of silliness. First

one went, and then another. His father was awfully pleased to see

us. You know he will simply go out of his mind if Ilusha dies. He sees

that Ilusha’s dying. And he seems so glad we’ve made it up with

Ilusha. Ilusha 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 is a very decent man. We made a

mistake then. It’s all the fault of that murderer who beat him then.”

“Karamazov’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. Smurov, too, was silent.

Smurov, of course, worshipped Krassotkin and never dreamed of

putting himself on a level with him. Now he was tremendously

interested at Kolya’s saying that he was “going of himself” to see

Ilusha. 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

marketplace, in which at that hour were many loaded wagons from the

country and a great number of live fowls. The market women were

selling rolls, cottons and threads, etc., in their booths. These

Sunday markets were naively called “fairs” in the town, and there were

many such fairs in the year.

Perezvon ran about in the wildest spirits, sniffing about first

one side, then the other. When he met other dogs they zealously

smelt each other over according to the rules of canine etiquette.

“I like to watch such realistic scenes, Smurov,” 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 are 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 social

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 Rakitin’s idea-a remarkable idea. I am a Socialist, Smurov.”

“And what is a Socialist?” asked Smurov.

“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, Smurov, 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

men, everything even in their social and political relations. Habit is

the great motive-power. What a funny-looking peasant!”

Kolya 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,” Kolya 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 Smurov.

“It’s all right; he won’t be cross; he’s a nice fellow.

Goodbye, Matvey.”

“Goodbye.”

“Is your name Matvey?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know?”

“No, I didn’t. It was a guess.”

“You don’t say so! You are a schoolboy, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“You get whipped, I expect?”

“Nothing to speak of-sometimes.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Well, yes, it does.”

“Ech, what a life!” The peasant heaved a sigh from the bottom of

his heart.

“Goodbye, Matvey.”

“Goodbye. You are a nice chap, that you are.”

The boys went on.

“That was a nice peasant,” Kolya observed to Smurov. “I like

talking to the peasants, and am always glad to do them justice.”

“Why did you tell a lie, pretending we are thrashed?” asked

Smurov.

“I had to say that to please him.”

“How do you mean?”

“You know, Smurov, I don’t like being asked the same thing

twice. I like people to understand at 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, Kolya. Of course I’m afraid. My father would be

awfully cross. I am strictly forbidden to go out with you.”

“Don’t be uneasy, nothing will happen this time. Hallo,

Natasha!” he shouted to a market woman in one of the booths.

“Call me Natasha! What next! My name is Marya,” the middle-aged

marketwoman shouted at him.

“I am so glad it’s Marya. 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.”

Kolya 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,” bawled Marya. “You want

a whipping, that’s what you want, you saucy jackanapes!”

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 Kolya.

“I know you!” he cried angrily, “I know you!”

Kolya stared at him. He could not recall when he could have had

a row with the man. But he had 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 are at your saucy pranks again?” cried the man. “You are at

your saucy pranks again? I know, you are at it again!”

“It’s not your business, brother, if I am at my saucy pranks

again,” said Kolya, standing still and scanning him.

“Not my business?”

“No; it’s not your business.”

“Whose then? Whose then? Whose then?”

“It’s Trifon Nikititch’s business, not yours.”

“What Trifon Nikititch?” asked the youth, staring with loutish

amazement at Kolya, but still as angry as ever.

Kolya scanned him gravely.

“Have you been to the Church of the Ascension?” he suddenly

asked him, with stern emphasis.

“What Church of Ascension? What for? No, I haven’t,” said the

young man, somewhat taken aback.

“Do you know Sabaneyev?” Kolya 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 Kolya, cutting short the

conversation; and turning sharply to the right he strode quickly on

his way as though he disdained further conversation with a dolt who

did not even know Sabaneyev.

“Stop, heigh! What Sabaneyev?” the young man recovered from his

momentary stupefaction 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 a Sabaneyev who worked for the Kuzmitchovs, that’s who

it must be,” one of the women suggested.

The young man stared at her wildly.

“For the Kuzmitchovs?” repeated another woman. “But his name

wasn’t Trifon. His name’s Kuzma, not Trifon; but the boy said Trifon

Nikititch, so it can’t be the same.”

“His name is not Trifon and not Sabaneyev, it’s Tchizhov,” put

in suddenly a third woman, who had hitherto been silent, listening

gravely. “Alexey Ivanitch is his name. Tchizhov, Alexey Ivanitch.”

“Not a doubt about it, it’s Tchizhov,” 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 devil’s to know who is Sabaneyev?”

“You’re a senseless fellow. I tell you it’s not Sabaneyev, but

Tchizhov, Alexey Ivanitch Tchizhov, that’s who it