The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (easy to read books for adults list .txt) 📕
"Those innocent eyes slit my soul up like a razor," he used to say afterwards, with his loathsome snigger. In a man so depraved this might, of course, mean no more than sensual attraction. As he had received no dowry with his wife, and had, so to speak, taken her "from the halter," he did not stand on ceremony with her. Making her feel that she had "wronged" him, he took advantage of her phenomenal meekness and submissiveness to trample on the elemen
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women shouted at him impressively.
“What Tchizhov? Who is he? Tell me, if you know.”
“That tall, snivelling fellow who used to sit in the market in the
summer.”
“And what’s your Tchizhov to do with me, good people, eh?”
“How can I tell what he’s 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. He spoke to you, he did not speak to us, you
stupid. Don’t you really know him?”
“Know whom?”
“Tchizhov.”
“The devil take Tchizhov and you with him. I’ll give him a hiding,
that I will. He was laughing at me!”
“Will give Tchizhov a hiding! More likely he will give you one.
You are a fool, that’s what you are!”
“Not Tchizhov, not Tchizhov, you spiteful, mischievous woman. I’ll
give the boy a hiding. Catch him, catch him, he was laughing at me
The woman guffawed. But Kolya was by now a long way off,
marching along with a triumphant air. Smurov 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
Kolya’s company.
“What Sabaneyev did you mean?” he asked Kolya, foreseeing what his
answer would be.
“How do I know? Now there’ll be a hubbub 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 is a
fool, that peasant, eh?”
“Let him alone, Kolya. Let’s go on.”
“Nothing could stop me, now I am 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 are not laughing at me,” he said
deliberately in reply.
“And if I am?” laughed Kolya.
“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.”
“Cleverer than you,” the peasant answered unexpectedly, with
the same gravity.
“I doubt it,” said Kolya, somewhat taken aback.
“It’s true, though.”
“Perhaps it is.”
“It is, brother.”
“Goodbye, peasant!”
“Goodbye!”
“There are all sorts of peasants,” Kolya observed to Smurov
after a brief silence. “How could I tell I had hit on a clever one?
I am always ready to recognise 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 Snegiryov’s lodging,
a considerable distance, quickly and almost in silence. Twenty paces
from the house Kolya stopped and told Smurov to go on ahead and ask
Karamazov to come out to him.
“One must sniff round a bit first,” he observed to Smurov.
“Why ask him to come out?” Smurov protested. “You go in; they will
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,” Kolya cut
him short in the despotic tone he was fond of adopting with “small
boys,” and Smurov ran to do his bidding.
The Lost Dog
KOLYA leaned 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 hitherto he had always
maintained an appearance of disdainful indifference when he was
mentioned, and he had even “criticised” what he heard about Alyosha.
But secretely 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. “Or he’ll think of
me as thirteen and take me for a boy, like the rest of them. And
what are these boys to him? I shall ask him when I get to know him.
It’s a pity I am so short, though. Tuzikov is younger than I am, yet
he is half a head taller. But I have a clever face. I am not
good-looking. I know I’m hideous, but I’ve a clever face. I mustn’t
talk too freely; if I fall into his arms all at once, he may think-Tfoo! how horrible if he should think- !”
Such were the thoughts that excited Kolya while he was doing his
utmost to assume the most independent air. 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 grey 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’ve a regular pug nose, a regular pug nose,” Kolya used to
mutter to himself when he looked in the 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 forgot them for a long
time, “abandoning himself entirely to ideas and to real life,” as he
formulated it to himself.
Alyosha came out quickly and hastened up to Kolya. Before he
reached him, Kolya could see that he looked delighted. “Can he be so
glad to see me?” Kolya wondered, feeling pleased. We may note here, in
passing, that Alyosha’s appearance had undergone a complete change
since we saw him last. He had abandoned his cassock and was wearing
now a wellcut coat, a soft, round hat, 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 Kolya’s
surprise, Alyosha came out to him just as he was, without an overcoat.
He had evidently come in haste. He held out his hand to Kolya 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 am
glad to make your acquaintance. I’ve long been hoping for an
opportunity, and have heard a great deal about you,” Kolya 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?”
“Ilusha is very ill. He is certainly dying.”
“How awful! You must admit that medicine is a fraud, Karamazov,”
cried Kolya warmly.
“Ilusha 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 Perezvon.”
“Not Zhutchka?” Alyosha looked at Kolya with eyes full of pity.
“Is she lost for ever?”
“I know you would all like it to be Zhutchka. I’ve heard all about
it.” Kolya smiled mysteriously. “Listen, Karamazov, 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, Karamazov, Ilusha came into
the preparatory class last spring. Well, you know what our preparatory
class is-a lot of small boys. They began teasing Ilusha 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 like 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 jeered 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 adore me, do you know, Karamazov?” Kolya boasted impulsively;
“but I am always fond of children. I’ve two chickens in my hands at
home now-that’s what detained me to-day. So they left off beating
Ilusha 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, Karamazov, 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 have 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 he’d refuse to agree with me; he’d argue, 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
dejected, not because of my coldness, but for something else,
something more important. I wondered what the tragedy was.
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