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

I don’t want to be holy. What will they do to one in the next world

for the greatest sin? You must know all about that.”

“God will censure you.” Alyosha was watching her steadily.

“That’s just what I should like. I would go up and they would

censure me, and I would burst out laughing in their faces. I should

dreadfully like to set fire to the house, Alyosha, to our house; you

still don’t believe me?”

“Why? There are children of twelve years old, who have a longing

to set fire to something and they do set things on fire, too. It’s a

sort of disease.”

“That’s not true, that’s not true; there may be children, but

that’s not what I mean.”

“You take evil for good; it’s a passing crisis; it’s the result of

your illness, perhaps.”

“You do despise me, though! It’s simply that I don’t want to do

good, I want to do evil, and it has nothing to do with illness.”

“Why do evil?”

“So that everything might be destroyed. Ah, how nice it would be

if everything were destroyed! You know, Alyosha, I sometimes think

of doing a fearful lot of harm and everything bad, and I should do

it for a long while on the sly and suddenly everyone would find it

out. Everyone will stand round and point their fingers at me and I

would look at them all. That would be awfully nice. Why would it be so

nice, Alyosha?”

“I don’t know. It’s a craving to destroy something good or, as you

say, to set fire to something. It happens sometimes.”

“I not only say it, I shall do it.”

“I believe you.”

“Ah, how I love you for saying you believe me. And you are not

lying one little bit. But perhaps you think that I am saying all

this on purpose to annoy you?”

“No, I don’t think that… though perhaps there is a little desire

to do that in it, too.”

“There is a little. I never can tell lies to you,” she declared,

with a strange fire in her eyes.

What struck Alyosha above everything was her earnestness. There

was not a trace of humour or jesting in her face now, though, in old

days, fun and gaiety never deserted her even at her most “earnest”

moments.

“There are moments when people love crime,” said Alyosha

thoughtfully.

“Yes, yes! You have uttered my thought; they love crime,

everyone loves crime, they love it always, not at some ‘moments.’

You know, it’s as though people have made an agreement to lie about it

and have lied about it ever since. They all declare that they hate

evil, but secretly they all love it.”

“And are you still reading nasty books?”

“Yes, I am. Mamma reads them and hides them under her pillow and I

steal them.”

“Aren’t you ashamed to destroy yourself?”

“I want to destroy myself. There’s a boy here, who lay down

between the railway lines when the train was passing. Lucky fellow!

Listen, your brother is being tried now for murdering his father and

everyone loves his having killed his father.”

“Loves his having killed his father?”

“Yes, loves it; everyone loves it! Everybody says it’s so awful,

but secretly they simply love it. I for one love it.”

“There is some truth in what you say about everyone,” said Alyosha

softly.

“Oh, what ideas you have!” Lise shrieked in delight. “And you a

monk, too! You wouldn’t believe how I respect you, Alyosha, for

never telling lies. Oh, I must tell you a funny dream of mine. I

sometimes dream of devils. It’s night; I am in my room with a candle

and suddenly there are devils all over the place, in all the

corners, under the table, and they open the doors; there’s a crowd

of them behind the doors and they want to come and seize me. And

they are just coming, just seizing me. But I suddenly cross myself and

they all draw back, though they don’t go away altogether, they stand

at the doors and in the corners, waiting. And suddenly I have a

frightful longing to revile God aloud, and so I begin, and then they

come crowding back to me, delighted, and seize me again and I cross

myself again and they all draw back. It’s awful fun, it takes one’s

breath away.”

“I’ve had the same dream, too,” said Alyosha suddenly.

“Really?” cried Lise, surprised. “I say, Alyosha, don’t laugh,

that’s awfully important. Could two different people have the same

dream?”

“It seems they can.”

“Alyosha, I tell you, it’s awfully important,” Lise went on,

with really excessive amazement. “It’s not the dream that’s important,

but your having the same dream as me. You never lie to me, don’t lie

now; is it true? You are not laughing?”

“It’s true.”

Lise seemed extraordinarily impressed and for half a minute she

was silent.

“Alyosha, come and see me, come and see me more often,” she said

suddenly, in a supplicating voice.

“I’ll always come to see you, all my life,” answered Alyosha

firmly.

“You are the only person I can talk to, you know,” Lise began

again. “I talk to no one but myself and you. Only you in the whole

world. And to you more readily than to myself. And I am not a bit

ashamed with you, not a bit. Alyosha, why am I not ashamed with you,

not a bit? Alyosha, is it true that at Easter the Jews steal a child

and kill it?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s a book here in which I read about the trial of a Jew, who

took a child of four years old and cut off the fingers from both

hands, and then crucified him on the wall, hammered nails into him and

crucified him, and afterwards, when he was tried, he said that the

child died soon, within four hours. That was ‘soon’! He said the child

moaned, kept on moaning and he stood admiring it. That’s nice!”

“Nice?”

“Nice; I sometimes imagine that it was I who crucified him. He

would hang there moaning and I would sit opposite him eating pineapple

compote. I am awfully fond of pineapple compote. Do you like it?”

Alyosha looked at her in silence. Her pale, sallow face was

suddenly contorted, her eyes burned.

“You know, when I read about that Jew I shook with sobs all night.

I kept fancying how the little thing cried and moaned (a child of four

years old understands, you know), and all the while the thought of

pineapple compote haunted me. In the morning I wrote a letter to a

certain person, begging him particularly to come and see me. He came

and I suddenly told him all about the child and the pineapple compote.

All about it, all, and said that it was nice. He laughed and said it

really was nice. Then he got up and went away. He was only here five

minutes. Did he despise me? Did he despise me? Tell me, tell me,

Alyosha, did he despise me or not?” She sat up on the couch, with

flashing eyes.

“Tell me,” Alyosha asked anxiously, “did you send for that

person?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you send him a letter?”

“Yes.”

“Simply to ask about that, about that child?”

“No, not about that at all. But when he came, I asked him about

that at once. He answered, laughed, got up and went away.”

“That person behaved honourably,” Alyosha murmured.

“And did he despise me? Did he laugh at me?”

“No, for perhaps he believes in the pineapple compote himself.

He is very ill now, too, Lise.”

“Yes, he does believe in it,” said Lise, with flashing eyes.

“He doesn’t despise anyone,” Alyosha went on. “Only he does not

believe anyone. If he doesn’t believe in people, of course, he does

despise them.”

“Then he despises me, me?”

“You, too.”

“Good.” Lise seemed to grind her teeth. “When he went out

laughing, I felt that it was nice to be despised. The child with

fingers cut off is nice, and to be despised is nice…”

And she laughed in Alyosha’s face, a feverish malicious laugh.

“Do you know, Alyosha, do you know, I should like-Alyosha, save

me!” She suddenly jumped from the couch, rushed to him and seized

him with both hands. “Save me!” she almost groaned. “Is there anyone

in the world I could tell what I’ve told you? I’ve told you the truth,

the truth. I shall kill myself, because I loathe everything! I don’t

want to live, because I loathe everything! I loathe everything,

everything. Alyosha, why don’t you love me in the least?” she finished

in a frenzy.

“But I do love you!” answered Alyosha warmly.

“And will you weep over me, will you?”

“Yes.”

“Not because I won’t be your wife, but simply weep for me?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you! It’s only your tears I want. Everyone else may

punish me and trample me under foot, everyone, everyone, not excepting

anyone. For I don’t love anyone. Do you hear, not anyone! On the

contrary, I hate him! Go, Alyosha; it’s time you went to your

brother”; she tore herself away from him suddenly.

“How can I leave you like this?” said Alyosha, almost in alarm.

“Go to your brother, the prison will be shut; go, here’s your hat.

Give my love to Mitya, go, go!”

And she almost forcibly pushed Alyosha out of the door. He

looked at her with pained surprise, when he was suddenly aware of a

letter in his right hand, a tiny letter folded up tight and sealed. He

glanced at it and instantly read the address, “To Ivan Fyodorovitch

Karamazov.” He looked quickly at Lise. Her face had become almost

menacing.

“Give it to him, you must give it to him!” she ordered him,

trembling and beside herself. “To-day, at once, or I’ll poison myself!

That’s why I sent for you.”

And she slammed the door quickly. The bolt clicked. Alyosha put

the note in his pocket and went straight downstairs, without going

back to Madame Hohlakov; forgetting her, in fact. As soon as Alyosha

had gone, Lise unbolted the door, opened it a little, put her finger

in the crack and slammed the door with all her might, pinching her

finger. Ten seconds after, releasing her finger, she walked softly,

slowly to her chair, sat up straight in it and looked intently at

her blackened finger and at the blood that oozed from under the

nail. Her lips were quivering and she kept whispering rapidly to

herself:

“I am a wretch, wretch, wretch, wretch!”