The Brothers Karamazov (100 page)

“It was really just a stupid little prank, but they managed to make a whole production out of it, as they often do in this town,” Kolya started carelessly. “One day I was crossing the square when they were driving some geese into town. So I stopped to look at the geese when all of a sudden a fellow who works at Plotnikov’s store as a messenger boy—Vishnyakov is his name—comes over to me and says, ‘What are you staring at those geese for?’ So I look at him and see that he has one of those stupid round mugs—he must be about twenty or so . . . But I want you to understand that I like common people . . . I think we’ve lost touch with the people—that’s an axiom of mine . . . What’s so funny about what I’m saying, Karamazov? Why are you laughing?”

“No, no, I’m not. I’m very interested!” Alyosha said with such a sincere air that Kolya at once felt reassured.

“My theory, Karamazov, is plain and clear,” Kolya started off in a hurry again. “I have faith in the common people and am always prepared to render them justice, but that doesn’t mean I’m in favor of coddling them, that’s 
sine qua
 . . . But I was talking about that goose. Well, then, I turn to that imbecile and I say to him, ‘I’m looking at the geese because I’m trying to figure out what they’re thinking about.’ So he gives me one of those dumb looks and says: ‘And what does a goose think about?’ ‘See that cart of oats?’ I ask him. ‘And do you see those oats dropping out of the sack and that goose over there with its neck stretched out right under the wheel, pecking the grain—do you see it?’ ‘Sure, I see it,’ he says. ‘Now,’ I say, ‘suppose someone gave that cart ever so slight a push, what do you say, would the wheel run over the goose’s neck or wouldn’t it?’ ‘It sure would,’ the fellow says. I see him grinning from cheek to cheek as if he were going to melt with joy. ‘So let’s go, fellow. Let’s do it.’ ‘All right,’ he says, ‘let’s.’ And, believe me, it didn’t take us long to manage it. He took hold of the bridle and I stood behind the goose, to kind of direct it. Well, the peasant who had driven the geese into town was busy talking to someone and was paying no attention. I didn’t even have to direct that goose. It managed all by itself. It stretched out its neck under the cart, right under the wheel, and I winked to the fellow, he pulled the bridle, and cr-rrack—the wheel rolled over the middle of the goose’s neck! But it so happened that, just at that very second, all the peasants looked around and saw what had happened. And they began to yell at him: ‘You did it on purpose!’ ‘No, not on purpose!’ ‘Yes, on purpose.’ And the next thing I hear is shouting, ‘Take him to the Justice of the Peace!’ And they got hold of me too, shouting, ‘You were in it with him. You helped him. Everyone in the market knows you anyway!’ And it is a fact—I don’t know why, but they all know me,” Kolya remarked with a certain pride.

“Well, so we all went in procession to the Justice of the Peace and they even took the goose along too. The other fellow was getting scared, and suddenly I see he’s weeping like an old woman. And the owner of the geese keeps hollering, ‘They could have killed lots of geese that way!’ Well, with all the witnesses, it didn’t take the judge very long to decide. The fellow was told he must pay the peasant one ruble for the goose but that he could keep the goose. The judge also warned him never to play such tricks again. But the fellow was still crying and whimpering like an old woman. ‘It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me,’ he kept saying. ‘It was he who put me up to it,’ and he points at me. So very coolly I say to the judge that I never put him up to anything, that I only formulated the basic idea and that I simply meant it was theoretically feasible. Well, Justice of the Peace Nefedov smiled when I said that, but then became angry with himself for smiling. ‘I will report you to your school principal and you’d better see to it that, instead of going about testing your theories, you sit over your books and do your schoolwork!’ Actually he didn’t report me to the school, but the rumor went around town and the school authorities heard about it soon enough, just because they happen to have pretty long ears. Kolbasnikov, the classics teacher, was outraged, but Dardanelov got me off the hook again. Now Kolbasnikov is furious with all of us, like an incensed donkey . . . By the way, Ilyusha, did you know he just got married to that Miss Mikhailov? He took three thousand rubles of dowry along with his bride, whose face is like the snout of an aging pig. The boys of the third class at once made up the following epigram:

*

Astounding news has reached the class.

A pig got married to our ass!

*

There’s more of it and it’s very funny. I’ll bring it to you some time. I can’t say anything against Dardanelov—he’s a man who knows his stuff. Yes, he’s definitely quite a learned man, and I don’t say that because he comes to my defense. I simply respect people who are competent.”

“But you did show him up when you asked him who founded Troy,” Smurov said. He was terribly proud of Krasotkin at that moment. The story about the goose pleased him no end.

“Did you really show him up?” Snegirev put in ingratiatingly. “Yes, that was about who founded Troy—we heard about that. Ilyusha told us at the time . . .”

“He knows more than anyone else on any subject, papa. He’s just pretending to be like that; actually he’s the top student in every subject,” Ilyusha declared, gazing happily at Kolya.

“Oh, that business about Troy is nothing. I myself think my question was pretty unimportant,” Kolya said with a conqueror’s modesty. He felt he had finally succeeded in adopting the right tone, although something still worried him. He felt that he was still a bit too excited, that he had told the story about the goose with too much sincere excitement, and that, while he was telling it, Alyosha had kept looking at him unsmilingly and never making any comment, so that Kolya, touchy as he was, started wondering whether Alyosha didn’t “despise” him. “He must be thinking I’m trying hard to get his approval,” Kolya decided. “Well, if he has that conceited notion, I’ll . . .”

“Actually, the question was completely irrelevant,” Kolya said again.

“But I know who founded Troy,” said a boy, who until then had sat in silence by the door. He was a very pretty, obviously shy boy of about eleven, named Kartashov. Kolya, in surprise, gave him a dignified look. The name of the founder of Troy had come to be considered at school as a sort of a secret that could only be answered by reading Smaragdov’s book. But no one in town except Kolya had a copy of it. And so one day while Kolya’s back was turned, young Kartashov had picked up Smaragdov from among Kolya’s other books and had been lucky enough to open it at just the place where it discussed the founding of Troy. This had happened quite a while before, but until then the boy had been too shy to reveal his knowledge publicly. He had also been afraid that Kolya might somehow make a fool of him if he did. But now, for some reason, he could no longer restrain himself and spoke up. He had been longing to do so for quite a while.

“So who was it?” Kolya asked contemptuously, turning toward Kartashov. From the boy’s face, he knew at once that he knew and prepared himself to meet the new situation.

A discordant note could be detected in the general mood now.

“Troy was founded by Teucer, Dardanus, Ilius, and Troas,” the boy rattled off in one breath, turning so red that it was impossible to look at him without feeling sorry for him. All the boys, however, kept their eyes riveted on him for a whole minute, after which all those eyes, as if at a command, turned to Kolya, who was still glaring with contempt at the impudent little boy.

“What do you mean, actually, when you say they founded Troy?” he finally said, as if doing the boy a tremendous honor just by acknowledging his existence. “Besides, how does one go about founding a city or a state? Do you think each of those fellows came along carrying a brick and put it down there, is that it?”

There was laughter. Poor Kartashov turned from red to purple. He didn’t answer and was ready to burst into tears. Kolya kept him in this state for another minute before going on.

“Before you speak of such historical events as the founding of a nation, you should first try to understand what it means,” he said in a stern, lecturing tone. “Actually, I don’t lay great store in these old wives’ tales and I don’t have much respect for world history as a whole,” he added, now addressing himself to everybody in general.

“You mean world history?” Snegirev asked with a strange note of fear in his voice.

“Yes, world history. It’s nothing but the study of a succession of human blunders. The only subjects I respect are mathematics and the natural sciences,” Kolya said, showing off. He glanced quickly at Alyosha, who was the only person there about whose opinion he was worried. But Alyosha remained silent and unsmiling. If Alyosha had said something then, that would have ended the matter, but he said nothing and his silence could very well indicate his contempt, Kolya felt, becoming quite irritated.

“Now, take the classical languages—it’s sheer madness . . . I don’t believe you agree with me, Karamazov?”

“I don’t.” Alyosha smiled restrainedly.

“If you want my true opinion about Greek and Latin—they’re just a way of policing people. That’s the only reason they’re taught . . .” Kolya noticed that again he was becoming breathless with excitement. “They were introduced in school curriculae to dull the students’ intelligence. It was already pretty boring before, but they felt they had to make it even more boring; it was already senseless, so they had to make it still more senseless. And so they dragged in classical languages. That is my sincere opinion and I hope I never change it,” Kolya concluded challengingly. A bright red spot appeared on each of his cheeks.

“That’s the truth!” Smurov said in a tone ringing with conviction. He had been listening attentively to Kolya’s every word.

“He says that, but he’s top of his class in Latin,” a boy remarked.

“That’s right, papa, he says all these things, but no one’s as good as he is in Latin,” Ilyusha echoed.

“But what does that prove?” Kolya felt he had to ward off this objection, although he was very pleased with it. “The only reason I cram Latin is because I’m made to, because I promised my mother that I’d graduate from the school, and because I believe we must do whatever we do as well as we can. But deep down in my heart I have nothing but contempt for the whole swindle. I’m sure you disagree again, Karamazov?”

“Why do you call it a ‘swindle’?” Alyosha said, smiling again.

“Just think: the classics have all been translated into modern languages and so we don’t have to study Latin to read them. We study it only because it dulls our senses and makes us more susceptible to police control. So why shouldn’t I call it a swindle?”

“But who has put all these ideas into your head?” Alyosha asked him in considerable surprise.

“First of all, I can have ideas without their being put into my head by anyone, and in the second place, what I’ve just told you about the translations of the classics, Kolbasnikov said publicly in front of his whole class, the third . . .”

“The doctor has arrived!” Nina suddenly announced.

And, indeed, Mrs. Khokhlakov’s carriage had driven up to the gate. Snegirev, who had been expecting the doctor since morning, rushed headlong out to meet him. Mrs. Snegirev sat up a little higher in her armchair and assumed a dignified air. Alyosha went over to Ilyusha’s bed and straightened the pillows, and Nina worriedly watched him tidy her brother’s bed. The boys hurriedly took their leave, some of them saying they’d come back in the evening. Kolya called Perezvon and the dog jumped down from the bed.

“I’m not leaving yet,” Kolya quickly said to Ilyusha. “I’ll wait in the passage while the doctor is here and then I’ll come back with Perezvon.”

But the doctor was already on the way in, an important-looking figure of a man in a bearskin coat, with long, dark side-whiskers and a clean-shaven, shining chin. He seemed somewhat taken aback as he stepped into the room and stopped, apparently believing that he’d come to the wrong place. “What is this? Where am I?” he muttered, without removing his bearskin coat or his sealskin cap. The crowd of people, the poverty of the room, the washing hanging on a line in a corner—all this quite confused him.

Snegirev was bowing low before him.

“This is the right place, sir. This is it,” he kept mumbling ingratiatingly. “This is my house. This is where the patient is . . .”

“Snegirev?” the doctor asked in a loud, imperious voice. “Are you Mr. Snegirev?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see.”

The doctor glanced disgustedly around the room once more and removed his bearskin coat. Everybody noticed an important decoration which flashed on his front for all to see. Snegirev took his coat and the doctor removed his cap.

“So where’s the patient?” the doctor asked in a peremptory tone.

Chapter 6: Precociousness

WHAT DO you think the doctor will say?” Kolya said nervously and quickly. “What a repulsive mug the man has, don’t you think? I loathe medicine!”

“Ilyusha’s going to die,” Alyosha said sadly. “There doesn’t seem to be any doubt about it.”

“A bunch of frauds! Ah, medicine is such a fraud. I’m very pleased, though, to have got to know you, Karamazov. I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time. It’s only a pity we had to meet under such sad circumstances.”

Kolya would have liked to say something warmer, more effusive, but something stopped him. Alyosha felt it, smiled, and shook his hand.

“I’ve long considered you an exceptional person and respected you,” Kolya started again, feeling he was about to get mixed up. “I understand you’re a mystic and I know you’ve lived in the monastery. But contact with real life will cure you, it never fails to, with natures such as yours.”

“Why do you call me a mystic? And what am I supposed to be cured of?” Alyosha asked him, a little surprised.

“Well, you know, all that stuff about God and the rest . . .”

“Why, don’t you believe in God yourself?”

“No, no, don’t misunderstand me—I have nothing against God. I know, of course, that God is only a hypothesis, but I recognize the fact that it is a useful hypothesis, to keep order . . . order in the world, and so on, so that if God didn’t exist, He would have to be invented.”