The Brothers Karamazov (97 page)

But all this does not necessarily mean that Kolya Krasotkin was constantly worrying about his height and his face. In fact, just the opposite was true. However humiliated he may have felt in front of the mirror, he usually forgot all about it as soon as he turned his back and never thought of it again for long periods of time, “giving himself over without reservation to his ideas and to the realities of life,” as he liked to think of his activities.

Alyosha soon emerged from the house and went quickly up to Kolya. As he approached him, Kolya was struck by Alyosha’s cheerful face. “Why should he be all that glad to see me?” Kolya thought, feeling pleased.

It must be noted, incidentally, that considerable changes had taken place in Alyosha since we met him last. In the first place he had discarded his cassock and now wore instead a very nicely cut jacket and a round felt hat. Also, his hair was cut much shorter. All this made him extremely handsome. His charming, smiling face radiated a gentle, quiet joy. Kolya noticed with surprise that, despite the cold, Alyosha had come out of the house without putting on his overcoat, which showed how anxious he was not to keep Kolya waiting. And he came up to him now with his hand outstretched.

“Ah, so here you are, at last! We were all waiting for you!”

“Certain things prevented me from coming earlier. I’ll explain it to you later. In any case, I’m very glad to meet you. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity . . . I’ve heard so much about you,” Kolya rattled off, a bit breathlessly.

“Oh, I’m sure we would have met eventually anyway. I’ve heard a lot about you, too. I wish you’d come here a little sooner, though.”

“How are things in there?”

“Bad. Ilyusha is sure to die.”

“It’s that bad then, is it? Ah, medicine is such a filthy swindle,” Kolya cried heatedly.

“You know, Ilyusha has often mentioned you, even when he was delirious, and in his sleep as well. That shows how important you were to him . . . I mean before that business with the penknife. And there’s another reason . . . Tell me, is this your dog?”

“Yes. His name is Perezvon.”

“You’re sure it isn’t Juchka?” Alyosha looked sorrowfully into Kolya’s eyes. “So Juchka is definitely lost then?”

“I know, I know, you all wish it was Juchka. I’ve heard that,” Kolya said with a mysterious smile. “Listen, Karamazov, I’ll explain the whole thing to you and that’s why, in fact, I had you called outside—I wanted to tell you before we went inside. You know it was last spring that Ilyusha entered the lower school, don’t you, Karamazov?” Kolya started animatedly. “Well, you must know what kids are like in the lower school—they’re just little brats, and they at once started teasing him. Being two classes above them, I just watched what was going on from the side. Well, I saw that this tiny, weak kid wouldn’t take it lying down. He’d fight back. You should have seen his eyes—he was so proud. Well, I like kids like that! But the more he fought back, the more they teased him. The worst of it was that he had a horrible old overcoat, his trousers were too short, and there were big holes in his boots. So they teased him about his clothes. They really humiliated him. Well, that was a bit much, I felt, so I stepped in and really gave a few of them a good walloping. You know, Karamazov, it’s funny, the more I beat the daylights out of them, the more they like me!” Kolya couldn’t help bragging. “But I myself, I like kids. In fact, the reason I was late coming here was that I couldn’t leave two small children I was looking after at home . . . Well, so the brats stopped beating him and he became my protégé. He was very proud, but in the end he became devoted to me, obeyed me blindly, listened to me as if I were God Almighty Himself, and even tried to imitate me. During recess he would always come running to me and walk around with me until the bell rang. And it was the same thing on Sundays. I know it’s considered funny among schoolboys when a big boy becomes so friendly with a little one, but I think that’s just a prejudice. If I care to be friends with someone, it’s my own business and I don’t have to account to anyone—that’s the way I feel about it. So I explained things to him, helped him develop his mind. And why shouldn’t I have, since I enjoyed it? I guess it’s a bit like you, Karamazov: haven’t you made friends with all these kids? I suppose you want to influence the younger generation, help them to grow, and be useful, don’t you? In fact, I admit that it was that side of you, of which I’ve heard so much, that made me so interested in you . . .

“But let me get back to my story. Well, eventually I noticed that the boy was getting more and more sensitive, sort of sentimental . . . And I must tell you right now that, ever since I can remember, if there is one thing I’ve really loathed, it is slobbery sentimentality. And then there were those contradictions in him: he was proud and at the same time slavishly devoted to me; but despite that slavish devotion he could flare up at any moment and start arguing with me, fly into a rage, and not agree with anything. And it was not that he really disagreed so much with the ideas I was trying to explain to him—it was that he had decided to rebel against me because I was so cool to his sentimental stuff. And so, to toughen him up and make a man of him, the more sloppily sentimental he was, the colder I became; I did it deliberately, and I’m still convinced that it was the right way to treat him. Well, then . . . Oh, I’m sure I don’t have to spell it all out for you. I noticed at one point that he was sort of depressed. It went on for a whole day, and the following day and the day after that. I could see it was not for sentimental reasons that he felt that way—there was something else to it, something more important. I wondered what all the tragedy could be about. So I questioned him and here’s what I found out.

“Somehow or other, he had made friends with your father’s lackey Smerdyakov (your father was still alive at the time), who taught the little boy a stupid trick—I mean the filthy and beastly trick of kneading a piece of soft bread into a ball, sticking a pin into it, tossing it to a hungry dog, and watching what happens. For if a dog is hungry enough, he’ll swallow it without chewing it. So they prepared a ball of bread like that and tossed it to Juchka, that shaggy mongrel over which all the fuss is being made now. That dog was never fed and he spent days barking into the wind. (I can’t stand that stupid sort of barking, Karamazov, can you?) And so Juchka pounced on the thing, swallowed it, started to squeal and rush around, and darted off whimpering. That’s the way Ilyusha himself described it to me. When he told me the story, he was crying and crying and shaking all over. ‘He ran and squealed,’ he kept repeating. ‘He ran and squealed, ran and squealed . . .’ He was terribly struck by the scene. He had real pangs of guilt. I thought it was very serious. Well, I decided to give him a lesson for this and for other things he’d done before. So here, I admit, I put on an act. I pretended to be very indignant whereas, in fact, I wasn’t all that outraged. ‘You’ve done something disgusting, and you’re a mean little beast,’ I told him. ‘Of course I’m not going to tell on you, but, for the time being at least, I will have nothing to do with you. I’ll think it all over and decide whether I’ll ever resume my relations with you or whether I’ll break with you for good. I’ll let you know what I decide through Smurov,’ I told him. (Smurov, you know, is the kid who came with me today; he’s always been devoted to me.)

“Ilyusha was so completely dumbfounded when he heard that that I thought perhaps I’d overdone it a bit. But I considered that was the proper way to act at that moment. The next day I sent Smurov to inform Ilyusha that I was no longer talking to him, which meant that our relations were broken off. Secretly I was planning to punish him for a few days and then, when he was really sorry for what he’d done, I’d forgive him and we’d be friends again. That was my plan. But when Smurov went to him, his eyes flashed and he shouted: ‘Go and tell Krasotkin that now I’ll feed bread with pins in it to all the dogs.’ ‘Well, well,’ I thought, ‘he’s getting out of hand, but I’ll tame him!’ And so every time he crossed my path, I would either turn away or look at him sarcastically.

“And then there was that story with his father, you know, the back-scrubber. You can understand that, even before that happened, he was already in a state of nervous exasperation. The boys, who realized that I had broken with him, started taunting him again by shouting, ‘Back-scrubber, back-scrubber!’ whenever he appeared. That was when their battles began, and I’m terribly sorry about it all now, because I understand he got very badly beaten up. On one occasion he attacked a whole bunch of them in the school yard as I stood there, perhaps ten yards away. I’m sure I wasn’t laughing at him then, for I remember feeling terribly sorry for him. In fact, I think I was on the point of joining the battle to defend him. But suddenly our eyes met. I don’t know what he thought he saw in my look but the next thing I knew he was rushing at me with his penknife open and he jabbed it into my right thigh, right here, see? I didn’t even move, for you see, Karamazov, I can be pretty fearless too on occasion, even if I do say so myself. I gave him one of those scornful looks as if to say, ‘Here, go on, take another stab at me if you like, since that’s your way of showing your appreciation for all I’ve done for you.’ But he didn’t stab me again. He got scared of what he’d done, threw the penknife away, and rushed off, crying out loud. Of course I didn’t go and squeal on him and I saw to it that no one who had seen what happened did. I didn’t even tell my mother until the wound was completely healed. Besides, it was not much of a wound really. It was just a scratch. Now, later that same day, I was told that he rushed at you and bit your finger. Well, I’m sure you understand now what a state he was in that day . . . I admit now that I should have gone to see him when he first got sick and forgiven him . . . I mean made up with him, then. I’m really sorry I didn’t. But then I thought up something else. Well, that’s the whole story. I’m afraid I’ve been rather stupid, all in all.”

“It’s a shame I didn’t know anything about your previous relations with Ilyusha,” Alyosha said worriedly. “If I had I’d have come to see you long ago and tried to persuade you to come with me to visit him. Do you know, as he lay there in a fever, he kept talking about you? I had no idea that you’d been so close to him. But you really couldn’t find Juchka anywhere after that? His father and all the kids have looked for him all over town. Sick as he is, Ilyusha has repeated three times to his father: ‘If I’m sick, papa, it’s because I’ve killed Juchka. God is punishing me for it now.’ And it’s quite impossible to dissuade him. I almost believe that if Juchka was found alive and brought to him and he was convinced that he hadn’t killed the dog, the boy would come back to life out of sheer joy. And so we were all hoping that you . . .”

“But what made you hope that I would find Juchka? Why me?” Kolya asked in extreme surprise. “Why didn’t you expect that someone else would find Juchka?”

“Rumor had it that you were looking for Juchka and that you’d come with him as soon as you’d found him. Smurov said something to that effect, too. Above all, we’ve all been trying to convince Ilyusha that Juchka is alive, that someone has seen him. One day the boys brought him a live rabbit, but he just glanced at it, smiled, and asked them to let it loose in the fields, which they did. And just now his father came home with a mastiff puppy. The poor man had thought to console Ilyusha with it, but he only made things worse . . .”

“Another thing, Karamazov—tell me, what sort of a man is his father? I’ve met him, but I want to hear your opinion. Is he some kind of buffoon, a clown, or what?”

“Oh no, not at all. He’s one of those very sensitive people who have been crushed by life. Their clowning is really a show of spite to people whom they don’t dare to answer back, after they’ve been humiliated for a long time and intimidated. Believe me, Krasotkin, that clowning can be terribly sad at times. And now everything on earth that is dear to this man is concentrated in Ilyusha, and if Ilyusha dies, his father will either go mad or kill himself. Whenever I look at him, I’m almost certain that that is what will happen.”

“I see what you mean, Karamazov,” Kolya said with feeling. “I can see that you really understand the man.”

“You know,” Alyosha said, “the minute I saw you with this dog, I was sure you’d brought Juchka.”

“Wait, we may yet find Juchka, but this is Perezvon. I’ll bring him into the room and perhaps Ilyusha will be more pleased with him than he was with the mastiff pup. Wait, Karamazov, perhaps you’ll find out something in a moment. But, good God, here I’m keeping you out in this cold and you have no overcoat on!” Kolya suddenly cried. “You see how selfish I am! Oh, we’re all such terrible egoists, Karamazov!”

“Don’t worry. It’s none too warm, but I practically never catch cold. But do let’s go in, by all means. What shall I call you, by the way?”

“My full name is Nikolai Ivanovich Krasotkin,” Kolya said laughingly and then added quickly: “But, of course, I detest the name Nikolai.”

“Why? And why ‘of course’?”

“It’s so terribly banal and common.”

“How old are you? Twelve?”

“No, I’m thirteen. In fact I’ll be fourteen pretty soon—in two weeks. Now let me make a confession to you, Karamazov, so that you’ll know from the start what kind of a person I am. First of all, I hate it when people ask me how old I am. And then there’s a rumor going around about me that I played at robbers with boys from the lower school. Well, I did, but it was not because I enjoyed it myself but to please them. I suppose you must have heard that gossip too, but I want you to believe me—the only reason I did it was that, without me, the brats couldn’t think of anything to do with themselves. But in this town there’s always so much ridiculous gossip going around!”

“But suppose you did enjoy it yourself—what’s so terrible about that?”

“How can you suppose I could enjoy it? Tell me, would you enjoy, for instance, playing ‘horsey’ with tiny kids?”

“Look, why can’t you think of it this way?” Alyosha said with a smile. “Adults, for instance, enjoy going to the theater, don’t they? And what are they shown there if not the adventures of all kinds of heroic men. Sometimes there are also robbers and there’s some fighting . . . So isn’t it in a way the same thing—in a different form, of course? And when young people play at soldiers or at robbers in their free time, it’s also a manifestation of the burgeoning need for artistic expression, and those games are often better and more natural than a theatrical performance. Another difference, of course, is that when people go to the theater it’s to watch the actors, while in their games the boys are their own actors. And it’s all completely natural.”