The Brothers Karamazov

he Schoolboy

But Kolya did not hear her. At last he could go out. As he went out at
the gate he looked round him, shrugged up his shoulders, and saying “It
is freezing,” went straight along the street and turned off to the
right towards the market‐place. When he reached the last house but one
before the market‐place he stopped at the gate, pulled a whistle out of
his pocket, and whistled with all his might as though giving a signal.
He had not to wait more than a minute before a rosy‐cheeked boy of
about eleven, wearing a warm, neat and even stylish coat, darted out to
meet him. This was Smurov, a boy in the preparatory class (two classes
below Kolya Krassotkin), son of a well‐to‐do official. Apparently he
was forbidden by his parents to associate with Krassotkin, who was well
known to be a desperately naughty boy, so Smurov was obviously slipping
out on the sly. He was—if the reader has not forgotten—one of the group
of boys who two months before had thrown stones at Ilusha. He was the
one who told Alyosha Karamazov about Ilusha.

“I’ve been waiting for you for the last hour, Krassotkin,” said Smurov
stolidly, and the boys strode towards the market‐place.

“I am late,” answered Krassotkin. “I was detained by circumstances. You
won’t be thrashed for coming with me?”

“Come, I say, I’m never thrashed! And you’ve got Perezvon with you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re taking him, too?”

“Yes.”

“Ah! if it were only Zhutchka!”

“That’s impossible. Zhutchka’s non‐existent. Zhutchka is lost in the
mists of obscurity.”

“Ah! couldn’t we do this?” Smurov suddenly stood still. “You see Ilusha
says that Zhutchka was a shaggy, grayish, smoky‐looking dog like
Perezvon. Couldn’t you tell him this is Zhutchka, and he might believe
you?”

“Boy, shun a lie, that’s one thing; even with a good object—that’s
another. Above all, I hope you’ve not told them anything about my
coming.”

“Heaven forbid! I know what I am about. But you won’t comfort him with
Perezvon,” said Smurov, with a sigh. “You know his father, the captain,
‘the wisp of tow,’ told us that he was going to bring him a real
mastiff pup, with a black nose, to‐day. He thinks that would comfort
Ilusha; but I doubt it.”

“And how is Ilusha?”

“Ah, he is bad, very bad! I believe he’s in consumption: he is 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
analyze 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—no 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, worshiped 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 market‐place, 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 naïvely 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 criticize 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 every one 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. Good‐by,
Matvey.”

“Good‐by.”

“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.

“Good‐by, Matvey.”

“Good‐by. 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 market
woman shouted at him.

“I am so glad it’s Marya. Good‐by!”

“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. Good‐by!”

“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 is!” one of the women
shouted at him impressively.

“What Tchizhov? Who is he? Tell me, if you know.”

“That tall, sniveling 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 clamor
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.”

“Good‐by, peasant!”

“Good‐by!”

“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 recognize 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.