The Brothers Karamazov

“Look what kind of people we’ve got, Mavriky Mavrikievich, no shame at all!” Trifon Borisich exclaimed. “Akim gave you twenty-five kopecks the day before yesterday, you spent it on drink, and now you’re shouting. I’m really surprised you’re so good-natured with our base peasants, Mavriky Mavrikievich, I can tell you that!”

“But what do we need a second troika for?” Mitya intervened. “Let’s go in one, Mavriky Mavrikievich, I assure you I won’t make trouble, I won’t run away from you, old fellow—why the escort?”

“Kindly learn how to address me, sir, if you don’t know already; I’m not your ‘old fellow,’ kindly do not be so familiar, and save your advice for some other time . . .,” Mavriky Mavrikievich snapped fiercely at Mitya all of a sudden, as if glad to vent his heart.

Mitya said no more. He blushed all over. A moment later he suddenly felt very cold. It had stopped raining, but the dull sky was still overcast, and a sharp wind was blowing straight in his face. “Have I caught a chill or something? “ Mitya thought, twitching his shoulders. At last Mavriky Mavrikievich also got into the cart, sat down heavily, broadly, and, as if without noticing it, gave Mitya a strong shove with his body. True, he was out of sorts and intensely disliked the task entrusted to him.

“Farewell, Trifon Borisich!” Mitya called out again, and felt himself that this time he had called out not from good-naturedness but from spite, against his will. But Trifon Borisich stood proudly, both hands behind his back, staring straight at Mitya with a stern and angry look, and made no reply.

“Farewell, Dmitri Fyodorovich, farewell!” the voice of Kalganov, who popped up from somewhere, was suddenly heard. Running over to the cart, he offered his hand to Mitya. He had no cap on. Mitya just managed to seize and shake his hand.

“Farewell, you dear man, I won’t forget this magnanimity!” he exclaimed ardently. But the cart started, and their hands were parted. The bell jingled— Mitya was taken away.

Kalganov ran back into the front hall, sat down in a corner, bent his head, covered his face with his hands, and began to cry. He sat like that and cried for a long time—cried as though he were still a little boy and not a man of twenty. Oh, he believed almost completely in Mitya’s guilt!”What are these people, what sort of people can there be after this!” he kept exclaiming incoherently, in bitter dejection, almost in despair. At that moment he did not even want to live in the world. “Is it worth it, is it worth it!” the grieved young man kept exclaiming.

PART IV

BOOK X: BOYS

Chapter 1: Kolya Krasotkin