The Brothers Karamazov

“I know you’d all like to have Zhuchka, I’ve heard all about it,” Kolya smiled mysteriously. “Listen, Karamazov, I’ll explain the whole business to you, I came mainly for that purpose, that was why I called you outside, to explain the whole affair to you ahead of time, before we go in,” he began animatedly. “You see, Karamazov, Ilyusha entered the preparatory class last spring. Well, everybody knows the preparatory class—little boys, kids. They immediately started picking on Ilyusha. I’m two classes ahead, and naturally looked on from a distance, as an outsider. I saw that the boy was small, weak, but he didn’t submit, he even fought with them—a proud boy, his eyes flashing. I like that kind. And they went after him worse than ever. The main thing was that he had such shabby clothes then, and his pants were riding up, and his boots had holes in them. They picked on that, too. Humiliated him. No, that I didn’t like, I stepped in and made it hot for them. I beat them up—and they adore me, do you know that, Karamazov?” Kolya boasted effusively. “And I like kids generally. I’ve got two chicks on my neck at home now, in fact they made me late today. So, after that they stopped beating Ilyusha, and I took him under my protection. I saw he was a proud boy, I can tell you how proud he is, but in the end he gave himself up to me like a slave, obeyed my every order, listened to me as though I were God, tried to copy me. In the breaks between classes he would come running to me at once and we would walk together. On Sundays, too. In our school they laugh when an older boy makes friends with a little one on such footing, but that is a prejudice. It suits my fancy, and that’s enough, don’t you think? I was teaching him, developing him—tell me, why shouldn’t I develop him, if I like him? And you did befriend all these kids, Karamazov, which means you want to influence the young generation, develop them, be useful, no? And I admit, this trait of your character, which I knew only from hearsay, interested me most of all. But to business: I noticed that a sort of tenderness, sensitivity, was developing in the boy, and, you know, I am decidedly the enemy of all sentimental slop, and have been since the day I was born. Moreover, there were contradictions: he was proud, but devoted to me like a slave—devoted to me like a slave, yet suddenly his eyes would flash and he wouldn’t even want to agree with me, he’d argue, beat on the wall. I used to put forward various ideas sometimes: it wasn’t that he disagreed with the ideas, I could see that he was simply rebelling against me personally, because I responded coldly to his sentimentalities. And so, the more sentimental he became, the colder I was, in order to season him; I did it on purpose, because it’s my conviction. I had in mind to discipline his character, to shape him up, to create a person ... well, and so ... you’ll understand me, naturally, from half a word. Suddenly I noticed he was troubled for a day, for two, three days, that he was grieving, not over sentiments now, but something else, something stronger, higher. What’s the tragedy, I wondered. I pressed him and found out this: he had somehow managed to make friends with Smerdyakov, your late father’s lackey (your father was still alive then), and he had taught the little fool a silly trick—that is, a beastly trick, a vile trick—to take a piece of bread, the soft part, stick a pin in it, and toss it to some yard dog, the kind that’s so hungry it will swallow whatever it gets without chewing it, and then watch what happens. And so they fixed up such a morsel and threw it to that very same shaggy Zhuchka that so much fuss is being made over now, a yard dog from the sort of house where they simply never fed her and she just barked at the wind all day long. (Do you like that silly barking, Karamazov? I can’t stand it.) She rushed for it, swallowed it, and started squealing, turning round and round, then broke into a run, still squealing as she ran, and disappeared—so Ilyusha described it to me himself. He was crying as he told me, crying, clinging to me, shaking: ‘She squealed and ran, she squealed and ran,’ he just kept repeating it, the picture really struck him. Well, I could see he felt remorse. I took it seriously. Above all I wanted to discipline him for the previous things, so that, I confess, I cheated here, I pretended to be more indignant than maybe I really was: ‘You have committed a base deed,’ I said, ‘you are a scoundrel. Of course, I will not give you away, but for the time being I am breaking relations with you. I will think it over and let you know through Smurov’ (the same boy who came with me today; he’s always been devoted to me) ‘whether I will continue relations with you hereafter, or will drop you forever as a scoundrel.’ That struck him terribly. I’ll admit I felt right then that I might be treating him too harshly, but what could I do, it was how I thought at the time. A day later I sent Smurov to him with the message from me that I was ‘not talking’ with him any more, that’s what we say when two friends break relations with each other. Secretly I just meant to give him the silent treatment for a few days, and then, seeing his repentance, to offer him my hand again. That was my firm intention. But what do you think: he listened to Smurov, and suddenly his eyes flashed. ‘Tell Krasotkin from me,’ he shouted, ‘that now I’m going to throw bread with pins in it to all the dogs, all of them, all!’ ‘Aha,’ I thought, ‘he’s got a free little spirit in him, this will have to be smoked out,’ and I began showing complete contempt for him, turning away whenever I met him, or smiling ironically. And then suddenly that incident with his father took place—the whiskbroom, I mean—remember? You should understand that he was already prepared beforehand to be terribly vexed. Seeing that I had dropped him, the boys all fell on him, taunting him: ‘Whiskbroom! Whiskbroom! ‘ It was then that the battles started between them, which I’m terribly sorry about, because it seems they beat him badly once. Then once he attacked them all in the street as they were coming out of school, and I happened to be standing ten steps away, looking at him. And, I swear, I don’t remember laughing then; on the contrary, I was feeling very, very sorry for him; another moment and I’d have rushed to defend him. But then he suddenly met my eyes: what he imagined I don’t know, but he pulled out a penknife, rushed at me, and stuck it into my thigh, here, on my right leg. I didn’t move, I must admit I can be brave sometimes, Karamazov, I just looked at him with contempt, as if to say: ‘Wouldn’t you like to do it again, in return for all my friendship? I’m at your service.’ But he didn’t stab me a second time, he couldn’t stand it, got scared himself, dropped the knife, burst into sobs, and ran away. Naturally, I did not go and squeal on him, and I told everybody to keep quiet about it so that the authorities wouldn’t find out; even my mother I told only after it was all healed—and the wound was a trifling one, just a scratch. Then I heard he’d been throwing stones that same day, and bit your finger—but you understand what state he was in! Well, what can I say, I acted foolishly: when he got sick, I didn’t go to forgive him—that is, to make peace—and now I regret it. But I had special reasons then. Well, that’s the whole story ... only I guess I did act foolishly...”