The Brothers Karamazov (96 page)

“Still, Alexei Karamazov is a riddle to me. Oh, I could have made his acquaintance long ago, but there are times when I like to be proud. I also have a certain opinion of him that I must first check out.”

Kolya lapsed into dignified silence. Smurov fell silent too. He admired Kolya tremendously and would never have thought of considering himself Kolya’s equal. He had been extremely curious when Kolya had told him that he had suddenly decided to go and see Ilyusha precisely today. Why today? There must be some kind of mystery! They crossed Market Square, in which, that day, there were many carts from the surrounding villages and a lot of live fowl. The town women stood in their closed stalls, selling articles ranging from thread to pretzels. Such Sunday markets are referred to rather naively as “fairs” in our town and there are several such “fairs” in the course of a year. Perezvon trotted along in high spirits, constantly zigzagging right and left to take a good sniff at something or other, to say nothing of his sniffing exchanges with other dogs, which he performed according to all the proper rules of courtesy.

“I like to look at things realistically,” Kolya suddenly said, breaking the silence. “Tell me, Smurov, have you noticed how dogs sniff each other? It seems to be some law of their nature.”

“It’s a funny law too.”

“You’re wrong. There’s nothing funny or ridiculous about it or about anything that’s natural; it may only look that way to man because of his own prejudiced ideas. If dogs could reason and criticize, I’m sure they’d find as much or even more to laugh at in the social relations of their human masters. And I say that because I’m absolutely convinced that there’s much more stupidity among us than among them. That’s Rakitin’s idea, and a great idea too. I’m a socialist, you know.”

“What’s a socialist?”

“It’s when all people are equal and everything is owned in common, when there’s no more marriage and when everyone can choose his own religion and the laws he likes, and all the rest of it. But you’re still too young to understand . . . Isn’t it cold though?”

“Yes, it is. It’s twelve below freezing. My father looked at the thermometer earlier today.”

“Tell me, Smurov, have you noticed that when it’s, say, fifteen or even eighteen below freezing in the winter it never seems as cold as now when it’s only twelve below and there’s practically no snow. That shows that people are not used to the cold yet. For human beings, habit is the prime mover . . . Look at that funny peasant!”

Kolya pointed to a tall, kindly-looking peasant in a sheep-skin jacket, who stood next to his cart clapping his gloved hands to keep warm. The man’s long, light-brown beard was covered with hoar-frost.

“Your beard is frozen!” Kolya said teasingly as he passed near him.

“Many people’s beards are,” the peasant answered sententiously.

“Don’t annoy him,” Smurov said.

“Don’t worry. He doesn’t mind. He’s a nice fellow. Good-by, Matthew.”

“Good-by, kid.”

“Are you really Matthew?”

“That’s right—as if you didn’t know.”

“I didn’t. I just guessed.”

“You’re smart. I bet you’re a high-school kid.”

“I am.”

“Do they flog you?”

“Well, not really . . . Just now and then.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It sure does, sometimes.”

“That’s just the way life is,” the peasant said with a deep sigh.

“Good-by, Matthew.”

“Good-by, kid. You’re a nice kid, you know.”

The boys walked on.

“Why did you lie to him and say they flog us?” Smurov asked.

“I wanted to make him feel better.”

“Why should it make him feel better?”

“You know, Smurov, it’s tiring when people keep asking questions on and on, the way you do. There are things that are hard to explain. Well, according to the peasant’s idea, a schoolboy is someone who is flogged and that’s the way it should be. ‘What kind of a schoolboy is he if he isn’t flogged,’ he thinks. So if I told him they don’t flog us, he would have actually been disappointed. But don’t try to understand it—you won’t anyway, for one has to know how to talk to the uneducated.”

“Only please don’t go provoking people or we’ll get into trouble, like that time with the goose, remember?”

“Why, are you scared?”

“Don’t laugh, Kolya. I swear, I’m really scared. My father was furious that time and he absolutely forbade me to go around with you.”

“Stop worrying, then. Nothing will happen this time. Hey, Natasha, how are you?” Kolya called out to a woman who stood under the awning of her stall.

“Why do you call me Natasha? I’m Maria,” she said. She was still a youngish woman.

“That’s great. I’m glad you’re Maria. Good-by then.”

“Ah, the little shrimp! He’s still wet behind the ears and he’s already getting ideas!”

“I’m sorry, I have no time today. You’ll tell me about it next Sunday!” Kolya said, waving his arms to keep her off, as if she were pestering him.

“And what is it I’ll tell you next Sunday, you saucy kid? It was you who was pestering me, remember!” the woman shouted. “What you need is a good beating, that’s what; who do you think you are—going around insulting people, you impudent brat, you?”

Other market women around Maria burst out laughing. Then suddenly an angry man came rushing out from the nearby arcade. He was a merchant’s clerk who had come to the fair from another town. He was still quite young, had a pale, pockmarked face and curly, dark-brown hair. He wore a long blue coat and a peaked cap. He seemed to be in a peculiar state of stupid excitement and came toward Kolya threatening him with his fist.

“I know you!” the fellow said angrily; “I know you all right!”

Kolya looked at him closely but could not remember ever having seen the fellow before, let alone having had a row with him. But he had been in so many street rows that he did not really expect to remember every one of them.

“So what do you know about me?” he asked sarcastically.

“I know you!” the clerk kept repeating idiotically; “I know you, I know you!”

“So good for you! Anyway, good-by, I have no time to waste.”

“So why are you looking for trouble?” the fellow shouted. “I know you—you’re looking for trouble again! I know you!”

“What I’m looking for is none of your business, mister,” Kolya said, stopping again and looking the fellow up and down.

“What do you mean, it’s none of my business?”

“It just isn’t.”

“So whose business is it? Whose? Tell me, whose?”

“It’s Trifon Nikitich’s business, not yours.”

“And who is Trifon Nikitich?” the man asked, staring at Krasotkin in idiotic amazement, although he was still shaking with anger. Kolya slowly measured him from head to toe.

“Have you been to the Church of the Ascension?” he asked him severely.

“What church? Why? No, I haven’t,” the fellow said, slightly taken aback.

“And do you know Sabaneyev?” Kolya asked him even more sternly.

“But who’s Sabaneyev?”

“Well, you can go to hell then!” Kolya suddenly cried, abruptly turning away and walking off quickly with an air of disgust, as if he could not stand one second longer the company of a freak who didn’t know who Sabaneyev was.

“Hey, wait, you! Who’s Sabaneyev?” the clerk shouted, recovering from his surprise and seeming very worried now. “What was he talking about?” he said, turning to the women, who had been watching the scene. The women burst out laughing.

“What a funny brat,” a woman said.

“But who is that Sabaneyev he was talking about?” the clerk insisted, still gesticulating angrily.

“That must be the Sabaneyev who used to work for the Kuzmichevs, I guess,” one of the women suggested.

The clerk gaped at her.

“Did you say Kuzmichev?” another woman said. “His name is Kuzma, not Trifon. The boy said his name was Trifon Nikitich, didn’t he?”

“I say that it was neither Trifon nor Sabaneyev, but Chizhov,” said a third woman, who until then had been listening intently in silence. “His full name is Alexei Ivanovich Chizhov.”

“That’s right, it’s Chizhov, all right,” a fourth woman said with assurance.

The man kept looking in bewilderment from one woman to another.

“But why did he ask me that? Why?” he cried in despair. “Why did he ask me, ‘Do you know Sabaneyev?’ And who the hell knows who Sabaneyev is?”

“You’re really slow in understanding, fellow!” one of the women cried impatiently. “How many times do we have to tell you that it was not Sabaneyev, it was Chizhov, Alexei Ivanovich Chizhov, that’s who it was. Do you get it now?”

“And who’s Chizhov? Tell me, if you know so much.”

“That tall fellow with the long hair; he had a stall here in the summer.”

“But what’s Chizhov got to do with me, my good women?”

“And how the hell do you expect us to know what he has to do with you! I thought you’d know what you wanted him for, since you’re the one who’s doing all the yelling. The boy said it to you, not to us, you fool. Or do you really not know who he is?”

“Who?”

“Chizhov.”

“Damn Chizhov, and damn you too! I’ll go and give that boy a good hiding! I think he was just pulling my leg!”

“He’s going to give a hiding to Chizhov! Perhaps he’ll give you a hiding. You’re a fool, fellow, that’s what you are.”

“I didn’t say I’d beat up Chizhov, you spiteful woman. I said I’d beat up that saucy brat! I’ll teach him to laugh at me.”

The women roared with laughter.

By that time, Kolya was already far away, walking jauntily along with an air of triumph. Smurov, walking beside him, kept looking back at the shouting group behind. He, too, felt happily excited, although he was still worried that eventually Kolya would get him into trouble.

“Who’s that Sabaneyev you asked him about?” Smurov inquired, foreseeing the answer.

“Do you think I know? They’ll be shouting and arguing about him until evening now. I like to stir up fools, whatever social class they belong to. Now, look at that peasant over there—what a lump! You know, they say there’s no one stupider than a stupid Frenchman, but I maintain that many Russians could challenge that statement. Look at that pudding face, for instance, isn’t it written all over his face that the man’s an idiot?”

“Leave him alone, Kolya. Let’s go.”

“Not on your life, chum, watch me now . . . Hey, you, fellow! Good-morning!”

The thick-set peasant had already passed them. He was walking slowly and it looked as if, early as it was, he already had a few drinks in him. He had a plain round face and a graying beard. He stopped, turned back, and looked at Krasotkin.

“Well, good-morning, if you mean it,” he drawled unhurriedly.

“And what if I don’t mean it?” Kolya said, laughing.

“If you don’t mean it, that’s fine too. It’s all right with me. There’s nothing wrong with having fun.”

“I’m sorry, friend, I was just joking.”

“That’s all right. God bless you, boy.”

“But what about you? Do you forgive me?”

“Yes, sure, you’re all forgiven, boy. Run along now.”

“Why, you are a clever peasant, aren’t you?”

“Cleverer than you, boy.”

“I don’t think so,” Kolya said, slightly taken aback.

“Oh, you can bet on it, boy.”

“Well, perhaps you’re right, after all.”

“So you see.”

“Good-by, then, peasant.”

“Good-by, boy.”

“There are all kinds of peasants,” Kolya told Smurov when they had walked on in silence for a while, “so I couldn’t really know in advance that I’d come across a smart one. But I’m always prepared to acknowledge intelligence when I find it in people.”

In the distance, the cathedral clock struck eleven-thirty. The boys walked faster. They still had quite a long way to go to Captain Snegirev’s house and they hardly spoke the rest of the way. About twenty yards from the house, Kolya stopped and ordered Smurov to go in and tell Karamazov that Krasotkin wanted to talk to him.

“We must sniff at each other first,” he explained.

“There’s really no need to call him out,” Smurov tried to object. “Why don’t you just come in? I’m sure he’ll be very glad to see you. Anyway, what’s the big idea of making someone’s acquaintance out in the cold?”

“I have my own reasons why I want to see him out here in the cold,” Kolya answered sharply, and Smurov hurried off to carry out his order.

Kolya immensely enjoyed treating younger boys this way.

Chapter 4: Juchka

KOLYA STOOD leaning against the fence and, with a dignified air, waited for Alyosha. He had wanted to meet him for a long time. He had heard a lot about him from the boys, but up till now he had always feigned a contemptuous lack of interest and if he said anything it was only to challenge the praises he heard. But secretly he was very eager to meet Alyosha as there appeared to be something very attractive and interesting about him, to judge from all the stories. Consequently, he considered this moment extremely important. In the first place, Kolya had to save face by demonstrating his independence. “Otherwise he’ll treat me just like any other thirteen-year-old, or even like those other little boys,” Kolya thought. “Anyway, why does he spend so much time with those little boys? I’ll ask him that when I get to know him better. It’s a shame, though, that I’m so short—Tuzikov is younger than I, but he’s half a head taller. I have an intelligent face, though. I know I’m not good-looking, I have a nasty face, but it looks intelligent all right. Also, I must be very reserved with him, for if I just throw myself at him, he will think . . . Whew! It’s just too sickening, what he’d think! . . .”

And Kolya stood there worrying and trying to look completely casual and detached. What worried him most was his lack of height. To him this was a much worse handicap than his “nasty” face. In a corner of his room, there was a little pencil mark on the wall. Last year he had measured his height and drawn a line. And since then, every two months, he had gone to that corner and measured himself again. But, alas, he grew so slowly! It often drove him to real despair . . . As to his face, there was really absolutely nothing “nasty” about it. Indeed, it was a nice-looking, rather pale, freckled face. His gray eyes, although not very large, were lively and bold, and constantly sparkling with feeling. His head was rather wide at the temples, his lips quite thin but very red, his nose small and turned up, which caused him to mutter, every time he looked into the mirror, “I’m so horribly snubnosed,” and indignantly turn away. And sometimes he doubted, even, whether his face was intelligent. “Doesn’t really look all that intelligent to me,” he thought sometimes.