‘Well, just look at that dog!’ she said sententiously.
‘And why are you late, you old bag?’ asked Krasotkin threateningly.
‘ “Old bag”, how dare you, you snotty-nosed brat!’
‘ “Snotty-nosed brat”?’
‘Yes, “brat”. What’s it got to do with you if I’m late, any objections?’ Agafya, busying herself about the stove, muttered by no means discontentedly or angrily, but rather with considerable satisfaction, as though delighted to have the chance of indulging in banter with the cheerful young master.
‘Listen, you silly old woman,’ began Krasotkin, getting up from the sofa, ‘can you swear to me by all that’s sacred in the world, and by even more than that, that you’ll keep a constant eye on the kids during my absence? I’m going out.’
‘Why should I swear to you?’ laughed Agafya. ‘I’ll look after them anyway.’
‘No, only if you swear on the eternal salvation of your soul. Otherwise I won’t go.’
‘So, don’t go. What’s it to me? It’s freezing outside, stay indoors.’
‘Children,’ Kolya addressed them, ‘she’ll stay with you until I return or your mama does—she should have come back long ago. Also, she’ll give you breakfast. You’ll give them something, won’t you, Agafya?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Bye, little fledglings, you’ll be all right now, I’m off. And you, old girl,’ he said under his breath importantly, as he walked past Agafya, ‘I hope you’ll spare them your usual old wives’ tales about Katerina, remember their tender age. Perezvon, here boy!’
‘Go to hell,’ retorted Agafya, this time grumpily. ‘Cheeky so-and-so! That boy should be thrashed for talking like that, that’s what I say.’
3
THE SCHOOLBOY
BUT Kolya was no longer listening. At last he could leave. Going out of the gate, he looked round, shivered, and muttering to himself ‘What a frost!’ set off straight down the street and then to the right, down the alley towards the market-place. He stopped at the gate of a house before the market-place, pulled a whistle from his pocket, and blew it as loudly as he could, as if giving a prearranged signal. He did not have to wait more than a minute before a rosy-cheeked boy about eleven years old, also wearing a warm, clean, almost smart coat, rushed from the gateway towards him. This boy was Smurov, a pupil from the preparatory class (whereas Kolya Krasotkin was already two classes higher), the son of a well-to-do civil servant. Smurov’s parents did not allow him to associate with Krasotkin, who had the reputation of being an incorrigible rascal, so that he gave the impression of having had to rush out of the house on the sly. This Smurov, the reader may remember, had been among the group of boys who two months previously had been throwing stones across the ditch at Ilyusha, and who had then told Alyosha Karamazov about Ilyusha.
‘I’ve been waiting for you for a whole hour, Krasotkin,’ said Smurov resentfully, and the two boys started to walk to the square.
‘I know I’m late,’ answered Krasotkin. ‘I couldn’t get away earlier. You won’t get beaten, will you, for being with me?’
‘Oh, really! Who’s going to beat me? Have you got Perezvon with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re going to take him there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, if only it were Zhuchka!’
‘We couldn’t take Zhuchka. Zhuchka doesn’t exist. Zhuchka’s vanished off the face of the earth.’
‘But supposing…’, Smurov stopped suddenly, ‘seeing that Ilyusha said Zhuchka was shaggy too, and the same sort of smoky grey as Perezvon—couldn’t we say he’s Zhuchka? He might just believe it.’
‘Boy, abhor falsehood, that’s the first thing! Even in a good cause, that’s the second thing. But above all, I hope you haven’t been saying anything there about my visit.’
‘Of course not! I do understand, you know. But you won’t console him with Perezvon,’ sighed Smurov. ‘You know what: his father, the Captain, that Loofah, was telling us that he’s going to get him a puppy today, a real mastiff with a black nose; he thinks that’ll console Ilyusha, but I doubt it.’
‘And how is Ilyusha?’
‘Bad, quite bad! I think he’s got consumption. He’s fully conscious, only he keeps wheezing, he has difficulty breathing. The other day he asked them to help him take a few steps; they put his boots on and he tried to walk, but he collapsed. “Ah,” he says, “I told you, papa, that these boots are no good, they’re the ones I had before, and even then I found it difficult to walk in them.” He thought it was because of his shoes that he couldn’t stand up, but it was just because he was so weak. He’ll be dead in a week. Herzenstube’s coming. They’re rich again now, they’ve got plenty of money.’
‘Money-grubbers.’
‘Who?’
‘Doctors are charlatans—generally speaking and as individuals of course. I reject medical science. It’s a useless pursuit. Anyway, I’m going to look into all that. And what’s all this sudden interest in sentimental do-goodism? You and all your class seem to spend all your time there.’
‘Not all our time, about ten of us go there each day. It’s nothing really.’
‘What amazes me about all this is Aleksei Karamazov’s involvement: tomorrow or the day after his brother’s due to be tried for such a crime, and yet he’s got time to waste on sentimental fussing over small boys!’
‘It’s not a question of sentimental fussing at all. You’re going there yourself to make it up with Ilyusha.’
‘ “Make it up”? What gives you that idea? Besides, I don’t need anyone to analyse my actions.’
‘But Ilyusha’ll be awfully glad to see you! He never thought you’d come in the end. Why on earth did you refuse to come for such a long time?’ Smurov exclaimed reproachfully.
‘Listen, you, that’s my business, not yours. I’m going there of my own free will, because that’s what I wanted to do, whereas you were all dragged there by Aleksei Karamazov, that’s the difference. And for all you know, I may not be going to make it up with him at all. What a stupid idea!’
‘It was nothing to do with Karamazov, nothing at all. Our lot just started going there sort of casually—with Karamazov at first, of course. And there was nothing to it, no question of being dragged there, that’s silly. First one went, then another. His father was terribly glad to see us. You know, if Ilyusha dies, he’ll simply go mad. He can see that Ilyusha’s dying. And he was just so happy we’ve made it up with him. Ilyusha’s been asking after you, that’s all he thinks about. He just asks and then shuts up. As for his father, he’ll go mad or hang himself. Well, he was already acting like a madman. You know, he’s an honourable man, and that business the other day was all a mistake. It was all the fault of that murderer who beat him up.’
‘All the same, I can’t make Karamazov out. I could have got to know him ages ago, but there are situations in which I like to maintain my pride. Also, I’ve formed a certain opinion of him which I still need to confirm and clarify.’
Kolya, assumed an air of importance and fell silent; Smurov too. Smurov, it goes without saying, venerated Krasotkin and would not even have dared to think of himself as being on the same level. At this moment, he was terribly intrigued by Kolya’s explanation that he was going there ‘of his own free will’; there was obviously some kind of mystery about why he had suddenly decided to go on this particular day. They were crossing the market square, which at that time was filled with farm carts, game, and poultry brought from the surrounding country. Under their awnings, the townswomen were selling bagels, cotton thread, and so on. These Sunday events were grandiosely called fairs in our little town, and there were many such fairs in the course of a year. Perezvon ran about in the happiest of moods, making continual sorties to right and left in order to sniff out this or that. Whenever he met another dog, they would indulge in unusually enthusiastic mutual sniffing, in accordance with all the rules of canine social etiquette.
‘I love to obser
ve reality, Smurov,’ began Kolya. ‘Have you noticed how dogs sniff each other when they meet? It’s some sort of natural law for them.’
‘Funny sort of law.’
‘There’s nothing funny about it, it’s just you don’t understand it. Nothing in nature’s funny, however it may seem to man, with his prejudices. If dogs could reason and criticize, I’m sure they’d find plenty that would seem funny to them, to say the least, in the social relationships between people, their masters—even more than funny, I should say, because I’m firmly convinced that we’re by far the more foolish. That’s an idea of Rakitin’s, a remarkable idea. I’m a socialist, Smurov.’
‘What’s a socialist?’ asked Smurov.
‘It’s when everyone’s equal, all goods are owned in common, there’s no marriage, and religion and all the laws are whatever anyone fancies, and so on and so forth. You’re still too young for that, you’re not old enough. It’s cold, though.’
‘Yes, twelve below. My father looked at the thermometer a little while back.’
‘And have you noticed, Smurov, that in midwinter, when it gets down to fifteen or even eighteen, it doesn’t seem as cold as it does now for example at the beginning of winter, when it’s suddenly and unexpectedly frosty like today, when it’s twelve degrees below and without snow. That means people aren’t used to it yet. With people it’s all a question of what they’re used to, even in the matter of the state and politics. Habit is the prime mover. Look, what a funny muzhik!’
Kolya pointed to a strapping peasant in a sheepskin coat and with a good-natured face who was standing by his cart and clapping his mittened hands to relieve the cold. His long, lightbrown beard was tinged with frost.
‘The peasant’s got a frozen beard!’ Kolya shouted loudly and aggressively as they passed him.
‘So have plenty of people,’ the peasant retorted calmly and gravely in reply.
‘Don’t antagonize him,’ said Smurov.
‘Don’t worry, he won’t be annoyed, he’s a good chap. Bye, Matvei.’
‘Bye.’
‘Is your name Matvei?’
‘Yes, didn’t you know?’
‘No, I just said it by chance.’
‘Get away with you. You at school?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, do you get beaten?’
‘Well, yes and no.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘I’ll say!’
‘Such is life!’ said the peasant with a deep sigh.
‘Bye, Matvei.’
‘Bye, you’re a good kid, I’ll say that.’
The boys went on their way.
‘He’s a good peasant,’ remarked Kolya. ‘I like to talk to the common folk, and I’m always ready to make allowances.’
‘Why did you lie to him about us being beaten?’ asked Smurov.
‘He needed reassuring.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Look, Smurov, I don’t like people asking questions when they haven’t got a clue what I’m talking about. Some things just can’t be explained. As a peasant sees it, schoolboys are meant to be beaten, and that’s how it should be: how, he thinks, can a schoolboy call himself a schoolboy if he doesn’t get beaten? So if I suddenly tell him that we don’t get beaten, it’ll upset him. And anyway, you don’t understand these things. You have to know how to talk to the common folk.’
‘Only please don’t antagonize them, or there’ll be another incident like that business with the goose.’
‘Are you scared?’
‘Don’t laugh, Kolya. I swear to God, I’m frightened. My father will be furious. He’s strictly forbidden me to mix with you.’
‘Don’t worry, nothing’ll happen this time. Hello, Natasha,’ he cried to one of the market women under an awning.
‘Who are you, calling me “Natasha”, I’m Marya,’ the woman, who was by no means old, replied shrilly.
‘That’s fine, Marya’s all the same to me. Bye.’
‘You scamp, you, not knee-high to a grasshopper, and you have to have the last word!’
‘No time to talk to you now, we’ll have to leave it till next Sunday,’ said Kolya, with a dismissive wave of his hand, just as if it were she who was accosting him and not the other way round.
‘What have I got to say to you next Sunday? It’s you that’s bothering me, not me you, you pest,’ shouted Marya. ‘You need a good thrashing, you’re a well-known troublemaker, that’s all I have to say to you, so there!’
Laughter rang out from among the stall-holders on the stalls nearest to Marya’s, when suddenly, from under the arcade where the shops were situated, there rushed out for no apparent reason an angry fellow who could have been a trader’s assistant, not a local but a stranger to the town. He was quite young, with dark-brown curly hair and a long, pale, pock-marked face, and wore a blue caftan and a peaked cap. He appeared extremely agitated, and immediately began to shake his fist at Kolya.
‘I know you,’ he exclaimed, ‘I know you!’
Kolya stared at him. He could not recall having had an altercation with this person. He had had so many skirmishes in the streets that he could not be expected to remember them all.
‘You do, do you?’ he enquired sarcastically.
‘I know you! I know you!’ the fellow repeated idiotically.
‘Good for you. Well, I’m in a hurry. Goodbye.’
‘What are you up to?’ shrieked the fellow. ‘You’re up to something again, aren’t you? I know you! You’re up to something, aren’t you?’
‘It’s none of your business, my friend, what I’m up to,’ said Kolya, standing still and continuing to scrutinize him.
‘What do you mean, “not my business”?’
‘Just that, it’s not your business.’
‘Whose business is it then? Whose? Well then, whose is it?’
‘It’s Trifon Nikitych’s business, not yours.’
‘Who’s Trifon Nikitych?’ the young fellow, although still seething, gazed at Kolya in stupefied amazement. Kolya looked him up and down imperiously.
‘Did you go to church on Ascension Day?’ he demanded suddenly and severely, and with an air of authority.
‘What Ascension? Why should I? No, I didn’t,’ the young fellow seemed somewhat disconcerted.
‘Do you know Sabaneyev?’ Kolya continued his interrogation even more severely and with an even greater air of authority.
‘What Sabaneyev? No, I don’t.’
‘Well, you can go to hell in that case!’ Kolya snapped, and, turning away abruptly to the left, he continued quickly on his way, as if he did not deign even to acknowledge such a blockhead who didn’t know Sabaneyev.
‘Hey you, stop! What Sabaneyev?’ shouted the young fellow, gathering his wits and becoming excited again. ‘What on earth was he talking about?’ he turned suddenly to the women traders, looking at them stupidly.
The women burst out laughing.
‘A smart lad,’ commented one.
‘What Sabaneyev, what Sabaneyev was he talking about?’ the fellow went on repeating, gesticulating frantically.
‘Must be that Sabaneyev who used to work for the Kuzmichevs. That’s who it must be,’ opined one woman suddenly.
The fellow stared at her wildly.
‘Kuz-mi-chev?’ repeated another woman. ‘His name wasn’t Trifon! It was Kuzma, not Trifon, and the boy called him Trifon Nikitych, so it couldn’t be him.’
‘I tell you, it wasn’t Trifon, or Sabaneyev either, it was Chizhov,’ suddenly interjected a third woman, who had kept quiet until then and was listening intently. ‘Aleksei Ivanych is his name. Chizhov, Aleksei Ivanych.’
‘That’s the one, Chizhov,’ repeated a fourth woman convincingly.
The stupefied fellow looked from one to the other.
‘Why did he ask, why, ladies?’ he cried out almost despairingly. ‘ “Do you know Sabaneyev?” But who the devil knows who this Sabaneyev is!’
‘You’re a stupid man, can’t you under
stand it wasn’t Sabaneyev, but Chizhov, Aleksei Ivanovich Chizhov, that’s who!’ one tradeswoman shouted at him authoritatively.
‘What Chizhov? Who’s he? If you know who he is, tell me.’
‘The lanky one with the long hair, what ran a stall here in the market in summertime.’
‘But what the hell do I need Chizhov for, I ask you, eh?’
‘Damned if I know what you need Chizhov for.’
‘Who knows what he is to you,’ interjected another one, ‘you should know yourself what you want with him, it’s you that’s making all the fuss. After all, it was you he was talking to, not us, you stupid man. Don’t you really know him?’
‘Who?’
‘Chizhov.’
‘He can go and hang himself, that Chizhov of yours, together with you into the bargain! I really will give him what for, that’s what! He was making fun of me!’
‘You’ll give Chizhov what for? More likely he’ll give you what for! You’re a fool, that’s what you are!’
‘Not Chizhov, I didn’t mean Chizhov, you nasty, spiteful old woman, I’ll deal with the boy, that’s what! Just let me get hold of him, just give me half a chance. Make fun of me, would he?’
The women guffawed. But Kolya was a long way off by now, walking with a triumphant expression on his face. Smurov was beside him, glancing back now and again at the laughing group in the distance. He too was very cheerful, although he was still afraid that he would be dragged into some incident by Kolya.
‘What Sabaneyev were you asking him about?’ he enquired, foreseeing the answer.
‘How should I know what Sabaneyev. They’ll be shouting till evening now. I like winding up idiots in all walks of life. And there’s another idiot—see, that muzhik over there. You know, they say there’s nothing so stupid as a stupid Frenchman, but the Russian physiognomy gives itself away as well. It’s written all over his face that he’s an idiot, isn’t it, eh?’
The Karamazov Brothers Page 80
