Текст книги "The Brothers Karamazov"
Автор книги: Федор Достоевский
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“And Ilyusha will be so glad to see you! He doesn’t even dream that you’re coming. Why, why wouldn’t you come for such a long time?” Smurov exclaimed with sudden ardor.
“That’s my business, my dear boy, not yours. I am going on my own, because such is my will, while you were all dragged there by Alexei Karamazov, so there’s a difference. And how do you know, maybe I’m not going to make peace at all? Silly expression!”
“It wasn’t Karamazov at all, not him at all. Some of us just started going there by ourselves, of course with Karamazov at first. And there was never anything like that, nothing silly. First one of us went, then another. His father was terribly glad to see us. You know, he’ll just go out of his mind if Ilyusha dies. He can see Ilyusha’s going to die. But he’s so glad about us, that we made peace with Ilyusha. Ilyusha asked about you, but he didn’t add anything more. He just asks, and that’s all. His father will go out of his mind, or hang himself. He’s acted crazy before. You know, he’s a noble man, and that was all a mistake. It was the fault of that murderer, the one who gave him the beating.”
“Still, Karamazov is a riddle to me. I could have made his acquaintance long ago, but I like to be proud in certain cases. Besides, I’ve formed an opinion of him that still has to be verified and explained.”
Kolya fell imposingly silent; so did Smurov. Smurov, of course, stood in awe of Kolya Krasotkin and did not dare even think of rivaling him. And now he was terribly curious, because Kolya had explained that he was going “on his own,” and so there must be some riddle in the fact that Kolya had suddenly decided to go, and precisely on that day. They were crossing the market square, which at that hour was filled with farm wagons and lots of live fowl. Town women were selling rolls, thread, and so forth, under their shed roofs. In our town, such Sunday markets are naively called fairs, and there are many such fairs during the year. Perezvon ran along in the merriest spirits, constantly straying to right and left to smell something here and there. When he met other dogs, he sniffed them with remarkable zeal, according to all canine rules.
“I like observing realism, Smurov,” Kolya suddenly spoke. “Have you noticed how dogs sniff each other when they meet? It must be some general law of their nature.”
“Yes, and a funny one, too.”
“In fact, it is not a funny one, you’re wrong there. Nothing is funny in nature, however it may seem to man with his prejudices. If dogs could reason and criticize, they would undoubtedly find as much that is funny to them in the social relations of humans, their masters—if not far more; I repeat, because I am convinced of it, that there is far more foolishness in us. That is Rakitin’s thought, a remarkable thought. I am a socialist, Smurov.”
“And what is a socialist?” asked Smurov.
“It’s when everyone is equal, everyone has property in common, there are no marriages, and each one has whatever religion and laws he likes, and all the rest. You’re not grown up enough for that yet, you’re too young. It is cold, by the way.”
“Yes. Twelve degrees of frost. My father just looked at the thermometer.”
“And have you noticed, Smurov, that in the middle of winter, when there are fifteen or even eighteen degrees of frost, it doesn’t seem as cold as it does now, for example, in the beginning of winter, if there’s suddenly an unexpected cold snap, like now, of twelve degrees, especially when there isn’t much snow. It means people aren’t used to it yet. Everything is habit with people, everything, even state and political relations. Habit is the chief motive force. What a funny peasant, by the way.”
Kolya pointed to a stalwart peasant in a sheepskin coat, with a good-natured face, who was standing beside his wagon clapping his hands in their mittens to keep them warm. His long, light brown beard was all hoary with frost.
“The peasant’s got his beard frozen!” Kolya cried loudly and pertly as he passed by him.
“Many have got their beards frozen,” the peasant uttered calmly and sententiously in reply.
“Don’t pick on him,” Smurov remarked.
“It’s all right, he won’t be angry, he’s a nice fellow. Good-bye, Matvey.”
“Good-bye.”
“Are you really Matvey?”
“I am. Didn’t you know?”
“No, I just said it.”
“Well, I declare. You must be one of them schoolboys.”
“One of them schoolboys.”
“And what, do they whip you?”
“Not really, so-so.”
“Does it hurt?”
“It can.”
“E-eh, that’s life!” the peasant sighed from the bottom of his heart.
“Good-bye, Matvey.”
“Good-bye. You’re a nice lad, that’s what.”
The boys walked on.
“A good peasant,” Kolya began saying to Smurov. “I like talking with the people, and am always glad to do them justice.”
“Why did you lie about them whipping us at school?” asked Smurov.
“But I had to comfort him.”
“How so?”
“You know, Smurov, I don’t like it when people keep asking questions, when they don’t understand the first time. Some things can’t even be explained. A peasant’s notion is that schoolboys are whipped and ought to be whipped: what kind of schoolboy is he, if he isn’t whipped? And if I were suddenly to tell him that they don’t whip us in our school, it would upset him. Anyway, you don’t understand these things. One has to know how to talk with the people.”
“Only please don’t pick on them, or there’ll be another incident like that time with the goose.”
“Are you afraid?” “Don’t laugh, Kolya. I am afraid, by God. My father will be terribly angry. I’m strictly forbidden to go around with you.”
“Don’t worry, nothing will happen this time. Hello, Natasha,” he shouted to one of the market women under the shed.
“Natasha, is it? My name’s Maria,” the woman, who was still far from old, replied in a shrill voice.
“Maria! How nice! Good-bye.”
“Ah, the scamp! Knee-high to a mushroom and he’s at it already!”
“No time, I have no time for you now, tell me next Sunday,” Kolya waved his hand at her, as if he was not bothering her but she him.
“What am I going to tell you next Sunday? I’m not pestering you, you’re pestering me, you rascal,” Maria went on shouting, “you ought to be whipped, that’s what, you’re a famous offender, that’s what!”
There was laughter among the other market women, who were selling things from their stands next to Maria, when suddenly, from under the arcade of shops nearby, for no reason at all an irritated man jumped out, who looked like a shop clerk, but a stranger, not one of our tradesmen, in a long blue caftan and a visored cap, a young man, with dark brown, curly hair and a long, pale, slightly pockmarked face. He was somehow absurdly agitated, and at once began threatening Kolya with his fist.
“I know you,” he kept exclaiming irritably, “I know you!”
Kolya stared fixedly at him. He was unable to recall when he could have had any quarrel with this man. But he had had so many quarrels in the streets that he could not remember them all.
“So you know me?” he asked ironically.
“I know you! I know you!” the tradesman kept repeating like a fool.
“So much the better for you. But I am in a hurry. Good-bye.”
“You’re still up to your tricks?” the tradesman shouted. “Up to your tricks again? I know you! So you’re up to your tricks again?”
“It’s none of your business, brother, what tricks I’m up to,” Kolya said, stopping and continuing to examine him.
“None of my business, is it?”
“That’s right, it’s none of your business.”
“And whose is it? Whose? Well, whose?”
“It’s Trifon Nikitich’s business now, brother, not yours.”
“What Trifon Nikitich?” the fellow stared at Kolya in foolish surprise, though still with the same excitement. Kolya solemnly looked him up and down.
“Have you been to the Church of the Ascension?” he suddenly asked him sternly and insistently.
“What Ascension? Why? No, I haven’t,” the fellow was a bit taken aback. “Do you know Sabaneyev?” Kolya went on, still more insistently and sternly.
“What Sabaneyev? No, I don’t know him.”
“Devil take you, then!” Kolya suddenly snapped, and turning sharply to the right, quickly went his way as if scorning even to speak with such a dolt who does not even know Sabaneyev.
“Hey, wait! What Sabaneyev?” the fellow came to his senses and again got all excited. “What’s he talking about?” he suddenly turned to the market women, staring foolishly at them.
The women burst out laughing. “A clever boy,” one of them said.
“What, what Sabaneyev did he mean?” the fellow kept repeating frenziedly, waving his right hand.
“Ah, it must be the Sabaneyev that worked for the Kuzmichevs, must be that one,” one woman suddenly understood.
The fellow stared wildly at her.
“For the Kuz-mi-chevs?” another woman repeated. “He’s no Trifon. That one’s Kuzma, not Trifon, and the boy said Trifon Nikitich, so it’s somebody else.”
“No, he’s no Trifon, and he’s no Sabaneyev either, he’s Chizhov,” a third woman suddenly joined in, who up to then had been silent and listening seriously. “His name’s Alexei Ivanich. Alexei Ivanich Chizhov.”
“That’s right, he is Chizhov,” a fourth woman confirmed emphatically.
The stunned fellow kept looking from one woman to another.
“But why did he ask me, why did he ask me, good people?” he kept exclaiming, now almost in despair. ‘“Do you know Sabaneyev?’ Devil knows who Sabaneyev is!”
“What a muddlehead! Didn’t you hear, it’s not Sabaneyev, it’s Chizhov, Alexei Ivanich Chizhov, that’s who!” one of the market women shouted at him imposingly.
“What Chizhov? Who is he? Tell me, if you know.”
“A tall, snot-nosed fellow, he used to sit in the marketplace last summer.”
“What the hell do I need your Chizhov for, eh, good people?”
“How do I know what the hell you need Chizhov for?”
“Who knows what you need him for?” another woman joined in. “You should know what you need him for, it’s you doing all the squawking. He was speaking to you, not to us, fool that you are. So you really don’t know him?”
“Who?”
“Chizhov.”
“Ah, devil take Chizhov, and you along with him! I’ll give him a thrashing, that’s what! He was laughing at me!” “You’ll give Chizhov a thrashing? More likely he’ll give you one! You’re a fool, that’s what!”
“Not Chizhov, not Chizhov, you wicked, nasty woman, I’ll thrash the boy, that’s what! Let me have him, let me have him—he was laughing at me!”
The women all roared with laughter. And Kolya was already far off, strutting along with a triumphant expression on his face. Smurov walked beside him, looking back at the group shouting far behind them. He, too, was having a good time, though he still feared getting into some scandal with Kolya.
“What Sabaneyev were you asking him about?” he asked Kolya, guessing what the answer would be.
“How do I know? They’ll go on shouting till nighttime now. I like stirring up fools in all strata of society. There stands another dolt, that peasant there. People say, ‘There’s no one stupider than a stupid Frenchman,’ but note how the Russian physiognomy betrays itself. Isn’t it written all over that peasant’s face that he’s a fool, eh?”
“Leave him alone, Kolya. Let’s keep going.”
“No, now that I’ve gotten started, I wouldn’t stop for the world. Hey! Good morning, peasant!”
A burly peasant, who was slowly passing by and seemed to have had a drop to drink already, with a round, simple face and a beard streaked with gray, raised his head and looked at the lad.
“Well, good morning, if you’re not joking,” he answered unhurriedly.
“And if I am joking?” laughed Kolya.
“Joke then, if you’re joking, and God be with you. Never mind, it’s allowed. A man can always have his joke.”
“Sorry, brother, I was joking.”
“So, God will forgive you.”
“But you, do you forgive me?”
“That I do. Run along now.”
“Look here, you seem to be a smart peasant.”
“Smarter than you,” the peasant replied unexpectedly, and with the same air of importance.
“That’s unlikely,” Kolya was somewhat taken aback.
“It’s the truth I’m telling you.”
“Well, maybe it is.”
“So there, brother.”
“Good-bye, peasant.”
“Good-bye.”
“Peasants differ,” Kolya observed to Smurov after some silence. “How was I to know I’d run into a smart one? I’m always prepared to recognize intelligence in the people.” Far away the cathedral clock struck half past eleven. The boys began to hurry, and covered the rest of the still quite long way to Captain Snegiryov’s house quickly and now almost without speaking. Twenty paces from the house, Kolya stopped and told Smurov to go on ahead and call Karamazov out to meet him there.
“For some preliminary sniffing,” he observed to Smurov.
“But why call him out?” Smurov tried to object. “Just go in, they’ll be terribly glad to see you. Why do you want to get acquainted in the freezing cold?”
“It’s for me to know why I need him here, in the freezing cold,” Kolya snapped despotically (as he was terribly fond of doing with these “little boys”), and Smurov ran to carry out the order.
Chapter 4: Zhuchka
Kolya leaned against the fence with an important look on his face and began waiting for Alyosha to appear. Yes, he had long been wanting to meet him. He had heard a lot about him from the boys, but so far had always ostensibly displayed an air of scornful indifference whenever anyone spoke to him about Alyosha, and even “criticized” him as he listened to what was told about him. But within himself he wanted very, very much to make his acquaintance; there was something sympathetic and attractive in all the stories he had heard about Alyosha. Thus, the present moment was an important one; first of all he must not disgrace himself, he must show his independence: “Otherwise he’ll think I’m thirteen, and take me for the same sort as those boys. What does he find in those boys anyway? I’ll ask him once we’ve become friends. Too bad I’m so short, though. Tuzikov is younger than I am, but he’s half a head taller. Still, I have an intelligent face; I’m not good-looking, I know my face is disgusting, but it’s an intelligent face. I also mustn’t give myself away too much, otherwise, if I start right out with embraces, maybe he’ll think ... Pfui, how disgusting if he was to think ...”
Such were Kolya’s worries, while he did his best to assume the most independent look. Above all, what tormented him was his small stature, not so much his “disgusting” face as his stature. At home, on the wall in one corner, there was a little pencil mark showing his height, which he had put there a year before, and since then, every two months, he would go excitedly to measure himself and see how much he had grown. But, alas, he grew terribly little, and that at times would bring him simply to despair. As for his face, it was not “disgusting” at all; on the contrary, it was quite comely, fair, pale, and freckled. His small but lively gray eyes had a brave look and would often light up with emotion. His cheekbones were somewhat broad, his lips were small, not too thick, but very red; his nose was small and decidedly upturned: “Quite snub-nosed, quite snub-nosed!” Kolya muttered to himself whenever he looked in the mirror, and he always went away from the mirror with indignation. “And it’s not much of an intelligent face either,” he sometimes thought, doubting even that. Still, it must not be thought that worrying about his face and height absorbed his whole soul. On the contrary, however painful those moments before the mirror were, he would quickly forget them, and for a long time, “giving himself wholly to ideas and to real life,” as he himself defined his activity.
Alyosha soon appeared and hurriedly came up to Kolya; Kolya could see even from several paces away that Alyosha’s face was somehow quite joyful. “Can it be he’s so glad to see me?” Kolya thought with pleasure. Here, incidentally, we must note that Alyosha had changed very much since we last saw him: he had thrown off his cassock and was now wearing a finely tailored coat and a soft, round hat, and his hair was cut short. All of this lent him charm, and, indeed, he looked very handsome. His comely face always had a cheerful look, but this cheerfulness was somehow quiet and calm. To Kolya’s surprise, Alyosha came out to him dressed just as he was, without an overcoat; obviously he had rushed to meet him. He held out his hand to Kolya at once.
“Here you are at last, we’ve been waiting for you so!”
“There were reasons, which you will learn of in a moment. In any case, I am glad to make your acquaintance. I have long been waiting for an opportunity, and have heard a lot,” Kolya mumbled, slightly out of breath.
“But you and I would have become acquainted anyway, I’ve heard a lot about you myself; it’s here, to this place, you’ve been slow in coming.”
“Tell me, how are things here?”
“Ilyusha is very bad, he will certainly die.”
“Really? You must agree, Karamazov, that medicine is vile,” Kolya exclaimed ardently.
“Ilyusha has mentioned you often, very often, you know, even in his sleep, in delirium. Evidently you were very, very dear to him before ... that incident ... with the penknife. There’s another reason besides ... Tell me, is this your dog?”
“Yes. Perezvon.”
“Not Zhuchka?” Alyosha looked pitifully into Kolya’s eyes. “She just vanished like that?”
“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...”
“Ah, what a pity,” Alyosha exclaimed with feeling, “that I didn’t know about the relations between you before, or I’d have come long ago and asked you to go and see him with me. Would you believe that he talked about you in his fever, in delirium, when he was sick? I didn’t even know how dear you were to him! And can it be, can it be that you never found that Zhuchka? His father and all the boys were searching all over town. Would you believe that three times, since he got sick, I’ve heard him say in tears to his father: ‘I’m sick because I killed Zhuchka, papa, God is punishing me for it’—and he won’t give up the idea! If only we could find that Zhuchka now and show him that she’s not dead, that she’s alive, he might just be resurrected by the joy of it. We’ve all had our hopes on you.”
“Tell me, what reason did you have to hope that I would find Zhuchka– that is, that precisely I would be the one to find her?” Kolya asked with great curiosity. “Why did you count precisely on me and not on someone else?”
“There was some rumor that you were looking for her, and that when you found her, you would bring her. Smurov said something like that. Most of all, we keep trying to assure him that Zhuchka is alive, that she’s been seen somewhere. The boys found a live hare someplace, but he just looked at it, smiled faintly, and asked us to let it go in the fields. And so we did. Just now his father came home and brought him a mastiff pup, he also got it someplace, he wanted to comfort him, but it seems to have made things even worse ...”
“Another thing, Karamazov: what about his father? I know him, but how would you define him: a buffoon, a clown?” “Ah, no, there are people who feel deeply but are somehow beaten down. Their buffoonery is something like a spiteful irony against those to whom they dare not speak the truth directly because of a long-standing, humiliating timidity before them. Believe me, Krasotkin, such buffoonery is sometimes extremely tragic. For him, now, everything on earth has come together in Ilyusha, and if Ilyusha dies, he will either go out of his mind from grief or take his own life. I’m almost convinced of it when I look at him now!”
“I understand you, Karamazov, I see that you know human nature,” Kolya added with feeling.
“And so, when I saw you with a dog, I immediately thought you must be bringing that Zhuchka.”
“Wait, Karamazov, maybe we’ll still find her, but this one—this one is Perezvon. I’ll let him into the room now, and maybe he’ll cheer Ilyusha up more than the mastiff. Wait, Karamazov, you’re going to find something out now. Ah, my God, but I’m keeping you out here!” Kolya suddenly cried. “You’re just wearing a jacket in such cold, and I’m keeping you—see, see what an egoist I am! Oh, we’re all egoists, Karamazov!”
“Don’t worry; it’s cold, true, but I don’t catch cold easily. Let’s go, however. By the way, what is your name? I know it’s Kolya, but the rest?”
“Nikolai, Nikolai Ivanov Krasotkin, or, as they say in official jargon, son of Krasotkin,” Kolya laughed at something, but suddenly added: “Naturally, I hate the name Nikolai.”
“But why?”
“Trivial, official-sounding...”
“You’re going on thirteen?” Alyosha asked.
“No, fourteen, in two weeks I’ll be fourteen, quite soon. I’ll confess one weakness to you beforehand, Karamazov, to you alone, for the sake of our new acquaintance, so that you can see the whole of my character at once: I hate being asked my age, more than hate it ... and finally, another thing, there’s a slanderous rumor going around about me, that I played robbers with the preparatory class last week. That I played with them is actually true, but that I played for myself, for my own pleasure, is decidedly slander. I have reason to think it may have reached your ears, but I played not for myself, but for the kids, because they couldn’t think up anything without me. And people here are always spreading nonsense. This town lives on gossip, I assure you.”
“And even if you did play for your own pleasure, what of it?”
“Well, even if I did ... But you don’t play hobbyhorse, do you?”
“You should reason like this,” Alyosha smiled. “Adults, for instance, go to the theater, and in the theater, too, all sorts of heroic adventures are acted out, sometimes also with robbers and battles—and isn’t that the same thing, in its own way, of course? And a game of war among youngsters during a period of recreation, or a game of robbers—that, too, is a sort of nascent art, an emerging need for art in a young soul, and these games are sometimes even better conceived than theater performances, with the only difference that people go to the theater to look at the actors, and here young people are themselves the actors. But it’s only natural.”
“You think so? Is that your conviction?” Kolya was looking at him intently. “You know, you’ve said a very interesting thought; I’ll set my mind to it when I get home. I admit, I did suspect it would be possible to learn something from you. I’ve come to learn from you, Karamazov,” Kolya concluded in an emotional and effusive voice.
“And I from you,” Alyosha smiled, pressing his hand.
Kolya was extremely pleased with Alyosha. It struck him that Alyosha was to the highest degree on an equal footing with him, and spoke with him as with “the most adult” person.
“I’m going to show you a stunt now, Karamazov, also a theater performance,” he laughed nervously, “that’s what I came for.”
“Let’s stop at the landlady’s first, on the left; we all leave our coats there, because it’s crowded and hot in the room.”
