The Schoolboy





But Kolya did not hear her. At last he could go out. As he went out at

the gate he looked round him, shrugged up his shoulders, and saying “It

is freezing,” went straight along the street and turned off to the

right towards the market‐place. When he reached the last house but one

before the market‐place he stopped at the gate, pulled a whistle out of

his pocket, and whistled with all his might as though giving a signal.

He had not to wait more than a minute before a rosy‐cheeked boy of

about eleven, wearing a warm, neat and even stylish coat, darted out to

meet him. This was Smurov, a boy in the preparatory class (two classes

below Kolya Krassotkin), son of a well‐to‐do official. Apparently he

was forbidden by his parents to associate with Krassotkin, who was well

known to be a desperately naughty boy, so Smurov was obviously slipping

out on the sly. He was—if the reader has not forgotten—one of the group

of boys who two months before had thrown stones at Ilusha. He was the

one who told Alyosha Karamazov about Ilusha.



“I’ve been waiting for you for the last hour, Krassotkin,” said Smurov

stolidly, and the boys strode towards the market‐place.



“I am late,” answered Krassotkin. “I was detained by circumstances. You

won’t be thrashed for coming with me?”



“Come, I say, I’m never thrashed! And you’ve got Perezvon with you?”



“Yes.”



“You’re taking him, too?”



“Yes.”



“Ah! if it were only Zhutchka!”



“That’s impossible. Zhutchka’s non‐existent. Zhutchka is lost in the

mists of obscurity.”



“Ah! couldn’t we do this?” Smurov suddenly stood still. “You see Ilusha

says that Zhutchka was a shaggy, grayish, smoky‐looking dog like

Perezvon. Couldn’t you tell him this is Zhutchka, and he might believe

you?”



“Boy, shun a lie, that’s one thing; even with a good object—that’s

another. Above all, I hope you’ve not told them anything about my

coming.”



“Heaven forbid! I know what I am about. But you won’t comfort him with

Perezvon,” said Smurov, with a sigh. “You know his father, the captain,

‘the wisp of tow,’ told us that he was going to bring him a real

mastiff pup, with a black nose, to‐day. He thinks that would comfort

Ilusha; but I doubt it.”



“And how is Ilusha?”



“Ah, he is bad, very bad! I believe he’s in consumption: he is quite

conscious, but his breathing! His breathing’s gone wrong. The other day

he asked to have his boots on to be led round the room. He tried to

walk, but he couldn’t stand. ‘Ah, I told you before, father,’ he said,

‘that those boots were no good. I could never walk properly in them.’

He fancied it was his boots that made him stagger, but it was simply

weakness, really. He won’t live another week. Herzenstube is looking

after him. Now they are rich again—they’ve got heaps of money.”



“They are rogues.”



“Who are rogues?”



“Doctors and the whole crew of quacks collectively, and also, of

course, individually. I don’t believe in medicine. It’s a useless

institution. I mean to go into all that. But what’s that sentimentality

you’ve got up there? The whole class seems to be there every day.”



“Not the whole class: it’s only ten of our fellows who go to see him

every day. There’s nothing in that.”



“What I don’t understand in all this is the part that Alexey Karamazov

is taking in it. His brother’s going to be tried to‐morrow or next day

for such a crime, and yet he has so much time to spend on

sentimentality with boys.”



“There’s no sentimentality about it. You are going yourself now to make

it up with Ilusha.”



“Make it up with him? What an absurd expression! But I allow no one to

analyze my actions.”



“And how pleased Ilusha will be to see you! He has no idea that you are

coming. Why was it, why was it you wouldn’t come all this time?” Smurov

cried with sudden warmth.



“My dear boy, that’s my business, not yours. I am going of myself

because I choose to, but you’ve all been hauled there by Alexey

Karamazov—there’s a difference, you know. And how do you know? I may

not be going to make it up at all. It’s a stupid expression.”



“It’s not Karamazov at all; it’s not his doing. Our fellows began going

there of themselves. Of course, they went with Karamazov at first. And

there’s been nothing of that sort—no silliness. First one went, and

then another. His father was awfully pleased to see us. You know he

will simply go out of his mind if Ilusha dies. He sees that Ilusha’s

dying. And he seems so glad we’ve made it up with Ilusha. Ilusha asked

after you, that was all. He just asks and says no more. His father will

go out of his mind or hang himself. He behaved like a madman before.

You know he is a very decent man. We made a mistake then. It’s all the

fault of that murderer who beat him then.”



“Karamazov’s a riddle to me all the same. I might have made his

acquaintance long ago, but I like to have a proper pride in some cases.

Besides, I have a theory about him which I must work out and verify.”



Kolya subsided into dignified silence. Smurov, too, was silent. Smurov,

of course, worshiped Krassotkin and never dreamed of putting himself on

a level with him. Now he was tremendously interested at Kolya’s saying

that he was “going of himself” to see Ilusha. He felt that there must

be some mystery in Kolya’s suddenly taking it into his head to go to

him that day. They crossed the market‐place, in which at that hour were

many loaded wagons from the country and a great number of live fowls.

The market women were selling rolls, cottons and threads, etc., in

their booths. These Sunday markets were naïvely called “fairs” in the

town, and there were many such fairs in the year.



Perezvon ran about in the wildest spirits, sniffing about first one

side, then the other. When he met other dogs they zealously smelt each

other over according to the rules of canine etiquette.



“I like to watch such realistic scenes, Smurov,” said Kolya suddenly.

“Have you noticed how dogs sniff at one another when they meet? It

seems to be a law of their nature.”



“Yes; it’s a funny habit.”



“No, it’s not funny; you are wrong there. There’s nothing funny in

nature, however funny it may seem to man with his prejudices. If dogs

could reason and criticize us they’d be sure to find just as much that

would be funny to them, if not far more, in the social relations of

men, their masters—far more, indeed. I repeat that, because I am

convinced that there is far more foolishness among us. That’s Rakitin’s

idea—a remarkable idea. I am a Socialist, Smurov.”



“And what is a Socialist?” asked Smurov.



“That’s when all are equal and all have property in common, there are

no marriages, and every one has any religion and laws he likes best,

and all the rest of it. You are not old enough to understand that yet.

It’s cold, though.”



“Yes, twelve degrees of frost. Father looked at the thermometer just

now.”



“Have you noticed, Smurov, that in the middle of winter we don’t feel

so cold even when there are fifteen or eighteen degrees of frost as we

do now, in the beginning of winter, when there is a sudden frost of

twelve degrees, especially when there is not much snow. It’s because

people are not used to it. Everything is habit with men, everything

even in their social and political relations. Habit is the great

motive‐power. What a funny‐looking peasant!”



Kolya pointed to a tall peasant, with a good‐natured countenance in a

long sheepskin coat, who was standing by his wagon, clapping together

his hands, in their shapeless leather gloves, to warm them. His long

fair beard was all white with frost.



“That peasant’s beard’s frozen,” Kolya cried in a loud provocative

voice as he passed him.



“Lots of people’s beards are frozen,” the peasant replied, calmly and

sententiously.



“Don’t provoke him,” observed Smurov.



“It’s all right; he won’t be cross; he’s a nice fellow. Good‐by,

Matvey.”



“Good‐by.”



“Is your name Matvey?”



“Yes. Didn’t you know?”



“No, I didn’t. It was a guess.”



“You don’t say so! You are a schoolboy, I suppose?”



“Yes.”



“You get whipped, I expect?”



“Nothing to speak of—sometimes.”



“Does it hurt?”



“Well, yes, it does.”



“Ech, what a life!” The peasant heaved a sigh from the bottom of his

heart.



“Good‐by, Matvey.”



“Good‐by. You are a nice chap, that you are.”



The boys went on.



“That was a nice peasant,” Kolya observed to Smurov. “I like talking to

the peasants, and am always glad to do them justice.”



“Why did you tell a lie, pretending we are thrashed?” asked Smurov.



“I had to say that to please him.”



“How do you mean?”



“You know, Smurov, I don’t like being asked the same thing twice. I

like people to understand at the first word. Some things can’t be

explained. According to a peasant’s notions, schoolboys are whipped,

and must be whipped. What would a schoolboy be if he were not whipped?

And if I were to tell him we are not, he’d be disappointed. But you

don’t understand that. One has to know how to talk to the peasants.”



“Only don’t tease them, please, or you’ll get into another scrape as

you did about that goose.”



“So you’re afraid?”



“Don’t laugh, Kolya. Of course I’m afraid. My father would be awfully

cross. I am strictly forbidden to go out with you.”



“Don’t be uneasy, nothing will happen this time. Hallo, Natasha!” he

shouted to a market woman in one of the booths.



“Call me Natasha! What next! My name is Marya,” the middle‐aged market

woman shouted at him.



“I am so glad it’s Marya. Good‐by!”



“Ah, you young rascal! A brat like you to carry on so!”



“I’m in a hurry. I can’t stay now. You shall tell me next Sunday.”

Kolya waved his hand at her, as though she had attacked him and not he

her.



“I’ve nothing to tell you next Sunday. You set upon me, you impudent

young monkey. I didn’t say anything,” bawled Marya. “You want a

whipping, that’s what you want, you saucy jackanapes!”



There was a roar of laughter among the other market women round her.

Suddenly a man in a violent rage darted out from the arcade of shops

close by. He was a young man, not a native of the town, with dark,

curly hair and a long, pale face, marked with smallpox. He wore a long

blue coat and a peaked cap, and looked like a merchant’s clerk. He was

in a state of stupid excitement and brandished his fist at Kolya.



“I know you!” he cried angrily, “I know you!”



Kolya stared at him. He could not recall when he could have had a row

with the man. But he had been in so many rows in the street that he

could hardly remember them all.



“Do you?” he asked sarcastically.



“I know you! I know you!” the man repeated idiotically.



“So much the better for you. Well, it’s time I was going. Good‐by!”



“You are at your saucy pranks again?” cried the man. “You are at your

saucy pranks again? I know, you are at it again!”



“It’s not your business, brother, if I am at my saucy pranks again,”

said Kolya, standing still and scanning him.



“Not my business?”



“No; it’s not your business.”



“Whose then? Whose then? Whose then?”



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



“What Trifon Nikititch?” asked the youth, staring with loutish

amazement at Kolya, but still as angry as ever.



Kolya scanned him gravely.



“Have you been to the Church of the Ascension?” he suddenly asked him,

with stern emphasis.



“What Church of Ascension? What for? No, I haven’t,” said the young

man, somewhat taken aback.



“Do you know Sabaneyev?” Kolya went on even more emphatically and even

more severely.



“What Sabaneyev? No, I don’t know him.”



“Well then you can go to the devil,” said Kolya, cutting short the

conversation; and turning sharply to the right he strode quickly on his

way as though he disdained further conversation with a dolt who did not

even know Sabaneyev.



“Stop, heigh! What Sabaneyev?” the young man recovered from his

momentary stupefaction and was as excited as before. “What did he say?”

He turned to the market women with a silly stare.



The women laughed.



“You can never tell what he’s after,” said one of them.



“What Sabaneyev is it he’s talking about?” the young man repeated,

still furious and brandishing his right arm.



“It must be a Sabaneyev who worked for the Kuzmitchovs, that’s who it

must be,” one of the women suggested.



The young man stared at her wildly.



“For the Kuzmitchovs?” repeated another woman. “But his name wasn’t

Trifon. His name’s Kuzma, not Trifon; but the boy said Trifon

Nikititch, so it can’t be the same.”



“His name is not Trifon and not Sabaneyev, it’s Tchizhov,” put in

suddenly a third woman, who had hitherto been silent, listening

gravely. “Alexey Ivanitch is his name. Tchizhov, Alexey Ivanitch.”



“Not a doubt about it, it’s Tchizhov,” a fourth woman emphatically

confirmed the statement.



The bewildered youth gazed from one to another.



“But what did he ask for, what did he ask for, good people?” he cried

almost in desperation. “ ‘Do you know Sabaneyev?’ says he. And who the

devil’s to know who is Sabaneyev?”



“You’re a senseless fellow. I tell you it’s not Sabaneyev, but

Tchizhov, Alexey Ivanitch Tchizhov, that’s who it is!” one of the women

shouted at him impressively.



“What Tchizhov? Who is he? Tell me, if you know.”



“That tall, sniveling fellow who used to sit in the market in the

summer.”



“And what’s your Tchizhov to do with me, good people, eh?”



“How can I tell what he’s to do with you?” put in another. “You ought

to know yourself what you want with him, if you make such a clamor

about him. He spoke to you, he did not speak to us, you stupid. Don’t

you really know him?”



“Know whom?”



“Tchizhov.”



“The devil take Tchizhov and you with him. I’ll give him a hiding, that

I will. He was laughing at me!”



“Will give Tchizhov a hiding! More likely he will give you one. You are

a fool, that’s what you are!”



“Not Tchizhov, not Tchizhov, you spiteful, mischievous woman. I’ll give

the boy a hiding. Catch him, catch him, he was laughing at me!”



The woman guffawed. But Kolya was by now a long way off, marching along

with a triumphant air. Smurov walked beside him, looking round at the

shouting group far behind. He too was in high spirits, though he was

still afraid of getting into some scrape in Kolya’s company.



“What Sabaneyev did you mean?” he asked Kolya, foreseeing what his

answer would be.



“How do I know? Now there’ll be a hubbub among them all day. I like to

stir up fools in every class of society. There’s another blockhead,

that peasant there. You know, they say ‘there’s no one stupider than a

stupid Frenchman,’ but a stupid Russian shows it in his face just as

much. Can’t you see it all over his face that he is a fool, that

peasant, eh?”



“Let him alone, Kolya. Let’s go on.”



“Nothing could stop me, now I am once off. Hey, good morning, peasant!”



A sturdy‐looking peasant, with a round, simple face and grizzled beard,

who was walking by, raised his head and looked at the boy. He seemed

not quite sober.



“Good morning, if you are not laughing at me,” he said deliberately in

reply.



“And if I am?” laughed Kolya.



“Well, a joke’s a joke. Laugh away. I don’t mind. There’s no harm in a

joke.”



“I beg your pardon, brother, it was a joke.”



“Well, God forgive you!”



“Do you forgive me, too?”



“I quite forgive you. Go along.”



“I say, you seem a clever peasant.”



“Cleverer than you,” the peasant answered unexpectedly, with the same

gravity.



“I doubt it,” said Kolya, somewhat taken aback.



“It’s true, though.”



“Perhaps it is.”



“It is, brother.”



“Good‐by, peasant!”



“Good‐by!”



“There are all sorts of peasants,” Kolya observed to Smurov after a

brief silence. “How could I tell I had hit on a clever one? I am always

ready to recognize intelligence in the peasantry.”



In the distance the cathedral clock struck half‐past eleven. The boys

made haste and they walked as far as Captain Snegiryov’s lodging, a

considerable distance, quickly and almost in silence. Twenty paces from

the house Kolya stopped and told Smurov to go on ahead and ask

Karamazov to come out to him.



“One must sniff round a bit first,” he observed to Smurov.



“Why ask him to come out?” Smurov protested. “You go in; they will be

awfully glad to see you. What’s the sense of making friends in the

frost out here?”



“I know why I want to see him out here in the frost,” Kolya cut him

short in the despotic tone he was fond of adopting with “small boys,”

and Smurov ran to do his bidding.