KOLYA leaned against the fence with an air of dignity, waiting for

Alyosha to appear. Yes, he had long wanted to meet him. He had heard a

great deal about him from the boys, but hitherto he had always

maintained an appearance of disdainful indifference when he was

mentioned, and he had even "criticised" what he heard about Alyosha.

But secretely he had a great longing to make his acquaintance; there

was something sympathetic and attractive in all he was told about

Alyosha. So the present moment was important: to begin with, he had to

show himself at his best, to show his independence. "Or he'll think of

me as thirteen and take me for a boy, like the rest of them. And

what are these boys to him? I shall ask him when I get to know him.

It's a pity I am so short, though. Tuzikov is younger than I am, yet

he is half a head taller. But I have a clever face. I am not

good-looking. I know I'm hideous, but I've a clever face. I mustn't

talk too freely; if I fall into his arms all at once, he may think-

Tfoo! how horrible if he should think- !"

    Such were the thoughts that excited Kolya while he was doing his

utmost to assume the most independent air. What distressed him most

was his being so short; he did not mind so much his "hideous" face, as

being so short. On the wall in a corner at home he had the year before

made a pencil-mark to show his height, and every two months since he

anxiously measured himself against it to see how much he had gained.

But alas! he grew very slowly, and this sometimes reduced him almost

to despair. His face was in reality by no means "hideous"; on the

contrary, it was rather attractive, with a fair, pale skin,

freckled. His small, lively grey eyes had a fearless look, and often

glowed with feeling. He had rather high cheekbones; small, very red,

but not very thick, lips; his nose was small and unmistakably turned

up. "I've a regular pug nose, a regular pug nose," Kolya used to

mutter to himself when he looked in the looking-glass, and he always

left it with indignation. "But perhaps I haven't got a clever face?"

he sometimes thought, doubtful even of that. But it must not be

supposed that his mind was preoccupied with his face and his height.

On the contrary, however bitter the moments before the looking-glass

were to him, he quickly forgot them, and forgot them for a long

time, "abandoning himself entirely to ideas and to real life," as he

formulated it to himself.

    Alyosha came out quickly and hastened up to Kolya. Before he

reached him, Kolya could see that he looked delighted. "Can he be so

glad to see me?" Kolya wondered, feeling pleased. We may note here, in

passing, that Alyosha's appearance had undergone a complete change

since we saw him last. He had abandoned his cassock and was wearing

now a wellcut coat, a soft, round hat, and his hair had been cropped

short. All this was very becoming to him, and he looked quite

handsome. His charming face always had a good-humoured expression; but

there was a gentleness and serenity in his good-humour. To Kolya's

surprise, Alyosha came out to him just as he was, without an overcoat.

He had evidently come in haste. He held out his hand to Kolya at once.

    "Here you are at last! How anxious we've been to see you!"

    "There were reasons which you shall know directly. Anyway, I am

glad to make your acquaintance. I've long been hoping for an

opportunity, and have heard a great deal about you," Kolya muttered, a

little breathless.

    "We should have met anyway. I've heard a great deal about you,

too; but you've been a long time coming here."

    "Tell me, how are things going?"

    "Ilusha is very ill. He is certainly dying."

    "How awful! You must admit that medicine is a fraud, Karamazov,"

cried Kolya warmly.

    "Ilusha has mentioned you often, very often, even in his sleep, in

delirium, you know. One can see that you used to be very, very dear to

him... before the incident... with the knife.... Then there's

another reason.... Tell me, is that your dog?"

    "Yes Perezvon."

    "Not Zhutchka?" Alyosha looked at Kolya with eyes full of pity.

"Is she lost for ever?"

    "I know you would all like it to be Zhutchka. I've heard all about

it." Kolya smiled mysteriously. "Listen, Karamazov, I'll tell you

all about it. That's what I came for; that's what I asked you to

come out here for, to explain the whole episode to you before we go

in," he began with animation. "You see, Karamazov, Ilusha came into

the preparatory class last spring. Well, you know what our preparatory

class is- a lot of small boys. They began teasing Ilusha at once. I am

two classes higher up, and, of course, I only look on at them from a

distance. I saw the boy was weak and small, but he wouldn't give in to

them; he fought with them. I saw he was proud, and his eyes were

full of fire. I like children like that. And they teased him all the

more. The worst of it was he was horribly dressed at the time, his

breeches were too small for him, and there were holes in his boots.

They worried him about it; they jeered at him. That I can't stand. I

stood up for him at once, and gave it to them hot. I beat them, but

they adore me, do you know, Karamazov?" Kolya boasted impulsively;

"but I am always fond of children. I've two chickens in my hands at

home now- that's what detained me to-day. So they left off beating

Ilusha and I took him under my protection. I saw the boy was proud.

I tell you that, the boy was proud; but in the end he became slavishly

devoted to me: he did my slightest bidding, obeyed me as though I were

God, tried to copy me. In the intervals between the classes he used to

run to me at once' and I'd go about with him. On Sundays, too. They

always laugh when an older boy makes friends with a younger one like

that; but that's a prejudice. If it's my fancy, that's enough. I am

teaching him, developing him. Why shouldn't I develop him if I like

him? Here you, Karamazov, have taken up with all these nestlings. I

see you want to influence the younger generation- to develop them,

to be of use to them, and I assure you this trait in your character,

which I knew by hearsay, attracted me more than anything. Let us get

to the point, though. I noticed that there was a sort of softness

and sentimentality coming over the boy, and you know I have a positive

hatred of this sheepish sentimentality, and I have had it from a baby.

There were contradictions in him, too: he was proud, but he was

slavishly devoted to me, and yet all at once his eyes would flash

and he'd refuse to agree with me; he'd argue, fly into a rage. I

used sometimes to propound certain ideas; I could see that it was

not so much that he disagreed with the ideas, but that he was simply

rebelling against me, because I was cool in responding to his

endearments. And so, in order to train him properly, the tenderer he

was, the colder I became. I did it on purpose: that was my idea. My

object was to form his character, to lick him into shape, to make a

man of him... and besides... no doubt, you understand me at a word.

Suddenly I noticed for three days in succession he was downcast and

dejected, not because of my coldness, but for something else,

something more important. I wondered what the tragedy was. I have

pumped him and found out that he had somehow got to know Smerdyakov,

who was footman to your late father- it was before his death, of

course- and he taught the little fool a silly trick- that is, a

brutal, nasty trick. He told him to take a piece of bread, to stick

a pin in it, and throw it to one of those hungry dogs who snap up

anything without biting it, and then to watch and see what would

happen. So they prepared a piece of bread like that and threw it to

Zhutchka, that shaggy dog there's been such a fuss about. The people

of the house it belonged to never fed it at all, though it barked

all day. (Do you like that stupid barking, Karamazov? I can't stand

it.) So it rushed at the bread, swallowed it, and began to squeal;

it turned round and round and ran away, squealing as it ran out of

sight. That was Ilusha's own account of it. He confessed it to me, and

cried bitterly. He hugged me, shaking all over. He kept on repeating

'He ran away squealing': the sight of that haunted him. He was

tormented by remorse, I could see that. I took it seriously. I

determined to give him a lesson for other things as well. So I must

confess I wasn't quite straightforward, and pretended to be more

indignant perhaps than I was. 'You've done a nasty thing,' I said,

'you are a scoundrel. I won't tell of it, of course, but I shall

have nothing more to do with you for a time. I'll think it over and

let you know through Smurov'- that's the boy who's just come with

me; he's always ready to do anything for me- 'whether I will have

anything to do with you in the future or whether I give you up for

good as a scoundrel.' He was tremendously upset. I must own I felt I'd

gone too far as I spoke, but there was no help for it. I did what I

thought best at the time. A day or two after, I sent Smurov to tell

him that I would not speak to him again. That's what we call it when

two schoolfellows refuse to have anything more to do with one another.

Secretly I only meant to send him to Coventry for a few days and then,

if I saw signs of repentance, to hold out my hand to him again. That

was my intention. But what do you think happened? He heard Smurov's

message, his eyes flashed. 'Tell Krassotkin for me,' he cried, 'that I

will throw bread with pins to all the dogs- all- all of them!' 'So

he's going in for a little temper. We must smoke it out of him.' And I

began to treat him with contempt; whenever I met him I turned away

or smiled sarcastically. And just then that affair with his father

happened. You remember? You must realise that he was fearfully

worked up by what had happened already. The boys, seeing I'd given him

up, set on him and taunted him, shouting, 'Wisp of tow, wisp of

tow!' And he had soon regular skirmishes with them, which I am very

sorry for. They seem to have given him one very bad beating. One day

he flew at them all as they were coming out of school. I stood a few

yards off, looking on. And, I swear, I don't remember that I

laughed; it was quite the other way, I felt awfully sorry for him;

in another minute I would have run up to take his part. But he

suddenly met my eyes. I don't know what he fancied; but he pulled

out a penknife, rushed at me, and struck at my thigh, here in my right

leg. I didn't move. I don't mind owning I am plucky sometimes,

Karamazov. I simply looked at him contemptuously, as though to say,

'This is how you repay all my kindness! Do it again if you like, I'm

at your service.' But he didn't stab me again; he broke down; he was

frightened at what he had done; he threw away the knife, burst out

crying, and ran away. I did not sneak on him, of course, and I made

them all keep quiet, so it shouldn't come to the ears of the

masters. I didn't even tell my mother till it had healed up. And the

wound was a mere scratch. And then I heard that the same day he'd been

throwing stones and had bitten your finger- but you understand now

what a state he was in! Well, it can't be helped: it was stupid of

me not to come and forgive him- that is, to make it up with him-

when he was taken ill. I am sorry for it now. But I had a special

reason. So now I've told you all about it... but I'm afraid it was

stupid of me."

    "Oh, what a pity," exclaimed Alyosha, with feeling, "that I didn't

know before what terms you were on with him, or I'd have come to you

long ago to beg you to go to him with me. Would you believe it, when

he was feverish he talked about you in delirium. I didn't know how

much you were to him! And you've really not succeeded in finding

that dog? His father and the boys have been hunting all over the

town for it. Would you believe it, since he's been ill, I've three

times heard him repeat with tears, 'It's because I killed Zhutchka,

father, that I am ill now. God is punishing me for it.' He can't get

that idea out of his head. And if the dog were found and proved to

be alive, one might almost fancy the joy would cure him. We have all

rested our hopes on you."

    "Tell me, what made you hope that I should be the one to find

him?" Kolya asked, with great curiosity. "Why did you reckon on me

rather than anyone else?"

    "There was a report that you were looking for the dog, and that

you would bring it when you'd found it. Smurov said something of the

sort. We've all been trying to persuade Ilusha that the dog is

alive, that it's been seen. The boys brought him a live hare: he

just looked at it, with a faint smile, and asked them to set it free

in the fields. And so we did. His father has just this moment come

back, bringing him a mastiff pup, hoping to comfort him with that; but

I think it only makes it worse."

    "Tell me, Karamazov, what sort of man is the father? I know him,

but what do you make of him- a mountebank, a buffoon?"

    "Oh no; there are people of deep feeling who have been somehow

crushed. Buffoonery in them is a form of resentful irony against those

to whom they daren't speak the truth, from having been for years

humiliated and intimidated by them. Believe me, Krassotkin, that

sort of buffoonery is sometimes tragic in the extreme. His whole

life now is centred in Ilusha, and if Ilusha dies, he will either go

mad with grief or kill himself. I feel almost certain of that when I

look at him now."

    "I understand you, Karamazov. I see you understand human

nature," Kolya added, with feeling.

    "And as soon as I saw you with a dog, I thought it was Zhutchka

you were bringing."

    "Wait a bit, Karamazov, perhaps we shall find it yet; but this

is Perezvon. I'll let him go in now and perhaps it will amuse Ilusha

more than the mastiff pup. Wait a bit, Karamazov, you will know

something in a minute. But, I say, I am keeping you here!" Kolya cried

suddenly. "You've no overcoat on in this bitter cold. You see what

an egoist I am. Oh, we are all egoists, Karamazov!"

    "Don't trouble; it is cold, but I don't often catch cold. Let us

go in, though, and, by the way, what is your name? I know you are

called Kolya, but what else?"

    "Nikolay- Nikolay Ivanovitch Krassotkin, or, as they say in

official documents, 'Krassotkin son.'" Kolya laughed for some

reason, but added suddenly, "Of course I hate my name Nikolay."

    "Why so?"

    "It's so trivial, so ordinary."

    "You are thirteen?" asked Alyosha.

    "No, fourteen- that is, I shall be fourteen very soon, in a

fortnight. I'll confess one weakness of mine, Karamazov, just to

you, since it's our first meeting, so that you may understand my

character at once. I hate being asked my age, more than that... and in

fact... there's a libellous story going about me, that last week I

played robbers with the preparatory boys. It's a fact that I did

play with them, but it's a perfect libel to say I did it for my own

amusement. I have reasons for believing that you've heard the story;

but I wasn't playing for my own amusement, it was for the sake of

the children, because they couldn't think of anything to do by

themselves. But they've always got some silly tale. This is an awful

town for gossip, I can tell you."

    "But what if you had been playing for your own amusement, what's

the harm?"

    "Come, I say, for my own amusement! You don't play horses, do

you?"

    "But you must look at it like this," said Alyosha, smiling.

"Grown-up people go to the theatre and there the adventures of all

sorts of heroes are represented- sometimes there are robbers and

battles, too- and isn't that just the same thing, in a different form,

of course? And young people's games of soldiers or robbers in their

playtime are also art in its first stage. You know, they spring from

the growing artistic instincts of the young. And sometimes these games

are much better than performances in the theatre; the only

difference is that people go there to look at the actors, while in

these games the young people are the actors themselves. But that's

only natural."

    "You think so? Is that your idea?" Kolya looked at him intently.

"Oh, you know, that's rather an interesting view. When I go home, I'll

think it over. I'll admit I thought I might learn something from

you. I've come to learn of you, Karamazov," Kolya concluded, in a

voice full of spontaneous feeling.

    "And I of you," said Alyosha, smiling and pressing his hand.

    Kolya was much pleased with Alyosha. What struck him most was that

he treated him exactly like an equal and that he talked to him just as

if he were "quite grown up."

    "I'll show you something directly, Karamazov; it's a theatrical

performance, too," he said, laughing nervously. "That's why I've

come."

    "Let us go first to the people of the house, on the left. All

the boys leave their coats in there, because the room is small and

hot."

    "Oh, I'm only coming in for a minute. I'll keep on my overcoat.

Perezvon will stay here in the passage and be dead. Ici, Perezvon, lie

down and be dead! You see how he's dead. I'll go in first and explore,

then I'll whistle to him when I think fit, and you'll see, he'll

dash in like mad. Only Smurov must not forget to open the door at

the moment. I'll arrange it all and you'll see something."