Brothers -- Fiction; Didactic fiction; Fathers and sons -- Fiction; Russia -- Social life and customs -- 1533-1917 -- Fiction
Rakitin could hardly restrain himself in his heat, but, suddenly, as
though remembering something, he stopped short.
“Well, that’s enough,” he said, with a still more crooked smile. “Why
are you laughing? Do you think I’m a vulgar fool?”
“No, I never dreamed of thinking you a vulgar fool. You are clever but
... never mind, I was silly to smile. I understand your getting hot
about it, Misha. I guess from your warmth that you are not indifferent
to Katerina Ivanovna yourself; I’ve suspected that for a long time,
brother, that’s why you don’t like my brother Ivan. Are you jealous of
him?”
“And jealous of her money, too? Won’t you add that?”
“I’ll say nothing about money. I am not going to insult you.”
“I believe it, since you say so, but confound you, and your brother
Ivan with you. Don’t you understand that one might very well dislike
him, apart from Katerina Ivanovna. And why the devil should I like him?
He condescends to abuse me, you know. Why haven’t I a right to abuse
him?”
“I never heard of his saying anything about you, good or bad. He
doesn’t speak of you at all.”
“But I heard that the day before yesterday at Katerina Ivanovna’s he
was abusing me for all he was worth—you see what an interest he takes
in your humble servant. And which is the jealous one after that,
brother, I can’t say. He was so good as to express the opinion that, if
I don’t go in for the career of an archimandrite in the immediate
future and don’t become a monk, I shall be sure to go to Petersburg and
get on to some solid magazine as a reviewer, that I shall write for the
next ten years, and in the end become the owner of the magazine, and
bring it out on the liberal and atheistic side, with a socialistic
tinge, with a tiny gloss of socialism, but keeping a sharp look out all
the time, that is, keeping in with both sides and hoodwinking the
fools. According to your brother’s account, the tinge of socialism
won’t hinder me from laying by the proceeds and investing them under
the guidance of some Jew, till at the end of my career I build a great
house in Petersburg and move my publishing offices to it, and let out
the upper stories to lodgers. He has even chosen the place for it, near
the new stone bridge across the Neva, which they say is to be built in
Petersburg.”
“Ah, Misha, that’s just what will really happen, every word of it,”
cried Alyosha, unable to restrain a good-humored smile.
“You are pleased to be sarcastic, too, Alexey Fyodorovitch.”
“No, no, I’m joking, forgive me. I’ve something quite different in my
mind. But, excuse me, who can have told you all this? You can’t have
been at Katerina Ivanovna’s yourself when he was talking about you?”
“I wasn’t there, but Dmitri Fyodorovitch was; and I heard him tell it
with my own ears; if you want to know, he didn’t tell me, but I
overheard him, unintentionally, of course, for I was sitting in
Grushenka’s bedroom and I couldn’t go away because Dmitri Fyodorovitch
was in the next room.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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