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.