The Brothers Karamazov | Page 8

under the Mother's protection... and suddenly a nurse runs in
and snatches him from her in terror. That was the picture! And Alyosha
remembered his mother's face at that minute. He used to say that it was
frenzied but beautiful as he remembered. But he rarely cared to speak
of this memory to anyone. In his childhood and youth he was by no
means expansive, and talked little indeed, but not from shyness or a
sullen unsociability; quite the contrary, from something different, from
a sort of inner preoccupation entirely personal and unconcerned with
other people, but so important to him that he seemed, as it were, to
forget others on account of it. But he was fond of people: he seemed
throughout his life to put implicit trust in people: yet no one ever
looked on him as a simpleton or naive person. There was something
about him which made one feel at once (and it was so all his life
afterwards) that he did not care to be a judge of others that he would
never take it upon himself to criticise and would never condemn
anyone for anything. He seemed, indeed, to accept everything without
the least condemnation though often grieving bitterly: and this was so
much so that no one could surprise or frighten him even in his earliest
youth. Coming at twenty to his father's house, which was a very sink of
filthy debauchery, he, chaste and pure as he was, simply withdrew in
silence when to look on was unbearable, but without the slightest sign
of contempt or condemnation. His father, who had once been in a
dependent position, and so was sensitive and ready to take offence, met
him at first with distrust and sullenness. "He does not say much," he
used to say, "and thinks the more." But soon, within a fortnight indeed,
he took to embracing him and kissing him terribly often, with drunken
tears, with sottish sentimentality, yet he evidently felt a real and deep
affection for him, such as he had never been capable of feeling for
anyone before.
Everyone, indeed, loved this young man wherever he went, and it was
so from his earliest childhood. When he entered the household of his
patron and benefactor, Yefim Petrovitch Polenov, he gained the hearts

of all the family, so that they looked on him quite as their own child.
Yet he entered the house at such a tender age that he could not have
acted from design nor artfulness in winning affection. So that the gift of
making himself loved directly and unconsciously was inherent in him,
in his very nature, so to speak. It was the same at school, though he
seemed to be just one of those children who are distrusted, sometimes
ridiculed, and even disliked by their schoolfellows. He was dreamy, for
instance, and rather solitary. From his earliest childhood he was fond of
creeping into a corner to read, and yet he was a general favourite all the
while he was at school. He was rarely playful or merry, but anyone
could see at the first glance that this was not from any sullenness. On
the contrary he was bright and good-tempered. He never tried to show
off among his schoolfellows. Perhaps because of this, he was never
afraid of anyone, yet the boys immediately understood that he was not
proud of his fearlessness and seemed to be unaware that he was bold
and courageous. He never resented an insult. It would happen that an
hour after the offence he would address the offender or answer some
question with as trustful and candid an expression as though nothing
had happened between them. And it was not that he seemed to have
forgotten or intentionally forgiven the affront, but simply that he did
not regard it as an affront, and this completely conquered and
captivated the boys. He had one characteristic which made all his
schoolfellows from the bottom class to the top want to mock at him, not
from malice but because it amused them. This characteristic was a wild
fanatical modesty and chastity. He could not bear to hear certain words
and certain conversations about women. There are "certain" words and
conversations unhappily impossible to eradicate in schools. Boys pure
in mind and heart, almost children, are fond of talking in school among
themselves, and even aloud, of things, pictures, and images of which
even soldiers would sometimes hesitate to speak. More than that, much
that soldiers have no knowledge or conception of is familiar to quite
young children of our intellectual and higher classes. There is no moral
depravity, no real corrupt inner cynicism in it, but there is the
appearance of it, and it is often looked upon among them as something
refined, subtle,