The Brothers Karamazov
pineapple compote. Do you like it?’
Alyosha looked at her in silence. Her pale, sallow face
was suddenly contorted, her eyes burned.
‘You know, when I read about that Jew I shook with sobs
all night. I kept fancying how the little thing cried and
moaned (a child of four years old understands, you know),
and all the while the thought of pineapple compote haunt-
ed me. In the morning I wrote a letter to a certain person,
begging him particularly to come and see me. He came
and I suddenly told him all about the child and the pine-
apple compote. All about it, all, and said that it was nice. He
laughed and said it really was nice. Then he got up and went
away. He was only here five minutes. Did he despise me?
Did he despise me? Tell me, tell me, Alyosha, did he despise
me or not?’ She sat up on the couch, with flashing eyes.
‘Tell me,’ Alyosha asked anxiously, ‘did you send for that
person?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Did you send him a letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Simply to ask about that, about that child?’
‘No, not about that at all. But when he came, I asked him
about that at once. He answered, laughed, got up and went
away.’
‘That person behaved honourably,’ Alyosha murmured.
‘And did he despise me? Did he laugh at me?’
‘No, for perhaps he believes in the pineapple compote
himself. He is very ill now, too, Lise.’
‘Yes, he does believe in it,’ said Lise, with flashing eyes.