1 The Brothers Karamazov
but morally there were. If you were like me, you’d know
what that means. I loved vice, I loved the ignominy of vice. I
loved cruelty; am I not a bug, am I not a noxious insect? In
fact a Karamazov! Once we went, a whole lot of us, for a pic-
nic, in seven sledges. It was dark, it was winter, and I began
squeezing a girl’s hand, and forced her to kiss me. She was
the daughter of an official, a sweet, gentle, submissive crea-
ture. She allowed me, she allowed me much in the dark. She
thought, poor thing, that I should come next day to make
her an offer (I was looked upon as a good match, too). But
I didn’t say a word to her for five months. I used to see her
in a corner at dances (we were always having dances), her
eyes watching me. I saw how they glowed with fire — a fire
of gentle indignation. This game only tickled that insect
lust I cherished in my soul. Five months later she married
an official and left the town, still angry, and still, perhaps,
in love with me. Now they live happily. Observe that I told
no one. I didn’t boast of it. Though I’m full of low desires,
and love what’s low, I’m not dishonourable. You’re blush-
ing; your eyes flashed. Enough of this filth with you. And
all this was nothing much — wayside blossoms a la Paul
de Kock- though the cruel insect had already grown strong
in my soul. I’ve a perfect album of reminiscences, brother.
God bless them, the darlings. I tried to break it off without
quarrelling. And I never gave them away, I never bragged of
one of them. But that’s enough. You can’t suppose I brought
you here simply to talk of such nonsense. No, I’m going to
tell you something more curious; and don’t be surprised
that I’m glad to tell you, instead of being ashamed.’