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some reason, a liking for him, although the young man
looked as morosely at him as at everyone and was always
silent. He rarely spoke. If it had occurred to anyone to won-
der at the time what the young man was interested in, and
what was in his mind, it would have been impossible to tell
by looking at him. Yet he used sometimes to stop sudden-
ly in the house, or even in the yard or street, and would
stand still for ten minutes, lost in thought. A physiognomist
studying his face would have said that there was no thought
in it, no reflection, but only a sort of contemplation. There is
a remarkable picture by the painter Kramskoy, called ‘Con-
templation.’ There is a forest in winter, and on a roadway
through the forest, in absolute solitude, stands a peasant in
a torn kaftan and bark shoes. He stands, as it were, lost in
thought. Yet he is not thinking; he is ‘contemplating.’ If any-
one touched him he would start and look at one as though
awakening and bewildered. It’s true he would come to him-
self immediately; but if he were asked what he had been
thinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably
he has, hidden within himself, the impression which had
dominated him during the period of contemplation. Those
impressions are dear to him and no doubt he hoards them
imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of
course, he does not know either. He may suddenly, after
hoarding impressions for many years, abandon everything
and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage for his soul’s salva-
tion, or perhaps he will suddenly set fire to his native village,
and perhaps do both. There are a good many ‘contempla-
tives’ among the peasantry. Well, Smerdyakov was probably