Page 968 - the-brothers-karamazov

here before, and would you believe it, he is always gibing at
him, growling at him, for some reason. I simply looked at
the way they went on together and laughed inwardly. So I
was sitting here alone — no, I was laid up then. Well, I was
lying here alone and suddenly Rakitin comes in, and only
fancy! brought me some verses of his own composition — a
short poem, on my bad foot: that is, he described my foot in
a poem. Wait a minute — how did it go?
A captivating little foot.
It began somehow like that. I can never remember poet-
ry. I’ve got it here. I’ll show it to you later. But it’s a charming
thing- charming; and, you know, it’s not only about the
foot, it had a good moral, too, a charming idea, only I’ve
forgotten it; in fact, it was just the thing for an album. So,
of course, I thanked him, and he was evidently flattered.
I’d hardly had time to thank him when in comes Pyotr Ily-
itch, and Rakitin suddenly looked as black as night. I could
see that Pyotr Ilyitch was in the way, for Rakitin certainly
wanted to say something after giving me the verses. I had
a presentiment of it; but Pyotr Ilyitch came in. I showed
Pyotr Ilyitch the verses and didn’t say who was the author.
But I am convinced that he guessed, though he won’t own
it to this day, and declares he had no idea. But he says that
on purpose. Pyotr Ilyitch began to laugh at once, and fell
to criticising it. ‘Wretched doggerel,’ he said they were,
‘some divinity student must have written them,’ and with
such vehemence, such vehemence! Then, instead of laugh-
ing, your friend flew into a rage. ‘Good gracious!’ I thought,
‘they’ll fly at each other.’ ‘It was I who wrote them,’ said he.