The Brothers Karamazov
“Hullo! You surprise me, brother!” Rakitin looked at him in amazement.
“Well, one way or another, vodka or sausage, this is a jolly fine
chance and mustn’t be missed. Come along.”
Alyosha got up in silence and followed Rakitin.
“If your little brother Ivan could see this—wouldn’t he be surprised!
By the way, your brother Ivan set off to Moscow this morning, did you
know?”
“Yes,” answered Alyosha listlessly, and suddenly the image of his
brother Dmitri rose before his mind. But only for a minute, and though
it reminded him of something that must not be put off for a moment,
some duty, some terrible obligation, even that reminder made no
impression on him, did not reach his heart and instantly faded out of
his mind and was forgotten. But, a long while afterwards, Alyosha
remembered this.
“Your brother Ivan declared once that I was a ‘liberal booby with no
talents whatsoever.’ Once you, too, could not resist letting me know I
was ‘dishonorable.’ Well! I should like to see what your talents and
sense of honor will do for you now.” This phrase Rakitin finished to
himself in a whisper.
“Listen!” he said aloud, “let’s go by the path beyond the monastery
straight to the town. Hm! I ought to go to Madame Hohlakov’s by the
way. Only fancy, I’ve written to tell her everything that happened, and
would you believe it, she answered me instantly in pencil (the lady has
a passion for writing notes) that ‘she would never have expected _such
conduct_ from a man of such a reverend character as Father Zossima.’
That was her very word: ‘conduct.’ She is angry too. Eh, you are a set!
Stay!” he cried suddenly again. He suddenly stopped and taking Alyosha
by the shoulder made him stop too.
“Do you know, Alyosha,” he peeped inquisitively into his eyes, absorbed
in a sudden new thought which had dawned on him, and though he was
laughing outwardly he was evidently afraid to utter that new idea
aloud, so difficult he still found it to believe in the strange and
unexpected mood in which he now saw Alyosha. “Alyosha, do you know
where we had better go?” he brought out at last timidly, and
insinuatingly.
“I don’t care ... where you like.”
“Let’s go to Grushenka, eh? Will you come?” pronounced Rakitin at last,
trembling with timid suspense.
“Let’s go to Grushenka,” Alyosha answered calmly, at once, and this
prompt and calm agreement was such a surprise to Rakitin that he almost
started back.
“Well! I say!” he cried in amazement, but seizing Alyosha firmly by the
arm he led him along the path, still dreading that he would change his
mind.
They walked along in silence, Rakitin was positively afraid to talk.
“And how glad she will be, how delighted!” he muttered, but lapsed into
silence again. And indeed it was not to please Grushenka he was taking
Alyosha to her. He was a practical person and never undertook anything
without a prospect of gain for himself. His object in this case was
twofold, first a revengeful desire to see “the downfall of the
righteous,” and Alyosha’s fall “from the saints to the sinners,” over
which he was already gloating in his imagination, and in the second
place he had in view a certain material gain for himself, of which more
will be said later.
“So the critical moment has come,” he thought to himself with spiteful
glee, “and we shall catch it on the hop, for it’s just what we want.”
Chapter III.
An Onion
Grushenka lived in the busiest part of the town, near the cathedral
square, in a small wooden lodge in the courtyard belonging to the house
of the widow Morozov. The house was a large stone building of two
stories, old and very ugly. The widow led a secluded life with her two
unmarried nieces, who were also elderly women. She had no need to let
her lodge, but every one knew that she had taken in Grushenka as a
lodger, four years before, solely to please her kinsman, the merchant
Samsonov, who was known to be the girl’s protector. It was said that
the jealous old man’s object in placing his “favorite” with the widow
Morozov was that the old woman should keep a sharp eye on her new
lodger’s conduct. But this sharp eye soon proved to be unnecessary, and
in the end the widow Morozov seldom met Grushenka and did not worry her
by looking after her in any way. It is true that four years had passed
since the old man had brought the slim, delicate, shy, timid, dreamy,
and sad girl of eighteen from the chief town of the province, and much
had happened since then. Little was known of the girl’s history in the
town and that little was vague. Nothing more had been learnt during the
last four years, even after many persons had become interested in the
beautiful young woman into whom Agrafena Alexandrovna had meanwhile
developed. There were rumors that she had been at seventeen betrayed by
some one, some sort of officer, and immediately afterwards abandoned by
him. The officer had gone away and afterwards married, while Grushenka
had been left in poverty and disgrace. It was said, however, that
though Grushenka had been raised from destitution by the old man,
Samsonov, she came of a respectable family belonging to the clerical
class, that she was the daughter of a deacon or something of the sort.
And now after four years the sensitive, injured and pathetic little
orphan had become a plump, rosy beauty of the Russian type, a woman of
bold and determined character, proud and insolent. She had a good head
for business, was acquisitive, saving and careful, and by fair means or
foul had succeeded, it was said, in amassing a little fortune. There
was only one point on which all were agreed. Grushenka was not easily
to be approached and except her aged protector there had not been one
man who could boast of her favors during those four years. It was a
positive fact, for there had been a good many, especially during the
last two years, who had attempted to obtain those favors. But all their
efforts had been in vain and some of these suitors had been forced to
beat an undignified and even comic retreat, owing to the firm and
ironical resistance they met from the strong-willed young person. It
was known, too, that the young person had, especially of late, been
given to what is called “speculation,” and that she had shown marked
abilities in that direction, so that many people began to say that she
was no better than a Jew. It was not that she lent money on interest,
but it was known, for instance, that she had for some time past, in
partnership with old Karamazov, actually invested in the purchase of
bad debts for a trifle, a tenth of their nominal value, and afterwards
had made out of them ten times their value.
The old widower Samsonov, a man of large fortune, was stingy and
merciless. He tyrannized over his grown-up sons, but, for the last year
during which he had been ill and lost the use of his swollen legs, he
had fallen greatly under the influence of his protégée, whom he had at
first kept strictly and in humble surroundings, “on Lenten fare,” as
the wits said at the time. But Grushenka had succeeded in emancipating
herself, while she established in him a boundless belief in her
fidelity. The old man, now long since dead, had had a large business in
his day and was also a noteworthy character, miserly and hard as flint.
Though Grushenka’s hold upon him was so strong that he could not live
without her (it had been so especially for the last two years), he did
not settle any considerable fortune on her and would not have been
moved to do so, if she had threatened to leave him. But he had
presented her with a small sum, and even that was a surprise to every
one when it became known.
“You are a wench with brains,” he said to her, when he gave her eight
thousand roubles, “and you must look after yourself, but let me tell
you that except your yearly allowance as before, you’ll get nothing
more from me to the day of my death, and I’ll leave you nothing in my
will either.”
And he kept his word; he died and left everything to his sons, whom,
with their wives and children, he had treated all his life as servants.
Grushenka was not even mentioned in his will. All this became known
afterwards. He helped Grushenka with his advice to increase her capital
and put business in her way.
When Fyodor Pavlovitch, who first came into contact with Grushenka over
a piece of speculation, ended to his own surprise by falling madly in
love with her, old Samsonov, gravely ill as he was, was immensely
amused. It is remarkable that throughout their whole acquaintance
Grushenka was absolutely and spontaneously open with the old man, and
he seems to have been the only person in the world with whom she was
so. Of late, when Dmitri too had come on the scene with his love, the
old man left off laughing. On the contrary, he once gave Grushenka a
stern and earnest piece of advice.
“If you have to choose between the two, father or son, you’d better
choose the old man, if only you make sure the old scoundrel will marry
you and settle some fortune on you beforehand. But don’t keep on with
the captain, you’ll get no good out of that.”
These were the very words of the old profligate, who felt already that
his death was not far off and who actually died five months later.
I will note, too, in passing, that although many in our town knew of
the grotesque and monstrous rivalry of the Karamazovs, father and son,
the object of which was Grushenka, scarcely any one understood what
really underlay her attitude to both of them. Even Grushenka’s two
servants (after the catastrophe of which we will speak later) testified
in court that she received Dmitri Fyodorovitch simply from fear because
“he threatened to murder her.” These servants were an old cook,
invalidish and almost deaf, who came from Grushenka’s old home, and her
granddaughter, a smart young girl of twenty, who performed the duties
of a maid. Grushenka lived very economically and her surroundings were
anything but luxurious. Her lodge consisted of three rooms furnished
with mahogany furniture in the fashion of 1820, belonging to her
landlady.
It was quite dark when Rakitin and Alyosha entered her rooms, yet they
were not lighted up. Grushenka was lying down in her drawing-room on
the big, hard, clumsy sofa, with a mahogany back. The sofa was covered
with shabby and ragged leather. Under her head she had two white down
pillows taken from her bed. She was lying stretched out motionless on
her back with her hands behind her head. She was dressed as though
expecting some one, in a black silk dress, with a dainty lace fichu on
her head, which was very becoming. Over her shoulders was thrown a lace
shawl pinned with a massive gold brooch. She certainly was expecting
some one. She lay as though impatient and weary, her face rather pale
and her lips and eyes hot, restlessly tapping the arm of the sofa with
the tip of her right foot. The appearance of Rakitin and Alyosha caused
a slight excitement. From the hall they could hear Grushenka leap up
from the sofa and cry out in a frightened voice, “Who’s there?” But the
maid met the visitors and at once called back to her mistress.
“It’s not he, it’s nothing, only other visitors.”
“What can be the matter?” muttered Rakitin, leading Alyosha into the
drawing-room.
Grushenka was standing by the sofa as though still alarmed. A thick
coil of her dark brown hair escaped from its lace covering and fell on
her right shoulder, but she did not notice it and did not put it back
till she had gazed at her visitors and recognized them.
“Ah, it’s you, Rakitin? You quite frightened me. Whom have you brought?
Who is this with you? Good heavens, you have brought him!” she
exclaimed, recognizing Alyosha.
“Do send for candles!” said Rakitin, with the free-and-easy air of a