“You know, Alyoshka,” he looked searchingly in his eyes, entirely absorbed by the impression of the sudden new thought that had shone upon him, and though ostensibly laughing, he was apparently afraid to voice this sudden new thought of his, so hard was it still for him to believe the surprising and quite unexpected mood in which he saw Alyosha now, “Alyoshka, do you know the best place of all for us to go now?” he finally said timidly and ingratiatingly.
“It makes no difference ... wherever you like.”
“Let’s go to Grushenka’s, eh? Will you go?” Rakitin finally uttered, all atremble with timid expectancy. “Let’s go to Grushenka’s,” Alyosha replied calmly and at once, and this was so unexpected for Rakitin—that is, this prompt and calm assent—that he almost jumped back.
“W-well...! Now...!” he shouted in amazement, and suddenly, grasping Alyosha firmly by the arm, he led him quickly along the path, still terribly fearful that his determination might disappear. They walked in silence; Rakitin was even afraid to start talking.
“And how glad she’ll be, how glad ... ,” he muttered, and fell silent again. It was not at all to make Grushenka glad that he was leading Alyosha to her; he was a serious man and never undertook anything without the aim of profiting from it. His aim this time was twofold: first, a revengeful one—that is, to see “the disgrace of the righteous man,” the probable “fall” of Alyosha “from the saints to the sinners,” which he was already savoring in anticipation— and second, he had in mind a material aim as well, one rather profitable for himself, of which more shall be said below.
“Well, if such a moment has come along,” he thought gaily and maliciously to himself, “then we’d better just catch it by the scruff of the neck, the moment, I mean, because it’s very opportune for us.”
Chapter 3: An Onion
Grushenka lived in the busiest part of town, near the cathedral square, in a house belonging to the widow of the merchant Morozov, from whom she rented a small wooden cottage. The widow’s house was large, stone, two-storied, old, and extremely unattractive. The owner, an old woman, lived a secluded life there with her two nieces, also quite elderly spinsters. She had no need to rent the cottage in her backyard, but everyone knew that she had taken Grushenka as her tenant (already four years since) only to please her relative, the merchant Samsonov, who was openly Grushenka’s patron. It was said that in placing his “favorite” with the widow Morozov, the jealous old man had originally had in view the old woman’s keen eye, to keep watch over the new tenant’s behavior. But the keen eye soon turned out to be unnecessary, and in the end the widow Morozov rarely even met Grushenka and finally stopped bothering her altogether with her surveillance. True, it had already been four years since the old man had brought the timid, shy, eighteen-year-old girl, delicate, thin, pensive, and sad, to this house from the provincial capital, and since then much water had flowed under the bridge. All the same, the biography of this girl was only slightly and inconsistently known in our town; nor had anything been learned more recently, even at a time when a great many people began to be interested in the “beauty” Agrafena Alexandrovna had become in four years. There were only rumors that as a seventeen-year-old girl she had been deceived by someone, allegedly some officer, and then abandoned by him forthwith. The officer left, and was soon married somewhere, and Grushenka remained in poverty and disgrace. It was said, however, that though Grushenka had indeed been taken up from poverty by her old man, she was from an honorable family and came in some way from the clergy, being the daughter of a retired deacon or something of the sort. Thus, in four years, from the sensitive, offended, and pitiful orphan, there emerged a red-cheeked, full-bodied Russian beauty, a woman of bold and determined character, proud and insolent, knowing the value of money, acquisitive, tight-fisted, and cautious, who by hook or crook had already succeeded, so they said, in knocking together a little fortune of her own. Everyone was convinced of one thing: that Grushenka was hard to get, and that apart from the old man, her patron, there was not yet a single man in all those four years who could boast of her favors. This was a firm fact, for not a few aspirants had turned up, especially over the past two years, to obtain those favors. But all attempts were in vain; and some of the suitors were even forced to beat a comical and shameful retreat, after the firm and mocking rebuff dealt them by the strong-willed young lady. It was also known that the young lady, especially during the past year, had gotten into what is known as
“gescheft,”[229] and that she had proved herself extraordinarily able in this respect, so that in the end many started calling her a real Jew. Not that she lent money on interest, but it was known, for example, that for some time, together with Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, she had indeed been busily buying up promissory notes for next to nothing, ten kopecks to the rouble, and later made a rouble to ten kopecks on some of them. The ailing Samsonov, who in the past year had lost the use of his swollen legs, a widower, a tyrant over his two grown sons, a man of great wealth, stingy and implacable, fell, however, under the strong influence of his protégée, whom he had at first kept in an iron grip, on a short leash, on “lenten fare,” as some wags said at the time. But Grushenka had succeeded in emancipating herself, having inspired in him, however, a boundless trust regarding her fidelity. This old man, a great businessman (now long deceased), was also of remarkable character, tight-fisted above all and hard as flint, and though Grushenka so struck him that he even could not live without her (in the past two years, for example, it had really been so), he still did not allot her a large, considerable fortune, and even if she had threatened to abandon him altogether, he would still have remained implacable. Instead he allotted her a small sum, and even that, when it became known, was a surprise to everyone. “You’re a sharp woman,” he said to her, giving her about eight thousand roubles, “you’ll make out for yourself; but know this, that apart from your yearly allowance, as usual, you’ll get no more from me before I die, and I will leave you nothing in my will.” And he kept his word: he died and left everything to his sons, whom he had kept about him all his life on the level of servants, with their wives and children, and made no mention of Grushenka in his will. All of this became known afterwards. But he helped Grushenka a great deal with advice on how to manage “her own money” and brought “business” her way. When Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, who originally was connected with Grushenka with regard to some chance “gescheft,” ended quite unexpectedly to himself by falling head over heels in love with her and nearly losing his reason, old Samsonov, who by then already had one foot in the grave, chuckled greatly. It is remarkable that Grushenka, throughout their acquaintance, was fully and even, as it were, cordially frank with her old man, and apparently with no one else in the whole world. Most recently, when Dmitri Fyodorovich had also appeared suddenly with his love, the old man had stopped chuckling. On the contrary, one day he seriously and sternly advised Grushenka: “If you must choose between the two of them, father and son, choose the old man, only in such a way, however, that the old scoundrel is certain to marry you, and makes over at least some of his money in advance. And don’t hobnob with the captain, nothing good will come of it.” These were the very words to Grushenka from the old voluptuary, who already felt himself near death and indeed died five months after giving this advice. I will also note in passing that although many in our town knew about the absurd and ugly rivalry at that time between the Karamazovs, father and son, the object of which was Grushenka, few then understood the true meaning of her relations with the two of them, the old man and the son. Even Grushenka’s two serving women (after the catastrophe, of which we shall speak further on, broke out) later testified in court that Agrafena Alexandrovna received Dmitri Fyodorovich only out of fear, because, they said, “he threatened to kill her.” She had two serving women, one a very old cook, from her parents’ household, ailing and nearly deaf, and the other her granddaughter, a pert young girl, about twenty years old, Grushenka’s maid. Grushenka lived very frugally and in quite poor surroundings. There were only three rooms in her cottage, furnished by the landlady with old mahogany furniture in the fashion of the twenties. When Rakitin and Alyosha arrived, it was already dusk, but there were no lights in the rooms. Grushenka was lying down in her drawing room on her big, clumsy sofa with its imitation mahogany back, hard and upholstered with leather that had long since become worn and full of holes. Under her head were two white down pillows from her bed. She was lying stretched out on her back, motionless, with both hands behind her head. She was dressed up as though she were expecting someone, in a black silk dress, with a delicate lace fichu on her head, which was very becoming to her; the lace shawl thrown around her shoulders was pinned with a massive gold brooch. She precisely was expecting someone, lying as if in anguish and impatience, with a somewhat pale face, with hot lips and eyes, impatiently tapping the arm of the sofa with her right toe. The moment Rakitin and Alyosha appeared, a slight commotion took place: from the front hall they heard Grushenka jump up quickly from the sofa and suddenly cry out in fear: “Who is it?” But the visitors were met by the maid, who at once replied to her mistress: