The Brothers Karamazov (27 page)

It was seven o’clock and just getting dark when Alyosha entered the spacious, comfortable house on Bolshaya Street. He knew that Katerina lived with two aunts—that is, one of these women was actually her sister Agafia’s quiet, self-effacing aunt who had lived in her father’s house and had looked after Katerina with such devotion when she had come home after her graduation from school. The other, Katerina’s real aunt, was an elegant Moscow lady, albeit impoverished. It was said in town that the two aunts did exactly what Katerina wanted and only lived with her as her chaperones for the sake of appearances. As to Katerina, she only listened to the old general’s widow, to whom she owed everything she had; the old lady had been kept in Moscow by her sickness and Katerina had to write to her twice a week, to keep her up to date on all the latest developments.

Alyosha entered the house, giving his name to the parlormaid who had opened the door for him. But apparently the ladies in the drawing room already knew of his arrival (they might have seen him from the window). He heard women’s hurried footsteps, the rustling of skirts—it sounded to him as if two, or perhaps three, women had hurried out of the drawing room. It struck him as strange that his arrival should cause such a commotion. He was, however, immediately shown into the drawing room.

It was a very large room, elegantly and lavishly furnished, not at all the sort of drawing room one would expect to find in a small provincial town. There were many sofas, settees, armchairs, large and small tables of all kinds with a variety of vases and lamps on them; there were flowers in the vases and paintings on the walls, and also an aquarium near one of the windows. As the day was fading, the room was rather dark. Looking around him, Alyosha saw on a sofa someone’s silk shawl and on the table next to it two half-empty cups of chocolate, a plate of cookies, a china dish of raisins and another of candy. Obviously, people had been sitting there a moment before. Alyosha frowned, realizing that he had stumbled on some other visitors, but at that moment the portiere was raised and Katerina came in. She held out both hands to him, looking at him with a radiant, happy smile. Behind her came the maid carrying two candles that she put on the table.

“Ah, here you are. I’m so glad you came! I’ve been praying all day that you would come. Do sit down, please.”

Katerina’s beauty struck Alyosha again, as it had three weeks or so before, when Dmitry had brought him to introduce him to her, on her insistence that she wanted to meet his youngest brother. On that occasion, however, they had not talked to each other very much. Feeling that Alyosha was very shy of her and wanting to spare him, she had hardly said anything to him and had talked almost all the time to Dmitry. But although he had not said much on that occasion, Alyosha had seen and understood a good deal. He had been struck by Katerina’s domineering ways and by her casual, easy, self-assured manner. And Alyosha had been certain that she really was as he saw her and that he had not exaggerated these traits in her. He had thought that her big, very dark, sparkling eyes, magnificent in themselves, looked even more impressive in her pale, slightly yellowish, oval face. But he had also detected in those eyes and in the line of her lips something that explained not only why Dmitry had fallen madly in love with her but also what made it impossible for him to remain in love with her for long. He had almost told his brother about this when they left Katerina’s the first time, for Dmitry had insisted that Alyosha tell him what impression his fiancée had made on him.

“You’ll be happy with her, but perhaps not . . . perhaps you won’t find peace with her . . .”

“Well, that’s how it is, brother! That kind of woman never changes, never gives in . . . So you don’t think I’ll always be in love with her?”

“Why, I didn’t say that. Perhaps you’ll always be in love with her, but perhaps you won’t always be happy . . .”

As he said this, Alyosha felt that he had turned very red and was furious with himself for having yielded to Dmitry’s insistent demand that he say what he thought of Katerina, and for being forced to give such stupid answers. Besides, he felt it was quite ridiculous that he should offer his opinion about a woman, as though he were an expert in such matters.

Now, when he saw her coming toward him, he immediately realized that he might have been wrong about her before. This time, she radiated great warmth and kindness, and complete, uncompromising sincerity. Her arrogant, haughty, domineering airs had vanished; but he saw that her drive, her generosity, and her impressive self-reliance were still there. From the very first words she said, Alyosha realized that her tragic predicament with the man she loved was no mystery to her, that possibly she already knew everything, absolutely everything. Yet, despite all that, there was so much light in her face, so much faith in the future, that Alyosha felt guilty before her; he felt he had done her serious and deliberate harm. She had won him over and captured him in one fell swoop. And with all that, he also realized that she was terribly tense and that her tension had perhaps reached the extreme limits of endurance, causing her to act as though she were in a trance.

“I was so anxious to see you—you’re the only one from whom I can learn the whole truth. No one else will tell it to me.”

“I’ve come,” Alyosha muttered, feeling he was getting mixed up, “I came . . . he sent me . . .”

“So he sent you—I had a feeling he would . . . All right, now I understand everything!” Her eyes flashed and she suddenly raised her voice. “But let me tell you first, Alexei, why I wanted to see you so badly. You see, perhaps I know much more, as it is, than you do yourself; it’s not information I need from you. What I want to hear is your own, personal impression: How did he seem to you when you saw him last? I want you to give me a plain, unadorned, even rude, answer (oh, you may be as rude as you wish!); I want you to tell me what you thought of him and of the situation he’s in, after you saw him today. That would be more useful—since he doesn’t wish to see me anymore—than if I went and asked him directly. Do you understand now what I want of you? Now tell me why he sent you to me (as I told you, I knew he would send you). Tell me frankly and plainly, without hiding anything from me.”

“He asked me to . . . he told me to say good-by to you for him, that he won’t come to see you anymore and that . . . that he sends you his regards . . .”

“His regards? That’s what he said? Those are his words?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps it was a slip of the tongue? Perhaps he meant to use some other word instead . . .”

“No, he insisted that I give you his regards. He reminded me several times to tell you he sent you his regards. Just that—regards.”

The blood rushed to Katerina’s cheeks.

“You must help me then, Alyosha. I can’t do without your help: I’ll tell you what I think and I want you to tell me whether I’m right or not. Listen, if he’d just told you vaguely to say good-by to me on his behalf and to give me his best regards, if he hadn’t insisted as he did on the word ‘regards’—that would have really been the end of everything. But since he insisted on that word, made you promise not to forget it, then he must have been agitated, not himself—don’t you agree? Perhaps he made up his mind, and then was frightened by his own decision. Maybe he didn’t walk away from me with a cool, determined step, but took a headlong plunge as though over a precipice? His insistence on one particular word could be simply bravado, couldn’t it?”

“Right, right, I think so myself now!” Alyosha agreed with great eagerness.

“And if I’m really right, then he’s not lost yet! He’s simply in deep despair, and I think I can pull him out of it. Wait now—did he mention anything to you about money, about a certain three thousand rubles?”

“Not only did he mention it, but that was perhaps what worried him most. He told me that, as things stand now, he’s dishonored and he doesn’t care about anything anymore,” Alyosha said, speaking with great heat, with the hope pouring back into him that perhaps there really was a way out, that his brother could still be saved. But then a thought stopped him short and he asked in a different, hesitating tone: “But . . . but, how is it that 
you
 . . . that you know about the money?”

“I’ve known about it for a long time, and for certain. I checked by wiring to Moscow to find out whether the money had been received. I knew he hadn’t sent it, but I never said anything to him. And last week I found out that he needed more money . . . My only desire in all this is that he should know who is his true friend and to whom he can turn for help. But no, he refuses to believe that I am his most loyal friend. He doesn’t want to get to know me really—because I’m only a woman to him. For a whole week I worried terribly, for fear he would feel embarrassed in front of me for having kept and spent that three thousand. I mean, let him be ashamed before other people, before himself even, but not before me. Why can’t he understand, even to this day, just how much I can bear for him? Why, why doesn’t he know me yet? How dare he not know me after all that has happened between us? I want to save him once and for all. He can forget that we were engaged, if he wishes! But how can he be afraid of being dishonored in my eyes! After all, he wasn’t afraid to admit that to you, was he, Alexei? Haven’t I deserved, by this time, to be treated as you are?”

Tears filled her eyes as she uttered these last words. And now they were running down her cheeks.

“He also wanted me to tell you something else,” Alyosha said, his voice quivering. “He wanted me to tell you what happened between him and his father today.”

And he told her everything: how he had been sent to their father’s to get the money from him, how Dmitry had broken into the house, how he had given his father a brutal beating, and how, after that, he had again reminded Alyosha to go to see her—Katerina—and give her his regards.

“. . . and then he went to see that woman,” Alyosha muttered finally.

“Why, do you suppose I couldn’t put up with that woman? Does he imagine that I wouldn’t be able to put up with her? Besides, he won’t marry her, for how could a Karamazov be eternally consumed by such a passion? And it is passion, not love, that he feels for her.” She let out a nervous laugh. “Besides, he won’t marry her because she will never marry him,” Katerina added with a strange smile.

“He may marry her, though,” Alyosha said sadly, looking down at the floor.

“No, he won’t. You can take my word for it. That girl . . . she’s an angel,” Katerina cried, her tone suddenly acquiring extraordinary warmth. “She’s a fantastic creature, without peer! I’m well aware of the fact that she’s quite irresistibly fascinating, but I also know that she’s kind and strong and generous. Why are you staring at me like that, Alexei? Perhaps it surprises you that I should say this; perhaps you don’t believe me? Grushenka, my dear!” Katerina called suddenly, looking toward the portiere that separated the drawing room from the room next door. “Please come and join us. I have a very nice visitor here—Alexei Karamazov—he knows all about our affairs. Come in and meet him, my dear.”

“I was waiting—I thought you’d call me.”

Alyosha heard a tender, almost too caressing voice. The portiere was raised and Grushenka made her entrance. She laughed gaily as she walked over to them. Something snapped inside Alyosha. He knew he was staring, but he could not take his eyes off her. So here she was, that frightful woman, that animal, as Ivan had called her half an hour before. But the woman Alyosha was looking at appeared at first glance to be a quite ordinary, pleasant, kindly person. True, she was beautiful, but beautiful though she was, she looked much like many other “ordinary” beautiful women. But then, in all fairness, it must be said, she was very, very beautiful and her beauty was that typical Russian beauty that inspires passion in so many men. Grushenka was not quite so tall as Katerina, who was very tall indeed. Her body was strong and full and, when she moved, her movements were so light that they seemed inaudible. And, as in her voice, there was perhaps something too provokingly tender, perhaps a touch of deliberate seductiveness, in her movements. Unlike Katerina, whose step was quick and energetic, Grushenka walked noiselessly: her feet touched the floor without a sound. She slid smoothly into an armchair with a soft rustle of her sumptuous black silk dress, drawing an expensive black cashmere shawl delicately around her strong white neck and wide shoulders. She was twenty-two and she looked exactly her age. Her complexion was very fair and her cheeks delicately rosy. Her face was rather broad at the temples and her lower jaw protruded, although only very slightly. Her upper lip was much thinner than the lower, which was quite full. But her magnificent, abundant, dark-brown hair, her sable eyebrows, and her beautiful blue-gray eyes with their long lashes were certain to stop even the least interested, most absentminded man who met her in the street or saw her in a crowd, even if he was in a hurry—he would not be able to help staring at her and remembering her for a long time. What struck Alyosha most about her face was its child-like, trusting expression. She looked like a child who is delighted about something and, as she came toward the table, she looked just that—
delighted
, as though she expected something nice to happen and was full of curiosity and trusting anticipation. Her gaiety was contagious and Alyosha felt its effect. And there was something else in her too that Alyosha could not have described but that he felt, although perhaps unconsciously—a lightness and softness of movement, a strange, cat-like noiselessness, which was in curious contrast to her large, powerful body. For under the cashmere shawl, he could see her broad shoulders and her full, young bosom. The curves under her dress suggested the proportions of a Venus de Milo, although already somewhat exaggerated. Those who know the beauty of Russian women could have told by looking at Grushenka that, by the time this young beauty was thirty, her body would lose its harmony, her face would grow flabby, wrinkles would appear around her eyes and forehead, her complexion would coarsen, perhaps turn ruddy—in a word, Grushenka had the “beauty of an hour,” a fleeting beauty that one so often meets among Russian women.